I am great with children. Ask any of my friends who are parents and they will tell you that kids love me.
I believe there are two reasons for this: One, kids are very intuitive and they can sense that I have no desire to kidnap them.
Two, I always keep bacon in my pocket. This is how I get them to do things like fetch and roll over.
Even though my own maternal clock was killed in a tragic babysitting accident fifteen years ago, I still get to experience the joys of parenting by acting as a surrogate MILF to my friends’ children.
I look forward to the day I can finally sit my friend K’s son down and give him”the talk”.
Here’s how I picture it: Just after he’s finished blowing out the six candles on his birthday cake, I’ll take Whatshisface aside and tell him I need to talk to him about something very important. He’ll say that he loves it when I talk to him about things because I’m smart and ravishing and an excellent role model. Also, his friends have a crush on me.
I’ll tell him that sex isn’t meant for little kids. Then I’ll ask if his friends have any extremely well-endowed older brothers.
When the conversation is over, he’ll give me a big hug and say that I’m the best non-birth mom he’s ever had. That’s when I’ll point to my lower abdomen and say, “Hear that, uterus? You’ve been PWNED!”
He probably won’t get the joke, but whatever. Humor is subjective.
For my eighteenth birthday, I asked my parents if I could get my tubes tied. Instead, they sent me on a school-organized trip to Europe.
“You can practice your French,” my mother said.
Growing up, my mother wanted to learn another language. Unfortunately, because she lived on a farm in the lonely areola of Saskatchewan (instead of objects, I prefer to personify inanimate provinces), her only options were “Hutterite” and “Basic Cow”. By enrolling her firstborn daughter in both French Immersion and accordion lessons, she able to live her childhood dreams vicariously through me.
For ten days my classmates and I sat on a school bus, looking out the windows as we drove through France, Monaco, Nice, Switzerland and Italy. We slept in filthy hotels. We were groped by filthy old men. It was very educational.
One night while in Paris, we decided to sneak out of the hotel and go to the bar.
When it comes to French couture, I am practically a Mensa. I put my hair in french-braids and wore my most European- looking jeans. I find that the cameltoe really brings out my french accent.
We walked into the first pub we saw and sat down at the row of stools next to the bar. I ordered first.
“Je veux un vodka slime.”
The bartender looked at me like I was Marie Antoinette.
“I am no slime! Why do you call me the slime??”
Instead, I asked for a beer. Only I pronounced it “bièrrrre.” I have this really sexy way of rolling my r’s where I sound like I’m choking, but I look like I’m in the middle of making love.
The French man sitting next to me looked over and smiled. I could tell he was french because he was gnawing on a baguette. Also, he had offensive body odor. Because I am so engaging, naturally he started chatting me up.
He told me that he was single. I told him that my Canada included Quebec. I ran my fingers through my long, shiny hair. He sweated.
He asked if I wanted to climb the Eiffel Tower. “Climbez vous le tour Eifel?”
“Mais oui,” I said.
“C’est tres grande.” He stretched his arms out as far as they would go. His french armpits were causing me to get nauseous.
Just as I was about to serenade him with the Canadian French National anthem, my friend Nikki elbowed me in the shoulder.
“We gotta get out of here,” she said. She pointed to the television mounted above the bar. There, on the screen, was a naked woman lying on a bear skin rug, pleasing herself with what looked to be a Kitchenaid blender.
Horrified, I looked to the French man for guidance. That’s when I noticed that the zipper of his pants was undone and he had his penis in the hand.
“Zee Eiffel Tower,” he said, motioning toward his groin.
I told him it looked more like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Then I grabbed my purse and left.
When I got home, my parents were waiting for me at the airport.
“How’d it go?” my Mother asked. Did you have fun? What were the locals like? Did you tell them that your Mother can speak a little French, too?”
She asked me what I thought of the Eiffel Tower. I told her it was much smaller in person.
*Coming Up On The Next Post: The (fictional) story about a blogger who became so obsessed with changing her blog header that finally she couldn’t take it any more, so she staged an intervention for herself followed by a few hours of life-coaching then changed her template to one that doesn’t offer the customizable header option.