Author: D. Parker

It’s no secret that I’m staring down 50, and it’s been 16 years since I’ve been pregnant, praise the lord. But somehow it feels like one hundred years ago, with all the stuff I see the new, new moms doing. My biggest issue as a new mom was feeling guilty for choosing Huggies over cloth diapers, and bottle over breast. Two debates which seem to have gone the way of ugly maternity clothes. Nowadays I hear young moms griping about getting dirty looks when they breast feed in public. Here’s an idea: cover up! Twenty years ago breastfeeders were modest, keeping their udder, er, I mean breast, and baby’s head under a little blankie. Call me a prude, but nothing stops me dead in the middle of a conversation quicker than an exposed boob. My sister was in the middle of a job interview when all of a sudden the boss lady whipped it out, pulled a breast pump out of her desk drawer and set to milking herself. Classy. Almost as genteel as the mom who breast feeds until her kid says they want to wean. You’ve probably seen this at Starbucks: toddler walks over, chomping on a piece of gum, whining, “I’m hungry.” Mom takes out the boob and sticks it in his face, but not before admonishing him to take the gum out of his mouth. To that toddler I say, enjoy therapy. Advice to Mom: needlepoint is a satisfying and enjoyable hobby.

Admittedly I have more respect for this type than I do those that pre-chew their kids’ food. And then pass it to them mouth to mouth. Do I stand alone when I say WTF?? The theory, they claim, is that this is natural, mimicking how birds feed their young. And since birds have risen from their nests to take over the world, we should try to live like them, yes?

I remember when “time out” came into vogue and took the place of a good spanking, and I had friends that talked about “making” their own babyfood…two things which I tried to avoid. By the time Charles came along there was delicious (although how would I know??), organic, babyfood in a jar and I didn’t have to smash and strain peas and bananas and freeze them in ice cube trays to keep up with the Joneses.

Let’s face it, there are two things that we all dread as parents: potty training, and teen driving. There really isn’t anything worse (short of discovering you’re out of wine), nor can I decide which of those horrible experiences I would label the lesser of two evils. It took me years to potty train my oldest. Yes, years….because some stupid parent’s magazine told me that it was possible to train a baby as soon as they learn to walk. That is a lie. That’s essentially the baby training the parent to know when he will poop. I potty trained Max from the age of one year until he was three. By that time Bianca was born. Having learned my lesson, I decided to wait until she showed me signs of “readiness,” and I was prepared to wait. The day I witnessed her change her own diaper on the kitchen floor while I was on the phone bitching about my husband, was the day I realized I may have waited too long. When I had Charles, believing that the third time had to be the charm, I enlisted him in what I like to call Potty Boot Camp when he was 2 1/2: five days of never-leaving-the-house, intense potty training, akin to the brain-washing tactics I learned from watching fictional, made-for-tv movies about cults and the CIA. On the fourth day of my torture, I realized that I needed to take a different, more practical approach and resorted to financial bribery. If you know Charlie, you know that did the trick. (And as far as teen driving goes, that deserves a blog of it’s own….)

However painful it all was for me, it was probably a walk in the park compared to the newest method: diaperless baby. Letting babies pee and poop on the floor, or wherever it may fall. Is it me, or is this like having an untrained dog without the benefit of a crate? In an article I read about this new movement (no pun intended but HAHAHA!!) the author was reduced to placing mixing bowls in strategic locations around her home when she had a diaperless baby visit for a mommy-and-me playdate. Another mom related how great it was to take the baby to the park and just let them take a poo under a tree or in a bush. Very natural, she said. (I wonder does she bring a pooper scooper with her? And can she be fined for not picking it up?) Yet another mother was photographed for the article holding her bottomless baby over a sink. I have no words. Except for these: has the world gone MAD? What the article failed to address is what these kids plan to do when they become school age. Will they all be shitting on the floor of the kindergarten classroom? Or will they excuse themselves to the hallway? Perhaps they will hold it in until recess and then drop a steamer on the hopscotch court. More importantly, will they ever wear bottoms?

As if this all isn’t disturbing enough I discovered that some women found a new use for their baby’s placenta. The most outrageous thing anyone ever did with a placenta twenty years ago was to take it home and bury it. Silly and disgusting, yes? Well I would rather attend 100 placenta-burying ceremonies than have a five minute convo with a mom extolling the virtues of eating her baby’s placenta! Quite seriously, you can ship your baby’s placenta to some freak-assed company that will dry it out and make it into pellets meant to be eaten. They claim that it’s good for you. I’m skeptical that anything your body expels can be beneficial to put back in. Yes, cats and maybe even dogs and who knows what other animals eat their placentas. But again, I had thought we were somewhat more evolved, what with the invention of prenatal vitamins and forks.

Of course the great irony in all this will be the day my own children become parents, and bring their boobs and their bottomless babies and their placenta pellets to my Thanksgiving table. I should probably invest in another set of mixing bowls.

My husband went away for the weekend: Challah!! (When I say “challah” picture me with my hands raised in the air. When I first saw someone do this on tv I thought it was a Jewish thing, praising Allah, but then I wasn’t sure if Allah is a Jewish thing or a Muslim thing, so I figured they were just excited and picked a good Jewish word to express it, kind of like how “phat” became a real word which I still don’t quite get. Then Bianca heard me say it and said, “What? You mean challah like the bread?” so I said, “Yea, I guess so!” and she explained, as she tried to keep from peeing her pants, that what I meant to say was “Holla!” like “holler.” That’s the new thing. I’m sticking with “challah.” Occasionally I’ll say “Challah Bread!” instead, or if I’m extremely jovial, “Challah Bread French Toast!” because that’s my all-time favorite breakfast. But I digress….) So Maverick went away for the weekend, which is fairly unusual as he doesn’t ever travel for work, just works such crazy hours that you never know when he’s going to pop in. Like I can’t ever really relax and when I have the house to myself because at any moment he can walk in to find me watching House Hunters International in the middle of the day, or using his razor to shave my armpits (something which I had successfully hidden from him for over two decades). So you see why I was praising a loaf of bread.

The minute he was gone I started my Staycation by joyously picking up his four pairs of shoe-slippers that he leaves precisely where I will trip over them all around the house, and threw them in the closet. I’m lying. I threw them in the black bag that is waiting to be dumped in the used clothing bin down by the 7-Eleven. Then I continued the celebration by making our bed with nice, tight, hospital corners. I was giddy with the anticipation of knowing they wouldn’t be rudely torn out that night, and that come morning the bed would practically make itself. Furthermore, I wouldn’t have to endure the interrogation over why I’m such a nut about making the bed. Challah! Speaking of bedtime, I could sleep with the tv on a reasonable volume that I wouldn’t have to strain to hear over the sound of snore. (You would be shocked how someone can sleep through their own snore but can be woken but the faint sound of a tv. Or maybe, dear reader, you wouldn’t be shocked at all!)

As Charles spends the majority of his weekends these days, going God Knows Where doing God Knows What, I was pretty much going to have the entire house to myself, not just my bedroom. Which meant that I could run the vacuum as much as I wanted (the hairdryer too!) without someone telling me how irritating that noise is, and by someone I mean Maverick. Challah! But truth be told I wouldn’t need to run the vacuum because my house would stay neat and clean all by itself. Challah Bread!

Quick as a flash I made plans to get together with my divorced girlfriends, basking in the glory of knowing that I could skip out on picking up the dog poo, getting the mail and going food shopping. (I threw a couple of Hamiltons at Charles, and told him to “treat yourself to Five Guys,” but if I know my boy he pocketed the dough and mooched a home-cooked meal at his buddy’s house where, no doubt, my irresponsible ways were the topic of conversation at the dinner table.) Nobody was there to lecture me like usual, when I “forget.” And by nobody, I mean Maverick. After I showered, (using a razor that wasn’t mine, that’s all I’ll say) I blatantly and selfishly took up the entire towel rack just because I could. I left the light on in the bathroom and the closet. I didn’t set the alarm when I left the house, and I parked my car in the middle of my garage when I got home. I didn’t close the blinds when I got undressed for bed because I don’t care if anyone is looking…for god’s sake if they are going to work that hard to to see me from across the highway, beyond the trees, what they see when they finally zoom in will be punishment enough.

The next morning I slept late and stayed in bed to read, even though I had the most restful night of sleep in recent memory. I stayed in my pajamas for hours, made a whole pot of coffee and let several cups go to waste. Challah! When I noticed that there were two plums going bad in the fruit bowl, I threw them down the disposal instead of cutting off the bad part and eating them anyway. Challah Bread! I contemplated doing a load of laundry…just my intimates (something I have never done in my life because it always seemed counterproductive, and because I don’t ever refer to my underwear as “intimates”) for the sole purpose of not emptying the lint trap in the dryer. But as laundry is a heinous chore I opted out, choosing instead to go buy myself a little something. I stepped into the garage and was stopped short–not because I had forgotten my car was parked in the wrong place, but because I had a flat. No Challah.

Shit. I had carelessly tossed away my knowledge of filling tires, checking oil and opening the hood of my car back when I was perfecting the precise placement of the velcro on Huggies, removing splinters, blowing up Swimmies and opening a bottle of wine with my teeth. Rats, no shopping spree for me. To buoy my spirits, and my confidence, I went back inside and proved that I could still open a bottle of wine with my teeth, poured myself a big ol’ glass and was about to get all cozy on the couch when I felt a bit of a chill and thought to turn up the thermostat.

No Challah Bread. One look at that contraption and it was glaringly apparent that I don’t know how to do that either. A strange sensation came over me. Was it the wine or was I missing my Mav? Before I had a moment to consider, there was a ruckus in the driveway followed by some eloquent swearing. Maverick was back! and clearly pissed that I had my car parked in the middle of the garage. Challah Bread French Toast! Wait ’til he sees the flat.

Someone recently asked me “How do you fill your days?” as if I was retired, and although I was insulted by the insinuation that I am a piece of flotsam blowing around like a tumbleweed serving no purpose, “Take that back!” didn’t seem like an appropriate response, so I dumped my cocktail down my dress and made a dash to the ladies room. The “Incident,” as I’ve come to call it, did give me pause, however, and in order to gain some perspective on my life (as well as for anyone who wonders if the rumors are true: that I sit around all day eating bonbons and having my feet massaged; “all” being the operative word) I present a loose timetable of a typical day in the life of D.Parker.

4:40am: Each weekday at this precise time my alarm clock goes off and I throw on the gym clothes I have carefully positioned at the foot of the toilet (so I can multitask) get my ass in the car and before I am fully awake I’m walking into the gym. If I give myself a single, wakeful moment to consider the option of shutting off the alarm clock and going back to sleep, I will undoubtedly do so and then I’d be a fat, lazy, grouch with a (bigger) muffin top and a guilty conscience. So you see that I have no real choice.

6am: Arriving back home by now, I’m feeling good: the workout is done and I’m high on endorphins. To carry over the high, I make a big pot of coffee and try to drink it all before Maverick gets up and takes more than his share. Surely you’re thinking, “D.Parker, why don’t you just make more than the usual 8 cups so there is enough for both of you?” and to that I respond, I have no response.

6:15am: The high school bus comes at 6:32 sharp, so instead of starting in on those “bonbons,” I’m making Charlie a breakfast sandwich, while experimenting with new ways to rouse him from teenage, death-like slumber. (My Broadway-Diva rendition of “Oh What a Beautiful Morning” didn’t go over well, unless I misinterpreted the football aimed at my head.) I carefully watch the clock and give the kid a running countdown to when he must be out the door, with or without his shoes tied, his belt buckled or his hoodie on. Like I always say, there’s plenty of time to get dressed on the bus. I spend a few minutes painfully watching him do that teenage stroll to the bus stop, worrying, worrying that he will miss his ride. Those moments when I realize he hasn’t are among the sweetest of my entire day. Time for “bonbons?” Not yet. Time to play “house.”

7-8am: Maverick comes down for breakfast, and I encourage him to make it himself as I am very busy shuffling papers and reviewing my daily calendar, all the while focusing on the morning tv news: the international headlines are of the utmost importance…if my college kids call I need to talk like I’m smart. I also pay attention to the fashion segment. Kiss the husband goodbye. Make the beds, wash the coffee pot, wipe the counters and start the three loads of laundry that have accumulated and multiplied over the course of the last 10 hours, like rabbits only not as cute, then sneak down to the sofa to watch whatever tv shows I have dvr-ed. I draw the blinds lest someone sees me being so frivolous. Also because I sometimes fall asleep. And by “sometimes” I mean always.

12pm: Now I like to play “secretary,” a game I could never get enough of when I was a kid, and return the phone calls that came in while I was “watching tv” and then spend an hour catching up on emails, text messages and doing as much online shopping as possible before noticing the time and damn, I have to get a shower before the UPS guy shows up and sees me still in my workout clothes. (Why I imagine this as an embarrassing moment is unclear.) Besides, I probably have a lunch date. If I don’t have one, I make one really quick. While undressing I may discover that my underpants are on inside out, backwards, or both, ensuring that I spend the rest of the day feeling bad about myself.

1pm: Go out to lunch. On the way out the door recall that I haven’t prepared anything for dinner. (Unless I did leave something simmering away in my slow cooker. Those rare days commonly occur when the DVR recorded something stupid like History Detectives or NOVA or American Pickers for Maverick, instead of my Bravo shows.) Back to lunch: I usually have a big salad and one or several cocktails.

4pm: Heading home from lunch I review in my mind the dinner situation. If it’s a non-slow-cooker day I run to the store and pick up some prepared food. On a slow-cooker day I go straight home, (stopping only for a manicure and/or a Starbucks Grande Skinny Mocha), go through the mail, and play with the dog. While playing with the dog I usually look around at the yard and make a mental “honey do” list for Mav, and sometimes remember that I never finished the laundry. I run the washer again, thereby washing that first load twice, in case clothes have gotten smelly sitting in a wet washer all day. If I completely forget about that load until morning, I have to throw it away and start over.

6pm: Time to play house again, as I make a big stink about setting the table, serving the dinner and having to clean it all up. The minute I declare the kitchen “CLOSED” I put on my pajamas on and get ready for my “nap” before bedtime. If there are going to be “bonbons” (Oreos) I gather them along with whatever wine is left in the bottle and make a bee-line to the sofa. I’m not gonna lie, there is the rare occasion when making a comment like, “Ugh my feet are killing me,” or “Boy did my day suck,” or “We had the worst waitress today,” could lead to a very short, but pleasant foot massage.

So there you have it. I guess you could say the rumors are a kinda true, although tomorrow I must veer off my usual routines as the leaves of my indoor plants are in dire need of polishing, and I need to flip the cushions on my sofa so the sun fades them evenly (which clearly can lead to flipping all sorts of cushions on other days, and maybe even rugs, depending upon how things go). Nonetheless the next time someone asks “How do you fill your days?” I will hand them a copy of this dissertation and reply, “Very well, thanks!”

A couple of weeks ago I had my annual visit with the gynecologist, which I have every 2-5 years. I’ve learned that if I sneak by without the annual appointment, it goes unnoticed for at least another 2-4 years (which, as I get older, is my goal). Honestly I don’t have time to take myself to the doctor, as I’ve been unusually busy caring for my family and their health problems. When Charlie broke his collar bone in January and we met our exceedingly high medical insurance deductible in one, albeit exciting, visit to the ER, I had hoped (in a not-as-sick-as-it-sounds way) that we would get on a roll with the medical issues and really get our money’s worth from Horizon this year!

If only the powers that be who granted that request would also grant my wishes to win the lottery, get someone to fold the laundry, or make my drink refill by itself, my secret plans to have cosmetic surgery might finally come to fruition. But my family said “not so fast” and proceeded to take turns getting sick and injured. Charles segued his broken collar bone right into an elbow injury which put him on a first name basis with the orthopedist and everyone at the physical therapist’s office. Luckily his allergies have also hit an all-time high, and now he’s filling the time that he had spent rehabbing with senior citizens, at the allergist getting skin tests and immunizations. Bianca has developed three mysterious illnesses, that require three different specialists, who are referring her to three different subspecialists, in three different states. I need at least three drinks a day to talk her off the cliff. Not to be left out, Maverick admitted himself to the hospital with “diverticulitis” or so he says….If you ask me by the looks of his private hospital room, he just wanted an excuse to take a few days off from work. That theory, however, doesn’t hold much water when I consider that he had to lay off the booze for ten days. All I know is that when I visited him that one time for ten minutes I was so jealous I said, “What are you complaining about, this is just like being at a spa without the treatments!” and immediately started plotting how I could land myself in there for a day or two.

So when my doctor’s office called to harass me into making an appointment, I seized the opportunity. Perhaps I could join my throngs of friends who were having procedures to take care of “lady problems.” Maybe they’d uncover a polyp or a cyst! Maybe my bladder needed a lift or my labia a reduction! The possibilities were plentiful and I was confident that soon enough I would be the recipient of “room service” and a hospital bed with the automatic-lifting things and a lovely view of the train station which I could easily pretend was a view of the Gulf of Mexico or the Loire Valley or, with enough wine, Cap Ferrat. Oops, almost forgot, no wine in the hospital. Anyway, those were the thoughts that guided me to the hour that I would “take everything off” and “put on the gown with the opening in the front” and bear the humiliating examination women must endure in the name of health. If there was any chance I had a polyp I knew an ultrasound was in order, and not only an external but an internal. So I was a good patient and followed the instructions to drink 16-24 oz of water within an hour of my visit. Sure, sure we all remember that from the days of pregnancy, what fun!!

Remember how small your bladder felt when you were pregnant? How you didn’t think you could stand to hold in all that water through the ultrasound? How you couldn’t hold in your urine enough to get a full night’s sleep?? Well let me tell you something that was nothing compared to trying to hold 16-24 oz. of water in a middle-aged bladder that endured significant trauma delivering three 8+ pound babies. Halfway through my second bottle of water I knew I had to get to that appointment and QUICKLY! I showed up a half hour early and declared, “My bladder is 47 years old….If you don’t get me that scan in the next five minutes I’m going to wet myself right here in the waiting room.”

A shout out to the sonogram tech who had to finish eating her lunch while she scanned me and swear to god I really didn’t mind when that piece of ham fell out of your sandwich onto my labia. Although my dog did seem extra happy to see me when I got home. Another shout out to my gyno who I nominate for a James Bond award for his stealthiness in slipping in that RECTAL EXAM. If you thought you were so stealthy I wouldn’t notice you sliding your finger up my ass as you engaged me in a conversation requiring me to describe, in detail, my meatball recipe, you were quite wrong. And if I did shit on you on your way out, well… you deserved it.

So I left with a clean bill of health. Damn. To cheer myself up I booked a chemical facial peel at the derm’s office because if my insides were doing so great, then my outside should look great too. (Plus the rectal changed my views on anal bleaching.) I didn’t pay any attention to my aesthetician’s warning that I might not want to be seen in public for 3-5 days, basically because I’m a pretty open person. I have been known to converse with the school principal from my car with my pajamas on, bare my unwaxed legs on the tennis court and pose for family photos before getting my roots done, so going to my best friend’s 50th surprise birthday party after a chemical peel didn’t seem like a big deal.

But, and pay attention here to words I rarely say, I was wrong. Little did I realize that within 36 hours I would go from looking like me, to looking like I fell asleep in Africa, to looking like I was creating a death mask in some sort of sick, performance art exhibition. After enduring what felt like the heat of a thousand suns, I quickly started to resemble the Tanning Booth Mom from Nutley, which was definitely not the look I was going for. If polled I bet most of the party guests would say the real surprise at the party was that someone as hideous as I, got up on stage to roast the Guest of Honor and, of course, to sing with the band. Mav kept making comments like “I wish I had an ounce of your confidence” and “I can’t even look at you” and “You should have worn a veil like the woman who had her face eaten off by that chimp” but everyone else claimed that they “never would have noticed if you didn’t point it out to me.” They were either blind, drunk, or a bunch of cross-eyed liars. Or all three.

But I’m finally almost fully peeled and healed, and despite the fact that little flakes of my face are floating in my wine glass right now, I will suck it down before I run over to the hospital to visit my nephew. He has a pencil eraser stuck in his ear. If only he was on my health insurance policy.

Bonjour, mes amies! Je suis de retour! For those of you not fluent in French like me, (and by fluent I mean I know how to order a cup of coffee, a baguette, or a glass of champagne better than anyone), I have returned from my trip to Paris! And try as they might, with their cheese and butter sandwich, faulty head rest and screaming baby in front of me, Air France did not succeed in erasing a wonderful week from my memory.

I remember the last thing I ate: a little baguette topped and filled with a savory gruyere cheese…just like the asiago cheese bread at Panera! Except NOT! Similarly the “quenelles a la lyonnais” (heavenly, seafood dumplings, as light as clouds) were just like the filet of fish sandwich from McDonalds. NOT! The parallels with the cuisine just go on and on and it got me to wondering if Europeans visiting New York compare the techniques of the hotdog venders from corner to corner, the way I did the skills of the crepe makers in Paris. Picking the perfectly boiled hot dog, out of greasy, hot-dog water and slapping it onto a preservative filled bun is so akin to making a crepe so thin you-can-almost-see-through-it but strong enough to hold a quarter of a grated lemon and a sprinkling of sugar. Yup, I’m not having any trouble adjusting to being home.

Despite my withdrawal from the baked goods, it is easier to be home, being able to converse freely using more than 20 words, because let’s face it, one certainly gets tired of ordering champagne and baguettes. Well, that’s not actually true. But I do miss watching my husband struggle with the French language. “Mav,” I said to him, “speaking English with a French accent isn’t the same as speaking French!” “I know,” he said, with a desperate look in his eye and a Pepe le Pew lilt, “but no matter how hard I try, I just don’t understand anything they are saying!” Translation: it’s time for me to go shopping.

Did you know that the French don’t get thirsty? They are like camels. Any vessel containing a non-alchoholic beverage, be it juice, soda, coffee or water, is the size of a shot glass. And it costs about twice as much as a big glass of wine. Which only costs about as much as a small cup of Starbucks. I’m not gonna lie, we were shelling out the dough for the waters and the cups of coffee. But then it was time for champagne and I got over it.

You know what else? The waiters and waitresses never rush you. EVER. Mav usually needed a shave by the time we got our l’addition, I mean, our check! So much more refreshing than having a waitress tell you about the “specials” before you get served a cocktail and then she brings all the food at the same time and someone starts clearing your plate before you are finished! Nothing like being in and out of a restaurant in under an hour. On a Saturday night. Yes, I’m disgruntled to be home.

And being so, I have had to look for the down-side of Paris, because I have to accept that my life is here, and I am too old to become an ex-pat living on the Left Bank struggling to complete my novel. Plus I don’t want to take up smoking. So, I will admit, the public restroom situation in Paris could be better. Never knowing if you were going to have to pee into a hole or an actual toilet is a bit of a stress. Especially for someone like me who has terrible aim. I have been known to pee on the leg of my pants or my shoes. When you’ve been walking the streets of Paris for hours on end, the last thing you want to do is further work out your quads trying to straddle a hole without falling in. The little footrests are an interesting concept but I think they are put in place only to make fun of people like me who aren’t sure how to use them. Sure there are great public “kiosk” toilets right on the street and those are truly state of the art: self cleaning, power flushing toilets for 50 cents a shot! With the Euro at only $1.30, that’s like 66 cents! A bargain that rivals the cheap wine for sure, but I just couldn’t relax knowing that there were people on the other side of that plastic wall that knew I was in there trying to make a wee-wee. Furthermore they are not heated, so that cool wind rushing through also presented a problem. Then, there’s the panic that ensues when you realize you might be about to use up your last, timed, minute and the door will automatically swing open and expose you to the masses with your pants still down, and your coat up around your waist. Walking out with a piece of toilet paper stuck to my boot was really the least of my issues.

So, little by little I’m forcing myself to accept my American life back in the ‘burbs, where I am installing a wine fridge in my bathroom so I can enjoy the best of both worlds. And in case that was lost in translation, I mean I can now enjoy a “coupe de champagne” while “assis sur les toilettes!”

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.

I am one of the laziest people you will ever meet. And getting lazier all the time. I know you are surprised, nay, shocked, to hear this. I’m sure I come across as a very energetic, spry, woman with lots of gumption and get-up-and-go. Despite the fact that I get up at 5am every weekday to drag my flabby ass to the gym, this is not true. I have no gumption: when I get to the gym I take the elevator, rather than walk the two, short flights. See? Lazy.

When I get home I usually run over the newspaper at the foot of my driveway. I say usually because my intentions are always to pull the car up right along side of it, so I can open the door and grab it as I pass by. It’s the difficulties I have getting lined up just right, that usually result in me running it over instead. Why don’t I just get out of the car to get it? Do you need to ask? I’m too lazy. And forget about actually parking the car and walking down the driveway to get it. That’s just silly. I don’t even do that to get the mail. Let me remind you that I pay someone to deliver that newspaper, and until he finally heeds my request written in bold every year in the Christmas card I stick a couple of $20s in, to PLEASE put my newspaper at the front door, I refuse to walk down the driveway to pick it up. Who does he think he is messing with? As far as the mail, my mailbox is pret-ty big, and I can wait at least three days before emptying it. By the time it’s full I can bribe Charlie to jump out of the car on our way home from school to empty it.

When I go food shopping I allot extra time for the parking lot. Not to walk from the farthest reaches, but to circle the lot for ten minutes or more until the perfect spot empties. That’s the one adjacent to the handicapped spots. And don’t tell me if you are one of those annoying people who think we non-crippled people should keep those spots for the elderly or the pregnant…they are meant for lazy people. And that’s me.

When I go out to dinner I am usually too lazy to read the menu. Even more so lately, when I can’t really see the letters. Ugh, what a hassle to dig through my purse for reading glasses and then try to hold the “ambiance” candle at the right angle to shed light on the damn thing, burning my fingers in the process and then to actually having to read all those long descriptions of the dishes, and then trying and decide what to have….it’s just exhausting. It’s much easier to ask the waiter what the best dish is. Of course I conduct a short interview first, to make sure I would agree with his sensibilities…and then make my decision based on that. If I think he knows what he’s talking about I go with his recommendation. If I so much as dislike his hairstyle, or he has bad teeth, or he is pretending to have an Italian accent because it’s an Italian restaurant but his name is Jorge, I’m not going to order the Bolognese no matter how much he loves it. My method is certainly not fool proof, but I don’t expend any extra energy and that works out well for a lazy girl like me. By the time food is put in front of me I’m usually three sheets to the wind anyway, and won’t even remember what it tastes like.

The worst example of my laziness happens during the middle of the night. Have you ever met anyone so lazy she won’t even get out of bed to pee? How do you do, I’m D.Parker. Yes I would rather lie in a half-sleep state, wiggling away, for hours, than get up and walk to the bathroom. My rationale? I am worried the walk will wake me up too much and I’ll have trouble falling back asleep. I know what you’re thinking, “D.Parker, lying in bed trying not to wet yourself will keep you up as well!” Don’t you know you can’t argue logic with a lazy person? Hopefully I’m not far off from the days when it will be acceptable for me to wear a diaper. Which will be a true convenience for the daytime, as I am frequently too lazy to go to the bathroom during normal waking hours as well.

Perhaps I’d have more gumption if I took vitamins. Of course we’ll never know, because I’m too lazy to take them. I stopped reading my ebook because I grew weary of tapping the edge of my iPad to turn the page. I have been known to call Charlie on his cell phone to come downstairs because “I need to talk to you,” and once he’s in front of me, ask him to “pour Mommy another glass of wine.” I am trying to teach my dog to drink out of the toilet because I hate refilling her waterbowl. I will rewash clothes that come out of the dryer wrinkled, sometimes two or three times, just to avoid ironing them. The mere thought of having to edit this piece makes my lazybone ache. I’m even too lazy to come up with another sentence to wrap it all up.

See what I mean?

So we are well into the new year and so far I’ve spent the better part of the month either lying on the sofa doing nothing or maniacally cleaning my house like there’s a contest. But I’ve also been contemplating the life that is D.Parker. Mostly about how I spend lots of time trying to better myself so I can look better and live longer. Genes notwithstanding, it’s likely that I’m going to be around long after my friends have kicked it. So I imagine that some day I’m going to stop trying to look younger and feel younger so I can live longer, but start relaxing and doing what I really want to do, and not give a damn what anyone else thinks. The real question is when will I be liberated? Fifty? Sixty? Eighty? Here’s some of the things I’m going to do:

I’m going to proudly enjoy watching all the terrible television shows that I watch in secret. Like right now I’m watching Real Housewives of Beverly Hills with my finger poised on the remote to switch it to NOVA if anyone walks into the room.

I’m going to stop coloring my hair. While I’m at it I might stop styling it as well. I’ll be the old lady with the grey bun. Or the ponytail or maybe I’ll just shave it all off and start wearing fabulous scarves. Yes, that’s more my style. Scarves. Long, colorful scarves.

I’m going to stop exercising. Completely. I might even take to a wheel chair just for the convenience. Then I can still wear great shoes without worrying I’m going to break my neck trying to walk in them. When I’m done with the exercising I’m going to kick up the eating. Fattening things like French cheeses and lots of pasta and I’ll stop worrying about protein and it will be all about the CARBS.

I’m going to stop bringing the shopping cart back to the front of the supermarket when I’m done using it. Nobody else does it and it’s starting to get on my nerves.

I’m not going to try and hurry when there is someone on line behind me who looks like they are in a rush. Like that person who was beeping at me this morning when I was using the drive through ATM. So I didn’t know you could deposit more than one check at a time, big deal! Furthermore if I am in the McDonald’s drive through and my order isn’t ready, I am NOT GOING TO PULL UP so you can “help the person next in line” and wait for you to run out with my food! I’m in the drive through and the people behind me can wait or you can run outside and give them their food!

I’m going to stop “saving” my free “pastry” at Panera that I’ve earned with my Panera frequent customer points for the next time I come in.

I’m going to be loud when I want to be, and not worry that I’m going to get “shushed” like that old grump in The Carlyle Hotel. I don’t give a crap that she lives in the hotel, the truth is she came into the restaurant in her slippers and it’s not her personal dining room and I’m not going to keep it down. Ditto to the woman in the museum who held her hands over her ears in such a dramatic fashion and made a face at me just because I was cracking my gum. Yes, you bitch, that was me who kept sneaking up behind you and snapping it right in your ear for the rest of the day….you weren’t doing crazy like you thought you were. When someone really pisses me off I make it my mission to seek revenge. It’s not like I have anything else to do.

I’m going to stop being nice to little kids I don’t know. Well, I guess I’ve already stopped doing that. And I’m also going to stop being nice to my kids’ friends, because from what I understand they are all afraid of me anyway. I thought I was super nice when I yelled at Charles’ friends after they broke his collar bone in an illegal football move the other night, but apparently all the buzz in the junior high is that I’m a scary bitch. Well, you know what? Let’s go with that.

I’m not going to be embarrassed if I don’t get dressed before noon on a weekend. I won’t run away and hide if someone rings the bell, whether it’s Bianca’s boyfriend or the UPS guy or a neighbor or the Girl Scouts or a Jehovah’s Witness, I will open the door and proudly display my layers of mismatched pajamas, my bedroom glasses and my giant fuzzy slippers. I’m in my house, dammmit, and I can dress how it pleases me. If I need to jump in the car I will do so, no matter that I’m not wearing underpants.

I’m going to curse without abandon. I know what you’re thinking: “But D.Parker, you already have a mouth like a truckdriver!” and that’s true, but clearly you don’t know how much I hold back.

I didn’t realize how long this list would be, and I could go on, but I just noticed a streak on the oven hood, which reminds me that I’m also going to give up cleaning. I really can’t wait.