Tag Archives: did i do that

A Freudian Slip to Make Freud Blush | Oh, This Really Happened

I know he seems more angry than "blushy" but YOU try and get a picture of him embarrassed!

This post needs to be filed in the crevices of my mind where repressed memories are stored and then covered up by something to obsess about, like my cellulite, or the wrinkles on my face that multiply faster then the Duggar family.

Maybe I could slide this memory somewhere between my talent show version of Gonna Dress You up In My Love and my entire 7th grade year.  Well, here goes…Recently at a baseball game, a mom friend and I were having a bout of witty banter that went terribly horribly irrefutably awry.

I can’t blame myself for how far it actually went, as I’m quite sure something else in the universe caused these events to unfold as they did.  Some butterfly in Africa probably told a really tacky joke which set off the chain of events off in the first place.  You know, something that started with “An ant and a grasshopper are looking for insect porn.”  Well, I actually can’t pretend to know what kind of joke a butterfly would tell, but one can assume.

Me and this chick were joking about a penchant many women have to bedazzle everything. Frankly, I don’t know how every word on their t-shirts is bedecked and bejeweled or how they have so many extra gem filled grommets and studs on their jeans, their sweats, their shoes, their handbags, their children, and their cellphones.  I just know that the glare makes it hard to look in their direction for fear of burning a retina.

Amy: Jenny, why don’t YOU have anything bedazzled?

Me:  Oh, I do, you just can’t see it.

Amy:  Where is it?

Me:  My belly-button.  I have one of those sticky diamond tattoos in the shape of a baseball.  It helps me get into the game.

Amy:  You could tie your t-shirt southern style to show your support for your team.  The dads would love that.

Me:  No, I like to take the shirt from the bottom and pull it up through the neck hole.  You know, camp style? The dads will definitely enjoy that one ‘cuz a boob inevitably falls out.

Amy: And then your hubby could bedazzle something for the moms.

Me:  Done.

Amy: Noooo?

Me:  Yes, his penis is bedazzled to look like a bat… and when Jake’s up, Mark runs over and whacks me on the stomach with it and we all scream “Go Jake, whack that ball.”

Amy:  Nuh uh?

Me:  Yuh huh.

Oh, it went there.  There was no stopping this tacky reparte train, but what happened next turned said train into a locomotive careening off the tracks. I turned towards my hubby who was sitting on the other set of bleachers and screamed, “Mark, come on over here and show Amy your penis.”

Let me tell you two things in my defense.  1.  I meant to say “bat.”  “Mark, come over here and show Amy your BAT.”  You know, joke joke, wink wink, snicker snicker?  No harm done. No children traumatized for life.  2.  There were about 10 kids all aged 9 a row in from of us on the bleachers. ALL of which turned around and stared me right in the eye!

Amy looked at me, mouth agape.

Me:  Did I just say what I think I said?

Amy:  Oh…my…G-d, you did.

Kid on bleachers:   Did you just say penis?

Amy’s son:  Why do you want my mom to look at Jake’s dad’s penis?

That is perhaps one of the most horrifying questions I’ve ever been asked.  I can still hear it my head as if said in slow motion through a Darth Vader mask.

Amy’s son:  Continuing without pause, “Why would you say that?”

Oh G-d, a question worse than the first, which was punctuated by 10 sets of impressionable eyes trying to stare the answer out of me.

I looked to Amy who was giggling so uncontrollably she could barely stop long enough to say this: “Yeah, why would you say that?”

But she did.

After what felt like an eternity.  I replied, “Did I say penis?”

10 nine year olds in perfect unison: Yep.

Me:  Hee hee hee (fake laugh with snort added for good measure) Nooooo, I meant peanuts.  Your mom was hungry and I wanted Mark to come share his peanuts.  I can’t believe it sounded like that.  That’s so funny, right?  Hee hee ha ha ho ho snort.  Right?

“Ohhhhhh well it sounded like penis,” said the spokesperson for 10 inquisitive kids who enjoy nothing more than the mention of genitalia, diareah, or a good fart joke.

Me:  Just me crazy accent.  Dunt chew knaw? Yes, that was supposed to be “Don’t you know” and it was said in a desperate mix of Jamaican, Irish, and Bostonian with a dash of Catherine Hepburn.

Amy looked at me sidesways as if I was having some weird speech seizure and 10 disinterested kids turned back to watch the game.

Phew.  Thank goodness for easily bored, quickly distracted, ADD ridden children. Not everyone recovers from such a racy and totally inappropriate Freudian slip.  Boot eye deed.

Note to self: NEVER talk to Amy again and stop bedazzeling Mark’s penis!

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Did I Really Give a Policeman the ‘Just a Sec’ Sign?

motorcycle policeman
On Wednesday, my day started as such: I dropped off 6, yes I said 6, rowdy elementary schoolers in carpool. I then hurried to get my piping hot latte to bring back to school to volunteer. After purchasing my piping hot latte I proceeded to rest it on my center console as my dashboard cup holders were filled with important necessities like barrettes, Polly Pockets, and a part from a McDonalds happy meal toy. Insert sound of plan screeching to a halt here. I’m sure you know how this story goes… despite my best efforts to hold the coffee in its cardboard cup holder carrier, it flipped out and splashed onto the middle row of my oversized (Due to carpool needs) SUV.

So, here was my dilemma:

Do I run home,ring out my car so it doesn’t reek of spoiled milk and race to school to be an on time for volunteering?


Do I run back into Starbucks, while the coffee seeps deeper into the carpet? Wait in another line to get a new piping hot latte and clean my car with those brown Starbucks napkins, which wouldn’t absorb the contents of an eyedropper. And of course be late for volunteering?

Well, it goes without saying that I chose the obvious. The taste of that latte was enough to mask any guilt I may have felt when I saw those sad Kindergarteners. It did not however mask the odor of milk rotting in the sun, which hit me like a Trenta sized latte when I re-entered my car. No worries, I’ll rush home, clean the car, write the article that’s due at iVillage in less than one hour and be on my way to the pedicure I’ve been dreaming of all week. Well, as it turns out, getting 16ounces of coffee out of a car without a wetvac is yeomen’s work. 40 minutes later, I was without an article and needed to be on my way to my pedi. Ok, I can do this, I will grab my new latte and my netbook and write the article while getting my relaxing, long overdue, escapist pedicure. Well, scratch the escapist part, mainly because it’s used in the wrong context and also because it would now be out of the question.

In the interest of saving time I took out my iPhone and started recording what I was going to write in my article on Dragon Dictation (voice recognition software). I prayed it would comprehend enough of my speech to enable me to simply edit while getting my relaxing, long overdue pedicure.
While holding the phone directly at my mouth, allowing me to enunciate perfectly, I drove past a policeman on a motorcycle. He looked me dead in the eye with utter disdain. Look, another Jappy girl blabbing into her phone, I should pull her over. I looked as he pulled behind me and… phew, he was moving to the other lane. I wasn’t speeding, well speed talking. Let’s face it, I could have been like all the other “Road Pirates”: typing with one hand and watching the road with one eye. I was being responsible and I gave myself a pat on the back. Of course to him I was just some distracted blabber and he doubled back into my lane and turned on his lights. Over I pulled, ready to explain my responsible choice to use a voice recognition app, but what would he care? It’s not illegal to talk on the phone in Florida.

Cliché cop with graying moustache: “Yes, license, registration and you’re insurance card.”

Naive me: “Um, was I speeding?”

Officer: “Nope, you have an expired tag ma’am. Are you aware of that?”

Dumbass Me: “Yes, my husband just sent in the check” Why didn’t I tell him that I wasn’t just gabbing to some friend? I’m working mom trying to make ends meet. Or maybe I could have told him how badly I needed a pedicure and shown him my dried out calloused feet or at the very least flashed him my tits. But noooo, I went with the ‘check’s in the mail.’

I rummaged through my glove box to find nothing, but the original car sticker, some McDonald happy meal Barbie toys, 6 pairs of 3-D glasses that I keep so I don’t have to pay the extra $3 and a rubber-band.

Me trying to infuse some humor: “Ummm, no registration or insurance card. I’m sorry, I’m not very good at this being pulled over stuff, am I?” oopsie, silly me. Boop boop be do.

Smiling Officer: “Don’t worry ma’am, I got all I need. Even though you clearly don’t.”

Sexy Me: “Oh, I got what you need right here, Mr. Officer.”

Okay, the last line didn’t happen… This wasn’t a scene from Cannonball Run.

As he went back to his motorcycle to write me up, I emailed iVillage that my article would be late and called The Strand salon to tell them my feet would be late. As the policeman got to my window and began to explain my infractions, The Strand’s receptionist picked up. I gave the policeman the “just a sec” finger and proceeded to alert the receptionist of my current predicament. Holy shit, did I just give the “gimme a minute” sign? it was a natural reflex, I didn’t want to be rude to the receptionist, I mean duh? I really am bad at this being pulled over stuff.

Apparently, he could have given me something like 74 violations, but he only ticketed me for one. I imagine signaling him to hold his horses didn’t make him feel too intimidating, but he seemed to take it well. In the end, I had to get a relaxing, escapist, long overdue pedicure and turned in my piece an hour late. Then I locked myself in my house until morning.