Pat the Wifey

Once you have read your child's favorite book 10,000 times, you start to recreate the story to entertain yourself. I am about to hide Pat the Bunny for a few days (out of sight, out of mind) but before I do, here is my vandalized version:

PAT THE WIFEY

Here are husband and wifey. They do lots of things. Here are some of the things they do.

Wifey pats the husband. Husband falls asleep.

Wifey plays "I have a headache." Husband plays "I didn't order all that porn."

Wifey asks for flowers. Husband tells her to buy some the next time she is at the supermarket.

Wifey looks in the mirror at her saggy boobs. Husband looks in the mirror and trims his nose hair.

Husband feels Wifey's scratchy legs. Wifey uses Husband's "good razors" to shave scratchy legs.

Wifey puts her finger through her ring and wishes it was bigger.

That's all. Bye-Bye! Husband and Wifey are flipping you off! Can you flip them off, too!

Good job!

For the record this is NOT autobiographical.

Sexy True Love

I have found True Love and its name is Magic Eraser! Is there nothing you can't do???

Though I may have an affair with Swiffer dusters down the road...

Sexy REAL Dalmatians

I don’t know if scientists have isolated the Norman Rockwell chemical that is released in the brain when one has a child but it is responsible for the parental romanticizing of family outings. Even a mundane trip to the market is an idyllic painting with Baby Boy skipping through piles of fresh produce as I gently select the ripest specimens for the pie all of us will create from scratch that eve.

However, that snapshot excludes toppling displays of paper towels, flour all over the floor and The Dog scarfing down all of the ingredients as I scream for the billionth time,

“Oven! Hot! Danger! Sssssssssszzzzzzz” (that is what I imagine replicates the sizzling sound of flesh touching the broiler.)

We purchased tickets to 101 Dalmatians the Musical in Boston for the day after Christmas. The selling point was that they had rescued shelter dogs and trained them to be in the show. Real dogs! Sure, Baby Boy is only 19-months old, but we were certain that his obsession with canines would have him riveted, thus quiet and still.

We imagined our family trip to Boston: all dressed up to go to the ever-stunning Wang Theatre; taking in the show (culture!); surprising Baby Boy with a stop at FAO Schwarz; then a scrumptious dinner and back home.

In the weeks leading up, we told Baby Boy of the play we were taking him to where real, live pups would be jumping and dancing just for him. His eyes would get huge and happy and he would let out a breathless, “Hoof, hoof,” which is what he thinks dogs say.

All the road stops at Starbucks must have affected him because once in our seats he continuously rolled from my lap to Darling Husband’s never failing to kick the heads of the patrons in front of us.

“Honey, just sit and wait. The real doggies will be coming out any minute!”

Roll, kick, roll, kick. Never has my son received so many over-the-shoulder dirty looks.

Darling Husband finally took him to run in the lobby as I sat there more horrified at the talk of drowning the puppies (because Dalmatian puppies don’t have spots) and wanting to skin them for coats. Am I just oversensitive in my vegetarian days or is this just macabre?

By intermission no real dogs had made an appearance and none of the ushers could tell us when they would be on stage. One mentioned he “saw some real dogs in the alleyway across the street eating old Chinese food if that would make the kid happy.”

I guess his head kicking reputation had gotten out.

We left, tails between our legs.

Definitely a trip to the biggest toy store would make up for our lies of performing pooches.

“Oh, wait until you see this toy store, Buddy! There is a clock that sings to you and you can pick out any toy you want and then we will eat ice cream!”

His hands clapped in glee.

We walked up and down the wind tunnel that is Boylston ankle deep in frozen crust as the stroller angrily lurched on the uneven ice.

I finally ducked into City Sports to ask.

“Ah, dude that closed like three years ago,” a Team Player said.

“Like gone, gone?”

“Like goooooone.”

Crap.

Baby Boy’s limit on broken promises is two. His howl signified this trip was over. We thawed out in Au Bon Pain. Baby Boy sat eating fruit as Darling Husband and I wallowed in our shame.

“He will never believe anything else we tell him,” I wailed as I scolded my tongue on mediocre coffee.

A very attractive older couple I had noticed earlier stopped by our table.

“We just wanted to tell you what a gorgeous son you have,” the silver haired lady smiled. “So happy and well-behaved!”

Baby Boy stroked her fur coat, his mouth stuffed with grapes.

“We don’t have kids of our own, but it is always nice to see families with good children.”

The man leaned in, “Do you like doggies, Captain?”

“Hoof! Hoof!”

“Well, you should ask your parents to take you to see 101 Dalmatians, I hear there are real dogs!”

I guess parents aren’t the only ones cursed with the Norman Rockwell genes.

Sexy Disclosure

Along with eggnog and other mysterious delights the holiday brings comes The Question: Sooooo, when you are going to give Baby Boy a little sibllllling?

Here is the answer I don't have the guts to say to your faces.

Never.

I am selfish. I am lazy. I am thin again. I am sleeping more than 3 hours at a time. I am happy with one and that, my dears, is that.

Wuz the Nite b4 Xmas, Redux

T’was two nights before Christmas and all through the mall

Last minute shoppers began a calamitous crawl.

The stockings were hung, their insides still bare

Wives’ expectations were high, so buyer beware!

The children were texting from their designer beds

While visions of foreclosure danced in my head.

And mama in her Gucci and I on the couch,

(That will teach me to be a Holiday Grouch.)

When out on the street there rose such a ruckus

I slumped back in the leather, hoped it was bupkus.

It just got louder so I turned on the TV

That’s all you can do when the sun sets at 3.

Before the Wii fired up, a knock at the door

There stood a man claiming, “I’m poor.”

His eyes were sunken, overall he looked sick

But he kept saying his name was St. Nick.

“Prove it,” I said, “where is your sleigh?”

“It got repoed,” he sighed. “The deer ran away.

I’ve been living in the park under the trees.

My life is over; no one believes.”

I asked him to come in, got him a drink

Which he gulped right down, thanked with a wink.

It was in that little moment I knew

what this old man was saying had to be true.

“Start from the beginning. What happened, St. Nick?

What happened to Santa, so lively and quick?”

He started speaking as the clock gently ticked

“It’s the children,” he cried. “They don’t see the magic.

They have their fancy gadgets and expensive jeans

They have lost all concept of what this holiday means.

All they care about is what they get at the store

They certainly don’t need elves and me anymore.”

As he sat there crying I suddenly realized

I had become what I’d always despised:

Someone focused on what I could buy,

Time with my family? I hardly ever try.

I’m living to work and ignoring my life

I can’t remember kissing my wife.

When the kids climb on me, I tell them to scat

Really, what kind of father treats them like that?

It is all so vapid, those boxes and bows

Substituting time watching them grow.

In a few short years they will be on their own

What happens then to my baby birds flown?

“Santa, what can I do to make it all better?”

From his foul coat he pulled out a letter.

I recognized the envelope though it was ripped

It was my very own childhood script.

“There was a time when you did believe

In the magic that this season weaves.

Remember that feeling and pass it along

And soon we can right this terrible wrong.”

I promised I would give it a try

and hugged him as we said goodbye.

Then he turned as he walked out of sight

“Now go give your family a big kiss goodnight.”

Sexy Mush

Like most Toddlers, Baby Boy is obsessed with Goodnight Moon.

Like most men of a certain age, Darling Husband is obsessed with his belly, which despite moderate effort, is growing.

Last evening during our 4,000th reading of Goodnight Moon, we asked Baby Boy to point to the red balloon, cow jumping over the moon, quiet old lady whispering "hush" etc. which he did perfectly.

When I asked him, "Where is the mush?"

Without hesitation, he turned and patted Darling Husband's stomach.

Oops.

Goodnight self-confidence.

Sexy Stocking Stuffer

I was in French Club in High School. In order to raise money for a trip to France (that we were never allowed to go on) we sold Toblerone Candy Bars. For those of you missing out on this bit of bliss, they are triangular chocolate bars filled with honey and almond nougat. Right??

Without fail, I would eat the entire box and it always shocked me when I had to pay $50 for the box out of my own pocket (or whatever I could steal from my mom's purse).

My tight jeans, however, did not lie.

Skip ahead several years. Baby Boy and I are at the gourmet shop by the house and I found a huge bag of mini size Toblerone bars!! I bought them all for "stocking stuffers" but I imagine the only thing that will be stuffed this week are my thighs.

Sexy Pap

I had my annual "lady part" exam today. I love my doctor because every year she says, "My, don't you have a beautiful vagina!"

Seriously, can we ever hear that enough?

Sexy Santa

My Christmas wish is for an Anti-Santa to come and take all the toys that have taken over my living room AWAY!!

The Sexy Unfound

When I was in college, my roommate and I rescued (or stole, depending on what side of the law you are on) a pair of ferrets from the animal lab. Poor little things had numbers tattooed across their necks and one was almost blind. We named them Opal and Saturday.

The amazing thing was what incredible hoarders these little ones were. It took us several days and accusatory fights before we found the remote control, bras, phones and a negative pregnancy test (phew!) tucked neatly in a far corner under the bed.

Anytime anything went missing, Opal and Saturday were the obvious targets. The good thing was that their tiny ferret brains only ever thought to hide things under the bed, so nothing was lost for long.

My son is a ferret. He, with lightening speed, grabs and hides things before you even realize what has happened. Your only clue is his shit-eating grin with his small hand turned up by his face and a squeaky, "Where? Where? Where?"

I found Darling Husband's iPod buried under the ash in the wood stove. I found several library books tucked between couch pillows. I even found my favorite shoes under the dog bed. Lately, however, I have not been able to find the things he has hidden. Sadly, he quickly forgets not only what he has taken but where he chose for the final resting place.

My phone has been missing for hours now and no matter the bribes or intense questioning, all I get is "Where? Where? Where?"

I guess the bright side is that I wanted a new phone anyway.

UPDATE: found it in the toilet. Goddam you, "If it's yellow, let it mellow..."

Sexy Snow Day

Sadly, when you are a mom and the radio blares that school is cancelled, rarely that means rolling back into sweet slumber until noon. Kids smell "Day Off" at 5 am and start the day with the gusto of a bride at the Filene's Basement wedding dress sale.

We are suppose to get upwards of a foot of snow today; as of now I gather we are over halfway there. It is so beautiful how the puffs gather in the V's of the limbs like feathery webbing. Absorbing the beauty takes about 4 minutes...I have 8 hours (solid, since Baby Boy has decided not to nap for the past week) to figure out some creative way to entertain him.

I finally dragged the Forbidden Kitchen out of the basement. (It was given to us and Darling Husband refuses to let Baby Boy play with said kitchen. He has never said as much, but I think there is some part of him that really thinks it will "make him gay." ) There isn't even a drop of pink or a frilly gingham apron or hint of Vanilla scent, nonetheless...

For two hours I have been relaxing with coffee as Baby Boy sets plastic cupcakes in the fry pan, sticks small spoons in the pants and his head in the oven. Little Sylvia Plath.

Let the snow fall! I am being served paper pancakes and all is right with the world.

If only this sticks for another 5 hours...

Sexy Slips

Freudian Slip of the Day: Overheard a woman touting the wonders of an intimate marriage, "I don't desire other men at all. I love having a monotonous marriage!"

Oh, sweet monogomy...lol

Sexy AA

I took Baby Boy to see Stellaluna the play this morning and then out to lunch--it was a lovely date. There is a cafe that has not only excellent food but a play area for kids, a combo as hard to find as rich AND good-looking.

It bugs me however, that despite plenty of open seats in the non-kid area, people will sit next to the toys and then glare at the kids as they do kid things.

Today there were two women in deep conversation on the sofa next to the giant chalkboard, which Baby Boy is obsessed with. He quickly became obsessed with their phones and books that were spread across the table. I quickly became tired of pulling him away from their things and finally decided to teach them a lesson--mainly, if you hate kids, then go away.

He snatched a book from the table and scooted away. One of the ladies screeched out "He took my Alcoholics Anonymous book!" causing everyone to stop mid-sentence and stare at the former drunk.

I guess they need to add a new step #1: Defining Anonymous.

Sexy Scientist?

It's interesting that when you are trying to conceive, you can predict to the hour when you will get your period. These days, I can't even tell you in what week Aunt Flo is coming to visit. This isn't necessarily a problem since I don't make a habit of wearing white pants, but I never seem to have Tampons around when needed.

I got my period last night and after digging through closets, suitcases, dop kits and my glove compartment, I located three slightly squashed tampons in my "summer going out" bag. I should mention here we live a solid 20 minutes from any sort of store and all the neighbors have already undergone The Great Change, so popping out for supplies really isn't an option. Usually I can catch Darling Husband before he leaves work and bribe him into stopping, but invariably he comes home with Super Giant Extra Beamy ones that fit women who have had 12 kids...at once.

Then I caught my Mad Scientist Darling Son, in the kitchen happily dunking the golden Tampons in Dog's water. His glee at watching their rapid and exponential expansion would have been hilarious not given my current dire situation.

It will be nice when he is old enough to drive to the store and do that walk of "shame."

Sexy Sharing

When I was young and people mentioned Black Friday, I became very scared. For some reason, I believed I would be forced to eat black jelly beans all day and mandatory licorice is a terrifying concept to a seven-year old. Not that the real Black Friday is any better--shopping at Walmart at 4 a.m. is akin to drinking cod liver oil after brushing your teeth. (No offense to those of you who enjoy the taste of minty fish.)

Black Friday is called such because it is usually the day retailers move from “the red” into turning a profit. Black is a gloomy (albeit slimming) color. A day of complete unbridled spending on everything you never knew Person X really needed should at least be called Maroon Friday, which is the color of buyer’s remorse.

This year I propose we invent a new type of Friday that pulls away from the in-your-face marketing of the season and gets back to basics. I seem to recall lyrics from a Christmas carol mentioning compassion, reflection and loving your neighbor--though I could be confusing that with an episode of Desperate Housewives.

Pink Friday: a day of total selflessness. While I agree supporting the economy is vital, there will be ample time for last minute crusades to find the perfect, or at least returnable, gift. Let’s take this one day to support those who really need help, not argyle socks.

Here are some wonderful causes to inspire your inner-elf:

The Elephant Sanctuary in Tennessee; elephants.com. They provide care for sick, old and needy elephants that have been removed from zoos or circuses. $30 feeds an elephant for a day. They also educate the public on the crises facing elephants in the wild as well as in captivity. If you ever are in the area they welcome volunteers.

Your local animal shelter or Petfinder.com: Along with the housing crisis came an overabundance of pets dropped at shelters. If considering giving into Jr’s obvious hints for a pooch or feline, please adopt rather than buying one at a pet store. Adopting our dog was one of the most wonderful things we have done for our family.

A Billion for a Billion; www.wfp.org/1billion: The World Food Programme launched a campaign that challenges the billion internet users to help feed the billion starving people in the world. Just a $5.00 donation feeds a baby for a year. $50.00 feeds a school-aged child for a year.

Blessings in a Backpack; blessingsinabackpack.org: One in six American children don’t know where their next meal is coming from. In a country like ours, that statistic is disgusting. This charity sends children home with a backpack filled with food each weekend. $80.00 feeds one child for a weekend for the entire school year.

Any Soldier; http://anysoldier.com: This organization puts your mail and packages into the grateful hands of the soldiers overseas that don’t receive a lot, if any, mail.

Give Yourself: donate blood; pick up trash around your neighborhood; work in a soup kitchen; read to the elderly; smile at a stranger; use your local library; ask a teenager what music you should listen to...there are tons of ways we can all help make our communities the places we want them to be.

Shop Locally: If the potent pull of Black Friday’s deals is too much for you, then please support your local boutiques, artisans and watering holes. As much as I love Starbucks and Target, we need to maintain the charm and uniqueness that makes our cities shine, regardless of how much tinsel we throw around.

Unsexy Walk

So in a moment of feeling jiggly, I gathered Boy and Dog up for a jaunt around the neighborhood. I figured that should be good for 3 or 4 pounds of post-stuffing/mashed potatoes/gravy mixed with apple pie in one bowl water weight.

When we got to the top of the driveway, I realized Dog still had his Invisible Fence collar around his neck. Thanks to the advent of around the waist leashes (no more choosing if I should carry my phone or my wine!) I quickly snapped it off and crossed the Invisible Line. I was holding the fabric part of the leash but the metal part, the vital part that delivers a Stage 5 mad shock, was touching the metal handle of the stroller.

Flashback to some high school science class when we learned that metal was a pretty fabulous conductor. The jolt that kicked my elbow was more intense than contractions.

But the worse part was when my husband yelled up the driveway (between shrieks of laughter) "That will teach you to leave the yard!"

Unsexy Positions

In your 20's it is fine, nay encouraged, to have sex with the lights on and with mirrors strategically placed. Once the Big 3-0 surprise birthday party has come and gone however, things slow down, shift, sag and spotlights pointing out that fact is way less than sexy. I mean good for you it you are like, "Gerl, I go to bed with a Sharpie to point out exactly what's a happenin'." But I am all about "out of sight, out of mind."

What brings this on is last night: having some racy weekday sex, lights on (I had worked out that day and had only eaten raisins), I was on top and happened to glance at myself in the closet door mirror mid-Cowgirl thrust. When I stopped moving, it took a few seconds for everything to catch up. (special effect of a boner slowly drooping).

It got me thinking of other positions that porn stars seem to make look glamorous but common folk can't quite seem to achieve. I'll jump right to the winner of the Unsexiest Position: 69. I'm not sure what caveman invented this charming maneuver, but I would bet that if pressed under the influence, most men would agree this rarely works. Unless you are exactly the same height, your choice is either a bum in your face or your parts around his neck so you can reach his...and at that point you may as well be kneeling on tile like you were when all this started.

Now I am off to Position 11, sleeping side by side...

These Boots are Made for...

Last night was a Toddler potluck for Baby Boy's play group. As days tend to do, it flew by and personal grooming took a backseat to making a somewhat kid-friendly cheese platter to bring. (My son loves Camembert and goat cheese, why shouldn't they?)

My phone alarm whined a 15-minute warning, leaving no time to shave my very hairy, pale legs. Problem solved: I will wear my fabulous knee-high gray suede boots. I will look amazing and no one will know of the rainforest sprouting below my thighs.

Upon walking into the gorgeous entryway, I notice the small mountain of shoes, kid and adult alike. My panicked eyes rose to see stocking footed daddies and nylon-clad mommies slipping across the cherry floors.

SHIT.

"Um, yes," the hostess says taking my stinky French cheese platter from me. "Just had the floors refinished, so I'm sure you understand that we cannot, cannot have little heel marks." She jutted her chin to the shoes. "So you can just...okay then."

Baby Boy was long gone into the gigantic playroom so snatching him by his hood and dragging him back home wasn't possible. The lights were on way too bright to hope that I could hide in the shadows. I could say I was Mommy and Daddy both?

Off came the boots and then the idea hit me. I avoided the swam of guests and locked myself in the bathroom. Digging through drawers I found a dull, plastic razor but no lotion or cream with which to prepare and moisturize the skin. Oh well. The razor was so dull that it skipped across my legs knicking and biting wherever it could. Dots of blood appeared soon turning into streams puddling on the white granite floor.

I grabbed a "for guests only" towel and feeling giddy, sopped up the blood with the monogrammed linen.

20 minutes later: I was hairless and the bleeding had pretty much stopped. Or so I thought until a few minutes into the buffet the hostess slipped me a tampon as her chin jutted down to the blood running down my calves.

A-B-C is as Easy as....$7500.00

What is Unsexy are my bubbies. They were fine pre-baby--not huge, but at least they didn't go through the days staring at my feet. I never had a problem with them--except when once during foreplay, a boy said they were "cute and perky," which really isn't the most sensual language one can hear. Next time we fooled around, I told him his P was "cute and perky." We never saw each other again.

So 8 months after breast feeding and my boobs are sad, deflated zucchinis and though I appreciate and respect (blah, blah, blah) their function in nourishing my son, as a woman I am horrified at what they have become--what I am sporting makes me looks like a less tan Magda from Something About Mary.

After thinking about getting them lifted, (and that is what I am telling people even though I want to go all out and get them DONE) I called to have a consultation. The place I chose has this state-o-the-art 3-D imaging program so you can really see what different sizes will look like on you.

I don't think I am a boob-job type of gal, but I think if I can walk away not looking like a porn star but like Blake Lively, I will be really happy.

Then again, after I get a copy of a picture of me as a "full C" maybe that will be all I need to sate my need for fabulous breasts. I can hang that on the fridge, keep buying Stage 5 padded bras and no one will be the wiser--except my toes that feel constantly judged from my nipples that they really need a pedicure.

G2GUL Friday! Sexy White Dessert

Happy Guaranteed to Get You Laid Friday! Many places are getting their first dusting of snow so in celebration of the beginning of winter, here is A Sexy White Dessert. This is such a sensual, romantic dessert that can get you into trouble once you start researching creative ways to eat it.

A Sexy White Dessert – Strawberry Zabaglione

2 eggs
30g golden caster sugar
2tbsp marsala
90ml double cream, softly whipped
25 strawberries, 7 pureed, the rest kept whole
small biscuits to decorate

Put the eggs, sugar, marsala and a pinch of salt in a large glass bowl. Fill another larger bowl with iced water and set aside. Put the first bowl over (not in) a pan of simmering water. Whisk the mixture with electric beaters until very thick or about 3 times the volume. Remove from the heat and set inside the bowl of iced water, then whisk again until cold. Fold in the whipped cream and pour into glasses. Swirl a spoonful of the puree through each. Decorate with whole strawberries, then chill for at least 3 hours before serving.

Guilt isn't Sexy

Even when I am not carrying my 25-lb Toddler around, I am still lugging a heavy sack of guilt. All moms do it, which is why we always walk lopsided. I wish I could blame Darling Husband for this baggage, but it is all me. I feel like I have to hide any moment in the day that I take for myself. When DH comes home with, "So, what did you do today?" I quickly rattle off the scads of things I crossed off my list and never mention the two pages of my very overdue library book that I snuck in.

SAHM's get a reputation for having this really easy life that revolves around drunken story times and watching shirtless gardeners weed wack the yard. I promise you that isn't true...it is much too cold in November to make them take their shirts off. But we feel like we need to prove how hard "staying home" really is to the detriment of all else.

Even if I set aside time to read or get a pedi, I can't focus or enjoy it because the Nagging Mother in me is criticizing the waste of time and money.

"How nice that your toes are painted Black Cherry Chutney--they will look splendid against the giant piles of smooshed food and dirty clothes all over the floors at home."

But feeling constantly worn down and haggard and intellectually depleted doesn't do anymore for the ego than the black guilt, so today's Sexy Naptime is to really, truly have some Guilt-Free Mama time.

The magic in this is that Mamas are fabulous multi-taskers. It does ease some pressure if you have a load in the dryer, dinner in the crock pot and wine in the chiller.

I had the sitter take Baby Boy for the morning so I could clean the house without him "helping" and once that was done, took a fabulously indulgent hour to eat peanut butter and catch up on Tom Kat and Brangelina, and there ain't nothing wrong with that.

Unsexy Noises

UnSexy Tip of the Day: Never Fart and believe people think your baby/dog/husband did it. They always will think it is you.

Sexy Clean Pantry

My big project for Sexy Naptime was to completely gut and reorganize my pantry. What sparked this was Darling Husband informing me that canned tomatoes were now supposedly poisonous. Apparently, the acid in the tomatoes causes BPA lining the cans to leach into my famed spaghetti sauce. I did some unscientific research and found no conclusive results regarding Attack of the Killer Tomatoes. However, the thought of a spotless pantry was as intoxicating as swimming in champagne.

Since we are a mostly vegetarian household, I pulled scads of chicken stock, soups and other things along with the allegedly evil cans of tomatoes that easily filled two giant drum liners.

Enter ethical dilemma.

I hate wasting food, so the thought of these bounteous bags getting tossed at the dump made me cringe. On the other hand, is it OK to offload these unopened yet mostly expired (potentially BPA-ridden) goods at the closest food pantry?

This is the time of year when do-gooding is done. Schools, businesses and charities conduct food drives all over the city. Most people grab whatever cans have the most dust on them and never give it another thought. But consider the ones who end up with your neglected cans. If you didn’t eat your olives or (I’m not making this up) pork brains in milk gravy, chances are they won’t be fighting over them at the church either.

Food pantries are not a place to dump whatever is leftover or cheap. The majority of donated foods are high in sodium and lacking in nutritional value. There is a rising number of children who receive donated food items. Think about what these growing kids, who are already questioning where their next meal will come from, need to thrive. What do you feed your own kids? Whole grains and pasta, canned vegetables and fruits they’ll actually eat, low sodium soups, granola bars, crackers and peanut butter and throw in some cookies, they are kids after all.

When you shop for your own family, buy a few duplicate items to drop off with your kids so they can see first hand how some people live rather than ignoring your dinnertime speeches about all the hungry kids that would kill for that squash.

Sexy Red

I am now a red head again--nothing makes me feel more sexy or confident than have vibrant red hair. I highly recommend if you are craving a change...

Sexy Scrabble

I have taken a few days off of even checking my email--a virtual fast of sorts. It has felt good to not feel strapped to FB updates or constant IM greetings. (what doesn't feel good is seeing 235 messages in my Inbox).

My mother in law is here and she is like a Scrabble professional--I have beaten her twice (in 7 years) and that has made me feel very boastful, especially when I come up with words like Equine on the triple word score.

We played all afternoon and my random letters gave me consecutive words: sexy, horny, breast and ass. As to not make more discomfort e.g every movie we came across on TV last night had some sort of raunchy sex scene in it, I opted for hex, corny, rest and as....I lost.

Unsexy Vote

I am saddened and repulsed that my state voted to repeal the rights of same sex couples to marry. Their misleading ad campaign (backed by the church) was revolting--do people really believe that "explicit gay sex" is taught to 2nd graders?

All that students will take from this is that it is OK to hate. 

Unsexy/Sexy Halloween

Another Halloween has passed, i.e. Dress up as a Slutty nurse/teacher/bunny Day--damn those slutty rabbits!  My BFF and I dressed as Before and Afters--she was the Before in black stilettos, black dress, pink apron, perfect hair and nails, holding a tray of handmade meat pies. I, the After, dressed in rollers, bright green cleansing mask (which was actually frosting b/c the mask, when dry, made it impossible to speak), unflattering pajamas, slippers and I held a bottle of wine called Mad Housewife. 

Long after the kids had gone to bed, and the butter-based frosting had guaranteed me a breakout worthy of 10th grade, the ladies got into a discussion about how we felt some husbands haven't "held up their end of the bargain" since marriage. It boiled down to that the men bent over backwards to get us to be their wives: trips, jewels, poems, flowers, watching shows on Bravo...none of us could even recall the last time we got flowers. One husband told his wife when she remarked on this that, "Every time you buy flowers at the grocery store, who do you think pays for those?" 

Lovely.

But have we held up our end of the proverbial bargain? When I think about how much time I spent in the gym and how much money I spent on waxing and blow outs to "get a husband," that isn't feasible for my current lifestyle. But there is a wonderful intimacy that comes with being married that we tend to write off because it doesn't feel the same as the all encompassing 

lust that comes with dating. 

We need to shift focus from being pissed off that that feeling is gone (occasionally stirred when the hot UPS driver pulls in) to embracing the other ways our husbands show us they care. 

Some recent things I thought of: letting me sleep in this morning until almost 9am; going to the grocery store without being asked and getting all the right brands of food; bringing home Thai for dinner even though he was already miles past the restaurant when I called asking for it; washing my car...these are just a few. Granted, they are more subtle and not as sweep-me-off-my-feet as diamond earrings, but made me feel so loved and part of a team. 

Now ladies, we need to come up with a few things we know they love. Mine include: cook him a steak even though I am a vegetarian and basically force him to be as well; move some of his Netflix picks to the top half of the queue; stop throwing away his Megan Fox Rolling Stone; actually give him the neck rub that I promise nightly...and when in doubt, blow jobs are never wrong. 

Hair of the Bloody Dog

After Halloween haunts you with a hangover, mix up a batch of these to squash your ache and pains. When the kids start crying at 6am on Sunday, you are going to need some Sexy help...until you can nap that afternoon. Here's to tricking your treats...

The Classic Bloody Mary

• 1 quart tomato juice
• 1 cup vodka
• 1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
• 1 tablespoon fresh lime juice
• 1/2 teaspoon Tabasco Sauce
• lime slices
• celery stalks (optional)
• add a dash of top shelf tequila for an extra kiss of death
• top with a jumbo shrimp

2 Fridges, 1 Cup

I am fridge whore. I love them. So much that I have two. It is the only place I am organized. Every time one is opened it is like looking into a magazine; all labels facing outward, rows organized by type and purpose, leafy greens bursting from the drawers. The garage fridge is for the booze and overflow of Baby's milk, juice and yogurts...we haven't grabbed the wrong item yet! 

I feel overcome with joy when I look into my fridge, like I am doing something as a mother that at least looks pretty and right. 

My problem is that we are moving for the winter. Into a rental that has, gasp, One. Tiny. Fridge. 

 I am frozen with fright as I try to imagine a world where I have to take stuff out to get to the mustard squished way in the back between the Double Shot and goat cheese, that I actually forgot was back there because I can't see it. I start double buying things because I don't know they are there, the beer is warm because the milk gets first refusal, and I can't find what smells so bad! I get so frustrated that I stop going in there altogether, we start eating take out every night and become the typical family they find rotted in front of reruns of MASH. 

At least we will be there for the winter...I can make an igloo in the back and all the neighbors will have Fridge Envy once again. 

I NEED to Pee

My friends know by now that my bladder is small. Road trips are a nightmare: I try to hold it in, rhythmically rocking like Rain Man, trying to pretend I am really into the music, until someone glances at my sweaty hands that are also bleeding from my nails and asks, "Oh, do you have to pee?" This ritual repeats itself every 30 minutes or so. When I substitute taught it was horrible. How do you leave a classroom of kids alone so you can run to the teacher's lounge and go? No one briefed me on that. 

Post-baby my bladder isn't smaller, but the muscles are quite weak and the lovely advice, "Just hold it" doesn't work. By the time I say, "I have to pee," I have already peed. 

I used to carry extra panties in the car in case I got lucky. Now I carry them in case I get caught behind a bus.

My UnSexy Naptime today: I had to go to Babies R Us to get another Pack and Play. We pulled into the lot and I had to go so badly that making it into the store wasn't an option. If I even thought about lifting Baby out of his seat--Game Over. 

I have started carting a Thermos around with me for such purposes. I pity the one who someday uses that for tea. It holds about 20 oz, which I have found to be perfect. I have it down so passersby have no idea what is going on. I back my seat up, wiggle the pants down, schooch bum to edge of seat, go, redress and dump the contents no the asphalt, all while singing to Baby in the backseat. 

Today however, as I was raising the mug, it hit my thigh and half of it dumped all over my legs and arm. OMG. It was vitamin pee as well. 

No extra pants or shirt, but I had to go into the store. Since my son is very cute he draws lots of attention. Whenever an admirer leaned in to compliment his eyelashes, they would quickly back away, "Ooopsy, SOMEONE needs a diaper change." 

Thank god he is too little to rat me out. I can only imagine what he would say. 

Flushing out the Period Panties

No matter how sexy the Victoria's Secret models look wearing giant cotton panties, the truth is very few of us can carry that look off. They are like the sushi of panties--better left to the pros. Yet, over the past few years, those horrible square items have smothered my Hanky Pankys and have become the default garment much to the dismay of, well, everyone.  

Most girls have a few hidden pairs of worn, shabby underpants they reserve for "that time of the month." After a good long bleach bath, they are hidden from god until the next time of the month. But to let them overtake the lingerie drawer is a tragic state that I have let happen. 

So today's Sexy Naptime tip is to pick out a few pairs to save for the dark days and burn the rest. 

Massive Grannie panty lines is something no one deserves to be forced to look at. Should we feel the need to get tons of "suck it in" coverage, that is why Spanx were invented...also something never to be caught walking around the house in! Your lover will move into the guest room after that visual. 

G2GUL Friday!

Annnnnnd it is Guaranteed to Get U Laid Friday! The best day of the week because...well, it works! 

We always include some sexy recipe to make for your lover but we are also going to start The Un-Sexy Tip of the Week segment on Fridays. 

TODAY'S UNSEXY TIP OF THE WEEK: Talking about or eating in public any sort of yogurt whose main goal is to make you go poop is NOT sexy!!

Very Sexy Cocktail RELATED LINKS 5 Cool Cocktails Ingredients: 1-1/2 oz. Belvedere Cytrus Vodka  3/4-oz. Marie Brizard Cassis de Bordeaux  1-1/2 oz. fresh lemon sour  Moet White Star Champagne  marinated wild berries Directions: Marinate raspberries and blackberries for 6 hours in superfine sugar and Grand Marnier.  Make simple syrup by dissolving an equal amount of granulated sugar in boiling water (i.e., 2 cups sugar dissolved in 2 cups boiling water) and then allow to cool. Store in a clean bottle in a cool place. To make fresh lemon sour simply mix 2 parts fresh, filtered lemon juice with 1 part simple syrup. Add a teaspoon of egg white to each drink for a creamy head.  Place cocktail glasses in the freezer to chill (this can also be accomplished by filling them with ice and water).  In a 16 oz. mixing glass add fresh lemon sour, Cassis and Belvedere Cytrus. Add ice and shake until well blended.  Strain into a chilled cocktail glass with marinated berries, top with 1/2-oz. chilled Champagne.

Arouse the Senses...all 8 of them

In Kindergarten, the whole year is spent smelling (some awful things no doubt), feeling (after a lesson on "above the waist only, dear), tasting (oooh, not off the floor!!) etc. After we are 5, it seems we spend less time on percolating the senses and that is a shame, because when they are all firing, we get some lovely responses. 

When we are dating, or in lust with someone, we also spend more time activating our sensual beings: the sun shines more brightly, music has more meaning, everything tastes better...It is a sad thing to let lapse, so today's Sexy Naptime is to spend 15 minutes getting back in touch with at least 3 senses at once. 

For my listening pleasure, I am going to play Love and Liberte by the Gipsy Kings. This so is so sexy. I can actually feel the hands of a Spanish lover on me as we tango...of, course I am also an amazing dancer in this fantasy. 

While I am being lured across the dance floor, I am enjoying a cup of Tulsi's Rose Tea. Yes, I am that coordinated. How is drinking the light essence of a rose not one of the most romantic things you can enjoy on a misty afternoon? I know there is a Zen rule: When drinking tea, just drink tea...but for my purpose, you can expand your horizons and multi-task. 

For my third component, I am wearing this incredible purple boa-esque scarf that I treated myself to from Neiman's. When my son had it draped over his shoulders, it seemed almost pimpish, but alone it is thousands of tickely fingers around my neck. 

Fifteen minutes, that's all it takes to reconnect with those sensual beings we have buried and neglected for mopping and laundry...enjoy.

Detox Your Box

I received an email about a charity event coming up called "Detox your Toybox." I assume it is to donate under-used toys. Though funny how when faced with parting with a truck that hasn't been touched in months, all of a sudden it is Baby Boy's "most favorite." Cleaning out clutter is a wonderful way to spend a Sexy Naptime--or twelve--you can wear the frilly outfit if it makes you feel better. 

This is the first week that I have been Maid-Free. The word Maid is probably very un-PC and conjures up wonderful images of a uniform clad English woman waking me up with an espresso served in a vintage demitasse each morning.

Our "maid", whom I was allowed to hire when I preggo since (allegedly) the smell of chemicals make me sick, actually made the house messier. Her slogan was, "I won't sweep it under the rug." That is true--mainly because she never moved a rug or chair or anything. She was the master of cleaning around things. I had to clean up before she came and again after she left--and I never got coffee out of the deal. And over the past few months she started bringing along her 78-year old mother "to help" but I found her asleep in the guest room twice! At least she was sleeping and not Option B. 

But it was someone to help out and I never complained. However, a year and a half after giving birth, Darling Husband called me out on the waste of money since as far as he could tell, if the smell of tequila didn't make me sick, why would Windex?

So today finds me cleaning the house. Yet apparently she took all of our cleaning supplies because all I could find was an old bottle of Resolve. Yay! Target trip tomorrow!

Since I can't Detox the Toybox so to speak, let's talk about Detoxing the other Box, which is probably no less underused and filled with cobwebs. 

Our dear Vaginas. They are crying out for some seasonal cleaning. Google searching "How to Cleanse Your Vagina" actually tells one not to douche, especially as a form of birth control since it can push the spermies further into the vagina. (A fun tip to save for when you ARE trying to get preggo.) 

But as we all know appearances are the key to the sex game, so make a reservation to get a Brazilian. Don't even tell your lover what you are plotting--the reaction is half of the fun. And wah-wah no they don't hurt that bad. Heaven's woman--you squeezed a baby out of there!

Plus, as we all know, beauty is pain--and that little trip to Rio is so worth it. 

Child Proofing Makes You THIN

I have been exaggerating for months that my son can walk.

At almost 18-months old he crawls faster than most golf carts, but he

shows little to no interest in being a biped.

I wasn’t pushing him into it; I rather enjoy the killer biceps (on the left arm anyway) from lugging

around a 26-pounder.
Two nights ago however, Baby Boy got up and walked across the room

like he had never done

otherwise.

Darling Husband and I looked at each other not with gleaming pride

but the

exhausted horror in knowing that we finally

had to baby proof.
We dusted off the child proof kit we purchased when we heard moms brag that

"My Darling

started walking at 9 months! He didn't even crawl!"

Knowing Baby Boy was way more brilliant and physically advanced

than these crabs we

bought the kit that guaranteed he wouldn't open a cabinet or door until he was 10.

Yet, as the months ticked by and he stayed eye level with the dog,

we forgot about the kit and started coming up with white lies about all

the crazy things he

was getting into now that he was “officially” a walker.

“Yes, I’m right there with you Sara,” my eyes darting around the room for objects

that might hold appeal to a toddler.

“If I had a nickel for every time I have to pry the faux Ming Dynasty tureen

from his sticky little grasp.”

Now the lies were back to haunt us.

The first red flag should have been that we couldn't even open

the damn package.

I ended up slitting my wrist across the angry plastic covering as

Darling Husband stormed

off to get the box cutter.

Hours later we had baby proofed everything in the house.

Unfortunately, when all

we wanted

to do was celebrate with a margarita, we couldn't figure out how to

remove

the fancy lock from the liquor cabinet.

The next morning, I forgot the fridge and freezer doors

were locked together and

their combined force slammed into my forehead when I went in for milk.

My mother-in-law was locked out and the dog was locked in.

No one could unlatch the toilet lid locks resulting in some humiliated

dinner guests.

We had adult-proofed the damn house while my son could

easily still slip his small wrist

into the cabinet to crank the

volume on the stereo and slide underneath the gate blocking entry to the kitchen.

He held much glee in our panicked faces as he dumped the slimy dog water, yet again,

over his head.

After a few days of starving and peeing on the floors, we removed (with force)

all the baby proofing gizmos.

So we didn't feel too negligent, I grabbed a thick Sharpie and

wrote "WATER" over all the Vodka and Gin bottles.

At least now it's Grandpa-Proofed.