I'M NOT HOME TODAY!

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,
Stephanie graciously asked me to guest post today at Connecting With Stephanie.

So of course I packed my bags and dashed to her place. 

She wasn't sure what time she would publish the post, so if you knock on her door and I'm not there, please try again later.    I might be out mooning her neighborhood. They don't know me and it would be such a fun pre-Halloween trick. Everybody in my neighborhood expects to see my butt, but Stephanie's neighborhood?
              SURPRISE!

The post is called The Joke Thief. The thief suffers the wrath of Lola.

Happy (almost) Halloween!

See you at Stephanie's!

Infinities of love,

Lola, who connects with Stephanie

A QUINDLEN COMMENCEMENT

Gentle Readers,

I just found out that Anna Quindlen gave the commencement address last spring at Someone I Love's alma mater.

Anna, darling, WHY IN THE HELL DIDN'T YOU GIVE THE ADDRESS THE YEAR SOMEONE I LOVE GRADUATED? DON'T YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU? I HAD TO SIT THROUGH A SPEAKER SO BORING I THOUGHT I WOULD FUCKING DIE, AND NOW I'M GOING TO RUN THROUGH MY NEIGHBORHOOD NAKED AND SMASH WINDOWS, KNOCK OVER GARBAGE CANS, AND GENERALLY MAKE PEOPLE MISERABLE BECAUSE YOU WEREN'T THERE WHEN SOMEONE I LOVE GRADUATED.


Oh, I forgot. The neighbors won't even notice. I do that shit all the time.

Infinities of love,

Lola

CINDERITAVILLE

Gentle Readers,

Now that I have all of you depressed and terrified with the story of my broken back, I hope you'll spend some time this weekend checking out our very positive friend, Cinderita. She will help you feel better: I promise. And the particular post to which I've provided a link compliments a number of bloggers and one is named Lola. Could it be moi?

I don't know, but if it's not me, I think I'd better do more sucking up so I've rewritten some song lyrics in honor (actually I should write honour because she's Canadian) of Cinderita:

Happy again to be at Cinderitaville.
Even found my lost shaker of salt.
Some people claim the world's improved and we have Rita to thank,
And we know
It's because of her hugs.


I hope you have a lovely long weekend.

Infinities of love,

Lola

HOLIDAY

Pardon me, Gentle Readers, but I'm going on holiday (that's my faux British speak for taking a vacation). I'll return soon with great and amusing photos because everything I shall encounter will be great and amusing.

Infinities of love,

Lola

TAKE TWO ASPIRIN

Gentle Readers,

Long, long ago, when I became pregnant with Someone I Love, a lovely woman at church whispered a joke to me that she thought was quite naughty: You know how to keep from getting pregnant again? Take two aspirin and clamp them together between your knees.

I guess it worked because I never had another baby, thank you Jesus.

But man, my legs got tired.

I'm telling you this silly story because also a long time ago in another city in a different state, I worked in a nursing home. I'm sure everyone I took care of there has been dead and gone for a good long time now, and not because I killed them. Time has done its work on them.

Anyhoo, we had this patient who kept her thighs clamped together so tightly all the time that we couldn't even wash her yoohoo in the shower. We had to cath her one night and getting her legs apart was a nightmare for all of us. She was screaming as we slowly pried her open, feeling that our hands and arms might break before her legs did.

Other women we had to cath, no prob. Women are accustomed to spreading them. Most women have had sex and had babies, and it's pretty difficult to engage in either one of those activities with your thighs clamped together.

This patient had been married and had a child; thus, I'm pretty sure her legs weren't always closed like that. So I asked her why she held her thighs together.

She said, I don't know. Just habit, I guess.

What did you do when you went to the gynecologist? I then queried.

She said, What's a guy . . .  What?

I looked at an older nurse and she told me that most of the women we had in our care had never seen a gynecologist, never had a pap test, never a mammogram, never any specialized care that many of us women now take for granted.

So I write this to you now because the thought of keeping your legs closed that tightly if you want to avoid sex might never have occurred to you and perhaps the idea will be of some assistance to you and will greatly strengthen your thigh muscles I want to remind you to be grateful when you get your boobs smooshed and find out you don't have cancer or should you have it, grateful you found out before you had a tumor the size of a third boob. When you spread your legs, sometimes you can do it for a really good reason, like making sure you don't have cervical cancer.

And please be sure to prepare your daughters for their first experience with the gyno. A speculum can be quite a shock even if you have some idea of what to expect. When I saw my OB/GYN the first time I was pregnant, oi! was I dumb! It's too embarrassing to share that I took off my clothes as commanded and sat in a chair instead of getting up on the table and covering myself with the sheet because I didn't know what in the heck was going on what happened that day, but I'm sure all the nurses were laughing at me.

Another important something that our ladies in the nursing home didn't know: Wipe your butt from front to back. Older people tend to wipe from back to front, pushing feces into the yoohoo, and risking an unpleasant and uncomfortable infection. Many of our ladies had UTIs constantly, even though we tried to keep them clean and we poured cranberry juice down them.

O.K. Now you can go off and make sure you wipe your butt correctly -- everybody except Sandra at Absolutely Narcissism, who is the most constipated person on Earth and loves to write about it. She has no need to wipe.

Poor, poor Sandra, whose constipation issues give her more readers than God has.

Infinities of love,

Lola

FUNNY HA HA NOT FUNNY PECULIAR

Gentle Readers,

I love this recent post written by My Dear Mrs. Tuna about her very funny girls' weekend
with her friends and how they think she is the funniest person they've ever met.

Well, I have an eentsy-weentsy problem with this post, My Dear Mrs. Tuna. MY friends
 have been telling me for years that I am the funniest person they've ever met. But I don't 
want to get snippy with you about which one of us is funnier. I mean really, did you read 
my recent post about my gas entitled EVERYONE KNOWS IT'S WINDY? 

You simply cannot beat farting when it comes to funniness.

So, My Dear Mrs. Tuna, I think the solution to which of us is funnier 
is to let our friends get together and duke it out. We will drink and 
chuckle and chortle and make jokes about their prowess, or lack 
thereof. One of your friends will have to take a dive  bow out of the 
fighting to stand on the deck rail and snap your picture whilst 
you drink sangria, and I shall sit in a comfy chair chugging a 
mimosa, not having my photo taken because I am forced to 
avoid the paparazzi -- the result of having given birth to Elvis' 
alien love child and Michael Jackson's chimpanzee's alien love 
child and my current preparation to be a surrogate mom
for Zsa Zsa Gabor's loving husband. 


Yes, her husband will be born again and I am to be his
mommy this time.


When the battle ends, if we are not too toasted, one of us 
will be proclaimed funnier than the other. Or, perhaps we'll 
be drunk enough to agree to share the title. Sharing is not 
easy for those of us who come from large families. 
We have grown accustomed to fighting for a mere crumb of 
attention and, sometimes, a crumb of food. I used to fight the 
family dog for his steak bone.


However, I find it interesting, My Dear Mrs. Tuna, that you 
think you are funny because you were a 
middle child in a large family with only 
eight years between oldest and youngest. 
And your parents bred poodles. 


I, on the other hand, am the youngest of six with 
seventeen years between the oldest and me. 
My parents bred nothing but children, and I don't know how 
because they certainly never did "it." 


So why am I funny? 


I think it runs in our family, kind of like people 
whose kids are all unattractive
or stupid. My sisters and I seem 
to have a finely honed sense of the ridiculous, 
and we are sometimes just a wee bit sarcastic. 


Or perhaps I am funny because they all beat me 
silly (pun intended) while I was growing up. 
After all, I was Mother's favorite. 
The baby is always Mother's favorite. 
I was also dropped on my head a number of 
times, accidentally on purpose, I suspect.


Another point we have in common, 
My Dear Mrs. Tuna: No one ever seems 
to be appalled by the things I say 
(except my own children who, even 
though they are adults, have never recovered from
feeling embarrassed by me). Even the women 
who kicked me out of Bible study acted as if I were a 
riot, laughing uproariously at everything I said, 
until the day I dropped the F bomb when my back was 
broken and my world had come to an end. 
They didn't think I was funny then. 


But I think that's the only time folks haven't found me amusing. 


I also laugh at myself -- A LOT. 
One of my favorite activities is telling 
myself jokes I've never heard before.


So you keep it up Mrs. Tuna, and 
I shall do my best to bring more laughter 
to the world. God knows we need it.


Infinities of love and laughter,


Lola 

LIVING WITH WHORES

Gentle Readers,

Again, blame Sandra at http://www.absolutelynarcissism.com/2011/04/makings-of-facebook-profile-picture.html for my use of whore in my title.

I write to you at this moment because I have just had a most interesting idea.

If things ever get so bad that I'm totally broke and going to be thrown out of my house, I will convert to Catholicism and become a nun. I will live in the convent and be given some nun job to do, perhaps trying to help whores, and meals will be included -- kind of like those all-inclusive resorts. I like to sing so I can be in the nun choir and we will entertain, just like in Sister Act.

I tell ya, sometimes I have such fucking good ideas that I just don't know where they come from. God, I guess.

Infinities of love,

Lola

JANIS JOPLIN

Gentle Readers,

I keep seeing rumors that someone is going to make a movie about Janis Joplin starring Amy Adams.

Now, I adore Amy Adams. She is cute as a button in Enchanted and Julie and Julia. It wouldn't surprise me at all, though, if she managed to pull off Janis Joplin. Who woulda thunk that Charlize Theron could turn herself into a serial killer in Monster? But Charlize walked away with an Academy Award.

However, anyone who knows me knows that I should be the obvious choice to play JJ in the movie.

Long hair almost exactly the same length and color --  check
Colorful feather boas in hair --- check
Wail the blues -- check
Craziest chick around --- check
Addictions --- check
Age -- kind of a check

Never mind that I'm 52  I mean 42. I look much younger. People ask me all the time if Favorite Young Man and I are "together" as in, Are you his girlfriend?

As if. Hot young guys like Favorite Young Man don't need to hook up with ugly old ladies like me.

But I am totally the reincarnation of JJ. Take my word for it and somebody start a campaign: Lola must play Janis Joplin in THE movie. I cannot start this campaign myself because it would just look so -- I don't know. Like I'm full of myself or something and you know I am simply not that sort of girl.

But I can play that girl.

The movie poster will read as follows:

LOLA IS JANIS JOPLIN IN JANIS JOPLIN: THE MOVIE


Oh, I am feeling the adulation and the smack already.

Infinities of love,

Lola

I WHISTLE A HAPPY TUNE

Gentle Readers,

An adorable old song just popped into my head. It has such a perky easy-to-sing-along-with tune.

Hey, little girl, comb your hair, fix your make-up, soon he will open the door,
Don't think because there's a ring on your finger, you needn't try any more.
For wives should always be lovers too,
Run to his arms the moment that he comes home to you.
I'm warning you,
Day after day, there are girls at the office and the men will always be men,
Don't stand him up, with your hair still in curlers, you may not see him again.
Wives should always be lovers too,
Run to his arms the moment he comes home to you.
He's almost here, hey, little girl, better wear something pretty,
Something you wear to go to the city,
Dim all the lights, pour the wine, start the music, time to get ready for love.
Time to get ready for love, yes it's time to get ready for love,
It's time to get ready, kick your shoes off, baby....

Good old Frank Sinatra crooned that Burt Bacharach/Hal David warning to women, uh, excuse me, little girls - because even when we're adults, we're still just simple-minded children.

Well, Burt and Hal, what if you comb your hair and fix your make-up but he stops using deodorant and he grabs you in bed to give you a big ole kiss and he manages to pull your face right into his hairy stinking armpit?

And what if you run to his arms the moment he comes home to you but he doesn't floss, use mouth wash, and doesn't even brush half the time and his breath reeks of garlic?

And what if you don't have something pretty to wear because he has a little gambling habit?

And what if you dim the lights and pour the wine and start the music and your six year old starts throwing up his entire supper and you have to clean him up and wash his sheets while the big man falls asleep watching football?

And how about when it's time to get ready for love and he heaves himself on top of you in bed and he's so overweight you can't breathe?

And what if you manage to get ready for love in spite of everything but his penis is so tiny that you can't find it no matter how much searching you do?

What then, Bert and Hal? What then?

Just curious.

I think maybe we little girls will take our rings with us when we march out the door so we can sell them and buy a nice suit and get a job and live with a man who is always happy to see us no matter what.

And that man's name is Fido or Spot.

Love,

Lola