Dog Days

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

“No comprende Italiano”

Can we all agree that vacations suck? Not the vacations themselves, per se, but the fact that you have to come home when they are over. Maverick always threatens that he is “not coming home this time,” to which I say as long as he can successfully fake his own death so I can collect on the life insurance, we’re good to go. He has thus far failed to follow through on that promise, and we continue to struggle with the “re-entry” especially when we bring home new or certain habits.

For instance, we just got back from Sicily. As you might imagine, life in Sicily is very different from life here. For starters, the people speak a whole other language, nobody speaks English, and admitting that you don’t speak Italian doesn’t change anything. I was just getting used to pantomiming and shouting a combination of French and Spanish peppered with Italian, and adding an “io” to my English when all else failed, because aren’t all the romance languages basically the same anyway? And knock it off, don’t pretend you don’t understand me when I say “no comprende Italiano” even though it was really adorable when that hunky sailor shook his head and pretended he didn’t understand when I told him to come back to America with me. Sure, in Italy it’s usually the much older, married man with the young girl, but here in America it’s all about the cougar. And how about when I tried to make a joke with that waiter, only to discover with dismay that I am not funny in other languages, or perhaps not funny in other countries at all, but somehow I still ended up as a guest on a radio broadcast, speaking made-up Italian words that I learned from the “Pepper Boy” on Saturday Night Live. I am sure I was a big hit, and I can feel my career getting ready to take off, kind of like how Jerry Lewis is so beloved in France. But I knew something was wrong when I said “Ciao!” to my butcher back home and shouted, “MIO WANT QUATTRO FLANK STEAKS!” while gesticulating wildly, and he gave me that blank look he wears so well.

But getting my language skills in check is nothing compared to how I have to tone down my driving. Driving on mainland Italy can be scary, but that’s a walk in the park compared to Sicily. I suppose it would have been helpful to learn their street signs before we got behind the wheel, but that’s not how we roll. Apparently the way I roll is to drive the wrong way up a highway ramp. But that’s not even the scary part. Scary was driving up mountains with hairpin turns, flanked by a cliff edge with no guard rails, and ancient crumbling walls. Oh, and one lane in each direction. OH, and cars passing each other around the turns and when you take your hands off the wheel for just a second to reach behind you for a handful of pistachio nuts (yes, I know it would have been smarter to get nuts that didn’t need to be shelled…) and a car is coming straight at you and you might as well shut your eyes too, because that’s about how effective any of your driving skills will be to get you out of the that pickle. But you are, after all, in the land of the Pope, so you say a quick prayer, which is completely out of character for you, but thank you Lord Jesus, You listened and we made it to the top of Mt. Etna in one piece, and we even toasted You with house wine. That scenario would only repeat itself several more times over the course of our trip.

Until BOOM: like someone flipped a switch we start driving like the natives! It’s awesome!! It might have had something to do with alcohol as we noticed the trip down Mt Etna was much easier than the trip up, after we consumed many, many glasses of wine at a beautiful winery poured by another adorable Sicilian man who didn’t understand my jokes about his “grapes.” Or maybe he did. Anyway, there don’t seem to be any rules or laws regarding drinking and driving in Italy, or I would be locked up by now.

So we were coasting along pretty well until we pulled into Taormina and got the car stuck between two buildings. You are probably saying to yourself, “D.Parker, that doesn’t even sound possible, how can that be?” And to you I respond, “Oh, it be!”
I guess wooden carts pulled by slaves in 300 BC were narrower than the Buongiorno Rental Cars of today. Take my advice, when the travel guide books tell you certain roads are difficult to navigate, they are being serious as a heart attack. All I can say is thank you Jesus, again (I really am going to have to start going to church) that we had those bottles of wine in the car because my claustrophobia would have done me in otherwise, and thank YOU, Cute Buongiorno-Car-Rental Guy, for talking us into the extra insurance, because that car was pretty banged up by the time we got it out, not to mention that we did a real number on the clutch, as was evidenced by the smell of burning metal. But I digress.

The cop that pulled me over for running a red light here at home didn’t speak any Italian, and feigned disinterest when I told him that in Sicily there are no red lights, just traffic circles, which sounds “loco” but it works! Although I did peak his interest when I told him that there is also a very casual attitude about drinking, especially wine, because it’s really just grape juice anyway, right? He looked at me the same way the butcher did, and sternly asked me to step out of the car. Oops.

Quick as a flash I said a prayer to myself as I heard the words leave my mouth, with perfectly rolled “r”s…..”No comprende Inglese!”

Going in for Maintenance

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

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

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

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

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

Good times!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ugh.

SURPRISE!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Times have boy changed!

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.

Royal Fascinators

So did you all get up at 4am on Friday to watch Will and Kate get married? Hmm?? I don’t want to make you jealous (well that’s not really true) but I have to tell you that I, humble D. Parker, was INVITED to the Royal Wedding! To say I was truly honored is like saying Bianca’s boyfriend was nonplussed when I asked him if the strange pair of underpants I found in our laundry were his. I cannot reveal the nature of my relationship with the new Duke and Dutchess of Cambridge, as it would be a breach of their privacy, or as the Brits say it with a short “i,” “PRI-vacy.” Suffice to say when I was vacationing in London a few years ago, I met Will and Kate (and Harry!) in a pub, where I had jumped on stage with a local band who had asked me to help them out with my tambourine skills. By the end of the night, Kate and I were singing karaoke together, I was speaking with an English accent, and much like the owner of the convenience store in her hometown of Bucklebury, I told Kate to remember me if she and Wills ever decided to make it legal.

I know what you’re thinking: “D. Parker, why didn’t we see you on the telly, during the many, many hours of the wedding broadcast?” Well that’s not such a good question, because not all of my readers have ever seen me in person so you wouldn’t know if you saw me on tv or not, but it is a good question in that I actually never did make it into Westminster Abbey but I’ll get to that later.

As soon as my invitation arrived, I quickly made my travel arrangements, and then got to thinking about my outfit for the special day. Should I wear a hat? a “fascinator?” or just go with a small tiara from my personal collection? I had to consider the possibility of the bride borrowing a tiara from the Queen, and I didn’t want to be chastised for trying to upstage her. So I opted to go with a fascinator because I figured I would get a lot of use out of that once I got it back home, what with all the occasions requiring wearing what looks like a bird’s nest on one’s head, and if I didn’t, it would make a great chandelier duster. Worst case scenario, I’d have a new Christmas tree ornament. It was Kate’s special day, not mine, and I wanted to be sure I wouldn’t be doing anything to steal her thunder. At least not during the ceremony (or “cere-mUny” as the Brits say). What went on behind closed doors at the reception would be a completely different scenario, and I was confident that Kate, knowing me as she does, would come prepared with her own microphone and tambourine, probably bedazzled by a fancy designer like Philip Treacy or Stella McCartney, and not assume that she could share mine (personally Bedazzled with fake pearls and cheap crystals, but looking very “bridal” nonetheless).

The days prior to the wedding were like a whirlwind, and faster than I could ask “Do you have any cold beer?” it was go time! There I was, dressed to the nines, on my way to Westminster Abbey, trying not to move my head too much for fear that my fascinator would fall off, but trying to move it enough that a bird wouldn’t decide to lay an egg in it. This was, hands down, the most exciting thing I had ever experienced in my life, if you don’t count the time I saw Adam West, the original “Batman” of my youth, talking to Regis Philbin on the corner of 44th and Sixth. I was literally on the RED CARPET, steps away from the glorious entrance, when I was thrown up against the wall by a Royal Guard. Apparently they all don’t just stand there staring straight ahead for hours on end.

“I beg your pardon madam, but I am going to have to ask you what color your dress is.”
WTF?? Nobody told me there was going to be a quiz! Was this a trick question? As I tried in vain to readjust my fascinator, I noticed Elton John walking by. Damn it, I was missing all the celebs!
“It’s bloody yellow!” I shouted, in my best Cockney accent. I mean this dress was yellower than the belly on a yellow-bellied sap sucker.
“I’m sorry madam, I’m going to have to ask you to step behind the barricades and join the spectators.”
Huh?? There had to be some mistake….or did Bianca’s boyfriend infiltrate the Royal Guard to get back at me for the Underpants Incident? As I dug through my handbag in search of my precious invitation I noticed the Beckhams. Victoria appeared to have some sort of weapon hanging off the front of her hat, and I was hoping she would step close enough to this guard to take his eye out with it so I could give him the slip. But clearly she was using it to keep women away from her beautiful husband, and I was at a loss.

Some of you might be thinking, “D. Parker, don’t you know you aren’t supposed to wear the same color as the Queen?”  Well for god’s sake, did you? This was some anti-American trick to get us back for winning the Revolution, I’m sure of it.  So I was banned from the wedding, just like that.  Forced to stand among the masses who had been camping out for days and days, unshowered and unwilling to share their champagne with someone callous enough to try and outdo HRH Queen Elizabeth II. Who, in my opinion, had bigger fish to fry than me: did you get a look at those awful, homely, Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie? Tell me their outfits were not insulting to the entire country, much less the monarchy! There I was worried a bird might land on my head, when this chick was trying to channel a peacock. And I don’t even know what to say about her sister’s ensemble, except that if she was using the contraption she had strapped to her head to keep the eligible bachelors at a safe distance, she needn’t have worried. And don’t even get me started on that beast, Camilla Parker-Bowles. Let’s just say that her stylist must be a real jokester. (“Camilla, dahling, everyone knows that wearing a drop waisted coat with pleats at the hips is the only way to look slim!”)

Sigh. Things in the States might not seem as exciting, but I can dust my chandelier with my fascinator if I want to, and wear my yellow dress and my tiara wherever, whenever I want. Long Live the Queen. ME!

Amazing Astronomy

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

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

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

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

He will pay for those words too.

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

And the planets quietly slipped out of alignment.

Who recommended that??

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

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

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

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

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

Which could actually work out well for the car seat.