A PROPER WELCOME

Gentle Readers,

I believe I am starting to emerge from my mourning. I know what day of the week it is, Tuesday, (teehee, just kidding, I know it's Thursday) and I took a shower last night. I stink much less.

So let's give a proper welcome to Legal Mist by providing her with a link. I have already learned from her blog what the giant cucarachas are that I have seen on my deck, and I like seeing the law from a lawyer's point of view. She's also quite entertaining.

We seem to have some things in common. Although I didn't say so in My Complete Profile, I too like Arlo Guthrie and listened to Alice's Restaurant repeatedly when younger (I don't have it anymore; an evil witch took it away from me and I don't want the CD dammit I want the original album). Legal Mist and I include Best In Show among our favorite movies, and last, but certainly not least, we came to a knowledge of camel's toe late in life.

I once wrote a post assigning lawyers and PC Repair people to hell. However, Legal Mist is officially not included in that group. In fact, when she became a follower of WOMEN: WE SHALL OVERCOME, I think she was my guardian angel. Reading her comments on my posts got me through a long and sleepless night following the death of my beloved.

Legal Mist came to us via WorkForced, which I continue to promote because it's hilarious and because Don Joe pays me for sex.

Oops! I wasn't supposed to tell that part. Sorry, Don Joe.

With love and regret,

Lola

FAULKNER

There should be a funeral and mourners and a black wreath on the front door.

But instead there is nothing

as
if
a
snow
flake
had
fallen
and
simply
disappeared.

WELCOME

Gentle Readers,

We welcome a new follower, Legal Mist. I urge you to check out her delightful and interesting blog, which you can access via View My Complete Profile. I will provide a link another day. I am not up to it today. I am in mourning and I'm not sure when I'll write again. Perhaps tomorrow; perhaps in a week or two.

Legal Mist commented on a number of my posts. You might like to read her musings on my musings.

Love,

Lola

AUDEN

Sylvia Plath once said she went through a period when she imitated Auden. She said everything she wrote was desperately Audenesque.

Here is Auden himself, desperately:

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East, and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.















He Is Dead, and I am alone in caring.

MENTAL ILLNESS

Gentle Readers,

A friend told me she doesn't understand mental illness.

I told her she doesn't understand it because she can't see it. It's not like a broken arm that's in a cast. People with mental illnesses probably wish they could wrap bandages around their heads and get better.

Of course, we can observe mental illness at times; for example, the person who is so depressed that she can't get out of bed or the person who is psychotic and finally admits that he hears voices talking to him that no one else can hear.

However, I think mental illness is rooted in hatred. Yes, I know about brain chemistry imbalances and connectors in the brain that didn't connect properly because of childhood trauma.

But what caused those imbalances and that lack of connection in the first place? I mentioned childhood trauma, and in my experience, that trauma comes from child abuse. And child abuse comes from hatred of the child or hatred of seeing oneself in the child.

And if depression is anger turned inwards, then the depression is hatred of oneself. Disassociation? The person has to disappear from reality because of the hatred he's experienced in the past.

Yes, I'm afraid mental illness has a great deal to do with hatred. Not always, but it's the only explanation I can offer my friend right now.

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

THE GREAT REVELATION

A great revelation has been revealed to me, Lola, Gentle Readers.

I know what's wrong with men.

I must preface the revelation of the revelation by explaining that I've gotten hooked on the original programming on American Movie Classics.

Breaking Bad, about a high school chemistry teacher who cooks meth, is darkly amusing and dramatically amazing.

More recently, I've started watching Mad Men, about high-powered and wannabe high-powered men working at an ad agency in New York. And sometimes we see their home lives, especially that of the lead character, Don Draper.

My great revelation about men was revealed to me by watching Mad Men.

Watching it is kind of like opening a time capsule that was sealed during my childhood.

It's set in about 1960. The men are sexist pigs who harass the secretaries and expect these working girls -- and yes I use the pun deliberately -- to get down and dirty with them whenever the opportunity arises, and they treat their wives like crap. They don't come home on time. They have little involvement with their children (Don Draper once went to pick up the cake for his child's birthday party and didn't come back). If their wives try to be involved in their lives or ask where they've been, they yell about how what they do is none of Wifey's business.

So now do you see where I'm headed with this?

Men think it's still 1960 or so. That's what's wrong with them.

They cheat; they think caring for their own children is baby sitting (because childcare is Mommy's responsibility); if you're sick or injured, it's your problem because they're too busy at work to take care of you; their education and career always come ahead of yours . . . I could go on and on.

It is 1960 folks, and this is not the pleasant world of Ozzie and Harriet or Leave It To Beaver. It's Mad Men.

And that's what's wrong with men.

They're stuck in another time. And as for pulling out, trust me: It doesn't work.

Love,

Lola