Not An Afternoon Delight

I was busy working in my home office one afternoon when I was interrupted by the doorbell. I scurried downstairs to find my neighbor, Hot Carla, standing at my door, appearing somewhat distraught.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I need someone to talk to”, she explained.

I hesitated before I nodded, because I had work to finish and of course I was a bit uncomfortable being alone with Hot Carla in my home. I mean this is Hot Carla, and well, you know. But I invited her in since it seemed like the neighborly, Christian, thing to do.

She thanked me and assured me the discussion would not take long.  I discretely took a peek at the clock. If the discussion took 30 minutes, I still had time to finish my work on time. More importantly, my wife wasn’t due home for another hour and obviously Hot Carla had to be long gone by then.  As she moved past me, I took note how much perfume she was wearing to determine if I needed to deodorize the room after she left.

I directed her over to the loveseat and motioned for her to have a seat, and I swear she had in fact started to sit. I turned my back, walked over to the far end of the couch and sat where there would be a full six feet of space between us.  But apparently Hot Carla does not like people to be far apart when discussing personal issues, because she had not sat down on the love seat. She waited until I sat down on the couch, then she kicked off her shoes and sat down right next to me.  And “sat” is not the optimal term; because she pulled her feet up off the floor behind her. So I guess she curled up next to me on the couch.

Now this is not what you think (If it were, I wouldn’t be blogging about it. And you are all totally disgusting for even going there). Hot Carla’s father was ill and she needed some fatherly advice.  She would typically be able to get that advice from her father, but obviously not in this case. So I was serving the role of “father-figure”.  When young, attractive, women start valuing your paternal wisdom more than other male-type functions that you are willing to perform, you know you are traveling down the hill, not up it.  This realization is one of those that is both uplifting yet disturbing at the same time.

Like many beautiful babes, Hot Carla is oblivious to how hot she really is and what affect this sitting arrangement might have on me.  So Carla’s intentions are innocent, she just wants to be this close when discussing very personal matters.

Now I know the guys out there are wondering how Hot Carla is dressed since she is “curled” inches away from me on the couch.  I can say that it was summer, it was hot, and Hot Carla was dressed for coolness and comfort.  So in the way of clothing; not much. She looked so hot I think I noticed some wisps of smoke emanating from her body.  Carla may have been dressed to stay cool, but suddenly it was sweltering where I was seated and I was seated way too close for comfort.

Now you might accuse me at this time of having impure thoughts, but this is absolutely not true. My thoughts were in fact totally pure --- in the undiluted sense of the word.  Even so, I was able to overcome this daunting obstacle.  It takes a skilled listener, with amazing super powers of concentration, to perform under these circumstances. You must keep your mind and all your bones totally under control.

So I listened intently and was able to offer Hot Carla some good advice.  However I was concerned that if the advice was too wise, and her father did croak, these meetings might become more frequent. At times she came close to breaking down in tears. I did keep glancing at the clock to make sure we did not go over the “allotted” time.

The conversation was winding down.  It had been a success. I had been able to help this damsel in distress by comforting her and providing the guidance she so desperately needed.  Just call me Sir Ake-A-Lot. We must have been discussing something very important at that moment, because I failed to hear any noise in the garage.   By the time I heard the door open, it was too late to jump off of the couch and  propel my body through the air and onto the loveseat, which I swear I would have and could have done if I had only time.

In some cruel twist of fate, for some still unknown reason, my wife had decided, without warning I might add, to come home half-an-hour early that day.  She had never done this before. I mean who leaves work a half hour early for no good reason? Who I ask?  And yet there I am sitting on the couch with a shoeless, Hot Carla, in all her hotness, curled up next to me, as I greet my wife.

I look totally guilty of something, but I am totally innocent. The challenge is to try to maintain your composure and a believable facial expression, under extreme duress. It wasn’t so much deer in the headlights as it was buck caught in a compromising position. I resist the urge to immediately jump off the couch.
Instead I slowly rise up and move as carefully as an infantryman through a minefield, putting as much space between Carla and me as reasonably possible. At this point, one wrong move, one wrong look, or one wrong word, could cause an explosion of epic proportions.

“Carla’s father is ill”, I blurt out in attempt to diffuse the situation.  Fortunately Carla’s face communicates the severity of the situation.  It would have been a great time to unleash those tears. I know I wanted to cry right then.   But it does help that Carla does not recognize how things really appear. She is sweet, but rather blunt, and I could imagine her saying to my wife, “Don’t worry honey, we weren’t £*€!ing, we were only talking.” My wife offers her sympathy and engages in some polite small talk.  Since I don’t sit back down, fortunately Carla realizes the conversation is over and I walk her to the door.

Of course now there will be no comforting hug as we part. I do know it would have been a polite, platonic, neighborly, type hug. The kind of hug you would give your sister (if I had a sister) and I’m sure I wouldn’t have felt a thing. As I return, it seems the room temperature has dropped about 70 degrees.  I don’t say much the rest of the evening, and surprise! - - -  I lived to blog about it.

But once again, I’m trying to do the right thing. I’m striving to use my special powers and skills for noble purposes. I’m giving of myself to promote love, peace, and the betterment of humanity. For the record, I want to state again that I am totally, totally, innocent. Really, really, I am.  I was just trying to do the right thing, and the wrong thing happened …… again.

Nurses Need To Wear Undergarments

A hospital near me made the news by instituting a new, strict, dress code which applied to both health care workers and office personnel.  One rule which drew interest was: “All employees must wear underwear.”

Since I had just posted my “Just Say No To Going Commando”, I decided to join the debate to add some frivolity to the discussion.

I posted this comment on the discussion thread of the local newspaper:

Don Ake: Older people should never go commando anywhere - http://akespains.blogspot.com/2015/06/just-say-no-to-going-commando-ruu.html

This was responded to by a woman named Shelley (name changed)

Shelley: Speak for yourself. It’s the height of arrogance for anyone to believe they can tell everyone how to dress. By the way, I’m a boomer, and I dress exactly the way I want.

Apparently Shelley thinks my “commando” post is a serious commentary on dress codes. I’m assuming she dresses “the way she wants” is because she is not working (all companies have some dress codes) which is why she has time to engage in stupid arguments with people on the Internet.  But hey, she has attained the rank “Top Commenter” status on this particular message board so who I am to argue with her?  Who am I indeed?

However the seriousness and passion of her words reveal the existence of a rather large chain visible at the end of her comment. Unfortunately, if I see evidence of someone’s chain, it is almost impossible for me to resist the urge to yank it. (This even included former bosses, which incidentally didn’t help my career much). So I respond with:

Don Ake: Please don’t go commando Shelley, save yourself and all of us by making the wise choice.

Shelley: Like I said I do what I want. Whether I go commando or not is none of your business. Do us all a favor, and keep your generalities to yourself.

She still doesn’t realize I’m being silly. So ….. (yank, yank)

Don Ake: I can tell you are wearing panties because somehow they have gotten in a bunch. I am just performing a public service and trying to help you out.

Incredibly I must have been winning the argument, because “Nancy” (Another “Top Commentator!) joined the discussion in defense of Shelley.  And interesting enough, she is from Nova Scotia.  Why Nancy is so concerned about a hospital dress code in Ohio is baffling.  And I know she is wearing underwear, because you need to keep them beavers warm in the Great White North.

Nancy: Don Ake, No one asked or wants your help. Mansplaining isn’t it making it any better.

Now I take great exception to the mansplaining (talking down to women in a patronizing manner) accusation. For the record: I display the same arrogant, superior, know-it-all, attitude no matter who I am explaining something to. Man, woman, black, white, old, young, it is done exactly the same way!  Uh wait, that didn’t come out the right way…. Um, maybe it is the truth though.

Now if Nancy wants to join in, I am fully capable of engaging two women at the same time. No, I mean I can handle two women at once.  Uh, I guess what I really mean is that I can yank two chains simultaneously.

Don Ake: Oh Nancy, I think you have the same problem as Shelley. I suggest you debrief and then rebrief for the benefit of everyone you encounter today. And I do not mansplain. I am so brilliant that I must spread my wisdom everywhere!

Nancy: Don Ake, The only thing I see on this page that needs rebriefing is a big, shiny, bald, head.

Now I must really be dominating this argument if first I am accused of sexism and now she is attacking my appearance.  However Nancy appears to be young and cute and when a hot babe criticizes your appearance at my age, it does sting a bit. All the more, if in fact, she is not wearing any panties.  But she did notice my big head and you know what they say: big head, big ….. , whatever.

Don Ake: Nancy, For the sake of all humanity, unbind your panties woman, set them free! You and everyone else will be better for it.

And now it was time for Shelley to jump back on top of me, er I mean respond …

Shelley: Obviously Nancy, Don is a mysoginist (sic). He thinks his opinion is more than what it is, his opinion.  He has yet to learn his opinion only matters to him.  He also has an inflated sense of his own intelligence.

At this point I am laughing out loud.  It is difficult to have an inflated sense of intelligence, when I am being ridiculous.  However, I am intelligent enough to know when someone is being ludicrous and yanking my chain, unlike some people I know who have attained the esteemed rank as “Top Commenter”.

As far as being a misogynist, I want to say for the record:  I have never massaged a Miss and do not plan to do so in the future.  Of course if she is of legal age and needs a massage for medical reasons or to save her life, I may make an exception.

Her uniform needs to be "complete"

Furthermore, while the hospital’s dress code may be excessive, I do want the medical workers there to wear undergarments.  It is essential to provide a hygienic environment. Even more importantly, if I’m at the hospital for something cardiac related, I need to be sure the young, hot, blonde nurse attending to me is wearing panties.  If there is any indication, any at all, that she is going “au natural” under her uniform, this is going to end and it’s going to end very badly.

Bad Volleyball – Extremely Bad Volleyball

I was lounging peacefully on the Florida beach during my recent vacation, when I was startled by a young woman sprinting after an errant volleyball.  The resort had a volleyball net set up on the beach, but this rolling ball was quite a distance away from it.

The volleyball court was a popular attraction and the previous day I had witnessed a very spirited, competitive, game. I took particular interest in several of the bikini-clad players who were able to successfully strike the ball despite the obvious obstructions in front of them.  I greatly admired their athletic prowess and effort as their hot, sweaty, bodies glistened in the afternoon sun.  I imagined being out there with them, running, grunting, and uniting in perfect harmony with them to achieve volleyball greatness.

However there had been no games today due to the extreme heat, but now apparently there was some action.  I watched as the woman, about 20 years old, secured the ball and walked back to the court.  On the other side on the net was a man in his 40’s, which I assumed was her father.  She hit the ball over the net; it hit the ground before dad could get to it.  He picked up the ball and then struck it as hard as he possibly could.  This time it careened far to the right, toward the ocean.   The young woman dutifully ran after ball again.

When she returned, her brother, a very skinny teenager, had joined the contest, teaming up with her against dad. And then this odd match fell into a very predictable pattern:

Dad wallops the ball far over the boy’s head. Boy runs after ball.  Boy trots back to court and tries to hit the ball over the net.  Skinny, wimpy, nerdy, boy is not strong enough to get ball over net.  Ball goes under net. Dad picks up ball and “Pow!” There goes the ball flying down the beach again.  This sequence was unbelievably repeated over and over.

This was bad, awful, disgusting, volleyball.  It was the worst volleyball I have ever witnessed.  It may have been the worst volleyball match in the history of the sport.  It was an outrage. It was a disgrace to the sport.  At one point I

The scene of the "crime" and it was criminal.

wanted to walk out onto the court, raise my hands in the air and scream: “For the dignity of the game of volleyball and for the sake of good volleyball players everywhere (especially if they wear bikinis), please stop!  I implore you: please, please, stop. Please stop it. You are awful at this, you will not get any better. Please stop now. Go play Canasta, Parcheesi even, but not volleyball. You’re bad, oh so #^¢πing bad!"

But I didn’t. Instead I began laughing. Not the “I’m laughing with you, not at you”. Not the “I am so amused”. Not even the “that’s cute”. No, this was a mocking laugh. I mock you, I mock you so very, very, much. Your volleyball is so utterly bad that an overweight, middle-aged, guy lying on the beach is mocking you. Yes, you are that bad.

And I could mock them. Because they were so bad that if you cloned me twice (I know this is a scary thought.  The world can’t handle even one of me, so three would be disastrous. I think that is why my parents stopped having sex after I was born.) and I could play them 3-on-3, I would win 21 to 0, even in my present physical condition.

Yes, I would still beat the tar out of team Goofups every game. I wouldn’t even have to dive like those pro beach volleyball players.  But if I did dive, they might have a chance because I would get sand in my crack and at my age, my crack is huge. Which means it might take a team of trained wipers days to remove the sand and I would have to forfeit the match.  But that is the only way these ne’er-do-wells could defeat me.

Sand in the crack can be a big problem for beach volleyball players. One of the bikini girls experienced this the day before and had to shake vigorously to remedy the situation.  I was very disappointed that her team members did not

I'm always ready to respond to
 situations such as this.

try to help her out.  Rest assured if I was her teammate, I would gladly lend a hand to remedy the situation, because that’s just the type of guy and dedicated teammate that I am.  

Now you might believe that I am an insensitive cad for making fun and laughing at a father and his children sharing a special vacation moment which they will cherish all their lives.  But, but, Bwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Bwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!  Oh excuse me; I was just thinking about that stupid guy wailing aimlessly at that volleyball again.

But even in the midst of this horrible volleyball, something magical, even miraculous happened.  They had a volley where the ball actually cleared the net three times. Three times! And with that, the trio declared victory and mercifully ended the match. I was actually happy for them and glad I could now resume my beach-induced coma, at least until the bikini-oriented matches resumed later that day.