 Allow me to rant about word loops. (Or don’t, and just wait for my next blog post.) Word loops are like Fruit Loops in that they are equally cloying. That is the beginning and end of how they are like Fruit Loops. They don’t even turn your milk a different color. What we’re talking about are words that people use and overuse to the point that they become meaningless. And annoying.
What inspired this was a dinner with friends. It was a lovely summer evening, and the six of us were sitting out by the manicured lawn of the friends’ country club (where I’m not a member) overlooking the Wasatch mountains. There was a light breeze, and we were all feeling lucky to be back in each other’s company after a long absence. Cue our server. A lovely young woman in her early 20s explained the specials and asked if we had any questions about the menu.Nope. We were ready to order. And not to ruin a potential surprise here, but all but one of the six of us had decided on the fish special. After the first order was placed, our server said, “Amazing!” It seemed an odd response, but I let it go. Next order up: “I’ll have the fish special as well.” Response: “Amazing.” “Really? Is it?” I asked this under my breath, as I do have some decorum. Well, at least I did. Round the table it went. With every order, we got a new and equally enthusiastic “Amazing” from this woman. By the fourth “Amazing,” we couldn’t help but laugh and ask, “Is it?” But seriously, how amazing could these orders be? Seared ahi in a green Thai curry over rice noodles and julienned veggies is literally printed on the menu. How can you possibly be amazed that someone would order it? My next thought: Wait. Let me light a match. You’re gonna be so amazed as to lose your effing mind. Think: That scene from Frankenstein. To quote Inigo Montoya from The Princess Bride: “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.” Anyway, we all had the AMAZING seared ahi, and the ultimate result is we too are stuck in her word loop. Now, any time one of us does something, or points something out, someone else in the group will inevitably say, “Amazing.” I wanted to pull the waitperson aside and say, “I’m going to give you a little present.” Then explain to her how she is coming across and how her extreme overuse of this word will not be serving her well in life. But I was with friends who I rarely get to see and chose not to leave their company. And who would actually say such a thing to someone anyway? I would. And I have. Oh yes. Years ago, I was finishing a freelancing job at an advertising agency in Los Angeles. One of the account reps I’d been working with, a woman with an MBA, would constantly use the word, “Anyways.” Not, “Anyway.” Anyways. With a big old “S” on its ass. And of course, this is not even a word. She came over to my office to say goodbye and wish me well. I thanked her and said I’d like to leave her with a fabulous parting gift. Then, as diplomatically as possible, I pointed out that there is, in fact, no “s” on the end of anyway. And that she will appear even more intelligent in meetings if she makes that small correction. Did she leave in a huff? Call me a pompous ass? Spit in my face? No. None of the above. She thanked me profusely for saying something. From that moment forward, she would be using the word less. And when she did use it, she would be using it correctly instead of in its bastardized sub-MBA form. All too often, we complain about how someone does something. But if no one is willing to step up to the plate, take one for the team, and point out their misstep to them, how can we expect them to change? Years ago, I’d been on a business call with Mr. Parker. Our offices were right next to each other. At one point on the call while I was talking, he quietly came into my office and slipped a note in front of me. On the note was a mere two-letter word: “Um.” Apparently, I’d been saying it repeatedly. Even with this pointed out to me, it was work to break the pattern by simply pausing instead of filling the air with this meaningless sound. Thank you, Mr. Parker. Pause. Lately, I’ve noticed people stuck in a “plus” loop. That means adding the word “plus” after everything numerical. I can only assume it’s an effort to be more accurate. But after repeated use, it can become meaningless. “I ran 10-plus miles.” “He worked there for 12-plus years.” "We waited 17-plus hours." The “plus” has its place—say, in financial details Example: "She earned,5-plus million in two years." But when it shows up everywhere, I say, no. “I ate ten-plus Oreos.” Just say you ate a dozen Oreos. We all know you Hoovered that entire sleeve of cookies. To which I would say, “Amazing!”
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 Full disclosure: I’m plagiarizing myself. This is the true and well-aged tale that I told at our last Story Slam here in the Bay. But it’s a solid cautionary tale that is relevant to this day.
The theme for the Story Slam was: Adventures in Dating. The story I was originally going to tell involved a prom date, an ambulance and much blood (neither mine nor my date’s). Then I remembered this little ditty. So, here now, a tale from the self-absorbed streets of Los Angeles… I’d been living in LA less than a year. I was fulltime freelancing as an advertising copywriting during the day, and performing standup comedy at night. Not every night, but regularly. I was also dating regularly, but almost never more than one date per guy. There was never anybody I wanted to see twice. One night after performing a set at the Comedy Store, I went to Cantor’s. Cantor’s is a world-famous Jewish deli on Fairfax Ave. It’s open late and 24 hours on Saturdays. A lot of performers—comedians, musicians, actors—will go there after work to detox with a good corned beef on rye or a knish before heading home. So I’m there with a few friends who also aren’t ready to lie in bed, staring at the ceiling and replaying that night’s performance. That’s when and where I was introduced to this guy. Jeff. Another comedian. Red flag, friends. I’d been pretty clear that comedians were off the menu. Too needy. Too erratic. But Jeff was also good looking, well-built (for a comedian) and flirty. When Jeff asks me out, I say sure. (It was late. I was tired and off my game.) I honestly don’t remember where our first date was. I do remember that the conversation was good. He was smart and funny and not a bad kisser. He was cleared for a second date, which was pretty much a replay of the first date. Good chatting, plenty of laughs, good kissing. Date three. Jeff invites me to a party in Beverly Hills. For some reason, I meet him there, which turns out to be a fortuitous move. The party is in a huge house where I know nobody. Not a problem. I’m comfortable in a crowd. I like meeting new people and I’m having a fine time. When Jeff shows up, we travel the party both together and apart. I like that. He introduces me to a few people and we continue to drift. At one point, I step outside. Over to the right, I spot Jeff talking to some woman. Fine. Wait. Is he telling her a secret? Nope. They’re making out. That’s my cue to exit. Jeff sees me getting into my car. (Thank God I drove myself.) He comes after me. “Honey, don’t go. Wait. Can’t we talk? Honey wait. Let me explain.” As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to say. I’m not hurt. We haven’t gotten that close yet. But I’m sure as shit not going to let him “explain.” I already understand he’s a jerk. No further explanation of that fact required. A few nights later, I’m performing at a club on Hollywood Boulevard. Largo, maybe? Can’t be sure. But I’d been hired to emcee the evening. That meant I’d perform the opening set, then come up between each of the comedians, doing a few more jokes before introducing the next act. I’d never emceed before. But knowing I’d be up multiple times that night, I thought it would be fun to bring my phone with me. This was when phones were just phones. No selfies. No surfing. And they were enormous. I had to wedge this thing the size of Barbie’s Dream House into my back pocket. The second time I take the stage, the audience knows I have my phone with me. They’d already witnessed me use it in my first set to call my parents who were in New Jersey, three hours ahead of us. I’d woken them up and let the entire room hear me getting into trouble. A comedy classic. This time, I decide I’m calling Jeff. First, I tell the audience all about date number three, so they’re primed to hear me give this guy shit. But when I call, Jeff doesn’t pick up and I get his answering machine. What now? I decide to leave a message letting him know that I was onstage and that I’d told everyone what an ass he is. This receives laughter and cheers of support. If you’ve never told someone off in front of an audience, I highly recommend it. Then, I get an idea. I say, “Does anyone here have something they’d like to say to Jeff?” What happens next is beautiful. The audience--my audience—rallies around me, their new BFF, and take turns telling Jeff what a douche he is, asking what kind of idiot cheats on someone this great. They said things like, “She’s smokin’ hot.” Mr. Parker doesn’t call me smokin’ hot. It was class-A therapy. Plus, the revenge was so much sweeter than dating Jeff had ever been. EPILOGUE: That’s right, there’s more. When I get home that night (after stopping at Cantor’s, of course), there’s a message from Jeff. Apparently, when he heard my message, he rushed over to the club, hoping I’d still be onstage. He was sure the audience would want to meet him. And hey, he might even get a few precious minutes of stage time. Jeff was all about Jeff. How wonderfully LA-comedian of him. So, when I say, never date a comedian, you now understand one of the pitfalls. And because I’ve never seen Jeff in a movie, on Comedy Central, or on some Late Night Cable Access show, it’s safe to assume that no other woman who Jeff cheated on ever gave him stage time either. Cheers, Honey Parker  I’ve long had a love/hate relationship with astrology. Like most humans walking the earth, I am always oh so happy to hear more about me. How special I am. How and when will the universe will finally and rightly notice my unquestionable skills and reward them appropriately? Then I say to myself, Of course it’s all crap, right? How can my birthday foretell anything happening in 2026? But wait. What was that about my rising sign and more money?
Years ago, in a land far away, around the outskirts of the fairy kingdom known as Los Angeles, a friend of mine had her chart done. She was very taken with the woman who did the reading and strongly suggested I also go see this woman. It was a time in my life where I was saying yes to everything. I was making my money in advertising, and doing stand-up at night, working out with The Groundlings, and writing screenplays with Mr. Parker. (Well before I was Mrs. Parker.) Here’s what I remember of that reading. I’m a Libra (which I already knew) with Aries rising. Intel like that makes some people say, “Ah-ha! Makes so much sense!” Does it? I feel like these are the same people who rub my shoulders and declare, “Wow, that’s a really big knot. Here, let me break it up. See? Now isn’t that better?” “No.” The unsaid part? That knot, if there indeed is one, feels exactly the same. Except now it’s extra sore from you digging into it with your French manicure. Back to the stars. The other tidbit I remember from the reading was this woman telling me that someday I would be involved in a lawsuit. I’d take someone to court and win. This has yet to happen. Although I do wonder if I should have sued after being in the operating room for the removal of a nine-pound fibroid tumor and an equipment failure turned a quick procedure into a four-hour ordeal. BTW, it’s too late now. The statute of limitations has run out. I blew my big chance to retire in style on the back of a benign tumor. It wasn’t until leaving New York for Los Angeles that I heard people say things like, “No wonder your mail got lost. Mercury is in retrograde.” Or, “Of course your movie pitch was rejected. Mercury is in retrograde.” Or, “Get under the bed, quick! Mercury is in retrograde.” I swear, if you ever tell me something in my life will blow up because Mercury is in retrograde, I will punch you in the throat. (You’ve been warned.) Yet, while I’m not buying what astrology is selling (mostly), it makes me uncomfortable. Even though I call bullshit out loud, I get quietly nervous. Which is truly why I don’t want to hear it. It’s best to just not look. But then, am I like the person who doesn’t go to the doctor because they’re afraid of learning something is horrible wrong with them? I’m going to say a hard, probably not. (You can see I’m living in a house built on sand.) Flash forward: four days a week, I’m doing long, fast walks. A portion of these walks includes listening to a podcast. (BTW, I’m done with true crime. Again I ask, can we please stop killing women for sport? Thank you.) Last week, I was listening to I Need You Guys with Jenny Slate, Max Silvestri, and Gabe Liedman. Their guest was Astrologer Chani Nicholas. Nope. I switched to Amy Pohler’s Good Hang, and on my next workout listened to Ask Iliza Anything. But today’s power walk came, and being up to date on my usual listens, Apple Podcasts sent me back to the show with Chani, AKA Scary Star Lady. (Not really.) I thought, Ugh. Be steely. I let it play, ready to switch it off at any moment. Chani came across as an affable gal and surprisingly grounded. Fortunately, none of the host’s signs matched mine, so her specific intel didn’t affect me. Honestly, I was lost when the discussion turned to explaining the difference between what you should glean from your sun sign as opposed to your rising or moon sign. It was heartening when she asked the hosts if her explanation made sense and they responded with either dead air or, “Mmm, not really.” The rest of the chat focused on a caller’s question that had nothing to do with astrology. Safe. SIDE NOTE: Chani did a swell job of fielding the caller’s question. Succinct and pithy. Well played. Please know that I’m not trying to throw a rusty wrench into your “I Heart Astrology” toolbox. If it works for you, please, travel with Orion (whatever his sun sign is). I’m simply too skeptical and simultaneously superstitious to suit up for it. That said, if you ever want to rightly notice my unquestionable skills and reward them appropriately, despite the location of Mercury, you know how to reach me. I’m curious. I know my readers to be thinking people. So, where do you net on getting your chart read? Is it just a fun diversion, or do you put stock in it? BONUS: You can get a free 30-day trial of the CHANI astrology app using promo code INEEDYOUGUYS30. (This is not an affiliate link. In fact, It’s not a link at all. You’re on your own.)  If you confess in the woods and no one hears it, did it make a sound? Or did it start a game with no end?
In my last blog post, I came clean about having (once again) lost my driver’s license. It’s something I’ve done with embarrassing regularity. This last time was during a long walk on the beach. The walk got much longer once I decided to retrace my 5-miles worth of steps in an attempt to fine said license. So not proud. Upside: I got a hell of a workout and a deep dark tan. Downside: Having to break the news to Mr. Parker. I love my guy, but he now has zero patience for such folderol. (Pardon my French.) To take away some of the sting, I confessed via my last blog post…As one does. I thought that if I offset my offence by surrounding it with witty banter, it might help cushion the blow. Mr. Parker usually proofreads my blog posts, but this time I didn’t run it past him. Instead, I squoze the event, including my covert trip to the DMV, good and hard for all of the juicy, sticky wit it contained. I then proofed the blog myself and hit, “POST.” Guess what happened. Nothing! Did he even see it, you ask? Yep. I checked. He’d clicked LIKE on the FB post linking to the blog. But that doesn’t mean he read it. Two weeks later, I gave him my newsletter to proofread. If you get my newsletter (and if you don’t, you can correct that right now--I’ll wait), you will know that there’s always a link to that moth’s blog post along with the first few lines of copy. He proofed the newsletter without a saying a word about my confession. Who’s zoomin’ who? Did he never read my sandy tale of stupidity? Or, or, or--did he read it and choose to say nothing? Why would he do that, you ask? To win the game, of course. Is he waiting to see if I’ll be the first one to break? I can confront him, I lose the game of “Who Can Outwait Whom?” that I myself initiated. Who thinks that way? Who’s so petty that they need to earn points by turning any ridiculous or mundane life happenstance into a game that their partner may or may not be playing with them? This girl! And quite possibly, that guy. (There’s a reason we’re together.) How long will a game that may or may not be being played go on? It’s conceivable that we will each take this one to our graves. Oh, yes. The day I die, it is quite possible that my last thought will be, “I wonder if Blaine ever read that driver’s license blog post.” Now that’s a fun game.  I don’t know about you, but I’m a big fan of a time-release confession.
Coming clean, but with enough time to cushion the blow. Why get yelled at, or near, more than is necessary. And there will be yelling. No. Scratch that. There will be repeated bouts of loud point making. (Which feels kind of like yelling.) Then why come clean? Because a lie of omission is still a lie. And you should never feel like you can’t tell your partner something. No. Scratch that. You just don’t want it to slip out when you yourself are not prepared for the blowback. So, what did I do? Ugh. Admittedly, I knew it was a mistake and I did it anyway. A few weeks ago, I went for a long walk on the beach, which ended up so much longer than anticipated. I had driven to the a place called the Washington Street pier for for a beach walk that I’ve dubbed my B2B walk: Bathroom to Bathroom. It’s almost three miles from the Washington St. to another public pier in a place called Waveland. There, I get to enjoy their lovely porcelain throne (careful, there’s a hole in it), a cold hand-washing, and my reflection in the perpetually fogged-over mirror, before heading back. Taking the walk was not the mistake. Taking my drivers license out of my wallet and shoving it into the stretchy pocket of my workout shorts was. Even as I was suiting up to head out, I thought, “I hope the license doesn’t fall out as I’m pulling my phone from that same pocket.” Which, of course, is exactly what happened…somewhere. Lately, I’ve used some of my walks as a time to chat with my brother, Matt. (You may know him as "D.") We talk about everything and nothing. This time, as I was walking, he was driving with his wife, Amy. (You may know her as "Amy.") I was on speaker and the three of us were having a fine time…until. At this point in my walk, I’d made it all the way to the Waveland Pier and back--but with no bathroom stop. I don’t handle such business with an open line in my hand. I was now close enough to my return to Washington Street that I could see the finish line. Matt texted me a picture to look at. It was then, as I pulled the phone from my pocket, that I realized the license was gone. Son of a--! Think, think, think! I did, and the first thing I thought was: Mr. Parker is going to lose his shit. Me “misplacing” my license is a thing. Admittedly, it happens with way too much frequency. Mostly because I hate carrying a wallet. Really, I hate carrying anything. I’d rather get wet than carry an umbrella. As a young girl, my mother told me I wasn’t feminine enough because I didn’t carry a handbag. My current wallet is basically a leather card caddy, which has a few pockets for cards. And even that was more than I wanted to take with on my beach walk. My heart sank. Trying to remember the other times I’d reached my phone out during the walk, it became clear that I’d be retracing the entire trip. Because they love me, and they are acquainted with Mr. Parker’s emphatic style of of point-making, Matt and Amy stayed on the phone with me as I searched. The company was nice, but the hunt was fruitless. Twelve miles on sand and most of them without my I.D. Shit! Mommy needs a plan. Mr. Parker and I were getting on a plane in less than a week. I have a passport, so getting through security was anon-issue. The issue would be explaining why I was using a passport. Standing in the TSA line is not where I wanted to have a domestic incident. The clock was now ticking. The local, rural DMV (basically shack with a counter, a computer and an eye chart) is a twenty-minute drive from our place. Mr. P. had to be in New Orleans the next day. That’s when I’d go. Car. I needed to borrow someone’s car. Whose? I don’t enjoy asking for things like this so, who? That night I remembered, my buddy R.R. is just around the corner. R.R. will save me. He loves me. So I tell him. And save me he did. The moment Mr. Parker drove away for New Orleans, I headed for my new license. Passport and two utility bills with my name and address on them? Check! I was ready for covert ops. R.R.’s only words of advice were, “Don't wreck my car.” Because he said that, I was a nervous driver the entire way there and back. “Sorry the wait is so long, baby. We’re down two people.” Of course you are. But this is coastal MS, not LA or NYC. The wait was a fraction of what it ever is in both those teeming metropolises. And my forms of ID? They never, ever asked for them. They didn’t ask much of anything other than if I wanted to be an organ doner. Sidebar: The man next to me, upon being asked the same question, answered, “Not right now.” It begged so many questions. What was he waiting for? Would he be an organ donor once he had a meal in him? Was he hoping to take off a few pounds first? Quit smoking? Should they call him in a year to follow up? He never said. They didn’t ask. Back to them not asking me for proof of identification. That begged questions as well. Could anyone decide they wanted to be Honey Parker? “Hey, I lost my license. I have no ID with me.” “Great. What’s your name, sugar?” “Honey Parker.” “Funny, you’re the third Honey Parker today.” Honey, stop asking so many questions. With my shiny new license in hand…No. Scratch that. With my shiny new license in wallet, I drove (carefully) back to R.R.’s, thanked him, and was home well before Mr. P. returned from The City That Care Forgot. Flash forward two days. Mr. P. and I went with a friend to a movie theater to see Project Hail Mary. (Don’t ask.) As I pulled out my wallet, which I was oh so happy to carry, Mr. Parker looked down and said, “Hey, you have one of those newer licenses .” To which I say, “…yep.” and quickly asked him about something else. The topic never came up again…until now. So here is the part of the show where we get to find out if Mr. Parker reads my blog posts. In truth, I typically give them to him to proofread before posting. So, this is also the part where we find out if he notices that the blog is being posted without him reviewing it. Lastly, it's the part where you notice just how many type-os I can generate. (Like that last one right there. Assuming, of course, he left it in like he has to for the joke to work. And is it just me, or does "Type-Os" sound like a breakfast cereal? For Vampires?) And after all the worry, will he just say, "Whatever?" and go make a pizza. Perhaps my next blog post will be about Mr. Parker’s reaction to this one. Wish me luck. Isn’t this fun!?!  About seven years ago, my niece (an absolutely delightful person) asked me what changes when we get older. She wasn’t being flip in any way. It was a completely sincere inquiry. And because of that, I wanted to give a meaningful answer. Something that would help prepare her for what lies ahead.
I was daunted. I wanted to give her actionable intel. Here was this young adult looking for some nugget of wisdom from her aunt. But the scope of the question seemed too vast. Then, in a flash of inspiration (you may call it “desperation”) I landed on something. I felt it might set her up for success. Not in her career, or relationships with others, but in her relationship with herself. My insight? [drum roll…] OK. Ya know those stupid things you do when you’re young that cause you to say something like, “Well, I’ve learned my lesson. I’m never doing THAT again.” Chances are you will do them again. Did I have an example for her? Why yes, I did. (In truth, I had a ton of them, but let’s not scare the girl.) I selected something simple, relatable, and really stupid. After an epic evening of drinking-down-the-lane in Los Angeles and then becoming all too enamored of my bathroom’s floor tile, I declared to myself and the universe that I would never again drink that much. “Ha-ha!” said the universe. (And my niece.) I explained to her that years later, I found myself equally enamored of the tiles on the bathroom floor of my rented house on the Gulf Coast. I was so not proud of myself. But there it was. My wisdom. You will repeat many of your stupid mistakes. Yes, the saying is, “Fool me once.” Guess what? It’s just a saying. Forgive yourself. We all repeat foolish things multiple times during our lives. My niece seemed pleased and somewhat relieved with her nugget of life truth. I’d done my job. But had I done a good enough job for myself? Did I learn anything? If you read last month’s blog post, you may recall that I spoke about how I’m now drinking a lot less. Typically, one drink a week, if that. So, here comes irony to this. Last week for Mr. Parker’s birthday we spent two nights in New Orleans. (Yes, you’ve already guessed the punch line.) Neither of us were planning on overindulgence. Just a nice glass of wine to complement our charcuterie board at Cochon Butcher. Well, that nice glass was followed by one more nice glass. After our monster charcuterie board we split a lamb gyro for dessert. More wine just made sense. On to music in the park. I drank nothing. But the atonal jazz was getting on my last good nerve, which was now soaked in red wine. So when we got to our next stop, the pump was primed. And that next stop was Erin Rose, “Home of the frozen Irish coffee!” (Order yours with a Jameson Irish Whiskey float. You’re welcome.) We split a roast beef debris po’ boy and chased our Irish coffees with a pint. (So much more responsible than a second Irish coffee.) We made friends with folks at the bar who were celebrating their fourth wedding anniversary. I honestly don’t remember if we had a second pint. I want to say no, but… We had one more scheduled stop on the way back to Le Richelieu Hotel. (That’s where we were married one fine Bastille Day some years earlier.) The scheduled stop was Harry’s Corner Bar, a total dive with an excellent jukebox. It was there that a nice man pointed out how happy we looked. We ordered two bourbons and began a conversation with him and his friends. Turns out this man was the brother of a friend of ours. (Of course.) Ladies and gentlemen, I now present the “I thought I’d learned my lesson” moment. The nice man disappeared then reappeared with shots of Jägermeister for all. And by the way, I can already feel your judgment. (And your judgment is flawless.) Fool me once? Nope. Twice? Nope. To celebrate my man’s birthday, I went for a third round of stupid. We left the bar promising to see them all the same place, same time, the next evening. We now had only one possible move. A preemptive strike on the legendary Verti Marte. (As it says on the sign, “A truly local experience. The BEST food in the quarter. 24/7 but we do have to clean sometime so call ahead if it's late!”) If you know the French Quarter, you may know the Verti Marte. It’s small corner market with great sandwiches, fried catfish and all mannner of bagged salty snacks. I went with White Cheddar Cheez-Its and an off-brand, Cheeto-like item. The goal was to let these treats act as little sponges to soak up what I had slogged down before it decided to exit through the door by which it had entered. I’m pleased to report that with a fair amount of determination and concentration, it worked. There was no visit to the tiles in the middle of the night. I’m even more pleased to report that “Fool me thrice” is all I required. The next night, after a day filled with great flavors (The crazy good Turkey & The Wolf for lunch and glorious Bacchanal for dinner), a good museum, many miles of walking, excellent music, and great conversations with fine folks, we were again headed to Harry’s Corner Bar to fulfill our promise to our friend’s brother and his krewe. Halfway there, I stopped walking. I turned and said to Mr. Parker, “I don’t think I can do it.” “No?” “I don’t think it’s wise.” “You did say you’d be there.” “I lied.” “Fine with me.” We each turned on our heel, breaking our promise to the nice man and thereby keeping a promise I’d made to myself years earlier. I’d learned my lesson. Finally. Apparently, Mr. Parker had learned his as well. Yay, team! Sadly, I know that in a previous life, the amount that I’d had to drink stretched over so many hours would not have crushed me. I say “sadly” because that amount of hooch should leave a mark. But between being out of practice and not carrying as much weight as I used to (the irony of losing weight by consuming less alcohol is you can no longer consume as much alcohol), I just can’t play. Now, my question to myself is, have I truly learned? I’ll let you know. Cheers, Honey  I had my first drink in a bar at age 14. Not boasting, we’re just setting the stage. My sister gave me her old driver’s license. If I remember correctly, she’d reported it stolen specifically for this purpose. (Yay, supportive families!)
At the bar, we were drinking something bright red. It was called a Mother. The flavor? Think of a popular fruit punch mix with a mascot that looks like a giant, coked-up beverage pitcher that crashes through walls. My 14-year-old palate was delighted. After the second Mother, I required support on the walk home. And, briefly, the cover of a nearby bush. (Apologies to those long-ago homeowners, whoever you were.) Flash forward eight years to the world of New York Advertising. The mature business folks in my orbit (they were probably in their 30s) were ordering martinis or scotch rocks. I don’t do olives, so scotch it was. Sipped and civilized. I excelled. Over the years, I’ve enjoyed it all. Mostly. There is room in my world for a perfect wine pairing; a barrel-aged bourbon (or most other spirits) with two ice cubes; a margarita (not frozen, salted rim); a Sazerac (look it up, drink, repeat); that first gin & tonic of the season when the weather starts getting warm; a fizzy yellow beer after crossing the finish line… You get the idea. Great flavors can be sipped as well as eaten. Doctor: “How many drinks would you say you have in a week?” Me: “Um, hmm…” [Silence] Doctor: “It’s okay. I’m not judging.” Me: “Hold on. I’m still counting.” Yet, in recent years, the answer to the doctor’s question is much easier to calculate. One. One drink a week enjoyed with a girlfriend at a local joint as we discuss life, the universe and everything. The number does change if there’s a special event. Or if Mr. Parker and I watch a movie where friends are enjoying a Guiness in a pub in Ireland on a rainy day. It’s completely possible we’ll be pulling up two bar stools. Please allow me to be lazy and quote Google Generative AI: Alcohol consumption in the U.S. has hit a 90-year low, with only 54% of adults reporting they drink, driven by a sharp, consistent decline since 2022, and accelerated by younger generations. (Look at me, trending) Reasons cited include: Heightened health consciousness (I myself wanted to drop pounds, so check to that); a rising popularity of non-alcoholic alternatives (check—and more on that in a moment); higher cost (if you’re female and you can’t get a guy to buy you a drink, you’re doing it wrong so, not my problem); a cultural shift away from socializing through alcohol (it certainly makes it easier when friends aren’t drinking. Check!). To my personal list of reasons I’ll add: being ill. I’d already cut back before the flu darkened my door. But since then, even one drink can leave me feeling slightly off. Plus, I may wake with a headache. A one-drink headache leaves me feel liking a total amateur. (Which, clearly, I am not.) But there is something about being out and holding a vessel containing a liquid, sipping and chatting. I can pull off this exercise using water with ice. Straight-up seltzer, which comes with its own issues (see also: burping). Iced tea works. And then came Vitamin “C.” Friends, meet Louie Louie. It’s cannabis in a drinkable format. Think White Claw or High Noon, but infused with cannabis instead of vodka. Louie Louie is the first brand of THC-infused beverage to cross my path. Light, fizzy (burps with benefits), and no chemical taste. Oh, so social! Here comes the warning. Slow down, sistah! My first THC-infused beverage outing was at my favorite local hangout. If you read my newsletter (Mailchimp performance reports tell me you might), you know about 100 Men Hall. One night, Mr. Parker brought me a Louie Louie. Delightful. When he was ready for his next beer, he asked if I wanted another Louie. I said, The universe said, wrong answer! It’s like this stuff is on timed release. And that time is different for everyone at any time. I hadn’t felt the effects of the first drink when I started drinking the second. We left to go home, grab a quick dinner, then head out again for some local music. A fine plan, but… Louie started knocking on my brain in the golfcart on the ride home. Like the first four words of the song by The Kingsmen, “Louie Louie, oh no!” It was finally kicking-in almost two hours after I’d started round one. Here we go! Once home, I clutched the chairs on my way to the sofa where I flopped down and held on. Over in the kitchen, Mr. Parker was moving foods and speaking words. “I’m not leaving this sofa!” In my mind, those were the words I said out loud. Who knows what he heard. But he laughed and clearly understood I was toast and the night was over. I’m a weedy little lightweight. There is now no such thing as a night of two Louies. If I do one Louie, it’s cut with water and ice, and lasts a long time. My preferred brand is now something called Float. Float doesn’t pack the same punch, the taste is good, it’s low-calorie, and again: no flavor of better living through chemistry. Is there a moral to all this? Hmm. Good question. And…nope. Just a friendly warning. An understanding that there are options. And the knowledge that I now have handles on my sofa, should I forget what I’ve learned…Or decided I’m doing it anyway. Stay Careful-ish! -Honey Parker  'Tis the season for tinsel and lights. From Bay St. Louis, Mississippi to Los Angeles, California, from New Orleans, Louisiana to Park City, Utah, a festive vibe is all around us. And I love it. I’m for it. But in recent years, there’s been a newcomer on the fabulous festive holiday décor scene. Enter: The Inflatables. We’ve all seen the blow-up Easter bunnies and wind-filled witches. I’m not sure who started it, but I do know it’s not going away any time soon. America has embraced the hell out of these campy representations of the holidays. And BTW, it’s not just in the U.S. While I can’t speak to the scene in Europe or Asia, I did witness inflatable Halloween creatures along with blow-up Day of The Dead figures in multiple towns throughout Mexico. I’m guessing there are two reasons for the popularity of all this inflatable folderal. 1) Ease of assembly. As in, zero assembly. All you need is an electrical outlet and an extension cord. Plug it in. Turn it on. It inflates. Done. Well, you do need to stake the thing to the ground and tether it. Otherwise, it’s going to take off like a runaway Macy’s parade balloon when the next violent Nor’easter whips through town. (Thanks and bah humbug, climate change!) 2) Ease of storage. Inflatable things pack down small. Not like the big boxes required to handle your tangled massive mess of miniature lights. (Assonant alliteration!) Or the paper wrapping and packing peanuts required for fragile glass ornaments. I know people who literally have a storage unit for the Halloween set-up. (I’ll save my money for first-class passage on a plane, thank you very much.) Here's what I believe to be the best thing about inflatable holiday decorations. I am in absolute love with these things when they’re partially deflated, laying limp in someone’s yard. A neighbor with a reindeer down on its knees? Yes, please! Someone whose giant nutcrackers are leaning over, looking like they had too much ‘nog at the office party? Bring it! All those decorations begin looking like they got invited to a rave last night and went way too big. And because this is the season of giving, I’ve compiled for you a photo essay of a few “deflatables” that featured in my foray across the country this week. There are also captions to go with the drunken holiday party theme. But feel free to come up with your own captions and share them. So, from me to you: Happy holidays, my friends. Try not to get deflated this year. At least, not on someone else's lawn.
Cheers, Honey  I’m a woman of simple needs. Not buying it? Fine. I’m a woman of mostly simple needs and a few specific splurges. Three to be exact. Three things that make me feel like I occasionally put me first. And when I’m being truly selfish, I believe I owe myself these small splurges. (Here’s where I need you to nod in solidarity and understanding, Thank you.)
And my needs are simple. Because I have zero patients for shopping, I’m not a cloths horse. In truth, I’m still wearing items I bought decades ago. Granted, most of these items are not allowed out of the house. (Mr. Parker’s strong suggestion.) Also, since COVID, I’m less interested in dining out. Often, sitting in a restaurant, waiting for a server can make me feel trapped. As if I’m being forced to sit at my parent’s table until I’ve finished my vegetables. Something that never actually happened in my house because my mother never served vegetables. I didn’t try broccoli until I was twenty-five. Fortunately, I’m married to one of the best cooks I know so eating at home is far from a hardship. Here are the three things that (help) keep me happy.
Shall we break it down? (If you answered, no, well, I guess we’re done.) First up: hair. Having a head full of curls, my hair is pretty forgiving. Assuming the stylist didn’t just lop off one side before passing out, a bad cut is relatively easy to hide. I could probably even do it myself. Side Note: I cut my mother’s hair for the last two years of her life. She was too unstable to go to a salon but always cared about being presentable. She’d rocked a wedge haircut for decades, so I YouTubed (Yes, it’s a verb now) “Wedge Hair Cut, How To.” After five views of a man giving an older woman a competent wedge, I put on music, sprayed a bit of lavender into the air, and opened my salon to its one and only customer. It was the most fulfilling job I ever had. Back to my own haircut joy. The real reason I love having someone do my hair is, it’s one of the only parts of my life where I’m away from work, and it’s 100% about relaxing. I love it all. From the easy conversation with someone who has become a friend (Yes Holly, I’m talking about you), to giving myself permission to ignore my phone, to having someone wash my hair. And the joy of that last part cannot be overstated. Having someone massage your scalp as hot water flows over your head is one of the best things ever. It’s right up there with great sex and a good poop. (You know you were thinking it.) On to someone to clean my house. Knowing my home is clean is key to being able to work. Key. It’s too easy to be distracted thinking about that thing in the corner. What is that? Hair? Dust? Hair with dust? I can’t do it. It’s like The Tell Tale Heart calling for my attention, stopping all work from happening. Confession: I’m a shit cleaner. I should be great. My mother kept our house so clean that once I was giving guests the tour (something we did) and they asked why we had no shower door. Oh, there was a door, but the glass was so clean it appeared to not exist. When I sked my grandmother what she didn’t like about getting older she answered, “I can’t clean like I used to. But the clean genes were not passed down, so I like having a pro do it. Before you go thinking, Wow, I was going to guess she wants a house cleaner because she just doesn’t want to do it.Stop right there. You’re right. In addition to sucking at it, I don’t want to do it. Well, I didn’t. After the last cleaner didn’t work out (constant drama) I chose to do it myself. I’d rather try to channel my grandmother’s skill then deal with a new round of stories from someone who always has a medical, mother, mechanical, or metaphysical issue. Me doing it is just faster. (Faster? Oh, maybe that’s why I suck.) Last but by no means least is a first-class seat on a plain. Does it really matter? Yes. The TSA pre-check, the Delta lounge…But there’s something about being treated better when you travel that helps you arrive more like a person. Something about a wider seat, leg room, a cocktail before take-off, the ability to sleep, a meal with utensils not made from petroleum products. Then there’s the bouncy conversation with your flight attendant about the bad behavior of others. (Certainly not me.) All those things plus, it’s what I want. Period. So my question is, what are your three splurges? Not, must haves. But given the choice, you’d sacrifice something else to make these things happen. No judgement. I just want to know what I’m missing.  In a world where weight-loss solutions are so highly prized, it saddens me that I don’t see a way to monetize this. So, I will now share it at no additional cost to you. All I ask is that you try to not judge me too harshly.
Like most women (and tons of men) walking the Earth, I’ve struggled with weight gain most of my adult life. To be clear, at no point did my weight pose a health concern, nor did I ever undertake any extreme measures. Once food goes in the hole, it stays. No backsies. But even with an active lifestyle, I’ve always been in the plus-size zone. When I was in my teens, my mother took me to Weight Watchers. It was me and a bunch of Lane Bryant shoppers, all in their 40s and above. This is not the best messaging to give a kid who’s always on a sports team and wears a size 12 or 14. (I'm 5, 8") I remember my father once telling me that I was built “nice and husky.” That’s a compliment no 20-year-old wants to hear. (Yes, I'm taking the liberty of speaking for all 20-year-olds.) Nonetheless, ever forward. Like I said, I’ve always been active. One of my favorite things to do is to totally exhaust myself. Half-marathons, sprint-distance triathlons—I’ve even done even a full marathon. (Note: There’s a big difference between running 13.1 and 26.2—even when you’ve been training in the snow at high altitude and the race is at sea level. But at least I didn’t puke. Winner!) I’m always up for a long-distance bike ride, a hike, or a paddling expedition. And I take my extra pounds with me wherever I go. Then came the current fad of prescription weight-loss shots. Ozempic, Wegovy, Mounjaro, Saxenda, Zepbound—the list goes on. At a monthly cost ranging from $100 to $2,000, people started shooting up and slimming down. Oprah even did a prime-time special on the topic, thus giving permission to those still on the fence to inject the pounds away. (Note: Because I searched Google using the term “weight loss shots” for this blog, I am now inundated with endless ads picturing happy plus-sized women walking briskly. You’re welcome.) I admit that in the last year, I became weight-loss-injection curious. I’ve had years of being active and eating on the healthier side. (I’d say that I buy only whole foods, but we all know that Mr. Parker does all the cooking and therefore all the shopping. So he buys only whole foods. Until he doesn’t. But mainly he does.) Being about the same amount of overweight my entire adult life, the idea that I could finally hit the target was appealing. But, for so many reasons, I never did anything further about it. But then, about six months ago, I learned that several of my friends had been prescribed one of the medications mentioned above. Each of these women were farther from their target weight then I was. And in at least one case, I felt that this friend’s health was truly at risk, so good for her. Actually, good for all of them. I want to see my friends have success and live long lives in which they reach out periodically to share a story, a laugh, or a story that leads to a laugh. Then it was time for my annual physical. I was issued a clean bill of health. Except…my weight was up about 10 pounds from my normal amount of above average. Was I going to ask my doctor? It was almost too embarrassing to say the words. Finally, in my best “It’s no big deal” voice, I queried her about the chances of getting a prescription for a weight-loss drug. She looked at my chart and said, “Well, first thing you'd need to do is gain another 30 pounds.” The best part is that she felt that she needed to add, “But I don’t think it’s worth it.” “Really?” The password is: Incredulity Here were my friends, along with tons of people around the planet—including Oprah!—getting to take the “easy way out” to fitness. Yes, I’m oversimplifying. (Remember the password is, incredulity.) But I was mad. No, I was hoppin’ mad. I was glad my friends were getting to cross the finish line, but I wanted to cross it with them. Didn’t my decades of heart-rate boosting, heavy-sweating-without-a-cocktail-at-the-end activity earn me that? Are you reading this thinking, “I bet she wasn’t even happy for her friends. I bet she was harboring secret feelings of envy—or worse, hate. I bet she begrudged them every pound.” Please remember, in paragraph one, you promised not to judge me. And the truth was and is, I begrudge them nothing. I want everyone to be healthy and happy. (At least, that’s my beauty pageant answer.) No, not hate or envy. What I felt was spite. However, I was not spiteful of my friends, but of what I knew to be the hard truth: if I truly wanted to shed pounds, I, Honey Parker, would have to do it the old-fashioned way—diet and exercise, two things that had never worked in the past. While there’ve been times in my life when my weight dropped due to extreme effort or a bad flu (Yay, weight loss via fever and vomit!), I never reached what the charts say that a healthy person my height and age should weigh. And the pounds I did take off eventually returned and brought their friends. The next question: How to use spite for good? This may sound crazy or, again, overly simplistic. But I made myself so mad that I just declared I would not be thwarted. I was mad enough to not eat after dinner. I was too angry to snack. I also made sure I was being active in a meaningful way at least five days a week. I wanted the win. I demanded it. With each pound gone, I found myself embracing my spite hard. Squeezing tighter. Failure was not an option. Feeling a mode come of success, I recalled the first time I attempted surfing. Mr. Parker and I were vacationing in Costa Rica with two other couples. Everyone on the trip was better at sports than I am. When we skied together, I was usually the last one to the bottom. Why I was the first one to surf, I don’t know. But there I was. When it was time to pop up on the board, I planted my feet and made a decision: I was not going to fall off. I was tired of being the less-competent one. Falling simply wasn’t an option. To everyone’s surprise, I rode that wave all the way to beach. Why? Because I decided I to make it so. In a world where the door to easy-to-get weight-loss injections was slammed in my face, my newfound spite was the emotional injection providing the same surf-rider determination. Still, I needed a plan for when I desired crunch or wanted to end to dinner with something sweet. The crunch was simple. Most raw vegetables (SIDEBAR: I detest the word “veggies”) have crunch. Carrots are my go-to. I can rip through a two-pound bag of organic carrots in two days. Maybe one day if I have a free hand. (Writing takes both.) Too many carrots, you say? Sentences you’ll never hear in conversation:
And to solve the desire for little hit of sweet at night? It was so simple. It was right under my nose. (If my nose was in the supermarket candy aisle.) Caramel-flavored hard candies. To be specific, Werther's Original Sugar Free Hard Candies. Small. Sweet. Creamy. Long-lasting. The bag lists a serving as 45 calories. And by the way, a “serving” is five pieces. I have never had five pieces at once. Just one, maybe two do the trick. When I go out, I usually have a couple in my pocket, just in case. Gradually, the weight started coming off, which let me know my spite hadn’t gotten too out of hand. A pound week, more or less-ish. As of writing this, I’ve gotten rid of those 10 extra pounds—plus an additional 18. That’s over six months. The big question? Can I keep it up? Is this my new life? Or will I backslide? Hard to say. I hope the answer is… Yes. As long as I have spite in my heart and Werther's in my pantry, I’ll be fine. |
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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