When Harry Met Meghan (Part 1)

What’s on my mind? Watching and listening to Meghan Markle is like entering the Hall of Mirrors. The many Markles before you - short, tall, wide, small - do not necessarily represent reality. 

In reading about Markle, as I’ve been doing for several days, I’ve encountered numerous contradictions. It’s been a week since Markle’s interview with Oprah Winfrey, and I’m starting to understand the rabid frothing at the mouth that goes with expressing even the slightest criticism of her. 

“Racist!” That’s how I was demonized on Twitter, many, many times in a single day. But oddly, one day later, all that unrestrained fury vanished, as though it had never happened. Which perhaps, it never had. That’s the disruptive, obsessive behavior of social media trolls: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Internet_troll

Two days later, when someone on Twitter referred me to a new YouTube posting about Markle, an onscreen message flashed and disappeared in roughly one second. In all caps, it read: BARB: WE NOW HAVE TWO OF THEM! I immediately cut the connection.

There’s a whole lot of “Markle-as-Saint” goin’ on, as well as a whole lot of “royal family demonization.” Finding the “truth” is like picking through a minefield, but I will say I disagree with Philadelphia Inquirer columnist Elizabeth Wellington, who on March 8 wrote: 

“It becomes clear in [the Oprah/Markle] interview that Harry was effectively cut off because his wife is Black. If that’s not racist, I don’t know what else is. What else do you call being stripped of royal security and your family no longer taking your calls? But this is the kicker: Even before a child was born, the palace discussed removing the honorifics Prince and Princess from the couple’s future children.”

WHOA! Wellington’s summary comes directly from Markle, who haltingly told Oprah: “The idea that the first member of color in the family not being titled in the same way that the other grandchildren would be … It’s not their right to take it away, to change the convention for Archie. Why?”

Wellington writes of Markle’s “incredulous” tone, “as if she still didn’t believe it.” Well, I don’t believe it, either, with plenty having emerged to debunk it. More about that, later.

Buckingham Palace’s politely restrained post-interview statement was as enlightening for what it didn’t say as what it did: “The whole family is saddened to learn the full extent of how challenging the last few years have been for Harry and Meghan.” 

(“Saddened”? “Enraged” is probably more accurate. “Challenging”? “Willful and selfish” works for me.)

The statement continues: “The issues raised, particularly that of race, are concerning.” (Of course - but Markle’s vague claim remains unproven.) 

“While some recollections may vary (a tactful and deliberately ambiguous phrase), they are taken very seriously and will be addressed by the family privately (Message to Markle: Stifle.). Harry, Meghan and Archie will always be much loved family members.” (Harry’s in the dog house; Archie’s guileless; and Meghan …) 

I defend her right to say it, but disagree with Inquirer columnist Elizabeth Wellington’s view that Markle and son Archie are the victims of racism. I’ve never met Markle, and don’t give a fig about the color of her skin.

Having watched the Oprah interview and the following day’s out-takes; having read numerous articles, current and historic; and having carefully considered on which side of the Markle v. monarchy controversy I stand, my opinion is that many of Markle’s self-serving comments to Oprah Winfrey were disingenuous. 

“Some recollections may vary ...” as the Palace stated. But after days of digging into this, I’d say many recollections differ from Meghan Markle’s. 

In forming that opinion, I’ve taken the published comments of father Thomas Markle and half-sister Samantha with a very large pinch of salt. I’ve also done my best to disregard the reporting from extremist and malicious sources.

So into the Hall of Mirrors, to reflect on Meghan Markle, in a couple of days.

© Nicole Parton, 2021

Space Odyssey

What’s on my mind? An online friend recently expressed a twinge of discomfort about the organization of his kitchen. I know plenty about kitchens, mainly that ours is too small. 

If your kitchen is also on the small side, this post may help. I’m very good at giving advice, even if not so hot at taking it. I want to visit my kitchen - not live there. Having a well-organized kitchen helps Himself and I do exactly that. So here are some tips, take ’em or leave ’em. Top tips, first:

When I’m not using it for stock, this stock pot sits on my kitchen counter as an ideal storage for kitchen tools. Group tools in large and small jars inside the pot. Raise the jars on small blocks of wood. The jars will be hidden, but your tools will be at exactly the right height for you to find and use.

Our kitchen has minimal cupboard space for canned goods. To solve this problem without spending a lot of money, I bought a custom-made bench for a covered area of the patio. 

The seat of the bench flips up, revealing a handy storage space for two and three layers of dozens and dozens of cans. 

Essential to our efficient, bug-proof storage of canned goods, the ample space in the bench lets us take advantage of on-sale case-lot goods. Decorated with cushions, a storage bench such as this will work in almost any room of a house or apartment.

Cupboards are a major component of efficient kitchen storage. Well-organized kitchen cupboards need washable, durable, tightly closable, similar-sized containers (preferably opaque, preferably matching for the wow! factor, and preferably unbreakable). I organize mine by food-type, grouping sugars together and doing the same with cereals, flours, etc.

No matter how large or small, a deep freeze provides efficient storage, saving time, money, and waste. Examples? I packaged this chili for a larger meal, but also in smaller containers for a handy lunch.

I routinely buy fresh mushrooms in bulk and on sale, cutting them with an egg slicer (faster to clean than a food processor; faster to use than a knife). I sauté, cool, package, and freeze them in 1/2-c. portions for later use in recipes … A space-saver; a time-saver; a money-saver.

With writing my priority, Himself does much of the cooking. A well-organized kitchen is especially important when more than one person’s cooking. While many of my older recipes are on file cards, I share my very favorites with the readers of my second blog, Nicole Parton’s Favorite Recipes: http://nicoleparton.blogspot.com

Anyone can organize recipes this way: Blogs can be public or private - for your eyes only. No need to write out recipes: Screen shots work well for private blogs. 

Himself also added vertical and horizontal shelves to the hall cupboard, adjacent to the water heater. I store baking pans there.  

There’s more, of course, all of it revolving around space and efficiency. I wrote about kitchen organization years ago. While these books aren’t easy to find, Amazon may  be able to find gently used copies.

© Nicole Parton, 2021

Dances with Geese

What’s on my mind? Himself and I live on an island. Recent pre-COVID summers saw the arrival of 10 times more camera-totin’ tourists than we have residents. By the end of August, when most visitors vanish, we still hear the familiar honk, honk, honk! - not of tourist traffic, but of Canada geese, honking like party horns. Canada geese have claimed this island as their own - with yucky consequences. Swooping in like dive-bombers, they favor our parks and waterways, ready to drop ... E-w-w-w! 

One neighbor got so frustrated he shot a goose, which was awful. Literally “winged,” she wintered alone - unable to fly, dodging traps. Which was how I came to write Dances with Geese. 

Neighbors got song sheets, with some forming a well-rehearsed chorus line. As most of us sang, the dancers stepped and high-kicked. At the song’s last line, they turned, bent over, and wiggled their bums. Everyone screamed with laughter, releasing a lot of the anger some harbored toward the geese. So now, allow me to present ...

Dances with Geese

In our part of town, we have a new dance

You don’t have to jive, you don’t have to prance

You do need to watch where your feet are at

Or risk a fall right on your prat!

We Do the Goose Step! The Canada Goose Step!

The goose is a bird that swoops and glides

In goes the food, and out it slides

The goose enjoys its diet of grass

In one end, and out its ass.

We Do the Goose Step! The Canada Goose Step!

We do the dance without a word

Step left! Step right! Avoid that turd! 

Eyes down! Guard up! Watch the path! 

Make one slip and you’ll take a bath. 

 

We Do the Goose Step! The Canada Goose Step!

The goose enjoys each snack and meal

And celebrates with joyous zeal 

Up in the air, loop-de-loop

Down on the ground, poop-de-poop.

We Do the Goose Step! The Canada Goose Step!

Those of us who’ve learned to cope

Do the dance with every hope

That big steps taken will prevent

A nasty dip in excrement.

We Do the Goose Step! The Canada Goose Step!

The geese, they poop most everywhere

So all of us, we must take care

On lawns and walkways, driveways, too

Wherever they leave the old doo-doo.

We Do the Goose Step! The Canada Goose Step!

There’s no point in simply whining

Consider now this silver lining.

Smile! Be glad! Act like a fool!

The geese don’t use your swimming pool!

We Do the Goose Step! The Canada Goose Step! 

 © Nicole Parton, 2021

Green as a Shamrock

What’s on my mind? We were in “Wel-l-l-come, Costco shoppers!” No megaphone-totin’ maniac would ever dare get in the way of Costco shoppers with a mindless little message like that. S/he’d be flattened by the stampede heading into Aisle 59, where a large sign cautions: TOILET PAPER IS NOT A RETURNABLE ITEM.

(If ever there were such a suicidal numbskull, 45 seconds after the trampling, some managerial type would be screaming over the PA: “CODE RED! CODE RED! CLEANUP IN AISLE 59! STAT!”) Although Costco’s the Wild West of grocery stores, none of that happened. This did. 

The only way we can shop at Costco and feel safe during the COVID pandemic is to head the line, double-masked, when the doors open at 8 am (I’d feel safer in a hazmat suit, but you can’t have everything).

With fewer people in the aisles and a stick-to-the-list mindset, we’re in and outta there in 15 minutes - 20, tops. Chicken was on the list, so we raced to the chicken aisle, loading up on breasts, legs, and thighs. By the time we were done, even our fellow shoppers wanted a cigaret. 

But what was this? Duck wasn’t on our grocery list, but there it was, sittin’ pretty at truly extraordinary prices. I and 5.3 million other Costco shoppers instantly deduced these limbo-style (how lo-o-w can you go?) prices followed the traditional Chinese New Year’s celebrations (online, rather than en masse) at which duck is usually served. Thus, the bargains.

Himself tried to bag a duck. Literally. You know those green compostable bags in the meat department you can never open? Himself ripped one of those bags from the roll above Costco’s chilled chickens.  

Tearing off the bag was child’s play. Opening it required a PhD in Bag Sciences. Himself’s advanced education had skipped that particular degree. Himself is an expert in the “finger-snap” bag-opening technique, and in the “licked finger technique,” but - concerned that the “licked finger technique” might precede an unfortunate “touch produce” incident - he didn’t dare use the tried-and-true “lick”method. The result: Himself couldn’t open the #@!% bag to put the #@!% leaky bird inside.  

It was then that a helpful Costco employee sauntered by.

“Rip it!” she said. “Give the bag a little tear and it’ll open like magic.” So Himself did and it did. He stashed the duck in the bag and we raced from Costco to our car.

Himself’s a little deaf (Let me whisper so he can’t hear: HIMSELF IS A LOT DEAF).  

So when, buzzing home up the freeway, I saw the ripped- off square of a green compostable bag dangling from the stubble on Himself’s chin, I said nothing. Better to do that than yell: “Himself! THERE’S A MMM-FFF HANGING FROM YOUR MMM-FFF!”

“WHAD-YA-SAY? WHAD?”

“THERE’S A MMM-FFF DANGLING FROM …” Too risky, in traffic. I’d wait until we were home.

But then I forgot and Himself opened the door to our friend Mrs. H, who offered a socially distanced hello, so I stifled. And then I forgot again, perhaps assuming the bit o’ bag would fall into his lunch or dinner. I forgot even as the sliver of compostable je ne sais quoi flapped like a flag in our nightly hot tub. And then I suddenly remembered what it was. After all, the $#@! thing was green as a shamrock.

“Himself …” I began. “There’s a mmm-fff dangling from your mmm-fff …” That, without a doubt, is what he heard.

“WHAD-YA-SAY? WHAD?”

Upon which the steam of the hot tub loosened the green-as-a-shamrock bit o’ bag that immediately floated off and down the tub’s filter. 

“WHAD? WHAD?”

I rolled my eyes. I love this man. I truly do. Best to say nothing. My mind drifted to Costco: “CODE GREEN! CODE GREEN! CLEANUP IN AISLE HOT TUB. STAT!”

© Nicole Parton, 2021

The Incredible Hunk

What’s on my mind? I’ll call him Baby X. I have a hunch he wouldn’t want me to use his name. I’ve known and loved him since the day he was born. He’s seven weeks older than Roger, my son. Here he is in the photo below, dressed as a chicken. Don’t ask: I haven’t got a clue. 

Somewhere, I have a black and white photo of him and Roger, each noodling on the keyboard of a toy piano. They were two years old, at the time. 

I remember him as blond-haired Toddler X, running starkers in six different directions, insistent that “I want a tun tan!”  

I remember the Incredible Hunk X at 35, with the movie-star looks he still has at 50. His mother and I have been best buds nearly 60 years. She’s unwell. She will not recover. It hurts to lose someone you love.

Hunk X works in the movies, but where and doing what, I won’t say. I won’t say because I was desperately disappointed in him this week, as in “How could you do such a thing???” 

And now he’s dressed head-to-toe as a chicken, his Hunk X movie-star looks disguised, and I’m laughing and all is forgiven. 

What happened? Several years ago, Hunk X adopted a rescue dog - a beautiful animal who became his best pal and traveling companion. She had a weak heart, and died far too soon, her short life a joy to him and to her. He didn’t replace her with another dog - I’m guessing because it hurts to lose someone you love. 

And so, on his 50th birthday, he asked for just one thing: Donations to a dog rescue society via the PayPal Giving Fund. His friends stepped up, and so did I, but now it’s tax time. When I noticed my tax receipt hadn’t arrived, I chased after it - first casually, and then with a slavering vigor even I will admit was out-of-proportion to my modest donation.

As it turned out, the PayPal Giving Fund directed my tax receipt to an email address I’d had before the Romans built the Colosseum. I hope it arrives today. 

In navigating the maze of PayPal Giving’s online documents, I came across a sentence that left me in shock: It said Hunk X would be receiving partial proceeds from my donation - and, I assumed, from everyone else’s. That’s when I thought Hunk X must be desperate to wear that chicken costume, especially because my donation was chicken feed. 

It was only when I read the phrase for the 100th time that I realized I’d misinterpreted the words: “The amount you donated will be shared with Hunk X.” An ambiguous sentence if ever there was one. The sentence didn’t mean Hunk X would be snaffling some of my donation … It meant Hunk X would know how much I’d sent the dog rescue society. 

If his mother were well, we might have shared a good laugh about that. As it is, we won’t. It hurts to lose someone you love.

© Nicole Parton, 2021

Happy Valentine’s Day!

What’s on my mind?

I said no. “No!” 

Never: “Never!”

No, again: “Am-scray!”

Go: “Get lost!” 

I said maybe: “Maybe …” 

One date: “No more!” 

Two: “What the hell …” 

Three: “Why not?”

He said he loved me: “Not interested.” 

He said it again: “Sheesh!”

And again: “You do ..?”

And again: “You’re so sweet …”

He brought me flowers: “My favorite!”

And chocolates: “Your favorite!”

And gifts: “How did you know?” 

He said he loved me: “I love you, too …” 

He said he already knew that: “What a fool I’ve been!” 

We’ve been married 11 years. I love him like azy-cray.

© Nicole Parton, 2021

The COVID Blues

What’s on my mind? The COVID Blues.

First came the spending: “Another package from Wayfair? What now, Nicole?” “Stuff …” “What stuff?” “Stuff-stuff!”

 

And the snacking: “What are you eating, Nicole?” “Muffink!” (Munch, munch, munch)

And the boredom: “Another computer game? You’ve been on that thing for two hours!” “Three … So what?” 

And the sloth: “Let’s play Scrabble, Nicole!” “I’m tired! Leave me alone!” 

And the crabbiness: C’mon, Nicole … We need to get out for a walk!” “I don’ wanna walk! I don’ wanna!”  

This virus can’t end soon enough. Cross my heart and hope not to die.

© Nicole Parton, 2021

How Are You Making Out?

What’s on my mind? “In a world where you can be anything, be kind.” Great advice! And if you encounter Mr. or Ms. Nasty? Turn the other cheek - and I don’t mean your backside, Baby.

This is a time of unprecedented challenges and heartaches. Some people’s emotions are at or near the breaking point.

On opening yesterday’s email, I found an intriguing chicken recipe from my friend Judy. I wrote about Judy a few days ago: She’s been calling friends to ask how they’ve been making out (not the best choice of words, but oh, well) during COVID. By chance, I’ve been doing the same thing for a couple of months (I’m not talking about “making out” - that’s a given, ha-ha).

Judy’s kindness was an unexpected ray of sunshine. It made me think about how fortunate we are. That got me thinking about helping others boost their spirits.

The fact is, many of us are getting bored and frustrated with the day-to-day humdrum of our lives. So here are a few suggestions, starting with … S-E-X!

I’ve spelled it out so any young children trying to make out (not the best choice of words, but oh, well) this page won’t understand the word. 

It’s a little embarrassing to raise (sorry about that!) S-E-X on Facebook, and not everyone’s interested, so strike S-E-X from your activities list if you aren’t. But if S-E-X interests you, HOLEY MOLEY, go for it!

Good grief, I said HOLEY MOLEY! That wasn’t some sly, coded reference to body parts. It would be in poor taste to pubicly  declare that I like S-E-X and I aspire to being a good-taste kinda gal. 

The bottom (oh, dear) line is that my innocent reference to “good taste” doesn’t mean I’ve got S-E-X on the brain. So I’ll add S-E-X to my activity list, and if you want S-E-X on yours, do the nasty in private. What-e-ver! Your secret’s safe with me.

My suggestions for staying fulfilled (a slip of the pen, BFFs) include firing up your Kindle (whoo-hoo!); pursuing a hobby in something you’ve always wanted to do (not THAT!); and reaching out to touch someone (I’m not touching THAT one, either). 

Don’t forget to thank essential workers (no comment) and seek a Higher Power (preferably, not salacious).

Share what you have (I’m starting to sweat); ask if you need help (ditto); and never lose hope (or faith … or charity).

Those in your bubble may enjoy such games as Twister (self-explanatory) or tic-tac-toe sucking (whoo-hoo!) … There’s plenty to keep you busy. Some people like crosswords ... Not I! No one wants S-E-X with a grump.

© Nicole Parton, 2021

The Danger of Me-First Thinking

What’s on my mind? The day-to-day tedium of COVID-19: The social distancing; the home confinement; the wearing of masks in public places; the inability to visit friends one-on-one. 

Live with it, Baby Doll: Dying from COVID would be significantly harder.

What if your choices were different? What if you said: “I choose not to get sucked into the negativity and vortex of fear”? In other words, ignore the pandemic. I know someone who’s done exactly that. Sounds pretty good, right? An anti-vaxxer, her recent birthday party featured a DJ and a newly installed dance floor. 

She’s posted Facebook pix of herself at a bar. She’s currently staying at a luxury resort and spa. Good? Uh-uh. Bad. Very, very bad - precisely the selfish behavior that perpetuates the spread of a deadly virus. Maturity and critical thinking skills will get us through this crisis. Me-first thinking will not.

Me-first thinking is irresponsible. So is COVID denial and the inability to grasp reality. Suggesting COVID is a hoax is wilful ignorance that puts lives at risk - your own, your family’s, and the lives of those around you. Suck it up, buttercup.

COVID is depressing on many escalating levels. You’re bored? You won’t be if you’re   fighting for your life. You’re depressed? Get over it. 

 Himself and I sometimes get depressed. And then we poke our noses out the window to inhale the fresh air; we go for a walk; we play cards; we phone or send emails to those who need a lift; we donate what we can to those in desperate need. 

Helping others makes us feel better. A recent psychological study found that helping another person offers a three-way benefit: The person helped feels better; you feel better; anyone observing the good deed feels better. In other words, think less about you and more about others.

This morning, I saw a TV ad for a luxury Alfa Romeo sedan. The attractive blond behind the wheel was on her way to a social event. I found the ad’s elitist message (and timing, during a global pandemic) offensive. 

The number of unemployed is increasing. So is the number of homeless. Some of those still hanging on need to choose between paying the rent and buying food. Essential workers are exhausted. Many hospitals and morgues have reached their capacity. Extremists are rioting. Government bail-outs are becoming stretched. 

Alfa Romeo’s ad highlights the divide between the haves and have-nots. The ad isn’t  meant to offend, but I have to wonder if the subtle message to the rich is that lifting the boredom, depression, and fear of COVID is as simple as buying a new toy - the infinitely costlier version of a DJ and a newly installed dance floor.

I’m cranky, I suppose, but (as much as I love animals)  the tear-jerking TV ads for the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty of Animals (ASPCA) also offend me. There’s plenty online about these ads: Read it. My guess is that the ASPCA is highly sensitive about such searches, because the overwhelming number of sites I looked at were critical of how much money actually goes to animals in need. 

I’ve wondered the same, so within seconds of my Googling the question, the site I checked linked directly to a lawyer’s office. Shortly after, a representative of that very office was online for a “chat.” I immediately disconnected from the site.

To the best of my knowledge, the ASPCA has not published an annual report since the end of 2018, when it claimed $283 million in assets. At the time, its CEO was paid $712,397 and $57,129 in benefits, for a total compensation of $769,526. 

I have no way of knowing if the site from which I got this information is or is not true, but I do know several things: 1/ The best way to protect animals is through strengthened local, state, and provincial laws as well as tough federal legislation. 2/ Although animal abuse and neglect are tragic, people should take priority over animals during this desperate time of COVID. 3/ Charities able to spend hundreds of millions of dollars on sad-sounding TV ads are not the kind of charities I want to support.

As people around the world suffer, others spend money recklessly. Let’s hope the ultimate cost of a DJ and a dance floor doesn’t deliver any nasty surprises.

© Nicole Parton, 2021

How to Destroy a Burger Joint in One Easy Lesson

Note from me to you: I should probably be commenting on President Donald J. Trump’s call to far-right extremists and terrorists to rise up against democracy. Despite all evidence, Trump continues to believe he won the election “in a landslide.” Wrong-o: President-elect Joe Biden won, weeks ago. As Trump continued to insist the election be overturned, and Wednesday’s riot ripped through Washington’s Capitol Building, five people died in the insurrection he encouraged. 

Although a truculent, deranged, dangerous Trump will be leaving office Jan. 20th, the Democrats are fast-tracking Monday’s vote to begin impeachment proceedings against him. May they succeed in that endeavor. 

I should - and want - to comment about that, but haven’t the heart. I’m sickened by the wackos and conspiracy theorists who still believe Joe Biden “stole” the presidential election from Trump. I’m sickened by Trump’s dog whistles to terrorists he calls “patriots.” 

I’m sickened that the President’s enablers continue to support his cheating, lying, malignant narcissism, racism, self-dealing, income tax evasion, adultery, and lack of any moral compass. 

No, I won’t be commenting on Donald Trump. Better and smarter minds can do that. Those closer to the scene can do that. Those who know Trump well can do that. If this commentary were about Donald Trump, it would be titled How to Destroy a Country in One Easy Lesson. 

Instead, this is a story about How to Destroy a Burger Joint in One Easy Lesson. Although it’s an awful story, it’s a true one, as all my posts are. I hope it will make you smile. God only knows, we all need a smile, these days - Nicole

Canadian photographer John Denniston, with whom I used to work, recently reminded me that I once single-handedly destroyed a burger joint.

In an unfortunate episode of Dorkism, I decided to ferret out Vancouver’s Best Hamburger, the plan being to write a newspaper column about my search as John photographed happy diners with full mouths and tummies. 

The story had everything to do with driving a whole lot of miles, asking a whole lot of questions, and chowing down a whole lot of (burp!) burgers. Advertisers? I didn’t give a fig, and nor did the newspaper, in those innocent days. 

When a little burger joint beat its big-time competitors, 20-person lineups formed outside the restaurant’s door. Disaster ensued.

When the regulars couldn’t get in, they stopped coming. Run off their feet with the increase in business, the staff started quitting - sometimes in the middle of a shift. With fewer staff and longer lineups, first-time customers gave up trying to get in. It didn’t take long for the place to slide into receivership. I hang my head in shame.

© Nicole Parton, 2021