I've Got The Curse!

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's Gotta Be The Shoes....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On this, those that had thought about it (any further than "gaaaaaah....drooooool") were unanimous and surprisingly articulate. C. said " ...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

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

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

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'?

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

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/