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.

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.

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.