Wednesday, November 30, 2011


Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

If I have a cold, you'll probably see me sneezing, blowing my nose, coughing  . . . all that gross stuff.

When I broke my back, I wore a back brace and used a walker.

But I have other problems -- invisible illnesses.

It seems as if more and more often now we admit we're depressed. Were as many people depressed in the past, but they didn't talk about it because they didn't know what it was or because it was unacceptable? Do we bring it up now because medications are available that might help us?

I loved Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House books when I was growing up. When Laura's sister Mary lost her sight, the Ingalls didn't go for group therapy. They didn't take antidepressants. They got on with their lives because they had no other choice. But in later years, someone -- it might have been Laura herself -- said that when Mary went blind it was such a disappointment to her parents that they were never the same again -- all their hopes were ruined.

Sounds as if they could have used some help.

Sometimes I'm so depressed that it becomes physically disabling. I feel as if a great weight is pressing me down, pushing me not to move, not to do anything. If you look at me, you won't see the weight, but I feel it.

 I'm the one with the weight on my chest. I can't lift it, and I can't move. The other little creepazoid can push off his weight because he's not depressed.

And then there's post-traumatic stress disorder, which D. (Marvelous Men) had as a result of going into combat in Italy during World War II. I won't compare my life to World War II, but if you raise your hand suddenly near me, I'll cringe in terror and shy away from you.

I'm not the person anymore who was the strong one when my husband was sick. I'm so worn out my strength has dwindled; I can't cope with disappointments or fear.

Some days are better than others. Some days I go out and walk the dogs and buy my groceries and actually laugh at a funny movie. I had actually been feeling exceptionally good recently.

But then I experienced a huge letdown.

Some days I stay in my jammies and don't bother to get dressed and don't leave the house.

You can't see that I'm sick, but I am.

Infinities of love,


P.S. I go to a doctor and take my medication, but nothing is perfect. I do pretty well until some event upsets me and I crumble.

Tuesday, November 29, 2011


Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Recently a friend and I were talking about the crazy names some celebrities give their kids. He said he had heard some really wild names, and he wasn't just talking about the way people say, Can you believe Gwyneth Paltrow named her daughter Apple?

That conversation reminded me that I wanted to write this post -- about how much I love the name Apple.

I was not freaked out when Gwyneth and the guy from Cold Play (he doesn't have a name; he's just the guy from Cold Play who's married to Gwyneth Paltrow) named their daughter Apple. I thought, That's beautiful.

You know how you have certain associations with certain names? I used to have a next door neighbor named Chuck, and it took me a long time to get used to having a brother-in-law named Chuck. Chuck 1 was unbearably creepy. Chuck 2 was a good-looking, nice guy.

But at first I associated Chuck 2 with Chuck 1. Although I grew to like Chuck 2, please Dear Lord, don't let my babies grow up to be cowboys or name my grandchildren Chuck.

Well, I love the name Apple because of the person I associate with said name.

The fruit is O.K. too, but I really loved the person.

When I worked at the nursing home, we had a lady who was batshit crazy. Walk past her and she'd say, for no reason, I'm gonna cut you.

One night a colleague and I were taking care of her and she reached out and grabbed my face with her long fingernails, digging them into my cheeks. You'd be amazed at how strong old ladies are. If my colleague hadn't been there to pry Crazy Lady off of me, she could have done some real damage, other than upsetting me.

Crazy Lady's daughter came in every single evening and checked on her mom quickly. If she found anything lacking in Mom's care, she pointed it out and requested that the problem be solved.

But she never spent more than a few minutes with her mom. Most of her time was spent walking around the floor greeting the other residents and hugging the staff members. This woman absolutely radiated love. I always felt so good after hugging her. She made my evening.

One night a co-worker and I were chatting about how wonderful this woman was. The co-worker was an old-timer who had been in the business for years. He knew everyone's background. He told me that the wonderful woman's mom had killed two of her own children when they were young.

He said she had abused all of her children horribly and the remaining children had been taken from her by the state.

I asked, They why does her daughter come to see her every evening?

Because she is a truly good Christian woman, he said. You know she doesn't spend much time with her mom. She checks on her but doesn't stay with her.

I pondered this and thought about how the daughter didn't just talk the talk; she walked the walk -- and they were in the footsteps of Jesus.

Of course, her name was Apple.

Infinities of love,


Monday, November 28, 2011


Gentle Readers . . .  and Maxwell,

Today's What? Monday question is

What did you do on Black Friday? Did you *gasp* go shopping? If you did, then did you make some amazing purchase? If you didn't go out on Black Friday, how are you doing with your Christmas shopping?

The only sale that would induce me to go out on Black Friday would be a 6 million dollar man for $69. He would have to meet all my needs, in bed and out.

Don't hate me, but other than writing a few checks and purchasing a couple of gift cards, my shopping is done.

Infinities of love,


P.S. Attention fishducky -- The last two emails I sent to you were returned as undeliverable. The latest one said your email is over its quota. Could that mean you have too much stuff in your inbox? Has anyone else had trouble sending email to you?

Tuesday, November 22, 2011


 Gentle Readers . . .  and Maxwell,

Recently I think I frightened some of you with my men in the nursing home story.

If you were upset or offended, I apologize. If you liked hearing about those gross old men, then what in the heck is the matter with you?

Oh, it's o.k. I know some of it was funny.

But now I'd like to tell you stories about some of my favorite men in the nursing home.
One such gentleman was D. He fought in Italy during World War II and for him the war had never ended. The sound of a door slamming was a bomb. Any loud noise frightened him. So many years since that war and he still struggled with post-traumatic stress disorder.

I tried to be very quiet and gentle with D. and he appreciated it. He knew my name, but he always called me honey. It's funny -- when I was a reporter I absolutely could not stand it when a man called me honey or sweetie. But in the nursing home I didn't mind at all. I knew those men called me honey because they loved me.

D. couldn't walk or turn himself in bed. We could have moved him to a special chair that's on wheels but has more padding than a wheelchair and also features neck and head supports, but he refused. I guess D. felt more secure in his bed.

However, D. did not feel secure in bed when we had to turn him on his side to wash him or treat skin problems on his back. We had to put down his guard rail because we would have injured our backs if we leaned over the rail to turn a patient. D. would get pretty panicky when his guard rail was down, even though I was standing right there, holding him.

I would tell D., and other patients who were afraid, You're safe. No one has ever fallen out of bed when I'm in charge. You can't get past me. Invariably the patient would reply, Yeah, but you're not very big and I might be the first.

Because I trusted D., I told him that while he was on his side, he could put his arm around me. He did, and I whispered, You can even pat my bottom if you want.

D. gave my rear a little pat, and a huge smile spread over his face. Before he knew it, we were finished, and the guard rail was back in place. Thanks, honey, D. said.

I was also in love with Mr. A. Every time I gave him a pitcher of fresh water, he'd tap his cheek and say, Give me a kiss right here baby doll.

I was happy to oblige.

As his death approached, he quite often asked me to sit and talk with him in the wee small hours of the morning. He liked to tell me stories of his childhood -- running and playing in the woods.

 I was so sad when the end approached for Mr. A., but when his oldest son came in to be with Mr. A. during his last days, the son greeted us and I thrilled at the sound of his voice.

You sound exactly like your dad, I said.

Thank you, he said.

And I could see that Mr. A lived on through his son.

And we had E., who couldn't speak, but it was clear he loved his ladies. I'd put my arm around him and kiss his forehead and I'd see this sly grin on his face. He looked like a little kid who had stolen some candy from the store and gotten away with it.

I liked to imagine that E. could remember the pleasures he had enjoyed with ladies in the past, and when he went to bed, he dreamed of dressing up in a tux and taking me to a nightclub to dance. I would have been honored to dance with him.

Infinities of love,


Sunday, November 20, 2011


A photographer had the privilege to capture this special moment. It should remind us the love of Jesus Christ for us.
By looking at such a darling photo our minds should remember the messages given to each of us in the following Psalm verses:
 Psalm 91:4  He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; His faithful promises are your armor and protection. 
Psalm 46:1. God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.
Un fotógrafo tuvo el privilegio de capturar este momento tan especial. Como una foto tan dulce nos recuerda el AMOR en Cristo Jesús.
Sólo hay que contemplar tan tremenda foto y lo que nos comunica a cada uno de nosotros en particular, como lo mencionan los versículos de los siguientes salmos:

Salmos 91:4   El te cubrirá con sus plumas y bajo sus alas hallarás refugio. ¡Su verdad será tu escudo y tu baluarte!
Salmos 46:1 Dios es nuestro amparo y nuestra fortaleza, nuestra ayuda segura en momentos de angustia.

Thursday, November 17, 2011


I write today for my beloved Elisa, and especially for her beloved Zeke.

Memorial Day has come to mean back yard barbecues, picnics in the park, the opening of public pools, a day off from school.

But Memorial Day, originally called Decoration Day, was actually created in 1868 as a day to decorate the graves of Civil War dead. Decoration Day evolved into Memorial Day, a time to honor armed services personnel killed in wartime.

Memorial Day has come to mean something even more to me. My dad died on Memorial Day 20 years ago.

My parents had just enjoyed a holiday cookout of their own. Daddy (he was always Daddy, never Dad or, heaven forbid, Father) got up from his chair at the kitchen table and that was the end. He fell. He was gone.

One of my sisters said, "He would have loved that -- dying on Memorial Day." She meant that he was a man who loved his country and who honored those who had given their lives for it.

He was also willing to serve his country. He mentioned to me -- only once -- that he had a deferment as a farm boy, but he enlisted during World War II anyway.
Because he had a degree in education, he spent the war as a flight instructor and never left the U.S. When it was over, he climbed out of his Army Air Corps cockpit, whole and happy, and went home to his wife and their baby boy, my only brother.

Then he spent the rest of his life being a plain ordinary guy. I didn't realize for a long time what a hero he was.

Every morning, he kissed my mom goodbye and went to work. He came back home every night. He didn't go to a bar or a sporting event. He spent his evenings and weekends teaching us to ride our bicycles, making popcorn for our snacks, and pitching in our baseball games.

If he left us in the evening, it was to take our mom out to dinner because he knew she worked hard taking care of a house and six kids.

When we were older, he helped us buy our first cars, and he watched us go out on our first dates. He got up at four in the morning on many Saturdays to take me to school, where I would climb on a bus headed to a debate tournament. If I came home with a medal, he didn't say anything. He'd just smile.

For a man who had been a debater himself at the University of Minnesota (where he also played basketball -- I have his Golden Gopher framed with his photo), he never said much. One of my sisters concluded he had given up on talking because he lived in a house full of women -- I have four sisters -- and he had lost all hope of controlling us.

In control or not, he and his wife of 50 years -- who passed away 15 years ago, a hero herself -- managed to raise the six of us. My brother, who died not long after my mom did, had a master's degree and taught at a college. My oldest sister owns and operates a large company, where another sister works. Two other sisters have excellent jobs. And then there's me, the writer. He called me "little one" because I was the runt of the litter.
My point is that we're all employed (though I'm on and off), we're all responsible parents (we gave our folks 11 grandchildren), we stay in touch with each other, and we don't argue. We definitely laugh a lot when we're together. Our parents must have done something right.

I do have some regrets, though. My greatest regret is that I didn't call my dad on that Memorial Day 20 years ago and tell him what a hero he was.

I don't know why I didn't call. I wanted to, but for some reason, I kept talking myself out of it. I decided to call in a few days.

I even picked up the phone at one point and put it back down without dialing the number and so I missed my opportunity to hear his voice one last time and to tell him what he meant to me.

My heart was trying to tell me something, but my mind wouldn't listen.

Whether it's Memorial Day or Veterans Day or a Tuesday or a Friday, I hope you'll take some time out from whatever you're enjoying and honor your heroes. First, think of those who were killed in the armed services. Then, think of a hero in your life who's still living and let that person know how you feel.

Honor your hero while you have the chance. I wish I had. Memorial Day is now a special reminder for me of the guy who was my hero.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011


 Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Yes, it's true. You read the title correctly. My children *sob* are bullies *whimper*. I'm so ashamed. Just last week I wrote a post in which I came down very hard on bullies. And now I've learned what my very own children are capable of doing. It's so shocking. I didn't know if I could tell you, but I feel I must take responsibility for their actions. Don't bother calling the police to report their crime. I'll deny everything and offer sexual favors until the cops run in terror.

 I have tried to be a responsible parent. But sometimes nothing a parent does is of any help. I swear to you it's nature, not nurture.

 It happened yesterday afternoon. The kids -- Harper, Scout, and Franklin -- were gathered around the rose bush in the back yard. They were obviously having a look at something and chatting about it. This is never a good sign. It means they are in collision or collution, or whatever, against something.

They were supposed to be outside playing because at times, they become a little too rambunctious in the house.
 I went outside to see what was really going on because I am a diligent parent.

And what I saw, Oh Lord please save my children from their instincts, oh my goodness -- white feathers on the ground under the rose bush. And I knew immediately, oh yes I knew, I knew they had killed a bird.

I suspect they used their sling shots, or maybe one of them took my BB gun when I was drinking beer and watching my few remaining soaps. I don't know the truth yet. No one is talking.

But no bird was under the rose bush. I went to look around the yard. I saw it. A dove. A poor white dove in the middle of the back yard. I thought, I'll have to cover up what they've done because blood is thicker than water. They are my children and I'll punish them, but I won't allow the police to take my babies away.

I took a closer look at the dove to determine how to conceal the crime and realized he was alive. Yes, he was alive, but he couldn't move. Couldn't fly. Couldn't even get up and walk away.

What was I to do?

Should I take him to the nearest hospital, pull up to the ER, and toss him out the window toward the door? Someone might be able to help him.

I went inside to text Favorite Young Man because he is a criminal mastermind. He would tell me what to do.

I started texting him, and suddenly, Harper walked in with the dove and put it on my $750 area rug.

He was now one dead dove and there was no turning back.

I screamed in horror because I simply couldn't believe my very own boys had carried out such a vicious attack. Then I started coughing because I had screamed so loud.

I dashed out the front door because dead creatures freak me out hoping that my neighbor, an RN, might be able to help me with, uh, CPR. Perhaps we could revive the dove.

Alas, Anthony hot, hot young Anthony who gives me so much pleasure when he takes off his shirt to work in his yard was not at home. So I set off up the street looking for any available man who might be of assistance. The only person I found at home was a young mom with her little boy.

I knocked on the door, crying, Suzanne, I'm desperate. My children have killed a dove and I don't know what to do.

She said, Would you like me to take care of it?

You wouldn't mind?

No, I wouldn't mind, Suzanne said.

Now I had a partner in crime. Because it was such a nice day and I decided to stroll around the block before I went to Suzanne's It was too late to revive the dove so he would have to be hidden.

Suzanne picked him up - gasp - with a trash bag, dropped him inside, tied the bag shut, AND WE HID THE BAG IN THE BOTTOM OF THE GARBAGE CAN.

Now how do I teach my children it is a sin to kill? I think it's even a commander, commando, going commando, or something in the Bible.

I sent Franklin to his room.
I lectured Scout.

And because Harper was the one who brought the dove inside, as if he were so proud of himself, I sent him to bed without his supper.

But now I have even more to worry about. In the past I have seen dead mice, dead bunnies, a dead possum, dead moles, dead rats, dead squirrels, and many dead birds.

I fear my children are not mere bullies. They are cereal killers.

Please pray for them.

Infinities of love,


Tuesday, November 15, 2011


Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

My oldest sister left for The Big Time before the rest of us moved to the bustling metropolis of Topeka, Kansas. Oldest moved to Kansas City.

However, once she was settled in her home, she discovered the strangest form of discrimination. Some people's windows had signs in them that said Black Mother. Oldest was quite shocked.

It wasn't as bad as the klan burning a cross in the yard, but, still, she was appalled. Why would a city point out where black mothers live?

Then one day she put on her glasses.

The sign said Block Mother. A block mother was a person who agreed to help any child in trouble who couldn't get to his parents. Oldest felt quite relieved.

When we made our big move to Topeka, we had a Block Mother across the street from us.

She was not black.

I think the Block Mother program was phased out by about 1972 because moms were in the work force. They couldn't stay at home doing nothing except taking care of the neighborhood brats.

I think it's kind of sad that we don't have Block Parents now, who would at least be available to assist children when they could.

But the people who volunteered would probably be pedophiles.

And that's all the news that is news.

I'm Chevy Chase, and you're not.

Infinities of love,


Tuesday, November 8, 2011


Gentle Readers . . .  and Maxwell,

The Frisky Virgin has once again honored me with an award. If you aren't following Frisky yet, you should because she's a real sweetie.

You read that right.
My blog is lovely. 

This award comes with some conditions. These are the rules:

Link back to the person who gave you the award (already completed)
Complete the form below
Tell seven random things about yourself
Nominate 9 bloggers


Name your favorite color
It depends. I prefer various shades of blue when I decorate a house. I like to wear red.
Name your favorite song
Why Don't We Do It In The Road

Name your favorite dessert
Frosted sugar cookies.
What pisses you off?
People who cheat on their spouses.
When you are upset you 
I sometimes cry, fret, bitch, and worry, and then I get over it. 
Your favorite pet
Faulkner, my smooth collie who died last year.
 Black or white?
Definitely black. I look wicked good in black.    

Everyday attitude
I'm the most cheerful depressed person I know. 

Your best feature
I'm tired of bragging about my bodacious ta-tas. I guess I'll say I have nice feet. 
Guilty pleasure
Blogging when I should be accomplishing other things.

Now I'm supposed to tell you seven random things about myself:
  1. I didn't bring my white teddy bear with me when I moved. It was stupid because I still miss him.
  2. When I was about 16 my mother told me I would never be able to hold down a job. It still haunts me, yet it's kind of funny because I've had some very tough jobs with deadlines to meet (newspaper reporter and editor) and I've been responsible for keeping people alive (healthcare).
  3. I didn't major in journalism or healthcare and had no interest in working in either area.
  4. I wear glasses and can't see a thing without them.
  5. I'm pretty competitive and rather jealous of some people who accomplish shit I want to do.
  6. I am a lot like Charlotte on Sex and the City, but I want to be Samantha.
  7. I wanna get laid, but I won't hook up with somebody I don't know.
Now, the fun part. I am supposed to pass on this award to nine other bloggers:
  1. A Mom Just Winging It 
  2. Absorbing what I can
  3. An Ordinary Life
  4.  Conceive Writing
  5. Diabeetus
  6. Left Alone With A Full Moon
  7. intriguedbeing
  8. Lemons Don't Make Lemonade
  9. Interwebs Fails
  10. And a bonus baby -- 10. Atley 
    Well, I'm afraid that's all the bloggy love I can handle for today. Thank you again to America's Friskiest Virgin. As for you nine bloggers who are now receiving the award, get yours ASAP. They're cluttering up my immaculate house. Congratulations!

    Infinities of love,

Monday, November 7, 2011


Gentle Readers . . .  and Maxwell,

Today and only today, and perhaps some other time in the future, What? Monday becomes Who? Monday because the question is

Who is your hero and/or heroine? 

This is a toughie for me because I can name so many people.

I'll start with my mom and dad because I miss them so much. The older I get, the more I miss them.

Next, Favorite Young Man and Someone I Love.

Little Chick

Doris Kearns Goodwin (Oh how I wish I could be Doris but I don't think I could stand to look at her husband -- I was going to post a current photo of him but I couldn't find one and it's just as well because it might frighten those of you who are a bit sensitive. Dick Goodwin looks kind of like somebody dressed in a bad gorilla suit for Halloween, but a gorilla would be more attractive than Dick Goodwin.)

Bob Dole

Ronald and Nancy Reagan

Gerry and Betty Ford

Barack and Michelle Obama

Anne Tyler 

Pat Conroy

Maya Angelou

Sylvia Plath, but she should not have killed herself 


I'll stop there, but I'm sure I could come up with a lot more names because although lots of people in this world are jerks, I think even more people are great.

Now, tell us please,

Who is your hero and/or heroine?

Infinities of love,


P.S. Heroine is not the same as heroin. We're not talkin' smack here. 

Sunday, November 6, 2011

for b.

I get into my cold bed at night and
I whisper the silly nickname
I have for you and then
I talk to you softly about 
what it would be like if
you were here with me.
We would sit in the afternoon sunshine
with our books and 
share a kiss and a cocktail.
Then I would prepare a fine feast 
for us and we would dine 
at my whimsical blue table
while the blue clock behind us
quietly ticked off the minutes
until evening.

Then we would walk the 
dogs to the park
and talk about our books
and hurry home
to softly slide 
down the hallway
to my beautiful bedroom.

We would climb into the bed,
now warm,
and hold each other 
until you rested your ear
on my breast
and told me my 
heart was beating,
gently and kindly,
as it should.
Then we would make love
in the moonlight
until our two hearts grew together
and we realized 
the glow of the moon
came from 
within us.

Friday, November 4, 2011


Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

I believe I have reached a milestone with WOMEN: WE SHALL OVERCOME. I seem to be at 500+ posts, but I'm not sure because the number of posts on my stats page sometimes stays the same for days at a time although I am posting every day.

So I might be at 510 posts, 600 posts, or 9,337.

When I started this blog it was called Dumped First Wife. When I began to feel more positive, I changed the title and my name. I was signing posts as Dumped First Wife and listed my occupation as topless dancer. Then I decided to reveal I am a writer named Lola. During those early days, when I had two or three followers, I often posted two or three times per day. I had to write about what I was thinking because I was in so much pain I feared my brain would explode. I'm convinced blogging kept me alive, or at least helped me get out of bed.

Now I usually post once each weekday and sometimes reveal a poem on the weekend. The majority of my hits continues to come from the United States with mighty, mighty Slovenia in second place. No country can ever replace Slovenia in my heart, unless some other country bypasses the number of Slovenian hits.

My small group of followers helped me through Faulkner's death, Harper's disappearance (he escaped from the back yard, went to jail, and had to be bailed out), the loss and probable death of Robin the foster dog, my divorce and settlement wars, and now more recently, with a larger group of followers, my sister's bypass surgery and stroke.

As for followers, boy have we gained. For a long time I had two, then three. Then several more showed up and I was stuck at 13 forever. With advice from my dear friend LegalMist and promotion by Cinderita, shout outs from many others, and help from all of you, we now have 70+ followers and I hope to keep growing -- the blog that is, not my butt.

My most popular post remains Dumpy Men With Beautiful Skinny Wives. 

Second place goes to Hiccups and Waterboarding.

I wrote Lit when I was drunk. After I got shit-faced, I called Favorite Young Man at work and told him I was drunk. He said not to ever call him at work again to say I was drunk.

I strongly suspect that no one ever read my pantoum, a poem in a particular form that you will understand if you read "I Grew Up In Linda Brown's Town." I wrote this poem after attending a writer's workshop. One of the sessions focused on pantoums and using geography (the cities you know) to write a pantoum. Because I grew up in Topeka, Kansas, home of Brown v. The Topeka Board of Education, I wrote about Topeka and the decision. I don't know, though, if this poem's losing streak should be broken. Perhaps it's better left unread. I'll let you be the judge of that.

As I have mentioned a number of times in posts and comments on your blogs, I LOVE the search terms people use to find my blog. The most popular is Why does Mr. Rogers always wear a sweater? That one shows up constantly because I am a Fred Rogers expert. After I wrote about Franklin the dog licking my toes, search terms tended to be about foot fetishes.

My all-time favorite search term is fucking my skinny wife.

I thank you all for sticking with me and commenting on my posts and even on my comments. You will never know what a help you are to me and how I value your friendship.

Infinities of love,


Wednesday, November 2, 2011


Gentle Readers . . .  and Maxwell,

At one of the newspapers where I worked, my favorite reporter was Carla. She covered the courts, so at mid-afternoon each weekday she returned to the newsroom to write her articles about what had occurred in the courthouse that day.

When Carla reached her computer, she would make her daily announcement. She might say, It's show tunes today! or Doobie Brothers time! or I'm in the mood for Queen!

Then perched on her chair, she proceeded to whistle while she worked. And everything she whistled was as announced. If she said Doobie Brothers, you were not going to hear the Eagles.

Singer 3
Then later I worked at another paper and one day I mentioned Carla's whistling. The grouchiest reporter in the room, the one who wore dirty clothes every day so her stench filled the newsroom, the one who shouted at anyone she suspected of wearing cologne because she was allergic to it but I don't know how she smelled it over herself, the one who GRITTED her teeth so they made this horrible creaking sound, shouted, That would drive me insane.

custom smiley
I LOVED it, I said. And the next time she gritted her teeth, I yelled, WHAT IN THE HELL IS THAT HORRIBLE NOISE?
custom smiley
I'm sorry. I won't do it again, she said.

Infinities of love,


Tuesday, November 1, 2011


Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

I heard an interesting story last year from a lovely young lady named Sarah. Sarah's story took place about 16 years ago when she was at home, pregnant, and her husband called her from the Sears where he worked, whispering, Come down here right away. Bill Murray is in the paint department.

By the time Sarah arrived, a few people had gathered to take a look at Bill Murray, but it wasn't a crowd. Sarah approached and politely asked, Mr. Murray, will you please let me have my picture taken with you and will you autograph it for my baby?

Sarah said Bill Murray launched into a tirade about how he wasn't there to be funny and entertain people. He just wanted to look at paint with his friends so go away and leave him alone. But it went on a lot longer than that. In fact, it went on so long that if he had simply agreed to the photo and the autograph, it all would have been over and done with in less time than his tantrum required.

Sarah said, To this day I can't stand Bill Murray and I have never and will never spend a singly penny to see one of his movies.

On the other hand, Sarah had quite a love for Sonny Bono, who, of course, was not talented in the way Bill Murray is, but he had something better going for him: He was kind to Sarah.

When Sarah was a senior in high school, her class had their senior prom at Sonny Bono's restaurant. Sarah and a friend arrived to decorate before the prom and Sonny Bono came out to greet the girls personally. I believe he was the mayor of Palm Springs at the time. Mr. Bono also showed the girls to his private office and bathroom, where he said they could change into their prom dresses after they finished decorating. Then he apologized for leaving, but said he had to take care of some city business.

Sarah couldn't say enough good things about Sonny Bono and how kind and polite he was. Sonny Bono might have seemed like kind of a doofus, but as Cher said in her eulogy when Sonny died, How can you be the butt of the joke when you created the joke?

I certainly do not approve of the way the paparazzi stalk some celebrities, chasing them, and even running them off the road. But these people who are famous are usually famous because they want it. They want the exposure and the money and the fame. So they have to take what comes with it. Bill Murray should have had his picture taken with Sarah and then signed the photo. It would have meant so much to her, and I suspect he could have spared two - three minutes out of his paint perusing time. Case closed.

But I'm wondering, even though this is not What? Monday, have you encountered any celebrities? If so, how did they treat you?

My ex-husband travels a great deal because of his work, and he seems to run into (not literally) celebrities all the time. He was in New York and happened to be in the right place at the right time because he saw Dan Akroyd, Mary Tyler Moore, and many other big deals arrive at NBC for the filming of Saturday Night Live's 25th Anniversary Special. He sat down for breakfast once in a restaurant and noticed that Magic Johnson and Alex English were at the next table. Walking through the lobby at the Disneyland hotel, he spotted Sigourney Weaver. His celeb encounter list is too long for me to remember everyone.

My only real celebrity encounter was with writer Pat Conroy (shhhh! The affair continues. We read poetry to each other. What a man.)

Infinities of love,