I found that stay-at-home moms and working moms both have their ups and downs. The advantage of being at work is that you actually get to sit down for an hour at lunch. There is no screaming going on, and you can actually hear yourself think. It’s also very rewarding to be told you are good at something, because unfortunately you won’t hear too much praise from your kids till they leave for college. The cons of being a working mom include watching that cute face stare at you through the front door mouthing “MAMA, come back!” every morning. Also, your weekends are not days off for you. Saturdays and Sundays are catch-up days for buying food and diapers you couldn’t get all week.
The biggest pro about being a stay-at-home mom is that YOU are the one raising your kids. You don’t miss out on all the milestones someone else would have probably seen first. The cons I personally found were looking like a house rag most of the day, because why bother making myself look good while I’m watching my baby? The other con is only having your baby to talk to all day long. I only wish my son was able to have a conversation about the Oprah episode I was forcing him to watch. He would only make comments about the diaper commercials in between the show.
Now that I’m a single mom, I feel like I’m only getting fifteen seconds to run a two-mile race. Less time and a longer distance. It’s so incredibly hard at times that I think I’m going to break. At least when your husband is there you can say, “Hey, watch the baby for a second,” while you lie down or even run to the store. I don’t have that luxury. I can’t take showers anymore because no one is watching him. So all of my washings are WITH him in the tub. I can’t tell you the last time I took a bath without a rubber duckie or smelling like Monster Bubbles.
The most important thing I’ve learned in all this juggling is that it’s quality, not quantity. I might not get all my shit done in one day, but at least I know I made my son giggle so hard it made ME pee in my pants. For generations to come I’m sure women will be juggling even more, but I have no doubt in my mind that we will make it work because some how, some way, we do make the impossible possible.
Jennyology
What I’m about to explain is simply my own personal take on spirituality. I’m not preaching or telling you that I’m right, so I don’t want any letters from religious groups. It’s just my own viewpoint on the matter.
I was raised in a VERY Catholic family on the South Side of Chicago. I have hundreds of relatives, some of whom are priests and nuns. I attended Catholic school my whole life and even went to an all-girl school…yuck. My whole childhood I grew up with Jesus pictures and statues that stared at my every move in the house. Needless to say, I was God-fearing. Every night before I went to bed, I would say sixty “Our Father” prayers, sixty “Hail Mary”s, and sixty “Angel of God” prayers. Then I prayed for every dog in the neighborhood: Pickles, Pepper, Cookie, Kelly, Sheba, Woofie, and Penny. I even lay in bed with my Mother Mary statue and rosaries, praying to God that Satan wasn’t going to enter my body while I was sleeping.
Throughout my entire childhood I lived in this kind of fear. Fear of burning in hell with the devil for an eternity. When I actually did “sin” I would race to the church to tell the priest why I broke a commandment. I had to make sure that before I went to bed that night my soul was clean just in case I died in my sleep.
It wasn’t until I moved away from home that I started to let go of some of my fear. Not all of it, but enough of it to have fun in college and go to bed with a boy without my Mother Mary statue lying in between us. It was during this time that I started reading books on spirituality and forming my own views on why I am here. I started to look at my life and realized that when bad things happened because of something I did there was always a consequence. I didn’t need to run to a priest—I just needed to look back at the situation and learn from my mistakes. Guilt about doing something wrong was getting me nowhere. So I stopped feeling so bad all the time and forgave MYSELF and looked at bad situations as lessons learned and tried not to repeat my mistakes.
When I moved out to Los Angeles, I received a couple of letters from my uncle, who is a priest, damning my soul to hell. He said I would amount to nothing and that I was evil in the eyes of God. I’m sure this is probably one of the reasons I worked my ass off in this town to prove him wrong and probably another reason why I’m so big and goofy on television. I was so tired of being locked in a box of can’t-dos and can-dos that I just wanted to express myself and try to make people laugh. If wanting to make people laugh as a career choice is evil, then I’m gonna have a good time burning in hell with some pretty famous people.
“Hey, Lucy, your ass is on fire.”
“Thanks, Jenny, you’re pretty ‘hot’ yourself.”
I feel so much more secure with my faith now by having my own spiritual viewpoint about it and not being bogged down memorizing gospels in school. I’m a better person today knowing that I choose what I do in this lifetime and that I’m going to be the one responsible for my actions and I will suffer the consequences on a daily basis, not necessarily by burning in flames for all of eternity. Life feels like a big school to me now. You get beat up, but you pick yourself back up and try to move to the head of the class without stepping on or hurting anyone along the way. Unless, of course, they stepped on you first; then beat the shit out of them and move on. I’m kidding.
So no matter what religion you are, I think having faith in something higher and for the greater good can help you get through the hardest school you’ve ever been through…life. Except if you’re an atheist. Then you’re going to die a horrible death…just kidding.
Faking It
Just writing the title of this chapter makes me smile because I know that most women, if not all women in the world, fake orgasms. If you say you’ve never faked them, either your guy is standing right next to you or you’re a big fat liar. And if your guy asks you if you ever have, I’m sure you’ve replied the same way I have: “Not with YOU, honey.”
Before I divulge all of my faking-it stories, I would first like to bitch about why women were NOT built with the same horniness as men. It’s so unfair. Since we do most of the work to maintain the human race, you would think God would make it a fair game. I work all day, stop at the store, pick up groceries, feed the baby, clean the house, put the baby to bed, and my body is just supposed to be “randy” for my man? That’s funny. That’s really funny.
And how can men’s dicks get hard at such inappropriate times? I would bet a million dollars that if I went to a funeral and asked my man if he wanted to go into the bathroom for a quickie he would have to limp the whole way to the restroom covering up his immediate hard-on. I, on the other hand, get horny four days a month—two days before my period and two days after my period. That’s it!! Can I be worked up to a horny place instead of waiting for those four days each month? SURE. But the older and busier women get, the more warming up we need. And most of the time a husband’s idea of foreplay is him pulling his dick out of his pants.
When you first learn about orgasms as a young girl you learn about two different kinds, the “inner” and the “outer.” Both can be faked quite easily, but all women would obviously prefer not to. The outer one, known as the clitoral orgasm, is much, much easier to have. I have no idea why this is. It’s a very rare occasion when I have had to fake these, unless the exes in the past were trying desperately to find the spot and got lost at the deli counter.
The internal orgasm, known as a vaginal orgasm, is much harder to achieve. For years I thought these were myths. I couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. I thought for sure I was born without a G-spot. I faked these for YEARS. (Sorry to all the exes in the past. It’s true.) Almost ALL women I talk to have yet to even have an internal orgasm. So if you’re one of them, don’t be alarmed. Most said the only way they can get off is by working the outside while he’s inside. I finally had success when I met the right guy and he moved me into positions that worked. Most men aren’t that giving or talented, though,
so if your guy is not one of them, you’re not alone.
As I’m sure most of you know, orgasms require deep concentration. If you are at all distracted, like thinking about what groceries you need, you probably won’t be able to get to the finish line. It’s amazing to me how much brain work it takes for a girl to have an orgasm. Guys just need to look at a nipple and they lose it. Unfortunately, after childbirth and gravity, I don’t think my nipples are as alluring as they used to be. They’re starting to resemble elbows.
The most common reason why we women fake orgasm is to help our man get off so we can be done with sex. If it’s taking too long and you just want it to be over so you can watch TV, you shout a little oooh ahhh and pop goes the weasel…he’s done.
A second reason for faking is that you just don’t feel like concentrating so hard to reach an orgasm, but he’s already gone down under and is trying his hardest, so you shout a little oooh ahhh to reward him for a job well done.
Another reason to fake is that you want to look hot and sexy during sex. Let’s face it, if we didn’t fake it, half the time we might look like dead fishes just laying there. Shouting a little oooh ahhh can make you look like a good lay.
The last reason why a woman would fake an orgasm is because HE HAS NO IDEA WHAT HE IS DOING. If a man sucks at it, you have no choice but to fake it!
But if you encourage your man into doing it the way you like it, you just might get away with faking a few less orgasms. Tell him it’s a delicate flower down there and that it needs to be teased. A nice rhythmic motion is always good, and if he avoids using his teeth, even better. Tell him even though it looks like bologna, it’s not. Don’t chew it!
The one good thing in all this is that men have no idea if an orgasm is fake or not. So there really isn’t any way to get busted. One good tip, if you’re not already doing it, is to squeeze your vagina muscles during your oooh and ahhh shouts. It puts the cherry on a really great performance!
The Mommy Hangover
My first experience drinking was in the attic of my girlfriend’s house back on the South Side of Chicago. There was a group of us, including some boys, and we were breaking into my friend’s grandma’s imported vodka cabinet. The whole neighborhood I lived in was Polish, and those Polish folks really loved their vodka. The labels on the bottles even looked homemade. It was all in Polish, but I knew the one with the exclamation mark must’ve meant it was really strong, so we broke it open. There was a boy in the group I really liked, and being the idiot I was, I wanted to show him how cool I could be and dared myself to chug half the bottle. Everyone responded with “No way, you won’t be able to do it.” Well, that was all I needed to hear. I was only a freshman in high school and weighed maybe 110 pounds, but I figured I had the blood of an Irishwoman and could handle it. With that, my idiot self chugged half the bottle of “Zschofski!!!” vodka. Ten minutes later I blacked out and faintly remember puking on everyone, including the boy I liked. People were screaming as vomit projectiled all over the attic including on my new Limited Forenza sweater and Z. Cavaricci pants (remember those?). My friends finally got me home and told my mom I had food poisoning. I remember throwing up for two days and swearing to God that I would never drink again if He could just make it all go away. Cut to…me in my freshman year in college on my knees throwing up and praying to God that if He just makes it go away I will never drink again. I think God should really tune us out or hit the mute button when He hears the cries from us earthlings every weekend. Save the prayers for the really big stuff, not just when we’re on our knees praying in front of a toilet.
The only good thing about drinking back in our youngster days was the nonexistent hangovers on a non-bingeing night. I could drink pretty heavily in college, puke my brains out, and still be able to make my eight A.M. history class feeling pretty good. Then age kicks in and you wake up and realize it’s not as easy as it used to be. Your hangover would last till at least five P.M. the next day, and that’s only if you were able to get a big, fat cheeseburger down to soak it all up. Thank God I lived it up in college because once you become a mom…things change.
The first two and half years after my son was born I never even got tipsy. I was so tired from being a mom all day that the idea of having a drink sounded exhausting. I hardly wanted to go out at all, but my friends were yelling at me for years to have a girls’ night out, so I finally weakened and did it. I gotta tell ya, I’m glad I did. I had the best time ever! We laughed, we told stories, we were dancing like idiots, we peed on the side of the street, we did everything we could to feel like girls again and not diaper-changing moms. On my way home I thought about the importance of friendship and how I really needed to see my friends more often. I climbed into my bed, burped a couple of times, and then smiled at the ceiling while I was watching it spin as it did back in the college days. My eyes finally settled and I closed them peacefully. Seconds later, I heard…
“Mama?”
My eyes popped open in horror.
“Oh NO!”
I looked at the clock and realized it was time for my son to get up. I couldn’t comprehend how I was physically going to go from fun girlfriend back to mom in less than thirty seconds. But if you’re a mom, you know that somehow you always seem to rise to the occasion. And that’s exactly what I did. Well, sort of. I rose to my feet and went into his room and said, “Good morning, buddy, you wanna watch Teletubbies?”
His eyes lit up like I was offering him the world because usually I don’t let him watch those freaky stuffed aliens that have satellite televisions in their stomachs.
“Yes, Teletubbies!” he shouted.
So we climbed into my big bed and turned on Teletubbies. I snuggled close and was grateful to those freaky aliens for granting me rest after my one fun night out.
Unfortunately, what felt like seconds later, the Teletubbies were shouting their good-byes and I knew what had to be done. I lifted up my head and looked at his cute face and said, “Hey, you want to watch Teletubbies again?”
With that, I hit the Play button and caught at least another half hour of rest. I closed my eyes and was never so happy to fall asleep to “Uh-oh, Tinky Winky, uh-oh, Dipsy.”
Who knew those little bastards could sound so good?
Even though that whole day was a struggle, I was glad I did it. I had fun with my friends. I think once every six months it should be a ritual. The next time, though, I think I will have the babysitter stick around the following morning. The last thing I want is for my son to start pretending to turn on his stomach TV and play with his head antennae. Otherwise Mommy might dip into a little Zschofski!!!! Uh-oh, Tinky Winky.
Life’s Embarrassing Moments
Why is it that when we feel like we look really hot or on top of the world something happens that makes us fall to the ground? Walking into a party wearing that new dress that you know is better then any other bitch’s dress and everyone turns to look at you when you walk in the room and you just stand there, thinking, Oh yeah, check this shit out, and then you fall down a flight of stairs. I know everyone has had at least one of these moments. I’ve been blessed with many. For what little dignity I have left after sharing all aspects of myself, I’m only going to share two with you. They are the worst and they will plague me until I die.
Back in the ancient year of 1993, I was on my way to Chicago to do an autograph signing. It was a red-eye flight, and I was desperate to get some sleep because as soon as I got off the plane I was being taken to a car convention to take pictures with horny men. I remember sweating the whole time on the plane while everyone else was bundled in blankets. I knew something was wrong. When the plane landed I could barely make my way to the airport bathroom. I needed to get dressed in a full gown and do my hair and makeup in ten minutes. I sat on top of the counter and slapped on some rouge and lipstick and teased my hair high, which was appropriate in 1993. I could tell that the women walking into the bathroom were wondering why a hooker was getting dressed in the airport bathro
om. I didn’t care. With sweat dripping down my face, I pulled a red dress out of my purse and put it on. It was the only thing I had brought with me because as soon as I was done with the signing I was headed back to L.A. I dragged my limp body to the car and collapsed in the backseat as the driver drove me to the convention center.
Once I got there they put me in a chair with a stack of pictures and a marker. I knew I just had to make it through this and then I could go home. I prayed to God at that moment that He would make men not interested in a blonde with big boobs wearing a tight red gown, but divine intervention was not on my side that day. As soon as they opened the line, groups of men stormed in with their cameras and sweaty grins. I dove in and started taking pictures and signing autographs, sometimes on their body parts. It was getting really crowded and cameras were flashing all around me. Things started to get blurry as sweat began pouring down my face. I continued to push on and tried really hard to shake off whatever was happening to my body, but I couldn’t. My body started to tremble all over, and people finally stopped taking pictures because they could now see that SOMETHING WAS WRONG with this bimbo in a dress. I tried to mumble “Help” but couldn’t. I slowly stood up with at least two hundred men staring at me and…then it happened. The demon within me came out and I CRAPPED all over my dress! Liquid poo shot out of my butt and all over the back of my dress. The looks on these men’s faces were unlike anything I had ever seen. I guess I was predicting my future at this point of being able to turn men on and gross them out just as much. I screamed, “OH MY GOD!!” as loud as I could and ran to the bathroom. I could not bear to look behind me and witness the trail I had left behind. Men to this day have come up to me to tell me that they heard about or were even there on this dreadful day. Needless to say, this has been burned into my memory and will continue to haunt me at every future autograph session for the rest of my life.
Life Laughs: The Naked Truth about Motherhood, Marriage, and Moving On Page 8
