Come on. Who could have a problem with baby carrots?

Me. I could. And I do. And you should, too.
 
Yes, there are much bigger problems in our world. Am I going to solve any of those for you? Not likely. But here is something I can effect. And it has broader-reaching implications than you might imagine.
 
I admit that I initially got sucked into the dizzying hype of baby-carrot right along with the rest of the nation. So small! So easy to manage! So convenient for crudité when guests are coming! (I’ve learned there’s much less of need for crudité here in the deep south, where they take their veggies battered, deep-fried and bathed in cheese products.)
 
Here’s what started me down the anti-baby carrot rabbit hole. (Carrot. Rabbit. Feel free to enjoy that juxtaposition.) When considering snack options, I look for something with crunch. Crunch equals satisfaction. Carrots are great for that. You get crunch and a hint of sweet without any cloying tastes. You even get the feeling that you’re being relatively healthy. Win, win, win!
 
But I wasn’t winning. I was finding that when snacking on these thumb-sized orange cylinders, I wasn’t getting much flavor. All I was tasting was cold. Cold is not a flavor. It’s merely a sensation.
 
Why had I not focused on this before? No answer. For my own edification, I tried snacking on regular, big-girl sized organic carrots. The kind you might have seen Bugs Bunny eat. (Look it up.)
 
Surprise! The adult, organic carrots are packed with real carrot flavor. You know why? Because they’re carrots. Actual carrots in their original form. Carrots as nature intended them.
 
So, what the hell ARE baby carrots? It’s not like two carrots got together, and after a rom-com worthy courtship that included coming from different backgrounds and initially hating each other, then getting married, then months later throwing a baby shower with a gender reveal (still an acceptable trope in the carrot world), then gave birth to a bouncing baby carrot.
 
That would be a true baby carrot. A carrot with legs. I bet that baby carrot would taste sweet and tender and delicate and delicious. You could probably even eat the bones. But these are not baby carrots at all, which would be carrots that have not yet reached maturity. No, these “baby carrots” are adult carrots living a lie.
I imagine some veggie workshop somewhere with full-sized carrots spinning on a lathe, being whittled down like table legs into the smaller, more appealing baby shape.
 
So-called baby carrots are not like baby corn. Oh, no. Baby corn is actual corn that’s just been harvested before full maturity. According to Google (my favorite lazy-girl resource), the technical name for these imposters is “baby-cut” carrots. They are “pieces from larger carrots that have been machine-cut into the preferred size, then peeled, polished, and sometimes washed in small amounts of chlorine before packing.” 
 
For now, let’s put aside the endless opportunities for hilarious new jokes about “polishing one’s carrot.”
 
Are we so inept that we’re incapable of cutting a carrot ourselves? Have we become that averse to being up close and personal with the true coloring and texture of a vegetable? Does it make us cringe to think of our food coming from the soil? “So dirty!”
 
You know what’s truly cringe-worthy? What happens to “baby carrots” inside the bag. Taylor Ann Spencer of Delish has written an informative article called, “8 Reasons Why You Should Never Eat Baby Carrots.” (So, I’m not alone here.) Ready? “These carrots are now entirely composed of cut sides, they’re more prone to drying out and developing carrot blush, a thin white film that forms due to dehydration. Or, even worse, they can get slimy inside the bag, even before it’s opened.”
 
A two-word phrase we can live without: Bag slime.
 
Baby carrots waste energy, feed unrealistic beauty standards (beauty standards aren’t just for forehead wrinkles anymore), and are often treated with chlorine water. Oh, and that other thing: They don’t taste like carrots!!!
 
The madness has to stop. It’s time we take back the carrot in all its glorious individual shapes, colors and sizes. Short, long, wide, thin, orange, yellow. And who knows. If we can find a way to embrace and celebrate carrots for their uniqueness, maybe someday we can do it for all of us?
 
Too far? Is this that broader-reaching implication I spoke of earlier? I say, see the carrot. Embrace the carrot. Be the carrot.
 
Tell me I’m wrong. But know, I’m prepared to fight.

 I hate that I do this. But I can’t seem to make myself stop. And I do try.
 
Of what am I speaking?
 
Allow me to set the stage. The situation goes something like this. I’m going to visit a friend. The friend informs me that they have a large dog, or a new kitten, or a puppy, or an old tabby. They say that they just wanted to let me know in case I have any issues. Allergies. Fears. Hair triggers set by a pet who ran away one dark night and never returned and took a chew toy that had been in the family for generations. I inform the friend that I am all for all pets. Things are going to be fine.
 
But it’s not. It’s not fine at all.
 
The moment I’m confronted with some creature covered in fur, it happens. It’s my “Who’s so cute?” voice. My back teeth clench, my voice shifts to the back of my throat, it lowers half an octave, and I’m like a loving matriarch addressing an adorable but naughty child.
 
“Who’s such a good puppy?”
“Who’s such a fluffy kitten?”
“Oh, look what a cute bunny you are.”
(Age is irrelevant. To me, all animals are the baby versions of themselves.)
 
And I repeat myself, asking the same inane question over and over, never tiring of the fact that I don’t get an answer. It all makes me look and feel like an idiot. But does that stop me?
 
Not yet, it hasn’t.
 
For what it’s worth, I do not do this with small (or large) children. I’ve always spoken to children in my normal tone of voice. The rationale is that it’s for their own good. If I speak to a child in my adult-ish tone of voice, it encourages the child to evolve into a fully formed adult. An adult who takes responsibility for themselves, doesn’t whine, or become a complete idiot around anything covered in fur. (And no, back hair doesn’t count.)
 
In truth, I’d never even noticed how much I engage in silly animal talk until I made fun of it in my most recent book. It’s on page 185, to be exact. (This is not a spoiler alert.) A group of women are standing around a kitten who’s looking at them through the windshield of an RV. The women are all cooing to and for the ball of fluff. Here now, an excerpt:
 
   One woman, speaking in a baby-talk voice, squeaked, “Look how cute you are. Look how cute!”
 
   Another woman sounded cartoon-like as she attempted speaking cat-speak. “Meow, meow? Meow, meow, meow?”
 
   A third woman was literally speaking for the cat. “I’m so beautiful. Yes, I am.”
 
As I wrote this I thought, what fools they are. Then, that same night, I went to a friend’s house to watch a ballgame. This friend has two cats, Musso and Frank. If you know, you know. (I hate the initialized version of that. And yes, hate is a strong word. And I mean it. Fight me.) While Musso is rarely seen, Frank is more than happy show up so you can scratch his head—as long as you do it correctly.
 
There we were watching the game, Frank appears. I clench my jaw and it begins. “Look who’s so handsome! Yes. Yes, you are handsome.” And I said it over and over.
 
I don’t even utter anything original. I spoon out the same blather to any animal I happen to pass. And to answer your question, yes, I’ve done it to Mr. Parker as well. In my defense, he is so handsome. Especially when he edits this newsletter. [Editor’s note: Oh, dear god.]
 
I remember once seeing a single-frame cartoon of dogs in heaven. It may have been The Far Side, but I’m not positive. One dog says to the others, “I never did find out who the good boy was.” So I know, it’s not just me. Far from it.
 
Recently, we were visiting friends (they know who they are) who not only speak to their dog in cute puppy voices, they speak for their dog. Interestingly, the cute puppy voice she uses is low pitched, and the voice he uses is high. This couple will have entire conversations with each other speaking on behalf of their dog.
 
“Daddy, I was so good in the park today. Yes I was. You should give me a ‘tweet.’” (See also: baby talk for “treat.”)
“Yes. I think I deserve two ‘tweets.’”
“Are we all going to walk? It’s walk time. I can come with you on your walk.”
 
So you know, these are two very bright, well educated adults who met while working in the more erudite side of the entertainment business, and together have raised two intelligent children (now adults as well) and have had careers of substance.
 
So why? Why do so many of us find it virtually impossible to speak to animals from the point of view of the grown adult humans we are? Why does the sight of anything cute and fluffy turn us into the people we’d never allow into a boardroom? Why do we make up songs that not even children would repeat? And why do we say things like, “Oooh, I could eat you up!”? We don’t mean it. (I hope.)
 
One theory: People crave the total abandon of these joyful interactions with a lower creature who (we assume) only wants to love us and be loved by us. (Well, maybe not cats. They know they’re more intelligent than we are.) Maybe these moments are a chance to gush and express our love with no fear of rejection. And if we are rejected, we can chalk it up to a creature who’s just nervous and who, at some point, will no doubt circle back for love. It’s never because we aren’t enough. Or we’re too much. Or we eat too loudly.
 
Another theory: Humans are attracted to small things. Does that animal look like we can pick it up? Great. I’m picking it up and holding it close. It’s why grown adults enjoy doll houses. It’s why little people walk in fear of being picked up. (It happens.) It’s why the size 6 shoes on display in the store look so cute. But when they come out from the back in my required size 10, I might as well just put my feet into the boxes and shuffle on home.
 
Next theory: Small animals and babies have big eyes in relation to the rest of their heads. Big eyes are like black holes. Once we venture close enough, we get sucked into their gravitational vortex and are powerless to break free. The bigger the eyes, the greater the vortex they create.
 
Last theory: Small and/or fluffy is just so effing cute. Fact.
 
If you have another theory, I’d love to hear it. If it’s truly enlightening, I will most certainly share it with the class.
 
That’s all for now. I’m going to go hug Mr. Parker (who is now smaller than when I met him).
 
“Who’s such a cute husband. Who’s the cutest husband?”
 
Stay Careful-ish,
 
Honey Parker

Last night’s dream is messing with my head.
I feel compelled to share this epic tale as best as I can remember it. Honestly, this task is daunting. And If you have any idea about what this might all mean, share it. Please. I’m lost-ish.
 
This slumber-time saga began with a TV show that was using a book of mine as the script for one of their episodes. But as I was watching the show with other people, I kept noticing things that had gotten changed. It had been flattened and dumbed down. I kept saying, “The book is funnier.” 
 
The head guy was there. I’m not sure if he was the show runner, a network executive or a producer. But whoever he was, he took offense to my criticism and challenged me. I held my ground. Then I went big, asking him why he was so threatened by someone who wasn’t even on his staff. He showed me the door.
 
I went to the reception area and waited for Kristy V. (This is a real person, so I’m not sharing her full name. Just know that she’s someone worth respecting.) Apparently, I’d had a meeting set up with her while all the script drama had been going down. But she still wasn’t ready for me so I hadn’t missed anything. I couldn’t wait to tell her what had just happened.
 
And somehow, while waiting for Kristy V, I was paired with Angelina Jolie. It just makes sense, right? Angelina was clearly on a mission of self-destruction. It was all turning very Girl Interrupted. We headed out into the NYC night with another young woman. A sidekick? Maybe. Suddenly, I had a car. It was the little white Nissan Sentra I owned when I first moved to New York.
 
That Sentra was an interesting case of parental manipulation and bribery. Two years out of college, I was out to dinner with my parents. My Dad asked, “Hon, if I give you the down payment for the car, can you keep up the payments?” I said, “Sure.” I like questions with easy answers. His plan was that, with a car, I’d visit them more. And all I had to do was keep up the payments. And visit them more.
 
Anyway, back to the action. Angelina was directing us up this street and down that street without much obvious forethought. Then she had me park in what seemed a legal spot at the curb. But I wasn’t totally sure if I’d get towed. Plus, I didn’t notice what block were on.
 
There we were, out and about, meeting all kinds of colorful and eclectic people in the late-night world of NYC’s downtown. The next thing I knew, we were backstage at…a theater? A club? I wasn’t sure. There was also a flamboyant man from the venue with us. (Think: Paul Lynde’s Uncle Arthur from Bewitched. Google it if you must.) Angelina had me cover my face with some sort of white powder. She brushed it away from my eyes—which were now blue. But she left it soft around the rest of my face so all of my features artfully dropped away. Oh, and I had on a top hat. Then, my face looked like Anne Hathaway (who is also not naturally blue-eyed).
 
As it happens, I’m not an Ann Hathaway fan. But for some reason, this didn’t bother me.
 
Suddenly, we’d left the backstage area and we were in the audience. There were a couple dozen theatrically dressed women milling around the stage and dancing. I was coerced into joining them. I was not happy about this, and tried to blend into the background. But then, Angie (we were clearly becoming more familiar) had the MC announce that I would be doing a standup set. I explained to him that I don’t do sets. I write. He said something like, “Well I have a room full of people and they’re waiting to laugh. Don’t blow it.”
 
Angie smoked a cigarette and watched from a table at the edge of the stage as I did my best to tell the story of my righteous indignation at the TV producer showing me the door. But the audience was ignoring me, except for some guy who kept heckling. I tried engaging the heckler, making it about him. Finally, I was able to get the upper hand, but most of the audience had left, so it didn’t seem to matter. Oh, well. I handed the mic to a drag queen with a huge orange wig. This was clearly not her first rodeo, nor her first near-empty show. (At some point during all this, I looked like myself again.)
 
With that, I left with Angie and some guy who was her new sidekick. Angie’s health was getting worse. She decided to steal a delivery truck the size of a golf cart. Not sure if it was from FedEx, UPS or some other official bringer of packages. I just knew that I was concerned for her. She drove it erratically into an empty lot, then tipped it over and passed out. The new sidekick guy was gone. I assumed he was an opportunist and the opportunity had just flopped on its side.
 
I finally revived Angie, who was back on her feet, but shaky. Around the corner, we found the sidekick. Seems he’d been looking for help. Suddenly, I started recognizing the streets and I was convinced we were getting closer and closer to my car. There was a sign I recognized and then a mural and graffiti. But we still weren’t finding the car. We had to be close.
 
Then, suddenly standing nearby was Jason Bateman in a doctor’s coat, and he called to Angie. (Why not?) He guided us to a store which had a wide range of eclectic items for sale, including jewelry. The owner was Rachel D. (Again, a real person in my life worthy of respect.) Angie started perusing the items. Rachel, who has a long-standing affection for Angelina, told me she had bought her many pricey gifts in the past. I had no idea where Jason Bateman went. A movie set? His podcast? Another celebrity patient? He’s quite versatile, ya know.
 
As the now very sick Angelina Jolie fumbled through the store, a phone call came in for me. Someone said it was Kristi V. But when I went to the counter and picked up the receiver, it wasn’t Kristi. It was the guy from the TV job who’d fired me.
 
He asked me to sing a song. “What?” “Before we talk, I’d like you to sing me a song.” I thought it was a strange request, but started sing “Who Will Buy?” from the Broadway musical, Oliver.
 
“Who will buy this wonderful morning?
 “Such a sky you never did see.
 “Who will tie it up with a ribbon,
 “And put it in a box for me?”
 
I finished the entire tune. Apparently, it was mesmerizing. Everyone in the store and on the street stopped and listened. Over the receiver, I could hear the man say, “She’s a headliner.” He wanted me back.
 
Angelina’s health finally gave out. She was whisked to the hospital—conveniently right upstairs. I could see all the medical commotion through large bay windows. As I was leaving, headed towards onlookers in the street, I could hear death cries. It was devastating. I went back and hugged Rachel D, who was now in a large bed in her store. We commiserated, then she told me to go.
 
I went out into the daylight and was hugged by Angie’s sidekick guy as if we’d been through battle together. When our embrace ended, I thought that it would be poetic if my car was suddenly right there. It wasn’t.
 
So, what does it all mean? A) Good fortune is coming B) Bad fortune is coming C) I’m a raging narcissist D) None of the above. I have a few thoughts but am curious to hear yours.
 
Cheers and sleep well,
Honey

Think we’ve beaten the mansplaining horse into the ground? Perhaps we have, but allow me to revive it, take it for a walk, and then shoot it in the head.
 
Why? Because, there are several problems with mansplaining that are not obvious. But let’s get the obvious out of the way, lest someone think I’m all for an uplifting session of being talked to like I need a little carton of milk and a nap.
 
There are two components of the mansplain dynamic that are commonly at issue. These are where we get to beat that dead horse. Yee-ha! First, the explaining of something that you, as a grown person who can self-dress (including tying shoes) should already know. I usually deal with this by employing the simple head-shake. At times, I’ll go as far as the proprietary eyebrow raise. No verbal responses here. I’m not interested in giving these moments any more oxygen that they deserve.  
 
This dynamic is at its worst when a man is explaining something specific to being a woman. No please, explain exactly how you expressed milk and saved it for those moments when you just couldn’t breastfeed. But go slowly.
 
And, of course, the truly irksome component of mansplaining which includes the “take-over.” It often goes something like this: 
 
“Have you tried…”
“Yes.”
“Well, have you tried…”
“Yes.”
“What about…”
“Yes.”
“Slide over. Let me do it.”
 
Side Note: The take-over may also occur when in the company of both a cell phone and an individual under the age of 25.
 
Now that we’ve acknowledged the obvious, let’s take that horse for a walk.
 
One of the overlooked problems with mansplaining is guys are just being guys. As women (yes, I’m now speaking for us all—don’t worry, I have a permit), we are usually only keyed into mansplaining when it happens to us. So, it seems like something men do only to us to somehow bring us down a peg, or to reveal how badly they think we need a helmet while walking outside unaccompanied. Oh, no. The fact is (and it is a fact): Guys also mansplain to each other.
 
Men like knowing things, having a tidbit to share, and solving a problem. It is central to their being. (Now I’m generalizing “all men.” Fear not. I got that permit as well.) You just need to watch men in one of their natural habitats—say, standing around a lit barbecue grill. Listen to the conversation. It will be full of tidbit sharing and problem solving. Next, observe how happy they are to be doing it.
 
An example of guy-on-guy tidbit sharing may go like this:
 
“Did you know that vegetables in the supermarket are shiny because they’re rubbed with a wax product that’s derived from corn?”
 
“Did you know that 78% of the corn grown in America is feed corn?”
 
“It’s 79%, and 86% of the items in the supermarket contain corn in some form.”
 
Side Note: Around the grill, percentages score big even if they’re lies.
 
Each morning at home, I’m gifted with some new tidbit. Mr. Parker typically wakes up well before I do. And to the best of my knowledge, a portion of that time is filled with fact finding. Because he’s a food guy, I often get served my coffee with some obscure food fact on the side. In my pre-caffeinated state, these facts can be semi-interesting—or something I can barely grasp.
 
Just the other day, I learned that the product Fabreeze started making money only after they added a scent to the product. Seems that when Fabreze didn’t actually smell like anything, no one could tell it was actually working. Fascinating! Or not really. Either way, it makes him happy to learn new things, and what’s the fun of obscure knowledge if you can’t share it? See also: the inevitably infuriating Trivia Night at your local dive bar.
 
Side Note: When Mr. Parker was reading a book entitled simply, Cod I got the daily skinny on the history of the global cod-fishing industry. (Please don’t quiz me.)
 
Men will also attempt to problem-solve for each other. I say “attempt” because, based on my observations (hey—this screed just became like an episode of Wild Kingdom), each guy has a different and better way of solving the problem—a way that needs to be shared lest the crowd forever be “doing it wrong.”
 
We once had a dear friend, the brilliant, generous, and highly critical Steve Jones, whose catch phrase was, “You’re doing it wrong.” Steve left us way too soon, but not before delighting in being that tiny grain of sand in your life that irritated you and everyone else around him with his mansplaining (or Steve-splaining) until each of us made our very own rare, and valuable pearl.
 
Now, on to beating the last remaining part of the horse. (I’m starting to hate this metaphor.) Ready? I’m just so over the word “mansplaining.” For pearl-like clarity, know that I didn’t hate it the first time I heard it. In the beginning, it rang with the clarion call of a truth bell. “Mansplaining. Yep, I’ve felt that.” It was nice to have the entire repellent act crystallized into a universally understood single word—one word that said I wasn’t alone in identifying the behavior or feeling a certain way about it. It’s like when you realize you’re not the only one who’s ever considered eating something out of the trash. Disgusting, sure. But I’m not alone. (Right?)
 
However, like so many words or phrases o’ the day, “mansplaining” went from “Ah-ha!” to “Please-no!” in wildly overused, idiotic word fashion. Like “Off-the-hook,” “Lit,” “Karen,” or “Wine-thirty,” it went from effective to feeble in a blithering second. It became so overused, it now makes the user sound incapable of original thought. To my mind, that takes the obvious issue of mansplaining, i.e. “You think I need a man’s help to function,” and de-plusses it (see also: negates it) by making it say, “And now, in addition to your unhelpful help, I also need to limp in on a stupid word-crutch to tell you how you’re making me feel.”
 
And that puts She Who Shall Utter The Word into a position of weakness. Bizarrely, it is another way for us women to give away our authority. Chew on that for a hot minute while you quickly shed some of your “girl power.”
 
Side Note: Hot minute = word fashion. Girl power = demeaning word fashion.
 
OK. I lied. Here now, one last issue. I promise. Then we can let this beaten horse die in peace. Saying “mansplaining” to a mansplainer is tactical idiocy. If you go by the rule (and you should) that you need to always consider your desired result before speaking, you have to realize that by telling a guy he’s mansplaining, you will accomplish only one thing: making him a defensive mainsplainer. So, what is a better way to tell a guy that he’s being THAT guy? Well, that is one of the deep secrets of the universe and you’ll have to pay me if you want the answer. (I take Venmo. Click here.)
 
So, all this is to say what? That we are, each one of us, trapped in the human condition. Word-crutches generally. Mansplaining specifically. Stop it! If you can. Or else keep it up and enjoy that misplaced righteous indignation.
 
Cheers and stay careful-ish,
Honey Parker
 
 
 

All through my working life, I’ve moved to progressively smaller towns. Starting a career in New York City, I’ve made my way from coast to coast, then into the middle of the, country and now around the edges—finally landing in a special little town on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. (Note: When I say “finally,” I mean for now.) 
 
When you live in NYC, ranting is not a problem. And because of the population density, you get ample opportunity to be put out. If a man is clipping his nails on the subway (Clip! Ping! Clip! Ping!), You can turn to the total stranger next to you and rant aloud about Mr. Nail Clipper, get half the folks in the subway car to agree with you, and be confident you’ll never see any of these people again. Ever. You’ve had your cathartic rant. Life as you know it goes on.
 
In LA, where most of the offensive behavior is experienced behind the wheel, you can sit in your protective bubble of automobile steel, and get in a good half-hour to hour of ranting about the asshole texting while changing lanes before you finally turn into your driveway. Or ranting about that woman driving 35 mph on the freeway so she can apply her makeup in the rearview. Or ranting about any number of the countless clowns displaying any number of their countless driving-circus tricks. You get to feel completely vented in your rolling isolation booth.
 
And, back to the small town where I now live. First, so when I rant about it there will be some perspective, here’s a list what I love about this town:
 
What I Love

• A vibrant arts community that has gained national recognition
• Ongoing access to exceptional live music. Thank you, 100 Men Hall DBA (Look it up)
• The ability to drive almost everywhere in a golf cart is, in a word, delightful
• The fact that literally anything is cause for a parade or a costume event or both
• Most people here have an “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” attitude
• Diversity and inclusivity (didn’t see that coming, didja?)

 
Okay, I’ve been clear. I like my small town. Here comes the BUT. In a small town, if you someone does something irksome, you can’t just get in a proper rant. You can’t be specific and name names. Why? Because it’s a pretty good bet that everyone will know who you’re ranting about. And then you’re going to have to face that ranted-about individual and/or their family at one of those aforementioned parades. (Note: At least at the costume events, there’s a mask involved. This can be simultaneously good and bad.)
 
And recently, something happened here in my lovely little town that made me want to launch into a proper, soul cleansing rant! I wanted you to read this and yell with me, “Yes! That! That’s horrible behavior!”
 
The following is my attempt to rant in as vague a manner possible about something that made me hot-fried bananas! Let’s see if giving zero hints about the perpetrator of this hi-ee-nus social crime makes me feel heard.
 
Once upon a time not so long ago (can’t say how long) I was at a gathering at someone’s house. (Can’t say if it was a party or a sit-down dinner.) And this person (no genders) was sitting with the rest of us (no names) in a circle. Conversations (can’t say about what) were happening around them as they sat there (or perhaps stood) and committed an act (killing me to not say what) that was so socially inappropriate it made my skin crawl.
 
I could feel my eyes widen as I wondered if this person had a particular issue (maybe an underreported form of Tourette Syndrome?), and didn’t think to step away to handle the problem. But no. No! It kept happening. Over the course of the next half hour, this ghastly behavior continued with no end in sight. (Note: At least clipping one’s nails will end. You can count down from 10 on their digits all the way to the finish line.)
 
I looked around to see if anyone else was as put out as I was. No way to tell. Why? Because apparently, everyone else at this dinner party or Sunday brunch or gender reveal or “Congratulations on your divorce!” gathering or whatever the hell it was, knew to maintain proper social etiquette and not point at this (no names!) person and yell “What the F@$%!? Seriously, (Name Name)? What is wrong with you? Who raised you! In what world is it okay to (insert socially unacceptable act here) in the middle of a social setting? I can’t even look at you! Aaaaaugh!
 
There. I said it. Almost.
 
And now I fear that I’ve said too much. That someone reading this will put together the vague puzzle pieces I’ve laid out and say, “A-ha! That has to be (Missus Blank, Miss Blank, Mister Blank, Doctor Blank, or Too-Young-to-Have-A-Title Blank). And that someone will send the word through my small town (which I love) that I so rudely called someone out in semi-public.
 
Next, the townspeople will band together, light the torches, mobilize to my front door, and cry out, “Seriously, Mrs. Honey Parker! What is wrong with you!? Who raised you! In what world is it OK to almost name names and kind of point fingers at someone in a social setting? We can’t even look at you! 
 
Ugh! And now, I must move.
 
Can anyone reading this suggest a city to which I may relocate, lose myself in, and rant at will? (Will is always so poorly behaved.)
 
Cheers and stay careful-ish,
Honey Parker

This is possibly one of the most irksome (strong language, I know) phrases in the English language.
 
If you live with a significant other, a life partner, a spouse or POSSLQ (look it up), there is a high likelihood that one or both of you speak this devil phrase several nights a week. (And by “several,” I mean six or seven.)
 
Why does this phrase bug me so eff-ing much? I’ll tell you: because there are way too many unsaid and unflattering dynamics happening here. In case you haven’t overthought this as I have, allow me to list them down for you.

SIDE NOTE: This dynamic is quite different if you’re living with a sibling. To a sibling you can say, “I’m not watching that shit. We’re watching The Complete History of Pie so I can dream about cobbler.”
 
Here’s what we (Mr. Parker and I) can agree on. There will be no Bachelors, Bachelorettes, no Love Island, no Deal or No Deal Island, pretty much nothing on an Island, no contests (except Chopped), no remakes of movies that were perfectly good the first time around, nothing with Zendaya.  
 
So, we mostly agree on what we don’t want to watch. Which ultimately doesn’t answer the big question, “What do you want to watch,” but it puts us back on the same side. Which, one might argue, answers the bigger question:
 
“So, what do you want to watch?”
 
Cheers and stay careful-ish,
Honey Parker

I know we all get spammed in email and on social. Such is the social disease in our playpen without borders. And, like the canned (or “tinned”) version of spam, e-spam comes in a variety of flavors.
 
Oh, you didn’t know that there are Spam line-extensions? There are 22, to be exact, including; Classic, Hot & Spicy, Oven Roasted Turkey, Jalapeño, Teriyaki, and my personal favorite, Spam Lite. For those times when you’re jonesing for compressed pig parts, but bathing suit season is coming up.
 
But I digress. (Nothing new.) The flavors of e-spam are equally varied. There’s Threatening Flavor spam, i.e. “You have two days to respond or the IRS will be knocking at your door.” NOTE: The IRS will never knock on your door. They always ring the bell.
 
Perhaps you enjoy the Thinly Veiled Scam spam: “We noticed suspicious activity in your bank account. Please click here to verify your information.” This one is usually accompanied by a fuzzy version of your bank’s logo and a return email address like hank@bankfoamerica_fromrussiawithlove_darkdampcellar_whoarewekidding.com.
 
And, of course, the Self-Pleasuring Blackmail Scam Spam. I like these not only for the rhyming and alliteration, but because they are just damn good writing. Mr. Parker used to get these with some frequency and, fortunately for us, he saved several. Some of you know that my man does voiceover work. He’s said things like, “The Super Bowl on NBC 4 is brought to you by Uni-ball Pens. Why wouldn’t you use a Uni-ball?” But sometimes, when the moon is at just the right azimuth and the little hand is nearing vertical, he’ll recite one of these emails aloud.
 
The voice he uses is a cross between Slavic, Asian, and Snidely Whiplash (Look it up) and varies in tone from menacing to delighted. Between the claims of infecting your computer with malware, to the declarations of witnessing your self-pleasuring activities, to the threats of sending videos of said pleasure to everyone on your mailing list, to the explanation of how to pay (“Send $2,000 in Bitcoin. Don’t know how to use Bitcoin? Google, ‘How to use Bitcoin.’”), it’s just good entertainment.
 
Tasty Spam flavors all. But today I’m focusing on a particular variety of Spam. Let’s call this dish Creepy Spam in Stalker Sauce. Ladies, I know that most of you have received one or twelve of these things in your time online. They typically show up on your FB or IG threads. They may show up on Threads by now, but I’m not current enough to know. This yummy spam is sent by a man (apparently, other women aren’t that into me [sad emoji]) and they say something like;
 
“I read your profile and I can’t stop thinking that we should be friends. I can tell you have a big heart and are the kind of person who cares deeply about others. And you are so attractive. Your eyes say so much. I would very much like to be friends with someone as special as you. Please accept my friend request. I’ll wait patiently.”
 
So much to unpack here. Let’s just go in order. First up, “I can tell you have a big heart…” OMG! No one has ever seen me the way this man does. I mean, really SEEN me. This stranger has looked at my posts, things like: “Happy Day After Dry January. Guess what’s in the coffee. ” and immediately deciphered that what I meant was, “I wonder what I can do to help the starving children of [FILL IN THE BLANK].” Amazing! Why don’t my friends ever acknowledge the size of my heart? My doctor has acknowledged that I have a surprisingly low heart rate, but he never said anything about its size.
 
Next up, the play to my vanity; “And you are so attractive. Your eyes say so much.” Quick, guess what my eyes are saying right now! Can you read it as they roll? In truth, I can’t argue with the attractive part. But look who I attracted. Remember, attractive doesn’t mean beautiful. Sad. And as far as what my eyes say, even my closest friends tell me that my eyes look like I’m either A) mad, B) annoyed, or C) stopping myself from telling the guy at the next table to stop whistling. (Blog callback! Yay!)
 
And lastly, the call-to-action; “Please accept my friend request. I’ll wait patiently.” Hmm. No friend of mine is patient. Nor do I expect them to be. I’m a snappy gal. I move fast and I like it when the people around me do the same. Sorry, my non-friend. You’re gonna need some Olympic level patients. Although…Maybe I should have responded, “So glad you liked my profile. Let’s be friends. BTW, I’m a bit short of cash at the moment. Can you help? I’m sure my eyes are saying that I’ll pay you back.” 
 
Before I deleted Mr. Patient’s spam post and blocked him from my feed, I looked at his profile pic. A gal’s got to know. I’ve looked at enough of these stalkers to see the trends. There’s the Look-How-Harmless Spammer. He’s typically holding a puppy or some other animal with soft fur and big eyes, and he’s dressed in soft clothing. Something flannel. There’s the Set-For-Life Spammer, often in a doctor’s lab coat. His look says, Hook up with me baby and you’ll be on Easy Street. And, of course, the Mr. ‘Merican Spammer. He’s got a lifted truck, and almost always has an eagle somewhere on his person. It’s a look that screams, “Oh, you’re Jewish? Never mind.”
 
While I joke, these spammers make me sad. As with all forms of scam, people perpetrate them because there are those who will get taken in. I feel for the women who are truly looking for someone to care. These predators hone their personae to snag those already rather wounded. Shame on them.
 
Mr. Parker informed me that the Creepy Spam in Stalker Sauce that men get is a variation known as Creepy Spam in Sexy Asian Sauce. Think: more implicit suggestions about what the sender would like to do for (or to) the recipient. The account profile picture often looks like it came in a picture frame purchased in a Bangkok Walmart. That Mr. Parker is a lucky guy.
 
Sidebar: I accidently typed, “That Mr. Parker is a LICKY guy.” [Laughing emoji]
 
I’ll end with my favorite line extension of the Creepy Spam in Stalker Sauce. It’s the Creepy Spam in Stalker Sauce with Unidentifiable Country of Origin. The kind where the English reads like poorly translated instructions for putting together that authentic Adirondack chair from Thailand. Example:
 
“I feel special calling someone like you my friend [heart emoji + 4 flower emojis], sorry for infringing on your comment , but I must say you have wonderful profile and your post are Worth reading…[heart emoji + 5 flower emojis] but so sad enough we’re not friends here on Facebook and I’ve been trying to send you a request but it keeps on declining would you mind sending me a friend request just wanna be honest friends. Thanks and God bless dear [heart emoji + flower emoji]”
 
I know you’re in no way surprised when I say this heart-felt spam call will not be answered. But it did make me laugh to myself, and maybe now it made you laugh. So, I say to the sender, a Mr. R. A. George, Thank and God bless dear [heart emoji + flower emoji].
 
WAIT, WAIT, WAIT! THIS JUST IN!!!
 
I kid you not. As I was finishing reviewing this blog post, a new, most delicious Spam Came in. I’m calling this one, “Child-Bate Spam” and it’s genius.
 
“Hello. Good day. How are you feeling today? Well, firstly I want to apologize for commenting on your comment section but my little daughter just told me that you look like her mom. She said daddy let's give her a message because mom never hesitates to answer me. God bless you if you put a smile on her face.”
-Stephan
 
WOW, so much stronger bate than a puppy or a lab coat. That is, unless you have no interest in putting up with Stephan’s kid (who clearly isn’t over her mother) and potentially funding her college or worse, chipping in for her bail money. I don’t believe that god will be blessing me, or that I’ll be putting a smile on her, or your face. Again I say, wow and I’ll add a daaaaaaamn!
 
Cheers and stay careful-ish
Honey
 
P.S. Pleeeeeeease feel free to share a bite from a delicious spam dish you’ve received.

Who doesn’t love a good whistler? Me!
 
First, the lead-in to this rant, harangue, bitch fest, speaking of the truth.
 
Mr. Parker and I were prepping for one of the how-to webinars we do for broadcast professionals. Periodically, the fine folks at Local Broadcast Sales hire us to speak to their members about things like branding for small business, or ways to jumpstart your ad writing that make the work stand out and connect with the right audience. 
 
In this case, we were speaking about advertising that surprises. And we always use examples, usually from our own work. I had dredged up two surprising ad I had done moons ago, and I was looking for the third in the campaign. (I like threes.)
 
So I was going through my bin of old advertising work and photos. It was like tripping and falling down a hill towards NYC advertising memory lane. Good times. Mostly. Then, I found IT. A sign I’d made for my office door that got me into a fair amount of trouble with HR. (Not as much trouble as the time I’d used inter-office mail to send everyone in the company a ballot for a “Most Likely To [FILL IN THE BLANK] At The Company Christmas Party” contest. That was bad.)
 
The sign was simple: A caricature of a man whistling in one of those “DON’T” warning circles with two words: “No Whistling.” Simple. But not really. Because it was targeted at this one guy, let’s call him, Mr. Whistler.

He was a new hire on the Jaguar account and his office was about five down from mine. Mr. Whistler would stroll the halls whistling. And not real tunes. It was more of a freestyle, contemporary-jazz whistle thing.
 
For the record, I’m a life-long whistling hater. I understand whistling for your dog, or to get your friend’s attention from across a crowded New York City street, or to… Nope. I can’t think of a third reason.
 
I don’t even like when people whistle their support of the band after a song. (Which Mr. Parker does and I hate but he doesn’t care and he does it anyway. Or maybe he didn’t know. But now he does, since he edits this newsletter. Let’s see how he plays it in the future.) I also don’t like the whistling for a sports team after a great play. It hurts my ears. I’m nobody’s delicate flower. (I’m more of a hard plastic Ficus.) But that pitch is painful. And loud. It slices through my skull like a giant chef’s knife. If you need to make a non-clapping sound, might I suggest the time-honored, “Woo-hoo!”
 
But worse than appreciation whistlers are those with zero self-awareness who trot around in public, whistling a random tune—or more accurately, a non-tune. You’ve seen (heard) them. Just out there in the world, walking down the street, or standing in line at the post office, or seated right behind you at a concert, whistling. Augh!
 
Why? Why force that on the population? Do you really think other people, complete strangers no less, will enjoy it? Some whistlers must. Why else try to work in all that trill? You know, that thing they do where they try to create a whistle vibrato. It’s often accompanied bit a slight head wobble. (Them getting into it.)
 
Do they think someone might turn to them and say, “Wow, that’s beautiful! You’re one of the best whistlers I’ve ever heard and I’ve heard a lot. I’m guessing by that whistling that you’re a fascinating person. Could I buy you a cup of coffee and hear your story?”
 
Are maybe they think they’re going to win the whistling lottery and have a music agent tap them on the shoulder and say, “Dude, that whistle line you were laying down rips. I manage a band that’s just about to break through, but they’re missing one thing and YOU’RE IT! They have a gig in London this weekend at Wembley. How fast can you pack?”
 
Trust me, Mr. Whistler, that is NEVER going to happen. And I’m not being sexist here. It is ALWAYS the male of the species, like some kind of puffed-up, red-chested nut-sack warbler calling out to the most easily wooed feathered females with an impromptu whistle of “Rock-in’ Robin.”  
 
So, back at the ad agency. When this new office hire started whistling through the halls, I knew I had to act fast. You can’t let a pattern of bad behavior take hold or when you finally speak up the person will retort with something like, “I’ve been hitting you on the head with a hammer for months. Why am I just now hearing that you don’t like it?” So, my genius plan (note: I was in my 20s) was to create a sign that didn’t point a finger directly at this guy. It didn’t say, “Joe Smith, stop polluting the entire office with your pursed-lip, dog-deafening, I-hate-your-face whistling!” No. This was just a generic male caricature (though it did kinda look like him) that could be about anyone. A public service announcement, if you will.
 
The lady from HR did not see it that way and was asked to take down my sign. I asked her if she enjoyed whistling. She hesitated, looked off, then said, “That’s not the point.” An answer that let me know that her real answer was, “I’m currently looking for a way to fire this idiot without incurring a law suit.”
 
So, did Mr. Whistler win? I say no. Because I spent the next day casually popping into people’s offices to share idle chit-chat that included lines like, “Can you believe she made me take that down?”
 
I even stopped by Mr. Whistler’s office. He, of course, played it off and sided with me. “That’s such uptight office bullshit.” He didn’t completely stop whistling. I’m guessing it’s hard to kick the habit cold turkey. Perhaps there are support groups. But the whistling did become a lot less frequent and always stopped outside my office.
 
For the record, Mr. Whistler and I got along after that. He wasn’t the most socially smooth gent. I’m guessing that one of the reasons he whistled so much was to avoid conversation. And he did provide great entertainment the night he got overserved at the Christmas party and said to the boss, “You know what your problem is…?” So good.
 
So, I put it to you: whistling, yes or no? And if whistling doesn’t crawl up and down your spine like it does mine, what does?

(NOTE: I didn't even address nose whistlers.)
 
Cheers and try to stay careful-ish,
Honey Parker

​We had a genius plan. And by genius, I mean, completely ridiculous.
 
Mr. Parker was close to maintaining his “elite” Platinum status on Delta. He likes being a Platinum Member. Flexing his Platinum Member helps him frequently find himself getting bumped to first class. And he likes flying first class. So does his wife.
 
I often say that I don’t need much. I’m not a shopper. I don’t crave things. My indulgences are someone to do my hair, someone to clean my house, and someone to book me a seat in first class.
 
That bigger, more comfortable seat and slightly better treatment makes such a difference on long flights. It keeps me feeling human-ish. Less like a parcel being loaded by some distracted 19-year-old at FedEx onto one of those tandem tractor-trailers that make freak me out as they meander and weave drunkenly at high-speed along the Interstate. (Note: trucker slang for these snake-dance vehicles is “wiggle-wagons.”)
 
But I digress. Back to my man’s status. (With Delta, not with me.) He calculated that what he could do to maintain his coveted Platinum status was to book a flight to visit an old friend now living in the Dominican Republic.
 
“Honey, do you want to take that trip to the DR that we cancelled three years ago?”
 
Yes, we’d already planned this trip a while back. But at that time, we needed new passports and it was near the end of COVID lockdown. The passport office was moving extra slowly. Even allowing plenty of time, the passports showed no sign of them arriving and time was running out. So Mr. Parker cancelled the trip. Clicking the “cancel” button was a clear signal to the universe to have our new passports delivered 90 minutes later.  Oh, well.
 
So, we set the Platinum-status rescue operation in swing, and seized the opportunity to travel someplace new. (New to us. Dominican Republic-ites have been enjoying it for centuries.)
 
Here was the snag. To earn the required points, we’d have to book first-class tickets. Okay. But—and it’s a big but (something I typically try to avoid)—the only flight out of the U.S. to our destination airport left from JFK. The layover in New York would be eight hours—and five of those hours would be overnight while the creature-comfy, liquor-pouring, snack-filled Delta SkyClub would be closed. Ugh.
 
So, the question: do we get a room for the layover or just stay in the airport? If we get a room, we’d have about an hour to get off the plane and to the hotel. Then an hour to shower and travel back to the airport. Plus, we’d need to be there two hours before the flight. So, four hours in a hotel to attempt sleeping. The cost of all this would be anywhere from three to four hundred dollars. Five hundred if we actually like ourselves.
 
One time, we had a similar situation in Albany. We'd opted for the hotel. [LOUD BUZZER SOUND GOES HERE] We picked wrong. The full-on skeeviness of our room was so off-putting that we didn’t even want to pull down the bedding. We cautiously laid atop the bedspread in our ski jackets, looked at each other, and said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
 
Nope. Not this time. This time, we were just going to wait it out in the airport. Hell, I can tough out five hours of rough living between my first-class flight and my Delta SkyClub time, right?
 
Have you ever spent the night in an airport?
 
No?
 
Allow me to enlighten you.
 
Our plan was to walk our carry-on bags to a spot that was SkyClub adjacent. That way, when the clock struck 4:50AM and the club opened, we’d be right there.
 
After our inflight dinner of mediocre mushroom ravioli in a mild-mannered mystery sauce, we’d be well sated. I would also grab a bottle of water as we de-planed. (I use the word “de-plane” specifically to irk Mr. Parker. Looking for a good time? Use the word “de-plane” with Blaine and enjoy the ensuing rant.)
 
So, with surprisingly decent mushroom-stuffed, ravioli in our bellies and a bottle of water in my hand, we made our way from our arrival gate along three people-movers to the Delta SkyClub and parked ourselves just beyond it.
 
An empty airport is a surprisingly noisy place. We seemed to have picked the very spot where the overnight employees gather on their breaks. Did I care? Not sure. After about twenty minutes of conversations by strangers in a variety of languages, I was sure. I cared.
 
We picked up our bags and hauled them to a seating area on the other side of the SkyClub. Nobody there was talking because nobody was there...at all. Just a vast concourse of empty seats all the way to the closed Dunkin' Donuts.
 
Of coures, there were random bells ringing. And periodic, robotic announcements about not smoking on the premises. And some guy driving a floor-cleaning vehicle that whooshed as it went past. The machine looked like a miniature Zamboni. (Would that make it a Zambonini? Or a Zambonita?) The zambie driving it had a blank look on his face and no discernable plan to his path. Just some undead guy thinking of nothing as he drove nowhere.
 
Fine. This was our spot. Tired and with no conversation in us, we stared at each other for a good 10 minutes. Then, the skeptical optimist in me wondered if I could find a position of repose in which to sleep.
 
There was no way I’d stretch out on the floor.
 
Why? Take a moment. Think of all the things that could be living in or just recently died in that heavily-trafficked, industrial-strength carpet in the gate areas at JFK.
  
You now have your answer.
 
But stretching out on the seats was a challenge. The seats are in long rows with fixed aluminum armrests between each seat.
So the question: could I balance myself up against the metal armrests on the front edge of the seats and close my eyes without falling off.
 
The answer: Yes.
 
I removed my outer shirt and balled it up on the seat like a pillow. But really, it was to protect my face from the parade of asses whose cheeks had been compressed on this very spot over the years. (Just thinking about it makes me want to take a shower.)
 
I laid my head on my shirt, closed my eyes, and waited for the cacophony of airport noises to harmonize into a bizzaro bedtime lullaby. It was working-ish. My brain was hovering between relaxation and actual sleep. But one of the armrests began digging into my ankle. I got up, looked over to see that Mr. Parker had his eyes closed, then laid back down on my other side.
 
This time, the JFK late-night lullaby did its job. I was out—until…
 
Why am I hearing some fool taking a call on speaker?
 
My hope was that it would end quickly. If I didn’t open my eyes, maybe the sleep spell wouldn’t be broken. I could drift back to a dreamland where money and calories have no meaning. (Oh yeah, and world peace.)
 
But the conversation didn’t stop. Finally, I picked my head up and looked to see who was polluting my chance for sleep with their meaningless chatter. What I saw was a man lying on the ground. First? Eew. Second? He had his phone plugged into the wall by his head, and the device on speaker, presumably so he could relax without holding it.
 
Are you f*cking kidding me?
 
This airport is huge. There are outlets everywhere! And this clown (I’m being polite) opts to set up his bad-audio camp up next to two people who are clearly asleep. He had one arm over his eyes, I'm guessing to avoid the daggers I was shooting at him from my own eyes. He clearly knew he woke us up, because he was trying to speak quietly—an effort that was irrelevant because the person yelling at him from the other end of the call didn’t know to give a shit.
 
I looked at Mr. Parker. “Should we move?”
 
“Let’s get out of here.”
 
We grabbed our bags and started to leave. But not before Mr. Parker turned to my now least favorite person in the world, yanked his phone charging cord out of the wall, and said, “A hundred bucks and you can have it back.” 
 
How great would that have been?
 
No, he didn’t grab the phone. What he said was, “You had an entire empty airport and you had go hunt down the only two people who were asleep?”   
 
We went around the corner, waited the two hours that were left, then rejoined the land of glamorous living in the Delta SkyClub. Starbucks SkyClub Coffee fresh from Ethiopia, a SkyClub croissant probably jetted in from Paris, and SkyClub fruit flown in from the farthest reaches of Fruit-topia. I went to the SkyClub Women’s Washateria, splashed water on my face, and started to feel human-ish.
 
Once aboard and belted into my extra-comfy First Class Delta SkySeat, waiting to begin winged to the DR, we had plenty of time to reevaluate the choice to spend the night in JFK.
 
That’s because before we could take off, a sick passenger needed to return to the gate. We waited two hours for that and other random silliness, like fixing a non-functioning SkyChat radio and replenishing the SkyFuel after two hours of running the engines to travel SkyNowhere..
 
Then, after we finally landed in paradise, yet another sick passenger to be taken off the plane by paramedics. (Red flag?) The Delta SkyStaffers instructed us to refrain from deplaning (yes, I said it again) until that maneuver was completed. That was another 30 SkyMinutes.
 
Bottom line: I’m never spending the night in JFK ever again. (Except on the way home seven days from now.)
 
Got any airport or inflight SkyDrama of your own? Feel free to share it by clicking the “reply” button.
 
Cheers and stay Careful-ish,
Honey Parker