Time To Pencil In “The Talk”

, , , , , , | Related | December 18, 2018

(I am roughly eleven years old. I am in my room working on homework when I notice the #2 at the top of my pencil and start to wonder if there are #1 or #3 pencils, as well, and how they are different. Considering my dad has always been rather knowledgeable, and this is before the Internet is easily accessed, I decide to ask him. I find him in the living room watching television with my mom. Not wanting to interrupt his show for a silly question, I decide to ask him if it’s okay first.)

Me: “Dad, I was wondering if I could ask you a question?”

(My dad stiffens and slowly turns his head to look at me. His face looks paler, his mouth hangs open, and there is some fear in his eyes.)

Dad: “W-what?”

Me: “Um, I wanted to know, if you weren’t too busy, if I could ask you a question.”

Dad: *shaken* “Uh… right. Okay. Just… go sit in my room and I’ll come in when I’m ready.”

Me: *figuring he wants to wait till a commercial break* “Okay.”

(This next part is from my mother’s perspective, which she shares with me years later. She has been watching the show, not listening to our conversation. After I leave the room the TV suddenly turns off.)

Mom: *looks at my dad* “Hmm? What’s going on?”

Dad: *gravely, not looking at her* “It’s time.”

Mom: *concerned by his tone* “Time for what?

Dad: “Our son has… questions. It’s time for ‘the talk.’”

(She picks up that he means it is time to give me the “sex talk.” They spend a few minutes discussing what points to bring up, and Mom tries to bolster him into doing this until he decides that he’s ready and goes to talk to me.)

Me: *obliviously watching TV while waiting*

Dad: *enters the room, turns off the television, and sits next to me on the bed* “Well, son, what questions did you have for me?”

Me: “Oh, I was wondering if there are other numbered pencils rather than #2; they always say, ‘use a #2 pencil,’ but I’ve never heard of a #1 pencil before.”

(I see my dad practically deflate as tension leaves his body. There’s a pause of at least ten seconds as he gathers his thoughts. He answers my question to my satisfaction.)

Me: “Cool. Thanks, Dad.” *starts to get up to leave*

Dad: *stopping me* “Wait. There’s something else I wanted to tell you about.”

Me: *confused*

(He proceeds to give me “the talk.” It isn’t especially overt, but the topic comes so out of left field for me I’m practically knocked off my feet.)

Dad: “So, son, do you have any more questions for me?”

Me: *dazed* “No… no more questions.”

(I shambled out of their room and back to my own. I sat down at my desk and stared at the innocuous pencil that started this. In the living room, I could hear my mother’s cackling laughter as she heard the story.)

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Keeping Abreast Of Feeding Time

, , , , , , | Related | December 18, 2018

(My husband’s family does not believe in breastfeeding a baby beyond the first couple of weeks. I am determined to breastfeed for at least the first six months. We are visiting my husband’s parents and I have taken our one-month-old daughter into a bedroom to feed her. I hear my husband’s brother arrive and greet my husband.)

Brother: “Are you alone? Where’s [My Name]?”

Husband: “No, she’s in the bedroom, feeding [Daughter].”

Brother: *loudly* “Is she still feeding [Daughter]?”

Husband: “It’s not like [Daughter] can get her own food yet.”

Brother: “That’s not what I meant.”

Husband: “So, what exactly did you mean? That [My Name] has no right to feed her baby the most natural way there is?”

Brother: “Point taken.”

(That was the last time I heard anything more about my choice of feeding my children.)

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“Nice Guys” Usually Aren’t

, , , , , | Romantic | December 18, 2018

(There is a girl in my college class who was in a bad car accident when she was in her early teens, which resulted in her being heavily scarred down the left side of her body — including severe facial scarring — having a pronounced limp, and missing her left arm. Psychologically speaking, she’s sound, and she’s a very independent person, though also very quiet and polite. There’s this guy in our class who’s always jumping up to help her with everything, despite the fact she asks him not to and constantly says she doesn’t need his help and that she’s okay. Over a month later, she’s kind of given up telling him to stop because 1: she doesn’t like confrontation and 2: she’s aware it’s coming from a “good place,” so to speak. Well, that’s what we all thought, anyway. It’s just before lesson, and the guy has asked to talk to the girl alone, so she goes a little bit away to chat. Since he wants to talk to the girl alone, we all watch from a respectable distance. We can see him speaking, then her putting her hand up in front of her. And we’re like, “Oh, he just asked her out and she said no.” She goes to head back, but he stops her and talks a bit more animatedly. She’s a bit more aggressive with her hand gesture back, and walks as quickly as she can back to the group. He follows quite angrily, so we start to walk towards her, as well, just in case.)

Guy: *shouting* “But why?! I’m a nice guy! I did all those things for you!”

Girl: *firmly and fairly loudly* “I didn’t ask you to! In fact, I asked you not to, and you ignored me.”

Guy: “But I still did it! You owe me!”

Girl: “I don’t owe you anything.”

(Our male teacher has arrived at the area at this point, and is also making his way over in case he needs to intervene.)

Guy: “No one else will date you! Not with those scars! You won’t get anyone better than me! I’m willing to look past those scars; don’t think you’ll find anyone else that will!”

(There’s mass shock and everyone freezes. Someone in the group, no idea who, gasps.)

Girl: “Go suck a d**k!”

(More mass shock follows, and another gasp, though there are also some titters.)

Guy: “[Teacher]! Did you hear what she said?!”

Teacher: “You can’t suck my d**k; that’s illegal!”

(The guy stormed off. He went and complained about “bullying by classmates and the teacher” to the reception, which was quickly dropped when the situation was fully explained. He quit college soon after because others found out somehow. Don’t be a “Nice Guy.”)

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Allergic To Common Sense, Part 14

, , , , | Healthy | December 18, 2018

(We had a summer camp cook that was a legitimate threat to our health and safety. Counselors came early to camp to help prepare for the coming kids, and the cook was responsible for feeding us. Just two of her sins were: 1) Food was chilled several degrees above the temperatures required for food safety. 2) She saw nothing wrong with storing raw, dripping meat above uncovered lettuce because the lettuce was going to be rinsed off, anyway. Counselors complained multiple times, but the higher-ups refused to fire her because she had faked her training in food preparation and continued to insist that she knew better, and the counselors didn’t know what they were talking about. Then, there was an incident that couldn’t be ignored. Two counselors were hospitalized with life-threatening conditions. Why?)

Cook: “There’s no such thing as allergies! It’s all in their minds! They’ve been allowed to be picky all their lives, instead of being forced to eat their ‘allergens’–” *actually makes air quotes with her fingers* “–until their body is forced to stop reacting to it and then you can eat it like everyone else! That’s how you get over allergies!”

(Fortunately, the police were very interested to hear that she had been made fully aware of the allergies of everyone at camp, and even MORE interested to hear that she had deliberately slipped the allergens to the unsuspecting counselors. The cook was arrested. As for the rest of us? We have been keeping documentation of the times the higher-ups failed to take action against our many complaints. We have a sizeable file to give to the lawyers of the two counselors who were hospitalized.)

Allergic To Common Sense, Part 13
Allergic To Common Sense, Part 12
Allergic To Common Sense, Part 11

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Having A Very, VERY Merry Christmas

, , , , | Related | December 17, 2018

(My mother had a surgery, and I’m taking her home from the hospital. She can walk, but is still kind of loopy because of the painkillers.)

Me: “All right, we’re home. Do you need help getting out of the car?”

Mom: “Baby… my little ladybug…”

Me: “Aye?”

Mom: “Turn on the Christmas lights, please.”

Me: “Right now? It’s noon.”

Mom: “I want to watch!”

Me: “Okay.”

(She then stayed inside the car with the windows down for half an hour, staring at the outdoor Christmas lights. At least she had a good time.)

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