Category Archives: parenting issues

The More My Butt Sags the Shorter the Shorts

I’ve found that this is a foolproof way to firm those dimply lumps of fat and lift that butt. Wait, did I say foolproof, I may mean fool-worthy, ahem, the jury’s out. But either way, I’ll tell you my theory, and I’m sure you’ll thank me later. Well, that or send me hate mail, but definitely one or the other.

Lately, I’ve been delving into how totally insane and irrational I am. I know, it’s fun for you too. So, I’m taking a look at one of my “tricks” that makes sense in my effed up mind. My rationale is that the more sagging and cellulite I have the shorter the shorts I must wear. Like, as a punishment. Oh, you think I’m kidding, but I kid you not. Continue reading

Productive Things to do While Doing it – The Cure for Boring Married Sex

You might be thinking, “Jenny from the Blog, the Jen X’pert, silly girl – that’s just you. My sex life is as hot and heavy as ever.” Well, to you I ask this, “When was the last time you had sex on a surface that didn’t have sheets?” (Hmmm? been a while huh?) “Ok, when was the last time you had sex not between kids asleep time and you asleep time?” I rest my case – B-O-R-I-N-G… Continue reading

Do you Speak Starbucks or are you Committing a Caffeinated Crime | CSI Starbucks

The gore is almost too extreme to look at. BTW this was full before the incident!

When you walk into a Starbucks it’s a little like entering another country.  Some of the language is “Italianish” and the rest is completely fabricated, yet universally understood by all it’s regular patrons.

Like any new country, when you visit Starbucks for the first time you might be overwhelmed by the cultural gap and the obvious language barrier.

You see, Starbucks drinkers have an acute understanding of this made up ordering system, the terminology, how to conjugate the verbs, and the proper phrasing of the request i.e. size first, then special requirements, then drink type.

The baristas, or should I call them caffeination interpreters, are trained to do far more than make a cappuccino.  My barista knows the make, model, and color of my car.  When he sees it drive up, he starts my drink.  He deduces that if I’m wearing golf or workout clothes I will require my usual to be iced  has the appropriate drink ready by the time I hit the door.

He is keenly aware of my standard approach speed and if I seem to be ambling he’ll throw in an extra shot.

But sometimes, even I, a citizen with a green card – or should I say gold card – am shocked by how intricate requests can get.  I think some of these drinkers actually believe they’ve learned another language and take an odd pride in this false sense of intelligence.

Today the woman in front of me ordered a tall 2 splenda – extra dry – machiatto – with extra foam – on the fly.

Extra dry? Really? “What is extra dry… just beans?  Or does the dryness have something to do with the foam?”

Caffeination interpreter:  “No the consistency of the foam is directly correlated to the frothiness.”

Why do I feel like I’m having a conversation with NASA?

And yet, who am I to talk? I know that a standard latte is made at 160°, which would be bad enough, except that I also know that I prefer mine at 140°.

My barista, who writes Jenny from the blog on every cup, actually figured this out while analyzing my drinking habits.

Caffeination interpreter:  “I’ve noticed you seem to wait about 8 minutes for your coffee to cool. I think the problem is an over sensitive pallet and I suggest you drop the temp about 20 degrees fahrenheit.”

“Shit, I think in Celcius.  I like to pretend I’m European… like Madonna and Gwennie P.

Caffeination interpreter: “There’s no reason to get smart with me.  I’m hypothesizing about your needs, I’ll investigate further.”

Soon coffee analyzation and Starbucks interpretation will be something you can major in, like criminal justice.  At the very least Bravo will make it into a show, “CSI Starbucks.”

There is nothing to see here.

“Everyone step away from the mocha, CSI Starbucks unit (Coffee Scene Investigation) is here.”

“There is nothing to see here, please disperse.”

“What’s seems to be the problem, ma’am?”

Disgruntled Customer:  “My mocha is not rich enough, and it’s too wet. I specifically said grande, 18 pump, extra fat, mildly damp, 157° Mochachokeonitccino with extra whip that is dolloped in the shape of a pygmy monkey.”

The area around the cup is taped off and a bit is spilled into a petri dish and run out of the store to a mobile CSI van.

The maverick of the team fearlessly swipes his finger through the java then smells and licks it, as if it’s cocaine. “One more lick for good measure and an extra jolt,” he says as he rubs some across his gums.

“Well your first problem is this is only 16 pumps. It’s also a mere 142°, which if my calculations are correct mean 7 minutes ago when it was made it was 155° and not a degree more. Your other problem was in the call. The cashier/Mayor should know not to call a whip sculpted in the shape of anything other than the Starbuck’s mermaid goddess on our logo, who we in the biz affectionately call Flo.”

Disgruntled Customer: “Like flow of the coffee or the ocean?”

“Ma’am, I’m not at liberty to discuss Flo with civilians.  Let’s just leave it at that.”

“Look, we’re gonna take this downtown to the Captain, but just for the record Cappy Joe, or Cuppa Joe as we like to call him, is the best. He’ll have this coffee and a full report back to you by day’s end. Please enjoy a maximum of 2 hours free internet access in the mean time.”

“And don’t forget to try one of our new hot breakfast sandwiches.”

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Innocent Or Not, I’m Guilty

I went out shopping with my mom the other day and I felt guilty, not because I was breaking my necessary self-imposed shopping ban, but because I had left my kids. I had left them not with a babysitter, but with my husband. They were not doing child labor; they were simply going to a movie.
I couldn’t pinpoint the cause of the feeling I was having. Maybe it was guilt brought on by the fear of sending them off alone with their dad. Would something happen without my guidance? Continue reading

Let me disband the rumors of my spousal abuse.

Yesterday’s post was short and sweet, well that may not be the right word, let’s call it upsetting. Apparently, some people were concerned about the spousal abuse I am inflicting on my husband. Let me clarify, I do not throw objects at Mark very often, ever really, except apparently the occasional salty miniature cracker; which by the way, he is perfectly capable of defending himself against. (He’s trained for such instances.)

The actual argument was over a little thing I like to call, my new rug. Don’t take that the wrong way, this is not about a Brazilian wax job. Anyone who knows me is aware of my mentally unstable cutting phase. Yes, I used to cut. I cut my beautiful shag carpet from its original 16×24 down to a 2×3 welcome mat. My last dog and one of my true loves, Buddy, got very old and equally incontinent. Look, as someone who pees a little each time I laugh, thanks to childbirth, a fallen cervix, and episiotomies, I have sympathy for the “incontinent,” but not so much when they pee on my rug. Buddy peed many too many times on that rug and so I got me a razor knife and went to town cutting out each pee. The odd angles made it look like a jigsaw puzzle and my family and friends, fearing for my sanity, and held an intervention. So, I threw away the welcome mat sized rug and retired my razor.

We then had this cold hard ceramic tile floor in our family room. My kids played on it, bumped their heads on it, rode their bikes on it, skinned their knees on it, and at night we all cuddled on it to watch American Idol. Then we peeled our sweaty legs off it to get in bed.

I finally gave in and bought a beautiful, currently discontinued, area rug with a link pattern from William Sonoma. The rug I describe is the very one that was being eaten by my new puppy on my husband’s first day alone with him. A day in which I reminded him repetitively, to his dismay, “to be with the puppy at all times or have him in the crate.” A day in which I forgot my pocketbook and returned a mere 20 minutes later to find my husband asleep in the bedroom and my puppy having a pricey wool link pattern sandwich. A day in which even after the incident he swore it was, “no big deal” and that I would’ve “probably done the same thing.” I can’t get mad at the dog, he’s just a puppy and puppies chew. Does the same rule apply to Mark because he’s just a husband and husbands are frustrating asses? Nah, I still have faith in men.

So, please don’t worry about Mark. I say he got off easy under the circumstances… next time I find something harder than puffed crackers, like Swedish fish or something sharper like pita chips!

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My Gecko is Cleaner than Your Gecko

gecko

Alright, please don’t take that as a sexual reference, it means exactly what it says.  My gecko is cleaner than yours… so, don’t challenge him to a clean competition, ‘cause he’ll win.

As it turns out living in Florida is like living in a remake of Jurassic Park, on a smaller scale.  Like the miniature Stonehenge, for all you Spinal Tap fans.  The bugs are the size of softballs and the reptile life runs rampant… through my house.  Anyone who has been to Florida knows that lizards cross the roads and sidewalks with the frequency of jay-walkers in NYC.

Up north, where I am originally from, you might be lucky enough to see a majestic deer or cute little baby bunnies bouncing through your yard, but here you see the kind of things that eat cute little baby bunnies.  What I am shocked at, is how used to it I have become.  So much so, that I showered with a gecko the other day.  Please, all you sickos, clearly there was no funny business, though I did loofah his back for him.  He was just hanging out on the wall and rather than go get the cup to catch and release him, I simply went about my normal showering process.  You know, lather, rinse, repeat.

It gave me a little chuckle, but what really made me laugh was when I told my son that evening about the shower scene and he said that he too showered with the same lizard an hour before.  He of course played with the little guy, which makes me question whether soap ever made it to any of my son’s parts at all.  Though I’m sure the gecko got a thorough cleaning and is certainly missing his tail.  I said, “We must have the cleanest gecko ever,” which actually sent us into hysterics.

When my husband got home, we relayed our tale to which he said, “Yeah I showered with him this morning.”  I don’t know what this says about my family.  Are we all too lazy to remove a lizard?  Are we a bit promiscuous, taking showers with any Tom, Dick, or Lizard that enters the stall?  or Have we become so accustomed to them, that we are part of their ecosystem? Like Jane Goodall and those chimps.

I do know that if you come to my house, you’ll see a shiny lizard that smells like grapefruit conditioner and prefers air drying over being briskly toweled off.  Well, Jake would know more about that.

“Mommy, Where Do Babies Come From?”

There are certain phrases that you imagine hearing, years before they may ever be spoken. As an adolescent, you dream of those three little words “I Love You,” being said with something other than a familial connotation. You envision the intoxicating “I do,” and long for the significant, “Congratulations, it’s a (put sex here).”

The phrase I heard today didn’t represent one of these reveries. Instead, I got the ever-dreaded question “Mommy, where do babies come from?” and more specifically, “How do they get out?” This is not the first time I’ve been asked this question, but it’s the first time I considered answering it honestly.

 

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I’ve given quite a few explanations over the years: The stork, the basket on the doorstep, “out of mommy’s bellybutton.” I’ve even given the seldom used, “We found you in a trashcan,” explanation. An excuse used by my own dad, who on too many occasions told the tale of how they first heard my echoing cry, and then debated whether or not to take me out.

How is this happening? Just last week I reiterated, with strong conviction, the existence of the Tooth Fairy, and now I’m about to share the reality of how one enters the world? While I looked around the crowded diner for signs of eavesdropping, J said, “Do they come out of your belly?”

“They can.” I said, hedging.

“So they have to cut your belly open and take the baby out?”

How come when he says it, it seems like a scene from Alien?

“They can.” Still hedging.

“How do they put your belly back together?”

“Stitches,” I replied, knowing this would not be the end.

“RY… RYYYYYY!” J yelled to his sister, “You’re gonna have surgery, ‘cause you’re a girl and girls grow babies.”

Ry, who was previously occupied with the jelly packet mountain she was building, looked up in horror.

“Whaaat?” She cried and looked to me for some explanation as her mountain toppled over (for dramatic effect).

“Go back to your jelly.” I said attempting to redirect her. “J, there’s another way,” I whispered, bracing myself for the look I was about to see. “Babies can also come out of a Mommy’s vagina.”

No amount of bracing could have prepared me for the grossed-out, confused, gape-mouthed, unblinking eyes that now stared at me. A scene from Alien on the table across from us would have been a treat.

“NUH-UH!” He said in horrified denial, as if I was saying it to be funny. Like telling him if he eats too many watermelon seeds, he’ll grow a watermelon vine in his belly.

“It’s true.”

“WHAAAT, BABIES COME OUT OF YOUR VAGINA??”

The families that hadn’t been paying attention to us before quickly turned, as “vagina” is not the usual morning conversation fare.

“Shhh, J we can’t scream the word vagina in public,” I whispered thinking, this wouldn’t be the first time (see the “Let’s Name Our Dog Butt Munch” article).

“Well, I think it’s better to cut open your belly.”

“Why?”

“If it comes out of your vagina, the baby would just drop in the toilet. Yuck!”

Not where I thought this conversation would go, but before I knew it, I was explaining stirrups and OBs pulling out babies and OMG I just wanted an omelet!!!

Jtook this in with unwavering interest. I felt like I could actually see the mechanics of his mind, like watching the inner workings of a watch. Just when I thought he had digested it all he said,

“How do the babies get inside you?”

No way am I going there, not until he finds the Tooth Fairy utterly ridiculous.“Eggs,” I said, “Eat your eggs.”

I was quoted in Redbook magazine August, p.27 in response to the Question:  Is it ever appropriate to get “Hot and Heavy” when you’re a houseguest?

My response, “It’s always appropriate to get hot and heavy, unless you are staying with your parents.  Then it’s only appropriate to get warm and light.

Sage advice, sage advice.

 

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