i'm writing a new book!

This is big news. After more than a year hiatus since my last book was published, i have just been green lighted for my next project, a new book about SEX! This one will be called "101 Things You Didn't Know About Sex" and is to be published by Adams Media. This is really exciting because it's gonna be a kick-ass fun read and super informative, too!

If anyone reading this blog has any suggestions, i.e. what do you not know about sex that you would like to know, such as is sex good for your complexion & how many calories are there in semen & is there a Viagra for women & is it okay to have sex when it's "that time of month," or whatever, just ask and i'll put the answer in the book. That's a promise! All reasonable questions considered....and, oh, yes, a few unreasonable ones, as well!

In the meantime I just got back from a whirlwind tour of Oslo, Paris and London. They really do eat reindeer steak in Oslo, and whale, too. Paris has the best oysters and the best chocolate chaud (that's hot chocolate to you, dear) but London, no matter what you eat or drink, absolutely rocks! 

women and horseback riding

a friend of mine has been telling me that her crotch is dead. she says she has no more sex drive. it takes a half hour of self pleasuring for her to reach her climax. who has the time i wrote back. she was discussing this with me on email, hotmail actually. i told her that for a couple of years i had felt much the same way, the reason, i guess, being that i've just had too much  sex in my life and maybe it was time to hang up my holster. Or that my lack of desire was nature's way of informing me that i'm all effed out, that the car has run out of gas, the batteries have gone dead, whatever. don't you love 'whatever'? what an insoucient, annoying word. i wish i had had it at my disposal the better to torture my mother with when i was 15. 

what brought your desire back, my friend said. clearly that was the part of my reply she focused on. 

horseback riding, i told her. trail riding. hunter pacing. it's so stimulating. you have this 1,000 hot thing between your thighs and you're dashing pell mell through the woods and o'er hill and dale and your adrenaline is flowing and you're all jived up. it's very sexual.  

do other women riders talk about this my friend said. 

no, i said. that's verboten. then i wrote LOL and got off. 

musings on matzo

musings on matzo for me always begin like this. a week or two before passover, my husband, known to some as "mr sax," brings home a box of matzo and we begin eating it. he eats it with an imitation butter he strangely loves which frightens me because it comes in a spray bottle. a plastic spray bottle. he adores it. he says his discovery of it has sincerely changed his life. anyway, he sprays his sheets of matzo with his imitation butter and then squeezes honey from a container shaped like a little bear all over it. when he had a beard, matzo crumbs and honey would be all over it. it sounds disgusting but it was a bit sexy, interestingly. 

i like matzo with just about anything on it since i grew up thinking matzo was just the same as melba toast. it was a cracker and that was it. my mother treated it the way other mom's treated wonder bread or peppridge farm; it was just a brand of bread in my house. we ate matzo all year round, not just around passover. we had it for dinner once a week in the form of matzo brei.

Should  i like matzo? probably not. i think it is as bad for me as anything else that i truly like and not just because it's trendy, and really, truly, seriously, i think  i may be sushi'ed out,  a list of exciting and delicious foods i grew up eating including pizza, hot fudge sundaes, zeppoles (that's confectioner sugar dusted fried dough, an Italian delicacy), and White House subs from the shop in Atlantic City where they make the best sub in the world. the bread is the secret but also their signature chopped hot peppers and the way they shred the lettuce and slice the tomatoes so thin. 

But I digress. we're still talking about matzo. the best advice i can offer to anyone who is attending a seder or maybe gentiles who feel they need to bring matzo into their lives because their adored daughter has married a Jewish man and they have to adapt and learn to eat strange stuff is that to orient yourself to the matzo experience, try first eating it covered in chocolate. chocolate covered matzo is amazing.  

spitting about eliot spitzer

In addition to my numerous writing hats, I compose a regular column entitled "View From the Porch" for the Record Review newspaper, the official paper of Bedford, N.Y., the privileged, insanely gorgeous, mostly prosperous portion of Northern Westchester county where  Ralph Lauren, George Soros, Richard Gere, Chevy Chase, and other assorted celebrities - in their own minds and otherwise - live. Following the high profile bust of Gov. Eliot Spitzer, who got nabbed and subsequently resigned for cavorting with a high end prostitute "Kristen," for whom he spent an estimated $80,000, I wrote about it for the newspaper. I said a lot of things in that column, including that I think married men who dally with doxies aren't really cheating on their wives, since paid for sex isn't infidelity as much as it is sport. To be honest, were I Tilda Spitzer, I'd be more ticked about the money than where he put his cock. Also what was that business about him refusing to wear a condom but not wanting to take off his socks? Let me guess. Eliot Spitzer suffers from foot fungus. On the subject of sport, I forgot to mention it in the column, but houses of prostitution in the 19th century were called Sporting Houses. It was a term of endearment to call any oversexed old geezer, "Old Sport." Well. How dare I, one angry letter writer to the paper wrote. Apparently I am the devil, and according to this man, I insult and humiliate good women in Bedford  altogether with my despicable thoughts. 

I'm kind of excited about this. Who knew anyone was reading my words so carefully? And they say newspapers are dying. Pshaw.

On Horseback

Today I rode my pony Buttons for nearly 3 hours in a part of Bedford known as Piney Woods. I was in the company of my two favorite riding partners, the beautiful and strong H., and J. who is petite and elegant. J's  long red hair is the identical shade of the mane of her horse, Dakota. H. was astride Commanche. We own our horses and we love riding together on the dirt roads and in the woods. Several times a week we conspire to leave our work by 1 o'clock to meet at the barn to go riding. 

Around 1:30 we were trotting up Succabone Road. The sun was shining. Two dogs, a lab and a spaniel, barked at us as we went past their house. At Bedford Center Road we made a left turn on to a short piece of trail in the woods that runs parallel to the pavement. Outside some iron gates protecting the entrance to an estate, at a decent break in traffic at a particularly hideous to cross spot, we trotted single file across the road to re-enter the trail and make a mad dash up a steep hill that then twists and winds sideways down into a ravine before becoming a long straight flat stretch surrounded on both sides by trees, ideal for a canter. Next we loped across a long expanse of green lawn set beside a swimming pool and a fenced in property where a barking golden retriever stood guard, hair up, tail straight as a flag, unfriendly.

We laughed at the dog (what is a dog to a horse who can kick a dog into silence?) and proceeded at a walk down a steep gully, me saying, "easy, easy," to Buttons who forged straight ahead. I love my little pony. He is nimble and brave. Unfazed by cars, trucks, heavy earth moving equipment, balloons or grates in the pavement, he moves along, his little gray and white and black ears pricked forward. Very curious about everything Buttons is. He listens to birds calling to each other in the woods. He looks at the deer. On a ride we took alone last autumn in Buxton Gorge, we came upon a buck and a doe the buck was most interested in. Buttons and I stood stock still for a minute, as did the deer.  We took each other's measure. Aware that bucks in rut are prone to highly assertive and aggressive behavior, I encouraged Buttons to move along, which we did, quietly. 

J. and H. and I circumvented the jumping bowl to take a side trail over to the area adjacent to Shannon Farm, a genteel old equestrian facility directly behind Bedford Village. The views are amazing. We trotted along Clinton Road and turned into the preserve and navigated the woods and trails until we got to Shannon. On the trail just outside Shannon, we encountered two rather heavyset women riding horses. One of the horses was rearing. In addition to her utterly correct English riding gear, its rider had attached a large, supplemental sun brim  to her riding helmet which J. remarked made the woman look a bit like a bee keeper. We wondered was it the hat scaring the horse.

On the way home, we galloped through the jumping bowl and J. and I dared to take some jumps. Buttons was ecstatic. At the barn I hand fed him carrots and half an apple saved over from my lunch. It feels very spoiled and nearly wicked to sneak off this way on a Wed afternoon.

 

Dawn of a new era

This is the dawn of a new era. me, who is afraid of her own website, has finally become hip to blogspot. how i found out about blogspot is because my friend the internationally recognized poet, Christine Boyka Kluge, who is also a self described website clod, or cloddess since Chris is in my humble opinion, a kind of goddess, now has a blogspot. She encouraged me to start one too.