 Not that these are necessarily songs where I can’t hit the notes. Maybe I can. Maybe I can’t. That’s not the point.
Perhaps it would be more correct to say: Songs I shouldn’t sing. Or, more more correct: Songs I shouldn't perform. Here’s how I started down this particular rabbit hole. I was home sick and scrolling through reels on Facebook. I wish I could say that I was scrolling on Instagram. That would be slightly cooler. But I want to keep things real between you and me. So, here I sit, uncool but honest. I came across a video of a woman in her 20s with a big bass guitar. She had an interesting look and a pastel green bass, so I stopped. Then she started playing Stevie Wonder’s hit song, “I Wish” from Songs In The Key Of Life. It’s about wishing to relive childhood. Super. Love that song. The woman with the bass began singing, “Looking back on when I was a little nappy headed boy.” I immediately wondered why she didn’t change the words to “...little girl.” I’m 99.9% sure this person was never a little boy. Yes, these things happen. But you’re gonna have to go with me on this one. It always bothers me when someone covers a song and doesn’t change the obviously incongruous words to fit them. It creates a believability issue and takes me out of the song. When I was in a band (don’t ask and don’t look for videos), I’d always change the words so the song fit me. And not just for the listener. If I was to sing Bruce Springsteen’s “Fire,” I wouldn’t sing, “I'm driving in my car I turn on the radio. I'm pulling you close you just say no. You say you don't like it but girl I know you're a liar…” I’d change it to, “You say you don't like it but BOY I know you're a liar…” How hard is that? Zero percent hard. SIDE NOTE: I wouldn’t sing that song anyway because it sounds like a true crime podcast waiting to happen. Like the singer is a repeat sex offender forcing themselves on someone who wants out of the car the second the singer’s back is turned. RUN! RUN!!! Back to Stevie Wonder. I asked myself, How would I sing the song, “I Wish”? First line, “Looking back on when I was a little nappy headed boy.” So, nappy? Doesn’t seem to fit for a little white girl. I would change that to, fuzzy. As a kid, I had zero interest in how I looked. My long curly hair was often unbrushed and in the humidity of a northeast summer, “fuzzy” is a kind word for how it looked. So, first line, “Looking back on when I was a little fuzzy headed girl.” That works. Next line. “Then my only worry was for Christmas what would be my toy.” I’m Jewish, so I’ll need another edit. “Then my only worry was for Hanukah, what would be my toy.” It adds an extra syllable, so I sang it several times to figure out the best way to squeeze “Hanukah” in there as smoothly as possible. A little funky, but fine. Moving on. “Even though we sometimes would not get a thing…” Here we have a real problem. There was never a time when we wouldn’t get something for Hanukah. Never. I remember one year, my mother was totally over trying to come up with eight days of gifts for three kids. (If you didn’t know, Hanukah lasts eight days and little kids often get a gift each night.) That year she decided to take a left turn. On the first night of Hanukah, we were each presented with a basket containing eight envelopes that had our names written on them. In each envelope was money. Every night, we’d pick one of our envelopes to open and see how much was in it. It might be a five dollar bill. It might be a ten. I think the biggest envelope had fifty dollars in it. (Don’t quote me on that.) Basically, my mom had turned Hanukah into a gameshow. And even though we all knew that the total amount we got at the end of the eight days wouldn’t change based on what order we opened our envelopes in, it was suspenseful and exciting. Looking back on it, I believe my mom’s idea was genius. But it left me with a problem. How to change that line of the song? “Even though we sometimes would not get a thing…” Hmm. “Even though we sometimes, wouldn’t get OUR thing?” Meaning, not what we had wished for. But I don’t think I love that solution. It makes us sound, ungrateful. Maybe, “Even though we sometimes, didn’t want to sing?” No. We never sang the one and only Hanukah song we knew. How about, “It was always hard to wait, for the opening?” Maybe. What kid doesn’t have a hard time waiting to open a wrapped present? (Or a mystery envelope full of an unknown amount of cash.) I’m going with it. Next line. “We were happy with the joy the day would bring.” We just hit a hard stop. Why? Jews just aren’t that happy. My family usually ended up arguing at Hanukah, and every other holiday. It’s how we communicated. And if there was nothing new to argue about, someone would bring up some slight from five or ten years earlier. Something like, “Remember? We were just sitting there at the table waiting for your family to show up. Waiting and waiting and the brisket got so dry. It was like the Sahara. Remember? Then that damn brisket strand got caught in my teeth and I had to floss it out and I lost a crown. Remember? And what dentist is going to see you on a Friday night? Do you remember that?” Full disclosure, that is not an actual story from my youth. But every true story I thought of had the potential of getting one of my relatives upset all over again and I just don’t want to take the chance of starting a “thing.” So, what did that leave me with for lyrics? My version of “I Wish” is now: Looking back on when I was a little fuzzy headed girl And my only worry, was for Hanukah what would be my toy It was always hard to wait, for the opening And we were always irritable, cause that’s a Jewish thing Snappy, right? Bottom line, I just shouldn’t sing that song. It would be a lie. A big one. There is no amount of word changing that would make that song fit the true narrative of my life. And if I did change it to fit my life, I could only perform it in the Catskills. Now that you know how the game is played, what song should you never perform? Cheers and stay carful-ish, Honey parker
0 Comments
 Stand back. Here comes one of my Great Pet Peeves Of Our Time.
And it’s not the phrase, “pet peeve.” I’m over that one. Finally. LASTEST PET PEEVE: Pajama-Wearing Airline Passenger. Why does this person think it’s OK to walk through an airport and onto a plane in their sleepwear? OLDER PET PEEVE: Flip-flop-Wearing Airline Passenger. While this is also a problem, I must admit, I have a foot issue. So that one may be on me. Still, I know in my heart I’m not the only one who doesn’t want to see some guy’s funky, toes flopping around out there with crud under the nails and obvious, unaddressed fungus issues. But back to the pajama peeve o’ the day. Here’s the explanation I’ve heard from people who try to justify their choice to wear pajamas in the airport and onboard. Ready? “I just want to be comfortable.” Really? The “I’m comfortable” statement begs the question: How uncomfortable are your regular clothes? What kind of stiffness-inducing mega starch are you using in your weekly laundry? Do you insist on buying all your clothing two sizes too small? Are you making sure that you’re inserting each of your legs into a separate pant leg? Have you tried removing the hanger from your shirt before you putting it on? How great a hardship would it be to wear, say, loose jeans and a soft, brushed-cotton shirt for those in-flight hours? Somehow, you made it through all your school days and working days intact. There was no breaking into a biblical, Job-like full-body rash, no erupting in a festival of pustules and seeping wounds, no spontaneous bursting into flames. Hmm. What about those remote work days? Are too many people no longer working in a group setting? Could this burgeoning pajama problem be a COVID leftover? Did we get so used to lounging around the house all day that we just can’t go back to legit, respectable, adult clothing? Where athleisure wear and Jeggings just gateway drugs? PROFESSIONAL DECORUM SIDEBAR: I’ve been a remote worker for years. Long before COVID, and I’ve been making it a point to get dressed for work every day. My one hard-and-fast rule: Never take a business call without a bra on. I say nothing to a client until the ladies are locked and loaded. So, I’m calling bullshit. I call bullshit on the “I work out of the house and live in my pajamas” excuse. I’ve never seen people in PJs while out to dinner, at a concert, in an art gallery, going into a parent-teacher meeting, waiting to get a root canal…I could go on. But you get the picture. Why have some people decided that air travel is a place where being respectful and respectable don’t matter? You’re spending several hours locked inside a tube with over a hundred of your fellow human beings and you say to yourself, “I know. Pajamas!” And yes, how you dress DOES reflect the respect you have for yourself and for those around you. “But I don’t care what I look like.” Double bullshit. If you don’t care what you look like, why did you brush your hair, put on makeup, and make sure your little ducky travel pillow matches your little ducky slippers? “But I don’t care what people think.” Really? Then why do you get bent out of shape when someone makes a sour face at your “Goodnight Moon” getup? “You’re judging me!” Yes I am. And no one likes being judged. But it’s impossible to not make first-impression judgments. We all know we do it. And when you see people on the plane walking down the aisle towards your seat, aren’t there some folks you hope will just keep on walking? You’re not basing those judgements on their inner self. And just by the way, consider the professionals who are working on that plane. You don’t think they’re making judgments about you based on your pajama-jammy-jams? Think again. Would you like coffee, tea or disdain with that? A few months back, my niece was flying out to visit us. She’s in her mid-twenties and, by all standards of measure, a great person. Two days before her flight, she asked if we’d be stopping anywhere between the airport and home. Immediately, I knew what was coming. “I was thinking of wearing my pajamas on the plane.” My heart sank. This person was one of my own. You better believe Aunt Honey nipped that in the bud. At the time, I just said yes, we’d be stopping for lunch on the way home. But when I had her on my own turf, there was a long talk. OK, fine. It was a lecture on how to present yourself in public. And, I’m not talking about putting on the dog. (It’s an old expression. If you don’t know it, look it up.) But if you’re going to be with a group of people, it's nice to not look like you’re shuffling ever closer to performing all the private and anti-social functions one indulges in the privacy of their own bedroom and bathroom. (I’ll be careful-ish enough to not put them down in writing. You’re welcome.) What does wearing pajamas in public say? “I don’t care. I put myself first. And I do so in the laziest way possible!” Is that really what people want to project: “I’m lazy and self-absorbed”? And yes, that was part of the lecture to my niece. That, along with sections on self-awareness, being intentional, and requiring more of one’s self. Now, you may be reading this and thinking, “I had no idea Honey was so uptight. Has she not read her own books?” The answer is, yes. And if you’ll notice, not one of my characters lives in their pajamas. Not even during COVID lockdown. I make all kinds of room in my life for quirky and even questionable behavior. But put on your damn pants. I will now step down off my pet-peeve rant-o-matic soap box. But remember, when it comes to wearing pajamas to the airport, just say no. (And pass on the flip-flops unless you’ve had a proper pedicure.) Cheers and stay careful-ish, Honey  Here’s the deal. Somehow, you get invited to Hollywood’s biggest night – The Oscars.
Oh, my god! Oh, my god! Oh, my god! So exciting! You tell your friends then scramble for something even close to appropriate to wear. While it’s not really red carpet-worthy, it’s certainly nicer than that sack you deemed perfect for your own wedding. After seven attempts, you get your hair into just the right shape and spray the shit out of it. (F*ck the environment. This is the Oscars.) Jewelry? You grab grand-mom’s chunky ring that always seemed too demanding to wear before. Perfect. Then you find baubles with just enough bling to seem like something without flagging that they’re nothing. You slip into the shoes you’ve dubbed “The Bleeders” and You Are Ready. The cameras flash. Not at you, but that’s okay. You see this celebrity and that. So cool. They truly have their own gravity. You think, This is why they’re stars. After the crush and clamber, you get to your seat and settle in. Get comfortable. This is the Oscars. It’s going to be a long night. How could you possibly have known just how long? As you look this way and that to see which potential statue winner is sitting mere rows away, it happens. A huge white screen drops down right in front of your face. Your view is gone. Your line of sight to the stage is now a total white-out. That’s when you realize you are the lucky winner of the seat behind Tems. If you didn’t watch the 95th Oscars (and most likely, you didn’t), then you may not know that singer/songwriter Tems (born Temilade Openiyi in Lagos, Nigeria) wore a dramatic, flowing white dress that sported a huge, head-surrounding cumulus cloud of white tulle. Stunning on the red carpet, perhaps. But in the audience? Crazy. I did watch the Oscars. I usually do. The second I spotted the enormous white mass hovering in the audience, I about lost my mind. Who would do that? For the rest of the night, I devised speeches that would never be spoken. If I was sitting behind this person, what would I say? Because you have to believe I’d be saying something. And I wouldn’t wait. How do I know this? One time I was on a plane from New York to London. I was seated next to a young man who started nervously shaking his leg even before we taxied. This could not go on. Channeling my mother’s attitude of, “I’m disappointed, but I love you anyway,” I gently put my hand on his leg and said, “I don’t know that you’re even aware you’re doing this, but you keep shaking your leg.” He turned to me with contrition in his voice and said, “Yeah. I’m sorry. My mother is always telling me to stop doing that. If I do it again, just let me know.” Problem solved. For six hours, we were inflight friends. Now, do I believe that Tems would have been equally contrite in her response to a polite request to lower her strategic, couture obstruction? Sadly, I do not. I fear there is no way this person wasn’t completely aware of what she was doing, as was her designer. In the world of celebrity where standing out and camera time is a win, this seemed an old fashion cry for attention. And it worked. Even during the show, people began tweeting about the poor woman behind Tems, craning her neck to see anything. By the next morning, it was picked up all over the web. People were debating over her choice. Many cried rude while fans defended Tem, saying that people should be honored just to be seated that close to such a huge talent. I wonder if Tems would have felt honored to sit behind Meryl Streep if she was wearing the enormous black hood from The French Lieutenant’s Woman. After all, Meryl is a huge talent. Bottom line for Tems: Mission accomplished. You put yourself first. And someday, when someone else’s goal obliterates your own, you’ll likely feel undeservedly wronged. For the poor woman seated behind her, as my father would say, Don’t let them shit on your head. Open your mouth. For me personally, venting to you all has helped. I can now get on with my day and everything I had to put off until I could unload my annoyance at this display of bad behavior and get it out of my brain. I can now move on knowing there’s one less person I need to welcome into my foxhole. I have limited space in there and that giant white hood just makes you a target. Stay careful-ish, Honey Parker  Today, we are discussing what it’s like to be a Philly fan—specifically, a fan of the Philadelphia Eagles.
NOTE: If you can’t handle disappointment, DO NOT move to Philly. As you may know, the Philadelphia Eagles lost Super Bowl 57. (I refuse to compute Roman numerals. It’s stupid.) They (the Eagles, not the Roman numerals) scored 35 points and still lost. They were lead by the extraordinarily talented Jalen Hurts, who himself threw for 304 yards, rushed for 70 yards, scored three rushing touchdowns—the most rushing touchdowns by any quarterback in Super Bowl history, just by the way—and Philadelphia still lost. “So NOT fair!”, you might exclaim. And if you did so exclaim, it would be clear: you are NOT from Philly. But let’s go back a week. No, wait. Let’s go back a season. No, let’s go back to my childhood growing up in the home of my father, Jer (the prototype for “Mur,” if you’ve read my books). Jer was a season-ticket-holding, walking encyclopedia of sports, and a lifelong Eagles fan. (Not an exaggeration. The Eagles franchise was born four years before Jer was.) Being a lifelong Eagles fan also means the man is a realist. But that doesn’t stop him from yelling at the TV every game. Eagles fans are yellers. And we don’t yell things like, “Nice try!” I remember one rare occasion when I got to go to a game. Jer had season passes, but he usually shared them with clients. It was just smart business. I was not. I was merely a financial drain. But one Sunday, there I was in the stands, surrounded by an angry sea of green and white. We were losing of course, and the mood was belligerent, Philly style. “You’re a pack of bums!” “What the hell is wrong with you?!” “Stop that son of a bitch!” “Stop him, you fuck!” “Punch him in the fucking throat!” Holy crap! Even at the tender age of nine, I knew this behavior was more than a bit extreme. So when the man in front of me stood and yelled, “Stab him in the heart!” I chose to go for perverse agreement. I yelled, “Kill his family!” Yep, that was one step too far even for my heart-stabbing friend. Clearly not understanding that by being an absurdist, I’d pointed out the ridiculousness of his own behavior. He just looked at me, aghast, shook his head (a few rocks fell out), and sat down. Flash forward to 2006. That’s the year the movie Invincible came out. It stars Mark Wahlberg, who is not from Philly but Boston. And while my money is on Philly in a street fight, at least Boston would go down swinging. Anyway, Invincible is the true story of the Philadelphia Eagles’ walk-on player, Vince Papale. The first time I saw that movie, it gave me the inspirational, feel-good Eagles’ winning moment that I had never actually gotten from my team. So I began a new tradition. I watch the movie every year, right after the Eagles are out of the running. (Sometimes, that’s week two.) Then, in 2018, it happened. After decades of losing, the Eagles were in it. Carson Wentz was looking like a Hall Of Fame quarterback…until he wasn’t. An injury took him out, along with all hope of winning. Hey, it’s Philly. That’s how we do. A faint glimmer of hope followed by a throat punch and the all-too-familiar big bucket of disappointment. But, no! Wait! Nick Foles steps in and somehow champions the Eagles to their first-ever Super-Bowl win. It was epic. Yes, there were tears. Even people who hate the Eagles were crying on my behalf. Jump ahead five years. Eagles quarterback Jalen Hurts has overcome a shoulder injury and is going to lead us back to the big game. And because we’d now tasted victory one time in 57 years, we were thinking, “This could happen.” Pht. Silly human nature. Just days before the game, Mr. Parker and I were flying from Park City to New Orleans. At the gate, we were called to the counter. Seems there was one first-class upgrade available, and we had to decide which one of us got it. Mr. P immediately jumped in, claiming it’s his turn. “You got the last upgrade, remember?” I did not. But once he refreshed my memory (it was on a flight from “Fantastic Puerto Vallarta!”), I thought, Is this chivalry? Is this how a gentleman acts? I could tell by the look on the female gate agent’s face that the answer was, “Don’t suck me into your domestic soup, lady.” Fine. I had an aisle seat in an exit row and a snapshot of Mr. Parker’s drink vouchers. I’d be fine. Across from me was a linebacker-sized man in an Eagles jersey. I tried a few times to catch his eye, to bond over the birds, but it didn’t happen. So I relaxed with a bourbon rocks and watched a rock-music documentary recommended by a friend. When it was over, I noticed that Mr. Linebacker was watching Invincible. Then I saw it on a few other screens around me. Did I dare watch it? I’d never watched Invincible when Philly was still in the running. Was I playing with fire? Ugh. Life choices. I decided that if I didn’t watch it to the end, we’d all be fine. I hit play. As we came in for a landing, the cabin lights came up. Mr. Linebacker leaned over and said, “You’re watching Invincible. How do you like it?” “I watch it every year. I’m from Philly.” And just like that, instant camaraderie between him, me, and several of the other Invincible watchers around us. There was excitement and (something so rare for an Eagles fan) hope. No dread of the inevitable. It was as if winning once made everyone feel all things were possible, even in Philly. If it weren’t for that fasten-seatbelts sign, we could’ve all burst into high-fives and chest bumps. Damn you, in-flight safety. Game day. I knew my sister, niece and her fiancé would be with my father. Good. At such an important time, the man shouldn’t have to yell at the TV all alone. SIDEBAR: My father now watches what we call “Silent Sports.” The sportscasters make him crazy. So he watches sporting events with the sound off. It’s like being in a bizarre, televised sports prison. Meanwhile, 1200 miles away at our place, we had four friends over and food for 20. Did that make me too optimistic? Well, if you watched the game, you know how it went. Jalen Hurts played a game most quarterbacks will only dream of—and the Eagles still got the big “L.” When it was over, I did what I always do: Shake hands with my old friend, Mr. Disappointment, and get on with my life. This is how we roll. We’re used to it. We’re good at it. But there was that nagging question. Was it my fault? Did I watch Invincible too soon? Did I jinx my team? Crazy, right? But I never told Jer that I’d played with fire and lost. He’s used to being disappointed by the Eagles. I’m staying mum and taking my shame to the grave. Unless he reads this. Then I’m screwed. I hope I stay in the will. Stay Careful-ish, Honey Parker  What happened was... Mr. Parker returned from the supermarket. Since he does the cooking in our home, he also likes to do the shopping. (Pretty great for me, right?!) Looking for an excuse to leave my computer, I got up and helped him unload the groceries. Then, not wanting to get right back to work, I decided I would take some time to give our new jar of peanut butter a good stir. For peanut butter, we buy (and by “we,” I mean him) that kind of “natural” peanut butter (as opposed to all that other, unnatural peanut butter) that always comes with a layer of separated peanut oil on the top. Mixing that oil in with a knife or spoon always seems to end with fingers and everything else slathered in peanut butter, and the oil is stirred in only halfway. That makes the top half of the peanut butter jar a delight, and the bottom half a fine substitute for spackle or grout. But I was up for a good, productive session of procrastination. I grabbed a tablespoon and started gently folding the thinner oil into the thicker peanut butter. It quickly became a game. Could I create a perfectly blended product while not making any mess at all? I was careful to get the spoon to the center of the jar, slowly turn it, then make my way to the bottom. As the oil rose to the top of the jar, I’d back off before letting it spill over the sides and onto the counter. A longer spoon would have been ideal, but I was working with what I had and making decent progress. Plus, it was rather therapeutic until-- Mr. Parker leaned in and asked, “What are you doing? It seemed plainly obvious to me. “Stirring the peanut butter.” “Wait. Stop. There’s a better way.” Couldn’t he see that I was doing a brilliant job? That the oil and the peanut butter were starting to play together nicely? That my hands were free of any and all nut butter residue? The next thing I knew, he’d returned with a giant, cordless electric power drill. Yes, I said “power drill.” In place of a drill bit, he had inserted one of the metal beaters from a handheld electric mixer.
I backed away, watching my private therapy session devolve into a scene from This Old House meets Saw.
He inserted the metal beater into the jar of peanut butter. Judiciously pulsing the motor, then running it slowly, Mr. Parker powered the peanut butter smooth. “See? Look how much better that is.” I felt like I’d just been man-splained by demonstration. I wanted to be pissed, but then the sight of my guy happily power-drilling peanut butter was too wonderful and quirky to not enjoy. I love people doing odd things as if they where completely natural. I thought, I could shove this piece of business into a book somewhere. Which of my new characters would get to Makita-Mix the Skippy? Later, when I addressed the quirkiness of this act with him, he offered that lots of tools have uses they weren’t originally designed for. I thought about the twisted wire hanger I keep by the bed to retrieve items that fall behind the headboard. But Mr. Parker’s case in point was so much darker. “Take hammers. A hammer is designed to pound nails. But people use them for all kinds of things. You can use a hammer to kill someone. Murder-by-hammer happens all the time.” Well, then. I went from thinking about how wonderfully quirky my guy can be to wondering if I was going to be the inspiration for the next season of White Lotus: Hammer Time On The Gulf Coast. I now periodically check our hammers for bloody hair or animal matter. So, what’s the strangest repurposing of a tool you’ve tried? (Please, share only those things that won’t result in arrest.) Stay careful-ish - Honey Parker  When I was in my thirties, I had a pivotal life experience with regard to major appliances. I’d just bought a new dryer. The first time I shoved in my dirty gym clothes and ran it, I was overcome with joy: The machine was silent!
The joy was followed by dread. Realizing that I was now at an age where a quiet dryer was all it took to give me a wave of satisfaction made me worry my life was almost over. Or at least, the fun part of it was. How wrong I was. I have since learned: a) There is still fun to be had; and b) There are many more disconcerting phases yet to come. The appliance-joy phase left without warning—no mile markers, no starting bell. Instead, my life just slid right into the next phase: Bathroom obsession. In this phase, virtually ever food decision I make has something to do with how the food in question might a) slow down the works or b) encourage good digestive behavior. The joy in this phase comes from doing what I had assumed all my life was just part of my birthright for walking the Earth. But enough dancing around the toilet seat. Here’s the deal. In this phase, before eating anything, I’m forced to consider: Will this make me poop, or block me up for days? And that latter part is the real issue. It seems now that any little misstep (including travel with or without food included) can completely shut things down for days. Oh, yes. Days. I’ve gone four, five, six days without unleashing the kraken. During those times, the mind reels at the thought of what one is hauling around on hikes, in gym workouts, or at dinner parties. And yes, I do think about it. All my week’s meals, now packed inside me, refusing to leave. How is it possible that I’m presently stuffing Saturday night’s dinner in the hole, yet I’m still walking around with Friday dinner, Wednesday lunch, possibly even Tuesday’s breakfast still just hanging out? What are they doing in there, anyway? Working on world peace? Cold fusion? The designated hitter rule? If this is all becoming too indelicate for your sensibilities, I get it. And maybe you’re lucky enough to not be so afflicted. But if you’re in your twenties or thirties and are thinking, This won’t happen to me. Pooping is choice. And I choose to poop every day. It will leave my body so effortlessly that wiping will merely be for show. Well, to you I say, give it time young Grasshopper. (And try to snatch this prune from my hand.) But, if you’re reading this and nodding the nod of understanding that comes with, wisdom, age and too much cheese, then let me share what I’ve learned along the way. The following is a list of Tissue Issue problems & solutions: PROBLEMS
I know it’s the list is short-ish. But these are the things that come up most often in my world. Of everything there, the flax seed has been the regularity revelation. Now you may be asking, “Where does alcohol fit in this equation?” That’s a question I try to avoid asking myself. Having to give up hooch would be a massive bummer (and that’s me down-playing it). But I will say this: If I’m feeling overfull after dinner, a bit of whiskey does help. The following two practices also have a big effect on restroom success: 1) Working out at least four to five days a week. Anything helps, even walking. Stop moving, and you stop “moving.” 2) Avoiding opiates. Yes, I know. You’d hate to give up chasing the dragon. But seriously, if you’ve ever had surgery and chased it with a Percocet or a Vicodin, you already know. It’s a potent little recipe for never again seeing the inside of your water closet. So, bottom line: eat your flax seed, work out, and don’t do drugs. Stay Careful-ish, Honey Parker P.S. The Following is a list of phrases I thought about using in this post but didn’t, because I’m not twelve years old. Yet, the fact that I’m including them at all points a sincere problem in my mental development. Lay pipe, pushing cotton, puppy nose, make spätzle, building a log cabin, hit the Hershey highway, cut a cigar, unload some timber, take the Browns to the Super Bowl, fish food, drop a duce, liquidate assets, take the kids to the pool, pinch a loaf, cop a squat, make room for lunch, finless brown trout, visit the announcer’s booth, baptize a Baby Ruth, log out Okay. I think I got that out of my system ;)  In my time, I’ve had several encounters in the shower which have left me shaken.
For the record, I never intended to shower with any of the creatures I’m about to document. (No, Mr. Parker is not on that list.) Part of the jarring nature of these run-ins is that they were all surprise guests. The other jarring part is that things just seem more desperate when you’re wet and naked. Shower Guest #1 My most recent encounter happened on a trip to Austin. Mr. Parker and I had gone for a business conference and were treated to a fine room at the facility where the event was being held. Swell. On the second morning, while in the shower, I looked down and saw movement. My first thought was to have a movement. But on second look, I realized that in the tub was not a giant insect but a little lizard. Now, I’m not afraid of lizards, but it kept moving towards me. I didn’t trust my ability to pick it up or slide it away with my foot without killing it. So I kept sending water its way until I could get the conditioner out of my hair and myself out of the shower. Once our communal washing was done, I got out, toweled off, and looked back in the tub. Here’s where it gets sad. The lizard wasn’t moving. Was he dead? Was it the water? Was it me? Did I have lizard blood on my hands? And what did it mean? (We’ll come back to this.) Shower Guest #2 The Austin encounter had me thinking back to when we were in Nicaragua and found a scorpion in the bathroom. Except in Nicaragua, I wanted to kill. We’d been warned about poisonous scorpions. And someone we’d met there related what had to be one of the worst scorpion run-ins imaginable. She’d shaken out her dress before putting it on. That’s standard operating procedure to make sure no scorpion is hiding inside your clothing. But either she didn’t shake hard enough, or the scorpion wanted it too bad. When she pulled the dress over her head, the creature clamped onto her nipple with a its claw and began stinging her repeatedly. And yes, this scorpion was the poisonous kind. Fortunately, a friend rushed over. Still, she had a harrowing twenty-four hours. So when we found our own scorpion in the bathroom, and even though Mr. Parker didn’t want to kill our scorpion, after several failed attempts to shoo it out of the house with the tiny beast trying to sting him, he finally gave in to the wits of his reptile brain and smashed it with a shoe. Repeatedly. Mr. Parker: One. Scorpion: Dead. Shower Guest #3 My last crazy shower encounter left me startled without inspiring blood lust. I was living in NYC. My roommate was a long-haired Persian cat named Yosef. I was letting the hot shower water pound on me for as long as it would last. Hot water was a precious commodity in that apartment. Without warning, it could turn icy cold or scalding, and the session was over. I never knew how long I’d have. This session was enjoyably long. Too long for Yosef’s liking. I was ignoring him. He was in the bathroom, and kept batting at the outside of the shower curtain to get my attention, which I thought was funny—until... He decided to leap at the curtain. The next thing I knew, the cat was standing in the tub with me, looking up at me in panic. That of course filled me with panic. Was I about to get clawed or just covered in wet fur? Remember, wet and naked and now afraid. The cat began scrambling like a cartoon character. His paws were moving so very fast but getting no traction. He was running in place. Yosef eventually got himself out and never again bothered me during shower time. Shower Guest #1 Back to Austin. I called to Mr. Parker and told him there’d been a lizard in my shower. After a moment, Lord Look-It-Up (as we often call him) said, “Good news. Lizards are good luck and a sign of positive change.” He also read that I was destined to win over all I faced. So, we both looked back into the shower. And, the lizard was, in fact, dead. Had I killed my positive change? Drowned my winning destiny? I wanted to give it CPR. I didn’t. I’m now left assessing each new moment of my life and wondering what effect my dead shower-mate is having on it. R.I.P. Stay Careful-ish Honey Parker  To be clear, I have never done this before. I woke from a dream that was so utterly bizarre, I had to write it down immediately.
Here now is my attempt to capture the crazy. (Note: The pace of the dream was harried, so to get the full effect, it’s best that you read this as quickly as possible.) I’m in some airport with my dad, Jer. Not the current, 86-year-old Jer. We’re talking the younger, on-the-go businessman version of my Jer. We’ve just landed from somewhere. Who knows where. I’m catching another flight. A tight connection. Flying international. Again, who knows where. My heart? Racing. Running late. My dad has all the info. For some reason, he’s booked my flight. He’d sent me the itinerary and my ticket, but I didn’t get it. He smiles, unconcerned, and tries sending them again. No dice. (My father and I never worked together. Nor have I ever known him to stay so calm. Ever.) We hurry with our carry-ons. He’s telling me he’ll pay for my flight. I say, “You don’t have to do that.” He replies, “Hon, I’m paying for the flight.” I think, Good. I hoped he would. (Seems that in my dreams, I’m a cheap person. Sad.) All of a sudden, Jer is gone. I’m dashing to a bus that’s taking me to another airport. On the bus, I’m sitting next to Valerie Bertinelli. Yes, that Valerie Bertinelli. From One Day at a Time and Hot in Cleveland. Valerie points out that our bus makes its first stop at a dentist office. We have to wait for whoever’s getting off there to have their dental appointment. “Maybe 20 minutes.” (I once had my teeth cleaned in about 20 minutes. Still, that timing seems optimistic.) As promised, the bus stops at a depot by the dentist’s office. I hope no gets off for an appointment, but several people do. Crap. The woman at the reception window says it could easily be a half hour. We don’t have the extra ten minutes to burn. So, my new best friend, Valerie suggests we catch a cab. She and I exit the depot and-- Surprise! We’re in Atlantic City. After quickly looking around the deserted streets, we get decision paralysis. For some reason, we go back to the depot. And I still don’t have my itinerary from Jer. No ticket. Nothing. The woman at the depot asks why we’re back. Here’s where things get messy. I’m upset that we’re running out of time. Valerie feels I’m blaming her. She says that if I didn’t want her help, then just forget it. People are always getting upset when she tries to help them and she’s sick of it. Now I shift into diplomat mode. I try to calm myself. As politely as possible, I explain to Valerie that I want and appreciate her help. But having her point out what I’m doing wrong (and I admit that I was wrong) is only further frustrating the situation. Perhaps if she waits until later to point out my obvious failings. Somehow, I know that this is a thing for her. Something she’s prone to doing. How I know that is anyone’s guess. We each take a quick, cleansing breath. She sucks it up like a pro. Goes back to her seat on the bus and takes over where Jer left off. Valerie is now trying to book a seat for me on my flight to…wherever? Suddenly, three swinging musicians wearing black suits start playing music in front of the depot, which is now a café. The song is, “A Lot Of Livin’ To Do” from Bye Bye Birdie. (As a kid, I was a huge fan of Bye Bye Birdie. I thought Ann Margret was the shizzle. I was right.) In a rush, Valerie runs up. She’s booked tickets. We have to hurry. I guess now we’re traveling together. She grabs my hand. We’re running out of the depot for a cab. But I stop and run back to the musicians. I have to lean in and sing the chorus, “I got a lot of livin’ to do” with them. I just have to. It’s imperative. Then I run back to my new BFF Valerie, who’s already in a cab. I race around to the other side, open the door, and—Wake up. No idea what it all means. If you have any thoughts, please share. Stay Careful-ish Honey  Or maybe should say, A place I called home for a long time. The City That Never Sleeps. The Big Apple. Gotham. If you can make it there…
Yes, you guessed it: New York. So where did I get this New York-ish pizza? If you know me, you probably guessed that too: it was made right in my own home. Really. I had an honest-to-goodness New York slice made in my home. Actually, I had three slices. How I managed to abstain from eating a fourth is still a mystery. My husband, A.K.A. Mr. Free the Pizza, decided he wanted to try something other than his go-to, modified-Neapolitan crust. He wanted to tackle the big boy.  Please, allow me to share my newest inspiration for night terrors.
Recently, I decided to try running again. Careful-ishly. The new running regimen has been nothing crazy. Three miles, maybe four. And not with high frequency. More of an aging-knees-saving once or twice a week. It’s all part of my latest effort to (once again), get back in shape. I’m not sure how many “get back into shapes” there’ve been in my life. I’m not a statistician. My outings had been a mix of road and treadmill running. Not at the same time. That would be silly. On the treadmill, I started running intervals: running for a minute, then fast walking for a minute, running, walking, running, walking. You get it. The goal was simple: increasing my pace, which wouldn’t be difficult. On one road run, I was actually passed by butterflies. With my high-mileage knees, I felt that a pace of 10 minutes per mile was respectable. Let’s see a butterfly do that. And great news: It was working. When I was running the road, I wasn’t walking at all. And my speed was increasing. Then, for various reasons, I began spending more time in the gym. That meant more treadmill runs. I slowly upped the time of my running intervals. Three minutes running to every one minute walking. Finally, it’s time to run outside again. Positive I’d do better, I was curious to see how much faster I could run my normal, four-mile route. iPod? Check! Earbuds? Check! Insect repellent from head to toe? Check! (More on that last check in a moment.) After loosening up by walking the first quarter mile, I begin running. As usual, it took a couple of minutes to relax into my breathing and find my stride. After the initial exertion, my body kept wanting to slow down to its regular, butterfly pace. But I told myself, No! Break through that feeling! My mind now maintained a new cadence developed with the assistance of a Planet Fitness treadmill. I was focusing on form. Showing the people behind me the soles of my shoes! (There’s never anybody behind me.) The run was an out and back. On the way out, I crushed it. With the caveat, ‘for me.’ I’d altered my stride for uphill verses downhill. My breathing was deep and even. All is seeming right with the world. Turning back required a bit more talking to myself, reminding myself to stay relaxed in my faster pace. On the next to last uphill, I felt my energy leaving me. But hearing a car coming up from behind, I did the thing we all do: speed up to look like a real runner while a stranger passed. After all, I might run into this stranger someday. I’d rather them say, “Hey, wasn’t that you running the other day on Mill Drive?” So much better than, “Wasn’t that you on Mill Drive hugging the road kill?” The car passes as I made it up the hill. Descending the in a cloud of automotive exhaust, I continued increasing my stride. I started to feel like a rock star. But pride cometh before a fall. One of my earbuds had slipped out. I hadn’t noticed, but someone or something had. A buzzing and a fluttering as a bug the size of a military drone flew into my now available ear canal. “What the shit! Ah! Damn it!” I carefully yet frantically reached a finger into the earhole, trying to get it out. “Crap! Shit! Mother f*cker!” I felt it. “Ah!” But it’s still in there fighting for its right to stay in my head. Panic. Panic. Panic. No. Wait. Smart. Be smart. Do not squish. Scoop. On the fourth or fifth try—SUCCESS! I got it out. But I keep slapping my ear. Why? Why am I slapping my ear?! I don’t know! Did it bite me? Sting me? What the f*ck?! Did I get it out before it set up house and laid eggs? But the bastard (yes, I turned that egg-laying bitch into a male) wasn’t done with me. He started circling. So I ran faster, trying to get away from it and get the hell out of there. “I used bug repellent. Repel!” I was now fleeing and flailing my way past the thick and humid woods of a nature preserve packed with trees, bushes and, of course, a swamp. At that point, I was running in full freak mode, flailing my arms, trying to outrun this enraged mini Satan, swatting at it and cursing at it. It tried to bite me twice. Was the little F-er mad at me for not letting it take up residence in my brain. That image made me check my ear again. It was really out of there, right? Once I finally cleared the damp wooded area, the demon seemed to have given up. But now, between sprinting, swatting, yelling and panicking, I was exhausted. I had to stop running and walk the rest of the way home, bested by something the size of my fingernail. But that’s a huge bug, right? As I’m typing this, I’m still checking to see if my ear canal is going to swell up or, worse, start buzzing. Should I flush it out? Do I have any Benadryl? I know I won’t sleep well tonight. You? 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
March 2023
Categories
All
|
RSS Feed
Join that Careful-sh mailing list! |
|
Follow on Facebook
|
