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.”
“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.