Category: That Most Wonderful Time of the Year

It’s over.  I vaguely recall high-heeled shoes, parties, Christmas balls and presents; but my memories are foggy, booze-tinged, cookie hazed.  More evident are the remnants of a red-sparkled pedicure on my toes, and my dog still walking around the house in a red and green argyle sweater.  For moi, the holiday season wrapped up with a two-day, “Downton Abbey” Marathon (thank you PBS!), a 1/2 pound box of dark chocolates and an outbreak of nasal herpes…to keep things balanced I simultaneously watched workout videos on my phone and read through recipes in my new cookbook, bookmarking the workouts I “liked” and the recipes that looked “healthy.”  Nonetheless, I find  January to be a real downer.  In a vain attempt to fill the gaping void left in my soul when my kids went back to their lives, the Christmas tree went back into its bag, and my favorite Christmas wine glass went back into the cabinet, I ate every last cookie and finished all those half-empty bottles of wine.  And then I felt worse.

It doesn’t help that at this very moment, I have friends vacationing in Aruba, St. Barth’s and South Africa.  When they get home, I’ll bid farewell to a second set of friends off to destinations like Aruba, New Orleans, Puerto Rico and Sarasota.  (I really need to put Aruba on my bucket list….) They are generous enough to share their experiences through texts and photos every day: toes in white sand, drinks in coconuts, and wild animals (not teenagers, real wild animals!) like lions and zebras and elephants.  Yesterday I had a glass of wine, and I saw a squirrel, so ya know, things are pret-ty exciting around here too.  And even though I keep thanking them for the pics, and respond with texts like, “Keep them coming!” and “I’m so happy for you, it looks amazing!” and “Hope you’re having a great time-you DESERVE it!” I’m actually seething with jealousy and wish they would CEASE AND DESIST and allow me to muddle my way through the most miserable month of the year in peace.

Now that it’s almost behind me I’m buoyed by the realization that February is a short month, and I have my very own vacation in three weeks.  I know what you’re thinking, “Hey, D.Parker…how did you get through January?”  Well, I thought you’d never ask!  Jot these ideas down, and pull them out on January 2, 2018.  You’re welcome.

1. Plan one or five trips.  If you can’t take any trips plan them anyway. I have planned a lot of trips that never come to fruition, mostly because Mav only half pays attention when he talks to me.  So like when he said, “Why aren’t we going to Santorini?” I took it as a green light to go ahead and plan a trip to Greece.  Understand that when D.Parker was a just a little D.Parker, she played “travel agent” when other kids were playing “house,” so when I say I planned a trip, I don’t mean I booked a hotel.  I mean every flight, train and transfer, dinner reservation, museum, tour or theatre ticket..all in place and waiting  for the  click of a mouse.  Even the in-flight snack and movie is purchased in advance.  A great investment of time is required to execute a perfect itinerary.  An itinerary that gets dashed against the rocks, not unlike the azure blue waves crashing upon the cliffs of Santorini, when Maverick comes home and says, “Nah, I can’t travel right now.”  After twelve hours of fighting the the deep desire to drop rat poison in his coffee,  I instead drop the trip in my file, labeled… wait for it… “Trips.”
2. Finish off the cookies and candy, if you haven’t already.  Remember that crappy box of candy from that Harry&David gift basket that you almost threw away immediately…then decided to save for an emergency?   The emergency is now, and trust me, even crappy candy tastes good in January.
3. Binge watch Netflix….or HBO or Amazon Prime….obvi.  I was pretty excited to get hooked on “The Crown,” which was a nice segue from Downton Abbey, and the next day I was even more excited to discover “Victoria”  since I completely didn’t pace myself and had finished “The Crown.”  And I don’t think it’s at all strange that when I dream at night I’m an English woman walking the streets of 20th Century London.  With a basket on my arm.
4. Go to the movies in the day….so you can have educated opinions about who should and shouldn’t win Academy Awards. ‘Cause your vote counts. No it doesn’t, you don’t get to vote.  Add a measure of excitement and sneak in popcorn from home, cause it always tastes better when you don’t have to pay movie theatre prices.  And if the movie sucks, it won’t be a total loss.
5. Celebrate those little holidays. Epiphany is a perfect opportunity to buy yourself  something… I mean it’s been a whole twelve days since the Fat Man came down your chimney.  MLK Day gives you a long weekend to go skiing with the masses or read a book.  This January brought us the Lunar New Year it’s a week long.  There’s Presidents’ Day to look forward to soon enough, so why not treat yourself to “Hamilton?” If you hurry you can get tickets in time for next January.  Hey, you DESERVE it!
6. If you feel bad that you didn’t make any New Year’s Resolutions, you can turn it around by giving up something for Lent which will be here before you know it….but is still far enough away that you can pledge to give up alcohol, feel good and proud of that decision, and then be over it by the time Lent gets here.  It’s a win win.
7. Do you understand the physics of kinetic energy?  I don’t.  Not even a little bit.  If you give a shit, and you know someone who can explain it to you, that can take up a lot of time.  I mean, like, days.  Not that it’s interesting or fun, but it can kill some major time. Just sayin’.

Happy New Year, y’all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I was getting dressed this morning I noticed that there was some dried-up, previously-melted chocolate on the back of my belt. Most people probably wouldn’t be able to conceive of how that could happen. Most people probably live their whole lives and never find melted chocolate on the back of their belt. Those people are not D.Parker, because I knew immediately that my dark chocolate covered-peanut-eating-frenzy that had been played out over the last two days needed to come to an end; and not because I finally reached the bottom of the two-pound can, but because when you start dropping them on the couch where you are lying and eating them, eventually one finds it’s way to the back of your belt. The rest is just physics, or whatever kind of science has to do with melting.

I blame the whole scenario on the holidays, and decided then and there, as I was washing my belt, to call an end to the whole damn season. Yes, I realize that many people have already done this, what with the New Year and all the resolution making that goes along with that dreadful Day having passed already. In case you are like me and really enjoy the full Twelve Days of Christmas, here are a few signs that might help push you along. I like to call them the Twelve Signs of Christmas End.

We’ve already touched on Number 1: you find melted chocolate on your belt. Try to avoid the impulse to lick it off, even though it seems like the safest way to clean good leather, and not waste that delicious chocolate.

Number 2: People you are meeting for the first time, (like at that party you may or may not have actually been invited to, the bar you were in last night, or your sister-in-laws house) refuse to tell you their name. You will recognize this behavior immediately despite the number of drinks you have consumed, because it makes you feel like a jerk at first, and then on retrospect makes you worry about deeper things than the momentary embarrassment.

Number 3 (and this one goes along well with Number 2): You find yourself texting apologies to whomever you were out with the night before. For things you may, or may not have said; or may, or may not have done. Sometimes it’s better to be safe than sorry and just apologize for the whole lot.

Number 4: You find yourself considering buying a string bikini for your upcoming winter getaway. If this is something you have never in your life even remotely considered (like back when you were a size 0, and had the tight, smooth skin of a prepubescent teen) then come to terms with the fact that this window has closed, even if the thought of being able to loosen those strings on the hips whenever the moment (or the cheeseburger) strikes is a lovely and convenient idea.

Number 5: You think it’s not only acceptable, but actually nutritious and (while the verdict is still out on this, bear with me) maybe even healthy to eat cookies for breakfast. Yes, it’s true they are homemade and therefore have no preservatives, but your children are also tired of them and I’m not gonna lie, I did hear one of mine say something like “I think I just cracked my tooth on this f-ing cookie” this morning when I insisted that a gingerbread man with a little cream cheese was the Breakfast of Champions.

Number 6 (and this goes hand-in-hand with Number 5): You think it’s a good idea to have mimosas every morning with your cookies because you still have a half a case of champs in the garage. It’s not. Try and remember how many people brought you champagne through the season and I think you will agree that you have had more than enough, and you can save the rest for the next time your youngest takes out the trash without being asked, because you know that will be worthy of celebrating.

Number 7: You keep shopping and buying things because as long as the Christmas bills haven’t actually come in yet, it’s still Christmas, and let’s face it the sales are great and you didn’t get everything you really wanted anyway. Come on now and say it with me: Stop the Madness!

Number 8: You stopped going to the gym because it’s the holidays. Martin Luther King Jr. Day is right around the corner so at least you have that to look forward to. Meanwhile we need to start working off some of those cookies…string bikini or not.

Number 9: You are still wearing sequined attire in the daytime. While I tend to enjoy a little bling any hour of the day, any day of the week, I am tired of the loud whispering behind my back in the frozen food section of the supermarket.

Number 10: Charlie Rose is back on the morning news, and if his vacation is over then yours should be too. Especially because some people claim my whole life is a vacation, and the least I can do is get out of bed and make the coffee.

Number 11: “Downton Abbey” is back for Season 4.

Number 12: Spending the entire day lounging around the house on and off the couch in your pajamas still doesn’t seem like enough rest. It actually is more than enough, you have just lost touch with the real world (see Number 10…Charlie Rose will set you straight) and/or you have lost interest in everything that smacks of normal or routine (see Number 11…and don’t fret, Season Two of “House of Cards” is about to be released, and Mad Mad will be back in April).

If these tips seem like they could be helpful, I further suggest you print them out, and put them in your back pocket for easy reference…just watch out for that melted chocolate.

I can’t believe I just said that, but it’s true, I’ve joined Twitter. Maybe I’m not supposed to say “joined,” but that’s how I say it. So far I have 10 followers, which is not so bad for an old broad like me. I’m pretty sure a few of them are not the kind of audience I am looking for because they have names like “I8cum” and “addicted2cock” and as you know, I’m just not that kind of girl. The rest of them are my kids and their friends. So hurry up and start following me before it gets embarrassing. I know what you’re thinking, “D.Parker, you’ve always been so anti-Twitter and Facebook!” That’s true, and I’m still anti-Facebook. But someone convinced me that being a Twit would lead more people to this blog, which will, in turn, surely lead to fame and then, likely, fortune. Also it’s giving me something to do in this second-most-depressing week of the year (the first-most-depressing week being next week) besides eating every cookie and candy morsel in sight and then having to clean up the endless crumbs with a broken vacuum. I just spent 15 minutes vacuuming a tiny throw rug and lord knows there are better ways to spend 15 minutes, like checking my Twitter account 15 times or eating 15 cookies or mixing 15 ounces of vodka with anything. And then drinking it.

It’s barely been 24 hours and I can already tell you this Twitter thing eats up a lot of time. Between trying to come up with clever things to Twit, I mean Tweet, and then checking to see if anyone read it, without accidentally agreeing follow “Iluvdik.” I didn’t even have time for my afternoon nap. So maybe you should just skip it altogether.

On the other hand it’s a good distraction from the rampant drama, that festers like the nasty mold on that old piece of cheese in my refrigerator, that goes on around my house when Charles has too much time on his hands (will the Christmas break never end?). Today, for instance, as I walked in the door from another trip to the supermarket during which I forgot to buy the thing I went there for (dinner), and bought a bunch of useless stuff instead (frozen appetizers), he told me that he almost choked to death in my absence. He was serious as a heart attack, the culprit being a piece of Halloween candy (yes, he is still working on that 19 pound bag of crap), and if it weren’t for his long finger that he was able to stick down his throat to extract that bite of Kit Kat he would be pushing up daisies about now. Do I need to remind you that Charles is almost 14 years old? Here I’ve been worrying that he’s going to come home drunk or reeking of pot, when I should have been worried about choking, like I did when he was a toddler and inhaled a dumdum lollipop right off the stick. If he starts telling me he shoved a bunch of peanuts up his nose because his pockets were full, I’m out.

Once he got over his fright he proceeded to disassemble his new skateboard wheels and clean the bearings (did I spell that right?) with my newest holiday-themed dishtowel (the one I display on the rail of the dishwasher, and is clearly for only for show) on my marble floors. They were not really that greasy, so I was able to gather my wits about me after going crazy on him in time to talk him off the cliff when he realized he got some of the grease on his new cell phone cover. Which was a Christmas gift. And which proceeded to fall apart after he soaked it in hot, soapy water, for 25 minutes. He finally calmed down after I reminded him that he had proclaimed this year “The Best Christmas EVER” and why lose that feeling over two destroyed gifts when there were still a few yet to be touched? He was ready to go hang out with his friends, he flipped out all over again when I told him to be home in an hour for dinner. Yes, it is completely possible to waste an entire day washing useless things to the point that they disintegrate. I must admit, the kid really can rival me in the wasting-time department. Little bastard.

Anyway, I promise not to write any of this on Twitter, because that would be redundant, and also because on Twitter you have to be really concise and write things in one sentence or even less. It seems to me that other people get to write more than one sentence, so I’m not sure if there’s some kind of “level” you have to get to like in a video game, when they let you write two sentences, but if there is I’m totally going to get to that level, even if it takes me all day, every day, for a week.

Meanwhile, I’ll keep writing useless stuff over here.

Follow my Twitter experiment.

Was that Thanksgiving that just passed?? It’s been such a whirlwind I lost track of the days. It may have been the punch or maybe it was the intervention my family sprung on me after dessert in a lame attempt to get me back off gum. I’m sporting bags under my eyes, a food baby, and a herpes on my lip. Look away, I’m hideous. Nonetheless, I have a few comments on the holiday.

There will never be enough places to sit and eat in our house, and if you ever find yourself eating in the living room, it is because I have either passed away or am lying in a coma, and am unaware of whether or not you just spilled cranberry sauce on my sofa and left a wet ring on my coffee table. When your little children grow up they must continue to sit on your laps, unless you can work something out, like you sitting on their laps instead. I used to insist on squeezing everyone around a table in an effort to recreate a Norman Rockwell scene, but the stress of making the seating chart would paralyze me for days. Presently it’s more like a game of musical chairs. If you end up with a good seat in the dining room consider yourself very lucky, but know that someone will be gunning for you next year. The only people guaranteed their seat of choice are the over-ninety-five set. However, I am considering taking cash bribes next year, and if that offends you morally or because it’s downright obnoxious, please look away.

There will always be lots of booze and I encourage you to drink as heavily as I do. This way if I overcook the turkey, or the food is cold by the time you dig in, or the green beans are soggy, or the leeks are hard, or the mashed potatoes lumpy, you won’t notice. Or if you do notice, you won’t give a damn. They are likely that way because some of you keep trying to confuse me by asking how much was that centerpiece? or what is the score of the game? or what time is my flight tomorrow and what is the number? or some other question involving math, when I am desperately trying to calculate the conversion of cooking time for both the turkey and the green bean casserole from regular oven to convection, while working it so they are ready at the same time the stuffing is coming out of the regular oven, and before anyone dozes off or starts a riot. If you are a teetotaler and it offends you to see me pushing punch on everyone over the age of ten, please just look away.

There will always be something I forget to serve, so if you’ve got your heart set on that green salad or the butter shaped like a turkey or that box of chocolates, don’t look away, take some initiative and put it on the table! It’s extremely likely that if I come across it lurking in the fridge after the meal is done, but before you have left my house, you will find it in your handbag the next day. Or the pocket of your coat. I am really good at hiding things.

I hate waste as much as the next person but if it offends you to watch me throw food away at the end of the night, (…and I think you are starting to catch on to this…) just look away. I used to pack it all up and save it, only to end up throwing it away two days later. So in an attempt to lighten my work load and free up the Tupperware, I throw it away on the spot. My local soup kitchen doesn’t take used food, and none of you ever want to take doggie bags. If I catch you sneaking a plate of food drenched in gravy to my dog (that’s right Nanny, I’m on to your tricks!) I will insist that you make yourself available for the next 24 hours to clean up her vomit and diarrhea, no matter your age or your gag reflex. I know there are children starving in Africa and if you want to pay for the shipping and the dry ice I’d be happy to send my leftovers to them.

Along these same lines I would like to officially declare that I do not reuse plastic utensils. I use plastic for dessert because I’m just plumb tired of washing the real stuff. Not because I like the way it feels on my tongue or the weightlessness of it in my hand, or the way it makes me cringe in anticipation of the tines snapping off as I run it into a well-done pie crust. Please don’t put them in my dishwasher unless you are constructing a Post Thanksgiving Sculpture to represent the twisted nature of my gathering, just dump them in the trash. Again, if this offends you because of the waste, please JLA. And no, I will not be recycling them either.

Speaking of recycling, please understand that when my recycling bins are full, I will have fulfilled my obligation to the environment for the day and will commence throwing the recycling into my trash compactor. I know this is “wrong” and that I risk getting a fine in addition to the giant hole in the ozone layer I am ensuring for my great grandchildren, but let’s face it, they are probably going to have to walk to school in space suits anyway, and I do my part by not using hair spray or driving an SUV.

Please, JLA.

Ahhh, Mother’s Day. Cue singing birds and sappy music, stupid commercials for cheap, ugly jewelry and overpriced flowers. I hope, if you are a mother, that you enjoyed a wonderful day being honored for all your wonderfulness by your families. But, if you are a mother, it is more likely that you spent the day visiting and/or entertaining all the other mothers in your life. I also hope that you didn’t have to suffer the tradition of being served breakfast in bed.

I put that “tradition” to rest several years ago. I find few things as stress inducing as lying awake in bed, listening to my children trying to make breakfast and work the coffee machine, except listening to them doing it with their father. My sense of hearing is quite astute and I can hear every spill, every bit of grease splattering on the stove, every crumb falling on the floor. For years I would pretend I was still asleep, being the self-sacrificing mother that I am, so not to spoil the “surprise” when they would come through the door with the burnt toast, undercooked bacon, lukewarm coffee and some other high-calorie morsel that I would force myself to eat, regretting every bite as I felt it transforming into another layer of fat on my hips. But the worst part would be when they would then all leave me there, alone, forced to eat in the same place I sleep, trying desperately to keep the crumbs out of my sheets, while they all went back downstairs to whoop it up, making more of a mess and not cleaning up.

But I’m not gonna lie, I yearn for those old days of paper corsages sprayed with room deodorizer, school-made pencil cups, macaroni necklaces, marigolds from the school plant sale that were dead by the time I got them because they spent the better part of a week hidden under a bed, and cards that said things like, “I love my Mom because she likes to go shopping at the mall,” and “I love my Mom because she makes me chicken nuggets every night,” the accompanying drawing depicting me holding shopping bags in one hand and a wine glass in the other. Sure, back then I worried what the teachers thought about a mother that spent so much time shopping that she could only heat up pre-made chicken nuggets for dinner every night, but I got over it.

I thought I had hit the jackpot this year. Charlie’s latest foray into the world of the entrepreneur involves selling gold. If you are impressed, I will remind you that he is still in junior high, without any steady income to invest. I know what you’re thinking: “D. Parker, where is he getting the gold to sell?” Mostly in the park and in the gutters. You’d be surprised how many people lose jewelry…or so he says. Just to be safe, if he’s coming to visit at your house, I’d lock up my jewelry box, you never know. Anyway, his last trip to the “Sell Your Gold Here” store was extremely profitable, and on the day before Mother’s Day. On the drive home, as he marveled over the crisp, newness of his Ben Franklins, I casually suggested that he might spend it on the woman that endured 24 hours of hard labor, and pushed his giant head out of her vagina without an epidural, to bring him into a world where scavenging for garbage could bring easy cash. Since I don’t charge him for room or board, or for the pleasure of doing his laundry, I figured it was a no-brainer.

Of course I figured wrong. When it became obvious that I wasn’t getting a pricey gift from Charles, not even a cheap gift, no pencil cup or dead plant, or flower picked from my own garden, not even a RE-gift that he could have found in the gutter, I realized that I have everything I want anyway, and I would be contented enough just to have him do my chores for the day. Or even one chore. As much as it pained me to continue to step over the pile of laundry in the hallway, ignore the dishes in the sink and the unmade beds, I did, despite the fact that the stress of it resulted in a huge herpes on my lip (well, that coupled with the stress of the rooster that moved in next door to us who only takes a break from his God-given gift of cock-a-doodle-doing between 8:30 and 10 am each morning). All to no avail. Suffice to say, that my usual Sunday chores landed up on my Monday Chore List. And Charles will be riding his bike to the “Sell Your Gold Here” store from now on.

Maybe breakfast in bed wasn’t the worst thing. Maybe next year I could swap out the coffee for a pitcher of bloodies. And stay in my bedroom all day keeping guard over my jewelry box.

Okay, so that’s it for 2010. Over! Truly it is in my best interest anyway, I needed to get back to some semblance of normal that doesn’t involve shopping for gifts, wearing sequins in the middle of the day, dancing with strangers, and staying up past my usual bedtime of 9pm. However, a weaning period was necessary, as I’m among those types that feel a bit sad on Jan 2. So I spent that entire day in my pajamas, moping around the house eating stale Christmas cookies, avoiding the shower, the laundry, the dishes in the sink, the poinsettias that were dying (literally) of thirst, the empty refrigerator and the general Christmas mess.

Which, in hindsight, made January 3rd even worse than it would have been. Although I did feel guilty complaining when I heard about the poor slob that tried to kill himself by jumping off a 9 story building in Manhattan: he landed in an enormous pile of trash bags that are lining the streets since the blizzard. I can only imagine that expecting to end up dead, but ending up in a pile of garbage instead, would not buoy one’s spirits at all, and he must be even more depressed now.

Anyhoo, I didn’t try to jump off a building, but only step off my patio to get the four newspapers that had gathered in my driveway, when I landed flat on my ass….Black ice you surmise?? No, the regular white variety. Had D. Parker been nipping at the eggnog early this morning? No, sadly she had not, and I have no excuse for my bumbling except that I had not left the house during the daylight hours in almost a week, and perhaps I should have borrowed my Nanny’s fancy red walker.

But I managed to gather those newspapers, and then drag myself to the gym for the first time in over a week. Not because I made a New Year’s Resolution to exercise, but because that’s my usual routine, and this is the week we have to get back to our usual routines right? We’d all be dead by Valentine’s Day if we continued to carry on the way we do in December.

Speaking of New Year’s Resolutions, you’re probably thinking, “D. Parker, what are YOUR New Year’s Resolutions?” Well, you should know that I resolved LAST year to stop making New Year’s Resolutions, and if you were smart you’d give it up too. It’s just another way to set yourself up for failure and disappointment and seriously, at our age, who needs more of that? I get enough when I look in the mirror or put on a pair of jeans. And don’t even talk to me about drooping labia, which I was perfectly happy to be ignorant to, until I heard that some women are having labia reduction surgery, and now I have to be disappointed that mine are sagging??

How’s this for a New Year’s Resolution: I will not resolve to get a labia reduction or bleach my anus because I refuse to follow every trend, and I’m confident that sagging labia and regular-colored anuses will come back into fashion.

I won’t resolve to stop watching inane reality tv shows because that would mean I’ve given up hope that someone from the Bravo network will want to cast me in an inane reality tv show.

I won’t resolve to stay in touch with all those old friends I don’t keep in touch with because I must not really like them after all, or I wouldn’t have to consider forcing myself to keep in touch with them.

I won’t resolve to quit smoking because I don’t smoke, and I won’t resolve to stop drinking during the week because I like drinking during the week and I’m pretty sure I discussed that in a different blog already.

I won’t resolve to exercise more because my friend Joelle just told me that she read that as we get older, we should be exercising less, or else we will have to exercise more and I know it made a lot of sense when she told me that last week at her party, but I will check back and see what the hell she was talking about. Either way I’m not going to start exercising more, I just don’t feel like it. And the rest of you losers who were all in my way at the gym this morning, you know it’s only a matter of time before you give up on that too, and then I can have the weight room back to myself again.

I will not resolve to lose five pounds before bathing suit season. And you can’t make me.

I will not resolve to be nicer, to volunteer, to start calling my mother-in-law on the phone, to drink less coffee, eat less sugar, go for a check up, have more sex, read the entire New York Times every day or finish the Sunday crossword puzzle even it if takes me all week.

For most of my life I have been making, and breaking, resolutions, and despite that I grew up to be a happy, fairly well-adjusted, somewhat normal woman. I have no desire to be renewed, restored or better myself, and no Baby New Year is going to trick me into thinking otherwise. Furthermore, why do we all go around saying “happy New Year” anyway? What’s happy about it? I think most people would agree it’s a let down. Even if you are lucky enough to go to a fabulous New Year’s Eve party, which most of us only do once every five years, the next day is a drag. Most of January is a drag, especially if you live in the northeast like me and you have nothing to look forward to except more white stuff falling out of the sky. But if you’ve resolved to be more positive and upbeat, then have at it: wish everyone you meet a Happy New Year. Whatever.

I admit I got a bit selfish this Christmas, and after a decade of hosting the Feast on Christmas Day, I slipped my mother a twenty and passed the torch back to her. I haven’t, in all these years, made a Christmas breakfast for my family, and the food magazines always have such fabulous breakfast dishes in their December issues, which I never get to try because I spend the entire morning preparing dinner. All those delicious make-ahead egg casseroles, the sweet buns, the breakfast cocktails….this year, they would be mine!! As an added bonus, I’d get to spend some quality time with my own family, instead of screaming at them to make their beds, get dressed, don’t pick at the cheese platter, and stop messing up the house before the company arrives!

But once I realized how relaxed and easy our morning was going to be, I started to worry about how relaxed and easy our morning was going to be, and maybe there’s such a thing as too much quality time with each other. We weren’t due at my parent’s until 2pm. Idle time is the devil’s workshop, and I started to feel guilty for all those less fortunate families out there. I hate when that happens.

So I started to concoct a plan that would involve us volunteering at the local soup kitchen on Christmas day…after our Fantastic breakfast, and before we were due at my parent’s house. What better way to remind us all of the true meaning of Christmas, than to see how bad things can be? I know what you’re thinking, “D. Parker, why didn’t you just drop a few Hamiltons into the Salvation Army bucket?” Oh sure, sure….year’s past I was all about that: “adopting” a family, sending a Christmas meal to someone in a trailer park, coats and mittens to orphans…But it had to be more meaningful to actually meet the people you were helping, for my kids to see that things could really be worse than me forgetting to buy Oreos for the second week in a row, and for Maverick to see that there are worse things than me forgetting to empty the lint trap in the dryer.

It took me two weeks to get up the courage to broach the subject with the family. But I knew the time was right when I had them all around the dinner table, stomachs full and satisfied, after announcing I had already done their chores, would not be asking for help with the dishes and by the way Maverick, I used a coupon today when I bought myself that new pair of boots!! Saving you money, again!!! Everyone seemed in good spirits, so I bit the bullet and blurted out, “How would you guys feel about helping out at the soup kitchen for a couple of hours on Christmas day?” I held my breath and shut my eyes as I awaited their reaction. Maverick was first:
“Well that sounds like a good idea. But I will be post-call, so those homeless people better not get on my nerves.” Fair enough. Typical Bianca:
“Oh, okaaaay, but what do I have to WEAR?” Then Max:
“Can’t we do it a different day??” Ugh.

Overall, I took their responses as a resounding YES, and my Christmas spirit was buoyed by the fact that my Italian-Catholic guilt might be assuaged by spending a short time serving what was likely to be an unappetizing dinner to the homeless, with the added bonus that my children would be able to summon the memory of poorly coiffed, shoddily dressed, smelly people with bad teeth eating a pile of Christmas mush when I might say to them in the future, “if you keep spending my money like that we’re all going to end up living in the gutter!” Priceless.

Now all I needed to do was make the arrangements. Feeling very charitable and Jesus-like, I left a message at the soup kitchen informing them that my family was prepared to devote part of our holiday to come to the aid of the less fortunate. I was rather shocked at their response, days later. The shift, I was told in no uncertain terms, was from 7-11:30am. We would be setting up, prepping and cleaning up breakfast, not dinner. We were to leave our handbags and jewelry home and dress in denim. I was to provide our social security numbers and an essay on why we should be chosen to volunteer, asap. WTF??

First of all, that shift was going to run right through my Fabulous Family Christmas Breakfast. Second of all, it appeared that there would be no “serving” which meant we might not have actual contact with the homeless. Third of all, I always dress for a holiday and I never take off my wedding rings unless I’m making meatballs or getting a manicure. Lastly, I just finished writing all those essays for Bianca’s college applications and if the Almighty Soup Kitchen thought I was going to write another god-damned essay, they had better be ready to hand out a college scholarship. Since I was pretty certain they were not in the position to do so, there was no way I was writing an essay on why we should be deemed worthy enough to volunteer.

It got me to thinking about how ungrateful people can be and reminded me about the Mexican guy I ran down and how he never thanked me for the ride I gave him after I crushed his bike. And about the family we “adopted” a few years ago, who were conveniently not at home in their trailer when we showed up with bags of food and gifts. Come to think of it, they never even sent a thank you note, and after I slaved over those homemade gingerbread men with their names written on them in icing that could double as Christmas tree ornaments and place card holders. I thought about my own kids and even though I ride them pretty hard, they do say thank you, and they don’t ask me to submit an essay before I do anything, and I am eternally grateful for that.

So as I headed out to shop for my Fabulous Family Christmas Breakfast, I decided that too much quality time with my family might not necessarily be a bad thing, especially when given the option to skip church. On my way into the ShopRite I dropped a few Hamiltons into the Salvation Army bucket, and wished the jolly Santa ringing his bell a Merry Christmas.

And he said, “Thank you.”

I’d like to apologize to my faithful readers, all two of you, for the late submission this week. It’s party season and I’m the type of girl who can’t say “no” to an invitation. Which means I end up attending some of them stag, because Maverick is not the type of girl who can’t say no. I even dragged myself to one party with a 100 degree fever, a fact that I’m sure the hostess and her guests were thrilled about, but I assumed the alcohol she was serving would kill off my germs. Nonetheless, I’ve made it through the pre-Christmas parties, and I have several days to recover before New Year’s Eve, which is a good thing because my family is getting a little fed up with my galavanting, having to eat cookies for dinner, and digging their laundry out of the dryer. To which I have to say, must you dump the rest of the clean clothes on the floor when you are looking for your sock, and do the rest of you have to step all over them when you walk by???

Anyway, I will admit that the excessive partying has taken somewhat of a toll on me, and it appears I’ve reached an all time low: this morning I offered my 12-year-old a glass of Sprite with his breakfast. On purpose. The contents of my refrigerator have become meager, because if I’m out at parties, I’m not making dinner. I meant to pick up some orange juice yesterday to go with those two heels of toast, but I got sidetracked by one of these parties. I opened the fridge this morning to “make” Max’s breakfast, and was disappointed to see only a moldy piece of cheese, some old meatloaf (I think), a container of apple juice and a bottle of Sprite. I knew what I had to do. I figured soda was more fun than a glass of apple juice, basically because he would think I was awesome, instead of a loser, and in the spirit of the holidays I figured I had better err on the side of awesome, as he hasn’t done his Christmas shopping yet. Maybe it was the alcohol seeping out of my pores from the night before clouding my judgement. However it turned out to the be right choice because that apple juice was actually chicken broth and if he had tried to drink a glass of that, he would have been pretty pissed off. I remember when I made that mistake with Miles and not only was he mad at me, he projectile vomited all over my kitchen and that was gross.

So with the kid off to school, and no party on the schedule, I decided to stick around the house, catch up on my domestic duties, and finish up my Christmas chores. But I should have made other plans, because this just wasn’t in the cards. Speaking of cards, you might be realizing about now that you haven’t received a Christmas card from me yet. Well, don’t hold your breath. Sure, we’re still friends and all that, but I took a hiatus from the Christmas cards this year, and it’s a good thing too, because with my social calendar busy as it is, I would have had to miss at least one luncheon if I was home licking envelopes.

Anyway, I started by washing the pots that were left “soaking” in my sink. It makes me nuts when my kids don’t wash the pots they use when they make themselves dinner, but considering I hadn’t been home to make dinner for them in a week, I figured I shouldn’t complain about the pots. Until I dropped a big lid and it fell like a guillotine on the top of my naked foot and holy crap that hurt like a mother and I don’t think I was overreacting by screaming like I did, although my dog might disagree.

At this point I said to myself, “D. Parker, just hang it up. Make yourself a nice cup of tea, hit the sofa and sleep off that hangover.” But I rarely listen to reason, and started feeling guilty that I hadn’t really done anything to mark the occasion of Miles birthday last week (again, parties….) so I decided to bake him some cupcakes. It wasn’t until I had (almost) all the ingredients in the mixer and the oven preheated that I realized I was out of sugar.

Annoyed, now, and limping, I made a dash for the market, while wishing my next door neighbor was the type that I could borrow 2 cups of sugar from, instead of the type that repeatedly calls the cops on me. As I was pulling out of my driveway I got distracted by the trash on the floor of my car and the next thing I know WHAM! there’s a bike on the hood of my car and a Mexican guy lying on the ground. WTF???? In the next few seconds, which felt like an hour, I imagined my life on Rikers, fully aware that I’m not tough enough to fight off the mean lesbians that would want to rape me with a broom handle, wondering if would I take up smoking once I was in there and would I ever move my bowels again if I had to do it in a toilet in the corner of a jail cell? Probably not. But then I snapped out of it and realized that the guy was not dead, not even bleeding (at least externally) and didn’t even need an ambulance. But I had pretty much destroyed his bike so I figured while I was in the holiday spirit, and before anyone else noticed what had happened, I had better offer him a ride to wherever he was heading in such a hurry. Which was his job, it turns out, although I’m not completely certain, as his English was pretty awful. Once I had him in the car with me and was heading 20 miles up the road to the KMart, I took a look at him and started to wonder if it was all a hoax on his part to get me alone so he could have his way with me. Or maybe he was just using me for the ride to finish up his Christmas shopping.

This started to freak me out and now I wanted to dump this guy on the side of the road. Also I was starting to worry that my house might be burned down by the time I got back because I had left that oven on, and even though people do that all the time it still makes me nervous. I was pretty confident this guy was an illegal alien and wouldn’t risk getting deported by calling the cops on me, but he did know where I lived and what if he was in a gang and wanted to seek revenge? I decided to try and find out if he was in a gang, but I don’t speak Spanish and I guess the word for gang isn’t “gango” because he just looked at me like I was crazy. So I kept driving, and then thought maybe he would do me a favor when we got to KMart and run me out a bag of sugar, which would almost make it worth the trip if my house wasn’t on fire.

He nodded when I asked him to grab me a bag of sugar, but he must have been toying with me because I waited ten minutes and he never came back out, not even to thank me for the ride, which, I’m sure you’ll agree was pretty rude. But I thought it best to put mileage between me and the KMart, so I headed back to town, stopped for the sugar and was headed back home to finish up those cupcakes when my phone rang. A shot of adrenaline coursed through my veins for a second when I thought it was the fire department calling about the house, but, thank goodness, it was my friend Joelle. “Hey D. Parker,” she said, “I’m pulling together a little cocktail party this afternoon.”

The cupcakes can wait.

So it’s that crazy time of year when everyone is asking what’s on your Christmas list, and if you are a Christmas baby, like me, they’re also asking what you want for your birthday. If you’ve got kids they want to know what your kids want for Christmas and if you also have a Christmas baby, like me, what he wants for his birthday. And in addition to having to come up with all these ideas you have to also keep track of who is buying what, and be sure not to give an expensive idea to your sister-in-law who is out of work and not give the cheap idea to your millionaire uncle, and also make sure no two people buy the same thing because once the shopping time is over, the last thing you want to do is have at it all over again exchanging things.

I know what your thinking : “D. Parker, what do you want for Christmas?” How thoughtful of you to ask! Well, I’m usually easy to please and am happy with anything, because it’s really the thought that counts, right? I mean I really don’t need a god damn thing, thank goodness, but I do like stuff, and I really am partial to getting presents that are wrapped pretty. But I thought that this year it would be easier to make a list of things I don’t want, rather than the things I want, and I think I may really be onto something here, so in the giving spirit of the holidays I thought I’d share.

Here are some things I definitely do NOT want for Christmas:

I do not want appliances. While some women would be excited to get a new washer and dryer or a new vacuum, or even that fancy-shmancy-one-cup-at-a-time coffee maker, I would not. When I wrote Maverick’s marriage vows I included his promise that he would never give me an appliance as a gift. Although a few years later I would have given my baby’s soul to the devil for a dishwasher, I never rescinded that promise….only amended it slightly to say I would accept an appliance as a gift if it came with a piece of diamond jewelry. Maverick thought he was pretty swift the year he bought me a fancy vibrator but once I took it apart and didn’t find that diamond watch I had been hankering for, I made him return it. Which was really a double whammy because he hates to return things. Plus I’m pretty sure they only gave him store credit. And now that I’m really thinking about it, I’m wondering if those things are even returnable. I kind of hope that they aren’t, because that’s pretty gross. But I digress.

I don’t want anything homemade. Sure, if you are a master baker like my mother I’d love some of your goodies. Just don’t try to pass them off as anything more than a hostess gift. If you insist on giving me something homemade it had better be something homemade that you bought in a store. Miles, Bianca and Max pay attention here: you all have jobs or lots of birthday money in your wallets and you can either drive to the mall or walk to the bus stop or use your father’s credit card to shop on the internet. It was cute when you were little and gave me things like “breakfast in bed” (something I truly abhor, but we can talk about that more as Mother’s Day approaches), “a hug,” drew me a picture or made me a card, but once your teachers stopped helping you make stuff in school those gifts got kind of lame and if you ask me, you just got cheap and lazy. Time to step up to the plate and buy your mother a nice present, from a store, and don’t forget to ask for a box when you buy it so you don’t put a weird shaped package under the tree, it really ruins the whole look. Also, please don’t give me a “Christmas Coupon” that says you’ll do chores around the house. You know what I mean: “this coupon can be redeemed for taking out the trash” or “emptying the dishwasher.” We both know that these are the chores that you are supposed to be doing anyway, and just because you don’t ever do them doesn’t mean you can give them to me for Christmas.

Maverick pay attention to this next one: don’t buy me anything that I will need to make payments on. Yes it’s true that you earn the money, but I manage it, and while it pains me to say this, the days of you popping into the jewelry store and coming out with something that could finance the rebuilding of Haiti are over. Also don’t buy me sexy pajamas. You might want them but I don’t. That’s just a sneaky way of buying yourself a gift and that’s not in the spirit of the season, now, is it??

Speaking of pajamas, I don’t want pajamas of any kind. Three years ago I asked for pajamas and everyone in my extended family bought me pajamas (see what happens when nobody is managing your Christmas list?) and thank you very much I have a different pair of flannel pajamas for every night of the week and that’s enough for me.

Lastly, don’t go rogue and get me some random thing from a random store that I never shop in, unless that store is on the Boulevard Haussmann in Paris or the Via Dei Condotti in Rome. If you think it’s “different” and I would “love it” because you do, you are probably wrong. Be honest with yourself: you and I have never had the same taste.

If you follow these simple guidelines and put a little extra thought into it, I’m sure that I’ll absolutely love whatever you choose for me! But just in case, you had better include the gift receipt.