pink pajama mama

Flagrante delicto—now there’s a great word for sex. Conjures up images of a beautiful woman dancing barefoot under the moonlight while being fed an oozing chocolate éclair by someone wrapped in champagne silk. I also picture a woman with long dark hair standing in a window, her red silk slip slithering to the ground like a serpent; le serpent rouge. But I can also picture an adorable little flag twirler wearing one of those darling majorette outfits—like a bathing suit with a cheerleading skirt attached, all sparkly and sassy, tassels on her ankle boots, twirling her flags while strutting and marching, her hair in a sparkly beehive. And I also imagine lying on a table while some beautiful person fills my mouth with strawberries, champagne, whipped cream, melted chocolate, cream puffs—delicto, delectable, delicious. Oh yes, nightblooming jasmine would be swirling around me, caressing me, making it impossible to think clearly, everything colored by its intoxicating smell.

Well, two little words can obviously create quite a bit of magic for me. And it’s wonderful, because this Sunday I’m going to be a sex teacher. Well, not exactly a “sex” teacher, but for years my friends have been telling me I should teach a class on sensuality, romance, orgasmic delight. Well, I’m finally doing it. And so I’ve combined two of my favorite things: belly dance and sex. I saw an ad for a book called “Yoga for Better Sex.” I immediately combed the article for ways to wow my husband in bed—it’s one of my favorite points of research—and as I studied the different positions, I thought belly dance would be an even better way to help people improve their sex lives.

And there, the concept was born. I put out the word and the line formed.
Now I just have to decide what I’m going to teach. (I get myself into these types of situations where I pretend to know more than I do rather often—see Hula Hoop story below.)There are so many belly dance moves that dramatically improve the pleasure factor for both partners. I’ve been taking a poll of fellow dancers and their favorite moves during flagrante delicto. I’ve gotten quite the response. Is there anything better than receiving endless varieties of pleasure and delight in my mailbox?

The winner for best orgasmic moves? Pleasant, AKA Princess Farhana, that belly dancing writer that never ages. Pleasant, funny, kind, wild, who brought her Swedish beau to our all-female moon magic mushroom party. (She thought it would be ok since he seemed gay.) He gave a monologue on the state of the Swiss government and I thought he was reciting poetry. Pleasant showed us how she can put her legs behind her head, a marvelous accomplishment, and then proceeded to lick the lotion off her legs. She also informed us that she likes to eat lipstick and demonstrated this as well. Never a dull moment with Pleasant, but you’re guaranteed to laugh your ass off.
And now, the event you’ve all been waiting for: The Hula Hoop Story!

The Road to Wealth is Paved with Hula Hoops? By Marci Johnson, Ed.M.

My motto has always been the same as Caresse Crosby, that fabulous expatriate of 1920’s Paris: “Take care of the luxuries, the necessities will take care of themselves.” Whether this has served me well or not is a matter of opinion. I’m not going to win any financial acumen awards—I haven’t done “wise” things like sock away my money in real estate or stocks, but I have traveled the world as what I like to call a “poverty jetsetter.” Highlights of my jetsetting days include playing my harmonica for food in Greece, sleeping on bus station floors in Italy, being awakened before dawn by sprinklers while sleeping in the grass in Spain and missing the running of the bulls because I chose the wrong time to brush my teeth. I bought a disposable camera to record my safari to Africa and while National Geographic will most definitely not be contacting me for my shots of lions in the grass, I had an unforgettable time.

Taking care of the luxuries without a steady job has been quite an adventure for me. I will confess that in my quest for prosperity (which keeps eluding me) I have done some rather odd jobs. Let’s see, there was the time I was hired to be a flower child at a BelAir mansion garden party where Crosby Stills and Nash were playing in the backyard and I decided it would be a good idea if I was a “real” flower child and took magic mushrooms before going to work. Excellent idea. Flowers were growing and shrinking, all the plastic surgery on the guests was dripping down their faces and I got stuck in a room of cream puffs for over an hour. And then there were the daily trips to Vegas for an academy award-winning director with a gambling problem. (There’s a story I’ll tell you sometime!)

And then there was the time I was called to see if I knew a professional hula hooper. “I sure do—me,” I blurted before really thinking. My rent was due. The party booker was surprised and said he would drop by later that afternoon to have me sign a contract. I went directly to the toy store and bought two lime green hula-hoops. I was trying to renew my childhood hula-hoop skills when he knocked.

“So,” he said, “Can I see some of your moves?” “Sure,” I answered, as I maneuvered the hula-hoops behind my back and tore the tags off so he wouldn’t see I had just bought them.

Now, I can do some basic hula-hooping but not a whole lot more than the average seven-year-old. I put both hoops on my hips at the same time, a rather impressive trick to those who don’t know how to hula-hoop, and spun them around while telling the booker I couldn’t show him my real tricks because there just wasn’t enough room in my living room. He fell for my blatant lies and left. I must confess I felt terribly guilty, lying about my hula-hooping skills, but I was determined to make my rent. This would do the trick.

I had no idea what a professional hula-hooper might do, so I spent the rest of the day trying to invent some tricks. I spun those damn things on my hips, my feet, my arms, and even my neck, but my windpipe protested that one. The most dazzling trick I invented was spinning one hula-hoop on each arm while bending my head back in a sort of back bend. While it gave me vertigo and I had to lie down whenever I tried it, it would have to do. I dressed up in a 1950’s outfit—black pants, white socks, a pink angora sweater–and arrived at the fancy hotel where the party would be held with my hoops in tow. When I walked backstage, a hush fell over the room. I tried to ignore everyone and staked out my own little space. I could hear the other dancers whispering, “The hula-hooper is here! I can’t wait to see the hula-hooper!” I felt my face grow hot and wondered what the hell I had gotten myself into now as I laid my hula- hoops on the floor. I figured I better do something as they all cleared out of my way, so I acted like I thought a professional athlete would act and started to stretch with a very serious expression on my face. I did a cartwheel over my hoops, touched my toes, did the splits—all the things I learned in Dessa Hepler’s backyard acrobatics class when I was eight years old. The party started and I started to panic. I went to a corner and called my best friend.

“Kim,” I whispered. “SOS. They expect me to do something amazing here. They think I’m a professional hula-hooper. They’re relying on me.”

“Look,” she said, always my voice of reason, “it’s a corporate party. Most of them can’t even do the splits. They’ll be impressed with anything you do. Just smile and have fun. They’ll love it.” “OK, you’re right. I’ll dazzle them with my delusions of grandeur.” I replied, feeling like I might vomit at any moment.

My music started and I glued a big smile on my face and skipped out onto the stage spinning both hula-hoops on each arm. I dropped the hoops and did a few cartwheels through them hoping no one would notice I had no idea what I was doing. It didn’t help that the other dancers had all run to the wings, whispering and watching me, waiting for my big tricks. I went for the old performing standby—get Uncle Joe up there onstage and everyone will be so thrilled they won’t even watch you. I skipped out into the audience and dragged the big boss onstage. The drunk audience roared with approval and it turned out I was the highlight of the evening (all because the boss did the Robot and the Cabbage Patch, delighting the entire party.) I collected my rent money and went home and into a hot tub, nursing my humiliated yet triumphant ass.

The next day however, I kept experiencing serious dizzy spells. I finally went to the health clinic at UCLA. I was fairly convinced I had a brain tumor and it was with a heavy heart and a quiet voice I told the doctor about my spells. I also told her there was a slim possibility the dizziness was caused by the hula-hoop routine I had done the night before. I believed the combination of spinning hoops in my peripheral vision combined with being upside down in a back bend had somehow messed up my equilibrium. The doctor tapped her finger on her chin and said, “I’ll be right back.” She returned with two other doctors and asked me to repeat the hula-hoop story. They all laughed heartily, which I thought was a bit insensitive considering I might be dying of a brain tumor, but it turned out the dizziness faded after a day or two (as they predicted) and I was fine. I guess it was the hula-hoops.

Who knew rent could be paid with hula-hoops? At this stage in my life, however, I’ve noticed a distinct trend among wealthy people–they all work really hard. I think I’m going to try that next. And find a way to take care of the luxuries and the necessities. In any case, luxuries for me have changed pretty drastically. In the past, luxuries meant buying velvet capes and evening gowns. Now I find my most luxurious moments are freedom. My best moments this week consisted of sitting in a field of clover, holding the round little body of my ten-month-old son while his tiny pudgy hands grabbed fistfuls of clover flowers. We were watching my two-year-old hold up her dress and stomp and skip through a mud puddle the size of a small lake, while she screamed and giggled with delight. It had rained earlier in the day and the air was shimmering with that ethereal light that only happens when the sun is shining through the raindrops quivering on the leaves of the big old oaks with arms like magicians. These were moments so exquisite, more precious than anything money could ever buy.

Yesterday was one of those days–a rare and fleeting golden day. Henry and Annabelle woke up happy, ate all their breakfast, took a bath, let me go to yoga, etc.
Annabelle is always a sweet conscientious child, but today, she deserves three gold stars. We went to Gym Rompers, their favorite weekly activity, and a little girl tried to push Henry and Annabelle ran up and stood next to him to protect him. Then, they put a big basket of instruments in the middle of the floor for the kids to pick one, and Henry wanted to, so he toddled out there, but got scared and ran back to me. Annabelle watched this whole thing and went to the basket herself and picked out an instrument and brought it back for Henry. So sweet! It was just one of those days. Smooth nap, smooth bedtime.
Today on the other hand, was crazy. And bedtime–just bring the straightjacket for me now.
They are usually asleep by 7:30pm. Tonight they went to bed at 8:30. It may seem like only an hour, but when you’re lying in bed with a one year old rolling back and forth and a three year old who wants to change her underwear every five minutes so she can wear all her new Little Mermaid underwear.. you see what I’m getting at?
Wooo! I feel much better after going to Allison’s place downstairs to pop popcorn. You may be wondering why I don’t have a microwave. That’s an excellent question. I have no idea what the answer is, except that every time I think I need to buy one, I can think of a million things I’d rather spend the money on. But with my love of popcorn, not to mention the occasional meal I’d like to cook in less than two hours, I see one appearing very soon in my future.

We got all dressed up and went to see The Nutcracker today at Roussel Hall at Loyola. Annabelle loves ballerinas and I thought she’d make it through about 30 minutes and I thought Henry would make it through 5.
They both sat through the whole thing!
George and I kept looking at each other in amazement. Annabelle sat on my lap in her purple tutu and pink cowboy boots, completely enrapt, and Henry, though initially scared of the lowering lights, was transfixed. He lounged on George’s lap even lalughed on certain parts he found funny. He seemed to really like the little boys that were running around on the stage wreaking havoc adn the dancing mice. When the little girls were dancing, rocking their babies, and then the boys came tearing onto the stage, Henry laughed and whooped as if to say, “Ah, here they are! My tribe!”
Henry toddled around at intermission, playing with the drinking fountain, and Annabelle, the social scientist, sat down with a family of strangers and seriously observed their behaviors like Jane Goodall watching chimps.
By the end of the show, Annabelle started getting antsy and said “poopoo ballerina!” loud enough for the row in front of us to hear her. I saw all their shoulders shaking with laughter and I had tears running down my face I was laughing so hard–not good when trying to teach a three year old what is appropriate and what is not. Even though I shushed her, she could feel me laughing. Then she started making her funny faces and I knew it was only a matter of time before she’d be creating chaos. We left during the Waltz of the Flowers.
We came home and I gathered materials to make star windows as a pre-bed activity. When I entered the nursery, Annabelle had on huge blue glasses from her doctor kit and was trying to give an obliging Henry a shot. I love watching them interact. Today at the grocery store, they were holding up traffic hugging and kissing each other. Completely adn utterly delightful.

I LOVE holidays!! Thanksgiving is not my favorite as I feel so bad for the turkeys and I’m not a football fan, but, I love the energy and excitement of people getting off work and spending time with their families.
George, my little gourmand, has been like a kid in a candy store. He ordered a truffle from Italy and it arrived this morning on ice. He came into the bedroom where the kids and I were playing holding a little sheer red bag tied with a ribbon, his eyes glowing with delight. Inside the littel bag–one tiny $50 truffle dug up by an italian pig. he gave it to us to smell–nasty–but he’s very excited to make truffle pasta for us vegetarians tomorrow. All day his little gourmet devices have been arriving–pasta maker, pasta dryer, truffle shaver, etc. He and Annabelle made some of his incredible homemade bread this morning. It’s still rising on top of the refrigerator right now.
Annabelle is very excited over all the happenings. We made lanterns while Henry was sleeping. I took some of the watercolors we’ve been doing on heavy paper and we cut little shapes (stars ,moons, etc.) out of it and Annabelle taped tissue paper over them. I rolled the paper into a cylinder and stapled it together, folding the bottom and cutting ltitle slits so it all folded together. We glued the bottoms, stapled on aanother watercolor paper strip for a handle, and voila! A lantern!
We had a lantern walk tonight, adding little votive candles into the bottom of the lanterns. Both kids were very careful. When we did lantern walks in November on the Vineyard, we would walk around this amazing farm. All you could see were tiny glowing lanterns under the stars. It smelled like fire and cold air and we’d sing some sweet song.
It’s not safe enough here in New Orleans to even walk around our neighborhood after dark, so we had a lantern walk around the billiards room. We sang–Annabelle made up songs– and I told Annabelle that the sunlight is growing shorter every day, so the little candles help to remind us that we can light our own candles inside ourselves to get through any amount of darkness. At the end, we said three things we were thankful for and blew out the candles.
We all loved it. And I just want to say what I’m thankful for: George, Henry, and Annabelle, my dear family, my loving friends, the magic of New Orleans, the magic of the Vineyard, the flowers blooming on my balcony (especially the nightblooming jasmine which intoxicated me every night as it fills the living room), the teeming life here–spanish moss, beautifully gnarled oak trees, second line parades, mardi gras indians, and people who can create a festival around a sandwich (we attended the packed po boy festival this weekend, a po boy being a New Orleans sandwich.), the fabulous sultry sensuality of belly dancing, bare feet, red toes, bubble baths, stawberries and champagne, red silk slipping off my shoulders, fairy lights in the trees, the stunning moon, well, I could go on and on.
Suffice to say, I have so much to be grateful for.

I have found that Henry is Picasso with food. For example, I gave him yogurt today and he promptly painted the table with it, then his belly, legs and arms, and then the floor. He got it nice and goopy and then squished his bare feet in it and tried to ice skate.
Later, he tried to shove his stuffed bear’s face into his macaroni and cheese, covering its fur in slime. I took the bear away and washed it with soap and water while Henry dragged his little chair over to the stove so he would have somewhere to stand while he played with the burners. I helped him off his chair and put the chair away while he walked over to Annabelle and smacked her.
“Don’t hit, Henry. You can high five me,” she said, giving him high five. “You can give me rocks,” she said, tapping his fist with her own. “But no hitting.” I don’t konw where a three year old learned to re-direct a one year old, but I was delighted. “Annabelle! What a great job of helping Henry learn. He doesn’t want to hurt you, he wants to connect with you, so high five nad rocks are perfect!”
It wasn’t long, however, before she had a complete meltdown. It had been a qhile since lunch and hunger crept up on her and I tried to get her to eat but she was too busy howling. She made her own secret cubby behind the door in the hallway. I slipped a package of scooby snacks through the crack in the door to her and I heard the crackel of paper as she munched away. “Do you want a yogurt?” I whispered. She nodded and I slipped it to her with a spoon and she ate that too. “Mom,” she whispered when I came to pick up the empty container, “I’m going to come out in a few minutes but I don’t want you to be scared. I’m going to be very still like a statue, but don’t worry, I’m a real girl.”
A few minutes she emerged and held very still. I screamed in terror and she was delighted. She climbed on her new plasma car, courtesy of her adoring and wonderful grandmother Grantine, and propelled herself down the hallway at breakneck speed, her hair flying behind her. That’s my mercurial girl.
Henry ran down teh hallway behind her, also screaming with delight. he was followed by their two year old friend Atticus, also screaming. It was triumph of the munchkins around here. Who knew three tiny people could fill the house with so much?

We had such a magical morning. After retrieving the stuffed goldfish Henry was swishing in the toilet bowl, I turned on some beautiful classical music and set up the watercolors. Annabelle is at that age where her drawing has changed into people-type figures with heads and arms and legs. It’s amazing to watch. Henry is at that age where he sucks on his paintbrush and drinks the paint water. In any case, this is one of our favorite ways to spend the mornings–it just starts the day right.
Last night George had some powerful music people over for a glass of wine before dinner. He actually cleaned his billiards room which shocked me as his stuff has been piling up in there for months. Annabelle greeted our guests by hanging onto her feet and doing the straddles in her dress.
Within ten minutes of arriving, she had one guest reading her The Velveteen Rabbit, in between her running in circles and doing somersaults on the flokati rug followed closely by Henry.
When the other guest arrived, Henry started to cry and clutch George’s leg. “Sometimes Henry is afraid of grown-ups with crazy hair,” Annabelle informed the reader. “Ah yes,” he laughed. “That’s why he’s not afraid of me. I have no hair so it’s not crazy.” She studied him for a minute. “Actually, it is kind of crazy,” she mumbled before taking of for another run of acrobatics. This before picking up her pink maribou princess phone and talking to the fairies and ordering everyone in the room to raise their hands and giving us numbers. When Mr. Crazy Hair said, “What’s your number?” she said “I don’t have a number.”
“Keep believing that as long as you can girl!” he replied.
She had everyone laughing so hard, including herself and Henry, it took me a long while to settle them down for bed.

I invited Cathy, my photographer friend who lived on the ashram for 7 years on a shopping trip with me.
“Cathy, do you want to come with me on a commando cowgirl shopping trip where we plow through a few favorite stores as fast as possible?” (I can never leave the kids for long.)
“Absolutely!” she said.
She’s my yes girl. Whenever I ask her to do anything, she says yes or absolutely, my favorite words after “Can you bake me some warm chocolate chip oatmeal cookies?” (My favorite thing to bake to fulfill my baking addiction.)
“But I think commando means we don’t wear underwear,” she said.
“Fine,” I replied. “Underwear is overrated anyway.”
We left on our trip (non-commando) and started at Trashy Diva, a store that could have been named after us, the original trashy divas. We ended up staying there and not even making it to another store, because Trashy Diva is tres dreamy! They were playing Sinatra, which immediately immerses me in this beautiful romantic world with no hard edges. The clothes are all gorgeous vintage styles, made with modern day fabrics and cuts, and I tried on the most amazing dresses. I’m kind of like a trying-on cowgirl, meaning I can try on clothes faster than you can say “another glass of champagne darling?”. I was trying to find a dress to match my exquisite cream and black velvet Garbo coat, so that meant ivory silk.
I sashayed out of my dressing room in an amazing Rita Hayworth gown, that dragged on the floor. It had buttons down the back and flowy sleeves and I couldn’t decide if I looked like Rita in Gilda or the ghost of Willoughby Hall or a southern gal sitting on her big ol’ porch sipping mint juleps and entertaining her gentleman callers. Blanche Dubois at her craziest. Cathy was sitting outside the dressing room clutching a cashmere wrap she loved, trying to decide how much she loved it. “Oh yes!” she exclaimed upon seeing me. “I love it! I love the buttons down the back.”
“Well, that cashmere is divine! You have to get it!” (This is what we do, encourage each other to buy yummies.)
I was trying on my next ensemble when I heard Cathy calling out, “Lucy! You have some explaining to do!” I came out swishing in a slinky champagne silk Jean Harlow gown and Cathy was wearing a polka dotted silk robe over her jeans and sneakers, swinging her arms and kicking her foot ala Buster Keaton. “This robe is GREAT!” she shouted, impersonating a cross between Ricky Ricardo and Charlie Chaplin. “I’m having a ball out here. Maybe I should buy something so I look more like a girl and less like a truckdriver.”
(Mind you, Cathy doesn’t look like a truckdriver. She’s tiny and slender and beautiful with a radiant smile and a bouncing blonde ponytail.)
Our fun ended when the husband called to see where I was. This being a top secret mission to see if there was anything out there I couldn’t live without, I hadn’t told him what I was doing (he disapproves of shopping). He was very suspicious, to say the least, and thought I might be having an affair. Ha! Darling, I’m not having an affair, but just look at the fabulous ivory silk Marilyn Monroe in the Seven Year Itch halter dress I bought! It swishes against my skin like whipped cream silk. It will be perfect for mojitos on the porch at The Columns hotel listening to New Orleans jazz, or whirling around the dance floor at the grand hotel on Christmas Eve.
Ahhh, the trashy diva strikes again.

I had the strongest deja vu today! I was sitting on the back driveway with Annabelle and Henry and our 3-year-old neighbor, Maggie, and her 5-year-old brother, George, and their fabulous mother, Allison. George had been howling because he scraped his knee, and in an effort to redirect his attention, I mentioned the first thing that popped into my head. “George, have you seen the anteater at the zoo?” I know he loves animals. He stopped howling and stared at me for a minute, nodding. “Do you know how he eats ants? Does he suck them up his nose, like a vacuum?”
“He sticks his tongue out,” said Maggie. Allison said, “George why don’t you run inside and get you big book on animals?” George ran in and came back out with his animal encyclopedia. I had only been asking to distract him from his wounded knee, but now I was really curious. He found the anteater, and learned that it actually has a sticky two-foot-long tongue that flicks in and out of its mouth at the rate of 150 times a minute!!!!
What the hell!!!?!???
While reading this fascinating information, I had the strongest sense that I had experienced this moment before, dreamed about it years earlier. A wrinkle in time as they say? Is that what a deja vu is? It’s freaky, whatever it is.

Last night I was bathing the monkeys and Annabelle was singing, as she usually is, and George walked by the bathroom. He stopped and backed up. “Is she singing Macy Gray?” he asked.  The lyrics of the song she was singing finally registered with me.  My little three old was singing “try to say goodbye and I choke, try to walk away and I stumble.” Now, I love this song by Macy Gray, but I haven’t listened to it in months. “Sweetie,” I said, “Where did you hear that song?” She just smiled at me. Then she said, “Mom, why does she choke?” I spent the next half hour explaining that there’s another definition for choking besides gagging on one’s food. “Sometimes people say they get “choked up” when they’re sad or about to cry. And people sometimes have a hard time saying goodbye, like we do when we say goodbye to Ellie (Annabelle’s cousin and my sweet sweet niece). It makes us sad so we could say, “We try to say goodbye and we choke.” I had to also explain stumble to her.

I’m constantly amazed by her musicality. Yesterday we came home from lunch and she tore off her shirt in the driveway and started singing “”This car is automatic, systematic, hydromatic…” Her favorite dance numbers are “Greased Lightning” from Grease, “All I Do is Dream of You” from Singing in the Rain, and “Sisters” from White Christmas. Today we were jumping on the bed, well she was with Henry and Zazie, and Zazie was singing this sweet little song with her mom, Lacie, called “Wiggle Wiggle,” the only lyrics being “wiggle.” Lacie has the sweetest voice. Annabelle said, “I have a song!” and stood up ont eh bed in her Tinkerbell underwear and broke into a spirited version of “Heartbreak Hotel,” her signature Elvis impersonation, with Henry doing a hilarious Annabelle impersonation at the same time. That’s my girl.

And this after we went to Lacie’s yesterday for a magical Devali celebration, the Indian Festival of Lights, and she was playing Bollywood music, and Annabelle came into me and said, “Mom, the Siamese cats are singing.” That’s my girl.

Well, we were walking yesterday among the wild animals at Swamp Fest (is there anything more terrifying than an alligator oozing out of the water?) and I was telling George how I wanted to take the kids on safari, how amazing to see the animals in their natural habitat with no enclosures. “Doesn’t that sound incredible?” I asked him, imagining monkeys eating out of our hands, me in an adorable pith helmet and khaki suit, Annabelle and Henry dancing to the drums at sunset on Mount Kilimanjaro.
George said “No. That doesn’t sound great. I’m not going.”
He does love to rain on my parade.
A little later, we had lunch at the country club on the golf course. It’s a lovely place, but not my favorite, but I tolerate the elevator music and fried food because I know he loves it, even though he’s neer even played golf. After lunch he said, “Don’t you want to retire on a golf course? It’s so peaceful and beautiful here. We could learn to play gin rummy, learn to play golf…”
“No,” I answered. “I absolutely never want to live on a golf course.”
But that about sums up our relationship.
I feel most comfortable on adventures with wild animals; George feels most comfortable among civilized human beings playing gin rummy on a golf course.
I suppose that’s why we’re so good together–Senorita Spicy, untamed, wild; and Mr. Martini, civilized, sitting with his legs crossed talking about high art.
How is the world did we come together? What jokester created this attraction between opposites, an endless fracas where we can never see eye to eye?
And yet, I’m completely, madly, utterly in love with him–the sexiest, hottest, smartest, most handsome curmudgeon I’ve ever had the good fortune to know.
Bring it on Baby!