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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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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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A Wedding Two Births and a Funeral

25 Jan

By Tracy Beckerman of Lost in Suburbia

I had to go to a wake recently. I was a little apprehensive because I haven’t been to that many wakes before.
Actually, I have never been to any.
However, since I am Jewish, I have made my fair share of shiva calls. I wasn’t sure if a shiva call was like a wake and I felt a little funny asking the bereaved what the proper wake protocol was, because, after all, they were, you know, bereaving.

I did know that the deceased is in attendance at a wake, but not at a shiva. I think this is because Jews like to eat at a shiva, and the general consensus is that it can be a real appetite-killer to eat when there is a dead person in the room.

With no one to ask, I decided to Google “wake” to see what I could learn. I found out that originally, wakes were held to watch for signs of life and to confirm that the person was dead before burial.

Personally, I would think it would be a good idea to determine this fact a little earlier in the process, but that’s just me.

I also learned that a wake is kind of like a party for the deceased. Of course, my mother taught me that you should never go to a party empty-handed. So I did what my people have done for thousands of years when someone dies:

I brought a brisket.

Now here’s what I learned when I arrived at my first wake. There are lots of flowers. And sometimes, a fair amount of booze. But no briskets.

This is not to say the family wasn’t very appreciative of my brisket. They just thought it was a little odd.
I’m not sure if the same is true for a wake, but funerals are important in the Jewish religion because it gives us the chance to patch things up with family members we’ve been feuding with since our wedding over something really important like the seating arrangements.

We don’t talk for ten years and then someone dies and all the same people who were at the wedding show up at the funeral.

Everyone cries and eats brisket, and suddenly the feuds from weddings past dissipate and all is harmonious once again.

That is, of course, until the next grandchild in the family is born… and then someone gets angry again because the newest member of the family isn’t named after the last member of the family who died. This is a Jewish custom that goes back as many thousands of years as the brisket tradition.

Meanwhile, back at the wake, I noticed that everyone seemed to be getting along just fine, no one asked the engaged couple which table they were seated at for the wedding, and no one seemed bothered that the new baby was named Blue Sky.

And,

surprisingly,

..no one seemed to mind eating their brisket with the dead guy in the corner.

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Fame Has It’s Price…$67.49

24 Jan

Written by Lori Stefanac of

So, I was shopping at one of my favorite little boutiques the other day when I noticed the store clerk staring at me.

I pretended to go about my business, but it was actually sort of difficult to concentrate with all of the fucking staring.

Finally, feeling rather exasperated, I look up and we meet eyes.

The clerk asks, “Can I help you with anything?”

She’s being coy.

“No, no. I’m good” I say as I continue methodically working my way through the rack.

You see? I know what’s going on.

This store clerk?

She recognizes me.

I have achieved a bit of celebrity here in my small town and she is staring at me because she knows who I am, but she’s embarrassed to say anything.

Shut the fuck up! She does SO know who I am and is in no way just looking at me because I happen to be the only customer in the store.

Anyhow, I’m used to it by now.

The side glances, the double-takes and even the outright staring…

It’s all just the price of fame.

At this point I have acquired a few pieces that I would like to try on.

Store clerk approaches.

Poor dear…she’s nervous.

I can tell by the way she is walking with a wobble.

Shaking really.

A wobble having nothing to do with her 4 inch heels.

“Can I get you a dressing room?” she asks…shyly.

“Sure” I say.

I am OVERLY friendly to put her at ease.

I mean, come on, Honey, I’m JUST like every other customer…

Except for the FAME…

don’t be NERVOUS!

She leads me to the dressing room and as she opens the door for me she introduces herself.

“My name is Cindy if you need anything. What’s your name?”

That’s cute.

Like she needed to ask.

But I play along.

Afterall, this is a REALLY big day for her.

I’m sure when I leave, she’ll be on the phone, all “OH MY GOD! YOU WILL NEVER BELIEVE WHO WAS IN THE STORE SHOPPING TODAY!!!”

“Lola” I reply cooly.

She acts as if it doesn’t ring a bell.

She’s a pretty good actress.

I try on the clothes and select a couple of things that I like.

As I approach the register the clerk, Cindy, looks up.

“Did anything work out for you?” she asks.

She has had time to compose herself in my presence. I’m glad.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, It DID. These!” I declare as I place the items on the counter.

The items that will undoubtedly be known, from this time forward as “Items Worn By Lola!!”

“Oh, yeah! Those are SO cute!” says Cindy.

Like I, Lola, need to be told which items are CUTE.

Even if they WEREN’T cute? They’ll be flying off the rack as soon as the masses get wind of WHO purchased them.

I snicker a little to myself.

“Yes, they are SO cute!”

I’m nothing if not agreeable.

Now comes the part I both dread yet understand.

I look away and pretend not to pay attention.

I AM modest, afterall.

But it’s all a part of “celebrity” and it’s something that I MUST deal with.

“Um, Lola? Can you just sign this?”

And there it is.

Sweet girl.

Took her ALL this time to muster up the nerve to ask for my autograph.

“Sure! It’ll be my pleasure” I reply with my toothy white celebrity smile and ever present graciousness.

“Where do you want me to sign?” I ask.

“Just right here, on the line” she says as she points to a small piece of paper.

It’s too bad I forgot my autographed 8 x 10 glossies at home.

Oh well.

I’ll make sure to throw them in my purse for next time.

“And who should I make this out to?” I ask.

“Uh, just to the store….Just sign on the line if you don’t mind” she says, clearly embarrassed to be putting me out.

I give her a wink to put her at ease, “will do.”

Then I write in my curvy, beautiful celebrity writing:

FROM LOLA WITH LOVE XOXO

Cindy takes the slip of paper and looks at it for a moment.

Call me crazy, but for just a second?

She seemed…well…almost annoyed.

I don’t get it either.

Perhaps she really wanted the autograph made out to her personally and lost her nerve at the last second.

I decide to let her off the hook.

I grab a business card from the stack on the counter and I give her another wink.

“Here, Honey! This one’s for YOU!”

I sign the business card and hand it to her.

TO MY DEAR FRIEND CINDY! IF YOU SHOOT FOR THE MOON, YOU MAY LAND AMONG THE STARS.
MUCH LOLA LOVE

I know, I know…inspirational.

I get teary eyed myself when I think about it.

Anyhow, THAT awkwardness being overwith, I give her one more celebrity wink and make my way towards the door.

“Ta ta, Cindy! Feel free to tell your friends! Oh! I almost forgot! Did you want a picture? I have my phone!”

She looks puzzled.

She probably can’t understand why I’m SO NICE!

Apparently shyness has gotten the best of her again and she declines the photo.

Her loss.

Anyway, when I get to the door I pause…

I open my purse and pull out my super big diva sunglasses.

I place them gently on my nose and peer around the corner before I continue on my way.

Why am I so careful?

One word…

Paparazzi.

 

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Am I or Am I not a Chosen One | Lola Cartoon

20 Jan

Drawn by:  Lori Stefanac of Lolais40

Hey, I know the Jews are the Chosen People, but if life is anything like Gym class….I’ll be chosen last.

About the Artist:  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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And G-d said, “Let there be Boca”

19 Jan

 

written by Tracy Beckerman from LOST IN SUBURBIA

20120119-115755.jpgEveryone knows that God made a covenant with Abraham which gave the Jews Israel in exchange for a little foreskin. What most people don’t know is that God also agreed to give us Florida. This is why Jews move down to Florida when they retire. We don’t have a choice. It was part of the original deal. The Christians got Martha’s Vinyard and we got Boca Raton.

This being the case, I wasn’t all that surprised when my parents told me they bought a place in the Sunshine State. My dad had been in semi-retirement for several years and my mother was not far behind. Besides, my dad was a golfer and my mother made a mean brisket, which meant they satisfied the official Jewish retirement prerequisites. They were one Lincoln Continental and two zuzim away from qualifying for a little place in the Palm Beach area on a golf course with their own orange tree and an alligator in the backyard.

Giddy with the prospect of all-you-can-eat 4:00pm dinner buffets for $2.99, they had one foot out the door when I warned them that they needed to do some prep work before they moved to the promised land of milk and honey and Metamucil. As two hip, artistic, culturally-sophisticated New Yorkers, they were under-prepared for life in the matzoh-ball soup capital of the world.
Of course, as a middle-aged Jew still in my formative guilt years, I didn’t have all the info they needed, either. So I picked up the book, “Florida for Dummies and Alter Kockers” and found some handy tips for helping my parents acclimate to life in the panhandle. According to the book, my folks needed to focus on the following:

1. Playing Games: To truly enjoy retired life in Florida, make sure to learn shuffleboard, Bridge, and how to work three Bingo boards at a time.

2. Driving: You must learn how to drive 20 miles under the speed limit and with your head six inches below the steering wheel.

3. Clothing: Men: pants that fit snugly under your armpits. Women: Bold prints in bright pastels. Polyester pantsuits with short sleeves and a tropical palm motif are always a good choice. Donate your black clothes. Black is for funerals which is not a good message to send in a place where everyone is over ninety.

4. Dining out: When you go out to eat, remember to empty the basket of dinner rolls on the table into your handbag before you leave, eat all the food and THEN complain that it wasn’t cooked properly, and steal packets of Splenda.

5. Voting: This is your right as a US citizen and you are entitled to do this for as long as you can drive (which in Florida is well into your late 90’s). Words to know:

Chads – The tiny bits of paper left over from punching a ballot when you vote.

Ballot – the thing left after you punch out the chads.

Do not worry about either the ballot or the chad. They very rarely count.

6. Sex: This is only for men who have outlived their wives. There are two of them.
Satisfied now that my parents were adequately informed to make a new life as social-security card-carrying Floridians, I bid them adieu and mazel tov on their new home and reminded them to stay out of the sun and watch out for alligators and honey bees, but not to worry about wasps:
They retire to Connecticut.

About the author: Tracy Beckerman is a nice Jewish girl from the suburbs of New York, who got married and moved to the suburbs of New Jersey where she learned the only difference between the Jewish girls in NY and the Jewish Girls in NJ is the size of their hair and which mall they go to. Tracy is the author of the book, “Rebel without a Minivan: Observations on Life in the Burbs.” She writes the syndicated humor column Lost in Suburbia,

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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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Surfing the Internet While Schtupping – a Multitasker’s Dream

4 Jan

A little history on this new blog that has – umm – little history:  this blog was originally named  ImAJewishMotherWhattheFuckisYourExcuse.com  Over the top? 

“Fuck,” as you know from the wildly popular “children’s tale,” Go the Fuck To Sleep, is a trending word.  Everyone loves a good well placed “fuck.” It says, I’m irreverent, unstoppable, fearless, really funny, have spent time around truck drivers and on trend.

However, I went with the current title out of fear of attracting an unseemly crowd.  Relax, I don’t find Jewish moms or their friends and neighbors unseemly.  Well, except for the ones from West Virginia.  Oh, don’t be so sensitive West Virginia.  But, I will say that anyone searching the internet using the key word combination: Fuck, Jewish, and Mother, is either looking for this woman: [...]

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