E-Nup – When giving out our email addresses we should require people to take an oath promising to refrain from forwarding anything that evokes guilt, fear of bodily harm, or doesn’t mesh with our personal humor requirements. THIS IS WHY…
Of all the things that annoy me about email, people who incessantly insist I need a larger penis, need Prozac or Cialis, and I should be getting said drugs from Canada, the worst offender is the email chain letter. What’s worse is how I handle receiving them — Yes, I erase them right away. Not just because they’re junk mail but because, as ridiculous as it sounds, there’s a part of me that feels that once I’ve read one of those things, the clock has started. How the universe is somehow connected to my AOL account, is a mystery, but a powerful one.
Some chain letters go so far as to mention G-d. The idea that The Almighty is busy checking my inbox and confirming that I have forwarded the mail to the specified amount of people, in the allotted amount of time, seems like a stretch. Yet, there is this irrational side of me that’s like, “What if?” “What if G-d wants me to pass on this sentimental poem about growing up in the 80’s?”
Yesterday, I got one of those emails. In the subject box it read, “Sorry, I Had To. “ I have to say, if your subject is an apology for sending an email in the first place, rethink pushing that FORWARD button. This particular one was a message to empower women, yet to reap the true empowerment you were required to forward it to 9 of your “Sista’s.”
The list of recipients was 50 scroll-downs long. Apparently, Sista’s, hopeful at the thought of being empowered by diligently following the rules set by the email creator (probably a snickering man) were passing this thing around the globe.
This irks me even more because, I spend my days trying to disseminate relatable, humorous stories that look at the lives of moms, women and gen x-ers and here’s some poorly written warning – that actually refers to women as Sista’s – and it’s more popular than my well thought out, hilariously funny, albeit poignant articles.
So I will apologize in advance for the rest of this post.
If you “Like/Share” this article on FB or Email this:
“OMG, Jenny from the Blog at The Suburban Jungle may be the most poignant humorist of our millennium, nay, Ever! You must read her observational humor and slice of life stories as I think they’ve cured my momnesia, plus my wrinkles are 63% less noticeable.”
to 75 of your closest friends within the next hour you will meet with great fortune. Your children will be smarter, your hair will be thicker, your boobs will be fuller, and you’re husband will have a 6 pack again (or for the first time)!
This may be a humor column, but it’s NO JOKE!
I had a paralegal look it over and she said it’s legit.
Just yesterday, a woman in Westchester sent this on to 75 of her friends and the minute she hit that button, she got a call from her Mother-In-Law saying they couldn’t make it over for dinner!!!
Need I say more?
Unfortunately, if you do not take this seriously, I must fear for your safety! A mother in Idaho who ignored this request, was shopping at a Gap later that day, and inadvertently smashed into the window trying to exit the store. She was not physically harmed, but she was extremely embarrassed.
I guarantee misfortune if you do not send this, because I will personally come out to your home or place of work and open fire. I have a moderately powerful Nerf gun that shoots like ten rounds, and those suctions cups can have a very strong stick factor. I could get one right between your eyes and then it would take a lot of spit and pulling to get it off. I don’t know for certain, but it could leave an unsightly mark! All I’m saying is think about it… $10 MILLION or my saliva all over your face?
First promo is out (if you’re a YouTube subscriber, please like it)!!!
It seems like forever that I’ve been waiting for someone to give me my own show. Yes, it’s true… rounding the corner on 40 certainly wasn’t helping. I was making a running list of all the things I WILL NOT DO. You know, like a depressing version of a bucket list? Actually, that’s redundant, but you get the picture.
My looming midlife-ishness was making me realize all the things I haven’t been given that I feel I truly deserved, like: 10million from the Florida Lottery, a Ford Fusion from American Idol, or a Medical degree from Harvard. Granted, I’ve never played the lotto, been a contestant on American Idol, or attended Harvard, but still I feel slighted.
Which is how I’ve felt about the whole getting your own show thing. I mean let’s face it, everyone has a show now a days, EV-ERY-ONE. Really, it doesn’t take much. You don’t even need a full set of teeth (see Gator Boys and Honey Boo Boo) Sure
Honey’s 7 so those will grow back in, but I’d venture to say that she’ll be missing a few in adulthood as well. (Call it a premonition.)
I just want to state for the record that I do have all my teeth, which is usually a plus in the job market search, but now I am considering knocking one out or at least covering it in gold. What? Does Flava Flav not have a show?
I guess the truth is, with everyone having a show, I kinda just imagined that there was a line somewhere, like a make-shift DMV. You wait in it, all annoyed until someone with really long nails and two tone hair looks at you and tells you your gig. “Hmmm, annoying accent, high hair, tattooed, currently intoxicated… JERSEY SHORE, ANY MOB SHOW, CO-HOST ON THE TALK.” “Highly educated, dry, unattractive, interesting and cerebral… sorry, your options are limited NEW YORK TIMES TV Host (only to be watched during air travel), guest on REAL TIME WITH BILL MAHER.” “Looks good in a bikini – doesn’t prune in hot
tubs or pools – questionable morals… BACHELORETTE, BIG BROTHER.” “Funny, un-pc, likes to talk while standing, attractive enough… LATE NIGHT TV.”
You know, something like that.
So for years, I’ve sought out this “line,” and like unicorns and tooth-fairies – it exists but, only to those who believe… which is why I found it. Or rather, it found me. Yep, my show, THE JENNY ISENMAN SHOW, will be airing on Cafe Mom starting October 16th!
Here’s the first promo!!!
I like to believe my DMV bio went like this: Funny – anxiety stricken – obsessed with cellulite/wrinkles/sagging – annoyed with all the hype about beauty products, juice fasts, scheduled sex – may or may not have showered today – needs answers to cut through all the bullshit and look and feel at least a decade or two younger so that she doesn’t end up in a padded room – attractive enough…. TALK SHOW FOR MOMS, REAL HOUSEWIFE OF SOMEWHERE, GUEST ON DR. PHIL, HOARDERS.
We just finished filming the season last week and it was total insanity… (By the way, it’s a talk show for moms, in case you weren’t sure.) I was sick as a dog! My voice went from Demi Moore sexy, in early episodes to Harvey Fierstein drag queen, towards the end, I kid you not. I had an amazing set, amazing guests, amazing producers, a 15 person crew: filming, trying to keep me healthy, fed, and hydrated… checking hair and makeup. Sounds a bit Christian Grey-esque right? I mean, these are things a girl can get used to!!!
Most importantly, I got a CHEAT SHEET for all the mommas to live by – all while keeping a cynical eye and a sense of humor. Yes, I regaled some embarrassing 80’s moments, as I love to do. And I think with the power of editing, it will end up a Chelsea Handler, meets, Erma Bombeck, meets, Richard Lewis, meets Oprah. Am I aiming too high? Those editors better be freakin’ good, if not, I’m hoping at the very least it’ll be a Wendy Williams, meets the Tiger Mom, meets Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew, meets Dog, the Bounty Hunter.
I promise to give behind the scenes play by play! If you like my writing, share this with friends so they can follow the blog and keep up with the show because I guarantee it’ll be as exiting as watching the guys who fish with their hands… and that’s saying a lot, I know.
Oh and thanks, as always for your support! This is a big deal for someone who’s small potatoes.
I fear this story may mean I’ve earned cougar stripes (or should I say spots?). I mean, there was no official “welcome to the club,” but I find myself wearing more animal print spandex, my gel nails are abnormally long, and I do let out a sigh when I see a meme of Ryan Gosling, so I think all the signs are there.
It was the summer of 2009, my daughter was about to turn 5 and though we were pretty sure she was destined to be a landlubber. We had tried swim lessons since she was 6 months old — again and again. We took classes. We took private lessons. We switched instructors, and offered rewards. I had made one last appointment, vowing that if this failed, I’d simply keep the baby fence around the pool until she left for college. Continue reading →
Sometimes the best ideas are generated during periods of total and utter boredom. Also, in the shower but there’s never anything to write with so, I imagine lots of great stuff is lost. Like time machines, renewable toxic waste, alternatives to Obama Care… Well, this is one of those brilliant ideas that I dreamed up and had the good fortune to get on paper.
Shit, someone needs to invent a pad and pen that you can write with in the shower… Continue reading →
I’ve found that this is a foolproof way to firm those dimply lumps of fat and lift that butt. Wait, did I say foolproof, I may mean fool-worthy, ahem, the jury’s out. But either way, I’ll tell you my theory, and I’m sure you’ll thank me later. Well, that or send me hate mail, but definitely one or the other.
Lately, I’ve been delving into how totally insane and irrational I am. I know, it’s fun for you too. So, I’m taking a look at one of my “tricks” that makes sense in my effed up mind. My rationale is that the more sagging and cellulite I have the shorter the shorts I must wear. Like, as a punishment. Oh, you think I’m kidding, but I kid you not. Continue reading →
Before having children, I had no idea how much of a control freak I actually was. Yes, I always had the anxiety part, but even that grew 10 fold. My hubby and I lived in an apartment in NYC, where he was able to mask his inability to do simple household things like, change lightbulbs, hang pictures… use a screw driver. We had people to do that. Yes, the maintenance men were my BFFs — a small tip and they were caulking or hammering away.
Then we had kids and moved to the ‘burbs, where I realized that not only was my hubby not the type to do stuff around the house. I was not the type to delegate. My anxieties and need for perfection made his work seem incomprehensibly inferior. (The cause of many an argument)
What, are familial relationships not about winning? I’m sorry, I’m an only child, I never had to compete for parental favoritism with siblings. And I must admit, my son’s essay puts him slightly ahead of his sister in the race for my love. I’m totally kidding. I love them both, but you can’t love them the same, can you?…
As this is the end of the school year, all of my children’s work has slowly trickled into the house. You know, like the way Andy Dufrene releases the bits of wall in Shawshank? Tests, artwork, essays, scraps of scribble.
One of the prizes in the huge pile of things that will never make it to the circular file was a piece on who my son admires most. It started with this line, “I look up to my Dad and my Grandparents, but the person I admire most is my Mom.”
My first thought?
I won!Yep, you heard him. He admires you other people too (or maybe he just wrote that to be politically correct), but I’m in a class by myself. He said so… Continue reading →
The moment you bring a baby boy into the world, you start to wonder when he’s going to leave you. That’s right. You know that one day he’ll leave you for another woman — even though he’ll propose to you all through toddlerhood and tell you that you are the only girl for him.
Then he’ll spend all his time with his girlfriend, ‘cuz she’ll trick him into loving her, with the partying and the drugs and the play-dough. Yep… and that’s just kindergarten. What, there are no drugs in Kindergarten? What about sniffing Elmers and eating paste? You feel silly now, right?
You’re already quite certain that the woman he marries will probably resent you for being so awesomely cool. And you’re betting she’ll do whatever she can to break the strong bond you have with your sweet prince. Women say it’s good to marry mama’s boys, but they don’t really want to deal with the mama part.
My husband has told me time and time again to cut the cord… no f*****g way! I’m waiting until that thing rots and falls off. I mean, for how much longer is he going to say “I love you” when he walks out the door, or hug me in front of his friends, or ask me to lie with him at night? Frankly, I don’t know, but I won’t be the one to stop it.
If he’s 40 and wants me to lie with him and scratch his arm, I’ll be all “Move over, Megan,” or whatever his unappreciative, son-stealing wife’s name is.
Let’s be honest: he may be 5 now, but before we know it, he’ll be shaving, and driving, and then he’ll leave us to go to college somewhere cold. Then he’ll get married and move to be near her mother, because that’s what girls make boys do: move near their mothers! Then he’ll be a father, and then one fine holiday he’ll have “wifey” call us to cancel our plans. Then he’ll try to make up for it by sending one of those Harry & David gift baskets filled with pears, because he’ll remember that we love pears, but they’ll be bruised — like our hearts.
Next thing you know we’ll be an old crones – calling our cats by our childrens’ names and answering things that aren’t even phones.
(The last part will be because everything will be a phone – key fobs, throw pillows, hats. I imagine it’ll be confusing for lots of people, not just us, OK?)
No, we can’t go down that road, well, we may not have any control over technology, but we can take a stand against son stealing right now.
Look Obama’s already babbling into a shoe, crazy aging guy
We’ll make those Jezebels pay… no, sign! Yes, a contract for us to make them sign, besides the pre-nup. That’s right, like using WiFi in Starbucks, they’ll have to agree to our terms.
This is a MIL-nup, and it goes like this:
I will realize that my Mother-in-Law (MIL) and all her awesomeness is a gift to me that should not be taken for granted.
I will marvel at her beauty and miraculously never aging skin, every time I see her.
I will compliment her cooking, her decorating, and most importantly the incredible way she raised her son, my husband.
I will acknowledge that her son is on loan to me so that we can make grandbabies, which will probably look like her and have her wonderful traits, which I will mention in conversation frequently and with great fervor.
I will remind my husband to call my MIL daily saying: “Have you told your mother you love her today? You should, you’re really lucky, she rocks.” Plus I will throw in phrases like this:
“That amazing woman raised you, you should call and thank her… again.”
“You can truly never thank her enough.”
“Let’s go over and thank her in person.”
“We should bring her a gift when we go.”
“She’s so deserving of gifts.”
“Let’s take her on vacation with us.”
“And get her another gift.”
“Maybe a beautiful locket with pictures of you and our children.”
“No, I don’t need to be in the pictures, she didn’t raise me… unfortunately.”
I will tell other women that their mother-in-laws are not as fabulous as mine and I shall be willing to throw-down in the event that said women disagree.
I will take my MIL to her weekly hair salon appointment and shopping at Loehmann’s, when it is deemed necessary by age.
I will spend ALL holidays with your family because they are so awesome and gracious and I realize how much mine sucks in comparison.
I will move to be near my MIL, whether she has retired to Century Village in Florida, decides to live in a nudist colony in Arizona, or she goes bat shit crazy and moves to Alaska for the fresh sushi. She is so wise and wonderful, I’m sure her choice of habitat will suit us perfectly!
My MIL can soooo live with us when she’s old and can’t remember who I am.
There. You can send this to other moms of boys and print it to be signed when the inevitable happens. I just saved you from losing your sweet sweet boy. You’re welcome.
Alright, please don’t take that as a sexual reference, it means exactly what it says. My gecko is cleaner than yours… so, don’t challenge him to a clean competition, ‘cause he’ll win.
As it turns out living in Florida is like living in a remake of Jurassic Park, on a smaller scale. Like the miniature Stonehenge, for all you Spinal Tap fans. The bugs are the size of softballs and the reptile life runs rampant… through my house. Anyone who has been to Florida knows that lizards cross the roads and sidewalks with the frequency of jay-walkers in NYC.
Up north, where I am originally from, you might be lucky enough to see a majestic deer or cute little baby bunnies bouncing through your yard, but here you see the kind of things that eat cute little baby bunnies. What I am shocked at, is how used to it I have become. So much so, that I showered with a gecko the other day. Please, all you sickos, clearly there was no funny business, though I did loofah his back for him. He was just hanging out on the wall and rather than go get the cup to catch and release him, I simply went about my normal showering process. You know, lather, rinse, repeat.
It gave me a little chuckle, but what really made me laugh was when I told my son that evening about the shower scene and he said that he too showered with the same lizard an hour before. He of course played with the little guy, which makes me question whether soap ever made it to any of my son’s parts at all. Though I’m sure the gecko got a thorough cleaning and is certainly missing his tail. I said, “We must have the cleanest gecko ever,” which actually sent us into hysterics.
When my husband got home, we relayed our tale to which he said, “Yeah I showered with him this morning.” I don’t know what this says about my family. Are we all too lazy to remove a lizard? Are we a bit promiscuous, taking showers with any Tom, Dick, or Lizard that enters the stall? or Have we become so accustomed to them, that we are part of their ecosystem? Like Jane Goodall and those chimps.
I do know that if you come to my house, you’ll see a shiny lizard that smells like grapefruit conditioner and prefers air drying over being briskly toweled off. Well, Jake would know more about that.
Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I think we need to take a break. Sure, I love the way you and your friends with oversized heads eat breakfast with my family and entertain us with your theme parks, but you ask for so much in return.
I pay a near fortune to see you, then you woo my daughter into expensive princess attire and offer pricey oversized turkey legs, costly Pooh shaped popsicles, and expensive embroidered hats with ears… that don’t really translate in the real world.I’m sorry, that sounded like I was blaming you for the economy.I’m sure you and Minnie have a ton of Disney stock options, so I know you’re feelin’ it as well.
According to the latest statistics, me and 1/3 of other American families are cancelling trips this summer and taking a “stay-cation” instead.I know you’re angry.The last time you waved at me and said, “See ya real soon,” you thought it would be sooner.I’m thankful you only have 4 fingers, because I know what you’d be waving at me now.
This summer, like most Americans, I will be visiting (Chez Pa Tio).I will take a portion of the money I’m saving and recreate much of the awe and wonder you provide, without ever leaving town.
I will save $60 on those mandatory Mickey mist sprayers, and have my family stand in the general vicinity of wet neighborhood dogs when they shake.Each night my husband and I will wrap ourselves in twinkle lights, and then we’ll run by the kids really fast and call it Space Mountain.Then we’ll slow down and call it the Light Parade.Who knows, we could wear them to bed and call it Pleasure Island.
I will cook pancakes in your likeness.Then I’ll have my neighbor with an abnormally large head come over and eat them with us.I’m sure my family will be none the wiser, as his head is really big.Have a great summer now, ya hear.
Jenny from the Blog
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My children are in that phase where all words referring to bodily functions and private parts are hilarious. I call it the Beavis and Butthead phase, and I’m eagerly awaiting its passing. However, I’m not holding my breath, as it appears my husband never actually outgrew that phase himself. So, with that in mind, we were trying to think of names for our new puppy. I was throwing out the more traditional names like Max and Charlie when J, my 7yo said, “Let’s name him Gary or Phil.”
Okay, not where I was going, but a name nonetheless.
I replied, “How about Copper or Cinnamon?”
R, my 4yo daughter: “I have a great idea, how about Cinnamon Toast Weiner?”
All: Ha ha ha, lots of laughs.
OK, game on.
J: “How about Tushie-Face?”
R: “Hee hee, good one.”
Minutes went by and R came running across the park screaming for all the other families to hear, “Listen listen, we should name our dog Vagina.”
J: “Yeah, yeah, we’d be like, ‘Come hear Vagina. Sit Vagina.’”
I was making every attempt NOT to give this discussion too much attention, but the attention we were getting from the other families wondering why my boy is practicing calling a vagina was making me moderately uncomfortable.
“Could we keep this conversation down just a little bit?” I said, then went on to suggest more realistic names.
I know I’m a party pooper. (Hee Hee…I wrote pooper.)
I’ll tell you who isn’t a party pooper, my husband.
Hubby: “I know – we should name it Penis, and then when people say, ‘Jake what are you doing?’ you could say, ‘Oh, I’m just playing with my Penis.’”
Mind you this is a concept a 7yr old would not come up with on his own volition, but it didn’t take long for him to catch on.
J: “Yeah…Hey hey hey, listen. I could say ‘I just taught my Penis to fetch.’”
All, but me: HEHEHEHE HAW HEW HAW HAHA – and tear filled laughter. (I held mine in as the family nearest to us moved their stuff about 20ft. away.)
R: “That’s not fair, ‘cause I don’t have a penis, I have a hiney.”
Taking R’s penchant for the word vagina into consideration, I decide this was the wrong time for an anatomy lesson.
My husband finally aware of the wrong turn this conversation had taken, reeled it in by suggesting a name we could really use: Butt Munch. (Ah, the ever popular with the pre-teen 1980’s set, Butt Munch.)
This idea sparked tons of laughter and affirmation. First of all, my children had never been exposed to this term, so they found a special joy in both it’s profanity and it’s originality. Yes, they beamed with pride, as if their father, king of the potty mouths, had just coined it. Secondly, they liked the way it just rolled so easily off of their tongues. “Butt Munch. Come here Butt Munch. Sit Butt Munch. Bad Butt Munch.”
R: At the top of her lungs, “J you’re a Butt Munch.”
J: “No R, you’re a Butt Munch.”
Me: “No Daddy’s a Butt Munch.
Mark: “Please, they could be saying much worse.”
Me: “Perhaps you should teach it to them. Jake doesn’t know mother f@cker maybe you could remedy that right here at the park.”
So, for the last two weeks J has told everyone willing to listen that R wanted to name our new dog Vagina, and R now uses Butt Munch as a verb, noun, and adjective, sometimes in the same sentence. My friend Susan asked her if she was ready to go home the other day and she replied, “No way, Butt Munch.”
I’m so proud.
PS We brought our dog home a couple of days ago, and though R is still calling him Butt Munch, we as a family went with the more traditional, Ass Face. I hope she comes around.