I'm Gonna Wash That Girl Right Outta My Hair

One summer day on Cape Cod I had a flash of brilliant inspiration to change my appearance and change my humdrum high school life. The thought process was as follows. If I cut off my long, naturally wavy tresses and embraced hair gels and mousses and permanent pouting, I could move to New York and be a famous model. Since my hair was the color of a drowned Hudson River rat, my height barely brushed 5’5” and every photo taken of me seemed to resemble a cross between an over-medicated mental patient and Jimmy Durante after a bad fall, a modeling career was not the most practical or realistic goal. But I didn’t care.

I would never again have to use the Pythagorean theorem or a telephone or my left hand during a front seat, high school hand job. I really thought that. Really. Without taking a bong hit or lapping up a few drops of blotter acid or suffering a terrible head injury in a sloppy sailing accident. Me, a model, in New York, modeling and mugging and making out with Rob Lowe and Andrew McCarthy, giving both of them much more of me than my rosy-palmed love in a Pinto.

My closet would be overflowing with stonewashed, Marilyn zip-up GUESS jeans and scrunchy ankle socks that my ripped, Republican, money-managing boyfriend would use as cum towels. My downtown loft would pulsate with parties in honor of artists who only painted 16 inch obelisks in neon colors and androgynous Nagel look-a-likes drinking Chivas and Chrystal Light and the two pretty members of The Bangles and decorative bowls of Quaaludes and mescaline that were often mistaken for Mike and Ike’s and Jujubes. The world would be my fabulous, fuzzy clam.

I found a random salon in a small beach town near Hyannis and put all my trust and money into the hands of a frustrated, fidgety stylist who cut hair to pay off his addiction to TAB, Dextatrim and life-sized posters of The Smith’s. Sitting in his chair, overlooking a cloudy, overcast beach, Boy George of his own jungle hacked off the last of my virginal, untreated strands and welcomed me into the world of dyeing too much and trying too hard.

Exhibit A

After showing him a photo (see exhibit A) of what I wanted to look like he lopped off the left side of my hair leaving a scant two inches and permed the other a pubic bush kinky, hoping to match the 1983 GUESS model I so admired and mooned over. I never stopped to think about what my blank canvas really looked like without a carpet of curls and if this flaccid version of Vidal Sassoon could actually improve upon my natural gifts of average.

After Alberto Alfonso Gilberto was done trimming, treating and teasing I stood up and looked in the floor to ceiling mirror that had been quietly lying to me through its glaring, reflective teeth all afternoon. Standing there was not the Cosmo Cover Girl I had expected or an ESPRIT catalogue high-kicker or any of the united colors of Benetton. No, what I saw before me was a poop-colored, lopsided kitchen mop being held up by a pair of hunched over shoulders, one of which carried a Ton Sur Ton tote filled with regret.

The knowledge that I would never be a fashion icon was as immediate as getting food poisoning at a 24-hour Chinese restaurant that serves day-old fish tacos and an all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet. I paid my bill in cash, tried my Molly Ringwrong to look happy about my new crooked crew cut and slinked out into the gray day fairly certain of a need to scream, “Four!” on the golf course of life. 

The following year, after the mangled mess grew into a shoulder length shame, I started highlighting my hat head, once again trying my best to fit a drab brown peg into a hairy round hole. The more I colored it caramel, the more it demanded dolce de leche and now, after years of switch-ups and new swatches I am a prisoner of my own ponytails.

My mop top never quite recovered from the onslaught of chemical dependency and poor decision-making and I am still fighting an uphill battle of bad hair days, sub par blow-drying, delicious-smelling, bank-breaking deep conditioners and feisty follicle ineptitude. Add to that a few new rebellious and insidious grays sprouting up like weeds at a waterfront wedding and I truly feel like I should never have started a war I could never win.

Whether I like it or not the colorist and the chemicals are here to stay. Sure, I could embrace the white whiskers that now number in the tens around my temples but I am not the girl who looks good in Santa’s second favorite color. I will never be a confident, cotton-top, Eileen Fisher model wrapped in a coffee-colored, oversized, jersey dress, looking like a sultry Q-Tip while coyly gazing into a camera lens as if it were my magnified make-up mirror in my Hamptons master suite.

Was my natural hair color really that bad or could a dull, dirt brown of youth have been enough to satisfy my fashion phobia? When I opened up that Glamour magazine and tore out the photo of the white blond model who had it all together in her pegged jeans and ankle boots all those years ago I instantly fell for the oldest advertising trick in the book.

“Buy our product and be enough!”

While supposedly selling jeans to a massive population of designer-desperate teenagers, the world of fashion forward shoved me into a bottomless pit of massive makeovers and radical redo’s. I dyed and I tried but am still just me, a sometimes disheveled, sometimes delighted mother of one who no longer wants her face or her frame in a magazine but only her words and her warts. 

And Mr. Marciano, I am finally enough.

3 Posts in 1: Exercise, Spoonful of Sugar and Modern Moving

Oh, Dave! I love where you put the wet bar!

To recover from the last months of drama and depletion Dave and I started exercising again like Mad Max in search of the bald dude’s gasoline can. He is all P90X and I am all hiking in the canyon and running WITHOUT HIM. Last summer we embarked on a joint exercise program of P90X and within a few weeks I wanted to strangle him with a green exercise band and lock him in the DVR player in his sweaty gym shorts. There are some things that couples are not meant to do together, especially in a small living room that doubles as a play room/office/TV room/gym/sexy time stadium while a tiny, sassy child begs you to play monster with him and your husband tells you to lift you leg higher. You get the picture. I just couldn’t do it.

The separate but equal workouts are really working out. Even with Otto sick all last weekend (see below side note*) and this last Thursday night as well, we were still able to fit in our sweaty ball time and get along swimmingly without aid of a lewd hand gesture interpreter or a second helping of karate kicks to the throat.

*Side note: Thursday poor Otto was up ALL NIGHT, like baby American Style of common complaints and mystery pains and I was worried and wrecked the next day while Dave felt great. Fucker can go on no sleep, an eight ball of espresso beans and a power bar and look and feel like a 1993 Drakkar Noir chest model the next morning. I secretly hate him for that AND the smell of sub par rape fantasy spritz that is now swirling in my muddled memory ducts.

Anyway, after Otto finally crashed at 6 a.m. Friday morning, school was a, No Way, Jose and a trip to the doc was a, Hell Yeah! Turns out Otto had a mild ear infection and a teeny fever and yes, still had the planet Neptune sitting on his face.  I mean, really. Two weekends in a row and my little man was under some kind of weather pattern and still he rocked it like Stevie Wonder at a shooting range. His temperament and ability to adapt to any situation baffles my brain and makes me bow to his badass self. He was spectacularly understanding and fully slathered in homemade baked goods and hugs and overall good cheer.

So, that meant a lot of extended educational TV watching and home improvement, Dotty Dave Style. We got down and dirty and rearranged, cleaned and fixed up the place old school OCD style. Okay, I know I seem to do that rearrange-due-to-depression-thing a lot around here. It helps when I need a change and I realize that no dead ancestor just burped up and bequeathed a billion dollars to me for that five bedroom that everyone tells us we just have to have! But I am here to say that getting control of your environment, no matter how sick of it you are, absolutely aids in fixing a case of the sads or the mads or even the mediocre glads.

And sure enough, it delivered the goodies. We took all our crazy, eclectic furnishings we’ve collected over the last twenty years, pushed them around in circles, put them against different walls in opposite corners, repainted a cool armoire and created a shoe closet, framed tons of photos of Otto Man and put up all his Dali-inspired artwork, vacuumed up the last of the cat and dog hair (silently crying and heart breaking) and started to feel we may have finally figured out our backwards living room.

Okay, maybe that is a bit of a stretch but living in an apartment with only one downstairs closet that is 18” wide in the middle of one living room wall and a front door that takes up four feet of the only other good wall space in which to put a sofa, one can understand how ridiculous our 1934 surrealist, socialist apartment truly is. I have said it before but whomever paid to have this wacko shack built to these specs owned nothing more than a love seat and a standing ashtray filled with cheap cigarette butts, two pairs of dusty Gabardine pants, a wrinkled, button down shirt that was stored in a kitchen cabinet for safe keeping and a pair of size seven men’s dress shoes that doubled as poorly polished bedside tables.

In order to end this exercise/Otto mend/DIY rant I have to give credit where credit is due. I feel that the reasons I have embarked on getting back to spreading some love around our apartment are as follows. One, the dark cloud of sadness has truly begun to float away after the loss of our four legged loves, Brody and Joey. Two, the unexpected blocks of weekend time that were tossed in our laps twice in one calendar week helped us get serious and sudsy in our spring-cleaning pursuits. And three, my new found love and inappropriate crush on the design blog, APARTMENT THERAPY has turned me into a shuffle and shift junkie. It is as if this little gem of home design and Peeping Tomery was made just for me, a girl who loves both voyeurism and interior design but is too inherently lazy and too frugal to fork over the fitties for my British Elle Décor porno mags.

Am I cured? I have no idea. Just check out MY NEW FAV BLOG and maybe you too, will be inspired to rid your medicine cabinet of its collection of rancid, mid 90’s Mac Spice lip-liners and expired medications the color of tea-stained teeth. Maybe you will feel an urge to frame all your Chipotle lunch receipts and hang them in a monochrome tableau above your new CB2 side table. Or perhaps you will launch into fabulous by rolling your guest towels into large terry cloth penises and proudly displaying them in hanging baskets next to your new whimsical toothpaste dispenser made of stolen copper wire. But best of all, may you find the strength and honesty to burn anything in your underwear drawer that whimpers “NOT TONIGHT” or predates your husband, your children or your questionable college graduation.

Dirty Is As Dirty Does

Otto has been through a lot this past six months. Yet even with the terrible loss of his dog, a missed birthday, the heart-wrenching decline and death of his cat and a red face asteroid that refused to scoot off to another galaxy, his spirit and overall cheerfulness pours over the lip of his gorgeous glass like a delicious, frothy pint of Guinness. He has the uncanny ability to express his frustration and anger and sadness toward the many injustices he has experienced as of late but recovers within moments, as if he truly knows that life is full of trials and that his are small in comparison to most.

I marvel at the daily skip in his step and the way he looks around his world with curiosity and wonder and kindness. I wish I could bottle it and drink it thrice daily. I wish I didn’t continually turn my head in a Linda Blair, full-circle and notice what is wrong with my helpless hair or my listing living room or my lint-covered life instead of seeing only the good like my stone cold, cool son. I wish for him that that positivity stays with him for a lifetime and carries him through the rough patches that will most definitely be itchier than a facial fungus and more intense than an Internet break-up.

But the trait that I know will truly help him most when he needs it is his ability to see the funny. He has already established himself to be a great audience in all things silly and has spent much of his youth honing his comedy chops, which are two, thick slabs of meat seasoned with lots of fart jokes and coated with absurdist sauce.

I love a dirty joke and made a living at it on stage at a time in my varied life. Back when I was barely a beansprout I laughed until I cried at all the disgusting imagery painted on my brain by the older kids in my neighborhood.  The funnier someone was, the more cache they brought to the table and everyone knew the filthier the joke, the more fabulous the friend.

So this is where I lie conflicted and confused. Otto loves knock, knock jokes and bodily function debauchery and silly word combinations. Who doesn’t? No harm no foul, right? But when the jokes suddenly go from sweet and goofy to boobies and buttholes what is a mother to do? I have noticed with his friends that the age of four brings with it a more body conscious kiddo. They are potty-trained and independent and curious and all too cognitive about the differences between girls and boys.

They are also suddenly clever enough to get the joke, write the joke and open at the Improv on a Tuesday night. I don’t want to squelch my child’s inner Andy Kaufman or step on his Andrew Dice Clay doppelganger by not allowing boobs to be punchlines or boogers to be sound bytes. Okay, maybe we can skip Dice Clay and move on to Sam Kinison or Louie C.K.?

Whatever or whoever the case may be I am trying my alternative comedy best to find a middle ground and keep the funny without throwing away the hilarity in the dirty bathwater.

So this week I will replace my old mantra, “Dirty is funny and four letters are better than three!” with my new mantra, “Helen Keller jokes are bad and there is nothing wrong with good, clean fun!”

Problem is, will he high-five me or heckle me? Only time will tell.

Skin Deep and Scaly Underneath

Three weeks ago Otto got what we thought was a tiny spider bite on his perfect, flower petal cheek. First, it looked like a small, red pinprick, something your average voodoo doll might suffer from on a slow day at the office. Then it slowly evolved into a tween-like pimple and made me think of our future footsteps alongside the puberty patrol. I pictured our house, the one we don’t live in, bombarded by tubes of Benzoil Peroxide and bad attitudes and a teenage combination-skin skater who wants nothing to do with his parents and everything to do with naked cheerleaders and fifty-minute showers.

A week went by and one morning we noticed it had suddenly developed from a freshman’s worst nightmare to a red moon-like planet looking for a solar system to love. Coincidentally, Otto had woken up with a nasty unfiltered smoker’s cough that day so Dave took him into the doctor just to make sure there was no whooping in his windpipe. After assuring Dave that the cough was nothing serious, the doctor on call took a look at the scaly, pink ping-pong ball and declared it to be, indeed, an infected spider bite. A week of twice daily slathering of cortisone cream and antibacterial ointment were prescribed and used diligently.

Ten days later Mars’ ugly stepsister morphed into a solar eclipse of even uglier and I took Otto back to the doctor wearing ski gloves and a poncho made of a deep-seated fear of interstellar space travel. This time the doctor decided that Otto had a fungal infection on his cheek, much like the fungus I received ten years earlier from THE hippest bikini waxer in Los Angeles. Yes, all those childless years ago I had a perfectly cylindrical life form growing on my Brazilian stretch of beach because Svetlana chose NOT to disinfect her carafe of hot wax strips. Gross.

So, here I was feeling so sorry for Otto and staring down at his chunky cheek asteroid and remembering my trip to a snotty, all-star dermatologist who looked at my crotch fungus with the disdain only an angry vice principle could possible have toward a cunning and vodka-soaked girl half his age. Said vice principal may have accused me of drinking on a school field trip but could never prove it and hated me like he hated an empty glass of Scotch. Guilty as charged but never caught! Ha!

When the dermatologist was done judging me from the other side of a rubber glove and a sneer, I crawled home wearing scuffed wedge loafers the size of a step ladder and a generous helping of prescription strength anti-fungal cream. After naming my new roommate Fungina I spent the next fourteen days under a tattered knock-off Hopi blanket, speaking to my new vag-mate in soft whispers until she finally faded into obscurity during the next lunar cycle.

By tangential point is that Otto’s pediatrician gave the same diagnosis to Otto’s face friend as the demonic dermatologist gave to my below the belt beach party and that made me realize that I would never tell Otto that story, especially while his high school girlfriend ate dinner with us as we giggled out old family tales of whoa. I know my limits. I’ll just tell the interweb.

Back to the story already… We left the doc’s office with a firm diagnosis, two sugarless lollipops, ten-dollar co-pay and a toy airplane and skipped right over to CVS with instructions to buy Lotrimin. Or was it Lamasil? Shit! I forgot to write down the exact L-word needed in this situation and when I got to the funky ointment section the L’s criss-crossed in my bad brains and PRFFF! I had no idea what to do. I grabbed both packages, generic of course, because I am as frugal and I am fungal, and asked the pharmacist which one to use on face filth. She pleaded the fifth and told me to call my doctor.

As the phone rang and Otto begged for a twenty-dollar baby doll that looked like Vern Troyer after a four-hour bath, I looked down at both items in my hands and suddenly realized that these two creams were very different. The Lamisil AT stated that it was specifically for ringworm, a common fungus in young school children, Meth dealers and out of work actors. The other cream, Lotrimin, had a grotesque, grinning infectious mascot on the package, a cross between Gollum and puddle of barf and prided itself in print as THE number one, jock itch cream.

The nurse answered the phone before I could hang up so I thought it only polite to ask her which cream to use, even though I clearly knew the answer after reading the boxes in my hands. It was physically impossible for Otto’s franks and beans to be anywhere near his face, unless they were teaching him contortionism in karate and there had not been any contact with an athlete or an athletic supporter in the days leading up to the blemish. So Lamisil it was.

While the nurse put me on hold, Otto and I argued about why I would not be buying him the bloated baby doll he wanted and if I were to buy him a doll, which I would, it would be one of the dolls I was deprived of as a small child, such as a Betsy Wetsy

“Doctor says to use the Lotrimin, honey. Lotrimin.”

I thanked her, hung up the phone and went to put back one of the creams when my eyes once again, fell on the package that I was told to keep. NO! It could not be!

LOTRIMIN: FOR JOCK ITCH

My small, lovely, precious child’s chubby cheek is no better than A Rod’s sweaty, chafed, lower level romper room! No wonder I subconsciously misplaced the L’s in my mind. I must have known the moment I spotted the cream that screamed, “Crotch Rot!” that I would be rubbing jock itch cream all over my baby before breakfast and before bedtime for two whole weeks!

Two days in and the funk is slowly fading and I am as relieved as an itch being scratched. But every time I apply the cream I cannot get out of my scarred and scabby mind the image of a stinky, sweaty, triangular testicle shield at the bottom of a germy gym bag, somehow snuggling up to Otto’s cheekbone without me knowing about it. And then I try and be as positive as possible. Maybe he’ll be a dancer. They don’t sweat, right?

I told you it was a Hallmark holiday

Still milking my weekend of worship, I give you a little look at how all mother's matter, no matter who they are!

The horror, the horror...

MY MAN'S MOVIE

Today was going to be a post-Mom’s Day post about my amazing Mother’s Day weekend of relaxing and hanging out solo and with friends and husbandly awesomeness and my child’s brilliant and yummy everything and the general tremendousness of all the above. Really, it was.

There was a plan to wax on and off about Dave doing everything around and in and out of the house and Otto being as good as gold bullion bicuspids and making me a crazy cute Mother’s Day card out of princess stickers (boy playing with princesses… alert the media) and yellow magic marker (my favorite color) and playing with his friends and the dads while I ate a fancy, no-kids-brunch at a hipster restaurant with some gal pals as a flock of paparazzi chased down a PREGNANT CELEBRITY who looked as pleased as a punch to the face.

Nope, my little self-centered catch-up has changed from discussing the Hallmark Me Day weekend that I fully embraced and took advantage of, to the cool Hand Luke news that came across the wiggly wires today. My husband, my perfect ball-chaining, beer-drinking, bread-baking, homemade pasta-making, heart-stopping spouse had a really good day today in a town that prides itself on weeks and months and years of the bad shit. These long stretches of rough riding are often held together by spit, dirty Chuck Taylor shoelaces and someone else’s semen, inevitably leaving their victims barely alive or audible under a moth-eaten blanket of misplaced potential and forgotten fortune.

His badass self wrote a badass script called NO ONE LIVES and the literary creature is crawling out of its black lagoon and getting itself made! Can I get a shit yeah? It was announced in Variety today along side a photo of its hottie star, the other Cool Hand Luke and its scary-making director. READ IT HERE if you want a little horror in your show today.

And on a personal note, Dave, you are my hardcore, horror hero and the whiplashed wind beneath my crooked wings! Congratulations on a busty, bodacious bright green light!

On this Mother's Day, don't forget to...

by showing her your love with ink

 and make her think

she taught you well.

Katy Perry, Even On Heavy Days

It has been two weeks of our small child on spring break which makes for very little blogging and blabbing. Now that the baby calf is back in the barn and I am now riding side-saddle into sanity, the blithering can begin again and blithering it is.

During some nighttime/adult time one evening last week, Dave and I watched Katy Perry, the newly minted pop princess, married to the newly minted NOT Dudley Moore, debut her new single “E.T.” on American Idol. As some of you have pointed out in the comments section, I am of severely lame in my Idolatry and happily subscribe to a lowbrow love of the reality rhinoceros American Idol and have since the first day it aired. I have been to four live tapings, gold medal for lameness, one as recent as last month, second gold in lame and love this season above all others! So what? Why do I watch?

I cannot keep my eyes off of J. Lo’s perfectly positioned hairpieces or her silky, stiletto-loving legs or her creamy, caramelized skin or her pillow mint smile. It’s like looking into a magic mirror in someone else’s en suite bathroom only to see a creature that I will NEVER look anything like. Not even remotely, on my best day, in my wildest dreams with a team of dreamologists slathering me with pixie dust and fairy farts.  Uncle.

After I have been bewitched and ego-beaten by P. Diddy’s former fluffer and my eyeballs are sufficiently scorched from the sexy sun that Jenny From The Block emits from her perfect Puerto Rican pores, my eyes crawl a few inches to the left where I see a ravaged rock star I want to wrap in a bath towel and dry off with my desperate kisses. I cannot help it, people. Steven Tyler may look like a twice-licked fruit roll-up at the bottom of a beach bag but my heart belongs to his Rock ’n’ Roll and his collection of mecklaces (man necklaces) calls to my sweet emotions!

The point I am trying to make here is about Katy Perry’s visit to the Idol stage last week and I have gotten way off point. Forgive me for my star-fucking stuttering. I clearly digressed.

Anyway, Katy Perry, Katy Perry, yes Katy Perry. Her song “E.T.” is a duet with Kanye West who, on the show, was wearing what looked like a fur vest he had stolen from The Clan of the Cave Bear storage unit without having it dry-cleaned or combed or even killed. The performance and the costumes and the dancing was really lame, in my humble, un-famous, un-cool and un-employed opinion and I was more than happy to share my thoughts with Dave who sat next to me on our Idol-watching sofa.

“These lyrics suck ass,” I said with highbrow professionalism and poise.

“They are pretty ridiculous,” Dave replied, leaving me validated and vindicated until his mouth barfed up this gem.

“The lyrics are nonsense based on the fact that someone cannot be supernatural AND extraterrestrial. It’s impossible unless they are a space ghost and everyone knows space ghosts do not exist.”

At this point I gazed at the man I married all those years ago and started to wonder if indeed, he really did attend any school dances or if he simply stayed home with his geek squad pals Dungeoning and Dragoning until dawn. The jury is still out.

Back to Katy, I know. In her uber-Idolness, all I could think of while I watched the duet of overdone was how the California Gurl was dressed like a super plus tampon from the planet Menses while channeling Jon Anderson’s comeback with the band YES for the 1984 “90125” tour. No, I am sure you have no idea what the hell I am talking about or care to remember what Jon Anderson or anyone else in the band looked like in 1984. So, let me paint you an off the shoulder picture.

I am not proud to say I witnessed firsthand Yes’s Lakeland, Florida tour stop on April 18, 1984 while on spring break with my best friend, LIZA.  The two of us teens and one hundred other idiots who bothered to show up, were forced to watched as the YES stomp around on stage in metallic platforms and shoulder-padded space suits while playing "Roundabout",  the trippy, dippy ditty Jon Anderson penned in 1971 while drinking brown blotter acid from a Krazy Straw. Epic it was not.

Side Note: I cannot find any photos of this or any other concert in which the members of YES have on their confusing and soul-crushing spaceman unitards and high heels. Conspiracy, yes! Disappointing, hell yes! But I have provided a video for your viewing pleasure that shows the band later that year looking alarmingly like the members of Banana Rama and The Go-Go’s after an all-girls slumber party sponsored by Capezio and Corey Feldman's clothing line for Men's Warehouse.

Being a witness to a once super successful band playing to an empty arena dressed like a collection of broken space heaters while desperately holding on to their careers with the death grip of a drunk and ill-equipped rock climber was one of the most depressing moments of my life. It is on my shittiest shit list right below getting my period all over my desk chair in 8^th grade social studies AND laughing so hard I farted in front of Klaus*, my first middle school, super crush.

*Yes, Klaus and I are Facebook friends and if he reads this I will bury my head in shame once again and then crawl right into my time machine, travel back to the summer of 1982 and change that fart to a burp with no one being the wiser.  

To make a long story even longer, a few days ago I walked into H&M to buy cheap, chic and Euro-fabulous kids clothes for Otto when I hear Katy Perry’s "E.T." come over the very loud, very disconcerting sound system. Before I can form a bitchy judgment Judy in my left-brain, a young woman behind me starts singing every word. She is loving it, owning it and chirping it like she is Katy’s left boob and she is there to put on a show. As hard as I tried to say terrible things with my inside voice while recalling that Klingon Kotex ensemble that Katy danced in, I realized that the song was super catchy, ultra hooky and as sing-able as an Oscar Meyer melody.

Maybe the song sucked live and maybe I should break up with Kanye for good, but the tune really rocks out with its pad out through speakers. I was damn wrong and Katy is damn right. Thank God she is the pop star and I am other lady. Space ghosts or not, what have I been singing non-stop for the past thirty-six hours? Only the parts I know really well.

Kiss me, ki-ki-kiss me


Infect me with your love and


Fill me with your poison



Take me, ta-ta-take me


Wanna be a victim


Ready for abduction


Boy, you're an alien


Your touch so foreign


It's supernatural


Extraterrestrial



Your so supersonic


Wanna feel your powers


Stun me with your lasers


Your kiss is cosmic


Every move is magic