Category: Uncategorized

I don’t really want to get all political in my blog.  And you have to admit that I have done a good job of avoiding the topic, despite the fact that Trump was the gift that kept on giving… even though it’s the gift you hate and don’t even want to touch but you have to return it and they won’t let you cause you don’t have a gift receipt… and they insist you can only get store credit, but you hate the store and wouldn’t ever shop there, and you just want to get out of there and they won’t let you leave and then you realize that there is a huge wall covering the exit all of a sudden… and as you panic and start to sweat you wake up and realize it was all a bad dream.  Except then you look at your phone and see the date is November 8th and the nightmare is all too real.

If Trump wins in New Jersey by one vote, and I mean one regular vote, not an electoral college vote cause I’m pretty sure, but not positive, that the regular votes count towards the electoral college votes, it will be Charlie’s fault.  He turned 18 this year and even though his voter registration card arrived in the mail here months ago, and I reminded him SEVERAL TIMES to apply for an absentee ballot at college, he texted me last night to say he hadn’t.  “The stupid-ass website kept on screwing up,” he explained.  “Maybe I should just register as a New York resident instead.”  I told him that was an awesome idea, and as soon as he could find one of the utility bills for his dorm room, retake the driver’s written and road tests at the NYDMV, he could go ahead and do that.  But since the DMV was already closed for the night, his car parked several hundred miles away, and his utilities are included in his bargain-basement-priced tuition, that probably wasn’t gonna work.  “Can you vote for me somehow?” he reasoned, which considering all the other things I used to do for him, kinda sorta made sense, and for that I am deeply sorry.  “OH, you mean ’cause like your voter registration card is here in your desk?  Yeah, no, that’s what they call VOTER FRAUD!”  “Can you just do it anyway?” he pleaded like he was asking me to make him a peanut butter sandwich. “Well, no,” I told him as calmly as I could, “’cause when you go vote you have to show ID ’cause it’s like VERY IMPORTANT!”

Fast forward to this morning when I headed over to my new polling place, feeling very proud for women, trying to shed a tear, and wishing I lived closer to the Susan B. Anthony gravesite so I could take a selfie with her…tombstone.   I was shocked when the polling people told me I wasn’t in the book.  WTF??  I had made sure to go online and change my address and made it all nice for Mav and me to vote cause he was really freaking out about it for like two months.  And when he came home this morning after being the first to vote at our new polling place at 6am I was so relieved not only because he came home with breakfast buns, but because he didn’t have any issues voting that he could have blamed on me.  But I was mostly excited about the buns.  I love a sweet roll with my coffee and let’s all admit today is a like a holiday.  We are all stressed about the election and whether we are celebrating or trying real hard not to kill ourselves, cocktails are in order for all by noon, but at 7am coffee and sweet buns will suffice.

Anyway, there I was trying to help the voting person find my name in the book.  “That’s my husband,” I declared, as I pointed to his signature in the holy polling book.  “He voted already,” the voting person said. “Yes, he did and he brought home buns to celebrate,” I replied, when I noticed Charlie’s name in the book right above Mav’s.  “That’s my son,” I said, suddenly, oddly, considering his request to vote for him, because for some reason my name wasn’t there.  What to do??  I was about to make a run for it, go home and come back with Charlie’s voter ID card and wearing a latex mask, when a lovely woman led me over to a private table with a paper ballot.  “But will my vote be counted?” I cried.  “Of course!” she said giving me a little hug.  “Ok,” I said, quietly, trying to contain a sob.

I wouldn’t leave without my “I Voted” sticker, but once outside I felt proud and hopeful.  The sun was shining, I had just cast my vote for, possibly, the first woman President of the United States, and I felt like anything was possible.  Sure, I could lose that extra five pounds I carry around, and why not get a job, I have the time!  And hey, I should play more tennis, and why not buy those designer shoes I had been eyeing up?  Suddenly I was thirsty and texted Mav to come straight home from work I was mixing up a pitcher of Election Day Cocktails.

By 5:30pm we were sufficiently buzzed and equally full of hope, belting out the soundtrack of “Hamilton” while I tossed a kale and Brussels sprouts salad.  We would lose that weight, I would, maybe, consider thinking about getting a job, I will definitely make myself another cocktail and I hopefully pass out and not have that nightmare about trying to return that gift and when I wake up tomorrow maybe the world will be a better place.  And I promise never to write about politics ever again.

#imwithher

I almost got killed, AGAIN, in the Trader Joe’s parking lot.  I swear to god you take your life in your hands over there.  You would think that they were giving the groceries away for free, on the last shopping day before Christmas which also happened to be the day before a big blizzard.  Except it’s not Christmas, there’s no storm and nothing is free, not even a sample of cheese, but people are pulling into and out of parking spots at record speed with no regard for anything or anyone. When I literally banged on the side panel of someone’s car to keep from being run over, the driver looked at me like I was the crazy one.  I know, I know I usually am the crazy one, but today she had me beat.  At the same place last week I witnessed two cars crash into each other.  Apparently it was more upsetting to me than to either of the drivers, who didn’t even get out of their cars to see the damage…they merely stared each other down for a second and then sped off in opposite directions.  Weird.

So I got to thinking about what a dangerous life I lead.  You probably think I live a very simple life…no daring adventures, always safe and warm.  “D.Parker,” I can hear you thinking, “you’re a housewife! Nothin’ dangerous about that!”  Even though I am offended by your loose use of the term “housewife,” I will save that argument for another time and instead just say that you are way wrong.

Being me can be very dangerous…not many 50 year olds break their foot dancing at a wedding.  And, no, I don’t need a bone density test, I just happen to have some very enthusiastic moves.  But being a so called “housewife” can be extremely treacherous for anyone.  I’m not just talking about bleeding to death in the shower when you cut your leg with a rusty Lady Bic ’cause your husband caught you using his razor (after a decade), had a fit and threatened divorce. (Mine plainly stated that he regards death by exsanguination a suitable punishment in retaliation for ten years of shaving nicks.  Had I believed it was truly my fault he would emerge from the bathroom with tiny scraps of toilet paper stuck to his face, I might have invested in a Venus, but I digress.)  Or choking on the foil of a wine bottle as you tear it off with your teeth.  Or slipping on the way out of the shower because someone moved the bath mat.

But lets face it the kitchen, alone, is a dangerous place.  I’m sure I’m not the only person who has dropped a knife onto her bare foot…blade down…, gotten burned taking a pan out of the oven because you forgot that someone invented potholders, or suffered a concussion from banging your head on an open cabinet while emptying the dishwasher.  We’ve all endured stitches in our hand from chopping or mincing or dicing, right? Do I need to discuss the “mandolin?”  Swear to god I just say the name of that medieval contraption and my fingers spontaneously bleed.  Suffice to say, when I can purchase fruit or vegetables pre-chopped, or get the butcher to slice my meat, I am all in.  I just wish he wouldn’t roll his eyes  when I ask for “bite-sized pieces.”

Perhaps I raised things to the next level on the Danger Zone when I was pregnant and set myself on fire.  I still blame my fluffy bathrobe: the way the bow protruded several extra inches off my huge belly just teased the flame off the stove as I, selflessly, slaved over a hot pan of scrambled eggs.  If you have never been ignited take my word for it, everything they say is true: flames spread faster than you think and trying to blow them out is not a good idea.  Also note that special skills are required to stop, drop and roll in your ninth month.   Contrary to public opinion I am not an idiot, and I definitely learned my lesson.  After it happened the second time I stayed away from the stove and let the little bastards eat microwaved food ’cause there was no way I was gonna ruin another bathrobe.

Moving on from the dangers of the kitchen, let’s ponder the times we’ve burned ourselves on the iron checking to see if it was hot enough, and all the hickys we’ve gotten from the vacuum cleaner.  As my nine-year-old niece would say, “I know, right?” More mysteriously, I continually cut my hands taking laundry out of the washer..I swear there’s a tiny demon  with a switchblade in there, and I don’t know what I did to piss him off.  I may have to give up laundry like I gave up scrambling eggs.

Watering plants seems like a safe and mundane chore.  Who knew that heinous yellow jackets like to build nests in flower pots and then get really, really angry when they get wet?  The ones I befriended came at my ankles in a swarm, stinging me as I ran into my house.  A few of the tiny fiends followed me in and just wouldn’t let up.  Shout out to Charles who seemed to enjoy watching the scene unfold.  I’m all for “art” but if I had stood there making a video of you getting stung, instead of running for your Epipen, I’d be in the clink.

All this being said, I’d never considered the perils of food shopping, despite the adventurous nature of the task.  Climbing the shelves to reach that last Entenmann’s Chocolate Fudge Cake, braving frost bite searching for the frozen broccoli florets sans butter sauce, never knowing when someone is going to clip your ankle with their shopping cart, all cheeky fun!  I had thought the only time I had to worry about being hit by a car was walking across the high school parking lot, or in my driveway, but clearly I was mistaken.  Friends, you read it here first, the supermarket parking lot is a death trap!

Will I have to give up food shopping too?

I ran a 5K Sunday.  I’m pausing here to bend an ear and listen for the faint sound of applause.  No sound.  Perhaps everyone is shocked.  I don’t blame you: I’ve painted a picture of myself as a very lazy person.  Don’t worry that hasn’t changed.  I’m still a loser. But a weird thing happened during my hiatus from this blog.  Well, actually, lots of weird things happened, but the weirdest thing was that I unwittingly became a runner.  Wait, “a runner” may be too strong a phrase…let’s just say I run.

My life-long relationship with running is long and tumultuous.  My father was a runner.  He was a runner before it was cool. He was also into health foods, taking us to museums and basically being a good father, also very un-cool at the time.  Turns out he was very cool, but I digress.  Nevertheless, he would go for a run each evening, us left to bicker and drool at the dinner table, stomachs growling, in wait for him, while my mother tried to keep the dinner from drying out or getting cold.  He’d finally return, dripping with sweat, exhilarated and apologetic, and try to tease us into running with him the next time.  I would have rather gouged my own eyes out with a grapefruit spoon.

Fast forward to my sophomore year of high school, when I learned that I could avoid taking gym class if I was on a team.  I hated gym for many reasons above and beyond my extreme lack of athleticism, coordination and self-esteem.  Mostly, I didn’t want to get changed in the locker room…I was positive that the sight of my flat chest and cotton underpants would somehow catch the attention of, and enrage, the tough girls who had boobs and wore sexy panties, who would subsequently attempt to beat the shit out of me. Getting the shit kicked out of me in the locker room in my underwear, was far worse than getting the shit kicked out of me anyplace else, which I also feared. Looking back I can’t recall why I was always so sure I was on the verge of being beat up, but as Donald Trump would say, believe me.  If I made it out of the locker room alive, the next gym hurdle, was…Dodgeball.  Need I say more?  Little D.Parker was always the last kid standing in this ridiculous game that should really be called “BULLYball” because that’s what it is.  I would hide behind anyone until everyone was out, my opponent left salivating in anticipation. The Goon would carefully set up his shot, usually right at my head, with extra cheers and jeers if he could knock my mauve-tinted, Gloria Vanderbilt, coke-bottle eyeglasses askew. Good times.  Lastly, the rumors that THIS would be the year we would be made to shower before going back to class, left me begging my parents to home-school me.  I will leave you to imagine what my thoughts on being naked in front of the tough girls were.  Suffice to say I had a recurring nightmare of being in the “Carrie” shower scene, if Carrie were a skinny, hairy, Italian girl with no special powers to unleash a bloodbath on my peers.

As my parents failed to grasp the urgency of my situation, my only option  was to join a team.  The only sports I could “do” were the individual ones. I was a pretty good swimmer, but there was no way I was gonna get up at five, go swim, then “do” my hair, which required two to three hours, depending upon the weather, two electrical appliances and several different products, in time for class.

That left track as the only viable option, providing the bonus of getting to watch the football players practice and who knew where that could lead?  I also had it on pret-ty good authority that the girls track coach was a huge pot head and a lesbian, so how hard could it be?  The answer was VERY HARD.  I barely made it through one semester.  I’m not gonna lie, the bloomers that they called our uniform may have also had some bearing on my decision.

Who knew that one day I’d go back.  Don’t get excited.  I’m into it only because it makes me sweat and then I can eat a guilt-free lunch.  And maybe also have a drink at lunch and then also eat carbs at dinner and have another drink.  A very, vicious cycle but when you get to be my age and your metabolism drops like a bag of dirt you have to think outside the box.  Throw my obsessive compulsive nature into the mix, that once I start in on something I have a hard time stopping, (a scary thought because I just realized I would make a great heroin addict), and my goose was cooked.  I’m a runner.

I’ve heard about people who love running who say they get this “runner’s high” and they can run for hours and hours and days and days.  I think they are liars.  I hate it…every aching, boring step.  Thank god for Bunny who runs with me and hates it as much as I do, cause there’s no way I could ever duct tape my earbuds in and just hit the trails alone.  No. Freakin’. Way.  We distract ourselves by discussing the important issues of the day, such as the Brangelina breakup, what I drank for dinner last night, and what we will watch on Netflix that afternoon…and when we run out of important topics we bitch and moan about how much we HATE RUNNING.  Which can actually be quite debilitating and not at all conducive to reaching that illusive runners high.

But we are as charitable as the next gal, so when we hear there is a run for a cause, as long as there are cocktails afterwards, we are in!  I don’t know how much you know about running, or exercise in general, but I can tell you that staying hydrated is extremely important.  So there we were Sunday, crawling across the finish line towards the cocktail bar, completely depleted of electrolytes and anything even remotely boring to talk about.  Don’t ask what our time was, we don’t give a shit and neither should you.  Once we had our giant Bloody Marys in hand, we were able to  segue from feeling really bad about ourselves, to feeling pretty damn proud. We decided to go watch the rest of the crowd cross the finish line: you know, cheer them on like all those people that didn’t cheer us on, which I am rather bitter about, but I digress. “Let’s see who we did beat!” I exclaimed.

It pains me to report that the group who crossed the finish after us consisted of paraplegics, mothers pushing double strollers containing infants  whose umbilical stumps were still pulsing, firemen in full gear carrying oxygen tanks, a few small dogs, one three-legged dog, and the elderly who represented in equal shares, wheelchairs and canes.  Oh, and one child that may or may not have been under ten.  She looked like a real loser.