Because humor is funnier when you know it's true.

Headin’ to the Jersey Shore

Welcome back, my readers. All three of you. Time to take the choo choo to the Jersey Shore.

{Note to self: stop calling them the “three stooges.”}

Oh…Plus Jeff Bezos, my numero uno fan, who counts as three billion readers because he’s the richest man on this planet, that planet, and any other planet you can think of. Unless, of course, you’re an astrophysical fitness cosmetologist, in which case you can think of at least a trillion other planets. While working out at the gym. And cutting hair. {Speaking of Bezos: I’m sure you noticed the shape of his spaceship…I’m just sayin’} Anyway-way-brou-haa-haa, this is the final chapter in my Odyssey toward parenthood, which began with “the Winky Apopoclipse,” a tushy-piercing l’événement tragique that rocked ‘Burbia, USA, the land that time forgot!’” {Director’s note: whenever you read “the land that time forgot,” say it aloud in a deep ‘n creepy voice.}

The Psychology of Self

Self: “Hey, you shrunken peanut, do you know that it’s impossible to underestimate you?”
Me: “Hey, who dat?”
Self: “This is your Self speaking. Remember me? I’m the part of you that begs to be normal.”
Me: “Hi, Self. When did they spring you from Metatarsal?”
Self: “Trust me when I say I was never there. And It’s NOT ‘serendipity’. It’s ‘serenity’. Serenity now.”
Me: “When did that happen?”
Self: “Please, I beg you. Just be normal for five minutes! OK?”
Me: “OK, I’ll be normal. Starting now. For five minutes. Tik tok. Tik tok.”

And Now to the Jersey Shore

So, in August 2020, my Donnee and I were visiting the Joisey shore, AKA the Joisey shore. We chose it just in case I needed a brief tune-up at ye olde Metatarsal, conveniently located not that far away.

One evening we were walking on the boardwalk, whisking our masks off as we stuffed our faces with – OMG, don’t ask. Do. Not. Ask…I can’t believe you didn’t ask! Waaaa…why didn’t you ask? You know I wanted you to ask. I craved you to ask.

Because if you asked it would mean that my life has meaning and purpose. Well, I’m going to tell you anyway because you must be fully informed prior to a visit to the Joisey shore.

All the food is beige. Belgian waffles. French fries. Candied popcorn. Giant pretzels. Pork roll. Even the lemonade is beige. There’s no broccoli. No red leaf lettuce. Not even organic baby carrots. Meals were a disaster. I gained at least seven ounces on that vacation.

A Miracle Doth Approacheth!

Anyhee-bee-jeebie, we were strolling along the boardwalk, trying to breathe in the fresh salt air of Brucie Springsteen’s famed Jersey shore through our Etsy face masks.

Then, SLAM, BAM, THANK YOU MA’AM!!! We suddenly spied something.

You: “What was it? Tell me! Tell me! I can’t wait another moment! Tell me now or I will diiiiiiie!”
Me: “OMG! You like me! You really like me!”

It was a woman pushing a stroller with a dog inside. And BOOM! I was hit by a miracle of insight! I realized that, if I bought a stroller for Fluffypuss and Peekaboo and pushed them in it, I would feel like a MOM. My fulfillment would be complete. Just like minions and minions of other women I’ve known, will know and would like to know going forward. In the future. I would be one of them. At last. ut please know that I planned to still love my current, past and future friends who are faboobalous and don’t have a single kid on the payroll. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

So I bought a pet stroller.

The Miracle of the Stroller

On a sunny Sunday afternoon later that month, my Donnee put our spanking new Pet Gear stroller together. We stuffed Fluffypuss and Peekaboo inside their new vehicle, I took the controls, and off we went, pushing two ridiculously cute and slightly puzzled cats.

I will never forget how proud and happy I felt, taking our girls for a walk in the neighborhood, as their proud papa walked beside me. I had become a mom, taking care of my precious offspring and showing them off with loving pride.

F-Puss and P-Boo were quiet and attentive, peeking through the stroller’s netted windows, calmly taking in the novel sights, sounds, rhythms and smells around them.

As we passed our neighbors, out with their own kids, my Donnee and I introduced one and all to our girls. Everyone smiled and laughed and another COVID-shadowed day became a celebration of life and parenthood. Even though our babies had paws, whiskers and fur coats. But they didn’t need diapers or safety pins.

-Amy Greenberg

Amy Greenberg lives in Connecticut with her husband, artist Don Perley, and their two girls, Fluffypuss and Peekaboo. Amy has no hobbies, but does enjoy going to therapy where she has learned that humor and her mental state are intimately connected. After earning an MA in English from NYU, she became a publicist; then acted in TV and radio commercials, summer stock, and Off Off Broadway theater. Amy also taught acting in New York City. Eventually, she earned an MS in education and taught children with developmental challenges for 20 years. When COVID cost her job, she decided to use humor to bring light to the darkness "as we all need a laff to help us stay afloat." She is the author of "The Long Goodbye: An Affair of the Heart." You can follow Amy on her blog, U Gotta Laff, on Twitter, and on Facebook.

​​​​​​Because humor is funnier when you know it's true.

Because humor is funnier when you know it's true.