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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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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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Redneck Jews – Myth or Reality?

15 Jan

Written By:  Lori Stefanac of Lolais4o.com

So my husband sends me a text from work this week,

Husband: “Do me a solid. Look into PBR for the weekend.”

Me: “I have no idea what that is. But I will do you this solid. With the understanding that, of course, you will owe me a solid.”

Hubby: “Understood. A solid is owed.”

I take a few moments to Google PBR.

Turns out?

It’s a rodeo. Professional Bull Riders.

This is SO my thing (detect heavy sarcasm, here)

I read the description.

Great. Not only is this a rodeo (see above sarcastic comment regarding this being my thing) BUT as an added plus the event is featuring a Pastor who will be delivering his spiritual message, followed by the live music of a Christian band. To cap off the night? Stories of faith by the bull riders.

Look People, I’m Jewish. And I don’t judge other people’s religions but really?

This is just not appealing to me.

Call me crazy but I’m a tad uncomfortable being the only Jew in a room other than the guy nailed to the cross.

What? Jesus humor’s not funny? Email me at Lolais40@gmail.com. You probably know it by heart by now. God knows you’ve used it before. Oops. Lord’s name in vain. I’m sure that’s another email.

I text my husband all of the details surrounding the event.

Husband: “WHATTHEFUCK? Ok. Let’s look into something else. What’s going on in the world of NASCAR?”

Me: “Really? Kinda had enough of NASCAR with the pre-race prayers to Jesus, cars donning their Confederate flags and drivers with names like White Boy. L’Shana Tova, Y’all! I’m sort of surprised that they don’t hand out yellow ‘Star of David’ arm bands with their t-shirts and beer koozies.”

Offended again? Already? Pissy today, aren’t we? Well, refer to the above email address. I’m awaitin’. That’s hillbilly speak for “I look forward to hearing from you”.

Husband: “I agree. If our boys are going to be exposed to anyone’s deluded belief system, it’s going to be MY deluded belief system. So what can we do in Charlotte that doesn’t involve being prejudice against other religious groups?”

Although I’m not sure that a love of all things Harley and “Big Block” constitute an actual belief system, I’m not going to argue.

Me: “It’s tough since we are one of those rare Red Neck Jewish families. You know, sort of a myth like Sasquatch but actually real. So maybe more like the platypus. You know, rare and strange.”

Husband: “I’m leaving it up to you to make some good wholesome non-religious family plans for us.”

Me: “How about the zoo? I hear most of the animals are Atheists. Except that small radical sect of Muslim Penguins. But I hear they are on the no fly list, so it’s cool.”

Email, Fuckers.

Husband: “You should blog that.”

Me: “Really? Did I make you laugh?”

Husband: “No, but it seems this might be the kind of shit your readers like.”

Me: “I’m way ahead of you. It’s as good as blogged. So, can I blog about your penis while I’m at it?”

Husband: “Why the hell would you want to do that?”

Me: “It’s not for me. It’s the PEOPLE. They demand it. It always comes back to the penis. Besides, I feel like certain things need to be explained. Like how we are a hybrid between Jewish Girl and Red Neck Man…resulting in Jews who attend rodeos and NASCAR races. It bears explaining. Especially the part where I talk about you converting to Judaism and being circumsized.”

Husband: “Do you really think people need to hear about my circumcision?”

Me: “Definitely. Especially when I tell the part about the Moyel being completely unprepared for the large task at hand, and how it took him like ALL DAY to circumsize you, and then he had to retire because he would never be the same after seeing your rod, as it was kind of like seeing the face of God…you know…how some things are just not meant for the human eye to see? Too awesome and shit. See how good I make you look?”

Husband: “Ok. Go for it. Just make sure you don’t forget the huge part.”

Me: “I got you covered.”

Husband: “Too much texty. Not enough worky. I’ll talk to you later.”

And that, my friends is just a glimpse into the lives of “The Real Redneck Jews of Charlotte”.

Of course, that’s just the working title.

Yeah…I’m still working on that whole Reality t.v. thing.

Thought I could ride the “Real Housewives” coattail.

But until I can make this happen?

You’ll just have to be satisfied with Lola.

Shalom Y’all!

And YEEEHAWWW!!

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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The Jesus Question all Jews Dread | Jenny From the Blog

12 Jan

Written by Jenny Isenman AKA Jenny From the Blog from The Suburban Jungle

This conversation occurred a couple days ago.  What it taught me? As my children get older, I’m less capable of competent parenting.

My Sassy 7 YO Little Girl:  Mom, see it’s after Christmas and they still have Jesus on their lawn. I told you they leave him out all year.

The one on the lawn was bigger.

“I guess you’re right.”

“Who’s the pretty girl with him in the pink dress?”

“That’s his mother, the virgin Mary, though I doubt her dress was pink.”

“The what Mary?”

“Umm just Mary” – Wow, it just dawned on me that Christian people have to broach the whole virgin/impregnation/immaculate conception thing rather early, huh? In my defense, I am currently broaching this conversation…

“Is Jesus dead?”

“Yes.”

“Then how do you know his mother?” she asked, as if we must have gone out for drinks at some time or at the very least met at Starbucks. [...]

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You Are Such a Bubbie | Lola is 40

5 Jan

Written By -  Lori Stefanac – Lola is 40

So, the other day, I was having coffee with a friend when I take out my lipstick case, hold the teeny, tiny mirror up to eye level, and reapply my lipstick.

“OH MY GOD! YOU ARE SUCH A BUBBIE!” my friend cries. (‘Bubbie’ being the name of a Jewish Grandma, for all of my non-Jewish friends).

I look around. I KNOW she’s not talking to ME because I’m a hot, blonde, fortysomething but look more like a thirtysomething MILF for God’s sake!

Wait.  She’s looking at me and tears of hysterical laughter are streaming down her face. She repeats the offending sentence,

“YOU ARE SUCH A BUBBIE!”

“I am?” I ask, suddenly aware of the little old ladies surrounding us who all seem to have MY lipstick case in tow.

Well, I have to dispute this argument.  My pride is at stake. So I say,

“WOULD A BUBBIE DO THIS?” [...]

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