Mommy Flirting

I flirt with moms more than men these days.  

And not because I’m a lesbian, though that might’ve saved me some heartache in my 20s (but that’s another story).

I flirt with women because what if I flirt with a man who isn’t my husband and he realizes that delectable me was just flirting then finds himself incapable of containing his lust, throws me to the ground and in a fit of bestial passion plants his seed from whence a man-child issues forth and … tragedy ensues.

B. I flirt with a man who isn’t my husband and he barfs in his hands.

It’s safe to flirt with mommy friends because they always flirt back, but they don’t want to have sex with you (which might be a disappointment for some of the husbands).

In my mommy boot camp we flex our muscles for each other, look down each other’s shirts to compliment the “Girls,” snap each other’s asses with wet kitchen towels.

We’ve been known to go on wild weekends where we drink too much, fondle male strippers at gay bars and end up back at the hotel in trouble with the manager for arm wrestling too boisterously in our room.

(For the record: I beat them all. The German wants a rematch — I say bring it!).

We affirm for each other our undying, everlasting hotness.

It puts a sparkle in our eyes and a freakin’ Saltambuco in our step. We see our beauty and worth reflected in each other’s eyes in a way no man can reflect it simply because he is not a woman.

I leave you with an email exchange between my dear Kelly “buns of molten steel” Barron and me when she discovered my mom’s night out plans with Other Women. Kelly writes:

“Why do you smite me with tales of your escapes while I dutifully care for my ailing offspring.‘Tis I who know you best.

“‘Tis I who follow you though you forsake me. Oh, cruel, cruel one. My heart breaks from within my breast. Can you tell I’ve been reading Knights of the Round Table and Robin Hood to Liv all day? It was fun for a bit, but now I can only speak in old English.”

To which I reply:

“Oh, you faithless mistress with your spawn all the day long.  How am I, a soulless narcissist, ever to forgive you your callous child empathy and grace?

“And have you logged in to my f@@king Blog yet? Are you truly Following Me? I will attempt to drop by unannounced to pillage the fortress of your nutty bread and tea biscuits.

“I hate the women I am forced to carouse with tomorrow night and Thursday I must dine with my feckless husband and his knavery knaves. I shall smite them with my dirty martini goblet.

“What say you of next fortweek? Should Livi freshen shall you bring her hence to trampoline and watch inappropriate songs on “Glee?” Or perhaps the twine of us shall just sit astool some ginnery and gossip like blackbirds … eating … mincemeat pie. What say you, wenchtress? Shaberforth.”