The Suburban Jungle

I would like to take this opportunity to make an introduction. Blog…People, People…Blog. Now that the formalities are out of the way, I’ll tell you a bit about life in the Suburban Jungle.

I am a neurotic mother of two amazing, wonderful, brilliant, perfect children which is saying a lot ‘cause I am a really tough critic. They have to sing for their supper kinda stuff… well at least ask… well at least grunt. Actually, they just sit and I make multiple meals until one is worthy of their sophisticated taste buds and doesn’t exacerbate their fear of burnt spots, crust, pizza bubbles, or food that touches other food. I live in a sheltered little suburb which I like to compare to the Truman Show. The bikers travel in perfectly dressed packs and the runners never sweat; they’re all just on a loop.

Most likely you’ll find that you and I are a lot alike. I have a husband who’s often little more than a roommate (a great roommate that pays the rent and supports my shopping habit). However, to earn such moola he commutes an hour to North Boca leaving at 5:30AM and arriving home between 7 and 8 in the evening. We get less than an hour a day to talk, most of which I spend nagging or just plain in awe of his ineptitude and suckiness. “I love you Monkey!” But seriously wait till you read some of the stuff he does.

Like you I have crazy neighbors who do lovely things like leave anonymous letters in my mailbox and ask that my child’s carpool not beep in the morning as their older children like to sleep in.

Like you, my children are signed up for 102 after school activities, have marathon playdates, and attend enough birthday parties to ensure I will not have a free Sunday for the rest of their young lives. Like you, I attend the school’s holiday boutiques which celebrate everything from Shavuot to Secretary’s Day. Yes, I too find myself obligated to buy frivolous wares, like stickers with my kids names and likeness on them, home tie-dyed clothes, and embellished flip-flops.

Like you I have crazy friends who are teetering on divorce, having affairs, start pourin’ the Mommy juice at noon, or act like they’re still in the 7^th grade.

Like you I have cellulite begging me to stop wearing short shorts, laugh lines screaming for restylane, crows feet crying for botox, and spend far too much money trying to look dewy.

You and I have a Cinderella complex, penis envy, and buyers remorse. G-d we have a lot of problems don’t we? Let’s just take a quick break to call our therapists.

Since we’ve clearly bonded over our commonalities, plus the need for serious therapy and a stiff one (I am talking about liquor), I must come clean on the one trend that I’m not down with. This would be the fashion statement I call “sweans.” Are they sweats? Are they jeans? No one will ever know, but apparently they’re comfortable enough to jog in and dressy enough to belt. Pheww, now I feel like I can tell you anything… and I’ve got a lot to discuss. I’ll see you in the Jungle

Love,

Jenny from the Blog