Chasing Charlie’s Angels

May 6, 2015.Reading time 6 minutes.

Any guy my age was ushered into manhood by those three beautiful women also known as Charlie’s Angels. Whether you preferred the smart and sassy Kate Jackson, the elegance of Jaclyn Smith, or the sheer beauty of Farrah Fawcett, we all had a favorite.

I was a Jaclyn Smith fan myself. Unfortunately, they never made posters of her. No, those iconic posters were of Farrah. There were three of them and Spencer’s had t-shirts to match. I was probably too young, but somehow owned one of those t-shirts in the fourth grade. Two of my buddies and I even snuck them on school picture day. I’m sure our parents were thrilled when those proofs came home.

When Farrah left the show, I handled it better than most because she wasn’t my favorite angel. The other factor was that I remember taking an immediate shine to her replacement, Cheryl Ladd.

Like any youngster, I had dreams of being in the right place at the right time to help the ladies solve a case. Television shows run this fine line of reality for a child. I truly believed the day might come when I was walking down the street and their car would squeal to a stop in front of me. Each one would give a generous flip of their hair as they climbed from the car to approach me in slow motion.

Fast forward to my college years. Among the many jobs I held, I actually landed one that involved some degree of responsibility. I was a security guard for a five star hotel/resort. Actually, they called us Loss Prevention Officers, which looked way cooler on our name badges. This was one of the swankiest hotels in Lexington, so I did get to meet a handful of celebrities over the year I worked there.

I only got hired because I was willing to work the third shift a few nights a week. Working overnight demanded a good bit of schedule shuffling to get enough sleep for school, so I didn’t volunteer for very many extra shifts.

Until something odd happened…

I got called into Mr. Hebert’s office one night late in the week. He didn’t show up at the midnight turn of shifts unless something was wrong, so I feared the worst.

“Myers, I’ve got a special assignment for you,” he said with a wry grin while perched on the corner of his desk.

His tone made me instantly leery of his intent. I said nothing but waited for him to finish.

“This has to remain our secret. Can I trust you?”

Oh man, I was worried now. What was he going to make me do? I had no other option, so I agreed.

“At six a.m., I need you to be ready in the golf cart by the back entrance of the hotel. Someone will meet you there and need you to follow them as they jog the cart paths. Okay?”

It seemed harmless. I agreed, but dreaded finding out what this special assignment entailed.

He went home and left me to my duties – poking around the property, flirting with the front desk attendant, and generally lollygagging. When 6 a.m. arrived, I sat in the fully charged golf cart waiting when who should exit the hotel door but Cheryl Ladd – in town to film the miniseries Bluegrass! My dreaded assignment was to follow the beautiful Angel Kris Monroe around for 45 minutes. Um, terrible duty. She was every bit as beautiful as I’d imagined and very kind. I don’t think there was a drop of sweat on her when she finished, thanked me, and went on her way.

* * * * * * *

Later that morning, when the daytime crew showed up, John sat on the same corner of his desk with a smarmy grin on his face.

“How was the night?” he asked.

“Peaceful,” I replied so as not to arouse suspicion.

Before I left he added, “I’m making next week’s schedule. What days are you available?”

I thought for a minute, studied the smile in his eyes and said, “I don’t have any early classes next week, I can work every night.”

“Excellent. The duty remains the same,” he said.

So I worked a full week of that tough job. I thought about skidding the cart to a stop somewhere and jumping out ready to fight crime with Ms. Monroe, but there was no need. Each morning was peacefully dull, yet somehow incredibly memorable to this young man.

Magic Pish and Psychiatric Expenses

April 29, 2015.Reading time 5 minutes.

Has anyone ever lied to their kids? I don’t mean big ones, I mean little to medium sized lies that shouldn’t impair their ability to trust another human being down the road. I am not proud of it, but I have blurted things to my children and walked away wondering how many sessions on the couch of a psychiatrist I had just caused. Somewhere out there is a young resident with a name like Fringlehoben preparing himself to tackle the emotional burdens of others. Study hard, young man – I may have done some damage.

I love questions from children. I love it when their inquiring minds pull something so imaginative out of the air. Questions are the lifeblood of knowledge. I like them, I really do. Unfortunately, since I am a big child myself, I don’t always see questions as a teaching opportunity. Sometimes, I use them to funnel my own creativity.

In her early years, my oldest wondered how we got things put away in her room without her knowing it. The correct answer was that she was a very hard sleeper. What did I say? I told her that I had the power to shrink super small. The ruse took a few nights, but I finally convinced her and laughed my normal-sized self to sleep. Until, that is, she showed up in my bed and slept there for a month, utterly terrified to be in her room.

Toys have their own category of deception. Annoying toys need to be lied about to maintain domestic sanity. For instance, did you know that often, batteries cannot be replaced? Unfortunately, the toys that make the loudest noises are disposable. Once the batteries die, they are just worthless hunks of plastic. Those screws? Decorative, I promise.

The lie that scarred our oldest the most was about her fish. Or “pish” as she called it at the time. We are pish killers. Not on purpose, just through neglect and ignorance. We’ve had an aquarium, read books, and really tried. Yet they all still die under our care. The only pish we’ve ever been able to keep alive was a plecostomus named Squeegee and that’s because they live off the junk that kills everything else.

We once got a purple betta pish named Flounder. Our daughter loved that little pish. She watched her pish, fed it and took every care to make sure her pish was happy. She doted on it when it slept sideways at the top of the water and laughed when it sliced its way from the top slowly to rest on the rocks. That amazing little pish died 1000 deaths and somehow still rose every morning to greet my curly-headed love. This was no miracle of resurrection, it was solely a logistical effort since the pet store was on my way home from work.

One fateful day I got the death-call but the store had no purple pish. The closest was a deep red one which I purchased and dumped in the bowl when our little angel was fast asleep. The next morning, she woke us slightly perplexed.

“Daddy, come see!”

“What is it?”

“Pish is red!”

Surprised I’d been busted so soon, I ran to her room and watched the little red pish paddle around. The ph balance of the water must have changed it because the deep red had worn off and it was nearly shiny – nothing like Flounder of the day before.

“Why Flounder red, daddy?”

Think! Think! Think!

“Flounder must be a magic fish,” was all that came.

“Ohhhhhh, magic pish,” she said in wonder.

From that day on, I was no longer tied to purple. Magic Pish changed colors frequently. I viewed the little scam as liberating until years later I heard her sincerely describing her color-changing fish as a young teen. I felt a rare twinge of guilt and had to come clean, which brought an open-mouth stare of horror as if her childhood had been shattered.

Please forgive me, Dr. Fringlehoben. If one of my children ever comes to sit on your couch, maybe you should just do a quick study of me to undo whatever damage I’ve caused. I can probably answer a great many of your questions.