Category Archives: women’s humor

Camp Phone Calls Could End My Marriage

Who knew the highly anticipated camp phone calls could be such a blow to a relationship? Oh well, when my baby is 1500 miles away from home, and I get a few minutes to talk — It’s every man, ahem mom, for herself!

Camp Phone Calls Could Ruin My Marriage #camp #sleepaway #humor

It’s sleepaway camp time and everyone is getting their calls from the kiddos. I’ve found a pattern, in that I desperately want to strangle my husband after each call. Luckily for me (and not so much my husband), I’m apparently not alone.

Look, us moms are ready. We’ve stayed up until the wee hours waiting for the pictures to download — sometimes hitting “refresh” every minute, (and by minute I mean second) as they download one at a time. We’ve studied them like highly trained CIA agents, analyzing their smiles, their friends, their body language. Continue reading →

A Tale of Two Titties – Mine (A Hilarious Breast Cancer Awareness Month Tale and Reminder)

After a lump scare in my late-20′s, I learned that all lumps are not the C-word and it’s totally okay to get to 2nd base with yourself!

two tittiesLet me tell you a tale, a tale of two titties (oh, how that word makes me cringe, but it’s so much better for the pun)…

After finding a pea sized lump and getting a needle biopsy, I was told that like the several million other young women with fibrous breast tissue, I would be required to get a yearly mammogram and ultrasound.

I’d heard horrible tales of the mammogram and it’s crushing pain. I feared the impending torture and dreaded that, what little my child bearing and breastfeeding had left unscathed, would be permanently altered.

By the time my appointment had rolled around, the fear of having something less benign than a fibroid cyst had started to set in, as well.  If I can produce one kind of growth with no knowledge of it, why can’t I produce another kind?

While contemplating in the waiting room, I saw a woman, not a day under 100.  OK, if she can do this, so can I, I thought, resigned to get through this. Continue reading →

Happy Fathers Day to my Stubborn Hubby From Your Bitchy Wife

cat couple card

I know, you’re like, bring on the water works.  I mean with a title like that there’s bound to be a sentimental, emotionally charged poem to follow, right?  Well, you’ll have to see, but (Spoiler Alert), probably not .  Not all of us have perfect marriages.  Frankly, most of us don’t and I kinda think that’s OK.  There’s some value in being a sometimes sucky wife –  just ask my hubby…

I’m like many of you – going at the last minute to buy some cheesy cards that cost $5 bucks a pop and do little more than add to deforestation. I avoid the overly-sweet ones with watercolor painting on the front because my marriage isn’t perfect and the sentiments in those cards don’t quite reflect my feelings. So, I go with humor.

In fact, I’ve noticed that my husband and I have this weird tendency to re-buy the same multi-fold-out cards for each other on our respective holidays year after year.

The Father’s day card has a cat couple and it goes something like this: Continue reading →

15 Tips to Help Moms Survive Life in Suburbia

15 Rules to Survive Life in the Suburbs #humor #mom #funny #suburbia #suburbsNearly a decade ago, I moved to the suburbs from NYC (it’s the sole reason I started my blog).  In that time I’ve learned some pretty important things to ensure my survival, nay, my sanity.

If my ‘burb sent out a handbook it would look something like this. Feel free to use it as a mini-survival guide. Good luck and in the words of that guy on Hill Street Blues, ‘Hey, let’s be careful out there.’

  1. All children must be signed up for multiple sports and extracurricular activities, to ensure that no family can plan anything on a Saturday until their kids are too old to want to spend Saturday’s with their family.
  2. Do NOT be alarmed if you try to enter the wrong minivan or SUV, this is common. Try to lessen the confusion by putting fun stickers on your back windshield representing each of your children performing their favorite activity.
  3. You can paint your house one of 477 shades of tan.  Other colors will be categorically denied, so don’t even try it!
  4. If your child has strep or hand foot and mouth, be aware that the entire town will know about it before you get his/her prescription filled. PS this same urgency in passing news applies to affairs as well!
  5. As a suburban mom you are expected to start some kind of craft business immediately. Your choices are: hair accessories, jewelry, embellished clothing, or things you can print on card stock — anything else must be cleared through the Chamber of Commerce.
  6. If you already have a job, you are expected to purchase these crafted goods, in bulk, at the myriad of local holiday boutiques that celebrate everything from Ramadan to Flag Day.  Like PTA meetings, being absent is frowned upon.
  7. If you do not find a grocery store or Starbucks within one mile of your current position, you’re lost and have entered an inferior neighborhood! Please stay calm and return to your suburb immediately.
  8. You are required to join a gym.  There, you must take spin classes with disco lighting, pretzel yourself into a reformer, and learn the art-form that is Zumba.
  9. You will be expected to pressure clean anything and everything from your sidewalk to your dog. Be prepared.
  10. Make sure your dog is cute, as neighbors will constantly stop to pet it. Be warned, the same neighbors will turn you in to the association the first time Rufus barks after 9PM. (Don’t name your dog Rufus)
  11. Make an immediate trip to lululemon/Athetica/GapBody/Target … and pick up workout/athletic/golf/tennis gear that’s trendier than simply wearing sweatpants.  Wear these goods at least 50 -100% of the time; in the winter, simply wear your athletic gear with Uggs.
  12. You will need to attend a mind-numbing amount of birthday lunches/dinners for ladies turning anywhere from 30-50.  Get there early, as who you sit next to (or don’t sit next to) can make or break your day.
  13. Cut back on sex ASAP, as you will find yourself in conversations where moms discuss their infrequent, and unsatisfying sex life regularly — at lunches, parties, dinners, play-dates.
  14. And stop giving blow-jobs! People in the ‘burbs are only expected to give them on birthdays and anniversaries (it’s one of the perks).
  15. Living in the ‘burbs is a little like reading Us Weekly: Everything is sensationalized. It’s fun to discuss “who wore it best,” but not as much fun as playing Fashion Police. You will find yourself looking for cellulite/wrinkles on young skinny moms. And gossip is treated as gospel.

I hope this helps you fit into the suburban life you’ve chosen.  Maybe I’ll see you at the next boutique sale — I’ll be selling picture frames with random findings glued on to them!

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Does Your Hubby or Wife do Things that Annoy the Crap Out of You

I know, that was a stupid question (and frankly, “stupid questions” are number 1 on my list of pet peeves), but at this point in my marriage, I’m thinking it’s possible that most things my hubby does falls into the “annoying” category, which probably makes living with me and absolute pleasure!

So, I’ve decided to take action, well action — in the form of an experiment. We’re all told, “You can’t change people, you just have to accept them,” unfortunately I can’t accept that advice anymore than I can accept my hubby’s, ahem, little ticks.

But maybe if we try not to sweat the small stuff slowly, you know, one small thing at a time, we can change our outlook?!  That said, each week, I will TRY to accept a different (most likely NOT) Earth shattering annoyance, until I have accepted them all … or I’m too old to notice them anymore, whichever comes first.

I would love for you to do this with me!!!  Because, like running a marathon, it helps to have someone to train with and complain with and stretch with.  Though, no stretching will be required for this experiment, unless you want to stretch, I mean, it’s not prohibited either and if that’s what you need from me I say let’s do some toe touches.

For MY first week I will attempt not to complain about my husband’s parking for an entire week!  This will be extremely hard, as my husband likes to take the first available spot upon entering any lot, which is usually also the farthest.  He clearly didn’t read The Secret, which explained that you CAN get the best spot everyday, if you believe.  I am a believer and frankly, I’m also lazy, and willing to circle endlessly, which ensures I ALWAYS get an impressive spot.  In fact, I wish we all compared spots when we entered a mall or other establishment, so that I could show off my parking prowess!

To add to my hub’s penchant for picking bad spots he likes to park between cars when there are corner spots available (hello, only one side of your car is exposed to damage!), and he doesn’t know to park slightly closer to the nicer car or to car on his side!

He NEVER, well, only after my constant whining, reparks to straighten out the car (we’ll add my insistent whining to his list of pet peeves). We could be hanging off a curb or parked on a diagonal, and it just isn’t worth going into reverse, because apparently that’s a major chore.

Lastly, he doesn’t consider the fact that I’m usually in super high-heeled shoes and wedges! How is not thinking of my foot attire at time like that, or all the time for that matter?

By the time I enter a store I’m tired from having walked a mile.  I’m possibly limping from having twisted an ankle and I’m most certainly hoarse from saying, “there’s a spot, look there’s a spot” while pulling in and continuing to point out ALL the spots we could’ve parked in as we walk through the lot.

So, I imagine my barking and bitching could also be on his list of peeves.  Yes, I know, we seem perfect ladies, but we have little miniscule tiny barely noticeable flaws (we’re only human).

So, I will bite my tongue all week and see if I can let it go … and if letting it go makes us less bitter by the time we hit our destination, we call it a score. If not, I will of course, go back to complaining and pointing and whining, duh.

You can obviously pick your own peeve for this week and let me know what it is so I may use it in a column and of course, dedicate it to you!

Next week, be ready for (forgetting trash day)!

PS- Go check out my new show – The first episode it up!!!

Photo Credit/ Iheartlaughing.blogspot.com

First Bennifer Then TomKat Now DiRhea | Celeb Break Ups Test My Marriage

Like with debacle that was Tom and Katie’s marriage, or the demise of any celeb union, for that matter, Danny Devito and Rhea Perlman’s split, directly impacted my chance at a lazy  happy marriage, don’t act like it didn’t affect you!

Everyone remembers when Devito and Perlman got together right? I mean, I wasn’t born yet but I heard tales.  Yep, just like Brad and Angie, it was a whirlwind — or something like that.  Fine, I just know that they’re both short and funny and if short funny people can’t stay together… who can?  Who can?

Ummm lesson learned. Do not marry someone as short or funny as you!

Listen, following the love lives of celebrities is like couples therapy … only cheaper. I think we’ve all learned some pretty amazing things  for the price of a weekly gossip mag:

The Travolta’s taught me to avoid marrying arguably gay Scientologists, but if I must marry one, to now know that the house must be staffed with people who give happy endings and sign confidentiality agreements.

Brangelina justified me spending our entire life savings on a Chateau in France for my family to live in.  That was the best week ever! Hey, do you think I can trade my food stamps for flying lessons?

I learned from TomKat that marriages with buyout clauses and auditors rarely work. Though sharing lipstick and Louboutins with your 4 year old is always a super awesome idea.

Posh and Becks made me see the need to conceive another child, with the sole purpose of naming it something totally random like, Stockbroker or Almondbutter or Miami.

R. Patz and K. Stew’s recent reconciliation taught me that the love of your life should totally take you back if you get caught on camera, making out with another man. Which is why I unexpectedly mounted a local anchorman in the middle of his “Live at 5” newscast (BTW they really don’t wear pants behind the desk!).

And yes, “DiRhea” once gave me the impetus to stick it out in the tough times to attain similar longevity.

Sure, their celebrity morph name wasn’t the sexiest, but it didn’t stop me from asking Mark during heated arguments, “What would DiRhea do?”

He rarely answered, but I like to think the mere inquiry got us through some tough times.

Now, with the news of DiRhea’s marital demise, I realize, there’s no finish line. You can never throw your hands in the air, run through the proverbial ribbon, and scream “We won! We lasted 3 decades, now we get to coast!”

No, on the contrary, it proves that we’re gonna have to work at this whole marriage thing for like, ever, which sucks because I’m pretty much phoning it in already.  At this point my kids are numero uno and after a short list of important things, like our pets, success, and freshly folded laundry, comes my man.

So thank you DiRhea, because of you I’ll make my hubby a higher priority in my life. Well, within reason.

I mean, if Hollywood has taught us anything, it’s that when women get divorced, they find younger, hotter, more energetic men — with abs!  Madonna, Halle, Demi, Katie C., Mariah, Susan S., Ellen B., you give hope to us all… mmmmmm abbbbs!

Someone Stole Our Money Tree

And other perfectly plausible excuses for not spending in this economy… Frankly, with the amount of times my children ask for something — from $2 gems for Dragonvale to a dress from Justice to a new iPhone, I’m assuming they believe that money either grows on trees or at the very least flows to us on a river of gold.

“Someone cut down our money tree.”  This is the line I used to explain why my son would not be getting the new iPhone 5 the moment it hit shelves, like some of his other friends, who shall remain nameless.  “That’s right, just yesterday I was fanning myself with fresh dollar bills, off the darn thing and today… gone,” I waxed.

“I remember the old days, circa 2000, when times were good, the tree bloomed so plentifully.  I would walk out and stare into the buds, too blurry to tell what they would blossom into, but so excited by the prospects.  The beautiful $20’s and even a rogue $100 here or there, opened in glorious subdued hues of matte greens.  Benjamins and Jacksons — the good ol’ boys.  Recently, the soil has not been as “rich,” if you will, and Washington, old faithful, as I like to call him, has been the only one to flower.

The spots once reserved for George and Abie became clusters of kernels, heavy copper and silver colored nuts, that plunked down on our heads at even the slightest gust of wind.  Every once in a while, a seed would hit with concussion causing force… “Damn Susan B.”  I’d curse at it, and then plant it, in hopes of growing another tree.  Alas, the bush it bore only sprouted subway tokens, which are of no use in the Florida suburbs.

Each Tuesday, I would pluck all the ripe bills from the tree, as Wednesday is the day the lawn people come.  Well, need I say more.  It’s so hard to find honest help these days.

But today, well today… I don’t need to worry about picking the fruit, because the tree is gone.  All that’s left is a hole in the ground and some scattered pennies that even the horticultural filchers found not worth risking back injury for.

“So, no new iPhone 5 for you OR ME, for that matter.”

My son walked away confused and mildly appeased.  Next I will explain to my husband why the boot fairy made a recent visit to my closet.

The True Bane of Suburbia

The bane of suburbia… the teenage wannabe gangsta.  Beware their 8 Mile lingo, tee-shirts with moderately offensive sayings, and fro-yo addiction.  They’re hoodlums alright. Well, they wear hoodies and they live in the hood, well, the middle class suburban neighbor’hood.  

So the last two days I’ve taken my son to the skate park at the Kirshberg YMCA in middle/upper class USA.  Be careful with the bigger kids, I warned my son, I don’t know if they’re so good.

“What, those kids are bad?  How do you know?”

“Well, for one, none of them are wearing helmets or pads.”

“Mommmm.”

“Plus, none of them is lucky enough to have his mom cheer him on from the sidelines.”

“Come on.”

“Oh, aaaaand I saw one of them smoking!”

“No way.  No one was smoking” my little innocent said, aghast.  (Kids are really anti-smoking these days.  If only they knew what chimneys their grandparents were.)

“Yo G, I got 4S” one of the older kids yelled to the others.

“No way, Seri is my bitch, yo.” Another yelled back… through his braces.

Wow, you know who thinks these kids are baaad? They do.  I mean, really?  Is this what happens when you’re so bored of suburbia?  Can their parents stop laughing long enough to tell them how ridiculous they sound?

“WHAT’S UP WITH ALL THE LITTLE KIDS?” inquired one of the white suburbanites, who got dropped off in his momma’s Beamer.

“I know, yo.  Is that one on a rip stick?” The one wearing the unfortunate fashion statement of a tee-shirt, which said, “Smell my Bag,” asked…  referring to MY little kid.

My ears perked up, ready to jump in with something like, “You got a problem with my son biatch???”  Oh, I can do “thug wannabe” just as good as these pishers.  Plus, I’ve actually lived in a city, that’s street cred, G… Props.

“Shit, that kid is bad ass, that’s hard to do.” One marveled.

Phew, he’s lucky he called my kid “bad ass,” ‘cause homie was about to get a beat down.  Plus, he  IS bad ass.  I wonder if he knows it?

“Mom, mom watch me do this… mooooooooommmm watch!  Are you watching???” Jake yelled, unaware.

Well, that answered that question.  

Frankly, Jake had no problem with these boys.  He climbed up to the highest ramp and chilled at the top, as all the suburban gangsta’s tried to decide where to go next.  (Hollister, Starbucks, Jamba Juice?)  I know, you wouldn’t want to run into them in a dark alley. It would look like this (insert squiggly dream sequence lines here.)~~~~

“Yo bro, where do you think you’re going, BIATCH?”

“Umm, I was going to Abercrombie, but take what you want…”

“F@ck that, we were going there too!  I got a sick coupon, G.”

As I contemplated the irony of this scene a new playa‘ walked up to me and asked, “Are my eyes ridiculously dilated?”

Oh, this one’s the real deal, huh? Doing drugs at the park and flippant enough to ask an adult about his “tells”?

“Um. yep, kinda.” I answered, “Why do you wanna know?” I followed.  Look, if he’s insolent enough to ask, I get to ask back.

“Oh, because, I just went to Dr. Rothberg, you know the ophthalmologist?  He did those drops and I don’t know if I should skate in the sun before they wear off.” He replied like a kid debating whether to wait the full half hour after eating, to go into the pool.

“Well, sure sure not a great idea.” I said, trying to squelch my laughter.

“Ok then,” he said as if I had given him sound parental advice.  Then he walked into the ramped- up hockey rink and yelled to his boyz, “F@ck this shit, I’m gonna get a f@cking smoothie, yo.”

“Yeah f@ck this, let’s get smoothies,” Smell my bag, concurred.

“No way, bro, I want fro yo, yo.” piped another…

And they were gone, those crazy hooligans arguing off into the sunset about toppings and calorie counts, and spoiling their appetites.

f@ckin’ thugs.

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I Got My Own Show!


First promo is out (if you’re a YouTube subscriber, please like it)!!!

It seems like forever that I’ve been waiting for someone to give me my own show. Yes, it’s true… rounding the corner on 40 certainly wasn’t helping. I was making a running list of all the things I WILL NOT DO. You know, like a depressing version of a bucket list? Actually, that’s redundant, but you get the picture.

My looming midlife-ishness was making me realize all the things I haven’t been given that I feel I truly deserved, like: 10million from the Florida Lottery, a Ford Fusion from American Idol, or a Medical degree from Harvard. Granted, I’ve never played the lotto, been a contestant on American Idol, or attended Harvard, but still I feel slighted.

Which is how I’ve felt about the whole getting your own show thing. I mean let’s face it, everyone has a show now a days, EV-ERY-ONE. Really, it doesn’t take much. You don’t even need a full set of teeth (see Gator Boys and Honey Boo Boo) Sure

Honey’s 7 so those will grow back in, but I’d venture to say that she’ll be missing a few in adulthood as well. (Call it a premonition.)

I just want to state for the record that I do have all my teeth, which is usually a plus in the job market search, but now I am considering knocking one out or at least covering it in gold. What? Does Flava Flav not have a show?

I guess the truth is, with everyone having a show, I kinda just imagined that there was a line somewhere, like a make-shift DMV. You wait in it, all annoyed until someone with really long nails and two tone hair looks at you and tells you your gig. “Hmmm, annoying accent, high hair, tattooed, currently intoxicated… JERSEY SHORE, ANY MOB SHOW, CO-HOST ON THE TALK.” “Highly educated, dry, unattractive, interesting and cerebral… sorry, your options are limited NEW YORK TIMES TV Host (only to be watched during air travel), guest on REAL TIME WITH BILL MAHER.” “Looks good in a bikini – doesn’t prune in hot

tubs or pools – questionable morals… BACHELORETTE, BIG BROTHER.” “Funny, un-pc, likes to talk while standing, attractive enough… LATE NIGHT TV.”

You know, something like that.

So for years, I’ve sought out this “line,” and like unicorns and tooth-fairies – it exists but, only to those who believe… which is why I found it. Or rather, it found me. Yep, my show, THE JENNY ISENMAN SHOW, will be airing on Cafe Mom starting October 16th!

Here’s the first promo!!!

I like to believe my DMV bio went like this: Funny – anxiety stricken – obsessed with cellulite/wrinkles/sagging – annoyed with all the hype about beauty products, juice fasts, scheduled sex – may or may not have showered today – needs answers to cut through all the bullshit and look and feel at least a decade or two younger so that she doesn’t end up in a padded room – attractive enough…. TALK SHOW FOR MOMS, REAL HOUSEWIFE OF SOMEWHERE, GUEST ON DR. PHIL, HOARDERS.

We just finished filming the season last week and it was total insanity… (By the way, it’s a talk show for moms, in case you weren’t sure.) I was sick as a dog! My voice went from Demi Moore sexy, in early episodes to Harvey Fierstein drag queen, towards the end, I kid you not. I had an amazing set, amazing guests, amazing producers, a 15 person crew: filming, trying to keep me healthy, fed, and hydrated… checking hair and makeup. Sounds a bit Christian Grey-esque right? I mean, these are things a girl can get used to!!!

Most importantly, I got a CHEAT SHEET for all the mommas to live by – all while keeping a cynical eye and a sense of humor. Yes, I regaled some embarrassing 80’s moments, as I love to do. And I think with the power of editing, it will end up a Chelsea Handler, meets, Erma Bombeck, meets, Richard Lewis, meets Oprah. Am I aiming too high? Those editors better be freakin’ good, if not, I’m hoping at the very least it’ll be a Wendy Williams, meets the Tiger Mom, meets Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew, meets Dog, the Bounty Hunter.

I promise to give behind the scenes play by play! If you like my writing, share this with friends so they can follow the blog and keep up with the show because I guarantee it’ll be as exiting as watching the guys who fish with their hands… and that’s saying a lot, I know.

Oh and thanks, as always for your support! This is a big deal for someone who’s small potatoes.

XOXO,

Jenny From the Blog

I May Have Been a Preteen Stalker

Didn’t we all have adolescent obsessions that bordered on stalking or was that just me?  This story will make your embarrassing moments seem way less embarrassing!  It’s that bad, I’ve never spoken of it.

As you may have noticed from some of my posts, I have a flair for the dramatic.  I recall an experience of such exaggerated intensity with my first crush.  For the sake of the blog and the fact that some of my readers will know him, I’ll call him Eric, Eric Axel.  This pseudonym is not exactly cryptic, it‘s about 2 letters off from his actual name.  Look, I pursued him like an obsessed stalker, I’m sure it’s no surprise to him.

This was old school stalking I’m referring to.  Anyone and everyone stalks now a days — moderen technology: cell phones,  FB,  twitter,  my space, youtube, linkedin — it’s not even impressive.  No, I’m talking about the kind of stalking that took time and effort and premeditation, something to tell your grandchildren about.

So, I’m gonna rip off the Band-Aid, that is this repressed memory, and let the healing begin.  I was in the 7th grade … Continue reading →

Pardon me Miss Your Nipple is Showing | Oh This Happened

Wow, if I had a nickel for every time I said that… I’d have a nickel.
But today, like, Rihanna on her Hawaiian vacay, Tara Reid um – everywhere, Janet Jackson at halftime, Elaine Bennis on her X-mas cards (Please tell me you got that reference?), and tons of oopsies on the Red Carpet…
this woman’s nip-slip was someone else’s eye candy.

Well, in this case I wouldn’t call it eye candy, though I must admit, I stared at her nipple for quite some time, in a train wreck kinda way, while I debated my moral obligation as a fellow female.

At first, I thought I should say nothing. She clearly spent serious man hours getting those boobs to bust out of her shirt and reveal that stunning tatt of a phoenix emblazoned across them. Continue reading →

8 Reasons Not to Friend Your In Laws or Let them Read Your Blog

inlawecardHere are the Top Reasons Not to ‘Friend’ Your In-Laws/Parents on FB or Let Them Read Your Blog (both of which I’m totally guilty of):

You may regrettably hear this:

1.   “We tried that new position you mentioned and I have just one question…”

2.  “Is everything ok with money?  Your post about coupons/discount codes/the economy/stealing shampoos from hotel carts/insert penny pinching tip here…  has left us concerned.”

3. “Have you ever thought about couples therapy? We found some of your post titles rather worrisome, like:  I Cheated on my Husband with Christian Grey/ Sex or Oven Cleaning/  Husband For Sale: Motivated Seller, Why is My Hubby Such a Wuss When He’s Sick? …”

(Don’t judge fellow bloggers, I’m sure you have some doozies of your own.) Continue reading →