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.