Tag Archives: motherhood

The 1st Annual Toony Awards

BLUE'S CLUES

Leo: “Hello I’m Leo here with June of the Little Einstein’s and welcome to the Red Carpet for the annual Toony Awards. Unfortunately, my sister Annie is with Rocket and Cooper Anderson in the Gobi Desert. I’m told they’re singing baba waba Osama to Beethoven’s 9th, in a bunker that strangely resembles Salvador Dali’s “The Persistence of Memory” picture of melting clocks.

Quincy is not here because he is attending a rally for “Out” magazine. Not that an effeminate black male who is scared of the dark and plays multiple instruments including the flute, piccolo, and triangle has to be gay, he’s just exploring his options.

But, we are on a very important mission right here in Orlando Florida, cartoon capital of the world. Let’s check in on June who is with the cast of Blue’s Clues.”

June: “Hi Joe, I want to ask what is on everyone’s mind… What are you wearing?”

Joe: “I have on an green on green striped tuxedo by Ralph Lauren purple label. Side Table drawer is wearing a runner from Isaac Mizrahi for Target and a vintage Tiffany lamp.”

June: “Well she is truly glowing. Teehee.  Let me ask you Joe, is your acceptance speech written in your handy dandy notebook?”

Joe: “It actually is, and the notebook was encrusted by Judith Leiber to look like a handbag.”

June: “Fabulous may I see it? I see a crying boy in a monochromatic shirt, a can of gasoline, and a pack of matches. Hmm, these clues can be so hard to decipher. Leo back to you”

Leo: “Well it looks like another banner year for the Latinos. Regretfully, Handy Manny will not be able to make it due to a citizenship issue however, he did build the stage. Dora is up for best actress in a Series Over-Using the Word “Aaabre”. She appears to be solomente. This is a smart call after last year’s awkward celebratory french kiss with her cousin Diego and that highly disturbing make-out session with her pet monkey, Boots. June do you have any celebs over there?”

June: “Yes, I am watching the Mystery Mobile pull up, and what an entrance! Shaggy, Scooby and what looks like the 1976 Harlem Globetrotters have appeared like magic out of a huge puff of smoke. They seem to be heading this way however, it may take some time as there legs are spinning, but they are actually not moving…Ah, welcome fellas today must be very exciting.”

Scooby: “Reah, reah, rexciting.”

Shaggy: “Hey, like do you have any snacks, we’ve like got the munchies.”

Scooby: “Reah, runchies.”

June: “I actually do not, try the E! booth they don’t pay that vampire Seacrest the big bucks for nothin’. Hey Leo, getta load of that clown walking down the carpet.”

Leo: “Yes, June there’s JoJo and right behind her are the Disney princesses, who as you probably heard spearheaded a recent movement forcing cartoonists to draw underwear on all female characters. This of course is in response to circulating internet pictures of a fully plucked Daisy Duck exiting a limo on her way to Minnie Mouse’s “2 Weeks Jack Free” celebration… Monterey Jack, that is. Let’s ponder that while I send it back to June and the cast of Rugrats.”

June: “Hi, Tommy and Angelina Pickles, your show is up for it’s holiday special “Santa Woks” is that a cooking show?”

Tommy: “No, I have a wittle twouble tawking… I’m 1.”

June: “I see, well as you probably know you are one of the only Jewish cartoon families ever drawn aside from the short lived series “Moisha and the Shiksa.” And here you are nominated for a Christmas special. Angelica, don’t you feel it’s your responsibility to be role models to young Jewish children and to break stereotypes?”

Angelica: “We took our image very seriously as we calculated the estimated earnings of ‘Santa Woks’ vs. our original script ‘2000 years of Bondage.’ Which by the way we are producing, but in another film genre. We just signed Ron Jeremy on to play Moses’s staff”

June: “Well I’m sure Quincy will want to check that out. Leo back to you.”

Leo: “Everyone is still waiting to see if Barney will walk the red carpet. He has been rather elusive after rare footage was released on YouTube of him purveying fire whiskey to minors and singing “I love you, you love me” to Callou, Little Bear, and Oswald during a raucous sleepover. This ended in the wee hours of the morning after they allegedly took turns riding Thomas the Train.”

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

This Mothering Stuff is Tough

I have something to tell you; please don’t spread it around, as it’s somewhat of a secret.  I screamed “shut up” at my son today. “SHUT UP!” not “shush” or “sshhhhh” or even “ferme la bouche.”  No, “Shut Up.” I didn’t say it in a whisper, or even hiss it through clenched teeth.  I yelled it in a vein popping tone, and it felt sort of good, aside from the fear of having an aneurism.  I hate to admit it, but in the moment I actually enjoyed the shock value.

In my house, “shut up” is still the “S” word.  That and “stupid”…fine, it’s “shit” also (look, we’re not Amish).  “Shut up” is a phrase that I – a person who has managed to use“Shniekees” and “Gaylord Focker” in place of harsher expletives for the last 7 years – have never uttered to my children.

Had I witnessed you on the street saying – no, screaming – that to your child, I would have judged you with disdain.   I may have even considered calling child services on you.  Now, I’m the one with the scarlet letter.  I’m just a few more outbursts from a knock at the door.

I’m not going to tell you what my son did, but just know, he started it!  Fine, I’ll tell you.  He was yelling at me, telling me “No,” contradicting me, and being incredibly obnoxious all at once, and all at warp speed.  He never took a breath.  I didn’t know whether to punish or have him try out for the swim team.

The funny thing is, I just finished writing an article about the Spanking / IQ study, and here I am doing exactly what I said I wouldn’t do… “ensuring my child will need hours of therapy.”  Way to go Jenny. Though I don’t believe in it, I would have been better off calmly putting him over my knee; at least I would have had more self-control.

The worst part of this whole confession inducing incident was the look on his face.  It was somewhere between “Uh-oh, you said a bad word!” and a lip biting, “Sniff, sniff.  You said that bad word to ME?”  As I’ve said before, I subscribe to the book of damage control parenting.  Doing as little damage as possible, and controlling the damage you’ve done.  This was one of those times I had to control the damage.   Somewhat in shock myself, I had to regroup and think of my options:   Apologize, use candy or some other bribe to gloss over it, or explain my actions.  I went the obvious route, and when he finished licking the Kit Kat residue off his fingers, I said I was sorry.

I’ll tell you, when my kids were little, I would have sworn this day would never come.  How could you look at those sweet chubby cheeks and imagine they could ever frustrate you so much?  Conversely, when I told a few of my friends the story, they were shocked at how long I’d held out.

Wait a minute, I think there’s some praise in there.  I amazed people with my nearly infinite patience.  I deserve a medal, not a scornful eye.  I take it all back… I am the best mom; it took me almost 8 years to tell my child to “shut up.” Wahoo!  See, if you practice patience (but not too much), and bottle up frustration like seltzer (that your kids can agitate until it pops), you too can astound people.   Then you can start a blog, and when you do terrible horrible things, you can seek contrition by telling hundreds, dare I say thousands, of people about them.

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My Gecko is Cleaner than Your Gecko

gecko

Alright, please don’t take that as a sexual reference, it means exactly what it says.  My gecko is cleaner than yours… so, don’t challenge him to a clean competition, ‘cause he’ll win.

As it turns out living in Florida is like living in a remake of Jurassic Park, on a smaller scale.  Like the miniature Stonehenge, for all you Spinal Tap fans.  The bugs are the size of softballs and the reptile life runs rampant… through my house.  Anyone who has been to Florida knows that lizards cross the roads and sidewalks with the frequency of jay-walkers in NYC.

Up north, where I am originally from, you might be lucky enough to see a majestic deer or cute little baby bunnies bouncing through your yard, but here you see the kind of things that eat cute little baby bunnies.  What I am shocked at, is how used to it I have become.  So much so, that I showered with a gecko the other day.  Please, all you sickos, clearly there was no funny business, though I did loofah his back for him.  He was just hanging out on the wall and rather than go get the cup to catch and release him, I simply went about my normal showering process.  You know, lather, rinse, repeat.

It gave me a little chuckle, but what really made me laugh was when I told my son that evening about the shower scene and he said that he too showered with the same lizard an hour before.  He of course played with the little guy, which makes me question whether soap ever made it to any of my son’s parts at all.  Though I’m sure the gecko got a thorough cleaning and is certainly missing his tail.  I said, “We must have the cleanest gecko ever,” which actually sent us into hysterics.

When my husband got home, we relayed our tale to which he said, “Yeah I showered with him this morning.”  I don’t know what this says about my family.  Are we all too lazy to remove a lizard?  Are we a bit promiscuous, taking showers with any Tom, Dick, or Lizard that enters the stall?  or Have we become so accustomed to them, that we are part of their ecosystem? Like Jane Goodall and those chimps.

I do know that if you come to my house, you’ll see a shiny lizard that smells like grapefruit conditioner and prefers air drying over being briskly toweled off.  Well, Jake would know more about that.

My Dog is a Genius Mastermind

Matermind

This morning I woke up to a gift, the kind of gift that makes pet owners want to just  hug their pets super tight and not let go until they pass out…I mean, gently fall asleep. No, it was not a poop or a pee.There was pee, but that’s like walking out to find my children playing Wii, no big surprise.

No, this was a doozy and what’s worse, I think he planned the whole thing. I was asleep, as I often am on Saturday mornings, while my daughter was watching Strawberry Shortcake. I woke, only to find dark stains, smudges, and ink blots all over my oh so pretty white coverlet, and white sheets. Sheets that are like a gazillion thread count (or whatever they said to make me buy them). Only me and Paris sleep on sheets of such extraordinary comfort.

The dark blotches looked as if my dog had found an indelible marker, packaged some TNT around it, and then plunged down the detonator. There were spots on the sheets where he bit through with such fervor, and the ink was distributed so evenly, it looked like a professional job.Like any good detective, I screamed at the suspect and let him out in the yard, mainly for his own safety.Then I searched for clues.There was no pen, no evidence.I had a new book on the bed and I was certain the black cover was defective and the ink was smearing off, but I rarely rub books so feverishly over my bedding.My dog would also need opposable thumbs for such a task.

Then I found it. On some of the ink splotches, there was a greasy chunky residue.I picked up a chunk and mushed it between my fingers, like a melted crayon.Wait, there’s a splinter of wood in that chunk on the pillow. This is not a crayon.This was my new retro navy blue metallic eyeliner. There was no evidence because the rest of said pencil was Tanner’s breakfast.

Listen, I’m a pretty realistic person who is rarely paranoid, but I am quite sure this was premeditated. This is how I think it went down: I wore the eyeliner yesterday in an 80’s tribute to the late Michael Jackson, an occurrence I was freaking out over. He was the only suspected child molester that I truly enjoyed and forgave, because of his insanely awesome talent. Talent and wealth make up for a lot of misgivings in America, even sharing your bed with Emmanuel Lewis.

Back on track, my dog is vehemently anti anything retro. I have heard him say on more than one occasion, “I don’t want this crappy rubber burger or fake New York Times newspaper. Go get me some Nylabone made from space-age webbed plastic cells, or some Kong industrial NASA rubber, and a chicken pot pie…bitch!” Of course, when a dog calls you “bitch,” it’s a compliment.

His distaste for celebrating decades of yore, and his taste for greasy pencils made from toxins and whale blubber made this a crime worth committing. He must have grabbed his Nylabone, which he routinely shreds, and brought it onto the bed.This allowed me to sleep longer knowing I could pick up the 1000 pieces later. The chewing coaxed me to sleep like a lullaby.

When he was sure I was out, he whined until my daughter followed him to the kitchen. There she found the new eyeliner and decided to play with it, as Tanner knew she would. When she was finished getting ready for Studio 54, she put it on the dining room table. Then Tanner chased Coco, my cat, over to said table. Coco saw the pencil, and started one of those soccer games cats do, and batted it around till she went for the goal. She eyed Tanner with a smirk and whacked it high into the air. He readied himself, did a twisting jump,and gracefully caught the evidence … brought it back to the bed, and started chewing his Nylabone to make sure I would not wake and Ryan would not look away from the television screen.

Then he went to town, with the two of us none the wiser. I have to give him credit. He pulled off a brilliant plan  and ate the evidence to boot. But no crime is “perfect,” and it was his sloppiness that got him in the end. Oh, he will go behind bars. I guarantee his crate awaits.

Father’s Day Greetings

Being that I am a writer, you would probably assume I give my husband a beautiful heartfelt card on every holiday.  The truth is, I am like most of you, going at the last minute to look at slim pickins and buy some cheesy cards that cost $3 bucks a pop and do little more than add to deforestation.

First of all, unless your husband likes fishing or fixing things you’re SOL from the get go. The funny cards are too queer, though the Far Side always gives me a giggle, I try to find something with a little more sentiment. I have noticed that my husband and I have this weird tendency to rebuy the same card for each other on our respective holidays year after year.

The Father’s day card has a cat couple and it goes something like this:

“Sometimes I’m stubborn when I don’t get my way,

Sometimes I’m bossy and have too much to say.

Blah blah blah, buuuuut I really love you! Have a great Father’s day.”

That’s the general gist anyway. It’s basically an apology for being a sucky annoying wife 364 days a year. The card might as well say:

“Sometimes I’m a big fat wench, when you look at me the wrong way.

Other times I’m a bratty bitch, when I don’t like what you say.

Often I’m an evil nag, I’m so frustrated I could spit.

I don’t listen when you speak because I’m daydreaming of Brad Pitt.

I pretty much act like I hate you almost every day of the year,

Buuut I really totally Love You, though I rarely make it clear.”

The mother’s day version is similar, two cats start out fighting and the guy cat’s like, “I’m sorry I’m so stubborn, but we always find our way.” Then the cats are driving and he’s lost and he won’t ask for directions and she’s looking back at the kitties shrugging her shoulders.

Then they are watching a sports game and the mom cat is running in circles around the house with the kitties, and the dad cat is ignoring her and he’s all, “Sometimes I get wrapped up in other things, but I always spend the commercials with you guys.”

Then the dad cat is looking at the price tag of a really expensive pair of Jimmy Choo’s that the mom cat is at the register paying for, because she feels she’s earned them. The dad cat hisses, “We don’t always see eye to eye, but we always compensate.” In the next picture he is cutting up her credit card and throwing the pieces in the air like confetti.

Then the mom cat is taking the kitties to live with some calico she met in the alley. The dad cat shows his claws, but since he is domesticated and therefore declawed he just feels like a pussy (cat I mean).

Then the dad cat is paying off some thug mafia cat and says, “We always work it out, ‘cause making up is the best part!”

Or something like that. Mother’s day was a few months ago so I may have embellished the finer details, but you get the picture. It’s an apology for being a crappy, inattentive, stubborn, annoying husband, buuut it’s okay cause we get to make up after I have your calico trash cat castrated.

So this year, I picked up one of those cards and was about to buy it.  Then I thought, I don’t need to apologize for arguing or nagging, that’s what couples do... even one’s who are in love. Yes, my husband is stubborn and I am a nag, but we love each other. I don’t want to make light of my annoying ways through a rhyming apology that is only cute because of cat personification. We’ve been married a decade, he knows I am a bitch and he is thankful I’m cute.

So, I got a card that was perfect. Yes, it had cats. It said, that he’s the one I go to if I need a hug, or a sympathetic ear, or a pep talk, or to kill a bug, or to move something heavy. Basically, he’s there when I need him.

Does he do things that are annoying? Daily. Frustrating? Hourly. Does he snore and fart in his sleep? Yep. Does he leave crumbs on the counter and forget to change lightbulbs? Uh ha. Is he a fabulous dad?  Absolutely.

Is he there for me when I need him? Always.

That might not have been a quality I dreamed my husband would have on my wedding day, but a decade in, it’s the one I am most thankful for.

So to my husband, I hope you enjoyed your day. I love you! To all the other Dad’s, mine especially, I hope you had a fabulous Father’s day and that there are spouses and children out there that appreciate all you do.

PS vlog 2 is up if you are interested Conversations With Your Selfish Friend.  If you watch the vlogs, please take the poll and if you like them, please send to friends!

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Twilight Obsession or Mid-Life Crisis?

I was at my neighbor’s house the other day and her nine year old daughter sat down at the table with me. “Soooo, who’s your favorite character?” she asked, in the way one would while sharing tea and crumpets. I was not having tea, however, I was having coffee, one of the few things that still separates me from nine year olds. Well, most of them anyway.

My favorite character of what? Disney movies? Are we talkin’ Hannah Montana, or like Monsters vs. Aliens?

“No, my mom said you love Twilight, and OMG, me too! I am so in love with Jacob. How about you?” she squeaked eagerly, awaiting my answer.

Okay, as most of you know, I have a very unhealthy obsession with the Twilight series and the main character, Edward. I also believe, after giving the subject way too much thought, that this is either a sign of total immaturity or a mid-life crisis. So, either I’m mentally stuck in high school, or wishing I was.

“Are we having this conversation? Aren’t you nine?” Hello, clearly the fact that you love Jacob is a sign of your immaturity. “Everyone knows Edward is like the ultimate hottie,” I continued, drawing a line in the sand between me and the child that stood before me, who was excitedly bouncing to hear my answer.

“Yeah, he’s cute but I like werewolves better than vampires,” she replied, shrugging off my belligerent tone.

“What?! You’d rather date a werewolf than a vampire?” I argued.  Jenny, don’t get yourself all worked up. What does she know anyway, she’s nine? While talking myself down, I noticed her Jonas Brothers concert tee. I realized that we may have the same taste in literature, and as it appears, nail polish, but I was the adult.

In fact, one of my readers had just sent me a very racy version of what supposedly happened on Edward and Bella’s honeymoon. A night that the author skimmed over to keep the books appropriate for her teen audience. Of course, in my suburb where the kids rule, “teen” means nine.

I reminded myself that I had a nugget of Twilight information that she would not be able to read for at least 2 years… at the rate she was going. I told her when her mom said it was okay, she could see my special chapter. You might be thinking that I got great joy in dangling that carrot, but nay I say. It was when I gave her a raspberry that I got the most joy.

She ran to her room and returned with a picture, the fold out kind that you pull from Tiger Beat Magazine, or One Day I Will Be a Know-It-All Magazine or whatever the teenie boppers are reading these days. You know, the ones that show young girls who are famous and rich, and handsome boys that are out of reach, and in turn, set their readers up for future disappointment and body dysmorphia.

She handed it to me, and I opened it up to find a picture of Robert Pattinson, the actor that plays Edward Cullin, who is also 13 years my junior. Don’t think it’s odd that I know that. I’m no stalker, but I do admittedly frequent the website: RobPatzStalkers.com

I think her poster was a peace offering, and in hindsight, a very mature response to my childish behavior. I looked at her, and then the picture. Then as I went to leave, I said, “By the way, the Jonas Brothers Suck! Yeah, they’re for babies and you love them.”

So who’s the most mature one in the room now?

 

PS- don’t forget to take today’s poll, and as always, make sure you have my RSS, or email subscription!

Coffee and Flogging -Vlog attempt 1

Here is my first vlog (video log).  For many of you this will be your first time seeing me, which I know is weirdly like watching the movie after reading the book (it’s all in the casting).  I think I’m perfectly cast in the role of “me,” as I find myself to be the epitome of me.  If you don’t agree, talk to my agent.

If you enjoy it, please pass it on.

If you hate it, keep it to yourself, you obnoxious person with nothing better to do than sneer at other people’s attempts at branding themselves and living out the dream… the American dream.  But know, I will get better and I will continue to blog if you prefer the blogging.


Most importantly, thanks as always for your support!

I hope you guys enjoy!  Sorry you have to click the link, I am too technologically challenged to get it directly on the site.

CLICK HERE:  VLog-1

Yours,

Jenny From the Blog

We’ve All Done Something Illegal, Right?

AAAAAAAAH!  I am so excited! (That was a scream.)

On the subject of my personal fame… one I like to write about maybe a bit too often, I am a character in a non-fiction thriller.  A “bad boy” pal of mine, from my college days of selling shots for extra dough, just got his book published.  He penned it in the joint, I don’t know if that’s a cool thing to call it, but I am trying to sound cool.

It’s the story of the events that lead to his arrest and incarceration.  Events, which I was apparently in the middle of and was completely oblivious to.  Look, as you’re considering what kind of crew I hung out with, let’s not forget I’m a nice Jewish girl from the ‘burbs who literally saves worms from burning on the sidewalk.  So, without giving anything away, I’ll say he was not in the clink for murder.  To be quite honest my copy is on the way, so I don’t know all the details.

This sparks a story of my own that I did not think I would tell because it could ruin my pristine image.  But, what the hell, I’m sure I’ve done that already on this blog.  Between the nose picking, the yelling at other people’s kids, and telling my daughter’s nursery school teacher that I got Clifford the Big Red Dog drunk.

I was, as I said, a shot girl at University of Miami.  We’re talkin’ test tubes on a tray kinda stuff.  Unlike the shot girls in some of the local bars, I was clad in a lot more than lingerie.  I was pulling in like $200 a night, which in the 90’s was more like a grand.  Okay, maybe not quite, but good money for a 20 year old still getting an allowance.  Said friend was a bartender there. He was one of the few people I was friends with that didn’t go to school with me and he was a bit out of his mind, which made him even “funner.”  He watched out for me and regularly reminded my boyfriend, how lucky he was. Then when my boyfriend would run off to some party he would chivalrously walk me to my car so I wouldn’t be in a dark parking lot alone.

I can’t say his influence was all good.  He was an integral part of the one illegal thing I think I’ve ever done.  I mean ever, I don’t even think I shoplifted a lipstick when it was in fashion to do so… you remember 7th grade?

We noticed that when someone finished their test-tube they usually put it back on the tray.  In a sinister plot to up my nightly take, he would make me a flask of shots to refill those used tubes with in the bathroom.  Before I go on, I must explain how even writing this offends me now.  Not because of the crime, because I am such a germ phobe. To think I would allow people to unwittingly drink out of second hand test tubes that had been in a germy bathroom, ugh.  If I did it now, I would have to find a much more sanitary way to swindle the bar out of their 3 bucks a shot.

My other evil ruse was to fill the back row of shots with water. That was my personal reserve. Often drunk people like to get the shot girl drunk. I was not a fan of this as; A) I’m a lightweight and B) Who wants to be drunk while working? So, for $3, which was usually $5 with tip, you got the pleasure of sharing a shot with me and watching me make some over reactive wincing face as if downing straight vodka. Then maybe I’d high five you, or do a “woo” to reflect how it burned on the way down. What, you should get what you pay for.

I was pullin’ in more like $400 a night and still sold the most shots, by the management’s count. I’m sure I spent it on all frivolous items that were hip in the 90’s, from vintage 501s to those trendy micro-fiber body suits by BCBG and Bisou-Bisou. I recall a few overly chunky heels and a lot of flannels from Structure. Flannels, that looked “perfect” tied around the waist of some shredded jean shorts with a man’s braided belt, and a baby tee from Contempo. I know, you’re thinking, stealing shot money is not the only crime I committed in the 90’s.

This is my confession, I hope you forgive me. I will send the links to the book and review it ASAP.

The Perks Of Breastfeeding

cleavage1

I must bid my breastfeeding boobs adieu.  Being that I haven’t seen them in almost 4 years, I usually don’t give them much thought.   I actually have more pressing things to worry about.  I have to feed and water the kids, clean up puppy accidents, that usually come to my attention after I‘ve stepped in them.  Oh yeah, and I’m trying to get that whole writing career thing off the ground.  However, as vasectomy talk fills the air, I am realizing they will permanently be a thing of the past, and G-d they were hot.

I am not your average gal with an average chest who pumps up some bazongas during and after pregnancy and then gracefully watches them deflate.  I am like training bra, well, heroine chic as I prefer to call it.  But, those post pregnancy tits, wow.  I remember walking around my NYC apartment, frost on the windows, two below, in a bikini top and sweats.  Pausing at every reflective surface to catch a glimpse of those puppies…mirrors, artwork, maybe a spoon, freshly shined shoes.

I’m going to put a picture of my breastfeeding boobs on my counter.  You know, next to the pictures of the people and animals I miss.  The type of pictures you blow a kiss to when you walk by.  To be honest, I also talk to those pictures, though I can’t imagine talking to my boobs.  However, I’ve have been known to do stranger things.  Those of you who have followed my blog for a while will remember a pretty heated conversation I had with some South African oranges.

If I were to converse with my inflated tatas of yore, I would say, “I miss you guys.  I miss the way you enhanced even a tank top.  The way you filled out a bra and indiscreetly peaked out of a strapless dress.  I especially miss the way you looked in a thin sweater.   I don’t miss the way you nearly exploded at the sound of a baby, any baby, and embarrassingly soaked puddles into my clothes at the most inopportune times.”  Ahh, the bitter sweet memories, the good times and the bad.  They will stay with me until I finally give in and get a boob job

People will walk into my house and see a close up of my rack and say,  “What is that picture of?”

“Oh, that?  Those are my just my boobs.  See, and there’s my Granddaddy and my dog.  Oh, how I miss them.”

A League Of My Own

Saturday was Jake’s Little League Kids vs. Dads game. I arrived late, kind of excited to see Mark at bat. There is something sexy about seeing your husband hit a bomb. Of course the other side of the coin is seeing him strike out or bumble some ball on the ground, which would drastically undermine his appeal.

On my way to the game, however, in no way did I think he would end up assessing my appeal. One of the kids was with his mom, and she was reluctantly talked into playing to represent her family. My son was in the middle of striking her out when I thought, that looks fun. Not the striking out part, but to be a kid for a few minutes, to hold a bat, to cross home plate. How often do us moms get that chance?

“I want next up.” Did I say that out loud? I did.

“Come on we need more players,” one of the dads screamed, probably imagining how amusing it would be to watch me try to hit Jake‘s wild pitches.

I rolled up my dark wash, bell-bottom Hudsons, and kicked off my heels. Yes, I wore heels to the field. Strappy thong wedges, considered perfectly acceptable “baseball mom” attire by the Weston Area Little League official handbook.

“In all my years of coaching I’ve never had a player show up in bellbottoms,” the coach said as I approached the plate.

For the dads, this was just a friendly game. The dads are the ones lobbing the ball around at all the practices, hitting to the different positions, throwing pop-ups and grounders, while me and the moms are relegated to the bleachers to tend to our other children, like pioneer wives. No one wants the moms on the field, but G-d do I always want to be out there.

It felt so nostalgic to walk to the plate. I got into my stance, which I remembered without hesitation. No expectations from any of the dads, just how I like it. First my practice swing. Can I still do it?

“Wow, nice swing,” the dad who invited me to play said in shock. “Guys, you better back it up.“

That’s right. My intimidating swing made a bunch of 7 and 8 year olds move back. Yes, I can still swing, but can I hit? I wanted so badly not to make an ass of myself. Not just not to make an ass of myself, but to be impressive. To let my son see that all his athleticism was not genetically encoded directly from his dad’s DNA, and to show a bunch of middle aged dads that the sarcastic girl who comes to the game in heels can get down and dirty.

Ah, thank G-d I made contact. A solid respectable line drive, Wahoo!. It was clearly unexpected. I got claps, and a “Wow” and when I went to back to the stands my father in law added, “I see where Jake gets his swing, but why didn’t you slide into second? Afraid to get your jeans dirty?”

Okay, I should quit now before I become a one hit wonder. But, it’s fun being a dad. I need more of this feeling.

On my second at bat, I was hoping to improve on my first – and I did. I whaled it. My teammates just started to laugh and the coach yelled, “She’s a ringer.” I took my spot next to Jake who was now playing first. I got a little hug, which was huge –he rarely hugs the other runners as they step onto his base, but he was proud. I played it off like “Yeah your mom’s the bomb,” but really I wasn’t so smug.

What happened next is almost too embarrassing to write about, but that’s what I do right? I was playing second, the atmosphere was light, but in my mind I was still auditioning for a walk on position with the Yankees. A hard grounder was about to whiz by. It was clearly out of reach, but maybe, just maybe… The truth is that ball could have been hit 2 bases away and I still would have run for it. Obviously, I have some competitive issues, which I will be sure to revisit in therapy.

As shocked as each Dad was today, they hadn‘t seen anything yet. I have to stop that ball, it’s coming hard, and if I don’t it will fly past me into the outfield and some 8 year old will get on base. I threw myself face first into the dirt, with my arm stretched long. My hip thudded against the hard ground, and there was a second where all eyes were frozen on my display. I stood up slowly, as I had injured my hip, and grabbed the ball out of my glove. Some dirt and pebbles may have trickled out of my mouth and hair, but I had the ball.

The stunned coach on first base let out a “Whoa. I didn‘t see that coming.”
You didn’t see the intense barefoot mom diving to catch a ball in a friendly game against elementary school kids? Well, I am nothing if not highly unpredictable.

I brushed myself off, as I had let my pants get dirty. I thought this would be an amusing time to stop for a lip gloss reapplication.

I looked over at Mark who, though he knows about my unrelenting spirit, was in as much shock as the other guys at my last maneuver.

Jake may be more inherently athletic, but let me tell you something, he could learn a thing or two from his mom’s unrelenting, unyielding determination. He might also take note to of her misplaced intensity and yearning to relive childhood moments. These guys must have thought I was insane, but I took comfort in the knowledge that they would pick me if we ever happened to be in gym class together.

“And the parents win! Game ball has to go Jake’s mom.”

Mark walked over pulled me close and gave me a manly pat on the rear. “Nice job babe. I knew you would hit it, but I had no idea you would start throwing yourself all over the field.”

Thanks guys. I’ll be seein’ ya… from the bleachers.

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Adult Swim


I had a night away this weekend, a night away.  It has been 6 months, almost to the day, since the last time I had a night away.  Yes, I am on the half year excursion plan.  Twice a year I take the long ride from Weston to Fort Lauderdale, or South Beach, or Naples and spend a single night with as much day wrapped around both sides as my parents or in-laws will allow.  We couldn’t go far, and because I was looking for optimum veg time, proximity was second only to my first criteria – NO KIDS.

Yes, I said it … NO KIDS.  I had to find a close hotel that was kid free during spring break, when every cold frostbitten family packs up their 2.5 children, takes their pets to the kennel, and comes to Florida hoping to thaw out.  I, on the other hand, needed to chill out and the best place seemed to be this boutiquey hotel on Lauderdale Beach called The Atlantic.  The pool was off-putting to children, a long and narrow rectangle with no slides or falls.  The décor was very hip, mod in an Ian Schrager, “don’t touch that kid, it will break” kinda way.  I would avoid a place like this at all costs with my kids, as it blared “BORING” to anyone under sixteen.  I banked on other families’ sense of “funless” to be on par with my own.

Wearing my too teeny bikini, I immediately found the pool and within moments I was donning an ipod, reading my book and sipping champagne.  Totally enthralled with my book, I must not have noticed the influx of people at my tiny boutique pool.  But then I heard someone scream, “Marco!” and though I am in South Florida where a name like Marco is not so uncommon, I could tell this was not some adult woman calling her adult husband to come put sunblock on her back.

“What the fuck was that?”  I asked Mark, like I had just heard a gunshot.  “A kid,” he nonchalantly replied, like my gunshot was just some car backfiring.  I looked up and, Lo and behold, it wasn’t just one kid it was a whole pack of them.  Maybe five ranging in age from about 4 to 10.  I shuddered as the largest one, who was undeniably their bossy leader, demanded another pool game that had them screaming answers to random questions, and swimming all over my tiny boring lap pool.

Leader:  “WHAT‘S YOUR FAVORITE SHOW?”
Kid 1:   “WHAT?”
Kid 2:   “She said what’s your favorite show,” the little one repeated shaking in fear.
Kid 1:  “OH, I’LL GIVE YOU A HINT, IT’S TWO WORDS.”

Why are they screaming?  They’re 5 feet apart.

Leader:  “TOTAL DRAMA ISLAND.”
Kid 1:  “I SAID 2 WORDS!”
Kid 3:  “I think I know what it is.  Can I guess?”
Leader:  “NO! GIVE ME ANOTHER HINT.”
Kid 1:  “FINE IT STARTS WITH AN I.”
Leader:  “INDIANA JONES?”
Kid 1:  “YOU SAID A SHOW NOT A MOVIE.“
Leader:  “GIVE ME ANOTHER HINT.”
Kid 1:  “NONANA NOPE NOPE…NOPE  NOPE.”

Oh, come on, give her another hint already.

Kid 1:  “I. C. AND IT’S ABOUT THE INTERNET.”
Leader:  “WHAT IS IT?  I DON”T KNOW.”
Kid 1:  “WELL, I’M NOT GONNA TELL YOU TILL YOU GET IT.”

iCarly, iCarly, don’t suggest the game if you suck at it.  I mean hello?

Leader:  “UMMM, I GIVE UP.”
Kid 1:  “I CARLY!”

I knew it.

Leader:  “THAT’S CHEATING.  MAHHHHHHHM MOM! HE CHEATED HE SAID IT WAS TWO WORDS AND iCARLY IS JUST……..”

Had this really happened?  Had my ipod faded into the background and the passage of my book still not registered after reading it 3 times over?   I was actually angry.  I am so capable of tuning my own kids out, why was I not able to use this skill on someone else’s?

My penthouse suite, which was graciously extended to me when I explained my bi-annual excursion plan, wouldn’t be ready for hours.  I watched as kid 4 goaded kids 2 and 3 by bobbing up and down chanting “DIVE!” every time his head cleared the water.  I guess he hoped this would annoy them. I gave the parents a sideways glance to let them know that it was working on me, but they pretended not to notice.

Then it dawned on me.  I am the crotchety lady that shushes other peoples kids.  Maybe it was all the trips to the cardiologist, maybe my patience had been worn paper thin trying to get my own children to listen to me for half second.  Each “Can you do it for me?” “Not now, Mommy.“ “No way, Jose.“ scratching one more layer from the surface.  One would think, out of politeness, I would be less overtly bothered by other people’s children, but the truth is I have to save that rigorous acting job for when mine send me over the edge.  So as my son would say to my daughter, “Too bad, so sad.”

The bobbing continued and noodles burst across the pool like fireworks. This is the reason they invented adult swim… and boutique hotels.  While frantically searching for someone with a whistle, I noticed the other adults.  Why were they so calm?  Why weren’t they shooting looks at the over-permissive parents like I was?  Were they not being over-permissive? —allowing their children to have so much fun around the pool on vacation?

Then it hit me…the hot tub.  The one refuge that still belongs to us serious adults.  With my book in hand I crossed the trendy stretch only to find another pack; they were multiplying faster than I could count, and now they had infiltrated the sacred whirlpool area.  An area that actually has an age requirement.  It was so unnatural, like seeing raccoons scavenging during the day, it was just wrong.  Two kids watched the third one diving to the bottom against the current of the jets, kicking his feet all the while.

I thought, can I tell these kids to scram?  But wait, aren’t I supposed to be representing the next generation of parents?  The cool parents.  Not our parents or their parents’ generations who would have scoffed before entry and sent the kids running for the hills.  We “hip parents” have a rep to protect, right?  We’re like kids ourselves.  In fact, if you hadn’t met our children you would think we were too young, too fun, too awesome to be “parents.”

I told myself, say something funny and endearing thereby shattering their vision of adults as naysayers and fun-enders.  So, after carefully choosing my words I let my tension go, eased into the whirlpool and said, “Could you please stop splashing, it’s getting my book all wet.  I don’t know if you guys should even be in here.”  I turned to pat my book with my towel and when I turned around they were gone.  “Awesome, shmawesome.”

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I vant to bite jour neck and suuck jour blud… blaaah!

http://suburbanjungle.files.wordpress.com/2009/03/edward-cullen1.jpg

So, I am reading the Twilight series.  I’m sorry did I say reading, I meant obsessed with as in, would be a  stalker of the main character if he were not A)  A Vampire B) Fictional.  Not exactly in that order.  What this says about me is that I am mentally stuck somewhere in high school, and living vicariously through this girl’s foray into a world of love and incredibly romantic, thoughtful, and charmingly chivalrous monsters.

As I left to go food shopping last night, I confronted Mark with my current grievance, as I felt it need to be addressed immediately.

“Mark, why can’t you be more like a Edward Cullen.”

“You mean a vampire?”

“No, I just want you to be obsessed with me in a, ‘Can’t take your eyes off me.  You would never let me get hurt,  Can’t live without me,’ kinda way.’

“Oh that, obviously.  Okay.  I can do that.  If there is a banana peal at Publix, I will swoop in and kick it out of the way so that someone other than you trips on it and you won’t even see me, but I will always be keeping you safe and never take my eyes off you.”

“Phew, that was easy.”

“Now, could you move a bit to the left.  I can’t see the game.”

So he fell off the wagon.  He’s rusty, it’s been a decade since he couldn’t take his eyes or his hands or his penis off me.  Frankly, the last one was getting annoying, especially in public.  But shock therapy cured that right quick.  The truth is,  once you say “I do,” your kinda old hat.  Well, not long after.

How much more obsessing and wooing is necessary,  I hate the saying but, “he bought the cow.”  It’s so hard to be a challenge when your married, I used to say things like, “yeah, well maybe I’ll have your kids.”  Now I say things like, “yeah, maybe I’ll get your laundry.”  Just trying to keep him on his toes.  One day I could say things like, “yeah, maybe I’ll tell you where I hid your teeth.”

Other tactics I use to threaten his security in our marriage include, picking fights over the dishes, pointing out the things he forgets and as is evidenced here, comparing him to fictional characters that are kind and sensitive, and confident, and funny, and don’t exist in real life and if they did they’d be gay anyway.

Today I had an uncomfortable experience at Starbucks and quickly texted him this:  “Hey, I burnt my tongue!  Where were you?!”

He texted thus:  “You didn’t see me?  I already treated that tongue wound.  Bet it’s feeling better now isn’t it?  You were hot last night…don’t forget Jake has practice today.”

Okay, he’s trying.  But, there were some errors which I pointed out in my next text:  “I like when you tell me I’m hot and remind me of a practice in the same sentence, talk about hot.  PS  I don’t know what you used, but my tongue hurts even more!”

To which he responded:  “Salt… short term it may be a bit more painful, but long term it will heal faster.”

Got to give him credit on that one.  I really had no idea he treated it, but it does seem to have healed nicely.  I think it was worth the extra pain… it feels so good I could even have soup tonight.

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