Tag Archives: funny

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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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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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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Resolving to Keep my New Year’s Resolution

1 Feb

Written by Tracy Beckerman of Lost in Suburbia 

  Last year I made a New Year’s resolution not to make any New Year’s resolutions because I always immediately break them.  Of course I didn’t remember making this resolution until I was in the car one day sitting in traffic and getting really steamed about all the rude people on the road.  After someone cut me off and my daughter yelled out, “Watch where you’re goin’, you moron,” I realized that I might not be setting the best example for my children. I decided then that I was going to break my last New Year’s resolution and resolve to work on my road rage.
When I lived in New York City, I didn’t really have a problem with road rage.  This was most likely due to the fact that I didn’t have a car.  Once we moved to the suburbs, though, we got a car and I actually had to do quite a bit of driving.  I s

oon learned that the suburbs are filled with bad drivers.  And most of them, it seemed, w ere always right in front of me.  Or behind me.  Or cutting me off.  Or stealing my parking space.  My usual calm response to this was a few choice words, some fist-shaking, and an occasional, full-blown hissy fit.


Although I came by my road rage both genetically and geographically (us New York Jews are notoriously hostile drivers) I realized that I might live a little longer if I resolved to be a kinder, gentler driver.  For a while, I was much better.  When people cut me off, I would just smile and wave them on.  If someone tailgated me, I would pull over and let them pass. When somebody else swooped in and stole the mall parking spot I’d been waiting for and there weren’t any other spots within a mile of the mall entrance, I just let her have it (the spot… I let her have the spot!).
Then one day I found myself behind a car that was going so slowly, it might as well have been going backwards.  I immediately took note of the fact that the car was a big, old, cream-colored Lincoln Town Car with Florida plates and a bumpe r sticker that said, “Kiss my Tuchas.” It also seemed, quite mysteriously, to be driving itself. Well, that’s not exactly true.  I could see a pair of hands on the steering wheel, but there was no head.  It was a headless, Floridian driver doing 10 miles an hour in a 35 mile-an-hour zone on a one-lane road and I was stuck behind it, losing my mind.
If ever there was a recipe for road rage, here it was.  Of course, I was very late for an appointment, to boot, so what little patience I had wore thin after two miles.  All we needed was a couple of floats, a marching band, and some Snoopy balloons and we could have our own suburban parade.
For five miles I tailgated the headless driver, getting more and more frustrated, and mentally willing him/her/it to pull over, or turn, or be beamed up to an alien space ship and flown away. Finally, we got to a major intersection, and the Lincoln pulled over to make a turn.  I pulled up next to it and looked over.  There, behind the whe el, was a very old lady, about 110 years old.  I immediately felt awful for tailgating her and belatedly recalled my New Years resolution.  I gave her a weak smile and a little, apologetic wave of my hand.

The itty bitty old lady looked over at me, raised her hand in return…
And gave me the finger.
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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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Bar Mitzvah Chic | Tracy Beckerman

10 Jan

Written by Tracy Beckerman from  LOST IN SUBURBIA

 Getting my dress for a big, black tie Bar Mitzvah I was attending was the easy part. It was black. It was a dress.  It fit.  Enough said. No, the hardest part for me was doing all those annoying prep things a girl has to do to get ready for a big event.  What does a man have to do…. Get a haircut?  Shave? That’s about it.  However, I needed to put my black tie transformation into effect a good month before the event.

First on my to-do-list was to tone up my triceps.  Having unwisely purchased a sleeveless dress, I was now in the unfortunate position of having to firm up my bat wings so the other guests didn’t think I would take flight when I started dancing.  I knew I wouldn’t be able to do that much about my Jewish genetically pre-disposed upper-arm waddle, but I thought maybe if I did a month’s worth of push ups, I might succeed in reducing the arm flab to more of a wiggle than a waddle.

Fortunately, the dress hid a good amount of mid-body acreage, and what it didn’t cover, two pair of Spanx would take care of.   So I limited my workouts to upper body toning and decided to let the rest of it go to cellulite hell until the spring.

About a week before the party, I went to get my hair cut and colored, so it would be grown in just enough by the big event.  Then I went in for a marathon tweezing/waxing session.  Why marathon?  Well, this is the dead of winter.  I don’t know about you, but I need that extra hair growth on my legs to keep me warm when it’s cold outside. Typically I don’t shave or wax from about November until March.  Do I start to resemble a Neanderthal by February.  Yes. But at least my legs are warm.  Is it attractive?  No.  But when my husband starts to complain, I just tell him to suck it up. That’s what he gets for marrying someone from European descent.

Had I been wearing a floor-length gown, I might have just shaved my ankles and called it a day. But I had bought a short dress and I wasn’t wearing pantyhose, so I had to de-hair the whole megilla.  The technician was sweating and swearing by the time she got done with me, but I was relieved to see that my legs were as smooth as a baby’s bottom and the unibrow I had begun to sport was once again two distinct eyebrows.

The manicure went quickly, but the pedicure was another story.  As with my legs, I tend to get lazy about my feet upkeep when my toes are not being displayed in gladiator sandals all summer.  I don’t usually let it get too bad, though, because if I don’t cut my nails, my husband starts to complain that he feels like he’s in bed with a three-toed sloth.  However, I was definitely overdue for some pedicuring and ultimately, that technician was sweating and swearing by the time she got done with me, too.

With my hair, legs, fingers, toes, eyebrows, and upper arms, all the best they could be without me changing places with a body double for the night, the big day arrived.  The morning of the bar mitzvah the temperature outside plummeted so I ditched my temple dress in favor of long pants, knee socks and boots.  Six hours later we returned home to get changed for the party.  I locked myself in the bathroom, did my makeup, put on my dress, and emerged like a butterfly from a cocoon.

“How do I look,” I asked my husband as I twirled in front of him.

“You look great!” he exclaimed.  “But what’s with your legs?”

“Huh?” I wondered.  I had gotten dressed without a full-length mirror so I hadn’t looked below my waist.  But now as I hiked a leg up onto the bed, I saw that the knee socks I’d been wearing all morning had been pressed into my legs for six hours by my boots and had left me imprinted with a distinct argyle pattern from the knees down.

“Ack!!! I have etchings on my legs!” I cried.  “What will I tell people?”

My husband smirked.  “Tell them you’re of European descent.”

 

 Tracy Beckerman:

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.  After her kids were born, Tracy quit her high-powered job in television to stay home with her kids so she could be a great mommy and also have more time to go shoe shopping. 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, blogs for Lifetime Television’s show, The Balancing Act, is a contributing columnist at Today’s Mama and tries to convince her kids that Hebrew school is FUN (!) and no, they still can’t have a %&#@ Christmas tree even if they call it a Hanukkah bush.


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