Being a RocketteBill's Briefs, Bottom Highlights Thursday, August 18th, 2016
Social Chaos: Bill's Briefs
I shudder at the dreams of the young today as they aspire to be great “stars” like the Kardashians or a singer whose main emphasis is on amassing scandals, friends with benefits and divorce millions. In our day countless high school girls (sorry, that is what they were then) dreamed of packing a suitcase, getting on a bus and heading for New York City to become the ultimate in glamour and fame: a Radio City Rockette.
After class, they practiced ballet, tap and, of course, line-dancing for all local musical events and talent contests. For many, being a star would be nice, but being a Rockette was enough; the chosen dancers had reached Shangri-La. Their flame has dimmed somewhat, but crowds still flock to them, especially to the Christmas show with real sheep, donkeys and camels!
Seniors will never forget the historic moment in 2001 when they proudly danced and pranced down the steps of the Lincoln Memorial for George Bush’s inauguration. To be a part of this celebrity meant local headlines equal to a boy joining a sports team. Such glory was reserved for girls, so I decided to headline Holiday on Ice. No, the guys wearing more make-up than the Rockettes had nothing to do with it!
Skating proved cold and painful, so I turned to music intending to claim my star as a roller-rink organist. Saluting Liberace, I planned to wear a silver, floor-length cape I’d found. Sadly, the moth holes couldn’t be hidden by a rabbit boa.
The point is it was the dreams that got us through. And so they will today; of shorter range than before, but still drawing us forward to the next cruise, the next casino jackpot, the next Mr. /Ms. Right.
Never stop dreaming.
Avoiding housemaid’s knees
The term “housemaid’s knees” isn’t heard much anymore, yet it was on my mind as I viewed the state of my floors and realized my Japanese partner would arrive next month and was bound to comment (sweetly) about the dusty blinds and general murkiness of my linoleum.
I thought of the various TV ads for scrubbing products that replace spending a lot of time on one’s knees – which is where the term came from; also known as “nun’s knees” or … well, other names. I decided it was time to find someone to do the cleaning for me. Not so easily done. How much to pay? What ID should I demand? What is the green card I hear about? Who pays the social security? Are they bonded? W2 forms? Etc.
My inquiries produced oblique, even evasive, answers. It seems one does not ask these questions. One relies on a friend to recommend their helper, call them for you and arrange things (Wednesday, three hours, $15 per). Sure enough, Rosa arrived. I said, “Hello.” She said, “Hallo.” I gave her the tour and said, “OK?” She said, “Hokay.” I pointed to my watch and held up three fingers: “OK?” “Hokay.” I left for a movie and Starbucks, returning three hours later to find her waiting and everything spic and span. I gave her fifty dollars. “OK?” “Hokay.”
I pointed to the calendar for next month, “OK?” “Hokay.” Thank goodness. All was well and my knees were safe. Very slowly I said, “Thaaank yooou veerrry muuch.” She replied, “You’re welcome, sir. It has been a pleasure working here without constant interruptions and chit chat. I hope everything is to your satisfaction. I’ll see you next month as agreed. Have a nice day.”
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