The Suburban Jungle

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.

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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What I did not mention yesterday is the interesting conversation that followed my trip to Whole Foods. I was in my car thinking about my highly inflated purchases, and wondering how much of my food’s airfare I had paid. My grapes were from Chile, my oranges from South Africa, and my avocado from Argentina.

It dawned on me that my fruit is worldlier than I am. So, I thought we could kill some time by discussing travel, good hotels, and sightseeing. The grapes were extremely friendly. Well, they were seedless, so what would you expect? They went on to warn me about their country. “Ay dios mio, jou don want to go to Chile. It may mean cold en Ingles, but esta muy caliente . Also, jou should remember to wash us bueno. We may be organic, but jou have no idea how much bug poop jour eating.”

What? That’s how they talk, they’re from Chile.

“Wow that was overly informational, I’m glad we spoke.”

The oranges were not so pleasant. One cantankerous orange spoke for the sack and said, “You call yourself a conservationist!?”

“What do you mean?”

“You live in Florida and you just bought oranges from South Africa! How do you sleep at night?”

“So, you’re a ‘Greenie’” I should have guessed, you being organic and all. Well, I will have you know whenever I see an empty plastic bottle I throw it in my SUV and drive 3 miles out of the way to take it to a collection site. You can’t say I don’t do my share.”

“Yeah? And I bet you leave your car running while you drop it off.”

“Well, of course I do, it’s super hot in Florida. Or, as your bag mates would say, muy caliente.”

“Waster!”

“It appears the history of unrest in your country has caused you to become bitter. In addition, I don’t appreciate your tone, Orange. I was just trying to make polite conversation. This is the last time I talk to produce!”

I got my revenge on that sour orange. First, I sliced him in half, and then I juiced him to a pulp. Next, I peeled off his skin and ate his carcass. I made his friends watch, and then set them free, so they could tell others what happens when fruit talks back.

Between this post and yesterdays, it appears I could use some anger management.

Usually in a checkout line, I know the girl at the register. I know where she is from, what she is doing for the holidays and possibly even her stance on gay marriage. By the time I hit the register at Starbucks, the barista has my coffee sitting on the counter with Jenny from the block, scribbled on it. I mention this, because I am usually friendly and up for chit chat, witty banter, or mundane repartee.

However, as I discovered at Whole Foods yesterday, I have some deep-seated aggression. Apparently, if you are too chipper on a Monday morning, and I am in a rush, we might throw down.

All of this started when the jolly man in front of me finished chatting up the patron before him. He then turned to me in a “jovial friend to all” mode and quipped, “Hello, may I put this divider down so that you can place your food on the belt? Chuckle…chuckle. That way our food won’t fight.”

My not unusually sarcastic response: “My food could kick your food’s

ass.”

His good spirited response: “Well you did buy a lot of organic. You might be right.”

My surprisingly aggressive response: “If my food doesn’t do the job, I will take you down myself.”

Translation: Less talky more swipey, okay there buddy?

It’s Monday, I’m in a rush, and worst of all I am about to spend $159.55 on oranges, an avocado, a piece of Chilean sea bass, a bag of nuts, and 3 grapes. I have every right to be bitter and impatient.

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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In case I have not made it clear I am a serious hypochondriac, but can’t seem to find the time to worry. That may be a good thing. Unfortunately, I also don’t often find the time to shower, eat, or have an intellectual conversation with my husband (that might not be a time thing). And now this comes up and kicks me right in the teeth. If we as a nation don’t start to floss, the outlook is pretty grim.

In the past two weeks alone I think I have read like 15 articles about flossing, and an entire chapter in my required Dr. Oz reading. It seems that flossing can not only cause the ever dreaded gingivitis which I am already up countless nights worrying about but, it can harm your teeth, your heart, your arteries, your lungs and one article may have claimed it could harm your cat. (Unless I misunderstood it, which I doubt.)

We’re really being inundated with the flossing thing? It shows up in every one of those keep healthy/young/skinny/sane/better than everyone else, kind of lists. Its like:

1. Don’t smoke 2. Don’t drink excessively 3. Floss Daily 4. Don’t commit murder 5. Don’t covet thy neighbor’s wife. Not always in that order, but you get my drift.

The whole to-do has made me increasingly fearful of not flossing. Each night as I drag my tired ass into the bathroom to wash up, I look down and there it is right next to my sonicare, ominously staring up at me. The box practically opening and shutting puppet-like begging me “Don’t forget me…I’ll be the end of you…I’m mint flavored/waxed…think about your heart, your gums, your cat!” It’s the same every night. “Tomorrow,” I say “I promise tomorrow.” Why something so simple seems so hard, so time consuming, so dorky… I do not know. All I’m saying is that I am going to floss everyday from now on, starting tomorrow.

I was watching the Oscars, which as everyone knows is the Super Bowl for women and gay men across the globe. Unlike real sports, the best part of Oscar night is the pregame. I had them all Tivoed: E!’s red carpet with Ryan Seacrest, Network with a cameo by Ryan Seacrest, and TV Guide’s Joan and family where Ryan Seacrest is actually a cousin (by marriage). I had shamefully missed the original airing and was trying to watch the next morning, hoping that I would not be disturbed. What could be worse than accidentally catching a glimpse of my NY Post which would surely have the night’s biggest upset under a very clever play on words? My daughter, who is obsessed with anything princess, was running around the house in my shoes and begging to play.

I envisioned the start of what could potentially be my favorite yearly ritual and sat her on my lap. “Look Ryan, look at all those princesses.” She was unimpressed and within minutes was bored to tears, literally. Well she is 4.

“Mommy put on the Backyardigans,” she chanted bouncing up and down on my ottoman. So off went the pre-show and on came those imaginative little animals who I think are supposed to live in low income housing, or at the very least something government subsidized. Like them, I began to create a whole different world. A world where they are going to an awards show, a show for the celebs of the under 5 set, a gala of epic proportions.

Leo:         “Hello I’m Leo here with June of the Little Einstein’s and welcome to the Red Carpet for the annual Toony Awards. Unfortunately, my sister Annie is with Rocket and Cooper Anderson in the Gobi Desert. I’m told they’re singing baba waba Osama to Beethoven’s 9^th, in a bunker that strangely resembles Salvador Dali’s “The Persistence of Memory” picture of melting clocks.

Quincy is not here because he is attending a rally for “Out” magazine. Not that an effeminate black male who is scared of the dark and plays multiple instruments including the flute, piccolo, and triangle has to be gay, he’s just exploring his options.

But, we are on a very important mission right here in Orlando Florida, cartoon capital of the world. Let’s check in on June who is with the cast of Blue’s Clues.”

June:       “Hi Joe, I want to ask what is on everyone’s mind… What are you wearing?”

Joe:        “I have on an green on green striped tuxedo by Ralph Lauren purple label.  Side Table drawer is wearing a runner from Isaac Mizrahi for Target and a vintage Tiffany lamp.”

June:       “Well she is truly glowing. Let me ask you Joe, is your acceptance speech written in your handy dandy notebook?”

Joe:         “It actually is, and the notebook was encrusted by Judith Leiber to look like a handbag.”

June:       “Fabulous may I see it? I see a crying boy in a monochromatic shirt, a can of gasoline, and a pack of matches. Hmm, these clues can be so hard to decipher. Leo back to you”

Leo:        “Well it looks like another banner year for the Latinos. Regretfully, Handy Manny will not be able to make it due to a citizenship issue however, he did build the stage. Dora is up for best actress in a Series Over-Using the Word “Aaabre”. She appears to be solomente. This is a smart call after last year’s awkward celebratory french kiss with her cousin Diego and that highly disturbing make-out session with her pet monkey, Boots. June do you have any celebs over there?”

June:       “Yes, I am watching the Mystery Mobile pull up, and what an entrance! Shaggy, Scooby and what looks like the Harlem Globetrotters have appeared like magic out of a huge puff of smoke. They seem to be heading this way however, it may take some time as there legs are spinning, but they are actually not moving…Ah welcome fellas today must be very exciting.”

Scooby:  “Reah, reah, rexciting.”

Shaggy:   “Hey, like do you have any snacks, we’ve like got the munchies.”

Scooby:   “Reah, runchies.”

June:        “I actually do not, try the E! booth they don’t pay that vampire Seacrest the big bucks for nothin’. Hey Leo, getta load of that clown walking down the carpet.”

Leo:         “Yes, June there’s JoJo and right behind her are the Disney princesses, who as you probably heard spearheaded a recent movement forcing cartoonists to draw underwear on all female characters. This of course is in response to circulating internet pictures of a fully plucked Daisy Duck exiting a limo on her way to Minnie Mouse’s “2 Weeks Jack Free” celebration… Monterey Jack, that is.  Let’s ponder that while I send it back to June and the cast of Rugrats.”

June:       “Hi, Tommy and Angelina Pickles, your show is up for it’s holiday special “Santa Woks” is that a cooking show?”

Tommy:   “No, I have a wittle twouble tawking… I’m 1.”

June:        “I see, well as you probably know you are one of the only Jewish cartoon families ever drawn aside from the short lived series “Moisha and the Shiksa.” And here you are nominated for a Christmas special. Angelica, don’t you feel it’s your responsibility to be role models to young Jewish children and to break stereotypes?”

Angelica:   “We took our image very seriously as we calculated the estimated earnings of ‘Santa Woks’ vs. our original script ‘2000 years of Bondage.’ Which by the way we are producing, but in another film genre. We just signed Ron Jeremy on to play Moses’s staff”

June:        “Well I’m sure Quincy will want to check that out. Leo back to you.”

Leo:         “Everyone is still waiting to see if Barney will walk the red carpet. He has been rather elusive after rare footage was released on UTube of him purveying fire whiskey to minors and singing “I love you, you love me” to Callou, Little Bear, and Oswald during a raucous sleepover. This ended in the wee hours of the morning after they allegedly took turns riding Thomas the Train.”

“Well that’s our time…Enjoy the show!  Leo OUT!”