“.. He’s kept us company until all hours of the night. He’s been a part of our dreams, our fantasies and ultimately he’s set the standard for our poor hubby’s, unattainably high…”
Last Saturday night, on our weekly date, my husband (who is not the man in the pic on your left) pulled into a parking spot and walked around to my side of the car, (as it was on the way to the restaurant). I sat in my seat, not budging. He looked at me through the window about a foot from the door and said, “Whatcha’ waiting for, c’mon let’s go.”
Of course, I was waiting for him to open said door, but he actually yelled through it – with exaggerated mime like hand motions instead. I pulled the handle and exited with a huff.
“Why can’t you be more like Christian Grey?” I said, in the same way my daughter says things like, “Why can’t you be more like Jessie’s mom? She keeps ice cream cones in her house,” or “Why can’t we live with Julia’s? Her family has stairs.”
Yep, after having failed the many Grey tests I’d administered the last couple weeks, much to my hubby’s chagrin, Continue reading
“…ANASTASIA: Mr Grey, is that a Barbie up my butt? Christian: Oops, wrong playroom… and other things you might hear in Christian Grey’s household after a few years of marriage and a couple of children…” (For any mom who’s read any or all of the series. And I promise, No spoilers!)
Okay, I’m officially on the bandwagon. You moms with all of your oohing and ahhhing, and “Oh, Mr. Grey-ing.” Your running to the nearest Pleasure Chest Sex Emporium, and your, “My laundry and dishes are piling up because I can’t put these books down,” have gotten me to read the Fifty Shades series.
So, what is it about these books that have moms devouring them like left over fries on their child’s plate?
Well, here’s what I’ve come up with so far: It makes me giggle when someone calls their vagina their “sex.” I find the sound of ripping foil oddly erotic. And Christian has made millions of women across the world, myself included, rethink our marraiges, and wonder why our hubbies can’t be more attentive, loving, obsessed, and well, “Christian-esque.”
So, what’s the deal? Why can’t our hubby’s be more like Christian Grey?
Because like “Twilight’s” Edward Cullen (who the character is based on) – hot young vampires and hot young billionaires that barely work, have erotic sex, lavish you with expensive goodies, and make sure you’re never cold, hungry, or un-swathed in designer duds – don’t exist.
But if they did, would we want them? I wonder what it’d with a Christian Grey-esque man after a few years of marriage and a couple of children?
Hmmm? (Imagine squiggly lines in your mind, to indicate a dream sequence):
CHRISTIAN: Ohh, Mrs. Grey, stop biting that lower lip or I’ll take you here in the breakfast nook!
ANASTASIA: Um, Mr. Grey, it would behoove you to wait until the children are done with their Cheerios. It might be a bit awkward and messy with them around. Plus, you’re starting to creep me out.
CHRISTIAN: Oh, don’t worry about the mess, Mrs. Grey., Ms. Jones will tend to it.
ANASTASIA: Which reminds me, Mr. Grey, please ask Ms. Jones to stop sterilizing the butt plugs with the bottle nipples.
CHRISTIAN: Oh Anastasia, Continue reading
It has recently dawned on me that somewhere along the way, my sense of accomplishment became a product of my ability to be a good homemaker. The creative energies I once used to design jewelry and dress people are now spent trying to build intricate forts and streamline the laundry process. For instance, I’ve found that by rolling towels one can save considerable folding time while providing the added benefit of a spa-like appearance. I am a woman who single handedly opened and ran two successful companies, yet I was more excited to get my son through his first dental appointment than the day my line got into Bloomingdales.
When did this happen? When did I accept the job as Master of the Mundane? I remember the ad, it read: Seeking highly motivated person, who requires little sleep, to cook, clean, wipe tushies, noses, and countertops… oh, and provide occasional sex to employer. Person will be overworked and underappreciated. It is preferred that you have no prior experience or references. Always on duty. Will pay nothing.
Not only did I take the job, I thoroughly enjoy it and happen to be damn good at it. Let’s face it, I’m a superhero… the lamest superhero on Earth. Able to clean an explosive diapie with a single wipe: It’s a wet-vac, it’s Mr. Clean… nope it’s me: Minutia Mom!
I can picture it now; my costume would be covered with stickers that were put on me without my knowledge. It would be stained with chocolate or some other gooey substance I’d have to taste to place. It would be fashionable, but about 6 months outdated, as I have about 1hr per evening to catch up on my backlog of magazines, Tivo, and the NY Post crosswords I do to keep my rapidly deteriorating brain sharp. Sadly, I am no longer smart enough for the Times.
My skin would be relatively clear minus a couple of blackheads from slopping on too many anti-aging creams. The furrow of my brow would be screaming for Botox, only to be outdone by my Restylane seeking laugh lines. My Hair would be slicked back into a ponytail, not by some chi-chi product, but with the natural grease built up from not having time to shower.
I would walk the streets in my costume, my freshly laundered cape in tow, looking for housekeeping and child rearing injustices. “Excuse me Ma’am, but it would behoove you to consolidate the darks with the lights and run them together on cold. It would save you both time and money, not to mention conserves H2O. “Pardon me Sir, but if you let that tantrum run its course you’ll get a far better result in the long run.” Maybe going public would bring me the admiration I so unabashedly seek. I have found there is nothing people enjoy more than unsolicited criticism and advice; especially on how to run their household and raise their children.
I am always flexing my supermuscles around my house. I start by asking my husband to do some routine chore like putting the dishes in the dishwasher. A fitting task considering he seems to think they wash themselves. I know this because when he does me the courtesy of taking a glass or dish from the table he places it on the counter ever so close to the sink, but is unable to actually make it in. Clearly, this is due to the force field I installed around the basin. If he penetrates the force field, he never washes the food off the plate into that hole in the sink, for fear that the monster that lives there may bite off a finger.
“Honey, I’ve only trained the dishes to jump into the sink from where you leave them. For a more thorough cleaning, we humans must step in. Don’t worry the monster in the hole only bites if you shove your hand in its mouth.” Then I watch and wait knowing he will soon fail at this task, miserably. He’s ½ way through and … here it comes… wait for it…10-9-8-… “I can’t get it all in, it’s too full. You’ll have to run it a second time.” He says this with enough confidence to imply that a single shrimp fork and the thing’s gonna blow.
“Second time? Like hell I will. Have no fear kind sir.” I say as I bounce off the sofa and spring into action. With my cape flapping behind me, I jump directly from my seat over the counter in a single bound. I stand, hands firmly on hips, assessing the damage. Then he looks at me oddly as if to ask, “Why is that towel tied around your neck, and why did you call me kind sir?” “Step aside,” I say as I hip bump him out of the way. Like an expert Tetris player, I fit in every piece: with room for a Rachel Ashwell dinner party to spare. Than, wagging my finger, I reprimand him for not taking the valves out of the sippy cups.
Though it is an interesting side effect, my goal is not to debase him. My goal is to display the sheer magnitude of my powers and reiterate the amazing feats I perform on a daily basis. I avert looming tantrums with my Mommy Mind negotiating skills. My Bionic Child Carrying Arm vacuums so much dog hair, I could knit the sweaters needed to warm a small village in Ethiopia (okay, bad example). My point is, he should see this dishwasher phenomenon, rise from his butt, which I previously knocked him on with my child-bearing hips, and applaud me. He should applaud my greatness, or at the very least, nod in my general direction.
Look, I don’t know him personally, but I can say with much confidence that Wonder Woman’s husband doesn’t come home from his accounting job, or whatever it is he does, and ask her to gas up the invisible jet and get take-out ‘cause he had a long day crunching numbers.
How then can my husband witness my awesomeness and still have the audacity to request some time to relax when he walks in the door? What was the commute home, a business meeting? You had an hour, it’s not my fault you didn’t use it wisely. If I had a random free hour everyday, oh the things I could do. I could listen to music that isn’t sung by Disney characters. I could end world hunger. Better yet, I could shower and moisturize in the same day. Alas, I am on 24/7.
Who reads “Strawberry Shortcake Goes Apple Picking” 500 times at 9PM because the phrase “Now this is the last time.” has no real meaning? Who flies into the room at 1AM on bad dream patrol? Who uses Mommy Supersonic hearing to catch 6AM candy thievery? Me, Minutia Mom, I’m a freakin’ superhero for G-ds sake.
My new career may not be as lucrative in pay or recognition as some of my other jobs, but there is reward in altruistic work and a cheap thrill in seeing my husband screw up. Hmmm, tonight I think I’ll ask him to fold some laundry.
I recently sent my in-laws a joyous introduction to Suburban Jungle. They were not aware of the blog till my husband threw me under the bus proudly alerted them of its existence. Our conversation went something like this:
Mother in Law: “Oh Jenny, Mark says you’ve been busy blogging… Did you start a blog?”
Me: (Mark, why can we never be on the same team?) “A blog well… yeah it’s just like recipes and stuff. Nothing exciting.”
MIL: “Oh, is your Mother’s brisket on there?”
Me: “No not like yummy recipes (Where do I go from here? Crappy recipes?) No it’s barely edible kid stuff like homemade play dough and how to grow rock candy.” (Good save!) Nothing you would want to cook.”
MIL: “Well Mark told us it was a humor column and he asked what we thought of it, but we said you never sent it to us.” (FOILED AGAIN. Thanks Mark).
Me: (surprised) “Oh… thaaat blog, well here’s the thing. I would be happy to send it to you but you must take the same oath I gave my parents.”
Me: “If I tell you that I don’t want you to read certain ones you can’t read them.”
Me: “Look I love your son, but this is not a queer love blog. The love I feel for Mark is just not funny, not even a little bit. However, the shit he does or doesn’t do around the house really is. The fact that he still does not know where I keep the tool box or the plates is funny.” (Well it’s not funny when I’m yelling at him about it, but it may be to someone reading it.) I don’t want you to read stuff and call and ask if things are okay, or if we’re getting along. I want to be able to call your son a (insert punitive expletive here) with reckless abandon.”
MIL: Did you just call our son a punitive expletive?
Me: “Okay, let’s try another approach. What if I write something about our sex life? I don’t want you trying new positions and saying things like ‘Well Jenny and Mark like it.’ “
FIL: “We’d love to read about your sex life… we need a good laugh.”
Me: (Swallowing back vomit) “Funny… Listen, I didn’t want it to come to this, but clearly it has. The truth is we’re par-ti-ers. I know when you baby-sit we leave for dinner at 8, we’re back by 9, and by 9:30 Mark is fast asleep while you’re watching me put the kids to bed. But that’s because our morning life is insane.
At 4:30AM, an hour before “Crazy Mark” leaves for work we start shooting up. Then we do rails off the Pack N’ Play and our neighbors slip in the back door for a Morgy, (morning orgy). Then they sneak out and our day starts like everyone else’s, except we’re hopped up on coke. I would never want you guys to read about that stuff. That’s why I am posting a rating NPG (No Parental Guidance) on any explicit posts.
If you read it I will catch you. Your ways are not so wily. Like when you guys audibly whisper on the couch when I am 5 feet away.
Welcome to the jungle its wild in here. Well in your case tame, ‘cause you won’t be able to read the really scintillating stuff, but enjoy the other crap!