08_boom_boom

I blame this play for EVERYTHING.

 

I met her in an acting class in New York city.

Do you know how many stories I could start like that? I met some of the most fascinating people of my life in acting classes.

 

I met the other serious love of my life in an acting class. He was 5’3″ tall and 15 years older than me. Don’t JUDGE! He was also famous. He had been in a hit band in the 80′s, and I’ve always been an unmitigated star fucker attracted to musicians.

Everyone in an acting class is screwing everyone else. It’s a more incestuous sexual hotbed than WordPress, even. If you’re not hizzit the skizzins with another actor, then you’re swacking the teacher. That was usually me, because I’ve always had raging Daddy issues liked older men.

 

In 1990′s NYC, I was studying acting with Betty Buckley. She was a “big deal;” you had to audition to be granted entrance to her class.

Betty Buckley won the Tony award for Cats. She was the original Grizabella, the shabby, decrepit old feline who plaintively meows her way through the song “Memories.”

She’s starred in a number of Broadway plays and a whole slew of movies. Before Cats, she spent several years portraying the stepmom in the television equivalent of swallowing ground glass, a banal series called “Eight is Enough.”

 

She was an amazing teacher but incredibly strange.

She began every class with a new-agey group guided meditation. You know, so the Solar Logos would take us on Astral Flight and we could all experience a Paradigm Shift. That.

Once, in the middle of it, she came up behind me and whispered, “I don’t know what you have going on with your mother. But if you’re going to be an actor, you’d better go into therapy and get in touch with it.”

I spent the next 5 years in psychotherapy. Thank you, Betty.

 

Nicolette distinguished herself from the rest of the class instantly, by the sheer scope of her physical beauty. She was stunning.

Her hair. I could write a whole post just about her hair. Her glossy chocolate brown hair spilled down beside her face, framing it perfectly. It was a curtain of brown silk.

She had enormous blue eyes, cupid bow pink lips,  and the golden proportion of perfect white teeth. Her body was cartoonish perfection with a tiny waist and oversized breasts.

Betty zeroed right in on her. She was known for having young female protegés who do all her errands, and take a lot of abuse from her. Nicolette quickly became her new handmaiden, which later irritated me to no end. She once sported a torn up lip where Betty’s insufferable bird bit her, while she tried to feed the feathery fucker.

Nicolette was so sweet. I couldn’t believe anyone THAT beautiful could be so sweet.

She wasn’t.

We were assigned to do a scene from “In the Boom Boom Room,” a renowned play about go go dancers in a sleazy night club.

Betty was relentless when it came to scene study. Every week, you’d perform in front of the class. When it was over she’d call “Scene!” and crank your self esteem through the meat grinder of her critique. She demanded we bring in the same scenes repeatedly.

The scene Nicolette and I had been assigned took place in the dressing room, as one dancer, played by me, tries to seduce the new girl - played by Nicolette.

Because I was a method actor, I convinced Nicolette to perform the scene in our bra and panties. Method, schmethod. I wanted to see her in her underwear.

In the scene my character asks hers, “Have you ever made love to a woman?” I was so smitten with her I decided to do something not in the script. I decided to grab her and lay a big old kiss on her. And because I wanted her reaction as real as the character’s – I didn’t tell her I was planning to do that

We rehearsed together all that first week, sans kiss. And then, we brought the scene to class.

When walked on stage in our underwear, mine jet black, hers, blood-red - there was a collective sharp intake of breath.

Actors are FREAKS. But still. Two nubile 20 somethings, in almost nothing? And Nicolette, with her breasts spouting all over the stage.

When I leaned in and kissed her, I thought her character would jump back in surprise.

Her character probably would have. Nicolette didn’t. So we just stood there, sucking serious face, for waaaay too long. Like, absurdly long. Like, “this isn’t even about the scene” long.

The kiss started from the neck up. A minute in, our bodies were pressing together.

And kept pressing…

“SCENE!”  Betty pussy blocked me and ended a kiss that tasted like dessert. Bitch.

 

And that’s how I found out Nicolette was a lesbian.

I felt like I had won the motherfucking LOTTERY.

 

The next time I went to her apartment to “rehearse” we did absolutely NO rehearsing.

How do women have lesbian sex? Ohh. I didn’t TELL you?

Must have been NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS.

 

We did rehearse, on subsequent visits. Betty the big dyke made us rehearse that scene for 2 months. Finally she could find no fault with us.
“What do you say, girls?” she asked. “Should we call it quits? Or do you think you want to bring in back in one more week?”

“No, Betty,” I answered. “I think Eight is Enough.”

 

I was besotted with Nicolette. She was the first ultra feminine, girly lesbian I’d ever known. She was actually more of a girly girl than I was.

She was flowery mini dresses; I was a black leather skirt. She was brunch, I was “Is this breakfast? Lunch? Fuck you!” She wore her lustrous brown hair in a French braid. I dyed my hair to match hers but when I put it up it looked like a Hefty bag with a twist tie.

She was a talented dancer. I played drums in a punk band, without knowing how to play drums.

 

But vive la différence, right? We became a Thing.

 

Nicolette’s personality was no flowery dress. She was a BITCH. And not your Basic Bitch, either. A prize-ribbon wearing, Grade A, Queen Bee DIVA bitch.

She was completely self absorbed. If I was sick, she would whine about missing a pedicure to bring me soup. She was a half hour late for every thing, every time. With NO apologies. She constantly one-upped me. If I had a headache, she was dying of a brain tumor. She was rude and impatient with waiters and waitresses. If we were out to brunch God forbid she didn’t get a bread plate. She was programmed to receive attention, and expected all of mine.

 

We might have survived all of this – had it not been her refusal to accept I wasn’t a lesbian.

Lesbians invariably try to convert sexually ambiguous women. According to Nicolette, I was a full throttle lesbian in unequivocal denial.

Yeah, NO. I like penis too much to be a lesbian. Sorry. I wasn’t quite ready to drive a U Haul truck to Lilith Fair.

We ended our relationship amidst of storm of emotions, talked about it until my ears bled, and eventually parted friends.

 

Nicolette and I lost touch for the next 15 years. Maybe, I just didn’t want her to know I’d gotten married, moved to the suburbs, had a kid.

Maybe,  I didn’t want to know I’d done that.

 

A few years ago, she found me on the Book of Face (where else?) and eventually we made plans to get together.

We had dinner in Manhattan. Nicolette was still beautiful. Maybe more so? And BITCHIER, if that’s even possible.

She was now running an ultra trendy club which cuts a wide swath in the currency of bitchiness.

After dinner we went to a club to scout some acts she was thinking of featuring.

We ended up on the dance floor, because some things never change. Neither of us can be in a place with a dance floor and not dance. There was also alcohol involved. I get drunk off of half a drink. Many of my bad decisions have been alcohol-fueled.

“When I’m Small” by Phantogram came on.

Oh, C’MON! That song sounds like the soundtrack to two women grinding on a dance floor together, kissing passionately.

I am NOT suggesting that happened. Her list of neuroses make me look like a stable, calm individual. And that’s scary.

 

 

So, she’s in my life again, this lesbian She-Devil. Demanding, critical, self-centered, spoiled.

Gorgeous. Charismatic. Brilliant. Effervescent. And those breasts…

 

I’ve tried to end this post for a few days now. I can’t. I just realized…it’s because, the story hasn’t ended. 

 

“I think choosing between men and women is like choosing between cake and ice cream. You’d be daft not to try both when there are so many different flavors.”
~ Bjork

 

 

“I’d rather die, than to be with you…”
Perfect lyrics. She’ll eat my soul, this woman. Who, incidentally, looked exactly like the woman in this video when I first met her.

 

Have you ever had a friend who was impossibly bitchy? Do gorgeous people get away with that easier?
Can someone like women and not be a lesbian? 
Talk to me.  I’m listening. 

Actually, it’s 2 minutes and 44 seconds.

Laurie Works witnessed the murder of her 2 sisters. Yes, these things that seem like tragic and distant television news stories, happen to people we know.

Today, on the SisterWives blog, she posted a video of the spoken word poem, “Shell,” she wrote about their death, and her life without them.

It’s raw and unedited. Vulnerable and brutiful. Probably the bravest and most intense thing you may ever see on WordPress.

 

Please give her your support, and your love.

 

Namaste,

Samara

 

Comments are closed. Please talk to Laurie. She’s listening. 

(editor’s note: You are now part of a blog hop, with each title part of the song “You Are My Sunshine.” Just give in. Give in to the hop. DO NOT RESIST THE HOP)

Am I really posting 2 days in a ROW?

That has NEVER happened. Except today is Mandi’s birthday, and I want EVERYONE IN THE ‘SPHERE to know it!

 

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When we first formed the SisterWives, Mandi came as part of a matched set (I thought). There was Beth and Mandi, two impossibly beautiful blonde real-life friends from Texas.

And then gradually,

There was Mandi.

There were so many of us, it took a while for each of us to connect, one-on-one.

She was worth the wait.

 

She’s a bit of a wizard, that one. She isn’t boisterous and edgy and “I’m strange, LOOK at ME” like some bloggers we know (*cough*). But damn, she is extraordinary.

She’s incredibly modest about her writing. So much so, that she almost has you convinced it’s “no big deal” and then you READ her blog and all of a sudden – WHAM!

She does everything from rock us to the core, with gut wrenching posts like The Cycle, to make us laugh bawdily, with her Penis Monologues.

 

The fact is, she’s so busy cheering US on, she doesn’t really take the time to dwell on her own work – which is magnificent.

 

She is so full of love and encouragement - and not the phony kind, the real, down deep genuine kind – that Lizzi has dubbed her “The Cheerleader.”

This of course, led to one of our hilarious and endless comment threads. At one point Mandi asked, “Does this mean I get to do a hurkey?”

To which Lizzi replied, “I have no idea what that even means!”

And off we went into one of our bizarrely charming Sisterwife tangents. I found a picture of one online and posted it- it’s a very complex jump:

 

The SisterWives Training in the Clubhouse

The SisterWives Hurkey Training

 

 

Lizzi found a YouTube tutorial on how to perform one, and evidently sustained some injuries attempting it.

The next day, Mandi posted a picture of herself executing the aforementioned hurkey!

SHE ACTUALLY DID THIS THING! It was astonishing!

That’s Mandi. She takes you by surprise with her amazingness.

 

 

Last week I wrote the most difficult post of my blogging career.

Three days later, it was Mandi’s turn to post.  Her post was (I thought) going to chronicle some struggle, some adversity she’d overcome. There are many. Although Mandi is just as she appears in the picture on her blog, full of light and laughter and blondeness, she has been through some SHIT.

 

She didn’t write about any of that.

Instead, she chose to write a gorgeous post, honoring me, and my decision to come forward and share my story with the world.

See what I mean?

THAT is the epitome of Mandi. Taking a moment that was supposed to be hers, and giving it to ME.

She is truly my Sisterwife, and I love her dearly.

 

 

Since I’m (just a few years) older than Mandi, I’d like to let her know that getting older is not the end of the world – BUT IT’S A GIANT STEP TOWARD IT!

So do NOT go gentle in that good night. Instead, age disgracefully. Here are some suggestions of things to do while still in your 30′s:

Go skydiving

Have sex someplace you shouldn’t

Talk to strangers

Go to Bonnaroo (Jennie will go with you)

Skinny dip

Take a cross county road trip (I’ll go with you)

Take risks

Learn one really great card trick

Make out with a woman

Go to Burning Man

Don’t care what other people think. Take the “Fuck You” pill – as of today

Get a tattoo

Don’t be afraid to say “I love you”

Dance inappropriately. Grind with your girlfriends on a dance floor

Send that naked selfie

Go to Las Vegas with the SisterWives

Stay up all night and watch the sunrise

Eat dessert

Travel to another continent

Get a piercing

Travel to New Orleans for Mardi Gras

Perform random acts of kindness

DEFINE HAPPINESS FOR YOURSELF

 

And remember, no matter how old you get – I’ll always be older.

Happy Birthday, Beautiful Girl. Write Free!

 

 

 

FOLLOW THE SONG to read the next post in our celebration: How Much I Love You

START AT THE BEGINNING OF THE SONG to read the whole thing, as it bounces around the Blogosphere singing: You Are My Sunshine

 

 

Nothing completes a sharp outfit like a cigarette.

Nothing completes a sharp outfit like a cigarette.

 

The most challenging thing about raising a kid: teaching them to be “appropriate,” when YOU’VE never mastered that.

I just decided to go ROGUE with the whole thing.

I learned early in my son’s life that all those “instructions” which come with car seats and cribs – are merely SUGGESTIONS. I frequently improvised. He’s alive, isn’t he?

So just

Calm-your-tits_o_857534

 

okay? Play it by ear.

 

1. Steps and Baby Gates.

I have 3 little steps that lead down from my kitchen into the family room. Everyone was panicked when he started walking and insisted I put a baby gate up.

Why? He fell down them a couple of hundred times, and mastered that shit. Practice makes perfect, right?

Don't tell me I'm the only one. Why else would they sell this crap?

Don’t tell me I’m the only one. Why else would they sell this crap?

 

 

2. The “Big Boy Bed.”

Supposedly, you purchase one when your kid can climb out of the crib.

Bullshit. And I hate that vernacular.

And we didn’t. I put huge throw pillows around his crib, to break his fall. Dude, he was climbing outta that thing when he was two. He’s lucky I didn’t buy a net to put over the top.

All this is missing is the tin cup to rattle against the bars.

All this is missing is the tin cup to rattle against the bars.

 

 

3. Potty training.

He was defiant and resistant (with everything, why should this be different?)

He was 3, and he hadn’t eaten any candy yet. No, I wasn’t trying for stellar parenting. I had no interest in spending thousands of dollars on dental bills for freaking baby teeth.

I covered the bathroom in so much candy it looked like Willy Wonka’a chocolate factory exploded in there. HE NEVER LEFT. He sat on the toilet and ate candy. ALL DAY. Eventually, he pooped. Case closed.

You could just SCARE the shit out of them.

Or you could just SCARE the shit out of them.

 

 

4. The Facts Of Life.

Little Dude thought all babies were taken out of mommy’s belly, like he was. (C-section). He was grossing me out so badly the other day, describing to me his vomit from the night before in Technicolor.

I can barely handle puke. I was getting queasy, but he would shut his cake hole? Nooo. He thought it was hilarious to see me turning green. Finally, I just countered with,
“Well, babies come out of women’s VAGINAS!”

It shut him up AND took care of something he needed to know. Two birds with one stone. I multitask like that.

i_tore_mommy_a_new_one_tshirts-r8deff6f211304a3fa93f963e36a95085_ft71s_324

That oughta be good for a couple of nightmares, amirite?

 

 

5. Honesty.

Honesty is of the utmost importance.

HOWEVER. There are some grey areas.

I got pulled over for speeding with him in the car. Now, I can…finesse my way out of a ticket every time. It’s a SKILL. But not with my KID in the car. So, I had to come up with a new method.

I made him pretend he was sick. I even made him open the car door and simulate vomiting, which tells you how committed I was to our skit.

My driving record is still intact, thank you very much. He also learned that it’s okay to lie to the police, which will be a much-needed skill in his teen years, if they’re anything like mine.

I will NOT be picking your ass up a police station. DENY, DENY, DENY.

I will NOT be picking your ass up a police station. DENY, DENY, DENY.

 

 

6. Safety First

Look both ways before you cross the street blah blah blah. Of course.

But Little Dude insisted I demonstrate a “Chinese Fire Drill.” Keep in mind – this as not at all like the time I threw him out of the car on I95 because he called Patti Smith a “hobo.” This was for FUN.

A Chinese fire drill, for the uninitiated, is when you get to a red light, and everyone leaps out and runs laps around the car, ending up in a different seat.

Why? Because it’s FUN! At least it was when I was really high younger. At the next busy intersection, we hit a red light and, GO!

It was AWESOME! We couldn’t really switch seats because my he can’t drive, but every car started honking, and people were laughing and giving us thumbs up.

Actively endangering your child’s life really brings out the community feeling in people.

 

 

7. Cursing

I TRIED not to.

It started in the car. I don’t think I can drive without saying “motherfucker.” At least, not in New Jersey.

And then, it progressed. Because certain phrases just roll off the tongue when you’re dealing with a hyper, super talkative 4th grader.

He pops out of bed like he has a spring-loaded tampon up his ass. Sometimes, nothing captures the moment better than “Calm the Fuck DOWN!”

People tell me cursing isn't "feminine." I tell them they can SUCK MY DICK.

People tell me cursing isn’t “feminine.”
I tell them they can SUCK MY DICK.

 

 

 

8. Laughing at his inappropriate behavior.

YES. I do. It’s funny. I’ve TRIED not to.

He walks out of the bathroom wiping his ass- because he thought of something he needed to tell me and he can’t possibly wait until he’s finished. I start telling him it’s inappropriate, but it’s so DISGUSTING I just end up laughing.

He has ADHD, so all these unfiltered and bizarre things stream out of his mouth, particularly if he’s excited. We were in the mall, going to the movies. He’s babbling away.

“Oh, she’d make a good step mom. She fits the criteria.”

Really? What’s the ‘criteria?’

“Huge rack.”

I suppose it’s as good criteria as any, right? I burst out laughing and he just keeps going.

“I have a really long tongue. It’s 7 inches. Dad measured it.”

Why did you father measure your tongue? Wait. Don’t Answer.

“Hey, wanna go get some (he pauses here, and accompanies this last part with a hugely exaggerated fake wink and a clucking sound)  chicken wings?”

Where does this come from? I wish he were older, and I could tell him to combine the long tongue and chicken wing remark. It would make the world’s best original pick-up line.

 

 

9. Movie and TV viewing.

The movie was PG 13. It’s not MY fault my son was asking me, “Mom, what’s a blow job?” 10 minutes in.  That’s when the ever-popular “I don’t know” comes in handy.

Last weekend we watched Menace II Society. Twice in a row, because it’s awesome. I might have just as well handed him a video tutorial on how to cook crack.

And I’ve given up trying to lunge for the remote every time a commercial for a class action suit against Transvaginal Mesh Failure comes on. He doesn’t even ASK what that is. He googled that shit. That’s probably how he ended up seeing the lady with the (spoiler alert) toaster in her ass.

 

 

10. Computer supervision.

He’s only allowed to be on his tablet out in the open. There are parental controls on it.

But he SEES stuff. At least he hasn’t discovered YouPorn (yet).

First he “accidentally” saw naked ladies on Google images.

Then, he tells me one of the aforementioned naked ladies had a toaster up her butt.

Is that even physically possible? I’ve tried googling that very thing. I get NOTHING.

And YouTube is a JUNGLE.

Yesterday, I was sitting RIGHT IN THE ROOM WITH him. Writing.

And I hear a droning male voice, “the hydrogen cyanide must be liberated from the sugar it’s chemically attached to. This occurs when-”

THAT upset me. Watching an instructional video on how to make cyanide? I don’t want him poisoning some kid over a fucking Pokemon card.

Once he finds Tumblr? I'm fucked.

Once he finds Tumblr? I’m. So. Screwed.

 

I also told him that he needs to be careful what he watches, because now, he’s on a list somewhere for viewing that.

*HUGE eyeroll*  “Mom. The 60′s are OVER.”

 

Do me a favor.

If I’m found dead of cyanide poisoning, with a toaster hanging out of my ass, indict the little fucker.

 

Have you found it impossible to be “appropriate” around your child?   What’s the most inappropriate thing you’ve ever said, or done?
Can someone really fit a toaster up their ass?
Talk to me.  I’m listening.

Record 3 edited

Released in 1963. I did NOT make up this post title. I wish I had.

 

When we said the SisterWives blog was Unashamed. Uncensored. Unafraid.

We meant it.

I’m finally telling the story of why my marriage ended. It’s not a pretty story. But it has to be told.

Please join me here to read about it.

 

I’ve been wanting to tell all of you, that you are an amazing group of loyal friends. I want to bake each and everyone of you a batch of Christmas cookies this year. (Impractical, so I won’t. But it’s the thought that counts.)

Thank you for showing me so much support. I know it sounds cliched. But I truly feel blessed to have you all in my life.

I’m closing comments here, so you’ll comment on the SisterWives blog.

 

Namaste,

Samara xo