Late-Night Basketball

Years ago, we lived next door to a cute teen guy named Jeremy; and he was a subject of fascination for me, my sisters, and my brothers.

He would go out on Friday or Saturday nights; and obviously what he would then do would be beyond scrutiny by the kids next door. Still we wondered. But occasionally, he would come home and start to shoot baskets at the goal over the garage. This made him into an occasional nuisance because of the noise from the ball striking the backboard.

It seemed like a strange time for basketball; but no one has ever explained the doings of teen boys to me. I'm more predictable: 12 A.M. is beyond my bedtime.

So I have this problem with his shooting, much less his dribbling; a form of nocturnal activity not welcome to sleepyheads. And I would be irritable the next day. 

One day I overheard an exchange between my two brothers: "Jeremy played basketball last night; so he must not have gotten laid." They obviously found it all to be funny; but I could not understand why failures to make a lay up was a matter of long discussion, much less humor. I guess the "up" is not really necessary.  

Later on that day, my Tante Marie was visiting my Mama. I was playing nicely in the room, and listening.

Mama goes, "Goodness, Jeremy next door played basketball late last night. I felt like dozing off during the 11 o'clock mass! I don't know what's wrong with that boy playing basketball so late!"

So I say, "It's okay, Mama. Jeremy just didn't get laaa-id last night and he was practicing!"

Mama was concerned; and asked where I got that notion from. I said it was sumthin' my brothers were saying having to do with basketball.

So later on, I overheard her telling my brother about little pictures having big ears. I never saw any pictures with bunny ears or squirrel ears or even donkey ears.  Adults just don't make any sense at times! Or I don't notice things like I should . . . .

Sisters Saying Good-Nights to Their Boyfriends

Advocates of curfews for teens often have complications to what should be a straightforward profess. Like take the situation in which parents have multiple teens; each with the same curfew.

A case history that comes to mind happened in the case of my poor Mama who had two teen daughters that could go out on weekend nights (and sometimes for special events), and a preteen daughter (moi) who would be also be going out down the road. The rule: 12 A.M. curfew. A bit strict, you might say.

Seriously, Mama did not want her two daughters to linger in their b.f.'s cars too long, as it might cause the neighbors undue entertainment from speculating on their morals! Nor did she want extended leave-taking on the porch which would provide post-Leno entertainment for the neighbors.

But, especially, she did not want post-evening tattling; as "Mama, Heather let Walter kiss her too long and feel her up last night." Seriously! Clearly, having two couples fondling each other on the porch at the same time was not a happy outcome.

So Mama, desperate, asked for advice. Not from the parish priest (what would an ostensibly celibate guy know about such affairs!), but to the ultimate source: Maw-Maw! Yes, her mother! 

Maw-Maw was straightforward: Extend the older girl's (Jessica's) curfew by 15 minutes. Senior rights. Now Heather did bitch a bit; but she did get 15 minutes of some privacy. Unless Jessica and her b.f. had a fight, which did happen!)

This argues for a proper spacing of daughters.

Who Should Start a Kiss?

When it comes time to kiss, which gender is more likely to take the initiative? An article in The Guardian provided the tantalizing detail that men initiate a kiss about 79 per cent of the time; and that when they do kissers tend to prefer to lean to the right! The latter seems to something that humans might be hard-wired to do.

The researchers of this osculatory activity used cross-cultural data from Britain and Bangladesh and in both places it was the guys who were more likely to start the process.

The age-old nature-nuture question can rear its dreary head even when it comes do matters like this*: Do guys take the lead because they're more motivated to start the process which they anticipate to lead to further mutual pleasure (and get the prelims over with as soon as they can); or do cultural restraints dictate who can do what, when, and to whom?

A further question might also be: who initiates going to second or third base?

Anyway, a little story. Back when I was in high school, I was in a girls' discussion regarding kissing, (Yes, nice Catholic girls do think and mostly talk about such matters at times.) I commented that once I wanted to be kissed, so I just up and kissed Dee-Doh to help him make up his mind.

Suddenly, a silence fell. I didn't think that my revelation was particularly shocking, and they knew I was his tee copine.

But then one of them asked, "You kissed him?" Some of the discussers feigned or evinced shock!

I did not know that girls shouldn't take the lead. Like on a number of other points, I didn't get that memo. I guess I'm a bit fast!

My admission and the reaction to it had the impact of a dead rat being ceremoniously deposited on the coffee table. I did not know I transgressed a norm. But I've done things like that enough not to be surprised.

While others in the group lovingly described being kissed in glowing terms, in their cases they were the kissee, not the kisser! Apparently I had crossed a line by starting the process. A line that I felt free to cross again if males were slow. The fact that I injected myself into the initiator role was what shocked them! Immediately, one asked if I gave him a soul kiss! I did not answer. That question was rude and intrusive!

But I ask you: If you want to be kissed, why not encourage shy guys along? It's not like playing below the belt line!

*A constant question in psychology. Often a combination of both is in play.

Playing at Being Cajun

One surprise in traveling to farther parts of the United States is encountering the wild stereotypes people there have about Cajuns and the Acadian Parishes, much less New Orleans. This came across in Alaska around a campfire, where I encountered those remarkable rara aves, a multiaged group of people who spontaneously conversed with strangers. It started innocently enough; having to do with the pronunciation of my name.

"What kind of name is that?"

"Acadian French."

"Ohh! A coonass!* Have you ever paddled one of those long, narrow canoes?"

"A pirogue?"

"Yes, if that's what you people call them."

"Do you have alligators back home?" 

"Uh, yes. We do. And pelicans, muskrats, and nutria also."

"Do you wear shoes back home?" 

"Does your family speak real English or just French?" [Actually, I do best with New Orleans English and a Louisiana dialect of French.]

Now here is where the role of imparting real factual information often takes second place to the Cajun trickster or raconteuse that so easily comes out at this time. And the usual spoken English gradually morphs into a pronounced, exaggerated dialect. These and those becomes dese and doses. Dat's rite! That sounds exotic in places where people say "You betcha!" or drink soda.

"Did ya ever eat alligator?"

"Why no. Dat wouldn't be right. We have a pet gator, Albie, and we wouldn't feel right in eating our beloved pet or his kin. Gators got feelins' too."

And somewhere along in the tale I spun managed to go to school by pirogue instead of riding a city bus. And became barefooted instead of wearing shoes to school with the school color-coded Catholic school uniform. (In our case, brown skirts with white blouses.)

"Whooo-eeee! Swamp girl goes get some educatin'" !

And I need to mention that we drink local beers: Abita, Dixie, and whatever the store sells cut rate. And all of us, hommes and filles alike are handy with a knife. And a fork and spoon, too!

And if I'm really expansive (or full of shit!), I tell of loup-garous, lost Acadian maids and their lovers, Yankee soldiers that got lost while invading the bayous,  moonshiners, swamp monsters, and tomfool politicians who promised too much. And stories of wild parties during hurricanes also can also be told! Apocrypha is never out of style!

My rationale is that, if there is to be a choice between the everyday reality and the exotic, people would rather hear the exotic every time. Especially around campfires.

Yes, it helps to be able to keep a straight face while being a Cajun raconteuse! Anyway, the drama queen in me likes †o be seen as some untamed exotic!

*Using that term in Southern Louisiana does not help to win friends and influence people there, my friens.' Fo' true!.

Don't Feed the Bears!

When I was in high school, I was told by a few wild girls how to get an easy morale lift. Being an adolescent, and liable to my share of the blues, ennui, and disappointments, this prospect seemed worth looking into.

The naughty Catholic school girl meme is more of a fantasy than reality.  Still, its history might have begun with Britney Spears's breakout hit Baby One More Time (1999). Anyway, you can get a naughty adult Halloween costume in that style, and one of the local breasturants had a night in which women were encouraged to dress like schoolgirls! Is that ever kind of kinky? The reality is that if any of us came to school dressed like that, we would be sent home if not expelled; and have to wear sackcloth and ashes and kneel in front of the bishop's house! And people would still be talking about it in twenty years!

No, any wildness or naughtiness was quite muted in reality.  

Since we were blessed with one of those half-days of school, four of the more daring girls invited me along on their little adventure. And oh my! It consisted of driving near a boys' high school walking down the banquette that runs along the back of that school.  On the other side was a chapel, and next to it a fenced in asphalt schoolyard, and a handball court there for no apparent purpose. Who plays that, anyway? Guys used to go behind it to smoke.). Oh, I might mention that the boys attending that school were still in session with an after-lunch recess in progress.

Anyway, we start to walk past the yard, and I was told, "Angel! Slow up and don't walk so fast! We want to be noticed by the guys. And one of us who shall be unnamed as she's now an attorney pinned up her skirt beyond mid-thigh level; and gave the most deliberately provocative walk possible. And she was wearing girls' school saddle oxfords, not fuck-me shoes! Such daring cheek! I can imagine some of the older spinsters of the Church laying into us with criticism!  Anyway, the five of us attracted several of the guys dressed in their khaki-colored military type uniforms and they came up to the fence. They gave the sense of being caged animals, which is a metaphor for high school, anyway.

One of them said, "Angel?" It was my copain Dee-Doh, so I went over and started talking to him. One of the other girls went with, "Angel, don't feed the bears," meaning letting them look but not talk to them. Such a tease!

Still, I was glad to see him and lingered a bit, until this black-robed priest or something told me to move along. I did, hoping that my friend would not get into trouble for knowing what appeared to be loose Catholic girls to the censorious black robe. Dee-Doh told me later that he was reproved for talking with girls! But only in a half-hearted way.  He told the priest that he was just talking to a friend of his sister's (true) that he knew from his parish. They didn't see him as having a priestly vocation in his future, anyway.

Pushing a Better Foundation

For some unfathomable reason, some clerks in stores think that they can bulldoze teen girls into making purchases. They know little about human nature. Here's an example of what not to do:

When we were teens, my friend and I were out shopping for makeup together. We decided to go into this store to check if they still were selling the same foundation she liked to use. We were quite happy browsing alone, but a shop assistant approached us and was in our faces.

Assistant: “Hi, girls, found everything you’re looking for?”

Friend: “Actually, I was just wondering if you still had (inexpensive) foundation?”

Assistant: “Oh, you don’t want that. It’s moisturizing.”

Friend: “Yes, I know. I use it a lot and wanted to check if you still had it. I have very dry skin.”

Assistant: “No! You’re a teenager and you have blemishes. Moisturizer will just make your skin even greasier! Come over, I’ll show you our special range for oily skin.”

Friend: “No, it’s fine…”

The assistant literally grabbed hold of my friend’s hand and led her over to their most expensive range of foundation. [!]

Assistant: “Now these will dry out the oil on your skin and stop all those oily spots you have!”

Friend: “My skin isn’t oily. It’s actually really dry. That’s why I have these spots! I just want the foundation I always get. That’s all!”

Assistant: “But you’re a teenager! Teenagers always have greasy skin! And look at you, you’re really spotty! That’s typical teenager symptoms. You NEED to have this foundation!”

Friend: “Actually, we’ll just leave. Those are too expensive for me anyway. Thanks for the… um… help.”  She was both mad and crushed.

Assistant: “Don’t walk away from me! You’re spotty! You need this!”

Me: “Thanks, but no…”

Assistant: “Well, you teenagers should get a damned job! At least you’d be able to afford decent makeup instead of the crap you use!”

We left without buying anything. I wonder how successful her selling strategy was on other occasions.

The Perils of Passez

I hope you don't mind a little story from earlier times of Tee Angel (Little Angel, in Cajun):

Girls are as aggressively disposed as guys.  But they tend to be expert at three forms: relational aggression, reputational aggression, and shaming.  Let me give you an example of the last: putting someone in an utter humiliating circumstance.  One of the more juvenile examples of cloddish behavior is to pull off a girl's bikini top and play passez with it.

Passez (pronounced "pos-say," roughly) is a teasing game that kids in the New Orleans area played for as long as people can remember.  It involves a pair (or more) of people swiping a person's posesssion (hat, glove, paperback book, etc.) as tossing them back and forth, keeping it from the owner while taunting him or her with "passez!  passez!"  Swiping a girl's bikini top is especially frustrating for her because she's usually handicapped by the protection of her modesty that she cannot effectively retrieve her possession.

Other girl's reactions tend to be one of amusement; or "better her than me," I'm sorry to say.  There's no feminist solidarity in that evolutionary crucible: the playground.

After she's sufficiently angry, the cloddish offenders make her an offer: "Show us your ta-tas (or some less pleasant term), and you'll get it back."  If she doesn't, they can throw it in a tree or over a telephone line.

I experienced this kind of juvenile prank some years ago when a group of three older girls (!) did that to me.  You have to handle things when ordinary passez is played on you with coolness -- no hard feelings, on the surface.  I didn't; being half-naked, humiliated, and with a bruised knee and bloody chin.  Therefore, I went for the nuclear option!  

Finally, after they threw my top over a tree limb, I lost all concern for modesty: I hauled off and bopped one of them in the eye.  I was pleased  later to see that she got quite a shiner.  Her old lady went and complained to Mama, who stood up for me and the response was less than genteel.  The boppee was a head taller than me. 

 I will say that my copain, Dee-Doh, climbed the tree for me and retrieved mine.  And he didn't peek at all!

Princess Lum, on the other hand, would have had a way of dealing with people who misbehaved in that fashion:  Give them an electrical zap!

Actually, we have the final answer in that most of us have long memories.  Whether a victim or an observer, we remember who did that sort of stuff and this affects how we reacted to her or him later on.  Sometimes revenge may be well-served cold on bullies.  

In Which Tee Angel Brings on a Merdestorm!

It is a well-acknowledged fact that the contacts between children and adults sometimes lead to problems, even without the intention of being bad or annoying on the child's part.

There must be an enormous cosmic book of rules out there, which all adults are privy to; and only some of these are revealed to kids in a haphazard fashion.  In short, entirely without suspecting it, you may violated one of those unmentioned rules.  Consequently, you find yourself in hot water, and don't know why.

This one started off simply enough.  I was in a 6th grade English class in elementary school; and we were given the assignment to write about some religious shrine that we saw.  (I was in Catholic school, by the way.)  And I wrote mine; thought I put it in respectful terms, with reasonably passable grammar, and turned it in.  Yes, I thought I was playing the game straight.

The teacher suddenly jumped up in a fury, told me to get all my things, and took me to the Principal's Office!  [Oh holy crap!  What did I do to warrant being dragged out of class?]  There I was subjected to a host of charges, including blasphemy and god-knows-what.  The fierce nun in charge called my Mama, and told her to get me!  Like immediately.

Was I being expelled?  Or suspended?  I felt like Joseph K. in Kafka's The Trial, not knowing what I did that was wrong or why everyone was so angry.  Tee Angel, she was in a peck of trouble, for true!

Anyway, my poor Mama had to leave work, and carry off her wretched daughter to shame and ignominy.  Still I did not know my offense, or my penalty . . . .  Was I to be whipped on the Church steps?  Would I be allowed a blindfold before execution?

Anyway, my "offense" came out in the painful meeting that ensued.  The essay that I wrote stated that I had visited the Shrine of Our Lady of Prompt Sucker in the Ursuline Convent!  (Actually, this shrine is correctly spelled Our Lady of Prompt Succor, and it's a biggie in New Orleans.  You can read the Wikipedia link for the story.  Frankly, the statue is a little on the sentimental side, maybe a wee bit sappy.

Anyway, Mama was able to persuade the Head Nun that it was all a mere spelling mistake, an attempt to spell a word that I have never seen and was not likely to encounter in ordinary dialogue.  Though the Ubernun was persuaded (knowing the source, and my spelling reputation), I was still given an afternoon's suspension.  Mama's take on that was that it was a face-saving move on their part for having gotten the teacher's unmentionables twisted, and that we were to spend it together at the Clearview shopping mall chilling.  Thank you, thank you, Mama!

Dad was pissed.  At them.  And even threatened to enroll me in a public school away from those intolerant nincompoops (and other choice terms).  But calm eventually was restored.

The very next day, when I returned to school, nothing was said to me.  No apology, no ooops, nothing.  And I said nothing whenever I was asked why I was dragged out of class so dramatically.  Sometimes it's better to be a girl of mystery and leave people to guess.

It was only in adulthood that it finally dawned on me why my misspelling pushed those adults' buttons so readily!

How Do You Know If He Loves You So . . . .?

Guys are different.  But especially preteen guys.  Here's a little romantic story involving preteens.  No, nothing objectionable, just sweet.  Indulge me, you all.

Despite concentrated efforts, sometimes children do have free, unorganized time, and they fill it in pretty much the same way that their parents and grandparents and others filled: now and then with a game involving several other kids based on who's available.  And, things being the way they are, they have a fair amount of admixture in who gets to participate: both boys and girls, varieties of ages, ability levels, anything to get a full team out on the field.  And if there isn't enough available, they knock on doors and ask.

This is how I managed to make the summons, otherwise, I would have been content to watch She-Ra or Xena or other fine televised fare for kids.  The game in question was softball; and at 12 I was not celebrated for my batting or fielding skills.  Yup, it's "You can play right field, Angel!"  I knew my place.  Any typically I was the last one chosen.

And the teams were formed by having the honchos take turn choosing, first deciding who gets first choice by catching the bat and grasping it in turn, then measuring whose hand is higher on the bat.  (I'm sure there's a sports-related term for this method, it seems steeped in sports tradition.) 

The team leaders typically choose who they think the best players are, and as they alternately go through the kids available, the remaining ones are increasingly forcibly reminded of their diminished status. while the earlier-chosen ones get to preen.  [Note: when pre-teens preen, it isn't pretty.]  It's particularly shaming to be the last one chosen, and some last-chosen decamp and run for home due to the ignominy instead of sucking it up and playing.

That's a reality of playground-driven teams.  There's a Darwinian subtext there.  To be the last one chosen is utterly shameful.  And both before and after the game, there's the solitary post-selection Walk of Shame for you!  No less for girls than for boys!

Anyway, the designated team captains were midway through the choices, and I was waiting to being called last, and ready to blush with mortification when that happened.  To my surprise, however; I heard my name called, right smack in the middle of the choices.

I took that as a sign that the boy liked me.  Or even loved me.  And it dawned on me that he seemed to show more interest in talking to me beforehand. 

Guys like that deserve a kiss,  But maybe privately.  I know enough about guys to know that he would be hooted by the other boys for getting a PDA!

The Faux Purity Ring

While in a discussion with other female grad students, the topic of purity rings came up -- with hilarity and skepticism.  In fact, two other girls did have one, but mine was exceptional; it came from the French Quarter in New Orleans!

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Teens are often subjected to social pressures; and they sometimes don't handle them very well.  Case in point came when I was sixteen.  Some friends who attended a Baptist church and their fathers were induced (read arm-twisted) into undergoing a Purity Pledge ceremony, during which the girls pledged to abstain from doing it before marriage.  As a token of their pledge, their fathers gave them silver purity rings inscribed with "True love waits."

Apparently, they were very pleased to announce their virgin status, and carried it a step further:  they raised questions where other peoples' rings were. 

When will they have their Purity Ring ceremony?  Or, were they . . . . sluts!!?  Thus is teen logic; or what passes for it at times.

You can imagine the effect this had on sixteen year old me, since I was a Catholic and our church didn't go in for that sort of public ritual.  (May crownings and flying novenas are okay, though.)    The fact that one implied that "all Catholic girls are sluts" didn't help.

So I went for the easy solution.  I lied.

It so happened that I was in the French Quarter the previous weekend, and I bought a cheapo ring from a touristy store, the kind so loved by mid-adolescents.  It had a pink glass (?) stone and was of a shiny silver metal.  Yes, dear readers, I told them it was a Catholic Purity Ring.  I was a good enough liar that I seemed convincing.

But God gets at you for lying.  She doesn't buy the mental reservation defense.

Specifically, since I lose things, soon I lost my "purity" ring.  (Oh.  My. God.  They'll think I lost my virginity.)  My brother commented once about my tendency to lose things by saying that I would probably misplace my virginity someday.  I threw something hard at him.

Panic City.  I needed it, like the next day.  Really, really, the next day!

Fortunately, my parents came through.  I explained the situation to them, initially circumspectly, and Daddy drove me down to the souvenir shop to buy another one at 10 P.M.  Actually, I bought a spare at the same time.  I was taking no chances.

Furthermore, at no time did either parent ask whether I merited a purity ring!  My Dad, however, did express privately his relief at not having to participate in such an ishy ceremony.



On a Beach in Florida

Since I was near the Florida coast, and had a few hours' down time, I decided to get a little relaxation and sun.  t was a warm day, there was an inviting breeze, and it was still early enough for my avoiding the dangerous rays of the sun with the judicious use of sun block.  I changed into my swim suit, took a large towel, chose an unoccupied section of the beach (It was before the season and a weekday), spread my beach towel for my moment to chill out, metaphorically, if not in fact (it was in the low 80's), and untied the string in the back as I lay down in order to avoid the tell-tale line of whiteness.

 Within a short amount of time, I heard a throat cough, and looked up to see a middle-aged minion of the law.  He was troubled, but I could not tell why.

I demurely clutched my upper garment to avoid inadvertent immodesty, and asked him how could I be of assistance.  I find that, if I try to act helpful, then most southern police officers go into their default "be charming with the ladies mode" and it disarms them from whatever might have been my offense.

He said, "Miss, I wish you wouldn't do that."

I responded, " I'm sorry, I didn't know the beach was posted."  Some are.

He said, "No, it's just that I wish you wouldn't . . . ."  He pointed while looking away.

"Wear sunblock?" He shook his head.

"The bikini?" He nodded. Now I was beginning to worry.  Did Florida suddenly get hypermodest, a detail missed by us heathen Louisianans?  If so, I was, in the words of a former President, in deep doo-doo.

"Noooo . . . . You see, someone from the nearby high-rise condo complained . . . . this is a family beach, and we don't want . . . .  I don't have a problem, Miss . . . . " 

Finally I understood. He was uncomfortable with the task of having to get after me for my having unfastened my string, even though I was lying prone and exposed very little of the side and back that wasn't already open to view!  (My niñas were properly still in the cups.)  This was despite the fact that no one else was around, and I would not have been judged indecent anyway, had one been around, much less someone from a distant high-rise!  I thanked him, and complied with his request.  (I resisted the impulse to give him a reassuring hug or ask him to re-tie me.)  After all, it was disagreeable for him to be called on to fuss at me, and we Louisianians should have good manners when we're in foreign parts!

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Afterwards, I thought of the old philosophical question, "If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it still make a sound?" Could the same rule apply here? "If someone is on a beach with her bikini top undone, and no one around to see her, is she still indecent?"

The Protocol of Giving Intimate Gifts

Let's face it: one component that lingers under the surface in boy-girl gifts is the erotic.  There's a little of the old Adam and Eve in us: we like a little erotic kick from time to time, although societal norms constrain us to pretend otherwise.  Obviously, I'm not taking about brother-sister giftings (except possibly in Vermont and West Virginia).  No, I'm talking about boyfriend-girlfriend gifts.  

There's an additional component, the public versus the private, to take into account.  Believe me (speaking from firsthand experience), it is mighty embarassing to open a present at a party and find that your boyfriend had given you a matching black-and-pink semitransparent lacy teddy-and-panties set!  The reason?  Everyone in attendance automatically assumes that we were being intimate (shall we say), even though we weren't.

The damnest thing is, however, is that I liked the outfit!  I did indicate to my boyfriend that I loved his thoughtfulness.

You might not believe this, but I asked my Mama about it.  She inspected the (almost) garment, and asked me what I felt about it.  I admitted that being given it in public was embarassing, but that I liked it.  It made me feel special and beautiful.

Her advice was very practical:  Keep the teddy and panties, and wear them in private when I needed to feel special.

Anyway, my suggestion to readers about intimate gifts is this: bestow an intimate gift only on someone you are intimate with; and always give those kinds of gifts privately!

In Which I Serve as a (Sort Of) Second Base Coach

My buddy Dee-Doh and I have known other for many years.  I've always appreciated him: his kindness, his friendship, his good common sense.  And while we were very close, we never, ever went into the friends with benefits level; mutually feeling that this would have destabilized our relationship and causing it irrepable harm.  (We did maybe lapse into being friends with minor benefits on occasion (mostly kissing!), but were pretty good about it all most of the time.) 

Let's face it: about half the population is male, and the other half if female; and we're only fooling ourselves if we assume that we know all there is about men or women.  Hey, I am not that sure about myself!  Capische?

Anyway, Dee-Doh and I were commiserating about our respective relationships at that time, and he confessed some doubt and confusion about how to know about when to proceed in the initiation of intimate acts.  I was not entirely surprised:  I once had to coach him on kissing!  Poor shy, unassuming Dee-Doh!  Guys who assume they're God's gift to women are tedious; but these sensitive, quiet guys who assume they're not good enough also have their own problems . . . .  Have other women ever wondered when they guys they were interested in would get moving, or am I the only impatient one?  I suspected that poor Dee-Doh just needed some, ah, sympathetic female encouragement.

Anyway, after much hemming and hawing, he confessed the cause of his shame: he could not work up the nerve to go to second base with the girl he was dating! 

Okay -- just a word.  This is not going to end in a torrid sex scene, however you might wish!  No, Dee-Doh was a gentleman with his copine (girl bud in French).

So why shouldn't Dee-Doh just go and do it?  It was his paralyzing uncertainty.  So, I decided to do a lesson plan with him.  The first issue was: when should he start?  Maybe by the fifth date or so.  No sooner.  That's my Plimsoll line of permissiveness there, even if it's probably a no-go with me then.  If a guy doesn't make at least a try, I begin to feel uneasy as to how he sees me.  By the tenth time, I begin to wonder about his sexual preference.  Okay, I was bending my own rules regarding second base in the case of my coaching Dee-Doh.  

The next issue, try in or out?  First try the outside, and if it's okay, then tentatively go in.  One button at a time.  Another matter, try the bottom button route.  Dee-Doh kind of got the idea although it seemed counterintuitive to him. 

Eventually, Dee-Doh went to the bra-unhooking lab: the bra secured to a chair.  Unhooking one should not be a big deal; but a guy can really blow the mood if there is a lot of awkward fumbling.  Finally, I allowed him to practice on me (with appropriate modesty in the process), and he became an adapt at the one-handed approach.

I'm amazed that you can now access videos through You Tube or other sources on this type of methodology.  Apparently, my instructional approach was outdated.

No!  Don't raise the skirt!

My First Vocational Choice

Ahh, to consider those earnest, tried-and-true high school essay or speech topics: How I Spent My Summer, My Philosophy of Life, My Choice of Vocation in Life. The last one is particularly one that a student should choose with care for the paper or speech. The rule of thumb is: present yourself as idealistic, to assauge the Ya-Ya Sisterhood and Da Good Sistahs!. Saying that you want to be a doctor or nurse or social worker are good ones. Proposing that you want to be a lawyer is iffy, since the Learned Counselors often have slimy reputations and hang out with unsavory types like criminals and pols. Of course, if you say that you have a vocation to be a nun, then fate will smile on you for the remainder of your high school career. This can be parlayed into many excuses and out-of-room slips; and, as long as you do not appear to be boy-crazy or immodest, out of a lot of grief. An engineer? Well, that's not entirely lady-like; but Chem. E's or Pet. E's draw about 45 K when they leave the starting gate (thus Dear Ole Dads like that) and you get excused for a lot of bad taste in dress.

Did I go the safe route? No. Instead, I wrote that I would like to be a trophy wife. I was sent to three days' detention for having a 'bad attitude.' I thought that was standard equipment.

Later on, my poor mother got a phone call from the head nun. I overheard her explaining the difference between a trophy wife and a kept woman. Go figure.

The Hello Kitty Ninja Angels Strike

"BOLD AS BRASS!" -- The head nun scolds, using an expression that is calculated to intimidate us into returning to the paths of righteousness, not to mention the two weeks of detention for our excursion to the race track. We looked (hopefully) hangdog enough that she would soon tire of her tirade. Ahhh, we were used to brass: that being about as much as our boy friends could afford to give us as items of jewelery. (My wrist developed a long-term brownish-green line from a wrist band I wore for over two years.)

Anyway, we got through the scolding from the Principal and the subsequent 'parental counseling' and the detention with a sufficient degree of injury that made us feel that we needed to do one more thing just to prove that the adults did not have our number just yet. But what?One of us, more imaginative and miscevious, developed an idea. We were going to do a raid on a nearby Catholic boys' high school; something that would surely be a dramatic and unequivocal act of defiance! (And prove to boys that we can be as daring!) Specifically, we were going to switch something for their school flag.

The boys at that school had to do some R.O.T.C. thing going, and they wore uniforms. Every morning some of them raised their the school flag and the U.S. flag with ceremony. It was all impressive, had the work-bound commuters been able to appreciate what was being done instead of driving like maniacs in the turbulent New Orleans traffic. Our plan was to take their school flag; and put something else in its place to emphasize that they were hit. But, in order to be effective, we would have to be late for our own school. How to go about it? We thought about it a bit.

First, we would have to affect the switch just after classes began, when all of their teachers and students were inside. Also, we considered what what we should do and what to wear. Obviously, wearing some attention-getting clothing like ninja costumes would call attention to ourselves. So, we decided to do it slowly and deliberately, dressed in our own school uniforms. We assumed that the casual passersby would either not notice us or figure that we were conducting a legitimate flag-raising. (As a general rule, if you act like you belong doing something, people seldom ask questions.) Finally, what to do with the flag afterwards? We were not into stealing per se: what value does a school flag have, anyway? So we decided to lower the flag, run up a substitute, and hide the flag openly in the Meeting Hall of the boys' school.

Sooo . . . . at approximately 9 A.M. we ceremoniously lowered the school flag. Then came the risky part. We entered the boys' school, and quickly ran to the Meeting Hall where we draped their school flag over the podium. Nobody was about; and we accomplished our mission with full success. We got to our school and our tardiness was unnoticed by the teacher, who desultorily took roll at the end of first period.

What did we run up in its stead? Well, it was a "Hello Kitty" lingerie set, 34A pink and white! And it was proudly displayed on their flagpole all day until after school. Many of the boys missed it even then; being more intent on going home. However, the members of the football team all confirmed that a bra and panty set was hanging from the flagpole and it did not have the school colors on it! They reported being obviously pleased with the substitution and the resultant annoyance it caused their faculty. Imagine the least important one having to retreive lingerie from a flagpole! Adults take things so personally.

The school flag was discovered two days later, so I heard, in the Assembly Hall. We sent them a picture of us in our school uniforms displaying their school flag and the 'Hello Kitty' set, but with all of us wearing 'Hello Kitty' masks As far as I know, nothing was said to the nuns. We correctly figured that the boy school faculty would be too proud to admit anything like that to the nuns.

At a Soiree

As a nubile and dutiful niece, I am sometimes called upon to attend soirees in which flowered sundress, heels, and gloves are de rigeur. Plus a nice straw hat. That explains my being there, much like a rooster wearing socks. My aunt is in a lather to get me "married off," as my brother charmingly puts it. Anyway, here's the dialogue. I'm trying to write of manners, but I'm not cool or observant like Jane Austen.

"Miss B., I would like to tell you about my nephew, Mortimer.

"He is a very fine lad, and a very eligible from the finest of old New Orleans families. I have always believed that good genes make the man, you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. Blood will tell. Here is his picture (one of a fortyish, epicene male without a chin). He's a good boy, he lives at home on St. Charles Avenue with his mater and plays the organ at St. George's Episcopal every Sunday. He went to Tulane for a while, and found it too serious; so he transferred to Loyola and found it too Catholic for his tastes. Still, he helps his mother manage the family money, and they have a splendid time vacationing each year. The three of us get along famously; he's so mature and cultured. He knows the lyrics to all the Broadway show tunes and will sing a wide repretoire of them while playing the piano. Yes, you will enjoy their trips to the tropics, or daring to go to Europe; which is, you know, so European. Two weeks ago, he said while we were dancing at the Yacht Club, 'Auntie Mae, I think I must marry soon, as the family needs progeny to carry on. Oh, be a dear, and look for a likely young woman of quality stock and exquisite breeding. Someone who has refined tastes. Someone who is presentable when we go to resorts and associate with others of Our Set. Really, I need someone who knows how to pour coffee and serve petits four. Mortimer's full name is Mortimer Le Tremblay Du Bois-Reymond Willchester _____________. [old families]" He has lineage. But he is so accomplished. He makes his own vichyssoise, and is president of the local ikebana society."

"Ma'am, I have experience with pouring coffee. I have been working as a barista!"

"Oh, my goodness. What's that? Some of you college girls are so accomplished.

"Angel, Dear: when did you come out?"

[Oh. My. God. Does she think I'm a lesbian?]

"Ma'am?"

"When and at what cotillion did you make your debut?"

"Ma'am, I didn't."

"Well, what school did you attend?"

I named a garden variety Catholic girls' high school.

Wrong answer. Or, upon reflection, right answer. She suddenly found my skirt to be too short and my hair and general appearance too modern.

"Mortimer really doesn't care for modern girls. As he puts it, 'Mama, no modern girls for me. They are too flashy and no amount of firmness will make real headway with them.'"