Category Archives: parenting

We Used to Play Family Now it’s ‘Modern Family’

In last week’s post, I Can’t Come to Terms with my Quasi-Teenage 1st Grader , I realized that my child is not the only child who’s 7 going on 17.  I have to believe that the fact that my daughter and I are having these teenage sounding conversations during bouts of playing make-believe is a sign that she’s still a kid, phew.  Though, I have to ask, when her favorite scenario is one where I’m Jay and she’s Gloria, is it a sign that her innocence is a distant memory?

For those of you living under a rock, that was a Modern Family reference.  My 7 year old has Sofia Vergara’s walk, talk, attitude, and ditsy miscommunication down to a science.   Of course, she expects me to play the reluctantly accommodating husband to her fanciful whims.

Other favorites scenarios include:

1.  She is Gloria and I am Manny.

2.  She is – insert girl name here, but assume it’s a name of some young chippie from the formulaic star making machines that are Disney or Nickelodeon and that within a few years said young chippie will be posing inappropriately in Vanity Fair or Playboy.  Names may include: ie. Carly, Victoria, China, Rocky ect. –

Who will show boobies first?

I am to play the roles of the two cutest boys in school.  Both are hopelessly in love with her and stammering while trying to get out the simplest of statements.  (This by the way, is by her request that I stutter and throw in a sprinkling of “ums, uhs, I ums, wha’s, and duhs.”)  She also asks that I sometimes faint at the sight of her and explains that if my characters were in a cartoon they would have hearts instead of eyeballs.

They (both me) are then required to fight over her in some manner and she has to choose who she will be with and whose life she will ruin, or she tells them both that she is moving to New York, knowing that with each passing day they will slowly die inside.

3.  She is, insert name of the week here, and I’m a mousy girl who is amazed by her fashion sense, talents, smarts, athleticism, and humility. I simply want to be like her or be friends with her.  She is so kind and tells me why I should like being me, then she even offers to set me up with a boy that I like, who is unfortunately already pining over her.  This makes my date all kinds of awkward, and not just because I’m playing both parts, but because I have a one night stand and then I have to face me in the morning.

Relax- I just wanted to see if you were paying attention.  I totally added the last part.   Though my daughter actually did come up with a scenario last week in which she informed that she would be a girl in high school and therefore pregnant.

We hit the pause button on the game for just a bit that day.

Moving on…

4.  I am a deprived British girl who lives in a hovel and signs up for a contest to live with my favorite movie star, who just so happens to be her character.  Though I have a computer, I can’t afford a cell phone or email, which makes alerting me that I’ve won the contest a task in itself.  Then when I get to live with said movie star (Yesterday, J. Lo) I do something rude or perhaps I faint too many times and find my prize taken away by my overbearing mother, who is also played by me.

5.  I’m a street urchin who has never known a family or what it’s like to eat anything but paper.  She is a beautiful, compassionate girl who takes me in and allows me to stay with her, much to the dismay of her evil sister, Delilah (also me) who likes to verbally abuse street urchins and physically abuse family pets and then release them into the wild.

6.  She is a mermaid who I find living in my lake.  She agrees to come live with me until my father (also me) insists that there is no such thing as mermaids and proclaims her tail to be nothing more than an elaborate costume.  She then refuses to live with me because my father cannot come to terms with the abomination of nature that she is, or something like that.

To contrast the maturity in the content of these scenarios we can often play them out as Barbies, My Little Ponies, Groovy Girls, Polly Pockets, La La Loopsies, Webkinz, or any inanimate object that can be tilted as if talking.  Yes, fingers, straws, and pencils are feasible candidates.

In fact, if you happen to be in a Grand Lux and overhear a mother telling her child about the stigma of teenage pregnancy using Wikki Stix, you might as well assume it’s me.

You don't get to go to parties when there's a baby at home.

DON’T Analyze This

Counseling Addiction –  Those were the words in the title of an email I just received.  I didn’t read on, I didn’t have to.  I get the gist and I’m shocked.

It’s never dawned on me that this would be an issue, but why the f@ck not?  I mean, tons of people love counseling – I’m one of them.  Though I haven’t found the time to go recently, which means I’m probably not an addict, per se.

But, I do get it.

In fact, as a double major – one of them being psychology – I found that many people in my classes were taking these courses in hopes of fixing themselves.

Well, we know that never works.  If it did, no one would say, “you should take your own advice,” in that snarky way that they do.

Needless to say, I spent much time in college and Grad school with people who were anxiety stricken, or OCD (like myself) or narcissists, or bipolar, or… had other fun complexes.  Then they become practicing therapists and now spend a lot of time telling other people what to do and what’s wrong with them.

How rude.

If you went around dissecting my psyche and telling me how to fix it, I would not make plans with you… often.  But, we pay for therapists to tell us such things.  Then we respond with phrases like:  “Yessss, that’s why I’m so controlling” and “oh my G-d you’re so right, I do substitute food for love,” and “sure, sure my passive aggressive behavior is obviously an outlet for my suppressed emotional responses,” and other shit we say in therapists offices in hopes of feeling less inferior.

But, now that there’s a new disorder coming from over-therapizing, I say we get off the proverbial couch and take a stand.  I mean people don’t get paid to tell you things that may happen to you in the future, do they?  Of course not.  So, why should we pay people to label us now?

Frankly, I think we’re all doing pretty good, considering…   The O-Zone is disintegrating, American’s throw away 250 million tons of trash/year, the unemployment rate is 8.6%, we’re all getting older and wrinklier and less bendy by the second, and the shoes in my closet never seem to be perfectly straight!

So, “Say Nay to Thera-pay!”  I know, catchy right?  I’m like the Norma Rae of head shrinking.  Screw Jung and Freud and Adler, who needs ’em and their theories?  The 54 million American’s who suffer from mental illness in a given year?  Nah.

Addendum to this post:  I just clicked the email with the Title: Counseling Addiction  The subject line said this:  Help fight substance abuse as a counselor.

Never mind.

What you Should Never Ever do When you Forget Someone’s Name


At a very lovely party I went to last weekend, which ironically happened to be a baby naming, don’t worry, you’ll get the irony later, I had one of my more humiliating moments.  Let’s say I’ve had more my share of humiliating moments (See Humiliation on the Roller Rink, a Freudian Slip to make Freud Blush and the time I was an amateur stalker).  I was talking to some ladies I’d been introduced to moments prior and because people’s names tend to leave my head as quickly as they enter, I found myself fumbling for their given monikers.

I have a few tricks when I forget names.  My go-to tactic is to quickly get distracted into conversation, ask a question of a peripheral person or run off to one of my children to wipe off a stain, a booger, a smirk… This allows the two people I’m with to take the reigns and awkwardly introduce themselves.  I try to stay close enough to eavesdrop and once I hear the name I’d forgotten I turn back and say something like “I’m sorry, Laura this is Sheryl” or “Sorry about that, have you two met?”  Maybe it’s totally transparent, but you can’t prove I didn’t need to know where the person directly behind me got her shoes, can you?

My other strategy is to stand there like an idiot until the two people I’m standing with introduce themselves and then I get to dorkily say something like, “I’m sorry, that was rude of me not to introduce you.” or  “I thought you two knew each other.”  The “I thought you knew each other” can only be used in few situations.  You can’t expect your parents to know your yoga instructor, or your hubby to know your child’s pediatrician.  (Was that below the belt? Well, I’m an equal opportunity offender.)

So, I was introducing my daughter, who’s name I do remember, to these women and I introduced one of the gals as Claire.  She gave me the look I’ve seen too many times, which said, “My name is not even close to that, I mean we’re not even talking same first letter.”

“You’re name’s not Claire is it?” I surmised.

“No, it’s Ann.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I don’t know where I got Claire.” (uncomfortable pause)  “Claire’s a horrible name. I mean you certainly don’t look like a Claire, you’re much prettier.”

“Thank you,” she said as if she wholeheartedly agreed, while the ladies laughed at my quick recovery.

The truth is, I really have no negative feelings towards Claire’s.  The name is cute and Frenchie.  Plus, I loved My So Called Life and her cow hugger, I enjoy that I can get 157 items for $9.99 at Claire’s namesake fashion accessories stores.  I’ll even hunker down with an eclair every now and again.  I can only blame this superflous, mean-spirited name bashing on the immortal words of one dissident teenager, John Bender who said: “Claire’s a fat girls name… You’re not fat at present…  One day you’re gonna get married, you’re gonna squeeze out a few puppies and then, uh uhh uhh…”

When you’re doing off the cuff, face saving comedy or “gorilla comedy,” as I like to call it, you don’t have a ton of time to plan your set.  You just make a quick association and go with it.

I went on to sully the good name that is “Claire” for quite some time. Saying something like:

“Ryan, Ann’s a great name for a girl but Claire sucks.”

“Claire’s a slutty girl who will definitely be knocked up in high school and won’t even get a reality show. ”

“Claire could not be a more awful name.  When I hear it I want to scratch my eyes out.”

Look, I don’t remember the exact Claire slurs, but they were extreme.  As the ladies laughed and we jovially got past my gaffe, I turned to the baby of honor’s godmother, who I had not yet introduced to my daughter.

Knowing her name was Diane or Dana or something with a D, I said, “I hope your name’s not Claire. Snort snort hee hee.”

Nope, but my daughter’s is.

Well, now I guess we know where I got it from.

The baby was not the only one doing this!!!

The laughing quickly stopped.

The look on her face was not quite that of someone whose name I forgot, it was someone whose favorite name in the whole world, the one she chose to name her only daughter, I just raked through the mud.

“I’m so sorry, I was just trying to make light of the situation. (Pause to get no reaction whatsoever) I actually like the name Claire.”

Good save Jenny, the term “actually” made you sound as if it would be odd to like the name Claire, like saying, “Most people probably don’t, but I ACTUALLY do.”

“Well, I do,” she said with a well deserved sneer.

“I should shut up now.”  I followed.  And I actually did, which is rare.  She then walked away.

The mother of the baby of honor, thank goodness I had the good sense to confirm his name before my arrival, caught the tail end of our conversation.

“What just happened?” She inquired.

“Well, I don’t think your best friend and I just bonded,” I said, and went on to tell her the tale…  leaving out the part about the Jud Nelson association bit.

She said, “Don’t worry, I’m sure she didn’t take it personally.  I’ll tell her you’re funny and that you write a blog.”

Wow, if only that really held some weight.

Jenny did what?  Jenny stood you up for lunch?

Don’t take it personally, she writes a blog.

Jenny called your mother fat and kicked her in the shin?

Oh, that Jenny, you know she writes a blog.

Jenny robbed a convenience store?

Those bloggers.  Yep, she writes a blog and she’s funny, officer.

Well, assuming that her explanation of why I can get away with being offensive and rude didn’t work,  I have one less fan in the universe.  Luckily, I write a blog, so people get to subscribe and unsubscribe to me daily.

By the Way: No Claire’s were harmed in the making of this post, which is more than I can say for Claire’s mother. Sorry.

I Can’t Come to Terms with My Quasi-Teenage First Grader | When Clueless Meets My Little Pony

We say it all the time, “my kid’s 6 going on 16” or as I like to say, “She was born a 7th grader,” but how do you reconcile the lag in actual and perceived age?

Heels and an Elmo? Point made!

Not unlike my hubby, my kids are stuck somewhere between adulthood and infancy?  My daughter, like most little girls now a days, embodies this dilemma a bit too well.

On some level, my daughter’s ready for a day at the Galleria with the girls, while at the same time she maintains a sweet innocence that’s more fitting of her numerical age.  It’s the conversations during our imaginary play that truly highlight this incongruity…

They also makes me laugh so hard that I pee.

Sorry, I was beginning to sound too astute, I mean knowingish for my liking.  (That should fix it.)

She  gets the flow of small talk – the cadence, the structure, the usual phrasing, which takes our play to a whole other level.

Yesterday she asked to braid my hair.

Ryan:  “Sit down ma’am.”

Me:  “K.”

Ryan:  “So, how’s things?”

Me:  “Pretty good, you?”

Ryan:  “I can’t complain… Been watching a lot of the sports channel these days?” (a questions directly influenced by the males in my household.)

Me:  “Nope, not so much sports these days.”

Ryan:  “How about that weather, huh?”

Me:  “Yep, it’s crazy stuff.”

The chit chat went on for a while.  Luckily, I found it more enjoyable then I do when I’m forced to have it with people I didn’t birth from my womb.

(Which, by the way, is most people.  I thought I’d clarify that point.)

We went on to switch our make-believe scenario to a school situation.  Our imaginary play is like a game of Monopoly with stockbrokers or investment bankers, melodramatic, high stakes, and never ending.

The characters and situations in our games change, but it’s constantly being played: while I cook, nap, shower, pee.  (Did anyone read the Night Circus?)

Ryan (who is always the boss in make believe world… as well as actual world, come to think of it): “Let’s pretend you passed me a note in class and I was really popular and everyone liked me and you were shy and kinda weird looking, but I was going to be nice to you anyway, because I’m always nice.”

Me:  “Don’t do me any favors, kid.  I mean, how kind of you, no wonder you’re so popular.”  Just like in the real world.

Ryan: “OK, now let’s say you passed me a note and I answered all the questions correctly.  Like anything with math or spelling, you know?”

Quick what 7+5?

Me:  “Well, when people send notes they aren’t usually asking academic questions.  They’re saying stuff like, ‘Do you like Billy?’ or ‘Are you going to Jessica’s party Friday night?’ You know, more personal stuff.”

Ryan:  “OK OK, (exasperated, as if my explanation droned on for hours) I’ll make up the questions you are going to ask in the note and then I’ll tell you what I’m answering, as the person I’m being.”

Me: “OK”

Ryan:  “So you understand how it works, right mom?

Me:  “I got it.”  Clearly she thinks I’m a bit slow.

Ryan: “Explain it to me?”

Me:  Sheesh, no one takes you on your word anymore.  “OK Ryan, you’re going to tell me the question I supposedly wrote on our pretend note and then you’re going to also answer that question how you would answer it.”

Ryan:  “Good, now, Are you a vegetarian?  (pause to answer her own question) Yes.  Do you like hot dogs? (pausing again) No.”

Me: “Well, that was a really long pause for a vegetarian.”

Ryan:  “Moooooooooaaaaaam, stop, I’m still going!  Are you Jewish?  Yes.  Do you like ham? No.”

Me:  “ Wait a sec, can we go back a couple?  Wow, that religion question sandwiched in there between the deli meats caught me a bit off guard.  Did you ask for a reason?”

Ryan:  “I don’t know.  These are your questions, remember?  Ughhh, I knew you didn’t get it.”

Me:  “OK, I forgot.” Apparently, I go around asking people if they’re Jewish or maybe I wanted to see if she keeps kosher.

Ryan:  “K. Do you like presents?  Yes.”

Me: “Are we done?”

Ryan: “No, one more.  Ummmmmm… Do you like rainbows?  Yes.

OK, I’m done.  Now you be the person who wrote the note and react to my answers.”

Me: “Wow, Ryan.  We reall…”

Ryan:  “Pause game.  My name in the game is Ali. Sheesh.”

Don’t you just love when kids try to pause non-video games?

Me:  “Sorry, I’m on it, Ryan.”

Ryan:  “ALI!”

Me:  “Ali.”

Ryan: “OK, go on.”

Me:  “Wow, Ali, I see we have a lot in common.

Ryan:  “Really?”

Me: “Well, you like presents and I also like presents.

Ryan:  “You do?”

Me:  “Yep, and we’re both Jewish, so of course there’s the similarities in our religious, not to mention, social upbringing.”

Ryan:  “Uh-huh, there’s that”

Me:  “Yep, and you know what else I like?  Rainbows, except I really like unicorns.”

Ryan:  “OMG, me too.”

Me:  “What are the odds?  Two Jewish girls who don’t eat pork and like presents, rainbows and unicorns?

Ryan:  “That’s crazy, huh?”

This is what happens when you’re 7 years old with the attitude  7th grader, conversations are a cross between Clueless and My Little Pony.

Let’s Give our Dead Tree to a Hobo | Obviously

This is what happens when you ask a bright child a simple question – you get sucked into some vortex where “kid reasoning” makes good sense and you end up regretting the question and inevitably rethinking the outcome.  This is why we should all just talk to our children less.

“You wanna pick out a new tree with me, this bougainvillaea has seen better days?”

“Sure, but then where are we going to put this bougainvillaea?”

“Honey, this tree has been dead for like 2 years.  I think, I’ve given it ample time to prove me wrong.”

“SO, you’re just going to throw it away?  Just like that?” Said with hands on hips as if I’m throwing away the cat for puking up a hairball.

“Um yeah, drama queen.”

“Nooooooo, (sob sob), gosh they go from calm to melt down mode fast, you can’t throw it away mom.  Why don’t you give it to Haiti.”

My 7 year old daughter seems to think that the people in Haiti need everything, down to a lone left over piece of pizza. 

Seriously, you're freaking kidding me right?!

Like with leftovers, I imagine the shipping on a tree wouldn’t be very cost effective.  I also imagine the look on some poor Haitian child’s face when he eagerly tears into a package from the US containing a slice of old pizza or in this case, a dead tree.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m so glad some of what I’ve been preaching about charity and giving back is sinking in.  However misguided her suggestions, her intentions are good.

“OK honey, I can’t send the tree to Haiti, so who am I giving it to”

“Someone who needs one.”

“Someone who needs a dead tree?  Should I put it on Craig’s List?”

“No mom, someone less fortunate.”

“You mean someone without a dead tree?  Maybe a person who can’t afford bad landscaping?”

“That’s not funny mom.  I mean, like a hobo.”

"Hey guy on my left, why no belongings?" "Because I don't have a stick or branch. If I just had a tree all my problems would be solved!"

Ahhh,  a hobo – a word commonly used in the early 1900s and for some reason, also used by my children.

“Yes those homeless folks or should I call them tramps, could really use a tree.  I mean, since they’re known for carrying all their belongings in a ‘kerchief sack, we should give them a whole tree, so they would never run out of branches to tie their sacks to.”

“I just don’t want the tree to be left somewhere to die. It deserves better!”

That actually does sound sad.  I mean, what did the tree ever do to me, other than try to provide shade for my family and produce beautiful fuchsia flowers?

Maybe, I can send it somewhere?  Maybe 2 years isn’t enough time to leave it on life support.  Maybe I shouldn’t pull the plug.

What do they call a tree doctor?  A taxidermist?  No, that’s not right.  An arbordermist?  Something like that.  I should call one.   If it were a palm tree I could call a palm reader.

Jenny, get a hold of yourself.  You’re not calling a tree doctor, but I did enjoy that joke.  Pull it together and stay tough!

“You know what?  Maybe we could have them make the tree into mulch.  They would chop it up and then put it around other trees.”

“Nooooo don’t chop up the tree.” Said as if I were suggesting some form of painful tree torture.

“Why, that seems like a lovely option, that way the tree could keep giving.  Like the giving tree.  Oh G-d, The Giving Tree, what a moving story…  Anyway, his mulch could feed other trees and the Earth.  How beautiful (sob sob) the circle of life and all.”

“NO!  When Buddy died did you chop him up and feed him to other dogs?”

“OK, you’re right… We keep the tree!  It belongs here with us, it’s our ugly, unflowering spikey dead tree.  Even if it’s on it’s last limb, which it is by the way… it’s OURS!”

This may seem a bit premature, but if there are such things as debate team scouts out there, you may want to hold a spot for the year 2022.

I Ate My Cat While I Was Sleeping!

 CIMG0595

Why would you eat me?

I thought I would update you on the progress of acquiring a sleep disorder that ups my productivity.

I don’t know whether to celebrate or throw in the towel.For the last two days I have given myself subliminal messages about accomplishing tasks in my sleep, as planned.I wrote phrases on flash cards and taped them around the house, reading them every time I walked by.Things like “tighten butt,” “scoop cat litter,” “clean house,” “make dinner,” and “esta es una lampara (this is a lamp).”What, I’m also trying to learn sleep Spanish.

Anyway, the first night… nothing.I did the usual: went to asleep, fell off some kind of ledge, confronted an old elementary school friend about calling me a weirdo, and made out with George Clooney, who was about to take me to his villa in Tuscany on a spaceship piloted by Brad Pitt, when I was rudely awoken by my son wanting me to make lunch for school.Why do I have an account with the cafeteria anyway?

Last night was different.I didn’t dream at all.No revenge, no superstar rendezvous, no awards ceremonies, or nightmares about planes, sharks, or sharks on planes.

I woke up feeling funny, disoriented.

My souffle was not rising.

My bed was not made.

My buttocks were not tightened.

My cat litter was not scooped…

Apparently, while sleeping last night, I cooked my work out band, cleaned my neighbors house, tightened her daughter’s braces, and ate my cat.

Now, this may seem like a setback.

Many people would give up, especially after eating their cat, but not me and the Vietnamese.I’m looking at the silver lining and calling it a success.

So, things didn’t go as planned, and my son needs a little therapy.Life is about learning and opening new doors and in that vein, I am opening a night housekeeping/orthodontics service, at the very low cost of ahem, achem, cha cha, kak.Sorry, hairball.

Call for an appointment.Your money back if I eat your pet.GUARANTEED.

Refund subject but not limited to pets deemed reasonable.Tarantulas, snakes, lizards, and gerbils not included.Only half refund for mid-sized rodents i.e. guinea pigs, ferrets and bunnies.Price where prohibited.You pay me if I eat anything shelled, like hermit crabs, snails, and turtles, or bacon, I mean pot belly pigs, except George Cloony’s, which I will spare in return for sexual favors…. bla,bla,bla,bla……..

Do you Speak Starbucks or are you Committing a Caffeinated Crime | CSI Starbucks

The gore is almost too extreme to look at. BTW this was full before the incident!

When you walk into a Starbucks it’s a little like entering another country.  Some of the language is “Italianish” and the rest is completely fabricated, yet universally understood by all it’s regular patrons.

Like any new country, when you visit Starbucks for the first time you might be overwhelmed by the cultural gap and the obvious language barrier.

You see, Starbucks drinkers have an acute understanding of this made up ordering system, the terminology, how to conjugate the verbs, and the proper phrasing of the request i.e. size first, then special requirements, then drink type.

The baristas, or should I call them caffeination interpreters, are trained to do far more than make a cappuccino.  My barista knows the make, model, and color of my car.  When he sees it drive up, he starts my drink.  He deduces that if I’m wearing golf or workout clothes I will require my usual to be iced  has the appropriate drink ready by the time I hit the door.

He is keenly aware of my standard approach speed and if I seem to be ambling he’ll throw in an extra shot.

But sometimes, even I, a citizen with a green card – or should I say gold card – am shocked by how intricate requests can get.  I think some of these drinkers actually believe they’ve learned another language and take an odd pride in this false sense of intelligence.

Today the woman in front of me ordered a tall 2 splenda – extra dry – machiatto – with extra foam – on the fly.

Extra dry? Really? “What is extra dry… just beans?  Or does the dryness have something to do with the foam?”

Caffeination interpreter:  “No the consistency of the foam is directly correlated to the frothiness.”

Why do I feel like I’m having a conversation with NASA?

And yet, who am I to talk? I know that a standard latte is made at 160°, which would be bad enough, except that I also know that I prefer mine at 140°.

My barista, who writes Jenny from the blog on every cup, actually figured this out while analyzing my drinking habits.

Caffeination interpreter:  “I’ve noticed you seem to wait about 8 minutes for your coffee to cool. I think the problem is an over sensitive pallet and I suggest you drop the temp about 20 degrees fahrenheit.”

“Shit, I think in Celcius.  I like to pretend I’m European… like Madonna and Gwennie P.

Caffeination interpreter: “There’s no reason to get smart with me.  I’m hypothesizing about your needs, I’ll investigate further.”

Soon coffee analyzation and Starbucks interpretation will be something you can major in, like criminal justice.  At the very least Bravo will make it into a show, “CSI Starbucks.”

There is nothing to see here.

“Everyone step away from the mocha, CSI Starbucks unit (Coffee Scene Investigation) is here.”

“There is nothing to see here, please disperse.”

“What’s seems to be the problem, ma’am?”

Disgruntled Customer:  “My mocha is not rich enough, and it’s too wet. I specifically said grande, 18 pump, extra fat, mildly damp, 157° Mochachokeonitccino with extra whip that is dolloped in the shape of a pygmy monkey.”

The area around the cup is taped off and a bit is spilled into a petri dish and run out of the store to a mobile CSI van.

The maverick of the team fearlessly swipes his finger through the java then smells and licks it, as if it’s cocaine. “One more lick for good measure and an extra jolt,” he says as he rubs some across his gums.

“Well your first problem is this is only 16 pumps. It’s also a mere 142°, which if my calculations are correct mean 7 minutes ago when it was made it was 155° and not a degree more. Your other problem was in the call. The cashier/Mayor should know not to call a whip sculpted in the shape of anything other than the Starbuck’s mermaid goddess on our logo, who we in the biz affectionately call Flo.”

Disgruntled Customer: “Like flow of the coffee or the ocean?”

“Ma’am, I’m not at liberty to discuss Flo with civilians.  Let’s just leave it at that.”

“Look, we’re gonna take this downtown to the Captain, but just for the record Cappy Joe, or Cuppa Joe as we like to call him, is the best. He’ll have this coffee and a full report back to you by day’s end. Please enjoy a maximum of 2 hours free internet access in the mean time.”

“And don’t forget to try one of our new hot breakfast sandwiches.”

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Husband for Sale: Seller is Very Motivated

Priced to Sell!!!

Do people keep calling you to see if you’re motivated to sell your house?  These queriers have totally taken over the “You’ve won a vacation” peeps as my number one cold call.

“Do you plan on selling your house any time soon?”

Um, no.   I love my house, the view of the lake the crystal blue pool, the royal palms… Why do you have someone who wants to buy it?  Let’s be honest, anything’s for sale.

ANYTHING.

Just kidding…

(No seriously, anything.)

“Well, ma’am you’ve been there 8 years and that’s the time most people sell.  Is your husband motivated?”

Originally, we were planning to have sold by now, but then the market took a dive and the economy and… Wait, are you saying we’re not earning enough?  Are you saying that my husband should have saved enough after 8 years to upgrade and we’re just slacking over here?

My husband will be Motivated to kick your ass, good sir.

Well, probably not, as he’s a bit lazy. Once he gets home and settles in front of a game he won’t be up for a fight, but I guarantee if you were at my house he would NOT offer you a beer.  Though, that’s not as much of a statement against you and your insinuation as it is that he’s really a terrible host.

What, there’s no game on tonight?  Doesn’t matter, he’ll actually watch a game he’s already seen on ESPN’s Classic channel.

I know, it’s no wonder we’re not making more coin.  Frankly, any person willing to rewatch a game in which he already knows the outcome and has no bearing on the current sports situation has some issues.

So you can see my predicament. Do you know anyone who wants to buy my husband?  I’d like to make enough to buy a new house. All of a sudden I feel like it’s time.

Yes, I was being serious sir, I never joke about money… and I’m not enjoying your tone. Also, I don’t appreciate you calling and telling me that my husband is a lazy bum and throwing it in my face that we’ve been stuck in this horrible house for at least 8 years with no move in sight.

“So do you think you’ll sell within the next 12 months?”

YOU seem motivated, what are you wearing?
In unrelated news:

OMG No One’s Gonna Take Care of Us When We’re Old

This conversation actually happened.  As a humor blogger, I see the “funny” in it, but it also opened my eyes to one possibility that no one’s gonna take care of me when I’m old!

I was diagnosed with Orthostatic Sycopate. See: (How to Retain Water and Lose Sanity and Altoids and Coffee a Deadly Combination? for more funniness on that).

Chief Tacky Costume

Indian Chief definition of orthostatic syncopate: Electrical malfunction when stand up, blood pressure drop like big ball in sky when night come, blood no travel to head, brain freak out like herd of buffalo, no air,  pass-out like Princess Drinking Slut after long night in tee-pee.

First, I want to apologize to all my Indian readers for doing such a cliche impression, plus that picture of that Indian on the left is pretty cheesy, I realize it makes me look totally ignorant to the American Indian culture.  To redeem myself a big “How” to all of you.  Okay, I think that’s better.

Frankly, Chiefs make technical stuff sound fun, like all people with British accents are smart.

Moving on, (please read the rest in a British accent as that is how I’m writing it) this diagnosis was just another one of those “aging” things.  Like cellulite dimples on non fatty areas like your calves, veins that are trying to escape from your legs or having to crack air into your vertabrae after standing or walking for upwards of 10 minutes.

Since finding out, I have not found myself suddenly unconscious.  I know, jig time.   Yesterday, I came uncomfortably close.  I realized that putting a Fat Burn powder boost in an espresso/frozen yogurt smoothie is not the best way to even out your blood pressure.   I know what you’re thinking: chromium picolinate, fro yo, and espresso… “that’s a heart healthy way to start the day, maybe you should chase it with a Red Bull and do a couple lines before going for a run.”

Don’t judge, I needed that fat burn boost to combat the calories in that one drink alone.  Anywho, racy and overheated, I lied down on the floor and put my feet up on the wall… to get blood to my brain. Never fear, my son was around, so I knew I’d be in good hands.

Me:  “Um, Jake, I think I might pass out”

Jake:  Frantically, “I’m calling 911.”

Isn’t that cute?

Me:  Calmly, “Don’t call 911.  I mean if I’m standing and just fall over, call 911, but if I mention it might happen and it does… call Daddy and he’ll tell you what to do.”

Jake listened and absorbed the instructions as to his course of action.  Then he looked at me on the floor, “Um, okay.  Bye.”  He said, as he zoomed out of the room.  I  then heard the chime of someone continuing a game on XBOX.

Me:  “Uhh, Jake. JAKE.   JAAAAKE” I screamed with all the energy left in me, as the TV was set a volume you would need if you were playing against someone across the street and they didn’t have an actual TV.

Jake:  “Whaaaat?”

Me:  “I hate to interrupt your game, but could you come back for just a sec?”

Jake:  Pause button hit, “What’s up?”

Me:  “A minute ago you were praying by my side and then ‘bye?’  You don’t even want to stick around for a few minutes and make sure I stay conscious?  How would you even know if I passed out?”

Jake: “You would yell, like you just did.”

Me: “I feel like something’s been lost in translation here.  You know what?  Stay here for a few, the TV’s so loud I don’t know if you’d be able to hear me if I scream to inform you that I’m no longer awake.”

Jake:  In the same matter of fact way he said ‘bye,’ “Okay.”

He then sat on the bed and asked me questions about calling 911 like, “Would they get mad if I called and then you woke up?”  “How do they know where to go?” and “Does someone answer the phone or is it a machine?” Distracted by his own line of questioning he sat for another minute or two, hopped off the bed and said “Okay, bye.”

Well, there goes the retirement home.

Where do I get one of these with Brad Pitt's face on it?

Being a Bad Homemaker is Finally Paying Off

This is hard for me to admit, but I’m doing it for the other crappy homemakers out there who put on the requisite facade of being a good suburban wife, but would rather be playing Angry Birds.

Yes, I will be their poster child – if I can have an Angry Bird sitting on my shoulder.  You know, like a pirate for the age of technology.

Or if I could wear this bra!

 

We’ll negotiate the terms later.

You’re welcome.

You see, the truth is, not since the 60s has anyone judged women on their housekeeping abilities.  Well, not since the 60s have they admitted to it, but it happens everyday.  Sure we’re super moms, super wives, super business people, but don’t think any of us are above coming into your house and assessing the clutter on your kitchen counter.  Well, I do, but only in hopes that yours is worse than mine and then I can exhale a sigh of “wow you REALLY suck.”  Mentally, of course!

You can imagine how hard I find it to see what food I'm buying with that hat on! But I do it for YOU!

All the stuff I do, to seem with it and on the ball – my facade – it’s for you.  I know you’re judging me, checking to see if my beds have hospital corners, if our whites are whiter, if our towels are April soft, if  I pack my kids a hearty lunch with all 3 food groups represented.  (relax, I know their are only 2).

So I’m going to come clean (pun intended) and tell you, THEY’RE NOT.  Frankly, I’m a disaster when it comes to doing all that stuff, because it requires me to keep a bunch of mundane shit in my head.  Between doctors appointments, sporting events, dance practices, teacher meetings, PTA information, how many meals I will have to make for one to get eaten and getting a good deal on a Dyson, I can barely keep my head from spinning off my body.

Only those people super close to me,watched me clean up a flood from on over filled bath, or had me forget their name in their presence, know that I’m a fake and a phony.  Oh, and now you guys.

Oh, and one other person… my cleaning lady.  She’s sooo on to me.  Seriously, I try to seem like I like things a certain way, but frankly she could do a mild dusting and spray Lysol in every room and I’d find it acceptably clean.

Anywho, much to my embarrassment, my cleaning lady arrived the other day with a bag full of new supplies for me… and a receipt.

Evidently, the thought of me borrowing a cup of detergent from my neighbor (AGAIN) was so unnerving; she took matters into her own hands.

Clearly, I’ve become so unreliable, so useless, that others don’t trust me to accomplish even the smallest of tasks.

Just because my to-do lists resemble this,

TO DO:

Wake Up

Feed Dog

Shower

Sanitize kids

Apply sunblock to things that are exposed to the sun

Buy cleaning supplies

Keep spark in marriage alive

Floss…

doesn’t mean I can’t be a responsible parent, homemaker or wife.  It just means I can’t be expected to remember to clean or feed myself and family without a little reminder.  So what?  I make-do.

Truth be told, I come from a long line of disorganized “make-doers.”  For years, my own mother fed me butter sandwiches whenever we ran out of other healthy choices, like thick slices of Hebrew National salami or Oscar Mayer bologna.  Both of which were cushioned by two slices over-bleached nutrient-free Wonder Bread.

If we were out of butter she used margarine, and if we were out of that, she used dirt.  Of course all sandwiches, whether dirt or bologna were nicely complimented by an array of hearty sides.   An artery clogging bag of Utz potato chips, cavity causing Butterscotch Krimpets, and a colored sugar water that came in a barrel.

Back to my cleaning lady.  I realized, I could respond to her gesture one of two ways:

1. Embarrassment –

I could feel totally ashamed that I can’t seem to fulfill my own domestic duties when a woman with 3 kids, that often cleans 2 houses a day, manages to do find the time to do them for me.

2.  Anger –

I could be pretty pissed that another woman would do the my job, though the fact that I have a house cleaner in the first place would make that a moot point.

I went with the obvious choice, C. Be  Thankful. Frankly, I was happy that someone else took it upon themselves to do that crap for me.

I gave her a huge hug to convey that this is a system I can totally live with and fully approve of.  Yes, I have no shame, and I wanted to make sure she fully realized that.  I also wanted to imply that future unsolicited trips to do my errands would be most appreciated.

I was over-joyed. Who knew that simply shirking my responsibilities could lead to such a positive outcome?

Which brings me to my main question:  Why don’t more people take over aspects of my life unsolicited?

For years I’ve missed doctor’s appointment after doctor’s appointment and not once has a doctor made a preemptive strike by showing up at my door to give me or my children exams.

Me:  Let me understand, I am so unreliable that you have decided to give me an internal at home?

Gyno: Yep.  I know how forgetful you are due to the important and time consuming blogging and parenting that you do.  Important people like yourself are the royalty of my practice the unsung heroes, if you will.  It’s my pleasure, nay, my honor to come to you.

Me:  Wow, that is horrifyingly embarrassing, no eye-opening, no… AWESOME of you.  Do you mind if I play Fruit Ninja while we do this?

Gyno:  No Problem?

Me:  Great.  Take that you sour lemon… No Doc, I was talking to the fruit.  You’re a real peach… Yep, that time I was talking to you.  Now, bring on the speculum.  (There’s a phrase I don’t use often, but certainly often enough.)

Now, let’s look at birthday parties.  I can’t remember the last time I RSVP’d for one of those ordeals.  Many moms have taken the extra step to hunt me down via email, voice mail, evite note or a combination of all three to get my “Yay” or “Nay,” yet not once has a mom taken it upon herself to swing by my house on the way to her child’s shindig and give my kid a lift.

By the way, you can pick up a gift while you’re at it.  Hell, you know what your kid wants more than I do and frankly, I can’t be expected to have a present if you’re going to pick my child up with the assumption that I didn’t remember your child’s party in the first place.  I mean, duh?

While we’re at it, if all my neighbors and pretty much everyone I’ve ever met could take to wearing name tags… that would be incredibly helpful.

You guys are so understanding (whatever your names are)!

Thanks,

Jenny From the Blog

 

Altoids and Coffee a Deadly Combination?

This could be the 2000’s version of Pop Rocks and Coke!  Listen, if your head explodes, don’t say I didn’t warn you!

BTW – This is part deux to yesterdays piece on water retention and loss of sanity, but like any book from the Nancy Drew series, it can be read without going back to part 1… if you’re feeling super lazy.

WEEK 6

My fingers are so fat, I had to dictate this. I also had to order one of those large number phones for the visually impaired, a clapper, and a medic alert necklace in case I fall and can’t… I’m scared.

you try typing with these things!

The fluid retention may have water logged my brain and I fear I have officially lost it. I’m babbling to myself and can’t walk across the house without a nap. I tried to cut down on salt and substitute it with garlic as was recommended to even blood pressure by WebMD.com, which is virtually as good as asking any doctor.  I ate 2 whole cloves last night.

WEEK 6 -day 2

I brushed my teeth and tongue 27 times.

My tooth brush is too short.

The garlic is rising from my intestines and oozing from my pores. While in a store with my closest friend, she asked that I back up when speaking, I was down the aisle from her to begin with. I told her I needed to apologize to the saleslady for having no idea what I was looking for and she suggested I apologize for talking to the saleslady in the first place.

I warded off three vampires, or were they more salespeople? I don’t know, they seemed like blood suckers and were certainly giving me the hard sell… until I spoke and they nearly disappeared.  One was working the register I was at and she actually turned into a bat and flew away shrieking.

Does it strike anyone else as odd that the salesperson was not only a possible vampire, but also a muppet?

I can’t take it anymore.  I must get away from myself.

In the carpool line I did something crazy, well crazy if you’re a neurotic over thinker.  I started swallowing Altoids whole with the hopes that they would dissolve in my stomach and take care of the guttural odor, at the source.

Like anyone trying a new pharmaceutical I started by swallowed a half.   Then the crazy took hold.  Oh, no.  What have I done? I don’t know if it’s safe to just swallow an Altoid without chewing it.  They are curiously strong.

Me: No, that’s silly, it’s fine. People accidentally swallow gum and mints all the time, it just takes 7 years to digest, but they survive. Just shove the other three in your mouth and let’s take care of this problem.

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

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

cartoons never lie. NEVER

Me: That never really happened, or did it? I don’t know for sure, I never saw Mikey again.  My stomach is feeling a bit sour. Maybe I should drink some ipecac?

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

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

Me:  Phew!

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

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

Me:  Phew!

Me: But what if I’m the first person to swallow so many Altoids and wash them down with coffee? There has to be a first, right?  You have to admit it’s a bit random, swallowing Altoids with coffee, why would anyone do that?

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

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

A Freudian Slip to Make Freud Blush | Oh, This Really Happened

I know he seems more angry than "blushy" but YOU try and get a picture of him embarrassed!

This post needs to be filed in the crevices of my mind where repressed memories are stored and then covered up by something to obsess about, like my cellulite, or the wrinkles on my face that multiply faster then the Duggar family.


Maybe I could slide this memory somewhere between my talent show version of Gonna Dress You up In My Love and my entire 7th grade year.  Well, here goes…Recently at a baseball game, a mom friend and I were having a bout of witty banter that went terribly horribly irrefutably awry.

I can’t blame myself for how far it actually went, as I’m quite sure something else in the universe caused these events to unfold as they did.  Some butterfly in Africa probably told a really tacky joke which set off the chain of events off in the first place.  You know, something that started with “An ant and a grasshopper are looking for insect porn.”  Well, I actually can’t pretend to know what kind of joke a butterfly would tell, but one can assume.

Me and this chick were joking about a penchant many women have to bedazzle everything. Frankly, I don’t know how every word on their t-shirts is bedecked and bejeweled or how they have so many extra gem filled grommets and studs on their jeans, their sweats, their shoes, their handbags, their children, and their cellphones.  I just know that the glare makes it hard to look in their direction for fear of burning a retina.

Amy: Jenny, why don’t YOU have anything bedazzled?

Me:  Oh, I do, you just can’t see it.

Amy:  Where is it?

Me:  My belly-button.  I have one of those sticky diamond tattoos in the shape of a baseball.  It helps me get into the game.

Amy:  You could tie your t-shirt southern style to show your support for your team.  The dads would love that.

Me:  No, I like to take the shirt from the bottom and pull it up through the neck hole.  You know, camp style? The dads will definitely enjoy that one ‘cuz a boob inevitably falls out.

Amy: And then your hubby could bedazzle something for the moms.

Me:  Done.

Amy: Noooo?

Me:  Yes, his penis is bedazzled to look like a bat… and when Jake’s up, Mark runs over and whacks me on the stomach with it and we all scream “Go Jake, whack that ball.”

Amy:  Nuh uh?

Me:  Yuh huh.

Oh, it went there.  There was no stopping this tacky reparte train, but what happened next turned said train into a locomotive careening off the tracks. I turned towards my hubby who was sitting on the other set of bleachers and screamed, “Mark, come on over here and show Amy your penis.”

Let me tell you two things in my defense.  1.  I meant to say “bat.”  “Mark, come over here and show Amy your BAT.”  You know, joke joke, wink wink, snicker snicker?  No harm done. No children traumatized for life.  2.  There were about 10 kids all aged 9 a row in from of us on the bleachers. ALL of which turned around and stared me right in the eye!

Amy looked at me, mouth agape.

Me:  Did I just say what I think I said?

Amy:  Oh…my…G-d, you did.

Kid on bleachers:   Did you just say penis?

Amy’s son:  Why do you want my mom to look at Jake’s dad’s penis?

That is perhaps one of the most horrifying questions I’ve ever been asked.  I can still hear it my head as if said in slow motion through a Darth Vader mask.

Amy’s son:  Continuing without pause, “Why would you say that?”

Oh G-d, a question worse than the first, which was punctuated by 10 sets of impressionable eyes trying to stare the answer out of me.

I looked to Amy who was giggling so uncontrollably she could barely stop long enough to say this: “Yeah, why would you say that?”

But she did.

After what felt like an eternity.  I replied, “Did I say penis?”

10 nine year olds in perfect unison: Yep.

Me:  Hee hee hee (fake laugh with snort added for good measure) Nooooo, I meant peanuts.  Your mom was hungry and I wanted Mark to come share his peanuts.  I can’t believe it sounded like that.  That’s so funny, right?  Hee hee ha ha ho ho snort.  Right?

“Ohhhhhh well it sounded like penis,” said the spokesperson for 10 inquisitive kids who enjoy nothing more than the mention of genitalia, diareah, or a good fart joke.

Me:  Just me crazy accent.  Dunt chew knaw? Yes, that was supposed to be “Don’t you know” and it was said in a desperate mix of Jamaican, Irish, and Bostonian with a dash of Catherine Hepburn.

Amy looked at me sidesways as if I was having some weird speech seizure and 10 disinterested kids turned back to watch the game.

Phew.  Thank goodness for easily bored, quickly distracted, ADD ridden children. Not everyone recovers from such a racy and totally inappropriate Freudian slip.  Boot eye deed.

Note to self: NEVER talk to Amy again and stop bedazzeling Mark’s penis!

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