An Open Letter to Our Moms.

Dear Mom:

For the love of God, it is time to clean out your kitchen pantry. I'm pretty sure you are never going to "dive in" to that can of minced clams that has been sitting there since 1978. When we come for a visit, please don't serve my kids the Frosted Flakes with the "Back to the Future" Michael J. Fox action figure inside. If you haven't heard, cereal can occasionally go stale and, after sitting on the shelf for 20 years, can possibly be deadly. 

While we're at it, let's talk about your refrigerator. When the ice cream starts to resemble the arctic shelf and, if you reach in for a scoop you are in danger of slicing your hand open on a sharp ice-rock, it's time to dump it. Perhaps it might also be a good idea to store your dog's suppositories someplace other than the butter compartment. And lastly, it's amazing those eggs haven't hatched into some mutant chicken-monster, considering they've been in there since the dawn of time.

Love you!

-Your Daughters.

I Hate Mondays

I had a tee shirt when I was nine that said "I hate Mondays" with a kitten on it, I literally had a epileptic  seizure in the store until my mom bought it for me. The tee shirt was somewhat of a foreshadowing for my future career of straight commission sales.

I am fiercely competitive, aggressive, and never satisfied. All good things in a sales job, but also qualities that will make you crazy. Despite being in sales for going on 14 years I am still constantly in a tizzy of stress. Honestly if ludes were still legally available I would probably try to score some. I live in my car going on calls and have more than a handful of times I have driven off from the bank drive thru with the plastic money container in my car or driven away from a drive thru after paying for my food but not actually getting it. My commute is an hour each way and sometimes I will drive in silence with my mouth open in catching flies mode dreaming of a much simpler time when Val and I would sing Prince's "Raspberry Beret" into a mic with a cassette recorder and then listen back to it and laugh hysterically at our tone deaf voices.  Of course we always had a little stolen gin from one of our parents liquor cabinets to get our Prince party started. In our defense we lived in Tucson, AZ and since we didn't golf or play bridge we were seriously hard up for entertainment.

I was thrown into the pitfalls of my career early on. Only 24 I was clueless and would wear mini skirts with giant safety pins on the side, tights and high heel loafers to work, my boss gave me a Come to Jesus on my wardrobe and off to Ann Taylor I went. I was young but I was determined not to fail, I cold called a copier company (Xanadu) which would soon become my largest client.

My client at Xanadu was in her 50' s and I would soon learn she was also completely psycho and jealous of my youth. She was also really into Jimmy Buffet (beware of the psycho Parrot Heads). Despite our close business relationship and my super service she would call my boss and complain about me and then call me the next day and insist that Daddy Warbucks and I come to their house that weekend for "Cheeseburgers In Paradise." She would tell me I was so green and that she wanted to meet me for coffee when I was 50. I wanted to say, "Bitch, when I'm 50 you will be crapping in your pants"

I sold her a sponsorship of a huge Olympic breakfast sponsored by our company where there would be an appearance by Michael Johnson the former "fastest man in the world" (and based on a previous meeting I had with him, quite possibly "prick" could be added to that title.)
30 minutes after he was supposed to be there, my manager grabbed himself a huge plate of pancakes, I was flop sweating and told him I couldn't believe he was eating nor could Parrot Head who was giving me a huge "where the hell is Michael Johnson hairy eyeball."

The fastest man in the world never did show to the ginormous breakfast in his honor. Luckily there were some other D-list Olympic athletes there to distract, although they were sitting in front of giant photo scrims of the worlds-fastest-prick's face. Two weeks post this disaster and continued abuse from my client she was transferred to Florida of all places and I never heard from her again. Perhaps she joined some David Koresh-like Jimmy buffet cult.

A year after the Xanadu incident I had hit my stride and bought myself a three series red BMW with a spoiler, to this day that is my favorite car I have owned. Daddy W and I lived downtown in a loft so I was constantly lost trying to find appts on the other side of town. On one of the busiest highways I whipped out my mapsco, which I naturally tried to read while going about 30 mph on a 70mph highway. A silver much more expensive Beamer was as close to my tail as possible and soon honking at me over and over. We both exited and stopped at a red light - him behind me as I waited for the green light to turn yellow so that he would miss the light. Of course he honked like crazy and went completely ape shit when I did this, running the red light. At this point he was on the side of me yelling profanities, I pulled my window down called him, and I quote "A doucebag dickweed" followed by "fuckstick" all while giving the best finger I could arm fully extended out.

We both pulled into the same parking lot and parked in opposite directions I was getting a little worried he might confront me however he ended up  parking far away from where I was. I grabbed my media kit took a deep breath and asked for "Steve Hancock." The assistant led me into his office and we locked eyes. Blood rushed to my head and I briefly threw up in my mouth. Steve Hancock, my new prospect major insurance company client, was indeed "fuckstick."
With a completely flushed face and no eye contact I tried to pitch my product and pretend our road rage exchange did not really happen. Steve just listened and stared at me, I thought he might possibly hit a button under his desk and have security remove me. He called in "John" to meet me saying he was also in marketing. I raced out of there when done and I think I may have momentarily blacked out, all the while knowing John was listening to the story of that crazy bitch on the road. Needless to say I didn't make the sale.

Embarrassingly, this last incident happened recently. My manager and I went to see an existing client whom I really liked but talks incredibly slow and loves to tell stories. An hour into his story,  I had completely zoned out on his War and Peace story. He had been talking about the beauty of his hometown in Iowa and said how he loves the four seasons. I missed the entire first part and said, "Oh yes I love that hotel too." My boss said, " Umm Parker, he is talking about the actual four seasons like fall/summer. "

These are just a few perils and one of the more positive aspects of my job is that no day is ever the same and you never know what to expect. You might even get to release some stress and flip off a client.

-Parker

What Happens in Vegas...

If you've ever seen the movie "Indecent Proposal" you'll recall a young, poor couple (Demi Moore and Woody Harrelson) who take their last few dollars and head to Vegas in hopes of hitting it big. Before we were married, Tom and I used to travel to Las Vegas a few times a year (with our hard earned cash - his from bartending and mine from cocktailing,) in order to hit the craps table. At this point in our lives, pretty much all of our money was discretionary -  no mortgage, property taxes, big car payments or kids. Tom used to spend most of his cash on heavy metal concert tickets and paying for rounds of drinks at the bar at T.G.I. Fridays. I had a wicked collection of lacy mini-dresses and L.A. Gear hightops. 

With no real responsibilities (aside from school and our jobs) we could up and take off for Vegas at a moments notice. It was on one of these jaunts that things went horribly wrong. We took off on a Friday morning, driving through the desert in his Honda CRX, with a reservation at the Mirage, which at the time was the nicest and newest hotel on the Vegas strip. We had planned to stay just one night and between the two of us had approx. $300 in cold hard cash to gamble with.

Despite our love for alcoholic beverages, we rarely drank while gambling - especially when playing craps. I have enough trouble adding without using my extremities to count, so adding alcohol to the picture would most certainly be a determent to my gambling expertise. In actuality, we were both novices, but Tom knew a lot more than me. We began gambling early in the evening and by 10:00 pm we were up $900. It might as well have been $600,000 for as excited as we were. $900 would pay for 5 months of Tom's share of the rent - or, better yet, approximately 17 new tight minis (plus a new pair of LA Gears) for me! 

Had we been smart, we would have stopped, had a steak and lobster dinner (which you could get for $12.95 back then) and called it a night. But we were blinded by our new-found wealth, and decided that our streak of luck was here to stay. I ordered a soda from the cocktail waitress as I watched my "high roller" boyfriend continue to win. When she came back with my drink, I generously handed her a $2 bill from our stash o' cash. Within minutes, Tom's luck began to change. By the end of the hour it was gone - all $900. Tom somehow discovered that I had given away the $2 bill and suddenly it was I  who was responsible for our twist of fate as, unbeknownst to me, that had been our "Lucky" $2 bill. Like an addict who is all out of his stash, Tom began to become irrational and angry, certain that if I hadn't given away the whopping and oh-so-rare $2 bill, we would be rolling in dough. I reacted accordingly, by crying hysterically and running dramatically through the casino -hightailing to the nearest bar.

Unfortunately, with no money to gamble, or even enough to purchase a Fuzzy Navel, I sat alone in one of the Mirage's bar, while a Japenese cover band did a hideous rendition to Sir Mix A-Lots "I Like Big Butts (and I Cannot Lie)." I am not kidding when I say that it came out sounding: "I Rike Rig Rutts and I Rannot Rie."  

Passerbyers most certainly would have thought I'd just lost my entire family in a plane crash as I sobbed in front of the cover band, tears falling on the massive shoulder pads of my red leather jacket. Unlike "Indecent Proposal" there was no handsome millionaire to save the day by offering Tom a million dollars to sleep with me. I eventually made my way back to the room, knowing that our gambling hey-day was over, but relieved that we had left a safety-net of $100 for gas money and our trip home. When I opened the door, I expected to see Tom, waiting with open arms, all apologies. I literally gasped when I saw that not only was Tom gone, but so was our "nest egg": He had left and taken with him the hundred dollar bill.

I turned in for the night - tossing and turning as the hours passed and Tom was still missing. He arrived at approximately 4 a.m. with a 5 o'clock shadow and exactly $0 to his name. No hugs were exchanged. 

Honestly I don't know how we made it home. I do remember reaching down into the seats and counting the pennies in the CRX's change bin in order for us to find enough to buy a Carl's Jr. egg sandwich on the long, silent drive home. 

Tom and I are still together, happily married, but have not gone on a trip to Vegas since. 

-Val

"Reality Roundup"

I tried to watch the Democratic convention the other night, but was gagging through most of it (I am a staunch conservative while Val leans a little more to the left - we somehow remain best friends). I was especially disgusted when Hillary said that John McCain had claimed that "women shouldn't get equal pay for equal work." Umm, I am pretty sure he never said that Hillary.

What I did notice was that even in High Definition, Hillary looks so much better than she did in the 90's. Seriously, a stylist has for sure gotten a hold of her - perhaps Ken Paves? Some serious money has also been spent on Chelsea who had major Breck Girl locks. I think they may have even had her back lit. After zoning out on Chelsea's new highlights and wondering when in the hell her hair got better than mine, I decided to check out "Exiled" - the latest reality show on MTV.

"Exiled" is a show where they take the bratty kids from "Sweet Sixteen" (you know, the ones who always got a BMW and a visit from Jay Z at their over-the-top obnoxious birthday parties) and send them off to a third-world country to experience how the "other half" lives. Val told me that she had watched it with her kids and was totally hooked. Within minutes of watching I began to get angry with MTV because I knew this show, just like “The Hills” is completely staged, but still I proceeded.

Once the girl arrived in Africa, she had to help the tribe make a make a hut out of cow dung and walk 13 miles to get some cows water, (she passed on the dung building). She also watched a woman kill a goat and eat its fresh kidney. I couldn't’t help but think,  someone get that woman a ticket to Fear Factor - she could kiss her dung hut goodbye.

I am pretty sure even in my adult life where I have to work really hard for all I have (although a bit spoiled by Daddy Warbucks) I would not in million years touch a steaming pile of dung and I would have hurled having to watch someone eat a raw goat kidney. And, while I would attempt the 13 mile walk, I would have started hallucinating after five miles while talking to myself and wearing my pants on my head.

I also noticed there is new show on MTV called Paris’ BFF because I am sure the winner of this show is going to be Paris’ BFF forever, uggh.

Next on to Bravo (the home of all good things) for “Million Dollar Listing.” All I can say is I can only hope and pray the housing market has sent these douche bags into a tail spin. The guy with the Liza Minnelli hair kills me. His hair gets flatter to his head every episode as if a bucket of water was just dumped on it. I keep hoping a hurricane like gust of wind will occur sending his hair and all its product in the other direction, making him run in horror and hide his face. I am also pretty sure his vapid girlfriend thinks she is on  “The Hills” and does not yet realize she is on a different show. One of the “realtors” sold a home and made a $300k commission and said “whoa that was stressful” to which I yelled at the TV “because making $300k shouldn't’t make you stressed.”  I guess after making $300k he figured he could spring for a shiteous red bow that he placed around the new owners home.


Mmm I wonder what goodness is on tonight?

-Parker

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Best of First Class to Hell: Waiting Tables on X......not recommended

In college I had the thrill of working at a restaurant we'll call Hennigan's in Lafayette, Louisiana. Sounds harmless enough and like your typical, 'I'm a kid in college job.' Waiting tables at Hennigan's in the Bayou, however was like being thrown into the firery pits of hell.

First, the bloody restaurant (no, I'm not English I just like to imitate Madonna sometimes) was open until 2 am and all of the toothless Freaks and Geeks came out to eat their Brownie Bottom Pie at ten till two.

Perhaps the worst part was that at the time (very early 90's) there were only Cajun restaurants in Lafayette, including one across the street called "Possums" where people actually dined on possum and nutria (swamp rat). So if you had your fill of swamp rat and just wanted some Bottomless Nachos, you came to Hennigan's and boy did those Cajuns ever come. Don't get me wrong, I love my Cajuns but Hennigan's attracted the "my sister is a real good kisser" Cajuns.

On Friday and Saturday nights they lined up around the restaurant and would wait an hour for fried cheese with "that red sauce" (marinara), Beef Fa-Ji-Tas (fajitas), Kiss-Ka-Dillas (quesadillas), and I almost peed myself when one bright lady ordered the "Seafood Quikie" (quiche - and I'll bring that right out ma'am.) 

I waited on all types (chew and screw), a couple of a**holes that wrote "Don't Eat Yellow Snow" on a napkin next to the word "Tip", and I  became particularly fond of a couple who came in every Friday night and once heard me mutter something when I left their tables (I believe it was "Douches") and took the time to write a 2-page letter to management about what a horrible person I was. Yes, waiting tables was the pefect training for my lifelong career in outside sales.

The pinnacle of my waiting tables career happened one annoyningly sunny Sunday morning during the church rush. Like all good kids my age I had been taking Ecstasy five hours before my shift and dancing the night away in my Daisy Dukes and Zodiac boots at "King Fish" an X bar in the depths of the bayou. One time I got lost leaving the place and thought I would be found the next day slashed by the fisherman in "I Know What You Did Last Summer." Literally green in the gills, I thought I  might faint as I served people their breakfast feeling much like Tommy Lee after a Crue concert. Hennigan's had just come up with the genius idea to give each table a little green stop watch and if you didn't get your food in 15 minutes it was free. Hence the flop sweat dripping from my caterpillar eyebrows.

I knew with three minutes to spare if I could just get one table of 8 their food, I would survive the day (the a-holes had all ordered steaks as they happily clicked their stop watches). As I headed out with every plate hoisted on a tray above my head (ears still ringing from Frankie Goes To Hollywood), the tip of my tennis shoe got caught on the top step which led to my section. My knees hit the floor, elbows hit the ground, ass in the air, suspenders fallen and a sea of steaks, fried cheese and that damn red sauce lay before me. Manager not happy and the guests got their free meal (click!). 

It was at that point that I had decided 'lesson learned' (no more X before Sunday Brunch service.) A few weeks later the manager posted an article in the kitchen about X, including that one of its ingredients included rat poison (who knew?). I ditched X for good that day however I did go out and party the same night as the ill-fated Sunday X Brunch. It was college afterall.

-parker