Recently at supperclub I heard raucous guffawing coming from the table in the next room. Hating to miss a good laugh, I ambled in. Several ladies were wiping away tears and the story-teller backed it up to repeat his yarn for me.
Harry grinned, "As a kid I was playing in the bathtub when Mama walked in and started hollerin' at me, 'WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THAT THING?' So I stopped blowing bubbles, pulled the rubber hose outta my mouth and tried to explain how I was playing Sea Hunt and I was Lloyd Bridges.
'Mama, that red rubber bottle hanging up there is my scuba tank, the tube coming down here, my leads to my regulator and I'm just blowing into my mouth gear here.'
She looked sick, snatched away my pretend equipment with, 'Harry! Never put that in your mouth again! It's NOT scuba equipment!'
It was years later before I realized what it was. But to a kid, it all looked like great scuba gear."
Harry, also a military brat, grew up to become a certified scuba diver, even though he cut his teeth on humble beginnings.
I laughed, "Harry, you remind me of my own adventure when I was about five or six years old."
They egged me on, not that I needed it.
"Daddy was in the Navy and had the duty, which means he spent the night on his ship in port. So the family sometimes joined him for supper and a movie on board.
I needed to use the bathroom. They call it the head. There was no ladies' head so Dad cleared out the men's and guarded the door for me.
I rejoined him and we started back to his quarters as I chattered, 'That was a weird sink, Daddy. That long one on the wall had water running down it and I never could turn it on and off. I just ran my hands up and down it to get 'em wet. But that hard soap in the little, wire basket hanging there wouldn't lather either.'
Suddenly Daddy deciphered my words. He stopped so abruptly I nearly plowed into him. We about-faced back to the restroom. He flung open the door again, pointed to my funny-looking long sink and declared, 'YOUNG'UN! THAT IS NOT A SINK!'
Then pointing to another wall behind me, 'THAT's a sink!'
Oh. I'd not even seen that.
He held both my hands together with his long fingers gripped firmly around my little wrists. He hoisted me as we marched to the men's head sink, my feet air-marching over the deck. Then he handed me a bar of soap, commanding, 'Now, Kathy, you wash again and scrub hard all the way up to your elbows!' He inspected my every move until I passed.
It was years later before I realized what a urinal was. Little girls don't have much occasion for seeing the interior of men's rooms!"
However, I was married while traveling late one night when we stopped for gas. I awoke and stumbled to the bathroom while Doug filled the car. As I flushed the toilet, I spotted a sign on the wall over the tank:
WE AIM TO PLEASE!
YOU AIM, TOO, PLEASE!
I thought out loud, "That doesn't make any sense, unless you're in a men's room. . ."
YOU'RE IN A MEN'S ROOM!
I quickly remounted, lifting my feet. I tried to become invisible in my stall, until the MEN in the other stalls left!
Recently I found this new and improved version of the sign:
I'm a slow learner but gradually becoming an expert on the obvious!
Still flushing and blushing,