What is a "Cloaca"? And Do I Have One?

The answer to the second question is no, I do not.

The answer to the first question is very interesting to me. As some of you may know, I am not a farm girl. I may have been a counterfeit cowgirl once, but that's not the same thing at all.

I recently read an article by my friend Fred Miller that made me very curious about chickens.

Fred made some remark in this piece about eggs coming out of a chicken's butt and I was shocked that Fred didn't know about hen's vagina's, which unlike hen's teeth, I figured were a sure thing.

In fact, whenever I have worked on a poor bald chicken or turkey and pulled the stuff from that cavity between it's legs, I have felt a little sad about those chickens or turkeys and their missing vagina. It's bad enough getting killed, decapitated, plucked, stuffed and cooked but to have your private parts taken too! That's disgusting.

Well, I come to find out that chickens do not have a vagina. They have a "cloaca", a Latin word for "sewer". The chicken's waste and reproduction and egg laying all comes out of the same place, (or goes in the same place in the case of semen).

Oddly, roosters seem to have a cloaca too, but they also have an internal penis that comes out to deposit semen into the hen's cloaca for a few seconds. They call this a "cloaca kiss" which I find kind of sweet.

I still wonder what happens to the cloaca of these dead birds,but in truth, I might not want to know.

My Favorite Ex-Husband

My favorite ex-husband's name was John. He's dead now, but he's still the best of any of my other ex-husbands.

I married John when I was 19 and he was 24. He was in sales and had a lot of personality. John was cute too.

He had just finished serving in the Army in Germany for 4 years when I met him. I thought he was smart and I decided he would be a good husband for me. When he proposed I said "Yes!"

I was a stay-at-home wife for a while and I made friends with the milkman, a cop who worked nights, and a stripper lady who lived in our apartment complex. My husband did not particularly like my new friends. John worked long hours and he was very successful. I was pretty bored except for reading romance novels and talking on the phone.

After a year of marriage, I got pregnant and we had a son when I turned 21. After having the baby, I wasn't really very interested in my husband any more. But, despite my lack of interest, we had another baby, a girl, three years later.

We divorced when our daughter was an infant and our son was three. I really wasn't sad about it because I don't think I was ready to be married at that point in my life. I really was not much of a wife. He really wasn't much of a husband either. But he was a nice guy.

It did not worry me that I would be a single mother to two kids; I knew it would be easier than the wife thing. (I was too young and stupid to know it was hard.)

John met and married a lovely woman a couple of years later. I was very pleased to see him with someone who was obviously so right for him. They were very happy together and adopted a baby boy. We used to spend holidays together as a family when the kids were young. It was nice.

I was very sorry when John got cancer. I did everything I could to support him and his wife until he died. Honestly, he was about the best ex husband a woman could hope for.

Who Are These People And What Do They Want With Me?

This morning, at ten minutes after 9, I shuffled and stumbled into my office to use the computer, look at the internet, and read emails. I took a sip of strong coffee and tried to get my eyes to focus.

I was marginally hung over, having done just a bit of medicinal boozing last night while talking on the phone with my girlfriend after my husband left for a trip.

The office looks out on the street and the front porch. Almost as soon as I sat down, I heard somebody coming up the stairs and I looked out the window. There was a nice looking Hispanic man wearing a suit walking up with a young Asian woman in a floral dress. Since there are lace curtains in the office, I could see them, but they couldn't see me.

For must a moment I thought they might be homicide cops, but then realized they were too well dressed. Also, all the women cops I know wear pants when they are working, not flowered dresses.

The couple knocked at the front door, incurring the wrath of Terminator and Rambo, (actually Harry and Honey), my pit bull welcoming committee. While they were standing there looking a little nervous because of the hounds from hell, I noticed that about seven or eight more people had gathered out in front of our house.

These people were dressed elaborately for early on a Tuesday morning. One woman was wearing a sort of African looking turban, and the men were all in suits and ties. Then I noticed the "Watchtower" pamphlet in one man's hand.

I tried to quietly shush the dogs, because obviously I could not go to the door with my hair sticking up on top of my head, mascara smeared under my bloodshot eyes, a boob falling out of my not-too-clean nightgown, and looking like a total sinner in need of redemption.

Pity, if they had come at noon, I would have taken a brochure, smiled, and then felt guilty when I threw it away without reading it.

Ain't Nobody's Business!

One of the best things about being human is our amazing sexuality.

There are so many wonderful ways of expressing it. I really don't have that much interest in what other people do in bed, though.

Oh, I may have an appetite for a little porn now and again and I assume most people do. I also love role playing and fantasies, and sometimes with a little twist of kinky. Doesn't everybody?

If a couple is married or "living in sin", why on earth would I care which it is.

If two men, or two women choose to bed each other and they enjoy it, good for them! It's meant to be enjoyed. And if they choose to marry each other, they certainly should be allowed to.

What's more, if any couple has an attitude that says "the more the merrier", it's fine with me.

I'm tired of the "it says in the bible" routine when it comes to forming opinions about or even governing peoples' sex lives. There's a lot of that going around too. Well, it says in the bible that masturbation is bad too, and we all know that's a crock.

Some of the old testament may reflect a time when the earth was under-populated and for the survival of the species, people were encouraged to procreate. We certainly have procreated enough at this point.

People should do what makes them happy in bed. We need to stop trying to peek in other people's bedroom windows to determine if what they are doing is right or wrong.

It ain't nobody's business.

Dawn and Jack Daniels

Dawn was a sailor girl.

I met her when my son brought her home when he was on leave. She was a pretty girl.

I have no idea if my son and Dawn slept together or not, but I would bet not. Dawn was not really his type.

But she was mine.

Dawn was 21 and had just gotten divorced from a 20 year old Marine. She was so completely without artifice that I adored her almost on sight. Dawn had something I can only call "gumption" and I admire that quality more than almost anything else.

Dawn came back to see me two weeks later and spent the night at our house. She and I drank Jack Daniels and listened to Patsy Cline for hours in our pajamas, talking about life, love, and men who had done us wrong.

When she got ready to leave the next day, I gave her a pair of emerald earrings. I hope she still wears them, and I hope she is happy!

Roses, The Prom, And The Guy With One Leg

When I was a junior in high school, I really wanted to go to the junior prom.

I didn't actually have a boyfriend at the time, so I thought I might be out of luck. But I knew one guy from Geometry who just might fit my requirements.

John was smart and very good looking. I don't think he dated much, but he was very good at Math. I decided he would be my prom date. It was just going to take a bit of planning since I doubt that he even knew my name.

I decided to use my feminine wiles to snare John. Oh, and did I mention that he only had one leg? John had saved his sister while boating and lost a leg doing it. His parents had given him a nice car, and he was really cute, plus the math aptitude, well what can I say? He was perfect.

I asked John if he would come to my house after school to help me with the homework because I was hopelessly lost. He agreed and came over to work with me. John was very serious in trying to get some math into my pea brain, but that is the last thing that was really on my mind. I clasped my head in dismay and said something cute like "Oh John, I'll never be as smart as you! I just don't get it."

Kindly, John said "I'll come back tomorrow and we'll work on it some more" and then he left. This was not really going according to my plan, since I had assumed I might even be pregnant by this time in the scenario. Still, I realized it would take something to make him think of me as just a girl, and not a math project.

I had a brainstorm. I grabbed my babysitting money, all of it, and headed for the shopping center. I went into the florist and ordered a dozen red roses to be delivered to my house the next day at exactly 3:30 PM. The card was addressed to me, of course, but not signed.

The next day when John and I were at the kitchen table studying, the doorbell rang. I went and opened the door said something like "Oh wow! For me?" When I walked in the room with the bouquet of roses, John said "nice". I made a big deal out of opening the card and said "Oh no!" "What's wrong?" John asked. Looking upset, I said they were from my ex boyfriend but it was over and I just didn't know what to do.

"About what?" John asked. "Well, we were supposed to go to the prom, I even got a dress, but now we've broken up, so I guess I just won't get to go." I think I may have even squeezed out a tear. John put his arm around my shoulder.

Yup. That's how I got to go to the junior prom with the one legged guy. And, yes, he could dance.

Dear God! Enuf is Enuf!

Summer has hit the San Francisco Bay Area with a hammer!

It reached 105 today. Tell me I'm joking! I know I've been smug about the 63 degree summer. But this is ridiculous! In San Fran, we get 3 or 4 hot days a year. This is a lot less than a lot of you suffer through and I know that.

Still, keep in mind that we do not have air conditioning. Frankly we don't need it. We heat up once a year and nearly die from the friggin' heat, but it usually lasts a day or two and it's over.

This spell happened yesterday. It reached 90 degrees in Alameda. Alex and I slept downstairs with the dogs. Our cat Smokey runs a constant temp of 102 so he was fine. We were not so fine. Both Harry and Honey were suffering too.

Sex in hot weather? Are you joking? Nobody can stand the idea of sex in hot weather. That's why I let Alex go for his massage this evening and even left his credit cards and ATM card in his wallet. Babette would refuse him any request for a happy ending if she has half a brain. And if she does not have half a brain, what am I worried about in the first place?

I was suffering. Heat and I do not get along.

We went to dinner at a place on the water this eve hoping for a cooling breeze. Even the three gin and tonics did not make that materialize. I did meet a handsome black man with a red pit bull. Honey and Harry were as intrigued with the dog as I was with the guy.

If it does not cool off tomorrow, I'm booking the first flight available to Finland to visit the luscious Ziva. This cannot be how God meant us to live.

Heat is nasty, no matter how you slice it. It makes me sweaty, angry and impossible to deal with. That cannot be a good thing.