Thursday, December 10, 2009

Neil Diamond + Chanukah Song = GROOVY

So over Thankgiving, as we were driving up to my in-laws, the song "Forever in Blue Jeans" by Neil Diamond comes up on our iPod.  I've always liked that song, and I start humming along.  About 1 minute into it, my husband proceeds to tell me, "you know, this song is all about Neil Diamond wanting to have hot animal sex with his woman....listen to the lyrics".  I was totally appalled.....that literal bastard had done this to me before with "Shipping Up to Boston" being about a pirate's lost wooden leg, and with George Michael's "Freedom 90" about him struggling to come out of the closet. Sure enough, he managed to do it again....I can never listen to that song without thinking about leopard print rug, a young Neil Diamond (whose modern equivalent, btw, is the one and only John Mayer) and some coked up '70s skank getting it on in a California chalet.

So on the heels of that....I found out today that old Neil just posted a cover of Adam Sandler's "The Chanukah Song" on his website, with a South Park like animated video.  Given that Friday is the first day of Chanukah, I thought I would pass it along to you as my gift.  I don't believe there is any hidden meaning to the lyrics of this one, but I am sure my asshole husband will figure out a way to ruin it for me somehow.  In the mean time, enjoy!

UPDATE:  There is now a YouTube version for those of you on your phones!  Click here!

WTF! It's The Most Gaaawwd Awful Gift Guide

For the Wife whose husband has "DONE" everything & everyone:

Okay, okay, that was a fake book.  I was being silly and milking the Tiger Woods story as much as everyone else is.  But the following are actual products I found at Ocean State Job Lot in RI that you can buy a loved one this Christmas....

The perfect bedtime read-aloud series for the Parent who wants to "Scare the Shit Out of Your Kids":

Book 1:  "Don't ask why Mommy is frantically flushing the toilet"

Books 2 & 3:  "Oh, Look!  It's A Kitty...Sweet Dreams!" & "No honey, I don't think the book will be staring at you while you sleep "

Book 4: An instant classic, as is the sequel "Rivers of Blood"

For that annoying Religious Zealot in your life (or elderly family member):

"BYO H2O" Bring Your Own Holy Water Bottle (be sure to pour some out for your homeys) & "Show Jesus the Money" Coin Purse...'cause he'll holla' for a dolla'!

For the person who just needs one reason to protest:

Move over (RED), 'cuz you're about to be overtaken by elves (and not the Keebler kind or the ones you can toss)!

Sunday, November 29, 2009

Nightmare on Tiger Street

As I read more about the Tiger Woods saga, it has become abundently clear that he is stonewalling the situation.

My stoic grandmother always said, "nothing good ever happens after 2:00 a.m." And while we may never find out what happened outside Tiger's house in the wee hours of November 27, there is plenty of web speculation to chew on.

Another of granny's favorite sayings was, "Shit happens. If you don't look down, you'll step in it."

Tiger, in many ways, really stepped in it. And his wife is pretty damn angry.

I know this because after 12 years of marriage and various domestic disagreements, a spouse does not swing a golf club in the early a.m. without just cause. Hell, my temper has flared over much stupider things and once impulsively kicked a hole in my bedroom wall with a clog....but that's another story for another day....

So, in the tongue and cheek vein of my "Sesame Street Layoffs" post and an "open letter from Barbara Walter's Vagina, The Cha-Cha Chow-enge," here's my view of what really happened:

All was quiet in the sprawling Florida home. The children, safely under the nanny's care, had long been bathed and put to bed miles away in the estate's southeast wing. The lights were dim. She sat alone at the sleek modern dining table. The places were still set with Hermes china - a gift from Oprah - featuring a tiger design and starched linen napkins featuring an embroidered entwined double E. "Elin and really meant something...once," she sighed. Bacarat crystal golblets glinted in the mix of candle and moonlight that flooded into the room from the bare baywindow. Yet, even in the shadows she seethed. Perhaps it was the rumors of an affair or maybe just the effects of the Pinot Noir-fueled "American Psycho," "Saw III," and "Fatal Attraction" filmfest she insisted upon earlier in the evening. The regal profile and mantle of platinum hair was offset by the cold, hard stare in her eyes. The time on her Tag Heurer watch read 2:00 a.m.

"Where the fuck was he?" she thought. "Rvvhel!" (swedish for asshole) she muttered under her breathe as she fixed her eyes on the long, gated drive, looking for the tell-tale headlights of his Cadiallac Escalade. The Buick Enclave was already parked at the start of the front walk along the circular drive. It was packed and ready for an errant getaway. "I have had enough," she thought. "He will not make a rvvhel out of me!"

She could no longer sit, and strode down the long hallway to the garage. "Everything is set," she thought. The pristine, damask couches in the study had been stripped of their pillows and covered in layers of course canvas tarp, mylar and industrial plastic. "That is where he will see me," she told herself as she opened the door into the garage and scanned the wall for power tools. "Rvvhel knuller!" she breathed (asshole fucker) as she walked toward the DeWalt chainsaw. There, standing stoic and mocking underneath the horror movie weapon of choice, was his prized set of Nike Titanium golf clubs. These were no practice set, or reserves. Encased in a glowing halo of stainless steel, these clubs were the PGA equivalent to the holy grail. This was the set that had won countless titles and championships. The set that helped construct the large and looming ego that he could do no wrong.

Without a thought, she grabbed the driver with the largest, widest, sharpest head and resumed her perch in the dining room. Then, the gates opened. He killed the headlights and eased up the driveway. It was too much, and she snapped.

"Where the hell where you?" she screamed as she leapt out the front door, brandishing the driver high over her head. "Were you with HER! Were you with that jdvlar fitta hora ab ab ab?" she screamed (fucking c-word whore).

"Whoa! Whoa! Eels, baby. I was with the guys." he explained and opened the car door.

"On Thanksgiving? You shit, you should be with your family! Where were you? Where did you go? WHO WERE you with?"

"Jesus Christ, you Nordic bitch, I was with Shaq and Mike....we were watching the game. What the hell? I just lost track of time...and besides you said it was a silly American holiday...."

"YOU JUST lost track of time. You have a mother fucking Rolex watch for every day of the year and you LOST track of time?" She swung at him hard. Nearly missing his Nike Golf hat. She hit the hood of the car. "Your stupid fuckin' cheating friends." she cried and hit the grill. "Why can't you just hang out with that nice Bill Nye the science guy we met at the block party last year." She swung wildly, hitting him squarely on the shoulder.

"Ouch! That's the money arm you crazy motherfucking Dane. You better settle yourself down, you live in Tiger's Den, under Tiger's rule."

"Aggghhh....I'm SWEDISH, you ass!" She hit the windshield.

"Damn." he said and jumped back in the car, turning on the ignition and shifting to reverse. He hit the gas and didn't even look. Bam. Right into the Buick Enclave. Reverse again as she hit a quarter panel. Bam. "Shit." he thought as he backed through the gate and hit the fire hydrant across the street. She was foaming at the mouth, running after him.

He quickly tried to Twitter, "Wife is crazy, mad, hot, mess. Damn I'm turned on. Tiger Out." But before he hit send, she sent the driver crashing through the back window hitting him in the head. Trying to dodge the club, he veered and hit a tree.

As he was slumped over, she dropped the clubs and cried, "Oh Eldrick! Eldrick! Are you hurt? Can you hear me? I'm so sorry! Oh God, I'm so sorry."

"Fuck," he thought to himself, "crazy wife, broken golf clubs, two wrecked cars....Steel, I mean Shaq, where the hell are you man, hook a brother up...Fuck TMZ, the make-up sex on this one alone is gonna kill me...."

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Harvest Blessings

Early on Thanksgiving mourn,
autumn's final blush fulfills
the legacy of settlers past.

Sparse are leaves upon the trees,
all lie abundant in the dewy grass.
Damp and cold and icy still
a lonely tern wavers across the muted umber sky.

Breathe deep the golden moment
let it seep down to your bones,
let it rush about in glorious waves,
revel in this state of grace.

God and country,
Family, friends and memories that are held most dear
Sing from the heart and broadly smile
for your blessings are infinite, mysterious
like morning stars faint upon dawn's breaking light.

The harvest table brims with love.
Look around to see,
share a legacy alit so bright.
With awe and wonder hold it close, never fade or forget each gift
with the passing day, the season's change. Let it endure.

For peace, prosperity and tranquility will prevail when each and every day becomes Thanksgiving again anew.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

It's a Mad, Mad Maverick's World!

The Minivan Monologues is proud to present exclusive excerpts from Sarah Palin's much anticipated autobiography, "Going Commando." (Oops, my bad, "Going Rogue")

Chapter One: Humble Beginnings

"Come and listen to a story about a man named Jed. A poor mountaineer, barely kept his family fed. Then one day he was shootin' at some food and up through the ground came a bubblin' crude. Oil that is. Black Gold. Alaskan Tea. "

Chapter Two: Growing Alaskan Roots

"Well, the first thing you know it ol' Jed's a millionaire. Kinfolk said, 'Jed move away from there.' Said, 'Californy is the place you ought to be.' So, they loaded up the truck and moved to Beverly."
Chapter Three: The Veep Vetting Process thinks this story sounds vaguely familiar???

Where have you gone, Jethro Clampett,....I mean, Levi Johnston? Special interest groups and aerial bow hunters turn their lonely eyes to you....woo woo woo. Ellie Mae? Tripp? Trig? Track? Tuna Fish? Tonto? Tattoo? ....Are you there?....I think they all saw Hurricane Sarah comin', threw their shit in Fred Sanford's truck and "moved on up" to Green Acres. Amen!

The End.

Which Came First...the Mummy or the McMuffin?

Maybe it was my thoughts about holiday goodies creeping into my head, or perhaps it was the pending shortage of Eggo Waffles, but I found this interesting: USA Today reports that CT scans of mummies show that heart disease predates fast food by over 3,500 years. However, some local archeologists announced the surprising new finding of two previously unknown, unseen and unresearched hieroglyphics (pictured above) from the tomb of the ancient prince Grimacenkamen, outside of Cairo...thus cancelling out the "heart disease without fast food theory...."

The contradictory discoveries have left many doctors, scientists and historians to scratch their collective heads and ponder the age old question: which came first the Mummy or the McMuffin?

No word if this may lead to answers to the obvious follow up question regarding the possible links between the Shamrock Shake and St. Patrick.

Monday, November 16, 2009

Some Gifts Never Stop Giving...

Roses are nice....

A vagina is forever!

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Ode to Saturday Morning, 6 a.m.

Rain, rain go away...
don't want the kids inside all day!
Screaming, hitting, "it's no fair!"
Third time this morning had to stop 5 year-old from pulling oldest's hair.
Hubby is nestled up snug in bed, trying hard to ignore the chaos insuing as I get the kids fed.
Sitting with my coffee irked and annoyed, I have hit my limit...
"Everyone out of the house this instant!"
Out into the garage to make your clatter and when I've calmed down I'll explain what was the matter.
All I crave is 5 minutes peace - a time when the shouting, whining and cries of "Mommmeeeee" will cease.
Being a mom is 24/7 with nary a shot going straight to heaven.
The weekend has come and I feel I've earned a bit of a rest....
So, everyone, please shut the fuck up and stop being a pest!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

If I Gave A Tweet...

Twitter confounds me. It's right up there with the fine line of the facebook status update - either mundane and boring or extremely witty and funny. There never really seems to be a middle ground...and for the most part, I thought that "tweets" were silly, narcissistic cyber shout-outs - the online equivalent of a blog's poor WT trailer livin' cousin.

Then I read an article on TechCrunch regarding a Twitter account called "Shitmydadsays." The posts made me laugh so hard, I nearly peed my pants. With a lot of inspiration and an econo box of Depends, I composed the following "bon mots" as if I really gave a tweet - therefore, if I twittered this is what I'd say:

  • I hate it when people stop me to say, "Wow! You look really great today." Then, I have to respond, "Thanks, I finally took a shower."

  • Happy Birthday! I heard you're turning 40, but want to hear the best part...I'm not!

  • Met a friend for coffee. First thing I said was, "I got dressed today...what the fuck happened to you?"

  • If men can come up with remedies for conditions like Erectile Dysfunction, why the hell can't they fix "Man Boobs?"

  • Am dropping the kids off at the shit...literally - I AM AT THE POOL...with the kids.

  • Now that I've had three kids, I really should've rethought the location of that "Hamburgler" tattoo...

  • Too much green. Too much pink. Too matchy-matchy is what I think.

  • Just fucked my husband...will he just get the hell off of me already!

  • Why does Eli Manning always look like he was beaten with an ugly stick?

  • Just farted in Starbucks and blamed it on the 5 year-old.

  • Not all soccer moms are angry and vulgar...just me.

And the list could go on....because this is kinda fun...and because I have so much stuff pent up in my head....and because you know you want can now follow me on twitter here.

Monday, November 9, 2009

All Roads Lead to a Good Moisterizer...

Much to my husband's chagrin, I am nothing if not predictable. For example, when there are two roads diverged at a major intersection...I will inevitablely travel the path to the closest retail shopping establishment. I sat at the stop light this morning, I had a major decision to make: Turn right in the direction of the car dealership to once and for all take care of the burnt out tail and brake lights on my car......or turn left into the town center to pick-up my much needed deep hydrating boutique moisterizer.

As the light changed, there was no hesitation. Despite my husband's almost hourly chorus of nagging emails, tweets, voicemails, texts and instant messages regarding the car - my actions were intuitive. I made a beeline for the "chi-chi," "fru-fru" cosmetics store. The sentiment, "A good moisterizer is better than any vitamin," echoed through my head. It sounded like some glorious and sage advice that had once rolled off the tongues of Diana Vreeland, Coco Chanel, Jaqueline Kennedy Onassis, or at the very least, RuPaul. Yet, it was simply copy for a new skincare product advertised in a recent SELF magazine.

"Moisterizer!" "Vitamin!" "Brakelight!" The words riccocheted through my thoughts like ping pong balls. As I eased my car into a prime parking spot in front of Pottery Barn, I knew that what I was about to do was no small feat. To pull off the equivalent of a cosmetics "quickie," I had to be a woman on a mission - get in, get the goods and get out....without any upsell and purchase of additional products and services.

As I strode confidently across the street, just steps from the open shop door, the bark ring tone on my iPhone rang out. Shit! My husband! Damnit! I stood holding the barking phone as other shoppers gawked and stepped out of my way. "I will DEAL with the car, LATER!" I think I angrily said ou tloud and let the call slink into voicemail. But there would be no message, because, like clockwork, in five minutes, the phone would bark again.

It was now or never. I had a strict timetable to keep surrounding bus schedules and soccer practice. Circling back with kids in tow, was really not the best case scenario. The last time I drug the five-year-old, aka The Crazy Man, along on my quest for the perfect skinny jeans, he discovered eight new GapBody fragrances and to spite me, sprayed them all on his hair - at once. We both left the store smelling like potent combinations of Designer Imposters cologne, Deep Woods Off, rose hips and wet dog. On rainy days, when the lingering smell can be detected in the car, I am reminded of his hijinx and how it touched off everyone's allergies.

When all was said and done, I was able to pull off an impressive trifecta: got the moisterizer, got the car fixed AND got everyone to their practices reasonably on-time. But later, I knew I would have to patiently listen to my husband's monotonous "man-trum" (man tantrum) over car maintenance and why he didn't appreciate my cavialier attitude about brakelight safety. I knew that while, he wouldn't understand it, the explanation was elementary...While you can't go too far on the road less traveled without brakelights, you do, however, have a much better chance of talking yourself out of a fine, ticket or warning with glowing, dewy, well-moisterized skin.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

In a Bloggin' State of Mind

Last June, I jinxed myself. As I sat at the kitchen table on a lazy Sunday morning, sipping coffee and blocking out the sounds of arguing children, I read a New York Times article about the inordinate number of blogs that go fallow...abandoned forever in cyberspace with a tell-tale dateline/time of death and cingular, often arcane final headline such as, "I'm a playa, I'm a playa," "Looooooook at ma thingy," "Photos of the world's largest cookie cutter collection," and "Won't post again until we all get free weed."

I sat bolt upright, slapped the paper down on the table and announced, to no one in particular (as my husband is VERY good at blocking me out), and said, "This will SOOO not happen to me!"

In reality, blogging is hard work. It is hard to be consistently witty and relevant and at the same time self-depricating while you wear your inner most thoughts on your sleeve. Yet, what is even harder, however, is learning to live with what you've put out there for all to read, reference, comment on, and email to friends.
I have, more or less, reconciled myself with the fact that I have willingly given a multitude of eyes and ears a peek into my life and bedroom. Therefore, the full scope of my online musings/actions never really registered with me.

Until....I ran into a friend and former colleague of my husband at the grocery store. There I was, at the deli counter, scolding my 5 year-old for sitting on the kaiser rolls - (Why do they keep them so low? Do the supermarket powers-that-be not realize that small children will want to stack them like legos to use as a step ladder?) - He came up to me with a big hug and kiss.....

"Hey," I said, "How are you?" and continued with the usual pleasantries about work and his wife. When the conversation had run its course, he just gave me a wink and a sly smile and said, "Oh's it going...haven't checked your....(slight pause) awhile."
The full gravity and reality of what I was putting out there hit me in that instant. For a split second I couldn't move, paralyzed like a deer in headlights. It must have flashed across my face before I could recover, because he then gamely gave me a playful, "knowing" punch on the arm and said, "Ahhh...that hubby of yours....give him my best." Then he was gone.

As I turned back to order my salty meats, I felt both oddly violated and flirted with at the same time. Never, in all of my months of silly stories and vivid description, had I ever once stopped to think about how someone's view of me could be altered - for better or worse - regarding the stories I chose to share. And never had I given a moments thought to the typical male perspective on it all.

In my mind, my audience has always been smart, savvy modern women. Those with or without children, who wear many hats - mother, daughter, wife, friend, lover, teacher, sister, aunt, neighbor - and were fraught with many of the same issues prevalent in my life. I was never really trying to be provactive, just timely and topical and above all else funny. The only guy, I thought, that really read my posts was my husband....if he laughed, not a little tee hee, but a full, throaty, showing all his teeth, clapping his hands laugh - then I knew it was good - be it obnoxious, ridiculous, voyeristic or over the top.

But then, I am one to naively stand at the early morning school bus stop in my flannel pajamas amid a group of husbands waiting with their children then scurrying off to work and think no one notices.....or is offended, annoyed or even oddly turned-on.

Whether in a conversation or a blog post, I've always sacraficed social convention for a punchline. To me, funny is sexy. (Come on, would Paulie Shore have gotten any ass in his lifetime if he wasn't funny?....okay maybe funny is sexy doesn't apply to the Weasel...) And when the timing is right I will go in for a laugh, like a skilled boxer who has perfected her upper left hook. Most don't expect that it is coming and the mousey, four-eyed girl always walks away with the biggest laughs.

But then after my panic at the deli counter, I stopped. I stopped writing. I stopped sharing. I closed down. My opinions felt irrelevent and tired. Plus, I was a bit scared of the monsterous, over-sexed online corner I had become to believe I had painted myself into. Was that wave and smile from the neighbor that I knew read my blog really mean, "Hi! How are you?" Or was it really, "Oh yeah, she's a horny mother fuckin' freak!"

Then school started and we stopped eating lunch meat. The quick uptick in the family schedule left me cranky and tired and without time to myself. Without time to think, to write and to be circumspect about it all and my thoughts were relegated to the daily ebb and flow of email responses. And as I religiously checked my inbox, I began to get increasingly annoyed by the sheer speed in which some people could crank out responses. And not just a phoned in WTF LOL half email/half tweet, but the long circuituous way that they got to their point. I was so jealous of their use of words and quick chirpy verse.

What pushed me off the ledge, however, was a series of novellas written and sent by a soccer coach. His emails were like long idle walks down a country road, meandering yet quaint and full of Norman Rockwellian antecodes. He prattled on about the joy of autum and mulling spices, crisp leaf peeping and soccer playing weather, the unabridged history of the soccer ball (Who knew they were once oblong rocks?), seminole moments in Pele's athletic career (Where would Brazilian soccer be if he hadn't flunked out of law school?), and the unconfirmed story that Posh has been secretly drugging Becks with low doses of Viagra.

I was dumbfounded. As I hit delete, I may have even thrown up in my mouth. This person had written more in one email, than I had blogged about in months.....hmmm....dare I start looking into guest bloggers? Nah......because, just as Jay-Z raps that "I'll be hood forever," the allure of an online persona will always lead me back and compell me to share my voice and hopefully a laugh about life, love, sex and the insanity of it all.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

The Spin Cycle of Life

My mother has cancer. There I have typed it. I can't take it away. I can't erase it. I just have to put it out there and let it hang, because it has been sitting on the tip of my tongue, at the back of my mouth, at the base of my thoughts. I will say it again, my mother has cancer....and I am scared.

I am scared for her, for myself (selfishly), my children, for the future. And in the quiet moments, when I get off the phone with her, a flood of memories rush back. Ones that I thought had faded or had been lost somewhere amid the other happier moments in time, like my wedding day or the birth of my children or vacations at a far off exotic locale.

I check in with her everyday, sometimes its a long talk. Sometimes its just a quick temperature read. Her chemo has started and she is tired. Yet, everytime I end the call, I am 9 years old again. It is early December and I am in fourth grade. Old enough to know something is very wrong, but not mature enough to completely grasp the gravity of the matter. I was in between the ages that my two older children are right now.

I finish my homework and kiss my grandmother goodnight. She was dying of breast cancer and after my grandfather had died of a heart attack she came to live the last two years of her life with us. I didn't know this at the time, but she had signs and symptoms and a tell-tale lump for some time. She was a proud old world lady who didn't trust religion or doctors and kept everything to herself. By the time my mother could intervene, it was too late, the disease had spread.

That night as I lie awake thinking about horses and basketball and Christmas, I could hear her slow, labored breathing, which turned to gasps and the low, muffled tones of my parents. My father had closed my bedroom door and called the ambulance. When I heard my mother crying, I reached for rosary beads in the dark and began to pray. It seemed like it was late into the night when I heard the clank of the stretcher on the steps. The creak and groans of the EMTs as they ferried her from the bedroom, down the steps and out the front door.

"Please!" I prayed. "Please, help her!" The metal from the beads pressed crows feet into the heel of my hot, sweaty palm. I fell asleep at last with them wrapped around my wrist, while desperately asking God for some grand intervention. I realize now that my act was all in vain, all for me. She was already gone and I felt lost.

Now, I am lost again, caught between my parents and my children. Trying to live each day as it comes, because it, life, is too short, too fleeting and in the end always astounds you by coming back full circle.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Where Did My Happy Go?

At dinner one night, my nephew, who is three, could not sit still. He was a little ball of energy, hoping on and off of his chair. My sister-in-law, tired from a long day and busy feeding the baby, was at her wit's end. She sternly reprimanded him and reminded him that he needed to sit correctly and eat his dinner. Sitting squarely on his chair, he looked up at her and said, "Momma , you took my happy away!"

I've been thinking about that story a lot lately, because everything, it seems, has been taking my happy away....the end of the school year, too much family togetherness resulting in possible permanent scars, multiple trips to the dentist, global warming, reports of John Stamos' attempt to orchestrate a "Full House" movie deal, Michael Jackson tribute coverage, all of the golf and cycling my husband has been watching on the weekends (I don't give a fuck about Lance and the old guy.....and why aren't women allowed to complete in the Tour de France?) followed by complaints of my cooking chicken for dinner again...

My husband with his infinite wisdom suggested that in those moments of extreme stress - when the 5 year-old has drawn zebra stripes on his arms with black Sharpie marker, when the 8 year-old has managed to cover the entire floor in the family room with his ecclectic and obsessive collection of matchbox cars, when the 10 year-old can't understand why for the 10,000th time she can not have and iPhone and tells me that I am ruining her summer - I should put myself in a self imposed "time out" and try to envision a happy place.

But, what was my happy place? A clean spot on the beach were we vacation - too many memories of the kids encroaching upon my sense of zen. Yoga class at the local Y - too many pretzel-like poses. Running on a cool day down a country lane - too many shin splints. A relaxing soak in the tub - too many damn Spongebob toys up my ass. Maybe it is too many viewings of "Confessions of a Shopaholic," but standing in the handbag section of a local TJ Maxx, I realized my happy place. As I touched the price tag of a last season Cole Hahn hobo, I closed my eyes and whispered "va bene!" and invisioned myself half a world away....cue the Fendi store on Via Condotti in Rome.

My happy place, a stone's throw from the Spanish Steps, was nestled just across the way from Hermes and next door to Gucci. Now I realize that since my last trip to Rome, Fendi has opened a beautiful, new Piazza Fendi flagship store, but my memory still holds true to my late afternoon sojourn down Via Condotti in 1999. It was the height of "Sex In The City" on HBO and I wanted to visit the shrine to the holy grail of "it" bags, the Fendi baguette.

It was all very intoxicating....the smell of the leather, the crisply folded, hand-rolled silk scarves, the decandant disdain of the staff and the pungent scents of the Fendi fragrance line. My trip could have started and ended in that one spot and all would have been golden, except for the impatient and annoyed whining of my husband for dragging him into what he called "his fashion hell" complete with absolutely NO electronic devices whatsoever.....and I can still hear him guffaw over the exorbitant prices...

"Girlfriend, I have seen a lot of weird shit go down over in men's boxer briefs, but please, CONTROL YOURSELF! You can NOT sniff the half price pocksetbooks." The TJ Maxx Lay-Away Clerk snapped me out of my reverie, and I quickly pushed the purse away from my nose and cheek and hung it neatly back on it's hook. I looked around the store hopping no one else had noticed and slunk off in the direction of my back-up happy place, ladies clearance shoes....

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

The Drought Explained.....

Apologies! Apologies! As you can see, my output on this blog has slowed considerably over the past few months. The fact that this has occurred in conjunction with the end of the school year is no coincidence. With three active children, summer always seems to be a combination of breaking up arguments, chaffeuring the kids to their various day camps, and counting the minutes until bedtime. But this summer has been very different, as I have had legitimate reasons for my lack of posts.

First, I was quite excited when I was presented with the opportunity to sign me and the kids up to star in "A Chorus Line Jr." at our local theatre. Our youngest, aka The Crazy Man, has always shown a penchant for naked dancing around the house, and my middle son, he who is obsessed with France, recently exhibited an odd curiosity for "jazz hands".

I'll admit that my daughter needed a little convincing, but after about 7 repeated viewings of the "Sound of Music", I convinced her she could be the "Lisel" to my "Maria" in this production (and that "Cookin' Mama 2: Soul Food Edition" might be in her future for her DS). Plus, I checked, and there was little opportunity for that little attention hog to steal precious spotlight from me.....bonus! The impromptu tribute to Michael Jackson we performed during the finale will be talked about for years to come in our town, no doubt!

Next, was the unfortunate incident you may have read about around the 4th of July. We were going to do a water balloon toss during our annual BBQ, but my husband thought it would be a bit more exciting if we did it with sparklers instead.

As you can see, that bastard miscalculated that after a few Coronas his aim might be a bit impaired. Don't worry, the Crazy Man is doing fine...though my husband did try to blame it on all the "fruity dancing" he had been doing lately instead of improving his eye-hand coordination. I am so glad our last performance of "A Chorus Line Jr." was the week before, otherwise I would have had to scramble to find a kid to do the moonwalk during the finale.

Then, this past weekend we had some drama here after we broke out the Slip and Slide.....We had a bunch of neighborhood families at the house for some summertime fun, and one thing led to another, and my husband thought he would show off by giving the kids a head start "midget toss" style....

Unfortunately for one of the two year olds on the street, my husband was busy talking about the god damn Tour de France or something with one of the other guys while mid toss and you can see the result. Who's got the poor eye-hand coordination now, asshole? has been a pretty busy summer here as you can see. Please bear with is just around the corner, and that means plenty of bus stop time.....which is blogging gold for me!

Monday, June 22, 2009

Best. Father's. Day. Ever!

My husband said he wanted to keep it simple this Father's Day. No Vineyard Vines ties, grilling gear, or "family coupons" for "free" hugs or car washes that the kids will forget about by the end of the day.

Nope -- he just wanted to be left alone in the tub with some of his favorite comfort food. How could we deny the man who regularly makes my heart skip a beat (and has been known to press magnetic letters into my ass) this simple pleasure?

I did get a little scared when he asked the eight year old to help him find the ketchup packets though.....

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Bristol Palin, Abstinence & Pot Pie

Much ado has been made about the Obamas’ trip to NYC last month for a Broadway show, and, as I have said before, as if the Obama's getting their swerve on in the White House isn’t enough, the New York Times ran an interesting article titled, “If they can find time for date night…”

The general gist of the piece claimed to be “a presidential elbow to the ribs of husbands” and quoted many long married couples about the pitfalls of keeping romance alive. While I read the wistful musing of spouses (mostly wives) wishing for more alone time together, I realized that I didn’t share the sentiment.

It’s not that I wouldn’t like a grand romantic gesture, what girl wouldn’t? But, I’d like to think that there is something more to it than just the occasional night on the town together. Isn’t it really what you make of your time together – whether you are having a discussion at a restaurant or over the kitchen table; or watching a movie in a theater or on your own couch - that fills that romantic void? You don’t need Air Force One to make an impression, or in my husband’s case just flowers…and food.

With thoughts of romance running through his head, my husband came home, last Friday, bearing gifts - a bouquet of flowers, a box of condoms and a chicken pot pie. I gave him a long hard look and tried to piece together the riddle, because nothing quite says “romance” like an assortment of Trojans, puff pastry and freshly cut sunflowers. Yet, it worked….and later, in the throes of passion, both of us knowing that we were rolling the family planning dice (hence the condoms), my husband whispered seductively into my ear, “Let’s make a baby.” (Usually, it would have seemed kinda sexy… okay maybe just sexy in a cheesy ‘70’s, Larry Dallas “Three’s Company,” big gold medallion way, but I’ll roll with it, just don’t tell my husband…) This time, however, he must have seen the look of utter fear fall across my face and he immediately recanted. “Okay, well, not really….um, just kidding….psyche!” And with the cagey reflexes of a mountain lion, he flung himself off of me, into the air and in the general direction of the hiding place of the latex cache.

As I watched his silhouette hopping back and forth in the moonlight….hoping he won’t totally kill the mood by breaking a toe on the dresser (yeah, we were kickin’ it old school, lights off and all….I suppose that the only thing missing was a Barry White 8 track, black satin sheets and glasses filled with Crown Royal on ice)….I could not help but think of the Dr. Seuss book, “Hop On Pop,” except my current situation, was more like “Hop Off Pop….don’t get off…hop off NOW!” Not a typical scenario by any means, just a factor in the birth control crossroads that I have found myself at yet again - I don’t want to get the tubes tied (definitely not after my neighbor's recent experience!), he's not ready to wear the "cone of shame" and the clock is ticking on our current solution (whole other post!)…which needs to be addressed asap!

You see, my husband and I have never quite gotten the birth control thing right. In my early 20’s, my doctors informed me that that when we did decide to have children, it would take longer than normal to conceive. We took the news as more of birth control pass than anything, and found out quickly that both we and the doctors were wrong. Boy, were we all wrong! It just so happened that my uber-fertile Irish peasant genes kicked in at age 25 and we had one hell of a mind blowing holy shit moment in the car after the first OB appointment. We were just shy of our 1st wedding anniversary and I’ll never forget how scared and overwhelmed I felt, looking down at all the forms for my blood work, the hospital registration information and the “Next Nine Months” book we were given. But as history is doomed to repeat itself, so were we and 22 months after the birth of baby #1, along came baby #2.

Now you would think that a young family with two children, a girl and a boy, would have been enough. We had two healthy children and were moving into a new house. So why throw a third into the mix? But I did and in a perfect storm of sorts I switched birth control options from the pill to the patch, left the kids with my parents, and packed up for a child -free vacation in Hawaii for a friends wedding. FYI – don’t use any form of patch – bug repellent, smoking, weight loss, etc – when going to the lushest, wettest state in the union. Regardless of what the box says or whatever is written on the fine print packaging insert, the patch will NOT, I repeat, WILL NOT stay-on while golfing, river kayaking, hiking to a waterfall, snorkeling, wine tasting, sightseeing, horseback riding, kite boarding, indulging in a full-body seaweed wrap at the hotel spa, sleeping, changing your clothes, listening to your iPod, flying in an airplane, eating lunch on a veranda or any other daily vacation activity. While we left two behind, we came back with one more….and lets just say baby #3 (now known as Crazy Man, he of the drawn on eyebrows) could have easily been named Aloha Kona. Or as my friend, who is a native Hawaiian and whose wedding we went to, likes to remind me, “Wow, they always said Hawaii was the land of romance….now you have proof!”

But I digress, and getting back to the end of my bedroom “date night” hijinx, I suppose Bristol Palin is right - the only sure fire birth control is abstinence. The concept is really quite simple - no intercourse, no conception. The problem, however, is that abstinence is unrealistic. In our modern world abstinence is somewhat of a punch line. It is a quaint silly by-gone notion like churning butter or listening to a song on vinyl. Why go through all the steps – We are an “Instant Gratification Nation” and nobody wants to wait for anything anymore. Is there an iPhone app abstinence and if so would you really want to download it? In the meantime, I will try to put it into practice, but it will ultimately be in vain... for Friday is just around the corner and I’m sure it will bring another bouquet and quite possibly another pot pie.

Thursday, June 4, 2009

The Official Launch of Crazy Man Blog

Today, I can honestly say that my 5 year-old (he of the drawn on eyebrows) is cooler than most 5 year-olds. Why? Today, we officially launched his blog, Crazy Man Blog...or I should say I actually let him post something on it.

Under much supervision, he creates his own content and pictures and even posts his own comments, like "Spongebob Rocks!" I jump in to add a few minor clarifications or spelling changes. But the concept is all Crazy Man!
After he proudly told his two older siblings about his blog this afternoon, he was gratified to find out that neither of them showed any interest in his blog or creating a blog of their own. "There are just 2 blogs here, that's good," he commented and then proceeded to tell me to type the numeral 2 instead of spell out two because it's "just easy."
Fear not those of you out there who have gotten random emails and/or text messages from him, he will be completely supervised while blogging....I already had to help him create more age appropriate titles for his blog posts, because I quickly realized he was cutting and pasting titles from my blog. "Selling Sex to the Suburbs - Part I" on his blog had to be quickly changed to "Glowsticks Demo, Whatever Part 1." Apparently, he liked the Part I, II and III concept.

Check out his blog, but be forewarned, it is EXTREMELY random and will probably walk a very fine line before becoming a full blown homage to Spongebob Squarepants. Live crazy and enjoy!

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

The Art Of The Douche Bag

I hate to admit it, but my husband and I have been living with a horrible, horrible secret. So, horrible that we carefully hide it from our children, neighbors, friends, family, co-workers. We are addicts…and our drug of choice is REALLY BAD TV. You name it – "Celebrity Apprentice,"
“The Littlest Groom,” “Wife Swap,” 3 a.m. Nick at Nite reruns of “The Nanny,” “Saturday Night Live”(the Jon Lovitz years) – if it has tanked in the ratings, we have watched it…twice.

The latest show to catch our fancy has been Discovery Channel’s “Pitchmen” – the self-promoting vehicle for career pitchman, Billy Mays and the stable of products he hawks. Yes, the same ingratiating guy with a mask of facial hair that resembles jet black shag carpeting and sells $19.99 crap that you don’t need, like the stupid little hamburger molds. (I mean come the fuck on – “Big City Sliders” - whose brilliant idea was that concept, isn’t a mini hamburger just a flat, glorified meatball?)

After watching the first episode, my husband just shook his head and muttered, “What a douche!” I couldn’t hear what he said and quickly asked what the problem was. “That guy, Billy Mays, he’s just such a douche, I mean that’s the only thing that came to mind as I watched. I feel so dirty, like I should take a shower after I watch that show.” He then began to apologize, thinking I would be offended by his language. I assured him that I was not, as I was strangely thinking the same thing.

When you think about it, in broad terms what really is a douche bag? Wikitionary defines a douche bag (n.) as the bag for holding water or fluid used in douching (vaginal or anal levage). The vulgar slang term is loosely used to describe “a worthless person, jackass or asshole, someone blatantly inconsiderate of others. The plural form is douche bags, but if you are at the Jersey Shore and happen upon a gathering of 6 or more douche bags, then you have a Bon Jovi tribute band. (I was going to say Springsteen, but that didn’t seem quite douche-y enough).

The problem is that once you identify one douche bag, you see them everywhere. It’s the same phenomenon that happens when you buy a new car. You might think that the model and color that you picked are almost exclusive to you, then you roll it off the lot, stereo blaring Scissor Sisters, and realize that every other car is the exact same as yours and the drivers are listening to way cooler music. Just turn on your TV and they are everywhere:

While through the ages “douching” and “douche bags” have been typically associated with women, a woman it seems is rarely, if ever, described as one. My husband wondered if I considered douche bag a derogatory term, like the “c” word. (You all know the word I’m talking about….the stank nasty name for the vajajay or the cha-cha). I paused for a moment and thought its not really a knock on womanhood if someone used douche bag as a derogatory term for an asshole male. Especially since most physicians will agree that douching is not really the most hygienic or safest thing to be doing anyway.

Yet, there are definitely women out there that you wouldn’t classify as bitchy, but you don’t want to start throwing around c-bombs. There has got to be a douche bag-esque name for women like Suze Orman, Paris Hilton, Sarah Palin, Joan Rivers, Rosie O'Donnell, and Kate Gosselin – women that make your skin crawl with the same feeling that you get from watching Billy Mays. At dinner with friends one night, amid a chorus of laughter, I floated out my ideal name for a female douche bag – vag (as in vagina) wipe!

Maybe being a douche bag isn’t all that bad, serial-dating, male slut John Mayer has even gone on the record stating, “Yeah, I’m kind of a douche.” And New Jersey has cornered the market on both male hair gel and the moniker (not to be confused with the tube sock and faux dockersider wearing New England variation - the Masshole). Does the adage hold that once a douche always a douche? Can a douche bag ever be rehabilitated? And what happened when a douche and a vag wipe marry, like Heidi and Spencer? Does that classify as inbreeding?

I guess I will just have to wait for more bad reality TV, like “I’m a Douche Bag, Get Me Out of Here!” or “Survivor: Atlantic City – The Celebrity Douche Bag edition,” before all of my questions are answered....

Monday, June 1, 2009

Hey Kate, 1987 called....

Really, everyone wants the Kate Gosselin hairdo?  
Bitch Pleeze!  More like Robert Smith, lead singer of The Cure, wants his haircut back!

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Selling Sex To The Suburbs - Part III

Editor's Note: This is the final part of a 3 part essay. Please click on the links to read Part I and Part II.

The polarizing point was not the marketing and selling of a monthly sex toy service, but the act of talking about it…out loud. More volatile, I found, than politics, or religion, the topic of sex had no middle ground. An invisible line was drawn between two factions: those who talk about it and those who do not.

Just as Hester Prynne was ostracized for her sexual indiscretions, I was starting to believe I was wearing a large scarlet “pocket rocket” across my breast. The reactions were always the same: disappointment, repulsion, and more often than not, intrigue. A wink and a knowing nod seemed to confer that I was in the club, a fellow user, too. I felt oddly cool.

Then, there were others who were a little too eager, too over zealous. “I guess you have to try those, huh?” Some even offered too much information. For example, I quickly found out that my quiet, mild mannered, brother-in-law was not only a budding wine enthusiast, but a walking encyclopedia regarding the adult entertainment business. On demand, he could quote Playboy articles, bios of Stern Show regulars and upcoming dates of porn conventions.

Yet, like a dumb-struck fifth grader, I could not tell my parents about my new area of expertise.
For over a month, my mother would continually ask me about my work. I’d always hide the truth in generalizations. Finally, one morning over coffee, I couldn’t self-edit anymore. “Mom, haven’t you and dad wondered why I haven’t told you what I’m doing and who I work for?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “but we were sure you had your reasons.” I looked at her and thought, well, here goes and began my pitch. She sucked in air and covered her mouth. I couldn’t tell if she was going to hyperventilate and was pretty sure that the only words she had heard were “intimate,” and “fruit-of-the- month.” She leaned in and whispered, “You mean they sell…vibrators?” Her tone was low and nervous, as someone of her generation would whisper “cancer” when talking of a friend’s illness. Saying it, but not really saying it, because of an invisible, unsavory element. “Oh, my! I just don’t understand why someone would get into that business.”

She quickly recovered and I was surprised she knew what I was talking about.
“There’s a lot of money to be made, mom. Sex still sells, even when the economy doesn’t.” In the end, I had gotten too familiar with the words, terminology and discussion points. It no longer shocked me and I no longer cared if I shocked others. I could tell she didn’t buy my rationalization, even if it was the truth. Now it was my mother's turn to blush magenta. I had broken her extraneous commandment and realized I could not compartmentalize and closet something I had jumped into whole heartedly.

Sex is a unique common denominator. It is a basic function of human nature from which all genders, religions, ages, ethnicities and sexual persuasions can not escape. You are either doing it or you're not. There are no gray areas; no places to hide.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Laying All My Spanx On The Line

Every time I read the “Aha Moment” section of the Oprah magazine, I can’t help but wonder where is mine – where is my “aha?”

Celebrities, such as Rashida Jones, who has written about “Finding Joy in Sadness” and, who has opined on “Discovering America from Afar”, line up to share their wisdom on love, loss, beauty, spirituality and life. Still, I really don’t think I’ve had a life altering moment were the clouds have parted and God’s voice spoke. I mean, isn’t the “aha moment” really just a suburban myth, like the elusive triple orgasm, the laundry fairy and “quality me” time?

Finally, at 9:43 a.m. on Wednesday morning, I had mine. It was acute, like a pin prick, but I knew in an instant something would have to give. I was running late for my daughter’s field trip where I had volunteered to help show what life was like in turn-of-the-century New England. I pulled into the closest available parking space, grabbed my latte and hopped out to the car.

“Hey there!” a familiar male voice boomed. The voice was exiting the car next to me and I immediately recognized the dad of one of my daughter’s friends. This is when the embarrassing wardrobe malfunction began….

As we began to walk uphill from the parking lot to the check-in area, the typical small talk ensued, “Are you here for the field trip?” I asked. “Yeah, but I only thought it was going to be an hour, I didn’t know this was going to be all day,” he said and droned on about hoping to get a half day of work in and not making the bus at school and hoping that he hadn’t left the science coordinator high and dry. I politely nodded and listened, but in reality I wasn’t listening at all - I could only focus on one thing...

As I had hopped out of the driver’s seat, I felt a sharp pain around the very top of my left thigh. I was wearing a pair of Spanx “Power Panties,” the flesh-tone nylon unmentionables that are supposed to discreetly streamline your silhouette. The left leg curled up to an uncomfortable and lumpy 2 inch thickness, and snuggly gripped my leg like a rubber band. As we kept walking I was keenly aware of the direness of my situation and I tried to simultaneously listen, not walk funny and scan the property for the nearest bathroom. I was pretty sure that not much could be seen from the front, but from behind, my left ass cheek must have looked like it was either overcome with a tumor or laden with a shit load of cellulite.

As we got to the check-in area and went our separated ways- I was left to trek off to my station which seemed miles away from a bathroom. When I reached the spot, no one else was there. I looked around and for a fleeting second thought of dropping trough in the middle of the field to un-spanx my spanx. I thought twice, however, when I heard the noise of school children and watched the bus rocket up the road (that I thought was hidden by the brush), directly behind me. Thus, my spandex-ed ass was left to suffer in silence, and I was left to fret that my upper leg circulation would be fucked up forever. For the next two hours, I could not shake the vision of my husband trying to explain to the kids why mommy had to have her leg amputated.

How many “shaping” foundation garments do you have to own before you realize, this is no way to live? Or, the reality sinks in that it’s time to finally lose some weight. While Power Panties do pack a punch, they aren’t supposed to scream “girdle!”

Looking for solace or at least fat Kristie Alley photos on, I read that “ahas are the product of our own deep innate wisdom.” Well duh….of course I know the only person I’m fooling is my self, but I can’t really think anymore of anything philosophical or ironic to say about wearing firm form support. My inner voice tells me that I should never have encased my thighs in spandex in the first place, which I admit is different from Jada Pinkett’s “Aha Moment.” Apparently, in her moment, “God was telling me (her), ‘Surrender or explode.’” I hear ya’ Jada, especially on the explode part…

Monday, May 18, 2009

In The Same Sex Marriage Debate, Why Can't Love Conquer All?

Love. Everyone wants to be in love, to have someone to love, to tell you something about love.

Yet, William Shakespeare has truthfully said, “The course of true love never did run smooth.” And Dorothy Parker, in wittier fashion, has said, “Love is for unlucky folk. Love is but a curse.” In short, to love is to take the good with the bad; to take the good with the bad, in a sense, is the essence of marriage.

When I got married, like every other bride and groom, thought we were exceedingly original when we selected as our second reading the first letter of Paul to the Corinthians, “Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is not jealous, it does not put on airs….There is no limit to love’s forbearance, to its trust, its hope, its power to endure. Love never fails.” If all of this love is so powerful, so wonderful and so blind, then what does it matter if it is “same sex” love and marriage or, to quote Miss California, “opposite sex” love and marriage.

I don’t mean to trivialize the issue, but I don’t understand what the big deal is. What do heterosexuals think will happen if gay people can get married? Lightning bolts will not thunder down from the sky, zombies will not crawl out of the subway, locusts will not swarm Topeka, Kansas, A-Rod will not switch hit for the other team….well, I can’t vouch for A-Rod, but life will more or less remain status quo.

The New York State Legislature has until June 20th to enact legislation to legalize same sex unions. Perhaps it is too na├»ve of me to hope that at the end of the day love will conquer all. Why is it that only heterosexual couples get the right to voluntarily enter into the last legal form of indentured servitude? Marriage should just be what it is – part cultural institution, part formality, part circus – and not the epicenter of a political, social or religious agenda. In a Utopian world, wouldn’t marriage be genderless and universal? Doesn’t it mean something, doesn’t it count, if two people, gay or straight, commit themselves to each other before their god, government, family, and the world in a marriage and say, “I want to be with you, I want to grow old with you, I want to care for you and have a family?” We aren’t talking about water boarding or snuggies or the Taliban or the economy, it is love, and according to the Beatles, it is “all we need!”

Looking back on my wedding album, I can’t help but think how young and foolish we were. I was 24 years old; my husband was a “more mature” age of 25. We were head-over-heels happy, and I would do it all again in a heartbeat. However, I am ashamed to admit that over the last decade, there have been far too many times were I have taken my marriage for granted. My husband and my marriage have weathered the rocky times, the selfish times, the good times and all the in between times. Never once, until now, did I stop to think how about how my life would have been if I couldn’t have gotten married to the one person I love.

If all heterosexual couples could have an “It’s a Wonderful Marriage” moment with an angel named Clarence (or maybe just Nathan Lane) who could magically show us how things could have been if wedded bliss was not a legal option, I feel pretty confident to say that more people would approach the same sex marriage debate with a much more open mind and compassionate heart.

In the end, I think those opposed to gay marriages are just scared. Scared that homosexuals will take the hallowed hetero institution of marriage and finally get it right. Like the areas of art, fashion, literature, music, design, grooming, entertainment and celebrity gossip where gay people have surpassed their hetero brethren to achieve an awesome and glittering level of excellence. A success that is bigger, broader, bawdier and bolder, like Hugh Jackman’s “I Go To Rio” finale from “The Boy from Oz,” in a way no straight person could ever dream of; Only a level of excellence that could be achieved by a boyhood spent clandestinely dancing to Bette Midler in ladies lingerie and gold Gucci heels, could passionately wish, dream and make it happen.

Doesn’t a loving male couple with matching cardigan sweaters, to-die-for rose bushes and crisp Italian linen drapes deserve the same marital rights as knocked up 17 year olds from Alaska or Louisiana? Or can’t we a least hook them up with a commitment ceremony that is not half as cheesy as the whole Spencer/Heidi “Prontag” debacle! Who gets to say what is and is not convention? Is there some imaginary book out there, like Santa’s “Naughty and Nice” list which definitively states what can and can not be?

Now Miss California, Carrie Prejean, will tell you that great book of conventional wisdom is the Bible. Scientologists will say it’s a large egg-like spaceship from the planet Ork. Catholics will say it’s the Pope. The Prontag’s will say they are just so blessed to be famous and Donald Trump will say whatever will get him laid…with Melania, Miss California, Joan Rivers, the Pope, Rosie O'Donnell, or anyone else he needs to get into bed with to do a deal. Gay, lesbian and transgender people have enough to endure in life without having to worry about what the states, courts and cosmetically enhanced beauty queens have to say about their personal love lives.

This past Sunday marked the 5th anniversary of the first same sex marriage license recorded in the state of Massachusetts. According to the Boston Globe, since 2004 there have been 12,000 legally recognized same sex unions, which in turn have pumped close to $111 million into the state’s economy. Trite jokes about Provincetown, 24 karat gold penis commitment jewelry and his-his / hers-hers towels at the Berkshire cottage aside, you can not deny the coincidence that 2004 was a big year in Bay State history – same sex marriages were legalized and the Red Sox FINALLY reversed the curse and won the world series.

New York sports fans are you really willing to chance it? Take a tip from Red Sox Nation, embrace your inner Mike Piazza, call your state senator and support same sex unions - a May win at the statehouse just might translate to an October win on a hometown ball field!