The Suburban Jungle

Before the NASDAQ bubble of 1999 popped, I used to be the Man. Now in light of current economic conditions, I am getting joy out of sticking it to him. This money consciousness is not new to me. As an ex-personal shopper for the very wealthy, I know the importance of finding a bargain; because shockingly no one dislikes parting with money more than those who have it.

It probably seems obvious that in these rough financial waters I should stop buying coffee at Starbucks and make it home for 1/100^th the cost, but I say “nay.” And I rarely say “nay,” unless I’m singing Old MacDonald. Like you, I am addicted to Starbucks, and fear what vice I might take up in it’s absence. Cocaine? Gambling? Cat juggling? Who’s to say? Therefore, I will continue to give Starbucks my hard earned dough and vow to bankrupt them with my ever popular “Ghetto Latte.” It requires two, I mean dopio, shots of espresso and a grande cup of ice. I add milk and voila, iced grande latte for half the price.

Unfortunately, the staff at Starbucks is trained to look for such wily money saving tactics, so if you plan on ordering this drink the barista may warn you and then the manager may ban you a week later, hypothetically speaking of course. I mean, I wouldn’t know this for sure. I am just guessing at how they might crack down on “ghetto lattes” or filling your baby’s bottle from the fixin’s bar, when you just happen to be in the neighborhood, every 3 hours.

Last week I had my daughters 4^th birthday. I spent hundreds maybe thousands of dollars on balloons from Oriental Trading. I had a ton of latex pinks, purples and lavenders, plus, mylar balloons in the shapes of cell phones, life sized Bratz dolls, purses, lipsticks, and diaphragms (you know, “girlie” stuff.)

The supermarket charges a dollar per latex and two per mylar, to blow them up. “It seems a bit much for air. Last year they didn’t charge me at all,” I said hoping to strike up a deal. “You’re right, but the price is the price.” “I do have quite a lot of balloons here,” I nudged on, still trying to negotiate. “Maim, this price hike came down from corporate. I can’t change it for you.”

I knew he wouldn’t budge, by the tone of his voice. It was like a chipmunk. Apparently, he found it amusing to take a drag from the tank before putting his foot down. This is an example of the “Man” high on power. That’s right I called the guy who works the helium tank the “Man.”

So do you know what I did? I bought that air and then the next day when I went to throw away the latex balloons that last all of 97 minutes. I cut the ribbon off each one and put it with my gift-wrapping stuff. That’s right, I showed him. The next time I have to wrap a present, no larger than a 6 inch square, for a little girl or effeminate boy, he’ll be sorry. Of course, the disposal of my non-Earth friendly latex balloons will sit in some landfill for 200 years decomposing, and most likely end up choking a baby seagull. But, I will think of the birthday girl’s smile, and lay guiltlessly on my seagull down pillows.

Now your thinking this girl is so brilliant it’s scary, or maybe you’re just plain scared. However, my most genius strike at the “Man” happened today. I was making eggs for my daughter this morning and one was yucky inside. One brown organic, cage free, extra omega egg that probably cost about fifteen bucks. That’s a ballpark figure, but I think I’m close. I would never feed such an egg to my daughter, and my husband wasn’t around, so I did the next smartest thing. I went in my yard and planted it. That’s right, and soon I will grow a chicken tree. Before, you know it I’ll be out there, on a crisp 95degree Florida autumn morning, picking chickens. Then I’ll have all the eggs in the WORLD!!! Who will have the last cluck then “Man”? Who?

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Before the late night toddlerisms.

Last night at about 2am, Ryan wanted to play. She is so insightful in the wee hours. I guess during her day with Daddy she watched some of Jake’s movies, which sparked some important questions about survival.

“If a laser hit a kid what would happen?”

Now let’s not forget it’s 2am and I am trying sleep and answer serious questions…at all the same time.

“Well, there are lots of different types of lasers. Some can help your skin or your body, and they don’t really hurt at all.”

“Nooo I meeaan the laser in Mario bros, that Luigi shot at the mouse and made his ship explode?”

“Ah, that kind of laser. Well, I guess it would hurt but they don’t really exist.”

“But, Luigi has one.”

“Yes, but that’s just made up.”

“What about sharks? They exist right?”

“Yes.”

“Could a kid get eaten by a shark?”

“I guess, but they don’t usually eat people, ‘cause we taste yucky.”

“I don’t taste yucky, I’m sweet. That’s why the mosquitoes bite me, and Daddy is sweet, but you and Jake are sour.”

Oh, we’re sour alright, especially at 2am.

“What about electricity? Could that fire?”

“Huh.” (I realized this was about to go into what happens to people when they are electrocuted or on fire.)

“If a dragon falls in a fire what would happen?”

A surprising digression. Whew. (Pause to take in the question.)

“Well, dragons breathe fire so they probably have very thick skin and I bet they would be just fine.”

“Like a seal. A seal has skin like a dragon so a seal would be okay too, right?”

“Right.”

“How about a kitty, cause they are soft and furry. What if a kitty was in fire?”

“Okay, it’s really time to go to sleep now. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

Doesn’t my kid have the sweetest pillow talk?

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. My Dad is a Metrosexual. I’m sure you’re familiar with the term, which describes a straight man who likes shopping, manicures, trends, home décor, staring at paint chips, and reading Men’s Health.

My husband is Metrophobic. Now this term I may have coined. He is fine with homosexuals because they are overtly gay and there isn’t anything wrong with that. But Metrosexuals are a curious bunch. He can not understand how a straight man would waste time keeping up with trends, or wear clothing with labels and hardware that represent high-end brands. To be a Metroexual, you need a certain level of confidence in your ability to pull off styles that are forward or somewhat questionable, without losing the, “Oh Yeah, I could tag that” mentality.

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 clunky black shoes. At the time they were very in. The problem was that he is a size 12, and clunky 12’s are pretty, well…Frankenstein-esque. I saw it immediately, but couldn’t admit it because I wanted him to trust me and let me change him. 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 “Country Club” attire.

He won’t wear anything too fitted, too shiny, too patterned, too sheer, 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 balls. 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 it, and I think you could talk Mark into wearing it.”

“What is it?” I ask, already knowing from the buildup it is 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 would not 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.” If my 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 new skinny tie, does he have any of those yet? They are very in for fall.”

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

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

“Dad, just get him a nice button down. John Varvatos is good, Ted Baker, Donna Karan, Old Navy…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 and one with a star and one simply, plain. In a department store with 10,000 variations of a basic button down shirt, he could not find even one.

When it comes to Mark, get him a gift certificate and I’ll go buy myself some shoes.

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I realize that 13-14 year olds, Crackheads, homeless people, cheap hookers, and teenage pop stars should not be having children. I am not, however, taking a stance on moral or political issues; I’ll leave that to Paris Hilton. As a pretty normal adult, with the means to raise a child, I admittedly had no clue what I was doing with my first. 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 bowel movement, and I 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 novel, 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 was no test at my OB’s pre-pregnancy interview. All he asked was, “Do you have insurance and are you getting folic acid?”

“Of course I’d never think about bringing life to this Earth without the recommended 30,000mgs of folic acid per day… I’m also taking 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 clothes that don’t match. 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 with them.”

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 doctors promote the concept of “Motherhood” to anyone donning a wedding ring, with reckless abandon, they encourage us to have more. This is also 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 him again. Actually, I had an appointment so it wasn’t as random as I’m making it sound. He said, “At 6 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 6 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 6 months. They certainly don’t give you more responsibility until you’ve proven you can handle your current load, unless you work at MacDonald’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 playroom, lock the door, and say, “last one standing gets it?”

Well, lucky for me I am an excellent mother regardless of not being licensed and accredited. This is a concept I could contemplate for hours, but my naked daughter just walked by with a lollipop matted in her crew cut, so I’ve gotta give her a bath.

Why do I always sense that when I’m doing something loud, like vacuuming or drying my hair, I’m missing something in the background? In high school and college, I was sure that the phone was ringing. Drying my hair would take an extra 20 minutes due to my constant “turn-off checks.” I just knew I was missing the call of some hot diver or frat party invite. Well, as it later turned out, the divers were all gay and the frat parties… well, they were fun. That’s where I hooked up with the divers before they “came out”.

Anyway, in my adult life I am not so concerned with phone calls, as most of them are soliciting me to get direct TV or refinance my mortgage. Now when I am doing something loud, it is my screaming children I hear. Sadly, I am often right, but thankfully they are rarely in a state of emergency. They are usually fighting, teasing, whining, or just yelling loud enough to ensure that I don’t finish any task uninterrupted. You know, to keep me on my toes.

Sometimes I am tempted to turn things on for a moment of peace. I’ve found that running the blender, in tandem with the espresso machine, makes a soothing clamor, not unlike the sound of Enya.

This morning I was brushing my teeth, which takes two minutes. I know this because I use a Sonicare which requires I spend 30 seconds on each quadrant… and I diligently do. In that two minute span my son called me 11 times… I counted. “Mom…MOM….MOOOOOMMMM….MOMMY!”

“WHAT!” Actually, it was “HAWHHHAAT,” I had toothpaste in my mouth.

“Ryan…blah …blah… blah…room,” was all I could make out over the toothbrush vibrating in my skull. Since I could tell by the tone of his complaint that there was no bloodshed, I continued brushing. Clearly, I couldn’t restart the Sonicare because it would throw off my whole quadrant thing. Thus, I could be brushing for more than the allotted two minutes potentially giving extra attention my lower left side.

“HWAAAHAT!”

“Blah…Blah…My Room!”

Got it, Ryan won’t get out of your room. You keep asking her and she is standing firm, probably teasing or spitting at you. Saying something like, “Jake, I spit at your room ‘cause you’re being mean to me!”

AHHH fresh breath, this may be the only two minutes I get for personal hygiene all day.

“What’s the problem?”

“Ryan won’t leave and it’s my room and I want some privacy!”

I look at Ryan, standing at the door to their connecting bathroom, spitting on Jake’s carpet.

“Jake, do you know any divers?”

I can still hear the faint murmurs of my son’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 floor and made a mad dash for freedom.

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

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

Though we tried, we could not decipher the cries of his lost ladybug through the cranking sound of our transport. “There she is!!!” Jake screamed with the delight of a boy finding his long lost puppy (or recently lost ladybug). Regardless, it was with total elation that he offered his stick, which she eagerly climbed onto. A few more minutes of bonding, and she playfully climbed up his shirt. “She’s sooo happy,” Jake cooed.

His joy quickly turned to horror as Lady made yet another stab at freedom. I caught her, only to have my daughter Ryan beg for a turn. I put her on Ryan’s hand as Jake frantically tried to woo her back to his stick. She crawled up Ryan’s arm, pulled out what appeared to be a miniscule pair of binoculars, and scoped out the opening in the window. She looked back at Jake, with a tear in her eye, and with one final heroic effort, vanished into the thin mountain air.

A guttural wail came from Jake’s mouth… “I TOLD YOU NOT TO LET RYAN HOLD HER!!! I TOLD YOU! She loved the stick! She hated that spot on Ryan’s arm, and now look what you did! Sheeeeee’s gooonnne! I want Lady back, I WANT LADY! She loved her stick, and she loved me! She wanted to live with me on her stick!”

Mark and I looked at each other, him losing it, and me wiping away a smile as not to diminish Jake’s loss. Calmly, I looked at Jake. “Honey, she’s a ladybug. I think she wanted to go free. That’s why she found the open window and flew out of it.”

“NOOOOOOO, she loved her stick!” Jake cried, tears uncontrollably streaming down his face. “I want my ladybug, I want my ladybug! I want her!”

Now both Mark and I are openly laughing. Well actually, I am laughing on the inside, which is causing me to cry.

“Jake, in the short time I was lucky enough to know Lady, I knew her to be a free spirit. Yes, she liked you, and your stick, but she’s not the type of bug to waste what might be half her life on a single stick. She wanted to explore and see as many sticks as possible.”

“NO, NO!!! She hated Ryan’s arm and it made her leave! I told you not to put her there!” Jake continued, as I officially lost it. While holding up the stick like a lighter, I started singing “Lady.” A song we later recalled was ironically sung by STYX. It went something like this: “Lady, LAY-EE-DAY why’d you have to fly out the wi-i-i-in-dow?”

“Mommy STOP it! It’s not funny! I MISS LADY!” Jake wept, reverting to a grief-stricken state. Mark and I looked at each other in awe of this display of inconsolable, illogical, Oscar worthy, unceasing hysterics. “Jake…honey…baby, she lives on this mountain. She’ll find us at the bottom, I promise.”

“No-She-Won’t!” Jake screamed, stamping his foot on each syllable. “I promise she will,” I said, resolving to find another ladybug, or spend the rest of our trip trying.

He then paused, and answered with the irrefutable rationale of a six year old: “She won’t! She doesn’t even know which hotel we’re staying at!”

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Jake had a sleep over last night with his best friend. I am always scared something extreme will happen. I am one of those highly obsessive unlogical thinkers that jumps right to the nth degree. For instance, at his first sleep over with this very same friend I was convinced he was going to get smothered by him. I know that Jake passes out and his friend will be up bored and wanting to play.

He could do something obvious, like draw a moustache with permanent marker, he could put his hand in a cup of warm water, but no, I go straight to smothering. Now this child we’ll call him Ben, (cause that’s his name) has no criminal record and has never smothered anyone, that I know of. But, I could not sleep. Instead of celebrating with a raucous romp, I was up every hour wondering how many pillows are in Ben’s room.

When Jake came back breathing I was thrilled and our day was normal. We went for a swim and Jake stripped down, wrapped a towel around himself and grabbed his junk as he so often does. Nothing out of the ordinary. Well I guess holding his stuff reminded him of the repercussions of the sleepover.

Jake: “Mom do you know what balls are?”

Me: “Sure you have tons of balls, baseballs, tennis balls…”

Jake: “Nope. (drop towel lift penis and squeeze sac) these are balls. See one two, see cause they’re like balls.”

Ryan: “Like the balls on my tongue”
(May that be the only context in which she utters those words to me again.)

Jake: “No Ryan these are balls, see ball, line, ball (squeezing and pointing so Ryan can get a good look) Mommy is talking about my balls and you’re talking about tongues.”

Me: “No, Mommy isn’t talking about your balls, Mommy is just listening.”

Jake: “Mommy, do you know what nuts are?”

I’ll take this over smothering every time. Thanks Ben.

Every time I take one of my children to see a specialist I am reminded of my first time going to see one with Jake when he was about 4½ months old. Jake, who was 5 weeks premature, cried for the first 4months 13days 16hrs 32min of his life (straight). He would only sleep in an upright position and we found that his car seat was the best option. We would keep it in the Snap n’ Go and park him into bed every night.

When he finally cut back on the tears, it was like walking off a tarmac and into a library- I could think again. I noticed his head looked a little flat and took him to a pediatric neurologist. Dr. Gore or Dr. Bore as I prefer to call her, examined Jake for plagiocephaly, or “flathead,” to see if he should be fitted for a helmet. Yes…that’s correct, a helmet. Looking back on our visit, it seems all of her comments were excessively vague and rather benign, but somehow she managed to coax me into a state of agitation.

Dr. Bore is one of those people who is impressed with her own brilliance, and likes to speak unexcitedly as she tries to overwhelm you with her superior knowledge. Silently, Dr. Bore waited as I changed and then undressed Jake, never uttering a word until I was safely sitting in my chair. This reminded me of the way my father behaved when he had some horrific news to impart which could be something as tragic as selling the family car. “Jenny, are you sitting down?” As if I might faint upon hearing such horror.

With Dr. Bore, however, I sensed the silence was not some kind of soap-opera-esque melodrama. It was more like: I-do-not-waste-breath-on-distracted-ears kind of silence. I literally sat there with fingers crossed trying to remember the rules governing such situations. Do you cross both hands for extra luck? No, no I think one cancels the other out, right? And does that make it zero luck, or does it skip right to bad luck? Oh man, now what do I do? Of course, my toes! I uncomfortably fidget, contorting my fingers into a series of svengali half-crosses in what seems to be verging on an epileptic seizure to erase the obsessive thoughts echoing throughout my head. Speak lady so I can stop torturing myself!

After a long exaggerated sigh, Dr. Snore begins to expound on the two theories as to why his head is flat. The first being a severe complication in which the skull plates prematurely fuse causing the brain to grow out in any way possible- the side, the top, the nose…which could not only lead to deformity, but brain damage as well.

I am about to cry. Why is she speaking volumes on this subject? Just say, this is not the case with your son.  JUST SAY THAT! I get frustrated with my vain attempts at telepathy, and interrupt her.

“Do you have any reason to believe that’s his diagnosis?”

“I’m just going through the possibilities, please allow me to continue.”

Oh, I’m sorry my desire to rule out a gruesome existence for my son has gotten in the way of your neurology-for-dummies lecture. Please don’t let my nervous breakdown shorten your diatribe. The sound of the paper bag I’m breathing into helps to drown out her voice until I hear, “…and the second and most likely possibility is called positional flatness. This is caused by spending too much time sleeping or being on ones back.

Hello? Is anyone home? I told you he spent the last 4 months sleeping in his car seat; doesn’t that ring a bell? Why do specialists always insist on discussing the horrible and unlikely option first? I should probably just go now, but I decide to prolong this torture…

“Well you’ve seen a lot of heads, is his severe?”

“Look his head is flat. I’m not going to tell you that something flat is round. Its flat.”

Gee thanks Magellan. Do you get the impression I have a 5^th grade education? What tipped you off the finger crossing fiasco?

She goes on to check his tone and development. All that anguish and I get to stay longer for a freebie, what a perk.

“He has poor muscle tone, he doesn’t roll he doesn’t tilt, he doesn’t grab…what does he do?”

“Raspberries.”

“Hmm…tsk, tsk…just keep an eye on him for the next couple months.”

Really, I should do that? Cause us uneducated folk we like to kick our kids out of the nest at say …I don’t know…5months. “Fly free little birdie, and go earn some money it’s time to pay Momma back.” But if you think we should wait…

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