Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Hot Chik ReUnion

The Original Hot Chiks reunited tonight in a rare untelevised public appearance. Carrie, Ruth and Theresa seemed unaffected by the usual public attention as they enjoyed one another’s company amidst the locals in this quaint midwestern town. Although passersby gawked and stared, and sometimes even dared to approach for a kind word and a bit of the limelight, the gals seemed enchanted with their own private conversation. For those of you unfamiliar, these three are the first Hot Chiks.

Carrie is the sassiest of sassy ass twenty-somethings. She’s hot and everyone knows it. This girl has it goin’ on. Not only that, but this little blond bomb-shell can really burn up the dance floor. As for her other talents; she can hold on to a pin-ball machine for up to 7 days at time; she can go from straight to frizzy-afro without leave-in products or crimping wands; she can completely change clothes in the car while driving; and, she can leave a man speechless and comatose with a single phrase.

Ruth is our thirtysomething Hot Chik. She is Goddess Smartass!, and quick as hell with the comebacks! No one is better at telling someone they are a total fuck while they are laughing their ass off about it. She can also drink a pitcher of beer with her teeth, get into a barfight with a bunch of dudes, kickstart a Harley on the first try, and tuck her sweet boy into bed at night with a nice mommy kiss.

As for Theresa, she likes to sit back and soak in the love.

Welcome home Carrie. We missed you!

Monday, November 29, 2004

Song for my Naughty Hot Ass

I have a naughty hot ass. It gets me in all kinds of trouble. My ass is so naughty and hot that one time it started my house on fire. My dog and I were leisurely walking through the kitchen like we do when we’re going out for a W – A – L – K. As we casually passed by the stove, my ass stuck it’s big old naughty hot self out and turned the burner switch. I didn’t notice the Chinese take-out bag sitting on the stovetop. Before we got out the door with our poopie-bag, not only was the paper bag on fire, but the cabinets above the stove were crackling too. It was a big o’ blaze. I had to use the fire extinguisher and everything. After that we made up a song and dance about how hot and naughty my ass is.

Here’s how it goes:
First, bend over a bit so it looks like your ass is even bigger than it really is.
Then, let your ass shake whichever way it wants to. It will do the dance without the rest of your body.
(to the tune of whichever James Bond movie theme song you like best)
My ass is so hot baby
Don’t get too close sugar
You’ll burn your sweet fingers maybe
The house is on fire muthar.
Shake that naughty hot ass
Shake it, Shake it!
Shake that naughty hot ass
Shake it, Shake it!

Saturday, November 27, 2004

Things to Do (and Don't) List:

It’s important to stay organized when your brain is being controlled by your twisted and tattered heart. I find it necessary to set goals as well as limits for myself.

Do – Breathe in and out all day long.
Don’t – Get a tattoo of Darth Vader to remind yourself to breathe in and out all day long.
Do – Eat food.
Don’t – Eat ALL the food. Leave some for the other people on the planet.
Do – Go to the store for toilet paper, milk and coffee.
Don’t – Buy 6 fashion magazines to torture yourself with why you’re not thin enough, pretty enough, or sexy enough to be loved the way you want to be loved.
Do – Go to the gym.
Don’t – Spend five hours at the gym trying to get strong enough to beat anyone up who tries to hurt you again. (Remember, how you couldn’t drive for two days after the last time you did that)
Do – Pay your over-due bills
Don’t – Shop on-line for crap you really don’t want and don’t need.
Do – Call your mother. She’s worried about you.
Don’t – Call any old boyfriends, get together with any old boyfriends, or fuck any old boyfriends.
Do – Go out with that really sweet guy.
Don’t – Think he’s going to fix everything that hurts.
Do – Hug your dog often. He always thinks you’re pretty, smart and you smell good.
Don’t – Hug your dog too hard. Remember the week you realized you might not die before your 40th birthday. You frightened him so bad it took half a pound of bacon to get him out from behind the bed.

That should do it for today.

Friday, November 26, 2004

Three-Car Pile-Up

There is a huge price to pay for being a Love Goddess. When you love deeply, freely and easily, your heart is constantly exposed and vulnerable. Sure, the rewards are unbelievably mind-blowing. I live for the moments when I connect with another and the love that I give is received. Those connections grow with enriching intimacy. I’m not just talking about romantic/sexual relationships; loving friendships are equally rewarding and just as painful when they end. However, at this juncture in my life, I am nursing two broken hearts of the romantic flavor.

As a person who challenges rules and norms when they don’t seem fitting, I have created a lifestyle that some term "alternative". At any point in time, I may have 2 to 4 men as part of my lovelife, hence, the label "Love Goddess" has attached itself to me. To some folks, my life appears to be a challenge in juggling time, emotions and needs. To others, they envy my stamina, as well as my ability to negotiate such relationships with candor and honesty. Other people simply judge me to be immoral and greedy. At times like this, I too question my choices and wish for a simple life. Actually, even in the best of times, I sometimes wish for a simple life.

I’ve been truly, deeply and intensely in love three times in my life. I’m talking about the kind of love that lasts forever. It’s the sort of love that drives you to be your very best because it reminds you of how much you love yourself. This is the kind of love made of magic. It’s worth fighting for, but when you’re forced to throw in the towel, you’re left in ruins.

So two months ago I ended a 7-year relationship with one of these loves. In order to deal with it, I moved out. I moved back in today. My heart still aches every time I look at him. Since he still lives in my house, I have to look at him a lot. I’m trying very hard to be honest with myself and not buy into anger and resentment to detour around the pain. Unfortunately, he has chosen to deny that he loves me so his pain will go away faster. How do people do that? Do they wake up one day and say to themselves, "Ouch, loving her hurts. I just won’t love her anymore." I wish I could do that.

One of my other true loves lives in the house too. It really sucks for him. I’m in awe of his ability to stick with me through all of this crap.

Several months ago I looked up the third of my loves (although he was actually the first). I hadn’t spoken to him for 13 years. Through all those years, I thought of him almost daily. Although entirely by phone and e-mail, our re-connection was phenomenal. He had also kept me near him through the years. I was astounded that he remembered every detail about our time together.

He broke my heart twice before. You’d think I would have learned my lesson. I was cautious this time, but I haven’t much for defenses. Within a few weeks I was deeply involved once again. It was richly rewarding and I have no regrets. Hell, I’d have another go if he asked. However, due to somewhat vague reasons, another chapter has ended for us and the pain is as real and paralyzing as ever.

So here I am, a twisted mass of arms and legs; A three-car pile-up on the highway of love. Although I’m old enough to know that a broken heart is survivable, age does nothing to dull the pain.

Wednesday, November 24, 2004

By Popular Demand

Friends and family have encouraged me to post this letter that I wrote to my dad. I've hesitated because it's so long and serious that I was afraid our regular readers would become bored and quit stopping by. Well, fuck it. If this bores you, skip it and come back tomorrow. I'm gonna listen to my friends and post it!


Dear Dad:

Lately I’ve been kind of obsessed with the idea of talking to you about my life and how my bipolar disorder has affected it. I’m not certain that you truly understand what this disease is and what it does to someone. It’s pretty hard for those who don’t have it to know how it feels—just ask Steve! It’s taken him years and he’s still learning.

As I learn more about bipolar disorder and exactly what it does to a person, I’m discovering why things always felt so hard for me. I used to think I was lazy or not trying hard enough. Now I know that at times I was experiencing different levels of depression that made it difficult or impossible for me to do what I needed to do in school or at work. I used to feel guilty and mystified that I didn’t have better grades while my test scores were so high. Now I realize that the fact that I actually graduated at all is a testament to my own persistence and determination, the comfort and patience I received from Mom, and the work ethic and encouragement I got from you.

It’s taken me many years to come to terms with having bipolar disorder, and I still haven’t learned all I need to know about why I have it, what it means in my life, what I need to do with the lessons I’ve learned and have yet to learn. I’m so glad that I’ve finally listened to the various voices that have told me that I need to simplify my life in order to deal with having both a family and bipolar disorder, that I do not have the energy or the strength to deal with both while working outside the home full or even part time. I still occasionally feel guilty about “retiring” at such an early age, but I have a wonderful support group (Steve, Leah, Theresa, my doctors and therapist) who bring me back to reality by reminding me about how sick I got when I was working.

I look at other women who have families and careers and manage a household (a clean one!), and I think, “Why can’t I do that?” Then I realize that we all have different ways of contributing to the world, and that I never really did see myself as the homemaker or even as the career type. Not sure what type I did see myself as, but per haps now that I finally have time to think about it…! At least now I will take into consideration that whatever I do, I will take bipolar disorder with me.

There are treatments, most of which I’ve tried, but no cure. It does not go away, and it is usually progressive (although some studies show that post menopausal women experience a decrease in the frequency and duration of depressive episodes). I’ve discovered that having to switch medications every year or two is not uncommon, and research continues with new medications that have fewer side effects and long-term problems. Still, these medications won’t cure me, but may make the disorder a little easier to live with.

Electro convulsive therapy (ECT) treatment, which is what I had last year, is statistically safer and more effective than drug treatment. The idea is to give frequent treatments for the first month, then taper to a therapeutic level, often as few as two or three times per year. The patient needs little or no medication. Unfortunately, I was one of those rare patients for whom they were unable to find a therapeutic level. Bummer.

Perhaps this helps you to see that bipolar disorder is a medical condition which requires medical treatment. It is not a character flaw, or a bad attitude, or an unsatisfactory life situation. It cannot be cured by diet, exercise, rest, a hobby, a new job, or a shopping trip, although all those things can be beneficial to anyone. It must be understood, however, that someone who is severely depressed may find it difficult to do anything more demanding than getting up to go to the bathroom.

I’ll try to get some reading materials for you that explain the symptoms, or, if you’d rather, I can just write down some of my experiences and feelings. Either way, I don’t want you to feel badly for me, or guilty in any way. You did nothing to cause this. You didn’t make any mistakes in parenting that contributed to this. In fact, my therapist and both my shrinks have commented that aside from having bipolar disorder, I’m one of the most mentally healthy and well-adjusted people they know, which is a tribute to my upbringing! So pat yourself on the back!

I hope that this letter is only the beginning of many communications, both written and spoken. There is so much I want to share with you. I’ve learned so much from you that has helped me be a better person—things that I’ve passed on to my kids, sometimes without even realizing it! You’re an amazing person and you’re leaving an impressive legacy!



You might ask why I'd share something so personal with strangers. Well, there are several reasons. Mostly, I'm hoping that this will encourage those with mental illness to share their experience with their family and loved ones. We need all the help and support we can get, but sometimes we have to educate people before we can get it. It is possible to break through to even the most stubborn skeptics. Maybe this letter will help people find the words (hell, print it out and show it to someone!).

Also, you've probably noticed that I'm on a personal crusade to reduce social stigma about mental illness. It shouldn't be such a huge deal to talk about our mental health. I mean, the brain is just another organ in our bodies. We have no greater control over brain than we do our heart, lungs, or liver, and we should not ashamed when it malfunctions. I'm not ashamed, so I talk about it. The more we talk freely about mental health/illness, the closer we get to breaking the stigma.

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

Prepare to Give Thanks

This week half a dozen people are likely to ask me what I’m most thankful for this year. Instead of fumbling around trying to think of the one single thing that I’m thankful for, or lamely totting off some trite answer, I'm going to be prepared with a solid comprehensive list.
  1. Anti-fungal cream
  2. Smoked Gouda
  3. Finding a dear wonderful friend who I’ve missed
  4. The Supertramp: "Breakfast in America" album
  5. Adjectives
  6. The fact that I’m overweight, but I don’t have cellulite
  7. Romantic gestures
  8. Babies, puppies and kittens
  9. Boot-cut jeans
  10. The "pause" function on the DVD player
  11. Compliments
  12. We will Never forget you Grace Jones!
  13. Coffee flavored ice cream
  14. Kisses all over on my neck (for a really long time)
  15. Flirting
  16. We finally have a woman president
  17. The Hammond New Century World Atlas
  18. Wigs and false eyelashes
  19. My Hitachi Magic Wand
  20. Never really falling out of love

Help Me Decide What to Wear

Its casual day at work today, and it pisses me off that they won't let us wear pajamas. It also pisses me off in general that work isn't a clothing optional space, but I can kindof understand that since some of the people I work with I'd rather not see naked.

I can never decide what to wear on casual day. When I finally have the choice to wear whatever I want, the choices overwhelm me. I'd really like to wear my t-shirt from the sex toy store that says, "If you want something done right, do it yourself" because it's purple and because I think everyone should have lots of sex toys.

Sunday, November 21, 2004

When I Get Big, I Want to Be Just Like My Dad

I have the best Dad in the world. This year for his birthday, I wrote him a letter to let him know how much he means to me. I think it's worth sharing because he's been a role model for so many people through the years.

Dear Dad,
Sometimes I think about how blessed my life has been because of you and Mom. I didn’t do anything at all to deserve such wonderful parents. Unlike most things of value in our culture, I didn’t earn you or purchase you. I didn’t even have to be a good person in order to be born to you. I just got very lucky. The first time I remember this thought was when I was still in elementary school. Way back then, I was first learning about other people in the world who had a hard time or suffered due to no fault of their own. They didn’t have all the blessings that I had. And as I grew up, I became even more aware that it’s a terrible lie to believe that good things happen to good people and bad things happen to bad people. Almost always, some bad things and some good things happen to everyone, and most folks are generally good and don’t deserve the bad stuff. So as I think about my life, I am always thankful that I was born to you and Mom. I am truly very fortunate … and I try to be good most of the time.

People assume that because I’m a feminist they understand why I chose to keep my name when I got married. I suppose that’s partially true. I hardly think it’s fair that simply because you’re a girl you have to disrupt your life identity and take on someone else’s name. It’s a big hassle for the maintenance of a tradition of gender ownership. So, perhaps all things aside, I would have chosen to remain a K . . . berg no matter what. However, I have other reasons for having done so.

As I mentioned above, I am one of those lucky few people on this earth who was born being both wanted and loved from the very instant that I was known to exist. Not only that, but I was the first child of the sweetest young couple I’ve ever met in my life. They doted and fussed over me as if I was the cutest thing they’d ever seen. And, as embarrassing as it is, sometimes they still do. Since my very earliest memories, I was aware that I had two parents who loved me very much.

The real reason I didn’t change my name is because of loyalty and pride. My name comes to me from you because you survived despite the fact that, unlike me, when you came into this world you didn’t have anyone. You weren’t welcomed with the love and devotion of a mother and father. Instead, you spent the first four years of your life in an orphanage, and the next 14 years as a foster child. (It still bothers me that you were never adopted).

While you were growing up, you had all of your basic needs met: a bed to sleep in, clothes to wear and food to eat. And although I am aware that you were also loved and cared for by some of the people in your life, it seems like you must have felt very alone. It has occurred to me that the miracle of your survival is that your heart endured and flourished despite the deficits in your life. Not only did you grow into a healthy adult, but you became the most loving and generous person I’ve ever known.

Ever since I’ve been aware, you’ve been giving to others. Over and over again I watched you generously give the most valuable gift: yourself. Whether it was coaching the sports clinics for kids at the YMCA, donating blood regularly, or pitching in on a project with a friend, you were always available to help. Even now that you’ve retired, you and Mom are as busy as ever doing whatever you can do to make life better for those less fortunate than yourselves.

I was born to a man who grew up on the outskirts of a borrowed family. You never knew the love of true kin, or the belonging of people who can never reject you. I was born to a man who valued family because he dreamt of it his entire life. When some of the people around you said that they didn’t believe in you, it drove you to persevere and prove them wrong. You are successful in all the ways that count. You know what love, kindness, and generosity are all about because you live those values every day.

As the firstborn, I am also the first person in the world to truly belong to you. I am your flesh and blood (we even have the same rare blood type). So, even when I curse my bad hair days or my huge hands and thick frame, I can hardly be upset for very long because they come to me from you. I don’t want to claim or take anyone else’s name. No one could ever possibly earn that from me. Although I have belonged with Matt, I don’t belong to him.

I sometimes wonder if I am the most loved person in the world. When I was born, you and Mom loved me unconditionally, and I know that you always will. When I think of the wonderful loving welcome I had to life, as well as the pride I feel about the kind of man you are, I don’t want to call myself anything but a K . . . berg. It’s a gift to be your daughter. I will always belong to you and you will always belong to me

All my love, Theresa

Things I Love About Good Sex

  1. The just-been-fucked hair-do actually looks good on me.
  2. When someone asks what I'm grinning about the next day, my friends know when I coyly smile and shrug, but strangers don't have a clue.
  3. I'm magically transformed into a powerful sensual magestic Amazon goddess.
  4. I wake up the next morning and actually feel like making breakfast.
  5. Cardio baby!
  6. I save the batteries in my vibrator.
  7. I have something naughty to think about while I'm at my boring job.
  8. My tits look perkier for two or three days afterward.
  9. I feel like singing "Sweet mystery of life, at last I've found you" from Young Frankenstein.
  10. And of course, the orgasms are pretty groovy too!

Saturday, November 20, 2004

Death in the Mojave, or Why I'm in Awe of People Who Don't Kill Their Kids

As the eldest child, one of the ways I amused myself while growing up was to devise new ways to make my brother and sister scream. While I was always pleased with this game, my parents didn’t find it quite so amusing. One such time nearly killed us.

It was the Great Family Vacation of 1974. I was 9, my sister was 7 and my brother was 5. The parents decided we would live the American Dream. We packed up the two-door Chevy, with no air conditioning, and began the trip from Cedar Falls, Iowa to Los Angeles, California. Destination: Disneyland!

Each day we would drive for a hundred hours (kid time), stop and see some historical/educational shit, drive some more, and then spend the night at a motel. Mom was wise about insisting the motel have a pool. She could relax with a cocktail at poolside while her car-crazed offspring burned off enough energy to pass-out before she did.

Several days into the trip, somewhere between Yellowstone and Los Angeles, I found myself bored and seeking amusement in the backseat of the wretchedly hot car. Although tensions were as high as the temperature, my egocentric little 9-year old ADHD mind could have cared less. I completely ignored the random warnings from my father about making us walk to Disneyland if we didn’t settle down. Instead, I searched my little micro-world for anything more interesting than looking out the window at the fucking desert.

Our Barbies and Ken doll were spread chaotically across the back window. As a testament to the heat, Barbie had turned a golden peach color in the sun. I looked from peachy-Barbie to little brother’s Ken doll and finally settled on my plan. It occurred to me that Ken would look fantastic in Barbie’s chiffon ball gown and matching tiara. While brother was distracted, I stealthily turned macho Ken into a stunning cross-dressing Princess. Proud of my success and creativity, I presented the new and improved Ken to the rest of my sweaty clan. However, little brother was not as impressed as one would have thought. So, while little sister and I immediately began the ever-popular, “keep a-way” game, brother launched into blood-curdling screams.

That was the proverbial last straw. The car pulled over to the shoulder of the highway and my father got out. Everyone instantly became silent; except for mother, who turned about to give us a hastily whispered “I told you not to push your father too far” mini lecture. We knew she was really saying that conditions had gone beyond her ability to protect us. As we pondered if one or all of us would get a spanking right there on the side of the road, Dad slowly re-opened the door.

“Get out.” he said calmly.
We were frozen, hoping if we didn’t move he would forget we existed.
“All of you. Get out of the car.” he repeated.

I was the first one out. I quickly moved past him, in case one of his huge hands meant to crack me on the ass as part of the punishment. My brother and sister joined me, hovering close, as if I was now their great protector.

Dad got back in the car. He turned to Mom and she nodded as he turned over the ignition and put the Chevy into gear. The three of us stared blankly at the tires which were actually moving. He leaned out the window, and with a surprizingly pleasant look on his face said, “I warned you that you’d have to walk if you didn’t settle down.”

As we watched the car slowly pull ahead of us, brother began to whimper and sister began to wail. We shared the same fear. Soon, we would all be dead from multiple rattlesnake bites. The only thing to do was chase the car and hope we made it to Disneyland before dark. So with the car moving slowly ahead of us, and narrowly avoiding many imaginary rattlesnake attacks, we walked . . . and our parents finally had a chance to enjoy the scenery.

Thursday, November 18, 2004

Brazen Disclosure (or Why I Can't Keep a Secret About Myself)

Call me evil, but I get a major kick out of people’s reactions when I tell them that I have Major Depressive Disorder. [I should interject that I actually have Bipolar II Disorder with Depressive features, but that takes too long to explain during most superficial conversations. If you, Reader, would like more information about the distinction, click here or better yet, here.] Following are some of the more deliciously ignorant, annoying, or basically lame responses I’ve heard:

  • You? Depressed? Why, you always seem so happy and positive! What are you depressed about?
  • You just need to find a hobby/go shopping/get more exercise, etc. (known in the MH community as “bootstrap syndrome”)
  • Oh, I know what you mean! I was so depressed yesterday, I thought I would just die!
  • You need to get off all those meds—that’s what’s really making you feel so bad.
  • Poor thing! Just remember that this too shall pass. That’s what I always say to myself when I get depressed and it always makes me feel better!
  • If you tried a little harder to act happy, you might find it a little easier to be happy.
  • Get over it. Everyone gets the blues sometimes.
  • You should check out that show on Sunday morning--what is it now?-- the Hour of Power. I swear, nobody could be depressed after hearing that wonderful man talk!
  • Yeah, sure you have depression. That’s just what the shrinks and the pharmaceutical companies want you to believe so they can keep soaking up your hard-earned money.

If you have ever reacted to someone with Depression in a way similar to one or more of the above, you have some educatin’ to do. You need it, because you can’t imagine how much you’re hurting others (probably unintentionally) with your ignorance. Stay tuned to 2 hot chiks for some heavy duty enlightenment.

(In the meantime, check out this link for hard facts about this devastating disorder: http://www.psychologyinfo.com/depression/index.html)

Sex Police

As much as people talk about sex in this country, you'd think we'd be fucking experts ... literally. However dear friends, there are tragic offenses of BAD SEX happening every day. Unfortunately, I've been a victim of bad sex more than once. It was terrible. After the mind-numbing shock wore off, I was grumpy for days. I tried to make sense of the experience. There were delusional moments when I even blamed myself. In the end, I realized that there are some among us who pass themselves off as sexually adept, when in fact, they are Frauds. I've come to the conclusion that something must be done to rid the world of Bad Sex.

Our society should set quality standards for sex. When we gleefully enter into a sexual adventure, we should be able to do so with the confidence that our partner is everything he claims to be. In order to create such a society, those who do sex badly should be held accountable for their behavior. With clear standards and firm consequences, we could have the problem licked once and for all.

Just imagine a life where a sex partner is skilled and knowledgeable instead of a nervous gamble. You can believe him when he says he's going to satisfy you for hours. Imagine a life with no regrets about time wasted, and lonesome masturbation after the party has come to an end. In this new world, even if he turns out to be a dumbass, at least you can say the sex was great!

My Solution: Sex Citations. If you're a perpetrator of Bad Sex, you're going to pay the consequences. You'll be ticketed, fined, or worse. You could be fined for Failure to Properly Attend to the Nipples, or Speeding through a Cunnilingus Zone. More serious offenses such as, Operating Without Orgasm Assistance would of course, call for stiffer penalties. As far as I'm concerned, Reckless and Offensive Kissing would require hard community service. For those of a certain age (and experience), Fraudulent Claims of Sexual Skills, would doubtlessly result in the loss of your license to practice sex with anyone but yourself. Once the offenders recognize the impact and consequences of their behavior, I think we could all rest (and play) a little easier.

Those of us who take sex seriously; who study, pay attention and consider it an important recreational responsibility, shouldn't have to co-mingle, or co-fuck, with the inept. It's beyond rude and offensive. It's a Crime!

*Let it be known that this post has nothing to do with anyone I am currently, or have recently shagged.

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Fiendish Food Pusher

My mother is completely delusional about fat. She has come to believe that anyone under 200 lbs. is anorexic. And because she is the most caring woman I know, she has set herself about the task of fattening the world. Once she's set her sights on you, there is almost no escape. To illustrate:

Me: I'm leaving now.
Mom: Taking a little something for the road?
Me: I have an apple and a banana.
Mom: Honey, that's not going to be enough.
Me: It's less than a 7 hour drive and I just ate. I'll stop if I get hungry.
Mom: Take some cookies.
Me: No thanks. I just want fruit.
Mom: There's some left-over cake. I made your favorite.
Me: I've had enough cake. I'm just taking fruit.
Mom: The cookies have oatmeal in them. Oatmeal is healthy.
Me: Fruit is healthy, Mom.
Mom: But, I made those cookies just for you.
Me: (sigh) No, thank you.
Mom: Your father and I can't eat that many cookies.
Me: Take them to the neighbor's.
Mom: Why do you always have to be so difficult? Are you becoming anorexic?
Me: I'm overweight.
Mom: (as she's wrapping up cake & cookies) Don't be ridiculous. You're getting too thin if you ask me.
Me: (slowly backing away) Listen Betty Crocker, I'm not taking those cookies.
Mom: (pausing with a pained look on her face) What if you have an accident?
Me: Huh? What?
Mom: You could have an accident and get trapped in your car with nothing to eat.
Me: I'll have fruit ... And, for godsakes, I'm not going to have an accident.
Mom: But the cookies have oatmeal.
Me: I have a cell phone. I'll call for help if I have an accident.
Mom: But, if you're trapped you might not be able to reach your cell phone.
Me: And, you're sure that I'll be able to reach the cookies instead?
Mom: Don't be such a smartass. They could save your life.
Me: So the cookies are for when I have an accident that no one witnesses. I survive, but despite my survival, I'm trapped in my car. I can't reach my cell phone to call for help. I'm there for days, but miraculously I survive because of the healthy oatmeal cookies (that I can reach). And, apparently the fruit is insufficient.
Mom: Exactly. I heard about a girl in Iowa who that happened to.
Me: You're insane. Give me the goddamn cookies.

So, as you can see, the woman is diabolical. Beware if you're ever traveling north of Eau Claire, Wisconsin on highway 54. You don't want to accidentally run into this fiendish food pusher. Just keep driving my friends. And, if you have an accident and get trapped in your car, use your cell phone to call someone to fetch those cookies I left in a ditch near exit #47.

Monday, November 15, 2004

The Fun things about ADHD

I have ADHD (Attention Deficit Disorder with Hyperactivity). I have all the symptoms of ADD and about half of the symptoms of Hyperactivity. Although I've had it all my life, I was only diagnosed a few years ago. Now that I understand how my brain works differently from other people's brains, I feel a lot better. I've also come to the happy realization that there are some definite benefits to having an ADHD brain.
  1. Not only can I take amphetamines legally, but my insurance pays for them.
  2. I get along really well with three year olds because we have exactly the same attention span.
  3. I get lots of balloons because I have to wear one at the mall so my family can find me when I wander off.
  4. When I'm bored, I tell myself jokes and I think I'm funny.
  5. ADHD makes me really sensitive to touch so its really easy to turn me on.
  6. It makes me giggle inside when my partner tries to get me to pay attention. He's such a lamb for trying!
  7. I'm pretty sure that I run as fast as the wind.
  8. That tired old linear logical thinking is so last year, man.
  9. I can act immature without pretending.
  10. I suspect ADHD has something to do with the fact that I have really great hair.

I hope I haven't depressed people that don't have ADHD. Perhaps you have a disabling disorder that makes your life really cool.

Sunday, November 14, 2004

Love vs. Fear

"To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead." Bertrand Russell

Saturday, November 13, 2004

Pink Umbrellas

Have you ever had a Pina Colada without a little pink umbrella perched atop the glass? It’s kind of like eating Chinese food with a metal fork, roasting marshmallows over a gas flame, pitted Kalmata olives, hot-tubbing in a bathing suit, pumpkin pie without whipped cream, popcorn without butter and salt (ugh!), The Oscars without a funny host, virgin margaritas, lo-carb pasta, Thanksgiving without an after-dinner nap, etc., etc., etc.

What I mean is, IT JUST AIN’T RIGHT!

There are so many seemingly unimportant details that make life just that much more special, more fun, less serious; details that we tend to overlook for no apparent reason. Well I say, put the little pink umbrella back in your Pina Colada (or beer or Diet Coke or water, for the gods’ sakes!) and get the most out of life!

My Own Soapbox

You may have noticed by now that much of this blog-site has a theme. If you’re unsure of what that theme is, please scroll down right now and read the first post, “The Hot Chik Code.” Women’s rights and anything that may interfere with them—sexual double standards, lookism, sexism, sexual and emotional abuse against women, domestic violence, women’s self-esteem issues, etc.; all of these subjects and more are fair game with us. We hope to increase knowledge and awareness, and perhaps even make some changes in the attitudes and actions of our readers through the revelations of our own experiences and observances. We tend to temper our tempers with humor, not only to keep from sounding too preachy and keep readers from nodding off, but also because we can’t help it. Theresa is especially knowledgeable on these subjects (she even taught Human Sexuality at a major university!), and because she is the Love Goddess, you should pay special attention to what she has to say. I do.

In addition to this most worthy theme of, for lack of a less cliché phrase, Woman Power, I have my own life-theme that I’ll undoubtedly bring to 2 Hot Chiks blog-site—Mental Health. I’ve had “bipolar disorder with major depression” probably since the age of three, but was not diagnosed until age twenty-two. I’ve taken nearly all the antidepressant medications on the market at one time or another, and have had dozens of Electro Convulsive Therapy treatments (ECTs, formerly known as shock treatments). I even lost my job at Mental Health Services because of my disorder, which I’ll tell you all about another time—don’t worry, it’s kinda funny.

Over the past 22 years, I’ve come to realize that what I once thought was a handicap is actually a gift. Due to the fact that I simply can’t keep a secret about myself, I tend to fully disclose my psychiatric diagnosis to anyone who stops long enough to listen. This can be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on the individual and the situation. However, I can’t count the number of times people have thanked me for my honesty and openness and told me that they wouldn’t have sought treatment for their own mental illness if they hadn’t heard me spew about my own. Sure makes every shred of pain and suffering I’ve gone through in my life more than worth it.

My major issue with all this, my own soapbox, is that it’s a fucking crime against humanity that most people can’t talk about mental illness without whispering. We hear more than we care to about people’s physical maladies and never think twice about it (unless it concerns foot fungus, the digestive system, or anything containing mucus). But mental illness is considered to be either non-existent, psychosomatic, or a character flaw. And that really burns my shit.

Thanks for listening, and I’ll see you from my soapbox.


Thursday, November 11, 2004

Things to Remember When You Feel Like Crap

  1. The camera really does add 10 pounds.
  2. There are no mistakes, only lessons. You will keep repeating lessons until you die.
  3. Your dog always understands.
  4. Everything that happens is exactly what is supposed to happen.
  5. Your pussy hair is supposed to be there - Don't shave it, no matter how much he begs.
  6. The pre-requisite to courage is fear (this does not apply to pussy-shaving).
  7. A great haircut can do as much for your figure as a month at the gym.
  8. You don't need anyone else's approval to be fan-fuckin-tastic.
  9. You can never have enough shoes, chocolate, or sex toys.
  10. Even if all your dreams come true, there are no guarantees.
  11. Even if your dreams don't come true, it doesn't mean you can't be blissfully happy.
  12. People don't wear pajamas often enough (especially to work).
  13. The only thing you can really control is what you say, do and sometimes what you feel.
  14. There is no such thing as natural cleavage (thanks to push-up bras, not everyone needs to know this).
  15. Trust is earned, not given away.
  16. Vaginas don't smell like fish (what stupid bastard came up with that myth?).
  17. Money is over-rated (best to give as much away as you can).
  18. Coffee is the Universe's way of saying "move your damn ass girl." and it was good.
  19. Love is always the best thing on heaven and earth, even when it hurts like hell.

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

National Start a Rumor Day

If you ever find yourself in a lack-luster social situation (such as your boring job), may I suggest you start a rumor for your own private amusement. It's my belief that it's best to start rumors about yourself. It cuts down on the bad karma factor, as well as the possible ass-kicking in the parking lot at a later date.

People love a good rumor, but you need to take care that you develop your rumor carefully so it has the desired effect.

  1. You should make it shocking (think of what Maury or Riki Lake like to indulge in).
  2. It should be somewhat believable (but don't be too conservative, you'd be surprised about what people will latch onto).
  3. It should be something that should never be repeated.

In order to successfully perpetuate your rumor you either need to acquire an accomplice, or you need to confide in the single most loose-lipped person in the place. If you have an accomplice, she/he should begin spreading the rumor with hush-hush wonton abandon. If you use the loose-lipped, feign neediness and tell them that you can no longer keep your dreadful secret to yourself. Tentatively ask them if they can keep a secret. When they are on the edge of their seat, pour your heart out.

Examples of juicy rumors:

  • You are worried about your history as a porn actress interrupting your current successful life.
  • You've had extreme cosmetic surgery, but the implants are getting hard as rocks and you're worried that people can tell.
  • You're having sex with your partner 5 times a day, plus masturbating when he's not around, and you're worried you might be a sex addict.
  • You stayed late at work last night, photo copied your ass and left the Xerox copies on your bosses desk (since it really didn't happen you can't get in trouble)
  • You think Ben Affleck is speaking to you through secret messages encoded in People Magazine.

The most enjoyable rumor that I designed was with my tantalizingly naughty accomplice, Ruth. I asked Ruth to suggest to others, "Have you ever noticed how large Theresa's hands are? They are bigger than most men's hands aren't they? They look like Man-hands! And, in the right light, I swear I can see an adam's apple. I swear she's really a man. Besides, that whole girlie-girl act is way too fakey."

As our beloved Oscar Wilde said, "The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about." Start a rumor about yourself and have some fun!

Monday, November 08, 2004

For Men: The Answers to the Questions

Question of the Week

Do you think she's beautiful?

If the woman you are with is genuinely interested in your opinion about someone who has caught her eye, just say what you honestly think.

Personally, I rarely come across a woman I don't find beautiful. When I do, it's because what I know of her leads me to believe she is evil and mean. Every so often, such an opinion challenges me to discover the beauty beyond her nastiness. I prefer to spend time with men who also find a variety of women beautiful.

If the woman you are with has an agenda when she asks this question, you're screwed. She either needs you to validate her attractiveness by putting other women down, or she needs you to remind her that she's the one you find the most attractive. Goodie for you! You get to be the guest judge in a surprize on-the-spot beauty pagent. Sorry, I don't want to help figure out how to play this game.

Maybe your best bet is to always answer, Yes.

Saturday, November 06, 2004

Dear Senator Harkin,

Please consider introducing a new bill to congress amending the law of gravity. While I realize that gravity is important, I propose that we limit its power to inflict damage on women's bodies. I'd like gravity to cease to have a negative impact on my tits in particular. They are really spectacular tits, but I am noticing a slight shift downward and a greater dependency on Victoria's Secret garments. I am also concerned that my ass will become the next victim of gravity. Like my tits, it is also quite spectacular and a pleasure to many a passer-by. I am currently making every attempt to challenge gravity, however, thousands of floors on the stairmaster from hell may not be enough. While you may receive some resistance from the cosmetic surgery community, I believe this bill would accomplish a great public service. Sincerely, Your Loyal Constituent, Hotty O'Tatas

Rude Awakening Flashback

So I woke up this morning and I realized that President Carter is no longer our president. On top of that, I'm 40 years old, I'm in debt up to my gravity afflicted tits, and we have to buy water at the store because the water from the tap tastes like shit. But the good news is: no more wretched braces on my teeth, I actually have tits (and they really aren't half bad), I can stay up as late as I want to, and I don't have nearly as many zits. Man, I miss President Carter.

Friday, November 05, 2004

Rude Awakening

So I woke up this morning and I realized that President Gore isn't really our president, it's that bastard G.W. I'm gonna have a smoke and go back to bed. Wait, do I still smoke?

Thursday, November 04, 2004


When I was first in college my friends gave me a t-shirt that said, "I love everybody and you're next." Although I was inexperienced at the time, it was unbelieveably prophetic. A few years later, after dipping my toes in the pool of love, my boss nicknamed me the "Lusty Wench". Later still, a boyfriend affectionately called me a "Slut" because I enjoyed sex more than any woman he'd ever met. And now, many years later, after countless (yes, I've stopped counting) adventures, Lu has dubbed me the Love Goddess.

The word "Slut" still sticks in my mind, however. I hear it used over and over again to describe women in a demeaning way. I don't get it. What's wrong with a woman enjoying lots of sex? Did we learn nothing from the wise and blessed Madonna?

A woman's body is really good at sex. We can go longer than guys. Our tiny little clits have twice as many nerve endings as those big huge penises. And, best of all, we can have multiple orgasms. Being a slut should be a good thing. It's like driving a Cadillac until it has 250,000 miles on it. If you've got a good ride, why keep it in the garage?

I'd really like this whole double-standard thing to end. It's ridiculous that women still have to concern themselves with their reputations. How is it that we are still so oppressed that we can't enjoy sex openly? If we do happen to enjoy it, we have to keep our joy a secret. Both straight and gay men are allowed the open freedom of multiple partners as frequently as they wish. They can even brag about it. If a woman does so, she's a total Slut. Sure, occassionally a man is called a Slut, but it is often with a bit of puffing up and a few snickers of pride. No such luck with us gals. If a girl is called a Slut, it's no surprise to find her hiding in the restroom crying her eyes out.

I for one have fought long and hard for my sexuality. I survived a conservative religious upbringing that shamed women for having sexual desire. I took back my sexuality after a rapist stripped it from me. And, I fight every day to challenge an archaic social structure that continues to insist that "good girls don't." Screw It! I LOVE SEX!

I claim my right to enjoy the pleasures of my tender juicy succulent flesh. It's mine goddamit! If that means I'm a Slut, then I proudly call shotgun in the hotpink Caddy to Slutville.

Wednesday, November 03, 2004

What Should I Do When I Get Big?

So how long does the average midlife crisis last? I'm past the 2-year mark and there is no end in sight. It's difficult rationalizing that I'm an intelligent woman exploring all that life has to offer rather than a dumb-ass fumbling about without a clue.

This isn't meant to be a pity-party rant. I don't necessarily feel bad about myself. I'm cool as hell. I have great friends and a decent sense of rhythm. Everyone that matters knows that I'm a totaly hot - and I have the clothes and shoes to match. I make people laugh, and I laugh a lot myself, but not in the annoying way. I love sex and I'm damn good at it. My resume rocks (however I've wisely excluded my sexual history). My mental health is stable, and I have both collectable snow globes from the Fargo movie as well as an American Maid action figure doll.

Two and a half years ago I had a job that was killing me and no life. I had a stable marriage to a man I rarely saw, and a stable affair with another man I also rarely saw. I had friends who said things like, "remember when we..." because I never had time to do anything but work. My family said things like, "Do your clients matter more to you than we do?" And, I rationalized that my clients NEEDED me more so it was okay that I missed more family events than I attended. When I hit the proverbial wall, I quit and have been resting, playing, exploring, and fumbling ever since.

So now I have 27 plus more years of work/career ahead of me, but I have no idea what to do with that time and energy. I'm bored as hell with my current blah-blah paycheck employment, but nearly everything else in life seems to be an exciting possibility. I have a new idea every week. One week I'm going to invent and make specialized Fortune Cookies and the next week I'm going to be a Sex Toy Tester.

So what does an experienced, bored, immature, conflict-avoiding 40-year old Hot Chik do with herself?

Welcome Lu

Lu finally updated her profile (she shares this site with me don'tcha know?). She's a facinating creature. As a matter of fact, were she to learn to play the accordian, she would be practically perfect in every way.

Tuesday, November 02, 2004

Good Motto to Live By:

"Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming ~ WOO HOO what a ride!" Unknown.
I have no idea who said this first, but I'm happy to repeat it over and over again.