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Don't Rush Me

Sunday a.m. TV commercials ain't what they used to be . . .

. . . Ample bosoms on parade

November 10, 2010 - So, it's a recent Sunday morning at Casa D'Rush. Two of the Rush lads are up, hair askew, pj's rumpled, the sleep barely out of our eyes. It's sometime between 7 a.m. and 7:25, which means the 4,721-day-old Shamus is still sound asleep, the way almost-teenagers are before eight bells ring from the morning clock.

(As always, these columns are created to educate and challenge you. If you want to find out how old Shamus is, divide 4,721 by 365.)

Sean, still about three years from terminal teenhood, is stretched out on the living room couch, under a warm blanket. (This leaves me exactly enough room to plant my buttocks at the other end of the couch.) Sean and I get up early on weekends and watch the news. He'll eat a bowl of cereal and I'll down an egg and some coffee, whilst the Sunday morning shows blather-on.

He asks lots of questions about the world, the nation and whatever they happen to be discussing. We usually make fun of commercials, always talk-back (or is it backtalk?) to the TV newscasters and whomever they may be interviewing. (Okay, I am raising a skeptic, sue me.) It's a little one-on-one father-son bonding time where we can talk about things we normally wouldn't talk about. He also has to randomly open a page of the dictionary and pick a word, read it and its definition. (Okay, and I am the meanest dad in town, too -- again sue me).

So, back to the that recent Sunday morning. At 7:25 a.m., the ABC news breaks and commercials start and -- Bumpdeedeedum! -- a Platex commercial starts rolling before my own and my own son's eyes.

Oogles of ample bosomed women sporting eye-catching colored brassieres flashed before us . . . which is nothing to be ashamed of or to get worked up over . . . but THEN, the fetching women started working their hands over their ample bosoms saying things like:

"My eyes are up here."

"No torpedoes here."

"When the girls are happy, I'm happy."

Now before you think I am a prude, I am all for ample bosoms. Just like I am all for not-so-ample bosoms. I guess you can say, "Hooray! Don's all for bosoms." But, those aren't the points of this column. The point is, I wasn't ready for it. I was caught off-guard.

I hadn't planned on explaining to my 10-year-old son (Who, for some odd reason, paid more attention to this commercial than the news of the day. Go figure.) what these women were talking about.

"Dad what do torpedoes have to do with bras?

"Dad, what does she mean 'when the girls are happy, she is happy?'"

Thems who know me, know I tend to change subjects when topics like the above take place around me. I don't know, I just get uncomfortable openly talking about such things. And, yes, as a dad, I have had "The" talk with the boys, on a number of occasions and from a number of different angles. But, I usually mentally prepare for it. I can go through my play-book before hand. I can lead the conversation, for optimum impact.

At 7:30 in the morning, on a Sunday, the Lord's day, I wasn't ready.

"Sean, what a stupid commercial, right?" (I tried to deflect his questions, unsuccessfully.) "What about the midterm elections?"

"Dad, why did the one woman say, 'My eyes are up here?'"

My palms are sweating now, just reliving and thinking about that awkward couple of minutes.

"Son," said I.

"Son," I repeated, thinking on my feet. "Some men show women no respect. When they look at them, they look at them chest level, instead of looking at them in the eyes."

"Then why do some women wear bikinis?"

"Some women want to be noticed."

"How do you know when women want to be noticed and when they want you to look at them in the eyes."

The conversation wasn't going where I wanted it to so I bailed. "You'll know when you get older."

"What about torpedoes?"

"Some men have nicknames for different body parts, uhm, just like the toilet is sometime called a crapper."

"So what are torpedoes and who are the girls she was talking about when she was pointing at her bra?"

I had to do something! This stupid conversation needed to end. I thought and resorted to a very old parenting trick. I changed the subject.

"Sean. Wanna go get some donuts before Shamus gets up."

"Sure dad."

* * *

Epilogue: I have not seen the commercial since, nor has Sean brought it up. I have changed our schedule and our routine. Sunday morning are for breakfast, coffee and newspapers. Yep, you would be correct in calling me a coward.

Don is Assistant Publisher for Sherman Publications, Inc. He has worked for the company since 1985. He has won numerous awards for column, editorial and feature writing as well as for photography. He has two, sons Shamus and Sean and resides in the area. To read archived copies of his columns, click on his name, just under his picture up top . . . He can be e-mailed at:
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