The Principal of a local middle school was arrested for trying to strangle his wife in her sleep, with her hoodie string. The obvious question is …Who wears a hoodie to sleep?
Tag Archives: mommy
Famous Mom Gets Fired Over Crack!
It’s official… I’m famous. For the last couple months people have been stopping me at random places to ask if I write the column “Suburban Jungle,” or to tell me they read and love my stuff. The first time was at a local Chinese restaurant where a woman and her friend were pointing. After checking for boogers and toilet paper hanging out of my pants, I heard one said, “that’s the girl with the blog I sent you.” They came over, introduced themselves and kindly let me know I had broccoli in my teeth. Damn, oversight.
My most recent approaching was at the grocery store yesterday when a woman stopped me to ask if I was a writer .
“Yes, I am.”
“Oh, I read your column and your blog, you are hilarious. I love you . Have you ever heard of so and so?”
“No, does she live in Weston?” I asked, as if I were some hick who knows no world outside this microcosm.
“No, she is a very famous writer and your stuff totally reminds me of her. You’re like a celebrity.”
The whole time my daughter was pulling on my pant leg saying, “Come on mommy let’s go.” You know the way the children of famous people do, because let’s face it to them you’re not Angelina Jolie, you’re just mommy. Did I just compare myself to Angie? Well, so be it.
I did need to get back to the deli counter before number 66 was called. But, my inflating ego was doing one of those, “Stop it you embarrass me, but go on if you must,” things. I walked away vowing to never go braless in public again, and arrived at the counter to find them at 68. I thought, “this is what it must be like to be famous.” You can’t just walk away when someone is praising your work. You would seem ungrateful and rude, yet you may have to explain to the guy at the deli counter you were accosted by fans and just couldn’t make 66.
The price we pay. I left the store and realized I must have thrown the paparazzi off my trail, as there were no photographers waiting to see what was in my basket. Though, I’m sure I’ll be in the “Normal or Not Normal” section of Star. “Grocery shopping with daughter, NORMAL.” I shoved my swelled head into my generic SUV and drove back to my humble estate.
Today, the world got wind of my hubris and decided to put me in my place. I got fired from my column for writing something utterly despicable in my new year’s resolutions article. Apparently, humor columns are no joking matter. I also wrote, I would pull my son out of school and send him to work for not being able to spell December, yet child services has not called about infringing on any labor laws.
This reference to crack…
“Resolution 9. Become Addicted To Something:
Smoking, alcoholism and Starbucks are so trite. I’m thinking something unique like nasal spray or hand sanitizer. Or at least something beneficial to my endurance like crack. Look, I already have a shopping addiction maybe I could offset the bills with a robust gambling problem.”
was so offensive that the owner, upon receiving his advance copy, threatened to fire the editors for not noticing the seriousness of my new year’s lampoon. Having not caught it before it went to print, they halted the distribution in order to rip the piece out of 30,000 copies on Dec 31. It not only held up the delivery date, it cost them over $10,000 in ad revenue from the flip side of the page, and hours of man power.
I was worth losing 10 grand over? I think that makes me infamous. Truth be told, I would have taken 8,000 not to write the piece in the first place. Then they could have pocketed 2g’s and saved themselves the New Year’s Eve headache. Or at least gotten their New Year’s headaches the old fashioned way: drinking to excess, doing embarrassing things that won’t be remembered at a party of your peers, and accidentally letting the wrong person tongue you when the ball drops.
So, no more play dates with Apple, or Kingston, or Shiloh, or Hazel and Finn. It’s back to the normal folk with their normal kid names. No more late nights swapping with the Pitt’s. It’ll be okay. I might just start doing crack, to take the edge off.
10 Resolutions I Can Actually Keep
This 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 Chanukah I had my husband buy me a guitar. I had all the confidence in the world that by this new year, 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 have made some resolutions that are a bit more achievable:
1. Nag More
For 10 years 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 friendly, “How many times do I have to tell you?” 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 2010.
2. Gain weight
I will add carbs to my diet with reckless abandon. I will start each meal with a generous helping of bread and rolls onto which I will spread an obnoxious amount of butter. I will stuff food into my mouth with such fervor it will make other eaters uncomfortable to watch. I vow to eat everything a la mode including ice cream.
3. Work out 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 will take elevators in two-story buildings. Lastly, I will drop my membership to the gym and use the money I save to buy more carbs.
4. Forget an old language
This year, not only am I not going to learn a new language, I will let my brain atrophy to forget the one I already know. I will watch endless episodes of Sponge Bob and Chowder. I will stop doing crosswords and speaking in complete sentences. I will 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 will 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 will 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.” I will cuss out and hang up on people who call in hopes of fulfilling their own resolution to rekindle old friendships.
6. Be less patient
I will 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 is not for you. If you don’t know how to spell December by now, you never will…Now go get a job! Oh, and take your sister with you, she sits on the potty way too long.”
7. Hold grudges
This year I will 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. I vow to hate you forever and never forget how you wronged me.
8. Stress more
I will lose sleep thinking about planning parties, redecorating my house, trying to budget, missing appointments, teacher conferences, and health issues. I will laugh an evil cackle while erasing all the plans from my PDA, and then cry over what I have 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. I’m thinking something unique like nasal spray or hand sanitizer. Or at least something beneficial to my endurance like crack. Look, I already have a shopping addiction, maybe I could offset the bills with a robust gambling problem.
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 an addiction. 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. I will start a rumor phone tree and a blog called “WhatYourNeighborsAreReallyUpTo.com.” I may even have a megaphone installed on my “Gossip Mobile,” so I can drive through local parking lots amplifying the skeletons in your closet to all within earshot. Oh, wait… I’ll just write about it in my next column.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Do You Believe in Psychics or Just Plain Irony?
So, I was at a party about 8 months ago where there was a psychic. She was one of those weird holistic ones. As opposed to the normal “businessy” type you so often see. Anyway, she had me pick from a tray of stones and then she asked me for family birthdays. I was determined not to make any kind of give-away face or gesture and sat there staunch and stiff, talking robotic and trying to appear blank. Which I’m sure just made it seem like I had to poop.
If I go to a party and get drunk with a bunch of girls, and the host in good fun hires a fortune teller to give her guests a 2 minute reading, I am going to make her work for it. My stupid gaze is luckily unnoticed because she quickly goes into a weird semi-seizure like trance as she stares at the stars, hoping for one to blink her some kind of Morse code and reveal my true self to her. She pauses and pauses, shimmies and shakes, and flutters her eyeballs back into her skull. Finally, ahhhh the epiphany, “I see… networking.” “Really? Networking? You see networking? No fame? No travel? No windfall? None of that, you see networking?” “Well I’m sorry that’s what I see, and lots of it.”
Now of course I am racking my brain to think of the networking I do on a daily basis, okay a weekly basis, okay monthly? I did recommend my cleaning lady to a neighbor recently, but I never called her back with the number. Does that count?
I don’t even network with my friends. I check my machine and there are messages from college that I haven’t gotten yet. They say things like: “There’s gonna be a frat party after we go to the RATT, so come, okay, What-everrr.”
Seriously, anyone who has had the pleasure of awaiting my return call can attest to it. My machine actually says leave your message and someone in the family will call you back…probably Buddy (the dog) and the truth is he used to call people back in a timely manner, before he went deaf. Now he has a lot of trouble working the TTY system…cause he’s also arthritic.
Anyway, I continued to prod.
“Will I have a writing career?”
“I don’t know, but if you do it comes from networking.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, networking, and please send the next person, cause you’re taking all my time and thus inhibiting my ability to NETWORK! Oh and here’s my card.”
So, I waited like a vulture for each reading to end, making the person on the block highly uncomfortable. I know you’re thinking, “I want to party with Jenny.” I asked around, and people got stuff like, “You’re bored with your day to day routine.” and “I see you were close with your mother growing up.” She even told one girl she was pregnant. But to me she said those 3 quizzical syllables, net-work-ing. I came home and woke Mark to tell him how dead on she was with her reading for him and the kids, and that she knew Ally was pregnant. “What do you think networking means?”
He said, “It means you’re an idiot. Ally is showing. These “mind readers” take one look at you and than say the most generic things possible… everyone networks. She probably told 10 people that.” “Nope, you’re wrong. I know because I made it my duty to stop enjoying the party, and hamper others from doing the same by grilling them about their personal readings.” “All I m saying is, I am so surprised a smart person like you falls for this. You really think some random woman, from the big city of Pembroke Pines, Florida, who works the party circuit, has the gift of seeing into the future?”
About a month later I and I started my blog and started getting feedback from companies and groups. I have found that literally all I do, outside of my mothering and housewife gig, is network. I’ve joined 107 groups on facebook, 3 women entrepreneur networks, and 237 bloglog communities. I write personal messages to editors, bloggers, mothers, and reviewers. Then I annoy the crap out of all of them by mass emailing on a daily basis.
About a week ago I looked at Mark and said “Remember that fortune teller? She said all she saw was networking and look at me. She was right. How crazy is that?” “Jenny, you are not seriously thinking that because you now network she was right? She could have said that to anyone… maybe it’s simply ironic. Or maybe it’s a self fulfilling prophecy that you started networking?” “Are you suggesting that because this woman said that I would network, that I dropped my enjoyable shopping and sleeping habits to spend all my free time getting fat in front of a computer?
Wow that shlub from Pembroke Pines Florida sure has some serious power of persuasion. Lucky she didn’t say we would get a divorce. I’d be looking for a good lawyer right about now. Oh, the irony in Mark calling me naive for believing in such foolishness. The psychic told me I would come across a disbeliever… see, she was clairvoyant.
Can A Nice Jewish Girl Sit On Santa’s Lap Without Being A Ho Ho Ho?
This is the unabridged version of the published article.
I’m not gonna throw myself under the bus and call my children spoiled, as I would have only myself to blame. I will say, however, they have an extreme sense of entitlement, which I am sure has little to do with them being lavished with gifts undeservedly. My children want everything they see, hear about, could get as a party favor, could find in a McDonalds happy meal, a cereal box, a piñata, or view in a commercial.
“Mommy can I have that? Will you buy me that? Mommy friends neighbor has that. I want that. When can I have that? Mommy? Ma? Maaaaaaaa? MOM! This exchange of words usually ends with, “If you mention it again, the answer will be never.” “Never? I can’t even have a Clone Trooper Voice Changer Helmet when I’m 25?” “Sure. If you still want a Clone Trooper Voice Changer Helmet at 25, you can wear it to therapy.”
“How about I get it for my next birthday, or maybe Kwanzaa?” My son is already eyeing a camouflage pencil set for Secretaries Day, and has informed me that, although we are Jewish, he will be giving up vegetables for Lent.
My children’s Chanukah wish lists are so comprehensive, I may be forced to explore alternative channels in my gift search. Consequently, I have sent a friendly letter asking someone who has slighted me in the past for help. Some might say it’s more of a formal accusation, but really it’s just a hand delivered note that needs to be notarized and signed on receipt. It goes:
Dear Santa,
I have never complained about you forgetting us Jews in the past, but times are tough. I mean, I don’t want to threaten you or anything, but let’s talk religious profiling, shall we? I’m sure the fact that we don’t believe in you has something to do with you snubbing us year after year. Do we, a people known to produce a whiner or two, complain? No, some of us, me included have made an effort to believe. Let us not forget Christmas of 83’ when I sat on your lap asking for a Speak N’ Spell, a Magic Eight Ball, and Shawn Cassidy’s “Da Doo Ron Ron” 45. I have a laminated picture from Macy’s to prove it.
Do you not bombard us with your festive songs and holiday movies made with delightfully animated reindeer and elves? Do Jews get to go a-caroling? No, we have one song… about kids gambling. Has Dreidel ever starred in a delightfully animated holiday movie? Has Snoopy, or Barbie, or a single Disney character ever lit a Menorah? Maybe in the privacy of their own homes, but certainly never on camera (it’s in their contracts.) We’re okay with that, because we wrote those contracts. Sure, we take advantage of your sales and vacations. We watch your shows, and sing your catchy songs. We’ll decorate a tree with blue and white twinkle lights, top it with a six pointed star, and call it a Chanukah bush.
Santa, my Roth IRA is down 40%. I deserve a little holiday cheer. You can look me up, I’ve been nice, and I’d like to keep it that way. My daughter wishes to receive the “now truer to life” Baby Alive that not only eats, but poops. She would also like the “now truer to life on the streets” Bratz Doll, which comes complete with Brazilian waxing kit and requisite diaphragm.
My son “just has to have” the new Guitar Hero “I Choked on My Own Vomit Tour,” a super Bakugan the size of his head, and some alone time with my daughter’s Bratz doll. I will forward you the unabridged version via zip file. I look forward to us all getting along!
Sincerely,
Frustrated Jewish Mom
P.S. I feel like maybe we got off on the wrong foot here. I didn’t mean to sound so hostile. Santa, just tell me what a girl’s gotta do to get some Christian love? I can be naughty if necessary. Perhaps a visit to your “south pole” (wink, wink)? Not by me, we Jews don’t really do that after marriage, but I know a girl that I can call.
HAPPY HOLIDAYS
Why Are Men Such Babies?
For 4 days I have been sick. Nothing crazy, just the usual sore throat in the morning, coughing, fatigue kind of thing. Yet in those four days, the world miraculously kept spinning, my children’s schedules did not disappear, nor did mine. They made it to school, and to baseball, and the Doctor. They did not suffer from starvation because I decided to forgo grocery shopping, making them breakfast, or packing their lunches, so that I could lie around and do something trivial, like recuperate.
Last night I happily turned out the lights at 11PM, hoping to make up for that 4hour “nap” I had the night before. At midnight my dog Buddy, pacing and panting like a sex caller, sent me out like a shot for his first pee break of the evening. At 1AM my son ran in soaking wet, exclaiming, “I think I sweated too much.” Unable to peel myself up, I let his little naked tush into my bed where he continued to whine for about an hour straight. “Mommy, I neeeeeeeeeed pants.” “I’ll get you pants,” and let our heavy breather out for the 2nd time. “Mommy, I neeeed my favorite pillow.” “I’ll get your favorite pillow” and give our letchy dog a bowl of water. By 3AM Jake had tried 12 different positions. Including the one where you go all the way under the covers to the end of the bed and push until you fall to the floor taking the comforter with you. He complained about 20 different things, from being upset that I had to remake the bed after he fell out of it, to having an actual dislike for color of my sheets. “They’re white.”
In the midst of this chaos, my husband was completely oblivious during those last few hours. Some could argue that this has been the case for the last 9 years.
He was sleeping with his body pillow, the one he stole from me in the 3rd trimester of my 1st pregnancy. It has been our small person sized bedmate ever since. A bedmate that he shoves in his crotch and smothers between his knees. Well, better the pillow than me. He had 2 more pillows over his head and was taking up 73% of the bed. He had built and Iron clad barricade which my son could not penetrate or budge. Jake and I were so snug I’d have to rebirth him to get him to school. Finally , I gave up and wooed him back into his room by promising to make him a fort, “just like Daddy’s.” Of course I had to remake his bed first, as the sweat had an uncanny resemblance to pee. I got back into bed around 4 AM, after reading my dog a story and letting my son out. Wait, scratch that and reverse it.
By 4:45 my son was back in the womb. “Mom, can I be your snuggle bunny?” For how many years will I get to hear that? At 5AM my daughter was squeezing in on the other side of me. We laid there like a hermetically sealed package of sausages, my arm coyoteed under Ryan’s head. Then she started complaining. “Its too hot with this blanket. Mom my PJ’s hurt. Mom I hate the color of your sheets.” Somehow, 6:30 managed to roll around.
I banged on my husbands fort with the door knocker he installed. Bang…Bang…Bang. “Please get the kids ready for school. I was up all night.” Mark is a morning person so I imagined it would be no big deal. “Grumble grumble… no.” “What do you mean you won’t help me?” “Grunt, I’m sick, my throat is killing me. Besides, I was up too.” “What kept you up? Was it the sound of your snoring? Or maybe the pillow over your head wasn’t soft enough.” “I just can’t I’m too sick.” My husband’s cold might as well be the plague, as the Earth has halted on it’s axis.
It would take a hemorrhaging artery to get him to the Doctor, excuse me the clinic, as he has never officially acquired a Doctor. But, why go? It’s easier to lay around and tease my children with his untouchable presence. He’ll spend his day creating an impressive mound of snotty tissues, large enough to pitch off of. Tissues which he is too sick to bend down and pick up, however he is not too sick to work, or to make sure to keep up with his fantasy football team.
He’ll refuse to use sanitizer, and sluggishly mosey around the house, putting his grubby, germy hands in every bag of chips, touching every door knob and remote, and talking on every phone. He may even lick the straws on the juice boxes for good measure. All in a effort to ensure that as soon as he gets better, both my children will surely contract his illness and I will have no shot at personal recovery.
Now I should Mommy him, which in my bitter and sick state, I cannot even feign an attempt. Listen, if I wanted another child I would adopt one from Indonesia. If you need to be babied, call your Mom. Better yet, go stay with her. I don’t ask that my sickness or lack of sleep take precedence over yours. I just ask that you go to a hotel until your’s passes.”
Beaten to a Pulp
On my way back from a 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. My grapes were 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 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.”
What? That’s how they talk, they’re from Chile.
“Wow that was overly informational, I’m glad we spoke.”
The oranges were not so pleasant. One cantankerous orange spoke for the sack 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!”
“It appears the history of unrest in your country has caused you to become bitter. In addition, I don’t appreciate your tone, Orange. I was just trying to make polite conversation. This is the last time I talk to produce!”
I got my revenge on that sour orange. First, I sliced him in half, and then I juiced 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 tell others what happens when fruit talks back.
Between this post and yesterdays, it appears I could use some anger management.