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

A MUCH BIGGER PROBLEM THAN FLIES

Gentle Readers,

Since it has become ridiculously hot and humid of late, I have noticed something occurring on my deck after dark: Gigantic cockroaches holding gigantic cockroach races on the deck rails.

The first time I saw one of these monsters I thought it had to be an anomaly. There couldn't possibly be more than one of these creatures in existence.

But then I saw another and another and another.

And then the unthinkable happened.

Twice during the past week I have opened the door at about 10 p.m. to let the dogs in and a major cockroach has trotted in with them.

These
mofos
are
bigger
than
the
chi
hua
huas.

In fact, I'm surprised they haven't carried the chihuahuas away.

These things are so big I'm too afraid to try to smash them with a napkin or paper towel because if I missed and the man-eater got away and ran up my arm or even worse, down my nightie, I would scream so loud that the neighbors would think I was being attacked. Then when they found out I was screaming because of a bug they wouldn't bother to come over when I really am attacked.

So both times, squealing like a pig, I have managed to plug in the vacuum cleaner and suck them up, where they can build their roach cities in the bag until it's so full of collie hair that I throw it out.

Thank God I don't have the kind of bag that has to be emptied.

If this is going to become a regular problem, then I have to have a better way to kill roaches.

Bazooka?

Sawed-off shotgun?

I avoid Wal-Mart like the plague, but perhaps I will have to go there and check out the fire arms section.

La cucaracha, la cucaracha
Ya no puede caminar
Por que no tiene, por que le falta
Marijuana que fumar

Learned that from my Spanish teacher in eighth grade. Now I'm the one who needs the marijuana que fumar.

By the way, that squeal like a pig thing is in the movie Deliverance, but it is not in the novel Deliverance by James Dickey, which is beautifully written and indicative of Dickey's skill as a poet, for which he was primarily known.

Love,

Lola

I'D GIVE MY QUEENDOM

for a fly swatter, Gentle Readers.

Here I am in the middle of summer and every time someone opens a door, the flies come buzzing in, circling my head, landing on any food left uncovered for longer than a nanosecond, and making my dogs crazy as they chase and snap at the flies, which they never catch, because flies are wily bastards.

Why don't I have a fly swatter?

I can't freaking find one!

I have searched every store in my tiny hamlet to no avail. I even done went to the big city and checked out national chains like Lowe's and Home Depot. Everybody is out of fly swatters. Or at least they claim to be.

I strongly suspect that someone was killed in a freak fly swatting incident and that all fly swatters have been recalled but some fly swatter magnate has managed to cover it up, hoping he can get his instruments of torture back out on the shelves in time for . . . winter?

It seems to me that there used to be commercials for some kind of strip that you were supposed to hang from your ceiling and flies would get stuck to it. Wasn't the slogan that it would kill flies dead?

I never knew anybody who had one of those fly strip thingies, but wouldn't it be gross to gradually watch them fill up with the bodies of nasty little flies?

And when it was full, I guess you would leave it where it was as a warning to other flies that if they came in your house they, too, would be killed dead, because, otherwise, you would actually have to touch the damn thing to take it down and you'd need to wear a bio-hazard suit and multiple pairs of gloves and you'd need one of those nasty decontamination showers afterwards like they make Meryl Streep take in Silkwood when they strip her naked at work and scrub her really hard in the shower and she's screaming and crying.

Just another day at the office for me when that happens.

My flies are in two places: the kitchen, which makes sense, and the master bathroom. Getting to the kitchen is a straight pass from the back door, but how do they find the bathroom? And why do they go in the bathroom? Are the kitchen and the bathroom the two dirtiest places in the house?

I guess so. Food and shit, they go together like flies and . . . butter?

O.K. Now I want to know why something so pretty that is never annoying has fly in its name.

Love,

Lola

I'M A WIENER

Oops, sorry Gentle Readers, that should be WINNER!

I entered a contest during which I had to heroically struggle literally for seconds to come up with the best compliment for a blog I follow called WorkForced. And I actually won. I get a gift certificate worth literally less that $61.00 to spend at an online store not of my choosing that has really expensive stuff and not much of it is less than $61.00.

Golly - it's just like Christmas.

Oh my, I've just remembered a joke I must insert here. A dad has two sons and one of them is always the optimist. The other kid is just a regular kid, but no matter what goes wrong, the first kid always looks on the bright side. So the dad decides to test the optimist on Christmas Day. Daddy gives his son a great big pile of horse poop. The other kid gets a nice gift and is enjoying it and Dad thinks the optimist will finally get upset. But he looks over and there the dip stick is, digging through the manure with a happy grin on his face. Dad says, What are you doing? Kid says, Well, there has to be a pony down here somewhere.

But, ah, I digress.

What did I write for the contest? I have no idea. I can't remember, but since I wrote it, it must have been really clever.

And I sincerely thank Don Joe, the writer of WorkForced, which is literally LOL funny. Currently Don Joe is writing a Jargonary - a dictionary of work place jargon. I urge you to check it out by clicking on the link in my second paragraph, or go to View My Complete Profile to see the complete list of blogs I follow.

My favorite thing about winning, actually, is that Don Joe referred to me as that naughty school girl, Lola. What a thrill. I imagined myself ala Brit Spears in the good old days.

I know a lovely young lady who dressed up as B.S. once upon a time for Halloween, and no, she didn't shave her head and take so many pills she had to be hospitalized. This was quite some time ago, so my favorite young lady dressed in a short plaid skirt, put her long tresses in pig tails, and tied a white blouse in the front over two well-padded black bras because she didn't have B.S.'s natural attributes.

I wish I could dress up like that for Halloween, but I might make someone sick. I have the natural attributes, but I also have a belly to go with them.

But anyway, thanks again to Don Joe and WorkForced. Become a follower. It's easier than being the leader.

Love,

Lola

YOU CAN'T TOP PIGS WITH PIGS

Gentle Readers,

I read The Almost Moon by Alice Sebold, and I pronounce it worthy.

I saw some rather disparaging reviews of this book that said it's not as good as Sebold's amazing first novel, The Lovely Bones. Well, The Lovely Bones is amazing, and I don't think it's fair to expect any writer to produce The Lovely Bones every time she sits down at the computer. Maybe that's what kept Harper Lee from writing (or maybe she wrote and didn't publish) another book after To Kill A Mockingbird.

I read an interview (which she rarely grants) with Nelle Harper Lee some years back in which she said she didn't write another book because how could she ever do anything better than Mockingbird? When the country fell in love with Walt Disney's cartoon of The Three Little Pigs (depression-era folks took Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf to heart), many people wanted Disney to make a sequel.

He adamantly refused.

Disney said, You can't top pigs with pigs.

So let's not expect Alice Sebold to write The Lovely Bones every time. Let's appreciate The Almost Moon for what it is, and what it is is a novel that's hard to put down.

First sentence: "When all is said and done, killing my mother came easily."

Well, you just have to keep reading after that. My only negative comment about the book is that I found the conclusion a bit anticlimactic.

I also recommend Alice Sebold's memoir Lucky, and the movie of The Lovely Bones is . . . lovely.

Happy Reading, Gentle Readers.

Love,

Lola

THE BLACK BRA

Gentle Readers,

I hope this little story makes you chuckle:

I had lunch with 2 of my unmarried friends.

One is engaged, one is a mistress, and I have been married for 20+ years.

We were chatting about our relationships and decided to amaze our men by greeting them at the door wearing a black bra, stiletto heels and a mask over our eyes. We agreed to meet in a few days to exchange notes.

Here's how it all went:

My engaged friend: The other night when my boyfriend came over he found me with a black leather bodice, tall stilettos and a mask. He saw me and said, 'You are the woman of my dreams. I love you.' Then we made passionate love all night long.


The mistress: Me too! The other night I met my lover at his office and I was wearing a raincoat, under it only the black bra, heels and mask over my eyes. When I opened the raincoat he didn't say a word, but he started to tremble and we had wild sex all night.

Then I had to share my story: When my husband came home I was wearing the black bra,black stockings, stilettos and a mask over my eyes. When he came in the door and saw me he said,





"What's for dinner, Zorro?"

ONE DAY, ALL CHILDREN

Recently, Gentle Readers, I read One Day, All Children: The Unlikely Triumph of Teach for America and What I Learned Along the Way.

The author, Wendy Kopp, somehow managed to start Teach For America on a dream and a shoestring budget. Here is a young woman who overcame all sorts of obstacles -- naysayers and dream stealers chief among them -- to create a remarkably successful program to get well-qualified potential teachers (without education degrees) into the public schools.

Kopp's writing style is not exactly "Rah Rah Let's take one for the team," but I couldn't help feeling inspired by the program itself. It's such a work of genius that I just might apply myself. Unfortunately, but of course fortunately, all the teaching positions for the coming school year are filled.

One drawback to Teach For America for somebody like me is that you have to be willing to go where ever you are needed. I have my little house here in my little city, and I can't give it up and move at my age. I'm ensconced here with my dogs.

But I happen to know that my city has a Teach For America Corps, and I just might take my chances and go ahead and apply for the 2011-12 school year.

Wendy Kopp, you are way cool.

Love,

Lola