Everyone loves to tell you how to get rid of stubborn fat, like it’s so easy. “Put down the donut.” “Go to the gym.” “Be less stressed.” “Drink 30 gallons of water each day.” “Get 23 hours of sleep.” “Cut out carbs.” “Do cardio all day, everyday.” Continue reading
The explanation for memory problems #342 is actually titled: No one is named Chaka Khan. Yes, it may seem obscure, but I bet you’ve come across it once or twice. Well, if you, like me, have disabling brain fog (due to having once birthed a child, meds that don’t agree with your mind, or maybe some kind of Gluten sensitivity). I’m not saying I have a gluten allergy, but it’s super trendy to have one, so I may pick one up for Fall.
So, here is why Reason #341: They Charge a Fee For Forgetting Appointments Even if You’re Going to Talk to a Doctor about Forgetfulness, is no longer the final reason… Continue reading
Can someone explain why I still have “baby brain” when my kids aren’t babies anymore?
So, my Gen X-ers, many of us are years past changing diapers and yet we still seem to have Momnesia. Frankly, my memory … and ability to have a complete thought, has gotten exponentially worse with the birth of each child and the passage of each year.
Look, I can tell you the names of all the characters from The Facts of Life, or The Breakfast Club, but I have no idea where I left my keys, what pending appointments I have, or why I just walked into this room?!
On this week’s episode of The Jenny Isenman Show, my guest Sharon Rowley, (organizational expert/blogger and mom of 6 — freakin’ 6!), and I test our memories, discuss the stupidest shit we’ve done due to Momnesia, and talk tips to get through the day. Continue reading
At a very lovely party I went to last weekend, which ironically happened to be a baby naming, don’t worry, you’ll get the irony later, I had one of my more humiliating moments. Let’s say I’ve had more my share of humiliating moments (See Humiliation on the Roller Rink, a Freudian Slip to make Freud Blush and the time I was an amateur stalker). I was talking to some ladies I’d been introduced to moments prior and because people’s names tend to leave my head as quickly as they enter, I found myself fumbling for their given monikers.
I have a few tricks when I forget names. My go-to tactic is to quickly get distracted into conversation, ask a question of a peripheral person or run off to one of my children to wipe off a stain, a booger, a smirk… This allows the two people I’m with to take the reigns and awkwardly introduce themselves. I try to stay close enough to eavesdrop and once I hear the name I’d forgotten I turn back and say something like “I’m sorry, Laura this is Sheryl” or “Sorry about that, have you two met?” Maybe it’s totally transparent, but you can’t prove I didn’t need to know where the person directly behind me got her shoes, can you?
My other strategy is to stand there like an idiot until the two people I’m standing with introduce themselves and then I get to dorkily say something like, “I’m sorry, that was rude of me not to introduce you.” or “I thought you two knew each other.” The “I thought you knew each other” can only be used in few situations. You can’t expect your parents to know your yoga instructor, or your hubby to know your child’s pediatrician. (Was that below the belt? Well, I’m an equal opportunity offender.)
So, I was introducing my daughter, who’s name I do remember, to these women and I introduced one of the gals as Claire. She gave me the look I’ve seen too many times, which said, “My name is not even close to that, I mean we’re not even talking same first letter.”
“You’re name’s not Claire is it?” I surmised.
“No, it’s Ann.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I don’t know where I got Claire.” (uncomfortable pause) “Claire’s a horrible name. I mean you certainly don’t look like a Claire, you’re much prettier.”
“Thank you,” she said as if she wholeheartedly agreed, while the ladies laughed at my quick recovery.
The truth is, I really have no negative feelings towards Claire’s. The name is cute and Frenchie. Plus, I loved My So Called Life and her cow hugger, I enjoy that I can get 157 items for $9.99 at Claire’s namesake fashion accessories stores. I’ll even hunker down with an eclair every now and again. I can only blame this superflous, mean-spirited name bashing on the immortal words of one dissident teenager, John Bender who said: “Claire’s a fat girls name… You’re not fat at present… One day you’re gonna get married, you’re gonna squeeze out a few puppies and then, uh uhh uhh…”
When you’re doing off the cuff, face saving comedy or “gorilla comedy,” as I like to call it, you don’t have a ton of time to plan your set. You just make a quick association and go with it.
I went on to sully the good name that is “Claire” for quite some time. Saying something like:
“Ryan, Ann’s a great name for a girl but Claire sucks.”
“Claire’s a slutty girl who will definitely be knocked up in high school and won’t even get a reality show. ”
“Claire could not be a more awful name. When I hear it I want to scratch my eyes out.”
Look, I don’t remember the exact Claire slurs, but they were extreme. As the ladies laughed and we jovially got past my gaffe, I turned to the baby of honor’s godmother, who I had not yet introduced to my daughter.
Knowing her name was Diane or Dana or something with a D, I said, “I hope your name’s not Claire. Snort snort hee hee.”
Nope, but my daughter’s is.
Well, now I guess we know where I got it from.
The laughing quickly stopped.
The look on her face was not quite that of someone whose name I forgot, it was someone whose favorite name in the whole world, the one she chose to name her only daughter, I just raked through the mud.
“I’m so sorry, I was just trying to make light of the situation. (Pause to get no reaction whatsoever) I actually like the name Claire.”
Good save Jenny, the term “actually” made you sound as if it would be odd to like the name Claire, like saying, “Most people probably don’t, but I ACTUALLY do.”
“Well, I do,” she said with a well deserved sneer.
“I should shut up now.” I followed. And I actually did, which is rare. She then walked away.
The mother of the baby of honor, thank goodness I had the good sense to confirm his name before my arrival, caught the tail end of our conversation.
“What just happened?” She inquired.
“Well, I don’t think your best friend and I just bonded,” I said, and went on to tell her the tale… leaving out the part about the Jud Nelson association bit.
She said, “Don’t worry, I’m sure she didn’t take it personally. I’ll tell her you’re funny and that you write a blog.”
Wow, if only that really held some weight.
Jenny did what? Jenny stood you up for lunch?
Don’t take it personally, she writes a blog.
Jenny called your mother fat and kicked her in the shin?
Oh, that Jenny, you know she writes a blog.
Jenny robbed a convenience store?
Those bloggers. Yep, she writes a blog and she’s funny, officer.
Well, assuming that her explanation of why I can get away with being offensive and rude didn’t work, I have one less fan in the universe. Luckily, I write a blog, so people get to subscribe and unsubscribe to me daily.
By the Way: No Claire’s were harmed in the making of this post, which is more than I can say for Claire’s mother. Sorry.
This weeks’ TOP 5 Segment. It’s not that moms are lazy, we’re just worn out… and rightfully so, we do it ALL! Here are the top 5 ways to put more spring in your step, more perk in your parenting, more wahoo in your work, and more hyperactivity in your homemaking! Okay the last one sucked, but you get the picture.
This morning I woke up to a gift, the kind of gift that makes pet owners want to just hug their pets super tight and not let go until they pass out…I mean, gently fall asleep. No, it was not a poop or a pee.There was pee, but that’s like walking out to find my children playing Wii, no big surprise.
No, this was a doozy and what’s worse, I think he planned the whole thing. I was asleep, as I often am on Saturday mornings, while my daughter was watching Strawberry Shortcake. I woke, only to find dark stains, smudges, and ink blots all over my oh so pretty white coverlet, and white sheets. Sheets that are like a gazillion thread count (or whatever they said to make me buy them). Only me and Paris sleep on sheets of such extraordinary comfort.
The dark blotches looked as if my dog had found an indelible marker, packaged some TNT around it, and then plunged down the detonator. There were spots on the sheets where he bit through with such fervor, and the ink was distributed so evenly, it looked like a professional job.Like any good detective, I screamed at the suspect and let him out in the yard, mainly for his own safety.Then I searched for clues.There was no pen, no evidence.I had a new book on the bed and I was certain the black cover was defective and the ink was smearing off, but I rarely rub books so feverishly over my bedding.My dog would also need opposable thumbs for such a task.
Then I found it. On some of the ink splotches, there was a greasy chunky residue.I picked up a chunk and mushed it between my fingers, like a melted crayon.Wait, there’s a splinter of wood in that chunk on the pillow. This is not a crayon.This was my new retro navy blue metallic eyeliner. There was no evidence because the rest of said pencil was Tanner’s breakfast.
Listen, I’m a pretty realistic person who is rarely paranoid, but I am quite sure this was premeditated. This is how I think it went down: I wore the eyeliner yesterday in an 80’s tribute to the late Michael Jackson, an occurrence I was freaking out over. He was the only suspected child molester that I truly enjoyed and forgave, because of his insanely awesome talent. Talent and wealth make up for a lot of misgivings in America, even sharing your bed with Emmanuel Lewis.
Back on track, my dog is vehemently anti anything retro. I have heard him say on more than one occasion, “I don’t want this crappy rubber burger or fake New York Times newspaper. Go get me some Nylabone made from space-age webbed plastic cells, or some Kong industrial NASA rubber, and a chicken pot pie…bitch!” Of course, when a dog calls you “bitch,” it’s a compliment.
His distaste for celebrating decades of yore, and his taste for greasy pencils made from toxins and whale blubber made this a crime worth committing. He must have grabbed his Nylabone, which he routinely shreds, and brought it onto the bed.This allowed me to sleep longer knowing I could pick up the 1000 pieces later. The chewing coaxed me to sleep like a lullaby.
When he was sure I was out, he whined until my daughter followed him to the kitchen. There she found the new eyeliner and decided to play with it, as Tanner knew she would. When she was finished getting ready for Studio 54, she put it on the dining room table. Then Tanner chased Coco, my cat, over to said table. Coco saw the pencil, and started one of those soccer games cats do, and batted it around till she went for the goal. She eyed Tanner with a smirk and whacked it high into the air. He readied himself, did a twisting jump,and gracefully caught the evidence … brought it back to the bed, and started chewing his Nylabone to make sure I would not wake and Ryan would not look away from the television screen.
Then he went to town, with the two of us none the wiser. I have to give him credit. He pulled off a brilliant plan and ate the evidence to boot. But no crime is “perfect,” and it was his sloppiness that got him in the end. Oh, he will go behind bars. I guarantee his crate awaits.