Sometimes when I’m feeling particularly low energy and I choose to indulge my procrastination tendencies, I think. A lot. About important stuff. Meaningless stuff. All right, it’s mostly meaningless stuff. This is some of the meaningless stuff I thought about this week:

How do women in relationships maintain their sexiness throughout winter? I live in SouthernWarm socks California and I still complain about the winters being too cold for me. For anyone reading who thought I might be remotely sexy because I like to watch porn, I’m going to annihilate that image right now. Do you want to know what I wear to bed when I’m cold? FLEECE! And lots of it. Fleece bottoms (with ridiculous patterns on them like black cats or the character, Animal from Sesame Street), a fleece top, some kind of fleece thingy over that, and of course, socks. It all stays on while I sleep under a sheet, a down comforter, and 2 fleece blankets. Now granted, I’m single with only the diva Chihuahua sharing my bed, but as my friend’s husband stated last night, “No man can see a woman’s beauty through layers of fleece.”

WTF is Tumblr and Reddit? Is it important? Do I need it? Is it even worth my time to Google them? Do I even have the brain cells necessary, or rather, the brain capacity to keep up with changing technology for the rest of my life? It already isn’t looking good.

How do you get the toilet bowl to smell nice without using that toxic blue crap that I’m convinced will ultimately poison all the fish in the ocean?

What’s up with all these bogus rules as you get older? I just read that women over 35 shouldn’t wear powder anymore because it settles in the lines and wrinkles. You know what else we’re not supposed to wear? Sequins, miniskirts, the color grey, bright nail polish, leather pants, and words plastered on our asses. I hate rules. It makes me want to purposely break them, and the older I get the more defiant I become. So don’t be surprised if you see me on the street wearing too tight black leather pants with the words “Hot Mama” on my butt cheeks, a grey sequined top,  blood red acrylic fingernails, and spike heels.

And for the men over 35? Don’t think you’re exempt. It said: No wearing tight jeans, baseballs caps, cargo pants, “band” T-shirts, or 21 year olds on your arm. Just sayin’…

Tattoo ladyHow many tattoos will I have when I die? I got a new tattoo 2 weeks ago. I’ve since had a dream I was getting another tattoo. I can hear my mom screaming, “Noooo!” as she’s reading this. Hey, it’s either another tattoo or another cat. And I’m already feeding 5. Tattoos are addicting. I’m not quite sure why. But I find they’re quite effective at hiding physical imperfections. When I showed the tattoo artist where I wanted my tattoo, I hiked up my dress, pointed to the back of my thigh and told him he needed to put it wherever there was cellulite.

Writing, like child rearing is getting harder as life goes on, despite EVERYONE telling me they get easier with time. (Lies, all lies.) Does ANYTHING get easier as one gets older? I Googled “What gets easier as we age?” Of course, there’s the usual crap written by women about how once you hit your 40s and beyond, life gets easier because you’re more confident, secure, sex gets better, blah, blah. As far as I’m concerned, sex only gets better if you’ve been doing it wrong all these years and some gracious partner finally shows you the light—or the G-spot, as the case may be. You’re more secure, unless you’ve just been cleaned out by your vindictive ex-wife and are now forced to rent a room in a house and share a bathroom. You’re more confident if you’ve finally taken your doctor’s advice and filled that prescription of Xanax he prescribed you some time ago when you complained about how your social anxiety was preventing you from leaving the house. Even bowel movements get harder as one gets older. Thank you, Google.

Is there a Sicilian curse on the women in my family? My Italian grandmother, who had only everThe Sicilian been with one man remained single from her early 60s on after my grandfather died. My mother has been single since her mid 40s, and I have been single now for 10 years. Although in my case, that may have more to do with the over-abundance of fleece in my life more than anything else.

Why do I have the sudden urge to start an annual tradition of throwing an Ugliest Christmas Sweater Party? I hate parties and I hate ugly sweaters, but together? For some inexplicable reason, I think it would be pure magic.

Ugly sweaters

Would I be able to overlook a man’s emotional insensitivity if he were a certified massage therapist? Yes, I believe I can. Any man who would be willing to give me a decent back massage every night would be able to slide on a lot of things. Hell, he wouldn’t even have to know how to spell. He’d simply have to know how to get through the fleece.

What meaningless crap fills your head?



As a writer, I find myself insatiably curious about human
nature and what makes people tick. As a person, I’m socially adventurous, and a
bit of a deviant. People think I’m a glass is half-empty kind of girl. On the contrary, my glass is overflowing with a
hard dose of ass-kicking reality. And I expect the same when it comes to my

“You’re fine? Your marriage is fine? Your kids are all fine?” Ho-hum.
. I really couldn’t care less. But tell me you’re secretly lusting
after the neighbor’s teenage son; you suspect your husband may be a
cross-dresser because every pair of pumps you own are stretched out; and your
nine-year-old daughter has taken to drawing penises on every piece of scrap
paper she finds around the house, and I will take notice. Then I’ll be interested in what you have to say.

Life is rarely warm peach cobbler with real vanilla ice-cream
melting on top. And the people who portray it as such? I don’t trust them. I
think they’re either severely medicated or completely delusional. You know who
I’m talking about. They’re the ones who don’t want to air their dirty laundry
in public. “Gasp! What would people think?” They’re the overachievers, the
type-As, the repressed, the eternally optimistic.

Yeah, I get the whole New Age concept of believing that your
thoughts create your reality. But if that were true, I’d have Barry Zito, the
pitcher for the SF Giants in my bed every night. I’ve seen people with the
purest of hearts have the crappiest things happen to them. Good deeds being
reciprocated with, oh, I don’t know, a drug-addicted ex who steals all your
jewelry, your rent money and threatens to kill you. Ahem.
Hypothetically speaking, of course.

I’ve lost a few good friends over the years due to my
negative attitude. I tried to explain to them that I wasn’t a doom-and-gloom
Sally; I’m just REALISTIC. And pardon me if I come across as slightly
pessimistic. I attribute it to my New York upbringing. I was raised in
Brooklyn. I didn’t grow up with a grassy front yard – hell, a cement stoop was
my front yard. I didn’t ride a quaint yellow school bus. I took the rat- and
bum-infested, urine-smelling subway. Back when subways were graffiti-covered
works of art, rather than the metallic, sleek-looking, vibrator-resembling
machines of today. There were no protective pads underneath the monkey bars. It
was hard pavement and broken glass. Nobody picked up after their dogs back
then, stray cats were everywhere, and if you were hot on a swelteringly muggy
summer day, you found someone with a wrench to open up a fire hydrant for you
so you could cool off.

Life can be gritty and awful, and majestically beautiful.
Amazing things happen, but so do shitty things. Denying the shit and only
embracing the diamonds makes you an inauthentic human being, in my opinion; a
rose-colored glasses-wearing fake, who refuses to acknowledge that they have
problems just like the rest of us.

So don’t tell me how great your husband is, unless you’re
trying to convince me to have a threesome; I only want to hear how good your
son is at basketball if he’s playing for the Lakers and can get me courtside
seats; and if you’re a Supermom, who goes to the gym every day, has an
immaculate home, with dinner on the table at six and the kids in bed by nine –
well, we won’t have a damn thing in common.

The bumper sticker on the back of my car reads: MY SON ISN’T