Sunday, September 27, 2009
Here's the Part Where We Dance
You know how one day, you're driving in your car listening to Lite Favorites from the 70s and you hear a song you've heard a gazillion times but never really paid attention to, when suddenly it hits you -- you are listening to THE BEST SONG EVER and why didn't you realize its genius earlier? And you turn up the volume and roll down the windows and bust out some sweet moves in the bucketseat and sing at the top of your lungs and that song is never the same again?
Yeah. I love those moments, too.
Life is good.
Kick it, The Emotions.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
A Mystery
The September Rules are limping along to the finish line. Needless to say, there have been digressions.
Sometimes a girl needs to drink at a U2 concert tailgate because a.)the beer is free, b.) she has become keenly aware of how sad it is to now belt out "Sunday, Bloody Sunday" as a middle-aged woman.(Smug twenty-somethings, you'll blink and be doing the same at the snorefest of whatever Coldplay-Deathcab for Crappy-Kings of Bland bunch of wankers you love.) Furthermore, c.) the beer is free.
And sometimes a girl needs to eat an entire BLT pizza and fries and three large DD iced coffees the next day so as to not puke in her Odyssey on the way to a PTO meeting.
But my hangover is not what I've come here to discuss. Have we forgotten my original mission to report on inner suburbia? To uncover the underbelly of Utopia? To unearth the secrets and lies hidden behind pretty little boxes on the hillside?
To set the scene, I live in Stepford Wife country. Activities include sailing, golfing, mowing lawns, and popping collars. In nearly every driveway, you will find a blue Volvo station wagon. In nearly every house, you will find a hyper-fit woman who does not work, as well as two to four brats with bowl haircuts. What you will NOT find is a man because he is in an office, bar, or woman two towns over.
This is a town that is full of overeducated rich white people driving luxury cars to the country club or yacht club or soccer/lacrosse/field hockey practice, and yet . . .
This is a town that once banned an ice cream shop from placing a statue of an orange cow on its property because the Council of Constipated didn't think an orange cow fit the town's character, and yet . . .
This is a dry town, and yet . . .
it is keeping a secret.
Behind a house a half a mile away from where I type this sits an illegal, after-hours bar called the Shack. The story is that some crazy guy who lives with his mom has been running a bar in the garage behind her house for years. Everyone know about it--cops, politicians, reporters. And no one says a word.
I had heard rumors about the Shack for a while. Having only a vague idea of its location, I tried to find it without success. I dismissed it as a suburban legend, a myth, an impossible dream. But this weekend, I met a drunk chick at the U2 tailgate party who has been to the Shack and told me the street name. (A longish street with a few side streets that cross it, but still . . . I can work with it.)
It is my destiny to visit this Shack. It is my quest. No cul-de-sac shall be left unexplored. No lane left untouched. The Shack is my personal Holy Grail, and rest assured, I will find it and report to you my findings.
Has Mama finally found a place to hang her hat? An escape from the Mr. and Mrs. Perfects? Has she finally found her beloved ruffians and thugs? Oh, where, oh where, can you be?????
Sometimes a girl needs to drink at a U2 concert tailgate because a.)the beer is free, b.) she has become keenly aware of how sad it is to now belt out "Sunday, Bloody Sunday" as a middle-aged woman.(Smug twenty-somethings, you'll blink and be doing the same at the snorefest of whatever Coldplay-Deathcab for Crappy-Kings of Bland bunch of wankers you love.) Furthermore, c.) the beer is free.
And sometimes a girl needs to eat an entire BLT pizza and fries and three large DD iced coffees the next day so as to not puke in her Odyssey on the way to a PTO meeting.
But my hangover is not what I've come here to discuss. Have we forgotten my original mission to report on inner suburbia? To uncover the underbelly of Utopia? To unearth the secrets and lies hidden behind pretty little boxes on the hillside?
To set the scene, I live in Stepford Wife country. Activities include sailing, golfing, mowing lawns, and popping collars. In nearly every driveway, you will find a blue Volvo station wagon. In nearly every house, you will find a hyper-fit woman who does not work, as well as two to four brats with bowl haircuts. What you will NOT find is a man because he is in an office, bar, or woman two towns over.
This is a town that is full of overeducated rich white people driving luxury cars to the country club or yacht club or soccer/lacrosse/field hockey practice, and yet . . .
This is a town that once banned an ice cream shop from placing a statue of an orange cow on its property because the Council of Constipated didn't think an orange cow fit the town's character, and yet . . .
This is a dry town, and yet . . .
it is keeping a secret.
Behind a house a half a mile away from where I type this sits an illegal, after-hours bar called the Shack. The story is that some crazy guy who lives with his mom has been running a bar in the garage behind her house for years. Everyone know about it--cops, politicians, reporters. And no one says a word.
I had heard rumors about the Shack for a while. Having only a vague idea of its location, I tried to find it without success. I dismissed it as a suburban legend, a myth, an impossible dream. But this weekend, I met a drunk chick at the U2 tailgate party who has been to the Shack and told me the street name. (A longish street with a few side streets that cross it, but still . . . I can work with it.)
It is my destiny to visit this Shack. It is my quest. No cul-de-sac shall be left unexplored. No lane left untouched. The Shack is my personal Holy Grail, and rest assured, I will find it and report to you my findings.
Has Mama finally found a place to hang her hat? An escape from the Mr. and Mrs. Perfects? Has she finally found her beloved ruffians and thugs? Oh, where, oh where, can you be?????
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
People Like Crap and I Like Other People's Crappy Mail
There are two things I love about flying: Bloody Marys and SkyMall. I dig vodka and crap catalogs. And lucky me, my new suburban address is on the mailing list of every crapola catalog in print. The previous owner's junk mail has serendipitously defaulted to Current Resident--moi.
So, let's go shopping, shall we?
Crossword Men's PJs
What's a nine-letter word for "this man is not getting laid tonight"? We've come "across" a little number that guarantees its wearer nobody will be going "down" on him.
Wolf Bedding
This bedroom says, "I LOVE WOLVES!" and "I'M FUCKING CRAZY!" The most frightening thing about this bedroom set is that someone in the world actually owns it. And what luck! It comes with matching curtains.
Ginormous Travel Pillow
A SkyMall classic, the hugeungmous, neck-wrenching travel pillow. We are missing the "Before" photo, in which this gentleman spends 45 minutes blowing up said pillow using only his breath. Here we have the "After" shot, in which he's collapsed from the effort.
So, let's go shopping, shall we?
Crossword Men's PJs
What's a nine-letter word for "this man is not getting laid tonight"? We've come "across" a little number that guarantees its wearer nobody will be going "down" on him.
Wolf Bedding
This bedroom says, "I LOVE WOLVES!" and "I'M FUCKING CRAZY!" The most frightening thing about this bedroom set is that someone in the world actually owns it. And what luck! It comes with matching curtains.
Ginormous Travel Pillow
A SkyMall classic, the hugeungmous, neck-wrenching travel pillow. We are missing the "Before" photo, in which this gentleman spends 45 minutes blowing up said pillow using only his breath. Here we have the "After" shot, in which he's collapsed from the effort.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Open Letter to My Suburban Hairdresser
Dear Kooky Hairdresser Lady,
I like you, kooky hairdresser lady. Sure, you've been fired from four different salons. No matter. I've followed you to each and every dump. Even this last atrocity. You know, the nail salon in the strip mall that says nothing at all about HAIR on its signage?
Yeah, I've met you there. In the corner of Jazzy's Nails, where our hairstyling encounter was tucked away by a decrepit sink like some back-alley abortion.
And sure, you only take cash now because you say Jazzy doesn't "get" you, and it might be because when she sneezed you said, "Jazus, you even sneeze in Vietnamese!" right before you made me look like Robert Plant with foils and paraded me around the room like the Elephant Man, a giant frizzball stumbling blindly, arms outstretched, among a roomful of silky, sleek-haired Asian women.
And that's all fine. It's fine, kooky hairdresser lady. It's fine that no matter how I tell you I want my hair, you unfailingly give me a '90s Rachel shag. And it's fine that you impale me with scissors and stab my cranium with comb handles and burn my scalp with hairdryers.
That's fine. I will still follow you. Because you're cheap. And I like you, kooky hairdresser lady. I do.
But please, PLEASE, for the love of Pete, stop it with the old lady magazines. When you have a stack of Star and OK!, WHY do you give me the Ladies Home Journal? Do I look like a decoupager who makes American Chop Suey? Knock it the fuck off with the Good Housekeeping. That's just mean. And if you ever again give me Reader's Digest --the magazine my grandfather read on the can--I will cut you out of my life forever. Snip, snip.
Thank you for your time. Please keep me posted on your next place of employment.
Sincerely yours,
Sugar Mama
I like you, kooky hairdresser lady. Sure, you've been fired from four different salons. No matter. I've followed you to each and every dump. Even this last atrocity. You know, the nail salon in the strip mall that says nothing at all about HAIR on its signage?
Yeah, I've met you there. In the corner of Jazzy's Nails, where our hairstyling encounter was tucked away by a decrepit sink like some back-alley abortion.
And sure, you only take cash now because you say Jazzy doesn't "get" you, and it might be because when she sneezed you said, "Jazus, you even sneeze in Vietnamese!" right before you made me look like Robert Plant with foils and paraded me around the room like the Elephant Man, a giant frizzball stumbling blindly, arms outstretched, among a roomful of silky, sleek-haired Asian women.
And that's all fine. It's fine, kooky hairdresser lady. It's fine that no matter how I tell you I want my hair, you unfailingly give me a '90s Rachel shag. And it's fine that you impale me with scissors and stab my cranium with comb handles and burn my scalp with hairdryers.
That's fine. I will still follow you. Because you're cheap. And I like you, kooky hairdresser lady. I do.
But please, PLEASE, for the love of Pete, stop it with the old lady magazines. When you have a stack of Star and OK!, WHY do you give me the Ladies Home Journal? Do I look like a decoupager who makes American Chop Suey? Knock it the fuck off with the Good Housekeeping. That's just mean. And if you ever again give me Reader's Digest --the magazine my grandfather read on the can--I will cut you out of my life forever. Snip, snip.
Thank you for your time. Please keep me posted on your next place of employment.
Sincerely yours,
Sugar Mama
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Cocktail Moms
A little Momversation, as posted on Stefanie Wilder-Taylor's blog Baby on Bored.
Confession: My first thought was that I'd love to sit down and have a glass of wine with these gals. Thought #2: I'd like me some Botox. Stat.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Day Six: Report Card
THE SEPTEMBER RULES:
1. No hooch. B-. The Big One. I am dabbling in AA. Not sure I should be. From what my new AA peeps say, I'm a "heavy drinker," not an alcoholic. (Is it wrong to feel disappointed by this? I enjoy AA meetings. Where else can I find a quiet place to have a cup of joe, get away from the kids, and hear stories that rival those of the best Tarentino movies?)
The meetings help. They feel right. I went five days without a drop and feel like a kid again--fresh and so clean, clean. Although, last night I cheated and had two glasses of wine at a party because it's a holiday weekend and I'm weak and like to please people. (Be my friend.)
2. No cigs. A+. Check!
3. No swearing. F. As in Fuuuuuuuuuuudge.
4. No coffee. F. This rule didn't last a day. Avoiding alcohol and coffee in the same week is cruel and unusual. I cut my caffeine intake to three cups in the morning, but kept the midday iced coffee. Tried tea, but decided tea is for the dull and cat-loving.
5. Stop using the word "like" unnecessarily. D. No, but I've suddenly noticed that I'm not the only 30+ person to pepper every sentence with "like" and call women "girls." (I stand by the latter, my Mount Holyoke friend. Suck it.)
6. Be positive. No more negative comments. C-. Following Rule #1 has made this rule exceedingly easier. Turns out I am a morning person. Who knew? Nobody, that's who.
7. Write. C-. Meh.
8. Update my "real" blogs. F. No.
9. Eat healthy. B. I'm living on tabbouleh, hummus, and Luna bars. All of which tastes too good to be healthy. I suspect I'll find out later that they've doubled my ass girth, as is usually the case. (Granola cereal, I hardly knew thee.)
10. Exercise at least three times a week. B+. Signed up for a half-marathon, started training, and took a surfboarding lesson. Had my ass handed to me by the rarest of creatures: the surfer with anger management issues. "YOU GOTTA GO FASTER! YOU'RE NOT LISTENING!" That's because I'm drowning, asswipe. Woke up with every part of me sore, even my boobs.
11. Read the newspaper. C. Read every section of the newspaper, but the news. Gah! Learned how to make an heirloom tomato martini and all about the neighborhood smells of NYC (Did you know that Midtown smells like new jeans, tea-tree oil, and a touch of vomit?) I'll begin with the news section today so I sound smart at parties. Unlike last night. (My new knowledge of NYC's olifactory secretions didn't come in handy in that health care debate.)
12. Stop watching crap TV. B. RIP Daisy LaHoya.
13. Go to church. F. Last Sunday, I went to a lesbian AA meeting, which, if there is the opposite of church, might be the lesbian AA meeting. Presently waiting for 10 a.m. mass.
14. Have sex with the hubs. D. Once in the morning--sober! (The hubs wasn't behind my decision to quit drinking. When pressed, he admitted that he only gets action when I've tied one on. Ah, I'm a lucky girl.)
15. No flirty emails with the scoundrel who infiltrated the Mommy Bubble. A. Check. The restraining order greatly contributed to the success of this one.
16. Limit time-sucking, soul-sucking internet wanderings. C. OK, but could do better. I still checked in on my imaginary friends. Like you. And Oprah.(O? Call me, girlfriend. Mama needs a new car.)
1. No hooch. B-. The Big One. I am dabbling in AA. Not sure I should be. From what my new AA peeps say, I'm a "heavy drinker," not an alcoholic. (Is it wrong to feel disappointed by this? I enjoy AA meetings. Where else can I find a quiet place to have a cup of joe, get away from the kids, and hear stories that rival those of the best Tarentino movies?)
The meetings help. They feel right. I went five days without a drop and feel like a kid again--fresh and so clean, clean. Although, last night I cheated and had two glasses of wine at a party because it's a holiday weekend and I'm weak and like to please people. (Be my friend.)
2. No cigs. A+. Check!
3. No swearing. F. As in Fuuuuuuuuuuudge.
4. No coffee. F. This rule didn't last a day. Avoiding alcohol and coffee in the same week is cruel and unusual. I cut my caffeine intake to three cups in the morning, but kept the midday iced coffee. Tried tea, but decided tea is for the dull and cat-loving.
5. Stop using the word "like" unnecessarily. D. No, but I've suddenly noticed that I'm not the only 30+ person to pepper every sentence with "like" and call women "girls." (I stand by the latter, my Mount Holyoke friend. Suck it.)
6. Be positive. No more negative comments. C-. Following Rule #1 has made this rule exceedingly easier. Turns out I am a morning person. Who knew? Nobody, that's who.
7. Write. C-. Meh.
8. Update my "real" blogs. F. No.
9. Eat healthy. B. I'm living on tabbouleh, hummus, and Luna bars. All of which tastes too good to be healthy. I suspect I'll find out later that they've doubled my ass girth, as is usually the case. (Granola cereal, I hardly knew thee.)
10. Exercise at least three times a week. B+. Signed up for a half-marathon, started training, and took a surfboarding lesson. Had my ass handed to me by the rarest of creatures: the surfer with anger management issues. "YOU GOTTA GO FASTER! YOU'RE NOT LISTENING!" That's because I'm drowning, asswipe. Woke up with every part of me sore, even my boobs.
11. Read the newspaper. C. Read every section of the newspaper, but the news. Gah! Learned how to make an heirloom tomato martini and all about the neighborhood smells of NYC (Did you know that Midtown smells like new jeans, tea-tree oil, and a touch of vomit?) I'll begin with the news section today so I sound smart at parties. Unlike last night. (My new knowledge of NYC's olifactory secretions didn't come in handy in that health care debate.)
12. Stop watching crap TV. B. RIP Daisy LaHoya.
13. Go to church. F. Last Sunday, I went to a lesbian AA meeting, which, if there is the opposite of church, might be the lesbian AA meeting. Presently waiting for 10 a.m. mass.
14. Have sex with the hubs. D. Once in the morning--sober! (The hubs wasn't behind my decision to quit drinking. When pressed, he admitted that he only gets action when I've tied one on. Ah, I'm a lucky girl.)
15. No flirty emails with the scoundrel who infiltrated the Mommy Bubble. A. Check. The restraining order greatly contributed to the success of this one.
16. Limit time-sucking, soul-sucking internet wanderings. C. OK, but could do better. I still checked in on my imaginary friends. Like you. And Oprah.(O? Call me, girlfriend. Mama needs a new car.)
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Day Two
In which I break a rule and drink coffee.
Fuck.
Oh dear.
There's goes another one.
Not off to a flying start.
Fuck.
Oh dear.
There's goes another one.
Not off to a flying start.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
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