Tag Archives: parenting

Because I’m five like that

Today, I was leaving a birthday lunch for my friend Tracey. I pulled out of the parking lot with her pulling out behind me. I got to the light waiting for her to pull next to me. Spontaneously, my face contorted into some stupid face, because I’m 5 like that. While looking straight ahead, I gave her the finger as her car inched to my side. Keeping my head toward the traffic light, I shoved said finger up my nose, way up my nose…because I’m 5 like that. I made some weird bucky beaver face while snorting and slowly turned to look at Tracey, HOLY SHIT THAT’S NOT TRACEY. The elderly woman staring me dead in the eye with a look of total and utter disgust is someone I have never seen before.

She turned quickly as if caught eaves dropping, but not before an eye roll. I stopped snorting, removed my finger from my nose, and gave her a meek smile. This is why I should not be allowed out of the house.

How To Make People Hiss At You

I considered not posting this because so many people witnessed it happening. I wasn’t sure if there was anyone left to read about it. Because there is some pertinent information, I decided it was worth sharing. I have discovered the quickest way to make people despise and hiss at you. If this is something you may be interested in… read on.

Bring a cranky child with less than five hours sleep under her belt, to the grocery store. It’s a brilliant plan for anyone with too many friends or any kind of social interaction disorder.

She began our trip like a giddy drunk: a little unstable, but cheerful and capricious. I may have even gotten an, “I love you man… I mean Mom,” accompanied by a hearty chest bump. Well, her chest, my knee. But, like most drunks, the second you shove them in to the seat of the shopping cart they get belligerent.

Cindy our favorite check out girl made the tragic mistake of saying, “Hello my sweet Ryan,” When we arrived. Her “Sweet Ryan” responded with bared teeth and an ominous growl.

“How could you Cindy?” I snarled. I should have done a 180 then and there, but I selfishly decided that it was more important that my family have their precious food than maintain any good will towards neighbors.

By the meat counter Ryan lost it when I pulled the number out of the number machine. When I felt her eyes bore a chasm through my forehead, I succumbed and allowed her to pull out 10 more numbers…much to the dismay of the deli staff.

By the time we hit produce she had spiraled out of control. I said something so horrifying, it left her no choice but to unleash an Earth shattering scream of disapproval. The grapes looked old, but I now realize, I should have kept that scary tidbit to myself.

I also affronted her by pushing the cart too slowly. When I sped up she hit her back on the cart which was adding insult to injury, actually injury to insult. Semantics aside, it was unforgivable and ohhh, did I feel her justifiable fury.

As I waited for her head to stop spinning, I decided to spare the customers the migraines they were acquiring and spare myself the gossip that was developing. I grabbed a few essentials and made a beeline for the checkout line. Cindy’s line was the shortest. I reluctantly got in it and shot her a scowl, letting her know I had not forgotten the cruel injustice she showed my child when we arrived. Ryan continued to sulk, which triggered the woman in front of me to say, “Aww, Poor thing. She’s so cute.”

I took one look at her blood shot eyes as she was rolling them at me for some unknown wrongdoing and simply said, “She can be cuter.”

As I approached the end of the belt, Cindy looked at me with the sad pouty face adults make when imitating crying children.

“Hello Jenny,” she said in a not your day, kind of way

“Don’t even go there Cindy, you chipper woman or I will knock that annoying pout clean off your face,” I barked in a stint of misplaced frustration. Okay, I didn’t say that, but I did give her the, “talk to the hand” gesture. No, I didn’t do that either. I said, “hello Cindy,” but I said it in an Indian accent, so she would be oddly confused.

Next time I choose feeding my family over my daughter’s surly mood, I will remind myself that, there is a reason Mc Donald’s is making the youth of America fat. Then I will head to the nearest drive-thru.

Gag me with a…

This story is like a bad episode of Three’s Company… not that there ever was one, I love you Jack!

I went into the vitamin store today where a lovely couple owns the shop. They know me, my concerns, my usual products, etc… My biggest issue is that I cannot swallow pills. I have forced myself to swallow some pretty disgusting stuff (I know, that’s what she said.) in avoidance of those monster vitamins they make. I’m sure the purveyors of vitamins have dealt with this issue before. It seems I have mentioned this once or twice, as the owners always consider it before helping me find a new pill.

Today, it was just the husband in the store with his brother. I think I said something like, “I need to look at the size to see if I can get it down.” Bob eyed his brother and the brother walked away. I had no idea why, and I walked over to look at a sample. Then I said something like, “Come on Bob, you know I can’t swallow.” Still completely oblivious, I turned around and the two of them were in absolute hysterics. What did I just say? Then it hit me. Oh…that was bad. I had to start with the familiar, “Come on Bob,” no less?
“You know what I mean.” I said flushed with embarrassment.
“Yes I know, you always remind me.” snicker snicker.

Then I realized, this was not a one time accidental sexual innuendo. How many times had I said things like, “I have trouble swallowing,” or “That will make me gag, it’s so big?” I could tell by the way the laughter came out like a floodgate exploding, that this was an ongoing joke, an ongoing joke that I was the ongoing butt of.

That kills me for so many reasons, as I am usually the first to get the double entendre, the pun, the sarcasm, the “that’s what she said,” moment. I can imagine him and his wife calling each other every time I walk out the door.

“Oh Lisa, Jenny said she, ‘can’t swallow’ like 5 times today. I think that’s a record.”

“Noooo Bob, that’s not the record. Don’t you remember when she was looking for calcium supplements?”

“Of course, Lisa. She said she had tried the liquid, but it was soooo thick and chalky she spat it all over the sink.”

In Unison: “That day will go down in infamy. I think we closed early.”

I know you’re thinking they wouldn’t really say that in unison, but it was either that or to write the song I imagined they spontaneously broke into.

“I cannot swallow.”
“Your throats not hollow?”
“That’s too immense”
“You are so dense.”
See not a great song.

Dangerously Lazy

I am no stranger to laziness, but this is extreme, even for me. I went to get refill blades for the Gillette Fusion, Mach 91, turbo, hydraulics razors that Mark and I use, but they were out. So I got the Mach 90 version instead. Being that the blades were a number off, our razor handles did not fit, but luckily, Mark had one from the last time Gillette came out with the “most powerful razor on the planet.”

We only had one handle between the two of us and since Mark shaves 5 times more often me, (I did the math) Mark got dibs. Therefore, I had to remember to take his handle into the shower and put in my blade that waited on the shelf, anytime I needed to shave.

Today. It wasn’t until I got in the shower that I realized how badly I needed to shave. Rather then open the shower door, walk all the way to his sink, and get the floor wet along the way, I decided the smarter call would be to hold the blade gently allowing it to pivot in my finger tips. Well , another brilliant idea borne by laziness. I mean look at Benjamin Franklin; sure, kite flying isn’t lazy, but it certainly isn’t a grand endeavor.

I had finished one leg, when shampoo dripped perilously into my eye. Rather than stop, turn around, and grab the towel hanging two inches from my face, I trudged on. I mean, what could be the harm in pivoting a razor in my finger-tips, while precariously balancing, with only one eye?

Actually, I got a fabulous shave minus one nick and what I might have to term a divot. I am often amazed by the things I will do to avoid doing other things.

PS The kicker is that my wireless mouse just ran out of batteries, and I had to empty yet another remote to fill it All, so that I could write this particular post about laziness… Oh, the irony.

I’d love to know if anyone has done other comparably lazy things.

What have you done for me lately? Too much!

In one week Suburban Jungle will celebrate it’s first birthday! Yes, one year of building a following of tons of readers and 1000’s of visitors each month… sometimes each week. One year of amazing comments, personal email responses, and whispers at the grocery store. The gestation period for this baby was about 7 years longer than the standard 9 months, but it was well worth it.

I started this blog after signing up for FB. Before I knew it, I had hundreds of FB friends, because I am extremely popular. I realized, here is a huge audience of people that I can awkwardly and annoyingly push my material on. Due to nostalgia induced guilt, they just might read it. Since then, it has grown into a legitimate site, read by people all over the planet, literally. I have become a contributing writer for CityMommy, NewParent, SheJustGotMarried, and the JewishTimes. I have been mentioned in Good Housekeeping, and I am contributing to a hilarious book!

Because of you, I am looking for an agent and working on pitching two books. I have gotten multiple calls about writing a pilot and am very seriously working towards getting many of my articles published… articles that started out as blog posts, for your entertainment. If I did not have such amazing people following the blog, commenting, calling, and emailing, I don’t think I would have been so inspired to pursue this dream. So, I want to thank you.

This is around the time I would start to insult you, by saying something like, “It was you, the little people, the peons, that helped me, a titan of brilliant creativity. Who would ever have imagined?” But I wouldn’t dare, because I still need you little people.

I need you now more than ever. Because I am focusing on making this a career, I can not focus on marketing the blog. I need those of you who are technologically savvy to Stumble me, Mixx me, Digg me, Blog Roll me, Tweet me, and Tickle me. I made the last one up, but who doesn’t like a good tickle? For those of you who don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about, please pass me on to friends, neighbors, class lists, and Mommy And Me programs.

This is an official amendment to our contract, like getting an annoying packet explaining the change in your insurance coverage. I write a blog that is mostly article driven. If I want consistent traffic without marketing, I need to be more “bloggish,” and POST, POST, POST. So rather than let the Suburban Jungle suffer, I will enhance it with more frequent posts. Not all will be articles, I am still just one insanely talented person. But, I promise they will be witty, relatable, and sometimes short.

I will continue to give you the articles you love so much, and in return you will continue to enjoy the posts… that’s an order. You will talk about me at lunches, PTA meetings, water coolers, and play-dates. You will sign up friends to the email subscription with out their permission. You will annoy them with requests to join the Suburban Jungle group or networked blog on FB, and insist that they follow me on twitter. Most importantly, you will ignore all spelling and grammatical errors.

I will hold you to our contract, which like an insurance company, I have the right to amend at any time, without prior notice. Thanks for reading and inspiring every word! You are truly the best audience ever!

Much Love,

Jenny from the blog

I always love feedback and hope to hear from you.

The FB Suburban Jungle group will receive articles only… not the entire feed, for the full experience sign up for the FB networked blogs thing-a-ma-who-ha.

I will not have as much time to post on LinkedIn, so if you find me there, sign up directly on my site, and feel free to link to me.

The Perks Of Breastfeeding

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.

For notifications of new posts, enter your email address:

Delivered by FeedBurner

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.”

For notifications of new posts, enter your email address:

Is it just me or does money seem tight these days?

I don’t know about you guys, but I have watched my investments plummet. it’s probably just me. I must have made bad choices. Reeling from the tech fallout of 2002, I cautiously invested in low risk things like bonds, and solid proven companies like GE and CitiBank. What was I thinking?

Oddly, I also assumed that my husband would receive his weekly commission based paychecks well, weekly. I appear to have been wrong on both counts. The constant chatter I hear on line at the supermarket, where people are pulling coupons out of their Chanel bags to save a buck on T.P. (one ply), makes me think, “maybe I‘m not alone.”

I want to know when I started to sound desperate and entitled? Was it when I complained that I have to make my own coffee? Or when in an attempt to avoid such a dreadful task, I offered my barista a BJ in return for a Grande latte?

You know Sally Struthers once said, that a child in a third world country could live on the price of just one cup of coffee a day. There’s probably a Starbucks like every 8 huts in Ethiopia, but how can I buy them coffee everyday when I can’t afford my own? Oh, the irony. You know Sally also said, “Stop calling my husband Meathead, Daddy.“ so I don’t know why I’m letting her make me feel guilty in the first place.

Here in the first world — America, there are people who struggle everyday of their lives and in the face of that I still manage to be upset that my husband and I haven’t exchanged gifts this year.

In an attempt to be frugal and responsible I recently returned $200 worth of “barely” used makeup and creams to Sephora. Look, we all know that stuff looks perfect in the blinding color melting lights of the store and not so perfect in the natural lighting of … reality.

That was a resourceful plan. Unfortunately, I couldn’t use the credit to buy groceries or vaccines, so I did the next best thing and prudently bought myself new creams and make-up that probably won’t look good in reality either. I may have, in a hopeless attempt to feign normalcy, wrapped those items and given them to my husband to give me for Valentine’s day. Don’t judge, the manager said I could bring back anything that was barely used. Under that premise, I’m going to try to return my diaphragm to Walgreens tomorrow.

As is obvious, I am using as many creative saving outlets as possible. Yesterday, I caught myself thriftily gazing upon my husband’s pile of dry cleaning and wondering how much of it a little spritz, elbow grease, and a strong wind couldn‘t fix. That thought gave me quite a chuckle and then I spit on the stains, rubbed them together, and blew them with my hair dryer. It worked… I may have discovered the “Ancient Chinese Secret.“ Let‘s keep that one between us. I’m using the money I saved to stave off my barista for couple weeks.

This morning I went so far as to wrap a barely read book for Ryan’s book exchange. Actually, that one kinda falls under laziness. A big sorry to the recipient, I think the one time we read it, Ryan had hand foot mouth, but I’m sure the dog hair tumbleweeds and pet dander in my house just scrubbed those germs right off.

PS I am still negotiating with said barista. He countered my offer with a week of free Grandes with extra whip (wink wink). To which I replied, “Make them Ventis, and we got a deal.” He drives a hard bargain, but I am confident that I am coming out ahead on this one, pun always intended.

For notifications of new posts, enter your email address:

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

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.

For notifications of new posts, enter your email address:

My Cardiologist Has No Heart -Day 3

Day 3- I feel as if I should be writing for a geriatric blog. I’m like Seinfeld doing a gig at his parents clubhouse in Del Boca Vista , which is fitting since Mark affectionately calls me Jenny Youngman. Seriously, take my husband… PLEASE.

It could go something like this: “I mean hey, what’s with those stress tests anyway? They want you to start out calm, but the first thing they do is scratch you with sand paper and stick stingy electrodes all over you. What’s with that? If they want you to start out calm, they should babysit your kids while you get in a shower.”

Jake was home from school, and I had to take him with me for the stress test. They should just hook me up and let me try getting him dressed and having him eat breakfast on a time limit, that would be test enough. I wouldn’t even need the treadmill. We entered out of breath, and again I was the youngest by a mile. The women who work in the office greeted me affectionately by name, like Norm walking into Cheers.

I was already winded from rushing to get us out the door, and Ryan to school, and through rush hour traffic, to be at a 9AM appointment. I had barely enough time to stretch my eyelids, let alone my limbs. The last thing I wanted to do was fail a walk on the treadmill. I wanted to run circles around Morty, and Stanley, and Rita. If I had to trip one of them, I would.

So, I found myself in the waiting room stretching. In my own delusional competitive world. I had my leg straight in the air an inch from my ear. I looked up out of my dazed state, to see the elderly couple sitting directly across from me. I met the woman’s gaze.

“Are you getting a stress test?“ she asked sweetly.

“Yeah, and I didn’t have time to stretch.“ I explained, wishing I could catch the words before they hit her hearing aid.

“Oh, Larry‘s getting a stress test too,“ she said, turning to face her husband who was also stretching. He was stretching his socks to his knees, and his shorts to his man boobs.

I let go of my leg feeling ridiculous. This might as well be a skit on SNL. The only difference would be that I’d have prop legs that would reach way behind my ears. Maybe I could twist them around each other and let them unravel with a helicopter effect.

“What time is yours?” she asked, knowing they’d been waiting a lot longer.

“Nine.“

“Oh? Larry’s is at nine, too, They must have two machines.“

“Yeah, well if we go head to head, Larry’s toast!“ I said cracking my knuckles.

“What?“

“I said, good luck.“

I remember my first day here. I wanted to give my appointment to Every Tom, Dick and Larry in the waiting room, but now I’m a pro and I’m hoping to get the call.

Nurse: “Jenny.”

“See you later, Suckas!”

Nurse: “Um Jenny, your son can’t come back with you.” The nurse warned, “Too much radiation in the room.”

The elderly lady, who clearly missed my trash talkin’ to Larry, graciously offered her sitting services. Even though she probably wouldn’t get far with him, I still don’t leave Jake with strangers. She could bribe him with stale sucking candies from the bottom of her purse and slowly amble out the door. Than I would have to rely on one of the other waiting room occupants to throw out a cane to trip her and foil her evil plan.

To avoid such a kidnapping scenario, I brought him back to the nurse’s station. There, a nurse, not used to seeing anyone under 70, reluctantly allowed my 7 year old and his DS in her seat. The desks around him were stacked with files. Tons of them. I put Jake’s water on a desk far away, and went in for the test.

Well, I passed, but I could barely stand by the end. I held on to the bars heaving, and wondered why I hadn’t walked over some bodies on the way into that room. The doctor came in to tell me that I seemed winded, but all was good, minus a couple skipped beats. He informed me that I also passed the heart monitor and never even asked to see my elaborate log.

“But, I’m not sure if I read the echo yet,” he added. “Wait here a minute, while I check it.”

During that minute someone came into the nurse’s station and knocked Jake’s water into about a thousand files and films. The office went into complete mayhem. The nurses rushed in to resuscitate the paperwork (If only they moved so fast on the patients).

“Whose water is this without a cap?” a bitchy nurse yelled.

“Mine, but I didn’t spill it,” I heard Jake sadly confess.

“Well, you have to have a CAP on YOUR WATER,“ she reprimanded, getting obvious joy from making him feel badly.

I turned to my nurse, “Is she serious? He needs to cap his water? When? How regularly do you plan on seeing us?“

“Can he come in with you, NOW?“ the bitchy one asked my nurse.

I turned to Jake and said loudly, “Don’t worry, that mean woman clearly had a bad experience with a cap when she was a child.“ I took him into the checkout area and waited there.

Nurse: “The Doctor would like to go over your echo.”
He met me in the nurses station and quickly explained that I probably have a congenital thing in my aortic valve. He then drew me a picture, and told me to refrain from asking questions till he was done.

“No problem, I’ll ask if I’m dying after you finish your diagram. Hey, don‘t forget to shade.”

He told me that it wasn’t a big deal, and may not be an issue for 20, 30, 40 years. “20 years? That only makes me 56,” I whined fearfully.

“So, 50 years then,” he said, like I had talked him into it.

“What then?“ I needed to know.

“Maybe a valve replacement, but we’re getting way ahead of ourselves. Just don’t run a marathon or lift weights.“

“Um okay,“ I said, thinking, “this is a lot to lay on someone in the nook of the nurses station, where the nurses are still hissing and giving the cross sign.”

“Go home and look it up and then I’m sure you’ll have a bunch of questions for your next visit.”

Note to self, find new cardiologist, one with heart.

For notifications of new posts, enter your email address:

A Trip To The Zoo, Day 2

This was the first round of tests, an echo cardiogram and a heart rate monitor to wear for 24 hrs. I was supposed to have a stress test but, I had rolled my ankle the day before while tripping over my puppy and trying not to crash into Jake on our afternoon walk/sprint. Being that I was too frail for the stress test I did the others and rescheduled for Thursday, at this point what’s one more visit? I am already getting hellos from the staff.

As I left the office in my workout clothes with the wires and electrodes hanging from me, I was keenly aware of the stares. I know they weren’t thinking this is some girl who runs marathons and needs to be monitored to remain in tip-top shape, no they were thinking, “Oh, so young, so sad.“ I really wanted to announce to the office that I was 97 when I walked in and that they took me back and ’Cocooned’ me. “Seriously, ask the nurses to peel there faces off.”

Instead, I walked out with my little 24hr card, a log for episodes or stressors. Funnily enough, my father in law called the minute I walked in the door. He wanted to know if I could pick up and store his bed in our garage storage because my husband told him, “no problem.” This is the room which is now an office, which had so little space, we had to give away our own extra bed to fit in the desk. Now, I am set up to be the unwavering, nay saying bad guy. “Can you excuse me a second, I want to write something down.“

Father in law: “What”

“I’m wearing this heart monitor and I’m wondering if this phone call is affecting it.“

This went on throughout the day as I kept a mini diary of my moment to moment stuff.

1PM: Have a great idea for an article.

1:45PM: First round of carpool, pick up 3 wound-up 1st graders and listen to them argue over which seat they get and who gets to play the Nintendo DS.

2:15PM: Puppy drags me and Jake around neighborhood despite our best efforts to drag him.

2:45PM: Second round of carpool to pick up Ryan.

3PM: Have a playdate for both kids, but realize Jake has a fever, so I had to bring him home.

3:15PM: Still listening to Jake crying and telling me I’m the…oh, what did he call me? That’s right, “the worst Mommy ever.”

3:30PM: Confess to being the ‘worst Mommy ever,’ just to make it stop. Then I make a list of all the other mommies he could go live with. This is followed by a quick “You’re not the worst mommy. You’re the best mommy.” To which I respond, “and don’t you forget it.” How quickly the threat of giving him away works.

4PM: Double shot of espresso.

4:20PM: Poop.

5PM: Clean puppy poop and pee out of my new carpet.

5:30PM: Try to walk dog with Ryan on her bike, crying that her chin strap, which is barely touching her neck, is too tight. Jake on his Ripstick, a mile ahead where I can’t see him, won’t answer my incessant screaming down the street.

6:15PM: Ask kids 37 times what they want for dinner, while listing available menu items… To no response.

6:30PM: My children are melting down, hitting each other and then taking turns telling on each other in indescribably high pitched whines that are making my ears revolt and my puppy try to hang himself.

7PM: Call them in to have the turkey and cheese sandwiches I have made for them only to hear, “Turkey I didn’t ask for Turkey.” “Yea, we don’t want turkey. This turkey is yuck!”

7:10PM Mark walks in the door and goes to our room to change.

7:15PM Put out peanut butter and jelly for Jake and a grilled cheese cut in the shape of a heart for Ryan.

7:30PM: Put out just peanut butter for Jake and a waffle cut in the shape of a heart for Ryan. “Kitchen’s closed.”

7:31PM: Check gage to see if I’m having a heart attack.

7:32PM: Mark reenters and starts bugging me about calling Verizon and about insurance.

7:37PM: Manage to escape conversation to give Ryan her bath and get Jake in the shower.

7:40-8:10PM: Play naked Barbie’s with Ryan in the bath. Ryan is all the pretty girls and I have the choice of being the boy, the homely faux Barbie with cut hair, or the queer fluorescent green sea horse. Thanks Ryan.

8:11PM: Beg pruney Ryan to get out of the bath and end up threatening to take a star from her star chart, which I actually only pretend to keep.

8:15PM: Kids are in pj’s and have managed to sneak into my room for some late night cartoon network.

8:20-8:30PM: The time it takes to bribe, threaten, yell, and beat them into submission.

8:31PM: Family race into bedrooms.

8:32PM: Ryan is crying, because someone did something she either did not like or does not allow, during the family race.

8:33PM: Do-over of the family race, adhering to Ryan’s strict guidelines and allowing her to win.

8:34PM: Mark walks back to our room thinking the night is done, and turns on sports. If there is no new sports he actually rewatches some game on ESPN classic that he already knows the outcome of. WTF?

8:35PM: Ryan begs me to read 3 stories which I shrewdly negotiate down to 2. Once I’m halfway into 1, Jake slinks in trying to be unnoticed and slyly gets in bed with us.

8:40PM: I finish the first story and then tell Jake to read the next one as I slink, trying to be unnoticed, out to the laundry room. I like this trick, it gets him to read and gives me a one book reprieve.

8:50PM: I tell Jake he must go and he then begs me to come into his room after I leave Ryan’s. Why not? I require no personal time. Nope all need it an hour to plug myself in to a wall socket and I’m recharged for the morning.

9PM: I now find myself singing 2 songs of Ryan’s choosing, doing a tickle monster, and two kiss attacks. What can I say, she’s really cute and she does a great quivering lip.

9:10PM: Bring Ryan a milk in a sippy cup, as requested.

9:11PM: Give her one more big kiss, as requested.

9:12PM: Take the toys that are scaring her out of her room.

9:13PM: Fix her pillow.

9:14PM: Threaten to take more imaginary stars away.

9:20PM: Inform Ryan that this is “the absolute last time I am coming in.” That’s right, even if you give me the eyes and the lip, I know how to put my foot down!

9:25PM: Go into to see Jake who is passed out.

9:30PM: Allow puppy to drag me around the block, despite my best efforts to drag him. Watch him relentlessly bark at a black trash bag that someone has left in the swail. I then threaten to take away stars from his imaginary star chart.

9:45PM: Run in to tell Mark, we should have sex just to fuck with the Doctor, but he is fast asleep. Yea well, I’ll be fast asleep soon. Right after I do the dishes and straighten up, and check on my kids, and wash-up, and brush my teeth, and floss, and take my vitamins, and play some kind of word game on FB with people I haven’t spoken to in 18years to remind me I have a brain.

Day 2 in the bag, stay tuned… day 3’s a doozie.

For notifications of new posts, enter your email address:

The Suburban Jungle

Jenny from the Blog is like comedy crack, but more addictive and less wack.

Tag Archives: parenting

The Perks Of Breastfeeding

A League Of My Own

Adult Swim

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