January 30, 2020

A Sophisticate Eats Library Paste

What’s on my mind? Unread magazines.

Tossing them is kinda like putting down the dog. I know it’s necessary, but want no part of it; don’t want to see it; don’t want to hear the details.

Several years ago, a family member gave me a 1,000-year subscription to Gourmet and Bon Appétit magazines. I’m hardly a gourmet (at a younger age, my choix de cuisine was library paste), but I like to eat.

The magazines were a welcome gift. Each month, when they arrived, I marked the recipes I intended to make. 

Someday. 

I soon stopped marking recipes. Or even opening the magazines. I was going to “sa-a-ve” reading them as a special treat for when I had “ti-i-me.”

Over the years, the pile grew taller than Mt. Everest. When I struck out for a trip to Arizona, I brought the magazines. The plan: Read every one, clip the recipes likeliest to win friends and influence people, and host amazing dinner parties.

It never happened. When I returned home, my friend Hezzah peered into the peanut-sized trunk of my peanut-sized car to say: “This is ridiculous!” She then chucked every magazine into a gigantic recycling bin while I averted my eyes and pretended it wasn’t happening.

Several years ago, with best intentions and the knowledge that New York is one of my favorite cities, Himself gave me a subscription to The New Yorker. When we invited the neighbors over, I’d spread them (the magazines, not the neighbors) on the coffee table. This meant that every idiot (sorry, Mr. Harris; sorry, Mrs. H) would see them. They (my collection of New Yorkers, not the H’s) made me feel ... well,  sophisticated.

The New Yorker is Gourmet and Bon Appétit on steroids. The pile of New Yorkers grew higher and broader, teetering dangerously in the closet as this sophisticate selected her sweatshirt and jeans du jour.

One day, Himself said: “I’m going to recycle those %$#@! magazines!” It was an empty threat. Himself knew I’d divorce him - better yet, murder him - if he did.

“No-o-nooo!” I cried. “I’m going to re-e-ead them!” True to my promise, I read one New Yorker cover-to-cover, devouring every page. The rest conspired to procreate in the closet, the stack taller every year.

(Himself knows all about best intentions and unread magazines. He once had a subscription to National Geographic - say n’ more, say n’ more).

This morning, as I carried a piffle of paper out to the recycling bin, I saw a pile of New Yorker magazines - my New Yorker magazines - hidden under the local newspaper and the weekly grocery flyers.

I briefly morphed into the Incredible Hulk before deliberately looking away. I knew tossing the New Yorker had to be done, but could never do it myself.

They say revenge is best eaten cold. Himself had no idea I was aware of what he’d done.

Sauntering into the kitchen, all bright and sunny (me, not the kitchen, which desperately needs remodeling), I said: “Sweetheart ... I think I’ll pull some of those New Yorkers from the bedroom closet and read them today! I’ve been so-o-o looking forward to it! I’ll get them from the closet right away!”

I heard Himself suck wind. And then I laughed.

“I saw what you did! I could never have done it, myself. It needed to be done. Thank you!”

And then we gave one another a big hug. And a long, smoochy kiss. And I peeled off my sweatshirt. Say n’ more, say n’ more.

©  Nicole Parton, 2020

January 27, 2020

The Blue Light

2016, 2017, 2018, 2019: Me to Himself: “Himself … What exactly is that blue light near the garage?”

Himself: “It’s a light. It’s blue.”

Me: “But what …?”

Himself (again): “It’s a light. It’s blue.” Subject closed.

January, 2020: Last night, we hosted a Thai dinner party. We’d never given a Thai dinner party, before. Himself, who as usual, took on more than he should have, rushed around the kitchen making rice and two types of curried chicken. Our guests fried the naan; Thai Coconut Prawn soup burbled on the stove.

A light haze hung in the air when suddenly …WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!

Himself, who wears double hearing aids, calmly stirred the chicken as he called: “The timer says your soup is ready, Nicole!”

Allow me to take you into our kitchen to tell you what happened next. 

Always calm in a crisis, I say: “You idiot! That’s not the TIMER! That’s the SMOKE ALARM!” 

WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!

Because he doesnt hear well, Himself has no idea how loud the alarm is. In fact, I’ve never heard it louder: WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! 

I run around the living room with a towel, trying to fan the haze out the open door: WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!

I pull my “I don’ know nothin’ ’bout birthin’ babies …” routine, but Himself is cooking Thai and overseeing the guests frying naan, and says “DEAL WITH IT!” through gritted teeth. 

He gives our guests a look that says: “Nothing to see, folks! Move along! Move along!” Unfortunately, they want to.


WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!

An ever-so-jovial alarm company guy phones: “Everything okay over there?” 

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU OVER THE ALARM!” I scream.

WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!

Our guests have the look of frightened animals, afraid to move, wanting everything just to go away. The naan and our moods darken.

WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!

“Ho-kay … Well, you’ll sort it out. Gimme your name and password. Ho-kay …” concludes the alarm company guy. Click!

HELP ME, HIMSELF, HELP ME …!”

“CAN’T YOU SEE I’M BUSY?”

Dragging the ladder into the living room. I recall how Himself twists some thing-a-majig to stop smoke alarms. So I do. Easy-peasy.

WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!

Until this moment, I have no idea there’s a second alarm in the laundry room - this one, ear-splitting. I can’t disconnect it.

The WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! is now joined by a GRONK! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK! sound like an electric bullfrog; a sound so loud Im certain every neighbor on the block will call the police, the fire department, an ambulance, or all of them. 

Panicked, I run outside. The sound and an urgent blinking are coming from the blue light near the garage. All the more reason for the neighbors to rush to our aid. Naturally, not one of them budges from the comfort of their TV sets. Perhaps they, too, wear double hearing aids. 

“CALL THE ALARM COMPANY!” Himself yells from the kitchen.

I do. A soothing computerized voice says: “Welcome to Blankety-Blank! Always there! Proud to be serving you!” The voice repeats this in French. By the time a live agent comes on the phone, I could have died from smoke inhalation.

And then I hear a soft, calm, lilting musical voice. I dont remember exactly what this woman says, but its something like: “What may I do for you, Miss-Mrs.?

“I CAN’T GET THE (WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK!) ALARM SYSTEM TO STOP!”

“Do not worry. I will help you. Push the hashtag key, then the asterisk key, then the … key, then the … key, now the … key … and the … key. Ahhh! There you are …”

WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK!

Our guests shift nervously in the kitchen. I sense they yearn to go home. With false bravado, I shout: “WON’T BE LO-O-O-NG!”

“HOW LONG?” Himself yells.

“NOT LONG!” I lie.

I tell the disembodied musical voice that: “THE ALARM IS STILL -”

“Do not worry. I will help you. Push the asterisk key, then the … key, then the … key, now the … key … and the … key.” 

Different numbers than those of moments ago. “Now enter your code number.”

WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK!

“THE ALARM! “THE ALARM!” I scream.

WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK!

“Do not worry. I will help you. Push the reset button.”

“The reset button … the reset button … I study the alarm panel. There’s no reset button …” Apparently the guy who installed our system forgot to label it.

“Do not worry. I will -”

“GIMME THAT PHONE!” Himself wants to take over.

WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK!

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” he yells into the phone, and to me: “I CAN’T HEAR ANYTHING SHE’S SAYING!” 

“GET YOUR HEARING AIDS CHECKED!” I shout.

“WHA-A-AT?” he booms.

Meekly, I say: “She told me to push the reset button. I can’t find it.” My lower lip starts to quiver. 

Reading both those lips, Himself pushes an unlabelled button. The WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK! GRONK! instantly stop. So, as I quickly discover, does the intense blinking of the blue light.

Guys know these things. It’s in their DNA. Fluffy-brained women like me really don’ know nothin’ ’bout birthin’ babies.

Himself hands me back the phone. There's no one at the other end of the line. The woman with the soft musical voice has bolted. Wise decision.

©  Nicole Parton, 2020

January 18, 2020

Sing a Song of Sixpence

Although I did say I wouldn’t write further, resistance was futile - NP 

Next to Wallis Simpson, jumped-up commoner Meghan Markle is about to become the most reviled woman in modern Britain history. 

Husband Harry - once a Prince of a guy - is about to become the “Duke of Sussex.” Period. Full stop. Markle will remain the Duchess, a title she gained through her May, 2018 marriage.

Dukes and Duchesses may be a dime-a-dozen in the UK, but they’re a curiosity in North America, where the couple intends to live part-time. 

Today finds Meghan huddled in a $35 million mansion in British Columbia, awaiting Harrys return from a tête-a-tête with his grandmother, the Queen. Doing his best to negotiate the couple’s future, he was out-played.

Welcome to the Wet Coast, H&M, but don’t be surprised if you meet a chilly reception.

Last June, the couple submitted an application to trademark “Sussex Royal” - the “brand” they intended to apply to hundreds of items under the categories of printed matter, clothing, campaigning, charitable fundraising, education and social care services. The word “tawdry” springs to mind.

Just think! “H&M HOME Interior Design & Decorations” … Ooops! Can’t license that! The name’s already been taken.

If, as reported, Markle has already inked a deal with Disney, her new starring role as a Disney Princess won’t enhance her (soon to be former) real-life image as the leading lady to the man formerly known as Prince.

Through the routine publication of pending trademark applications, the couple’s attempt to establish their “brand” became public in December. I’m guessing hell hath no fury like a Queen sandbagged, and that the news did not exactly “droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven.”

It was shortly after this that H&M expressed the wish to celebrate the holidays apart from the Royal family. And shortly thereafter, that H&M announced their intent to “step back” from royal duties and "transition into a new working model" that would make them "financially independent.”

Be careful what you wish for.

“Stepping back” from the Royal family is like “stepping back” from a puddle; you may land on terra firma, but your boot’s still wet.

And so it was, that however politely expressed, Elizabeth gave these nitwits that same boot. They want “financial independence”? Done: No more public funding. No more public appearances as Her representative. No more use of the HRH designation. No cashing in on Harrys “Royal” lineage, and Meghans by association. And no more official military appointments for Harry, or being a royal ambassador for children - roles he reportedly loved.

And oh, yes, please cough up 2.4 million British pounds ($3.1 US or $4 million Cdn), to repay adoring British taxpayers for the renovations to Frogmore Cottage! The couple intends to live in Frogmore (and will now pay rent) whenever they happen to visit the UK.

Shouldn’t be too difficult to repay the money spent on those renovations. The rebate to taxpayers matches Prince Charles’ annual stipend to Harry, whose estimated net worth already stands at $25-to-$40 million. As the former star of TV’s “Suits,” Markle’s net worth is $5 million.

I sincerely hope the newly minted H&M succeeds in its quest for happiness and self-fulfillment - long-term as well as short-term. The comparisons to throne-wrecker Wallis Simpson aside, it won’t be easy.

It’s said history repeats itself. Well, well ... 

The Rolls-Royce that bore American socialite and divorcée Wallis Simpson to bury a King, is the very same Rolls-Royce that carried American actress and divorcée Meghan Markle to marry a Prince. 

The former King drank too much and partied too much as the Duke of Windsor. The life path the soon-to-be-former Prince follows will be determined when he becomes the Duke of Sussex.

As for that wicked Wallis Simpson? Dead, of course - laid to rest in the small cemetery on the grounds of (wait for it!) Frogmore Cottage.

Buckingham Palace gave H&M the Royal send-off “as they embark on the next chapter of their lives.” Will this heart-wrenching love story end well? Stay tuned.

©  Nicole Parton, 2020