Friday, December 31, 2004

The Things That Suck About ADHD

Back in November, I posted a few of the fun things about having ADHD. Surprise! There are also some things that make it a daily nightmare to live with. (You didn't really think I'd over-look this list forever did you?)

  1. I can’t remember more than three things at a time unless I write them down, and even then, I have to concentrate really hard (eggs, toilet paper, coffee… eggs, toilet paper, coffee… eggs, toilet paper, coffee… eggs, toilet paper, coffee…)
  2. No matter how soon I start to get ready to go somewhere, I’ll be late. How about I come to your house for a 4th of July Bar-B-Q. I’ll start getting ready now. Wanna bet I’ll show up 15 minutes late and out of breath?
  3. Every day I have to write a list of things to do.
  4. Every day I lose my list of things to do and have to write it again.
  5. Sometimes it’s embarrassing when I have to wear a balloon tied to my wrist at the mall so my friends can find me when I wander off.
  6. Sometimes it’s not so cute when I feel more comfortable hanging with the three-year olds at social gatherings rather than the grown-ups.
  7. I have to take drugs to help me focus. They keep me awake at night. So, I have to take more drugs to make me sleep. I sleep about 4-5 hours a day.
  8. Loud noises, constant noises, bright lights, and anything remotely uncomfortable will absorb my attention and completely irritate me. Sitting on an airplane with that constant loud goddamn engine hum nearly sends me scratching and clawing my way through one of those little windows. The only way to survive Trans-Atlantic flights is through the aid of alcohol, lots and lots of blessed alcohol
  9. Somewhere trapped inside my brain, there are more ideas and thoughts than I will ever have time to utter, let alone organize into any kind of productive action or communication. According to my father, I’d be a fucking genius if I could get all my brains in one place (Although, I don’t think he used the word "fucking").
  10. I’m clumsy because my brain is moving faster than my body. For instance, my brain will be putting my seatbelt on before I get into the car. Thus, I fall on my ass in the parking lot. This is how I became known affectionately as "Twinkle-Toes". This is also how half the guys from the manufacturing center got a nice crotch shot last summer.
  11. I’m completely fascinated by new and interesting things. This means the last new and interesting thing becomes abandoned in the bottom of a closet or the garage. To date, I have the largest collection of unused power-tools in the free world. These are remnants of my one-time desire to become a carpenter and wear cool safety goggles like Norm Abrams.
  12. I lose my keys, my cell phone, my glasses, and my shoes every single day. One time I lost my parent’s car in the parking ramp at O’Hare airport. Fortunately, they were in Europe for a month so I had time to find it.
  13. Throughout my public education, teachers thought I was stupid. I made it to college on a music scholarship. It wasn’t until I had several 4.0 semesters in a row that it occurred to me that I might not be completely daft. But, then perhaps I just got good at faking it. ADHD completely fucks with a girl’s self-esteem.

Miss Nipple, the New Weather Girl

Blimey, it's a fuckin' heat wave! It was 62 degrees yesterday. Not to complain, but here in the Great Plains, we expect temps hovering about twenty this time of year. My nipples don't do anything when I go outside. They just stay exactly as they are unless I fiddle with them a bit or think about naughty things.

Speaking of naughty things, I just took the Slut Test, linked from Kathy's Blog. I scored a Hot 68%. I was completely shocked. I thought I was going to score lower because I have pretty strong views about certain things, and I was quite reserved until my mid twenties. But, I also absofuckinglutely HATE the double standard. Perhaps my belief that women should say YES to their desires and NO to their traditional role as the gatekeepers of sex had something to due to my higher than expected score.

The Love Goddess New Year Party Tip:
If you're planning to go out to celebrate the New Year, think about how you will cover your nipples. If you choose to wear a bra, make sure it's not padded. You'll want others to notice when you're sporting your PARTY HATS!
Happy New Year ! ! ! ! ! !

2005: Year of Cunnilungus

As much as I love all aspects of sex, and continue to explore the full range of sexual experiences to the limits of my exhausted and trembling body, I embrace the call to promote and celebrate Cunnilingus in the coming year. At some other time or place we can explore the joys of kissing, fucking, blowing, touching, rimming, massaging, and all other manner of sexual stimulation, but for the purpose of this post, the focus is licking the sweeeeeet pussy.

I’ve heard rumors that there are many men (and women) in the world who greatly enjoy muff-munching. Indeed, I myself have had the pleasure of knowing a treasured few of these folks. When they enjoy what they are doing and do it well, it’s an earth-shattering phenomenal experience. If you happen to be one of these people, For-The-Love-Of-Pete, please be kind enough to share your skills and wisdom with your brothers & sisters. Scrawl it on the bathroom walls. Get a tattoo. Have cunny-positive t-shirts made. Chat about the lovely aroma of an aroused cunt while you’re having a beer with the guys. I’m begging you, don’t be selfish man!

The real key to having a successful 2005: Year of Cunnilingus is to launch a public campaign. We need a campaign manager, posters, flyers, t-shirts, buttons, a website, and a telephone calling pool. We also need sound bites, slogans, and a song. We should also try to get some celebrities to volunteer to promote the campaign (lets not bother asking Michael Jackson). Oh, and to do all of this, we need cash. For the sake of efficiency, send all your cash to me.

Until the organized campaign is underway, all y’all need to dive in and get busy!

Although this isn't a very sophisicated site, it's still the best "how-to" advice that I've been able to find.

*For those of you who find cunniligus unappealing due to your sexual orientation or preferences, please consider supporting the 2005 Cunniligus campaign for the benefit of a happier and healthier ME!

Thursday, December 30, 2004

Sometimes You Should Just Keep Walking

I was walking back to my desk today when I came upon two attractive young men who I frequently flirt with when I’m bored at work. As I rounded the corner, I noticed them chatting while they held up a perfectly stable file cabinet.

"So, is this where all the cool kids hang out?" I inquired.

"Hell yes!" the more gregarious of the two replied. "How are you, Theresa?"

"I couldn’t be better, Love. Thank you for asking. So, what do the coolest of the cool kids have to say today?"

The other earnestly reported, "We were just talking about having a really bad case of The Shits. You know, Fire-rhea. Like when you eat something really spicy and then it burns your asshole on the way out."

As his words registered in my mind, I noticed that my forehead had gone numb. Rather than say anything more, I turned my scrunched up face around and willed my body to walk it far away from what I might possibly hear next. I paused after a few steps to leave them with a nostalgic thought, "I remember when the cool kids used to share a smoke and talk about where to get the best weed. Call me if you get around to that part."

At that, the first guy laughed really loud, like he always does when I say something even remotely funny.

But the second guy apparently hadn't had enough of creeping me out. As I glanced at him, he did that pointy-finger-gun gesture and winked at me. Only guys who are over 65 do that pointy-finger-gun-wink thingy. This guy isn’t a day over 25. It was really creepy. Why can't he act his fucking age?

The whole experience was very disconcerting. I spent the rest of the day in my Cubical Corner of Shame trying to make sense of the world and earn my keep.

Muscle Madness

Back in the day, I decided to become the strongest woman in the world. I didn’t really give a shit about building muscles to become one of those body-building chicks, and I wasn't doing it just to have a great figure. Pure and simple, I wanted to be fucking strong as hell.

To accomplish this task, I hooked up with a few Hot Chiks from the U of I Women’s track team. These were some big gorgeous Amazon women who knew their way around the free weights and were willing to show me the ropes. They were also fun to go out to clubs with because for once in my life I was the little one at 5’9" and 170 pounds. Stupid jerks in bars don’t fuck with a girl who has a posse of 6-foot tall athletic babe-o-licious hotties who walk in like they own the place.

Once summer break rolled around, my girls split and I was left to fend for myself. I continued to pump iron in the sweaty 3rd floor weight room of the Fieldhouse. My new companions were a bunch of grunting, spitting men who ignored my presence as if I were an unwelcome alien spy from a disease-ridden planet of 3-headed hermaphrodites. I got used to the cold stares, the refusals to spot me, and the messages scrawled on the chalkboard, "No Dykes Allowed." One day one of the brutes actually talked to me.

He had the muscle development of a man who hadn’t noticed that the circumference of his neck had surpassed that of his head. His arms kind of stuck out at strange angles because they were too huge to lie against the sides of his body. It took me a minute to focus on what he was saying because his Cromagnum brow was not only mesmerizing, but it also reminded me that I needed to study for my Physical Anthropology final.

"Commeer, I wanna show you something." He grunted.

I was somewhat startled that one of the muscled horde had acknowledged my presence. Out of a sense of shock and overwhelming curiosity, I cautiously followed the lumbering beast.

We went into an empty room next door. I lingered apprehensively at the entrance waiting for him to say something else, but he didn’t utter a word. Instead, he stood in front of a long row of mirrors, took off his t-shirt and began to pose. He did those body-builder poses that you see competitive muscle-people do on TV when you’re flipping channels. It wasn’t just one or two poses. He did about 15 different poses, and then started over again. The giggles were nearly strangling me, but I knew this wasn’t a joke. When he finally finished, he came over to where I stood red-faced and wide-eyed from holding my breath for the past 10 minutes.

He finally stated his purpose for the grotesque performance I had just witnessed, "Stick with me and I can get you in a bikini by the end of the summer."

WHAT THE FUCK? I wasted 15 minutes of good workout time watching some idiot ‘s narcissistic posturing so he could insult me. First, his comment suggested that I didn’t look good enough. Second, he thought that somewhere in his thick skull, he had the knowledge to help me better than I could help myself. And third, he assumed the goal was to wear a goddamn bikini!
What I really wanted was to be able to win arm-wrestling contests with self-righteous assholes and leave them crying like it was their first day of kindergarten.

Wednesday, December 29, 2004

Where Did I Leave That Baby?

A few years ago I had a baby.

Before I had the baby, I did really well. I quit smoking, lost some weight and exercised a lot. I got a Vegetarian Pregnancy book and started eating all the right foods so my body chemistry would be perfect for building a person inside it.

Around the time that I had the baby my life was really hectic. I was working full-time, going to grad school, teaching and serving on the board of directors for the Housing Fellowship. I don’t know why I didn’t give up some of those things before I had the baby, but I’m not very good at time management.

The baby had to stay at the hospital a little longer than I did, so I used the extra time to get some work done. When the baby was ready to come home, the hospital called and left a message. I was so scatter-brained and disorganized that I kept forgetting to go pick up the baby. The nurses kept leaving message after message, and each time, I would smack myself in the head for my forgetfulness. After about three months of messages, I finally made it up to the hospital to pick up my baby.

It was really embarrassing when I walked in to get the baby. The nurses in the OB unit all looked at me with awful look of shame. I knew they didn’t want to give me the baby because they thought I was a horrible mother. I felt really ashamed too.

I worried that if I didn't forgot my baby at the hospital, I would forget to feed it or accidentally leave it in the cart at the grocery store. Even back in college when my 14 year-old sister came to stay with me for a week, she called our mother to say that she was hungry. A poor little baby wouldn’t be able to use a phone to call someone to tell on me. That’s about the time I realized that no matter how much I love kids, and no matter how many people tell me I’d be a great mother, I might have to reassess my limits. It’s a good thing that baby I forgot at the hospital was just a bad dream.

(To my credit, I have managed to raise an eight-year old lab-hound mix without losing him once. And, he seems quite fat and happy.)

Goals and Wishes for 2005

Based on the fact that the majority of New Year’s resolutions are abandoned by Ground Hog’s Day (my favorite holiday), it seems fruitless to make such things. However, the single common behavior practiced by the 100 most successful people in our society (success being defined by money, power and status) is that the large majority of these successful blokes, at some time in their past, wrote down their goals and wishes. Even though I have no genuine desire to be rich and powerful, I am hoping the practice of writing down my goals is generalizable to my way of life.

I’m thinking that even if I only hit one or two of my goals and wishes, it will be a damn good year. I can always continue those that are incomplete into 2006. It’s not like I have to ask the teacher for a damn extension on my homework. I can take as long as I want to make these little desires of mine a reality.

For a little perspective, I have to say that 2004 wasn’t entirely bad. We had some really good times. There were lots of wonderful opportunities to play with friends and family. I had lots of great sex. Drunken debauchery and tomfoolery were a regular part of our agenda. I made great new friends and re-connected with a wonderful old friend. And, lots of other good stuff happened.

However, despite the good stuff, 2004 sucked a bit: We were as broke as we’ve ever been. I gained ten pounds because I failed to realize that the calories really don’t fall out of the cookies when they break. Monkey Man’s really cool Grandpa died. Danny Greenjeans’ Dad died. My heart was broken twice. I broke my best friend’s heart. Monkey Man got Diabetes. Lu got double pneumonia and Diabetes. I had bad sex. I turned 40 years old and found a wrinkle big enough to park the Honda in it. And, some other stuff that I don’t feel like mentioning.

Needless to say, 2005 doesn’t have a lot of competition. This is what I’d like to have happen:

  • I will revive the After-Five Pill-Box hat as a common fashion accessory for cocktail parties and other festive occasions.
  • I will discover a pair of underwear that doesn’t crawl up my ass, doesn’t slide down and is also extremely sexy.
  • I will finish my Master’s degree.
  • I will not play with people who have the IQ of a tangerine peel solely for my amusement.
  • I will take a vacation by myself.
  • I will find a new hair stylist who’s not afraid to cut my hair without the aid of a whip and a chair.
  • I will repair my cello and learn to play again.
  • I will have a composed appearance when I’m having sexual fantasies at work.
  • I will care for my body through exercise and a healthy diet without becoming an obsessive freak.
  • I will strive to be brave and courageous, taking action out of a sense of rightness and adventure rather than fear.
  • I will build a fan-fucking-tastic dress to wear in the gayest of gay southern weddings this world has ever seen (May 2005).

I've always been of the mindset to love and appreciate other people's unique qualities while chastising myself for my own imperfections. Perhaps this year I will stop doing that ... or I'll do it a little bit less.

Tuesday, December 28, 2004

If I Disappear

I wonder how long before I tire of this blogging thing? I've mentioned before that I have ADHD. What that means is that I can't manage my attention, so I overly focus on one thing. Right now I'm focused on blogging, making mittens without seams (4 needles), losing 10 pounds, and masturbation. Everything else around me is going to hell. Six months from now, I predict the only thing on that list that will remain is the sexual component. Sex is the only thing that has always kept my attention consistently. So if I disappear from here in a few months, it's nothing personal, I probably just discovered a fascination with yoga.

Friday, December 24, 2004

Dear Santa

It’s a little late to send a letter to Santa this year, so unless he reads my blog I'm SOL. It seems I’m always rushing about to get everything done at the last minute, including asking for things. Anyway, if the Fat ol’ Jolly man happens to blog on by…

Dear Santa,
Even though I’m a bit naughty sometimes, I’m doing better. You can tell because I’ve really worked on my impulsivity problem. I hardly ever wake up the cats or Monkey-man just because I'm bored and want someone to play with. I haven’t pinched anyone for the hell of it, except Steve (and he acted like a big baby even though I didn’t do it very hard). I only did that thing where I pretended I was giving an ice cream cone a blow job once, even though it was really fun and I wanted to do it again. And, I’ve only accidentally flashed one person all year – Sorry Mr. Mailman.

I’ve also tried not to lie as often. It’s really hard sometimes because I think up a lot of funny stories to tell people that will make their eyes get big when they say, "REALLY, is that true?" I still get the giggles when I think about the time that I told Monkey-Man’s Mom about the Albino Colony over on Kirkwood Boulevard. She bought all that shit about the special housing units with the tinted glass and the fact that they preferred to live here because the University Hospital specializes in congenital dermatological abnormalities. Can you really blame me for getting a kick out of that? The look on her face when I finally fessed-up was priceless. It was worth it when you didn’t bring me a present that year. But, I swear, this year I haven’t told any whoppers like that ……. when I told my boss that I was on Star Search with Brittney Spears, I think he knew I was just kidding.

Also, I’ve tried to be nicer to people that I don’t like very much. There was that guy at work who made a totally rude disgusting pass at me, and he always smirks while he stares at my tits and my ass whenever I’m around him. When I met his wife a few months later, I was really nice. I made it a point to spend the whole evening with them and I got particularly chummy with the wife. Don’t you think that was a generous offering of my time and energy? I wonder why he looked so uncomfortable all night?

So, if you still think I’m too naughty for presents, I’ll just have to try harder this year. If you think I’ve improved enough, this is what I’d like:
  1. A Bee-Hive style wig (black)
  2. A G-Spotter attachment for my Hitachi Magic Wand
  3. New sneakers
  4. Black evening gloves that go all the way to my elbows
  5. My own room
  6. A prosthetic forehead for my real head
  7. A broken-heart repair kit (the multiple use model)
  8. The real Wonder Woman invisible jet plane
  9. A car just like mine, only without the dirt, dog hair and crap in the back seat
  10. A great new job
  11. Matching furniture
  12. One of those kitchen utencil-type things that cores and slices apples in one nifty swift motion

Wednesday, December 22, 2004

Sexual Tidbits for a Festive Holiday Season

  1. The clitoris has twice as many nerve endings as the penis. Can you believe something that tiny, pink and cute is also incredibly powerful?
  2. Since most of the sexually arousable nerves are in the clit, vaginal sex will only get her off when her clit is being stimulated at the same time.
  3. 88% of women admit to having faked at least one orgasm in her lifetime. The other 12% were lying.
  4. About 10 – 20 % of women have experienced female ejaculation. Scientists haven’t agreed about what it is or where it comes from, but they’ve decided it must be normal because a lot of us have them.
  5. Many women report oral stimulation is the only way they can have orgasms. Come-on kids, it ain’t gonna lick itself!
  6. About 35% of heterosexuals and about 50% of gay men participate in anal sex at least occasionally.
  7. Regular sex can postpone the onset of menopause, decrease PMS symptoms, regulate the menstrual cycle, and temporarily increase your pain threshold (the cure for your headache!).
  8. Listen boys! Size really doesn't matter too much. The majority of a woman's nerve endings are in the first couple inches of her vagina. The average penis is 5 ½ to 6 ½ inches long. Do the math.
  9. TRAGEDY: It's estimated that up to 40% of adult women have never had an orgasm! (See #10 for the solution to this problem)
  10. I found the best, detailed descriptions of how to give a woman head. This is required reading for anyone with a tongue and a desire to use it anywhere near a pussy.
    GO HERE NOW > > > > > >


Tuesday, December 21, 2004

My Nipples Are Hard and I'm Not Even Excited

Why the hell do I live in this goddamn frigid cold wasteland? There's not even snow to make it pretty or have something exciting to play with. And, I wonder why when people come in from the cold they always announce, "Man, it’s really cold out there!"? Oh, well thanks for the warning. I was just blowing up my floaty and making some Mai Tai’s to take to the beach. It’s a good thing you came along to give me a heads up. Why don't more people say something you don't already know like, "Man, it's so cold, my nipples are hard and I'm not even excited!"?

I have to admit that I'm guilty of the same thing. This afternoon when I get to work, the guy who works the morning shift is going to predictably ask me about the weather. And, I’m going to predictably do a fake shiver and dramatically announce, "Dave, it’s cold out there today, man!"

Maybe I should change the pattern and shake up his little predictable middle-age, middle-class world. I could get close and whisper, "I’m ready for the pool Hot Stuff. You with me? We’ll hit the road in the Honda and head south until it’s warm enough to get naked. Then we’ll check into the nearest Holiday Inn and bask away in the sunshine with a pitcher of Mai Tai’s at our side. I'm sure your wife and my husband will understand because it's really cold outside, man!"

That's a fun thought, but I'll probably just giggle a little when I tell him it's cold out today.

Monday, December 20, 2004

When I'm Dead

I’m not terminally ill, but I think about what will happen after I’m dead. It pisses Monkey Man off when talk about it, especially when I pick out new wives for him. I can’t help it. I want him to be happy.

Much like my hair, I want my funeral to have a slightly dramatic flair.

I want all of my friends, lovers and past lovers to be at my funeral. There will be standing room only as all the sad beautiful people stagger in under the weight of their grief. Mid-service, the funeral director will have to send his assistant to the Quik Stop for more tissues because there will be so much weeping and wailing. Huge bouquets of flowers will be everywhere.

The service will start with a fantastic Drag Queen singing, "Like a Virgin" by our beloved Madonna (unless of course Madonna is available to perform – that would suck if I was dead and missed that!).

The rest of the service will be brief, because no one really wants to be at a funeral. They only go because they feel they ought to go.

Throughout the service, mom will be craning her neck and whispering to my exasperated sisters trying to figure out who all the sobbing people are.

My niece and nephews will be bummed because their cool aunt is dead and now they’re stuck with really boring relatives who don’t even own any wigs, hats or feather boas. And, no one else knows where every single good park in the universe is, or how to transform from a beautiful woman into a grotesque tickle monster in 3-seconds flat. Fortunately, I’ve begun writing them a guidebook about how to grow up and be cool, so they won’t end up like their parents.

My Dad will be so sad that I don’t want to think about it.

After the service, I want all my lovers to gather for a toast. I hope they all say that I made them happy for a little while. And, after the toast, some of them will keep drinking a bit. Then, there will probably be a fight in the parking lot over who loved me the most. My Monkey Man should stay out of it. First, because he DOES love me the most. Second, because he’s a delicate flower and he’d get his ass kicked. Actually, everyone should stay out of it if MH is involved because he used to be a bouncer and he has biceps as big as my Amazon thighs. He’s also gonna be really upset if I die before he tells me how much he loves me, so he’ll be extra pissy at the funeral.

After the fight, everyone should make-up and remember that I’m the Love Goddess and I would want all y’all to be nice to each other.

Once the rituals are over, I hope a lot of people have lots and lots of sex in honor of my life. Maybe once the children and my boring relatives leave, there could be a really cool group thing!

I want my body to be cremated. Spread my ashes over the vegetable garden in the fall. A year later, everyone should get together for a garden gazpacho party and eat me.

Saturday, December 18, 2004

Hot Chik on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown


What is a nervous breakdown?

In the Middle Ages, it was called melancholia. In the early 1900s, it was known as neurasthenia. From the 1930s to about 1970, it was known as a nervous breakdown. "Nervous breakdown" is a term that the public uses to characterize a range of mental illnesses, but generally it describes the experience of "snapping" under immense pressure, mental collapse or mental and physical exhaustion.
"Nervous breakdown" is not a clinical term. There is no psychiatric definition of a nervous breakdown, and it has nothing to do with nerves. "Nervous breakdown" is an inexact and unscientific term that is no longer used in psychiatry.
Surveys show that about one-third of Americans feel on the verge of a nervous breakdown at some point.
But what’s in a name? All I know is that I was pretty damn close to falling off the deep end a couple of times in the last month.

The first incident happened at the Chicago O’Hare Airport. God, how I hate that place. For one thing, it’s fucking huge. When your plane pulls in at Gate 2 in Terminal 1, you will undoubtedly have 10 minutes to get to your connecting flight at Gate 34 in Terminal 3. Nobody tells you it’s physically impossible without automotive assistance until you get there 5 minutes after the plane has pulled away. It’s funny in a sick way when you notice all the other people running toward their respective gates. Should you break it to them or let them find out for themselves? Judging from the lines at Chili’s Bar and Grille, it doesn’t really matter.

O’Hare can also get very crowded. Thousands of people in various stages of nervous anticipation or exhausted resignation; running, pacing, yelling, sweating, standing in line, sprawled on the floor, perched on barstools. If you don’t believe that emotional energy can be passed from person to person as I do, just think of all the germs! Oprah even recommended a pill you can take prior to travel that boosts your energy and immune system. Too bad I didn’t learn about it until yesterday.

The Monday following Thanksgiving my sister and I pulled into Gate 4, Terminal 3 of the evil airport to meet our connecting flights back home (we had just spent 5 hours on the plane from Tucson). Her flight was to depart in 15 minutes from Gate 11, and mine in 20 minutes from Gate 7, both thankfully in the same terminal we arrived in.

While waiting for our boarding calls, Paula noticed something alarming on the flight monitors. “Hey, Lu, why does your flight say it departs from Gate 22, Terminal 1? Did it change or something?”

I looked, and sure enough, what she said was true. I suddenly felt dizzy and faint, and the ground began to crumble from beneath me. It took all my strength just to remain on my feet. Paula took one look at me and said, “Stay right here. I’m going to check this out.”

It seemed like she was gone much longer than the three minutes it took her to verify the bad news. In those few minutes, I had crossed the line of sanity vs. insanity, where you decide you can no longer fight the whirling black panic rising all around you. I started to sob, not just weeping or crying, but great big boo-hoos. My knees began to buckle as I blindly fumbled for something, anything, to hold on to. My beloved sister just grabbed me by the shoulders and said, “Hang on, sweetheart, we’re gonna get you on your plane!”

The next 10 minutes are a blur—I vaguely remember Paula calling an airport employee a nasty name when he refused to give us a ride on his little “Courtesy Cart”—and then we were there. She gave me a quick hug, delivered me into the competent hands of the flight attendant, and ran off to catch her plane. I managed to get seated and swallow my second Xanax of the day, and by the time I got to Cedar Rapids an hour later was red-eyed but no longer crying.

Thank the gods for my sister. I simply could not have gotten through that airport without her. I was beyond even caring what anyone thought, seeing me blubbering like a crazy woman. My inner voice no longer kept me plugging away like it usually does. I really had given up. It was like I’d finally just let go of my connection to the real world and jumped into that black abyss so many of us think of as the other side of sanity. I’d always thought that if I did that, I’d never return. But here I am.

The first incident made it just that much easier the next time it happened. This time, at least, I was in the relative safety of a hospital. I realized one evening that my roommate had been talking to me for almost three solid hours. I was so sick, in so much pain, so exhausted, and so depressed. Almost unconsciously, I got up and wandered into the hallway. Once the sobs started, they came forth like a dam had broken inside me. When they asked what was wrong, I told the kind nurses that “my roommate needs to shut up” and before I knew it all my things had been moved into a different room. A glass of cold apple juice, a Xanax, and a warm blanket later, I began to calm down and breathe almost normally.

So did I have a “Nervous Breakdown” or what? I guess the moral of the story is that holding onto sanity can sometimes be more exhausting than it’s worth--that it’s ok to let go, no matter what you call it.

Friday, December 17, 2004

Happy Birthday Monkey Man

Today is Crap Flinging Money's Birthday. Go wish him a happy one. He's survived 36 wonderful years. And, damn it all, he's fucking gorgeous!

This morning Starbuck and I sang happy birthday to him. Starbuck is our hound-lab mix. He sings beautifully and with great enthusiasm. Note: he's not named after the coffee company. Extra credit points to anyone who can guess his true namesake. Molly, our beautiful girl, accompanied the song by barking a lot.

As an added bonus to Monkey Man's Birthday, he awoke to me screaming my fool head off from a nightmare. I dreamt that a vicious mouse jumped off the kitchen cupboard onto my chest and proceeded to crawl up to my neck with the clear intention of knawing its way into my jugular. It was very traumatic! I wonder where those crazy over-protective barking dogs were when I needed protection from that mouse?

The rest of the day is bound to be better for my wonderful Crap Flinger.

Happiest WishesBaby!

Thursday, December 16, 2004

Praise to the Nurses of Hotel Mercy

Been out of the hospital for 3 days now after a 7-day stay, and although I’m infinitely glad to be home, there are some things that I kinda miss:

1. Hot cotton blankets
2. Warmed pre-moistened towlettes for sponge baths
3. Midnight apple juice and graham crackers smuggled in by sympathetic staff
4. Clean, white, lightly starched and pressed cotton sheets—changed by someone else as many times per day as you want
5. Orange TV (you ain’t seen nothin’ till you’ve watched Home Shopping
Network over-tinted in a sickly orange)
6. Citrus room freshener spray—to help you forget the fact that you know way more than you want to about your roommate’s digestive system
7. Wheelchair rides to X-ray given by aides in a hurry—WHEEE!!
8. Black rubber mattress covers—less a decorator or erotic choice than a practical one, but is sure makes you wonder…
9. Sherbet and jello—the only place they actually taste good is in the hospital
10. Powder-free vinyl exam gloves
11. Electronic monitors and the cute little beeps they make
12. The perfectly choreographed ballet of staff members during a crisis

Thanks to the nurses, aides, technicians, and doctors who took such good care of me. You’re doing a great job!

Dream Job

I've recently come to the sad realization that I've had more jobs than lovers in my life. While that can easily be changed, at this particular moment, I wish I had a different job. I have vast and diverse experience, but I don't know how much good it will do me since I'm not interested in any of the things I've already done.

Jobs I’ve had:
Dietary Aid
Cellist in a Symphony Orchestra

Cook at a Vegetarian Day Care Center
Department Store Clerk
Family Therapist
Crisis Counselor
Substance Abuse Counselor
Residential Treatment Counselor
Program Director for Homeless Teenagers
Director of a Rape Crisis Center
Girl Scout Camp Counselor
Electronic Composer (business forms)
Sandwich Maker
Teacher – Social Work & Human Sexuality
Tutor – math, english & social sciences
Library Assistant
Mailroom Assistant

Common advice is to get a job doing something related to what you already enjoy. Based on that wisdom, I've come up with a short list.

Jobs I Want:
Wig model
Sex toy tester
Graffiti Artist
Lady of Leisure
Hugh Jackman’s (unethical) Sex Therapist
Drag Queen Cabaret Review Columnist
Roadie Ho
Puppy Snuggler
Pool Shark
Erotic Fiction Muse
Eddie Izzard’s Chauffeur
The person who fires Regis Philbin
The Tooth Fairy (the outfit seems cool)
High profile professional Jockey
The person who comes up with the names for lipstick colors
Cher Impersonator

Since I've gotten nearly every job I've ever interviewed for, I'm thinking all I need to do is land an interview and one of these dream jobs will be mine!

Sunday, December 12, 2004

Why I Love Geeks, Dorks and Nerds

  1. They always help me with my math, biology, chemestry and astology, oops, I mean astonomy homework
  2. They're great to have as a partner when playing Trivial Pursuit
  3. They don't notice when I stop listening to them and begin manicuring my nails while having sexual fantasies about Brad Pitt
  4. They know how to blow shit up
  5. I never have to live through endless conversations about the Superbowl and other boring sporting events
  6. I've never had to do anything more than say "where's the ON button" when I get a new computer
  7. They always have the best weed
  8. They'll go to the store to buy condoms for me because they think the people at the store will think they are having the sex
  9. They think I'm cool and I don't even have to try to be cool
  10. They can program my VCR without using the owner's manual
  11. They know how to super charge my vibrator

Thursday, December 09, 2004

Kick the Livin' Shit Outta Diabetes!

Our sweet Lu is sick too. She's been in the hospital for the last three days. Both of her lungs have pnuemonia and she has diabetes like my Monkey-man.

I think Danny Greenjeans has the right idea when he says we should get a posse together and go after that bastard Diabetes. We should snuff him out so he stops hurting our friends. I want to give Diabetes a good kick in the teeth with my new Amazon Warrior Queen struttin' black boots.

Come-on Danny. You, me, your karate-kickin Hot Chik Teresa, and Cereal Girl gonna take Diabetes down!

Wednesday, December 08, 2004

Job Opening, Apply Within

My life would be so much better if I had a HouseBoy.

Wait a minute! Why don’t I have a HouseBoy? I’m the fucking Love Goddess. Shouldn’t I have a flock of HouseBoys? Don’t deities automatically get a few servants along with their statues and temples? Hey, where are my statues and temples? Hell, now I have to write a Blog to complain about not having statues and temples. However, first things first. Right now I really have my heart set on getting myself a helpful little HouseBoy.

It’s imperative that I have someone around to take care of the day-to-day essentials in order to allow me to fully explore the depth and breadth of my potential. It would also be a fabulous job opportunity for a young person who wishes to reap the benefits of working so closely with a Goddess such as myself.

HouseBoy Job Description:
  • Must be willing to wear the HouseBoy uniform (I’m thinking thong sandals and a matching thong – simple, but elegant!)
  • Must be chatty and amusing, but not too chatty
  • Must know the art and science of Body Massage
  • Must be aware that a proper bath includes scented candles, warm fluffy towels, soothing music and either a dry martini (with at least 4 olives please) or a lovely glass of wine
  • Must be able to paint toenails without tickling or slopping polish all over my toes
  • Must be able to do a bikini wax with minimal sting
  • Must be able to stand in front of my closet and pick out the perfect outfit without having an anxiety attack, changing his mind a dozen times or crying
  • Must be clever enough to operate my vacuum cleaner (seems I’m sure the fuck not)
  • Must be an ardent warrior against dirt, dust and stains
  • Must rake, mow, trim, and mulch (the yard, not my hair)
  • Must be able to take a grocery list to the store and return without getting lost (at 40 years of age, this is still beyond my ability)
  • Must cook well without making us fat little piglets
  • Must know how to choose the perfect wine with every meal
  • Must keep track of friend’s & family member’s birthdays & anniversaries and send appropriate cards and gifts in a timely manner (hopefully no friends or family will die from the shock)
  • Must be able to bathe dogs without the traditional "stampede of shaking Crazed-Wet-Dog" that occurs afterward – and sometimes in the middle of bathtime
  • Must be on-call 24 hours per day (In case we have an emergency, like if we need condoms, or more beer and we’re too drunk to drive to the store to buy more beer)
  • And other duties as assigned

Apply TODAY! The Love Goddess Is an Equal Opportunity Employer.

* This position provides no benefits or financial compensation whatsoever.

Monday, December 06, 2004

Danny-Boy, Cereal Girl and the Oatmeal Blowjob

I create characters that play around in my head. It’s like living with bits from a play or a story stuck inside my brain. Every so often one of these characters makes their way into my real life. One morning Cereal Girl made an appearance.

In my mind, Cereal Girl looks like Amanda Plummer. She has a really high hoarse voice with one volume, LOUD. She hangs around the house almost all the time, wearing ratty house-slippers and a bathrobe. For some odd reason, she’s usually sporting a shower cap – probably because she’s not right. Most mornings, Cereal Girl spends an inordinate amount of time preparing the perfect bowl of oatmeal. She loves oatmeal more than anything else. Sometimes she eats it for every meal.

Cereal Girl may have been a shock to Dan, the sweet, yet quirky 23 year-old who was temporarily living in our spare room. I didn’t care. I was bored and I wanted to amuse myself. I decided to let Cereal Girl out to play. Here’s what I remember of our conversation that morning:

Cereal Girl: (Screeching, even though Dan is only 10 feet away) Hey Danny Boy, ya want some oatmeal?
Dan: huh? …ahhh, no I don’t think so.
Cereal Girl: Why not? Ya know I make it perfect like.
Dan: I already ate.
Cereal Girl: Aw Come-on Danny, yur not still sore bout last night are ya?
Dan: (Confused look)
Cereal Girl: Ya know I don’t like ta fuck when I’m having my period.
Dan: (brows tightly knitted together) What are you talking about?
Cereal Girl: I knows you were drunk baby, but I can’t believe ya don’t remember crawlin on toppa me for a booty-call. Did ya really want all that blood all over the fuckin place?
Dan: (mumbling) what the fuck?
Cereal Girl: Now whatcha talkin about there Danny Boy? Did you just say what I think you said?
Dan: I didn’t say anything
Cereal Girl: You want me to do WHAT with this oatmeal?
Dan: (eyes shifting back and forth, looking for the nearest exit)
Dan: I didn’t say that!
Cereal Girl: Oh yeah, that sounds reeeaallly nice Danny. You fucking sick bastard!
Cereal Girl: Come-on Danny, don’t you come near me.
Cereal Girl: You say it’ll feel nice and hot and creamy? Is that why you always stare at me when I’m eating my breakfast? God you’re a fuckin piece of work!
Dan: (smiling as if he gets the punch-line)
Cereal Girl: God Danny, stop your whining and begging. I’m not gonna give ya an oatmeal blowjob.
Cereal Girl: Get the fuck away from me!
Dan: (playing his part) Come-on baby, just a little one?
Cereal Girl: For fuck’s sake Danny, just let me eat my oatmeal in peace. You are one sick muther-fucker. Ya know that? This is fucking cereal, not something to stick your dick in. God, you make me sick. I don't even think I can eat my oatmeal anymore. See whatcha went and did? Ya ruined my breakfast.
Dan: Hey baby, you know I think you’re the most beautiful girl in the world. Won’t you do this for me just this once?

Theresa: (normal voice) Dan, what the fuck are you doing? You should be ashamed of yourself. Damn. Kids these days. What will you sick little bastards think up next? Did you really think I was going to give you an oatmeal blowjob? Who thinks up that shit?

Unfortunately, my husband hates Cereal Girl. He says her voice grates on his nerves. So, the poor girl can’t come out when he’s around. Thankfully, Dan loves her. Cereal Girl will love Danny Boy forever and ever, even though he’s one sick muther-fucker.
If you want to visit Danny-boy, go to:

Saturday, December 04, 2004

That Crap Flinging Monkey is Too Sweet

The crap is flying once again in the shack we so lovingly call our home.

My Monkey came home. While at the hospital, the docs peered and poked at him for a good long while. They made him run on a treadmill and tested his big sweet heart very thoroughly. The good news is that his heart is A-Okay! However, they found out something very surprising instead. That crap-flinger of mine has diabetes.

Now we have a whole bunch of new stuff to learn about. He has to change most of his eating habits and he has to test himself several times a day to monitor his progress. He also has to stop compulsively biting my neck and shoulders because it’s contributing to the problem. Since I’m such a sweet tasty treat, every time he takes a nibble, his blood sugar spikes through the roof. To be perfectly honest, it’s okay with me if he cuts down a bit. I’m really tired of the chronic rash and teeth marks.

Thanks to all who have wished him well at this site, in person, by e-mail, phone and in spirit.

Friday, December 03, 2004

I Love Tucson!

As I mentioned in my last blog, I spent Thanksgiving weekend in Tucson, Arizona. The day after Thanksgiving was my dad’s 83rd birthday, and my sister and I were his birthday presents from his wife. Paula (arriving from West Virginia) and I met at Chicago O’Hare Airport (that’s another blog…) and flew together to Tucson International. We tied colorful bows around us and attached large tags that said “Happy” and “Birthday”. The look on Dad’s face when he met us at the airport was absolutely priceless.

The sun was setting as Dad drove us through the city to the mobile home park where he lives. The first things that caught my eye were the palm trees. For someone born and raised in the Midwest, palm trees are fascinating. They can make the slimiest, dirtiest slums look exotic, and they are absolutely enchanting in silhouette against the colors of a desert sunset.

Beyond the palms are the mountains. Tucson is in a basin created by an ancient volcano that blew its top, which means that it is completely surrounded by mountains. No matter which way you look, you see the peaks and crags in the near horizon—and since the whole area is desert, there are no annoying oaks or maples to block the view. The way I see it, the mountains have at least two advantages (other than being absolutely gorgeous): first, they limit the size of the city, so you’ll never end up with another Phoenix; and second, the mountains are 10-30 degrees cooler than the basin floor all year round, which can be a life-saver in the summer as far as I’m concerned!

And then there’s the desert! So many different plants all in one place! Anyone who tells you that nothing grows in the desert hasn’t been there. Even in November, when nothing is really in bloom, you see all the colors of the rainbow. Did you know that Prickly Pear cacti come in green, brown, pink, blue, purple and black with orange polka dots? I really love the Saguaro cactus. These gigantic creatures (up to 50’ tall and weighing over a ton after a good rain) only grow an inch or so each year and can live to be 200 years old. When a new one comes up, little Palo Verde trees grow next to them to protect them until they get bigger. As adults, Saguaros are home to cute little birdies who peck little holes right into them! How cool!

The city of Tucson itself is a place of many faces, from multimillion dollar Santa Fe style homes to neat little stucco “starter” neighborhoods. There are hundreds of cool restaurants of every kind, and my favorite—five casinos! All mixed in with the new are historical jewels like the San Javier Mission Church (incredible). Plus, this whole area is a Mecca for us bargain shoppers—especially the Mexican and Native American handicrafts.

It’s no wonder my dad and step mom look younger and healthier than last time I saw them five years ago. Breathing the softly scented desert air and being surrounded by all this beauty—it’s hard to keep the smile off your face even on cloudy days. Although Steve and I have our future retirement home ready and waiting in Guttenberg, Iowa, I’m pretty sure I can convince him to winter in Tucson!

I Miss My Monkey

My Crap Flinging Monkey is in the Cardiac ward today. We had to take him there yesterday because he was having chest pains. The medical staff told us that he’s probably fine (obviously they didn’t do any psychological testing), but there were some questionable tests results so he had to stay.

I hate this powerless feeling. I wish I could go over there and help him the way I do with other things that are hard for him; the same way he helps me with the stuff that’s hard for me to do. I could do his Cardiac Stress test for him. I have great endurance and a really strong heart. He’d be outta there in no time flat. And once I sprung him from the ward, he could help me figure out how to organize my schedule for the weekend, and we could go to Office Depot and buy new pens. My Monkey likes pens.
I wish it was that simple.

Come Home Soon Baby!


This is from my Bag of Tricks. I have no idea where it came from or who wrote it. Maybe The Goddess of all Goddesses wrote it. Hell, maybe I wrote it when I was really fucked up. What I do know for sure is that I think about it when I find myself at a crossroads, or when I've done something I feel badly about. I've also used it a lot as a therapy tool (which is how it ended up in my Bag of Tricks)

    You may like it or hate it, but it will be yours for the entire period this time around.
    You are enrolled in a full-time informal school called Life. Each day in this school you will have the opportunity to learn lessons. You may like the lessons or think them, irrelevant and stupid.
    Growth is a process of trial and error, experimentation. The "failed" experiments are as much a part of the process as the experiment that ultimately "works".
    A lesson will be presented to you in various forms until you have learned it. When you have learned it you can go on to the next lesson.
    There is no part of life that does not contain its lessons. If you are alive, there are lessons to be learned.
    When your "there" has become a "here", you will simply obtain another "there" that will, again, look better than "here".
    You cannot love or hate something about another person unless it reflects to you something you love or hate about yourself.
    You have all the tools and resources you need. What you do with them is up to you. The choice is yours.
    The answers to life’s questions lie inside you. All you need to do is look, listen and trust.

Wednesday, December 01, 2004

REAL Strength

I came across another instance of well-meaning misdirected advice this weekend. Last Thursday, Thanksgiving Day, my sister and I met at Chicago O’Hare airport to fly to Tucson for our dad’s 83rd birthday. We hadn’t seen him for over 4 years and we were pleased to find him in excellent health. In fact, he seems happier with his current wife than he ever did with our mom. Our step mom is a lovely person and my sister and I couldn’t be happier for them.

My step mom doesn’t fully understand Depression, although to her credit, she is really trying to. When I wrote my “Dear Dad” letter (see “By Popular Demand” in our Nov archives), I assumed she’d read it, too. She did, and it helped, but it’s still hard for her to imagine what Depression is really like, since she’s never had it. She’s a very strong, positive person for whom brute determination has gotten her through the tough spots in her life. The words “I can’t” simply are not a part of her vocabulary—and I really respect her for that.

We had some good, honest conversations this weekend. She said she believed that I could do anything I wanted to with my life if I “put my mind to it.” At first, knowing she was talking about things like finishing my degree, starting a new career, and basically “beating” this disease, I felt frustrated, defensive, and even a bit angry. I wanted to tell her how hard it was, how my previous attempts to do what she was suggesting had failed miserably and actually made me sicker. It made me feel weak—like a loser.

Then I realized that she was right. The thing we were both missing is that the goals of a person with Depression need to be different than those of a healthy person. For us, it sometimes takes overwhelming strength and determination just to get out of bed each morning. There are days when even that is too much, so we need to change our goal to simply getting through this day into the next. And yes, we can do it if we “put our minds to it.”

Approximately 75% of the 9.9 million Americans who suffer from Depression will have more than one episode in their lives. Stress or illness can trigger a depressive episode, but often the trigger is not that clear. What this means is that, among other things, chronically depressed individuals must resign themselves to a life of rotating medications, endless ups and down, and constantly varying degrees of mental and physical ability. For most of us, it takes an iron will to fight the urge to end it all. In 2002, 790,000 of us attempted suicide; 31,655 attempts were successful. Although suicide was the 11th ranked cause of death for that year, I’d say that statistically, you’re talking about a large group of pretty damn strong individuals.

What I’m trying to say here is that people with any one of the Depressive Illnesses (Major Depression, Bipolar Disorder, Dysthymia, etc.) are stronger than many people give us credit for. We must not forget that any task we complete or even attempt takes an often Herculean effort. Each effort should be considered as admirable an accomplishment as getting a college degree, having a successful career, or climbing Mt. Everest. People who expect more of us just don’t know what we go through every day. We can try to explain it to them, or just ignore them, but either way we ourselves have to remain aware of our strength so that we can survive.

When your self-esteem is failing you and you feel like a loser, try to set your goals more realistically. Concentrate on the "little" short-term things, like putting your socks on, getting a drink of water, taking your meds, surviving the day. Then, at the end of the day, you can pat yourself on the back because today you had the strength to do everything you “put your mind to.”

“Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could; some blunders and absurdities have no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day. You shall begin it well and serenely.” --Ralph Waldo Emerson

The Perfect Lover

  1. Laughs easily and often
  2. Likes to have sex a lot (at least once a day)
  3. Has a belly (ummm, I love man belly)
  4. Isn’t concerned about the size of his penis (that is such a tired cliché)
  5. Doesn’t argue with me about using condoms
  6. Likes the quiet, not talking time
  7. Makes dinner so I can lie around like a big lazy dog once in a while
  8. Believes money is for throwing off the back of a train (thank you Tom Waits)
  9. Loves my dogs
  10. Loves my cat
  11. Adores his mother
  12. Doesn’t need to know where I am 24 / 7
  13. Knows how to parallel park
  14. Kisses my neck when I’m doing the dishes
  15. Isn’t threatened or jealous of my sex toys
  16. Knows that a great Martini requires at least 4 olives
  17. Doesn’t complain about my messy car
  18. Isn’t racist, classist, sexist, homophobic, or overly concerned with physical appearance
  19. Knows that the word "espresso" doesn’t have an "x" in it, so you don’t pronounce it "expresso"
  20. Never keeps secrets from me because he’s afraid I’ll get upset
  21. Tucks me in bed at night even when he’s not sleepy yet
  22. Surprises me with little treasures
  23. Asks me if I want to drive
  24. Knows all the ways of kissing really well
  25. Can play pool at least as well as I do
  26. Makes sexy noises when I bend over to fasten my shoes
  27. Never asks how much my new outfit cost (if I can’t afford it, I won’t eat)
  28. Lets me fall asleep on him while we’re watching TV (instead of whining, "You’re making me hot" or "I can’t feel my whole left side")
  29. Never makes shit of me for being afraid of mice
  30. Looks at me that "special" way when I’m not paying attention
  31. Tells me that I’m gorgeous, but what really turns him on is that I’m smart
  32. Fusses over the dinner that took me 3 hours to prepare
  33. Sends flowers the day after

Dear Love Goddess,

As The Love Goddess, I get gads of mail requesting advice on the topic of Love and Sex. While I am still in the process of enthusiastically exploring the vast Universe of Love, I do the best I can to offer my support. I thought it would be interesting to share some of these correspondences.

Dear Love Goddess,
~I masturbate regularly. I don't worry about it too much because you've said on numerous occasions that masturbation is very healthy. However, my cat always watches me when I do it. Is that wrong? Could I be warping his innocent little kitty mind?
~Sincerely, The Cat’s Meow

Dear Cat’s Meow,
~Your cat is clearly stimulated by your vigorous activity, however, he’s not sexually stimulated. To kitty, it’s like watching a little mouse going in and out of a hole. As long as you’re comfortable with your pet watching, there shouldn’t be a problem. But, to ease my mind, you tidy up afterward, not kitty. Right
- - - - - - - - - -
Dear L.G.,
~I think about sex all the time. It doesn’t matter where I am, I’m always thinking about doin’ it. Whether I’m in class, grocery shopping, at the gym, or watching TV with my buddies, I’m thinking about it. Sometimes when people are talking to me, I don’t hear half of what they say because I’m thinking about sex. How can I get control of my life?
~Yours Truly, 1-Trak-Mind

Dear 1-Trak,
~Could you repeat that last part again . . . .

- - - - - - - - - -
Dear Love Goddess,
~How do you know when you’re really in love. Everyone says, "You just know it", but there must be a better answer than that.
~Thanks, Curious About Love

Dear Curious,
~People who say, "You just know it" are dumb-asses who haven’t had the pleasure of multiple orgasms. Once you’ve had multiples, then you know you’re in love. That is why I truly Love my Hitachi Magic Wand!

The other sign of true love is a terrible agitated feeling like poison ivy in your head.