DON'T TELL THE KIDS

At our age, the dangers of the kids shipping us off to the Glue Factory, are on the horizon, and so I have come up with a column of collections of things not to tell the kids; just for our own protection.
This one was told to me by a neighbor, but I was not given permission to print it.  We will just call it anonymous.

While visiting friends, my neighbor used their rest-room facilities.  When she pulled up her slacks, she noticed that the back pockets were on her knees.  But Don't Tell The Kids.

If you have any Don't Tell the Kids experiences, why not share them?  I will try to get them on the Blog for you.
Here is one of my most recent ones.
DON'T TELL THE KIDS #4

DON’T TELL THE KIDS #4
Much of my writings of DON’T TELL THE KIDS can be categorized as B.S., before  stroke, or A.S. after  stroke.  Or perhaps all of it should be just plain, B.S.

And so I am having this conversation with my son-in-law.
“Thanks for the use of your car this weekend, Mom.  I think we have pretty much blown the stink out of it.  But you will need an oil change and lube soon.”
“Darn,” I said.  “I hate that job since Dad has had his stroke.”
“No big deal,” says son-in-law.  “Just take it to Walmart.  They are only five minutes away.  You don’t need an appointment.  You can drive it in, and leave it with them for an hour or so, and be right there when it is finished.  They have a nice waiting room where dad can wait, have a coffee and read a magazine, while you pick up your prescriptions and some groceries.”
“That sounds about our speed,” I told him.  “We will do that tomorrow.”
Monday morning bright and early, we took off for Walmart.
I suppose I should tell you that B. S.(before stroke) Roger had a wonderful sense of direction.  As for myself, I could not find my way out of a telephone booth.  Do they still have telephone booths?
At any rate, we read the signs at Walmart for the Service Entrance.  They took us around the building and into a door that read Oil Change.  After faking my way through as to what grade of oil I wanted, and other things the car would need, I deposited Roger in the waiting room and took off like a shot.  After all, I did not have too much time to accomplish all I needed to do.  But not to worry.  The nice young man at the service counter told me that Roger would be just fine in the waiting room, and that they would call me when my car was ready.
Okay.
First things first.  Get the prescription for the Cumadin.  That was most important.  Then pick up the few groceries on my list.
My tasks completed, I headed back to the Service Department just as the car was ready.  I paid the bill, we piled in the car and drove out the designated door.  The arrow took us round the building and to an Exit sign.  By now I am turned around.
“Which way do I turn?” I ask.
“Turn left,” he said
I automatically follow his instructions.  After all, I had no idea which way to turn.  At the next stop light, Roger said, “Turn right.”
Right we turned and followed that street for a long way.
I think we are going the wrong way,” I told him.
“NO.  Keep going.  The Falcon Field Airport should be just around the corner.”
“That’s good,” I told myself.  “Falcon Field is practically out our back door.”
“Here’s the airport,” Roger announced happily. “But we are somehow on the wrong side of it.  We need to turn around.”
Turn around I did, and we were finally on a street that looked familiar.  The rest of the way home, I found on my own.  What should have been a five minute drive, turned out into a half hour trip.
BUT DON’T TELL THE KIDS.