Advice to the Lovelorn: How to Meet a Man

What’s on my mind? The other day, while biting into a chicken salad, my friend “J” lost a tooth. “J” says she chomped a chunk of gristle. Knowing “J,” Himself says she probably bit off more than she could chew - that being the cap of a beer bottle. 

A-ny-hoo, I am far, far too discreet to reveal “J’s” full initials. As for outing Judy Peterson’s identity, I won’t say one word. Okay, maybe three or four …

“J” and I have been friends for 52 years - even longer than I’ve kept some of the leftovers in my fridge. “J” has been our house guest for the past couple of days. Which is how she came to find that the Tooth Fairy had magically left a quarter under her pillow, her tooth having fallen out, and all. 

(For a modest fee of $25 US, I will send you an un-retouched photo of a grinning Judy’s entire face, sans tooth. Handling and emailing charges apply).

Late yesterday afternoon, while “J” and I were sauntering around the block, we met a stunningly gorgeous man. He was 80 years old, 80 pounds overweight, sweaty, and bald. What made him so stunningly gorgeous was that my once-finely honed  hunting instincts screamed that he was a widower. My toothless friend “J” is single. This was a match made in heaven.

He smiled and nodded. She smiled (mouth closed) and nodded. He said something about gardening. She might have said something about the weather, but with her mouth closed, it sounded like: “Mmmff-mmmff-mmmff!” I’m not really sure what they did or didn’t say. Details, shmetails!

With a small, friendly wave, the stunningly gorgeous widower turned his back to us and began drifting into his house. All I could think of was that this magic moment mustn’t end! In seconds, I’d hatched a plan.

“JU-DY!” I rasped. (That’s Judy Peterson, aka my friend “J,” as you’ll remember).

“Pretend to fall down! I’ll catch you and I’ll scream ‘Help! Help!’ and he’ll come running and I’ll say ‘She’s fainted!’ and he’ll carry you into his house and you’ll be married in three weeks.”

That was the advice I gave Judy Peterson, whose full initials I am too polite to reveal. I thought about giving her some fake name - “Judy Paulsen,” for example - but Judy Paulsen is another friend (with a full set of teeth, mind you) who may not appreciate being confused with “J.”

On hearing my plan, “J” turned to me with one of those looks that said: “Ya gotta be kiddin’…” and tapped the hole in her mouth with her finger.

You snooze, you lose: The stunningly gorgeous widower would probably have given her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and would probably have got his tongue stuck in the gap in her teeth as she lay spread-eagled on the pavement. I believe being spread-eagled on the pavement is a great way to spark a whirlwind engagement and marriage, but “J” missed the boat on that one, yep-yep-yep!

Today, “J” and I took a walk through some nearby woods (constantly on the lookout that the stunningly gorgeous widower might just be following us). 

The susuration of the wind whistling through the trees and through the hole in “J’s” mouth made for some beautiful music! Unfortunately, “J” doesn’t appreciate the beauty of nature, kvetching that the wind blowing through the hole in her mouth left her with nerve pain.

So I hatched another plan, quite similar to the first (except for the mouth-to-mouth resuscitation part). To hell with the tooth, I thought. We’re going to walk by that stunningly gorgeous widower’s house as soon as I finish writing this post.

At the very moment “J’s” not looking, I’m going to stick out my foot, deliberately trip her, and start calling for help as soon as she loses consciousness. I’ve always wanted to be someone’s matron-of-honor, and this is my big chance.

So here’s a preview photo of “J,” covering up her mouth. You can see it all, with my 100% satisfaction guaranteed $25 US upfront email offer. Operators are standing by.

We will not reveal this woman’s true identity, but this is NOT! NOT! NOT! Judy Peterson. This is Judy Paulsen.

©  Nicole Parton, 2019

Gardening is Like Sex

What’s on my mind? Berberis Buxifolia, which sounds like the catch of the day in a Portuguese restaurant, but isn’t. 

I recently bought a Berberis Buxifolia to fill an empty spot in the garden. It was small, scrawny, and needed TLC. I am tall, brawny, with TLC to spare. I liked that the BB had tiny yellow flowers that would morph into edible berries. I liked that a lot. 

Himself asked where he should plant it. 

“There,” I said. 

“What does the tag say?” he asked. 

“There is no tag,” I said. 

So I looked up “Berberis Buxifolia” on the Internet. “Height: 9 ft. Width: 8 ft.” I took it back to the garden center.

I bought another plant that did have a tag - which I didn’t read. “It’s gorgeous!” I said, loading it onto my shopping cart. 

“Be sure to trim it back,” said the Garden Center Lady. “And contain it.” 

“My husband likes stuff wild and free,” I said. “He won’t want to cut it.” 

Her eyebrows shot up like firecrackers. “Your choice,” she said. 

When I got around to reading the tag, I noticed it read “Bamboo.” I returned it to the garden center, too.

Gardening is like sex. We’ve done it before, but not for awhile. 

I’ve written about the rabbits that hide behind every bush and peek over every flower in our garden. The Garden Center Lady said blood meal would deter them. I’ve written about the deer that nose through the tenderest of our plants before ripping them out with their teeth. The Garden Center Lady said a product called Bobbex would stop them, too. 

When I mentioned this to an experienced gardener in my walking group, she said: “But deer love blood meal! And rabbits love Bobbex!” The deer and the rabbits are still dining out in our garden: They’ve just traded places at the banquet table.

© Nicole Parton, 2019 

The Lurkers

What’s on my mind? We call them the lurkers. 

No, not the deer, whose early-morning raids are brazen and obvious. A big chomp here. A little chomp there. Everywhere a chomp-chomp.

The lurkers don’t take. They give and give and give. Hiding under bushes, lurking in flower beds, they grow larger and heavier by the minute - until, at last, one of us says: “Good grief, here’s another!” The first to show itself was small, tucked under the flowers. Back then, we had no idea what awaited. No idea at all …

Friday, I followed the winding vines to count seven. I couldn’t hack my way through to the rest. And now …? 

We can’t possibly keep up. We’ll soon have no choice but to wrap them in swaddling clothes and deposit them on doorsteps, hoping they’ll find their “forever home.”

Take my advice. Never put two squash plants in your garden. One is bad enough: A family of five could dine for weeks on the single, small plant you start with. It will grow and grow and grow. Plant two and you’ve got trouble. 

Himself says planting two varieties of squash was an “experiment.” Frankenstein was also an “experiment,” and look how that turned out. So I’ll quote from that famous book. 

The squash? “Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful.” 

Himself? “Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does the beauties of nature.”  

And me: “My mind began to grow, watchful with anxious thoughts.”

There’s a food bank in our future. Of that, I’m certain. 

© Nicole Parton, 2019 

Dial M for ... MURDER!

What’s on my mind? I am not a Buddhist. It’s said a Buddhist wouldn’t hurt a fly. Say no more. I am not a Buddhist. 

Sum-mer-t-i-m-e … And the livin’ ain’t e-e-e-asy! For us, or for flies. 

Typical scenario: I scream; Himself swats; fly dies. 

Even worse: I scream; Himself zaps; fly sizzles, frizzles, and dies. Horrible. But ... Have you ever met a fly that wouldn’t die? Have you? Have you? Huh, huh, huh? 

The other day, a teenaged fly sailed through the window. How did I know it was a teenager? Attitude. It swaggered around as if it owned the joint, thinking it was immortal. I almost thought it was, too. 

I’m not brave enough to kill one of those big, red-eyed, buzzy bastards. Besides, its compound eyes can see me coming faster than I can swat at it with a dish towel, a rolled-up newspaper, or a bug zapper. I also hate the pop! of its connection with the zapper’s electronic mesh. Horrible, horrible, horrible.

I sometimes think of the 1986 terror classic, The Fly. Pretty good movie, actually. Pretty scary, too. Watching it probably worsened my fear of flies, so when this particular teenaged fly commandeered the window sill, I knew this was all-out war.

Grabbing a paper towel, I lunged. It flew away. I inched closer in an effort to squash it. It was too quick. Sort of like the men I used to date.

Using cunning, stealth, and a flanking maneuver (ditto re: above sentence), I compressed its writhing body between the window and the sill. I lifted the paper towel. It crawled away. 

(“What’s with this fly???” I thought. “Is it wearing body armor???”) 

Seizing the opportunity, I again trapped it between the window and the sill. The squeezing and the squishing are too distasteful to relate, but its dénouement was assured. To the victor, go the spoils! I’d vanquished the Lord of the Flies.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

Three Big Reasons to Vote for Donald J. Trump

What’s on my mind? Politics. Mustn’t talk about politics. Mustn’t, mustn’t, mustn’t!

But when it comes to Donald Trump, 45th President of the United Shatesh, I can’t hold back any longer. I mean ... Ya gotta love this guy! Don’cha?

Strongman Donald J. Trump: Seeker of Truth, President of Principle 

Take what he said to African American and Hispanic voters during a pre-election pitch at a mostly white rally in Ohio (Aug. 22, 2016): After describing their neighborhoods as being worse than war zones, he said: “What do you have to lose?”  

Take what he said to Breibart News (Mar. 14, 2019) about his political opponents on the left: “I can tell you I have the support of the police, the support of the military, the support of the Bikers for Trump – I have the tough people, but they don’t play it tough — until they go to a certain point, and then it would be very bad, very bad.”

Take what he said (Aug. 15, 2019) about why you should vote him in for another term: “You have no choice but to vote for me because your 401 (k) will be down the tubes, everything’s gonna be down the tubes.” With these words in a 90-minute speech to New Hampshire supporters, he made a tough face, clenched and felt his biceps, and made a fist. He told the same audience the stock market would crash if Americans didn’t vote for him. 

H-e-y ... What’s not to love? Be still my beating heart ... And my critical thinking skills ... And my common sense ... And my running feet ...

PS: There are s-o-o-o-o many other, far more serious reasons that I don’t have time (but do have the ability) to count.

© Nicole Parton, 2019 

Happy Birthday, Graham Harrop!

What’s on my mind? One of the definitions of “brilliance” is “exceptional talent or intelligence.” My definition is unequivocal: Canadian cartoonist Graham Harrop. 

Photo © The North Shore News, March 10, 2017 

Graham’s celebrating a Big Birthday, today. Although I live quite far from him and won’t be seeing him, I plan to jump up and down to congratulate him, anyway. I’ve had the pleasure and the privilege of knowing this fine young man more than 20 years, which is why I can say without hesitation or exaggeration that Graham is gifted in a way most people are not. 

Without violating his privacy - Graham’s a shy and modest person - I think of Graham Harrop as an angel walking this earth. You can’t say that about most people. As one of the kindest, most ethical, and most thoughtful people I know, Graham Harrop is incredibly special. 

He and Annie, the love of his life, are a perfect match. She’s special, too. Because Graham is so modest and shy, I’m constrained from saying how I formed and kept that opinion over the years, but trust me, he is and she is. 

Graham’s cartoons appear on the editorial page of The Vancouver Sun every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. The Sun is a newspaper that for decades has been known for the excellence of its cartoonists. Graham’s often-political work is crafted with kindness. It may be pointed, but rarely stings. Every day, Graham also pens the online comic strip Ten Cats, at https://www.gocomics.com/ten-cats. It’s a hoot! Graham sometimes manages to squeeze Annie into the strip, too, and has turned the strip into a number of books. Example?

https://books.google.ca/books?id=IzwzAgAAQBAJ&source=gbs_book_similarbooks.

Prediction: One day, Nicole may just learn how to do links. Both work, though ...

More important prediction: One day, this charmingly original comic strip just has to be a movie. 

As if all that output weren’t enough, Graham also illustrates books (including my co-written Never Say Diet!) as well as cartooning numerous corporate projects. 

Rather than yada-yada-yada about that, the simplest thing to do is present a few recent examples of his work. He’ll moi-duh me for drawing that much attention to him, but too bad, Harrop! So Happy Birthday, Graham Harrop! You’re a treasure, my friend.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

Cartoon © Graham Harrop, 2019

Tourists: Leave While You Still Can

What’s on my mind? Small towns, of which there are many. 

We live in a village that pretends to be a town. We moved here from the Big City long enough ago that we’re no longer seen as “city folk,” probably because we passed the “tourist test” almost as soon as we arrived.

Oh, sure, we smile and offer directions, but mostly, we tolerate tourists in the knowledge that they’re “good for the economy,” as the locals reluctantly admit. That’s the “tourist test.” Acknowledge the positives of tourism while eagerly awaiting Autumn. 

Disguised in T-shirts, Bermuda shorts, flip-flops, and cameras, tourists lack all hope of blending in with the locals. They flock here every summer, jamming the roads, shops, parks, and campgrounds before - ZAP! They’re gone, off to Arizona for the winter. Which is a good thing. If they stayed any longer, they’d want to live here, and that just wouldn’t do. 

Our village’s dirty little secret is that we’re eager to see them go, which they’ll do when the first leaf drops and twilight starts one minute too soon for their liking. 

It’s then, when they depart en masse and the beaches and the roads clear out - then, and only then - we can resume our everyday pursuits such as puttering in our gardens, jigsaw-puzzling, and wondering why our neighbors Mr. Harris and Mrs. H haven’t invited us to see the new used car they bought on eBay (We’ve heard dark rumors about brakes, transmissions, and rusty frames. What can you expect for 350 bucks?).

The appeal of our village isn’t just its beaches (though they are nice, I must admit). The place has other charms. Like having only one traffic light. One. And free parking everywhere, of course.

The hardware store sells blueberries, figs, plums, and pears. Eggs, too. The seed store sells live chicks in the Spring. And the weekend markets sell live ducks. The bank stocks dog biscuits, for all who drop by. Dogs, I mean. No checking account required.

We’re off to the country fair, this weekend. My favorite event? The zucchini races. A bunch of zucchinis whoosh down a slide and ... Too complicated to explain to you Noo Yawkers and other pseudo-sophisticates. The chicken, duck, turkey, and goose races are pretty straightforward, as is the ladies' nail-driving contest. Would these things happen in the Big City? No-o-ope.

The bucks stop here. So do the doe-see-does and their fawns. And rabbits, raccoons, mink, foxes, marten, elk, and cougars. Bears, too. Mustn’t forget the bears! 

Maybe we should plaster posters on lamp-posts: UNWANTED: COUGARS AND BEARS. WE HAVE TOO MANY. I reckon that would move the tourists along, pretty fast.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

The Cult of Marilyn

What’s on my mind? She died 57 years ago today. What if she’d lived? Imagine her now, at 93! Would she have been a recluse, as Zsa Zsa Gabor was? Would she have been ugly, loud, and xenophobic, like the still-living Brigitte Bardot? Surely not! 

There was a sweetness about Marilyn Monroe - a sweetness even her mother’s mental instability and the multiple foster homes of her childhood and all the men she loved couldn’t knock out of her.  

Maybe she wasn’t such a stable type. Maybe not. Her first marriage lasted four years. Her second, a year. Her third, five years. One year later, she was dead at 36. Candle in the wind, long gone, yet still a money-maker through the posters, magazines, T-shirts, photos, books, fridge magnets, and movies from which she stares out at the world - in death, larger than life.

The adulation! No one would have thought it possible the glorification of her image would continue to this day. It is the sort of reverence one might bestow upon Nobel prize winners whose actions and words have touched and saved and inspired millions - if only we could remember the Nobel winners’ names.

Everyone remembers her name: “There’s Marilyn!” someone calls. And sure enough, there she is - mouth slightly open, eyes confronting the camera, dyed blond ’50s curls tumbling down, as in the Carole King song: 

I feel the earth move under my feet

I feel the sky tumbling down, a’tumbling down,

A’tumbling down, a’tumbling down, a’tumbling down, a’tumbling down, tumbling down!

That was Marilyn, for sure. A’tumbling down, whether painted into a skin-tight dress, wiggling and whisper-singing  “Happy Birthday, Mister President,” or a’tumbling down that lonely night she died at 12305 Fifth Helena Drive in Brentwood, Los Angeles; naked in bed, one hand on the telephone receiver, an overdose of barbiturates swirling in her system.

. 

Google “Marilyn” and the fascination of people around the world is evident: “How much did Marilyn Monroe’s weight?” asks one of many. That single word brings up her quotes, movies, birth date and name, height, age, dress, and ex-husbands’ names. Google her first and last name to access a treasure trove of minutiae. 

In the weeks after her death, Andy Warhol completed a famous diptych of her memorable face. I saw it once, in London. Everyone wanted to see it. It was a shine; a way of being in her presence; of feeling close to her. A Warhol painting called “Orange Marilyn” recently fetched more than $17 million. Marilyn Monroe: Our Mona Lisa, but with a definable price tag.

Her movies endure. Of those who saw Some Like It Hot, for instance, it’s a safe bet more movie lovers under 40 have forgotten her co-stars - Tony Curtis, Jack Lemmon - than her. No one can forget Marilyn, just as no one can forget Elvis. Had he lived, he would now be 84 - perhaps revered; perhaps a parody of himself.

Marilyn and Elvis inhabit their own Universe. He also died in August, naked, 15 years after she did. In death, he is also larger than life. Each earns more now than during their brief stay on this earth.

Nighty-night, Norma Jeane. Nighty-night, Elvis Aaron. 

Sleep tight … Don’t let those damned bed bugs bite.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

Secrets of the Stainless Steel Test Kitchens ...

What’s on my mind? Dreams are like spark plugs. They can move you from Eh? to Be. Do you dream in color, and along story lines? I do. 

Last night, Himself prepared one of my favorite dinners: Grandpa’s Secret Macaroni and Cheese: 

https://nicoleparton.blogspot.com/2011/12/grandpas-secret-macaroni.html

He invented this terrific recipe, but lately, the cheese has seemed a little runny. Too much cheese? Too much milk? He wasn’t sure. Next time, he said, he wouldn’t guess, but would measure the cheese precisely.

Dull-witted gum-snapper that I am, I didn’t give this much thought. Hey! As long as someone’s willing to make and serve me dinner, I’m not about to complain. 

(Chug-chug-chug … Sound of brain processing cheese problem overnight.)

Voilà! I sprang from bed at 5:45. The answer had come in a dream! We would … 

• Grate two portions of cheese, one weighing slightly more than the other.
• Place each quantity of cheese in an identical plastic container.
• Build two side-by-side chutes, the same length and width, with a gate not far from the inside of each, rodeo-style. 
• Duct-tape the containers of cheese onto the backs of two mice of identical weight and age. 
• Place one mouse in each chute (the smell of cheese on their backs driving them into a frenzy). 
• Fire a gun (BLAM!) as we simultaneously raise the gates so each mouse can race to the bottom of its chute. The first to arrive will have the correct quantity of cheese on its back for Himself to use in his recipe. (Bonus: It’s already grated! All Himself has to do is un-duct the winning mouse and use the cheese in his recipe.)

So that we wouldn’t have to bend over too far, we wouldn’t conduct this scientific experiment on the floor, but on the kitchen counter. 

My first thought on waking was: Where does Himself keep the duct tape? My second was: RATS! We don’t have any mice. My third was: The best-laid plans of mice and men aft gang agley …

© Nicole Parton, 2019