Last week, I took a trip to the Apple store. Oh, the Apple store. It’s like a Dylan’s Candy Bar for adults. Like it’s namesake, in the Garden of Eden, or in the hands of Snow White’s evil stepmother, APPLE was so inviting… so enticing. There it was, in all of its overcrowded, 8 gazillion watt minimalistic splendor. Continue reading
At about 13 years old, my mom went from doing everything right to doing everything so very wrong. In fact, everything she did was either “so gay,” “so queer,” or “moooooommmmm, you’re so embarrassing.” (It was the 80s, I’m sure they say different things now.) Anyway, it didn’t matter if she was singing the wrong words to Billy Jean or she sneezed at too high of a pitch, it was utterly unforgivable. And don’t even get me started on the things she did around my friends. One time, she smacked her lips while eating a bagel and cream cheese at breakfast with my besties after a sleepover!
Do you believe that?
I’m sure those girls are still talking about her lip smacking to this very day. Frankly, it’s amazing we remained friends after that appalling display. Well, it’s a testament to my friends, that’s for sure.
That phase lasted for about 4 years. (It’s a phase I’m already dreading with my own daughter because well, there is just no winning, for the parent!) That said, my mom and I have managed to be the closest of friends throughout my life, but she’s still my mother, and there are still those moments when she says something that makes me cringe. You know the kind of cringe that makes your whole body pucker? The kind of cringe that makes you wish you could scour what you just heard from your eardrums with a piece of steel wool? That kind of cringe.
Let’s start with when she says the word Continue reading
E-Nup – When giving out our email addresses we should require people to take an oath promising to refrain from forwarding anything that evokes guilt, fear of bodily harm, or doesn’t mesh with our personal humor requirements. THIS IS WHY…
Of all the things that annoy me about email, people who incessantly insist I need a larger penis, need Prozac or Cialis, and I should be getting said drugs from Canada, the worst offender is the email chain letter. What’s worse is how I handle receiving them — Yes, I erase them right away. Not just because they’re junk mail but because, as ridiculous as it sounds, there’s a part of me that feels that once I’ve read one of those things, the clock has started. How the universe is somehow connected to my AOL account, is a mystery, but a powerful one.
Some chain letters go so far as to mention G-d. The idea that The Almighty is busy checking my inbox and confirming that I have forwarded the mail to the specified amount of people, in the allotted amount of time, seems like a stretch. Yet, there is this irrational side of me that’s like, “What if?” “What if G-d wants me to pass on this sentimental poem about growing up in the 80’s?”
Yesterday, I got one of those emails. In the subject box it read, “Sorry, I Had To. “ I have to say, if your subject is an apology for sending an email in the first place, rethink pushing that FORWARD button. This particular one was a message to empower women, yet to reap the true empowerment you were required to forward it to 9 of your “Sista’s.”
The list of recipients was 50 scroll-downs long. Apparently, Sista’s, hopeful at the thought of being empowered by diligently following the rules set by the email creator (probably a snickering man) were passing this thing around the globe.
This irks me even more because, I spend my days trying to disseminate relatable, humorous stories that look at the lives of moms, women and gen x-ers and here’s some poorly written warning – that actually refers to women as Sista’s – and it’s more popular than my well thought out, hilariously funny, albeit poignant articles.
So I will apologize in advance for the rest of this post.
If you “Like/Share” this article on FB or Email this:
“OMG, Jenny from the Blog at The Suburban Jungle may be the most poignant humorist of our millennium, nay, Ever! You must read her observational humor and slice of life stories as I think they’ve cured my momnesia, plus my wrinkles are 63% less noticeable.”
to 75 of your closest friends within the next hour you will meet with great fortune. Your children will be smarter, your hair will be thicker, your boobs will be fuller, and you’re husband will have a 6 pack again (or for the first time)!
This may be a humor column, but it’s NO JOKE!
I had a paralegal look it over and she said it’s legit.
Just yesterday, a woman in Westchester sent this on to 75 of her friends and the minute she hit that button, she got a call from her Mother-In-Law saying they couldn’t make it over for dinner!!!
Need I say more?
Unfortunately, if you do not take this seriously, I must fear for your safety! A mother in Idaho who ignored this request, was shopping at a Gap later that day, and inadvertently smashed into the window trying to exit the store. She was not physically harmed, but she was extremely embarrassed.
I guarantee misfortune if you do not send this, because I will personally come out to your home or place of work and open fire. I have a moderately powerful Nerf gun that shoots like ten rounds, and those suctions cups can have a very strong stick factor. I could get one right between your eyes and then it would take a lot of spit and pulling to get it off. I don’t know for certain, but it could leave an unsightly mark! All I’m saying is think about it… $10 MILLION or my saliva all over your face?
Okay, tick tock……………………………………………………………………….
J From the B
We say it all the time, “my kid’s 6 going on 16″ or as I like to say, “She was born a 7th grader,” but how do you reconcile the lag in actual and perceived age?
Not unlike my hubby, my kids are stuck somewhere between adulthood and infancy? My daughter, like most little girls now a days, embodies this dilemma a bit too well.
On some level, my daughter’s ready for a day at the Galleria with the girls, while at the same time she maintains a sweet innocence that’s more fitting of her numerical age. It’s the conversations during our imaginary play that truly highlight this incongruity…
They also makes me laugh so hard that I pee.
Sorry, I was beginning to sound too astute, I mean knowingish for my liking. (That should fix it.)
She gets the flow of small talk – the cadence, the structure, the usual phrasing, which takes our play to a whole other level.
Yesterday she asked to braid my hair.
Ryan: “Sit down ma’am.”
Ryan: “So, how’s things?”
Me: “Pretty good, you?”
Ryan: “I can’t complain… Been watching a lot of the sports channel these days?” (a questions directly influenced by the males in my household.)
Me: “Nope, not so much sports these days.”
Ryan: “How about that weather, huh?”
Me: “Yep, it’s crazy stuff.”
The chit chat went on for a while. Luckily, I found it more enjoyable then I do when I’m forced to have it with people I didn’t birth from my womb.
(Which, by the way, is most people. I thought I’d clarify that point.)
We went on to switch our make-believe scenario to a school situation. Our imaginary play is like a game of Monopoly with stockbrokers or investment bankers, melodramatic, high stakes, and never ending.
The characters and situations in our games change, but it’s constantly being played: while I cook, nap, shower, pee. (Did anyone read the Night Circus?)
Ryan (who is always the boss in make believe world… as well as actual world, come to think of it): “Let’s pretend you passed me a note in class and I was really popular and everyone liked me and you were shy and kinda weird looking, but I was going to be nice to you anyway, because I’m always nice.”
Me: “Don’t do me any favors, kid. I mean, how kind of you, no wonder you’re so popular.” Just like in the real world.
Ryan: “OK, now let’s say you passed me a note and I answered all the questions correctly. Like anything with math or spelling, you know?”
Me: “Well, when people send notes they aren’t usually asking academic questions. They’re saying stuff like, ‘Do you like Billy?’ or ‘Are you going to Jessica’s party Friday night?’ You know, more personal stuff.”
Ryan: “OK OK, (exasperated, as if my explanation droned on for hours) I’ll make up the questions you are going to ask in the note and then I’ll tell you what I’m answering, as the person I’m being.”
Ryan: “So you understand how it works, right mom?
Me: “I got it.” Clearly she thinks I’m a bit slow.
Ryan: “Explain it to me?”
Me: Sheesh, no one takes you on your word anymore. “OK Ryan, you’re going to tell me the question I supposedly wrote on our pretend note and then you’re going to also answer that question how you would answer it.”
Ryan: “Good, now, Are you a vegetarian? (pause to answer her own question) Yes. Do you like hot dogs? (pausing again) No.”
Me: “Well, that was a really long pause for a vegetarian.”
Ryan: “Moooooooooaaaaaam, stop, I’m still going! Are you Jewish? Yes. Do you like ham? No.”
Me: “ Wait a sec, can we go back a couple? Wow, that religion question sandwiched in there between the deli meats caught me a bit off guard. Did you ask for a reason?”
Ryan: “I don’t know. These are your questions, remember? Ughhh, I knew you didn’t get it.”
Me: “OK, I forgot.” Apparently, I go around asking people if they’re Jewish or maybe I wanted to see if she keeps kosher.
Ryan: “K. Do you like presents? Yes.”
Me: “Are we done?”
Ryan: “No, one more. Ummmmmm… Do you like rainbows? Yes.
OK, I’m done. Now you be the person who wrote the note and react to my answers.”
Me: “Wow, Ryan. We reall…”
Ryan: “Pause game. My name in the game is Ali. Sheesh.”
Don’t you just love when kids try to pause non-video games?
Me: “Sorry, I’m on it, Ryan.”
Ryan: “OK, go on.”
Me: “Wow, Ali, I see we have a lot in common.
Me: “Well, you like presents and I also like presents.
Ryan: “You do?”
Me: “Yep, and we’re both Jewish, so of course there’s the similarities in our religious, not to mention, social upbringing.”
Ryan: “Uh-huh, there’s that”
Me: “Yep, and you know what else I like? Rainbows, except I really like unicorns.”
Ryan: “OMG, me too.”
Me: “What are the odds? Two Jewish girls who don’t eat pork and like presents, rainbows and unicorns?
Ryan: “That’s crazy, huh?”
This is what happens when you’re 7 years old with the attitude 7th grader, conversations are a cross between Clueless and My Little Pony.
Jenny From the Blog goes beyond any beauty pageant hopeful in the question/answer portion and not only strives for World Peace she finds a means to achieve it. Please, hold your Pulitzers until you’ve read the piece.
Today, I was in a crappy mood. I walked into Starbucks, as is my routine, with a sluggish gait knowing it would take my half-caf grande, no fat, no foam latte to remotely tackle my morning. When I entered I realized 22 other people had the same thought and my crappy mood got exponentially worse. An acquaintance two people ahead of me foolishly tried to make chit chat, which I quickly put a stop to with my terse responses. Don’t try to talk to me right now lady, I’m pissy and I haven’t had my coffee.
Frankly, there should be a rule that no one talk to you in the morning coffee line, because we’re all in the same boat (barely awake and coffee-less.) Unfortunately, the person in front of me did not get that memo or maybe she did, but she couldn’t read it because she was approximately 1 year old.
She was also being carried by her mother and therefore facing me directly. The one thing about lines that you can usually count on is that people face front in anticipation of their turn, which means less talk. Kind of like the way people stare at the doors of the elevator until it’s their floor.
It would be odd to have someone facing you in an elevator… and this was my current situation.
Sure, she was cute. She had fiery red curls and sweet blue eyes. But she wouldn’t break me, uh uh. I was not smiling for anyone and some baby was not about to change that, even if she flashed me her own 4 tiny, little toothed smile. Then out of nowhere she started laughing this adorable little giggle. Clearly, she sensed my disdain and was taunting me.
Puhlease Baby, you think you’re soooo cute don’t you? But not to me, uh uh. I’m in a bad mood and your precious, I mean dumb little laugh does nothing for me… NOTHING. But this baby was not giving up; she was relentless in her torture. She cooed and ooed and ahhed, but I would not crack. It was my will against hers and I would win. Finally, in defeat she buried her head in her mom’s shoulder.
Ha, Ha Baby, I’m the winner, yes I am… Wait, what’s that? What’s she doing now? She popped her head back up and put her hands over her eyes, she wasn’t cowering as I had hoped; she was playing peek-a-boo. Nooooo, not peek-a-boo.
She opened her hands to show me her eyes and I clenched my fist ready to weather the storm. “Peek-a-boo,” escaped from my mouth before I could reel the words back in. She giggled and next thing you know I had my hands over my own eyes. Then she giggled, then I giggled, then I smiled like a big pile of mush. She was working me like a marionette. Oh, she was smug one… cooeing and flashing her 4 tiny teeth.
My mood had picked up, even before gulping down my latte. I wasn’t all daggers and evil thoughts, I was rainbows and unicorns. Don’t judge me for crumbling.
No one and I mean NO ONE is immune to peek-a-boo.
In fact, I think we deal with the unrest in Libya and Egypt by sending cute little babies to the front lines. What would enemy militia do if a Hummer pulled up and a bunch of babies trained in the art of peek-a-boo waddled out? Hmmm? Sure, you’ve probably been asked that before, but have ever given it any real thought? What if we air dropped babies over enemy lines with their tiny little baby parachutes? The campaign would be called “Drop Babies, Not Bombs.” Brillaint, right? Sheesh, why do I have to come up with all the ideas? Gaddafi and Mubarak you better watch your step, chubby legged cooing babies with parachutes will be dropping in when you least expect it.
Okay, I’ll take my Pulitzer now.
For Other Articles I’ve Done on Hybrid Mom or to comment directly at their site: HYBRID MOM
COMMENT QUESTION: Do You Got Any Better Ideas? and if not could I borrow your baby?
Every once in a while you have a conversation that is that is so stereotypically female, it makes you wonder if things have truly changed that much. It also feels like you’ve unwittingly set women back a half century.
I had one of these conversations last night at a baseball practice, and the sad part? It was so natural, I didn’t notice the irony until today.
It started with someone discussing her phobia of germy sponges.
Other Mother: You don’t have to be afraid of them, when they get dirty you can just nuke ‘em?
Me: I run mine in the dishwasher.
Spongephobe Mom: I’d NEVER use a sponge.Spongephobe Mom (to us moms, who sat with our mouths agape at the idea of not using a sponge): I don’t need a sponge. I just let my dishes soak in some hot water with JOY. The above sentence, which really occured is the very reason the rest of my tête-à-tête with the team moms will include 1950s translation.
Other Mother (visibly shaken): What do you use… a paper towel?
50s translation: Don’t tell me you use paper towels? They can rip and tear! Why, they’d never hold up to vigorous dish-washing.
Spongephobe Mom: Nope.
50s translation: I’m confident in the cleaning power of Joy.
Me to the Other Mother (accusingly — like an evangelist being told about evolution): I bet she’s scraping that crud off with your nails.
50s translation: That explains why her nails look so unkempt. (For that phrase to have the truest 50s effect, one would have to utter it in a loud whisper to other disapproving woman during a game of mahjong.)
Spongephobe Mom: Nope.
50s translation: Stop staring at my nails, gossip maven.
Me: But what if you sauté?
50s translation: How does it hold up to grease from deep frying?
Spongephobe Mom: No problem.
50s translation: It cuts right through the oily residue that frying can leave behind.
Me and Other Mother (in unison): NO?!!!
50s translation: Gasp?!!!
I nonchalantly inspected her hands for cracking and chaffing.
50s translation: “I bet your manicurist isn’t pleased with the way you do your dishes.” (Snicker snicker, then I would look to other girls for nods and implied high fives.)
Spongephobe Mom: I only soak the dishes, not my hands, dumbass. (okay, in the actual conversation the dumbass was merely implied.)
50s translation: Joy leaves my hands supple and soft, and it’s emollients condition as it cleans. Then she would look at my hands sitting in a bowl of what I thought was simply water and say, “You’re soaking in it.”
So that happened. I can’t take it back, in fact I wish I could just not have realized how trite the whole thing sounded a day after it happened. Let’s be honest, you’ve read my blog … I so rarely have cliche conversations, I’m due one every so often, no?
You need special credentials to drive a car, take out a book and get a credit card, but there are no prerequisites to raise a child?
As a fairly normal adult with the means to raise a child, I admittedly had no clue what I was doing with my first child. I remember leaving the hospital thinking, He’s mine? I own him? You guys trust me to walk out that door and raise a child because I made the obligatory poop and demonstrated my ability to put him in a car seat?
Isn’t it baffling that everyday people like us are allowed to procreate without first passing a test or getting some kind of license? Think about it. You need a library card to take out a five-dollar paperback, because you can’t be trusted to return it in a period long enough to read it four times over. You’re also required to pass a test to drive a car, sell a house or be a lifeguard. You can take a class to learn how to give birth, but once that baby’s out, you’re on your own.
There wasn’t even a test at my OB’s pre-pregnancy interview. All he asked was, “Do you have insurance and are you taking folic acid?”
“Of course, I’d never think about bringing life to this Earth without the recommended 3 gagillion mgs of folic acid per day… I’m also shooting heroin, but you didn’t ask me that.”
What if I don’t feed him, bathe him or water him? I could let him swim after lunch without waiting the mandatory 30 minutes, or dress him in generic clothes from the supermarket. I could drop him off on the first day of middle school, roll down the window and scream, “Mama loves her Snuggle Buggle!”
At the very least, there should be some kind of “Mommy Aptitude” screening. During your interview, they could call your mom. Mine would say,
“Jenny always dreamed of being a mother and loved playing house. Her dolls were mostly naked, and she liked to cut their hair down to the hair transplant plug scalps. Sometimes she would detach their limbs and try to put them back in the wrong sockets, possibly to amuse herself, though I found it rather disturbing. Have I said too much? No, really, she would be wonderful. They would be so clean; I recall how much she liked bathing her naked Barbies.”
Doctor’s response: “Put in a 10-year IUD, give her supervised visitation with a hermit crab, and make sure someone counts the legs.”
Not only do gynecologists promote the concept of “Motherhood” to anyone donning a wedding ring with reckless abandon, they encourage us to have more. Otherwise known as repeat business. The second my daughter arrived, my OB said, “So, when am I gonna see you back in the saddle?”
Great, a stirrup joke. “Take it easy Doc, the placenta’s not even cold yet.”
Well, a month and a half later, I ran into my OB again. Actually, I had an appointment, so it wasn’t as random as I’m making it sound. He said, “At six weeks you are extremely fertile, so now is the time for another romp in the stable.” I immediately went home to tell my husband the doctor said, “Now is the time I am extremely unstable, so no romps for at least six more weeks.”
How about a probationary period to see if you’re any good at this parenting thing? When you get a new job, they evaluate you every six months. They certainly don’t give you more responsibility until you’ve proven you can handle your current load, unless you work at McDonald’s.
How does my OB know how I’m gonna solve disputes? When my children are fighting over the last lollipop, who says I won’t shove them all in the closet, lock the door and say, “Last one standing gets it”?
Well, lucky for me, I’ve turned out to be an excellent mother (ask my children), regardless of not being licensed and accredited.
(Please note: this is meant to be a mom humor piece… Though I wouldn’t be opposed to some “What Do We Do Now That We Had The Baby?” classes)
9/16/13 – I just put the share buttons on this post! If you like it … Please use ‘em
XO Jenny From the Blog
Other Fun Pieces: 40 Things Every Woman Should Have or Should Know by 40