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The Christian Grey | 50 Shades Ecards are back… by popular demand. These are based on the article, What it Would REALLY be Like to be Married to Christian Grey, which takes a glimpse into what the Grey’s life might look like after years of marriage and children. But let’s face it, everything looks better in an ecard. So, here you go — Fifty Shades in the Future (insert wavy lines to imply future montage here)…
I know, you’re like, bring on the water works. I mean with a title like that there’s bound to be a sentimental, emotionally charged poem to follow, right? Well, you’ll have to see, but probably not (Spoiler Alert). Not all of us have perfect marriages. Frankly, most of us don’t and I kinda think that’s ok. There’s some value in being a sometimes sucky wife – just ask my hubby… Continue reading →
What, are familial relationships not about winning? I’m sorry, I’m an only child, I never had to compete for parental favoritism with siblings. And I must admit, my son’s essay puts him slightly ahead of his sister in the race for my love. I’m totally kidding. I love them both, but you can’t love them the same, can you?…
As this is the end of the school year, all of my children’s work has slowly trickled into the house. You know, like the way Andy Dufrene releases the bits of wall in Shawshank? Tests, artwork, essays, scraps of scribble.
One of the prizes in the huge pile of things that will never make it to the circular file was a piece on who my son admires most. It started with this line, “I look up to my Dad and my Grandparents, but the person I admire most is my Mom.”
My first thought?
I won!Yep, you heard him. He admires you other people too (or maybe he just wrote that to be politically correct), but I’m in a class by myself. He said so… Continue reading →
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.”
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.
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, Jake 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?”
“They can.” Still hedging.
“How do they put your belly back together?”
“Stitches,” I replied, knowing this would not be the end.
“RYAN… RYAAAAN!” Jake yelled to his sister, “You’re gonna have surgery, ‘cause you’re a girl and girls grow babies.”
Ryan, who was previously occupied with the jelly packet mountain she was building, looked up in horror.
“Whaaat, Jake??”She cried and looked to me for some explanation.
“No Ryan, go back to your jelly.” I said soothingly, redirecting her. “Jake, 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.
“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.
“WHAAAT, babies come out 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, Jake 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.”
“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 spreading your legs for the Doctor.
Jake took this in with unwavering interest.I felt like I could actually see the mechanics of his mind, like watching the inner workings of a clock.Just when I thought he had digested it all he said, “How do they grow 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.“
Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I think we need to take a break. Sure, I love the way you and your friends with oversized heads eat breakfast with my family and entertain us with your theme parks, but you ask for so much in return.
I pay a near fortune to see you, then you woo my daughter into expensive princess attire and offer pricey oversized turkey legs, costly Pooh shaped popsicles, and expensive embroidered hats with ears… that don’t really translate in the real world.I’m sorry, that sounded like I was blaming you for the economy.I’m sure you and Minnie have a ton of Disney stock options, so I know you’re feelin’ it as well.
According to the latest statistics, me and 1/3 of other American families are cancelling trips this summer and taking a “stay-cation” instead.I know you’re angry.The last time you waved at me and said, “See ya real soon,” you thought it would be sooner.I’m thankful you only have 4 fingers, because I know what you’d be waving at me now.
This summer, like most Americans, I will be visiting (Chez Pa Tio).I will take a portion of the money I’m saving and recreate much of the awe and wonder you provide, without ever leaving town.
I will save $60 on those mandatory Mickey mist sprayers, and have my family stand in the general vicinity of wet neighborhood dogs when they shake.Each night my husband and I will wrap ourselves in twinkle lights, and then we’ll run by the kids really fast and call it Space Mountain.Then we’ll slow down and call it the Light Parade.Who knows, we could wear them to bed and call it Pleasure Island.
I will cook pancakes in your likeness.Then I’ll have my neighbor with an abnormally large head come over and eat them with us.I’m sure my family will be none the wiser, as his head is really big.Have a great summer now, ya hear.
Jenny from the Blog
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I must bid my breastfeeding boobs adieu. Being that I haven’t seen them in almost 4 years, I usually don’t give them much thought. I actually have more pressing things to worry about. I have to feed and water the kids, clean up puppy accidents, that usually come to my attention after I‘ve stepped in them. Oh yeah, and I’m trying to get that whole writing career thing off the ground. However, as vasectomy talk fills the air, I am realizing they will permanently be a thing of the past, and G-d they were hot.
I am not your average gal with an average chest who pumps up some bazongas during and after pregnancy and then gracefully watches them deflate. I am like training bra, well, heroine chic as I prefer to call it. But, those post pregnancy tits, wow. I remember walking around my NYC apartment, frost on the windows, two below, in a bikini top and sweats. Pausing at every reflective surface to catch a glimpse of those puppies…mirrors, artwork, maybe a spoon, freshly shined shoes.
I’m going to put a picture of my breastfeeding boobs on my counter. You know, next to the pictures of the people and animals I miss. The type of pictures you blow a kiss to when you walk by. To be honest, I also talk to those pictures, though I can’t imagine talking to my boobs. However, I’ve have been known to do stranger things. Those of you who have followed my blog for a while will remember a pretty heated conversation I had with some South African oranges.
If I were to converse with my inflated tatas of yore, I would say, “I miss you guys. I miss the way you enhanced even a tank top. The way you filled out a bra and indiscreetly peaked out of a strapless dress. I especially miss the way you looked in a thin sweater. I don’t miss the way you nearly exploded at the sound of a baby, any baby, and embarrassingly soaked puddles into my clothes at the most inopportune times.” Ahh, the bitter sweet memories, the good times and the bad. They will stay with me until I finally give in and get a boob job
People will walk into my house and see a close up of my rack and say, “What is that picture of?”
“Oh, that? Those are my just my boobs. See, and there’s my Granddaddy and my dog. Oh, how I miss them.”
Saturday was Jake’s Little League Kids vs. Dads game. I arrived late, kind of excited to see Mark at bat. There is something sexy about seeing your husband hit a bomb. Of course the other side of the coin is seeing him strike out or bumble some ball on the ground, which would drastically undermine his appeal.
On my way to the game, however, in no way did I think he would end up assessing my appeal. One of the kids was with his mom, and she was reluctantly talked into playing to represent her family. My son was in the middle of striking her out when I thought, that looks fun. Not the striking out part, but to be a kid for a few minutes, to hold a bat, to cross home plate. How often do us moms get that chance?
“I want next up.” Did I say that out loud? I did.
“Come on we need more players,” one of the dads screamed, probably imagining how amusing it would be to watch me try to hit Jake‘s wild pitches.
I rolled up my dark wash, bell-bottom Hudsons, and kicked off my heels. Yes, I wore heels to the field. Strappy thong wedges, considered perfectly acceptable “baseball mom” attire by the Weston Area Little League official handbook.
“In all my years of coaching I’ve never had a player show up in bellbottoms,” the coach said as I approached the plate.
For the dads, this was just a friendly game. The dads are the ones lobbing the ball around at all the practices, hitting to the different positions, throwing pop-ups and grounders, while me and the moms are relegated to the bleachers to tend to our other children, like pioneer wives. No one wants the moms on the field, but G-d do I always want to be out there.
It felt so nostalgic to walk to the plate. I got into my stance, which I remembered without hesitation. No expectations from any of the dads, just how I like it. First my practice swing. Can I still do it?
“Wow, nice swing,” the dad who invited me to play said in shock. “Guys, you better back it up.“
That’s right. My intimidating swing made a bunch of 7 and 8 year olds move back. Yes, I can still swing, but can I hit? I wanted so badly not to make an ass of myself. Not just not to make an ass of myself, but to be impressive. To let my son see that all his athleticism was not genetically encoded directly from his dad’s DNA, and to show a bunch of middle aged dads that the sarcastic girl who comes to the game in heels can get down and dirty.
Ah, thank G-d I made contact. A solid respectable line drive, Wahoo!. It was clearly unexpected. I got claps, and a “Wow” and when I went to back to the stands my father in law added, “I see where Jake gets his swing, but why didn’t you slide into second? Afraid to get your jeans dirty?”
Okay, I should quit now before I become a one hit wonder.But, it’s fun being a dad. I need more of this feeling.
On my second at bat, I was hoping to improve on my first – and I did. I whaled it. My teammates just started to laugh and the coach yelled, “She’s a ringer.” I took my spot next to Jake who was now playing first. I got a little hug, which was huge –he rarely hugs the other runners as they step onto his base, but he was proud. I played it off like “Yeah your mom’s the bomb,” but really I wasn’t so smug.
What happened next is almost too embarrassing to write about, but that’s what I do right? I was playing second, the atmosphere was light, but in my mind I was still auditioning for a walk on position with the Yankees. A hard grounder was about to whiz by. It was clearly out of reach, but maybe, just maybe… The truth is that ball could have been hit 2 bases away and I still would have run for it. Obviously, I have some competitive issues, which I will be sure to revisit in therapy.
As shocked as each Dad was today, they hadn‘t seen anything yet. I have to stop that ball, it’s coming hard, and if I don’t it will fly past me into the outfield and some 8 year old will get on base. I threw myself face first into the dirt, with my arm stretched long. My hip thudded against the hard ground, and there was a second where all eyes were frozen on my display. I stood up slowly, as I had injured my hip, and grabbed the ball out of my glove. Some dirt and pebbles may have trickled out of my mouth and hair, but I had the ball.
The stunned coach on first base let out a “Whoa. I didn‘t see that coming.” You didn’t see the intense barefoot mom diving to catch a ball in a friendly game against elementary school kids? Well, I am nothing if not highly unpredictable.
I brushed myself off, as I had let my pants get dirty. I thought this would be an amusing time to stop for a lip gloss reapplication.
I looked over at Mark who, though he knows about my unrelenting spirit, was in as much shock as the other guys at my last maneuver.
Jake may be more inherently athletic, but let me tell you something, he could learn a thing or two from his mom’s unrelenting, unyielding determination. He might also take note to of her misplaced intensity and yearning to relive childhood moments. These guys must have thought I was insane, but I took comfort in the knowledge that they would pick me if we ever happened to be in gym class together.
“And the parents win! Game ball has to go Jake’s mom.”
Mark walked over pulled me close and gave me a manly pat on the rear. “Nice job babe. I knew you would hit it, but I had no idea you would start throwing yourself all over the field.”
Thanks guys. I’ll be seein’ ya… from the bleachers.
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I had a night away this weekend, a night away. It has been 6 months, almost to the day, since the last time I had a night away. Yes, I am on the half year excursion plan. Twice a year I take the long ride from Weston to Fort Lauderdale, or South Beach, or Naples and spend a single night with as much day wrapped around both sides as my parents or in-laws will allow. We couldn’t go far, and because I was looking for optimum veg time, proximity was second only to my first criteria – NO KIDS.
Yes, I said it … NO KIDS. I had to find a close hotel that was kid free during spring break, when every cold frostbitten family packs up their 2.5 children, takes their pets to the kennel, and comes to Florida hoping to thaw out. I, on the other hand, needed to chill out and the best place seemed to be this boutiquey hotel on Lauderdale Beach called The Atlantic. The pool was off-putting to children, a long and narrow rectangle with no slides or falls. The décor was very hip, mod in an Ian Schrager, “don’t touch that kid, it will break” kinda way. I would avoid a place like this at all costs with my kids, as it blared “BORING” to anyone under sixteen. I banked on other families’ sense of “funless” to be on par with my own.
Wearing my too teeny bikini, I immediately found the pool and within moments I was donning an ipod, reading my book and sipping champagne. Totally enthralled with my book, I must not have noticed the influx of people at my tiny boutique pool. But then I heard someone scream, “Marco!” and though I am in South Florida where a name like Marco is not so uncommon, I could tell this was not some adult woman calling her adult husband to come put sunblock on her back.
“What the fuck was that?” I asked Mark, like I had just heard a gunshot. “A kid,” he nonchalantly replied, like my gunshot was just some car backfiring. I looked up and, Lo and behold, it wasn’t just one kid it was a whole pack of them. Maybe five ranging in age from about 4 to 10. I shuddered as the largest one, who was undeniably their bossy leader, demanded another pool game that had them screaming answers to random questions, and swimming all over my tiny boring lap pool.
Leader: “WHAT‘S YOUR FAVORITE SHOW?”
Kid 1: “WHAT?”
Kid 2: “She said what’s your favorite show,” the little one repeated shaking in fear.
Kid 1: “OH, I’LL GIVE YOU A HINT, IT’S TWO WORDS.”
Why are they screaming? They’re 5 feet apart.
Leader: “TOTAL DRAMA ISLAND.”
Kid 1: “I SAID 2 WORDS!”
Kid 3: “I think I know what it is. Can I guess?”
Leader: “NO! GIVE ME ANOTHER HINT.”
Kid 1: “FINE IT STARTS WITH AN I.”
Leader: “INDIANA JONES?”
Kid 1: “YOU SAID A SHOW NOT A MOVIE.“
Leader: “GIVE ME ANOTHER HINT.”
Kid 1: “NONANA NOPE NOPE…NOPE NOPE.”
Oh, come on, give her another hint already.
Kid 1: “I. C. AND IT’S ABOUT THE INTERNET.”
Leader: “WHAT IS IT? I DON”T KNOW.”
Kid 1: “WELL, I’M NOT GONNA TELL YOU TILL YOU GET IT.”
iCarly, iCarly, don’t suggest the game if you suck at it. I mean hello?
Leader: “UMMM, I GIVE UP.”
Kid 1: “I CARLY!”
I knew it.
Leader: “THAT’S CHEATING. MAHHHHHHHM MOM! HE CHEATED HE SAID IT WAS TWO WORDS AND iCARLY IS JUST……..”
Had this really happened? Had my ipod faded into the background and the passage of my book still not registered after reading it 3 times over? I was actually angry. I am so capable of tuning my own kids out, why was I not able to use this skill on someone else’s?
My penthouse suite, which was graciously extended to me when I explained my bi-annual excursion plan, wouldn’t be ready for hours. I watched as kid 4 goaded kids 2 and 3 by bobbing up and down chanting “DIVE!” every time his head cleared the water. I guess he hoped this would annoy them. I gave the parents a sideways glance to let them know that it was working on me, but they pretended not to notice.
Then it dawned on me. I am the crotchety lady that shushes other peoples kids. Maybe it was all the trips to the cardiologist, maybe my patience had been worn paper thin trying to get my own children to listen to me for half second. Each “Can you do it for me?” “Not now, Mommy.“ “No way, Jose.“ scratching one more layer from the surface. One would think, out of politeness, I would be less overtly bothered by other people’s children, but the truth is I have to save that rigorous acting job for when mine send me over the edge. So as my son would say to my daughter, “Too bad, so sad.”
The bobbing continued and noodles burst across the pool like fireworks. This is the reason they invented adult swim… and boutique hotels. While frantically searching for someone with a whistle, I noticed the other adults. Why were they so calm? Why weren’t they shooting looks at the over-permissive parents like I was? Were they not being over-permissive? —allowing their children to have so much fun around the pool on vacation?
Then it hit me…the hot tub. The one refuge that still belongs to us serious adults. With my book in hand I crossed the trendy stretch only to find another pack; they were multiplying faster than I could count, and now they had infiltrated the sacred whirlpool area. An area that actually has an age requirement. It was so unnatural, like seeing raccoons scavenging during the day, it was just wrong. Two kids watched the third one diving to the bottom against the current of the jets, kicking his feet all the while.
I thought, can I tell these kids to scram? But wait, aren’t I supposed to be representing the next generation of parents? The cool parents. Not our parents or their parents’ generations who would have scoffed before entry and sent the kids running for the hills. We “hip parents” have a rep to protect, right? We’re like kids ourselves. In fact, if you hadn’t met our children you would think we were too young, too fun, too awesome to be “parents.”
I told myself, say something funny and endearing thereby shattering their vision of adults as naysayers and fun-enders. So, after carefully choosing my words I let my tension go, eased into the whirlpool and said, “Could you please stop splashing, it’s getting my book all wet. I don’t know if you guys should even be in here.” I turned to pat my book with my towel and when I turned around they were gone. “Awesome, shmawesome.”
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I don’t know about you guys, but I have watched my investments plummet. it’s probably just me. I must have made bad choices. Reeling from the tech fallout of 2002, I cautiously invested in low risk things like bonds, and solid proven companies like GE and CitiBank. What was I thinking?
Oddly, I also assumed that my husband would receive his weekly commission based paychecks well, weekly. I appear to have been wrong on both counts. The constant chatter I hear on line at the supermarket, where people are pulling coupons out of their Chanel bags to save a buck on T.P. (one ply), makes me think, “maybe I‘m not alone.”
I want to know when I started to sound desperate and entitled? Was it when I complained that I have to make my own coffee? Or when in an attempt to avoid such a dreadful task, I offered my barista a BJ in return for a Grande latte?
You know Sally Struthers once said, that a child in a third world country could live on the price of just one cup of coffee a day. There’s probably a Starbucks like every 8 huts in Ethiopia, but how can I buy them coffee everyday when I can’t afford my own? Oh, the irony. You know Sally also said, “Stop calling my husband Meathead, Daddy.“ so I don’t know why I’m letting her make me feel guilty in the first place.
Here in the first world — America, there are people who struggle everyday of their lives and in the face of that I still manage to be upset that my husband and I haven’t exchanged gifts this year.
In an attempt to be frugal and responsible I recently returned $200 worth of “barely” used makeup and creams to Sephora. Look, we all know that stuff looks perfect in the blinding color melting lights of the store and not so perfect in the natural lighting of … reality.
That was a resourceful plan. Unfortunately, I couldn’t use the credit to buy groceries or vaccines, so I did the next best thing and prudently bought myself new creams and make-up that probably won’t look good in reality either. I may have, in a hopeless attempt to feign normalcy, wrapped those items and given them to my husband to give me for Valentine’s day. Don’t judge, the manager said I could bring back anything that was barely used. Under that premise, I’m going to try to return my diaphragm to Walgreens tomorrow.
As is obvious, I am using as many creative saving outlets as possible. Yesterday, I caught myself thriftily gazing upon my husband’s pile of dry cleaning and wondering how much of it a little spritz, elbow grease, and a strong wind couldn‘t fix. That thought gave me quite a chuckle and then I spit on the stains, rubbed them together, and blew them with my hair dryer. It worked… I may have discovered the “Ancient Chinese Secret.“ Let‘s keep that one between us. I’m using the money I saved to stave off my barista for couple weeks.
This morning I went so far as to wrap a barely read book for Ryan’s book exchange. Actually, that one kinda falls under laziness. A big sorry to the recipient, I think the one time we read it, Ryan had hand foot mouth, but I’m sure the dog hair tumbleweeds and pet dander in my house just scrubbed those germs right off.
PS I am still negotiating with said barista. He countered my offer with a week of free Grandes with extra whip (wink wink). To which I replied, “Make them Ventis, and we got a deal.” He drives a hard bargain, but I am confident that I am coming out ahead on this one, pun always intended.
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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.
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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…”
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!
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
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
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