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.

How to Retain Water and Lose Sanity

Sure, you read articles all the time on how NOT to retain water and how celebrities cleanse and diarrhetic out the toxins and cholonic out the backed up sewage, but rarely do people tell you how to retain fluids and keep those toxic invaders in and that’s why I’m writing this. to write it the other way is too obvious, too trite, too cliche. This is why I have such a huge following… I know what people really want to know. Because I have this info, my ego is not the only thing that’s bloated.

Here’s how I learned this pertinent bloating information: I was driving and out of nowhere I felt like I was about to pass out. I was luckily in a parking lot and quickly pulled into the nearest spot sideswiping a pedestrian. Sure, I felt some guilt, but I didn’t have time to circle like I usually do and I had to settle for my sub-standard spot.

My mind was racing, “Something is very wrong, people don’t just pass out.” I called my husband on speaker while unlocking my doors, so he or the paramedics could get to me. Even in my nearly unconscious state I was anally over-preparing.

I searched for something to eat. I shoved a lollipop in my mouth… nothing. I was hanging on by a thread, when I saw my daughter’s morning sippy cup of milk. I sucked out the milk as fast as I could (those things have a valve to slow the release of liquid, making this scene almost comedic… if it wasn’t happening to me, that is.) After a rush of boiling heat radiated through my body, the feeling slowly eased. After a meal during, which I was barely lucid for, I told husband I was okay to drive myself to the doctor. This by the way took very little convincing, thanks honey. (He is never anally over-preparing)

Now let me tell you a bit about my Doctor. He is a Jewish Jamaican with a strong accent and the stereotypical laid back attitude you would expect of people who use the word “irie.” I go to him because I am too big of a hypochondriac to go to someone with credentials high strung. When I arrived at the office I found him out back taking a smoke break, he rolls his own, so there’s no telling what it actually was.

He tipped his skull cap at me and I went in to wait for my turn.

“Ello luv, I see you got yer pretty self all worked up. I don’t mean to trow the book at ya, but yer blood pressure is very low… too too low. Yer passin’ out cause yer not getting enough oxygen to yer brain daarlin’.

“That actually explains some other issues.”

“Well, ya got ta take care of dis yerself, cause yer not gonna like the medcine I’d ‘ave to put ya on. Now go to the store and buy everyting wid salt. Get some matzoh ball soup and put extra salt init, put salt on yer salt. Everyting you been taught, ferget it.Rememba ya need tons of fluids, ‘cause ya ‘ave to retain ‘em.”

“What about water?”

“Water? No. That’s terrible fer ya, that just washes the sodium away. I prefer you ‘ave a Coke. Coke jas yer, salt yer caffeine, and yer sugar. It’s the perfect drink fer yer ‘ealth.”

“Yes, I believe that’s their campaign slogan.”

“OK then, I love ya daarlin. ‘Ave a space cake fer the road.”

Did I mention he takes his appointments in a small shack? I’m totally kidding, it’s more of a trailer.

So, if I want to stay awake, I must retain water and eat and drink crap, and if I want to stay thin, I must pass out. Hmmm, well I certainly wouldn’t be the first person who passed out trying to stay thin.

It’s against everyting, sorry everthing, in me to purposely retain fluids. But apparently, this medicine is something I want to avoid, so here goes.

WEEK 1- Filled pantry with pretzels, pistachios, popcorn, pickles, peppercorn jack, and Pepsi. I know, you’re thinking they all have… salt in them, and that’s why I got them.

WEEK 2- Ate and drank all of the above. Wide awake. Feelin’ gooood.

WEEK 3- Still awake. Feeling sluggish. Fingers pruning… Must have sweet, in need of a cupcake. I secretly busted a piñata at my daughter’s friends birthday, and ravaged the innards. I blamed it on a little kid that teases her, who just happened to be the birthday boy. Ahhh, I got my sweets… and my sweet sweet revenge.

WEEK 4- Cannot look at another saltine. Putting MnMs in my soup instead of oyster crackers. Can no longer wear rings. Thighs are becoming too friendly with each other.

Mission accomplished. Do I cry or cheer?

WEEK 5- Too bloated to cook. Can’t get fingers around pan handles. Oven mitts don’t fit. Had husband install salt licks around the house for convenience. Lick them each time I waddle by. Will write more tomorrow, sausage fingers too swollen for keys.

So many freakin' Lemonade stands, but you never see one of these.

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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Missoni for Target Why are you Toying with My Emotions?

Don't be jealous, but I have the dresses at far left and far right. OK, be jealous if you must.

This goes out to all my fashionistas, with or without the budget to buy what they crave.

Look, we can’t all be Suri – playing in our $100,000,000 tree houses while waiting for our own “personal shopper” to come home bearing the hippest of clothes without ever having blinked at, or even looked at the price tag.

So this is what $100grand gets you in the treehouse real estate market.

 

But any good fashionista knows how to get what she desires, whether she can afford it or not.  She knows how to shop a sale, how to shop an outlet, how to shop online and when to shop a low priced chain.  Plus it never hurts to have friends in the industry from one’s days as a stylist.

Like a great detective, a good shopper always gets her dress.  But how is one to take advantage of a designer who decides to do what we all did in college and, slum it for a week or two, if she can’t get the goods in her cart?  Virtual or otherwise?

I know, I’m supposed to love being an American because of terms like “laissez faire,” “capitalism” and “free enterprise,” but damn you eBayers for ruining my ability to buy Missoni at Target!  Like Roseanne Barr singing the national anthem, it’s really unpatriotic of you!

For weeks I have anticipated Missoni’s arrival.  Sure, being bombarded with commercials, print campaigns, and an enviable fashion week show made my desire stronger.  Yes I know, another American perk – ad space.  Sure, I wanted the bike and the pillows, maybe a throw or two, that cute little espresso cup set with multiple patterns and a

I did get one of these, but who has a dinner party for 5? Hello?

stand for your countertop, 

 

and let’s not forget the clothes.  Oh, the clothes. Continue reading →

My Husband is Metrophobic and My Father is Metrosexual (oh the humanity)

When I was growing up, my father was the one who took me on shopping excursions, and patiently waited outside many a woman’s dressing room at Saks or Bloomingdales.  We studied the nuances of collectable cars from the lines of the body to the details of the interior and yes, we buffed our nails, polished our shoes, shared our Coogi sweaters and of course…  spent many hours antiquing all over the East coast. Just last month we had a murse off (which he won – picture is at the bottom)

My Dad is a Metrosexual.

There, I said it.  He’s finally out of the dressing room closet and I’m sure will be helping design the t-shirts for their first chevron patterned parade.

I wish I’d coined the term … Metrosexual: A straight man who likes shopping, manicures, trends, home décor, staring at paint chips, and reading Men’s Health.

Anywho, in an unfortunate turn of events, my husband has turned out to be “Metrophobic.” Now, this term I may have coined, and if you use it, you owe me royalties.  I certainly didn’t know this when I married him… it never came up.  All other sexual orientations are totally acceptable to him and had I went down a checklist trying to cover each of these categories I may have learned of this prejudice earlier.  As it turns out he finds Metrosexuals to be a curious bunch. He can’t understand how a straight man would waste time keeping up with trends, care about quality of leather on a sofa or use the term mani/pedi without chuckling.

In my defense – when I first met Mark, he was malleable. I had him wearing trendy things, even hair gel. It was the 90’s okay? Stop questioning my judgment. But, I went too far. I got him a pair of Kenneth Cole chunky black shoes. At the time they were very in. The problem was that he is a size 12, and chunky 12’s are pretty, well…Frankenstein-esque. I saw it immediately, but couldn’t admit it because I wanted him to trust me and allow me to change him … obviously (is that not every girls goal?)

However, his friends weren’t so courteous and Mark’s “clown shoes,” became a standard dig that would be referenced for years to come. That was the end of Mark’s experimental phase and the last time he let me dress him in anything other than khaki shorts or jeans and tee’s.

He won’t wear anything too fitted, too shiny, too patterned, too sheer, too thick, too acid washed, too dark washed, or too trendy. On top of those requirements, he won’t wear button fly jeans or anything slimfit, as they do not provide the generous room needed to accommodate his package “take it easy, Jon Hamm.”

As if those weren’t enough parameters – He won’t actually shop, so if I want him to have any style at all, I have to guess at sizing and acceptability. As an ex-personal shopper and stylist, you can imagine how it kills me not to be able to buy him a pair of beautiful Ferragamo shoes or perfect fit designer jeans because of the metal hardware and giveaway pocket embroidery.

My father called me from Saks yesterday to run a gift for Mark’s birthday by me.

“Now Jenny, before you say anything, I have searched for an hour and found something so perfect. I would love to have this item myself and I think you could talk Mark into wearing it.”

“What is it?” I ask, already knowing from the buildup it’ll be way over the top.

“It’s an awesome black ‘Armani’ vest with stripes. It would look so great with jeans and a t-shirt.”

Now, I knew it was going to be over the top. I knew my Dad would throw out all previous knowledge of my husband and get something he wouldn’t want, but in my wildest, I would never have guessed a striped vest.

“Dad, no way in hell would he wear that.”

“Why, you don’t think you could talk him into it?”

“No.” Honestly speaking, if my conservative husband wore a vest and t-shirt to dinner I would lead the charge at making fun of him.

“Don’t you guys go out to dinner? What does he wear?”

“Yes Dad, we go out to dinner, and he wears a button down.”

“That’s so boring… how about a skinny tie, does he have any of those yet? They’re still big this fall.”

“No, I don’t think he wants a skinny tie.”

“They’re not super skinny, just a little.”

“Yes, I got it, not a bolo.”

“No, way thicker than that, but not too thick.”

“I promise, I get it, not a leather tie with piano keys a la 80s rockers, just a thinner than an average tie.”

“I can measure it — the first knuckle of my pointer is exactly one inch, I use it to guestimate.”

“I know you do, Dad.  Just get him a nice button down.  Think Ted Baker, Donna Karan, Theory, Old Navy.  You know, simple?”

“Would he wear one with an amoeba pattern, because I saw a beautiful Robert Graham.”

In the end he got lovely shirt – simple nice stripes, good colors, and no patterns that you’d find under a microscope. No sheen, no metallic thread. Totally acceptable, except for a three metal snaps on the sleeve (My Dad’s favorite part.) One snap with a gun inlay, one with a star and one simply plain.

In a department store with 10,000 variations of a basic button down shirt, he couldn’t find even one?

It was returned.

When it comes to Metrophobics buy them gift certificate so their wives can get some shoes or at least a mani/pedi.

Our Babysitter May be in a Cult, but at Least She’s Available Saturday Night

Sunday morning my son informed me of that our new babysitter is Pescatarian.

“You mean Presbyterian?”

“No Pesc,” Jake corrected

“Well, it’s actually Presbyterian,” I said trying to right his wrong.  Unlike when he was little and I found total amusement in his mispronunciation of words.  So much so, that I would repeat them back to him in the wrong way that he would say them.  Do you wanna look at your self in the “mirriour,” or type on Mommy’s “computue?”  Look, for nearly a decade I referred to grapes a “bops”

“Mom you’re wrong, she said Pesc,” he insisted

“Ok Jake, Pescatarian.”  Yep, now I just give in out of “fustration,” I mean frustration.  Sorry, old habits die hard.

“How do you know that she’s Pescatarian, did you ask?”  I questioned uncomfortable with the idea of him asking her about religion.

“No, I didn’t ask, she told me.”

“Was she asking YOU?” I questioned, now worried that she was also having him read pamphlets or asking for a donation or that Pescatarianism is some cult off shoot.  (Religion seems like a heavy discussion to have with a 9 year old unprovoked.)

“She was wearing a shirt that said Vegetarian,” he said, as if that were enough information to answer my question.

“Jake that doesn’t help me here.  How does her Vegetarian shirt relate to the story?”

“Well, I asked if she was a vegetarian and she said no, I’m a Pescatarian.

“Presb”

“Pesc”

“That doesn’t make sense Jake, Vegetarianism is not a religion.  I don’t know much about this Pescatarianism, but I don’t think they’re mutually exclusive.”

“Could a vegetarian eat a pescatarian?”

Wow that was an unexpected turn in the conversation, I bet you didn’t see that coming either… and you thought my cult theory was soooo off base.

“Umm, no. Because Pescatarians, are still meat… I would assume.”  I hate to give out incorrect information.

At this point I was slightly concerned about the origin of his question, “Did she happen to tell you she was a cannibal?”

“No,” he responded as if that was a normal thing to ask.

“Did she look at any of your babyfat while licking her lips, tying a napkin around her neck or sharpening cutlery?”

“No.”

“Well that’s good.”

I think that conversation went well.

PS- here’s a picture of our new sitter, Lilly.  She was teaching drums at a local Music school.  She seems nice enough, right?  Best of all, she’s available Saturday nights.

A good Saturday night babysitter is hard to find

 

In an unexpected turn of events a reader let me know that a Pescatarian is a vegetarian who includes fish in their diet.  Umm, Nevermind.

Conversations with Produce | How to Handle Ornery Oranges

On my way back from a recent trip to Whole Foods, I was in my car thinking about my highly inflated purchases, and wondering how much of my food’s airfare I had paid for. My grapes were imported from from Chile, my oranges from South Africa, and my avocado from Argentina.

It dawned on me that my fruit is worldlier than I am!  So, I thought we could kill some time while stuck in traffic by discussing travel, good hotels, and sightseeing.

The grapes were extremely friendly. Well, they were seedless, so what would you expect? They went on to warn me about their country. “Ay dios mio, jou don want to go to Chile. It may mean cold en Ingles, but esta muy caliente . Also, jou should remember to wash us bueno. We may be organic, but jou have no idea how much bug poop jour eating.”

“Wow that was overly informational Grapes, I’m glad we spoke.”

The oranges were not so pleasant. One cantankerous orange spoke from my biodegradable sack made of recycled hemp or some such product and  said, “You call yourself a conservationist!?”

“What do you mean?”

“You live in Florida and you just bought oranges from South Africa! How do you sleep at night?”

“So, you’re a ‘Greenie’” I should have guessed, you being organic and all. Well, I will have you know whenever I see an empty plastic bottle I throw it in my SUV and drive 3 miles out of the way to take it to a collection site. You can’t say I don’t do my share.”

“Yeah? And I bet you leave your car running while you drop it off.”

“Well, of course I do, it’s super hot in Florida. Or, as your bag mates would say, muy caliente.”

“Waster!”

“Orange”

I know, not so creative, but it’s hard to think of a good comeback to fruit.

I continued, “It appears the history of unrest in your country has caused you to become bitter. In addition, I don’t appreciate your tone, Orange. Sheesh, I was just trying to make polite conversation. That is the last time I talk to produce!”

Later that day, I got my revenge on that sour orange. First, I sliced him in half, and then I squeezed him to a pulp. Next, I peeled off his skin and ate his carcass.  I made his friends watch, and then set them free, so they could send a message to other sour citrus.  (What, it worked for Keyser Söze)

Between this post and “Camp Phone Calls Could End my Marriage,” I feel I may be ordered into anger management.

By day I’m a lifestyle expert, by night I write false facts on Wikipedia.  The blog is gaining steam, so if you like it please take a sec to share it and check out the right side for RSS, bookmark, email, and newsletter sign-ups.  Sooo appreciated, if I can grow this thing I can stop screwing up kid’s reports.

xo

-Jenny From the Blog

 

Everyone Farts: Even Moms

I live in a house of extremely competitive people.  We have family races to bed and guitar hero rock-offs complete with behind the head Hendrix style antics.  My son at 5 was using phrases like, “I’m gonna crush you” and “you just got schooled.”

The latest thing in my house is family superlatives.  You know like, “Most likely to make their bed” or “Best looking in a Barbie wig,” (thankfully my daughter won that one).  My son is doling out the titles and my little girl wants in on the good ones.  Each day she asks me to think of things she can be the best at, because Jake already has throwing, catching, guitar hero, whistling, streaking and tying his shoes.

So, I gave her “Noise Making” and “Underwear Putting On.”  Listen, this has been going on for a week or two, we’re well past “Most Spirited,” and “Best Smile” I’m running out of accolades… I’ve even managed to assign “Biggest Flirt.”

Last night at dinner, while giving themselves some big ones like “Artistic Ability,” “Most likely to be President,” and “Best Imagination,” I hear, “Hey Mommy do you know what you’re the best at?”

Finally, I’m in. “What?” I replied excitedly.  “Is it best dressed?”
“Nope.”
“Best Cook?”
Pause, small snicker… “Nope.”
“Funniest?”
No pause, big snicker as if to say ‘As if’… “Nuh-uh”
“Singing, accents…laundry?” at this point I’ll take anything.

Ryan: Farting
Anything but that.
Jake:  No Daddy wins “Best Farter.”
Ryan:  No Mommy doe s.

Am I really listening to this debate? Continue reading →

When Date Night Turns into a Seinfeld Episode

Certain names have been misspelled to avoid search engines.  I have faith you’ll know who I mean.

Ever have one of those nights that’s more like a Seinfeld Episode… Be warned: This is what can happen when facial hair goes terribly terribly wrong!

Now, I may be generalizing, but Atlanta seems to be a hotbed for outdated facial hair.  While on a recent trip to the ATL, my hubby and I found ourselves in a lovely upscale restaurant called Aria.  We were struck by our waiter’s very pronounced handlebar mustache (Please pronounce Moose-tashe for the proper feel) and pointed chin puff, basically the beard of the devil.

Not our ACTUAL waiter

Oh, the irony!

While ogling that for some time, he approached us, “Would you care  for a roll?”  “Oh, G-d did he say can I have your eternal soul?”  I asked my husband before answering.
After a few references to the “Joker’s Wild,” my husband noticed that seated at a ledge across from us was a man with a toothbrush mustache.

You may think you are unfamiliar with the toothbrush variation,   but it was seen on Charlie Chaplin, Hardy of Laurel and Hardy,

 

 

 

 

oh yeah and this guy:

I’d venture to say that the only mustache rarer and more disconcerting than the devil is what’s also known as the H1tler. In fact, I’d wager a bet that few people have rocked the H1tler since Adolph himself performed mass genocide on 14 million individuals.  Distressingly, this person not only donned the H1tler; he bore an uncanny resemblance to him, which made me that much more uncomfortable.  As a Jew in the South, no less, this guy actually sent a shiver down my spine.  Not unlike seeing a swast1ka on your neighbor’s replica WWII German war plane (which happened: see article here for that doozy).

No matter how handsome you look in a H1tler, I would think that after the war, it’s pretty much considered a fashion faux pas for anyone wanting to avoid public stoning.  I wondered if this gentleman was at our restaurant to visit his old friend, our waiter… AKA Beelzebub.

The man with the H1tler and his wife were out with another couple.  All I could think was, what if the couples hadn’t seen each other in a while or maybe he was the husband coworker?  How would one react if they found themselves at dinner with a man who looked like he’d be hired to make balloon swast1kas for a white supremist’s birthday party?

I looked at Mark as he was discretely pretending to text while taking a picture with my iPhone.  “Honey, this is an episode of Seinfeld.  In this scene George would be going on a double date with his new girlfriend’s sister and brother-in-law.”

Girlfriend:  George this is my brother-in-law Jan, Jan this is George Costanza, the guy I was telling you about.

George:  (After taking in the view and shuddering.)  Why would you be telling him about me?

Girlfriend:  Jan is into name genealogy, I thought he would want to look up Costanza I also gave him Seinfeld.

George:  Oh, so you’re into names and you found Costanza and Seinfeld interesting?

Jan:  mmm yes, interesting names, what Russian and Polish, no?

George:  Ah, you know I’m not really sure.  We never kept in touch with our ancestors… their boat sank.  Umm, Jan is also an interesting name?

Jan: Yes, it’s origin is Deutschland.

George:  Of course, If you excuse me, I’m just gonna make a trip, I gotta…

Jan:  Wait, I gotta hit the head myself.

Jan would then get up and goose step his way over to the bathroom.  George would look back at the girlfriend and return her cheerful smile with a forced one of his own and then run off.

Cut to:

Girlfriend: (to Sister) I see  Jan‘s gout is acting up again.

Sister:  Oh, He’s having a terrible flare up.  Between the gout and the arthritis he’s locked at the elbows and the knees.  You should have seen him trying to shave this evening.  I didn’t have the heart to say anything.

Girlfriend:  Poor guy.   I know how he hates the scar from his cleft pallet.

Cut to:

George:  (at the pay phone calling Jerry) Jerry, I’m at dinner with H1tler, H1TLER I TELL YA.

Jerry:  What are you talking about?

George:  Ingrid’s brother-in-law is a reincarnation of the man… he just did the deathmarch back to the table.  I’m telling you he’s looking up the origin of our names.  I think this is a set up, they’re in cahoots, they wanna exterminate me and if they get me you’re next, SEINFELD.

Jerry:  You gotta get outta their.

Of course it would go on from there, the usual… the brother-in-law would make a few off color remarks and motions alluding to his doppelganger, finally ending by heiling the waiter for the check. (Arthritis, remember?) In a side story, an orthodox Rabbi friend of Kramer’s who accused George and Jerry of being bad Jews would be seated across the restaurant taking the whole thing in to include in his next sermon.

Some couples have a romantic night at a nice restaurant.  We simply make fun of the staff and patrons.

PS By day I’m a lifestyle expert, by night I’m a do manscaping- just kidding – I do this blog.  It’s gaining steam, so if you like it please take a sec to share it and check out the right side for RSS, bookmark, email, and newsletter sign-ups.  Sooo appreciated, if I can grow this thing I can stop shaving mens’ private parts, I mean, oh forget it.  JUST SIGN UP!

xo

-Jenny From the Blog

The Day My Son’s Ladybug Ran Away | Best of Jenny From the Blog

ladybug–Dealing with a lost pet can be extremely daunting… even if it’s a ladybug.

I can still hear the faint murmurs of my son Jake’s 40-minute meltdown when his pet ladybug, “Lady,” flew away. We kidnapped this 4 year old (or 4 day old bug – whatever the spot things mean), at the top of Mount Aspen. Jake loved her, cared for her, nurtured her, taught her to ride a bike, and started a 529 plan in her name. About a quarter of the way down the mountain, Lady flew to the ceiling of our gondola and made a mad dash for freedom.

Jake jumped out of his seat and bounced towards the door. This caused the gondola to start swinging. According to the warning sign that pictured a man falling out of the gondola to his unexpected demise, wild swinging was strictly forbidden. “Jake, you can’t jump around. Do you see what happened to the unfortunate man on the sign?”

This is seriously the picture!! What???

Jake continued searching, intensely focused on the whereabouts of Lady. “Hey, do you guys hear her? I can hear her. Do you hear her?” he said desperately, like someone who could put a straight jacket to good use. Continue reading →