Tag Archives: urban mom

My Gecko is Cleaner than Your Gecko

gecko

Alright, please don’t take that as a sexual reference, it means exactly what it says.  My gecko is cleaner than yours… so, don’t challenge him to a clean competition, ‘cause he’ll win.

As it turns out living in Florida is like living in a remake of Jurassic Park, on a smaller scale.  Like the miniature Stonehenge, for all you Spinal Tap fans.  The bugs are the size of softballs and the reptile life runs rampant… through my house.  Anyone who has been to Florida knows that lizards cross the roads and sidewalks with the frequency of jay-walkers in NYC.

Up north, where I am originally from, you might be lucky enough to see a majestic deer or cute little baby bunnies bouncing through your yard, but here you see the kind of things that eat cute little baby bunnies.  What I am shocked at, is how used to it I have become.  So much so, that I showered with a gecko the other day.  Please, all you sickos, clearly there was no funny business, though I did loofah his back for him.  He was just hanging out on the wall and rather than go get the cup to catch and release him, I simply went about my normal showering process.  You know, lather, rinse, repeat.

It gave me a little chuckle, but what really made me laugh was when I told my son that evening about the shower scene and he said that he too showered with the same lizard an hour before.  He of course played with the little guy, which makes me question whether soap ever made it to any of my son’s parts at all.  Though I’m sure the gecko got a thorough cleaning and is certainly missing his tail.  I said, “We must have the cleanest gecko ever,” which actually sent us into hysterics.

When my husband got home, we relayed our tale to which he said, “Yeah I showered with him this morning.”  I don’t know what this says about my family.  Are we all too lazy to remove a lizard?  Are we a bit promiscuous, taking showers with any Tom, Dick, or Lizard that enters the stall?  or Have we become so accustomed to them, that we are part of their ecosystem? Like Jane Goodall and those chimps.

I do know that if you come to my house, you’ll see a shiny lizard that smells like grapefruit conditioner and prefers air drying over being briskly toweled off.  Well, Jake would know more about that.

If Jennifer Love Hewitt can Beat Cellulite, Gosh Darnit, So Can I

The Most Common Personalities on Facebook

I’m not gonna name names, as I would certainly be one of them, but there are distinct qualities that describe most Facebookers.

The Over Sharer -This person seems to think that a trip to the store, a traffic jam, or the weather is worth repeating. They give updates like a minute to minute log. “Sitting in traffic.” “When will it stop raining?” “Just left SB, grande cap, mmmmm.” The Over Sharer is also the most enabled of all personalities. Other Over Sharers are constantly responding to their minute to minutes with fascinating epiphanies like “LOL” or “Rain makes me sleepy” or “Love Starbucks J (Yes, let’s not forget the smileys, winkeys, and frowneys.)

The Workout Addict and the Closet Alcoholic -These people are actually the same, personality-wise. They feel the need to tell you what they’re drinkin’ or what they’re doin’ in the gym… and the stats. I think they’re both sending signals that require intervention. “20 mile jog, 500 sit-ups and feelin’ it.” “5 mojitos, ahhh” Not only do they flaunt the accomplishments of their pastimes, they like to question their friends as to whether or not to do it. “Do I climb a mountain, or go to the 10:15 spin?” “Drinks with the boys at Lucky’s, or sit on the couch with a cold one?” ;)

The Just “is” – At first I thought these people were publishing this status by accident, but then I realized certain people do it more than others. Either they have sausage fingers and can’t work the keyboard or they just “are.” What does that mean? Is that a call for sympathy a cry for help? A Buddhist feeling of zen? You people are too profound for me. ):

The Gibbrisher -Everyone knows a Gibbrisher. This person speaks in code. Code that at least one friend understands, while the other 500 hundred friends are wondering what the hell, “is so $ due MJ explosion!” means? LMAO

The TMIer -This person is like the Over Sharer in that they have too much time, but takes it one step further by including info about last night’s sex, a bout of diarrhea, or an overly itchy rash. Anytime you talk about your own genitals in any fashion, you fall into this category, BEWARE. TMI

The Self Promoter -Don’t waste your time thinking, “Oh, the irony,” I know this is me. This person thinks that their business is of the utmost importance, TO YOU. They don’t want you to miss a single sale, review, TV spot, story, or promo. They ask that you join the 50 fan clubs, groups, and subscription sites that they have spent valuable work time setting up. Don’t think we, I mean they don’t check to see if you join every one of those clubs and sites! IMHO

Honorable mention: The Quoter and The Lyricist.

BTW-There will be a sequel. I would love to hear about your experiences with these personalities and the other personalities you have encountered.

OMG I almost forgot please join my fan page on FB , seriously!

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Do You Have a Case of Nanny Envy? -article I wrote for iVillage

I am now freelancing for iVillage, which is an amazing site for women.  They cover enough issues to give me work and let me keep the humor in my essays.  Those pieces will not be printed on my site as it is against my contract.  I will give you the links as I get them and I am so happy to share the news with you all.  The first article is

Do You Have a Case of Nanny Envy? I hope you read it, tweet it, FB it, email it, and continue to enjoy me here at Suburban Jungle!

Thanks for your unwavering support!

J from the B

PS- if you haven’t read iCan’t iStand the iApple Store, do so.  It set new records on my site!!!

iCan’t iStand the iApple Store

i Have a iLove iHate Relationship with the Apple Store

Today 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, minimalistic splendor.

People were taking courses on their iMacs, downloading apps on their iPhones, and buying $500 earbuds for their iPads.  They were opening their iWallets and paying an iFortune for their iWare.  The phrase, “there’s an app for that” echoed softly throughout the store.  I was unable to find the source of this subliminal whisper, though I know there was probably an app that could help me.  I walked toward the Genius Bar, aka customer service for Apple users, and was helped by quite the iLoser.

“iHello Ma’am, how can I iHelp you?”  The i’s were silent, but I could tell they were implied.

“I have a problem with an old iPod and an iPhone.  The iPod has a picture of an animated iPod on it, which appears to be deceased.”  I do not lie.  Apparently, when your iPod’s hard drive is corrupt, most likely from cavorting with a PC, a cartoon iPod man appears on the screen with a frown and x’s for eyes.  Even in death there is some cute gimmick.  

PC never cutely croaks, it just “crashes,” demanding hours of conversation with India.  I actually felt somber looking into iPod’s lifeless eyes, like I should say a little something before recycling it.

“My iPhone only charges on docks like my iHome, and my iBose, but not my iUSB, or my iCar Adapter, or our iDogs or any of the other iParaphernalia I’ve spent my husband’s hard earned cash on.

“Well, your iPod sounds fickle,” said iFreud, explaining it in a way that would suggest my iPod’s problem was more personal than technical.

“Do you guys have an appointment?” he asked.

“Guys?” I said, looking around for someone that must have been hovering over my shoulder.

“You and your iPod,” he said, as if I had rudely discounted my iPod’s feelings.

“Well, being that my iPod’s so fickle, it’s no surprise that he’s also extremely picky about who we make our appointments with.”

“Just fill in this form,” he said, pointing to the screen.  “Ummm, I see we have an appointment available next week.”

“I’m sorry, did you say next week?  I can get in to see my OBGYN before that, and he’s busy,” I said winking at iNerd.  Who probably doesn’t speak to women about gynecologists, or anything else for that matter.

“You can’t see my iPod till next week?  We don’t live nearby and…wait, what’s that iPod?  Oh, right.  Listen, I don’t want to offend you, iPlato, but iPod is iPissed.”

“Well, we have two convenient locations to accommodate you.  Just fill in a time that works, and I’m sure a Genius here at the bar will be happy to assist,” he said, respecting iPod’s space, and also looking at me as if I were insane.

“iPod, you what?  You don’t think he should be allowed in the Genius Bar? No, iPod I will not ask iDork his iQ.”

“You’re a PC aren’t you?” the iTwerp asked me, with a derogatory tone as if it were a racial slur.  If I were a Mac I would obviously appreciate the simplicity of the system and the ease of making an appointment.

“No, well, yes.  I’m a switch hitter.”  I said proudly.  He sneered at me the way Drago Malfoy would before, groaning “Mudblood,” through gritted teeth.

“Why, are you going to try to convert me?”

“Nope, there’s an app for that!”

 

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“Mommy, Where Do Babies Come From?”

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.

 

YOU MIGHT LIKE: 20 MOMISMS AND WHAT THEY REALLY MEAN

 

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, J 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?”

How come when he says it, it seems like a scene from Alien?

“They can.” Still hedging.

“How do they put your belly back together?”

“Stitches,” I replied, knowing this would not be the end.

“RY… RYYYYYY!” J yelled to his sister, “You’re gonna have surgery, ‘cause you’re a girl and girls grow babies.”

Ry, who was previously occupied with the jelly packet mountain she was building, looked up in horror.

“Whaaat?” She cried and looked to me for some explanation as her mountain toppled over (for dramatic effect).

“Go back to your jelly.” I said attempting to redirect her. “J, 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. A scene from Alien on the table across from us would have been a treat.

“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.

“It’s true.”

“WHAAAT, BABIES COME OUT OF 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, J 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.”

“Why?”

“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 OBs pulling out babies and OMG I just wanted an omelet!!!

Jtook this in with unwavering interest. I felt like I could actually see the mechanics of his mind, like watching the inner workings of a watch. Just when I thought he had digested it all he said,

“How do the babies get 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.

Sage advice, sage advice.

 

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Heads Up on the CBS4 Segment Thursday 7/23 Sometime Between 5-6:30

IF YOU ARE IN THE SOUTH FLORIDA AREA THURSDAY 7/23, CBS4 WILL BE RUNNING MY SEGMENT SOMETIME BETWEEN 5 AND 6:30!!!!! TIVO OR WATCH!

Last week I received a call about doing a segment for CBS4 Miami as an “Expert Mom.” It’s ironic because I am totally an expert at the mom thing, as most of you know. It’s about time the media noticed. I was told the interview needed to be soon, so we agreed on Friday. On Thursday at noon I received a call from the reporter asking, “Can I come in an hour? This is the only time I am available.”

Well, I was still in sweaty workout clothes and hadn’t had a bite to eat. Oh, and I was also researching the subject of the interview. I said, “Fine, but hair and make-up will have to take precedence. “ He agreed, and that’s when I knew we’d be friends. I jumped in the shower and recited whatever info I could remember. I then grabbed a bowl of cereal and a serving ladel.  You get bigger bites that way.  I shoveled spoonfuls in with one hand, blew my hair dry with my second hand, and put on make-up with my third. Yes, I have three hands but that is a whole other blog.

The subject of the interview was, “What can moms do with their kids when they are not in camp?” The reporter questioned me about my blog, “Oh, is that what you write about? Places to take the kids? Crafts you can do at home?” I said, “No, I write about what happens when you do those things and they go horribly wrong.”

He really had no response and may have searched for a door, but all exits were barricaded. I would not lose the interview.  Aside from some dramatic sweeping hand gestures and goofy comments in a fake accent, I think the interview went famously. In the end, I’ll look like a certified expert or a certifiable lunatic.  it’s all in the editing.

By the way, look at my armpits for a tuft of white tissue. Yes, when I was blow drying my hair and sweating I shoved tissues in to make sure I didn’t have marks on my dress. Apparently I forgot to take them out… Good times, good times.

If you are not in South Florida, I will post a link… Maybe.

PS I was asked back to do another segment on back to school bargains!!!