I am in the midst of trying to sell my home and let me say that there nothing like cleaning your house to within an inch of it’s life so that a total stranger can walk through your living room and decide it’s “meh”.

I have never sold a home before and I’d heard rumors that the worst part was having to keep everything in order but I never believed it would be this bad.  It’s been on the market for about 4 weeks now and although I want to sell it, I gotta be honest with you, I’m starting to get a bit lazy about things.

Examples. The other day a couple came to see the house while at the very same time I was air drying a fancy pair of underwear on the knob of my bedroom door.  (No, there is no one in my life, it just so happened to be the pair that I grabbed at the last second to shove into my gym bag).  Then there was the time when my dog Teddy was so excited to see this one client that he felt compelled to leap into the air, onto the guy’s back nearly pushing him to the ground, something he has never done in the two years he has lived here and lest we not forget, that wonderful Saturday morning appointment when my kid forgot to flush the toilet.

Today was the first time I had a repeat customer. I’m guessing this couple showed up during the first two weeks it was on the market when I was actively anticipating the bidding war that was “inevitable” and was not as prone to making any types of cleaning errors.

I remember when my real estate agent first came to look the place over.  Great gal, nice and WASPY. It was she that informed me that you don’t put the garbage can on the side of the toilet where people can see it.   I pretended I knew exactly what she was talking about and then came up with some lame ass story about how I only left it visible to the public because one night I had this dream that while in the midst of sleepwalking Phoebe cleaned my entire house and that I was a big believer in the idea that if you pray hard enough and threaten your kid with foster care if “things don’t shape up around here”,  dreams really can come true.

As each day passes, it becomes harder to stay excited. I have no idea if/when I’m going to be moving and there is nothing I hate more than living in limbo except maybe playing Limbo which could literally disable you if you’re over the age of forty or just sober.

In the early days, when, as I said, I was convinced I’d have this whole ordeal wrapped up in about a week’s time, I went through all my stuff deciding what to keep and what to toss. I tell you, there is nothing like the thought of moving all your shit to get you thinking that perhaps it’s time to toss out every piece of furniture you own, book you ever saved, clothing you haven’t worn in two weeks and anything hanging on your walls that weighs more than four ounces.

So now I wait and wonder and nap, hoping for the best……housekeeper in the world to appear at my doorstep.

It’s THAT time of the year again!  In honor of Cinco De Mayo, I will once again share with you a story that humiliates me each and every time I even think about it.  Enjoy feeling superior for a day!  You’ve earned it!

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The other day I was at the grocery store. Out of pure laziness, I didn’t bother to grab a cart since I only planned to purchase a few items. As I was walking towards the check out counter, one of my tuna fish cans dropped onto the floor, right at foot of this kid who looked to be around 15 years old
As the kid/man-boy, whatever, grabbed the can and put it back on my pile of stuff I laughed and said:

JESSICA: Sorry, first day with my new arms.

to which he responded:

MAN/BOY: OOhhhhh, that’s so great. You look great.

Okay, now I know that there are many people out there who could easily be described as “not the sharpest knife in the drawer” but as I watched this kid look to where my real arms ended and the prosthetic ones began, I realized “not the sharpest knife” just didn’t go far enough to explain the kid’s state of mind.

However, later that day, I got to thinking about all the dumb statements I had made in life and suddenly felt not only a new understanding of this boy but a kinship as well.

“What day is Cinco de Mayo?” I once asked a friend of mine
“What kind of animal is Toucan Sam?” I asked another.
“Don’t try and pull the bag over my head”, I once announced to my then husband.

(and my all time favorite)

“She was so scared, the hair on her back stood up” I said as I described a friend’s reaction to a guy she thought was following her.
No, these are not made up statements. I have at one point in time actually uttered these very words to another individual and trust me, I was way older than fifteen.

In fact, if I’m to be totally truthful with you, I must confess that the line about the bag over the head is not even close to the only time that I have butchered an idiom to the point where the person I am saying it to has been pushed to ask me, “What the f@#k are you talking about?”

And I’m not the only one in my family with this problem. Like heart disease or Cancer or even Excema, the inability to remember an idiom is an inherited trait that has affected every member of my entire family for generations. It is now at the point where we are all loathe to even take a stab at sharing a story, a thought or God forbid, give any advice using any type of idiom whatsoever.

Not that it stops us from trying. When my family and I talk amongst ourselves we will refer to an idiom just not in its exact form. For instance – not long ago I was talking to my sister about buying a new car. She thought it was stupid because I had just told her that for a yearly savings of a hundred bucks, I’d cancelled the call waiting feature on my phone and yet here I was, willing to add a car payment to my monthly budget simply because at that time, I was driving my old c**kblocker and I couldn’t handle the way men refused to look at me as though I were Phoebe’s grandmother.

Now the appropriate idiom for her to have said to me would have been, “you’re being penny wise, pound foolish”. Of course, I’m able to tell you this because I just got off the phone with a friend who was able to recite what the idiom was that I was looking for. Sadly, however, when I was having this discussion with my sister, the conversation went more like this:

MY SISTER: Well, you know, what is that saying about money?

ME: Don’t be stupid or foolish or something…

MY SISTER: Yeah, right, uh… you’re being foolish and something, something….

ME: Yeah, yeah, Wait, God, what is that saying?

MY SISTER: I don’t know, just don’t do it

ME: Oh God, it’s killing me. What is the line..

MY SISTER: I have no idea. Just save your money. I have to go, Emma just told me
her butt is itchy.

Sad. So sad….

2008

I was on the phone last night with a guy friend of mine. He is in the midst of a divorce, FAITHFUL, I might add for a long 12 years but has now decided it’s time for him to date again or as he so touchingly put it, “I gotta get laid or I’m going to snap.”

He was calling me from a drugstore. Apparently, he has a very hot date coming up this weekend and was confused about what condoms to buy. Having only been with one woman for so long, this was a purchase he hasn’t had to make for quite some time and was very nervous.

FRIEND: So what do you think? Should I buy the large size?
JESSICA: Only you know that.
FRIEND: What if I got my size wrong and it won’t stay on. How humiliating would that be?
JESSICA: Then get the medium.
FRIEND: What if that is too small and it squeezes me and cuts off my circulation?
JESSICA: Don’t they have a size chart on the back? Like pantyhose?
FRIEND: Oh my God, they’ve got ones that glow in the dark. That would be pretty cool don’t you think?
JESSICA: Who are you going to tell her you are, Darth Vader?
FRIEND: It comes in pink and yellow. Yellow is cool.
JESSICA: It’ll look like a highlighter.
FRIEND: I’ll get the pink, only real men aren’t afraid to wear pink, isn’t that what they say.
JESSICA: Yeah but trust me that doesn’t include day-glo. Look, why don’t you buy a couple of different sizes, go home and see which one fits you the best.
FRIEND: What if it’s the Small? What do I do with the rest?
JESSICA: Give them to a friend.
FRIEND: Yeah, right. What am I supposed to say? Oh hey Mike, you want these? Turns out they’re too big for me. Not going to happen. Maybe I could fill them up with water and throw them off my roof.
JESSICA: Good luck this weekend, you are going to need it.

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Update:

My friend has been dating the same woman now for three years. I am still giving out excellent condom advice. As it turns out,, he had good luck and I’m now the one who continues to need it.

It’s 99 days before the summer Olympics.  In honor of this time, I’d like to share with you a post I wrote many years ago about the time I was a member of what I fondly called “24 Hour Cesspool”.

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I entered the pool area at the gym today and par for the course asked whoever was already in the water (in this case, two men):

JESSICA:  Is it cold?

One man just responded with a blank stare. The other, a 40 something year old, who from this point forward shall be known as “Freaky Guy “, loudly asked:

FREAKY GUY:  What are you?  A sissy? Hop in.

As I stood at the edge of the pool, putting on my bathing cap and goggles, “Freaky Guy” then engaged me in the following conversation:

FREAKY GUY: You know, I could do what Michael Phelps did.

JESSICA: I think you’re a bit old for that.

FREAKY GUY:  (with a look of total shock on his face) Why? How old is he?

JESSICA:  23, 24?

FREAKY GUY:  Wanna race me?

JESSICA:  Nope.

I then jumped into the pool and began to swim. I’d gone about two laps when I hit the end of the lane only to find him standing in the water, smiling, in the lane right next to mine.   I then pushed off and had only done a few strokes when suddenly, “Freaky Guy” races by me. By the time I reached the other end, there he was, AGAIN, standing, smiling, only this time , he was pumping his fists into the air and yelling:

FREAKY GUY:  I WON!!! HEH HEH, YEAH, ALRIGHT!!!! WOOO!!

At this point, it was only he and I in the entire pool area and “Freaky Guy” was now starting to give me a “bad” feeling and so like every intelligent woman, I just kept swimming and hoped I could get in a full workout AND make my escape BEFORE he decided that since I refused to race him he would have no choice but to rape and drown me instead.

Having accomplished his dream of getting the “gold” in the “MIXED singles, 50m freestyle”, “Freaky Guy” exited the pool only to be replaced by another man who immediately took his place in the lane next to mine. Thankful, I stopped for a moment and whispered to this guy:

JESSICA:  If you leave before me, could you let me know? That guy is really scaring me.

to which he responded:

GUY: Oh sure, absolutely.

About FIVE minutes later, while “Freaky Guy” was sitting in the Jacuzzi nearby, basking in his “Olympic” glory, I was at the far end of the pool, turning to head back, when I noticed that the guy in the lane next to me was now GONE.

Luckily,  at the same time,  Freaky Guy ” put on his sneakers (which I now noticed were parked in a corner alongside his CARRY-ON PIECE OF LUGGAGE) and wheeled his stuff out of the area and headed towards the steam room for the medal ceremony.

GO  USA!

I was sitting at home tonight watching my kid play with our dog and it got me thinking about a guy I dated briefly a few years ago who also owned dogs.  Some of you read about him in the “Quadrilogy” of essays about my car that I so affectionately labeled, “The Cockblocker”.

David was his name.  He owned a beautiful home, a Porsche,  was 41, never married, no kids, utterly butt ugly, smart as hell, funny, driven and very successful. I was as crazy about him as he was about his pit-bulls of which he owned two.  One I nicknamed  “Lethal” and the other one “quasi lethal.” (who shall heretofore be known as “Quasi”) < Ten weeks of law school and people said I learned nothing. Pishaw.

“Lethal” wasn’t allowed inside the house when I was there. “Lethal” shouldn’t have been allowed to live, truth be told but it was none of my business and as I mentioned earlier, David was very smart and at least knew better than to risk having his dog maul the person who was there to have sex with him.

“Quasi” was a whole other story. He was about 90 pounds of pure muscle and our relationship was tense to say the least as we were often competing for David’s attention. In the end, I thought having access to his master’s balls made me the clear winner and yet, not so.  I was scared of this dog, very. He would growl at me at times and just seemed unpredictable and David did nothing to assuage my fears. Not that I told him about them because as a grown woman with the emotional capacity of a high school junior I still believed it was worth risking having my body torn into a million pieces by a ravenous pit-bull  just so a guy would still like me.

When David and I  started dating  he took me to only the nicest of restaurants.  Our first date, as I already shared about, was at a beautiful restaurant in Beverly Hills. I can’t remember the name but I can sure as hell remember the prices.  David ordered his food as though we lived in the time of the Tudors. He was very much like King Henry the Eighth in that money was no object. I kept wanting to remind him that at the end of the meal it would be him and not his loyal American subjects that would be picking up the tab but truth be told the food was so damn good all I could think was, ‘Keep it coming people!”

After two weeks of eating at other fine watering holes such as the Ivy and Nobu, I finally gave in and slept with him.  Now lest you think that this is what it takes to get me into bed, think again.  I once had a guy hand me the decal he got at the bottom of his Honey Nut Cheerios box because as he said, “I just thought you’d like it” and in less time than it takes to brush your teeth we were horizontal on his living room rug.

After “the” night,  I began to spend evenings at David’s house. Every time we shut off the light to go to sleep “Quasi”  would jump on the bed and lay down right in the middle of the two of us.  He took up my entire side of the mattress. Kiss ass that he was, he gave David all the  room he needed.  He knew I too scared to push him away and one night, I ended up falling out of the bed and had to sleep in the guest room.

I remember the next morning wanting to say something to David but every time I tried there would be Quasi standing there with his front paws spread apart, his chest sticking out, with a look on his face that just screamed, “I dare you.” At one point, I half expected him to put a cigar in his mouth and then pull back the invisible suit jacket he was wearing to show me his gun as a way to intimidate me into staying silent.

Not that he would have needed to. I saw how much David cared about him and I knew that there is no getting between and man and his dog even if you promise to do wonderful things with his man parts. Anyway, at this point  the relationship was pretty heading quickly downhill.   Within a six week period of time, I went from eating $50.00 steaks to cheap sushi, to even cheaper Chinese food until one night when I was over and asked him what he wanted to do for dinner he proceeded to tell me, “there’s a chicken in the fridge”.   Cooked or not, I had no idea. I was about to ask when he grabbed the entire Sunday L.A. times and headed towards the bathroom.

That was the last I ever saw of David. I left the house that morning and never returned. I also never heard from him again and could only surmise that he was too devastated to contact me.

In other news,  Santa Claus is in fact real and there is no such thing as too many french fries.

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The other day my mother ,whose age she will not allow me to reveal so I’ll  just say she’s older than 79 but younger than 81, sent me a text message.

“Okay,” you’re thinking, “big deal”, right?

Well, it is a big deal especially since it came from the same woman who only days prior suggested I look up a number in the white pages.

I’ve lived a very happy life these last few years knowing that my parents wouldn’t be able to access my blog without assistance.  There is a huge sense of freedom for a woman who writes about her sex life or what she would imagine it would be like if she had one.

For someone who can’t seem to make it through a post without dropping at least one or two F-bombs and some synonym for the word “penis”, it’s exhilarating knowing that I can pretty much say whatever I’m feeling about any member of my family and never have to worry that I’ll be cut out of the will or not welcome at the Seder table, should they ever invite me.

At one point, in the beginning, my sisters did subscribe but after a few months, I thought the better of it and unsubscribed them.  To  give you an idea of how much they gave a shit, this all went down sometime in mid 2009.

So, yes, it is a big deal that my mother can now text. I envision a time in the not very near future when she will suddenly want to get to know me better too.  If you haven’t guessed by now, I’m not particularly close to my mother. Why just the other day she asked me, “So how’s the marriage going?” The things is, however, she doesn’t know  we’re not that close  because in her mind we’re always talking as I’m guessing since she’s losing her hearing she has no idea whose voice she’s actually listening to.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the woman, I do. If it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t be here, single, struggling, watching my body fall apart before my very eyes,  I mean, how could I NOT love her. It’s just that for the last few years, I’ve really enjoyed living the life of the ignored, black sheep of a child and would prefer to continue on this way.  The only hope I have is that my mother is still using the Verizon Razor phone and I don’t know about you but the last time I tried to send a text on one of those. I got so frustrated I thought it easier to just fly there and tell my friend in person.

Welcome to PART TWO of “AVIS-not just a rental car, trust me”.

The scary part is that Avis was actually the bedrock of our family. My parents relied on her very heavily to cook, to clean..ish and to keep my sisters and I from killing each other.  She was always telling me things like,  “You a sweet, sweet girl. You my favorite. You know, you da prettiest.” Well, at least I think that’s what she was saying. Her accent was so thick I often could barely understand her but since she’d be hugging me at the time I just assumed she was saying loving things about me.

I’m not sure why Avis chose me as her favorite. Maybe she didn’t and it was all my imagination. Maybe it was because I was the one who spent more time at home, who confided in her, who looked to her to back me up when my parents came calling wondering who was the rightful owner of the pack of Marlboro lights they found at the top of the driveway.

When I was fifteen, I decided that I had waited long enough to drive. Even though the state of New York thought otherwise, it didn’t matter to me. On occasion I would drive my parent’s Toyota Corolla to school or to buy cigarettes or to just drive.  I always made sure not to be gone too long in case one of my parents decided to come home from work early, even though that rarely happened since my parents were not big “kid” people and thus preferred being in the presence of those who didn’t come to them constantly asking for things like food and shelter.

One afternoon, while pulling the car into the garage, instead of stepping on the break while I put it in park, I hit the gas pedal. As a result, the car proceeded to run over this mountain of aluminum patio furniture my father had stored in the area right in front of me.

When I finally did manage to put the gear into park, I ran into the house and immediately started planning my defense strategy. Step one was to get Avis on my side and to advise her on how to respond to my parents interrogation of the days events and what led up to their discovering the chaise lounge with four matching chairs in what would best be described as an awkward embrace.

I found Avis in the laundry room standing there like it was the first time she’d ever laid her good eye on a washing machine. “Okay, Avis, um, if my parents ask you, just tell them I was in the house the entire day except, and this is important, when I walked to school. Okay? I did not drive the car at all. I never drive the car.”

As soon as the words came out of my mouth I regretted it.  I was almost positive Avis had no clue I’d ever even driven and now here I was admitting my guilt to someone who had no clue I’d even committed a crime.

That Avis was slightly batshit was always a bit worrisome to me. I couldn’t control her like I needed to in situations like this and I was worried about leaving a loose canon lying around so I decided I would tell her to go home early and I would finish cleaning the house.  That idea seemed plausible for about an eighth of a second because 1. I was terrible at cleaning, always using too much or too little of the wrong detergent and so my mother would know something was wrong and 2. My friend desperately needed me to go with her to buy cigarettes and a large size bag of Doritos.

Later that night, when Avis had left and my parents came home, my father came into my room and barely containing his anger asked me, “What happened to the patio furniture?”  That is when it hit me that the one thing I hadn’t considered was my alibi.  The only inhabitants of the house during the day were Avis and I and although Avis broke everything she laid her hands on, I was pretty sure my father wasn’t going to believe me if I pinned this one on her.  Especially because breaking was her specialty, not twisting metal.

“I was riding my bike really fast into the garage and I couldn’t slow down and I slammed right into the furniture,” I told him, ‘I’m really sorry.”  That I had no deep head wounds and was not at that very moment lying on a gurney in our local emergency room, did nothing to help back up my story and so I was not surprised to find that my father did not believe a word of it.

Even my father knew the furniture was crap. However, it was crap that my parents had bought with their hard earned money and in my father’s mind it was thus their sole privilege to decide if, when and how they wanted to destroy it.

Before my father could start yelling at me, we heard my mother screaming, “Goddamn Avis!” and the subject was officially closed.

A few weeks ago, I wrote a “quadrilogy” about my  years of dating while driving my cockblocker.  As the show BlogThis is set to begin taping in two weeks, I thought now would be a good time to share with you a bit about my family who you will be introduced to over the first few episodes. If while watching you keep thinking, “oh my God, that is my life”, then let me say now, “Sorry to hear it and “Let me guess, you’re last name ends in …berg, …man, …iwitz …delman or…stein.

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I am the youngest of three girls in my family. One sister is three years older than me, the other one, five. Growing up, my parents worked full time and traveled a lot for business. Whenever they weren’t around, they would leave Avis, our Jamaican housekeeper/nanny in charge.

Avis had one good eye and one not so good eye. The not so good one, her left, tended to wander quite a bit. It would also roll up into her head every now and again and the lid would sometimes flutter as if fighting sleep even though her right eye was bright and ready to seize the day. When I talked to her, it was as if her left eye found me annoying and was searching for an escape route. Her right eye was much more polite and if it found me irritating, it never let on. Avis would always come an hour late and then at lunch she’d sit for two hours watching soap operas and yelling at the television “Ooohh, look out Erica, he got a gun.” We never bothered to remind her she got paid to actually work because we were all intimidated.

Avis wasn’t a great housekeeper but when it came to breaking stuff she was gold medal material. She was very stealth about it, though. My entire childhood is punctuated with moments of hearing one of my parents yelling out from some room, somewhere in our house, “Goddamn Avis! I’m gonna kill her!”  Avis spread her talent far and wide. She broke irons, ironing boards, china, vases, glass frames and although she was brilliant at it, her true calling was her ability to ruin my mother’s numerous expensive blouses and still remain gainfully employed.

If Avis needed anything she’d always make a list and leave it for my father.  “Mr. Bern. I need the Cascade, bleach, pine-sol, and a raise.”  Every time she’d ask for more money my parents would have the exact same argument. “Goddamn it Diane*, this time I’m putting my foot down.” “Jesus Mitch*, will you just give it to her,”! to which my father would reply, “I am not going to let this go on!”

But he did, for 25 years.

(to be continued)

Leane Vandeman, blogger, producer and believe it or not, career counselor answers the question “Who is Jessica Bern?”