Why the sudden population explosion of Mommy Bloggers?

They need to vent.

It’s no use venting to men, unless they are gay. Men won’t be able to relate, and they’ll sit there in a catatonic state, staring at the remote while hoping to witness an acute laryngitis attack.

Mommies are under lots of pressure to manage herds of unappreciative tiny people. These subjects are uncoordinated, somewhat unclean, malnourished, and they have no sense of time. If these people worked for you, they’d be terminated, unless you were Uncle Sam.

Fortunately, most of these mommies get their occasional nights away from the inmates. I study these herds. There’s usually a nucleus of frazzled ladies, gulping martinis, while beginning most diatribes with “Oh, you haven’t seen anything.” There are a few outliers in each pack. The happiest is usually the elder, who has ordered her inmates to vacate and visit infrequently. She recalls those trying days, and is glad to have escaped with some sanity intact. Of course, she probably didn’t have the luxury of hammering out 500-word vents to the cyber world. She sucked it up, took her lumps, and healed with alcohol. The other outlier is the silly, childless girl strolling down the aisle toward oblivion. All she wants to do is drink, dance, and kiss cute boys. She’s frightened by the state of the Mommy Bloggers, but she’s confident she’ll never become one. And, the MB world chuckled maniacally.

On my way to Taco Tuesday, I was approached, surrounded, and overtaken by a Mommy Blogger and her subjects–two boys, two girls between 8 and 13. My vasectomy was never so appreciated. Mommy was robotic and glazed-over as she shouted commands that were ignored. She reminded the monkeys they should be careful not to stumble off the curb into traffic, which was speeding by. Perhaps she secretly wished the man who impregnated her were standing within kicking distance, so she could admire his ass meeting bumper. The stumbling boobs circled the valet, got greasy hand prints on the front door of the fine restaurant, and began stealing candy from the hostess’ station as mommy mentally composed that night’s blog. I swatted one pest away from my knee, left the melee, and approached my temple–le bar.

After stuffing myself with tacos stuffed with carne asada, my attention was directed to a 50th birthday party table, occupied by a dozen or so bloggarinas. My teammate and I just had to stop by and say hi. I balked, but my man used penis-logic on me: He needed a slump-buster, preferably in the form of angry sex with a Mommy Blogger. I said it was unlikely. I was wrong. She had three children aged 11-15, large breastuses (his words, my thoughts), and five orgasms. All my bud could say is, “God, I love being me.” Then, he did the unthinkable–he showed me pictures. I’m sorry. I don’t mean the act of showing me was unthinkable. That was quite possibly the finest gesture I’ve received in months. The unthinkable part was that she would allow herself to be frozen in time–nipples up, clit down.

He remarked that, while she seemed stressed before their tumble, she seemed relieved thereafter.

“Perhaps, after dealing with three little menaces all week, she needed a slump-buster, which was you.”


“She was either going to take her frustration out on you or the blogosphere.”

“The what?”

“Right, you would have no reason to visit that dark planet. Look, just be happy that you’ve unloaded your love muscle and reloaded your spank bank.”

Kids, here’s your Uncle Phil encouraging you to continue aggravating your mommy so she continues venting in words and many other wonderful ways.

Mommy’s out knocking the dust off.

I attract certain women lately, not because they’re sexually attracted to me; perhaps they see me as a coach of sorts. It happened again last night.

“Hey, Coach.”

“What’s up, Kiddo?”

“I’ve been out of the game a while–getting a bit rusty on the bench over here.”

“Ready to take a shot?”

“I think so. I’ve been sidelined for twelve years with a man I’ve grown to dislike and a four-year-old who’s draining me.”

“All right. Take a lap around the pub and limber up.”

Coaches aren’t allowed to mix it up with players. Sad. I accept my role and hope she drinks enough to forget hers. When she returns, I ask important questions to see if she’s ready.

“Have you been practicing?”

“I got digits from a twenty-five-year old last night.”

“You say ‘digits’ again and I’ll have you scrubbing latrines.”


“Did you say twenty-five? That’s about a ten-year difference, no?”

“I know. He was cute. He walked me out to my car.”

“Did you seal the deal?”

“He went in for the kiss, and I blocked so I could ask him a question.”

“Let me guess: ‘Did you wash your hands and clean your nails, young man?'”

“No. I asked if he remembered my name.”


“Yep. He forgot.”

“But, you kissed him anyway.”

“Well …”

“Fucking rookies. All right, look, you want to play the game awhile and stay off the bench, right? Don’t be so concerned about triviality like names, living situations, and investment strategies. If you’re going after high-haired baby apes, take them as they are, get your box stuffed, and move on.”

Here’s where all the buts come out because she hasn’t built up her emotional callus:

  • But, I have a child to consider.
  • But, what about disease?
  • But, what if I like him?
  • But, I’m a good girl.
  • But, it goes against my beliefs.
  • But, it grosses me out when I see older women with young guys.
  • But, what if my ex-husband finds out.
  • But, I just want to make out with him and not have sex.
  • But, how do I know if he just wants me for a one-night stand.
  • But, I have another ten pounds to lose before I’ll feel sexy.

I noticed her drink was empty, so I offered to help her along with a non-banned substance: vodka.

“Let me buy you a drink.”

“No, I can buy my own.”

“Suit yourself. Who’s your next target, champ?”

“I like that boy over there. He reminds me of Brad Pitt in his Legends of the Fall days.”



“Brad fucking Pitt? Really?”

“I could make it work.”

“You should reconsider the drink because you have set highly unrealistic expectations.”

“Aw, that’s sad.”

“Fine. Go poke Brad, and see how that works out.”

“I will.”

Naturally, she boldly approached him, realized he smelled of seaweed, Red Bull, and Axe Body Spray, and returned to Coach Phil with her tail tucked and un-fucked. I lost my patience and left the arena, to shower, sleep, and live to coach another dame.


My mom can beat up your mom.

OK, not really. She tends to drop her left when she throws a right hook. Still, my mom is pretty darn awesome. For one thing, she brought a sarcastic fuzzball (me) into the world. She certainly doesn’t agree with my views around spirituality and sexuality, but she respects my right to have them, and that’s cool.

I bet your mom is cool too.

I can only partially relate to being a mom. I have no children, but I do have two cats. When they annoy me (Syd, get off the damn keyboard.) and make messes (Symon, must you continue eating until you puke?), I contemplate life without them. There would be fewer messes to clean, less poop to scoop, fewer runny-eyed guests, less money spent on tuna, and freedom to go away for more than two days without a cat sitter.

The same must apply to offspring, although most parents won’t admit it. There must be times when mothers think:

  • Why must almost everything that comes out of a child be disgusting?
  • I can’t keep anything nice.
  • Sleep? What sleep?
  • I liked the kid better before he could talk.
  • I could be living a peaceful, childless life in Tuscany.
  • What I wouldn’t give for one hour of peace and quiet.
  • I’m a maid, cook, and taxi driver. The pay sucks.
  • After thirteen years of my time the little prick tells me he hates me. I can’t wait until he’s a parent.
  • A dog … why didn’t I get a dog?
  • Who is this downtrodden person I see in the mirror?

Then Mom takes a deep breath, counts to five, and goes back to being the world’s greatest mom. Amazing!

My mother, in particular, went way overboard in the momming department. After she gave birth to me, she adopted four children. Sure, Angelina would sniff at this, but Mom didn’t have the resources to hire an army of nannies. Then, Mom pushed the dirty diaper further and became a foster parent while raising us, the original gangstas. Babies were shuttled through our house faster than subway cars through Manhattan. I think she was being paid somewhere in the neighborhood of $3 per day per baby–a veritable fortune, if it were 3000 BC.

Now she’s in her late seventies, so one would expect her to slow down, maybe play a little bingo. Nope. She works full-time in a daycare center. She does all of this while suffering with Crohn’s disease and arthritis for decades.

I can dream up some crazy shit, but this is the honest-to-Zeus truth. I can’t imagine anything as special and wonderful as my dear mother.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom! You are an inspiration and will always be my hero.

Are you mom enough? You betcha.

The latest issue of Time Magazine shows a 26-year-old mother breastfeeding her three-year-old son. Naturally, this picture has caused quite a stir, so allow me to dip my rusty spoon into the media hype soup.

Things I find disturbing about the photo:

  1. He’s not using a napkin.
  2. He’s not properly cupping the breast while extending his pinkies–horrible manners, young man.
  3. The look on his face definitely says, “nya, nya.”
  4. There’s an unoccupied breast.
  5. I detect a bit of thickness around his middle, suggesting he’s overindulging and needs to take a few laps around the neighborhood before his next meal.
  6. I appreciate that while serving food, she has her hair up, but shouldn’t she also be wearing gloves?
  7. Camouflage cargo pants are so 2009.
  8. He’s not paying proper attention to the clitoris during nipple stimulation … oh, sorry, my bad … this only applies to lovers, not offspring. Never mind.
  9. Her choice of shoes is atrocious. She could help the little suckling reach by wearing pumps.
  10. Why did his grade school allow him to take his chair home with him, or did mom deliver his lunch to school?

Things that would make it more disturbing:

  1. If she were unattractive.
  2. If her daughter, with a bob cut, dined.
  3. If his father watched.
  4. If the son had a mini-boner.
  5. If she were holding a romance novel in her free hand.
  6. If he invited his neighborhood buddies over for dinner.
  7. If they were in the bathtub.
  8. If she were a Kardashian.
  9. If Ryan Seacrest interviewed her while feeding.
  10. If his T-shirt read, “Got Milk?”

Things that would make it less disturbing:

  1. If some of the milk dripped off his chin, onto the floor, and the cat lapped it up.
  2. If he wore a cute bib–maybe one with a lobster on it.
  3. If he were fifty years old.
  4. If he were black or Latino. Where’s the EEOC when you need them?
  5. If he had some Oreos.

OK, Time Magazine, next time you know to consult me. Here’s a suggestion for your next cover: A father (either paternal or priest) showing the daughter how to insert a tampon.


Mom 1, Bread Pudding 0

Encinitas, CA (NGWEB) May 11, 2011 — A woman from the East Coast, affectionately referred to as “Phil’s Mom,” traveled west this week to take on a feisty local opponent, Bread Pudding. Although Mom is very pretty, the result wasn’t. All that remained after the match was a plate with a tiny smear of caramel and one happy mother.Before the match, the Encinitas Bread Pudding (nickname: BP) was confident.

“This woman gots no chance. Who do she think she is, comin’ out here onto my turf and orderin’ me ’round? She need to take her ass back to coal-cracking country and stick to something more her speed … like blueberry blintzes.”

Phil’s Mom wasn’t about to be intimidated or deterred, even after she was sequestered in an Albuquerque airport for five hours as she made the trip west. It seems someone (oh, we know it was you, Mr. Pudding) left a note in the jet’s bathroom on her connecting flight from Detroit. The FBI was called in, and Special Agent Leon Stanhope had the following to say:

“What a low blow. I mean, I saw the elbow Andrew Bynum planted in Barrea’s ribs and that was nothing compared to this. We don’t have any concrete evidence at this point, but we suspect the note was left by one of  BP’s associates who were on the plane: Fried Ice Cream or Flourless Chocolate Cake. I can’t release the actual details of the note, but I will tell you it mentioned the word ‘Gut Bomb.’ We’re not taking this lightly.”

With a crowd of eighty in attendance, Mom wasn’t intimidated. In fact, she took on another opponent in a warm-up match (Pan Roasted Chicken) to loosen her jaw muscles and show her self-assurance. Her son and corner cut man, “Nice Guy” Phil, cleaned a stray dab of gravy from her chin and gave us an exclusive from ringside.

“It’s bittersweet for me. I’m technically a San Diego native now, but much as I continue to root for the Phillies, I have to stay in Mom’s corner. I mean, seriously, this town has zero championships, right? Sorry, I’m not counting the freaking Sockers … who are they anyway? Mom’s not about to let this one slip. Heck, I watched her take out a cannoli in under a minute last month. BP’s goin’ down.”

“You simple as a pimple,” BP interjected as he overheard Phil’s comment. “Ya oughta be shamed of yoself, sendin’ yo mama up in here to do a man’s job.”

Phil puffed his chest but Mom stopped him, reminding him how his last confrontation with Banana Cream Pie went.

Once the bell rang, Mom delivered stinging jabs from all angles. She quickly knocked the whipped and ice cream topping to the side and dismantled BP, chip by chip. The only respite for BP was when she reached for a swig of hot tea.

After the match, Mom smiled and patted her pouch.

“That was nice. I’m leaning toward a few ounces of port wine and a dark chocolate wafer.”

She just might be the greatest of all-time.