Put Yourself in This Man’s Elevator Shoes

What’s on my mind? Uncle Joe.

Joe Biden says he’s sorry he kissed the girls and made them cry. Try saying it like you mean it, Joe!

Don’t get me wrong. I like the former US vice-president. I like him a lot. He’s a good man, and a smart one. But even good men can do bad, dumb things. 

Unwelcome and unwanted touching and kissing is never a good or smart thing to do. It’s called “inappropriate” - as well it should be. The best time to call out inappropriate behavior is when it happens. 

I know that’s not always possible, but nor am I a fan of calling a press conference to express my unhappiness that someone pecked my cheek or briefly held my hand - particularly if that someone is a potential political candidate, the complainant hails from the opposition, and the timing is suspect. 

It would be grossly unfair to either party to try to generalize,  trivialize, or exaggerate such interactions. What may scar one person for life, another will shrug off. 

This is a genderized minefield: Even the most innocent behavior can now be misconstrued. Becoming a social pariah does not always fit the alleged “crime.”

At its best, #metoo reins in our worst impulses to make us better people. At its worst, #metoo is like getting a loan from the mob. No matter how much you pay, you’ll never pay it off. The debt’s permanently on the books; the threats will never cease.

I don’t think Joe’s a dirty old man. Not at all. But I do think he’s been misreading social cues for a very long time. In this #metoo age, it’s easy to misinterpret another person’s intent. 

Flip the card over: I’ve done it myself. And have later felt hugely embarrassed for having “done” whatever forgotten thing it was I did. 

My late husband was a kind and intelligent man. Many years ago, he opened a door for a female colleague as the polite thing to do. Her response was to whirl about and snap: “Male chauvinist pig!” Should women who expect equality forego the “inequality” of sex-based courtesy? 

I try my best to be a kind and intelligent woman. Yesterday, while entering an otherwise-empty elevator at the same time as a stranger, he virtually elbowed me aside to barge ahead. 

With still only two of us in the elevator, we exited on the same floor. Without the slightest nod to me, he again barged ahead. I thought he was rude. Am I wrong? 

It’s an ever-changing world. Keeping up with the rules is sometimes very difficult. I repeat: Should “equality” negate nicety? Because, under #metoo, I haven’t the slightest frickin’ idea.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

Jerry Has a Birthday Party

What’s on my mind? Jerry Soon.

If you want to know how to give a knock-down, drag-’em-out birthday party, talk to Jerry. What? You don’t know Jerry? Everyone knows Jerry ... He turned 90, the other day. Imagine that! Ninety! With skin as smooth and unwrinkled as a baby’s bottom. 

Right: Film star Robert De Niro (aka Jerry Soon), 
wife Hazel. Left: Greg, Stephanie, April.

I’ve been known to put my foot in it, which I guess I did when I saw Jerry looking totally amazing and screamed: “Jerry, Jerry! You’ve had plas-tic sur-ger-y!” I probably said it too loudly, because a few people swiveled and craned their necks to see.

Caught in the crosshairs, Jerry had no choice but to say: “Maybe just the eyes.” He got a little miffed at the memory. “My doctor did the right eye, but a student did the left. It doesn’t look as good as the right one and it closes late in the afternoon and I can’t get it open. I complained to the doctor and all he said was that if I came back, he’d put in another stitch. Another stitch ...!”  

Jerry sounded disgusted. So would I. Jerry now wears thick dark glasses that make him look like Robert De Niro. It’s remarkable for a man who’s 90 to look like a movie star. Things could be worse. The star could be Lady Gaga. 

Jerry’s knock-down, drag-’em-out party? I don’t mean to imply guests were banged around and taken away. It’s just that so much happened at Jerry’s party! You may have noticed I haven’t said a word about Jerry’s family or where Jerry lives or where the party was held. 

If I named Hazel, Jerry’s wife of 64 years, or his grown kids, Stephanie, Gregg, and April, or the name of the Burnaby, BC, Chinese restaurant where happy chaos reigned, the Soon family would probably moi-duh me.

If I told you I encountered an elegant older woman with a cloud of silvery-blue hair and also-perfect skin, and that I screamed over the noise of the crowd: “You must be Jerry’s MO-THER!” you probably wouldn’t believe me. Unfortunately, it’s true. God only knows why I said that elegant woman must be a 90-year-old man’s mother, but I did. 

And then, in my embarrassment as that same woman glared at me, I screamed to the woman beside her: “I guess she doesn’t speak English!” upon which the woman beside the glaring one calmly said: “She speaks English very well.” Through the floor, I wanted to go, wearing an invisibility cloak. 

Every time one of Jerry and Hazel’s kids rose to speak about their Dad, Jerry said: “I didn’t know this was a ROAST!” Every time.

Dave Gray, Jerry’s retired doctor, rose to say a few words about Jerry. “I didn’t know this was a ROAST!” said Jerry, in mock indignation.

April had ordered a Black Forest cake for 100, but when she went to pick it up the day of the party ... No cake! The baker got the dates mixed up, but with a lot of shock and tension on both their parts, produced. 

“I didn’t know this was a ROAST!” Jerry said, again.

In thanking each guest, Jerry passed along a few words of 90th birthday wisdom:

Nine decades of memories.
1,080 months of happiness.
4,680 weeks of wonder.
32,873 days of wisdom.
788,952 hours of laughter.
47,337,120 minutes of love.
Three wonderful children.
Three awesome grandchildren
One loving marriage and an amazing life!

Ah, that Jerry! What a guy! Too bad his mother doesn’t like me.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

A Girl’s Guide to Gift-Giving

What’s on my mind? My dearly beloved husband, Himself, will be 75 on Saturday. What do you give a man who has everything he wants and needs? Stumped, I’m giving him 12 boxes of Girl Guide cookies, 20 cookies in each box, in a neat cardboard carrying case advertising (what else?) the Girl Guides.

At 70 calories per cookie, that's 16,800 calories (!!!) to carry Himself into his golden years. Admittedly, this isn’t the best birthday present he could have had, but Himself went into mourning when the Girl Guides ran out of cookies before they reached our house, and - despite their promises - never came back. 

Although Himself is crazy about these cookies, 11 of those boxes will go straight into the (hah!) freezer, to be (hah!) shared with visitors and neighbors. I’m also taking Himself to dinner in a fine restaurant, which we’ll both enjoy. 

PS: Himself read this post late Friday. He found the cookies hidden behind the vacuum cleaner. We then r-r-ripped open two boxes. I told Himself I couldn’t think of a single thing to buy him, which is why he’s stuck with all these cookies.

Five minutes later, our TV set blew up. RIP, TV. I might have bought Himself a new TV for his birthday, had I not blown $60 on cookies ...

PPS: I kid you not about any of this. Having already eaten nearly two boxes of cookies, we both feel quite sick and must lumber off to bed. I hope our neighbors, Mr. Harris and Mrs. H, like Girl Guide cookies, because I’m going to leave some at their door, wrapped in swaddling clothes.

The cookies. Not me. 

© Nicole Parton, 2019

The Magic of Math

What’s on my mind? Shoes. And lies. Whoppers, since you ask, which you haven’t. 

Some* men have little or no ability to understand the female brain. I once had a female brain. Today, I have no brain, though I remain happily female. (Pssst! All* men)

The information below is an abstract from my 1952 PhD dissertation, titled: “Men’s Brains? Women’s Brains? The Jury is OUT.” My dissertation has been the basis for numerous court rulings involving spousal stereotyping and murder. 

My dissertation has received wide acclaim from ma-ny, ma-ny readers, namely my sister, my best friend, and (erk?!?) thousands of creditors. Allow me to proceed.

I married young - so young that I gummed my vows. Six months later, we were knee-deep in debt, primarily through the desire to buy groceries and enjoy the luxury of electricity. We were living pay check to pay check, which is where my treacherous tale of deception begins. 

(See Chapter XVII of my dissertation (The Innocence of the Male Brain v. The Cunning of the Female Brain). 

I was working for a bank; he was studying to become an accountant (which, for those simpletons who have never met an accountant, is the very boring study of accounts). 

Each of us would fail in our chosen fields for the silly little reason that neither of us understood the magic of math. This guaranteed we would soon be broke.

On my money-saving paper-bag lunch break, I spied a pair of red-and-white basket-weave stiletto-heeled shoes (not made from actual baskets, which don’t conform to the female foot as well as basket-weave shoes). These were in the window of Sears’ Spring display, next to the faux rabbits and faux pastel eggs. 

I had never seen shoes like these, except on rich womens’ feet. These shoes were made of exquisitely soft Italian leather rather than the sweaty plastic of the two pairs of shoes I owned. All I wanted was to touch them and hold them and keep them close to my body. But this isn’t about sex. 

I bought them, stuck them under the bed (I repeat: This isn’t about sex), and removed them from their hiding place three weeks later. When my then-spouse saw me do it, I didn’t even have time to use the “What? These old things?” excuse before he began screaming and I morphed into the little girl I still was. 

“Where did those shoes come from???” The obvious answer was Sears, but instead, the cunning of the female brain kicked in. 

“I won them in a dance contest on my lunch break at the bank,” I said, a lie that came easily to the tongue. 

He stopped, mid-tirade, not anticipating this answer. 

“You did?” he asked, wide-eyed.

“Yes,” I said, with the practised demeanor of a con woman.

“O-kaaay,” he said, backing off. No questions about size, fit, style, the likelihood of a dance contest in the staff room of Swanky Bank, or even how a male contestant might have reacted to winning a pair of red-and-white basket-weave Italian stiletto-heeled shoes.

These little sticking points had just never occurred to him, which was a very good thing for me. Not to mention that I don’t know how to dance, have never known how to dance, and never will know how to dance. Sad, but true. 

This, Sis and Bestie, is a cautionary tale. 

Women! Up your game! If you don’t currently work for  Swanky Bank, I suggest you apply, if for no other reason than the benefits. 

Men! By teaching you how to think like a woman, my “Think Like a Woman, Act Like a Guy” pamphlet will save you the humiliation of this and many similar situations ($14.95 US. VISA, Mastercard, AmEx, and money orders accepted). 

Hey, guys ... A confidential tip! If you, too, swallowed the dance-contest story, I strongly recommend you buy my “Think Like a Woman, Act Like a Guy”  PhD dissertation ($149.95 US. VISA, Mastercard, AmEx, and money orders accepted).

© Nicole Parton, 2019

The Enemy is Us

What’s on my mind? The numbing effect of hate.

Fifty dead and as many in critical condition in massacres at two mosques in Christchurch, NZ. Those shot were practising Muslims, targeted for their culture, their beliefs, and because they are “the other.”

Shortly after this terrorist attack, US president Donald Trump tweeted: “My warmest sympathy and best wishes goes out to the people of New Zealand after the horrible massacre in the Mosques. 49 innocent people have so senselessly died, with so many more seriously injured. The U.S. stands by New Zealand for anything we can do. God bless all!”

He did not - nor has he yet to - refer to “Muslims.”

This is the man who, on announcing his presidential candidacy on December 7, 2015, said: “Donald J. Trump is calling for a total and complete shutdown of Muslims entering the United States until our country’s representatives can figure out what the hell is going on.” 

Once invested in the office, he attempted to place a full travel ban on entry to the US from predominantly Muslim countries.   

It is depressing. Anger-making. Sickening to heart and soul.

There was a time when anyone who felt the need to say a quiet prayer could pass through the doors of a place considered holy - whether a mosque, temple, synagogue, church, or ecumenical hall. The doors to such places are now routinely locked. 

There was a time when a child seeking help could take refuge in a school. School doors are now routinely locked. 

There was a time when someone seeking help could knock on a neighbor’s door to find it. House doors are now routinely locked. I know people who never open their doors to anyone. 

Everyone’s afraid. Fear governs our lives.

Allow me to draw your attention to the powerful poem by German pastor Martin Niemöller. There are many versions of this poem, written at different times, but 1946 is its approximate genesis.

First They Came …

First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out -

Because I was not a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out -

Because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out -

Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me - and there was no one left to speak for me.

Reading and listening to the constant drumbeat of hateful messages has a negative affect on our mental and emotional health - and so we tune it out. 

Speaking too forcefully and too publicly or too stridently may result in being put on an “enemies’ list” by which - in theory - the complainant may be denied entry or re-entry into a country that is rapidly starting to resemble an isolationist autocracy. 

In that country, lies and hate have gained in strength. The rise of hatred has begun giving over to silence. It has made good people afraid to speak, lest relationships with family members, coworkers, and friends strain and break. 

That country is the United States of America.

How could this have happened in a democratic nation of 327 million people? How could this have happened in less than two years of near-despotic rule? As difficult as it is - as exhausting as it is - it is vital that we raise our voices for and about the US.

After President Trump’s “warmest sympathy and best wishes” tweet, 10 more followed - some focusing on the Muller Report (“ … should never have been appointed and there should be no Mueller Report …”) and some, on himself (“....THIS SHOULD NEVER HAPPEN TO A PRESIDENT AGAIN!”).

It would surely not have been so difficult for the Office of the President of the United States to craft a statement under his name to the effect that “We stand with the Muslim community in this time of pain and fear. Our hearts go out to you.” 

A woman I know wrote those sincere, meaningful, heartfelt words shortly after the tragedy. 

Trump tweeted again hours later, perhaps after having been told his first tweet came up short. In part, he wrote: “… we stand in solidarity with New Zealand - and that any assistance the U.S.A. can give, we stand by ready to help. We love you New Zealand!” 

Glib. Meaningless. Patronizing. Asked if he regarded white nationalism as a rising global threat, Trump’s first words were: “Not really.”

Gone, but Not Forgotten

What’s on my mind? Lost stuff.

BINK! That’s the sound of a pill. A big pill. A bright blue pill. A pill that cost me $6, which is not exactly chump change. I take two of these pills every day, so I treat them like gold.

I dropped my morning pill on the bathroom counter, where it leaped like a flea to bounce once - just once - on the bathroom floor. I tracked both jumps - the first, on the counter, the second, on the floor. 

Our bathroom has nowhere for an escapee pill to hide - no heat register, no secret place behind the bathroom cabinet, no open drawer, no unplugged sink. I got on my knees, head close to the floor, and searched. I checked behind the toilet. I checked the clearance under the door. I checked inside the shower. 

You’ve had this happen. Everyone has. My $6 pill was gone.  

BINK! That’s the sound of a sock, lost in the laundry. Why is it always a sock? Why not a dish towel? Why not a T-shirt? It’s always, always a sock. I put its mate on the top of my other folded socks to be reunited with the missing one. I know this will never happen. It never does.

BINK! That’s the sound of a set of plastic tops, newly bought with matching containers. How and why would one top immediately disappear? 

BINK! That’s the sound of just the right lid, set aside moments earlier for its waiting jar. Where’s that lid? Gone.

CLINK! That’s the sound of money, running like water through clumsy fingers. CLINK!-CLINK!-CLINK!-CLINK!-CLINK!

Money’s easy to find (“Look! Here’s that quarter I dropped!”), but pills and socks and lids vanish into the ether.

Do you believe in parallel universes? Many scientists do. I do, too. Parallel universes are just like our own, but undetectable. 

In the universe parallel to ours, someone has just found an expensive blue pill they don’t remember taking from its bottle. Someone has just slipped on a pair of socks, wondering where the lost one turned up, but glad it did. Someone has just snapped a top on a plastic container, or twisted a lid onto a jar - simple actions, taken for granted. 

And in that parallel universe, someone right now is searching for an umbrella, certain it was in its stand a second ago. Or looking everywhere for a set of keys, a pair of glasses, a grocery list, a flashlight, an earring, a book, a glove ... None of those things ever to be seen again, until they materialize here, light years away.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

Spring Has (Almost) Sprung

What’s on my mind? Spring is on its way - but we’re not springing anywhere. We can talk the talk, but we can’t walk the walk.

On Saturday, I tried to move a planter filled with herbs and soil and fertilizer and concrete gnomes and ride ’em lawnmowers and a ginormous bag of peat moss and other garden stuff. 

Okay, most of that story’s horse pucky, but the planter nonetheless weighed a lot more than I can carry. Himself figured it was 100 lb., but I’m guessing it was more like 500 lb. The upshot was that something in my back went crick! No biggie, I thought, so I ran around on Sunday serving appys to guests and a good time was had by all. 

Then came Monday. Whammo! When I tried to get out of bed, my back and one leg froze up and I couldn’t move. Happily sawing logs and deaf in both ears, Himself was oblivious to my screams of  AAAHHHHH!-AAAHHHHH!-AAAHHHHH! AAAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!!!

(The Harrises, who live across the street, probably thought: “That shrew is always yelling at the poor man!” or: “Never pegged ’em as the ‘rough sex’ type.” or: “Classic drug withdrawal …”)

After I’d punched Himself a couple of times, he woke up and hobbled over to my side of the bed and sort of rolled me out far enough over the mattress so I could get a toe on the ground and a lungful of air, after which I resumed screaming. 

With his hearing aids on the stand on the other side of the bed, Himself couldn’t make out what I was saying. Given that my lips were flapping like a duck on steroids, he deduced I might just be in pain. 

The logical thing for me to do was grab Himself’s neck so he could yard me up, but - thanks to a driver who claimed he was invisible - Himself’s back is no good, either. Our backs now go out more than we do. Screaming in unison, we sounded like a couple of lousy opera singers.

So here we are in bed, cramming leftover appys into our maws because our screams are less piercing when our mouths are full. 

Mr. Harris called this afternoon to say he was worried because he’d been hearing screams from our bedroom. Mr. Harris wears double hearing aids, just like Himself. The only way Mr. Harris would hear anything coming from our bedroom would be if he eavesdropped directly under the window on the pretext of weeding our garden. Some people might believe that story, but we wouldn’t. 

For one thing, Mr. Harris doesn’t even weed his own garden. For another, I know for a fact that ever since Mr. Harris read “50 Shades of Grey” last summer, his libido’s been stuck in overdrive (Mrs. H. is my authority on that, but because she told me in confidence, I suggest you not spread it around). 

The only other way Mr. Harris would know anything unusual was happening at our house would be if Mrs. H told him.

So when Mr. Harris called, yaketty-yakking about how worried he was because he hadn’t seen us in days and asking if everything was okay because he and Mrs. H have been hearing a lot of screaming and groaning ... Well, when Mr. Harris said all that and started pumping me asking me a lot of questions, I was in too much pain to answer, so I handed the phone to Himself. 

Like me, Himself had no-o-o interest in talking to Mr. Harris just then, so he said (groaning, breathing heavily, and yelping as he tried to turn over): “May we call you some other time? We’re in bed and our mouths are full.”

Mrs. H stood under our bedroom window to say Mr. Harris ran to the library right after phoning us. She said he borrowed “50 Shades Darker,” and now she fears the worst. She thinks Mr. Harris may have a girlfriend because he’s reading a book about how dark he should dye his hair. I promised Mrs. H (aka “the grapevine”) I wouldn’t tell a soul. 

When Mrs. H asked if we were still in bed, I screamed: “Yes! Yes! Yes!” to release the pent-up pain I’d been holding back while she stood under the window, shootin’ the breeze. 

Everything went quiet after that, so I asked Mrs. H if she was still standing under the window. “Not really,” she said. “I’m just doing a little weeding.”

© Nicole Parton, 2019 

Private Parts on Public View

What’s on my mind? Happy birthday to me - not! Hold the gifts and flowers. This is not my birthday. I don’t blab it around on social media to maintain one small shred of privacy in this invasive world. 

To a large measure, I’m guilty of breaching my own privacy because - as some of us do - I often post about myself (and now write this blog about myself, frequently promoting its URL). 

But here's the nitty. And the gritty. When social media sites want a birthdate, I falsify mine. How many women do you know whose birthday is Jan. 1, 1905? Mine is: MYOB, Google! 

So I was recently more than surprised to sign on to yet another social media site to see my actual birthday listed. I immediately changed it to Jan. 1, 1905, but my actual birthdate is stored in some social media vault. I don’t like that.

Among the other things I don’t want known is my cell number. I get twitchy when Facebook repeatedly seeks it for enhanced “security.” If my Facebook account unexpectedly disappears, I’ll miss saying hi to my family and friends, but otherwise won’t worry too much.

My, oh my ... It turns out it’s a good thing I’ve never given Facebook that number. My kids and friends don’t even have it - and nor do I. I look it up whenever I need it - but I wouldn’t be in the least surprised if 10 minutes’ searching pulled it up on the dark web. For better or for worse, our world is highly interconnected.

Last week,I heard that Facebook has been selling those numbers to telemarketers, and that the numbers have also proved a goldmine for hackers. I’m so far out of the loop that I thought this was “news.” Apparently, it’s been happening for years.

Some of you will shrug and not care. Some of you already block unknown numbers. Some of you will grit your teeth and move on. Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg has promised to do better on the privacy front - something he’s been saying for a very long time.

Is it worth the loss of privacy to post those cute kitten pictures and stories about your granddaughter’s high school graduation? Is it? Is it? Only you can decide. 

© Nicole Parton, 2019