Category: My Life in the Suburbs

So I was sitting in the pharmacy waiting for my prescription when I got the call from my car leasing agency, informing me that my lease had ended. Last week. This was a surprise, but not the good kind of surprise like when you take out your winter coat and find a twenty in the pocket, but the kind of surprise like when your teenager calls to tell you he got a detention and can you call the principal and get him out of it. While I was trying to wrap my head around how I was supposed to turn it in by the end of the day when there wasn’t even an inkling of a new car on my horizon, the pharmacist came out from behind the counter and started whispering to me about the cost of the prescription and did I have a prescription plan? I don’t, so just cut that prescription in half, I only need to take it for one day anyway, and she looks at me like I’m crazy and I know she must be noticing the enormous cold sore on my lip, but geez, that’s what I’m here for. And why does she keep whispering?

I finally got the pills and hightailed it out of there in a mad panic to test drive a car, all the while wondering how I could eke out another day or two with my old car without having to pay a penalty, which was going to be difficult considering I was looking to downsize to a completely different vehicle, and I’m way over mileage, not to mention the tons of dings and “wear and tear” and NO WONDER SHE WAS WHISPERING SHE THINKS I HAVE GENITAL HERPES!!! Ugh. Whatever.

How can I describe the next two days of haggling with car dealers? Not unlike the moment I discovered that Trader Joe’s had been LYING on the bag of their Dark Chocolate Covered Mini Pretzels, that they were not 10 calories each, but 30! If that exact moment when I felt cheated, dismayed and completely mistrusting of everything and everyone in my life, had lasted for two whole days, that pretty much describes it. Except I also had a migraine, feelings of disgust, and yes, a little pity for the dealers themselves, although Maverick says I’m being too generous: acting like they are dumber than a rock is all part of the game they play to sell cars. But it seems to me that if you can’t remember something as simple as a client wanting leather seats, so you keep offering her cars with leatherette seats, like four or five times, you’re only going to piss her off, not sell her the car. And if you say you are going to do a search of all the dealers on the east coast of the United States, and I say I am going to do the same thing if you tell me you didn’t find what I want, and then you don’t find what I want, and I find it, and then I go ahead and make the deal myself, you shouldn’t be surprised when I stop answering your incessant phone calls and messages to my cell phone which you PROMISED you would not abuse the privilege of knowing.

If you are thinking, “Wow, D. Parker, you really got yourself wound up!” you’re right. So tightly, in fact, that by the time we sat down to dinner at our favorite pizzeria (when one has no wheels, one doesn’t walk to the Foodtown) I wasn’t even relaxed after my second drink. So unrelaxed, in fact, that one might have called me combatative. Case in point, when the waitress brought our pizzas, and one looked significantly smaller than it should. Maverick politely asks the waitress, “Is this pie a medium?” to which she replies, “We don’t make medium, just small and large.” Duh, we eat here every week, we know that. So is this one a small or a large? “Well, that one’s in between.” In between? Like medium?? “Well,” I chime in, not so politely, “we ordered a large.” Waitress says, “Well, do you see how it’s a little thicker than normal? They just didn’t roll it out all the way.” WTF?? “Okay,” I counter, getting ready to unleash all of my frustration with Alex and Jeremy of the Princeton dealership who were tag-teaming, keeping me confused because they have the exact same voice and I could never tell which one I was talking to, which hardly matters since they dropped me like a brick, “you can take it back to the kitchen and tell them to roll me out a large!” I mean really, what is the world coming to when the pizza guy gets lazy rolling out the dough? Furthermore, everyone knows that a pizza not rolled out to full capacity has less cheese! Like I look forward to telling “Trader” Joe, whoever he is, whenever he responds to my emails and certified letters about the pretzels: Don’t mess with my food!

Well I did finally get a car, only having to inconvenience Maverick and Bianca for four days of chauffeuring me around, which I’m not gonna lie, felt kinda good, like I was giving them a dose of what my day to day life is like. Plus it got me out of doing lots of things I hate like food shopping and running out to Staples to buy whatever Charles forgot he needed for his big project that he forgot to mention, and going to the gym. And in case you were wondering, my herpes is almost gone, Jeremy/Alex still hasn’t called me back, the other guy is still leaving me three messages a day, and although I didn’t find a twenty in my pocket, my mother-in-law did throw a dollar in the backseat of my new car.

“Trader” Joe, I’m still gunning for you.

So I was having a pretty good day. My skin was clear, my roots hadn’t started to grow in, and I was damn close to perfecting my new summer cocktail. The planets must have also been in alignment because my kids and my husband were all happy at the same time. I know from experience that doesn’t last more than a day at best, so when it happens, I appreciate the peace. For example, Charles didn’t even flinch when he got to the lunch table and discovered that I had packed him a sandwich with no filling. Sure, he used it as a platform for his daily standup routine, and I later swore that I did it on purpose, but since he didn’t call me and I didn’t have to drag myself to school in the middle of the day, I can hardly complain.

I didn’t even let my sister, Amy, get me down when she called in a panic because her three-year-old came walking off the playground with a deer leg in her fist like Moses parting the Red Sea. Yes, a real deer leg, fur and hoof intact, likely riddled with germs, maggots, and Deer Ticks carrying Lyme Disease. The poor kid thought it was a goose leg, and I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse, not in regard to the germs and disease, or in regard to the fact that it was absolutely disgusting, but in terms of her pre-school animal identification skills. “She wants to know where the rest of it is,” Amy cried. And it struck me as odd that she wouldn’t explain to my niece that it was probably lying on the side of the road, chewed up by traffic and crows: her kids have no big love for animals, and I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t have been upset about it. Any kid who can pick up a heavy piece of carcass and tote it around the monkey bars is tough enough to learn about roadkill. But I have been accused, believe it or not, of being harsh and insensitive, so bearing that in mind I thoughtfully replied, “Just tell her there’s an angry, three-legged, deer running around town looking for his lost leg and if he doesn’t find it soon, he’s going to come looking for her!” After she hung up on me, I was feeling especially good, that my kids are too old for playgrounds, and I went back to my lair to catch up on “Celebrity Apprentice,” passing the hallway mirror on my way to bask in the glow of my pimple-free face.

I know what you’re thinking: “D. Parker, karma can be a bitch.” Of course you are correct. I’d guess things started to take a turn when Maverick emailed me a bunch of photos from a recent soiree we attended. Why on earth I had posed at least a dozen times with a woman  who happened to be ten years older than me, but looked ten years younger, is something I will ponder for many days to come. Suffice to say I will never make that mistake again. For that matter, I’m done posing for photos altogether because while I’ve been marching through my forties worried about losing my figure, counting the wrinkles on my forehead,  and debating the effectiveness of Botox over “Frownies,” I had not concerned myself for a second with the condition of my neck, despite all the warnings from Nora Ephron.  Clearly a big mistake.  Let’s just say if I ever leave the house again I will be doing so donning a turtleneck or a scarf, which might be challenging in the warmer months, but I really don’t see any other option. I immediately emailed Maverick with an order to CEASE AND DESIST sending me links to any photos that might include my countenance. To which he responded that I was being ridiculous, and what was I complaining about he had touched up all those photos anyway.   He will pay for those words, dear reader, he will pay.

I felt the changing of the tide and went by the mirror again, on my way to the bathroom, just to check that I wasn’t developing a stress-zit. Surely now it was just a matter of time. Seconds later I realized I had bigger things to worry about, when I discovered that my underpants were on backwards. Not too big a deal if I had just gotten dressed, but the truth is that I had been dressed for several hours already. All day, to be precise. Also not a big deal if you wear granny panties, upon which I cast no aspersions.  I wear a thong. “How on earth did you walk around like that all day and not realize it?” Bianca and her friends were incredulous. I had no answer.  But trust me when I tell you it was not purposeful, and no, I was not feeling “tingly” all day.  Maverick was much more sympathetic: “Don’t worry about it, you’re not officially losing your mind until you put your bra on backwards.”

He will pay for those words too.

Because I have already put my bra on backwards. Twice. It happened to be my sports bra, but I can’t lie, it did fit almost as well as it fits frontwards, and I did manage to get through an entire tennis game the first time, before my partner noticed the tag flapping on my chest.  Don’t ask me about the second time.  So, so sad.  I paused to consider what this all meant when my reverie was interrupted by a familiar tingle.  Not the good kind of tingle, but the kind that heralds a giant zit.

And the planets quietly slipped out of alignment.

So the other day I was out with my sister and she asked me to stick her baby in his car seat. I immediately realized that she must be pulling a trick on me and was waiting to hear her exclaim, “April Fool!” even though it was still March, but she didn’t. No matter how many minutes I sweated and struggled to figure out the mind-bending puzzle that I now know as the car seat buckle, I couldn’t figure it out. I don’t know about you, but the last time I buckled something it consisted of two parts, not four. Back in the day when I’d put my own kids in their car seats, my biggest challenge was trying to get them in without buckling a piece of their inner thigh and before they kicked me square in the face or ripped a handful of hair out of my head or both.

But in addition to the buckle that should come with a label reading “minimum SAT score of 700 in mathematical reasoning required,” my nephew presents additional challenges as he’s a gargantuan baby and his parents insist on keeping him extra safe by making the straps so tight that I worry his little baby balls might crawl back up into his abdomen. Anyway I knew I had met my match: I’m not ashamed to say I bombed the math section of the SAT (well, not just the math) and I don’t want to be blamed for crushing anyone’s nuts, so I threw up my hands and told my sister to do it herself.

My kids have been out of car seats for quite some time, and even though Bianca didn’t meet the weight requirements to sit in a regular seat until midway through junior high, nothing screams NERD quite as loudly as jumping out of your booster seat in front of the mean girls and cute guys at drop off. Lucky for her I’m not so big on obeying the law.

So it’s a good thing that my kids are past the car-seat stage, what with my poor buckling skills, my resistance to obeying laws, and now this: the recent “government recommendation” that babies remain in rear-facing car seats until the age of two.  I would have had a real problem if that had been “recommended” back in the day because despite the fact that Bianca was tiny and light as a feather, she did, and still does, have a pair of functioning legs, as do Miles and Charles. For those less fortunate kids who don’t have legs below the knees, or the precocious tots who have already perfected the half lotus yoga position (that’s the one we used to call “uncomfortable Indian style” before it was considered politically incorrect), it might be feasible to keep them seated that way, but what about the rest?  Will mothers have to teach their babies to tuck their knees up their noses?  While they’re at it, why doesn’t the government recommend that everyone sit facing the rear, and manufacture cars to accommodate?  If it’s good enough for baby, it’s good enough for all, right?  In the meantime, I’m considering driving everywhere in reverse, just to be extra safe.  The only real problem I foresee could be at toll booths, as things are always a little chaotic there even when you are driving forwards, because there are still too many people that don’t have an EZPass, which irritates me even more than Kathie Lee Gifford does.

While I’m on the topic of government recommendations, have you noticed how really useful they are? Like the new nutritional guidelines, for instance. After revamping the ever helpful Food Pyramid, which states that we should eat about a thousand portions of fruit and veggies each day, the FDA is now suggesting that we all just “eat less.” HA! And how about all the fussing over mammograms? With a new “study” coming out every other week, keeping track of how often we should or shouldn’t be getting a mammo has become as time consuming as a part-time job, and one needs an advanced degree in statistics to keep it all straight. All this for the pleasure of having my A-cup flattened to the size of a large dinner plate.  I’m convinced that marine biologists are the only ones who really know what kinds of fish the government recommends we should and shouldn’t eat, unless maybe you are a fisherman and have some knowledge of what fishes are bottom feeders and what a bottom feeder does because that just doesn’t sound appetizing at all. And god help you if you are pregnant, you’d better be a marine biologist married to  a farmer so you can figure out what kind of cheeses the FDA says are dangerous to consume, whether that imported Brie is pasteurized enough and if a semi-soft Manchego is going to cause your baby to be born with midget legs.

Which could actually work out well for the car seat.

I’d like to start with an apology to my one faithful reader, you know who you are! for my tardy post this week. I spent a lot of time this morning trying to come up with a good excuse, and was even going to make up something really good, but I didn’t know if you would believe that I took too much Ambien and slept for the last several days, or that I was suddenly struck with short-term-memory amnesia as the result of a migraine and kept writing the same sentence over and over again, or that I won the Mega Millions and jetted off to an African Safari and I don’t have wifi on my laptop so I didn’t get to tell you, or that a producer from the Bravo Network read my blogs and decided to make a reality show about me, or that I gouged out my own eyes with a grapefruit spoon so as not to have to see another clip in the saga called Charlie Sheen. But the god’s honest truth is that I’ve been relaxing. Which, it turns out, is an activity that I highly recommend.

It all started on Friday when we finally got news that Bianca was accepted into college. Much revelry and celebration ensued and continued throughout the weekend, while Mav and I refused to consider the painful reality of two college tuitions. At least for now. A feat which, you might imagine, takes significant amounts of alcohol. But we must have had enough because I was feeling so stress-free, that I started to realize how stressed-out I had been….waiting, waiting for the mailman, saying little prayers as I opened the mailbox, having a little heart attack each time I got a text from Bianca, trying desperately to hack into her email so I could circumvent possible bad news from her number one school. But by Monday morning, I was so unstressed I decided to really relax, and skip my 5am workout. And since Bianca has been pretty stressed out too, I decided she should also relax and skip school. Hell, if I hadn’t spent the last ten days stuck home nursing Charles and his swine flu germs, I might have let him skip school again too, but considering he started driving me crazy the minute his 104 fever dropped below 102, I thought it was time for him to re-enter the world outside. So off he went barely getting into the school building on time, the only thing lighting a fire under his butt the possibility that I would have to sign him in, me decked out in my dogs-wearing-reindeer-antlers flannel pajamas and my bedroom glasses. (I’m not exactly sure what “bedroom glasses” are, but in this case I am referring to a pair that are 20 years old, John Lennon style, and only correct my vision about 60%.)

Once back at home, Bianca and I decided that we would go out to breakfast, because we were too relaxed to clean up the mess from the celebration the night before, and too relaxed to cook anything. In fact we were also too relaxed to take showers and really get dressed, so I substituted my flannels for a pair of sweat pants, a kerchief and a dark pair of sunglasses even though it was raining, lest I be recognized, and we headed out.

It only took a minute to realize that I was almost completely out of gas, practically riding on fumes, so we took a detour to the Mobil station, which was good because I remembered that I hadn’t won the lottery last week and with the two college tuitions on my plate it would be a good idea to buy a couple of tickets. Thank goodness we live in a full-service-gas-station state, so the whole process was quick, but long enough for me to notice that there was a new hire at the Mobil. Let’s face it, the staff at a gas station is always pretty interesting. In my experience either extremely ethnic to the point of speaking limited English, or extremely stupid to the point of speaking limited English or finally, my favorite, the guy with the extremely large tongue that contributes to him speaking limited English. But the new hire I noticed on Monday was of a completely different variety. The Munchkin variety, to be exact. And I am not referring to the greasy, yet delicious doughy treats from Dunkin’ Donuts, if you know what I mean.

He looked remarkably like a real, live, leprechaun, believe it or not, so much so that I thought perhaps we were still celebrating St. Patrick’s Day. And I started to realize that every midget, er, “little person,” I have ever come across either has the leprechaun look or the mini-businessman-with-a-big-head look, and collectively all look alike. The women are a little harder to group into categories like that, thank goodness, or I would start to think I was an anti-midgite, which I absolutely am NOT. But honest to god, these guys all have a very similar look to the actors that played the Oompah Loompas in the remake of “Willie Wonka” who looked like decendants of the Oompah Loompas in the original “Willie Wonka” who looked like descendants of the Lollypop Kids in “The Wizard of Oz.” But I guess this is what happens when one starts to relax, you start pondering inane topics like midgets and their lineage. You’re probably saying to yourself, “D. Parker, you must be relaxing all the time because you are always pondering inane topics,” and there might be some truth to that, so I suppose we should all be grateful that I don’t spend as much time relaxing as I’d like.

Case in point: the minute Bianca and I placed our order at our favorite breakfast joint, I got an emergency text on my cell phone from the PTA President. Why such a person was granted the privilege to emergency text me is a whole other story I will save for a later discussion, nonetheless her text was clearly of significance and reeked with the ire of a woman scorned: “WHERE R THE CUPCAKES?” And I said, to quote the famous Ralphie of “The Christmas Story” fame, “Ohhhh, fuuuuudge!” Only I didn’t say fudge.

In my relaxed state I had forgotten about the cupcake sale I had volunteered to run that day. Not only had I forgotten to bake a batch myself, I had forgotten to remind the recruits to bake as well. I knew I was in deep shit and as this woman is scary as the Devil himself, I knew the only thing to do was to pretend all the bakers had dropped off twenty dozen cupcakes at my house and I would be delivering them to the school that afternoon, “in plenty of time for the sale! Not to worry!!” Bianca and I swiftly inhaled our breakfast, ran across to the Foodtown and bought ten boxes of cupcake mix and ten cartons of icing and went home to bake.

I am sure I’ll have another opportunity to relax in five years when Charles gets into college.

Well it’s finally happening: winter is ending, and almost like someone flipped a switch, the sun is shining, and I’ve officially come out of hibernation. The Spring Party Season has begun, and with a vengeance, as I can personally attest to. The first one was a doozy, it was Mardi Gras after all, and while I had my share of cocktails, I’m pretty sure I didn’t imagine the tall, masked-man in a Marie Antoinette wig and a cape, or the blow-up doll that someone mistook for Charles. It was kind of like an “Eyes Wide Shut” moment without the sex. But hey, if this means SPRING, I say bring it on!!

There’s a bunch of things that I will not miss with the changing of the season, and I don’t think anyone would disagree when I say I have seen enough snow to last me the rest of my life. I’m starting to understand why old people go to Florida in the winter, but I don’t think I am ever going to because it snowed down there a couple of times too. I’m tired of astronomical heating bills and my feet being cold and my flannel pajamas and my slow cooker with all those one-pot comfort foods that I might as well just slap on my hips because that’s where they are headed anyway. I am sick of having to clean the dog’s feet when she comes inside, and when I’m lazy and don’t do it, worrying that she’s going to have a stroke when she cleans them herself because what is so tasty about dog toes unless they are covered in ice melt? I’m sick of my kids being home for “snow days” making a mess in my kitchen baking cookies and making hot chocolate and charging me too much to shovel my sidewalk and doing a lousy job at that. I’m sick of pumping my own gas in freezing rain when the thingy on the pump is broken and I have to squeeze it the whole time, and I don’t have gloves on, and I have to pee and the numbers on the pump are turning S L O W L Y I’m not even kidding, like it must be broken, but I need the gas and I have to pee and when I finally settle for $5 worth which takes like 10 minutes but feels like an hour, and I splash through the slush and rain getting soaked up to my ankles to find the rest room and the stupid manager points to a line of PORT-A-JOHNS and I have no choice at this point, and trust me the only upside is that when all that waste is frozen it doesn’t smell as bad. If it were spring or summer I would have just pulled over and gone in the woods, snakes or no snakes! But I digress.

I yearn for refreshing mojitos and margaritas and icy martinis. Cooking on the grill because Maverick always does it and I don’t have to mess up my stove. I want to buy ice cream sandwiches and fudgesicles because I have a rule about not keeping them in the house in the winter because it’s cold. I want to sit outside and watch my dog bark at a piece of garbage that blew onto my lawn, instead of from my kitchen window. I want to worry that my neighbor is going to call the cops on me because I’ve got the music playing on the outside speakers so loud, and that I’m going to burn my house down because I’ve got such a big fire burning in our fire ring and complain that it makes my hair smell like camping. I want to leave the house without a coat, I want to put on a pair of flip flops instead of slipper socks and show off the sick blue nail polish I’ve got on my toes. I want to wear cotton sweaters and white jeans because even though the fashion gurus say it’s okay these days to wear white year round, I still don’t until Memorial Day unless I’m in the southern hemisphere or the mercury reaches 80 degrees fahrenheit. I want to buy suntan lotion instead of cold medicine when I go to the drug store, and when the school nurse calls I want it to be because Charles is having an allergy attack from being outside for recess, not because he has a 104 fever that was only 101 when I sent him to school anyway. I want to get my legs waxed on a regular basis because it might be warm enough for shorts, and try to lose that same five pounds I tried to lose last year because it’s almost bathing suit season, and then just buy myself a new coverup instead.

Sunday is the first day of spring, and by then we will have already partied for St. Patrick’s Day, and adjusted to Daylight Savings Time, which I’m still struggling with at this exact moment. Hopefully the sun will be shining, the grass will be greener, and I’ll start noticing buds on the trees, as long as I have my glasses on….And if it’s not, I’m going to make myself an ice cold margarita on the rocks with salt, tell Maverick to throw a steak on the grill, kick of my socks and enjoy my pedicure. Here’s hoping you’ll be joining me.

Happy Spring.

I’m getting tired of people who think they are so much better than the rest of us. Like Charlie Sheen. Clearly the guy is insane, but he is a celebrity, and I suppose celebrities by definition are usually better than us. But what’s more annoying are those people living in our very own, non-celebrity communities, who walk around with a celebrity attitude, acting all entitled and special and looking down their noses at everyone else. Maybe you know someone like this? The reasons for their high falutin’ attitude are varied and can range from thinking they are better than you because they were born and raised in the town you only moved into, or because they just moved into your town and came from someplace better. Maybe they have a fancy job, or maybe they have no job even though they need the money, because they are oh-so-important around the house. Maybe they are better than you because they have big boobs, or fewer wrinkles, or no stretch marks (yeah, right!). Or maybe they are just better than you because they are the complete opposite of whatever you are. Or maybe they are exactly the same as you are but just better! Or maybe they are just assholes.

I happen to know quite a few people like this, but the one in particular that really gets my goat thinks she is better than me because she is an ordained minister. Normally I would have reverence for an ordained minister, although the way I carry on you are likely to be skeptical. My respect and reverence does not come from a place of religion or spirituality, but from the same place that I feel respect for any decent fellow human being, and reverence for anyone who is engaged in a career that he/she has dedicated themselves to, and has worked hard to achieve. Therefore, as much as I think Charlie Sheen is an idiot, I do have respect for the fact that he built a career for himself and he seems to occasionally work hard. Or at least he used to. And Wade Boggs, who happened to be a great baseball player back in the day, and even though he is a waste of life now, and can’t tambourine or even sing “Mac the Knife” as well as I, as he proved recently during our intimate karaoke encounter, I have to respect that he was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame the very next day, especially considering his hangover must have been the size of Texas, since mine was the size of Montana.

But this chick didn’t go to Seminary School or Rabbinical School or hole herself up with monks or nuns or take a vow of silence or chastity or deprive herself of anything for any amount of time, as is evident by the size of her ass. She simply made up a church and declared herself the minister. I’m telling you this made up church doesn’t even have a website, much less a building, and if you wanted to go to it you would probably just have to show up in her kitchen. I know, I know, you’re saying, “But D. Parker, God is everywhere, even in this chick’s kitchen.” Okay, I get it. But the thing is that this chick is just a bitch hiding behind a made-up church with a made-up title. She is crafty and mean, dare I say evil, and I will even admit, a little scary. I’m pretty sure she could take me down in a dark alley with no problem, but if I saw her coming I would have adrenaline and speed on my side, not to mention my half a brain. She doesn’t act loving and kind, like a real minister should, nor is she forgiving or gracious. She does, however, demand that everyone call her “Pastor,” and she thinks she is worthy of a special parking spot and a discount at the snack bar. I heard that she recently promoted herself to a Prophet, as she claims to have direct conversations with God. I know of a lot of people who hear voices but we call them Crazy, not Reverend, and as long as they stay on their meds, everybody will be okay.

Just to prove that I am just as good as she is, I decided to get ordained as well. After all, I’ve mentioned that I haven’t been getting a hell of a lot of respect around the house, and even though Maverick and my kids are not God-fearing people, I figured it might be worth a shot. Sure enough I found a plethora of churches online that would be willing to ordain me for a nominal fee. The Universal Life Church offers a “clergy pack” and claims that if ordained, I too, could have a recession-proof career, and be “provided preferred treatment, even price discounts, as a show of respect towards legally ordained religious leaders,” and all for only $32.99! The Rose Ministry Church really has it figured out: their “Ultimate Minister’s Package” comes complete with a wallet ID card and a clip-on clergy badge!! You heard me right, a clip-on clergy badge! as well as ready-to-use wedding and baptism certificates, at the low price of $189.95 per year! Friends, I kid you not.

But these churches just didn’t seem right for D. Parker, as much as I would kill for a clip-on clergy badge. With a little more research I discovered the mysterious, but New Order of Knights Templar and Daughters of Tsion. In addition to the run-of-the-mill claims the other churches are making, this one offers seminars on “majic” which I’m pretty sure is the same thing as “magic” but I suspect the different spelling means they have something to do with Satan. Anyway the best part about this “majic,” the Knights and Daughters claim, is that “working majic together can sometimes lead to romance.” Wow. Maybe I should see if I can sign up Mav and me for a majic class. But the Knights don’t offer on-line ordination, which makes me worry that it might be more of a Scientology type of cult, and I’m not up for anything that far off the charts. I haven’t been really involved in my actual religion of Roman Catholicism of late, nonetheless I’m not about to throw what little faith I have completely in the toilet.

I was just about to give up when lo and behold I came across the perfect church. The Church of the Latter Day Dude. Dudeism. The self-proclaimed, “slowest-growing religion in the world,” preaches non-preachiness and practices as little as possible. Their “take it easy, man,” approach appealed to me immediately, as did the free, on-line ordination. I became ordained quicker than you can say “make me a celebratory cocktail,” and as soon as I get my official “letter of good standing,” which was only $5, I can legally proceed with performing marriages and baptisms. But rest assured, my flock, that I am the same D. Parker I have always been, and I am quite confident when I proclaim that I am not better than you, just equally fantastic! And at this point, we are all better than Charlie Sheen.

This entry is dedicated to The Captain.

I knew yesterday was going to be a challenge because I woke up with this throbbing feeling on my face. A glance in the mirror revealed a humongous thing that was either a pimple or an alien, considering it was the size of a large grape, that had erupted on my lower jaw, completely distorting the proportions of my face which isn’t looking too good to begin with. I imagined the newspaper headlines: “Woman Gives Birth to Tiny Baby Through Her Face.” “Woman’s Face Explodes in Cereal Aisle, Creating Rainstorm of Lucky Charms.” “Woman’s Twin Finally Born…45 Years Late.” At any rate, it was obvious that we were going to be spending quite a bit of time together, so I named it Louise and went downstairs to make coffee. Only to find Maverick standing, shell-shocked, in front of the coffee machine with what looked like a little tear in his eye. The coffee machine was dead. Cue the violins. He left for work confidently aware that he could get a good cup at the office, where I, on the other hand, knew full well that it would take me hours to camouflage Louise well enough to show my face in Starbucks.

I started to consider why I go through the trouble of trying to hide a blemish. Even when I do a decent job of covering it up, I’m always self conscious and usually end up pointing it out to people anyway. Like that time I was meeting Miles’ girlfriend for the first time and I was carrying around an enormous herpes on my lip, like a big ol’ purse. Of course I was pretty wacked out to begin with: we had been driving for two days on our annual trek to the Sunshine State, I had melted chocolate on the lap of my pants, and the seat of my pants were wet from sitting on the dog’s water bottle. I hadn’t showered in over 24 hours, nor had I had a drop of alcohol, which was clearly what I needed. I was worried about the dog because she wouldn’t relieve herself at the rest stops, and she had just stepped into a hill of fire ants during our last attempt. Plus, I was just at that point of exhaustion where I think everything is funny. Hysterical. Really. So I jump out of the car to meet this poor girl and I can’t think of anything to say because I really want to ask her if she caught the episode of Real Housewives of Orange County last night, since we missed it, but I know she’s a real smarty pants and I want her to think I’m a smarty pants too, so I’m tongue tied. The only thing I can come up with is the story about why Maverick is wearing a pair of ladies sunglasses, but he starts shooting me dirty looks, so I drop it to point out how filthy my clothes are and how I wasn’t having a good hair day and before I know it I am introducing her to my herpes. Literally. I’m sure her head was spinning because I was on a real roll, and she was kind enough to say she didn’t even notice Ron (my herpes), when I feel a little tingle, and wouldn’t you know it, Ron starts to bleed. “Well, surely you notice him now!” I exclaim, nervously laughing, begging passers-by for a tissue because we had used up all of ours trying to dry off my pants after the water accident. Now she and Miles are looking at me with their mouths hanging open, so I decide to stop talking about myself and segue into a commentary on the people who we dined next to the night before at the Cracker Barrel, and how the father had an enormous mole on his face, that was even bigger than Ron, truthfully, even bigger than Louise, and we couldn’t stop staring at it. Bianca swears she saw it move on it’s own, and I think she even had a little nightmare about it. Anyway, as they finally dragged me back to the car, I heard someone mention something about about a straight-jacket and medication, but I couldn’t really hear them, I was still hysterically laughing, and immediately launched into crying because I had to say goodbye to Miles. So you see that D. Parker in public with any kind of blemish is just a recipe for disaster.

But so is starting my day without a cup of java, and thank goodness for the Dunkin’ Donuts drive-through. I wasted not a second, jumped in the car in my bathrobe and socks, hoping Charles would get out of bed on time and not be late for school, which would require me to sign him in, and again, LOUISE….Of course there’s a line of a thousand cars at the D&D, so realizing I wouldn’t be back home in time to make Charles breakfast, I decide to add two donuts to my order, as I start calling his cell phone continuously to get him out of bed. He doesn’t answer, and I decide to add two more donuts, for his lunch. I finally get up to the speaker, and order “four chocolate Manager’s Specials and an extra large coffee, cream, no sugar.” Woo hoo!! Everything will be better, when that first hit of caffeine enters my blood stream! I pull up to the window, relieved that Louise is on the OTHER side of my face, so I won’t frighten anyone, and hand the garbage from my cupholders to Dunkin’ Donuts Sales Executive Juan. Maverick says this is not acceptable behavior, but they never refuse me, so how does he know? Anyway, Juan hands me a bag. Where’s my coffee? They are brewing a fresh pot, and would I mind pulling ahead and they will bring it to me in a minute?? YES, I would absolutely mind, don’t they have some old coffee they can pop into the microwave? No ma’am, but please pull ahead so they can help the next customer in line. UGH! So I pull ahead, and as I’m wondering if Charles is lithe and limber enough to climb through his classroom window to avoid the sign in, Juan sneaks up to my passenger window with my coffee!

For a brief second I consider burning rubber to get away from him, but I really need that coffee. As I roll down the window I witness the widening of his eyes, and the dropping of his jaw… and a strange sensation comes over me as I hear a familiar voice saying, “Hello, Juan. This is Louise.”

Did you ever notice that some people are just TOO happy all the time? I mean, I consider myself to be a happy person, no real complaints. That being said, I’m complaining constantly. About everything. Like today, when I braved the supermarket with a low-grade fever because we were down to the bare minimum and even though Maverick and I ate out all weekend, and Bianca always manages to fend for herself, Charles was about to morph into Jose Ole and I was literally frightened when he told me I was out of “Pam” and he was having trouble getting his quesadillas off the baking sheet and he really prefers to make them in the oven as opposed to the microwave. So I drag myself out of bed, trying to make excuses in my head for why my lousy kids don’t ever come along to help me, since they always have something to say about what I did or did not purchase, and meander through the Foodtown in a fog because I left my shopping list on the counter at home. I text the kids to text it to me when they get out of bed, but I get no response, so I have to recreate the list in my mind, knowing full well that I’m forgetting whatever were the three most important things. For safe measure I double back and grab some canned soup (in case what I’ve shopped for doesn’t amount to even a single dinner), toilet paper (on the strong possibility that someone is using the last role at this very minute) and tampons (because when your in your mid-forties, you never know). Then I thoughtfully choose the check out line that does not have the very sweet and friendly challenged man doing the bagging. Not because I’m mean to emotionally challenged people, the way you think I’m mean to midgets, but because I am a control freak about bagging. I have a system that works for me. I like my bags organized by the final destination of their contents: pantry, freezer, cabinet, laundry closet, fruit drawer, veggie bin, etc., etc. I also am trying to be “green,” and even though I never remember the reusable shopping bags that are on the floor of my car, I try to make up for it by loading up the plastic bags nice and full and heavy. I am pretty strong, and it’s fewer trips back and forth to the car. Anyway, this man, Mark, means well I’m sure, but it makes me crazy that he only puts two or three things in a bag, completely randomly…like a carton of eggs with a big can of tomatoes. I’m usually pretty good at avoiding his line, but last month he must have had on some new, quiet shoes made for detectives because one minute he was two registers down, and the next second he was right next to me. UGH. I knew that I had only ten minutes once I got back home to put everything away, so I needed my system. So I said in the nicest way possible, “Oh, that’s okay, I don’t mind bagging my own stuff!” And man, oh, man, I guess it wasn’t nice enough because he turned on the heels of his detective shoes and stormed off, and I’m not positive but I think he may have directed an obscenity or two at me. I felt pretty awful, but I was pretty glad that I got rid of him too.

But back to today. So I find the line that doesn’t have Mark and I load up my stuff pretty quickly because the woman ahead of me doesn’t have too much. And just as she finishes counting out her singles and her change and her coupons and double checks that she got double points, and then decides that she does want to run back and grab that crumb cake that was on special, would I mind?, she drops her roasted chicken. And the greasy juices pour out all over the floor. And she picks it up and starts to head out. WTF?? I’m watching to see if she is actually going to just walk away from the mess she just made, that is about to put my life in jeopardy because I’m not that sure-footed or coordinated, and if I land my foot on even a drop of that chicken grease I’m going down like a bag of dirt. Which might not be all bad, considering I would sue the crap out of the Foodtown and maybe all my financial problems would be solved. I’m actually considering the possibility of this for a couple of seconds, but then remember that I’ve got what is sure to be a winning Power Ball ticket in my purse, so I stare her down before I point out the mess she made to the check-out girl. The customer then decides that she is owed a new chicken, and someone runs to get that, and the poor check-out girl is wiping up the mess with paper towels. And the customer is just standing there watching her, like she had nothing to do with it all! Amazing. Her new chicken arrives and she’s off, despite the fact that lowly-check-out-lady is still wiping the grease with crappy paper towels and the announcement for “a clean up at register six, stat” is being ignored. I’m told to “stand back” until it’s cleaned up, and now I’m starting to realize that this is akin to the BP oil spill because all the cashiers are abuzz, uttering phrases like “OSHA regulations” and “chemical cleansers” and “cat litter” and “these paper towels suck.” I’ll tell you what sucks. My luck.

So if you asked, “Hey D. Parker, how was your morning?” I’d tell you this story and then I’d answer, “My morning sucked.” I wouldn’t tell you this story and then say, “But my morning was fantastic! Really!” And this is my point, believe it or not, that I’m starting to notice that there is a large number of folks who act too damn happy, and everything in their world is just the best, no matter what. Their kids are great, they’re just so in love with their husband, they had just the most fantastic time last night, their entree was the best thing to ever come out of a kitchen, they just are in love with their new colorist and their trainer and their car and their job, and their dog never chews anything or shits in the wrong part of the yard and they love love love that new book that you hated. I’ll tell you what: these people are all a bunch of cross-eyed liars. And here’s some advice for all you liars out there: when someone asks you how you are, or how your kids are or how you like your fancy new whatever, they don’t really want to know. They are just being polite, and the proper response is “Good, thanks, how are you?” Unless you have something stupid to complain about.

Hey, Happy Valentines Day. I mean if you are into that sort of thing. It’s not my favorite holiday but I have curtailed my usual disdain of heart-shaped stuff for the occasion, on the off chance that Maverick might buy me a heart-shaped box of dark-chocolate-covered something. But as long as he doesn’t buy me the “hot new fashion sensation,” a pair of Pajama Jeans, I’ll be content. Have you seen the commercial for these things? No, I’m not kidding, and I have to admit I wish I had made it up myself, it’s just too priceless: the elastic waist, the “mock fly,” the “stylish boot cut,” the “smooth butt lifting design!”  Jeans “so comfortable you’ll want to sleep in them.”   Why?  “Regular jeans can leave marks on your skin.”  Oh.  “Wear them while working out!”  Seriously??  “Great with sandals or sneakers, or roll them up to a cute cuff!”  How did we ever live without them?  All we need now is a Snuggie Tuxedo.

Anyway, Mav and I already had our Valentine’s Day Date on Saturday night, at one of our favorite restaurants in the city.  Funny though, that we both looked at each other with disappointment as we headed out, the anticipation of having to spend the entire evening alone together somehow not being what either of us wanted.  Why hadn’t we invited friends? What the hell were we going to talk about all night? Luckily we were able to make many new friends while waiting at the bar (although I really would have loved to make the acquaintance of the dude who came in wearing a bright-pink, sequined jacket thing-y), and we managed to drag some of them  around with us for the rest of the night, forcing them to listen to me sing at my favorite piano bar (if only I had remembered my tambourine), and drink martinis instead of chardonnay.  Of course they all found me utterly charming, which I am!  If my new friends from Sweden are reading, I hope you managed to dump that obnoxious guy with the giant head who only wanted to sing Irish ballads.  BOR-ING!!  To the nice guy in the tux, I hope your girlfriend wasn’t too pissed off that you left her at that wedding to hang out with us.  And to that Indian guy who loved my hair, I hope you aren’t still hanging around with that bitch who was bossing you around like she was your girlfriend, your wife or your mother but wasn’t any of the above. She’s not better than you just because she’s not Indian. But I digress.

Today is a special day and to show my family how much I love them, I’m preparing one of their favorite meals for dinner.  I’ve already handed out gifts this morning, (including homemade chocolate candies that I made with my own two hands from scratch and made a complete mess of my stovetop and counters when I was tempering the chocolate, and don’t even remind me that I ruined my new sweater in the process), as they all headed out the door to work and school, and as I didn’t get anything in return, not even a kiss, I’m not expecting anything later on.  All I will ask is that they not bring their new iphones to the dinner table, as has become their habit over the last week.  Sure I’m a little jealous, but is it really necessary to “face time” each other when we are all in the same room?  And must there be yet another conversation about which is the best and most protective cover?  and how the one I picked out for them sucks? When Charles took a stupid picture of me and then used that app to make me look all deformed like my reflection in a fun-house mirror, it was kind of funny.  Less funny when he sent it to all his friends.  It was completely unnecessary for Maverick to send it to his friends.  If you are going to take my photo with your phone it’s only fair that you wait until I am having a good hair day, when I’m wearing makeup, and after I’ve had at least one glass of wine (my smile is much more natural looking then). Please don’t take my bad side, and try to focus on my face, but not too close. See, I am willing to cooperate completely, and I might even let you take more than one. Let’s be honest, I can get you all back by buying myself a pair of Pajama Jeans and showing up at your office, your lunch table or the Junior High dance. You know I would do it.

Don’t tempt me.

Well my tiara is polished, my favorite gown is steamed, and I am ready for the Academy Awards. Not that I’ve been nominated, or even invited, but you never know, a girl has to be ready. If my 98-year-old grandmother can score an invitation (like she did three years ago) not only to the Awards, but to the Vanity Fair after-party, I have to hold out hope that it can happen for me. I can promise you that I will not be so worn out from the flight that I will sleep through the entire experience, as she did. Anyway, I’ve spent the better part of the last month seeing all the nominated movies so I know what I’m talking about when I bash a performance or cry out at the injustice of it all when the wrong movie wins, whether I’m sitting in the Kodak Theatre in Hollywood, or in front of my own television. Meanwhile, in the coming days and weeks all the movie critics will be chiming in with their predictions for this year’s Oscars, so in the friendly spirit of competition, I would like to offer my own predictions and comments for some special categories that may not be mentioned in the broadcast.

Let’s start with the obvious, “Best Looking Guy in a Leading Role.” You might be surprised that I am not going with my true love, Leonardo DeCaprio, whose stunning good looks and winning personality I can honestly vouch for because I have actually had a conversation with him in person (don’t be jealous…well, okay, actually you should be) and let me tell you the man is BEAUTIFUL, but honest to god his movie “Inception” was painful to watch; and I admit that Ryan Gosling is extremely cute in “Blue Valentine,” but my award goes to James Franco in “127 Hours.” My friend Rusty put it best when she said, “I love his teeth,” and I haven’t seen anyone else look quite so good while chopping off a part of their body.

Next we move on to, “Best Body for a Woman in a Leading or Supporting Role.” Clearly the only competition here is between Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis in “Black Swan.” And as I don’t know too much about Mila, I’m going with Natalie because she had to lose 20 pounds for the role, and now she’s pregnant and that body is gone FOREVER.

While we are on the topic of “Black Swan” we might as well jump ahead to my next category, “Best Lesbian Scene” and the winner here is clearly Mila and Natalie, although Natalie gave Mila a run for her money in the masturbation scene. Hats off to Mila for not being shy with the rug munching. I just hope the girls were using their dental dams. You might be thinking, “D. Parker, why not give this one to Annette Benning and Julianne Moore in “The Kids Are Alright?” Sure, a movie about lesbians should warrant the prize for “Best Lesbian Scene,” but I’m still bothered by the fact that the ladies were getting it on while they were watching man-on-man porn, and no matter how many real-life lesbians I ask to explain that to me, none of them can.

While we are on the topic of porn, let’s move along to my next category, “Movie Most Likely to Almost Be Porn.” Here I’d like to just offer a comment on the sex that is in the movies lately: not much is left to the imagination, and the rated R of today must be the NR of yesterday. Ryan Gosling and Michele Williams have great on-screen chemistry in my opinion, and man, the sex scenes were pretty graphic. Plus, I heard they had to edit out quite a bit to get that R rating. I can only imagine. Yikes. Oscar goes to “Blue Valentine.”

My next category is new for this year, “Best Part of the Body to Be Amputated in a Feature Film.” Obviously the Forearm gets the Oscar for this, as it’s lost to a snakebite on a 14-year-old girl in “True Grit” and to a boulder in “127 Hours.” A shout-out to the Coen brothers for not making us watch the amputation, Danny Boyle gave us quite the eyeful, thank you very much.

In the interest of equal time I feel it’s only fair to recognize the movie with the most physically unattractive characters, since I’ve awarded the movies with the most attractive characters. So my Oscar for the “Movie with the Ugliest Actors” goes to “The Fighter.” Certainly not in reference to Mark Wahlberg, Christian Bale or Amy Adams, although I give Amy a lot of credit for looking so “natural” and Christian for looking like a real dirt bag. My Oscar goes to the pack of homely ladies who played the sisters. Come on!! They were the ugliest bunch I haven’t seen since I graduated high school! And I’m not giving all the credit to the wardrobe department or the hair and makeup people, stellar jobs they all did, no doubt: the giant pouf hair with bad roots, the mom jeans….brilliant, really brilliant. But those were some homely ladies and I’m pretty sure one of them was a flat out midget, unless she also had her forearms amputated. I don’t know if Marky Mark intended for those sisters to be laugh-out-loud funny, but I thought they were and god bless them if they are actual actors, I can’t imagine them ever getting signed for another serious job. What will be very interesting is seeing them all on the Red Carpet and what kind of job their stylists and makeup artists can put out for that occasion. Maybe I’ll eat my words. I hope so, for their sake. Poor things.

And now my last Oscar for “Worst Movie That I Wanted to Love” goes to Golden Globe nominee, “The Tourist.” So so sad. Johnny, Angelina, Venice, Paris….how could it all go so horribly wrong?? Oh, but it do. First of all, Johnny looks all puffy like he’s retaining water. Second of all, they have about as much chemistry together as two pieces of dead wood. And lastly the stupid scenes are put together so poorly that the viewer finds herself hung up on things like, “Why is Angelina still wearing the same sweater she had on the day before?” “Why is it suddenly daytime?” “Why do the backdrops look so fake?” and “Why did I waste $8.50 on this piece of crap movie?”

If you haven’t seen anything good since “The Social Network,” you still have time. And if you can get to a matinee before noon on a weekday, it’s like only six bucks. Get out there and see some movies, and I’ll see you all on the Red Carpet.