Taking a Crack at Saluting Fathers' Day

I know. I know. Women worry about turning into their mothers, not their fathers. But on the eve of Father’s Day and my father’s birthday (June 23rd), I worry that I’m turning into my dad. My father has been deceased for more than four years now, but I believe he makes a return each June to see his kids, a visitation if you will. There are signs, this year most notably, my pants are falling down and you can see the crack in my ass. I thought it was cute, kinda funny, when it was happening with just one pair of jeans. I said to myself, Hey, Cindy, lost a few pounds, did ya? Cool. But now, every single pair of pants I own seems to slouch down below my ass and show butt crack. This is eerie. This is not normal. This is my father haunting me. Pants falling down around his ass, showing butt crack, was one of his trademark poses. Yes, he was the quintessential dad in that respect.

My next door neighbor, this guy who keeps building patios and outdoor rooms in his backyard for no one – he never has any company – was leaning over the other day and what do you think? Major Butt Crack. I had a direct line of vision from my kitchen window to his newly laid out patio where he was leaning and exposing his half naked butt. Dad? You here already? Showing yourself by using my neighbor’s ass as your vessel?

Okay, it’s bad enough when you see your neighbor’s crack or your dad’s, but when you are a woman and the same thing is happening to you, it’s frightening. Every single pair of pants falling down my butt! This is unnatural. It’s downright supernatural. Happy Father’s Day to the dads out there, and Happy Birthday to my dad, up in heaven, or down in that other place, leaning over, no doubt, with his angel/devil trousers drooping down his ass, and channeling me.

Cindy Zelman

My (World) Cup Does Not Runneth Over

For those of you who count yourself amongst my Facebook friends and are, as such, subjected to my multiple daily status updates, you know that I was summarily underwhelmed by the supposedly supreme world event known as the 2010 FIFA World Cup. I posted my first rant after the disappointing USA vs. England match and haven't let up since, posting the YouTube link to Letterman's "Top Ten Reasons Americans Don't Like Soccer" last night.

As a sports fan and an American, I initially bought into the hype. The USA vs. England match was touted for weeks and by the time the kick-off or tip-off or whatever they call it in soccer rolled around (pun most definitely intended) last Saturday at 2:30pm ET, I was fired up and ready for my underdog Americans to put a revolutionary ass-whoopin’ on those boys with notoriously bad teeth. (Calm down all you folks over in the UK; sweeping generalizations and the perpetuation of stereotypes are permitted for comedic effect.) What I got instead was 90+ minutes of the most disappointing and anticlimactic sporting event since Mike Tyson knocked our Peter “Hurricane” McNeeley in less than 90 seconds. As you no doubt know by now, the game ended in a 1-1 draw, aka a fancy word for ”tie”. That is, no one won and no one lost, kind of like in U-5 soccer.

After witnessing that disappointing yawn-fest, I find myself having a difficult time getting into a tournament governed by rules which would permit such an atrocity. I mean, this is a HUGE tournament. People wait four years for this thing to come around, paint themselves in their home country’s colors, take a month off from work to attend, and have been known to beat each other to a pulp over the outcome. This is supposed to be the Super Bowl, World Series, Stanley Cup, and NBA Championship all rolled into one (again, pun most definitely intended).

Imagine going through the entire NFL season and heading into the Super Bowl. As luck would have it, your favorite team is matched up against your most loathed rival in the opposing conference. You eat, sleep, and dream football for two weeks. You trash talk. You RSVP “No” to your own child’s wedding because you don’t want to miss the game. FOX runs slickly produced commercials ballyhooing the game and you get a little more charged up each time you see one. You have your snacks lined up, your friends gathered around the 52” HD set to rally ‘round the team, and your sports-averse partner has agreed to leave the house so that you may bask in glory that is hardcore, hard-fought, and hard-won competition.

The teams scuffle through the first half to a 0-0 score. “Great defensive battle!” you tell yourself as you replenish the beer cooler and re-fill the dip bowls at half-time, “THIS is what championship football is all about!!”

Defense continues strong as each team manages only a field goal in the second half. Time is running out on a 3-3 score. Your team is driving down the field, almost within your kicker’s striking distance when you notice that the game clock has expired. But wait, the ref is winding his arm indicating that he’s putting more time on the clock, albeit a mystery amount of time to which only he is privy. You watch a few more plays, your team getting closer and closer and then….*SHRILL WHISTLE SOUND* Game over. It’s a 3-3 tie and there is no winner. Thanks for watching; everyone can go wash off their face paint now.

How disappointed are you in that moment? Exactly.

And the world dares call this “soccer” thing a sport! *hrumph!!!*

As a patriot and general sports fan, I won’t say that I won’t continue to follow the US Men’s team as they work their way through the bracket. While I don’t plan to take a day of vacation to watch the conveniently scheduled 10a.m. ET game against Slovenia or Slovakia or SloGin-esburg on Friday, I’ll likely TiVo it and zip through to the “exciting” parts, such that they are. But just as I don’t follow luge or water polo once the Olympics come to an end, you shan’t find me following soccer once the FIFA World Cup comes to an end. Heck if the guys who make the rules of the game don't care who wins, why should I? I know there were high hopes that the USA vs. England match-up would make soccer fans out of us ugly Americans, but unless they unleash a few of those lions or tigers or some other creature native to South Africa onto the pitch to add a little zest to the game (and give the weenies who play it a REAL reason to roll around on the ground acting like they're dying after the tiniest bump or tap), I do believe the world will be waiting another four years to take their shot at making us believe that futbol’ is anywhere near as great a game as football.

(Note: Yes, I know that in the championship contest of the FIFA tournament the game won't be permitted to end in a tie so spare me your detailed explanation of the round-robin tournament-type format and the associated point system.  I'm a girl, but I do "get" it.  I just don't like it.)

Candy Parker

What I Learned from My Last Relationship

One of the great things about getting older is that over the years, if you’re at all self-aware and take the time to process through your experiences, you grow a little bit wiser with each mistake made, each heart broken, each tear that falls. On the heels of the disintegration (or perhaps “implosion” might be a better word) of my most recent relationship, a nine-year rollercoaster ride lined with carnival mirrors, I realize I’ve learned an invaluable lesson:

I should only date women who work for small companies.

That’s right, going forward all my dating will be what they call in the government procurement arena a “small business set aside,” meaning only women who work for small businesses will be eligible for award, so to speak. Sounds crazy, I know, but read on and you’ll get where I’m coming from on this.

We all know the drill, the post-break up heartache, that period of time when every song is a reminder of better days or when every restaurant you go to is one of “your places” filled with memories of celebrations or hot date nights. That’s all bad enough to cope with, right? Well, try adding to the mix a scenario where virtually every show you watch on television – whether it be a baseball game, a CNN broadcast, or an episode of a thriller like “24” – includes either a commercial for or a product made by the company for whom your ex works? It’s doubly difficult when said ex was a workaholic and the company name was a mantra in your household.

My ex, who we’ll call “Lisa” since that’s her name and because it'll be tremendously upsetting to her to see it in print here should she ever stumble upon it, works for a Fortune 100 company; a huge ass technology company for whom she excels as a national sales rep. As if the memories associated with nine years of music, venues, and knickknacks weren’t enough to keep me in the doldrums, I can’t get through one night of television without seeing her company logo, tagline, products (particularly hi-tech phones or state-of-the art HD video cameras), or commercials for her major client (“America’s Most Reliable Network”) flashing across my screen.

So now perhaps you understand why I think that going forward I’ll stick with women who work for tiny little companies no one has ever heard of – and about which I’ll never have to hear ever again should our relationship go awry. I suppose that’ll rule out a lot of McDonald’s regional managers, auto company assembly line workers, and Walmart greeters, but I’m willing to take the loss on that just to be able to get through my favorite television shows without a box of tissues on my lap. Hey, you process through your relationships YOUR way, and I’ll process through mine MY way. ;-)

The human network, indeed...

Candy Parker

Dear Straight Women: Stop Kissing Each Other

The growing epidemic of straight women kissing each other is getting more annoying every day. Sadly, during the MTV Movie awards last night, which I didn’t watch because it’s three hours of complete suck, Sandra Bullock and Scarlett Johansen entered the ranks of attention seeking straight women. Sandy had a huge shock with the Jesse James white supremacist cheating thing, so I’ve decided to give her a free pass. Johansen gets a free pass too, because, boobs. But they did inspire me to write an open letter to straight women about this out of control epidemic.

Dear Straight Women,

I get it - you are hot; your friend is hot; you’re so sexually open! It’s so great when guys pay attention to you for doing it! Oooo you are so liberal and yet so not wearing Birkenstocks and would never actually go ‘down there,” but still so liberal and hot!

I wish that all lesbians were as hot as you and not plaid-wearing motorcycle mamas who hate men and use Natty Light as lube. IF ONLY REAL LESBIANS WERE AS HOT AS YOU! I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU AND, YES, WHEN YOU ARE DRUNK AND SAD BECAUSE NO GUYS LIKE YOU I WILL BE THERE TO TELL YOU THAT YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL NO MATTER WHAT THEY SAY. Xtina Aguilera style.

However, maybe you don’t have to kiss each other to prove some crazy point about how hot you are. Maybe you can just try being yourself to get attention and not try to get boys to look at you by exploiting and trivializing my sexual orientation.

Xoxo,
Natasia

Natasia Langfelder

The Selfless Act of Swearing off Skinny for Bikini Season

I hate Bikini Season. Hate it with the passion of the Christ. But it’s here, just like it is every Memorial Day Weekend. This year I am extra under-prepared. I haven’t worked out consistently in a month and I’ve been eating everything my chubby little heart desires.

A tub of icing? Yes, please, and pass the sprinkles.

Mozzerella cheeseballs floating in a vat of olive oil? Even better! And I’ll need a loaf of white Wonderbread to go with it.

A bottle of wine? Sure, but what will YOU drink?

The point is, I should probably stop before my cellulite reaches a point where it will scare small children or take over a small Japanese fishing village, blob style. If it were winter, I wouldn’t have to. I could throw on some sweatpants and get back to my Double Cheeseburger McDonalds Meal.

As I get older, it gets harder and harder to starve myself in the name of attractiveness. I’ve been in a long term relationship for about five years now and she has to love me even if I weigh 500 pounds, dammit. At this point, I’m weighing my vanity against my hunger and sadly, I’m just not vain enough. I know! How did that HAPPEN? By being fat this season, I’m letting other girls, possibly single girls, look better by comparison. Maybe one of these girls will find love. Maybe she will fall in love and give birth to the future President of America! So really my not being in shape for Bikini Season is a charitable act that will help others! I wonder if that makes my grocery bill tax deductible?

Natasia Langfelder

My Three White Hairs

Yes the title of this post is a reference to the classic television show “My Three Sons” and no, I’ve never seen a single episode of it. But let’s get down to business.

I’ve had three white hairs since I was 16. At the time, I liked them. I named them Schlameel, Schlamazel and Jo. When I was 16, Nick at Nite played a lot of Laverne and Shirley. And Jo is named after Jo from “Little Women”, not gay “Facts of Life” Jo. I was actually more into Blair. Anywho, these white hairs were expected. My aunt on my dad’s side had started going grey at 16 and I was relieved that these three were the only ones. Also, I like to think that I wore my white hairs ironically, kind of like, pre-hipster ironic.

Schlameel, Schlamazel and Jo continued to be the only white hairs in my life until my 26th birthday last month. All of a sudden, I’ve been finding a new white hair every day. A tiny little reminder of my slow march to old fat-assery. These hairs aren’t even in a place where they can surreptitiously co-exist with me. They sit on top of my head and loudly declare themselves, like freaking assholes. I really hate them. I miss the days when it was just the four of us. Now I feel like my three white hairs invited all their friends and acquaintances over to my house because they were bored with me. Those little whores totally betrayed me.

Basically, the women on in my father’s family have been grey from their early 20’s and my mother’s family has been dying their hair since their late 20’s. You do the math - I’m screwed.

Natasia Langfelder

The Mixed Bag of Mothers' Day

For the last 20 years, Mothers’ Day has been a mixed bag here in the Parker household, a bewildering blend of obligation and elation, dejection and reflection, sadness and gladness, as I mark the occasion as both a daughter and a mother.

As a daughter, I do my Mothers’ Day card shopping in the Shoebox Greetings section at Hallmark, finding the more staid selections disingenuous.

“Happy Mothers’ Day, Mom”

*open card*

“Thank you for not using spit to clean my face when I was a kid.”

That’s about all the sentiment I can muster when selecting a Mothers’ Day card, for while ‘tis true I owe my life to my mother in the most literal sense, ‘tis equally true that any acknowledgement of Mothers’ Day on my part stems from a sense of duty rather than from any deep feeling of love and respect. My mom made “mistakes” too numerous, too selfish, and too disturbing to enumerate in what purports to be a humor blog, but suffice it to say, they don’t dispense Mother of the Year Awards to mothers who leave their seven- and six-year-olds home alone overnight in favor of spending the night with a boyfriend. While my tales of balancing on a chair to cook dinner for my younger sister and myself do make for interesting storytelling, it’s not exactly the stuff after which June Cleaver was modeled.

As a Mom myself now, though, this is also a day where I reminisce about every step in my 20-year-old son Kevin’s life, from conception to the moment he left for work shortly before 10a.m. this morning. This is the stuff of which the more cheerful reflections are made – the eight months of 24/7 “morning sickness” which resulted in my being one of the few women in the world who never actually gained an ounce while pregnant (Yes, as a mom, you find joy even in eight months of regurgitation once that wondrous little creature comes into your life); the photo albums replete with snapshots of my perfectly clad little man, back in the days when I had jurisdiction over his wardrobe; and the countless weekday evenings and weekend early mornings spent on the baseball field or at the ice hockey rink, the latter at which, as an eight-year-old, Kevin once remarked, “I don’t need to carry my equipment bag; I have people who do that for me.” Those “people” were his father and me and we were more than happy to oblige our little Gretsky-in-the-making.

That’s not to say there weren’t some challenges along the way. Getting Kevin through high school remains one of my greatest accomplishments to date and I’ll be happy if he gets through college on the six-year plan.  And we've had our share of shouting matches, the inevitable clashes which mark the late teen years when, as a parent, you're seemingly no longer needed for anything other than financial support and your son becomes all-knowing and omnipotent (in his own mind).  But overall, Kevin's a good kid – kind, smart, witty, and inexplicably handsome.

Today, despite his night owl proclivities, which, let’s face it, he gets honestly, he set his alarm early so he could have breakfast with me before heading off to work a 12-hour day parking cars for the rich folks who’ll be dining “at the club” today for Mothers’ Day. In some uncanny way, I don’t mind not having him around, as any regret for being without his companionship for the day is replaced by an enormous sense of pride, knowing that he’ll be making the day more pleasurable for countless other mothers who are out celebrating the holiday.

I hope all those Moms spending the day at Trump National Golf Club have their day made just a little bit brighter by the handsome blonde-haired, blue-eyed young gentleman who’s working valet parking today. While you may see him simply as the polite valet who’s fetching your car post-brunch, I’m very proud to call that young man my son.

(P.S. – Be sure to tip!)

Candy Parker