Tag Archives: jewish humor

My Husband Told Me I Can Sleep With Eminem

27 Feb

 

written by Jen Ross from Don’t Wear Sweats or Your Husband Will Leave You

I had a dream.  My husband and I are in Detroit eating at a restaurant.  Eminem approaches our table.  He turns to my husband and says, “I will sing two songs at your son’s Bar Mitzvah if I can have one night with your wife.”  Shocked, my husband and I turn to each other and he says “See you in the morning honey.  I think I am going to sleep in, so be quiet when you come back.”

So Eminem and I head back to his mansion.  I think we are going to get nasty together, but really he talks to me about his mother all night, he starts sobbing, and I end up rocking him back and forth in my arms.

I make him assure me that he will still sing at Ben’s Bar Mitzvah.

I wake up from that dream with one question on my mind.  Would Eminem have been good in bed?

No, not really.  I ask myself a question I am always struggling with.  How far should parents go to please their kids?  When my son was a baby and wouldn’t sleep, I would take him in the car, in the middle of winter, and drive him around until he fell asleep.

When my daughter is having a tantrum, and I should send her to her room, I offer up ice cream.

We all do so much for our kids.  We want them to be happy.  But am I making them happy, or spoiled jerks?  I think they might be happy jerks.

As parents, we aren’t doing our kids much good giving into every whim just because we want them to be happy.  It is our job to teach them they can’t get everything they want, things aren’t always going to be this easy, and it’s okay if you aren’t always happy.  If we don’t do this job now, they will enter the big mean world and expect everything to be handed to them.

They won’t want to work for anything, they will end up coming back to live with you, and then you will have to start all over just when you and your husband started enjoying the sweet taste of freedom.

So if your kids are being a jerks, discipline them, if they want the newest gadget, make them earn it.

And on a personal level, Eminem, if you are reading this, I am still available, and I would like you to sing “Lose Yourself”, and “Not Afraid” on Nov. 3 of this year.

Superficial Tip:  With all the money you are saving now that you have stopped buying stuff for your kids, go out and buy yourself something pretty as a reward for being such a good mom.  One of my favorite shopping sites: asos.com

Jen Ross has 3 kids, 2 dogs, a husband of 15 years and an emormous amount of material to share. She is also the author of the book “Don’t Wear Sweats Or Your Husband Will Leave You.”  Don’t take the title to seriously, she’s wearing sweats right now and she’s almost positive her husband is still committed.

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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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A Wedding Two Births and a Funeral

25 Jan

By Tracy Beckerman of Lost in Suburbia

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

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

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

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

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

I brought a brisket.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And,

surprisingly,

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

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Fame Has It’s Price…$67.49

24 Jan

Written by Lori Stefanac of

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

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

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

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

She’s being coy.

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

You see? I know what’s going on.

This store clerk?

She recognizes me.

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

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

Anyhow, I’m used to it by now.

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

It’s all just the price of fame.

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

Store clerk approaches.

Poor dear…she’s nervous.

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

Shaking really.

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

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

“Sure” I say.

I am OVERLY friendly to put her at ease.

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

Except for the FAME…

don’t be NERVOUS!

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

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

That’s cute.

Like she needed to ask.

But I play along.

Afterall, this is a REALLY big day for her.

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

“Lola” I reply cooly.

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

She’s a pretty good actress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I snicker a little to myself.

“Yes, they are SO cute!”

I’m nothing if not agreeable.

Now comes the part I both dread yet understand.

I look away and pretend not to pay attention.

I AM modest, afterall.

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

“Um, Lola? Can you just sign this?”

And there it is.

Sweet girl.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh well.

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

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

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

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

Then I write in my curvy, beautiful celebrity writing:

FROM LOLA WITH LOVE XOXO

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

Call me crazy, but for just a second?

She seemed…well…almost annoyed.

I don’t get it either.

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

I decide to let her off the hook.

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

“Here, Honey! This one’s for YOU!”

I sign the business card and hand it to her.

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

I know, I know…inspirational.

I get teary eyed myself when I think about it.

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

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

She looks puzzled.

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

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

Her loss.

Anyway, when I get to the door I pause…

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

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

Why am I so careful?

One word…

Paparazzi.

 

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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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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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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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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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