The Suburban Jungle

-Like us moms don’t already have enough to do.

A study published in the Journal of the American Medical Association claims that women will gain weight with age unless they lower their caloric intake or get in a hefty 6o MINUTES of exercise EACH DAY!  Are they serious? Workout 60 minutes to maintain?  Let’s talk about the word maintain, because they’re certainly not talking about sanity maybe they’re talking about resentment.  I will definitely maintain resentment toward these researchers for publishing this horrifying news.

The truth is, I know few moms who can get in a daily shower, let alone the current 30 minutes of suggested workout time; now they’ve decided to double it?  That’s it, I’m boycotting.  Oh yeah, I’ll show them, I’m gonna halt activity all together.  Yep, I’ll lead a completely sedentary life; only frequenting places that have valet and those electric carts inside, to ride on.   (more…)

Every women’s magazine has its version of a “How To Have (insert saucy adjective here)” sex list, most of which make me feel like I should keep an extinguisher by the bed, along with a bucket of cold water to douse on myself and my partner when we begin to spontaneously combust from sheer passion.  “How to Keep Your Love Life Hot, and Your Sex Life in Flames.”  “10 Ways to Reignite Your Marriage.”  “How To Turn Up the Heat In the Bedroom, Without Singeing the Sheets.”  (Oh, I like that last one)

I will actually disband the relationship myths propagated by magazines, and give it to you straight. The side effect of such truth could be the shockingly unsatisfying revelation that your unsatisfying sex life is just that… unsatisfying.  If you are faint of heart or an optimist, stop reading now.

When you have babies, sex is often not so hot… or often for that matter.

Tip From a Writer with No Sense of Reality:  Time your trysts around nap time. Snarky Response: There is nothing women like more, when trying to have an orgasm, than the sense of pressure and urgency that having time constraints puts on the experience.  Nighttime is better, IF you can work in a romp around heavy eyelids.  Little babies make for long days restless nights and disinterest

Do realize that once the kids are out of the crib, the question isn’t if we get caught, but rather when? You’re just counting the days, I mean lays, until you must explain why Daddy is wrestling with Mommy… naked. “Well you see, Mommy tripped and her clothes fell off, and Daddy was trying to help her up.  Oh, and he took off his clothes so she wouldn’t be embarrassed.”  So, please have a better story than that.

Tip From a Writer Who Clearly Has No Children: “Set the mood.” You know candles, aromatic massage oils, and sexy lingerie.  Brutal Honesty Response: If there is no lingering gas odor in the room and you’re in an old t-shirt without any holes, work your dimmer switch and voila… ambiance.  Better yet, realize the TV is a beautiful source of ambient light. If you can get the volume to an audible level, you can work in sex without giving up Grays Anatomy. It’s called multi-tasking, something we moms are all too familiar with.

As for a massage, I’m lucky if I don’t get one of my kids’ left over Dorito corners embedded in my thigh.  The sexy part is when I ask my husband to flick it out and slide the remaining crumbs off my tush like sand paper.  Does that count as a massage? Well, arguably, it’s more like an exfoliation, but it’s undeniably hot.

Tip From a Writer Whose Kids are Not Involved in 500 Activities: A date night once a week. Reality Check Response: I like this one, because in theory it is legitimately a good idea.  It’s definitely worth trying every week, but unfortunately, it assumes that there will be a night each week when no one is sick or has an event, that there is a babysitter available, and neither of you are too tired or worn out to go to dinner  –A meal in which most your conversation will revolve around the kids.

Tip From a Writer With More Than 24hrs in Her Day: (My personal fave.) Don’t forget the foreplay. Multitasking Mom Response: Really?  As it is, I have to have sex while catching up on my Tivo, reading US Weekly, having a healthy protein snack, and repeating the words, “lettuce, milk, eggs” over and over until I can get to a pen.  Now I have to add something else to my repertoire?  We forgot foreplay a long time ago. Well, my husband didn’t, he calls it brushing his teeth… which I am thankful for.

Tip that Makes me Say, “Are You Out of Your Cotton Pickin’ Mind?” –That’s right I said cotton pickin’ and I meant it!  Start Your Day With a Bang So, you’ve had a long day and the odds that you’re going to be up for a raucous romp, or even a guilt induced one, are slim.  Set your alarm an hour earlier and have an uninterrupted top-o-the-morning.  Bitchy Unsensored Response: First of all, what ambitious magazine writers think an hour is necessary?   Six minutes would do the trick and still, I’m not down with that idea. Do you know what I like to do before I wake up in the morning?   SLEEP!

Do yourself a favor, throw out those, “spice it up” manuals and top 10 lists.  Don’t be too concerned about the quantity of the sex you’re having.  You have to figure out what works for you. I recall a friend asking, “Do you ever wake up to your husband having sex with you?”  I remember thinking, “No, in my house, we call that rape.”  Now I’m thinking, “Hey, whatever works.”  If you can have a roll in the hay while hitting the hay, consider yourself a professional multi-tasker.

Question of the Day: What’s the best “Spice up Your Sex Life” tactic you’ve learned since you had children?  Please Comment and leave your twitter handle (I’ll be sure to follow:))

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

There are certain phrases that you imagine hearing, years before they may ever be spoken. As an adolescent, you dream of those three little words “I Love You,” being said with something other than a familial connotation. You envision the intoxicating “I do,” and long for the significant, “Congratulations, it’s a (put sex here).”

The phrase I heard today didn’t represent one of these reveries. Instead, I got the ever-dreaded question “Mommy, where do babies come from?” and more specifically, “How do they get out?” This is not the first time I’ve been asked this question, but it’s the first time I considered answering it honestly.

I’ve given quite a few explanations over the years: The stork, the basket on the doorstep, “out of mommy’s bellybutton.” I’ve even given the seldom used, “We found you in a trashcan,” explanation. An excuse used by my own dad, who on too many occasions told the tale of how they first heard my echoing cry, and then debated whether or not to take me out.

How is this happening? Just last week I reiterated, with strong conviction, the existence of the Tooth Fairy, and now I’m about to share the reality of how one enters the world? While I looked around the crowded diner for signs of eavesdropping, Jake said, “Do they come out of your belly?”

“They can.” I said, hedging.

“So they have to cut your belly open and take the baby out?”

“They can.” Still hedging.

“How do they put your belly back together?”

“Stitches,” I replied, knowing this would not be the end.

“RYAN… RYAAAAN!” Jake yelled to his sister, “You’re gonna have surgery, ‘cause you’re a girl and girls grow babies.”

Ryan, who was previously occupied with the jelly packet mountain she was building, looked up in horror.

“Whaaat, Jake??” She cried and looked to me for some explanation.

“No Ryan, go back to your jelly.” I said soothingly, redirecting her. “Jake, there’s another way,” I whispered, bracing myself for the look I was about to see. “Babies can also come out of a Mommy’s vagina.”

No amount of bracing could have prepared me for the grossed-out, confused, gape- mouthed, unblinking eyes that now stared at me.

“NUH-UH!” He said in horrified denial, as if I was saying it to be funny. Like telling him if he eats too many watermelon seeds, he’ll grow a watermelon vine in his belly.

“It’s true.”

“WHAAAT, babies come out your VAGINA??”

The families that hadn’t been paying attention to us before quickly turned, as “vagina” is not the usual morning conversation fare.

“Shhh, Jake we can’t scream the word vagina in public,” I whispered thinking, this wouldn’t be the first time (see the “Let’s Name Our Dog Butt Munch” article).

“Well, I think it’s better to cut open your belly.”

“Why?”

“If it comes out of your vagina, the baby would just drop in the toilet. Yuck!”

Not where I thought this conversation would go, but before I knew it, I was explaining stirrups and spreading your legs for the Doctor.

Jake took this in with unwavering interest. I felt like I could actually see the mechanics of his mind, like watching the inner workings of a clock. Just when I thought he had digested it all he said, “How do they grow inside you?”

No way am I going there, not until he finds the Tooth Fairy utterly ridiculous. “Eggs,” I said, “Eat your eggs.”

I was quoted in Redbook magazine August, p.27 in response to the Question:  Is it ever appropriate to get “Hot and Heavy” when you’re a houseguest?

My response, “It’s always appropriate to get hot and heavy, unless you are staying with your parents.  Then it’s only appropriate to get warm and light.“

Sage advice, sage advice.

Figuring out that your parents knew as little about raising children as you do is a mind altering experience.

I spend much of my time in disbelief that I am the mom of two amazing kids, because I often feel like a kid myself. How did this happen? When did this happen? Just yesterday I was getting my license, graduating college, moving to my first apartment… and somehow I am an adult with a home and children. Children that come to me in the middle of the night with growing pains, and nightmares looking to be comforted. I’m mothering by the seat of my pants. I creatively make up feel better songs or merely relay the advice my mother gave me as a young child.

How is it that I am winging it and my mother seemed to know everything? I walk around sputtering a slew of medical advice I got from this woman who was so thoroughly competent and mature at 35, they may have even let her practice medicine in some states, like West Virginia.

Was Dr. Mom wrong? Was she all knowing or just a teenager, stuck in a “mommy” body, spouting the information imparted by her mother before her? If your tongue has a green tint, do you not need to make a BM? If you get stung by a bee does toothpaste not soothe the sting? It all made perfect sense when I was 8.

I took these practices as gospel, logging the protocol in my “future motherhood file,” for safekeeping. I filled my arsenal with pertinent and sometimes even magical remedies, only to find myself at 35 in a CPR and safety class being jeered by the instructor, the “movie star” hot instructor.

Because I am mentally no more than 21, I was secretly praying he was a stripper, hoping his snug manly fireman’s uniform would Velcro straight off to the sound of some cheesy disco accompaniment. Don’t think I didn’t whisper, “bow chicka bow wow,” to get the ball rolling.

I attempted to impress him with the vast medical knowledge I had learned from the omnipotent Dr. Mom.

“Butter for burns?” He laughed. “Coke Syrup? “ He questioned. “Who taught you this stuff?” He prodded and not in a flirty teasing way. Apparently, my medical knowledge was archaic. Not only did it make me seem old, it made me seem Amish.

I was about as sexy to this strapping buck as the Snapple Lady. There it is, that four letter word that is so hideous so heinous… L-A-D-Y. To this stud I was just some “lady.” My mom was just like me… some kid who was a “lady” to everyone else. Some of those brilliant treatments she made up on the fly and the others she just relayed as I did, hoping to sound as if she knew what she was talking about. She believed what she was told as a child, because her mom, another “Lady,” of maybe 25, told her it was so.

My entire foundation crumbled in 3 hours and a snack break. Realizing your mother was no more prepared or mature than you are is a shocking and mind altering epiphany. It’s like trying to figure out what was here before the world. If you think about it too much your head may spontaneously combust.

My mind was swimming. I tuned out the sexy EMT, well muted him, to think this through. Have I found the key to motherhood? Is it not in the actual knowledge but in the belief? My ultimate goal as a parent is for my children to be safe and secure. Is that not what my mother, the witch doctor, did for me? Having trust and faith in her knowledge was a necessary part of making me feel safe and secure.

Maybe we don’t need to know everything or be ultra mature to be good parents. Maybe the answers we have are enough. My epiphany was making me hyperventilate. I considered throwing myself to the ground, grabbing my throat and kicking resuscitation Annie out of the way. Look, sometimes you take it any way you can get it.

I considered not posting this because so many people witnessed it happening. I wasn’t sure if there was anyone left to read about it. Because there is some pertinent information, I decided it was worth sharing. I have discovered the quickest way to make people despise and hiss at you. If this is something you may be interested in… read on.

Bring a cranky child with less than five hours sleep under her belt, to the grocery store. It’s a brilliant plan for anyone with too many friends or any kind of social interaction disorder.

She began our trip like a giddy drunk: a little unstable, but cheerful and capricious. I may have even gotten an, “I love you man… I mean Mom,” accompanied by a hearty chest bump. Well, her chest, my knee. But, like most drunks, the second you shove them in to the seat of the shopping cart they get belligerent.

Cindy our favorite check out girl made the tragic mistake of saying, “Hello my sweet Ryan,” When we arrived. Her “Sweet Ryan” responded with bared teeth and an ominous growl.

“How could you Cindy?” I snarled. I should have done a 180 then and there, but I selfishly decided that it was more important that my family have their precious food than maintain any good will towards neighbors.

By the meat counter Ryan lost it when I pulled the number out of the number machine. When I felt her eyes bore a chasm through my forehead, I succumbed and allowed her to pull out 10 more numbers…much to the dismay of the deli staff.

By the time we hit produce she had spiraled out of control. I said something so horrifying, it left her no choice but to unleash an Earth shattering scream of disapproval. The grapes looked old, but I now realize, I should have kept that scary tidbit to myself.

I also affronted her by pushing the cart too slowly. When I sped up she hit her back on the cart which was adding insult to injury, actually injury to insult. Semantics aside, it was unforgivable and ohhh, did I feel her justifiable fury.

As I waited for her head to stop spinning, I decided to spare the customers the migraines they were acquiring and spare myself the gossip that was developing. I grabbed a few essentials and made a beeline for the checkout line. Cindy’s line was the shortest. I reluctantly got in it and shot her a scowl, letting her know I had not forgotten the cruel injustice she showed my child when we arrived. Ryan continued to sulk, which  triggered the woman in front of me to say, “Aww, Poor thing. She’s so cute.”

I took one look at her blood shot eyes as she was rolling them at me for some unknown wrongdoing and simply said, “She can be cuter.”

As I approached the end of the belt, Cindy looked at me with the sad pouty face adults make when imitating crying children.

“Hello Jenny,” she said in a not your day, kind of way

“Don’t even go there Cindy, you chipper woman or I will knock that annoying pout clean off your face,” I barked in a stint of misplaced frustration. Okay, I didn’t say that, but I did give her the, “talk to the hand” gesture. No, I didn’t do that either. I said, “hello Cindy,” but I said it in an Indian accent, so she would be oddly confused.

Next time I choose feeding my family over my daughter’s surly mood, I will remind myself that, there is a reason Mc Donald’s is making the youth of America fat.  Then I will head to the nearest drive-thru.

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.

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.

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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