Friday, 23 October 2020

Rules of Engagement

    Rubbing his eyes, not having been out of bed for more than a mere 45 seconds, Louis stumbled into the ensuite bathroom to take his morning shower. He opened the shower door allowing steam to escape, shocked to find someone inside. He always took the first shower of the day. Louis was irritated. 

     “What are you doing here?” Louis asked. 

     “Knitting a sweater,” Ethel replied, scrubbing Louis’ loofa all over her body with purpose. Soapsuds flew onto the glass; some went into Louis’ eye. “What do you think I’m doing?” 

     Louis squinted from the sting. “But, this is when I take my shower.” 

     “Well, it’s my shower, too” Ethel replied. 

     “But, you never take a shower this early!” 

     “We are living through a pandemic. Thought I’d change things up is that going to be a problem?” 
    Louis shook his head. The steam continued to flee, lowering the temperature of Ethel’s warm morning start. 

     “Are you in or out?” Ethel asked as she scrubbed her face. Distracted by Louis’ whining, face wash suds (not the teardrop-free kind!), which had been sitting on her face, dripped into her right eye causing her eye to burn. “MOTHERFUCKER!’ 

     “You talking to me?” Louis was not entirely sure if she was directing her vitriol at him or at the irritant invading her ocular cavity. 

     “Who else am I talking to? Robert DeNiro? Stop acting like a territorial asshole and just get in. You’re letting all the heat out!” 

     Louis sighed. He squeezed his corpulent embodiment of a once fiddly-fit male specimen past the shower bench to reach the free flowing spring of water emerging from the rain shower above. 

     “Do you think I can get in there?” He pointed at the showerhead, holding the soap in his other hand. Then, he gave a once over of what remained of Ethel’s thrice-child birthed heaving belly. 

     “There’s enough room for two.” 

     Maybe 25 years ago, he thought. Louis realized he almost spoke his mind – a dangerous idea considering that the worst accidents befall those in the bathroom, especially those brought on as a result of a self-inflicted verbal gunshot wound to the brain. However, with 30 years of marriage under her birthday suit belt, Ethel instinctively knew what Louis was thinking. They’d met as kids, but reconnected as adults, giving them ample time to learn for themselves what they did and didn’t want in a united love life. Ethel was bold, vivacious and enjoyed a vigorous debate. She didn’t shy away from confrontation and knew she needed a partner who could match her sharp volleys with killer returns. Louis, a more mild-mannered man, generally, lived equally for verbal sparring as a great meal, and knew that with marriage his appetite for both would grow. When they found each other again having finished post-secondary matriculation, it was kismet – a match between ticked off checkboxes of two sometimes ticked off people. 

     “Do you know what it feels like to be sucker-punched in the gut?” she asked innocently.   Louis nodded his head tentatively, afraid of the repercussions caused by any answer he’d give her. “Well, that’s exactly what being married to you for 30 years feels like. Just when I think it’s safe to go in the water, you attack. Now, pass me the soap.” 

     A direct hit! Louis, a kind man albeit with a wry sense of humour, was more capable of dishing out the zingers versus taking them. Defeated, Louis relinquished the soap to her custody. Placing it gently into Ethel’s hand, with the tenderness that only decades of rollercoaster matrimony can bring, he locked eyes with his bride. 

     “I’ve never meant to hurt you.” He cradled her hand lovingly. This gave Ethel pause. She never knew if Louis would follow up a kind word with an attempt at his Borscht Belt comedic styling, which 50 percent of the time fell flat with his audience, with her being his audience 100 percent of the time. Or, whether his seemingly insulting barb was really a compliment. Not wanting to give him an opening, like the Mossad, Ethel went in for a pre-emptive strike. 

     “No? Well, tell that to your farts. 30 years of silent-but-deadly Dutch-oven bombs under the covers that you think that’s a form of foreplay have burnt out my olfactory bulbs.” 

     Louis’ head shot up. The water continued to beat down on Ethel’s head from the rain showerhead above, with Louis benefitting from droplets of spray that were deflected from Ethel’s shower cap. She only washed her hair twice a week, and today was not one of those days. 

     “My dear, what a portrait of loveliness you are to behold. Let me tell you how attractive you are, my darling.” Louis sang these words. His eyes burned with fire. Ethel knew this meant war. “While I adore your Don King-meets-Trolls hairdo hat greets me at daybreak, and it’s quite the turn on I might add, nothing is more appealing than watching you get out of bed, your nightgown hiked above your ample bare buttocks, to see you stroll into the bathroom where you leave the door wide open allowing me to watch your morning routine. I really love the enticing invitation to observe you in your natural habitat taking a dump upon rising and then wiping your ass with wild abandon. Nothing says lets have morning sex than that!” 

     Ethel threw down the loofa. This means war, she thought. The shower glass walls were all steamed up from the hostility rising from the hot water Louis now found himself in. 

     “You think your ass shits roses? Last time I checked, there wasn’t a room spray strong enough to mask the aftermath scent from your Hiroshima turd explosions you leave each time you spend 30 minutes on the can! The only thing that kills that smell is bleach. Fuck nuclear warheads, you should patent your asshole and sell weapons of mass destruction to the highest bidder!”  

    Ethel stood hands-on-hips, ready for Louis’ comeback. There was always a comeback. Yet, this time he stayed silent, clearly planning his next strike. In the mood for a fight, and not wanting to wait for his return, she preemptively goaded him. 

     “And, if your bowel Olympics weren’t enough of a turn off, do you think that your ivy-like back hair trellis that’s climbed so high like Jack’s magic beanstalk, now intertwining with your unwieldy ear hair, screams foreplay? Ha! Ever hear of clippers?” 

     Louis shook his head in fury. Now, she’d done it. Talking about his gas was one thing, but going after his genetically blessed, out of his control, manly body hair, and limited manscaping thereof, was another. 

     “Listen up, Baby Beluga, if you want me to trim my natural manliness, how about you do something about that situation.” He pointed mercilessly at Ethel’s lower abdominal area, which sagged over an invisible panty line. “It’s quite the pooch.” 

     Ethel was furious. The accouchement of three babies in five years has a way of turning a woman into a kangaroo. 

     “You try squeezing three babies out your dickhole who you carried around in your body hotel to grow them and then you still don’t have a right to body shame me, motherfucker!” 

     Louis hung his head. “You’re right. That was a low blow.” 

     Ethel raised an eyebrow. 

     “Speaking of blowing, we are in the shower together for the first time in years. I was thinking…” 

    “That I’d get on my knees?” Ethel cackled. “Yeah right! You just mocked my body that birthed your babies. My body is a temple! What’s your excuse? Your gut hangs out so far over your pants, that your belly needs its own zip code. Sir Mix-A-Lot called and told me you’ve inspired him to write a new rap called Daddy Got Fat!” 

     Louis rubbed his belly, slightly injured then looked at Ethel’s so-called place of worship. 

     “Whatchya rubbing there, Captain Underpants? Last night’s four beers and pizza?” 

     “Well, don’t get me wrong, but didn’t some of those Victoria Secret supermodels have multiple pregnancies, too? I don’t recall see them strutting down the runway sporting an ass in the front, while wearing wings on their backs. Just sayin’.” 

     “What’s your point, Jabba the Hut?”  

    “If it didn’t chafe so much when we engaged in sexy time…” 

     “So, you’re saying that if I looked like a Victoria Secret supermodel, we’d be having sex?” 

     “It wouldn’t hurt.” 

     “So, you’re saying I’m fat? I wasn’t’ too fat for a blowjob 30 seconds ago.” Now, she had him backed into the shower corner. She knew he hated being asked that dreaded question. The billowing, collecting steam appeared to be waving around like a white flag in front of Louis’ face. 

     “I never called you fat. I never used the word fat. I don’t think you’re fat. Don’t put words in my mouth like you put donuts in yours.” 

     Louis didn’t recognize the expression spreading across Ethel’s face. 

     “WE ARE LIVING DURING A PANDEMIC! And, you brought the donuts home!” 

     Louis got down on one knee, an act of contrition, hoping to redeem himself before she could insult him again. 

     “What are you doing down there? Proposing again?” Louis gazed up at her with puppy dog eyes. Ethel, not having any of it, was ready to cut him down. “Cuz’ I know I you ain’t down on your knees to give pleasure me that way. We both know you don’t do that.” 

     Louis sprang back up as fast as his knee replacements would allow, doing his best not to slip in the shower for he would undo the good work done by his orthopedic surgeon. 

     “Listen, don’t blame me for our lack of sex life,” Louis cried defensively. 

     “That’s not what our therapist said. He said it is your fault.” 

     “Um, that’s not how I remember it. The bottom line is that couples who engage in coitus together, stay together. That’s what he said. You don’t engage, so whose fault is that.” 

     “I think you have early onset Alzheimer’s. Or, maybe it’s Covid. Memory loss may be a symptom. Let me jog your memory.“ 

     “My memory is just fine.” “Oh, really. Do you recall why we don’t have sex?” Louis shrugged his shoulders. 

     “What do you do to signal you’re in the mood?” 

     “I lovingly caress your arm.” 

     “You don’t lovingly do shit. You tickle me! My name is not Tickle-Me Elmo.” 

     “Tickling is a form of foreplay.” 

     “Not, when you’re a fifty-something year old woman, whose pelvic floor is less stable than the San Andreas Fault. Unless you want our 400-thread count Egyptian cotton white sheets to have the River Nile running through it, you’ll stop tickling me and just start by fucking me!” 

     Louis was fed up. He didn’t want to argue anymore. All he wanted to do was simply take his morning shower, as he did every morning before, and he’d barely even be able to wash half his body thanks to Ethel. He swung open the shower door and stepped out. He reached out for his towel and covered himself. He idled over to the bathroom door, and stopped. With righteous indignation, he whipped around to face the firing squad one last time. 

     “Start fucking you? Ha! I’ll tell you one thing I am going to start doing.”  

    “Oh yeah? What’s that tough guy?” 

     “Showering when you’re not home.” 

     “I guess you’re not showering until 2025 then!” 

     “Why’s that?” 

     “Because that’s probably when the pandemic will be over and I’ll finally be able to leave the house,” Ethel spat, slamming the shower door in Louis’ face, the steam finally able to caress her body once more. 

 © 2020. Naomi Elana Zener. All Rights Reserved.

Saturday, 26 September 2020

We’re Through by Naomi Elana Zener

    I don’t know how to tell you this any other way: I’M BREAKING UP WITH YOU! 

    I can’t believe this would come as a surprise. It’s not hard for me to do this. I never liked you during the best of times. And, if I’m being honest, I really would have done this a long time ago but for social convention happy to see us staying together. 

    My relationship with you was really out of necessity, and now that necessity has passed. We never go anywhere anymore. We can’t. Physical distancing, quarantine, house arrest, self-isolation, confinement, or whatever you want to call it prevents us from doing so. And, for the mere, brief daily exposure to the outside world we are still permitted, I don’t see the point in us being together anymore. When every level of government said everyone has to stay six feet apart from each other, I jumped for joy – to be six feet apart from you feels like heaven! 

    You gave me more displeasure than comfort. You certainly were agonizing to be around. To be with you stretched the limits of the bandwidth of my patience. I constantly had to pull at you to get what I needed, or rather what you promised to give me. Your limited adjustability always put me on the offensive—I was forever in a state of reacting, adapting and readjusting to bend to your will—rarely were you ever flexible. It was only as we neared this now inevitable breakup did you finally show some give, a tiny bit of willingness to see how I was feeling. But, even when you finally did that, it was too little too late. You couldn’t even stretch an inch, but for you I had to run miles. 

    And, I know what you’re thinking, what you’d accuse me of: I got fat. I became unattractive to be around; too much burden for you to bear. Well, that’s just nonsense. I’m the same size I was when we first met, the day you first embraced me and hooked me in. It’s you who changed, and not for the better. You may think our relationship made you worse for wear, but it’s me who bears the battle scars, and I’ll have to bear them for the rest of my life. 

    Truthfully, no one cares if we are together, either. It was a social courtesy for us to be with each other. Well, now thanks to the pandemic, much social courtesy has disappeared. So too, has this relationship. I’m finally free of you. While I should have done this a long time ago, I have this pandemic thank for helping me finally see the light. Staying home means I never have to see you again. There are many expressions of gratitude I need to share with you that were shared with me upon learning of our break up: 

    1. My shoulders thank me for doing this – the way you dug into them, no matter how well-fitted you were by the so-called “bra expert,” caused indentations for days; 
    2. My ribs are happy to no longer be the victim of abuse from your underwire;
    3. My back echoes the sentiments of my shoulders. At the end of the day, when I got home, my back (and my shoulders) was always relieved to be rid of you;

    4. My dresses are happy to see you go, as they felt unsightly when the bulge of skin in my back caused by your inflexible elastic pushed through their fabric. And, again, I’m not fat. It was always you, not me; 

    5. My husband is relieved on many levels. He no longer finds you lying in strange places in the house, after being flung about in my haste to be free of you. He’s thankful to no longer see our kids wearing you as a bizarre hair accessory. He’s thrilled to not having to hand-wash you. And, most of all, he no longer has to unhook you, a skill he failed to master, when he’s feeling “in the mood”; and 

    6. My breasts have expressed the deepest gratitude of all. They feel free, no longer restricted to each living daily in solitary confinement under your reign of oppressive terror. 

    Farewell, brassiere. Can’t say you were an old friend, or a friend at all. The only good thing to come out of this pandemic as I live in quarantine with my family is that I never have to wear you again. And, before you make plea for clemency, or say that I’ll need you again when we emerge from social solitude, to that I say, I’ll use glue or duct tape to bind my breasts if I have to before I ever wear you again. 

    Sayonara. Shalom. Dasvidaniya. Au revoir. Goodbye. Enjoy the Viking funeral that awaits you! 

 © 2020. Naomi Elana Zener. All Rights Reserved.

Monday, 24 August 2020

Online Love in the Time of Covid by Naomi Elana Zener

1.     If someone doesn’t include their PPE safety standards in their online dating profile, should I swipe left or right? What if their profile says they’ll wear masks but no face shields or goggles? I’m not sure that’s a deal breaker for now. I think I’ll just write “Maskhole antimaskers swipe left!” If they’re smart, they’ll figure it out. To be safe, I’ll add if they like Trump they should swipe left too.

2.     Should I include photos of myself wearing a mask just in case we meet in real life so they can identify me by my mask style and my eyes?

3.     How many virtual dates before I take it to the next level and meet in real life?

4.     Covid testing is the new STD testing.  Should I ask for 3 consecutive negative Covid tests before we meet in real life? Will that be enough or should I ask for 5? With 1 in 5 tests coming back with a false negative result, I’m thinking I should maybe go with 10?  Benjamin Franklin did say that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. If I include that quote in my profile it'll hopefully weed out losers who think Covid is harmless.

5.     If I wear a mask on a date, how will my date know I’m actually smiling? I guess I could follow Tyra Banks’ advice and “smize”.

6.     Will masks mask bad breath? Will people stop brushing their teeth as often since they’re wearing masks?

7.     For in-person dates, I’m less worried about who will pay than who will bring sanitizer and Lysol wipes. What happens if one of us forgets to bring some? Can we share? If we do meet up in real life, how often do we reapply the hand sanitizer? I guess I’ll have to bring a safety kit with some Lysol wipes and sanitizer on all of my dates. Geez, I hope I don't get too many dates because I can't find Lysol wipes anywhere anymore and my stash is running low!

8.     If I’m asked to go on a socially distant walking date, do I need to bring a tape measure to make sure we stay 6 feet apart?  I guess I could put one in my safety kit just in case.

9.     If I get asked to Netflix and Chill, what does that even mean now? Is this done by Zoom? 

10. What happens if they live at home with their parents, we meet up and then one of us tests positive for Covid and we’re not a match? I have my own place. Would we have to self-isolate together? That really doesn’t work for me. I’ll stick with Zoom dates for now—Zoom dating is the new safe sex: no Covid exposure and no chance anyone is quarantining with me!

11. If I’m only open to Zoom dating, do I need to be open to Zoom sex? I’d have to take the tape off laptop camera for that, but Zoom hackers terrify me! I’m not ready for the world to see my private parts.

12. What happens if we start to develop feelings for each other and one of us gets sick? I mean there’s a solid chance that if they get Covid and we are Zoom dating they’ll still expect me to visit in the hospital or something. I don’t know if I’m ready for that level of commitment or Covid exposure.  Maybe I should put in my profile that I’m not looking for a relationship?

13. What do monogamy and love even look like during the time of Covid? No sexting or phone sex with other people? Do you still take down your online dating profiles if you’ve never even met in real life and chances are you won’t until there’s a vaccine that’s not from Russia? I’m definitely including in my profile that I’m not looking for a relationship!

14. Glory holes? I think I’ll pass.

15. Maybe I should just invest in some good quality sex toys and cool it with all dating until there’s a vaccine (that’s not from Russia!)? I think I'm better off single until WHO or another global health body I can trust declares the Covid pandemic over. 

 © 2020. Naomi Elana Zener. All Rights Reserved.

Thursday, 23 July 2020


To a mother was born a most perfect child,
Whose eyes sparkled like diamonds and gave her rosy smiles.
With a single coo she made mommy's heart melt,
So she must dote on her daughter is how mama felt.
Her first pair of shoes of black patent leather,
Instantly made princess' outfits oh so much better.
Then came a red velvet dress all the way from France,
For in it her daughter would look so darling when they'd dance.
After the dress and shoes came the smartest trench,
To protect princess' ensemble from rain's wet drench.
But having worn her dress several times in a row,
Mama felt it was time for daughter's wardrobe to grow.
So home came more dresses, blouses and pants,
Despite daddy's cajoles that soon turned into rants.
She's but only a few months old how much clothing could she need?
Mama replied don't you realize she will grow at warp speed!
And while princess looks adorable in her new red sweater
Mama was convinced a pink one would look even better
Not willing to pass up a deal,
She bought three more in plum, orange and teal.
‘I will buy bigger sizes,’ mama thought to herself.
Into them princess will grow, she rationalized placing them on a shelf.
But when daddy came home and saw the mall in the closet,
The shopping must stop he cried out as he lost it!
Mama promised no more shopping bags will papa see,
Thankful he left and mama began to online shop promptly.
Princess could use more toys and books,
Daddy won't mind, he won't give the bill a second look.
But with storage disappearing and no place to hide,
Out in the open mama's purchases lay in plain sight.
Having reached his limit daddy took mama's plastic away!
Except she memorized the number for a rainy day.
The deliveries poured in daily with several knocks at the door,
Without realizing to her princess she'd become a huge bore.
Daughter sat in her crib staring at the art on the wall
With all the clothes to wear and nowhere to go at all.
Mama too busy to play with or read her stories,
The books and toys sat neatly looking quite sorry.
Fed up from neglect due to mama's spending spree,
“Mama,” she whined, “will you stop shopping please!”
Awoken from her retail mania haze
Mama saw that her child was wise beyond her days,
And from that moment forward mama shopped no more,
Except when she saw sales for fifty percent off at princess' favourite store!

© 2020 Naomi Elana Zener. All Rights Reserved.

Saturday, 20 June 2020

Little Pink Beetle by Naomi Elana Zener

 “Ouch” she yelled. Vision blurred.
“Vanity is pain,” was overheard.

Little Pink Beetle stared into a mirror,
Her front lights shining a little less clearer.

Above her headlights she batted new lashes.
Her mascara applied without any splashes.

With a spoiler to match her custom paint,
Souped up Beetle made plain cars faint.

Pretty, shiny, and as vain as could be.
Little Pink Beetle drove wild and carefree.

Engine roared driving down the road.
“Splat!” went the body of a big green toad.

Toad croaked, eyes rolled back in head
Little Pink sped off, leaving Toad for dead.

Taking a selfie from behind the wheel.
Pink hit a pig, and piggy went “squeal!”

“My bad,” Pink cried, still rolling along.
Blaring on her radio a techno song.

Turkey said “Gobble!” “Quack!” went Duck.
“Learn to drive!” said a blue dump truck.

“Watch out!” meowed Cat with her litter of kittens.
“Your wheels don’t need their fur for mittens!”

“Moo!” said Cow “Don’t turn me into steak.”
“Use the pedal on the left, it’s called a brake!”

“Sorry,” Pink cried, “I’m in a hurry.”
“Big car show to get to, I gotta scurry!”

All of a sudden a loud crash was heard
“I smashed my face,” Little Pink slurred.

Her fancy paint stripped, headlights now bare,
All of the animals stopped to gape and stare.

“Help, help,” Pink wailed with all her might,
Giving Horse, Hen, and Sheep a giant fright.

No beast offered to pick up her front grill,
Since each had escaped being her roadkill.

Lying bereft, smashed up in a ditch,
A dog walked by and called Pink a bitch.

“Why should we help you?” Horse queried of Pink.
“You drive crazy fast, think your shit don’t stink.”

Her eyes naked, free from fake lash extensions.
Little Pink Beetle lost all airs and pretensions.

Pink said “I’m sorry, I’ll change, I promise.”
But each critter stood there a doubting Thomas.

“No more makeup, fast driving, or fancy paint,”
The little Beetle swore that she’d now be a saint.

Valuing friends and life more than beauty and fame.
Pink saw her erred ways and hung her hood in shame.

Horse, Duck, Hen, Sheep, Cow, Turkey, and even Pig.
Nodded heads, gathered ‘round Pink, and started to dig.

Pulled out from the trench into which she was cast,
Thanking the wild things by which she’d drove past.

“Lets be friends,” Pink offered beeping her horn,
Out of vanity lost, new friendships were born.

© 2020. Naomi Elana Zener. All Rights Reserved.

Wednesday, 20 May 2020

FEEDING TIME AT THE ZOO by Naomi Elana Zener

I think you're cute, I think you're sweet,
But my darling daughter, dinner you must eat!
Food is to digest, to help you grow,
Tis not for practising your pitcher's throw.
I spent hours preparing the menu, shopping at the grocery store,
A gourmet pureed feast I concocted that you deemed fit for the floor.
As for the meager few bites that made it to your mouth,
Rasberry-blown out with little food bits that trickled down south.
Pasta and chicken are to be eaten with grace,
So please stop spitting it in mommy's face.
Chewing each bite slowly is considered polite,
Young lady it's unbecoming to start a food fight.
While you may disagree with mommy's fashion choice,
Wearing baby food was never in season says Ms. Wintour's voice.
Going to bed hungry my infant is a notion quite absured,
You'll wake up too quickly, mommy's sleep will be disturbed.
A struggle to force feed you seems pointless at this junction,
Off four hours of sleep tonight I will find a way to function.
And while you will go to bed with an empty belly,
Eight hours later you'll awaken with a full diaper, quite smelly.
The sun will greet us bright and early with breakfast anew,
My nightly prayer hopefully answered, no food struggle with you.
The chaos of baby-food fusion I have resigned to accept,
Each abstract expressionist food floor tableau away will be swept.
Humour now found in the joy you have making a food-nami,
A paparazzo of your performance art is now your mommy.
The parental battle with baby to eat is a time-honoured tradition,
One comes to learn that children must eat of their own volition.

© 2020 Naomi Elana Zener. All Rights Reserved.

Saturday, 18 April 2020

Body Snap Back! by Naomi Elana Zener

Woe to me, my body no longer divine!
What has happened to this ass of mine?
Once taut and firm, ‘twas oh so appealing.
Now my size 27 jeans it is no longer feeling.
Oh sweet baby because of you I glow with pride,
Yet I have no waistline after this pregnancy ride.
Yes I knew gaining weight was part of the deal,
But did I have to ingest food with such zest and zeal?
You really only need to gain twenty pounds doctor advised.
If that's so true I now blame hormones for my new size.
Never before my pregnant life did a sweet tooth have I,
Yet with each baby kick I could not pass one dessert by.
As the saying goes with chips you can't eat just one,
I ate three whole bags daily and now weigh one ton!
My breasts resemble two-liter milk bags from the grocery store,
Enormous, saggy, floppy now hanging down to the floor.
Bras now accentuate deposits of fat on my back,
Hidden only by dresses that look like a potato sack.
Mirrors I must avoid, like a bear I hibernate,
Hoping one day my size will drop to an eight.
To return to size four is just crazy talk,
A fantasy my new thunder thighs mock!
Waving the flag I surrender to thigh chafing and burn,
But not for one moment of skinny my baby would I return! 
To hubby I complained of my voluptuous state,
No matter what I consumed I did not lose weight.
But I love you he said no matter what size,
That's very cute, but don't tell me such lies!
“You will always be beautiful in my eyes,” hubby said,
Not terribly convinced after finding Playboy under the bed. 
Motivated by my kid I wanted to be the picture of health,
Diet-delivery and personal trainers ate up my wealth.
Over time I lost my mom jeans and muffin top,
But occasional indulgences in cupcakes did not stop.
With a better body than I had pre-pregnancy,
Six months post-partum rather than three.
Able to sport my Prada, DVF and Miu Miu,
No longer did my body belong in the zoo.
Hubby appreciative of the results he observed,
Telling his friend I'm hot and sexy I overheard.
Out to dinner to celebrate the new body my trainer gave me,
Hubby raised his glass for a toast suggesting another baby.
Only having five minutes to enjoy my new physique,
No thank you, no maim to my body will I seek!
“Don't be silly,” he said, “you'll lose the baby weight again.”
Excitement for another pregnancy, I could not feign.
“Another baby is worth it,” he expressed unconvincingly.
A large family he wanted kids totaling three.
Confounded was I wearing an expression of vex,
How could he think with him I'd now have sex!
Not ready to return to a Shamu state of blubber,
Hubby don't ever come near me without wearing a rubber!

© 2020. Naomi Elana Zener.  All Rights Reserved.

Monday, 16 March 2020

Born During a Pandemic by Naomi Elana Zener





Those are possibly my names. Those words are what I keep hearing over, and over, and over, and over again. Did my mom and dad even pick a name for me? I wonder. I think I heard them say “Sue” at some point since I first saw the bright light and then lay on a soft, squishy surface. Something called ‘skin-to-skin’. I drink out of a bottle. Maybe, the liquid I’m drinking is Vodka or Corona? Or, both? I see my Mommy and Daddy drinking out of bottles, too.  But, those could also be my names. My name could also be Poo—I hear that word said a lot, too. No one calls me that but they talk a lot about it around me. I don’t like this, poo.

I’ve been on what the big people call “Earth” for the past four weeks, I’m told. They sing a song about how I’m a little baby 1 week old, a lot, but then stop at four weeks and say that is how old I am.  I don’t have any other source of information. So, I guess it’s not fake news. I hear “fake news” a lot, too. Something about how the virus is actually heat resistant, garlic is not a cure, and that anyone who thinks my older brother and sister and their friends are going back to school this year are delusional.  This virus doesn’t sound very good, so I don’t think my name is “virus”.

Someone named Woody has this virus, but my big brother and sister have said Woody is a toy and toys can’t get sick. My big brother hid his Buzz Lightyear toy in the closet to protect him from the virus. I also heard my mommy say that her boyfriend, Idris, has corona so maybe he has a baby named Corona, too? I don’t understand how he can be her boyfriend because my Daddy’s name is John. I’ve heard her say that name loudly a lot since I’ve been on Earth.

My big brother and sister like to hold and kiss me a lot. I hope they don’t have the virus everyone is talking about because they keep kissing me. I’ve heard Mommy say ‘do you want to make her sick?’ after they kiss me. I don’t think I like them very much. I haven’t been here long and they could make me sick? I will have to think about this.

I definitely know my name is not Blantons because Mommy and Daddy keep saying that it’s sold out. They seem upset when they say this. I don’t think my name would make my Mommy and Daddy upset. Also, I know I’m only four weeks old, but I don’t think names get sold out.

I wish my Mommy and Daddy would tell me my name so I’d know who I am. Just say ‘baby, your name is…’ instead of making me guess.  If you ask me, I would rather be called Vodka instead of Corona. When Mommy says Vodka she sounds less panicked. I think I’ll go with Vodka for now.

© 2020. Naomi Elana Zener. All Rights Reserved.

Thursday, 27 February 2020

Ode to My Daughter by Naomi Elana Zener

My little baby girl how cute and lovely are you,
But you leave me wondering about the strange things you do.
At first I was amused when you tried to feed from everyone's breast,
Now your lack of discretion is worrisome, please give it a rest!
Your appetite insatiable, your vaccuum mouth pressed to my cheek,
No milk will it yield but of your drool my face now reeks.
With an angelic smile on your middle finger you fervently suck,
And while it's cute as a baby, please know it's not a symbol of luck.
We thought it adorable when into your mouth both fists you inserted, 
As an adolescent girl a party trick not to be displayed or blurted! 
Your baby crack pacifier satiates your oral tendency,
Before you grow up you must lose that dependency.
Like a volcanic symphony your bowl erruptions are perplexing,
Finding feces everywhere but your diaper which we find quite vexing.
Lifting your skirt up as cute as it may be,
Is no longer ladylike after the age of three.  
While your smiles and giggles are simply heaven sent,
Understanding your peculiar behaviour leaves me quite spent.

ⓒ 2019. Naomi Elana Zener. All Rights Reserved.