Tag Archives: Jenny from the blog

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

10 Things I Wanted to do with My Life and Clearly Never Will

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

Mom: Can you Die of Constipation… Elvis Did

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!!!

So, I Have a Cleaning Lady – No Need for Verbal Assaults

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

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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Politically Incorrect Meets the Forth Grade

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.

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.

 

 

 

DON’T Analyze This

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.

What you Should Never Ever do When you Forget Someone’s Name


At a very lovely party I went to last weekend, which ironically happened to be a baby naming, don’t worry, you’ll get the irony later, I had one of my more humiliating moments.  Let’s say I’ve had more my share of humiliating moments (See Humiliation on the Roller Rink, a Freudian Slip to make Freud Blush and the time I was an amateur stalker).  I was talking to some ladies I’d been introduced to moments prior and because people’s names tend to leave my head as quickly as they enter, I found myself fumbling for their given monikers.

I have a few tricks when I forget names.  My go-to tactic is to quickly get distracted into conversation, ask a question of a peripheral person or run off to one of my children to wipe off a stain, a booger, a smirk… This allows the two people I’m with to take the reigns and awkwardly introduce themselves.  I try to stay close enough to eavesdrop and once I hear the name I’d forgotten I turn back and say something like “I’m sorry, Laura this is Sheryl” or “Sorry about that, have you two met?”  Maybe it’s totally transparent, but you can’t prove I didn’t need to know where the person directly behind me got her shoes, can you?

My other strategy is to stand there like an idiot until the two people I’m standing with introduce themselves and then I get to dorkily say something like, “I’m sorry, that was rude of me not to introduce you.” or  “I thought you two knew each other.”  The “I thought you knew each other” can only be used in few situations.  You can’t expect your parents to know your yoga instructor, or your hubby to know your child’s pediatrician.  (Was that below the belt? Well, I’m an equal opportunity offender.)

So, I was introducing my daughter, who’s name I do remember, to these women and I introduced one of the gals as Claire.  She gave me the look I’ve seen too many times, which said, “My name is not even close to that, I mean we’re not even talking same first letter.”

“You’re name’s not Claire is it?” I surmised.

“No, it’s Ann.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I don’t know where I got Claire.” (uncomfortable pause)  “Claire’s a horrible name. I mean you certainly don’t look like a Claire, you’re much prettier.”

“Thank you,” she said as if she wholeheartedly agreed, while the ladies laughed at my quick recovery.

The truth is, I really have no negative feelings towards Claire’s.  The name is cute and Frenchie.  Plus, I loved My So Called Life and her cow hugger, I enjoy that I can get 157 items for $9.99 at Claire’s namesake fashion accessories stores.  I’ll even hunker down with an eclair every now and again.  I can only blame this superflous, mean-spirited name bashing on the immortal words of one dissident teenager, John Bender who said: “Claire’s a fat girls name… You’re not fat at present…  One day you’re gonna get married, you’re gonna squeeze out a few puppies and then, uh uhh uhh…”

When you’re doing off the cuff, face saving comedy or “gorilla comedy,” as I like to call it, you don’t have a ton of time to plan your set.  You just make a quick association and go with it.

I went on to sully the good name that is “Claire” for quite some time. Saying something like:

“Ryan, Ann’s a great name for a girl but Claire sucks.”

“Claire’s a slutty girl who will definitely be knocked up in high school and won’t even get a reality show. ”

“Claire could not be a more awful name.  When I hear it I want to scratch my eyes out.”

Look, I don’t remember the exact Claire slurs, but they were extreme.  As the ladies laughed and we jovially got past my gaffe, I turned to the baby of honor’s godmother, who I had not yet introduced to my daughter.

Knowing her name was Diane or Dana or something with a D, I said, “I hope your name’s not Claire. Snort snort hee hee.”

Nope, but my daughter’s is.

Well, now I guess we know where I got it from.

The baby was not the only one doing this!!!

The laughing quickly stopped.

The look on her face was not quite that of someone whose name I forgot, it was someone whose favorite name in the whole world, the one she chose to name her only daughter, I just raked through the mud.

“I’m so sorry, I was just trying to make light of the situation. (Pause to get no reaction whatsoever) I actually like the name Claire.”

Good save Jenny, the term “actually” made you sound as if it would be odd to like the name Claire, like saying, “Most people probably don’t, but I ACTUALLY do.”

“Well, I do,” she said with a well deserved sneer.

“I should shut up now.”  I followed.  And I actually did, which is rare.  She then walked away.

The mother of the baby of honor, thank goodness I had the good sense to confirm his name before my arrival, caught the tail end of our conversation.

“What just happened?” She inquired.

“Well, I don’t think your best friend and I just bonded,” I said, and went on to tell her the tale…  leaving out the part about the Jud Nelson association bit.

She said, “Don’t worry, I’m sure she didn’t take it personally.  I’ll tell her you’re funny and that you write a blog.”

Wow, if only that really held some weight.

Jenny did what?  Jenny stood you up for lunch?

Don’t take it personally, she writes a blog.

Jenny called your mother fat and kicked her in the shin?

Oh, that Jenny, you know she writes a blog.

Jenny robbed a convenience store?

Those bloggers.  Yep, she writes a blog and she’s funny, officer.

Well, assuming that her explanation of why I can get away with being offensive and rude didn’t work,  I have one less fan in the universe.  Luckily, I write a blog, so people get to subscribe and unsubscribe to me daily.

By the Way: No Claire’s were harmed in the making of this post, which is more than I can say for Claire’s mother. Sorry.

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.