Top 5 Ways to Rock a Kid-Stained Outfit

Before I had kids, going out on a Saturday night was a simple affair. My friends and I would choose a destination, plan our outfits, gather at one of our places for pre-drinks, and then head out for a night on the town followed by a Sunday-morning sleep in/brunch. My! How things have changed. Now, my pre-game looks something more like: finish getting the kids fed and bathed, hope they warm up to the nanny in time for me to make a break for my room to decide what to wear, and then race to get through my glam routine so I can get to dinner on time.

No matter how happy my kids are, playing with each other or with the nanny, I can never leave the house without at least a 15-minute meltdown; I have no idea why my kids have such abandonment issues! I’m with them 24 hours a day! 

I am all dressed up in my leather pants, white chiffon blouse and black fringe booties. My youngest daughter sees me making my way for the front door and immediately throws herself to the floor with even more dramatic flare than Kim Kardashian West finding out her last beignet was eaten. I pick her up and she immediately buries her face in my shoulder. Tears, drool, boogers, the whole shebang—within 30 seconds my outfit has been drenched and stained. Not a pretty sight, but I can’t get pissed. I need to act fast before some of this fluid starts to harden. I definitely don't have time to change, and if I attempt getting the stains out, what happens if I rub and rub and only make things worse? I need to think of a quick fix…quick.

            So, how do you cover up the after effects of your child’s meltdown? Here are my top 5 ways to rock your outfit despite the kid phlegm that’s taken over:

1. Add some sophistication—Weather pending, throw a soft, silky pashmina over your shoulders. No one will ever know what’s really going on under there. Scarves have been hiding our little secrets for years: whether it was your teenage hickey, your bloated belly, or a little stain you’d been fighting with, a bright-colored scarf always does the trick.
2. Rock out—Every girl should own a sick leather jacket, for several reasons. First and foremost, they are a wardrobe staple. But in close second, it’s my at-home fix-it trick that has practically put my tailor out of work. Little tears, some pilling, tiny stains, big stains, stains that were once light and soft that have now hardened and can’t come out—a great leather jacket is like the magic eraser of fashion. You’ll look like a sexy rockstar. Plus, added bonus: you’ll be the cool girl who won’t take their jacket off at the table (no matter the temperature) in the name of fashion.
3. Let your hair down—I usually tie my hair back, but when I go out at night, I always leave it down. It’s just the way I feel sexiest. In the case of me versus boogers, it’s not just about feeling sexy, it’s also about letting my long tresses cover the living creature that’s taken to pitching a tent on my left shoulder. Keeping my mane perfectly in place will be a difficult task; I do love playing with my hair just out of habit or tying it back when food comes, but now I’ll just have to look like some New York blogger with the perfect ‘do all night!
4. Every outfit can use more bling—Depending on the location of the disturbance, I often think of cute fashion-statement jewelry. A brooch, some chained necklaces, some fur… I suggest you stay away from shoulder-length earrings; that might just draw unnecessary attention to the mess. You pile on the riches, even if a poke of snot shines through, whoever is staring will be forced to look away due to all the bling shining in their faces.
5. This is your life—What would’ve happened if I hadn’t noticed the boogs prior to arriving at the restaurant, and had the misfortune of having a friend point it out, or worse, a stranger? Own it! I’m hot, I’m sexy and I’m a mom! This is life; this is my life – boogers and all! I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Abori Coolness

(To be read in a British accent)

Some people are just cooler than others.
I mean, to be quite honest, I never wanted to be the one who came out and said it, but come on… I’m freakin’ cool.
I first started wearing the one-piece cat suit when I was quite young, most likely younger than you are right now. I remember there was this one Halloween way back when I was eight or nine years old, I looked up at my Mum and, in the cutest, sweetest voice, I asked her, “Mum, I think I’ll be a rabbit for Halloween this year, is that all right with you?”
She looked back at me, fond of her little boy and she replied, “Why yes, my dear, a rabbit it is.”
It was after that first Halloween way back then, that I realized just how cozy a one-piece suit was. I reluctantly undressed post trick-or-treat and got into my nightdress. As I tucked myself into bed that night, I remember being so vastly uncomfortable. I quickly untucked myself, slid out of bed and went over to my dresser… there had to be a way for me to sew and stitch together pants to a top. I was determined.
Much to my dismay, I was wrong. Being the eight- (or nine-) year-old boy that I was, I couldn’t stitch nor sew. So, I got back into bed and thought and thought and dreamed and dreamed of the many ways I would convince my dear ol’ Mum to purchase me my very own one-piece suit to be worn daily.
The following morning, bright and early, I walked over to the kitchen table where my mother was, of course, reading the morning paper, and I asked her, “Mum, I looked quite cool last night in that one-piece suit, did I not?” 
“Oh, darling. You looked precious,” she replied.
I spent the next twenty minutes or so explaining to Mumsy how I had decided that from that day forth, I would only, exclusively, wear a one-piece suit. I would not only wear this suit every day of my very existence, but said suit would not stop at my neck or toes. My shoes were to be built in, as was a headpiece, mouth-hole cut out. I would buy the fabric in white and colour onto it whatever it was that I fancied at that very moment.
As so was the birth of cool. Abori Coolness, for that is my full name.

Popping Bottles

Why Do I Like Popping Bottles?
By Zouggie K

Popping bottles is an activity that most people enjoy, but few get the opportunity to do. I am one of the lucky ones who get to pop bottles... not once, not twice, but three times a week.
What kind of bottles, you ask?
Bottles that require popping, of course.
Bottle popping is fun and exciting, but it is also dangerous and potentially messy. What people need to keep in mind whilst bottle popping is that the bottle should be kept at an angle where the spout is not aiming directly at someone's head... unless of course it is the face of your intended target.
Also, if you are in a location where the ceilings are low and in reach, do not point the bottle upright, as it may cause damage to said ceiling and a mess will then ensue. Not to mention the dripping alcohol from the ceiling.
Oh! Last but not least, 'da club is not the only place bottles are popping. If you are in a private home of a friend or loved one, you may be asked to pop a bottle. If you pop a bottle improperly, you may ruin the party flow and be asked to leave. 
Popping a bottle is a task not to be taken lightly. The excitement level and enthusiasm of the party depends on the properly timed bottle popping. If the music is rising and the energy level is also on a steady incline - pop that bottle! 

I like popping bottles. On a happy occasion or on a regular Tuesday night. Bottle popping is awesome. So is flying a G6.

Damn Balloon

“Damn balloon,” Amethyst said as she sifted through her plastic bag filled with colorful left over pieces of popped balloons. “What am I gonna do with the knot?”
Amethyst was walking through a grassy field near her studio; she needed a break from the smell of super glue and fresh paint. She reached down to pick up the yellow scrap, but much to her dismay, the scrap was unusable. What was she going to do with the knot? Unknot it? As she has been doing this for a while, Amethyst knew, from many failed attempts, that trying to unknot a balloon was merely an exercise in futility. Even if it could be unknotted, which was nearly impossible, the balloon would be way too maimed to glue to paper. She needed flat pieces, bits of plastic that could lie neatly on a page and still allow the scrapbook to close.
She dropped the yellow morsel and kept walking. She wasn’t walking in search of anything in particular, although this portion of field always had something worth looking at. 
The hot air balloon field was just across the way, about a forty-five minute drive from her studio. That translated to a five to six-hour non-hot-air-balloon flight. Amethyst timed balloon travel: she knew that your typical plastic balloon, from a kid’s birthday party or something of that style, could fly in the air for about five to six hours before it reached a level in the sky that would pop the balloon and have it fall to the ground in bits and pieces; bits and pieces she collected. 
“Even if there weren’t a knot, it’s yellow. I already have yellow,” Amethyst continued her thoughts out loud. Who was she talking to?
Beats me. 
Amethyst kept on her way, trudging through branches and piles of leaves that were gathered on the ground. She grabbed for a long sturdy branch and picked it up. After giving it a close one-over, Amethyst held it up in her right hand and stared at it proudly. “My new walking stick,” she said to herself. “I was looking for one of these.” No she hadn’t been looking for one of those, but no matter what it was that Amethyst found, if she liked it, then she was certain that she must have been on a long search for it and she was lucky to have finally found it. 
Walking through the field was admittedly easier now that she had her new walking stick. She could move away anything that was in her path as opposed to jumping over it or having to go around it. As eccentric as she was, one couldn’t deny that she was sharp and resourceful. Well, one didn’t necessarily have the chance to deny it - nobody really knew her.
She continued along in search of nothing and everything. Knees up to her chest, she marched along through the cast field. She looked around to take in her surroundings: so green and so wide, so much to explore. Amethyst was familiar with the likes of this field; she traveled it daily. Her studio was but a 45-minute walk away, so on days when the fumes were too strong or when she simply needed some fresh air, she would set out to discover whatever the field had to offer. To any regular Joe, this field was nothing but trees, grass and accumulated fallen leaves, but to Amethyst it was her stomping ground; her home away from home, her chance to uncover the many mysteries of life. That yellow scrap of a party balloon was trash to most, but not to Amethyst. To Amethyst it was a lost memory from little Mitch’s fifth birthday party, or a balloon that had slipped away from a baby’s not-so-tight grip, the same balloon that made a sad, crying baby girl shed her tears or perhaps smile. In this case, Amethyst’s interest in the yellow balloon was abandoned at the sight of the knot, but in most instances, the balloons she found were the beginnings of many adventures. 
“Come on stick, let’s keep walking.”

Cinderella Slut

Once upon a time in a far away land, there lived a man. This man was no ordinary man. Quite the contrary to be exact, this man was extraordinary.

One day, upon awakening, the young extraordinary man put on his favorite turtleneck and blazer and charged forth on his daily morning promenade. 

Along his trail, he would normally stop to whisper to a tree, sing to a flower, dance with a honeybee, or convert money. But that morning was different from all other mornings. Upon that special morning, the extraordinary man took but a mere three strides before being startled nearly to death. 

He rarely ever bumped into another human being, and if he did, then that other human being would be yet a mere ordinary person, unlike himself. However, the person he collided with that morning was an extraordinary woman, a tall, beautiful, redheaded extraordinary princess. 
The extraordinary man was taken aback. His mouth open, eyes wide, and cheeks the color of rose with a hint of coy. 

“Oh me, oh my,” whispered the extraordinary man to himself. “This is the mighty and marvelous Cinderella. She is so beautiful, I must introduce myself.”

With that, the extraordinary man erected his arm forth and thrust himself upon her. “Princess,” he said with a bow. “If I may introduce myself, I am the extraordinary man from yonder.”

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Extraordinary Man,” responded Cinderella with a slight nod of her wonderful head.

They cooed and gawked at one another for but a soft moment, and without much further ado, they grabbed their faces and began to kiss each other passionately. In one fell swoop, the two were rolling around in the field, rustling and hustling, sucking face and clutching at parts that ordinary people don’t know or have.

Several intense hours later, the extraordinary man and the slutty princess put their clothes back on and said their goodbyes. 

As the extraordinary man set off on his trail, he turned back toward the princess and said, “Thank you very much Princess, today you have fulfilled my wildest dreams. You truly are the sluttiest princess I have met to date.” 

The princess was taken aback upon hearing such an exceptional compliment from such an extraordinary man. She placed her hand to her lips and puckered up. Her hand fluttered as she motioned to blow the extraordinary man one last kiss. 

“Thank you,” she added.

The extraordinary man was never one for wearing his heart on his sleeve, but he couldn’t hold back after such a sensational encounter. He turned to his masked Fairy-bell and winked, “Today was another extraordinary day in my extraordinary life, huh Fairy-bell?” 

“Today was awesome, my man.”

I Don't Want To and You Can't Make Me

I don’t want to and you can’t make me…
I couldn’t sleep at all last night. I tossed and turned thinking about all the different scenarios that might play out. I kept imagining what I would say to the kids. Will they like me? Should I carry a knapsack or a briefcase? Should I bring a lunch or buy a lunch? Will the teachers like me? 
I was halfway between nervous and just flat out insecure; no matter how many jobs I’ve had, or how experienced I am, I still look like a teenager? 
I decided to get out of bed; sleeping wasn’t happening. I decided to be productive and make lunch after all. I cut up some tomatoes, threw them in a bowl. I sliced through an avocado, traced lines through each half and spilled the contents into the bowl. I reached for the half-lemon in my fridge, and placed it on my head. Then I began to peel a Spanish onion. Normally the lemon trick keeps the tears from flowing, my mom taught me that. But today- today was different. I could’ve had six lemons on my head and it wouldn’t have mattered; the tears wanted out. As I lay on my kitchen floor, lemon on my head, onion in one hand, knife in the other, I cried. I cried. I cried. 
I cried until 6:45. And then I cried some more. I would’ve kept crying all morning but I didn’t want to look all puffed up on my first day of school. It didn’t matter how big my glasses were: they couldn’t hide the evidence. I got up off the floor and continued to dice the onion. Tears kept flowing but I wiped them away. I was thankful I could use the onion as an excuse to keep crying, even if it was just a little. I smushed the contents together and voilà! I smeared some guacamole on some bread, cut it down the middle, and then again to make four little triangles. Paper towel. Aluminum foil. Done.
Getting dressed is usually a simple task, a mindless task. Not that day. I dreaded that day. I wanted to get back into bed and sleep. I was so tired. I wasn’t ready. I wished I had had one more day to prepare. 
Enough. Grow up. Enough. Just get dressed and get to school. I kept chanting ‘enough, great dressed’ over and over in my head.
Black pants, white shirt, camel sweater vest and heels. High heels. No. Short heels. I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard. Briefcase. Definitely briefcase. I kind of looked like a lawyer, or a waitress. Whatever. One quick look in the mirror and I was on my way. 
I got into my car, turned on the engine, placed my hands on the wheel, closed my eyes and prayed: don’t cry Zoug. Please don’t cry. 
Enough was enough. I was acting like a baby. I was on my way to my first day of a really important job and there I was crying like a little baby. Why was I crying? I could handle this- I had done this before. Enough was enough.
I parked my car and walked up to the school. Opened the doors, took a deep breath in and smiled. Forced smile, but a smile nonetheless. That’s not true. I was happy: nervous, but happy. I walked down the hallways thinking, ‘I’m going to be walking down these hallways everyday this year, maybe next year too. Ugh! I really am excited!’
I walked over to 3A. My classroom. My classroom! I opened the door, walked in; the room was already packed with students. I walked right up to the front of the classroom, placed my briefcase on the floor beside the desk, looked around at the nervous teenaged faces and smiled. I was going to be fine. 
“Hi everyone. My name is Alecs Kakon and I will be your teacher this year.”
Looking back on that first day of school makes me think about how far I’ve come and how great I did that year teaching Spanish. I think about how nervous I was and about how the nerves were a necessary part of the day. If I hadn’t been nervous then I wouldn’t have over-thought every single thing that I had done. Everything from my attire to my lunch was integral. That guacamole sandwich saved me. 
At lunchtime, in the teacher’s lounge, I took out my aluminum foil-wrapped sandwich. As I lifted the first triangle to my mouth I noticed a young man, in a suit, head down, staring at the table in front of him. I walked over to him and asked if everything was all right. He told me that he had forgotten to pack a lunch- I guess he was just as nervous about his first day as I was. I went to the other end of the table, grabbed my sandwich and sat down next to him. John and I became quick friends as we sat there, on our first day as teachers, sharing my guacamole sandwich.

Yellow Flower

There are yellow flowers in my hair and white candles in my hand.
wHy?
Staring at the tiling on the floor could make anyone dizzy, but not me. Squares UnDiZzY the world… they uNdIzZy me!
So I toss my hair to the left and reveal the lotus flower. No longer properly hooked in, it drops to the tiled floor. Drip. Drip. Drip. The white candle disintegrates in my hand. Melting. I blow it out so that I can freeze it in time; it works, you know? I can keep it like this forever. It can never rejuvenate; and without a flame, it will never die. 
wAx. 
Interesting concept and oh so… beautiful
Here are some words I like to say:

unicYcle
cauliflower
yinkeRbell
ooGey boogey
didgeridoO
asterisk 

I don’t like to say them all at the same time. I just like those words. They aren’t words I hear very often, but when I do… oh boy, when I do… my face lights up with the flame of the white candles in my hand and the yellow flowers in my hair. 
L
U
F
R
E
D
N
O
W
O
N
D
E
R
F
U
L
Light My Flame.
Light My Desire.
But don’t let me melt away.
D
R
I
P
.