Like many things, the truth about blond jokes has risen to the top. Blond jokes are sexist. I’m a blond. My current shade is light blond. Very Light blond. However, there were never any blond jokes about me. So, I won’t share a blond joke, but I will share about a blond I once knew quite well. She was my first girlfriend and wife and the mother of my two children. Let me begin by saying she has been a wonderful mother, especially considering I left to go find myself or whatever. I can’t thank her enough for what she has done.
If she reads this, I hope she understands that I’m laughing with her not at her, or maybe I’m laughing at us both. The incidents I’m about to share are things we both laughed about at the time, and I’m sure she has plenty more she could share about me.
Standing on a Footstool
One evening I came home from work with just enough time to take a quick shower and change into a clean suit for a company event. It was a semi-formal awards dinner. When I went to the bathroom, I found her standing on a footstool in front of the mirror, both hands raised to the top of her head, taking curlers out of her hair. When I asked why she was standing on a footstool, she looked at me like I was an idiot, “Duh, so I can reach the top of my head.” I couldn’t make this up.
Hand signal
Before turn signal blinkers, drivers used their hands to signal turns. The driver would hold their left arm straight out the window for a left turn and bend their left arm 90 degrees, pointing up for a right turn. When we were married, one of our first cars was a 1963 Chevy Impala, 2-door, green, with a missing driver’s window and turn signals that didn’t work. One day she was driving and about to make a right-hand turn when I suggested she give a hand signal. She looked at me with disgust and said, “My arm is not long enough!” then she showed me by pointing her right arm at my face. “See,” I did see.
Dawn Dish Soap
Don’t get me wrong, we were very young, and I made plenty of funny blunders. Like the time we lived in Massachusetts and she while she was out, I decided to load the dishwasher. I didn’t find any dishwasher detergent, so I poured some good old regular Dawn dish soap into the washer. I started it and went out to shoot some hoops. About 30 minutes later, I found three or more feet of soap suds in our apartment. I filled buckets, poured them down the bathtub for at least an hour, and then mopped the floor. When she got home, she looked at the kitchen floor and said it looked nice. I don’t think I ever told her the truth.
I’ve always looked for alternate ways to do things, like putting a frozen custard pie in the oven to “speed things up” That was quite a mess. Don’t do that.
