Writer & Columnist • Santa Barbara, CA
Starshine Roshell Posts
Most Californians don’t know from snow. We have no idea what it’s like to shovel a driveway, or awake to white-blanketed landscapes, or bundle up and stroll through frosty flurries (See? Frosty flurries — are those even a thing?). But we sing about it all just the same. Come December, we croon about sleigh bells and winter wonderlands and glistening treetops with all the enthusiasm of people who know what the flake they’re warbling about.
What I love best about this lyrical-geographical incongruity is that no one seems to care. People in nippy climes don’t ask us West Coasters to pipe down and stop singing about something we don’t — and frankly can’t — fully appreciate.
“Hey!” they don’t say. “Quit your convivial yodeling, and do some personal precipitation research!” It matters not to folks in icy Buffalo, New York, or glacial Grand Rapids, Michigan, whether our musical merriment is based in experience or willful ignorance. Whatever jingles your bells, man!
Why then — and you knew I was going somewhere with this, right? — should sourpuss religious zealots give a holly heck how the rest of us celebrate Christmas?
She is an eruption waiting to happen, a burst woman walking. Her mass is so unmanageable, her sleep so uncomfortable, her bladder so irrepressible that she’d do just about anything to purge the stubborn little gestater.
It’s then — right then, when she is close to weeping at her wretched inability to draw a deep breath or pick up items she drops from her swollen piggy fingers — that her husband tells her, “You know, I might be able to help.” It seems a gal at work told him or he saw it in a movie once or he read it in the baby book and, er, he can’t remember which page, but anyway — some rockin’ sex might be just what the missus needs.
You can’t blame the guy for trying. And perhaps he’s even a little confused. Because back when they were in the delightful “trying to conceive” part of this pregnancy, he was lauded for his willingness (oh, he’s a giver) to drop trou for the cause. His heroic hay-rolling started this pregnancy, dammit, and there’s no reason (other than, you know, biology and basic logic) to think his Magic Mike-style moves can’t end it, too. Maybe it would make her feel better, and maybe it wouldn’t; he’s fairly sure it’d do wonders for him.
There are certain things a woman likes to hear after she kisses a man on the mouth: “Wow … please … more” and “Sweet cheeses, I’m in love” and “You taste like Wildlicious Pop-Tarts.”
But even “What do you think you’re doing, you trollop?” and “That is a LOT of saliva” would be preferable to what I hear after I kiss my husband: “Ewwww.”
The aspersion comes not from my spouse but from our 7-year-old son, an undersized-and-outspoken Puritan who finds even the chastest of our amorous embraces repugnant. Mind you, this child is not easily made queasy. He mixes fruit punch with Dr. Pepper and spoons applesauce onto his chicken nuggets, and I’ve seen the kid blithely pluck a strangled, desiccated lizard from a soccer net with a monkey wrench. Yet he finds nothing so disgusting as my lips touching his dad’s.
“Yuck.” “Nasty.” “Not again. Seriously? Come on!” It’s tough not to take that personally. I mean, why the horror? “Because the sound is gross,” he says.
Unfair! Sometimes we’re completely, no-slurping silent, I swear. He still cringes. “It just makes me … (sigh) … It’s just gross!”
This is an important public service announcement for everyone out there named Starshine. (And for the rest of you, who think it’s unlikely there are others named Starshine, I would argue it’s just as unlikely that I’m able to spell Starshine considering the hallucinogens my parents consumed before and perhaps during my conception, so I’m a bettin’ girl.)
As we Starshines know, our unusual name is rife with perks. For example, people are often too embarrassed to say Starshine out loud, so they avoid talking to us entirely, which can be really lovely. And it’s always fun to introduce ourselves to old people, who inevitably try to recall the abominable lyrics to the song “Good Morning Starshine”: “Is it ‘glibby glup gloopy’ … or ‘gliddy glop glooby’?” Plus, we enjoy almost mainstream-moniker status when compared to Frank Zappa’s kids, Moon Unit, Dweezil, and Diva Thin Muffin; at least Starshine is, like, a thing.
Still, there’s a downside to our name, and I think you all know what I’m talking about. Look, I’m sure every name has its own cross to bear. You think it’s easy for guys called Romeo and Jesus? And let’s all say a little prayer for girls named Britney or Lindsay, and born after, say, 1998.
Weekend getaway to San Luis Obispo for AAA Westways Magazine.
I don’t want to brag, but my purse is a fricking wonderland. My fully loaded, survivalist handbag contains the tools to halt both heartburn and sunburn. The treasures rolling around in there can eradicate six straight days of headaches and stave off two, maybe three meals in a row. They can address a menstrual emergency, obliterate germs on shopping cart handles, and fashion a failed blowout into a casually fabulous chignon. But what my purse cannot do is produce a basic orgasm. And now I feel kind of lame about that.
I recently learned about a line of mini-vibrators that are disguised as basic, unsexy cosmetics — a faux lipstick, mascara tube, blush brush, and mirrored compact, each promising 80 full minutes of buzzing in two modes: “please” and “tease.” Why pose as makeup? It ain’t because they both bring color to your cheeks.
Billed as a “fashionably discreet sexcessory,” each little pleasure wand is meant to be tossed into your bag so that it’s handy … er, “when you need it the most.” I did some research (and I’m convinced the Internet was invented for precisely this purpose) and found others that double as a hairbrush, a pack of Life Savers, and even a lint roller, which is about as unhot as it gets.
The moment had come. She stood there pretty as a picture, and he was nervous as could be. Could he pull it off? Would she say yes? “I pulled out a rose, got down on one knee, and popped the question,” the young man said. “She was just staring in disbelief, like, ‘What is going on right now?’ But she said yes — thank gosh.”
What makes this story strange is that the happy couple aren’t adults, they’re high-schoolers. And this wasn’t a marriage proposal, it was just an invitation to the homecoming dance.
But in fact, there’s no such thing as “just an invitation” to a dance anymore. Teens all over America have taken to grand, showy gestures to land a date to homecoming or prom.
“You have to,” explained Jack Haley, the question-popping San Marcos High School junior mentioned above. “It’s expected. You can’t go up to a girl and just go, ‘Hey, you wanna go to homecoming with me?’ because the girl will say, ‘Ask me in a better way,’ and you won’t get any respect from your peers.”
Inspired by watching The Last of the Mohicans in history class, he wooed his date by blasting the movie’s theme song from his car in the school parking lot as he fended off faux attackers (his “bros”) with a plastic sword, shouting, “No, she’s mine!” When the last bro was mock-slain, Haley knelt and asked the amused, confused girl to the dance.
Men are supposed to be the logical ones. The more rational sex. And to the extent that they’ll fetch a tool or phone a repairman when something breaks — as opposed to weeping, repenting to the callous gods of karma, and then yelling at it, as I typically do — I concede that guys are largely governed by reason.
But when football season begins, their logic vanishes like a bowl of Hot Wings Doritos in front of a flat screen on a Sunday afternoon. (I know, I’m generalizing. Brace yourself because I’m going to do it some more.)
Football fans spend four months of every year hooting and rooting for teams that they’ve chosen to support for cockamamie reasons.
“Where I grew up, I was a Bears fan. It was expected of me. It was the right thing to do.” … “I bought my son a Broncos sweatshirt when he was 3. He’s still a fan.” … “I’ve liked the 49ers since I was young because games in Kezar Stadium looked so glorious when it was snowing in my native Ohio. And the red and gold looked much better than the hideous schemes offered by the Bengals and the Browns.”
Implicit obedience? Wardrobe attachment? Color schemes? These are dudes we’re talking about — right?
They pledge their undying, unsound fidelity to a team because it’s the one their dad rooted for. Or rooted against … whichever. My husband still flies the Raiders flag because, as a boy, he loved Ken Stabler’s nickname, “The Snake.” My sons chose their teams because “I wanted an underdog” and “my best friend hates them.”