Category Archives: parenting

What Those Candy Hearts Should REALLY Say – After Marriage – A little post V-Day fun

While searching for a pic I found this. I guess I

On Valentine’s Day I was reading through the V-day Sweethearts, you know, the conversation hearts, the ones that are supposed to represent the sweet nothings you would whisper in your lover’s ear before bed. Like: I love you, be mine, kiss me… blah blah blah. So in that vein, I’ve made a list of what should be etched in red on those cute little hearts.

BTW this article is not for newlyweds, so you can refrain from reading and telling me how head over heels you are. Give it a few years. Ahem- I mean, I’m happy for you. Frankly, you can avoid this article unless you’re past the 7 year itch. Sorry, but resentment and boredom takes time to cure, like a salami.

WIVES CONVERSATION HEARTS:

I BOUGHT ANOTHER PAIR OF SHOES, DON’T WORRY THEY WERE ON SALE

SHH… THE REAL HOUSEWIVES OF BEVERLY HILLS IS ON

NO, I WON’T PUT THAT IN MY MOUTH Continue reading →

Wanna Know Why Moms Can’t Relax? – Shit Like This:

funny mom cartoon

Yes, every one of us has had an attempt to get a little peace backfire like this (and you men think our lives are so rosy)…

I’m finally getting a long overdue pedicure and a long overdue moment of respite ( or so I think). 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 a metal gum wrapper. Eeeek.

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 wearing a vampire’s 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’m aware there’s a Hello Kitty sticker on the bottom of my foot. “Oh, my daughter 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. Probably because she picked the tag out of a basket this morning.

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 a good orthopedist can’t fix. Seriously, ALL of my attempts at relaxation seem to stress me out!

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Fifty Shades of Why Can’t I Put this Trashy Book Down?

WARNING: This post is for peeps reading the Fifty Shades series of “adult” novels… it is most certainly not for my parents my in-laws or anyone who does not want to hear me talk about sex!  Just sayin’.
Fifty Shades of WTF?

Ok, so I’m on the  bandwagon.  Yes, you people with all your oohing and ahhhing and “Oh, Mr. Grey-ing.”  And your running to the nearest Pleasure Chest Sex Emporium – have got me reading Fifty Shades of Grey.  Here’s what I have realized from reading the first two installments of the Fifty series:  I may start calling my vagina “my sex,” I find the sound of ripping foil erotic, and I don’t have a very hot sex life!  Continue reading →

Barbie and I Can’t Get our Skinny Jeans Over our Thighs

No matter what your weight or size, most of us experienced that moment when we realize it’s time to “retire” a pair of our favorite jeans because they just don’t fit anymore. Damn you, slowing metabolism. Damn you, gravity. Damn you, left over mac n’ cheese.

pMAT1-6593162v380Yesterday while trying to dress my daughter’s Barbie in a stunning pair of silver lamé jeans, I realized they weren’t going over her thighs. WTF? Had she gained a few? Had she borrowed a pair from Skipper? Was it her time of the month? Was she spending too much time in her Barbie McDonalds and not enough on her Barbie bike?

All I know is, this scene seemed oddly familiar. Trying to yank some slim pants over unyielding thighs… where have I seen that before?

Oh right, my closet, that’s where.

At first I felt a tinge of pity for Barbie. I breathed an empathetic sigh as I resolved to get those once fitting lamé pants over her rubbery legs. Continue reading →

You May Just be a Jewish Redneck if… | Funny Stuff I did Elsewhere

You May Just be a Jewish Redneck if…

Ok, here’s a post I worked on at my other site, but it cracked me up soooo much I thought I’d share it.  Feel free to share it with your Jewish friends as well!  Oh, and tell me your fave… mine is:  – You end all prayers with “get er done” instead of Amen

You May Just be a Jewish Redneck If…
-You know which brand of squeeze cheese is Kosher

– You have a gun rack in your Sukkah

– You don’t ride on Shabbat because your car has a boot on it

– You think that a hora is a high priced call girl

CONTINUE

10 Things I Wanted to do with My Life and Clearly Never Will

It’s my birthday.  Yes, I know “Happy to Me” and all, I’m not feeling so happy.  Actually, I kinda want to be serious for a minute.  It is Friday the 13th ohhhhhhh.  Respect.  I don’t know what that means ’cause I’m Jewish.  But here goes:
I – WILL – NEVER – BE – FAMOUS!!!!!!

Imagine stamping feet between each word.

What? I said I was going to be serious, not mature!

January 13th marks the first day of the last year in my 30‘s.  I know, I could have said that more succinctly – but you know what?  It’s my birthday, so I get to do what I want!

Most importantly, in this day filled with the logging of new wrinkles and the circling of new cellulite dimples that I will have to remove at 40, and assessing what I have not accomplished and what I will never accomplish.

Holy shit.  I will never be famous.  Look, you don’t have to have wanted to be a famous actress, writer, singer, talk show host… from the age of 3 to relate; you merely have to have wanted a certain success that looks less likely to occur as the years pass.  You have to get that urge to sob uncontrollably at the bleak outlook that is your professional or social future, but you should squelch such antics as you’re in the middle of a parent teacher meeting and you really should be paying attention. (wait, that’s just me.)

I was all prepped for fame.  At 5, I was singing outside of restaurants, attracting throngs of people who said things to my mother like, “Oy, you should take her to try out for Annie,” “My G-d that child can sing.” and “Miss, could you please move, you and your child are blocking the entrance.” Were they talent scouts whose opinions could’ve translated into the big bucks?

Probably not.

But they knew good deli and they loved a fatty corned beef on Rye, so that gives them credibility right?  I’m sure many talent execs know good deli, so really it’s quite the same thing.

If I were 5 today, I’d certainly be famous.  Someone would’ve YouTubed me and it would’ve gone viral and I would’ve been befriended by Usher and I would’ve made an inspirational movie called “Never Say Never.”

What, that happened to someone else?

See, it’s a clear case of bad timing.

Here are things I wanted so badly to do with my life that I clearly never will:
1.  Be a Part of  the Kings of Comedy tour
2.  Sing a Duet with Shawn Cassidy
3.  Replace Marie on the Donny and Marie Show Continue reading →

Mom: Can you Die of Constipation… Elvis Did

He kinda looks constipated here

My son’s birthday is the same day as the King.  Oh, you know, THE King.  This is the enlightening conversation we had to commemorate his birthday.  I hope the King had other conversations to eavesdrop on at the time.

Jake: Elvis died in the bathroom.

Me:  Did he?

Jake:  He was constipated, did you know you could die of that?

Ryan: He was not constipated.  He died of doing too much drugs.

Wow that “Just say NO” campaign they start in Kindergarten has left my 7yr old speaking as if she knows of what she speaks. 

Thanks for that.

Jake:  He did not.

Ryan: Did too.

Jake:  He died on the toilet.

Ryan: Ok maybe he died in the bathroom, but it was drugs not constipation!  What was he like, urgh urgh, grunt… oops, I’m dead?

Jake:  Or wait, did he die in a bathtub?… No that was Jim Morrison.

My kids don’t know shit about current affairs but somehow this stuff sticks with them.

Jake:  Yeah, Jim Morrison did too many drugs.

Ryan:  Maybe he was constipated.

I wonder where she got that sarcasm from?

BTW – Here’s what comes up if you ask if Elvis died of constipation: it has been widely reported that Elvis Presley died in 1977 from cardiac arrhythmia, an irregular heartbeat, possibly brought on by drug dependency, obesity and a weak heart. But the music legend’s longtime friend and physician, Dr. George “Nick” Nichopoulos, has put pen to paper for the first time and revealed his belief that it was chronic constipation that actually killed the King of Rock and Roll.

Hmmmm?

WHILE YOU’RE HERE CHECK OUT WHAT’S GOING ON AT MY OTHER SITE:  I’m a Jewish mom, what’s your excuse?

My last post is below. Only read it if you plan not to verbally assault me for writing it!!!

So, I Have a Cleaning Lady – No Need for Verbal Assaults

Written by Jenny From the Blog of THE SUBURBAN JUNGLE

This story ended up in a book of hilarious Mom essays, but it was originally run when I first started blogging, by a major newspaper and their coordinating website, I will not name where.
No, stop asking, ‘cuz I won’t.
Don’t tickle me… stop it.  
ENOUGH.

Ok – the response was a mostly a verbal assault and a judgmental lashing from people who would never spend their hard earned money to have someone else help around the house.  Personally, I have no problem spending my husbands hard earned money to have someone do that.  (What, you think blogging pays a ton?)  

Ironic, comparison right ‘cuz she was the hired nanny.

Frankly, I would consider spending my last dollar on it.  In fact I would clean someone else’s house to make the money to pay someone to clean my own.  I feel I don’t need to apologize for the sanity and extra time I get to play with my kids or the joyful feeling I get from walking into my home- like Julie Andrew’s character feels in the Sound of Music when she’s spinning on the mountain top singing, “The Hills are Alive.”

Oh, you can picture me doing it right?
Cuz I do.  
With song.  
And a flowy 1940‘sesque dress.  
Every time I walk in and smell the fresh scent of Lysol “Fresh Scent.”

I thought I would let you all decide if you can relate or if I’m a horrible person  – for liking a clean house – for putting this extravagance in my budget – for wearing frocks…

Here goes:  Read MORE

This Post is Not for the Conservative – ahem – Straight Laced – ahem – Uptight

From: Surfing the Internet While Schtupping – A Multitaskers Dream  Alternate title:  There’s Nothing like a good well placed “f*ck.”

A bit too racy for my site, but if you like that kinda thing – Hooka – enjoy.

“…Maybe I want to check Perez to see who Carnie Wilson ate to gain all the weight back.  Hmmm?:”

And she was hungry an hour later…
If you get that joke, you’ll probably enjoy the post – You can find the actual article HERE.

Top 10 Resolutions ANYONE Can Keep | For 2012

new yearsThis time of year I amuse myself by looking back at last year’s resolutions. Ones I made with the best intentions, like learning an instrument or a foreign language. Last Hanukkah I had my husband buy me a guitar. I had all the confidence in the world that by this New Year’s, I would balk at a request to play “Stairway To Heaven,” saying something dismissive like… “Please, that’s so cliché, but why not?” or “Por favor, es muy cliché, pero porque no? Unfortunately, my guitar collects dust while my Spanish collects rust.

So for this year, I am making some resolutions that are a bit more achievable:

1. Nag More

For over a decade my husband has not picked up a wet towel, washed ketchup off of a dish, changed a light bulb, or remembered trash day without a divorce threat, I mean, friendly reminder.  This year: I vow to be relentless in my nagging. I will lay immediate blame using words like always and never. As in, “I always, and you never.” I will play the martyr by saying, “Forget it. I’ll do it myself.” I will amp up the guilt with, “I do everything around here.” Or something unarguable like, “It’s obvious by your refusal to change a light bulb that you don’t love me anymore.” If all goes well, I’ll be nagging him to go to couples therapy by 2013.

2. Gain Weight

I’m going to quit all good eating habits ASAP.  I vow to add carbs to my diet with reckless abandon. I’ll start each meal with a generous helping of bread and rolls onto which I will spread an obnoxious amount of butter. I’ll stuff food into my mouth with such fervor it’ll make other eaters uncomfortable to watch. I also vow to eat everything a la mode, including ice cream.

3. Workout Less

This will actually take serious effort. The only thing harder would be to shower less. If I need the proverbial cup of sugar, I will drive to my neighbor’s garage and beep until she comes out and hands it to me. I’ll take elevators in two-story buildings. Lastly, I’m going to cancel my gym membership and use the money I save to buy more ice cream.

4. Forget an Old Language

This year, not only am I not going to learn a new language, I’m going to let my brain atrophy to forget the one I already know. I’ll watch endless episodes of Adventure Time, The Regular Show and Beavis and Butthead. I’ll quit doing crosswords and speaking in complete sentences. I’ll break all grammatical rules: I will misplace modifiers, dangle participles, and end sentences in prepositions. I will express my thoughts through that African clicking language, modern dance, and a set of bongos that I intend to wear around my neck.

5. Stay Out of Touch

This time of year, I am reminded of the many friends I have let time and space interfere with. I intend to further that distance. I’m gonna start by rejecting any new Facebook or social network requests. I will also attach a note that reads, “I never liked you in the first place, Sucka!” Lastly, I will cuss out and then hang up on people who call in hopes of fulfilling their own resolution to rekindle old friendships.

6. Be Less Patient

I vow to be aggravated, exasperated, and ready to blow my stack at the slightest misstep. The next time my son wants help with his homework I’ll say, “That’s it! Clearly this whole elementary education thing is not for you. If you don’t know how to spell “Discerning” by now, you never will…Now, go get a job! Oh, and take your sister with you, she spends way too much time on the potty.”

7. Hold Grudges

This year I vow to forgive no one. I don’t care if you step on my toe, or pay me the five bucks you owe me, a day after the assigned due date. You will go on “The List” in permanent ink and I will twirl my imaginary handlebar mustache as I think about how to get revenge.  I vow to hate you forever and never forget how you wronged me.


8. Stress More

I vow to lose sleep thinking about planning parties, redecorating my house, trying to budget, missing appointments, teacher conferences, and health issues caused by stress. I will laugh an evil cackle while erasing all the plans from my iPhone, and then cry over what I’ve just done. I will empty our bank account on frivolous investments and watch it dwindle away. Oh, wait…that already happened. Well good, more for me to worry about.

9. Become Addicted to Something

Smoking, alcoholism and Starbucks are so trite. No, this year I vow to pick up a unique dependency that people can really talk about like nasal spray or hand sanitizer or sniffing hot glue from class projects. Or at least something beneficial to my endurance like crack. Look, I already have a shopping addiction so that’s out and I do love me some reality TV; maybe I could offset the bills with a robust gambling problem.

10. Gossip More

I vow to talk about everything you do in the New Year. If I see you at the pediatrician for so much as a flu shot, I will tell everyone your child has hand foot mouth, so you can be verbally assaulted when you show up at a birthday party the next day. If you look too skinny, I will assume it’s a divorce or you’re a raging bulimic. If you look too hot, I’ll call it a torrid affair. If you look too young, it’s an addiction to surgical procedures because you’re getting divorced, due to a torrid affair.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

My Other Resolution: GET MORE READERS TO THE BLOG SO I CAN GET A COLUMN IN A SHE SHE MAGAZINE AND LEAVE ALL YOU READERS FLOUNDERING!  MWAHAHAHA!!!
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Politically Incorrect Meets the Forth Grade

A couple weeks back, I went to my son’s school as a volunteer for his holiday class party.  In an attempt to be overly PC they had all the usual non-denominational stuff: snow flake making, a toilet paper snowman contest, and other things related to snow and not Chanukah menorahs or Christmas trees or whatever kwanza has… like, kangaroos.  Frankly, I don’t know if there’s a Kwanza Kangaroo, but I like to think there is one.

Every holiday needs a mildly creepy ambassador.  I mean, there’s Santa Clause for X-mas.  He’s a fat, jolly, old guy that likes to have children on his lap, which is kinda disturbing.  There’s a Hanukkah Harry, who sounds like a drunken trench coat wearing uncle who may flash you in front of the menorah, and I assume – there’s a Kwanza Kangaroo, who let’s you feel in his pocket for presents and for pleasure.

Not the Creepy Kangaroo you were picturing, or is it?

I may have just massacred the mascots of three religions at once.  And to think I wasn’t a part of the politically incorrect story I’m about to tell.

Moving on.  We were in the midst of making snowflakes, which had to have a picture of the student glued on the front.  I grabbed some of those tiny 1×2” pictures and started giving them to their respective owners.  I can barely tell the girls apart with the feathers in their hair and the Justice accessories, but I managed, then I came across an Asian child.  He was one of many Asian children in the class.

Hello, it’s gifted.

I don’t want to say he’s Chinese because I always get that stuff wrong, and then I seem ignorant.

As you can tell from the story thus far, I hate to sound ignorant.  Though to be fair, I wouldn’t expect you to know me from a Canadian.

I put the child’s picture at the back of my pile, to be certain I was giving it to the right Asian child.

Not that they all look alike.

I mean, if that’s where your head was going, then I’m quite sure you’re guilty of racial profiling.

Shame on you.

I, on the other hand was concerned that in this cripplingly PC society, that had I given the wrong picture to the wrong child and he happened to be Asian, I would be perceived as being prejudiced myself.  Though if I’d given a feather laden girl the wrong pic, we’d have laughed it off.

As I walked over to the child whose picture was last in my pile, I saw him holding another picture in his hand.

Holy shit, I am guilty, I can’t tell them apart.  This is horrible, I have to stop being so preachy to other people.

Shame on me!

Then, I looked at the picture in his hand and realized that HE was holding the wrong picture, not I.

OMG the irony.

I tried to hand him his picture, which he was reluctant to trade, sure he had the correct one.

“No, this is you.” I said.

I mean, if you can’t tell yourself from another child of similar decent, than I think the rest of us are in the clear here.  Phew, one less PC thing to worry about.

And the best part, I made it out of this scenario somehow unscathed and totally PC

What did I learn:  Asian children have trouble telling themselves from other Asian children… It must be the pocket protectors and the ping pong paddles they carry around with them.

Relax, I was just kidding, you can’t play ping pong in school, though they did look like this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well, like this but, younger and with black socks and sandals.

May we all be a bit less PC in the New Year.

Little Things that Make me Wanna to Convert

starbucks hot

Understand, these are like the size of your thumb! Awwwww.

So, the to-go cup ornaments at Starbucks are really challenging my faith.  I may just have to convert. 

I mean have you seen them?

They’re like tiny hot and cold drinks with straws and mini logos. So cute I just want to pinch them and make tiny lattes to drink out of them. 

The truth is everything is better when miniaturized. That’s why they make mini versions of things in the first place. Does anyone remember those mini soda cans you could get out of candy machines? Or those cute little mini x-mas trees with mini ornaments? How about those Russian stacking dolls? You know the smallest was always your favorite.

As small a a can, but you shouldn't crush it on your head.

And miniature dogs,

 

I mean people will pay a fortune to have a dog that has been bred with 10 other smaller dogs. The smaller the place you can fit your dog, the better. Screw the Teacup. I want a Shot-glass. Yeah, I want a Shot-glass Yorkshire terrier. You know, one that’s the offspring of a Yorkie a poodle and a spec of dust. I’ll call it a YorkiedoodleDandy, the doodle is so it doesn’t shed. It would only have a minimal amount of hair (due to it’s teeny tiny size,) but I so hate to be off trend.

I digress, my point is: You damn marketers of miniature things have really got me this time. Yeah, as a child I spent year after year decorating other people’s trees, driving to see houses lit up with Santa being pulled by his 5 glorious reindeer. I know there are 9, I’m Jewish, not stupid. Rick Barns could only fit 5 on his lawn, hello?

Anywho, I’ve seethed with jealously at the kids who got to run down their wrought iron staircases into their highly polished mahogany floored living rooms on X-mas morn and open tons of presents under their 12 foot trees while wearing footy pajamas and sipping hot cocoa.

Oh, I know how it works.  At least one of the boxes would bark and with your new puppies in tow, you would move on to empty stockings filled with small things like Nanos, and netbooks.

What? 

That’s how I picture it.

Sure, there have been times when I was green with envy, but I never, until today, thought of converting.

starbucks cold

Look at that cute itsy bitsy straw!!!

We as a people survived thousands of years of slavery and persecution, but I fear this mini to-go cup may be the end of us. To the tribe I say, “Stay strong, stay strong.” They’ve tried to break us before, but we will not let this insanely cute miniature ornament be our demise.”  Unless they start serving mini coffee drinks in it, then it’s every Jew for themselves.

Please note:  No Lattes were harmed in the writing of this article, however, one was emptied.

Hey- if you haven’t checked out yesterday’s post Can’t a Nice Jewish Girl Sit on Santa’s Lap without Being a HO HO HO? you really should.

Happy Holidays.

 

 

 

Can’t a Nice Jewish Girl Sit on Santa’s Lap Without Being a Ho Ho Ho?

girl-santaIt’s that time of year again… Time for that timeless Jewish tale that should be read the night before Christmas after eating Chinese and watching whatever movie your kids talk you into.

How many of you will be sleeping through this flick this weekend?

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 my 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 Fijit my beat friend when I’m 25?”  “Sure.  If you still want a Fijit my best friend at 25, you being it with you 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 childrens’ Hanukkah 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-wassailing?  No, we have one song… about kids gambling.

Has Dreidel ever starred in a delightfully animated holiday movie?  Even the Rugrats sold out, ahem, converted.

What, Hollywood talk you into losing your religion?

 

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 Hanukkah 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 more of those squeaky –and possibly poisonous– Zhu Zhu pets.   She would also like the newest Bratz Doll, which comes complete with Brazilian waxing kit and requisite diaphragm.

My son “just has to have” Ubisoft’s Rocksmith “I Choked on My Own Vomit Tour,” the iPhone 4s that he thinks will answer any question, including where he left his last cell phone. Oh, 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 (wink, wink).
HAPPY HOLIDAYS

Want more Holiday Humor?  Check out Little Things That Make me Wanna Convert and of course, please share this tale as a holiday treat

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