The Suburban Jungle

-Dealing with a lost pet can be extremely daunting… even if it’s a ladybug.

I can still hear the faint murmurs of my son Jake’s 40-minute meltdown when his pet ladybug, “Lady,” flew away. We kidnapped this 4 year old (or 4 day old bug – whatever the spot things mean), at the top of Mount Aspen. Jake loved her, cared for her, nurtured her, taught her to ride a bike, and started a 529 plan in her name. About a quarter of the way down the mountain, Lady flew to the ceiling of our gondola and made a mad dash for freedom.

Jake jumped out of his seat and bounced towards the door. This caused the gondola to start swinging. According to the warning sign that pictured a man falling out of the gondola to his unexpected demise, wild swinging was strictly forbidden. “Jake, you can’t jump around. Do you see what happened to the unfortunate man on the sign?”

Jake continued searching, intensely focused on the whereabouts of Lady. “Hey, do you guys hear her? I can hear her. Do you hear her?” he said desperately, like someone who could put a straight jacket to good use.

Though we tried, we could not decipher the cries of his lost ladybug through the cranking sound of our transport. “There she is!!!” Jake screamed with the delight of a boy finding his long lost puppy (or recently lost ladybug). Regardless, it was with total elation that he offered her a stick, which she eagerly climbed onto. A few more minutes of bonding, and she playfully climbed up his shirt. “She’s sooo happy,” Jake cooed.

His joy quickly turned to horror as Lady made yet another stab toward freedom. I caught her, only to have my daughter Ryan beg for a turn. I put her on Ryan’s hand as Jake frantically tried to woo her back to his stick. She crawled up Ryan’s arm, pulled out what appeared to be a miniscule pair of binoculars, and scoped out the opening in the window. She looked back at Jake, with a tear in her eye, and with one final heroic effort, vanished into the thin mountain air.

A guttural wail came from Jake’s mouth… “I TOLD YOU NOT TO LET RYAN HOLD HER!!! I TOLD YOU! She loved the stick! She hated that spot on Ryan’s arm, and now look what you did! Sheeeeee’s gooonnne! I want Lady back.  I WANT LADY! She loved her stick, and she loved me! She wanted to live with me on her stick!”

Mark and I looked at each other, him losing it, and me wiping away a smile as not to diminish Jake’s loss. Calmly, I looked at Jake. “Honey, she’s a ladybug. I think she wanted to go free. That’s why she found the open window and flew out of it.”

“NOOOOOOO, she loved her stick!” Jake cried, tears uncontrollably streaming down his face. “I want my ladybug, I want my ladybug! I want her!”

Now both Mark and I are openly laughing. Well actually, I am laughing on the inside, which is causing me to cry.

“Jake, in the short time I was lucky enough to know Lady, I knew her to be a free spirit. Yes, she liked you, and your stick, but she’s not the type of bug to waste what might be half her life on a single stick. She wanted to explore and see as many sticks as possible.”

“NO, NO!!! She hated Ryan’s arm and it made her leave! I told you not to put her there!” Jake continued, as I officially lost it. While holding up the stick like a lighter, I started singing “Lady.” A song we later recalled was ironically sung by STYX. It went something like this: “Lady, LAY-EE-DAY Why’d you have to fly out the wi-i-i-in-dow?”

“Mommy STOP it! It’s not funny! I MISS LADY!” Jake wept, reverting to a grief-stricken state. Mark and I looked at each other in awe of this display of inconsolable, illogical, Oscar worthy, unceasing hysterics. “Jake…honey…baby, she lives on this mountain. She’ll find us at the bottom, I promise.”

“No-She-Won’t!” Jake screamed, stamping his foot on each syllable. “I promise she will,” I said, resolved to find another ladybug, or spend the rest of our trip trying.

He then paused, and answered with the irrefutable rationale of a six year old: “She won’t! She doesn’t even know which hotel we’re staying at!”

You know that stare? That annoyed stare that passersby, strangers and even family members give to let you know (what you already know) that you’ve completely lost control of your child? All moms know it. When my son was little he hated stores, any stores—Starbucks, Rite Aid, even my beloved Target. Maybe it was something about the shared air or the music that piped in from the ceiling, but he sensed the difference in atmosphere the second we entered. He screamed. He wailed. Sometimes fellow shoppers (likely other mothers) would help me out, give me the “go ahead” to cut them in line, or even unload my purchases onto the belt to speed me through. Most people just stared though, with that judgmental air of superiority. Their eyes were saying, “Tsk, tsk, you are a sucky parent! I could handle this sooo much better than you.” Some pairs of eyes simply stated “Shut that kid up!” What was I supposed to do? Stop getting groceries or, even more unthinkably, give up my non-fat, no-foam grande latte?

I remember being mortified after the first couple of episodes… Read more: http://parenting.ivillage.com/gs/gsbehavior/0,,g67prcgc,00.html#ixzz0W2OgU4UO

(Sorry, I am not allowed to reprint the article on my site.)

Don’t forget to check in on today’s Nickelodeon ParentsConnect “Me Time Challange” I don’t have time to: Go to the Doctor!

I have something to tell you; please don’t spread it around, as it’s somewhat of a secret.  I screamed “shut up” at my son today. “SHUT UP!” not “shush” or “sshhhhh” or even “ferme la bouche.”  No, “Shut Up.” I didn’t say it in a whisper, or even hiss it through clenched teeth.  I yelled it in a vein popping tone, and it felt sort of good, aside from the fear of having an aneurism.  I hate to admit it, but in the moment I actually enjoyed the shock value.

In my house, “shut up” is still the “S” word.  That and “stupid”…fine, it’s “shit” also (look, we’re not Amish).  “Shut up” is a phrase that I – a person who has managed to use“Shniekees” and “Gaylord Focker” in place of harsher expletives for the last 7 years – have never uttered to my children.

Had I witnessed you on the street saying – no, screaming – that to your child, I would have judged you with disdain.   I may have even considered calling child services on you.  Now, I’m the one with the scarlet letter.  I’m just a few more outbursts from a knock at the door.

I’m not going to tell you what my son did, but just know, he started it!  Fine, I’ll tell you.  He was yelling at me, telling me “No,” contradicting me, and being incredibly obnoxious all at once, and all at warp speed.  He never took a breath.  I didn’t know whether to punish or have him try out for the swim team.

The funny thing is, I just finished writing an article about the Spanking / IQ study, and here I am doing exactly what I said I wouldn’t do… “ensuring my child will need hours of therapy.”  Way to go Jenny. Though I don’t believe in it, I would have been better off calmly putting him over my knee; at least I would have had more self-control.

The worst part of this whole confession inducing incident was the look on his face.  It was somewhere between “Uh-oh, you said a bad word!” and a lip biting, “Sniff, sniff.  You said that bad word to ME?”  As I’ve said before, I subscribe to the book of damage control parenting.  Doing as little damage as possible, and controlling the damage you’ve done.  This was one of those times I had to control the damage.   Somewhat in shock myself, I had to regroup and think of my options:   Apologize, use candy or some other bribe to gloss over it, or explain my actions.  I went the obvious route, and when he finished licking the Kit Kat residue off his fingers, I said I was sorry.

I’ll tell you, when my kids were little, I would have sworn this day would never come.  How could you look at those sweet chubby cheeks and imagine they could ever frustrate you so much?  Conversely, when I told a few of my friends the story, they were shocked at how long I’d held out.

Wait a minute, I think there’s some praise in there.  I amazed people with my nearly infinite patience.  I deserve a medal, not a scornful eye.  I take it all back… I am the best mom; it took me almost 8 years to tell my child to “shut up.” Wahoo!  See, if you practice patience (but not too much), and bottle up frustration like seltzer (that your kids can agitate until it pops), you too can astound people.   Then you can start a blog, and when you do terrible horrible things, you can seek contrition by telling hundreds, dare I say thousands, of people about them.

***This article is featured on the Sun-Sentinel.com  Show the love, and please copy any comments on this link!

Alright, please don’t take that as a sexual reference, it means exactly what it says.  My gecko is cleaner than yours… so, don’t challenge him to a clean competition, ‘cause he’ll win.

As it turns out living in Florida is like living in a remake of Jurassic Park, on a smaller scale.  Like the miniature Stonehenge, for all you Spinal Tap fans.  The bugs are the size of softballs and the reptile life runs rampant… through my house.  Anyone who has been to Florida knows that lizards cross the roads and sidewalks with the frequency of jay-walkers in NYC.

Up north, where I am originally from, you might be lucky enough to see a majestic deer or cute little baby bunnies bouncing through your yard, but here you see the kind of things that eat cute little baby bunnies.  What I am shocked at, is how used to it I have become.  So much so, that I showered with a gecko the other day.  Please, all you sickos, clearly there was no funny business, though I did loofah his back for him.  He was just hanging out on the wall and rather than go get the cup to catch and release him, I simply went about my normal showering process.  You know, lather, rinse, repeat.

It gave me a little chuckle, but what really made me laugh was when I told my son that evening about the shower scene and he said that he too showered with the same lizard an hour before.  He of course played with the little guy, which makes me question whether soap ever made it to any of my son’s parts at all.  Though I’m sure the gecko got a thorough cleaning and is certainly missing his tail.  I said, “We must have the cleanest gecko ever,” which actually sent us into hysterics.

When my husband got home, we relayed our tale to which he said, “Yeah I showered with him this morning.”  I don’t know what this says about my family.  Are we all too lazy to remove a lizard?  Are we a bit promiscuous, taking showers with any Tom, Dick, or Lizard that enters the stall?  or Have we become so accustomed to them, that we are part of their ecosystem? Like Jane Goodall and those chimps.

I do know that if you come to my house, you’ll see a shiny lizard that smells like grapefruit conditioner and prefers air drying over being briskly toweled off.  Well, Jake would know more about that.

I’m not gonna name names, as I would certainly be one of them, but there are distinct qualities that describe most Facebookers.

The Over Sharer -This person seems to think that a trip to the store, a traffic jam, or the weather is worth repeating. They give updates like a minute to minute log. “Sitting in traffic.” “When will it stop raining?” “Just left SB, grande cap, mmmmm.” The Over Sharer is also the most enabled of all personalities. Other Over Sharers are constantly responding to their minute to minutes with fascinating epiphanies like “LOL” or “Rain makes me sleepy” or “Love Starbucks J” (Yes, let’s not forget the smileys, winkeys, and frowneys.)

The Workout Addict and the Closet Alcoholic -These people are actually the same, personality-wise. They feel the need to tell you what they’re drinkin’ or what they’re doin’ in the gym… and the stats. I think they’re both sending signals that require intervention. “20 mile jog, 500 sit-ups and feelin’ it.” “5 mojitos, ahhh” Not only do they flaunt the accomplishments of their pastimes, they like to question their friends as to whether or not to do it. “Do I climb a mountain, or go to the 10:15 spin?” “Drinks with the boys at Lucky’s, or sit on the couch with a cold one?”

The Just “is” – At first I thought these people were publishing this status by accident, but then I realized certain people do it more than others. Either they have sausage fingers and can’t work the keyboard or they just “are.” What does that mean? Is that a call for sympathy a cry for help? A Buddhist feeling of zen? You people are too profound for me. ):

The Gibbrisher -Everyone knows a Gibbrisher. This person speaks in code. Code that at least one friend understands, while the other 500 hundred friends are wondering what the hell, “is so $ due MJ explosion!” means? LMAO

The TMIer -This person is like the Over Sharer in that they have too much time, but takes it one step further by including info about last night’s sex, a bout of diarrhea, or an overly itchy rash. Anytime you talk about your own genitals in any fashion, you fall into this category, BEWARE. TMI

The Self Promoter -Don’t waste your time thinking, “Oh, the irony,” I know this is me. This person thinks that their business is of the utmost importance, TO YOU. They don’t want you to miss a single sale, review, TV spot, story, or promo. They ask that you join the 50 fan clubs, groups, and subscription sites that they have spent valuable work time setting up. Don’t think we, I mean they don’t check to see if you join every one of those clubs and sites! IMHO

Honorable mention: The Quoter and The Lyricist.

BTW-There will be a sequel. I would love to hear about your experiences with these personalities and the other personalities you have encountered.

OMG I almost forgot please join my fan page on FB , seriously!

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Today I took my first trip to the Apple store. Oh, the Apple store. Like it’s namesake in the Garden of Eden, or in the hands of Snow White’s evil stepmother, it was so inviting and enticing. There it was, in all of its overcrowded, minimalistic splendor.

People were taking courses on their iMacs, downloading apps on their iPhones, and buying $500 earbuds for their iPods. They were opening their iWallets and paying an iFortune for their iWare. The phrase, “there’s an app for that” echoed softly throughout the store. I was unable to find the source of this subliminal whisper, though I know there was probably an app that could help me. I walked toward the Genius Bar, aka customer service for Apple users, and was helped by quite the iLoser.

“iHello Ma’am, how can iHelp you?” The i’s were silent, but I could tell they were there.

“I have a problem with two of my iPods. One has a picture of an animated iPod on it, which appears to be deceased.” I do not lie. Apparently, when your iPod’s hard drive is corrupt, most likely from cavorting with a PC, a cartoon iPod man appears on the screen with a frown and x’s for eyes. Even in death there is some cute gimmick. PC never cutely croaks, it just “crashes,” demanding hours of conversation with India. I actually felt somber looking into iPod’s lifeless eyes, like I should say a little something before recycling it.

“My other iPod only charges on docks like my iHome, and my iBose, but not my iUSB, or my iCar Adapter, or our iDogs or any of the other iParaphenalia I have spent my hard earned cash on.

“Well, your iPod sounds fickle,” said iFreud, explaining it in a way that would suggest my iPod’s problem was more personal than technical. “Do you guys have an appointment?” he asked.

“Guys?” I said, looking around for someone that must have been hovering over my shoulder.

“You and your iPod,” he said, as if I had rudely discounted my iPod’s feelings.

“Well, being that my iPod is fickle, it’s no surprise that he is also extremely picky about who we make our appointments with.”

“Just fill in this form,” he said, pointing to the screen. “Ummm, I see we have an appointment available next week.”

“I’m sorry, did you say next week? You can’t see my iPod till next week? We don’t live nearby and…wait, what’s that iPod? Oh, right. Listen, I don’t want to offend you, iPlato, but iPod is iPissed.”

“Well, we have two convenient locations to accommodate you. Just fill in a time that works, and I’m sure a Genius here at the bar will be happy to assist,” he said, respecting iPod’s space, and also looking at me as if I were insane.

“iPod, you what? You don’t think he should be allowed in the Genius Bar? No, iPod I will not ask iDork his iQ.”

“You’re a PC aren’t you?” the iTwerp asked me, with a derogatory tone as if it were a racial slur. If I were a Mac I would obviously appreciate the simplicity of the system and the ease of making an appointment.

“Yes, I am.” I said proudly. “Why, are you going to try and convert me?”

“Nope, there’s an app for that!”

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Dear Mickey:

Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I think we need to take a break. Sure, I love the way you and your friends with oversized heads eat breakfast with my family and entertain us with your theme parks, but you ask for so much in return.

I pay a near fortune to see you, then you woo my daughter into expensive princess attire and offer pricey oversized turkey legs, costly Pooh shaped popsicles, and expensive embroidered hats with ears… that don’t really translate in the real world. I’m sorry, that sounded like I was blaming you for the economy. I’m sure you and Minnie have a ton of Disney stock options, so I know you’re feelin’ it as well.

According to the latest statistics, me and 1/3 of other American families are cancelling trips this summer and taking a “stay-cation” instead. I know you’re angry. The last time you waved at me and said, “See ya real soon,” you thought it would be sooner. I’m thankful you only have 4 fingers, because I know what you’d be waving at me now.

This summer, like most Americans, I will be visiting (Chez Pa Tio). I will take a portion of the money I’m saving and recreate much of the awe and wonder you provide, without ever leaving town.

I will save $60 on those mandatory Mickey mist sprayers, and have my family stand in the general vicinity of wet neighborhood dogs when they shake. Each night my husband and I will wrap ourselves in twinkle lights, and then we’ll run by the kids really fast and call it Space Mountain. Then we’ll slow down and call it the Light Parade. Who knows, we could wear them to bed and call it Pleasure Island.

I will cook pancakes in your likeness. Then I’ll have my neighbor with an abnormally large head come over and eat them with us. I’m sure my family will be none the wiser, as his head is really big. Have a great summer now, ya hear.

Sincerely,

Jenny from the Blog

This was written for the new site saleHOP.com.  I am now the feature writer for this awesome site.  Wahoo!  Here is a little info on it so you can be one of the first “in the know.”

SaleHOP is an online sale listing service for:
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BARGAIN HUNTERS looking for ways of saving time and money

They provide bargain hunters with a better way to find items they need at any sale or event occurring in their local area; while providing sellers an affordable and effective way to attract shoppers; in a comprehensive and feature rich website that provides a safe and fun environment.

CHECK THEM OUT

This one is tough for me to write. While finding the irony in the situation, the neurotic part of me still gets a pit thinking about it. My children had a sleep over at my Father and Step Mother’s house this weekend. Like any overly anxious mom, I am not capable of total relaxation when they are away because I am unapprised of their minute to minute safety status and whereabouts.

To make matters worse a sleepover at their house is like a carnival. They go from arcades to movies to the beach to the boat to Dunkin’ Donuts often in a 4hr span. Getting in touch with them in near impossible and guessing which activity they are doing, even harder. What if my parents make a bad decision? What if they feed them food that is not cut small enough or let them ride the escalator at the mall alone…in their flip-flops!? What if they don’t account for the beach’s undertow? What if they lose them, step on them, dehydrate them, don’t apply enough sunblock?! These types of things worry me, actually all types of things worry me, down to the pillow placement on their beds and if my son, who sleeps in my antiquated brass bed, will get a limb or worse, his head stuck in the unregulation sized slats.

That being said, I had a lovely dinner with my husband and a glass of champagne, or two, or a bottle lessens the concerns. The next day we went to pick up the kids and stayed for a BBQ. It was at said BBQ that the offense occurred. We were having desert, fresh fruit and Redi whip. Like butter, cheese or chocolate, whipped cream makes anything edible. My children, having control of the whipped cream can, joyfully and excessively sprayed it in heaping mounds, masking the fruit below. Squirt, squirt…air.

My step mother grabbed the can walked towards the trash then stopped as if a light bulb went off above her head. “Who wants to suck out the air and talk funny?” she said with the enthusiasm of an eight year old.

“Um the preteens that hang out by the dumpsters in the grocery store parking lots, maybe.”

“Huh?”

“That’s not helium in there, that’s a whippet.”

Whippet: Slang term for the inhalant drug “Nitrous Oxide.” Use causes a momentary lightheadedness due to a depletion of oxygen to the brain. In worst cases can lead to brain damage, and SSD (Sudden Sniffing Death). People also risk falling and getting a concussion.

“I’ve never done it, I just remember hearing something about it.”

“I remember hearing something about hypodermic needles on the beach, but I’m not going to play Doctor with them.”

I was trying to play it off, but my heart was pounding. In my minimal experience with whippets, I remember falling on my dorm room bed, giggling and most likely killing enough brain cells to forget the SAT words I had spent the previous year trying so desperately to drill into my head.

I have no idea what that rush would do to a 4 and 7 year old, and THANK G-D no one was finding out! Ahhh, something new to add to the list… fear of grandparents offering my children recreational drugs. A new concern, a fear I would have never imagined and I imagine some far fetched scenarios.

In all seriousness, I will use this as a warning. Take a moment to make sure your parents know that sucking the air out of whipped cream cans, computer dusting cans (Dusting), and air-horns is very dangerous and should never be used as a game. It seems so obvious to us, but intelligent people who were not teenagers beyond the 80’s may have no idea.

New Vlog!  I started doing how to videos for some of the Mommy sites I write for.  Though not totally serious, the concept of explaining even the simplest thing, gave me quite a giggle.  So, I taped this video on “How to sit on a chair.”  In it I explain in layman’s terms the delicate artform that is “sitting on a chair.”  You may want to use a spotter your first couple attempts.  I assure you, with my expert guidance, you will be sitting on chairs in no time!

watch?v=KEIUdYqvqlo

If you know anyone that could use this kind of instruction, please pass the link on -so they can take a load off!: mom demonstrates important skill “how to sit on a chair

Good Luck!

I was at my neighbor’s house the other day and her nine year old daughter sat down at the table with me. “Soooo, who’s your favorite character?” she asked, in the way one would while sharing tea and crumpets. I was not having tea, however, I was having coffee, one of the few things that still separates me from nine year olds. Well, most of them anyway.

My favorite character of what? Disney movies? Are we talkin’ Hannah Montana, or like Monsters vs. Aliens?

“No, my mom said you love Twilight, and OMG, me too! I am so in love with Jacob. How about you?” she squeaked eagerly, awaiting my answer.

Okay, as most of you know, I have a very unhealthy obsession with the Twilight series and the main character, Edward. I also believe, after giving the subject way too much thought, that this is either a sign of total immaturity or a mid-life crisis. So, either I’m mentally stuck in high school, or wishing I was.

“Are we having this conversation? Aren’t you nine?” Hello, clearly the fact that you love Jacob is a sign of your immaturity. “Everyone knows Edward is like the ultimate hottie,” I continued, drawing a line in the sand between me and the child that stood before me, who was excitedly bouncing to hear my answer.

“Yeah, he’s cute but I like werewolves better than vampires,” she replied, shrugging off my belligerent tone.

“What?! You’d rather date a werewolf than a vampire?” I argued.  Jenny, don’t get yourself all worked up. What does she know anyway, she’s nine? While talking myself down, I noticed her Jonas Brothers concert tee. I realized that we may have the same taste in literature, and as it appears, nail polish, but I was the adult.

In fact, one of my readers had just sent me a very racy version of what supposedly happened on Edward and Bella’s honeymoon. A night that the author skimmed over to keep the books appropriate for her teen audience. Of course, in my suburb where the kids rule, “teen” means nine.

I reminded myself that I had a nugget of Twilight information that she would not be able to read for at least 2 years… at the rate she was going. I told her when her mom said it was okay, she could see my special chapter. You might be thinking that I got great joy in dangling that carrot, but nay I say. It was when I gave her a raspberry that I got the most joy.

She ran to her room and returned with a picture, the fold out kind that you pull from Tiger Beat Magazine, or One Day I Will Be a Know-It-All Slut Magazine or whatever the teenie boppers are reading these days. You know, the ones that show young girls who are famous and rich, and handsome boys that are out of reach, and in turn, set their readers up for future disappointment and body dysmorphia.

She handed it to me, and I opened it up to find a picture of Robert Pattinson, the actor that plays Edward Cullin, who is also 13 years my junior. Don’t think it’s odd that I know that. I’m no stalker, but I do admittedly frequent the website: RobPatzStalkers.com

I think her poster was a peace offering, and in hindsight, a very mature response to my childish behavior. I looked at her, and then the picture. Then as I went to leave, I said, “By the way, the Jonas Brothers Suck! Yeah, they’re for babies and you love them.”

So who’s the most mature one in the room now?

PS- don’t forget to take today’s poll, and as always, make sure you have my RSS, or email subscription!

Here is my first vlog (video log).  For many of you this will be your first time seeing me, which I know is weirdly like watching the movie after reading the book (it’s all in the casting).  I think I’m perfectly cast in the role of “me,” as I find myself to be the epitome of me.  If you don’t agree, talk to my agent.

If you enjoy it, please pass it on.

If you hate it, keep it to yourself, you obnoxious person with nothing better to do than sneer at other people’s attempts at branding themselves and living out the dream… the American dream.  But know, I will get better and I will continue to blog if you prefer the blogging.