Edible Panties!

I'll start off this post by stating the obvious: this is not a post about potty training (though I guess I could mention we are ever so close to "graduation but still not 100% diaper free), nor is it an announcement that we have in fact started using THESE that came so highly recommended by so many of you when you found out we were cloth diapering part-time.

But it is to say that Holden has experienced (yet) another first. We took him to the Blue Botique last night! Here he is carefully surveying the 'BAD GUY' section of costumes:

Now before you get too judgmental on me, the purchase was not for my own personal collection (*Besides, I really try to steer clear of buying pasties/sex-toys when I'm pregnant, just as a general rule). But we needed to pick up gifts for a cousin's Wedding Shower (i.e. who would be responsible for the shock factor if not Mr. Suite-Mangum and yours truly?), and although Harmon's is great for buying local, their sensual oil and edible thong collection just wasn't what I was hoping for.

So in our list of things to do, item number 3 on the FHE errand list: Sex-Shop with Toddler.

I knew we were in for fun when we pulled up to the storefront and Holden pointed to the mannequins in the window with their lingerie and wings and said "Butterfly." Ahhh the innocence of youth.

As you can see from the following picture, I'm raising a concerned shopper:

Holden fell in love with a cake-topper that had a bride pulling her groom on the ground by the tie. "I play with this?" He kept asking. And at one point, he also tried to duck under the doors that marked off the special "ADULTS ONLY" section of there store where the merchandise is even more...scandalous, shall we say? Such an explorer, my little guy.

But needless to say, the mainstream section was titillating enough for all of us.

And yes, I recognize this is not a store for children - but I really wanted Danny to help me pick something out (he is after all, the funny one in the relationship...and it's for his side of the family, so his filter is always a little better than mine).

Thanks to a very knowledgable saleswoman who took us right to the section we needed for an easy purchase (his and hers gifts -- you can use your imagination on this one); and we were in and out of the store in about 15 minutes.

My favorite part of the adventure was when one pink haired and very pierced sales clerk turned around towards Holden, and her appearance took him aback for a moment. He shook his fists near his belly like he does when he's cold or to signal he's a little scared. I'm just glad he didn't shout "BAD GUY" before we left.

It's become more apparent every day that I'm out of the running for any "Mother of the year Awards." (Especially when I share these antics with the world?!?!?) But I will say we are having fun.

Ahhh parenting - never what you expect, is it?

Intro to Pole

Oh my goodness you crazy people. It is soooooo not what you think. There is no way I could become a firefighter!

Nah, I just started taking some random pole dancing classes in Sugar House to get more in touch with my feminine grrrrrrr... (or girrrl, depending on how you view that.) As if Danny and I didn't learn our lesson from the (primarily) unused copies of Carmen Electra's Strip Tease Aerobics...but this new dance class seemed like a good idea: five lessons, one month to turn me into a raging sex goddess.

The "Groupon" technically came in my Christmas stocking from Santa Clause (dirty old man). Now that I think about it, so did the Carmen Electra DVDs years ago (super dirty old man).

I've got a few friends that have taken the classes. Ok, one friend (Hot Courtney, but she never blogged about it, so I think she may have wanted to keep it a secret... don't tell, ok?) And my sister-in-law swears by the classes. She's a leggy blonde with zero inhibitions (and that's sober).

After Monday night's "Intro to Pole" bit, I've decided I might do better in class if I came with my hair "Victoria Secreted Out," red lipstick and a boob job... either that or a tranquilizer. You've really got to own your feminine wiles in there. I mostly owned a bruise on my inner thigh from mis-shooting a 'spin' (yes, they teach you that your first night!). But I'm sure it will come.

One of my favorite parts of the class is how the instructor kept referring to our ta-ta's as "the sisters." It saddened me that my sisters had relocated south for the winter and had made no indication they were ever coming back.

Danny says it doesn't seem like I liked it. I mean, I did, It's just not what I was expecting. I mean, they literally teach you to dance on a pole. (I know right, like what else would 'pole dancing' be?) But for some reason I wasn't expecting the blatant references to dollar-bill tips and 'only getting hundreds.' Sure I thought the whole bar-dancing thing was tacitly implied, but not blatantly expressed. They're really teaching a skill-set here, people.

It's like a vocational school for exotic body movement (and I'm not talking about the kind with bongo drums and the phrase 'interpretive' they use on So You Think You Can Dance.)

The ridiculous truth is that I think I actually want to be good at this. I don't know what for (I've never been a good dancer). And it's not like I've got a fireman's pole in my house to just practice/show off on. But I get so competitive with things. Like it's a skill I really ought to have in my back pocket? So I can change my facebook bio to something more like this:

Enjoys parenting her adorable and spirited toddler Holden, saving the planet, barefoot running, triathalons*, yoga and pole dancing (not necessarily in that order.)

*PS. Tri went great on Saturday. Details coming soon... mostly when I can figure out how to piece the video footage together. And yes, that makes 2 triathlons in 12 years. I am practically a triathlete - no?

I could be Hot too -or- Beyonce in my Water Closet

Yesterday was a day of cleaning... no seriously, I got one of those Screamin' Daily Deals (kind of like Groupon) for three hours of cleaning; so of course I spent the entirety of Tuesday morning (and most of Monday) trying to get my house ready for the cleaners. Sounds a bit ridiculous right? But I didn't want to waste their time with rearranging my piles of junk when they could be scrubbing my toddler floors and potty training bathrooms (ick).

My point is, come see my house today because it will never look like this again... scratch that' if you don't get here by dinner-time all bets are off.

No, my real point is, what I did is not glamourous. And while Beyonce's "Crazy in Love" was playing in the background (I had my 'marathon running mix' on); I stared thinking how hot she looks in that Deja-vu video, and how luscious that woman is... all those fans blowing her hair and her getting more bounce to the ounce and curves going crazy (literally)... perfectly chosen designer 'outfits,' perfectly choreographed moves and not so much as her eyeliner smugged (unless it's done on purpose).

She's like a Kings of Leon song ("Your Sex is on Fire") perfectly packaged to make people like my husband salivate (ok me too); but more importantly, (and while most likely NOT her intent), to make people like me feel frumpy.

But then it dawned on me, I could look hot too if I had millions of dollars behind me -- dressing me, 'fanning' me perfectly, photoshopping my wobbly bits...and don't even get me started on making time for working out. This woman's body is part of her 'brand.' I'm doing my best just trying to lose baby weight and get an endorphin rush to stay off Paxil.

Sure nobody's paying money to watch yours truly--the un-single lady --put her hand up in a cup (so to speak) or get Bootylicious. And the only 'fanning' I'm getting in Mommyland are ceiling fans and in our loo (not so fabulous).... but I'm pretty sure the MTV machine could even make this mama look like hot sex on a platter.

But better yet, I just think about how glamourous Beyonce would look scrubbing my toilets. Fan optional.

Sex Sells (or at least got people to my blog)

Remember my sexual resolutions? Mominatrix sponsors The month of Love (oh, you thought that was February? Hmmm, standby).. well, ok then...The month of Lust is coming to a close.

I will be honest, some of the challenges got a little racy for this Mormon Gal from the S-L-C. So I have not yet completed all of them (but we continue to creatively plug away.)

Danny has been very interested in my progress. As anyone who's been following along knows, not all of the challenges require a partner (get your mind out of the gutter).

I mean like getting refitted for a bra from Victoria Secret (as if I need the internet's permission to spend money.) But it was so nice to invest in some "lingerie" that was not of the 'nursing' variety (catch my drift?). A bra without FLAPs just seems, I don't know... sexier? Um, yeah.

Man, I am blushing at the computer writing this because I know there are people reading this blog that I see at church.

Moving on!

Another delightful task included making a sexy 'playlist'... Danny and I Got the Led Out and then some. 'It was legit.' (I used this phrase entirely to much in my early 20s... I know, embarrassing for me, right?)

The Mominatrix kind of has a potty mouth sometimes, so read at your own risk...but it has been an interesting "resolution" and one that I will carry well into the New Year and beyond (especially once I stop the milk-production and get the old hormones back.)

Additionally, this will make post #2 about "Joining the Sexual Resolution" in the month of January qualifying me for the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes -- or at least being entered into the Mominatrix's giveaway.

VIVA LA WHATEVER!!!

I'm Doin' It..and doin' it, and doin' it well (maybe?)

So how to begin this post? How about...
I'm joining the Mominatrix Sex Revolution!?!?!

Yeah, I'm not actually sure if you want to keep reading this entry (especially if you're say, like my Father-in-Law or something?)

Here's the deal, my friend "Marie" (we'll call her that for sake of the story, and because well, that's actually her name)... but she's been a BFF of mine since like 6th grade, and she's the author of Make and Takes (which is like one of the most frequented Mommy Blogs on the planet -- remember I got to guest blog there once?!?!) Well, she turned me on to this website: Mominatrix.


And I started thinking, I always said I wasn't going to turn into one of those Moms who let life get in the way of ... well, you know.

For the most part I had considered myself somewhat of a sexually-charged individual... but there was really no way to absolutely tell until marriage.

Losing your virginity to your spouse is like being a kid and getting the greatest present in the world on Christmas (or your wedding day)... and all you want to do is play -- day and night (thank goodness for Honeymoons, and Saturdays... and bless me, every other day of the week as a newlywed.)

But eventually life happens... and then you get cable, and life shifts to uneaten brownie batter on the couch and gaining way more than the Freshman 15.

Can you say Fattie?

And then you're preggers, and have a baby and find yourself muffin topping in every piece of clothing you own.

There's more, right?

Then there's the nursing bit (or pumping in my case). Believe me, nothing kills libido like being hooked up to a machine for an hour every day being 'milked' like a dairy cow.

Oh, sweetheart...you find my oversized chest attractive? Awesome, let me just unhook myself from these plastic nipple shields and we can get busy. (Have I crossed a line? I've probably crossed a line, eh?)

So thank you Mominatrix... I will give this a go.

Like I mentioned, Holden will be one in less than a month. It's time to do my best Gene Autry and get back on proverbial saddle again.

just ramblings (polygamy vs. playmates)

Danny's playing basketball (it's Wed; pretty standard) and I missed my window to get a red mango tonight... and I wanted to rent Sense and Sensibility, but then I needed to take a shower after yoga, and that takes a lot of effort... especially when I've got the dishwasher AND the washing machine going... so I stood to have a lot of water pressure changes... not to mention a temperature roller coaster that is not delightful at all. 

So here's a few things on my mind tonight... I might offend a few people.  That's not what I'm all about... I'm just trying to sort a few things out so if you've got a point, or counter-point... I totally invite you to post a comment:

First off:  all this FLDS junk going down in Texas.  I wouldn't be so bold as to purport to know the in's-and-out's of what's going down there.  But there are some things that don't seem quite right to me.  First of all, I think it's disgusting... 

I think it was disgusting for Solomon and David to have wives and concubines.  I think it was pretty lame that polygamy was practiced in the early days of the church. While I'm certain there were some abuses in the system, and some horny men just taking advantage of a system, I'd like to hope that for the most part...it was used as a means for women whose husband's had been killed, died in war, or didn't quite make it to Zion; well, I think it was a chance for them to own property since everything was such a patriarchal order. So it was a means to an end... and then, it was to E-N-D.

That doesn't mean I'm condoning it.  Again, I think it's sick. If it's true that the allegations about rape, incest, abuse and the like turn out to be true; I think those folks ought to be prosecuted to the fullest extent.  My altruistic self would hope and pray for the sake of the children and families that these allegations are not true... and if they are, it's the EXCEPTION to the rule... like priests in the catholic church... or yes, even leaders in the LDS church I've heard stories about. I don't judge a religion by it's exceptions. (There are crazies across the board... God is no respecter of persons; and I think, as disgusting and unfortunate as it is, sexual and physical abuse is not limited to compounds in Texas or Hilldale.)  (sp?) 

One other point I'd like to make on this subject is that it really gets me going when people talk about how disgusting it is that these men get away with all of these wives and that they're having "s" with women sooo much younger than them.

I feel the same way about Hef and the girls next door.  There's 50-plus years between those folks -- and he's got a house full of honeys... but as a society, we seem to think it's much more acceptable for a man to sleep with a lot of women, not married to them (whether spiritually or legally) and hold that up as something grand and cache... instead of snubbing them too.

My question is.... if MTV came into Texas, gave all the women makeovers so they were scantily clad, with boob jobs, platinum blonde hair and hosted parties that A-listers attended... would the Media and the government really be as interested in what was going on at the compound?  

The playboy mansion is hard to get into also... and I'm pretty sure everything that goes on there is not within the "norm" of social decency... but we seem to be a lot more accepting of that "lifestyle."

• Is it because there are no children at the playboy mansion?
• Or is this more about people being different than us and that scares us? 

I had a friend in college whose dad used to beat the crap out of her and her brothers and sisters back home. The government didn't seem interested in stepping in to help her out...  

"But polygamy is illegal!" Was the cry ... well, yes.  It's legally impossible to be married to more than one person... so if it's legally impossible to be legally married to more than one person, we can't really prosecute them for a spiritual union, can we? 

Maybe it is just about the children.  And if that's the case, again... prosecute the hades out of them if it's true.

But like I said, I pray the abuse is not the norm... there seems to be stories on both sides... sounds like the FLDS lawyers are saying that there's no official evidence that the abuse is really taking place.  Don't get me wrong, I really think it's sick that these older men are sleeping with these younger girls... however they choose to define sexual abuse, that's just not right to me... 

My issues with this is an obvious double standard:

While the local news is talking about how horrible the situation is... and people are talking about how awful polygamy is (against the law, against the moral fabric of our country)... I can flip a few channels to mTV (or whatever channel that crap is on) and see Bridget jump out of a cake for her grandpa, excuse me, boyfriend... Hef; as she joins her two "sisters" for a nightcap and more at the mansion. 

Sick, all of it. 

Maybe I should go back to talking about the rats...

"BEST OF" Begins . . . BURNIN' DOWN THE HOUSE

So, I thought I would try posting a few of the pieces I used to do for St. George Magazine. . . Over a year ago, I had this "sex in the city" type bit I used to write for them about anything and everything going on in the world.

While the column was primarily about life as a singleton, they ended up being pretty well received, and I somehow had a piece of an entire community routing for my love life as I reported the ups and downs of navigating the singlelife in (Southern)Utah and beyond . . .

After I met Danny, the pieces changed a little bit -- even more so once we were married.

The following piece is from the December 2006 edition . . . it shows what happens when I try to be a sex-kitten of a wife . . . sometimes LOVE just ain't enough. My plans -- up in smoke (figuratively and literally.)

Let me know what you think . . . I'll add few of these now and then for the SLC crowd that may not have read them. (If you have already seen this stuff, sorry . . . skip along, skip along).

ssm, aka Sabrena Suite-Mangum


I am not a domestic goddess. While I come from a long line of bread-baking casserole-creating homemaking extraordinaires, admittedly I’m much more comfortable typing press releases or chatting with CNN than baking cherry pie. However with the kitchen pioneers in my genealogy, there had to be some genetic predisposition that would make me handy with a whisk/garlic press. Apparently I just wasn’t trying hard enough.

So I tried. I thought I would pair two things that seemed to be a win-win with men – food and seduction. Since, on this particular occasion, there was no way I was making it to the lingerie shop before dinner, I thought the next best thing would be one of Danny’s button-down collared shirts au natural. You know, a little Risky Business paired with feminine wiles?

I’ll just pair them with some sassy black stilettos, I thought. Crap! I just remembered I broke the back heel last week in a dreadful battle involving said shoe verses a very temperamental moving sidewalk at the Salt Lake City International airport. Score? Moving sidewalk: one; fabulous black shoe: zero.

Hmm. What’s left? Flip flops? Not exactly the beacon footwear of sensuality. Plus I’m so short I’ll look like an Oompa Loompa if I don’t add a little length to my legs.

This is ridiculous! I have more than 40 pairs of shoes and all I can come up with is a pair of flat soled 1995 Doc Marten Mary Janes?!? What are these doing in my closet anyway? Perhaps they would work if I was trying to seduce Kurt Cobain in the grunge era, but presently the shoes in question seem to be spouting more of a "geriatric" correctional vibe than Victoria’s Secret supermodel.

I grab a pair of 4 ½ inch red and white checkered heels from my closet that have a striking resemblance to a 1950s pin up doll – or at least what I imagine one would look like. All I need is that black line up the back of my hosiery. But I actually despise wearing socks of any kind, so I just stick with the shoes – no nylons.

Man, these heels are kind of hard to walk in. I’m scooting around through the apartment taking tiny steps in a gait that looks like “Peggy” from that Married with Children sitcom. I’m a bit off balance; and the carpet, though not exactly “shag” in length, seems surprisingly harder to navigate through than I remember.

I head to the kitchen. We received this fabulous cookbook for our wedding. It’s a *Julia Child’s “How to Cook Everything,” She’s got a no-fail super easy recipe for pork chops. And it’s fun to do impersonations of her while your reading through the recipes, so it’s a win-win in the kitchen.

I take the bible of cooking down from the shelf, but after that point, the details of the rest of the evening are all a little fuzzy. I don’t know if it’s selective memory, or because the kitchen literally got cloudy with giant wafts of smoke from the pork chops. But plumes of it billowed from the sizzling pork chops on the stove. Who knew olive oil could spark such pandemonium?

Next thing I know, I’m running through the house trying to open up every window in our 850 square foot apartment because the smoke is going to hit our detector any minute . . . Crap! There it goes!

It’s screeching and beeping, and being and screeching. It’s piercing my ears and the sound is giving me a panic attack. I can’t get it to turn off! Oh, my poor neighbors! Did I mention we have really thin walls?!?

I run to the patio door, and just as I’m pulling the sliding glass open I realize two things. Number one, my husband is walking across the street and already looks puzzled about the sounds coming from our apartment; and two, I am not exactly a hallmark of modesty in this little “outfit” I put together for my Suite-Seduction. Instead of looking like a sex-kitten, my wobbly bits are bouncing too and fro like a chubby adolescent belly dancer in training for their recital. Forget that I don’t like socks! I should’ve gone with control top pantyhose.

I can’t decide which emergency to take care of first. The smoke is in my eyes and I’m starting to cough. The pork chops keep burning, along with everything else on the stove, and the scream of the smoke detector has me on the verge of a migraine. And yet, I can’t take the burning pan out side #1, because I’m scantily clad and the neighbors could see me; and #2, because I’m scantily clad and Danny will see me. Obviously, I saw this all going down a lot different in my head.

“Darling, is that our smoke detector?” Danny says, clearing the air with a wave of his hand back and forth.

Dang it! I’m discovered. I run outside in a last ditch effort to rescue the pork chops. Though it appears I’m too late.

“Yes!” I say, smiling sheepishly as if this is not any thing unusual, like I set off the smoke detector every time I cook.

Danny looks around smiling, takes the searing skillet from my hand and makes a comment laughing under his breath about the place resembling “a scene from Backdraft.”

A few minutes later, he’s repaired the damage in the kitchen. The smoke detector has stopped screaming at me, he’s turned on our ceiling fan, opened the rest of the windows and I’m referencing our dinner as Cajun (or blackened) pork for the night.

“It’s all a tragedy!” I explain, almost on the verge of sobs, but mostly through sniffles and a bit of laughter.

“Nah,” he says. “A tragedy would be if you spent all day slaving in the kitchen and we end up sitting around eating (Little Caesar’s) Hot-N-Readys.”

Brilliant! I think “Take-out” is probably Victoria’s real secret.



*The book is actually written by Mark Bittman (not Julia Child. But it was a "Julia Child Cookbook Awards Winner" from the International Association of Culinary Professionals.