Dear Miss Demeanor

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On the first date, a girl should go as far as Okie’s Hamburger Mecca. She should then order french-fries. If she paces herself well, the final fry will be consumed five minutes before curfew. Once on the front porch, she may shyly allow masculine lips to be brushed across her cheek before fleeing inside to telephone Miss Demeanor with all the juicy details.

Dear Miss Demeanor,

My old lady won’t put out. Should I dump her and find someone else?

Dear Reader,

A proper lady will put out the garbage, put out the cat, or, with adequate equipment, put out a forest fire. That is what you meant, isn’t it? Perhaps the lady in question lacks asbestos boots.

Dear Miss Demeanor,

If a married man is seen with a woman at the Xanadu Motel, should someone tell his wife?

Dear Reader,

Let us presume it was his wife. In any case, what were you doing at the Xanadu Motel?

Caron and Inez skittered into the Book Depot like bumper cars gone berserk. Caron’s cheeks were scarlet, either from the exertion or, as I suspected, some new bout of outraged indignation. With fourteen-year-olds, indignation is a daily affair. With my daughter, it approaches an hourly schedule.

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