Prostitutes and Purple Pipes

I've been a very bad blogger, I know, but to make up for it, I have two new, never before seen, brand-spanking new, entirely nascent AirBear sayings to make up for it.

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Yesterday we were driving home from ballet, and the news was on. One of the headlines was about sex-workers winning a court appeal against policemen for arresting them for who they are and not for what they do. One prozzie claimed that she had been arrested over 200 times without charge.

Well, the girls always listen to the news when we're in the car. And AirBear gets quite interested in this woman, right. She wants to know why she got arrested. "Because she did something bad," I attempt to ignore the core of the answer. But she isn't satisfied. She wants to know exactly what that bad thing was that got a woman arrested 200 times.

I sigh. "Airie, I'll tell you when you're older, ok?" 

"NO! Mom," I see big eyes pleading at me in the rear-view mirror, "you need to tell us now!"

"Why? Why not when you're older?"

"Because what if we do the same thing?"

"You probably won't," I shake my head - I guess it's a fair question.

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The next story opens with me on the loo. This used to be a regular public performance, but I've cut down on my audience admissions, and try to keep them outside the bathroom when I need to go. It works most of the time, not always, but most of the time.

On the occasions that I have the room to myself, you can be sure that at least one little person is seated just on the other side of the door, having a very important conversation with me that can't wait until later.

So there we were. Me on the loo, and AirBear guarding the entrance.

Things were going pretty quietly until there was a great gasp from beyond the walls of my privvy. It was the kind of gasp that makes you think that the person gasping has just seen a giant spider, or just won the Euro Lotto.

"What is it?" I inquired.

"Mom," she stated, most matter-of-factly, "you're not going to believe this: the pipes in my soul are purple!"

Will someone volunteer how I'm supposed to respond to that.

The more I tried to figure out what she was talking about, the more anxious and excited she became about her purple soul pipes. For a minute or two we chattered back and forth while I tried to make out what the heck she was on about.

Turns out she spotted the superficial veins in her wrist.

Go figure.

Promiscuous Playtime

(WARNING: If you happened upon this post through a Google search of the same name, let me usher you off on your way, lest you suffer grave disappointment at what you find here.)

Barbie is a skank - I'm sorry, but I had to say it.

Firstly, I have just found a trail of her clothing lying around my house. The last item to be discovered (in my peg box, no less!) was a pair of nearly see-through knickers. Now, what they were doing in my peg-box, heaven only knows!

Gathering her apparel together, I sought that naked philistine, only to find her cavorting with Barney and Strawberry ShortCake (in various states of undress) underneath the couch! It would seem to me that she had also spent some time tainting the innocent minds of Snow White, Belle, Princess Aurora (aka Sleeping Beauty) and Ariel, because when I returned her to her toy chest, I found the above-mentioned harem locked in some strange tryst involving what appears to be a clothing exchange program gone wrong. The girls were half dressed in each others clothing, with all undergarments clearly unaccounted for.

I suppose it wouldn't have been that suspicious, if it wasn't for the audience to this semi-bare debauchery; a newborn baby, a My Little Pony, and a fully-clad groom (with a pink waistcoat) all positioned in various poses ranging from mild interest, to exceptional attentiveness, around the reveling (and revealing) collection of figurines.

And I blame Barbie for this depraved behaviour. Ever since she joined the Toy Box Dwellers, things have taken a turn for the dishonourable. She has brought with her a lecherous aura that seems to be infiltrating the playroom - here's a "for instance": Shoes. Often times, all that the busty little tarts of the toy box are wearing, is a pair of high heels. I mean really, just how slutty is that? And, talking of busty tarts, I swear these girls are in a continuous cleavage competition the way they lie around topless all the time. The fact that they were all cast off the same mould, seems to matter not!

In the past, clothing, although removed now and again, would always be returned. Not any more - it would seem that the latest craze is to strip off any apparel as fast as you can, but for what aim? I am, as yet, still unsure. Baby dolls used to be the highlight of playtime. No longer, unless they are being birthed in a noisy manner by the ridiculously proportioned "Mother" herself!

So it would seem that I have my work cut out for me: policing playtime. If Barbie doesn't pull her act straight and start setting a good example of dress, manner and style, and continues to prostitute herself so blatantly, she's going to be replaced by Raggedy Anne.

I'm just saying... 's all!

Comparing STUFF

So the STUFF in the STUDY is still there, although slightly diminished. (I have been doing my best to curb its alarming procreative abilities.)  I do, however, still pull the door closed when people come to visit, because the room does rather look like an impressionistic rendition of post H-bomb Hiroshima.

A friend commented over the weekend that her study resembled a whore's handbag. I was intrigued. Not only because of my own study woes, but also because I have never had the opportunity of rummaging around in a prostitute's portmanteau. I had to have a peek, of course, to educate myself.

Not knowing much about what hookers keep in their carryalls, I may be wrong about this, but I would dare to venture that, strictly speaking, my study is far more floozy than my friend's. And this is why...

First thing that grabbed my attention was the floor. I could actually see it. And not only that, I could walk a fair distance into the room without standing on anything that wasn't floor. My study floor is carpeted with everything from cycling shoes to Reader's Digests. You wouldn't be far wrong if you suggested that the filing cabinet had stripped itself right there in the middle of the room.

Her bookshelves were neatly stacked with an array of albums, textbooks and manuals. Made me think that bookshelves would be a useful commodity in my own study, if only to provide more space for STUFF-creep, or, and this is a far more reasonable use, to provide any visitor thrust  into that room with something to hold onto and steady themselves against.

The chair at her desk was drawn slightly away from the desk, and a sleeping cat looked quite comfortable, curled up in the middle of it. My office chair, on the other hand, has a box of condoms (blown up are a great visual tool when explaining breast feeding - no, really!), a pack of linen savers and a breast pump (kinky for a concubine, perfectly plausible for a midwife). 

My friend's desk also begged me to acknowledge it. It actually had desk stuff on it, computers, keyboards, a couple of pens, a notepad. My desk is draped with the fine art of my offspring. There are hammers and hooks and a handfuls of keys that belong in long-forgotten locks. There is a childbirth video and a t-shirt that needs mending. Not to mention the scrapbooking paraphenalia, the wad of sheet music and the four cycling helmets carefully balanced in a pink plastic crate that was, ironically, purchased for keeping things tidy. The crowning glory of my desk, (and this, if nothing else, will be what tips the slutty-study scale in my direction) are the anatomically correct childbirth education teaching aids. One is a yellowed plastic pelvis, a little wobbly in the joints (just to be perfectly representational), the other (*blush*) is Doris, my great velvet vagina.

So I guess that settles it then - my study is the harlot of my house. I am now more convinced than ever to rid my home of this scourge before the day is done.