Foolin' Around 101

It’s been more than a little while since I was living under someone else’s roof, abiding curfews and scheming ways to NOT be alone with boys lest I be pressured into getting undressed. But it hasn’t been so long ago that I don’t remember some basic rules of dignity that should apply to even those who might not be QUITE as prudish as I was at sixteen.

Hence, as a service to my community, I'd like to pass these rules on to you kids I was forced to call the police on the other night because you obviously thought you were in SUCH a liberal neighborhood that we wouldn’t mind the sight of a little nakedness on our bank of the Rio Grande.

First to the girl -- Since I'm not your mother and can't ship you off to an all girl's Catholic boarding school in the heart of South America, I’m going to speak to you like the sexually-active teenager that you are:

• I know it feels good on the ego when he tells you how cute/phat/hot/bodacious and yummy he thinks you be, whatever the current lingo is for "Let's get it on, baby." But it's obvious to me, a casual observer, that you and you alone have got to be the LAW, the standard-setter, the grown-up in this relationship. In case you didn’t already know, Mr. Smooth Operator would be perfectly satisfied getting his swerve on in in the cereal aisle at the local grocery store if you let him. So unless you insist he put some of his hard-earned money and/or ingenuity into finding you some privacy, he's gonna settle for an empty-looking street and a grassy knoll. 'Cause it's easy and, OH, does he like easy. YOU'VE gotta stand up and say, "Uh-uh. Nobody's THAT smooth a talker/rapper/knife-juggler. I'm not doin' this on an underfertilized lawn in front of god and all his children." For the love of pete, make him take you somewhere that doesn’t have porch lights, snoopy old ladies and little boys taking notes. Make him take you where you won’t get grass in your crack and deer terds in your hair. If you’re actually shooting for sub-standard conditions, the opposite bank of the river is JUST as tacky but without the windows flying open and the kids yelling, “Hey, Mom, what are those people doing over there against that tree?”

• Secondly, I couldn't help noticing that you two were afoot. I know my street, and you are not from down the street. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that you aren't from three blocks of here. This boy obviously doesn’t have a car. Excuse me for a moment while I stick my finger down my throat and gag……………..................... Okay, I’m back. Sweetie, he NEEDS to be grown up enough to be driving a car if he wants to be driving into the land of milk and honey, don't you think?? I mean, we're not talking Beemers and Hummers. A nice Pinto will do. But if he can’t properly pick you up and take you home, drive you to McDonald's and a nice make-out point, then he's probably not mentally prepared to handle your assets. Much less your assets' missed period. Besides, this isn’t New York or San Francisco or the 1880s. He didn't look Amish, either. So Mr. Smooth Operator doesn’t have the excuse of, “Well, I support public transportation, a cleaner environment and the simple life, yo.” Unfortunately, "public" transportation in these parts involves looking pitiful and downtrodden while sticking a thumb in the air. Very classy.

Okay, now onto my advice for Mr. Smooth Operator:

• Pick another street, dude. You've done been warned.