That's So Trixie

Cabo Tahoe!

Last night, we partied with Sammy Hagar.

(OK, fine...we partied with Fake Sammy). I boogied with the best dancer on earth to the ever-popular "please don't smack my bevah." Spent the day hiking the gorgeous mountains and hanging out at the ski village. All in all, Tahoe rocks.

Except for dinner tonight, which consisted of sea carnage on toast and the absolute worst s'mores I've ever had. Two thumbs down (or one, as the case may be). And now I am sitting in the equivalent of a smokey church basement watching craps, which is total craps. Get me back outside!

Rock of...Like?

Went to see the Bret Michaels show last night, just for chucks. I wasn't really a hair metal fan back in the 80s, but I do think Bret is likeable and charming and boyishly hot (if a 46 year-old-man can be called boyishly hot). And you know, I like watching hot do its thing on stage.

Anyway, here are the top five things I learned last night:

5. Always check to make sure the random stranger took a good picture on your phone before walking away from the semi-famous person you wanted to be photographed with in the first place. Otherwise, you will end up with something like this:

BTW, that's Big John with me and my friend Jackie. There were also supposed to be other friends in the shot but random stranger was truly not a good photographer. Obviously.

4. Very young girls really DO want to get close to Bret, despite the fact that he is three years older than I am. And they will push, shove, bite and verbally abuse anyone getting in their way. Especially me.

3. After the show these same young girls will vomit sloppily and loudly in the Ladies Room. And then the bathroom attendant will yell, "You better have your head in the toilet, girl, if you're puking in there!" And I will be completely grossed out. Because, well, I am way too old to be places where people puke in public.

2. I am also too old to get into verbal/potentially physical fights at all-ages concerts. Yet I continue to attend them, and continue to just barely escape fists of fury (and possibly prison) each time.

1. Inna and Amber are both hot, yet possibly fully composed of plastic parts leftover from the life-size Barbie factory. It seemed as if Inna liked Amber better than Bret, because Inna kept groping Amber's skimpily clad ass throughout the show. Bret, on the other hand, seemed to greet Amber with more enthusiasm than Inna. Most likely outcome: Threesome.

Me, my iPhone and Chi-town will never be the same.

Look at Me--I'm Shattered!

Hi. This is Trixie's iPhone talking. I am in critical condition. Get me to the Genius Bar stat.

Rock n Roll, Arizona!

After our half marathon debut in September (which Betsy and Charlotte had to miss for varying reasons), we all decided needed another shot at it, together this time. And so we signed up for the Rock 'n Roll half marathon in AZ.

Training quickly devolved into a shit show. By December, we were all either thwarted by injuries, holiday parties, ice on the sidewalks, sub-zero temperatures, or all of the above. And so I made these fake "red" shirts for everyone to wear on race day. I figured after the run, we'd all be pretty ti-red.

But by some miracle, instead of totally bonking, we all PR'ed, and had an amazing weekend in the process. I finished smack in the middle of my buddies at 2:05:15, and am chasing a sub-two hour finish my next half marathon.

The Difference Between Men and Women

Last week, my husband and I were in Cabo with a dozen of our favorite people. Stationed at the pool of a beautiful resort, we were sunbathing and dunking off our hangovers. Mostly, we had the place to ourselves; there was just one other couple there, plus a lone woman in a teeny-tiny pink bikini.

The men were ogling teeny-tiny bikini; the women were ogling the male half of the couple. The chick was blond (of course) with the body of a stripper, was showing lots of it. The guy was tall, lean but muscular, had a few well-placed tattoos and his hair cropped so close to his head it was more like five o'clock shadow than a buzz cut. In short, he was a god. An Adonis. Looked like the papparazzi should be following him around. So everyone was happy.

But then teeny-tiny pink bikini and Hot Guy opened their mouths and spoke. Both sounded equally unintelligent. It was the Mars-Venus reaction to it that was totally different: The women were completely turned off, done with the dude.The guys? More turned on than ever.

Go figure. All our fantasies of this guy were gone once we heard his overwhelming Jersey accent and grammatically incorrect sentences. And the men in our group were sporting wood because teeny-tiny bikini had spouted the following phrases:

"Do you pee in the pool?"
"Want to suck my lime?"
"I just saw two crabs screwing!"
"Are you trying to get me drunk?" and
"You want me to slap you around?"

So what's that all about?

Dying to Find the Right Bathing Suit: The grief cycle as it relates to appearing half naked in public.

Denial

After Fat Smashing 9 pounds off my already petite frame and achieving an all-time low weight since high school, I find myself in the British Virgin Islands on a couples trip feeling super-hot and sexy. Basking in the sun and my friends’ comments of, “Ohmigosh, you look amazing!” Soaking in all the peace and alcohol three days sans kids can buy. And purchasing a bathing suit I would normally never—and should never again—wear: A teensy-weensy black and white bikini. See-through top. Barely-enough-material-to-contain-my-42-year-old-ass bottom. Which at the time, from far away, I feel quite sure could pass for 32.

(Maybe even 22, if you squint real hard and down a few nutmeg encrusted dark rum floating Pain Killers, the island’s drink specialty.)

Anger

Well, that was a big load of hoo-ha. And so am I. Those 9 pounds reappeared in no time. The reality: I am too old and too fat to wear a super-sexy nipple-exposing ass-baring bikini. Instead I settle into a girl’s size 16 hot pink Roxy two piece I originally bought for my 11-year-old. The bottoms were too large for her; the top too small. The fit is quite the opposite on me. But whatever. I take the dregs, because that’s exactly what I look like anyway.

(Especially my thighs. Those cottage cheesy motherfuckers.)

Depression

Now there’s some sad things known to man/But ain’t too much sadder than/The tears of a clown. In my striped boyshorts with the whimsical polka dotted belt and bandeau top in that same stripey-dotty pattern, I might as well be wearing a red foam ball on my nose while honking my tricycle horn at the pool. Nothing says more about a woman’s self-esteem, not to mention her mental health status, than her choice of bathing suits. Here, mine is clearly crying through a fake smile, “Go ahead! Laugh at me! I WANT you to. Seriously. I am one funny woman, with swimwear to match.”

(Sad, sad, sad. Shoot me now.)

Bargaining

Look, there’s no sense in being depressed about it. Being alive, even when you look like this in a bathing suit, is better than the alternative, right? So here’s the deal: I’ll just buy this little number from Delia’s—that’s right, the same Delia’s my tweenage daughter shops at—and everyone just be nice and say it looks cute on me. Because every 42-year-old woman needs a lavender and neon green ruffled bikini, don’t you think? And at least this one covers my ass. Sort of. I mean, mostly, anyway.

(Smile and nod encouragingly.)

Acceptance

Though hard for me to believe sometimes, with all my running and spinning and elliptical-ing and frantic yo-yo dieting, I actually look decent. For my age, that is. And it’s time to start acting it. No more emperor’s new swimwear. No more hand-me-down Marshalls girls’ department rejects. No more clown suits. No more frilly little nothings best left to teenagers. I buy something more appropriate for the more mature me—a Michael Kors brown floral tankini that covers everything it’s supposed to and then some. I vow to wear it with pride, along with my age. Until I debut it at the beach and my eight-year-old asks, “Mommy, why are you wearing a grandma bathing suit?” and I know for a fact, positively one hundred percent, I will never wear the damn thing again.

(And so I do not pass go, do not collect $200 dollars—it would be all wasted on new bathing suits anyway—and start the cycle all over again.)

Like Monica In Barbados!

If you know me, or even if you've just read my blog a few times, you know I am obsessed with hair. And making mine somehow be what I want it to be. Which it steadfastly refuses to do. Still I try, and try, and try again. I've spent more money on hair products than I care to think about, and none performs as promised on my locks.

But on Friday, I thought maybe I'd found the holy grail. I went and got a really goor trim/hair cut, and then my stylist chick put a new product on my hair that she guaranteed would keep it in check. Then she gave me a killer blow dry and, to ensure my hair stayed straight, even did a little flat iroing.

I'm not kidding, for once in my life, my hair looked awesome.

Believing my bad hair days were over, I went home. My hub ooohed and aaahed over the look.

And then we started walking to the beach for a party. Did I mention the humidity was rather high?

Two blocks later, my hair had puffed up like a souffle. Weird, fuzzy curls replaced the sleek rocker chick look I'd paid $85 bucks for only moments earlier.

The thing kept growing, too. And by the end of the night, I had an honest-to-goodness afro on my head. And not an attractive one, either. It was like some weird science experiment gone wrong.

Friends with wavy/curly hair laughed at me. They were smart enough to wear their hair in sleek ponytails to the party in anticipation of what the humidity would do, whereas I, with blind faith, once again believed in the impossible.

Remember the Friends episode where they all go to Barbados and Monica can't leave her room because every time she goes outside, her hair turns into an enormous frizzy helmet? That's me.

That's also why I'm getting BKT the thursday. Will report back on whether it is the solution I've been looking for forever, or just another empty promise to us unruly, frizzy curly girls.

Summer Raves

1. Nike+iPod: I LOVE this thing (it's a sensor that attaches to your running shoes and a receiver you plug into your iPod--when you go for a run, it calculates your pace, distance, calorie burn, etc.) I resisted getting it at first because I thought you had to use Nike running shoes which don't fit my fat Fred Flinstone feet, but then I found...
2) Switcheasy for Nike+iPod: A cute little plastic doohickey that holds the Nike+ sensor and attaches neatly to your shoelaces. I got it in pink--the perfect solution.
3) Wrigley Field: Quite possibly the best ballpark in the world--definitely the friendliest and in the greatest neighborhood--and also an awesome place to see a concert.
4) The Police Reunion Tour: Kicked complete ass, I was immediately transported back to senior year of high school, freshman year of college. The band was tight, and I knew every single song (except for the encore--WTF?). One comment though: My friend Suzanne recently reminded me--based on me whining about aging again--that everyone ages at the same rate. The Police prove this just isn't so. Sting is totally buff and looks hottttttttt, while Stewart and Andy look like they should be puttering around their garden, muttering about "those damn kids today." Thanks much much much to Grant and Joanna for the tix!
5) Serendipity: Fortunate discoveries at just the right time...love it when this happens.

Cicadas Think I'm Hott!

We are living through this weird thing in Chicago right now, where zillions of an alternate breed of cicadas push their way out of the groud, climb up our trees, shed their creepy first bodies, and emerge with even creepier big black bodies and red bulging eyeballs.

Then they proceed to look for other cicadas to get down with for like, a month or so.

And then they all drop dead from all that sex. (This part hasn't happened yet.)

Supposedly this cycle only happens every 17 years. I'm considering moving elsewhere, at least temporarily, for the next go-round.

Yeah, and here's why: Cicadas think I'm hott. Yes, they do. And the feeling is NOT reciprocated.

Lots of kids--mine included--can somehow overlook the repulsive black-body-red-eye combo and have decided the little suckers are cute. Not me. Especially because every time I venture outside, they are making some kind of inappropriate pass at me.

First, I went for a long bike ride with my friend. None bothered her, but instead flew into me with all their might. I kept flicking them off, but when I got home, a huge one had attached itself to my boob and proved very difficult to remove. Strike one.

A couple of days later, I went for a run, and one decided to live on my very sweaty neck. I think he was trying to give me a hickey. And come on now--I'm not that easy.

The final straw was during another run. I was so proud of myself, jogging through swarms of them and keeping my cool. It was a real laissez faire, you-do-your-thing-I'll-do-mine kind of strategy and it was totally working. Except it really wasn't. Because when I got home, I went straight to the laundry room and started taking off my shirt. When it was halfway over my head, I heard the distinct translucent-wings-rubbing-together chirp, which translates in English to, "Hey baby, wanna get buggy with me?"

Was my potential suitor in my shirt? Hair? EAR?????

I screamed, threw my shirt in the utility sink, and poked madly at my ear. I had convinced myself a HUGE cicada was in there, which I'm sure is physically impossible, but all those urban legends about cockroaches in people's ears had me wigged.

Next, I started clawing at my bushy, unruly ponytail, which my husband had assured me days earlier was the perfect breeding ground for the bugs. That guy wasn't in there, either.

Finally, I got the guts to approach the shirt, now relegated to the utility sink. I gingerly poked at it. Nothing. I shook it. CHIRP! Yup. He was just lounging around in there, drinking my sweat, waiting for me to come to my senses and have a romantic moment with him.

I shook the shirt again and called my dog to come and get it. CHIRP! Murphy pawed at the place where the sound was coming from for a while, but soon got bored and left to go sleep upstairs. Cause apparently, that's more exciting than cicada hunting.

There was nothing left to do. I simply left the shirt in the sink, cicada boyfriend in it and all. It's been three weeks, and I haven't dared touch the thing. He's probably created a small village inside there by this point. There's no telling--and I'm not looking, that's for sure.

17 years from now, I'm assuming our basement will be home to an entire planet of cicadas--and all of them will probably think I'm hott, too.

Me...On TV

Check it out:

http://abclocal.go.com/wls/story?section=children_first&id=5274294

When I asked my 8-year-old whether she agreed with my assessment that she thinks it's cool that I play in a band but finds it a little embarrassing to watch me, she replied, "No way! The WHOLE THING is embarrassing!"

To add to her already overwhelming embarrassment, Playdate is playing Mamapalooza on Friday night (5/11)...8:30...The Heartland Cafe...7000 N. Glenwood Ave, Chicago...be there if you dare.

The Speed of...Whatever You Think It Is

I was running down Sheridan Road the other day, going very speedy-fast, if I do say so myself. And then along came this chick who, I swear, looked like she was practically walking or maybe even jogging backwards in slow motion.

Two seconds later, she passed me.

So was she running a lot faster than I thought? Or was I running a lot slower? Or does the answer lie somewhere between the two?

Another time, I was in my guitar lesson, playing to a metronome. At the chorus, the thing seemed to speed up. At the bridge, it seemed to slow down. By definition, a metronome always keeps a steady tempo. So what was going on in my brain to make it seem like a Nascar racer one second and a Granny going 40mph in a 55mph zone the next?

Ever heard someone say "The day flew by" or "I thought that day would never end?" Same idea. Both indisputably have the exact same number of hours, minutes, seconds. And both feel indescribably different.

In the case of perceptions, it seems clear there is no right or wrong, black or white. How one person experiences something can be worlds away from how another does. Take a recent parting of ways I had with a business associate I really, really like. Based on numerous delayed and sometimes altogether unanswered emails, frequently rescheduled conference calls, and a promised two-week response time that without explanation turned into two months and then well into three with no end in sight, my perception was this person did not value me as a client. Theirs was, I'm just a little behind on things. I didn't mean to give the impression you weren't important to me.

Exact same situation. Wildly different takes on it.

I guess in cases like this, I have to agree with Dave Mason: There ain't no good guy. There ain't no bad guy. There's only you and me and we just disagree.

The Girl I Once Was

Yeah, so I just celebrated yet another birthday. Which I have to admit, is way better than being dead. But sometimes I am just so damn shocked at how old I am, and what I see in the mirror---mostly because it has absolutely nothing to do with how I feel on the inside.

Take Saturday, for example. My b-day present to myself was a surfing lesson with my dear friend Lottie. In a small Mexican village so far from my normal reality, I was able to completely believe I was still the girl I once was--strong, lean, innocent (ish), unmarked by time or life's worries.

And I had so much fun it should probably be illegal.

I got up on the board and rode the waves a handful of times. I paddled like my life depended on it. I was, in my mind, the coolest kid on the block sitting there on my longboard out at sea, waiting for the right wave to come my way. I was young, free, capable of anything. All my life was still ahead of me, at my feet, waiting for me to do with it as I pleased.

I see the pictures of that day now, and reality is nothing like I imagined it. Captured riding that last wave, which by now has achieved mythical proportions in my head, I do not look quite as cool as I would've hoped. In fact, I look very much like who I am today...a however-old mom whose body is not quite what it used to be...riding the board a little too far back...telltale lines around my eyes and wide grin.

In my mind's eye, however, I will forever be young and beautiful and strong and desirable on that day, surfing, paddling, getting tossed about the sea. And then afterwards, sitting under an umbrella, drinking a Corona, trading concert and tattoo stories with our sweet surfing instructor. I am the balls, I kick ass, I am super-hot.

I think I will disregard the photos and stick with what the camera in my mind tells me--because days like those don't come around often and the feelings it elicited are so freaking magical.

Someone once told me that in print and in person, I sound like a teenager trapped in a mom's body. I think it was meant as a slam, but I took it a as a compliment. I even had a t-shirt made with the slogan blaring from my chest. Because as long as I can hang on to my youth--even if it is only in my heart--I know I can keep having moments like my birthday.

In the Breakfast Club, I think it was the Basket Case who said, "When you grow up, your heart dies. You can't help it." But I am here to say, I simply refuse to grow up and have my heart die. I will keep fighting the fight forever. So even when I am (really) old and gray, I know deep down inside I will always be the girl I once was.

Night Moves

Sometimes, just for chucks, I like to see how many visitors have checked out my blog, and how they got there.

The majority are referred from my web site, www.trishcook.com. Makes sense. A fair minority come from the pages of my author-mentor-friends, like Brendan Halpin (http://brendanhalpin.typepad.com/girlinacage/) and Erica Orloff (http://www.ericaorloff.com/blog/). I get it--I'm linked to their sites.

But then there are the people who clearly took a wrong turn and found themselves with me instead of, say, a naughty page promoting the joys of younger men being with their friend's moms. Recently, searches that have brought people my way include:

--hot sexy milfs
--fingering (ewwwwwwwww...i was talking about guitar, OK?)
--wild trixie sex (apparently, there's some porn term/star/something-or-other called trixie)
--John Frusciante's hair (an inordinate number of these...I didn't know writing about John and his hair would prove so popular...or controversial...or whatever the theme is here)
--how to get rid of a cystic zit (inexplicable)

Inevitably, these searches are all done at 3:00 a.m. I'm guessing the searchees are drunk, stoned or both.

Working on mysteries without any clue...ain't it funny how the night moves.

Of Guitars and Romance Novels

I am completely, utterly frustrated.

No, not in in the romance novel euphemism kind of way.

Today in my guitar lesson, I sucked worse than I'd ever thought possible. No big deal, right?

I wish. Instead, I find myself pacing around the house, muttering and kicking and fuming and wanting a do-over.

I am frustrated that I put a ton of extra time in practicing this week and it totally didn't show.

I am frustrated that probably a lot of this has to do with performance anxiety, and I haven't been able to shake that since I was eight and fell off the beam 5 times in my first gymnastics competition, so it's not like it's just going to go away now.

I am frustrated that I even care. For sure my teacher doesn't , so why should I? I mean, he gets paid either way.

But I do. I so do. F-ing A, I do.

You know when you want something so badly, you would give your heart and guts and soul and left leg to get it? That's how I feel about bringing my guitar playing to a MUCH higer level. And I'm just not there yet.

What's a girl to do?

I know life doesn't always hand you a Hollywood ending, despite our most sincere desires. In reality, sometimes you just don't get the guy...that perfect job...a flat stomach...those killer guitar chops...or whatever it is you've always dreamed of.

For now, I remain humbled by what I lack; I continue to give it my best every day; and I will do so ad infinitum. I know frustration will rear its ugly head again and again. I know the ache will always be there. But instead of reducing my desire to a smoldering pile of ruin, it only serves to stoke the fire inside.

Heartfelt passion. Longing. A quest for the extraordinary. Thwarted attempts, time and again. Lusting after something you just can't seem to have, no matter how hard you try. Come to think of it, this whole guitar playing thing IS a lot like a romance novel. I just haven't gotten to my happy ending--the object of my desire becoming putty in my hands--yet.

Ladies in the Lead?

When I signed up for the Ladies in the Lead seminar, I was so pumped. Here was my chance to learn the secrets of playing lead guitar from a chick. A hard rocking, riff ripping, mega-fast fingered woman, or so it looked from the picture in the brochure. What a novel, awesome way to spent a Sunday.

So when I arrived at the class and was confronted with cruchy, sensible-shoes-wearing, not-so-fast-fingering chick and her big ass ACOUSTIC guitar, I wondered how the hell I was going to escape. My classmates were two other women with THEIR big ass acoustic guitars, and one other woman with an electric with did know her A (chord) from her elbow.

Here is what I learned: The instructor had less of a clue than I do. Or maybe, that I know a hell of a lot more than I thought I did. (Thanks Chris!) The instructor: a) did not know there was more than one form/fingering to a pentatonic scale ("Oh, I only use this one," she told me), b) thought one of her students had invented the term palm mute (uh, no, look in any guitar book out there, it's standard), and c) had to be told (by me) that one of her supposed tricks wouldn't work on the B string.

This is who I'm supposed to look up to? Big ass acoustic guitar girl who couldn't rock a Dickey Betts solo if her life depended on it? No way.

I had no idea it was such an anamoly, a girl wanting to play mean, loud, kicking ROCK guitar. But I do, and so far, I can't buy me a female mentor. What's up with that?

Games People Play

I consider myself to not only be a rugged individualist, but also a strong feminist. I believe in honesty, playing your cards straight up, and not playing games.

Yeah, so then why do I find myself teaching my eleven-year-old some twisted version of The Rules?

She was very upset last night...it seems BFF decided to go out with my daughter's Crush on the very day my daughter confessed to BFF about having said Crush. That morning, BFF had made comments like, "How can you like Crush? He is SO ugly. It is inhuman that you could like him." By 9:30, my daughter got a call from BFF saying she was now dating Crush. Adding insult to injury, my daughter's other BFFs are going out with Crush's BFFs. Can you say feeling left out and unliked?

Follow so far? (If not, don't feel bad...my husband is still confused by this story.)

As she sobbed to me well past bedtime, I passed on the following bits of wisdom:

1) Chicks do this all the time. This is just the beginning, so get used to it. I don't think BFF meant to hurt you as much as she just wasn't particularly thinking about your feelings. And as much as you say you will never do this to friend, you will. I have, we all have, much as we hate to admit it.
2) Sometimes you are going to be the odd woman out, romantically. Sometimes you are going to be the only one with a boyfriend. Both suck equally as much, because it is hard to balance friendships either way. When you are the one with the boyfriend, be sure to continue to stick with/pay attention to/hang out with your friends. When you inevitably forget, it will be hellish trying to earn their trust back.
3) Don't ever let a guy think you like him first. Guys like to be the pursuers. If you are too blatant in your affection for them, they just stop trying. It's no fun for them anymore and they move on to their next "prey." So even if you are filled to the brim with liking someone, play it cool. PRETEND YOU DON'T CARE.
4) Sometimes, the best revenge is looking good. (I honestly said these words, and this morning put them to the test by performing a full waxing/blow drying/make-up applying triage. She still looked sad...but much more put together than usual.)
5) The people who peak in 5th grade...or 8th grade...or even high school don't have very much to look forward to. Not to mention, they have a loooooooong way to fall. I know this is of little comfort now, but when you are a successful adult kicking everyone else's ass career-wise, relationship-wise, and looks-wise, you'll be happy the pinnacle of your life did not happen in your tweens/teens.

I'm not sure how to reconcile what I value with what I think reality is. When I review my advice to my daughter, it seems like it must've come out of a Good Housekeeping magazine article from the 1950s. Yet I can't deny the fact that I wholeheartedly believe everything I told her last night. When you come right down to it, this ass-kicking, axe-wielding, do-it-yourself, put-every-ounce-of-sweat-grit-and-desire-into-everything-you-do mama is just another perpetuator of gender stereotypes.

I guess the bottom line is this: Yes, I believe in telling the truth and not playing games...but the fact is, sometimes you gotta play the game just to survive in middle school.

Feel free to share horror stories.

RHCP Rocks

Went to see the Red Hot Chili Peppers last night. I've always been a fan--especially after reading Scartissue (Anthony Kiedis's autobiography)--but now I think I need to classify myself as a complete fanatic.

What I loved most was the show was ALL about the music. No fancy stage sets, blowing shit up, smoke, fire, or gimmicks--just amazing tunes, all night long. Lots of the material was new to me--this definitely wasn't a greatest hits set--and I loved every minute of it.

Flea is clearly the most amazing bassist on this planet. Usually you kind of don't notice the bassist in a band, and if you do, it's for his/her stage presence and not his/her playing. But this man can make a bass solo not only interesting, but completely compelling. Also, his versatility was boundless. He slaps, strums chords like his bass was a guitar, plays 'til his fingers bleed. Incredible.

John Frusciante...OH MY GOD. He is my guitar hero, now and forever (no offense intended to Jimmy Page). Talk about versatility and virtuosity. I stared at his fingers all night long. He tapped like a madman, coaxed strange wah-wah, chunka-chunka sounds from his axe, and invented entireley new solos for every song they played. (I had learned a few of the solos on RCHP recordings note for note, and these were nothing like those.) John and Flea just stood facing one another for much of the show, happily trading lines, riffs, and solos. It was a joyous, awesome thing to watch.

And my boy Anthony...what can I say. He's such a character. His voice is great, always on pitch and strong as hell. And he's the only person I know who can make toe socks worn on his arms, black knickers, and a wife beater look cool.

Let's not forget Chad. He rocks, too. He's got a great way of twirling his sticks and hitting HARD.

So yeah, love them Chili Peppers. They put on a totally kick-ass live show that's sole focus is music and musicianship. To me, that's worth so much more than pyrotechnics and other bullshit that just tries to hide the fact that other bands just don't have the chops these guys do.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

I am obsessed with hair--mostly my own. Clearly, it's not one of my best attributes.

Right now I am working on a three-month-old dye job. I look like a skunk. A skunk who let a rat gnaw on the white part of her pelt. And even though I thought I'd finally come to terms with my curliness, it was fleeting. It seems my arsenal of products have lost their efficacy. (Maybe rat saliva renders all my potions powerless?) As you might imagine, already I was feeling fugly.

But then I went to meet my rock star goddess friend at Starbucks. When I arrived, a woman with very horrendous hair (that was suspiciously similar to mine) was telling said rock star friend how much she loved rock star friend's truly great curls. The woman kept switching her gaze from my head (repulsed) to Heather's (adoration), saying, "See? Yours is like mine. It's flat on top, and curly underneath..."

And I'm thinking, "Mine looks like yours? Shit!!!! I've got to go back and beg the little guy at Studio Sho to straighten my hair again! Even though he said it would milk (melt) right off my head, I have enough hair that no one would notice, right?"

But then the lady had to go and add, "Mine's really thin on the top, so I can't get any more straightening." While she's saying this, she's looking at the top of MY head like she can see scalp. I suddenly wished for a baseball cap.

So now I look like a skunk.

A skunk who let a rat gnaw on parts of her head.

A skunk with rat-gnawed, flat-on-top, curly-underneath hair.

A skunk with rat-gnawed, flat-on-top, curly-underneath hair, and female-pattern baldness.

It doesn't help that the other day I was looking through US Magazine, not paying much attention, and I ripped out a photo of a model who had great hair color. It seemed more natural than my skunk 'do, with much darker highlights and a lot of brown showing through. Taking a closer look, I noted in horror the "model" in the picture was actually Britney Spears. And I hardly think I should be taking cues from her. I mean, she's got even bigger problems to attend to than a bald, rat-gnawed skunk 'do...like, what to do with her off-kilter body parts.

But enough about me. Please someone tell me when John Frusciante cut his hair. And why????? I know it shouldn't bother me. He's a grown man. He should be allowed to cut his Jesus 'do (which I loved, and thought made him look hot in a druggie, dirty sort of way. And I mean that as the highest compliment).

I Need More Friends!

So what does it mean when a fictional character in one of my books has more friends on myspace than I do?

Just askin'.

Note to Self

Keep the faith.

Embrace your suckiness.

Don't look at your hands. Just play. Just write.

Que sera, sera.

Carpe diem.

The thing we need is never all that hard to find...

and

...All you need is love.

Sunday Night Check-In

So, I rocked the word count all last week. I am rewriting a formerly languishing manuscript. It used to be around 97K in word count; after I was done ripping it up a few weeks ago, I was down to 40K or so. Happily, I am back up to over 60K and seem to be headed down a good path.

So don't even THINK you're going to hear about the time I played spin the bottle with Sam, Doug, and Brian. And me. Just me, the only slut. I mean, girl.

Tuesday Check-In

Word count for the day: Over 2500.

That means you will NOT be hearing about the time I tried to impress my delinquent boyfriend by trying to incorporate his delinquent lingo into my speech, so I asked him, "Wanna come over? My old mother isn't going to be home!"

Someday maybe you can as cool as I was at that moment. It's hard, but doable if really you try.

Daily Word Count for Monday

8553.

They don't all count for today, though, because I added back in a bunch of scenes from the original version. Still, I think my number of brand-new words is somewhere around the 1500 goal, and maybe even a bit more.

Therefore, I do believe I've saved myself from having to tell the tale of how I tried to beat up my boyfriend in sixth grade because it seemed less scary than breaking up with him.

Sorry. Those details will have to wait for another, less productive day.

1500 Ways Not to Blow Off Writing

Yesterday as I was composing parody lyrics, transforming 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover into 50 Ways to Blow off Writing, I had a realization: I will NEVER finish the book I'm working on without a deadline. So here it is, for all to see: December 1st. I will be reporting daily word count here. The goal is 1,500 words a day, 5 days a week. I promise to post an embarassing moment each time I screw up.

Until then, I leave you with this.

"The plot is all inside your head," I said to me.
"And I'm quite sure it will come out easily.
But right now there are so many other things to do and see.
There must be fifty ways to blow off writing."

I said, "It's really not my habit to distract.
Furthermore, I hope you won't think this was a planned attack.
But I'll repeat myself, at the risk of sounding cracked:
There must be fifty ways to blow off writing.
Fifty ways to blow off writing."

You just post on your blog, dawg
Brew a new pot, Scott
Throw in some laundry, Dee
And just stop writing
Hop on the 'net, Rhett
Don't need an excuse, Moose
Just get out of your chair, Jer
And blow off writing

Oooo, go to Nordstrom Rack, Jack
Volunteer at school, Jewel
You don't need to enjoy it, Roy
Just stop writing
Click iTunes, June
The book can wait 'til afternoon
No need to explain, Lorraine
Just blow off writing

Feel free to add verses.

Insane Minds Think Alike

I was at World Market the other day buying this fancy tea I like--the ridiculously expensive kind with the silk tea bags that seem too pretty to throw away after just one use, making anyone dropping by my kitchen unexpectedly leave worried that I've turned into my depression era-Grandma who washed out baggies and kept a chicken carcass in her fridge until every last piece of rancid dark meat had been picked clean of it.

Anyway, at World Market I spotted some very cool mugs. Since our mugs at home are kinda lame and too small to boot, I decided to buy four new ones. Each mug in this new cache is off-white, thick, sturdy, roomy, and bears a word or phrase: One says tea, another latte, another coffee, and another good morning.

Turns out, the only mug I can use with any regularity is the good morning one. This is due to the fact that I'm insane, and I can't bring myself to use the tea one if I am having coffee or a latte, or the coffee one if I am having a latte or tea, or the latte one if I am having coffee or tea. And inevitably, the correct mug is in the dishwasher when I need it.

I would be ready to check myself into OCD rehab if it were not for this simple fact: If the manufacturer didn't intend me to drink the appropriate beverage from their mugs, then why did they get so specific with the wording?

Throw a House Concert--Lose Weight!

Yesterday, my amazingly talented compadre Heather Horton (www.myspace.com/heatherhortonmuzic) graced my home with her sparkling presence, playing two incredible sets of her original music for 40 of my coolest friends. Accompanied by the incomparable Chris Forte (www.myspace.com/theforteband), this girl totally rocked the house while Chris's masterful playing nearly brought to tears to my eyes (because it was so beautiful and perfect, but also because I know, abolutely know, that I will never come close to this in my own quest to be a musician).

Anyhoo, even better than feeling like the rockingest kid on the block for hosting this gig, I discovered all my endless Swiffering, vacuuming, mad cleaning, and moving of furniture helped me lose another pound! That means I'm down 9 in total...all this, and I drank my way through the Carribean holiday last weekend, had pizza twice this week, and most happily, also had a Little Red Hen burger and fries yesterday.

Wanna be the rockingest kid on your block AND lose weight while your Swiffering the house like mad to get ready for your very own house concert? Just shoot Heather an email at heather@hhroxx.com

I've fallen and I can't get up!

I have been on The Fat Smash diet for nearly a full month now--you know the one from Celebrity Fat, I mean Fit, Club--and I am here to tell you it works. It is hard work, but it works. I am down 8 pounds...I honestly didn't think it was possible for me to shed that much weight...and I must admit I love the fact that my pants are falling off of me.

However, I also must admit that after 29 days of not cheating one iota, I fell off the wagon BIG TIME yesterday. As I was cooking yet another tons-of-vegetables-and-barely-any-meat dinners last night, I looked at Steve with sad eyes, stuck out my lower lip and said, "I really, really, really don't want to eat this. Like, at all." Knowing a great opportunity when he saw one, Steve lunged for the phone and had Little Red Hen on the line in a matter of seconds.

And when the feeding frenzy was over, I'd eaten a slice of pizza (yummmmmmm), a fried chicken breast (love that crunchy layer), tons of crinkle fries (my absolute favorite food in the world), a REGULAR soda (God forbid!), and six thousand mini-chocolate bars.

As Steve moaned about feeling disgusting for eating so much crap when we had been so good for so long, I relished the gorge fest I'd just participated in. Savored the awesome flavors of the best junk foods on earth. And I didn't feel bad about it, not one single bit.

Sure, I'll be pissed when I'm on the beach this weekend in Virgin Gorda (translation: The Fat Virgin) puffed up like non-virgin gorda myself after working so hard to be a skinny-minny there. But now that I've fallen off the wagon, it seems I'm not quite ready to get back on it just yet. Like today, I drank TWO--count 'em, two--lattes (a big no-no), bought a Big Gulp (REGULAR soda, yum, yum, yum) and haven't eaten a stitch of food yet and it's already noon (the biggest no-no of all on this diet). Oh, how I LOVE my old diet of coffee, soda, salt, fat and grease . Oh, and sugar. Let's not forget wonderful, fabulous, overly-processed, real, white-as-snow sugar.

Maybe by Monday I will have the strength to hoist myself back onto the boring old no-fun Fat Smash diet wagon again. But by then, I betcha I'll have eaten and drank enough to gain back the eight lost pounds and more.

And it'll be just like starting over, to quote John Lennon.

TMI, Avert Your Eyes

Listen, if you don't want to hear the gory details of my waxing debacle today, please stop reading right now. If you're the kind of gal (or guy) who believes certain things are best left to the imagination, who prefers to preserve the mystery in life, this post is not for you. Go read the blog of someone who actually has some couth.

The sad fact is, my fabulous favorite waxing chick, to whom I've been going for years, up and left me. Yup, that's right, and for a guy no less. Left my nether regions growing a field of errant hair and relocated to Pittsburgh. Ahh, the things we do for love.

That meant I needed to find a new favorite waxing chick, and fast, because hubby and I are headed off on an warm weather adults-only weekend and I thought it would be nice to clean things up a bit before I got into a bathing suit, pool, ocean, hot tub, or any other activity requiring near (or complete) nakedness. So I made an appointment at a very highly touted salon and went in expecting the best.

The first thing I saw was a GUY sitting at the reception desk. This didn't bode well for my visit. I was terrified HE was going to be Mr. Waxing Man.

Luckily, I was wrong.

Unluckily, the girl who WAS my waxing chick was not much better. First, she followed me into the room, and instead of handing me those cute paper throwaway panties or offering me a gown to drape over myself and then leaving the room to allow me to discreetly undress, she just stood there and said, "Drop 'em." Or something like that. Her accent made it all kind of indiscernable.

I reluctantly agreed and undressed in front of her. Soon I was completely clothed on top and completely unclothed on the bottom. This woman then positioned my legs in a very uncomfortable and indiscreet froggie-kick sort of fashion and put a long, wadded up strip of paper towel smack dab in the center and asked me to pull on one end.

OK, I want to make sure you really get the picture: Imagine that strip of cloth sumo wrestlers wear like a diaper. I had only the crotch part, not the part around the waist. It was not what you would call natural, soft, or comfortable by any means. And besides all that, it was just plain weird. Oh, how I yearned for the pretty paper panties and gowns my old fabulous chick used to supply me with.

By now my crotch was hurting and the waxing had yet to begin. Next, the girl started muttering about how bad her eyes were and pointing a mega-watt lamp directly downtown, if you catch my drift. Everything seemed to be sort of fine until she started yelling, "Don't hold so tight! You are going to cut yourself!"

With the wadded up weird paper towel, she meant.

I tried to loosen my grip on the thing and relax, but by this point I was pretty on edge. She continued muttering about her eyes, the poor lighting, and how pissed off she was about each of these complaints.

While she had tweezers in a very delicate spot, mind you.

Oh how I wish it had been, but the torture wasn't even close to over yet. Pretty soon, she started screaming, "Bad pull! Bad pull!" like a jetfighter going down in flames and calling mayday. I tried to assure her everything was all right, but she was having none of it.

Things mostly calmed down from there, except: a) she didn't like how much I wanted her to take off (pretty much all of it); b) she hated my request to trim what little was leftover down to a teeny tiny crew cut ; and c) at the end, she flipped me over for a little doggy-style waxing.

Can you say oh my GOD??!!!???

All this, plus her hair looked dirty and creepy and I think something flew out of it onto me. And now my head itches like crazy.

I'm sure my pubes would too--if I had any left. But I don't. So at least there's that.

What I Meant to Blog About

Just got an email from an old friend who gently reminded me I haven't posted in a jillion years (he actually said since June, but same difference).

The thing is, I had all these great intentions this summer. But I just never got around to following through. Yup, it's true. The normally go-getting-never-stopping Trix kinda lazed around a bit. And it was oh-so-much-fun.

But now I guess I'm left with the task of catching up. So here goes:

1) High School Musical is this generation's Grease. I was insane for the movie Grease when it was released. This was so back in the day, there was no waiting for it to come out on DVD to watch it over and over again--because there was no such thing as a DVD. Or a VHS tape for that matter. If you wanted to see a movie multiple times, you had to get your ass to the theater. And so I did, eight times that summer. And when I wasn't at the movies watching Grease, I was at home reading the photo-novel, listening to the record (yes, record, with grooves and all), or acting out scenes from it with my friends. Now I see my daughter doing all of the above with High School Musical (though of course her viewings are in the comfort of our den), and I can totally relate.

2) Hawaii is way different than I expected. I always assumed lush, green, tropical--not miles and miles of black, barren fields of lava. I mean, I know not all of Hawaii is that way--not even all of the Big sland, where there's such a varied landscape if you simply get in the car drive around the place--but my first impression was, "We flew all the way from Chicago for this?" Truly, I loved Hawaii. I was just surprised is all.

3) I still haven't evolved into a performer. Yeah, I am still playing with my girls in the band and I love our rehearsals...but I just experienced our first performance. It was held in about the most friendly place we could play--our drummer's apartment, for her friends--but it was still one of the most uncomfortable things I've ever done. My levels on my amp were all screwed up so I sounded weird. I really couldn't hear myself, which freaked me out. Plus, we followed two of the most amazing professional musicians I've ever had the pleasure of listening to. And to make matters worse, when I was playing all I could see were those two professional musicians, who kind of had very pained looks on their faces. Not good. Not good at all.

4) I love sleeping late. My girls finally discovered the many pleasures of sleeping until ten and eleven in the morning this August. I felt like a teenager again. And then school had to go and start again. Alarms going off at completely obscene hours of the morning. Dang.

5) I hate back-to-school parent coffees. I went to one this morning where another mom commented that she assumed I'd be giant. For the record, I am five-foot-three. A size four. Hardly gigantic. Almost a mdiget. I mean, WTF?

OK, so hopefully I'll be checking in more often now that school has begun. Until then, keep rockin' on.

Anti-Aging Cream Really Works!

Recently, a mongo zit appeared right between my eyeballs. It was the size of Kansas. My husband took one look at me and said I needed some serious cover-up.The grotesque thing haunted me for almost two weeks.

I had the exact same blemish back in ninth grade, when it popped out the day we were having our class pictures taken. In the yearbook, I look like turtle trying to suck my head inside my shell because I was unsuccessfully trying to hide that cystic blobosis underneath my swoop of Farrah front curls. Not quite the way I wanted to be captured for posterity.

Back then, I'm sure it was raging hormones that caused me to sprout the unicorn horn. This time, strangely enough, the thing that made me break out was a very creamy anti-aging lotion I'd been using on my skin at night. Clearly, it anti-aged me all the way back the ninth grade. Now that's effective!

Now I'm kind of thinking I should be the new Rodan & Fields spokesperson. So if anyone personally knows Drs. Kathy and Katie, tell them I'm their woman. My pitch: I'm a total two-fer--I can be the Anti-Aging Regimen and Proactiv cover girl all at the same time.

Life's Too Short to Use Long Pantiliners

The conservationist in me has been struggling with the narcissisist for a coupla days now, and I've finally come to the conclusion: Life's too short to wear long pantiiners.

I bought them by mistake. Got sucked in by the Walgreens "same as name brand but a lot cheaper" sign. Had no clue there was even such a thing as "long" female protection.

Soon found out that long means "touches your Adam's apple in the front and nape of your neck in the back," which is pretty brutal when you're trying to look good in a pair of low rise jeans when you have your period.

So then I tortured myself with the whole, "I must've killed a whole tree creating these amazingly go-on-forever pantiliners," thinking I should just suck it up and use them even though they suck.

I've been accused of "only wanting to have fun" for as long as I can remember, and even though I really can't find a thing wrong in this proclamation, I still feel the need to fight against it. But then I realized: Life's too short to wear long pantiliners.

Or do anything else you don't want to do while you're at it.

So f 'em all and go have some fun.

I Heart Cheez Whiz!

Lemme come clean: Even though I consider myself a total rocker in terms of my musical tastes, I am a HUGE sucker for the tuneful equivalent of Cheez Whiz. Give me a good beat, a throat-clenching lyric, and a hook-laden chorus, and I'm sunk. A complete goner.

Here are my current favorites, along with the particular line that makes me ridiculously verklempt no matter how many times I hear it (or, more likely, sing along at the top of my lungs to it).

1) Bad Day by Daniel Powter--"You kick up the leaves and the magic is lost." As a writer, I think the imagery is beautiful and awesomely descriptive.

2) Stupid Girls--Pink. "I'm so glad that I'll never fit in; that will never be me. Outcasts and girls with ambition, that's what I wanna see." This is just the message I try to deliver every day, to my girls young and old. I'm thinkin' me and Pink would get along just fine.

3) Who Says You Can't Go Home--Bon Jovi. Maybe it was just the circumstances surrounding my recent visit to NJ, but the whole line about "Been all around the world and as a matter of fact, there's only one place left I want to go" brings a lump to my throat every time. Because I miss Jersey! Who says you can't go home, indeed...I need my yearly summer fix of REAL bagels, pizza, subs, hot blue collar men and The Shore.

4) Dani California--Red Hot Chili Peppers. Who the heck ever knows what Anthony Kiedis is talking about in his lyrics? All I care is that he's back, and with a double album and a summer tour to boot.

5) Walk Away--Kelly Clarkson. "I want a man by my side, not a boy who runs and hides/are you going to fight for me, die for me/live and breathe for me/do you care for me/ 'cause if you don't, then just leave." Dedicated to every boy I let step all over me in the hopes I could prove I was special enough to love. News flash: You didn't deserve me then, and you definitely don't now.

What's on your Cheez Whiz radio these days?

Got milf?

So, it's finally happening. Some very rockin' moms and I got together this past weekend and each picked 4 songs which will eventually constitute our first set. Now we're all off on our own for two weeks, learning a weird, eclectic bunch of tunes ranging from Tommy Lee to Concrete Blond.

When we get back together in April for our next rehearsal, I expect big things. (Actually, I just hope I play decently and my background vocals stay in tune--that big microphone in my face is gonna be scary!)

Bea and Dolly--as Joey from Friends would say--how you doin'?

I've Got, Like, 10 Obsessions

I was at the Chicago auto show with my pal Lindsay a couple of weeks ago watching my girl Heather Horton rock the house. (Check her out at http://www.myspace.com/heatherhortonmuzic)

Anyway, in between sets, Linds was complaining about her little sister because said sis is always claiming to be obsessed with EVERYTHING. By definition, Linds argued, if sis was truly obsessed, it would be with only one thing. (Two tops.) 

I agreed at the time, but today I beg to differ. Because I am clearly an obsessive personality in a particularly obsessive mood, I am finding myself obsessed with, like, 10 things all at once. Do you need to know what they are? Of course you don't, but read on anyhow, just for kicks.

10. Applegate Farms Turkey Bologna (Yes, I know this is gross but I can't help myself)

9. Per usual, reruns of Sex and the City. Also making up in my head what happened after the last episode. Like, Big and Carrie have a whirlwind Vegas wedding and then get an anullment 72 hours later a la Britney and Whatshisface (or Nicky Hilton and Whatshisface or Insert-Name-of-Lame-Starlet-Here and Whatshisface); Charlotte and Harry become best friends with Brad and Angie and adopt an entire third world country together; Miranda gets knocked up again, lazy ovary and one-ball Steve and all, quits work to be a full-time mom and goes on Prozac because she finds motherhood way more stressful than being a lawyer; Samantha dumps Smith for a seventh grader.

8. Tapioca pudding

7. America's Next Top Model--never saw this until I was out on my feet with the flu this weekend. Watched an entire season in one day. Now that's dedication.

6. KT Tunstall. Don't know why, because I don't particularly love that song they've been playing relentlessly, but her little TV spot on MTV intrigued me. She writes it, sings it, plays it, doesn't come in a traditionally pretty package and is putting something entirely different than you normally hear on pop radio out there. You go, KT!

5. Nada Surf's song, Always Love

4. My fabulous girlfriends, who threw me a fabulous book release party even though I insisted I didn't want all the attention. And you know what? It felt great. I've always held fast that women could live in a commune together and be perfectly happy hanging with guys only occasionally. Like, when we want to have sex or a good argument. Or both.

3. My Daisy Rock. Weird after a full year of not touching it and only playing the Pink Paisley, I've been back with my pretty girl guitar exclusively for about 2 months. No rhyme or reason here, we just fell in love again.

2. Project Runway. So sad the final episode is on Wednesday. So sure Santino is going to win. So need another season, and soon.

1. Waiting for my agent to call. Either that, or writing the next Are You There God, It's Me Margaret (but never actually putting a single word of it on paper).

February Sucks

It's spelled funny. It's pronounced ridiculously. It's home to dumb-ass valentines day. And it's colder than crap with no end in sight.

Clearly Feb-YOOOOOOOOOUUUUUU-ary should be abolished. Let's just go with two Julys instead, OK?

I'll take that as a yes.

Guitar Hero

Yesterday, I blew my last chance ever at actually playing with a local band. The timing was off for me for oh-so-many reasons, and I had to decline their kind offer to join them at an upcoming gig.

Last night, I wasn't sure whether I felt completely let down or relieved by all this.

Today, after working feverishly to meet a deadline, I knew I'd made the right decision no matter which emotion eventually won out. I have a huge month coming up with the release of the So Lyrical sequel, Overnight Sensation--not to mention a big trip to Sundance and a four-day visit from one of my dearest friends on earth--and I just wasn't going to be able to learn a zillion songs between now and three weeks from now. It is what it is.

And besides, I don't even need to leave my basement to be a guitar hero these days. No, I'm not talking about my Pink Paisley, the Daisy Rock, or even the new sparkly blue Stratacoustic for once--I'm talkin' 'bout the new Red Octane game for Playstation 2. It is quite possibly the most fun you can have with your clothes on. (And who's to say you can't play with your clothes off, anyway?)

You get a plastic guitar to hang around your neck, then push down colored lights with different fingers (representing frets) while simultaneously "strumming" the thing. There's even a whammy bar that help you get extra points, plus ways to hammer on and pull off notes to score even bigger.

I dream about this game in my sleep now, I love it so much. I hear strains of Iron Man running through my head at all hours. And I think I'm getting carpal tunnel from slamming on the plastic "strings" too feverishly.

But no matter, I'll keep on playing. After all, it's clearly the only way this girl will ever be a real guitar hero.

Everything Old is New Again

I pride myself on being an early adopter. If there's something new and interesting out there, I like to know about, get into it before everyone else does, and be done with it just about the time the masses are discovering what I've already known for weeks, months, or possibly even years.

I had the anvil-sized "car phone," as we used to call it back in the late 80s. (Probably have the latent brain mass to prove it, too.) The first version iPod, which was heavy and awkward and had a very moody battery, and even before that the Intel something-or-other mp3 player which held a whopping 25 songs, which was astounding at the time. (I can tell you, the same 25 songs over and over when you're training for a marathon is enough to kill even the most ardent music-lover.) Became Tivo-addicted right after it came out. Have been on the Green Day bandwagon since Dookie was released in 1994. Loved Road Rules, Survivor, Real World, and The Surreal Life since season one. (I should be embarassed to admit my cheesy reality show penchant, but I'm not.) Anyway, you get the picture.

The only problem with this mindset is if I miss the boat initially, I am super-reluctant to jump on with everyone else--even if I am curious beyond curious about whatever the latest big deal is. It's a matter of pride. This happened to me with yoga, Pilates (luckily, I really don't have a huge desire to do either), Six Feet Under, The Sopranos, and yes, even Sex and the City. Up until recently, I'd resisted all of 'em.

...and then I snuck in a secret series recording of the reruns of Sex and the City. I'd caught enough episodes here and there over the years to know I was missing out on something positively delicious.

Now here I am a few weeks later, totally, completely and 100% obsessed. I can't get enough. Because the episodes go willy-nilly depending on what channel is running them, I never know what's going to happen next. Or sometimes, what happened before. And surprisingly, none of this impedes my sheer delight--in fact, it only serves to enhance it. What are those crazy chicks going to do tonight? Yikes! The strong and less caustic Miranda I know from later seasons dated a guy named Skipper? Why, I wonder, do they talk to the camera in some of the earlier shows? OMG, Charlotte finally loosened up enough to let an artist paint a picture of her nether parts! SJP & Co are like crack to me, and I just keep coming back for more despite the fact I have other productive things I should be doing.

But back the the early adopter thing. You may be wondering how I reconcile wanting to be first in line but actually being so late in the game with this one. Well, here it is: I take a dual-pronged approach featuring justification and denial. If the saying everything old is new again is true, then in this case, I must be so late, I'm actually early--for the second wave of S&TC mania. It's a retro chic, flashback kind of cool I'm flaunting this time--and I'm lovin' every minute of it.

Mona Lisa Non-Smile

The other night, I made the humongous mistake of taking a gander at myself in a magnifying mirror. I swear to God, I thought Keith Richards was standing behind me for a second there. But then I looked again--and scared the crap out of myself. Those were MY wrinkles staring back at me. Just who the hell had carved those crags into my face when I wasn't looking?

And then I realized, I'd done it to myself. I'd caused my own face to crumble by smiling too much! Is this I'm repaid for my kindness to mankind--with crevices next to my mouth that look like they belong on Mt. Rushmore?

Yup. So in my next life, I figure the only way to go is to be an enigma. I'm gonna be the Mona Freaking Lisa of the 3000s, and leave people wondering all the time--is she happy, sad, mad, what? Just what does that (non)expression on her face mean?--when all I'm really trying to do is preserve my collagen.

Weighty Issues

OMG, if I go to one more party and stuff my face and drink far too much of whatever is being offered, I am going to be a blimp by 2006. Seriously. And going around the block with Murphy (whom I almost, sort of, in a very limited way, even kind of like these days now that he's no longer peeing on the floor every five seconds) is not going to make much of a dent in my blimpdom. Nor is the once-a-week spinning class I've actually been making it to regularly.

My only hope is turning around my gluttonous ways before it is too late and my humps (got no lovely lady  lumps, double A you know) no longer fit through doorways. Because if I don't, I will quickly become a housebound freak the likes of which hasn't been seen since Marlon Brando.

So I guess it comes down to this: I can either get the whole eating/drinking/working out thing under control now, or get started on growing my toenails. (It was Marlon Brando that had that weird toenail thing, wasn't it?)

Birth Control for Puppies?

You know the theory about how babies are the best birth control there is? (OK, maybe it doesn't apply to hardcore baby people, only teens and those of us who loooooooove school-aged kids but aren't so into the infant scene, but still...)

Why doesn't the same thing apply to puppies? This summer, I went ga-ga over my friend Julie's Cavalier King Charles puppy and got obsessed that I HAD to have one. I was REALLY READY. I could TOTALLY HANDLE IT, especially since my kids were going to be in school all day. I mean, what else did I have to do with all my extra time? (Uhhhhh, how about write my books, work out, play guitar, shop, hang with friends, have fun, enjoy my hard-earned freedom?) Unfortunately, spending time with my friend's pup was like reverse birth control. I had to have a puppy, doggone it, and have one I would.

My family was thrilled to say the least. Mommy had finally caved, big time. I had a serious case of puppy fever, and nothing was going to cure it but my very own puppy love.

I dreamed of a fluffy little girly thing I could tote around in a designer bag--you know, a maltipoo or schnoodle or teacup poodle or cockadoodlepoo or whatever. In my fantasies, people practically mistook me for Paris' cousin or Lindsey's long-lost older sister or Britney's sole non-trailer trash relative, and my well-coiffed puppy princess for the aforementioned stars' dog's cousin or long-lost older sister or sole non-trailer trash relative.

But then reality kicked in, and his name was Steve. No doodles, half-poodles or anything ending in an oodle sound, he told me. It was unmanly. What would people say when they saw him walking a little ratdog around the block?

After much fighting, negotiation and bribery, Steve and I finally agreed on a breed--a golden retreiver. The only similarity between this dog and my dream dog is that both have fluffy fur. But I was really lucky, because this dog would have lots more of it. This would be a REAL dog. With a REAL penis, so no one could question my dog's or my husband's manhood when they were out walking together.

God forbid we get anything too pedestrian, so we decided to get a golden retreiver that is in reality white. Isn't a white golden an oxymoron?

No, as it turns out, I am the moron.

Now I spend my days with Mr. Smelly Guy, and it's like having babies all over again, except you can't put a diaper on a dog. I actually think Murphy was a drunken homeless man in a former life, because even though I take him out to pee every hour, he still comes back inside, gives me his cute puppy dog eyes, and pees on the kitchen floor right next to my feet. He also eats out of the garbage can and begs for handouts. Pretty striking resemblence if you ask me.

For the past two weeks, I've spent my days talking to myself and yelling at the dog, my nights crying to my family that I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I think someday I might grow to love Murph, but for now I just barely like him. And sometimes not even. Except when he's sleeping. Then he's super-cute.

So listen, here's my advice for what it's worth: Don't ever--I repeat EVER--visit a friend who has just gotten a new puppy without taking your puppy birth control pills. Or wearing a puppy condom. Or whatever it is that's going to keep you from jumping into bed with a new puppy without some serious, serious thought first.

And if you just can't control your animal impulses--well, just don't say I didn't warn you, you puppy slut.

Tough Yoga Love

My joke has always been that I'm too immature to do yoga. That my frenzied thoughts won't let me be in the moment. And that it's a collosal waste of my time, since it certainly isn't going to help me burn lots of calories and continue fitting into my getting-tighter-by-the-minute size 27 jeans.

So let's just say I've never been a big fan.

And then the stupid back thing happened, forcing me to see that my old way of exercising--push through it, who cares, no pain, no gain--wasn't serving me very well any more. Maybe never had, and probably never would again.

So. I thought about it. My back thought about it. My pulled neck muscle from playing too much, too hard on the pink paisley thought about it. And finally, we all collectively decided that yoga might not be such a bad thing after all.

So I went. Twice. And sort of, kind of, dare I say it, almost even liked it.

I felt like I could think without all sorts of distractions for once. And breathe, which is something I often forget to do when I'm working hard. No part of me was getting beaten up in the process. All in all, good stuff, I must say.

Then we got to the end, where you lie down (and if you're me, sometimes fall asleep). The instructor talked a lot of New Agey stuff that I pretend to disdain but secretly love. And she said something really cool, about how you can only heal when your heart is open. Then she said "Actually there's a saying that the shattered heart heals best."

Now there was some yoga I could relate to--the very rock 'n roll shattered heart. It sounded tough. It sounded tough and tragic. It sounded like me.

It has taken me a lifetime to admit that I am not invincible, that I'm not an island unto myself, and that yes, I do need other people and their love and care. And so I went to yoga with my shattered heart, and now I'm piecing it back together.

Slowly and happily.

Enforced Revelations

I recently found myself ridiculously bothered by vanity, impatience and, well, vanity again.

Dilemma number one: I had just been informed by the Chicago king of Japanese hair straightening that I could no longer subject my very damaged locks to the procedure or all my remaining hair would "milk" (he meant melt) right off my head. Having straight hair has been without a doubt the best thing to ever happen to my looks and without it, I felt adrift. Not to mention butt ugly, and doomed to butt ugliness forever.

Normally, I would've headed out for a run to try and ease my psychic pain, but a strange back ailment had me sidelined for 10 long days. So now I felt like a big, fat, caged, insane butt ugly beast who had no choice but to get bigger, fatter, more insane and butt uglier as the days passed.

None of this is good, by the way. And it was only made worse because I completely understood how many worse problems there are in the world. This is an undeniable fact. So now I was feeling all those ugly things, topped with shallow and petty.

Before I go any further, let me say that I've never been one to wait for anything to come to me. It's just not in my blood. If I want it, I pursue it...with a vengeance. I believe there's a solution to most every problem. That there's always a way out, a loophole, a crack in the doorway. Always.

Except, not this time. None of my usual knock-down-the-walls, bust-open-the-doors, climb-every-mountain strategies were going to solve my problems du jour.

So I tearfully spewed my sad tale to a very dear, very wise friend, who concluded that God needed me to be receptive, and since I was normally such a go-go-go, push-push-push person, this was the universe's way of telling me to shut up and listen. (She said it in much nicer terms, but that's the basic gist of it.)

Her thought struck me just the right way. I liked the idea of finding a bigger truth in my whole pathetic depression other than the simple fact that I am a total baby about aging and am becoming more and more vain with each passing year (not a winning combo, believe me). And so I pondered and listened and dug down deep.

And here's what I came up with: Throughout my life, I've always had a very difficult time accepting help from others--especially the kind offered without any expectation of getting something in return. And lately, I've been the recepient of such kindness from not just one but many people--from authors like Erica Orloff and Jennifer O'Connell, who have served up great amounts of advice and empathy just when I needed it most, to musicians like Bob Cody, who sees enough in my rudimentary attempts to rock out that he's willing to take the time to help me improve upon my skills.

Thinking it over, I decided that maybe my vanity wasn't only skin deep, but ran much deeper. And that maybe, just maybe, it was time to just get the hell over it.To accept what I look like with grace, to accept who I am with grace, and to accept the help of others with grace.

So...now I'm trying to do just that. To love my frizzy, milky hair. To appreciate my body's capabilities without being pissed it can't do more. And to let the great people in my life help me out without worrying and fretting and freaking about how I can repay my debt of gratitude to them.

Now can I go for a run already?

Five Sure Things?

Sure, I can know one thing for certain...but given my propensity to waffle, aren't you curious what FIVE things I could possibly know without a doubt?

Scroll down a bit in my friend and mentor's newsletter tofind out: http://www.thesparklecoach.com/newsletters/may05.html

The Sure Thing

There are very few sure things in this world, but this is one of 'em: Anything done with confidence automatically kicks ass, and anything done with hestitation and fear does not. It's as simple as that.

Take Gwen Stefani, for example. Without all the glamour and glitz, she's a normal girl, maybe not even considered conventionally pretty. But all done up and doing her thang, especially onstage? That girl rocks the house and makes you believe she's the most gorgeous woman alive. Gwen's attitude makes everything she does kick the biggest booty ever.

And then there's me. Debilitating stage fright + uncertainty in my musicanship = I'm not even kicking premature amoeba tush.

The latest example: I was at this class I'm taking the other night--which consists of nine guitarists, one bassist and one drummer--standing onstage with the pink paisley, my shitty amp, and my volume turned down to about five (just in case I screwed up) playing fairly-sort of-semi-possibly OK. Or so I thought.

Before I go on with this story, let me clarify that in this class, we are for some unknown reason playing only the songs of KISS. And that I have never heard the majority of these songs before we start playing them. And for that, I am eternally grateful since most of them are a classic example of bad late 70s Cheez Whiz, trying to sound serious and epic when they are just plain embarassing.

Still, that's no excuse. Well, it's sort of an excuse, but bear with me here.

So there I am with a bunch of KISS-heads who are all vying to play the solos (me, hiding to the side of the stage hoping no one expects me to play anything but rhythm). And there's everyone else trying to knock each other over to get a microphone to sing (while I look like a turtle trying to suck my head into my shell). Not exactly exuding confidence, right? Yeah, I thought so, too.

Toward the end of rehearsal, I got lost during the bridge of a song (that I had never heard before, remember? OK, that's another excuse, I admit it). As I was trying to figure out whether the teacher was saying E or D or B or any other letter of the alphabet that vaguely rhymes with one of them, a classmate/bandmate apparently noticed my confusion and took it upon himself to decide I was a) deaf b) completely retarded and c) an incredibly bad guitar player.

He literally came over to me and started placing my fingers in some facsimile of the right positions, screaming "B, then E! B, then E!" in my ear. Completely humiliating. Seriously...I have found myself muttering at random times since then in the car, in line at the grocery store, in the shower, "I know how to find B and E on the neck of the guitar--in several different positions, too! Did you think I didn't? We'd been playing that same riff for a half an hour! What did you think I was doing that entire time, faking it?????" I clearly haven't been able to let it go yet, and I'm hoping I can talk myself into going back again next week if this is how embarassing it's going to be.

But back to the point: I betcha if I had been standing in the middle of the stage with swagger and confidence, elbowing my classmate/bandmates out of the way to get to the mic, and turning up my volume--well, then maybe I wouldn't have looked like I needed help.

I would've look like I was kicking ass.

Even if I wasn't.

Begetting

Such a biblical word, beget. I've certainly never heard it used in everday conversation. Until I went and used it the other day. Like it was a totally normal thing to do.

With the kids back at school, I've been trying to get back into the normal groove--running, writing, practicing guitar, etc. And I've been regularly accomplishing one, semi-regularly accomplishing two, and hardly ever getting to all three. Yet. But it's my goal, and I'm a pretty determined person.

So as I was discussing my strategy to meet my goals with Steve-o, this came out of my mouth.  "I finally realized running begets running. Writing begets writing. Playing begets playing."

We both understood my point--that all you have to do is get started, get back into practice, and you'll actually want (and almost need) to keep on doing these things. But it was pretty hard to take me seriously when it sounded like I'd been possessed by Moses or something.

It reminded me of the time we were talking about a bird. Stevie asked me what kind and I said, "I don't know. A finch?" And he proceeded to heckle me and call me Finch for three weeks straight because...well, who the hell uses the word finch in everyday conversation?

Sigh. I guess finches beget finches, too.

Notable Notes

I have a box in the basement that contains choice notes from junior high and high school, with some letters sent to me while at college thrown in for good measure. Whenever grown-up life seems too boring, I just go check out the drama of my youth. Some of my favorites include:

• The angry ex-boyfriend note, which states, "You really know how to hurt a guy, wearing my favorite pants the day after you broke up with me." The pants in question were skin-tight blue velvet Jou-Jous, and the boy in question had every right to be pissed at me, since I decided I liked him, enticed him to break up with his long-term girlfriend, and dumped him all in a matter of a week or so.
• The here's why I wasn't speaking to you before note, which says, "I'm not mad at you or anything, I just can't stand to be around you when I'm stoned. So if you ever see that my eyes are red and I'm acting funny, just stay away." Not only did I think this was a reasonable explanation of the guy's behavior at the time, I actually followed the instructions to a T.
• The most romantic note ever, which declared, "The skates and axe aren't enough anymore. I've found something better." That something better was me, and the fact that I had surpassed the guy's rollerblades and bass guitar in his heart made mine melt.
• The still makes me laugh mispellings and all note, which says, "I'm only writing to you because Fungi hast to be the boringest."

What's in your basement?

Bad boys, whatcha gonna do?

I've always had a thing for bad boys. Like, Louie Pantano in 8th grade--swoon. Cute, fun, funny, and always getting suspended, for what I'm not sure. And he had long hair and a dirt bike. Pot and cigarettes. Alcohol and no parents home. What could be better than all that?????

Now that I'm married to my own bad boy turned good, I only read about bad boys instead of cutting school to hang out with them.

Just finished Scar Tissue--Anthony Keidis's autobiography--and loved it in a really strange way. I mean, learning about about the copious quantities of drugs he was addicted to time and again was kind of exhausting, but through it all, he seemed liked a good, kind, gentle, loving, talented person. And judging by the picture he included from when he was 13, I know I would've had a humongous crush on him.

Next up on the list, Dave Navarro's book. And after that--if it ever comes out--Nikki Sixx's Heroin Diaries.

Sequel Mania--Boston Booking

I have been writing like a maniac for the past three weeks, doing not much else. Thankfully, things are finally coming together and I will be able to be a lot more well-rounded after the big D (due) day: Wednesday. Like speak to my family, actually go outside an enjoy the summer, start running again...Did I mention the marathon is not going to happen for me this year?

Anyway, I am celebrating my accomplishment by heading to Boston to see some of my dearest friends (Suzanne, Sue, Michele). Sue has been hard at work, being my PR person for my book signing on Thursday night at the Barnes & Noble in Peabody, MA. If you're in the area, stop by--it's at 7. Friday is just a hang out day, probably at the beach, and then Saturday, Suzy is getting married. I am completely honored and psyched to be in her all-star wedding band (whenever I'm not writing, I've been practicing the songs) and reading excerpts from her and her husband's email courtship. It's gonna be a blast, and I will be prepared to report all details in a witty manner next week.

For now, I'm just too damn tired and I still have 150 pages to edit before tomorrow's over...

Ashlee Good for Parenting

So my kids and I were all crooning a song in the car the other day when I stopped, turned down the music, and took a moment to reflect. I said, "I love that last line where she says 'Here I am, perfect as I'm ever gonna be,' because you know, no one is perfect. Everyone has strengths and weaknesses, and you make the most of what you've got."

To which Court responded, "Yeah, mom, it's like, this is who I am. If you like me, great. If you don't, that's OK, too, but I'm not changing."

Satisfied the message had been well-received, I turned the tunes back up. While I was busy being amazed at how much more mature my 9-year-old is than I am, she added the following. "I am SO glad you're my mom and not some normal mom," a sentiment the little one seconded that with a, "Yeah!"

Since I have never aspired to be a "normal" mom, and since I think it's cool to teach life lessons through lyrics, and because it is so very infrequent as a parent to hear you're doing a great job, I basked in the compliment.

Who ever knew Ashlee Simpson could provide such an awesome family moment? Wonder if us belting out Gwen Stefani's Hollaback Girl lyrics--"This SHIP (no swearing allowed, so we make up alternate words) is bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S"--will prove as educational.

Set to Music

I've been busily revising the sequel to So Lyrical...and it's taking waaaaay longer than I expected. Probably because I never realized I was going to write a second installment with the same characters, and I want to make sure they are true to themselves.

In the second story, normally balls-out Trace finds herself in something of an identity crisis, questioning and censoring everything she says around Zander because of residual paranoia from his sneak-attack breaking up after she dropped the L bomb by mistake.

All of this is a long-winded way of saying, a while back I got stuck on where to go with the story next, and ended up writing these funny lyrics (read: bad poetry). I envisioned a girl trying to do anything and everything to make a guy like her (dressing preppy, pretending to be into everything he's into, etc), before finally realizing what crap that was and saying, "Screw it. I'm going to look and act and dress the way I want to." Anyway, here's the chorus:

But now the sun is shining on my brand-new tattoo
Pierced my belly, my eyebrow and way down there too