The Suburban Jungle

Okay, I was wrong the last time I said I was famous. You remember the article “Famous Mom Gets Fired Over Crack,” when I got noticed in the supermarket and vowed to wear a bra in public, though unnecessary, for the rest of my illustrious life? Now, I am really famous.

I have tons of stalkers, I mean people who follow me on twitter and people are sending me SWAG! As in Some Wonderful Accessory, Gratis. My first piece of SWAG is one I would have paid for, which means I’m much more famous than I thought. Had the designer waited, I would have put in an order. But, fame waits for no one and so, she has to write me off as celebrity PR.

Like any celebrity, I had one of my assistants receive the package in our “package receiving area.” Translation: my son grabbed it from the mat at our front door. Then I asked my other assistant to play me some SWAG opening music, a little known thing most stars do. Of course, why would YOU know that? Anyway she did an amazing rendition of “You and your hand.” A song I hope she’ll be singing in about 10 years when the boys are callin’.

The box came from Violet NYC, a very glam, very chic handbag company, of which I am a huge fan. The owner is a friend from college who smarty realized the magnitude of my star power. We haven’t spoken or seen each other in years, but we are sisters. Anyone who has been in sorority knows that, “sisterhood is the tie that binds.” I mean, there is never any dissention, cattiness, or ill will between sorority sisters. Those oddly placed shower scenes and pillow fights in sorority houses are completely true to life.

I had FaceBooked to tell her, “The line is amazing,” “The Italian leather, looks so supple,” “Kudos on all the press you’re getting,” and “Do you actually know Jessica Biel and Blake Lively?” It seemed to be taking off, and in all honesty, after randomly coming across her bags on cute young celebs, and in Lucky and Star, I was hoping for the SD (sorority discount). I realized when she simply wrote back, “Thanks,” that she was not familiar with the common practice of giving such discounts.

Some time passed and while I contemplating what to order, I got famouser and famouser. And then I got the call, “Hi notorious J from the B, who I used to just call Jenny.”

I thought that was a bazaar greeting too, but I’ve been called worse.

“I know you love my handbag line, as you have written me almost too many times telling me so… I want to send you a bag.”

“YOU DO!!!,” cheer-leading style hurkey.“ I mean, of course you do,” silent glee with queer 1980’s fist elbow jerk a la Micheal J. Fox in “The Secret Of My Success.”

Say it’s the aptly named VIP.

“How about the VIP?”

“Sure, whatever ,“ I mumbled in my, too cool for school, Danny Zucco impression.

So, today it is really official, I am famous. Oh, and I even get to give you guys the perk of an extra 20% off. You can never say that I let my importance go to my head, or that I don’t give back to the fans. You are my peeps and I pledge, that whenever I get anything free, I will strive to get you 20% off. I will even give you a link, Violet New York City . (put TAKE20 as the disc. code)

If you get the VIP please call before you carry it, so I can make sure we won’t be at the same event. Though, I will surely be in the VIP section with my VIP bag, oh and Gwynnie and Jamie Lynn and their bags. So, it won’t matter anyway.

Example 1)  This morning’s alternating AOL headlines went something like this:  Car Dealers are desperate, month’s best deals. ‘Dancing’ reveals star replacement, see who it is. Part-time job market picking up, there may be hope. Obama to reverse stem cell policy.  Are you kidding me?  There is a replacement on dancing with the stars?  All of these crazy things are going on in politics the economy and world events and I’m pissed cause I have to wait for them to rotate around so I can find out who it is.

Example 2)  Last week I got in a blow out fight with Mark.  The kind that is so frustrating you want to throw a remote at your husbands head.  I was holding a bag of oyster crackers at the time, my favorite salty low blood pressure fix, so I threw those instead.  The bag whacked him in the chest and they exploded out like fireworks.

“I have to go get Jake,”  I yelled as I turned back to see him angrily picking them up off the floor.

I jumped in my car, having left the conversation unfinished.  I was seething.  All I could think was, ‘I bet he is mixing the oyster crackers tainted by our overly puppy peed on carpet with the good ones that are still in the bag.  He sucks.  This is why I can’t stand him, he would never take the extra second to throw the contaminated ones in the trash, with consideration for the joy that those little salty devils give me in my time of sodium deprivation.  No, why would he show such thoughtfulness?

When I got back he had picked up my daughter from our neighbors and helped her draw a picture for me.  He called me in to see it.  I went, but only after checking the pantry to find an almost full bag of ruined oyster crackers.  “Fucker.”

Well, you be the judge.  Is it just me or all we all pathetic?

My children are in that phase where all words referring to bodily functions and private parts are hilarious to think of, let alone utter. I call it the Beavis and Butthead phase, and I am eagerly awaiting it’s passing. However, I am not holding my breath as it appears my husband never actually outgrew it himself. So, with that in mind, we were trying to think of names for our new puppy. I am throwing out the more traditional names like Max and Charlie. Jake says, “Let’s name him Gary.” Okay, not where I was going but, a name nonetheless. I say, “How about Copper or Cinnamon?”

Ryan: “I have a great idea, how about Cinnamon Toast Weiner?”

All: Ha ha ha, lots of laughs.

OK, game on.

Jake: “How about Tushie-Face?”

Ryan: “Hee hee, good one Jake.”

Minutes go by and Ryan comes running across the park and screams for all the other families to hear, “Listen listen, we should name our dog Vagina.”

Jake: “Yeah, we’d be like, ‘Come hear Vagina. Sit Vagina.’”

I am making every attempt not to make this into a big deal and give it too much attention, but the attention we’re getting is making me uncomfortable. “Could we keep this conversation down just a little bit?” Then I went on to suggest more realistic names. I know I’m a party pooper. Hee Hee…I wrote pooper.

Well, if anyone isn’t a party pooper, it’s my husband.

Mark: “I know – we should name it Penis, and then when people say, ‘Jake what are you doing?’ you could say, ‘Oh, I’m just playing with my Penis.’”

Mind you this is a concept a 7yr old would not come up with on his own volition, but it didn’t take long for him to catch on.

Jake: “Yeah…Hey hey hey, listen. I could say ‘I just taught my Penis to fetch.’”

All, but me: HEHEHEHE HAW HEW HAW HAHA -and tear filled laughter.

Ryan: “That’s not fair, ‘cause I don’t have a penis, I have a heinie.”

Taking Ryan’s penchant for the word vagina into consideration, I decide this is the wrong time for an anatomy lesson.

My husband is finally aware of the wrong turn this conversation has taken, and reeled it in by suggesting a name we can really use: Butt Munch. Ah, the ever popular with the pre-teen set, Butt Munch.

All but me: HA HEE HEE HE HA HE HEW HAW HA.

This idea sparked tons of laughter and affirmation. First of all, my children had never been exposed to this term, so they found a special joy in both it’s profanity and it’s originality. They beamed with pride as if their father, king of the potty mouths, had just coined it. Secondly, they liked the way it just rolled so easily off of their tongues. “Butt Munch. Come here Butt Munch. Sit Butt Munch. Bad Butt Munch.”

Ryan: At the top of her lungs, “Jake you’re a Butt Munch.”

Jake: “No Ryan, you’re a Butt Munch.”

Me: “No Daddy’s a Butt Munch… thanks Mark!”

Mark: “Please, they could be saying much worse.”

Me: “Perhaps you should teach it to them. Jake doesn’t know Mother Fucker, maybe you could remedy that.”

For the last two weeks Jake has told everyone willing to listen that Ryan wanted to name our new dog Vagina, and Ryan now uses Butt Munch as a verb, noun, and adjective, sometimes in the same sentence. My friend Susan asked her if she was ready to go home the other day and she replied, “No way, Butt Munch.” I’m so proud.

PS We brought our dog home a couple of days ago, and though Ryan is still calling him Butt Munch, we as a family went with the more traditional, Ass Face. I hope she comes around.

During the holiday season I was trying to teach my son about the joy of giving, and the concept that many people are less fortunate than we are. Look, I’ve spent many years spoiling him and now I must undo all that hard work so he stops asking me for presents every hour on the hour. Why did I teach him to tell time in the first place?

Anyway, I’ve been trying to find a charity that allows children to volunteer, as many children’s charities do not. It’s easy to relay facts of poverty and ailments on a cushy sofa in a perfect 74 degree room, but not easy to show them the reality of it. Last year we adopted a family for the holidays. We shopped for them and picked out their gifts according to age, likes, and height, of course. However, we weren’t allowed to give the gifts personally, so it was a very small taste of charity. It felt more like helping shop for a friend’s birthday present, with the usual sprinkling of “Can I get that too?”  Did I say sprinkling?  I meant whining, crying, and making a spectacle at the Super Target.

This year we found a charity called Kids Helping Kids. The first event was for “Facing It Together” – an organization that helps fund and find Doctors to donate surgeries for facial deformities. It sounded like a lovely idea, and with Jake being so sensitive, seemed like a good fit. I explained beforehand what to expect, and that these children were just like him. He went to his piggy bank, as he is always willing to do, and offered to help. I said this was all about giving his time, and he was very excited about the idea. Like me, he is a total sap and the first one to save a worm boiling on the sidewalk or help me send a millipede or salamander out of our house and back to their families.

He asked throughout the week. “When are we doing the charity?” If you must know, he really asked, “When are we going to help the children with no heads?” “Jake, honey, they have heads.” “I mean the children with no faces.” Well at least he won’t be scared or shocked by anything he sees, as he has certainly prepared himself for the worst.

My friend, who told us about the event, was certain that this day would be the first day of the rest of her children’s lives. She was convinced that each child would have life altering epiphanies, and would offer to donate all remaining holiday presents to charity. I was not so ambitious in my expectations, and just wanted to give him the sense of gratification one gets from helping others, and to understand there are more pressing things than the Ripstick G, or Guitar Hero World Tour.

As it turned out, the children volunteers way outnumbered the children of the charity, and getting them a space at the crafts tables among all the volunteers making snow globes, ornaments, and picture frames, was nearly impossible. Jake scooched in, and was thoroughly unaffected by the affected children (as none of them were missing their heads). He helped me check a few people in, while worrying that someone would take the last of the keylime pie, and made about 17 ornaments for the tree we didn’t have. Then my friend’s husband took him and his son to hang out in a sky box (as we were at the Home Depot Center).

To top off our generous altruistic giving, we were thanked for our help with tickets to that days Panthers game. So the boys had a ball and left hours later after Dippin’ Dots, hot chocolate and catching tee shirts that were dropped with parachutes from the ceiling. Well there’s the epiphany “If you give of yourself and your time, you get awesome stuff. You make stuff, hang out in sky boxes, get to see a professional sporting event, and prizes will actually fall from the sky.” This getting our feet wet thing might have set some unascertainable expectations for future charity events.

Hey, if you’re on FB join the new group Suburban Jungle and please invite your friend list. Thanks for the support!

They say 40 is the new 30, and 30 is the new 20. The problem with everything being the new something else, is that it gives me less of a shot at looking young for my age. Most of the time I feel about 20, which I guess is the new 10. When I try to run up a flight of stairs or decode the spider vein message on my legs, however, I realize I’m not.

Remember that “hot you” that made heads turn? You know, before they were too busy sneering at one of your children flailing and screaming on the floor of Publix, Target, the movies… insert crowded public place here? That’s the you I want to be. Well, the me I want you to be. You get the picture.

It all starts with heavy drinking. I’m told I need 32 oz’s of water, a cup of pomegranate juice, a shot of Mona Vie, some cayenne pepper lemonade, and 27 glasses of green tea, all before noon. After five small meals and a sensible dinner, I must row myself into the bathroom and pee for 18 minutes, straight. Then I am required to slap on anti-aging creams with neo-mono-peptides, glycolic-amino-acids, Agent Orange, and Soylent Green. Each product is guaranteed to include the strongest ingredients known to man, and assures me that I will look 25 years younger (regardless of my current age.) This will make me look 10…so I’m right on track.

When we used to say, “We’d rather stick needles in our eyes,” who knew we meant it? I haven’t taken the plunge, but there is a crease in the middle of my brow that makes me appear constantly pensive and worried. Oh yeah, and also… old.

I have a friend who, after getting Botox on that very spot, encountered the phenomenon I call the “Evil Eyebrow.” This occurred when the crease was frozen, and whenever she tried to squint, worry, or ask a question her eyebrows arched as if she was plotting some diabolical plan. Being the good friend that I am, every time I saw her “Evil Eyebrow,” I would say “Mwaaaaa” and curl the edge of my imaginary handlebar moustache.

The fix is for her to get more Botox above her eyebrows. However, she’d then risk acquiring what I call “Frozen Forehead.” I recently had a conversation with a “Frozen Forehead.” It’s owner was telling me she was worried about her son going to a new school. However, her forehead was telling me that she was totally relaxed about it, and maybe even mildly comatose. Liar, you don’t even care about your kid, I thought. Then I kicked her in the shin and ran away. I turned back in regret, but she was expressionless. “Phew,” awkward moment avoided.

The truth is, it would be better if everything was still the old “whatever it was.” I wouldn’t have to buy purple to be wearing black this fall. My semi-youthful glow would seem rare and enviable, and teenagers would ask my major, rather than call me Ma’am. I could go on for hours, but my hands are starting to cramp and I’m running late for a Bunko game. See you in the waiting room.

It has recently dawned on me that somewhere along the way, my sense of accomplishment became a product of my ability to be a good homemaker.  The creative energies I once used to design jewelry and dress people are now spent trying to build intricate forts and streamline the laundry process.  For instance, I’ve found that by rolling towels one can save considerable folding time while providing the added benefit of a spa-like appearance.  I am a woman who single handedly opened and ran two successful companies, yet I was more excited to get my son through his first dental appointment than the day my line got into Bloomingdales.

            When did this happen?  When did I accept the job as Master of the Mundane?  I remember the ad, it read:  Seeking highly motivated person, who requires little sleep, to cook, clean, wipe tushies, noses, and countertops… oh, and provide occasional sex to employer.  Person will be overworked and underappreciated.  It is preferred that you have no prior experience or references.  Always on duty.  Will pay nothing.    

Not only did I take the job, I thoroughly enjoy it and happen to be damn good at it.  Let’s face it, I’m a superhero… the lamest superhero on Earth.   Able to clean an explosive diapie with a single wipe: It’s a wet-vac, it’s Mr. Clean… nope it’s me: Minutia Mom! 

I can picture it now; my costume would be covered with stickers that were put on me without my knowledge.  It would be stained with chocolate or some other gooey substance I’d have to taste to place.  It would be fashionable, but about 6 months outdated, as I have about 1hr per evening to catch up on my backlog of magazines, Tivo, and the NY Post crosswords I do to keep my rapidly deteriorating brain sharp.  Sadly, I am no longer smart enough for the Times.

            My skin would be relatively clear minus a couple of blackheads from slopping on too many anti-aging creams.  The furrow of my brow would be screaming for Botox, only to be outdone by my Restylane seeking laugh lines. My Hair would be slicked back into a ponytail, not by some chi-chi product, but with the natural grease built up from not having time to shower.

            I would walk the streets in my costume, my freshly laundered cape in tow, looking for housekeeping and child rearing injustices.  “Excuse me Ma’am, but it would behoove you to consolidate the darks with the lights and run them together on cold.  It would save you both time and money, not to mention conserves H2O.  “Pardon me Sir, but if you let that tantrum run its course you’ll get a far better result in the long run.”   Maybe going public would bring me the admiration I so unabashedly seek.  I have found there is nothing people enjoy more than unsolicited criticism and advice; especially on how to run their household and raise their children. 

            I am always flexing my supermuscles around my house.  I start by asking my husband to do some routine chore like putting the dishes in the dishwasher.  A fitting task considering he seems to think they wash themselves.  I know this because when he does me the courtesy of taking a glass or dish from the table he places it on the counter ever so close to the sink, but is unable to actually make it in.  Clearly, this is due to the force field I  installed around the basin.  If he penetrates the force field, he never washes the food off the plate into that hole in the sink, for fear that the monster that lives there may bite off a finger.

“Honey, I’ve only trained the dishes to jump into the sink from where you leave them.  For a more thorough cleaning, we humans must step in.  Don’t worry the monster in the hole only bites if you shove your hand in its mouth.”  Then I watch and wait knowing he will soon fail at this task, miserably.  He’s ½ way through and … here it comes… wait for it…10-9-8-… “I can’t get it all in, it’s too full.  You’ll have to run it a second time.”  He says this with enough confidence to imply that a single shrimp fork and the thing’s gonna blow.

            “Second time?  Like hell I will.  Have no fear kind sir.”  I say as I bounce off the sofa and spring into action.  With my cape flapping behind me, I jump directly from my seat over the counter in a single bound.  I stand, hands firmly on hips, assessing the damage.  Then he looks at me oddly as if to ask, “Why is that towel tied around your neck, and why did you call me kind sir?”  “Step aside,” I say as I hip bump him out of the way.  Like an expert Tetris player, I fit in every piece: with room for a Rachel Ashwell dinner party to spare.  Than, wagging my finger, I reprimand him for not taking the valves out of the sippy cups. 

            Though it is an interesting side effect, my goal is not to debase him.  My goal is to display the sheer magnitude of my powers and reiterate the amazing feats I perform on a daily basis.  I avert looming tantrums with my Mommy Mind negotiating skills.  My Bionic Child Carrying Arm vacuums so much dog hair, I could knit the sweaters needed to warm a small village in Ethiopia (okay, bad example).  My point is, he should see this dishwasher phenomenon, rise from his butt, which I previously knocked him on with my child-bearing hips, and applaud me.  He should applaud my greatness, or at the very least, nod in my general direction.          

            Look, I don’t know him personally, but I can say with much confidence that Wonder Woman’s husband doesn’t come home from his accounting job, or whatever it is he does, and ask her to gas up the invisible jet and get take-out ‘cause he had a long day crunching numbers.

How then can my husband witness my awesomeness and still have the audacity to request some time to relax when he walks in the door?  What was the commute home, a business meeting?  You had an hour, it’s not my fault you didn’t use it wisely.  If I had a random free hour everyday, oh the things I could do.  I could listen to music that isn’t sung by Disney characters.  I could end world hunger.  Better yet, I could shower and moisturize in the same day.  Alas, I am on 24/7.

Who reads “Strawberry Shortcake Goes Apple Picking” 500 times at 9PM because the phrase “Now this is the last time.” has no real meaning?  Who flies into the room at 1AM on bad dream patrol?  Who uses Mommy Supersonic hearing to catch 6AM candy thievery?  Me, Minutia Mom, I’m a freakin’ superhero for G-ds sake.

My new career may not be as lucrative in pay or recognition as some of my other jobs, but there is reward in altruistic work and a cheap thrill in seeing my husband screw up.  Hmmm, tonight I think I’ll ask him to fold some laundry.

Well, I’ve gotten a lot of emails asking me why I haven’t posted lately.

Why?

Because I’ve spent the last week cleaning my house.

Why?

Because my everyday tidier/laundry doer/Mother’s helper, Danay got a job in a physical therapist’s office.

Why?

Because she went to college and got a real degree before coming to this country and finding out that her only job options were maid, nanny, or grocery bagger.

Why?

Because in America if you don’t speak perfect English you must be unintelligent, even though most of us don’t speak nearly as much of a foreign language as any foreigner does of our’s.

Why?

Because we’re lazy, which is the same reason I hate to clean.

I remember the days before I found this woman… I cleaned a lot! In fact, I could not do anything else around my house until I felt it was clean. I would clean in the morning, watch my kids immediately undo my work, and then clean the same stuff all over again. Each time I was amazed at how long it took to clean and how quickly it became undone.

I had to make up fascinating “cleaning games” to justify not spending time playing Nerf dart tag, or doing spin art like the “good Mommies” did. Our play was much more educational… I honed Jake’s eye for detail and fine motor skills: “Jake, let’s see if you can match the socks and roll them neatly into pairs.” I knew Jake was a true genius the day he found matches for the 23 mateless socks. I taught Ryan about the nuances of tone and hue. “Ryan, which colors are dark and which are light? Ryan, that shirt may be white, but the stripes are red, that’s a major oversight on your part. I hope you weren’t hungry cause that just cost you dinner.”

I considered asking Mark for help, but the truth was to watch him try and clean could send us straight to divorce court. He would say, “Just do it once a day, why waste your time?” Which, by the way, is the same argument he has for oral hygiene, so who could listen to him? If you want the job done right i.e. your way… you have to do it yourself.

I couldn’t delegate because I was always too disappointed in the way someone would load my dishwasher. Loading a dishwasher takes serious problem solving skills and visual prowess; done correctly, it is an algorithm of perfectly fitting pieces with not a single one to spare. Okay, I’m beginning to sound pathetic, but some of you actually get what I’m saying. You know who you are, you’re the ones thinking “Please, my dish loading could kick your ass…Bitch! Well you know what I say? “Bring it!”

I was so vehemently against having help because I was sure it would reflect on some inability to be a good Mother/Housewife (a title I never thought I would covet the way that I do). I also convinced myself that having help would weaken my right to be a martyr. However, my need to have “a life” and to resent my husband less won out, and I hired someone.

After a single day I felt like screaming “FREEDOM” while swooshing down a mountain with a cool breeze on my face, or into a deep echoing canyon while blowing my Ricola horn, but alas Florida is flat. So I traipsed into the swamp, I mean lake, in our back yard and screamed at the top of my lungs. Unfortunately, it was “Alligator!” and not “Freedom!” but I feel my point was made. As soon as I zigzagged back into my house, I considered all of my options: Grocery shop, get Starbucks with a friend, shop for my kids, get a mani/pedi, shop for myself, go to the gym, shop for my husband, get Starbucks again, or return things from the last time I shopped. My days were filled with endless monotony and it was exciting. My afternoons were completely open. I could do all kinds of things while my daughter napped- shop, return things, get Starbucks… When my son got home we played Nerf dart tag and did spin art.

Each day I returned to a neat and straightened house, with clean clothes and an organized pantry. I began saying things like, “You know, I don’t care if you rearrange my drawers, whatever is easier for you.” I had to make phone calls to find out where my Love Quotes scarves and my new yellow Hogan bag were, and I reveled in it. I finally got bored with the exciting monotony and decided I would have to do something to distract me from shopping. I tried chewing gum. No luck. I tried the patch, but spent hours trying to find the perfect designer patch on the best sale. I read books by Dr. Oz, and Dr. Drew, and Dr. Phil. I even read a lovely memoir by Dr. J. to no avail.

So I decided to write again. Three weeks after, I felt reborn and my Amex felt dejected, jumping out of my bag anytime we so much as drove past a retail store. It would even put extra groceries in my cart when I walked over to the meat counter. My Amex wasn’t the only one let down. A week later Danay told me a friend called to offer her a job at a physical therapist’s office. I said, “Are you kidding me? Who do you expect to do my laundry, clean the kitty litter, the dog pee, the garage… me? I had that job once, it sucked!” Luckily, when I talk fast she doesn’t understand a word and I slowly said “You have to take it, congratulations!” and gave her a huge hug. She still comes like 5hrs a week because in her own words “I’ll keep helping you out, you need me.” Apparently, she’s never seen me load a dishwasher, but If you don’t tell I won’t. So the short answer to the question “Why haven’t you posted in a week: 5hrs just don’t cut it.”

P.S. If anyone knows anyone… I’m looking.

Every time I take one of my children to see a specialist I am reminded of my first time going to see one with Jake when he was about 4½ months old. Jake, who was 5 weeks premature, cried for the first 4months 13days 16hrs 32min of his life (straight). He would only sleep in an upright position and we found that his car seat was the best option. We would keep it in the Snap n’ Go and park him into bed every night.

When he finally cut back on the tears, it was like walking off a tarmac and into a library- I could think again. I noticed his head looked a little flat and took him to a pediatric neurologist. Dr. Gore or Dr. Bore as I prefer to call her, examined Jake for plagiocephaly, or “flathead,” to see if he should be fitted for a helmet. Yes…that’s correct, a helmet. Looking back on our visit, it seems all of her comments were excessively vague and rather benign, but somehow she managed to coax me into a state of agitation.

Dr. Bore is one of those people who is impressed with her own brilliance, and likes to speak unexcitedly as she tries to overwhelm you with her superior knowledge. Silently, Dr. Bore waited as I changed and then undressed Jake, never uttering a word until I was safely sitting in my chair. This reminded me of the way my father behaved when he had some horrific news to impart which could be something as tragic as selling the family car. “Jenny, are you sitting down?” As if I might faint upon hearing such horror.

With Dr. Bore, however, I sensed the silence was not some kind of soap-opera-esque melodrama. It was more like: I-do-not-waste-breath-on-distracted-ears kind of silence. I literally sat there with fingers crossed trying to remember the rules governing such situations. Do you cross both hands for extra luck? No, no I think one cancels the other out, right? And does that make it zero luck, or does it skip right to bad luck? Oh man, now what do I do? Of course, my toes! I uncomfortably fidget, contorting my fingers into a series of svengali half-crosses in what seems to be verging on an epileptic seizure to erase the obsessive thoughts echoing throughout my head. Speak lady so I can stop torturing myself!

After a long exaggerated sigh, Dr. Snore begins to expound on the two theories as to why his head is flat. The first being a severe complication in which the skull plates prematurely fuse causing the brain to grow out in any way possible- the side, the top, the nose…which could not only lead to deformity, but brain damage as well.

I am about to cry. Why is she speaking volumes on this subject? Just say, this is not the case with your son.  JUST SAY THAT! I get frustrated with my vain attempts at telepathy, and interrupt her.

“Do you have any reason to believe that’s his diagnosis?”

“I’m just going through the possibilities, please allow me to continue.”

Oh, I’m sorry my desire to rule out a gruesome existence for my son has gotten in the way of your neurology-for-dummies lecture. Please don’t let my nervous breakdown shorten your diatribe. The sound of the paper bag I’m breathing into helps to drown out her voice until I hear, “…and the second and most likely possibility is called positional flatness. This is caused by spending too much time sleeping or being on ones back.

Hello? Is anyone home? I told you he spent the last 4 months sleeping in his car seat; doesn’t that ring a bell? Why do specialists always insist on discussing the horrible and unlikely option first? I should probably just go now, but I decide to prolong this torture…

“Well you’ve seen a lot of heads, is his severe?”

“Look his head is flat. I’m not going to tell you that something flat is round. Its flat.”

Gee thanks Magellan. Do you get the impression I have a 5^th grade education? What tipped you off the finger crossing fiasco?

She goes on to check his tone and development. All that anguish and I get to stay longer for a freebie, what a perk.

“He has poor muscle tone, he doesn’t roll he doesn’t tilt, he doesn’t grab…what does he do?”

“Raspberries.”

“Hmm…tsk, tsk…just keep an eye on him for the next couple months.”

Really, I should do that? Cause us uneducated folk we like to kick our kids out of the nest at say …I don’t know…5months. “Fly free little birdie, and go earn some money it’s time to pay Momma back.” But if you think we should wait…

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Buddy, my dog, my first born, is 15. I got him my sophomore year and as my dad says getting him was the best purchase this shopahollic ever made. He put up with the craziness of college, people coming and going at all hours often blowing odd substances in his face.

He endured the lean years when I boycotted toys because he ate and pooped them all out. Unfazed, he adorably brought me pieces of slobbery lint and coughed them up in front of me wagging his tail so that I would try to throw one. Then he would retrieve it (though wet lint doesn’t travel far) as if it was the best ball in the world and enthusiastically continue the cycle.

He survived eating an entire bag of blowpops which came out the other end like taffy that had to be pulled and pulled, by hand to get out. A job I handed off to my then roommate as I was late for work. I should say SHE survived that one. (Seeing as she is currently my closest friend, she barely holds a grudge. Though she hasn’t been able to look at a piece of gum since.)

He out-lived his long time love; a very attractive and preppy bean bag pillow who he constantly abused after sex, by biting her and swinging her vigorously from side to side. Then he would ignore her till their next rendezvous. Hmm… sounds like one of my exes. One fateful day he bit too hard and when he swung her, she profusely bled itty-bitty styrofoam balls. For weeks he somberly attempted to meet for trysts but she was a shell of the booty call she once was, and eventually we buried her… in the trash. He tried to date other pillows but I think for him, they could never compare.

He withstood living with my dad who for a month forced him to wear a girly Israeli flag bandana that read SHALOM. My dad would take him to dog-runs hoping to attract the right king of bitch. Unfortunately, Buddy technically male, but snipped at birth, had some tendencies and enjoyed other dogs balls a little too much. But, my dad never wavered in his love, saying only, “As long as he’s Jewish.”

He won over my husband who raised with cats, swore Buddy would never move in with us, only to find himself as in love as anyone else whose path Buddy ever crossed. And when he moved to NYC he adapted to the concept of grassless pooping and even got used to the salt lined streets that sent him into a crying limp until I could find a patch of snow to pack up under his paw for relief.

He tolerated my son Jake who quickly stole the limelight making our once Golden Child feel like a dog for the very first time. He took it in such stride that he became body guard to this little human that was pulling his tail and trying to ride him like a pony. In 2006 he had a proper Bark Mitzvah with brunch, candle-lighting and thirty in attendance. (Picture included). He barked through his haftorah so beautifully that had Randy Jackson been there he would have said “Yo, Dog, dat was the bomb.”

Now he is 106 and pees and poops so much that I spent a month cutting a gorgeous 20×16 shag rug. Everyday razoring out another chunk till it was a sorry 2×3 backdoor mat. He pants like a sex caller throughout the night, and requires being let out what feels like every 27 minutes. He trips out the door without fail and then spryly bounces back in like this perfect beautiful puppy. In moments of spunkiness he laps my pool table like a greyhound over and over and over and over. He is deaf and mostly blind though he can still read lips. He walks on a tilt because of a herniated hip and often completely loses footing as his legs uncontrollably spread eagle beneath him. And if you are carrying food he’ll take your arm off to get it. Unless you say “easy,” then his jaw quivers so gently, he could remove a tic tac without touching skin.

Every morning when I wake the first thing I do is look at him asleep so sweet, like horse that has fallen sideways. Then I look at his stomach for rise and fall. I am morbidly hoping that he has gone peacefully in his sleep so that I will never be confronted with the other option. My father asked where I will have him buried when he goes. A pet cemetery is too creepy. The truth is I’m one of those crazy people who think, maybe I could just have him stuffed. Not like eyes open greeting you at the front door kind of stuffed. You know asleep in a ball chin on paws kind of thing. But then I imagine my cleaning lady having to dust him and like Rosie from the Jetsons raising him over her head to vacuum underneath and I think maybe just an urn will do.

I was watching the Oscars, which as everyone knows is the Super Bowl for women and gay men across the globe. Unlike real sports, the best part of Oscar night is the pregame. I had them all Tivoed: E!’s red carpet with Ryan Seacrest, Network with a cameo by Ryan Seacrest, and TV Guide’s Joan and family where Ryan Seacrest is actually a cousin (by marriage). I had shamefully missed the original airing and was trying to watch the next morning, hoping that I would not be disturbed. What could be worse than accidentally catching a glimpse of my NY Post which would surely have the night’s biggest upset under a very clever play on words? My daughter, who is obsessed with anything princess, was running around the house in my shoes and begging to play.

I envisioned the start of what could potentially be my favorite yearly ritual and sat her on my lap. “Look Ryan, look at all those princesses.” She was unimpressed and within minutes was bored to tears, literally. Well she is 4.

“Mommy put on the Backyardigans,” she chanted bouncing up and down on my ottoman. So off went the pre-show and on came those imaginative little animals who I think are supposed to live in low income housing, or at the very least something government subsidized. Like them, I began to create a whole different world. A world where they are going to an awards show, a show for the celebs of the under 5 set, a gala of epic proportions.

Leo:         “Hello I’m Leo here with June of the Little Einstein’s and welcome to the Red Carpet for the annual Toony Awards. Unfortunately, my sister Annie is with Rocket and Cooper Anderson in the Gobi Desert. I’m told they’re singing baba waba Osama to Beethoven’s 9^th, in a bunker that strangely resembles Salvador Dali’s “The Persistence of Memory” picture of melting clocks.

Quincy is not here because he is attending a rally for “Out” magazine. Not that an effeminate black male who is scared of the dark and plays multiple instruments including the flute, piccolo, and triangle has to be gay, he’s just exploring his options.

But, we are on a very important mission right here in Orlando Florida, cartoon capital of the world. Let’s check in on June who is with the cast of Blue’s Clues.”

June:       “Hi Joe, I want to ask what is on everyone’s mind… What are you wearing?”

Joe:        “I have on an green on green striped tuxedo by Ralph Lauren purple label.  Side Table drawer is wearing a runner from Isaac Mizrahi for Target and a vintage Tiffany lamp.”

June:       “Well she is truly glowing. Let me ask you Joe, is your acceptance speech written in your handy dandy notebook?”

Joe:         “It actually is, and the notebook was encrusted by Judith Leiber to look like a handbag.”

June:       “Fabulous may I see it? I see a crying boy in a monochromatic shirt, a can of gasoline, and a pack of matches. Hmm, these clues can be so hard to decipher. Leo back to you”

Leo:        “Well it looks like another banner year for the Latinos. Regretfully, Handy Manny will not be able to make it due to a citizenship issue however, he did build the stage. Dora is up for best actress in a Series Over-Using the Word “Aaabre”. She appears to be solomente. This is a smart call after last year’s awkward celebratory french kiss with her cousin Diego and that highly disturbing make-out session with her pet monkey, Boots. June do you have any celebs over there?”

June:       “Yes, I am watching the Mystery Mobile pull up, and what an entrance! Shaggy, Scooby and what looks like the Harlem Globetrotters have appeared like magic out of a huge puff of smoke. They seem to be heading this way however, it may take some time as there legs are spinning, but they are actually not moving…Ah welcome fellas today must be very exciting.”

Scooby:  “Reah, reah, rexciting.”

Shaggy:   “Hey, like do you have any snacks, we’ve like got the munchies.”

Scooby:   “Reah, runchies.”

June:        “I actually do not, try the E! booth they don’t pay that vampire Seacrest the big bucks for nothin’. Hey Leo, getta load of that clown walking down the carpet.”

Leo:         “Yes, June there’s JoJo and right behind her are the Disney princesses, who as you probably heard spearheaded a recent movement forcing cartoonists to draw underwear on all female characters. This of course is in response to circulating internet pictures of a fully plucked Daisy Duck exiting a limo on her way to Minnie Mouse’s “2 Weeks Jack Free” celebration… Monterey Jack, that is.  Let’s ponder that while I send it back to June and the cast of Rugrats.”

June:       “Hi, Tommy and Angelina Pickles, your show is up for it’s holiday special “Santa Woks” is that a cooking show?”

Tommy:   “No, I have a wittle twouble tawking… I’m 1.”

June:        “I see, well as you probably know you are one of the only Jewish cartoon families ever drawn aside from the short lived series “Moisha and the Shiksa.” And here you are nominated for a Christmas special. Angelica, don’t you feel it’s your responsibility to be role models to young Jewish children and to break stereotypes?”

Angelica:   “We took our image very seriously as we calculated the estimated earnings of ‘Santa Woks’ vs. our original script ‘2000 years of Bondage.’ Which by the way we are producing, but in another film genre. We just signed Ron Jeremy on to play Moses’s staff”

June:        “Well I’m sure Quincy will want to check that out. Leo back to you.”

Leo:         “Everyone is still waiting to see if Barney will walk the red carpet. He has been rather elusive after rare footage was released on UTube of him purveying fire whiskey to minors and singing “I love you, you love me” to Callou, Little Bear, and Oswald during a raucous sleepover. This ended in the wee hours of the morning after they allegedly took turns riding Thomas the Train.”

“Well that’s our time…Enjoy the show!  Leo OUT!”