There's a Hair in My Mole

The Land of Invention

Lots of people retire to Florida for the obvious reasons: the tax break, the weather and, of course, the Fountain of Youth. But for me, Florida is The Land of Invention. For it is only there, while lying on the pristine white beaches of the Gulf Coast, that my subtle spirit of entrepreneurism rises to the surface, and my creativity takes hold. When I retire, it is in this place that I will satisfy my life-long dream to…wait for it… open a watermelon stand.

I know, I know, you can’t believe there aren’t watermelon stands in operation already, nor can you believe I’m going to retire so soon before I actually get a job. What can I say, innovation calls.

One winter vacation a million years ago, my mother thought she had a brilliant idea: my little brother (Charles the First) and I would sell watermelon on the beach. It was a bold move, walking in from the Publix, two huge watermelons and a package of poster board in tow, but she was “sick and tired” of listening to us complain that Florida was “boring.” While I don’t doubt that we were annoying the shit out of her, the idea was a real shot in the dark: we were painfully shy children. Nevertheless she commenced with the slicing and wrapping, ordering us, with the sudden and shocking demeanor of an Army general, to make signs. The whole scenario was heinous. But we were stricken dumb: we were bored and she was being scary. Also we loved money. If Mom was right, we would be rich in no time.

Despite what we were taught, Mom is not always right. For three hours, Charles the First and I humped a heavy cooler up and down the beach, peddling our slices, dropping the price from 75 cents to, eventually, a dime, as our enthusiasm deteriorated into abject mortification. In a last ditch effort, somehow defying our timidity, we took the business right to the customer’s door…er, I mean beach blanket. No sale. You tell me how people tell two, scrawny, adorable (in a preppy, nerdy kind of way) kids that they won’t buy an ice-cold, refreshing, piece of watermelon for a dime. “No, thank you,” was the response again and again, each time like a dagger ripping into our barely-there, self confidence. Did I mention how fucking hot it was? I mean, have you ever walked by a lemonade stand without buying a cup? Have you always left a whole dollar even when the price was 25 cents? Right.

Humiliation not withstanding, the experience stirred something in me: that dormant spirit of entrepreneurism. This makes sense, considering I hail from a long line of failed entrepreneurs. My grandfather invented the binaural transmitter. Unfortunately an invention came along the next day rendering his obsolete, which is why I don’t summer in Newport with the Vanderbilts. And yet, Grandfather Harold’s spirit lives on in his brethren; it spurs us toward invention, but not success. The never-patented, baby-bottle holder; quilted tennis-racquet covers sold to a boutique that never re-ordered; homemade bread sold on busy street corners; a college care package service that was too ahead of it’s time…all grand ideas doomed to failure.

But watermelon is a crowd pleaser and I’m convinced that Charlie One and I would have been successful, had we had better marketing. A tiki hut manned by sexy lifeguards in bikinis and swim trunks, live reggae music and a good price point is how I’m going to start things off the second time around. Also, I’m fully prepared to offer a free shot of tequila with every slice if business seems slow.

To be honest, I have better ideas waiting in the wings, and as soon as the watermelon sales take off I plan to parlay the profits directly into my other schemes:

What every beach resort needs are Sunscreen Spray Booths. Who doesn’t hate applying and reapplying suntan lotion, only to discover later that you missed a whole section of your thigh and completely forgot about your feet. Sure, we are all “concerned” about skin cancer, but truth be told it’s extremely disappointing to come home from vacation with an uneven tan. Furthermore, lugging sunscreen bottles is a real hassle, especially when you could be lugging beer instead. My SSB is shaped like a port-a-potty and works like a spray tan. Upon entering, you can strip off your bathing suit and get an automatic, full-coverage, spray with your SPF of choice. Hey Coppertone and Banana Boat: as soon as my patent goes through we can talk! Ca-ching.

That success should propel me to the standing in the business world needed to get noticed by McDonald’s. Perhaps then they will listen to my idea, an IDEA THAT I OFFERED THEM FOR FREE several years ago when it was conceived. This time around I’m not giving anything away.

Roll and Dip Pancakes, is really about the packaging and marketing of a product they already excel in, hotcakes. When Charles (II) was little, McDonald’s hotcakes were his breakfast of choice, which was a hassle when everyone else was ordering McMuffins. Eating on the beach with a knife and fork is like offering seagulls an engraved invitation to join you. Don’t forget to protect your eyes, from their talons and sharp-as-a-razor beak, when they swoop down and grab that giant hotcake off it’s plate. ROLL the pancake and eat it like a burrito! Make the syrup cup tall and narrow to accommodate a rolled-up pancake, make the pancakes smaller, stack them vertically, and we’ve got a whole new product. I even wrote a catchy jingle for the commercial. Singing toddlers, on beach blankets, in carseats and umbrella strollers, lives’ will be forever changed. And evenly-tanned mothers everywhere will thank me.

Watermelon anyone?

January

It’s over. I vaguely recall high-heeled shoes, parties, Christmas balls and presents; but my memories are foggy, booze-tinged, cookie hazed. More evident are the remnants of a red-sparkled pedicure on my toes, and my dog still walking around the house in a red and green argyle sweater. For moi, the holiday season wrapped up with a two-day, “Downton Abbey” Marathon (thank you PBS!), a 1/2 pound box of dark chocolates and an outbreak of nasal herpes…to keep things balanced I simultaneously watched workout videos on my phone and read through recipes in my new cookbook, bookmarking the workouts I “liked” and the recipes that looked “healthy.” Nonetheless, I find January to be a real downer. In a vain attempt to fill the gaping void left in my soul when my kids went back to their lives, the Christmas tree went back into its bag, and my favorite Christmas wine glass went back into the cabinet, I ate every last cookie and finished all those half-empty bottles of wine. And then I felt worse.

It doesn’t help that at this very moment, I have friends vacationing in Aruba, St. Barth’s and South Africa. When they get home, I’ll bid farewell to a second set of friends off to destinations like Aruba, New Orleans, Puerto Rico and Sarasota. (I really need to put Aruba on my bucket list….) They are generous enough to share their experiences through texts and photos every day: toes in white sand, drinks in coconuts, and wild animals (not teenagers, real wild animals!) like lions and zebras and elephants. Yesterday I had a glass of wine, and I saw a squirrel, so ya know, things are pret-ty exciting around here too. And even though I keep thanking them for the pics, and respond with texts like, “Keep them coming!” and “I’m so happy for you, it looks amazing!” and “Hope you’re having a great time-you DESERVE it!” I’m actually seething with jealousy and wish they would CEASE AND DESIST and allow me to muddle my way through the most miserable month of the year in peace.

Now that it’s almost behind me I’m buoyed by the realization that February is a short month, and I have my very own vacation in three weeks. I know what you’re thinking, “Hey, D.Parker…how did you get through January?” Well, I thought you’d never ask! Jot these ideas down, and pull them out on January 2, 2018. You’re welcome.

Plan one or five trips. If you can’t take any trips plan them anyway. I have planned a lot of trips that never come to fruition, mostly because Mav only half pays attention when he talks to me. So like when he said, “Why aren’t we going to Santorini?” I took it as a green light to go ahead and plan a trip to Greece. Understand that when D.Parker was a just a little D.Parker, she played “travel agent” when other kids were playing “house,” so when I say I planned a trip, I don’t mean I booked a hotel. I mean every flight, train and transfer, dinner reservation, museum, tour or theatre ticket..all in place and waiting for the click of a mouse. Even the in-flight snack and movie is purchased in advance. A great investment of time is required to execute a perfect itinerary. An itinerary that gets dashed against the rocks, not unlike the azure blue waves crashing upon the cliffs of Santorini, when Maverick comes home and says, “Nah, I can’t travel right now.” After twelve hours of fighting the the deep desire to drop rat poison in his coffee, I instead drop the trip in my file, labeled… wait for it… “Trips.”
Finish off the cookies and candy, if you haven’t already. Remember that crappy box of candy from that Harry&David gift basket that you almost threw away immediately…then decided to save for an emergency? The emergency is now, and trust me, even crappy candy tastes good in January.
Binge watch Netflix….or HBO or Amazon Prime….obvi. I was pretty excited to get hooked on “The Crown,” which was a nice segue from Downton Abbey, and the next day I was even more excited to discover “Victoria” since I completely didn’t pace myself and had finished “The Crown.” And I don’t think it’s at all strange that when I dream at night I’m an English woman walking the streets of 20th Century London. With a basket on my arm.
Go to the movies in the day….so you can have educated opinions about who should and shouldn’t win Academy Awards. ‘Cause your vote counts. No it doesn’t, you don’t get to vote. Add a measure of excitement and sneak in popcorn from home, cause it always tastes better when you don’t have to pay movie theatre prices. And if the movie sucks, it won’t be a total loss.
Celebrate those little holidays. Epiphany is a perfect opportunity to buy yourself something… I mean it’s been a whole twelve days since the Fat Man came down your chimney. MLK Day gives you a long weekend to go skiing with the masses or read a book. This January brought us the Lunar New Year it’s a week long. There’s Presidents’ Day to look forward to soon enough, so why not treat yourself to “Hamilton?” If you hurry you can get tickets in time for next January. Hey, you DESERVE it!
If you feel bad that you didn’t make any New Year’s Resolutions, you can turn it around by giving up something for Lent which will be here before you know it….but is still far enough away that you can pledge to give up alcohol, feel good and proud of that decision, and then be over it by the time Lent gets here. It’s a win win.
Do you understand the physics of kinetic energy? I don’t. Not even a little bit. If you give a shit, and you know someone who can explain it to you, that can take up a lot of time. I mean, like, days. Not that it’s interesting or fun, but it can kill some major time. Just sayin’.

Happy New Year, y’all.

Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving 2016 has come and gone quicker than an avocado turns brown, and while I have so much to be thankful for (my family, my friends, my health, indoor plumbing, bla bla bla) that makes for a pretty boring blog, so I thought of a few other things that I was grateful for this holiday that I would like to share with my readers.

Firstly, I am grateful for the ginormous zit that emerged on my chin Thanksgiving morning. I know what you’re thinking, “D.Parker, why would you be thankful for a red, throbbing boil on your face?” and the answer is because if I can still get a pimple on my face, I can’t be as old as I feel. Also, it may have detracted attention from the new, very deep wrinkle that has developed on my left jowl.

I’m very grateful that an e-cig didn’t explode in my pocket. I don’t smoke, so if an e-cig ever found it’s way into my pocket, that would be quite a trick, but I saw on the news that they have been exploding in people’s pockets and it appears to be painful. Even though it looks like fireworks and I do enjoy fireworks.

The Thanksgiving Feast has been at our house for the last 20 years, and this year my parent’s took it back. When I showed up on Thursday morning and saw that raw turkey in the roasting pan, all prepped and ready for the oven, I knew that when we were giving thanks around the table I would say, “I am thankful that I didn’t have to touch that raw bird!” Sure, it’s fun to wash a fresh 20 lb. poultry inside and out, wings slapping and splashing around the counter, up to your elbows digging parts out of the neck hole (if it is the neck hole…maybe it’s the other hole)…drying it off like a giant baby, rubbing butter and herbs all over and under the skin…microscopic particles of listeria, e.coli and god knows what else flying around the kitchen…good times! But I was happy to finally give someone else a turn!

I am SO thankful that the only political disagreement we had was in regard to a local referendum. Which, I may add, will have absolutely no bearing on my existence, despite the verve with which I argued my point. But since we didn’t have any shockers (no announcements of pregnancy, engagement, or divorce… no unveiling of piercings, tattoos or third nipples… no surprise guests, no family secrets disclosed [“Little Max, it pains me to say it, but Donald J. Trump is your real father!”]), I figured one feisty discussion over property taxes could keep things interesting.

I’m thankful that I didn’t burn down my mother’s kitchen. I’m pretty certain she shares my sentiment. My fire fighting skills are lacking and when that piece of parchment paper, hidden under the foil that keeps the stuffing from drying out, somehow touched the bottom of the oven and exploded into flames, we had a come-to-Jesus moment. My brother and I apparently both failed our grammar school “Stop, Drop and Roll” lesson; for neither did we stop, drop nor roll; we stood, stared and shouted, “FIRE! FIRE!” before we snapped to and started blowing on the flames. Ultimately causing them to rise. Cooler heads prevailed and luckily the fire extinguisher wasn’t within a mile of the oven or the entire feast would have been ruined.

Did I mention that this was the first time in 20 years that I didn’t host the Feast? Do I seem sad about that? I’m not. I’m grateful. Mostly for not having to spend five days hand-washing stemware, setting tables, hand-washing stemware, making centerpieces, hand-washing stemware, and then doing it all in reverse, until three in the morning, blind drunk, only to discover in the morning that blind-drunk cleaning doesn’t work very well, and then doing it all over again.

I’m thankful that my Mav bought a US Army-grade snow scraper for his car. It arrived in the UPS truck the day after Thanksgiving and it was like a Thanksgiving Miracle, what with all the snow we were having. Oh, wait…we weren’t having any snow. In fact it seems as though we are heading into spring instead of winter, thanks to global warming. So it’s very likely Mav will never get to use his fancy scraper with the telescoping, heavy-duty brush on one side and industrial grade metal mini snow shovel on the other. But it makes him happy to feel prepared. And when he’s happy I’m thankful.

I’m thankful for this laptop that I’m typing on right now, that has been handed down to me. It was Maverick’s several years ago, and then he handed it down to Bianca and then when she went to college she gave it to Charles, and when he went to college he didn’t know that I was gonna take it but I did. Now it’s mine and I’m not complaining that I’m the only person in the family besides the dog who has never gotten a new computer. Quite to the contrary, I’m very happy that I can sit on the couch and write this blog, buy things for myself and check my Instagram all while I’m pretending not to watch “West World.”

And last but not least, I’m thankful for Cayenne Cleanse flavored Kombucha. ‘Nuf said.

Going High

My phantom rash is back. My dermatologist told me it’s just stress and I guess I have to believe her cause there are no hives, just an intense itchiness that seems to wax and wane according to what’s going on in my life. I felt good about myself when I stopped clenching and grinding my teeth in my sleep and was able to retire my mouth guard. Then we sold the house and Charles got into college and I was suddenly stricken with a rash. It was like having invisible poison ivy, and I suffered for months before getting it under control, and by “under control” I mean isolated to my neck, which I clawed at like a cat on an expensive rug. Then a bunch of stuff happened last week, the least of not being the election of the One Who Shall Remain Nameless, and I promised not to talk politics so I won’t (scratch, scratch…).

But I woke up Monday morning terrified ’cause I had a dream that my mother was a pot head. This is a woman who has to be talked into a glass of wine, or an Advil, so you see that’s a stretch. We were on a family vacation and I realized that she kept disappearing to meet up with her dealer. FRIGHTENING. Maverick had an equally scary nightmare in which I was bullying him into eating chicken. This is scary for him because a: he is a vegetarian and b: in the dream the chicken was parboiled. For me it’s just funny.

But between the rash and the nightmares something has to give. When I screamed at Maverick the other night for asking me why I hadn’t made him a cocktail too, I realized that I need to make a change. And not because I started drinking too early in the day, but because I was letting too many things get under my skin. And they were making me itchy.

When I saw Obama and Trump shaking hands in the Oval Office, I decided that if Barry could be that gracious, then the least I could do in my simple, unimportant life was to make an effort. So I decided then and there that I would try to be more like the Obamas.

The first hour or so went very well, although admittedly, I didn’t have human interaction of any kind. Probably a good way to ease into my new mantra, “they go low, you go high.” (Don’t accuse me of plagiarism, I am giving Michele Obama full credit right here, but I note, cause I’m a stickler about words, that she said “we go high.”) After the first few hours it got harder, not gonna lie. When that guy in the van cut me off making a left from the right lane, I almost reverted back to my barely-old self and gave him the finger, but I was able to contain myself. I merely leaned on my horn and gave him some friendly advice, in a calm way, about how he just almost killed me. He didn’t seem to care, and that bothered me, but I went high and let it go.

Then I went food shopping, making eye contact and smiling at all the people I passed in the aisles. I guess that was a little over the top because I was met with a few odd glances, but I was looking for the adrenaline rush that was going to fuel me through this “going high” thing. Of course I picked the wrong line at checkout, as I’m apt to do, and I felt my mantra slipping away as the cashier had to call for a price check on a bag of cheesecloth. And slipping further as the manager came back to ask the customer what aisle she got it from, which segued into what was akin to a global conference covering topics from what cheesecloth is, to what it is used for, to how it is used and back to what aisle it came from, at which point the mystery price was finally revealed and the customer decided she didn’t want it after all. “Get a grip on yourself, D.Parker!” I quietly admonished myself and went right into my thing, whispering “they go low, you go high,” when I started to wonder if Michele meant to say, “they go low, we GET high” which, when considered, I realized could work better for me, but then I remembered that even though I didn’t ever say that before, it was how I had been living and the point was to make a change, but I digress.

Things started to really go south after that, I’m sorry to report. I returned home to find a package I had been waiting for (yay!): a replacement cushion for a bench that had been delivered, damaged….SIX MONTHS AGO. Finally I could put an end to the emails, unreturned phone calls and what had seemed like vain attempts to rectify a frustrating situation. But alas, it was not to be, as I tore open the box to discover the new cushion was the WRONG SIZE and you can probably tell from my use of upper case letters that I was really pissed. Nonetheless I went immediately into my mantra, though it didn’t get me through the 20 minutes I waited on hold to tell “Amber” or whatever her real name is that I was DONE with this situation, they had better arrange to come and take this stupid bench out of my apartment and give me my money back! Tout! De! Suite!

Honestly it’s very hard to be a good and gracious person all the time. I bet that it’s easier to “go clear” like the Scientologists, than to “go high.” But my mother always told me, “D.Parker, it’s the difficult things that are worth it,” so I’m not giving up, mostly because this rash is really out of control. Maybe I’m on the right path, as I just had a lousy manicure given by a very bossy manicurist who didn’t seem to understand that half of the manicure experience is about being relaxed. And despite my desire to tell her she was not filing short enough, that her hand massage sucked, and that she missed a spot with the polish, I went high and gave her an extra two bucks in the tip hoping that she noticed the blood on the dollars was coming from the cut in my cuticle, and be more careful with the next client. The truth is, even if she had filed my nails too short for me to scratch, I have an old cheese grater that can do the job just fine.

Either way if I see her in the dairy aisle I’m definitely going to smile at her. It’s not world peace, Barry, but it can’t hurt.

Election Day

I don’t really want to get all political in my blog. And you have to admit that I have done a good job of avoiding the topic, despite the fact that Trump was the gift that kept on giving… even though it’s the gift you hate and don’t even want to touch but you have to return it and they won’t let you cause you don’t have a gift receipt… and they insist you can only get store credit, but you hate the store and wouldn’t ever shop there, and you just want to get out of there and they won’t let you leave and then you realize that there is a huge wall covering the exit all of a sudden… and as you panic and start to sweat you wake up and realize it was all a bad dream. Except then you look at your phone and see the date is November 8th and the nightmare is all too real.

If Trump wins in New Jersey by one vote, and I mean one regular vote, not an electoral college vote cause I’m pretty sure, but not positive, that the regular votes count towards the electoral college votes, it will be Charlie’s fault. He turned 18 this year and even though his voter registration card arrived in the mail here months ago, and I reminded him SEVERAL TIMES to apply for an absentee ballot at college, he texted me last night to say he hadn’t. “The stupid-ass website kept on screwing up,” he explained. “Maybe I should just register as a New York resident instead.” I told him that was an awesome idea, and as soon as he could find one of the utility bills for his dorm room, retake the driver’s written and road tests at the NYDMV, he could go ahead and do that. But since the DMV was already closed for the night, his car parked several hundred miles away, and his utilities are included in his bargain-basement-priced tuition, that probably wasn’t gonna work. “Can you vote for me somehow?” he reasoned, which considering all the other things I used to do for him, kinda sorta made sense, and for that I am deeply sorry. “OH, you mean ’cause like your voter registration card is here in your desk? Yeah, no, that’s what they call VOTER FRAUD!” “Can you just do it anyway?” he pleaded like he was asking me to make him a peanut butter sandwich. “Well, no,” I told him as calmly as I could, “’cause when you go vote you have to show ID ’cause it’s like VERY IMPORTANT!”

Fast forward to this morning when I headed over to my new polling place, feeling very proud for women, trying to shed a tear, and wishing I lived closer to the Susan B. Anthony gravesite so I could take a selfie with her…tombstone. I was shocked when the polling people told me I wasn’t in the book. WTF?? I had made sure to go online and change my address and made it all nice for Mav and me to vote cause he was really freaking out about it for like two months. And when he came home this morning after being the first to vote at our new polling place at 6am I was so relieved not only because he came home with breakfast buns, but because he didn’t have any issues voting that he could have blamed on me. But I was mostly excited about the buns. I love a sweet roll with my coffee and let’s all admit today is a like a holiday. We are all stressed about the election and whether we are celebrating or trying real hard not to kill ourselves, cocktails are in order for all by noon, but at 7am coffee and sweet buns will suffice.

Anyway, there I was trying to help the voting person find my name in the book. “That’s my husband,” I declared, as I pointed to his signature in the holy polling book. “He voted already,” the voting person said. “Yes, he did and he brought home buns to celebrate,” I replied, when I noticed Charlie’s name in the book right above Mav’s. “That’s my son,” I said, suddenly, oddly, considering his request to vote for him, because for some reason my name wasn’t there. What to do?? I was about to make a run for it, go home and come back with Charlie’s voter ID card and wearing a latex mask, when a lovely woman led me over to a private table with a paper ballot. “But will my vote be counted?” I cried. “Of course!” she said giving me a little hug. “Ok,” I said, quietly, trying to contain a sob.

I wouldn’t leave without my “I Voted” sticker, but once outside I felt proud and hopeful. The sun was shining, I had just cast my vote for, possibly, the first woman President of the United States, and I felt like anything was possible. Sure, I could lose that extra five pounds I carry around, and why not get a job, I have the time! And hey, I should play more tennis, and why not buy those designer shoes I had been eyeing up? Suddenly I was thirsty and texted Mav to come straight home from work I was mixing up a pitcher of Election Day Cocktails.

By 5:30pm we were sufficiently buzzed and equally full of hope, belting out the soundtrack of “Hamilton” while I tossed a kale and Brussels sprouts salad. We would lose that weight, I would, maybe, consider thinking about getting a job, I will definitely make myself another cocktail and I hopefully pass out and not have that nightmare about trying to return that gift and when I wake up tomorrow maybe the world will be a better place. And I promise never to write about politics ever again.

#imwithher

Living Dangerously

I almost got killed, AGAIN, in the Trader Joe’s parking lot. I swear to god you take your life in your hands over there. You would think that they were giving the groceries away for free, on the last shopping day before Christmas which also happened to be the day before a big blizzard. Except it’s not Christmas, there’s no storm and nothing is free, not even a sample of cheese, but people are pulling into and out of parking spots at record speed with no regard for anything or anyone. When I literally banged on the side panel of someone’s car to keep from being run over, the driver looked at me like I was the crazy one. I know, I know I usually am the crazy one, but today she had me beat. At the same place last week I witnessed two cars crash into each other. Apparently it was more upsetting to me than to either of the drivers, who didn’t even get out of their cars to see the damage…they merely stared each other down for a second and then sped off in opposite directions. Weird.

So I got to thinking about what a dangerous life I lead. You probably think I live a very simple life…no daring adventures, always safe and warm. “D.Parker,” I can hear you thinking, “you’re a housewife! Nothin’ dangerous about that!” Even though I am offended by your loose use of the term “housewife,” I will save that argument for another time and instead just say that you are way wrong.

Being me can be very dangerous…not many 50 year olds break their foot dancing at a wedding. And, no, I don’t need a bone density test, I just happen to have some very enthusiastic moves. But being a so called “housewife” can be extremely treacherous for anyone. I’m not just talking about bleeding to death in the shower when you cut your leg with a rusty Lady Bic ’cause your husband caught you using his razor (after a decade), had a fit and threatened divorce. (Mine plainly stated that he regards death by exsanguination a suitable punishment in retaliation for ten years of shaving nicks. Had I believed it was truly my fault he would emerge from the bathroom with tiny scraps of toilet paper stuck to his face, I might have invested in a Venus, but I digress.) Or choking on the foil of a wine bottle as you tear it off with your teeth. Or slipping on the way out of the shower because someone moved the bath mat.

But lets face it the kitchen, alone, is a dangerous place. I’m sure I’m not the only person who has dropped a knife onto her bare foot…blade down…, gotten burned taking a pan out of the oven because you forgot that someone invented potholders, or suffered a concussion from banging your head on an open cabinet while emptying the dishwasher. We’ve all endured stitches in our hand from chopping or mincing or dicing, right? Do I need to discuss the “mandolin?” Swear to god I just say the name of that medieval contraption and my fingers spontaneously bleed. Suffice to say, when I can purchase fruit or vegetables pre-chopped, or get the butcher to slice my meat, I am all in. I just wish he wouldn’t roll his eyes when I ask for “bite-sized pieces.”

Perhaps I raised things to the next level on the Danger Zone when I was pregnant and set myself on fire. I still blame my fluffy bathrobe: the way the bow protruded several extra inches off my huge belly just teased the flame off the stove as I, selflessly, slaved over a hot pan of scrambled eggs. If you have never been ignited take my word for it, everything they say is true: flames spread faster than you think and trying to blow them out is not a good idea. Also note that special skills are required to stop, drop and roll in your ninth month. Contrary to public opinion I am not an idiot, and I definitely learned my lesson. After it happened the second time I stayed away from the stove and let the little bastards eat microwaved food ’cause there was no way I was gonna ruin another bathrobe.

Moving on from the dangers of the kitchen, let’s ponder the times we’ve burned ourselves on the iron checking to see if it was hot enough, and all the hickys we’ve gotten from the vacuum cleaner. As my nine-year-old niece would say, “I know, right?” More mysteriously, I continually cut my hands taking laundry out of the washer..I swear there’s a tiny demon with a switchblade in there, and I don’t know what I did to piss him off. I may have to give up laundry like I gave up scrambling eggs.

Watering plants seems like a safe and mundane chore. Who knew that heinous yellow jackets like to build nests in flower pots and then get really, really angry when they get wet? The ones I befriended came at my ankles in a swarm, stinging me as I ran into my house. A few of the tiny fiends followed me in and just wouldn’t let up. Shout out to Charles who seemed to enjoy watching the scene unfold. I’m all for “art” but if I had stood there making a video of you getting stung, instead of running for your Epipen, I’d be in the clink.

All this being said, I’d never considered the perils of food shopping, despite the adventurous nature of the task. Climbing the shelves to reach that last Entenmann’s Chocolate Fudge Cake, braving frost bite searching for the frozen broccoli florets sans butter sauce, never knowing when someone is going to clip your ankle with their shopping cart, all cheeky fun! I had thought the only time I had to worry about being hit by a car was walking across the high school parking lot, or in my driveway, but clearly I was mistaken. Friends, you read it here first, the supermarket parking lot is a death trap!

Will I have to give up food shopping too?

I Forget (or, How I’m Like “The Girl on the Train”)

The other day I went to see “The Girl on the Train.” For anyone who hasn’t seen it (spoiler alert!) it’s about a woman who can’t remember anything because she’s a drunk. It really reminded me of myself…not so much the drinking part but the not remembering part. For instance, even though I read the book, I really enjoyed the movie because I didn’t remember any of it. In fact I kept waiting for something to jog my memory, as I watched, enthralled and excited because I had NO IDEA WHAT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN NEXT! None. When it ended I overheard some would-be liar say, “that was exactly like the book” at which point I considered that maybe I never had read the book. I started to feel a little less bad about myself until I checked my Kindle: The Girl on the Train 100% complete. Dang.

Anyway I don’t know why I was so surprised, since I’m becoming increasingly forgetful as the months and years pass. I know what you’re thinking, “D.Parker, you already wrote a blog about forgetting!” And to that I say, are you sure? ‘Cause I can’t remember.

I know a lot of us women of “a certain age” struggle with forgetfulness…and bladder control. The other day some of my friends and I were commiserating: one forgot they were driving to the Foodtown and drove to the high school instead (“I’ve done that!” I agreed, with a little too much enthusiasm), one couldn’t find her car keys (“I can never find my car keys!” I laughed, trying not to pee myself), one poured orange juice in her coffee (“OMG I do that all the time!” now I was giddy…and damp); then I chimed in with “I got in the car yesterday and tried to plug my cell phone charger into the bottom of my Snapple,” and the room went silent.

Recently I spent a frightening afternoon laboring under the assumption that I had lost all my winter shoes and boots, when I couldn’t find them in my summer storage. Did Bianca “borrow” them all? Were they stolen? Had I sold them at my heinous yard sale? Did I give them to my cleaning lady, thinking they would all be out of style this fall; and if so, was she at that very moment, scrubbing someone’s bathtub in my crimson, Manolo Blahnik sling backs? Or worse, had I donated them to the 4-H Club? Was there a camper sitting around a campfire in my black-patent, Prada booties, and I never even got a receipt for the IRS? It was a scary time for me. I searched and searched for what felt like an hour, but as the space is roughly the size of a port-a-jon it couldn’t have been more than 55 minutes, before I concluded that they just weren’t there. I raced home, repeating my prayer to the Shoe Fairy: “I, D.Parker, promise to never, never, ever again cast aspersions on people wearing ugly, um, I mean sensible, footwear if you will just return my precious shoes to me.” Turns out I simply forgot that I never put them into storage, and they were in the back of my closet all along (my assertion which came to me, in a flashback, that “I never like to be apart from my shoes and handbags”). Sadly, now I’m stuck forever having to compliment bad footwear. Can’t mess with the Shoe Fairy.

Last month I had a nightmare that I forgot to drop off the dry cleaning, and then felt relief when I noticed the bag was no longer in my closet; my hopes were dashed days later when I found it in the trunk of my car. I thought I forgot to buy the avocado Mav had been craving, but I eventually found that in the trunk of my car as well. To be completely honest, by the time I discovered it, it was completely unrecognizable. “D.Parker,” I said to myself, “how did a piece of moon rock end up in your car?”

Every so often I surprise myself, I think. Like last week, the morning after an extended conversation with my oldest friend, I had to send her this embarrassing text: “OMG I can’t believe I forgot to wish you a happy anniversary yesterday!” She quickly responded: “Don’t you remember you texted me day before because you were afraid you would forget.” Oy. And there was that day recently when I thought I forgot which tennis court I play on, and what day and time, as I sat there alone in the dark, but it turned out I was just, uncharacteristically, five minutes early.

You might start to wonder if these are all foreboding signs of dementia, or early-onset Alzheimers. But if you knew how much brain power I use to successfully remember the location of every public bathroom in my county, Central Park, and part of Staten Island, three in Chicago, several in upstate New York, and one in Paris, France, you would understand that remembering anything else is secondary.

So in return for not being able to tell you the title, plot or author of that great book I read this summer, not having any excuse for finding my car keys in the butter bin, and washing that load of clothes with fabric softener, I can (almost) promise that I will not wet my pants in public.

PS: Go see the movie.

A Dog’s Life

My dog can talk. I don’t mean like when you tell your dog to speak, and it barks and then you give it a Milk Bone, it makes crumbs and drool on your floor and then goes to lay down. I mean mine can speak. English.

I know what you’re thinking: “D.Parker, you have really fallen off your wagon, I mean rocker, this time,” but just hear me out. Last week Stella revealed her true self to me. I was asleep, as I’m wont to be at 6:30am, when I heard someone at my bedside shout, “Hey!” Startled, I opened my eyes and saw her standing there. She’s usually polite in the morning, and will just stare me awake, like my kids would do when they were toddlers: I would pretend to still be asleep, and they would eventually peel up my eyelids to double check. Sometimes Stella will lick my hand or toe if it’s peeking out of the covers, but I can feel the stare. If I don’t open my eyes and make eye contact she might walk away with a sigh and let me languish a bit longer. Clearly on this particular day she was feeling impatient.

So there we were, her staring me down as I tried to figure out who just hollered at me, which, I may add, is not a very pleasant way to start the day, when all of a sudden she said, “Get up already, I gotta pee and I’m starved,” in a deep, raspy voice. That time I saw her mouth move. “Geeze Louize, Stella,” I replied, rolling out of bed and not quite sure if I was actually awake, “you don’t have to be so rude! And by the way, when did you take up smoking?”

We get to talking and she explains that with the kids finally gone, she figured she could get a word in edgewise. Boy, oh boy, is she right…she’s quite the Chatty Cathy! Once I got over the shock and awe, I was excited! Finally someone to help me decide what to wear on Saturday night, listen to me bitch about Maverick, discuss the benefits of wine over tequila, what color I should paint my toes, what I should make for dinner, who are crazier, the Housewives of Orange County or New Jersey? But all she wants is to have intellectual conversations about world politics, why I’m not a vegetarian, and climate change. I always knew she was a smart dog but this was ridiculous. “Stella,” I pleaded, “why don’t you lighten up?”

When other people are around she pretends she can’t talk. She laughs like a hyena about it later cause she knows people are starting to think I’m crazy. Perhaps “starting” is the wrong word. But she won’t even speak to Mav, and even though he keeps saying, “D.Parker, your attention seeking behavior has risen to a whole new level,” (is it wrong that I took that as a compliment?), I think he believes me and is insanely jealous. Aren’t you? It’s pretty awesome having a talking dog, despite how it’s also kinda scary cause she may be smarter than me, and often uses that “tone of voice” that can make me dribble in my thong.

Caring for her now is so much easier, since we can discuss everything: when she wants to be walked and fed; why she doesn’t like her $250 monogrammed, Tempurpedic bed as much as she likes my bed (“Spend a lifetime sleeping on the floor and then ask yourself that damn question”); why she dislikes certain toys (she hates the pink ones because “pink is hideous,” and she prefers the stuffed variety to the rubber…they offer a better “chew” she says); what she doesn’t like to eat (beef or anything beef-flavored bothers her “sensitive stomach”), why she limps (“For God’s sake I’m a middle-aged female with a hysterectomy, arthritis was bound to catch up with me!”), why she only barks at some dogs (“Isn’t it obvious?” um, no it isn’t…), why she likes people better than dogs (because we talk and wear clothes) and why she is so in love with Bianca’s boyfriend (“He’s just got a certain je ne sais quois…”).

I always thought my Stella lived a pretty good life, before all this conversation. I’ve always said that it doesn’t suck to be her. So now that we can really communicate, you would assume that her life couldn’t get any better, after I make the requested and proper adjustments to her meals, her toy box, and “stop asking all these annoying questions” of course. But no: give the dog an inch, and she’ll take a yard. She has a host of other human things she wants to do! She says they are on her bucket list, and as she’s nearing her approximate life expectancy, she wants me to “hurry up and get with the program.” She really can be quite aggressive.

Anyway, for starters, she wants to learn how to cook. Now this is something I’m not 100% opposed to, as I wouldn’t mind a little help around the kitchen. However I do have some concerns, the least not being fear of a grease fires, and dog hair in my food. But if she can demonstrate her dexterity with a pair of tongs and a spatula, I’m willing to buy her a hair net and an apron.

The next thing Stella wants to do is learn to read, and I certainly agree that a talking dog should be able to read, as I am a huge fan of literacy. But when I came home with abridged versions of “The Call of the Wild,” “Old Yeller” and “Lassie, Come Home,” I was quickly rebuked. “What am I,” she barked, “a stupid little boy with no hair on his balls?” And then sent me back out to exchange them for a copy of “50 Shades of Grey,” adding “Don’t even think about buying the abridged version!”

Lastly, she wants to learn how to drive. Now here’s where I think she’s getting cocky. I didn’t have the guts to tell her I just don’t feel comfortable letting her drive my car, so I took another approach. “Honestly Stella,” I beseeched her,”do you really think I can afford to add you to my insurance policy?”

“Listen, you idiot,” she chided me in that tone she likes to use when she calls me an idiot,”why do you think I want to learn how to read and to cook? Obviously, I plan on getting a job at the Applebees. I can pay for my own damn insurance.”

What a bitch.

Runner’s Low

I ran a 5K Sunday. I’m pausing here to bend an ear and listen for the faint sound of applause. No sound. Perhaps everyone is shocked. I don’t blame you: I’ve painted a picture of myself as a very lazy person. Don’t worry that hasn’t changed. I’m still a loser. But a weird thing happened during my hiatus from this blog. Well, actually, lots of weird things happened, but the weirdest thing was that I unwittingly became a runner. Wait, “a runner” may be too strong a phrase…let’s just say I run.

My life-long relationship with running is long and tumultuous. My father was a runner. He was a runner before it was cool. He was also into health foods, taking us to museums and basically being a good father, also very un-cool at the time. Turns out he was very cool, but I digress. Nevertheless, he would go for a run each evening, us left to bicker and drool at the dinner table, stomachs growling, in wait for him, while my mother tried to keep the dinner from drying out or getting cold. He’d finally return, dripping with sweat, exhilarated and apologetic, and try to tease us into running with him the next time. I would have rather gouged my own eyes out with a grapefruit spoon.

Fast forward to my sophomore year of high school, when I learned that I could avoid taking gym class if I was on a team. I hated gym for many reasons above and beyond my extreme lack of athleticism, coordination and self-esteem. Mostly, I didn’t want to get changed in the locker room…I was positive that the sight of my flat chest and cotton underpants would somehow catch the attention of, and enrage, the tough girls who had boobs and wore sexy panties, who would subsequently attempt to beat the shit out of me. Getting the shit kicked out of me in the locker room in my underwear, was far worse than getting the shit kicked out of me anyplace else, which I also feared. Looking back I can’t recall why I was always so sure I was on the verge of being beat up, but as Donald Trump would say, believe me. If I made it out of the locker room alive, the next gym hurdle, was…Dodgeball. Need I say more? Little D.Parker was always the last kid standing in this ridiculous game that should really be called “BULLYball” because that’s what it is. I would hide behind anyone until everyone was out, my opponent left salivating in anticipation. The Goon would carefully set up his shot, usually right at my head, with extra cheers and jeers if he could knock my mauve-tinted, Gloria Vanderbilt, coke-bottle eyeglasses askew. Good times. Lastly, the rumors that THIS would be the year we would be made to shower before going back to class, left me begging my parents to home-school me. I will leave you to imagine what my thoughts on being naked in front of the tough girls were. Suffice to say I had a recurring nightmare of being in the “Carrie” shower scene, if Carrie were a skinny, hairy, Italian girl with no special powers to unleash a bloodbath on my peers.

As my parents failed to grasp the urgency of my situation, my only option was to join a team. The only sports I could “do” were the individual ones. I was a pretty good swimmer, but there was no way I was gonna get up at five, go swim, then “do” my hair, which required two to three hours, depending upon the weather, two electrical appliances and several different products, in time for class.

That left track as the only viable option, providing the bonus of getting to watch the football players practice and who knew where that could lead? I also had it on pret-ty good authority that the girls track coach was a huge pot head and a lesbian, so how hard could it be? The answer was VERY HARD. I barely made it through one semester. I’m not gonna lie, the bloomers that they called our uniform may have also had some bearing on my decision.

Who knew that one day I’d go back. Don’t get excited. I’m into it only because it makes me sweat and then I can eat a guilt-free lunch. And maybe also have a drink at lunch and then also eat carbs at dinner and have another drink. A very, vicious cycle but when you get to be my age and your metabolism drops like a bag of dirt you have to think outside the box. Throw my obsessive compulsive nature into the mix, that once I start in on something I have a hard time stopping, (a scary thought because I just realized I would make a great heroin addict), and my goose was cooked. I’m a runner.

I’ve heard about people who love running who say they get this “runner’s high” and they can run for hours and hours and days and days. I think they are liars. I hate it…every aching, boring step. Thank god for Bunny who runs with me and hates it as much as I do, cause there’s no way I could ever duct tape my earbuds in and just hit the trails alone. No. Freakin’. Way. We distract ourselves by discussing the important issues of the day, such as the Brangelina breakup, what I drank for dinner last night, and what we will watch on Netflix that afternoon…and when we run out of important topics we bitch and moan about how much we HATE RUNNING. Which can actually be quite debilitating and not at all conducive to reaching that illusive runners high.

But we are as charitable as the next gal, so when we hear there is a run for a cause, as long as there are cocktails afterwards, we are in! I don’t know how much you know about running, or exercise in general, but I can tell you that staying hydrated is extremely important. So there we were Sunday, crawling across the finish line towards the cocktail bar, completely depleted of electrolytes and anything even remotely boring to talk about. Don’t ask what our time was, we don’t give a shit and neither should you. Once we had our giant Bloody Marys in hand, we were able to segue from feeling really bad about ourselves, to feeling pretty damn proud. We decided to go watch the rest of the crowd cross the finish line: you know, cheer them on like all those people that didn’t cheer us on, which I am rather bitter about, but I digress. “Let’s see who we did beat!” I exclaimed.

It pains me to report that the group who crossed the finish after us consisted of paraplegics, mothers pushing double strollers containing infants whose umbilical stumps were still pulsing, firemen in full gear carrying oxygen tanks, a few small dogs, one three-legged dog, and the elderly who represented in equal shares, wheelchairs and canes. Oh, and one child that may or may not have been under ten. She looked like a real loser.

Mrs. Clean

I’m a Childless Mother. That’s right, Charlie is gone. When we kicked him, er, I mean shipped him off to college a few weeks ago, I cried me a river. Here’s a tip from D.Parker: when your high-school graduate crashes his car, chips his (beautiful, $4000-orthodonture-straightened) tooth on a beer bottle, and loses your credit card all within a week, it’s time to write that tuition check and hand him over to the College Dean.

But the truth is, I felt lost. I missed that little bastard like crazy, and the realization that all my chicks have left the nest kept me in hankies for well over a week. Cried me a river? Nope, I cried me an ocean. Only the knowledge that his car is parked in the garage, and that I’m not privy to whatever hijinks he’s up to at any given hour of any given day, helps me sleep at night. That and knowing that my apartment is very clean. I mean really, really clean. Which brings us back to my first full day as a Childless Mother.

Since I had nobody to make a four-egg-and-cheese-omelet-with-a-side-of-breakfast-potatoes-and-toast for, no trail-of-dirty-socks-and-boxers to pick up, nobody to make three-giant-sandwiches-to-take-to-work-cause-he-gets-starving-before-lunch for, and nobody to drive-to-work-because-he-forgot-he-left-his-car-at-his-friend’s-house-last-night (?), I decided that cleaning the apartment would be both productive and therapeutic. When we downsized to a small apartment, I did some math to determine how many more pairs of shoes I could buy with the money I used to pay my cleaning lady. The answer was… MANY MORE. And with that I said “Adios, Guadalupe!” I’m not gonna lie, it was a relief…my constant suspicion over whether or not she really liked my dog, and weekly worry that she would put the bedsheets on backwards, was exhausting.

You may be thinking, “D.Parker, you are way too much of a princess to clean your own house!” and to that I say, you are half right! Yes, of course, I am a Princess, even Siri calls me “Your Highness,” but I do know how to clean a house, and I do a damn good job. Case in point, that day after Charles left, I cleaned my apartment for eight hours. That is not a typo. Had you been here and licked any part of anything, you simply would have happily announced, “Delicious!” Perhaps my state of mind had a little something to do with my overzealousness that day…it probably wasn’t necessary to use up all those toothbrushes…because the following week it only took me six hours. Which got me thinking about Guadalupe, and my old big house, and the fact that she was in and out of there in five hours each week! Truth be told, I didn’t usually stick around to watch her in action, but unless she was a Time Traveler, there’s no way she was cleaning the way I do. And about that I have a deep, deep sense of disgust and regret.

Nonetheless, in the same way that I’ve weaned myself from my children, my daily sobs reduced to mere snivels, I’m trying to wean myself from obsessive compulsive cleaning. Maverick is being very helpful in this regard by lovingly referring to my habits as “annoying,” and “Nazi-like;” suggesting other ways to fill my days like “taking a long walk off a short pier,” and spending some time with “a therapist;” and trying to break my spirit with oldies-but-goodies like leaving his shoes where I’ll trip on them, spilling red wine and making crumbs. Like last night when we were “discussing” his refusal to lean over the sink when he eats a crumbly cookie, and his flat-out rejection of my Bite and Suck method, he kept insisting that it was for my own good, and that if I could learn to embrace crumbs and dust I would be a happier person. Clearly he would be a happier person, I would just feel dirty.

But as I carried on in a harangue over the splatters he left on the stove and tried to hide under the teakettle (I mean, come on! Did he really think I wouldn’t notice the kettle off of it’s usual spot?) I thought about how I would rather be cuddled up in bed watching Real Housewives with a glass of pinot noir. As I maniacally scrubbed with the intensity of ten Guadalupes, I considered how it would feel to sleep later in the morning, should that one glass of pinot turn into two or five, if I wasn’t hell-bent on making the bed, washing the coffee pot, swiffering the floors and folding a load of laundry before I allowed myself to leave the house. Could it be? Could Mav be right?

Well, if you know me, you know that Maverick is never right. Let’s just say a Childless Mother is forever doomed to clean up after her absent children and a loving husband tries to fill that void. If mine will agree to stop sautéing things, then I will try to limit what he terms my “reign of terror” to five hours a week, in a vain attempt to make up for all those corners and underneaths that Guadalupe must have been skipping. And now I must take my leave, as there is a fingerprint on this computer screen that requires my immediate attention.