Category Archives: mommy blog

Children Say The Darndest Things

Sometimes Jake, my mush, has these sentimental moments that he doesn’t yet know how to process. He will say things like, “this music makes me want to cry, it’s just so beautiful.” Last night he came in as I was putting Ryan to bed. He said, “I can’t help it I just need to hug you one more time. I don’t know why. I just need to hug and kiss you. I love you.”

Ryan: (Who you can’t buy a hug from.) “What about me? Can you help hugging me?”

Jake: “No, you too Ryan,” He said, ‘cause he’s good like that. (He went over and hugged and and kissed her.)

He left and came back two more times because, in his words, “I can’t help it Mommy, my heart is addicted to you.”

“MY heart is addicted to YOU.” I replied in awe of this immensely touching statement.

My heart is addicted to you, can you even handle it? How beautiful, in a why does my 6 year old understand the concept of addiction, kinda way. Is his father’s heart “addicted” to me? I mean my G-d that’s better than “You complete me,” or “You had me at hello.”

For how many more years will his heart be addicted to me? Will he turn in the middle of his wedding vows, walk away and announce to the crowd, “I just can’t, my heart is addicted to my mommy.” Part of me pathetically hopes so.

My daughter began hosting an intervention. “Can you stop Jake? Can you do it? Can you be brave and strong and stop your addiction?” She was saying,  in a breathless distressed Scarlet O’Hara kind of voice. She is just 4 and oddly, also seems to understand the word addiction. You’d think we were all in some kinda 12 stepper.

So, Jake bravely found his manliness and retreated to his big boy room. Within seconds Ryan lunged at me “I, can’t help it I must have a hug. I neeeeed a hug” her voice trailing off as she fainted into my arms. Somewhere the sentimentality was lost, but she definitely wins for most dramatic.

Famous Mom Gets Fired Over Crack!


It’s official… I’m famous.   For the last couple months people have been stopping me at random places to ask if I write the column “Suburban Jungle,” or to tell me they read and love my stuff.  The first time was at a local Chinese restaurant where a woman and her friend were pointing.  After checking for boogers and toilet paper hanging out of my pants, I heard one said, “that’s the girl with the blog I sent you.”  They came over, introduced themselves and kindly let me know I had broccoli in my teeth.  Damn, oversight.

My most recent approaching was at the grocery store yesterday when a woman stopped me to ask if I was a writer .

“Yes, I am.”

“Oh, I read your column and your blog, you are hilarious.  I love you .  Have you ever heard of so and so?”

“No, does she live in Weston?”  I asked, as if I were some hick who knows  no world outside this microcosm.

“No, she is a very famous writer and your stuff totally reminds me of her.  You’re like a celebrity.”

The whole time my daughter was pulling on my pant leg saying, “Come on mommy let’s go.”  You know the way the children of famous people do, because let’s face it to them you’re not Angelina Jolie, you’re just mommy.  Did I just compare myself to Angie?  Well, so be it.

I did need to get back to the deli counter before number 66 was called.  But, my inflating ego was doing one of those, “Stop it you embarrass me, but go on if you must,” things.  I walked away vowing to never go braless in public again, and arrived at the counter to find them at 68.  I thought, “this is what it must be like to be famous.”  You can’t just walk away when someone is praising your work. You would seem ungrateful and rude, yet you may have to explain to the guy at the deli counter you were accosted by fans and just couldn’t make 66.

The price we pay.  I left the store and realized I must have thrown the paparazzi off my trail, as there were no photographers waiting to see what was in my basket.  Though, I’m sure I’ll be in the “Normal or Not Normal” section of Star.  “Grocery shopping with daughter, NORMAL.”  I shoved my swelled head into my generic SUV and drove back to my humble estate.

Today, the world got wind of my hubris and decided to put me in my place.  I got fired from my column for writing something utterly despicable in my new year’s resolutions article.  Apparently, humor columns are no joking matter.  I also wrote, I would pull my son out of school and send him to work for not being able to spell December, yet child services has not called about infringing on any labor laws.

This reference to crack…

“Resolution 9.  Become Addicted To Something:

Smoking, alcoholism and Starbucks are so trite. I’m thinking something unique like nasal spray or hand sanitizer.  Or at least something beneficial to my endurance like crack.  Look, I already have a shopping addiction maybe I could offset the bills with a robust gambling problem.”

was so offensive that the owner, upon receiving his advance copy, threatened to fire the editors for not noticing the seriousness of my new year’s lampoon.  Having not caught it before it went to print, they halted the distribution in order to rip the piece out of 30,000 copies on Dec 31.  It not only held up the delivery date, it cost them over $10,000 in ad revenue from the flip side of the page, and hours of man power.

I was worth losing 10 grand over?  I think that makes me infamous.  Truth be told, I would have taken 8,000 not to write the piece in the first place.  Then they could have pocketed 2g’s and saved themselves the New Year’s Eve headache.  Or at least gotten their New Year’s headaches the old fashioned way: drinking to excess, doing embarrassing things that won’t be remembered at a party of your peers, and accidentally letting the wrong person tongue you when the ball drops.

So, no more play dates with Apple, or Kingston, or Shiloh, or Hazel and Finn.  It’s back to the normal folk with their normal kid names.  No more late nights swapping with the Pitt’s.  It’ll be okay.  I might just start doing crack, to take the edge off.

A Confession of A Mother’s Addiction

I have many addictions, most of which are harmless and routine. My penchant for pot…child’s play. An affinity for gambling and my small cocaine habit…blips on the radar. Compulsively stealing Percacet, Oxyconton and other prescription drugs from people’s medicine cabinets…a mere misdemeanor. But G-d do I love me some sleep. You know the stuff. That in the bed, eyes closed, not awake kind of sleep. I am currently not sleeping to write this and I am just jonesing for some shut eye. Ahhh…sweet, sweet slumber.

I’ve been addicted to sleep for as long as I can remember. Even as a small child, my Mom tells fantastic tales of my having to sleep multiple times each day. Sometimes I sleep for long stretches; I go to bed at one time and wake up at a totally different time. I know this as it is dark when I start to sleep, and light when I wake up. I also I have a clock.

I am so dependent on sleep that if I skip a single day, one day, I start to go through severe withdrawal. My head aches, my eyes twitch and dark circles form puddles under them. My speech is slurred and nonsensical, and my decision- making becomes impaired. I have this overall look of exhaustion that is a tell-tale sign of my addiction. Like any hard-core addict, I make excuses. “I fell.” “My husband is beating me.” “I’ve been shooting up.”

I get so high on sleep, that I completely lose my appetite. Some nights I can go ten hours without eating. In fact, I rarely eat when I’m sleeping. There are other side effects, like crazy hallucinations. I’ll be having sex with Ben Affleck and a shark will eat him and then I’ll scream and freefall off some huge ledge and end up on Oprah’s talk show couch, except Oprah is a white male midget with 8 tentacles, each of which is attempting to feel me up, which is odd because he’s gay.

You would think that would scare me straight, but it’s doesn’t. I’ve tried over and over to kick the habit. In college, I used tons of caffeine and ephedrine in hopes of weaning myself off sleep. But I ended up partying all night, only to relapse all day and miss extremely practical classes, like bio 403 -The history of infectious diseases.

After having babies, I used breast feeding as a form of “rehab,” but I fell off the wagon and did something too horrible to discuss. That’s right, I got my own kids hooked on the stuff, like little crack babies. I forced them to try it, and they were so smitten with the sandman, they indulged two, maybe three times a day. Ashamed as I am to admit it, I even joined them from time to time.

Look, I am not proud of what I’ve done. For years I’ve tried to hide it. Only a select few guessed… my carpool, they knew. I knew they knew, but I still relied on explanations. “You say I look so fresh faced and well rested? Well…that must be my Nars bronzer, Orgasm.” “Oh, that dewy glow, that’s cause I just had an actual orgasm.”

Now I am telling the world, because the first step is admitting you have a problem. “Hi, my name is Jenny, and I’m addicted to sleep. I apologize if my habit has harmed or affected those around me and I vow to get help… in the morning.

Woman sleeping comfortably photo

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

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.

If you enjoyed this post please subscribe in the box to the right or bookmark it.

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.

If you enjoyed this post please subscribe in the box to the right or bookmark it.

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?

If this post made you laugh, please take a minute to subscribe to the blog on the right, or bookmark it.

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?

If this post made you laugh, please subscribe to the blog or bookmark it.

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.