A League Of My Own -A mom’s story of humiliation and triumph… on the little league field, duh. Nobody puts mommy in a corner! Moms are IN the Game, in every sense of the word!
Saturday was my son’s “Kids vs. Dads” Little League game. Yes, it was named that, maybe to imply that moms were not invited, maybe it was too much of a mouthful to say Kids vs. Parents. Maybe the sign makers couldn’t afford the extra letters, or worse, those 3 letters would take too much time and energy to paint. Damn those crampy handed, arthritic kids, they always recruit to make the signs. Though, I have a feeling it’s just one of those unwritten laws, “Moms are welcome to play, but we prefer you not, didn’t you not read that implication on our signage?” Continue reading
Category Archives: Wit
We May or May Not Be Dirtbags | Depends on Who you Ask
Jake’s Friend: What happened to the big cushion on your sofa?
Me: We removed it because it was too comfortable and we weren’t able to get people to leave our house when we wanted them to go.
Friend: Really? Continue reading
Siblings are Not Supposed to Compete for Parental Favoritism | is This True
What, are familial relationships not about winning? I’m sorry, I’m an only child, I never had to compete for parental favoritism with siblings. And I must admit, my son’s essay puts him slightly ahead of his sister in the race for my love. I’m totally kidding. I love them both, but you can’t love them the same, can you?…
As this is the end of the school year, all of my children’s work has slowly trickled into the house. You know, like the way Andy Dufrene releases the bits of wall in Shawshank? Tests, artwork, essays, scraps of scribble.
One of the prizes in the huge pile of things that will never make it to the circular file was a piece on who my son admires most. It started with this line, “I look up to my Dad and my Grandparents, but the person I admire most is my Mom.”
My first thought?
I won! Yep, you heard him. He admires you other people too (or maybe he just wrote that to be politically correct), but I’m in a class by myself. He said so… Continue reading
The Most Embarrassing 80s Moment You Never Had | But I Did
Actual skates – oh, I keep them for parties and stuff! No, seriously.
The other day I was attempting to parlay these NBC segments I’m doing into a piece for a national magazine. As I typed away, touting myself as an “expert,” trying to seem way more important than I actually am, and rambling on about my amazing qualifications to an Editor in Chief (whom I shouldn’t have been writing directly in the first place), Eddy Grant’s “Electric Avenue”came on and I was immediately transported to SKATELAND in Cockeysville Maryland, circa 1984.
It was Girl’s Skate and the disco lights had taken over the floor.
Now, if you’re unfamiliar with roller skate culture, Girl’s Skate is the precursor to Couple’s Skate. During Girl’s Skate, your job, as a girl, is to look as totally awesome as possible. You have to rock your Flashdance style off-the-shoulder-shirt with splatter paint detail, and your acid-washed jeans.
The boys watch from around that short wall AND If they likes what they sees, they put out a hand for you to slap. The “hand out” also implies that they would like to Couples Skate with you. SO, if you think the boy is cute, you slap his outstretched arm, buuuut if you think he’s too dorky, you hold your hand super close to your body in an overly dramatic fashion that says: “I’d rather be caught dead than be seen skating with you.”
Yep, it’s an exercise in fostering self esteem.
On this particular day, I had my eye on a very cute older boy; he may have even been a preteen! I spotted him from across the crowded rink, as my dad laced up his skates trying to catch up to my speedy entrance.
Oh, I didn’t mention that my dad skated with me every week? How could I forget that detail, this story is about how cool and awesome I was, right?
There I was, doing my best tricks:
- The speed up and glide.
- The Shoot the Duck (crouch down and stick one leg forward).
- The professional leg cross weave around the corners.
I looked around at the outstretched arms, while Electric Avenue played in the background. As a sensitive kid, I was an equal opportunity slapper. So, I’d slap the hand of anyone that put it out there. Well, unless they were super nerdy and everyone else was avoiding them, obviously!
Then I spotted him, that cute preteen. He looked bad. I mean, good — bad. He probably drove there on his motorized bike… Skates hanging from the handle bars and a switchblade style comb in his back pocket to flush up his mullet. He was definitely from the wrong side of the tracks. You know, like Matt Dillon in Little Darlings
I noticed that he wasn’t really offering his hand to too many girls and in a defensive action, started to skate towards the middle.
As I got closer, he did it. He eyed me and then threw out his hand.
Holy crap, that’s for me and now I’m so far on the inside I’ll never make it, and then we won’t get to Couples Skate. I won’t be able to hold his hand, which I’m sure will be cool and big, not small and sweaty, like the other boys I always couples skated with. He may even be good enough to do the envied backwards hands on hips skate! My life is officially over.
Move Jenny, move!
I weaved through a few of the slower girls and reached as far as I could to touch even a fingertip. Then in a crushing blow he pulled his hand back and pretending to slick his hair. Holy shit, he gave me the “psyyyyych,” before the “psych” was actually invented!
To add insult to injury, my arm had overstretched to meet his teasing gesture. I felt myself going down. Think slo-mo in some cheesy 80‘s film, “Ohhhh Nnnoooo.” I grabbed at the short wall to pull myself in ricocheted off it and slammed straight to the ground a few feet away from him.
Yep, COOL, I was! (if you say that with a Yoda accent, it has the truest effect.)
I got up quickly and ran to the bathroom to cry in a stall, while Couple’s Skate started without me. Seriously, it just began like normal, as if the most horrifying incident had not just occurred on that concrete slab of rejection.
I remember the song perfectly, it was Air Supply’s, “All Out of Love” I also remember the pain. Oh, the pain and the “uncoolness.”
“I’m so lost without you.”
Apparently, you can’t get too cocky in Cockeysville or anywhere, because someone will put you right back place. Unfortunately or maybe fortunately, I’ve been put in my place more times than I care to remember.
Even as an adult, a simple song can bring back an experience that sends you to rock in a corner. I guess you’re supposed to dust yourself off and get back in the ring or the rink as the case may be.
So back to my pitch:
Dear Editor in Cheif – I AM A kick ass writer and I’m not half bad on a pair of skates…
PS : I got that job – eat your heart out mullet boy, everyone knows rat tails are like way hotter anyway!
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Productive Things to do While Doing it – The Cure for Boring Married Sex
You might be thinking, “Jenny from the Blog, the Jen X’pert, silly girl – that’s just you. My sex life is as hot and heavy as ever.” Well, to you I ask this, “When was the last time you had sex on a surface that didn’t have sheets?” (Hmmm? been a while huh?) “Ok, when was the last time you had sex not between kids asleep time and you asleep time?” I rest my case – B-O-R-I-N-G… Continue reading
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
Too Much Knowledge Could be Bad for Your Health
This post is a perfect example of why playing dumb is underrated!!! In a doctors office, there’s a fine line between what you should be privy to and what should not be part of a conventional, time killing conversation.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m one of those annoying patients who’s always trying to suck some information out of the techs in the doctor’s offices. You know the people who do the tests, and even though they know exactly what’s going on inside your body, they say things like, “I don’t read the tests, I just administer them,” or Continue reading
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.”
Let me disband the rumors of my spousal abuse.
Yesterday’s post was short and sweet, well that may not be the right word, let’s call it upsetting. Apparently, some people were concerned about the spousal abuse I am inflicting on my husband. Let me clarify, I do not throw objects at Mark very often, ever really, except apparently the occasional salty miniature cracker; which by the way, he is perfectly capable of defending himself against. (He’s trained for such instances.)
The actual argument was over a little thing I like to call, my new rug. Don’t take that the wrong way, this is not about a Brazilian wax job. Anyone who knows me is aware of my mentally unstable cutting phase. Yes, I used to cut. I cut my beautiful shag carpet from its original 16×24 down to a 2×3 welcome mat. My last dog and one of my true loves, Buddy, got very old and equally incontinent. Look, as someone who pees a little each time I laugh, thanks to childbirth, a fallen cervix, and episiotomies, I have sympathy for the “incontinent,” but not so much when they pee on my rug. Buddy peed many too many times on that rug and so I got me a razor knife and went to town cutting out each pee. The odd angles made it look like a jigsaw puzzle and my family and friends, fearing for my sanity, and held an intervention. So, I threw away the welcome mat sized rug and retired my razor.
We then had this cold hard ceramic tile floor in our family room. My kids played on it, bumped their heads on it, rode their bikes on it, skinned their knees on it, and at night we all cuddled on it to watch American Idol. Then we peeled our sweaty legs off it to get in bed.
I finally gave in and bought a beautiful, currently discontinued, area rug with a link pattern from William Sonoma. The rug I describe is the very one that was being eaten by my new puppy on my husband’s first day alone with him. A day in which I reminded him repetitively, to his dismay, “to be with the puppy at all times or have him in the crate.” A day in which I forgot my pocketbook and returned a mere 20 minutes later to find my husband asleep in the bedroom and my puppy having a pricey wool link pattern sandwich. A day in which even after the incident he swore it was, “no big deal” and that I would’ve “probably done the same thing.” I can’t get mad at the dog, he’s just a puppy and puppies chew. Does the same rule apply to Mark because he’s just a husband and husbands are frustrating asses? Nah, I still have faith in men.
So, please don’t worry about Mark. I say he got off easy under the circumstances… next time I find something harder than puffed crackers, like Swedish fish or something sharper like pita chips!
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Women Need to Exercise 1 Hour Per Day to Maintain
-Like us moms don’t already have enough to do.
A study published in the Journal of the American Medical Association claims that women will gain weight with age unless they lower their caloric intake or get in a hefty 6o MINUTES of exercise EACH DAY! Are they serious? Workout 60 minutes to maintain? Let’s talk about the word maintain, because they’re certainly not talking about sanity maybe they’re talking about resentment. I will definitely maintain resentment toward these researchers for publishing this horrifying news.
The truth is, I know few moms who can get in a daily shower, let alone the current 30 minutes of suggested workout time; now they’ve decided to double it? That’s it, I’m boycotting. Oh yeah, I’ll show them, I’m gonna halt activity all together. Yep, I’ll lead a completely sedentary life; only frequenting places that have valet and those electric carts inside, to ride on. Continue reading
How to Steam Up Your Sex Life, Steam Out Your Pores, and Steam Clean Your Carpets
Every women’s magazine has its version of a “How To Have (insert saucy adjective here)” sex list, most of which make me feel like I should keep an extinguisher by the bed, along with a bucket of cold water to douse on myself and my partner when we begin to spontaneously combust from sheer passion. “How to Keep Your Love Life Hot, and Your Sex Life in Flames.” “10 Ways to Reignite Your Marriage.” “How To Turn Up the Heat In the Bedroom, Without Singeing the Sheets.” (Oh, I like that last one)
I will actually disband the relationship myths propagated by magazines, and give it to you straight. The side effect of such truth could be the shockingly unsatisfying revelation that your unsatisfying sex life is just that… unsatisfying. If you are faint of heart or an optimist, stop reading now.
When you have babies, sex is often not so hot… or often for that matter.
Tip From a Writer with No Sense of Reality: Time your trysts around nap time. Snarky Response: There is nothing women like more, when trying to have an orgasm, than the sense of pressure and urgency that having time constraints puts on the experience. Nighttime is better, IF you can work in a romp around heavy eyelids. Little babies make for long days restless nights and disinterest
Do realize that once the kids are out of the crib, the question isn’t if we get caught, but rather when? You’re just counting the days, I mean lays, until you must explain why Daddy is wrestling with Mommy… naked. “Well you see, Mommy tripped and her clothes fell off, and Daddy was trying to help her up. Oh, and he took off his clothes so she wouldn’t be embarrassed.” So, please have a better story than that.
Tip From a Writer Who Clearly Has No Children: “Set the mood.” You know candles, aromatic massage oils, and sexy lingerie. Brutal Honesty Response: If there is no lingering gas odor in the room and you’re in an old t-shirt without any holes, work your dimmer switch and voila… ambiance. Better yet, realize the TV is a beautiful source of ambient light. If you can get the volume to an audible level, you can work in sex without giving up Grays Anatomy. It’s called multi-tasking, something we moms are all too familiar with.
As for a massage, I’m lucky if I don’t get one of my kids’ left over Dorito corners embedded in my thigh. The sexy part is when I ask my husband to flick it out and slide the remaining crumbs off my tush like sand paper. Does that count as a massage? Well, arguably, it’s more like an exfoliation, but it’s undeniably hot.
Tip From a Writer Whose Kids are Not Involved in 500 Activities: A date night once a week. Reality Check Response: I like this one, because in theory it is legitimately a good idea. It’s definitely worth trying every week, but unfortunately, it assumes that there will be a night each week when no one is sick or has an event, that there is a babysitter available, and neither of you are too tired or worn out to go to dinner –A meal in which most your conversation will revolve around the kids.
Tip From a Writer With More Than 24hrs in Her Day: (My personal fave.) Don’t forget the foreplay. Multitasking Mom Response: Really? As it is, I have to have sex while catching up on my Tivo, reading US Weekly, having a healthy protein snack, and repeating the words, “lettuce, milk, eggs” over and over until I can get to a pen. Now I have to add something else to my repertoire? We forgot foreplay a long time ago. Well, my husband didn’t, he calls it brushing his teeth… which I am thankful for.
Tip that Makes me Say, “Are You Out of Your Cotton Pickin’ Mind?” –That’s right I said cotton pickin’ and I meant it! Start Your Day With a Bang So, you’ve had a long day and the odds that you’re going to be up for a raucous romp, or even a guilt induced one, are slim. Set your alarm an hour earlier and have an uninterrupted top-o-the-morning. Bitchy Unsensored Response: First of all, what ambitious magazine writers think an hour is necessary? Six minutes would do the trick and still, I’m not down with that idea. Do you know what I like to do before I wake up in the morning? SLEEP!
Do yourself a favor, throw out those, “spice it up” manuals and top 10 lists. Don’t be too concerned about the quantity of the sex you’re having. You have to figure out what works for you. I recall a friend asking, “Do you ever wake up to your husband having sex with you?” I remember thinking, “No, in my house, we call that rape.” Now I’m thinking, “Hey, whatever works.” If you can have a roll in the hay while hitting the hay, consider yourself a professional multi-tasker.
Question of the Day: What’s the best “Spice up Your Sex Life” tactic you’ve learned since you had children? Please Comment and leave your twitter handle (I’ll be sure to follow:))
“Mommy, Where Do Babies Come From?”
There are certain phrases that you imagine hearing, years before they may ever be spoken. As an adolescent, you dream of those three little words “I Love You,” being said with something other than a familial connotation. You envision the intoxicating “I do,” and long for the significant, “Congratulations, it’s a (put sex here).”
The phrase I heard today didn’t represent one of these reveries. Instead, I got the ever-dreaded question “Mommy, where do babies come from?” and more specifically, “How do they get out?” This is not the first time I’ve been asked this question, but it’s the first time I considered answering it honestly.
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I’ve given quite a few explanations over the years: The stork, the basket on the doorstep, “out of mommy’s bellybutton.” I’ve even given the seldom used, “We found you in a trashcan,” explanation. An excuse used by my own dad, who on too many occasions told the tale of how they first heard my echoing cry, and then debated whether or not to take me out.
How is this happening? Just last week I reiterated, with strong conviction, the existence of the Tooth Fairy, and now I’m about to share the reality of how one enters the world? While I looked around the crowded diner for signs of eavesdropping, J said, “Do they come out of your belly?”
“They can.” I said, hedging.
“So they have to cut your belly open and take the baby out?”
How come when he says it, it seems like a scene from Alien?
“They can.” Still hedging.
“How do they put your belly back together?”
“Stitches,” I replied, knowing this would not be the end.
“RY… RYYYYYY!” J yelled to his sister, “You’re gonna have surgery, ‘cause you’re a girl and girls grow babies.”
Ry, who was previously occupied with the jelly packet mountain she was building, looked up in horror.
“Whaaat?” She cried and looked to me for some explanation as her mountain toppled over (for dramatic effect).
“Go back to your jelly.” I said attempting to redirect her. “J, there’s another way,” I whispered, bracing myself for the look I was about to see. “Babies can also come out of a Mommy’s vagina.”
No amount of bracing could have prepared me for the grossed-out, confused, gape-mouthed, unblinking eyes that now stared at me. A scene from Alien on the table across from us would have been a treat.
“NUH-UH!” He said in horrified denial, as if I was saying it to be funny. Like telling him if he eats too many watermelon seeds, he’ll grow a watermelon vine in his belly.
“It’s true.”
“WHAAAT, BABIES COME OUT OF YOUR VAGINA??”
The families that hadn’t been paying attention to us before quickly turned, as “vagina” is not the usual morning conversation fare.
“Shhh, J we can’t scream the word vagina in public,” I whispered thinking, this wouldn’t be the first time (see the “Let’s Name Our Dog Butt Munch” article).
“Well, I think it’s better to cut open your belly.”
“Why?”
“If it comes out of your vagina, the baby would just drop in the toilet. Yuck!”
Not where I thought this conversation would go, but before I knew it, I was explaining stirrups and OBs pulling out babies and OMG I just wanted an omelet!!!
Jtook this in with unwavering interest. I felt like I could actually see the mechanics of his mind, like watching the inner workings of a watch. Just when I thought he had digested it all he said,
“How do the babies get inside you?”
No way am I going there, not until he finds the Tooth Fairy utterly ridiculous.“Eggs,” I said, “Eat your eggs.”
I was quoted in Redbook magazine August, p.27 in response to the Question: Is it ever appropriate to get “Hot and Heavy” when you’re a houseguest?
My response, “It’s always appropriate to get hot and heavy, unless you are staying with your parents. Then it’s only appropriate to get warm and light.“
Sage advice, sage advice.
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