Category Archives: humor

Do You Believe in Psychics or Just Plain Irony?

So, I was at a party about 8 months ago where there was a psychic.  She was one of those weird holistic ones.  As opposed to the normal “businessy” type you so often see.  Anyway, she had me pick from a tray of stones and then she asked me for family birthdays.  I was determined not to make any kind of give-away face or gesture and sat there staunch and stiff, talking robotic and trying to appear blank.  Which I’m sure just made it seem like I had to poop.

If I go to a party and get drunk with a bunch of girls, and the host in good fun hires a fortune teller to give her guests a 2 minute reading, I am going to make her work for it.  My stupid gaze is luckily unnoticed because she quickly goes into a weird semi-seizure like trance as she stares at the stars, hoping for one to blink her some kind of Morse code and reveal my true self to her.  She pauses and pauses, shimmies and shakes,  and flutters her eyeballs back into her skull.  Finally, ahhhh the epiphany, “I see… networking.”  “Really?  Networking?   You see networking?  No fame?  No travel?  No windfall? None of that, you see networking?”  “Well I’m sorry that’s what I see, and lots of it.”

Now of course I am racking my brain to think of the networking I do on a daily basis, okay a weekly basis, okay monthly?  I did recommend my cleaning lady to a neighbor recently, but I never called her back with the number.  Does that count?
I don’t even network with my friends.  I check my machine and there are messages from college that I haven’t gotten yet.  They say things like: “There’s gonna be a frat party after we go to the RATT, so come, okay, What-everrr.”

Seriously, anyone who has had the pleasure of awaiting my return call can attest to it.  My machine actually says leave your message and someone in the family will call you back…probably Buddy (the dog) and the truth is he used to call people back in a timely manner, before he went deaf.  Now he has a lot of trouble working the TTY system…cause he’s also arthritic.

Anyway, I continued to prod.
“Will I have a writing career?”
“I don’t know, but if you do it comes from networking.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, networking, and please send the next person, cause you’re taking all my time and thus inhibiting my ability to NETWORK! Oh and here’s my card.”

So, I waited like a vulture for each reading to end, making the person on the block highly uncomfortable.  I know you’re thinking, “I want to party with Jenny.”  I asked around, and people got stuff like, “You’re bored with your day to day routine.” and “I see you were close with your mother growing up.”  She even told one girl she was pregnant. But to me she said those 3 quizzical syllables, net-work-ing. I came home and woke Mark to tell him how dead on she was with her reading for him and the kids, and that she knew Ally was pregnant.  “What do you think networking means?”

He said, “It means you’re an idiot.  Ally is showing.  These “mind readers” take one look at you and than say the most generic things possible… everyone networks.  She probably told 10 people that.”  “Nope, you’re wrong.  I know because I made it my duty to stop enjoying the party, and hamper  others from doing the same by grilling them about their personal readings.”  “All I m saying is, I am so surprised a smart person like you falls for this.  You really think some random woman, from the big city of Pembroke Pines, Florida, who works the party circuit, has the gift of seeing into the future?”

About a month later I and I started my blog and started getting feedback from companies and groups.  I  have found that literally all I do, outside of my mothering and housewife gig, is network.  I’ve joined 107 groups on facebook, 3 women entrepreneur networks, and 237 bloglog communities. I write personal messages to editors, bloggers, mothers, and reviewers.  Then I annoy the crap out of all of them by mass emailing on a daily basis.

About a week ago I looked at Mark and said “Remember that fortune teller?  She said all she saw was networking and look at me.   She was right.  How crazy is that?”  “Jenny, you are not seriously thinking that because you now network she was right?  She could have said that to anyone… maybe it’s simply ironic.  Or maybe it’s a self fulfilling prophecy that you started networking?”  “Are you suggesting that because this woman said that I would network, that I dropped my enjoyable shopping and sleeping habits to spend all my free time getting fat in front of a computer?

Wow that shlub from Pembroke Pines Florida sure has some serious power of persuasion.  Lucky she didn’t say we would get a divorce.  I’d be looking for a good lawyer right about now.  Oh, the irony in Mark calling me naive for believing in such foolishness.  The psychic told me I would come across a disbeliever… see, she was clairvoyant.

Can A Nice Jewish Girl Sit On Santa’s Lap Without Being A Ho Ho Ho?

Christmas

This is the unabridged version of the published article.
I’m not gonna throw myself under the bus and call my children spoiled, as I would have only myself to blame.  I will say, however, they have an extreme sense of entitlement, which I am sure has little to do with them being lavished with gifts undeservedly.  My children want everything they see, hear about, could get as a party favor, could find in a McDonalds happy meal, a cereal box, a piñata, or view in a commercial.

“Mommy can I have that? Will you buy me that?  Mommy friends neighbor has that.  I want that.  When can I have that? Mommy? Ma? Maaaaaaaa?  MOM!  This exchange of words usually ends with, “If you mention it again, the answer will be never.”  “Never?  I can’t even have a Clone Trooper Voice Changer Helmet when I’m 25?”  “Sure.  If you still want a Clone Trooper Voice Changer Helmet at 25, you can wear it to therapy.”

“How about I get it for my next birthday, or maybe Kwanzaa?”  My son is already eyeing a camouflage pencil set for Secretaries Day, and has informed me that, although we are Jewish, he will be giving up vegetables for Lent.

My children’s Chanukah wish lists are so comprehensive, I may be forced to explore alternative channels in my gift search.  Consequently, I have sent a friendly letter asking someone who has slighted me in the past for help.  Some might say it’s more of a formal accusation, but really it’s just a hand delivered note that needs to be notarized and signed on receipt. It goes:

Dear Santa,
I have never complained about you forgetting us Jews in the past, but times are tough.  I mean, I don’t want to threaten you or anything, but let’s talk religious profiling, shall we? I’m sure the fact that we don’t believe in you has something to do with you snubbing us year after year.  Do we, a people known to produce a whiner or two, complain?  No, some of us, me included have made an effort to believe.  Let us not forget Christmas of 83’ when I sat on your lap asking for a Speak N’ Spell, a Magic Eight Ball, and Shawn Cassidy’s “Da Doo Ron Ron” 45.  I have a laminated picture from Macy’s to prove it.

Do you not bombard us with your festive songs and holiday movies made with delightfully animated reindeer and elves?  Do Jews get to go a-caroling?  No, we have one song… about kids gambling.  Has Dreidel ever starred in a delightfully animated holiday movie?  Has Snoopy, or Barbie, or a single Disney character ever lit a Menorah?  Maybe in the privacy of their own homes, but certainly never on camera (it’s in their contracts.)  We’re okay with that, because we wrote those contracts.  Sure, we take advantage of your sales and vacations.  We watch your shows, and sing your catchy songs.  We’ll decorate a tree with blue and white twinkle lights, top it with a six pointed star, and call it a Chanukah bush.

Santa, my Roth IRA is down 40%.  I deserve a little holiday cheer.   You can look me up, I’ve been nice, and I’d like to keep it that way.   My daughter wishes to receive the “now truer to life” Baby Alive that not only eats, but poops.   She would also like the “now truer to life on the streets” Bratz Doll, which comes complete with Brazilian waxing kit and requisite diaphragm.
My son “just has to have” the new Guitar Hero “I Choked on My Own Vomit Tour,” a super Bakugan the size of his head, and some alone time with my daughter’s Bratz doll. I will forward you the unabridged version via zip file. I look forward to us all getting along!

Sincerely,
Frustrated Jewish Mom

P.S.  I feel like maybe we got off on the wrong foot here.  I didn’t mean to sound so hostile.  Santa, just tell me what a girl’s gotta do to get some Christian love?   I can be naughty if necessary.  Perhaps a visit to your “south pole” (wink, wink)? Not by me, we Jews don’t really do that after marriage, but I know a girl that I can call.
HAPPY HOLIDAYS

Why Are Men Such Babies?

For 4 days I have been sick.  Nothing crazy, just the usual sore throat in the morning, coughing, fatigue kind of thing.  Yet in those four days, the world miraculously kept spinning, my children’s schedules did not disappear, nor did mine.  They made it to school, and to baseball, and the Doctor.  They did not suffer from starvation because I decided to forgo grocery shopping, making them breakfast, or packing their lunches, so that I could lie around and do something trivial, like recuperate.

Last night I happily turned out the lights at 11PM, hoping to make up for that 4hour “nap” I had the night before.  At midnight my dog Buddy, pacing and panting like a sex caller, sent me out like a shot for his first pee break of the evening.  At 1AM my son ran in soaking wet, exclaiming, “I think I sweated too much.”  Unable to peel myself up, I let his little naked tush into my bed where he continued to whine for about an hour straight.  “Mommy, I neeeeeeeeeed pants.”  “I’ll get you pants,” and let our heavy breather out for the 2nd time.  “Mommy, I neeeed my favorite pillow.” “I’ll get your favorite pillow” and give our letchy dog a bowl of water.  By 3AM Jake had tried 12 different positions.  Including the one where you go all the way under the covers to the end of the bed and push until you fall to the floor taking the comforter with you.  He complained about 20 different things, from being upset that I had to remake the bed after he fell out of it, to having an actual dislike for color of my sheets.  “They’re white.”

In the midst of this chaos, my husband was completely oblivious during those last few hours.  Some could argue that this has been the case for the last 9 years.
He was sleeping with his body pillow, the one he stole from me in the 3rd trimester of my 1st pregnancy.  It has been our small person sized bedmate ever since.  A bedmate that he shoves in his crotch and smothers between his knees. Well, better the pillow than me.  He had 2 more pillows over his head and was taking up 73% of the bed.  He had built and Iron clad barricade which my son could not penetrate or budge.  Jake and I were so snug I’d have to rebirth him to get him to school.  Finally , I gave up and wooed him back into his room by promising to make him a fort, “just like Daddy’s.”  Of course I had to remake his bed first, as the sweat had an uncanny resemblance to pee.  I got back into bed around 4 AM, after reading my dog a story and letting my son out.  Wait, scratch that and reverse it.

By 4:45 my son was back in the womb.  “Mom, can I be your snuggle bunny?”  For how many years will I get to hear that?  At 5AM my daughter was squeezing in on the other side of me.  We laid there like a hermetically sealed package of sausages, my arm coyoteed under Ryan’s head.  Then she started complaining.  “Its too hot with this blanket.  Mom my PJ’s hurt.  Mom I hate the color of your sheets.”  Somehow, 6:30 managed to roll around.

I banged on  my husbands fort with the door knocker he installed.  Bang…Bang…Bang.  “Please get the kids ready for school.  I was up all night.”  Mark is a morning person so I imagined it would be no big deal.  “Grumble grumble… no.”  “What do you mean you won’t help me?”  “Grunt, I’m sick, my throat is killing me.  Besides, I was up too.”  “What kept you up?  Was it the sound of your snoring?  Or maybe the pillow over your head wasn’t soft enough.”  “I just can’t I’m too sick.”  My husband’s cold might as well be the plague, as the Earth has halted on it’s axis.
It would take a hemorrhaging artery to get him to the Doctor, excuse me the clinic, as he has never officially acquired a Doctor.  But, why go?  It’s easier to lay around and tease my children with his untouchable presence.  He’ll spend his day creating an impressive mound of snotty tissues, large enough to pitch off of.  Tissues which he is too sick to bend down and pick up, however he is not too sick to work, or to make sure to keep up with his fantasy football team.
He’ll refuse to use sanitizer, and sluggishly mosey around the house, putting his grubby, germy hands in every bag of chips, touching every door knob and remote, and talking on every phone.  He may even lick the straws on the juice boxes for good measure.  All in a effort to ensure that as soon as he gets better, both my children will surely contract his illness and I will have no shot at personal recovery.

Now I should Mommy him, which in my bitter and sick state, I cannot even feign an attempt.  Listen, if I wanted another child I would adopt one from Indonesia.  If you need to be babied, call your Mom.  Better yet, go stay with her.  I don’t ask that my sickness or lack of sleep take precedence over yours.  I just ask that you go to a hotel until your’s passes.”

Those Blond Haired, Blue Eyed, Big Boobed, Skinny Girls Are Annoying

This morning while my friend Susan was driving back from carpool she decided to complain about the sun. The conversation went something like this:

Susan: The sun this morning is relentless. I can barely see. I think it’s because I have such blue eyes that I’m so sensitive to the light.

Me: (mocking in a overly dramatic proper accent, ala Stewie from Family Guy) Ohhh, the curse. Oh, me with my blue eyes and the blond hair. How do I get through the day? You may think you know the intensity of the light Jenny, but you have no idea you with your doody brown eyes. You don’t even know the true beauty that is all around us.

Susan: Seriously, I almost had to pull over last week. Light eyes are really sensitive.

Me: Really, you are going to continue? Tell this to one of your Arian friends in the club you can start on facebook. You need people to commiserate with.

Susan: Oh shit I just almost hit a car.

Me: Well, it must be the boobs. Ohhh, damn these perky boobs! Jenny, you have no idea what it’s like to be so buxom. They get in the way of everything. A three-point turn is like solving a Rubics cube. Oh, and the skinniness. I can barely turn the wheel I am so frail, with my skin and bones. It is so hard to be blond, blue-eyed, big bosomed, and skinny. Those flat-chested brown-eyed girls like you really have it made. They have no idea the obstacles I must overcome.

All Dressed Up With No Place To Go

I believe my last post was on “momnesia,” though I can’t recall. Well, at some point you read about my “momnesia,” and here is a perfect example: This weekend I missed a wedding. Yep, a bona fide black tie, husband’s biggest client, save the date on the fridge, fortune per head kind of wedding.

It was Saturday afternoon; my kids were getting ready to go to my mom’s for a sleepover. A sleepover I had to make my mom cancel plans for. I went to the mail pile to pull out the direction card. I grabbed it and did a quick once over of the invite. Please join bla,bla at bla, bla, on Friday, the 28th of November. I reread that thing 7 times and grabbed the Post just to confirm that this was in fact the wrong day. You know, just in case there was a typo on the invite and the 28th was actually Saturday and no one caught it till this very moment. Alas, it was the 29th, the invitation writer really checked her facts.

“Mark… Mark… all right, don’t kill me, but…” “We WHAT? THE WEDDING WAS YESTERDAY! You’re kidding right?” “Ummm, nope.” Both of us just stood silent and contemplated how bad it was. How really, really bad it was. After many minutes he got on his tux, I got on my gown, we put the kids in the car, dropped them off at my mom’s, came home stripped down, watched R rated movies, cussed out loud, talked about adult stuff (like insurance), ate ice cream without sharing, shtupped with the door open, and went to sleep.

What? A night off is a night off. My mom was none the wiser… till now.

Are You Stupider After Having Children? I’s Be Too – The Effects of Momnesia

 

If you are anything like me you feel like a teenager most of the time… maturity wise.I am certainly not a teenager in the sense of stamina, agility, or intelligence.G-d knows I was a hell of a lot speedier, stretchier, and smarter at 18 than I am today.

I have no recall of history, math, scientific facts, people’s names, or “SAT words.”I search those cracks and crevices in the far reaches of my mind and find proverbial cobwebs.I do Sudoku, crosswords, and challenge people who I haven’t seen in 25 yrs. to word games on facebook.I try to get those synapses to shoot or fire or snap crackle and pop.Yet, I can barely extract a word to describe the actual word or concept I was trying to convey in the first place.

I don’t know if you understood any of that last sentence, as I could not figure out how to get across what I was trying to say.Thinking is sometimes like a circular argument.Like trying to figure out what was here before the universe.I wish that I could comment on such cerebral subjects.Unfortunately, it took all of my brain power to come up with the word cerebral.Hey, there’s always tomorrow.

I must have acquired adult ADD or what I like to call Momnesia. A lot of people like to call it “Baby Brain,” which is a phenomenon that supposedly occurs during the first 6 months after childbirth, in which the Mother is, well, stupid.I too am stupid, but it’s been 3 and a half years since I had a 6 month old.

I loose my thoughts, my keys, names of famous people for references in witty banter. Friends are stood up, meetings are missed, and appointments are remembered only after a reminder call (if I think to check my messages).I walk into a room or a closet with such purpose and when I arrive, I just stand there and stare, trying to figure out why I went there in the first place.If you relate to these symptoms, than you have “Momnesia.”

You forget to return phone calls, and leave your child’s lunchbox in the fridge.You find a credit card in your pocket one day after you finally cancel it.You lock your infant in your car while it’s still running.You throw your good sunglasses in the bin after a Disney show and wear the 3-D glasses on your head for the next 3 hours.

You seriously have some issues.I would recommend a good therapist, but I only see mine once a month, and therefore can not remember his name.However, I do get a lovely call from his office every couple weeks letting me know that I have missed an appointment and owe a nice chunk of dough.Which seems a bit ironic considering most of what we talk about is my inability to keep thoughts and appointments in my head.

I can picture him at our consultation, “Ah, you have memory problems?Snicker snicker.Did you sign the contract about the office practices and policies?”Unfortunately, his office doesn’t believe in reminder calls, and lucky for me they also don’t believe in taking insurance.I must be his favorite patient, for every time I see him I pay him thrice.$275 a pop… that’s the equivalent of a dress from Nordstroms, or a blouse from Saks, or a bra from Neimans, or socks from Bergdorfs.

Hey Doc, how did your daughter’s braces work out?No thanks necessary, however, a reminder call would be nice.

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Aging Series: Article 1 “Geography Lesson”

Such weird things happen as we get older. For instance, what your parents called beauty marks your dermatologist calls moles. Those veins that once transported blood to your feet look like they are trying to escape from your legs.

Everyone is freaking out about something. I get calls about gray hair, stray hair, receding hair, and hair that won’t grow.

I hear about bad backs, brains that lag,

cottage cheese thighs, and boobs that sag.

Age brings crow’s feet, faces that wrinkle,

memory loss, and fallen bladders that tinkle.

That’s right, I rhymed.

The weirdest things are those you didn’t see coming. For instance, I now have an ugly tongue. You didn’t see that coming did you? I’d always notice when older people had those tongues that showed indentations from every tooth and think, “thank G-d he’s too old to French kiss anyone.” Mind you old is 40 when you’re like 13.

Now, I have acquired an ugly tongue. It’s not always ugly, so if you were thinking, “Me and you, open mouthed greeting.” You can still catch me on a good day. I went to the Doctor, because as stated in the “Hypochondriatic Oath,” “I will fulfill my duty to check everything out. From lumps to paper cuts.” The doctor said this ugly mark actually has a name, “Geographic Tongue.”

He explained that it’s a reaction to spicy or salty foods, in which blotches show up that look like the outlines of countries, hence the term. It comes and goes, in different places and locations.

Two weeks ago I was featuring Africa, however it appears today I am feeling patriotic. Not that I think anyone is really looking, but I have to remind myself, “No raspberries till it disappears, and no showing off my tongue rolling or cherry tying abilities for that matter.” This will be hard, but I will persevere… in the name of vanity.

Sadly my husband, who is the person I kiss the most, gets the job of helping me decipher which country it looks like. It’s a fun little game we play to get in the mood. I think it’s really hot. I might even call it foreplay, but it’s been so long since I had the time or energy for foreplay I wouldn’t know it if it bit me on the tongue.

I think if Mark had to call it something, the word would be… gross. Luckily, the fear of having to do things like figure out visitation schedules and who gets the itunes library, the cat… our many vacation villas, is a large factor in him sticking around.

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Sticking It To The Man

 

Before the NASDAQ bubble of 1999 popped, I used to be the Man.Now in light of current economic conditions, I am getting joy out of sticking it to him.This money consciousness is not new to me.As an ex-personal shopper for the very wealthy, I know the importance of finding a bargain; because shockingly no one dislikes parting with money more than those who have it.

It probably seems obvious that in these rough financial waters I should stop buying coffee at Starbucks and make it home for 1/100th the cost, but I say “nay.” And I rarely say “nay,” unless I’m singing Old MacDonald.Like you, I am addicted to Starbucks, and fear what vice I might take up in it’s absence.Cocaine?Gambling?Cat juggling?Who’s to say?Therefore, I will continue to give Starbucks my hard earned dough and vow to bankrupt them with my ever popular “Ghetto Latte.”It requires two, I mean dopio, shots of espresso and a grande cup of ice.I add milk and voila, iced grande latte for half the price.

Unfortunately, the staff at Starbucks is trained to look for such wily money saving tactics, so if you plan on ordering this drink the barista may warn you and then the manager may ban you a week later, hypothetically speaking of course.I mean, I wouldn’t know this for sure. I am just guessing at how they might crack down on “ghetto lattes” or filling your baby’s bottle from the fixin’s bar, when you just happen to be in the neighborhood, every 3 hours.

Last week I had my daughters 4th birthday.I spent hundreds maybe thousands of dollars on balloons from Oriental Trading.I had a ton of latex pinks, purples and lavenders, plus, mylar balloons in the shapes of cell phones, life sized Bratz dolls, purses, lipsticks, and diaphragms (you know, “girlie” stuff.)

The supermarket charges a dollar per latex and two per mylar, to blow them up.“It seems a bit much for air.Last year they didn’t charge me at all,” I said hoping to strike up a deal.“You’re right, but the price is the price.”“I do have quite a lot of balloons here,” I nudged on, still trying to negotiate.“Maim, this price hike came down from corporate. I can’t change it for you.”

I knew he wouldn’t budge, by the tone of his voice.It was like a chipmunk.Apparently, he found it amusing to take a drag from the tank before putting his foot down.This is an example of the “Man” high on power.That’s right I called the guy who works the helium tank the “Man.”

So do you know what I did?I bought that air and then the next day when I went to throw away the latex balloons that last all of 97 minutes.I cut the ribbon off each one and put it with my gift-wrapping stuff.That’s right, I showed him.The next time I have to wrap a present, no larger than a 6 inch square, for a little girl or effeminate boy, he’ll be sorry.Of course, the disposal of my non-Earth friendly latex balloons will sit in some landfill for 200 years decomposing, and most likely end up choking a baby seagull.But, I will think of the birthday girl’s smile, and lay guiltlessly on my seagull down pillows.

Now your thinking this girl is so brilliant it’s scary, or maybe you’re just plain scared.However, my most genius strike at the “Man” happened today.I was making eggs for my daughter this morning and one was yucky inside.One brown organic, cage free, extra omega egg that probably cost about fifteen bucks.That’s a ballpark figure, but I think I’m close.I would never feed such an egg to my daughter, and my husband wasn’t around, so I did the next smartest thing.I went in my yard and planted it.That’s right, and soon I will grow a chicken tree. Before, you know it I’ll be out there, on a crisp 95degree Florida autumn morning, picking chickens.Then I’ll have all the eggs in the WORLD!!! Who will have the last cluck then “Man”? Who?

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The Traditional New York City Pedicure

So I am finally getting a long overdue pedicure. This current span has been about 2 months or 68 days, but who’s counting? I like to let the nails grow unattractively long in the true spirit of martyrdom. Then I wear sandals and constantly draw attention to how badly I need a pedicure, by saying things like “How badly do I need a pedicure?”

The trick is to go as infrequently as possible and only surrender when your nails split and a jagged edge pulls threads in your sheets, thereby making a 3 AM roll over feel like chewing on metal. Most importantly do not, under any circumstance, remove the polish. This way you have undeniable proof of your hectic schedule. It implies that your “me time” is so sparse that you don’t even have enough to simply wet a cotton ball.

Today I arrived with the red so far at the tip it looked as if I was starting a new trend in French pedicure. Sarabeth, whose real name is Choi Jae Hua, or Yi Hae-Won or something else I can’t pronounce, looks at my feet with a “Tsk.” “I know it’s been a long time,” I say with the joy of squeezing in one last sympathizer. Then she looks up at me and asks if I am aware there is a Pokemon sticker on the bottom of my foot. “Oh, my son was looking for that, if only it were so easy to find my keys.” She then asks if it’s okay to remove it. “Well if you can’t work around it.” I’m not sure if she can hear me; my chair is set on high-multifunction-10. Its “Human Hand” technology is loudly knocking me out of my seat while it heats my tush, vibrates my thighs, froths milk for my cappuccino, and sorts my mail.

I lie, well shimmy, back trying to enjoy my favorite part, the massage. I can’t seem to relax. I am so keenly aware of every left over scrub granule that is kneaded into my legs. Worse, I can sense her daydreaming of the family she has left behind and I’m sure she’s totally resenting me for not shaving, detesting America for making her touch feet, and cursing her boss for making today “$20 Tuesday.” I finally start to relax as she coincidentally realizes she has massaged long enough. She halts to do the required Korean calf knocking, which she follows with the “Ten Toe Pop” event. She’s seems let down when she can’t get a good snap out of the last two toes (not unlike that annoying handshake of the mid-nineties).

“Okay, pick you color” she says pointing to the wall. I can’t decide between “After Sex” or a hue one shade darker, “3 Bottles of Whine.” I don’t understand why all the colors are sexual innuendos. In the end I go with “Popped Cherry,” which is a medium shade of…well, you get the picture. I spend most of the polish application staring at the tranquil paintings of nude women relaxing on furniture. The woman in the painting across from me appears to be giving herself a breast exam on a plush sofa.

I decided to heighten my relaxation by purchasing a 10 minute massage. I swiftly wriggle myself into the pretzel seat after viewing a short video demonstration by Cirque De Soleil. Then she literally beats the tension out of me. “Excuse me Sarabeth, that knot you’re trying to knead out, I think that’s bone.” She ignores me as she does not recognize the sound of her own name. No matter, she manages to pummel it smooth regardless. Then she grabs my wrists, pulls my arms back and relentlessly yanks trying to crack my shoulder blades. She ends with vigorous karate chopping to the back of my neck. Sarabeth then signals someone, and an EMT rushes in with the Jaws of Life to free me from the chair. I walk away totally relaxed, one arm carelessly dangling from the socket. No worries. I’m sure it’s nothing an good orthopedist can’t fix. Why do my attempts at tension release always seem to stress me out?

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One Hundred is the New Ninety

They say 40 is the new 30, and 30 is the new 20. The problem with everything being the new something else, is that it gives me less of a shot at looking young for my age. Most of the time I feel about 20, which I guess is the new 10. When I try to run up a flight of stairs or decode the spider vein message on my legs, however, I realize I’m not.

Remember that “hot you” that made heads turn? You know, before they were too busy sneering at one of your children flailing and screaming on the floor of Publix, Target, the movies… insert crowded public place here? That’s the you I want to be. Well, the me I want you to be. You get the picture.

It all starts with heavy drinking. I’m told I need 32 oz’s of water, a cup of pomegranate juice, a shot of Mona Vie, some cayenne pepper lemonade, and 27 glasses of green tea, all before noon. After five small meals and a sensible dinner, I must row myself into the bathroom and pee for 18 minutes, straight. Then I am required to slap on anti-aging creams with neo-mono-peptides, glycolic-amino-acids, Agent Orange, and Soylent Green. Each product is guaranteed to include the strongest ingredients known to man, and assures me that I will look 25 years younger (regardless of my current age.) This will make me look 10…so I’m right on track.

When we used to say, “We’d rather stick needles in our eyes,” who knew we meant it? I haven’t taken the plunge, but there is a crease in the middle of my brow that makes me appear constantly pensive and worried. Oh yeah, and also… old.

I have a friend who, after getting Botox on that very spot, encountered the phenomenon I call the “Evil Eyebrow.” This occurred when the crease was frozen, and whenever she tried to squint, worry, or ask a question her eyebrows arched as if she was plotting some diabolical plan. Being the good friend that I am, every time I saw her “Evil Eyebrow,” I would say “Mwaaaaa” and curl the edge of my imaginary handlebar moustache.

The fix is for her to get more Botox above her eyebrows. However, she’d then risk acquiring what I call “Frozen Forehead.” I recently had a conversation with a “Frozen Forehead.” It’s owner was telling me she was worried about her son going to a new school. However, her forehead was telling me that she was totally relaxed about it, and maybe even mildly comatose. Liar, you don’t even care about your kid, I thought. Then I kicked her in the shin and ran away. I turned back in regret, but she was expressionless. “Phew,” awkward moment avoided.

The truth is, it would be better if everything was still the old “whatever it was.” I wouldn’t have to buy purple to be wearing black this fall. My semi-youthful glow would seem rare and enviable, and teenagers would ask my major, rather than call me Ma’am. I could go on for hours, but my hands are starting to cramp and I’m running late for a Bunko game. See you in the waiting room.

License to Procreate

iStock_000005334742XSmallI realize that 13-14 year olds, Crackheads, homeless people, cheap hookers, and teenage pop stars should not be having children. I am not, however, taking a stance on moral or political issues; I’ll leave that to Paris Hilton. As a pretty normal adult, with the means to raise a child, I admittedly had no clue what I was doing with my first. I remember leaving the hospital thinking, “He’s mine? I own him? You guys trust me to walk out that door and raise a child because I made the obligatory bowel movement, and I demonstrated my ability to put him in a car seat?”

Isn’t it baffling that everyday people like us are allowed to procreate without first passing a test or getting some kind of license? Think about it, you need a library card to take out a five dollar novel, because you can’t be trusted to return it in a period long enough to read it four times over. You’re also required to pass a test to drive a car, sell a house, or be a lifeguard. You can take a class to learn how to give birth, but once that baby’s out, you’re on your own.

There was no test at my OB’s pre-pregnancy interview. All he asked was, “Do you have insurance and are you getting folic acid?”

“Of course I’d never think about bringing life to this Earth without the recommended 30,000mgs of folic acid per day… I’m also taking heroin, but you didn’t ask me that.”

What if I don’t feed him, bathe him, or water him? I could let him swim after lunch without waiting the mandatory 30 minutes, or dress him in clothes that don’t match. I could drop him off on the first day of middle school, roll down the window and scream, “Mama loves her Snuggle Buggle!”

At the very least, there should be some kind of “Mommy Aptitude” screening. During your interview, they could call your mom. Mine would say, “Jenny always dreamed of being a mother and loved playing house. Her dolls were mostly naked, and she liked to cut their hair down to the hair transplant plug scalps. Sometimes she would detach their limbs and try to put them back in the wrong sockets, possibly to amuse herself, though I found it rather disturbing. Have I said too much? No, really, she would be wonderful. They would be so clean; I recall how much she liked bathing with them.”

Doctor’s response: “Put in a 10 year IUD, give her supervised visitation with a hermit crab, and make sure someone counts the legs.”

Not only do doctors promote the concept of “Motherhood” to anyone donning a wedding ring, with reckless abandon, they encourage us to have more. This is also known as repeat business. The second my daughter arrived my OB said, “So, when am I gonna see you back in the saddle?”

Great a stirrup joke. “Take it easy Doc, the placenta’s not even cold yet.”

Well, a month and a half later I ran into him again. Actually, I had an appointment so it wasn’t as random as I’m making it sound. He said, “At 6 weeks you are extremely fertile, so now is the time for another romp in the stable.” I immediately went home to tell my husband the doctor said, “Now is the time I am extremely unstable, so no romps for at least 6 more weeks.”

How about a probationary period to see if you’re any good at this parenting thing? When you get a new job, they evaluate you every 6 months. They certainly don’t give you more responsibility until you’ve proven you can handle your current load, unless you work at MacDonald’s.

How does my OB know how I’m gonna solve disputes? When my children are fighting over the last lollipop, who says I won’t shove them all in the playroom, lock the door, and say, “last one standing gets it?”

Well, lucky for me I am an excellent mother regardless of not being licensed and accredited. This is a concept I could contemplate for hours, but my naked daughter just walked by with a lollipop matted in her crew cut, so I’ve gotta give her a bath.

Weekly Column 6: Minutia Mom

    

 

It has recently dawned on me that somewhere along the way, my sense of accomplishment became a product of my ability to be a good homemaker.  The creative energies I once used to design jewelry and dress people are now spent trying to build intricate forts and streamline the laundry process.  For instance, I’ve found that by rolling towels one can save considerable folding time while providing the added benefit of a spa-like appearance.  I am a woman who single handedly opened and ran two successful companies, yet I was more excited to get my son through his first dental appointment than the day my line got into Bloomingdales.

            When did this happen?  When did I accept the job as Master of the Mundane?  I remember the ad, it read:  Seeking highly motivated person, who requires little sleep, to cook, clean, wipe tushies, noses, and countertops… oh, and provide occasional sex to employer.  Person will be overworked and underappreciated.  It is preferred that you have no prior experience or references.  Always on duty.  Will pay nothing.    

Not only did I take the job, I thoroughly enjoy it and happen to be damn good at it.  Let’s face it, I’m a superhero… the lamest superhero on Earth.   Able to clean an explosive diapie with a single wipe: It’s a wet-vac, it’s Mr. Clean… nope it’s me: Minutia Mom! 

I can picture it now; my costume would be covered with stickers that were put on me without my knowledge.  It would be stained with chocolate or some other gooey substance I’d have to taste to place.  It would be fashionable, but about 6 months outdated, as I have about 1hr per evening to catch up on my backlog of magazines, Tivo, and the NY Post crosswords I do to keep my rapidly deteriorating brain sharp.  Sadly, I am no longer smart enough for the Times.

            My skin would be relatively clear minus a couple of blackheads from slopping on too many anti-aging creams.  The furrow of my brow would be screaming for Botox, only to be outdone by my Restylane seeking laugh lines. My Hair would be slicked back into a ponytail, not by some chi-chi product, but with the natural grease built up from not having time to shower.

            I would walk the streets in my costume, my freshly laundered cape in tow, looking for housekeeping and child rearing injustices.  “Excuse me Ma’am, but it would behoove you to consolidate the darks with the lights and run them together on cold.  It would save you both time and money, not to mention conserves H2O.  “Pardon me Sir, but if you let that tantrum run its course you’ll get a far better result in the long run.”   Maybe going public would bring me the admiration I so unabashedly seek.  I have found there is nothing people enjoy more than unsolicited criticism and advice; especially on how to run their household and raise their children. 

            I am always flexing my supermuscles around my house.  I start by asking my husband to do some routine chore like putting the dishes in the dishwasher.  A fitting task considering he seems to think they wash themselves.  I know this because when he does me the courtesy of taking a glass or dish from the table he places it on the counter ever so close to the sink, but is unable to actually make it in.  Clearly, this is due to the force field I  installed around the basin.  If he penetrates the force field, he never washes the food off the plate into that hole in the sink, for fear that the monster that lives there may bite off a finger.

“Honey, I’ve only trained the dishes to jump into the sink from where you leave them.  For a more thorough cleaning, we humans must step in.  Don’t worry the monster in the hole only bites if you shove your hand in its mouth.”  Then I watch and wait knowing he will soon fail at this task, miserably.  He’s ½ way through and … here it comes… wait for it…10-9-8-… “I can’t get it all in, it’s too full.  You’ll have to run it a second time.”  He says this with enough confidence to imply that a single shrimp fork and the thing’s gonna blow.

            “Second time?  Like hell I will.  Have no fear kind sir.”  I say as I bounce off the sofa and spring into action.  With my cape flapping behind me, I jump directly from my seat over the counter in a single bound.  I stand, hands firmly on hips, assessing the damage.  Then he looks at me oddly as if to ask, “Why is that towel tied around your neck, and why did you call me kind sir?”  “Step aside,” I say as I hip bump him out of the way.  Like an expert Tetris player, I fit in every piece: with room for a Rachel Ashwell dinner party to spare.  Than, wagging my finger, I reprimand him for not taking the valves out of the sippy cups. 

            Though it is an interesting side effect, my goal is not to debase him.  My goal is to display the sheer magnitude of my powers and reiterate the amazing feats I perform on a daily basis.  I avert looming tantrums with my Mommy Mind negotiating skills.  My Bionic Child Carrying Arm vacuums so much dog hair, I could knit the sweaters needed to warm a small village in Ethiopia (okay, bad example).  My point is, he should see this dishwasher phenomenon, rise from his butt, which I previously knocked him on with my child-bearing hips, and applaud me.  He should applaud my greatness, or at the very least, nod in my general direction.          

            Look, I don’t know him personally, but I can say with much confidence that Wonder Woman’s husband doesn’t come home from his accounting job, or whatever it is he does, and ask her to gas up the invisible jet and get take-out ‘cause he had a long day crunching numbers.

How then can my husband witness my awesomeness and still have the audacity to request some time to relax when he walks in the door?  What was the commute home, a business meeting?  You had an hour, it’s not my fault you didn’t use it wisely.  If I had a random free hour everyday, oh the things I could do.  I could listen to music that isn’t sung by Disney characters.  I could end world hunger.  Better yet, I could shower and moisturize in the same day.  Alas, I am on 24/7.

Who reads “Strawberry Shortcake Goes Apple Picking” 500 times at 9PM because the phrase “Now this is the last time.” has no real meaning?  Who flies into the room at 1AM on bad dream patrol?  Who uses Mommy Supersonic hearing to catch 6AM candy thievery?  Me, Minutia Mom, I’m a freakin’ superhero for G-ds sake.

My new career may not be as lucrative in pay or recognition as some of my other jobs, but there is reward in altruistic work and a cheap thrill in seeing my husband screw up.  Hmmm, tonight I think I’ll ask him to fold some laundry.