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
Category Archives: women’s humor
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
Moms of Boys are Jealous Shrews – So Here’s a Contract for Potential Future Wives
The moment you bring a baby boy into the world, you start to wonder when he’s going to leave you. That’s right. You know that one day he’ll leave you for another woman — even though he’ll propose to you all through toddlerhood and tell you that you are the only girl for him.
LIAR
Then he’ll spend all his time with his girlfriend, ‘cuz she’ll trick him into loving her, with the partying and the drugs and the play-dough. Yep… and that’s just kindergarten. What, there are no drugs in Kindergarten? What about sniffing Elmers and eating paste? You feel silly now, right?
You’re already quite certain that the woman he marries will probably resent you for being so awesomely cool. And you’re betting she’ll do whatever she can to break the strong bond you have with your sweet prince. Women say it’s good to marry mama’s boys, but they don’t really want to deal with the mama part.
Wenches!
My husband has told me time and time again to cut the cord… no f*****g way! I’m waiting until that thing rots and falls off. I mean, for how much longer is he going to say “I love you” when he walks out the door, or hug me in front of his friends, or ask me to lie with him at night? Frankly, I don’t know, but I won’t be the one to stop it.
If he’s 40 and wants me to lie with him and scratch his arm, I’ll be all “Move over, Megan,” or whatever his unappreciative, son-stealing wife’s name is.
Let’s be honest: he may be 5 now, but before we know it, he’ll be shaving, and driving, and then he’ll leave us to go to college somewhere cold. Then he’ll get married and move to be near her mother, because that’s what girls make boys do: move near their mothers! Then he’ll be a father, and then one fine holiday he’ll have “wifey” call us to cancel our plans. Then he’ll try to make up for it by sending one of those Harry & David gift baskets filled with pears, because he’ll remember that we love pears, but they’ll be bruised — like our hearts.
Next thing you know we’ll be an old crones – calling our cats by our childrens’ names and answering things that aren’t even phones.
(The last part will be because everything will be a phone – key fobs, throw pillows, hats. I imagine it’ll be confusing for lots of people, not just us, OK?)
No, we can’t go down that road, well, we may not have any control over technology, but we can take a stand against son stealing right now.
Look Obama’s already babbling into a shoe, crazy aging guy
We’ll make those Jezebels pay… no, sign! Yes, a contract for us to make them sign, besides the pre-nup. That’s right, like using WiFi in Starbucks, they’ll have to agree to our terms.
This is a MIL-nup, and it goes like this:
- I will realize that my Mother-in-Law (MIL) and all her awesomeness is a gift to me that should not be taken for granted.
- I will marvel at her beauty and miraculously never aging skin, every time I see her.
- I will compliment her cooking, her decorating, and most importantly the incredible way she raised her son, my husband.
- I will acknowledge that her son is on loan to me so that we can make grandbabies, which will probably look like her and have her wonderful traits, which I will mention in conversation frequently and with great fervor.
- I will remind my husband to call my MIL daily saying: “Have you told your mother you love her today? You should, you’re really lucky, she rocks.” Plus I will throw in phrases like this:
- “That amazing woman raised you, you should call and thank her… again.”
- “You can truly never thank her enough.”
- “Let’s go over and thank her in person.”
- “We should bring her a gift when we go.”
- “She’s so deserving of gifts.”
- “Let’s take her on vacation with us.”
- “And get her another gift.”
- “Maybe a beautiful locket with pictures of you and our children.”
- “No, I don’t need to be in the pictures, she didn’t raise me… unfortunately.”
- I will tell other women that their mother-in-laws are not as fabulous as mine and I shall be willing to throw-down in the event that said women disagree.
- I will take my MIL to her weekly hair salon appointment and shopping at Loehmann’s, when it is deemed necessary by age.
- I will spend ALL holidays with your family because they are so awesome and gracious and I realize how much mine sucks in comparison.
And lastly:
- I will move to be near my MIL, whether she has retired to Century Village in Florida, decides to live in a nudist colony in Arizona, or she goes bat shit crazy and moves to Alaska for the fresh sushi. She is so wise and wonderful, I’m sure her choice of habitat will suit us perfectly!
Oh, and:
- My MIL can soooo live with us when she’s old and can’t remember who I am.
There. You can send this to other moms of boys and print it to be signed when the inevitable happens. I just saved you from losing your sweet sweet boy. You’re welcome.
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XO Jenny From the Blog
Check out:
40 Things Every Woman Should Have or Should Know by 40
20 Things Women Would Do for Their Besties
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
What Does a Gal Gotta Do to Get a Compliment Around Here – Oh Not That
I know what you’re thinking from the title and I’m so not going there. Though that would probably work with the hubby. But, that boat sailed on our wedding night. What? I’m Jewish, it’s in the handbook. We drop that trick from our repertoire faster than we admit to not liking football.
Well, there are exceptions, but they’re pricey… cough Channel cough bag cough. Excuse me. Throat tickle.
Moving on to more likely occurrences. I was in the hip ATL – that’s Atlanta, for the white people – last week and I found the people to be incredibly cool and shockingly friendly. It was kinda like NYC meets Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and they were all hopped up on green tea frappachinos.
They have style, but a touch of that southern hospitality that you don’t usually get in big cities. It was very refreshing. Like a glass of Country Time Lemonade or an iced green tea frappachino.
Plus the ATL is filled with gay men and I love me some gay men. Southerners and gay men are a recipe for lovely conversation and usually some well placed compliments, as neither are stingy with flattery. Unlike husbands who you have to spin for, and glare at, and say subtle things like “Ahem, eh-heh-hem, do I look good in this?” Or do the kinda stuff I mentioned at the start of the post.
Let’s be frank, gay men wouldn’t want a hummer from me (unless I actually was Frank) and Southerners, well I imagine they wouldn’t mind, but I think they’d be more polite about it. You know, like. “Darling, that’d be lovely If you’re so inclined?” I don’t really know how Southerners ask for a BJ. I was picturing a gentleman caller from the Glass Menagerie on that one. I don’t have a lot of experience with Southerners and I didn’t want to make them sound too Of Mice and Men or worse, Deliverance.
Did I get off track? Damn adult onset ADD.
The people were so courteous, they asked kind questions, said “hello” as they met your eye as if they knew you… and yes there were some compliments, which required nothing on my end, but in all fairness, they weren’t exactly complementary.
I definitely felt the hospitatlity, but where were the gushing compliments that were going to get me through to the new year and pump up my confidence like a commission based sales person at Saks?
Not in the ATL.
First, there was a male hairstylist at the American Doll store. I was sure he would come up with something ego boosting. We talked… did the witty banter thing and then it came.
“I’m obsessed with…” he started.
Finally. Obsessed with what? My ombre hair? My new sweater? My smokey eye effect?
“…with Kanani’s snow suit, I haven’t seen that one in the store.”
“Oh, I got it from a company online.”
“It’s super cute. You have great taste.”
Seriously, I have great taste in American Doll Clothes? That’s what I’m getting here? Kanani is getting more love than me. She probably can’t ski anyway, she’s Hawiian!
Yeah, skiing? I don't think so.
I knew the smokey eyes would be a waste of time.
While walking in the mall a man who I don’t think was all there, or maybe I should say “was there at all,” stopped me.
“I love you’re teeth,” he blurted out.
I kid you not. I love your teeth? There’s not even a good response to that one.
“I love your beard” I said and walked on.
“Wow, all these Southerners, gay men and escaped mental patients – and I can’t even get a normal compliment?” I vented to my Mother In Law.
“Maybe that guy was a dentist,” she said, trying to give his praise some validity.
“I said I love you’re beard and he said thank you.”
“So?”
“So, he didn’t have one.”
The next day my mother in law introduced me to one of her friends, a good looking young gay man from Brazil.
“Wow, you’re daughter is hot,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said with an obvious sense of pride.
Finally. And it sounded extra sexy with his accent.
What? It was a shallow conversation?
“She is hot as hell,” he went on.
I blushed. Sure, I know, he’s gay, so when you account for the fierce factor it’s worth about half a straight compliment, but “Hot as hell?” I mean that’s a good one, no? You don’t get to hear that one much after college.
“And this is my granddaughter, she’s 7,” my mother in law went on.
“Wow, she’s hot too,” he gushed.
ummm ok, creepy, but maybe in Brazil “hot” is like our “beautiful,” we’ll let it slide.
“She is hot as hell.”
Oh, come on!!!
On a side note, if you have not yet checked out the humor site I’m a part of please do: I’m a Jewish Mom What’s Your Excuse? .com it’s hilarious and a bit racy. You’ll enjoy it whether you’re Jewish or not. Today’s post by Lori Stefanac who is outta control : I’m Such a Bubbie – she has vowed to make being a Bubbie cool. One Bubbie at a time!
IF YOU LIVE IN SOUTH FLORIDA!!! – I’m the new humor columnist at South Florida Parenting Magazine! If you see it in your area check me out.
I Ate My Cat While I Was Sleeping!
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.”
Camp Phone Calls Could End my Marriage
Who knew the highly anticipated camp calls would be such a blow to my relationship? (BTW – I’m not always this overbearing, but when my baby is 1000 miles away for a month and I get 10 minutes to talk to him… it’s ON….)
Okay, it’s camp time and everyone is getting their calls from the kids. What I’m finding is that I want to strangle my husband during and after each call. The crazy thing is, I’m apparently not alone.
Look, we moms are ready. We’ve stayed up until the wee hours waiting for the pictures to download and we’ve studied them. We know what our kids have done each day and whether they look like they’ve made friends or they’re feeling left out. We know whether they’re arms are around a friend or they’re sitting uncomfortably next to someone with their hands in their lap. 
We can tell every detail and our minds are racing to find out the truths behind the images and we want to hear their sweet little voices. We also know that what we have to say is way more important than what our hubbies have to say and we let them talk simply because well:
DONOR, Ahem, Father
Me: “Jake, your hike looked insane yesterday. Was it fun? How cold was the water? Were the rocks slippery? Are you wearing your sunblock? Your headgear? Do you love the rock wall? How long is the zip line? Who’s the other boy with braces? Is he your best friend? Is anyone mean? Are the counselors nice? What are you eating? How big is the zipline? Was your camp cooler looking than the one you played baseball against on Tuesday?”
Sure, I spouted off a lot of questions… there’s a lot to ask and only 10 minutes to talk. After he gave me a one or two word response to each, I moved on to the next. I looked over to see the frustration in Mark’s eyes. A couple of times he started to butt in with an “ummm, Hey Jake, do you umm” and I bowled right over him with my inquisition. Then he looked at me sideways and I whispered, in that angry whisper that would be a yell if you could speak louder, and say “What? Have your questions ready.”
Mark: Jake, have you gotten all my letters?
Jake: Yep
Mark: Which ones?
Jake: Ummmm, Well the one about my new team when I get home, and ummm, I don’t know, I don’t remember them all.
Is he f-ing kidding me? I sit on hold for Verizon longer than the time I have allotted to talk here, and my husband wants Jake to rattle off about letters??? This is not an acceptable caliber of conversation! And I’m am the conversation rater, I’ll have you know.
Mark: Did you get the one where I bowled a 300?
Jake: Oh, yeah. That was awesome. Did that really happen?
Okay readers, I have to interject here. You’re thinking this is high enough caliber right? Well, I mean how often does someone who is not a pro, actually bowl a 300? What I should share is that he’s not so much talking about this: 
as he is talking about this:
Yep, I’m listening to my husband waste time talking about Wii f-ing sports!
So, I interrupted again…. “How was your camp-out? Were you scared? Did you sleep through the night? What song did you do in the lip-sync; you looked like Eminem.”
Again, Mark gave me the look, but this time he put the phone by his side in annoyance.
So, again I did the whisper/yell: “You are so selfish, you don’t want to hear him talk ‘cuz I’m asking all the questions?”
Me: Do you have a girlfriend? Do you like the go carts?
Mark: How many go carts are there?
Did he just ask that question? I told him last week there are 2. TWO Freakin’ go carts. Great, now he’s wasting my time with shit he already knows. Tic, Toc, baby.
Mark then went on to rattle off the line up for his travel baseball team this season and tell him about the bat he just ordered…
Mark: Guess which bat I got you?
Jake: The Louisville Vertex?
Mark: noooo
Jake: the new Worth?
Mark: noooo
Jake: Nike Aero?
Mark: noooo, I’ll give you a hint, it’s made by Easton.
Is this happening? Does anyone feel my pain here?
Apparently, you do… I had a friend tell me that she just took the phone out of her husband’s hand when she felt he was done. Two minutes she gave him and then she plucked it right away from his eager ear. They didn’t talk to each other for the rest of the night.
Another said she arranged all calls while hubby was at work.
A third said Her husband’s only question was, “Is your bed comfortable?”
“You gave him one question and that’s all he could come up with?” I asked.
“No, I would have given him more but he lost his privileges based on his first.”
And yet another told me she can’t deal with the calls because her hubby’s voice changes. “It gets all high like he’s talking to a dog– Hi Lindseeeeeeey, how are your Friennnnds? Are you, woushey woo having fun? Hmmm? Huh?”
Tell that man to "HEAL"
In the end, I realized that we moms want OUR time to be all ours. Even if the hub is right (and he was). All my babe wanted to do was hear us and all I wanted to do was get answers to every thought and query I’ve stored in my head from the minute he set foot on the plane.
Luckily for my hubby the calls are infrequent enough that our marriage will withstand these bumps in the road. Next year, I’m just gonna tell him they did away with calls altogether due to the rise in the divorce rate.
Take a sec to check out some of the humor that any parent can relate to: The Day My Son’s Ladybug Ran Away – who knew saying goodbye to an insect would be so hard? or I May Have Run Over an Elderly Person While Driving Carpool. OH, ENTER TO WIN a robotic floor cleaner and a bag of goodies from iVillage’s “Stuff We Love” leave a comment here to sign up.
– JENNY FROM THE BLOG
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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Things That Make You Go HMMM | Jenny From the Blog
Okay, so this is one of those things that makes me go hmmm? It also makes me seek first aid.
Dear Inconsiderate Woman Who Woos my Dog,
I need to express a grievance, but I’m having trouble putting it into words, mainly because we don’t speak the same language. Could you please refrain from making kissy noises when I am riding my bike with my dog in tow. The last couple times I have taken my dog for a bike ride you have been in the garage next door, cleaning. Though I have not assessed their garage, I don’t recall it being so dirty, but I digress.
You seem to find my dog attractive, and have a habit of calling him in a lip smacking “come ‘ere boy” kind of chant. Has it not dawned on you that I am on my bike and attached to my dog by a leash when you trying to woo him to you? Continue reading
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 Put on Fake Eyelashes Like a Pro
They aren’t just for celebrities and evangelist’s wives anymore!
Jessica Simpson rocks her set, JLo’s are said to be made of mink, and even Michelle Obama is in on the trend. iVillage called fake eyelashes the Wonderbra of makeup and I agree. Most people are wary about putting fake eyelashes on themselves, unfortunately if you don’t keep a makeup artist on staff, you probably don’t have a choice. The truth is, it’s not that hard to learn to do and the results will make your man batty. Continue reading