Please Explain.

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?

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

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

1. Sugar Snow has NO TATTOOS.

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

2. Sugar Snow is OLD.

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

3. Sad music is AWESOME.

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


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

And I will be yours.

Members Only

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

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

Bottom line: Stay off the trampoline. Idiot.


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

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

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

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

The Standard Bearer

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Own Private Idaho

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.

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

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.