The Suburban Jungle

So, I am reading the Twilight series.  I’m sorry did I say reading, I meant obsessed with as in, would be a  stalker of the main character if he were not A)  A Vampire B) Fictional.  Not exactly in that order.  What this says about me is that I am mentally stuck somewhere in high school, and living vicariously through this girl’s foray into a world of love and incredibly romantic, thoughtful, and charmingly chivalrous monsters.

As I left to go food shopping last night, I confronted Mark with my current grievance, as I felt it need to be addressed immediately.

“Mark, why can’t you be more like a Edward Cullen.”

“You mean a vampire?”

“No, I just want you to be obsessed with me in a, ‘Can’t take your eyes off me.  You would never let me get hurt,  Can’t live without me,’ kinda way.’

“Oh that, obviously.  Okay.  I can do that.  If there is a banana peal at Publix, I will swoop in and kick it out of the way so that someone other than you trips on it and you won’t even see me, but I will always be keeping you safe and never take my eyes off you.”

“Phew, that was easy.”

“Now, could you move a bit to the left.  I can’t see the game.”

So he fell off the wagon.  He’s rusty, it’s been a decade since he couldn’t take his eyes or his hands or his penis off me.  Frankly, the last one was getting annoying, especially in public.  But shock therapy cured that right quick.  The truth is,  once you say “I do,” your kinda old hat.  Well, not long after.

How much more obsessing and wooing is necessary,  I hate the saying but, “he bought the cow.”  It’s so hard to be a challenge when your married, I used to say things like, “yeah, well maybe I’ll have your kids.”  Now I say things like, “yeah, maybe I’ll get your laundry.”  Just trying to keep him on his toes.  One day I could say things like, “yeah, maybe I’ll tell you where I hid your teeth.”

Other tactics I use to threaten his security in our marriage include, picking fights over the dishes, pointing out the things he forgets and as is evidenced here, comparing him to fictional characters that are kind and sensitive, and confident, and funny, and don’t exist in real life and if they did they’d be gay anyway.

Today I had an uncomfortable experience at Starbucks and quickly texted him this:  “Hey, I burnt my tongue!  Where were you?!”

He texted thus:  “You didn’t see me?  I already treated that tongue wound.  Bet it’s feeling better now isn’t it?  You were hot last night…don’t forget Jake has practice today.”

Okay, he’s trying.  But, there were some errors which I pointed out in my next text:  “I like when you tell me I’m hot and remind me of a practice in the same sentence, talk about hot.  PS  I don’t know what you used, but my tongue hurts even more!”

To which he responded:  “Salt… short term it may be a bit more painful, but long term it will heal faster.”

Got to give him credit on that one.  I really had no idea he treated it, but it does seem to have healed nicely.  I think it was worth the extra pain… it feels so good I could even have soup tonight.

For notifications of new posts, enter your email address:

Here is some of the early hype on the book.  I am excited to be a part of it and like they say at the Oscars, “Thrilled to be in such great company.”  I expect you all to buy at least 10 copies.  What?  Don’t worry about the economy, I’ll sign them and then you can sell them on eBay for a profit.  It’s a sounder investment than CitiBank.  See the wheels are always turning.

Excerpt from the Beth Feldman creator of the site:  ROLEMOMMY.com:

“Okay…so I admit I am the worst person in the world to keep secrets. So I’m going to let the cat of the bag. I’m working on my next book and am so beyond excited about how great it’s going to be. It’s called C:// Mom Run and it’s going to be a humor anthology featuring essays from some of the funniest mom authors, syndicated columnists and bloggers that I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know over the past few years. While you may have heard of a few of them, what I can tell you is that these women are the Nora Ephron’s of our time. Every single one of them will share a story from their lives that some mom in our country (and probably abroad) will be able to totally relate to and laugh their sides off…”

Excerpt from Plain White Publishing:

We recently signed on with Beth Feldman of RoleMommy.com to create a series of books by bloggers, and this is our first –

C:// Mom Run: Side-Splitting Essays from the World’s Most Harried Blogging Moms.

We sent this cover idea to the contributors, and have been falling off of our chairs each time a new comment comes in! Please let us know what you think, too. Seriously.

Fun! (Although is it just me, or are her boobs FAR too a) high and b)
perky?)   Jenna McCarthy

Also there is a stop setting? Damn! Where’s mine? Can’t wait. The cover is very cute Ciaran Blumenfeld Twitter: @momfluential

Think cover gal is wise to be wearing flats…they go famously with her ensemble, and harried in heels is a recipe for disaster!
LOVE the cover…great design, Beth!
Cheryl http://Twinfatuation.blogspot.com

Beth, I don’t know that I gave you permission to use a picture of me… but I love it. I hope the other girls aren’t too jealous that I made the cover. Maybe The bent hangers jutting out of my head will make them less envious. Don’t hate, those things really hurt. Though they get great XM reception. Jenny From the Blog

BAAAAA! That’s great! It’s no wonder we’re so harried when we have no arms with which to accomplish anything! Have you ever tried changing a diaper with your feet or typing with your nose? Actually I have tried that last one. Don’t ask. Wine was involved. Dawn Meehan

I had two colicky babies whom I held for upwards of six hours a day. I was so good at doing things without the use of both hands, I could have gotten a job with the Big Apple Circus – except they don’t let newborns on the trapeze. Typing with your nose? I’d like to see that. Jen Singer

Haven’t tried all of that — but I HAVE played the piano with my elbow. No wine involved. And blindfolded. Sherry Shealy Martschink

Rosie from the Jetsons…..anyone??? anyone??? Nancy Friedman

I guess I’m late to realize she has no arms, which might be the least of her problems. Though I can barely get by with the 4 arms I have. Yea, I have 4 arms wanna make something of it? I suggest you back off. The kids in elementary school learned real fast not to pick on the 4 armed girl, for obvious reasons. Jenny From the Blog

For notifications of new posts, enter your email address:

Delivered by FeedBurner

In the ongoing saga of low blood pressure I found myself at the cardiologist 4 times last week.

Day One:  Upon arriving it does not take a carni age guesser to know that I am at least a hundred years younger than the rest of the crowd.  I am also in the minority that is not connected to an iv or oxygen tank.

The truth is, I happen to be in a rush and would selfishly love to be the first in.  Selflessly, I don’t want to go in before any one of these people who could clearly use a once over and someone to check for a pulse.  As I am unsettled by this thought, a woman drags herself in the door and up to the window, “I am having chest pains unlike anything I  have ever felt.  I don’t have an appointment, but can I see my Doctor?”  As it turns out she takes my appointment and thankfully so, as poor Estelle is sitting across from me clutching her heart and breathing erratically.   I proactively position myself directly parallel so that I can catch her if necessary.

Nurse:  “Morty”

As they come out calling for other people, I’m thinking please call in Estelle before she codes.

Nurse 2:  “Phil”

Nurse 1:  “Estelle”

Nurse 2:  “Bea”

Nurse 1:  “Saul”

The receptionist who is joking with all the patients as if it might be there last day, pokes her head out, “Mr. Dale are you gonna give me any more trouble today young man?  Oh, and Mrs. Isenman, he’s getting to you.“

“I’ve been here over an hour is that normal?“

“Nope, he’s usually right on time, but there was a problem with the patient before you and we’ve already had an ambulance here once this morning and it‘s only 10 0‘clock“

Nurse 3:  “Joan”

Mark calls to see how the appointment went.
“I’m still waiting.“

“Oh, you are?  Are you filling out all the medical forms or are you just waiting to be called?“

“No Mark, they’re ready for me, I’m just so thrown by these forms.  So many tough questions, like my name and my age.  Then there are some real zingers like my SSN.  It’s like taking the SAT’s all over again.  They’re begging me to finish up and I’m trying to convince them that I’m eligible for the untimed version.

Nurse 2:  “Sandy”

Look I know he’s trying.  I know he was hoping I would be out so he could check it off his ‘things to remember list,’ and I know he asked that ridiculous question because he wants to seem caring, but I can’t help myself sometimes.

Nurse 1:  “Jenny”

By now the hypoglycemia that they found last week during my 5 hr. glucose test is acting up and the nurse goes to get me an apple juice, that they have for “such occasions.”  “Thanks, but really there’s no need to make such a fuss.”  Did I really say fuss?  See what an hour and a half out there did to me?  “By the way how is Estelle?”

Nurse:  “Who?”

The cardiologist Dr. Seth was, thank goodness, is not what I was expecting.  He was a referral from my, ‘roll your own’ Jamaican Doctor and I was thinking Seth might just be his first name, and that he may or may not have a surf board and that he may or may not have a medical license.  Luckily, he is Arcaad Seth, an Indian gentleman.  Look, I saw “Slumdog,” so I have a birds eye view into his upbringing.  As it turns out my sympathy for his being  part of a panhandling ring of blind singers does little for our deeper connection.  He roboticly set me up for a series of tests to “rule out the possibilities” and sternly warns me not to drive much saying, “You could hit a school bus filled with children.“

“Thank you for that.  Just telling me would not have been enough.  Did the past 30 minutes with me not give you any indication that I have some excessive worrying issues?  Maybe when I was telling you that when I yawn sometimes it feels like the blood gets stuck in my neck, and you snickered under your breath, like I was insane?

Wow, and that was just day one.  Stay Tuned.

For notifications of new posts, enter your email address:

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 dull mini cracker; which by the way, he is perfectly capable of defending himself against.

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, held an intervention. So, I pulled up my welcome mat 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, road 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’d, “probably do 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!

For notifications of new posts, enter your email address:

Example 1)  This morning’s alternating AOL headlines went something like this:  Car Dealers are desperate, month’s best deals. ‘Dancing’ reveals star replacement, see who it is. Part-time job market picking up, there may be hope. Obama to reverse stem cell policy.  Are you kidding me?  There is a replacement on dancing with the stars?  All of these crazy things are going on in politics the economy and world events and I’m pissed cause I have to wait for them to rotate around so I can find out who it is.

Example 2)  Last week I got in a blow out fight with Mark.  The kind that is so frustrating you want to throw a remote at your husbands head.  I was holding a bag of oyster crackers at the time, my favorite salty low blood pressure fix, so I threw those instead.  The bag whacked him in the chest and they exploded out like fireworks.

“I have to go get Jake,”  I yelled as I turned back to see him angrily picking them up off the floor.

I jumped in my car, having left the conversation unfinished.  I was seething.  All I could think was, ‘I bet he is mixing the oyster crackers tainted by our overly puppy peed on carpet with the good ones that are still in the bag.  He sucks.  This is why I can’t stand him, he would never take the extra second to throw the contaminated ones in the trash, with consideration for the joy that those little salty devils give me in my time of sodium deprivation.  No, why would he show such thoughtfulness?

When I got back he had picked up my daughter from our neighbors and helped her draw a picture for me.  He called me in to see it.  I went, but only after checking the pantry to find an almost full bag of ruined oyster crackers.  “Fucker.”

Well, you be the judge.  Is it just me or all we all pathetic?

For notifications of new posts, enter your email address:

I had a mammogram this week.  I have to get one every year; though tatas are small, there is miraculously  room for fibroid cysts.  My tech went so far as to comment on my boobies, saying they’re “perfectly perky.”  Well, she said that after laughing aloud at the thought of getting my A’s to stay up on the shelf of the machine.    My tech was crass to say the least, but her outrageous inability to filter actually shifted my focus and put me at ease.

After enjoying a good chuckle at my “cute and perkies,” my tech stuck on a set of beautiful nipple markers, which are stickers with silver balls that resemble starter earrings.

“Sorry, we’re all out of fringe,” she informed me, still getting a kick out of herself.

“Don’t worry, I have some at home,” I responded, doing the same.

As it turned out, she was right to laugh. The first time on the shelf, they slipped right out. The intense squeezing actually slung-shot them back towards my body.

“What?  Did you butter those puppies?“  She asked, with a snort.

I ignored her, and rubbed my chest to stop the vibration that the ricochet had caused.

The second time she was more thorough and managed to get a couple ribs onboard, as anchors, I assume.

“Um, excuse me, is it okay that you have bones in there too?”

“Don’t worry.  They won’t break.”

Squeeze, squeeze, squeezing harder. Shelf lifting.  I raised myself onto my tippy-toes to avoid my bosoms being ripped clean off. More squeezing. CRUNCH.

“What was that, bone?”

“Alright, just one more squeeze.”

“Fine, but I think milk might come out.”

“Oh, are you breast feeding?”

“No.”

After flattening my boobs into pancakes, I felt like a cartoon victim of a falling anvil. I patiently waited for them to snap back, or for an animated squirrel to come along, stick in a tube and pump them up.There was no one.  No squirrels, or skunks, or any other well-meaning rodents came to my rescue, so I shoved them back into my sports bra.  This is what all the hype was about, what my friends are dreading? The relief of finishing the test was quickly cancelled out by the anxiety of knowing I had to wait for my results.

As I passed the waiting room, I noticed the same elderly woman shakily stick her nipple markers in a plastic baggy and into her purse, where they most likely sunk into an abyss of sucking candies, saltines, and sweet N’ low packets.

I imagined one kinky grandpa with a bottle of Viagra eagerly awaiting her return, and got a chuckle of my own.  If your boobs hang down to your knees and grandpa‘s sight isn‘t what it used to be, you might need some assistance finding your nipples.  That’s one us flat chested folk don’t have to worry about -gravity.

In the end, the findings revealed another benign cyst.  I told my body it is not allowed to create so much as a zit without my permission.  I will, however, still be at next year’s appointment in case my body disobeys my explicit instructions. I want the option of stealing nipple markers in about 70 years.

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 made up, yet universal to all citizens.  When you visit Starbucks for the first time you might be overwhelmed by the cultural gap and the 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 employees, or should I call them caffeine scientists, are trained to do far more than make a cappuccino.  My barista knows the make, model, and color of my car and 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 and quickly dumps it and 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 am shocked by how intricate requests can get.  I think some of these drinkers actually believe they have learned another language and revel 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?”

“No, it’s more froth.”

“Didn’t she imply that when she said extra foam?”

“No the frothiness actually refers to the consistency of the foam.”

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 150°. My barista who also writes, Jenny from the block on every cup, actually figured this out by watching my drinking ritual. He said, “I 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 10 degrees. Look, this is just a hypothesis, I will investigate further.” Soon this will be something you can major in, like criminal investigation or a show, “CSI Starbucks.”

“Everyone step away from the mocha, CSI 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° Mochachokaccino 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. “Well your first problem is this is only 17 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?”

“No, like cash flow. Look, we’re gonna take this downtown to the lab, 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.”

How to retain fluids and bloat up, FAST cont…

WEEK 6

My fingers are so fat, I had to dictate this. I also had to order one of those large number phones for the visually impaired, a clapper, and a medic alert necklace in case I fall and can’t… I’m scared. The fluid retention may have water logged my brain and I fear I have officially lost it. I am babbling to myself and cannot walk across the house without a nap. I tried to cut down on salt and substitute it with garlic as was recommended by VirtualDoctor.com to even blood pressure. I ate 2 whole cloves last night.

WEEK 6 -day 2

I brushed my teeth and tongue 27 times. My tooth brush is too short. The garlic is rising from my intestines and oozing from my pores. My closest friend asked that I back up when speaking, I was down the aisle from her to begin with. I told her I needed to apologize to the sales lady for having no idea what I was looking for and she suggested I apologize for talking to the sales lady in the first place.

I warded off three vampires,or were they more sales people? I don’t know, they ran so fast in the other direction, I just assumed they were vampires. One was working the register I was at and actually turned into a bat and flew away shrieking.

I cannot take it anymore.  I must get away from myself. In the carpool line I went crazy and started swallowing Altoids whole with the hopes that they would dissolve in my stomach and take care of the guttural odor, at the source. First, I swallowed a half, then I started thinking, ‘What have I done? I don’t know if it’s safe to just swallow an Altoid without chewing it.  They are curiously strong.’

Me: “No, that’s silly, it’s fine. People accidentally swallow gum and mints all the time, it just takes 7 years to digest, but they survive. Just shove the other two in your mouth and be done with it.”

So I did and before I could talk myself out of it, I washed them down with coffee.

Me: “Holy shit. What did I just do? I swallowed more, and with coffee no less, a stimulant. What if they’re like Poprocks and my stomach explodes?”

Me: “That never really happened, or did it? I don’t know for sure. My stomach is feeling a bit sour. Should I drink some ipecac?”

Me: “No by the time I get out of carpool line they will already be absorbed into my blood stream. Maybe I should call someone and tell them what I’ve taken, so they can inform the paramedics when the ambulance arrives.”

Still Me: “This is ridiculous Jenny, could you imagine if people just died from swallowing mints? You would hear about it. It would be on 60 Minutes or the news. Whew.”

Me: “Wait, I don’t watch 60 Minutes or the news. I only watch Cartoon Network, HBO and reality TV.. Fuck, I’m screwed”

Me: “No, you would have gotten one of those mass emails warning you about swallowing mints, like microwaving saran wrap, or using plasticware with the numbers 4,6, or 7. Whew.”

Me: “Maybe I’m the first person to swallow so many Altoids and wash them down with coffee. You have to admit it’s a bit random. Why would any sane person like myself do that?”

Me in a British Accent: “Pip pip and all that… Don’t worry luv, all will be splendid. Now, let’s have a spot of tea, shall we?”

Me: “I’d love to.  You French people make every idea sound smart.”

Last month I had a scary episode. I was driving and out of nowhere I felt like I was about to lose consciousness. I was luckily in a parking lot. First, I debated if I should just put the car in park out of fear that I would pass out and glide into something. Then, I spotted an open space, sideswiped a pedestrian that then gave me the bird, and quickly parked.

My mind was racing, “Something is wrong, people don’t just pass out.” I called my husband unlocked my doors, so he could get to me, and searched for something to eat. I shoved a lollipop in my mouth… nothing. I was hanging on by a thread, when I saw my daughter’s morning sippy cup of milk. I sucked out the milk as fast as I could and after a rush of boiling heat radiated through my body, the feeling slowly eased. After a meal during which I was barely lucid, I told husband I was okay to drive myself to the doctor, which by the way took very little convincing. Thanks Mark.

Now let me tell you a bit about my Doctor. He is a Jewish Jamaican with a strong accent and the stereotypical laid back attitude you would expect of people who use the word irie, though he does not. I go to him because I am too big of a hypochondriac to go to someone high strung. When I arrived I found him outside taking a smoke break, he rolls his own, so there’s no telling what it was.

“Ello luv, I see you got yer pretty self all worked up. I don’t mean to trow the book at ya, but yer blood pressure is very low… too too low. Yer passin’ out cause yer not getting enough oxygen to yer brain daarlin’.

“That actually explains some other issues.”

“Well, ya got ta take care of dis yerself, cause yer not gonna like the medcine I’d ‘ave to put ya on. Now go to the store and buy everyting wid salt. Get some matzoh ball soup and put extra salt init, put salt on yer salt. Everyting you been taught, ferget it. Rememba ya need tons of fluids, ‘cause ya ‘ave to retain ‘em.”

“What about water?”

“Water? No. That’s terrible fer ya, that just washes the sodium away. I prefer you ‘ave a coke, that ‘as yer, salt yer caffeine, and yer sugar. It’s the perfect drink fer yer ‘ealth.”

“Yes, I believe that’s their campaign slogan. Drink Coke, It’s Perfect For Your Health.”

“OK then, I love ya daarlin. ‘Ave a space cake fer the road.”

Did I mention he takes his appointments in a small shack? I’m totally kidding, it’s more of a trailer.

So, if I want to stay awake, I must retain water and eat and drink crap, and if I want to stay thin, I must pass out. Hmmm, well I certainly wouldn’t be the first person who passed out trying to stay thin. It is against everyting, sorry everthing, in me to purposely retain fluids. But apparently, this medicine is something I want to avoid so here goes.

WEEK 1- Filled pantry with pretzels, pistachios, popcorn, pickles, peppercorn jack, and Pepsi. I know, you’re thinking they all have… salt in them, and that’s why I got them.

WEEK 2- Ate and drank all of the above. Wide awake. Feelin’ gooood.

WEEK 3- Feeling sluggish. Fingers pruning… Must have sweet, in need of a cupcake. I secretly busted a piñata at Ryan’s friend’s 4^th birthday, and ravaged the remains. I blamed it on a little kid that teases Ryan, who just happened to be the birthday boy. Ahhh, sweet sweet revenge.

WEEK 4- Cannot look at another saltine. Putting MnMs in my soup instead of oyster crackers. Can no longer wear rings. Thighs are becoming too friendly with each other. Mission accomplished. Do I cry or cheer?

WEEK 5- Too bloated to cook. Can’t get fingers around pan handles. Oven mitts don’t fit. Had Mark install salt licks around the house for convenience. Lick them each time I waddle by. Will write more tomorrow, sausage fingers too swollen for keys.

It seems that Jake’s elementary school mascot, Swampy, is enjoying the hula hoops hanging on his nether region a bit too much.

My children are in that phase where all words referring to bodily functions and private parts are hilarious to think of, let alone utter. I call it the Beavis and Butthead phase, and I am eagerly awaiting it’s passing. However, I am not holding my breath as it appears my husband never actually outgrew it himself. So, with that in mind, we were trying to think of names for our new puppy. I am throwing out the more traditional names like Max and Charlie. Jake says, “Let’s name him Gary.” Okay, not where I was going but, a name nonetheless. I say, “How about Copper or Cinnamon?”

Ryan: “I have a great idea, how about Cinnamon Toast Weiner?”

All: Ha ha ha, lots of laughs.

OK, game on.

Jake: “How about Tushie-Face?”

Ryan: “Hee hee, good one Jake.”

Minutes go by and Ryan comes running across the park and screams for all the other families to hear, “Listen listen, we should name our dog Vagina.”

Jake: “Yeah, we’d be like, ‘Come hear Vagina. Sit Vagina.’”

I am making every attempt not to make this into a big deal and give it too much attention, but the attention we’re getting is making me uncomfortable. “Could we keep this conversation down just a little bit?” Then I went on to suggest more realistic names. I know I’m a party pooper. Hee Hee…I wrote pooper.

Well, if anyone isn’t a party pooper, it’s my husband.

Mark: “I know – we should name it Penis, and then when people say, ‘Jake what are you doing?’ you could say, ‘Oh, I’m just playing with my Penis.’”

Mind you this is a concept a 7yr old would not come up with on his own volition, but it didn’t take long for him to catch on.

Jake: “Yeah…Hey hey hey, listen. I could say ‘I just taught my Penis to fetch.’”

All, but me: HEHEHEHE HAW HEW HAW HAHA -and tear filled laughter.

Ryan: “That’s not fair, ‘cause I don’t have a penis, I have a heinie.”

Taking Ryan’s penchant for the word vagina into consideration, I decide this is the wrong time for an anatomy lesson.

My husband is finally aware of the wrong turn this conversation has taken, and reeled it in by suggesting a name we can really use: Butt Munch. Ah, the ever popular with the pre-teen set, Butt Munch.

All but me: HA HEE HEE HE HA HE HEW HAW HA.

This idea sparked tons of laughter and affirmation. First of all, my children had never been exposed to this term, so they found a special joy in both it’s profanity and it’s originality. They beamed with pride as if their father, king of the potty mouths, had just coined it. Secondly, they liked the way it just rolled so easily off of their tongues. “Butt Munch. Come here Butt Munch. Sit Butt Munch. Bad Butt Munch.”

Ryan: At the top of her lungs, “Jake you’re a Butt Munch.”

Jake: “No Ryan, you’re a Butt Munch.”

Me: “No Daddy’s a Butt Munch… thanks Mark!”

Mark: “Please, they could be saying much worse.”

Me: “Perhaps you should teach it to them. Jake doesn’t know Mother Fucker, maybe you could remedy that.”

For the last two weeks Jake has told everyone willing to listen that Ryan wanted to name our new dog Vagina, and Ryan now uses Butt Munch as a verb, noun, and adjective, sometimes in the same sentence. My friend Susan asked her if she was ready to go home the other day and she replied, “No way, Butt Munch.” I’m so proud.

PS We brought our dog home a couple of days ago, and though Ryan is still calling him Butt Munch, we as a family went with the more traditional, Ass Face. I hope she comes around.