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.’