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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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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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Jewish Mother Guilt- want some?

13 Jan

Written by Melissa Chapman from Married My Sugar Daddy

I LIVE, BREATHE and yes EAT guilt, as in, when I’m feeling guilty there is no tool to stave it off better than a pint of cookie dough ice cream. I’ve got guilt coursing through my veins- namely because I was raised in a very strict Orthodox household and went to a hardcore Yeshivah. Yes, I got all the training and was primed to be a nice religious girl- until the end of tenth grade when I decided I needed to be free of gemarah, rashi and halacha. So, I dropped out of Yeshivah high school and high tailed to the mean streets of public high school and set the precedent for a guilt induced adulthood. [...]

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So, I Have a Cleaning Lady – No Need for Verbal Assaults

9 Jan

Written by Jenny From the Blog of THE SUBURBAN JUNGLE

This story ended up in a book of hilarious Mom essays, but it was originally run when I first started blogging, by a major newspaper and their coordinating website, I will not name where.
No, stop asking, ‘cuz I won’t.
Don’t tickle me… stop it.  
ENOUGH.

Ok – the response was a mostly a verbal assault and a judgmental lashing from people who would never spend their hard earned money to have someone else help around the house.  Personally, I have no problem spending my husbands hard earned money to have someone do that.  (What, you think blogging pays a ton?)  

Ironic, comparison right 'cuz she was the hired nanny.

Frankly, I would consider spending my last dollar on it.  In fact I would clean someone else’s house to make the money to pay someone to clean my own.  I feel I don’t need to apologize for the sanity and extra time I get to play with my kids or the joyful feeling I get from walking into my home- like Julie Andrew’s character feels in the Sound of Music when she’s spinning on the mountain top singing, “The Hills are Alive.”

Oh, you can picture me doing it right?
Cuz I do.  
With song.  
And a flowy 1940‘sesque dress.  
Every time I walk in and smell the fresh scent of Lysol “Fresh Scent.”

I thought I would let you all decide if you can relate or if I’m a horrible person  – for liking a clean house – for putting this extravagance in my budget – for wearing frocks…

Here goes: [...]

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