Sugar Snow

Please Explain.

2010-07-12T09:37:00.004-04:00

Ok.

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."

Who's Your Idol?

2010-06-28T09:47:00.007-04:00

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

2010-06-14T13:22:00.006-04:00

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

2010-06-07T15:31:00.011-04:00

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.

My Own Private Idaho

2010-05-24T14:48:00.006-04:00

Someone on Facebook posted a link to a page called Shitmykidsruined.com, 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 shitmykidsruined.com. 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.

It's Here.

2010-05-17T15:29:00.007-04:00

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.

The Only Bright Spot in a Crabby Day

2010-05-10T15:17:00.005-04:00

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.

I've Got The Curse!

2010-05-03T14:26:00.006-04:00

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.

It's Gotta Be The Shoes....

2010-04-26T15:02:00.012-04:00

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 " ...my 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 straps...it'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.

Wonder Woman

2010-04-19T23:40:00.001-04:00

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.

The Mayor of Simpleton

2010-04-12T10:18:00.008-04:00

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.

Now I'm Pissed Off

2010-04-05T12:44:00.010-04:00

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'.

What's Cookin'?

2010-03-29T14:43:00.004-04:00

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.

MICHAEL IN PORTLAND:
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.

ANDREW IN CHARLOTTE:
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.

A Lovely Bouquet

2010-03-22T14:32:00.007-04:00

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:

http://www.experienceproject.com/groups/Love-My-Vagina/62797
http://www.smellmeand.com (Vulva Perfume)
http://literotica.com/

Pop Tart

2010-03-15T11:32:00.006-04:00

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.

Spring Fashion Issues

2010-03-08T08:24:00.008-05:00

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: http://www.thefrisky.com/post/246-woman-shaves-and-drives-causes-car-wreck/

Enjoy the beautiful weather!!

An Extra Bizarre Wednesday RANT: Vegas Vagina

2010-03-03T12:55:00.006-05:00

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?

http://www.theluxuryspot.com/2010/02/23/i-got-vajazzled-and-had-a-camera-crew/

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.

Meow

2010-02-27T21:18:00.012-05:00

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.

Elf Sex

2010-02-24T11:50:00.004-05:00

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.

http://www.thefrisky.com/post/246-if-elf-sex-is-real-then-we-should-all-move-to-iceland-asap/

Shiny and New

2010-02-15T17:42:00.006-05:00

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.

Truthiness

2010-02-08T15:19:00.005-05:00

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.

The Vermin Collection

2010-01-31T22:37:00.008-05:00

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...

Hooray!

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 http://reidpeppard.blogspot.com/.

Situational Cheapness

2010-01-25T16:59:00.004-05:00

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?

January Froth

2010-01-18T15:13:00.006-05:00

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.

2010-01-11T17:04:00.004-05:00

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, thefrisky.com, 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?

Does being a musician have to be so dirty?

2010-01-04T11:25:00.005-05:00

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.

Number One with a Bullet

2009-12-28T00:42:00.007-05:00

This is a first for me, writing a blog just after midnight. Not surprising that I'm up, really, what with the forty billion naps I've taken in the last 4 days. I get on the bed to read and within minutes, I am out. But I have been reading a lot. I just finished the third book in the Twilight series and I have to say, they are pretty damn bad. But it's vacation, so one should read crappy books and watch crappy movies (Alvin and the Chipmunks, anyone?) and eat peppermint bark. I look forward to book four, when Bella goes into labor and Edward chews the baby out of her. Oops. I hope I didn't spoil it for anyone.

When I was at the mall with Small today to repierce the ear that got infected, we were at Nordstrom and there were those huge lifesize cutouts of the Jacob and Edward characters from Twilight mingling with the headless and/or bald juniors mannequins. These cutouts are apparently being stolen right and left. I was trying to explain to Small, who is very sophisticated for all of her nearly eight years, what the hullabaloo was about and she looked at me, shook her head, and said, "I don't get it." I said "I don't either." And then I bought a dress.

Forget about the preposterous novels and the whole vampire chic thing that is happening absolutely everywhere. I look at Robert Pattinson and I see Pretty. Beautiful bone structure, important haircuts, smoldering quality. Pretty. And that does nothing for me. Nothing against him, or Zac Efron, or that blond dude from Gossip Girl, or Rob Lowe back in the day--those guys are so pretty as to be female. This isn't their fault, they won the genetic lottery and have hordes of screaming fans and a ton of dough to show for it. But to me, they are just too pretty. Better skin than I have, use more products than I do, some may wear a smaller size, I'm not sure. Yes, no doubt it is an issue of mine. But this is my blog, remember?

A few months back, I went down to the Cape (remember the giant Diet Coke?) with a group of ladies and we were talking about our Celebrity Fuck List, though i don't think it was called that by the dainty amongst us. These are the celebrities you supposedly get a pass for by your spouse, should you be fortunate enough to run into them at Star Market. Interesting what you learn about people from playing this game. I heard Hugh Jackman, Johnny Depp, Bill Clinton (which was not me, but he has a certain dirty quality that would probably make him fun) and Raiders era Harrison Ford. I personally think the qualification of "particular era" is cheating, but hey, that's their list, and if they want an automatic disqualification because now Harrison Ford looks like an aging doofus with an earring (all the hip kids have them!), go right ahead. My first choice? Jon Stewart.

I know that Jon Stewart looks like a lot of the guys I went to high school with, that incredibly ethnic (read:Jewish) thing that does not generally appeal to me. But here are his trump cards: funny and smart. That's it. As I have watched that show, he has become THE most beautiful thing EVER, New Jersey Jew or not--no offense intended, Husband. Because smart and funny is transformative to me, just as stupid and humorless are--watch Jared Leto turn into the ugliest motherfucker on the planet the SECOND he opens his mouth to speak. Pretentious? Check. Overly serious? Check. Self-Deprecating? Nope, not at all. I don't care if you were Jordan Catalano. Your time is UP. Thanks for playing.

So at the risk of embarrassing myself completely, here are the top five on my Celebrity Fuck List.

1. Jon Stewart--even my parents would approve!
2. Dave Grohl of Foo Fighters--not at all afraid to make fun of himself or dress in drag. Fantastically funny videos with
3. Jack Black--who will no doubt surprise people, as it did at the dinner table in Wellfleet. You know what? The man is fucking hilarious. John Cusack is adorable, but I wanted to make out with Jack Black after watching High Fidelity.And he has awesome eyebrows.
4. Dan Savage--yes, I know he is gay and gorgeous. And I don't care.
5. Howard Stern--this one is the hardest to admit publicly, but I will go on record as saying that this is the man I have had the most erotic dreams about. He can be cruel and he can be tiresome, but when he is funny, he is the funniest guy out there. I will also admit that I wake up from these dreams embarrassed. Actually, I am kind of embarrassed right now.

And one more thing--if you are male and I tell you you are smart and/or funny, please don't take that as a euphemism for ugly. Just like I don't take it hard if you describe me as smart and funny. . But if you want to add hot, feel free to do so.

A happy and healthy new year to all of you.

True Love

2009-12-21T16:46:00.008-05:00

Today was one of those days that did not go as I had planned at all. On top of the usual stuff, I had to run Medium to the doctor to treat his infected pointer finger, which was nasty and spreading up his arm. I spent a lot of time in Boston traffic, listening to The Who, and wondering when I could get the hell out of the car, into my pajamas and write my blog. Because I have something wonderful to share. WONDERFUL. I bought a new guitar.

Before I praise her to the high heavens, and oh, how I will, I need to explain the SYMBOLISM of this guitar. Because it is indeed SYMBOLIC. At our show on Thursday, (yes, that one, which you did not go to, even though I asked you nicely), I played the guitar for two songs with a full-ass band of five, and it was the most fun I have had, musically, in a long time. Our previous lack of drummer had forced us into a period of acoustic duo-ness, which was fine, for a while. But truth be told, I have been waaaaaaaay bored with the quiet, the subdued and the sad. The full band stuff was loud and rocky and dirty, and after it was done and we kicked the ass of that Radiohead cover , it was abundantly clear that I have entered a period of loud, rocky and dirty. I looked at the guitar I was playing, a sweet little Fender Mustang that BELONGS TO MY TEN YEAR OLD SON, and I thought, Make a Commitment. To ROCK. His guitar is perfect, but it is his, and I needed to find a perfect one for me. And thus, anticipating snow and parked in front of my computer screen, I spent Saturday night on Craigslist and found my new baby. My Fender Mustang. Mine.

Beautiful and small, with a tone that can be sweet or nasty. She fits me like a glove, cools me up, makes me confident, makes me feel like playing power chords is possible. She doesn't have a mark on her, and is a beautiful shade called Daphne Blue. When I took her to Guitar Hero Jim Mouradian's shop today, and I saw her out of the case and on his workbench getting adjusted, I was so happy that I felt almost ridiculous. Luckily, Medium was checking out the selection of vintage amps and didn't see me surreptitiously wipe a tear from my eye. I look at this guitar and I want to write, and sing, and use distortion, have a fuckload of pedals that do random things and an amp that I know how to use. I want to play shows that take people's breath away. I want it to feel new again. And I look at this guitar, and it does.

So, 2010 is the Year of Rawk for Sugar Snow. What that means yet, I don't know, but I can tell you this--at the next show, I will have an amp of my own, a tuning pedal that I know how to use and my new guitar, with it's pickups, knobs and whammy bar. And this one you must go to. Don't you want to see if I hurt myself?

Do you smell what I smell?

2009-12-14T14:19:00.006-05:00

My biggest anxiety about my show this week: how bad is the mic going to smell?

God, they are awful. The accumulation of sweat, spit and halitosis in the little silver ball is truly disgusting. I am one of those unfortunates who hasn't mastered the projecting thing, and because I sing sort of quietly, I am right up on the mic and am hit again and again with the aroma of dying dreams. We are playing a great club, a really great club, but the great ones have perhaps the stinkiest mics of all. I became acquainted with the smelly mic problem at the best club in town.

When we first started out and played anywhere,anytime, we had to bring our own equipment with us. An entire PA was shoved into the back of my van, and , of course, we brought our own mics. I never really thought about how personal the use of the mic is, and when we played these small shows, I only had mine and didn't have to share it. It never occurred to me, actually. It was part of the deal of shlepping tons of equipment. Later, when we played at small clubs, clubs with their own PA's and a more acoustic set of performers, i could either use my own mic or theirs, but theirs were fine. Acoustic clubs have a lower volume of spitting performers, less excitable by nature, and while they were not the greatest quality mics, they were clean. Clean to the point that it never bothered me, I never noticed. And then, the big show. And all that changed.

We were on first , so we got the soundcheck, and the whole time I was up there, excited as I was to be in THE club, I kept thinking, "God, I need to brush my teeth or something." It took me a while to realize that it wasn't me (because, as you know, I have excellent oral hygiene) but the ball of the mic. I swear, the stench was so bad, it was eating away at the metal .I discreetly went over to the nicest sound guy EVER and, smiling hugely so as to not offend him. I said "Uh, dude, this mic reeks!" "Oh," he said, smiling back at me," you should have smelled the box the mic was IN. When I opened it and the smell hit me, I felt faint." I watched him deftly unscrew the ball of the mic and spritz it from a spray bottle full of Listerine, clean it thoroughly, screw it back on and hand it back. I thought that was soooooooo cool--like I was in on a big music secret--Listerine to clean the mic! Wow! Went back up to finish the soundcheck, and...THE MIC STILL STANK. Only now it smelled like ripe armpits coated in a Listerine deodorant. The show must go on and blah blah blah. I tried to not pay attention, but I have been scarred by the smelly mic. I fear them now.

So along with all my other anxieties about whether my skirt is too short (I think it is) and whether the photographer guy is going to be able to hide my turkey neck, I will also have to worry about the mic.I will use the club mic, and take one for the team, if I have to, because sound guys can be extremely sensitive about you not using THEIR SUPERIOR EQUIPMENT. And if you don't use THEIR SUPERIOR EQUIPMENT, they can make you sound very, very bad. But please, Sound Guy or Gal at Church on December 17 at 9, let me use my beautiful, odor-free mic. I'm sure your equipment is superior. But sometimes a girl prefers her own.

Can I tell you about my children?

2009-12-07T13:32:00.013-05:00

You know what my biggest fear is? Not my fear of snakes, spiders or rodents, or my fear of tunnels, down escalators and heights (a biggie) or even my fear of my car breaking down in an isolated area where people find out I am Jewish and ask me to explain the Torah. My biggest fear is people thinking I am boring. And that is because I ABSOLUTELY CANNOT DEAL WITH BORING. I just can't. And thus, I am afraid that someone will cross the street to avoid ME because THEY think I am boring. I am not a juggling-at-parties kind of gal, but I think I am fairly easy to talk to. I can generally find some common ground with almost anyone. I try very hard to limit discussion of my family or my band.In short, I try NOT TO BE BORING. But I think the most boring are the ones that don't realize it. It is an insidious danger amongst us, so BE AWARE. This time of year, with all the holiday parties, school events and random get-togethers, we are all bound to get stuck with A Bore. If this is utterly unavoidable, try to get stuck near the booze table. The Bore comes in two categories: The Limited Interest Bore and the Nothing to Say Bore. Talking to either is like dying a very slow death, but in a different way.

Example of The Limited Interest Bore (LIB): Cornered near the coats by The Mom Who Won't Stop Talking About Her Children. Listen to stories of Walter's three goals at the state hockey championships, Gertrude's starring role in the school play in which a talent scout happened to be present, Fred's acceptance into a prestigious state department program for studies of World Breads. The LIB doesn't notice that you are texting for help, or anything else for that matter. This is never limited to a discussion of children (although that is a frequent offender), but could be about their job, their money, their connections (name-dropping), their hobbies, really anything. This kind of micro-lecture is not boring because the subject matter is uninteresting. It might be. No, it is boring because you, you personally, don't need to be there for it. Really anyone, ANYONE, in the room, would do. It is not a conversation, which involves the exchange of ideas, it is a monologue. So if you don't care about model trains EXCLUSIVELY, you are not being an asshole when you break your own finger and plead for first aid just to shut an LIB up. Kudos to you if you can do that without inflicting pain on yourself.

Example of Nothing to Say Bore (NSB): You are at a wedding, which can be a whole other type of bore, but let's stay on the subject, shall we? At a wedding, seated at a table with some perfectly nice people. Everyone introduces themselves, and of course, instantly forget everyone's name but remember exactly what they are wearing. You attempt conversation with the woman on your right, the Woman in the Blue Dress, and while she smiles at you pleasantly, you never get beyond the stage of "How do you know the bride?" Why? Because she has nothing to say. Unlike the LIB, she has NO interests, NO hobbies, NO discernible personality. Not mean, not funny, not sarcastic, not ANYTHING. Just NOT. AT ALL. This type of bore is much more difficult to deal with, because they have actually done nothing wrong, and the fact that you have nothing to discuss makes you feel like YOU are the boring one. Sometimes you can meet someone and have nothing to talk about because you have nothing in common, but not find them boring. But the NSB has absolutely nothing to say, and you wind up just looking at each other, and because time stands still with an NSB, you could be there for 5 minutes that feel like an eternity or for several actual years. Inflicting injury on oneself is generally not necessary with an NSB. You literally can get up and leave. An NSB is used to that and assumes everyone on earth always has somewhere else they need to be. And they do. Away.

I hope that the people who love me, those funny and fascinating people, will take it upon themselves to stage an intervention should I become boring. Bar the door and remind me that NO ONE wants to hear THAT MUCH about shoes. Withhold food and sleep. Whatever works. Because while my grandmother lived to a ripe old age and died with a full mustache, she was NEVER boring. She was just hairy. And I would rather be hairy than boring any day.

An Extra Happy Thursday RAVE

2009-12-03T17:09:00.006-05:00

I have lived in Massachusetts for many years, and it is true that the drivers here are amongst the worst in the universe, myself included. I have seen people back up on the Mass Pike, people turn left from the right lane, people performing every sort of personal hygiene while driving in the breakdown lane at rush hour. It is hard to shock a Massachusetts driver with anything, so much so that egregious breaches of legal,moral and practical driving behavior are rarely reported in the newspaper. However, I was delighted to read about this recent roadway ridiculousness that happened in our fair state, under the headline Motorist helps police rounding up cows:

Interstate 91 South in Springfield was shut down for approximately 30 minutes yesterday to allow State Police to safely remove two cows from the travel lanes. The cows, approximately 500 pounds each, had escaped from a trailer that came unlatched and were walking near Exit 8. A motorist who was stuck in traffic offered his help to state troopers, Springfield animal control, and environmental police. Dressed in a cowboy hat and boots, the motorist lassoed one cow, then the other, and was able to guide the animals back into the trailer.

Yes, I KNOW that Western Massachusetts is very, very different from the eastern part, but we do not live in Wyoming. What the hell was this guy doing dressed like Woody from Toy Story on the interstate, and with a fucking LASSO? You know when you are stuck in a long traffic jam, and you think to yourself, "There had better be someone bleeding up there!" and crane your neck to see a broken body at the crash site? Wouldn't it be so much cooler to see Urban Cowboy and his golden lasso roping them steers? I am so sad that I missed this! Why did I not get caught in this traffic jam?? Three hours to get over the Sagamore Bridge, and neither lassoes nor blood were involved. Damn.

Stacy

2009-11-30T14:17:00.007-05:00

I am reading this fascinating book called Gimme Something Better: The Profound, Progressive, and Occasionally Pointless History of Bay Area Punk from Dead Kennedys to Green Day by Jack Boulware and Silke Tudor.I have an obsession with rock biographies and this one is in my favorite format, the oral history. All these people recalling the same events, and having everything pieced together like a quilt--the truth is in their somewhere, but the stories are so much more colorful. The thing that is particularly great about punk rock is that people felt compelled to change their names, and they did so excellently. Klaus Fluoride, Leslie Fuckette, Ninja Death,Jennifer Blowdryer, Joey Shithead--why do none of the parents' at my kids school have these names? PTO meetings would be a howl if i could hear, just ONCE, "Yes, Ms. Fuckette?" I would actually go to those meetings.

What I have learned from this book is that many of the kids who got involved in the punk movement in San Francisco were street kids, drug users, troubled youths, who wanted to leave their old personas behind. If you were the picked on small kid in middle school, you could give yourself a mohawk, call yourself Bob Noxious and-poof-no more little nerd. Names are powerful, because it announces you before you have a chance to present yourself. "Meet my friend, Creetin K-Os" is waaaaaaay more captivating than "Meet my neighbor, John Smith." It just is. And I don't think even John Smith would argue with that.

Simone was an unusual name for 1966. My parents wanted to name me after my grandfather, Solomon, so considered Samantha (which was rejected because my mother didn't like Sam as a nickname), Simone and the utterly vile Hebrew name of Smadar, which sounds like some sort of middle eastern headdress or a bathroom cleanser. Simone it was, and has continued to be. As a very, very shy child (I swear I was!), the anxiety of the first day of school or a substitute teacher was excruciating--it was nearly a guarantee that I would be called Simon. Then teasing for the rest of the day, or week, or year, if you were unlucky enough to have Danny Barnett in your class. The gentler teachers tried to soften the blow by saying ".....Berk?" so I would pipe up, correctly pronouncing my name, and they would be spared the embarrassment, as I would. I have been called Simon more times than I can count, and continue to be. Oddly, I was also called Michelle and Nicole many times as an elementary schooler, all girls' French names being interchangeable, apparently

But what I wanted, wanted so much, was to be named Stacy. Or Staci. Stacey. Stacie. Stacee. I wanted to have a name that was "normal", that ended with a y or an i, that was never mispronounced or looked at twice. I wanted to blend in with Tracy, Kelly, Shelly, Marci and my best friend, Wendy. I wanted to fit. And I believed that what kept me from fitting was my name. And to some extent, that is true, because my name made me feel different than everyone else. But I was different. I am different. Not unacceptably so, but different nonetheless. And that is a good thing. At the age of 43, I am embracing my temper as passion, my OCD as focus and my moodiness as artistic temperament. I am abnormally focused on footwear, chocolate and 0 calorie beverages. I love so strongly that I hurt myself. I am generous and irresponsible about money. I dream all my anxiety in an endless loop. I am many things and am becoming many more. At 43, I am not nearly done. So nothing against the Stacys of the world--I am sure, as a group and individually, you are delightful. I have known some of you and can attest to that. But I was never meant to be one of your ranks. I was never meant to be a Stacy.

Sweirdo

2009-11-23T11:04:00.008-05:00

I love Lemonheads. Yes, the candy. Those little sweet/sour balls that perfectly balance the hardness and chewiness of life. I have always loved them, loved everything about them. The box, the sound the candy made rolling around inside the box (which was somewhat sad, because it never seemed full enough, only sort of full) and the fused pairs of Lemonheads that fell into your hand with a plop when you deliciously turned the box over for the first time. I was (and remain) one of those weird kids who loves anything sour, and between Lemonheads and the kosher lemon hard candy my grandma used to keep on her dining room table in a white trifle bowl--zour kendies, she used to call them in her Yiddish accent--my craving for sour was pretty well covered. Small got several boxes of Lemonheads in her Halloween bag this year, which she generously shared with me, knowing how much I love them. And the Mom n Pop store I sometimes stop at before I pick up Large from school has that same size box for fifteen cents each. I don't always buy them, but alongside the individually wrapped Swedish Fish and the chocolate Ice Cubes, they make me happy.

Don't think I am not aware of how sad this makes me sound. Certain things make me happy that, to me, fall into the category of "simple pleasures" and to others may qualify as "mental illness." Going to Costco and seeing the huge stacks of Coca-Cola products is happy-making. Going to Marshalls and seeing all the potential treasures to be unearthed for a low, low price is another. Watching my dog romp in the snow makes me really happy, too, but not as happy as the photos of Dylan's Candy Bar in New York City. Aisles of by-the-pound candy love is one of the most thrilling things ever. I believe I have a love for Potential--perhaps I will find the perfect boots or the sourest or stickiest or most perplexing candy ever. A good life is about choices, and an endless array of choices at $3.99 a pound is pretty damn good.Mental illness? Maybe. But clearly, I am not alone.

At dinner the other night, while perusing the gift catalog I received from CVS, I saw a picture of something utterly fantastic: The World's Largest Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, each package containing two 8 oz. cups. I am a latecomer to the chocolate game, and my M&M (plain only!!) obsession arrived along with Large, 13 years ago. But predating that was a real love for Reese's and Kit Kats, which has never gone away. So of course, I MUST HAVE the world's largest peanut butter cups--of course!---but i started wondering whether it would cost me my whole day's caloric intake, this thought being a sad byproduct of getting old. So I googled the caloric intake, and it took me to a beautiful beautiful place--Candyblog.com. Holy shit, people, this is Nirvana. Beautifully photographed and thoroughly reviewed, this is one serious blog. Simply searching the word "reese's" brought me to a chart of peanut butter/chocolate products, the first of which was World's Biggest. Click on it, and find a really intelligent review with a hilarious rating system (ranging 1-10, from inedible to superb). This was rated as 6-Tempting. What cracked me up is finding a fellow candy weirdo--look at what the reviewer says:

This violates one of my primary rules of candy, which is that it requires some sort of tool. In this case it’s a knife to portion it. Most large chocolate bars are scored and can be broken into pieces. There is no other way to eat this other than huge bites ... which pretty much means you’re not sharing or you’re intimate enough with the other folks or so wasted you don’t care.

Doesn't that sound like something I would say? And incidentally, the caloric intake by the ounce is listed and it is depressing: 143 PER OUNCE, for an 8 ounce piece of chocolate times two. In short, 2,288 calories. Say hello to the World's Largest Muffin Top after eating these. Sigh. I have spent some time on this page, and while I still haven't found any candy that is Inedible, I have heard of some that I will definitely be trying. Dove Peppermint Bark, anyone?

This site sent me running back to one of my favorite books, Candyfreak by Steve Almond. While this book focuses exclusively on various oddball chocolate products, such as the Idaho Spud or the Goo Goo Cluster, the descriptions of how they are made, their history and people's tremendous attachment to them makes me laugh. No, that isn't it. It makes me laugh with delight, delight that I am not the only sweirdo (sweet+weirdo) out there. This book makes an excellent gift, along with a gift certificate to sweetnostalgia.com, where your sweirdo can buy Broadway Licorice and Wax Lips in bulk, sent directly to their home to be undulged in without judgement.

And I think the World's Largest Peanut Butter Cup will be a dessert on Thanksgiving, sliced and served with toothpicks. Because I have to have it. I just don't have to have it all.

Gimme Gimme Gimme

2009-11-16T14:48:00.007-05:00

Christmas season is upon us, and I can't help but feel vastly superior to those who scramble for gifts and overspend. Hanukkah is a much less complicated proposition, with one gift (not the eight that some get--lucky Jews!), potato pancakes, candles and tops. That pretty much sums it up. I used to buy gifts for every person that came within a five mile radius of my children, but I gave up the mug-n-gift card thing long ago in favor of contributing to a class gift, or even better, ignoring everyone altogether. Still, we here at Casa Simone B have our own Christmas tradition--on Christmas Eve, we pile into the car in our pajamas and drive around the lovely city of Somerville to look at the generator powered, over-the-top decorations on the crammed together triple deckers. It's not Christmas without an inflatable Santa.

Real Simple dedicates an entire issue to creativity around the holidays, including the biggest time waster on earth: gift-wrapping. The funniest part of the whole issue, though, is 50 gifts under $50. Honestly, if someone bought me a set of 11 ceramic nuts for $45, I would have to question our friendship. Just an FYI--the following are a total and complete failure as holiday gifts: a decorative ceramic silver owl ($34), wood coasters decorated with a Victorian cameo-type silhouette ($34 for four), or the silver tree snow globe ($29). All of these were the things left over on the coffee table after Nana died, when everyone already took the stuff they wanted.But I think the greatest thing in the magazine is not listed as a gift, though it should be. The Herb Savor Pod (get the little pun there?) for $20 per, or 3 for $40, is without a doubt the gift absolutely, positively no one wants. Yet another job to do--place said precious herbs into the pod, fill the base with water, and it will keep them fresh for THREE WHOLE WEEKS. These fancy schmancy panty hose eggs were foisted on the poor woman who turned her chaotic fridge over to A Refrigerator Organizer. It is now overrun with plastic Container Store containers that this woman will have cluttering her cabinets, when her refrigerator reverts to it's natural state and she no longer wants to yell at her children for not returning the sleek acrylic juice jars to the right side of the top shelf, in the juice-designated area. And no matter how much is spent on those plastic containers, she will be afraid to open them a month after innocently storing the meatloaf, just as she did with the much less expensive aluminum foil.

But this is a season about love and togetherness, after all, about reaching out and making connections. So let's hope that the police in Tampa find it in their hearts to be kind to poor Joshua Basso. He was looking for a little somethin' somethin' and he called the only number his out-of-minutes phone would let him call--911. And he asked the 911 operator to meet him after work for sex. And she hung up. And he called AGAIN. And AGAIN. AND AGAIN. While cops are well known for their excellent sense of humor, by the fourth call they were no longer amused and arrested him. He told them he thought he wouldn't get in trouble for calling 911. Sweetie, they didn't arrest you for calling 911--they arrested you for calling 911 FOUR TIMES and SOLICITING THE OPERATOR FOR SEX. The poor desperado is in jail, held without bail. Let's hope they let him go home for Christmas. And maybe his mom, with whom he no doubt lives, will put some minutes under the tree for him.

But if you are feeling generous, all I want for Christmas is for you to come see Sugar Snow at Church on December 17. We are going on early, around 8:30, to accommodate all the worker bees and old -at- heart friends. We need a crowd for our full-on, five piece acoustic assault, and it is our first band show since January!!! And if you say the words "Herb Savor Pod", I will buy you a beer. How can you pass that up?

The Princess Diaries

2009-11-09T14:42:00.000-05:00

Pet peeve of the day: every time I lean over, salt water runs out of my nose.

How I love the return of sinus infection season, with it's excruciating headaches and nasal irrigation. Nothing like starting the day with a two ton head and a very strong desire to stick a sharp stick into your skull. I should be used to it by now, but just like a Bostonian greeting Winter's first snowfall, I can't believe how much it sucks EVERY YEAR. These annual occurrences are part of my Fall, and as I transition from hayfever to sinus cleansing, the dark afternoons and lost gloves become part of the scenery. But something very, very strange happened this year, something so unexpected that I was as caught completely off guard.

I have started dressing like a girl.

Sweater dresses. Tights. Skirts. Tunics. Lipstick. It is truly puzzling. I have been skating along the edge of girlie for years, but never fallen into the pond,and inexplicably, that is what has happened. It's not as if I have been dressing like a 15 year old boy. But since I started doing Pilates in earnest, I have these muscly thighs that make 80% of my jeans uncomfortable. And perhaps most surprising of all, I have an ass. An actual, honest-to-god booty. I have lived 42 years as the unfortunate genetic recipient of a Jewish flat ass, which I thought was a lost cause. After a lot of years of being used to looking one way (pretty much straight down), suddenly having something very different is both wonderful and confusing. Nothing fits the same way, but that is kind of cool. And now I have a goyish ass to balance my Jewish nose. For the last 5 days, I have worn tights and a dress, and motorcycle boots. And dark lipstick. And today, a hairstyle I like to call Sharon-Tate-in-Valley-of-the-Dolls, actually showing my whole forehead. I mean, the whole thing. I think I have been more sensitive about my forehead than my non-ass; I had a hairdresser who took one look at me, put his hand on my forehead and said, "Oh, honey, you need BANGS!" So, people, this is BIG NEWS: aside from the princess garb, my forehead is naked. And I don't feel like anyone should be showing a movie on it. So it seems that being 43, aside from the fight against decrepitude, is not entirely predictable. Sweet.

And something that I have meant to comment on for weeks already, Big Love to the geniuses at Coca-Cola for fueling both my addiction and my happiness. A few weeks back, on my way down to the Cape, I stopped at a mini-mart for supplies, and in the cold case, I found a tall boy of Diet Coke. 16 Fluid oz. of delight for a mere 99 cents!! I believe I heard angels singing before I passed out. I have not been able to find these up here, but in order to enjoy my super-buzz a bit longer, I used the can opener on the top of the can and now it makes a lovely vase for the flowers in my office. I smile every time I look at it. And in case you are wondering, to the left of the 12 oz can is the most perfect birthday present ever--a Diet Coke cuff. My BFF knows me so well. So suburban Wonder Woman!

Fever Dreams

2009-11-02T14:32:00.000-05:00

I am sick. The sky is not going to fall, but god, i feel like dreck. I spent all weekend in bed, in a narcoleptic stupor, with a massive headache and coordinating body aches. I missed pretty much all of Halloween, only rousing myself from my tangle of damp sheets to apply Medium's Ziggy Stardust make-up (looked amazing) and Small's eyeliner (fierce). Fortunately, the husband was in town and I was excused from Mommy duty. But today is Monday, and that excuse is no longer valid. So back to Mommying and blogging. Time to address a few random issues that have been on my mind.

Halloween has gotten HUGE, and here is how I know--a neighborhood kid went door to door on Saturday, offering a $5 insurance policy against egging and/or TP of the house. He would come and clean it up, should the unfortunate occur.We passed, but several neighbors who lived closer to the war zone (a.k.a. the elementary school) paid up. And I think he made $30. Now, while I think this is TOTAL GENIUS, is it possible that he egged the houses of non-payers as a warning for next year? If so, he is even more of a genius, he is an EVIL GENIUS. Halloween is more than inflatable ghosts and Fun Size packages of M&M's these days. No word on whether any houses were victimized.

I don't know if you have heard, but L.L. Bean is going chic. They have hired a fashion designer named Alex Carleton to funkify the huge wool sweaters and duck boots. This cracks me up. I think there are certain brands that will never be stylish, no matter how hard it tries, and Bean is one. This designer has his own line of Maine-based fashions, and the heritage set in Kennebunkport are huge fans, so Bean is hoping to cash in. I went to LL Bean the other day to find some sheepskin slippers and a new lunchbox, and there was not an item of clothing I would buy with a gun to my head. But LL Bean is of a type--Patagonia, REI--serving a niche: keeping one dry and warm without the bother of having a human shape. I don't fault them for trying to widen their appeal, lord knows, but they have an uphill battle ahead of them, one best undertaken in snow shoes. Because picturing a native Mainer in a shrunken denim suit makes me want to wet my pants.

I saw this amazing piece on the NYTimes.com, called 100 Things Restaurant Staffers Should Never Do (Part 1), in which only 50 were listed. The author, Bruce Buschel, is opening a seafood restaurant and he offers what he calls "a modest list" of rules for his potential employees. I love this so much because I cannot stand what waiting tables has become. I waitressed for quite a while, back in my college days, and it is a difficult job. But Rule #1 of waiting tables is: Do NOT do this job if you hate people. This is a service industry, and you are serving them. If people want to feel like an imposition and a bother, they will stay at work. Or eat at home. This is NOT carte blanche for the customers to snap their fingers or humiliate you for forgetting a napkin, of course not. Everyone needs to be on their best behavior. But still, there are those that are unforgivably surly, and should not walk amongst us, carrying hot plates of anything. The flipside, however, is the overly familiar tone the waitstaff now takes with customers. I cannot tell you how I detest a server coming to the table and saying, "Hi, My name is Bubbles and I will be taking care of you today." Is there an implication that I need to introduce myself? Are we friends now? Can I bellow your name across the restaurant to tell you to bring me another Diet Coke? No? Then don't tell me your name. Buschel also puts on the No-No list my Number 2 complaint--there seems to be some issue around writing down an order. Initially I thought this was only true in fancy schmancy restaurants, where a pen would obviously ruin the line of the waitstaff's uniform, but it is EVERYWHERE. And I absolutely cannot understand it, because the likelihood of a bad dining experience increases exponentially.You know what I want? I want to you to get my order right, even if I am one of those insufferable people who needs everything on the side and no dairy products EVER. And please not then ask me "who ordered the gnocchi?" when you bring it to my table. It is your job to know who ordered what. You know how you remember? You WRITE IT DOWN. You know who nearly always gets the orders right? The waitresses at Friendly's. While they don't have fabulous uniforms, but they have really awesome pens.

Obviously, my meds are wearing off.

V.I.P.

2009-10-26T13:23:00.000-04:00

After a lovely weekend, I came out of my house this morning, ready to go to pilates and deal with the aftermath of my bad food choices, to find I had a flat. Now, I know what you are saying. Uh-oh, this is going to be a rant about the fuckshow that was the flat tire/tire change/buying new tires at Costco. And no, in fact, it will not. I calmly came back in, called AAA, then after the change, went to get new tires, which were installed quickly and efficiently while I shopped at Anthropologie. And now, here I am, with a change in plans that undid my schedule for the day. And yet I am smiling. SMILING.

I know this doesn't sound like me at all. I know this, because I had a true, honest to goodness epiphany a few weeks ago. And it was this: I am a Very Intense Person. A V.I.P. I didn't realize it. I didn't realize I was an intense type-A. I was watching Small deal with some friend politics and listening to her sadness, her frustration, her anger--I got a gooooooood look at what I actually must look like to everyone else. And what I saw made me realize that as an adult, I should be saying Oh Well a lot more often. There is a freedom that comes with age, which is the realization that you are not everyone's cup of tea, and I delight in that particular thing. But what I do to myself is something else entirely. I am JUST realizing that I can't bend the world to my will, no matter how hard I try. And I have to say, that is a pretty sucky realization to have, no matter how necessary it is.

Being of the mother of three vastly different children with incredibly different needs, my skill at micromanaging, organizing and advocating has been both necessary and highly successful. I am no shrinking violet (you can laugh here) and being the loudmouth has been an integral part of my parenting. With children, you ARE in charge, whether you choose to act that way or not, and the Type-A is helpful if you are trying to juggle. But a few years back, when the crew was younger, I realized there was so much I had to let go, things that mattered to me that I could not manage. The housecleaning had to stop carrying such a big connection to my success as a stay at home mom, I could not keep up with everything and not be anxious all the frigging time. That was the biggest one, because having a tidy house makes me feel calm in general, and accepting that it was going to look the way most houses with three disgusting children looks, was not a comfortable one for me. Not volunteering in the classroom anymore. Not caring if my children were well dressed, as long as they were clean. Never, ever worrying about what was petrifying under the minivan seats. Always, ALWAYS being on time. And trying to force my children to always listen to me and always do what I say. And as I let each one of these go, I felt both nausea and relief, and neither have ever completely gone away. But I have let them go, I have. I can't make the children neat. I can't make the Dell repair guy come on time, if at all. And most importantly, I can't make my children do what I want every single time. I can hope, but not expect. And I should know that by now.

Now, I have mentioned this epiphany to several friends, all of whom looked at me blankly and then started laughing. My thinking I was somewhat mellow is the source of mirth amongst those who say they love me. But for clarification, I am now substituting "passionate" for "intense". Intense sounds overly serious and rigid to me, a person who can't go to sleep without flossing her teeth. Passionate sounds more full of life and more devil-may-care, more spontaneous and celebratory. Passionate makes music and stays up late making trouble. Passionate loves with her whole heart. That's what I'm going for. So watch out, my dear friends, because I may french kiss you on sight just to make a point. My forties are about passion, not flossing. Well, maybe flossing, too. Maybe a little flossing.

Dear Sugar Snow

2009-10-19T13:21:00.000-04:00

I am putting on my pretentious beret and my air of self-importance to answer some of the questions loyal Sugar Snow readers have sent me. And one thing to note--the weirdness in the typeface on the last answer is some weirdness of this blogging site. There is no particular significance to it. Try as I might, I couldn't fix it. Oh, well.

Dear Sugar Snow, You often write about aging and your fight against it. What is the most current weapon in your beauty arsenal? N.G., San Francisco, CA

Well, N.G., this is one of my favorite issues since I am decaying on a daily basis. And right now, I am all about ERADICATING and ERASING signs of aging. There are many products out there that promise to Decrease the troughs and furrows (and notice the pun on "crease"! Those smug advertising bastards!) but I have decided that that is the pussy way of dealing with it. I literally want to remove any signs that I am past my most dewy, and I will use violence to do so. My most recent tool is StriVectin, which promises to cure my incipient turkey neck. Whether or not it is ACTUALLY working or I NEED it to work is not clear, but thus far I am very pleased with the current deturkification of my throat and smoothening of my decolletage. One of many weapons, though, N.G., and always on the hunt for more.

Dear Sugar Snow, You never write about politics, and I wonder why you are so reluctant to share your political leanings? P.D., Portland, ME

My darling P.D., it is true that I avoid talking about politics. My general feeling is that no one gives a shit what my opinion is about striking farmers in France that throw CARROTS at government buildings. And if I had an opinion on that, it would be that the group of farmers in Avignon that did that are giant wusses compared to the farmers that burned hay bales on the Champs d'Elysses, and may as well have sauteed up their weapons with a little butter and some cumin. By and large, I try to stay out of public discussions that degenerate into someone being called a troglodyte and a mouth-breather. I have a cadre of libertarian Ayn Rand followers who read me religiously and I do not want to alienate them, just as I do not want to anger the leftie pinkos, because I would have no friends. But I do feel very strongly about one thing: there is a deep desire on the part of a certain minority group to indoctrinate our youth in a particularly heinous way, and we must unite and fight. I want a Strong America! Thus, I advocate that we teach the Australian people a lesson and keep UGG boots OUT of our country. They may be warm, but they are ugly, and aren't we ugly enough? I know it is politically correct to embrace all styles and colors, but I CANNOT stay silent any longer. Go Back To The Outback, UGG. We don't need your kind here.

Dear Sugar Snow, Being a famous singer, you must be recognized on the streets of Boston and beyond on a regular basis. How do you stay so humble? B.K., Chicago, IL

Thank you, B.K., for that lovely compliment. I try very hard, and I am thrilled that the humility comes through in my writing. The truth is, though, that I'm not humble. At all. It's just too much work. I recognize my gifts and would be foolish to pretend that they aren't exceptional. I can't go to Whole Foods to pick up my dairy free sorbet bars without people buying overpriced gladioli and thrusting them into my arms. I try to avoid the eyes of all the parents at my childrens' elementary school, because they SO want to be acknowledged by me, and the demands on my time for appearances are endless. But what I have learned from all this fame is that appearances matter, and if you SEEM humble, it doesn't matter if you ARE humble. So I do stop and sign autographs wherever I go, and patiently pose for pictures. Inside, though, I am rejoicing at my superiority. And laughing at you.

Dear Sugar Snow, Your writing is full of anger and sarcasm. Are you really as angry and sarcastic in real life? W.G., Delray Beach, FL

W.G, that is a good question. Blogs are only half truths, really, because if you ACTUALLY wrote what you wanted to write, no one would speak to you ever again. I have enough sense to keep it PG-13 on the blog. While for some, blogging is therapeutic, and lets that bottled emotion out, for me, it is a mere dribble from my vast ocean of snarkery. I am actually MORE angry and MORE sarcastic in real life. I have passed down all my expletives to my children, just as my father did with me. My children may not know what a "fucking douchebag" is, exactly, but they definitely know that Mom will try to run one down on 128 if she is cut off.

Anything YOU want to know? I'm happy to answer questions, especially ones I ask myself and attribute to other people. Happy Monday!

Less is MORE

2009-10-11T12:17:00.000-04:00

So the Heavenly Bed really is heavenly. This is a Westin Hotel thing, this Heavenly Bed, and this weekend I tested this purported heavenliness. King size, with a billion pillows of all bizarre shapes and sizes, those duvets and feather beds and complicated arrangements of sheets and blankets that adds up to a giant, delicious, high threadcount sleeping bag--yes, I was in my heaven. And I didn't have to share. At 1 a.m. on Friday night, I had a cold Diet Coke, a large bag of M&M's and a stack of magazines, as happy as can be. Until I opened More.

The tagline on More magazine is "Celebrating What's Next", and the concept is this is a magazine for those unfortunates (like me) over 40. Never mind the celebrities on the cover, devoid of any and all actual signs of aging--no claw marks between the brows, no turkey neck, no lines anywhere. And the incredible irony of the quote that is attributed to 53 year old Sela Ward on the cover: The biggest gift of age is not being afraid anymore. Sela Ward is, I'm sure, a lovely woman who would look utterly unrecognizable from this wax museum piece on the cover of More, if I happened to run into her at the car wash. But hey, that's Hollywood, and fear of aging and photoshop are standard. I don't even really look at those pictures, though LZ did point out the huge amount of de-turkefying of the neck they did on this photo, and since she and I are engaged in intense StriVecting to address this heinous sign of age (read her brant here: http://networkedblogs.com/p1203871), she was more in tune to that particular absence than I.

No, the celebrities are the least of it. I already expect to be made to feel inferior for looking human at age 43. But I was supremely irritated at the gushy layout of the Infinity Dress by Donna Karan and it's attached pictures. For $995, you get a sleeveless black tube of matte jersey with two super long skinny black sash type things growing out from the armpits and the OPPORTUNITY to turn this into 7 different dresses by performing knots only a Boy Scout could master and gymnastics not seen since the 1976 Olympic Games. Literally, manage to twist those two long tentacles around your neck in just the right way, without asphyxiating yourself, and Dress Number 1 is the black sausage casing with accompanying noose. The challenge of Dress Number 6, should you choose to accept it, is to create the Empire Waist version, which, contrary to how the pictures look, is NOT the Bandeau Dress, Dress Number 3, or that would be only 6 looks and up the price per dress from $142.14 to $165.83. Leaving the appendages to hang does not even count as a dress, and More cheats by adding a cream colored tank, so technically one DRESS is now a SKIRT (Dress Number 7). The actual visual of all this versatility isn't available for your perusal at the More site, unfortunately, but the Oprah site (http://www.oprah.com/slidepopup/omagazine/200909-omag-infinity-dress/1) has upped the ante by 1. adding jewelry accoutrement for the belt and 2. dress styles More does not have, thus lowering your price per dress. And should you have issues with flabby arms, which the 12 year old model in the More photos doesn't have, you can buy a long sleeve version for only $1095. And personally, I believe that hiding the chicken wings is worth an additional $14.86 per dress, but I may be in the minority there.

I, personally, do not have much call for this many little black dresses, because restaurants that serve chicken fingers do not have a dress code, and I certainly don't live in fear of wearing the same one twice (at Friendly's) and being shunned for it. But this is the apparel version of The Container Store Myth: Buy this and it will make your life EASIER. This dress will, in reality, make getting dressed a stressful, contorted agony, with the added value of the guilt over spending all that money and being unable to find a way to make ONE STYLE flattering. Loser. Most of us are simply hoping for a dress that doesn't accentuate our back fat and zips without breath holding. In other words, a dress that FITS. One. One really good one.

And THEN, as if a lineless Sela Ward and being intimidated by an expensive straightjacket isn't annoying enough , there is a feature that actually tells you you are WRONG. WRONG WRONG WRONG. In the area called More Style: Fashion for Grown Ups, it says:

Is Your Closet TOO YOUNG? This More reader has been dressing like a high school student her entire adult life, but thanks to Tim Gunn she got the wardrobe reinvention she needed. Turn the page for her fantastic makeover.

The capital letters and italics are THEIRS, not MINE. Tim Gunn is the hilarious straight (ahem) man on Project Runway, and he is given the task here of correcting the fashion wrongs of the hapless shlubettes that apparently comprise More's readership. The results of this fantastic makeover are at the top of the page here. Now, I grant you that this 55 year old woman dresses in a way that I would not, but she works in advertising, which places a premium on creativity and originality. I have pondered the question many times of what dressing in age-appropriate fashion is, and realize that by anyone's criteria, I would be utterly inappropriate. And so fucking be it. This woman has made it this far in the advertising field dressing like HERSELF, and now he is turning her into one of The Ladies Who Lunch. Or a Stepford Wife. There is nothing at all interesting about her any longer, nothing to make her stand out from everyone else. So my feeling is this: as long as your skin is basically covered and everything fits, wear whatever the fuck you want. Unless this woman is going to get fired over her leggings, she shouldn't change a thing. Because it is HER. So fucking be it.

When I was young, I read Glamour, and that was the Version of Me that I tried to become. Then I started reading Allure, or Vogue, or W, and futilely tried to be that version. But Sela Ward is wrong. The biggest gift of age is not the lack of fear, but simply not giving a shit anymore. Not dressing for anyone else, not attempting to impress anyone else, being your own damn self and being ok with it. Saying Fuck it, this is ME. I may commit the faux pas of wearing the same little black dress for years, and I may dress like my 13 year old neighbor, but this is me. And so, on Friday night, at 1 a.m., with my hand in a large bag of M&M's, I threw More onto the floor and opened Us. And it was Heavenly.

An Extra Pissy Tuesday Rant

2009-10-06T17:20:00.000-04:00

Meet Gwen Thompson, the newest American Girl doll by Mattel. She’s homeless. Her back story contains a deadbeat dad, a strained single mom, and a life literally rooted on the streets. Gwen sleeps in a car, according to the book accompanying the doll. Yet 4-year-olds will be begging their parents to add the blond-haired, brown-eyed doll to their collection. The American Girl website tags her as soft and huggable, in an embroidered lace dress and pink headband - adornments that might be denied to young girls living out of shelters. The toymaker claims that the doll promotes awareness of a real-life social issue. But at $95 apiece? Parents should think twice about spoiling their children with this overpriced doll. A better lesson might be a donation to a charity that helps homeless children, unlike the make-believe Gwen.

This was in the editorial section of yesterday's Boston Globe. And I have to admit, that when I read it, I laughed. Now, I was suffering from occasional bouts of hilarity throughout yesterday anyway, brought about my the information that my ex won the Nobel Prize, which seemed unreal and weird in and of itself. And then, this marvelous piece of comedy above. I thought, This cannot POSSIBLY be real. It is just too..what? Ridiculous? Ironic? Dumb? Yes to all of the above. But the Globe has a notorious no-hilarity policy on the editorial page (actually, aside from Christopher Muther, it is unfunny all around) and thus I decided to check out the American Girl website and then blog on and on about the political incorrectness and all-around yuckiness of this doll. And I found...nothing.

Oh, the doll is there, although you have to really look for her. She is not amongst the Historical Characters dolls, like the newest shtetl darling, Rebecca Rubin. She is not listed with the Just Like You dolls, the dolls you design in your own image, because what child would design a $95 doll to be HOMELESS, just like they are? So aside from the Bitty Baby and Bitty Twins, and Chrissa, Girl of the Year, Gwen was AWOL. So I searched her name. It turns out that Gwen is a friend of The Girl of the Year, and is connected that way. When you click on Gwen, whittling down from the Chrissa Starter Collection ($178) to the Chrissa and Gwen Friend Collection ($175) and finally to the Gwen Doll and Paperback ($75 with optional hairbrush for an additional $7), there is nothing but a description of the swag you get when you buy this doll. Nowhere on the American Girl site is ANY information, at least that I could find, describing the deadbeat dad and the homelessness. The only reference is in the reviews, where mothers who have purchased these overpriced Children of the Corn try to justify themselves and dismiss the "controversy".

Not for nothing, people, but these dolls are ugly. I was a doll girl (yes, it is true, non-believers) and this is NOT a doll I would look at as a cuddly, lovey thing who would bear the brunt of my childhood anger with a glassy-eyed smile. THIS is a Doll bought by doting grandparents, that sits on a stand, a Doll that gets a new outfit, book or pet llama (as is the case with Chrissa) every Christmas. So I don't understand the cult of The American Girl Doll anyway, just on looks alone. It is a monstrous business, with a Bistro where you can dine with your Doll, and a salon where your Doll can get her hair STYLED, she can be PAMPERED and have her EARS PIERCED. But ok, as ridiculous as this is, and it definitely is, people can choose to spend their money anywhere they please. Want to take your doll out for a festive meal? As long as I don't have to be there, it's fine with me.

BUT. Please. This is just TACKY. Paying $95 for a HOMELESS doll? I may fall pretty far to the left on most social issues, and I am all for learning about other cultures and whatnot, but really, this is a marketing opportunity disguised as social awareness. This is the very, very ugly side of political correctness. This pristine and homely doll is going to teach privileged suburban children about homelessness? Really? REALLY??

You know what, American Girl? If you want to use this terrible and very real problem as a way to line your coffers, donate a large portion of the profits to an actual homeless shelter. Where ACTUAL homeless children live. But don't hide it. Put Gwen's homeless story, loser dad and living in the car prominently on your site. You can't have it both ways. Embrace your incredibly bad taste and do something about it.

Monday Morning Slap in the Face

2009-10-05T07:47:00.000-04:00

It is 7:55, and I am sitting at my desk, fuming. I had envisioned writing a clever little piece about celebrating my birthday and all the attending hoopla, but that has been shot to hell by the sound of stomping feet and slamming doors over my head. Ah, the delightful routine that is called Getting Ready for School. Did I mention it is 7:59? And school starts at 8:00?

Every fucking morning. I am going out of my mind. The Husband and I are at our wits' end dealing with this particular form of torture. And our torturer is short, and cute, and seven years old. She is in league with the devil himself. This is Small, ladies and gentlemen, Small only in name. She has the unique ability to ruin my mood before I have one, the power to overturn an entire household with her fury inducing ways. It is now 8:09, and she is FINALLY the fuck out of the house. I am watching her walk to school with The Husband, in the clothes she had to choose, the sneakers she had to find, and that distinctly Small sour look on her face.

And she does all this by refusing to get up.

That is a gross understatement, really, because that is not all she does. She has brought in the fine arts of whining and disagreeing as well, but it starts pretty much the same way every day. The wake up process starts an hour before school starts. The house is not (or is it ever) quiet, of course, with Medium singing his Guns n Roses and picking out his rock t-shirt du jour, and me cursing and wrestling with Large's abundant hair. The dogs bark at every dog walking by, The Husband has left the radio on downstairs, and my ubiquitous space heater for my feet is humming in my office. And so the robotic repetitions of "GET UP" begin. Small, it's 7:15. Small, it's 7:20. Small it's 7:22! GET UP! Large gets on the bus, Medium flees to school to meet his friends and avoid the drama he knows is coming. So it is US vs HER. Alone.

By around 7:30, when my blood pressure has already started to make it's climb, the whining begins. That is always the first sign of life, that she has acknowledged that there is an expectation that she is going to get out of bed, get some clothes on and go to school. But the whine--god, the WHINE--makes me want to bypass the gun and manually push the bullet into my skull. It sounds like Charlie Brown's teacher in a higher pitch and equally incoherent-wawawawaWAAAAAAAAAAAA.

"What are you wearing?"

""wawawawaWAAAAAAAA!"

"What?"

" waaawaaaaWAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

"Oh, my god, WHAT???" until I lose it totally, throw some clothes at her, which she then refuses to wear, and I start in on my morning speech. We can't go through this every day, Small. Every day! I am starting out my days in a very bad mood, and you are late. EVERY DAY! I know you don't like to wake up in the morning, but you HAVE TO. That's IT. There is no CHOICE. And we can't do this every day!"

And we do it EVERY DAY.

So, yes, eventually, she agrees to put something on, I brush her hair while she whines, and sometimes brush her teeth unless she deigns to do it herself. Eventually, she gets out the door for her death march to school. And she invariably turns into a ray of sunshine for her teachers and friends, while I am at home six cans deep by 8:30.

Now, I know there are many of you reading this and saying that there is too much negotiation, (which is what my mother says,) that therein lies the problem. And, no doubt, there is. Every year of her life,a billion times a year, when she had enraged me yet again, I would say to myself, "She is 2 (or 3 or 5 or 7) years old! Why am I having this DISCUSSION with her?"And it made me feel outwitted again. And made me feel like a bad parent. And made me cry. But fundamentally, this is Small. She has always done things her way and had a mind of her own. She cut her own hair and refused to admit it even after we found the scissors. AND THE HAIR. She wore a tuxedo as a flower girl (which indicated, to my mother, that she was going to be a lesbian), and a shirt and tie to Large's bar mitzvah. Her goal is to be in the X Games and she plays the drums and the bass. She is bright, clever, independent and misses nothing. There are so many things to love about her, and I do. When she is not making me wish for my own death.

Yes, she is EXACTLY like me, snarky readers. And maybe it is karma, both for being the child that I was and for being the teacher that judged other parents with children I labeled as "spoiled". Blah blah blah. The universe's big fucking jokes aren't helping me get this child off to school in the morning. I need a PLAN, people, a PLAN that WORKS. A certain friend recommended Wake 'n Bake, and while I dismissed it, it is starting to sound like an option. Wouldn't this fall into the category of medicinal use?

An Extra Pissy Thursday Rant

2009-09-24T11:09:00.000-04:00

The other day, I noticed a bunch of kids throwing acorns into the trees overhanging the playground at my kids' school. When I got closer, I realized that they were throwing acorns at a HUGE hornet's nest. In my most parental, authoritative voice, I told them to cut the crap, that it is just stupid to throw acorns at a hive, especially when you don't know if the hive is active or not, and if they learned nothing else in their public education, it should be that pissing off a swarm of bees is idiotic. I said this in a nice way, of course. Then I went into the office to report both the hive and the acorn throwing. The town had been notified about the hive, and it was an active one; hornets had been seen milling about. And a teacher went out to stop the silly little bastards from getting stung a billion times.

The very next day, when going to pick Medium up early for a doctor's appointment, I saw a town truck idling in the school driveway next to the playground, and a grown man, cigarette hanging from his mouth, THROWING ACORNS AT THE HORNET'S NEST. A town employee, someone paid by my taxes, was doing what I had just told a group of children NOT to do because it was STUPID. I stood there trying to find a single GOOD reason he might be doing this, and could come up with nothing. Lots of bad reasons, but not a single good one. The hive had been reported as being live, so he shouldn't have been testing that, especially by throwing stuff at the hive. He shouldn't have been trying to knock it down, because not only is that the dumbest thing ever (again, angry swarm of hornets) ,but to try to do it with acorns is embarrassing and pathetic. I am also assuming he was specifically sent to the playground and did not show up on his shift to play on the tire swing, noticed the hive and thought that throwing acorns at it would be fun.

In my world, it should have gone like this:

1. Town gets call of active nest at school playground.

2. Town dispatches team of EXPERIENCED hornet's nest removers AFTER school hours to remove it, with cherry picker, protective clothing, and whatever other equipment is needed.

3. Town removes hive.

4. Everyone is happy, kids are safe, and no one is in the hospital recovering from their billion stings, jonesing for a cigarette.

Since the kids are home sick AGAIN, I don't know what the status of the hive is, but it had better be gone. We have sacrificed a lot to live in this town where the taxes are astronomical, and I honestly don't think it is too much to expect that the town quickly, safely and efficiently remove an obvious danger and potential lawsuit from the playground. But bureaucracy being what it is, throwing acorns at the nest MAY BE the most efficient way to get things done.

God, I need another soda.

Dental Hygiene Is No Joke.

2009-09-21T22:16:00.001-04:00

I was just sticking my Sonicare toothbrush head into the very cool UV Sanitizer, watching the blue glow light up the bathroom, when I realized what a crazy person I am. I bought one of these things. One of these sanitizer things. I am probably the only person ON EARTH who bought one, actually believing that it would make my toothbrush sparkly clean. But it should have been when I was cleaning out the motorized handle of the toothbrush with a frigging q-tip that I accepted my insanity. But if you had teeth and gums like mine, you would be just as obsessed. Or you would have no teeth or gums. It really is that simple. And anyone who has witnessed their 83 year old grandmother swish her dentures around in her mouth, as I have, would be scared straight into the dentist's chair. Then there was the time at the nursing home when she put in someone's else's dentures. Oy. I know I will probably be senile, but it would be great to not have someone else's teeth in my mouth at that time, dignity being in such short supply.

This all started with our first dentist, seriously named Dr. Smilovits. Simply put, he was a quack. The worst dentist ever. Much of the dental work I had in the late 80's was simply undoing the terrible work of Dr. Smilovits in the 70's. His icky pornstache coming at me, and his then-groovy blue sparkle laminate dental office is indelibly etched into my brain. He looked like a clothed Mark Spitz with a drill. One of my enduring memories is my father, in all his hugeness, standing over me in the dentist's chair when I was eight years old. My father was shaking the hell out of me, shaking me by my shoulders, and as I was coming to from the overly large dose of nitrous Smilovits had given me to pull some teeth, my father was saying, "Never(shake) Again (shake). While I Am Alive( shake shake shake shake)!" And yet, in the way of many who follow my Mechanic's Theory (continue to take your car to a mechanic you think is no good/cheating you because at least you know what you are getting from him) my parents' continued to take us to this guy until my really, really bad root canal. During my short tenure at Ohio State, I spent much of the time at the Dental Clinic, trying to manage the lingering pain in my mouth. When I ran from Ohio for Boston, I left bad dentistry behind, which led me to where I am now, the excellent and adorable dentist I will call Dr. Flintstone.

Dreamy and dark, Dr. Flintstone remembers everything he has ever done to every tooth in my mouth. I have been seeing him for around twenty years, and there has been a significant amount of stuff he has had to do, and he remembers each and every one. He can tell me from across the room what year he worked on the crown on the left bottom side in my mouth, how long it took and how many tries it took to fit it properly. The man has Mouth Memory. Truly. And while I know OCD gets a bad name, don't you want your dentist to remember every dirty thing he has ever done to your teeth and gums? Dr. Flintstone saved my tooth from the bad root canal, filled my cavities with lovely white amalgam, and has gotten rich off of my crappy gums.And yet, back then, no matter how much of my paycheck I would deposit directly into his contractor's bank account, I didn't floss, didn't care for my mouth properly. Then he got his stupid gum pocket measuring machine.

Many years back, Dr. Flintstone lost his office, and almost his life, to a major fire. The only upside to that was he was able to build a really state-of-the-art, blue sparkle laminate free dental office with all the bells and whistles. One of these whistles was this nasty machine that measures how deep the pockets in your gums are. If things are bad, the hygienist scrapes them out to prevent periodontal disease and any enjoyment of anything you might have for the next three days. Truly, it is awful. I am genetically blessed with really bad gums, and I have long been familiar with gum pocket cleaning hell. But then he got this machine, this evil machine, which was designed to take the guesswork out of measuring the depths of the pockets while having the added bonus of making the patient feel like the biggest dental degenerate of all time. Stick the little needle thingy into the gums, and it actually CHANTS the numbers out loud, for everyone in the office to hear. 1-3 is peachy, four is dicey, and anything after 5 is an invitation to the ritual scraping. Lying there in my drool covered bib, hearing "FIVE", "FIVE","FIVE" over and over again, I wanted to take the little dental drill and put a hole in my own head. Dr. Flintstone came in from ACROSS THE ENTIRE OFFICE, which is not small, and said to me, his big brown eyes staring into mine, "Are you ready to take care of yourself now?" Weeping, I nodded. And together, we went into the promised land of excellent dental hygiene.

Thus, I own the best Sonicare toothbrush one can buy. And I change the head every month. And I have the UV cleaner. And I floss EVERY DAY or I am unable to sleep. And I use that rubber tipped thingy to stimulate my gums. And I am FANATICAL about using a straw to keep my teeth as white as can be. AND I see Dr. Flintstone and his band of merry hygienists every 3 months. And I am happy to report that he got rid of that stupid gum pocket measuring machine, at the nearly universal request of his patients. Which is a shame, in a way, because I would like to hear that machine chant my periodontal triumph to the whole office. All twos and threes, with the very occasional four. So his OCD and mine worked together in complete harmony, and my smile is all the better for it. How I heart Dr. Flinstone.

But I still won't let him fix the space between my two front teeth.

Singing Under the Influence

2009-09-21T09:09:00.000-04:00

DISCLAIMER: I am sitting in front of the computer now, at 1 p.m., after a useless earlier attempt to write this week. I would like to say I woke up from my return to bed refreshed, but at least now I am somewhat coherent. Somewhat. I promise no more.

This weekend was Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. Clean house, new boots, fancy schmancy honey from virgin bees in the Amazon, and dinner with friends. And, oh yeah, services. Topped off by a Sunday afternoon doing a mitzvah--participating in Singing Out Against Hunger, raising money and supplying food for the needy in Rhode Island. All good things to start a great new year. And then I got sick.

Not surprising, really, because Small and Medium have been hacking up a lung for the last week. It was only a matter of time. When they are home from school, you can practically see the germs swarming around me, like a cloud of mosquitos. I felt absolutely fine until Saturday, when I had to go back to sleep for the second time, after being awake from a nap for an hour. I awoke with a 1,000 pound head and the inability to keep my eyes open. This was just as well, since I knew I would have to sing on Sunday, and this shut me up for an extended period of time. I have a tendency to talk too much (shocking, I know) and sleeping for 16 hours does protect the voice. Sick or not, I was going to play on Sunday, no matter how much Sudafed it required.

It turned out to be quite a lot, with spectacular results. I do have experience with Sudafed. I am a constant allergy/sinus infection sufferer, and it is very effective. Usually it has the delightful affect of making me more spastic and hyper than I usually am. But what I found was, taking a bit more than the recommended dose had the effect of a weak dose of Valium. I felt no pain, and everything was just so very very pretty--the blue sky, the smiling people, everything! I know I was. Everything was happening a split second slow, like it was underwater. It was lovely. But I didn't know if I could sing in my dreamy state, because I am not an indulger.This is not a personal philosophy (Drugs are BAD!) as much as a self-preservation instinct--I am one of those annoyingly sensitive people that will sleep for a day and a half from one Children's Benadryl, or have the lampshade on my head after half a drink. So aside from the occasional forays into Pepto-Bismol and Nyquil, I am generally drug-and-booze-free. So it was brand new for me to experience a show as Janis Joplin.

The performance was a challenge, but not because of me. As it often is outdoors (I am told) the sound was very bad and none of us could hear the other. Neither Danielito nor I could hear ourselves AT ALL, which is incredibly difficult and annoying when trying to sing. Rather than worry about it, which helped no one, I just sang and hoped to God I was somewhere close to on-key. It went both exceedingly fast and unbelievably slowly. I had to remind myself that I was singing and to stop being distracted by what people were eating at the table in front of us. And at one point, I got a pain in my left big toe that was so excruciating, I had to struggle to stay with the song and not collapse on the stage, weeping and clutching at it. I saw people singing along to our 80's covers, mesmerized by their moving mouths. But I'm told we sounded great. I personally believe we rocked Rio harder in Danielito's living room, but money was raised and food items collected for the needy. And I have absolutely loved playing with these fabulous musicians the last few months, so it was fun, too. Danielito, Captain Ron, Knitting Natalie, Jamie the Giant, Joe Drummer and Lisa OurBiggestFan, you are all amazing. And so very very pretty.

And so, after the family had eaten obscene amounts of crab cakes, fried clams, clam cakes (or clunchkins, as the husband called them) and, of course, chicken fingers for Medium, and I said my good-byes, we headed back home. I was too wasted to drive, and that should tell you EVERYTHING you need to know. I am the worst passenger there is, pressing the invisible brake and gasping in anticipation of an accident every five feet, and thus, have done all the driving in our marriage. My children were shocked to see me climb in the passenger seat. I proceeded to stare out the window stupidly and serenely for the next hour and fifteen minutes. I thought for sure the pictures would tell the story, that my over-sudafedinizing would be obvious. It doesn't look that way to me, but maybe I'm wrong. The show must go on, and all that. And it did. I have the pictures to prove it.

The Capitulation Wardrobe

2009-09-14T07:28:00.000-04:00

7:15 a.m. and already at my desk. But with a feeling of great accomplishment, which is amazing for a Monday morning. When Mr. Simone B. is traveling, which he often is, I am up and at 'em early and against my will. But up I am, the kids are ready to go and gone, a load of laundry is in the machine, the dishwasher is empty and everything is quiet. I sit here with my first can of the day in my hideous Monopoly pajamas and contemplate the day. And with that, of course, is the question of what to wear.

Those who have actually seen me probably marvel at the fact that this actually requires some thought. I have seasonal uniforms and rarely veer from them. And, shockingly, it involves a t-shirt and jeans. In cool weather, there is a v-neck sweater and a pashmina added. The shoes are the wild card--boots from Fall to Spring, flip flops for the summer, and my Chuck Taylors interspersed. When I look at the 8th graders at my kids' school, and realize I dress almost exactly like them, the question of whether this is appropriate dress does cross my mind. I do know that I need to address the issue of "dressing my age", whatever that means, but part of this stubborn dress code is my fear of the Capitulation Wardrobe. The moment when I don't care what I wear and I've given up. The moment I look middle aged. The day that I shop at Chico's.

This is in no way meant to malign Chico's or the lovely women who shop there. But Chico's is my personal point of capitulation. The minute I look at rectangular linen jumpers, square cardigan sweaters and quirky earrings as my new uniform is the day I will have moved into middle age and beyond. The day I dress STRICTLY for comfort, as I did when I had babies, is the day I know that Naot sandals and Vera Bradley purses/publicly carried toiletry bags are close at hand, as are bad, short haircuts and going gray. That will be my official, personal, expiration date. Simone goes bad, like an old carton of milk.

My BFF had an intervention in order to stave off the Capitulation. Her husband put the kibosh on her denim overalls. Yes, she is busy, and yes she is a mom (the arguments she used in her defense) but she also happens to be an absolutely gorgeous woman who had stopped looking at herself in the mirror. Somehow, he wrestled her away from her urban farmer attire and saved her. He risked his own hide for that, but then BFF's husband is unusual that way. He actually notices what she wears, and complains when her jeans are too loose. True love!!

And then there are those that never Capitulate, because the Capitulation Wardrobe IS and has ALWAYS BEEN their uniform. If you have been wearing slacks, walking shoes, carrying a "handbag" and have had the same haircut for years, you have been living on the dark side for so long it feels like home. But these things are, and have always been, WRONG and you should not do them! Style has morphed into habit, and a habit, unless it comes in a frosty red and silver can, is a bad thing. A recurrent, often unconscious, pattern of behavior that is acquired through frequent repetition is NOT the way life should be. That is something I have come to realize and embrace in my forties. And if my way of not capitulating is to wear a Nirvana t-shirt or a pair of jeans that do not make my ass look huge, then so be it. So be it.

I Am In Love

2009-09-07T09:01:00.000-04:00

That deserves all capital letters. It truly does. Because I want to proclaim it to the world. I Am In Love. With my new boots.

My personal tradition, of the last ten years or so, is to buy a new pair of boots to celebrate my birthday. So I begin the hunt in July, when all the best boots are in the magazines and stores. This is one of my favorite parts of the whole Birthday Boot tradition, visiting all the shoe porn sites to find the perfect pair. Deciding which color, heel height, style--all part of the delicious process. But there is one absolutely unchangeable element: the boots MUST be knee high. Not over-the-knee (which is very big right now, and NOT for women who are shorter than most 5th graders) or calf height (which accentuates the "athletic" calf and makes one look squat) or ankle height, (which is, again, all the rage right now and can only be worn by an 85 pound waif in an empire waist dress and red tights.) Knee high for tucking in the jeans. Knee high for bringing on the attitude. KNEE HIGH, damn it, because really, why bother otherwise?

Now, while I do enjoy spending money (which is why Sugar Snow Joe keeps all the band money at his house) there are certain things I will not spend a lot on. I have not ever purchased a lamp anywhere but the Christmas Tree Shop. I buy my sheets and curtains at IKEA. All rugs come from Target or Lowe's. I shop for the bulk of my clothes, as well as the family's clothes, at Saver's. Shoes--the dress shoes I occasionally have to buy, the flip flops I buy for the summer, I will pay marginally more for, usually at Marshall's. But the boots fall into their own category. I have a budget, yes, but it is far more elastic than any other limits I set. The margin of error is generous for the boot budget because, a) boots last for years, and my OCD requires that I take meticulous care of each and every pair, and 2) it's my birthday. So, I suppose, one could make an argument that it doesn't really count as a budget. I don't buy that argument, but I can see where you are coming from.

This year, this GLORIOUS year, I found the most amazing boots. I saw them last year, could not fit them into my "budget", but I did not forget them. I could never forget such perfection. Now, markedly cheaper because of their "last season" status, I snapped them up. But buying shoes is like online dating, and what you see is definitely not always what you get. So I was wary, of course, that they would not be as remarkable as I thought. And my worry was all for naught. They are camel suede, lace up the front with an industrial strength zipper for on-and-off ease, three inch heel, right up to the knee. And--BONUS--comfortable!! I wore them as soon as I got them. Wore them around the house. Put on my Winter jeans (the tucking-in-the-boots jeans) and walked around the house in them. Mr. Simone B. approved wholeheartedly. LZ approved, and I believe she may have heard a chorus of angels. Neighbor Ken approved, in his droll, understated way. Even Small, my harshest critic, approved, although she did comment that I wouldn't be able to skateboard in them. Eventually, I took them off, and they are now a shrine on my desk, right next to my computer screen. To the right of them sits a bag of M&M's. At the toe is a can of Diet Coke and a fresh straw. My lip balm. My cell phone. And my Cleveland snow globe.

Last night, at my dear friend Ms. P's Coming Of Age party, it was cold. It was downright cold outside. And all I could think was, Only 3 more weeks. 3 more weeks until my birthday, and the official beginning of my boot wearing season. October 1, folks, and the suburbs will be in danger of being overwhelmed by my Boot Coolness. Prepare yourselves.

The Cooking Cult: Hell, No! I Won't Go!

2009-09-03T18:28:00.000-04:00

This is a repost of a ranty old myspace blog. Enjoy!

It isn't true that I can't cook. But there is nothing that I hate more. The sight of raw meat, the shopping involved, the time it takes--I hate every bit of it. But I can cook. My very traditional mother made sure of that. She is waiting for the moment that my husband decides he is going to leave me because I won't cook. Or because I didn't change my name when we got married. Or because I drink too much Diet Coke. Or.....

As you might guess, I only identify the kitchen as the room that one walks through to get to the bathroom. Mr. Simone B does all the cooking, and registered for everything when we got married. When he travels, which he does often, my children fly into a panic and anticipate starvation. Two large pizzas from Pino's for all three meals of the day is my answer to their fears. And I, myself, enjoy eating Rice Chex for dinner. Or a Kit Kat.

So, when I was invited to a Pampered Chef party, you would think I would run screaming. And maybe I should have. Being surrounded by kitchen utensils and storage containers is, in general, enough to make me ill. That's why I walk through the kitchen quickly, averting my eyes from the counters, when I need to go to the bathroom. But the BFF gave the little soiree, and she is a great cook, so I went. I brought my friend Laura Zigman, published author, brant writer and my current girl-crush, for company. And hilarity ensued. But more on that later.

What is Pampered Chef, you ask? Why, you don't know? Shame on you, blog readers, for not being familiar with this particularly insidious cult. How will you protect yourself from the Chef's Tools and Silicone Crown Cake Pan? It is the cookware equivalent of Mary Kay, without the blue eye shadow. The woman who did our particular show has her shtick down to a science, including the whole history of her abduction and consequent assimilation into the Pampered Chef "family". Just think how much bigger the Manson Family would have been had he offered stoneware baking dishes.

Laura came to spare me the pain of the glassy eyed kitchenistas that always come to these shows. But she was immediately made to wear a name tag with a V on it, for Virgin. Virgin to the Pampered Chef. Why she didn't flee then, knowing that virgins are generally sacrificed, I'm not sure. Maybe because there were a few other virgins to choose from. My name tag had "ice cream scoop" on it, the only thing I bought at BFF's last show that didn't break and was still in the drawer at home. I'm told. And the Blessed Virgin Laura, poor dear, had to listen to my profane comments about how many of the utensils looked like sex toys. A girl has to entertain herself , after all.

Round and round the circle of ladies went the bowls of ingredients to make fresh salsa (ladies, use those kitchen choppers! you'll wonder how you ever made salad without them!), the chocolate cake in the Batter Bowl-Classic that ended up sticking to the non-stick pan, (painfully funny to watch the horror), the almond crusted brie that demonstrated the mini-nut chopper. One snarky woman next to me muttered "So handy, you could use it while driving." I love nothing more than snark. I didn't touch a single one of these ingredient bowls, for fear of cooking cooties. But I did find myself sucked in, highlighting the smooth-edge can opener, the large and small micro-cookers, and a variety of other things. Mob mentality is very powerful. I wisely called Mr. Simone B before writing any check, who limited my purchase to a cutting board and bamboo tongs for the kids to use to remove frozen waffles from the toaster oven. I always thought the burnt fingers were part of the charm of frozen waffles. And if you burn them enough, you eventually don't feel it anymore.

Now, I don't mean to imply that it wasn't fun. It was great fun. Watching these suburban ladies gushingly extoll the virtues of their stoneware is worth all the fresh salsa in the world. I love watching people search the catalogue for the one thing they haven't purchased yet. But I feel no shame, no matter how hard my mother has worked at it, for not being turned on by kitchenware. And these little parties exploit the elements of shame and guilt, to make people feel bad for buying nuts pre-chopped or never using nuts in a recipe because it is too much work. But if people really want to feel shame and guilt, they can come to MY next party. Frozen drinks and sex toys, ladies?

Here is a link to Laura's brant/blog: http://www.laurasbrant.blogspot.com/

I know she is planning to talk about her side of this experience. If it's not there yet, read about her love for Hugh Jackman, who starred in the movie of her novel.

And The Days Go By....

2009-08-31T16:55:00.000-04:00

In one month, one month from tomorrow, I will have another birthday. And I am dreading it, yet again.

Before I go on, yes, of COURSE I appreciate everything I have--wonderful family, good health, a lovely home, delightful friends...all the things that one works a lifetime to achieve. I have them ALL, and I am supremely glad, thankful and, as is my wont, incredibly worried about everything turning to dust and being sucked up in the giant vortex of bad luck and ickiness. But this is not about all of my good things. This is about the bad. And the bad part is, I am getting old.

Boys and girls, I am not asking for compliments here. Feel free to give them, they are always welcome, but this is simply a statement of fact. I am getting old. This October 1, I am 43. I am slowly, but with increasing speed, creeping into the mid-40's. And creeping is the operative word. The creep is so slow and insidious, that it is all but unnoticeable until you suddenly have lines around your eyes, your mouth, your forehead, your neck-- the light in my bathroom must be super flattering because it wasn't until I was on an airplane (going to Cleveland to play a big show for people that I had not seen in 25 years) that I looked into the bathroom mirror and saw EVERYTHING. Every unruly brow hair, every age spot. Fortunately I had not carried my tweezers onboard for fear of confiscation, or i would have gotten off that plane with a huge need for eyebrow Rogaine. And yes, there is such a thing. That is something you learn when you are old.

When I was living in the world of sweatpants and bad undergarments (i.e. when my kids were little) I never thought about any of this. Partially because I was in my very early thirties, and partially because I just didn't care. Things were so loony when my kids were young, sometimes in a good way, sometimes decidedly bad, that I simply didn't care what I looked like. I made the perfunctory effort to look reasonable, but that meant a haircut and lipbalm. It was an accomplishment to be clean. The only time I really went all out was when I had Meetings With The School. Then, beauty rituals were like armor. Manicure and pedicure, haircut, make-up, even a suit for an attempt at the intimidation factor. And it worked, at least for me. I'm not sure if anyone was frightened by my lipstick, but I thought there was a Xena factor there.

The irony is that the older you get, the less make up you should wear. This is not so as to embrace the most heinous of expressions, GROWING OLD GRACEFULLY (accept your decay without excess complaint), but because make-up can settle into your wrinkles, can accentuate the dark circles, does not actually cover up the age spots caused by the youthful exuberance of lying in the sun smothered in baby oil. It doesn't work. It just doesn't. God forbid I should go out unfinished (as my BFF likes to call it) so I have a few tricks up my sleeve. And I am obsessively vain about my skin. But the goal seems to have become not to look younger, but to not look older. This depresses me beyond belief.

After the Cleveland show, I watched the video, something I usually avoid, and I was pleasantly surprised. The pictures made me somewhat nauseous (sorry, Blair!) because it was 9000 degrees at The Barking Spider and I was hot and shiny, rather than "dewy" or "luminous". But in the video, I looked ok. I looked kind of cute, even. That was heartening, that maybe my beauty product OCD was paying off. Or maybe doing something that I really love is just good for my face overall. I was smiling, I was happy. And I liked my shirt, even though I question it now.

It is POSSIBLE that other people don't see all the history I see on my face. Maybe when I'm singing, when I'm laughing or telling a dirty story, those historical markers are not obvious to anyone else. Maybe they never are. Awesome for everyone else. Because when I look at myself in the mirror, I say, Fuck Aging Gracefully. I am fighting it. Or maybe I should take my friend LZ's advice, and tell people that I'm 50. I look amazing for 50.

The Cynical Optimist Plans a Bar Mitzvah

2009-08-25T11:53:00.000-04:00

I have really, truly accepted that I am indeed a Cynical Optimist. For many years now, I have been trying to convince myself that life is easier when you are optimistic, and have tried very hard to wear that uniform and get with the program. I do have a weakness for a man in uniform (especially my adorable UPS man), but I myself am neither a man nor look good in a uniform of any kind, and have given up. My mantra is now: I think there is a chance that things will get better, but probably not.

This could be a testament to my ethnic heritage, where lateness is the equivalent of being dead in a ditch. In order to cope with any potential upset or disappointment, I have to prepare for the absolute worst case scenario. This can be very freeing, like at my son's bar mitzvah--one of the worst things (to me) would have been running out of food, (which for a Jew is the mistake never lived down) but I had Pino's Pizza programmed into my phone should that very unlikely situation actually happen. Of course it did not, not nearly. Barbecue from Blue Ribbon is likely to be in my freezer until Medium's bar mitzvah, three years from now. So in this case, the Cynical Optimism manifested itself as Being Practical. And Being Practical is an excellent life skill, one that people strive to achieve. And I can, and have. But the dark side is always there. And in this case, the dark side was towels.

See, I got this awesome idea that, as a party favor for my son's bar mitzvah party, I would give away beach towels. Pool party and beach towels=cute. One of those things you can never have enough of. Yes, well, I got 154 beach towels. At Target. Three shopping carts full at one store and two at another, when there weren't enough to satisfy my irrational fear that if I ran out of beach towels, the party would be RUINED, by my bad planning, by my cheapitude, ruined by my own hand! I did carefully look at my guest list and somehow this seemed like the right number. Because I could not run out. Could not. Absolutely, no.

Then the Cynical Optimist got a kick in the ass. The Bar Mitzvah Boy, my eldest, the Large of my Small, Medium and Large, had a seizure at school. Out of the blue. Call from the husband that Large was in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. And I didn't know whether he was still alive or not, and being who I am, at that darkest of all moments, I assumed he was not. I drove down to the hospital, getting onto the wrong highway in my fear and grief, and when I got there, he opened his eyes, smiled sleepily, and said "Hi, Mama." And thus, my ass was kicked. Because looking at him lying in that hospital bed, not knowing whether this was now to be our path, thinking how unbelievably unfair the universe is, I also knew that this was the reminder i needed that 154 towels is TOO MANY TOWELS. It is too much. Scale back, remember who the bar mitzvah is for. Leave the towels. Let go of the damn towels.

And yes, I did do those things. I scaled back, made it the bar mitzvah it was always supposed to be. It was truly the most moving, amazing, proud moment of my life, more than I ever could have dreamed. And yet...and here is what makes me question my sanity and my fitness as a parent...I could not take the towels back. I could not do it. Like a security blanket, the existence of the towels in the huge black contractor bags in my attic kept me from losing my shit. Large could have had a dozen more seizures between his first and his bar mitzvah (he did not, fortunately) and I would have dealt with it. I would have Been Practical. My worst case scenario for Large actually came to pass, something that I had envisioned from the day he was born. That dreaded phone call actually came. And we managed. But I was not prepared to deal with the self-flagellation that would come from running out of towels. So, no, it wasn't an important thing. But at least I could do something about it, something I could control. There would be towels, towels for everyone.

Children climbed out of the pool and used a fresh, dry towel each time. It was a colorful, beautiful mess of towels and barbecue, to celebrate the day I never knew would arrive exactly the way it did. The people I loved went home with a stack of towels in the color of their choosing. And while I do still have many, many, MANY left, i am ok with it. We will be using beach towels after showers for the rest of our lives here at Casa Simone B., but at least we'll be dry. My sanity is worth 90 extra towels.

What a shitty run of shittiness....

2009-06-24T19:04:00.000-04:00

That is disgusting, I admit, but it really does sum things up. I have had a streak of ickiness that shows no sign of abating, and while, yes, things can ALWAYS be worse, this has been pretty amazingly bad. I don't know if I would generally have noticed but a) the constant rain has been so depressing that it is exacerbating everything and b) i am now on Facebook, which keeps a record of such things. So I have a written record of everything I have kvetched about lately, and looking back, it is rather impressive.

I can do nothing about the weather, because while we Jews do control pretty much everything else in the entire world, we cannot control the weather. So what you have heard isn't true. Many meteorologists are Jewish, but they DO NOT CONTROL THE WEATHER. If I could, of course I would. Do you think I enjoy the way my hair looks, and has looked, for the last 3 weeks?

And, it appears, I cannot break this lengthening chain of blech. There are some great moments interspersed, some exceptionally great. But here are a few of the things that have happened of late.

1. Car keys are lost on a day my husband goes out of town for a long business trip. And, as it happens, I have practice in a town that my GPS can barely find. So I have to call Enterprise to pick me up. I rent a car. Giant pain. Keys have never been found.

2. Cat brings live chipmunk into the house.

3. I spill Diet Coke all over my computer keyboard and mouse and fry it completely.

(just an aside, all the above happened in ONE DAY.)

4. I got a prank call in Yiddish asking me if I like cock. I swear this is true.

5. Cat leaves a dead rodent of some kind at my door for 5 days straight.

6. Kid deletes ENTIRE bar mitzvah guest list because it is impeding his access to Itunes.

7. Cat gets eaten by a coyote.

Everyone is healthy, yes. We have our health, our relative sanity, people are employed. Of course, OF COURSE, I appreciate everything I have! But come on, these are only some of the things that have befallen Casa de Simone lately. But as my grandmother, or perhaps my dirty prank caller would say, Haken nisht en tscheinik! I am tired of hearing myself, literally and figuratively, tell another cute anecdote about my crappy day. And so I am done bitching about all my bad luck. From now on, all is git. No matter what.

It's a world gone mad when karaoke is wrong.

2009-05-25T21:01:00.000-04:00

Perhaps I have misunderstood the concept of karaoke. Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't it meant to be an EXACT COPY of a song, so that a random person with or without musical skills can sing along? I wasn't aware that mistakes were allowed. Isn't life confusing enough without the unexpected karaoke screw up?

I should make clear that I am not a fan of karaoke. In fact, I have only participated once, this past New Year's Eve. I spent a lovely evening kicking male ass in trivia with the other ladies, and then was challenged to karaoke by a couple who were LEGENDARY in karaoke. This is what they told me. This particular karaoke system had grading out of 100 points, and the scores appeared to be based on timing and pitch measurement programs, but it was hard to tell. In any case, once challenged, I had to quietly and deftly annihilate them, with modesty I didn't feel. Loads of fun and an excellent way to start the year.

However, I am very excited to do a cover show in June, very very different than anything I have done with Sugar Snow. I am working with a phenomenal trio of professional musicians, and I am definitely the newbie with much to prove. The set list is an amalgam of their songs and mine, some I wouldn't necessarily have chosen, but an interesting mix. And since we are limited in the number of rehearsals we are having, I need to go in absolutely and utterly prepared. Thus, downloading karaoke versions to practice in the car, where I spend the bulk of my time.

So imagine my surprise and utter disdain when one of them is wrong. Not a little wrong, like a flourish of extra instrumentation or the use of piano rather than glockenspiel. This is actually wrong. The song is verse, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus. Pretty basic. And as I am ready to start singing verse number two, it goes into the chorus. THE CHORUS. Now how is that helpful? I am trying to learn the song exactly, just like the musicians who recorded the karaoke version were supposed to learn THEIR version exactly, And yet....a massive failure of the karaoke kind. This may not be the most popular karaoke song, but it deserves to be 100% accurate, as all other songs are expected to be.

Not to mention that it screws me up. That alone is reason for outrage. And I am. Please join me.

When did fleece become sexy?

2009-04-05T20:44:00.000-04:00

I posted a comment about fleece on my Facebook page last night after getting home from seeing Frit and the last Bill's Bar show EVER. And several "friends" have accused me of being intolerant of fleece and fleece wearers. Please, do allow me to explain.

The first thing I noticed, as I often do, is the relative age of bar patrons. That is, relative to me. An 18+ show, which this was, usually lowers the median age, but at this particular show, I was solidly in the Mom category. I sort of knew that would be the case--the boys in Frit are adorable, a few not even old enough to drink at their own show. And great musicians; their show was fantastic. As I sat at the bar, amused by the grinding of the teenage girls and the indiscriminate making-out all around me, I noticed the fleece. Fleece. In a bar.

Now, I should state that I have no issue with fleece. It is warm. It is fuzzy. It comes in many lovely colors. It has many things to recommend it. But I am pretty sure that the L.L. Bean catalogue does not have a "fleece for bar-hopping" section. It is not sexy. It is not "hot". It is not revealing, cute or stylish. It is designed to be utilitarian, and it is. And thus, like Crocs, doesn't belong in a bar, where what you wear can get you laid. Or in the case of fleece, not.

The girls were wearing their slutty finest--skinny jeans (a story for another day!), stilettos, loads of cleavage...and fleece. It boggles my mind that these girl have spent so much time putting together this look--a look which is debatably attractive, but whatever--and then top it off by running out of the house with their North Face fleece covered in cat hair. The excuse that fleece is warm does not fly, because not only was it not particularly cold last night, there are other, more fashionable fabrics, like wool, that are equally warm. Fur-wearers use warmth as an excuse, and no one buys it. And wearing six inch heels should automatically make one more worried about falling on one's face on Lansdowne Street in front of the hippies waiting to see Moe at the House of Blues than the outside temperature when one goes out to have a smoke.

Men--women can forgive many, many things in a man. That's why men can be bald, fat and mean and still get tail. But even the smelly hippie spillover from the aforementioned Moe show was preferable to the young man sitting near me with his red fleece shirt that zipped at the neck. You are in a BAR. With WOMEN. Wear a damn SHIRT! Show that you took five minutes to dress and groom yourself. You shouldn't be wearing what you wore to watch the MSU/UConn game at your buddy's before you came over. No, you shouldn't. No. Don't argue with me. I am pretty sure that if we went to Machine on a Friday night, we would not see even one gay man wearing fleece. Because they understand what you don't. Fleece is not attractive.

Being the New Wave/local music slut I was in the 80's, I wouldn't have dreamt of wearing a down jacket over my mini skirt/leggings,Doc Marten's ensemble. It is like wearing a parka over a Halloween costume. It ruins everything! Maybe fleece is in the category of Twitter--I just don't get it. But I will be sure to teach my children about the appropriate wearing of fleece. Sometimes old-fashioned is a better way to be.