what the hell? you call this blogging and then you disappear for months? you suck….or why you should always post photos from a file that says “don’t even think about doing this!”

At the time of this photo shoot:

I was single. The kind of single that makes you feel shaving is a waste of a good razor type of single…even when it’s June in Los Angeles.

I felt empowered by the photo shoot, it was a life changer, but then I thought, which I really shouldn’t do because it always leads me to question things like: why does pizza come in a square box? Why is “bra” singular and “panties” plural? and what happens if I meet someone – like “The ONE” and he sees the photos and then The One thinks I’m damaged goods?

So I shelved the pics, hid them on my computer in a file named “Don’t Even Think about posting this!…seriously! STOP!”  and hopped a plane to my sister’s wedding.

…and that’s when I re-met a kid from my days growing up in Rye, New York, a town I swore I would never step foot in again- a town I had ran so fast from, even graduating early to get the fuck out of there…and then…

The moment my eyes met his, it was as if I was transported back in time, but instead of fear and pain – I felt safe. My mind flooded with images of the two of us running through my back yard; my hair wild, his skinny legs racing behind me – both of us laughing – breathless. It was sweet and innocent, things I thought I’d never feel. I forgot about the bad stuff and the shame that usually tugged at my skin, in his hazel eyes I was just a little girl running free. I was just me.

To say it was an intense weird deja vu experience would be like saying the Jets are gonna make it to the Superbowl. It is inconceivable, fuck that…It was BEYOND that. So I let go of it cause I wasn’t sure what you are suppose to do when your past and future collide in one awkward moment at your sister’s wedding, especially when your sister is marrying his older brother, and he’s the best man and you are the maid of honor – it just sounds like a fucked up backwards fairy tale.

A month after my sister’s wedding I stayed true to my promise to keep said photos under lock and key, and forgot about the kid from my past…until fate brought us together again.

I don’t think you can call it dating when someone tells you the first time you hang out that he wants to run off and marry you that night. That he has always loved you. That you are the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

At this point we had only kissed – when he mentions what his ex-girlfriend said to him: “Good luck dealing with a girl that will forever be trapped in that time when all that stuff happened to her.”

Yup, that would be my worst fear realized in fucking technicolor and surround sound.

I kept quiet, because I didn’t think oxygen was still available for my consumption and my voice, the one I had spent years fighting to find, was suddenly silenced.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Fuck no!… but I didn’t say that.

“I shouldn’t have told you.” he said. ” I just…I just want to share everything with you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

But what if there was some truth to her words, and that truth weaved its way into his heart? What if she was right?…that I am unlovable. That I am forever frozen. It’s been 12 years since I had sex (no, that’s not a typo – 12 YEARS!!!)…..what if I freaked out? What if I am just a prisoner of my past?

The strength you feel in the moment when your faith is tested, when someone wields hate and venom, but you only see light is how I knew she was wrong. Love – the real kind had showed up in an unexpected and beautiful way and this time I wasn’t going to run. I stayed exactly where I was suppose to be, tucked safely in his arms.

I posted the photos the next day.

This is my story. This is what I have fought for. I will not be silenced by someone else trying to shame me, I owe it to that little girl with the wind in her hair who used to believe that love would never find me.

For the past few months I have been busy having incredible sex…marrying the man of my dreams…and making a baby.

a burial and an epic kiss….yup, it’s been one of THOSE months

Where the fuck have I been?

I know it seems like I just disappear from blogging for a week or two, but I have FOUR very good reasons:

  1. I have writer’s block. It looks like this:
  2. I have an intense case of insomnia. It looks like this:
  3. Death Came Knocking.

I watched my stepfather die, it’s not something you just bounce back from – it’s sort of been like a slow drowning. The timing was ironic in that Alanis Morissette way – meaning it was fucked up in a way that has nothing to do with irony…I had just married my sister to her high school sweetheart and here I was, barely a week a later, performing the service for a burial.

Frank E. Campbell – The Funeral Chapel (since 1898) located on Madison Avenue on the Upper East Side of Manhattan handled the arrangements. If you are a New York legend this is where you go when you die.

…and they have swag. Funeral home swag!

Let me back up…

I went to use the bathroom at the funeral parlor, because I figured that the bathroom of Frank E. Campbell – The Funeral Chapel (since 1898) wouldn’t disappoint and it didn’t. It had thick embossed disposable hand towels, you know the kind, the ones you feel guilty for using because they are some weird hybrid of paper towel and permanent towel – THEY ARE THAT THICK! – you can’t throw them out – cause that’s wasteful – yet, you can’t re-use them – cause that’s gross…it is basically the closest you can get to wiping your hands with a $5 bill…and yes, I had this entire debate with myself in front of their intimidatingly enormous gold gilded mirror.

The swag left out on the bathroom counter consisted of little packets of personalized Kleenex, mints, and individual hand sanitizers all of which made it into my purse – because I thought you too would like to see what goes on inside the majestic Frank E. Campbell – The Funeral Chapel (since 1898).

They also have gold imprinted Frank E. Campbell folders –  super sturdy and flashy:

…and we all know how I feel about office supplies…hmm, could I be the girl that rolls with a “funeral chapel” folder in the mix? …Totally.

They also have a list of “additional services and merchandise” ranging from  $7.50 to $29,500:

*P.S. I’d like a definition of “Death Mask” – isn’t that redundant?

**P.P.S. And what exactly is “Thumbies Fingerprint Jewelry”?

Simply put – it is not cheap to die, especially when Frank E. Campbell is showing you the way.

My stepfather was a New Yorker through and through, a brillant sports writer and novelist.

A Marine and an accomplished athlete, having been the first freshman to play the number 1 spot on the Yale Varsity tennis team:

captain of the Yale Varsity cross country team:

but most importantly he was a gentleman – the kind the world doesn’t see much of anymore.

I miss him.

4. The Kiss.

It was one of those magical New York City kisses – the kind that happens on a street corner at night with sky scraper lights twinkling behind you. It was the kind of kiss that every time you close your eyes, even days later – the feeling of his lips on yours melts you into a puddle  – and you forget things like the days of the week, the 10 trillion digits of Pi and the fact that you live 3,000 miles away.

There was just something about him, the way he waited for all of us to exit the elevator, then gently placed his hand on my lower back, guiding me out of the door…then it hit me – this is what a gentleman does. It is the type of behavior that is like a mirage to a girl like me – especially after spending the past two years dating in the desert cesspool known as Los Angeles…and it was the exact thing I had seen my stepfather do with my mom for over the past 20 years. Here was a man that knew how to treat a woman like she is a treasure.

Mr. Sweep-Me-Off-My-Feet is not my type. By type, I mean he’s deliciously normal, like I’ve got health insurance and a stable job normal…like he hasn’t done any hard time or committed any major felonies…ever! (I’m not just talking in the last four years either…)

I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again, but I asked him before we parted on the sidewalk of one of the most magical cities in the world – to bite my arm – hard. He looked at me like I was insane, but I just wanted to walk around for the next couple of days with his teeth marks imprinted in my skin. I needed to be reminded that although one gentleman had left this earthly plane, there was still a man out there breathing the same air as me, one who knows how to treat a woman and make her feel like she has finally come home.

So that’s where I’ve been…

reader’s email: fisticuff and tucking edition

Yesterday I received an email from a Concerned Citizen regarding my latest post:

“some guys are worth waiting for EXCEPT the ones who disrespected you and will never change because they feel entitled and are users.

Now here’s the thing – Concerned Citizen is a friend of Six-Feet-of-Shoulders…I wasn’t even referring to Six-Feet-of-Shoulders when I was writing that post, but it got my crazy train fired up – was SIX-FEET-OF-SHOULDERS TALKING SHIT ABOUT ME?!? Did he “use” me like a toilet seat cover?

Suddenly I am all let’s meet after school Mr. Six Feet of Nothing – you bring your crew and I’ll bring mine (which would consist of me and my cat and his pink mouse).

Showdown on!… possible dance off?…totally…knife fight? – Why the fuck not. I start humming When you’re a Jet, You’re a Jet all the way …the second you go West Side Story you are legally required to do a little “Somewhere“…Sondheim and Bernstein knew how to throw down. I am half way through the first chorus when I feel West Side Story guilt – we didn’t have to cross the boundaries of culture and race –  Six-Feet-of-Shoulders lives within walking distance to my house – the worse thing that could happen is he’d get a jay walking ticket. (LA is serious about that shit.)…hmmm…okay…so clearly fisticuffs in the high school parking lot is out of the question.

How bout I three-way call his ass?…go a little Sweet Valley High on him!

…although the only way that works would be if he had a crush on someone and said something stupid on the phone while his crush was secretly listening…was that how it worked? I forget. Fuck. I suck at retribution – retro or otherwise…

…but seriously dude – wasn’t it enough to disappear on me and give me a mean case of the reds…but now you gotta brag to your friends how you made origami dog shit out of my heart?

Was my innocent naive love just a lotioned up, starving,  abducted girl stuck in a well while you danced around it with your dick tucked between your legs like the dude from Silence of the Lambs when he is making the dress of flesh?



Concerned Citizen could have just been talking in general. Like how people do when talking weather or white toast or The Price Is Right…it’s like using an “old saying”, it wasn’t specific to anything – more of a life lesson sort of thing and had nothing to do with anyone directly.


Maybe I just made a whole lot of nothing about something or something out of nothing – maybe Six-Feet-of-Shoulders doesn’t ever think of me, …wait…

isn’t that worse?

No, none of it matters if he wants to say I was a fool for loving him – for trusting him – for believing in him – let him. If he wants to keep going on pretending I was nothing – do it . I have no regrets. I played it clean and classy and always kept the truth.  That’s when I put on my sunglasses and take a bath and move onto more important matters like adults afflicted with Hello Kitty fever – creepy or genius?

can sex become an endangered species?

Question: Tracy Lane could you be more of a freak?

Answer: No. (especially when I talk to myself in the third person.)

But at least I have kept the mental lashing to a minimum in regards to the many which ways til tomorrow that I am a complete fuck-wit.

How not to be like me lesson #23: when an incredibly Cute Guy asks you out to dinner – you do what?

  • you say “yes”
  • “I’d love to.”
  • nod in an affirmative manner

Or you could say:

  • “sorry, joining the peace corps tomorrow.”
  • “can’t, brain surgery in the morning”
  • “nope, sorry, I am watching The Pauly D Project”. It’s crazy crack.

Dude’s got a tanning bed in his living room! I had to replay 3x because who the fuck has their own tanning bed? Oh, right DJ Pauly D…and then I had to consider the fact that I watch The Pauly D Project, not really watch more like fast forward and stop if he is:

  1. doing his hair
  2. using safety clips to pin his T-shirts tighter in order to emphasize his arm muscles – he calls this “tailoring”
  3. The Pauly D creepy hyper laugh
  4. anything involving his sneakers including but not limited to lining them up in perfectly straight lines

Pauly D is a lab rat for my OCD obession.  Must google OCD of OCD because I might have that. Can one be obsessed with another’s obsessive behavior?…whatever…Pauly D is not the point.

The point is when Cute Guy asks you out to dinner YOU SAY SOMETHING!! You don’t just stare awkwardly at him and then walk away. Well, I guess you do if you are me. Argh!

That’s it. I am going to be single forever and my vagina will be placed in plaster of paris or decoupaged…people will visit it like a museum – like a T-Rex exhibit – there will be benefit concerts, similar to Live Aid, honoring my vagina, because sex with Tracy will soon be on the endangered species list…can sex be an endangered species like the Spix’s Macaw?

Okay, probably not, more like going the way of holding up a lighter during a power ballad or looking up a number in the phone book – it’ll become an activity that slowly fades away.

Stop….I will not go down the self pity sex-less path. I am picking the other road less traveled. The road that says it is just too soon. My heart is still locked down in loyality to another.

That’s why I can’t say yes to dinner with Cute Guy, not yet, maybe soon, maybe next week, maybe next month…and when I do I won’t show up with a certain man still roaming around in my heart and God help me, I won’t be wishing I was home watching Pauly D.

A wise woman once said “you can’t hurry love..” damn straight. sometimes you just have to wait.

the love of great nipples

Sometimes when you find yourself head over feet in a new relationship and your insecurities are raging and you just can’t pull the I-am-so-fucking-awesome-card by yourself – you need a helping hand. My hand is Paul.

Paul is the reason I am still floating face up. This is how we do:

“I used to have bigger boobs. The second he kissed me I swear to God they went down a size.” I confess. “Don’t look at me like I am crazy. They used to be bigger! I swear!”

“Well at least you have deliciously kissable nipples.”

“I do?”

“Yeah, you totally have awesome nipples.”

“Huh…I never thought about my nipples. Who thinks about their nipples? Do men think about nipples or is it just the overall breast size? It’s not like I sit around thinking about ball size  – it’s kind of last on my list, not that I have a list, but if I did, a guy’s ball sack and its size wouldn’t be on it. I am a “brain” person. Do you think there are “ball sack” people – like a foot fetish sort of thing?”

“I shave my balls. Who wants to put a hairy ball in their mouth?”

I guess some people might be uncomfortable with this sort of conversation, but this is actually a step up for us. Normally we have this type of talk at work. I’ve learned all sorts of things about penises from Paul, usually while standing behind a steaming chaffing dish, spatula in hand and a long line of Bar Mitzvah guests with empty plates waiting across the buffet from us.

Those are the boys I work with…cater waitering at its finest  (just in case you were wondering what the guy that served you a pig in a blanket was really like).

…anyway back to the crisis at hand and the case of the incredible shrinking boobs.

“Every time he touches them they shrink in size, soon they are going to be concave!” I say.

“You should suck them.” Paul says.

“Suck my own nipples?”


“Have you been hitting google again?” I ask.

Paul’s mind is a weird storage unit of odd facts, mostly sexual in nature, involving the human body and animals – bees in particular.

“What? Did you google how to increase my girlfriend’s breast size? I ask.

“Sort of.”

“Why would you do that?” knowing Paul is strictly dickly.

He shrugs.

“I don’t think I could even reach my nipple if I wanted to and that just seems, I don’t know  – all sorts of weird – I mean I like him and stuff but-”

Paul shoots me a look like he doesn’t buy what I am selling.

“Okay, I am crazy about him-”

Paul continues with the lie detector stare.

“I don’t think sucking my own nipple is something that I want to take on.” I say firmly, hoping this puts an end to it and by “it” I mean to me admitting out loud how far I have fallen for the new guy.

“Then just embrace the beauty that is your nipple and stop being such a size queen.” he says.

So when you are struggling to love the whole breast – call your friend – the one that will remind you of the awesomeness that is your nipple, the one that holds up a mirror to you and lets you know just how incredible you are.

I love you Paul.  The real love. Like some Golden Girls type of shit.

sex in numbers

After Six-Feet of Shoulders set off an atomic bomb in my chest I started “hanging out” with a guy – let’s call him “Hoops”.

Hoops and I had The Talk, you know the one, the one that either makes or breaks a new relationship. The Talk happened like it always does when cuddling in bed and went something like this:

“Sooo…how many people have you been with?” he asks.

“I thought you didn’t want to know.” I say

“I changed my mind.”

“You first.”


“Really? That’s it?”


Hoops is devastatingly handsome, the kind of handsome that inspire high numbers. His magnetic green eyes waiting…waiting for MY number…




“You’re lying.”

“No, I am not.  I don’t lie…My high school boyfriend, my college boyfriend, and my post-college boyfriend.” I say.

The look on his face is best described as SHOCK.

“I’ve never had a one night-stand. I am a relationship girl.”

Proving yet again I should have been born when a corset was part of the dress code. I resist the urge to grab the freak label that is sitting on the bed next to me, the I-am-a-girl-that-only-fucks-guys-I-love type of freak.

“I lied.” Hoops says, lifting his head up from resting on my chest. “My number is over a hundred,” he admits, guilt and shame flood his face…”but remember I played pro-ball.”

My mind starts to fill his bedroom with a hundred bodies, a hundred different vaginas – hmmm, maybe I should invest in a full body condom…wait, he said ‘over a hundred’ which probably means close to two hundred.

“Out of those hundred plus how many did you love?”



“And none of them spent the night.” he says, giving me a sly smile because I had just spent the night.

“So afterwards you would say what to them?”

“Do you want me to walk you to your car?”

“How Jersey Shore of you.”

“It’s not like they didn’t know what they were getting into.”

“What were they getting into?”

His head collapses on my chest with a sigh and he says in a defeated sort of way, “Now you are never going to sleep with me.”

I guess some women when faced with this information would be shocked or disgusted, considering Hoops had just turned 27…but I am not. Everyone has warned me about playing in this part of the pool, but sometimes you just can’t help yourself.

I love his honesty, his ability to look me straight in the eye and come clean. I don’t give a shit about his past as long as they stay in the past and I become his present and hopefully his future.

The things that happened or didn’t happen before you meet your “one” is what makes you appreciate them – makes you see that this is someone special.  I am thankful to all 100+ girls that marched in here before me because without them he might not have been able to recognize that I am the real mother fucking deal.

I pull his head up off my chest and look him straight in the eye, “I will if I love you.”

Hoops kind of smiles, but I can still see the shame in his eyes.

“Just don’t fuck this up.” I warn.

It is true. I don’t lie. Hoops has got a chance…WE have got a chance.

Some might say that Hoops and I are from two different worlds, with two different pasts and there will never be a common ground…to them I say don’t judge a book by its cover or a lover by their number because you might miss out on one of the greatest stories you’ve ever read.

i stand before you naked

tracy lane

Today is the day! The day I have waited for, the day my new life begins…the day I get my car’s oil changed.

Say what?!?

Let me explain…

See there was this guy, let’s call him “Six Feet of Shoulders”, we exchanged words, me and Six Feet of Shoulders, the kind of words they make love songs out of and I was hooked. Bad. Like mainlining the pure stuff.

Then one day he took off without a word and I was left with just the ghost of him…even his abandoned six pack of beer laughed at me from inside of my fridge:

(insert Vincent Price’s cackle from Thriller)

I went through a brutal detox, it involved the ugly cry and Adele on repeat.

Out went his stuff, gone went my Facebook, up went the burning sage and I moved the F-on. Six Feet of Shoulders was just somebody I used to know.

Until I got my oil changed.

When I got into my freshly oiled machine of eco-goodness and looked up at the reminder sticker in the left corner of my windshield I exclaimed rather loudly and slightly demonically:


3/26/2012 – just happens to be Six Feet of Shoulders’ birthday – great. So am I suppose to go another 10,000 miles with his birthday branded like a forget-me-not note in my car?

A sensible non-neurotic car owner would have:

  • a) removed sticker
  • b) gotten over it and him
  • c) would have forgotten his b-day by now!
  • d) ditched car and moved to NYC
  • e)  all of the above

But I am the type of girl that:

  • a) won’t spend a lucky 2 dollar bill
  • b) won’t cut the tags off a mattress
  • c) doesn’t download pirated movies or music
  • d) has only gotten one traffic ticket and one parking ticket in my entire life

Rule breaker is not in my DNA, so the sticker stayed and it has been a daily reminder of what happened, until today…

I drove off the Toyota lot and looked up at the top corner of my windshield:


The Tracy of before would have marched back into the garage and demanded that the scarlet letter of an oil change reminder be removed. But I am not that girl any more…four months of seeing his birthday made me realize that Six Feet of Shoulders is in my heart forever, no amount of lube jobs was gonna wash him from it.

I am a better woman for having loved and for loving him…and I dig it – I dig the aging of my heart, it tells the story of who I am.

And to my new man – whoever you are – I promise to stand before you naked, stripped bare of all the walls that hurt will build, with my battered, duct tapped, hot glue gunned, needle and threaded, but still beating heart ready to love…

…because I am worth it…I am one sick ass dope chick.

So if you find your heart busted up, drop kicked and left in a gutter. Remember it all starts with you. Love that bitch of self like no one else cause you are gonna walk with you forever. Some fortunate soul maybe lucky enough to catch a few beats of that incredible you – so stay open. Stay sexy. Stay true.