After writing Tuesday’s post on things I’d never know if I weren’t a Gen Xer, I came to realize that I’m some kind of Generation X genius. I mean, I could be the “Rain Man” of the Gen X set. Seriously, throw some quotes on the floor, I’ll tell you who said them. OK, that test may not work as well as it does with toothpicks in the movie.
But I now see that I’m somewhat stuck in the ’80s, and I kinda like it there. So I thought I’d share some of the most random stuff I remember as a Gen X poster child.
1. Being on a wait list for a Cabbage Patch Kid and not even being able to pick the one you wanted (bonus points if you remember its name — mine was Mitzy Shirley and she had the dreaded short curly hair).
2. Jumping on the eyes of the alligator with Pit Fall Harry.
3. Thinking Flash Gordon had the best special effects ever.
4. That coffee-flavored sucking candy all elderly people had (before anything coffee flavored was cool).
5. The random Super Friends like the Apache Chief, Gleek, and Samurai.
6. Screaming, “Oh my God, the girl in Sleepaway Camp has a penis!”
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. Anyone and everyone stalks now a days — moderen technology: cell phones, FB, twitter, my space, youtube, linkedin — it’s not even impressive. No, 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 7th grade … Continue reading →
On Valentine’s Day I was reading through the V-day Sweethearts, you know, the conversation hearts, the ones that are supposed to represent the sweet nothings you would whisper in your lover’s ear before bed. Like: I love you, be mine, kiss me… blah blah blah. So in that vein, I’ve made a list of what should be etched in red on those cute little hearts.
BTW this article is not for newlyweds, so you can refrain from reading and telling me how head over heels you are. Give it a few years. Ahem- I mean, I’m happy for you. Frankly, you can avoid this article unless you’re past the 7 year itch. Sorry, but resentment and boredom takes time to cure, like a salami.
WIVES CONVERSATION HEARTS:
I BOUGHT ANOTHER PAIR OF SHOES, DON’T WORRY THEY WERE ON SALE
My son’s birthday is the same day as the King. Oh, you know, THE King. This is the enlightening conversation we had to commemorate his birthday. I hope the King had other conversations to eavesdrop on at the time.
Jake: Elvis died in the bathroom.
Me: Did he?
Jake: He was constipated, did you know you could die of that?
Ryan: He was not constipated. He died of doing too much drugs.
Wow that “Just say NO” campaign they start in Kindergarten has left my 7yr old speaking as if she knows of what she speaks.
Thanks for that.
Jake: He did not.
Ryan: Did too.
Jake: He died on the toilet.
Ryan: Ok maybe he died in the bathroom, but it was drugs not constipation! What was he like, urgh urgh, grunt… oops, I’m dead?
Jake: Or wait, did he die in a bathtub?… No that was Jim Morrison.
My kids don’t know shit about current affairs but somehow this stuff sticks with them.
Jake: Yeah, Jim Morrison did too many drugs.
Ryan: Maybe he was constipated.
I wonder where she got that sarcasm from?
BTW – Here’s what comes up if you ask if Elvis died of constipation: it has been widely reported that Elvis Presley died in 1977 from cardiac arrhythmia, an irregular heartbeat, possibly brought on by drug dependency, obesity and a weak heart. But the music legend’s longtime friend and physician, Dr. George “Nick” Nichopoulos, has put pen to paper for the first time and revealed his belief that it was chronic constipation that actually killed the King of Rock and Roll.
Hmmmm?
WHILE YOU’RE HERE CHECK OUT WHAT’S GOING ON AT MY OTHER SITE: I’m a Jewish mom, what’s your excuse?
My last post is below. Only read it if you plan not to verbally assault me for writing it!!!
This story ended up in a book of hilarious Mom essays, but it was originally run when I first started blogging, by a major newspaper and their coordinating website, I will not name where. No, stop asking, ‘cuz I won’t. Don’t tickle me… stop it. ENOUGH.
Ok – the response was a mostly a verbal assault and a judgmental lashing from people who would never spend their hard earned money to have someone else help around the house. Personally, I have no problem spending my husbands hard earned money to have someone do that. (What, you think blogging pays a ton?)
Ironic, comparison right ‘cuz she was the hired nanny.
Frankly, I would consider spending my last dollar on it. In fact I would clean someone else’s house to make the money to pay someone to clean my own. I feel I don’t need to apologize for the sanity and extra time I get to play with my kids or the joyful feeling I get from walking into my home- like Julie Andrew’s character feels in the Sound of Music when she’s spinning on the mountain top singing, “The Hills are Alive.”
Oh, you can picture me doing it right? Cuz I do. With song. And a flowy 1940‘sesque dress. Every time I walk in and smell the fresh scent of Lysol “Fresh Scent.”
I thought I would let you all decide if you can relate or if I’m a horrible person – for liking a clean house – for putting this extravagance in my budget – for wearing frocks…
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!
Please Comment at the Top of the Post and Don’t be Rude, SHARE IT! To Read more Jenny From the Blog click the site name!
Those were the words said to me this morning by my closest friend.
Her next words: “You have to come see this. It’s horrifying.”
Me: I just want to make sure we’re clear.You’re asking me to come to your house so that we can watch ducks have sex? Can we not afford good porn?
Susan: You make me sound so cheap.
Me: Moving on, you want me to drive over to your house to watch something so horrifying you’ve termed it rape?
Susan: Yeah.
Me: Okay.
What? You people think my days are so full of work that I don’t have time to watch ducks schtup? Like they say, “there’s never a reason to miss ducks getting laid.” Wait, is that what they say?
I thought it would look something like this.
But it looked more like this.
Half hour later: HOLY CRAP! First, let me explain that she wasn’t kidding or even exaggerating. If you’ve ever seen Mallards or their cousins, the Muscovy ducks, mate – and frankly, who hasn’t – you’d know of what I speak. The drakes are like boys at a frat party gone wrong—very very wrong. I swear one of them quacked, “No means Yes.” Well, it was “Quack, Quack, Quack,” but he said it with the same intonation (He then shot-gunned a beer and smashed the can on his beak).
As I watched with disturbing fascination, these guys just pecked at the female, attacked each other, and took turns attacking the female until she relented. It’s like my husband any Saturday night he doesn’t eat himself into a food coma. (So, like, once every couple of months.)
I walked up to the female, let’s call her Daisy, and said, “Look, I can get video of the whole thing. This will definitely hold up in court, and we’re gonna see Donald behind bars in no time. We’re talking heavy, metal, cage bars. I’ll represent you if I have to. I don’t think a duck trial would be too complex. I mean, I’m sure it’s nothing like a kangaroo court.”
I took her lack of response to mean she didn’t trust my legal abilities. “Yeah, well, good luck getting a better lawyer. Most of them are busy with Lindsey Lohan. How about this – just let me call Florida Animal Control, and I’ll have him removed from the premises.”
This time, I took her lack of response to mean that I should give it a try. She was also pinned to the ground, so I thought a bit of creative interpretation was called for.
Operator: Animal Control. How can I help you?
Me: Yes, I’ve witnessed a heinous crime in the animal kingdom, and I need you to come and remove the offender.
Oper: Ma’am what are you talking about, do you have a gator?
Me: No. I have a rapist duck.
Oper: What kind of duck is it?
Me: Why does that matter? Do you discriminate against certain types of ducks?
Oper: Is this a serious call?
Me: Yes. It’s a Muscovy duck.
Oper: I’m sorry ma’am. We don’t deal with animals that aren’t indigenous to Florida, and Muscovy is actually a breed from Mexico.
Me: And you have a thing about Mexican Ducks? What, do you think they’re taking all the jobs from American ducks or something? How horrible, this poor duck crosses the boarder for a little clean agua, and next thing you know she’s flying with a fast crowd, a gang attacks her, and she has no recourse. It’s just like West Side Story, but with less dancing.
Oper: Ma’am, I’m hanging up now.
Me: Wait, is there a Mexican Animal Embassy I could call?
Oper: Lady, that’s how ducks do it.
I especially love the operator’s last line because she was so serious throughout the conversation – calling me ma’am and such – even though it was said in an accent straight out of Deliverance. But she ended with “do it,” not “mate” or even “have sex.” I wanted to be like, heh… heh-heh, you said, “do it,” but she hung up too fast.
So, I got directly into my car. I couldn’t even look Daisy in the eye, mainly because I promised to put her old man on Dragon Pearl’s menu, but also because she’s really ugly. Seriously, have you ever seen those Muscovy ducks? If there was a lesson to be learned from the “The Ugly Duckling,” it’s that people really do hate ugly ducks.
So, I got home and googled “DuckRape.” It didn’t say “Did you mean duct-tape?” No, it actually gave me pages of studies on duckrape and the forced copulation habits of ducks. But, this was my favorite find. This is what Isabella Rossellini is doing now: Yes, she actually says the line, “Ouch ouch, one of them is raping me… I don’t care.” THIS VIDEO WILL LEAVE YOUR JAW ON THE GROUND… SERIOUSLY.
Oh, that happened. You should know, you watched it. You sick perv, you. Gives new meaning to “Fuck a Duck” right?
Who would have thought you’d be learning so much about duck sex today? Probably not you. And yet here you are, looking at a video of Isabella Rossellini’s duck vagina.
So what’s the message here? Don’t move to Florida if you’re an animal who’s not a native species. Maybe try California – they’re pretty liberal. We’ve also learned that ducks frequently get raped, but there’s no such thing as consent in the animal kingdom… so technically it isn’t rape.
PS thank goodness for the “no consent” thing. If animals could withhold consent I’d feel pretty guilty about eating them.
Oh, and lastly, the beautiful Isabella Rossellina is now doing animal porn.
Leo: “Hello I’m Leo here with June of the Little Einstein’s and welcome to the Red Carpet for the annual Toony Awards. Unfortunately, my sister Annie is with Rocket and Cooper Anderson in the Gobi Desert. I’m told they’re singing baba waba Osama to Beethoven’s 9th, in a bunker that strangely resembles Salvador Dali’s “The Persistence of Memory” picture of melting clocks.
Quincy is not here because he is attending a rally for “Out” magazine.Not that an effeminate black male who is scared of the dark and plays multiple instruments including the flute, piccolo, and triangle has to be gay, he’s just exploring his options.
But, we are on a very important mission right here in Orlando Florida, cartoon capital of the world. Let’s check in on June who is with the cast of Blue’s Clues.”
June: “Hi Joe, I want to ask what is on everyone’s mind… What are you wearing?”
Joe: “I have on an green on green striped tuxedo by Ralph Lauren purple label. Side Table drawer is wearing a runner from Isaac Mizrahi for Target and a vintage Tiffany lamp.”
June: “Well she is truly glowing. Teehee. Let me ask you Joe, is your acceptance speech written in your handy dandy notebook?”
Joe: “It actually is, and the notebook was encrusted by Judith Leiber to look like a handbag.”
June: “Fabulous may I see it? I see a crying boy in a monochromatic shirt, a can of gasoline, and a pack of matches. Hmm, these clues can be so hard to decipher.Leo back to you”
Leo: “Well it looks like another banner year for the Latinos. Regretfully, Handy Manny will not be able to make it due to a citizenship issue however, he did build the stage. Dora is up for best actress in a Series Over-Using the Word “Aaabre”. She appears to be solomente. This is a smart call after last year’s awkward celebratory french kiss with her cousin Diego and that highly disturbing make-out session with her pet monkey, Boots. June do you have any celebs over there?”
June: “Yes, I am watching the Mystery Mobile pull up, and what an entrance! Shaggy, Scooby and what looks like the 1976 Harlem Globetrotters have appeared like magic out of a huge puff of smoke. They seem to be heading this way however, it may take some time as there legs are spinning, but they are actually not moving…Ah, welcome fellas today must be very exciting.”
Scooby: “Reah, reah, rexciting.”
Shaggy: “Hey, like do you have any snacks, we’ve like got the munchies.”
Scooby: “Reah, runchies.”
June: “I actually do not, try the E! booth they don’t pay that vampire Seacrest the big bucks for nothin’. Hey Leo, getta load of that clown walking down the carpet.”
Leo: “Yes, June there’s JoJo and right behind her are the Disney princesses, who as you probably heard spearheaded a recent movement forcing cartoonists to draw underwear on all female characters. This of course is in response to circulating internet pictures of a fully plucked Daisy Duck exiting a limo on her way to Minnie Mouse’s “2 Weeks Jack Free” celebration… Monterey Jack, that is. Let’s ponder that while I send it back to June and the cast of Rugrats.”
June: “Hi, Tommy and Angelina Pickles, your show is up for it’s holiday special “Santa Woks” is that a cooking show?”
Tommy: “No, I have a wittle twouble tawking… I’m 1.”
June: “I see, well as you probably know you are one of the only Jewish cartoon families ever drawn aside from the short lived series “Moisha and the Shiksa.” And here you are nominated for a Christmas special. Angelica, don’t you feel it’s your responsibility to be role models to young Jewish children and to break stereotypes?”
Angelica: “We took our image very seriously as we calculated the estimated earnings of ‘Santa Woks’ vs. our original script ‘2000 years of Bondage.’ Which by the way we are producing, but in another film genre. We just signed Ron Jeremy on to play Moses’s staff”
June: “Well I’m sure Quincy will want to check that out. Leo back to you.”
Leo: “Everyone is still waiting to see if Barney will walk the red carpet. He has been rather elusive after rare footage was released on YouTube of him purveying fire whiskey to minors and singing “I love you, you love me” to Callou, Little Bear, and Oswald during a raucous sleepover. This ended in the wee hours of the morning after they allegedly took turns riding Thomas the Train.”
I’m not gonna name names, as I would certainly be one of them, but there are distinct qualities that describe most Facebookers.
The Over Sharer -This person seems to think that a trip to the store, a traffic jam, or the weather is worth repeating.They give updates like a minute to minute log.“Sitting in traffic.”“When will it stop raining?”“Just left SB, grande cap, mmmmm.”The Over Sharer is also the most enabled of all personalities.Other Over Sharers are constantly responding to their minute to minutes with fascinating epiphanies like “LOL” or “Rain makes me sleepy” or “Love Starbucks J”(Yes, let’s not forget the smileys, winkeys, and frowneys.)
The Workout Addict and the Closet Alcoholic-These people are actually the same, personality-wise.They feel the need to tell you what they’re drinkin’ or what they’re doin’ in the gym… and the stats.I think they’re both sending signals that require intervention.“20 mile jog, 500 sit-ups and feelin’ it.”“5 mojitos, ahhh”Not only do they flaunt the accomplishments of their pastimes, they like to question their friends as to whether or not to do it.“Do I climb a mountain, or go to the 10:15 spin?”“Drinks with the boys at Lucky’s, or sit on the couch with a cold one?” 😉
The Just “is” – At first I thought these people were publishing this status by accident, but then I realized certain people do it more than others.Either they have sausage fingers and can’t work the keyboard or they just “are.”What does that mean?Is that a call for sympathy a cry for help?A Buddhist feeling of zen?You people are too profound for me. ):
The Gibbrisher-Everyone knows a Gibbrisher.This person speaks in code.Code that at least one friend understands, while the other 500 hundred friends are wondering what the hell, “is so $ due MJ explosion!” means?LMAO
The TMIer-This person is like the Over Sharer in that they have too much time, but takes it one step further by including info about last night’s sex, a bout of diarrhea, or an overly itchy rash.Anytime you talk about your own genitals in any fashion, you fall into this category, BEWARE. TMI
The Self Promoter–Don’t waste yourtime thinking, “Oh, the irony,” I know this is me.This person thinks that their business is of the utmost importance, TO YOU.They don’t want you to miss a single sale, review, TV spot, story, or promo.They ask that you join the 50 fan clubs, groups, and subscription sites that they have spent valuable work time setting up.Don’t think we, I mean they don’t check to see if you join every one of those clubs and sites! IMHO
Honorable mention:The Quoter and The Lyricist.
BTW-There will be a sequel.I would love to hear about your experiences with these personalities and the other personalities you have encountered.
OMG I almost forgot please join my fan page on FB , seriously!
For notifications of new posts, enter your email address:
I am now freelancing for iVillage, which is an amazing site for women. They cover enough issues to give me work and let me keep the humor in my essays. Those pieces will not be printed on my site as it is against my contract. I will give you the links as I get them and I am so happy to share the news with you all. The first article is
Rss