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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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Are all Jewish Moms Germaphobes

23 Jan

Written by Jenny From the Blog of  The Suburban Jungle

Yes, I have problems sitting on the “sick side” of the pediatrician’s office.   Yes, I assume the person before me at every restaurant, arcade, amusement park, and grocery store shopping cart has picked their nose and wiped it somewhere within reach.  Yes, I want all tables wiped down before I’m seated, but I’ve convinced myself that the germs spread from those over used rags are far worse than the left over food residue that currently contaminates the space.

I’m neurotic.  I get it, but am I the only one?

I think not.  After talking to a few friends about poultry, my worst phobia, I realize that I’m a member of a very large crowd. A very large, very disturbed crowd. Is it odd that most of them are Jewish?  I don’t know.  Maybe those non Jewish folk are more laid back about germs, maybe it’s in the New Testament.  I know some eat those wafers and I imagine I could never do that as I would be sure the person giving them out had just been picking something or scratching something.

I can tell you that I seemed to be the only one for miles who was horrified by the Euro Bubble, which in my opinion  may be the worst offender of them all.  Oh, have you seen one of these things?  Seriously, who thought of this petri dish in the first place?  For those of you not lucky enough to have encountered the Euro Bubble, it’s a clear plastic beach ball that rolls on water and can fit someone up to 150lbs, though I saw teens much larger attempt to walk on water at the local Party Playground.

This is how it works: you pay a fee to have your child stuffed into a plastic bag while a man with no more than 7 teeth shoves a tube pumping stale air into a leak proof hole to blow up the ball.

Hypocritical?  Well, I did just spend the last 6 years saying, “NEVER stick your head in a plastic bag” and now I’m like, “Well, if the toothless guy says it’s okay, go for it.”

There’s something suffocating about watching a child crouch into a plastic bag in the first place.  Getting past the horrible mental images and the daydream where you imagine this floating ball may be the best babysitter ever.

Yes, in the midst of all my anxiety, I did imagine how cool it would be to have my own CLEAN bubbles… for playdates, when I have to work or clean, to get them worn out before bed etc… Unexpected visitor and you have work to do? No worries, simply stuff em in the Baby Sitting Bubble and send them out into the pool to bang into each other and hamster around for the next hour.

What? they can’t go anywhere, everyone would be happy, work would get done -  But then it dawned on me that there’s probably only so much air in that bubble. Ugh, chest tightening feeling at the thought of forgetting to set them free.  Forget it; I’d rather miss my deadline.

Back to the party.  Sure I could have opted not to let my daughter go, but every other mother at the party seemed quite ok with it, making me yet again, the most neurotic mom in the room.  As the only Jew, I did feel I should represent.  You know, give us a good rap – make us seem as easy going as the next mom.  The truth is I should not be an ambassador, in fact I might as well wear a  sign to alert everyone that I’m Jewish and neurotic oh, the redundancy!

I’m sure the nail biting I was doing as my my daughter waited in line probably gave me away, plus I was wearing 4inch wedge ankle booties and a chunky sweater to a kids party, there was no arguing my stereotypical-ness.

As my baby entered the bubble, the hand sanitizer I so diligently carry in my bag actually committed suicide.  It knew it could never disinfect a child after such a feat and jumped from my pocketbook splattering its last ounce of dignity on the Slushee stained carpet.  I was in this alone.  I looked down at that sorry tube of Purell and wished I had the forethought to have brought a can of Lysol instead.  Let’s face it, my child was not the first to enter this ball, no she may have been 10th person in that bubble in the last hour.  A bubble which at no point contained an attendant holding a bottle of Windex and some paper towels.

To make matters worse, shoes and socks were not allowed… for better traction.  Nor was there an internal release of any kind, well, if you don’t count the electrical tape patches sprinkled about. You know what was allowed in the “germosphere?” Runny noses, coughing, falling on your face where the last kid or drunk adult’s feet left sweat marks, their butt left crack marks, or any orifice left any residue of any kind. Yep, those are the rules.  Have fun while crazy moms, like me, try to figure out where they can give you a “Silkwood” style scrub down when you get home.

As luck would have it, my anxiety was interrupted by another stress inducing revelation.  SHE’S WEARING A DRESS!  Come on, really? I realized as my daughter crouched in her bubble that she in fact was the only child at the party in a dress, in other words:  we were about to get a peep show at my six year old’s Justice undees,  which I fear is the very reason every childless adult in the joint was there in the first place.

Look, if you go to a party and entertainment center that happens to serve beer, and you don’t have a kid in tow, you are without a doubt flagged on a data base of sexual predators… and you wonder why you never get any trick or treaters?  I stood with one of the dads who was equally as horrified at the germ fest and when I revealed my newest concern he burst into laughter and then pointed out at least two childless men sipping beer by the end of the pool.  I spent the next 7 minutes and 15 seconds giving the international sign for “Close your legs.”  A sign that many young starlets would benefit from learning.  My proper princess understood immediately, which either means she is really good at charades or we need to talk more about sitting like a lady.

When my little LiLo was done with the ride, I was able to focus on the germs again.  Phew, I was worried I had forgotten to worry about that.  I considered hosing her down at the sink, but it was time for pizza and all the kids, unsanitized, unbaby-wiped, un-dragged to the bathrooms by insane parents ran joyfully to the tables and drank their hydrogenated, high fructose corn syrup filled fruit punch and licked their fingers… and mine did too.

Like my bottle of Purell, I had given up.  As one of the moms who let her daughter ride in the bubble 5 times said, “They have to be exposed to this stuff or they get the allergies.”  I don’t know if I agree with that logic, but the part of me that wanted to tell her she was being a bit of an extremist realized we may have more in common than I’d thought.  So, I shut up, ate my pizza without patting off the grease with a napkin and enjoyed being a renegade for just one night.

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You May Just be a Jewish Redneck if…

17 Jan

Jenny From the Blog of  THE SUBURBAN JUNGLE

After Seeing Lori’s hilarious post yesterday, (Redneck Jews – Myth or Reality?) it got me thinking about Redneck Jews and yes, I’ve known quite a few in my day.  Pair that with my recent midlife crisis B-day post - 10 Things I Wanted to do With my Life and Clearly Never Will - where I decided I would follow in the footsteps of Jeff Foxworthy  (Oh, that really happened) and you get  this list for your enjoyment.

(For more of this list you can go to JewishRedneck.com. – Oh, that’s really a site)  I feel I got the best of the best, plus I added some of my own.  ENJOY! 

You May Just be a Jewish Redneck If…


-You know which brand of squeeze cheese is Kosher

- You have a gun rack in your Sukkah

- You don’t ride on Shabbat because your car has a boot on it

- You think that a hora is a high priced call girl

- You wear shit kickers to synagogue

- You think that “KKK” means really really Kosher

- Your favorite Passover snack is spam on wonder

- You’re disappointed when your son tells you he wants to be a doctor or a lawyer, and not a NASCAR driver

- Matzo Balls are the most solid things you can eat with your tooth

- Your yard has car parts lying around to Volvo’s, BMW’s, and Porshe’s

- Your Seder plate has a picture of Elvis on it.

- You open the door for Elijah at Passover and have to chase away possums.

- You turn off your bug zapper on Friday night.

- You use dynamite in the pond to get gefilte fish.

- You request your Rabbi to certify roadkill as kosher.

- You know how to play Hava Nagila on the banjo.

- “Larry the Mohel Guy” ‘nuff said.

- Your yarmulke has fishing lures stuck in it.

- Your tallis is camouflage

- You store left over matzoth ball soup in old Cool Whip containers.

- You play drinking games with your dreidel.

- You had a combination Bat Mitzvah / Wedding.

- You painted over letters on your Toyota pickup’s tailgate so it now says OY.

- Your synagogue used to have wheels, but now it’s up on blocks.

- You end all prayers with “get er done” instead of Amen

Feel free to  comment and tell me your favorite one or write your own You may be a Jewish Redneck ifs…

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