Tag Archives: humor

Barbie and I Can’t Get our Skinny Jeans Over our Thighs

No matter what your weight or size, most of us experienced that moment when we realize it’s time to “retire” a pair of our favorite jeans because they just don’t fit anymore. Damn you, slowing metabolism. Damn you, gravity. Damn you, left over mac n’ cheese.

pMAT1-6593162v380Yesterday while trying to dress my daughter’s Barbie in a stunning pair of silver lamé jeans, I realized they weren’t going over her thighs. WTF? Had she gained a few? Had she borrowed a pair from Skipper? Was it her time of the month? Was she spending too much time in her Barbie McDonalds and not enough on her Barbie bike?

All I know is, this scene seemed oddly familiar. Trying to yank some slim pants over unyielding thighs… where have I seen that before?

Oh right, my closet, that’s where.

At first I felt a tinge of pity for Barbie. I breathed an empathetic sigh as I resolved to get those once fitting lamé pants over her rubbery legs. Continue reading

Too Much Knowledge Could be Bad for Your Health

This post is a perfect example of why playing dumb is underrated!!!  In a doctors office, there’s a fine line between what you should be privy to and what should not be part of a conventional, time killing conversation.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m one of those annoying patients who’s always trying to suck some  information out of the techs in the doctor’s offices.  You know the people who do the tests, and even though they know exactly what’s going on inside your body, they say things like, “I don’t read the tests, I just administer them,” or Continue reading

What Does a Gal Gotta Do to Get a Compliment Around Here – Oh Not That

I know what you’re thinking from the title and I’m so not going there. Though that would probably work with the hubby. But, that boat sailed on our wedding night. What? I’m Jewish, it’s in the handbook. We drop that trick from our repertoire faster than we admit to not liking football.

Well, there are exceptions, but they’re pricey… cough Channel cough bag cough. Excuse me. Throat tickle.

Moving on to more likely occurrences. I was in the hip ATL – that’s Atlanta, for the white people – last week and I found the people to be incredibly cool and shockingly friendly. It was kinda like NYC meets Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and they were all hopped up on green tea frappachinos.

They have style, but a touch of that southern hospitality that you don’t usually get in big cities. It was very refreshing. Like a glass of Country Time Lemonade or an iced green tea frappachino.

Plus the ATL is filled with gay men and I love me some gay men. Southerners and gay men are a recipe for lovely conversation and usually some well placed compliments, as neither are stingy with flattery. Unlike husbands who you have to spin for, and glare at, and say subtle things like “Ahem, eh-heh-hem, do I look good in this?” Or do the kinda stuff I mentioned at the start of the post.

Let’s be frank, gay men wouldn’t want a hummer from me (unless I actually was Frank) and Southerners, well I imagine they wouldn’t mind, but I think they’d be more polite about it. You know, like. “Darling, that’d be lovely If you’re so inclined?” I don’t really know how Southerners ask for a BJ. I was picturing a gentleman caller from the Glass Menagerie on that one. I don’t have a lot of experience with Southerners and I didn’t want to make them sound too Of Mice and Men or worse, Deliverance.

Did I get off track? Damn adult onset ADD.

The people were so courteous, they asked kind questions, said “hello” as they met your eye as if they knew you… and yes there were some compliments, which required nothing on my end, but in all fairness, they weren’t exactly complementary.

I definitely felt the hospitatlity, but where were the gushing compliments that were going to get me through to the new year and pump up my confidence like a commission based sales person at Saks?

Not in the ATL.

First, there was a male hairstylist at the American Doll store. I was sure he would come up with something ego boosting. We talked… did the witty banter thing and then it came.

“I’m obsessed with…” he started.

Finally. Obsessed with what? My ombre hair? My new sweater? My smokey eye effect?

“…with Kanani’s snow suit, I haven’t seen that one in the store.”

“Oh, I got it from a company online.”

“It’s super cute. You have great taste.”

Seriously, I have great taste in American Doll Clothes? That’s what I’m getting here? Kanani is getting more love than me. She probably can’t ski anyway, she’s Hawiian!

Yeah, skiing? I don't think so.

I knew the smokey eyes would be a waste of time.

While walking in the mall a man who I don’t think was all there, or maybe I should say “was there at all,” stopped me.

“I love you’re teeth,” he blurted out.

I kid you not. I love your teeth? There’s not even a good response to that one.

“I love your beard” I said and walked on.

“Wow, all these Southerners, gay men and escaped mental patients – and I can’t even get a normal compliment?” I vented to my Mother In Law.

“Maybe that guy was a dentist,” she said, trying to give his praise some validity.

“I said I love you’re beard and he said thank you.”

“So?”

“So, he didn’t have one.”

The next day my mother in law introduced me to one of her friends, a good looking young gay man from Brazil.

“Wow, you’re daughter is hot,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said with an obvious sense of pride.

Finally. And it sounded extra sexy with his accent.
What? It was a shallow conversation?

“She is hot as hell,” he went on.

I blushed. Sure, I know, he’s gay, so when you account for the fierce factor it’s worth about half a straight compliment, but “Hot as hell?” I mean that’s a good one, no? You don’t get to hear that one much after college.

“And this is my granddaughter, she’s 7,” my mother in law went on.

“Wow, she’s hot too,” he gushed.

ummm ok, creepy, but maybe in Brazil “hot” is like our “beautiful,” we’ll let it slide.

“She is hot as hell.”

Oh, come on!!!

On a side note, if you have not yet checked out the humor site I’m a part of please do: I’m a Jewish Mom What’s Your Excuse? .com it’s hilarious and a bit racy. You’ll enjoy it whether you’re Jewish or not. Today’s post by Lori Stefanac who is outta control : I’m Such a Bubbie – she has vowed to make being a Bubbie cool. One Bubbie at a time!

IF YOU LIVE IN SOUTH FLORIDA!!! – I’m the new humor columnist at South Florida Parenting Magazine! If you see it in your area check me out.

Jewish Mom Gone Mild – Ahem – Wild \ I’m a Jewish Mom What’s Your Excuse

This post is from my favorite new blog:  I’m a Jewish Mom, What’s Your Excuse?   It’s a blog about GUILT, ANXIETY, MISCONCEPTION, AGING, SEX, SARCASM, SALES, SHOPPING and OTHER SHIT.

You do not have to be Jewish to read it, thought there is a reader test.  You only have to have a good sense of humor and not be anti-Semitic.  I will be a big part of this blog along with other hilarious Jewish mamas that will make you feel saner with every passing post.  Check it out.

That's me in the red bag. Well, it represents me. I'm being anonymous. I know, it's mysterious right? Is it attractive? They say mysterious is attractive. How about appealing? You kinda love me huh? I guess the other person in the bag represents my husband, though in reality he doesn't tower over me like Kris did to Kim. Sure, another reason for their inevitable demise. A good rule of thumb: When it looks like your husband might eat you, it's time to get out. (Or carry a lot of saltines.) Please, every Jewish woman knows that a two pack of saltines can get you through to your next meal. There will be other awesome tips like that to come so seriously, stay tuned.

‘This is my alter-ego.  The me who says it all with no holds barred.  I’m so not telling you who I am… or at least until this thing takes off, but let’s just say I’m Uber famous.

Yeah, let’s say that.

I mean why not.

Of course with all my wealth I can’t afford a computer that puts the two dots over the U in uber, which by the way are called umlaut-dots.  I know this because I am also uber smart and know how to search things on Google.  But you know what, those umlauts can go f@ck themselves.  Oh yeah, I said that, and I cuss too. Kinda…

They weren't so chipper when I told them to F@ck Off

Yep, like a truck driver.

Without provocation.

When it doesn’t even fit the story.

Gratuitously… Like Halle Berry nude scene in “Swordfish” or Paris Hilton in sex scene in her texting video, I mean sex tape.

See, I would never tell umlauts to f@ck themselves in real life for fear that one might beat me up or worse, not like me.  But anonymous alter egos can do lots of shady shit.

For instance:  You know Superman was some kind of deviant exhibitionist?  He lived in a house made of ice for G-d’s sake.  I’m sure Lois didn’t even know about his kinky side. Please, the man could put on glasses and she wouldn’t recognize him, imagine how easily she’d be to fool by a cock-ring?

I can’t believe I just used the word cock, which let me tell you, does not fall trippingly off my tongue in my day to day life.

Sorry, I have to take a sec and point out that the last line was meant to be a  Shakespeare reference that ended up sounding shockingly dirty and was so not my intention there. Look, I’m gonna let you know when I’m being crass on purpose or not.  That’s my promise to you, the reader. 

Being that I get to completely reinvent myself here.  I’m going to call myself Lady Gaga.  No wait, that’s totally taken, okay, how about

Madonna? Pink? Li Lo? Fire Crotch?

Ugh, all the good names are taken.

I’ll just go with Cher, that’s original.

For my husband I’m thinking Thor, no wait, Thor doesn’t quite fit.

Dion?  No that’s too “Clueless.”

How about something more Jewish, like Abraham?  No, that’s too jewish, ok Adam Sandler, Seth Rogan, Jason Segal, Jon Stewart? All taken?

Maybe we should go back to the one name kinda names?  Ummm, let’s see, Barney? Elvis? Fabio? Jesus? O.J.? Prince? Q-Tip? Shaq? Waldo? Noah?

Yes, perfect.  You know, Noah… from the ark?  Great, a one name Jewish moniker. Lovely.

Noah and Cher. We will have a Boy and a Girl and a dog and a cat.  Names to come.  That was exhausting enough. But if you have suggestions please leave them in my box.

Hello, my comment box.  Sheesh, you people are already out of hand and the balls are barely rolling.

Incorrigible!

*By the way, you don’t have to be Jewish to read the blog, though I prefer you not be anti-Semitic.  I know, that was exclusionary of me, but it still stands.

Welcome,

Cher the Jewish Motha’”

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Top 10 Resolutions ANYONE Can Keep | For 2012

new yearsThis time of year I amuse myself by looking back at last year’s resolutions. Ones I made with the best intentions, like learning an instrument or a foreign language. Last Hanukkah I had my husband buy me a guitar. I had all the confidence in the world that by this New Year’s, I would balk at a request to play “Stairway To Heaven,” saying something dismissive like… “Please, that’s so cliché, but why not?” or “Por favor, es muy cliché, pero porque no? Unfortunately, my guitar collects dust while my Spanish collects rust.

So for this year, I am making some resolutions that are a bit more achievable:

1. Nag More

For over a decade my husband has not picked up a wet towel, washed ketchup off of a dish, changed a light bulb, or remembered trash day without a divorce threat, I mean, friendly reminder.  This year: I vow to be relentless in my nagging. I will lay immediate blame using words like always and never. As in, “I always, and you never.” I will play the martyr by saying, “Forget it. I’ll do it myself.” I will amp up the guilt with, “I do everything around here.” Or something unarguable like, “It’s obvious by your refusal to change a light bulb that you don’t love me anymore.” If all goes well, I’ll be nagging him to go to couples therapy by 2013.

2. Gain Weight

I’m going to quit all good eating habits ASAP.  I vow to add carbs to my diet with reckless abandon. I’ll start each meal with a generous helping of bread and rolls onto which I will spread an obnoxious amount of butter. I’ll stuff food into my mouth with such fervor it’ll make other eaters uncomfortable to watch. I also vow to eat everything a la mode, including ice cream.

3. Workout Less

This will actually take serious effort. The only thing harder would be to shower less. If I need the proverbial cup of sugar, I will drive to my neighbor’s garage and beep until she comes out and hands it to me. I’ll take elevators in two-story buildings. Lastly, I’m going to cancel my gym membership and use the money I save to buy more ice cream.

4. Forget an Old Language

This year, not only am I not going to learn a new language, I’m going to let my brain atrophy to forget the one I already know. I’ll watch endless episodes of Adventure Time, The Regular Show and Beavis and Butthead. I’ll quit doing crosswords and speaking in complete sentences. I’ll break all grammatical rules: I will misplace modifiers, dangle participles, and end sentences in prepositions. I will express my thoughts through that African clicking language, modern dance, and a set of bongos that I intend to wear around my neck.

5. Stay Out of Touch

This time of year, I am reminded of the many friends I have let time and space interfere with. I intend to further that distance. I’m gonna start by rejecting any new Facebook or social network requests. I will also attach a note that reads, “I never liked you in the first place, Sucka!” Lastly, I will cuss out and then hang up on people who call in hopes of fulfilling their own resolution to rekindle old friendships.

6. Be Less Patient

I vow to be aggravated, exasperated, and ready to blow my stack at the slightest misstep. The next time my son wants help with his homework I’ll say, “That’s it! Clearly this whole elementary education thing is not for you. If you don’t know how to spell “Discerning” by now, you never will…Now, go get a job! Oh, and take your sister with you, she spends way too much time on the potty.”

7. Hold Grudges

This year I vow to forgive no one. I don’t care if you step on my toe, or pay me the five bucks you owe me, a day after the assigned due date. You will go on “The List” in permanent ink and I will twirl my imaginary handlebar mustache as I think about how to get revenge.  I vow to hate you forever and never forget how you wronged me.


8. Stress More

I vow to lose sleep thinking about planning parties, redecorating my house, trying to budget, missing appointments, teacher conferences, and health issues caused by stress. I will laugh an evil cackle while erasing all the plans from my iPhone, and then cry over what I’ve just done. I will empty our bank account on frivolous investments and watch it dwindle away. Oh, wait…that already happened. Well good, more for me to worry about.

9. Become Addicted to Something

Smoking, alcoholism and Starbucks are so trite. No, this year I vow to pick up a unique dependency that people can really talk about like nasal spray or hand sanitizer or sniffing hot glue from class projects. Or at least something beneficial to my endurance like crack. Look, I already have a shopping addiction so that’s out and I do love me some reality TV; maybe I could offset the bills with a robust gambling problem.

10. Gossip More

I vow to talk about everything you do in the New Year. If I see you at the pediatrician for so much as a flu shot, I will tell everyone your child has hand foot mouth, so you can be verbally assaulted when you show up at a birthday party the next day. If you look too skinny, I will assume it’s a divorce or you’re a raging bulimic. If you look too hot, I’ll call it a torrid affair. If you look too young, it’s an addiction to surgical procedures because you’re getting divorced, due to a torrid affair.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

My Other Resolution: GET MORE READERS TO THE BLOG SO I CAN GET A COLUMN IN A SHE SHE MAGAZINE AND LEAVE ALL YOU READERS FLOUNDERING!  MWAHAHAHA!!!
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Little Things that Make me Wanna to Convert

starbucks hot

Understand, these are like the size of your thumb! Awwwww.

So, the to-go cup ornaments at Starbucks are really challenging my faith.  I may just have to convert. 

I mean have you seen them?

They’re like tiny hot and cold drinks with straws and mini logos. So cute I just want to pinch them and make tiny lattes to drink out of them. 

The truth is everything is better when miniaturized. That’s why they make mini versions of things in the first place. Does anyone remember those mini soda cans you could get out of candy machines? Or those cute little mini x-mas trees with mini ornaments? How about those Russian stacking dolls? You know the smallest was always your favorite.

As small a a can, but you shouldn't crush it on your head.

And miniature dogs,

 

I mean people will pay a fortune to have a dog that has been bred with 10 other smaller dogs. The smaller the place you can fit your dog, the better. Screw the Teacup. I want a Shot-glass. Yeah, I want a Shot-glass Yorkshire terrier. You know, one that’s the offspring of a Yorkie a poodle and a spec of dust. I’ll call it a YorkiedoodleDandy, the doodle is so it doesn’t shed. It would only have a minimal amount of hair (due to it’s teeny tiny size,) but I so hate to be off trend.

I digress, my point is: You damn marketers of miniature things have really got me this time. Yeah, as a child I spent year after year decorating other people’s trees, driving to see houses lit up with Santa being pulled by his 5 glorious reindeer. I know there are 9, I’m Jewish, not stupid. Rick Barns could only fit 5 on his lawn, hello?

Anywho, I’ve seethed with jealously at the kids who got to run down their wrought iron staircases into their highly polished mahogany floored living rooms on X-mas morn and open tons of presents under their 12 foot trees while wearing footy pajamas and sipping hot cocoa.

Oh, I know how it works.  At least one of the boxes would bark and with your new puppies in tow, you would move on to empty stockings filled with small things like Nanos, and netbooks.

What? 

That’s how I picture it.

Sure, there have been times when I was green with envy, but I never, until today, thought of converting.

starbucks cold

Look at that cute itsy bitsy straw!!!

We as a people survived thousands of years of slavery and persecution, but I fear this mini to-go cup may be the end of us. To the tribe I say, “Stay strong, stay strong.” They’ve tried to break us before, but we will not let this insanely cute miniature ornament be our demise.”  Unless they start serving mini coffee drinks in it, then it’s every Jew for themselves.

Please note:  No Lattes were harmed in the writing of this article, however, one was emptied.

Hey- if you haven’t checked out yesterday’s post Can’t a Nice Jewish Girl Sit on Santa’s Lap without Being a HO HO HO? you really should.

Happy Holidays.

 

 

 

I Can’t Come to Terms with My Quasi-Teenage First Grader | When Clueless Meets My Little Pony

We say it all the time, “my kid’s 6 going on 16” or as I like to say, “She was born a 7th grader,” but how do you reconcile the lag in actual and perceived age?

Heels and an Elmo? Point made!

Not unlike my hubby, my kids are stuck somewhere between adulthood and infancy?  My daughter, like most little girls now a days, embodies this dilemma a bit too well.

On some level, my daughter’s ready for a day at the Galleria with the girls, while at the same time she maintains a sweet innocence that’s more fitting of her numerical age.  It’s the conversations during our imaginary play that truly highlight this incongruity…

They also makes me laugh so hard that I pee.

Sorry, I was beginning to sound too astute, I mean knowingish for my liking.  (That should fix it.)

She  gets the flow of small talk – the cadence, the structure, the usual phrasing, which takes our play to a whole other level.

Yesterday she asked to braid my hair.

Ryan:  “Sit down ma’am.”

Me:  “K.”

Ryan:  “So, how’s things?”

Me:  “Pretty good, you?”

Ryan:  “I can’t complain… Been watching a lot of the sports channel these days?” (a questions directly influenced by the males in my household.)

Me:  “Nope, not so much sports these days.”

Ryan:  “How about that weather, huh?”

Me:  “Yep, it’s crazy stuff.”

The chit chat went on for a while.  Luckily, I found it more enjoyable then I do when I’m forced to have it with people I didn’t birth from my womb.

(Which, by the way, is most people.  I thought I’d clarify that point.)

We went on to switch our make-believe scenario to a school situation.  Our imaginary play is like a game of Monopoly with stockbrokers or investment bankers, melodramatic, high stakes, and never ending.

The characters and situations in our games change, but it’s constantly being played: while I cook, nap, shower, pee.  (Did anyone read the Night Circus?)

Ryan (who is always the boss in make believe world… as well as actual world, come to think of it): “Let’s pretend you passed me a note in class and I was really popular and everyone liked me and you were shy and kinda weird looking, but I was going to be nice to you anyway, because I’m always nice.”

Me:  “Don’t do me any favors, kid.  I mean, how kind of you, no wonder you’re so popular.”  Just like in the real world.

Ryan: “OK, now let’s say you passed me a note and I answered all the questions correctly.  Like anything with math or spelling, you know?”

Quick what 7+5?

Me:  “Well, when people send notes they aren’t usually asking academic questions.  They’re saying stuff like, ‘Do you like Billy?’ or ‘Are you going to Jessica’s party Friday night?’ You know, more personal stuff.”

Ryan:  “OK OK, (exasperated, as if my explanation droned on for hours) I’ll make up the questions you are going to ask in the note and then I’ll tell you what I’m answering, as the person I’m being.”

Me: “OK”

Ryan:  “So you understand how it works, right mom?

Me:  “I got it.”  Clearly she thinks I’m a bit slow.

Ryan: “Explain it to me?”

Me:  Sheesh, no one takes you on your word anymore.  “OK Ryan, you’re going to tell me the question I supposedly wrote on our pretend note and then you’re going to also answer that question how you would answer it.”

Ryan:  “Good, now, Are you a vegetarian?  (pause to answer her own question) Yes.  Do you like hot dogs? (pausing again) No.”

Me: “Well, that was a really long pause for a vegetarian.”

Ryan:  “Moooooooooaaaaaam, stop, I’m still going!  Are you Jewish?  Yes.  Do you like ham? No.”

Me:  “ Wait a sec, can we go back a couple?  Wow, that religion question sandwiched in there between the deli meats caught me a bit off guard.  Did you ask for a reason?”

Ryan:  “I don’t know.  These are your questions, remember?  Ughhh, I knew you didn’t get it.”

Me:  “OK, I forgot.” Apparently, I go around asking people if they’re Jewish or maybe I wanted to see if she keeps kosher.

Ryan:  “K. Do you like presents?  Yes.”

Me: “Are we done?”

Ryan: “No, one more.  Ummmmmm… Do you like rainbows?  Yes.

OK, I’m done.  Now you be the person who wrote the note and react to my answers.”

Me: “Wow, Ryan.  We reall…”

Ryan:  “Pause game.  My name in the game is Ali. Sheesh.”

Don’t you just love when kids try to pause non-video games?

Me:  “Sorry, I’m on it, Ryan.”

Ryan:  “ALI!”

Me:  “Ali.”

Ryan: “OK, go on.”

Me:  “Wow, Ali, I see we have a lot in common.

Ryan:  “Really?”

Me: “Well, you like presents and I also like presents.

Ryan:  “You do?”

Me:  “Yep, and we’re both Jewish, so of course there’s the similarities in our religious, not to mention, social upbringing.”

Ryan:  “Uh-huh, there’s that”

Me:  “Yep, and you know what else I like?  Rainbows, except I really like unicorns.”

Ryan:  “OMG, me too.”

Me:  “What are the odds?  Two Jewish girls who don’t eat pork and like presents, rainbows and unicorns?

Ryan:  “That’s crazy, huh?”

This is what happens when you’re 7 years old with the attitude  7th grader, conversations are a cross between Clueless and My Little Pony.

I Ate My Cat While I Was Sleeping!

 CIMG0595

Why would you eat me?

I thought I would update you on the progress of acquiring a sleep disorder that ups my productivity.

I don’t know whether to celebrate or throw in the towel.For the last two days I have given myself subliminal messages about accomplishing tasks in my sleep, as planned.I wrote phrases on flash cards and taped them around the house, reading them every time I walked by.Things like “tighten butt,” “scoop cat litter,” “clean house,” “make dinner,” and “esta es una lampara (this is a lamp).”What, I’m also trying to learn sleep Spanish.

Anyway, the first night… nothing.I did the usual: went to asleep, fell off some kind of ledge, confronted an old elementary school friend about calling me a weirdo, and made out with George Clooney, who was about to take me to his villa in Tuscany on a spaceship piloted by Brad Pitt, when I was rudely awoken by my son wanting me to make lunch for school.Why do I have an account with the cafeteria anyway?

Last night was different.I didn’t dream at all.No revenge, no superstar rendezvous, no awards ceremonies, or nightmares about planes, sharks, or sharks on planes.

I woke up feeling funny, disoriented.

My souffle was not rising.

My bed was not made.

My buttocks were not tightened.

My cat litter was not scooped…

Apparently, while sleeping last night, I cooked my work out band, cleaned my neighbors house, tightened her daughter’s braces, and ate my cat.

Now, this may seem like a setback.

Many people would give up, especially after eating their cat, but not me and the Vietnamese.I’m looking at the silver lining and calling it a success.

So, things didn’t go as planned, and my son needs a little therapy.Life is about learning and opening new doors and in that vein, I am opening a night housekeeping/orthodontics service, at the very low cost of ahem, achem, cha cha, kak.Sorry, hairball.

Call for an appointment.Your money back if I eat your pet.GUARANTEED.

Refund subject but not limited to pets deemed reasonable.Tarantulas, snakes, lizards, and gerbils not included.Only half refund for mid-sized rodents i.e. guinea pigs, ferrets and bunnies.Price where prohibited.You pay me if I eat anything shelled, like hermit crabs, snails, and turtles, or bacon, I mean pot belly pigs, except George Cloony’s, which I will spare in return for sexual favors…. bla,bla,bla,bla……..

Being a Bad Homemaker is Finally Paying Off

This is hard for me to admit, but I’m doing it for the other crappy homemakers out there who put on the requisite facade of being a good suburban wife, but would rather be playing Angry Birds.

Yes, I will be their poster child – if I can have an Angry Bird sitting on my shoulder.  You know, like a pirate for the age of technology.

Or if I could wear this bra!

 

We’ll negotiate the terms later.

You’re welcome.

You see, the truth is, not since the 60s has anyone judged women on their housekeeping abilities.  Well, not since the 60s have they admitted to it, but it happens everyday.  Sure we’re super moms, super wives, super business people, but don’t think any of us are above coming into your house and assessing the clutter on your kitchen counter.  Well, I do, but only in hopes that yours is worse than mine and then I can exhale a sigh of “wow you REALLY suck.”  Mentally, of course!

You can imagine how hard I find it to see what food I'm buying with that hat on! But I do it for YOU!

All the stuff I do, to seem with it and on the ball – my facade – it’s for you.  I know you’re judging me, checking to see if my beds have hospital corners, if our whites are whiter, if our towels are April soft, if  I pack my kids a hearty lunch with all 3 food groups represented.  (relax, I know their are only 2).

So I’m going to come clean (pun intended) and tell you, THEY’RE NOT.  Frankly, I’m a disaster when it comes to doing all that stuff, because it requires me to keep a bunch of mundane shit in my head.  Between doctors appointments, sporting events, dance practices, teacher meetings, PTA information, how many meals I will have to make for one to get eaten and getting a good deal on a Dyson, I can barely keep my head from spinning off my body.

Only those people super close to me,watched me clean up a flood from on over filled bath, or had me forget their name in their presence, know that I’m a fake and a phony.  Oh, and now you guys.

Oh, and one other person… my cleaning lady.  She’s sooo on to me.  Seriously, I try to seem like I like things a certain way, but frankly she could do a mild dusting and spray Lysol in every room and I’d find it acceptably clean.

Anywho, much to my embarrassment, my cleaning lady arrived the other day with a bag full of new supplies for me… and a receipt.

Evidently, the thought of me borrowing a cup of detergent from my neighbor (AGAIN) was so unnerving; she took matters into her own hands.

Clearly, I’ve become so unreliable, so useless, that others don’t trust me to accomplish even the smallest of tasks.

Just because my to-do lists resemble this,

TO DO:

Wake Up

Feed Dog

Shower

Sanitize kids

Apply sunblock to things that are exposed to the sun

Buy cleaning supplies

Keep spark in marriage alive

Floss…

doesn’t mean I can’t be a responsible parent, homemaker or wife.  It just means I can’t be expected to remember to clean or feed myself and family without a little reminder.  So what?  I make-do.

Truth be told, I come from a long line of disorganized “make-doers.”  For years, my own mother fed me butter sandwiches whenever we ran out of other healthy choices, like thick slices of Hebrew National salami or Oscar Mayer bologna.  Both of which were cushioned by two slices over-bleached nutrient-free Wonder Bread.

If we were out of butter she used margarine, and if we were out of that, she used dirt.  Of course all sandwiches, whether dirt or bologna were nicely complimented by an array of hearty sides.   An artery clogging bag of Utz potato chips, cavity causing Butterscotch Krimpets, and a colored sugar water that came in a barrel.

Back to my cleaning lady.  I realized, I could respond to her gesture one of two ways:

1. Embarrassment –

I could feel totally ashamed that I can’t seem to fulfill my own domestic duties when a woman with 3 kids, that often cleans 2 houses a day, manages to do find the time to do them for me.

2.  Anger –

I could be pretty pissed that another woman would do the my job, though the fact that I have a house cleaner in the first place would make that a moot point.

I went with the obvious choice, C. Be  Thankful. Frankly, I was happy that someone else took it upon themselves to do that crap for me.

I gave her a huge hug to convey that this is a system I can totally live with and fully approve of.  Yes, I have no shame, and I wanted to make sure she fully realized that.  I also wanted to imply that future unsolicited trips to do my errands would be most appreciated.

I was over-joyed. Who knew that simply shirking my responsibilities could lead to such a positive outcome?

Which brings me to my main question:  Why don’t more people take over aspects of my life unsolicited?

For years I’ve missed doctor’s appointment after doctor’s appointment and not once has a doctor made a preemptive strike by showing up at my door to give me or my children exams.

Me:  Let me understand, I am so unreliable that you have decided to give me an internal at home?

Gyno: Yep.  I know how forgetful you are due to the important and time consuming blogging and parenting that you do.  Important people like yourself are the royalty of my practice the unsung heroes, if you will.  It’s my pleasure, nay, my honor to come to you.

Me:  Wow, that is horrifyingly embarrassing, no eye-opening, no… AWESOME of you.  Do you mind if I play Fruit Ninja while we do this?

Gyno:  No Problem?

Me:  Great.  Take that you sour lemon… No Doc, I was talking to the fruit.  You’re a real peach… Yep, that time I was talking to you.  Now, bring on the speculum.  (There’s a phrase I don’t use often, but certainly often enough.)

Now, let’s look at birthday parties.  I can’t remember the last time I RSVP’d for one of those ordeals.  Many moms have taken the extra step to hunt me down via email, voice mail, evite note or a combination of all three to get my “Yay” or “Nay,” yet not once has a mom taken it upon herself to swing by my house on the way to her child’s shindig and give my kid a lift.

By the way, you can pick up a gift while you’re at it.  Hell, you know what your kid wants more than I do and frankly, I can’t be expected to have a present if you’re going to pick my child up with the assumption that I didn’t remember your child’s party in the first place.  I mean, duh?

While we’re at it, if all my neighbors and pretty much everyone I’ve ever met could take to wearing name tags… that would be incredibly helpful.

You guys are so understanding (whatever your names are)!

Thanks,

Jenny From the Blog

 

Altoids and Coffee a Deadly Combination?

This could be the 2000’s version of Pop Rocks and Coke!  Listen, if your head explodes, don’t say I didn’t warn you!

BTW – This is part deux to yesterdays piece on water retention and loss of sanity, but like any book from the Nancy Drew series, it can be read without going back to part 1… if you’re feeling super lazy.

WEEK 6

My fingers are so fat, I had to dictate this. I also had to order one of those large number phones for the visually impaired, a clapper, and a medic alert necklace in case I fall and can’t… I’m scared.

you try typing with these things!

The fluid retention may have water logged my brain and I fear I have officially lost it. I’m babbling to myself and can’t walk across the house without a nap. I tried to cut down on salt and substitute it with garlic as was recommended to even blood pressure by WebMD.com, which is virtually as good as asking any doctor.  I ate 2 whole cloves last night.

WEEK 6 -day 2

I brushed my teeth and tongue 27 times.

My tooth brush is too short.

The garlic is rising from my intestines and oozing from my pores. While in a store with my closest friend, she asked that I back up when speaking, I was down the aisle from her to begin with. I told her I needed to apologize to the saleslady for having no idea what I was looking for and she suggested I apologize for talking to the saleslady in the first place.

I warded off three vampires, or were they more salespeople? I don’t know, they seemed like blood suckers and were certainly giving me the hard sell… until I spoke and they nearly disappeared.  One was working the register I was at and she actually turned into a bat and flew away shrieking.

Does it strike anyone else as odd that the salesperson was not only a possible vampire, but also a muppet?

I can’t take it anymore.  I must get away from myself.

In the carpool line I did something crazy, well crazy if you’re a neurotic over thinker.  I started swallowing Altoids whole with the hopes that they would dissolve in my stomach and take care of the guttural odor, at the source.

Like anyone trying a new pharmaceutical I started by swallowed a half.   Then the crazy took hold.  Oh, no.  What have I done? I don’t know if it’s safe to just swallow an Altoid without chewing it.  They are curiously strong.

Me: No, that’s silly, it’s fine. People accidentally swallow gum and mints all the time, it just takes 7 years to digest, but they survive. Just shove the other three in your mouth and let’s take care of this problem.

So I did and before I could talk myself out of it, I washed them down with coffee.

Me: Holy shit. What did I just do? I swallowed more, and with coffee no less, a stimulant. What if they’re like Pop Rocks and my stomach explodes?

cartoons never lie. NEVER

Me: That never really happened, or did it? I don’t know for sure, I never saw Mikey again.  My stomach is feeling a bit sour. Maybe I should drink some ipecac?

Me: No by the time I get out of carpool line they will already be absorbed into my blood stream. Maybe I should call someone and tell them what I’ve taken, so they can inform the paramedics when the ambulance arrives… or the coroner.

Still Me: This is ridiculous Jenny, could you imagine if people just died from swallowing mints? You would hear about it. It would be on 60 Minutes or the news.

Me:  Phew!

Me: Wait, I don’t watch 60 Minutes or the news. I only watch Cartoon Network, HBO and reality TV.. Shit, I’m screwed

Me: No, you would have gotten one of those mass emails warning you about swallowing mints, like microwaving saran wrap, or using plasticware with the numbers 4,6, or 7.

Me:  Phew!

Me: But what if I’m the first person to swallow so many Altoids and wash them down with coffee? There has to be a first, right?  You have to admit it’s a bit random, swallowing Altoids with coffee, why would anyone do that?

Me in a British Accent: Pip pip and all that… Don’t worry luv, all will be splendid. Now, let’s have a spot of tea, shall we?

Me: I’d love to.  You French people make every idea sound smart.

How to Retain Water and Lose Sanity

Sure, you read articles all the time on how NOT to retain water and how celebrities cleanse and diarrhetic out the toxins and cholonic out the backed up sewage, but rarely do people tell you how to retain fluids and keep those toxic invaders in and that’s why I’m writing this. to write it the other way is too obvious, too trite, too cliche. This is why I have such a huge following… I know what people really want to know. Because I have this info, my ego is not the only thing that’s bloated.

Here’s how I learned this pertinent bloating information: I was driving and out of nowhere I felt like I was about to pass out. I was luckily in a parking lot and quickly pulled into the nearest spot sideswiping a pedestrian. Sure, I felt some guilt, but I didn’t have time to circle like I usually do and I had to settle for my sub-standard spot.

My mind was racing, “Something is very wrong, people don’t just pass out.” I called my husband on speaker while unlocking my doors, so he or the paramedics could get to me. Even in my nearly unconscious state I was anally over-preparing.

I searched for something to eat. I shoved a lollipop in my mouth… nothing. I was hanging on by a thread, when I saw my daughter’s morning sippy cup of milk. I sucked out the milk as fast as I could (those things have a valve to slow the release of liquid, making this scene almost comedic… if it wasn’t happening to me, that is.) After a rush of boiling heat radiated through my body, the feeling slowly eased. After a meal during, which I was barely lucid for, I told husband I was okay to drive myself to the doctor. This by the way took very little convincing, thanks honey. (He is never anally over-preparing)

Now let me tell you a bit about my Doctor. He is a Jewish Jamaican with a strong accent and the stereotypical laid back attitude you would expect of people who use the word “irie.” I go to him because I am too big of a hypochondriac to go to someone with credentials high strung. When I arrived at the office I found him out back taking a smoke break, he rolls his own, so there’s no telling what it actually was.

He tipped his skull cap at me and I went in to wait for my turn.

“Ello luv, I see you got yer pretty self all worked up. I don’t mean to trow the book at ya, but yer blood pressure is very low… too too low. Yer passin’ out cause yer not getting enough oxygen to yer brain daarlin’.

“That actually explains some other issues.”

“Well, ya got ta take care of dis yerself, cause yer not gonna like the medcine I’d ‘ave to put ya on. Now go to the store and buy everyting wid salt. Get some matzoh ball soup and put extra salt init, put salt on yer salt. Everyting you been taught, ferget it.Rememba ya need tons of fluids, ‘cause ya ‘ave to retain ‘em.”

“What about water?”

“Water? No. That’s terrible fer ya, that just washes the sodium away. I prefer you ‘ave a Coke. Coke jas yer, salt yer caffeine, and yer sugar. It’s the perfect drink fer yer ‘ealth.”

“Yes, I believe that’s their campaign slogan.”

“OK then, I love ya daarlin. ‘Ave a space cake fer the road.”

Did I mention he takes his appointments in a small shack? I’m totally kidding, it’s more of a trailer.

So, if I want to stay awake, I must retain water and eat and drink crap, and if I want to stay thin, I must pass out. Hmmm, well I certainly wouldn’t be the first person who passed out trying to stay thin.

It’s against everyting, sorry everthing, in me to purposely retain fluids. But apparently, this medicine is something I want to avoid, so here goes.

WEEK 1- Filled pantry with pretzels, pistachios, popcorn, pickles, peppercorn jack, and Pepsi. I know, you’re thinking they all have… salt in them, and that’s why I got them.

WEEK 2- Ate and drank all of the above. Wide awake. Feelin’ gooood.

WEEK 3- Still awake. Feeling sluggish. Fingers pruning… Must have sweet, in need of a cupcake. I secretly busted a piñata at my daughter’s friends birthday, and ravaged the innards. I blamed it on a little kid that teases her, who just happened to be the birthday boy. Ahhh, I got my sweets… and my sweet sweet revenge.

WEEK 4- Cannot look at another saltine. Putting MnMs in my soup instead of oyster crackers. Can no longer wear rings. Thighs are becoming too friendly with each other.

Mission accomplished. Do I cry or cheer?

WEEK 5- Too bloated to cook. Can’t get fingers around pan handles. Oven mitts don’t fit. Had husband install salt licks around the house for convenience. Lick them each time I waddle by. Will write more tomorrow, sausage fingers too swollen for keys.

So many freakin' Lemonade stands, but you never see one of these.

A Freudian Slip to Make Freud Blush | Oh, This Really Happened

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!

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