Author Archives: Jenny from the blog

A Trip To The Zoo, Day 2

This was the first round of tests, an echo cardiogram and a heart rate monitor to wear for 24 hrs.  I was supposed to have a stress test but, I had rolled my ankle the day before while tripping over my puppy and trying not to crash into Jake on our afternoon walk/sprint.  Being that I was too frail for the stress test I did the others and rescheduled for Thursday, at this point what’s one more visit?  I am already getting hellos from the staff.

As I left the office in my workout clothes with the wires and electrodes hanging from me, I was keenly aware of the stares.  I know they weren’t thinking this is some girl who runs marathons and needs to be monitored to remain in tip-top shape, no they were thinking, “Oh, so young, so sad.“  I really wanted to announce to the office that I was 97 when I walked in and that they took me back and ’Cocooned’ me.  “Seriously, ask the nurses to peel there faces off.”

Instead, I walked out with my little 24hr card, a log for episodes or stressors. Funnily enough, my father in law called the minute I walked in the door.  He wanted to know if I could pick up and store his bed in our garage storage because my husband told him, “no problem.”  This is the room which is now an office, which had so little space, we had to give away our own extra bed to fit in the desk.  Now, I am set up to be the unwavering, nay saying bad guy.  “Can you excuse me a second, I want to write something down.“

Father in law:  “What”

“I’m wearing this heart monitor and I’m wondering if this phone call is affecting it.“

This went on throughout the day as I kept a mini diary of my moment to moment stuff.

1PM:  Have a great idea for an article.

1:45PM:  First round of carpool, pick up 3 wound-up 1st graders and listen to them argue over which seat they get and who gets to play the Nintendo DS.

2:15PM:  Puppy drags me and Jake around neighborhood despite our best efforts to drag him.

2:45PM:  Second round of carpool to pick up Ryan.

3PM:  Have a playdate for both kids, but realize Jake has a fever, so I had to bring him home.

3:15PM:  Still listening to Jake crying and telling me I’m the…oh, what did he call me?  That’s right, “the worst Mommy ever.”

3:30PM:  Confess to being the ‘worst Mommy ever,’ just to make it stop.  Then I make a list of all the other mommies he could go live with.  This is followed by a quick “You’re not the worst mommy.  You’re the best mommy.”  To which I respond, “and don’t you forget it.”  How quickly the threat of giving him away works.

4PM:  Double shot of espresso.

4:20PM:  Poop.

5PM:  Clean puppy poop and pee out of my new carpet.

5:30PM:  Try to walk dog with Ryan on her bike, crying that her chin strap, which is barely touching her neck, is too tight.  Jake on his Ripstick, a mile ahead where I can’t see him, won’t answer my incessant screaming down the street.

6:15PM:  Ask kids 37 times what they want for dinner, while listing available menu items…  To no response.

6:30PM:  My children are melting down, hitting each other and then taking turns telling on each other in indescribably high pitched whines that are making my ears revolt and my puppy try to hang himself.

7PM:  Call them in to have the turkey and cheese sandwiches I have made for them only to hear,  “Turkey I didn’t ask for Turkey.”  “Yea, we don’t want turkey.  This turkey is yuck!”

7:10PM Mark walks in the door and goes to our room to change.

7:15PM Put out peanut butter and jelly for Jake and a grilled cheese cut in the shape of a heart for Ryan.

7:30PM:  Put out just peanut butter for Jake and a waffle cut in the shape of a heart for Ryan.  “Kitchen’s closed.”

7:31PM:  Check gage to see if I’m having a heart attack.

7:32PM:  Mark reenters and starts bugging me about calling Verizon and about insurance.

7:37PM:  Manage to escape conversation to give Ryan her bath and get Jake in the shower.

7:40-8:10PM:  Play naked Barbie’s with Ryan in the bath.  Ryan is all the pretty girls and I have the choice of being the boy, the homely faux Barbie with cut hair, or the queer fluorescent green sea horse.  Thanks Ryan.

8:11PM:  Beg pruney Ryan to get out of the bath and end up threatening to take a star from her star chart, which I actually only pretend to keep.

8:15PM:  Kids are in pj’s and have managed to sneak into my room for some late night cartoon network.

8:20-8:30PM:  The time it takes to bribe, threaten, yell, and beat them into submission.

8:31PM:  Family race into bedrooms.

8:32PM:  Ryan is crying, because someone did something she either did not like or does not allow, during the family race.

8:33PM:  Do-over of the family race, adhering to Ryan’s strict guidelines and allowing her to win.

8:34PM:  Mark walks back to our room thinking the night is done, and turns on sports.  If there is no new sports he actually rewatches some game on ESPN classic that he already knows the outcome of.  WTF?

8:35PM:  Ryan begs me to read 3 stories which I shrewdly negotiate down to 2.  Once I’m halfway into 1, Jake slinks in trying to be unnoticed and slyly gets in bed with us.

8:40PM:  I finish the first story and then tell Jake to read the next one as I slink, trying to be unnoticed, out to the laundry room.  I like this trick, it gets him to read and gives me a one book reprieve.

8:50PM:  I tell Jake he must go and he then begs me to come into his room after I leave Ryan’s.  Why not?  I require no personal time.  Nope all need it an hour to plug myself in to a wall socket and I’m recharged for the morning.

9PM:  I now find myself singing 2 songs of Ryan’s choosing, doing a tickle monster, and two kiss attacks.  What can I say, she’s really cute and she does a great quivering lip.

9:10PM:  Bring Ryan a milk in a sippy cup, as requested.

9:11PM:  Give her one more big kiss, as requested.

9:12PM:  Take the toys that are scaring her out of her room.

9:13PM:  Fix her pillow.

9:14PM:  Threaten to take more imaginary stars away.

9:20PM:  Inform Ryan that this is “the absolute last time I am coming in.”  That’s right, even if you give me the eyes and the lip, I know how to put my foot down!

9:25PM:  Go into to see Jake who is passed out.

9:30PM:  Allow puppy to drag me around the block, despite my best efforts to drag him.  Watch him relentlessly bark at a black trash bag that someone has left in the swail.  I then threaten to take away stars from his imaginary star chart.

9:45PM:  Run in to tell Mark, we should have sex just to fuck with the Doctor, but he is fast asleep.  Yea well, I’ll be fast asleep soon.  Right after I do the dishes and straighten up, and check on my kids, and wash-up, and brush my teeth, and floss, and take my vitamins, and play some kind of word game on FB with people I haven’t spoken to  in 18years to remind me I have a brain.

Day 2 in the bag, stay tuned… day 3’s a doozie.

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A Trip To The Zoo, I Mean The Cardiologist

In the ongoing saga of low blood pressure I found myself at the cardiologist 4 times last week.

Day One:  Upon arriving it does not take a carni age guesser to know that I am at least a hundred years younger than the rest of the crowd.  I am also in the minority that is not connected to an iv or oxygen tank.

The truth is, I happen to be in a rush and would selfishly love to be the first in.  Selflessly, I don’t want to go in before any one of these people who could clearly use a once over and someone to check for a pulse.  As I am unsettled by this thought, a woman drags herself in the door and up to the window, “I am having chest pains unlike anything I  have ever felt.  I don’t have an appointment, but can I see my Doctor?”  As it turns out she takes my appointment and thankfully so, as poor Estelle is sitting across from me clutching her heart and breathing erratically.   I proactively position myself directly parallel so that I can catch her if necessary.

Nurse:  “Morty”

As they come out calling for other people, I’m thinking please call in Estelle before she codes.

Nurse 2:  “Phil”

Nurse 1:  “Estelle”

Nurse 2:  “Bea”

Nurse 1:  “Saul”

The receptionist who is joking with all the patients as if it might be there last day, pokes her head out, “Mr. Dale are you gonna give me any more trouble today young man?  Oh, and Mrs. Isenman, he’s getting to you.“

“I’ve been here over an hour is that normal?“

“Nope, he’s usually right on time, but there was a problem with the patient before you and we’ve already had an ambulance here once this morning and it‘s only 10 0‘clock“

Nurse 3:  “Joan”

Mark calls to see how the appointment went.
“I’m still waiting.“

“Oh, you are?  Are you filling out all the medical forms or are you just waiting to be called?“

“No Mark, they’re ready for me, I’m just so thrown by these forms.  So many tough questions, like my name and my age.  Then there are some real zingers like my SSN.  It’s like taking the SAT’s all over again.  They’re begging me to finish up and I’m trying to convince them that I’m eligible for the untimed version.

Nurse 2:  “Sandy”

Look I know he’s trying.  I know he was hoping I would be out so he could check it off his ‘things to remember list,’ and I know he asked that ridiculous question because he wants to seem caring, but I can’t help myself sometimes.

Nurse 1:  “Jenny”

By now the hypoglycemia that they found last week during my 5 hr. glucose test is acting up and the nurse goes to get me an apple juice, that they have for “such occasions.”  “Thanks, but really there’s no need to make such a fuss.”  Did I really say fuss?  See what an hour and a half out there did to me?  “By the way how is Estelle?”

Nurse:  “Who?”

The cardiologist Dr. Seth was, thank goodness, is not what I was expecting.  He was a referral from my, ‘roll your own’ Jamaican Doctor and I was thinking Seth might just be his first name, and that he may or may not have a surf board and that he may or may not have a medical license.  Luckily, he is Arcaad Seth, an Indian gentleman.  Look, I saw “Slumdog,” so I have a birds eye view into his upbringing.  As it turns out my sympathy for his being  part of a panhandling ring of blind singers does little for our deeper connection.  He roboticly set me up for a series of tests to “rule out the possibilities” and sternly warns me not to drive much saying, “You could hit a school bus filled with children.“

“Thank you for that.  Just telling me would not have been enough.  Did the past 30 minutes with me not give you any indication that I have some excessive worrying issues?  Maybe when I was telling you that when I yawn sometimes it feels like the blood gets stuck in my neck, and you snickered under your breath, like I was insane?

Wow, and that was just day one.  Stay Tuned.

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Are We All Pathetic Or Is It Just Me?

Example 1)  This morning’s alternating AOL headlines went something like this:  Car Dealers are desperate, month’s best deals. ‘Dancing’ reveals star replacement, see who it is. Part-time job market picking up, there may be hope. Obama to reverse stem cell policy.  Are you kidding me?  There is a replacement on dancing with the stars?  All of these crazy things are going on in politics the economy and world events and I’m pissed cause I have to wait for them to rotate around so I can find out who it is.

Example 2)  Last week I got in a blow out fight with Mark.  The kind that is so frustrating you want to throw a remote at your husbands head.  I was holding a bag of oyster crackers at the time, my favorite salty low blood pressure fix, so I threw those instead.  The bag whacked him in the chest and they exploded out like fireworks.

“I have to go get Jake,”  I yelled as I turned back to see him angrily picking them up off the floor.

I jumped in my car, having left the conversation unfinished.  I was seething.  All I could think was, ‘I bet he is mixing the oyster crackers tainted by our overly puppy peed on carpet with the good ones that are still in the bag.  He sucks.  This is why I can’t stand him, he would never take the extra second to throw the contaminated ones in the trash, with consideration for the joy that those little salty devils give me in my time of sodium deprivation.  No, why would he show such thoughtfulness?

When I got back he had picked up my daughter from our neighbors and helped her draw a picture for me.  He called me in to see it.  I went, but only after checking the pantry to find an almost full bag of ruined oyster crackers.  “Fucker.”

Well, you be the judge.  Is it just me or all we all pathetic?

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Good Housekeeping Gives Suburban Jungle It’s Seal Of Approval…finally

Below is an article from Goodhousekeeping.com
Notice who’s representin’ the Suburban Mom?  Yours truly.  “Props to me”… wait I sound too urban for my title.  “Oh, with respect to my most recent publicity, I gladly accept your accolades.”  That’s better.
Jen Singer, whoever you are, you are my new BFF 4-ever and I don’t say that often, thank g-d.
Urban, Suburban and Rural Mom Blogs Worth the Trip
March 4, 2009 at 12:59 PM by Jen Singer | comment

HorseshoesI’ve said it before: My mini-van is where toys go to die. Also, mittens, empty water bottles and shin guards. While my experience might be decidedly suburban, I’ll bet most moms could relate to it no matter where they live.

That’s why I like to check out what’s happening with mom bloggers who live in various places across our fine country, suburban, yes, but also urban and rural. Here are three of the best:

Suburban Jungle (http://www.suburbanjungle.net/) Jenny Isenman, a.k.a. “Jenny from the Blog,” says she finds “the humor in the everyday and it keeps me sane. That and I live in a one story house. So every time I jump, I consider it an opportunity to clean up the toys in the yard.” She writes about life in suburbia, and how she feels she needs an > English-to-Starbucks dictionary. She confesses she’s been addicted to sleep as long as she can remember, so you can imagine what she felt like when her toddler asked her at 2 a.m.: “If a dragon falls in a fire what would happen?” (She decided the dragon would be fine thanks to its thick skin.) Whether it’s her friend’s botched Botox (“the phenomenon I call the “Evil Eyebrow”), or her kids’ penchant for words that describe bodily functions (“their Beavis and Butthead phase”), Jenny from the Blog reports from the jungle that is suburbia.

City Mama ( http://citymama.typepad.com/citymama/) Stefania Pomponi Butler’s blog says the writer/producer/blogger “lives in Silicon Valley, California with her husband (and his pile of laundry), their two impossibly cute (and very loud) girls, and about 2,649 plastic horses.” Recently, she warned some Internet bullies that their moms are on Facebook, and she even threw a virtual shower for fellow blogger, Tanis Miller. Stefania, who’s “always cooking something up,” writes often about culinary issues, offering up recipes, reviews and advice on everything from great sauce pans to the perfect pear. She blogged about a photo shoot she did in L.A. which involved “strangers sticking their hands down the front of my shirt.” Ah, the glamour of a City Mama.

Confessions of a Pioneer Woman ( http://thepioneerwoman.com/) Ree Drummond is a “thirty-something ranch wife, mother of four” who writes about her “decade-long transition from spoiled city girl to domestic country wife.” My favorite part is the pictures of horses and cowboys in chaps, but there’s so much more to Ree’s blog, most of it in photos. There are shots of her family rustling the cattle (or whatever it’s called) with captions like, “I remember a day when this little girl was shorter than the calves.” She calls her husband the “Marlboro man,” and reports “There are no spas in the country.” Which is why her daughter made her own avocado facial. Her photography is wonderful, filled with endless blue skies and close-ups of unsuspecting cows. Most of all, it’s a portal to a whole different life than we have in the suburbs, a life where, Ree says, “Getting up at 4:00 a.m. can’t be high on the list of desired summer activities for the kids on our ranch, but it is what it is.”

Photo Credit: PeskyMonkey/iStock
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Want Pancakes? Have A Mammogram.

I had a mammogram this week.  I have to get one every year; though tatas are small, there is miraculously  room for fibroid cysts.  My tech went so far as to comment on my boobies, saying they’re “perfectly perky.”  Well, she said that after laughing aloud at the thought of getting my A’s to stay up on the shelf of the machine.    My tech was crass to say the least, but her outrageous inability to filter actually shifted my focus and put me at ease.

After enjoying a good chuckle at my “cute and perkies,” my tech stuck on a set of beautiful nipple markers, which are stickers with silver balls that resemble starter earrings.

“Sorry, we’re all out of fringe,” she informed me, still getting a kick out of herself.

“Don’t worry, I have some at home,” I responded, doing the same.

As it turned out, she was right to laugh. The first time on the shelf, they slipped right out. The intense squeezing actually slung-shot them back towards my body.

“What?  Did you butter those puppies?“  She asked, with a snort.

I ignored her, and rubbed my chest to stop the vibration that the ricochet had caused.

The second time she was more thorough and managed to get a couple ribs onboard, as anchors, I assume.

“Um, excuse me, is it okay that you have bones in there too?”

“Don’t worry.  They won’t break.”

Squeeze, squeeze, squeezing harder. Shelf lifting.  I raised myself onto my tippy-toes to avoid my bosoms being ripped clean off. More squeezing. CRUNCH.

“What was that, bone?”

“Alright, just one more squeeze.”

“Fine, but I think milk might come out.”

“Oh, are you breast feeding?”

“No.”

After flattening my boobs into pancakes, I felt like a cartoon victim of a falling anvil. I patiently waited for them to snap back, or for an animated squirrel to come along, stick in a tube and pump them up.There was no one.  No squirrels, or skunks, or any other well-meaning rodents came to my rescue, so I shoved them back into my sports bra.  This is what all the hype was about, what my friends are dreading? The relief of finishing the test was quickly cancelled out by the anxiety of knowing I had to wait for my results.

As I passed the waiting room, I noticed the same elderly woman shakily stick her nipple markers in a plastic baggy and into her purse, where they most likely sunk into an abyss of sucking candies, saltines, and sweet N’ low packets.

I imagined one kinky grandpa with a bottle of Viagra eagerly awaiting her return, and got a chuckle of my own.  If your boobs hang down to your knees and grandpa‘s sight isn‘t what it used to be, you might need some assistance finding your nipples.  That’s one us flat chested folk don’t have to worry about -gravity.

In the end, the findings revealed another benign cyst.  I told my body it is not allowed to create so much as a zit without my permission.  I will, however, still be at next year’s appointment in case my body disobeys my explicit instructions. I want the option of stealing nipple markers in about 70 years.

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The Water Retention Is Diluting My Sanity

How to retain fluids and bloat up, FAST cont…

WEEK 6

My fingers are so fat, I had to dictate this. I also had to order one of those large number phones for the visually impaired, a clapper, and a medic alert necklace in case I fall and can’t… I’m scared. The fluid retention may have water logged my brain and I fear I have officially lost it. I am babbling to myself and cannot walk across the house without a nap. I tried to cut down on salt and substitute it with garlic as was recommended by VirtualDoctor.com to even blood pressure. I ate 2 whole cloves last night.

WEEK 6 -day 2

I brushed my teeth and tongue 27 times. My tooth brush is too short. The garlic is rising from my intestines and oozing from my pores. My closest friend asked that I back up when speaking, I was down the aisle from her to begin with. I told her I needed to apologize to the sales lady for having no idea what I was looking for and she suggested I apologize for talking to the sales lady in the first place.

I warded off three vampires,or were they more sales people? I don’t know, they ran so fast in the other direction, I just assumed they were vampires. One was working the register I was at and actually turned into a bat and flew away shrieking.

I cannot take it anymore.  I must get away from myself. In the carpool line I went crazy and started swallowing Altoids whole with the hopes that they would dissolve in my stomach and take care of the guttural odor, at the source. First, I swallowed a half, then I started thinking, ‘What have I done? I don’t know if it’s safe to just swallow an Altoid without chewing it.  They are curiously strong.’

Me: “No, that’s silly, it’s fine. People accidentally swallow gum and mints all the time, it just takes 7 years to digest, but they survive. Just shove the other two in your mouth and be done with it.”

So I did and before I could talk myself out of it, I washed them down with coffee.

Me: “Holy shit. What did I just do? I swallowed more, and with coffee no less, a stimulant. What if they’re like Poprocks and my stomach explodes?”

Me: “That never really happened, or did it? I don’t know for sure. My stomach is feeling a bit sour. Should I drink some ipecac?”

Me: “No by the time I get out of carpool line they will already be absorbed into my blood stream. Maybe I should call someone and tell them what I’ve taken, so they can inform the paramedics when the ambulance arrives.”

Still Me: “This is ridiculous Jenny, could you imagine if people just died from swallowing mints? You would hear about it. It would be on 60 Minutes or the news. Whew.”

Me: “Wait, I don’t watch 60 Minutes or the news. I only watch Cartoon Network, HBO and reality TV.. Fuck, I’m screwed”

Me: “No, you would have gotten one of those mass emails warning you about swallowing mints, like microwaving saran wrap, or using plasticware with the numbers 4,6, or 7. Whew.”

Me: “Maybe I’m the first person to swallow so many Altoids and wash them down with coffee. You have to admit it’s a bit random. Why would any sane person like myself do that?”

Me in a British Accent: “Pip pip and all that… Don’t worry luv, all will be splendid. Now, let’s have a spot of tea, shall we?”

Me: “I’d love to.  You French people make every idea sound smart.”

How To Retain Fluids And Bloat Up Fast.

Last month I had a scary episode. I was driving and out of nowhere I felt like I was about to lose consciousness. I was luckily in a parking lot. First, I debated if I should just put the car in park out of fear that I would pass out and glide into something. Then, I spotted an open space, sideswiped a pedestrian that then gave me the bird, and quickly parked.

My mind was racing, “Something is wrong, people don’t just pass out.” I called my husband unlocked my doors, so he could get to me, and searched for something to eat. I shoved a lollipop in my mouth… nothing. I was hanging on by a thread, when I saw my daughter’s morning sippy cup of milk. I sucked out the milk as fast as I could and after a rush of boiling heat radiated through my body, the feeling slowly eased. After a meal during which I was barely lucid, I told husband I was okay to drive myself to the doctor, which by the way took very little convincing. Thanks Mark.

Now let me tell you a bit about my Doctor. He is a Jewish Jamaican with a strong accent and the stereotypical laid back attitude you would expect of people who use the word irie, though he does not. I go to him because I am too big of a hypochondriac to go to someone high strung. When I arrived I found him outside taking a smoke break, he rolls his own, so there’s no telling what it was.

“Ello luv, I see you got yer pretty self all worked up. I don’t mean to trow the book at ya, but yer blood pressure is very low… too too low. Yer passin’ out cause yer not getting enough oxygen to yer brain daarlin’.

“That actually explains some other issues.”

“Well, ya got ta take care of dis yerself, cause yer not gonna like the medcine I’d ‘ave to put ya on. Now go to the store and buy everyting wid salt. Get some matzoh ball soup and put extra salt init, put salt on yer salt. Everyting you been taught, ferget it. Rememba ya need tons of fluids, ‘cause ya ‘ave to retain ‘em.”

“What about water?”

“Water? No. That’s terrible fer ya, that just washes the sodium away. I prefer you ‘ave a coke, that ‘as yer, salt yer caffeine, and yer sugar. It’s the perfect drink fer yer ‘ealth.”

“Yes, I believe that’s their campaign slogan. Drink Coke, It’s Perfect For Your Health.”

“OK then, I love ya daarlin. ‘Ave a space cake fer the road.”

Did I mention he takes his appointments in a small shack? I’m totally kidding, it’s more of a trailer.

So, if I want to stay awake, I must retain water and eat and drink crap, and if I want to stay thin, I must pass out. Hmmm, well I certainly wouldn’t be the first person who passed out trying to stay thin. It is against everyting, sorry everthing, in me to purposely retain fluids. But apparently, this medicine is something I want to avoid so here goes.

WEEK 1- Filled pantry with pretzels, pistachios, popcorn, pickles, peppercorn jack, and Pepsi. I know, you’re thinking they all have… salt in them, and that’s why I got them.

WEEK 2- Ate and drank all of the above. Wide awake. Feelin’ gooood.

WEEK 3- Feeling sluggish. Fingers pruning… Must have sweet, in need of a cupcake. I secretly busted a piñata at Ryan’s friend’s 4th birthday, and ravaged the remains. I blamed it on a little kid that teases Ryan, who just happened to be the birthday boy. Ahhh, sweet sweet revenge.

WEEK 4- Cannot look at another saltine. Putting MnMs in my soup instead of oyster crackers. Can no longer wear rings. Thighs are becoming too friendly with each other. Mission accomplished. Do I cry or cheer?

WEEK 5- Too bloated to cook. Can’t get fingers around pan handles. Oven mitts don’t fit. Had Mark install salt licks around the house for convenience. Lick them each time I waddle by. Will write more tomorrow, sausage fingers too swollen for keys.

Let’s Name Our Dog Butt Munch!

Let's Name Our Dog Butt Munch and Other Bad CallsMy children are in that phase where all words referring to bodily functions and private parts are hilarious. I call it the Beavis and Butthead phase, and I’m eagerly awaiting its passing. However, I’m not holding my breath, as it appears my husband never actually outgrew that phase himself. So, with that in mind, we were trying to think of names for our new puppy. I was throwing out the more traditional names like Max and Charlie when J, my 7yo said, “Let’s name him Gary or Phil.”

Okay, not where I was going, but a name nonetheless.

I replied, “How about Copper or Cinnamon?”

R, my 4yo daughter: “I have a great idea, how about Cinnamon Toast Weiner?”

All: Ha ha ha, lots of laughs.

OK, game on.

J: “How about Tushie-Face?”

R: “Hee hee, good one.”

Minutes went by and R came running across the park screaming for all the other families to hear, “Listen listen, we should name our dog Vagina.”

J: “Yeah, yeah, we’d be like, ‘Come hear Vagina. Sit Vagina.’”

I was making every attempt NOT to give this discussion too much attention, but the attention we were getting from the other families wondering why my boy is practicing calling a vagina was making me moderately uncomfortable.

“Could we keep this conversation down just a little bit?” I said, then went on to suggest more realistic names.

I know I’m a party pooper. (Hee Hee…I wrote pooper.)

I’ll tell you who isn’t a  party pooper,  my husband.

Hubby: “I know – we should name it Penis, and then when people say, ‘Jake what are you doing?’ you could say, ‘Oh, I’m just playing with my Penis.’”

Mind you this is a concept a 7yr old would not come up with on his own volition, but it didn’t take long for him to catch on.

J: “Yeah…Hey hey hey, listen. I could say ‘I just taught my Penis to fetch.’”

All, but me: HEHEHEHE HAW HEW HAW HAHA – and tear filled laughter. (I held mine in as the family nearest to us moved their stuff about 20ft. away.)

R: “That’s not fair, ‘cause I don’t have a penis, I have a hiney.”

Taking R’s penchant for the word vagina into consideration, I decide this was the wrong time for an anatomy lesson.

My husband finally aware of the wrong turn this conversation had taken, reeled it in by suggesting a name we could really use: Butt Munch. (Ah, the ever popular with the pre-teen 1980’s set, Butt Munch.)

This idea sparked tons of laughter and affirmation. First of all, my children had never been exposed to this term, so they found a special joy in both it’s profanity and it’s originality. Yes, they beamed with pride, as if their father, king of the potty mouths, had just coined it. Secondly, they liked the way it just rolled so easily off of their tongues. “Butt Munch. Come here Butt Munch. Sit Butt Munch. Bad Butt Munch.”

R: At the top of her lungs, “J you’re a Butt Munch.”

J: “No R, you’re a Butt Munch.”

Me: “No Daddy’s a Butt Munch.

Thanks Mark!

Mark: “Please, they could be saying much worse.”

Me: “Perhaps you should teach it to them. Jake doesn’t know mother f@cker maybe you could remedy that right here at the park.”

So, for the last two weeks J has told everyone willing to listen that R wanted to name our new dog Vagina, and R now uses Butt Munch as a verb, noun, and adjective, sometimes in the same sentence. My friend Susan asked her if she was ready to go home the other day and she replied, “No way, Butt Munch.”

I’m so proud.

PS We brought our dog home a couple of days ago, and though R is still calling him Butt Munch, we as a family went with the more traditional, Ass Face. I hope she comes around.

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Other stories by Jenny: 40 Things Every Woman Should Have or Should Know By 40

So What If I Got Clifford The Big Red Dog Drunk?

This weekend we were sent Clifford, the Big Red Dog, along with a beautifully laminated journal containing an entry from each of the class members he spent weekends with in the past. Each page was beautifully written, typed, or hand calligraphied. All were accompanied by a montage of pictures showing the quality time each child and their family spent with Clifford. Clifford attended dinners, parties, one family even took him to the dog park…alone. Either I have the craftiest mothers in my class, or these ladies are truly hard-up for companionship.

Ryan’s teacher: I am sorry Jenny; I was unable to accept your pages for Clifford’s journal, as there were a few problems. You wrote that he “passed-out” from too much beer and wings while watching the Super Bowl with you and your husband. I don’t know if you are aware that we read these Clifford journals to the class first thing Monday morning.

Crappy Mom, AKA Me: I was not aware of that.

Ryan’s Teacher: I doubt Ryan would appreciate me reiterating how Clifford spent Friday and Saturday as you put it, “ …in his sack, suffocating.” Or that you “…found him sad, lonely, and dehydrated Sunday evening.” I would send him home with you for another weekend, but I fear for his health in your hands, not to mention his sobriety.

Crappy Mom, AKA Me: His sobriety? Had I known was battling alcoholism, I never would have played the drinking game where you chug every time someone scores. In my defense, it was T-Bone’s idea.

Why Do People Insist On Forwarding Those Annoying Email Chain Letters?

I am not a fan of the chain letter. I know you’re thinking why not? Everyone loves a good threat. Well, I erase them right away because as ridiculous as it sounds, there is a part of me that feels that once I’ve read one of those things, the clock has started. How the universe is somehow connected to my AOL account, is a mystery. My password is pretty easy, maybe that’s the problem.

Some chain letters go so far as to mention G-d. The idea that The Almighty is busy checking my inbox and confirming that I have forwarded the mail to the specified amount of people, in the allotted amount of time, seems like a stretch. Yet, that irrational side is like, “What if?” “What if G-d wants me to pass on this sentimental poem about growing up in the 80’s.”

Yesterday, I got one of those emails. In the subject box it read, “Sorry, I Had To. “ I have to say, if your subject is an apology for sending an email in the first place, rethink pushing that forward button. This particular one was a message about empowering women and asked that I forward it to 9 of my Sista’s. The list of recipients was 50 scroll-downs long. Apparently, Sista’s all over the world are passing this thing around.

All I do each day is think about how to get my blog circulating, and here’s some poorly written warning- that actually refers to women as Sista’s – and it’s more popular than my well thought out, hilariously funny articles. So I will apologize in advance for the rest of this post.

If you forward http://www.suburbanjungle.net/blog-voodoo to 5 of your friends, within the next hour you will meet with great fortune. Your children will be smarter, your hair will be thicker, your boobs will be fuller, and you will receive a check for $10 MILLION! This may be a humor column, but it’s NO JOKE! I had a paralegal look it over and she said it’s legit. Just yesterday a woman in Westchester sent this on to 5 of her friends and the minute she hit that button, she got a call from her Mother-In-Law saying they couldn’t make it over for dinner! Need I say more?

Unfortunately, if you do not take this seriously, I must fear for your safety! A mother in Idaho who ignored this request, was shopping at a Gap later that day, and inadvertently smashed into the window trying to exit the store. She was not physically harmed, but she was extremely embarrassed.

I guarantee misfortune if you do not send this, because I will personally come out to your home or place of work and open fire. I will! I have a moderately powerful Nerf gun that shoots like ten rounds, and those suctions cups can have a very strong stick factor. I could get one right between your eyes and then it would take a lot of spit and pulling to get it off. I don’t know for certain, but it could leave an unsightly mark! All I’m saying is think about it… $10 MILLION or my saliva all over your face?

Okay, tick tock……………………………………………………………………….

Seriously, pass it on. Help a Sista out!

Featured at Citymommy.com!!!

 

The week of the new year my site got 8000 visitors, 8 THOUSAND!!!  Insane, considering my first week I peaked at 3, and that was just my husband and my parents.  Even my step parents boycotted till I convinced them I had skills (around week 4).  SO, you can imagine my awe and excitement at the multitude of people who stop by Suburban Jungle.

My 10 Resolutions I Can Actually Keep article, the one that got me fired from my column, has been picked up by many sites… about 10, one of which is an amazing social network called City Mommy.  Here is a little info about them. I am not required to do this!  It is out of the goodness of my own heart, my love for this particular social network, and my need for exposure and cold hard cash.

If you arrived here from City Mommy, please take a look around.  And take a moment to subscribe to the emails, they will make your day!

ENJOY, in a city near you.

Come join other Moms in your area, check out CityMommy!

CityMommy is a free social networking site for moms where you can

  • Meet new friends, create playgroups, and find resources!
  • Check out our “mom-approved” directory of local services.
  • Post questions and talk to other moms on our message board.
  • Take a look at our local events calendar
  • Share photos, videos & more.

This is an invitation-only website to keep it more community-oriented.

 

Log onto the community nearest to you!

 

www.citymommy.com

 

Currently rocking out in Atlanta, Boston, Central Coast California, Chicago, Jacksonville, Long Island, NY, Los Angeles, Miami, New York City, North Alabama, North Jersey, Northeast Pennsylvania, Portland, San Antonio, San Diego, San Francisco, South Florida, Southern New Hampshire, and Wichita!!!

 

Launching in additional cities in 2009

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