Step off Joe Francis.

Your toned, tanned, titty-flashing, barely-legal hollywood hopefuls girls ain’t got nothin’. There’s a new babe in town and she’s got poise, attitude, experience, stretch marks, a 401K and she knows how to cook a mean lasagna.

Introducing Mums Gone Wild – New England 2008

Scintillating, isn’t it?

It was either that or My Mom’s Homemade Bread Is Hotter Than Your Mom’s Homemade Bread.

They’re both real headliners, aren’t they?

This is what happens when my dedicated Dad, also known around here as Pepérè, offers to take my ceiling-bound monkeys overnight. I frantically pack their bags, hurriedly smooch their faces and try desperately not to stub my toe as I sprint to my car after dropping them off in his capable, coddling care. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE my demon-possessed enthusiastic urchins children, more than I can possibly express with my fingertips on this keyboard. But, when given the opportunity to lie horizontally in the afternoon sunshine without opening my eyes every two minutes to make sure nobody’s hungry, thirsty, in need of sun block, unhappy, arguing or drowning, you can bet your sweet ass I’m going to take it.

It was a slice of hot strawberry-rhubarb pie, an hour-long backrub from Pablo the cabana boy and a soft French pedicure all wrapped in one sunny afternoon.

Try not to gasp with shock when you see what I’ve been up to:

Crazy, I know. I didn’t intend to be so reckless with my free, childless time but sometimes I lack self control. I’m working on it.