Tag Archives: parody

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’”

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DON’T Analyze This

Counseling Addiction – Those were the words in the title of an email I just received. I didn’t read on, I didn’t have to. I get the gist and I’m shocked.

It’s never dawned on me that this would be an issue, but why the f@ck not? I mean, tons of people love counseling – I’m one of them. Though I haven’t found the time to go recently, which means I’m probably not an addict, per se.

But, I do get it.

In fact, as a double major – one of them being psychology – I found that many people in my classes were taking these courses in hopes of fixing themselves.

Well, we know that never works. If it did, no one would say, “you should take your own advice,” in that snarky way that they do.

Needless to say, I spent much time in college and Grad school with people who were anxiety stricken, or OCD (like myself) or narcissists, or bipolar, or… had other fun complexes. Then they become practicing therapists and now spend a lot of time telling other people what to do and what’s wrong with them.

How rude.

If you went around dissecting my psyche and telling me how to fix it, I would not make plans with you… often. But, we pay for therapists to tell us such things. Then we respond with phrases like: “Yessss, that’s why I’m so controlling” and “oh my G-d you’re so right, I do substitute food for love,” and “sure, sure my passive aggressive behavior is obviously an outlet for my suppressed emotional responses,” and other shit we say in therapists offices in hopes of feeling less inferior.

But, now that there’s a new disorder coming from over-therapizing, I say we get off the proverbial couch and take a stand. I mean people don’t get paid to tell you things that may happen to you in the future, do they? Of course not. So, why should we pay people to label us now?

Frankly, I think we’re all doing pretty good, considering… The O-Zone is disintegrating, American’s throw away 250 million tons of trash/year, the unemployment rate is 8.6%, we’re all getting older and wrinklier and less bendy by the second, and the shoes in my closet never seem to be perfectly straight!

So, “Say Nay to Thera-pay!” I know, catchy right? I’m like the Norma Rae of head shrinking. Screw Jung and Freud and Adler, who needs ’em and their theories? The 54 million American’s who suffer from mental illness in a given year? Nah.

Addendum to this post: I just clicked the email with the Title: Counseling Addiction The subject line said this: Help fight substance abuse as a counselor.

Never mind.

I Ate My Cat While I Was Sleeping!

CIMG0595

Why would you eat me?

I thought I would update you on the progress of acquiring a sleep disorder that ups my productivity.

I don’t know whether to celebrate or throw in the towel.For the last two days I have given myself subliminal messages about accomplishing tasks in my sleep, as planned.I wrote phrases on flash cards and taped them around the house, reading them every time I walked by.Things like “tighten butt,” “scoop cat litter,” “clean house,” “make dinner,” and “esta es una lampara (this is a lamp).”What, I’m also trying to learn sleep Spanish.

Anyway, the first night… nothing.I did the usual: went to asleep, fell off some kind of ledge, confronted an old elementary school friend about calling me a weirdo, and made out with George Clooney, who was about to take me to his villa in Tuscany on a spaceship piloted by Brad Pitt, when I was rudely awoken by my son wanting me to make lunch for school.Why do I have an account with the cafeteria anyway?

Last night was different.I didn’t dream at all.No revenge, no superstar rendezvous, no awards ceremonies, or nightmares about planes, sharks, or sharks on planes.

I woke up feeling funny, disoriented.

My souffle was not rising.

My bed was not made.

My buttocks were not tightened.

My cat litter was not scooped…

Apparently, while sleeping last night, I cooked my work out band, cleaned my neighbors house, tightened her daughter’s braces, and ate my cat.

Now, this may seem like a setback.

Many people would give up, especially after eating their cat, but not me and the Vietnamese.I’m looking at the silver lining and calling it a success.

So, things didn’t go as planned, and my son needs a little therapy.Life is about learning and opening new doors and in that vein, I am opening a night housekeeping/orthodontics service, at the very low cost of ahem, achem, cha cha, kak.Sorry, hairball.

Call for an appointment.Your money back if I eat your pet.GUARANTEED.

Refund subject but not limited to pets deemed reasonable.Tarantulas, snakes, lizards, and gerbils not included.Only half refund for mid-sized rodents i.e. guinea pigs, ferrets and bunnies.Price where prohibited.You pay me if I eat anything shelled, like hermit crabs, snails, and turtles, or bacon, I mean pot belly pigs, except George Cloony’s, which I will spare in return for sexual favors…. bla,bla,bla,bla……..

The Day My Son’s Ladybug Ran Away | Best of Jenny From the Blog

ladybug –Dealing with a lost pet can be extremely daunting… even if it’s a ladybug.

I can still hear the faint murmurs of my son Jake’s 40-minute meltdown when his pet ladybug, “Lady,” flew away. We kidnapped this 4 year old (or 4 day old bug – whatever the spot things mean), at the top of Mount Aspen. Jake loved her, cared for her, nurtured her, taught her to ride a bike, and started a 529 plan in her name. About a quarter of the way down the mountain, Lady flew to the ceiling of our gondola and made a mad dash for freedom.

Jake jumped out of his seat and bounced towards the door. This caused the gondola to start swinging. According to the warning sign that pictured a man falling out of the gondola to his unexpected demise, wild swinging was strictly forbidden. “Jake, you can’t jump around. Do you see what happened to the unfortunate man on the sign?”

This is seriously the picture!! What???

Jake continued searching, intensely focused on the whereabouts of Lady. “Hey, do you guys hear her? I can hear her. Do you hear her?” he said desperately, like someone who could put a straight jacket to good use. Continue reading →

Isabella Rossellini is Doing Duck POR*N — and I Like it

I’m witnessing a DuckRape.

Those were the words said to me this morning by my closest friend.

Her next words: “You have to come see this. It’s horrifying.”

Me: I just want to make sure we’re clear.You’re asking me to come to your house so that we can watch ducks have sex? Can we not afford good porn?

Susan: You make me sound so cheap.

Me: Moving on, you want me to drive over to your house to watch something so horrifying you’ve termed it rape?

Susan: Yeah.

Me: Okay.

What? You people think my days are so full of work that I don’t have time to watch ducks schtup? Like they say, “there’s never a reason to miss ducks getting laid.” Wait, is that what they say?

I thought it would look something like this.

But it looked more like this.

Half hour later: HOLY CRAP! First, let me explain that she wasn’t kidding or even exaggerating. If you’ve ever seen Mallards or their cousins, the Muscovy ducks, mate – and frankly, who hasn’t – you’d know of what I speak. The drakes are like boys at a frat party gone wrong—very very wrong. I swear one of them quacked, “No means Yes.” Well, it was “Quack, Quack, Quack,” but he said it with the same intonation (He then shot-gunned a beer and smashed the can on his beak).

As I watched with disturbing fascination, these guys just pecked at the female, attacked each other, and took turns attacking the female until she relented. It’s like my husband any Saturday night he doesn’t eat himself into a food coma. (So, like, once every couple of months.)

I walked up to the female, let’s call her Daisy, and said, “Look, I can get video of the whole thing. This will definitely hold up in court, and we’re gonna see Donald behind bars in no time. We’re talking heavy, metal, cage bars. I’ll represent you if I have to. I don’t think a duck trial would be too complex. I mean, I’m sure it’s nothing like a kangaroo court.”

I took her lack of response to mean she didn’t trust my legal abilities. “Yeah, well, good luck getting a better lawyer. Most of them are busy with Lindsey Lohan. How about this – just let me call Florida Animal Control, and I’ll have him removed from the premises.”

This time, I took her lack of response to mean that I should give it a try. She was also pinned to the ground, so I thought a bit of creative interpretation was called for.

Operator: Animal Control. How can I help you?

Me: Yes, I’ve witnessed a heinous crime in the animal kingdom, and I need you to come and remove the offender.

Oper: Ma’am what are you talking about, do you have a gator?

Me: No. I have a rapist duck.

Oper: What kind of duck is it?

Me: Why does that matter? Do you discriminate against certain types of ducks?

Oper: Is this a serious call?

Me: Yes. It’s a Muscovy duck.

Oper: I’m sorry ma’am. We don’t deal with animals that aren’t indigenous to Florida, and Muscovy is actually a breed from Mexico.

Me: And you have a thing about Mexican Ducks? What, do you think they’re taking all the jobs from American ducks or something? How horrible, this poor duck crosses the boarder for a little clean agua, and next thing you know she’s flying with a fast crowd, a gang attacks her, and she has no recourse. It’s just like West Side Story, but with less dancing.

Oper: Ma’am, I’m hanging up now.

Me: Wait, is there a Mexican Animal Embassy I could call?

Oper: Lady, that’s how ducks do it.

I especially love the operator’s last line because she was so serious throughout the conversation – calling me ma’am and such – even though it was said in an accent straight out of Deliverance. But she ended with “do it,” not “mate” or even “have sex.” I wanted to be like, heh… heh-heh, you said, “do it,” but she hung up too fast.

So, I got directly into my car. I couldn’t even look Daisy in the eye, mainly because I promised to put her old man on Dragon Pearl’s menu, but also because she’s really ugly. Seriously, have you ever seen those Muscovy ducks? If there was a lesson to be learned from the “The Ugly Duckling,” it’s that people really do hate ugly ducks.

So, I got home and googled “DuckRape.” It didn’t say “Did you mean duct-tape?” No, it actually gave me pages of studies on duckrape and the forced copulation habits of ducks. But, this was my favorite find. This is what Isabella Rossellini is doing now: Yes, she actually says the line, “Ouch ouch, one of them is raping me… I don’t care.” THIS VIDEO WILL LEAVE YOUR JAW ON THE GROUND… SERIOUSLY.

http://link.brightcove.com/services/player/bcpid1745093298?bckey=AQ~~,AAAAAGLt-No~,6QdLGNH5aG59AJPlSJdu6OKXtcxLbX9d&bctid=77813783001

Oh, that happened. You should know, you watched it. You sick perv, you. Gives new meaning to “Fuck a Duck” right?

Who would have thought you’d be learning so much about duck sex today? Probably not you. And yet here you are, looking at a video of Isabella Rossellini’s duck vagina.

So what’s the message here? Don’t move to Florida if you’re an animal who’s not a native species. Maybe try California – they’re pretty liberal. We’ve also learned that ducks frequently get raped, but there’s no such thing as consent in the animal kingdom… so technically it isn’t rape.

PS thank goodness for the “no consent” thing. If animals could withhold consent I’d feel pretty guilty about eating them.

Oh, and lastly, the beautiful Isabella Rossellina is now doing animal porn.

If You Liked This Story, Pass it on. Oh, and Check out: I May Have Run Over an Elderly Gentleman While Driving Carpool… oops.

Why is it so Hard to Cancel a Gym Membership

Why is it so hard to cancel a gym membership when it’s so easy not to use it?

In light of the recent findings that say women must workout 1 hour per day, I’ve decided to revamp my workout schedule. First on the list… Leave the Athletic Club, which I have not used in a year…then use the money I’m saving to buy bigger clothes.

Continue reading →

Do You Interrupt People or Finish Their Senten…’I Do’

Interrupting and finishing other people’s sentences is something that many busy people do, ahhem… like myself, and it’s certainly a bad habit worth changing.

Let’s be honest peeps. Women like multitasking and men like quick results. Neither preference is conducive to dealing with long winded conversations with grace and patience.

MORE HUMOR: 15 Random Things I Wouldn’t Know If I Weren’t a Gen Xer

I’m the typical multitasking mom. I walk into rooms with no clue why I’m there. I forget to switch laundry and have to rerun it… I can barely remember my last thought, as I have already moved on to 7 others. (Something about laundry, right? Sadly they often are. What? There’s a lot of laundry.)

When I talk to people, I find myself wanting the pace of the conversation to fit into my packed schedule. Well, that or I have something to add that is much funnier than what they’re saying and I just can’t wait to say it.

If you’re trying to explain your feelings on a subject and I already get where you’re going, I may ever so “politely” hurry you along by either responding before you’re done or telling you “I get it,” while you’re still speaking. If you’re truly lucky, I may help you get your thought across by finishing your sentence for you. I know, no thanks necessary.

MORE HUMOR: 40 Things Every Mom Should Have and Should Know by 40

So, I recently read an article that discussed the side effects of such lovely behaviors. Not only is it rude (who knew?), but it actually makes the speaker unconsciously feel rushed, nervous, and annoyed; both your pulses speed up, which can cause irritability and a defensive tone to erupt.

That would totally explain the wrestling match I got into with homeless man in the street. What? The light was about to turn, I had to help him along so I could hand him my 26 cents.

What again? I don’t keep a lot of change in my car.

Sheesh, you people are real sticklers huh?

I’m sorry, was I putting words in your mouth again. Well, I’m clearly working on it! SO, BACK OFF!

Moving on, the fix for this embarrassing habit is simple: Be Aware; Be in the conversation on your own end, and allow people to finish their thoughts before chiming in. Make a point to remind yourself of this before going to a meeting, picking up the phone, or having lunch with a friend.

*Make a real effort not to interrupt even if you’re two paragraphs into the next conversation, unless of course, they are boring the crap out of you. There’s just no excuse for that.

Technically, being incredibly boring and wasting someones time with inane mumblings should be considered rude as well, no? In some tribes it’s punishable by death. Death by boredom!

Oh, the irony.

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How to Steam Up Your Sex Life, Steam Out Your Pores, and Steam Clean Your Carpets

Every women’s magazine has its version of a “How To Have (insert saucy adjective here)” sex list, most of which make me feel like I should keep an extinguisher by the bed, along with a bucket of cold water to douse on myself and my partner when we begin to spontaneously combust from sheer passion. “How to Keep Your Love Life Hot, and Your Sex Life in Flames.” “10 Ways to Reignite Your Marriage.” “How To Turn Up the Heat In the Bedroom, Without Singeing the Sheets.” (Oh, I like that last one)

I will actually disband the relationship myths propagated by magazines, and give it to you straight. The side effect of such truth could be the shockingly unsatisfying revelation that your unsatisfying sex life is just that… unsatisfying. If you are faint of heart or an optimist, stop reading now.

When you have babies, sex is often not so hot… or often for that matter.

Tip From a Writer with No Sense of Reality: Time your trysts around nap time. Snarky Response: There is nothing women like more, when trying to have an orgasm, than the sense of pressure and urgency that having time constraints puts on the experience. Nighttime is better, IF you can work in a romp around heavy eyelids. Little babies make for long days restless nights and disinterest

Do realize that once the kids are out of the crib, the question isn’t if we get caught, but rather when? You’re just counting the days, I mean lays, until you must explain why Daddy is wrestling with Mommy… naked. “Well you see, Mommy tripped and her clothes fell off, and Daddy was trying to help her up. Oh, and he took off his clothes so she wouldn’t be embarrassed.” So, please have a better story than that.

Tip From a Writer Who Clearly Has No Children: “Set the mood.” You know candles, aromatic massage oils, and sexy lingerie. Brutal Honesty Response: If there is no lingering gas odor in the room and you’re in an old t-shirt without any holes, work your dimmer switch and voila… ambiance. Better yet, realize the TV is a beautiful source of ambient light. If you can get the volume to an audible level, you can work in sex without giving up Grays Anatomy. It’s called multi-tasking, something we moms are all too familiar with.

As for a massage, I’m lucky if I don’t get one of my kids’ left over Dorito corners embedded in my thigh. The sexy part is when I ask my husband to flick it out and slide the remaining crumbs off my tush like sand paper. Does that count as a massage? Well, arguably, it’s more like an exfoliation, but it’s undeniably hot.

Tip From a Writer Whose Kids are Not Involved in 500 Activities: A date night once a week. Reality Check Response: I like this one, because in theory it is legitimately a good idea. It’s definitely worth trying every week, but unfortunately, it assumes that there will be a night each week when no one is sick or has an event, that there is a babysitter available, and neither of you are too tired or worn out to go to dinner –A meal in which most your conversation will revolve around the kids.

Tip From a Writer With More Than 24hrs in Her Day: (My personal fave.) Don’t forget the foreplay. Multitasking Mom Response: Really? As it is, I have to have sex while catching up on my Tivo, reading US Weekly, having a healthy protein snack, and repeating the words, “lettuce, milk, eggs” over and over until I can get to a pen. Now I have to add something else to my repertoire? We forgot foreplay a long time ago. Well, my husband didn’t, he calls it brushing his teeth… which I am thankful for.

Tip that Makes me Say, “Are You Out of Your Cotton Pickin’ Mind?” –That’s right I said cotton pickin’ and I meant it! Start Your Day With a Bang So, you’ve had a long day and the odds that you’re going to be up for a raucous romp, or even a guilt induced one, are slim. Set your alarm an hour earlier and have an uninterrupted top-o-the-morning. Bitchy Unsensored Response: First of all, what ambitious magazine writers think an hour is necessary? Six minutes would do the trick and still, I’m not down with that idea. Do you know what I like to do before I wake up in the morning? SLEEP!

Do yourself a favor, throw out those, “spice it up” manuals and top 10 lists. Don’t be too concerned about the quantity of the sex you’re having. You have to figure out what works for you. I recall a friend asking, “Do you ever wake up to your husband having sex with you?” I remember thinking, “No, in my house, we call that rape.” Now I’m thinking, “Hey, whatever works.” If you can have a roll in the hay while hitting the hay, consider yourself a professional multi-tasker.

Question of the Day: What’s the best “Spice up Your Sex Life” tactic you’ve learned since you had children? Please Comment and leave your twitter handle (I’ll be sure to follow:))

License to Procreate – A Little Mom Humor From the Suburban Jungle

Should Parents Need a License to Procreate? - Mom Humor

You need special credentials to drive a car, take out a book and get a credit card, but there are no prerequisites to raise a child?

As a fairly normal adult with the means to raise a child, I admittedly had no clue what I was doing with my first child. I remember leaving the hospital thinking, He’s mine? I own him? You guys trust me to walk out that door and raise a child because I made the obligatory poop and demonstrated my ability to put him in a car seat?

Isn’t it baffling that everyday people like us are allowed to procreate without first passing a test or getting some kind of license? Think about it. You need a library card to take out a five-dollar paperback, because you can’t be trusted to return it in a period long enough to read it four times over. You’re also required to pass a test to drive a car, sell a house or be a lifeguard. You can take a class to learn how to give birth, but once that baby’s out, you’re on your own.

There wasn’t even a test at my OB’s pre-pregnancy interview. All he asked was, “Do you have insurance and are you taking folic acid?”

“Of course, I’d never think about bringing life to this Earth without the recommended 3 gagillion mgs of folic acid per day… I’m also shooting heroin, but you didn’t ask me that.”

What if I don’t feed him, bathe him or water him? I could let him swim after lunch without waiting the mandatory 30 minutes, or dress him in generic clothes from the supermarket. I could drop him off on the first day of middle school, roll down the window and scream, “Mama loves her Snuggle Buggle!”

At the very least, there should be some kind of “Mommy Aptitude” screening. During your interview, they could call your mom. Mine would say,

“Jenny always dreamed of being a mother and loved playing house. Her dolls were mostly naked, and she liked to cut their hair down to the hair transplant plug scalps. Sometimes she would detach their limbs and try to put them back in the wrong sockets, possibly to amuse herself, though I found it rather disturbing. Have I said too much? No, really, she would be wonderful. They would be so clean; I recall how much she liked bathing her naked Barbies.”

Doctor’s response: “Put in a 10-year IUD, give her supervised visitation with a hermit crab, and make sure someone counts the legs.”

Not only do gynecologists promote the concept of “Motherhood” to anyone donning a wedding ring with reckless abandon, they encourage us to have more. Otherwise known as repeat business. The second my daughter arrived, my OB said, “So, when am I gonna see you back in the saddle?”

Great, a stirrup joke. “Take it easy Doc, the placenta’s not even cold yet.”

Well, a month and a half later, I ran into my OB again. Actually, I had an appointment, so it wasn’t as random as I’m making it sound. He said, “At six weeks you are extremely fertile, so now is the time for another romp in the stable.” I immediately went home to tell my husband the doctor said, “Now is the time I am extremely unstable, so no romps for at least six more weeks.”

How about a probationary period to see if you’re any good at this parenting thing? When you get a new job, they evaluate you every six months. They certainly don’t give you more responsibility until you’ve proven you can handle your current load, unless you work at McDonald’s.

How does my OB know how I’m gonna solve disputes? When my children are fighting over the last lollipop, who says I won’t shove them all in the closet, lock the door and say, “Last one standing gets it”?

Well, lucky for me, I’ve turned out to be an excellent mother (ask my children), regardless of not being licensed and accredited.

(Please note: this is meant to be a mom humor piece… Though I wouldn’t be opposed to some “What Do We Do Now That We Had The Baby?” classes)

9/16/13 – I just put the share buttons on this post! If you like it … Please use ’em

XO Jenny From the Blog

Other Fun Pieces: 40 Things Every Woman Should Have or Should Know by 40

Moms of Boys are Jealous Shrews, So Here’s a Contract for Your Future Daughter in Law

50 Like Totally Random Things I Remember as Like a Child of the 80s

Subscribe to The Suburban Jungle (it’ll put hair on your chest).

The Germiest Place on Earth: The Pediatrician’s Office

Today, I took my daughter to the pediatrician for her 5 year check up. I know I probably should have been concerned about how she was going to freak out about the 4 vaccines and finger prick that are required to move on to Kindergarten, but I was too preoccupied what she was touching in the waiting room. I am one of those irrational parents that is forced by serious neurosis to take my kids to the doctor over every phlegmy cough. Unfortunately, I am also one of those parents who is quite sure that bringing kids to the doctor’s office pretty much guaranties that they pick up some other snotty kid’s infection, which is far worse than their own. So, you can imagine how going in for a well-check really throws me for a loop.

As I surveyed the waiting room, I noticed that the plastic kitchen in the corner was dripping with mucus. No, I didn’t bring my black light but, a baby had just finished mouthing the oven handle and I’m quite sure his sister picked her nose and tried to cook her reward in the faux microwave. Continue reading →

Minutia Mom -The World’s Awesomest Superhero

It has recently dawned on me that somewhere along the way, my sense of accomplishment became a product of my ability to be a good homemaker. The creative energies I once used to design jewelry and dress celebs are now spent trying to build intricate forts and streamline the laundry process. For instance, I’ve found that by rolling towels one can save considerable folding time, while providing the added benefit of a spa-like appearance.

When did this happen? When did I accept the job as Master of the Mundane? I remember the ad, it read: Seeking highly motivated person, who requires little sleep, to cook, clean, wipe tushies, noses, and countertops… oh, and provide occasional sex to employer. Person will be overworked and underappreciated. It is preferred that you have no prior experience or references. Always on duty. Will pay nothing. Continue reading →

Tip O’ the Mornin’ : How to Survive Holiday Visitors

family fighting

So, the holidays are upon us. Christmas has just passed and visitors are abundant, but their welcome is wearing thin. I know, we all look forward to this time of year, but often in the midst of it, we realize the heavy meals have expanded our waist lines and our relatives have stretched our patience.

In-laws can be the toughest during the holiday season. I’m not talking about mine; they’re amazingly wonderful and never bothersome, NEVER. Mine aren’t even in this season, but I have heard tales of other in-laws who cause stress and frustration. The way they handle a turkey, as if it is not a breeding ground for salmonella, or the way they screw with the table settings that you took a painful amount of time arranging to look haphazard and shabby chic. I know, my “friends” sound like a joy to be around over the holidays, right? I am simply relaying their stories, I am in no way referring to specific incidences that may have happened in the past, which have caused me anxiety or to count to 10 by the medicine cabinet, while searching for Zanex .

Let’s face it, it’s harder to have tolerance for those who didn’t raise us: friends and non-immediate family included. We have a certain forgivability factor for our blood relatives; they can get away with more and feel the wrath less. We also tend to offend them less as they too have a forgivablity factor, towards us. Thank goodness.

So, while you count the hours till your guests get on their merry way, I suggest heavy drinking. Use the holiday traditions to mask your quick bout with alcoholism: Manischewitz on Chanukah, egg nog on X-mas, and champagne on New Year’s.

Remind yourself that you’re probably getting on their nerves as well. This is also not a problem I have, as I am always filled with an almost addictive amount of holiday cheer, but logic says: If they’re annoying you, you’re most likely annoying them. (Or did I read that on a fortune cookie?) Well logic or Confucius says that.

Grandparents, especially in-laws, really aren’t there for you in the first place. They’re there for your children. You’re just an obstacle. You and “Your Way” are hurdles to be tip-toed around, not jumped over. They don’t agree with your techniques, your rules, and your methods of punishment — or lack thereof. Though this is a point of un-verbalized contention between you and them, look at the positive. They would love for you to get out of the house, so that they can do and say what they please without feeling like you’re critiquing and judging their every movement – which, by the way, you are.

Don’t over think this one! Go out and let them babysit!!! And while you’re out, drink heavily.

Disclaimer: No in-laws, parents, or guests were harmed in the writing of this article!