There's a Hair in My Mole

Last weekend was interesting. Like chapters ripped from someone else’s blog and if it weren’t for the martini in my hand right now and the tiara on my head I wouldn’t even recognize myself.

It all started on Sunday, when I found myself preparing to substitute teach Charlie’s confirmation prep class. It seemed like an easy way to avoid the Mandatory Parent Lecture that runs concurrently, and I’m always looking for new ways to embarrass my kids, so I figured it was a win-win. But when the class materials were handed off to me I realized I was supposed to actually teach ROMAN CATHOLICISM! I’m not sure if you realize that D.Parker is not a religious person!! Suddenly the three bags of King Sized candy I purchased for bribes seemed insufficient to get through three hours with a bunch of snotty 8th graders, no matter how good my jokes! The topic of Reconciliation had seemed like a no brainer, until I considered that I was supposed to be talking about Jesus and scripture and Holy shit, maybe I should go for the wine at Communion time because something was gonna to have to give!

So, as I started to question my own identity, I prayed for calm and guidance, knowing full well that nobody was listening. By the time class started I had concocted a plan to get the smart girl to “help” me. I kept throwing candy around the class and despite the fact that I hit that one kid right in the eye (who doesn’t put up their hands when they see a King-Sized Snickers heading straight for their head??) shouldn’t diminish the fact that I was so effective, she finished teaching the lesson in twenty minutes time. Leaving about another hour before we were to head into the workshopping (kill me) with the parents. What better way to engage a class than to regale them with personal tales of my own religious journeys, my own struggles with my faith, my personal feelings about the state of the Roman Catholic Church today? They did seem interested when I shared my opinions of Father John, and how he is not really a good listener, and if I were an eighth-grade boy I wouldn’t go anywhere alone with him…. Boy, oh boy, an hour can really drag.

But you know what feels even longer than a three-hour confirmation class? A three-hour shopping trip with your 97-year-old grandmother. Who knew that you could buy two “fancy” sweat suits, a quilted jacket, three pairs of knit capri pants, for under $50? Not me! I also didn’t know that such items exist in huge quantities. And so for the second time in as many days I didn’t recognize myself as I browsed the clearance racks in Boscov’s Department Store for size Petite Small anythings for under $10. I called Bianca immediately and made her promise that she would never let me buy a sweatshirt with a cat appliqué, much less wear anything that cost less than $10, and that no matter how feeble or frail I might grow to be, she should make every effort to find something suitable for me to wear at Bergdorf’s or Neiman’s.

Back in the dressing room, helping 85-pound Nanny into a pair of size 8 petit Gloria Vanderbilt jeans (don’t ask, let’s just say she suffers from a poor body image), I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrors and, once again, was shocked at my reflection. What the hell was going on with my hair?? I thought the messy ponytail would be a young, chic look, but instead I was channeling a young, George Washington! That new hairdresser is not getting a second chance! No matter who I am, I’m fairly certain that I find it completely unacceptable to be seen in public looking like one of our Founding Fathers. Calgon, take me away! Well, not Calgon, as I am also fairly certain that I hate to take a bath.

Ketel One, take me away!

Yes, that’s more like it.