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?

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In one week Suburban Jungle will celebrate it’s first birthday! Yes, one year of building a following of tons of readers and 1000’s of visitors each month… sometimes each week.  One year of amazing comments, personal email responses, and whispers at the grocery store.  The gestation period for this baby was about 7 years longer than the standard 9 months, but it was well worth it.

I started this blog after signing up for FB.  Before I knew it, I had hundreds of FB friends, because I am extremely popular.  I realized, here is a huge audience of people that I can awkwardly and annoyingly push my material on.  Due to nostalgia induced guilt, they just might read it. Since then, it has grown into a legitimate site, read by people all over the planet, literally.  I have become a contributing writer for CityMommy, NewParent, SheJustGotMarried, and the JewishTimes.  I have been mentioned in Good Housekeeping, and I am contributing to a hilarious book!

Because of you, I am looking for an agent and working on pitching two books.  I have gotten multiple calls about writing a pilot and am very seriously working towards getting many of my articles published… articles that started out as blog posts, for your entertainment.  If I did not have such amazing people following the blog, commenting, calling, and emailing, I don’t think I would have been so inspired to pursue this dream.  So, I want to thank you.

This is around the time I would start to insult you, by saying something like, “It was you, the little people, the peons, that helped me, a titan of brilliant creativity.  Who would ever have imagined?”  But I wouldn’t dare, because I still need you little people.

I need you now more than ever.  Because I am focusing on making this a career, I can not focus on marketing the blog.  I need those of you who are technologically savvy to Stumble me, Mixx me, Digg me, Blog Roll me, Tweet me, and Tickle me.  I made the last one up, but who doesn’t like a good tickle?  For those of you who don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about, please pass me on to friends, neighbors, class lists, and Mommy And Me programs.

This is an official amendment to our contract, like getting an annoying packet explaining the change in your insurance coverage.  I write a blog that is mostly article driven.  If I want consistent traffic without marketing, I need to be more “bloggish,” and POST, POST, POST.  So rather than let the Suburban Jungle suffer, I will enhance it with more frequent posts.  Not all will be articles, I am still just one insanely talented person.  But, I promise they will be witty, relatable, and sometimes short.

I will continue to give you the articles you love so much, and in return you will continue to enjoy the posts… that’s an order. You will talk about me at lunches, PTA meetings, water coolers, and play-dates.  You will sign up friends to the email subscription with out their permission.  You will annoy them with requests to join the Suburban Jungle group or networked blog on FB, and insist that they follow me on twitter.  Most importantly, you will ignore all spelling and grammatical errors.

I will hold you to our contract, which like an insurance company, I have the right to amend at any time, without prior notice.  Thanks for reading and inspiring every word!  You are truly the best audience ever!

Much Love,

Jenny from the blog

I always love feedback and hope to hear from you.

The FB Suburban Jungle group will receive articles only… not the entire feed, for the full experience sign up for the FB networked blogs thing-a-ma-who-ha.

I will not have as much time to post on LinkedIn, so if you find me there, sign up directly on my site, and feel free to link to me.

I don’t know about you guys, but I have watched my investments plummet.  it’s probably just me.  I must have made bad choices.  Reeling from the tech fallout of 2002, I cautiously invested in low risk things like bonds, and solid proven companies like GE and CitiBank.  What was I thinking?

Oddly, I also assumed that my husband would receive his weekly commission based paychecks well, weekly.  I appear to have been wrong on both counts. The constant chatter I hear on line at the supermarket, where people are pulling coupons out of their Chanel bags to save a buck on T.P. (one ply), makes me think, “maybe I‘m not alone.”

I want to know when I started to sound desperate and entitled?  Was it when I complained that I have to make my own coffee? Or when in an attempt to avoid such a dreadful task, I offered my barista a BJ in return for a Grande latte?

You know Sally Struthers once said, that a child in a third world country could live on the price of just one cup of coffee a day.  There’s probably a Starbucks like every 8 huts in Ethiopia, but how can I buy them coffee everyday when I can’t afford my own?  Oh, the irony.  You know Sally also said, “Stop calling my husband Meathead, Daddy.“ so I don’t know why I’m letting her make me feel guilty in the first place.

Here in the first world — America, there are people who struggle everyday of their lives and in the face of that I still manage to be upset that my husband and I haven’t exchanged gifts this year.

In an attempt to be frugal and responsible I recently returned $200 worth of “barely” used makeup and creams to Sephora.  Look, we all know that stuff looks perfect in the blinding color melting lights of the store and not so perfect in the natural lighting of … reality.

That was a resourceful plan.  Unfortunately,  I couldn’t use the credit to buy groceries or vaccines, so I did the next best thing and prudently bought myself new creams and make-up that probably won’t look good in reality either.  I may have, in a hopeless attempt to feign normalcy, wrapped those items and given them to my husband to give me for Valentine’s day.  Don’t judge, the manager said I could bring back anything that was barely used.  Under that premise, I’m going to try to return my diaphragm to Walgreens tomorrow.

As is obvious, I am using as many creative saving outlets as possible.  Yesterday, I caught myself thriftily gazing upon my husband’s pile of dry cleaning and wondering how much of it a little spritz, elbow grease, and a strong wind couldn‘t fix.  That thought gave me quite a chuckle and then I spit on the stains, rubbed them together, and blew them with my hair dryer.  It worked… I may have discovered the “Ancient Chinese Secret.“  Let‘s keep that one between us.  I’m using the money I saved to stave off my barista for couple weeks.

This morning I went so far as to wrap a barely read book for Ryan’s book exchange.  Actually, that one kinda falls under laziness.  A big sorry to the recipient, I think the one time we read it, Ryan had hand foot mouth, but I’m sure the dog hair tumbleweeds and pet dander in my house just scrubbed those germs right off.

PS  I am still negotiating with said barista.  He countered my offer with a week of free Grandes with extra whip (wink wink).  To which I replied, “Make them Ventis, and we got a deal.”  He drives a hard bargain, but I am confident that I am coming out ahead on this one, pun always intended.

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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!

I am not a fan of the chain letter. I know you’re thinking why not? Everyone loves a good threat. Well, I erase them right away because as ridiculous as it sounds, there is a part of me that feels that once I’ve read one of those things, the clock has started. How the universe is somehow connected to my AOL account, is a mystery. My password is pretty easy, maybe that’s the problem.

Some chain letters go so far as to mention G-d. The idea that The Almighty is busy checking my inbox and confirming that I have forwarded the mail to the specified amount of people, in the allotted amount of time, seems like a stretch. Yet, that irrational side is like, “What if?” “What if G-d wants me to pass on this sentimental poem about growing up in the 80’s.”

Yesterday, I got one of those emails. In the subject box it read, “Sorry, I Had To. “ I have to say, if your subject is an apology for sending an email in the first place, rethink pushing that forward button. This particular one was a message about empowering women and asked that I forward it to 9 of my Sista’s. The list of recipients was 50 scroll-downs long. Apparently, Sista’s all over the world are passing this thing around.

All I do each day is think about how to get my blog circulating, and here’s some poorly written warning- that actually refers to women as Sista’s – and it’s more popular than my well thought out, hilariously funny articles. So I will apologize in advance for the rest of this post.

If you forward http://www.suburbanjungle.net/blog-voodoo to 5 of your friends, within the next hour you will meet with great fortune. Your children will be smarter, your hair will be thicker, your boobs will be fuller, and you will receive a check for $10 MILLION! This may be a humor column, but it’s NO JOKE! I had a paralegal look it over and she said it’s legit. Just yesterday a woman in Westchester sent this on to 5 of her friends and the minute she hit that button, she got a call from her Mother-In-Law saying they couldn’t make it over for dinner! Need I say more?

Unfortunately, if you do not take this seriously, I must fear for your safety! A mother in Idaho who ignored this request, was shopping at a Gap later that day, and inadvertently smashed into the window trying to exit the store. She was not physically harmed, but she was extremely embarrassed.

I guarantee misfortune if you do not send this, because I will personally come out to your home or place of work and open fire. I will! I have a moderately powerful Nerf gun that shoots like ten rounds, and those suctions cups can have a very strong stick factor. I could get one right between your eyes and then it would take a lot of spit and pulling to get it off. I don’t know for certain, but it could leave an unsightly mark! All I’m saying is think about it… $10 MILLION or my saliva all over your face?

Okay, tick tock……………………………………………………………………….

Seriously, pass it on. Help a Sista out!

Sometimes Jake, my mush, has these sentimental moments that he doesn’t yet know how to process. He will say things like, “this music makes me want to cry, it’s just so beautiful.” Last night he came in as I was putting Ryan to bed. He said, “I can’t help it I just need to hug you one more time. I don’t know why. I just need to hug and kiss you. I love you.”

Ryan: (Who you can’t buy a hug from.) “What about me? Can you help hugging me?”

Jake: “No, you too Ryan,” He said, ‘cause he’s good like that. (He went over and hugged and and kissed her.)

He left and came back two more times because, in his words, “I can’t help it Mommy, my heart is addicted to you.”

“MY heart is addicted to YOU.” I replied in awe of this immensely touching statement.

My heart is addicted to you, can you even handle it? How beautiful, in a why does my 6 year old understand the concept of addiction, kinda way. Is his father’s heart “addicted” to me? I mean my G-d that’s better than “You complete me,” or “You had me at hello.”

For how many more years will his heart be addicted to me? Will he turn in the middle of his wedding vows, walk away and announce to the crowd, “I just can’t, my heart is addicted to my mommy.” Part of me pathetically hopes so.

My daughter began hosting an intervention. “Can you stop Jake? Can you do it? Can you be brave and strong and stop your addiction?” She was saying,  in a breathless distressed Scarlet O’Hara kind of voice. She is just 4 and oddly, also seems to understand the word addiction. You’d think we were all in some kinda 12 stepper.

So, Jake bravely found his manliness and retreated to his big boy room. Within seconds Ryan lunged at me “I, can’t help it I must have a hug. I neeeeed a hug” her voice trailing off as she fainted into my arms. Somewhere the sentimentality was lost, but she definitely wins for most dramatic.

It’s official… I’m famous.   For the last couple months people have been stopping me at random places to ask if I write the column “Suburban Jungle,” or to tell me they read and love my stuff.  The first time was at a local Chinese restaurant where a woman and her friend were pointing.  After checking for boogers and toilet paper hanging out of my pants, I heard one said, “that’s the girl with the blog I sent you.”  They came over, introduced themselves and kindly let me know I had broccoli in my teeth.  Damn, oversight.

My most recent approaching was at the grocery store yesterday when a woman stopped me to ask if I was a writer .
“Yes, I am.”
“Oh, I read your column and your blog, you are hilarious.  I love you .  Have you ever heard of so and so?”
“No, does she live in Weston?”  I asked, as if I were some hick who knows  no world outside this microcosm.
“No, she is a very famous writer and your stuff totally reminds me of her.  You’re like a celebrity.”

The whole time my daughter was pulling on my pant leg saying, “Come on mommy let’s go.”  You know the way the children of famous people do, because let’s face it to them you’re not Angelina Jolie, you’re just mommy.  Did I just compare myself to Angie?  Well, so be it.

I did need to get back to the deli counter before number 66 was called.  But, my inflating ego was doing one of those, “Stop it you embarrass me, but go on if you must,” things.  I walked away vowing to never go braless in public again, and arrived at the counter to find them at 68.  I thought, “this is what it must be like to be famous.”  You can’t just walk away when someone is praising your work. You would seem ungrateful and rude, yet you may have to explain to the guy at the deli counter you were accosted by fans and just couldn’t make 66.

The price we pay.  I left the store and realized I must have thrown the paparazzi off my trail, as there were no photographers waiting to see what was in my basket.  Though, I’m sure I’ll be in the “Normal or Not Normal” section of Star.  “Grocery shopping with daughter, NORMAL.”  I shoved my swelled head into my generic SUV and drove back to my humble estate.

Today, the world got wind of my hubris and decided to put me in my place.  I got fired from my column for writing something utterly despicable in my new year’s resolutions article.  Apparently, humor columns are no joking matter.  I also wrote, I would pull my son out of school and send him to work for not being able to spell December, yet child services has not called about infringing on any labor laws.

This reference to crack…
“Resolution 9.  Become Addicted To Something:
Smoking, alcoholism and Starbucks are so trite. I’m thinking something unique like nasal spray or hand sanitizer.  Or at least something beneficial to my endurance like crack.  Look, I already have a shopping addiction maybe I could offset the bills with a robust gambling problem.”
was so offensive that the owner, upon receiving his advance copy, threatened to fire the editors for not noticing the seriousness of my new year’s lampoon.  Having not caught it before it went to print, they halted the distribution in order to rip the piece out of 30,000 copies on Dec 31.  It not only held up the delivery date, it cost them over $10,000 in ad revenue from the flip side of the page, and hours of man power.

I was worth losing 10 grand over?  I think that makes me infamous.  Truth be told, I would have taken 8,000 not to write the piece in the first place.  Then they could have pocketed 2g’s and saved themselves the New Year’s Eve headache.  Or at least gotten their New Year’s headaches the old fashioned way: drinking to excess, doing embarrassing things that won’t be remembered at a party of your peers, and accidentally letting the wrong person tongue you when the ball drops.

So, no more play dates with Apple, or Kingston, or Shiloh, or Haze and Finn.  It’s back to the normal folk with their normal kid names.  No more late nights swapping with the Pitt’s.  It’ll be okay.  I might just start doing crack, to take the edge off.

This time of year I amuse myself by looking back at last year’s resolutions. Ones I made with the best intentions, like learning an instrument or a foreign language. Last Chanukah I had my husband buy me a guitar. I had all the confidence in the world that by this new year, I would balk at a request to play Stairway To Heaven, saying something dismissive like… “Please, that’s so cliché, but why not?” or “Por favor, es muy cliché, pero porque no? Unfortunately, my guitar collects dust while my Spanish collects rust.

So for this year, I have made some resolutions that are a bit more achievable:

1. Nag More

For 10 years my husband has not picked up a wet towel, washed ketchup off of a dish, changed a light bulb, or remembered trash day without a friendly, “How many times do I have to tell you?” I vow to be relentless in my nagging. I will lay immediate blame using words like always and never. As in, “I always, and you never.” I will play the martyr by saying, “Forget it. I’ll do it myself.” I will amp up the guilt with, “I do everything around here.” Or something unarguable like, “It’s obvious by your refusal to change a light bulb that you don’t love me anymore.” If all goes well, I’ll be nagging him to go to couples therapy by 2010.

2. Gain weight

I will add carbs to my diet with reckless abandon. I will start each meal with a generous helping of bread and rolls onto which I will spread an obnoxious amount of butter. I will stuff food into my mouth with such fervor it will make other eaters uncomfortable to watch. I vow to eat everything a la mode including ice cream.

3. Work out less

This will actually take serious effort. The only thing harder would be to shower less. If I need the proverbial cup of sugar, I will drive to my neighbor’s garage and beep until she comes out and hands it to me. I will take elevators in two-story buildings. Lastly, I will drop my membership to the gym and use the money I save to buy more carbs.

4. Forget an old language

This year, not only am I not going to learn a new language, I will let my brain atrophy to forget the one I already know. I will watch endless episodes of Sponge Bob and Chowder. I will stop doing crosswords and speaking in complete sentences. I will break all grammatical rules; I will misplace modifiers, dangle participles, and end sentences in prepositions. I will express my thoughts through that African clicking language, modern dance, and a set of bongos that I will wear around my neck.

5. Stay out of touch

This time of year, I am reminded of the many friends I have let time and space interfere with. I intend to further that distance. I will start by rejecting any new Facebook or social network requests. I will also attach a note that reads “I never liked you in the first place.” I will cuss out and hang up on people who call in hopes of fulfilling their own resolution to rekindle old friendships.

6. Be less patient

I will be aggravated, exasperated, and ready to blow my stack at the slightest misstep. The next time my son wants help with his homework I’ll say, “That’s it! Clearly this whole Elementary Education is not for you. If you don’t know how to spell December by now, you never will…Now go get a job! Oh, and take your sister with you, she sits on the potty way too long.”

7. Hold grudges

This year I will forgive no one. I don’t care if you step on my toe, or pay me the five bucks you owe me, a day after the assigned due date. I vow to hate you forever and never forget how you wronged me.

8. Stress more

I will lose sleep thinking about planning parties, redecorating my house, trying to budget, missing appointments, teacher conferences, and health issues. I will laugh an evil cackle while erasing all the plans from my PDA, and then cry over what I have just done. I will empty our bank account on frivolous investments and watch it dwindle away. Oh, wait…that already happened. Well good, more for me to worry about.

9. Become addicted to something

Smoking, alcoholism and Starbucks are so trite. I’m thinking something unique like nasal spray or hand sanitizer. Or at least something beneficial to my endurance like crack. Look, I already have a shopping addiction, maybe I could offset the bills with a robust gambling problem.

10. Gossip More

I vow to talk about everything you do in the new year. If I see you at the pediatrician for so much as a flu shot, I will tell everyone your child has hand foot mouth, so you can be verbally assaulted when you show up at a birthday party the next day. If you look too skinny, I will assume it’s a divorce or an addiction. If you look too hot, I’ll call it a torrid affair. If you look too young, it’s an addiction to surgical procedures because you’re getting divorced due to a torrid affair. I will start a rumor phone tree and a blog called “WhatYourNeighborsAreReallyUpTo.com.” I may even have a megaphone installed on my “Gossip Mobile,” so I can drive through local parking lots amplifying the skeletons in your closet to all within earshot. Oh, wait… I’ll just write about it in my next column.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!