Tag Archives: Jenny Isenman

A Thought on New Celebrity Parenting Trends: WTF?

For years I’ve tried to keep up with the celebrity mommas, but maybe it’s time to call it quits. Here are some of the trends celeb parents have started thus far. Yes, I’ve logged them for you.

Let’s go back to the simpler days, when “with child” became the new “in rehab.” Oh, how I enjoyed that shift in trends, I was able to finally stop popping Adderall like Smarties… and start a family.

Next, the paparazzi traded the “crotch shot” for the “baby bump” — another adjustment I was willing to make. I loved being on baby bump watch with Access Hollywood and Us Weekly, even if I was looking at  false alarms of bloated actresses who had just downed some salty Chinese take-out.  Look, anything’s better than staring at LiLo’s firecrotch… again.  Plus, let’s just say my Brazilian waxing bills were through the roof, as I never knew when someone would snap a surprise pic of my undercarriage while I provocatively exited a cab.

Then of course, celebs threw us for a loop by naming their kids things like Continue reading →

20 Indicators that You May be Addicted to Words with Friends

Love Words with Friends? If more than half of these describe YOU,  I’ll see you in WWFAA or we could just play a game, my schedule’s too tight for a twelve step program these days (TWELVE min- 14pts.).

Ok, I’ve played my fair share of Angry Birds, and Fruit Ninja, and Cut the Rope, but there’s something unique about Words with Friends, that has me utterly fixated. (FIXATED minimum 18 points) Maybe it’s the fact that I get to whup other people and feel superior. (WHUP min- 13pts.) I don’t exactly know.  I do know that I’m not alone, 20 million players have downloaded this addictive app. (ADDICTIVE min- 18pts.)

I mean, I’m not an addict – Frankly, I could quit at anytime.  Though, I’m told that’s the first thing an addict says.  Well, right after, “I’m not an addict.” S&*t, I’m screwed.  (SCREWED min- 14pts.)

In an effort to see if I’m truly hooked, I compiled a list of indicators. Feel free to test your level of obsession, as well. (HOOKED min- 13pts.)

1.   You know every two letter word in the WWF dictionary  AA, JO, ZA, KA, QI etc… (QI min 11pts.)

2.   You know every word that can be made with the letters J, Q, X, Z, from AJEE to ZYGOTE… (ZYGOTE min- 19pts.)

3.   You realize it’s sometimes worth it to leave open a triple when you can get a high score on a double-double. (HIGH min- 10pts.)

4.   Number 3. didn’t sound like gibberish to you.  (GIBBERISH min- 17pts.)

5.   You know that to win you need strategy and persistence.  A good vocabulary is near the bottom of the prerequisites.  And you’re ok with that, because you’re a persistent strategist. OK (OK is not a word.  Didn’t see that one coming did you?)

6.   You can only use about 50% of the words you play in an actual sentence. “Gi, your hair smells terrific.” (GI min- 4pts)

7.   You’re willing to try every letter combo in your stack to make a bingo. (BINGO min- 11pts.)

Continue reading →

Sex or Oven Cleaning : The Age Old Dilema

That’s the question I was faced with the other night… and after a decade of marriage, I chose to clean my oven.  (Sadly, that’s not a metaphor.)

Recently, I went to a sex party, which one of my friends was co-hosting.  Upon entering, I was quickly introduced to the “Sexpert.”

“Jenny this is Julie, she is a penis expert.” No joke, that’s how she was introduced.  This made me wonder: why people don’t introduce me as something cooler?

“That’s funny.  I’m somewhat of a penis expert myself,” I said, buffing my nails on my shirt as if cleaning an apple.  Then I blathered something about not being a pro like her, because I didn’t want to jeopardize my amateur status.  You know, for the Olympics?  Jenny what the hell are you talking about?  Did you just mention the Olympics? The Olympics of what – hand-jobs?  Just shut up, already.

Sometimes when I’m uncomfortable I use exaggerated humor to fill conversational gaps.  Did I say use?  I meant abuse, like in the form of an oddly misplaced stand-up routine, which can become painful to watch and often requires more than a two drink minimum.

“Oh, what do you do?” she asked, not knowing what to make of my schtick.  “Are you a urologist or something?”

“No, I’m just a slut.“

Really, Jenny? Did you just say that? What’s the matter with you? 

“I’m not really a slut, I’ve just… Continue reading →

Want to be Married to Christian Grey – It Could be Something Like This…

“…ANASTASIA: Mr Grey, is that a Barbie up my butt? Christian: Oops, wrong playroom… and other things you might hear in Christian Grey’s household after a few years of marriage and a couple of children…” (For any mom who’s read any or all of the series. And I promise, No spoilers!)

Okay, I’m officially on the bandwagon. You moms with all of your oohing and ahhhing, and “Oh, Mr. Grey-ing.” Your running to the nearest Pleasure Chest Sex Emporium, and your, “My laundry and dishes are piling up because I can’t put these books down,” have gotten me to read the Fifty Shades series. 



So, what is it about these books that have moms devouring them like left over fries on their child’s plate?

Well, here’s what I’ve come up with so far: It makes me giggle when someone calls their vagina their “sex.” I find the sound of ripping foil oddly erotic. And Christian has made millions of women across the world, myself included, rethink our marraiges, and wonder why our hubbies can’t be more attentive, loving, obsessed, and well, “Christian-esque.”

So, what’s the deal? Why can’t our hubby’s be more like Christian Grey?

Because like “Twilight’s” Edward Cullen (who the character is based on) – hot young vampires and hot young billionaires that barely work, have erotic sex, lavish you with expensive goodies, and make sure you’re never cold, hungry, or un-swathed in designer duds – don’t exist.

But if they did, would we want them? I wonder what it’d with a Christian Grey-esque man after a few years of marriage and a couple of children?

Hmmm? (Imagine squiggly lines in your mind, to indicate a dream sequence):

CHRISTIAN: Ohh, Mrs. Grey, stop biting that lower lip or I’ll take you here in the breakfast nook!

ANASTASIA: Um, Mr. Grey, it would behoove you to wait until the children are done with their Cheerios. It might be a bit awkward and messy with them around. Plus, you’re starting to creep me out.

CHRISTIAN: Oh, don’t worry about the mess, Mrs. Grey., Ms. Jones will tend to it.

ANASTASIA: Which reminds me, Mr. Grey, please ask Ms. Jones to stop sterilizing the butt plugs with the bottle nipples.

.
CHRISTIAN: Oh Anastasia, Continue reading →

Mathletes are Athletes Too

“I’m gonna count you out!!! When I’m done with you, you’ll be 1/3rd the boy you are today… That’s 33.3%… .33333…  .333 infinity…” and other trash talkin’ you may hear at a Mathletes Meet…

What kid doesn’t like to trash talk – especially boys?  It must be in the genes because I definitely don’t walk around the house saying stuff to my son like: “I’m so much better at brushing my teeth then you are.” (Even though I totally am.)

What? Please, he’s had like 6 cavities and I’ve had 2 and I’m tons older.  My oral hygiene seriously crushes his!

Fine, so maybe it’s not so surprising that they trash talk, but I want to know if it carries over into all facets of life?

My son plays on a travel baseball team and one of his teammates is also a Mathlete.  Yes, I said Mathlete, it’s a word.

So, during a double header, where our team chanted really cool stuff at the mound in unison like, “A meeting, a meeting, there must be cheating.” I turned to that friend and asked if there’s trash talking on the Mathletes playing field – because that would be really funny.

And so me and my favorite “humor catalyst” (See: What Happens When You Scream “Penis” in Front of a Bunch of 9 Year Olds – for an explanation and a full on giggle fit) began to imagine what that trash talk would sound like:

Amy:  Yeah, he totally trash talks. He says stuff like, I’m gonna count you out!!!

Me:  Oh, and, when I’m done with you, you’ll be 1/3rd the boy you are today…. 

That’s 33.3%

.33333

Amy: .333 infinity

Me:  You’ll be a freaking decimal when this is over.

Amy: Continue reading →

Phrases we Could Teach our Kids to Say – to Make us Feel Younger Smarter and Prettier

“…It may be too late to train our hubby’s to dole out the ego boosting compliments, but our children?  Yes, yes (twist handlebar ‘mooostache’ if you have one), we can work with this.  Here’s a list of phrases I’d like to teach my children to say.  Feel free to borrow it – it’ll make you feel good…”

Not my little girl... but still pretty cute.

The other day my daughter said,  “I bet people who just meet us think we’re sisters.”  Frankly, that’s a bet I wouldn’t take, but who am I to sneer in the face of lovely sentiment?  I mean, that’s the kind of phrase you would have to train (or pay) a child of 7 to say, but no, she did it on her own volition.  No, coaxing or prodding, not even in the hopes of getting a new Barbie out of the deal.  Though I think a phrase like that deserves a new iPad – at a bare minimum.

The effect of this simple observation, that my clearly brilliant child made, was utter joy- total narcissistic mirthfulness – and that’s not a phrase I use often, as you can imagine.

This got me thinking:  If this tiny guileless thought could make me feel so great, why can’t we train our children to say things that will make us feel more hip, young, or smart, and less twitchy or stabby?

Truth is, Continue reading →

Productive Things to do While Doing it – The Cure for Boring Married Sex

You might be thinking, “Jenny from the Blog, the Jen X’pert, silly girl – that’s just you. My sex life is as hot and heavy as ever.” Well, to you I ask this, “When was the last time you had sex on a surface that didn’t have sheets?” (Hmmm? been a while huh?) “Ok, when was the last time you had sex not between kids asleep time and you asleep time?” I rest my case – B-O-R-I-N-G… Continue reading →

What Those Candy Hearts Should REALLY Say – After Marriage – A little post V-Day fun

While searching for a pic I found this. I guess I

On Valentine’s Day I was reading through the V-day Sweethearts, you know, the conversation hearts, the ones that are supposed to represent the sweet nothings you would whisper in your lover’s ear before bed. Like: I love you, be mine, kiss me… blah blah blah. So in that vein, I’ve made a list of what should be etched in red on those cute little hearts.

BTW this article is not for newlyweds, so you can refrain from reading and telling me how head over heels you are. Give it a few years. Ahem- I mean, I’m happy for you. Frankly, you can avoid this article unless you’re past the 7 year itch. Sorry, but resentment and boredom takes time to cure, like a salami.

WIVES CONVERSATION HEARTS:

I BOUGHT ANOTHER PAIR OF SHOES, DON’T WORRY THEY WERE ON SALE

SHH… THE REAL HOUSEWIVES OF BEVERLY HILLS IS ON

NO, I WON’T PUT THAT IN MY MOUTH 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.

Let’s Give our Dead Tree to a Hobo | Obviously

This is what happens when you ask a bright child a simple question – you get sucked into some vortex where “kid reasoning” makes good sense and you end up regretting the question and inevitably rethinking the outcome.  This is why we should all just talk to our children less.

“You wanna pick out a new tree with me, this bougainvillaea has seen better days?”

“Sure, but then where are we going to put this bougainvillaea?”

“Honey, this tree has been dead for like 2 years.  I think, I’ve given it ample time to prove me wrong.”

“SO, you’re just going to throw it away?  Just like that?” Said with hands on hips as if I’m throwing away the cat for puking up a hairball.

“Um yeah, drama queen.”

“Nooooooo, (sob sob), gosh they go from calm to melt down mode fast, you can’t throw it away mom.  Why don’t you give it to Haiti.”

My 7 year old daughter seems to think that the people in Haiti need everything, down to a lone left over piece of pizza. 

Seriously, you're freaking kidding me right?!

Like with leftovers, I imagine the shipping on a tree wouldn’t be very cost effective.  I also imagine the look on some poor Haitian child’s face when he eagerly tears into a package from the US containing a slice of old pizza or in this case, a dead tree.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m so glad some of what I’ve been preaching about charity and giving back is sinking in.  However misguided her suggestions, her intentions are good.

“OK honey, I can’t send the tree to Haiti, so who am I giving it to”

“Someone who needs one.”

“Someone who needs a dead tree?  Should I put it on Craig’s List?”

“No mom, someone less fortunate.”

“You mean someone without a dead tree?  Maybe a person who can’t afford bad landscaping?”

“That’s not funny mom.  I mean, like a hobo.”

"Hey guy on my left, why no belongings?" "Because I don't have a stick or branch. If I just had a tree all my problems would be solved!"

Ahhh,  a hobo – a word commonly used in the early 1900s and for some reason, also used by my children.

“Yes those homeless folks or should I call them tramps, could really use a tree.  I mean, since they’re known for carrying all their belongings in a ‘kerchief sack, we should give them a whole tree, so they would never run out of branches to tie their sacks to.”

“I just don’t want the tree to be left somewhere to die. It deserves better!”

That actually does sound sad.  I mean, what did the tree ever do to me, other than try to provide shade for my family and produce beautiful fuchsia flowers?

Maybe, I can send it somewhere?  Maybe 2 years isn’t enough time to leave it on life support.  Maybe I shouldn’t pull the plug.

What do they call a tree doctor?  A taxidermist?  No, that’s not right.  An arbordermist?  Something like that.  I should call one.   If it were a palm tree I could call a palm reader.

Jenny, get a hold of yourself.  You’re not calling a tree doctor, but I did enjoy that joke.  Pull it together and stay tough!

“You know what?  Maybe we could have them make the tree into mulch.  They would chop it up and then put it around other trees.”

“Nooooo don’t chop up the tree.” Said as if I were suggesting some form of painful tree torture.

“Why, that seems like a lovely option, that way the tree could keep giving.  Like the giving tree.  Oh G-d, The Giving Tree, what a moving story…  Anyway, his mulch could feed other trees and the Earth.  How beautiful (sob sob) the circle of life and all.”

“NO!  When Buddy died did you chop him up and feed him to other dogs?”

“OK, you’re right… We keep the tree!  It belongs here with us, it’s our ugly, unflowering spikey dead tree.  Even if it’s on it’s last limb, which it is by the way… it’s OURS!”

This may seem a bit premature, but if there are such things as debate team scouts out there, you may want to hold a spot for the year 2022.

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.

Conversations with Produce | How to Handle Ornery Oranges

On my way back from a recent trip to Whole Foods, I was in my car thinking about my highly inflated purchases, and wondering how much of my food’s airfare I had paid for. My grapes were imported from from Chile, my oranges from South Africa, and my avocado from Argentina.

It dawned on me that my fruit is worldlier than I am!  So, I thought we could kill some time while stuck in traffic by discussing travel, good hotels, and sightseeing.

The grapes were extremely friendly. Well, they were seedless, so what would you expect? They went on to warn me about their country. “Ay dios mio, jou don want to go to Chile. It may mean cold en Ingles, but esta muy caliente . Also, jou should remember to wash us bueno. We may be organic, but jou have no idea how much bug poop jour eating.”

“Wow that was overly informational Grapes, I’m glad we spoke.”

The oranges were not so pleasant. One cantankerous orange spoke from my biodegradable sack made of recycled hemp or some such product and  said, “You call yourself a conservationist!?”

“What do you mean?”

“You live in Florida and you just bought oranges from South Africa! How do you sleep at night?”

“So, you’re a ‘Greenie’” I should have guessed, you being organic and all. Well, I will have you know whenever I see an empty plastic bottle I throw it in my SUV and drive 3 miles out of the way to take it to a collection site. You can’t say I don’t do my share.”

“Yeah? And I bet you leave your car running while you drop it off.”

“Well, of course I do, it’s super hot in Florida. Or, as your bag mates would say, muy caliente.”

“Waster!”

“Orange”

I know, not so creative, but it’s hard to think of a good comeback to fruit.

I continued, “It appears the history of unrest in your country has caused you to become bitter. In addition, I don’t appreciate your tone, Orange. Sheesh, I was just trying to make polite conversation. That is the last time I talk to produce!”

Later that day, I got my revenge on that sour orange. First, I sliced him in half, and then I squeezed him to a pulp. Next, I peeled off his skin and ate his carcass.  I made his friends watch, and then set them free, so they could send a message to other sour citrus.  (What, it worked for Keyser Söze)

Between this post and “Camp Phone Calls Could End my Marriage,” I feel I may be ordered into anger management.

By day I’m a lifestyle expert, by night I write false facts on Wikipedia.  The blog is gaining steam, so if you like it please take a sec to share it and check out the right side for RSS, bookmark, email, and newsletter sign-ups.  Sooo appreciated, if I can grow this thing I can stop screwing up kid’s reports.

xo

-Jenny From the Blog