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.

My House Smells Like Burnt Smores or "I Smell Sex and Candy" the director's cut

Tonight I tried to make my "crowd pleasing" fruit slush. Now my house smells like burnt smores and I've again succeeded in almost burning down another house... or at least smoking it out.

The recipe:

*2 parts sugar, 3 parts water - bring to a boil - freeze overnight

*frozen fruit, any variety (to taste)

*Fresca / sprite / ginger ale/tonic water (pick your poison) any variety to taste

*fresh banana cut up in the mix

*Mix and VIOLA! Party time!

It's a no brainer... easiest treat in the world and practically no-fail. I say "practically" because tonight I learned a different story. I had successfully served this delightful treat (which is also a no-fail for my dinner parties, any of you that have attended) at a young women's activity... and I was making a few extra batches for my cousin's wedding reception on Saturday (Danny and I are heading outside NY for a wedding this weekend... we get in Friday night, attend the wedding dinner and wedding saturday and head back to SLC Sunday... it will be a quick but brilliant trip.)

Anyway, I got the simple sugar syrup boiling on the stove.... and then I started watching the Red Sox game in the 9th inning, thinking it was going to be over shortly... yeah, it went 14 innings...

I now have 1) no simple syrup to freeze for slush, 2) a pan that looks like carmel burned to the bottom of it (because it did), 3) EVERY window in my house opened AND 4) a smokey house.

I swear I am not cut out for domesticity. (Holden, what are we getting ourselves into?!?!? It's going to be you and me on our own kid... and I'm not sure how safe that is...)

I don't want to scar (or scare) any of you. But I couldn't help but think of another domestic experience that I decided to share with all of Washington County shortly after Danny and I tied the knot. (I have shared this with you before. Find it from the magazine here at the online version.

"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.