Are your thighs oddly attracted to each other and trying desperately to fill the space between them? Do you try to put on your go to jeans and they don’t fit, but your post pregnancy/period jeans do?
Are your thighs oddly attracted to each other and trying desperately to fill the space between them? Do you try to put on your go to jeans and they don’t fit, but your post pregnancy/period jeans do?
Figuring out that your parents knew as little about raising children as you do is a mind altering experience.
I spend much of my time in disbelief that I am the mom of two amazing kids, because I often feel like a kid myself. How did this happen? When did this happen? Just yesterday I was getting my license, graduating college, moving to my first apartment… and somehow I am an adult with a home and children. Children that come to me in the middle of the night with growing pains, and nightmares — looking to be comforted. I’m mothering by the seat of my pants.
How is it that I am winging it and my mother seemed to know everything? I walk around sputtering a slew of medical advice I got from this woman who was so thoroughly competent and mature at 35, they may have even let her practice medicine in some states, like West Virginia.
Was Dr. Mom wrong? Was she all knowing or just a teenager, stuck in a “mommy” body, spouting the information imparted by her mother before her? If your tongue has a green tint, do you not need to make a BM? If you get stung by a bee does toothpaste not soothe the sting? It all made perfect sense when I was 8.
I took these practices as gospel, logging the protocol in my “future motherhood file,” for safekeeping. I filled my arsenal with pertinent and sometimes even magical remedies, only to find myself at 35 in a CPR and safety class being jeered by the instructor, the “movie star” hot instructor.
Because I am mentally no more than 21, I was secretly praying he was a stripper, hoping his snug manly fireman’s uniform would Velcro straight off to the sound of some cheesy disco accompaniment.Don’t think I didn’t whisper, “bow chicka bow wow,” to get the ball rolling.
I attempted to impress him with the vast medical knowledge I had learned from the omnipotent Dr. Mom.
“Butter for burns?” He laughed. “Coke Syrup? for a belly ache?“
“Who taught you this stuff?” He prodded and not in a flirty teasing way.
Apparently, my medical knowledge was archaic. Not only did it make me seem old, it made me seem Amish.
I was about as sexy to this strapping buck as the Snapple Lady. There it is, that four letter word that is so hideous so heinous… L-A-D-Y. To this stud I was just some “lady.” My mom was just like me… some kid who was a “lady” to everyone else.Some of those brilliant treatments she made up on the fly and the others she just relayed as I did, hoping to sound as if she knew what she was talking about.She believed what she was told as a child, because her mom, another “Lady,” of maybe 25, told her it was so.
My entire foundation crumbled in 3 hours and a snack break. Realizing your mother was no more prepared or mature than you are is a shocking and mind altering epiphany. It’s like trying to figure out what was here before the world. If you think about it too much your head may spontaneously combust.
My mind was swimming. I tuned out the sexy EMT, well muted him, to think this through. Have I found the key to motherhood? Is it not in the actual knowledge but in the belief? My ultimate goal as a parent is for my children to be safe and secure. Is that not what my mother, the witch doctor, did for me? Having trust and faith in her knowledge was a necessary part of making me feel safe and secure.
Maybe we don’t need to know everything or be ultra mature to be good parents. Maybe the answers we have are enough.
My epiphany was making me hyperventilate .I considered throwing myself to the ground, grabbing my throat and kicking resuscitation Annie out of the way. Look, sometimes you take it any way you can get it.
Today, I was leaving a birthday lunch for my friend Tracey. I pulled out of the parking lot with her pulling out behind me. I got to the light waiting for her to pull next to me. Spontaneously, my face contorted into some stupid face, because I’m 5 like that. While looking straight ahead, I gave her the finger as her car inched to my side. Keeping my head toward the traffic light, I shoved said finger up my nose, way up my nose…because I’m 5 like that. I made some weird bucky beaver face while snorting and slowly turned to look at Tracey, HOLY SHIT THAT’S NOT TRACEY. The elderly woman staring me dead in the eye with a look of total and utter disgust is someone I have never seen before.
She turned quickly as if caught eaves dropping, but not before an eye roll. I stopped snorting, removed my finger from my nose, and gave her a meek smile. This is why I should not be allowed out of the house.
I considered not posting this because so many people witnessed it happening. I wasn’t sure if there was anyone left to read about it. Because there is some pertinent information, I decided it was worth sharing. I have discovered the quickest way to make people despise and hiss at you. If this is something you may be interested in… read on.
Bring a cranky child with less than five hours sleep under her belt, to the grocery store. It’s a brilliant plan for anyone with too many friends or any kind of social interaction disorder.
She began our trip like a giddy drunk: a little unstable, but cheerful and capricious. I may have even gotten an, “I love you man… I mean Mom,” accompanied by a hearty chest bump. Well, her chest, my knee. But, like most drunks, the second you shove them in to the seat of the shopping cart they get belligerent.
Cindy our favorite check out girl made the tragic mistake of saying, “Hello my sweet Ryan,” When we arrived. Her “Sweet Ryan” responded with bared teeth and an ominous growl.
“How could you Cindy?” I snarled. I should have done a 180 then and there, but I selfishly decided that it was more important that my family have their precious food than maintain any good will towards neighbors.
By the meat counter Ryan lost it when I pulled the number out of the number machine. When I felt her eyes bore a chasm through my forehead, I succumbed and allowed her to pull out 10 more numbers…much to the dismay of the deli staff.
By the time we hit produce she had spiraled out of control. I said something so horrifying, it left her no choice but to unleash an Earth shattering scream of disapproval. The grapes looked old, but I now realize, I should have kept that scary tidbit to myself.
I also affronted her by pushing the cart too slowly. When I sped up she hit her back on the cart which was adding insult to injury, actually injury to insult. Semantics aside, it was unforgivable and ohhh, did I feel her justifiable fury.
As I waited for her head to stop spinning, I decided to spare the customers the migraines they were acquiring and spare myself the gossip that was developing. I grabbed a few essentials and made a beeline for the checkout line. Cindy’s line was the shortest. I reluctantly got in it and shot her a scowl, letting her know I had not forgotten the cruel injustice she showed my child when we arrived. Ryan continued to sulk, which triggered the woman in front of me to say, “Aww, Poor thing. She’s so cute.”
I took one look at her blood shot eyes as she was rolling them at me for some unknown wrongdoing and simply said, “She can be cuter.”
As I approached the end of the belt, Cindy looked at me with the sad pouty face adults make when imitating crying children.
“Hello Jenny,” she said in a not your day, kind of way
“Don’t even go there Cindy, you chipper woman or I will knock that annoying pout clean off your face,” I barked in a stint of misplaced frustration. Okay, I didn’t say that, but I did give her the, “talk to the hand” gesture. No, I didn’t do that either. I said, “hello Cindy,” but I said it in an Indian accent, so she would be oddly confused.
Next time I choose feeding my family over my daughter’s surly mood, I will remind myself that, there is a reason Mc Donald’s is making the youth of America fat. Then I will head to the nearest drive-thru.
This story is like a bad episode of Three’s Company… not that there ever was one, I love you Jack!
I went into the vitamin store today where a lovely couple owns the shop. They know me, my concerns, my usual products, etc… My biggest issue is that I cannot swallow pills. I have forced myself to swallow some pretty disgusting stuff (I know, that’s what she said.) in avoidance of those monster vitamins they make. I’m sure the purveyors of vitamins have dealt with this issue before. It seems I have mentioned this once or twice, as the owners always consider it before helping me find a new pill.
Today, it was just the husband in the store with his brother. I think I said something like, “I need to look at the size to see if I can get it down.” Bob eyed his brother and the brother walked away. I had no idea why, and I walked over to look at a sample. Then I said something like, “Come on Bob, you know I can’t swallow.” Still completely oblivious, I turned around and the two of them were in absolute hysterics. What did I just say? Then it hit me. Oh…that was bad. I had to start with the familiar, “Come on Bob,” no less?
“You know what I mean.” I said flushed with embarrassment.
“Yes I know, you always remind me.” snicker snicker.
Then I realized, this was not a one time accidental sexual innuendo. How many times had I said things like, “I have trouble swallowing,” or “That will make me gag, it’s so big?” I could tell by the way the laughter came out like a floodgate exploding, that this was an ongoing joke, an ongoing joke that I was the ongoing butt of.
That kills me for so many reasons, as I am usually the first to get the double entendre, the pun, the sarcasm, the “that’s what she said,” moment. I can imagine him and his wife calling each other every time I walk out the door.
“Oh Lisa, Jenny said she, ‘can’t swallow’ like 5 times today. I think that’s a record.”
“Noooo Bob, that’s not the record. Don’t you remember when she was looking for calcium supplements?”
“Of course, Lisa. She said she had tried the liquid, but it was soooo thick and chalky she spat it all over the sink.”
In Unison: “That day will go down in infamy. I think we closed early.”
I know you’re thinking they wouldn’t really say that in unison, but it was either that or to write the song I imagined they spontaneously broke into.
“I cannot swallow.”
“Your throats not hollow?”
“That’s too immense”
“You are so dense.”
See not a great song.
I am no stranger to laziness, but this is extreme, even for me. I went to get refill blades for the Gillette Fusion, Mach 91, turbo, hydraulics razors that Mark and I use, but they were out. So I got the Mach 90 version instead. Being that the blades were a number off, our razor handles did not fit, but luckily, Mark had one from the last time Gillette came out with the “most powerful razor on the planet.”
We only had one handle between the two of us and since Mark shaves 5 times more often me, (I did the math) Mark got dibs. Therefore, I had to remember to take his handle into the shower and put in my blade that waited on the shelf, anytime I needed to shave.
Today. It wasn’t until I got in the shower that I realized how badly I needed to shave. Rather then open the shower door, walk all the way to his sink, and get the floor wet along the way, I decided the smarter call would be to hold the blade gently allowing it to pivot in my finger tips. Well , another brilliant idea borne by laziness. I mean look at Benjamin Franklin; sure, kite flying isn’t lazy, but it certainly isn’t a grand endeavor.
I had finished one leg, when shampoo dripped perilously into my eye. Rather than stop, turn around, and grab the towel hanging two inches from my face, I trudged on. I mean, what could be the harm in pivoting a razor in my finger-tips, while precariously balancing, with only one eye?
Actually, I got a fabulous shave minus one nick and what I might have to term a divot. I am often amazed by the things I will do to avoid doing other things.
PS The kicker is that my wireless mouse just ran out of batteries, and I had to empty yet another remote to fill it All, so that I could write this particular post about laziness… Oh, the irony.
I’d love to know if anyone has done other comparably lazy things.
Okay, I was wrong the last time I said I was famous. You remember the article “Famous Mom Gets Fired Over Crack,” when I got noticed in the supermarket and vowed to wear a bra in public, though unnecessary, for the rest of my illustrious life? Now, I am really famous.
I have tons of stalkers, I mean people who follow me on twitter and people are sending me SWAG! As in Some Wonderful Accessory, Gratis. My first piece of SWAG is one I would have paid for, which means I’m much more famous than I thought. Had the designer waited, I would have put in an order. But, fame waits for no one and so, she has to write me off as celebrity PR.
Like any celebrity, I had one of my assistants receive the package in our “package receiving area.” Translation: my son grabbed it from the mat at our front door. Then I asked my other assistant to play me some SWAG opening music, a little known thing most stars do. Of course, why would YOU know that? Anyway she did an amazing rendition of “You and your hand.” A song I hope she’ll be singing in about 10 years when the boys are callin’.
The box came from Violet NYC, a very glam, very chic handbag company, of which I am a huge fan. The owner is a friend from college who smarty realized the magnitude of my star power. We haven’t spoken or seen each other in years, but we are sisters. Anyone who has been in sorority knows that, “sisterhood is the tie that binds.” I mean, there is never any dissention, cattiness, or ill will between sorority sisters. Those oddly placed shower scenes and pillow fights in sorority houses are completely true to life.
I had FaceBooked to tell her, “The line is amazing,” “The Italian leather, looks so supple,” “Kudos on all the press you’re getting,” and “Do you actually know Jessica Biel and Blake Lively?” It seemed to be taking off, and in all honesty, after randomly coming across her bags on cute young celebs, and in Lucky and Star, I was hoping for the SD (sorority discount). I realized when she simply wrote back, “Thanks,” that she was not familiar with the common practice of giving such discounts.
Some time passed and while I contemplating what to order, I got famouser and famouser. And then I got the call, “Hi notorious J from the B, who I used to just call Jenny.”
I thought that was a bazaar greeting too, but I’ve been called worse.
“I know you love my handbag line, as you have written me almost too many times telling me so… I want to send you a bag.”
“YOU DO!!!,” cheer-leading style hurkey.“ I mean, of course you do,” silent glee with queer 1980’s fist elbow jerk a la Micheal J. Fox in “The Secret Of My Success.”
Say it’s the aptly named VIP.
“How about the VIP?”
“Sure, whatever ,“ I mumbled in my, too cool for school, Danny Zucco impression.
So, today it is really official, I am famous. Oh, and I even get to give you guys the perk of an extra 20% off. You can never say that I let my importance go to my head, or that I don’t give back to the fans. You are my peeps and I pledge, that whenever I get anything free, I will strive to get you 20% off. I will even give you a link, Violet New York City . (put TAKE20 as the disc. code)
If you get the VIP please call before you carry it, so I can make sure we won’t be at the same event. Though, I will surely be in the VIP section with my VIP bag, oh and Gwynnie and Jamie Lynn and their bags. So, it won’t matter anyway.
In one week Suburban Jungle will celebrate it’s first birthday! Yes, one year of building a following of tons of readers and 1000’s of visitors each month… sometimes each week. One year of amazing comments, personal email responses, and whispers at the grocery store. The gestation period for this baby was about 7 years longer than the standard 9 months, but it was well worth it.
I started this blog after signing up for FB. Before I knew it, I had hundreds of FB friends, because I am extremely popular. I realized, here is a huge audience of people that I can awkwardly and annoyingly push my material on. Due to nostalgia induced guilt, they just might read it. Since then, it has grown into a legitimate site, read by people all over the planet, literally. I have become a contributing writer for CityMommy, NewParent, SheJustGotMarried, and the JewishTimes. I have been mentioned in Good Housekeeping, and I am contributing to a hilarious book!
Because of you, I am looking for an agent and working on pitching two books. I have gotten multiple calls about writing a pilot and am very seriously working towards getting many of my articles published… articles that started out as blog posts, for your entertainment. If I did not have such amazing people following the blog, commenting, calling, and emailing, I don’t think I would have been so inspired to pursue this dream. So, I want to thank you.
This is around the time I would start to insult you, by saying something like, “It was you, the little people, the peons, that helped me, a titan of brilliant creativity. Who would ever have imagined?” But I wouldn’t dare, because I still need you little people.
I need you now more than ever. Because I am focusing on making this a career, I can not focus on marketing the blog. I need those of you who are technologically savvy to Stumble me, Mixx me, Digg me, Blog Roll me, Tweet me, and Tickle me. I made the last one up, but who doesn’t like a good tickle? For those of you who don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about, please pass me on to friends, neighbors, class lists, and Mommy And Me programs.
This is an official amendment to our contract, like getting an annoying packet explaining the change in your insurance coverage. I write a blog that is mostly article driven. If I want consistent traffic without marketing, I need to be more “bloggish,” and POST, POST, POST. So rather than let the Suburban Jungle suffer, I will enhance it with more frequent posts. Not all will be articles, I am still just one insanely talented person. But, I promise they will be witty, relatable, and sometimes short.
I will continue to give you the articles you love so much, and in return you will continue to enjoy the posts… that’s an order. You will talk about me at lunches, PTA meetings, water coolers, and play-dates. You will sign up friends to the email subscription with out their permission. You will annoy them with requests to join the Suburban Jungle group or networked blog on FB, and insist that they follow me on twitter. Most importantly, you will ignore all spelling and grammatical errors.
I will hold you to our contract, which like an insurance company, I have the right to amend at any time, without prior notice. Thanks for reading and inspiring every word! You are truly the best audience ever!
Jenny from the blog
I always love feedback and hope to hear from you.
I will not have as much time to post on LinkedIn, so if you find me there, sign up directly on my site, and feel free to link to me.
I must bid my breastfeeding boobs adieu. Being that I haven’t seen them in almost 4 years, I usually don’t give them much thought. I actually have more pressing things to worry about. I have to feed and water the kids, clean up puppy accidents, that usually come to my attention after I‘ve stepped in them. Oh yeah, and I’m trying to get that whole writing career thing off the ground. However, as vasectomy talk fills the air, I am realizing they will permanently be a thing of the past, and G-d they were hot.
I am not your average gal with an average chest who pumps up some bazongas during and after pregnancy and then gracefully watches them deflate. I am like training bra, well, heroine chic as I prefer to call it. But, those post pregnancy tits, wow. I remember walking around my NYC apartment, frost on the windows, two below, in a bikini top and sweats. Pausing at every reflective surface to catch a glimpse of those puppies…mirrors, artwork, maybe a spoon, freshly shined shoes.
I’m going to put a picture of my breastfeeding boobs on my counter. You know, next to the pictures of the people and animals I miss. The type of pictures you blow a kiss to when you walk by. To be honest, I also talk to those pictures, though I can’t imagine talking to my boobs. However, I’ve have been known to do stranger things. Those of you who have followed my blog for a while will remember a pretty heated conversation I had with some South African oranges.
If I were to converse with my inflated tatas of yore, I would say, “I miss you guys. I miss the way you enhanced even a tank top. The way you filled out a bra and indiscreetly peaked out of a strapless dress. I especially miss the way you looked in a thin sweater. I don’t miss the way you nearly exploded at the sound of a baby, any baby, and embarrassingly soaked puddles into my clothes at the most inopportune times.” Ahh, the bitter sweet memories, the good times and the bad. They will stay with me until I finally give in and get a boob job
People will walk into my house and see a close up of my rack and say, “What is that picture of?”
“Oh, that? Those are my just my boobs. See, and there’s my Granddaddy and my dog. Oh, how I miss them.”
I don’t know about you guys, but I have watched my investments plummet. it’s probably just me. I must have made bad choices. Reeling from the tech fallout of 2002, I cautiously invested in low risk things like bonds, and solid proven companies like GE and CitiBank. What was I thinking?
Oddly, I also assumed that my husband would receive his weekly commission based paychecks well, weekly. I appear to have been wrong on both counts. The constant chatter I hear on line at the supermarket, where people are pulling coupons out of their Chanel bags to save a buck on T.P. (one ply), makes me think, “maybe I‘m not alone.”
I want to know when I started to sound desperate and entitled? Was it when I complained that I have to make my own coffee? Or when in an attempt to avoid such a dreadful task, I offered my barista a BJ in return for a Grande latte?
You know Sally Struthers once said, that a child in a third world country could live on the price of just one cup of coffee a day. There’s probably a Starbucks like every 8 huts in Ethiopia, but how can I buy them coffee everyday when I can’t afford my own? Oh, the irony. You know Sally also said, “Stop calling my husband Meathead, Daddy.“ so I don’t know why I’m letting her make me feel guilty in the first place.
Here in the first world — America, there are people who struggle everyday of their lives and in the face of that I still manage to be upset that my husband and I haven’t exchanged gifts this year.
In an attempt to be frugal and responsible I recently returned $200 worth of “barely” used makeup and creams to Sephora. Look, we all know that stuff looks perfect in the blinding color melting lights of the store and not so perfect in the natural lighting of … reality.
That was a resourceful plan. Unfortunately, I couldn’t use the credit to buy groceries or vaccines, so I did the next best thing and prudently bought myself new creams and make-up that probably won’t look good in reality either. I may have, in a hopeless attempt to feign normalcy, wrapped those items and given them to my husband to give me for Valentine’s day. Don’t judge, the manager said I could bring back anything that was barely used. Under that premise, I’m going to try to return my diaphragm to Walgreens tomorrow.
As is obvious, I am using as many creative saving outlets as possible. Yesterday, I caught myself thriftily gazing upon my husband’s pile of dry cleaning and wondering how much of it a little spritz, elbow grease, and a strong wind couldn‘t fix. That thought gave me quite a chuckle and then I spit on the stains, rubbed them together, and blew them with my hair dryer. It worked… I may have discovered the “Ancient Chinese Secret.“ Let‘s keep that one between us. I’m using the money I saved to stave off my barista for couple weeks.
This morning I went so far as to wrap a barely read book for Ryan’s book exchange. Actually, that one kinda falls under laziness. A big sorry to the recipient, I think the one time we read it, Ryan had hand foot mouth, but I’m sure the dog hair tumbleweeds and pet dander in my house just scrubbed those germs right off.
PS I am still negotiating with said barista. He countered my offer with a week of free Grandes with extra whip (wink wink). To which I replied, “Make them Ventis, and we got a deal.” He drives a hard bargain, but I am confident that I am coming out ahead on this one, pun always intended.
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So, I am reading the Twilight series. I’m sorry did I say reading, I meant obsessed with as in, would be a stalker of the main character if he were not A) A Vampire B) Fictional. Not exactly in that order. What this says about me is that I am mentally stuck somewhere in high school, and living vicariously through this girl’s foray into a world of love and incredibly romantic, thoughtful, and charmingly chivalrous monsters.
As I left to go food shopping last night, I confronted Mark with my current grievance, as I felt it need to be addressed immediately.
“Mark, why can’t you be more like a Edward Cullen.”
“You mean a vampire?”
“No, I just want you to be obsessed with me in a, ‘Can’t take your eyes off me. You would never let me get hurt, Can’t live without me,’ kinda way.’
“Oh that, obviously. Okay. I can do that. If there is a banana peal at Publix, I will swoop in and kick it out of the way so that someone other than you trips on it and you won’t even see me, but I will always be keeping you safe and never take my eyes off you.”
“Phew, that was easy.”
“Now, could you move a bit to the left. I can’t see the game.”
So he fell off the wagon. He’s rusty, it’s been a decade since he couldn’t take his eyes or his hands or his penis off me. Frankly, the last one was getting annoying, especially in public. But shock therapy cured that right quick. The truth is, once you say “I do,” your kinda old hat. Well, not long after.
How much more obsessing and wooing is necessary, I hate the saying but, “he bought the cow.” It’s so hard to be a challenge when your married, I used to say things like, “yeah, well maybe I’ll have your kids.” Now I say things like, “yeah, maybe I’ll get your laundry.” Just trying to keep him on his toes. One day I could say things like, “yeah, maybe I’ll tell you where I hid your teeth.”
Other tactics I use to threaten his security in our marriage include, picking fights over the dishes, pointing out the things he forgets and as is evidenced here, comparing him to fictional characters that are kind and sensitive, and confident, and funny, and don’t exist in real life and if they did they’d be gay anyway.
Today I had an uncomfortable experience at Starbucks and quickly texted him this: “Hey, I burnt my tongue! Where were you?!”
He texted thus: “You didn’t see me? I already treated that tongue wound. Bet it’s feeling better now isn’t it? You were hot last night…don’t forget Jake has practice today.”
Okay, he’s trying. But, there were some errors which I pointed out in my next text: “I like when you tell me I’m hot and remind me of a practice in the same sentence, talk about hot. PS I don’t know what you used, but my tongue hurts even more!”
To which he responded: “Salt… short term it may be a bit more painful, but long term it will heal faster.”
Got to give him credit on that one. I really had no idea he treated it, but it does seem to have healed nicely. I think it was worth the extra pain… it feels so good I could even have soup tonight.
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Here is some of the early hype on the book. I am excited to be a part of it and like they say at the Oscars, “Thrilled to be in such great company.” I expect you all to buy at least 10 copies. What? Don’t worry about the economy, I’ll sign them and then you can sell them on eBay for a profit. It’s a sounder investment than CitiBank. See the wheels are always turning.
Excerpt from the Beth Feldman creator of the site: ROLEMOMMY.com:
“Okay…so I admit I am the worst person in the world to keep secrets. So I’m going to let the cat of the bag. I’m working on my next book and am so beyond excited about how great it’s going to be. It’s called C:// Mom Run and it’s going to be a humor anthology featuring essays from some of the funniest mom authors, syndicated columnists and bloggers that I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know over the past few years. While you may have heard of a few of them, what I can tell you is that these women are the Nora Ephron’s of our time. Every single one of them will share a story from their lives that some mom in our country (and probably abroad) will be able to totally relate to and laugh their sides off…”
Excerpt from Plain White Publishing:
We recently signed on with Beth Feldman of RoleMommy.com to create a series of books by bloggers, and this is our first –
C:// Mom Run: Side-Splitting Essays from the World’s Most Harried Blogging Moms.
We sent this cover idea to the contributors, and have been falling off of our chairs each time a new comment comes in! Please let us know what you think, too. Seriously.
Fun! (Although is it just me, or are her boobs FAR too a) high and b)
perky?) 🙂 Jenna McCarthy
Also there is a stop setting? Damn! Where’s mine? Can’t wait. The cover is very cute 🙂 Ciaran Blumenfeld Twitter: @momfluential
Think cover gal is wise to be wearing flats…they go famously with her ensemble, and harried in heels is a recipe for disaster!
LOVE the cover…great design, Beth!
Beth, I don’t know that I gave you permission to use a picture of me… but I love it. I hope the other girls aren’t too jealous that I made the cover. Maybe The bent hangers jutting out of my head will make them less envious. Don’t hate, those things really hurt. Though they get great XM reception. Jenny From the Blog
BAAAAA! That’s great! It’s no wonder we’re so harried when we have no arms with which to accomplish anything! Have you ever tried changing a diaper with your feet or typing with your nose? Actually I have tried that last one. Don’t ask. Wine was involved. Dawn Meehan
I had two colicky babies whom I held for upwards of six hours a day. I was so good at doing things without the use of both hands, I could have gotten a job with the Big Apple Circus – except they don’t let newborns on the trapeze. Typing with your nose? I’d like to see that. Jen Singer
Haven’t tried all of that — but I HAVE played the piano with my elbow. No wine involved. 🙂 And blindfolded. Sherry Shealy Martschink
Rosie from the Jetsons…..anyone??? anyone??? Nancy Friedman
I guess I’m late to realize she has no arms, which might be the least of her problems. Though I can barely get by with the 4 arms I have. Yea, I have 4 arms wanna make something of it? I suggest you back off. The kids in elementary school learned real fast not to pick on the 4 armed girl, for obvious reasons. Jenny From the Blog
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