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

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 cat’s-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: “Donald’s lost his marbles.” 

© Nicole Parton, 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

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