Monday, July 12, 2010

Please Explain.


It has been hotter than hell in New England for the last few weeks, and I thought that perhaps the heat had finally gotten to me when I saw this. Surely, I could not be seeing pictures of an actually fashion show in which the models were made up to look like the Gorton's Fisherman? Maybe all the frozen margaritas I have been drinking lately have actually started to affect my sanity? (By the way, the mango one was exceptional!)

No. No, this is real. This is from Patrick Mohr's fashion show at Fashion Week Berlin. I have never heard of Patrick Mohr, did not know Berlin had a fashion week, and could not tell you what clothes he is actually showing. Because I am SO FUCKING DISTRACTED by these disturbing pictures. I want to know the following:

How does someone decide that this is a good idea?

I have had wacky ideas before, like my intense desire to cover "Oops, I Did It Again" as a waltz. But seriously, who comes up with the idea to make an Amazon Warrior bald with unimpressive, sparse facial hair? Is it something that happens when you drink, like "Hans, wouldn't it be fucking HILARIOUS to make the models look Amish? HEY! That just might work!" I say step away from the schnapps, if that's how it happened. That shit is dangerous.

What did the models think as they were being made into the image of C. Everett Koop?

Were they thinking that this was amazingly avant garde and that he was a genius? Or were they just wishing for a line of coke and a stein of lager? or knockwurst? sauerkraut? I can't figure out how to do umlauts, but they are implied.

What did his mom say to him after the show?

Did she just beam at him with the proud, unconditional love of a mother? Or did she think "Ah, es sind die Auswirkungen von mir fiel ihm auf seinen Kopf, als ein Baby.*" If you can pull off being proud without mockery here, you are Mutter des Jahres** in my buch***.

I am pulling out all the German stuff I can think of here, and left Nazis out of it. Can you believe it?

Fashion shows are already silly, considering that 95% of the clothes shown are not meant to be worn by real people, even the rich ones. And the use of emaciated, freakishly tall girls to show these outlandish costumes is already theatre. Add in facial hair, a bald cap and nude pasties....I don't even know what you have then. It is beyond theatre, even theatre of the absurd. Theatre of the Hideous? Theatre of The Hirsute?

"A mentsch tracht und Gott lacht,****" my Grandmother used to say in Yiddish. So someone got a good laugh out of it.

*= "There are the effects of me dropping him on his head as a baby."
**= Mother of the Year
***= book
****= "A person plans and God laughs."

Monday, June 28, 2010

Who's Your Idol?

I have taken a couple of weeks off to ponder my future. Specifically, my future in music. We have been recording Sugar Snow's first CD over the last month +, and I am so overwhelmed and happy with the results, that I have literally cried at the studio. And made the assistant engineer cry. And caused the producer to tear up. As a band, we haven't had a single disagreement or vociferous difference of opinion, no drinking in the studio, even, and while we are really an embarrassment to all that is rock by being such goody-two-shoeses, it has been a remarkable experience. And an important thing happened: I heard it, and it is good. And it has made me rethink so many things. My life, my attitude towards music, my future. So much has changed. Because when this record drops (as we music people say), Sugar Snow is going to catapult to the top. And I am going to be a rock star.

Yes, it seems unlikely. I am (ahem) over the age that most people become a rock god and am in the uncool position of being married with three kids already. I don't do drugs (yet) and I don't drink because I turn into a silly fool. Really, I am the antithesis of what a rock star is. And yet I will be. I know this. And I have plans for how we are going to influence music forever more.

1. Sugar Snow has NO TATTOOS.

It's true. Not a one amongst us is inked. In fact, three of us are so pasty white as to practically glow in the dark, so a tattoo might relieve the glare. We each have our reasons (such as a dislike for pain), but we are going to make the uncolored skin the hippest thing out there. Not by preaching against tattoos, because Sugar Snow don't preach. We simply live lives of principle, and others will follow. I would include piercings in this, but I don't have the stomach to know whether any of the guys are pierced somewhere that I can't see.

2. Sugar Snow is OLD.

Not all of us. Just some of us. Not going to tell you who. Ok, me. But I am going to make being a suburban mom with no tattoos THE COOLEST thing anyone could ever be. My success will cause droves of matronly ladies in slacks to flock to Guitar Center and buy Fender Mustangs (because that is what I play, after all) which will never be played once said ladies in slacks realize that the strings hurt your fingers and that fingers are not meant to twist that way. I will be the icon of Minivan Cool, kids and amps in the back. Carpool lines will part for me like the Red Sea. You watch.

3. Sad music is AWESOME.

This has always been true, but too many people wake up in the morning feeling like P. Diddy to know that. When I started writing songs, my ENTIRE GOAL was to make someone cry. This we accomplished at our second show, and we fist bumped and celebrated while the teenage girl at Brew'd Awakenings wept. Great moment. Oh, sure, dancing is fun, but the cooler thing to do is get all introspective and melancholy, stop bathing and put one of our songs on repeat. And then parse the lyrics so finely that the song becomes a religious allegory. Go to the shows, sway in the front and let a lone tear roll down your face. Because, motherfucker, that is COOL. Hear it and weep. That is the Sugar Snow motto.

It really is quite simple. Our CD release party will be around my birthday of October 1. You will come. You will buy a CD. You will buy a t-shirt. You will fall in love with me. And you will want to laser off your Chinese character tattoos, MILF yourself up and find yourself an alcoholic musician to give you lyric material. I totally understand. Everyone needs their idols.

And I will be yours.

Monday, June 14, 2010

Members Only

I got a message last week regarding my blog about my first date , "You talked about your first date and you didn't say the word vagina ONCE!" That is true, because vagina was never in the equation on that date. I'm sure there were 14 year olds for whom that was a factor on a date, but I was so uptight that I barely knew I had a vagina, much less would have offered it up or talked about it. Still, I took from that cute message (and you are cute, mister!) that the naughty words have been too absent from my blogs of late. So let's dip our toes back in the proverbial dirty water, shall we?

Men's Health, that online bastion of practical advice, tells you "Why You Shouldn't Have Sex On A Trampoline". The actual risk is a broken penis, something that most often happens (when it happens, which is not often--deep breathes, boys) from a woman being on top. Anyhoo, broken penis from fucking on a trampoline. Am I the only one who is wondering how you CAN fuck while jumping on a trampoline? Literally, how is it possible? And if you have a trampoline available, doesn't it mean you have kids? And where the hell are they when you are committing this carnal act? Do you really want to scar them forever when they wander into the backyard and find you either a) somehow managing airborne vertical copulation, in which case you should be in Cirque du Soleil, or b) you are lying the fetal position, clutching your now broken (though technically not BROKEN, since there are no bones, but that doesn't matter because it feels fucking broken) member. There is no lie you can tell to a child in either situation that they will believe. And does the article REALLY need to tell you that if you feel or HEAR a popping sound coming from your cock, you should go see a doctor? I don't own one, but my understanding is that no sounds at all should be emitted from the cock. Please educate me if I am wrong.

Bottom line: Stay off the trampoline. Idiot.

Assuming that your penis is still in working order and you are the adventurous type, there are always cock rings. It was recently brought to my attention, (thank you KM) that some cock rings come with RPM's. When I heard this, I thought, "Oh good god, the douche who uses this will keep track of how fast he is fucking." And I started mentally blasting men and their selfish sexuality, because really, how fun is it for a woman if speed is the only consideration? It reminded me of a story by the disgusting Tucker Max, who bought a Breathalyzer for his own use, and then proceeded to drink until he was over the legal limit, to a cheering throng of onlookers at a cheesy chinese restaurant. This leads him to puke his guts up on the shrubbery outside the restaurant, because when you show off like that, things WILL go bad. So all the high RPM fucking would cause your innards to shoot out of somewhere, which would instantly end your relationship, and potentially, your sex life. Forever.

Sadly, the RPMs serve another purpose entirely. It indicates the speed with which the cock ring vibrates. The wearer can choose it's speed, but otherwise has no control over it. I am incredibly disappointed by this. The vibrating cock ring will pose no threat to the man, it seems, but could send a woman shooting off into the wall. But I wouldn't know. This is what I hear.

Bottom Line: Get one and let me know how they work. And always wear your helmet.

Shit, I didn't say the word vagina AGAIN! Sorry, Cutie. There's always next week.

Monday, June 7, 2010

The Standard Bearer

I know you were all crushed by my week off last week, but I had a great reason--I had a hangover. It was Memorial Day, I'd spent the most magical weekend in the recording studio, and Sugar Snow then repaired to a local watering hole to celebrate. I am the dumbest drunk ever, giggly and silly. It was a great time. And while the CD is not done, we are nearing the end of the recording process. My boys are fun to hang with. If only I could remember what they said. Or what I said. The only concrete proof of anything is the picture of me displaying my footwear on the bar. Which is to say my foot was on the bar, I was not dancing on the bar. I think.

I've been waaaaaay too serious on the blog lately, and in searching for something ridiculous and meaningless to write about, I came across an article about celebrities and their first dates. This made me wander back to my first date, in the Fall of 1980, when I was a child of 14. I have no memory of what machinations I used to get this senior guy interested in me, but somehow I managed. Looking back on it now, I cannot imagine letting my daughter go out with an 18 year old hirsute man who wore overalls and smoked cigarettes, but then again, I didn't ask my parents. I got my ass handed to me when I came home at 2, and was relegated to an 11:30 curfew until my senior year. At which point I could stay out until 12:30. Yeah, I know. Was it worth it? To this day, I am not sure.

That is because he took me to probably the worst event ever invented. He surprised me with tickets for Motorcycles on Ice at the Richfield Coliseum. MOTORCYCLES ON ICE. That would be motorcycles with spiked wheels driving around an oval track, skidding into one another, spattering brains on the ice. It's not that I was high maintenance or anything (that came later) but I kind of thought pizza and a movie was standard. But Mr. Hairy Smoker was not standard in any way, which is why he both attracted me and repelled me simultaneously. So there I was, in my purple baggy overalls and white cowboy boots, freezing my pubescent tuchis off, watching Mad Max reenacted on the frozen tundra. I think I went into a coma, I was so cold. I have no memory of anything after that until much later. when we were in his gigantic Oldsmobile, sitting in the parking lot in Cedar Center behind the Pick'n Pay. He produced a beer from out of nowhere (Schlitz under the seat, I found out later), put out his cigarette and kissed me.

In reliving this today, I realize that this first date has affected me in several ways. I am unbelievably unsentimental about grand gestures. In fact, I don't like them. Maybe if he had taken me to Charlie's Crab (faaaancy!) and brought me the cliched flowers and candy, I would have thought that all dates, all occasions, needed to be marked by something BIG. Maybe he saved me by taking me to Motorcycles on Ice, which is a pretty lame date. Anything is better, pretty much. So my bar was set way low, and is low that way to this day. During college, I went out on a date with a guy who hunted down a prized Cabbage Patch Doll as a gift. And I ripped him a new one for infantilizing me.

The other thing is this: I kind of dig the taste of a man who has been drinking and smoking. I know, that is disgusting. I KNOW and I feel a huge amount of shame about it. Actually,really, only a little. Because that kiss was remarkable. It was perfect. It was textbook. It erased all memories of blood red ice and my frozen blue ass. If the date itself set the low standard for romance, it set the highest standard for kissing. I didn't date another guy who smoked until I was a Junior in high school, and coincidentally, he also wore overalls as well as clogs, of all things. But his kisses were amazing, too. And while I have, of course, had excellent kisses from men who tasted minty fresh, there is something about that very distinctive taste that takes me right back to that Cedar Center parking lot, and that cold night in November.

By the way, Kim Kardashian and Reggie Bush went to Chipotle and the car wash on their first date, in case you are interested.

Monday, May 24, 2010

My Own Private Idaho

Someone on Facebook posted a link to a page called, with the comment "hilarious!" I went to take a look, running low on vagina humor that day, and honestly, I could not decide between nausea and rage. So i went with both. Picture after picture of child-caused destruction--children cutting their own hair, children ripping apart the toys of mere acquaintances, children barfing on their parents. As it happens, I have experienced all three of these things, and many, many more indignities documented at But I personally did not find any comfort in the camaraderie of the tormented parent. I think I have reached the end of my tolerance for torment. I don't like children anymore.

Now before anyone calls the Department of Social Services, let me say that OF COURSE I love my children, and they are well cared for, doted upon and obviously brilliant and gifted at everything they do. Of course they are. I wouldn't have any other kind. But when they are very young, there is a level of capitulation that must take place in order to survive parenthood. You KNOW your shit is going to get ruined, so you hide it. Cabinet doors are locked. The toilet bowl is inaccessible. Stairs are blocked off, poisons carefully housed in high cabinets. No glass chachkes or decorations of any kind. Anything that can be destroyed will be. So you avoid what you can and clean up after the disasters you didn't anticipate. And you believe that it will go away as they get older.

Now HERE is why i don't like kids anymore. They are older. And they still touch my stuff. They TAKE my stuff without asking. They break stuff and hide it. And then lie about it. My vibrator was left running in the drawer (it has since been moved, but it was ALREADY HIDDEN) and my pitiful amount of weed was embedded in the bedroom rug. E-mail is read, because they "thought it had something to do with me." In short, they have absolutely no respect for anything that is mine, because I simply don't exist. I mean I don't exist as an entity separate from each of them. Thus what is mine is theirs, and they literally don't get why I pop a vein when they go in my purse. My shrink tells me this is a sign of bonding, that they feel that I am simply an extension of them. And I have to say, after so many years of being an extension, I am kind of done. And, incidentally, they do not do this to the husband's stuff, just to mine. Which pisses me off ever more.

Obviously, I am not done with parenting, but I am DONE with understanding.DONE with complete and total sacrifice. I am no longer going to say it was MY FAULT for not barricading the door to the Sugar Shack when I find grubby fingerprints on my new bass. Or a million other absolutely, completely and totally CLEAR statements of HANDS OFF, JUNIOR. I am not totally sure how to address this without resorting to no Age of Mythology for the rest of Medium's life, but I am sick of the wordless, tearful rage I feel when something is broken/used/left for dead AGAIN. Suggestions that do not involve physical violence are appreciated. But I suspect, most depressingly, that there is no way to address it, short of banishment from my kingdom.

I recognize that I sound like a terrible mother, and if I do, so be it. But being a parent has so many sacrifices, sacrifices in ways that I could not ever have imagined, that the millimeters of independence I regain as the kids age are even more painful when they are turned into a pile of glittery eye shadow powder all over the bathroom sink. Yes, I entered into this parenting thing willingly, and I am glad to be here. But not every minute. Not all the time.

I want my own fucking bathroom. Give me that, and I swear I will stop complaining.

Monday, May 17, 2010

It's Here.

I kind of hate what I am about to do, because no one hates the schmaltz more than I. I am not sentimental, really, not in a conventional way, and I hate anything that is purposely trying to make me cry. In fact, that sort of thing pisses me off. Above all, I HATE ANYTHING MOTIVATIONAL. Pep talks, web sites, positive thinking quotes and those stupid posters they sell on Skymall--I detest them with the power of a thousand suns. Ask the person who sent me encouraging platitudes EVERY DAY. I defriended his ass AND blocked him. Don't tell me to be positive. I'll be as fucking negative as I like, thank you very much.Yet here I am, about to write something that could be construed as any of the above. I beg you to NOT be inspired, NOT get teary. I am still the snarky bitch I always am, just a wee bit less snarky than usual. Maybe even nice. Maybe even happy.

I am waiting for my new bass to arrive. Not new, just new to me. It is a 1975 Fender Musicmaster, Olympic White that has aged to a creamy yellow, with most of it's original parts intact and it's original orange shag-lined case. And the big-ass tuning pegs, which were a must. I am looking for the UPS man like some sadly-single man awaiting his Russian mail-order bride. I have been afraid to leave the house all day, for fear that the five minutes it would take me to get a burrito would be the 5 minutes in which UPS Steve would arrive and find me gone. I vacuumed the whole house to keep myself occupied and away from the industrial size bag of M&M's I foolishly bought at Costco. I am as jumpy as an expectant father. And I say father, because having been an expectant mother, I was anything but jumpy. I was begging for the alien to be removed from my body.

When I started playing music, only a few years ago, I was at the breaking point. Kind of like a mid-life crisis, but more so; not just an "is this it?" feeling, but an "if this is it, i am going to kill myself" feeling. Exclusively raising my kids and all the complications and emotions and energy and stuff that came with it left me depleted of myself. There was no me. My wonderful children (and they are, I say that sincerely) had sucked the life out of me and left my bones to bleach in the sun. I thought if I didn't do something, ANYTHING, creative, I would literally disappear. Why I chose music, I am not sure, because I come from a musical family in which I am definitely NOT the musical one. But I did. I learned to play rudimentary guitar (i.e. G, C and D7, G and C done on single strings) in a Mommy and Me guitar class, got on the internet and learned a bunch more. I went to Ladies Rock Camp in Brooklyn and forced myself to sing in public. I came back and answered an ad on Craigslist, and met my beloved Joe,with whom I still play with to this day. Because I couldn't play barre chords or power chords, I wrote songs that I could play. And lyrics. I just did. I didn't think about it, knowing I would talk myself out of it, knowing I would retreat from this "musician" I was pretending to be. So I didn't think. And, slowly, I am becoming that musician, not a fake anymore exactly, but evolving into something real.

The bass is different, though. The bass is completely new. I can't rely on muscle memory right now to know where to put my fingers, I need to learn notes. I can't retreat into the background of the music, because the bass is vitally important. And I have already committed to playing bass in a band, when I don't know how to play. Because I am forcing myself to learn. Because I can. And I will. I am.

P.S. I got my bass. UPS Steve practically threw it at me and ran, I looked so crazed. The box looked impossibly narrow and small, kind of how I felt when I looked at my grandfather's casket at his funeral. Can a box that small really contain what it is meant to? And as I pulled off the bubble wrap, looking at the tweed-ish case with the ancient stickers (WHAT DO YOU DO IN CASE OF A NUCLEAR ACCIDENT. KISS YOUR CHILDREN GOOD BYE. STOP URANIUM MINING.) I knew it would be exactly as I hoped. I held it and it feels exactly right. Exactly.

P.P.S. You can go throw up now.

Monday, May 10, 2010

The Only Bright Spot in a Crabby Day

I am in a bad mood. It is one of those days when nothing, NOTHING, is going to make me happy. When I get like this, I like to isolate myself so as not to bite the heads off of innocent people around me. I need to go down to the Sugar Shack and play, and wait for my new bass to arrive from California so I can learn to play "Fell in Love With a Girl", after which I will reappear with a readjusted attitude. I went through the checklist of all the great things in my life, and there are many, and I am grateful and fortunate, and blah blah fucking blah. I am still pissy as hell. So I am not going to sit here writing something clever and delightful and pithy--ok, none of that shit today. I am going to tell you a quick story and then go back to my solitude, where I can't hurt anyone. And if you choose to contact me, you have been warned. I bite.

The only thing that made me smile even remotely was the story I read at every fucking silly site--according to a new television show in the U.K. that describes bizarre medical cases, a woman was rushed to the ER complaining about pain in her abdomen and "private area". During a physical exam, the doctors found something well beyond your garden variety cucumber. They found a rolled up poster of Donny Osmond. Donny. Osmond. DONNY. OSMOND. In her pussy. A rolled up poster in her pussy. Did I mention it was a poster of DONNY OSMOND?

So many things about this story puzzle me. So many. And most of the sites I looked at asked the basics, such as "What possessed her?" and "WHY DONNY OSMOND??". But the question that has been puzzling me, nay, PLAGUING me, is this: how did she respond when they pulled that nasty page of Tiger Beat out of her privates? I mean, did she say, "Huh! I wonder how that got there?" Did she look defiantly at the doctors and say, "Oh, like YOU'VE never done this!" Or maybe, "Oh! There that is! I totally forgot I put that ROLLED UP POSTER OF DONNY OSMOND in my pussy!"

I think I want to be friends with this woman. And I want to get her really, really drunk. And I want to supply a variety of objects and see which one she wakes up with in her twat. Who needs the drunk fucker that you can draw penises on while he is passed out? THIS woman is the life of the fucking party.

Monday, May 3, 2010

I've Got The Curse!

I got a message on Facebook a few days ago asking me who I was rooting for in Celtics/Cavs basketball playoffs. Being born and raised in Cleveland, but having lived most of my adult life in Boston, this was apparently supposed to cause me some consternation. So I said "I have lived in Boston longer than I ever lived in Cleveland. But I would have to give a shit about basketball to answer that question." And the message back was, "Do all your responses require profanity?" I actually had to go back and reread. Oh, yeah I guess "shit" is a profanity.

The answer is yes, cute guy from Cleveland who shattered my heart once upon a time.Yes, I do need to use profanity every time I respond to a question, every time I make a comment, every time I voice an opinion. I need to liberally lace my prodigious vocabulary with "fuck" and "shit". And I don't stop there--I have taken back the words "cock" and "pussy" and turned them into instruments of daily destruction, e.g. The Big Guns. Destroy who, you ask? Oh, you know who you are.

I would like to say that I can predict which men will melt when I say "No way, motherfucker!" but I really can't. It doesn't seem to be predicated on level of education, age or field of employment. The fun for me is figuring out who likes it and who winces. And watching for the wince is great fun. No offense to the lovely people who do the virtual wince, but your use of * in place of a "u" in "fuck" or the "s" in "ass" is hilarious. It makes me want to unleash a string of naughtiness that would make my father (from whom I learned all my curses, in Arabic and Hebrew as well as English) blush.

I went through years of trying not to curse, to protect the delicate ears of my children. The truth is, like many things in life, repressing will make it volcanic when it actually erupts. And erupt it did, while driving. Driving in Boston is notoriously stressful, what with there being no law and everything. Being the family chaffeur meant my stress level was through the roof. I finally had to call the fucking asshole who BACKED UP ON THE ENTRANCE RAMP TO THE MASS PIKE a, well, fucking asshole. I screamed it out the window actually. And no one in the car died. Not me, not my children. Everyone survived. Even the stupid douche who backed up on the Mass Pike.

So now I embrace this potty mouth. It is a quick way to separate the wheat from the chaffe, as it were. If someone does more than wince, such as adopts the look my mother gets when I say "fuckhead", I know there will be no love between us. And if there is a little twinkle in the eye, I will unleash The Big Guns. If you smile when I call Trey Anastasio a pussy, we are golden. What else could I possibly call him that would capture what he is? See? Pussy is the only word.

And, by the way, I got a message from Mr. Cleveland Heartshatterer today. And it turns out his virtual mom-face was a fake. As if I didn't know.

Monday, April 26, 2010

It's Gotta Be The Shoes....

I bought these shoes. I found them, I loved them, I bought them. And I wore them. I wore them to our last show. The 4 1/2 inch heel brought me up into the world of the Big People, which was fun, though Axe Man Dan could have still rested his beer bottle on my head, had he felt the urge to take his life in his hands. But I felt HUGE, giant and totally sassy. How can you not, wearing red sandals with an ass kicking heel? But you know what sold me on these sandals? What really,really won me over? The ankle straps.

Here's what I noticed at the show before last--men have a Pavlovian response to a woman wearing shoes with ankle straps. I was wearing my favorite black sandals, and suddenly, well, yay. It was an instant party. There appears to be something about the straps that mesmerizes many (but not all, as my very unscientific research will show) a man into a pheromonic haze of horniness. For a woman who has never, EVER been approached at a bar (EVER! did I mention that?) it was like i dabbed filet mignon behind my ears. I have not laughed that hard in a long time. But instead of the eyes being on my boobs, they were on my SHOES. Which, while preferable, by and large, can be somewhat disturbing. Fortunately, said shoe-starer was cute as a button.

So I took to my Facebook page and asked the question thusly: Are heels with ankle straps hot? And if so, why? I also sent private queries to gentlemen I thought might prefer a private forum, i.e. not letting their freak flag fly in public. What I found was rather interesting, and while it did not adhere to the scientific method, it will give me information I need to continue my quest for world domination. Here are the cogent pieces of information I gleaned:

1. The younger the man, the less likely he was to notice shoes.

I don't know if this is because they are always so primed, that they don't need any additional sensory input. The older sweethearts that responded universally loved ankle straps with the following caveat

2. The sexiness of ankle straps correlates directly to whose ankles are strapped.

As my friend C. said, "As far as the effect of ankle straps, there's the lipstick on a pig factor ... ie cankle-straps are *not* hot." Yes, cankles are a definite no when it comes to these shoes, and apparently has the saltpeter effect on some. There is a "whole package" aspect that many men found necessary, that, as B. said, "women wear these shoes not because of a silly strap, but for confidence, and/or sex appeal." In other words, not just the shoes, but the attitude the woman wearing them then conveys. The Entire Woman. Hmmm. Call me suspicious, but I think the men that said this were trying to get into my pants.

3. The shoe interest did not necessarily correlate with a foot fetish.

Interestingly, only one of the men questioned was interested in feet, and some were downright grossed out by them. All agreed that gross feet negated the power of hot shoes. Period.

4. Ankle straps indicate a "ready to go" factor.

By this I mean it appears, to men, that the woman wearing such shoes seem to be more sexually ready and sexually adventurous than other women. I would argue that women wearing orthopedic shoes could probably prove this to be true, but never count out the girl in the Chuck Taylors. I'm just sayin'.

5. Ankle straps also hint at an invitation to bondage.

On this, those that had thought about it (any further than "gaaaaaah....drooooool") were unanimous and surprisingly articulate. C. said " guess would be that there is some sort of bondage subliminal tie-in with straps activating "manacles" pattern recognition center in the brain. That would add to hotness ... same would go for bejeweled chokers I'm thinking. " And PD said, "It's the fact that they are strapped to your feet, holding them in what looks to a guy like a 'mildly uncomfortable' position. Hints at light bondage really." And for our Jewish friends, J. said, "leather's either a mild SM fetish or a tefillin fetish if you ask me." The takeaway, as the business types like to say, is that the straps send a Ready-To-Go- And-Be-Lightly-Bound message, appealing to the inner caveman which wants to club a woman and drag her by her thong back to the cave.

6. These are the shoes that stay on during sex.

Again, almost universal, and the poor man who mentioned removing said shoes was quickly castigated for that blasphemy. It seems the ankle straps indicate that no matter what the activity, those shoes will not fly off and break the bedside lamp. R. said "the straps just shout...they're staying on ... they're here to stay through thick or thin..." and S. agreed, "it implies 'the shoes stay on, baby.' " I am not sure what the significance of hot shoes staying on during sex actually is, other than being prepared to run from the cops or to injure your bedmate, and none of my boys addressed this. I wish they would have. I'm still wondering. But I agree that it's hot.

In closing, I agree that there are sociological and societal reasons that we wear them, as my shoe-loving girlfriend E. posited, and Lady J. said, "it adds just the right touch of sex to a heel that would otherwise be a glorified sandal." But I believe these are the Pied Piper of Shoes. Put them on, and the hirsute masses will follow you anywhere. Mr. L. complained that he doesn't see them nearly enough, and I agree. But let me be clear--if you want ankle strap sandals of the lucite variety, go to Centerfolds. We may be willing to be tied up, but we are classy bitches. You'd be wise to remember that.

Monday, April 19, 2010

Wonder Woman

Consider Wonder Woman. She has the star underpants and cool bustier, the sweet belt, the cuffs, the lasso of truth and the silly invisible airplane (silly because she is not invisible, just the plane. Not so useful, if you ask me.) All decked out in her superhero finery, she is fucking WONDER WOMAN. No way to hide, not that she wants to. But you should, suckah.

Consider Diana Prince, Wonder Woman's alter ego. Meek-appearing military secretary, she hides behind her prim hairstyle and glasses, and no one recognizes her. She's still Lynda Carter in all her mammacious glory, but somehow the glasses and bun, but especially the glasses, disguise her true, crime-fighting, ass kicking self.Her glasses seem like the disguise, rather than her full-on regalia.

When I started wearing glasses full time, maybe 7 years ago, it was for the simple reason that I failed the eye exam on my driving test. I could no longer deny that I needed them. After seeing A Clockwork Orange in high school, the idea of touching my eyeballs in any way was too icky for me to even contemplate (still!) so glasses it would be. I found some surprising benefits of wearing glasses: 1) I could actually see 2) undereye bags were no longer visible. But now I feel wrong without them. My kids always say I don't look like myself when I take them off. But here is the funniest part--the glasses have given me an identity I never knew I had.

Last year, we played our first REALLY BIG show in a REALLY BIG club. There were three other bands on the bill, one of which was an adorable group of tattooed boys. And after we introduced ourselves and exchanged the normal pleasantries, one of the cuties said to me, "You look like a Naughty Librarian". And I laughed and said thank you, because frankly, that is a compliment of the MILF variety, which is to say, AWESOME! It remains one of my favorite compliments of all time. And interestingly, there have been some variations on the "librarian" thing, (teacher, scientist) but I have heard this same comment a number of times since then. And I am convinced it is because of my glasses. And I had one really graphic request that involved me leaving on my glasses for a critical sexual moment.

Motherfuckers, I am no librarian. I am hardly the prim and proper schoolmarm. But for some reason, people seem to be waiting for me to whip off my glasses and go all Hot For Teacher. And I LOVE that. As if my glasses are the cork in a barely contained bottle. But I am a hell of a lot more likely to whip off my glasses and kick yer ass. I'm not big into bikinis, but give me a pair of cuffs, and I am ready to lasso your sad little self and make you cry uncle. Ooh, that sounded naughty. And fun! I don't have any data to back up the concept of a woman with glasses being either naughtier or more dominant than other women, but I swear on Diana Prince, we are. But it could be the red hair. Or my Napoleon Complex. Whatever it is, I don't give a fuck. Because I can turn you all into a bunch of pussies just by putting my glasses on. And that makes me a fucking superhero.

Monday, April 12, 2010

The Mayor of Simpleton

I am trying to have a clever lead in to what I am trying to say, but you know what? I am just going to get to my question: Are men really the simpletons we women are led to believe? Well? Are you?

I ask this because I was wandering about the interweb looking for health information and hit on the motherlode that is Men's Health magazine. And under the guise of addressing health issues by tackling America's 30 Worst Sandwiches (FYI, fellas--Hooter's Smothered Chicken Sandwich is on the list at 800 calories, which does not fulfill your "smothered" and "Hooters" fantasy, but will instead cause you to grow moobs) and the incredibly helpful-to-hipsters How to Grow a Great Beard, they hide all kinds of silly dating advice and sex tips that anyone over the age of 17 know are a) obvious and b) will not work without sincerity. I mean, under 6 Secret Ways to Turn Her On is REPLACE THE BOTTLE ON THE WATER COOLER. I know that back in my office days, every time I changed the water cooler bottle, panties went flying. And they weren't always mine. And yes, motherfucker, I CAN change the bottle myself.

This is a sample of a list called Sexy Things Women Have Told Men's Health Readers:

4. "Let's go get some barbecue and get busy."

5. "Do you want to bring your beer with you in case you lose any fluids?"

8. "I would feel so safe lying beneath you."

10. "Is your mustache functional, or is it purely for decoration?"

16. "The sound of your voice makes my nipples hard."

18. Bursting into tears just after sex: "I just love you so much!"

Let me just do a little tiptoe through these beauties...

4 and 5 were clearly dreamt up by a man. Food, fucking, beer and fluid loss are all so closely linked in man's mind that, unless she was totally pissed at said man, such as , "Gee, I know walking the dog is going to be so taxing. Do you want to bring your beer with you in case you lose any fluids?", I cannot see a woman EVER saying that. EVER. 8 and 18 are women you should run from as fast as you can. 10 was said by a gay man. And 16--that would require an experiment to see if it was actually possible for a human voice to affect nipples the way, say, air conditioning can. I'll get back to you on that.

I asked some of my male friends for some sexy lines they have received, and got these. I cannot vouch as to whether they were actually said by a live woman, or just heard by the man in that twilight state between wakefulness and sleep, but here they are:

"I want you to punish me."

"I want to have your babies."

"I want you inside me."

"Let's fuck."

"If I whip your cock out, are you going to stop me?"

"I beg your hard-on." (I'll wait while you finish laughing with this one)

So what have we learned? That men are, by and large, simpletons, and Men's Health has it right. But I mean simpleton in the best possible way--straightforward and uncomplicated. They appreciate a direct approach. I truly believe that most men, if offered a slab of ribs, a beer and a blowjob, would happily agree to die immediately after, knowing that nothing could top it. Ever. Men, you are delicious and silly and a relief from my own insane complicated brain, and I thank you. If only smoked meats were enough for me. I need shoes, too.

Monday, April 5, 2010

Now I'm Pissed Off

I was recently lucky enough to be a guest blogger with a repost of my MILFs vs Cougars blog.And before I even got a chance to look at it, the admin for that blog told me he had to take it down, because the comments got so heated.He never specified exactly what the brouhaha was about, and I honestly don't know why anyone, male or female, would get their knickers in a twist about something as meaningless as MILFs vs. Cougars. I make it a point in my blog to write about pretty benign subjects, things that have absolutely no bearing on society at large. It is pretty much all froth, because the world is serious enough. I appreciate passion as much as the next gal, but one miiiiiiiiiiiiiiight want to try choosing one's passions more carefully. But the point is this--it is an OPINION. And it's mine. It doesn't need any defense. It is my stupid opinion on a stupid subject. The End.

What has happened, it seems to me, is that the huge amount of instantly available information has blurred the line between fact and opinion so much that no one can tell the difference anymore.What is passing for journalism these days, especially on television, is barely concealed opinion masquerading as real. Information travels so quickly and with so little accuracy, and there is almost no reliable place to go to find out the truth. It really is more the "truth" now, unfortunately.I believe almost nothing of what I read, and if I am talking about something of any real substance, i try to quote the source of the information, i.e. "CNN says..." That hardly makes it true (unfortunately) but it is, at least, traceable.

Here is the thing, my dear friends who are also my readers, all of you know me as the most opinionated bitch out there. And I make absolutely no apologies for my mouthing off. In private. Here, where it is all vajazzling and blow up dolls, who even CARES what I think? But even if I were talking about things that have an impact on society, such as, say, the resurgence of harem pants (oh, could i go OFF right now!) it is still my opinion. And you can disagree (although it would be foolish, in the case of harem pants.) But you CAN disagree. If you don't like what I say, go read something else. And shut the fuck up.

We have lost all ability to communicate civilly online. Ok, fine, I accept it.It would be folly of me to expect people to be nice, because people were NEVER nice, and being anonymous gives people an inflated sense of their own power.Anonymity makes you taller, stronger and less of an impotent schmuck. And it makes you a coward. And often, it makes you an asshole. So if you are going to challenge my opinion, or anyone's, don't join the bottom feeders and mom's basement dwellers and be who you actually are. Say your piece. But here's a little hint--knowing the difference between "you're" and "your" might get people reading to the end of your sentence. I'm just sayin'.

Monday, March 29, 2010

What's Cookin'?

I hate to cook. Actually, I loathe it. Detest. Am repelled by. I am a danger to myself and others when trying to use a sharp object, impatient with recipes and raw meat nauseates me, though I'm happy to eat it if someone else cooks it without me seeing.My children live in fear of the weeks that I single parent, sure that they will starve. I can overcook ramen noodles with the best of them, though, and as long as there is pizza delivery, no one will get hurt. I enjoy going out to eat, too, but really for the social aspects of it. I have annoying dietary issues that can make eating out a challenge, and that can suck the life out of trying the hot new restaurant. So I would not call myself a foodie. I do a disservice to Jewish mothers everywhere. Food does not equal love, to me. Food equals get off your ass and make it yourself.

Yet, I am drawn to Cook to Bang like a moth to a flame. This is like a look inside an alien mind. I honestly didn't know that anyone would go to such complicated lengths to get laid. It's not as if I've never heard that old "quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach" saw, it's just that I have learned over the years that actually going straight through the sternum is much more effective. Truthfully, I don't look at the recipes themselves. I love the whole concept of Cook to Bang, and the care that the author/founder, Spencer Walker, has taken to get his brethren some pussy. He could be a ginormous douchebag for all I know, but he isn't cooking for me. He is cooking for YOU, males of the species:

COOK TO BANG is not just gourmet recipes broken down into steps so simple a monkey could make them. It’s not just a smartass seduction guide. COOK TO BANG offers simple, effective methods for of enjoying the two greatest pleasures, food and sex. So unleash your inner Kitchen Casanova. COOK TO BANG!

And apparently, this dastardly weapon of seduction works. If you look at the testimonials, while the majority are from straight dudes, there are testimonials from gay guys and lesbians thrown in, as well as FOREIGNERS. It even works in other languages! I think they are about as authentic as Penthouse letters, but they certainly supply a huge laugh.

Up here in Porkland, Oregon there’s very little tail that hasn’t expired or gone lumberjill. But when you do find one you can’t just be another emo hipster with a cool tattoo. Cook to fucking bang! That’s why they call wining and DINING them. That FLAT ON YOUR BACK FLATBREAD PIZZA recipe cost me a short trip to Trader Joes and a 3-pak of Trojans.

My game has been so bad for so long that my friends thought I was gay. Girls always thought of me as their guy friend that they could say anything to except for “I want to ride you like a pony”. Thanks to the tips on this website and the Baked Briez Nuts recipe after dinner I felt like Sea Biscuit after 8 furlongs. The perfect breakthrough for the “Let’s just be friends” talk.

"I never thought this would happen to me, but last week when I was cleaning my neighbor's pool..." Yeah, yeah. Andrew. Or should I say "Andrew". But as you can see from these clever quips, the recipe names are the best part of the whole experience. And I have to admit, if someone went through the trouble of cooking me a meal of CUNNI-LINGUINE with a side of SO READY TO MEAT MY BALLS, I might be a wee bit entingled. But in order for it to work, he would HAVE to tell me the names of the dishes. And wouldn't that be revealing too much, revealing that his WHOLE GOAL WAS TO GET IN MY PANTS? Not so romantic anymore. Now it's just amateur porn on a plate, only not as grainy.

Still and all, I applaud the concept. It is more productive than a pick up line and less illegal than a roofie. And there is something sweet about it, because someone has taken the time to actually think about what you might like. Sadly, I am not a fan of the grand romantic gesture, and this kind of falls into that category for me. Vacuum the house without me having to ask and you are talking romance. Add a bag of M&M's, and I'm yours. No cooking required.

Monday, March 22, 2010

A Lovely Bouquet

The whole Vagina Preoccupation I seem to be having lately has gotten a fair number of comments. Without a doubt, my blog about Vajazzling caused a mini-uproar, with women asking "What the fuck?" and men asking "How can I get that job?". I found the whole concept utterly hilarious and was hoping someone, male or female, would volunteer to try it out and share their results. No one has, sadly. But my Vagina Preoccupation is merely a reflection on a larger, societal Vaginal Obsession, if you will. Why, just today, I came across two fantastic pussy-related subjects. One is a site called I Love My Vagina with poetry and fan letters to one's own ladyflower. Here is a lovely little piece that should be set to music:

I love my Vagina, it's been good to me.
Never had a problem, has worked with me to solve some of my own problems ;)

It's never been sick or tired and its always there lol

Oddly, if you take out the word vagina and put in the word "co-worker" it has a similar meaning, although far less interesting. This site is a laugh riot and not safe for work AT ALL. But if your late at night Zappos and Chatroulette isn't doing it for you, this may. I suspect it is a gateway site, however, to far more vivid sites describing self love, like Literotica.

But hold on to your hats, folks, because this is as bizarre as vending machines in Japan that sell preworn schoolgirl panties. There is now a perfume called Vulva. And it is not a perfume FOR your vulva, either. It is meant to smell like a...well...vagina. I swear to god. I honestly wish I made this up, and even more, I wish I had created this commercial. Again, NOT SAFE FOR WORK, but hilarious and icky.

It is, of course, possible that this is a joke. But so far, not a single vagina related thing I have shared is fake. The rehymenating blow-up doll, the vagina facial--all true. The thing that gets me is this. On one hand, one very shaky hand, I admit, women have been made to feel dirty about their scent, so this is a somewhat feminist step forward. HOWEVER, I really don't want to think of who is BUYING this perfume, because there is no need to buy it for a woman. Ever. For obvious reasons. Ugh, I am getting totally grossed out. And yet I am fascinated.

So I am trying to move on to find a less graphic subject, but it isn't easy.I am also trying to deal with my Diet Coke jones. You will all have to be patient. Rome wasn't built in a day.

I cannot get these links to light up, but in case you are interested, here they are: (Vulva Perfume)

Monday, March 15, 2010

Pop Tart

I went to Trader Joe's today to buy more of the vanilla meringues that I am currently obsessed with, and they were giving away samples of something, as they do every day. Often they offer vile juices, like a watermelon/cucumber mix, or fair trade coffee, the smell of which peels the enamel off my teeth. Today they had "organic blueberry toaster pastries". And all the conscientious shoppers were crowded around the fool in the Hawaiian shirt, for a tiny square of unfrosted, fake Pop Tart, as if he were the Messiah himself. And I wanted to take those substandard rectangles of fake pastry bliss and throw them to the ground, like the tablets at Mt. Sinai, and castigate the legions for worshiping this golden calf. This golden calf of Trader Joe's,of Whole Foods, of doctor's orders to STOP DRINKING THE NECTAR OF THE GODS, Diet Coke. This golden calf of HEALTH. Damn all of you for buying into this concept of staying healthy, and dragging me in there with you. Because this is one of the things I resent most about getting older--I DON'T HAVE a twenty year buffer during which I can eat endless amounts of french fries and not worry about it. The worry is HERE. IT IS HERE. And I FUCKING HATE IT.

When I was in my twenties, not once did I think an errant pain or inexplicable infection meant I had cancer. I didn't wake up in the morning, groaning like my grandmother. I didn't even have a doctor! Who gave a shit? I lived on Diet Coke and chips and salsa, and was perfectly happy to not have to think about what corrosion was occurring inside my corporeal body. I didn't have gravity issues, gray hair, pterodactyl lines, chicken wings or even a size eight foot. I did not wake up in the morning and say a prayer of gratitude for the new day, drink green tea to detoxify, eat organic or worry about my weight in any other way but relative hotness. In short, I was young and blissfully stupid, and as I stood in smoke-filled clubs in Boston in the late 1980's, inhaling second hand smoke and losing my hearing, I was having the time of my life. I was an idiot in every way and I wouldn't change very much. If anything, I would have broken more hearts.

I have fallen into the trap of "well being", simply because it is now my reality. I have friends with cancer, friends with parents and even kids with cancer. People in their forties die, and while it is unusual, it isn't unheard of. Having children means planning ahead, so there is the clusterfuck of life insurance, wills and trusts. And, frankly, I don't want to die right now. Plain and simple. I have a lot to do, and dying would seriously interfere with getting my CD done and my dream of playing The Paradise. So, I gave up my Diet Coke, and it's been nearly four weeks. It is no easier, I feel no better, and I want to tackle every motherfucker who pops open a can in my presence.

But don't think I have lost my edge, people. On the contrary, this has forced me to get creative. If I am going to accept my fear of aging, my fear of death, I am going to fucking EMBRACE my fear of boredom and run with it. Late nights, playing music, stirring up trouble, moving way the hell out of my comfort zone...all on my new and improved To Do list. Because even with all the worry, i'd rather be where I am now. And no way am i going to look back and say that my twenties were the best years of my life. I really, really think those are now. I will make them that way. Just watch.

P.S. Trader Joe's organic toaster pastries do not make you healthy. They make you a Pop Tart Pussy. Either eat the real thing or stay home.

Monday, March 8, 2010

Spring Fashion Issues

Every so often in life, people have experiences that radically alter their world view. Sometimes they are large and religious, like seeing God or being brought back from death. Sometimes they are straight up miraculous, like the birth of a child. Sometimes they are devastating, like losing a loved one. And sometimes, they are so disgusting, so indescribably ick, that it makes you hate people. Such was an event many years ago on the vaunted Green Line B trolley, the slowest of all the trolley lines on the face of the Earth. Between stopping at every stop light and dodging BU students with no concept of self preservation, it takes hours to get downtown. Absorbed in my book (probably a pretentiously conspicuous Paul Bowles collection), I heard a metallic clicking noise. On second listen, it wasn't a clicking. It was a clipping. A clipping noise. Of nail clippers. I turned around to find a woman clipping her toe nails on the T, right behind me.

A woman was clipping her toe nails on the T, right behind me.

Yes, it took some time for me to comprehend, as well. Because this is an intimate grooming ritual, which, like plucking one's eyebrows or trimming one's nose hair, one does not do in public EVER. EVER. NO exceptions. I cannot think of an emergency in which toenail clipping in public would save your life, so I am going to go out and limb and say NEVER FUCKING EVER. I remember feeling skeeved out the entire way to class, and indeed, getting waves of nausea for the rest of the day. That feeling has never left me, and resolved my already very strong feeling that personal grooming should be taken care of without the benefit of a fare paying audience. I was glad to get off the train when I did. I can't imagine what she was planning to trim next.

What made me think of this powerful life moment? Spring is here. As the tulips and crocuses push their little heads through the soil, the people of Boston come alive. And just as the snow melts, the Bostonians clothes melt away with the raising temperatures, revealing waaaaaaaay too many things that no one wants to see. I am not talking about a gut, necessarily,or even pasty white skin (I embrace my pastiness, thank you very much) but, really, things that fall into the personal grooming arena . In other words, clip your damn toenails. If you are going to make the decision to wear sandals or flip flops (dubious for a man, to begin with, if you ask me) then have the decency to degnarlify your yellow talons before sharing them with the world. If you can grate cheese with them, they are too long. I do not expect every man, woman and child to go to the excellent MiniLuxe Spa and have a heavenly paraffin wax pedicure (divine, people!) but please clean the grit and cut the claws. I don't think that is too much to ask. Asking for you to buff the gross dead skin off your feet is overkill, i'll admit, but if you could do that too, I would appreciate it. But remember, kids, do this in the privacy of your bathroom. You can take an eye out with one of those thick Winter ungulae.

Oh, and one more thing. I know I promised to stop with the vagina stuff, but this is so ridiculous and falls so neatly into this very subject, I had to share:

Enjoy the beautiful weather!!

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

An Extra Bizarre Wednesday RANT: Vegas Vagina

I will eventually stop obsessing about all things vagina , I promise. I thought I had covered everything, but that shows how limited my aforementioned frothy imagination actually is. Apparently, a totally bare ladyflower is so yesterday. Now, the cool thing is Vajazzling, applying a lovely rhinestone pattern to your painstakingly naked pussy. Like the woman in the video at this link. This is NSFW, although you can't really identify much, but do you want to explain to your boss why you are watching rhinestones being carefully applied to a vagina?

I am completely, utterly taken aback by this, but not because someone is adorning their privates in some way. After being a member of an all woman's gym near a college campus, I have seen more curiously placed tattoos and more appallingly placed piercings than I can ever erase from my mind. But, people, let's start with the basics. This takes a looooong time. A wax is over in the most painful two minutes of your life, but this takes so long, your aesthetician will be in your will by the time it's over. And I cannot imagine what one talks about with the woman who is APPLYING GLUE TO YOUR HOO-HA. Doesn't that sound wrong all on it's own? If it doesn't, it should. Because anyone who has ever had a band-aid on even a slightly hairy arm knows how much pulling one off hurts. Imagine that times three billion from probably the most sensitive skin on your whole body. How sexy.

But ok, assume that you are interested in this personal decor. Look at it. It's like a really sparkly case of genital warts. Through tights or underwear it would look like reptile skin. And during relations of a sexual nature, the friction would either a) cause a rug-type burn on your partner, assuming he/she overcame the shock of your bespangled pubis, and/or b) the dislodging of said gems as to cause a choking hazard.

Maybe I am missing the boat and the Studio 54 Vagina is here to stay. Lord knows I have missed the boat before--I thought the return of skinny jeans would die a quick death. And maybe I'm wrong that the sudden unveiling of this particular work of art, in a romantic, candle lit room, would not send blinding rays of light into the eyes of the unfortunate standing there. But I will say I cannot imagine bedazzled testicles, nor any man who would undergo such a thing. I may be overestimating the male sex, but I think, when it comes to testicles, men think they look fine just the way they are.

Saturday, February 27, 2010


I got an actual, real question to answer in my blog, which is really exciting. I have answered questions before, but of course, they were made up. I feel like a real blogger, now that someone has asked for my knowledge on something, something that only I can clarify for all of you. HG, thank you for recognizing that this particular subject falls into the realm of my expertise, and, ultimately, within my sphere of influence. So let us settle this once and for all, shall we?

I am referring, of course, to the difference between a Cougar and a MILF.

There may be some Urban Dictionary definition of these two terms, but because this is my blog, we are going to abide by the Sugar Snow Dictionary definitions. Thus, they are immutable. So follow along, kids. This could get interesting.

A COUGAR is commonly used to identify A Woman Of A Certain Age (AWOACA), generally a putrifying Over-40, who can only get a younger man by stalking him, using him, and then, presumably, killing him. This is because an AWOACA has nothing to recommend her other than a (possible) high income that can keep the youngster in tattoos and Axe body spray, and, possibly, sexual tricks that youngster can then describe to his friends over $2 PBR's at the Tool Tribute Band show. Susan Sarandon is currently the Poster Cougar. She is rumored to be dating a man 30 years her junior who is her partner in a Ping Pong club in New York. Ping Pong! The things hipsters will do for pussy.

The concept of the Cougar is repugnant to me, because I do not believe that I, or any woman I know, needs to buy a man for something that a Pocket Rocket can do with less drama. Or Clearsil. I will not deny that there might be tricks older women have that a younger man might want. They should. And no matter what we look like, we do have a confidence that comes with being AWOACA, which is more attractive than anything else. But I don't think the vast majority of women want a man she has to ambush and drag back to her lair. Thus, Sugar Snow REJECTS the entire concept of the COUGAR. The gavel has fallen. Moving on.

A MILF, or Mother I'd Like to Fuck, is a term of endearment in the Sugar Snow Dictionary. This is a controversial stance, because women have fought long and hard to be admired for something other than their parts. HOWEVER, in a society in which women are considered overcooked by 35 and burnt by 50,knowing that you can still work it is a very nice thing indeed. And the term MILF does not imply any threat of action; you may WANT to do her, but that's as far as it goes. It has become a common description, like "redhead" or "petite". And it has spawned a whole range of spin-offs of the ILF variety, the DILF (dad), the TILF (teacher) and the somewhat icky GILF, which applies to a grandparent of either sex. I say ick now. We can revisit when I'm 60. Thus, Sugar Snow ACCEPTS the term MILF. Thus, it is so.

And thus a new musical genre is born: MILFrock.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Elf Sex

Ok, Im gonna starf with a few simple ELF-facts.
Elf sex is possibly the safest sex on earth. They dont carry sexually transmitted diseases and you cant get pregnant or make an Elverine pregnant unless you both want to, which is not unheard of.
And YES there are female elves, elverines. And theyre HOT HOT HOT, even to girls. That reminds me: All elves are bisexual, but guys and girls not ready for some same sex action dont worry, no elf will do anything you dont want to. They can sense your longings and not-longings.

How I wish I had written this. But unfortunately, my frothy imagination does not extend to a porn version of Lord of the Rings. But I digress. Do let me explain.

Wandering about the internets and blogosphere, I found this fantastical blog called Sex With Humans is Boring. That title had the potential to go so many different and horrible ways, but I figured that, because it said "humans" rather than "people", it was more likely martian sex. But it is so much better, because it is REAL. And it happens in Iceland. And I KNOW it's true because Hallgerdur Hallgrimsdottir did it. And wrote a pamphlet detailing it. With pictures. Stick figure drawings really, complete with erect penises. An Elf Fucking for Dummies, if you will.

So reading the above Elf Facts leads to me to believe that a) elf sex is far more satisfying than, say, sex with a revirginating blow up doll and b) Elverines are a lot like college girls after too much Jagermeister. But here is why it's better--no roofies or walk of shame involved. This is ethereal, perfect sex, with semen that is shimmery and beautiful. An elf is extremely flexible and strong, easily accomplishing pages 75-114 in The Kama Sutra. All one needs to do is wander where the elves live, which is in the Icelandic craters for Hallgerdur. Will it to happen, and it will. Like a dream. Except it's not. Because it's true.

But don't feel bad, human men, they are said to have superduper skills, not superduper equipment.

This is pretty unfair to those of us who don't live in Iceland. They KNOW where to go to find their elf-lovin'. I only know about the Back Bay Fens, and I sure as hell am not going there. I shouldn't mock Iceland, though, because they seriously do believe in elves. And this adorable girl looks like an elf herself. In fact, in one of her blog entries, she wonders if maybe she is the product of her mom's elfin action.

I highly recommend watching the video at the link below for all the information you will ever need about elf sex. So I say, Fuck Vegas. What happens in Reykjavik, stays in Reykjavik.

Monday, February 15, 2010

Shiny and New

WARNING: This blog is tres VULGAR today. If you have any problem with words dealing with female anatomy, do not read this. But know it is not me repeating the word PUSSY over and over again for fun.

You know how sometimes you wake up from an afternoon nap feeling rested and so gosh-darn happy? I woke up just now and feel like wringing someone's neck. Not for any particular reason, though-I just woke up feeling crabby. So scrolling about the Interwebs in the hope of cheering myself up and protecting those around me, I found this:

A Japanese blow up doll with a reloadable hymen and simulated bleeding. Her simulated weeping, disappointment and thinking "Is that IT?" not included.

It is entirely possible that on another day, when I wasn't feeling so crabby, I would find this hilariously funny. But considering I had also just read about the vagina facial, or the vagacial, I was not feeling all that amused. Yes, this sounds entirely fake, but sadly, it is true. Technically, it is a facial for the vulva, if you can call that a facial, but that is quibbling really. This is along with the vaginal rejuvenation surgery one can have (in which the doctor returns the vagina to it's pre-child glory), the anal bleaching, the full Brazilian wax and the makeup that enpinkens the labia.

You know what bothers me about all this? What is really icky? There seems to be a theme of a preference for a pre-adolescent vagina. Squeaky clean, hairless, childishly pink and untouched. In other words, a grown woman's ladyflower is yucky and unappealing. And as much as I would love to blame men entirely for this, it is women who are undergoing these procedures and ablutions. Men, to my knowledge, are not undergoing any testicular buffing or penile improvement projects to return themselves to the penis of their pimply, masturbatory purgatory. And certainly, men have their own issues around youth which is why plastic surgery for removal of man-boobs is one of the fastest growing demands in the industry. By and large, this appears to be a female thing, this obsession with youthfulness that now extends to our nether regions. And while I am trying to prolong my youthfulness with creams and serums, I recognize that my face, as well as the rest of me, is just going to follow the course of nature, which is whatever my genetics and lifestyle dictates. I am just as guilty of lusting after a youthful glow, but it ends with Pilates and Strivectin for turkey neck.

I could go on and on about the sociology and societal repercussions of all this, but instead I will just say this:

Eeeeeeeeewwwww. Enough. Stop. Leave it alone. It's super as it is.

And men who order the Japanese Virgin Sex Doll? I think this is a wise use of your $95. Because you clearly should not be dating real women. At all. Ever.

Monday, February 8, 2010


When I started writing this blog, over on the Sugar Snow myspace page, it was a way of keeping track of the band's development, this new stage in my life. And then I realized that I liked it, that the reason I was a writing major in college (yes, ouch--as useful as sociology!) was because I liked to write. And in approaching it with the same attitude that I have for the band, which is, Give Your All, Expect Nothing Back, it became an exercise in discipline, editing, figuring out what works and what doesn't. But what it did more than anything else was reinforce my understanding of privacy and restraint

"A blog like this is narcissism in its most obscene flowering...But it's necessary. As a parent your days are consumed by other people's needs. This is payback for driving back and forth to gymnastics all week long."

This quote is from an interview about parents who blog about their children. The above was said by Ayelet Waldman, a blogger and writer, who is one of the most confused. embittered parents I have ever come across. She has literally exposed her family in her blog in ways that are unfathomable to me. I would never deny that blogging is narcissistic. Of course it is. Assuming that one has something to say that is of interest and/or importance to the world at large can be characterized no other way. There is an inherent narcissism to being a musician, a writer, an artist of any kind, because art is meant to be shared. And, of course, the hope is that it will be received positively.

But my children, my husband, my friends....that is another story. Everyone has their comfort zone, and writing about them is well outside of mine. I try to keep them on the periphery, and never even use their names. What I write is specifically targeted at me--MY behavior, MY opinions, MY experiences. It is extreme narcissism but it is also protection for them. They did not ask or agree to be put in my blog; my husband has a right to his personal and professional life without judgement based on my interest in marrying Jon Stewart or my diatribe on smelly microphones. My extremely private best friend wants to remain that way, and I owe her that. My bandmates have a right to their privacy, and while some of the things we experience as a band would be highly entertaining, a band is a marriage of it's own, and thus has it's own expectations of privacy. What I tell my friends over dinner is one thing. What I tell everyone out in the ether is something else entirely.

But an important aspect of blogging is the aspect of truth. And truth is elastic. If I were to write about a show we did at a club we had no business playing in, which, to me, was a fairly embarrassing, disastrous but fun evening, the opinion might be taken as the Truth of ALL of Sugar Snow, when in actuality it is my take on the evening. The other people in attendance would no doubt have a different view of the evening, some overlap, to be sure, but not necessarily in line with what I saw. So what is the Truth? It all is. One is mine. And that's the only one I am entitled to write about.

Sunday, January 31, 2010

The Vermin Collection

You know what I would never, ever, in a million years put together? Fashion and taxidermy.

Someone please explain to me HOW IN HOLY HELL someone not only THOUGHT of this but actually MADE it, and ACTUALLY SELLS IT. The picture above, of the dead pigeon wings headband, is the tamest BY FAR of the taxidermy fashions, and I have to say, some of them are downright nauseating. Never in my life have I stood at the Fenway T stop, looked over at one of the many monstrous rat carcasses and thought, "That disgusting rodent, curled in it's fetal death position, would make a lovely change purse." I know I have said, "Why are the rats so fucking huge down here?" I know I have said, " Get out of the way, Drunk Bleacher Guy, I've gotta get on the D line and away from Mrs. Frisby NOW." But I am sure, sure as I am sitting here, that I did not consider that icky carrier of diseases to be the In accessory for Spring.

Apparently, I know nothing at all about fashion.

Beautiful/Decay magazine (one of my faves to read at the dentist's office) says:

It (sic) was created by Reid Peppard, a British taxidermist. Her pieces take animals commonly perceived as vile pests and turns them into fashion items. Peppard says, “…when they become sculptural headpieces, necklaces and cuff-links, the specimens cease to be waste and become objects to behold."

Oh, those crazy Brits! First The Spice Girls, and now this!

Ok, yes, I live in the suburbs, and may not be as hip as I'd like to think. But I do know that wearing a rat head as a tie, pulling your change out a rat's gut or wearing a dead pigeon on your head is a fashion mistake of the greatest kind. Not a forgivable faux pas, like harem pants. Not an ironic statement like wearing an Anarchy t-shirt with a Mr. Rogers cardigan, as my Ohio State heartthrob used to do. No, this is the kind that guarantees that your child will never be invited to another birthday party , and that you will NEVER, EVER be asked to bring ANYTHING to ANY FOOD RELATED EVENT at your child's school. EVER. I cannot tell you with absolute surety that you will be shunned, but I think it is a definite possibility.

Honestly, the pictures are a horror. I can hardly look at them. But I understand that art is subjective, and perhaps I would find the workmanship and "green"ness (since these are all basically roadkill) admirable. If I could get past the fact that this is a hair comb made out of the fucking head of a hamster, maybe I would. But honey, if you are wearing a dead hamster in your hair, you don't fall into the category of edgy. I think you move straight into revolting. Do Not Pass Go. Do Not Collect Two Hundred Dollars.

Looking for a gift for your honey? Valentine's Day is just around the corner, and Ms. Peppard says she has just the thing for you:

That's right... The Pigeon Foot Pendants that were promised so long ago have finally materialized!

Suffice to say it took a long time to make these little fuckers...


There are only 100 of these little beauties....Oh yeah: And they are an ABSOLUTE BARGAIN at 55 pounds!

Just an FYI--that is around $88 bucks. For dead pigeon's feet. On a chain. That you wear. And not for a Santeria ritual.

So, friends and readers, can you think of a SINGLE SITUATION in which any of these statement pieces would be appropriate? Would a dude who wore mousehead cufflinks be a dating dealbreaker for you? Do I lack a sense of humor entirely? Is that the problem?

Those with strong stomachs and/or morbid (in the truest sense of the word) curiosity can check out her work at

Monday, January 25, 2010

Situational Cheapness

I am struggling to write today. Not just because this rainy grayness makes me want to hibernate, or because all the crap of real life is making me feel VERY unfunny, but because it is pitch black in here. Again. Because I am too cheap to buy a decent lamp. The light of the computer adds a certain ambiance, but is making the typing more of a challenge then it needs to be. The pull cord has torn off, and I can't really find another functional lamp in the house, because all of them are broken in one way or another.Years and years of buying cheap lamps has come to this. Darkness.

I have Situational Cheapness. By nature, I am not cheap at all, and when it comes to shoes, cosmetics or the people i love, i am fine with spending. In fact, I enjoy it very much.. But I have this Situational Cheapness that WILL NOT allow me to spend money on certain items. I absolutely cannot bring myself to buy some every day things at full price, even though I can afford them. And it comes back to bite me, over and over again, because I end up replacing things or sitting in the dark, as I am now. Beside lamps, here are the biggies that pain me to pay full price for:

1. Textiles of any kind. Curtains, sheets, blankets, and especially towels. That has meant no light blockage, low thread count, unraveling duvets and being covered with navy blue lint after a shower for MONTHS. And yet, I persist.

2. Rugs. There is a practical reason for this. My family. This is a messy, messy house, and there are dirty shoes and dog bone remnants everywhere, so buying a rug anywhere but Target or Lowe's seems foolish. But they pill, they unravel, they get easily discolored. And those aforementioned dog bones? On a cheap rug, they get imbedded in the overly large weave and I have to clean them off with a frigging toothbrush. So yes, I am the fool.

3. Vacuum Cleaners. I finally broke down and bought the Dyson after going through three vacuum cleaners in a year. I cannot explain the high mortality rate, and cannot attribute it to one particular style of machine, since I got canister, upright, bagless, bagful, with attachments, pretty colors....the huge amount of pet hair may have caused the suicides of these generally dependable FOREVER machines. My parents had the same vacuum cleaner for 20+ years. And because I couldn't bring myself to spring for the Cadillac, I ended up buying two, though the first one came in three pieces.

I am trying to learn from the old adage "You get what you pay for." But I can't do it. Because it is so inconsistently true. I have purchased expensive boots that have disintegrated after two wearings, and cheap boots that I have had for ten years. It used to be absolutely true that more expensive crap was better. And now it isn't. I know someone who paid $6000 to record with a big name producer, and their CD sounds....well...not like it cost $6000. Sometimes spending a lot of money is smart, sometimes it isn't. Until i have a foolproof way of knowing whether expensive=better or cheap=worse, i will stick with my weirdnesses and play the odds. Maybe I'll hit it right on the kitchen chairs I need to buy. The IKEA chairs lasted longer than the Crate and Barrel chairs. But who goes through this many kitchen chairs?

Monday, January 18, 2010

January Froth

I am looking at my calendar and trying to find a tiny space to add something to my already jam-packed Tuesday. It is possible I say this every year, but January is nuts! It seems like the house of cards that was December is flying to pieces now, and I am scrambling to reassemble. And a lot of it is major and crappy--the type of stuff that happens when you are over 40 and everything goes to shit. Seriously sick friend, friend with seriously sick parents, signing my fucking WILL (which is, of course, not as bad as those things, but STILL)...all loads of way-too-serious fun. Sigh.

But some really great things have happened this month, too. I feel like creating some mental sunshine on this slushy, Boston day, so I will share a few of the things that have made me happy. And then tell me 2010 isn't shaping up to be a good year!

THE BAND. This is a huge surprise, the best kind. I have a band again. It has been a long, long time since I had a fully functioning unit of fellow musicians who are ready to play. Two new people in the band, three stalwarts, and a monster NEW AMP and beautiful NEW GUITAR. I vowed that this year would be the year I started playing guitar at shows, that this would be the year I abandoned acoustic for electric, and this would be the year I would get mad and RAWK. And it is coming to pass. I feel musically rejuvenated and all kinds of creative. Don't underestimate what a humongous amp that has cool effects can do for the creativity. Ad my amp has tons of knobs. AND A PEDAL.

MY TINY NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION is a total success. The above was not a resolution but a solemn vow to myself, one that can bring the full force of self-induced Jewish guilt, which I have in droves. No, the resolution is something I know will improve my metal state, but is not a killer if it doesn't happen. But it is. And it is MAKING THE BED EVERY DAY. Yes, that's it. Highly manageable. Small to the point of almost being silly. Here's the thing--it gives me a feeling that my life is more organized and controlled when I go upstairs and my bedroom looks like a lovely haven instead of the hovel of a crazed person who leapt out of bed, late yet again, running to get to work on time. It really does work for me. I recognize that this might be feeding into my OCD, and it is. But OCD is not all bad, For all of the 35 times I check for my keys before I leave the house, there is the part of me that now must make my bed, as well as making sure the pillows are arranged just so and looks like a vignette in a Pottery Barn catalogue. Yeah. So much better.

MY EGO at 43 got a little boost. I admit this is shallow and vain and all that, but it feels fucking GREAT. A certain stalwart has decided that, in order to remain with Sugar Snow, he needs to adopt an alias and photoshop Alec Baldwin into any band pictures taken henceforth. Why? Because his girlfriend is angry that he is in a band with another girl. His 26 YEAR OLD, GRAVITY UNAFFECTED, LINELESS girlfriend is threatened by me, 43 year old suburban mother of three. Yes, she is a ridiculously insecure youngster who is destined to drive him away with her foolishness, but all I can say is FUCK YEAH. Never even met the girl and she is afraid I have MILF-y designs on her beau. It couldn't be further from the truth, of course, not in any way does this resemble any reality anywhere.But FUCKING FUCK, it's AWESOME.

So, in short, I am a whammy bar using, bed making, boy conquering, amped up Brookline matron. Even with all the very, very serious and important shit happening all around me, I have this little island of amusement and happiness. There just isn't enough frothiness in life, and in the dead of Winter, I need my froth.

Monday, January 11, 2010

I have been drowsy all day, and I know exactly why. Yesterday was Medium's birthday party, and I had the honor of driving him and 5 of his pals to tubing. It is not news to me that boys smell--since I have two, I knew that. But HOW BAD BOYS IN CLOSE PROXIMITY SMELL is quite shocking and, in a word, vile. The drive there was loud and crass, which was manageable. But the way back, with the pubescent boys trapped inside their sweat soaked snow pants and howling with laughter at their own farts...the noxious fumes trapped in my closed car and everything from Sudbury home is foggy, no pun intended. I've since had it confirmed that yes, this is a Boy Thing, this celebration of the male stench, and that yes, they were right, you can set farts on fire.

I personally don't find farts funny, but I guess I find vaginas funny. Go figure. On this hilarious site called The Frisky,, which I found via CNN, of all places, they write about all manner of things that are guaranteed to give me a giggle. They LOVE to list Top Fives(or Tens) and Best Evers, which I have a tremendous weakness for, so I eat those lists like wasabi peas and laugh myself silly. But the one that amused me most last week was The Top Ten Most Amazing Vaginas. And below the sexy picture of a woman (though not of her vagina) was a button to click for a slideshow. And I hesitated, because I didn't know what I would see. And yes, I feared the unknown vagina. And while I may have watched porn before, although I am not saying I have, pictures of vaginas deemed AMAZING on a porn site have an entirely different meaning than on The Frisky. I hoped. But I soldiered on, and laughed my way through. And just for you, here is their list of The Ten Most Amazing Vaginas. And I am going to quote them directly.

1. The Chick with Two Vaginas.
2. The Lady With Reading Material in Her Hoo-Ha
3. The World's Biggest You-Know-What
4. Her Vagina Can Bench Press More Than Your Vagina
5. But Can you Play Dixie With It? ( woman who can play the kazoo with her vagina)
6. The Girl Who Had No Vagina ( this was accompanied by a picture of Barbie)
7. The Star of "Teeth" (Vagina Dentata)
8. The Elongated Labia of Rwandan Women
9. She Had a Giant Among Vaginas
10. Her Untrimmed Hedges

Numbers 1 and 3 refer to quirks at birth. Number 3 and 9 are differentiated as follows: 3 is the "biggest" in terms of how many partners this porn star had in the World's Biggest Gang Bang, while 9 was actually, physically the largest, a woman who was 7'5 1/2" and had a baby with a 19" circumference. Number 8 refers to a cultural ideal of beauty in another country as opposed to the current trend of labioplasty in this country, and 10 is the woman with the longest pubic hair (28" long, if you are interested). 7 has a clip of the movie "Teeth" in which a marauding teenage girl terrorizes a town with her biting vagina. And 2, 4 and 5 are party tricks that make my vagina feel terribly inferior.

In other news, 50 Arab and Israeli chefs in Israel set the record for the largest plate of hummus ever recorded, 8800 pounds, served in a satellite dish. Not surprisingly, Lebanon, whose record of 4500 pounds was crushed by the Israelis, immediately claimed that Israelis had stolen the product and claimed it as Israeli.

This seems positively wholesome next to the vaginas doesn't it? But which one is more ridiculous?

Monday, January 4, 2010

Does being a musician have to be so dirty?

On Saturday, I went to look at a rehearsal space for the band. There are five of us now, and with me also playing guitar, we have stuff and we need space. This was a shared space with a bunch of other bands, with some shared equipment, which can be pretty nice. But this place could have been free and I wouldn't have taken it. OH MY GOD. I knew there was trouble when the guy who rents the place met me on Cambridge Street in Allston and then took me down to a basement. A basement. In Allston. And as if the worn staircase weren't bad enough (I mean like so worn that you could see the depths of hell through them), the actual "space" was a decaying shithole with drywall crumbling into inhalable piles. Probably the lovely combination of drywall and asbestos, now that I think about it. He had a ton of amazing equipment--lots of vintage amps and a really nice shared drum kit, plus all the mics and a decent PA. I had to focus on those things to keep from losing consciousness. And when he showed me the bathroom, which had not only NO SINK, but NO FLOOR, i was absolutely sure that one more minute in this place would actually kill me. And apparently, the bands who do use this space would step over my body, because obviously they don't notice how vile it is. I had to go to Guitar Center afterwards to buy a pedal, just to get over my heebie jeebies.

Now, Bass Player A. has a rehearsal space. And until I saw this pit, I thought his was bad. His is in a classic warehouse type building,with a labryinth of hallways and screamo oozing from every cubicle. The bathrooms are gross, though I hear the men's room is a billion times worse than the ladies room. Still, I have (obviously) been to worse places and would pay rent to play there, except for the poison gas being emitted. Technically, it is turpentine from the illegal t-shirt printing/painter's studio right next door. The dude who works there has a problem with solvents, and the ENTIRE FLOOR smells like turpentine. Literally, I get a headache the instant I enter the building. And A.'s studio is RIGHT NEXT DOOR. As if the spilled bongwater didn't make it smell bad enough.

Now, yesterday, I practiced at the creme de la creme of studios, a pay-through-the-nose-by-the-hour place where the established musicians practice, and bands traveling through Boston for shows rehearse. This place is pristine. Unbelievable. The best amps, the best drumkits, anything you could possibly need or forgot to bring, the cleanest bathrooms--this place is amazing. I really can't afford it anymore (if I ever could) but we went out with a bang--because we happened to be the only band practicing yesterday, we got THE BIG ROOM. The picture above is that space, and it doesn't begin to show the size and beauty of the space. Literally, it was bigger than my studio apartment in Brighton, back in my student days. It had an amazing PA that literally made my ears ring. It was like being upgraded to First Class! And as much as I would like to go there again, and keep going there forever and ever, a place so classy was not meant for a girl like me. Sigh.

So in about an hour, I am going to see a space in a sister warehouse to A.'s, and tomorrow, another. But last night, with my brain wired on Diet Coke and brownies, I started thinking about whether it was time to bite the bullet and do something about our disgusting basement. It could work. And then we could move the air hockey table upstairs if we move the drumkit to the studio! Think it's time? I think it's time.