 How best to describe my recent trip to the City of Angels, AKA Los Angeles, California?
If you’ll allow me to steal from (or you could say, “honor”) Mr. Parker, “Los Angeles right now is Blade Runner without the budget for special effects.” Perfect. Now, if you’re from LA or live in LA, don’t get yourself in a bunch that this out-of-towner is talking smack. I called LA home for 10 fun-filled years. While living there, I made friends I still cherish, made my money in advertising, performed regularly at The Comedy Store (with decompression stops after at Canter’s Deli), worked with some extremely talented folks at Groundlings (people more talented then I, which is why they’re famous and I’m…well, my father thinks I’m very talented), and it’s where I met Mr. Parker. He was in my back yard under the avocado tree, but that’s a tale for another time. But lo, these many years later, I’m seeing my old town with fresh eyes and, wow. It’s like when you haven’t seen someone’s kid since they were six and now they’re 16 and have a beard. (She should really shave that.) Allow me to frame the picture. We landed in darkness along with a staggering number of other 737s that apparently escaped Newark at the same time. We all disembark (a retro term for what they now call “deplaning” because education in this country is at such an abysmal low that disembarkation is considered a microaggression against the illiterate—Again, thank you Mr. Parker) into a dimly lit terminal. To find an Uber, you now must make your way through the fluorescent gloom of LAX amid the crush, all in a hurry to navigate what looks like a blinged-up Euro-mall in Singapore stocked with gold-scented perfumes and thousand-dollar T-shirts for the gazillionaire on the move with a minute to burn on their way to the waiting Porsche Cayenne that will transport them to some gilded ivory tower that’s low on toilet paper. (That was one sentence, folks.) Next, we’re outside inhaling ocean-scented exhaust fumes and herding ourselves into a groaning, hissing shuttle bus jammed with people whose faces are cast in the sickly blue glow of their screens while being transported to the sorting lot. Once there, escaping passengers and obliging drivers are zippered together in an effort to penetrate the night. And that was just the first 20 minutes of the trip. After that, the entire time we were in town, it was overcast. Not LA’s fault. Probably. And everywhere, there were artifacts of cold, impersonal automation. It started with the driverless cars that are now hauling temporarily orphaned teens from here to there without fear of having to make small talk about their lives to another human—or worse, having to listen to small talk about their driver. No requirement to share stories. You know, those things that bring people together and foster understanding. These autonomous vehicles creep all over town with multiple automated cameras mounted around the car and their navigation hardware spinning away on the roof like an AI zoetrope. (Look it up.) Watching them in action forces a sentient human driver to say things like, “Is that thing actually going to stop in time?” Oh, hey! Need dinner delivered while in LA? Good news! You don’t need personal interaction for that, either. Now navigating the sidewalks of the town in which “nobody walks” (thank you, Missing Persons) are four-wheeled aluminum bins that look like weaponized baby carriages sporting flashing orange lights and, either to be safe or to camouflage their true, sinister purpose, little orange caution flags mounted on tall, fiberglass whips. Honestly, their stop-start movement and swaying flags were almost cute in an R2D2 or BB8 kind of way. (Come on. Star Wars. Can’t believe some of you needed me to tell you that.) Is this me just not cottoning (yes, a porous, old-timey word) to inevitable progress? I remember my father complaining when the internet removed much of his social interaction back when he made his living in B2B sales. But his real bread and butter was getting in front of people and sharing stories. And while the ease of online purchasing is undeniable, so is the power of face-to-face interaction. It’s a trade-off. But when do we cross the line? When do we stop knowing how to know people? Here’s my next question. With all this automation, how is it that no one has invented a robot that cleans all this shit up? Everywhere you look now, Tinseltown is covered in perma-grime—yet I didn’t see one bot with a broom, or a shovel, or a flame thrower. The last Blade Runner-like change we noted in the most populous city in the Golden State are the pop-up sidewalk kitchens. They’re everywhere: flimsy, art-festival tents sheltering a couple working a grill or a griddle or bisected 55-gallon steel drum over an open flame, and stackable plastic café tables and chairs. The only difference between these ram-shackle eateries and the noodle shop frequented by Harrison Ford in the movie (why not go back to the original) is that the ones in the actual LA of today don’t have a gravity-defying hover function. These vendors are firmly planted on the sidewalks populated only with autonomous weaponized pizza delivery bins. Again, nobody walks in LA. That was my experience of Los Angeles 2025. And here’s an interesting note. Back in 1982, Blade Runner was “set in the dystopian future Los Angeles of 2019.” What say you, Ridley Scott? (Director of Blade Runner. Must I explain everything?) And if you’ve seen the movie, the replicants were the bad guys. Yet all they wanted to do is stay alive. Living. Experience the world. Like you and I are supposed to be doing. Alexa, beam me up. Fine, I'll walk.
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 Admittedly, I bemoan old folks bemoaning young folks by saying things like, “Kids these days have gone soft.”Or they’ll say, “In my day, we used to… ” which is followed by a tale from childhood recalling some nightmarish Dickensian task they were forced to perform—by hand!—that violated all child-labor laws and would today result in a visit from family services, and how it made them stronger.
Look, I’m sorry, but if instead of walking five miles to school, uphill in the snow, and carrying 20 to 40 pounds of books (today’s national average for US high-schoolers), you could get into your mom’s car, the one with the heated seats, and be dropped at the school’s front door with your 4-pound computer, you’d jump at the chance. Or, if instead of peeling and hand grating five pounds of potatoes and two large onions (which I did last weekend to make a potato kugel), you could whip out the food processor and save your time, fingernails and flesh, it’s kind of no contest. Plus, it keeps blood out of the kogel. (So not kosher, but very Dickensian.) Since the dawn of time, we have looked for ways to make life’s tasks easier. See also: the wheel, the lever, the iPhone and the Shake Weight. But things have finally gone too far. And yes, I’m looking at you, multinational footwear giant Skechers! At the risk of sounding like one of those crotchety old farts I bemoaned earlier, I’m crying: WTF! Yes, we evolve. Yes, many of us are in the fortunate position to make our lives easier through the purchase of whip-smart labor-saving devices like the Keurig (even though it makes a lousy cup of coffee—but it’s so easy!). But how easy do we need it? Have we evolved so much the we are now solving problems that don’t even exist? The answer is: Yes! Witness the new and nonsensical labor-saving boondoggle: Skechers Hands Free Slip-InsTM! “Designed with our exclusive Heel Pillow™ that allow [sic] you to step in without bending over.” Sell line: “Comfort without the hassle.” Finally! Some intrepid titan of industry has taken the aggravation and annoyance out of bending. Yes, these are sneakers you can just slide your feet into. No annoying bending down to put them on. Really? Is bending that big a hassle in your world? (If you answered, yes, please have that note from your doctor ready.) I never got the memo. Was bending indeed an issue? Maybe you, say, get dizzy. You can (and here comes a crazy idea) sit down to put on your sneakers! Or does that take too much of your precious time? “Out of my way! I may be dizzy, but I’m running to the hospital to perform open-heart surgery on Mike White, Creator of the hit TV series, White Lotus! I can’t be tangled up in laces! We need season four!” Okay, so you’re in a rush. In 1968, footwear brand Puma brought to market the Velcro fastener for sneakers. By the ‘80s, brands from Reebok to Nike ran with it. (See what I did there?) Sadly, if you have any sense of fashion, these sensational savers of hassle and time are not an option. Velcro sneakers make you like a) a toddler or b) a resident of some pleasant assisted-living facility who has vague memories of the good old days when you had dignity. Back to the Skechers issue. We need to slip into our sneakers without bending as much as we need to get into our pants without pulling them up. Or forget pants entirely and go Mumu! Come on, friends! Take some ownership of your life! (Sorry for yelling! Yelling!) Here are the exceptions to easy-on sneakers. A) Someone with a physical challenge. Again, you can get a doctor’s note. 2) Triathlon runners. If you don’t know, a triathlon is a grueling race consisting of swimming, then cycling, then running. So there are triathlon-specific shoes using a no-laces design for quick transitions from cycling to running. Why? Because every tiny split second counts. Some triathlons even award prizes for the fastest transitions. But guess what? To put on those triathlon-specific running shoes, you still have to a) swim, b) ride, c) run and d) bend to put the damn shoes on. But what if you’re in that big a rush and you’re not in a race? There are always flipflops, slides, clogs, mules, and the list goes on. (Notice I did not list bedroom slippers. If you are blithely wearing your bedroom slippers to the supermarket or on a plane, I have a whole other rant with your name on it.) Are you physically able but find that bending is too big of an imposition in your life? Well then, maybe you need to try walking five miles to school. Uphill. In the snow. Carrying 20 to 40 pounds of books. Including a copy of Dickens’ Oliver Twist. In hardback. Go tie your damn shoes! Stay careful-ish, Honey  Harsh, I know. Now, did I just say that I’d kill a Disney princess purely for the heightened headline score on Sharethrough? You know. For making this blog post achieve a higher SEO score, therefore reaching more eyes? Or am I actually harboring murderous intent towards Snow White?
Before you call the cops, please know that even if I am indeed plotting the elimination of Miss White, there is not yet a law against killing a fictional character. Although Kathy Bates did exact some nasty revenge on an author for killing off a fictional hero in the movie based on Steven King’s Misery. (Oops! Spoiler alert!) How would one kill an animated character, anyway? For that intel, we need only look at Who Framed Roger Rabbit. Just whip up a batch of turpentine, acetone and benzene, a.k.a. “Dip,” a.k.a. “Toon Acid.” As Judge Doom demonstrated in the groundbreaking live-action film that featured Toons and humans acting together, Dip destroys the paint of animated characters, who then simply "melt" away. If only it were that simple. But no. Snow White is the princess story that just won’t die—but should. You may know that there’s a new live-action Snow White movie with live-action Rachel Zegler and live-action Gal Gadot cavorting with animated-action dwarves. It’s scheduled for release on March 21. Before this, a mere 13 years ago, (barely long enough ago to prep a bat-mitzvah fit for a princess) we got Snow White and the Huntsman with Kristen Stewart, Charlize Theron and Chris Hemsworth. But let’s back up. Why am I so against this German fairy tale written all the way back in 1812? (And yes, I am so against it.) Because it is the worst messaging ever put forth, and the fact that we continue feeding it to children (mostly girls) is sickening, disturbing, debilitating, and many, many other “ings.” A quick catalog of offenses. The Snow White saga is short and bitter. Key points: Girl moves to new neighborhood. Evil Queen loses her shit when her talking mirror (available at Bed Bath & Beyond dot com or HomeGoods) tells her that someone prettier than she has entered the scene. Evil Queen devises plan to have new girl killed. Killed! In the failed attempt, Evil Queen ends up dying. Fade to black. Oh, and there may or may not be a handsome prince to start setting up some more atrocious message for girls. So, Snow White’s hidden lesson is this: if someone is more beautiful than you, you can simply kill them.Or, more clearly: “You must be the prettiest at all costs.” It has bedtime-story written all over it, right? Now I lay me down to sleep, murderous visions of vanity at my feet. You know what else happens if you’re the prettiest one? You score a handsome prince who has wheelbarrows full of money and you’ll never have to work or think again. Life will be perfect. Just as long as you don’t visit any White Lotus hotels (which Amazon Prime assures us are staffed by only the best working stiffs serving guests who are despicably entitled billionaires like yourself and Prince & Princess Florion). So why, why are film executives in 2025 saying, “Let’s tell Snow White again!” And why are stunning women like Gal and Charlize lining up to play the evil queen? Is it an “I’m so beautiful that I’ll appear vulnerable and relatable if I play a character that’s only the second-most beautiful character in a film?” Actress Rachel Zegler, who’s playing the new Snow White, the first-most beautiful character in this film, has defended this new telling of the story by saying, “She’s not going to be saved by the prince and she’s not going to be dreaming about true love. She’s dreaming about becoming the leader she knows she can be and the leader that her late father told her that she could be if she was fearless, fair, brave and true.” Please excuse me as I execute a very loud, very fake-sneeze that sounds like this: “Bullshit!” Really? This asinine princess-in-peril trope from antiquity is OK because it has a shiny new 21st-century sheen of women-can-be-powerful message shoe-horned into it? Excuse me. I have to sneeze again. And we still haven’t even mentioned the dwarfs. So, let me get off my own soapbox for a moment and quote from Peter Dinklage’s. World-famous for his work in Game Of Thrones, Peter Dinklage is a respected actor, a winner of Golden Globe, Emmy and SAG awards, a New Jersey native (always makes me happy to have Jersey in the house), and very vocal about being a little person. He also refuses to play “elves or leprechauns.” Mr. Dinklage says, and I quote: “Literally no offense to anyone, but I was a little taken aback when they were very proud to cast a Latina actress as Snow White, but you’re still telling the story of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. You’re progressive in one way but then you’re still making that f–king backward story about seven dwarfs living in a cave together. What the f–k are you doing, man? Have I done nothing to advance the cause from my soapbox? I guess I’m not loud enough.” Thank you, Peter for covering that topic better than I could have. And please know that should you ever want to hang at the shore, I’m just a phone call away. I’ll have Mr. Parker sling the pizzas and I’ll bring the Guinness. Back to Snow White. Stop it. Stop her. Stop anyone who says, “Hey, I have an idea. I bet we can make a ton of money by retelling this sick piece of garbage.” Stop them. Slap the script out of their hand. Then slap them. Then slap yourself to knock any lingering nostalgia you may have for Dopey out of your head. Dopey. Shit. I forgot. We never addressed the mentally challenged, non-verbal person in the room. Wait, maybe they made his character OK because he now wants to be a leader too. Wow. Okay. I feel better. You? Stay Careful-ish, Honey Parker (Sidebar: So bummed that Gal, an actress I’ve admired, is in this “Just say no?” debacle.)  or, |
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The fine ladies of the Philadelphia Delta Lounge
In this new town, nobody was a stranger. Entering the Delta SkyClub (I try to fly only Delta because I enjoy actually getting to my destination, but that’s a different blog post), all the employees had on their fan garb, as did the guests. I complimented one staff member on her shirt. She thanked me, and the deal was sealed. We were pals. She started telling me about how she was getting off early to watch with her kids and added her thoughts on the game. Then a new voice entered into our conversation. To my right was a woman who clearly wanted to share the love. Then a guy to my left joined in. I could hear the same thing happening all over the lounge. Hope. Excitement. Bonding.
On the way to my gate, I met Maki The Certified Therapy Dog. Maki’s sole purpose there was to be a happy presence and maybe help some travelers check a bag or two of tension. An interesting job description to give a pit bull. But Maki was as sweet as could be with her square head, powerful jaw and Eagles’ neckerchief. And while she was getting greeted and fussed over, it all felt more a product of joy than any need for stress relief.
On the way to my gate, I met Maki The Certified Therapy Dog. Maki’s sole purpose there was to be a happy presence and maybe help some travelers check a bag or two of tension. An interesting job description to give a pit bull. But Maki was as sweet as could be with her square head, powerful jaw and Eagles’ neckerchief. And while she was getting greeted and fussed over, it all felt more a product of joy than any need for stress relief.
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Maki the Therapy Dog / One of the thousands of hopefuls
A serial eavesdropper, I listened in to strangers chatting at the gate. Their conversations would start with things like general speculation on the game. But then they’d start introducing themselves. I heard people share things like occupations, what their kids were studying in school, a trip they’d never forget. And they used each other’s names!
How often have you spoken to a stranger, left, and realized you had no idea of the stranger’s name? I can answer that one: Constantly. For me, maybe it was because I didn’t want to get too close or feel too obligated. But on this Super Bowl Sunday, in the airport of one of the day’s two big contenders, people were exchanging names, handshakes, even hugs. I felt lucky to be there.
Cut to later that day at home in front of my TV and the game (or the pre-game). Here comes Mr. Brad Pitt speaking for the NFL. He goes on (and on) about the meaning of the Super Bowl in this country. They were all there: all the clichés and metaphors someone else had written down and dozens of others had approved for him to say; the poorly produced clips of Faux-mericana; all the desperate, empty gestures to convince us all that We Are Still One; that the ideals of our country—even after disasters like the LA fires—remain intact; how a huddle is a metaphor for Americans working together. So. Many. Empty. Words.
I know some people loved it, but all I could think was: This is not resonating. Instead, I thought about the Liberty Bell, the cracked symbol of the American Experiment which lives in, you guessed it, Philadelphia.
The Liberty Bell was commissioned to commemorate the Philadelphia constitution written by the progressive-thinking William Penn. It first rang to call Philadelphians to the first public reading of a radical statement. Known as The Declaration of Independence, it was extending a big middle finger to a malevolent monarch across the Atlantic.
Eventually, the Liberty Bell cracked. The city of Philadelphia tried keeping that bell together, firm it up, and prevent the crack from spreading. It worked—until it didn’t. It rang in-tune loud and clear until it finally couldn’t. Today, the bell, with survives its now symbolic crack, in a giant glass case at the Liberty Bell Center in Independence National Historical Park across the street from Independence Hall. So much Independence with a capital “I”!
The bell continues to be an enduring symbol. Among other things, it represents Native American rights, women’s suffrage, abolition of slavery, religious freedom, and the participation of citizens in enacting laws. (Yes, the idea of laws by “we the people” was radical.) In their time, these were enviable, cutting-edge liberties. The website US History dot org notes that the bell “Speaks of the rights and freedoms valued by people the world over.” (You grow up in Philly, you get steeped in this stuff.)
So that’s where my brain was going as Brad was blathering. Later on, Tom Cruise popped in on an impossible mission to add his own blabber on football and meaning and America. It was all cold and sterile and nonsense. Yes, the Liberty Bell is cracked so it rings out of tune. But all that Pitt-Cruisian pap rang hollow.
No Brad. Sorry Tom. You don’t get it. If you want to know what Super Bowl Sunday really means to our country, you had to be in the Philly Airport the morning of the game. It was a big ol’ multi-cultural Philly melting pot with cheese and onions. (Provalone.) All the hope and the unity and the desire to be a part of something strong and resilient. It all felt possible. And to want that stranger you just met, you know, that woman in green, whose name you still remember and whose son you hope will pass his driver’s test tomorrow, to be right there with you.
Sorry Jer. I do feel bad about not sharing the win by your side. I do. But I will never forget my Super Bowl morning in the Philly airport. And how in a time of such national stress and uncertainty, how it feels to be experiencing the utter joy of being with people who’d be happy to a) punch you in the throat and then b) join you for a beer because we’re all hoping for the same great thing in this land where great things are possible because they Are Great Things.
If you made it this far, I thank you. I promise my next blog post will just be me being annoyed at something trivial.
Spoiler alert: We won!
How often have you spoken to a stranger, left, and realized you had no idea of the stranger’s name? I can answer that one: Constantly. For me, maybe it was because I didn’t want to get too close or feel too obligated. But on this Super Bowl Sunday, in the airport of one of the day’s two big contenders, people were exchanging names, handshakes, even hugs. I felt lucky to be there.
Cut to later that day at home in front of my TV and the game (or the pre-game). Here comes Mr. Brad Pitt speaking for the NFL. He goes on (and on) about the meaning of the Super Bowl in this country. They were all there: all the clichés and metaphors someone else had written down and dozens of others had approved for him to say; the poorly produced clips of Faux-mericana; all the desperate, empty gestures to convince us all that We Are Still One; that the ideals of our country—even after disasters like the LA fires—remain intact; how a huddle is a metaphor for Americans working together. So. Many. Empty. Words.
I know some people loved it, but all I could think was: This is not resonating. Instead, I thought about the Liberty Bell, the cracked symbol of the American Experiment which lives in, you guessed it, Philadelphia.
The Liberty Bell was commissioned to commemorate the Philadelphia constitution written by the progressive-thinking William Penn. It first rang to call Philadelphians to the first public reading of a radical statement. Known as The Declaration of Independence, it was extending a big middle finger to a malevolent monarch across the Atlantic.
Eventually, the Liberty Bell cracked. The city of Philadelphia tried keeping that bell together, firm it up, and prevent the crack from spreading. It worked—until it didn’t. It rang in-tune loud and clear until it finally couldn’t. Today, the bell, with survives its now symbolic crack, in a giant glass case at the Liberty Bell Center in Independence National Historical Park across the street from Independence Hall. So much Independence with a capital “I”!
The bell continues to be an enduring symbol. Among other things, it represents Native American rights, women’s suffrage, abolition of slavery, religious freedom, and the participation of citizens in enacting laws. (Yes, the idea of laws by “we the people” was radical.) In their time, these were enviable, cutting-edge liberties. The website US History dot org notes that the bell “Speaks of the rights and freedoms valued by people the world over.” (You grow up in Philly, you get steeped in this stuff.)
So that’s where my brain was going as Brad was blathering. Later on, Tom Cruise popped in on an impossible mission to add his own blabber on football and meaning and America. It was all cold and sterile and nonsense. Yes, the Liberty Bell is cracked so it rings out of tune. But all that Pitt-Cruisian pap rang hollow.
No Brad. Sorry Tom. You don’t get it. If you want to know what Super Bowl Sunday really means to our country, you had to be in the Philly Airport the morning of the game. It was a big ol’ multi-cultural Philly melting pot with cheese and onions. (Provalone.) All the hope and the unity and the desire to be a part of something strong and resilient. It all felt possible. And to want that stranger you just met, you know, that woman in green, whose name you still remember and whose son you hope will pass his driver’s test tomorrow, to be right there with you.
Sorry Jer. I do feel bad about not sharing the win by your side. I do. But I will never forget my Super Bowl morning in the Philly airport. And how in a time of such national stress and uncertainty, how it feels to be experiencing the utter joy of being with people who’d be happy to a) punch you in the throat and then b) join you for a beer because we’re all hoping for the same great thing in this land where great things are possible because they Are Great Things.
If you made it this far, I thank you. I promise my next blog post will just be me being annoyed at something trivial.
Spoiler alert: We won!
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I was going to share a bit of snark about correcting total strangers (of which I am guilty). But then came the Los Angeles Wild Fires.
In a former life, Mr. Parker and I lived in Los Angeles. We spent the first two days of the endless fire news doing our best to find out that our friends were out of harm’s way. At least two of them have had their homes wiped out completely. And seeing images of the fire lighting up the night sky behind The Magic Castle, just a short walk from where we used to live, was surreal.
In Mr. Parker’s latest blog post for Free The Pizza, he talks about how we’re responding to the tragedy, and how our friends might play a small part in helping those currently in need. Following is an excerpt:
In a former life, Mr. Parker and I lived in Los Angeles. We spent the first two days of the endless fire news doing our best to find out that our friends were out of harm’s way. At least two of them have had their homes wiped out completely. And seeing images of the fire lighting up the night sky behind The Magic Castle, just a short walk from where we used to live, was surreal.
In Mr. Parker’s latest blog post for Free The Pizza, he talks about how we’re responding to the tragedy, and how our friends might play a small part in helping those currently in need. Following is an excerpt:
| We have friends in the Napa Valley who’ve experienced wildfire destruction, and have visited them in the wake of those fires. It’s startling, the smoking scars left by random infernal ferocity. But you don’t expect to see this flagrant mayhem in the urban setting that used to be your own back yard. It feels more like something you’re supposed to read about from the 19th century involving Mrs. O’Leary’s cow. We’ve got a home pizzamaker friend in Los Angeles. The first night of fire, I’m thinking, “He’s nowhere near Pacific Palisades. He doesn’t have that much money.” The next morning, his entire neighborhood was a pile of ash. (Though I can’t help thinking about the Hollywood version, that in the coals and rubble lies his pizza steel, awaiting recovery to make pizza for hungry neighbors. Somewhere there must still be an oven.) It’s numbing. And what do you do about it? I’m not sure you ignore it and write a snarky story about a stupid kitchen tool [as I’d planned]. As I was pondering this, I glanced at my in box. There was an email from a friend’s charity. And I thought, THAT’S what you do. You may know of Scott Wiener, the king of the pizza geeks. He’s famous for running Scott’s Pizza Tours in NYC. That’s probably what most people know about him. Scott also consults to pizza businesses nationwide. He’s a pizza educator and an author. He was even part of a team of high-profile American pizzaioli who worked with the fabled Neapolitan flour company Antimo Caputo to formulate a product for the American pizzeria market. If that’s not enough, Scott holds the Guinness World Record for the planet’s largest collection of pizza boxes. Scott’s business is being Mr. Pizza. It was only a matter of time before he founded a charity. It's called Slice Out Hunger. The stated mission of Slice Out Hunger is “fighting food insecurity across the US.” To date, they've raised over $1.6 million to fund hunger relief across the country. And right now, Slice Out Hunger Pizza Relief is feeding Angelenos in need with the Slice Out Hunger LA Wildfire Relief Fund. The email says in part, “Hundreds of thousands of LA residents have been evacuated and we'd like to make sure that they are well fed during this difficult time.” You might be thinking you could make a cash donation to help feed displaced Angelenos. And you’re right. You can do that by clicking this link and clicking “Donate.” It links you to the direct donation page [for our fundraising page]. However, if you’re a pizzamaker, whether amateur or pro, there a couple of other things you can do to raise money by bringing some fun. As a home pizzamaker, you can host your own Pizza Relief party or pop-up by February 5th. [There’s info about how to do that right here.] During the course of writing this, I mentioned “Home Pizza Party Fundraiser” to The Fabulous Honey Parker, and... As I suspected, it was only a matter of minutes before that mention snowballed into a date, a time, and a quick list of 50 people who are invited to our upcoming pizza-slice happy hour. I now have to make a pile of dough for 18 pizzas for next weekend’s party. I’ve submitted our application to Slice Out Hunger. We’re waiting for the info. We’re starting a Facebook page for our pizza-loving friends where we'll bombard them with details so they can swing by for happy-hour slices and adult beverages and, oh, a quick QR-code donation. Whatever you do, thank you for doing it. To make a cash donation to Slice Out Hunger, click here and click “Donate.” See you at the pizza party. |
By the time this post goes up, it will have been well over a week since the fires began. Those of us not in the Los Angeles area will be moving on with our lives and focusing on the next soundbite. It’s to be expected. But folks in the burn-zone will still be deep in it. Still displaced. Still wondering, “What next.”
I invite you to look back for a moment and do what you can. And if you’d like to donate, here’s the link just one more time.
Cheers,
Honey Parker
I invite you to look back for a moment and do what you can. And if you’d like to donate, here’s the link just one more time.
Cheers,
Honey Parker
When I was a young stupid person of twenty-four, I flew into Denver Colorado to visit a ski instructor friend. We’d met when I vacationed at Club Med Copper Mountain and stayed pals. She was now a ski instructor at Beaver Creek and invited me to visit. I’d ski by myself during the day (presumably, I’d make friends on the lift), then hook up with her to party at night. Why not? And that part all worked out as planned.
[Sidebar: I later quit my job in advertising to go be a comedian at Club Med for two years. Again I say, Why not?]
What I hadn’t planned on was becoming cursed at the airport on my way to Denver. Oh yes, I was literally cursed. I’d gone to the ground-transportation counter and started chatting with the woman behind the desk. Remember all the way back to the opening sentence of this blog, your narrator mentioned being a young, stupid person? (Go back and check. I’ll wait.) So, this old, decrepit woman in her mid-50s (see: sarcasim) was bemoaning her poor vision. Ground-Transportation Counter Lady used to see perfectly, but as she got older, her sight declined. I, of course, had to proudly state that my vision was still 20/20. As if being younger than her was both a choice and a skill.
Well, Ground-Transportation Counter Lady showed me. She looked me square in the eye. (Who knows what she and her bad vision were actually seeing.) Then she declared, “I curse you. When you turn forty, your vision will just go!”
I thought, That’s so sad. Doesn’t she know that I’m choosing to not deteriorate in any way as I get older. I could not possibly fathom why on earth she hadn’t made the same choice I had. Talk about a lack of vision. Whatever. I went along my way, had a monster time with my ski-instructor friend, met some of her pals, enjoyed great skiing, even went out on a couple of dates—all blissfully unaware of my future and the curse hovering in the distance, waiting for the clock to ring 40.
Flash forward, and the clock did not ring. It just broke. As predicted, or inflicted, the second I turned 40, my vision turned to crap. It was that fast. One night I could read the fortunes from the cookies of the people sitting across the Chinese restaurant. The next morning no arms would ever be long enough to let me read the print from my book, phone, or pill bottle. (Let’s not discuss that last one.) Who was that gal in the Scooby-Doo cartoons who couldn’t see anything when she lost her glasses? And, of course, she always lost her glasses. Forcing her to get on hands and knees and pat the ground like a blind person. Velma! Fuck, I’m a Velma.
I was incredulous. How could this have happened to me? Me!? Didn’t the universe remember that I’d chosen to not deteriorate? This was not part of the contract I’d signed. Then I remembered the alternate contract that rendered my initial contract null and void. The one inflicted upon me as a result of being young and stupid. It was her, that woman at the Denver airport, the Ground-Transportation Counter Lady. Oh, the humanity!
After years of self-reflection, I’ve come to realize that it was me. It wasn’t that angry little woman at all. I had brought this weakening upon myself by being so blissfully ignorant to the complexity of the human animal. By not affording her the grace she’d earn from years and decades of dealing with all of the young and stupid me’s that crossed before her on a daily basis while making their way to the slopes. I’d like to find her and tell her: Now I get it. But, of course, that won’t be happening.
Still, there is an upside to my now crappy vision. We had friends visiting from out of town. Great, dear, wonderful friends. We wanted to introduce them to our favorite, wonderful people in our latest adopted hometown. After two days and nights partying like we were still young enough to see 20/20, I woke up with a fair amount of caution. What kind of state was I in? What would I see in the mirror?
To my surprise, I looked kind of OK, bordering on “I may not even have to brush my hair.” (I don’t actually brush my curly hair once it’s dry or it would get enormous. But you get the point.) I win! I put in my contact lenses, and then caught a glimpse in the mirror of a woman who looked a lot like me gone wrong, and thought, Oh, that’s a little different. My face was giving witness to all of the damage I’d done in the last 48 hours, and I saw all of it. 20/20. But with age comes wisdom. I put my fingers into my eyes and removed my contacts. I was once again a blurred vision of loveliness. Problem solved.
How's your vision?
[Sidebar: I later quit my job in advertising to go be a comedian at Club Med for two years. Again I say, Why not?]
What I hadn’t planned on was becoming cursed at the airport on my way to Denver. Oh yes, I was literally cursed. I’d gone to the ground-transportation counter and started chatting with the woman behind the desk. Remember all the way back to the opening sentence of this blog, your narrator mentioned being a young, stupid person? (Go back and check. I’ll wait.) So, this old, decrepit woman in her mid-50s (see: sarcasim) was bemoaning her poor vision. Ground-Transportation Counter Lady used to see perfectly, but as she got older, her sight declined. I, of course, had to proudly state that my vision was still 20/20. As if being younger than her was both a choice and a skill.
Well, Ground-Transportation Counter Lady showed me. She looked me square in the eye. (Who knows what she and her bad vision were actually seeing.) Then she declared, “I curse you. When you turn forty, your vision will just go!”
I thought, That’s so sad. Doesn’t she know that I’m choosing to not deteriorate in any way as I get older. I could not possibly fathom why on earth she hadn’t made the same choice I had. Talk about a lack of vision. Whatever. I went along my way, had a monster time with my ski-instructor friend, met some of her pals, enjoyed great skiing, even went out on a couple of dates—all blissfully unaware of my future and the curse hovering in the distance, waiting for the clock to ring 40.
Flash forward, and the clock did not ring. It just broke. As predicted, or inflicted, the second I turned 40, my vision turned to crap. It was that fast. One night I could read the fortunes from the cookies of the people sitting across the Chinese restaurant. The next morning no arms would ever be long enough to let me read the print from my book, phone, or pill bottle. (Let’s not discuss that last one.) Who was that gal in the Scooby-Doo cartoons who couldn’t see anything when she lost her glasses? And, of course, she always lost her glasses. Forcing her to get on hands and knees and pat the ground like a blind person. Velma! Fuck, I’m a Velma.
I was incredulous. How could this have happened to me? Me!? Didn’t the universe remember that I’d chosen to not deteriorate? This was not part of the contract I’d signed. Then I remembered the alternate contract that rendered my initial contract null and void. The one inflicted upon me as a result of being young and stupid. It was her, that woman at the Denver airport, the Ground-Transportation Counter Lady. Oh, the humanity!
After years of self-reflection, I’ve come to realize that it was me. It wasn’t that angry little woman at all. I had brought this weakening upon myself by being so blissfully ignorant to the complexity of the human animal. By not affording her the grace she’d earn from years and decades of dealing with all of the young and stupid me’s that crossed before her on a daily basis while making their way to the slopes. I’d like to find her and tell her: Now I get it. But, of course, that won’t be happening.
Still, there is an upside to my now crappy vision. We had friends visiting from out of town. Great, dear, wonderful friends. We wanted to introduce them to our favorite, wonderful people in our latest adopted hometown. After two days and nights partying like we were still young enough to see 20/20, I woke up with a fair amount of caution. What kind of state was I in? What would I see in the mirror?
To my surprise, I looked kind of OK, bordering on “I may not even have to brush my hair.” (I don’t actually brush my curly hair once it’s dry or it would get enormous. But you get the point.) I win! I put in my contact lenses, and then caught a glimpse in the mirror of a woman who looked a lot like me gone wrong, and thought, Oh, that’s a little different. My face was giving witness to all of the damage I’d done in the last 48 hours, and I saw all of it. 20/20. But with age comes wisdom. I put my fingers into my eyes and removed my contacts. I was once again a blurred vision of loveliness. Problem solved.
How's your vision?
For clarity, I am not about to rail against the poor. For those who can’t afford to let go of one precious drop of nutrition, food waste is not a joke. My guess is, if your situation is that dire, you’re not wasting your time reading my frivolous blog.
For further clarity, I’m not against the idea of eating yogurt. Please know that yogurt is not the real issue here. I happen to be a fan of yogurt. Real yogurt. Not a cup of something that’s more chemistry than cultures created in the name of being low-fat or zero-fat. And in fairness, some of these use stevia, which is not a chemical. It just tastes like one.
There is room in my world for both cow yogurt and goat yogurt, as well as regular and Greek-style yogurts. I typically grab plain yogurt and add blueberries, or honey and almonds. I might even throw in some flax seed. (Fiber, good.)
At our house, we buy the 32-ounce containers. When we feel like making what I call a “yogurt treat,” I spoon some into a small dish, add my toppings (or bottomings—sometimes the berries go in first), stir and enjoy. I’m not a single-serving-container kinda gal. And those single-serving containers is where this very real issue begins.
Again, it’s not about the yogurt. It is the single-serving vessel and the bizarre need that some folks possess to scrape every last drop of food from its confines. So you could apply this rant to people eating single servings of cottage cheese, or pudding, or anything that one might be compelled to scrape and over-scrape at until they’re confident they’ve left nothing for even the smallest of scavengers to enjoy.
Yogurt scraping as a compulsion is baffling to me for several reasons:
Am I making too much out of this whole thing? I have two answers to that question.
Have I gone too far? What is it that humans do to make you bananas? (Bananas, just peel and eat. No scraping required.)
For further clarity, I’m not against the idea of eating yogurt. Please know that yogurt is not the real issue here. I happen to be a fan of yogurt. Real yogurt. Not a cup of something that’s more chemistry than cultures created in the name of being low-fat or zero-fat. And in fairness, some of these use stevia, which is not a chemical. It just tastes like one.
There is room in my world for both cow yogurt and goat yogurt, as well as regular and Greek-style yogurts. I typically grab plain yogurt and add blueberries, or honey and almonds. I might even throw in some flax seed. (Fiber, good.)
At our house, we buy the 32-ounce containers. When we feel like making what I call a “yogurt treat,” I spoon some into a small dish, add my toppings (or bottomings—sometimes the berries go in first), stir and enjoy. I’m not a single-serving-container kinda gal. And those single-serving containers is where this very real issue begins.
Again, it’s not about the yogurt. It is the single-serving vessel and the bizarre need that some folks possess to scrape every last drop of food from its confines. So you could apply this rant to people eating single servings of cottage cheese, or pudding, or anything that one might be compelled to scrape and over-scrape at until they’re confident they’ve left nothing for even the smallest of scavengers to enjoy.
Yogurt scraping as a compulsion is baffling to me for several reasons:
- 1) It can’t be enjoyable. I am a person who wants my last bite or spoonful of whatever I’m eating to be satisfying. Leave on a high note. Leave them wanting more. How is that meager fingernail-sized quantity of yogurt enjoyable in any way?
- a) Your hot-panic scape-scrape-scraping and eventual eating of that last scrape-scrap after five or twelve other such panicked efforts? Not enjoyable. You know this.
- b) All the friction you’re creating is causing that tiniest of scant servings to actually heat up. Warm yogurt? Not delightful.
- 2) You’re contaminating your food. With all of that energetic scraping, how much of the plastic cup is actually starting to mix into your yogurt treat? Granted, this was more of an issue back in the Dannon waxed-cup days. Still, some of you are digging deep.
- 3) Just get another damn yogurt. Are you still hungry? Then stop asking your single-serving to go beyond its capabilities. Thank it for its service and move on. I’ve seen men in Armani suites unwilling to waste the final 7/1000th of a penny of the “food” still in that cup. Are you that stingy, or do you just hate losing?
- 4) You look like a vulture. No one who’s hunched over a 6-oz. plastic container is experiencing any meaningful selfawareness. With their shoulders rolled in and their face inching closer down to the cup with each scrape, their world becomes the tunnel between them and that sixteenth of an ounce of key lime pie-flavored goop, which is now, by the way, mixed with their own saliva.
- 5) I can hear you! If you are someone for whom mouth noises is a thing, then you know the issue actually goes well beyond the crunching or the slurping. Any sounds that are food-associated can be problematic. The tink-tink-tink of a spoon repeatedly tapping the side of a tea cup can also be irksome. But nothing stops traffic like the repeated scraping of a plastic spoon on the sides and bottom of a plastic cup that NO LONGER HAS ANY EFFING YOGURT IN IT! AGGH!
Am I making too much out of this whole thing? I have two answers to that question.
- 1) I may be. That is why, when I encounter someone displaying this abhorrent behavior, I say nothing and drown them out with earphones and music. (Chet Baker’s “Yogurt Cup In Blue” is my current go-to.)
- 2) No! Have some self-awareness and a little dignity—at least enough to fill a single-serve yogurt cup.
Have I gone too far? What is it that humans do to make you bananas? (Bananas, just peel and eat. No scraping required.)
I have a question for the room. How do you stop a conversation when the other person won’t let it end?
All the information has been exchanged, the laughs have been laughed (or tears cried) and the momentum has gone. So why can some people not take the hint and let the conversation die a natural death? Why do they insist on making us kill it?
There are accepted social cues for ending a conversation. You know them. You’ve used them. Unless, of course, you are one of those people of whom I speak. In which case, pay careful attention and perhaps you’ll learn something valuable. (You’re welcome.)
Whether the conversation is face-to-face, on the phone, or via text (email conversations went out with Wham!) there are things we do and say to initiate a clean break. Shall we review? I’m taking your silence as a Yes.
First up, ending the Face-To-Face Convo. Know that some of these cues will overlap with phone cues. I’ll start with my personal favorite. “Well, okay now.” If I’m talking to you and whip out a spunky little “Well, okay now!”, the party’s over. Our chat has done all it needed to do.
We solved world peace. We confirmed our dinner plans. We’ve exchanged thoughts on little Marjorie May’s choice of lemon-yellow hot pants. And we agreed to never drink THAT purple cocktail ever again. “Well, okay now!” Time to walk away.
Other useful phrases include (but aren’t limited to): “Alrighty then,” “That’s how it goes,” “Say hey to your mom,” “This was great,” “How ‘bout those Mets?” (holds on that one until eight weeks after the season), and, “Look at the time!”
But what if “Well, okay now” doesn’t produce the desired effect? What if the exchange moves from delightful chat to nonstop rambling? What next?
There’s always The Bathroom Gambit. Few people will question you if you say you need to use the restroom. And if they do, know that you have the legal right, and perhaps the obligation, to simply walk away from The Rambler in question.
Caution: there are two pitfalls with the bathroom gambit. First, if you’re at an event where there are other people, and while en route to your jail-break bathroom visit, Person B approaches you to chat. And Person B is someone you’ve been wanting to talk to. Then The Rambler may sidle over and either question your true intent, or worse, prattle on as if you never ducked them in the first place.
The second pitfall, which is oh-so-much worse, is when you initiate the bathroom gambit and The Rambler says, “I’ll come with you,” thus forcing you to continue the charade by going to the bathroom, going into a stall, dropping trou, counting to 110 (trust me, it’s the correct amount of time), and flushing the toilet, thus wasting water. And this is all while The Rambler is squatting next to you and, still talking!
In this scenario, know that the other guests at the event have clocked you entering and exiting the lavatory with The Rambler. They are now either deeming you and The Rambler new besties, or know exactly what’s going on and are letting you take this one for the team. No!!!
In this second situation, your only recourse is to commit your second lie of the evening. You feign nausea with vomiting imminent (in competitive eating circles they call it “a reversal of fortune”) and you go home. There will be other parties.
Next up is the phone call. Your old friend, Mrs. “Well, Okay Now,” should work here as well. Emphasis on should. It sometimes does not. The good news? The bathroom gambit works perfectly as a backup in this setting. A clean, and often quick, goodbye.
Years ago, back in the days of the landline (Google it), I remember being on a call that would not end. I must have said, “Well, okay now” a half-dozen times. Each time, I brought my head and the receiver a few inches lower and closer to the phone, until I finally uttered my last “Well, okay now” and hung up. Even as a kid, I turned impatient and incredulous. I remember blurting out, “Didn’t they hear me say, ‘Well, okay now’?!”
Hello texting, the latest entry into the “Never can say goodbye” arena. (Now I have the Jackson 5 song in my head. Could be worse.) In this arena, there is no “Well, okay now.” Instead, God gave us emojis.
Once a person you’re chatting with throws an emoji into the ring, look out. You should know it’s time to wrap things up. They’re not interested in another joke “you had to be there” for, a picture of an event they missed, or a not-so-fun fact about pizza dough. (Guess where I got that last one.) At this point, I will either toss out an emoji of my own or just stop texting completely.
And if I really want to hit a hard stop, I send a thumbs up. Clean. Simple. Succinct. Zero emotion. What else is there to say? Apparently for some, plenty. This is where text chats go off the rails.
If someone, anyone thumbs-ups you, for the love of thumb typing: STOP! Because adding insult to tone-deaf injury, your unwanted texts are accompanied by a ding tone. So what the recipient hears is, “DING!” Shit, they didn’t stop. “DING!” Enough already. “DING!” I hate people.
Not paying real attention to the person you’re communicating with is nothing new. The Rambler has been with us since the dawn of time. I’m betting if you happen to find yourself in Egypt (it could happen—I have four friends there at this very moment) you’ll find a series of hieroglyphs that ends with three cats drawn in two-dimensional perspective, with paws over their ears.
“The Rambler” almost sounds like a superhero. If a superpower was being super-annoying. They do have the power to clear rooms. Rambling is part of a lack of self-awareness, one of my biggest pet peeves. (Even bigger than the phrase “pet peeve.”)
Don’t make us tell you to shut it. Because we likely won’t. We’re not that rude. We’ll just think it. And we’ll bookmark you as a long talker. And we’ll think twice before engaging. Nobody wants that.
Bottom line, it is our social duty to listen for the cue that the conversation is coming to an end. Think you heard it but aren’t sure? Err on the side of caution. Leave them wanting more and end it. Realize that you’re never the one to end a conversation? Try it. Go crazy. You might like it.
Who knows, you may get mad with power. You’ll say, “Well, okay now” right after the “How’ve you been?” Make a game of it. Race your friends to the “Well, okay now.” The world will be a better place for it.
“Well, okay now.”
All the information has been exchanged, the laughs have been laughed (or tears cried) and the momentum has gone. So why can some people not take the hint and let the conversation die a natural death? Why do they insist on making us kill it?
There are accepted social cues for ending a conversation. You know them. You’ve used them. Unless, of course, you are one of those people of whom I speak. In which case, pay careful attention and perhaps you’ll learn something valuable. (You’re welcome.)
Whether the conversation is face-to-face, on the phone, or via text (email conversations went out with Wham!) there are things we do and say to initiate a clean break. Shall we review? I’m taking your silence as a Yes.
First up, ending the Face-To-Face Convo. Know that some of these cues will overlap with phone cues. I’ll start with my personal favorite. “Well, okay now.” If I’m talking to you and whip out a spunky little “Well, okay now!”, the party’s over. Our chat has done all it needed to do.
We solved world peace. We confirmed our dinner plans. We’ve exchanged thoughts on little Marjorie May’s choice of lemon-yellow hot pants. And we agreed to never drink THAT purple cocktail ever again. “Well, okay now!” Time to walk away.
Other useful phrases include (but aren’t limited to): “Alrighty then,” “That’s how it goes,” “Say hey to your mom,” “This was great,” “How ‘bout those Mets?” (holds on that one until eight weeks after the season), and, “Look at the time!”
But what if “Well, okay now” doesn’t produce the desired effect? What if the exchange moves from delightful chat to nonstop rambling? What next?
There’s always The Bathroom Gambit. Few people will question you if you say you need to use the restroom. And if they do, know that you have the legal right, and perhaps the obligation, to simply walk away from The Rambler in question.
Caution: there are two pitfalls with the bathroom gambit. First, if you’re at an event where there are other people, and while en route to your jail-break bathroom visit, Person B approaches you to chat. And Person B is someone you’ve been wanting to talk to. Then The Rambler may sidle over and either question your true intent, or worse, prattle on as if you never ducked them in the first place.
The second pitfall, which is oh-so-much worse, is when you initiate the bathroom gambit and The Rambler says, “I’ll come with you,” thus forcing you to continue the charade by going to the bathroom, going into a stall, dropping trou, counting to 110 (trust me, it’s the correct amount of time), and flushing the toilet, thus wasting water. And this is all while The Rambler is squatting next to you and, still talking!
In this scenario, know that the other guests at the event have clocked you entering and exiting the lavatory with The Rambler. They are now either deeming you and The Rambler new besties, or know exactly what’s going on and are letting you take this one for the team. No!!!
In this second situation, your only recourse is to commit your second lie of the evening. You feign nausea with vomiting imminent (in competitive eating circles they call it “a reversal of fortune”) and you go home. There will be other parties.
Next up is the phone call. Your old friend, Mrs. “Well, Okay Now,” should work here as well. Emphasis on should. It sometimes does not. The good news? The bathroom gambit works perfectly as a backup in this setting. A clean, and often quick, goodbye.
Years ago, back in the days of the landline (Google it), I remember being on a call that would not end. I must have said, “Well, okay now” a half-dozen times. Each time, I brought my head and the receiver a few inches lower and closer to the phone, until I finally uttered my last “Well, okay now” and hung up. Even as a kid, I turned impatient and incredulous. I remember blurting out, “Didn’t they hear me say, ‘Well, okay now’?!”
Hello texting, the latest entry into the “Never can say goodbye” arena. (Now I have the Jackson 5 song in my head. Could be worse.) In this arena, there is no “Well, okay now.” Instead, God gave us emojis.
Once a person you’re chatting with throws an emoji into the ring, look out. You should know it’s time to wrap things up. They’re not interested in another joke “you had to be there” for, a picture of an event they missed, or a not-so-fun fact about pizza dough. (Guess where I got that last one.) At this point, I will either toss out an emoji of my own or just stop texting completely.
And if I really want to hit a hard stop, I send a thumbs up. Clean. Simple. Succinct. Zero emotion. What else is there to say? Apparently for some, plenty. This is where text chats go off the rails.
If someone, anyone thumbs-ups you, for the love of thumb typing: STOP! Because adding insult to tone-deaf injury, your unwanted texts are accompanied by a ding tone. So what the recipient hears is, “DING!” Shit, they didn’t stop. “DING!” Enough already. “DING!” I hate people.
Not paying real attention to the person you’re communicating with is nothing new. The Rambler has been with us since the dawn of time. I’m betting if you happen to find yourself in Egypt (it could happen—I have four friends there at this very moment) you’ll find a series of hieroglyphs that ends with three cats drawn in two-dimensional perspective, with paws over their ears.
“The Rambler” almost sounds like a superhero. If a superpower was being super-annoying. They do have the power to clear rooms. Rambling is part of a lack of self-awareness, one of my biggest pet peeves. (Even bigger than the phrase “pet peeve.”)
Don’t make us tell you to shut it. Because we likely won’t. We’re not that rude. We’ll just think it. And we’ll bookmark you as a long talker. And we’ll think twice before engaging. Nobody wants that.
Bottom line, it is our social duty to listen for the cue that the conversation is coming to an end. Think you heard it but aren’t sure? Err on the side of caution. Leave them wanting more and end it. Realize that you’re never the one to end a conversation? Try it. Go crazy. You might like it.
Who knows, you may get mad with power. You’ll say, “Well, okay now” right after the “How’ve you been?” Make a game of it. Race your friends to the “Well, okay now.” The world will be a better place for it.
“Well, okay now.”
Come on. Who could have a problem with baby carrots?
Me. I could. And I do. And you should, too.
Yes, there are much bigger problems in our world. Am I going to solve any of those for you? Not likely. But here is something I can effect. And it has broader-reaching implications than you might imagine.
I admit that I initially got sucked into the dizzying hype of baby-carrot right along with the rest of the nation. So small! So easy to manage! So convenient for crudité when guests are coming! (I’ve learned there’s much less of need for crudité here in the deep south, where they take their veggies battered, deep-fried and bathed in cheese products.)
Here’s what started me down the anti-baby carrot rabbit hole. (Carrot. Rabbit. Feel free to enjoy that juxtaposition.) When considering snack options, I look for something with crunch. Crunch equals satisfaction. Carrots are great for that. You get crunch and a hint of sweet without any cloying tastes. You even get the feeling that you’re being relatively healthy. Win, win, win!
But I wasn’t winning. I was finding that when snacking on these thumb-sized orange cylinders, I wasn’t getting much flavor. All I was tasting was cold. Cold is not a flavor. It’s merely a sensation.
Why had I not focused on this before? No answer. For my own edification, I tried snacking on regular, big-girl sized organic carrots. The kind you might have seen Bugs Bunny eat. (Look it up.)
Surprise! The adult, organic carrots are packed with real carrot flavor. You know why? Because they’re carrots. Actual carrots in their original form. Carrots as nature intended them.
So, what the hell ARE baby carrots? It’s not like two carrots got together, and after a rom-com worthy courtship that included coming from different backgrounds and initially hating each other, then getting married, then months later throwing a baby shower with a gender reveal (still an acceptable trope in the carrot world), then gave birth to a bouncing baby carrot.
That would be a true baby carrot. A carrot with legs. I bet that baby carrot would taste sweet and tender and delicate and delicious. You could probably even eat the bones. But these are not baby carrots at all, which would be carrots that have not yet reached maturity. No, these “baby carrots” are adult carrots living a lie.
I imagine some veggie workshop somewhere with full-sized carrots spinning on a lathe, being whittled down like table legs into the smaller, more appealing baby shape.
So-called baby carrots are not like baby corn. Oh, no. Baby corn is actual corn that’s just been harvested before full maturity. According to Google (my favorite lazy-girl resource), the technical name for these imposters is “baby-cut” carrots. They are “pieces from larger carrots that have been machine-cut into the preferred size, then peeled, polished, and sometimes washed in small amounts of chlorine before packing.”
For now, let’s put aside the endless opportunities for hilarious new jokes about “polishing one’s carrot.”
Are we so inept that we’re incapable of cutting a carrot ourselves? Have we become that averse to being up close and personal with the true coloring and texture of a vegetable? Does it make us cringe to think of our food coming from the soil? “So dirty!”
You know what’s truly cringe-worthy? What happens to “baby carrots” inside the bag. Taylor Ann Spencer of Delish has written an informative article called, “8 Reasons Why You Should Never Eat Baby Carrots.” (So, I’m not alone here.) Ready? “These carrots are now entirely composed of cut sides, they’re more prone to drying out and developing carrot blush, a thin white film that forms due to dehydration. Or, even worse, they can get slimy inside the bag, even before it’s opened.”
A two-word phrase we can live without: Bag slime.
Baby carrots waste energy, feed unrealistic beauty standards (beauty standards aren’t just for forehead wrinkles anymore), and are often treated with chlorine water. Oh, and that other thing: They don’t taste like carrots!!!
The madness has to stop. It’s time we take back the carrot in all its glorious individual shapes, colors and sizes. Short, long, wide, thin, orange, yellow. And who knows. If we can find a way to embrace and celebrate carrots for their uniqueness, maybe someday we can do it for all of us?
Too far? Is this that broader-reaching implication I spoke of earlier? I say, see the carrot. Embrace the carrot. Be the carrot.
Tell me I’m wrong. But know, I’m prepared to fight.
Me. I could. And I do. And you should, too.
Yes, there are much bigger problems in our world. Am I going to solve any of those for you? Not likely. But here is something I can effect. And it has broader-reaching implications than you might imagine.
I admit that I initially got sucked into the dizzying hype of baby-carrot right along with the rest of the nation. So small! So easy to manage! So convenient for crudité when guests are coming! (I’ve learned there’s much less of need for crudité here in the deep south, where they take their veggies battered, deep-fried and bathed in cheese products.)
Here’s what started me down the anti-baby carrot rabbit hole. (Carrot. Rabbit. Feel free to enjoy that juxtaposition.) When considering snack options, I look for something with crunch. Crunch equals satisfaction. Carrots are great for that. You get crunch and a hint of sweet without any cloying tastes. You even get the feeling that you’re being relatively healthy. Win, win, win!
But I wasn’t winning. I was finding that when snacking on these thumb-sized orange cylinders, I wasn’t getting much flavor. All I was tasting was cold. Cold is not a flavor. It’s merely a sensation.
Why had I not focused on this before? No answer. For my own edification, I tried snacking on regular, big-girl sized organic carrots. The kind you might have seen Bugs Bunny eat. (Look it up.)
Surprise! The adult, organic carrots are packed with real carrot flavor. You know why? Because they’re carrots. Actual carrots in their original form. Carrots as nature intended them.
So, what the hell ARE baby carrots? It’s not like two carrots got together, and after a rom-com worthy courtship that included coming from different backgrounds and initially hating each other, then getting married, then months later throwing a baby shower with a gender reveal (still an acceptable trope in the carrot world), then gave birth to a bouncing baby carrot.
That would be a true baby carrot. A carrot with legs. I bet that baby carrot would taste sweet and tender and delicate and delicious. You could probably even eat the bones. But these are not baby carrots at all, which would be carrots that have not yet reached maturity. No, these “baby carrots” are adult carrots living a lie.
I imagine some veggie workshop somewhere with full-sized carrots spinning on a lathe, being whittled down like table legs into the smaller, more appealing baby shape.
So-called baby carrots are not like baby corn. Oh, no. Baby corn is actual corn that’s just been harvested before full maturity. According to Google (my favorite lazy-girl resource), the technical name for these imposters is “baby-cut” carrots. They are “pieces from larger carrots that have been machine-cut into the preferred size, then peeled, polished, and sometimes washed in small amounts of chlorine before packing.”
For now, let’s put aside the endless opportunities for hilarious new jokes about “polishing one’s carrot.”
Are we so inept that we’re incapable of cutting a carrot ourselves? Have we become that averse to being up close and personal with the true coloring and texture of a vegetable? Does it make us cringe to think of our food coming from the soil? “So dirty!”
You know what’s truly cringe-worthy? What happens to “baby carrots” inside the bag. Taylor Ann Spencer of Delish has written an informative article called, “8 Reasons Why You Should Never Eat Baby Carrots.” (So, I’m not alone here.) Ready? “These carrots are now entirely composed of cut sides, they’re more prone to drying out and developing carrot blush, a thin white film that forms due to dehydration. Or, even worse, they can get slimy inside the bag, even before it’s opened.”
A two-word phrase we can live without: Bag slime.
Baby carrots waste energy, feed unrealistic beauty standards (beauty standards aren’t just for forehead wrinkles anymore), and are often treated with chlorine water. Oh, and that other thing: They don’t taste like carrots!!!
The madness has to stop. It’s time we take back the carrot in all its glorious individual shapes, colors and sizes. Short, long, wide, thin, orange, yellow. And who knows. If we can find a way to embrace and celebrate carrots for their uniqueness, maybe someday we can do it for all of us?
Too far? Is this that broader-reaching implication I spoke of earlier? I say, see the carrot. Embrace the carrot. Be the carrot.
Tell me I’m wrong. But know, I’m prepared to fight.
I hate that I do this. But I can’t seem to make myself stop. And I do try.
Of what am I speaking?
Allow me to set the stage. The situation goes something like this. I’m going to visit a friend. The friend informs me that they have a large dog, or a new kitten, or a puppy, or an old tabby. They say that they just wanted to let me know in case I have any issues. Allergies. Fears. Hair triggers set by a pet who ran away one dark night and never returned and took a chew toy that had been in the family for generations. I inform the friend that I am all for all pets. Things are going to be fine.
But it’s not. It’s not fine at all.
The moment I’m confronted with some creature covered in fur, it happens. It’s my “Who’s so cute?” voice. My back teeth clench, my voice shifts to the back of my throat, it lowers half an octave, and I’m like a loving matriarch addressing an adorable but naughty child.
“Who’s such a good puppy?”
“Who’s such a fluffy kitten?”
“Oh, look what a cute bunny you are.”
(Age is irrelevant. To me, all animals are the baby versions of themselves.)
And I repeat myself, asking the same inane question over and over, never tiring of the fact that I don’t get an answer. It all makes me look and feel like an idiot. But does that stop me?
Not yet, it hasn’t.
For what it’s worth, I do not do this with small (or large) children. I’ve always spoken to children in my normal tone of voice. The rationale is that it’s for their own good. If I speak to a child in my adult-ish tone of voice, it encourages the child to evolve into a fully formed adult. An adult who takes responsibility for themselves, doesn’t whine, or become a complete idiot around anything covered in fur. (And no, back hair doesn’t count.)
In truth, I’d never even noticed how much I engage in silly animal talk until I made fun of it in my most recent book. It’s on page 185, to be exact. (This is not a spoiler alert.) A group of women are standing around a kitten who’s looking at them through the windshield of an RV. The women are all cooing to and for the ball of fluff. Here now, an excerpt:
One woman, speaking in a baby-talk voice, squeaked, “Look how cute you are. Look how cute!”
Another woman sounded cartoon-like as she attempted speaking cat-speak. “Meow, meow? Meow, meow, meow?”
A third woman was literally speaking for the cat. “I’m so beautiful. Yes, I am.”
As I wrote this I thought, what fools they are. Then, that same night, I went to a friend’s house to watch a ballgame. This friend has two cats, Musso and Frank. If you know, you know. (I hate the initialized version of that. And yes, hate is a strong word. And I mean it. Fight me.) While Musso is rarely seen, Frank is more than happy show up so you can scratch his head—as long as you do it correctly.
There we were watching the game, Frank appears. I clench my jaw and it begins. “Look who’s so handsome! Yes. Yes, you are handsome.” And I said it over and over.
I don’t even utter anything original. I spoon out the same blather to any animal I happen to pass. And to answer your question, yes, I’ve done it to Mr. Parker as well. In my defense, he is so handsome. Especially when he edits this newsletter. [Editor’s note: Oh, dear god.]
I remember once seeing a single-frame cartoon of dogs in heaven. It may have been The Far Side, but I’m not positive. One dog says to the others, “I never did find out who the good boy was.” So I know, it’s not just me. Far from it.
Recently, we were visiting friends (they know who they are) who not only speak to their dog in cute puppy voices, they speak for their dog. Interestingly, the cute puppy voice she uses is low pitched, and the voice he uses is high. This couple will have entire conversations with each other speaking on behalf of their dog.
“Daddy, I was so good in the park today. Yes I was. You should give me a ‘tweet.’” (See also: baby talk for “treat.”)
“Yes. I think I deserve two ‘tweets.’”
“Are we all going to walk? It’s walk time. I can come with you on your walk.”
So you know, these are two very bright, well educated adults who met while working in the more erudite side of the entertainment business, and together have raised two intelligent children (now adults as well) and have had careers of substance.
So why? Why do so many of us find it virtually impossible to speak to animals from the point of view of the grown adult humans we are? Why does the sight of anything cute and fluffy turn us into the people we’d never allow into a boardroom? Why do we make up songs that not even children would repeat? And why do we say things like, “Oooh, I could eat you up!”? We don’t mean it. (I hope.)
One theory: People crave the total abandon of these joyful interactions with a lower creature who (we assume) only wants to love us and be loved by us. (Well, maybe not cats. They know they’re more intelligent than we are.) Maybe these moments are a chance to gush and express our love with no fear of rejection. And if we are rejected, we can chalk it up to a creature who’s just nervous and who, at some point, will no doubt circle back for love. It’s never because we aren’t enough. Or we’re too much. Or we eat too loudly.
Another theory: Humans are attracted to small things. Does that animal look like we can pick it up? Great. I’m picking it up and holding it close. It’s why grown adults enjoy doll houses. It’s why little people walk in fear of being picked up. (It happens.) It’s why the size 6 shoes on display in the store look so cute. But when they come out from the back in my required size 10, I might as well just put my feet into the boxes and shuffle on home.
Next theory: Small animals and babies have big eyes in relation to the rest of their heads. Big eyes are like black holes. Once we venture close enough, we get sucked into their gravitational vortex and are powerless to break free. The bigger the eyes, the greater the vortex they create.
Last theory: Small and/or fluffy is just so effing cute. Fact.
If you have another theory, I’d love to hear it. If it’s truly enlightening, I will most certainly share it with the class.
That’s all for now. I’m going to go hug Mr. Parker (who is now smaller than when I met him).
“Who’s such a cute husband. Who’s the cutest husband?”
Stay Careful-ish,
Honey Parker
Of what am I speaking?
Allow me to set the stage. The situation goes something like this. I’m going to visit a friend. The friend informs me that they have a large dog, or a new kitten, or a puppy, or an old tabby. They say that they just wanted to let me know in case I have any issues. Allergies. Fears. Hair triggers set by a pet who ran away one dark night and never returned and took a chew toy that had been in the family for generations. I inform the friend that I am all for all pets. Things are going to be fine.
But it’s not. It’s not fine at all.
The moment I’m confronted with some creature covered in fur, it happens. It’s my “Who’s so cute?” voice. My back teeth clench, my voice shifts to the back of my throat, it lowers half an octave, and I’m like a loving matriarch addressing an adorable but naughty child.
“Who’s such a good puppy?”
“Who’s such a fluffy kitten?”
“Oh, look what a cute bunny you are.”
(Age is irrelevant. To me, all animals are the baby versions of themselves.)
And I repeat myself, asking the same inane question over and over, never tiring of the fact that I don’t get an answer. It all makes me look and feel like an idiot. But does that stop me?
Not yet, it hasn’t.
For what it’s worth, I do not do this with small (or large) children. I’ve always spoken to children in my normal tone of voice. The rationale is that it’s for their own good. If I speak to a child in my adult-ish tone of voice, it encourages the child to evolve into a fully formed adult. An adult who takes responsibility for themselves, doesn’t whine, or become a complete idiot around anything covered in fur. (And no, back hair doesn’t count.)
In truth, I’d never even noticed how much I engage in silly animal talk until I made fun of it in my most recent book. It’s on page 185, to be exact. (This is not a spoiler alert.) A group of women are standing around a kitten who’s looking at them through the windshield of an RV. The women are all cooing to and for the ball of fluff. Here now, an excerpt:
One woman, speaking in a baby-talk voice, squeaked, “Look how cute you are. Look how cute!”
Another woman sounded cartoon-like as she attempted speaking cat-speak. “Meow, meow? Meow, meow, meow?”
A third woman was literally speaking for the cat. “I’m so beautiful. Yes, I am.”
As I wrote this I thought, what fools they are. Then, that same night, I went to a friend’s house to watch a ballgame. This friend has two cats, Musso and Frank. If you know, you know. (I hate the initialized version of that. And yes, hate is a strong word. And I mean it. Fight me.) While Musso is rarely seen, Frank is more than happy show up so you can scratch his head—as long as you do it correctly.
There we were watching the game, Frank appears. I clench my jaw and it begins. “Look who’s so handsome! Yes. Yes, you are handsome.” And I said it over and over.
I don’t even utter anything original. I spoon out the same blather to any animal I happen to pass. And to answer your question, yes, I’ve done it to Mr. Parker as well. In my defense, he is so handsome. Especially when he edits this newsletter. [Editor’s note: Oh, dear god.]
I remember once seeing a single-frame cartoon of dogs in heaven. It may have been The Far Side, but I’m not positive. One dog says to the others, “I never did find out who the good boy was.” So I know, it’s not just me. Far from it.
Recently, we were visiting friends (they know who they are) who not only speak to their dog in cute puppy voices, they speak for their dog. Interestingly, the cute puppy voice she uses is low pitched, and the voice he uses is high. This couple will have entire conversations with each other speaking on behalf of their dog.
“Daddy, I was so good in the park today. Yes I was. You should give me a ‘tweet.’” (See also: baby talk for “treat.”)
“Yes. I think I deserve two ‘tweets.’”
“Are we all going to walk? It’s walk time. I can come with you on your walk.”
So you know, these are two very bright, well educated adults who met while working in the more erudite side of the entertainment business, and together have raised two intelligent children (now adults as well) and have had careers of substance.
So why? Why do so many of us find it virtually impossible to speak to animals from the point of view of the grown adult humans we are? Why does the sight of anything cute and fluffy turn us into the people we’d never allow into a boardroom? Why do we make up songs that not even children would repeat? And why do we say things like, “Oooh, I could eat you up!”? We don’t mean it. (I hope.)
One theory: People crave the total abandon of these joyful interactions with a lower creature who (we assume) only wants to love us and be loved by us. (Well, maybe not cats. They know they’re more intelligent than we are.) Maybe these moments are a chance to gush and express our love with no fear of rejection. And if we are rejected, we can chalk it up to a creature who’s just nervous and who, at some point, will no doubt circle back for love. It’s never because we aren’t enough. Or we’re too much. Or we eat too loudly.
Another theory: Humans are attracted to small things. Does that animal look like we can pick it up? Great. I’m picking it up and holding it close. It’s why grown adults enjoy doll houses. It’s why little people walk in fear of being picked up. (It happens.) It’s why the size 6 shoes on display in the store look so cute. But when they come out from the back in my required size 10, I might as well just put my feet into the boxes and shuffle on home.
Next theory: Small animals and babies have big eyes in relation to the rest of their heads. Big eyes are like black holes. Once we venture close enough, we get sucked into their gravitational vortex and are powerless to break free. The bigger the eyes, the greater the vortex they create.
Last theory: Small and/or fluffy is just so effing cute. Fact.
If you have another theory, I’d love to hear it. If it’s truly enlightening, I will most certainly share it with the class.
That’s all for now. I’m going to go hug Mr. Parker (who is now smaller than when I met him).
“Who’s such a cute husband. Who’s the cutest husband?”
Stay Careful-ish,
Honey Parker
Author
Honey 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.
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