The Nightmare on Kinderegg Surprise Street

Ah yes, in the seventies and eighties there were different ideas regarding advertising to kids. You didn't worry about polluting their delicate minds. "Whatever shifts the sweets," was the law of the jungle in the advertising agencies, where people were usually too busy snorting coke off each other's backsides to think about ethics or lawsuits. Ah yes, those were the days, the days of ...

The Big Kinderegg Paedophile

(query: how in the name of God did this get made and get past the censors? Or were the censors on acid?)


I've got a great idea! Let's stick Terry Scott in a boy scouts uniform


Who wants to have fun with a mentally retarded clown? (What in the name of God does Ronald have on his head?)



Still, good times, groovy times. And now here's a song you will never ever be able to get out of your head. I don't recall ever having had a 54321 bar - did you? What was it like? Also, if any advertising execs are reading, it occurred to me as I watched those blonde haired kids tumble out of bed that you might want to relaunch this bar as the 87654321 bar and have it advertised by Octomom's kids tumbling out? It's a genius idea, no?

Weekend Happiness Formula

I have (unofficially) become a little ray of sunshine in my neighborhood. Take this weekend. Now my husband and I were kid free because the kids were staying with a friend. By Sunday morning I was so happy I was crying. Oh yes, my patented happiness formula was working a dream.


Emma's Patented Weekend Happiness Formula:

0 kids
4 positions (or more - must include one you have never done before)
5 orgasms (or more)
4 cocktails (min)
2 bottles wine
3 mimosas
brunch at restaurant
lunch at restaurant
dinner at restaurant
buy 12 bits of lingerie (min)
buy tons of overpriced makeup
buy four pairs of shoes (or more)
watch a trashy movie (I saw Confessions of a Shopaholic and I'm not ashamed to say it!)


Get addicted to lingerie - it's cheaper than heroin


Mr X was a glum granny chaser

So usually we are awoken by shrieking kids' voices on Sunday morning at around six am. But this time we were sleeping, oh yes, and I for one was on cloud nine. So it was a bit of a downer to be awoken by my neighbor, Mr X, who rang my doorbell at eight. Mr X is a bit creepy and spends much of his time smoking outside his front door. He is also having a relationship with a grandma.

So, Mr X is standing there in his pyjamas looking sour. Well apparently while he had let the grandma out this morning his front door had slammed shut. He was now locked out and wanted my husband to drive him to his parents who had his spare key, so I said, fine, come in, and went to wake my husband. I then had to make polite conversation with Mr X and decided I would try to cheer him up.

Firstly he says he is angry because gas/electric prices have gone up and he now pays $430 for gas and electric per month. I don't understand the disparity: we only pay $230 and our house is the same size as his but I'm not about to rub his nose in it. He also tells me he bathes once a week. I am not sure if this is to save money.

Next he tells me he is a nurse - he has not lost his job, nothing like that - but he is still pissed off because he went to work yesterday and there were no surgeries happening so he sat there all day doing nothing. I was about to say "Nice work if you can get it," but I could tell he wouldn't find that funny, so I said nothing.

He was still looking miserable, so I asked him if he was going to have his garden turned into a patio, as he said he was planning to - frankly last summer was a nightmare, his whole garden was full of dandelion seeds flying about. He said he had got a quote for the patio but it was too expensive. I suggested that the recession could be positive, because I betted if he phoned the patio company again they'd reduce the price because they were desperate.

Luckily at this point my husband was dressed and ready to drive Mr X to his parents and I went back to bed, delighted to know that I had tried (albeit failed) to inject some sunshine into Mr X's life.

Later my husband and I went to brunch and to see Confessions of a Shopaholic. Yes I feel bad that I am at an all time high while everyone else is down in the dumps but for God's sake, let's all try and keep out peckers up, why don't we?

So what's your weekend happiness formula? Do tell.

Fatsploitation

Apart from Benny Hill, has anyone noticed that the past is not littered with fat celebs? Fat was persona not grata. Fat people were, well, like the elephant in the room.

In the seventies, say, you could well have seen glamour pusses like Joan Collins saying "Got an amphetamine pill? I need to lose six pounds by Friday." And no one batted a false eyelash.


God I love the seventies. Yes, Ayds, a brand name that wouldn't resonate very well these days, was marketed by glamorous Hollywood movie stars throughout the early 1970s.


And if you still had a few extra rolls, they would soon be smoothed out by the Punkt-roller, the suction-cupped rolling pin that also made fantastic cookies?


Got a gut on you that don't look good? Who you gonna call? Punkt-roller!

Oh yes, throughout time, fat was demonized and pummelled to death with Punkt-rollers and well it should have been. Then in recent years, things spiralled out of control, models became wafers, women became anorexics and things went a bit nuts. Now every woman is on a fad diet, trying to get down to some unrealistic weight. Which is, okay, wrong.

What we have right now can be coined as cultural schizophrenia. On the one hand we have the largely anorexic models used to sell clothes. On the other we have celebrities who eat one celery stick per day like Posh Spice saying that she is going to use Daniella Sarahyba, a curvy model (translation, stick with tits) to model her new fashion line and is against a size 0 model modelling them although Posh herself is a size 0.


Daniella Sarahyba - Posh's idea of curvy!

The reasoning: 'Victoria wants to give out a positive image that you don't have to be ultra skinny to look good. Many of the models on the catwalk make young girls feel insecure about their own bodies. Victoria doesn't want to be accused of giving young girls a complex about their image and putting pressure on them to be as skinny as her.', a source told the media.

If she cares so much why doesn't Posh eat? This really is a big deal because young minds are easily influenced by the media and sometimes even my eight year old will ask me, "Mum, am I fat?"

On the other hand, we have the strange new idea poking its head up that you should 'accept yourself as you are' and in fact that fat can be gorgeous. Which is in its own way just as terrible an idea as the 'starve yourself' school of thought.


The trendy new magazine LOVE puts hot new fat model Beth Ditto on its cover and tries to tell us that fat is now cool. May I humbly suggest that this photo does not glorify Beth Ditto but presents her as a total freak show?

Look, let me reiterate: being fat is not okay. Aesthetics aside you are putting yourself at risk of a host of diseases which can be avoided if you kept yourself at a healthy weight. I don't need a bunch of fatsos writing to me and telling me how hard it is to lose weight. So what if it's hard? I'm ten pounds overweight but I'm working on it. It's hard to do it without laxatives, but why not try? Anything than to give in to the idea that Fat is Flab.

And while I think that most 'quick fix' weight loss cures are stupid I don't want to live in a world where fat is considered fabulous. I simply don't want to open a porn mag one day to be confronted by this:

Never Mind the Kneesocks Here's the Schoolgirl Pistols

I recently had some old Super Eight films transferred to DVD and uncovered this gem. It stars me aged eleven with some pals doing Tight Fit's In the Jungle. This ditty was also performed on a school trip to Butlin's Bognor Regis. The school trip was primarily remembered for a disco where Tony Simm's french kissed Emily Saunders and put his hand up her top and they both got shit for it (bear in mind this was a Catholic School run by nuns!) The other reason the holiday in Bognor will go down in history is that our performance at the Talent Show won us Second Prize!

I think that when you view this video it is pretty obvious that we were hugely talented and could easily have become an 80s version of The Spice Girls. But it was not to be - it was a typical rock and roll story gone bad. Our band was formed in the last year at primary school - we exploded onto the scene at Butlin's to massive acclaim. Then alas the band split as we all went on to different secondary schools and drifted apart. I often wonder where they all are now and whether the history of pop music might have been entirely different had we all gone on to the same secondary school.

And what about you? Did you ever enter a talent contest as a kid? What did you perform, did you win a prize and do you have pictures?

For the love of Jesus! Check me out at mamapop.

My Funny Valentine

Oh Valentine's Day how much I love thee. There are so many fellow bloggers I adore and would gladly ravish, but let me just pick my two long time faves to write a tribute to. For you, dear Gorilla Bananas, a picture of me with my toucan and a banana. As Robert Palmer said, "I didn't mean to turn you on."


And for you, Fingers, a private picture of you and me ...I know I said I would never post it on the internet but I lied okay, and all I can say is, why not show off that beautiful bod?



And now, I was thinking what should I give these two lads? First I thought I'd write them an erotic story but I really don't have time, I've got to go coach my lads' soccer team who tell me they are feeling dirty (there's a film I made of them above in case you're interested). So anyway, I found this site where some pretty sad people pay to have a customized erotic novel written about them and their paramour. Type in two names and they generate some turgid PG rated crap. So here you go, Gorilla and Fingers, I need to go sort out that soccer team .... have a Happy Valentine's. Kisses.

Safari Nights featuring Emma and Gorilla Bananas


Gorilla Bananas and Emma were always being mistaken for Posh and Becks

‘Is that everything?’ Emma asked as Gorilla slammed the boot shut. ‘Then lets hit the road!’ As they drove from their home in Baltimore to BWI, Emma put her favourite album by Blondie into the CD player.

Pulling up at a set of traffic lights, Gorilla crooned along, using the steering wheel as a drum, accompanied by Emma’s sing-song laughter.

But as they neared the airport, the traffic thickened, snaking in front of them in an endless metal spiral. Emma cast an anxious glance at the Ferrari’s clock.

‘Do you think we should have left earlier?’ she asked. But before long they’d left the Ferrari in the long stay car park, taken the short bus ride to the terminal and they were standing in the bustling check-in queue. After two hours browsing in the shops, during which Emma slipped off and bought a beautiful basque and knicker set in her favourite colour, peach, they were boarding the plane.

The flight was pretty full, and thanks to Gorilla turning on the charm they’d been selected for an upgrade. ‘You ever joined the mile high club?’ Gorilla whispered as a stern-looking stewardess directed them to their seats in an almost empty luxury cabin. He gestured to a plump businessman with a ruddy face, who’d already reclined his seat and slipped on his eye mask.

‘I don’t think our friend there would notice…’

‘Ssh, you’re terrible!’ Emma chuckled. But as the plane roared down the runway a few moments later, the idea was firmly fixed in her head…

Sex on a plane was such a cliché. But now she was in the mood.

Could they?

And after a couple of glasses of complimentary champagne with the delicious dinner, which had been served on proper china plates and with stainless steel cutlery, she was feeling brave. ‘Come on,’ she whispered...

Fever In France featuring Emma and Fingers


Fingers had been pounded to within an inch of his life

Laughing like teenagers the couple ran out into the warm evening air. The sun was beginning to set and enriched the colours of the world around them with a fiery hue. The view over the sea was breathtaking from high on the hillside where the spa was located; but Emma wasn’t in the mood for wasting time admiring a view and dragged her lover back to the car. They sped off once again into the countryside, looking for a restaurant. This time they actually found one without any car chases or abductions getting in the way. It was the cutest little pizzeria; cut into the side of a cliff face in a small country village near the Italian border. Neither of them were in the mood for any more pretentiously posh eateries and they were really looking forward to good, honest, filling and most unhealthy pizza. The friendly waiter gave them a small table, with a candle and flowers, next to one of the few windows on the man-made façade. The window looked out over the crooked rooftops of the village and the steep valley below. Pizzas were being cooked in ovens cut straight into the rock and the intense glow from them provided most of the light. It was vibrant and busy inside and the wine was flowing readily. For a second, in between the laughter and the chattering, Fingers drifted off, back to Baltimore and back to his job at Bank of Knobs. The events of the last week had moved so fast and been so intense that the normal world of working and commuting through the rat race seemed a million years away. He smiled and a tingle ran down his spine as he snapped back into the movie-like reality of his present. Emma was sitting opposite tackling a slice of pizza that was altogether too big for her mouth; and dropping stringy cheese all down her beautiful new pink dress. She looked down at the result of the cheese and laughed. A slither of it had landed right between her firm breasts and as she fished it out, pulling her dress away from her chest as she did, a passing waiter caught an eye full. The waiter proceeded to trip over a chair and fling his tray of drinks onto the floor. She felt a little embarrassed but was soon laughing so hard that she felt like she would wet herself. It really was an excellent meal; the pizza had a thin base and was positively drowning in cheese and toppings, like real pizzas should be. Fingers enjoyed it more than the expensive meals they had been dining on, in the exclusive restaurants of Cannes and Monaco since their unexpected windfall.

The drive back to their hotel in Cannes was interrupted by a romantic walk along a deserted beach. There wasn’t much sand left as the tide was high but they walked along the dunes. Despite being late, the air was still warm and soothing. Emma lay back against Fingers and looked into the clear night sky; a million tiny stars twinkled from across light years of space. Back in Baltimore there were so few visible stars, but there on the beach, without clouds and light pollution, they could see forever. She stroked the sand and passed the grains between her fingers. The sand glistened under the moonlight and for a moment the beach became a reflection of the sky, with the sand and the stars. She felt her lover’s breath on the back of her neck as he gently kissed it; his arms wrapped tightly around her waist. Soon they were peeling each other’s clothes off and flinging them to the wind. Time became meaningless and irrelevant as they made passionate love on the beach. She longed for it to go on forever. It was different; gentler, yet more intense at the same time, she felt more fulfilled than ever. The sand clung to her back and bum as she rolled him over and mounted him; riding him like she had never before.

The case of the stinging nipples

"I really have a thing for Poles," said Rachel [not her real name] after one too many chocolate martinis at yesterday's girls night out.

"Well maybe I'm stating the obvious here," I said, "but have you ever considered relocating to Poland?"

"Not that kind of pole," Rachel replied, a voluptuous vertically challenged Jewish teacher with a dark mop of curls. "I mean I really want to have a stripper pole fitted in the basement so I can pole dance for my husband."

I tried to imagine Rachel in a diamond encrusted thong upside down on a pole - and failed. "So what's the problem?"

"Well, I don't know how I'm going to explain it to the children. Daniel says we're to pretend its a fireman's pole that we bought just for them, so they can pretend to be firemen. And I thought I'd tell them the pole was a trellis and to have plastic plants running up it by day which I would remove at night." I nodded, sure that there had to be a more convincing excuse out there.


Not being very athletic, this would be Emma pole dancing

On top of her pole dilemma Rachel is also burdened with another huge problem. Her bed slides around so much while she has sex that sometimes she says she does not know which room she has ended up in, and while I fear that is an exagerration she says it is a tad annoying to suddenly find oneself crashing into a wall. They have tried putting various materials on the legs (of the bed) to stop it skidding on the hardwood floors, but nothing is doing the trick. I suggested velcroing the legs to the floor to which Rachel replied, "It might be easier if I just velcroed Daniel to the wall." Again, I know there is an answer out there for this problem, but what is it?

Another sexy MILF, blonde goddess Amy, threw out a question at the group. "Does anyone else have problems when trying to pull pasties off their nipples?"


I nodded in what I hoped was a sophisticated manner while inside I was thinking, why would anyone want to put Cornish Pasties on their tits? Horses for courses, I told myself. Live and let live.

Amy went on. "You know, like that your nipples really sting and throb once you pull them off?"

There were murmurs around the table of, yeah, I know what you mean. Eventually I realized that the pasties Amy was talking about were those tassley things for doing a stripper dance rather than hot pockets of warm meat.


Now, I enjoy solving people's problems, but I must say I was well and truly stumped. Does anyone out there know:

1. What excuse to give to the kids regarding the stripper pole in the basement?
2. How to stop a skidding bed crashing into the wall?
3. How to stop nipple burn once you rip off your pasties? If you wish to create some non stinging pasties go right ahead but I will require a 10% cut since I gave you the idea.

Some of you may think I am quite the kinkster but I went home feeling very square indeed.

Ode to a Tampon

I was wondering why I felt psychotic yesterday. Because I was not using the Infomaniac patented PMS Buddy (which sends details of your menstrual cycle to up to FIVE men in your life or to yourself if you are a halfwit like moi) I failed to realize that - oh yeah - my period was due!! So it was quite a relief to start my period today and return to a relatively normal state of mind where I did not want to wring the life out of living creatures and even our pet fish. And then I was feeling quite poetic so I wrote an ode to that little marvel: The Tampon.



Ode to a Tampon

Tampons are something no man wants to discuss

Like what is their function?

It just makes men blush

When we tell them that they just need to rush

To the chemist because we are a dam about to gush

They make silly suggestions to which we reply:

"No a rolled up slice of white bread won't do just as well

Do you want a poke in the eye?"

What is it with men and the embarassment factor

Of purchasing tampons

It makes them feel emasculated

Makes them lose their erections

But tampons are friends

They are fun toys for kids too

My five year old thinks Tampax

Are sleeping bags for 'mice'

the furry white creatures that huddle inside

When you need a tampon in a hurry they're nowhere to be found

You can't get them from drug dealers, ten Supers for a pound

Always be aware of tampon borrowing etiquette:

When asking a stranger if you can borrow a tampon

Don't be surprised if she doesn't want it back

I am fond of my tampons

And thank God they exist

For if they didn't

There'd be blood on the streets

Please add a verse if you would like. This may become a series in which I write about other common household objects. Suggestions are welcome.

Swap Shop Revamp

Reuse, Recycle and Freeload are my life mantras - which is why this weekend I found myself taking part in a Clothing Swap at a friend's house.

Now, there were seven women at this Swap, who had brought bin bags full of their old clothes to swap. So why did it take four hours to swap all the clothes? (Actually there were six people swapping and one person (me) just freeloading, because all the clothes I have are new/nearly new and I didn't want to part with any of them).

Well, the reason it took four hours was that when I suggested just putting all the clothes according to size in piles on the floor everyone else rolled their eyes and looked at each other as if to say "Humor her, she's a Clothes Swap Virgin. She doesn't know the process." The process, it turned out was to say good bye to each piece of clothing with an individual tribute.

Mostly it seemed that instead of admitting that they had put on weight and consequently the item no longer fit, they would rather eat a Prada sweater than admit it. Instead, it was all about, "I used to be so into wearing everything with polka dots, but I'm like over that now," or "This skirt no longer puts me in a happy place."

But sometimes it was just a case of saying, I loved you, yes, but now it's over. None of them felt silly saying this to a pair of lime green shoes. Sample conversation:

OWNER holding up a silver coat: I love this coat. I had a great night in it in New York three years ago when I was first dating Tim. We got drunk and he threw up on it.

EVERYONE ELSE: Eeeewww!

OWNER: Don't worry. I've since had it dry cleaned.

Every time anyone tried anything on we all had to say, "That looks fantastic!" Do you know how exhausting that is, saying stuff like that for four hours? I really began to pity all those men out there who shop with their wives.


Sometimes it was like a great big sisterhood. Sometimes, if the item was sexy, the knives came out. A woman held up a gorgeous Marc Jacobs cardigan and told a story about how "this cardigan has seen me through two break ups, one miscarriage and lipo, but now it holds too many memories. It's time to find it a new home." Everyone nodded like they gave a shit and as soon as she'd finished, hurled themselves at the cardigan like a pack of hyenas.

After this experience it got me thinking about all the other kinds of Swap parties we could have. The Sex Toy Swap was the first thing that sprang to mind. Standing up and brandishing a purple vibrator while tearfully saying, "This vibrator has made me laugh and cry. We've had some good times together but I've become too dependant on him and it's time to move on. He has been soaked in Clorax and the pulse button no longer works but otherwise he's fine."

Or what about Ex Swap Parties where exes could be swapped for other exes? You would bring along an ex girl or boyfriend, show them off and say, "This is Randy. He was a great boyfriend. He is very good at holding you and patting your back while you cry. The only downside is he's a little bit heavy handed on the clitoral stimulation and insists on calling his penis 'Little Randy' and punching the air when he comes."

You'd go home with a brand new boyfriend or girlfriend and would have a rough idea of all their positive and negative points. This idea is genius!

What other Swap Parties do you think we could have in which gently used items could be swapped for other gently used items?



Top Photo from the Clothing Swap: Emma asks: "Does my stomach look big in this?"
Answer: "No. You look fabulous."

Bottom Photo: Scenes from an Ex Swap Party where all the meat is on display.