Tag Archives: humor column

The 1st Annual Toony Awards

BLUE'S CLUES

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 9^th, 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.”

“Well that’s our time…Enjoy the show! Leo OUT!”

Famous Mom Gets Fired Over Crack!

It’s official… I’m famous. For the last couple months people have been stopping me at random places to ask if I write the column “Suburban Jungle,” or to tell me they read and love my stuff. The first time was at a local Chinese restaurant where a woman and her friend were pointing. After checking for boogers and toilet paper hanging out of my pants, I heard one said, “that’s the girl with the blog I sent you.” They came over, introduced themselves and kindly let me know I had broccoli in my teeth. Damn, oversight.

My most recent approaching was at the grocery store yesterday when a woman stopped me to ask if I was a writer .

“Yes, I am.”

“Oh, I read your column and your blog, you are hilarious. I love you . Have you ever heard of so and so?”

“No, does she live in Weston?” I asked, as if I were some hick who knows no world outside this microcosm.

“No, she is a very famous writer and your stuff totally reminds me of her. You’re like a celebrity.”

The whole time my daughter was pulling on my pant leg saying, “Come on mommy let’s go.” You know the way the children of famous people do, because let’s face it to them you’re not Angelina Jolie, you’re just mommy. Did I just compare myself to Angie? Well, so be it.

I did need to get back to the deli counter before number 66 was called. But, my inflating ego was doing one of those, “Stop it you embarrass me, but go on if you must,” things. I walked away vowing to never go braless in public again, and arrived at the counter to find them at 68. I thought, “this is what it must be like to be famous.” You can’t just walk away when someone is praising your work. You would seem ungrateful and rude, yet you may have to explain to the guy at the deli counter you were accosted by fans and just couldn’t make 66.

The price we pay. I left the store and realized I must have thrown the paparazzi off my trail, as there were no photographers waiting to see what was in my basket. Though, I’m sure I’ll be in the “Normal or Not Normal” section of Star. “Grocery shopping with daughter, NORMAL.” I shoved my swelled head into my generic SUV and drove back to my humble estate.

Today, the world got wind of my hubris and decided to put me in my place. I got fired from my column for writing something utterly despicable in my new year’s resolutions article. Apparently, humor columns are no joking matter. I also wrote, I would pull my son out of school and send him to work for not being able to spell December, yet child services has not called about infringing on any labor laws.

This reference to crack…

“Resolution 9. Become Addicted To Something:

Smoking, alcoholism and Starbucks are so trite. I’m thinking something unique like nasal spray or hand sanitizer. Or at least something beneficial to my endurance like crack. Look, I already have a shopping addiction maybe I could offset the bills with a robust gambling problem.”

was so offensive that the owner, upon receiving his advance copy, threatened to fire the editors for not noticing the seriousness of my new year’s lampoon. Having not caught it before it went to print, they halted the distribution in order to rip the piece out of 30,000 copies on Dec 31. It not only held up the delivery date, it cost them over $10,000 in ad revenue from the flip side of the page, and hours of man power.

I was worth losing 10 grand over? I think that makes me infamous. Truth be told, I would have taken 8,000 not to write the piece in the first place. Then they could have pocketed 2g’s and saved themselves the New Year’s Eve headache. Or at least gotten their New Year’s headaches the old fashioned way: drinking to excess, doing embarrassing things that won’t be remembered at a party of your peers, and accidentally letting the wrong person tongue you when the ball drops.

So, no more play dates with Apple, or Kingston, or Shiloh, or Hazel and Finn. It’s back to the normal folk with their normal kid names. No more late nights swapping with the Pitt’s. It’ll be okay. I might just start doing crack, to take the edge off.

Can A Nice Jewish Girl Sit On Santa’s Lap Without Being A Ho Ho Ho?

This is the unabridged version of the published article.
I’m not gonna throw myself under the bus and call my children spoiled, as I would have only myself to blame. I will say, however, they have an extreme sense of entitlement, which I am sure has little to do with them being lavished with gifts undeservedly. My children want everything they see, hear about, could get as a party favor, could find in a McDonalds happy meal, a cereal box, a piñata, or view in a commercial.

“Mommy can I have that? Will you buy me that? Mommy friends neighbor has that. I want that. When can I have that? Mommy? Ma? Maaaaaaaa? MOM! This exchange of words usually ends with, “If you mention it again, the answer will be never.” “Never? I can’t even have a Clone Trooper Voice Changer Helmet when I’m 25?” “Sure. If you still want a Clone Trooper Voice Changer Helmet at 25, you can wear it to therapy.”

“How about I get it for my next birthday, or maybe Kwanzaa?” My son is already eyeing a camouflage pencil set for Secretaries Day, and has informed me that, although we are Jewish, he will be giving up vegetables for Lent.

My children’s Chanukah wish lists are so comprehensive, I may be forced to explore alternative channels in my gift search. Consequently, I have sent a friendly letter asking someone who has slighted me in the past for help. Some might say it’s more of a formal accusation, but really it’s just a hand delivered note that needs to be notarized and signed on receipt. It goes:

Dear Santa,
I have never complained about you forgetting us Jews in the past, but times are tough. I mean, I don’t want to threaten you or anything, but let’s talk religious profiling, shall we? I’m sure the fact that we don’t believe in you has something to do with you snubbing us year after year. Do we, a people known to produce a whiner or two, complain? No, some of us, me included have made an effort to believe. Let us not forget Christmas of 83’ when I sat on your lap asking for a Speak N’ Spell, a Magic Eight Ball, and Shawn Cassidy’s “Da Doo Ron Ron” 45. I have a laminated picture from Macy’s to prove it.

Do you not bombard us with your festive songs and holiday movies made with delightfully animated reindeer and elves? Do Jews get to go a-caroling? No, we have one song… about kids gambling. Has Dreidel ever starred in a delightfully animated holiday movie? Has Snoopy, or Barbie, or a single Disney character ever lit a Menorah? Maybe in the privacy of their own homes, but certainly never on camera (it’s in their contracts.) We’re okay with that, because we wrote those contracts. Sure, we take advantage of your sales and vacations. We watch your shows, and sing your catchy songs. We’ll decorate a tree with blue and white twinkle lights, top it with a six pointed star, and call it a Chanukah bush.

Santa, my Roth IRA is down 40%. I deserve a little holiday cheer. You can look me up, I’ve been nice, and I’d like to keep it that way. My daughter wishes to receive the “now truer to life” Baby Alive that not only eats, but poops. She would also like the “now truer to life on the streets” Bratz Doll, which comes complete with Brazilian waxing kit and requisite diaphragm.
My son “just has to have” the new Guitar Hero “I Choked on My Own Vomit Tour,” a super Bakugan the size of his head, and some alone time with my daughter’s Bratz doll. I will forward you the unabridged version via zip file. I look forward to us all getting along!

Sincerely,
Frustrated Jewish Mom

P.S. I feel like maybe we got off on the wrong foot here. I didn’t mean to sound so hostile. Santa, just tell me what a girl’s gotta do to get some Christian love? I can be naughty if necessary. Perhaps a visit to your “south pole” (wink, wink)? Not by me, we Jews don’t really do that after marriage, but I know a girl that I can call.
HAPPY HOLIDAYS

The Day Jake’s Ladybug Ran Away

I can still hear the faint murmurs of my son’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 floor and made a mad dash for freedom.

Jake jumped out of his seat and flew towards the door. This caused the gondola to start swinging. According to the warning sign that pictured a man falling backward out of the gondola to his unexpected demise, wild swinging is strictly forbidden. “Jake, you can’t jump around. Do you see what happened to the unfortunate man on the sign?”

Jake continued searching, solely focused on the whereabouts of Lady. “Hey, do you guys hear her? I can hear her. Do you hear her?” he said with desperation, like someone who could put a straight jacket to good use.

Though we tried, we could not decipher the cries of his lost ladybug through the cranking sound of our transport. “There she is!!!” Jake screamed with the delight of a boy finding his long lost puppy (or recently lost ladybug). Regardless, it was with total elation that he offered his stick, which she eagerly climbed onto. A few more minutes of bonding, and she playfully climbed up his shirt. “She’s sooo happy,” Jake cooed.

His joy quickly turned to horror as Lady made yet another stab at freedom. I caught her, only to have my daughter Ryan beg for a turn. I put her on Ryan’s hand as Jake frantically tried to woo her back to his stick. She crawled up Ryan’s arm, pulled out what appeared to be a miniscule pair of binoculars, and scoped out the opening in the window. She looked back at Jake, with a tear in her eye, and with one final heroic effort, vanished into the thin mountain air.

A guttural wail came from Jake’s mouth… “I TOLD YOU NOT TO LET RYAN HOLD HER!!! I TOLD YOU! She loved the stick! She hated that spot on Ryan’s arm, and now look what you did! Sheeeeee’s gooonnne! I want Lady back, I WANT LADY! She loved her stick, and she loved me! She wanted to live with me on her stick!”

Mark and I looked at each other, him losing it, and me wiping away a smile as not to diminish Jake’s loss. Calmly, I looked at Jake. “Honey, she’s a ladybug. I think she wanted to go free. That’s why she found the open window and flew out of it.”

“NOOOOOOO, she loved her stick!” Jake cried, tears uncontrollably streaming down his face. “I want my ladybug, I want my ladybug! I want her!”

Now both Mark and I are openly laughing. Well actually, I am laughing on the inside, which is causing me to cry. “Jake, in the short time I was lucky enough to know Lady, I knew her to be a free spirit. Yes, she liked you, and your stick, but she’s not the type of bug to waste what might be half her life on a single stick. She wanted to explore and see as many sticks as possible.”

“NO, NO!!! She hated Ryan’s arm and it made her leave! I told you not to put her there!” Jake continued, as I officially lost it. While holding up the stick like a lighter, I started singing “Lady.” A song we later recalled was ironically sung by STYX. It went something like this: “Lady, LAY-EE-DAY why’d you have to fly out the wi-i-i-in-dow?”

“Mommy STOP it! It’s not funny! I MISS LADY!” Jake wept, reverting to a grief-stricken state. Mark and I looked at each other in awe of this display of inconsolable, illogical, Oscar worthy, unceasing hysterics. “Jake…honey…baby, she lives on this mountain. She’ll find us at the bottom, I promise.”

“No-She-Won’t!” Jake screamed, stamping his foot on each syllable. “I promise she will,” I said, resolving to find another ladybug, or spend the rest of our trip trying.

He then paused, and answered with the irrefutable rationale of a six year old: “She won’t! She doesn’t even know which hotel we’re staying at!”

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Weekly Column 5: To Clean or Not to Clean?

Well, I’ve gotten a lot of emails asking me why I haven’t posted lately.

Why?

Because I’ve spent the last week cleaning my house.

Why?

Because my everyday tidier/laundry doer/Mother’s helper, Danay got a job in a physical therapist’s office.

Why?

Because she went to college and got a real degree before coming to this country and finding out that her only job options were maid, nanny, or grocery bagger.

Why?

Because in America if you don’t speak perfect English you must be unintelligent, even though most of us don’t speak nearly as much of a foreign language as any foreigner does of our’s.

Why?

Because we’re lazy, which is the same reason I hate to clean.

I remember the days before I found this woman… I cleaned a lot! In fact, I could not do anything else around my house until I felt it was clean. I would clean in the morning, watch my kids immediately undo my work, and then clean the same stuff all over again. Each time I was amazed at how long it took to clean and how quickly it became undone.

I had to make up fascinating “cleaning games” to justify not spending time playing Nerf dart tag, or doing spin art like the “good Mommies” did. Our play was much more educational… I honed Jake’s eye for detail and fine motor skills: “Jake, let’s see if you can match the socks and roll them neatly into pairs.” I knew Jake was a true genius the day he found matches for the 23 mateless socks. I taught Ryan about the nuances of tone and hue. “Ryan, which colors are dark and which are light? Ryan, that shirt may be white, but the stripes are red, that’s a major oversight on your part. I hope you weren’t hungry cause that just cost you dinner.”

I considered asking Mark for help, but the truth was to watch him try and clean could send us straight to divorce court. He would say, “Just do it once a day, why waste your time?” Which, by the way, is the same argument he has for oral hygiene, so who could listen to him? If you want the job done right i.e. your way… you have to do it yourself.

I couldn’t delegate because I was always too disappointed in the way someone would load my dishwasher. Loading a dishwasher takes serious problem solving skills and visual prowess; done correctly, it is an algorithm of perfectly fitting pieces with not a single one to spare. Okay, I’m beginning to sound pathetic, but some of you actually get what I’m saying. You know who you are, you’re the ones thinking “Please, my dish loading could kick your ass…Bitch! Well you know what I say? “Bring it!”

I was so vehemently against having help because I was sure it would reflect on some inability to be a good Mother/Housewife (a title I never thought I would covet the way that I do). I also convinced myself that having help would weaken my right to be a martyr. However, my need to have “a life” and to resent my husband less won out, and I hired someone.

After a single day I felt like screaming “FREEDOM” while swooshing down a mountain with a cool breeze on my face, or into a deep echoing canyon while blowing my Ricola horn, but alas Florida is flat. So I traipsed into the swamp, I mean lake, in our back yard and screamed at the top of my lungs. Unfortunately, it was “Alligator!” and not “Freedom!” but I feel my point was made. As soon as I zigzagged back into my house, I considered all of my options: Grocery shop, get Starbucks with a friend, shop for my kids, get a mani/pedi, shop for myself, go to the gym, shop for my husband, get Starbucks again, or return things from the last time I shopped. My days were filled with endless monotony and it was exciting. My afternoons were completely open. I could do all kinds of things while my daughter napped- shop, return things, get Starbucks… When my son got home we played Nerf dart tag and did spin art.

Each day I returned to a neat and straightened house, with clean clothes and an organized pantry. I began saying things like, “You know, I don’t care if you rearrange my drawers, whatever is easier for you.” I had to make phone calls to find out where my Love Quotes scarves and my new yellow Hogan bag were, and I reveled in it. I finally got bored with the exciting monotony and decided I would have to do something to distract me from shopping. I tried chewing gum. No luck. I tried the patch, but spent hours trying to find the perfect designer patch on the best sale. I read books by Dr. Oz, and Dr. Drew, and Dr. Phil. I even read a lovely memoir by Dr. J. to no avail.

So I decided to write again. Three weeks after, I felt reborn and my Amex felt dejected, jumping out of my bag anytime we so much as drove past a retail store. It would even put extra groceries in my cart when I walked over to the meat counter. My Amex wasn’t the only one let down. A week later Danay told me a friend called to offer her a job at a physical therapist’s office. I said, “Are you kidding me? Who do you expect to do my laundry, clean the kitty litter, the dog pee, the garage… me? I had that job once, it sucked!” Luckily, when I talk fast she doesn’t understand a word and I slowly said “You have to take it, congratulations!” and gave her a huge hug. She still comes like 5hrs a week because in her own words “I’ll keep helping you out, you need me.” Apparently, she’s never seen me load a dishwasher, but If you don’t tell I won’t. So the short answer to the question “Why haven’t you posted in a week: 5hrs just don’t cut it.”

P.S. If anyone knows anyone… I’m looking.

Weekly Column 4: The Specialist

Every time I take one of my children to see a specialist I am reminded of my first time going to see one with Jake when he was about 4½ months old. Jake, who was 5 weeks premature, cried for the first 4months 13days 16hrs 32min of his life (straight). He would only sleep in an upright position and we found that his car seat was the best option. We would keep it in the Snap n’ Go and park him into bed every night.

When he finally cut back on the tears, it was like walking off a tarmac and into a library- I could think again. I noticed his head looked a little flat and took him to a pediatric neurologist. Dr. Gore or Dr. Bore as I prefer to call her, examined Jake for plagiocephaly, or “flathead,” to see if he should be fitted for a helmet. Yes…that’s correct, a helmet. Looking back on our visit, it seems all of her comments were excessively vague and rather benign, but somehow she managed to coax me into a state of agitation.

Dr. Bore is one of those people who is impressed with her own brilliance, and likes to speak unexcitedly as she tries to overwhelm you with her superior knowledge. Silently, Dr. Bore waited as I changed and then undressed Jake, never uttering a word until I was safely sitting in my chair. This reminded me of the way my father behaved when he had some horrific news to impart which could be something as tragic as selling the family car. “Jenny, are you sitting down?” As if I might faint upon hearing such horror.

With Dr. Bore, however, I sensed the silence was not some kind of soap-opera-esque melodrama. It was more like: I-do-not-waste-breath-on-distracted-ears kind of silence. I literally sat there with fingers crossed trying to remember the rules governing such situations. Do you cross both hands for extra luck? No, no I think one cancels the other out, right? And does that make it zero luck, or does it skip right to bad luck? Oh man, now what do I do? Of course, my toes! I uncomfortably fidget, contorting my fingers into a series of svengali half-crosses in what seems to be verging on an epileptic seizure to erase the obsessive thoughts echoing throughout my head. Speak lady so I can stop torturing myself!

After a long exaggerated sigh, Dr. Snore begins to expound on the two theories as to why his head is flat. The first being a severe complication in which the skull plates prematurely fuse causing the brain to grow out in any way possible- the side, the top, the nose…which could not only lead to deformity, but brain damage as well.

I am about to cry. Why is she speaking volumes on this subject? Just say, this is not the case with your son. JUST SAY THAT! I get frustrated with my vain attempts at telepathy, and interrupt her.

“Do you have any reason to believe that’s his diagnosis?”

“I’m just going through the possibilities, please allow me to continue.”

Oh, I’m sorry my desire to rule out a gruesome existence for my son has gotten in the way of your neurology-for-dummies lecture. Please don’t let my nervous breakdown shorten your diatribe. The sound of the paper bag I’m breathing into helps to drown out her voice until I hear, “…and the second and most likely possibility is called positional flatness. This is caused by spending too much time sleeping or being on ones back.

Hello? Is anyone home? I told you he spent the last 4 months sleeping in his car seat; doesn’t that ring a bell? Why do specialists always insist on discussing the horrible and unlikely option first? I should probably just go now, but I decide to prolong this torture…

“Well you’ve seen a lot of heads, is his severe?”

“Look his head is flat. I’m not going to tell you that something flat is round. Its flat.”

Gee thanks Magellan. Do you get the impression I have a 5^th grade education? What tipped you off the finger crossing fiasco?

She goes on to check his tone and development. All that anguish and I get to stay longer for a freebie, what a perk.

“He has poor muscle tone, he doesn’t roll he doesn’t tilt, he doesn’t grab…what does he do?”

“Raspberries.”

“Hmm…tsk, tsk…just keep an eye on him for the next couple months.”

Really, I should do that? Cause us uneducated folk we like to kick our kids out of the nest at say …I don’t know…5months. “Fly free little birdie, and go earn some money it’s time to pay Momma back.” But if you think we should wait…

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Welcome to the Suburban Jungle

Yesterday 253 people visited The Suburban Jungle, which is a personal triumph for me considering my stats the day before were 3. So I thought now would be a good time to introduce you to the blog.Blog…People, People…Blog.Now that the formalities are out of the way I’ll tell you a bit about what to expect from Blog.

I am a neurotic mother of two amazing, wonderful, brilliant, perfect children which is saying a lot ‘cause I am a really tough critic.They have to sing for their supper kinda stuff… well at least ask… well at least grunt.Actually, they just sit and I make multiple meals until one is worthy of their sophisticated taste buds and doesn’t exacerbate their fear of burnt spots, crust, pizza bubbles, or food that touches other food.I live in a sheltered little suburb which I like to compare to the Truman Show.The bikers travel in perfectly dressed packs and the runners never sweat; they’re all just on a loop.

Most likely you’ll find that you and I are a lot alike.I have a husband who’s often little more than a roommate (a great roommate that pays the rent and supports my shopping habit).However, to earn such moola he commutes an hour to North Boca leaving at 5:30AM and arriving home between 7 and 8 in the evening.We get less than an hour a day to talk, most of which I spend nagging or just plain in awe of his ineptitude and suckiness.“I love you Monkey!”But seriously wait till you read some of the stuff he does.

Like you I have crazy neighbors who do lovely things like leave anonymous letters in my mailbox and ask that my child’s carpool not beep in the morning as their older children like to sleep in.Like you I have crazy friends who are teetering on divorce, having affairs, start pourin’ the Mommy juice at noon, or act like they’re still in the 7^th grade. Like you I have cellulite begging me to stop wearing short shorts, laugh lines screaming for restylane, crows feet crying for botox, and spend far too much money trying to look dewy.You and I have a Cinderella complex, penis envy, and buyers remorse.G-d we have a lot of problems don’t we?Let’s just take a quick break to call our therapists.

This blog is about all of the above plus daily observations about all those mundane little things that given a little attention seem odd and humorous; like repeating a simple word when you’re high until it loses all meaning.Please, if you haven’t taken the time to read the other posts do so and leave your email on my subscribe link to get notification of new posts. Welcome to the JUNGLE!

Love,

Jenny

P.S. If you like what you read please pass a link to every person you have ever emailed in your life. Also, I am offering a sizable reward for great contacts towards my goal of getting a column or freelance work.If I already owe you money, “The check’s in the mail.”