Tag Archives: columnist

40 Signs You’re a PARENT …

40 signs that you are a motherAfter writing about how you know if you’re the mom of a boy or the mom of a girl, I realized there are so many indicators that define us moms and literally set us apart from every other life force on Earth. So, here you have it: Signs You’re a Mom or as I like to say, You Know You’re a Moms IF…

1.  You haven’t heard your actual name the entire day, but you’ve been beckoned relentlessly.

2.  You’ve ever sang Old MacDonald with the same enthusiasm you once sang I Will Survive.

3.  Lying is always an option, as in … “I’m sorry, the arcade is closed on Sunday.” “I love the outfit you put together yourself.” “You’re right, you do sound just like Beyonce when you sing.” and “No, they don’t give ketchup at the drive-thru.”

4.  You have some sort of stain on your clothing that you would literally have to taste to place.  What is that latte or spit up? Hmm… Gimme a sec…  Oh, it’s spit up.

5.  You’ve recently consumed a partial plate of sliders, french fries, chicken nuggets, or mini hot dogs and you weren’t attending Mayor McCheese’s wedding. Continue reading →

There is No Good Reason to Properly Guess Someone’s Age, Size or Pregnancy Status – EVER!

When a woman, who was not carny folk, guessed my age on the nose, I realized there is NEVER any reason to hit that nail on the head… NEVER.

the_jerk_1979_weight_guessing2

Last week, I was getting a lovely facial, as any facial should be. Wait, did I say
lovely, because I meant frightening, and horrifyingly stressful.

There, that’s better.

Sure, the goal of any facial is anti-aging, but this woman looked me right in the pores with one of those magnifying thingamabobs and said, “Let me guess, you’re about 41?”

“Fuck you! You, evil black-head sucking bitch!” I yelled at the top of my lungs as I smushed the Vitamin C Ester Detoxifying Anti-Aging mask, she was applying, into her eyes.

OK fine, I didn’t do that, but I thought about it, I thought about it hard. I believe I said something more cowardly like, “No, I’m actually 40 and a half.” Then I squeezed the tears from running down my face (as she’d have no trouble spotting them with her all seeing glass).

“Yes, I could tell,” she went on smugly, as if I had asked how she knew, “because some of your pores are rather enlarged and I don’t see naso-labial folds this deep in people under 40.”

“Really, because I’ve had those marionette lines since I was a child.” I said defensively in an ‘I’ll Show You,’ kinda way. Though, it probably made me sound like I used to be some creepy Howdy Doody looking kid, instead. Continue reading →

No One is Immune to Peek-a-Boo | Jenny From the Blog

Jenny From the Blog goes beyond any beauty pageant hopeful in the question/answer portion and not only strives for World Peace she finds a means to achieve it.  Please, hold your Pulitzers until you’ve read the piece.

Today, I was in a crappy mood.  I walked into Starbucks, as is my routine, with a sluggish gait knowing it would take my half-caf grande, no fat, no foam latte to remotely tackle my morning.  When I entered I realized 22 other people had the same thought and my crappy mood got exponentially worse.  An acquaintance two people ahead of me foolishly tried to make chit chat, which I quickly put a stop to with my terse responses.  Don’t try to talk to me right now lady, I’m pissy and I haven’t had my coffee.

 

Frankly, there should be a rule that no one talk to you in the morning coffee line, because we’re all in the same boat (barely awake and coffee-less.)  Unfortunately, the person in front of me did not get that memo or maybe she did, but she couldn’t read it because she was approximately 1 year old.

She was also being carried by her mother and therefore facing me directly.  The one thing about lines that you can usually count on is that people face front in anticipation of their turn, which means less talk.  Kind of like the way people stare at the doors of the elevator until it’s their floor.

It would be odd to have someone facing you in an elevator… and this was my current situation.

 

 

 

Sure, she was cute.  She had fiery red curls and sweet blue eyes.  But she wouldn’t break me, uh uh.  I was not smiling for anyone and some baby was not about to change that, even if she flashed me her own 4 tiny, little toothed smile.  Then out of nowhere she started laughing this adorable little giggle.  Clearly, she sensed my disdain and was taunting me.

Puhlease Baby, you think you’re soooo cute don’t you?  But not to me, uh uh.  I’m in a bad mood and your precious, I mean dumb little laugh does nothing for me… NOTHING. But this baby was not giving up; she was relentless in her torture.  She cooed and ooed and ahhed, but I would not crack.  It was my will against hers and I would win.  Finally, in defeat she buried her head in her mom’s shoulder.

Ha, Ha Baby, I’m the winner, yes I am… Wait, what’s that?  What’s she doing now? She popped her head back up and put her hands over her eyes, she wasn’t cowering as I had hoped; she was playing peek-a-boo. Nooooo, not peek-a-boo.

She opened her hands to show me her eyes and I clenched my fist ready to weather the storm.  “Peek-a-boo,” escaped from my mouth before I could reel the words back in.  She giggled and next thing you know I had my hands over my own eyes.  Then she giggled, then I giggled, then I smiled like a big pile of mush.  She was working me like a marionette.  Oh, she was smug one… cooeing and flashing her 4 tiny teeth.

My mood had picked up, even before gulping down my latte.  I wasn’t all daggers and evil thoughts, I was rainbows and unicorns.  Don’t judge me for crumbling.
No one and I mean NO ONE is immune to peek-a-boo.

In fact, I think we deal with the unrest in Libya and Egypt by sending cute little babies to the front lines.  What would enemy militia do if a Hummer pulled up and a bunch of babies trained in the art of peek-a-boo waddled out?  Hmmm?  Sure, you’ve probably been asked that before, but have ever given it any real thought?  What if we air dropped babies over enemy lines with their tiny little baby parachutes?  The campaign would be called “Drop Babies, Not Bombs.” Brillaint, right?  Sheesh, why do I have to come up with all the ideas? Gaddafi and Mubarak you better watch your step, chubby legged cooing babies with parachutes will be dropping in when you least expect it.

Okay, I’ll take my Pulitzer now.

For Other Articles I’ve Done on Hybrid Mom or to comment directly at their site: HYBRID MOM

COMMENT QUESTION:  Do You Got Any Better Ideas? and if not could I borrow your baby?

A Confession of A Mother’s Addiction

I have many addictions, most of which are harmless and routine. My penchant for pot…child’s play. An affinity for gambling and my small cocaine habit…blips on the radar. Compulsively stealing Percacet, Oxyconton and other prescription drugs from people’s medicine cabinets…a mere misdemeanor. But G-d do I love me some sleep. You know the stuff. That in the bed, eyes closed, not awake kind of sleep. I am currently not sleeping to write this and I am just jonesing for some shut eye. Ahhh…sweet, sweet slumber.

I’ve been addicted to sleep for as long as I can remember. Even as a small child, my Mom tells fantastic tales of my having to sleep multiple times each day. Sometimes I sleep for long stretches; I go to bed at one time and wake up at a totally different time. I know this as it is dark when I start to sleep, and light when I wake up. I also I have a clock.

I am so dependent on sleep that if I skip a single day, one day, I start to go through severe withdrawal. My head aches, my eyes twitch and dark circles form puddles under them. My speech is slurred and nonsensical, and my decision- making becomes impaired. I have this overall look of exhaustion that is a tell-tale sign of my addiction. Like any hard-core addict, I make excuses. “I fell.” “My husband is beating me.” “I’ve been shooting up.”

I get so high on sleep, that I completely lose my appetite. Some nights I can go ten hours without eating. In fact, I rarely eat when I’m sleeping. There are other side effects, like crazy hallucinations. I’ll be having sex with Ben Affleck and a shark will eat him and then I’ll scream and freefall off some huge ledge and end up on Oprah’s talk show couch, except Oprah is a white male midget with 8 tentacles, each of which is attempting to feel me up, which is odd because he’s gay.

You would think that would scare me straight, but it’s doesn’t. I’ve tried over and over to kick the habit. In college, I used tons of caffeine and ephedrine in hopes of weaning myself off sleep. But I ended up partying all night, only to relapse all day and miss extremely practical classes, like bio 403 -The history of infectious diseases.

After having babies, I used breast feeding as a form of “rehab,” but I fell off the wagon and did something too horrible to discuss. That’s right, I got my own kids hooked on the stuff, like little crack babies. I forced them to try it, and they were so smitten with the sandman, they indulged two, maybe three times a day. Ashamed as I am to admit it, I even joined them from time to time.

Look, I am not proud of what I’ve done. For years I’ve tried to hide it. Only a select few guessed… my carpool, they knew. I knew they knew, but I still relied on explanations. “You say I look so fresh faced and well rested? Well…that must be my Nars bronzer, Orgasm.” “Oh, that dewy glow, that’s cause I just had an actual orgasm.”

Now I am telling the world, because the first step is admitting you have a problem. “Hi, my name is Jenny, and I’m addicted to sleep. I apologize if my habit has harmed or affected those around me and I vow to get help… in the morning.

Woman sleeping comfortably photo