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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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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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Barbie and I Can’t Get Our Skinny Jeans Over our Thighs

2 Feb

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

So, yesterday while trying to dress my daughter’s Barbie in a stunning pair of silver lamé jeans, I realized they were not going to go over her thighs. What was it? Had she gained a few? Was it her time of the month? All I know is, this scene seemed oddly familiar. Trying to yank some slim pants over unyielding thighs… where have I seen that before? Oh right, my closet for the last year and a half, that’s where. At first I felt a tinge of pity for Barbie. I breathed an empathetic sigh as I resolved to get those once fitting lamé pants over her rubber legs. It felt like trying to pull up a wet bathing suit on dry land… no budge. Maybe a little Crisco would work? Wait, does that mean I should be buttering up my legs to get those J Brand Cigarette jeans back in the rotation? Well, in lieu of greasing her down, I accepted the fact that this chick needed to drop a few. It was then that I felt an odd sense of camaraderie. You know like I could look in her painted on Barbie eyes and say:

“Yeah, I know, it sucks right? You and your hot pants with the built in belt and me with my skinny jeans… we’re quite the pair. Remember the old days? You know when we could eat anything and still make Ken’s head turn?  Oh, to be young again. What are you now Barbie, like 50? Seriously, you look good girl. You shouldn’t be looking at me with those sad eyes.
Sure, they gave you a breast reduction, but frankly those things were getting in the way of your modern career options. Pro tennis player, Doctor, Veterinarian, Lawyer, no one could take you seriously with those measurements. As soon as they started calling you an “airline attendant” instead of a “stewardess,” your days with those puppies were numbered. Now look at us? A couple of has been sexpots zipping our pants with a pair of pliers. What have we resorted to? Barbie, this may be a touchy subject but, I saw you throwing up the other day after my daughter fed you that plastic turkey at a pretend dinner party. I saw you and so did that token brunette Barbie, what’s her face, it was an embarrassment and an eye-opener.”

After our “moment” of bonding, I felt something I never expected… joy. Yep, that’s where I think the story gets sick. (I know you may have had that thought a while back when I outed Barbie as a bulimic.) But, for me it got a bit alarming when I felt a sudden trace of delight in Barbie’s pain. Like, “Wahoo, I’m not the only one assessing my need to go back to the gym. Now, you know what it feels like Barbie! You and your perfect hair and your perfect tan, you’re not so perfect anymore. So, suck it!” I don’t know what this all says about me, other than my need for a new workout regimen and a visit to my therapist. I like to think that I’m usually a person who is excited over other people’s accomplishments, beautification-wise and otherwise, but I realized there is some evil part of me that enjoyed watching someone else deal with less efficient metabolism and a thigh complex, even if that someone was Barbie.

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F&*%ing Perimenopause

30 Jan

 Written By Lori Stefanac of LolaIs40

So for about a year now, there have been some strange happenings in my life.

Unusual, puzzling, and bizarre occurrences.
Mysterious phenomena that can only have one explanation:
Alien Invasion.
For example, I’ve been convinced that the house alternates between ice cold and broiling hot within seconds.
Also, I have been having significant lapses in memory.And?

I’ve been having significant lapses in memory.

Plus, the people around me are suddenly all very argumentative and unreasonable.

One might even call them all Batshitcrazy.

Almost as if they’ve been bodysnatched.

However, after seeing a segment on the Today show, I realize my issues may NOT be associated with the invasion of Earth by an alien species that plans to take over by systematically messing with the heat and air in my house, making me forget appointments and making other people difficult to get along with.

It may be something else entirely.

Get this…

It may be medical.

It may be…

Perimenopause.

Or as I like to call it:

“Fucking Perimenopause”.

After watching “Today”, I did what any intelligent person would do when suddenly faced with a medical condition.

I Googled.

Now?

I’m an expert.

And being an expert, I’d like to share some of my expertise with you, my friends.

But I don’t really want to address the symptoms of perimenopause.

That’s been done a trillion times, and let’s face it…

anyone can Google a list of symptoms as well as remedies.

What I want to do is help the men.

Really.

Because my extensive research suggests,

and by extensive I mean my single Google Search

that there are very few resources out there dedicated to teaching the men in our lives how to cope with something that undoubtedly affects all of us.

And, face facts, Men.

You really need this.

Because you are fucking clueless.

CLUELESS!

Well, that is about to change.

Think of this as your own personal survival guide to living with someone who is going through Fucking Perimenopause.

And, by the way,

You’re totally welcome.

Lola’s Man-Guide to Surviving Fucking Perimenopause

1. Do not ask your wife when the “horniness” kicks in.

This will likely result in a throat punch, kick to the nuts or bite to the earlobe.

Personally, I believe that you men are confusing the words “horny” with “stabby”

because Perimenopause DOES, indeed make us feel increasingly “stabby”.

2. Do not ever use the following words to describe our behavior

(unless you are not very attached to your nuts…in which case go ahead and soon you will not be attached to your nuts):

*Nuts
*Psychotic
*Crazy
*moody
*hormonal
*ragging
*Batshit
*mad
*insane
*deranged
*demented
*lunatic
*non compos mentis
*unhinged
*mental off one’s rocker
*batty
*bonkers
*cuckoo
*loopy
*loony
*screw loose
*unbalanced

I think you get the idea.

By the way? We will be all of these things.

3. No matter how many times we repeat ourselves due to our newly impaired memory?

Pretend whatever we are telling you is new information.

Because when you tell us we are repeating ourselves we just want to pluck out your eyeballs with a soup spoon.

4. I don’t care how much we complain about our “Night Sweats”.

Do NOT buy us a portable air conditioning unit for the bedroom and call it a birthday gift.

Again, the plucking of the eyeballs is likely.

5. The only way to control our hot flashes (which, by the way, feels like someone has literally lit a fire inside our body)

is with diamonds.

Don’t ask why.

It’s much too scientific for you.

Just buy diamonds.

6. Although in a moment of clarity we women know that the room is NOT alternating between being as hot as an oven and then as cold as the freezer,

it does NOT behoove you to attempt to explain this to us while we are in the midst of these internal temperature changes.

Just pretend to fiddle with the thermostat and we will be happy.

Or at least less murderous.

7. Do NOT allude to our “mood swings” every time we go from laughing hysterically to crying uncontrollably within a 30 second time span.

This is normal…

to us.

We are complex fucking creatures!!

I suggest you adjust.

Hey Guys? Welcome to the “new normal”

8. No matter how many times we repeat ourselves due to our newly impaired memory?

Pretend whatever we are telling you is new information.

It’s really for the best.

9. We may put on a little weight, Guys.

So when we ask you if “these pants make our asses look fat?”

the correct answer is NOT

“no, it’s your ASS that makes your ass look fat!”

If you DO say such a thing?

Just run like hell because nothing short of a miracle can save you.

10. Our sex drive may not increase like all men hope and pray.

As a matter of fact, sometimes it decreases.

The solution to this problem?

Diamonds.

I know.

Seems unlikely that diamonds could cure not just ONE but TWO of the symptoms associated with Perimenopause.

They are truly a miracle mineral.

Don’t ask too many questions.

I know what I’m talking about…I’m a professional.

11. VAGINAL DRYNESS

Why am I telling you men about VAGINAL DRYNESS associated with Perimenopause?

No reason, really.

I just like to type the phrase VAGINAL DRYNESS.

And I suspect it sort of freaks you out.

12. Understand that there is nothing you can do or say

that is going to be right from here on in.

Let me give you an example of a conversation you might have with your wife.

Let’s go back to the fashion question again, seeing that you totally blew it the first time we went over it.

Wife: Honey, do I look okay?
Husband: You look fine.
Wife: FINE? I look FUCKING FINE? YOU are an insensitive ASSHOLE!

Didn’t go so well, did it?

Let’s try again:

Wife: Honey, do I look okay?
Husband: You look AMAZING! Better than you did when we met! If we had the time I’d jump your bones right now because you look so hot!
Wife: Don’t you fucking patronize me! Do you think I’m STUPID? Do you think I can’t recognize SARCASM? YOU are an insensitive ASSHOLE!

See? Not much better.

Guys? You will always be the asshole.

Sorry.

It’s not our fault.

It’s chemical.

Which reminds me…

13. Don’t ever suggest that perhaps we might benefit from some hormonal treatment…

except in the form of a letter,

when there is a safe amount of distance between you and your wife.

Because by YOU suggesting hormonal therapy?

You are insinuating that we are (insert any word from the expansive list given to you in number 2, here)

And such suggestions will result in…that’s right…throat punching, ear biting, eyeball plucking or nut kicking.

Anyway, I hope that this Survival Guide will save some marriages or at least keep some women from murdering their husbands in their sleep.

And women?

Maybe we should check into some Hormone Therapy?

Hey! Watch your filthy whore mouth! I’m just trying to help!

By the way, how do I turn this portable air conditioner on?

You don’t know?

Well, thanks for trying…

I mean FUCK YOU!

I didn’t mean that…

I love you…

Um…

I’m okay.

I believe I set a new record for myself in this post…

dropping the F-bomb a whopping 10 times!

Go me.

I am all kinds of classy.

Ahem.

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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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