April 28, 2019

The Moving Finger Writes, and Having Writ, Moves On

I recently came across some poor sot’s plea for tips on how to condense her book into the one short paragraph some agents demand. I was once that sot. After each day of trying, I’d leave my laptop for a little scotch and a big cry. I did this for a month. What I eventually did was imagine my 90,000-word novel on the inside of a dust jacket. Woo-hoo! 56 words.

Then I thought about myself – you know, the stuff where authors write third-person descriptions of their glamorous lives. Example: Suzy Schmerringer divides her time between homes in San Francisco and Nantucket. Suzy and her cocker-doodle-schnitzel-terrier, Bo, enjoy long walks on exotic beaches. Woo-hoo! 26 words.

Then I thought: Gee … Maybe an agent would find this too wordy. So I eliminated the part about Bo (who, to be honest, died 16 years ago and never set foot on an exotic beach because of a teensy-weensy bowel issue I won’t get into here, but ask your vet about parasites in cocker-doodle-schnitzel-terriers).

And then I again thought: Gee … Maybe 26 words about my book is also too wordy. So I polished and pared and perfected the description of my book to just one word: The.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

April 24, 2019

The Power of the Pen

Whats on my mind? Theres an unfenced hay field not far from our house. Deer used to wander all over that field. It was their buffet; it was their bed; it was their special spot to poop-poop-a-doo. 

The owner stuck a sizeable sign in the field. It looks scrawled - even crayoned. Nothing fancy. It reads: 

NO TRESPASSING.
HAY FIELD. 

Y know ... I haven’t seen a dear hit that hay field since. Whoever the owner of that field is, Id like him or her to make a sign for our garden, too.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

April 23, 2019

“That’s! Kirk! Douglas!”

What’s on my mind? I’m about to use too many exclamation marks and italics. Hey! I’m an excitable woman! Besides, when you write about acting legend Kirk Douglas, the exclamations and italics tend to overflow.
Kirk Douglas celebrated his 102nd 
birthday last December.  
Anne Buydens, his wife of 64 years, is 100 years old, today. The couple’s 65th wedding anniversary is just five weeks away. And yes, that is a lot of numbers! 

I met Kirk and Anne in 2001, in a retro Palm Springs piano bar called Melvyn’s. That sounds chi-chi, as though we were old pals. We weren’t even new pals. Kirk Douglas had never clapped eyes on me before.

At the time, I had no idea of Melvyn’s history as a Hollywood hangout for the likes of Liz Taylor, Clark Gable, Frank Sinatra, Dinah Shore, and numerous other celebs. 

Together with my former husband, He Who Shall Not Be Named, I dropped by Melvyn’s because I liked the look of the place, lit as it was by thousands of tiny white lights on its roof-line and in the surrounding palms. I’m a sucker for tiny white lights and palms. Name one woman who isn’t and I’ll show you a liar. 

(Women go nuts when we see white lights. We assume we’ve died and gone to heaven, all those years of self-sacrificing having finally paid off.) 

Melvyn’s is a long, narrow room resembling an opulent train. The engine at the top of the room is the piano; anyone who wants to see and hear the lounge singer sits there looking cool ... an old-fashioned word for an old-fashioned, Old Hollywood, place. 

“One drink,” HWSNBN said. We took a seat near the pianist, who seamlessly segued from one equally old show tune to the next. Suddenly HWSNBN leaned into me, whispering: “There’s Kirk Douglas …” 

HWSNBN had been spotting celebrities left and right for the two or three days we’d been in Palm Springs. His so-called “celebrity sightings” were hilariously incorrect. 

Because of that, I sloughed him off with a disbelieving “Yeah, yeah …” and continued to focus on the pianist. Sipping my drink, I raised my eyes to the couple sitting opposite us. Clutching HWSNBN’s arm in a vice-grip, I hissed: “That’s! Kirk! Douglas!”

“I’ve already told you that,” he said. 

It! Really! Is! I rasped. “Do! Not! Make! Eye! Contact! Do! Not! Look! At! Him!” 

“I’m not looking,” he said, downing his drink. “Time to go!” 

When HWSNBN said “one drink,” he meant “one drink” - for him. I’d barely begun sipping mine. 

As HWSNBN sauntered down Melvyns long, thin train of Hollywood history, he made the ridiculous assumption that I was following. 

From the top of the room, I saw a doorman in gold epaulettes bow to show him out. (GOLD EPAULETTES! Only doormen at Melvyn’s and parade drum bangers wear GOLD EPAULETTES!) HWSNBN reciprocated in kind, gesturing for me to exit first. His gesture met empty air. 

What HWSNBN saw down the long hallway that is Melvyns was his star-struck wife, kneeling before Kirk Douglas like a novitiate, clutching his hand.

I, on the other hand, saw HWSNBN’s retreating backside as an opportunity to meet Kirk Douglas. Bounding to the spot Kirk and Anne occupied, I ignored my fast-growing suspicion that - other than the 1950s Photoplay magazines my mother used to read - the sum total of my Kirk Douglas Information Directory was zip n zero. 

Nor did it matter that I’d seen only one of Kirks more than 80 films. In the one I saw, he rode a horse and wore chainmail and a breast plate. Good enough.

I had no idea Kirk Douglas ranked 17th on the American Film Institute’s list of the greatest American male screen legends of all time. All I knew was that I was in the presence of an actor famous enough to have been in Photoplay, and that he’d been sitting directly opposite us. This, I reasoned, was an open invitation to tell him how much I loved and admired him and had seen every single movie he’d ever made. Sorta. 

By this time, HWSNBN was rapidly advancing with lips like a wire and a face that suggested he wasn’t pleased to find me kneeling at Kirk Douglas’ lap. It could have been worse. I could have been sitting on his lap. It could have been much, much worse, but his wife was there and Kirk is old and honey, lets not go there.

I lisp when I get nervous, so at the very moment HWSNBN tried to extract me, I was stroking Kirk Douglas’s soft, marshmallow hand, fawning: “Ohhh, Mither Douglath, I loved you in Ben Hur!” Kirk looked chagrined. I’d forgotten Charlton Heston starred in Ben Hur. Seen one breast plate, seen ’em all.

It was obvious even to me that Kirk Douglas had had enough.

Although he was still recovering from the effects of the stroke that had impaired his speech, he managed to choke out the words: “Where ya from, dear?” 

“Vang-coo-ver,” I said, continuing to kneel in adoration. 

Extricating himself from my iron grip, he patted my hand dismissively, saying: “Well, you just have a re-e-al nice time.”

HWSNBN was steamed. I recall his exact words as he hustled me out the door: “One drink! One! Too many!”

© Nicole Parton, 2019

April 22, 2019

A Tail of Seduction

What’s on my mind? We said we’d never do this. Never, ever, ever. We lied.

We said our lives were too busy. We said our house was too small. We said this would complicate our travels. We said we didn’t have time. We said the care and later complications would be expensive, as they probably would be. We said we were too old, which we actually aren’t. 

But we also said - correctly - that our house is filled with love. We said it would be a squeeze, but we were ready to squeeze in one more. 

Until we came to our senses and decided we couldn’t offer a dog the many good things a dog needs - the first, being time. But let me tell you why we were almost swept away.

We briefly set out hearts on a black Lab born on a nearby farm earlier this year. We’d read about these pups in the local paper: “Sixteen purebred Lab puppies born in one litter on Island farm,” read the headline. Below it, the subhead: “Birthing continued for close to seven hours.” 

It’s not often a litter of pups makes the news, but a litter of 16? In the semi-rural Island community where we live, this is big news. It’s also what happens when two wet noses start to fool around. The massive litter was three-year-old mother Sophie’s first, just as it was 18-month-old Louie’s. Each is a purebred black Lab. 

Beside the obvious, two things attracted us to the story in the local paper: The dogs’ owner told the reporter: “These dogs (Sophie and Louie) have grown up with the cows, the alpacas, they run with them … We have 10 acres, they run like crazy.”

As the reporter wrote: “Many animals have been born on the family farm including cows, sheep, alpacas and even their daughter.” I couldn’t make this stuff up.

We laughed and laughed until we thought: “Hmmm …” 

I once had a purebred black Lab named Spike. He was the last Spike, I’m sure, and sadly, the last Lab in a line of several dogs, each loving and loved. 

They say you’re never really free until the kids leave home and the dog dies. This, also sadly, is true. It is better to have loved and been loved by a dog, than never to have loved a dog - and been loved back. 

The farmer will by now have found another taker, the reporter will have found another story, and some perfect person will have provided the perfect home for the perfect puppy. With resignation and a smile, all will be perfect, in this imperfect world.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

April 19, 2019

VISA Would Probably Nix It

What’s on my mind? Handbags. Not ordinary “purses,” but the tonier-sounding “handbags.”

Paradoxically, you always know a woman has prestige and status when she doesn’t carry a bag. I say “paradoxically” because QE II totes a handbag (not a “purse” but a “handbag”) with nothing in it. Oh, maybe a cough drop, but otherwise, nothing.

She famously uses her bag as a signaling device to ladies-in-waiting (“Save me from this boring dame”) or to her discreet Personal Protection Officers (“Drag this dude to the dungeon”), as the situation requires. 

Have you ever seen a TV cop vault a chain-link fence with a purse slung over her shoulder? No way, Jose.

Does Melania Trump carry a purse? Does a G-7-bound Angela Merkel? Nope and nope. So where do these women stash their Kleenex? Up their sleeves? In their bras? In a money belt under their panties? 

The really rich don’t need a purse. An unobtrusive human lapdog follows at their heels, anticipating every need - alms for the poor, pens for autograph books, diapers … Yes, diapers. Kim Kardashian once stuffed baby North’s cheddar snacks and diapers into a $50,000 Hermes bag. 

I would never buy such a bag. Although I dutifully pay my bills in full and on time, VISA would probably nix it. As the TV ad for one US credit card asks: “What’s in your wallet?” There ain’t no $50,000 purses, and that’s fer dam-shure.  

“Man purses” have a certain cachet in places like Europe and Greece. Let’s not go there. Man purses are nothing like handbags. Women collect handbags. Purse genius Kate Spade knew that. And so do the likes of Chanel and YSL. 

I have a little secret! I, too, boast a modest collection of color-coordinated bags. Crafted from elegant plastic, they match my plastic shoes. If Melania carried a purse, they’d surely match her shoes - and what I’d never-ever want, is to be in Melania’s shoes.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

April 15, 2019

From Russia, with Love

What’s on my mind? I’m still breathing heavily following the four-page summary and continuing fallout from the Mueller Report. I look forward to more. 

Having said that, I’ve just come across an extremely disrespectful parody of US President Donald Trump’s close but secretive relationship with Russian President Vladimir Putin. Please do not watch or listen to the links, I beg of you!

Привет, comrades! This is Boris Goodenough, with the show you’ve all been waiting for … Live from Vladivostock, it’s Rus-sian Band-sta-a-a-nd! 


Wasn’t that great? Wasn’t it just great? And now it’s time for that special portion of the show I know you’re anxious to hear. Let’s give it up for Donald Trump’s Serenade of Love!

Trump to Putin: Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies …


Trump to Putin: Listen! Do you want to know a secret?


Trump to Putin: Wish we didn’t have to meet secretly …



With thanks to YouTube contributors; Comments © Nicole Parton, 2019


April 13, 2019

Ms. Vanilla Pudding Morphs Into ...

What’s on my mind? Full frontal crudity.

Thousands may disagree, but I normally consider myself a polite person. You’re probably polite, too. Polite people are nice people. We like our neighbors. We pet dogs. We smile and wave at babies. We listen to dull stories, feigning interest/concern/amusement/sadness … whatever the story requires. We send birthday and holiday greetings. We bake cookies. We’re driven by politeness, falling just short of groveling.

When a normally polite person loses it … When all that bottled-up politeness rises to the surface like bubbling lava … When Mr. or Ms. Vanilla Pudding morphs into the Incredible Hulk …

Yesterday, I invited Himself and my bestie Hezzah to lunch at a budget-breaking restaurant. Hezzah and I often lunch together, but having a man to flatter us is a pleasant perk. 

Along came our server - young, eager, sweet-natured, bright-eyed, and well trained in the Server’s Standard Script. I’ve written about the SSS before (Fed Up! Mar. 3, 2019). I detest it. 

With only minor variations, the SSS has three basic components: 

1/ The opening gambit: “How’s your day been, so far?” 

2/ The insurance policy: “How are those first few bites tasting?”

3/ The clincher: “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”

While Part 2 makes good sense, Parts 1 and 3 infuriate me. To the first question, I usually mask my feelings, offer a vapid smile, and say something meaningless like: “Oh, this and that …” This always pleases the server, who leaves the table satisfied to have made it through yet another SSS. 

Occasionally, I toy with the idea of saying, “At 9:30, I went to yoga and got all pretzeled up; at 10:15, I had coffee with my friend Alice, and then we did a little window-shopping; at 11:30, I had the car washed … and here I am now!”

But that would be mean. The questions are scripted and the server really doesn’t give a damn. I know that. She knows that. We all know that. It’s the “What are your plans for the rest of the day?” question that annoys me most.
No matter how much I want to rip the server’s head off, polite people don’t deliberately inflict discomfort on well-meaning people trying to do their jobs.

I sometimes think I’ll say: “It’s none of your business,” or “Why are you asking?” but that would be rude. 

Yesterday was different. Yesterday, when our bright-eyed server beamed down at us - three wrinkled, graying, paunchy seniors - I knew she was zeroing in on the clincher. 

Her perky little mouth cheep-cheeped: “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”  

As I bent over the bill, calculating the tip, something in me snapped. I’d truly had enough. I know the patter’s been shown to improve tips, but I couldn’t bear to hear it one more time, and just had. 

I heard the words in sl-o-o-ow motion, as though she were swimming through molasses: “Wha-a-at  ar-r-re  you-r-r-r  pla-a-a-ns  for-r-r  the  r-r-rest  of  the da-a-a-y?”

I looked up, smiled, and ever-so-casually lied: “We’re going home to have a threesome.” 

It was worth it just to see her jaw hit the floor.

I wasn’t referring to canasta, either.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

April 11, 2019

The Old Gray Mare, She Ain’t What She Used to Be …

What's on my mind? A word to the wise for those of you who are ... um ... aging. Anyone 39 years or younger may skip over these words.

I recently posted a very nice online photo of myself - the best taken in 10 years. That’s because it’s 10 years old. Some 4,000 days have since passed (video of calendar pages rapidly flipping in the wind).

I now have a Mandatory Online Photo Protocol for all grandmotherly types over 70 who no longer draw male whistles and winks: 

(1) Don’t post any photo that shows you falling into a vat of porridge; 

(2) Don’t post any photo that shows you standing in a police lineup; 

(3) Don’t post any photo that shows you naked unless your (medical term to follow) boobs (a) look really, really, really good; (b) aren’t directly connected to your chin or your stomach and (c) don’t bruise your kneecaps; 

(4) Don’t post any photo that shows you and a shar-pei separated at birth; 

(5) Don’t post any photo that features your face, neck, upper arms, stomach, thighs, or butt; 

(6) Don’t post any photo that magnifies your nose and chin hairs while highlighting your ever-shorter eyelashes; 

(7) Don’t post any photo that looks like your passport; 

(8) Don’t post any photo that magnifies your derrière; 

(9) Don’t post any photo in which you look like Zsa Zsa Gabor in her final days; 

(10) Don’t post any photo. 

© Nicole Parton, 2019

April 8, 2019

Portrait of a Loser

What’s on my mind? A cautionary tale about greed, playing fair, and isolationism:

The lonely boy had everything except friends. Laughing and pointing at him, his father called him a loser.

“You'll never get anywhere with that handful of marbles!” he said. “Invite some boys to play. Tell them to bring their marbles.”

So the lonely boy did, putting up a rare purple cat’s-eye he promised to whomever won the game. His father bought him the cats-eye because his father urged him to win, no matter the cost.

When it came time to divide the spoils, the lonely boy falsely claimed the winner had cheated. The lonely boy took back the cat’s-eye, all his other marbles, and all of everyone else’s marbles. When the other boys protested, the lonely boy had a tantrum, upon which his father ordered everyone to leave.

The lonely boy now had the most marbles, but wanted more, and more, and still more. He had more marbles than anyone he’d ever met, but nonetheless inflated the numbers with untrue boasts.

The lonely boy had many hangers-on and others who feared him. Sometimes, he counted his marbles in secret, just because he could and because he believed no one could stop him.

The odd thing was, the more marbles the lonely boy had, the less people liked and respected him. The odder thing was, the more marbles the lonely boy had, the fewer friends he had. The oddest thing was, the more marbles he had, the more often people whispered: “Donalds lost his marbles.” 

© Nicole Parton, 2019

April 6, 2019

Who Was She?

What’s on my mind?

Her lidless canning jars, turned up, catching the dust. Her Parowax, to top the jams and jellies she once made. Her salad spinner, wok, spice rack. Her collection of embroidered pillows with polyester-stitched kittens, rainbows, beaming children on swings. Her mismatched plates of all sizes, teetering in a pile marked ASK FOR HELP.

Her haphazard collection of tea tins, cookie tins, Christmas tins, cake tins. Nineteen of them; I counted. The vintage ones would have been snapped up when the sale began an hour ago; these are the dregs. Her large and larger roasting pans - so spotless, they appear never to have held a turkey or a roast. 

Perhaps she scrubbed them with a fervor known only under revival tents. Perhaps she and he - their grown children too busy to come - lined up for the 4 o’clock Christmas and Easter specials in one of those cafés so accommodating to lonely seniors.

Her drinking glasses; no three alike. Her vases - the cheap, free kind that arrive with a florist’s knock - so many, and so dusty, he probably died long ago. 

Her tired saucepans; pressure cooker; canner; jelly molds ... All on the wooden shelves he built in the days before DYI plastic shelving. I suspect he would have built them. She probably wasn’t the hammer-and saw type, what with the embroidered pillows and all.

Her cast iron skillets. Her angel cake pan. Her teapot. Her plastic and foil wraps (Will this sale extract the very last dime from her possessions?).

Walking from room to room, I think: “How could she have wanted to stay in this house, with its run-down garden and whiff of mold in the walls? How could she? Why didn’t she just … get cracking and move?”

I looked her up. Not so hard to do. Criss-cross the address to the phone; criss-cross the phone to the name; criss-cross the name to the obit. She died at 94. Why didn’t she just pack up and leave?

Too tired, I suppose. Too old. Too many memories in these musty walls; in that overgrown garden with its high yellow grass. Why didn’t she just cut the lawn?

A faded family photograph - circa late 1800s - of a uniformed soldier looking chuffed for God-only-knows which war; his wife, looking dour; two bedraggled children, looking bewildered. Did his effort make a difference, or was it for naught? Did he die in the war? Did he return to this woman and to these small children? If he did, was he the same man who left?

Who was she? Her name, I already know, but who was she? Was her mother or her grandmother one of the children in the photo? The house is for sale. A knock-down, likely. 

The infinite, immeasurable sadness of the things she once loved! Her adult children - if she had any - would have said: “No thanks, Mum! We don’t want your pressure cooker! You can keep those pillows!”

The sale ad showed a framed portrait of Queen Victoria - somber in widow’s weeds and lace; a fan in her left hand, her right resting on a small table. The picture bears a plaque headed: IN MEMORIAM OF OUR BELOVED QUEEN VICTORIA. It was gone when we arrived. An antique dealer would have snatched it up. 

The infinite, immeasurable sadness … Who was she? 

© Nicole Parton, 2019