Wednesday, March 30, 2005

How to Write a Successful Grant Application

I’m home sick today (nasty flu bug), so between naps, it’s a perfect opportunity to think about how to get the massive amount of money I need to build the Cunnilingus Throne. The best and easiest way to get all the money at once is to win grant money. In the past, I’ve written dozens of grants for non-profit orgs. Do you think this is all that different?

The Cunny Throne grant application can ride a little bit on my reputation as the Love Goddess. I can also mention that I was a TA for Human Sexuality. Perhaps my legislative work and research publication about the continuing global practice of Female Genital Mutilation are also worth mentioning. Still, I think I need more to beef up my creds.

Personal references and testimonials will provide good support for this type of grant application. I spent the afternoon calling around and anonymously asking a few of my former lovers about their experiences with me. Since I already sound like the Bride of Satan with this upper respiratory crap, I barely had to disguise my voice to make the calls. It was kind of fun. Once I got going, I almost forgot I was sick. These are my results:

"Is that the girl with the flat head?"
(Not a good start. The number was on a piece of scrap paper in my Little Black Book. I got scared and hung up. They got better)

"Non-stop action … A breathtaking thrill ride. The Love Goddess is one of the greatest sexual experiences of my life." Roger E., Chicago Sun Times

"Sweeeeeet! Hey guys, they’re calling about the Love Goddess. Tell her we’re having another party this Friday at Deek’s. Go Hawks!" University of Iowa Rowing Team


"Confidence is the sexiest thing a woman can have. It's much sexier than any body part." Amiee Mullens

"Clear, dark garnet in color, her aromas focus on black cherries, a whiff of raspberry, and a subtle mix of pleasant earth and warm brown spice. Red fruit and sharp acidity create a bold first impression, but on the mid-palate she seems more medium-bodied than weighty. She's not overly complex but well-balanced, clean and lasting, with good cherry and red-berry fruit and a light lemony tang in a long finish."
David R., The Wine Spectator

"Uncensored, provocative and impactful, the Love Goddess affirms our personal and collective power as women-loving-women."
Sarah B., Pride Toronto Dykes on Bikes

"She knows how to pronounce Kyrgyzstan. Hint: It's a hard "g." Oh yeah, and she’s got a nice little twat too." Daniel E., The Slate

"There was a disturbance in my heart, a voice that spoke there and said, I want, I want, I want! It happened every afternoon, and when I tried to suppress it it got even stronger." Saul Bellow

"The male is a domestic animal which, if treated with firmness, can be trained to do most things. This is something I have every confidence the Love Goddess fully understands." Jilly C.

"Spoooooon" The Tick

"Her precision handling is top of the line. 2005 promises to be her best year ever. I look forward to seeing what she can do." Eric, (I think he sells used cars)

"If you build it, they will come." The Iowa Farm Board


This list seems like a pretty good start.
I wonder if the City still has any discretionary funds for community projects. This could arguably be viewed as a community project. I don't want to get my hopes up, however. They did deny my request to have 2005, the Year of Cunnilingus formally recognized by the mayor and the City Council.

Tuesday, March 29, 2005

The Cunnilingus Throne

Last week I had a little spare time while I was waiting for my sense of humor to return. Since I don’t sit still very well, I decided it was a good opportunity to tackle the long overdue Cunnilingus Throne project.

Throughout the week, I sketched a number of designs until I came up with one that seemed absolutely perfect. Once the design was complete, I created a list of all the necessary particulars. I think I’ve done a pretty good job of identifying the essential functions, distinct parts and technical bits for the Cunnilingus Throne. Here’s what I’ve come up with:

  1. A singularly grand and impressive satin-covered throne to enhance erotic sensuality of the Love Goddess.
  2. Various interchangeable cushions for the Love Goddess to comfortably place her precious ass for extended periods of time. I’m thinking a different color for each day of the week is a nice idea. (Pink for Wednesday, in honor of the Queen of Pink).
  3. A coordinating adjustable padded kneeling bench for worshippers and those wishing to partake of the Goddesses abundant and generous … ummm, favors.
  4. Shiny little side hooks to keep the Little Red Riding Crop, accessories and other love tools handy for both pleasure and training purposes.
  5. A remote control hydraulic height and incline adjustment mechanism to create the perfect position for cunnilingus.
  6. Foot rests that adjust both vertically and horizontally (not the stirrup kind like at the Gynecologist’s office).
  7. An internal temperature control system to afford the utmost comfort for the Love Goddess.

So before I head down to my favorite hardware store/lumber yard, I’m trying to imagine how the conversation at the Help Desk is going to go.


Me: I’ve got a great new project I need a little help with, Steve.
Steve (my favorite hardward store hottie): Looks like you’ve got quite a list, and some sketches too.
Me: It always pays to start with a good plan.
Steve: Looks like some sort of fancy chair, or a throne.
Me: I’m glad I was successful in my design. It is a throne.
Steve: What are all these extra attachments and mechanisms for?
Me: They are for function and comfort.
Steve: What are these?
Me: Those are the adjustable foot rests.
Steve: Why do they go in so many directions? Hey, is that a riding crop?
Me: Yes
Steve: Huh. I’ve never seen anything quite like this, Theresa. It looks really complicated. Why exactly are you making it?
Me: It’s to celebrate the Year of Cunnilingus?
Steve: Huh? Did you say, uh . . .?
Me: *eyebrow raise*
Steve: Ohhh … Ummm, yessss, now I see. Ahem, it’s making sense. Could you excuse me a minute (backing away). I think I need to consult with a couple of the specialists in the back.
Me: (la dee da, *tapping foot* …)
A voice from the back: She’s making a what? A special chair for eating pussy? Damn!
A 2nd voice: Is that her? Hey guys, she does look kinda slutty. Steve, is she wearing a bra? I think I can see her nipples from here.
Steve (from the back): Git away from the window, and stop pointing, ya Dipshit!
(Steve returns)
Steve: Do you mind if I take these plans in the back to show the guys, umm, I mean the specialists?
Me: Why don’t you bring the guys up here. I don’t want someone running off and stealing my brilliant plans. Besides, it would be my pleasure to explain all the details and thoroughly answer their questions. *wink*


I’m pretty sure I could get Steve on board with this, and maybe if I don’t wear a bra I could even get a discount. It’s still going to cost quite a bit for all the supplies no matter how slutty I act. I’m think I’m going to need to do some legitimate fund raising. I wonder how the Arts Council would feel about this project?

Sunday, March 27, 2005

Suggestion Box

Since my company has an absurd dress code for employees who never have contact with the public and work in a drafty warehouse with cheap-ass cubicle partitions, then they ought to have valet parking. I’m sick of nearly breaking my neck trekking across a gravel parking lot at all hours of the day and night in all kinds of weather. My company loyalty and disposition toward the dress code would improve immensely if I could simply hand my car keys to a happy little fella in a vest every day.

Multiple pairs of ruined pantyhose should be a valid reason for being late for work. Those things cost a lot of money, and when you’re damp from the shower they’re a bitch to get on in a hurry. It’s too easy to put a fingernail through one of them. Hell, ya got ten fingernails to worry about and all that fragile hosiery. As Cricket says, "Sometimes its tough being a girl." A gal should get at least an extra half-hour tardy-excuse for a temper-tantrum in recognition of the $13.00
that just went down the toilet when her finger went through two pairs of the fuckers.

Sex should also be a valid reason for being late or missing work. In the larger picture, it improves the overall morale when employees are happy and satisfied. In fact, when I was a boss, one of my employees was late one day. She took me aside and told me that she and her boyfriend were trying to have a G-Spot orgasm. I did a happy dance and said, "Go girl! Sooo … how’d it go?"
Don’tcha wish I was your boss?

You should be able to call into work "Well". Why waste a beautiful day and a cheerful disposition sitting at your lousy job. Once or twice a year you should be able to call work and say, "Hey Babycakes! I’m full of my bad self today. My exuberance for life cannot be confined to the workplace. See you tomorrow." It’s prison when you have to go to work on a day when you're feeling like a million bucks. My imagination gets a little wild as I’m sitting for hours on end in my little rolling-chair in my Cubicle Corner of Shame on one of those days. When I’m not having sexual fantasies, I’m creating elaborate escape scenarios.

Hey Lefty, bake me a cake with a file in it. Bring it over to the side door and slip it to a guy named Sammy Slim-Jim. Don’t let Sammy scare ya. He may look like a shady character, what with the eye patch and chewed up ear, but he’s all right. I know I can count on him to get me the goods. Sammy owes me for a little incident involving a catering girl and a jar of cocktail olives. Park the get-a-way car in the south side parking lot next to the broken down El Camino. Once I work my way through this cake and figure out what the hell I need a file for, I’ll be right out.

If I'm
required to answer the telephones and page people over the PA system after the receptionist leaves for the day, I should be able to do so in whatever voice I choose. If I happen to choose a voice that others term a Phone-Sex Voice and it makes them happy, who loses???
Impertinent? Irreverent? Who? Me?

All feminine hygiene products should be free in the women’s restrooms. I don’t think I need to explain myself. It’s simply a good idea.
Hot Chiks, do we all agree on this?


A special thanks to Chick and Dick, whose veins really snapped me out of it!
Also, thanks to so many other folks who've been hugely supportive. You know who you are, and I hope you know how much I adore you.

Thursday, March 24, 2005

THE HAPPY FACE SAGA, or WHY I’M ON DISABILITY

SCENE: (a small but comfy room, with two overstuffed chairs, overflowing bookshelves, and a small side table with a box of tissues. Two women enter and each takes a seat. One of them is wearing a paper mask that has eyes and a smiling mouth cut out of it. As she sits, she unties the string that holds the mask on her face and sets the mask on the table.)

SYLVIA: Glad you could make it in today, Jane, what with the weather and all.
JANE: Oh, it’s not as bad as it looks.
S: What do you have there? (Gestures at the mask)
J: Oh, that’s my Happy Face. You don’t usually see it because I don’t feel the need to wear it here. But today I came right from work.
S: That’s right—you just started your new job. How’s it going?
J: Ok, I guess. Just your average clerical stuff—typing, filing, answering phones, that sort of thing.
S: Well, you’re an intelligent woman and I’m sure you’ll have no problems.
J: I guess so, I mean thanks.
S: So tell me about this Happy Face. What do you need it for?
J: Oh, I wear that in public when I’m starting to get a little depressed so that people don’t notice if I’m not smiling all the time.
S: What happens if they do notice?
J: Well, they ask me what’s wrong or did something happen, that sort of thing. Sometimes they think I’m giving them a dirty look and get pissed off, but that doesn’t happen too often, thank goodness.
S: So what do you tell them?
J: I’m not always sure myself, so it’s easier if I just wear the Happy Face.
S: Why can’t you simply tell them you have Depression?
J: I guess I can tell some people, but most people just say things like, “You? Depressed? Why, you always seem so optimistic and happy.” They don’t understand that I really am optimistic and happy, but that I’m also sick.
S: I can see how that can happen. That must be frustrating.
J: Which is why I wear the Happy Face.
S: Do you always wear the Happy Face at work?
J: Oh, most definitely. I’m afraid I might lose my job if they find out about my chronic Major Depressive Disorder. I’m never sure if people will understand, and it’s better to be safe.
S: Well, there are laws which protect you if your rights are violated, so you let me know if you have any trouble in that area, ok?
J: Ok. Thanks.
S: So, other than this new job, how have things been going for you?

(The lights dim as they continue chatting. When the lights come back up, both women are wearing different outfits, but sitting in the same places. Jane is removing a mask similar to the one she wore in the previous scene, only this one is made of heavy cardboard.)

S: Well, Jane, that Happy Face seems a little more substantial than the last one.
J: Yeah, and a little harder to deal with, too.
S: How so?
J: Well, the last one was so light that I hardly knew I had it on. It felt almost natural and I found myself forgetting I was even wearing it. But I can really tell I have this one on.
S: Does it interfere with your work?
J: A little. It’s harder to answer the phone and I can’t type as fast. But I manage. At least it hides my real face.
S: But you feel this thicker Happy Face is necessary?
J: Yes, I do. The first one wasn’t doing the trick anymore. If I happened to cry while I was wearing it, my tears would melt through. This one works better for me now.
S: I see. It seems that you’re really making an effort to appear healthy to others.
J: Got to. I really need this job.

(Again, the lights fade to black as the conversation also fades out. The next scene shows the two women another week later in the same office. Sylvia watches in fascination while Jane removes a wooden mask, fastened to her head with a complex series of leather straps, from her head.)

S: Wow, this Happy Face looks like it takes a lot of effort to wear.
J: Yeah, and it’s beginning to give me headaches.
S: How long does it take you to put it on in the morning?
J: Seems like forever. It’s getting harder and harder to be on time for work.
S: I’ll bet you’re pretty beat when you get home, too.
J: You can’t imagine! I’m so tired I go right to bed. I rarely go anywhere in the evenings or on weekends, I’m so exhausted.
S: Are you able to at least spend a little time with friends now and then?
J: Sometimes. Most of them are really sweet and understanding, but I still have to wear the Happy Face and I usually don’t have the energy. Generally, I just turn off the ringer on the phone so I don’t have to make excuses.
S: How are things going at work?
J: I still like my job, but it’s getting more and more difficult to make it through the day. I can hardly keep up with the filing and typing, and I’m so worried that my Happy Face is slipping that my memory is affected.
S: Your memory?
J: Yeah, like when I answer the phone and the caller identifies himself, I’ve forgotten who it is by the time I transfer the call to the proper person.
S: That must be very frustrating.
J: (pulling a tissue from the box) Sure is. Seems like it’s getting worse, no matter what I do.
S: (leaning over to pat Jane’s arm) It’s ok, hon. That’s why you’re here. We’ll get through this together…

(More tears as the lights fade. When the lights come up this time, Sylvia is helping Jane to remove a large, ugly, iron helmet-type apparatus from her head. The face of the mask has eye-holes and a smile cut out of it, like the previous ones.)

S: My lord, Jane! I don’t see how you can wear such a thing!
J: I have to. I have to be able to go to work and do my errands. And then there are the neighbors… (Begins to sob, which continues off and on throughout the conversation)
S: It must be so painful.
J: My head hurts almost all the time. My neck and shoulders are killing me from the weight of the Happy Face. Even my back hurts.
S: At least you must be getting some sleep at nights…
J: Ironically, no. I’m so exhausted that I can’t sleep. And if I do, it’s only until about 3 or 4 am, and then I can’t get back to sleep. I’m too afraid I won’t wake up in time for work.
S: Are you able to make it to work on time, having to put this thing on every morning?
J: I’m late almost every day.
S: How are things once you get there?
J: Really, really bad. This thing makes it almost impossible to concentrate on my work. I just can’t think. I told my boss that I’m distracted by outside activity so she lets me close my office door. But I end up spending more time crying than working.
S: Does your boss know about your illness?
J: Yes, I finally had to tell her, because of the time I’ve taken off. But she doesn’t understand what it’s like in here. She thinks that since I’m wearing the Happy Face, I should be well enough to get my work done. I’m afraid she’s losing patience with me, and I don’t blame her.
S: Still having memory problems?
J: Worse. I miss deadlines and appointments all the time.
S: Are you taking your meds?
J: They quit working so we’re trying some new stuff. But it’s not working either.
S: Well, you know it takes several weeks…
J: Yes, but I feel like they’ll never work. I can’t imagine life without the Happy Face. I can’t even remember what it was like to be well.
S: Perhaps you should take some time off work. I can write a letter to your boss…
J: I’ve used up all my sick time and vacation. I can’t afford to take time off with no pay. Plus, I’m afraid my job won’t be there when I get back, whenever that would be.
S: Well, why don’t you start coming here more often? Perhaps just being able to take off the Happy Face for a little while will ease things up for you, at least until the meds kick in.
J: (really sobbing hard now) That would be good.

(Lights fade and come up and this time we see Jane lugging in a large, flat stone about 10 inches across and 3 inches thick. The stone slab has what look like eyes and a smiling mouth carved into the surface of it. She struggles to the chair, then drops her heavy load on the floor with a loud thump. Tears are streaming down her face.)

J: I can’t take it any more. I give up. If I have to carry this damn Happy Face around just one more day, I’ll die.
S: Oh, you poor dear. You don’t have to carry it. Nobody expects you to cart around a load like this.
J: Yeah, especially since I lost my job.
S: What happened?
J: They said it was because of another missed deadline. But I know it was because I couldn’t keep up with my work. I tried so hard, I really did!
S: I know, hon, I know. I don’t remember ever seeing anyone work so hard to carry that Happy Face.
J: (nodding through her sobs) It feels like I’ve been doing it for so long and I’m so, so tired! I just can’t do it any more.
S: It’s ok, Jane. Just rest. That’s the most important thing right now, the thing you need the most—rest. I’ll help you and your doctor will help you, and everything will be fine. You just try to get the rest you need so that your body can get stronger once again. It’s ok to put the Happy Face down, at least until it becomes more manageable. You’re a very strong person and I know you’ll get through this if you stop trying so hard to fight it and just rest, rest, rest…

(Her words, as well as the lights, fade out…)

Comic Relief

I have no doubt that T will find her lost Sense of Humor. She has before and she will again. In the meantime, although not as funny as T's posts, I thought I'd try to provide a little amusement for our readers.

My Steve is doing some research on the Cheyenne Indians for no apparent reason (he often does that sort of thing), and has come across some pretty creative Indian names. When you keep in mind that these are descriptive names, they can be somewhat amusing.

  • John Stands in Timber
  • Man Afraid of His Horses
  • White Man Runs Him
  • Bad Face (or Ugly Face, aka Old Bart. His real name was Feathered Bear.)
  • Alights on the Cloud
  • Starving Elk
  • Curly (Crazy Horse's childhood name. No shit.)
  • Wooden Leg
  • Big Old Man
  • Yellow Nose
  • Old Bull Hump (Father of Bull Hump)
  • Big Prisoner
  • Little Mountain
  • Small Man
  • Two Dogs Fucking (Not really. Steve just made that one up.)
  • Long Chin
  • Whistling Elk (Not really funny, unless you try to picture an elk whistling.)
  • Mouse's Road (Now, how would one get that name?)
  • Stone Forehead
  • Walking Coyote
  • Pushing Ahead (Probably had ADHD.)
  • Tsis-tsis-tas (Cheyenne name for themselves, meaning similarly bred. Hmmm...)
  • Dark
  • Big Head
  • Ice
  • Wolf Coming Out
  • Dull Knife
  • Two Moons
  • Crow Split Nose (Ouch!)
  • Black Hairy Dog
  • Bear Walks on a Ridge
  • Charcoal Bear
  • Box Elder (He was a blind medicine man.)
  • Carries the Otter
  • Coyote Ear (Brother of She Bear.)
  • Touching Cloud (Probably a really tall Indian.)
  • Standing Water
  • One Eye

I'd like to think that my Cheyenne name would be something like Gentle Heart or Kind Soul, or even Bears Good Children, but it would probably end up being Cooks and Eats or She Who Waits Until Tomorrow. What would yours be?

Lu

Sunday, March 20, 2005

MISSING: Reward if found

My Sense of Humor is missing.
It looks kind of like THIS, a bit like THIS, and a lot like THIS.
It was last seen in the jaws of a big black dog.

A reward will be offered for any information leading to its recovery.
Until found, there will be no further posts.

Wanted: Arms and a Short-Term Promise

I’m not the kind of girl who inspires heroes. That’s okay. I’m not a damsel in distress and I don’t like to be rescued. I like being self-sufficient and independent. Heroes usually annoy me with assumptions that I’m weak and helpless.

However, sometimes when I’m over-tired and start dipping a little below sea level on the old MDD chart, I think maybe a hero would be okay for a little while. I don’t need the Knight-In-Shining-Armor variety. My adversity requires no threat of life or limb, nor does it require a long-term solution. I simply desire someone with arms for holding, and a promise that everything’s gonna be okay. It won’t be long before I can make that promise for myself again.

Last week was a tough one. Today was tougher. A little borrowed strength until I can feel my own again would help a lot.

Saturday, March 19, 2005

A Friendly Discovery From Quiz Crazy Cricket

You Are A Good Friend




You're always willing to listen
Or lend a shoulder to cry on
You're there through thick and thin
Many people consider you their "best friend"!

What Kind of Friend Are You?

Friday, March 18, 2005

My Favorite Things

One of my favorite Jazz songs is John Coltrane’s, My Favorite Things.

My favorite beer is Guinness. If you like it stateside, you’d love it in Ireland. It tastes much better when enjoyed in the company of a charming blue-eyed Irishman in a cozy Dublin Pub.

My favorite game is Balderdash. Big surprise there! The point of the game is to make shit up and lie convincingly. The newer version, Beyond Balderdash, is even better than the original.

My favorite sex toy: My Hitachi Magic Wand. If you don’t have one, invest! It works great on sore muscles too. You can also purchase a G-Spotter attachment.

My favorite sexual position: Yes!

My favorite color is blue, green and purple all swirled together. Steve calls them "earth colors" because that’s the color of the earth from outer space. I have a fuzzy mohair sweater that is randomly mixed with these colors. I knitted it myself. Whenever I wear it, people touch me to see what it feels like. I get to spend the day being fondled because it’s irresistibly fuzzy and soft.

My favorite sweater: See above

My favorite place is often wherever I happen to be at the time.

My favorite friend is: Matt, Lu, Dave, David, Ruth, Mike, Jodi, Matt, Amy, Paige and sometimes Me. (this is subject to random additions)

My favorite word to say out loud is spatula. It has no meaning to me. I just like the way it sounds.

My favorite word of all is inclusive. D’s favorite word, succulent, is a close 2nd.

My favorite places to be kissed are the back of my neck and along my collarbones … and the inside of my elbows, my nipples, the palms of my hands, the area just above my ass …

My favorite extra special treat is Tiramisu with champagne and fresh strawberries.

My favorite place to think about stuff is in a pile of dirt in my garden. Yay! It’s Spring!

My favorite shoes?
Time Out ! ! !
I couldn’t possibly choose. I love all my babies equally.

My favorite painting is Guernica by Pablo Picasso. Even though it graphically depicts horror, cruelty and bitter pain, I keep our reproduction hanging over the sofa in the living room. It reminds me of how precious and fragile life is.

My favorite guilty treat is a coconut macaroon dipped in chocolate.

My favorite non-guilty treat is a big steamy cup of rich black coffee and a biscotti.

My favorite man’s name is Hank.

My favorite woman’s name is Emily.

My favorite jeans: Long boot-cut, button-fly, indigo non-stretch denim Gap jeans.

My favorite lipstick: Lancome, Sugared Maple. It works great with the Spiced Apple lip-liner.

My favorite vacation was a trip I took with my best friend, David, a year after we graduated from college. We flew to San Francisco and spent a few days wandering the city. On the third day we rented a car and drove north, camping and hiking wherever we saw an enticing place to stop. When we’d gone far enough, we turned around and came back through the vineyards. We concluded our trip at a nudist camp near Sacramento.

What are some of your favorites?

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

Food Groups

I made the most amazing discovery yesterday…

On my way home from a doc appointment, I stopped by John’s Grocery (www.johnsgrocery.com) for a few necessities. An Iowa City icon for 57 years, Dirty John’s, as it’s known around town, is the best little grocery store I’ve ever been in. Not only do they have a phenomenal wine department run by Wally the Wine Guy, they have a huge beer selection, too. Not surprising in the Cultural Mecca of Iowa City. Where else would one serve Paulaner Hefe-Weizen by the keg at a summer party?

I love good beer. I’m a bit picky, mostly because of my sensitivity to and dislike for bitter flavors. I love dark, thick, sweet beer, like some cream and imperial stouts, and most of the porters. My favorites include Samuel Smith’s Oatmeal Stout and Nut Brown Ale, and Young’s Double Chocolate Stout. I don’t mind spending a little extra for these old standbys or to try new brews. I’d rather drink two really yummy beers than a six-pack of Miller Light any day.

Yesterday I decided to treat myself. I perused the large and varied selection, debating whether it’s far enough into spring for a Belgian Witbier or some Lindermans Peche Lambic (don’t want to rush these things), when a seasonal domestic caught my eye. In my opinion, Sam Adams is the best main-stream domestic on the market. The Boston Lager can cause even die-hard Bud fans to think twice when ordering, and they make the only drinkable light beer, as far as I’m concerned. Their seasonal brews are something to be on the lookout for and I’ve been known to stock up on one or two.

The beer in question was a double bock, which I’ve been told is made from the residue collected when breweries clean their brewing kegs. It is dark, sweet, and often pretty potent. Kind of the cream of beer. Yum. No debating over this one—I immediately picked up a six-pack.

As I waited in the checkout line, the chocolate section caught my eye. Steve had recently read to me an article in US News and World Report which revealed the results of recent studies in nutrition. Chocolate was listed as valid nutritional supplement—I know, gals, that this is not news to us, but at least now it’s been proven scientifically. Being part of a long line of chocoholics, and figuring I can use all the nutrition I can get, I chose Lindt’s Reduced Sugar Dark Chocolate. It has less fat and sugar than most others, which, in my opinion, makes for a better dark chocolate. Divine.

Despite the early hour (4:10 pm, 50 minutes before Happy Hour) and not being one for delayed gratification, I poured myself a glass of double bock as soon as I got home. Dark, sweet, creamy, it’s everything I’d hoped. Mmmmmmm… I’m definitely going back to John’s to purchase all the Sam Adam’s Double Bock they have! I also couldn’t wait for a piece of chocolate, so I broke off a chunk and chewed it a bit before letting it melt on my tongue. Mmmmmmm… Then, without thinking, I took a swig of the beer before the chocolate was completely gone. Absolute heaven! As good as they are alone, the combination of the two flavors is truly orgasmic. I even dreamt about it later that night. When I awoke at 3am to pee (as is my usual schedule), I had to fight to resist pouring a small glass of the delectable brew and breaking off a few squares of the Lindt’s. This is obviously not a wise thing for a diabetic to do. I’ll just have to wait until Happy Hour.

--Lu

Incidentally, Alcoholism does not run in my family and I’m fortunate that my folks were able to teach me by example that it is possible to drink responsibly and in moderation. True, I have been spotted at the local pub with a few tee many empty martoonie glasses in front of me, but it doesn’t happen very often, largely due to the fact that I’m prone to horrendous hangovers. Also, I am keenly aware that alcohol reduces the efficacy of antidepressants, which is not a good thing for me.

Reducing My "Lack of Sex" Angst

Instead of coming straight home from work tonight, I went for a walk. The weather is fairly pleasant here and the crisp air seemed to sort out my cluttered brain a bit. I didn’t think about anything in particular, which was probably a good thing. After a while, something revolutionary occurred to me.

That’s the way it works with people with ADD. We don’t actually think of things the way other people do, they simply occur to us. When we try to think about a specific thing, we end up getting sidetracked onto a dozen other thoughts instead.

Soooo … It occurred to me that I haven’t had a good day in a while. I’ve had some happy and exciting moments, but I haven’t been enjoying my life like I used to. Somehow the absence of sex in my life has become an eclipsing force. I’ve irrationally concluded that until I find a satisfying lover, I won’t have a satisfying life.

What a pile of horseshit! I’m not going to be dependent on someone else to make me happy. That’s just not my style, baby!

On top of it, I’m boring myself to tears thinking about and talking about my lack of sex. For Pete’s sake, if I was honestly and truly desperate for sex, I’d log out of blogland and ring up one of my former special friends for a special date. Or, I could even get the hook out of my ass, get out of this chair and leave my house to make a brand new special friend. I’m not a particularly shy girl. I make friends easily.

In reality, I haven’t hit the desperation point yet. I’ve had a few fearful moments when my reflection in the mirror seemed to have a shadow of desperation around the gills, but fortunately it was only a mirage of my fear.

Indeed, I miss sex very much. However, I need to stop exacerbating my misery by thinking about how much I miss it all the time. Come-on, it's very unlikely that I'll never have sex again, right?

I didn't hear you. Did you say "yes"?

Whew!

I just need to relax and trust that I’ll find my next lover when I’m supposed to find him or her. That’s the way it’s always been. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.

Until then, perhaps I should spend some time enjoying my perfectly delightful life. I like being happy. It looks good on me.

… hmmm, hot naked sexy people look awfully good on me too (tee hee).

Monday, March 14, 2005

K-HOT's Ongoing All-Request Hour

T informs me that some of her email contacts from this blog have asked her questions about Mental Illness that she does not know how to answer. However, as our ethics prevent us from sharing that information without prior consent, and I do not make my email public, I'd like to make you all an open proposition: If there is anything you want/need to know about Mental Illness (particularly Major Depressive Disorder and Bipolar Disorder), just publish them in the comments section of this post. Remember that you can comment anonymously if it makes you uncomfortable. I'll try to answer to the best of my knowledge, drawing from research on the net and elsewhere as well as from my own experience.

I want to help, but you have to help me. Please give me some topics, at least, to get me started!

--Lu

Am I a Sexual Snob?

I’ve been thinking about this current dry spell of mine. In all my recollections, I’ve never really had a dry spell. Oh! Wait a second, I vaguely remember one several years ago. I believe it was called virginity.

Sadly, things are not looking good for the Love Goddess. Only one lovely romp in the
Year of Cunnilingus? It’s completely unsuitable. I don’t even have any certain prospects. Sure, in less than a month we’re going to Las Vegas for 3 days. I suppose I could always find myself a whore. But, that really isn’t my style. Besides, we have whores right here in River City.

I think the problem is that I’ve become a Sexual Snob of sorts. It’s not that I think I’m too good for other people. (Although I am good. In fact I’m really, really good. How the hell do you think I got the title Love Goddess?) The problem is that with all the stumblings, bumblings and mistakes I’ve made in the past, I’ve decided to set guidelines in order to avoid similar problems in the future. Perhaps these guidelines are overly restrictive. The simple step of meeting a suitable partner seems to be impossible based on my current thinking.

  • Online dating means I have to deal with idiots sending me disgusting messages, and even more disgusting photos of themselves.
  • Bars mean I have to deal with drunks and youngsters.
  • I don’t fuck people more than 10 years younger than me (I’m 40), and I live in a University town where half the population are University students.
  • Fuckable people at work? Not likely. First I have to find an available person amongst the 275 employees. Then I have to narrow the choice down to those that I’m even remotely attracted to. Then, I have to assess whether they are capable of maintaining a discrete relationship (I don't need any more office gossip). How likely is that? So far, Zilch!
  • Long distance friends can be fun, but they are a lot of work. I miss those friends. *Sigh*

There is also the complication of the fact that I am married myself. Oh YES! People get freaked out about this even when I explain that my partner and I have successfully maintained an open relationship for almost 8 years. One might think that a lot of guys would jump on this as some sort of Holy Grail. Think about it. Here’s a Hot Chik with the sex drive of a teenage boy, who doesn’t want a long term committed relationship, but would very much like to worship your cock for a while. So why do they get all freaked out and run away when they hear the word "husband"?

I also have a number of turn-offs that may be shrinking my sub-set of fuckable folks. I get turned off by people who are:

  1. Possessive and jealous
  2. Stupid or ignorant
  3. Racist
  4. Sexist
  5. Homophobic
  6. Elitist
  7. Evangelistic
  8. Sexually narrow-minded
  9. Superficial
  10. Mean-Spirited
  11. Hygienically challenged
  12. Big Fat Liars (not in the fun, story-telling kind of way)

What’s a Love Goddess to do?
Do I lower my standards, or do I patiently continue my search for the perfect lover?

Saturday, March 12, 2005

Woo Hoo ! ! !

Some smart folks in China really have their priorities set properly.
Check it out >>>

http://funreports.com/2005/02/21/58364.html
New erotic kit guarantees 100 percent distant sex. The new hi-tech invention of the sex industry allows to enjoy the pleasure of "distant sex." Each kit contains: a computer board, headphones and a microphone for naughty communication online. Everything is complete with a vibrator or a vagina (depending on user's sex) - they are connected to personal computers through computer boards. According to instructions, a male partner can control the vibrator of a woman and talk to her on the microphone, whereas the female partner in her turn is able to manipulate the vagina used by a man. When the sensual system is connected to the computer and the online connection is established with a partner, the screen menu offers a variety of choices: vigorous movements or tender vibrations of a dildo, a strong or a delicate grip of a vagina. Two partners can thoroughly enjoy the reality of virtual sex with the help of the product - all they have to do is to move a mouse. He remotely controls the vibrator in a woman's body, while she is remotely in charge of the appropriately used vagina. Chinese technicians, who participated in the invention of the 190-dollar erotic system, say that everything is reliable and does not lead to any technical malfunctions during operation.

Now I just have to figure out how to order one of these little kits and find a partner to do the same.

Friday, March 11, 2005

Slip-Shod??

A guy called the theatre office the other day to see if he’d left a tennis shoe there after rehearsal the night before. I suggested he look by the side of the road.

Surely you’ve noticed that discarded shoes seem to be as plentiful on our scenic byways as roadkill. And there’s always only one shoe. I often expect to see a hitchhiker a mile or so up the shoulder with one ragged bare foot and a crazed expression on his face.

Then there’s the poor lonely soul who’s dumped all his friends for being suspected of tossing his tennies, laces knotted together, over a high-tension wire.

So next time you lose your shoe, go for a drive. And if you’ve lost both sneakers, try wandering around your neighborhood looking up.


--Lu

Thursday, March 10, 2005

Who’s Your Turkish Prison Friend?

When I think about all the friends I have, I feel incredibly blessed. It’s as if I’ve got some strange and wonderful magical power to find and attract the most phenomenal people in the world. It doesn’t matter where I go or how awkward and insecure I feel, somehow I end up with the very best folks around. Unfortunately, over the years there have been a handful of friends that turned out to be false. I learned some valuable lessons from my experience with them. Those lessons hurt like hell, but they made me appreciate my true friends even more.

One of my best friends in the world is David. We met at an All City Orchestra when we were 15 years old. I had just had surgery on my teeth and my mouth was wired shut. He thought that was about the coolest thing in the world because even though my mouth was wired shut, I could still talk. Who knew that was a good way to impress a 15-year old boy?

Somehow he managed to discover other interesting things about me once my mouth was free of wires and junk. We maintained a friendship well into college and were even roommates for several years. By the time we were in our mid-twenties, we had accumulated numerous private jokes and shorthand communication that only the two of us understood. One of the ways we categorized new friends was to sort them as either a Turkish Prison Friend or a Non-Turkish Prison Friend (TPF / Non-TPF).

It takes a very special person to be a Turkish Prison Friend. They are quite rare and precious. The idea is based on the notion that in Days of Yore, Turkish Prisons were thought to be the scariest places in the world, something akin to Hell-on-Earth. Once you landed your sorry ass in one of them, it took a major miracle to get out again. A person would need a really helpful person on the outside to have any kind of hope for freedom.

The Hypothetical: If you landed your own sorry ass in a Turkish Prison (the likes of those in Days of Yore), and you only had one quick phone call to the outside world before being locked away forever, WHO would you call to help you?

Don’t answer too quickly. It might not be the first person that comes to mind.

This is the conversation you want to have with your Turkish Prison Friend:
You: "Hi Buddy. Listen, I’m in big trouble and I really need your help. I only have a minute to tell you everything you need to know."
TPF: "Okay"
You: "I’m in a Turkish Prison and I need help getting out."
TPF: "That sucks! Hold tight. I’ll get you out, man. Tell me what else you think I need to know."

Did you notice how the Turkish Prison Friend listened, got serious, and offered support and encouragement? These are important qualities in a TPF. She/He should also be someone who is tenacious and smart. You need to know that you can rely on to them to fight for you when the going gets tough.

You might have other people in your life who care about you just as much as your TPF, but they might not be nearly as helpful or effective in securing your release. They are the following people:

  1. The friend who freaks out and starts screaming when they hear that you’re in trouble. This includes the person who starts crying right away, as well as the person who runs for the gun cabinet, threatening to kill anyone who becomes an obstacle to her/his mission.
  2. The friend who’s stuck in the habit of telling you about their life before they can talk about your life.
  3. The procrastinator friend (you don’t want to be pushed to the bottom of the list when you’re rotting away in Prison).
  4. The friend who needs you to tell them how to do it.
  5. The friend who thinks everything is a joke or a party.
  6. The friend who always seems to have a WORSE problem than you do.
  7. The friend who is always busy, socially involved and on-the-go.
  8. The friend who tries to cheer you up or offer advice even when you don’t want it.
  9. The friend who appears to believe that it’s their responsibility to tell you what you could have done to prevent this from happening in the first place. (For some of us this might be a parent or a sibling)
  10. The friend who always seems to have a story or an anecdote to share about a similar experience (theirs or someone else’s).

    You shouldn’t worry about whether or not you fall into one of the above categories. Being a Turkish Prison Friend is a tough gig. Not everyone has the personality and the constitution for it. The important thing is to know who YOUR TPF is. Memorize her/his phone numbers and email addresses. In this crazy world, you never know when you’re gonna
    need your TPF.

Wednesday, March 09, 2005

Bootstrap Bullshit

Early this morning, I found myself awake at 3:30 am (pretty typical of depressives, dontcha know), and decided to bore myself back to sleep by watching the tube. Instead, I ended up positively enraged! My attention was caught during channel scanning by one of those program-length commercial thingys. Several people were being interviewed about their experiences with anxiety and depression. I thought, well, it's not prime-time, but maybe we're getting somewhere. I hoped the ad was more on the public service side than the profit racket, but of course, I was wrong. It turned out to be a promo for some woman selling seminar tapes!

Now, anyone who thinks a motivational speaker can "convince" you not to have depression or anxiety obviously has no experience with either disorder, either first- or second-hand. I realize that we can all use a little motivation now and then, but jeez--that's what therapy is for! Just as you can't treat MDD or AD by meds alone, neither can you treat it by talk alone. I don't see ads for "Cure Your Diabetes with Positive Thinking," or "Drug-Free Treatment for Parkinson's Disease."

Don't people realize how dangerous this is? By telling sick people that all they need is a positive attitude and they'll be all better, they're setting those poor folks up for certain failure. One of the toughest things to accept about having MDD, BPD, or AD is the fact that it's not your fault. We look either inside ourselves or at our life situations in order to find blame. Even if we know full well that what we have is a physiological malfunction, we still believe we should have some control over how and when the symptoms manifest. THIS IS NOT TRUE!! We certainly don't need any therapeutic progress we make undermined by false advertisement telling us that it is!

Our self-blame leads us into self-loating, hopelessness, and too often, suicidal thoughts or actions. It really rankles me when I think of all the ways our society perpetuates this fallacy. I don't care if this woman's teachings have helped millions of people pull themselves up by the bootstraps; I doubt very much that anything she tells the poor, desperate souls that buy her crap is news, and I'm willing to bet that she hasn't found a miracle cure. If you really do have MDD, BPD, or AD, you are sick and need to go to a psychatrist, not a seminar!

--Lu

Monday, March 07, 2005

I'm Baaaaack!

Well, my stint as Stage Manager/Prop Mistress for Hedda Gabler is finally over--pretty much, anyway. We opened this past weekend and have more shows to do. I'll be there during all six as well as during the big strike after the last performance. It's also my job to take care of the little things that happen during the run of the show:

  • I want to sew back on the cute tassels that one of the actors cut off (I don't know why) the purse I made for her so that it will once again look Victorian.
  • The trousers we rented for our male lead has one leg about 2" shorter than the other. None of us involved in the show had noticed it until this weekend when several audience members asked why he was leaning so much to the left.
  • I need to do some magic with Olde English Scratch Remover on the chairs the actors bump into when taking their place on a completely dark stage. (Reminder to self: put glow-tape on furniture edges)
  • The beautifully painted floor (see, we perform in a 4-H barn and use upside-down vinyl flooring so we can paint whatever we want on it) has several spots where the paint is rubbing off the shiny silver duct tape that I forgot to cover with masking tape. Under stage lighting, it makes our little Victorian living room look like a basketball court.
  • I'd like to do some research on Victorian Rum Punch. Seriously. I mean, what is it and what can we use to fake it onstage? I'm sure nobody cares but me, but I guess I've got to obsess about something...
  • I haven't been at the theatre since about midnight Saturday, and I'd bet my disability check that somebody (you know who you are!) left her costume lying on the floor in a heap. More ironing for me, dammit.
  • I need to carefully write out exactly what to do during scene changes, since I invariably forget to place some prop or leave the curtains open when they should be closed. It causes my actors to become pissed off at me when they should instead revere me with fear and awe.
  • I've got to figure out how to communicate to our lights person that the final line SHOULD NOT be delivered in the dark, nor should our actors have to freeze like deer in headlights at the end of the play.

So, you see, an SM's job is never done, but it does ease up eventually. Now I have time and energy to do other things. I used to Stage Manage (and even direct) shows while working full time. That's probably one of the things that made me so sick. Although Hedda did have some crazy moments, I didn't feel as stressed out as I used to because I was able to spend extra time on it and get rested up when I needed to. These days, my shrink, my therapist, and even my family doc have suggested that I do some volunteer work to get me out of the house once in a while. I wonder if they realize the Pandora's Box they've opened!!

Before I close this post, I'd like to toot my own horn a bit. Yeah, I know we're taught that modesty is the best policy and all that crap, but I'm discovering that most of us could do with a little self-appreciation once in a while. All my life I've been plagued with low self-esteem, but when I look at the set of Hedda Gabler it all goes away. I painted it and decorated it almost all by myself and it looks fucking fantastic. When you add the hot-shit lighting design and the beautiful cast with their gorgeous Victorian costumes (made/assembled by Theresa), you forget you're in the 4-H barn of a county fairground. No wonder, I think to myself, that during the run of the show I was asked by no fewer than three directors if I'd consider working on their upcoming shows. Hmmm...I'll have to get back to them after I finish drinking my martini and patting myself on the back!

Another cool thing I've got to mention... I am not what one would consider vain. I rarely wear makeup any more, have little or no sense of fashion, and choose shoes that are more utilitarian than sexy. People have pretty much gotten used to seeing me very "frumped out," especially when I'm out at the theatre painting, hanging lights, or doing something questionable with power tools.

What's cool about this is that on opening night, I did my hair (well, washed and brushed it anyway), made up my face, put on my best black (I still have backstage work to do, remember) outfit, and slipped into my painful but oh-so-sexy FMPs. I think I was complemented by nearly everyone who saw me at the reception after the show--and it felt great! One man in particular whom I'd formerly only known by name and had not met until he helped us on the set, hugged me several times and introduced me in glowing terms to everyone he spoke with. I know we're both married, but I secretly find him extremely attractive and the attention made me, um, uh, would quiver be an appropriate verb here?

Well, I guess that about does it with the Hedda talk. I'm back on track and have a lot of reading and posting to do. I'll try to focus my creativity on 2 Hot Chiks for a while at least. I miss you, dear readers, and I'm glad to be back!
--Lu

Stupid Theresa Story # 1: Ass Trapped

This is the beginning of a series called Stupid Theresa Stories. It’s not necessarily that I think I’m stupid, but I do some pretty stupid things sometimes. A lot of them are funny and well worth sharing for the amusement of others. Hell, if I went through the humiliation of the experience, we should at least get some laugh-mileage out of it.

Part of my problem is that I’ve got the ADD thing going on. As a result, I tend to get intensely focused on one thing and completely miss everything else that’s going on around me. It’s worse when I’m doing something new, I’m in a rush, or I’m under a great deal of pressure.

It was my 28th birthday. I had made myself a fantastic new blue and white dress. It had a low scoop neck in the front and the back and hugged my body nicely down to the hips where it flared out into a full skirt. The fabric was light and soft, but it had enough weight to swing sassily when I walked.

As usual, I was late for work. I needed to get there on time because a reporter was meeting me to do a story on a project I was working on. Unfortunately, I absolutely HAD to drop something off downtown on the way.

It was typical rush hour traffic and there was no street parking anywhere. The idea of parking in the ramp seemed completely ridiculous for a 2-minute drop-off. I made a hasty decision to double-park and run my drop-off inside as fast as possible. I pulled up next to a car that didn’t seem to be going anywhere and leapt out, slamming the door behind me. However, at that point, I ceased to move.

I was stuck. As I exited the car, I had forgotten all about my big full skirt flowing behind me. Not only that, but so much of the dress was caught in the door that I couldn’t move, or turn to unlock the door to free myself. There I stood, a prisoner of my beautiful dress, caught with my ass firmly against my double-parked car door, and dangerously late for an important meeting.

I tried to twist and fiddle with the keys in the door, but I couldn’t turn enough to figure it out. I’m sure the panic that I was feeling was also contributing to my failure. As I wondered if I should consider chewing off a limb to secure my freedom, a gentleman paused near me. He looked perplexed at first, but then he seemed to sum up my predicament. I stuck out my arm with the keys dangling at the end and a look of complete humiliation and desperation on my face. He smiled and complied without a word.

He took the keys and headed toward the passenger side of the car to open the latch from the inside. I waited to hear the freedom sound of my release, but instead he was back only seconds later. He calmly explained that the cars were too close together. He couldn’t get in from the other side. I knew this meant he’d have to open the door at my ass.


He was very gentle, and I could tell he was trying his best not to touch me, but with my big round butt, there wasn’t extra room for a hand and a set of keys. After what seemed like an excruciatingly long time, I finally said, "Don’t worry about it, please, just unlock the door." It seemed he understood, as he ceased to concern himself with propriety and nudged and pushed around my bottom until he was able to gain success. When I heard the click, and felt the fabric loosen, I was overjoyed. I thanked him profusely and then remembering my errand, I ran away in haste.

I’ll never forget that man. He really saved my ... associate from the newspaper a lot of wasted time.


I wonder if my gentleman on the street remembers the day that he saved a girl trapped to her car door ass-first.

Saturday, March 05, 2005

Things I Wish All Men Understood

I absolutely LOVE men! I’ve already spent lots and lots of time talking about why I love men, and I’m bound to spend even more time in the future. Men are so deliciously loveable!

I also absolutely LOVE women, especially Hot Chiks. One of the reasons I love my Hot Chiks is because we understand one another without always having to explain why. Hot Chiks understand when I’m fed up with the misunderstandings, silly games and annoying habits common to some of the men-folk I can’t seem to stay away from. Sometimes a simple nod or an "Oh Sweetie, I know what you’re talking about" is all that’s required to experience healing compassion and understanding. However, there are moments when I shake my fuzzy little head and wish for more.


It would be really great if ALL men understood a few simple things:

1.) Yes, I really do NEED all of these silly hair, skin and make-up products. Do you really NEED your silly Television?

2.) I like it when you appreciate my body and say sexy things. You know I love it when you unexpectedly tell me I’m pretty. It’s also flattering when you make a sexy sound as I bend over to fasten the clasp on my shoe. However, when you make the same sound and grind up on my ass when I’m bent over to clean out the catbox, it’s really fucking annoying. I think we’re talking about the concept of timing here, boys.

3.) Put the seat down after you pee. This isn’t just about being polite; it’s a RULE! No wait, it’s not just a rule; it’s like a Commandment. Forget Thou shall not covet thy neighbor’s wife and Thou shall not take the Lord’s name in vain. For Christsakes, Boys, put the Goddamn seat down! The Love Goddess hath proclaimed it!

4.) Remember when you told me how much you like it when I tell you what I want. I said, "Mmmm, a little more to the right … Ahhhhh, exactly … That’s it … Yessss, like that … Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh, Ohmgod! Give it to me, Baby! I want you now!" We both liked that. You know what else I want real bad, Baby? I want you to pick up your nasty underwear and put them in the laundry hamper. If I say, "Yessss, like that … Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh, Ohmgod!" will you feel more motivated?

5.) Just because it’s that time of the month, doesn’t mean I don’t have a very good reason to cry, or to be surly, or to eat half my weight in chocolate. If you shut up, act like everything's perfectly normal and pass me the Peanut M&Ms, we’ll all be a lot happier. (Oh, and it’d be fucking nice if you told me I was pretty once in a while!)

6.) I don’t care how many times you try to get me to see the humor, it’s never funny when you fart and then pull the covers over my head. You’re the one who’s laughing, and I’m the one who’s screaming bloody murder … What? Are you eight? No, I don’t want to pull your finger.

7.) Just because you’re done with sex, doesn’t mean I am. The least you could do is scoot over in the bed so I have room to finish. It would be even better if you gave me a hand …
Literally …
No, don’t applaud! Jeez!
See what I have to work with here, People!

Note to all the blogs I ordinarily haunt: My computer is being persnickety again and it’s currently only operating in safe mode. As a result, the resolution is so bad that I can’t read some of my favorite blogs. Hopefully the problem gets resolved this weekend. I miss many of you greatly!

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

Albino Frogs and Bisexual Lemurs are Too Gimmicky

There’s nothing like a good story. Unfortunately, good story-tellers are hard to find. My friend P’s Dad is a Champ when it comes to stringing you along on a good juicy tale. The best part is, he tells ‘em like they’re the truth even when it’s all a Big Fat Lie! To him, life is one big fish tale.

I love to tell Story-Lies too. It’s a hint of naughty and it allows me the opportunity to entertain with the reward of a genuine laugh. My problem comes at the end when someone inevitably says, "You’re kidding?!?!". I always admit, "Yeah, I pretty much made the whole thing up." Story-Lies are fun, but I can’t stick to them very long. They can also be painful. The fessing up sometimes results in a sock in the arm. It’s all right though. I just rub it a bit and enjoy my victory song.


"I fooled you. I fooled you. Ha, Ha, Ha, I fooled you!"

So Cricket decided to have a
Story Contest about the origin of her name. Since the true story of her unique name lacks a certain spark of interest, she REQUIRES a better one. As I consider all the possible origins of the name "Cricket" I’m trying hard to resist the urge to include plots involving albino frogs or bisexual Lemurs. Frankly those gimmicks have been way over-done, don’tcha think?

As you know, every good Story-Lie has an element of truth to it, so I took it upon myself to give ol’ Cricket’s Mom a jingle to see if I couldn’t find out if there was more than she had been telling her sweet daughter all these years. That phone call was definitely worth my time and effort. Once I jogged Mrs. Cricket’s Mom’s memory, she had a lot more to tell.

Way back in the day, a lot of us enjoyed watching the Sonny and Cher Show on TV. It was always good fun to see the beautiful Cher making shit outta her funny-looking little hubby, Sonny (god-rest-his-soul). Every week it was a little sad when the show came to an end, but at least we got to see sweet little Chastity as she joined her folks on stage to sing, I Got You Babe. They seemed like the perfect family.

They looked like the perfect family, but as history has proven, all was not well. One day, before the official split, Cher announced that she needed a break, "Man, Sonny, Man" (Cher says Man a lot) "Watch the kid a while, would ya. Man, I gotta get some fresh air." And, she hopped in her VW mini-bus (the one with the flowers painted all over the sides) and headed over to the Folk Music Festival at the University campus.

Cher had no trouble making friends at the music festival. With one sexy swing of her long black hair, she was shackin’ up with a groovy guy with a suede jacket with fringes along the sleeves. They spent three gorgeous days hangin’ out, listening to music and making sweet love in the sunshine. Each night he sang her a lullaby as she went to sleep. He called it the Cricket Lullaby. It was the stupidest song Cher had ever heard. However, she forgave and tolerated him because he was hung like a mule and didn’t annoy her the way Sonny did. She just smiled and pretended to go to sleep. By the end of the festival, Cher felt rejuvenated and ready to face the problems
at home again. She said goodbye to her weekend lover and promised never to forget him as long as she lived.

Back at home things didn’t get better. In fact, they got much worse, especially after Cher discovered that she was "with child". Sonny was furious because he knew it couldn’t be his baby. He was a Counter (the days in between sex). Neither Sonny nor Cher could bear to make this new babe’s existence public knowledge. As a result, they lost their show and struggled to keep their family together. The closer it got to her due date, the thicker the tension became at the Sonny and Cher home.


Cher was at her wit’s end. She realized that her predicament was even worse than people would’ve expected from a "Half-Breed" such as herself. She couldn’t even remember the baby’s daddy’s name. She just referred to him as the Cricket Song Singer. Impulsively one evening, she jumped into her VW bus and started driving into the desert. She was running crazy with no plan and no destination. She drove and she cried and she drove and she cried. When the van ran out of gas and sputtered to a stop, she had no idea where she was.


Finally, in the darkness of the desert, Cher stopped crying. She felt numb … And then she felt wet. "Man! Oh Man! My fucking water just broke, Man" she announced to the night. Panic set in. She had nowhere to go and no one to help her. The only thing she could think to do was lay on the horn and hope someone heard her.


As the contractions became stronger and closer together, Cher became more and more panicked. Just before all hope seemed lost, she saw a light in the distance. She eagerly waddled onto the highway to meet her saviors.


A young couple stopped their car and eagerly assisted the former TV star in the delivery of her child. They were just in time too. The baby popped out within 15 minutes of their arrival. After the delivery, Cher cuddled and talked to her precious new baby girl. "Man, Hello Little Cricket Singer, Man" she said to the tiny little thing.


As they sat together in the back of Cher’s van, she told the young couple her story of woe. She even sang part of the Cricket song so they knew how awful it really was. They spent the rest of the night refilling the VW gas tank and collecting things for the baby. Cher was impressed with the couple's willingness to stick around until they knew that she and the babe were going to be okay.


As Cher prepared to leave the couple and return home, she turned to the young wife and asked her to hold the baby for a while. The wife assumed this meant 5 minutes while Cher organized the baby’s things. However, as the wife cuddled and talked to the wee little babe, Cher tore off down the road and never looked back. The couple stared after the flower-covered VW bus as it became a little dot on the horizon, and then they turned to one another and stared for an equally long time.


Without having any other name, the young couple called the baby Little Cricket-Singer. This eventually became just Cricket. In almost the same amount of time the young couple became known as "Mom" and "Dad".


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