Thursday, March 31, 2011

How to NOT get a job.

Since switching jobs from full time office slave, to fuller time mommy slave, I have gone back and forth as to whether I should, in fact, get a paying job. Mostly, when the weather is cold and wet or when I am shackled to the boob sucker do I most feel as if I need to get out and get a life.

For the most part, it has been a matter of want, and not need. Recently, however, the mortgage business has slowed, and financially, things have gotten a bit tight. As such, and so my husband literally does not die of a heart attack due to stress, I feel as if I should at least see what is out there.

As I perused the want ads on, I got increasingly light headed, and at one point I think I passed out due to anxiety. I have grown comfortable in my current position, especially since I began "working" at the gym. When I wanted a job, and not needed a job, I didn't have this feeling of angst.

After an hour or so of searching, I was having little luck finding something that tickled my fancy. It wasn't long after that did I realize that maybe I was being a bit to picky. I love to tell people that "beggars cant be chooser's". I am admittedly one of the worlds biggest hypocrites.

The only job that half way interested me was in pharmaceutical sales. I envisioned a job where I could wear sexy little suits, pretty makeup and flirt with doctors on my own schedule. And as a bonus, I could possibly write off my pending boob job as a business expense. I would schmooze and bullshit my way to success. I'm still waiting for the call back.

Next, and per the employment good fortune of a friend of mine, I decided to give craigslist a go. I specifically searched for "work at home" or "part time".

The first group of jobs were nothing but fast food, 3rd shift jobs. I remember back in the day being jealous of the burger king i drove up and paid for my burger and fries kids meal on my lunch break....and thinking her life must be so stress free. And just the other day, as I was driving though a dunkin donuts, a young employee was coming out the back door with a garbage can and a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, and for a fleeting second, I was jealous of even her. No. I cannot go from waiting on four spoiled kids to waiting on hundreds of teenagers, stressed out moms, and business people who don't have time for a decent sit down meal at Olive Garden. Next.

Hmm.....looks interesting... a spa job. I like spas.

"PART TIME: New massage and spa seeking woman between the ages of 18 and 25 for all male clientele" (followed by a disclaimer that no sexual acts, or illegal or illicit behavior is allowed or expected at the establishment).

I missed the age cutoff on that one by a few years. Next.

AS I read on, I was ill qualified for almost every job

"PART TIME" Local animal shelter looking for responsible person to assist in daily operations.

NOPE. I need diversity and I basically live in an animal shelter.

"PART TIME" DAYCARE working for children ages 1 - 5.

Are you fucking kidding me? Have you not read half my blogs? I'd end up in prison for sure.

Then, I found something I think I really WOULD do. Egg donation. At 10 grand a pop I could make a killing and wouldn't have to change my life hardly at all. I mean, what would be more satisfying than getting paid to help create a bunch of little JENs? It would be like a cruel little joke on all the future husbands of the world, not to mention all the eventual little JEN offspring.

Then, the fine print. Maximum age : 30. No exceptions.

That's two jobs that exclude me due to my age. What the hell happened to the age discrimination law?

After that discouraging hour, I have decided to try and put off the job search.......all I really want is to try and stall through he summer, anyway. I can liquidate some assets if things get really financially difficult. (ie return the dozens of shit you people make fun of me for leaving tags on), and I can start making my own coffee....and I can stop the incessant shopping.

I am not above sacrifice. Hell, I can sell my milk to third world countries if It comes down to it. (wait, they buy it isn't something they expect donated??)

Lastly, if anyone is purchasing home, or wants to refinance, message me.


Monday, March 28, 2011

Goodbye Sally and Brittney

Do you ever wonder if your kids are weird? I know, I know, seems harsh. Maybe weird is an inappropriate word to be used...especially coming from a mother. Different. Different seems better. (ok, lets be realistic. "Different" just sounds nicer than saying weird.

One of my children, to me, is a little "different". She has an imaginary friend named Sally. At first, I thought she was just playing around for the day...then I realized, after a couple of weeks, that "Sally" was here for the duration.

We have all seen how imaginary friends are portrayed on TV. You always take the side of the poor child who is lacking something in his or her life to feel the need to "create" an imaginary friend. We feel for the child, and want desperately to reach out to the tv parents and tell them why little Suzy feels she needs to make up friends.

I don't know why MY child needs Sally. She has friends, siblings, pets.....a life. Maybe its my fault for not liking to administer physical affection. Or my all to often use of the F word. Either way, Sally was here.

At first, it was annoying, as she insisted Sally be included and "spoken" to as she were, in fact, in the home. I even had to make her a plate of food at mealtime. After a couple of days, however, I figured out how I could use Sally to my benefit...and make her leave. (I have enough kids...I really didnt need another one)

I mean, I could basically do and say all the things I wanted to "Sally" without any DCYF ramification, right? Soon, poor Sally became the recipient of a little bit of child abuse. Sally had gotten sat on, pillow smothered, her hands caught in door jams, etc. It was mean, but eventually, caused Sally to run away. ( I'm assuming she ended up in a shelter.)

More importantly, she proved to be a good poster child for subservient behavior.

Not long after Sally "went away", Brittney entered the picture. I heard my daughter speak Brittney's name on several occasions, however, out of fear of feeding the fire, I ignored it...and refused to ask who "Brittney" was.

Of course, I couldn't go on....I had to ask. Despite the annoyance of another imaginary friend, I had to find out if Sally had been replaced. It was worse than I thought. Even though I had thought imaginary friends were weird, at least I knew they were a bit normal. But this, this DEFINITELY constituted being referred to as "weird".

You see, "Brittney" is a wart on the upper right portion of my daughters forearm. Yes...she has a wart, and named her Brittney. She likes her.

I explained that she could NEVER EVER tell anyone that she named her wart. It was too late. Apparently, she has introduced Brittney to all of her friends. This, for sure, would get her a lonely spot in the lunchroom.

I told my daughter that we had to make Brittney go away, and gave her the choice of freezing, or a good old fashion lancing. (I would've let it go for a while....but she began drawing a body around Brittney. So you see, I am trying to save my daughter from being beaten in the school yard....or in her own home)

This caused much dismay. There have been tears, name calling, and tantrums over the inevitable demise of Brittney.

I had to pull out my best mothering tactics for this one. Two nights ago, when my daughter and Brittney slept soundly in bed, I swiftly, and stealthily sneaked in to deliver a note:

"Dear Brittney, you must leave immediately. I know that you are evil and will soon begin to multiply....and love to have your sisters live on faces rather than arms. I don't want my best friend covered in little Brittney's. Even though it is safer for me to live where I live, I still love my bestest friend. Let the mom take you to a dr or I will come and get you myself....and It will hurt!

Love, SALLY"

I'm a genius. We have a dermatologist appointment next week. (and a therapist appointment the following week)

Monday, March 21, 2011

This is how it is. PERIOD.

Its getting close to that time, when the inevitable "birds and bees" discussion will be warranted with my girls. But for now, I will stick with stage one. The "period".

Based on the almost unnaturally close relationship I have with my daughters, it surprises even ME that I am so unnerved by the entire subject matter. Today was the puberty talk in health class, where the boys and girls are separated and each explained how their bodies will be "changing" and working in the next year or so.

Luckily for me, Santa brought her a book about the girls body and puberty this past Christmas. Creepy and inappropriate, I know, but even HE know my uncomfortableness over the situation.

Actually, that is not entirely true. I don't have that much of an issue talking to them about the monthly "issue". I realized I would have to broach that subject when I found them in my room one day (Liza, 3 and Ave, 5.5) wearing my heels and walking awkwardly to try and keep the maxi pad in between their legs, whilst twirling tampons in the air.

I let it be, and didn't jump on it instantaneously. I wanted to think long and hard as to what I would say and how I would say it. They were fairly young, after all.

I thought I could avoid the egg/fertilization deal for a couple of years, so decided to come up with a more understandable explanation.

"Just like babies and really really old people, mommies sometimes need diapers too. Because I carried you in my body, my tinkle tummy is broken. Mommy sometimes likes to wear tight pants, so a whole diaper would look weird and it would embarrass daddy. So, they make skinny little diapers. The tinkle comes out when mommy sneezes or laughs too hard. Oh, and sometimes it bleeds because your nails were too long and you left a big scratch in there". (Lucky for me, that was confusing enough that they didn't even THINK to ask about the tampon)

This seemed to suffice....for a couple of years. I then decided to be a responsible mother of daughters. And I told most of the truth.

There is an egg. Your body makes an egg and it sits in your body and waits. If God wants you to have a baby, the egg turns INTO a baby. If not, then your body has to get rid of it. That's what a period is. I even went so far as to tell them what a tampon was. I just couldn't watch them pretend to "smoke" them anymore. And when I told them where it went, the look on their face was priceless (especially since I told them when they were sticking out of their mouths)

Unfortunately, I think that if you have daughters fairly close in age, the younger one will undoubtedly know things before her time. So I need to keep that in mind.

Up until recently, Liza stopped believing that I purchased her on the black market in Africa after she was being raised my hyenas...similar to Mowgli in "The Jungle Book". She finally put two and two together with the pregnant pictures and all. (i must admit...I am glad. I was beginning to think that she may have a learning disability)

I am satisfied that for now, the period discussion is handled. Well, half of it anyway. I cannot for the life of me get to the mans role in the continuation of the human race.

After all, Liza still firmly believes that Emma was created by her deceased Nana...who wanted so badly to have one last grandchild. (Emma was, however, conceived miraculously...almost "Mary-ish" just months after Nana's passing)

Ava, I am sure knows more. I just haven't been able to figure out what exactly she DOES know...without directly asking.

During all of this, television has become my nemesis. With commercials such as his and her fire and ice condoms being aired in early eventing, and teen mom (which I tell them is not a real show because teenagers cannot have babies) my moment is coming....quickly.

However, with woman such as Angelina, Madonna, and Sandra, I can at least keep the "some babies are purchased in other countries (like you, Liza)", and the Duggars who preach out loud that children are a blessing by God (enforcing my above explanation) I figure I have at least another year before I need to tell them anything close to reality. Lets hope I get to them before HBO.

Thursday, March 3, 2011


HORNY: adjective
definition: (vulgar slang); desirous of sexual activity

Ok, although this may be wildly inappropriate, it is nothing that anyone who reads this, or who BREATHES, has not thought of, discussed with friends, or thinks about. I'm just putting pen to paper here.

The cliche has always been men wanting sex, and their wives have a headache. Or, husbands creeping up on their wives, who then pretend to be asleep.

I attended the Movie "HALL PASS" the other night. Besides the fact that it was incredibly funny, I couldn't help but think that I related more to the men than the least as of late.

The premise of the film is that the wives inevitable catch their husbands leering at beautiful, young woman as they pass by, inevitably, leaving them to feel badly about themselves. They then decide, at the suggestion of a therapist friend, to give their men a "hall pass" from marriage for one know, to get it out of their systems.

Let me insert a disclaimer here....its only fair:

My husband works hard all day, takes care of the kids at night, does homework duty, does dishes and laundry and keeps after the animal menagerie I have forced upon him.

Ok, now that Mr. Wonderful has been outed (hence making me look like a slacker) I will continue.

Back to me thinking like a man.

I have always taken a more masculine role, or what society may think is a more masculine role. I love athletics, I always thought I could beat people up, I really am not very maternal, and I thrive on being a tough guy.

Lately, the "man" in me has reared its ugly head in a new way. It is probably the fact that I lost the 800 lbs I put on over the winter and am feeling better about myself. Or maybe the fact that nature is setting in by way of the spring season being around the corner.

A friend suggested that It may be an increase in testosterone levels from building muscle? I don't know....but whatever it is, has turned me into a housewife version of Stifler.

Unfortunately, my husband and I are like two ships passing in the night. He comes home from work, I run out shortly thereafter. I come home and he is sleeping like a baby...with the baby. And honestly, you could throw a grenade down his pants, and if its between the hours of 10pm and 2am, he would not budge.

This has resulting in me taking my sexual frustration out on one of my girlfriends. (ha...not like that...I "sext" her my woes")

She is a good friend to "listen" and I think in some way finds it amusing. Actually offering to booty call my husband for me to tell him to wake up and go to bed. (this, after my texting to him was falling on deaf ears) Sometimes, Internet porn just doesn't cut it.

I have to resort to middle of night/ post 2am sexual assaults. This is all fine and dandy, except while he goes back to sleep within 30 seconds, (shocking) I am left wide awake for at least an hour.....thinking back to the reality that in a few short hours, I will no longer be hooker jen, but nursing, poop wiping, lunch packing mommy jen.

My husband should feel lucky, I think. However, I don't think he has caught on yet. The hanging out at home my tight workout pants (the cheap/thin ones) that show my thong isn't doing it. He is just too tired, has a headache, or pretends (actually is) to be asleep. I even went so far as to take an innapropriate camera phone picture...and ALMOST sent it to him. (it was very blurry hence making my ass look pretty good) This is NOT something that would have even occur to me in the past!

Moreover, going to the gym for me, is like him hanging at the Foxy Lady. I get to look at sweaty young muscle boys, and he gets to reap the benefits. At least he SHOULD (another reason I think I am more masculine.....they say woman are more into romance, sweet talk, yadda yadda. hell no....keep all that BS away from me. Its a total turnoff)

I think I am going to have to resort to a more direct approach. I may have to dig into the back of the drawer. Or the shoebox that has been collecting dust up in the closet. I may have to kill the children.

All I know, or that I pray, is that this is not some sort of sick joke bestowed upon me by the powers that be to get me pregnant.

(PS. In completing this entry, I am already longing for the fall of darkness...somebody get my the anti viagra...please)