The Suburban Jungle

I thought I would update you on the progress of acquiring a productive sleep disorder, as mentioned in my last post.

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. Thing 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 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 bed was not made. My buttocks were not firm. 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 am 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. GUARENTEED.

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……..

It’s official… I’m famous.   For the last couple months people have been stopping me at random places to ask if I write the column “Suburban Jungle,” or to tell me they read and love my stuff.  The first time was at a local Chinese restaurant where a woman and her friend were pointing.  After checking for boogers and toilet paper hanging out of my pants, I heard one said, “that’s the girl with the blog I sent you.”  They came over, introduced themselves and kindly let me know I had broccoli in my teeth.  Damn, oversight.

My most recent approaching was at the grocery store yesterday when a woman stopped me to ask if I was a writer .
“Yes, I am.”
“Oh, I read your column and your blog, you are hilarious.  I love you .  Have you ever heard of so and so?”
“No, does she live in Weston?”  I asked, as if I were some hick who knows  no world outside this microcosm.
“No, she is a very famous writer and your stuff totally reminds me of her.  You’re like a celebrity.”

The whole time my daughter was pulling on my pant leg saying, “Come on mommy let’s go.”  You know the way the children of famous people do, because let’s face it to them you’re not Angelina Jolie, you’re just mommy.  Did I just compare myself to Angie?  Well, so be it.

I did need to get back to the deli counter before number 66 was called.  But, my inflating ego was doing one of those, “Stop it you embarrass me, but go on if you must,” things.  I walked away vowing to never go braless in public again, and arrived at the counter to find them at 68.  I thought, “this is what it must be like to be famous.”  You can’t just walk away when someone is praising your work. You would seem ungrateful and rude, yet you may have to explain to the guy at the deli counter you were accosted by fans and just couldn’t make 66.

The price we pay.  I left the store and realized I must have thrown the paparazzi off my trail, as there were no photographers waiting to see what was in my basket.  Though, I’m sure I’ll be in the “Normal or Not Normal” section of Star.  “Grocery shopping with daughter, NORMAL.”  I shoved my swelled head into my generic SUV and drove back to my humble estate.

Today, the world got wind of my hubris and decided to put me in my place.  I got fired from my column for writing something utterly despicable in my new year’s resolutions article.  Apparently, humor columns are no joking matter.  I also wrote, I would pull my son out of school and send him to work for not being able to spell December, yet child services has not called about infringing on any labor laws.

This reference to crack…
“Resolution 9.  Become Addicted To Something:
Smoking, alcoholism and Starbucks are so trite. I’m thinking something unique like nasal spray or hand sanitizer.  Or at least something beneficial to my endurance like crack.  Look, I already have a shopping addiction maybe I could offset the bills with a robust gambling problem.”
was so offensive that the owner, upon receiving his advance copy, threatened to fire the editors for not noticing the seriousness of my new year’s lampoon.  Having not caught it before it went to print, they halted the distribution in order to rip the piece out of 30,000 copies on Dec 31.  It not only held up the delivery date, it cost them over $10,000 in ad revenue from the flip side of the page, and hours of man power.

I was worth losing 10 grand over?  I think that makes me infamous.  Truth be told, I would have taken 8,000 not to write the piece in the first place.  Then they could have pocketed 2g’s and saved themselves the New Year’s Eve headache.  Or at least gotten their New Year’s headaches the old fashioned way: drinking to excess, doing embarrassing things that won’t be remembered at a party of your peers, and accidentally letting the wrong person tongue you when the ball drops.

So, no more play dates with Apple, or Kingston, or Shiloh, or Haze and Finn.  It’s back to the normal folk with their normal kid names.  No more late nights swapping with the Pitt’s.  It’ll be okay.  I might just start doing crack, to take the edge off.

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

So for this year, I have made some resolutions that are a bit more achievable:

1. Nag More

For 10 years my husband has not picked up a wet towel, washed ketchup off of a dish, changed a light bulb, or remembered trash day without a friendly, “How many times do I have to tell you?” I vow to be relentless in my nagging. I will lay immediate blame using words like always and never. As in, “I always, and you never.” I will play the martyr by saying, “Forget it. I’ll do it myself.” I will amp up the guilt with, “I do everything around here.” Or something unarguable like, “It’s obvious by your refusal to change a light bulb that you don’t love me anymore.” If all goes well, I’ll be nagging him to go to couples therapy by 2010.

2. Gain weight

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

3. Work out less

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

4. Forget an old language

This year, not only am I not going to learn a new language, I will let my brain atrophy to forget the one I already know. I will watch endless episodes of Sponge Bob and Chowder. I will stop doing crosswords and speaking in complete sentences. I will break all grammatical rules; I will misplace modifiers, dangle participles, and end sentences in prepositions. I will express my thoughts through that African clicking language, modern dance, and a set of bongos that I will wear around my neck.

5. Stay out of touch

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

6. Be less patient

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

7. Hold grudges

This year I will forgive no one. I don’t care if you step on my toe, or pay me the five bucks you owe me, a day after the assigned due date. I vow to hate you forever and never forget how you wronged me.

8. Stress more

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

9. Become addicted to something

Smoking, alcoholism and Starbucks are so trite. I’m thinking something unique like nasal spray or hand sanitizer. Or at least something beneficial to my endurance like crack. Look, I already have a shopping addiction, maybe I could offset the bills with a robust gambling problem.

10. Gossip More

I vow to talk about everything you do in the new year. If I see you at the pediatrician for so much as a flu shot, I will tell everyone your child has hand foot mouth, so you can be verbally assaulted when you show up at a birthday party the next day. If you look too skinny, I will assume it’s a divorce or an addiction. If you look too hot, I’ll call it a torrid affair. If you look too young, it’s an addiction to surgical procedures because you’re getting divorced due to a torrid affair. I will start a rumor phone tree and a blog called “WhatYourNeighborsAreReallyUpTo.com.” I may even have a megaphone installed on my “Gossip Mobile,” so I can drive through local parking lots amplifying the skeletons in your closet to all within earshot. Oh, wait… I’ll just write about it in my next column.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

I have many addictions, most of which are harmless and routine. My penchant for pot…child’s play. An affinity for gambling and my small cocaine habit…blips on the radar. Compulsively stealing Percacet, Oxyconton and other prescription drugs from people’s medicine cabinets…a mere misdemeanor. But G-d do I love me some sleep. You know the stuff. That in the bed, eyes closed, not awake kind of sleep. I am currently not sleeping to write this and I am just jonesing for some shut eye. Ahhh…sweet, sweet slumber.

I’ve been addicted to sleep for as long as I can remember. Even as a small child, my Mom tells fantastic tales of my having to sleep multiple times each day. Sometimes I sleep for long stretches; I go to bed at one time and wake up at a totally different time. I know this as it is dark when I start to sleep, and light when I wake up. I also I have a clock.

I am so dependent on sleep that if I skip a single day, one day, I start to go through severe withdrawal. My head aches, my eyes twitch and dark circles form puddles under them. My speech is slurred and nonsensical, and my decision- making becomes impaired. I have this overall look of exhaustion that is a tell-tale sign of my addiction. Like any hard-core addict, I make excuses. “I fell.” “My husband is beating me.” “I’ve been shooting up.”

I get so high on sleep, that I completely lose my appetite. Some nights I can go ten hours without eating. In fact, I rarely eat when I’m sleeping. There are other side effects, like crazy hallucinations. I’ll be having sex with Ben Affleck and a shark will eat him and then I’ll scream and freefall off some huge ledge and end up on Oprah’s talk show couch, except Oprah is a white male midget with 8 tentacles, each of which is attempting to feel me up, which is odd because he’s gay.

You would think that would scare me straight, but it’s doesn’t. I’ve tried over and over to kick the habit. In college, I used tons of caffeine and ephedrine in hopes of weaning myself off sleep. But I ended up partying all night, only to relapse all day and miss extremely practical classes, like bio 403 -The history of infectious diseases.

After having babies, I used breast feeding as a form of “rehab,” but I fell off the wagon and did something too horrible to discuss. That’s right, I got my own kids hooked on the stuff, like little crack babies. I forced them to try it, and they were so smitten with the sandman, they indulged two, maybe three times a day. Ashamed as I am to admit it, I even joined them from time to time.

Look, I am not proud of what I’ve done. For years I’ve tried to hide it. Only a select few guessed… my carpool, they knew. I knew they knew, but I still relied on explanations. “You say I look so fresh faced and well rested? Well…that must be my Nars bronzer, Orgasm.” “Oh, that dewy glow, that’s cause I just had an actual orgasm.”

Now I am telling the world, because the first step is admitting you have a problem. “Hi, my name is Jenny, and I’m addicted to sleep. I apologize if my habit has harmed or affected those around me and I vow to get help… in the morning.

So, I was at a party about 8 months ago where there was a psychic.  She was one of those weird holistic ones.  As opposed to the normal “businessy” type you so often see.  Anyway, she had me pick from a tray of stones and then she asked me for family birthdays.  I was determined not to make any kind of give-away face or gesture and sat there staunch and stiff, talking robotic and trying to appear blank.  Which I’m sure just made it seem like I had to poop.

If I go to a party and get drunk with a bunch of girls, and the host in good fun hires a fortune teller to give her guests a 2 minute reading, I am going to make her work for it.  My stupid gaze is luckily unnoticed because she quickly goes into a weird semi-seizure like trance as she stares at the stars, hoping for one to blink her some kind of Morse code and reveal my true self to her.  She pauses and pauses, shimmies and shakes,  and flutters her eyeballs back into her skull.  Finally, ahhhh the epiphany, “I see… networking.”  “Really?  Networking?   You see networking?  No fame?  No travel?  No windfall? None of that, you see networking?”  “Well I’m sorry that’s what I see, and lots of it.”

Now of course I am racking my brain to think of the networking I do on a daily basis, okay a weekly basis, okay monthly?  I did recommend my cleaning lady to a neighbor recently, but I never called her back with the number.  Does that count?
I don’t even network with my friends.  I check my machine and there are messages from college that I haven’t gotten yet.  They say things like: “There’s gonna be a frat party after we go to the RATT, so come, okay, What-everrr.”

Seriously, anyone who has had the pleasure of awaiting my return call can attest to it.  My machine actually says leave your message and someone in the family will call you back…probably Buddy (the dog) and the truth is he used to call people back in a timely manner, before he went deaf.  Now he has a lot of trouble working the TTY system…cause he’s also arthritic.

Anyway, I continued to prod.
“Will I have a writing career?”
“I don’t know, but if you do it comes from networking.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, networking, and please send the next person, cause you’re taking all my time and thus inhibiting my ability to NETWORK! Oh and here’s my card.”

So, I waited like a vulture for each reading to end, making the person on the block highly uncomfortable.  I know you’re thinking, “I want to party with Jenny.”  I asked around, and people got stuff like, “You’re bored with your day to day routine.” and “I see you were close with your mother growing up.”  She even told one girl she was pregnant. But to me she said those 3 quizzical syllables, net-work-ing. I came home and woke Mark to tell him how dead on she was with her reading for him and the kids, and that she knew Ally was pregnant.  “What do you think networking means?”

He said, “It means you’re an idiot.  Ally is showing.  These “mind readers” take one look at you and than say the most generic things possible… everyone networks.  She probably told 10 people that.”  “Nope, you’re wrong.  I know because I made it my duty to stop enjoying the party, and hamper  others from doing the same by grilling them about their personal readings.”  “All I m saying is, I am so surprised a smart person like you falls for this.  You really think some random woman, from the big city of Pembroke Pines, Florida, who works the party circuit, has the gift of seeing into the future?”

About a month later I and I started my blog and started getting feedback from companies and groups.  I  have found that literally all I do, outside of my mothering and housewife gig, is network.  I’ve joined 107 groups on facebook, 3 women entrepreneur networks, and 237 bloglog communities. I write personal messages to editors, bloggers, mothers, and reviewers.  Then I annoy the crap out of all of them by mass emailing on a daily basis.

About a week ago I looked at Mark and said “Remember that fortune teller?  She said all she saw was networking and look at me.   She was right.  How crazy is that?”  “Jenny, you are not seriously thinking that because you now network she was right?  She could have said that to anyone… maybe it’s simply ironic.  Or maybe it’s a self fulfilling prophecy that you started networking?”  “Are you suggesting that because this woman said that I would network, that I dropped my enjoyable shopping and sleeping habits to spend all my free time getting fat in front of a computer?

Wow that shlub from Pembroke Pines Florida sure has some serious power of persuasion.  Lucky she didn’t say we would get a divorce.  I’d be looking for a good lawyer right about now.  Oh, the irony in Mark calling me naive for believing in such foolishness.  The psychic told me I would come across a disbeliever… see, she was clairvoyant.

For 4 days I have been sick.  Nothing crazy, just the usual sore throat in the morning, coughing, fatigue kind of thing.  Yet in those four days, the world miraculously kept spinning, my children’s schedules did not disappear, nor did mine.  They made it to school, and to baseball, and the Doctor.  They did not suffer from starvation because I decided to forgo grocery shopping, making them breakfast, or packing their lunches, so that I could lie around and do something trivial, like recuperate.

Last night I happily turned out the lights at 11PM, hoping to make up for that 4hour “nap” I had the night before.  At midnight my dog Buddy, pacing and panting like a sex caller, sent me out like a shot for his first pee break of the evening.  At 1AM my son ran in soaking wet, exclaiming, “I think I sweated too much.”  Unable to peel myself up, I let his little naked tush into my bed where he continued to whine for about an hour straight.  “Mommy, I neeeeeeeeeed pants.”  “I’ll get you pants,” and let our heavy breather out for the 2nd time.  “Mommy, I neeeed my favorite pillow.” “I’ll get your favorite pillow” and give our letchy dog a bowl of water.  By 3AM Jake had tried 12 different positions.  Including the one where you go all the way under the covers to the end of the bed and push until you fall to the floor taking the comforter with you.  He complained about 20 different things, from being upset that I had to remake the bed after he fell out of it, to having an actual dislike for color of my sheets.  “They’re white.”

In the midst of this chaos, my husband was completely oblivious during those last few hours.  Some could argue that this has been the case for the last 9 years.
He was sleeping with his body pillow, the one he stole from me in the 3rd trimester of my 1st pregnancy.  It has been our small person sized bedmate ever since.  A bedmate that he shoves in his crotch and smothers between his knees. Well, better the pillow than me.  He had 2 more pillows over his head and was taking up 73% of the bed.  He had built and Iron clad barricade which my son could not penetrate or budge.  Jake and I were so snug I’d have to rebirth him to get him to school.  Finally , I gave up and wooed him back into his room by promising to make him a fort, “just like Daddy’s.”  Of course I had to remake his bed first, as the sweat had an uncanny resemblance to pee.  I got back into bed around 4 AM, after reading my dog a story and letting my son out.  Wait, scratch that and reverse it.

By 4:45 my son was back in the womb.  “Mom, can I be your snuggle bunny?”  For how many years will I get to hear that?  At 5AM my daughter was squeezing in on the other side of me.  We laid there like a hermetically sealed package of sausages, my arm coyoteed under Ryan’s head.  Then she started complaining.  “Its too hot with this blanket.  Mom my PJ’s hurt.  Mom I hate the color of your sheets.”  Somehow, 6:30 managed to roll around.

I banged on  my husbands fort with the door knocker he installed.  Bang…Bang…Bang.  “Please get the kids ready for school.  I was up all night.”  Mark is a morning person so I imagined it would be no big deal.  “Grumble grumble… no.”  “What do you mean you won’t help me?”  “Grunt, I’m sick, my throat is killing me.  Besides, I was up too.”  “What kept you up?  Was it the sound of your snoring?  Or maybe the pillow over your head wasn’t soft enough.”  “I just can’t I’m too sick.”  My husband’s cold might as well be the plague, as the Earth has halted on it’s axis.
It would take a hemorrhaging artery to get him to the Doctor, excuse me the clinic, as he has never officially acquired a Doctor.  But, why go?  It’s easier to lay around and tease my children with his untouchable presence.  He’ll spend his day creating an impressive mound of snotty tissues, large enough to pitch off of.  Tissues which he is too sick to bend down and pick up, however he is not too sick to work, or to make sure to keep up with his fantasy football team.
He’ll refuse to use sanitizer, and sluggishly mosey around the house, putting his grubby, germy hands in every bag of chips, touching every door knob and remote, and talking on every phone.  He may even lick the straws on the juice boxes for good measure.  All in a effort to ensure that as soon as he gets better, both my children will surely contract his illness and I will have no shot at personal recovery.

Now I should Mommy him, which in my bitter and sick state, I cannot even feign an attempt.  Listen, if I wanted another child I would adopt one from Indonesia.  If you need to be babied, call your Mom.  Better yet, go stay with her.  I don’t ask that my sickness or lack of sleep take precedence over yours.  I just ask that you go to a hotel until your’s passes.”

I believe my last post was on “momnesia,” though I can’t recall. Well, at some point you read about my “momnesia,” and here is a perfect example: This weekend I missed a wedding. Yep, a bona fide black tie, husband’s biggest client, save the date on the fridge, fortune per head kind of wedding.

It was Saturday afternoon; my kids were getting ready to go to my mom’s for a sleepover. A sleepover I had to make my mom cancel plans for. I went to the mail pile to pull out the direction card. I grabbed it and did a quick once over of the invite. Please join bla,bla at bla, bla, on Friday, the 28^th of November. I reread that thing 7 times and grabbed the Post just to confirm that this was in fact the wrong day. You know, just in case there was a typo on the invite and the 28^th was actually Saturday and no one caught it till this very moment. Alas, it was the 29^th, the invitation writer really checked her facts.

“Mark… Mark… all right, don’t kill me, but…” “We WHAT? THE WEDDING WAS YESTERDAY! You’re kidding right?” “Ummm, nope.” Both of us just stood silent and contemplated how bad it was. How really, really bad it was. After many minutes he got on his tux, I got on my gown, we put the kids in the car, dropped them off at my mom’s, came home stripped down, watched R rated movies, cussed out loud, talked about adult stuff (like insurance), ate ice cream without sharing, shtupped with the door open, and went to sleep.

What? A night off is a night off. My mom was none the wiser… till now.

If you are anything like me you feel like a teenager most of the time… maturity wise. I am certainly not a teenager in the sense of stamina, agility, or intelligence. G-d knows I was a hell of a lot speedier, stretchier, and smarter at 18 than I am today.

I have no recall of history, math, scientific facts, people’s names, or “SAT words.” I search those cracks and crevices in the far reaches of my mind and find proverbial cobwebs. I do Sudoku, crosswords, and challenge people who I haven’t seen in 25 yrs. to word games on facebook. I try to get those synapses to shoot or fire or snap crackle and pop. Yet, I can barely extract a word to describe the actual word or concept I was trying to convey in the first place.

I don’t know if you understood any of that last sentence, as I could not figure out how to get across what I was trying to say. Thinking is sometimes like a circular argument. Like trying to figure out what was here before the universe. I wish that I could comment on such cerebral subjects. Unfortunately, it took all of my brain power to come up with the word cerebral. Hey, there’s always tomorrow.

I must have acquired adult ADD or what I like to call “Momnesia.” A lot of people like to call it “Baby Brain,” which is a phenomenon that supposedly occurs during the first 6 months after childbirth, in which the Mother is, well, stupid. I too am stupid, but it’s been 3 and a half years since I had a 6 month old.

I loose my thoughts, my keys, names of famous people for references in witty banter. Friends are stood up, meetings are missed, and appointments are remembered only after a reminder call (if I think to check my messages). I walk into a room or a closet with such purpose and when I arrive, I just stand there and stare, trying to figure out why I went there in the first place. If you relate to these symptoms, than you have “Momnesia.”

You forget to return phone calls, and leave your child’s lunchbox in the fridge. You find a credit card in your pocket one day after you finally cancel it. You lock your infant in your car while it’s still running. You throw your good sunglasses in the bin after a Disney show and wear the 3-D glasses on your head for the next 3 hours.

You seriously have some issues. I would recommend a good therapist, but I only see mine once a month, and therefore can not remember his name. However, I do get a lovely call from his office every couple weeks letting me know that I have missed an appointment and owe a nice chunk of dough. Which seems a bit ironic considering most of what we talk about is my inability to keep thoughts and appointments in my head.

I can picture him at our consultation, “Ah, you have memory problems? Snicker snicker. Did you sign the contract about the office practices and policies?” Unfortunately, his office doesn’t believe in reminder calls, and lucky for me they also don’t believe in taking insurance. I must be his favorite patient, for every time I see him I pay him thrice. $275 a pop… that’s the equivalent of a dress from Nordstroms, or a blouse from Saks, or a bra from Neimans, or socks from Bergdorfs.

Hey Doc, how did your daughter’s braces work out? No thanks necessary, however, a reminder call would be nice.

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Such weird things happen as we get older. For instance, what your parents called beauty marks your dermatologist calls moles. Those veins that once transported blood to your feet look like they are trying to escape from your legs.

Everyone is freaking out about something. I get calls about gray hair, stray hair, receding hair, and hair that won’t grow.

I hear about bad backs, brains that lag,

cottage cheese thighs, and boobs that sag.

Age brings crow’s feet, faces that wrinkle,

memory loss, and fallen bladders that tinkle.

That’s right, I rhymed.

The weirdest things are those you didn’t see coming. For instance, I now have an ugly tongue. You didn’t see that coming did you? I’d always notice when older people had those tongues that showed indentations from every tooth and think, “thank G-d he’s too old to French kiss anyone.” Mind you old is 40 when you’re like 13.

Now, I have acquired an ugly tongue. It’s not always ugly, so if you were thinking, “Me and you, open mouthed greeting.” You can still catch me on a good day. I went to the Doctor, because as stated in the “Hypochondriatic Oath,” “I will fulfill my duty to check everything out. From lumps to paper cuts.” The doctor said this ugly mark actually has a name, “Geographic Tongue.”

He explained that it’s a reaction to spicy or salty foods, in which blotches show up that look like the outlines of countries, hence the term. It comes and goes, in different places and locations.

Two weeks ago I was featuring Africa, however it appears today I am feeling patriotic. Not that I think anyone is really looking, but I have to remind myself, “No raspberries till it disappears, and no showing off my tongue rolling or cherry tying abilities for that matter.” This will be hard, but I will persevere… in the name of vanity.

Sadly my husband, who is the person I kiss the most, gets the job of helping me decipher which country it looks like. It’s a fun little game we play to get in the mood. I think it’s really hot. I might even call it foreplay, but it’s been so long since I had the time or energy for foreplay I wouldn’t know it if it bit me on the tongue.

I think if Mark had to call it something, the word would be… gross. Luckily, the fear of having to do things like figure out visitation schedules and who gets the itunes library, the cat… our many vacation villas, is a large factor in him sticking around.

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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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So I am finally getting a long overdue pedicure. This current span has been about 2 months or 68 days, but who’s counting? I like to let the nails grow unattractively long in the true spirit of martyrdom. Then I wear sandals and constantly draw attention to how badly I need a pedicure, by saying things like “How badly do I need a pedicure?”

The trick is to go as infrequently as possible and only surrender when your nails split and a jagged edge pulls threads in your sheets, thereby making a 3 AM roll over feel like chewing on metal. Most importantly do not, under any circumstance, remove the polish. This way you have undeniable proof of your hectic schedule. It implies that your “me time” is so sparse that you don’t even have enough to simply wet a cotton ball.

Today I arrived with the red so far at the tip it looked as if I was starting a new trend in French pedicure. Sarabeth, whose real name is Choi Jae Hua, or Yi Hae-Won or something else I can’t pronounce, looks at my feet with a “Tsk.” “I know it’s been a long time,” I say with the joy of squeezing in one last sympathizer. Then she looks up at me and asks if I am aware there is a Pokemon sticker on the bottom of my foot. “Oh, my son was looking for that, if only it were so easy to find my keys.” She then asks if it’s okay to remove it. “Well if you can’t work around it.” I’m not sure if she can hear me; my chair is set on high-multifunction-10. Its “Human Hand” technology is loudly knocking me out of my seat while it heats my tush, vibrates my thighs, froths milk for my cappuccino, and sorts my mail.

I lie, well shimmy, back trying to enjoy my favorite part, the massage. I can’t seem to relax. I am so keenly aware of every left over scrub granule that is kneaded into my legs. Worse, I can sense her daydreaming of the family she has left behind and I’m sure she’s totally resenting me for not shaving, detesting America for making her touch feet, and cursing her boss for making today “$20 Tuesday.” I finally start to relax as she coincidentally realizes she has massaged long enough. She halts to do the required Korean calf knocking, which she follows with the “Ten Toe Pop” event. She’s seems let down when she can’t get a good snap out of the last two toes (not unlike that annoying handshake of the mid-nineties).

“Okay, pick you color” she says pointing to the wall. I can’t decide between “After Sex” or a hue one shade darker, “3 Bottles of Whine.” I don’t understand why all the colors are sexual innuendos. In the end I go with “Popped Cherry,” which is a medium shade of…well, you get the picture. I spend most of the polish application staring at the tranquil paintings of nude women relaxing on furniture. The woman in the painting across from me appears to be giving herself a breast exam on a plush sofa.

I decided to heighten my relaxation by purchasing a 10 minute massage. I swiftly wriggle myself into the pretzel seat after viewing a short video demonstration by Cirque De Soleil. Then she literally beats the tension out of me. “Excuse me Sarabeth, that knot you’re trying to knead out, I think that’s bone.” She ignores me as she does not recognize the sound of her own name. No matter, she manages to pummel it smooth regardless. Then she grabs my wrists, pulls my arms back and relentlessly yanks trying to crack my shoulder blades. She ends with vigorous karate chopping to the back of my neck. Sarabeth then signals someone, and an EMT rushes in with the Jaws of Life to free me from the chair. I walk away totally relaxed, one arm carelessly dangling from the socket. No worries. I’m sure it’s nothing an good orthopedist can’t fix. Why do my attempts at tension release always seem to stress me out?

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I was asking people their thoughts on positive thinking when my friend Sandy told me a story about finding her “By the time I’m 40” wish list. One of the items on the list was not to do the nails of an elderly lady at her home in the evening anymore. She didn’t have the heart to cancel her weekly appointments, which had been long standing. “And would you believe it, the woman died right before my 40^th birthday? For a while I thought I killed her,” she explained with an odd sense of accomplishment. “Talk about powerful thinking. What a stroke of luck, well a stroke of some kind. Though, I bet she would have preferred that you simply canceled on her.”

That tale made me realize that more interesting than the power of positive thinking, is the power we give our thoughts. I should probably warn you, I can control things with my mind. Bad things. Like many people raised with Judeo Christian values, I was taught through guilt and fear of jinxes. In Judism it’s called a kinahura, in Christianity it’s knock on wood. The idea is not to tempt fate.

Though I am a pretty positive thinker, I mostly control negative occurrences. For example, if it’s raining it is most likely because I contemplated bringing an umbrella with me that day and ended up leaving it home, or at the very least I had my car washed. I take full credit and I apologize.

My husband is a genetically positive thinker or just a cocky bastard. He says things that I literally choke on like, “Don’t worry, what do you think could happen?” I recently convinced myself that a three hour power outage was part of a terrorist operation to attack Weston, and you want ME to conjure a list of possible mishaps?

On our way to Atlantis he said something like, “We never lose at that casino. In fact I’m on a winning streak. I can’t even remember the last time I lost gambling.” I say, “Gag, gag. I’m sure you’ve lost and you just don’t recall,” in a vein attempt to appease the gods of humility. So we rush down to the craps table and he excitedly throws down a pile of chips and do you know what happens. That’s right he wins and I lose.

I read ‘The Secret,’ like everyone else. I get a spot in front of Publix every time because, gosh darn it, I just know I will. Also, I am prepared to circle for an abnormally long amount of time. I wish for good things, and I believe they will happen. Everyday, I am sure it will be the day I win the lottery. I wish it to be true. I visualize it happening. I plan how I am going to blow my money and yet I have never won. I’m sure there are other factors that go into determining such an outcome. For instance not buying lottery tickets probably affects my chances in some remote way.

I envision myself having a column in the NY Post. I know you enjoy my writing so much that you will write a long glowing comment and then send the blog to all of your friends with an attachment that calls me the most brilliant writer you’ve ever encountered. Either that or you will quickly erase your email subscription while mumbling, cocky bitch. Just for the record, I visualize you choosing the first option.

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