Category: My Life in the Suburbs

You know I’m starting to notice that I’m not getting a hell of alot of respect around the house. Not even a hell of a little. It dawned on me last night when I found myself sitting alone at the dinner table, still eating the delicious meal I had painstakingly prepared…a family favorite, mind you…and nevermind that I did so with a raging sinus infection, but such is my devotion. There is a mathematical equation that can be used to determine how many minutes my family will sit together at the dinner table and eat. The amount of time it takes me to prepare the meal divided by the time it takes me to clean up,
equals the amount of minutes they sit and eat. So like last night, we were seated for all of ten minutes. I had just sat down to eat my first serving, after refilling the serving platter and my wine glass, when the mass exodus began. Even though I felt snubbed, I decided to enjoy the solitude and thank goodness for my dog, who sat by my side so I wouldn’t be lonely. I suppose it’s more likely that she was hoping to get a piece of my meatball, but I’ll go with the “man’s best friend” theory here.

You’re probably thinking, “D. Parker, you are being too sensitive!” And if being left alone at the table were the only incident, I’d say you were right. But there’s more.

Maverick just admitted that he doesn’t listen to me. I know you are not surprised, lots of husbands don’t listen to their wives, right? But what’s different about Maverick is that he has perfected this thing where he can respond as if he is paying close attention. So he tricks me into thinking he is listening, and then later accuses me of not telling him something important. Imagine a conversation something like this:

D. Parker: I forgot to tell you that I am having a liver transplant on Wednesday.

Mav: Wow, I am really sorry, that really sucks. Is there anything I can do?

D. Parker: Well, I could use a ride to the hospital.

Mav: Oh sure, I can give you a ride to the hospital.

Wednesday arrives, I end up calling a cab because Mav is on the ice playing hockey and isn’t answering his phone. When I get out of surgery there is a message on my phone.

Mav: D. Parker, where the hell are you? Charles is trying to reach you because he forgot his lunch.

I call him back.

D. Parker: I can’t bring the lunch to school I am in the hospital recovering from a liver transplant.

Mav: Why didn’t you tell me, I could have given you a ride.  So, I was right about you drinking too much.

Sure this is an exaggeration, and in the real conversation we were having before he admitted his lying ways, I was telling him about the one hundred-year-old lady twins that have dressed alike their entire lives and for their birthday party they had on the cutest little old-lady outfits and how witty they were and how tiny, and did he think that was from osteoporosis or maybe they were always petite? and as I’m probably going to live to be at least one hundred years as well, did he think that I would also get shorter, despite the weight training and all the milk I drank as a child and the new drugs like Boniva, and if so how much shorter, because maybe I should start practicing walking in heels now.  And without looking up at me, he said “that’s really something,” and “sure, that can happen,” and “you might as well start now.”  So I said, “Start what? Practicing walking in heels, or taking Boniva?”

That’s when he looked me square in the eye and said, “I wasn’t really listening to anything you just said.”

Son of a bitch.

But what really put the icing on the cake was the video Charles made as part of his math project. He played a character billed in the credits as “Abusive Mother” and although he was very funny, I got a sinking feeling that my son was mocking his real-life mother. I know he was trying to throw me off by wearing an enormous stuffed bra as part of his costume, but as I remind my kids frequently, I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. I guess the best way to describe what I saw, is what I can only imagine as my son’s perception of me: a cross between a character on The Jersey Shore and The Real Housewives of New Jersey.

That little bastard.

Then I got to thinking, and I recalled that several weeks ago, when Bianca told me she was doing an “imitation” of me at the lunch table, I had taken it as a compliment. She’s always been rather dramatic and apparently her friends thought she was a riot, that she had nailed me perfectly. Isn’t imitation the greatest form of a compliment? But now that I’ve had this glimpse of the dark side of my family, I’m starting to wonder.

Don’t get me wrong, I can certainly laugh at myself. I do it all the time.  But are they laughing with me or at me?  I think I’m starting have a new understanding and appreciation for Rodney Dangerfield.

Clearly I need to sort things out, so I’m picking up my tamborine and taking my act on the road for a few days.  Maybe when I’m not around to not listen to, and not around to act as fodder for their junior high math videos and scintillating conversations at the high school lunch table, they will come up with some reason to have just a little bit of respect for D. Parker.  And then, if they ask me very nicely, I will regale them with the stories of my Tambourine Adventures.

First of all I need to let you all know that Max is changing his name to Charles. In reality he is not changing, his name, I am, which is not a big deal because Max isn’t his real name anyway, just his blog name, and I made it up to begin with. So I will be referring to him as Charles or Charlie and when you read outloud to yourself, or to your friends or family, which is what I’m sure all my readers do, please try to say it with a very droll, aristocratic, lock-jawed accent…that’s how it’s meant to be pronounced. Don’t ask, just go with it.

Speaking of Charles, I am getting a bit anxious about him being my only child next year, after Bianca leaves for college. While he’s never had my undivided attention, I always planned on making it up to him later. Except Charles has recently told me in no uncertain terms that he is not looking forward to living alone with us, and contrary to popular belief he has never had a desire to be an only child. As it is, he can barely stand to spend a Saturday night with Maverick and me, whether we include him in our plans of dinner and a movie, a simple night at home, or when I am feeling really generous and guilty, playing a board game. The look on his face is usually one of pain and disappointment. I am telling you, the kid is complex.

He didn’t believe me when I told him all his friends with younger siblings were going to be jealous.  So my latest tactic is telling him that life as he knows it is going to drastically change, and he can’t even comprehend the fun that I am about to unleash on him. I think this might be peaking his interest, even though he rolls his eyes. I have no idea what he might be imagining, but I wish I had a clue because I am flying by the seat of my pants and making this up as I go along.  As long as it’s not a plan that involves me adopting one of his friends, I’m open to discussion.

You might be wondering why I am so worried, seeing as I did a bang up job raising Miles and Bianca, models of excellence for all society as they are. I suppose you could say I ran out of steam the third time around, and left a lot of parenting up to the older siblings and to Charles himself. For example, Miles and Charlie both tasted potato chips for the first time on the same occasion: Miles was eight years old and Charlie was seven months. I can still feel the glaring eyes of the other mothers in the waiting area of the ballet studio where Bianca was dancing, as they tsked, and shook their heads while I bribed my baby with potato chips to shut him up. Poor Miles looked at me in astonishment, and it was then I realized that I could no longer insist that “Potato chips are not good for you, Miles!” If I was going to feed them to is baby brother, I was going to have to let him have some too. Things kind of went downhill from there, if you know what I mean.  And I can only hope that beer, dope and sex, have not gone the way of the potato chip.

Last week Charles came home from school with someone else’s gym shorts. Claimed he found them in them in the locker room, and as his are getting small, he figured he could “use” them. Okay, so first of all, he goes to a very small school where everyone knows each other. Saying you “found” something in the locker room is like Bianca staking claims on my hair gel because I left it on my bathroom counter. Second of all, college tuition is expensive, but I can still afford to clothe my children, they needn’t resort to theft. Had he been telling me he needed new gym shorts? I don’t remember him saying so, but then again I have been accused of not always listening, and the way he mumbles, he could have told me he was dropping out of junior high and I might have said, “That’s great honey, I always knew you would like tomatoes if you just tried them!”

But I shouldn’t make him sound like such a bad seed, I mean the kid is definitely going places. If his plan of being recruited by the Major Leagues doesn’t work out, his fall-back plan is to pursue a career as a stand-up comic. Sure, show business can be  tough to break into, but Charles is confident that he can sleep his way to the top.  I’m not certain that he fully comprehends what “sleeping his way to the top” would entail…more than likely he’s imagining  that obeying my pleas to get to bed before 10pm, and finally being well rested, will make his wildest dreams come true.  Mother does know best after all.

But I’ve relaxed a lot since my first two kids approached the teenage years, and you might say I’ve even lowered my expectations.  At this point I feel that as long as I can keep him from becoming a porn star, a drug addict, and out of the big house, I’ve done my job.  So far he’s demonstrated that he’s a smooth operator and can usually talk his way into or out of any situation, so maybe I shouldn’t worry?  Except that he can turn those same skills on around the house. So if a year from now I tell you that I’ve adopted two wayward thirteen-year-old boys, another dog and we’re running an after-hours comedy club in my basement, don’t be surprised.  Just bring me a bottle of bubbly and I’ll see if I can get you in for free.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe I’ll talk to you next week.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m half way through my forties, and I plan to stay there.  As things have been going downhill, physically, since I hit forty, I figure there’s no sense in taking things beyond forty-five.  I matured from a near-sighted, flat-chested girl with pimples, to a near-sighted, flatter-chested woman with pimples.  While I was able to enjoy normal-sized breasts during my three pregnancies, the years in which my skin was supposed to clear up must have happened one night when I was sleeping sometime around my thirties.  I didn’t know that for every cup a pregnancy added to my bra size, it would later take away a cup and a half.

But it’s all good now. While for years I agonized between laser eye surgery and a boob job, I decided to forego all that and let my son, Miles, go to college instead.   In the meantime I’ve learned to love my double As because I’m not tripping over them in the cereal aisle, and I don’t have to worry about my husband rolling over on one of them when he’s sleeping.  Now that I need reading glasses, in addition to my contact lenses, to read a cocktail menu, it seems silly to bother with eye surgery.  Unless of course your talking about botox, the spa treatment du jour, although I do have friends who say they’ll go for the full-on face lift when the time comes.  Since I am pretty sure my other kids would be angry and insulted if I spent their college money on botox, when the time comes for me, I’m going to ditch my friends and start hanging out with the crowd at the retirement home, just to keep myself looking hot.

Thankfully I have a fantastic self-image and am concerned about sending the right message to my daughter and my nieces: It’s what’s on the INSIDE that counts!!  Right???  Sure, my daughter can prance around the house with her giant boobs and cleavage, rude as it is that she surpassed my bra size within an hour of developing, but I remind her frequently that nobody is young forever, and some day she will be struggling to keep little kids from running over her nipples with their Big Wheels.   After she reminds me that nobody born in the last 20 years has ever heard of a Big Wheel, she gets me back in kind by offering me her old bras as hand-me-downs that I’ll never fit into.  And yes, it’s true that I refuse to sit within 100 yards of her at the beach, but she knows not to take it personally, as I refuse to sit within 100 yards of anyone who looks more than five years younger than me.

Luckily, Maverick, my husband, loves me just the way I am. He can say so without snickering, so I have to believe him.  But a girl’s got to think about her future, and as the women on my side of the family live long into their nineties, I have to make plans for life after Maverick leaves this earth for the great, ice hockey rink in the sky.  I know that some women try to get back out there in the dating world, but swear to god I can’t imagine being them.  Men have gotten really weird since I got hitched and nowadays are into all sorts of crazy stuff that I won’t describe, not so much because I don’t want this blog to be x-rated, but because I’m not quite sure how to explain it all.  Suffice to say I would die of thirst on a date before I asked a man for a teabag.  Furthermore, by the time I’m an old broad I’ll have had enough of men altogether, and don’t think that I’ll be looking for a new one.

It’s likely, however, that I might desire a companion, and that’s why I’m considering becoming  what I like to call  a “late-in-life lesbian.”  My perfect lesbian mate is someone who can share my brassieres, who likes sing-a-longs, and knows her way around a cocktail shaker.  Oh, and who doesn’t mind not having sex.  Sure we can “date” but my version of lesbian 69 will be more like a 96….back to back, with sex organs as far away from each other as possible.  So after an extensive search among my heterosexual friends, I’m happy to announce that I have found my late-in-life lesbian partner, and we are committed to changing our lifestyles after our husbands kick the bucket.  I can’t tell you who she is because I don’t think she’s told her kids yet, and she’s a little nervous she’ll be edged out of the PTA.   Plus, I don’t want to make the rest of you flat-chested girls jealous.

Halloween sucks.  I rank it up there with root canal and the second grade violin concert, but the fact that it lasts a whole 24 hours, if not an entire weekend, puts it in a different category all together.  The residual effects, can last at least a week, depending upon how quickly I can lose the 5 pounds I slapped on.  The kids’ sugar high and my hangover are usually quicker to get over.

In my house, things start revving up right around the time summer vacation is ending.  We’ll be partaking in another one of my all-time favorite pastimes, “back-to-school shopping,” when one of my darlings will casually drop the question, “What should I be for Halloween?”  I blame myself, as I spent many an hour on the beach threatening capital punishment for anyone who even mentions Halloween before September 1st.  Clearly not the best laid plan, as there are few things as jarring as those words, when you are busy beating off other mothers and young children for the last jumbo-sized Book Sox.

If I am on the ball, and can pull a really good costume idea right out of my butt, I have saved myself weeks of torture, leaving ample time to concentrate on my candy purchases: my annual stash of Goldenberg’s Original Peanut Chews to remain hidden from my kids, and, or course a little something for the trick-or-treaters.

But I’m rarely on the ball and have spent oodles of time coming up with such unique costumes as “witch,” “beauty queen,” “baseball player,” and “Dracula.”  This year, I’m proud to say, I was on the ball, perhaps giddy with the notion that I was down to one kid to outfit, and quickly responded, “Why don’t you go as one of those idiots on that Jersey Shore show?”  As I was speaking to my 12 year old son who has recently illustrated a self-love of his developing physique, I was referring to the moronic male  MTV character with the six pack abs.  So I was only marginally surprised to hear his reply: “That’s a great idea, I’ll go as Snooki.”

I felt the jealous glares of all the other mothers, at the annual Halloween Parade, as my boy passed by in a skin-tight, strapless, sweet-heart neckline, leopard-print mini dress, complete with 32Cs, an enormous wig and Versace sunglasses.  His spray tan was luminous in the early autumn sunlight, and the boxer shorts peeking out at the hem were just the perfect touch.

When my kids were younger I usually took a sail with the Captain (Morgan) to ease me through the trauma and drama of three kids in costumes, the face makeup and the various accoutrements that require that special glue to adhere to their tender skin….And it’s a good thing, too, that my Max wanted those Frankenstein bolts glued to his scrawny neck or we never would have discovered the excitement of the ER on Halloween.  A latex allergy can certainly amp up your holiday!

It was during those years that I developed a strategy for getting the kids through their candy in the aftermath, that I am rather proud of, as it was quite successful for some time.

You might observe that many parents labor under the delusion that kids should partake in full, healthy meals on Halloween, as a combatant to the junk.  This is absurd.  Arguments are sure to ensue.  It’s a waste of food, the time it takes to prepare, and most of all, the ounce of sanity you have left after the whole epipen incident involving the mask that you knew was latex, but just couldn’t prove. What’s even more ridiculous is that these same parents spend the next month methodically doling out one piece of candy after dinner every night for the rest of the month, or longer.  These people are effectively prolonging the agony of the whole Halloween scenario, and isn’t that what we are trying to avoid???

My well devised strategy starts with setting up a false sense of security.  When you hand your kids the biggest sack you can find, encouraging them to get as much candy as possible, they will think you are on their side!  Ignore the puzzled looks of your five year old as you pull out that king sized pillow case that’s bigger than he is.  You know the truth, that that sack is going to become so cumbersome  that he will run out of steam before you can see the bottom of your glass.

The next part is easy: don’t bother to make dinner.  When they come in the door declaring how starving they are after dragging those heavy sacks around the neighborhood, tell them to dig in.  That’s right, eat up kids!!  Enjoy!!  This is when you might want to pour yourself another spiked cider before the ravages of their sugar high kick into gear.

Over the next day, keep your cooking to an absolute minimum, and your alcohol intake to a maximum, as you encourage a continuous gorging of candy.  If you need to drag the kids on your errand run, make sure they bring their sacks along.  By now you might be wearing thin, but trust me, you are almost through it.  You should be buoyed by the notion that your kids think you are the bomb. Their friends are already on round four of arguments over why they are only allowed to eat their candy after dinner.

By the next morning, if your kids aren’t in the hospital having their stomach’s pumped, expect to find them in the full swing of the plan, setting in front of their morning shows, sacks in their laps, their rapidly rotting teeth gnawing away on a sickeningly sweet scented Laffy Taffy.  But the party is over!!  They will react with shock as you rip the sacks out of their grubby hands and the Taffy from their braces.  You likely “forgot” to tell them that the goal was to eat as much as possible in 24 hours, the remains destined for lunch boxes, large quantities at a time, of course!  Truth be told, they’ll be too strung out to fight you over it, and you’ve successfully passed the problem along to their teachers.

Happy Halloween!

Last night I went out with one of my closest, employed, friends.  Nothing like catching up with a friend whose life is pretty much a 180 from yours, to make you feel like a loser.  Ironically, I sought her out for advice and guidance:  I have been feeling like I am at a crossroads, of sorts, in my life.  So far the last 20 odd years have been basically husband, kids, house.  No complaints there, seriously, I mean I am living a blessed life and I wouldn’t change a thing.  I was lucky enough to be able to stay at home and raise my kids, dabbling in writing here and there (which, if I recall, was supposed to be the point of getting a degree in journalism…to “dabble” in it), with smatterings of PTA and volunteer work…Oh, and there was my brief flirtation with small town politics.  Thank god that didn’t work out.  But with my second child almost out the door to college, and the third one on the brink of high school, I took a look at myself and wondered what would become of me now?  The dream of packing a couple of suitcases and jumping on plane with my husband to travel the world didn’t seem as realistic as I had once thought.  What with that pesky college tuition and all standing in our way.  Plus I would really miss my dog.

So I made the mistake of spending an entire morning, one on which I could have, should have, been catching up television, cruising around on monster.com.   I was rewarded with conclusion that, despite all the “life experiences” and “wisdom”  I’ve managed to accumulate, I am just about on par with a recent college grad.  Minus, of course, the computing skills, and experience with social networking.  (Although I did love that movie, I have to say I agree with Betty White, Facebook looks like a big waste of time.)  Furthermore, if monster.com could lay eyes on me, clearly they would see lots of other minuses, like the roll of fat that hangs over the top of my jeans and the slight loosening of the skin on my neck, and, most disturbingly, what I noticed as I was getting my gray touched up, something I believe are called JOWLS.  Not at all attractive.  So on the off chance that anyone would ever hire me, not only would I require a salary commensurate with my tax bracket, I’d also need a fair amount of dough to keep maintaining my aging body, as I figure I’d be competing with actual college grads.

I came to the further conclusion that I’d probably have a “boss.”  This thought left me feeling about as enthusiastic as going for a pap smear.  Especially because it is likely that any “boss” was going to be someone I could have given birth to, and I would have no idea if his mother raised him to be respectful to adults.  There is one thing I cannot tolerate, and that’s snotty nosed kids, especially ones that make more money than me, and ones with killer bods that sit near me on the beach.  I hate that.  Almost as much as I hate brides.  And babies.  And anything that’s heart-shaped, or has heart shapes on it.  Unless it’s a heart shaped box of dark chocolate caramels with sea salt…no jellies or creams or cherries.  Yuck.  But I digress.

Back to my friend.  Let’s call her Francesca.  That’s not her real name, but she always wanted to be Francesca, and agreed to let me call her that for the sake of this blog.  It’s got a certain mysterious, romantic, exciting allure to it, she says, plus it’s much easier to spell and pronounce, in case anyone wants to read this stuff aloud over cocktails.

So I reached out to Francesca to set me straight on exactly how I should proceed on my quest to reenter world of the working woman. She has become very successful in her fabulous job that takes her to glamorous, exciting places and she loves it.  I didn’t come right out and ask her to hire me, the moment never seemed quite right, even after we requested the bartender take his coat off and reopen the bar to make us another drink.  Francesca knows me so well and gave me great advice.  Then she really took control of the situation, and put me on a strict plan of action that should have me gainfully employed in my dream job within 4 months, which I think is pretty damn exciting, whether I have to lie on my resume about receiving that awesome award last year or not.

However the most fun part of last night was that in between teaching me how to lie my way through an interview, Francesca was regaling me with tales of her latest sexual escapades, since her divorce became final.  There’s a new man in her life and we’ll call him 39.  That’s what she calls him.  I keep calling him 36 by mistake, but maybe now that I’ve written it down it will be easier for me to remember.

Anyway,  it was all so fascinating because besides the fantastic sex she’s having with 39, she’s taken to walking around the house, nude, in between romps!  I just think that says SO much about confidence and self worth, and I know I will have truly “arrived” when I feel comfortable enough to do that.  It wasn’t really her idea, I mean she says that she never made a habit of walking around the house nude before.  Well, really, that could have been awkward for her sons and their friends.  But since they’ve gone off to college, and haven’t yet surprised her with a pop-in visit, she’s becoming rather comfortable, it seems.  Like I said, it wasn’t her idea, but the first time she asked 39 to get out of bed and change a lightbulb, he did it in the nude.  And I suppose once he got up on the chair and  had his junk at eye level, she must have figured what the hell?  Plus it’s not like women our age have a plethora of sexy loungewear, so what could she have thrown on?  I know for a fact that my flannel monkey pajamas cannot be a turn-on for my husband.  If on the off chance they ARE, I have discovered that layering a couple of tee shirts underneath and throwing on a pair of big fuzzy Santa socks with jingle bells pretty much seals the deal.  There’s no way in hell he’s going to put the moves on me with the lights on.

I am, however, going to keep my eyes out for some sexy loungewear for Francesca because I am sincerely worried that she is going to hurt herself walking around like that.  It was probably a close call with the lightbulb…she mentioned something about the filament and a butter knife…I’m not an electrician so I kind of tuned her out during that part of the story….but I can imagine that the dishwasher would be a NASTY place for your labia to end up getting caught.  Or what if she suddenly felt the urge to vacuum the drapes, or offer her little dog a biscuit?  Ouch.