Marriage Amnesia

20 Apr

 

Hopefully by now you are getting to know me a bit better.  Maybe you have been able to tell that I like to view life’s challenges in simpler ways and can find great help in comparing everyday life issues with fashion issues.

Like the way I met my husband, Scott.  He fit me perfectly.  When I met him, it was like finding the most perfect pair of vintage Levis.  They were comfortable, made me feel good, and I didn’t think anyone else would find a pair like them.

So it pains me to sometimes see Scott as my hot pink Jag outfit, kulat pants included.  You know how you can love an outfit so much that it actually made you a happier person, then one day you go to get it out of your closet and you think, ”what did I ever see in you, this is the worst outfit I ever bought!”

And that, my friends, is marriage in a nutshell.  But don’t be alarmed, don’t start setting Scott up.  Because I am sure sometimes he sees me as his Z. Cavariccis, and his Van Halen muscle shirt.

That’s the point.  Sometimes, you are going to love everything about your mate, and then there will be other times where you have Marriage Amnesia.  Scott and I have had fights, and in that moment I can’t remember why I ever loved him, let alone liked him.  “Who are you, where am I?  Did I marry you?”  Kind of like that movie The Vow, that was just in theaters.  I didn’t see it, but I think the girl lost her memory, couldn’t remember her husband, and then he spent every day reminding her why she loved him.

Too sappy for me.  In the real world, you have to know going into a marriage that you will experience temporary amnesia from time to time.  It’s okay.   You and your guy have to work together to avoid making it permanent.

So how do you ward off Marriage Amnesia?  I have found that regular date nights  with my husband help a lot.  We will go to dinner, shoot the shit.  I will ask him if I am pretty and a good mom.  Stuff like that.  Or if we don’t have a sitter, we load the kids up on Benadryl and hide in our room.  (don’t call child protective services, kidding) However you can, you need to spend time together.  There’s a lot of tricks to avoiding Marriage Amnesia, find what works for you and stick to it.

 

Truth be told, I never throw out any of my outfits, because I always remember what I loved about them.

 

Jen Ross, Author, “Don’t Wear Sweats Or Your Husband Will leave You”

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Brad And Angelina Marrying – Say It Ain’t So

17 Apr

 

This is a difficult day for me.  Probably one of my hardest.  I just heard from a very reliable source, one of the premier news deliverers, TMZ, that Brad and Angelina are engaged.

You need to understand something.  I have never gotten over THE BREAKUP.  I still picture Jen and Brad walking romantically on the beach, arm in arm.  Everything seemed okay.  Then next thing you know, they are splitting up and Brad is playing house with Angelina and child on some beach.

Sure, some of you will say, Jen, “Get over it, they have now been together for years, have a zillion kids.  Endless stamps on their passports.”

No can do.  I think what bothers me most about Angelina is how in your face she was with their affair, how unapologetic.  She gave interviews about it; she talked about how they fell in love on the set of their movie.  I would have respected her more if she just said, “I made a mistake falling in love with a married man, and for that I am so sorry, but I know he is the one I am supposed to spend my life with.”  Instead, she did a magazine spread with Brad when the wounds were fresh.

So no, I won’t get over it.  I won’t send them a present; I won’t babysit their kids.  I will root for Jen to marry her hot boyfriend first and adopt seven babies.

And I will secretly kind of hope that what goes around comes around, and that Angelina will get all comfortable in married life, start wearing her sweats, and well, you know the rest…..

 

Jen Ross, “Author, Don’t Wear Sweats Or Your Husband Will Leave You

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Being Jewish is Not All it’s Quacked Up to Be

16 Mar

by Tracy Beckerman

When you live in the Northeast, you expect that the month of March is going to come in like a lion and go out like a lamb.

You do not expect that it is going to come in like a duck.

In March, the ducks are typically still down south, with the rest of the snowbirds.

Like my parents, they usually wait at least until April before flying back up for the summer. But this year, two ducks decided to hightail it up to New Jersey early. And if you have been reading my blog for any length of time, you know that there is one pair of ducks in particular that I’m talking about.

Yes, Larry and Loretta Mallardstein have returned to their summer residence, our backyard, one month ahead of schedule.

Apparently the daffodils and crocuses were not the only ones confused by the unseasonably warm weather we’ve had.

As I watched the ducks paddle around in the teeny tiny puddles on the top of our pool tarp, it suddenly struck me that the early arrival might not have anything to do with the weather at all.

“I think Larry and Loretta converted,” I said to my husband after informing him the ducks were back.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we always assumed they were Jewish because they came up every year just in time for Passover,” I explained.  “But this year they came up for St. Patrick’s Day so I think they may have become Irish Catholic.”

He gave me the blank stare he reserves for my stupidest comments.

“I mean it’s not a problem.  We welcome ducks of all faiths equally,” I assured him.

He shook his head.

“Birds of a different feather can all swim together!” I exclaimed.

He groaned.

“We hold these truths to be self evident that all ducks are created equal…”

“Enough. Please,” he begged.

I wondered if the ducks had new dietary requirements now that they had converted to Catholicism.  When they were Jewish. they couldn’t have any bread during Passover so we gave them matzoh instead.  What if they had given up worms for lent?  Could we give them caterpillars instead?  I was at a loss.

Meanwhile, outside the ducks started to quack up a storm. It was clear they were not happy with the accomodations this time of year and were hell bent on letting us know it.

“What the heck?” Bellowed my husband.

“I think the ducks are annoyed because the tarp is still on the pool,” I commented as the ducks continued their litany of complaints.

My husband nodded.  “See they are Jewish.”

“How can you tell?” I wondered.

“Listen to them kvetching!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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That Tingly Feeling

2 Mar

Written by Lori Stefanac of Lola is 40

So, I’m driving my 8 year old to a playdate when from the back seat I hear,

“Mom? I have a tingly feeling down there.”

Because I am driving the car, I cannot turn around to see which “down there” but I have the general idea.

I guess it’s time we had “the talk”.

Or at least a version of the talk.

Crap.

Just wondering…WHY do these conversations always happen when I’m driving?

It’s the lack of eye contact, right?

Or do the kids just want to see if mere words can make me swerve off the road?

I tell myself to remain calm, speak matter-of-factly, and above all?

NO GIGGLING.

(snicker)

In my most responsible mature mommy voice I say,

“Well, Honey…I wouldn’t worry too much about it.  Tingly feelings are normal. They are supposed to happen.”

Stupid speed bumps in our neighborhood. No wonder he’s all tingly.

Hell, I’M tingly.

Mmmmm…nice.

AHEM.

I am totally making him sit on a pillow in the back seat from now on…

a home-made “shock absorber” if you will.

Then I won’t have to deal with my 8 year old’s “Tingly Bits”

My child continues,

“I don’t like it.”

Well, that’s encouraging…I guess.

Or is it?

He should LIKE it, right?

I mean, isn’t that what nature intended?

Could something be wrong with his little package?

I don’t know.

DON’T PANIC!

You’ll ask your husband later.

How am I supposed to field penis questions, anyway?

I try to be helpful.

“Ok. Well, if the tingly feeling doesn’t go away in a minute…you let me know”

Just bought myself a minute.

Go me.

Now think, Lola.

What would YOUR parents say?

“Ummm, just don’t touch it and it will be okay”.

There.

That’s good.

Should I add something about growing hair on his palms?

No. That might be too much.

Overkill.

We don’t want to freak the kid out.

Just want to keep his little hands out of his pants.

Then he says to me,

“I thought if I stomped on it a few times, I could make the tingly feeling go away but it’s not working”

WHAT?

Now I’m alarmed.

“Look Honey. I don’t know much about these sorts of things but I know one thing…

STOMPING on it is NOT a good idea.”

I want grandchildren someday.

But stomping on it made the OTHER one stop tingling,” he says.

Other one?

You have TWO?

Confused much?

Other one?” I ask.

“Yeah” he says, “when I stomped on my OTHER foot, the tingling stopped”.

A wave of relief flows through my body and I let my breath out.

I hadn’t even realized I was holding it.

We are NOT talking about boy parts.

We are talking about feet.

More specifically?

Feet that have fallen asleep…

and feet that feel TINGLY.

You know, I think you are  right.  STOMP on it! STOMP on that sucker like you’ve never STOMPED before.  That will get rid of any unwanted tingly sensations.”

Thank God.

Well, I handled THAT situation flawlessly if I do say so myself.

My parenting skills reign supreme.

Now to find more speed bumps.

Mmmmm…speed bumps.

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Modern Jewish Moms are Still Freakin’ June Cleavers

29 Feb

Written by Jenny Isenman of The Suburban Jungle

Every once in a while you have a conversation that is so cliché so stereotypically female, a la 60 years ago, It makes you wonder if things have truly changed that much.

I had one of these conversations last night, and the sad part?  It was so natural, I didn’t notice the irony until today.  This was the convo as close to verbatim as I can get… seriously.

It started with someone discussing her phobia of germy sponges.

spongebob sick
Germy Sponge

Mom 1: I totally rely on sponges.  You know, when they get dirty you can nuke ‘em?

Me: I run mine in the dishwasher.

Spongephobe Mom: I never use a sponge.

AND THEN IT STARTED: A conversation taken right from the script of a 1950′s commercial.

If any man were to overhear it, he’d undoubtedly say, “Dames, they love to yap about household chores.  Am I right fellas?”

guys and dollsThe rest of my little tête-à-tête with the team moms will require proper 1950s translation.

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.

50s translation: JOY gets me “From grease to shine in half the time!”

Mom 1 (visibly shaken): What do you use… a paper towel?

50s translation: Towels can rip and tear, they’d never hold up to vigorous dishwashing.

Spongephobe Mom: Nope.

50s translation: I’m confident in the cleaning power of Joy.

Me (accusingly — like an evangelist being told about evolution): I bet you’re scraping that crud off with your nails.

50s translation: That explains why her nails look so uninviting. (Which would be said in a loud whisper to other woman at the mahjong table.)

Spongephobe Mom: Nope.

50s translation: Stop staring at my nails, gossip maven.

Me: But how do you get all the shit off?

50s translation: What about baked on caked on foods like dried cereal?

Spongephobe Mom: It  even works on caked on oatmeal.

50s translation:  It even works on caked on oatmeal!

Me and Mom 1 (in disbelief):  NO!?

50s translation:  Gasp!?

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:  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.”

Oh, Madge, you sneaky devil, you.

That evening I couldn’t help using my new “now to 50s” translation on everything.

I came home and let the kids go for a quick dip in the pool.

50s translation:  I bathed my sweet children.

I put a frozen pizza in the oven.

50s translation:  I whipped up a nutritious meal for the whole family.

I Allowed my hubby to make idle chit chat during the commercials of American Idol.

50s translation: I got my hubby his slippers and cigar then gently rubbed his shoulders.

I put in a load of laundry in hopes that the cleaning lady would dry and fold it in the morning.

50s translation:  I washed, ironed and starched the family’s laundry.

I guess I never realized what a modern domestic goddess I truly am.

busy_mom_with_child_and_pets_clip_art_22864

50s Translation:

june cleaver

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My Husband Told Me I Can Sleep With Eminem

27 Feb

 

written by Jen Ross from Don’t Wear Sweats or Your Husband Will Leave You

I had a dream.  My husband and I are in Detroit eating at a restaurant.  Eminem approaches our table.  He turns to my husband and says, “I will sing two songs at your son’s Bar Mitzvah if I can have one night with your wife.”  Shocked, my husband and I turn to each other and he says “See you in the morning honey.  I think I am going to sleep in, so be quiet when you come back.”

So Eminem and I head back to his mansion.  I think we are going to get nasty together, but really he talks to me about his mother all night, he starts sobbing, and I end up rocking him back and forth in my arms.

I make him assure me that he will still sing at Ben’s Bar Mitzvah.

I wake up from that dream with one question on my mind.  Would Eminem have been good in bed?

No, not really.  I ask myself a question I am always struggling with.  How far should parents go to please their kids?  When my son was a baby and wouldn’t sleep, I would take him in the car, in the middle of winter, and drive him around until he fell asleep.

When my daughter is having a tantrum, and I should send her to her room, I offer up ice cream.

We all do so much for our kids.  We want them to be happy.  But am I making them happy, or spoiled jerks?  I think they might be happy jerks.

As parents, we aren’t doing our kids much good giving into every whim just because we want them to be happy.  It is our job to teach them they can’t get everything they want, things aren’t always going to be this easy, and it’s okay if you aren’t always happy.  If we don’t do this job now, they will enter the big mean world and expect everything to be handed to them.

They won’t want to work for anything, they will end up coming back to live with you, and then you will have to start all over just when you and your husband started enjoying the sweet taste of freedom.

So if your kids are being a jerks, discipline them, if they want the newest gadget, make them earn it.

And on a personal level, Eminem, if you are reading this, I am still available, and I would like you to sing “Lose Yourself”, and “Not Afraid” on Nov. 3 of this year.

Superficial Tip:  With all the money you are saving now that you have stopped buying stuff for your kids, go out and buy yourself something pretty as a reward for being such a good mom.  One of my favorite shopping sites: asos.com

Jen Ross has 3 kids, 2 dogs, a husband of 15 years and an emormous amount of material to share. She is also the author of the book “Don’t Wear Sweats Or Your Husband Will Leave You.”  Don’t take the title to seriously, she’s wearing sweats right now and she’s almost positive her husband is still committed.

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The Break Up

26 Feb

Written by Lori Stefanac of Lola is 40

So, my youngest son was taking piano lessons.

I’m sorry. He was taking KEYBOARD lessons.

You can’t mix those two things up…

because, as it turns out?

One is very very cool.

And the other is L-A-M-E!

His teacher was a nice, proper older woman in her early 60s.

Although NICE, she was also, in a word: dull.

Every week after his lessons I would ask my child if he was having fun.

Mostly because I knew that deep in my heart, if he were ME…

I would NOT be having fun with Mrs.Stickuptheass.

Every week he told me that that his lessons were “fine”.

“fine?” I’d repeat back. “Well, how do you feel about your teacher? Do you like her? Are you having FUN? This should be FUN!”

He would tell me that his teacher was “fine”.

Look, I’m not one of those moms who has my kids signed up for music lessons because it teaches them to work hard and exposes them to culture, blah, blah fucking blah.

I want my kid to ENJOY his classes.

This is a hobby.

I don’t expect him to be the next Chopin.

I don’t even expect him to be the next Alan Goldblatt.

You don’t know who that is?

Well, that’s kinda my point…

but he played a mean chopsticks at the last school recital.

Anyway, my goals are reasonable.

Eventually, I want my kids to be ROCK GODS so that they can support me and buy me fabulous shit.

And this isn’t going to happen if they aren’t enjoying their lessons.

So if his teacher isn’t making the class fun? Well then something’s got to give…

and that something is NOT me, giving HER even more of my money, if you know what I’m sayin’!

Anyway, seeing my kid’s lukewarm response to his lessons, I decide that perhaps I need to address his teacher’s choice of music.

I mean, personally if I had to listen to “Michael Row the Boat Ashore” more than once, much less practice it again and again, I might grab that teacher’s stupid metronome and gouge her eyes out with it.

But that’s just me.

That being said, I understand that learning piano,

I mean KEYBOARD,

ahem,

requires one to learn specific skills in a certain order, and one can only play at a given level of difficulty until these skills are mastered.

It’s not like I expected my kid to sit at the keyboard and jam out “Bohemian Rhapsody” in one day.

It’s gotta take at least a week to learn that little ditty.

BUT there has to be a compromise, right?

So I set up a meeting with the piano teacher and ask if there’s a way to incorporate more “Rock” into the lesson.

She says she will try.

And she did.

She had my child playing “Rock Around the Clock” and “Blue Suede Shoes” and a few other simple songs that he could feel a little enthused about.

The problem was that she was still her.

After a few more lessons, my child decides that he doesn’t like his teacher after all.

He decides he wants a different teacher.

He wanted the young, cool, pierced and tattooed “rocker dude” of the music school to teach him.

Who doesn’t want a young, cool, rocker dude?

“He just seems more fun” my child tells me.

Yeah. Fun.

Dreamy sigh.

Damnit.

So I’m not simply dropping out of music.

I have to break up with his teacher and explain why we are switching to another teacher in the same music school.

Of course, my kid is right. This teacher DOES seem more fun. And a better fit.

But now I have to have a really awkward conversation.

And I hate awkward conversations.

After his music lesson I ask if the teacher can hang back to talk for a minute.

“sure” she says, “what’s up?”

I’m starting to sweat and shift my weight from foot to foot.

I’m finding it difficult to look her in the eye.

“I’m not sure how to tell you this…” I begin,

“I think we are going to see someone else.”

“Excuse me?” she asks.

Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, Honey. It’s just going to make this thing all the more uncomfortable.

“Look I’ll just say it. We have to break up. It’s not YOU, it’s US. I just don’t think this is working out…”

Suddenly I feel very badly for every douchecanoe ex-boyfriend who ever dumped me.

Being a heartbreaking asshole isn’t as easy as it looks!

Well, I feel badly for all of them except the one from Chicago, who was going to call me back after he did his laundry.

He never called.

Which means that technically, we haven’t broken up.

20 years later, I wonder if perhaps there was really no laundry at all.

Either that, or he was doing laundry for all of Chicago…on a washboard…down by the Chicago River…in which case he may be almost finished.

He’d better call soon so I can free up my weekend.

She still looks puzzled.

“Look, you are a perfectly nice person. And I’m sure you are a perfect fit for…well for someone else. But I think we are just not on the same page. What we want and what you want…they seem to be very different things.”

Holy shit, Woman! Say you understand and let me off the hook all ready! But no. She is silent, allowing me to dig myself deeper and deeper.

Women.

“Um, what I mean is…Hey! You’re great! Really! You are. But…but…”

Still, blank stares.

“Ok. Now you are forcing me to say things I really didn’t want to get into…but the truth is, you are cramping our style. We’ve grown in different directions, plain and simple. We can’t breathe around you! You are STIFLING us!”

“Does this mean you need to change our time?” she asks.

“NO! It’s not about TIME! Wait. YES! It is about time. It’s about time-ING. BAD timing. We just have bad timing. Can you understand that?”

“So would Wednesdays be better?”

“Look, Gail!”

Her name is Gail.

“I see what you are trying to do. But let’s not make this more difficult than it has to be. You have to stop begging.”

“Um, so NOT Wednesday?”

“No. Not Wednesday. Not Thursday. How’s a week from never look to you. Sorry. That was sarcastic, and I can see that you are hurting. That was unfair.”

I bite the knuckles of my fist and turn away dramatically.

“I told myself I wouldn’t cry” I say as I gaze upward towards…well, nothing really. I was just trying to strike a remorseful pose.

Turns out, I don’t know how to do that.

“Uh, Lola? What are you looking at?” asks Gail.

Poor, pathetic Gail.

“Gail. Oh, Gail. We’ve had some good times, haven’t we?” I say as I graze her cheek gently with my finger.

“Sure. I guess…” she says as she backs away from my touch.

A touch that clearly electrifies her.

“Look” says Gail, “I have another student waiting in my office. Are we rescheduling or do you just want to let me know what works for you at another time?”

“That’s a grand idea, Gail” I say, feeling nostalgic for the good ole’ days.

“Let’s just say we’ll play it by ear. Perhaps another time. In another life. We’ll just say that. Okay?” my voice goes up a few octaves and cracks a little at the end.

It can’t be helped.

I’m emotional too.

“Yeah. Good. I gotta go” she says as she turns on her heels and heads back to her office.

I watch her go.

As I watch the sway of her hips I start to second guess my actions.

I’m about to scream out “GAIL WAIT!…

“Can I get some fries with that shake?”

but at the last moment I control myself.

I.MUST.BE.STRONG.

For her.

For me.

For both of us.

And I learned a very important lesson during this very emotional “goodbye”.

The next time I have to break up with some instructor because one of my kids has decided that they are finished with a fleeting hobby?

I’m just going to drop a “Dear John text”.

SO much simpler:

G,
BIN REAL. TTYN
L

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A Shampoo By Any Other Name

16 Feb

Written by Tracy Beckerman from Lost in Suburbia

“What’s in the bag?” I asked my mother as she got into the car following her trip to my hair salon.  Whenever my mom comes to visit me from Florida, our first stop is always the hair salon. It must be a Jew thing because whenever the snowbirds fly up North, the first thing they do is get their hair colored.  She claims that the Florida sun bleaches out her hair, but I think she just wants to make sure if she runs into any other alter cockers up here that she knows, they will think she looks faboosh.

“I got some new shampoo,” she said with some excitement.  “My old shampoo was terrible.  It really dried out my hair.”

“What brand were you using?” I asked.  She thought for a moment.  She seemed unable to come up with the name.

“Um… Freaken shampoo,” she finally said.

I snorted.  I knew she meant a different shampoo, but had mangled the name.  My mother was notorious for this but she denyed it vehemently, so I decided to have a little fun with her.

“So that freakin’ shampoo dried out your hair?” I asked her.

“Yes,” she said.

“Did you try using some freakin’ conditioner,” I asked.

“Yes, but it’s too heavy,” she said. “It weighs down my hair.”

“You know, Mom,” I said smiling, “If the freakin’ shampoo you’re using dries out your hair, you can try another freakin’ shampoo.  Maybe some other freakin’ shampoo would work better for you.  There’s a whole line of freakin’ shampoos out there you can get.”

“That’s true,” she said.

“And you might want to try some freakin’ conditioner, too.” I suggested.  “Just ‘cause one freakin’ conditioner doesn’t work for you, doesn’t mean there isn’t some other freakin’ conditioner that would help your hair.”

“I do use a Freaken hair gel, that is pretty good,” said my mother.  “I don’t like the Freaken mousse, but the Freaken gel gives my hair lots of body.”

“What about the freakin’ hair spray,” I asked.

“I don’t really like the smell,” she responded.”

“But all the freakin’ products have the same freakin’ smell,” I said.  “The freakin’ hairspray smells like the freakin’ shampoo.”

“Really?” she said.  “I like the smell of the Freaken shampoo.”

I laughed out loud.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“This whole freakin’ conversation!” I shouted.  She stared at me as though I’d lost my mind.

“We’re just talking about shampoo,” she said.

“Freakin’ shampoo,” I clarified.

“Right,” she said.

“Freakin’ shampoo and freakin’ conditioner and freakin’ hair gel and freakin’ hair spray.”

“Yeah…?” she wondered.

“There is no FREAKEN shampoo,” I said.  “You combined John FRIEDA and REDKEN to make Freaken!”

I saw understanding creep across her face and I cracked up.  She looked at me and raised one eyebrow.

“You know what, Tray?” she said.

“What, Mom?”

“You’re a freakin’ pain in the neck.”

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Do Your Kids Ever Try to Make out with You or is it Just Mine?

13 Feb

Written by Jenny From the Blog of The Suburban Jungle

Okay, so the title isn’t exactly PC.  Sure, they tell you not to make-out with your kids, but sometimes it’s a fine line between so cute and ummm, scary.  What parent doesn’t secretly love it when their child says they want to marry them?  I mean for how many years are they going to want to hug, snuggle, or hold your hand?

On February 14th 2 years ago my daughter came in to wish me a happy Valentine’s Day, to give me a stunning hand-made card, and to neck.  “Oh, this card is awesome.  Come give Mommy a kiss,”  I said in a very innocent non-incestuous way.  My daughter, maybe wanting to show me the magnitude of the holiday, grabbed my face with both hands and planted the biggest smooch on me, I almost started to giggle mid-peck.  But, she wasn’t done; she started turning her head from side to side in her best Victoria Justice imitation.  “Ummm, okay cutie,”  I said feeling partly amused and unexpectedly violated.

“But, Mommy I want one more kiss,” she said as she came in for another.

“Hon, you gotta save those kinds of kisses for your husband, a random friend in camp, and pillows” I said, as if they’re in limited quantity.  “I think you’re confused my love, we don’t kiss mommies or daddies or brothers or cousins or friends like that.   It’s inappropriate.”  I feel I have the “inappropriate” convo way more than any mom of a 5 year old should, but “inappropriate” beats “slutty” any day –though I’m thinking she’s not allowed out of the house until she’s 20.

“Hey, you wanna go on a date?” she asked ignoring me, and coming in for another.

“What???”

“Yeah, let’s go on a date and kiss and get some lollipops!”  She said trying to woo me, and then planted another smack on my lips.

“Sure, I would love to go on a date and get lollipops with you.”

What?  For how many more years will she want to date me?

The days of her telling me I’m “so gay” (or whatever the equivalent will be at that time) and asking me to drop her off a block from the mall, so she doesn’t have to be seen with her queer mom, are around the corner.  If she wants a lollipop date, I’m in.

“Let’s go, but we gotta stop making-out.”

“But Mom, I love you sooo much” she said squeezing me tight.

Awwww, is this not the sweetest moment EVER?  I thought.  Well, until she followed up with “I want to puke of love!”

Okay, so she’s a bit confused, but she said it in her “sexy voice,” which means it was a compliment.  I will overlook the fact that it also means it was an attempt to pick me up.

PS my son’s card read:  You are my lover and I love you… Will you be my valentine when I’m with you? … Just askin.

To you, my insecure child, who is also clearly a bit confused, yet doesn’t want to make-out with me, but I hope still wants to marry me, “Yes, 1000 times yes.  You make me want to puke of love!!!”

Who knows what this year will hold?

Have a HAPPY V-DAY!!! even if it’s mildly inappropriate.

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I Can’t Remember What I Forgot

7 Feb

Written by Lori Stefanac of Lolais40

So, I know I blog about my bad memory and limited attention span a lot.

At least I think I do.

I can never remember.

Yeah. I just checked my archives.

I blog about these things quite frequently.

Anyhow, this time is different.

This time?

My bad memory and attention deficit have gotten me in trouble.

Or they may have.

Again, not so sure.

Nevertheless, I’m gonna fill you in on what I do recall.

My friend and I were talking.

She was telling me something important.

I know this because her eyes were knitted together indicating “importance”.

Or “anger”?

“concentration”?

Maybe just a need for Botox?

Whatever.

What I DO know is that it’s her fault I wasn’t paying attention.

I mean, after the first sentence or two?

It became abundantly clear that this conversation was NOT about ME.

Was I supposed to stay tuned anyway?

I think not.

I started to nod my head when it seemed appropriate as I looked down at my strappy sandals and thought about how delicate they make my ankles look.

I also thought about how I should run out to Nordstrom to see if I can find them in other colors because they are really fucking cute on me.

I looked up eventually and she seemed to be wrapping up.

She thanked me.

For what?

I don’t know.

Apparently I am a really good friend.

Well, no surprise there.

Although I have the sinking feeling that by nodding along during this conversation?

I may have agreed to something.

Hmph. Imagine that.

Well, that brings me to today.

I have this sense that I have forgotten something but for the life of me?

I don’t know what.

If my friend had just had the sense to insert a “wow your hair looks great today” in the midst of her monologue, I might have had more reason to stay tuned in.

Alas, she did not.

I mean, just a simple “Hey, I LOVE your outfit” inserted in the middle of all that jabbering about me pet sitting her kids’ stupid fucking fish while they are away and Imight have maintained some focus.

Umm, wait.

Did I just say something about pet sitting fish?

Shit.

Uh…

I have to go.

I have to make a goldfish run.

The kids won’t know the difference between the new fish and their inexplicably dead fish, right?

cute, huh?

And to think…

all of this nonsense could have been totally avoided if she had just told me that she likes my shoes.

 

About the Author:  Lori Stefanac is the creator of the wildly amusing humor blog, Lolais40. She is a happily married Jewish mommy with 3 boys.  She has no skills per se,  no real training, and she’s never published a thing, but she figures if she say it often enough and loud enough people will believe it. Or they will just agree with her to make her shut the fuck up. Either reason is good with her.

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