Don't Wear Sweats

An Open Letter To Andy Cohen

Jen Ross — Fri, 07 Jun 2013 17:11:50 +0000

Dear Andy,

I have always liked you. Back when I thought you were just the witty mediator at the Housewives reunions shows, I knew you had a special spark. You were funny and entertaining.

When I found out you were a top executive responsible for programming, I added “brilliant” to the list of adjectives I used to describe you. I imagined us as great friends hanging out and tanning together at your Hamptons house, making fun of some of the housewives, with you confessing that you have a crush on Mauricio.

You took an unknown Bravo network and filled it with the best guilty pleasure shows around. Your talk show Watch What Happens Live is light and fun, and I even enjoy watching you openly dislike your guests.

But now, Andy, now, with the newest addition of Princesses of Long Island, I don’t think I will be able to visit you in the Hamptons anymore.

Five minutes of the premiere was all I could stomach, and the various snippets I have seen online are just as painful. I used to live on Long Island. My husband and his family are from there. You even filmed at a shopping center I used to frequent. But what you have intentionally done, is cast the worst possible representation of a Long Island Jew, and for entertainment and shock value, you are giving ignorant people, anti-Semitic people, fuel for their hatred. You are providing them with reasons to not like Jews. To not like your people, your religion. When a former New York City housewife was on, I actually felt the same way, but at least the focus wasn’t as much on her as a Jew, but more for the drama and cattiness, and the ugly ass apartment she created. ( I won’t name her because if I do, my readers are connected to her undergarment site)

I admire you so much for being open about your sexuality and the difficulty in coming out and being accepted. Imagine a show that tried to make the gay community look bad? Would you promote such a show? That’s why it’s baffling to me that you appear to get such pleasure from making another part of you so open for ridicule.

Spiderman was given great advice by his Uncle Ben. So I will be your Aunt Jen. With great power comes great responsibility. And right now you are shirking yours.

Sincerely,

Jen Ross

P.S. If you happen to read this, and you happen to agree with everything I am saying, and you then happen to invite me to the Hamptons, can you please tell me if you know who Joe Guidice was actually talking to on the phone in Napa? Thanks!!

A Mom Packs Camp Trunks…Alone

Jen Ross — Thu, 06 Jun 2013 09:54:20 +0000

I have ripped off every one of my fake nails. I am definitely drinking more this week. I am breaking out. I am on edge, calling my best friend an asshole when she asks me where we should have lunch.

“What’s wrong Jen?” I am sure you are asking.

Camp trunk packing. I would rather get waxed in public.

Three kids, two trunks each.

Listen, this isn’t my first time at the rodeo. I have been packing trunks for a while now. I can do it. What makes it so stressful is my kids. They don’t help.

Honey, can you please bring me 15 pairs of underwear?

I don’t have any. None fits. I told you.

Honey, you never told me that.

Yes I did.

No you didn’t. What have you been wearing if they don’t fit?

I have been in pain.

Okay, I’ll get you more.

Honey #2, can you try on these jeans I bought you.

They fit.

How do you know?

They look like they would.

Okay, I’ll get another pair, same size.

Honey # 3

Can I have bathing suits you like?

I don’t need bathing suits.

Don’t you swim?

Yes.

What are you going to wear?

He looks up from Minecraft. Wear for what?

I have been to Old Navy, Bed, Bath, & Beyond (which should be called Bed, Bath, & Beyond Annoying when I don’t have coupons). I have been to Target so much I find myself saying to the nice store clerk, “Hey Bernice, how’s your sciatica doing?”

If my kids would have just helped me a little. Tried on their underwear, realized that ill-fitting jeans aren’t comfortable on the man parts and can affect their future sperm count, and that Free Swim has to do with some kind of swimming and requires bathing suits, then maybe they wouldn’t be the kids in a few weeks stealing from their friends’ laundry bags.

So I give up. I’m getting my nails done, taking my friend to an I’m sorry lunch, and placing my very light trunks on the back porch for pick-up.

Awkward Awkward Awkward

Jen Ross — Thu, 30 May 2013 10:20:58 +0000

You know how all moms will tell other women that they just can’t imagine what it’s like to raise a child until you become a mom yourself?

Well, I can tell you exactly what it’s like to have a thirteen-year-old boy, even if you never have a child. It’s like being on the most awkward first date ever!! You sit there, the date has nothing to say and you are totally unsure if he likes you. You ask him a question and get one word answers, and if your date is snooty, some eyerolls mixed in. You are worried the whole time that you will say something embarrassing or that your date doesn’t think you are pretty enough or cool enough for them. The song Thriftshop comes on, so you run with it and say, “I love this song, don’t you?” “Not really,” he indulges, “This song is so old already.” There are so many long uncomfortable silences that you both look at your phone so much it’s as if you are ER doctors on call. You think you hear your date say something, so you get all excited, but he only responds, “What? I didn’t say anything.” When the date is finally over, you can’t wait for dropoff so you can start talking to yourself.

That is having a teenage boy. Excited? He won’t call you the next day. He won’t even tell you what he wants for breakfast in the morning.

There is hope. Some horrible first dates turn into great stories where they end up going out again and discovering great things about each other and find they have a lot in common.

I know this will happen for my son and me, but I’m thinking a lot of movie dates are in our future.

GET ALL AMANDA BYNES ON ME. GO CRAZY AND SHARE THIS WITH YOUR FRIENDS. FREE FACE PIERCINGS WITH EVERY SHARE.

A Mom Misses Her Stirrup Pants

Jen Ross — Tue, 28 May 2013 12:25:14 +0000

I was shopping in a Theory store the other day. Sitting in the dressing room I watched a young girl buy her New York City wardrobe. She was interning there this summer.

I told her I too interned in New York City, but back then I bought all my work clothes at Ann Taylor, and I looked mighty spiffy.

I told her how much I loved that time. How much fun she was going to have.

I also told her when I liked one her outfits and when I didn’t.

I felt a pang of jealousy. Not that I want to go back but she had her whole life in front of her, and pretty much half of mine has passed. I wouldn’t change anything, but there are definitely things I miss about being so young:

1) I miss my young smooth knees

2) I miss not having roots

3) I miss being able to say “Can you give me two cheeseburgers and a large fry?”

4) I miss guys thinking I might be slutty

5) I miss not having to worry about skin over my bra

6) I miss being able to drink during the day and then having enough energy to drink as much at night

7) I miss not having to say,” just put a little between the eyes”

8) I miss not knowing what a kegel is

9) I miss sustaining only on what the corner deli had on its shelves

10) I miss being able to read my menu at a normal distance

11) I miss when people actually called me on the phone to communicate

12) I miss stirrup pants

There are so many more things I miss, but I can’t remember!! So I wished the nice, maybe a little frightened of me dressing room girl good luck on her New York City adventure.

And I wanted to tell her it only gets better, but I was crying and couldn’t get anything else out.

Cinderella Needs To Wake Up

Jen Ross — Mon, 20 May 2013 20:09:22 +0000

Last week my family returned to Disney world. We hadn’t been back since 2006 and my son Jack wanted to revisit his youth before he turned the big 11.

The Magic Kingdom doesn’t change. With the exception of a few new rides, all was intact. Pirates of the Caribbean, The Jungle Cruise, and the not yet diagnosed but definitely clinically insane Disney pin traders.

I was, however, struck by one change in the park: Cinderella. She looked like shit!!

Now put on your suspension of disbelief hat, like the one you put on when you believe JLO when she says she doesn’t do anything to her face.

I approach Cinderella:

Cinderella, you don’t look so good. You look sad, your roots are so black, and your cuticles need to be cut. Are you in some sort of royal rut?

I know. I have been a little unhappy lately. Things with the Prince and I haven’t been that great. He’s watching a crazy amount of Fair Maiden porn, he never picks up after himself in the castle, and I can’t remember the last time we did it in the glass carriage. To be honest, my marriage to the prince isn’t the fairytale I thought I had signed up for.

Me: Ya think? I know your stepmother was a bitch and all, so maybe no one told you that even if you find your prince, marriage isn’t always a fairytale. Do you get a lot of time alone with the prince? Do you guys talk, and have you told him you’re unhappy?

Cinderalla looks at me. He should know, shouldn’t he?

Oh, Cindy, so naïve. Haven’t you learned anything since your sweeping days? Men are sort of dumb. Prince or no prince. They are all the same. Most will do as little as possible around the house unless you ask, and most men will think things are running smoothly unless you tell them they are not. Tell the prince you want to get out of the castle more, without your little prince and princess. Tell him to pick his knickers up off the floor. Try being sexy with him and tell him you may or may not be wearing panties under your blue dress. (it worked for this girl Monica Lewinsky) And maybe you need to be a bit busier for your own sanity. And for god’s sake, get your roots fixed.

Let me tell you something Cinderella, castle or no castle, and even with all the royal subjects’ money you collect, you still have to work at your royal relationship. Cause there will always be a younger, cuter, chimney sweeper around the corner.

So I hope this talk helped you Cinderella. Now you think you can get your Kingdom to serve something other than turkey legs and greasy chicken fingers?

Men Like Quiet Time

Jen Ross — Fri, 17 May 2013 15:58:16 +0000

A joke told to my husband by his straight hairstylist: What’s the best part of a blowjob? The five minutes of silence.

That’s just funny. If you aren’t laughing, stop reading now.

I’m always writing about how similar we are as women. How we share so many of the same thoughts and experiences. The reality is, men share a lot of similarities with each other as well.

Basically, they all want their wives to shut up a little. From their point of view, we say too much, share too much, nag too much. I guess the only thing we don’t do too much, according to the men, is the aforementioned act.

Girls, is it possible we are all a little guilty of bothering our husbands with too much stuff? I like to amuse myself sometimes. In addition to the crazy mommy game, I like to play, spot the tortured husband. You can play anywhere…Target on a Saturday, at a restaurant at their table for two, at a party where the husband gets so sloshed in order stimulate temporary deafness. The guys look miserable. Their eyes scream “help me!” I imagine walking up to the Target guy and saying, “Run, run for your life. Go hide in the Pizza Hut, I’ll get you when it’s safe, and can you pick me up a personal pan cheese?”

What could we be doing wrong? For me, I am getting really good at hearing myself become annoying. I know I am annoying Scott, and sometimes I keep going. It could be about the kids, it could be about our plans, it could be about Bravo. Women have a higher tolerance for a lot of babble. Men do not.

Just as I like to cut calories from time to time, I am trying to cut the nonsense I speak about. Not all, I mean, I can’t starve, but some. There is so much that our husbands could care less about. So much that we don’t need to talk to them about. That’s what girlfriends are for. To them we aren’t annoying.

So as an early Father’s Day gift to Scott, I am going to make more of an effort to give him that five minutes of silence he so desires. And Scott, if you are reading this, don’t get too excited. I am going to join a book club.

You will now have your peace and quiet at night while I read till I pass out.

Why I’m A Good Mom.

Jen Ross — Wed, 08 May 2013 13:55:56 +0000

How do I know I am a good mom?

When you think about it, there are few things that we know for certain we can do, and were taught to do a certain way. Like riding a bike, tying our shoes, driving a car.

But, are we ever taught how to be a good mom?

Growing up, I was lucky I had a good mom. Love unconditionally, stayed up with me while I finished my homework, always had dinner for me, and bought me pumps at thirteen.

But we never had the talk when I became pregnant: “This is how you become a good mom. This is what you need to do.”

At forty, I can say I am a good mom. And my reasons may be different than yours. My kids might even have different answers.

But these are mine:

I wanted my kids desperately. Even at the fertility clinic when I had to wait in the office and witness the nervous husbands tell the secretary that they left their sperm at home, I knew I would be a mom.
From the moment my first came into the world, I knew my life had changed forever.
As babies, when my kids would crap in the tub, I thought it was adorable.
When my kids cried uncontrollably for no apparent reason, I tried desperately to find one. “Oh, he’s gassy, he’s tired, he’s hungry, he’s upset about our property taxes.”
I spend a lot of time with my kids, but also know when I need to step back.
They have clean underwear.
I would rather them be kind than popular.
I punish them if their curse words aren’t appropriate for the situation at hand. “This dinner tastes like shit!” is okay, “Your ass looks f#!!ing big,” they lose their phone.
I wear a really snazzy chauffeur hat when I drive them around.
I follow them on Instagram and like some of their posts.
I pretend I don’t want to put them to bed, but I secretly love it.
I cry when they cry, but they don’t know.
I try not to tell them what I think all the time, even though I know I am right.
I only make fun of them behind their backs, never to their face.
I always try to make them laugh everyday.
I make them watch Lockup on msnbc to scare the shit out of them.
I tell them everyday I am proud of them, even if it’s just for holding in their farts in public.
I smile every time I talk about my kids.
I don’t mind fake sick days.
And, finally, I can’t imagine my life any other way.

So for all the moms out there, give yourself a pat on the back this Sunday. We are good mommies, and we all know why.

Happy Mother’s Day.

You like Mother’s Day? Me, too. See: Happy Mother’s Day, and, If It’s Important To You…

I Dreamed A Dream Of Adam Levine

Jen Ross — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 12:26:36 +0000

The other night with my girlfriends we discussed attending the Maroon 5 concert. They emphasized they wanted to get as close as possible to Adam Levine to better their chances of sleeping with him. I listened with much amusement, all the while thinking, “We are just too old to be fawning over rock stars.” At this stage in my life, I need a sure thing.

Of course I reminisced about my time in high school when I made my way to the front row of the Bon Jovi concert, unclasped my bra and threw it at Jon. Back then, I truly believed he would pick it up, and scream into the microphone, “Who has the 34A Wonderbra? Please come up, you are coming on the tour bus after the show and I will tease your hair, then close the curtains on my bus bunkbed.”

But now? At forty? I am too cool and mature to “die” over Adam Levine.

The following is the dream I had a few days later after my girls’ night out:

I am in LA, and somehow Adam Levine is at the same restaurant as me. Our eyes meet and he walks over.

Hi, he says.

Oh Hey.

Want a drink?

Sure.

So you live here?

Just visiting from Florida.

Wow, Florida. That’s so cool. I wish I lived in Florida. The humidity is sexy.

I guess. And my hair always looks good. What’s your name?

Adam. Adam Levine.

What do you do in LA?

Oh, I’m in a band.

Have I heard of it? (know that in all my fantasies with celebs, it’s the same thing, I will always act like I don’t know them. Except for, maybe, the Real Housewives.)

Maroon 5.

Oh yes. That Payphone song is catchy.

Listen, Jen. I don’t know your story, but I am really into you. Do you want to head back to my house in the Hollywood Hills? I have sheepskin rugs and really cool chandeliers in every room.

Adam, you seem really nice, but I am forty and married and have three kids. I don’t think I should.

Wow. That is so sexy! The girls I date are so boring. All they do is model lingerie and bathing suits.

Well, I am sure their bodies are better than mine. Their stomachs are perfectly flat.

Yes. But their bodies don’t tell a story. I am sure your stomach tells a story.

Okay, let’s go.

We get to his place and it looks like what a rock star’s house should look like. I am nervous. I tell him I don’t think I can do this to my husband. He tells me we could all live together, the kids, Scott. That he and Scott would share me like in Big Love. He would help with soccer carpool. He tells me his mother would love me and she isn’t the typical Jewish mother. She would let me choose all he restaurants, even on Mother’s Day.

Adam, you seem perfect. You are a Jewish Rock Star, you are hot, you would keep me skinny, and we could share jeans. But I can’t. Just knowing I could have you is enough.

Shabbat Shalom, Adam.

Shabbat Shalom, Jen. My next tattoo will be the state of Florida, so I will never forget you.

And then I wake up, knowing that next week when I go to LA, I just might buy one of those Star Maps.

So to my girlfriends, sorry I judged, I kind of get it.

You like? Check out my other LA themed posts, Mommy Needs To Take A Time Out, and Does LA Have Greener Grass.

A Mom Wants to Fess Up To Her Kids

Jen Ross — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 14:54:52 +0000

You know you need a break from the everyday when you start offering sexual favors to your hubby if he would agree to take one of your kids to team pictures.

You say prostitute, I say tired mommy. Actually, I’m not even that tired. I just didn’t want to fill out another picture form. Really, I want to be done filling out all forms. But the picture day forms are the most annoying, and then you have to wait in the Florida hot sun for your turn, be really encouraging to your kid, and convince him that his picture is going to turn out great. But I am never sure they will turn out great. I mean, you always hope for the best and then sometimes their pictures come, and well, how do I say this? Not my kids’ best.

So yes, I traded my body for an extra cup of coffee at home. Judge if you must, but I am sure if you are a mom, you have either done the same thing I have, or wished you had my depravity to do so.

I guess I could have just been honest with my kid, and told him I hate picture day. The truth will set you free, right? So I compiled a list of other things I would like to be truthful about with my kids…if telling them wouldn’t mess them up for life:

1: Lay off the chicken fingers, you’re starting to get a gut.

2: Your flower pictures could be better.

3: Please stop singing, you are kind of ruining the song for me.

4: Seriously, how hard is it to memorize spelling words?

5: Sometimes when you talk, I am terrified you are going to live in my spare room forever.

6: Stop asking me to pay you back $20.00 when you owe me $300, 592.17, and how about throwing in a little gas money, too?

7: When you wake up in the morning, your breath brings actual tears to my eyes.

8. Hey Einstein, from the time you call and ask, “Can you pick me up?” it takes more than seven seconds door to door.

9. I love you more than life itself, and you are perfect!!!!

Come on, fess up, what would you love to tell your kids?

Gwyneth! Gwyneth! Gwyneth!

Jen Ross — Wed, 17 Apr 2013 10:19:19 +0000

The other day I am shopping with Julia when a girl she knows approaches. Wearing a sweatshirt from the store, the girl asks, “Julia, do you have one of these sweatshirts?” Julia responds, “Yes,” and then the little girls says, “Are you Jewish?” Again, Julia responds “yes.” The girl turns to her mother, “You see Mom, everyone I know who has this sweatshirt is Jewish.”

Julia and I found this exchange quite comical. I assured the little girl that a lot of different people have this sweatshirt and we don’t just line up at Temple and receive them.

I wondered if her mother was mortified. I also wondered if they would have a discussion about this later.

I get a lot of enjoyment from the uncensored language of kids. Mine are no different. When Jack was younger, he repeatedly would tell my friend she overdid it on the eye-makeup. Just last week I had to teach Julia that she has to stop playing with my friend’s underarm jiggle. But kids love pointing things out. They believe they are being honest and authentic.

With age, we hopefully learn that you can’t say everything you think. You need to have a little tact and sensitivity.

And of course, this brings me to Gwyneth Paltrow. I used to think only my friend Missy and I belonged to the What Are You Saying Gwyneth Club, but just today, I learned we are not alone. Star magazine, a reputable magazine in my home, just voted her the most hated celebrity. According the poll, she is more disliked than Chris Brown. How could this be? Because maybe Gwyneth’s mommy, Blythe, never taught her that it’s not always best to share everything you think.

Examples:

On America vs. Europe: “We have great dinner parties at which everyone sits around talking about politics, history, art and literature-all this peppered with really funny jokes. But back in America, I was at a party and a girl looked at me and said, ‘Oh, my God! Are those Juicy jeans that you’re wearing?’ and I thought, I can’t stay here. I have to get back to Europe.”

On the trouble with Parisian concierges: “When you go to Paris and your concierge sends you to some restaurant because they get a kickback, it’s like, ‘No. Where should I really be? Where is the great bar with organic wine? Where do I get a bikini wax in Paris?’

“I am who I am. I can’t pretend to be somebody who makes $25,000 a year.”

(She has more! See for yourself.)

Do you see why she is number one on the list even above a douchebag like John Mayer? She sounds ridiculous.

So moms. When you see your kids doing or saying things they shouldn’t, just say, “Do you want to end up like Gwyneth?” That should do the trick.

I must confess that I downloaded her Goop App for Los Angeles. Hypocritical, maybe, but I bet she knows a great place where I can drink organic wine while I get waxed.

photo courtesty of perezhilton.com