This weekend my story, “Kanye, Miley, Serena: Talking to Your Kids About Celebrity Faux Pas” was the top story at iVillage. From Miley pole dancing to Sienna’s serial cheating to Vanessa Hudgens’s nude pics, celebs sometimes make poor choices. How do we, as parents, make sure our children don’t emulate their role models? Read article.
Today I took my first trip to the Apple store. Oh, the Apple store. Like it’s namesake in the Garden of Eden, or in the hands of Snow White’s evil stepmother, it was so inviting and enticing. There it was, in all of its overcrowded, minimalistic splendor.
People were taking courses on their iMacs, downloading apps on their iPhones, and buying $500 earbuds for their iPods. They were opening their iWallets and paying an iFortune for their iWare. The phrase, “there’s an app for that” echoed softly throughout the store. I was unable to find the source of this subliminal whisper, though I know there was probably an app that could help me. I walked toward the Genius Bar, aka customer service for Apple users, and was helped by quite the iLoser.
“iHello Ma’am, how can iHelp you?” The i’s were silent, but I could tell they were there.
“I have a problem with two of my iPods. One has a picture of an animated iPod on it, which appears to be deceased.” I do not lie. Apparently, when your iPod’s hard drive is corrupt, most likely from cavorting with a PC, a cartoon iPod man appears on the screen with a frown and x’s for eyes. Even in death there is some cute gimmick. PC never cutely croaks, it just “crashes,” demanding hours of conversation with India. I actually felt somber looking into iPod’s lifeless eyes, like I should say a little something before recycling it.
“My other iPod only charges on docks like my iHome, and my iBose, but not my iUSB, or my iCar Adapter, or our iDogs or any of the other iParaphenalia I have spent my hard earned cash on.
“Well, your iPod sounds fickle,” said iFreud, explaining it in a way that would suggest my iPod’s problem was more personal than technical. “Do you guys have an appointment?” he asked.
“Guys?” I said, looking around for someone that must have been hovering over my shoulder.
“You and your iPod,” he said, as if I had rudely discounted my iPod’s feelings.
“Well, being that my iPod is fickle, it’s no surprise that he is also extremely picky about who we make our appointments with.”
“Just fill in this form,” he said, pointing to the screen. “Ummm, I see we have an appointment available next week.”
“I’m sorry, did you say next week? You can’t see my iPod till next week? We don’t live nearby and…wait, what’s that iPod? Oh, right. Listen, I don’t want to offend you, iPlato, but iPod is iPissed.”
“Well, we have two convenient locations to accommodate you. Just fill in a time that works, and I’m sure a Genius here at the bar will be happy to assist,” he said, respecting iPod’s space, and also looking at me as if I were insane.
“iPod, you what? You don’t think he should be allowed in the Genius Bar? No, iPod I will not ask iDork his iQ.”
“You’re a PC aren’t you?” the iTwerp asked me, with a derogatory tone as if it were a racial slur. If I were a Mac I would obviously appreciate the simplicity of the system and the ease of making an appointment.
“Yes, I am.” I said proudly. “Why, are you going to try and convert me?”
“Nope, there’s an app for that!”
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There are certain phrases that you imagine hearing, years before they may ever be spoken. As an adolescent, you dream of those three little words “I Love You,” being said with something other than a familial connotation. You envision the intoxicating “I do,” and long for the significant, “Congratulations, it’s a (put sex here).”
The phrase I heard today didn’t represent one of these reveries. Instead, I got the ever-dreaded question “Mommy, where do babies come from?” and more specifically, “How do they get out?” This is not the first time I’ve been asked this question, but it’s the first time I considered answering it honestly.
I’ve given quite a few explanations over the years: The stork, the basket on the doorstep, “out of mommy’s bellybutton.” I’ve even given the seldom used, “We found you in a trashcan,” explanation. An excuse used by my own dad, who on too many occasions told the tale of how they first heard my echoing cry, and then debated whether or not to take me out.
How is this happening? Just last week I reiterated, with strong conviction, the existence of the Tooth Fairy, and now I’m about to share the reality of how one enters the world? While I looked around the crowded diner for signs of eavesdropping, Jake said, “Do they come out of your belly?”
“They can.” I said, hedging.
“So they have to cut your belly open and take the baby out?”
“They can.” Still hedging.
“How do they put your belly back together?”
“Stitches,” I replied, knowing this would not be the end.
“RYAN… RYAAAAN!” Jake yelled to his sister, “You’re gonna have surgery, ‘cause you’re a girl and girls grow babies.”
Ryan, who was previously occupied with the jelly packet mountain she was building, looked up in horror.
“Whaaat, Jake??” She cried and looked to me for some explanation.
“No Ryan, go back to your jelly.” I said soothingly, redirecting her. “Jake, there’s another way,” I whispered, bracing myself for the look I was about to see. “Babies can also come out of a Mommy’s vagina.”
No amount of bracing could have prepared me for the grossed-out, confused, gape- mouthed, unblinking eyes that now stared at me.
“NUH-UH!” He said in horrified denial, as if I was saying it to be funny. Like telling him if he eats too many watermelon seeds, he’ll grow a watermelon vine in his belly.
“It’s true.”
“WHAAAT, babies come out your VAGINA??”
The families that hadn’t been paying attention to us before quickly turned, as “vagina” is not the usual morning conversation fare.
“Shhh, Jake we can’t scream the word vagina in public,” I whispered thinking, this wouldn’t be the first time (see the “Let’s Name Our Dog Butt Munch” article).
“Well, I think it’s better to cut open your belly.”
“Why?”
“If it comes out of your vagina, the baby would just drop in the toilet. Yuck!”
Not where I thought this conversation would go, but before I knew it, I was explaining stirrups and spreading your legs for the Doctor.
Jake took this in with unwavering interest. I felt like I could actually see the mechanics of his mind, like watching the inner workings of a clock. Just when I thought he had digested it all he said, “How do they grow inside you?”
No way am I going there, not until he finds the Tooth Fairy utterly ridiculous. “Eggs,” I said, “Eat your eggs.”
I was quoted in Redbook magazine August, p.27 in response to the Question: Is it ever appropriate to get “Hot and Heavy” when you’re a houseguest?
My response, “It’s always appropriate to get hot and heavy, unless you are staying with your parents. Then it’s only appropriate to get warm and light.“
Sage advice, sage advice.
Dear Mickey:
Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I think we need to take a break. Sure, I love the way you and your friends with oversized heads eat breakfast with my family and entertain us with your theme parks, but you ask for so much in return.
I pay a near fortune to see you, then you woo my daughter into expensive princess attire and offer pricey oversized turkey legs, costly Pooh shaped popsicles, and expensive embroidered hats with ears… that don’t really translate in the real world. I’m sorry, that sounded like I was blaming you for the economy. I’m sure you and Minnie have a ton of Disney stock options, so I know you’re feelin’ it as well.
According to the latest statistics, me and 1/3 of other American families are cancelling trips this summer and taking a “stay-cation” instead. I know you’re angry. The last time you waved at me and said, “See ya real soon,” you thought it would be sooner. I’m thankful you only have 4 fingers, because I know what you’d be waving at me now.
This summer, like most Americans, I will be visiting (Chez Pa Tio). I will take a portion of the money I’m saving and recreate much of the awe and wonder you provide, without ever leaving town.
I will save $60 on those mandatory Mickey mist sprayers, and have my family stand in the general vicinity of wet neighborhood dogs when they shake. Each night my husband and I will wrap ourselves in twinkle lights, and then we’ll run by the kids really fast and call it Space Mountain. Then we’ll slow down and call it the Light Parade. Who knows, we could wear them to bed and call it Pleasure Island.
I will cook pancakes in your likeness. Then I’ll have my neighbor with an abnormally large head come over and eat them with us. I’m sure my family will be none the wiser, as his head is really big. Have a great summer now, ya hear.
Sincerely,
Jenny from the Blog
This was written for the new site saleHOP.com. I am now the feature writer for this awesome site. Wahoo! Here is a little info on it so you can be one of the first “in the know.”
SaleHOP is an online sale listing service for:
PEOPLE who host garage sales, yard sales, moving sales, estate sales, and more.
SMALL RETAIL STORES who seek a more effective way to attract new shoppers.
LOCAL EVENTS who want a cost effective way to promote their sale online.
BARGAIN HUNTERS looking for ways of saving time and money
They provide bargain hunters with a better way to find items they need at any sale or event occurring in their local area; while providing sellers an affordable and effective way to attract shoppers; in a comprehensive and feature rich website that provides a safe and fun environment.
This one is tough for me to write. While finding the irony in the situation, the neurotic part of me still gets a pit thinking about it. My children had a sleep over at my Father and Step Mother’s house this weekend. Like any overly anxious mom, I am not capable of total relaxation when they are away because I am unapprised of their minute to minute safety status and whereabouts.
To make matters worse a sleepover at their house is like a carnival. They go from arcades to movies to the beach to the boat to Dunkin’ Donuts often in a 4hr span. Getting in touch with them in near impossible and guessing which activity they are doing, even harder. What if my parents make a bad decision? What if they feed them food that is not cut small enough or let them ride the escalator at the mall alone…in their flip-flops!? What if they don’t account for the beach’s undertow? What if they lose them, step on them, dehydrate them, don’t apply enough sunblock?! These types of things worry me, actually all types of things worry me, down to the pillow placement on their beds and if my son, who sleeps in my antiquated brass bed, will get a limb or worse, his head stuck in the unregulation sized slats.
That being said, I had a lovely dinner with my husband and a glass of champagne, or two, or a bottle lessens the concerns. The next day we went to pick up the kids and stayed for a BBQ. It was at said BBQ that the offense occurred. We were having desert, fresh fruit and Redi whip. Like butter, cheese or chocolate, whipped cream makes anything edible. My children, having control of the whipped cream can, joyfully and excessively sprayed it in heaping mounds, masking the fruit below. Squirt, squirt…air.
My step mother grabbed the can walked towards the trash then stopped as if a light bulb went off above her head. “Who wants to suck out the air and talk funny?” she said with the enthusiasm of an eight year old.
“Um the preteens that hang out by the dumpsters in the grocery store parking lots, maybe.”
“Huh?”
“That’s not helium in there, that’s a whippet.”
Whippet: Slang term for the inhalant drug “Nitrous Oxide.” Use causes a momentary lightheadedness due to a depletion of oxygen to the brain. In worst cases can lead to brain damage, and SSD (Sudden Sniffing Death). People also risk falling and getting a concussion.
“I’ve never done it, I just remember hearing something about it.”
“I remember hearing something about hypodermic needles on the beach, but I’m not going to play Doctor with them.”
I was trying to play it off, but my heart was pounding. In my minimal experience with whippets, I remember falling on my dorm room bed, giggling and most likely killing enough brain cells to forget the SAT words I had spent the previous year trying so desperately to drill into my head.
I have no idea what that rush would do to a 4 and 7 year old, and THANK G-D no one was finding out! Ahhh, something new to add to the list… fear of grandparents offering my children recreational drugs. A new concern, a fear I would have never imagined and I imagine some far fetched scenarios.
In all seriousness, I will use this as a warning. Take a moment to make sure your parents know that sucking the air out of whipped cream cans, computer dusting cans (Dusting), and air-horns is very dangerous and should never be used as a game. It seems so obvious to us, but intelligent people who were not teenagers beyond the 80’s may have no idea.
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 a pee, but that’s like walking out to find my children playing Wii, no big surprise. No, this was a doozy. 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 pricey white coverlet, William Sonoma duvet, and white sheets. Sheets that are a gazilion thread count, by the way. Only me and Paris sleep on sheets of such extrordinary comfort.
The dark blotches looked as if my dog had found an indelible marker, packaged some TNT around it, and then plunged down on 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. I am a realistic person who is rarely paranoid, and 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 cooed 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. He then hid it under his paw, 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 the perfect crime 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.
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I was at my neighbor’s house the other day and her nine year old daughter sat down at the table with me. “Soooo, who’s your favorite character?” she asked, in the way one would while sharing tea and crumpets. I was not having tea, however, I was having coffee, one of the few things that still separates me from nine year olds. Well, most of them anyway.
My favorite character of what? Disney movies? Are we talkin’ Hannah Montana, or like Monsters vs. Aliens?
“No, my mom said you love Twilight, and OMG, me too! I am so in love with Jacob. How about you?” she squeaked eagerly, awaiting my answer.
Okay, as most of you know, I have a very unhealthy obsession with the Twilight series and the main character, Edward. I also believe, after giving the subject way too much thought, that this is either a sign of total immaturity or a mid-life crisis. So, either I’m mentally stuck in high school, or wishing I was.
“Are we having this conversation? Aren’t you nine?” Hello, clearly the fact that you love Jacob is a sign of your immaturity. “Everyone knows Edward is like the ultimate hottie,” I continued, drawing a line in the sand between me and the child that stood before me, who was excitedly bouncing to hear my answer.
“Yeah, he’s cute but I like werewolves better than vampires,” she replied, shrugging off my belligerent tone.
“What?! You’d rather date a werewolf than a vampire?” I argued. Jenny, don’t get yourself all worked up. What does she know anyway, she’s nine? While talking myself down, I noticed her Jonas Brothers concert tee. I realized that we may have the same taste in literature, and as it appears, nail polish, but I was the adult.
In fact, one of my readers had just sent me a very racy version of what supposedly happened on Edward and Bella’s honeymoon. A night that the author skimmed over to keep the books appropriate for her teen audience. Of course, in my suburb where the kids rule, “teen” means nine.
I reminded myself that I had a nugget of Twilight information that she would not be able to read for at least 2 years… at the rate she was going. I told her when her mom said it was okay, she could see my special chapter. You might be thinking that I got great joy in dangling that carrot, but nay I say. It was when I gave her a raspberry that I got the most joy.
She ran to her room and returned with a picture, the fold out kind that you pull from Tiger Beat Magazine, or One Day I Will Be a Know-It-All Slut Magazine or whatever the teenie boppers are reading these days. You know, the ones that show young girls who are famous and rich, and handsome boys that are out of reach, and in turn, set their readers up for future disappointment and body dysmorphia.
She handed it to me, and I opened it up to find a picture of Robert Pattinson, the actor that plays Edward Cullin, who is also 13 years my junior. Don’t think it’s odd that I know that. I’m no stalker, but I do admittedly frequent the website: RobPatzStalkers.com
I think her poster was a peace offering, and in hindsight, a very mature response to my childish behavior. I looked at her, and then the picture. Then as I went to leave, I said, “By the way, the Jonas Brothers Suck! Yeah, they’re for babies and you love them.”
So who’s the most mature one in the room now?
PS- don’t forget to take today’s poll, and as always, make sure you have my RSS, or email subscription!
Here is my first vlog (video log). For many of you this will be your first time seeing me, which I know is weirdly like watching the movie after reading the book (it’s all in the casting). I think I’m perfectly cast in the role of “me,” as I find myself to be the epitome of me. If you don’t agree, talk to my agent.
If you enjoy it, please pass it on.
If you hate it, keep it to yourself, you obnoxious person with nothing better to do than sneer at other people’s attempts at branding themselves and living out the dream… the American dream. But know, I will get better and I will continue to blog if you prefer the blogging.
Most importantly, thanks as always for your support!
I hope you guys enjoy! Sorry you have to click the link, I am too technologically challenged to get it directly on the site.
CLICK HERE: VLog-1
Yours,
Jenny From the Blog
AAAAAAAAH! I am so excited! (That was a scream.)
On the subject of my personal fame… one I like to write about maybe a bit too often, I am a character in a non-fiction thriller. A “bad boy” pal of mine, from my college days of selling shots for extra dough, just got his book published. He penned it in the joint, I don’t know if that’s a cool thing to call it, but I am trying to sound cool.
It’s the story of the events that lead to his arrest and incarceration. Events, which I was apparently in the middle of and was completely oblivious to. Look, as you’re considering what kind of crew I hung out with, let’s not forget I’m a nice Jewish girl from the ‘burbs who literally saves worms from burning on the sidewalk. So, without giving anything away, I’ll say he was not in the clink for murder. To be quite honest my copy is on the way, so I don’t know all the details.
This sparks a story of my own that I did not think I would tell because it could ruin my pristine image. But, what the hell, I’m sure I’ve done that already on this blog. Between the nose picking, the yelling at other people’s kids, and telling my daughter’s nursery school teacher that I got Clifford the Big Red Dog drunk.
I was, as I said, a shot girl at University of Miami. We’re talkin’ test tubes on a tray kinda stuff. Unlike the shot girls in some of the local bars, I was clad in a lot more than lingerie. I was pulling in like $200 a night, which in the 90’s was more like a grand. Okay, maybe not quite, but good money for a 20 year old still getting an allowance. Said friend was a bartender there. He was one of the few people I was friends with that didn’t go to school with me and he was a bit out of his mind, which made him even “funner.” He watched out for me and regularly reminded my boyfriend, how lucky he was. Then when my boyfriend would run off to some party he would chivalrously walk me to my car so I wouldn’t be in a dark parking lot alone.
I can’t say his influence was all good. He was an integral part of the one illegal thing I think I’ve ever done. I mean ever, I don’t even think I shoplifted a lipstick when it was in fashion to do so… you remember 7th grade?
We noticed that when someone finished their test-tube they usually put it back on the tray. In a sinister plot to up my nightly take, he would make me a flask of shots to refill those used tubes with in the bathroom. Before I go on, I must explain how even writing this offends me now. Not because of the crime, because I am such a germ phobe. To think I would allow people to unwittingly drink out of second hand test tubes that had been in a germy bathroom, ugh. If I did it now, I would have to find a much more sanitary way to swindle the bar out of their 3 bucks a shot.
My other evil ruse was to fill the back row of shots with water. That was my personal reserve. Often drunk people like to get the shot girl drunk. I was not a fan of this as; A) I’m a lightweight and B) Who wants to be drunk while working? So, for $3, which was usually $5 with tip, you got the pleasure of sharing a shot with me and watching me make some over reactive wincing face as if downing straight vodka. Then maybe I’d high five you, or do a “woo” to reflect how it burned on the way down. What, you should get what you pay for.
I was pullin’ in more like $400 a night and still sold the most shots, by the management’s count. I’m sure I spent it on all frivolous items that were hip in the 90’s, from vintage 501s to those trendy micro-fiber body suits by BCBG and Bisou-Bisou. I recall a few overly chunky heels and a lot of flannels from Structure. Flannels, that looked “perfect” tied around the waist of some shredded jean shorts with a man’s braided belt, and a baby tee from Contempo. I know, you’re thinking, stealing shot money is not the only crime I committed in the 90’s.
This is my confession, I hope you forgive me. I will send the links to the book and review it ASAP.
I went out shopping with my mom the other day and I felt guilty, not because I was breaking my necessary self-imposed shopping ban, but because I had left my kids. I had left them not with a babysitter, but with my husband. They were not doing child labor; they were simply going to a movie.
I couldn’t pinpoint the cause of the feeling I was having. Maybe it was guilt brought on by the fear of sending them off alone with their dad. Would something happen without my guidance? He had never taken both kids to a movie, so the neurotic mom in me reiterated that popcorn is a choking hazard, and they should eat it one kernel at a time. I added, “Don’t let them go to the bathroom alone.” You never know who’s lurking in the stalls.
Maybe the guilt was over the fact that it was Sunday and I don’t get as much time during the week with my kids, considering they have no break between school and camp. Maybe I simply felt guilty about missing all the fun the “UP 3-D” experience had to offer: The sticky floors crackling beneath my feet. My daughter complaining that the 3-D glasses hurt her face and that watching without them hurt her eyes. One or both of them inevitably spilling something gooey or fluorescent blue on me. I know you’re thinking, stop romanticizing it.
The irony was that I had chosen to do something with my own mother instead. Should that not be of some value, spending time with her? Do I not have some obligation to spend time with my own mom even though I can wipe myself? Does my husband having a day with the kids not fulfill some need they may have for alone time with him?
I remember a therapist, who also happens to be my Step Mother, telling me a story once. She said, “There was once a mom who had one egg and three children to feed. Do you know what she did?”
“Split it 3 ways and feed her hungry children?”
“She went to her room, locked the door, and ate the egg.”
“Ugh, what a horrible story. The mom locked herself in with the egg? What did she do next, eat her children?”
“Jenny, what is the matter with you? The kids need the mom more than they need the egg. If she takes care of herself she can better take care of her children. She could have split that one egg three ways and then passed out and then what would they have?”
“Scrambled eggs?”
“You’re missing the point.”
Here of course is the point, which is easier to impart than to accept. Taking a break from being a mom doesn’t make you a bad mom. You are other things… a wife, a daughter, an (insert profession or hobby here,) you need to give yourself the freedom to be those things as well. Sometimes “selfishly” taking care of yourself makes you a happier person and therefore a better mom.
I know, the theory sounds so obvious, it need not be stated and yet I know only a handful of people so evolved as to live by it. I am working on becoming more evolved as we speak, I am ignoring my son, who is begging me to play Wii so, I can finish writing this bl
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. I creatively make up feel better songs or merely relay the advice my mother gave me as a young child.
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? “ He questioned. “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.
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.
