Category Archives: celeb moms

15 Tips to Help Moms Survive Life in Suburbia

15 Rules to Survive Life in the Suburbs #humor #mom #funny #suburbia #suburbsNearly a decade ago, I moved to the suburbs from NYC (it’s the sole reason I started my blog).  In that time I’ve learned some pretty important things to ensure my survival, nay, my sanity.

If my ‘burb sent out a handbook it would look something like this. Feel free to use it as a mini-survival guide. Good luck and in the words of that guy on Hill Street Blues, ‘Hey, let’s be careful out there.’

  1. All children must be signed up for multiple sports and extracurricular activities, to ensure that no family can plan anything on a Saturday until their kids are too old to want to spend Saturday’s with their family.
  2. Do NOT be alarmed if you try to enter the wrong minivan or SUV, this is common. Try to lessen the confusion by putting fun stickers on your back windshield representing each of your children performing their favorite activity.
  3. You can paint your house one of 477 shades of tan.  Other colors will be categorically denied, so don’t even try it!
  4. If your child has strep or hand foot and mouth, be aware that the entire town will know about it before you get his/her prescription filled. PS this same urgency in passing news applies to affairs as well!
  5. As a suburban mom you are expected to start some kind of craft business immediately. Your choices are: hair accessories, jewelry, embellished clothing, or things you can print on card stock — anything else must be cleared through the Chamber of Commerce.
  6. If you already have a job, you are expected to purchase these crafted goods, in bulk, at the myriad of local holiday boutiques that celebrate everything from Ramadan to Flag Day.  Like PTA meetings, being absent is frowned upon.
  7. If you do not find a grocery store or Starbucks within one mile of your current position, you’re lost and have entered an inferior neighborhood! Please stay calm and return to your suburb immediately.
  8. You are required to join a gym.  There, you must take spin classes with disco lighting, pretzel yourself into a reformer, and learn the art-form that is Zumba.
  9. You will be expected to pressure clean anything and everything from your sidewalk to your dog. Be prepared.
  10. Make sure your dog is cute, as neighbors will constantly stop to pet it. Be warned, the same neighbors will turn you in to the association the first time Rufus barks after 9PM. (Don’t name your dog Rufus)
  11. Make an immediate trip to lululemon/Athetica/GapBody/Target … and pick up workout/athletic/golf/tennis gear that’s trendier than simply wearing sweatpants.  Wear these goods at least 50 -100% of the time; in the winter, simply wear your athletic gear with Uggs.
  12. You will need to attend a mind-numbing amount of birthday lunches/dinners for ladies turning anywhere from 30-50.  Get there early, as who you sit next to (or don’t sit next to) can make or break your day.
  13. Cut back on sex ASAP, as you will find yourself in conversations where moms discuss their infrequent, and unsatisfying sex life regularly — at lunches, parties, dinners, play-dates.
  14. And stop giving blow-jobs! People in the ‘burbs are only expected to give them on birthdays and anniversaries (it’s one of the perks).
  15. Living in the ‘burbs is a little like reading Us Weekly: Everything is sensationalized. It’s fun to discuss “who wore it best,” but not as much fun as playing Fashion Police. You will find yourself looking for cellulite/wrinkles on young skinny moms. And gossip is treated as gospel.

I hope this helps you fit into the suburban life you’ve chosen.  Maybe I’ll see you at the next boutique sale — I’ll be selling picture frames with random findings glued on to them!

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The 6 Types of Women You NEVER Wanna Get Stuck With

 

 

I Got My Own Show!


First promo is out (if you’re a YouTube subscriber, please like it)!!!

It seems like forever that I’ve been waiting for someone to give me my own show. Yes, it’s true… rounding the corner on 40 certainly wasn’t helping. I was making a running list of all the things I WILL NOT DO. You know, like a depressing version of a bucket list? Actually, that’s redundant, but you get the picture.

My looming midlife-ishness was making me realize all the things I haven’t been given that I feel I truly deserved, like: 10million from the Florida Lottery, a Ford Fusion from American Idol, or a Medical degree from Harvard. Granted, I’ve never played the lotto, been a contestant on American Idol, or attended Harvard, but still I feel slighted.

Which is how I’ve felt about the whole getting your own show thing. I mean let’s face it, everyone has a show now a days, EV-ERY-ONE. Really, it doesn’t take much. You don’t even need a full set of teeth (see Gator Boys and Honey Boo Boo) Sure

Honey’s 7 so those will grow back in, but I’d venture to say that she’ll be missing a few in adulthood as well. (Call it a premonition.)

I just want to state for the record that I do have all my teeth, which is usually a plus in the job market search, but now I am considering knocking one out or at least covering it in gold. What? Does Flava Flav not have a show?

I guess the truth is, with everyone having a show, I kinda just imagined that there was a line somewhere, like a make-shift DMV. You wait in it, all annoyed until someone with really long nails and two tone hair looks at you and tells you your gig. “Hmmm, annoying accent, high hair, tattooed, currently intoxicated… JERSEY SHORE, ANY MOB SHOW, CO-HOST ON THE TALK.” “Highly educated, dry, unattractive, interesting and cerebral… sorry, your options are limited NEW YORK TIMES TV Host (only to be watched during air travel), guest on REAL TIME WITH BILL MAHER.” “Looks good in a bikini – doesn’t prune in hot

tubs or pools – questionable morals… BACHELORETTE, BIG BROTHER.” “Funny, un-pc, likes to talk while standing, attractive enough… LATE NIGHT TV.”

You know, something like that.

So for years, I’ve sought out this “line,” and like unicorns and tooth-fairies – it exists but, only to those who believe… which is why I found it. Or rather, it found me. Yep, my show, THE JENNY ISENMAN SHOW, will be airing on Cafe Mom starting October 16th!

Here’s the first promo!!!

I like to believe my DMV bio went like this: Funny – anxiety stricken – obsessed with cellulite/wrinkles/sagging – annoyed with all the hype about beauty products, juice fasts, scheduled sex – may or may not have showered today – needs answers to cut through all the bullshit and look and feel at least a decade or two younger so that she doesn’t end up in a padded room – attractive enough…. TALK SHOW FOR MOMS, REAL HOUSEWIFE OF SOMEWHERE, GUEST ON DR. PHIL, HOARDERS.

We just finished filming the season last week and it was total insanity… (By the way, it’s a talk show for moms, in case you weren’t sure.) I was sick as a dog! My voice went from Demi Moore sexy, in early episodes to Harvey Fierstein drag queen, towards the end, I kid you not. I had an amazing set, amazing guests, amazing producers, a 15 person crew: filming, trying to keep me healthy, fed, and hydrated… checking hair and makeup. Sounds a bit Christian Grey-esque right? I mean, these are things a girl can get used to!!!

Most importantly, I got a CHEAT SHEET for all the mommas to live by – all while keeping a cynical eye and a sense of humor. Yes, I regaled some embarrassing 80’s moments, as I love to do. And I think with the power of editing, it will end up a Chelsea Handler, meets, Erma Bombeck, meets, Richard Lewis, meets Oprah. Am I aiming too high? Those editors better be freakin’ good, if not, I’m hoping at the very least it’ll be a Wendy Williams, meets the Tiger Mom, meets Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew, meets Dog, the Bounty Hunter.

I promise to give behind the scenes play by play! If you like my writing, share this with friends so they can follow the blog and keep up with the show because I guarantee it’ll be as exiting as watching the guys who fish with their hands… and that’s saying a lot, I know.

Oh and thanks, as always for your support! This is a big deal for someone who’s small potatoes.

XOXO,

Jenny From the Blog

Pardon me Miss Your Nipple is Showing | Oh This Happened

Wow, if I had a nickel for every time I said that… I’d have a nickel.
But today, like, Rihanna on her Hawaiian vacay, Tara Reid um – everywhere, Janet Jackson at halftime, Elaine Bennis on her X-mas cards (Please tell me you got that reference?), and tons of oopsies on the Red Carpet…
this woman’s nip-slip was someone else’s eye candy.

Well, in this case I wouldn’t call it eye candy, though I must admit, I stared at her nipple for quite some time, in a train wreck kinda way, while I debated my moral obligation as a fellow female.

At first, I thought I should say nothing. She clearly spent serious man hours getting those boobs to bust out of her shirt and reveal that stunning tatt of a phoenix emblazoned across them. Continue reading

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……..

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

 

 

While I was growing up, my Father was the one who took me on weekly 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, of course we spent many hours antiquing all over the East coast. 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 pattered parade.

Please, I know you’ve heard 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. 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 flat front khakis, as they do not provide the generous room needed to accommodate his ball sac.

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 Sevens 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 ‘Seven for all mankind’ 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 for 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 Armani.”

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?

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

Coffee and Flogging -Vlog attempt 1

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

If you enjoy it, please pass it on.

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


Most importantly, thanks as always for your support!

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

CLICK HERE:  VLog-1

Yours,

Jenny From the Blog

We’ve All Done Something Illegal, Right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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