Free Family - The Ties That Bind...And Gag! by Erma Bombeck Page B

washer repairman to retrieve under the pulsator. They are what you wear to bed and your hand swells and everyone gives you advice on how to get them off and when you lather up your hands with soap, they fall in the commode.
    Class rings (belonging to boys) are what dangle from chains in cleavages of girls as a promise to spend the rest of your life together ... if you go to the same college.
    Class rings (belonging to girls) dangle from the first knuckle of the baby finger of boys who say they'll wear them forever and are later found in their gym bag.
    Class rings are what multiply, grow feet, and appear in the knife and fork drawer, the sewing basket, tied to the blind cord, and in the corner of the bathtub.
    Sometimes they turn green.
    “I need money for the prom.” In the movies, it's always a big scene. The boy picking up the girl for the prom will have a box containing a corsage in his hand. He's standing at the bottom of the stairway looking awkward and uncomfortable talking with the girl's parents.
    Suddenly, she appears. Their “little girl” has emerged from her pigtails and jeans into a woman in a long, flowing dress. She has usually developed a bust of unbelievable proportions and the braces are off her teeth. Everyone is struck speechless as a sixty-eight-piece orchestra comes out of the woodwork and she makes her poised entrance.
    It's a great scene if you're the mother of a daughter.
    But no movie has ever filmed the scene in which a son emerges from the bathroom on prom night wearing white tux and tails, an ascot tie, wing-collar shirt, top hat, gloves, patent leather shoes, and a walking cane and looking like he just fell off a wedding cake.
    There are no violins with a son. No magic moment when your eyes meet and there are tears in them. No moment when you throw your arms around him and declare him full-grown. A boy runs around like he has starch in his underwear.
    He tries to be cool about the outfit, but you know him well enough to see the anxiety.
    Will the toilet tissue clot the blood on his face that he got when he cut himself shaving?
    Will his palms sweat when he dances?
    Was that spot on the jacket there before he brought it home?
    Will the corsage smell like the garlic in the spaghetti next to it in the refrigerator?
    Will he have enough money for the restaurant?
    Suppose he has to write a check at the restaurant?
    Will they cash a check for someone who has no checking account?
    Will he end up killing the jerk who talked him into a white satin tux with no pockets?
    With a son it's corny to take pictures. Besides, he's late. You have to remember it all. The peck on the cheek. The slam of the door.
    You run to the window to watch him climb into a rented limousine that is parked in front of your house and the two houses on either side. It cost more to rent than a week in a cabin at Hawke Lake, but he threatened to self-destruct if he had to appear in public in a station wagon with a bumper sticker that said have you hugged your children today?
    You had to rent it for him as he didn't know how to spell “limousine.”
    The mystique of the boy turned man lasts until you reach the bathroom. Heavy steam settles over fifteen Band-Aid wrappers, eight wet towels, foam-covered sink, three razor blades, shampoo and soap oozing down the drain, garment bag, boxes, tissue, and a bill for $56.75 impaled on the shower head.
    The child lives!
    “I need money for a cap and gown to graduate.” If you are naive enough to believe all men and women are created equal, just go to a graduation exercise sometime and look at the graduates all dressed alike.
    For a ceremony that is supposed to be universal and dedicated to the principle of conformity, it's a crock. Even in academia, there is no democracy. If you are short, if you have a chest, or if you have a head that is not flat, forget it. Commencement exercises are not for you.
    The gowns are basically one-size-fits-all. All of what? All of whom? No one knows. True,