NOTHING SAYS I LOVE YOU LIKE…

http://www.digbyandiona.com/system/0000/0909/skunk_gold_low.jpg?1241121517
via digby and iona
…a glazed skunk skull with some seriously blingin’ dental work!
But seriously folks, I have one valentine that would truly appreciate this lil’ guy (or gal?)
I could tell you the story of one particularly strong hearted woman who after losing the love of her life, was forced to take many matters into her own hands. Matters such as the fetching of one’s own Sunday Times, which, when you live in Northern Vermont, is no small task. And there is, of course, so much more. An achingly long list of things that aren’t in the slightest bit funny, so I won’t attempt to make them so. But, the whole point of this post was the damn skunk head. Not loss and pain and ookey stuff like that.
So, this strong hearted woman, after feeling like her poor heart, strong or not, had taken just a bit too much of a licking, discovered one early spring day that a skunk had taken up residence under her front porch. She went inside to ponder this matter over some black coffee and her crossword puzzle. This creature was torturing her pets and also her small nephew mind you. More importantly, it’s very presence was torturing her, and furthermore, really, really pissing her off. She thought of how the situation may have been remedied in the past. She drained the last of her coffee right down to the grit in the bottom of the cup. Stomped into the living room where an old hunting rifle was hidden up in the rafters. She took the rifle down, loaded it, stomped back out to the front porch and…
…well, she blew that f@*ker away.
Not the most PC of story endings. But you know. This woman was protecting her home and her family and her tired, bruised heart that had decided she could not take one more stab of lonliness. At least not that particular day.
So, happy valentine’s day mama.
Good aim.

TOUGH LOVE

I’ve fallen in love with the television. It’s true, I’m pregnant and it’s the dead of winter in NYC, two things that don’t inspire venturing out to say, live a “real life”. I haven’t really watched this thing called television in quite some time. Yes, I’ve recorded Project Runway and Real Housewives of OC/NY faithfully, only to have it erased when space was needed fon the DVR for Wow Wow Wubbzy. But to sit (!!!) and watch (???). Nah. But now I’m fat, cold and dressed in stretch pants. Television is my friend!

And my new favorite? Hands down? No f*@k-ing around? It’s KELL ON EARTH. I’m drawn like a moth to a flame. I can’t stop. I love this woman! She has managed to reach deep into my guts and retrieve that tiny, small, almost dissapeared piece of me that once lived another life. She’s recusitated my demon-bitch-ball-buster. And oh how I’ve missed her. Can I tell you that it’s fabulous to once again see mere mortals cringe in the presence of my POWER? Granted, these plebians are now members of my household, markedly, my poor husband. Such a joy it was to observe the way he drew back in horror at my request of a status report on his progress in hiring movers?! How he scuttled off to rectify the situation the moment I demanded he give it his “f*@king ALL God damnit!” Our adorable dog, formerly coddled and hand fed bits of sliced turkey, has been warned. So help me, one more screw up, (i.e.pee on the zebra rug), and that lil’ yorkie terror is OUT of here!!

Fortunately, I’ve refrained so far from informing my three-year old that, “if he needs to cry, please go outside”. But as I mentioned, it’s winter and it’s brutally cold out. I am a loving and devoted mom damnit, and I will only make him go in the hallway. Not outside.
At least until the springtime.

COOL LIKE BARBIE?

Ga Ga Barbie

Barbie has been many, many things…

A pet doctor!

A happy homemaker!

Oooh you GO GIRL! A doctor!

A racecar driver!

A Top Model!

Ken’s cuckolding mate! Come on Barbie, you know he’s gay right?

Pink dream house/penthouse real estate tycoon!

But cool? Not so much. Sorry Barbie, but you’ve never been known as “cutting edge”. It’s hard to let loose when you’re limbs (and breasts) are made of molded plastic.

Now a DIY version of Lady Ga Ga Barbie has surfaced and all bets are off…Barbie, you really can be anything you want to be! Cue cheesy music (or some club mix bump and grind in this Barbie’s case).

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Color for Christmas

Dear Santa,
I’ve been really, really good this year.
Seriously.
In fact, I’ve been so good, one might even call me boring. I know, my dear Saint Nick, that in years past I’ve stretched your patience and come close to being on the top of your naughty list. But honestly, I’m a beacon of goodness. A shining light spreading cheer and good will wherever I go.
Okay, Santa, I’m laying it on a bit thick. But what can I say. When I’m good, I’m good and I’ve been very, very…you get the picture right?
Speaking of pictures, I’d like to color in a few and nothing less than 500 glorious colors will do. So here’s what’s on the top of my list:

500 Colored Pencils — 500 Pencils

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THE LOOK OF LOVE? OR SEVERE CASE OF THE FLU?

Stop reading now if the name “John Hughes” means nothing to you.

D1D47D91-0FF8-4777-A06D-66CCD85C8151.jpg

I have just revealed my age to the reading public.Okay, if you’re still with me, then you too swooned and got all goose-bumpy whenever Andrew McCarthy laid one of his droopy eyed, puppy dog, I’m so very attractive, yet not really attractive at all, looks on a) Molly Ringwald, b) Ally Sheedy or c) Any actress other than Kim Catrall in that disastrous mannequin flick that doesn’t count.Do you have the Pretty In Pink soundtrack playing in your head?We’re still on the same page then.So anyway, there I am at my child’s pediatrician’s office woozy from two weeks of the plague (i.e. the flu that never ends). Both mother and child were struck down with a mighty force that left us crying for mommy. My child’s cries were answered, mine, unfortunately were not.But I’ve lost my train of thought. My deathly illness has nothing to do with Andrew McCarthy, or Jon Hughes, or 1980’s film soundtracks……so, I’m in the doctor’s office picking up antibiotics for my child, when I look up and see a tall man, eyes droopy and sad, skin pale and pasty, his eyes seem to say, “I’m a puppy dog. I am eternally longing for you. My love is unrequited and even though I am in the popular crowd and you’re not, I’m really sensitive and sweet. And…”Blah, blah, blah…I shake my germ ridden skull, am I hallucinating? No. Andrew McCarthy is loping towards me looking, well, looking like he too has been struck with the flu. Droopy, red rimmed eyes? Check. Pale, almost greenish tinted skin? Check. Lost, almost delirious expression? Check.So there it is. Andrew McCarthy is sick. He has some form of lifelong plague-like flu that constantly makes him look like he’s half-asleep and love-sick.There we were. Both helplessly trying to reign in our wild with fever children. Both looking as though we needed to be put to bed with a vial of “germ be gone” and a quart of NyQuil to wash it down. It was as if we were destined to be together, whining and snotty, cuddled in fetal positions around a box of tissues.My only query is this…what song should be playing in the background as we lay there, shivering from the chills and staring blankly, yet meaningfully into each other’s eyes?

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IT WALKS, IT TALKS

IT WEARS CUTE OUTFITS…

Via SATees: Big Words for Little Kids | CafePress

FD8D1E71-28C2-412E-9659-EA42ED18306F.jpgF529979A-4EBB-4558-8931-4DEC9EF7F2DE.jpgF1A643CB-EAD6-4893-9A89-4CDA67D41F05.jpg

Remember the time “BC” (Before Child)? When it seemed so *sigh* difficult (insert woe is me, hand to forehead, dramatic faint/swoon) find time to get everything(i.e. hair cut/color, eyebrow shaping, bikini wax, read a novel/magazine, window shop, you know, the really important stuff) done?
Oh how momma misses those crazy “busy” days. Those days of good hair and hairless limbs n’ such. The days of long showers with scrubs and potions. The days of walking out of the house for five minutes that stretches into five hours of unencumbered nothing-ness.
But then came baby. And you think it’s difficult, and then baby gets bigger and you think, no, this is more difficult. And THEN…baby starts to walk. And talk. And you think…sweet mother of Christ, THIS is really, really difficult. And if it gets any more difficult I may pull every mother-bugging hair out of my (dirty) skull.

And this is why they are so cute. And this is why they waddle over to you like miniature Frankenstein, arms covered in mashed banana outstretched, and they say, “Mamma, mamma…Kiss kiss.” And you get all melty and oogley and open your arms for the big, messy, clumsy “Kiss kiss” heading in your direction.

TOYS FOR TOTS

Carrie Weston Diaper Pin Necklace

 

Being a mom opens up a whole new door in jewelry gifting land. The “push present”? Never heard of it until I was preparing to, well, PUSH. And once I got wind that such a thing existed, you better believe I wanted one. A BIG one. Take it from me, no matter what the gift, it doesn’t come close to being enough of a thank you for all the joys of being preggo and then the extra special experience of getting that damn kid out. Hello THREE DAYS of labor. There are those that will say the gift is your heavenly little child.True. But there is nothing wrong with some bling to go along with the bundle of joy.I love this necklace. It’s subtle and doesn’t scream – having a baby has stolen all my sense of style (i.e. pastel and diamond baby booty hanging around neck? Puleez.)

YOU SEXY MOTHER PLUCKER

Tweezerman Point TweezersHere is one of those troubling thoughts that runs through my head over and over again like a record skipping.

I wonder…does anyone ever send in their Tweezerman tweezers for the “free sharpening“?
I don’t. Which explains why I have approximately fifteen tweezers. Yes, a bit excessive, but I am addicted to the magnifying mirror late, late at night (which is another post all together).

This collection of torture tools doesn’t even count the multiple tweezers that have been compensated at various airports throughout the world. I take this risk because I can’t travel without these devils. Have you ever noticed how you can see EVERY pore in an airplane bathroom mirror? I fear finding some blaring growth screaming for a pluck and being empty handed, and therefore basically stuck with a beard or some such atrocity until I can make it to the local drug store.

So, again, my question is, if I send Tweezerman a package of multiple tweezers in need of a tune up, what happens? How long until I get them back? Where do they go?

I need to know the answers. Someone help me please.

WHAT TO WEAR WHILE KICKING A**

I could not. Would not.
Not on a train, in supreme pain.
Not in a box, begging for socks.
I do not like metallic daggers poking from my shoe.
I do not like them Christian Lou.
http://jakandjil.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2009/05/cdrodarte2.jpg CHRISTIAN LOUBOUTIN FOR RODARTE via jak & jil

To be clear, I have joined he Louboutin bandwagon and I bow down and worship to the shoe God just as much as the next fashion victim. The day I brought home my lipstick red soled beauties was a very good day indeed. And yes, they are torture to break in. Let me say it again people, TORTURE. But I suffered through it with hardly a complaint or a tear shed. I was stoic. They look beyond terrific. They make you feel like a graceful swan with shapely calves and teeny ankles. A graceful swan in agonizing pain mind you. This passes. They mold to your foot in around four wears, then your love affair with your shoes feels less masochistic. I’m not saying you’re ever going to run a marathon, or chase a toddler down the street in comfort, but come on, you can walk without having to fight the urge to fall into a heap while shedding tears and speaking in tongues cursing all french men, not simply those who make shoes.
But…this…what the?!

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BACK TO BASICS

jak&jil_paris_simple by you.

Paris fashion week. Simple. Chic. The “editor uniform”.
Lately I’m finding that despite my love of all things fashion, again and again I go back to my favorite staples: jeans or a tailored trouser, white tee or cashmere sweater in grey, black or off white and a fitted blazer. Footwear depends on my role for the day, mom (Converse All Stars) or otherwise (heels, god bless em). Am I getting older? Wiser? Boring? Or am I just so very tired of cramming things I rarely wear into my overstuffed wardrobe. There are some things I know will always work for me. That will always be comfortable and make me feel pretty and confident and yes, comfortable.
Oh sweet Jesus, I *am* getting old.
What’s next? Earth shoes and pull on pants?

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