The Suburban Jungle

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

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?

For notifications of new posts, enter your email address:

Enter your email address:

Delivered by FeedBurner

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.”

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.”

For notifications of new posts, enter your email address:

Enter your email address:

Delivered by FeedBurner

So, I am reading the Twilight series.  I’m sorry did I say reading, I meant obsessed with as in, would be a  stalker of the main character if he were not A)  A Vampire B) Fictional.  Not exactly in that order.  What this says about me is that I am mentally stuck somewhere in high school, and living vicariously through this girl’s foray into a world of love and incredibly romantic, thoughtful, and charmingly chivalrous monsters.

As I left to go food shopping last night, I confronted Mark with my current grievance, as I felt it need to be addressed immediately.

“Mark, why can’t you be more like a Edward Cullen.”

“You mean a vampire?”

“No, I just want you to be obsessed with me in a, ‘Can’t take your eyes off me.  You would never let me get hurt,  Can’t live without me,’ kinda way.’

“Oh that, obviously.  Okay.  I can do that.  If there is a banana peal at Publix, I will swoop in and kick it out of the way so that someone other than you trips on it and you won’t even see me, but I will always be keeping you safe and never take my eyes off you.”

“Phew, that was easy.”

“Now, could you move a bit to the left.  I can’t see the game.”

So he fell off the wagon.  He’s rusty, it’s been a decade since he couldn’t take his eyes or his hands or his penis off me.  Frankly, the last one was getting annoying, especially in public.  But shock therapy cured that right quick.  The truth is,  once you say “I do,” your kinda old hat.  Well, not long after.

How much more obsessing and wooing is necessary,  I hate the saying but, “he bought the cow.”  It’s so hard to be a challenge when your married, I used to say things like, “yeah, well maybe I’ll have your kids.”  Now I say things like, “yeah, maybe I’ll get your laundry.”  Just trying to keep him on his toes.  One day I could say things like, “yeah, maybe I’ll tell you where I hid your teeth.”

Other tactics I use to threaten his security in our marriage include, picking fights over the dishes, pointing out the things he forgets and as is evidenced here, comparing him to fictional characters that are kind and sensitive, and confident, and funny, and don’t exist in real life and if they did they’d be gay anyway.

Today I had an uncomfortable experience at Starbucks and quickly texted him this:  “Hey, I burnt my tongue!  Where were you?!”

He texted thus:  “You didn’t see me?  I already treated that tongue wound.  Bet it’s feeling better now isn’t it?  You were hot last night…don’t forget Jake has practice today.”

Okay, he’s trying.  But, there were some errors which I pointed out in my next text:  “I like when you tell me I’m hot and remind me of a practice in the same sentence, talk about hot.  PS  I don’t know what you used, but my tongue hurts even more!”

To which he responded:  “Salt… short term it may be a bit more painful, but long term it will heal faster.”

Got to give him credit on that one.  I really had no idea he treated it, but it does seem to have healed nicely.  I think it was worth the extra pain… it feels so good I could even have soup tonight.

For notifications of new posts, enter your email address:

Enter your email address:

Delivered by FeedBurner

Here is some of the early hype on the book.  I am excited to be a part of it and like they say at the Oscars, “Thrilled to be in such great company.”  I expect you all to buy at least 10 copies.  What?  Don’t worry about the economy, I’ll sign them and then you can sell them on eBay for a profit.  It’s a sounder investment than CitiBank.  See the wheels are always turning.

Excerpt from the Beth Feldman creator of the site:  ROLEMOMMY.com:

“Okay…so I admit I am the worst person in the world to keep secrets. So I’m going to let the cat of the bag. I’m working on my next book and am so beyond excited about how great it’s going to be. It’s called C:// Mom Run and it’s going to be a humor anthology featuring essays from some of the funniest mom authors, syndicated columnists and bloggers that I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know over the past few years. While you may have heard of a few of them, what I can tell you is that these women are the Nora Ephron’s of our time. Every single one of them will share a story from their lives that some mom in our country (and probably abroad) will be able to totally relate to and laugh their sides off…”

Excerpt from Plain White Publishing:

We recently signed on with Beth Feldman of RoleMommy.com to create a series of books by bloggers, and this is our first –

C:// Mom Run: Side-Splitting Essays from the World’s Most Harried Blogging Moms.

We sent this cover idea to the contributors, and have been falling off of our chairs each time a new comment comes in! Please let us know what you think, too. Seriously.

Fun! (Although is it just me, or are her boobs FAR too a) high and b)
perky?)   Jenna McCarthy

Also there is a stop setting? Damn! Where’s mine? Can’t wait. The cover is very cute Ciaran Blumenfeld Twitter: @momfluential

Think cover gal is wise to be wearing flats…they go famously with her ensemble, and harried in heels is a recipe for disaster!
LOVE the cover…great design, Beth!
Cheryl http://Twinfatuation.blogspot.com

Beth, I don’t know that I gave you permission to use a picture of me… but I love it. I hope the other girls aren’t too jealous that I made the cover. Maybe The bent hangers jutting out of my head will make them less envious. Don’t hate, those things really hurt. Though they get great XM reception. Jenny From the Blog

BAAAAA! That’s great! It’s no wonder we’re so harried when we have no arms with which to accomplish anything! Have you ever tried changing a diaper with your feet or typing with your nose? Actually I have tried that last one. Don’t ask. Wine was involved. Dawn Meehan

I had two colicky babies whom I held for upwards of six hours a day. I was so good at doing things without the use of both hands, I could have gotten a job with the Big Apple Circus – except they don’t let newborns on the trapeze. Typing with your nose? I’d like to see that. Jen Singer

Haven’t tried all of that — but I HAVE played the piano with my elbow. No wine involved. And blindfolded. Sherry Shealy Martschink

Rosie from the Jetsons…..anyone??? anyone??? Nancy Friedman

I guess I’m late to realize she has no arms, which might be the least of her problems. Though I can barely get by with the 4 arms I have. Yea, I have 4 arms wanna make something of it? I suggest you back off. The kids in elementary school learned real fast not to pick on the 4 armed girl, for obvious reasons. Jenny From the Blog

For notifications of new posts, enter your email address:

Delivered by FeedBurner

Enter your email address:

Delivered by

target="_blank">FeedBurner

Day 3-  I feel as if I should be writing for a geriatric blog.  I’m like Seinfeld doing a gig at his parents clubhouse in Del Boca Vista , which is fitting since Mark affectionately calls me Jenny Youngman.  Seriously, take my husband… PLEASE.

It could go something like this:  “I mean hey, what’s with those stress tests anyway?  They want you to start out calm, but the first thing they do is scratch you with sand paper and stick stingy electrodes all over you.  What’s with that?  If they want you to start out calm, they should babysit your kids while you get in a shower.”

Jake was home from school, and I had to take him with me for the stress test.  They should just hook me up and let me try getting him dressed and having him eat breakfast on a time limit, that would be test enough.  I wouldn’t even need the treadmill.  We entered out of breath, and again I was the youngest by a mile.  The women who work in the office greeted me affectionately by name, like Norm walking into Cheers.

I was already winded from rushing to get us out the door, and Ryan to school, and through rush hour traffic, to be at a 9AM appointment.  I had barely enough time to stretch my eyelids, let alone my limbs.  The last thing I wanted to do was fail a walk on the treadmill.  I wanted to run circles around Morty, and Stanley, and Rita.  If I had to trip one of them, I would.

So, I found myself in the waiting room stretching.  In my own delusional competitive world. I had my leg straight in the air an inch from my ear.  I looked up out of my dazed state, to see the elderly couple sitting directly across from me.  I met the woman’s gaze.

“Are you getting a stress test?“ she asked sweetly.

“Yeah, and I didn’t have time to stretch.“  I explained, wishing I could catch the words before they hit her hearing aid.

“Oh, Larry‘s getting a stress test too,“  she said, turning to face her husband who was also stretching. He was stretching his socks to his knees, and his shorts to his man boobs.

I let go of my leg feeling ridiculous.  This might as well be a skit on SNL.  The only difference would be that I’d have prop legs that would reach way behind my ears.  Maybe I could twist them around each other and let them unravel with a helicopter effect.

“What time is yours?” she asked, knowing they’d been waiting a lot longer.

“Nine.“

“Oh?  Larry’s is at nine, too,  They must have two machines.“

“Yeah, well if we go head to head, Larry’s toast!“ I said cracking my knuckles.

“What?“

“I said, good luck.“

I remember my first day here.  I wanted to give my appointment to Every Tom, Dick and Larry in the waiting room, but now I’m a pro and I’m hoping to get the call.

Nurse:  “Jenny.”

“See you later, Suckas!”

Nurse:  “Um Jenny, your son can’t come back with you.”  The nurse warned, “Too much radiation in the room.”

The elderly lady, who clearly missed my trash talkin’ to Larry, graciously offered her sitting services.  Even though she probably wouldn’t get far with him, I still don’t leave Jake with strangers.  She could bribe him with stale sucking candies from the bottom of her purse and slowly amble out the door.  Than I would have to rely on one of the other waiting room occupants to throw out a cane to trip her and foil her evil plan.

To avoid such a kidnapping scenario, I brought him back to the nurse’s station.  There, a nurse, not used to seeing anyone under 70, reluctantly allowed my 7 year old and his DS in her seat.  The desks around him were stacked with files. Tons of them.  I put Jake’s water on a desk far away, and went in for the test.

Well, I passed, but I could barely stand by the end.  I held on to the bars heaving, and wondered why I hadn’t walked over some bodies on the way into that room.  The doctor came in to tell me that I seemed winded, but all was good, minus a couple skipped beats.  He informed me that I also passed the heart monitor and never even asked to see my elaborate log.

“But, I’m not sure if I read the echo yet,” he added.  “Wait here a minute, while I check it.”

During that minute someone came into the nurse’s station and knocked Jake’s water into about a thousand files and films.  The office went into complete mayhem.  The nurses rushed in to resuscitate the paperwork (If only they moved so fast on the patients).

“Whose water is this without a cap?” a bitchy nurse yelled.

“Mine, but I didn’t spill it,” I heard Jake sadly confess.

“Well, you have to have a CAP on YOUR WATER,“  she reprimanded, getting obvious joy from making him feel badly.

I turned to my nurse, “Is she serious?  He needs to cap his water?  When?  How regularly do you plan on seeing us?“

“Can he come in with you, NOW?“ the bitchy one asked my nurse.

I turned to Jake and said loudly, “Don’t worry, that mean woman clearly had a bad experience with a cap when she was a child.“  I took him into the checkout area and waited there.

Nurse:  “The Doctor would like to go over your echo.”
He met me in the nurses station and quickly explained that I probably have a congenital thing in my aortic valve.  He then drew me a picture, and told me to refrain from asking questions till he was done.

“No problem, I’ll ask if I’m dying after you finish your diagram.  Hey, don‘t forget to shade.”

He told me that it wasn’t a big deal, and may not be an issue for 20, 30, 40 years.  “20 years?  That only makes me 56,” I whined fearfully.

“So, 50 years then,” he said, like I had talked him into it.

“What then?“ I needed to know.

“Maybe a valve replacement, but we’re getting way ahead of ourselves.  Just don’t run a marathon or lift weights.“

“Um okay,“  I said, thinking, “this is a lot to lay on someone in the nook of the nurses station, where the nurses are still hissing and giving the cross sign.”

“Go home and look it up and then I’m sure you’ll have a bunch of questions for your next visit.”

Note to self, find new cardiologist, one with heart.

For notifications of new posts, enter your email address:

Enter your email address:

Delivered by FeedBurner

This was the first round of tests, an echo cardiogram and a heart rate monitor to wear for 24 hrs.  I was supposed to have a stress test but, I had rolled my ankle the day before while tripping over my puppy and trying not to crash into Jake on our afternoon walk/sprint.  Being that I was too frail for the stress test I did the others and rescheduled for Thursday, at this point what’s one more visit?  I am already getting hellos from the staff.

As I left the office in my workout clothes with the wires and electrodes hanging from me, I was keenly aware of the stares.  I know they weren’t thinking this is some girl who runs marathons and needs to be monitored to remain in tip-top shape, no they were thinking, “Oh, so young, so sad.“  I really wanted to announce to the office that I was 97 when I walked in and that they took me back and ’Cocooned’ me.  “Seriously, ask the nurses to peel there faces off.”

Instead, I walked out with my little 24hr card, a log for episodes or stressors. Funnily enough, my father in law called the minute I walked in the door.  He wanted to know if I could pick up and store his bed in our garage storage because my husband told him, “no problem.”  This is the room which is now an office, which had so little space, we had to give away our own extra bed to fit in the desk.  Now, I am set up to be the unwavering, nay saying bad guy.  “Can you excuse me a second, I want to write something down.“

Father in law:  “What”

“I’m wearing this heart monitor and I’m wondering if this phone call is affecting it.“

This went on throughout the day as I kept a mini diary of my moment to moment stuff.

1PM:  Have a great idea for an article.

1:45PM:  First round of carpool, pick up 3 wound-up 1st graders and listen to them argue over which seat they get and who gets to play the Nintendo DS.

2:15PM:  Puppy drags me and Jake around neighborhood despite our best efforts to drag him.

2:45PM:  Second round of carpool to pick up Ryan.

3PM:  Have a playdate for both kids, but realize Jake has a fever, so I had to bring him home.

3:15PM:  Still listening to Jake crying and telling me I’m the…oh, what did he call me?  That’s right, “the worst Mommy ever.”

3:30PM:  Confess to being the ‘worst Mommy ever,’ just to make it stop.  Then I make a list of all the other mommies he could go live with.  This is followed by a quick “You’re not the worst mommy.  You’re the best mommy.”  To which I respond, “and don’t you forget it.”  How quickly the threat of giving him away works.

4PM:  Double shot of espresso.

4:20PM:  Poop.

5PM:  Clean puppy poop and pee out of my new carpet.

5:30PM:  Try to walk dog with Ryan on her bike, crying that her chin strap, which is barely touching her neck, is too tight.  Jake on his Ripstick, a mile ahead where I can’t see him, won’t answer my incessant screaming down the street.

6:15PM:  Ask kids 37 times what they want for dinner, while listing available menu items…  To no response.

6:30PM:  My children are melting down, hitting each other and then taking turns telling on each other in indescribably high pitched whines that are making my ears revolt and my puppy try to hang himself.

7PM:  Call them in to have the turkey and cheese sandwiches I have made for them only to hear,  “Turkey I didn’t ask for Turkey.”  “Yea, we don’t want turkey.  This turkey is yuck!”

7:10PM Mark walks in the door and goes to our room to change.

7:15PM Put out peanut butter and jelly for Jake and a grilled cheese cut in the shape of a heart for Ryan.

7:30PM:  Put out just peanut butter for Jake and a waffle cut in the shape of a heart for Ryan.  “Kitchen’s closed.”

7:31PM:  Check gage to see if I’m having a heart attack.

7:32PM:  Mark reenters and starts bugging me about calling Verizon and about insurance.

7:37PM:  Manage to escape conversation to give Ryan her bath and get Jake in the shower.

7:40-8:10PM:  Play naked Barbie’s with Ryan in the bath.  Ryan is all the pretty girls and I have the choice of being the boy, the homely faux Barbie with cut hair, or the queer fluorescent green sea horse.  Thanks Ryan.

8:11PM:  Beg pruney Ryan to get out of the bath and end up threatening to take a star from her star chart, which I actually only pretend to keep.

8:15PM:  Kids are in pj’s and have managed to sneak into my room for some late night cartoon network.

8:20-8:30PM:  The time it takes to bribe, threaten, yell, and beat them into submission.

8:31PM:  Family race into bedrooms.

8:32PM:  Ryan is crying, because someone did something she either did not like or does not allow, during the family race.

8:33PM:  Do-over of the family race, adhering to Ryan’s strict guidelines and allowing her to win.

8:34PM:  Mark walks back to our room thinking the night is done, and turns on sports.  If there is no new sports he actually rewatches some game on ESPN classic that he already knows the outcome of.  WTF?

8:35PM:  Ryan begs me to read 3 stories which I shrewdly negotiate down to 2.  Once I’m halfway into 1, Jake slinks in trying to be unnoticed and slyly gets in bed with us.

8:40PM:  I finish the first story and then tell Jake to read the next one as I slink, trying to be unnoticed, out to the laundry room.  I like this trick, it gets him to read and gives me a one book reprieve.

8:50PM:  I tell Jake he must go and he then begs me to come into his room after I leave Ryan’s.  Why not?  I require no personal time.  Nope all need it an hour to plug myself in to a wall socket and I’m recharged for the morning.

9PM:  I now find myself singing 2 songs of Ryan’s choosing, doing a tickle monster, and two kiss attacks.  What can I say, she’s really cute and she does a great quivering lip.

9:10PM:  Bring Ryan a milk in a sippy cup, as requested.

9:11PM:  Give her one more big kiss, as requested.

9:12PM:  Take the toys that are scaring her out of her room.

9:13PM:  Fix her pillow.

9:14PM:  Threaten to take more imaginary stars away.

9:20PM:  Inform Ryan that this is “the absolute last time I am coming in.”  That’s right, even if you give me the eyes and the lip, I know how to put my foot down!

9:25PM:  Go into to see Jake who is passed out.

9:30PM:  Allow puppy to drag me around the block, despite my best efforts to drag him.  Watch him relentlessly bark at a black trash bag that someone has left in the swail.  I then threaten to take away stars from his imaginary star chart.

9:45PM:  Run in to tell Mark, we should have sex just to fuck with the Doctor, but he is fast asleep.  Yea well, I’ll be fast asleep soon.  Right after I do the dishes and straighten up, and check on my kids, and wash-up, and brush my teeth, and floss, and take my vitamins, and play some kind of word game on FB with people I haven’t spoken to  in 18years to remind me I have a brain.

Day 2 in the bag, stay tuned… day 3’s a doozie.

For notifications of new posts, enter your email address:

Enter your email address:

Delivered by FeedBurner

In the ongoing saga of low blood pressure I found myself at the cardiologist 4 times last week.

Day One:  Upon arriving it does not take a carni age guesser to know that I am at least a hundred years younger than the rest of the crowd.  I am also in the minority that is not connected to an iv or oxygen tank.

The truth is, I happen to be in a rush and would selfishly love to be the first in.  Selflessly, I don’t want to go in before any one of these people who could clearly use a once over and someone to check for a pulse.  As I am unsettled by this thought, a woman drags herself in the door and up to the window, “I am having chest pains unlike anything I  have ever felt.  I don’t have an appointment, but can I see my Doctor?”  As it turns out she takes my appointment and thankfully so, as poor Estelle is sitting across from me clutching her heart and breathing erratically.   I proactively position myself directly parallel so that I can catch her if necessary.

Nurse:  “Morty”

As they come out calling for other people, I’m thinking please call in Estelle before she codes.

Nurse 2:  “Phil”

Nurse 1:  “Estelle”

Nurse 2:  “Bea”

Nurse 1:  “Saul”

The receptionist who is joking with all the patients as if it might be there last day, pokes her head out, “Mr. Dale are you gonna give me any more trouble today young man?  Oh, and Mrs. Isenman, he’s getting to you.“

“I’ve been here over an hour is that normal?“

“Nope, he’s usually right on time, but there was a problem with the patient before you and we’ve already had an ambulance here once this morning and it‘s only 10 0‘clock“

Nurse 3:  “Joan”

Mark calls to see how the appointment went.
“I’m still waiting.“

“Oh, you are?  Are you filling out all the medical forms or are you just waiting to be called?“

“No Mark, they’re ready for me, I’m just so thrown by these forms.  So many tough questions, like my name and my age.  Then there are some real zingers like my SSN.  It’s like taking the SAT’s all over again.  They’re begging me to finish up and I’m trying to convince them that I’m eligible for the untimed version.

Nurse 2:  “Sandy”

Look I know he’s trying.  I know he was hoping I would be out so he could check it off his ‘things to remember list,’ and I know he asked that ridiculous question because he wants to seem caring, but I can’t help myself sometimes.

Nurse 1:  “Jenny”

By now the hypoglycemia that they found last week during my 5 hr. glucose test is acting up and the nurse goes to get me an apple juice, that they have for “such occasions.”  “Thanks, but really there’s no need to make such a fuss.”  Did I really say fuss?  See what an hour and a half out there did to me?  “By the way how is Estelle?”

Nurse:  “Who?”

The cardiologist Dr. Seth was, thank goodness, is not what I was expecting.  He was a referral from my, ‘roll your own’ Jamaican Doctor and I was thinking Seth might just be his first name, and that he may or may not have a surf board and that he may or may not have a medical license.  Luckily, he is Arcaad Seth, an Indian gentleman.  Look, I saw “Slumdog,” so I have a birds eye view into his upbringing.  As it turns out my sympathy for his being  part of a panhandling ring of blind singers does little for our deeper connection.  He roboticly set me up for a series of tests to “rule out the possibilities” and sternly warns me not to drive much saying, “You could hit a school bus filled with children.“

“Thank you for that.  Just telling me would not have been enough.  Did the past 30 minutes with me not give you any indication that I have some excessive worrying issues?  Maybe when I was telling you that when I yawn sometimes it feels like the blood gets stuck in my neck, and you snickered under your breath, like I was insane?

Wow, and that was just day one.  Stay Tuned.

For notifications of new posts, enter your email address:

Enter your email address:

Delivered by FeedBurner