Fun fact: This is an old post that I took down because I got so much flack for being such a horrible wife. Now, 3 years later, I’m over 40 and frankly don’t care if you people think I’m a horrible wife. Also, if I’m being honest, we all have our meltdowns and our horrible wife moments, if you don’t than you probably shouldn’t be at this particular site. PS you know who really thought this post was funny, my husband.
Hubby: “Jenny are you busy?”
Me: “Yeah, I’m writing.” Continue reading
While my washer and dryer were hard at work and my dishes were in the final rinse cycle, the ball dropped to ring in the New Year.
I had just called my kids in to watch the countdown while simultaneously thanking my lucky stars that J and Ry had missed the pre-New Year’s performance Miley gave, where she awkwardly cradled/fondled a midget, while she donned a pair of upper-vagina-accentuating gold sequin pants that did her bod no justice and oddly reminded me of what Molly Shannon would wear when she kicked and yelled, “I’m fifty,”
After wiping the sweat off my brow, emptying my glass of champagne, and making a mental note to switch the clothes from the washer to the dryer, I blew my hubby (who was sick and spent the night matching me shot for shot with a bottle of Nyquil) a kiss and then shooed our guests out the door before the clock hit 12:01. (PS I just realized I should have saved the parenthetical in the middle of “blew my hubby a kiss” until after I completed the sentence. Poor guy — only gets it in a grammatical error.)
Anyhoo, it dawned on me, New Years used to be a romantic night (see When Harry Met Sally) … so did Birthdays, Anniversaries … Saturdays. Some of those events still are, but most of those would-be enchanted evenings have been replaced with J’s travel baseball, taking Ry to the movies, and trips to an arcade and a gourmet burger joint.
I recently analyzed the not so subtle differences in what I found hot before marriage and after marriage and now it’s time to take a good hard look at the evolution of the date night. Then vs Now:
Continue reading
Yesterday, I was sent a group Facebook questions asking me to name one thing I’m thankful for that isn’t cliche or traditional. Other people tagged in the post were coming back with beautiful sentiments about new friendships, the help of strangers, and averting disasters, which in my opinion wasn’t really following the rules at all. If that’s not the traditional stuff, then what is?
I didn’t respond because everything I thought of seemed trite, superficial, and a tad less profound – even though I’m pretty sure that was the point. Whatever, facebook people who don’t follow directions.
So, I did write a list because these things totally deserve thanks in my book — just refrain from saying them around the dinner table. Continue reading
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.
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
In the post, I’m Freakin June Cleaver Gosh Darn’it, I realized that when you translate anything you say into the 50s speak, it makes you seem really wholesome and attentive and frankly, perfect. You know, the way British accents make you sound smart?
That said, I shall tell you about my day, 50’s style (don’t worry, I’ll translate it back), so that you can see what a little “era tweaking” can do for your reputation as a mother and a wife. (We could all use a trick or two every once in a while, no?)
50s: My darling hubby gave me a sweet peck on the cheek before leaving for work. I handed him his lunchbox with the matching thermos and he tugged on my apron string popping the back open (such a kidder, that one).
Translation: My husband grunted something about “goodbye” as he walked out (not sure, I was still half asleep) he may have slapped me on the ass, don’t really know, too groggy to recall. Continue reading
It’s my birthday. Yes, I know “Happy to Me” and all, I’m not feeling so happy. Actually, I kinda want to be serious for a minute. It is Friday the 13th ohhhhhhh. Respect. I don’t know what that means ’cause I’m Jewish. But here goes:
I – WILL – NEVER – BE – FAMOUS!!!!!!
Imagine stamping feet between each word.
What? I said I was going to be serious, not mature!
January 13th marks the first day of the last year in my 30‘s. I know, I could have said that more succinctly – but you know what? It’s my birthday, so I get to do what I want!
Most importantly, in this day filled with the logging of new wrinkles and the circling of new cellulite dimples that I will have to remove at 40, and assessing what I have not accomplished and what I will never accomplish.
Holy shit. I will never be famous. Look, you don’t have to have wanted to be a famous actress, writer, singer, talk show host… from the age of 3 to relate; you merely have to have wanted a certain success that looks less likely to occur as the years pass. You have to get that urge to sob uncontrollably at the bleak outlook that is your professional or social future, but you should squelch such antics as you’re in the middle of a parent teacher meeting and you really should be paying attention. (wait, that’s just me.)
I was all prepped for fame. At 5, I was singing outside of restaurants, attracting throngs of people who said things to my mother like, “Oy, you should take her to try out for Annie,” “My G-d that child can sing.” and “Miss, could you please move, you and your child are blocking the entrance.” Were they talent scouts whose opinions could’ve translated into the big bucks?
Probably not.
But they knew good deli and they loved a fatty corned beef on Rye, so that gives them credibility right? I’m sure many talent execs know good deli, so really it’s quite the same thing.
If I were 5 today, I’d certainly be famous. Someone would’ve YouTubed me and it would’ve gone viral and I would’ve been befriended by Usher and I would’ve made an inspirational movie called “Never Say Never.”
What, that happened to someone else?
See, it’s a clear case of bad timing.
Here are things I wanted so badly to do with my life that I clearly never will:
1. Be a Part of the Kings of Comedy tour
2. Sing a Duet with Shawn Cassidy
3. Replace Marie on the Donny and Marie Show Continue reading
He kinda looks constipated here
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!!!
Written by Jenny From the Blog of THE SUBURBAN JUNGLE
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…
Here goes: Read MORE
A couple weeks back, I went to my son’s school as a volunteer for his holiday class party. In an attempt to be overly PC they had all the usual non-denominational stuff: snow flake making, a toilet paper snowman contest, and other things related to snow and not Chanukah menorahs or Christmas trees or whatever kwanza has… like, kangaroos. Frankly, I don’t know if there’s a Kwanza Kangaroo, but I like to think there is one.
Every holiday needs a mildly creepy ambassador. I mean, there’s Santa Clause for X-mas. He’s a fat, jolly, old guy that likes to have children on his lap, which is kinda disturbing. There’s a Hanukkah Harry, who sounds like a drunken trench coat wearing uncle who may flash you in front of the menorah, and I assume – there’s a Kwanza Kangaroo, who let’s you feel in his pocket for presents and for pleasure.
Not the Creepy Kangaroo you were picturing, or is it?
I may have just massacred the mascots of three religions at once. And to think I wasn’t a part of the politically incorrect story I’m about to tell.
Moving on. We were in the midst of making snowflakes, which had to have a picture of the student glued on the front. I grabbed some of those tiny 1×2” pictures and started giving them to their respective owners. I can barely tell the girls apart with the feathers in their hair and the Justice accessories, but I managed, then I came across an Asian child. He was one of many Asian children in the class.
Hello, it’s gifted.
I don’t want to say he’s Chinese because I always get that stuff wrong, and then I seem ignorant.
As you can tell from the story thus far, I hate to sound ignorant. Though to be fair, I wouldn’t expect you to know me from a Canadian.
I put the child’s picture at the back of my pile, to be certain I was giving it to the right Asian child.
Not that they all look alike.
I mean, if that’s where your head was going, then I’m quite sure you’re guilty of racial profiling.
Shame on you.
I, on the other hand was concerned that in this cripplingly PC society, that had I given the wrong picture to the wrong child and he happened to be Asian, I would be perceived as being prejudiced myself. Though if I’d given a feather laden girl the wrong pic, we’d have laughed it off.
As I walked over to the child whose picture was last in my pile, I saw him holding another picture in his hand.
Holy shit, I am guilty, I can’t tell them apart. This is horrible, I have to stop being so preachy to other people.
Shame on me!
Then, I looked at the picture in his hand and realized that HE was holding the wrong picture, not I.
OMG the irony.
I tried to hand him his picture, which he was reluctant to trade, sure he had the correct one.
“No, this is you.” I said.
I mean, if you can’t tell yourself from another child of similar decent, than I think the rest of us are in the clear here. Phew, one less PC thing to worry about.
And the best part, I made it out of this scenario somehow unscathed and totally PC
What did I learn: Asian children have trouble telling themselves from other Asian children… It must be the pocket protectors and the ping pong paddles they carry around with them.
Relax, I was just kidding, you can’t play ping pong in school, though they did look like this:
Well, like this but, younger and with black socks and sandals.
May we all be a bit less PC in the New Year.
Counseling Addiction – Those were the words in the title of an email I just received. I didn’t read on, I didn’t have to. I get the gist and I’m shocked.
It’s never dawned on me that this would be an issue, but why the f@ck not? I mean, tons of people love counseling – I’m one of them. Though I haven’t found the time to go recently, which means I’m probably not an addict, per se.
But, I do get it.
In fact, as a double major – one of them being psychology – I found that many people in my classes were taking these courses in hopes of fixing themselves.
Well, we know that never works. If it did, no one would say, “you should take your own advice,” in that snarky way that they do.
Needless to say, I spent much time in college and Grad school with people who were anxiety stricken, or OCD (like myself) or narcissists, or bipolar, or… had other fun complexes. Then they become practicing therapists and now spend a lot of time telling other people what to do and what’s wrong with them.
How rude.
If you went around dissecting my psyche and telling me how to fix it, I would not make plans with you… often. But, we pay for therapists to tell us such things. Then we respond with phrases like: “Yessss, that’s why I’m so controlling” and “oh my G-d you’re so right, I do substitute food for love,” and “sure, sure my passive aggressive behavior is obviously an outlet for my suppressed emotional responses,” and other shit we say in therapists offices in hopes of feeling less inferior.
But, now that there’s a new disorder coming from over-therapizing, I say we get off the proverbial couch and take a stand. I mean people don’t get paid to tell you things that may happen to you in the future, do they? Of course not. So, why should we pay people to label us now?
Frankly, I think we’re all doing pretty good, considering… The O-Zone is disintegrating, American’s throw away 250 million tons of trash/year, the unemployment rate is 8.6%, we’re all getting older and wrinklier and less bendy by the second, and the shoes in my closet never seem to be perfectly straight!
So, “Say Nay to Thera-pay!” I know, catchy right? I’m like the Norma Rae of head shrinking. Screw Jung and Freud and Adler, who needs ’em and their theories? The 54 million American’s who suffer from mental illness in a given year? Nah.
Addendum to this post: I just clicked the email with the Title: Counseling Addiction The subject line said this: Help fight substance abuse as a counselor.
Never mind.
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
In The Suburban Jungle’s newest segment: Ask Jenny From the Blog, I answer important marriage and parenting questions with honesty, and wit. Please do not hold me responsible for tantrums or divorce.
Recently a friend asked, “How do I stop nagging my husband?” I used the decade of marriage as a basis for my answer and gave it to her straight, “You don’t. You just learn to nag more efficiently.” The definition of nagging is to ask or criticize someone repetitively, to the point of being bothersome. Well, if they learned the first time you said it, you would be a brilliant wife and he would be husband of the year. Let me impart a truth I have discovered after a 10 years of nagging. You have to train a husband, which is not unlike training a puppy. Except that a husband takes much much longer. If you saw my 6 month old puppy actually chewing the wall, this truth could send you running for the hills.
The key is to open the lines of communication and reward rather than reprimand. I know that sounds cheesy and Dr. Philee, but it is something you may not realize until you’ve wasted much time trying to mold your man through bitter seething complaints and snide remarks.
I am still training my husband… everyday. If I had known when I was first married what I know now, I think I would be giving much less correction, and much more Snausages. I remember the conversation that started a new path to less nagging. It was not so long ago. I said, “there has to be some word, some signal that I can give to tell you that I am about to complain and possibly correct something you’ve done. The signal would imply that what I am about to say may be critical and will most definitely annoy the crap out of you. I know that, but I must get it off my chest if I am to remain happy. I need you to hear me without sneering, ignoring, focusing on a mindless commercial or diverting your attention towards the kids.
Seems easy right, asking someone to listen and absorb when alerted to do so? Well, men are stubborn creatures. So, to make it fair, I agreed that the signal could be whatever he chose, as long as he agreed to open his ears and keeps his eyes from rolling. He decided I should say, “I suck and you are awesome.” Please, is that the best you can do? In return for your full attention, I would have said, “I’m a psycho bitching wife who doesn’t deserve such a strapping specimen of a man, while flashing you and doing a jig, but we’ll just go with your suggestion.”
This is your chance to set some ground rules and have some fun while doing it. Pick a signal that is totally disarming and let him know that the only person who hates nagging more than he does is you. Most importantly, when he does a good job, don’t forget the praise… and the Snausages.
Please send questions to [email protected]
Disclaimer- Jenny is not a trained professional! Though you may find her brilliant and insightful, she has been called odd and insane. Please keep that in mind when following any of her advice. Also, no animals were harmed in the writing of this piece (in case you were wondering.)
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.