My Life is FUBR

At some point in every day, usually when I first wake up, I will have the thought that I have irrevocably fucked up my life. In fact, to call it a thought is like calling a Great White Shark a fish—factually correct but deceiving. Us writers tend to be obsessed with calling things what they are, really burrowing in and putting words to things other people can’t. At that point we don’t even care if other people can’t express things, it becomes a matter of urgency to name what we want to name at any cost. And thus, I inadequately call what inhabits my mind a “thought,” but it is really more like a shark. A ferocious killing machine, intent on taking a chunk out of both my day and my life, content only when it tastes blood. Perhaps that is why I rarely use the phrase, “Good morning.”

I live in my ex-husband’s garage. Technically, I suppose I co-own the garage, or the bank co-owns it, nevertheless I have chosen, for reasons becoming increasingly unclear, to stay in this place, though it has no bathroom and renders me completely dependent on my ex. Okay the reasons are not that unclear—I do not have the means to support myself, I am incapable of figuring out how to support myself with my art, and getting a ten dollar an hour job so that I can pay someone else to raise my kids does not make any sense. I have failed in such an unspectacular fashion that I am woefully unqualified for decent employment, so I continue in this purgatory, this hell’s waiting room on a hill, trapped as I was when married, by a golden cage.

I expect by now you are crying large salty tears for the attractive woman, lying in her home in Malibu, unable to leave the house and go into the sunshine. (Go trolls!) I lie in bed in my pajamas for days, or until literally the last second before I have to go pick up my children, paralyzed by failure. Even as I know that I am lucky to have a bed, and pajamas, and a shower (if I manage to take one) that gratitude does not eradicate the doom in my brain, any more than you could rid yourself of a shark by spraying it with RAID. Continue reading

R.I.P. BKS Iyengar or Why Hot Moms Do Yoga

I started practicing Iyengar yoga a few months before first finding out I was pregnant, only to be promptly banned from it by my OB once my amniotic fluid got too low. Who knew yoga was such a dangerous and renegade activity that it could be banned by a medical professional? And I was just starting to feel like I was getting somewhere (hey, yoga’s not a destination it’s a practice, man, namaste…)

After having two kids less than a year apart, I became obsessed with yoga again, some Hatha but mostly Iyengar, the precise school of alignment using props pioneered by BKS Iyengar who died this week at the quite respectable age of 95. I was going to classes up to 6 times a week, in an effort not only to lose the baby weight of two consecutive pregnancies, but to ensure I didn’t kill my young children. The Zen required for parenting was something I severely lacked and tried to find in class… whilst trying not to compare myself to the impossibly hot Santa Monica girls and their supernatural litheness.

I have gone in and out of yoga since starting seriously about eight years ago. Though it is supposed to be a lighthearted practice, I use the term “seriously” because if I don’t go for a few days things get very, very serious. I get morose, sedentary and inflexible, not only in body, but in mind. I turn into a person I do not believe the Universe wants me to be. I start believing my own brain instead of observing it like a somewhat untrustworthy bimbo I might tune out at a bar.

Continue reading

Why He Doesn’t Text Back

1. He has been hit by lightning twice in quick succession, the first time rendering him amnesiac, the second nuking his phone, so even when he regains his memory from the first strike, he has no record of your text.
2. He would rather pour a bucket of ice-cold sardines over his head (not for charity) than date a woman with kids.
3. His thumbs have become disabled from nerve damage he sustained from jerking off too much. He tried texting with his fingers, but his friends made fun of him mercilessly, so he had to quit because he didn’t have the strength of character to stand up to them.
4. He heard from your ex-husband who let him know that in ten or eleven years you’re not going to be very nice to him.
5. He’s an unworthy dick-cheese receptacle who doesn’t understand that you are way above his pay grade.
6. He’s an unworthy dick-cheese receptacle who understands that you are way above his pay grade. Continue reading

Once You Go Black

With all the terrible news about violence against people because of their race, I felt compelled to do something for my country. I am not an activist (although apparently being a mom with a sex drive is in itself a radical act) yet when the opportunity arose to do my part, I was ready. And willing. And gosh darn it, I was wet. I answered the call from President Kennedy all those years ago, and sought to do for my country what my toys could not do for me. That’s right, I slept with a black guy.

I grew up in Australia, as many of you know, land of the White People. Any time I have met African American men who were planning a trip to Australia I have always had the same conversation.

“Do you know about black men and Australian women?”

“Um, no,” they would reply, unless they’d already heard.

“Be prepared. You will be highly exotic to them. You will be getting laid on the tarmac. Once the plane lands, you will be getting blown. Bon Voyage!”

Most have confirmed this theory, and it seems the fascination runs both ways. And yet. In all my escapades since my separation (or before I met my ex-husband at the age of 23) I had somehow not managed to sleep with a black man (how is this even possible?) although I once made out with a Ghanaian in London at 20, and also believe I made out with Floyd Mayweather Jr., the boxer, in New York City in 1997. Of course I was still drinking then, and there were drugs involved, so perhaps he was just a waiter/impressionist who knew the word “welterweight”? I remember he was shorter than I was, and also his lips. Oh. My G-d. Those. Lips.

For the record, I know I’m skating a very fine line of taste here, even finer than the fraction of a millimeter you’re used to. But those that appreciate this blog have learned to tolerate me like the dinner guest who says the embarrassing, politically incorrect things because they know her heart’s in the right place. So… onto desert. Continue reading

What Women Want

Ha! Made you look! I have no fucking idea what women want. I know there are experts out there charging thousands to tell you they know, but guess what? They don’t know. No one knows. We women do not know what we want, and just when we think we’ve figured it out, it changes. The sexy lesbian I was seeing for a while would like to know what women want and SHE IS A WOMAN. She should know, right? No. She doesn’t know. It is a deep dark story worthy of a 12-part National Geographic investigative piece.

“Way below the Arctic Tundra lies a mystery no human has ever solved; come as we journey beneath the deep, to find traces of the pre-historic primate Expectationus Disappointus, to see if studying her DNA code can give us all a clue about what these bitches are thinking.”

So here’s my list of what I want, not in order. Maybe other women want this too- please let me know in the comments. Until then, as usual, I shall be rubbing out orgasms and telling myself it all gets better…

1. A man to build me a log cabin with his bare hands, in between tending to his kale garden. (I will rub kale leaves all over my body, I will come on kale.)
2. A man who can slaughter something for us to eat in the cabin with our kale, maybe a chicken, or a wild boar, even though I’m a Jew and have no business eating pig. (I will give it a pagan blessing I swear.)
3. A guy who looks good in a suit.
4. A glorious young fuck stud who can hold his load for an hour, and goes down on me like he’s reciting the entire New Testament with his tongue.
5. An athletic idiot jock who will throw a ball around with my kids for hours, so I can go get a massage.
6. A surfer with long hair and a couple of Phd’s.
7. An empath who will pull my hair while he fucks me in the ass.
8. A Shaman capable of banishing all my negative thoughts who accepts and embraces my darkness.
9. Someone who’s tried crack, heroin, LSD, meth, and iowaska but doesn’t have a drug problem.
10. A guy who will spend literally hours talking about feelings—his feelings, my feelings, everyone’s feelings.

Continue reading

My Ex- Called The Fire Department To Kill A Tarantula

Most people think of Malibu as oceanfront homes occupied by famous people dripping with 18 carat gold jewelry, but that is not true. Some of the jewelry is 14 carat. (See what I did there? Just call me Shecky.) Also, lots of people, myself included, live in the other Malibu, the slightly above middle class area with good public schools but that is also definitively RURAL. Of all the people on earth, I would be voted least likely to live in the country… yet somehow I got trapped here, and I didn’t even marry a farmer.

A few months after moving to Malibu, when I was still happily married (not to a farmer) I noticed that I had moved to the country and did what any self-respecting depressive would do, and took to my bed. I stayed there for roughly four months before I realized that it wasn’t changing anything. We still had to have propane delivered, as our property is too remote for a gas line, the dogs across the way barked every second of every day out of a misguided need to protect the entire mountain, and I still routinely came across insects like this:PQT0GQD09Q9KMKTKMKEKZKPKQKD00KDK0KA0LKC0AQ30WQHSVQJ0IKPKLKNK8KDK1QLSAQLSGKLSMKEK5QWK4QT01QNot only are they incredibly ugly but yes, they bite. Cue uncontrollable shudder.

However, since exiting my bed five years ago, I have become increasingly used to living here, and somewhat more, dare I say it, rugged? I even went hiking last weekend, although I doubt I would have gone if a really hot dude hadn’t asked me. He dragged me up a mountain that I insisted was at a ninety-degree angle, though he claimed it wasn’t more than sixty; regardless I must have fallen on my ass no less than five times on the way down, not to mention all the mosquito bites. Of course, none of that was as painful as the next day when he didn’t call.

Anyway. Continue reading

7 Ways You Know You Need A Break From Dating

1. You’re neglecting your kids waiting for some idiot to text you back, while also hoping he/she/it never texts you again. (Have they died? It’s preferable to not hearing from them knowing they are still alive.)
2. You throw up either before during or after a date and it’s not from bad shrimp.
3. You’re still angry at the last ten people you dated.
4. Your marriage is starting to look like “the good old days.” Continue reading