Author: D. Parker

I’m becoming an idiot. I’m not sure when the transformation started. I remember graduating from college and having some sort of job that required wearing panty hose, uncomfortable shoes and a long commute, so I must have shown some potential back in the day. Lately, however, I’m noticing more and more going on around me that I don’t understand, and what’s worse is my lack of desire to figure it out.

Miles emailed me a copy of his college term paper the other night. Thanks a bunch, kiddo. If you were trying to illustrate the many ways you’re getting my money’s worth out of the tuition payments that have kept me from updating my wardrobe these last three years, message received loud and clear. Now please cease and desist, you are making me feel like a complete stupid head because I don’t understand any of it and what’s more, I don’t want you to explain it to me. I thought about how everyone in your class probably understood the paper, and that of course so did your professor, and probably all of the professors in that department and the grad students…and then all the other people in other colleges taking that class, and then all the people in the country that already graduated with computer science degrees, and then all the people working at Google and that’s when I realized I’m an idiot.

I know what you’re thinking: “D.Parker, not everyone understands computer science!” and that’s so true! But how many of you know what a “hashtag” is? or how to use Twitter? or what the point of Twitter is?? Is there a point? Do you know what “Pumped Up Kicks” are? I didn’t, even though I was driving around town screaming that song along with the radio on the one station I can listen to because I don’t know how to set the channels. I thought it was a really fancy dance move…a break-dancing, high kick. I would demonstrate it if you could see me. Not that it would be pretty. Well, I was wrong, and had to be corrected by my 13-year-old (a trend that has become all too frequent) who practically wet himself while trying to explain that “pumped up kicks” are merely super cool sneakers. Oh. I guess it makes sense, now, that the guy in the song is trying to shoot somebody over them. Well, I’m lying I don’t see how that makes sense. But please don’t try to explain it to me.

Getting back to music, I have none programmed in my phone, but don’t worry I’ve put that on my Christmas list. And while Santa is at it maybe he will refill the wiper fluid in my car which I used to know how to do, and I’m pretty sure I still could if I could just figure out how to open the hood. I can’t blame the nicest, cutest, sales guy who gave me a tutorial when I bought it, any more than I could blame him for my lack of understanding on using the rear wipers. I’m doing fine without them, thank you very much. I used to have good map skills and was pretty good at navigating my way around, but then GPS ruined it for me. Now my car doesn’t have a GPS and I can barely find my way out of the garage.

When my kids were little I used to help them with their homework, but that was before that “new” math and before they got into serious science with things like “colloids,” and $200 calculators and if I’m spending that much on a calculator, it should be able to answer every question you have about everything, in addition to emptying the dishwasher and taking out the trash. Speaking of calculators, I rarely shop a sale anymore because without one the only discounts I can figure out is 10% off and half price.

I can’t remember anyone’s name, unless it’s something easy like “Mom” or “Dad” so don’t be insulted if I refer to you as “friend,” as I’ve resorted to occasionally calling my kids “son” or “daughter” or “hey you with the penis.” Which has led me to a deeper understanding for Dr. Seuss and his “Thing One” and “Thing Two.” People have told me there are tricks you can play on yourself to help remember people’s names but I can’t remember what that was and please don’t tell me again, I obviously need to save the space in my brain for things like “pouring milk into coffee” which I completely f-ed up this morning when I poured in orange juice instead, and “fabric softener is not the same as detergent” after I “washed” a whole load of laundry yesterday with Downy.

I’d love to continue this rant, as I’m assuming that the writing is good for my brain, but I need to go and do that thing you do with food and a pot and a pan…I think it starts with a “c.” Don’t tell me what it is, I really don’t care.

Well friends, I have some sad news to impart: yours truly has fallen off the wagon. I know what you’re thinking, “D.Parker, I didn’t know you had stopped drinking!” Don’t be silly, I would never give up the drink. What I did give up was chewing gum. Five and a half years ago. Not a big deal for some, but I was addicted. Nothing brought out the New York in me like a nice piece of Doublemint, snapping and popping and cracking like it was my job. I was up to a pack a day when I started to develop chronic jaw pain, and I knew I had to stop. Cold turkey. Hell, I was probably the only kid in the history of the world who REALLY NEVER chewed gum over the three and a half long years I wore braces. If I could do it in junior high, I could certainly do it now.

But it was tough and man, oh man, I really missed it. Especially at times like teacher conferences when I worried that I might have wine breath. Or when I met Maverick’s new associate after a dinner of Chicken with Forty Cloves of Garlic. Somehow an Altoid just never seemed to get the job done, no matter how hard I chewed them.

But I’m back, baby, and it ain’t pretty. After witnessing my chompfest last night, my own son who has never demonstrated an appreciation for manners, asked me to please cease and desist from “chewing” gum in his presence. He threatened to take my three-pack of Wintermint Eclipse and donate it to our troops along with disposable razors and Chap Stick, but in anticipation of such a slick move I had gone ahead and opened every pack! Even Charlie would be embarrassed to donate a used pack of gum.

When I first got off gum I thought the tooth and jaw pain was bad, now it’s barely negligible compared to the other aches and pains that plague forty-somethings: numb toes, sciatica, arthritis and the sagging skin around my elbows. True that sagging skin doesn’t physically hurt, but it makes me imagine the pain that would accompany gouging out my eyes with a grapefruit spoon when I look at it. Kind of the same thing. Anyway I started to think why shouldn’t I chew gum? So what if it makes me look stupid and obnoxious? It also makes me look tough and that is helpful when you are elbowing your way between the tighly-elbowed up to a bar, or when your daughter’s boyfriend makes like he’s going to take your favorite spot on the sofa, or when you put leftovers on the dinner table for the second time in a week. I know that Maverick would have lectured me on proper meal rotation if I hadn’t been snapping my gum as I placed the steaming Tupperware on the table.

Another pro to chewing gum is that it keeps me from eating. Not completely, I’m sorry to say, but when I’m overcome with the urge to snarf down a package of Oreos, I throw back a piece of gum instead, and by the time I’ve exhausted the flavor I’ve also exhausted my jaw plus everyone knows a chocolate cookie tastes like shit when you’ve got Wintermint with Zylotol on your tongue. I just saved myself like a zillion calories and a huge zit. Chomping is also helpful in keeping me awake during those really boring stretches of the day like if I’m babysitting for my two-year-old nephew and he wants me to read the same boring book over and over again and it’s one of those books that doesn’t actually have any words but he really liked the words I made up. Or when I have to sit through a three hour lecture at church because Charles is preparing for confirmation and the toothpicks I have inserted between my eyelids are just not enough. Or when Maverick wants me to sit with him and watch NOVA.

So I’m chewing and I’m loving it! Frankly, my timing really couldn’t be better, what with the holidays approaching. Maybe if I am snapping gum I won’t be the last one to get picked for our Thanksgiving Football Game. Nobody will dare comment that my turkey is dry, when I’m looking so tough. And I think it goes without saying that it will come in very handy around the Holiday Punch Bowl.

Things started to get interesting last week when I woke up in the middle of the night scratching my face. I was wishing and dreaming that I was wearing sandpaper mittens, but it wasn’t until the light of day that I realized the problem. Unfortunately it had not been a spider that feasted on my face, and as I inspected my swollen, lumpy visage, and reached for the hairbrush to scratch it, I realized the awful truth. I had poison ivy. That’s right, the lousy 30 minutes of productivity I had last weekend when I pulled a weed in my yard would have been better spent reading the dictionary so I might finally beat someone at “Words With Friends.”

But as every dark cloud has a silver lining, if I hadn’t been searching for an antihistamine, I might never have discovered that Charles had been stuck in our old bathroom with the warped door…all night long. Truth be told, I would have missed the little bugger….eventually. I still contend that on some subconscious level he was trying to re-enact the scene from “Tom Sawyer” when Tom is trapped in the cave, because he was supposedly in there for “privacy” when he was studying for that midterm. Plus he was way to nervous for any 13 year old, the way he was worried about suffocating. And because I can still hold out hope that my son will someday give a damn about literature. But let’s get back to me.

I desperately needed to find ways to keep my hands busy doing things other than scratching my face until the steroids started to kick in. Lucky for me I ran into my UPS man down on the highway and he flagged me down to deliver my iphone which has since kept me busy for countless hours. Logging in my contacts, which Charles told me I needed to do manually, took the better part of that first day. But I think he was just playing a mean trick on me. Like when I asked him to program the voice thingy to call me “Your Majesty” and instead it’s calling me “Turd Face.” Not funny, Charles, and just remember the next time you get stuck in the bathroom, don’t count on Turd Face to get you out.

You may have gleaned that technology and electronics are not my forte, so it won’t surprise you to know that I ran into a bit of a situation activating my phone. Somehow I activated it to Bianca’s number, without realizing. I have to admit, when that first sexy imessage came through, I was flattered. And a little turned on. Who says D.Parker isn’t a hotty? However, that excitement quickly evaporated into panic when the second one came through, and a third, and I realized they were not, after all, intended for me. I started freaking out because I didn’t know how to make them STOP! I picked up the house phone, hands shaking, my thumbs exhausted, and dialed Bianca to warn her, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end as I heard the “ding” signaling another imessage in the mailbox…and then the phone started to ring, and it was ME and I realized there was no way I could call Bianca! What kind of sick hell was this? Being stricken with the agonies of poison ivy wasn’t enough?

Thank god the woman at Verizon was able to straighten everything out, but not before the images of those hideous, sexy words meant for my innocent daughter were emblazoned on my mind’s eye forever. And no matter how hard I try to scratch my eyes out, I will never be rid of them. Whether I am wearing sandpaper mittens or not.

Boy oh boy did this weekend suck. You might think I’m being premature in my statement, it only being Sunday evening as I write this, and tomorrow being a holiday. And all I can say to that is I CERTAINLY HOPE SO!

There were all the trappings of a great weekend: the extra day off, Indian Summer in the forecast (or am I supposed to say Native American Summer? is that the same thing?) no major plans because Mav was working, which I thought would be a welcome change from the usual chaos around here. But somehow a weekend that started off with a lovely beachside lunch with a close friend on Friday, has death-spiraled to a solo Sunday evening with a bottle of wine and a peanut butter Snack Well’s bar. Maybe the crappy salad on Friday was a clue.

“D.Parker,” you must be thinking to yourself, “why a stupid Snack Well’s bar instead of a lovely cheese platter?” And I would add to that, “Why does Snack Well’s insist on using an apostrophe on ‘Well’s?'” Two excellent questions, yet I can only speak to the former. Maverick and I are trying to stick to some stupid diet because we want to lose weight, but we are pretending it’s because we’re trying to be healthy. Notice my correct use of apostrophes in that sentence.

We are consuming monster amounts of vegetables. So many that we’ve resorted to juicing them because our mouths get so tired from all the chewing. I’ve also cut out bread and cheese and I might as well cut off my big toes, because like you think you don’t need your big toes, they actually are very important to your balance, in addition to rounding out a pedicure nicely. As you know, bread and cheese pair much better with wine than a Snack Well’s, with or without the apostrophe, yet they are not conducive to losing weight. You can imagine how dinners have been in my house lately, what with the diet and the table down to three…Charlie summed it all up last week while pretending to choke down his asparagus as he cut the “crust” off his boneless, skinless, “crust”less grilled chicken breast by saying, “These dinners you’ve been making lately just don’t fill me up.” Pearls of wisdom from the mouth of a boy who is a Master Pretender at cleaning his plate. But I digress.

This would have been a good weekend to do some fall planting, and I am sure most of you did just that. But I hate mums. Like really a lot. I went so far as to clean out my planters of all the brown, shriveled, summer flowers, and I even pulled a few weeds in the yard. Then I went to the nursery. And I came home with a bottle of tequila from the liquor store next door.

As I made my first batch of margaritas I started to consider why I bothered to take a shower that morning? I hadn’t come in contact with anyone I know, and it wasn’t looking like anyone was on the horizon. For goodness sakes, I certainly could have conserved the water and used the time to ponder why Bianca never calls, only texts…which would have reminded me to check the tracking on my new iphone… which would have reminded me how sad it is that Steve Jobs died…and by this time the margarita was ready, thank goodness.

After a Saturday night dinner of Friday night leftovers, I rented a Disney documentary called “African Cats.” Who knew it would leave me in tears?? Damn those hyenas! And why did Lara the Lioness have to go off and die like that? Why didn’t those stupid camera men get in there and bring her back to America for some surgery? Sure she would have ended up in a zoo, but isn’t that better than dying under a Banyan tree with the hyenas waiting to eat her up and the vultures waiting to pluck her eyes out? Poor little Mara left alone without a mother! And what about the adorable little cheetah babies that were eaten by those Damn Hyenas! I hate hyenas even more than I hate mums! I sobbed myself to sleep on the sofa, and don’t tell me that I was transferring my feelings about missing Bianca and Miles, I am completely over that. I just was really, really sad about Fang being chased away from his pride by those nasty lions from the other side of the Nile, especially with that broken tooth hanging by a thread outside of his mouth, it must have really hurt like a mother.

I woke up this morning ready for a fresh start, another beautiful Native American Summer day, Charles’ (yes, that is the correct use of the apostrophe) football game to attend, and the blind hope that accompanies each day we see the sun rise in the sky. I even took a shower and did my hair.

Well, our team won the game, but by such a large margin I actually left the field feeling badly for the other team, and once home, Charles left to go celebrate with his teammates. Making the highlight of my day the quarter cup of extra spicy hummus and handful of whole grain pita chips I had for lunch, and that’s right, no veggies!

Which brings me to the present. Halfway through a bottle of wine that splattered on my nicest, white tee-shirt as I popped the cork, while I await the Friday/Saturday night leftovers heating up in my oven. I would have stuck them in the microwave but I thought the oven would be more entertaining. I even answered the phone just now when the number came up “unknown” on caller ID and had a conversation with a lovely Indian woman (that’s Indian from the country of India) trying to sell me a subscription to “Popular Mechanics.” Might have been the first time she hung up on someone.

Maverick is off tomorrow and he’d better have something really fabulous planned. It’s supposed to be another beautiful Native American Summer day, my hair is washed, and yes, once again, that was the right way to use an apostrophe.

So I’m not gonna lie, since Miles and Bianca went away to college, I’ve had some time on my hands. This probably sounds awesome to those of you who are still in the throes of potty training or dealing with spelling tests and Kraft Mac N’ Cheese and Girl Scout cookie sales and trying to get your kids in bed before prime time. But the God’s honest truth is that when your kids move out you are going to miss them like salt on the rim of your margarita. Unless you don’t go for a salted rim. Don’t get me wrong, I love only doing one load of laundry a day instead of three, and not spending $500 a week on groceries, and how every time I walk past their rooms the beds are made and they’re neat and clean and I don’t have to pick up their socks or dirty underwear, or deal with the eye-rolling, moody-teenage bad attitude…wait, what was I saying? OH, right, I miss my kids.

Nonetheless, I do find myself with a bit more free time, and as nobody has responded to my ad to write their kids’ term papers and college essays, I am learning to waste time in all sorts of creative ways. I know what you’re thinking: “D.Parker, you already waste so much time writing this blog!” And while this is true, it doesn’t take up as much time as you think.

Many women in my position might embrace this new freedom as a chance to reread some classics, take up needlepoint, join a tennis league…others perhaps less selfishly would look to volunteer work, spend more time with elder family members, help care for a niece or nephew…others still may consider, perish the thought, getting a job. And to all of them I say, why the hell would you want to do that?

My father is a Master at wasting time, so I have learned from the best. The man can spend a week pruning a bush or organizing a couple of files, an hour eating a carrot and another hour asking you a question. That’s right, asking. When I need to ask him a question I block out an entire morning and have an emergency exit strategy in place. Well, I used to, before I had so much free time. And as every generation hopes to see their children surpass them, I know my father must be proud of the new ways I have found to waste time. Watching tv, for instance, is a no brainer. Especially at this time of year with so many new shows, and so many good old shows coming back from haitus, and the BEST INVENTION KNOWN TO MODERN MAN, the DVR! When I want to kill a huge chunk of time in the middle of the day I just put on a movie! If the movie sucks, or I’m a little tired from doing so much nothing, I might even take a nap. Not to worry, I never oversleep, it’s just not possible.

You’d also probably be surprised how many hours you can waste playing “Words With Friends,” which, if you are not familiar, is a rip off of Scrabble that you can play over your cell phone or ipad. If you are lucky enough, like me, to find a friend who is a true rival in the wasting time department, you can literally waste whole days playing. Of course you can waste a fair amount of time playing with someone who has an actual job, but you end up wasting more time waiting for them to take their turn than taking your turn. But with wasting time being the true objective, it’s a win-win!

In honing in on these great ways to waste my time, what has become abundantly clear, are the many ways I do not want to waste my time. Working out at the gym, for example. I despise working out, and no matter how much time I ever had, I would still keep my workouts as short as possible! I mean I wouldn’t want to eat more and more tofu just because it was in front of me, and that pretty much sums up my feelings about spending time in the gym. And tofu. Which I find disgusting.

I also don’t want to waste time at the eye doctor. And that’s a shame because visiting my eye doctor can take up an entire day. Don’t get me wrong, love that woman at the check-in desk, she’s so nice, like when I brought Bianca in and she went on and on about how BEAUTIFUL she is, just GORGEOUS, really, so STUNNING…and I’m saying thank you, and it’s getting a bit embarrassing because she is just going on and on, so over the top, and then she looks at me and says, “She must look like her father.”

Anyway, they have the tv set to CNN which I can never get enough of, and I love, love, love the magazine selection, especially “The Outdoorsman” and “American Rifle.” All so entertaining that I hardly notice the hour that passes before I’m taken into an exam room. The part I hate begins after they put the dilating drops in my eyes and send me to the “lounge.” This is where the magic happens. I’m supposed to be waiting only 20 minutes for the dilation to occur, but I can be back there for hours, literally. Those enjoyable periodicals are useless when you can’t focus on anything, ditto the tv, and the fancy coffee machine that pours what is probably a delicious latte all over your sleeve because you can’t see where to hold the cup. Last year the nurse completely forgot about me and my doctor left for lunch before I crawled my way along the wall back to the front desk to ask what the hell was going on.

Well reader, I could go on about how I don’t want to waste time at the mandatory, three-hour church lectures for parents of confirmation candidates, for which I need toothpicks to keep my eyes open, and offends me in more ways than I can list; or that I’d much prefer to waste time teaching myself to become a mixologist, or learning how to give myself a manicure, but I’ve done it again: wasted a good chunk of time, and yours, with this blog.

Besides, it’s my turn again on “Words.”

The other night I was lying on the sofa watching Project Runway while trying to beat my sister-in-law at Words with Friends on my ipad, when I realized there were some Oreo crumbs in my cleavage. The fact that I have no cleavage to speak of makes this all the more disturbing. I won’t deny that I did eat the Oreo, but discovering the crumbs down my shirt just made me feel real bad about myself.

I knew I was becoming that woman who always wears big sunglasses (to hide the bags under my eyes of course) and a turtleneck (to hide my developing waddle neck), but I didn’t think I was going to be the one with the ill-applied lipstick, an egg-yolk on my shirt, and Oreos between my boobs. I thought once I got past the years when I wore spit up on my shoulder like a pirate wears a parrot, and actually had the time to apply lipstick at all, I’d be able to keep myself relatively neat and clean until bedtime. So the cookies in my shirt really threw me for a loop.

I remember a time when I’d be having a really good hair day and Charles would tell me I looked a lot like Marion Cotillard….Sure he usually followed that with a request for cash or an extended bed-time, but he could have just complimented my shoes. I asked him last week if I still look like her and the poor thing thought he was being nice when he said not really but I look a lot younger than people my age. When I pressed him to divulge exactly who I looked younger than, he started naming all my mother’s friends, so I said, “Hey is that a giant zit on your chin?” before heading to the kitchen to make myself a big ol’ drink.

Once I was liquored up I dimmed all the lights and lit a bunch of candles around the house in case I were to walk past a mirror and catch my reflection. I was starting to understand why Maverick was always scolding me for leaving lights on. High electric bills, my ass.

I went back to my game to discover that my sister-in-law had thrown down a word worth 68 points. The perfect cherry on my day. She might have been cheating because I don’t think “lez” is an acceptable word, it being a politically incorrect slur and all. But as I pondered whether or not lesbians really mind being called “lez,” a sleepiness induced by the cocktail and the candlelit ambiance came over me and I dozed off.

Sometime later, I woke up to Charles standing over me and something wet on my cheeks. “Geez, Mom, were you drooling?” I thought I had sent the little twerp to bed. “It’s not like I wet my pants!” I retorted wiping my cheek with the back of my hand, as he thrust his algebra homework at me. “Don’t put it so close to my face I can’t focus like that.” What was this, word problems? I immediately had a horrific flashback to my own 8th grade math class…..

You need to make a quilt with 643 squares of fabric, of which .35% are floral and 51% are striped, in an alternating AABAB pattern. The squares cost .25 each, which is expensive, you only have $26.50 in your wallet, and your parents won’t let you take any money out of your bank account. If you ask your mother to sew the quilt, in exhange for 1/15 of your meager allowance, and you sell your old surfboard at a loss equal to your current weight in kilos to pay for the rest of the fabric, how long will it take you to get to Chicago by train if you leave at the same time your mother threads her needle and the train makes stops every 90 minutes…

I reached for my new reading glasses and a pencil. “Charlie,” I said, fluffing my coif, “get your mother a couple of Oreos and freshen up my drink.” As he bounded off I thought I recognized a bit of renewed respect in his step. Suddenly I was struck with a clarity that swept through me like a shot of brandy on a cold night:

Cookies in your boobs are much better than algebra.

Yesterday I lost a steak. A nice, big, raw flank steak. I know I took it home from the market, and I know it came in the house with me. Which is good because once I lost an avocado and when I found what looked like a moon rock in the trunk of my car four months later I was relieved. I had thought I left it at the Shop Rite after paying for it. One of my kids ended up using it in his model of the solar system for the second-grade science project.  So it was a win-win.

It seems like some sort of weird trend I am on, because last week I lost my beach badge. That was really annoying because I have had it with me every single day of the summer, and the attendant at the beach entrance never asked to see it. The first day I show up without my badge, there is some new farty lady at the booth and she puts me on the ropes. Mind you this was the last week of summer, I mean really, who cares? Does she own the beach?? She gets me all confused and flustered and I start lying that my husband has it and he’s already on the beach. So she locks up the booth and follows me down the beach to see my badge. Only problem was that Maverick did not have my badge and he was not on the beach. But I found a different “husband” on the beach and by the way, a big shout out to him! He went along with my charade and waved a beach badge without missing a beat! I owe you a beer, if I ever see you again, which I really wouldn’t mind, as you were a real cutie. And, NO, Charles, that guy is not my secret boyfriend, you can take your head out of the oven.

The problem compounded the next day when I realized the badge was truly lost after I turned my house upside down and inside out looking for it. I called Miles and Bianca, both hundreds of miles away, to ask if they knew where it was. You can imagine that my concern and distress was not appreciated by them. “Geez, Mom, just pay the seven bucks! What’s the big deal? You’re making me late for class.” Oh, excuse me, I didn’t mean to bother you busy college students with my silly little problems, making you late for class, especially that you were so late entering the world after I labored for over 24 hours with each of you.

True it’s just seven bucks, but it was just the point: I paid for the season and why didn’t that Beach Nazi believe me? Day Two I went all the way to the city clerk to demand she look up my file and issue me a new badge. Well she must be in cahoots with the Nazi at the gate because she told me there are no refunds! I didn’t want a refund I just wanted to get on the beach! Ugh. Of course my attitude didn’t help my case so I decided to sneak past the booth. I waited until there was a big family with coolers and chairs and umbrellas paying their way in, but I felt badly when they were about to get charged for me too, as the Nazi spied me hiding behind a big hat. I tried appealing to her sense of compassion:

“I lost my badge, I’ve had it with me all summer and I can’t believe I just lost it!  I guess since I sent my daughter off to college and have been so upset worrying and crying all the time I have become a bit absent minded….and then the hurricane knocked those trees onto our house and we got flooded and had no electricity for three days… I might have lost track of a few things… I mean we did lose track of the dog, she swam away…. Thank god we got her back (see her photo on my phone?  isn’t she the cutest?), but maybe that’s when the beach badge went missing too, and I guess I should have noticed it floating away with my credit cards but we were busy rescuing my grandmother from the nursing home…  By the way, that’s such an attractive hair-do, are you a part-time model? because you should totally give that a shot what with your fabulous figure, and sense of style, did you hand-paint that cat on your tee-shirt? I am not kidding I am SO glad you are up here in this booth and not lying near me on the beach I’d be so jealous! So, do you offer a discount for a replacement badge?”

“No.”

What a Beach Nazi Bitch.  I hope she chokes on the cat hair that was clinging to her hideous, cat-face, tee-shirt.   I paid my way, but now I felt compelled to spend at least four hours on the beach to make it worth my while! Day Three and Four without the badge went about the same….I logged a total of 14 hours on the beach, just to get my money’s worth, and now I officially have the skin of my 96 year old grandmother, who, by the way, is safe and sound.

I found my beach badge this morning as I was looking for the steak. In the fruit drawer. The one place I didn’t look last week. And now the beach is closed. Damn.

Which brings us back to the steak.  I considered the fact that my housekeeper is a big Lady Gaga fan and perhaps she is trying her hand at making a meat dress. I don’t notice any other meats missing from my freezer, but there’s always the possibility that she’s looting meats from her other clients as well. Unless she just wanted to make a meat purse.  That steak would have been big enough for that. If she didn’t take it, the steak will surely present itself soon enough, as it starts to rot.  I’m looking forward to that like a heart attack.

I wonder if Charles wants to do some extra credit in Science…..

I don’t mention my childhood much. I do a good job of keeping up the facade of a level headed, well-adjusted, stable person, so you probably assume that I had a normal upbringing. But all was not perfect for little D. Parker. And I’m not talking about being a flat-chested, uni-browed, four-eyed, brace-face. Or that my parents were hippies, and everything that goes along with that statement. No, I’m referring to the torture inflicted upon me by my younger brother.

Sure there were kids worse off than me. I know there are those that were molested or abused or really poor or ugly even without the braces and the coke bottle glasses. But the daily trauma I endured at the hands of my brother was like that of a slow Chinese water torture, the kind that can play with your mind, make you flinch and twitch in expectation of being hit in the head with a pillow or tripped or having your legs taken out from under you with a painless knock to the back of the knee, or worse, having your chair pulled away as you’re about to sit down to a meal that may or may not contain dog saliva or sneeze. I developed a fear of opening doors lest that simple action would engage a Water Pik to shoot at me upon entering, or a fishing net to drop over me or maybe I’d step bare-footed into mound of cold spaghetti or a bowl of jello. I spent many a cold night sleeping atop of my bedding, because there might be something between my sheets at the foot of my bed, only corn flakes? or worse?? The bee pollen hidden deep within my pillow case went undiscovered for weeks, and set me off on an allergy induced upper respiratory infection that lasted longer.

There was little I could do to fight back, but I knew that someday the tide would turn. I had hoped that my own sons would be able to avenge my torture, though sadly, Miles and Charles never honed their pillow throwing or stupid prank skills. And still my brother persisted, trying to teach my boys his skills while simultaneously putting forth bribes, in a lame attempt to convince them how much fun it would be to carry on the torturous ways of our youth. But the day my brother welcomed his first born son into the world, I knew my day of reckoning was near. His little bundle of joy would be my instrument of revenge. Fast forward seven years: little Max was coming for a sleepover.

My basic premise was to create such a perfect weekend for Max that he wouldn’t want to leave. A weekend filled with everything his normal day to day life was lacking, so that upon returning home, he’d be wont to complain and moan and groan about how miserable and boring his life was and how he wished he could move in with Auntie Parker. Pumping him full of junk food would not only be a means to that end, but also alter his moods to that which would more likely mimic my brother in his booby-trap constructing youth. And lastly, I aimed to instill some new interests or “hobbies” in Max, that could become inconvenient and annoying to his parents. In one short weekend I could exact a lifetime of revenge upon my brother.  As every successful villain has a sidekick, I picked a weekend when all of Charles’ buddies happened to be out of town, because Charles alone possesses the qualities needed to ensure the proper execution of my plan: stamina (read testosterone), skills (read athleticism) and intellect (read unlimited supply of penis jokes).

We started the festivities off at the beach…and I have to say it was touch and go. The kid weighs about 5 pounds soaking wet, so you can imagine how the waves were throwing him around. I must admit, it’s been years since I paid any attention to my own kids in the ocean, and it was slightly stressful to watch Max being tossed and tumbled. I even got up off my chair once, which was when I knew I needed a cocktail, and thank goodness it was our every-other-day-at-the-beach cocktail party and I had two gallons of margaritas along for the ride. But the truth is, I love little Max and I didn’t want to lose him in the ocean no matter how much revenge I was seeking. Luckily the snack bar a mile up the beach and the ice cream truck out on the street was enough to lure him out of the surf, with the promise of providing something other than the mundane peanut butter sandwich, juice box and Nutrigrain Bar he is used to, and we were onto Phase Two of my plan without missing a beat: junk food.

I don’t even know what Charles bought him at the snack bar (I was so exhausted from all that watching him in the surf I had to stay behind and rest), but I saw the two ice creams he brought back from the ice cream truck, (along with the bomb bags which were very funny and “Yes, here’s another two dollars, go buy some for home to scare Daddy”) and they didn’t even resemble ice cream, so I decided that we had better go out for ice cream after our pizza dinner too.  I needed to get this kid a real ice cream, like a sundae or a float, but he insisted on getting the blue stuff that stained his tongue and his fingers and his lips, and oh wait, his clothes too, a bonus I hadn’t considered!  And every time he took that awful retainer out of his mouth to eat anything, I was hoping he’d forget to put it back in (more points for me if my brother had to drop another $200 at the orthodontist) but I guess when you are holding something in your armpit it’s kind of hard to forget it’s there.

After a late night of unsupervised television viewing (New Bad Habit #1) I lured Max out of the tent Charles had pitched on the lawn, to a nutritious breakfast of s’mores. And Dr. Pepper.  (New Bad Habit #2: drinking soda.) If they can make a breakfast cereal called “S’mores” then the real deal would have to be even better, right?  With only several hours to go until his parents would be back to pick him up, Phase Three had to be put into action: the new hobby. “Charlie,” I shouted, “get your cigarettes!”

Just kidding, I really said “skateboards.”

What parent doesn’t cringe watching their child do tricks on a skateboard?  Oh, excuse me, I believe the correct term is longboard. The jumps, the falls, the spins…every move offering the possibility of a trip to the emergency room with a broken wrist or concussion!  Helmet or no helmet, it’s just a dangerous activity, and perfect for a daring seven-year-old!  Within the first hour of Max’s “lesson,” he was begging me to buy him a skateboard, I mean longboard, for his birthday, and I almost offered to send him home with one, after all his birthday was coming up soon, but then I thought I could get more bang for my buck if this kid was going to beg his parents for one over the next four months. If Santa didn’t come through in the end, Auntie Parker would!

A couple of hours later, with more Dr. Pepper on board, little Max was standing at the end of the driveway, his backpack on his back, waiting for his parents to pick him up. I had to drag him out of my house and tie him to the mailbox, to ensure he was actually going to leave, and truth be told I’m not 100% sure it was his parents that picked him up, but somebody did because he’s not there anymore. And I am back in my house, sipping a glass of champagne in celebration of a revenge 35 years in the making.

Cheers!