Don’t get too excited. I have no further information for you. I did, however, happen upon this article about tickling that made me laugh so hard I cried.

The best part?

I don’t think it was supposed to make me laugh at all.

The article is sort of a cautionary tale about what happens when science nerds write about tickling. If you get to, “they could just stay at home and tickle one another” and you haven’t once laughed, I owe you a crawdad.

Last weekend, I went to see Vanities at the Pasadena Playhouse. While the musical itself sounded promising, I went to see it mostly because I heart Anneliese van der Pol. She kept me constantly amused on That’s So Raven and I find her voice remarkable.

I had no idea.

Vanities is a great musical. It really is. It has a bit of a slow start, I would have breezed past the high school years and moved along into that real life pain a little bit sooner, but once they get to college, and life gets real, it becomes a powerhouse. It opens on Broadway early next year with the same cast they had in Pasadena. Go see it!

And onto Anneliese.

Wow. That girl really is an amazing talent. Her vocal ability and her incredible acting style, both are amazing to witness in person. In general, I am one intensely wordy bitch, so when I’ve got no words…

Note to self: Buy bigger thesaurus.

And a crepe maker.

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Warning: I am not Bill Nye, the Science Guy. I do not have a logical explanation. I’m more at the stage of utter confusion when it comes to this very serious physiological question.

Is tickling an enjoyable sensation?

We shriek. We yelp. We try to get away. And, yet, while it’s happening, we laugh.

Does it hurt or does it feel good? Do we hate it or do we like it? If we do like it, why do we try to escape it? And if it doesn’t feel good, why do we laugh when it’s happening?

And just so you know, googling and trying to look like a genius isn’t going to work. Tried it already. While there are theories as to why we laugh when tickled, it’s seems that science simply doesn’t know for sure. Apparently, the awesome phenomenon was studied by Socrates, Galileo, and Darwin, and none of them could figure it out.

And if you think that’s amazing… even Bill Nye doesn’t know.  

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Let’s get ready to ruuuuuummmmmmmmmbbbbbbbbbbbbbllllllllle!

So, that was much more interesting than Obama v McCain.

Sarah Palin’s voice shaking like a seventh grader in the national spelling bee for the first five minutes.

The simmering anger just beneath the surface when one didn’t like what the other was saying.

Now this is what a debate is supposed to look like.

Some thoughts:

One - Don’t get me wrong. I know where the scary Republicans stand on the issue of civil rights. It’s platform, it’s repulsive, and if I were of a weaker constitution, it would likely make me projectile vomit. But I will say this. At least they don’t split hairs about it.

Joey B, please don’t pander to me. You can’t tell me that you are against gay marriage and then turn around and, in the very next sentence, say that in an Obama/Biden administration we the gays will be completely equal from a civil rights standpoint. I know what you are trying to say, I do. We’ll have rights and stuff, something the Republicans don’t much want us to have. But, the fact is thus, as long as people can get married in city halls across the country, and not just in churches, then denying anyone the right to marry is denying them a civil right.

Okay, now that I’ve gotten that serious thought out of the way (phew, that was painful), I will explain why I could never be a politician.

You know when Palin said that McCain had already “tapped her”?

How in the hell do these people keep a straight face?

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TITLE: Extreme Sensitivity… as an oddly pleasant state to be in. (21/?)
PAIRING: Lindsay/Cindy
DISCLAIMER: Women’s Murder Club does not belong to me. The characters do not belong to me. They are the property of James Patterson, 20th Century Fox Television and ABC. (Well, not anymore. Jackasses.) I have no problems with that as long as I can borrow them for short bursts and use them in pursuit of my own enjoyment. I am not trying to infringe. Though, I don’t know why anyone has a problem with fan fic. After all, it really is a compliment. If anyone wants to write fan fiction about my book, feel free.

(Lindsay’s POV)

The door was open, but Jill’s rather frazzled appearance compelled Lindsay to knock twice before swinging herself into the unusually cluttered office.

Glancing up abruptly at the sound, the absolute relief on Jill’s face was worthy of a photograph.

“Thank God. I thought you were Denise,” she uttered, massaging the back of her neck. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you still be off-duty?”

“I have some paperwork I can do,” Lindsay explained.

Jill nodded her understanding, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“I tried calling you about a hundred times yesterday,” she said.

“You only called four times,” Lindsay corrected. “Sorry. I would have called you back, but it was late when I saw that you’d called.”

“Vacation bible school?” Jill hypothesized.

“I was with Cindy,” Lindsay revealed, trying to stem any further guesses as to why she hadn’t answered her phone.

“I know,” Jill surprised her by answering.

“How?”

“I tried calling her too,” Jill explained, a colossal smirk hijacking her face. “And there is only one thing in this world that could keep either of you from heeding her ringtone.”

Mind drifting back to the night before, Lindsay grinned, feeling a light blush start to work its way up her face when her thoughts ran away without her. She considered, for a moment, asking Jill, resident dating expert, how early was too early to call Cindy without it making her look like a desperate, lovesick spaz, but realized it would just give Jill more ammunition.

“Oh. Makes sense,” she simply conceded the point instead, backing out the door. “I just wanted to stop in and say hi. I should get to work.”

“Whoa,” Jill called before she could make it more than a single step out into the hall. “Get your ass in here and close the door.”

Knowing full well that she was going to regret not running while she had the opportunity, Lindsay did as directed. Door firmly closed, she hobbled over to Jill’s desk and took a seat, laying her crutches on the floor beside her, and waited for Jill to start.

“So how’d it go?”

The question considerably less invasive than she’d been expecting, Lindsay took a relieved breath.

“It was…,” she hesitated, unsure how utterly romantic she wanted to let herself sound in front of Jill, who would surely run with it and use it for merciless teasing. “It was perfect. Saturday night, Cindy took me to this amazing restaurant. There was this incredible dessert -”

“Not the food, Linds,” Jill interrupted, leaning forward, gaze locked unnervingly on Lindsay. “The sex. How was the sex?”

Lindsay was shocked into momentary silence. Even for Jill, it seemed rather abrupt and invasive.

“Wow. That is so not your business,” Lindsay responded.

“It so is my business,” Jill argued. “If it weren’t illegal, I could probably go pro. Now come on. Is she as meticulous in that area as she is with everything else?”

While it was no big secret that Jill was a fan of the details, at least in this particular area, she seemed more fascinated than usual.

“How much thought have you given this?” Lindsay asked, eyes narrowing instinctively.

“Hey, calm down,” Jill responded quickly, hands going up in front of her to wave Lindsay off. “I know who Cindy belongs to. Always have. So come on, don’t be all secretive. How was she?”

She could have refused to tell, made Jill squirm a little, but if she did, as soon as she left Jill’s office, she was well aware that her blonde friend would pick up the phone and call Cindy, opening the conversation with something like, “So, I hear you’re good in the sack” just to teach her a lesson.

And maybe, just maybe, there was a little tiny part of her that wanted to share just how incredibly her weekend had turned out.

“She’s an amazing kisser,” Lindsay admitted, lips tingling in remembrance.

“I’d buy that,” Jill countered. “I trust she’s good at everything she does with her mouth.”

The smirking expression that followed the declaration verified the fact that Jill was enjoying this conversation far too much.

“Come on,” Jill coaxed. “Don’t stop there. I can’t handle the suspense.”

Lindsay averted her gaze and let the memories of the previous night wash over her. Her breathing picking up in response, she at once decided, desperate, lovesick spaz or not, she was calling Cindy as soon as she got done with Jill’s sexual Q&A.

“What do you want to know?”

“I want to know if the sex was as good as the kissing,” Jill pronounced, slightly frustrated now.

Realizing all of a sudden that she had information that could shock the unshockable Jill Bernhardt, Lindsay smiled, sitting up straighter in her chair.

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly, thoroughly enjoying the way Jill’s head tilted and she looked rather baffled.

“What? Did you black out?” Jill recovered. “If so, that’s a definite thumbs up.”

“We haven’t had sex,” Lindsay informed her, waiting eagerly for the reaction.

Jill laughed as if the statement was a joke, coming to an abrupt halt when Lindsay didn’t join in.

“Oh please. The shirt and then the date and the fact that you were unreachable all day yesterday,” Jill reasoned, studying Lindsay carefully. “Oh my God, you really didn’t have sex?!?”

Whether drawn by the fact itself, or Jill’s absolute astonishment at it, Lindsay didn’t bother fighting the smile it brought to her lips.

“How did you not have sex with her?” Jill questioned incredulously.

Choosing to ignore the obvious implication that Jill would have taken Cindy, without a moment’s delay, given the chance, Lindsay shrugged.

“Well, at one point, I didn’t have a lot of say in the matter.”

That was the absolute truth. Given the choice between Cindy leaving Saturday night after their date, or staying to finish it with a bang, no pun intended, she would have definitely chosen the latter.

“What… is she a cock tease?” Jill asked.

That earned her a look.

“Ew. Number one, I don’t have a cock to tease,” Lindsay informed her, repulsed at even having to repeat Jill’s choice of words.

“It’s an idiom,” Jill quickly stated.

“It’s not an idiom,” Lindsay returned. “It’s a particularly gross slang term.”

“Fine, Sister Lindsay,” Jill uttered. “Did she get you all keyed up and leave you humming?”

Jill was incredibly proud of herself, and unusually smirky.

“Maybe,” Lindsay admitted.

“Is it totally torturous?” Jill asked, undoubtedly because she couldn’t imagine such a foreign sensation as denying herself her desires, even if only temporarily.

“Uh, yeah,” Lindsay declared. It was that for sure. Though, if she’d learned anything in the past few days, it was that the line between torture and anticipation was a lot hazier than she would have ever imagined it to be.

She could feel Jill’s eyes on her, steady and scrutinizing. Of course Jill was going to think her a leper for this type of behavior. Making a conscious choice not to have sex, especially with someone that Jill apparently found ultra-desirable, was grounds for being kicked out of the colony.

“And you love it!” Jill suddenly exclaimed, completely flabbergasted. “That is so freaking masochistic.”

Lindsay laughed lightly at the complete overreaction, wondering if Jill’s eyes might bulge out of her head if she gave it a few minutes. While explaining such a concept to Jill was more than likely an impossible feat, she could try at least.

“It’s nice,” Lindsay easily smiled, mind wandering to Cindy, what had been thus far, and what was yet to come, “knowing it’s still out there… you know?”

“No,” Jill replied immediately, unconverted.

“Trust me,” Lindsay replied.

“Well, if it works for you,” Jill conceded, sounding much like she would rather get her head caught in a bear trap than be sexually frustrated for an extended period of time. “So she’s a good kisser huh?”

Unable to put it into words, Lindsay dropped her head, self-conscious of her absurdly dreamy thoughts, and illogically afraid that they showed on her face.

“And clearly worth waiting for,” Jill reasoned, drawing Lindsay’s gaze back up.

She was met with an expression less humored, and more sincere, less about Jill’s amusement, and more about their friendship.

“You’re whipped, Linds,” she declared point blank.

Lindsay could have denied it, could have laughed it off and told Jill she was reading too much into things. But, since any contradiction would have been dishonest, and she didn’t want to lie to her best friend, she just smiled softly and didn’t say a word.

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TITLE: A Conversation with Martha that Doesn’t Go Quite as Expected
PAIRING: Lindsay/Cindy
DISCLAIMER: Women’s Murder Club does not belong to me. The characters do not belong to me. They are the property of James Patterson, 20th Century Fox Television and ABC. (Well, not anymore. Jackasses.) I have no problems with that as long as I can borrow them for short bursts and use them in pursuit of my own enjoyment. I am not trying to infringe. Though, I don’t know why anyone has a problem with fan fic. After all, it really is a compliment. If anyone wants to write fan fiction about my book, feel free.

Work was a great place. At work, there was a constant stream of duties, tasks and interruptions to keep her brain well-occupied. But home, in the middle of the night, with nothing that needed doing and nearly total silence inside the apartment, it was like a breeding ground for mental bacteria. No matter how much she tried to keep her mind thought-free, there was simply no controlling the infestation.

What in the hell had happened to her standing in that hallway with Cindy? First, there had been normalcy, genial conversation, uncontaminated thoughts of the kind she’d always had about Cindy. She’s a charmer. Cute when she rambles. Funny. Needs protecting from pervy old men. That kind of thing. Nothing you wouldn’t also say about a toddler.

But then her brain had burst and all those crazy notions spilled from her like candy from a piñata. And Cindy, who had gone from friend, and semi-nerdy reporter, to the star of Lindsay’s very own mind-produced softcore almost instantly, had been struck by some of those flying thoughts. Or so it seemed. At the very least, she was aware that there was something peculiar going on.

‘Which is just great,’ Lindsay internally mused. What she really needed was for the object of her desire to know that’s what she was.

Whoa Nelly! … she did not just think that.

Thunderstruck, slightly disturbed, and feeling the sudden need to be anywhere but in her bed, Lindsay bolted upright, dizzy from the rush of blood to her head, and pushed the covers from her overheated body. It seemed the more she tried to hold them off, the more uninvited thoughts kamikazeed their way into her cranium, each one slightly more explicit than the last. Suffering from a jumble of real memories and hallucinations that she flat out refused to call fantasies, Lindsay frantically looked around for some form of distraction. And she found one, soundly sleeping at the foot of her bed. Glancing at the clock to see just how cruel she was being, she guiltily turned back to her slumbering companion.

“Hey Martha. Are you awake?” she whispered.

Asking made her feel a little less like a jackass, regardless of the fact that it was pretty clear Martha wasn’t. The first call didn’t wake her either. She didn’t budge a millimeter, and, if anything, her light snore amplified.

“Mar-tha,” Lindsay sing-songed, a little louder, and waited for her to open her eyes to no avail. “Martha!” She nudged the great furry beast with her leg, and sleepy eyes opened to glare up at her.

“Hey,” Lindsay exclaimed in excited contrast to Martha’s lethargic irritation. “Want to go for a run?”

Even with limited expressions, she was pretty sure the look on Martha’s face was a cross between “Want to shut the hell up?” and “Bitch, you gotta be crazy.” If that was the message Martha was trying to convey, Lindsay had to agree with fifty percent of it.

“How about a biscuit?” she offered instead. “Wanna biscuit?”

Clearly a better proposition, Martha at least perked her ears up in reaction.

“Get up with me, and I’ll give you a biscuit.”

Oh my God, she was sad. There were no words to explain how ridiculously pathetic she was right at this very moment. It was the middle of the night, and she had to bribe her dog to get out of bed with her. Her only saving grace was that Martha wouldn’t be telling anybody.

Not particularly amused by her, but tempted nonetheless, Martha wearily got to four legs. Lindsay almost cheered as she bounded out of the bed.

“Come on girl,” she called.

Martha dropped to the floor and padded after her into the kitchen.

As promised, Lindsay fished a biscuit out of the cabinet and chucked it on table, hearing Martha climb up on a chair and start chomping as she pulled her own much needed late night snack from the refrigerator and twisted the cap off.

She settled in the seat beside Martha, who looked up at her mid-chew, as if she knew the faster they got this over with, the sooner she could go back to bed.

“People are morons,” Lindsay started.

Martha didn’t dispute the fact, instead seeming to concur so wholeheartedly that Lindsay chugged half her beer in shame.

“They just… they think they know things they don’t know, you know?”

If Martha did know, she didn’t feel the need to voice the opinion, instead just taking another bite of biscuit and leveling Lindsay with an intent stare.

“I can’t believe they all think that,” Lindsay continued, almost to herself. “And now they’ve got me thinkin’ it.”

Downing the last of the bottle, and contemplating another, she looked at Martha’s confused head tilt and realized she hadn’t told her the whole story.

“You know Cindy,” she started, pausing momentarily as Martha abruptly livened up and stood taller on the chair. “Well, everyone seems to think I have a thing for her. I know, it’s crazy,” she continued in response to what she was certain was total disbelief on Martha’s part. “It’s like an obsession that’s overtaken every person in my life.”

Finally giving into the desire to further dull her senses, Lindsay got up and went to the refrigerator, setting her bottle on the counter, and reaching in for a replacement. Once she had it in hand, she turned back to Martha, leaning her hip against the counter.

“Pete started it,” Lindsay informed her, feeling every bit as petulant and juvenile as her words implied.

Apparently, Martha’s wakefulness was short-lived. Biscuit completely gone now, she yawned cavernously, and hunkered back down.

Lindsay toyed with the bottle, debating whether or not she should drink it, seeing as it was going on two a.m. and she was on duty at eight. Undecided, she lowered the bottle to her side, but didn’t put it back.

“And you wouldn’t believe some of the things he said about Cindy,” she divulged, only vaguely sidetracked by Martha’s return to upright attention. “I mean, more about me really… but still, it was about Cindy too.”

Martha barked loud, and Lindsay gave her a warning glance.

“Shh, what’s wrong with you? You know better than that.”

Martha looked duly shameful and quieted immediately. She never barked, especially not in the middle of the night. Lindsay studied her, wondering if something might be wrong for real, and tried to remember where she put the business card she had for just this type of occasion. Locating it in her mind, just in case, she decided to wait it out for a few minutes. Other than the abnormal, random bark, Martha looked perfectly healthy.

“It’s just… I am with Pete,” Lindsay said, watching Martha stoop, her chin coming to rest on the table. “He knows that. I went to the airport to see him off. I had sex with him, for Christ’s sake.” She hesitated on whether or not to say more. Then, realizing Martha was the only creature, great or small, she would ever be admitting this to, decided to spill all. “Okay, so maybe I didn’t have an orgasm. But that wasn’t because it was him. These things take time.”

The confession had no profound effect on Martha’s current state of languor. She stayed where she was, chin lying on the table. Lindsay hoped it was just sleepiness and nothing more serious.

“But, God, him thinking that I wanted it to be Cindy.”

Martha jumped up again suddenly, tail wagging with enthusiasm. Though it was late, and she was tired, and her mental state lacked a certain clarity at the moment, Lindsay couldn’t deny that a distinct pattern was making itself known to her.

But just to check it out…

“Pete,” she said slowly.

Martha settled down in apparent boredom, chin once again resting on the table.

Sighing, not sure if she really wanted to know this, but feeling it imperative that she do, she bit the bullet.

“Cindy,” she whispered.

Like a Jack-in-the-box that just hit the magic note, Martha was back up in an instant, wide awake, tail going like a windshield wiper in the midst of a downpour.

“Pete.”

Thoroughly uninterested, Martha remembered she was tired again, and returned to, what was apparently, the Pete position. Butt to chair. Chin to table.

“Cindy,” Lindsay barely breathed, throat tightening.

Martha jumped up like a member of Cindy’s personal pep squad, tail wagging in lieu of a pompom.

“Okay,” Lindsay uttered, remembering the beer in her hand and putting it back in the fridge.

She guessed she had Martha’s vote.

But was it Martha’s vote?

Remembering the card again, Lindsay slid open her junk drawer, scouring the contents until she found it between the mess of unnecessary paraphernalia. Casting Martha, who now looked remarkably energized, an accusatory stare for making her do this, Lindsay irritably punched in the phone number.

“Twenty-four hour pet emergencies. This is Tyler,” a friendly voice answered two rings later.

“Yeah, I have a question,” Lindsay said, holding the phone in an iron grip. “Is it true that animals pick up on their owner’s emotions?”