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I’m Old Uncool and I’ll Never Get Over Macho Grande

airplane_shirley I was at a hip trendy salon the other day to get my hair blown out before my Thirtyfive-ish birthday dinner. While talking with the owner and the receptionist, I sarcastically mentioned that I had a plethora of something or other, and the owner Chris said, “Plethora is such a funny word; it always reminds me of…”

Cue me interrupting, as I knew where he was going; “’Three Amigos?’” I interjected, and before he could answer, I continued in my best dirty Mexican accent, “Would you say we have a plethora of piñatas?” “Oh, jes jes, El Guapo, we have a plethora of piñatas.”

Cue crickets.

You, the reader, may in fact have no clue of what I speak, though if you do… you’ll enjoy where this goes. You see, in the good ol’ days this was how “Generation X” conversed with, and sized one another up. Like many a Gen X’er, quoting movies was my language and my way of knowing whether you were worth my time. What once had the “Something about Mary” effect for me, now made me feel more like Magda. You know, Mary’s old, haggard neighbor. Ugh, the thought of being either of those adjectives gives me agita. Great, now I’m using terms like agita. My prophecy is self fulfilling!

Chris: “I’ve never seen ‘The Three Amigos.’ I was thinking it sounded British, like Monty Python and what’s that movie called? Oh right, ‘The Holy Grail.’”

Wait, is this an opening? Can I regain my cool here? Sure I can. This time in my best Cockney falsetto (cause that’s always cool) “Doctor, is it a boy or a girl?” and in a proper British accent I answered myself, “I think it’s a bit early to start imposing roles on it, don’t you?”

Cue the look of utter bewilderment on the face’s of both Chris and the cute little receptionist who should be in school.

Me: “You know, ‘The Meaning of Life?’”

Chris: “No sorry, I’ve only seen the ‘Holy Grail.’ Isn’t that what most people quote anyway?”

Me: “Yeah, probably but that’s so cliché. Quoting the ‘Grail’ is like playing ‘Stairway to Heaven’ on the guitar.”

Chris: “Right?” He said in an attempt to end this awkward conversation with the senile old lady.

But I wasn’t having it. Nooo, I was determined to relate to him or make an ass of myself trying. “The key is for the quotes to be a little obscure. I mean, how else would you know you’re talking to someone on your level of humor and wit?” I explained.

And then it dawned on me: Holy crap, I’m not only old; I’m the biggest geek EVER!

Before my brain was able to fully process this fact, I continued, queerly trying to relate to someone 15 years my junior. Well, I know he likes ‘Linkin Park’ and metal bands, so maybe ‘Spinal Tap,’ the best rock mockumentary ever, could redeem me… it redeemed Lenny, you know, of Lenny and Squiggy?

Me: “You probably love ‘Spinal Tap,’”

Chris: “I don’t listen to them, but I really like Metallica” he replied, trying to relate by mentioning a group from my era.

What? You think ‘Spinal Tap’ is a band? In some kind of Tourette’s reaction, I began uncontrollably spitting out lines thinking something would surely ring a bell. It had the same effect as someone talking louder to a person who doesn’t speak English. “These go to 11.” “It’s like, how much more black could this be? And the answer is none. None more black.” “You can’t dust for vomit.” NOTHING? “Come on…Caddy Shack, Fletch, Airplane, Hot Shots? Anyone, anything…Bueller?”

Chris: (Realizing this conversation would not end until we found common ground) “I liked ‘The Naked Gun.’”

YES, ha ha ha I’ve won! I’ve broken through.

Me: “Nice beaver.” “Thanks I just had it stuffed.” Oh, g-d I can’t stop.

Chris: “Yeah, don’t know that particular line. I have ‘The Naked Gun 33 and a Third.’”

Seeing the defeat on my face, the receptionist awkwardly popped in for the first time, “I think I saw ‘Airplane’ once.”

Me: “Surely you can’t be serious???” That was just to make myself chuckle. I wasn’t expecting the banterish response any Gen X’er, like me would give.

Receptionist: “No really, but but, I uh, don’t remember if it was 1 or 2,” she answered, letting the perfect opportunity to play along pass her by.

I also noticed that she actually stuttered her words. Oh crap, I’m scaring her.

Me: “Nervous?” “First time?” “No, I’ve been nervous lots of times,” I blurted out.

I regained my composure long enough to continue, “Wellllll, was it 1 or 2, they’re totally different? The original is like, a classic!”

Then I lost my composure and went on without breath “It’s like a big Tylenol with wings.” “I can make a hat… a broach… a pterodactyl.” “I take my coffee black, like my men.” “Oh stewardess, I speak Jive” “That’s funny, he never asks for a second cup at home.” “A hospital – what is it?” “It’s a big building with patients, but that’s not important right now!” “Have you ever been in a Turkish prison?” “Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit sniffing glue.” As I was escorted from the salon/spa, whose atmosphere I had completely un-zenned, I did my best Ethel Merman until I passed out!

Yep, I’m an old geek who’s got no game… and I’ll never get over Macho Grande.

Spill, did you ever quote movies to seem cooler? I won’t tell. In fact, I may call you up. Oh, and if so what’s your favorite quote of all time?

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Innocent Or Not, I’m Guilty

I went out shopping with my mom the other day and I felt guilty, not because I was breaking my necessary self-imposed shopping ban, but because I had left my kids. I had left them not with a babysitter, but with my husband. They were not doing child labor; they were simply going to a movie.
I couldn’t pinpoint the cause of the feeling I was having. Maybe it was guilt brought on by the fear of sending them off alone with their dad. Would something happen without my guidance? Continue reading →

Laughter is Truly the Best Medicine

(Next to antibiotics)

Okay, let’s put it out there. This blog is for the most part fluff. Sure, it’s funny, sometimes insightful, ironic, relatable fluff, but fluff nonetheless. Today, I had a conversation with a person 100’s of miles away, who reminded me that fluff has its purpose. Continue reading →

Have you Heard of this Childhood Epidemic: IDWS

Please take a moment to read and forward this warning about an epidemic affecting 7-18 year olds across the country.

They call it IDWS (I Dun Wannagoda Skool). My son has a chronic case of it and it appears to be going around. Apparently, it affects the tummy leg and in rare cases, the elbow.

My son ~~hates~~ dislikes elementary school, as did his mother before him and her father before her. It may be genetic. Plus, I was the kid who complained of tummy aches on a daily basis and spent more time in the nurse’s office than in reading group, which makes it hard not to overtly empathize with him. My vain attempts to make the 1st, 2nd, 3rd and 4th grade, which he’s currently in, sound fun are thin veils over my bitter repressed memories.

Let’s be honest, unless you’re one of those nerdy kids who likes to stay quiet and screams “yippee” when the teacher give extra homework, elementary school does kinda suck. Preschool was fun; you played and then you played, and then you ate (while playing with your food) and then you napped, and then you played some more. Then you went on a play-date, and then you went to sleep and started again on Tuesday.

In elementary school you have to be quiet and sit still. You must control your shaking leg, your yapping mouth, your tapping finger, your automatic pencil clicking, and your wandering mind. And that’s all before you’ve done a lick of work. It’s a tough gig.

Many mornings my boy is overcome with “IDWS.” His tummy hurts, his head hurts, his heart hurts. Being a neurotic hypochondriac, I’m usually somewhere between, “give me a break,” and “call 911!”
Well, this morning he had it bad. I knew last night I was going to give him a break, but to watch him work for it was half the fun.

“Ouch, my tummy! My leg. Oww, cry cry, my leg, oh my leg.” fall to ground grab leg and writhe in pain. “I can’t walk.”

“Sweetie, what’s the matter?”

“My leg hurts and also my elbow.. oww my elbow. My elbow.”

Ah, the ever popular elbow pain, always adds a layer of truism. Who is teaching him this, his father? Definitely not me, a few lessons from a seasoned pro like myself and he would never pull this elbow pain crap.

“This tummy-leg-elbow thing sounds bad! What hurts the most?”

“My elbow. No, now it’s my leg… and tummy. Oh, they all hurt.” He whined, as he pulled the thermometer from his mouth for the 10th time.

“Still no temperature?”

“Oh, there’s temperature Mom. It said 95 that’s high. That’s like boiling. Whoa, this time it said 98, Oh G-d, I’m getting worse. Ow… my elbow.”

“Well, that is a temperature.”

I can’t wait to put in his absence excuse. Please excuse Jake, he had a 98 degree temperature, which as you know is almost boiling. Oh, and he had distinct, chronic elbow pain.

“It really hurts, I think need to lie down.” He said with the back of his hand to his forehead in a pretty good Scarlet O’Hara imitation.

“I know it hurts, but it’s probably growing pains. You’re getting taller and apparently you’re going to have one huge monster elbow.”

“That’s not funny, I’m sick. My heart hurts… and my throat.”

I know, it was probably insensitive of me to joke at a time like that.

Soon, he’ll discover the old thermometer under hot water trick and when the display reads 107, I’ll gush at how high his fever is, like my parents, before me did. Well, before they inevitably snickered amongst themselves.

Look, in my house you get points for creativity. Once, I got away with wrapping a strawberry fruit rollup around my finger and chewing it off leaving a yucky red rash looking residue, which either fooled the nurse or I impressed her with my resourcefulness. I know this because I got picked up that day after putting an ice pack on it.

Or was it a hot water bottle? Back then they treated everything with one or the other. Headache… icepack. Tummy ache… hot water bottle. Stubbed toe… icepack followed by a hot water bottle. My son rarely sees the hot water bottle, but we do use a lot of icepacks. Yep, that elbow-itis isn’t going to cure itself.

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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My Most “Crush”ing and Embarrassing Moment | Jenny From the Blog

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

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

This was old school stalking I’m referring to: no technology, no cell phone, or FB, or twitter, or my space. I’m talking about the kind of stalking that took time and effort and premeditation, something to tell your grandchildren about.

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

Excuse Me Miss Your N}pple is Showing

Wow, if I had a nickel for every time I said that… I’d have a nickel. Like, Katherine Heigl, Tara Reed, and Janet Jackson before her, this woman’s wardrobe malfunction was someone else’s eye candy. Well, in this case I wouldn’t call it eye candy, though I must admit, I stared at her nipple for quite some time. In a train wreck kinda way, while I debated my moral obligation as a fellow female. At first, I thought I should say nothing. She clearly spent serious man hours getting those boobs to bust out of her bra and reveal the tattoo of a phoenix emblazoned across them. But, as I stared at the protruding circumference, I couldn’t help but think, “I hope someone would have the decency to point out my nipple peeking from my bra. Sure, it would be more embarrassing to hear it than to say it. And she would probably dislike me for pointing it out (no one likes the messenger,) but like the girls who go on the Bachelor always say, “I wasn’t there to make friends.” – which is totally true, I rarely seek new companions in line at the register.

After about 10 minutes of internal turmoil, I took a deep breath and whispered the words I hope not to utter often in my life. “Excuse me ma’am, your nipple is showing” Continue reading →

Why is it so Hard to Cancel a Gym Membership

Why is it so hard to cancel a gym membership when it’s so easy not to use it?

In light of the recent findings that say women must workout 1 hour per day, I’ve decided to revamp my workout schedule. First on the list… Leave the Athletic Club, which I have not used in a year…then use the money I’m saving to buy bigger clothes.

Continue reading →

License to Procreate – A Little Mom Humor From the Suburban Jungle

Should Parents Need a License to Procreate? - Mom Humor

You need special credentials to drive a car, take out a book and get a credit card, but there are no prerequisites to raise a child?

As a fairly normal adult with the means to raise a child, I admittedly had no clue what I was doing with my first child. I remember leaving the hospital thinking, He’s mine? I own him? You guys trust me to walk out that door and raise a child because I made the obligatory poop and demonstrated my ability to put him in a car seat?

Isn’t it baffling that everyday people like us are allowed to procreate without first passing a test or getting some kind of license? Think about it. You need a library card to take out a five-dollar paperback, because you can’t be trusted to return it in a period long enough to read it four times over. You’re also required to pass a test to drive a car, sell a house or be a lifeguard. You can take a class to learn how to give birth, but once that baby’s out, you’re on your own.

There wasn’t even a test at my OB’s pre-pregnancy interview. All he asked was, “Do you have insurance and are you taking folic acid?”

“Of course, I’d never think about bringing life to this Earth without the recommended 3 gagillion mgs of folic acid per day… I’m also shooting heroin, but you didn’t ask me that.”

What if I don’t feed him, bathe him or water him? I could let him swim after lunch without waiting the mandatory 30 minutes, or dress him in generic clothes from the supermarket. I could drop him off on the first day of middle school, roll down the window and scream, “Mama loves her Snuggle Buggle!”

At the very least, there should be some kind of “Mommy Aptitude” screening. During your interview, they could call your mom. Mine would say,

“Jenny always dreamed of being a mother and loved playing house. Her dolls were mostly naked, and she liked to cut their hair down to the hair transplant plug scalps. Sometimes she would detach their limbs and try to put them back in the wrong sockets, possibly to amuse herself, though I found it rather disturbing. Have I said too much? No, really, she would be wonderful. They would be so clean; I recall how much she liked bathing her naked Barbies.”

Doctor’s response: “Put in a 10-year IUD, give her supervised visitation with a hermit crab, and make sure someone counts the legs.”

Not only do gynecologists promote the concept of “Motherhood” to anyone donning a wedding ring with reckless abandon, they encourage us to have more. Otherwise known as repeat business. The second my daughter arrived, my OB said, “So, when am I gonna see you back in the saddle?”

Great, a stirrup joke. “Take it easy Doc, the placenta’s not even cold yet.”

Well, a month and a half later, I ran into my OB again. Actually, I had an appointment, so it wasn’t as random as I’m making it sound. He said, “At six weeks you are extremely fertile, so now is the time for another romp in the stable.” I immediately went home to tell my husband the doctor said, “Now is the time I am extremely unstable, so no romps for at least six more weeks.”

How about a probationary period to see if you’re any good at this parenting thing? When you get a new job, they evaluate you every six months. They certainly don’t give you more responsibility until you’ve proven you can handle your current load, unless you work at McDonald’s.

How does my OB know how I’m gonna solve disputes? When my children are fighting over the last lollipop, who says I won’t shove them all in the closet, lock the door and say, “Last one standing gets it”?

Well, lucky for me, I’ve turned out to be an excellent mother (ask my children), regardless of not being licensed and accredited.

(Please note: this is meant to be a mom humor piece… Though I wouldn’t be opposed to some “What Do We Do Now That We Had The Baby?” classes)

9/16/13 – I just put the share buttons on this post! If you like it … Please use ’em

XO Jenny From the Blog

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The Germiest Place on Earth: The Pediatrician’s Office

Today, I took my daughter to the pediatrician for her 5 year check up. I know I probably should have been concerned about how she was going to freak out about the 4 vaccines and finger prick that are required to move on to Kindergarten, but I was too preoccupied what she was touching in the waiting room. I am one of those irrational parents that is forced by serious neurosis to take my kids to the doctor over every phlegmy cough. Unfortunately, I am also one of those parents who is quite sure that bringing kids to the doctor’s office pretty much guaranties that they pick up some other snotty kid’s infection, which is far worse than their own. So, you can imagine how going in for a well-check really throws me for a loop.

As I surveyed the waiting room, I noticed that the plastic kitchen in the corner was dripping with mucus. No, I didn’t bring my black light but, a baby had just finished mouthing the oven handle and I’m quite sure his sister picked her nose and tried to cook her reward in the faux microwave. Continue reading →

Minutia Mom -The World’s Awesomest Superhero

It has recently dawned on me that somewhere along the way, my sense of accomplishment became a product of my ability to be a good homemaker. The creative energies I once used to design jewelry and dress celebs are now spent trying to build intricate forts and streamline the laundry process. For instance, I’ve found that by rolling towels one can save considerable folding time, while providing the added benefit of a spa-like appearance.

When did this happen? When did I accept the job as Master of the Mundane? I remember the ad, it read: Seeking highly motivated person, who requires little sleep, to cook, clean, wipe tushies, noses, and countertops… oh, and provide occasional sex to employer. Person will be overworked and underappreciated. It is preferred that you have no prior experience or references. Always on duty. Will pay nothing. Continue reading →

Why You Should Never Ask Someone When They’re Due, Even if They’re at a Lamaze Class

Today, I learned how quickly you can turn a friend into an enemy. Sure, the obvious ways are rather simple: run up to them, tap them on the shoulder, and when they turn around give ‘em a pop in the kisser. Insult their cooking, their attire or worse, tell them how they should raise their children.

Those are no-brainers, if you’re in the market to lose a friend. They’re also too malicious for my taste. No, today I did the one thing that can make a mortal enemy while trying to make polite conversation. I asked the non-pregnant receptionist at the salon I go to, when she was due.

You hear about people uttering the dreaded, “When are you due?” to those “not” with child or to those who just had a child, all the time. We all know better than to ask that question unless we’re 110% sure. Frankly, I think you should witness the Clear Blue line on the pregnancy test before ever uttering that phrase. But there I was, saying it as if I were a lovely, caring, wonderful person. But when she replied, “due for what?” and then I watched as she processed my meaning while the color drained from her face, I realized, I was no friend of hers. I was the devil!

I can think of so many awkward moments brought on by social ignorance. My daughter pointing to someone and saying “Mommy, that man is sooo fat!” with said man inches away. My son running up to a large black woman, grabbing both her breasts, and yelling across a Foot Locker, “Look at this Mommy, her boobs are HUGE.” Yes, I’ve had my share of explaining to do, but short of my husband grabbing that same woman’s bosoms and yelling across the Foot Locker, I can’t think of a more “foot in mouth” situation than I had today.

“When she asked due for what?” it sent my mind a flutter, holy crap, she’s not pregnant –is there some other way to respond: “Due for a teeth cleaning. Due for a pap smear. Due for a subscription renewal of Cosmo, “Yes, I just took a job doing magazine sales to earn extra cash to redo my kitchen, and I just wanted to give you a great rate on a full year of the magazine of your choosing at half the newsstand price!”

No, there was no other answer, though I stood silent for quite some time, thinking out the magazine salesperson script. I went with, “I am soooo sorry. It’s just that those damn empire waist shirts make everyone look pregnant, frankly you’re the 5^th person I’ve asked today. And then when I saw that glow to your perfectly clear skin, I just I… “ (she had walked away mid-sentence, no joke) I think she may have gone to cry or print out a picture of me to throw darts at. Either way, I’m in the market for a new salon –if you know of any!

Question: I want to know. What’s your worst foot in mouth moment??? Feel free to answer in Comment section.