I don’t know about you, but I’m a big fan of a time-release confession.

Coming clean, but with enough time to cushion the blow. Why get yelled at, or near, more than is necessary. And there will be yelling. No. Scratch that. There will be repeated bouts of loud point making. (Which feels kind of like yelling.)

Then why come clean? Because a lie of omission is still a lie. And you should never feel like you can’t tell your partner something. No. Scratch that. You just don’t want it to slip out when you yourself are not prepared for the blowback. 

So, what did I do? Ugh. Admittedly, I knew it was a mistake and I did it anyway. A few weeks ago, I went for a long walk on the beach, which ended up so much longer than anticipated. I had driven to the a place called the Washington Street pier for for a beach walk that I’ve dubbed my B2B walk: Bathroom to Bathroom. It’s almost three miles from the Washington St. to another public pier in a place called Waveland. There, I get to enjoy their lovely porcelain throne (careful, there’s a hole in it), a cold hand-washing, and my reflection in the perpetually fogged-over mirror, before heading back. 

Taking the walk was not the mistake. Taking my drivers license out of my wallet and shoving it into the stretchy pocket of my workout shorts was. Even as I was suiting up to head out, I thought, “I hope the license doesn’t fall out as I’m pulling my phone from that same pocket.” Which, of course, is exactly what happened…somewhere.

Lately, I’ve used some of my walks as a time to chat with my brother, Matt. (You may know him as "D.") We talk about everything and nothing. This time, as I was walking, he was driving with his wife, Amy. (You may know her as "Amy.") 

I was on speaker and the three of us were having a fine time…until. At this point in my walk, I’d made it all the way to the Waveland Pier and back--but with no bathroom stop. I don’t handle such business with an open line in my hand. I was now close enough to my return to Washington Street that I could see the finish line. Matt texted me a picture to look at. It was then, as I pulled the phone from my pocket, that I realized the license was gone. Son of a--!

Think, think, think! I did, and the first thing I thought was: Mr. Parker is going to lose his shit. Me “misplacing” my license is a thing. Admittedly, it happens with way too much frequency. Mostly because I hate carrying a wallet. Really, I hate carrying anything. I’d rather get wet than carry an umbrella. As a young girl, my mother told me I wasn’t feminine enough because I didn’t carry a handbag. My current wallet is basically a leather card caddy, which has a few pockets for cards. And even that was more than I wanted to take with on my beach walk.

My heart sank. Trying to remember the other times I’d reached my phone out during the walk, it became clear that I’d be retracing the entire trip. Because they love me, and they are acquainted with Mr. Parker’s emphatic style of of point-making, Matt and Amy stayed on the phone with me as I searched. The company was nice, but the hunt was fruitless. Twelve miles on sand and most of them without my I.D. Shit!

Mommy needs a plan. Mr. Parker and I were getting on a plane in less than a week. I have a passport, so getting through security was anon-issue. The issue would be explaining why I was using a passport. Standing in the TSA line is not where I wanted to have a domestic incident. 

The clock was now ticking. The local, rural DMV (basically shack with a counter, a computer and an eye chart) is a twenty-minute drive from our place. Mr. P. had to be in New Orleans the next day. That’s when I’d go. Car. I needed to borrow someone’s car. Whose? I don’t enjoy asking for things like this so, who?

That night I remembered, my buddy R.R. is just around the corner. R.R. will save me. He loves me. So I tell him. And save me he did. The moment Mr. Parker drove away for New Orleans, I headed for my new license. Passport and two utility bills with my name and address on them? Check! I was ready for covert ops. R.R.’s only words of advice were, “Don't wreck my car.” Because he said that, I was a nervous driver the entire way there and back. 

“Sorry the wait is so long, baby. We’re down two people.” Of course you are. But this is coastal MS, not LA or NYC. The wait was a fraction of what it ever is in both those teeming metropolises. And my forms of ID? They never, ever asked for them. They didn’t ask much of anything other than if I wanted to be an organ doner. 

Sidebar: The man next to me, upon being asked the same question, answered, “Not right now.” It begged so many questions. What was he waiting for? Would he be an organ donor once he had a meal in him? Was he hoping to take off a few pounds first? Quit smoking? Should they call him in a year to follow up? He never said. They didn’t ask.

Back to them not asking me for proof of identification. That begged questions as well. Could anyone decide they wanted to be Honey Parker? 

“Hey, I lost my license. I have no ID with me.” 

“Great. What’s your name, sugar?” 

“Honey Parker.” 

“Funny, you’re the third Honey Parker today.”

Honey, stop asking so many questions. With my shiny new license in hand…No. Scratch that. With my shiny new license in wallet, I drove (carefully) back to R.R.’s, thanked him, and was home well before Mr. P. returned from The City That Care Forgot. 

Flash forward two days. Mr. P. and I went with a friend to a movie theater to see Project Hail Mary. (Don’t ask.) As I pulled out my wallet, which I was oh so happy to carry, Mr. Parker looked down and said, “Hey, you have one of those newer licenses .” To which I say, “…yep.” and quickly asked him about something else. The topic never came up again…until now. 

So here is the part of the show where we get to find out if Mr. Parker reads my blog posts. In truth, I typically give them to him to proofread before posting. So, this is also the part where we find out if he notices that the blog is being posted without him reviewing it. Lastly, it's the part where you notice just how many type-os I can generate. (Like that last one right there. Assuming, of course, he left it in like he has to for the joke to work. And is it just me, or does "Type-Os" sound like a breakfast cereal? For Vampires?)

And after all the worry, will he just say, "Whatever?" and go make a pizza.

Perhaps my next blog post will be about Mr. Parker’s reaction to this one.

Wish me luck. 

Isn’t this fun!?!

About seven years ago, my niece (an absolutely delightful person) asked me what changes when we get older. She wasn’t being flip in any way. It was a completely sincere inquiry. And because of that, I wanted to give a meaningful answer. Something that would help prepare her for what lies ahead.

I was daunted. I wanted to give her actionable intel. Here was this young adult looking for some nugget of wisdom from her aunt. But the scope of the question seemed too vast. 

Then, in a flash of inspiration (you may call it “desperation”) I landed on something. I felt it might set her up for success. Not in her career, or relationships with others, but in her relationship with herself. 

My insight? [drum roll…] OK. Ya know those stupid things you do when you’re young that cause you to say something like, “Well, I’ve learned my lesson. I’m never doing THAT again.” Chances are you will do them again.

Did I have an example for her? Why yes, I did. (In truth, I had a ton of them, but let’s not scare the girl.) I selected something simple, relatable, and really stupid.

After an epic evening of drinking-down-the-lane in Los Angeles and then becoming all too enamored of my bathroom’s floor tile, I declared to myself and the universe that I would never again drink that much. “Ha-ha!” said the universe. (And my niece.)

I explained to her that years later, I found myself equally enamored of the tiles on the bathroom floor of my rented house on the Gulf Coast. I was so not proud of myself. But there it was. My wisdom. You will repeat many of your stupid mistakes. 
Yes, the saying is, “Fool me once.” Guess what? It’s just a saying. Forgive yourself. We all repeat foolish things multiple times during our lives. My niece seemed pleased and somewhat relieved with her nugget of life truth. I’d done my job. 

But had I done a good enough job for myself? Did I learn anything? If you read last month’s blog post, you may recall that I spoke about how I’m now drinking a lot less. Typically, one drink a week, if that. So, here comes irony to this. 

Last week for Mr. Parker’s birthday we spent two nights in New Orleans. (Yes, you’ve already guessed the punch line.) Neither of us were planning on overindulgence. Just a nice glass of wine to complement our charcuterie board at Cochon Butcher. Well, that nice glass was followed by one more nice glass. After our monster charcuterie board we split a lamb gyro for dessert. More wine just made sense.

On to music in the park. I drank nothing. But the atonal jazz was getting on my last good nerve, which was now soaked in red wine. So when we got to our next stop, the pump was primed. And that next stop was Erin Rose, “Home of the frozen Irish coffee!” (Order yours with a Jameson Irish Whiskey float. You’re welcome.)  We split a roast beef debris po’ boy and chased our Irish coffees with a pint. (So much more responsible than a second Irish coffee.) We made friends with folks at the bar who were celebrating their fourth wedding anniversary. I honestly don’t remember if we had a second pint. I want to say no, but…

We had one more scheduled stop on the way back to Le Richelieu Hotel. (That’s where we were married one fine Bastille Day some years earlier.) The scheduled stop was Harry’s Corner Bar, a total dive with an excellent jukebox. It was there that a nice man pointed out how happy we looked. We ordered two bourbons and began a conversation with him and his friends. Turns out this man was the brother of a friend of ours. (Of course.)

Ladies and gentlemen, I now present the “I thought I’d learned my lesson” moment. The nice man disappeared then reappeared with shots of Jägermeister for all. And by the way, I can already feel your judgment. (And your judgment is flawless.) Fool me once? Nope. Twice? Nope. To celebrate my man’s birthday, I went for a third round of stupid. We left the bar promising to see them all the same place, same time, the next evening.

We now had only one possible move. A preemptive strike on the legendary Verti Marte. (As it says on the sign, “A truly local experience. The BEST food in the quarter. 24/7 but we do have to clean sometime so call ahead if it's late!”) If you know the French Quarter, you may know the Verti Marte. It’s small corner market with great sandwiches, fried catfish and all mannner of bagged salty snacks. I went with White Cheddar Cheez-Its and an off-brand, Cheeto-like item. 

The goal was to let these treats act as little sponges to soak up what I had slogged down before it decided to exit through the door by which it had entered. I’m pleased to report that with a fair amount of determination and concentration, it worked. There was no visit to the tiles in the middle of the night.

I’m even more pleased to report that “Fool me thrice” is all I required. The next night, after a day filled with great flavors (The crazy good Turkey & The Wolf for lunch and glorious Bacchanal for dinner), a good museum, many miles of walking, excellent music, and great conversations with fine folks, we were again headed to Harry’s Corner Bar to fulfill our promise to our friend’s brother and his krewe. 

Halfway there, I stopped walking. I turned and said to Mr. Parker, “I don’t think I can do it.” 

“No?”

“I don’t think it’s wise.”

“You did say you’d be there.”

“I lied.”

“Fine with me.”

We each turned on our heel, breaking our promise to the nice man and thereby keeping a promise I’d made to myself years earlier. I’d learned my lesson. Finally.  Apparently, Mr. Parker had learned his as well.

Yay, team!

Sadly, I know that in a previous life, the amount that I’d had to drink stretched over so many hours would not have crushed me. I say “sadly” because that amount of hooch should leave a mark. But between being out of practice and not carrying as much weight as I used to (the irony of losing weight by consuming less alcohol is you can no longer consume as much alcohol), I just can’t play. 

Now, my question to myself is, have I truly learned? I’ll let you know.

Cheers,
Honey

I’m a woman of simple needs. Not buying it? Fine. I’m a woman of mostly simple needs and a few specific splurges. Three to be exact. Three things that make me feel like I occasionally put me first. And when I’m being truly selfish, I believe I owe myself these small splurges. (Here’s where I need you to nod in solidarity and understanding, Thank you.)

And my needs are simple. Because I have zero patients for shopping, I’m not a cloths horse. In truth, I’m still wearing items I bought decades ago. Granted, most of these items are not allowed out of the house. (Mr. Parker’s strong suggestion.) 

Also, since COVID, I’m less interested in dining out. Often, sitting in a restaurant, waiting for a server can make me feel trapped. As if I’m being forced to sit at my parent’s table until I’ve finished my vegetables. Something that never actually happened in my house because my mother never served vegetables. I didn’t try broccoli until I was twenty-five. Fortunately, I’m married to one of the best cooks I know so eating at home is far from a hardship. 

Here are the three things that (help) keep me happy. 

1. Someone to do my hair
2. Someone to clean my house
3. A first-class seat on an airplane

Shall we break it down? (If you answered, no, well, I guess we’re done.) First up: hair. Having a head full of curls, my hair is pretty forgiving. Assuming the stylist didn’t just lop off one side before passing out, a bad cut is relatively easy to hide. I could probably even do it myself.

Side Note: I cut my mother’s hair for the last two years of her life. She was too unstable to go to a salon but always cared about being presentable. She’d rocked a wedge haircut for decades, so I YouTubed (Yes, it’s a verb now) “Wedge Hair Cut, How To.” After five views of a man giving an older woman a competent wedge, I put on music, sprayed a bit of lavender into the air, and opened my salon to its one and only customer. It was the most fulfilling job I ever had.

Back to my own haircut joy. The real reason I love having someone do my hair is, it’s one of the only parts of my life where I’m away from work, and it’s 100% about relaxing. I love it all. From the easy conversation with someone who has become a friend (Yes Holly, I’m talking about you), to giving myself permission to ignore my phone, to having someone wash my hair. And the joy of that last part cannot be overstated. Having someone massage your scalp as hot water flows over your head is one of the best things ever. It’s right up there with great sex and a good poop. (You know you were thinking it.)

On to someone to clean my house. Knowing my home is clean is key to being able to work. Key. It’s too easy to be distracted thinking about that thing in the corner. What is that? Hair? Dust? Hair with dust? I can’t do it. It’s like The Tell Tale Heart calling for my attention, stopping all work from happening. 

Confession: I’m a shit cleaner. I should be great. My mother kept our house so clean that once I was giving guests the tour (something we did) and they asked why we had no shower door. Oh, there was a door, but the glass was so clean it appeared to not exist. When I sked my grandmother what she didn’t like about getting older she answered, “I can’t clean like I used to. But the clean genes were not passed down, so I like having a pro do it. 

Before you go thinking, Wow, I was going to guess she wants a house cleaner because she just doesn’t want to do it.Stop right there. You’re right. In addition to sucking at it, I don’t want to do it. Well, I didn’t. After the last cleaner didn’t work out (constant drama) I chose to do it myself. I’d rather try to channel my grandmother’s skill then deal with a new round of stories from someone who always has a medical, mother, mechanical, or metaphysical issue. Me doing it is just faster. (Faster? Oh, maybe that’s why I suck.)

Last but by no means least is a first-class seat on a plain. Does it really matter? Yes. The TSA pre-check, the Delta lounge…But there’s something about being treated better when you travel that helps you arrive more like a person. Something about a wider seat, leg room, a cocktail before take-off, the ability to sleep, a meal with utensils not made from petroleum products. Then there’s the bouncy conversation with your flight attendant about the bad behavior of others. (Certainly not me.) All those things plus, it’s what I want. Period.

So my question is, what are your three splurges? Not, must haves. But given the choice, you’d sacrifice something else to make these things happen.  No judgement. I just want to know what I’m missing. 
 

In a world where weight-loss solutions are so highly prized, it saddens me that I don’t see a way to monetize this. So, I will now share it at no additional cost to you. All I ask is that you try to not judge me too harshly.

Like most women (and tons of men) walking the Earth, I’ve struggled with weight gain most of my adult life. To be clear, at no point did my weight pose a health concern, nor did I ever undertake any extreme measures. Once food goes in the hole, it stays. No backsies. But even with an active lifestyle, I’ve always been in the plus-size zone.

When I was in my teens, my mother took me to Weight Watchers. It was me and a bunch of Lane Bryant shoppers, all in their 40s and above. This is not the best messaging to give a kid who’s always on a sports team and wears a size 12 or 14. (I'm 5, 8") I remember my father once telling me that I was built “nice and husky.” That’s a compliment no 20-year-old wants to hear. (Yes, I'm taking the liberty of speaking for all 20-year-olds.)

Nonetheless, ever forward. Like I said, I’ve always been active. One of my favorite things to do is to totally exhaust myself. Half-marathons, sprint-distance triathlons—I’ve even done even a full marathon. (Note: There’s a big difference between running 13.1 and 26.2—even when you’ve been training  in the snow at high altitude and the race is at sea level. But at least I didn’t puke. Winner!) I’m always up for a long-distance bike ride, a hike, or a paddling expedition. And I take my extra pounds with me wherever I go.

Then came the current fad of prescription weight-loss shots. Ozempic, Wegovy, Mounjaro, Saxenda, Zepbound—the list goes on. At a monthly cost ranging from $100 to $2,000, people started shooting up and slimming down. Oprah even did a prime-time special on the topic, thus giving permission to those still on the fence to inject the pounds away. (Note: Because I searched Google using the term “weight loss shots” for this blog, I am now inundated with endless ads picturing happy plus-sized women walking briskly. You’re welcome.)

I admit that in the last year, I became weight-loss-injection curious. I’ve had years of being active and eating on the healthier side. (I’d say that I buy only whole foods, but we all know that Mr. Parker does all the cooking and therefore all the shopping. So he buys only whole foods. Until he doesn’t. But mainly he does.) Being about the same amount of overweight my entire adult life, the idea that I could finally hit the target was appealing. But, for so many reasons, I never did anything further about it.

But then, about six months ago, I learned that several of my friends had been prescribed one of the medications mentioned above. Each of these women were farther from their target weight then I was. And in at least one case, I felt that this friend’s health was truly at risk, so good for her. Actually, good for all of them. I want to see my friends have success and live long lives in which they reach out periodically to share a story, a laugh, or a story that leads to a laugh.

Then it was time for my annual physical. I was issued a clean bill of health. Except…my weight was up about 10 pounds from my normal amount of above average. Was I going to ask my doctor? It was almost too embarrassing to say the words. Finally, in my best “It’s no big deal” voice, I queried her about the chances of getting a prescription for a weight-loss drug. She looked at my chart and said, “Well, first thing you'd need to do is gain another 30 pounds.” The best part is that she felt that she needed to add, “But I don’t think it’s worth it.” 

“Really?” The password is: Incredulity Here were my friends, along with tons of people around the planet—including Oprah!—getting to take the “easy way out” to fitness. Yes, I’m oversimplifying. (Remember the password is, incredulity.) But I was mad. No, I was hoppin’ mad. I was glad my friends were getting to cross the finish line, but I wanted to cross it with them. Didn’t my decades of heart-rate boosting, heavy-sweating-without-a-cocktail-at-the-end activity earn me that? 

Are you reading this thinking, “I bet she wasn’t even happy for her friends. I bet she was harboring secret feelings of envy—or worse, hate. I bet she begrudged them every pound.” Please remember, in paragraph one, you promised not to judge me. And the truth was and is, I begrudge them nothing. I want everyone to be healthy and happy. (At least, that’s my beauty pageant answer.)

No, not hate or envy. What I felt was spite. However, I was not spiteful of my friends, but of what I knew to be the hard truth: if I truly wanted to shed pounds, I, Honey Parker, would have to do it the old-fashioned way—diet and exercise, two things that had never worked in the past. While there’ve been times in my life when my weight dropped due to extreme effort or a bad flu (Yay, weight loss via fever and vomit!), I never reached what the charts say that a healthy person my height and age should weigh. And the pounds I did take off eventually returned and brought their friends.  

The next question: How to use spite for good? This may sound crazy or, again, overly simplistic. But I made myself so mad that I just declared I would not be thwarted. I was mad enough to not eat after dinner. I was too angry to snack. I also made sure I was being active in a meaningful way at least five days a week. I wanted the win. I demanded it.

With each pound gone, I found myself embracing my spite hard. Squeezing tighter. Failure was not an option. 

Feeling a mode come of success, I recalled the first time I attempted surfing. Mr. Parker and I were vacationing in Costa Rica with two other couples. Everyone on the trip was better at sports than I am. When we skied together, I was usually the last one to the bottom. Why I was the first one to surf, I don’t know. But there I was. When it was time to pop up on the board, I planted my feet and made a decision: I was not going to fall off. I was tired of being the less-competent one. Falling simply wasn’t an option. To everyone’s surprise, I rode that wave all the way to beach. Why? Because I decided I to make it so. In a world where the door to easy-to-get weight-loss injections was slammed in my face, my newfound spite was the emotional injection providing the same surf-rider determination. 

Still, I needed a plan for when I desired crunch or wanted to end to dinner with something sweet. The crunch was simple. Most raw vegetables (SIDEBAR: I detest the word “veggies”) have crunch. Carrots are my go-to. I can rip through a two-pound bag of organic carrots in two days. Maybe one day if I have a free hand. (Writing takes both.) Too many carrots, you say? 

Sentences you’ll never hear in conversation:

• “Seriously, that girl is out of control with those damn carrots.”
• “I knew those carrots would be the death of her.”  
• “My old college roommate OD’ed on those things.”
• “I know a good carrot support group.”

And to solve the desire for little hit of sweet at night? It was so simple. It was right under my nose. (If my nose was in the supermarket candy aisle.) Caramel-flavored hard candies. To be specific, Werther's Original Sugar Free Hard Candies. Small. Sweet. Creamy. Long-lasting. The bag lists a serving as 45 calories. And by the way, a “serving” is five pieces. I have never had five pieces at once. Just one, maybe two do the trick. When I go out, I usually have a couple in my pocket, just in case. 

Gradually, the weight started coming off, which let me know my spite hadn’t gotten too out of hand. A pound week, more or less-ish. As of writing this, I’ve gotten rid of those 10 extra pounds—plus an additional 18. That’s over six months.

The big question? Can I keep it up? Is this my new life? Or will I backslide? Hard to say.

I hope the answer is… Yes. As long as I have spite in my heart and Werther's in my pantry, I’ll be fine.

If you guessed hair, you win! Sadly, you win nothing of real value. (Hey, just take the W.)
 
Is there anything more worshipped than hair?
 
Is there anything more disgusting than hair? 
 
But how can this be? How can something go so quickly from being what people often refer to as their crowning glory to something utterly disgusting when found on the floor? Or worse, in a drain? We love our hair so much, until…
 
Allow me to back up. I’ve long had a challenging relationship with my hair. Why? It curls. Back when I was in school, my peers wore their hair in wings or feathered. (You now know my approximate age.) Curly hair neither wings nor feathers. It simply was not made for flight. Nor is it the stuff of prom queens. (Truth: I was more than a few curls away from a crown.) 
 
Hair Sidebar: I have dark-ish skin for a white gal. When I was about ten, my mother cut my hair short, making the curls even bigger. She then bought me peasant tops, which were so not a regular purchase for her. But she loved that it made me look like her little Mexican daughter. I have no explanation beyond that.
 
So, what is curly hair good for? One word: shedding. At any time of day, I can reach onto my head and pull out a clump. (Want some?) Every day, I step out of the shower (meaning every day that I actually shower) and brush my hair to find at least half a wig’s worth of hair in the brush. And it gets everywhere!
 
A few of the places I’ve found my hair: 

• On the floor filled with dust (I should sweep more)
• On my plate
• In cake batter
• All over the bathroom
• On bars of soap (color me thrilled with the emergence of body wash)
• In the shower drain
• On the car’s floor mats
• In the dishwasher
  
• In the cat’s water bowl
• On the cat
• In the litter box (don't ask)
• In corners 
• On my perspiration covered forearm while running (particularly infuriating)
• On my computer keyboard (at this very moment, in fact)

 
If I may share a friend’s story. A good friend. Let’s call him Dog Breath. (Zero reason for that.) Dog Breath and his wife were over for dinner. Dog Breath’s wife has even thicker, curlier hair than I do. It too, gets everywhere. We were sitting at the kitchen counter laughing about places we’ve found our hair. That’s right, curly hair gets so all over the place that it was a topic of conversation. Dog Breath felt we were all close enough friends to share that he once found one of his wife’s hairs in, of all places, his own butt crack. According to him, when he pulled the long hair out, it felt like he was flossing his ass.
 
Hair anywhere but on my head will push me to the verge of gagging. And wet hair, OMG. When it’s time to clear a drain, I literally have to turn my head as I execute the maneuver. I first grab a piece of toilet paper (tissues work better—they’re thicker) and with an extended arm, lift the offending tangle, drop it in the trash, then wash my hands. When I stay in a hotel, I want to write an apology note to the cleaning staff. 
 
Worse than finding my own hair in the drain? Finding yours. I have no damn idea where your hair has been. The shorter the hair the worse. (You know what I mean.) I’m also 100% again the entire dog/cat-hair pillow industry.
 
Once a plumber had to come clear out our drain. We were living in LA at the time and it was a true freak show. As I witnessed the tangled mass of hair being pulled from the bowels of the earth, a mass filled with all manner of evil, I felt the bile rise in my throat. I retched uncontrollably. From that day on, when a plumber needs to be is called, I leave the house. Fool me once.
 
I imagined a horror film about it. Working title: The Plumber—A Hair Raising Tale. (Nope. No shame.)
 
I came to terms with the curls long ago. It’s how you can find me in a crowd. Works as insolation in my ski helmet. Makes me almost an inch taller. And it takes virtually no time to “style.” But the second it leaves my head, it’s dead to me!
 
(My husband will now feel the necessity to tell me that technically, since all hair is dead cells that have been pushed out of the follicles, my curls are also dead to me before they leave my head. Thanks babe.)

I run a quarterly Story Slam down on the Gulf Coast. The following is the true story I told at the last Slam. The theme was: Exposed.
 
Back when I lived in the City of Angels, I was freelancing as an advertising writer and creative director. There was a boutique advertising agency for which I’d done several projects. They called me one afternoon. Was I available to help pitch a new client? The team needed a woman. I didn’t ask why. I was indeed available. They were nice people. Plus (and this is a biggie) they always paid on time. I said, “I’m in.”
 
The next day, walking into the conference room, I knew immediately why they needed a woman on the team. I realized who the client was. Sitting on the agency side of the table were five men. On the client side was one very recognizable face I’d seen repeatedly on TV and in movies. I also knew her other claim to semi-fame was a series of workout gyms that featured pole dancing.
 
In this meeting, where she was explaining the business so we could effectively compete for her business, she repeatedly said, “It’s not about the pole.” She spoke of female empowerment and different circles of self acceptance and inner strength. But she was adamant: “It’s not about the pole.” They talk about the pole only because it’s their point of differentiation. (Can you feel me being skeptical?) 
 
She also must’ve seen my face, which was not in poker mode. She looked around the table, stopped at me, pointed and said, “You! You need to try it!”
 
At this point in my life, my main workout was boxing. Two hours a day, five days a week. And this was not aerobic boxing. Nothing in this workout ended with a handclap. This was boxing boxing. A boxing ring with ropes, heavy bags on chains, speedbags, doubling bags, timed bells that keep going off indicating rounds. I’d started boxing in New York. When I first saw a boxing workout, I said to myself, “If I can survive an hour of that without passing out or throwing up, I’ll be in pretty decent condition.”
 
I enjoy being active, but I was never great at any sport. If asked to describe my stride while running, people would use the phrase “lumbering gait.” But, since boxing is the opposite of dainty, it seemed to sit well on me. When I continued doing it in Los Angeles, I actually got to spar with female boxing’s then-champion, Christy Martin. That was a giant sports thrill. Even if she did punch the padded headgear clean off my skull.
 
Sidebar: I recently saw a documentary about Christy Martin and let me say: her power is insane. Getting in the ring with her means I was an idiot. 
 
But back to the pole! (Which it’s not about.)
 
If I’m going to write effective advertising for a product or service, I need to understand it. Which is why I agreed to sign up for the “Intro To Not-About-The-Pole Workout” class. I called the gym to get on their schedule. I explained that I was doing marketing for their boss and needed to book a class. The nice lady on the phone told me available times and I made my selection. Then she asked my name. (NOTE: I wasn’t married yet, and my maiden name was “Cohn,” pronounced like the thing you scoop ice cream in.)
 
ME: My name is Honey Cohn. 
 
WOMAN: OMG, that’s such a great pole dancing name!
 
ME: So, it is about the pole? 
 
WOMAN: Oh, yeah!
 
For the next hint that this might in fact be about the pole, let’s cut to: the workout studio waiting area. Behind the front desk, most gyms have things like Muscle Milk, energy bars and water bottles. Here, they had red, stiletto-heel shoes and sexy maid’s uniforms. (I chose to wait until after class to do my shopping.)
 
Besides me, there were about 10 other ladies waiting around for the intro class. We all did our best to make no eye contact. Plausible deniability? Witness protection? Sheer embarrassment? All of the above? Probably.
 
Once inside the room, the class started with the lights down low and everyone sitting cross-legged on the floor in a circle. The instructor had us take turns saying why we were there.
 
This where I start feeling like a snarky, cynical little shit. As these nice women start telling their stories, I’m hearing things like:
 
FIRST WOMAN: I beat breast cancer and need to feel sexy again.
 
NEXT WOMAN: I followed a guy to LA, he dumped me and I’m alone.
 
OTHER WOMAN: I was the victim of assault and want to get back my power.
 
When it got to me, all I could say was, “I’m helping with the marketing.” To my mind, that sounded like I was declaring, “See, I’m not wounded like the rest of you. I’m just here to observe, then monetize your pain.”
 
The next woman up had a much more appropriate tale of getting beaten up and we were right back on track. The instructor then had us do a few provocative moves on the floor that made me endlessly grateful that the lights were low. 
 
Finally, it was time to take to the pole. We were told that the approved technique is to grab the pole in your right hand, take two slinky steps forward, then spin slowly to the floor. Grab, slinky-step, slinky-step, spin. 
 
As I watched the ladies before me attempt the move, I admit: my competitive side wanted the win.A couple of the women did okay on the first try. But most failed. Then it was my turn. I grabbed the pole, took my two slinky steps (once again, so damned embarrassing) then spun: Around, around, around, floor! Thank you boxing-arm strength!
 
Then, class ended with a pole-dancing show—which was really a closing tactic to get us to sign up for a package of workout sessions. Imagine a dark room. Then, pop! Spotlights! A small stage. Three poles shining in the darkness. Music starts. While I can’t remember the song, I’m somehow positive it was Phil Collins’ “I Can Feel it Coming In the Air Tonight.” Slinking into the light were three women who approached and mounted their poles with confidence and power, and began doing some very sexy, Cirque De Soliel-level shit. 
 
The strength and control they displayed was no joke. It was even more impressive because they were doing it all while wearing shorts made of animal fur. Think: mink-upholstered Daisy Dukes. I was pretty sure I’d be able to buy a pair at the front desk.
 
When I got home, Mr. Parker asked how it went. Was there anything I could share with him. Hmm. There was one thing. So, at this point you know that it was 100% about the pole. And we didn’t have one in the living room, yet. But my instructor had taught us how to pick up something off the floor in a very sexy way. This is what I would demonstrate for my man. 
 
I pretended to drop my keys. I coyly whispered, “Oopsie. My keys!” Then, crouching with my back to him, and keeping my torso straight, I reached for the phantom keys. Then, while keeping my head down, I begin raising my butt into the air. From down by the floor, I look back at him for an extended moment, then finally stand. So, so very sexy. 
 
He laughed mightily. The move did not go into my repertoire. I guess I’m just a throat-punch kind of girl. (Don’t tell the client.) 

Stay Careful-ish,
Honey