This Too Will Pass

The good thing about Mr. Lonie going interstate for three days on business is…nothing really. It sucks, not only because something always goes wrong when he absents himself from the status quo, but because some things don’t change – there are still three small children, often boisterous, sometimes misbehaving and occasionally very naughty; there’s still a house that looks like a hoarder’s den the council finally has to clear out with a mini bulldozer following complaints from neighbours and a report on Today Tonight; and there are still two dogs who lay enough mines to make our backyard worthy of a visit from the late Princess Diana, but there’s only one responsible adult left to deal with everything.

I know I should be grateful that I’m not a single parent, and I have great admiration for those who manage to get through each day with their sanity and their kids’ happiness intact. I’ve really been trying to be more patient, tolerant, kind and understanding as a mother, for example when an overtired Master Lonie is screaming his throat raw instead of peacefully going to sleep, for no good reason except that he’s a toddler and doesn’t need a good reason, dammit!

I don’t think I’m succeeding though, because at such times I can’t help but wonder: Am I the only one who feels like hollering at my child to “SHUT UP!”, and sighs wistfully at the remote possibility of it actually working? Am I alone in daydreaming of a soundproofed, padded room for children in the throes of an inconsolable sobbing-screaming-thrashing tantrum? Is it wrong to fleetingly wish I were one of those obscenely rich, neglectful parents who employ a nanny for each child?

For the love of God, humour me. Please say no!

New Porn Babe!

Roll up, randy gents and raunchy birds! Lenny O. Loopi’s the name, producin’ quality erotica’s the game. I’m fillin’ in for Lonie Polony on this bloggin’ lark while she’s busy wiv a baby clamped to ’er jubblies. I dunno wot she’s on about wiv this cathartic rantings malarky, so instead I’m gonna let you in on the juicy details o’ me latest classy production called Naughty Nurses 3: Push It Good! It’s one o’ me best films yet, ’cos it’s got a little something for everyone, even them wot like a bit o’ the kinky stuff, know wot I mean?

It’s set in a hospital, see, and opens wiv a shot of me brand new star – it’s ’er first movie an’ all – ’oo’s playin’ a patient. She’s stark naked and one o’ the naughty nurses is takin’ ’er to the shower.

“Let me ’elp you get soaped up,” she says, pumpin’ the dispenser and workin’ up a lather. “And then you can give me a shower…a golden shower!”

*Needle scratches on record with a jarring screech*

Sorry about that, people – Lonie Polony here. What my open-shirted, gold-medallioned friend was actually describing, albeit through his porn-tinted glasses, was my latest hospital stay. And jubbly-clamped as I am, I feel it incumbent on me to point out that, despite what a small group of perverted weirdos may think (I’m glaring at you, maiesiophiles), there is absolutely nothing sexually arousing about childbirth.

It’s true I was stark naked and being helped to the shower by a nurse. And she did ask me to wee in the shower, but there was definitely no Bow Chicka Wow Wow about it. For one thing, I’d just squeezed out a nearly 10-pound baby and was consequently too cavernous to provide a satisfying hidey-hole for even the largest salami. For another, I resembled not so much a post-match jelly-wrestler, but someone who’d taken a dip in a vat of meconium and uterine ‘goo’ (as Mr. Lonie scientifically termed it). And I’m sorry to disappoint any urophiles who were hoping for something more exciting, but the wee – which was not forthcoming anyway, my plumbing having suffered secondary traumatisation from witnessing the horrifying assault on my birth canal – was about the happiness of my bladder, not your excitable bits.

My boobs did look the part at one stage, being gigantic enough to rival those on the set of Lenny’s Knockout Knockers 6: Ten Gallon Jugs! But even if bosom-fanciers pretend they were engorged with silicone and not milk, there’s no ignoring the fact that I now look like the ‘before’ shot on the breast-lift segment of Extreme Makeover.

I suppose if you were inclined towards menophilia, you might find my bleeding a turn-on. You know, the kind of bleeding my male readers would probably prefer I’d warned them about before mentioning, so they could go and watch a testosterone-filled action movie (not Crimson Tide) instead. And I’ll admit it did make me fantasise about getting into someone’s pants and having something long and thick down there. But before you go rubbing your hands with glee (or whichever lube you prefer), you have to understand that the pants I dreamed of getting into were incontinence pants, and the something long and thick I wanted was what’s known in the vernacular as a surfboard. That’s right, a whopping great maternity pad for women who care more about cushioning their swollen, tender bits than frolicking on the beach or horse riding in what television tells me is the usual manner of biblically unclean women.

Maybe after glimpsing my ‘surf’s up!’ reflection in the mirror I could still have deceived myself that someone apart from certain fans of The Crying Game would find me sexy, were it not that Mr. Lonie’s affectionate patting of my backside became a quizzical, concerned groping of the prominent foreign object in his wife’s nether region.

The alluring scent of regurgitated milk wafting constantly from my clothes and skin completes his sensory dismay, and so I think I can safely tell Lenny that his chances of a Mandy Does Maternity porn smash hit are rather less good than my fronting the most successful anti-fornication campaign in the history of the Church.

Oh, and Lenny? The title of the post was supposed to be ‘Newborn Babe’. Slimy git.

Surprise and Relief

Not a man of steel, but a man of flesh and blood, and that's what makes him a hero.

P.S. Shut up, Nelson.

Full As A Goog

Oh dear. I realised too late that one might reasonably infer from my previous post that I believe I’m extraordinarily talented, and the only thing holding me back from fulfilling my potential as the most brilliant blogger ever are the requirements of mothering three small children.

Because I still haven’t completely overcome the self-conscious teenage certainty that all are beadily eyeing my every move and passing harsh judgement, I had commenced an exculpatory post in which I tried to explain that, had I communicative skills more articulate than those of a drunken illiterate mute, the implication I made should have been something more like, Gee, I have all these ideas for blog posts which seem hilarious as they swim around in my head. With a few hours and some peace and quiet, I may be able to finesse them into something adequately humorous, once the dents sustained during the laborious progress through my brain’s clumsy incoherent textifying centre are largely beaten out.

While deciding how to explain that what I meant was not that I’m a shooting star chafing at my cruel earthbound tethers, but that I just don’t have any time…I realised I just don’t have any time.

So in a nutshell, look kindly upon me, Dear Reader, and remember: I’m not full of myself, just full of crap.

Temporary Amnesia

I peruse the TV guide and I often think, Hmm, that program sounds interesting and thought-provoking, I must remember to stay up and watch it.

Or I see 2008 theatre subscriptions advertised and wonder why I haven’t taken up such a good offer before now.

Or I say to myself I simply must pay a visit to that little chocolaterie and indulge myself while I relax on their comfy leather sofa, Dahling.

Or I promise that tonight I’m going to sit down and write the blog post that will have everyone urinating with uncontrollable laughter, garner me instant worldwide fame and twelve book deals, and win the first ever Pulitzer Prize for blogging.

And then I remember that I have children.

Candidates

Vote for me in the 2008 Bloggies! I’m not actually nominated, but why should little things like popular choice or just deserts stand in the way of my victory?

[Insert witty segue here]

So, our man of steel’s loverboy Dubya is on his way out, then? In the tradition of election-time on-street vox pops of the most ignorant buffoons to be found, I must proclaim that “I barrack for Barack!” Never mind the accusation of an unwholesome association with a slum lord peddling shoddiness and trash.

[C’mon, gentle reader! Fill in the blanks, it’s fun! Try, “Speaking of…”]

Things must be pretty bad for her when even I’m feeling sorry for Britney. My insensitivity and bad taste have not descended to levels where I’ve actually entered a Dead Pool, but if I had…