It seems my life has been in a world steeped in testosterone. In the first place, I was raised in a household of males. All of my siblings were males. My father was a male. Most of the kids in my neighborhood were male. Many of my classmates were male.
My early playmates were my brothers and their friends – all male. Oh sure, I had girls for friends and playmates, too, but my mother had to go pick them up so I had somebody with bows in their hair to play Barbies with. My brothers and their friends were readily accessible since it seemed some of them never went home.
Most of the influences of my life came from those three big brothers. I’m not sure The Parental Units realized just how much time I was spending basking in their influence. In all fairness and in the interest of full disclosure, my brothers Bob and Steve did their best to make sure their little sister received proper play experiences. In fact, we have quite a few family Super 8s that testify to the fact Bob and Steve played dollies with me, but we won’t go there right now.
Steve also played a pretty mean game of Barbie, Queen of the Prom, something that has come in handy with his two granddaughters. I just hope his killer instinct has mellowed. I hated always having to go to the prom with Poindexter because Steve got to go with that hunky Ken…
While Bob and Steve were teaching me how to play, Haase, Jr. taught me how to read. He saw to it that I appreciated the finer points of Boys Life and MAD magazine. (If you ever want to teach a child how to read between the lines and in the margins, get a subscription to MAD. There’s more going on in that magazine than the casual reader can ever begin to appreciate.)
Haase, Jr. and I shared a bathroom. He was thrilled that his bathroom was pink, believe you me. Over the years, he came to accept that the little kid in the other room wasn’t so bad. By the time I hit 30, he and I had become quite close. We often called each other to laugh about something in the funny papers. We shared the same humor, loved the same music and movies, and enjoyed the same genre in our reading material. He loved Tom Clancy while I read Ed McBain, but we both liked good thrillers.
Through all of this early education, however, the pupil – me – picked up a few things that only a woman-in-training would need to know. It is said to always know the mind of your adversary. While men are not necessarily the enemy, there are times it is most helpful to have a good grasp of what makes some of them tick.
I don’t care how many men tell you they have a cast iron constitution, there are three little words that will absolutely bring them to their knees. The mere thought, let alone the mention, of this phrase will reduce the quintessential man’s man to a quivering, quaking mass of goo. To make matters worse, it is often flashing in neon so that those driving past will succumb to its charms. Okay, now, here it comes. Get ready. Take a deep breath. It’s…
Hot Donuts Now.
Yes, the catch phrase for that delectable, melt-in-your-mouth confection perfected by the Krispy Kreme folks is the secret weapon of women everywhere. It is said the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. When it comes to those fluffy pastries dripping in sugar glaze fresh from the conveyor line, no man is invincible.
During a conversation with some friends recently, one revealed that Krispy Kremes are his Achilles’ heel. A nuclear physicist, Chuck is hardly someone one would expect to fall prey to the wiles of a doughnut. I would have more expected that he would analyze the doughnut along the lines of Newton’s Law of Relativity as Applies to Persons Reaching the Age During which Gravity Becomes a Real Drag. This revelation about his affinity for Krispy Kremes was really out of the blue:
I’ve told my wife and kids that when I die, I want the wake to be held in a Krispy Kreme store. They are to put me on the conveyor belt and lay fresh doughnuts all over me. Then I want them to run me under the glaze waterfall so all that sugar glaze can drip all over me and the doughnuts. My life will be complete and I can go to my grave a blissfully happy man.
Remember that, girls. If we are ever invaded, make sure you’ve got a sign that reads Hot Donuts Now ready. It’ll bring the enemy to their knees.
Helen Person is a Winder resident and columnist for the Barrow Journal. You can reach her at helenperson@windstream.net.
