So, in yesterday’s post, Why They Should Have Cat Boxing at Camp or What Happens When You Have to Send Letters about your Boring Summer, I had a stroke of brilliance. Unfortunately, I was not the first — and so, I cannot take credit for inventing “Cat Boxing.” Of course, I’d like to because let’s face it, it’s pretty ingenious. I guess exceptionally gifted *genii like myself should expect set backs in a world where most of the thoughts have already been thunk. Therefore, I’ve added some addendum’s to yesterday’s post to ensure that I don’t get sued by rabid cat lawyers. Continue reading
Over the years I’ve let some pretty stellar entertainment pass me by, like: Breaking Bad, Weeds, Lost, Shameless, Game of Thrones, Homeland, Mad Men … due to this crazy thing called life. You know life, right? The whole raising a family, having a job, trying to maintain a certain age, weight, and level of sanity (though your body fights you on it) thing? Yeah, that.
I’ve heard how enthralling and addictive these shows are but life got in the way. Well, that’s over. I’ve pretty much given up my life lately to binge watch some of these shows, so that I can have more stimulating conversations with people five years ago.
That said, I’ve found a strange effect from binge watching shows, aside from the one that makes me appear comatose and unresponsive. I start to feel like a character in these shows. Like they’re actually affecting my personality. For instance …
1) While I watched 8,000 episodes of Breaking Bad in, like, a week, Continue reading
I know, you’re like, bring on the water works. I mean with a title like that there’s bound to be a sentimental, emotionally charged poem to follow, right? Well, you’ll have to see, but (Spoiler Alert), probably not . Not all of us have perfect marriages. Frankly, most of us don’t and I kinda think that’s OK. There’s some value in being a sometimes sucky wife – just ask my hubby…
I’m like many of you – going at the last minute to buy some cheesy cards that cost $5 bucks a pop and do little more than add to deforestation. I avoid the overly-sweet ones with watercolor painting on the front because my marriage isn’t perfect and the sentiments in those cards don’t quite reflect my feelings. So, I go with humor.
In fact, I’ve noticed that my husband and I have this weird tendency to re-buy the same multi-fold-out cards for each other on our respective holidays year after year.
The Father’s day card has a cat couple and it goes something like this: Continue reading
Nearly a decade ago, I moved to the suburbs from NYC (it’s the sole reason I started my blog). In that time I’ve learned some pretty important things to ensure my survival, nay, my sanity.
If my ‘burb sent out a handbook it would look something like this. Feel free to use it as a mini-survival guide. Good luck and in the words of that guy on Hill Street Blues, ‘Hey, let’s be careful out there.’
- All children must be signed up for multiple sports and extracurricular activities, to ensure that no family can plan anything on a Saturday until their kids are too old to want to spend Saturday’s with their family.
- Do NOT be alarmed if you try to enter the wrong minivan or SUV, this is common. Try to lessen the confusion by putting fun stickers on your back windshield representing each of your children performing their favorite activity.
- You can paint your house one of 477 shades of tan. Other colors will be categorically denied, so don’t even try it!
- If your child has strep or hand foot and mouth, be aware that the entire town will know about it before you get his/her prescription filled. PS this same urgency in passing news applies to affairs as well!
- As a suburban mom you are expected to start some kind of craft business immediately. Your choices are: hair accessories, jewelry, embellished clothing, or things you can print on card stock — anything else must be cleared through the Chamber of Commerce.
- If you already have a job, you are expected to purchase these crafted goods, in bulk, at the myriad of local holiday boutiques that celebrate everything from Ramadan to Flag Day. Like PTA meetings, being absent is frowned upon.
- If you do not find a grocery store or Starbucks within one mile of your current position, you’re lost and have entered an inferior neighborhood! Please stay calm and return to your suburb immediately.
- You are required to join a gym. There, you must take spin classes with disco lighting, pretzel yourself into a reformer, and learn the art-form that is Zumba.
- You will be expected to pressure clean anything and everything from your sidewalk to your dog. Be prepared.
- Make sure your dog is cute, as neighbors will constantly stop to pet it. Be warned, the same neighbors will turn you in to the association the first time Rufus barks after 9PM. (Don’t name your dog Rufus)
- Make an immediate trip to lululemon/Athetica/GapBody/Target … and pick up workout/athletic/golf/tennis gear that’s trendier than simply wearing sweatpants. Wear these goods at least 50 -100% of the time; in the winter, simply wear your athletic gear with Uggs.
- You will need to attend a mind-numbing amount of birthday lunches/dinners for ladies turning anywhere from 30-50. Get there early, as who you sit next to (or don’t sit next to) can make or break your day.
- Cut back on sex ASAP, as you will find yourself in conversations where moms discuss their infrequent, and unsatisfying sex life regularly — at lunches, parties, dinners, play-dates.
- And stop giving blow-jobs! People in the ‘burbs are only expected to give them on birthdays and anniversaries (it’s one of the perks).
- Living in the ‘burbs is a little like reading Us Weekly: Everything is sensationalized. It’s fun to discuss “who wore it best,” but not as much fun as playing Fashion Police. You will find yourself looking for cellulite/wrinkles on young skinny moms. And gossip is treated as gospel.
I hope this helps you fit into the suburban life you’ve chosen. Maybe I’ll see you at the next boutique sale — I’ll be selling picture frames with random findings glued on to them!
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Like with debacle that was Tom and Katie’s marriage, or the demise of any celeb union, for that matter, Danny Devito and Rhea Perlman’s split, directly impacted my chance at a
lazy happy marriage, don’t act like it didn’t affect you!
Everyone remembers when Devito and Perlman got together right? I mean, I wasn’t born yet but I heard tales. Yep, just like Brad and Angie, it was a whirlwind — or something like that. Fine, I just know that they’re both short and funny and if short funny people can’t stay together… who can? Who can?
Ummm lesson learned. Do not marry someone as short or funny as you!
Listen, following the love lives of celebrities is like couples therapy … only cheaper. I think we’ve all learned some pretty amazing things for the price of a weekly gossip mag:
The Travolta’s taught me to avoid marrying arguably gay Scientologists, but if I must marry one, to now know that the house must be staffed with people who give happy endings and sign confidentiality agreements.
Brangelina justified me spending our entire life savings on a Chateau in France for my family to live in. That was the best week ever! Hey, do you think I can trade my food stamps for flying lessons?
I learned from TomKat that marriages with buyout clauses and auditors rarely work. Though sharing lipstick and Louboutins with your 4 year old is always a super awesome idea.
Posh and Becks made me see the need to conceive another child, with the sole purpose of naming it something totally random like, Stockbroker or Almondbutter or Miami.
R. Patz and K. Stew’s recent reconciliation taught me that the love of your life should totally take you back if you get caught on camera, making out with another man. Which is why I unexpectedly mounted a local anchorman in the middle of his “Live at 5” newscast (BTW they really don’t wear pants behind the desk!).
And yes, “DiRhea” once gave me the impetus to stick it out in the tough times to attain similar longevity.
Sure, their celebrity morph name wasn’t the sexiest, but it didn’t stop me from asking Mark during heated arguments, “What would DiRhea do?”
He rarely answered, but I like to think the mere inquiry got us through some tough times.
Now, with the news of DiRhea’s marital demise, I realize, there’s no finish line. You can never throw your hands in the air, run through the proverbial ribbon, and scream “We won! We lasted 3 decades, now we get to coast!”
No, on the contrary, it proves that we’re gonna have to work at this whole marriage thing for like, ever, which sucks because I’m pretty much phoning it in already. At this point my kids are numero uno and after a short list of important things, like our pets, success, and freshly folded laundry, comes my man.
So thank you DiRhea, because of you I’ll make my hubby a higher priority in my life. Well, within reason.
I mean, if Hollywood has taught us anything, it’s that when women get divorced, they find younger, hotter, more energetic men — with abs! Madonna, Halle, Demi, Katie C., Mariah, Susan S., Ellen B., you give hope to us all… mmmmmm abbbbs!
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?
Okay, tick tock……………………………………………………………………….
J From the B
And other perfectly plausible excuses for not spending in this economy… Frankly, with the amount of times my children ask for something — from $2 gems for Dragonvale to a dress from Justice to a new iPhone, I’m assuming they believe that money either grows on trees or at the very least flows to us on a river of gold.
“Someone cut down our money tree.” This is the line I used to explain why my son would not be getting the new iPhone 5 the moment it hit shelves, like some of his other friends, who shall remain nameless. “That’s right, just yesterday I was fanning myself with fresh dollar bills, off the darn thing and today… gone,” I waxed.
“I remember the old days, circa 2000, when times were good, the tree bloomed so plentifully. I would walk out and stare into the buds, too blurry to tell what they would blossom into, but so excited by the prospects. The beautiful $20’s and even a rogue $100 here or there, opened in glorious subdued hues of matte greens. Benjamins and Jacksons — the good ol’ boys. Recently, the soil has not been as “rich,” if you will, and Washington, old faithful, as I like to call him, has been the only one to flower.
The spots once reserved for George and Abie became clusters of kernels, heavy copper and silver colored nuts, that plunked down on our heads at even the slightest gust of wind. Every once in a while, a seed would hit with concussion causing force… “Damn Susan B.” I’d curse at it, and then plant it, in hopes of growing another tree. Alas, the bush it bore only sprouted subway tokens, which are of no use in the Florida suburbs.
Each Tuesday, I would pluck all the ripe bills from the tree, as Wednesday is the day the lawn people come. Well, need I say more. It’s so hard to find honest help these days.
But today, well today… I don’t need to worry about picking the fruit, because the tree is gone. All that’s left is a hole in the ground and some scattered pennies that even the horticultural filchers found not worth risking back injury for.
“So, no new iPhone 5 for you OR ME, for that matter.”
My son walked away confused and mildly appeased. Next I will explain to my husband why the boot fairy made a recent visit to my closet.
The bane of suburbia… the teenage wannabe gangsta. Beware their 8 Mile lingo, tee-shirts with moderately offensive sayings, and fro-yo addiction. They’re hoodlums alright. Well, they wear hoodies and they live in the hood, well, the middle class suburban neighbor’hood.
So the last two days I’ve taken my son to the skate park at the Kirshberg YMCA in middle/upper class USA. Be careful with the bigger kids, I warned my son, I don’t know if they’re so good.
“What, those kids are bad? How do you know?”
“Well, for one, none of them are wearing helmets or pads.”
“Plus, none of them is lucky enough to have his mom cheer him on from the sidelines.”
“Oh, aaaaand I saw one of them smoking!”
“No way. No one was smoking” my little innocent said, aghast. (Kids are really anti-smoking these days. If only they knew what chimneys their grandparents were.)
“Yo G, I got 4S” one of the older kids yelled to the others.
“No way, Seri is my bitch, yo.” Another yelled back… through his braces.
Wow, you know who thinks these kids are baaad? They do. I mean, really? Is this what happens when you’re so bored of suburbia? Can their parents stop laughing long enough to tell them how ridiculous they sound?
“WHAT’S UP WITH ALL THE LITTLE KIDS?” inquired one of the white suburbanites, who got dropped off in his momma’s Beamer.
“I know, yo. Is that one on a rip stick?” The one wearing the unfortunate fashion statement of a tee-shirt, which said, “Smell my Bag,” asked… referring to MY little kid.
My ears perked up, ready to jump in with something like, “You got a problem with my son biatch???” Oh, I can do “thug wannabe” just as good as these pishers. Plus, I’ve actually lived in a city, that’s street cred, G… Props.
“Shit, that kid is bad ass, that’s hard to do.” One marveled.
Phew, he’s lucky he called my kid “bad ass,” ‘cause homie was about to get a beat down. Plus, he IS bad ass. I wonder if he knows it?
“Mom, mom watch me do this… mooooooooommmm watch! Are you watching???” Jake yelled, unaware.
Well, that answered that question.
Frankly, Jake had no problem with these boys. He climbed up to the highest ramp and chilled at the top, as all the suburban gangsta’s tried to decide where to go next. (Hollister, Starbucks, Jamba Juice?) I know, you wouldn’t want to run into them in a dark alley. It would look like this (insert squiggly dream sequence lines here.)~~~~
“Yo bro, where do you think you’re going, BIATCH?”
“Umm, I was going to Abercrombie, but take what you want…”
“F@ck that, we were going there too! I got a sick coupon, G.”
As I contemplated the irony of this scene a new playa‘ walked up to me and asked, “Are my eyes ridiculously dilated?”
Oh, this one’s the real deal, huh? Doing drugs at the park and flippant enough to ask an adult about his “tells”?
“Um. yep, kinda.” I answered, “Why do you wanna know?” I followed. Look, if he’s insolent enough to ask, I get to ask back.
“Oh, because, I just went to Dr. Rothberg, you know the ophthalmologist? He did those drops and I don’t know if I should skate in the sun before they wear off.” He replied like a kid debating whether to wait the full half hour after eating, to go into the pool.
“Well, sure sure not a great idea.” I said, trying to squelch my laughter.
“Ok then,” he said as if I had given him sound parental advice. Then he walked into the ramped- up hockey rink and yelled to his boyz, “F@ck this shit, I’m gonna get a f@cking smoothie, yo.”
“Yeah f@ck this, let’s get smoothies,” Smell my bag, concurred.
“No way, bro, I want fro yo, yo.” piped another…
And they were gone, those crazy hooligans arguing off into the sunset about toppings and calorie counts, and spoiling their appetites.
If you liked the post push “like” up top. If you loved it, please share at the bottom and if it didn’t float your boat … let’s keep it on the DL!!!
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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
Here are the Top Reasons Not to ‘Friend’ Your In-Laws/Parents on FB or Let Them Read Your Blog (both of which I’m totally guilty of):
You may regrettably hear this:
1. “We tried that new position you mentioned and I have just one question…”
2. “Is everything ok with money? Your post about coupons/discount codes/the economy/stealing shampoos from hotel carts/insert penny pinching tip here… has left us concerned.”
3. “Have you ever thought about couples therapy? We found some of your post titles rather worrisome, like: I Cheated on my Husband with Christian Grey/ Sex or Oven Cleaning/ Husband For Sale: Motivated Seller, Why is My Hubby Such a Wuss When He’s Sick? …”
(Don’t judge fellow bloggers, I’m sure you have some doozies of your own.) Continue reading
I always marvel at how Google seems to know exactly what I’m thinking, no matter how unusual. I’ll start a question with a single word like, “Is…” and it will finish my thought to completion.
A couple months back, I saw an update on Facebook that read: “Put the words ‘I’M SCARED OF’ in a Google search box and see what comes up. I figured they’ve read my mind in the past so, why not? I mean, the answer is sure to be “snakes that come out of the toilet,” right?
So, I wrote “I’m Scared of” in the little box – and Google finished my sentence with this: “Chinese People.” Yep, “I’m scared of Chinese people,” was the top search starting with those words.
Just to clarify, that was not the phrase I was looking for — If Google said “I’m scared of Chinese people holding snakes in my bathroom,” maybe, but I am not scared of Chinese people.
I hope that’s not offensive to Chinese axe murderers, Chinese Mafioso AKA Triad (found it in a Google search), Chinese gang members, Continue reading
Why do we need to “know our vaginas,” anyway? I’m happy keeping mine at arms length. Yet, I’m told we should be more acquainted. I have to be honest, I think we’re good, me any my hoo-hoo, that is. I’d definitely miss her if she wasn’t around, but we’re not conversing during long walks on the beach, though we do like to take them (so we have that in common — which is nice).
Recently, in the pediatrician’s office, I was reading a pamphlet on puberty. Please, it’s better reading than an outdated TIME, or a Highlights where all the hidden pictures are already circled (and they always are). Anyhoo, it suggested that ‘tweens (I’m assuming that’s who it was for) should and I quote, “GET TO KNOW YOUR VAGINA.”
If there are any preteens reading this just know, you shouldn’t be — now, go google One Direction and stop reading my columns.
Now that they’re gone…
I began to think about how WE were schooled on puberty. Oh, those awful videos that hadn’t been updated since the 60’s and 70’s, so the people still had combs in their back pockets, bell-bottoms, and afros. I don’t remember the exact details, but I know most were grainy, some slightly resembled School House Rock, and I’m pretty sure one of them convinced me that you could get pregnant from dry humping — if the guy came — which I’m pretty sure no cool guy ever did.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m certainly no “dry hump” virgin. Nope, I know more than a thing or two about the friction caused by two pairs of button fly jeans rubbing uncomfortably against each other, on a waterbed, the bucket seats of a Nissan 300ZX, or the ultra-suede of a basement sofa. Look, I’m a Gen X-er, that’s what we had. Also, I was a good girl (who liked to fool around), which means I was forced to be a “dry hump” slut.
For years, I was convinced that sperm, being so powerful and microscopic, could travel through a guys boxers and Z Cavaricci’s and past my Guess jeans and little Bloomies straight into my cervix. This may be a sign that I didn’t know much about sex… but at least I was on trend.
See, we weren’t told to get to know our vaginas. In fact, I’m a bit concerned that at nearly 40 I don’t know my vagina at all. Frankly, I couldn’t pick her out of a line-up. Seriously, could you? I mean, I could probably narrow it down, like they taught you to do in SAT prep, but any vagina with the same grooming, coloring, and general size — could be mine. How sad is that? I don’t even know if my vagina has any defining marks, characteristics, or other traits that make it uniquely my own.
To make matters worse, the pamphlet may have mentioned that each vagina has a distinct personality. WTF is that all about? She has a personality? Maybe we should be conversing more, I haven’t the foggiest idea what she’s all about. Is she saucy, shy, extroverted? I don’t freakin’ know. I mean, I know she’s obstinate, yet easily swayed. That counts, no? She’s highbrow, well groomed, extremely particular, and yet, I like to think she’s adventurous.
Oh, the contradictions.
My vagina is a flippin’ onion, so many layers. How could anyone claim to truly know her? They, you, I… we couldn’t, so stop trying.
Do you hear me people? I’m saying back off — give my vagina some space. (If I had a nickel for every time I used that phrase…)
And you pamphlet writers, who are either men making a ridiculously misguided attempt at feminism or clueless guidance counselors disconnected from modern ‘tween society, could you work on being a bit more creative? Telling teens to get to know their vaginas and expecting them to take it seriously, REALLY? That’s fodder for parodies. In fact, all I could think of, while perusing your literature, was the SNL skit “You and Your Uvula,” which I’m sure dates me even more than the School House Rock reference. If you must tell girls to get to know themselves, at a bare minimum, slap a picture of Justin Bieber on the cover.
Most importantly, after pondering this piece and spending some QT with my vag — you know, dinner and a movie, non fat no foam lattes at Starbucks, a raucous round of kegals, panty shopping… I’ve found vaginas, like their owners, are complex creatures, who deserve the right to be themselves, to roam free, to explore. That’s right, we not only deserve better pamphlets, but free range va-jay-jay’s as well.
Ones, who don’t need to be pigeonholed into one personality trait, but can be all things at once (just like us): Happy, sad, elated, shy, giddy, self conscious, confident, and insane.
Have you never seen a woman simultaneously laugh and cry during an orgasm?
I rest my case.
PS – Take a good hard look at your va-jay today, it would be really embarrassing if she ever got arrested!