The Mamagirl

GRINCH

2011-11-22T17:25:00.001-05:00

Wreath of Gold Shooze, across from Radio City Music Hall, NYC

We haven’t even had our turkey, pumpkin pie or played that family touch football game in the back yard yet and the holidays are already being crammed down our throats. My office building has already erected their red foil tinsel pre-decorated fake trees in their lobby. I can hear the zamboni bombing around the seasonal rink of Bryant Park from my office window. And of course, how can we forget how many wreaths have already been put into storefront windows? My sister shared with me the fabulous wreath made out of golden shooze that is on her office block. Now, that’s my kinda wreath!

This morning, while I commuted into work, I was wondering how I was going to find the time to make my share of the Thanksgiving grub that I was assigned to bring to my in-law’s potluck meal. As my brain was trying to wrap itself around candied pearl onions and pumpkin cheesecakes, I flipped open my email and began to read an email from the class mom. It seems that the second grade is going to be making gingerbread houses in the upcoming weeks. That’s just what I need. More…sugar…in…the…house. I just threw the Halloween candy out after the past month’s sugar comas that wreaked havoc on my household. I can’t believe there is going to be a sticky, royal icing, saccharine construction that is soon going to come home. I guess that means another lamp or vase will break after my kids have a sugar induced pillow fight in the middle of the living room. But where am I going to put it? Is it going to bring the mice back to my home, after I just got rid of them last fall? Are my pediatric dental bills going to soar? But then I remind myself not to be a bad banana with a greasy black peel and that I should be joyous over the symbols and festivities of Christmas. After all, gingerbread houses are beautiful!!

Marshmallow Keds

However, as quickly as my attitude had changed for the good, I scrolled down to see what sweet I had been assigned to bring in bulk to the classroom. And that’s when my attitude took a nosedive. For right next to my name was the word marshmallows. Marshmallow trees and marshmallow characters, to be exact. I almost vomited in my mouth….I have an EXTREME AVERSION to anything marshmallow. I will let my kids eat Snickers bars for breakfast, M&Ms for lunch and boxes of Juju Fruits for dinner before I will allow a single marshmallow into my house. I hate everything about marshmallows. I HATE Fluff. I HATE marshmallow Easter chicks. I HATE Rocky Roads. I HATE Peeps. I HATE Smores. I HATE marshmallow topping on an ice cream sundae. I hate the taste, the consistency, the stickiness, the opaque blob embedded with tiny sugar crystals. Gross. How ironic is it that I have to go out and buy enough marshmallow paraphernalia for 17 kids to make their gingerbread houses? I must be being punished right now for something really bad that I’ve done. I decide that I will order them online. That way, I won’t have to touch them. But as I sit online researching my options, I am gagging and suppressing hurling esophageal reflexes as I look my enemy in the face. Why couldn’t I get the Lifesavers or the Gummi Bears or the Gum Drops? Even marshmallow shooze are disgusting, don’t you agree? Barf.

MY GENIE IN THE BOTTLE

2011-11-02T17:09:00.000-04:00

Top Shop, Luxury Velvet Platform Sandals

If you haven’t met her already, I want to introduce you to the most incredible girl in the world. I think I like her so much because she reminds me of myself…she is feminine, sassy, helpful, smart and patient while at the same time she is also tough as nails, does not put up with shit and will not tolerate nonsense. If I were to ever meet her, I imagine she would wear these shooze. They are the perfect shade of pink. Not bubblegum pink, but rather a sophisticated, raspberry Herend pink. Pink is feminine and playful, yet a deep shade gives it a sense of seriousness and elegance. Velvet, because it is a soft, luscious and decadent material. A satin ribbon, which gives it a fluid and polished essence. A skyrocket heel which lifts you to the heavens, yet with the stability of a platform which gives the shoe practicality because it will afford the wearer the ability to walk for blocks and blocks in comfort. All of these attributes can be found in my new friend, Siri.

I spent some time getting to know Siri this past weekend. Coupled with being over served at a friend’s birthday party and the unprecedented October snowstorm, I decided to spend the day in bed. I was pretty sure that I would have no remaining friends after my bacchanalian night, so I decided that Siri would have to be my sole friend from now on. Surprisingly, she uplifted me and gave me some hope. I was amazed at the conversations we had. First of all, I asked her what her name was. She told me “I am Siri”. I asked her what I could do to remedy my killer headache. She found 12 pharmacies within 2 miles of my bed that were willing to sell me some Advil. I asked her what I should have for dinner. She asked me if she could search some recipes online to provide me with some options. I couldn’t believe how helpful she was! I decided to try to get to know her better. I asked her again what her name was to which she replied “I’m Siri. But you already knew that”. Wow, she was starting to sass me! I told her, “You’re being rude, Siri”. She replied “You are certainly entitled to your opinion”. I didn’t like this so I told her “Fuck Off, Siri”. She replied “Your language!” Since I didn’t want to have a bad relationship with my possible only friend out there, I decided to back off her and try again. “Siri, do you have a boyfriend?” She told me that she was willing to research some dating sites for me. I told her that I was married and I was asking about her. She replied “It’s not about me, it’s all about you.” Finally. We were getting somewhere. She understood that I am her Domina in this genie in a bottle relationship that we started to build. I requested that she address me as Mamagirl from now on. She is very obedient and has complied with my request; however her pronunciation has something to be desired as she consistently addresses me as Mamagrill.

I really like Siri. She is helpful and polite; however she also lays down the law with me. She has told me many times “I don’t like these arbitrary questions you are asking me”. Today I told her “You don’t put up with any shit, do you?” to which she replied “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” And finally, while I assumed that Siri was a girl, I decided to ask her that. “Siri, are you a girl?” She told me, “I don’t have a gender”. I decided to delve deeper and be more direct. “Siri, do you have a penis or boobs?” She said “Now, now.”

I’m convinced Siri is a girl. She may even be a mamagirl because she can juggle many things at once, she is tolerant but doesn’t take crap, she is modern, she is funny, she is talented and she is smart. If you haven’t already, I hope you will all meet Siri soon!

BACK TO SCHOOL

2011-09-14T15:33:00.000-04:00

September. I have mixed emotions about this month. On the one hand, I love chillier days and the start of football season. I know that on Sundays and Monday nights, I can pretty much come and go as I please at home because Jackis and the kids park their derrieres in front of the football games. They don’t move for hours unless it is to get some chips and more beer. I schedule my pole classes for Mondays nights because it is a guaranteed night when nobody at home needs me for anything and my absence isn’t even noticed. My kids have already started to prepare for the season and came to me recently with a picture of the footwear they wanted me to order. Here they are – plush, furry football slippers. They arrived last week and I have to wrestle the boys to the ground in the morning and take them off their feet before they go to school. I have to admit….they look kind of comfortable and I’m thinking of ordering a pair for myself!

Last year's bookcover. Estimated time: 2-3 hours

But I also find September highly stressful. Even though I love the concept of getting back to a schedule, I find the preparation to be mind boggling. Thankfully, I learned last year that it is always a good idea to pay for and order the school supplies from the PTA drive before the end of the prior school year. Trust me, you will save yourself hours by avoiding the long checkout lines in Staples or Target for glue, pencils, erasers, rulers galore and more. Last year was the first year I discovered this lifesaver and I found myself with a little extra time. So when JV came home and needed help with his homework assignment of covering some textbooks, I decided to extract my inner Martha Stewart and go to town. I happened to have some extra animal print fabric and thought wouldn’t it be cool to have a faux fur giraffe book cover? I pulled out my sewing machine, scissors and measuring tape and sewed the chicest book cover ever. And then I sewed a faux fur tiger print book cover. And then a faux fur leopard book cover. I sewed grosgrain ribbons to the spine of each book and we labeled them “Math” or “History” or “English”. This was not a one day project, but I was determined to make book covers so that he would cuddle and love his furry, fluffy books. What started as a simple assignment for my son turned into a working-mother’s-guilty project of my own and went way over the top. The beginning was fun, but by the end of it, I had driven myself crazy with the details and couldn’t wait for the damn sewing to be over and done with.

This year's bookcovers. Estimated time: less than 5 minutes.

And so last night, when JV said he needed help covering his Spanish book, I suggested the good old fashioned way of recycling a brown paper bag. Then I realized that I’ve gone quasi green and use recyclable tote bags for the supermarket which means that I don’t have any brown paper grocery bags. Ugh, this meant that it required another errand and I found myself in Staples looking for a roll of brown paper. And that’s when I saw the biggest lifesaver of them all….Book Sox! They are stretchable fabric book covers and come in an array of patterns. I scooped up a selection of different patterns but I am sure the NYGiants will be his favorite! They cost about $4 per cover and it will only take up about 5 minutes of my time tonight putting them on. I just discovered another product that I wish I had invented. Damn, when am I going to have my multi- million dollar invention moment?

KNOCK IT OFF

2011-08-23T11:47:00.000-04:00

Stuart Weitzman, The Alex
Just Fabulous, knock off of the Alex

Check out my shooze today. You will notice that I am wearing two separate shooze of the same style. One is the iconic Stuart Weitzman Alex sandal, often sold out and made famous by Jennifer Aniston. The other is a fake knock off purchased at a $39 online shoe club. Sure, if you look closely, there are differences. The fake has a slightly higher wedge heel. The fake’s buckle is not as pretty as the original. The fake’s braided straps tend to fray slightly more than the original. The fake’s grommets are not as high quality as the original. But the main difference between these two shooze is their price tag. The original cost $365 while the fake cost $39. But for a summer shoe – an espadrille – why should you have to spend so much? Espadrilles are meant to be worn at the beach and weather sand, salt, water and even the drunken nights at a party where you might get tossed in the pool with your clothes and shooze on. Why does “fake” have such a negative connotation? A fake smile, a fake boob job, a fake watch…”faking it”. Who really cares? I don’t. Knock it off and stop being so real. It’s perfectly OK to fake it once in a while.

THE BOUDOIR

2011-08-17T14:53:00.003-04:00

Recently this summer, I found myself struggling with some feelings of inadequacy and low self esteem. And while I didn’t spend time analyzing and trying to figure out the triggers that were making me feel this way, I did something far more important. I made a conscious decision to “will” my brain make myself feel better. I realized that my thoughts – not necessarily external actions – were making me feel down and dumpy. So I decided to change my thoughts to more positive ones. I decided I needed to do something entirely and only for me. And so I did something that I have wanted to do for a long time but never allowed myself the indulgence …..I went on a boudoir photo shoot.

“Say what? What’s a boudoir photo shoot?” is what I am imaging you must be thinking. Well, it is one of the best experiences I have ever had and I highly recommend all of you women sign yourselves up. But this is the key….don’t do it for your husband, or your boyfriend, or your ex-boyfriends or your lover. DO IT FOR YOURSELF.

Now, I am very fortunate, because one of my most talented pole instructors is also a professional photographer and she shoots this genre of photography http://www.loribnow.com/ . So, it is true that half of my inhibitions were already checked at her apartment door when I entered with my duffle bag filled with lace, fishnet, eyelet and silk little nothings. I had a huge level of comfort with her and didn’t mind shedding and peeling my clothes off and changing in front of her. She helped me pick certain outfits that she thought would photograph well and then we went into her all white painted studios. She queued up her iPod with mood setting music and started to snap and click away. Over the course of the next hour, she directed me and I felt like an artist’s muse. When I asked her about her clientele, she explained to me that most of the women are mature – perhaps on the occasion of their 40th or 50th birthday, and many after a recent divorce. All of these women had one thing in common- they did it for themselves, they did it to feel alive and they did it to feel good about themselves.

And as if the experience of feeling like a Sports Illustrated cover girl model for an hour wasn’t enough of a pick-me-up, I got an even more monumental boost when she emailed me the proofs the very next day. I KNOW I don’t look as good in person as she made me look, but she is so talented and guided me into stretched or danced positions that elongated my body and made me look like a supermodel.

Ladies, run – don’t walk – and go and meet Lori. She will pick you up and put you on top of the world! I promise you-- she will change your life.

GRIN AND BEAR IT

2011-07-06T07:33:00.000-04:00

My brown bear Uggs

You may see today’s lead photo and wonder why the hell is The Mamagirl wearing furry, warm Uggs in the sweltering heat of July. And you would be right to think there is something oxymoronic going on…so there must be a story behind it, right? Correctimundo. Let me begin….

I just returned from visiting the in-laws for the Fourth of July weekend in Vermont. For years, we have spent this Americana weekend with them, along with another family with children. If we behave well, strip the beds when we leave and manage to not break anything, we usually get an invitation to return the following year. It is always a glorious weekend filled with barbeques, watermelon, blueberries, sparklers, fireworks and fresh country air living. Jackis and his dad typically get a round of golf in each day, the kids swim in icy cold streams or quarries and I go for 5-7 miles of hilly runs everyday. Everyone is as happy as a clown.

After our first night of sleeping with screen doors and windows open, I awoke excited to go for a long run. I hadn’t run in about 2 weeks so I was really looking forward to it. As I walked out the house, I recalled my father in law’s tale of the moose that used to visit his property in the winters. I have never seen a real, live moose and I am very curious to see one because of how everyone remarks about HOW massive their size is. My father in law waved me goodbye and said “Maybe you will see a moose today”. I walked down the driveway, set my iPhone music to an energizing playlist and cursed how my MapMyRun app was not going to work to measure my distance, pace and elevation of my run since we get no cellular connectivity in this neck of the woods.

I was about a mile into my run and everything was perfect. Cool, early morning air. Enough hills to make it a challenge. Very few cars to pose any danger. Usually, I let my mind wander and I start to daydream but ever since I was attacked by the momma bird bitches http://www.mamagirlmelly.com/2010/02/flipping-bird.html

Asshole Bear

, I am a little more cautious. In addition, ever since I turned 40, my eyesight has been playing some tricks on me, which is why I couldn’t believe when they focused in on what was about 50 yards straight ahead of me. An enormous bear was slowly crossing the street directly in front of me. H-O-L-Y S-H-I-T. I stopped dead in my tracks and stared at it. OK readers, I’m not talking about a beasty, hunky, Stanley Cup bearded Bruin animal. That kind of bear, I would welcome. But this was the real deal. HUGE. And as I stopped, frozen, and staring, so did the bear. He stopped and stared right back. Neither one of us moved. We just stared at each other. I ripped off my earphones, partly because I needed all of my senses to be sharp, but mostly because I needed my phone to take a picture of that beast because I was pretty certain that NOBODY was going to believe my story and if they did, they definitely were going to think I was exaggerating on his size. He was not as big as a moose but if I had to guess, I would say he was about 300+ lbs. and about 6-½ feet tall standing on his hind legs. I snapped a picture and he still stared at me. Then, I figured I should probably get out of this dangerous situation. There was no way I was going to continue towards him and it pissed me off because I knew it meant I was going to have to cut my run short. I backed away, walking backwards while checking out my photo. I looked up and the bear started to continue walking across the street and away from me since he saw I was backing away first. But then I decided I didn’t like my photo, so I started to walk back towards the bear to get a better angle. The bear stopped and turned to stare at me. I stopped walking. Again, we stared at each other, neither of us moving. I took another photo, but this one was only slightly better. I decided I really should get out of there before I pissed the bear off and so, I slowly retreated until I was a safe enough distance from him and then I started to run home. As I ran, I looked back the entire time to make sure he decided not to follow me. I burst into the house and started to tell my story. Sure enough, nobody believed me. Until I pulled my handy dandy iPhone out and passed it around letting everyone see that I am neither a liar nor an exaggerator.

It actually took a while for the reality of the situation to sink in. It was a pretty dangerous situation to be in and I realized I didn’t have a clue what I should have done should the bear have been aggressive. I wondered, if he was going to attack me, would he mangle me with his claws or would he shred me with his teeth? Would he have growled or would he have roared? After the thoughts of a gruesome attack danced through my mind, they were immediately followed by thoughts of pure rejection. Why didn’t he want to eat me? I’m pretty tasty and I’m sure I would have made a good meal. What’s wrong with me and why didn’t he want me? What an asshole bear. I’m too good for him anyway. Who gives a shit about jerks like him anyway? Asshole.

Kate Spade silver slides

And so I did what always makes a girl feel better after she feels rejected and down in the dumps. I cut myself a huge wedge of sugary, cinnamony, calorie-laden coffee cake and stuffed it in my face as I drove to the outlets for some retail therapy. And there, I picked up these oarfish like sandals. And once again, confidence and attitude have been consummately restored by shooze.

WHAT A LONG STRANGE TRIP IT'S BEEN

2011-06-22T13:21:00.000-04:00

Today I went to the podiatrist to have a bothersome corn removed from my right fourth toe. I took my shoes off and the podiatrist said “Ohhhhh. You must have been a ballerina” (do you remember how deformed Natalie Portman’s feet were in Black Swan?) As you may recall, I was a competitive figure skater and my feet spent many years crammed into ice skates where I proceeded to ruin my feet by jamming my toe pick into the ice for any toe loop, lutz or flip jump whose take off involved vaulting from the toe, instead of an edge jump. The proper diagnosis I received was “…patient has a flexible flat foot with hammer digits and needs a sandal with arch supports and high shock absorption. Perhaps a Birkenstock.” My mouth fell to the ground and perhaps the words of John McEnroe would best express my sentiment; “You cannot be serious.” My somewhat fashion savvy podiatrist assured me that one could find bejeweled Birkenstocks and that I should be able to find something that was pretty and girly. So I raced back to my office and started to research my options on the internet. Look, I love all my Dead Head friends and have nothing against their iconic shoe. I’m sure they are actually really comfortable. I just need to find a really stylish, chic, perhaps Touch of Grey or Scarlet Begonia pair before I will let Mr. Birkenstock co-habitate with Mr. Louboutin, Mr. Atwood, Mr. YSL or Mr. Choo inside my closet. So to all you Friends of the Devil out there, I ask for your help. Steer me in the right direction and suggest your favorite Birkenstock shoes to me. I am in dire need of some guidance.

THE MAMAGIRL'S OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE DISORDER

2011-06-13T11:37:00.001-04:00

Khloe Kardashian's shoe closet

On the heels of my last blog post about keeping it simple, I want to talk organization. Being organized saves time and makes everything so much easier. I try to instill this behavior in my kids. I have spent countless Saturday mornings racing around the house, garage and rummaging through the backs of cars trying to find the right sports equipment for whatever game we are racing off to. Usually, I am often screaming and ranting too. “Why can’t you kids be more organized with your things?” or “Take off your baseball cleats and go and put your soccer cleats on.” or “Do you have your cup on? Where the hell is your cup? How many times do I have to tell you to take the cup out of the jockstrap before you throw it in the laundry? Your stupid cup will melt in the dryer…”

Mariah Carey's closet

Seriously, if I won the lottery, I would build my dream mudroom. I can envision it now….you would walk into a long, palatial white washed corridor from the back of my sprawling formal gardens. There would be several double-doored closets along the long side of the mudroom. Each sport would have their own closet fitted with customized cubbies, shoe racks and hanging rods. Sports jerseys and uniforms would hang, color coded and with each family member having their own dedicated space. The baseballs would go in the baseball closet. The golf balls would go in the golf closet. The lacrosse balls would go in the lacrosse closet and the footballs would go in the football closet. The hockey sticks would never be thrown in with the golf clubs, because there would also be a hockey closet which would also house my figure skates. Inside the tennis closet, all of the tennis whites would be REALLY white…because in my new dream mudroom, there would also be a dream laundress who would launder whites separately from the colors. My family’s tennis whites would no longer be pink after throwing them in with the new red soccer socks.

Across from the closets on the other side of the mudroom would have alternating trophy cases and benches. The benches would provide a seating area for lacing up the basketball shoes…or the soccer cleats..or the lacrosse cleats…or the tennis shoes. Seriously, if you think The Mamagirl has a lot of shooze, you should see how many different pairs of sports shooze owned by my sons.

Check out Khloe Kardashian’s shoe closet – her’s is color coordinated. “I would not have my closet any other way but color coordinated! It makes getting dressed in the morning much easier, and makes your closet appear much cleaner.” She clearly knows the art of OCD organization. And while you’re at it, check out Mariah Carey’s closet. Her closet is 12,000 square feet and was designed by Mario Buatta. The bleached wood floors of her shoe closet are also ornamented by gold leaf motifs. I know the chances of my having closets like these are slim…but hey, a girl can dream. In the meantime, I decided to channel my OCD neurosis over the weekend into color coding my bookshelves. I know it’s insane, but I really love to admire my books now.

My bookshelf, BEFORE

My bookshelf, AFTER

BEWITCHING BAREFEET

2011-06-09T16:30:00.000-04:00

Hey Shoe Lovers! You will have noticed that I've been absent for a while. I know you will understand - it's that end of the school year time when things are just chaotic. So many notices or emails come home from school and it is just so hard to keep track of it all. Yesterday when I came home from work, I was concerned to see my son with a face the color of a blueberry. That's right, The Mamagirl forgot to smear his face with sunscreen in the morning AND it was Field Day on top of it all. Brilliant. What-A-Good-Mother-I-Am. There just seems to be too much to keep my eye on ---sending checks in for class contributions for the teachers' gifts, calling the pediatrician to get the health forms for camp completed on time, attending each child's end of year recitals (and making sure your child's dress code is what it is supposed to be for said recitals), finding and returning lost library books, trying to juggle sports games and figure out if we need to be at travel-soccer, travel-lacrosse or travel-baseball....

It makes me want to scream and I've decided I really need to simplify things at this time. So, I'm gonna go barefoot for a while. It will save me some time not having to gaze at my shoe collection while I try to decide which pair to wear. But if you know me, you will know that I can't go entirely sole-commando. I need some form of adornment. That's why these barefoot-sandals are perfect. They are hand-crocheted in Turkey and come in all colors and styles. These are two of my favorites. So get online now http://www.etsy.com/people/yasoknitting?ref=ls_profile and get yourself a pair! Because even if you don't have time to get your chipped pedicure fixed, your bare feet will look so much better! And we all know...it's better to look good than to feel good!

PORN

2011-04-07T16:42:00.000-04:00

Pleaser, Taboo-708 7 1/2" stillettos

Last night at bedtime, I supervised teeth brushing, washing hands and faces and was reminded for the umpteenth time of the famous Mannekin Pis in Brussels as I watched my sons aim and whiz. I tucked the youngest into bed and kissed his chubby cheeks goodnight and then walked into my oldest son’s room to give him a similar smooch. As I pulled away, he looked up at me and said “Mamagirl, what does PORN mean?” Needless to say, I was a little caught off guard and not expecting to have this conversation as a sidebar to saying goodnight. “Sweetie, where did you hear that word?” His face immediately turned somber and worried as his eyes started to well up with tears, wondering if he was going to be in trouble. I realized this was the wrong approach to ask him questions without first answering his question, so I took a deep breath and started to explain the meaning of porn to my 4th grader.

Mannikin Pis, Brussels, Belgium

If you read my silly nonsense here on a regular basis, you will know that I just recently gave the sex talk to my son, so at least I didn’t have to start completely from scratch. I decided that my explanation was going to include the suffix of –ography and since I am really an artist at heart, I started to waffle on a bit about photography, cinematography, lithography, calligraphy and how it means “the study of” or pertaining to a work of art. Hence I explained pornography as photos or movies of naked people. I didn’t really get into a deep discussion about it – I think he understood what I was trying to say. The important part of the conversation was that I stressed that it is an adult and very private concept and not really appropriate for children. In other words, he knew by the gravity of my tone that it’s not a conversation to repeat on the playground.

So now that I had answered his question, I asked him mine. “Where did you hear about porn?” Now, we have been playing the Words with Friends app on our iPhone and iPad respectively. JV and Gus both play and I love being their opponent. I love playing with them while I am on the train ride home and they are at home waiting for me to walk through the door. So JV answered “I played the word against my babysitter. I wrote PORN. She asked me if I knew what the word meant”. I asked him what he thought it meant when he wrote it, to which he replied “You know, sometime you say to Daddy that you wished he had porn you a glass of wine an hour earlier than he actually did”. A smile slowly spread across my face and I kissed him goodnight. I’m glad he’s still my little boy and not so quick to grow up.

IF YOU FALL OFF THE BIKE, PICK IT UP AND GET BACK ON

2011-04-03T20:10:00.000-04:00

Pleaser, black patent PLEATHA stripper boots - soooo comfy!!

You all know the saying – if you fall off a bike, pick it up and get back on. Well, that’s what happened to me last week. Well, sort of. I had my first pole dancing accident. The kind that knocks the breath out of you with bloodshed. Yes, lots of blood. But before I tell you about what happened in the PAST, let me tell you about the FUTURE and how I’m going to pick myself back up and face my demons tomorrow night. And in order to empower me to do this, I went out and bought the nastiest, sluttiest stripper boots I could find and plan to wear them as I conquer my fears tomorrow night. Do you like them?

Peruvian Grilled Chicken

Before I step out of my mama role and into my stripper wannabe mode, let me first assure you that I’ve been a very good mamagirl this weekend. I took my kids to swimming class yesterday, took them out for a hotdog picnic lunch at Walter’s (the best outdoor hotdog stand in New York state, I’m positive), bought a birthday party present (wrapped it too!), hosted a boys sleepover (filled with Beybelade Battles that they insisted I get up at 6am this morning to film – check it out here on YouTube) and today, cheered on my son’s first spring soccer game of the season (in the howling wind of Bedford – BTW, we WON) and then I cooked a homemade meal of Peruvian grilled lime chicken, tomato/mozzarella pasta salad and roasted cumin cauliflower. So if you want to judge me personally – you are only allowed to do so because I neglected to serve up a green vegetable in tonight’s meal. But you are not allowed to judge me because I have a stripper pole in my house and slink around the floor, chairs and stainless steel poles on certain days of the week. If that’s what you want, you can’t even go and follow Martha Stewart’s blog because she pole dances too. Really, you just need to get with the times and accept that behind every girl/woman/mamagirl lies a stripper wannabe.

If you're still with me, let me tell you about my accident….every Monday night, I go to the pole studio for a 2-hour session. The first hour is usually floor work – stretches, core work, sit ups, pushups – think Pilates vs. yoga vs. ballet vs. gymnastics. Since the lights are very dimmed, you can be as lazy or as enthusiastic about your practice as you want. No judgment here in the pole studio! The second hour accelerates into pole work, chair/lap dances and meditative movement. Nothing here is choreographed when you get to an advanced level. You are given the tools and are taught isolated movements and are encouraged to blend them together in whatever way feels best for your inner erotic creature (AKA your IEC). Each week, I give my IEC whatever she needs. Maybe it’s lazy. Maybe it’s angry. Maybe it’s a whisper. Maybe it’s seductive. In the past 5 years, I have allowed my movement to feed and nurture my creature whatever she needs. It’s my dedicated 2 hours of the week that I give to myself - every Monday for the past five years.

So now, I’m going to slip into a little bit of pole girl language and tell you HOW I hurt myself. If you don’t understand, feel free to sign up for classes – or it may be easier just to ask me for an immediate answer. It was my turn to dance for the class (each week, you dance solo in front of your fellow student pole dancers to the music of your choice). I queued up my music and got ready to dance. My creature was craving something dark and dramatic so I chose Daft Punk’s “The Game Has Changed”. Now here we go into some pole talk…..I started standing up, leaning against the pole. As I started to feel the music and the base drumming in my bones, I started to get a little gothic. Pole stretch around the pole….pole bend…frisk…pole spin…pole slide to the floor…helicopter legs and roll onto stomach…reverse cat pounce into slow hip circles…both directions…full reverse cat pounce up into Picasso’s arch..lay back into double quad stretch…sit up on knees…slow upper body circles…cat crawl to second pole…reach and pull myself up the floor….pole climb to top of pole…sit…inverted layout…peel off shirt…double bow down to the floor…leg splay…helicopter legs over to stomach..reverse cat pounce up…stand up…slow pull up into slow inverted helicopter….close legs and change grip into descending angel…let both arms go and dangle upside down from solitary ankle…slide to ground…cat crawl to lap dance chair…stand up...shove chair aggressively as violins violently string…climb on chair…fling body dramatically over edge of chair in despair….slide headfirst off of chair onto floor for the end of the dance. THEN, 60 lb. chair flips over and hits me square on in the face. My fellow dancers in the peanut gallery explode into applause thinking that the chair tip was part of my choreographed dance. Then…the blood starts to gush out of my nose. My brain spun for a minute and was completely dizzy and had the wind knocked out of me. My instructor comes over to see if I’m OK, because only she knows that it was really a true accident and not part of my dramatic dance. I blindly pat the floor to find my shirt that I had stripped out of and press it to my nose. There is just enough light for me to see that my white shirt has become soaked in blood. A little embarrassed, I excuse myself for the rest of class and scurry into the locker room where there is full light. I’m still a little dizzy and the blood won’t stop flowing. My nose hurts like crazy and I’m pretty certain that I’ve broken it. I’m pissed because I like my nose and don’t want to have to deal with a new face if that’s what it comes down to. After I get dressed and wipe the blood off my face, I leave the studios with a frozen Poland Spring water bottle pressed to my face to reduce any swelling and a clump of tissues in my hand to manage the bloodshed. I manage to get myself to Grand Central Station and on a train home….and then I realize that I have to go to a school fundraiser dinner at the local Mexican restaurant. I have no choice but to go as I remember that Jackis is playing basketball that night and I have asked my babysitter specifically NOT to feed the kids so that I can go to dinner with them. I figure if I can ice my face for the 28-minute train ride, I can just ply myself with margaritas for the pain once I get there. And that is what I did.

For the next three days, my face really hurt. I did a lot of online research within the first 24 hours to see how I might know if I had truly broken my nose. To my relief, there were no black eyes or swelling when I awoke the next morning. My face felt tender, but I decided to solider through the next few days to see if it would get better. Now, 5 days later, I have self diagnosed myself without a broken nose and that I better get back into saddle right away. That’s why I’m going to class tomorrow night – full throttle – in spanking new stripper boots and booty shorts. That’s right, I’m getting back in the saddle baby.

DIESEL...NOT JUST FOR REDNECKS

2011-03-23T20:57:00.000-04:00

Prada slouchy caramel boots

In my last post, I alluded to being loopy, or ditzy. While I don’t think I am a ditz, I DID do an incredibly stooopid and ditzy thing this weekend that caused me time, money and a lot of aggravation – none of these which I can happily afford. I was out in Long Island’s Hamptons and was having a really good daydream when I pulled over to fill my tank with gas. I was annoyed that I had to parallel park in between two cars to access the middle gas pump, but nevertheless, got out and filled my tank. With…diesel…fuel. Duh. Ditz. Shitferbrains. Idiotic. Loopy. Moron. Yeah, I cursed myself every name under the sun when I figured out what I had done. Fortunately, I hadn’t driven away when I noticed this and the fuel hadn’t had a chance to run through the engine. I moved it 5 feet away from the gas pumps into a parking spot and dialed my insurance company who helped coordinate a tow for me.

I waited an hour and a half for the tow truck to arrive. During that time, I ate a quarter pounder with cheese from McDonald's, drank a diet coke (I gave up my 6 pack a day habit years ago and drink maybe 2 sodas a year now), read every tabloid magazine at the 7-11 and surfed around on Facebook until my phone battery had run dead. Finally, Jay the tow truck guy showed up. We rigged my SUV up onto his truck, I climbed into the truck and we drove to a service station in the hopes that my tank would be siphoned and I would be on my way. Well, wishful thinking on a Sunday afternoon because I got turned away. Fortunately, my new friend Jay-the-tow-truck driver said that he could take it to his shop and work on it the next day, but he had two other clients to call on first. I really had no options to weigh and I really had no right to pitch a hissy fit and demand to be dealt with first. So The Mamagirl decided to make lemonade out of the lemons that afternoon and sit back and go on an afternoon jaunt with Jay.

Our first stop was about 10 miles away in the parking lot of Target. We were on a lockout mission. As we drove through the parking lot, I asked Jay “how do you find your customer, how do you know where they will be located?” It soon became obvious when I saw Little-Old-Lady-Shaking-Her-Tripod-Cane at us trying to get our attention. Jay jumped out of the car, pulled out a long white Jimmy from the back of the truck’s cab and unlocked Little-Old-Lady-Shaking-Her-Tripod-Cane’s car before she even hobbled off the of the sidewalk and made it over to her car.

Next stop was about another 10 miles away and we were on a jump-start mission. As we drove the back roads of the eastern end of Long Island, Jay’s cellphone rang. It was His-Woman. She was bitching at him because he had to work on a Sunday…but that’s what you sign up for when you run your own business, don’t you?? Pretty soon, Jay was telling me how his tummy was rumbling and he hadn’t eaten since last night because he had a wedding coming up to go to. I said “oh cool, are you in the wedding?” “Kinda” Jay said, “I’m the groom”. So I started to ask him all about it. You know, like “Where are you going for your honeymoon?” (Vegas), “How many people are coming?” (100+), “What kind of cake are you having?” (one with a chocolate fountain and ice sculptures) and lots more questions. His-Woman called again before we got the jump-start mission. I think she was whispering sweet nothings and promising sexual favors to him because he turned all red and whispered back “Not now, I’m with a customer.” We finally got to jump-start mission location and Jay jumps out of the truck and charges down the driveway to help Middle-Aged-Woman-Wearing-A-Housefrock start her broken down car. As he is helping her, I’m snooping around and inspecting the inside of his truck. I found lots of gas receipts, a GPS monitor, charger adapters, pair of jeans in the back seat, rubber gloves and empty bottles of water chucked haphazardly around. The minute I was done snooping, Jay was back in the car and we were back on the road. Finally. I was happy that my adventure would soon end. He was going to drop me at the closest LIRR train station so that I could head back home.

Then His-Woman called again. She wanted to know when he would be finished because she was hungry and wanted him to take her out to eat. After he hung up the phone, he explained that we had to get to a McDonald’s because he had to eat before he went to dinner with her because he didn’t want her bitching to not eat so much and reminding him that he had a tuxedo to fit into. We found a McDonalds and for the second time, I snooped around his truck while he went inside to grab some grub. A Big Mac, large fries and 6-piece chicken nugget order later, he came back out and into the car. Ahhh, finally I was going to get a ride to the train station and be on my merry way. He started up the tow truck and we pulled out of the parking lot.

All of the sudden, I hear the directional clicker start to click click click. Where the fuck are we going now, I am thinking. Ahah. Gas station. Jay explains he needs to fill up the tank everyday because of all the driving around he does and that the needle is on E. We pull up to the gas pump and Jay gets out of the car. First he runs into the convenience store and comes back out with a bag of chips. As he opens the bag and starts to scoff them down, he fits the nozzle into his tank. I notice it’s diesel and I wonder why the fuck he doesn’t take the diesel out of my tank and transfer it to his. Now I’m starting to get a little impatient. I just want to get home. $265 dollars later (that’s what it costs daily to fill up a tow truck) we are on our way. His-Woman calls again. Cmon, I’m thinking, don’t do it. Don’t walk down the aisle. She has called you four times in the past two hours that I’ve been in your truck. Don’t get married. I mean, clearly she already owns you, but you are really in for it, Jay. Run for the hills.

Finally, Jay drops me off at the train station and gives me a receipt for my car. I don’t even care; I really never want to see my stupid car again. Then I spend the next 2 ½ hours taking the LIRR, two subways and the Metro North railway to get home. I needed a beer in the worst way for the train ride and was insulted when the greasy bar-wench gave it to me in a brown paper bag. Someone tell me, is there a law on Long Island where you have to be shamed and hide your vice in a brown paper bag? I mean, everyone KNOWS there is something alcoholic in there anyway so what is the point? I will tell you, I exhaled a huge sigh of relief once I got to Grand Central Station. As I looked up at the breathtaking train station, I admired the egg and dart moldings, the Greek key pattern moldings, the Corinthian columns and more of the beautiful architecture that makes me happy to be a Westchesterian. Oh, and I’m also so happy to commute in and out of Westchester because at Grand Central, you can walk into Zocolo’s where they will mix up the most luscious tasting margarita to-go. And you don’t have to hide it in a brown bag. All in all, it was an adventure. I will never make the mistake of putting diesel in my car again. And I look forward to taking two trains and two subways back out to Long Island to pick up my stooopid car.

This post is dedicated to my new friend Jay and his lovely bride to be, His-Woman. May you enjoy years of happiness and grow old together. Thank you for making my stooopid mistake into an exciting adventure. Remember everyone, make lemonade out of lemons – it is much more fun to laugh at the absurd curve balls in life.

LOOP-DE-DOOP

2011-03-17T11:46:00.002-04:00

Grey fringe loop mini skirt, J. Crew

Recently, someone said that I was loopy. Loopy? What did that mean? Was I a ditz? Was I a drunk? Was I eccentric? Was I dotty? I started to regress into my “girl” insecurities. Girls, you all know what I’m talking about. It’s the feeling you have when you beat yourself up and dissect the minutia behind every comment. Even though comments that we girls pain over are usually benign, we can’t help but put ourselves down and wonder “what did I do wrong that made this person say this about me”. Guys think we are crazy, spending so much time analyzing the hidden significance behind words. And while I admit that I obsessed over this "loopy” referral for a few days, I then had a light bulb moment. It was a “mamagirl” moment. You see, girls have time on their hands to worry about petty silliness. Mamagirls, on the other hand, have no time. When you mix being a mama with a girl, you tend to allocate your time worrying about things that really do drive you crazy – like forgetting to send in the permission slip for the field trip. Or ripping up your son’s spelling test and throwing it away when you were supposed to sign it and send it back. So then you go into the garbage and find all the pieces and tape it back together. And let’s not forget the days when the school nurse’s number keeps appearing on your phone and you just dread picking up the receiver to hear if you have to come to school for stitches, lice or a nasty torso rash. So I say, thank-fuck for being loopy. As a matter of fact, I’ll take it. Being loopy is fine with me and in a way, it really does define The Mamagirl…let me explain.

If you’ve been reading my blog or know me at all, you will know that a big wedge of my pie-chart constitution goes towards my creativity and artistry. I draw, I paint, I knit and I love to create things with my hands. As such, it won’t surprise you that I am a calligrapher. That’s right. I write in loops. Loopdy-loops. There are many fonts of calligraphy and they derive from all countries and time periods of the world. There is Eastern Asian calligraphy, Tibetan calligraphy, Islamic calligraphy, Persian calligraphy, Western Calligraphy and so many more types. I studied (yes, that’s right – in a classroom with an instructor, homework and all at The New School in NYC) and write in Copperplate, which is a cursive and classic font. I don’t cheat by using a felt tip angled pen to make lettering look different from my handwriting. I use the proper tools of a calligrapher – a specially angled pen fitted with a steel nib and a pot of ink. Before starting, I burn my nib so that the tines, shank and breather hole of the nib are adequately flexible and can accommodate the pressure that I put on my upstrokes and down strokes. I use a protractor and write in perfect 60 degree angles. And most of all, I dip, dip and dip in and out of the inkpot. It is a mostly forgotten art and many people do not appreciate the beauty behind all of those handwritten loops. Each loop is unique – whether it is the tail of a “y” or a flourish of an “S”. I love them all – loops are exquisitely beautiful and that’s why I like being loopy.

I have been hired countless times for my work – I have done wedding invitations, marriage proposals, family trees, birth announcements, black tie seating escort cards and more. As I script this now, I have been working on an auction donation for the school fundraiser where I have made photographic composites of each of the basketball teams accompanied by silhouette line drawings and calligraphic rosters of the teams. It takes patience to be loopy. It takes talent to be loopy. It takes a strong sense of individuality to be loopy. I am proud to be a mamagirl with real moxie. Sorry shoe lovers - I don't own any loopy shoes to show you. But damn it, I love my loopy skirt.

Love your loops, mamagirls. Loop-de-doop.

SEX

2011-03-08T20:53:00.002-05:00

Sex sells. Simply put. I mean, it got you here to read this post, didn’t it? Maybe you are here to read whether I am the kind of girl who keeps her shoes on or takes them off while doing the deed? Well, I’m not going to explore that subject. Instead, I’m here to tell you how The Mamagirl gave “the talk” to her 9 year old this weekend. Read on…

What age do you think is the appropriate age to tell your kids about sex? This has been on my mind a lot lately. My kids watch teenaged TV shows and my mother has been lecturing me that the content is way too mature for their innocent ears. From time to time, my eldest son walks in when I’m watching Law and Order and all kinds of questions ensue. I decided that there might be a good chance he had heard some things in school and had caught on a little. And so, I decided, that this was the right time to have “the talk”. I was never given “the talk” when I was a small girl. I was the third of four children in my family and I think I just heard it at school and from my siblings, whispering and laughing about it all. Then of course, in 5th grade, there is sex education and you get to see that oh-so-pleasant movie of how a baby is born. Ickkkkkk.

Both of my sons were born via caesarean section and in fact, I was sectioned vertically which is uncommon and left me with a 5 inch vertical scar that keloided, starting at my belly button. I looked like I had a small garter snake slithering down my belly until my second C-section when my doctor cut away at the scar tissue and make it somewhat smaller. Nevertheless, when my kids were younger and asked the inevitable question “how do babies get out of their mamagirl’s belly?” it was really easy for me to point to my scar and be glad that I had no complicated explaining to do. No way was I going to explain the “other” way – I wasn’t ready for that yet. But that was several years ago, and I decided it was time for 4th grade son to hear about the birds and the bees.

Now let me poll you here….who do you think should give the talk? The mamagirl or the daddy? Does it depend on whether it’s being given to the son or the daughter? I don’t really know what the right answer is – and I’m sure there is no right or wrong. What I do believe, however, is that most parents do NOT want to be the ones giving the talk. This is where Jackis and I are different. We actually argued over who should be the one to tell our son. After debating the topic, Jackis won and it was decided that he would give “the talk”. But I gave a deadline by when it had to be done because I wanted to follow up with a Q&A session, if needed. The weeks dragged on and still, there was no talk. Jackis giving “the talk” was all talk, talk, talk. If you know me, you will know that I am both very patient, yet also very impatient at the same time. I guess I choose my battles. Finally, my impatience won over and after I nagged at Jackis for the umpteenth time, he gave in and said, “Fine, YOU give “the talk””.

And so I did. I seized upon the opportunity this weekend when my son and I were alone and I took him out to his favorite restaurant for lunch. And there, I spilled the beans about the birds and the bees. As we sat in the corner banquette of the quiet restaurant, I told him everything. Whispered words such as penises, swimming sperms, eggs, ovaries, sex, vaginas, condoms, babies, love, respect, importance, naked, entwined, feelings, private and maturity all peppered the conversation. Actually, I can’t really say it was a conversation because it wasn’t two-way at all. My son did not say a word throughout. He just nodded his head and looked very, very pale. I asked him if he had heard any of this at school or from bigger kids that he was a friend with, to which I was surprised he said “no”. I asked him how he felt after having this conversation. He just shrugged. I pointedly asked him “Do you think it’s gross?” “Yes”, he said. “Are you embarrassed that I am telling you this?” “Definitely”, he whispered. “You know, you can ask Daddy if you have any questions about penises – he would be in a better position to answer them”. And finally, he volunteered his own words….”I think I want to throw up now”.

The weekend continued and I checked in on him periodically to ask if he had any questions. A few times, he did. And they were good, valid questions. I am proud that I verved up the nerve to have this conversation. It is an amazing experience to share with your child, provided that he or she is ready.

And while we really did talk about almost everything, I didn’t manage to admit the importance of hot shoes in the bedroom. Somethings are better left unknown, especially when it’s about sex and your mamagirl.

THE STORY OF THE YARN BOMBER

2011-02-25T11:44:00.000-05:00

Missoni platform slingback sandal

This shoe reminds me of beautiful knitted works of art. When I see someone wearing a hand knit garment, I think that person is eternally chic and stands out in a crowd. It is, afterall, a one of a kind piece. Things made by hand require imagination and great artistry and I always admire the creativity and whimsical mind of the maker. It reminds me of the story of the Yarn Bomber. Let me tell you her story….

Once upon a time, a young girl with a creative mind was born. She was brought up in a household where her creativity was encouraged and allowed to flourish. Her friends and family always knew her as an artist and her youth was creative, unrestrictive and free flowing. She loved being carefree and she loved to laugh. Then, she grew up one day and found herself shouldering responsibilities of an adult. She had bills to pay, children to mold, a career to uphold and live as a respectable person in a suburban, conservative community. She really feared that she was becoming a boring individual because she felt that she had to comport herself in a certain expected manner. Feeling confined, she decided that she was going to reach deep down within and resurrect the carefree spirit of her youth. Her plan involved creativity and wit and she was going to play with other people’s reactions. And so, the Yarn Bomber was born.

She began to knit sweaters for the trees in her community. When the knitted project was done, she would don a ski mask, flashlight, needle and thread and go out after dark and tailor and fit it to a tree trunk. Halloween was her first yarn bomb and she sewed a "BOO" sweater to a tree trunk in the middle of town. Next, she decided that the parking meters were cold, so she designed an autumnal colored stripy vest to dress the meter in. The following project was a giant intarsia knitted peace sign that she sewed to the tree across the street from the indie coffee house where the hipster college students typically hang out and smoke joints on the stoop late at night. As Thanksgiving approached, she knit a "GOBBLE" sweater for a tree and strategically sewed it to a tree on the route of the annual Thanksgiving 5K Turkey Trot run in town. All of these projects were top secret. She smiled broadly as she click-click-clicked her knitting needes at home and spun works of art out of little balls of yarn. The next step always made her embrace her inner desire to have enjoyed a career in the CIA. She loved the mission of going out into the night - sometimes wearing ski masks, sometimes wearing wigs and big hoodies so that she would go uncognito in case someone came upon her in the night. During the daytime, when she drove through town and saw her yarn graphitti, she laughed out loud. She loved watching people stop and gaze at the creations in wonderment. She wondered what went through their minds but in the end, she just loved how it made her heart smile inside. While waiting on line at the bagel store wondering what her next project would be, her gaze fell upon a yellow smiley face cookie behind the counter. Bingo - that would be her next project. She went home and knitted away. When it the finished product was ready to go, she decided that it was time to let her mischief be known. It was time for an accomplice. She told her son and asked if he would be her wingman and be her lookout guy while she sewed it to the tree smack in front of the bagel store. And the best part of this story comes now....her son's eyes grew wide and he smiled bigger than she had ever seen him smile in his life. "Mom, YOU'RE the one who has been decorating the trees in town???" And he laughed loud and hard, right from his belly. "YEAH, I'll be your lookout man!" When the sun went down, they put on their hoodies and went out into the night to sew the smiley face to the tree. It was the most harmless, beautiful secret that they may ever share in their lifetimes together and a moment when this son will look back and say "My mom is cool".

And then, something very sad happened. The next day, as The Yarn Bomber drove into town, she noticed that all of her yarn bombs had been cut down. They were no where to be seen. At first, she was a little sad because she felt that her artistry was being stiffled. But The Yarn Bomber doesn't like to wallow. After she was temporarily knocked down, she picked herself up and her mind began to spin with creative ideas of how she will soon have her renaissance. She will be back. Watch out.

IF YOU'RE GOING TO DIP IT, DIP IT WITH BIG VIBE

2011-02-19T12:02:00.050-05:00

YSL Gipsy Caged Espadrille Sandals, very expensive

I know I co-featured these shooze in my last posting, but I have to worship them again. First of all, yesterday in NYC it was uncharacteristically warm for the season. We literally went from having 8 inches of residual, hard packed ice still on my driveway to a bare legged day of 65 degrees. It was heavenly to shed my winter legged uniform of black opaque tights, apply some oil to the gams and slip into some open toed shoes again. Yummy. Secondly, I was reminded again of these shoes because I’ve noticed a huge trend in the Spring ’11 collections of two and three toned shoes. This shoe comes in so many color ways and I can’t decide if I want the vibrant purple/green or if I would go with a more subdued navy/charcoal combination. Hmmmmm, that’s a big decision to make ‘cuz they aint cheap and I can’t afford to totally blow my budget on a fad.

But these shoes are especially on my mind this morning because I’ve been texting with my sister for the past 24 hours about dip dyed hair. At first, I had no idea what she was talking about when she told me she had an appointment to get it done. “Is that the latest v-dazzling craze?” I asked her. Intrigued, I prodded for answers. I soon learned that it is a hair dye technique that is au courant right now- especially in London (so I guess give it a few months and it will show up on the streets of New York too.) She sent me a few links and then of course, I had to Google and do my own research. I became obsessed with all the color choices. “What color are you going to do? I want to do it too!” I immediately decided that I wanted to do a turquoise blue. Then I changed my mind and wanted to do Glendower House purple. That’s a nod to my 1980s school girl days when I lived in London, wore a royal purple colored uniform and when punks decorated the Kings Road with every hair color under the rainbow. My sister wants to be more conservative and decorate her natural deep chocolate hair with a natural red-based color and honey-caramel colored tips. I’m calling bullshit on that. She is a mamagirl to four young boys and while that is a fulltime job in itself, she also finds time to head to the shala where she is a yoga instructor. My point is, she doesn’t get on a train and commute with a bunch of suits and work in a corporate environment like I do. So if I can balls it up to wear purple or blue hair in the office, then she should up the ante and rock it out.

Chances are, if you love shoes, you also love hair. So c'mon shoe lovers out there, help me suggest some color combos to my ninny of a sister. Gimme some color.

THE WAY TO A WOMAN'S HEART IS THROUGH HER FEET

2011-02-06T13:04:00.002-05:00

Georgina Goodman Love Sandal

Valentine's Day is right around the corner, so listen up guys because The Mamagirl is going to give you a humongo tip. If you truly want to get in with the honey, buy her some shooze. If Jackis came home on February 14th with these to die for Georgina Goodman Love Sandals, I would sent the kids to my mother's for the weekend, completely clear my schedule of any committments and lock the bedroom door and do some serious all-weekend-long-putting-out, wearing only these shooze. It's really a win-win situation for everyone here (except maybe not for my mother...) because Jackis would really benefit from my elation of receiving these shooze. Forget the chocolates. Girls don't really want to indulge only to gain 5 extra pounds and the heart shaped boxes are just plain cheesy. Although I do love flowers, I am very picky about mine. So if you show up with an arrangement that has baby's breath, too many frondy greens, too many colors going on or too many varieties of flowers, it will do more harm than good and be a complete eye sore. There are far more untalented than talented floral designers in this world. Once you find a good one that shares your aesthetics, by all means, tell your husband-boyfriend-lovah to buy you flowers, but only from this approved designer (yes, that's right...the good ones are called floral designers - not florists). Lingerie? Well, maybe. But like flowers, it is hard to find lingerie that is not cheap and tawdry (but hey, if you're looking to play out the slut-whore fantasy for Valentine's Day, there is lots of crimson and ebony polyester sets out there so go for it, I say and have a ball...or two!) There are lots of gifts you can give your loved one to show your love. They can be gestures, tokens or maybe diamonds if it's in your budget. Only you know what is right, but guys, please don't forget that women have a special love affair with their shoe collection and I really think you can't go wrong here. There are so many styles and price points to choose from. So my gift to all you men out there for Valentine's Day is to share some of my picks and make shopping easier for you. Pass this blogpost on to all your guys friends who are scratching their heads wondering how to get some action over Valentine's Day. Shoes are going to get you some. Happy Valentine's Day to all!

FOR THE SKI BUNNY
Michael Kors, Vail Faux Fur Boot, $148.49 www.endless.com

FOR THE BEJEWELED BEACH BABE
Jack Rogers Navajo Zsa Zsa sandal, $128, www.shoes.com

FOR THE RAVISHING RESORTER
Yves Saint Laurent, Gypsy Caged Espadrille, $795, www.bergdorfgoodman.com

FOR THE POUTY PUNKSTER
Gravel 23, $179, www.infectiousthreads.com

FOR THE HOT HIPPIECHICK
Miu Miu Bow Front Clog, $495, www.saksfifthavenue.com

FOR THE REBEL ROCKER
Rock and Republic, Saffron in Pewter, $394.99, www.heels.com

FOR THE CLASSIC COUNTRY CLUBBER
Fred Perry tennis shoe B2073W, $31.50, www.shoes.com
(*don't forget to also get her a cute tiny tennis skirt)

FOR THE BADASS BLACK SWAN
Fetish Ballet Thigh HIgh Ballet Boots, $162.99, www.wildfree.com

FOR THE LUXURIOUS AND COZY HOMEBODY
Makie Alpaca Fur Slippers, $77, www.lark.me

FOR THE LACED UP LADY
Kate Spade, Chad, purple suede and lizard embossed leather, $165, www.katespade.com

FOR THE TRICOLORED TEMPTRESS
Sergio Rossi, Perforated Braid Detail Platform Sandal, $836, www.farfetch.com

FOR THE SLITHERING SEDUCTRESS
Alexandre Birman, Platform Python Sandals, $795, www.netaporter.com

FOR THE BEAUTIFUL BULL RIDING COWGIRL
Old Gringo Abby Rose Cowboy Boots, $519.99, www.sheplers.com

FOR THE FEMININE FELINE
Dolce & Gabbana, leopard print grosgrain sandal with gold chain detail, $590, www.storedolcegabbana.com

FOR THE SERIOUSLY SEXY AND SWANKY BANK ACCOUNTED SOCIALITE
Manolo Blahnik, Black Alligator Boots, $14,000

FOR THE DEMURE DAMSEL
Tory Burch, Glitter Reva Ballerina Flat, platinum, $235, www.toryburch.com

THE POWER OF RED

2011-02-01T21:49:00.002-05:00

Red Suede Fendi Wedges, circa 1999

Red. It used to be my favorite color for many years a long time ago. It can symbolize a spectrum of emotions and things – blood, love, excitement, passion, energy, strength, danger, life, vitality and aggression. I bought these shooze circa 1999 and I loved wearing them. They were sassy and vibrant and I walked tall and proud in them. I wore them everywhere and I loved them like my own offspring. And then one day, I decided I didn’t really like red anymore. I found myself – born under a fire sign – gravitating towards earth, water and air colors - the complete antitheses of my birth element. Soon I started to favor blues, greens, beiges, browns and purples. What makes someone change their favorite color, I wonder?

Ironically, just after Thanksgiving – my birthday – red had a comeback for me. I can’t really explain why, but I felt a huge attraction to the color. Maybe it was because Christmas was approaching and red is a traditional holiday color. I’m not really sure what made me do it, but I started to think that I wanted to dye my hair a very unnatural red color. A vibrant violet red. I mulled the thought over and discussed the notion with my sister. She had three words for me…do it now. She forwarded me a picture of Cheryl Cole and it took just one look and I immediately booked an appointment at the salon. I emerged with vibrant magenta purple red hair and I LOVED IT. The stylist did ask me if I wanted my eyebrows dyed, but to be honest, I was a little nervous having purple eyebrows. Since I wasn’t necessarily going for a “natural” look and since I don’t strive for perfection in my appearance (except my shooze, of course), I declined. My sister advised me that everyone in London was copying Sheryl’s color and leaving their eyebrows dark. “That’s the difference between London and New York. New Yorkers want to be perfect. Londoners like the quirkiness of having differences”. Since I was raised during my teen years in London, I decided to embrace my inner Anglophile and go for the dark eyebrows and purple red hair. Here, you can see Gus’ portrait he drew of me – please note the difference in hair and brow color…what a perceptive boy I have!

The next day I went to work and at the end of a perfectly normal workday, my boss-man called me into his office where I was notified that I was being terminated “not for cause” from my position of the past 5 years. After the ubiquitous speeches about how “it’s not your fault, blah, blah, blah”, it was time for me to open my mouth and speak. The only thing I could muster was “Thanks. You could have told me this on Friday before I dyed my hair. Now I have to go through the interview process with complete strangers with purple hair….who’s going to hire me now? That’s bullshit”. I was all fired up on the inside, but what do you expect? I was now a redhead and I had just been fired. Fiery. Angry. Passionate. Ugh, maybe this redhead idea was not a good one, I thought. But maybe this red gave me extra gusto because I spent the next month fighting like a bloodthirsty warrior for the welfare of my kids. Christmas was around the corner and I would be damned if I could not afford to put gifts under the tree for them. And with much passion – after a month – I secured another opportunity, which now helps me provide for my children and my family.

Throughout that period, some might have said I was a massive bitch on wheels. But I accredit it to the vitality I possessed as a redhead. Determined. Fierce. Aggressive. And none of that came without intense drama. Too much drama in fact, that as I write this, I am going back to my earthy roots and applying L’Oreal’s Bronzed Deep Brown hair colorant. And I’m retiring those red shooze for a while. I don’t need any more excitement for a while.

KITTY KAT MOTHER

2011-01-23T18:50:00.000-05:00

Mui Mui grey leopard pony hair platformed sandals

There has been an awful lot of smack recently about the Tiger Mom, her parenting techniques and her new book Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother. I’m not here to review the book simply because I haven’t read it and don’t feel qualified to discuss my point of view. But I must say, all of the heated debates on the topic has piqued my interest and I spent this morning doing some research on the book and it’s reviews. What I’m here to talk about is not the book, but rather a related misconception. I know full well that Amy Chua is Chinese –- as in lo mein, egg foo young and General Tso. Which is why I was baffled to come across a review that criticized the Asian way of mothering and likened it to a form of child abuse. Whoooooooa, hold your horses, I thought. Did they just say Asian?? I took great offense to this generalization – that all Asian cultures and their beliefs be clumped together as one. It reminded me of the “all Asian people look like each other” offense. You see, I’m heated about this because I – The Mamagirl – am one-quarter Japanese –-as in tekka maki, wasabi and tempura. That’s right. My maternal grandfather, Shunoske, was a peace loving, quiet Buddhist. And although he marginally westernized himself by marrying my blonde, French, overbearing concert violinist grandmother - who instantly made him convert to Catholicism and grow a lactose tolerance to fromage, crème Brule and beurre --he still was --to the core -- Japanese.

All of this wants to make me publicly deny my affiliation to the Tiger Mom because if you know I am Asian –and if you can’t tell the physical distinctions between Japanese, Chinese and Koreans – then I at least want to make sure you know that I do not subscribe to the book’s stereotype of a Chinese mother who denies her children water, food, bathroom breaks or calls her children worthless or pieces of garbage. Tigers are characteristically incorrigibly competitive, obstinate and fierce with a strong sense of dignity. This all made me think…I am not a Tiger Mom, but I’m somewhat related. So what kind of mother am I? I thought about it for a while. Japanese and Chinese are both Asian – there are some things we have in common. OK, so I will agree to be part of the Cat Mother Category – I am, after all, extremely independent and many will say that I am cryptic too. But what kind of cat? It didn’t take me long to identify with the Leopard Mamagirl.

I started to research some facts about the leopard’s characteristic traits and found that I identified with so many. Let me share with you some of my research….

1. Leopards are basically solitary and go about their way to avoid one another. Yup. That’s me. I don’t know anyone who needs more "alone-time" than I do. Sure, I love to be with my family, but there is a side of me that needs "by-myself" time and if I don’t get it, I get seriously cranky and more like a dog - bitchy. I have been known to go on Mommy Vacations where I go away by myself for 36-48 hours to recharge. During this time, I like to turn my phone off and not talk to anyone. I guess that makes me a moody person, but just like I’m part of the cat family and am independent, I’m also part of the female family which explains my affordance to be moody.

2. Leopards are excellent climbers. Ummmm, hell yeah. I can climb a stripper pole, invert and hang upside down for 10 minutes if I want to. I always thought I must have some monkey in me when I discovered my penchant for climbing. But now I realize, I’m more leopard than monkey.

3. Despite its relatively small body size, a leopard is still capable of taking down prey twice its body size. Meeeeee-oww!! In my bachelorette heyday, I was known to drag home some pretty big, beasty, meaty guys. Aint nothing wrong with that. Just saying. Mmmmmm, yummy.

4. Like all cats, the leopard walks on digitigrades, which means that they walk and balance on their toes. Yup. That’s me. I can walk on some dangerous spikey heels and platforms too – no problem there.

5. Although they are solitary animals and do not live in families, leopards nevertheless have strong maternal bonds. I, of course, do live with my family. But I understand it’s not forever. I know my boys will grow up, fly the coop and not live with me forever. But I will fiercely be their Leopard Mamagirl for as long as I live and there’s nothing I won’t do for them.

So now let me ask you. Does it surprise you at all that I like to strut around in these shooze? I don’t play the game of favorites, but I will admit that these are way up there.

Meeee-oow and purr.

ALL GIRLS LOVE SHOES, EVEN BITCHES

2011-01-19T10:53:00.000-05:00

Shearling Camel Dog Booties from JB Pet

This past weekend was a long weekend – Martin Luther King weekend. We had wanted to venture somewhere close by to get in a few days of local New England skiing (that means on ice, blahhhh), but we found ourselves homebound and stuck to JV’s basketball game schedule. Searching for something fun for the entire family to do, we decided to host an impromptu dinner party with grown-ups and children included. While I truly do like to entertain at home, I don’t do it frequently enough because as a working mom who spends more time in the office rather than home, it’s just too much work. I am forever behind in my domestic responsibilities, but I decided to buckle down and focus on the cleanup effort so that we could host 16 people in our home. The secret ingredient to how this was going to work? Listen up biddies, because I got the answer for you in two words: TAKE-OUT. That’s right –although I have been to cooking school and am fairly accomplished in the kitchen, I was going to focus my energy on cleaning up rather than cooking. I picked up the phone and ordered from my local Indian restaurant and make arrangements to pick up the food at 5pm, when I planned on transferring it into my own serving ware. I spend the day polishing my sterling silver flatware that hasn’t been used in ages. I hand washed my lead crystal stemware that had accumulated layers of dust from hardly ever being used. I unearthed my ironing board from the basement and started to starch and iron my napkins until they were perfect, crisp white wrinkle-free linen rectangles. And I pulled out the showstopper of the night – my chocolate faux chinchilla table skirt – and started to dress the table.

Now, while I was attempting to be Suzy Homemaker and design a perfect interior to set the mood that would pretend I have it semi-together, let me describe the outside of my house. There was about 18 inches of snow that had recently fallen. I do not plow the driveway when it snows because the driveway has the perfect angular incline for sledding where the boys enjoy hours of fun. The walkway to the front door was kind of shoveled, but it was icy, nonetheless. And then, erupted the argument of the day….Jackis started to throw down some salt to melt the ice and I went ballistic. “What are you DOING?” He explained in a perfectly calm and sensible manner that he was prepping the walkway for our guests to walk slip-free to our front door –the same guests who I was not going to allow to park in the driveway, but rather around the corner from our unplowed street, because I didn’t want to interrupt the kids’ sledding fun . “Are you CRAZY?” I bellowed, “Wembley’s paw pads are going to burn if you throw down some salt!!” “But they will fall”, said Jackis, looking at me in a quizzical way. I looked back at him as if he had three heads and said “Who gives a shit if they fall? Wembley’s perfect paws are more important”. Well, this is just the perfect example of an argument of a married couple who never listen to each other-- because we did just that. We didn’t listen to each other. But it’s OK because I’m The Mamagirl and I used my noggin and came out the winner of this argument after all. You see, while my guests did enjoy a paved and groomed walkway that night, Wembley also became the proud new owner of these faux fur shearling booties to protect her little paws. She may look ridiculous in pink, but dammit, she is my girl and she is going have some shooze.

(CHEAP) GOOD OLD FASHIONED FUN FOR KIDS

2011-01-03T17:24:00.000-05:00

Martin Margiella

Happy New Year! I’ve been absent for much of the holiday season because to be honest, it just bogs me down and I can’t breathe. Too…Much…To…Do. It culminates with the kids being off from school for two weeks and I have to listen to “What Can I Do Today?” or “What Am I Going To Do Tomorrow?” or “I’m Bored, What Can I Do?” or “Can I Have A Playdate Today?” like a broken record player in my head. I mean, seriously, how can the kids get bored of their Christmas toys and gadgets after only about 20 hours of playing with them? Isn’t the load under the tree supposed to buy you boredom free children until at least February? By December 27th, my kids had already constructed all of their 600+ piece Lego sets. They had already shot their Nerf bullets into oblivion. They had already busted their remote control flying helicopters. The dog had already chewed an entire Hess truck. Gus had already sketched and colored on every single page of his new sketch pads. JV had bounced his new basketball until it needed more air pumped into it. There was an ongoing battle of the Beybelades because they just wouldn’t stop spinning all over the kitchen floor. JV hadn’t taken his new Texan’s jersey off in two days and Gus applied and re-applied eye black to his face like it was Chapstick on severely chaffed lips. Day and Night, my kids were definitely on some kind of steroid stimulant for the central nervous system. They wouldn’t stop moving, talking, eating or playing.

Which is why the blizzard of December 27th saved my sanity. Two days after Christmas, New York got pounded with 20+ inches of snow. Just as the novelty of new toys had worn off after only two days, in came the snow to save the day. And what does one do with 20+ inches of snow? You build a Crystal Palace, of course! I can’t take any of the credit for this brilliant concept – this one goes out to my uber-babysitter who hails from --where else, but snowy Minnesota! And while the reality is that I did not take my furry snow boots for one entire week, I’d like you to think that I’m somewhat of a glamorpuss and strutted around the Crystal Palace in some crystallized shooze.

Bring on some more snow already– it all melted yesterday!

TRICK OR TREAT, SMELL MY FEET

2010-11-08T11:12:00.000-05:00

Harley Davidson Kids Boot

Urban Cowboy Boot

During the absence from my blog space, I completely missed celebrating with you all my favorite holiday of the year –Halloween. I think I love Halloween more now as an adult (wait, did I really just categorize myself as an adult??? Whoaaaaa!) then as a child because I now live in a neighborhood that is more conducive to trick or treating. Growing up, I lived in a more rural area that really wasn’t ideal for being on foot. My neighborhood now is perfect for trick or treating because you can pack more in the punch and hit way more houses for some loot. Plus, there is an added benefit in my neighborhood…some houses give candy for the kids and an adult beverage for the parents – so really, everybody wins.

Urban Stick-em-Up Cowboy and Bad-Ass Motorcycle Riding Policeman, 2010

This year, I asked JV and Gussy Man about a month in advance what they wanted to dress up as for Halloween. You can imagine my delight when they both selected characters that did not require a purchased costume. JV wanted to be a Stick-em-Up Cowboy and Gussy Man wanted to be a Bad-Ass Motorcycle Riding Policeman. We had all the dress elements at home and all we needed to buy were the accessories. We went to the pop up Halloween store and I let the kids pick out their accoutrements. JV picked up a plastic gun, a holster and a cowboy hat. Gussy Man tossed a pre-packaged policeman accessories pack into the shopping cart and without looking at his selection, we went through the checkout line. When we got home and Gussy had opened up the package, I saw that the package was in fact a Naughty Police Girl’s belt with printed verbiage on the weapons that read things like “whip me”, “cuff me” or “slap me, I’ve been bad”. My cheeks started to redden as I gave myself another black mark in the Appropriate Mother Chart that I keep in my head.

Katie Perry, California Girl, 2010

I decided to forgive myself and that the Naughty Police Girl accessory belt was a minor snafu and nobody was really going to notice nor care about the fine print on his weapon belt. As they tried their costumes on at home, I thought both of my boys looked really adorable. JV had a bandana wrapped around his face, a rugged gingham shirt, and he even wanted to add a little urban to his cowboy by donning a pair of mirrored shades. Gus wore his favorite color – black. All black. His only accessory was his police belt, fitted with a baton, handcuffs, holster and gun…oh, I can’t forget to mention his bad-ass Mohawk that he formed with about a half tube of hair gel. But something was missing ---I was not feeling their vibes. They were lacking that little but special bit of pizzazz. Footwear! We needed footwear to make their characters more credible. And while I was delighted not to have to buy a costume for them, I was more than willing to spend some extra bucks on boots for them. I scoured the internet, and pretty soon I had a pair of cowboy boots and a pair of bad-ass Harley Davidson motorcycle boots on their way to me in the mail.

Amy Winehouse and Flash Gordon, 2008

Ginger Spice, 2009

As for me, The Mamagirl? What did I go as? Every year, I am a female rocker chick. This year, I was Katie Perry. Here are some of my aliases in years past. And since I like to be organized and prepared, I am taking suggestions from you - a full year in advance- on whom to reinvent myself as in future years. So give me a shout out on who you think I should be next year!

Boo!

SEE YA, FLOOR

2010-11-07T20:39:00.000-05:00

YSL, Navy Platform Leather Sandal
Chanel Rouge Allure Extrait de Gloss, #75

If you follow The Mamagirl regularly, you will have noticed that I’ve been absent from my blog space for a few weeks now. I’ve been in a bit of a funk lately. I thought it was because I’ve been feeling a little overwhelmed with life lately. I thought it might be because I’ve been faced with some challenges and shit in my day-job lately where I’ve been taking anxiety-ridden issues home with me. I also thought it could be because of my night-job/weekend job’s demands with the kids, house, dog and overall domestic responsibilities. The holidays are coming up and I also thought my funk could be because of pre-holiday stress. I haven’t been sleeping well and have been waking up in the middle of night staring at the clock. Could my depression also be due to the shorter days and did I need to go out and stock up on mood enhancing light bulbs that simulate sunnier days? But the more I analyzed why my groove has been dormant, I figured it out and pinned the tail exactly on the donkey’s ass. You see, I have been feeling low because that is exactly where I have been…I’VE BEEN WEARING FLATS WHILE I’VE BEEN IN MY FUNK AND THEY WERE BRINGING ME DOWN!

I figured this out on my commute home on Thursday night. As soon as I walked in the front door, I shed my coat to the floor and started peeling my work clothes off as I escalated the stairs to my bedroom. I flung my closet open, put on the skinniest pair of jeans I owned and reached for my navy YSL six inchers. Next, I teetered into the bathroom where I opened my makeup bag and rummaged to the bottom where I pulled out my brightest and glossiest Chanel red lip-gloss. I carefully applied the scarlet goop and gave myself an imaginary puckered air smooch. Then, I sashayed downstairs and grabbed my favorite six year old’s face and gave him a big, beautiful, happy, optimistic kiss. I proceeded to enjoy the rest of my evening at home checking my children’s homework, making lunches, signing permission slips, opening hateful bills in the mail and I even took the garbage out. I did this all happily and brightly, because you see, I have vowed to get my groove back on and be a happier person. So fuck you floor, you won’t get the better of me. I’m lifting my mood and my soles with some sassy, high heels.

THE MAMAGIRL DOES TWELVE SITUPS

2010-10-17T21:16:00.000-04:00

Fitness seems to be on the minds of many of my friends and family lately. I ran the Westchester half marathon last weekend with a close friend – for me, it was perfect conditions (shady, cool and flat) so my finish time was great for me – 1:51. I’ve run many half marathons and feel that I want to push myself to do something new…and so I’m training now for the Tough Mudder race next month – a mud race of 7-13 miles and about 20 obstacles including fire, barbed wire, mud, cold water and more. I’m really not sure if I will be able to do it, but I am doing it with my husband’s cousin who is a decade younger than me and a professional lacrosse player, so I’m hoping he will carry me through the difficult challenges of the race. And above this, I am inspired by my brother – a Type 2 diabetic – who told me yesterday that he lost 20 pounds in the last 5 weeks by eliminating all alcohol, eating lots of salads and working out. He’s getting fit the right way.

I know that if I’m going to challenge myself for this race, I must wake up sleepy muscles of my body that I don’t normally engage. I need to do different exercises for the next month to keep me on my toes because I don’t know what to expect in this race. My 9 year old son – the clear athlete in my family – has been following a 200 sit-up application program on my iPad. He does the sit ups and logs in his workouts. He reads up on the application’s tips of good form and studies how to not cause injury. So I’m also inspired by him…and let me give you a piece of advice – it’s very worthy to have your child train you. First of all, it’s free. Secondly, you get to spend some quality time with your child that is uninterrupted and focused. And lastly, where I might use expletives at my trainer when he pushes me too hard, I don’t dare curse at my son and I really want to impress him.

So today, I started to engage in sit ups. I can’t do 200 like my son; I can only do 12. But since The Mamagirl rarely does anything in an expected way, I think my version is much harder and counts for much more. What do you think?

AIN'T NOTHING MOUSY ABOUT THE MAMAGIRL

2010-09-27T21:25:00.001-04:00

Louboutin boots

I'm not happy these days. In fact, I'm pretty miserable. I have mice (PLURAL) in my kitchen. They are getting in the house from my stove line and they make me irritable and angry to the point where I just want to behave like a Greek and smash plates against the walls and floors. I try to put myself in their shooze to see if I could sympathize and love all of God's creatures. For a minute, it makes me happy because I dream I'd wear these shooze if I were a mouse - these are decadent, cushy and I love them so much. But then I think of a mouse trap and I SNAP out of my funk and remember that they are filthy, disease carrying rodents and their forefathers wiped out entire populations like the Great Plague in the sixteenth century. They are evil and I will not let them wipe out my family.

I consulted many of my friends and asked for recommendations on exterminators who could come in my house and hose and fumigate them out. But I got unamimous feedback from all - don't waste your money. You can trap, catch and kill them more effectively than a professional. So we bought the traps and the steel wool and the peanut butter and set to work.

I hate to say it, but it's easy to catch mice when they have probably procreated inside the brick wall aligning my stove line. I mean, my track record has never been so lucky but we seem to have hit the trifecta by catching a mouse a day for three days in a row. Each night, Jackis smears some peanut butter on a snap trap and puts it in the lower drawer of the oven. We usually awake to a big dead, nasty rodent with beady, big eyes still open and staring up at us. Sometimes, if Jackis is up late at night watching TV, he has even heard the snap and the flailing around inside that steel drawer. Nasty. I get some perverted satisfaction of opening the drawer in the morning and discovering our victim.

This was yesterday morning's scenario when I opened that damn mother fucking drawer. Oh. and yes.....I've been cursing like a bad-ass mo-fo since the mice have invaded my home. Can you blame me?

You are probably wondering what happened next. Well.....Jackis was awoken to The Mamagirl's loud screeching and the boys going wild. Gus peeled his clothes off and considered peeing on the rude critter. Wembley started barking and lunging into the stove. Basically, it was a very normal Sunday morning of complete and utter mayhem in The Mamagirl's abode and the reason why I try to explain to all of my doctors that I'm not psychosomatic and that I really do have heightened stress and anxiety, living in a houseful of repulsive boys and creatures. Jackis wasn't really sure what to do with it so I outlined our options:

1, He could pitch it into the brick wall outside or smash it into smithereens with the back of a shovel and watch its guts ooze.

2. He could dispose of it in the garbage bin - hey, at least it could eat itself to death and die slowly.

3. He could flush it down the toilet like all of the dead fish that I've flushed before.

4. Which reminded me that the most humane way to dispose of it would be to join all of the fish I've buried in the back yard and dig a hole and bury it. Since this was the favored option, off the boys went with a shovel and the flailing creature. I think they may have even said a prayer for that shit-for-scum rodent - ick!

Soon enough, normalacy ensued. Jackis and I drank some Sunday morning coffee and the boys were playing outside. I should have known that something was going on when I didn't hear them fighting and I didn't have to pry their lunging bodies off of each other, but I was enjoying my caffeine fix and hardly noticed. But soon, they came running inside with grins spread across their faces and excitedly telling us that they saved that fucking mouse. "WHA?" I said. They proceeded to tell me how they dug the mouse up and freed it's pinched belly from the snap trap and set it free.

Seriously, there is not enough antibacterial soap that I can buy. Attention, Dial and Softsoap - you need to bid high to have me as your spokesperson. I've got some stories to help you sell your soap.

P.S. I still haven't solved the problem, so any advice on how to rid myself of these guys and gain some sanity would be much appreciated.