The CBS segment link is in. That faux-hawk took me over an hour! I had such a blast with this one. The video will be on the upper right hand corner. You may not get the video if you use your cell phone. ENJOY! Cutting Corners: Halloween on a Budget
Thanks,
J from the B
Alright, please don’t take that as a sexual reference, it means exactly what it says. My gecko is cleaner than yours… so, don’t challenge him to a clean competition, ‘cause he’ll win.
As it turns out living in Florida is like living in a remake of Jurassic Park, on a smaller scale. Like the miniature Stonehenge, for all you Spinal Tap fans. The bugs are the size of softballs and the reptile life runs rampant… through my house. Anyone who has been to Florida knows that lizards cross the roads and sidewalks with the frequency of jay-walkers in NYC.
Up north, where I am originally from, you might be lucky enough to see a majestic deer or cute little baby bunnies bouncing through your yard, but here you see the kind of things that eat cute little baby bunnies. What I am shocked at, is how used to it I have become. So much so, that I showered with a gecko the other day. Please, all you sickos, clearly there was no funny business, though I did loofah his back for him. He was just hanging out on the wall and rather than go get the cup to catch and release him, I simply went about my normal showering process. You know, lather, rinse, repeat.
It gave me a little chuckle, but what really made me laugh was when I told my son that evening about the shower scene and he said that he too showered with the same lizard an hour before. He of course played with the little guy, which makes me question whether soap ever made it to any of my son’s parts at all. Though I’m sure the gecko got a thorough cleaning and is certainly missing his tail. I said, “We must have the cleanest gecko ever,” which actually sent us into hysterics.
When my husband got home, we relayed our tale to which he said, “Yeah I showered with him this morning.” I don’t know what this says about my family. Are we all too lazy to remove a lizard? Are we a bit promiscuous, taking showers with any Tom, Dick, or Lizard that enters the stall? or Have we become so accustomed to them, that we are part of their ecosystem? Like Jane Goodall and those chimps.
I do know that if you come to my house, you’ll see a shiny lizard that smells like grapefruit conditioner and prefers air drying over being briskly toweled off. Well, Jake would know more about that.
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 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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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
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
This story is like a bad episode of Three’s Company… not that there ever was one, I love you Jack!
I went into the vitamin store today where a lovely couple owns the shop. They know me, my concerns, my usual products, etc… My biggest issue is that I cannot swallow pills. I have forced myself to swallow some pretty disgusting stuff (I know, that’s what she said.) in avoidance of those monster vitamins they make. I’m sure the purveyors of vitamins have dealt with this issue before. It seems I have mentioned this once or twice, as the owners always consider it before helping me find a new pill.
Today, it was just the husband in the store with his brother. I think I said something like, “I need to look at the size to see if I can get it down.” Bob eyed his brother and the brother walked away. I had no idea why, and I walked over to look at a sample. Then I said something like, “Come on Bob, you know I can’t swallow.” Still completely oblivious, I turned around and the two of them were in absolute hysterics. What did I just say? Then it hit me. Oh…that was bad. I had to start with the familiar, “Come on Bob,” no less?
“You know what I mean.” I said flushed with embarrassment.
“Yes I know, you always remind me.” snicker snicker.
Then I realized, this was not a one time accidental sexual innuendo. How many times had I said things like, “I have trouble swallowing,” or “That will make me gag, it’s so big?” I could tell by the way the laughter came out like a floodgate exploding, that this was an ongoing joke, an ongoing joke that I was the ongoing butt of.
That kills me for so many reasons, as I am usually the first to get the double entendre, the pun, the sarcasm, the “that’s what she said,” moment. I can imagine him and his wife calling each other every time I walk out the door.
“Oh Lisa, Jenny said she, ‘can’t swallow’ like 5 times today. I think that’s a record.”
“Noooo Bob, that’s not the record. Don’t you remember when she was looking for calcium supplements?”
“Of course, Lisa. She said she had tried the liquid, but it was soooo thick and chalky she spat it all over the sink.”
In Unison: “That day will go down in infamy. I think we closed early.”
I know you’re thinking they wouldn’t really say that in unison, but it was either that or to write the song I imagined they spontaneously broke into.
“I cannot swallow.”
“Your throats not hollow?”
“That’s too immense”
“You are so dense.”
See not a great song.
Grandparent alert!!! The following post is not suitable for parental viewing, particularly if you happen to be one of my parents. You know who you are.
Last night I went to a sex party, which one of my friends was co-hosting. Upon entering, I was quickly introduced to the “Sexpert.”
“Jenny this is Julie, she is a penis expert.”
“That’s funny. I’m somewhat of a penis expert myself,” I said, buffing my nails on my shirt as if cleaning an apple. Then I blathered something about not being a pro like her, but more of a novice. “I mean it’s not that I couldn’t go pro if I… It’s just I don’t want to ruin my amateur status for the Olympics.” Jenny what the hell are you talking about? Did you just mention the Olympics? The Olympics of what – hand-jobs? Just shut up, already.
Sometimes when I’m uncomfortable I use humor to fill conversational gaps. Did I say use? I meant abuse, like in the form of an oddly misplaced stand-up routine, which can sometimes get painfully frantic.
“Oh, what do you do?” she asked, not knowing what to make of my schtick. “Are you a urologist or something?”
“No, I’m just a slut.“ Really, Jenny? Did you just say that? “I’m not really a slut, I’ve just had my fair share of penises.” Well, that fixed it. Now if someone could offer me a drink or something, I could make some non-PC reference like, “No thanks I got drunk on the ride over.” Ba-dum-bum…there’s a two drink minimum, and please don’t forget to tip your waitress.
Leaving me to recover from my awkward comedic spewing, Julie went off to set up her consortium of vibrators and other paraphernalia. And wouldn‘t you know it – lucky me- I was chosen to wear the vibrating undies. They didn’t vibrate constantly, but were actually activated via remote. I spent much of her discussion trying to pinpoint who was controlling said remote. Each time I was “zapped,” it sent me about five inches off the sofa, which really entertained the crowd.
Before too long, I realized that my party mates were intrigued by Julie’s products and the impact they could have on their sex lives. I had originally pegged these girls as tame and conservative, but those are the ones you gotta look out for. By the sheer gleam in their eyes, I would wager that at least one had a secret room, and maybe two more frequently used a “safe-word.” Should I be intrigued by these items as well? I am just here for research. I am an observer. Of course, that implies that any purchases are write-offs. Who aside from a hooker can make that statement?
Our instructor pulled out the “Bunny” the “Koala Bear,” the “Humming Bird,” and the “Elephant.” Why are they all animals? I rarely think of animals when I am trying to have an orgasm.
Finally, she pulled out what she called “The Mother of all Vibrators.” It was called the Vishnu: it had so many arms, so many options… It was like the Swiss Army knife of sex toys.
It wiggled, jiggled, pumped, undulated, swerved, lurved, fluxed, rolled, snorfed, found your G spot, your car keys, and changed a flat. She went on to show us the features, and mid sentence she dunked it in her latte. “Did I mention it’s waterproof?” She giggled as she used it to refroth her milk.
I appropriately dub thee: “The Divorcer.”
So, I left with the urge to come home and show my husband that we didn’t need to enhance our already perfect, albeit infrequent, sex life. However, when I got home, the first thing I did was clean my oven, and I don’t mean that metaphorically.
You see, I had left my oven on self-clean and my house smelled as if it had been broiled. How could I, in good conscience, go to bed or “to bed,” without wiping off the residue? It’s wasn’t like the residue would still be there in the morning.
There I stood, well crouched, tipsy, children in bed, at 10pm, in white wide leg jeans cleaning my oven. Hmmm, maybe our sex life could use some enhancing… or a new cleaning lady. Tap, tap… is this thing on?
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As some of you know, I am still working on my wedding album. Yes, I was married almost a decade ago, but beautiful things take time, especially if you want them PERFECT! So, it is coming to a close, it’s sad, the idea of not getting those emails telling me that this is my last chance to finish, with “Just Following Up…Again.” in the subject line.
My photographer has actually been through about five layout designers and so, each time the album takes on a new quality. Now it is “Elegant-Classic-Chic,” my personal favorite. The current designer is patient and I’ve grown to like her. I will definitely use her for my next wedding, which I expect to be sooner than later. I always said, “I will have the album just in time to decide who gets it… in the divorce.”
Sadly, I never realized that after ten years I would not even remember the names of some of my guests. Damn those 200 “important people,” who “Had to see me get married.” Oh, the money I could have saved towards a down payment on a house. Once I remember their names, I am going to find them on my FaceBook friend list and ask them for my money back.
Yes, that is my plan, as soon as this album comes out. The only thing left to do is pick the album itself. It was set for Black Leatherette. But, that’s so 1999. Here are the last few emails:
Date: Tue, 28 Apr 2009 13:32:25 EDT
To: <JennyBGoodInc@aol.com>
Subject: Following up on cover choice
Hi Jenny,
They fixed the yellow spots and I am ready to approve your album. Thank you for your signed approval form. Now all I need is for you to confirm the cover choice. Please respond at your earliest convenience.
Thanks,
I love the cream leather… Is it embossed?
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
You can definitely have your names and the date embossed on the cover.
Do you think the cream leather is queer?
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
Not at all…I think it is gorgeous for your designed album. The only thing with ivory, it could get quite dirty if it’s not taken care of. I’m sure you understand that.
Are you suggesting that my two perfect children, ages 4 and 7 or my incredibly trained 5 month old puppy and 37 year old, male child husband, would ever do anything to mar the pristine house I keep?
Go ivory!
-Jenny
Lol ok. I will send that info to the album company right away. You want your names and the date embossed as well?
Ex. Jenny and Mark
October 31, 1999
After the “Go Ivory” moment, my heart sank a bit. I put ten years of hard work to bed. The feeling was shockingly bitter sweet. Then she inquired about the embossing. Was this an opening? Ahh, we’re still making decisions, this thing isn’t put to bed yet. Just like my children, it may be bedtime and they might have their heads on the pillows, but that doesn’t mean shit.
Feel free to give me your feedback. Ivory? Embossed?
I must bid my breastfeeding boobs adieu. Being that I haven’t seen them in almost 4 years, I usually don’t give them much thought. I actually have more pressing things to worry about. I have to feed and water the kids, clean up puppy accidents, that usually come to my attention after I‘ve stepped in them. Oh yeah, and I’m trying to get that whole writing career thing off the ground. However, as vasectomy talk fills the air, I am realizing they will permanently be a thing of the past, and G-d they were hot.
I am not your average gal with an average chest who pumps up some bazongas during and after pregnancy and then gracefully watches them deflate. I am like training bra, well, heroine chic as I prefer to call it. But, those post pregnancy tits, wow. I remember walking around my NYC apartment, frost on the windows, two below, in a bikini top and sweats. Pausing at every reflective surface to catch a glimpse of those puppies…mirrors, artwork, maybe a spoon, freshly shined shoes.
I’m going to put a picture of my breastfeeding boobs on my counter. You know, next to the pictures of the people and animals I miss. The type of pictures you blow a kiss to when you walk by. To be honest, I also talk to those pictures, though I can’t imagine talking to my boobs. However, I’ve have been known to do stranger things. Those of you who have followed my blog for a while will remember a pretty heated conversation I had with some South African oranges.
If I were to converse with my inflated tatas of yore, I would say, “I miss you guys. I miss the way you enhanced even a tank top. The way you filled out a bra and indiscreetly peaked out of a strapless dress. I especially miss the way you looked in a thin sweater. I don’t miss the way you nearly exploded at the sound of a baby, any baby, and embarrassingly soaked puddles into my clothes at the most inopportune times.” Ahh, the bitter sweet memories, the good times and the bad. They will stay with me until I finally give in and get a boob job
People will walk into my house and see a close up of my rack and say, “What is that picture of?”
“Oh, that? Those are my just my boobs. See, and there’s my Granddaddy and my dog. Oh, how I miss them.”
Saturday was Jake’s Little League Kids vs. Dads game. I arrived late, kind of excited to see Mark at bat. There is something sexy about seeing your husband hit a bomb. Of course the other side of the coin is seeing him strike out or bumble some ball on the ground, which would drastically undermine his appeal.
On my way to the game, however, in no way did I think he would end up assessing my appeal. One of the kids was with his mom, and she was reluctantly talked into playing to represent her family. My son was in the middle of striking her out when I thought, that looks fun. Not the striking out part, but to be a kid for a few minutes, to hold a bat, to cross home plate. How often do us moms get that chance?
“I want next up.” Did I say that out loud? I did.
“Come on we need more players,” one of the dads screamed, probably imagining how amusing it would be to watch me try to hit Jake‘s wild pitches.
I rolled up my dark wash, bell-bottom Hudsons, and kicked off my heels. Yes, I wore heels to the field. Strappy thong wedges, considered perfectly acceptable “baseball mom” attire by the Weston Area Little League official handbook.
“In all my years of coaching I’ve never had a player show up in bellbottoms,” the coach said as I approached the plate.
For the dads, this was just a friendly game. The dads are the ones lobbing the ball around at all the practices, hitting to the different positions, throwing pop-ups and grounders, while me and the moms are relegated to the bleachers to tend to our other children, like pioneer wives. No one wants the moms on the field, but G-d do I always want to be out there.
It felt so nostalgic to walk to the plate. I got into my stance, which I remembered without hesitation. No expectations from any of the dads, just how I like it. First my practice swing. Can I still do it?
“Wow, nice swing,” the dad who invited me to play said in shock. “Guys, you better back it up.“
That’s right. My intimidating swing made a bunch of 7 and 8 year olds move back. Yes, I can still swing, but can I hit? I wanted so badly not to make an ass of myself. Not just not to make an ass of myself, but to be impressive. To let my son see that all his athleticism was not genetically encoded directly from his dad’s DNA, and to show a bunch of middle aged dads that the sarcastic girl who comes to the game in heels can get down and dirty.
Ah, thank G-d I made contact. A solid respectable line drive, Wahoo!. It was clearly unexpected. I got claps, and a “Wow” and when I went to back to the stands my father in law added, “I see where Jake gets his swing, but why didn’t you slide into second? Afraid to get your jeans dirty?”
Okay, I should quit now before I become a one hit wonder. But, it’s fun being a dad. I need more of this feeling.
On my second at bat, I was hoping to improve on my first – and I did. I whaled it. My teammates just started to laugh and the coach yelled, “She’s a ringer.” I took my spot next to Jake who was now playing first. I got a little hug, which was huge –he rarely hugs the other runners as they step onto his base, but he was proud. I played it off like “Yeah your mom’s the bomb,” but really I wasn’t so smug.
What happened next is almost too embarrassing to write about, but that’s what I do right? I was playing second, the atmosphere was light, but in my mind I was still auditioning for a walk on position with the Yankees. A hard grounder was about to whiz by. It was clearly out of reach, but maybe, just maybe… The truth is that ball could have been hit 2 bases away and I still would have run for it. Obviously, I have some competitive issues, which I will be sure to revisit in therapy.
As shocked as each Dad was today, they hadn‘t seen anything yet. I have to stop that ball, it’s coming hard, and if I don’t it will fly past me into the outfield and some 8 year old will get on base. I threw myself face first into the dirt, with my arm stretched long. My hip thudded against the hard ground, and there was a second where all eyes were frozen on my display. I stood up slowly, as I had injured my hip, and grabbed the ball out of my glove. Some dirt and pebbles may have trickled out of my mouth and hair, but I had the ball.
The stunned coach on first base let out a “Whoa. I didn‘t see that coming.”
You didn’t see the intense barefoot mom diving to catch a ball in a friendly game against elementary school kids? Well, I am nothing if not highly unpredictable.
I brushed myself off, as I had let my pants get dirty. I thought this would be an amusing time to stop for a lip gloss reapplication.
I looked over at Mark who, though he knows about my unrelenting spirit, was in as much shock as the other guys at my last maneuver.
Jake may be more inherently athletic, but let me tell you something, he could learn a thing or two from his mom’s unrelenting, unyielding determination. He might also take note to of her misplaced intensity and yearning to relive childhood moments. These guys must have thought I was insane, but I took comfort in the knowledge that they would pick me if we ever happened to be in gym class together.
“And the parents win! Game ball has to go Jake’s mom.”
Mark walked over pulled me close and gave me a manly pat on the rear. “Nice job babe. I knew you would hit it, but I had no idea you would start throwing yourself all over the field.”
Thanks guys. I’ll be seein’ ya… from the bleachers.
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I had a night away this weekend, a night away. It has been 6 months, almost to the day, since the last time I had a night away. Yes, I am on the half year excursion plan. Twice a year I take the long ride from Weston to Fort Lauderdale, or South Beach, or Naples and spend a single night with as much day wrapped around both sides as my parents or in-laws will allow. We couldn’t go far, and because I was looking for optimum veg time, proximity was second only to my first criteria – NO KIDS.
Yes, I said it … NO KIDS. I had to find a close hotel that was kid free during spring break, when every cold frostbitten family packs up their 2.5 children, takes their pets to the kennel, and comes to Florida hoping to thaw out. I, on the other hand, needed to chill out and the best place seemed to be this boutiquey hotel on Lauderdale Beach called The Atlantic. The pool was off-putting to children, a long and narrow rectangle with no slides or falls. The décor was very hip, mod in an Ian Schrager, “don’t touch that kid, it will break” kinda way. I would avoid a place like this at all costs with my kids, as it blared “BORING” to anyone under sixteen. I banked on other families’ sense of “funless” to be on par with my own.
Wearing my too teeny bikini, I immediately found the pool and within moments I was donning an ipod, reading my book and sipping champagne. Totally enthralled with my book, I must not have noticed the influx of people at my tiny boutique pool. But then I heard someone scream, “Marco!” and though I am in South Florida where a name like Marco is not so uncommon, I could tell this was not some adult woman calling her adult husband to come put sunblock on her back.
“What the fuck was that?” I asked Mark, like I had just heard a gunshot. “A kid,” he nonchalantly replied, like my gunshot was just some car backfiring. I looked up and, Lo and behold, it wasn’t just one kid it was a whole pack of them. Maybe five ranging in age from about 4 to 10. I shuddered as the largest one, who was undeniably their bossy leader, demanded another pool game that had them screaming answers to random questions, and swimming all over my tiny boring lap pool.
Leader: “WHAT‘S YOUR FAVORITE SHOW?”
Kid 1: “WHAT?”
Kid 2: “She said what’s your favorite show,” the little one repeated shaking in fear.
Kid 1: “OH, I’LL GIVE YOU A HINT, IT’S TWO WORDS.”
Why are they screaming? They’re 5 feet apart.
Leader: “TOTAL DRAMA ISLAND.”
Kid 1: “I SAID 2 WORDS!”
Kid 3: “I think I know what it is. Can I guess?”
Leader: “NO! GIVE ME ANOTHER HINT.”
Kid 1: “FINE IT STARTS WITH AN I.”
Leader: “INDIANA JONES?”
Kid 1: “YOU SAID A SHOW NOT A MOVIE.“
Leader: “GIVE ME ANOTHER HINT.”
Kid 1: “NONANA NOPE NOPE…NOPE NOPE.”
Oh, come on, give her another hint already.
Kid 1: “I. C. AND IT’S ABOUT THE INTERNET.”
Leader: “WHAT IS IT? I DON”T KNOW.”
Kid 1: “WELL, I’M NOT GONNA TELL YOU TILL YOU GET IT.”
iCarly, iCarly, don’t suggest the game if you suck at it. I mean hello?
Leader: “UMMM, I GIVE UP.”
Kid 1: “I CARLY!”
I knew it.
Leader: “THAT’S CHEATING. MAHHHHHHHM MOM! HE CHEATED HE SAID IT WAS TWO WORDS AND iCARLY IS JUST……..”
Had this really happened? Had my ipod faded into the background and the passage of my book still not registered after reading it 3 times over? I was actually angry. I am so capable of tuning my own kids out, why was I not able to use this skill on someone else’s?
My penthouse suite, which was graciously extended to me when I explained my bi-annual excursion plan, wouldn’t be ready for hours. I watched as kid 4 goaded kids 2 and 3 by bobbing up and down chanting “DIVE!” every time his head cleared the water. I guess he hoped this would annoy them. I gave the parents a sideways glance to let them know that it was working on me, but they pretended not to notice.
Then it dawned on me. I am the crotchety lady that shushes other peoples kids. Maybe it was all the trips to the cardiologist, maybe my patience had been worn paper thin trying to get my own children to listen to me for half second. Each “Can you do it for me?” “Not now, Mommy.“ “No way, Jose.“ scratching one more layer from the surface. One would think, out of politeness, I would be less overtly bothered by other people’s children, but the truth is I have to save that rigorous acting job for when mine send me over the edge. So as my son would say to my daughter, “Too bad, so sad.”
The bobbing continued and noodles burst across the pool like fireworks. This is the reason they invented adult swim… and boutique hotels. While frantically searching for someone with a whistle, I noticed the other adults. Why were they so calm? Why weren’t they shooting looks at the over-permissive parents like I was? Were they not being over-permissive? —allowing their children to have so much fun around the pool on vacation?
Then it hit me…the hot tub. The one refuge that still belongs to us serious adults. With my book in hand I crossed the trendy stretch only to find another pack; they were multiplying faster than I could count, and now they had infiltrated the sacred whirlpool area. An area that actually has an age requirement. It was so unnatural, like seeing raccoons scavenging during the day, it was just wrong. Two kids watched the third one diving to the bottom against the current of the jets, kicking his feet all the while.
I thought, can I tell these kids to scram? But wait, aren’t I supposed to be representing the next generation of parents? The cool parents. Not our parents or their parents’ generations who would have scoffed before entry and sent the kids running for the hills. We “hip parents” have a rep to protect, right? We’re like kids ourselves. In fact, if you hadn’t met our children you would think we were too young, too fun, too awesome to be “parents.”
I told myself, say something funny and endearing thereby shattering their vision of adults as naysayers and fun-enders. So, after carefully choosing my words I let my tension go, eased into the whirlpool and said, “Could you please stop splashing, it’s getting my book all wet. I don’t know if you guys should even be in here.” I turned to pat my book with my towel and when I turned around they were gone. “Awesome, shmawesome.”
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