I finally started a new novel. It’s an erotic romance, which is a complete departure from the 2 romantic comedies I have written. But my muse writes the story. I find I have very little control over which way it goes.

Unfortunately, the writing has been very slow going because the muse has chosen to add certain facets to the story I am completely unfamiliar with, resulting in me having to do a crapload of research. One of my heroes is an artist, another is a pediatric neurosurgeon. My heroine owns horses. She teaches Gothic architecture at a college. I know of none of this stuff. Write what you know, they say. There’s a reason for that. You get your book written in half the time.

But my muse is stubborn and her ideas are firm. She wants elements of BDSM. I groaned when she first informed me of this. “No, no, no, there are enough Fifty Shades of Grey knockoffs, for goodness sake,” I complained. But the bitch wants what she wants.

Now, researching the BDSM lifestyle is interesting because it has obviously exploded since the 3 Fifty books came out. I understand the BDSM community has felt misunderstood in the past, that outsiders think it’s all about abuse, and Fifty is in no way an accurate representation of an authentic Dom/sub relationship.

I’ve been reading tons of blogs. I’ve talked to both men and women involved in the lifestyle. I’ve joined private groups on Facebook, and followed many pages of Doms, Dommes, subs, and littles. Private groups on Facebook, and even certain blogs on Tumblr portray the lifestyle pretty accurately. Their main objective is to provide accurate information, which is vital so participants don’t get taken advantage of, or worse, injured.

The public fan pages on Facebook mystify me though. Obviously, erotic authors have professional fan pages with provocative photos and/or relevant articles related to whatever they’re writing about, but this is done to sell books. I can’t figure out why any Dom or a Mistress would create a fan page just for the hell of it. Entertainment? A creative outlet? Ego? And they have tons of followers, mind you. We’re talking thousands. It’s like they’re celebrities.

Dommes post erotic photos (within FB guidelines), which are like the clean version of porn stills, so the comments are all by middle-aged to older men wishing it was them being stepped on with spike heels or paddled or walked outside with a leash. “Yes, Mistress,” Please, Mistress,” “I love you, Mistress.” But Mistresses make it clear they’re not to be solicited for business.

Dom pages are even worse, because women as a whole seem to be particularly vulnerable to men who come across as assertively sexy or provocative. Doesn’t matter that these women have no idea what the man looks like. Hell, he could be posting while sitting on a dirty, ripped couch in stained underwear, swigging a Bud, but if they portray themselves as sensitive and in touch with women’s feelings (while being DOMINANT, of course), women swoon like prepubescent girls paging through Tiger Beat Magazine.

“Oh, Sir, if only I could find a man like you.” “Sir, your words hit me right in my solar plexus.” “Sir, Sir, Sir…”

It feels a little cult-like to me. Why should a stranger call someone they don’t know “Sir” if he’s not your Sir. No one addresses a “Daddy” as such. It’s way too personal a title. Another thing I’ve noticed is a lot of middle-aged Doms prefer emotionally-broken 20-somethings. I’m not sure if this is because they feel they can save them or mold them, or what. And FFS, does every Dom have to be a polygamist and an exhibitionist? Seems like their most important pastime in life is going to dungeon parties, picking out a new, young impressionable thing, getting her up on a St. Andrew’s cross and going to town on her.

It’s bad enough practically every single kinky picture involves young, thin, and firm. (Isn’t this what “vanilla” people complain about all the time?) In a lifestyle claiming diversity and open-mindedness, where the fuck is the diversity? Where are all the middle-aged, thick women? Surely, there are plenty. And in a community that preaches non-judgment, they’re pretty freaking judgmental when it comes to a vanilla lifestyle. If a couple wants to have vanilla sex and it’s satisfying to them, who is anyone to judge? Just because someone enjoys being whipped or humiliated or tied up doesn’t make them any more edgy than someone who prefers being vanilla. (Oh, how I despise that banal term.)

I guess what I’m questioning is the need for some people to have their sexuality right out there in the open. Is it really anyone’s business what their kinks are? Why do they feel the need to share them with the rest of the world? If I came out as a lesbian, I don’t think I’d start a public Facebook page and only post things regarding homosexuality. By making it your sole identity, it goes against what gay people ultimately want—to be like everyone else by not having their sexuality singled out.

I dunno. Maybe I’m just a cranky, private, introverted, non-exhibitionist monogamist.

I’d love to hear anyone’s views on the subject.


James Dean

It’s been a while, so I thought I’d give an update on how life is with a 13-year-old boy. We have a sudden newfound preoccupation with all things hair. Starting with the hair on the head, my son has adopted what I guess is similar to a James Dean hairstyle—short on the sides and back, with upright wave-like hair on top. Thanks to the Internet (no, really, thank you), the boy can scroll through a gazillion photos, trying to find the hairstyle he likes and then come to me and ask me to duplicate it.

I gave birth to a boy for a reason. I’m not a girlie-girl. I don’t do girlie things. I mean, I don’t drive an 18-wheeler or chop wood or anything, but I bite my nails, don’t know how to do a smoky eye, and have never once blown dry or curled my hair. I’m more of a “How to pull myself together in 7 minutes or less without being labeled ‘homeless’ by the outside community” kind of girl.

So when my son asked me to style his hair one day, I directed him to his other parent for help: YouTube. Anything you want to know how to do, there’s a video for it. It’s mind-boggling. Unfortunately, with the desire for fancy hair comes the need for fancy haircuts, so bringing him to the ghetto part of town for a $5 haircut by women who don’t speak English no longer flies. And now whenever we go out, even if it’s to Walmart, it takes him 25 minutes to do his hair, because “you never know who you might see there.” (Oh, I have an idea of who we might see at Walmart and it ain’t pretty.)

We’re also at the stage where it’s of critical importance to evaluate ALL hair on the body. We’ll be driving and he’ll say, “Look at the dark hair on my legs. Look at it. In the sun. Can you see it? Can you? Look at how much there is. There’s a lot, isn’t there? See?” He has no hair yet under the arms or on the chest; it’s all in the pubic area, so I’m privy to the day-by-day account of its growth. He counted them when there were only a few sparse hairs. Now, with the onslaught of pubic hair, it’s a source of pride and warrants bragging rights.

I get it. I vaguely recall comparing my blossoming chest size to every other girl who crossed my path at school. I remember marveling over my pubes, and being ecstatic over the fact that I had gotten my period before my best friend. These are all extremely important milestones as a kid. As is the big M.


I could pretend my son has monkish tendencies or very low testosterone, but that would be taking the “ostrich in the sand” approach—something I see mothers all around me doing when it comes to their kid and sex. But I’m more savvy than that. I know that once boys discover the wonders of masturbation it literally rivals all other activities…until they begin the quest of trying to find girls to do it for them.

I’m not going to lie. Porn scares me nowadays. The fact that one can find any kink with just a few taps of the keys is disconcerting. Back in my day (yes, I’m starting to use that phrase now) if you wanted to watch porn you had to go to a mafia-owned XXX movie theater with sticky floors. Which men did. But not women. No, no, no. The first porn DVD I ever saw was with my gay friend and it was the Pamela Anderson/Tommy Lee honeymoon one and it was so awful we laughed our way through the entire thing. I didn’t watch another porn for like 15 years because 1. I sure in the hell wasn’t going to walk into an adult store alone and buy one, 2. I sure in the hell wasn’t going to go into that section of the local video store alone and rent one, and 3. A $300 charge for porn once arrived on the Internet bill because my dumbass ex didn’t realize he was clicking on something he had to pay for, so that pretty much put the fear of watching web porn into me.

Anyway, I told my son porn would destroy his growing brain just like drugs would, and no, I don’t feel guilty for that. “If you promise you won’t masturbate to porn, I’ll buy you a Playboy. You can masturbate to that.” He agreed, we pinky-swore, and then we went out in search of a Playboy. Well. Let me tell you how hard it is to find a damn Playboy in this day and age. I must have gone into no less than thirteen 7-11s and liquor stores, claiming I was a writer needing one for research. And the places that did have dirty magazines had ones which were just as bad as porn.

For $15 I ordered one online. I wished there was a magazine out there I could give my son which would provide a more sex-positive experience—maybe one with pictures of teenage girls with various body types, including plus-size, and no airbrushing, so he could have a more realistic view of “real” women, but then I realized there are probably many of them out there. For pedophiles, and that’s extremely icky, and grounds for arrest.

We’re lying to ourselves if we think teens aren’t going to access porn on the Internet. Sure, we can block it in our homes, but there will always be that one friend who has “Ass Ventura Crack Detective” bookmarked on their phone. I can only pray my son doesn’t grow up thinking all women have huge fake breasts and tight asses. Or expect a nurse who’s examining him to suddenly unzip his pants and start sucking him off. I hope he realizes that only women who do strenuous yoga and/or perform in Cirque de Soleil can contort their bodies into absurd positions while every orifice is filled.

Sigh. Welcum to the Information Age.



I’m a Facebook slut. Or nympho—meaning I like to be on it, all the time. I do have limits though. I don’t post a new selfie every other day. I don’t poke or poke back (All I can think of is The Three Stooges poking each other in the eyes). And I try to refrain from outwardly shaming people whose opinions I consider asinine crap.

I do however, post way more cat memes than any human should. I divulge information about the boy that will probably come back to haunt him. And when I’m feeling particularly feisty I like to voice my strong opinions or play devil’s advocate on random sites just to evoke argument.

So I’m scrolling through my feed last week and up pops this meme from an anti-porn site. Now I’m not anti-porn. In fact, I like my porn—in moderation. I think it’s only a problem if your SO doesn’t want to have sex with you anymore because he’s (or she’s) wanking it 7x a day to these silicone, Botoxed beauties. Or males with 14-inch penises (24-inch when erect). Or petite she-males.

This anti-porn meme quoted Jonah Mix: “I’m not interested in a world where men really want to watch porn but resist because they’ve been shamed; I’m interested in a world where men are raised from birth with such an unshakeable understanding of women as living human beings that they are incapable of being aroused by their exploitation.” (Yeah, well, unless we’re going back to Egyptian times, good luck with that.)

So, because I was bored I posted a comment: “And I’m interested in a world where women are raised from birth with such an unshakeable sense of self-worth that they are incapable of considering the option of having to f*ck for money.”

And then I waited for the shit storm.

And it came. From both men and women. Not only did I get the “Women who do porn are sexually-empowered and they have the right to choose their own career,” but I also got “Some women actually enjoy doing porn, and it’s not because they’re drugged-up losers. They enjoy sex and like being in business for themselves.”

I fired back with examples citing former porn stars who have exposed the realities of this ugly business (like anal and vaginal tearing, and drug and alcohol dependency), as well as the running joke that women who take off their clothes for money almost always have Daddy issues, and that it became a joke only because it’s true more often than not. I stated that if these women were able to work the same amount of hours for the same amount of money sitting on their asses at a desk, instead of on someone’s face, they would choose the desk job. I also made it clear that not ALL women who get in to the porn industry have low self-esteem. Some are in fact, nymphomaniacs, and others thrive on the money and attention. But one has to ask why they thrive on the attention (self-esteem problems) and what drives them to be a nympho in the first place (trying to fulfill the emptiness inside themselves because, um, they have low fucking self-esteem!!!)

And back and forth it went. Now, when I engage in controversial discussions on Facebook it serves only as a form of verbal masturbation for me. In fact, I get more excited when I make a logical point than I do watching any porn. I realize I’ll never change anyone’s opinion, just like I’ll never convert someone who’s pro-life to pro-choice. I simply thrive on offering up intelligent, thought-out responses which maybe, just maybe allow someone to see the issue another way.

I could care less who chooses to do porn and why. I’m not an advocate for a porn-free world, and as long as viewers are paying big bucks, women (and men) will be fucking…and sucking…and spanking…and flogging. But I stand by my opinion that if women grew up with a greater sense of self, there would be fewer hookers, strippers, and porn actresses in the world.

My comment has received over 600 likes so far, so evidently there are men and women out there who share the same opinion.

What say you? I’d love to hear your opinion on the subject of porn. Is it the work of the devil filled with sinners OR empowering, sexy entertainment?



Even though I don’t make resolutions per se, I always try to start off the year with a new and improved clean slate. After all, who doesn’t need some form of self-improvement?

I’m trying to adopt a more positive attitude in my life. Some people have this crazy notion that I’m a pessimist. I correct them by saying I’m a realist; there’s a difference. But once they start showing me all the ways I’m negative, I naturally become defensive and tell them if they were a fellow New Yorker, they’d “get” me in a way that only sarcastic, pragmatic New Yorkers can, then we end up arguing, and I eventually tell them to go fuck themselves if they think I’m such a horrible person, to which they exclaim, “See?! Negativity right there!”

So for all you fellow pess-, I mean, realists out there who want to improve your outlook a little (but only to get the people in your life off your back, NOT because you need an attitude adjustment), I’ll show you how I’m doing so far.

Today was Sunday—the perfect opportunity to sleep in. Only the dogs, the cats, and the birds didn’t see it that way. So every half hour starting at 7am, either the dog would lick my face or the cat would sit on my face while the birds loudly squawked in the background.

Finally, at 11 I hauled my butt out of bed. I hate mornings. So my first thought was, Ugh, I feel like crap. Mornings suck. Damn these animals.

But then I concentrated on how much I love my pets, even though they insist on puking all over the only 3-inch square of carpet that remains in our home, rather than on the 1300-square foot of floor. Or that every year the cats feel the need to mark the Christmas tree, leaving the delightful seasonal aroma of pine and piss throughout the house. Bodily fluid infractions aside, they bring me joy 98% of the time and that’s enough to be grateful for.

Already, I was happier. Until I remembered I had to walk the dog before my morning coffee. Going outside before I’ve had my first cup of coffee is akin to getting a tooth filled without Novocain. Annoyingly painful. But I’ve been written up so many times by management for letting the diva run loose to pee that we’re now at the “You have 7 days to get rid of your dog or we’ll evict you” stage.

However, my new and improved 2016 attitude realizes they’re just doing their job, and I needed to let go of the plan to make voodoo dolls in their likeness.

So I snapped the leash on the damn dog, er, my beloved dog, and we went for a walk. First person I saw was the man who filed a false complaint with management a few months ago over my dog. He claimed my dog pooped on his lawn, he told me to pick it up, and I refused. Even I’m not enough of an asshat to do something like that. The real story was my dog did in fact, unexpectedly take a dump on his lawn, his wife yelled at me through the window, I apologized profusely, ran to my house to get a bag, then returned to pick it up.

A few weeks ago, I may or may not have confronted him on the issue, peppering my verbal assault with some choice F-bombs, but that was still no reason for him to call the cops on me (3 of them! Who thankfully didn’t charge me with anything, but let me off with a warning to stay away from him).

In any case, this lovely morning the old me would have confronted him yet again to tell him that his damn cat has been on my property every day, eating my cat food, prompting fights with my cats, and taking numerous huge dumps on my property, and did he “know the definition of IRONY? Because that’s what this fucking situation is—Ironic!”

But alas, the brand spanking new me doesn’t want to get arrested no matter how much the experience may enhance my writing, so I calmly turned and strolled in the opposite direction, thank you very much.  See that? A positive, non-confrontational response to a potentially explosive and negative situation.

And that’s about all the grateful, optimistic energy I could muster up this morning, because after looking around at all the crap I needed to do, I realized if I weren’t a single mother I’d have some help with this never-ending mountain of crap, which then made me curse my loser of an ex for leaving and ruining my life, even though it was my own pathetic fault for choosing the deadbeat in the first place, and if I weren’t such an idiot my life would be so much better…

…but I digress.

Baby steps.



For the past 5 years I have fallen into a holiday funk. Being single, coupled with not having any family to spend the holidays with during a season where ads for love and family and togetherness and diamond rings to “show her you care” are pounded into one’s psyche ad nauseam are enough to make anyone want to go off the deep end.

Then there’s my beloved Facebook, my social media of choice and social life all rolled up in one. Only this time of year, my preferred memes containing cats or offensive snarkiness fall along the wayside to ho hum pics of newly engaged couples in front of their tree and family gatherings with everyone dressed in their holiday finest—including my own, mind you, without me.

Here’s how it’s gone down for the last 5 years. Every Christmas eve, my entire family goes to an annual Xmas play. I drop my son off in front of my father’s house (because he and I are still not speaking to one another), wish my brother and sister a Merry Christmas, and off I go on my solitary way to feel sorry for myself at home while I view their happy group photos on Facebook that I’ve been tagged in so I can, you know, feel included as part of the family.

This year, I burst into tears as I was driving away, but only because my brother had just returned from Thailand and it would have been nice to be able to spend some time drinking with him that day and getting him to admit he solicited a she-male hooker by mistake. It would have been lovely to hang with my sister, who had finally fallen into a serious relationship with her best friend, even though he had fought their love for a year. I would have loved to tell her “I told you so,” because I did. Exactly a year ago.

They’re the family I miss. Not my asshat of a father who we all have to walk on eggshells around so as not to upset him. The asshat of a father who drinks too much and picks a fight with someone, anyone just to hear himself yell. No, I don’t miss that dysfunction at all.

With the world stressing how important family is, where does that leave you when you don’t have any to spend the holidays with? It sucks, but I vowed this year I wouldn’t fall into a deep, dark depression, and so far I haven’t. Maybe it was due to the power of intention. Perhaps my hormones are balanced this week. Or maybe for the first time, another single mother was at my friend’s Xmas dinner and for once, I didn’t feel so fucking alone in the sea of coupledom.

This woman’s husband committed suicide 2 years ago. Blew his brains out on a wilderness trail, leaving behind a wife and 11-year-old son. She’s very open about the whole ordeal, which is why I have enormous respect for her. Her family is spread out all over the world, and her mother is exactly like my father, so she’s essentially alone like I am. She has no interest in going out and trying to land another husband because she can’t hack being alone, and for that, along with her honesty and bluntness, she and I get along great.

We made plans to get together next week. She’s going to teach me how to make Spanish rice, authentic beans, and chicken Verde. Any other year I’d have shied away from making plans and doing anything that required me to smile, but this year is different. This year I consciously acknowledge there are other women out there who have just as craptastic a life as me. I simply have to find them. This woman whose husband blindsided her with death. Another woman I met on Thanksgiving has 2 kids, and is separated from her cross-dressing husband (although she’s OCD and a bit of a hoarder, so who the hell knows what the story is there). She’s asked me to get together with her as well.

These are the women I need to seek out in the years to come. Not the ones with their picture-perfect Norman Rockwell lives. I don’t have anything in common with them. I’ll seek out the misfits and the wounded and the shunned. The divorced and the widowed and the transgendered. Really anyone who doesn’t live a cookie-cutter life.

For all those who are going through a tough time this holiday season, take heart. It’s almost over. Try to seek out others in the same sinking boat. You may find they help keep you afloat.


Not finished with your Christmas shopping yet? Need some ideas for that impossible-to-buy-for person in your life? Thankfully, you have me to help you decide on a gift that will undoubtedly wind up being truly memorable. Ready?

Scrapbooking is so last year. We’re in an age now when we’re realizing our resources are precious and nothing, I mean NOTHING, should go to waste. Including cat hair. Have a friend who’s constantly taking out that lint brush to remove cat fur from their black clothing? Waste not, want not. Give them this book so they can get with the times.

cat hair

If you know someone with a young daughter, it’s imperative you give that girl this doll so she can learn early on how vile body hair truly is. How else will she ever attract a man? Or aspire to porn or stripper status? Give her a head start on knowing what’s important in life, because it’s certainly not education or being a humanitarian. I mean, please! Who is ever going to take you seriously with hairy legs? (This gift not appropriate for European babies.)


Has there ever been a time when you’re horny AND hungry at the same time? And you’re going back and forth in your mind like, “I could eat a sandwich first, and then have sex, but I’ll probably just want to nap instead, OR, I can have sex first, but I’ll need to hurry because my stomach is growling like an angry dog…” Yeah, tell me about it. It’s a real dilemma. But not anymore! This is perfect for the man or woman in your life as it cuts out a huge amount of wasted time thinking, when you could be, um, eating? (wink wink)

brief jerkyWhat if your partner has trouble getting in the mood in the first place? You need to combine sex with a positive association. Rub some of this baby on whatever, and he or she will come running. Probably along with the dog and cat, but still…(Not appropriate for vegetarians, although a hummus-scented lube may be in the production stage as we speak.)

bacon lube

Now, me personally, I don’t need this book. I could have written this book.  But everyone has that one smug friend who thinks their kid’s shit doesn’t stink. Give her this book so she can see all the ways she is, in fact, unknowingly traumatizing her child. Then watch her scramble to catch up to all the money you’ve already saved in the jar labeled, “My Kid’s Therapy Fund.”

kid book

This probably isn’t in the Kid Trauma book, but here’s a surefire way to traumatize a kid. Wear these socks in their presence. Around their friends. Extra points scored for wearing them out in public. Like to the mall or the movies. This is a perfect gift for the husband of the uptight wife you buy the Kid Trauma book for!


What if you’re completely broke this year? It’s cool, you don’t need to spend any money. People LOVE homemade gifts. Try this one and make sure to remind the recipient it’s the thought that counts.


Hope this helps!





It’s my most favorite time of the year–Halloween! I start planning for it November 1. And to celebrate, I thought I’d share some photos of animals and kids in costumes that are full of WIN. Are you ready?

This dog costume is one of my favorites this year because it literally transforms the cone of shame into something to be proud of–a martini. Because if you can drink more than, say, 3 martinis, that’s a feat to boast about. Of course, you may not remember what you do under the influence of 3 martinis, thus needing your own personal cone of shame the day after, but that’s for another post entitled “I wish I hadn’t gone home with ugly troll guy and other humiliating drunk stories”.

martini dog

How freaking adorable are these M&M pugs? Don’t you just want to take a bite out of them? Just the tail, or maybe the head. Mmmm, chocolate…no, wait, they’re dogs…or are they? Mmmm, chocolate…

Pug M&Ms

Any time you can actually put a costume onto a cat without getting your eyes scratched out , you’ve won. They look adorable in them, right? Of course there will be a price to pay for such cuteness. Never think for a moment cats won’t seek revenge by killing you in your sleep. You’ve been warned. Hey, and if you happen to only own a guinea pig, don’t despair. You can include him in the festivities, too. Just be careful if you own a guinea pig AND a cat. Or a guinea pig AND a snake (but that’s for another post entitled, “The time I left the lid off my boa constrictor’s cage by mistake and other mishaps by snake owners.”)

Sushi-Cat-Halloween-Costume2.jpg2_sushi guina pig

Okay, now this costume is a bit easier to manage with a cat because, well, it’s closer to their true nature so I’d like to think they’d secretly find it amusing, although they won’t show it. They may still kill you in your sleep, but that would only be because they’re secretly planning to take over the world. (You didn’t hear it from me.)

Oscar the Grouch

Need a costume for your baby in a pinch? Hungry for dinner? Solve both problems by getting takeout from Chipotle and wrapping the fruit of your loins in some gold wrapping paper. Make sure you take a picture of the cuteness immediately because my guess is that worm will squirm right outta that wrapping in the time it takes to say Boo.

baby burrito

For less than the cost of one of these drinks you can make this costume. In fact, I’ll bet having one of these ridiculously expensive drinks every day adds up to be more than the amount it costs to raise a child. Yes, I’m kicking myself for not buying Starbucks stock in the 90s, too.

Starbucks drink

What could be cuter than baby AND pet together in costumes? Besides the fact that baby looks like he can’t move his arms, which will royally piss him off in about 3.5 seconds, and dog looks like he’s planning to pee on your favorite shoes as soon as you turn your back on him, I’d say this is a raging success and will yield a buttload of trick or treating candy.

baby and dog fast food

I’m sensing an overall theme in this post, which alerts me to the fact that I must be hungry and thirsty. How about you? Have you ever dressed your kid and/or pet up for Halloween?

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