I Confess...Finally.

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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!?!