Author: D. Parker

I don’t want to make you nervous, but I think the world might be coming to an end. I bet that’s why that guy jumped off his building into the giant pile of trash.

I’m not a psychic or anything, but there have been things going on in our world that don’t seem to add up to “normal.” It all started a few months ago when I was minding my own business heading up the interstate, when I was suddenly stuck in a major traffic jam. You know the kind, you’re at a dead stop, you don’t know why, and out of boredom you try to start conversations with the people in the cars around you? And if they won’t engage, then you start making up stories about them, especially if they have a personalized license plate? Like the lady who had the license plate “grnmastwins” and we were trying to figure out who in the car were the twins and if grandma was actually a twin. She didn’t answer the note I pasted up on the window asking her to explain. But I digress. Anyway, suddenly I start to notice these enormous bees swarming all around the cars. Like, lots of big bees. What’s going on? You guessed it: a truck transporting honey bees had overturned. Not only was there a huge honey spill on the road, but the bees had all escaped from their combs or their hives or whatever you call where they live, and were swarming the highway. [I know what you’re thinking, “D. Parker, you really have a wild imagination!” And it’s true, I DO have a wild imagination but this was actually confirmed on the tv news later that day.] Talk about freaky!! Maverick is allergic to bee stings and no we did not have the epipen with us because we had used it earlier in the week when I encouraged him to taste my fancy cocktail served up in a pineapple and, too late, he realized it was made with papaya…all those exotic fruits taste the same to me. Anyway, we shut all our windows and tried to motion to all the other people who had their windows open, but they just looked at me like I was crazy. Hey if you get stung by a killer bee, don’t come crying to me.

The next week I heard that a truck transporting frogs, supposedly heading to Canada to supply the restaurants (remind me to not to make a dinner reservation in there) overturned on a highway in Michigan. Okay, I am not making this shit up. Swear to god. So my thought when I heard about the frogs is that the bees weren’t so bad. A million frogs jumping all over the road? That is something out of the Old Testament!

I was taking all of that in stride, and wasn’t thinking about the end of the world or anything, because I’m really not an alarmist. But then last week there were a few other occurrences and clearly something is not right. And I’m not just saying this because my favorite restaurant was “out of mint” the other night and couldn’t make me a mojito. Although clearly something was awry there. I don’t care that they had a big wedding over the weekend, this was already THURSDAY and when did they plan on replenishing supplies? Very disturbing, yes, but taken by itself, not earth shattering.

Nor is the fact that Bianca got up on time this morning and was actually pleasant and chatty.

But then BIRDS dropped out of the sky in Arkansas, DEAD as doornails. Thousands of them at a time, in a one mile radius! When people say it’s raining cats and dogs, it doesn’t sound so bad because we all like dogs and some people like cats, but lets face it that would be pretty scary too. I mean if my dog fell on me from upstairs that would be weird. DEAD BIRDS raining down is just so much worse because birds are just gross, and anything dead is even grosser. Can you imagine how heavy a dead bird falling out of the sky is?? I think Hitchcock had an idea about it, but even as creepy as The Birds is, those birds were all alive.

I have thing about birds, I mean if you saw my house you would think I am a bird lover, as they play a major part in the decor….birds on the wallpaper, little bird statues, birds on the china, birds on the pillow, birds on the bedspread….Lovely. But I’ve had a few close encounters with the live variety and I swear to god it nearly put me in the loony bin. Like when that giant sea bird flew into a restaurant in the Carribbean right past my head and crashed into the wall behind me…ended up under my chair flapping it’s injured wings and I was paralyzed, literally, in fear. Everyone else got up from the table and thanks alot, they all left me there to be sacrificed to the giant devil bird.

Then there was the time a bird flew into my house and tried to attack my head. You think a sparrow is a small bird. That’s because you see them flying in the sky. When they get close up and personal, they are much, much bigger and scary. Those beaks are definitely pointy and so are their talon toes.

Anyway, you might think the birds falling dead out of the sky in Arkansas was a once in a lifetime thing, no big deal. Until I tell you that the same thing happened a few days later in Louisiana! Strange coincidence? Not bloody likely!

So all of these wildlife encounters are bizarre, yes? Add to that the freaky things happening out in the ocean!  That tsuanami was odd, but what about these rogue waves hitting cruise ships?  I’m sure it’s not something one considers when booking a cruise, although I can’t be certain as I would never book a cruise.  But in reality the wave itself is probably the least of the problem.  Days of floating at sea with no electricity, nothing but spam, maraschino cherries and gherkins to eat, limited supplies of water, but OPEN BAR so everyone is getting completely trashed and puking in the hallways, rather than in their cabins because they can’t flush the toilets….which is another issue entirely.  I mean can you imagine how that place must have smelled after 24 hours?  As if the rolling seas weren’t enough to make you feel ill.  I would have definitely thrown myself overboard to be eaten by the sharks.

So, you see, something in the universe is askew. If I were an astronomer perhaps I could come up with an explanation about the planets in some strange configuration, or if I were a meteorologist maybe I would try to blame it on El Nino or the Santa Ana winds or the jet stream, or if I was a conspiracy theorist I’d probably blame it on Al Queda or Sarah Palin. But I’m just me, D. Parker, so when the Monkey Bar runs out of vodka right after I’ve fought off a swarm of killer bees and I’m tip-toeing around poison frogs, and carrying a golf umbrella lest I be hit by a dead bird, or god knows what, I’m going out in style and ordering Dom Perignon.

Maybe I’ll talk to you next week.

Maverick made an annoying comment yesterday. “D. Parker, ” he said, “you drink too much.” “Too much what?” I responded, “Vodka?” I mean I’m no idiot, I know that it’s red wine that’s good for you, and I’m pretty sure nobody has tried to pass off vodka as being healthy. Although it is pretty low in calories and carbs, and I recently heard there are some new varieties that are infused with protein, which is pretty damn exciting. But my devoted husband was referring to alcohol in general, and I have to say, I think he’s wrong! I’m not gonna lie, I like my cocktails, but I drink exactly enough, maybe even less than I should, based on the life that I lead. But that son of a bitch got me to thinking and now I feel compelled to explain myself before I open another bottle of anything.

I’ve already mentioned the health benefits. Of the red wine that is. Plus there’s the cultural side of it. I’m Italian. My father drinks wine out of a juice glass with his breakfast. Need I say more?

While I have inherited my father’s talent for doing everything better when under the influence, unlike him, I never drink at breakfast. Unless it’s a major holiday. Then I usually add some juice, but not to champagne, ’cause it’s really tough to get that orange pulp out of my champagne glasses, and why ruin a beautiful bottle of champagne with Tropicana? You see, I’m the type of gal who likes to have a good time, make every day a celebration, look at the glass half full.

Next, I have three kids and a husband. I repeat, I have three kids and a husband. Any mother who says she didn’t want a glass of wine by 4pm when her kids were little, is a cross-eyed liar. Best part of my day, back then, was throwing those kids in the tub, where they were clean and contained, and pouring myself a glass of red. One of the true joys of motherhood is sitting atop the toilet, with a glass of wine and watching your toddlers play with moldy tub toys in the bath. Things are slightly more complicated now, and my kids really resist my attempts to throw them into a tub together. (I hear them mumbling things like “DYFUS” and “mold allergies” and “sicko.”) But trust me, the first time you see your kid drive a car, you had better have a drink in hand because watching them burn rubber out of your driveway is nothing compared to imagining them on the highway. It was years before I found out that Miles was really not following his GPS which I had carefully programmed to take him the longest way everywhere. But by that time Bianca was trying to learn drive and I emphasize the word TRYING, so you see I had much bigger fish to fry.

Then there are the situations like when my twelve year old starts coming home with pockets full of cash and I later discover that he’s been selling his homework to the dumb kids. I know it’s wrong, but I feel compelled to encourage his spirit of capitalism and entrepreneurism. And it’s the grappling with these types of moral issues that makes me pour myself a gin and tonic before sitting down to explain how I am proud of him but he’s in deep shit, and how long has he been doing this anyway and doesn’t he think should raise his prices?

And times like when I have to explain to my teenagers that it’s okay if they party and have sex, but they just better NEVER get caught. I mean NEVER get caught. Don’t get pregnant, don’t get a disease, don’t drink and drive, don’t ever leave a friend alone. If the cops bust a party, hide in a closet, or run like the wind…and if those pigs catch you, give a false name and address.  I’ll find you later. All good advice, I think, for anyone under 21. So you see I’m working a kind of “don’t ask, don’t tell” thing here. I won’t ask if you’re having sex if you don’t tell me why there is a mysterious pair of underpants in my wash. I won’t ask if you’re making out with that goon that keeps driving by our house every night, if you don’t tell your father you’re making out with that goon who keeps driving by our house every night. Clearly, these are serious issues, and when I find my parenting flirting with the edges of morality and justice, it’s cocktail time.

And then there’s Maverick. It would help if he didn’t insist on getting on the roof of our house to make “repairs” and clean gutters. It would further help if he would finish said “repairs” before nightfall…but as he’s not a carpenter by trade, said “repairs” do often take him past twilight. Then there is the strange duet of male stupidity: to increase my anxieties about him falling off the roof, or nailing his hand to a shingle, my father with the broken wrist, wants get up there to “help” him. I swear they must be in cahoots to kill me because if I didn’t have a couple of glasses of wine during that fiasco, I might have thrown myself off the roof just to calm down.

So you see I really should be commended for keeping my drinking in check, it’s obvious that a weaker person would have thrown herself into one of those fancy rehab places years ago.  I would honestly enjoy the rest and relaxation. But now please excuse me, because the college tuition bill has arrived and as luck would have it, it’s also St. Nicholas Day. I’m going to mix up a batch of bloodies before I open the mail.

Cheers.

I recently have been experiencing something that is having a profound effect upon my life. I know what your thinking, “D. Parker, you must have tried those new dark chocolate cherry Raisinettes!” And you are right, I have tried those, and yes those little love nuggets have changed my life, despite the fact that I can’t stop wondering why they are still called Raisinettes instead of Cherryettes. But what I’m talking about has not affected my life for the better, but for the worse, and I suppose we can just add it to the growing list of things that I can use as excuses for neglecting my domestic duties.

I’m talking about swollen gums. First of all, I must clarify that I have always been somewhat obsessive about dental hygiene. I carry a toothbrush in my purse, in my car, (and a tiny one in my tiny bra if I’m not carrying a purse) since I gave up gum chewing 5 years ago. So when I first noticed that my gums felt sore while I was enjoying my mid-morning brush during my bikini wax, I thought, how so? I had recently been to the dentist and been given my usual clean bill of Good Dental Health, with the usual compliments on my beautiful white, Chicklet-like teeth (which I always find odd, as there are many days in the week when I realize at bedtime that the only liquids I had consumed all day were coffee and red wine). I felt fairly confident that my swollen gums could not be related to gingivitis or halitosis (shudder the thought), or any other dental problem. But my waxing session ended and as I shoved my toothbrush back into my purse I got distracted by an ingrown hair and forgot about my gums.

Until that evening. And the next morning. And that next afternoon, at which point I decided to take a look in the mirror and holy crap how long had I been walking around with gums three shades darker red than my lips? No wonder that cute kid at Starbucks hid behind his mother this morning when I smiled at him: he was terrified! I made a mental note to stop smiling until things reverted back to normal, whenever that would be. It was around this time that I began to notice that the inside of my lips felt a little funny, and I seemed to be producing an inordinate amount of saliva.

Drooling during the day isn’t something I’m necessarily used to, and it can be slightly embarrassing. Let’s say you’re standing at the table cutting up a chicken nugget for your 3 year old niece and she asks why you are using a spoon instead of a knife. And as you open your mouth to make some lame excuse like “I didn’t want the spoon to feel left out,” a puddle of saliva leaves your mouth and lands on her Happy Meal. Luckily nobody else is there to witness that trauma, so it’s really her word against yours, and she’s a little liar anyway.

I started to wonder if I should throw a drool bucket around my neck. I could probably camouflage it as a “statement” necklace if I worked on it a bit with my Bedazzler. But what was happening to me??? Maverick rolled his eyes when I cried to him about it…or maybe he was wiping my spit out of his eyes. My kids were even less sympathetic, as by this point I was having difficulty speaking clearly, between the saliva and the swollen lips. They started doing weird things like offering to clean up after dinner and fold laundry so I could “go to bed early.” But I know my daughter was just worried I’d try to chat with her friends who were on their way over. Normally I enjoy embarrassing my kids, but on my terms. This was no way to live. I had to figure out what was going on.

Gums throbbing, lips dribbling, I turned to the Almighty Internet and thankfully, was able to narrow it down to two things. I was either afflicted with scurvy, or I was experiencing yet another wonderful symptom of peri-menopause. I’ve always been a big fan of pirates, so I was a little excited that perhaps there was something I had in common with one….But then I looked at a photo and DAMN, that scurvy is nasty. Plus it’s caused by a deficiency of citrus, which I’m a big fan of, and usually have several slices of lemon and or lime and sometimes even orange, in my cocktails. So it had to be the other.

Should you too, be of a certain age, and find yourself with this affliction, don’t despair. It only lasts for a five days at a time, and once you have come through the other side of menopause, in anytime between 2 and 10 years, it’s sure to go the way of the night sweats, hot flashes and your waistline. In the meantime, I have discovered that donning a pair of fake teeth with either a diamond chip or a gold cap, will keep people from noticing your gums, and has the added bonus of making you look phat. Which I think is ghetto for cool.

Thanksgiving is fast approaching, and I am looking forward to my favorite holiday with equal parts dread and excitement. Perhaps you share my anxieties, my anticipation, my craving for cocktails, for despite the fact that we need not burden ourselves with the hassles wrapping gifts, decorating trees and baking thousands of Christmas cookies that you will likely disallow your own family from eating only to discover dozens still in the freezer next year, this holiday comes with it’s unique problems and accompanying drama.

When I was a kid, my father, who was put in an orphanage by his own mother despite the fact that she wasn’t dead, would ruin our family Thanksgiving each year by bringing virtual strangers to our intimate table. Usually some loser he worked with, a client (he was a social worker) or some other random person that the rest of us didn’t know. I recall my mother also being somewhat put off that she would be entertaining someone who might arrive dressed in sweat pants, and would probably dominate my father’s attention for the day, but she must have grasped the concept of compassion better than I did, because she never turned anyone away.

Somewhere along the way, however, I seem to have adopted this open door policy. For the last fifteen years I’ve welcomed the masses to my home for Thanksgiving; if you couldn’t stay for dinner, you had to come for a cocktail, and please bring your guests!  It must have been after the first year I mixed Maverick’s family with mine, I realized that the more bodies I had to buffer the conversations between them, the better. What I didn’t anticipate, however, was that the numbers would soon surpass my meager 12 complete  “Woodland” place settings, and that I would have to rent tables, chairs and tableware to accommodate everyone for the formal, 5 course, sit-down Thanksgiving Feast I insisted upon. I would turn up my nose at the suggestion of serving “buffet style” and using “paper plates.” We were going to sit around a dining room table, with a turkey in the middle, join hands and say Grace, god damn it, whether it landed me at Betty Ford or not!! There were the years that followed when I stuck my head deep into the oven as I basted the turkey I was “overcooking” that was going to “be dry” and who’s “thermometer must be broken” (according to my gracious guests) to put myself out of my misery, only to realize that I couldn’t kill myself that way if the oven was actually lit, and all I was doing was causing my hair to frizz and stink like poultry. Those were my pregnant years when I was afraid to have more than one drink in public.

Since then I have made it my own, private, Thanksgiving tradition, to pop a bottle of bubbly at the kick-off of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, and toast myself for being such a great hostess. That first bottle is for me alone, and it’s a good thing I don’t have to share because there’s no way I’d be so pleasant to all my guests by the time they arrive, late, as usual. Furthermore, I have embraced the buffet, as I’m much more relaxed eating over my sink, like I do every day at lunchtime. Plus it keeps me looking busy so I don’t have to get into a conversation with my Aunt Gertie about her vaginal dryness.

I’d like to share some of my secrets to a perfect Thanksgiving, so you too, can have a lovely day.

First of all, drop the formality. Buffet is king!! I’m still not big on the paper plates for the main course: if you’re too cheap to pay for Chinette, someone’s overloaded plate will end up on your floor and they’ll enlist your dog to clean it up and she’ll end up barfing in your bed when you finally hit the sack at about 2:30 in the morning. You should, however, utilize paper for dessert, and continue to make the excuse that the dishwasher didn’t finish running, lest your guests think you’re  white trash.

Rethink the way you let people “help” you. Everyone says they want to help, but do they really? Let’s face it, you have a certain way you want to do things and if your guests aren’t going to get right on board with you, tell them to step off. If they are not willing to follow the recipe you send them, if they are going to bring a store bought when you asked for homemade, don’t count on them to “help.” How’s this for helping: if you are a vegetarian, DON’T bring a tofu turkey, if you are allergic to wheat, DON’T bring wheatless muffins, and so on and so on. If you can’t eat a certain something, just push it aside and don’t make a scene. For god sakes, it’s THANKSGIVING and there will be plenty of something that you can eat and if you can’t, give thanks that you will be the one person in the country that will not put on 5 pounds in a day. And finally, if you said you’ll bring an appetizer, don’t show up 2 hours late. That’s not helpful. Nor is it helpful when you bring your dish unassembled and try to cook in my kitchen. Recognize that the only appliance you will be allowed to acquaint yourself with is the microwave and the dishwasher.  And if you are very, very good, maybe the coffee maker.  But never the espresso machine.

Don’t skimp on the booze. Let it flow, paying special attention to keeping the glasses of your most difficult guests filled. True, this has been known to backfire on rare occasions. There was the time 95 year old Nanna went rogue and tried to show the great-grandkids how young she looked by taking off her wig. But that was only once, and their nightmares had abated by springtime. (Or so you assumed, as they weren’t your kids, it really wasn’t your problem anyway.) And the time your brother-in-law’s uncle who isn’t really his uncle, did that creepy puppet show and later clogged up your toilet.  And didn’t tell you. It’s more likely that Nanna will pass out way before the turkey is served and won’t even have an opportunity to tell you how you ruined it; and you don’t invite that creepy “uncle” anymore anyway, so there’s no problem there. Additionally, you need to keep your own glass full, and often, as the day is long.

While we are the topic of keeping your own glass full, heed my warning: the day is long. You need to hang in there. Losing control at any time can result in damage that runs the gamut from regretting that you openly gave thanks for never having to lay eyes on your grandmother in the nude, to giving your 5-year-old nephews permission to take their dinner into your living room, to passing out on the powder room floor, which would leave your guests in charge of cleaning up and you will be searching for things in your kitchen until the new year.

Lastly, if you like to say grace by having each person around the table announce what they are thankful for, do yourself a favor and ask them to submit their thanks on paper, in advance, notarized. You do not want to hear that your father in law is thankful for the sexy chick at the gym, or that your long lost cousin is thankful she was able to rid herself of that nasty case of crabs, or your own kid announcing he’s thankful the bug he found on his head wasn’t a tick. You want these people to be thankful for generic things like low interest rates, artificial sweeteners, and George Clooney. Oh, and the gracious generosity of their hostess.

If you read my first post, you already know that I am, kind of, looking for a job. Only kind of, because I really don’t want to work. But ever since I heard of this thing they do in the schools called “Career Day” I’ve felt that I couldn’t call myself a good mother if I didn’t do my best to get a god-damned career. It presents a problem, however, as I am an avid television viewer. If I had to get up and go to “work” instead of catching up on my shows, I would have to watch them after work. Who, then, would pick up, I mean make, dinner and do the housework? If I had to squeeze my tennis lessons into my lunch hour, I’d miss my liquid lunch with the girls. I would really just prefer to make some money, put on a pencil skirt and call myself an “Entrepreneur” or “Modern Business Woman.” Since I’m confident that my kids would be mortified if I ever showed up for Career Day, I’ve made it a priority to get there before they all graduate.

Towards this end I’ve come up with some great ideas. The first, and most obvious, would be to turn tricks on the corner. I haven’t done a lot of research, but to my knowledge there are no prostitutes in my neighborhood. It’s likely I’d have a pretty good shot at cornering the market, despite my obvious handicap in the boob department and my reluctance to perform certain acts. Dressing up every night would present a challenge, although I’m pretty sure my daughter would let me borrow her clothes for a small fee. But since prostitution doesn’t require any type of diploma, I’m not sure the schools are looking for representatives from that field. Also, I’d be running the risk of making the high school whores feel threatened, and I don’t want to get beat up.

I mentioned that I spend quite a bit of time playing tennis, so you’re probably thinking, “D. Parker, why not go pro?” Don’t think I haven’t considered it. But the truth is, Max is only 12, and he still likes me to drive him everyplace that’s not within a block of our house (and we both enjoy that “quality time” together), which would be hard to do being on the pro tour. However, I have contacted the USTA and offered my services as a spokesperson, my thoughts being that they should change the face of tennis to the Everywoman, kind of the way Dove Soap has changed theirs to homely girls and fat chicks.

My next idea was to score a ticket to Oprah’s Favorite Things show. True, this is not technically a “career,” but it takes almost as much time as one, and I would totally make all those kids jealous showing off my awesome prizes. Clearly the sand is almost out of the hourglass on this one, it being her last season and all, so hey Oprah, if you are reading this, set me up!

In terms of a flat-out business venture, my friend Andie and I had a great idea for a unique baby product. I’m not a huge fan of babies, but most people are, and it seems like new mothers will buy anything to mark the occasion of having their vagina ripped apart. I remember treating myself to a case of Veuve Cliquot, but the Earth Mother types might be interested something more personal, like a Placenta Teddy Bear. I had heard that there’s a new trend toward taking your placenta home and making a ceremony of burying it in your yard. I’m thinking, if you really feel attached to that placenta, why bother burying it at all? Have it made into a teddy bear keepsake! Not that I’ve ever seen a placenta (when my doctor told me to look up in the mirror to see my kid coming out, I told him to turn that mirror the other way or I’d kick him in the balls), but I figure it must be like an animal hide, that can be dried and tanned, and then cut and sewn. Kind of like a giant scab. Andie is a designer and she came up with a couple of different patterns: the traditional, old-fashioned Teddy bear with moveable limbs, and the more modern Build-A-Bear type. Clearly the latter would offer more personalization. Like a Build-A-Bear, you could put certain “things” inside before it was sewn closed: your waistline, your sex drive, and your last ounce of sanity for example. We were set to make our prototypes when we ran into trouble. Maverick, who is an obstetrician, and whom we were relying on to collect the placentas, flat-out refused. When I called him at work to ask him to bring home just ONE, he started screaming so loudly into the phone I had to put it down or risk the loss of yet another of my five senses. (I did manage to make out the words “Hippocratic Oath,” “lawsuit,” and “horrific stench.”) I dug in my heels and refused to be dissuaded from helping to fill what is clearly a void in the baby industry, but as it turns out, placentas are not as readily available on the Black Market as you might think.

My last and final idea is to be a Life Coach. The first time I heard about this “profession,” was from a sales person in a toy store. I’m not sure what it was that made her approach me to ask, “Would you be interested in getting a coach?” Perhaps it was the fact that I was using a diaper bag as a purse, that I hadn’t yet discovered lip liner or maybe it was that I had my toddler on a leash. But honest to god, I thought she was asking me if I wanted a Coach Handbag. So I say, “Sure!” ’cause I’m thinking she must have a bunch in the back room that “fell off the truck.” She replies that she can be my coach, and as I continue to wonder what about my appearance would make her think I’m an athlete, I make a vow to myself then and there, to never leave the house in Maverick’s sweat pants again. But this chick, who, I started to realize, looks a lot like Linda Hunt, is still talking about how she can help me change my life, and all I’m thinking is could Linda Hunt have fallen on such hard times that she’s trying to sell herself as a coach?  Anyway, she had a whole plan for me which involved cleaning out my closets and calling to talk to me everyday. I think anyone would agree I could totally be a Life Coach, but I would definitely change the name to something less confusing for Career Day.