Category: My Life in the Suburbs

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!

I don’t know where you live, but if it’s anywhere in America you might have noticed that it’s been hot as balls this week and I don’t want to hear that this is the result of global warming and we need to get used to it, because I’m telling you right now I am NOT going to get used to it. Especially that I am at an age when perspiration is showing up in areas other than my armpits and my brow, and don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. Younger women out there, take my word for it: enjoy wearing light colored bottoms in the summer months as long as you can. There’s a reason every woman you know over 45 always wears black. It’s because nobody has invented a mini, battery-operated fan that we can strap into our underpants. But as they’ve invented other battery-operated things that we can strap into our underpants, I’m confident that the Panty Fan can not be far off.

What makes living in an oven even more unbearable is the media frenzy over “Back to School,” and “Cozy Fall Fashions.”  Seriously this is not the time! I need a new, black bathing suit, and a pair of flip-flops that don’t get so soft in the hot sun that the front of them get caught under the bottoms when I walk and make me trip; not a cashmere sweater and a pair of boots. And I don’t want to buy anything for my kids for “Back to School” because I have not gotten sick of them yet! That includes books for “required summer reading,” which should be renamed “required Labor Day reading” because, let’s face it, that’s when they all do it anyway. I don’t want flyers from Target highlighting “everything your new college student needs” because everything my new college student needs is right here in this house, and Target is clearly trying to interfere with my major plan to convince Bianca that college is for losers and she should just enroll in the D.Parker School of Life.

The worst part of this push towards fall, is that it puts the pressure on to hurry up and enjoy the summer, it’s almost over! I live with people who are very susceptible to this scam. Maverick lives for the summer, and he dreads the end practically before it begins. I thought we dodged the bullet this year, by being out of the country on July 4th, the day he unofficially marks as the last day of summer. We were coasting along pretty well until he saw that first “Back to School” flyer. (Damn those flip-flops that kept me from getting to the mailbox before he did!) Anyway, it sent him into a panic and now he’s been hassling me to go to the beach everyday, preaching that “there won’t be too many more days like this!” and to that I say, at 105 degrees, I certainly hope not! But I refuse to succumb to all the hype about summer ending. I have barely finished unpacking from vacation! There is lots of summer left to enjoy! There has to be! And it’s not all about going to the beach, Maverick!

First of all, I have several summer outfits that I have yet to be seen in, and as I won’t be purchasing any of those new fall fashions (read: college tuition payments) I have to make the most of them. Especially the shoes. I have not seen a single firefly, or made a s’more, or even toasted a giant marshmallow. Did you know they make giant marshmallows? I think it’s something new.  But who can think about making a bonfire when you feel like there’s a bonfire in your pants? I haven’t yet gotten sunburned. I know what you’re thinking, “D. Parker, it’s unhealthy to get sunburned!” Yes, I know, but it’s a summer tradition for me because I like to keep my dermatologist on her toes.  I have not read a mindless, stupid book.  You know the kind labeled “beach read” because you don’t really have to pay attention to what your reading. It’s just a different version of the story you read on the beach last year: something to do with a woman and her best friends and a beach and a romance and maybe some good sex scenes. I refuse to let the only book I read this summer be that heavy one about the woman in that other country and the horrible thing she went through, especially because it was peppered with all those words in that foreign language and in the end it just made you depressed and intolerant of that other culture and all you wanted to do was just relax and read about the stupid woman with the fancy house on the beach.  I haven’t gotten to see all the chick flicks that are based on those books, and it’s not because I’ve been seeing “Bridesmaids” over and over. Most importantly, I am only halfway through the list of summer cocktails that were highlighted in the foodie magazines back in June, and it’s not because I’m paying attention to the new AMA guidelines that suggest three alcoholic drinks in one sitting is too many.   Who do they think they are, the drink police? Didn’t their mother’s teach them that if they can’t say anything nice, they shouldn’t say anything at all?  But I digress.

Clearly I have a lot of living to do, when the living is easy.  So please excuse me while I grab a  giant marshmallow and a magnifying glass and see if I can’t roast a marshmallow on the dashboard of my car before the cold front comes through and the temps drop below 100.

 

 

When I got to the gym yesterday I noticed I was wearing two completely different shoes. I didn’t want everyone to notice how absent minded I am so proceeded to limp through my workout in a lame attempt to make it look like one of my shoes was a special orthodic that I was wearing due to an injury. But I’m not that good a limper and I might have been changing which foot I was limping on so I am not sure how convincing I was. When the trainer asked me if I needed any help I told him my orthopedist said I was doing really well and might be able to put on regular shoes as early as tomorrow, and then limped my way to the handicap ramp, all of a sudden realizing that I had missed out on the one opportunity I might have had to park in the handicapped spot right in front of the building.

I suppose my faux pas was merely a harbinger of the day ahead of me, which was ripe with adventure: a trip back to the breast center for a sonogram and to the dentist for x-rays. By the end of the day I’d be lucky if I didn’t have my underpants on where my bra should be to go with my mismatched shoes. I know some people don’t mind going to the dentist, and I remember a time back in my youth when I would get a coupon for the ice cream shop downstairs if I had a good checkup, and man those were the days. These days, not only don’t I get a coupon for ice cream or even a lollypop like I used to get at the bank, only a big fat bill for a retainer-type of implement that is supposed to stop me from clenching my teeth in my sleep, which makes my gums recede which, in turn makes the cleanings uncomfortable and my chicklet-sized teeth look even bigger. The reality is that this “mouth guard” does not keep me from clenching my teeth, just prevents the clenching from affecting my gums. Which doesn’t really solve the whole problem, as the clenching also gives me jaw pain significant enough to keep me from enjoying hard, chewy candy (doesn’t keep me from eating it, just from enjoying it), not to mention headaches. But as my dentist was kind enough to note, he is not a psychiatrist, and the root of my clenching is not really his problem. “Try reducing your stress,” was his advice. Genius. If only I had thought of that myself. “Well,” I told him, “it would really help if you had tequila in that little cup you tell me to rinse with, instead of stupid mouthwash.” But since he had both of his hands in my mouth at the time I’m not sure I was coherent.

Which leads me to mention my favorite part of visiting the dentist: hands down, the xrays, as I have an extremely sensitive gag reflex. It’s a wonder I can feed myself, as I can’t even put a pencil between my teeth for more than a couple of seconds without gagging. Perhaps you can imagine what certain sex acts I’m also inefficient at, but as I’ve always said, there is a reason God gave me a bad gag (or is it a good gag?) reflex and I’m pretty sure that was it. I also think he knew that my teeth would remain relatively cavity-free for most of my life except for that medieval period when Maverick and I had no money, no insurance and didn’t step foot near a dentist or a piece of floss for four years, until I had a tooth ache that could wake the dead, and resulted in a nasty root canal. Nonetheless, as long as they insist on xrays, I will continue to repay them in kind by gagging and making them worry that I might actually vomit on the rubber blanket that is protecting my innards from cancer-causing xrays.

But we all can probably agree, that compared to a mammogram, a dental cleaning is a walk in the park! First of all, men, let’s be clear on one thing: having your prostate exam is nothing like a pelvic exam, let alone a mammo.  There’s something special about having your AA cup breast (for those who don’t understand exactly how small that is, it’s about a 1/4 cup non-metric measure) squished between two clear glass plates (in case you want to see how hideous it looks) to the size of a platter large enough to hold a 9 inch pie with a lovely garnish around the edges.  This does require that part of your neck ends up between those plates as well, which is not only painful, but can not be good for a neck that is just starting to lose it’s elasticity. If you are lucky, like me, two images on each side are not enough, and I go for the “buy one, get one free” except I don’t get any free they are all really expensive. And usually for additional kicks I go for the sonogram during which I try to imagine I am at a spa getting a very special massage that isn’t that relaxing or comfortable, and they don’t play special music of forest sounds or ocean waves or whale calls, but there is a robe to put back on when we’re done.  The robe is not as fancy as a spa robe, but it is a robe after all and as long as nobody has stolen your clothes out of the locker you put them in that doesn’t actually lock, so you might as well have left them in the waiting room on a chair, you can’t wear it home.  Which is a shame because by now you’ve done a pretty good job of perspiring all over it, since you were told not to wear any deodorant or antiperspirant because that would mess up the imaging and then you’d have to go back yet again.  And too many visits to the spa in one month is just too extravagant for D. Parker.

So I dump the robe and finally find my clothes in a locker that doesn’t lock and also doesn’t have a number on it, but thank goodness there’s no doubt that tiny AA bra is mine. For good measure I check to make sure that my underpants are on my bottom as I put my bra on my top, I stick my shoes back on the wrong feet and limp my way out of the Breast Center, straight to my car which I left parked in the handicapped spot.

I hope you all had a great Memorial Day weekend.  I sure did! It all started with multiple baseball games, double headers and hours on the ballfield. But hey, that’s all fun, right? Sure it is, especially when you have to work the snack bar inbetween the games that your own kid is playing in. FUN. I really like when a game ends, and there’s a million people who decide all at once that they want a hot dog and a soda and wait, no, make that a Gatorade, and actually we need two hotdogs and how much are the chips? and do you have any candy? And I hope you don’t mind breaking a fifty, it’s all I could get at the ATM. Good times! It’s also fun when the drinks sell out before you can fill the cooler with the next batch so they’re mostly warm and everyone is looking for something icy cold because it’s a thousand degrees out and they start returning things. Who the hell ever heard of anyone returning anything at a baseball game snack bar? I mean we’re not at Yankee Stadium! Everything is a dollar!

But I had so much fun working the snack bar and then watching my kid’s team lose every game, I decided to top it all off with a school project. You know the kind: the one that an annoying teacher assigns over a holiday weekend just to stick it to you. This might be the same teacher who has mocked you, the parent, in the classroom to the other kids, as if he was on stage at an LA comedy club. You call the principal to complain, and instead of an apology, you get stuck helping your kid and the rest of his project group make a Leaning Tower of Pisa out of cake. Which is FUN, don’t get me wrong, I was sore tired of watching baseball, and I did not want to go to the beach and salvage some of the beautiful day, and I did not want to go to the barbecue we were invited to, I didn’t even want to have a margarita! I really wanted to stay at home, and put the oven on in my hot kitchen, (I have forbidden Maverick to put on the air conditioner, what with two college tuition bills sitting in my mailbox that I refuse to bring in the house) and supervise four 13-year-old boys baking cakes and assembling leaning towers. Don’t be jealous. Really.

Now I know what you’re saying, “D. Parker, what kind of awful teacher gives such a stupid project on a holiday weekend?” and I say in response, “What do you think? A math teacher!” because clearly you understand how the baking and assembling of cakes is a super way to learn about math. (In fact, I heard that The Cake Boss was a mathematician teaching at Harvard before he opened his bakery.) It’s also a good way to learn about baking, and fire safety, and home economics, and domestic skills like what kind of cleansing products are safe for marble counters and which will leave pitted marks. Imagine a math teacher that is so caring, so devoted and dedicated that he wants your kid to learn all those important skills and because he doesn’t have time every single weekday for two hours in the classroom, makes sure that they can learn them on my time! What a special guy. I don’t know if you can tell what a fan I really am.

I was extra excited when Charles told me he needed colored icing: green and black. Nice! Of course when there was none to be found at the four supermarkets I ran to, getting two dings in my new car in the process, I knew we’d have to make it with food coloring, or food “dye,” as it should be called, or drop the “food” part from it entirely because I have learned (see, there you go, even I’m learning something from this project!) that it is pretty darn good at dyeing all sorts of things, dog fur, and clothing notwithstanding. But don’t worry about my new white jeans that I finally got back from the tailor in time for the big weekend, now I have something to throw in the bag of clothes for the charity pickup! Along with Charlie’s new shorts and his baseball jersey! Oh, wait, I can’t give away his baseball jersey…well, at least I’ll be able to pick him out on the field.

Well the whole thing didn’t take more than most of the day, and I’m happy to report that I was the only one who got burned taking cake out of the oven, because Charlie was distracted by an important text from the seventh grade “it” girl, and handed me a dishtowel instead of a pot holder. But really, when the “it” girl wants you to know that she really likes your new haircut, don’t worry about your mother burning the hands that used to wipe your ass, please go ahead and text her back! It’s not like I only have two hands. Oh, wait, I do only have two, it just seems like there are more.

Of course it was all worth it to spend that extra quality time with my teenage son and his friends that know lots and lots of jokes about penises, and not that much about manners and cleaning up after themselves. I didn’t mind at all that I didn’t get any “me” time, especially because I knew I had a lot of “me” time scheduled for the next day in the way of a mammogram, a pap smear and a dental appointment. I know, I know, I can be so selfish. But I ask you, will the fun never end?

Who is sick and tired of Gwyneth Paltrow? I AM!!!! Don’t get me wrong, I used to be a fan: of her acting and of course she is beautiful and oh, so sweet, and weren’t we all happy for her when she finally found true love, got married to the cool rocker and had those gorgeous little babies with the crazy names before everyone starting naming their kids after fruit and historic religious figures? I know we all wanted to hate her a LITTLE bit when she got her figure back so quickly, and seemed just so happy going to play groups without a nanny, hanging out in Central Park with Madonna, but how could we when she was just the NICEST?

It went a little bit wrong when she started to sing in the movies. The first time it seemed like a fluke. But then she did it again in that movie about the country singer, and she did it a lot. And then she was singing other songs on Sesame Street and then on the Grammys. Someplace in there she started showing up on “Glee” and singing there too. And people started talking about how she had a good voice, and hey who knew she could SING? Did she think just because she is married to a singer she could become one too? Or was she just so frustrated because he wouldn’t let her play with the mikes and tambourines and guitars and he hid the drumsticks from her, that she had to go out and find her own? I can kind of relate to that, but I also know my place. Clearly her parents didn’t ever teach her to “let someone else have a turn now,” because she keeps barreling along, being great at everything. “Hey Gwyneth,” I wanted to shout at her, “let the singers be the singers and you just get back to the acting!” If you have time, that is, as I know you are just so busy doing everything yourself to take care of your kids, which is SO remarkable you deserve a special award for that too, because MOST OF THE MOTHERS IN THE WORLD take care of their kids on their own, because that’s what being a mother means, and we all get awards for that too…NOT.

A couple of years ago she made an appearance with Mario Batali on some show and told everyone how she had been traveling around Spain with Mario, learning how to make the most perfect, special paella, and buying the most perfect paella pans to cook it in and oh, Gwyneth, how FUN for you to be traveling with Mario, you are just so fun and perfect! UGH.

I thought maybe she had given up the whole cooking thing to concentrate on her fabulous career as a singer which is so sickening because while I never wanted to be an actress, I do kind of want to be a back-up singer, well not only a back-up singer, but since my vocal skills consist only of enthusiasm and the ability to remember all the words to every song, and if it was recorded in my lifetime the year it was released, playing back-up is the most I can hope to achieve. And so as I have no real shot, it’s bothersome to me that the only reason she has a shot is because she’s already famous being an actress, and of course she has the connections of her husband. Oh and because she is so pretty. Ugh.

Anyway, I don’t know if you are aware of the fact that yours truly, D. Parker, is a damn good cook. A gourmet cook, some have even said. And I have come up the ranks studying the tomes of good cooking before there was even such a thing as The Cooking Channel and the Barefoot Contessa was thin(ner) and didn’t say “how blank is THAT” twenty times in a half hour. My meatballs are legendary, and the grand prize winner of more than one contest. In fact I defy anyone to find a better meatball than mine this side of the Atlantic, except in the best Italian restaurants in Manhattan and Chicago. So imagine my distress and disgust when I went to my mailbox the other day and pulled out my Bon Appetit magazine to find my nemesis, the beautiful and oh, so talented, Gwyneth Paltrow on the cover!!! Not only airbrushed and cooking at her perfect stove in her perect London flat where she goes when she gets tired of her perfect loft apartment in Soho, but actually promoting her new COOKBOOK!!! Kill me.

I just took a break from writing this to go and draw some snot coming out of her nose on the cover with a highlighter pen. I was going to draw a mustache, which I’m sure she doesn’t have and even if she did it would be perfectly blonde and invisible, but the only pen near the magazine happened to be a highlighter so as it was yellow, snot was the first thing that came to mind, so I did that. And then since I’m not a good artist like I am a good cook and good tambourinist, I drew an arrow and labeled it “snot” because it looked like little pebbles and even if anyone could see it, as the yellow highlighter doesn’t show up well on a glossy color photo, I didn’t want to garner any more attention and sympathy for her: “Oh look, poor Gwyneth Paltrow has pebbles coming out of her nose, and she still is so pretty!”

I am going to come right out and say it: Who the hell does she think she is?? Does she think she can become famous and renowned for every fucking (I apologize for the profanity, I am certain that Gwyneth never uses them), hobby she has just because she is already famous? Like all the idiot reality tv “stars” like the Real Housewives and the Jersey Shore morons and The Bachelor who launch clothing lines and “write” books on etiquette and spin off to different shows and sell margaritas with their name on it (which, by the way, I can make a damn good margarita with no added sugar and I am telling it’s so good because I am on my second one now). Hey you big hogs! Save something for the rest of us to get famous for! or not even famous, I just want to make a buck! Well, I wouldn’t mind being famous, but I would be content to get recognition for being good at SOMETHING. Gwyneth, do you really have to be famous for every little thing you do?? And hey, here’s another idea: why not donate the profits from your cookbook to the homeless instead of to yourself and your precious children with the stupid names?

Excuse me, I am taking a break to go draw a bonafide mustache on Gwyneth and maybe I will draw some shit coming out of her ass that looks so perfect in that Herve Legere dress that retails for $1400 and I will label it so people don’t think it’s pebbles and feel sorry for her. “Oh look at poor Gwyneth she has bowel stones and she still looks so pretty!”

Ugh.