So you wanna know how inappropriate I was at my sister’s wedding?

Sorry for the break from my slice of awesomeness, but I’ve been in upstate New York busting my ass helping my sister with her DIY wedding to her high school sweetheart:

My mom was a little worried about how the groom’s family would feel about me performing the ceremony since it’s a “non-traditional” choice. So I decided to make everyone more comfortable by wearing a super short backless sparkle dress and no bra for the occasion:

and then proceeded to announce that “I am totally single” DURING the ceremony – no, I am not kidding  and yes, there’s proof (*I was born without a filter – it’s part of my crazy charm.)

Then there was the moment where I bet the Best Man that my Maid-of-Honor speech would kick his ass and if it didn’t, I’d take off my clothes. Well, the creeper DJ announced the bet to the crowd before the toast – which sparked an 11 year old guest to ask her Mom – “Is the Pastor really going to take her clothes off?”

To make matters a little bit more interesting I hadn’t planned my speech at all and thought I’d wing it – which resulted in this:

Um. yup, I went there. (*and yes, I need a thesaurus because the various forms of true, truly, believe, believer, believing were beaten to death.)

I’d like to say that this was the most inappropriate thing I did, but then you don’t know me very well.

At the end of the night my sister and I were standing in front of the crowd going around the room thanking various people for their hard work and my sister mentioned the absence of my father and step-father who were too ill to attend the wedding and that’s when we both broke down with a case of the ugly cry…, what do I do? With my white knuckled grip on the microphone I announce “I don’t normally cry in public,  I am just ovulating.”

On a brighter note more than a couple of people asked me for my “pastor card” – which is all kinds of interesting  - for one thing I didn’t know pastors carried cards, and two maybe times are changing and people want their weddings performed with touches of  sparkle, miniskirts, bra-less-ness, updates concerning ovulation schedule, and spontanious announcements regarding relationship status –  followed by a plea to meet the single men after the ceremony.

I didn’t have a card – so I directed the kind people to my blog, tracy lane is not a virgin, when the words tumbled out of my mouth – I didn’t stop there – I then finished with “oh, yeah, and my first post is a picture of my ass.”

So that’s where I’ve been…I won’t mention the caterer that “allegedly” (don’t sue me) pulled a gun on a guest or the other rather x-rated antics of some of the wilder guests because I am now an official conduit of God (just ask the Universal Life Church).  I have vows to protect – so feel free to confess all your darkest secrets to me – I promise I won’t tell or testify or …wait, I am really bad at keeping secrets and I suck at lying….whatever… my sister is now happily married and I am still totally single – but can now marry other people, which is awesome in that I’m never a bride always the priest sort of way.

sex toy phone home

“Is that a sex toy in your purse?” Hoops asks.

For once in my life why can’t I be the girl that has a nine inch bright pink dildo stashed in her purse at half past noon on a Thursday?

Instead I am the girl that believes she is going to get a tumor on the side of her face due to the amount of time logged on my cell phone.

“It’s my headset.” I say.

Which sounds as sexy as admitting that I sleep with a mouth guard. Which brings me to the next question: when do you break out the mouth guard? All this… let’s sleep over – not have sex and let me not wear my mouth guard is causing dental guilt. See how I totally need to be Dildo Girl? Dildo Girl wouldn’t be talking about dental hygiene.

I blame my mother for this. She bought me the pink Barbie headset  and look what she uses for her land line:


I have an obsessive need to make lists spurned on by my addiction to office supplies. This is a two prong inter-related problem similar to prostitution and meth.

Don’t believe me?

Back when I was with my ex-hunk of a fiance – let’s call him Mr. Right-But-We-Went-Wrong, he happened to “borrow” Clicky – ( yes I name my pens – don’t act like you don’t) and lost him. I cried. I put up posters, filed a report…nothing.

Mr. Right-But-We-Went-Wrong bought me a replacement:

Clicky 2.0. It wasn’t the same. Like The Godfather Pt. 3

I have a serious thing for office supplies – all kinds – I am an equal office supply junkie offender.

Still not getting it?

Okay, look – you know the people that have a hundred different kinds of plastic surgery and start looking like a cat or Michael Jackson or a Michael Jackson cat?

well this situation is the same thing. I blame back to school shopping for the addictive feeling of wiping the slate clean – a new Trapper Keeper is the same as having the fat sucked from underneath one’s eyes sockets.

For example my eighth grade heart knew my marbleized notebook was going to save me from the terror that was trigonometry even if I had failed seventh grade math – my past was irrelevant – so said my fresh start of a new notebook. The same feeling must be what drives Joan Rivers to the knife. It has to be.

*please note the artistic cat drawing on cover -the parallels between office supply junkies and plastic surgery cat addicts united way back then.

This brings me to my point – list making – I do it obsessively and about everything- I have the office supplies to keep this going times infinity.

On today’s docket:


  1. cocktails (but really what is the point isn’t that just juice?)
  2. wool
  3. unfertilized gamets
  4. computer systems
  5. unalloyed metal
  6. homo sapiens (if they never mated)
  7. olive oil – The Jordon of virgins due to its bad ass category of Extra Virgin
  8. me?*

*I wish I was joking.

**Does this list make me look desperate? highly selective?

***Desperate would have been the countdown widget thingy similar to the national debt crisis counter I was contemplating adding to the home page of the blog. Number of days without sex______ and just have the number escalating by the minute. (Idea tabled- to be revisited at a later date).

****BG22QFJVEV47 – these are not my home coordinates (I AM NOT THAT DESPERATE) it’s something the blog cyber bots requested – when cyber bots speak I listen.

***** Clicky if you read this  - Mommy loves you baby!

skeleton in the closet? please god let it be asian

It’s no secret that my Mother hates that I live in Los Angeles and like any proper New Yorker believes the amount of sunshine, plastic and pastels I am exposed to on a daily basis will eventually result in:

  1. Scientology (I have been jumping on my couch a lot lately)
  2. a set of Double Ds (the fun bag version not the batteries)
  3. reality show fame (the bad Chaotic kind – not the uplifting kind like The Real Housewives of Orange County)

My Mom and I often play the game where she sends me articles documenting the fabulousness that is NYC:

and I retaliate by texting pictures of LA sunshine:

MOM: You look lovely although a little cult-like. Is there a messiah leader behind you?

ME: How did you guess? I am all peace and love and nudity over here. Next week we are going to braid each other’s hair.

ME: Last photo only because I look Asian:

I have always wanted to be Asian like my Japanese cousins who grew up with wall-to-wall white carpeting – which makes you perfect. We had brown carpeting which makes you roll around the house on a wooden skate board aka the space ship (hence my nickname Space Cadet). My Japanese cousins have exotic names, names that say they will do great things…I got stuck with Tracy which in case you didn’t know doesn’t sound Asian at all.

MOM: uhm I think we need to talk about the night I spent in Chinatown while your father was at a race…I had a very nice time.

So what’s a girl to do when paternity comes into question? You head over to for a systems check using facial recognition.

The result: I am a 97% match to Matsushima Nanako.

Need further proof? You can watch me morph into Ms. Nanako by clicking HERE.

Now that I have evidence that either my mom gets around or I have a super hero powered brain – I am flummoxed.

I have wanted to be many different things – on my ninth birthday I made people call me Tina in honor of the goddess that is Tina “Private Dancer” Turner.

Free parenting tip: “Private Dancer” is totally an appropriate song to sing when one is entering her tween years.

Then I went through the Jerry Orbach stage, but that is a no brainer, who hasn’t wanted to be Jerry Orbach at least once in their life?

Recently I wanted to take form as Gloria Steinem’s tramp stamp. (Please see her interview in Time where she stated for her 70th birthday she was going to get a tramp stamp – I wanna be that stamp.)

…but through out the years there has been one constant – I have always wanted to be Asian.

Have I finally willed myself Asian or did my mom make the ultimate sacrifice? I wouldn’t put  it past her because my mom is awesome like that. Although she is still cagey about the whole thing:

MOM: Hey, rather than all the work of being a Tiger Mom – just get me some Asian genes into the mix was my thinking. Well, also thinking that I could handle eight Singapore Slings…

True, us Lane women are known to be light weights when it comes to liquor especially exotic blends.

Clearly the paternity debate will go on until I can swab the inside of my father’s cheek, so for now I’d like to say it’s not easy being a mom, especially when you got yourself a kid that pushes the boundary of ordinary into the odd.  Happy Mother’s Day to my mom – who allows me to be as weird and inappropriate as humanly possible. I am so glad I chose you.

*I’m the blonde Asian looking kid on the right.

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.

to live and date in la: praise jesus edition

ME: I dreamt that I had stigmata of the hands.

HER: You should put that on your profile.

ME: I don’t do that.

HER: What?

ME:  On-line dating and fundamentalists.

HER: Oh.

ME: Why?

HER: I joined Christian Singles.

ME: I thought you were doing Ashton Kutcher’s Kabbalah?

HER: Well since he cheated and Demi had the whole whippet and Red Bull breakdown – I found it’s not all cracked up to what Madonna preached.

ME: Oh.

HER: I am super excited about it! I bought one of those Jesus waffle makers so I can give him the body of Christ.

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.

texting with mom: ocd edition

This is my mom:

This is my mom texting:

April 15, 2012 3:17pm

MOM: From Diary of a Woman who has 6,444 things to do but decided to clean silverware….

MOM: Before:

MOM: After:

TRACY: Nicely done. This makes me very happy!!!

April 15, 2012 6:16 pm

MOM: Help! New Malady.  Am now afraid to use silverware. Want to “save” them. Aaauugh!

TRACY: Hahahahaha!!!

MOM: You laugh but I’m eyeing the stash of take-out plastic “ware”.

April 16, 2012 7:34 am

MOM: Seriously, I ate my salad last night with my fingers. Time for cereal…but they look so beautiful.

MOM: And how will I rotate them so each gets equal usage? I need crisis negotiator.

TRACY: I don’t believe in rotation. I believe in inspiring jealously amongst others. This includes all flatware.

MOM: Jealously or fear of service?

TRACY: It gives flatware things to talk about when they rest in the drawer. It makes them stay on their game, in hopes they will be called into duty.


TRACY: If you keep using plastic flatware the freshly polished silverware will think you are crazy. *Beware of mutiny – it is not pretty- forks will mate with spoons – hence spork.

MOM: I shut the drawer – they can’t see me with plastic spoon.

April 16, 2012 7:01pm

MOM: BTW I found a nice jeweler –the one armed guy — who is putting a tiny number on the back of each piece of silverware. And I have a chart on the kitchen wall where I note each time each is used. Solved!

a love letter from my vagina

Dear Prospective Penis,

I am currently accepting applications for admission, however, there are a few things you should know in advance about my vagina:

1. Me and my vagina have a long history.

2. My vagina knows all. She can tell when you’ve been somewhere you shouldn’t.

3. Vaginas are self cleaning!

4. My mother has one. So did her mother. I come from a long line of vaginas and so do you.

5. Some are hairy, some are bald, some are vagazzeled and some are pierced – ALL are beautiful.

6. Here’s how to know when you are welcome to enter, it’ll be wet, like a rainy day, so make sure to wear your rubber.

Thank you for your interest and please feel free to respond with the top six reasons why my penis is right for your vagina.


Tracy Lane (owner and operator of one amazing vagina )

This is what happens when you find yourself single and sitting in a “You Will Heal and Love” seminar. I knew I was in for some hippy dippy shit when the key speaker kicked it off with “When was the last time you looked at your vagina in a mirror?”

um. where’s the exit?…no, must stay, must heal current situation!

In order to properly document the reason behind me attending seminar let’s look at the photographic evidence as it relates to singledom and cat.

Exhibit A:

Threat level: moderate.

But then a certain cat decided to take over a recently vacant spot in my bed in a rather agressive manner.

Exhibit B:

Threat level: “Danger, Will Robinson!”

According to the Law of Attraction this is not a good situation, cat is not allowing for a new man to enter the equation. Tracy + Cat divided by current sleeping arrangement = single. Scary cat lady single.

And for the record I have A cat, “A” meaning one. Nero. I admit that I take his picture and sometimes I video and yes, okay, I have become THE cat person in my circle of friends. The one you send the  funny cat video, cartoon or photo etc. Yup, I am now THAT person. So situation is more intense than I thought. Fuck.

When the “Love Yourself” speaker told the audience  to go home and grab a hand mirror and take notes, be creative and writer a letter – “get to know your vagina inside and out”, I thought I had crossed over in 1972, but apparently vaginas are the key to unlocking all your hidden pain.

The speaker’s misson was to talk to my vagina, well, all vaginas for that matter, as if they were the last vaginas in the world, a world filled with fake vaginas, plastic non-loving non-natural vaginas.

“Women of today are on the quest for the ideal vagina. Accepting and loving your vagina is the first step in owning your sexuality. We must take a stand against vagina rejuvenation surgery and labiaplasty. Ladies learn to love your labia! Most men believe any vagina is good vagina. So leave the glow sticks and sparkly stuff for your arts and crafts and and let your vagina shine all on its own. And if you run into a guy who says the unthinkable, that your vagina is ugly, just hand him a picture of his testicles and send him on his way.”

I am a good student, but I still woke up in the middle of the night to this:

In the end I realized it’s not about a  penis (although I am a big fan of them) it’s all about the love of a great pussy…and I got two of them.