And the name of the band is .....

You know what’s harder than choosing a name for your kid? Choosing a name for your band. Choosing a name is almost harder than putting a band together and learning some songs. Or at least it was for the little band I play in with Chicken Grrrl and Joe.

Part of the problem is that we don’t think of ourselves as a band. We’ve played together a lot over the past several years--sometimes just the three of us; sometimes each of us have cheated with other people. But we didn’t really consider ourselves a band until we were asked to play at a local festival in May, and The Organizer sent me a message asking for the name of our band for the promotional materials.

I stared at my computer screen for a while. A band name? It’s just us. We don’t have a band name. “I’ll have to get back to you on that,” I messaged him. And the debate started.

It’s not the first time Joe and I had been through the name selection process. Years ago at a party at my house a group of drunks musicians we played with decided we needed a band name. After a long, heated discussion that was broken up by fits of loud classic rock and shouting at the kids to stay out of the Jello shots, somebody came up with Queen Reticula* and the Screaming Fucktards. Somebody else wrote it on the lid of a pizza box with a Sharpie, and set it against the drummer’s bass. A band was born. (Of course when we played at church we changed it to Queen Reticula and the Screamers. Even Unitarians don’t put the word “fucktard” in the Sunday bulletin. Vagina, yes. Fucktard, no.)

 

A few years later when I moved, I found the pizza box lid behind a bookcase in the family room, dusty and crisscrossed with cobwebs. I considered having it framed, but then reluctantly I threw it away. I kind of wish I’d kept it, because now that we have a band name, shit is gettin’ serious. That box top was history, dude. Rolling Stone is going to have to use something else for a cover photo.

Obviously that name was past its prime though. We needed something fresh. Bold. Evocative. Something without both my name plus the word “fucktard” in it.

Joe and I talked about it at a party and got feedback from the people there. We came up with a perfect name we both really liked …. The next day neither of us could remember it. We still can’t.  I’m pretty sure it had the word “five” in it, but …. I just can’t bring it back. But that name was fucking perfect.

We had to move on.

The Organizer’s wife suggested Two Ho’s and a Joe. Joe liked it. Nobody listens to the bass player.

Another night at a local bourbon bar Alex tried to help. From 4 feet away he texted me a scrolling list of names:

• ·        Bro Before Ho’s
• ·        Ho’s Steak
• ·        Hodown Voice (Ho fucking ho, Santa Claus. Chicken Grrrl and I have no idea why people keep calling us ho’s. Neither of us are even remotely marketable in that career field – no offense to Chicken Grrrl. Although come to think of it, there’s a prostitute named Mary in my neighborhood who’s 64 and skinny as a stick. I haven’t written her story here yet. That has nothing to do with band names.)
• ·        Dim Bird
• ·        Messy Quik and the Roasted Stick (I liked this one best.)
• ·        Up Gin
• ·        Retro-Morning Soul (This is Alex’s favorite. I have no idea what that name even means, but it makes me want to tie-dye a t-shirt and bake some special brownies.)
• ·        The Ostrich
• ·        Speak of Crack Weasel (This led to a discussion of Stephen King’s novel, Dreamcatcher, and I said crack weasel was too close to ass weasel, and besides I didn’t want people to think of an alien monster tearing its way out of their asses when they hear our name. Some bands go for that kind of imagery, but I’d rather they think about me Chicken Grrrl being a ho.)
• ·        Your Unicellular Sisters
• ·        I Love a Perfect Soul
• ·        7^th Wheel

None of these names stuck. (Sorry, Alex.)

After a couple of weeks The Organizer became more insistent. He needed to get started on those posters and t-shirts. I sent an email to the band – all 2 members: We have to come up with a name tonight! No more avoiding the band name.

We poured some wine and settled down in my living room …. Took a few sips. The clock ticked. Inspiration went outside for a cigarette and didn’t come back for a long time.

We each threw out some suggestions, but they all sucked donkey balls – even the ones that made us laugh. Everything we came up with sounded artificial, like it should mean something but really didn’t. None of the names represented us, as a trio. Or some did, but they weren’t fit for the public.

We also had trouble imagining the world calling us by one common name – like you would a person. It’s not like we could yell a band name out the back door to see what it sounded like when we called the band in for dinner. And we couldn’t cop out and name the band after a band relative – although I suggested we call ourselves The Beatles. But The Beatles, Jr.? Little Beatles? No.

Joe picked up a book from ever-revolving stack on my coffee table. He started throwing names. “This one looks good. Let’s Pretend this Never Happened.”

“I’m not sure we can use Jenny Lawson’s book title for our band name ….” I said. Joe and Chicken Grrrl disagreed. Chicken Grrrl probably has a big old crush on Jenny Lawson, which makes me super jealous, but she is The Bloggess.

“OK, fine,” I said. “Let’s just brainstorm from these books, and I’ll write down the ones we like best.” The books brought inspiration back into the room – the lazy bitch -- and we all started shouting out names.

After about 10 minutes of both possible and ridiculous suggestions, and some that made us squirt wine through our noses, we came up with a list of 10 possible band names. We only needed one fucking band name, but it was a start.

“Let’s enlist some help,” I said. “And we need to practice. Let’s narrow these down to 6, and I’ll post them on my Facebook for feedback.”

The numbered names are the ones we posted to Facebook.

1.Free to a Good Home

Andian Felt Hat

Let’s Pretend this Never Happened

Mostly True

2. Almost a Psychopath

Extraordinary Delusions

3. What If the Baby’s a Republican?

4. Champion Hotdog Eater

5. Stabbed by Chicken

6. Cleanup in Aisle 3

We tuned, plugged in and started playing.

In the meantime, my Facebook friends debated the merits of our 6 names. Lots of people loved #3, but thought it sounded like an album or song title. Some people suggested their own band names, like Pandora’s Paradise, Accidental Butter, and Everybody Loves Cookies. My son Drake suggested Sarcastic Redhead, which I loved, but the rest of the band didn’t. Stiffy and the Vag also didn’t make the cut of the fan suggestions. There were more. Too many to list.

Every 20 minutes or so we took a break to fill our wine glasses check the results.

A few Facebook friends combined some of our names to come up with their own unique versions to vote on. Stabbed by a Republican Chicken, for example.

Does this kinda look like a vagina?

Alex expressed his disappointment that we didn’t choose Retro-Morning Soul. I will probably tie-dye him a t-shirt as penance. He wears too much black.

The one that made us laugh the hardest – Champion Hotdog Eater – didn’t get a single vote. We crossed it off early. Stabbed by Chicken fell next.

We also crossed off What If the Baby’s a Republican? because it was too long. And Almost a Psychopath, because it sounded serious, like a death metal band … or an ex who can’t let go … or an over-attached girlfriend. 

By the end of our rehearsal, we had finished a box of wine after 69 comments, two names had tied for first place: Free to a Good Home and Clean Up in Aisle 3. We agreed we could live with either of those, although Cleanup in Aisle 3 tickled us more, and that we would sleep on it and come to a decision the next day. For sure, the next day.

The next day Chicken Grrrl sent out an email to the as-yet-unnamed band. She suggested 3 more names.

• ·        Peppermint Sugar Fish
• ·        Viable Sage
• ·        2pm Cocktails

Did I mention how hard it was to come up with a name for our band? My former in-laws gave each of their daughters a first name and three middle names along with a hyphenated last name. They didn’t spend this much time choosing all those names for their kids.

I said I could live with 2 pm Cocktails (although I secretly thought it was better if we didn’t tattle on ourselves about that). And I still liked Clean Up in Aisle 3 (although secretly it made me think of pregnant women throwing jars of pickles to cover up their water breaking).

We emailed some more. Free to a Good Home started to sound better to me than any of the others. (Although secretly, I would have chosen Nice, Fresh Trout.) Of all the names we’d thrown around, it really did represent us best. We’ve made far more money for charity than any of us have ever pocketed as a band.

And then by some miracle, we all agreed. Just like that, our band was called Free to a Good Home.

Free to a Good Home. Chicken Grrrl, Joe and me. 

Free to a Good Home.

(No, we don't have a logo yet. How could you fucking ask that? Shut up.)

* We used my real name, which gives a delicious ring of alliteration, but alas, that’s not my name here in Reticuland.

What Febreze scent is your vagina?

Before I get to our regularly scheduled vagina-aroma sequel, I'd like to direct your attention to the Reticulated Writer Facebook page. If you haven't liked it, what the fuck is the matter with you? you've been missing some extra comments and mini posts.

But the reason I bring it up this morning tonight is because I've posted a challenge from a reader. I'm not going to tell you what it is, but I will confide that it will give you a chance to anonymously kick your ex in the balls if you choose to. Or you could say something nice too. Yawn. (There's a like button on the top right side of the page. Click it and then leave a comment if you want a guest appearance right here on this very blog.)
*******

Recently I've started holding what I call writer's bootcamps at my house. I open my house to a group of women writers, take their cell phones, and shame encourage them to put their asses in a chair and write for 4 hours with 5 minute breaks every hour. We take a long break for lunch, and then wrap up with a sharing session.

Sounds so simple, but it's rather powerful. Some amazing work comes out of these bootcamps.

At last week's bootcamp .... for reasons I simply don't understand .... the topic of vaginas came up. I offer you a synopsis.

KS: Vaginas do not smell like fish. Vaginas don't even smell like nice, fresh trout. (This will make no sense if you haven't read the nice, fresh trout post.)
Reticula: Hey, that's what I said, but he was adamant. The guy seemed to know his vagina.
KS: No way. As the lone lesbian in the room, and the person with by far the most experience with vaginas, I'm telling you no vagina smells like fish.
Reticula: My vagina smells like rain. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
KK: OK, then mine smells like mountain air.
KS: Sounds like a Febreze scent. Hey, if your vagina was a Febreze scent, what would it be?
R: Mine would be mango .... no, chili .... no, mango. My vagina smells like mango Febreze.
Reticula: I'm sticking with rain. I'm not kidding: my vagina smells like rain.
Anonymous: How about double rainbow? Maybe your vagina smells like double rainbow Febreze.
Reticula: No, I'm sticking with rain. Nobody gets to say what somebody else's vagina smells like....especially if he's going to say fish.
KK: If we're thinking of Febreze scents, then I'm going to change mine. My vagina Febreze scent is sunshine, not mountain air. My vagina smells like sunshine.
M: Mine is ....  fresh man walking out of a shower.
Everybody: That's the best Febreze scent ever!
KK: OK, I'm changing mine again. This time I'm sure. My Febreze vagina scent is honey cream hops.
Reticula: Mmmm. That sounds like a favorite beverage. Maybe next time we should say what our vagina's favorite beverage should be. (Wait for it...)
KS: My vagina Febreze scent is new car.
Everybody: New car!!!  Does your vagina really smell like new car?

KS: I'm telling you, my vagina smells like new car. I'm the only lesbian here, so I'm the expert on what vaginas smell like. New car. 

Epilogue:

KS: OMG. New car Febreze smells like old lady.
Reticula: What does that mean? Did you buy some?
KS: Yes. And I mean it stinks. I want to change my Febreze vagina scent.
Reticula: Too late. You already chose. Your vagina smells like new car.
KS: But new car Febreze smells like old lady toilet.
Reticula: Do mean the toilette that's watered-down perfume or the toilet your cat drinks out of?
KS: Is there a difference?
Reticula: I dunno. It's your vagina.


If your vagina smelled like a Febreze scent, what would it be?

Wordless Wednesday: Penis Finger

(Source: news.bme.com/2008/02/20/phallic-amputated-finger-tattoo)

Wordless Wednesday is supposed to be wordless.

......................

(These dots indicate I'm holding my breath.)

......................

I'm trying really hard ......................

......................

...................... sigh

Epic fucking fail. I can't do it. I have to say something. But just to show I have some class discipline, I'll stop at three, tiny bulleted points. Just three. For me, that's almost wordless.

• I would never have seen this photo of a penis head tattooed onto an amputated finger if my son Drake hadn't insisted we all -- his SO Montana, his friend J, and I -- look at it on his phone screen while we were eating brunch a couple of weeks ago. Anybody who knows me knows I have an amputation phobia. For reasons. I have stories. But that's not even the point. The point is that you don't show a poorly executed 1/2 penis-finger next to a mouth that looks like it has fleas to your mother while she's eating. You shouldn't even have your phone out while you're brunching with your mom, am I right?

But since I did see it, I really must say ....

• Why would he tattoo a penis head on his finger anyway? Is this one more sexual imbecile who thinks the way to a woman's orgasm is through her vagina? Because I could understand if he had a tongue tattooed on his finger. Or even a finger tattooed on his finger. But this just makes me think he's another loser who couldn't wait to fingerbang his first girlfriend when he was 15 and never realized she spent the next 3 years thinking something was wrong with her because she was pretty sure she didn't have an orgasm in spite of his energetic youthful probing. This penisfinger, I suspect, is one of those guys who goes at the lady bits like a blind man feeling an elephant and never does figure out the bigger picture. Too bad he's got so much company in fumble-finger land. I'm not naming names, but you know who you are.

And

• What? One micro-penis wasn't enough for this guy?

Bonus 4th bullet!

• This is all Obama's fault. ALL OBAMA!

OK, I have so much more I could say, but I've already totally ruined Wordless Wednesday. That doesn't mean you can't leave comments right down there .... scroll down ..... there! (I'll even make an exception and turn on anonymous comments for a few days.)

What do you think of when you see the amputated penis finger? Does this young man make his mama proud?

A karaoke snippet: Something smells a little fishy....

Fishmonger*:  You know that's what the gay men say, don't you? Vaginas smell like fish.

Me: Vaginas do not smell like fish. My vagina does not smell like a fish.

Fishmonger: I'm just repeating what they say. And it's not all vaginas. It's just some vaginas.

Me: I'm telling you the gay men lie. What would they know about vaginas anyway? They don't get close enough to a vagina to smell one.

Fishmonger: But I'm not saying all vaginas, and maybe not under all circumstances.

Me: OK, maybe if she ate tuna or salmon and the fish smell came out in her .... you know.

Fishmonger: Well, as someone who has a lot of experience on both sides, I can vouch that some vaginas smell like fish.

Me: Mine doesn't. And I don't think vaginas smell like fish in general.

Maria*: (Who has just finished a production of The Vagina Monologues, quotes in a singsong voice.) "My vagina smells like .... rain!"

Me: That's it. Me too. My vagina smells like rain.

Maria: Not really though....

Me: Yes, it does. It smells like rain. It really does. (To Fishmonger) It does not smell like fish. My vagina smells like rain.

Fishmonger: It's not necessarily a bad thing. It can be a good thing. Sometimes vaginas smell like nice, fresh trout.

Me: Nice, fresh trout!!! You call that a compliment? OK, I'm calling in an expert. (I turn to Martini, who has for some reason not been listening to this vagina conversation.)  Martini, give us your honest opinion. Do vaginas smell like nice, fresh trout?

Martini: (long, thoughtful pause) I have not actually encountered that much trout.

Wait a damn minute! Are you saying I smell like a vagina? I smell like fish. Everybody knows vaginas smell like rain.     (Credit: US Department of Agriculture)

A vagina is like the weather....

Photograph: Daniel Berehulak / Getty

"A vagina is like the weather. Once it's wet, it's time to go inside."

Some guy named Ted tweeted that. Unfortunately for Ted and for his followers, it's the only funny thing he's said on Twitter. In fact, I only followed him for about 5 minutes. But it's still the best vagina quote of the year. (This is not a direct quote. I fixed a typo. Sometimes people pay me for that, but Ted gets a freebie because I'm not linking to his Twitter ..... because he's not really funny.)

Speaking of vaginas, I found a yummy treat that is bound to come in handy at some point during my 10 Dates, 10 Men™ project. It's called a Pussy Lolly. That's right, a Pussy Lolly. A coochie candy. A sugar taco. A labia lollypop.

Doesn't that sucker look delicious? Who wouldn't want to eat one? OK, it's not chocolate, but it's still  unnaturally pink and pretty and shiny.

And yet I was thinking these lollipops might serve a higher purpose, as either a way of sorting the men who don't know when to come in out of the rain or as a training device for those who brought an impressive umbrella and just need to know when to put on a slicker.

So my plan is that I'll buy a 6-pack -- just to be optimistic. And when or if I meet someone who makes the storm clouds gather, I'll give him a vagina-on-a-stick and invite him to indulge himself.


That's not too obvious, is it?

Seriously, I think I could tell a lot about a person's technique by how he ate one of these. If he licks away the right spot, he's a contender to hook up with Queen Frostine and move on to the Candy Castle. In fact, he might even earn himself a 23-karat gold-washed Pussy Lolly (but only if he pays for it himself).

For the guy who shows real promise, but doesn't quite lick the spot ... Hmmmm. I guess we could always use it as a lolly-lingual trainer. That could be fun.

A guy who licks the edges but never gets to the center ... nope. A guy who slurps all over it like a fucking Labrador retriever .... ick. A guy who licks the back .... uh, no. A guy who bites off a piece and chews it .... fuck no, pussy cruncher. A guy who won't .... Ha! Ha! Next!

Feeling sorry for the loser licker? I'm not. He got a sweet pink consolation prize to take home with him. Maybe he could continue to practice and try again another time.

Probably not though. I'm thinking it's a one Lolly Pussy per customer kind of deal. But we can still be friends.