The Birds, the Bees, and the T.V. Make Three

One of the toughest jobs for parents is teaching children the "facts of life." For some, there seems to be a natural barrier between parents and children when it comes to this part of rearing kids, but I've found a solution to this problem.

Television.

That's right, television.

If you're a parent who finds it difficult to discuss this subject with your children but do not want them learning about the birds and the bees by reading the graffiti in public restrooms, then television might be the answer to your dilemma.

All you have to do is set your children in the T.V. room and make sure they are nice and comfy. Then turn on the television set. Believe me, an hour of watching television will teach your children more about the birds and the bees than you could ever teach them in your lifetime.
Commercials, alone, can give children a smorgasbord of information. Any subject from underclothing to hemorrhoids to constipation to personal-hygiene products--television commercials cover them all.

Heck, even the terminology that kids pick up by watching television commercials is astounding. When I was in grammar school, I had never heard of the term contraceptive. Thanks to the great educator, television, I found myself one day answering the question,"Dad, what's a contraceptive?" My youngest son, who was just 7 at the time, was the one posing the question.
My mouth went dry; my face suddenly became red hot; and beads of sweat flowed from every pore, soaking my clothes, as I contemplated this most delicate question. After considerable thought--which took about three or four seconds--I decided to answer my son's question in a mature manner but on a level that the boy could understand.

"A contraceptive, son, is a South American rebel who is not receptive to his country's policies and is involved in trying to overthrow the government. The word contra means against, and ceptive means receptive or to cooperate. Hence, contraceptive means to be not receptive or to be uncooperative."

Hey, it worked for me. Of course, I had some fast explaining to do when youngest son spewed forth this information to his first-grade class when the class began studying the countries of South America.

Now, for older children, talk shows are a great aid for furthering their education about the facts of life. You know the shows. They'll have on a gal who used to be a guy but who now is a gal again and is engaged to a man (or she sure hopes he's a man) who just flat doesn't care.

Or those shows will have on a guy who used to be a gal whose husband left her when he found out that she was about to switch teams. Furthermore, after this person's surgery, she moved in with her male transsexual surgeon who used to be a famale orthopedic nurse. Try straightening that out for 9- and 10-year-olds.

Anymore, I don't get unnerved when my kids ask embarrassing questions concerning the birds and the bees.

Now, I just toss them a TV Guide.

Anything to Save a Buck (Skunky and I Go to the Fair

We all know people who are masters at getting something for nothing. But when it comes to saving a buck Skunky Wilson, my childhood partner in mischief, is the king. He can pinch a penny so tightly he gives ole Abe Lincoln a migraine. I’m reminded of an incident when trying to save a few bucks almost cost Skunky and me a night in jail.

It was a warm Wednesday; the middle of September, the week of our county fair, and Skunky had come up with great scheme to get us into the fair and the nightly concert for free. You see the following Saturday evening our all time favorite local country group, Puck Outhouse and the Down-winder band, would be performing in the grandstand at the fair. We just had to see them. But the admission to the fair, along with the price of the concert ticket, was beyond our financial grasp.

“All we need,” Skunky quietly announced as he entered my bedroom, “is a leash, Meathead [Meathead was my humongous, cross-bred, unruly, hyper, dumber-than-a-tree stump dog], and a pair of sunglasses.”

What Skunky had in mind was to pretend he was blind--Meathead and I were along to help him around the fairgrounds. He felt that with a “seeing-eye” dog and an escort, no one would dare question us.

Now, it was a policy of the county that people with impairments were, along with an accompanying attendant, allowed to enter the fair and the nightly concerts for free. I’ll have to admit, Skunky was sinking to a new low with this one. Unfortunately, new lows are highly sought after by most 15-year-old boys.

The days couldn’t slip by fast enough for our impatient teenage selves, but finally the big day arrived.

After getting through the gate without any problems, Skunky put his sunglasses in his shirt pocket and handed control of Meathead to me. We then strolled along the fairgrounds, observing the different rides and games, but they were of little interest to us. We were there to see Puck and the gang.

Soon it was time to head to the grandstand for the concert. On our way there we snuck behind the auction building, where Skunky promptly put on his sunglasses. “O.K., let’s go,” he said. I handed him Meathead’s leash. He grabbed my elbow with his free hand and off we went.

We were about halfway to the grandstand when Meathead spotted a barely eaten foot-long hotdog on the ground. That mutt took off for it like he was possessed with a demon. A tug-of-war then ensued, my dog, trying with all his might to get to the hotdog, while Skunky, to counter Meathead’s effort, pulled on the leash with both hands while leaning backward, resembling something akin to a water skier.

It was such a spectacle that a crowd gathered. From the collective doubt I saw expressed on their faces I knew they were on to our little scam, and unless I acted quickly the sheriff would soon arrive to haul our skinny behinds to jail.

“Hey,” I said to the onlookers, “the dog just graduated from school and he’s new at this. Give him a break!” I don’t think I convinced anyone, but by then Meathead had given up the struggle and we quickly made our way to the grandstand.

There’s another courtesy the county commissioners provided at the fair for impaired patrons. A few seats near the stage were reserved for them. Of course, that was another part of Skunky’s devious plan, to get free seats near the front of the stage.

“Come on you two,” the usher chortled, and with a grin she proceeded to guide us to our seats. I had the distinct feeling she’d witnessed the tug of war between Skunky and Meathead but she never mentioned it, and we silently started down the steps to the front row. And that’s when it happened, when Skunky’s plan fell apart like a leper in an aerobics class.

About four steps into the stand, we passed an aisle seat with a man sitting in it, eating a sandwich, a barbecue sandwich. Well, Meathead caught a whiff of that sandwich and forgot all about the lost battle for the hotdog. This was a much better prize and this time he was not to be denied.

Meathead lunged for the sandwich just as the guy was taking a bite of it. Leaping into the man’s lap, the dog clamped his powerful jaws around that tasty morsel and bit that sucker off right at the man’s lips, even giving the sandwich owner a kiss in appreciation for sharing his food.

It took Skunky, me, and the usher to yank that mangy mutt off the guy, and as we were so doing, it seemed the sandwich owner was trying to tell us something. But the guy could hardly speak, what with his spitting and all--I guess the dog-slobber kiss didn’t appeal to the guy. Some people just don’t know how to graciously accept gratitude.

While we stood there pondering our predicament sandwich owner collected himself, and he commenced an attempt to take us in toll. As they say, it was time to get while the getting was good.

At a run we sailed down the steps (not an easy task with Meathead trying to take off in every other direction) toward the stage, and flung ourselves over the railing that skirted the front of the grandstand.

Of course Meathead went under the bottom rail, while Skunky and I went over the top one. The problem was that Skunky still had hold of the leash. The leash went taught, and because Meathead was not only the stronger of the two, but he also had a full head of steam, Skunky was jerked backward against the fence.

Suddenly I heard, “Whaaaaaaaaaa,” just before the loud thump. Turning my head I could hardly believe what I saw. There was Skunky, sliding down the fence (by now he’d lost his grip on the leash), right onto Meathead’s back, as if he were going to ride that dog like a bronc.

“Come on Skunky! This is no time to be playing rodeo,” I said. Sometimes I wondered about that boy. Skunky hung on to Meathead as the dog ran toward me at a full gallop.

“There they are, after them!” It was the local sheriff and a couple of deputies, and they were running down the center aisle of the grandstand, heading toward us.

“Jeez,” I yelled, “they got the cops after us. Let’s get out of here!” With that, we ran with great haste toward home.

Later that night as my family, Skunky, and I were watching the evening news, the broadcaster reported that two boys had snuck into the county fair and the nightly concert by faking to be blind.

“Good thang them boys wuznt ya’ll,” my momma said to us. “I’d surely skin yer ears if’n it was. But then, I know y’all wunnt do an unnerhanded thang like that, would yuh?”

Skunky and I didn’t say a word. We just looked at each other and smiled. Why ruin a tender moment like that with Momma?

Be Careful What You Ask For (Even More Hotel Blues)

As this past New Year’s holiday approached I was feeling a bit adventurous, so I made a last minute decision to celebrate the holiday in South Florida with a good friend and her son. The idea was for me to book a hotel room in Miami, near my friend’s residence, and the three of us would drive to Ft. Lauderdale, where, we heard, the city puts on an excellent family-friendly New Year’s Eve celebration. Such was the plan.

Right from the get-go things started to go amuck. Rooms in the Miami area were pretty much booked up for that weekend, and the prices of the few available ones were so jacked up I would’ve had to sell my left kidney in order to afford one. So I ended up reserving a room for Saturday through Sunday night (New Year’s Eve) in Deerfield Beach, a three hour drive from my home, about an hour from my friend’s residence, and less than 30 minutes from Ft. Lauderdale, not a bad setup and at a very reasonable price, but sometimes you do get what you pay for.

I left Orlando later than I’d planned and by the time I arrived at Deerfield Beach the sun was low in the sky and shadows were long. As I pulled into the parking lot of the hotel I came upon a swarm of young ladies, a swim team from a prestigious university, unloading their vans and heading into the hotel.

Entering the hotel lobby was like stepping into the middle of a convention for caffeine addicted women with severe A.D.H.D. The place was wall to wall hyper, chatty, young ladies!

Now, in my younger days I would have taken advantage of this opportunity to “scope” out the women, looking for chances to flirt, make points, and maybe get a few phone numbers. But, since my shoes were older than those girls I just silently stood there, a lone island of testosterone in a sea of estrogen, wondering if any of them had a single mother.

I wormed my way to the check-in counter just as the swim coach finish checking the team in and assigning rooms. I quietly whispered to the clerk, “Please don’t tell me my room is near theirs.” She let out a sadistic laughed that made me wonder if she had a propensity for cruelty and planned on satisfying it at my expense. But alas, she acquiesced and I let out a sigh of relief when I stepped off the elevator and realized my room wasn’t even on the same floor as those hyped up, excitably loud, giggly, college coeds.

After settling in, and freshening up a bit, I realized I’d forgotten to pack my toothbrush, tooth paste, and dental floss. Now, I’m not fanatical when it comes to good oral hygiene, but I really don’t want my toothbrush to literally become just that, a tooth brush. So, as I left the hotel to go meet my friend and her family for dinner, I paused at the front desk and asked the clerk if the hotel had any dental supplies for absentminded patrons who forgot to pack theirs. They didn’t have any on hand, but if they did the toothbrush alone would’ve cost $2.00! I’d stop at a store after dinner and take care of the problem then.

The dollar store was closing when I speedily walked through the door. I quickly found and purchased the things I needed and left as hastily as I entered.

Let me tell you some things about dollar dental floss. There’s a reason it’s only a dollar—urinals cakes in public restrooms probably taste better, and the floss itself is not very strong . . . it tends to break . . . between your teeth . . . and gets stuck there. Mine broke between two lower left molars. I tried to floss out the floss only to have that also tear apart between my molars. The tiny gap between those two teeth was now completely packed with torn floss.

Panic set in. What if I couldn’t get this stuff out? Should I leave it there, hoping it will rot and fall out on its own or would that cause an infection or some other severe gum problem? If it was going to take the skill and know-how of a dentist to free my teeth of the floss, could I find one who would be willing to see me on a holiday weekend, and if so, how much would that cost me?

As it turned out, I needn’t have worried. An hour later, along with a few prayers, cut gums, and a sink splattered with blood-filled saliva, I some how (I’m still unsure exactly how) maneuvered the floss out from between the two molars, left the bathroom, sat down in the recliner by my bed, and gave a heavy sigh of relief. It was time for bed.

Sunday morning came and I rolled out of bed and headed to the bathroom for a shower, where I became aware of a couple of other facts. First, there was no mini shampoo bottle in the bathroom. I hadn’t brought shampoo from home because every hotel I’ve ever stayed in supplied those little bottles of it as a courtesy.

The second fact I became aware of was that, as a shampoo, Ivory Soap sucks. It might be great hand soap, but for washing your hair it leaves a lot to be desired. Let’s just say a handful of lard would’ve been just as effective for a shampoo substitute.

After showering, I dried off, dried my hair, and got dressed, sort of. You see, as I was getting dressed I realized I’d left more than a tooth brush, tooth paste, and floss at home. I also forgot my socks. I was beginning to wonder why the heck I even bothered to pack!

So, after getting dressed, I slipped my bare feet into my shoes and once again sheepishly approached the desk clerk and probed her for information. “Where I can buy cheap socks in this town?”

“There’s a 99 cent store a couple of miles east, down on A1A [a coastal highway].” Hopefully dollar socks would work out better for me than did the dollar floss. NOT!

I found the store. It was somewhat in disarray but there truly wasn’t a product in there over 99 cents. My eyes glazed over, my mind went numb, and the memory of the flossing fiasco of the previous night quickly faded into oblivion as I feverishly took in all the items that I could purchase so cheaply.

But, I restrained myself and began searching only for shampoo and socks. I found the shampoo without much difficulty, and to my surprise, I found not just a pair of ankle socks but a whole bag of them, originally 8 in all—it appeared as though someone had torn open the bag and stolen at least one pair, but I could live with that. Hey, the bag of socks was 99 cents. One pair for that price would’ve been a steal. To get more than one pair for that was nothing short of a modern day miracle.

There was one thing that puzzled me though. There was nothing on the package to indicate if the socks were men’s or women’s. According to the bag the socks were size 9 to 11 (ever wonder how one sock can fit three different sizes of feet?), and to my thinking that’s a fairly big foot for a woman. They had to have been men’s socks, and since I wear a size 10 these would nicely do the job. I bought them and headed back to the hotel.

As I kicked off my shoes and pulled a pair of socks over my feet, I realized it was going to take some serious stretching of the socks to even come close to getting them over my heels. They were indeed women’s socks.

It took a bit of work, and few words I probably shouldn’t have said, but I finally got the socks to stretch just enough to barely slide over my heel. If they’d slid off my feet as I walked to my car I wouldn’t have been surprised. But they somehow stayed on.

I picked up my friend and her son and we headed for Ft. Lauderdale. On the way there we decided to stop first at the hotel so my guests could drop their luggage off in my room. Since the New Year’s Eve festivities would probably run into the wee hours of the morning, I'd invited my friend and her boy to sleep in my bed. I would snooze in the recliner.

We were told by the desk clerk (by now she and I were almost on a first name basis), where in Ft. Lauderdale the festivities were being held. Now, maybe I misunderstood her, or maybe the clerk finally gave in to her cruel streak, for I followed her directions to a T, but to no avail. Not only was there no celebration taking place where she said it’d be, but we drove up and down the highway, from one end of Ft. Lauderdale to the other, and nothing we saw even remotely resembled a celebration.

By 10 pm we were starving. We hadn’t eaten dinner for we'd planned on buying it at the festivities in town. So, we gave up the hunt for the New Years celebration, stopped at a Taco Bell, bought takeout, and drove back to the hotel.

We ate our dinner, watched a little TV, and then went to bed. You know, there was a time in my life when I could sleep anywhere: on the ground, on the floor, in a “love” seat with my legs dangling over the armrest, and certainly in a recliner. My, my, my how things change with age. When I woke up the next morning it was all I could do crawl out of that tired old recliner. The muscles of my back were tighter than a training bra on Dolly Parton and I was twisted up like a pretzel. I wondered if I’d ever walk upright again.

A few stretching exercises and a long, hot shower proved to be of little help, but being the gentleman that I am, and because I didn’t want my friend and her son to feel badly about taking my bed, I carried our luggage down to the lobby and we checked out.

Needless to say, the 3 hour drive home was nothing short of torturous, and it took a week of muscle relaxants, pain killers, and a lot of stretching to straighten out my back.

All in all, that trip was an unusually adventuresome New Years holiday, which is what I was seeking; and that, my friends, brings to mind what someone once told me, “be careful what you ask for, you might just get it.”