Category Archives: Jungle Rants

Camp Phone Calls Could End My Marriage

Who knew the highly anticipated camp phone calls could be such a blow to a relationship? Oh well, when my baby is 1500 miles away from home, and I get a few minutes to talk — It’s every man, ahem mom, for herself!

Camp Phone Calls Could Ruin My Marriage #camp #sleepaway #humor

It’s sleepaway camp time and everyone is getting their calls from the kiddos. I’ve found a pattern, in that I desperately want to strangle my husband after each call. Luckily for me (and not so much my husband), I’m apparently not alone.

Look, us moms are ready. We’ve stayed up until the wee hours waiting for the pictures to download — sometimes hitting “refresh” every minute, (and by minute I mean second) as they download one at a time. We’ve studied them like highly trained CIA agents, analyzing their smiles, their friends, their body language. Continue reading

15 Tips to Help Moms Survive Life in Suburbia

15 Rules to Survive Life in the Suburbs #humor #mom #funny #suburbia #suburbsNearly a decade ago, I moved to the suburbs from NYC (it’s the sole reason I started my blog).  In that time I’ve learned some pretty important things to ensure my survival, nay, my sanity.

If my ‘burb sent out a handbook it would look something like this. Feel free to use it as a mini-survival guide. Good luck and in the words of that guy on Hill Street Blues, ‘Hey, let’s be careful out there.’

  1. All children must be signed up for multiple sports and extracurricular activities, to ensure that no family can plan anything on a Saturday until their kids are too old to want to spend Saturday’s with their family.
  2. Do NOT be alarmed if you try to enter the wrong minivan or SUV, this is common. Try to lessen the confusion by putting fun stickers on your back windshield representing each of your children performing their favorite activity.
  3. You can paint your house one of 477 shades of tan.  Other colors will be categorically denied, so don’t even try it!
  4. If your child has strep or hand foot and mouth, be aware that the entire town will know about it before you get his/her prescription filled. PS this same urgency in passing news applies to affairs as well!
  5. As a suburban mom you are expected to start some kind of craft business immediately. Your choices are: hair accessories, jewelry, embellished clothing, or things you can print on card stock — anything else must be cleared through the Chamber of Commerce.
  6. If you already have a job, you are expected to purchase these crafted goods, in bulk, at the myriad of local holiday boutiques that celebrate everything from Ramadan to Flag Day.  Like PTA meetings, being absent is frowned upon.
  7. If you do not find a grocery store or Starbucks within one mile of your current position, you’re lost and have entered an inferior neighborhood! Please stay calm and return to your suburb immediately.
  8. You are required to join a gym.  There, you must take spin classes with disco lighting, pretzel yourself into a reformer, and learn the art-form that is Zumba.
  9. You will be expected to pressure clean anything and everything from your sidewalk to your dog. Be prepared.
  10. Make sure your dog is cute, as neighbors will constantly stop to pet it. Be warned, the same neighbors will turn you in to the association the first time Rufus barks after 9PM. (Don’t name your dog Rufus)
  11. Make an immediate trip to lululemon/Athetica/GapBody/Target … and pick up workout/athletic/golf/tennis gear that’s trendier than simply wearing sweatpants.  Wear these goods at least 50 -100% of the time; in the winter, simply wear your athletic gear with Uggs.
  12. You will need to attend a mind-numbing amount of birthday lunches/dinners for ladies turning anywhere from 30-50.  Get there early, as who you sit next to (or don’t sit next to) can make or break your day.
  13. Cut back on sex ASAP, as you will find yourself in conversations where moms discuss their infrequent, and unsatisfying sex life regularly — at lunches, parties, dinners, play-dates.
  14. And stop giving blow-jobs! People in the ‘burbs are only expected to give them on birthdays and anniversaries (it’s one of the perks).
  15. Living in the ‘burbs is a little like reading Us Weekly: Everything is sensationalized. It’s fun to discuss “who wore it best,” but not as much fun as playing Fashion Police. You will find yourself looking for cellulite/wrinkles on young skinny moms. And gossip is treated as gospel.

I hope this helps you fit into the suburban life you’ve chosen.  Maybe I’ll see you at the next boutique sale — I’ll be selling picture frames with random findings glued on to them!

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First Bennifer Then TomKat Now DiRhea | Celeb Break Ups Test My Marriage

Like with debacle that was Tom and Katie’s marriage, or the demise of any celeb union, for that matter, Danny Devito and Rhea Perlman’s split, directly impacted my chance at a lazy  happy marriage, don’t act like it didn’t affect you!

Everyone remembers when Devito and Perlman got together right? I mean, I wasn’t born yet but I heard tales.  Yep, just like Brad and Angie, it was a whirlwind — or something like that.  Fine, I just know that they’re both short and funny and if short funny people can’t stay together… who can?  Who can?

Ummm lesson learned. Do not marry someone as short or funny as you!

Listen, following the love lives of celebrities is like couples therapy … only cheaper. I think we’ve all learned some pretty amazing things  for the price of a weekly gossip mag:

The Travolta’s taught me to avoid marrying arguably gay Scientologists, but if I must marry one, to now know that the house must be staffed with people who give happy endings and sign confidentiality agreements.

Brangelina justified me spending our entire life savings on a Chateau in France for my family to live in.  That was the best week ever! Hey, do you think I can trade my food stamps for flying lessons?

I learned from TomKat that marriages with buyout clauses and auditors rarely work. Though sharing lipstick and Louboutins with your 4 year old is always a super awesome idea.

Posh and Becks made me see the need to conceive another child, with the sole purpose of naming it something totally random like, Stockbroker or Almondbutter or Miami.

R. Patz and K. Stew’s recent reconciliation taught me that the love of your life should totally take you back if you get caught on camera, making out with another man. Which is why I unexpectedly mounted a local anchorman in the middle of his “Live at 5” newscast (BTW they really don’t wear pants behind the desk!).

And yes, “DiRhea” once gave me the impetus to stick it out in the tough times to attain similar longevity.

Sure, their celebrity morph name wasn’t the sexiest, but it didn’t stop me from asking Mark during heated arguments, “What would DiRhea do?”

He rarely answered, but I like to think the mere inquiry got us through some tough times.

Now, with the news of DiRhea’s marital demise, I realize, there’s no finish line. You can never throw your hands in the air, run through the proverbial ribbon, and scream “We won! We lasted 3 decades, now we get to coast!”

No, on the contrary, it proves that we’re gonna have to work at this whole marriage thing for like, ever, which sucks because I’m pretty much phoning it in already.  At this point my kids are numero uno and after a short list of important things, like our pets, success, and freshly folded laundry, comes my man.

So thank you DiRhea, because of you I’ll make my hubby a higher priority in my life. Well, within reason.

I mean, if Hollywood has taught us anything, it’s that when women get divorced, they find younger, hotter, more energetic men — with abs!  Madonna, Halle, Demi, Katie C., Mariah, Susan S., Ellen B., you give hope to us all… mmmmmm abbbbs!

Someone Stole Our Money Tree

And other perfectly plausible excuses for not spending in this economy… Frankly, with the amount of times my children ask for something — from $2 gems for Dragonvale to a dress from Justice to a new iPhone, I’m assuming they believe that money either grows on trees or at the very least flows to us on a river of gold.

“Someone cut down our money tree.”  This is the line I used to explain why my son would not be getting the new iPhone 5 the moment it hit shelves, like some of his other friends, who shall remain nameless.  “That’s right, just yesterday I was fanning myself with fresh dollar bills, off the darn thing and today… gone,” I waxed.

“I remember the old days, circa 2000, when times were good, the tree bloomed so plentifully.  I would walk out and stare into the buds, too blurry to tell what they would blossom into, but so excited by the prospects.  The beautiful $20’s and even a rogue $100 here or there, opened in glorious subdued hues of matte greens.  Benjamins and Jacksons — the good ol’ boys.  Recently, the soil has not been as “rich,” if you will, and Washington, old faithful, as I like to call him, has been the only one to flower.

The spots once reserved for George and Abie became clusters of kernels, heavy copper and silver colored nuts, that plunked down on our heads at even the slightest gust of wind.  Every once in a while, a seed would hit with concussion causing force… “Damn Susan B.”  I’d curse at it, and then plant it, in hopes of growing another tree.  Alas, the bush it bore only sprouted subway tokens, which are of no use in the Florida suburbs.

Each Tuesday, I would pluck all the ripe bills from the tree, as Wednesday is the day the lawn people come.  Well, need I say more.  It’s so hard to find honest help these days.

But today, well today… I don’t need to worry about picking the fruit, because the tree is gone.  All that’s left is a hole in the ground and some scattered pennies that even the horticultural filchers found not worth risking back injury for.

“So, no new iPhone 5 for you OR ME, for that matter.”

My son walked away confused and mildly appeased.  Next I will explain to my husband why the boot fairy made a recent visit to my closet.

How Well Do You Know Your Vagina

Why do we need to “know our vaginas,” anyway? I’m happy keeping mine at arms length. Yet, I’m told we should be more acquainted. I have to be honest, I think we’re good, me any my hoo-hoo, that is. I’d definitely miss her if she wasn’t around, but we’re not conversing during long walks on the beach, though we do like to take them (so we have that in common — which is nice).

Could you pick your va-jay-jay out of a va-gyne-up?

Recently, in the pediatrician’s office, I was reading a pamphlet on puberty. Please, it’s better reading than an outdated TIME, or a Highlights where all the hidden pictures are already circled (and they always are). Anyhoo, it suggested that ‘tweens (I’m assuming that’s who it was for) should and I quote, “GET TO KNOW YOUR VAGINA.”

If there are any preteens reading this just know, you shouldn’t be — now, go google One Direction and stop reading my columns.

Now that they’re gone…

I began to think about how WE were schooled on puberty. Oh, those awful videos that hadn’t been updated since the 60’s and 70’s, so the people still had combs in their back pockets, bell-bottoms, and afros. I don’t remember the exact details, but I know most were grainy, some slightly resembled School House Rock, and I’m pretty sure one of them convinced me that you could get pregnant from dry humping — if the guy came — which I’m pretty sure no cool guy ever did.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m certainly no “dry hump” virgin. Nope, I know more than a thing or two about the friction caused by two pairs of button fly jeans rubbing uncomfortably against each other, on a waterbed, the bucket seats of a Nissan 300ZX, or the ultra-suede of a basement sofa. Look, I’m a Gen X-er, that’s what we had. Also, I was a good girl (who liked to fool around), which means I was forced to be a “dry hump” slut.

For years, I was convinced that sperm, being so powerful and microscopic, could travel through a guys boxers and Z Cavaricci’s and past my Guess jeans and little Bloomies straight into my cervix. This may be a sign that I didn’t know much about sex… but at least I was on trend.

See, we weren’t told to get to know our vaginas. In fact, I’m a bit concerned that at nearly 40 I don’t know my vagina at all. Frankly, I couldn’t pick her out of a line-up. Seriously, could you? I mean, I could probably narrow it down, like they taught you to do in SAT prep, but any vagina with the same grooming, coloring, and general size — could be mine. How sad is that? I don’t even know if my vagina has any defining marks, characteristics, or other traits that make it uniquely my own.

To make matters worse, the pamphlet may have mentioned that each vagina has a distinct personality. WTF is that all about? She has a personality? Maybe we should be conversing more, I haven’t the foggiest idea what she’s all about. Is she saucy, shy, extroverted? I don’t freakin’ know. I mean, I know she’s obstinate, yet easily swayed. That counts, no? She’s highbrow, well groomed, extremely particular, and yet, I like to think she’s adventurous.

Oh, the contradictions.

My vagina is a flippin’ onion, so many layers. How could anyone claim to truly know her? They, you, I… we couldn’t, so stop trying.

Do you hear me people? I’m saying back off — give my vagina some space. (If I had a nickel for every time I used that phrase…)

And you pamphlet writers, who are either men making a ridiculously misguided attempt at feminism or clueless guidance counselors disconnected from modern ‘tween society, could you work on being a bit more creative? Telling teens to get to know their vaginas and expecting them to take it seriously, REALLY? That’s fodder for parodies. In fact, all I could think of, while perusing your literature, was the SNL skit “You and Your Uvula,” which I’m sure dates me even more than the School House Rock reference. If you must tell girls to get to know themselves, at a bare minimum, slap a picture of Justin Bieber on the cover.

http://img.metro.co.uk/i/pix/2012/07/13/article-1342181591190-140C03F8000005DC-366763_466x310.jpg

YOU, should get to know your vagina!

Most importantly, after pondering this piece and spending some QT with my vag — you know, dinner and a movie, non fat no foam lattes at Starbucks, a raucous round of kegals, panty shopping… I’ve found vaginas, like their owners, are complex creatures, who deserve the right to be themselves, to roam free, to explore. That’s right, we not only deserve better pamphlets, but free range va-jay-jay’s as well.

Ones, who don’t need to be pigeonholed into one personality trait, but can be all things at once (just like us): Happy, sad, elated, shy, giddy, self conscious, confident, and insane.

Have you never seen a woman simultaneously laugh and cry during an orgasm?

I rest my case.

PS – Take a good hard look at your va-jay today, it would be really embarrassing if she ever got arrested!

Confessions From an Irrational Control Freak Mom

Before having children, I had no idea how much of a control freak I actually was. Yes, I always had the anxiety part, but even that grew 10 fold. My hubby and I lived in an apartment in NYC, where he was able to mask his inability to do simple household things like, change lightbulbs, hang pictures… use a screw driver. We had people to do that. Yes, the maintenance men were my BFFs — a small tip and they were caulking or hammering away.

Then we had kids and moved to the ‘burbs, where I realized that not only was my hubby not the type to do stuff around the house. I was not the type to delegate. My anxieties and need for perfection made his work seem incomprehensibly inferior. (The cause of many an argument)

So, Continue reading

Too Much Knowledge Could be Bad for Your Health

This post is a perfect example of why playing dumb is underrated!!!  In a doctors office, there’s a fine line between what you should be privy to and what should not be part of a conventional, time killing conversation.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m one of those annoying patients who’s always trying to suck some  information out of the techs in the doctor’s offices.  You know the people who do the tests, and even though they know exactly what’s going on inside your body, they say things like, “I don’t read the tests, I just administer them,” or Continue reading