Tag Archives: parenting

Barbie and I Can’t Get our Skinny Jeans Over our Thighs

No matter what your weight or size, most of us experienced that moment when we realize it’s time to “retire” a pair of our favorite jeans because they just don’t fit anymore. Damn you, slowing metabolism. Damn you, gravity. Damn you, left over mac n’ cheese.

pMAT1-6593162v380Yesterday while trying to dress my daughter’s Barbie in a stunning pair of silver lamé jeans, I realized they weren’t going over her thighs. WTF? Had she gained a few? Had she borrowed a pair from Skipper? Was it her time of the month? Was she spending too much time in her Barbie McDonalds and not enough on her Barbie bike?

All I know is, this scene seemed oddly familiar. Trying to yank some slim pants over unyielding thighs… where have I seen that before?

Oh right, my closet, that’s where.

At first I felt a tinge of pity for Barbie. I breathed an empathetic sigh as I resolved to get those once fitting lamé pants over her rubbery legs. Continue reading

Too Much Knowledge Could be Bad for Your Health

This post is a perfect example of why playing dumb is underrated!!!  In a doctors office, there’s a fine line between what you should be privy to and what should not be part of a conventional, time killing conversation.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m one of those annoying patients who’s always trying to suck some  information out of the techs in the doctor’s offices.  You know the people who do the tests, and even though they know exactly what’s going on inside your body, they say things like, “I don’t read the tests, I just administer them,” or Continue reading

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

It’s my birthday.  Yes, I know “Happy to Me” and all, I’m not feeling so happy.  Actually, I kinda want to be serious for a minute.  It is Friday the 13th ohhhhhhh.  Respect.  I don’t know what that means ’cause I’m Jewish.  But here goes:
I – WILL – NEVER – BE – FAMOUS!!!!!!

Imagine stamping feet between each word.

What? I said I was going to be serious, not mature!

January 13th marks the first day of the last year in my 30‘s.  I know, I could have said that more succinctly – but you know what?  It’s my birthday, so I get to do what I want!

Most importantly, in this day filled with the logging of new wrinkles and the circling of new cellulite dimples that I will have to remove at 40, and assessing what I have not accomplished and what I will never accomplish.

Holy shit.  I will never be famous.  Look, you don’t have to have wanted to be a famous actress, writer, singer, talk show host… from the age of 3 to relate; you merely have to have wanted a certain success that looks less likely to occur as the years pass.  You have to get that urge to sob uncontrollably at the bleak outlook that is your professional or social future, but you should squelch such antics as you’re in the middle of a parent teacher meeting and you really should be paying attention. (wait, that’s just me.)

I was all prepped for fame.  At 5, I was singing outside of restaurants, attracting throngs of people who said things to my mother like, “Oy, you should take her to try out for Annie,” “My G-d that child can sing.” and “Miss, could you please move, you and your child are blocking the entrance.” Were they talent scouts whose opinions could’ve translated into the big bucks?

Probably not.

But they knew good deli and they loved a fatty corned beef on Rye, so that gives them credibility right?  I’m sure many talent execs know good deli, so really it’s quite the same thing.

If I were 5 today, I’d certainly be famous.  Someone would’ve YouTubed me and it would’ve gone viral and I would’ve been befriended by Usher and I would’ve made an inspirational movie called “Never Say Never.”

What, that happened to someone else?

See, it’s a clear case of bad timing.

Here are things I wanted so badly to do with my life that I clearly never will:
1.  Be a Part of  the Kings of Comedy tour
2.  Sing a Duet with Shawn Cassidy
3.  Replace Marie on the Donny and Marie Show Continue reading

Jewish Mom Gone Mild – Ahem – Wild \ I’m a Jewish Mom What’s Your Excuse

This post is from my favorite new blog:  I’m a Jewish Mom, What’s Your Excuse?   It’s a blog about GUILT, ANXIETY, MISCONCEPTION, AGING, SEX, SARCASM, SALES, SHOPPING and OTHER SHIT.

You do not have to be Jewish to read it, thought there is a reader test.  You only have to have a good sense of humor and not be anti-Semitic.  I will be a big part of this blog along with other hilarious Jewish mamas that will make you feel saner with every passing post.  Check it out.

That's me in the red bag. Well, it represents me. I'm being anonymous. I know, it's mysterious right? Is it attractive? They say mysterious is attractive. How about appealing? You kinda love me huh? I guess the other person in the bag represents my husband, though in reality he doesn't tower over me like Kris did to Kim. Sure, another reason for their inevitable demise. A good rule of thumb: When it looks like your husband might eat you, it's time to get out. (Or carry a lot of saltines.) Please, every Jewish woman knows that a two pack of saltines can get you through to your next meal. There will be other awesome tips like that to come so seriously, stay tuned.

‘This is my alter-ego.  The me who says it all with no holds barred.  I’m so not telling you who I am… or at least until this thing takes off, but let’s just say I’m Uber famous.

Yeah, let’s say that.

I mean why not.

Of course with all my wealth I can’t afford a computer that puts the two dots over the U in uber, which by the way are called umlaut-dots.  I know this because I am also uber smart and know how to search things on Google.  But you know what, those umlauts can go f@ck themselves.  Oh yeah, I said that, and I cuss too. Kinda…

They weren't so chipper when I told them to F@ck Off

Yep, like a truck driver.

Without provocation.

When it doesn’t even fit the story.

Gratuitously… Like Halle Berry nude scene in “Swordfish” or Paris Hilton in sex scene in her texting video, I mean sex tape.

See, I would never tell umlauts to f@ck themselves in real life for fear that one might beat me up or worse, not like me.  But anonymous alter egos can do lots of shady shit.

For instance:  You know Superman was some kind of deviant exhibitionist?  He lived in a house made of ice for G-d’s sake.  I’m sure Lois didn’t even know about his kinky side. Please, the man could put on glasses and she wouldn’t recognize him, imagine how easily she’d be to fool by a cock-ring?

I can’t believe I just used the word cock, which let me tell you, does not fall trippingly off my tongue in my day to day life.

Sorry, I have to take a sec and point out that the last line was meant to be a  Shakespeare reference that ended up sounding shockingly dirty and was so not my intention there. Look, I’m gonna let you know when I’m being crass on purpose or not.  That’s my promise to you, the reader. 

Being that I get to completely reinvent myself here.  I’m going to call myself Lady Gaga.  No wait, that’s totally taken, okay, how about

Madonna? Pink? Li Lo? Fire Crotch?

Ugh, all the good names are taken.

I’ll just go with Cher, that’s original.

For my husband I’m thinking Thor, no wait, Thor doesn’t quite fit.

Dion?  No that’s too “Clueless.”

How about something more Jewish, like Abraham?  No, that’s too jewish, ok Adam Sandler, Seth Rogan, Jason Segal, Jon Stewart? All taken?

Maybe we should go back to the one name kinda names?  Ummm, let’s see, Barney? Elvis? Fabio? Jesus? O.J.? Prince? Q-Tip? Shaq? Waldo? Noah?

Yes, perfect.  You know, Noah… from the ark?  Great, a one name Jewish moniker. Lovely.

Noah and Cher. We will have a Boy and a Girl and a dog and a cat.  Names to come.  That was exhausting enough. But if you have suggestions please leave them in my box.

Hello, my comment box.  Sheesh, you people are already out of hand and the balls are barely rolling.

Incorrigible!

*By the way, you don’t have to be Jewish to read the blog, though I prefer you not be anti-Semitic.  I know, that was exclusionary of me, but it still stands.

Welcome,

Cher the Jewish Motha’”

To take the test and see whether I’m a Jewish Mother, What’s Your Excuse is for you click here.

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Top 10 Resolutions ANYONE Can Keep | For 2012

new yearsThis time of year I amuse myself by looking back at last year’s resolutions. Ones I made with the best intentions, like learning an instrument or a foreign language. Last Hanukkah I had my husband buy me a guitar. I had all the confidence in the world that by this New Year’s, I would balk at a request to play “Stairway To Heaven,” saying something dismissive like… “Please, that’s so cliché, but why not?” or “Por favor, es muy cliché, pero porque no? Unfortunately, my guitar collects dust while my Spanish collects rust.

So for this year, I am making some resolutions that are a bit more achievable:

1. Nag More

For over a decade my husband has not picked up a wet towel, washed ketchup off of a dish, changed a light bulb, or remembered trash day without a divorce threat, I mean, friendly reminder.  This year: I vow to be relentless in my nagging. I will lay immediate blame using words like always and never. As in, “I always, and you never.” I will play the martyr by saying, “Forget it. I’ll do it myself.” I will amp up the guilt with, “I do everything around here.” Or something unarguable like, “It’s obvious by your refusal to change a light bulb that you don’t love me anymore.” If all goes well, I’ll be nagging him to go to couples therapy by 2013.

2. Gain Weight

I’m going to quit all good eating habits ASAP.  I vow to add carbs to my diet with reckless abandon. I’ll start each meal with a generous helping of bread and rolls onto which I will spread an obnoxious amount of butter. I’ll stuff food into my mouth with such fervor it’ll make other eaters uncomfortable to watch. I also vow to eat everything a la mode, including ice cream.

3. Workout Less

This will actually take serious effort. The only thing harder would be to shower less. If I need the proverbial cup of sugar, I will drive to my neighbor’s garage and beep until she comes out and hands it to me. I’ll take elevators in two-story buildings. Lastly, I’m going to cancel my gym membership and use the money I save to buy more ice cream.

4. Forget an Old Language

This year, not only am I not going to learn a new language, I’m going to let my brain atrophy to forget the one I already know. I’ll watch endless episodes of Adventure Time, The Regular Show and Beavis and Butthead. I’ll quit doing crosswords and speaking in complete sentences. I’ll break all grammatical rules: I will misplace modifiers, dangle participles, and end sentences in prepositions. I will express my thoughts through that African clicking language, modern dance, and a set of bongos that I intend to wear around my neck.

5. Stay Out of Touch

This time of year, I am reminded of the many friends I have let time and space interfere with. I intend to further that distance. I’m gonna start by rejecting any new Facebook or social network requests. I will also attach a note that reads, “I never liked you in the first place, Sucka!” Lastly, I will cuss out and then hang up on people who call in hopes of fulfilling their own resolution to rekindle old friendships.

6. Be Less Patient

I vow to be aggravated, exasperated, and ready to blow my stack at the slightest misstep. The next time my son wants help with his homework I’ll say, “That’s it! Clearly this whole elementary education thing is not for you. If you don’t know how to spell “Discerning” by now, you never will…Now, go get a job! Oh, and take your sister with you, she spends way too much time on the potty.”

7. Hold Grudges

This year I vow to forgive no one. I don’t care if you step on my toe, or pay me the five bucks you owe me, a day after the assigned due date. You will go on “The List” in permanent ink and I will twirl my imaginary handlebar mustache as I think about how to get revenge.  I vow to hate you forever and never forget how you wronged me.


8. Stress More

I vow to lose sleep thinking about planning parties, redecorating my house, trying to budget, missing appointments, teacher conferences, and health issues caused by stress. I will laugh an evil cackle while erasing all the plans from my iPhone, and then cry over what I’ve just done. I will empty our bank account on frivolous investments and watch it dwindle away. Oh, wait…that already happened. Well good, more for me to worry about.

9. Become Addicted to Something

Smoking, alcoholism and Starbucks are so trite. No, this year I vow to pick up a unique dependency that people can really talk about like nasal spray or hand sanitizer or sniffing hot glue from class projects. Or at least something beneficial to my endurance like crack. Look, I already have a shopping addiction so that’s out and I do love me some reality TV; maybe I could offset the bills with a robust gambling problem.

10. Gossip More

I vow to talk about everything you do in the New Year. If I see you at the pediatrician for so much as a flu shot, I will tell everyone your child has hand foot mouth, so you can be verbally assaulted when you show up at a birthday party the next day. If you look too skinny, I will assume it’s a divorce or you’re a raging bulimic. If you look too hot, I’ll call it a torrid affair. If you look too young, it’s an addiction to surgical procedures because you’re getting divorced, due to a torrid affair.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

My Other Resolution: GET MORE READERS TO THE BLOG SO I CAN GET A COLUMN IN A SHE SHE MAGAZINE AND LEAVE ALL YOU READERS FLOUNDERING!  MWAHAHAHA!!!
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Politically Incorrect Meets the Forth Grade

A couple weeks back, I went to my son’s school as a volunteer for his holiday class party.  In an attempt to be overly PC they had all the usual non-denominational stuff: snow flake making, a toilet paper snowman contest, and other things related to snow and not Chanukah menorahs or Christmas trees or whatever kwanza has… like, kangaroos.  Frankly, I don’t know if there’s a Kwanza Kangaroo, but I like to think there is one.

Every holiday needs a mildly creepy ambassador.  I mean, there’s Santa Clause for X-mas.  He’s a fat, jolly, old guy that likes to have children on his lap, which is kinda disturbing.  There’s a Hanukkah Harry, who sounds like a drunken trench coat wearing uncle who may flash you in front of the menorah, and I assume – there’s a Kwanza Kangaroo, who let’s you feel in his pocket for presents and for pleasure.

Not the Creepy Kangaroo you were picturing, or is it?

I may have just massacred the mascots of three religions at once.  And to think I wasn’t a part of the politically incorrect story I’m about to tell.

Moving on.  We were in the midst of making snowflakes, which had to have a picture of the student glued on the front.  I grabbed some of those tiny 1×2” pictures and started giving them to their respective owners.  I can barely tell the girls apart with the feathers in their hair and the Justice accessories, but I managed, then I came across an Asian child.  He was one of many Asian children in the class.

Hello, it’s gifted.

I don’t want to say he’s Chinese because I always get that stuff wrong, and then I seem ignorant.

As you can tell from the story thus far, I hate to sound ignorant.  Though to be fair, I wouldn’t expect you to know me from a Canadian.

I put the child’s picture at the back of my pile, to be certain I was giving it to the right Asian child.

Not that they all look alike.

I mean, if that’s where your head was going, then I’m quite sure you’re guilty of racial profiling.

Shame on you.

I, on the other hand was concerned that in this cripplingly PC society, that had I given the wrong picture to the wrong child and he happened to be Asian, I would be perceived as being prejudiced myself.  Though if I’d given a feather laden girl the wrong pic, we’d have laughed it off.

As I walked over to the child whose picture was last in my pile, I saw him holding another picture in his hand.

Holy shit, I am guilty, I can’t tell them apart.  This is horrible, I have to stop being so preachy to other people.

Shame on me!

Then, I looked at the picture in his hand and realized that HE was holding the wrong picture, not I.

OMG the irony.

I tried to hand him his picture, which he was reluctant to trade, sure he had the correct one.

“No, this is you.” I said.

I mean, if you can’t tell yourself from another child of similar decent, than I think the rest of us are in the clear here.  Phew, one less PC thing to worry about.

And the best part, I made it out of this scenario somehow unscathed and totally PC

What did I learn:  Asian children have trouble telling themselves from other Asian children… It must be the pocket protectors and the ping pong paddles they carry around with them.

Relax, I was just kidding, you can’t play ping pong in school, though they did look like this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well, like this but, younger and with black socks and sandals.

May we all be a bit less PC in the New Year.

Little Things that Make me Wanna to Convert

starbucks hot

Understand, these are like the size of your thumb! Awwwww.

So, the to-go cup ornaments at Starbucks are really challenging my faith.  I may just have to convert. 

I mean have you seen them?

They’re like tiny hot and cold drinks with straws and mini logos. So cute I just want to pinch them and make tiny lattes to drink out of them. 

The truth is everything is better when miniaturized. That’s why they make mini versions of things in the first place. Does anyone remember those mini soda cans you could get out of candy machines? Or those cute little mini x-mas trees with mini ornaments? How about those Russian stacking dolls? You know the smallest was always your favorite.

As small a a can, but you shouldn't crush it on your head.

And miniature dogs,

 

I mean people will pay a fortune to have a dog that has been bred with 10 other smaller dogs. The smaller the place you can fit your dog, the better. Screw the Teacup. I want a Shot-glass. Yeah, I want a Shot-glass Yorkshire terrier. You know, one that’s the offspring of a Yorkie a poodle and a spec of dust. I’ll call it a YorkiedoodleDandy, the doodle is so it doesn’t shed. It would only have a minimal amount of hair (due to it’s teeny tiny size,) but I so hate to be off trend.

I digress, my point is: You damn marketers of miniature things have really got me this time. Yeah, as a child I spent year after year decorating other people’s trees, driving to see houses lit up with Santa being pulled by his 5 glorious reindeer. I know there are 9, I’m Jewish, not stupid. Rick Barns could only fit 5 on his lawn, hello?

Anywho, I’ve seethed with jealously at the kids who got to run down their wrought iron staircases into their highly polished mahogany floored living rooms on X-mas morn and open tons of presents under their 12 foot trees while wearing footy pajamas and sipping hot cocoa.

Oh, I know how it works.  At least one of the boxes would bark and with your new puppies in tow, you would move on to empty stockings filled with small things like Nanos, and netbooks.

What? 

That’s how I picture it.

Sure, there have been times when I was green with envy, but I never, until today, thought of converting.

starbucks cold

Look at that cute itsy bitsy straw!!!

We as a people survived thousands of years of slavery and persecution, but I fear this mini to-go cup may be the end of us. To the tribe I say, “Stay strong, stay strong.” They’ve tried to break us before, but we will not let this insanely cute miniature ornament be our demise.”  Unless they start serving mini coffee drinks in it, then it’s every Jew for themselves.

Please note:  No Lattes were harmed in the writing of this article, however, one was emptied.

Hey- if you haven’t checked out yesterday’s post Can’t a Nice Jewish Girl Sit on Santa’s Lap without Being a HO HO HO? you really should.

Happy Holidays.

 

 

 

We Used to Play Family Now it’s ‘Modern Family’

In last week’s post, I Can’t Come to Terms with my Quasi-Teenage 1st Grader , I realized that my child is not the only child who’s 7 going on 17.  I have to believe that the fact that my daughter and I are having these teenage sounding conversations during bouts of playing make-believe is a sign that she’s still a kid, phew.  Though, I have to ask, when her favorite scenario is one where I’m Jay and she’s Gloria, is it a sign that her innocence is a distant memory?

For those of you living under a rock, that was a Modern Family reference.  My 7 year old has Sofia Vergara’s walk, talk, attitude, and ditsy miscommunication down to a science.   Of course, she expects me to play the reluctantly accommodating husband to her fanciful whims.

Other favorites scenarios include:

1.  She is Gloria and I am Manny.

2.  She is – insert girl name here, but assume it’s a name of some young chippie from the formulaic star making machines that are Disney or Nickelodeon and that within a few years said young chippie will be posing inappropriately in Vanity Fair or Playboy.  Names may include: ie. Carly, Victoria, China, Rocky ect. –

Who will show boobies first?

I am to play the roles of the two cutest boys in school.  Both are hopelessly in love with her and stammering while trying to get out the simplest of statements.  (This by the way, is by her request that I stutter and throw in a sprinkling of “ums, uhs, I ums, wha’s, and duhs.”)  She also asks that I sometimes faint at the sight of her and explains that if my characters were in a cartoon they would have hearts instead of eyeballs.

They (both me) are then required to fight over her in some manner and she has to choose who she will be with and whose life she will ruin, or she tells them both that she is moving to New York, knowing that with each passing day they will slowly die inside.

3.  She is, insert name of the week here, and I’m a mousy girl who is amazed by her fashion sense, talents, smarts, athleticism, and humility. I simply want to be like her or be friends with her.  She is so kind and tells me why I should like being me, then she even offers to set me up with a boy that I like, who is unfortunately already pining over her.  This makes my date all kinds of awkward, and not just because I’m playing both parts, but because I have a one night stand and then I have to face me in the morning.

Relax- I just wanted to see if you were paying attention.  I totally added the last part.   Though my daughter actually did come up with a scenario last week in which she informed that she would be a girl in high school and therefore pregnant.

We hit the pause button on the game for just a bit that day.

Moving on…

4.  I am a deprived British girl who lives in a hovel and signs up for a contest to live with my favorite movie star, who just so happens to be her character.  Though I have a computer, I can’t afford a cell phone or email, which makes alerting me that I’ve won the contest a task in itself.  Then when I get to live with said movie star (Yesterday, J. Lo) I do something rude or perhaps I faint too many times and find my prize taken away by my overbearing mother, who is also played by me.

5.  I’m a street urchin who has never known a family or what it’s like to eat anything but paper.  She is a beautiful, compassionate girl who takes me in and allows me to stay with her, much to the dismay of her evil sister, Delilah (also me) who likes to verbally abuse street urchins and physically abuse family pets and then release them into the wild.

6.  She is a mermaid who I find living in my lake.  She agrees to come live with me until my father (also me) insists that there is no such thing as mermaids and proclaims her tail to be nothing more than an elaborate costume.  She then refuses to live with me because my father cannot come to terms with the abomination of nature that she is, or something like that.

To contrast the maturity in the content of these scenarios we can often play them out as Barbies, My Little Ponies, Groovy Girls, Polly Pockets, La La Loopsies, Webkinz, or any inanimate object that can be tilted as if talking.  Yes, fingers, straws, and pencils are feasible candidates.

In fact, if you happen to be in a Grand Lux and overhear a mother telling her child about the stigma of teenage pregnancy using Wikki Stix, you might as well assume it’s me.

You don't get to go to parties when there's a baby at home.

I Can’t Come to Terms with My Quasi-Teenage First Grader | When Clueless Meets My Little Pony

We say it all the time, “my kid’s 6 going on 16” or as I like to say, “She was born a 7th grader,” but how do you reconcile the lag in actual and perceived age?

Heels and an Elmo? Point made!

Not unlike my hubby, my kids are stuck somewhere between adulthood and infancy?  My daughter, like most little girls now a days, embodies this dilemma a bit too well.

On some level, my daughter’s ready for a day at the Galleria with the girls, while at the same time she maintains a sweet innocence that’s more fitting of her numerical age.  It’s the conversations during our imaginary play that truly highlight this incongruity…

They also makes me laugh so hard that I pee.

Sorry, I was beginning to sound too astute, I mean knowingish for my liking.  (That should fix it.)

She  gets the flow of small talk – the cadence, the structure, the usual phrasing, which takes our play to a whole other level.

Yesterday she asked to braid my hair.

Ryan:  “Sit down ma’am.”

Me:  “K.”

Ryan:  “So, how’s things?”

Me:  “Pretty good, you?”

Ryan:  “I can’t complain… Been watching a lot of the sports channel these days?” (a questions directly influenced by the males in my household.)

Me:  “Nope, not so much sports these days.”

Ryan:  “How about that weather, huh?”

Me:  “Yep, it’s crazy stuff.”

The chit chat went on for a while.  Luckily, I found it more enjoyable then I do when I’m forced to have it with people I didn’t birth from my womb.

(Which, by the way, is most people.  I thought I’d clarify that point.)

We went on to switch our make-believe scenario to a school situation.  Our imaginary play is like a game of Monopoly with stockbrokers or investment bankers, melodramatic, high stakes, and never ending.

The characters and situations in our games change, but it’s constantly being played: while I cook, nap, shower, pee.  (Did anyone read the Night Circus?)

Ryan (who is always the boss in make believe world… as well as actual world, come to think of it): “Let’s pretend you passed me a note in class and I was really popular and everyone liked me and you were shy and kinda weird looking, but I was going to be nice to you anyway, because I’m always nice.”

Me:  “Don’t do me any favors, kid.  I mean, how kind of you, no wonder you’re so popular.”  Just like in the real world.

Ryan: “OK, now let’s say you passed me a note and I answered all the questions correctly.  Like anything with math or spelling, you know?”

Quick what 7+5?

Me:  “Well, when people send notes they aren’t usually asking academic questions.  They’re saying stuff like, ‘Do you like Billy?’ or ‘Are you going to Jessica’s party Friday night?’ You know, more personal stuff.”

Ryan:  “OK OK, (exasperated, as if my explanation droned on for hours) I’ll make up the questions you are going to ask in the note and then I’ll tell you what I’m answering, as the person I’m being.”

Me: “OK”

Ryan:  “So you understand how it works, right mom?

Me:  “I got it.”  Clearly she thinks I’m a bit slow.

Ryan: “Explain it to me?”

Me:  Sheesh, no one takes you on your word anymore.  “OK Ryan, you’re going to tell me the question I supposedly wrote on our pretend note and then you’re going to also answer that question how you would answer it.”

Ryan:  “Good, now, Are you a vegetarian?  (pause to answer her own question) Yes.  Do you like hot dogs? (pausing again) No.”

Me: “Well, that was a really long pause for a vegetarian.”

Ryan:  “Moooooooooaaaaaam, stop, I’m still going!  Are you Jewish?  Yes.  Do you like ham? No.”

Me:  “ Wait a sec, can we go back a couple?  Wow, that religion question sandwiched in there between the deli meats caught me a bit off guard.  Did you ask for a reason?”

Ryan:  “I don’t know.  These are your questions, remember?  Ughhh, I knew you didn’t get it.”

Me:  “OK, I forgot.” Apparently, I go around asking people if they’re Jewish or maybe I wanted to see if she keeps kosher.

Ryan:  “K. Do you like presents?  Yes.”

Me: “Are we done?”

Ryan: “No, one more.  Ummmmmm… Do you like rainbows?  Yes.

OK, I’m done.  Now you be the person who wrote the note and react to my answers.”

Me: “Wow, Ryan.  We reall…”

Ryan:  “Pause game.  My name in the game is Ali. Sheesh.”

Don’t you just love when kids try to pause non-video games?

Me:  “Sorry, I’m on it, Ryan.”

Ryan:  “ALI!”

Me:  “Ali.”

Ryan: “OK, go on.”

Me:  “Wow, Ali, I see we have a lot in common.

Ryan:  “Really?”

Me: “Well, you like presents and I also like presents.

Ryan:  “You do?”

Me:  “Yep, and we’re both Jewish, so of course there’s the similarities in our religious, not to mention, social upbringing.”

Ryan:  “Uh-huh, there’s that”

Me:  “Yep, and you know what else I like?  Rainbows, except I really like unicorns.”

Ryan:  “OMG, me too.”

Me:  “What are the odds?  Two Jewish girls who don’t eat pork and like presents, rainbows and unicorns?

Ryan:  “That’s crazy, huh?”

This is what happens when you’re 7 years old with the attitude  7th grader, conversations are a cross between Clueless and My Little Pony.

How to Retain Water and Lose Sanity

Sure, you read articles all the time on how NOT to retain water and how celebrities cleanse and diarrhetic out the toxins and cholonic out the backed up sewage, but rarely do people tell you how to retain fluids and keep those toxic invaders in and that’s why I’m writing this. to write it the other way is too obvious, too trite, too cliche. This is why I have such a huge following… I know what people really want to know. Because I have this info, my ego is not the only thing that’s bloated.

Here’s how I learned this pertinent bloating information: I was driving and out of nowhere I felt like I was about to pass out. I was luckily in a parking lot and quickly pulled into the nearest spot sideswiping a pedestrian. Sure, I felt some guilt, but I didn’t have time to circle like I usually do and I had to settle for my sub-standard spot.

My mind was racing, “Something is very wrong, people don’t just pass out.” I called my husband on speaker while unlocking my doors, so he or the paramedics could get to me. Even in my nearly unconscious state I was anally over-preparing.

I searched for something to eat. I shoved a lollipop in my mouth… nothing. I was hanging on by a thread, when I saw my daughter’s morning sippy cup of milk. I sucked out the milk as fast as I could (those things have a valve to slow the release of liquid, making this scene almost comedic… if it wasn’t happening to me, that is.) After a rush of boiling heat radiated through my body, the feeling slowly eased. After a meal during, which I was barely lucid for, I told husband I was okay to drive myself to the doctor. This by the way took very little convincing, thanks honey. (He is never anally over-preparing)

Now let me tell you a bit about my Doctor. He is a Jewish Jamaican with a strong accent and the stereotypical laid back attitude you would expect of people who use the word “irie.” I go to him because I am too big of a hypochondriac to go to someone with credentials high strung. When I arrived at the office I found him out back taking a smoke break, he rolls his own, so there’s no telling what it actually was.

He tipped his skull cap at me and I went in to wait for my turn.

“Ello luv, I see you got yer pretty self all worked up. I don’t mean to trow the book at ya, but yer blood pressure is very low… too too low. Yer passin’ out cause yer not getting enough oxygen to yer brain daarlin’.

“That actually explains some other issues.”

“Well, ya got ta take care of dis yerself, cause yer not gonna like the medcine I’d ‘ave to put ya on. Now go to the store and buy everyting wid salt. Get some matzoh ball soup and put extra salt init, put salt on yer salt. Everyting you been taught, ferget it.Rememba ya need tons of fluids, ‘cause ya ‘ave to retain ‘em.”

“What about water?”

“Water? No. That’s terrible fer ya, that just washes the sodium away. I prefer you ‘ave a Coke. Coke jas yer, salt yer caffeine, and yer sugar. It’s the perfect drink fer yer ‘ealth.”

“Yes, I believe that’s their campaign slogan.”

“OK then, I love ya daarlin. ‘Ave a space cake fer the road.”

Did I mention he takes his appointments in a small shack? I’m totally kidding, it’s more of a trailer.

So, if I want to stay awake, I must retain water and eat and drink crap, and if I want to stay thin, I must pass out. Hmmm, well I certainly wouldn’t be the first person who passed out trying to stay thin.

It’s against everyting, sorry everthing, in me to purposely retain fluids. But apparently, this medicine is something I want to avoid, so here goes.

WEEK 1- Filled pantry with pretzels, pistachios, popcorn, pickles, peppercorn jack, and Pepsi. I know, you’re thinking they all have… salt in them, and that’s why I got them.

WEEK 2- Ate and drank all of the above. Wide awake. Feelin’ gooood.

WEEK 3- Still awake. Feeling sluggish. Fingers pruning… Must have sweet, in need of a cupcake. I secretly busted a piñata at my daughter’s friends birthday, and ravaged the innards. I blamed it on a little kid that teases her, who just happened to be the birthday boy. Ahhh, I got my sweets… and my sweet sweet revenge.

WEEK 4- Cannot look at another saltine. Putting MnMs in my soup instead of oyster crackers. Can no longer wear rings. Thighs are becoming too friendly with each other.

Mission accomplished. Do I cry or cheer?

WEEK 5- Too bloated to cook. Can’t get fingers around pan handles. Oven mitts don’t fit. Had husband install salt licks around the house for convenience. Lick them each time I waddle by. Will write more tomorrow, sausage fingers too swollen for keys.

So many freakin' Lemonade stands, but you never see one of these.

My Husband is Metrophobic and My Father is Metrosexual (oh the humanity)

When I was growing up, my father was the one who took me on shopping excursions, and patiently waited outside many a woman’s dressing room at Saks or Bloomingdales.  We studied the nuances of collectable cars from the lines of the body to the details of the interior and yes, we buffed our nails, polished our shoes, shared our Coogi sweaters and of course…  spent many hours antiquing all over the East coast. Just last month we had a murse off (which he won – picture is at the bottom)

My Dad is a Metrosexual.

There, I said it.  He’s finally out of the dressing room closet and I’m sure will be helping design the t-shirts for their first chevron patterned parade.

I wish I’d coined the term … Metrosexual: A straight man who likes shopping, manicures, trends, home décor, staring at paint chips, and reading Men’s Health.

Anywho, in an unfortunate turn of events, my husband has turned out to be “Metrophobic.” Now, this term I may have coined, and if you use it, you owe me royalties.  I certainly didn’t know this when I married him… it never came up.  All other sexual orientations are totally acceptable to him and had I went down a checklist trying to cover each of these categories I may have learned of this prejudice earlier.  As it turns out he finds Metrosexuals to be a curious bunch. He can’t understand how a straight man would waste time keeping up with trends, care about quality of leather on a sofa or use the term mani/pedi without chuckling.

In my defense – when I first met Mark, he was malleable. I had him wearing trendy things, even hair gel. It was the 90’s okay? Stop questioning my judgment. But, I went too far. I got him a pair of Kenneth Cole chunky black shoes. At the time they were very in. The problem was that he is a size 12, and chunky 12’s are pretty, well…Frankenstein-esque. I saw it immediately, but couldn’t admit it because I wanted him to trust me and allow me to change him … obviously (is that not every girls goal?)

However, his friends weren’t so courteous and Mark’s “clown shoes,” became a standard dig that would be referenced for years to come. That was the end of Mark’s experimental phase and the last time he let me dress him in anything other than khaki shorts or jeans and tee’s.

He won’t wear anything too fitted, too shiny, too patterned, too sheer, too thick, too acid washed, too dark washed, or too trendy. On top of those requirements, he won’t wear button fly jeans or anything slimfit, as they do not provide the generous room needed to accommodate his package “take it easy, Jon Hamm.”

As if those weren’t enough parameters – He won’t actually shop, so if I want him to have any style at all, I have to guess at sizing and acceptability. As an ex-personal shopper and stylist, you can imagine how it kills me not to be able to buy him a pair of beautiful Ferragamo shoes or perfect fit designer jeans because of the metal hardware and giveaway pocket embroidery.

My father called me from Saks yesterday to run a gift for Mark’s birthday by me.

“Now Jenny, before you say anything, I have searched for an hour and found something so perfect. I would love to have this item myself and I think you could talk Mark into wearing it.”

“What is it?” I ask, already knowing from the buildup it’ll be way over the top.

“It’s an awesome black ‘Armani’ vest with stripes. It would look so great with jeans and a t-shirt.”

Now, I knew it was going to be over the top. I knew my Dad would throw out all previous knowledge of my husband and get something he wouldn’t want, but in my wildest, I would never have guessed a striped vest.

“Dad, no way in hell would he wear that.”

“Why, you don’t think you could talk him into it?”

“No.” Honestly speaking, if my conservative husband wore a vest and t-shirt to dinner I would lead the charge at making fun of him.

“Don’t you guys go out to dinner? What does he wear?”

“Yes Dad, we go out to dinner, and he wears a button down.”

“That’s so boring… how about a skinny tie, does he have any of those yet? They’re still big this fall.”

“No, I don’t think he wants a skinny tie.”

“They’re not super skinny, just a little.”

“Yes, I got it, not a bolo.”

“No, way thicker than that, but not too thick.”

“I promise, I get it, not a leather tie with piano keys a la 80s rockers, just a thinner than an average tie.”

“I can measure it — the first knuckle of my pointer is exactly one inch, I use it to guestimate.”

“I know you do, Dad.  Just get him a nice button down.  Think Ted Baker, Donna Karan, Theory, Old Navy.  You know, simple?”

“Would he wear one with an amoeba pattern, because I saw a beautiful Robert Graham.”

In the end he got lovely shirt – simple nice stripes, good colors, and no patterns that you’d find under a microscope. No sheen, no metallic thread. Totally acceptable, except for a three metal snaps on the sleeve (My Dad’s favorite part.) One snap with a gun inlay, one with a star and one simply plain.

In a department store with 10,000 variations of a basic button down shirt, he couldn’t find even one?

It was returned.

When it comes to Metrophobics buy them gift certificate so their wives can get some shoes or at least a mani/pedi.

Everyone Farts: Even Moms

I live in a house of extremely competitive people.  We have family races to bed and guitar hero rock-offs complete with behind the head Hendrix style antics.  My son at 5 was using phrases like, “I’m gonna crush you” and “you just got schooled.”

The latest thing in my house is family superlatives.  You know like, “Most likely to make their bed” or “Best looking in a Barbie wig,” (thankfully my daughter won that one).  My son is doling out the titles and my little girl wants in on the good ones.  Each day she asks me to think of things she can be the best at, because Jake already has throwing, catching, guitar hero, whistling, streaking and tying his shoes.

So, I gave her “Noise Making” and “Underwear Putting On.”  Listen, this has been going on for a week or two, we’re well past “Most Spirited,” and “Best Smile” I’m running out of accolades… I’ve even managed to assign “Biggest Flirt.”

Last night at dinner, while giving themselves some big ones like “Artistic Ability,” “Most likely to be President,” and “Best Imagination,” I hear, “Hey Mommy do you know what you’re the best at?”

Finally, I’m in. “What?” I replied excitedly.  “Is it best dressed?”
“Nope.”
“Best Cook?”
Pause, small snicker… “Nope.”
“Funniest?”
No pause, big snicker as if to say ‘As if’… “Nuh-uh”
“Singing, accents…laundry?” at this point I’ll take anything.

Ryan: Farting
Anything but that.
Jake:  No Daddy wins “Best Farter.”
Ryan:  No Mommy doe
s.

Am I really listening to this debate? Continue reading