I was never an incredibly punctual person, but but becoming a parent has put a whole new spin on my excuses for being late to meetings, school drop off, parties and appointments. As was made apparent in my “20 Momisms Translated” post, we moms have a lot in common… why should this be any different?
Back in the day, I was late because of the normal stuff, you know, my hair didn’t look just right, my alarm clock didn’t go off, there was traffic on 95… Now, between me barely keeping my head on straight and my kids being out of their minds, my excuses look more like this:
Sorry I’m late but …
1. My daughter’s socks hurt, or as she put it, her socks “hate her.”
2. All of a sudden, none of their shoes seemed to have a mate. NONE.
3. I couldn’t find my keys … they were in my pocket.
4. My kids were fighting over who got to sit in which seat.
5. My daughter’s fingernail was itchy.
6. My son decided to wrestle with the dog rather than simply walk out the door, so we had to roll off the fur, but I couldn’t find the lint roller, so I had to fashion one from masking tape and MacGyver it off.
7. Both my children had to make a last-minute poop.
8. It seemed like a good time for one of them to ask where babies come from. Continue reading →
Well, we’re going on week 3 and Josie/Clover/Cat face/Mrs. Bigglesworth still doesn’t have a name or should I say she has too many? How am I ever going to teach her to fetch, and roll over, and play the keyboard, and fold the laundry, and pose for pictures (so that I can make a fortune like ICanHasCheezBurger), if she doesn’t know her name?
What, cats don’t do those things?
Of course they do, you just have to teach them to fold using one of those boards they use at the Gap, also you may have to implant little sticks into their paws so you can control them like marionettes.
And have you not seen Keyboard Cat? She proves to me on a daily basis that anything is possible.
She’s my hero.
Anyhoo, our kitty who will one day be an internet sensation (or at the very least, fold my laundry) has no name. After my kids refused to name her *Clawwdia Schiffer or Justin Bie-purr or Jimmy Talon, or Will Feral or Oprah Winfrey(there’s no play on words there, we just thought it’d be really funny to say, look Oprah Winfrey pooped in the litter box) we were really lost.
We had finally found a boy name we agreed on. That name was Carl.
We all truly got a good laugh out of people coming to the house and having this conversation: Continue reading →
So sad she had to be shamed in public that way, but they moved the sofa and this is what they found. She’s one sick puppy! (From MyDumbDogs.wordpress.com)
Yesterday, I saw an ad in the sidebar of facebook for a page called “I Love My Children.” It simply read: “Push LIKE if you love your children.” What’s crazier is that 5 of my friends had already “LIKED” said page (you know how it shows you that too?).
Wow, ladies you LOVE your children? No way! I can’t even wrap my head around it because you totally seemed like the types to down right hate your children, but then you went and pushed that button and now I’m all, “Maybe I misjudged you.” “Maybe you’re the best moms, like ever!” “Maybe you could watch mine sometime.” Then of course it dawned on me how very many of you so called friends of mine clearly DO NOT love your children which you made abundantly clear by NOT pushing “like”!
PS – To my mom and dad (who are on FB): I knew it! Don’t expect calls on your birthdays either … a-holes.
Is it just me or has the social networking world has gone bat shit crazy! Continue reading →
“Well, Jenny cough again but harder this time,” said Dr. Pollen from her cushy position directly underneath me and looking up into my nether regions. How did the doctor get such a view, you ask? I was on a special type of birthing chair (one that was probably used in the 1600s as they inquired as to whether you were a witch). Not only was there barely any seat to hold me up, I was hoisted about 6ft in the air, so that the doctor’s assistants (or people with weird fetishes who pay to be called doctor’s assistants, as I like to call them) were looking my vajajay dead in the eye, ahem, the labia. The doctor then sat on her stool and literally rolled underneath me as if she was checking out my chassis. Which makes sense because she did mention the need for a tune up.
Why would one sit on such a chair without being dared or paid? Because apparently I have all kinds of prolapse (that’s stuff caving in and falling down, to you and me) and I’ve been totes ignoring my pelvic floor, which is weird because I’m pretty good about taking care of my floors … waxing the wood ones, cleaning the grout on the stone… Actually I do have a cleaning person, so it would’ve been weird to ask her to attend to my pelvic floor after say, vacuuming. Apparently, I’m not the only one who’s let their pelvic floor slip through the cracks. Google says 40% of women are found to have stage II or greater prolapse upon pelvic exam. I read it on the internet people, so it must be true.
And yet, no one seems to discuss it. So, I am because A. “Vagina” is my favorite word to work into random conversation B. Doctors like to treat this issue with hysterectomies, which may not be necessary. C. If I pee on the floor while we’re having a conversation, you’ll already know why and we can just gloss over it and move on to the next topic. Continue reading →
Until recently I would have answered that question, with a resounding “NO.” But now I’m not so sure. What happened, you ask? Have I gotten frisky with a man over a high scoring game of Candy Crush?
The other day, after scoring 72 points with Q-A-T-S (yes, it’s a word and yes it sounds a bit dirty, but to be frank, I don’t know what it means — Like most words I play.) while playing Words With Friends, I got a chat IM asking me to text a sexy picture of myself. WTF just happened?
Look, I haven’t been hit on in quite some time, but that’s flirting, right? Icky, letchy, uninvited flirting. Couldn’t he have gone with “Nice word”?
Seriously, I have a rule that word games should never make you feel like you need a shower.
Many of us enjoy playing games many of us are addicted to these games. (Click here for a test to see if you’re TRULY addicted) We’re playing them with more than a handful of friends, as well as random Facebook connections we couldn’t pick out of a lineup. So, where’s the harm? They’re just games, right?
The old “I’m having too much sex with Brad Pitt to get anything done” excuse. Haven’t we all heard that one — one too many times?
PW – Parental Warning: If you are my parents, please refrain from reading!
The other day I was telling my Mother in Law about my latest dreams in which I’m working out. Sure, it could be the fact that I’m obsessed with The Biggest Loser, or that my new favorite pastime is finding new cellulite dimples, but whatever the reason working out is on the brain and these dreams are totally annoying. I’m waking up exhausted and I have nothing to show for it (other than sweaty sheets). Listen, I dread workouts in my waking world, so why would I want to waste those enjoyable “sex with Brad Pitt hours” at the “sleep” gym? Continue reading →
Recently I wrote a post for my column at TheStir about common Momisms and how they can get you into big trouble. You know Momisms, those phrases we turn to get a short reprieve, to conceal criticism, to maintain our sanity, or simply because we have no clue what our child just said and we’re trying to go with it? Since that column seemed to resonate, I thought I’d add a handy decoder to translate what we say –> what we MEAN.
Do not let this fall into the hands of your children or it’ll ruin it for the rest of us!
Maybe –> Probably not
We’ll see –> NEVER
Let’s play the quiet game. –> Stop talking, my ears are bleeding.
I love the outfit you put together. –> Please spill something on it before we leave the house.
Where did you hear that? –> Your information is completely false.
One day you’ll thank me. –> Hopefully, you’ll forget this ever happened. Continue reading →
I was telling a friend that I’d totally trade in my Gen X status for that of a 30 year old hipster who wears black rimmed glasses (yet has no prescription)… Then I wouldn’t have to admit that I spent most Saturday nights of my childhood hoping beyond hope that Charo would be the surprise guest on The Love Boat or that somehow Shari and Lambchop would find themselves in an eerie episode of Fantasy Island where Shari was the puppet. (What, I’m the only one who wished for that story line? I think not.)
No, I wouldn’t know a ton of things about pop culture, big hair, or bad TV, had I not been a poster child for Generation X. Things like this:
1. I wouldn’t recall the Facts of Life before Edna’s Edibles burned down and Cloris Leachman took over. I’d say, “Who’s Mrs. Garrett?” and “Tootie on roller-skates, really? I don’t think so.”
2. I wouldn’t know what it would be like to get up to change the channel on the television set or how to adjust bunny ears. (For those non Gen Xers, “bunny ears” is not a photobomb technique.)
3. I wouldn’t know how incredibly ridiculous and large, I mean gorgeous, my hair could look by spraying my bangs to the ceiling and simply adding an over-sized scrunchie or clip on the top of my head, or an attractive horse mane-creating banana clip to the back of my hair, or how to weave my own ribbon barrettes à la Olivia Newton John in Xanadu.
4. I certainly wouldn’t have learned most of what I know about grammar, science, math and history from School House Rock. To this day, I can tell you who invented the cotton gin, why 3 is a magic number and how our nervous system is like a telegraph line. I’m also fairly certain the Great American Melting Pot is an actual stew made by the Statue of Liberty.
5. Nor would I know what a Yuckmouth is, what to do when I “hanker for a hunk a cheese” or how not to drown my food in ketchup or mayo or goo.
6. I wouldn’t have diligently listened to Casey Kasem count down the weekly hits while praying Bananarama, Debbie Gibson or The Bangles would take the number one spot (and not have been ashamed to admit it).
7. I wouldn’t know the joy of waking up at 6AM on Saturday morning to catch The Super Friends and wishing there would be a storyline that included one of the random heroes or villains. You know like, Apache Chief, Plastic Man, Mxyzptlk or Bizarro. (Did anyone else think Wonder Woman was hooking up with Aquaman?)
8. Plus, I don’t think I would’ve made it through adolescence without “One to Grow On” or “After School Specials.” Frankly, without the likes of Mr. T, David Hasselhoff, Kim Fields or Punky Brewster telling me not to steal or cheat or throw up after meals — I don’t know that I would’ve turned out OK.
9. I wouldn’t know from Corey Apple, Adam Bomb or Sy Clops.
10. I wouldn’t know the excitement over getting a brand new Brother Word processor (you could type an entire sentence at a time, I kid you not – goodbye white-out).
11. I would have never annoyingly used the phrases and terms: “Where’s the beef,” “Barf me out,” “No Duy,” “Tubular,” “Faced” (as in, “You got faced”) or like the word “like” every like other word in like a sentence. (All to my mother’s dismay.)
12. I wouldn’t have been able to watch (while pretending to be asleep) Eddie Murphy sing “Unce, tice, fee times a mady,” or teach me the word “scum bucket.” I wouldn’t know why Mr. Bill screamed “Oh No,” or why it ’tis better to look good than to feel good.
13. I probably wouldn’t have owned a rainbow assortment of EGs, that we all know were beyond perfection with a pair of simple Keds, or awesome Reebok hightops, or fancied up with a glorious pair of shoe boots!
14. I wouldn’t have attempted to do the flash-dance quick-toe-tap and hair swing while wearing leg-warmers and a splatter painted, off the shoulder sweatshirt for my 4th grade talent show. (Oh, if I could erase that day! Alas, I cannot — years of therapy says so.)
15. I wouldn’t know what it’s like to use my allowance to buy the Beastie Boys License to Ill album (as in LP), and play it on my awesome record player with mono AND stereo… nor would I understand how speakers were also furniture… mine were used as makeshift bedside tables.
16. I wouldn’t know the feeling of getting a Cabbage Patch Kid after being on a wait-list at Caldor that felt like an eternity — and not even being able to pick the one I got, but loving her/him nonetheless. Extra points if you can remember the name, mine was Mitzy Shirley.
17. I wouldn’t be able to wow my children with my awesome dance moves including: The Running Man, the Roger Rabbit, the Cabbage Patch, the MC Hammer, the Robot, the Sprinkler, the Shopping Cart, the Walk the Dog … Oh, I’m goooood.
18. And those references to winding cassette tapes with a pencil that you see on Facebook — I’d see them as meaningless graphic designs to be silk-screened onto a tee shirt.
Shit, did I age myself saying silk-screened?
I meant iron-on.
No?
Glitter decal?
Still no?
Acid washed? Stone washed? Distressed?
Getting better?
Organic? Composted? Made from hemp… green coffee… some material that wicks sweat?
Fine. I can’t fool myself or anyone else, and when I look back at all the crap I got to enjoy, I kinda don’t want to. So, I’ll embrace it!
Gen Xers are like totally awesome…
Happy 40th to ME!
PS Am I the only one who remembers this shit??? Test me: What wouldn’t you remember?
After writing Tuesday’s post on things I’d never know if I weren’t a Gen Xer, I came to realize that I’m some kind of Generation X genius. I mean, I could be the “Rain Man” of the Gen X set. Seriously, throw some quotes on the floor, I’ll tell you who said them. OK, that test may not work as well as it does with toothpicks in the movie.
But I now see that I’m somewhat stuck in the ’80s, and I kinda like it there. So I thought I’d share some of the most random stuff I remember as a Gen X poster child.
1. Being on a wait list for a Cabbage Patch Kid and not even being able to pick the one you wanted (bonus points if you remember its name — mine was Mitzy Shirley and she had the dreaded short curly hair).
2. Jumping on the eyes of the alligator with Pit Fall Harry.
3. Thinking Flash Gordon had the best special effects ever.
4. That coffee-flavored sucking candy all elderly people had (before anything coffee flavored was cool).
5. The random Super Friends like the Apache Chief, Gleek, and Samurai.
6. Screaming, “Oh my God, the girl in Sleepaway Camp has a penis!”
Living is South Florida has taught me this: If you want to feel really crappy about yourself and guilt yourself into a starvation diet, you should simply go to South Beach, but if you wanna feel like Giselle, go to a water park.
Look, the beaches here are filled with hot, svelte, uber-tan, scantily clad, could-be models who do things you would normally see in cheesy 80s spring break movies or the making of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition, like whip their hair out of the water in a single choreographed move in slow motion.
For this reason, I always have a cover-up no more than an arm’s distance away as I sit under an umbrella and wonder, “When did I stop being that young, hot, frolicy, slow-motion girl? Wait, was I ever her? Shit, I don’t know if I was ever her, and now I’ll never be her again or for the first time…”
This is why I rarely go to the beach. Buuuuuut, I’ve also learned that to combat this feeling, one does not need to spend Thanksgiving or Christmas break in an Alaska-esque climate where she can bundle up and hide under a trendy puffer jacket.
Nope, one simply needs to take herself and her beach attire to a water park. Though water parks and beaches seem similar on the surface, they’re at their core polar opposites, like Walmart and Target.
Frankly, any park will do because here is a water park truth: No matter how much cellulite, varicose veins, stretch marks, regrettable tattoos or unsightly moles you have, there is someone within a 10-foot radius of you who has more… and she is wearing a bikini.
Often people are one or the other… in terms of their feelings about pets, hence the terms “dog person,” “cat person.” Frankly, as a rare “both person,” I often wonder, the way I do about the East Coast/West Coast rap rivalry, why can’t we all just get along?
Unfortunately, we never can. Well, not until dog people are willing to see the cat people’s side? What makes that endeavor harder is that most people who aren’t cat people are actually anti-cat people.
They’re wondering what’s enjoyable about having an animal that doesn’t know it’s name. Which (for all you anti-cat people) is not true, they know their names, they just choose to ignore you when you use them, so that you’re always aware, they have the upper hand… paw.
Cat people are also the victims of ruthless discrimination and stereotyping. In which cat people are believed to be: losers, uncool, lazy, empty nesters, old maids substituting cats for children … BLOGGERS. Cat people are thought to be creepy collectors of felines or feline replicas: sculptures, wood carvings, tee shirts, meme pics… And if they’re men, they don’t make good husbands because they’ll probably confess to you years into marriage that they are in fact, gay.
These things are rarely true. Except the meme pics, I think we can all agree that they’re worth liking and sharing.
I wasn’t going to write anything today, as I couldn’t imagine sending out a humor piece right now, when we’re all mourning and trying to comprehend such unfathomable evil, and having enough trouble sending our own babes back to school. But, then it dawned on me: This is why I — we — many of us (bloggers, humorists, comedians) write.
Let’s be real, for the most part, my writing is pretty useless. Well, unless you print it out and use the back of the paper to write a to-do list, or as a make-shift tissue, or dare I say it… TP?
The other day I wrote a rant about someone cutting me off in the carpool lane. It was for a site I love, TheStir, where most of the readers don’t know me my motivation, sense of irony, and penchant for poking fun at cliches and stereotypes. As any blogger knows, the comments on major sites can be pretty harsh. Some of them mentioned how trite my article was, “The polar ice caps are melting … and people starving in our own backyards?” “Why did I even waste time typing this response to such drivel.”
“Well, Jenny cough again but harder this time,” said Dr. Pollen from her cushy position directly underneath me and looking up into my nether regions. How did the doctor get such a view, you ask? I was on a special type of birthing chair (one that was probably used in the 1600s as they inquired as to whether you were a witch). Not only was there barely any seat to hold me up, I was hoisted about 6ft in the air, so that the doctor’s assistants (or people with weird fetishes who pay to be called doctor’s assistants, as I like to call them) were looking my vajajay dead in the eye, ahem, the labia. The doctor then sat on her stool and literally rolled underneath me as if she was checking out my chassis. Which makes sense because she did mention the need for a tune up.
Until recently I would have answered that question, with a resounding “NO.” But now I’m not so sure. What happened, you ask? Have I gotten frisky with a man over a high scoring game of Candy Crush?
Recently I wrote a post for my column at 
8. Plus, I don’t think I would’ve made it through adolescence without “One to Grow On” or “After School Specials.” Frankly, without the likes of Mr. T, David Hasselhoff, Kim Fields or Punky Brewster telling me not to steal or cheat or throw up after meals — I don’t know that I would’ve turned out OK.
10. I wouldn’t know the excitement over getting a brand new Brother Word processor (you could type an entire sentence at a time, I kid you not – goodbye white-out).
