As the shiny ball drops

I am 29 minutes from kissing 2010 goodbye.  And that's all that I'll be kissing.  I'm traveling through New Year's Eve on my couch, with the dog as my co-pilot.  Not exciting to some...to me, the only thing missing are three beautiful boys to kiss goodnight.  (I've stopped thinking maybe I stashed an ADULT male around here and just forgot where).

Reflecting back on the past year, I don't think I'm alone in stating that it was ONE HELL OF A ROUGH YEAR.  Unemployment, illness, uncertainty.  It was humbling.  Not too much that I can say I'll be sad to see be behind me.  However.

I was blessed with a wonderful bumper crop of friends this year.  Meeting lots and lots of wonderful people, just about in the nick of time (I'm getting teary as I write this).  From the beautiful people of Park Lane to those closer to my neighborhood, to my facebook friends  and even those that our paths crossed because of a quirk of fate (sg).  Friends are important to me for all of the obvious reasons, but also because they help me grow....and then help me heal the wounds that growth spurts can cause.  The ones that REALLY get to know me even help me learn and aren't afraid to tell it to me straight.  Even when they know I'm trying to fool them AND myself.

I kid you not.  I came home from a friend's this evening and made myself look myself in the eyes in the mirror.  (It was hard)  I'm done with posturing, with taking second best, with not going after what I want.  It's REAL living from here on out.  I made that promise to myself.  Talking the talk only takes me so far down the path - I plan on walking the walk.  I learned in 2010, especially in this last month, that I am a formidable actress!

I'm sorry this isn't funny or sexy or provocative or meaningful or thought provoking.  I just know that 2010 showed me...all the way up to 10:00 tonight...that I need to wring out every last possible bit of joy out of my life.  Tomorrow isn't guaranteed.  And yes, I have regrets.  I plan on using them to live.  REALLY live.

Happy 2011, everyone.

Unveiled

I love my guy friends.  With a little bit of encouragement, they can blast holes through long-standing myths.  That's right, Men. I’m onto you. You can’t get away with THAT crap anymore.  And HELL NO I’m not revealing my sources.  That’s some sort of journalistic ethics code, right Ms. Miller?  I’d even go as far as wearing prison orange …as a payment for all of the juicy myths that have been debunked.

I’ve been told I’m a decently attractive woman…especially since I’ve been giving  40 some dirty looks and I’ve had three kids.  Uh huh.  I read the rags like Cosmo and Mademoiselle…(well, not so much anymore since I realized that I probably wouldn’t have to really worry about THAT position and how to get untangled from it and how to seduce a 24 year old Libra…) ...but I never believed any of the hoopla about guys not caring about a little jiggle when we wiggle or some dimply thighs.  Because, RIGHT.  Have you SEEN the women they use to advertise these articles?  If there’s a jiggle anywhere, it’s between the ears.  (Ouch, Marr.) But alas…I have found out that is the majority of cases, this is EXACTLY the case.  My source said so.  And he’s got the Y chromosome as proof.  I didn't want to believe him - but he's a VERY smart dude and quite the ladies man.

So girls…let’s put it to the test.  Turn on the lights…walk around nude. I’ll even let you go first!  Please, I insist.  I’m right behind you.  Really, I promise!

Okay.  Here's more.  You know that married guy-friend that you have that keeps trying to set you up with his single buddies?  According to a source, your married guy-friend may actually have a crush on YOU.  Now, I'm not 100% clear on the motive behind him setting you up with a friend.  Maybe it's entirely selfless and he just wants to see his friend happy with such a fine specimen of lady (you).  Or maybe, it's more smarmy than that and he just really wants to feast on the inevitable locker room chat and use that to fuel his fantasies.  Whatever.  Play this one carefully!  The best part of this debunking is that it means that your guy friends really don't think you're desperate and incapable of attracting a mate yourself!  Whew!  Their wives, on the other hand, know the truth.  And they'll be armed with the wine and chocolate to let you vent after you've bagged yet another loser!

Okay, last but not least.  Ladies, we don't always have to be dressed to the nines to have the men appreciate how we look.  Case in point.  Once, while wearing my black yoga pants, ACDC thermal shirt, WIIL Rock sweatshirt and brainiac glasses, I was told I looked sexy.  Oh wait. Sorry.  That was that private conversation that I had with Vince Vaughn one night.  While I was dreaming.  Hey, I'm sure there's a guy or two out there that feel that way!  (Pssst...if that's you, let me know!)

Flooty Hobbs

Max received one of those personalized books when he was four.  It was called “Flooty Hobbs and the Jiggling, Jolly Gollywobber.”  It starts off:  “Allow me to introduce myself.  I’m Flooty Hobbs.  Maybe you know me…Maybe you don’t.  I used to be GREAT!”

Allow me to introduce myself.  I’m Jeni Marr.  Maybe you know me…Maybe you don’t.  I used to be GREAT!

And somewhere between the time I was 16 and now, I think I sent my golden touch to Goodwill.

Here's the truth:  I was a great kid.  A smart goodie goodie.  (Well, until my parents moved to Michigan.)  But seriously, I was toward the top of my class…(STILL pisses me off that I was third)…got voted Best Looking (without ever having been a cheerleader or in the Homecoming Court)…dated, albeit briefly, two WONDERFUL guys…had a great group of friends…played competitive sports…went to church faithfully…had a fantastic modeling career…got into three cool colleges (a full ride at one, accepted in the honors program for another)….

How many 16 years olds are sent to Chicago to live BY THEMSELVES for two weeks to model?  Talk about responsibility.  Bought my first pack of cigarettes that trip…  Imagine if I would have decided not to go to college right out of high school like my agent suggested.  At 24, maybe I would have been bulimic and a drug addict dating Julio Inglesias instead of having graduated college, having a two year old and having put the nail in the coffin of my first marriage.  Really, what’s the better choice?  You DO know I’m being facetious, right?

Then I went to college.  Met a guy at college my SECOND day.  Geez.  Although, looking back…he WAS a Scorpio..and from LA (my taste really didn't suck so bad then I guess...wonder if he's on Facebook...)  After being a medium sized fish in a smallish pond for 17 years, suddenly I was a smart kid in a school of 8,000 BRILLIANT kids (that would equate to a guppy in a tank of sharks).  I was a semi-introvert in the midst of MAJOR EXTROVERTS.  I did whatever I could to keep my head above water.  Well. ALMOST anything.  And graduated in four years.  8 months pregnant.  No laudes for me.

When I was interviewed by one of our local papers when I was a kid (I was a Super Semifinalist for Teen Magazine’s Great Model Search), my dad stated that he wanted me to be an actor…or a doctor…or, well, something cool.   I’m sure he wasn’t thinking that I was going to be a part time communications person at a college prep high school in the worst part of one of the most affluent counties in the country.  With a food stamps card.  It's a blow to my ego when I'm asked if I went to college and the conversation concludes with gasps....Yes, really, I DID graduate from there!

So I've decided that as I approach what I hope really isn't a midlife crisis point, I am going to use my 'what ifs' (not following up on a crush that I had on a guy, talking myself out of asking for that bigger job, not trying out for that play) and turn the rest of my life into 'I did its."  Not sure how to go about it without the GT...I’ve already tried working without it:  have done therapy, hypnosis, self-criticizing, smoking and drinking, NOT smoking and drinking, seeking unbiased friends’ opinions, reading self help books, following astrology, wishing I could perform magic, seeking the solace of prayer, living out my life in my dreams, hibernating and shutting everyone out, letting everyone in by blogging, becoming immersed in music, in a tv show, in a fiction book…no luck.

So I'll start by putting an APB on the GT.  You'll recognize it immediately.  Tarnished, short of shriveled, possibly limping along...but leaving a bit of color in its wake. Please show it the way home.

Author's note:  GT not home yet, but new job starting in December!  Full time!

Sometimes you get more than what you paid for.....

I began an exercise regime yesterday called "Tantric Toning."  Well, I should clarify.  I took the plastic off the packaging and put the DVD in the player.  I skipped through the intro and tried to 'center myself in the earth' like the dictator was suggesting.  The Horse pose kind of weirded me out...I mean, it didn't look like any horse I had ever seen before.  I made it about 10 minutes.

You know the whole 'tantric' movement right?  No, not the rock band..."Tantra is that Asian body of beliefs and practices which, working from the principle that the universe we experience is nothing other than the concrete manifestation of the divine energy of the Godhead that creates and maintains that universe, seeks to ritually appropriate and channel that energy, within the human microcosm, in creative and emancipatory ways.^"  (Thank you wikipedia!)  But let's be serious. If you've heard the term, it's probably in reference to some sort of deeper meaning sexual experience where you are totally in tune with your partner. What? You mean you're not supposed to be watching David Letterman while you're 'doing it?'

The allure of this particular DVD in the dollar store wasn't the whole sex aspect (which you should know if you are keeping score at home.)  It was the promise on the front of the cover of having a sexy body...for the mere investment of a buck.  Because, well, duh, I'm a bargain shopper!  And,  a 'sexy body' is becoming a fond, yet dim memory.

Okay. So I put the DVD in, hoping for a quick fix.  I can get past the way the instructor says 'tantric' - was more like t-aaaaahhhhhn-tric.  (Maybe I'm the one saying it wrong with my Midwestern accent...but, probably not.)  No, I was more put off my the amount of time that the chick spent bent over in front of me, displaying her pretty dang perfect breasts.  Seriously...who did they record this for?  Men don't even know what the word 'tantric' means and would be more apt to hightail it in the opposite direction should their partner ever bring it up.  Give up their remote??  UNHEARD OF!  This chick, though, CLEARLY was on display for someone.  The camera guy got an eyeful every single time.

As did I.

I'll give Ms. Taaaaahhhhnnnntric the benefit of the doubt and hope that as we move into other segments of the DVD, she's a bit more covered up.  By then, I should be able to get those dang hip movements down (who knew they were supposed to move like that?!?!)

Updates ahead.

Declaration of Independence

I’m used to having pretty intense, bizarre dreams that have more layers and complexities than Angelina Jolie has tattoos…or things to talk to her shrink about…or children.  There’s the one where I am shopping in the thrift store where everyone is making fun of me, only to be running down the street naked later because I got locked out of my apartment and all my clothes are in my ex's convertible Beetle.  Or the one where clones  invade earth and they are chronic liars.  Or being in my high school that really isn’t my high school  at all (um, three glass towers and an elevator that shoots out of the sky??) and trying to remember my schedule and where I sit and what books to grab and what the hell my locker combo is.  Or the one where I’m in college, living in the dorms and rooming with this weird young kid (I’m my age) who’s never there and trying to find my way to the south side of campus – which is actually a huge cruise ship.  Usually, I can just shake them off.  This morning I awoke after one such dream to some cold hard truth – in the form of 4 year old projectile vomit and the damn dog licking herself.

Harsh reality:  I am not going to be in a bar where an old high school friend (Derek making a cameo) introduces me to his nice, attractive, seemingly mild cousin. Even though I know I'll never be in that bar, one part rings true...I WILL probably favor the sarcastic, emotionally unavailable man instead.  Which means, that I’ll never be roaming through the streets of my hybrid Chicago/Evanston – a common backdrop from my dreams – with the mild cousin (who’s actually really nice and goofy and smart where it matters and funny…kind of like Grayson on Cougar Town) after all, and won’t realize that he truly IS my type if I had great taste in men.  We won’t pop into a quaint store the sells colorful three-wick homemade candles (or was that fruity fudge logs with candles in them?) and teas made from potatoes and carrots.  He won’t take my hand and walk with me across the street.  And I’ll never find out that he’s actually astrologically appropriate.  Sigh.

Pleasant reality:  Same dream.  I won’t be living in a split ranch with my father and grandfather and have an impromptu party of the mild cousin, four girls from high school and a bar I used to work at, the other sarcastic jerk that was hitting on me and a few other really random people.  Every single bathroom won’t be disgustingly clogged and I won’t be walking around topless.  I won’t be left with a mess of a house in the morning and no working coffee maker (but TONS of leftovers from the school cafeteria) and my uncle and dad coming home from partying at 8 in the morning and realizing that I am late to get the kids to school.

On one hand, it sucks that I won’t meet the my Graysonish cousin, who of course is too good to be true…but’s awfully nice knowing that I won’t be walking around topless in the midst of horrid bathrooms.  I think it’s a push. 

I declare these truths to be self-evident.

Taking the Purple to Pasadena

I think most people have songs that transport them back to a certain time (Alice in Chains, Man in the Box or Hootie and the Blowfish, Time)…or even specific day (Glenn Madeiris, Nothings Gonna Change My Love For You). Songs that remind them of someone special (Paula Abdul, Straight Up or Dep Leppard, Love Bites or Aqualung, Brighter Than Sunshine) or someone that they’d rather forget ( Alanis Morissette, You Outta Know). I could do this for the entire entry and affix names and dates to the songs. My memory in this case, is THAT good. There’s a singer that reminds me of a friend (Katy Perry) and two that make me think of my family (Harry Chapin and Pat Benatar). Jean Jeannie by David Bowie conjurs up ‘horsey rides’ on my daddy’s back when I was a toddler. AC/DC, Back in Black brings up thoughts of getting ready for soccer games and the Sugar Hill Gang makes me ache for friends that are no longer my friends for one reason or another. The entire list of 80s tunes represents my teenage years.


I’ve also realized that places do the same thing. I OFTEN (several times a week) have dreams about my high school. Although in my dreams it’s uber big and complicated and I am always lost and I ALWAYS fail my classes and forget my locker combo. (SO the opposite of what really happened.) So now when I pass the school when I am home, I am filled with apprehension and tension rather than the confidence that I felt (well, academically anyway…well, except for Government class and Physics…and Calc) when I was actually there.

I find that I try to be in a place that makes me feel good. Like Evanston. All three of my boys were born in Evanston Hospital. But long before that (well, at least with numbers 2 and 3), I was a Wildcat. Every time I breathe the Evanston air, it’s like I’ve been injected with pure glee. It’s one of the places where I feel I am not a shell or a poser, where I feel completely energized.

• A soccer field is another good spot. I think about the ‘glory years’ and smell the sweat and the oranges that we invariably got at halftime.

• The library calms me down in a heartbeat. Geek alert: I totally enjoy looking through the dewey decimal numbers for a specific book that I want. I should have been a librarian.

• Another of my happy places is the Salvation Army. All of the recycled stuff…all of the clothing organized by color. Satisfies the OCD part of me.

But back to Evanston. It’s so damn different now. The ‘downtown’ is built up, Dave’s has moved. Due to connections I made ‘way back when,’ I’ve been back more times in the past year and a half than I have since I’ve graduated. There’s a sense of Jeni Marr there. Jeni Marr still existed. If you knew me in high school, you’ll probably understand that. Those that have just met me…I hope someday you get to meet her.

I know it sounds relatively ridiculous to allow a place to define ourselves…but I kid you not. I have yet to find the key to tapping into the sense of joy I get there…and to trap it once I again head back north. Mile by mile, as I head from Cook to Lake County, I can feel the elation seeping out.

So I just applied for 12 jobs there. Maybe I’ll get to be an active Wildcat again yet! And listen to my playlist of 80s one hit wonders on my ipod while I’m commuter between the counties on the train!

As George Michael Says.....

I have faith. I do. I’m Catholic, just like I’m Polish and Scottish and Native American. I was born into it. And never thought to change it or explore other religions because it's worked for me.


But I heard a phrase on a TV show that I happened upon this morning. “Cruise-Control Catholic.” Now that’s pretty apt. And probably really disappointing to those that love me.

To me, being Catholic meant going to C.C.D. and Jenny Gammons' dad giving us Hersey bars when we memorized the Apostle’s Creed...and decoding notes from Dominic Konopka in 2nd grade...and having crayon wars with Derek Walkush in 10th grade. It mean going to 12:00 Mass and knowing that Fr. Ritter would cut the homily short if the Browns were playing at 1…and hoping that I’d see the Kocsis boys….or that kid Gerel from Firelands.

My religion meant going to my Grandma’s church during Lent every Wednesday and listening to the Stations of the Cross…and then stopping for a chocolate shake at McDonalds after. Or going to my Grandma’s church the day before Easter and getting our food blessed. Or going to that church and hoping against hope that the Shildwachter brothers were the altar boys on that Saturday night.

Being Catholic meant that I got married before I baptised my first baby - even if it WAS the day before.  It meant the when babies two and three arrived, they were baptised too. 

Recently I’ve found that my Catholicism is an active boomerang. You may fling it away, even unconsciously, but it comes back…and usually just in the nick of time.

I went to church today. Mainly because I had a Sunday off from my job and could…but also because I had this deep seated need to reconnect with the familiarity of my upbringing. I’d recently joined my friend’s family at their church for a Friday night event (the minis had a blast!) and the same friend said the rosary next to me while we drove in horrendous, Wizard of Oz like weather (I don't think I even could say a 1/19th of a rosary!). The signs were all around me, so I made the 5 minute walk to the church.

I sat in the pew and I heard in my ear, “open your heart.” So I did.

The Third Eye

I tell my minis all the time that I have eyes in the back of my head.  And they BELIEVE me...HEHEHEHEH.  Luckily, being the proprietor of said eyes, I can choose when and where to use them.  When there's a beer-gutted shirtless guy behind me at the football game (Does that G on your belly stand for 'garish' maybe)?  Nope, no eyes.  (Thank god) When the oldest mini gives his baby brother the last piece of Mocha Chocolate Chip Bread behind my back?  Yep, the eyes are there...filled with tears!  Of course they're also wide open when the 'covert' punching and pinching and kicking is happening.  Ah, the joys of little boys!

I also love telling the boys that I can read their mind.  I am the coolest person around to a 4 and 5 year old!  But lately, I've been second guessing advertising and making a big deal of both of these 'abilities.'  Am I training my sons to be the type of man that leaves adult women mentally and emotionally frustrated and exasperated?  The ones that don't communicate but still expect us to know what's going on in their pea-brains? The ones that leave the seat up, don't replenish the toilet roll, don't take out the garbage...because they know that we know they're doing it and will just sigh and do it ourselves?  My boys already don't know where anything is.  Especially if it is something that they themselves removed from their very own body.  Don't you love the 'mom?  where's my shoe?'  Right, I was the one that took off the size 13 Cars tennies with the velcro straps.  Didn't I just see those in Vogue?

Maybe I need to stop being so cool with all my supernatural abilities.  I'll leave the mind reading to the certified psychics.

But wait.  It's not that I'm not a believer (every self-respecting woman has a set of tarot cards and books of spells...) but I find myself maybe questioning the psychics that work out of their homes.  I mean, everytime I drive by I think to myself, "Self, maybe it's time to go in and have your future told."  One of these times, if these psychics were any good, wouldn't they be waiting for me at the end of their driveway with a sign that says, "Yes, Jen.  It's time.  Please come in."

I promise to tell the truth and only the truth.

“The beautiful and the bad: Seems as if only models and rock stars get good sex? Insecurity eats away at desire and anyone can have a hang up. Don’t let pictures of the beautiful and famous make you feel inadequate. Actually, the top performers, models and stars probably feel more insecure than you do.” (Chapter 4, Incredible Orgasms: yes, yes Yes, YES, YESSS! By Marcelle Perks.)


Yeah. Right. Okay. Of course I’ll buy that one, Ms. Perks. How many top performers, models and stars do you think she asked before she felt righteous in making that statement?

Here’s a secret from the peanut gallery: I am extremely (and I mean EXTREMELY) body conscious. To the nth degree. It doesn’t matter what anyone else says or thinks, I worry and fret and am at my happiest when I am at my smallest. “Small” being a relative term, of course, for a 5 foot 9er with big feet. And a large upper bodyish area (more on that later) About three or four years ago I was a size 4…and I was in heaven. Now, not so much.  I mean about the size 4.

I think it all started when I saw my great-grandmother in the bathtub. Mind you, she was an 80 year old Polish woman from the old country…and all I saw where her breasts that were stretched down to her lap. From that day on (I think I was 6 or 8 and FAR from the world of bras) I kept that picture in my head as a Body Don’t.

And to think that all I thought I had to worry about was sagging breasts.

Being involved from the age of 12 to 19, and then again at the age of 30, in the world of fashion, I was uber uber aware of what everyone around me looked like. And how I thought I should look. And how I found myself lacking. And that led to a VERY warped sense of how I saw people. NO, this is not a pretty fact about me. I am judgmental about strangers…you know, like the little latina walking down the street with her boobs popping out the top of her shirt and her belly out of the bottom. But, I am jealous of those women who have bodies that are strong and flaunt them with without thinking they shouldn't. I see a wiggle in my upper arms and I swear off tank tops forever. A ripple in my belly? No more bikinis. It’s just an inherent mental flaw. That I would LOVE to replace.

I embraced the Dove campaign that uses ‘real women.’ But even with those, do you see any cellulite? Trust me...I looked closely.

Danielle Steele has largely used the stereotypical ‘desirable’ woman in her books: lithe women, usually mid to late 20’s, with long flowing locks of gold (or chestnut or ruby red) with shining clear green (or aqua or violet) eyes. DISASTEROUS for reality. She DID, however, have an effort out recently, The Big Girl, where her protagonist was overweight…and ridiculed by her family. But check out the cover of the book…. http://www.randomhouse.com/catalog/display.pperl/9780385343183.html.  Jennifer Weiner is a storyteller with an EXCELLENT female character insecure of herself because of her weight. Check out “Good in Bed.” But even when modern writers try to make their women more believable, they fall short: “He gazed appreciatively at her rounded hips, gently swelled stomach and full breasts. He knew they would fit perfectly in his hands.” Oh, I just made that up by the way, loosely based on a book I just read.

WRONG! Truly full breasts will NEVER fit in a guy’s hands unless he is Shaquille O’Neal.

God has inked a design of my physical body and I am not rail thin or a ‘string bean.’ It seems that I am to be statuesque…which in Hollywood standards would mean that I am a mountain. I am almost starting to think that short of major reconstructive surgery that will make me look like Joan Rivers, I should embrace the fact that I have a strong body (um, well, once I get those PX90 or whatever the hell that exercise crap is from my ex…he IS aware that he is no longer my beneficiary, right??).

This topic came to me while I was in the shower today…a whole onslaught of thoughts as I was shaving my calves (one of the truly ‘thin’ areas left on me!!)…and then was supported when I came across the aforementioned chapter of the aforementioned book (which, by the way, was one of the ones that got this whole bloggy thing started.) This diatribe is certainly NOT a plea for compliments or reassurance or recrimination (if I read ONE comment about how I'm fine the way I am, etc, I will DELETE it!)…but really just to say that I am scared to get naked and I need to fix it PRONTO!

Until that happens….LIGHTS OFF.

I have no name for this

Has there ever been a literal definition of the word “quickie?” I mean, in theory, we all know what it’s supposed to mean. But in practice? I’m just trying to make sure, see if there is some sort of time measurement....because I sure as heck would like to know that ALL of my experiences weren't 'quickies' …just sayin.


I was told today that I had the voice of an angel. I'm assuming he meant the Angel of Death.

You’d think they could come up with a way for fat transplants…not from your own ass to your lips…but from one person to another. I can’t even tell you how much money people who wanted bigger boobs would save. I could probably single handedly augment 3 sets. OMG. It’s like egg harvesting…I could make a mint. Quick, find me a surgeon!

I amaze myself sometimes. Even if I AM too old to be a child prodigy.

Who put the Brazilians in charge of how much hair we should have on our bodies? Sheesh. I mean, is there a trick to dealing with the …ummm…discomfort of actually going through with it? Maybe they just suck down tons of Caipirinhas and hope for the best. On a side note…when googling the type of alcohol that Brazil is most known for, the first suggestion as I started typing “b.r.a.z.i..” was brazilian wax….REALLY?  Google, you pervert!

How about those jirds?

I’m awfully confused. Why is Donovan McNabb not wearing green?? And is that boy’s momma still following him around with a bowl of soup and a spoon. Does she REALLY want to see what happens in those locker rooms? Good thing for D Nabb though…he doesn’t get the soap on a rope for Christmas anymore.


There are moments when I think it would be sweet to have another baby. Not SUWEET! but oh, so cuddly sweet. And then I pinch myself REALLY REALLY hard, shoot myself in the foot and examine every single stretch mark that I have in a magnified mirror. Whew!  CURED!

I just stole this from my aunt’s facebook page: Alcohol doesn't make you fat... it makes you Lean... on tables, chairs & random ugly people. Ahem, sister!

It’s been requested that I do a rated R version of this blog for the private sector. But I’m just not too good with the sex scenes. So he says. (ba boom.)

I’ve been worried about my weight lately. I should probably start dieting. Or working out. Hell, that’s what God invented the OFF switch for.

Hmmm…hopefully those are fireworks that I hear out of my window…but I’m really not so confident of that.


I can’t believe that I am watching football versus the MTV Video Music Awards. Oh Wait. Justin Bieber up against Tony Romo. Ahh, yes. I remember now.


I may have bad taste in men (so says my dad), but at least none have ever decided to dispose of me in a manner non-court-like. With my head in another state.  BONUS!  Well, to me, anyway!

I have the attention span...or is that longevity...or it that sex drive...of a gnat.

Things I learned today:

• That the Shaw’s jird, kinda a gerbil like thingy, can have sex (or whatever you call it in jird-land) up to 240 times an hour. Now THAT’S time management. But wait. WHO ACTUALLY SAT THERE WITH THE CLIPBOARD?! And the stop watch. Would you perhaps bring an abaccas out for that?

I learned this because I googled “Animals with the biggest sex drive.” Yes, I did. What, hopefully, is more frightening is that I actually got results from this query, in particular, an article in Esquire magazine by Stacey Grenrock Woods. www.esquire.com/women/sex/sex0907. I mean, who the hell would be asking this question but me?!

Why, Jen? Why did you feel the need to google this particular phrase? Well, I’ll tell ya. I was sincerely hoping that the answer to my search wouldn’t be ‘man. ‘ or ‘homo sapiens’ or ’20 or 30 or 40 something males in Illinios” because THEN, yes THEN I would have started thinking something was wrong with ME. I mean, in my sphere (which, albeit, isn’t large) there is NO ONE that could take on the gerbil thing.  I can sense all of the ‘aha’ moments happening now!

It would make me feel better if I googled “animals with the smallest sex drive” and got 2 gazillion hits for all of the men I have ever dated. Or wished to date. Or borderline stalked. Or thought about.  Or dreamt about. Or...Crap.  Shutting up for hope that I may have a future date.

Extra credit from this: the bonobo (pygmy chimpanzee) has sex for favors, pleasure, social positioning and food. (without getting paid or jewels or a nice car?? PSHAWWW) The dolphin has been catalogued getting it’s rocks off with seals, sharks, turtles and eels. (I was trying earlier to equate that to a human…and threw up a bit in my mouth.) There was even this account that I could totally appreciate about a little otter from a Miami zoo that would go out and squat on the spray of water going into her pool. After FIFTEEN SECONDS, she would go into this little quiver and convulsion and tip over.



Lesson two:

• NEVER prejudge who is listening to a certain type of music. I was driving home today with the minis, singing a song or something with them when I heard the traditional and stereotypical THUMP THUMP THUMP bass of rap music from my left. I ignored it for a bit, assuming that I’d see some of the slicker cars that belong to the younger set (oh my god, I sound ancient. I can’t for the life of me think of the thing those kids do to their cars to make them better. Max would be dying!).  So I finally turned to my left and almost peed my pants.

The woman in the powder blue Impala had pasty white skin with hair that hasn’t been in style for a hell of a lot of years. I mean, when I was 7 the look wasn’t great, but at least I had 1978 to blame it on. There was a Betty Crocker air freshener hanging from her review mirror and some sort of school bumper sticker on the back. I am here to say, that the only thing more ridiculous would have been if I had been in my mom- mobile busting out to Ludacris (oooohhh, so love that one song “What’s Your Fantasy.”). But do you see what I mean?
Moral of the story: A chick with really bad hair doesn’t limit her bad taste to fashion.

Lesson three:

• A dad walking his child in an umbrella stroller is either really really really hot….or really really really not.

Lesson four:

• Children learn how to prevaricate about their homework during the second week of kindergarten.

Lesson five:

• My dog poops more than any other living thing I have ever come across.

Lesson six:

• Because I am sick, I will have all of these ‘amazing’ thoughts run through my head that I MUST put down on paper immediately.

Lesson seven:

• When I start misspelling common words…like ‘come’…I may want to rethink the literature that I’m reading.

Home Alone

When I went away this past weekend, I asked Max (he’s a senior) to house- and dog-sit for me. All weekend long, my (not so) deviant friends and I joked about the kind of secret trouble he was getting into. Even though we were all self-professed ‘goody goodies’ (and thought Adam Ant was singing about US in 1982) we had a great time one-upping each other on what WE would do if our parents had left us home. Some of us had to make it up…and well, some of us didn’t. (cough)


But while we were all getting a good laugh at the expense of my son (you know, first beer, sex, etc ), I started to panic a bit.  OF COURSE about my oldest 'baby' hitting (ahem) milestones that I wasn't ready for him to hit.  And okay, also because I hadn’t ‘hidden’ my ‘Mom is STILL an Adult’ stuff. Not that anything that I may or may not have was out in plain view. Or on the bathroom counter. Or in the kitchen. But if my kid is a snooper of ANY caliber (and I don’t even mean a GREAT one like I was…) then he’ll know a few things about mom that he really didn’t want to know. NO! You MAY NOT have a key to my house.

I don’t know about you but I’m a snooper. Or at least I was. I don’t mean that I look in medicine cabinets in the bathrooms of the homes I visit. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know what medicine or ointments my friends need. If there is something to be shared, we all share it! Information, that is!

No, when I was a kid…if I had to babysit my little sister, I couldn’t WAIT for my parents to leave so I could snoop in their room. You know that old adage, “Curiosity killed the cat?” Well…Yeah. DO NOT LEAVE ANYTHING IN YOUR ROOM THAT YOU THINK IS HIDDEN. Children are explorers and if there is anything to be found…oh, there IS that secret thrill of the hunt.

In the world of commercials that show people rifling through our personal affects, movies that show kids bringing out our ‘personal massagers’ for all to see, it’s almost commonplace that we snoop and invade. Right? Anyone? Ummm…is this mic on?!

Third Time's a Charm would lead to Three Strikes and You're OUT!

I had this thought crash at me today…like a brick through my windshield…like a stream of urine from an uncovered newborn…like the ringtone I use for my ex-husband (WHAH WHAH WHAH WHAH WHAH WHAH)…like…OH you get the picture!


I can get married. Again. If I wanted.

Don’t worry that I don’t have a steady male friend. Or non-steady male friend. Or semi-non-steady male acquaintance. Or a prison pen pal. By golly, by the laws set forth by the State of Illinois, I CAN get married tomorrow if I wanted. (Or however long it takes to get a license. Probably an hour or so if all the TV shows are right. Or if you know the right people. Wait! How long’s a flight to Vegas?!)

At the same time, I could:

• go diving with a hungry school of sharks just after I’ve shaved my legs with a new razor.
• get a job as an exotic dancer.
• eat a full meal before I get on the Corkscrew at Cedar Point.
• go looking for wildflowers in a field of rattlesnakes.
• shave my head, pierce my body (all over) and go by the name of “Spike.”
• bet big on the Cubs (or Indians or White Sox) winning the World Series.
• walk out of the house without wearing a bra.
• decide that the Heff is actually an attractive Octogenarian.
• think that I can be the next OCTOMOM.
• hit on Tiger Woods. And think it would mean something.

Following Katy Perry May be the Way to Go

So I cracked open one of the books I bought a few weeks ago. (swallowing hard) it’s title is “52 Brilliant Ideas: Be Incredibly Sexy: A Crash Course in Getting Your Groove On – and Keeping it There.”


But, I have an issue with the front cover…Let me describe it since my scanner failed. There’s this 30 something short-haired blond chick belting out karaoke to the top of a broom stick (at least, I’m almost sure that’s what she’s about to do). She got a mini Cosmo in her hand, dressed in a non-figure-flattering red lace dress (she’s a svelte pear shape…probably should have thought of something else.). She’s got red snakeskin patterned mules on and ruby red lips. There’s a red bucket, to go with the red mop and red dress. IKEA furniture and zebra accents. There’s this strange figurine on top of a book shelf…I think he’s pissed that she’s doing whatever she’s doing with the mop.  Or probably realistically, he more pissed about how much red she brought into the scene.  Thinking that a little apricot or mauve may have smoothed things out.

Yes, I got further than the cover. Chapter one: The Confidence Factor (alarm bells immediately). So it says, the trick to being sexy is to be confident. Supposedly, I need to believe in and accept myself. I am NOT to think about my bad points and focus on my good points. Oh crap. Time to make a mountain outta a molehill!! (and this is only chapter ONE….oy vey.)

I haven’t read chapter two yet (not that I really read chapter one…), but it’s called Heaven Scent…One of the things that attracts us to each other is smell. HELLO! I’ve been preaching this up and down!! I just glanced ahead to read the tip: Try putting some scent behind your knees. This is a highly erogenous zone that is often ignored. (um….ALL of my erogenous zones are ignored!) Don’t forget the nape of your neck – a single movement of your head will have him gasping for more – and – women only – between your breast – the most voluptuous and velvety part of your body…use it.)

Sound advice.

I wonder what number 52 is. Oooh, intriguing. “Anyone for tennis? There are certain things you just can’t do as a sex god.” WHAT?! Then why the hell am I reading this?! I want omnipotency! I want Super Hero powers! If I am going to train myself (in 52 steps) to be a sex god (dess), I want to be freaking Wonder Woman!

Liking the Random Stuff

When I see a pregnant woman, I am filled with emotion. No, it’s not happiness for the ‘blessed event.’ It’s jealousy since she obviously had sex sometime in the past 9 months.  Bi*&h!


I can kind of understand when people would think that I was my dad’s younger girlfriend when we would go have a drink together. But, really? You think that MAX is my ‘whatever’ when we go to a restaurant with the minis??  Simply incomprehensible.

Evan’s school mascot is the Cougar. Do I need to go on?!

In the whole scheme of ‘smartness’ out of my three boys, I think Ethan wins it hands down. He’ll be put to bed….and gets up….and will be put to bed…and gets up…and will be put to bed….and he gets away with it because he understands his Mommy. Mommy is lonely and Mommy wants hugs. AHA! Ethan can prolong going to bed by standing in the doorway looking cute, talking under his breath until Mommy says, “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” he then comes closer and asks, “huggie??”

Note to self: watch the boys. Evan introduces himself as “Hi, I’m Evan David Marr Rodriguez.” If the most notorious sociopaths are identified by three names, what the hell does FOUR NAMES mean? (I was hoping Hollywood….but who knows)

Today, I needed to be somewhere for something during a certain time frame. NONE of the other drivers gave a s*&t! Can NO ONE be sensitive to my needs?!

When someone says to you, “oh, btw, my place is a DISASTER!” DO NOT BELIEVE THEM! This is a ploy to make you feel like the worst housekeeper in the world. (Unless you hear it from ME….then it’s true!)

Am I the ONLY one that cares about what I wear and how I smell?? Well crap, it certainly seems so!

Yes, I know that I’m in a mini van and yes I see that you’re in a 1990’s poser car. Doesn’t matter – I’ll still leave you in the dirt.


The first day of your diet…you can stay on it because the day before, you ate the entire refrigerator.


Keep a man that turns off the TV during ‘playtime.’

Random

After over 25 years of shaving my legs, I STILL can’t NOT cut myself.

No, I was NOT looking at YOU, Mr. Beer Gut. But can I have a modicum of your self confidence?

Never leave the house without band aids, feminine products, baby wipes and Tide to Go. Especially if you are in a white linen skirt and new sandals. And you've been bitchier than usual.

The Pikachu ring that your kindergartner ‘won’ at the local arcade will break within 2 minutes of getting home…and will keep him up all night.

It’s always handy to have super glue at home so you can be SUPER MOM. (see above).

Don’t leave your Double Fiber English muffin on the counter and not expect the dog to eat it. And then not expect her to poop immediately.

No matter what your horoscope says…it’s NEVER the ‘right’ time to tell them how you feel. Regardless of whom ‘THEY’ are.

My 4-year old has worse 'road rage' than I do.

It only makes sense that the hot men are at the one place that I will never go.  The gym.

You start opening up about life...in a blog...and your mom will read it.

Privacy Smivacy

I get so jealous of my single friends that get to sleep in the buff. Okay. I don’t actually know anyone that sleeps sans skivvies. Well, except in the fluff chick novels that I use to stimulate my brain. And dang, am I jealous of those people! And it’s not even a body conscious thing. Okay. That’s a lie. Well, a little one. While I am firmly in middle-age-lacrosse/tee ball-mom-who-doesn’t-exercise-frumpiness, I’d give into the queasiness of seeing my gravity-addled body in the mirror if I could wake up from a night of skin-on-tickle sheets slumber. Preferably after 10 or 12 hours. On a down-covered bed. In the Caribbean. To the smell of coffee. And the sound of waves crashing.  (insert alarm clock sound effect here.)


So no, it’s not really a body thing. The real reason I’m jealous is that these fictional characters can actually SLEEP NAKED without having to worry about being caught…by little boys or 90 pound dogs! Life changes when you become a parent (duh)…and even more so when there isn’t another parent in the room to provide coverage and a distraction should little 45 pound torpedoes come barreling into your room.

Being a single mom to two little boys (the oldest can actually go to the men’s room alone!) is in itself a bit of a conundrum. As we all know…tollway rest stops are hunting grounds for pedophiles. NO NO NO. I just made that up. (I hope) HOWEVER, there is NO WAY in HELL that my two little boys will use the men’s restroom in ANY public place….especially a tollway restroom. So, they have to come in with me. Luckily, they no longer have to come in the stall (that was interesting, to say the least)…they stand in front of the door so I can see their shoes. And I tell them that it's rude to try to peek through the crack in the door.
Getting dressed is another matter. Children the age of 4 or 5 (or ANY child for that matter) really don’t get the concept of a closed door. The day that Max said to me 15 years ago “Mommmmmy. You look sooooo beautiful” when he walked in on me changing (my couture outfit at that moment was a black bra and black tights) I finally realized that privacy runs out the door the minute you become a single parent. The other moment was when I was getting into the shower and he came in…”MOM? Why do you have a tree on your butt?” Um, it’s not a tree. But that’s not the point!

But do you have to be single to feel this vacuum of privacy? I was just chatting with a wonderful friend of mine and she told me that she can’t get a moment of it. She recalled a morning not too long ago when she (we’ll call her Lucy) was showering and her husband (he’ll be Ricky) was shaving or something at the sink and her two girls (uh…Little Lucy one and Little Lucy two) were playing in the bathtub…without water. Here Lucy is, trying to get clean and non offensive and her entire family of four is in the Freaking bathroom with her! To make matters worse, after shooing everyone out of the bathroom, Lucy felt confident enough to get out of the shower and reach to grab a towel. From her room (oh, I forgot to mention that there is NO DOOR between her bedroom and bathroom, aka Family Room) Little Lucy one squeals, "MOMMY, YOUR TUSHY SHAKES LIKE JELLO!!!"

Note to self: NEVER HAVE GIRLS. Note to Lucy: GET A DOOR! Note to Little Lucy one:  Mommy is about 90 pounds soaking wet and ALL PICTURES ARE AIRBRUSHED!

No, my friends, the lack of privacy is color-blind, gender neutral and doesn’t care if there is a ring on your finger or not. Ladies, the first time you feel nauseous from that glorious creature (or creatures…or basketball team) that you have created, well, you can just kiss your privacy goodbye.

If you’re single and have all the privacy that you can stand, I have 90 pounds of little boys and 90 pounds of dog that I can loan you before you decide to hook up and procreate! After that, we’ll all get together to throw you a going away party for your privacy.

I Can't Drive 55

I suck at cars. I really really do. I used to say there are only two things in this world that I can’t learn…the stock market and craps…but now I know that was a big fat lie. I was wrong; There’s cars. I’m not all little girl, poor is me, I just don’t understand that my car needs gas, dumb. But I AM dumb.


A high school boyfriend’s parents owned a tire/repair place. I remember his mother saying to me: “Really? You have that much money that you can buy a new engine for your car when it goes? Just change the oil.” I was 17. About 20 years later, I took a different car there and the manager called me up and said, “I didn’t know you were making so much money that you could pay for a new engine. Would you just change your oil?” Sigh.

I’m the type of car owner that if I ventured into a car lot, all of the shiny new convertibles would immediately put their tops down and close up shop. Everyone would take a few steps back…leaving only the most broken down of cars remaining. Yes. It’s true.

I know what a strut tower is. Why? Because the tow truck driver informed me that mine was about to blow out of my hood and through my windshield.

I know what tire end rods are. Why? Because mine were broken. Oh, so broken.  And I got to touch them before they went to tire end rod heaven.

Much to the chagrin of a preschool friend who owns a shop, I change my brakes when I hear metal. I change my oil when my car starts to overheat (usually around 7000 over the recommended changing time). I changed my windshield wipers only after they left a permanent groove in the windshield. And let’s not even TALK about the interior.  (Yes, I know, stating that I have two small boys only works so long.  The morning show dj once told me...This LOOKS like the car of a dj - look at all the fast food wrappers!)

I don’t deserve a bright shiny car. Not until I learn cars. Which is guaranteed to be after I learn the stock market and craps.

Catholic Guilt

A few years back I had this idea to write this (completely fictional) TV show pilot about a woman (relatively attractive) in her mid 30s who after years of not having sex, suddenly gets a super-charged libido – out of NOWHERE. Like a little slice of heaven. Or a slice of flourless chocolate cake. SIGH.  Unfortunately, it was right at the same time she was separating from her husband and engaging in a prolonged legal tiff.


One would think a collection of toys could be, at this time, utilized to take a little of the edge off. But no. Our somewhat deranged leading lady decides that she doesn’t want to look like a sexual miscreant should the subject ever be brought up in family court…so she decides to dump the box load of goodies that have been residing under her bed.

Pilot episode:

We watch as the leading lady fills a medium-sized Contempo Casuals bag with the aforementioned items. (Of course they’re not mentioned by name or specifically…this isn’t Two and a Half Men for god sakes.) Short of sterilizing the items, she makes sure that they are untraceable (No DNA) should the cops ever decide to come looking for her for illegally dumping trash. Right. Because she wasn’t putting them in HER garbage can. Hell no.

She puts the bag in her mom-mobile and drives around with the playtoys for days, trying to figure out where exactly she can throw them away. A few times, buzzing could be heard from within the bag…it takes our dimwitted lady a few moments to figure out that she failed to remove all the batteries and that the items where actually beginning to pleasure each other out of boredom. (not that boredom was a rare thing for them - each of the items had sustaining relationships with the dust bunnies under the bed)

Finally, she coasts up to an apartment complex that has an open garbage receptacle in plain view…with no cameras focused on it. Our CSI-loving lady furtively jumps out of her car, tosses in the bag, and to the sound of buzzing, quickly peels away in the van.

The episode ends with a little boy reaching into the garbage bin.

And our leading lady gobbling down a quart of Ben and Jerry’s out of pure frustration.

Not the smartest move there, toots.

I repeat.  Completely fictional.

Ask and You Shall Receive

Saw a magazine headline at the local Super K that scared the ever living crap out of me. “We’re Ready for More!” screamed the tabloid! Heidi’s multiple personalities talking about more nips and tucks? Corporations begging for more bailouts? Aliens talking about the beefing up of their human tagging supplies? The CSI franchise adding Sheboygen, Clovis, NM and Scranton to their line up?  Lindsey's prison girlfriends hoping for another conviction?


Far worse, my friends.

Jim Bob and Michelle are committed to procreating baby #20. No, that is not a misprint…TWENTY CHILDREN. (hell, I have THREE and barely remember their names.) Doesn’t the poor woman ever get a freaking chance to fit into her pre-pregnancy clothes? If I couldn’t see my toes for that many years in a row, my toe nails would make the Guiness Book of World Records. And I would be very very very grouchy. (You don’t want to see me grouchy.)

So baby Josie just came out of the hospital and Jim Bob is already getting the Barry White cds ready. I am willing to bet, though, that old Shelly gets pregnant just by looking at him…or folding his socks when they come out of the dryer. Really, she can’t have the kind of energy or enthusiasm after a day with 19 kids that leaves time for a little humpty dance with the Mister. Or, maybe she’s a sexual freak of nature…and in that case, she needs to be bottling that shit up!

I am SOOO not saying their religious convictions are false or marred or cracked…they live debt-free, don’t live on welfare, and claim that God will determine how many children they have (how many ‘J’ names can you come up with, anyway…although, they cheated with kid #6…Ginger should be spelled with a ‘G’ not a ‘J.’ Are you telling me Jim Bob never watched Gilligan’s Island and had the Mary Ann versus Ginger debate? He was a politician for gosh sakes!) but maybe, just maybe, they may want to have a second opinion about that no birth control stance. I’m just saying. Condoms are cool…don’t they know that? So many shapes and flavors, textures, whistles and bells. (uh, so I hear) I’m betting that someone is going to come up with a condom that gives ladies a fluoride treatment during…well, you know. And I digress.

Okay, update. I lost count after 300 J names, 19 of course of which they’ve used (even with the scandalous JINGER. Can you IMAGINE how she gets ridiculed?!). My bet is on Jenga. Shelly, I don't think you need it, but I have this cute little nighty that I can loan you...it's certainly gettin' no play at my house.

Always a Bridesmaid

There are many ways that I’m woken up in the morning. The landscaping guys cutting the grass outside my bedroom window. The gentle calls of ‘Mom. MOM! MOMMMMMMY!” coming from down the hall. A little boy’s sized 12 feet lodged under my ribcage...or in my back...or in my face. The 10 alarms that go off every morning to make sure I’m up. Occasionally, the smell of coffee – when I’ve remembered to set the timer. Often, a huge dog paw slapping my face.


This morning I was woken up from a rare Anais Nin erotica-worthy dream…not really realizing that I was out of the dream…until it became clear that the sound that woke me up was the sound of my 90 pound Bull Mastiff participating in a session of … morning...(how do I put this gently?)...self-pleasuring.

She stopped for a moment when she sensed she was no longer the only one awake and gave me this snide doggy grin that seemed to say, “Jealous much?”

Parenting: 101

I am a horrible mother. No, don’t try to convince me otherwise. I know it’s the truth.


Oh, I’m not talking about letting Evan eat peanut butter sandwiches for breakfast…or fixing Ramen Noodles and hotdogs for Ethan when time is crunched. (He ASKS for it – I swear!) Or letting the boys occasionally go to bed without brushing their teeth. Oh chill. I said OCCASIONALLY.

I am talking more about being a horrible mother to Max. I have wasted 17 years (…204 months…6323 days…151,776 hours…okay, you get the picture!)...when I could have been embarrassing him on a regular basis, giving his a buttload of ‘oh whoa is me, my mother is whacked’ stories to garner sympathy from the sympathetic coeds. OH NO! What does he get instead? A super cool mom that has a cool job, watches Cougar Town with him, that doesn’t make fun of him in front of his friends or brings out baby pictures to show his girlfriend. (Damn. I have been looking and looking for that picture of him when he was two, wearing my high heels and his diaper. Don’t worry, Evan and Ethan….Mommy still has all of your incriminating photos!) I mean, there may have been a handful of embarrassing moments scattered along the way…like the plethora of husbands (or two), the couple of on air moments…OH – like when he had to play his trombone on the morning show and then we used it as a sound effect! (oh wait, he thought that was cool!), calling him HONEY while he was on the ball field…having THE TALK with him, handing him a condom and asking him if he knew how to put it on cuz I was willing to grab the banana off the counter and show him…but nothing that he can write a convincing story about in a freshman composition class.

It is our duty as parents, to have at least ONE moment that our children can refer to when they are having a ‘don’t our parents suck’ conversation with their friends. Max? All he has is, “Dude, they made my mom talk kinda sexy on the air…yeah, she’s a dj…but listen! I was listening and I was all like Dude, that’s my MOM…sure, she’s not bad looking for a mom, I guess…but you’re not listening! Okay, fine. I’ll ask her to give you a shout-out. Geez.”

Do you see why I am a horrible mother?

I have one year to fix this. I need to give my child the angst he deserves. He needs stories…and stories he shall have.

Even if I have to make them up.

Some Days You're the Windshield and Some Days You're the Bug

Country music stations should come with a major disclaimer…you know, that fine print that is always read ridiculously fast at the end of commercials:


10 out of 10 professionals of every kind across the board warn that country music should not be listened to by women who are pregnant, may be pregnant or want to be pregnant... Woman that are in wonderful relationships, in crappy relationships, in no relationship, will never have a chance in hell of having a boyfriend… Women that have amazing husbands, that sleep on the far end of the bed, those that know their husbands are cheating bastards… Women that are on ‘happy pills’ and forgot to take one...( or took too many)… Woman that are AT THIS MOMENT drinking too much red wine… Women that are suffering from Pre Menstrual Syndrome, will be suffering soon or may one day be suffering from PMS… Women that think that they are hot, think they look average and those that know the truth…Women that think starting fires is ‘fun’…Women who know how to shoot a gun…Women who think they can sing…Women who believe they are smarter than Kellie Pickler…Women that wear buttoned-down suits only so they can jump on a honkey tonk bar and show off their hidden tattoos…Women who think the song “Ladies Love Country Boys” was written about them…and hell, just about everyone else.

Dream a Little Dream with Me

I am starting to think that I need to watch my intake before bed…of the food variety (and I felt it necessary to qualify why?!). I wake up from the strangest of dreams. Not nightmares, necessarily, unless you consider walking around in a thrift store naked a nightmare. Or being Brad Pitt’s secret date to an underground movie. Or not being able to pull all of your bubblegum off your teeth (this one is a recurring one). Or having really weird dinosaur creatures invade earth where everyone has a clone and you don’t know who is who because the clones are chronic liars. So you can say to the clone: Are you Jen? And the clone would say: Of course, silly. But would you know? OF COURSE NOT. (or you could ask Jen: Are you Jen? And she would say: Of course, silly. But you wouldn’t know if she was the clone and just lying. See the dilemma?)


Last night, however, I DID wake up from a nightmare. In the midst of this big huge fundraiser thingy that I was doing with some charity organization and a whole bunch of teachers (hmmm….wonder where THAT came from…), I was transported to the Nord Jr. High gymnasium (No wait!  There's MORE NIGHTMARE TO COME!) where I was chaperoning a dance. And then, out of nowhere, Justin Bieber came and took my hand and started to lead me away. The look of the crowd was very much like that of the audience of the strip club I was at when the dancer (female) came up to me and took my hand and led me away. There was that intake of air and knowing nod of the head as all the men envisioned me and the stripper (OOPS, EXOTIC DANCER) headed to the back….door. (Ha! Gotcha!)

Anyway, back to the Bieb…I forced myself to wake up because there was no way in hell that I wanted to see that scenario play out. I mean, I think the kid needs to cut his hair and as far as his singing? I’ve never heard him. Besides, he’s younger than my son and that is just soooo icky gross. Where is his mother when all of these rags are talking about his love life?!? Hearing about his love life was like watch Carly and Freddy kiss in iSaved Your Life!  Disturbing! Why he was in my dream I have NO CLUE. (Unless...AHA...he was fetching me for his older single uncle who likes to ride boats.) Tiger Beat better not be pawning him off as Cougar-bait-in-training.  (Did you see the Cougar Town where Barb was at the high school graduation doing her 'fantasy draft?'  Soooo horrible I couldn't look away!)And while I have your undivided attention. DO I LOOK LIKE A COUGAR TO YOU?!?! Unless, of course, your vision of a Cougar is a middle-aged soccer mom in a silver beat up mini van (….GREAT for trolling the 25 and up crowd, let me tell you!) I could use this stage to create a singles ad for the men I WOULD be interested in, but, sigh, I think I’ve been doing that for the past three days!

Step Right Up and Spin the Wheel

I thought I’d adopted a one-dog matchmaking/screening service. She barked at my second ex husband and just about every other male that walked within a 3 mile radius of my house. But then she got wishy washy. She DIDN’T bark at my first ex-husband…and rolled over to expose her belly (hussy) to every Tom, Dick and Harry that so much as looked her way. I thought about getting her ‘not good for you Jen-dar’ fixed. Then I realized I would just have to go back to my own ‘fail proof’ method of choosing men to date. If they were COMPLETELY inappropriate and had NOTHING in common with me, then they MUST BE IT!! No, just joking. I went back to Astrology.


I spent $4.99 plus whatever Gurnee’s sales tax is on a book called “The Idiot’s Guide to Sextrology.” I probably should have gotten "The Idiots Guide to Having Good Taste,” but I skipped past the meat and potatoes and went right to dessert. YUMMO.

I’m a Cancer which means that you never know which one of my many personalities you will get at any given time! No. Really. I have references.

According to Astrology, there are a few signs that I NEVER EVER EVER EVER SHOULD CONSIDER hooking up with. I know for a fact that this is correct….because, HA ASTROLOGY…just try to tell me who NOT to date! Soooo right. If your birthday is between mid January and mid February, you can thank BOTH of my ex husbands and my EX FIANCE for testing the waters and saving you the hassle that is lovingly known as Jen Marr!

So the following are the rules I am going to live by – of course I’m paraphrasing…plunk down the $4.99 plus tax if you want the rest!

No Sagittarians (don’t have much in common and neither sign cares)

No Leos (little attraction)

No Geminis (supposedly, Geminis find Cancers a sexual bore – whatevva)

No Libras (sex, not so great)

No Cancers (almost TOO compatible – borrring. If I wanted to be with myself, I’d just be with…Oh.)

No Aries (supposedly Cancers have a naughty side that can be inspired but will fizzle out fast.)



Yes to Scorpios (dream lovers, dream partners)

Yes to Pisces (nurturing and soulful sex)

Yes to Taurus (Superbly yummy – hey, I don’t write this stuff!)

Yes to Virgo (mutually nurturing)

Yes to Capricorn (power couple)



If you fall in the bottom category, give me a ring, as in a telephone call. Those of you in the top category…crap, who believes this stuff anyway?!

I'm Driving my Car from my Trunk

I am going to close my eyes and jump feet first into the nation’s hottest debate.


Gay marriage? Immigration? Who should replace Simon?

No, ladies (and gentlemen), I am going to put my big ole size 9 1/2s in my mouth and talk about SIZE. DOES IT MATTER?

Yes. Emphatically, YES! … and NO. I spent many years on the NO side, out of the kindness of my heart…and sheer stupidity…well before I learned to be selfish and only be out for Number 5, aka ME. Many many many MANY years. Ahem. And then I had an epiphany and realized you can still make butter with a puny (I’m sorry, SIZE CHALLENGED ) churn, baby, but you gotta have some bulging biceps. So now, I linger my gaze on the arms…skinny ones? Oh hell.
What I feel is WAY more important is not the size, but the scent. Long after I’ve ditched ( I say that like that's how it happens!!) the relationship and can’t recall specific details of the real and not made up size of the whoositwhatsit (HAHAHAHAHAHA), I can still remember the overall scent of the person. I don’t mean ‘scent’ necessarily as in ‘odor,’ although, truth be told, I started carrying around breath mints (but didn’t cross the line into deodorant or body wash) early on in my singledom. Along with the smell of baby powder and baby lotion (although SO not in the same way) my hormones (or whatever) get triggered at the merest whiff of men’s cologne.

From the first time I purchased a men’s cologne (Estee for Men – high school boyfriend) and sprayed the contents of the $32 bottle all over my sheets and into my fan, I have been obsessed with the aromatherapeutic (yes, I believe I made this word up) benefits of men’s cologne. And the really good dreams that seem to come with it!

I’ve had a lustful cologne-affair with Fahrenheit (first husband), CK1 (but not B for god sakes – and THAT guy is a WHOLE ‘nother story, Shirley), the afore mentioned Estee, Azzaro Chrome (past fiancé), the ENTIRE Abercrombie & Fitch store (I would wander the store, glassy-eyed in a sexual haze…ma’am Kohl’s is a few stores over), Drakkar (didn’t we ALL?), and some VS men’s stuff (thank you , oh THANK YOU hot stranger who looked at me funny when I smelled your neck….oooh the DREAMS from that one!). I even have Old Spice in my cabinet…and NOT because of the uneven-pectorally- muscled Isaiah Whatshisname. Ladies, look at your man. Now look at me. Crap, I don’t even HAVE a man to look at!

Men’s cologne…in the Book of Jen Marr, WAY more important than anything else. Men, ARE YOU LISTENING? Let your ladies buy it for you. Then just hope she doesn’t have stock in it!

Happy sniffing … and Ladies, may you encounter men with big …biceps.

I always heard the green M&M's were special

If you are family…stop reading now. You will thank me later.







I think we should still have achievement charts and get gold stars long after we learn to pee in a toilet, tie our shoes or make our bed (although, a gold star – or a margarita - for making my bed every day might be a good motivator…) Our Big Girl charts should have items like, “Tell Your Gynie the Truth”…or “Learn How to Make Kick Ass Margaritas”…or…”Learn How to Put On Fake Eyelashes”…or... “Buy Condoms at a Store Without Spending $50 in Unnecessary Items.” Oh come on, you’ve done it – don’t even PRETEND otherwise! But were you dumb enough to add Vaseline and a ruler to your purchase?

And another gold star-worth achievement: “Ask For the Item if They Don’t Have it.” “Excuse me, kid-young-enough-to-be- my son…oh wait, you’re Johnny that used to go to preschool with Max…hi there, sweetie!…could you please go in the back and see if there are any more Trojan Magnums for me? Oh, and tell your mom and dad hi!” Don’t worry about traumatizing him. He’s young and resilient.


Today’s gold star was the best. I was at the mall at a discount bookstore where I inevitably landed in the self- help section. Not the diet and nutrition part. Oh no. The S-E-X part. And I thought…”How grown up I am! I can sit here in this section and not worry what is being thought of me.” (my brain wears vintage Chanel, btw) All right, it was more like, “Crap. Can I afford to get all TEN of these books?” To REALLY deserve the star, though, you can’t pretend that the purchase is for someone else. Salesgirl: “Do you need a gift receipt for these?” The old me: “OH YES!” I exclaim (oh wait, that was one of the titles of the books), “these are a gift for my maiden Aunt Ruth who just lost her faithful Golden Retriever. “ What??? I don’t know, it sounded good at the time. But oh no, not today, sister. Maybe a little too emphatically I said, “Heck no! These are all for me!” Galvanizing, of course, the sales girl to look a little more closely at the titles of the books and glance at me snidely – um hello, sweatheart, you’re wearing a hoody and 1980’s hair. You can borrow these books from me when I’m done. Regardless, my ego moans: Why, oh why, couldn’t she have been some tall, dark and handsome guy with soulful eyes and a rapier wit (okay FINE, ANY guy would have been fine!) to tell me: “Ma’am, from where I’m standing you don’t need a self help book to make yourself sexier.” Sigh. I’d even take the Ma’am. 

For now, I'll consider the $12 to be an investment.

And a gold star on my Big Girl Chart.