Out Come the Knives

What’s on my mind? A humbling (but in retrospect, hilarious) experience I once had on the stage of the Pacific National Exhibition. Perhaps if the place had been called the Pacific National Inhibition, I wouldn’t have agreed to do what I agreed to do. 

Although I’d never suggested it, my newspaper column of many years ago prompted everyone to assume I was an expert at everything. 

I was (and still am) an expert at nothing (except secretly scarfing down chocolate éclairs in the privacy of our bedroom closet). Thanks to my supposed expertise, the PNE asked me to demonstrate how to chop parsley ultra-fast (WHUP!-WHUP-WHUP!). This was in the days of the “Domestic Arts” building. Coulda been worse. Coulda been the “Martial Arts” building.

“How hard can it be?” I thought. As things turned out, very hard. 

My performance was an embarrassment (“Lemmee see … If you turn the stalks this way and the shaggy stuff that way, you should be able to …” (WHUP!) 

“AIYEE!” 

I was led off the stage with blood spurting from my finger to Seattle, Texas, and Brazil. 

The one and only other time I’ve been asked to demonstrate my impressive life skills was a stint on a fund-raising telethon. At the time, I had a very strong allergy to cat dander. 

So what happened? Why, I don’t know, but some idiot carried a fluffy, crated cat onstage. With the TV cameras rolling, my eyes bugged out and I clutched my throat, having inconveniently stopped breathing. 

I was quickly dragged off the stage. 

I must say, the ambulance attendants who poked some needle into some miscellaneous part of my body were very nice.

©  Nicole Parton, 2020

Cruisin’ for a Bruisin’

What’s on my mind? Himself and I need a vacation. Maybe a cruise? Or not.

I’ve been studying the ads for one particular cruise ship that holds 3,000 passengers. Yikes! Those ads describe: “Your home away from home ...” 

The ads call the ship the “jewel of the sea” in which dining is a “joyful celebration” and the spas promote “joyful rejuvenation.” My, oh, my!

And wellness! The ads for this particular ship promise to “nurture wellness on every level.” Under the heading WELLNESS, they say: “Chart a course for body and mind renewal on a relaxing cruise with (name of liner).” And under the heading: ONBOARD EXPERIENCE ... “Wellness.” I get the point. Yowza! 

Another ad for this particular cruise ship refers to amenities that include “priority embarkation and disembarkation ...” 

What’s the name of this amazing ship? The Diamond Princess. Yes, that Diamond Princess, otherwise known as the world’s largest floating petri dish. Yet more ad copy describes the ship as “A treasure trove of exceptional delights waiting to be discovered.” Tell that to the 542 people who developed Novel Coronavirus onboard this ship, two of whom died. 

As if everything were business-as-usual, the Princess Cruise line describes Diamond’s upcoming itinerary as:

2020, Mar. 07: 8 days, roundtrip, Japan & Taiwan (from Tokyo) 

2020, Mar. 09: 6 days, one-way from Kobe to Yokohama

Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera Tacky.

The Diamond Princess didn’t cause the Novel Coronavirus. But nor has Princess Cruises’ management been smart or swift in their effort to contain the outbreak and ensure passengers are removed to a safer environment than a cruise ship. 

A Diamond Princess ad suggests passengers “Share stories of your Princess adventures ... via Facebook, YouTube, Instagram, Twitter, and Pinterest.” You can be sure they will.

Look ... It’s easy to criticize. I know squat about running a cruise ship. I’m sorry the passengers, crew, managers, and owners of the Diamond Princess have suffered through this nightmare, but ... 

Note to cruise line: Common sense says there’s a time to advertise and a time to keep quiet. This is a time to keep quiet. The Diamond Princess should yank its ads immediately, decommission the ship for as long as it takes, rename it if necessary, and pray anyone considering a Princess cruise forgives and forgets this débacle sooner than later.  

© Nicole Parton, 2020

Food for Thought

What’s on my mind? 

It started with apples. A few years ago, everyone was chomping Macs - and no one seemed to care, because Macs were all the rage. The many varieties of apples once available had pretty much disappeared, and orchardists were ripping out their apples trees to grow more profitable grapes - or to sell the land for housing. A pity.

Gala apples are a pretty big deal right now, most likely because they’re shelf-stable and Costco sells them cheaply, leaving smaller food chains no choice but to buy them, too.

In the days when I was paid to do it, I’d dangle a few numbers (but not so many that you - or I - would fall asleep) to suggest why why this or that was driving this or that market. 

Today, all I can offer is an educated guess that Gala apples appeal to most tastes (not too sweet, not too tart; not too crisp, not too mushy). I also suspect Galas offer a larger profit margin than possible if food chains stocked a greater choice of apples. Apple case closed. 

Next came corn. The bland “peaches and cream” variety is a pox on the land.  I cheered when Margaret Wente, then-columnist for The Globe and Mail, took up the cudgel to fight the good fight in approximately Y2K. I would have done the same, but my days as a newspaper columnist were long gone.

Corn once offered many varieties (Jubilee was my favorite for freezing, doing a credible imitation of fresh-picked corn on a nippy November or January day). Peaches and cream? Perfect for the false-teeth crowd. No crunch. The bland leading the bland.

So now, it’s yams. Their rust-colored skin has fooled me once too often into thinking I’m buying yams, but n’yah, n’yah! Fooled ya, Nicole! What I’ve actually bought are sweet potatoes. No, thank you. 

Hmmm … The US Dept. of Agriculture requires labels with the term “yam” to also state “sweet potato.” That’s misleading. A yam is a yam is a yam - not a sweet potato. 

Although no one’s paying me to do this, I’ve been studying up on the per-capita consumption of fresh sweet potatoes in the US from 2000 to 2018, and also boning up on yams and sweet potatoes in Agriculture and Agri-Food Canada filings. So here’s what I’ve discovered: Nothing. Didn’t understand a word of it.

What I suspect, however, is that yams and sweet potatoes are being hybridized for the same reason apples and corn have been dumbed down - corporate profits. 

Fluorescent carrots … Have you seen ’em? They’re the color of Donald Trump’s face and the size of a toddler’s thigh, neither of which is appealing. These Chinese-grown carrots are the most unnatural thing I’ve seen since Liberace’s final face lift. Unless they play the piano, I don't want them anywhere near our kitchen.

© Nicole Parton, 2020

Ready for My Close-Up, Mr. DeMille!

Last night, Himself and I watched the 92nd Academy Awards. What a show! 

I, too, once trod the boards. With dedication! With talent! With dreams of bigger things!

Ask me if I know about rising to the top … I do! Ask me if I know about the sacrifices made in the name of acting! I do! Ask me if I know how to cry at the drop of a handkerchief! I do! (Ask me if I can still bend over to pick up that hankie. Mind your own business.)

I was once among those who toiled in the thee-a-tuh!

If you must know (and if you don’t, I’ll tell you, anyway), I was once a movie extra. Movie extras are the background characters who cross streets, shop in department stores, walk dogs in the park, sip fake wine in fake restaurants, and flap their lips soundlessly in the background as the principal actors talk. 

All of the above, I’ve done, but was keen to get ahead. I was young! I needed the money! Which wasn’t like it sounds ...  

In those days, I lived in Vancouver, where movies are often made and where agents aren’t exactly hard to find. And so I found one. I called the first agency in the phone book, sent in my photo, said I had a car, and was hired on the spot. For assigning me to “shoots,” my agent took 15% of my handsome hourly wage of $10. Fair enough. 

I was now a starving “artiste” entitled call myself a “movie extra.” I lived in hope, as every extra does: Work hard and you might even get a small speaking part! 

To gauge how much “talent” I had, my agent said I needed a screen test. She told me to memorize several monologues, the most difficult being the part of a woman wallowing in misery. Did I look like a woman wallowing in misery? Don’t go getting ahead of me, now. 

Memorizing my lines at home, I thought it might be a good idea if the miserable woman in the monologue spilled her miserable guts to an equally miserable teddy bear. I also thought crying would help me advance my soon-to-be career as a bona fide movie star. 

(One thing wasn’t in my favor. Sad to say, I’m a happy person. The only time I cry is when I run out of money at the end of the month.) 

So (a) I bought a teddy bear and (b) whittled a hole in its chest and (c) stuffed a sock with chunks of onion, jalapēno peppers, and horseradish before (d) poking the sock inside the hole in the bear’s chest and (e) stitching the hole shut.  

A few hours before my audition, I tested my method at home. To guarantee success, I thought I’d better rub the same mixture on my hands and up each nostril.

Turning to the script, I cuddled the bear and began to emote (“Mah dahlin’ bay-ah! You ah mah one true friend!”). Which was when … 

KA-BLOOEY! 

A time bomb detonated in my nose. So much water streamed from my face that I looked like I’d sprung a leak. My contact lenses floated from my eyes like little life rafts on a flood of tears. Blinded, I smacked off walls like a human pinball.

The sneezing started after that. And the coughing. My beezer looked like a traffic light stuck on “stop” - except that it wouldn’t. I’d turned on the taps and nothing would turn them off. The memorized lines I spluttered didn’t sound anything like the words in the script. 

A few hours later, after two showers and after ripping open the bear’s chest and removing, refilling, and replacing the sock with just a little sliver of onion, pepper, and horseradish, and after restitching the bear’s chest, I awaited the Big Screen Test in my agent’s office. 

Her nose quivering like a rabbit’s, the first thing my agent asked was: “What’s that smell?” Saying nothing, I tried to look blasé. 

When the camera came out, so did the bear on which I’d performed sock surgery. Assuming a look of innocence, I poked minuscule slivers of onion, pepper, and horseradish up my nose at the very moment the agent looked my way. Her face registered disgust: She probably thought I was having a last-minute archeological dig. 

Just as I’d buried the slivers deeply into my nose, I now buried my face deeply into the bear’s chest. My lines may have come out as “Mmmfff! Mwhafff-fweind-bear!” but I sobbed a bucket of tears and was believably miserable.  

The agent said my ability to cry showed “natural talent.” Indeed, she said I was so talented that I needed only three years’ training - at $15,000 a year - at the acting school in the same building as her agency. I had a strong but unproven suspicion about the ownership of that school, but didn’t get the chance to find out.

Feeling the hot flush of shame, I said I didn’t have two nickels to rub together. And I didn’t. After my agent took her 15% commission off the top, and sent me on far-flung assignments that at times took most of a tank of gas, the hourly $8.50 I cleared (with income taxes yet to come) meant I sometimes lost money working as a movie extra. 

Once I confessed I couldn’t afford to go to acting school, my agent effectively said: “You’ll never work in this town again!” And I didn’t. She never sent me on another assignment. As quickly as it had begun, my brilliant career had swiftly drawn to a close.

©  Nicole Parton, 2020

A Sophisticate Eats Library Paste

What’s on my mind? Unread magazines.

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

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

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

Someday. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I heard Himself suck wind. And then I laughed.

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

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

©  Nicole Parton, 2020

The Blue Light

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

Himself: “It’s a light. It’s blue.”

Me: “But what …?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!

Because he doesn’t hear well, Himself has no idea how loud the alarm is. In fact, I’ve never heard it louder: WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! 

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

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

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

WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!

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

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

WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!

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

WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!

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

“HELP ME, HIMSELF, HELP ME …!”

“CAN’T YOU SEE I’M BUSY?”

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

WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!

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

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

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

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

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

And then I hear a soft, calm, lilting musical voice. I don’t remember exactly what this woman says, but it’s something like: “What may I do for you, Miss-Mrs.?”

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

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

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

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

“HOW LONG?” Himself yells.

“NOT LONG!” I lie.

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

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

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

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

“THE ALARM! “THE ALARM!” I scream.

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

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

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

“Do not worry. I will -”

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

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

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

“GET YOUR HEARING AIDS CHECKED!” I shout.

“WHA-A-AT?” he booms.

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

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

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

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

©  Nicole Parton, 2020

Sing a Song of Sixpence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be careful what you wish for.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

©  Nicole Parton, 2020

Unzipped and Unhinged

What’s on my mind? Claustrophobia. 

As any claustrophobic knows, being inside a car (locks down; windows up), a small, windowless room, a stuck elevator, or any physical situation with no means of escape can provoke an immediate, severe, anxiety attack. Welcome to my world.

“He-e-y, baby … Try on these fur handcuffs …”

“EEEEEK!”

(“He-e-y, baby … You’re a froot loop …”)

A few days ago, I said I’d nap in the car while Himself went shopping. With claustrophobia bigger than Donald Trump’s ego, it wasn’t long before I bounded from the car to breathe the clean, fresh, and very cold air of the upper parkade of a Big City shopping mall. It was such a frosty day that I brought my ski jacket and - having gained a little (heh-heh-heh) weight, tried to fasten it. 

The zipper stuck just below my crotch. I panicked. 

(A medical note: I suffer from an advanced condition known as Mature Woman’s Hips, Boobs, and Upper Arms. There was no way, no how, no where I could slip outta that jacket, especially in the upper parkade of a Big City shopping mall.) 

Hyperventilating, I paced around the car, consciously suppressing the desire to scream because I was imprisoned in a 20-year-old Helly Hansen ski jacket with a stuck zipper. It was then I saw my prince, the man who would free me from this claustrophobic nightmare.

He had a broom. And a step-on dustpan. And a glassy look in the eyes of his very bored face. I guessed him to be 19, marking time until he could achieve his true calling as a nuclear physicist. 

“Help! Help!” I cried in my Weak Little Woman’s voice. The sleeves of my jacket flapped feebly, my Mature Woman’s Upper Arms being pinioned inside them. The kid gave me a dull look and continued sweeping.

“H-E-E-LP!!!” came my feeble cry. “H-E-E-LP!!! H-E-E-LP!!!” That got his attention. “My zipper’s stuck! I can’t get free!”

Staring at the frozen zipper just below my crotch, he handed me his broom and his dustpan and furiously set to work. UP-DOWN-UP-DOWN-UP-DOWN! The zipper didn’t budge.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“GET IT UP!” I screamed, upon which I instinctively realized that anyone passing by (which thankfully, no one did) might get the wrong idea about the kid’s zealous UP-DOWN-UP-DOWN-UP-DOWN motion near my crotch. 

In a parking lot. With basically no one around. As I carried a broom. Presumably to return the favor. 

“What time is it?” he asked. 

“One o’clock,” I snapped, upon which he wordlessly took back his broom and his dustpan and trotted off to lunch. I stayed stuck until Himself returned from shopping. With the deft hand of a man accustomed to - well, never mind what he's accustomed to - Himself unstuck my zipper. This is a true story.

But what if … what if … I’d called 911, sobbing and hysterical as someone (we won’t name any names) with claustrophobia can easily become. And what if …

“911! Ambulance, police, or fire?”

“Fire Department! Hur-ry! Puh-leeze! I’m stuck in the upper parkade of a Big City shopping mall! I can’t get free! I’m trapped! H-H-H-H-HE-E-LP!!!” And then I’d faint, the phone slipping from my limp hand as my Weak Little Woman’s voice trailed off to nothingness. 

Which is the when, why, and how the 10 burly fire fighters would have come running. Sadly, that part of the story isn’t true. 911 would never have dispatched the fire department for such a flimsy request. They would have sent a therapist.

© Nicole Parton, 2019