Yellow Gold

For years I mowed Hans Spartavedt's lawn. Hans was the oldest living person in our neighborhood, but he called me Bud, and we were pals. I could barely understand what he was saying half of the time because he was from, "The Old Country." He'd point and say, "Bud" followed by some gibberish and I'd trim closer to the hedge, take a bushel basket full of grass clippings to the street, or just walk in circles with no clue. I like to think I helped Hans Spartaverdts have the nicest looking yard in town, even though he didn't have a pot to piss in. Or did he?

One day Hans said, "You good worker, Bud" and started walking back into the garage. I beamed as this was my first paying job and wondered if he was retrieving some valuable item from the Old Country to give to me as a special thank you.

But Hans called back, "I gotta take piss!" and disappeared deeper into his garage. I was sure hoping there was a toilet in there I didn't know about, but Hans had his own plan. "Gotta' find my pissin' boo-ket!" I'd finishing my yard duties and didn't want to see what Hans was going to pull out next either, but I hadn't been paid. So, I waited nervously while he clanked about in the back of the garage. He finally emerged with an aluminum sauce pan, leaned his cane against the car and proceeded to relieve himself right there in the driveway. Maybe this was how they did it in the Old Country, but it was beyond anything me or my friends would do.

I made a mental note of where he tossed the urine into the bush so I could avoid trimming that area next time. After he'd wiped his hand on his shirt, he reached into his pocket for my money. Now it was my turn to be relieved. Not just for getting paid so I could get the hell out of the there, but because Hans didn't have to go to the side door and call to his daughter to come take care of me. My friend Stacy and I, who had taken to calling each other "Bud," had this Penthouse Letters fueled fantasy that one day when there wouldn't be any cash in the house, Hans would offer up his daughter as payment. She looked to us to be about eighty with a mole showing for every year on the planet. To a couple of boys just reaching puberty it was too much for us to handle.

After I tired of my career in lawncare, Stacy managed to slide into the position. But not with the same results. Hans regularly yelled at him and Stacy walked more cicles with the bushel basket than in my entire career. Hans made it clear that he didn't think Stacy was a good worker. I think Stacy just couldn't understand his instructions. Or maybe he just feared that Hans would run out of cash.

-Submitted by a former Penthouse Letters reader who now lives in a condominium with lawn care provided.

One Word: Plastic

I've been extra attentive to the quality of my food products since sampling a can of lima beans that tasted like Janitor In A Drum.

Cleaning solvent is not the flavor profile you want when enjoying lima beans. So I called Del Monte Foods to let them know about it. The nice lady in consumer affairs immediately sent me three dollars in product coupons. In these days of multi-million dollar lawsuits, I wonder what makes my claim only worth three dollars. Despite Del Monte's enticing offer, I'm not sure I can try their lima beans again for a while, unless I need them to clean my floors.

Now, tonight my bedtime soymilk smelled funny. As it turns out I was enjoying it from the same plastic cup that held my Bud Light earlier in the evening. CONFESSION: I sometimes drink from plastic cups to save on the need to do dishes. In fact, that led to an earlier settlement with the Budweiser Brewing Company of Saint Louis, Missouri. In that case, I'd complained that their beer was too fizzy. They asked how many of the tainted product I had consumed. I told them that it took eleven beers to confirm my suspicion. And I settled out of court for a free 12-pack. Upon further testing, I learned that the added fizz was due to pouring it into a plastic cup.

Maybe I should think more about my use of plastic? I do keep the plastic cup in the fridge for reuse. When you live in an apartment with brown water, lead pipes, and no dishwasher (except me), you learn to adapt. Or, is this kind of innovative recycling a family affair?

My dad saves his Extra brand gum wrappers while chewing a half stick at a time. The other day he was pleased to report that he's now down to consuming just a third of a stick. Growing up in the depression may have something to do with his frugality. He even saves the foil wrappers from each stick, and when he gets a bagful, sends them off to the Wrigley Company. I asked him what he expects to gain from this practice. He says he wants them to see how much waste they create. Based on his regular mailings to them, I'm guessing they're more interested in how they can get others to chew as much gum as he does.

Despite no response from Wrigley, Dad continues to chew, collect and stage his one-man protest about waste in this country. And I continue to use one cup for both beer and soy milk. When it comes to saving the earth, we all do what we can.

-Submitted by a college graduate who never had the future summed up in one word.

Case of the Missing Sansabelts

One of my elderly neighbors regularly falls asleep behind the wheel of his Cadillac. Fortunately he's parked in our parking lot. When I wake him up to see if he's okay he says, "I'm just resting his ticker for the hike." His apartment is on the fourth floor. Our building has no elevator. Yesterday he seemed particularly embarrassed to be woken up again. I quickly thought of some neighborly conversation to ease the tension. I asked if his tap water was as brown as mine last week. It was. He in turn asked if I'd caught wind of his stolen pants. Say what?

He explained that the missing slacks were last seen in a Klinke Cleaner's bag hanging on the doorknob inside his locked apartment. Having just finished a winter power walk, sweat was beginning to bead up under my earmuffs. Did I look guilty? Turns out his lead suspect is our landlady, Betty. He says she gained entry with her master key and made off with the goods. I was trying my best to be sympathetic to my neighbor's plight but doubted a small woman had a motive for stealing an overweight senior's Sansabelts, even if they were Klinke clean.

He sweetened the deal. In addition to the pants, he was missing some Equal packets. I tried to piece the evidence together in my mind -- overweight man, missing pants, artificial sweetener, it all seemed connected somehow but still didn't explain why I was standing there in the cold parking lot sweating over this. He continued to make his case. Seems he had taken two packets of sweetener out of the box in the cupboard and placed them on the counter for his cup of coffee. He then left the kitchen to go to the bathroom. When he returned the Equal packets were gone. Which is where I wanted to be at this point as the sweat was now running down my forehead into my eyes.

Sensing my uneasiness, he suggested we lean up against his Caddy. I said I wished I could but had to get back to work. So he shifted his weight and continued. He is so sure that Betty is regularly breaking into his apartment, stealing and/or moving things around that he called the building owner to complain. My neighbor believes the only reason the owner didn't take action is because, "He's always pickled by 3:00 in the afternoon." I assumed this was the end of the story, case closed. "That's when I called the police," he said. Okay, now we're getting somewhere! But to his surprise, even the police couldn't help. I suggested that maybe with budget cuts they aren't giving priority to cases involving missing slacks, even if they are the more expensive Sansabelts with the patented expandable waistband. He reminded me they weren't missing, "They were stolen!" Poor guy. I knew that even Crimestoppers wouldn't take his case without a police report. He just stood there looking hopeless.

So as I turned to leave, I mentioned that I had alot of change that I kept in a milk jug in my apartment... did he think this would be an easy target for Betty? "Join the club!" he said and reached out happily to shake my hand. Apparently, having any degree of suspicion about Betty makes me a believer. And we'd now be working as an undercover team to take a bite out of crime. But I don't think this is a case that can be solved overnight. My neighbor may have to closely guard the Equal packets, and keep his pants on.

- Submitted by a concerned neighbor and undercover brother

Family Cures For Winter Blues

The mid-winter blues didn't come out of the blue. Driving back from Milwaukee I realized the earth and sky had both been the same shade of gray for as long as I can remember. Even my bright blue VW bug is that same gray color after being covered with white road salt and then darkened with road grime. You'd think after a half century of living in Wisconsin I'd be used to winter. But it's still depressing to think the only color we see outside besides gray is yellow snow. And with my current workload, the only green space I can get to is the mold growing under my bathroom sink. Why mold is also growing inside my right ear is currently boggling the medical community. After prescribing antibiotic eye drops for my ear problems, they sent me to the drug store for a more unorthodox treatment. I don't need a prescription, just the nerve to ask the female pharmacist how best to dispense three drops of jock itch treatment into my right ear. Adding to the winter of my discontent is my annual sinus infection. Last night I tried the saline pot the ENT nurse told me to pour into one nostril so it would come out the other. My sinuses were so plugged that the salt water came out my left eye. I miss having Mom's advice on health issues.

Dad comes up with some great cures though. In fact, he invented saline sniffing as a cold and sinus treatment. Some of Dad's other medical cures include Crazy Glue for cuts, chlorine bleach for skin problems, and who could forget his cure for teeth stained from years of pipe smoking and blackjack gum chewing, the ever popular brushing your teeth with Comet. I imagine the taste is worse than having your mouth washed out with Dial soap. Mom introduced me to that practice after my creative use of some of the words you can't say on TV. Fortunately Dad's teeth enamel was saved when he showed off his brighter smile to his dentist who immediately put a stop to it.

I suspect my family’s desire to find creative healthcare solutions may be genetic. I shave with women's cold cream, use fruit-infused shampoo on my entire body, and put Vaseline soaked cotton balls in my ears to keep water out while showering. It may also be compounded by Seasonal Affect Disorder. My older brother uses a special light to beat the winter blues while reading the newspaper. As a kid he devised an ingenious system to avoid second hand smoke on long road trips in the station wagon. He’d put his jacket over his head, shove his face into the armpit, and feed the sleeve out a crack in the window for his own steady supply of fresh air. But Dad is still the father of invention. When I saw him last night for dinner, he pulled out a tube of VO5 hair dressing and carefully applied a glob to the inside of each nostril. "A little dab will do 'ya?" I declined despite his claims that it’s a “wonderful moisturizer.” I guess winter in Wisconsin inspires us all to adapt as best we can. Some families are just more inspired than others.

- Submitted by a winter and family survivalist

The Barber of DeVille

Growing up in the middle of five children, my marketing director father was always coming up with new ways to stretch the family budget. Corn meal mush for breakfast was re-branded as, "breakfast pizza." And white bread with butter and sugar on top was pitched as a delicious alternative to Twinkies. So, it wasn't long before Dad realized he could save big money by cutting our hair himself. While my siblings reluctantly went along with this idea, I was a bit too style conscious, even at a young age. Still, Dad lured me in with the promise of a mohawk if I agreed to come back and let him "butch" me before dark.

As we lined up for that first appointment we soon realized Dad's barbering technique, along with the electric clippers, came from the regular trimming our family dogs, Pupper and Molly. I probably don't need to tell you which end of a long-haired English Cocker needs clipping the most. But we followed him as he grabbed a kitchen chair and an old sheet and set up shop in the backyard. Dad said he'd have better light out there and we could relax. Relax? Even during this pre-texting era, the neighbor kids had spread the word and were gathering to watch and laugh. I knew the real reason we were outside was so Mom wouldn't get upset about us tracking hair onto the living room carpet. But Dad always gave things a marketing spin with added benefits for the target audience. And at home we were the target audience.

I guess it's only natural that I gained some of his marketing insights. So, when my friend Sam announced after school one day that his mom had given him four dollars for a haircut, I sprung into action and sold him on the idea of letting ME be his barber and splitting the profits. How hard could it be? Well, easier if Sam could sit still. Squirming while under the buzz of an electric clippers can be hazardous to your ears. I'd learned this lesson the hard way with Dad. But before Sam could protest the sight of blood, I'd managed to cut perfect "white walls" on either side of his head. This made it look like he'd gotten his money's worth and/or had his ears lowered. So, after putting a ruler on his neck and cutting a perfect straight line above the collar, I handed Sam a bandaid and we were off to enjoy pinball and ice cream on his mom's four dollars.

Thanks to this joint venture, the clippers buzzed every few weeks and we enjoyed our just desserts. It was the perfect scam -- until Sam's mom started to notice a hair shelf thickening about a quarter of an inch above his ears. Knowing that the boy's father was going to the same barber and getting fine results she questioned his new look. And when the style I'd given him grew into something resembling a German Army helmet from World War II, he confessed, my mom was called, and just like that, Hair By Jeffrey was out of business.

It was a bloody shame, too, because I'm sure that with a little more practice I could've learned to layer hair without taking skin with it. Our fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Ross, still probably wonders why Sam wore bandaids on the tops of his ears that year. But Dad and I understood perfectly. And I learned that the service outcome is of critical importance to running a successful small business. While Dad's innovative ways to stretch the family budget eventually afforded him the opportunity to buy his dream car, a gently used 1964 Cadillac DeVille.

- Submitted by a creative marketing executive who cuts his own hair