i Have an iLove iHate Relationship with the Apple Store. (A little Apple Store humor for frustrated customers who really kinda love that place, like me.)
Last week, I took a trip to the Apple store. Oh, the Apple store. It’s like a Dylan’s Candy Bar for adults. Like it’s namesake, in the Garden of Eden, or in the hands of Snow White’s evil stepmother, APPLE was so inviting… so enticing. There it was, in all of its overcrowded, 8 gazillion watt minimalistic splendor. Continue reading
Many women’s magazines have a “Mom” version of a “How To Have Better Sex,” most of which make me feel like I should keep an extinguisher by the bed, along with a bucket of cold water to douse on myself and my partner when we begin to spontaneously combust from sheer passion. “How to Keep Your Love Life Hot, and Your Sex Life in Flames.” “10 Ways to Reignite Your Marriage.” “How To Turn Up the Heat In the Bedroom, Without Singeing the Sheets.” (Oh, I like that last one)
Seriously, I’d like to disband the sex myths propagated by magazines, and have a little straight talk here? Be warned though, the side effect of discussing such truths could be a shockingly unsatisfying revelation that your unsatisfying sex life is just that… unsatisfying.
Let me break it to you (in case you haven’t figured it out already), sex after kids is often not so hot, or often for that matter. That said, here’s what I think about the most common tips given to moms about sex.
1. Tip From a Writer Who Clearly Has No Children: Don’t forget to “Set the Mood,” you know, candles, aromatic massage oils, and sexy lingerie.
Brutal Honesty Response: Are we still taking time to set the mood? I mean, isn’t that what got us here in the first place?
Listen, if there’s no lingering gas odor in the room and you’re in an old t-shirt without any holes, I say you’re as sexy as you need to get.
Work your dimmer switch and voila… ambiance. Better yet, utilize the TV as a source of beautiful ambient light. If you can get the volume to an audible level, you can work in sex without giving up The Voice. It’s called multi-tasking, something we moms are all too familiar with.
As for a massage, I’m lucky if I don’t get one of my kids’ leftover Doritos corners embedded in my thigh. Wait, when I ask my husband to flick it out and slide the remaining crumbs off my tush like sand paper, does that count as a massage? Well, arguably, it’s more like an exfoliation, but it’s undeniably hot.
2. Tip From a Writer Whose Kids are Not Involved in 500 Activities: Continue reading
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.”
–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
I don’t know about you, but I have a hard time with the rough-housing and horseplay that comes along with having a son. Okay, those are totally 50’s terms, yet I can’t think of a better way to say it.
Girls definitely give us moms a huge mental workout. Mine came into this world with an attitude; my closest friend swears she gave her the evil eye on day one. Those little lasses are often cranky and snippy. They can get catty, jealous and yes, they even fight over boys before they’re out of Pull-Ups.
Oh, she will get her way!
But boys are a different breed. Sometimes they can be so mushy and sensitive, like little Prince Charmings, and other times they’re more like Neanderthals. While my little girl is busily primping in her room, trying on outfit number seven, and attempting to apply eye shadow, my son is out front flying across the yard with reckless abandon, as he tackles a neighbor’s son in a “friendly” game of “touch” football.
My neighbor, who has two sons and a brother, looks on half-heartedly as she files a chipped nail. I, on the other hand, am on the edge of my seat, well, my patch of grass, ready to hurl myself onto the makeshift field at the first sign of injury. Was that a wince? Was that a double- blink? A groan? A sigh? I’m on it, like a ski patrolman on a toboggan.
How can “neighbor mom” be so calm? Does she not realize that this is bound to end when somebody gets hurt? Could an eye not be poked out here? Continue reading
As if helicopter parenting weren’t enough, now we can closely monitor what our kids eat at school. Yup, school districts across the country have signed on to use a new technology, which tracks what a child purchases in the school cafeteria. The Lunch Prepay program allows parents to view their child’s 45-day purchase history 24/7. Read More at iVillage
Every women’s magazine has its version of a “How To Have (insert saucy adjective here)” sex list, most of which make me feel like I should keep an extinguisher by the bed, along with a bucket of cold water to douse on myself and my partner when we begin to spontaneously combust from sheer passion. “How to Keep Your Love Life Hot, and Your Sex Life in Flames.” “10 Ways to Reignite Your Marriage.” “How To Turn Up the Heat In the Bedroom, Without Singeing the Sheets.” (Oh, I like that last one)
I will actually disband the relationship myths propagated by magazines, and give it to you straight. The side effect of such truth could be the shockingly unsatisfying revelation that your unsatisfying sex life is just that… unsatisfying. If you are faint of heart or an optimist, stop reading now.
When you have babies, sex is often not so hot… or often for that matter.
Tip From a Writer with No Sense of Reality: Time your trysts around nap time. Snarky Response: There is nothing women like more, when trying to have an orgasm, than the sense of pressure and urgency that having time constraints puts on the experience. Nighttime is better, IF you can work in a romp around heavy eyelids. Little babies make for long days restless nights and disinterest
Do realize that once the kids are out of the crib, the question isn’t if we get caught, but rather when? You’re just counting the days, I mean lays, until you must explain why Daddy is wrestling with Mommy… naked. “Well you see, Mommy tripped and her clothes fell off, and Daddy was trying to help her up. Oh, and he took off his clothes so she wouldn’t be embarrassed.” So, please have a better story than that.
Tip From a Writer Who Clearly Has No Children: “Set the mood.” You know candles, aromatic massage oils, and sexy lingerie. Brutal Honesty Response: If there is no lingering gas odor in the room and you’re in an old t-shirt without any holes, work your dimmer switch and voila… ambiance. Better yet, realize the TV is a beautiful source of ambient light. If you can get the volume to an audible level, you can work in sex without giving up Grays Anatomy. It’s called multi-tasking, something we moms are all too familiar with.
As for a massage, I’m lucky if I don’t get one of my kids’ left over Dorito corners embedded in my thigh. The sexy part is when I ask my husband to flick it out and slide the remaining crumbs off my tush like sand paper. Does that count as a massage? Well, arguably, it’s more like an exfoliation, but it’s undeniably hot.
Tip From a Writer Whose Kids are Not Involved in 500 Activities: A date night once a week. Reality Check Response: I like this one, because in theory it is legitimately a good idea. It’s definitely worth trying every week, but unfortunately, it assumes that there will be a night each week when no one is sick or has an event, that there is a babysitter available, and neither of you are too tired or worn out to go to dinner –A meal in which most your conversation will revolve around the kids.
Tip From a Writer With More Than 24hrs in Her Day: (My personal fave.) Don’t forget the foreplay. Multitasking Mom Response: Really? As it is, I have to have sex while catching up on my Tivo, reading US Weekly, having a healthy protein snack, and repeating the words, “lettuce, milk, eggs” over and over until I can get to a pen. Now I have to add something else to my repertoire? We forgot foreplay a long time ago. Well, my husband didn’t, he calls it brushing his teeth… which I am thankful for.
Tip that Makes me Say, “Are You Out of Your Cotton Pickin’ Mind?” –That’s right I said cotton pickin’ and I meant it! Start Your Day With a Bang So, you’ve had a long day and the odds that you’re going to be up for a raucous romp, or even a guilt induced one, are slim. Set your alarm an hour earlier and have an uninterrupted top-o-the-morning. Bitchy Unsensored Response: First of all, what ambitious magazine writers think an hour is necessary? Six minutes would do the trick and still, I’m not down with that idea. Do you know what I like to do before I wake up in the morning? SLEEP!
Do yourself a favor, throw out those, “spice it up” manuals and top 10 lists. Don’t be too concerned about the quantity of the sex you’re having. You have to figure out what works for you. I recall a friend asking, “Do you ever wake up to your husband having sex with you?” I remember thinking, “No, in my house, we call that rape.” Now I’m thinking, “Hey, whatever works.” If you can have a roll in the hay while hitting the hay, consider yourself a professional multi-tasker.
Question of the Day: What’s the best “Spice up Your Sex Life” tactic you’ve learned since you had children? Please Comment and leave your twitter handle (I’ll be sure to follow:))
So, the holidays are upon us. Christmas has just passed and visitors are abundant, but their welcome is wearing thin. I know, we all look forward to this time of year, but often in the midst of it, we realize the heavy meals have expanded our waist lines and our relatives have stretched our patience.
In-laws can be the toughest during the holiday season. I’m not talking about mine; they’re amazingly wonderful and never bothersome, NEVER. Mine aren’t even in this season, but I have heard tales of other in-laws who cause stress and frustration. The way they handle a turkey, as if it is not a breeding ground for salmonella, or the way they screw with the table settings that you took a painful amount of time arranging to look haphazard and shabby chic. I know, my “friends” sound like a joy to be around over the holidays, right? I am simply relaying their stories, I am in no way referring to specific incidences that may have happened in the past, which have caused me anxiety or to count to 10 by the medicine cabinet, while searching for Zanex .
Let’s face it, it’s harder to have tolerance for those who didn’t raise us: friends and non-immediate family included. We have a certain forgivability factor for our blood relatives; they can get away with more and feel the wrath less. We also tend to offend them less as they too have a forgivablity factor, towards us. Thank goodness.
So, while you count the hours till your guests get on their merry way, I suggest heavy drinking. Use the holiday traditions to mask your quick bout with alcoholism: Manischewitz on Chanukah, egg nog on X-mas, and champagne on New Year’s.
Remind yourself that you’re probably getting on their nerves as well. This is also not a problem I have, as I am always filled with an almost addictive amount of holiday cheer, but logic says: If they’re annoying you, you’re most likely annoying them. (Or did I read that on a fortune cookie?) Well logic or Confucius says that.
Grandparents, especially in-laws, really aren’t there for you in the first place. They’re there for your children. You’re just an obstacle. You and “Your Way” are hurdles to be tip-toed around, not jumped over. They don’t agree with your techniques, your rules, and your methods of punishment — or lack thereof. Though this is a point of un-verbalized contention between you and them, look at the positive. They would love for you to get out of the house, so that they can do and say what they please without feeling like you’re critiquing and judging their every movement – which, by the way, you are.
Don’t over think this one! Go out and let them babysit!!! And while you’re out, drink heavily.
Disclaimer: No in-laws, parents, or guests were harmed in the writing of this article!
I have added a Tip o’ the Mornin’ to my regular repertoire of hilariously funny, thought provoking and possibly award winning articles.
RealSelf.com
Well in answer to the question, Do I need microdermabrasion? Yes. yes you do. I don’t know exactly who you are but your skin is probably dull and the elasticity is probably slack. Okay, I may be projecting, but along with suffering from dull slack skin, I selfishly envy fresh faced youth. It always makes me feel good to drive by a highschool, hang my head out the window and scream at the cheerleaders. Things like. “Your pores may be small, but your such a slut and everyone knows it.” or “So what if you don’t have any wrinkles now, one day your kids will stretch your nether regions beyond recognition and your HS sweetheart will be a cheater working a dead end job, and your face will show it all. I know what your thinking, Can I come?
If you think there’s a better way, then maybe you should try microdermabrasion. First it sandblasts your skin with an abrasive material or ultrasound, then it vacuums your pores clean like a shag rug in the bathroom and last it stimulates new collagen production. I have been trying to coax my collagen into regenerate for months now, so if this works, I can stop begging! It costs $100-$200 a blast and should be done by a licensed professional –it can cause damage in the wrong hands.
Will it minimize wrinkles? Probably not, but it can help with fine lines, sun worshipers with skin damage and those who went through that awkward teen acne. Who am I kidding, I still break out at “that time of the month.” That’s when I go to an old age home, hang my head out the window and scream, “I may have a zit or two, but at least I still get my period.”
If you have an experience with microdermabrasion, please share.
OMG, I have to tell you guys something. I often turn to my iCarly diary with my darkest secrets, but this one is just too juicy. Here goes… I slept with Tiger Woods. You guys are probably freaking out, as Tiger’s reputation has been sooo perfect up until now. Let me be the first to tell you, he’s not the squeaky clean Jonas Brother, he pretends to be.
Our affair was rather recent. I must confess, he was passed out when I met him. Sadly, that’s not the first time I started an affair with an unconscious man. The other time was when this guy was hit by a subway car and I went to visit him in the hospital. His family showed up and took me for his fiancé. I went along with it because I was lonely and it was the holidays. Eventually, he woke up and I married his brother. Oh wait, that wasn’t me. DUH.
Anywho, with Tiger it was different. He was admitted to the hospital (where I am a candy striper) after a rather harsh battle with a fire hydrant. –See, it’s different already. It appears he and his wife play late night golf and he took his car to search for a stray ball, when the confrontation occurred. I can only imagine how far one of Tiger’s balls can fly (well, I don’t have to imagine anymore). –That was a sex joke, in case you didn’t catch on, LOL.
As it turns out, it was lucky that his wife was caddying for him, as she was able to use his iron to pull him from the wreck and beat off the fire hydrant. I didn’t even know fire hydrants could come to life, but I saw this movie about a car named Christine and she came to life. So, I guess anything’s possible.
Tiger even promised me a signed Fat Head of his best friend MJ. I can’t believe he can get in touch with Michael Jackson, but after the stint with the fire hydrant, I can see Tiger’s special. Other people can see it too. He also had sex with my friend Luanne who mops the floors. And then Gertie, who resides in the nursing home area. Oh, and Becky who was in the pediatric unit to have her tonsils out. I ran into him wandering around the Nursery. He says looking at the babies calms him. I get it, they’re so sweet and innocent.
I confronted him about all those other girls, but he said, “don’t worry honey, you’re my hole in one.” He said if we do it enough I can be his “double bogey.” I don’t know anything about the golf but the nicknames sure are cute. Oh yeah, he made me swear I’d never tell… Shit.
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Okay, if you wanted more of me, you finally get it. I am doing a daily post for Nick’s ParentConnect.com on how to find time to do stuff for YOU. Yes, I am their Celebrity host for the month of November. Either they are seriously hard-up or I am getting “awesomer.” What a fitting turn around from my last post… Humiliation on the Roller Rink, Circa 1984! I read on Page 6 that Patrick Star was slotted to host this November, but was forced to decline after an unforeseen jellyfishing incident. Also, he is illiterate, though reading was not a prerequisite for the job. I will be toiling away at my keyboard all month, so you can get stuff done. If you have had just about enough of me at one post per week, I must warn you, you will be getting an annoying update every morning that links you to that day’s Me Time problem and solution. I hope you stick around, read some… and even comment or join the site!
Yours,
Jenny From the Blog
I don’t have time for my Hubby:
Remember when you first met your honey? That look of love in your eyes? The way you could just go to a restaurant or a movie without having to call anyone but the reservation line? Do you remember when you could “get it on” in places other than your bedroom… with the lights off… while trying to catch an episode of The Amazing Race… and praying no one wakes up hungry, wet, or scared? It seems like forever ago, right? The idea of a date seems arcane, and the thought of uninhibited sex is nostalgic. Well, you’re together now, so you need to make time to enjoy yourselves.
How to find time for your mate: MORE
I don’t have time to work out:
There used to be a time before kids and before my 30’s when I ate chicken wings, nachos and burgers freely. Now I can trace the outline of a single Cheeto in my belly. Even worse, my thighs seem to be having a love affair with one another, which makes walking in corduroys a very noisy endeavor. If you want the bod you had pre-babies, you have to work at it. So, I will help you find ways to work working out back into your schedule.
How to find time to work out: MORE
I don’t have time for a hobby:
Since I loooove writing, this is one challenge I have a lot of experience with. I can tell you that it’s not easy to find the time. Our hobbies, crafts, and other creative endeavors get left behind by feedings, diaper changes and helping with homework. But whether you like to write, draw, knit, crochet, paint, sculpt, take pictures, play an instrument, scrapbook or make crafts, you don’t have to let go of the things you enjoy. Here are some creative ideas to find time for your artistic side.
How to find time for a hobby: MORE
You know when you’re feeling a little big for your britches? (Using that phrase alone should nullify anything I’m about to say.) Then you get a flashback, a glimpse of some past experience that is earth shatteringly embarrassing and the universe puts you right back in your place?
Well, here I am trying to parlay this “CBS Expert Mom” thing into a piece for a national magazine. I am at my laptop touting myself as an “expert,” and trying to seem way more important than I am. Just as I am rambling on about my amazing qualifications to a senior editor, whom I shouldn’t be writing directly in the first place, Eddy Grant’s “Electric Avenue” comes on the radio. I am immediately transported to Cockeysville Skateland circa 1984. Its Girl’s Skate, the disco lights take over the floor.
Now, if you are unfamiliar with roller skate culture, “Girl’s Skate” is the precursor to “Couple’s Skate.” During “Girl’s Skate,” your job, as a girl is to look as cool as possible. You have to rock your shirt with the iron-on decal, those jeans with a comb sticking out of the back pocket, and those leg warmers you shoved up over them to add a “Flashdance” effect. The boys watch from around the rink and if they likes what they sees, they put out a hand for you to slap. The hand out also implies that they would like to Couples Skate with you. If you think they’re cute, you slap their out-stretched hand. Yes, it is an exercise in self esteem. Years of this did quite a number on my psyche.
On one particular day, I had my eye on a very cute older boy; he may have even been a preteen! I spotted him from across the crowded rink, as my dad laced up his skates trying to catch up to my speedy entrance. Oh, I didn’t mention that my dad skated with me every week? How could I forget that detail, this story is about how cool I am right?
Here I am doing my best tricks: The speed up and glide, the crouch down and stick one leg forward, the professional leg cross weave around the corners. I look around at the outstretched arms, More than a feelin, should be my background music. As a sensitive kid, I am an equal opportunity slapper. So, I slap the hand of anyone that puts it out there, unless they’re really dorky and everyone else is avoiding them, obviously! Those poor kids go home and make “kill lists,” or comfort themselves with their Star Wars figurines.
Then I spotted him, that cute preteen, he looked bad. I mean good bad. He probably drove here on his motorized dirt bike with his skates hanging from the handle bars and a switchblade hiding in his pocket. He was definitely from the other side of the tracks. You know, like Matt Dillon was in Little Darlings. I noticed that he wasn’t really offering his hand to too many girls and in a defensive action started to skate towards the middle. As I got closer, he did it. He eyed me and then threw out his hand. Holy crap, that’s for me and now I’m so far on the inside I’ll never make it, and then we won’t get to couples skate. I won’t be able to hold his hand, which I’m sure will be cool and big, not small and sweaty, like the other boys I always couples skate with. He may even be good enough to do the envied backwards hands on hips skate! My life is officially over…Move Jenny, move. I weaved through a few slow girls and reached as far as I could to touch even a fingertip. Then in a crushing blow he pulled his hand back and pretending to slick his hair… Shit, he gave me the “psyyyyych.”
To add insult to injury, or in this case injury to insult, my arm had overstretched to meet his teasing gesture. I felt myself going down think slo-mo in some cheesy 80’s film. Ohhhh Nnnoooo, I grabbed at the wall to pull myself in and slammed straight into it, then ricocheted off, and slapped to the ground. I am SO COOL! I got up quickly and ran to the bathroom to cry in a stall, while reading about who is ez, and who loves whom 4-ever. “Couple’s Skate” started without me, as if the most horrifying incident had not just occurred on that concrete slab of rejection. I remember the song perfectly, it was Air Supply’s, “All Out of Love” or maybe Journey’s “Open Arms,” or some ballad by Foreigner or Styx. I also remember the pain, oh the pain and the uncoolness. Apparently, you can’t get too cocky in Cockeysville, cause someone will put you right back in your insecure, struggling, awkward place… where you belong. Unfortunately, I’ve been put in my place too many times than I care to remember. Even as an adult, a simple song can bring back an experience that sends you to rock in a corner.
Dear Senior Editor- I am a lowly writer, eh forget get it.
