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Looking for Mr. Goodbunny Paperback – July 4, 2006
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About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
I live in a one-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side. A quiet place, with off-white walls, a galley kitchen that doubles as storage for my reference books, and a view of the East River, which sounds more picturesque than it is. The water's not too murky, but the dismembered bodies that get fished out on a quarterly basis ruin the ambience.
Anyway, I like my place, because it's my castle. At night, it's just me, my television, and the pink pearl bunny that makes me smile. As I was growing up, I found various methods of pleasuring myself, some creative, some adventurous, and some not completely sanitary. But one fine spring day, via an anonymous mail-order site on the Web, I took back my orgasms from all the black-hearted cads who were determined to leave me either brokenhearted or celibate -- or both. It had taken the best part of my adult years to find the key to my own sensual nature, the solution being a motor-powered rocket launcher that didn't care if my hips were too wide. When the stress of my solitary existence got to me, I'd take out my frisky friend and let him have his way with me.
I settled myself down on the couch for my nightly ritual, The Late Show with David Letterman and my vibrator.
Over the years, I've learned the value of a good vibrator. It's there when you need it, never insults you, never tells you it had a good time, blah, blah, blah. And best of all, me and Mr. Bunny have been together ten long years. That's more than most marriages I know of.
So as the Top Ten List counted down, so did I.
I turned on Mr. Bunny's controller, and he buzzed just as he's supposed to.
No, that wasn't me. Mr. Bunny wasn't turning anything on.
I spent a few quality minutes cursing the undependable nature of batteries and then padded over to where I kept the spares. I padded back to the couch, took an extra sip of wine, and flicked the switch on the controller, ready for liftoff.
Okay, maybe those batteries were bad, too.
I tried one pair after another, my fingers working frantically, until I had emptied my battery drawer, and the painful truth began to settle in: my bunny had died.
It seemed like only yesterday that he arrived in a brown-paper package, discreetly addressed from M&L Manufacturing, and my love life had never looked back.
I took Mr. Bunny and his wire-attached controller in my hands, thinking that maybe the batteries were overrated. After a few fumbling attempts at manual maneuvering, I discovered they weren't.
My stress levels were still heart-attack high, the wine bottle was empty, and even Letterman was a rerun.
You ever had one of those days? When the best part of the day turned to crap?
Mr. Bunny had been a faithful companion for ten years. He was my rebound lover, my Friday night lover, my lover when I didn't feel like shaving my legs. He was Everyman to me -- in many ways, far superior.
I hated to say good-bye, mainly because with the death of Mr. Bunny, I had no excuse not to go out into the world to try to find a replacement. A real replacement that's powered with blood and passion rather than AA batteries. It had been a long time since I had a man in my life. Three long, lonely years, not that I expect your sympathy, although it'd be nice.
To be perfectly fair, men provided several things that Mr. Bunny could not. Conversation, usually centered on their life, their work, or another woman's breasts. The warmth of human touch, usually as precursor to asking for either a loan or a blow job -- sometimes both at the same time. But they were human. They had a human touch, something Mr. Bunny could never acquire.
With a heavy heart, I wrapped him in the Sunday Style section and laid his translucent pink form out on a casket designed by Pyrex, offering a quiet thanks for the memories.
I placed a single finger over the on/off switch and pushed one last time. Hoping against hope for some sign of life.
Alas, it was not to be.
Eventually, I realized I could not mourn my tiny companion forever, so I removed him from the Pyrex and then buried him in my kitchen trash, right beneath the container of three-day-old Szechuan chicken.
I tried television, music, but nothing felt right. Finally, I showered and went to bed. After a couple of hours tossing and turning, I knew what I had to do.
First chance I got, I was going to find a new vibrator.
Copyright © 2006 by Kathleen O'Reilly --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
More About the Author
My favorite part of writing is creating my characters. I fall in love with everyone in each book, and it's pure magic when it all comes to life.
Top Customer Reviews
Complicating matters is Harvey, Leah's ex-husband and father of her daughter. Leah wants Harvey back. Harvey wants Elle. But Elle needs to stay on Leah's good side to get the profile.
Rounding out the story is Elle's eclectic group of clients: the submissive housewife, the abrasive 20-something, the widow who's just beginning to date again.
There are a lot of very amusing scenes, as well as some emotionally affecting ones. Both Elle and Harvey grow and change during the book, with their romance as a result rather than a cause--always a good thing. Also excellent is that Elle is in her 40s.
I enjoyed the book very much, but it didn't quite grab me deep down. Part of that is that I didn't quite get the life coach concept--how 3 clients that Elle seems to just hang around with and give very general advice to can pay enough to support her is beyond me. I also wasn't particularly impressed with Elle's advice or insights. Instead of a career, it seemed more like a scheme to make money without actually doing anything. I enjoyed the irony of Elle trying to fix her clients' lives while her own is such a mess, but on the other hand, it felt dishonest to me.
Bottom line: I had fun with this book, but I liked it more when I didn't think about it too much.
However, as she struggles to become a life coach without her clients like Barbara, Tanja, and Joan killing her, crisis strikes in her life. Her father is being paroled after a stint behind bars, but that is minor league; her high school reunion is coming up soon and she is without a date and not much of a career so far, but that too is also minor league compared to the world shattering grief she suffers. Mr. Goodbunny just died leaving her to mourn the loss of her companion of almost a decade; finding a replacement vibrator will be nearly impossible as American craftsmanship now comes from China and she can't speak the language. She thinks of committing heresy and an insult to the memory of her deceased hero Mr. Goodbunny by trying a man this time.
LOOKING FOR MR. GOODBUNNY is an amusing satirical chick lit tale starring an odd heroine who has her priorities in some sort of chaotic order. Fans will enjoy the irony that Alle is a life coach when she struggles to make sense of her own life, which in her mind provides her experience to go along with her training certificate. A strong support cast including the title character and a delightfully wacky queen of chaos star make for a fun tale that will send sub-genre readers seeking Kathleen O'Reilly's Faust enters the chick lit realm tale THE DIVA'S GUIDE TO SELLING YOUR SOUL.