A Tail of Seduction

What’s on my mind? We said we’d never do this. Never, ever, ever. We lied.

We said our lives were too busy. We said our house was too small. We said this would complicate our travels. We said we didn’t have time. We said the care and later complications would be expensive, as they probably would be. We said we were too old, which we actually aren’t. 

But we also said - correctly - that our house is filled with love. We said it would be a squeeze, but we were ready to squeeze in one more. 

Until we came to our senses and decided we couldn’t offer a dog the many good things a dog needs - the first, being time. But let me tell you why we were almost swept away.

We briefly set out hearts on a black Lab born on a nearby farm earlier this year. We’d read about these pups in the local paper: “Sixteen purebred Lab puppies born in one litter on Island farm,” read the headline. Below it, the subhead: “Birthing continued for close to seven hours.” 

It’s not often a litter of pups makes the news, but a litter of 16? In the semi-rural Island community where we live, this is big news. It’s also what happens when two wet noses start to fool around. The massive litter was three-year-old mother Sophie’s first, just as it was 18-month-old Louie’s. Each is a purebred black Lab. 

Beside the obvious, two things attracted us to the story in the local paper: The dogs’ owner told the reporter: “These dogs (Sophie and Louie) have grown up with the cows, the alpacas, they run with them … We have 10 acres, they run like crazy.”

As the reporter wrote: “Many animals have been born on the family farm including cows, sheep, alpacas and even their daughter.” I couldn’t make this stuff up.

We laughed and laughed until we thought: “Hmmm …” 

I once had a purebred black Lab named Spike. He was the last Spike, I’m sure, and sadly, the last Lab in a line of several dogs, each loving and loved. 

They say you’re never really free until the kids leave home and the dog dies. This, also sadly, is true. It is better to have loved and been loved by a dog, than never to have loved a dog - and been loved back. 

The farmer will by now have found another taker, the reporter will have found another story, and some perfect person will have provided the perfect home for the perfect puppy. With resignation and a smile, all will be perfect, in this imperfect world.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

VISA Would Probably Nix It

What’s on my mind? Handbags. Not ordinary “purses,” but the tonier-sounding “handbags.”

Paradoxically, you always know a woman has prestige and status when she doesn’t carry a bag. I say “paradoxically” because QE II totes a handbag (not a “purse” but a “handbag”) with nothing in it. Oh, maybe a cough drop, but otherwise, nothing.

She famously uses her bag as a signaling device to ladies-in-waiting (“Save me from this boring dame”) or to her discreet Personal Protection Officers (“Drag this dude to the dungeon”), as the situation requires. 

Have you ever seen a TV cop vault a chain-link fence with a purse slung over her shoulder? No way, Jose.

Does Melania Trump carry a purse? Does a G-7-bound Angela Merkel? Nope and nope. So where do these women stash their Kleenex? Up their sleeves? In their bras? In a money belt under their panties? 

The really rich don’t need a purse. An unobtrusive human lapdog follows at their heels, anticipating every need - alms for the poor, pens for autograph books, diapers … Yes, diapers. Kim Kardashian once stuffed baby North’s cheddar snacks and diapers into a $50,000 Hermes bag. 

I would never buy such a bag. Although I dutifully pay my bills in full and on time, VISA would probably nix it. As the TV ad for one US credit card asks: “What’s in your wallet?” There ain’t no $50,000 purses, and that’s fer dam-shure.  

“Man purses” have a certain cachet in places like Europe and Greece. Let’s not go there. Man purses are nothing like handbags. Women collect handbags. Purse genius Kate Spade knew that. And so do the likes of Chanel and YSL. 

I have a little secret! I, too, boast a modest collection of color-coordinated bags. Crafted from elegant plastic, they match my plastic shoes. If Melania carried a purse, they’d surely match her shoes - and what I’d never-ever want, is to be in Melania’s shoes.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

From Russia, with Love

What’s on my mind? I’m still breathing heavily following the four-page summary and continuing fallout from the Mueller Report. I look forward to more. 

Having said that, I’ve just come across an extremely disrespectful parody of US President Donald Trump’s close but secretive relationship with Russian President Vladimir Putin. Please do not watch or listen to the links, I beg of you!

Привет, comrades! This is Boris Goodenough, with the show you’ve all been waiting for … Live from Vladivostock, it’s Rus-sian Band-sta-a-a-nd! 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FnMtyKp6DGk

Wasn’t that great? Wasn’t it just great? And now it’s time for that special portion of the show I know you’re anxious to hear. Let’s give it up for Donald Trump’s Serenade of Love!

Trump to Putin: Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies …

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VIYthyp2lto

Trump to Putin: Listen! Do you want to know a secret?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n6ZNwD5R7i0

Trump to Putin: Wish we didn’t have to meet secretly …

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wOWicZC-wKg

With thanks to YouTube contributors; Comments © Nicole Parton, 2019

Ms. Vanilla Pudding Morphs Into ...

What’s on my mind? Full frontal crudity.

Thousands may disagree, but I normally consider myself a polite person. You’re probably polite, too. Polite people are nice people. We like our neighbors. We pet dogs. We smile and wave at babies. We listen to dull stories, feigning interest/concern/amusement/sadness … whatever the story requires. We send birthday and holiday greetings. We bake cookies. We’re driven by politeness, falling just short of groveling.

When a normally polite person loses it … When all that bottled-up politeness rises to the surface like bubbling lava … When Mr. or Ms. Vanilla Pudding morphs into the Incredible Hulk …

Yesterday, I invited Himself and my bestie Hezzah to lunch at a budget-breaking restaurant. Hezzah and I often lunch together, but having a man to flatter us is a pleasant perk. 

Along came our server - young, eager, sweet-natured, bright-eyed, and well trained in the Server’s Standard Script. I’ve written about the SSS before (Fed Up! Mar. 3, 2019). I detest it. 

With only minor variations, the SSS has three basic components: 

1/ The opening gambit: “How’s your day been, so far?” 

2/ The insurance policy: “How are those first few bites tasting?”

3/ The clincher: “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”

While Part 2 makes good sense, Parts 1 and 3 infuriate me. To the first question, I usually mask my feelings, offer a vapid smile, and say something meaningless like: “Oh, this and that …” This always pleases the server, who leaves the table satisfied to have made it through yet another SSS. 

Occasionally, I toy with the idea of saying, “At 9:30, I went to yoga and got all pretzeled up; at 10:15, I had coffee with my friend Alice, and then we did a little window-shopping; at 11:30, I had the car washed … and here I am now!”

But that would be mean. The questions are scripted and the server really doesn’t give a damn. I know that. She knows that. We all know that. It’s the “What are your plans for the rest of the day?” question that annoys me most.

No matter how much I want to rip the server’s head off, polite people don’t deliberately inflict discomfort on well-meaning people trying to do their jobs.

I sometimes think I’ll say: “It’s none of your business,” or “Why are you asking?” but that would be rude. 

Yesterday was different. Yesterday, when our bright-eyed server beamed down at us - three wrinkled, graying, paunchy seniors - I knew she was zeroing in on the clincher. 

Her perky little mouth cheep-cheeped: “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”  

As I bent over the bill, calculating the tip, something in me snapped. I’d truly had enough. I know the patter’s been shown to improve tips, but I couldn’t bear to hear it one more time, and just had. 

I heard the words in sl-o-o-ow motion, as though she were swimming through molasses: “Wha-a-at  ar-r-re  you-r-r-r  pla-a-a-ns  for-r-r  the  r-r-rest  of  the da-a-a-y?”

I looked up, smiled, and ever-so-casually lied: “We’re going home to have a threesome.” 

It was worth it just to see her jaw hit the floor.

I wasn’t referring to canasta, either.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

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