Tag Archives: jenny from the blog

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

9 Jan

Written by Jenny From the Blog of THE SUBURBAN JUNGLE

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here goes: [...]

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