Tag Archives: family

Things That Make You Go HMMM | Jenny From the Blog

Okay, so this is one of those things that makes me go hmmm?  It also makes me seek first aid.

falling off bikeDear  Inconsiderate Woman Who Woos my Dog,

I need to express a grievance, but I’m having trouble putting it into words, mainly because we don’t speak the same language. Could you please refrain from making kissy noises when I am riding my bike with my dog in tow.   The last couple times I have taken my dog for a bike ride you have been in the garage next door, cleaning.  Though I have not assessed their garage, I don’t recall it being so dirty, but I digress.

You seem to find my dog attractive, and have a habit of calling him in a lip smacking “come ‘ere boy” kind of chant.  Has it not dawned on you that I am on my bike and attached to my dog by a leash when you trying to woo him to you? Continue reading

Why You Should Never Ask Someone When They’re Due, Even if They’re at a Lamaze Class


Today, I learned how quickly you can turn a friend into an enemy.  Sure, the obvious ways are rather simple: run up to them, tap them on the shoulder, and when they turn around give ‘em a pop in the kisser.  Insult their cooking, their attire or worse, tell them how they should raise their children.

Those are no-brainers, if you’re in the market to lose a friend.  They’re also too malicious for my taste.  No, today I did the one thing that can make a mortal enemy while trying to make polite conversation.  I asked the non-pregnant receptionist at the salon I go to, when she was due.

You hear about people uttering the dreaded, “When are you due?” to those “not” with child or to those who just had a child, all the time.  We all know better than to ask that question unless we’re 110% sure. Frankly, I think you should witness the Clear Blue line on the pregnancy test before ever uttering that phrase.  But there I was, saying it as if I were a lovely, caring, wonderful person.  But when she replied, “due for what?” and then I watched as she processed my meaning while the color drained from her face, I realized, I was no friend of hers.  I was the devil!

I can think of so many awkward moments brought on by social ignorance.  My daughter pointing to someone and saying “Mommy, that man is sooo fat!” with said man inches away.  My son running up to a large black woman, grabbing both her breasts, and yelling across a Foot Locker, “Look at this Mommy, her boobs are HUGE.”  Yes, I’ve had my share of explaining to do, but short of my husband grabbing that same woman’s bosoms and yelling across the Foot Locker, I can’t think of a more “foot in mouth” situation than I had today.

“When she asked due for what?” it sent my mind a flutter, holy crap, she’s not pregnant –is there some  other way to respond: “Due for a teeth cleaning.   Due for a pap smear.  Due for a subscription renewal of Cosmo, “Yes, I just took a job doing magazine sales to earn extra cash to redo my kitchen, and I just wanted to give you a great rate on a full year of the magazine of your choosing at half the newsstand price!”

No, there was no other answer, though I stood silent for quite some time, thinking out the magazine salesperson script.  I went with, “I am soooo sorry.  It’s just that those damn empire waist shirts make everyone look pregnant, frankly you’re the 5th person I’ve asked today.  And then when I saw that glow to your perfectly clear skin, I just I… “ (she had walked away mid-sentence, no joke)  I think she may have gone to cry or print out a picture of me to throw darts at.  Either way, I’m in the market for a new salon –if you know of any!

Question: I want to know. What’s your worst foot in mouth moment??? Feel free to answer in Comment section.

Enter your email address:

Delivered by FeedBurner

My Dog is a Genius Mastermind


This morning I woke up to a gift, the kind of gift that makes pet owners want to just  hug their pets super tight and not let go until they pass out…I mean, gently fall asleep. No, it was not a poop or a pee.There was pee, but that’s like walking out to find my children playing Wii, no big surprise.

No, this was a doozy and what’s worse, I think he planned the whole thing. I was asleep, as I often am on Saturday mornings, while my daughter was watching Strawberry Shortcake. I woke, only to find dark stains, smudges, and ink blots all over my oh so pretty white coverlet, and white sheets. Sheets that are like a gazillion thread count (or whatever they said to make me buy them). Only me and Paris sleep on sheets of such extraordinary comfort.

The dark blotches looked as if my dog had found an indelible marker, packaged some TNT around it, and then plunged down the detonator. There were spots on the sheets where he bit through with such fervor, and the ink was distributed so evenly, it looked like a professional job.Like any good detective, I screamed at the suspect and let him out in the yard, mainly for his own safety.Then I searched for clues.There was no pen, no evidence.I had a new book on the bed and I was certain the black cover was defective and the ink was smearing off, but I rarely rub books so feverishly over my bedding.My dog would also need opposable thumbs for such a task.

Then I found it. On some of the ink splotches, there was a greasy chunky residue.I picked up a chunk and mushed it between my fingers, like a melted crayon.Wait, there’s a splinter of wood in that chunk on the pillow. This is not a crayon.This was my new retro navy blue metallic eyeliner. There was no evidence because the rest of said pencil was Tanner’s breakfast.

Listen, I’m a pretty realistic person who is rarely paranoid, but I am quite sure this was premeditated. This is how I think it went down: I wore the eyeliner yesterday in an 80’s tribute to the late Michael Jackson, an occurrence I was freaking out over. He was the only suspected child molester that I truly enjoyed and forgave, because of his insanely awesome talent. Talent and wealth make up for a lot of misgivings in America, even sharing your bed with Emmanuel Lewis.

Back on track, my dog is vehemently anti anything retro. I have heard him say on more than one occasion, “I don’t want this crappy rubber burger or fake New York Times newspaper. Go get me some Nylabone made from space-age webbed plastic cells, or some Kong industrial NASA rubber, and a chicken pot pie…bitch!” Of course, when a dog calls you “bitch,” it’s a compliment.

His distaste for celebrating decades of yore, and his taste for greasy pencils made from toxins and whale blubber made this a crime worth committing. He must have grabbed his Nylabone, which he routinely shreds, and brought it onto the bed.This allowed me to sleep longer knowing I could pick up the 1000 pieces later. The chewing coaxed me to sleep like a lullaby.

When he was sure I was out, he whined until my daughter followed him to the kitchen. There she found the new eyeliner and decided to play with it, as Tanner knew she would. When she was finished getting ready for Studio 54, she put it on the dining room table. Then Tanner chased Coco, my cat, over to said table. Coco saw the pencil, and started one of those soccer games cats do, and batted it around till she went for the goal. She eyed Tanner with a smirk and whacked it high into the air. He readied himself, did a twisting jump,and gracefully caught the evidence … brought it back to the bed, and started chewing his Nylabone to make sure I would not wake and Ryan would not look away from the television screen.

Then he went to town, with the two of us none the wiser. I have to give him credit. He pulled off a brilliant plan  and ate the evidence to boot. But no crime is “perfect,” and it was his sloppiness that got him in the end. Oh, he will go behind bars. I guarantee his crate awaits.

Why Are Men Such Babies?

For 4 days I have been sick.  Nothing crazy, just the usual sore throat in the morning, coughing, fatigue kind of thing.  Yet in those four days, the world miraculously kept spinning, my children’s schedules did not disappear, nor did mine.  They made it to school, and to baseball, and the Doctor.  They did not suffer from starvation because I decided to forgo grocery shopping, making them breakfast, or packing their lunches, so that I could lie around and do something trivial, like recuperate.

Last night I happily turned out the lights at 11PM, hoping to make up for that 4hour “nap” I had the night before.  At midnight my dog Buddy, pacing and panting like a sex caller, sent me out like a shot for his first pee break of the evening.  At 1AM my son ran in soaking wet, exclaiming, “I think I sweated too much.”  Unable to peel myself up, I let his little naked tush into my bed where he continued to whine for about an hour straight.  “Mommy, I neeeeeeeeeed pants.”  “I’ll get you pants,” and let our heavy breather out for the 2nd time.  “Mommy, I neeeed my favorite pillow.” “I’ll get your favorite pillow” and give our letchy dog a bowl of water.  By 3AM Jake had tried 12 different positions.  Including the one where you go all the way under the covers to the end of the bed and push until you fall to the floor taking the comforter with you.  He complained about 20 different things, from being upset that I had to remake the bed after he fell out of it, to having an actual dislike for color of my sheets.  “They’re white.”

In the midst of this chaos, my husband was completely oblivious during those last few hours.  Some could argue that this has been the case for the last 9 years.
He was sleeping with his body pillow, the one he stole from me in the 3rd trimester of my 1st pregnancy.  It has been our small person sized bedmate ever since.  A bedmate that he shoves in his crotch and smothers between his knees. Well, better the pillow than me.  He had 2 more pillows over his head and was taking up 73% of the bed.  He had built and Iron clad barricade which my son could not penetrate or budge.  Jake and I were so snug I’d have to rebirth him to get him to school.  Finally , I gave up and wooed him back into his room by promising to make him a fort, “just like Daddy’s.”  Of course I had to remake his bed first, as the sweat had an uncanny resemblance to pee.  I got back into bed around 4 AM, after reading my dog a story and letting my son out.  Wait, scratch that and reverse it.

By 4:45 my son was back in the womb.  “Mom, can I be your snuggle bunny?”  For how many years will I get to hear that?  At 5AM my daughter was squeezing in on the other side of me.  We laid there like a hermetically sealed package of sausages, my arm coyoteed under Ryan’s head.  Then she started complaining.  “Its too hot with this blanket.  Mom my PJ’s hurt.  Mom I hate the color of your sheets.”  Somehow, 6:30 managed to roll around.

I banged on  my husbands fort with the door knocker he installed.  Bang…Bang…Bang.  “Please get the kids ready for school.  I was up all night.”  Mark is a morning person so I imagined it would be no big deal.  “Grumble grumble… no.”  “What do you mean you won’t help me?”  “Grunt, I’m sick, my throat is killing me.  Besides, I was up too.”  “What kept you up?  Was it the sound of your snoring?  Or maybe the pillow over your head wasn’t soft enough.”  “I just can’t I’m too sick.”  My husband’s cold might as well be the plague, as the Earth has halted on it’s axis.
It would take a hemorrhaging artery to get him to the Doctor, excuse me the clinic, as he has never officially acquired a Doctor.  But, why go?  It’s easier to lay around and tease my children with his untouchable presence.  He’ll spend his day creating an impressive mound of snotty tissues, large enough to pitch off of.  Tissues which he is too sick to bend down and pick up, however he is not too sick to work, or to make sure to keep up with his fantasy football team.
He’ll refuse to use sanitizer, and sluggishly mosey around the house, putting his grubby, germy hands in every bag of chips, touching every door knob and remote, and talking on every phone.  He may even lick the straws on the juice boxes for good measure.  All in a effort to ensure that as soon as he gets better, both my children will surely contract his illness and I will have no shot at personal recovery.

Now I should Mommy him, which in my bitter and sick state, I cannot even feign an attempt.  Listen, if I wanted another child I would adopt one from Indonesia.  If you need to be babied, call your Mom.  Better yet, go stay with her.  I don’t ask that my sickness or lack of sleep take precedence over yours.  I just ask that you go to a hotel until your’s passes.”

My 3 Year Old’s Drinking Problem

While on a play date yesterday, my three year old daughter asked me for some apple juice.“One sec, I’m making it,” I called from the kitchen. My friend looked at me oddly and asked how one “make” apple juice? No, I wasn’t using a trendy juicer, I was filling half the cup with water. Yes, it’s true, I still dilute my daughter’s drinks, and I dread the day she gets a taste of the real thing.

Tasting straight apple juice for the first time is like discovering Us Weekly, instant addiction! I imagine just one drop of the undiluted appley goodness and she’ll no doubt, stop in her tracks, while listening to angels sing “Hallelujah.” Then she’ll have a grand epiphany and say, “Mother, I feel somehow different, it is as if my taste buds have awoken from a deep slumber and shall never sleep again!”

Before long, she’ll realize it was I, who prohibited this feeling for so long. It was I, who robbed her of such delicious joy. What else have I robbed her of? Is there better gum than the sugar free crap she’s tasted? Is her powdered Mac N’ Cheese not real cheese?

Before we know it, she’ll be hanging out in cider bars drinking straight from the tap. We’ll look for her to hold an intervention, only to find that she’s take up with a big rig driver who works for Motts and we won’t see her again until HE can no longer afford to fund her drinking problem. He’ll then drop her at our doorstep, juiced-up and maybe even on the sauce (the applesauce).

So do me a favor, if you see my daughter at a party or a school function, and you’re tempted to give her just a taste of that sweet nectar, take a step back and contemplate how you will be ruining our lives, and then give it to your own kid.