God Always Trusts Trojan

“Of course I know how to use a condom, Dad!  They taught us in health class last year!"

“Really?  And how did you practice this important skill?”

“We used a banana.”

“Great.  Show me.”

“Yeah, Dad.  Like I just carry condoms with me everywhere I go.”

“Yeah, well maybe you should!”

This is not an unusual conversation in my household.  My daughter, Daisy Mae, recently turned 17.  She looks older than her years and is, in a mother’s strictly unbiased opinion, a beautiful girl.  She has a tendency to attract boys a couple years older than she is, which means that Mr. Bean and I have our work cut out for us, if we intend to get through the next three years without becoming grandparents.

Daisy was preparing to go out with her then-boyfriend, Devon, a 19-year-old who seemed intent on living his entire summer at the beach.

“OK, well, look.  Mom and I have to run out for dog food.  We’ll be back around 6:00.  What time is Loverboy showing up?”

“I don’t even know for sure if we’re going out tonight,” Daisy scowled as she looked at her phone, “he just said he’s stuck helping his mom at the market.”

Mr. and I headed out to get dog food, followed by a stop at Chipotle for a quick bite to eat.  Chipotle was a popular spot that night, as we had about a ten-minute wait in line.

As we neared the front of the line, I looked down on the floor and was surprised to see that someone had dropped a wrapped condom.  

I nudged Mr. Bean, “Wow, Honey, look!  God had left us a condom!  Do you think it’s a sign?”

He looked to where I pointed and snickered.  “It appears that God wants us to quiz our smart-mouthed kid about her birth control.”

“And Lo, there did appear before them a,” I reached down and picked up the condom, “a Lime-green Trojan Twisted Pleasure, with a reservoir tip, and extra lubrication.  And the people took up the condom and declared it good.”  I slipped in and out of a bad Charleton Heston voice, giggling like a 12-year-old.

The woman in front of me looked over her right shoulder.  “OK, I just want to go on record saying that did NOT fall out of my purse, OK?”

“Duly noted.”  Mr Bean and I were laughing hysterically at this point.

When we arrived home, Mr. immediately summoned our daughter.  

“Oh, Daisy Mae!  Come here, sweetheart!  God has brought unto us an opportunity to prove your condom-sheathing skills.  Quick; grab a banana and come here!”

Daisy set down the Wii controller and leveled her very best “Really?” gaze at us.  “Seriously?  You two went out and bought condoms, just so I could prove to you that I know how to put one on?  You’re kidding, right?”

“Oh, no,” I said, “God sent us this condom.  He delivered it to us at the Chipotle by the mall, so that we could bring it to you!  It’s God’s condom.  It's a magic condom for all we know.  You can’t dis it.”  

“Oh for gawd’s sake.  What the hell is this?  A Twisted Pleasure condom?  Jeez!  It’s fluorescent green.  OK, that’s so wrong.  Gimme that banana...”

She tore open the wrapper, grabbed the condom by the reservoir tip….and shook it vigorously until it flapped about like a limp wind sock.  She looked at the banana.  She looked at the condom.  “Shit.  I did that wrong.  Oh, whatever!”  She started to drop it, but then looked at it again and started to laugh.  “Man, that would make, like, the best water balloon EVER.”

The condom, as is happened, was capable of holding an entire pint of water, with room to spare.  Daisy spent about 45 minutes playing with her new water balloon on the back porch until it finally burst.  

“OK, I will NEVER, EVER believe any guy who tells me that the condom is too small for him to wear.  That thing would have fit a horse!”   

Lesson 121.  Completed.

The next afternoon, I dropped Daisy off at the beach, where she was meeting Devon.  “Hey; have fun, Baby.  Behave yourself.”

She looked back at me as she got out of the car.  “Yeah, it looks like I won’t have a choice about that, as clearly, I don’t know how to put on a condom!”  She winked.

I love you, Daisy Mae.

You Can't Run Away on Bath Day.

Any of you who have ever been to my house know that I have the biggest, hairiest dog in the universe.  His name is Max.  He’s a Scottish Deerhound.  He stands 34” high at the shoulder.  He can reach all but the middle five inches of my kitchen counters without any of his four legs leaving the ground.  Despite his advanced age (he’s 90 years old, in dog years), he can still rear up on his hind legs and take things off the top of my fridge.  I have witnessed this.  He’s huge.

In addition to being physically tall, Max is heavy.  And covered, head to toe, in a double coat of five-inch long wiry hair.  Imagine having to conduct all of your daily requirements while wearing a Sasquatch suit; now you know what Max goes through.  I love him.  But he can get pretty fragrant sometimes. Oh, and he’s arguably the most neurotic dog in the universe.

In the summer time, we can put him in cross-ties and use a bucket of soapy water and the garden hose to get him clean.  Once the weather gets cold, this is no longer an option.  None of the local groomers have dog wash stations that can safely accommodate a canine the size of Mike Tyson with the temperament of Woody Allen.  He’s too heavy to lift in and out of the bathtub and besides, it’s too slippery in there for him.  

That leaves us with the shower stall in the laundry room/mud room.  Which is large enough for him to stand in, if he doesn’t move too much.  With the door closed, there’s scarcely enough room for me to get in there with him, and in order not to make a bigger mess of things than necessary, I am forced to join the dog au naturel for bath time.

This was how we began last Wednesday Bath Time Adventure.  The soaping up and scrubbing part went well enough; he stood patiently while I wetted all his fur, lathered and scrubbed all his various dignified and undignified doggy parts.  It was when we got to rinsing and brushing that things began to come apart.  Deerhound fur is a curious substance.  It clings to deerhound skin in a very tenuous manner, dislodging itself under with even the scarcest effort.  As I began to brush out Max’s fur, large clumps of it came off of Max, attaching itself to the shower tile walls, the floor…and to me.  Within minutes, I was disturbingly festooned with large expanses of thick, dark fur clods, until I began to wonder if this was what felt like to be Sean Connery’s back.  

I encountered a few mats that needed cutting out, and realized I had forgotten the scissors on the kitchen table.  I released Max’s head and he reacted as any self-respecting dog would:   He shook from head to tail, releasing a shower of extra fur that covered all my remaining exposed skin in a deerhound patina.  By now, I was well and thoroughly short of patience.  “It’s a good thing I love you, you hairy, stinky beast.”

My husband and daughter were out running some errands, so I was alone in the house and couldn’t yell for the scissors.  I looked at Max.  “I’m going to get the scissors.  Be a good boy.  Don't.  Move.”  Shutting the shower door, I emerged out into the kitchen:  nude, sopping wet, covered in hunks of dog fur, half of my hair sticking straight up from where Max had rubbed shampoo into it, and wearing a murderous expression.  I can only imagine I resembled Helena Bonham Carter half-morphed between Belatrix Lestrange from Harry Potter and Ari from Planet of the Apes.

It was then that I discovered my family had arrived home some time while I was washing the dog.

My daughter let out a horrified scream.  “Jeeezus, Mom!”  She fled the room.

My husband unsuccessfully hid his desire to burst out laughing.  “Um…snicker…well…snerk…So…how’s the bath going?”  He covered his mouth and snorted; his eyes started to water.  “You, um, wear the hot-n-hairy look well.”  He was now laughing openly.  

From the other room I could hear my daughter yelling, “Gawd!  I’m going to need brain bleach now!”

My voice came out as a strangled growl.  “Just give me the f*cking scissors.”

By now, Max had dislodged the shower door from its track and was sliding around the laundry room floor, where he upended the cat box and coated his recently-clean legs in used cat litter.

I returned to the shower, re-washed and re-brushed Max's legs, finished drying and grooming his fur and released him, now joyous and bouncing, back into the house.  I got myself cleaned up and collected all of the dog fur.  I intend to card and spin it; by winter’s end I should have knitted two schnauzers and a wire-haired dachshund.  My husband and daughter can wash them.

I hope there’s no more mud until summer.