 I was going to share a bit of snark about correcting total strangers (of which I am guilty). But then came the Los Angeles Wild Fires. In a former life, Mr. Parker and I lived in Los Angeles. We spent the first two days of the endless fire news doing our best to find out that our friends were out of harm’s way. At least two of them have had their homes wiped out completely. And seeing images of the fire lighting up the night sky behind The Magic Castle, just a short walk from where we used to live, was surreal. In Mr. Parker’s latest blog post for Free The Pizza, he talks about how we’re responding to the tragedy, and how our friends might play a small part in helping those currently in need. Following is an excerpt:
By the time this post goes up, it will have been well over a week since the fires began. Those of us not in the Los Angeles area will be moving on with our lives and focusing on the next soundbite. It’s to be expected. But folks in the burn-zone will still be deep in it. Still displaced. Still wondering, “What next.”
I invite you to look back for a moment and do what you can. And if you’d like to donate, here’s the link just one more time. Cheers, Honey Parker
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 When I was a young stupid person of twenty-four, I flew into Denver Colorado to visit a ski instructor friend. We’d met when I vacationed at Club Med Copper Mountain and stayed pals. She was now a ski instructor at Beaver Creek and invited me to visit. I’d ski by myself during the day (presumably, I’d make friends on the lift), then hook up with her to party at night. Why not? And that part all worked out as planned.
[Sidebar: I later quit my job in advertising to go be a comedian at Club Med for two years. Again I say, Why not?] What I hadn’t planned on was becoming cursed at the airport on my way to Denver. Oh yes, I was literally cursed. I’d gone to the ground-transportation counter and started chatting with the woman behind the desk. Remember all the way back to the opening sentence of this blog, your narrator mentioned being a young, stupid person? (Go back and check. I’ll wait.) So, this old, decrepit woman in her mid-50s (see: sarcasim) was bemoaning her poor vision. Ground-Transportation Counter Lady used to see perfectly, but as she got older, her sight declined. I, of course, had to proudly state that my vision was still 20/20. As if being younger than her was both a choice and a skill. Well, Ground-Transportation Counter Lady showed me. She looked me square in the eye. (Who knows what she and her bad vision were actually seeing.) Then she declared, “I curse you. When you turn forty, your vision will just go!” I thought, That’s so sad. Doesn’t she know that I’m choosing to not deteriorate in any way as I get older. I could not possibly fathom why on earth she hadn’t made the same choice I had. Talk about a lack of vision. Whatever. I went along my way, had a monster time with my ski-instructor friend, met some of her pals, enjoyed great skiing, even went out on a couple of dates—all blissfully unaware of my future and the curse hovering in the distance, waiting for the clock to ring 40. Flash forward, and the clock did not ring. It just broke. As predicted, or inflicted, the second I turned 40, my vision turned to crap. It was that fast. One night I could read the fortunes from the cookies of the people sitting across the Chinese restaurant. The next morning no arms would ever be long enough to let me read the print from my book, phone, or pill bottle. (Let’s not discuss that last one.) Who was that gal in the Scooby-Doo cartoons who couldn’t see anything when she lost her glasses? And, of course, she always lost her glasses. Forcing her to get on hands and knees and pat the ground like a blind person. Velma! Fuck, I’m a Velma. I was incredulous. How could this have happened to me? Me!? Didn’t the universe remember that I’d chosen to not deteriorate? This was not part of the contract I’d signed. Then I remembered the alternate contract that rendered my initial contract null and void. The one inflicted upon me as a result of being young and stupid. It was her, that woman at the Denver airport, the Ground-Transportation Counter Lady. Oh, the humanity! After years of self-reflection, I’ve come to realize that it was me. It wasn’t that angry little woman at all. I had brought this weakening upon myself by being so blissfully ignorant to the complexity of the human animal. By not affording her the grace she’d earn from years and decades of dealing with all of the young and stupid me’s that crossed before her on a daily basis while making their way to the slopes. I’d like to find her and tell her: Now I get it. But, of course, that won’t be happening. Still, there is an upside to my now crappy vision. We had friends visiting from out of town. Great, dear, wonderful friends. We wanted to introduce them to our favorite, wonderful people in our latest adopted hometown. After two days and nights partying like we were still young enough to see 20/20, I woke up with a fair amount of caution. What kind of state was I in? What would I see in the mirror? To my surprise, I looked kind of OK, bordering on “I may not even have to brush my hair.” (I don’t actually brush my curly hair once it’s dry or it would get enormous. But you get the point.) I win! I put in my contact lenses, and then caught a glimpse in the mirror of a woman who looked a lot like me gone wrong, and thought, Oh, that’s a little different. My face was giving witness to all of the damage I’d done in the last 48 hours, and I saw all of it. 20/20. But with age comes wisdom. I put my fingers into my eyes and removed my contacts. I was once again a blurred vision of loveliness. Problem solved. How's your vision?  For clarity, I am not about to rail against the poor. For those who can’t afford to let go of one precious drop of nutrition, food waste is not a joke. My guess is, if your situation is that dire, you’re not wasting your time reading my frivolous blog.
For further clarity, I’m not against the idea of eating yogurt. Please know that yogurt is not the real issue here. I happen to be a fan of yogurt. Real yogurt. Not a cup of something that’s more chemistry than cultures created in the name of being low-fat or zero-fat. And in fairness, some of these use stevia, which is not a chemical. It just tastes like one. There is room in my world for both cow yogurt and goat yogurt, as well as regular and Greek-style yogurts. I typically grab plain yogurt and add blueberries, or honey and almonds. I might even throw in some flax seed. (Fiber, good.) At our house, we buy the 32-ounce containers. When we feel like making what I call a “yogurt treat,” I spoon some into a small dish, add my toppings (or bottomings—sometimes the berries go in first), stir and enjoy. I’m not a single-serving-container kinda gal. And those single-serving containers is where this very real issue begins. Again, it’s not about the yogurt. It is the single-serving vessel and the bizarre need that some folks possess to scrape every last drop of food from its confines. So you could apply this rant to people eating single servings of cottage cheese, or pudding, or anything that one might be compelled to scrape and over-scrape at until they’re confident they’ve left nothing for even the smallest of scavengers to enjoy. Yogurt scraping as a compulsion is baffling to me for several reasons:
Am I making too much out of this whole thing? I have two answers to that question.
Have I gone too far? What is it that humans do to make you bananas? (Bananas, just peel and eat. No scraping required.)  I have a question for the room. How do you stop a conversation when the other person won’t let it end?
All the information has been exchanged, the laughs have been laughed (or tears cried) and the momentum has gone. So why can some people not take the hint and let the conversation die a natural death? Why do they insist on making us kill it? There are accepted social cues for ending a conversation. You know them. You’ve used them. Unless, of course, you are one of those people of whom I speak. In which case, pay careful attention and perhaps you’ll learn something valuable. (You’re welcome.) Whether the conversation is face-to-face, on the phone, or via text (email conversations went out with Wham!) there are things we do and say to initiate a clean break. Shall we review? I’m taking your silence as a Yes. First up, ending the Face-To-Face Convo. Know that some of these cues will overlap with phone cues. I’ll start with my personal favorite. “Well, okay now.” If I’m talking to you and whip out a spunky little “Well, okay now!”, the party’s over. Our chat has done all it needed to do. We solved world peace. We confirmed our dinner plans. We’ve exchanged thoughts on little Marjorie May’s choice of lemon-yellow hot pants. And we agreed to never drink THAT purple cocktail ever again. “Well, okay now!” Time to walk away. Other useful phrases include (but aren’t limited to): “Alrighty then,” “That’s how it goes,” “Say hey to your mom,” “This was great,” “How ‘bout those Mets?” (holds on that one until eight weeks after the season), and, “Look at the time!” But what if “Well, okay now” doesn’t produce the desired effect? What if the exchange moves from delightful chat to nonstop rambling? What next? There’s always The Bathroom Gambit. Few people will question you if you say you need to use the restroom. And if they do, know that you have the legal right, and perhaps the obligation, to simply walk away from The Rambler in question. Caution: there are two pitfalls with the bathroom gambit. First, if you’re at an event where there are other people, and while en route to your jail-break bathroom visit, Person B approaches you to chat. And Person B is someone you’ve been wanting to talk to. Then The Rambler may sidle over and either question your true intent, or worse, prattle on as if you never ducked them in the first place. The second pitfall, which is oh-so-much worse, is when you initiate the bathroom gambit and The Rambler says, “I’ll come with you,” thus forcing you to continue the charade by going to the bathroom, going into a stall, dropping trou, counting to 110 (trust me, it’s the correct amount of time), and flushing the toilet, thus wasting water. And this is all while The Rambler is squatting next to you and, still talking! In this scenario, know that the other guests at the event have clocked you entering and exiting the lavatory with The Rambler. They are now either deeming you and The Rambler new besties, or know exactly what’s going on and are letting you take this one for the team. No!!! In this second situation, your only recourse is to commit your second lie of the evening. You feign nausea with vomiting imminent (in competitive eating circles they call it “a reversal of fortune”) and you go home. There will be other parties. Next up is the phone call. Your old friend, Mrs. “Well, Okay Now,” should work here as well. Emphasis on should. It sometimes does not. The good news? The bathroom gambit works perfectly as a backup in this setting. A clean, and often quick, goodbye. Years ago, back in the days of the landline (Google it), I remember being on a call that would not end. I must have said, “Well, okay now” a half-dozen times. Each time, I brought my head and the receiver a few inches lower and closer to the phone, until I finally uttered my last “Well, okay now” and hung up. Even as a kid, I turned impatient and incredulous. I remember blurting out, “Didn’t they hear me say, ‘Well, okay now’?!” Hello texting, the latest entry into the “Never can say goodbye” arena. (Now I have the Jackson 5 song in my head. Could be worse.) In this arena, there is no “Well, okay now.” Instead, God gave us emojis. Once a person you’re chatting with throws an emoji into the ring, look out. You should know it’s time to wrap things up. They’re not interested in another joke “you had to be there” for, a picture of an event they missed, or a not-so-fun fact about pizza dough. (Guess where I got that last one.) At this point, I will either toss out an emoji of my own or just stop texting completely. And if I really want to hit a hard stop, I send a thumbs up. Clean. Simple. Succinct. Zero emotion. What else is there to say? Apparently for some, plenty. This is where text chats go off the rails. If someone, anyone thumbs-ups you, for the love of thumb typing: STOP! Because adding insult to tone-deaf injury, your unwanted texts are accompanied by a ding tone. So what the recipient hears is, “DING!” Shit, they didn’t stop. “DING!” Enough already. “DING!” I hate people. Not paying real attention to the person you’re communicating with is nothing new. The Rambler has been with us since the dawn of time. I’m betting if you happen to find yourself in Egypt (it could happen—I have four friends there at this very moment) you’ll find a series of hieroglyphs that ends with three cats drawn in two-dimensional perspective, with paws over their ears. “The Rambler” almost sounds like a superhero. If a superpower was being super-annoying. They do have the power to clear rooms. Rambling is part of a lack of self-awareness, one of my biggest pet peeves. (Even bigger than the phrase “pet peeve.”) Don’t make us tell you to shut it. Because we likely won’t. We’re not that rude. We’ll just think it. And we’ll bookmark you as a long talker. And we’ll think twice before engaging. Nobody wants that. Bottom line, it is our social duty to listen for the cue that the conversation is coming to an end. Think you heard it but aren’t sure? Err on the side of caution. Leave them wanting more and end it. Realize that you’re never the one to end a conversation? Try it. Go crazy. You might like it. Who knows, you may get mad with power. You’ll say, “Well, okay now” right after the “How’ve you been?” Make a game of it. Race your friends to the “Well, okay now.” The world will be a better place for it. “Well, okay now.”  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 Angelina Jolie, a late-night performance fail, and a song of redemption. But what does it mean?7/13/2024  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  In a country divided, I believe we can all agree on the fact that not one of us (fetishists aside) needs to see some stranger’s feet. Fact! No one needs to see some guy take off their shoes, peel away their socks, spread their toes, and wave their foot meat in your personal space. Can I get an, Amen?!! So, now that we’ve all united beneath this giant, cozy umbrella of basic human understanding… Why, I ask, WHY is there a TV commercial running where this exact foot-baring behavior I’ve described is not only being celebrated, but being used to sell a product? The advertiser is Mattress Firm. Yes, I am naming names. Here’s what went down… Mr. Parker and I were home one afternoon, minding our own business. The Phillies game was on TV, which means that Mr. Parker’s attention was elsewhere. (I’m not offended.) Suddenly and without warning, beamed into the sanctity of my home—a zone that should be safe from such atrocity—was a commercial so off-putting, so abhorrent, so skin-crawlingly skeevy, that my professional advertising brain went berserk. Note: If you don’t know (or even if you do), I spent most of my adult life working as a creative director in advertising, both for big agencies and for my own company. That means I have opinions on things like TV commercials. I’ve made hundreds of them. So, in this commercial, we are all on an airplane. Close shot of a man sitting in his coach-class aisle seat as he proceeds to remove his shoe, followed by a sock that apparently missed the bleached-load on laundry day. (You can’t smell it, but you can.) The camera cuts to a tight shot of the man’s foot as he spreads his toes wide as if each of his sweaty little piggies had just woken up. I’ll pause while you gag. Ready to go on? Okay. He then slaps his moist hoof onto the armrest of the total stranger seated in front of him. She is appropriately put out, as is a woman across the aisle. Witnessing this, the flight attendant asks him with bald-faced disdain and contempt, “How do you sleep?” His response? “Oh, on a mattress from Mattress Firm. So, I sleep…” CUE THE MUSIC: Lionel Ritchie singing, “All night long...’ The Mattress Firm logo comes up as this buffoon adds insult to injury by thrusting all of his weight back into his seat, causing the man behind him to spill his drink. And this utter lack of self-awareness, this ode to our worst possible form of public behavior, is what the fine folks at Mattress Firm would like you to see and say, “Yup. That’s me. I want to get my mattress from Mattress Firm so I can be just like that total ass.”
But the blame doesn’t stop with the advertiser. Oh, no. There are layers of advertising professionals who presented this nauseating bit of sad-vertising to the client, including:
Was I there to know these are the facts? No. But, in a way, yes. I’m not going to lecture a nice person like you about good advertising. You’re likely not in the business, therefore have committed no such crime. And you likely care a lot less about bad selling practices than I do. But in a home purchased and populated by two former-ish ad people (you never really stop playing the game), the conversations, the head-shaking, the out-and-out “What the f*ck!” of it all went on for days. Honestly, we’re still not over it. So, I ask you. Would seeing this behavior make you think, “Wow, this guy is getting great sleep. I want in. Sweetheart, Google Map the nearest Mattress Firm.” Or are you so put out that you may spend the coming week sleeping on the floor? Would love to hear thoughts on this one. Cheers and stay careful-ish. Honey Parker P.S. No one wants to hear people crunching or slurping in their advertising either. Just sayin.’  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
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 |
AuthorHoney Parker has been writing, writing, writing for decades, decades, decades. In there, she has also been a standup comedian, a Hollywood screenwriter, a director, and a co-author of edgy business books. Careful-ish is her debut novel. It is the first in a trilogy. It is comedy-ish. Archives
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