WHAT? MONDAY

Dear Readers,

What did you do to welcome the New Year?

I did something I have never done before: I committed murder. 

No, your eyes are not deceiving you. It was much easier than I thought it would be. 

 I killed Lola. Since she was a blow up doll, all I had to do was take a nice big needle and puncture her in a few places.

Please forgive me for leaving her chest uncovered in this photo. She isn't all that realistic-looking, so I wasn't too worried about covering her up.

Lola didn't suit me anymore.

I want to explore my identity without Lola hanging around. I want to find out who I am.

Yes, it's true: I am 52 years old, and I don't know who I am. I've had many identities, but I don't know if any of them were me. I made them up in acts of avoidance, such as avoiding abuse. Recently, I tried on a new identity. I thought she fit me perfectly. I thought at long last I knew who I was. I made her the best of me.

But she wasn't good enough. Now I'm lost again.

And I'm not going to find myself in a blow up doll box.

 So that's what I did at midnight. I poked Lola full of holes and threw her in the trash. The demise of Lola does not mean we'll never enjoy her sense of humor again or marvel at her quirkiness. But the aspects of her personality that we like will have to come from within me.

So, what did you do to welcome the New Year? Please don't tell me you killed someone unless you also had an unwanted Lola.

Infinities of love,

Janie  

NAME GAME

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

I am appalled by all the weird names floating around today. I wrote a post recently about one unusual name of which I heartily approve, that of Apple, but in the comments section, Julianna of Surviving Boys mentioned the following:

We knew people with the last name of Coffin. Fine right? They named their daughters Oak and Maple. No joke. And then there were the Tanners. They named their daughter Fawn.

I think Oak and Maple Coffin are particularly cruel monikers.

When I lived in Illinois, the Horneys were in the neighborhood. And haven't we all known someone with Dick as a first or last name?

Having one name that provokes teasing is bad enough. Parents, don't make it worse by naming your kid Maple Coffin.

Here are some "interesting" designations for you to check out at http://abcnews.go.com/Entertainment/WolfFiles/story?id=116513&page=1,

And for some rather unusual names celebrities have given to their kids, including Kal-El Cage (son of Nic), have a look at
http://www.cracked.com/article_15765_the-20-most-bizarre-celebrity-baby-names.html.  

However, the cracked.com article includes two names that, in my not at all humble opinion, don't belong on the list: the aforementioned Apple (child of Gwyneth Paltrow and the guy from Cold Play), and Coco (child of Courteney Cox and David Arquette). What's wrong with Coco? As in Chanel?

But some of these other names. Oi! My friend Mr. Fox said some celebrity parents should just plain send their kids to school with KICK ME signs on their backs. Mr. Fox chided Penn Jillette and wife in particular for naming their child Moxie Crimefighter Jillette.

According to the article: "Apparently, Jillette's wife had no middle name, and their theory was that you never use the middle name anyway so why not have some fun with it. This does not explain the "Moxie" part."

I certainly don't understand Moxie or Crimefighter. I'm glad to be plain old

Lola

P.S. I worked part-time at a department store for a while when I lived in Illinois. One day I helped a very nice lady fill out a credit card application. Her last name was long and complicated and I do not remember what it was. After spelling it for me, she said with a smile, No matter how tough that name is, it's better than my maiden name: Buttkiss.

I said, I bet you would have married just about anyone to get rid of that. 

THE ENDLESS AFTERNOON

Gentle Readers . . .  and Maxwell,

When I was a newspaper reporter, the police scanner was an always chattering presence in the newsroom. Most of the time, we heard nothing of importance.

But one rainy, gray wintry afternoon, something came over the scanner that caught everyone's attention. An elderly couple had been reported missing by their adult children. Their car was gone and they hadn't been seen since the day before. The woman had Alzheimer's Disease. Her husband was her primary caregiver.

Throughout the afternoon, we were glued to the scanner as the police searched. Very little work was accomplished.

Finally, word came. Their car was parked on a country road. They were dead.

The man shot his wife and then killed himself.

We shed more than a few tears in the newsroom that afternoon.

People quite often accuse members of the media of having no hearts. I'm sure some journalists don't. But many of us suffered as we covered stories about families burned out of their homes and groups of people who held fundraisers to help cover the medical care for a terminally ill child.

Yes. We had hearts.

But sometimes we had to hide them so we could interview people without sobbing.

Infinities of love,

Lola

MY KATHY'S ANGEL

Gentle Readers . . .  and Maxwell,

 

Some of you may recall that My Kathy has been my best friend for about 25 years. Although we live very far apart, every time we see each other, it's as if no time has passed. We just pick up where we left off.

This is Kathy's story about an angel who helped her:

It was 1977 and one of those months with more days than money. I had almost a week to go with little food left on the shelves, two hungry young children to feed, and a husband at sea on a U.S. Navy ship.

I had returned every can and bottle I could find for the pennies they would bring and inspected every sofa cushion for change. If such a thing as a Food Bank existed, I’d never heard of it and didn’t know where to turn.

We were new in town. I had only one friend – Grammy B.

And Grammy B. was away visiting her sister.

So I prayed. I asked God to change the water in my jug to milk and to give me an onion and green pepper. Those two foods combined with my meager supplies would allow me to prepare a hearty meal.

I spent the day wondering what to do. When the children napped, I flopped in a chair and finally let my tears flow.

Then the door bell rang. Grammy B. had returned!

“Honey,” she said, “I can’t stay. I went grocery shopping before my doctor’s appointment and what did he do but put me on a liquid diet for the next two weeks. I brought you this food because it will spoil before I can eat again.”

Grammy B thrust the bag in my hands and hurried off. I shut the door and once again found myself in tears -- tears of joy.

In the bag were four onions, two green peppers, and a gallon of milk.

Thank you to My Kathy for sharing her story. It's a good one for the week leading up to Christmas.

Infinities of love,

Lola

P.S. Hugs and thank yous to everyone able to contribute to the fund for the blogger in need. The money has gone to that good person. 

WORDS

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

My offering today is a poem. Please remember that the poet and the speaker are not one and the same. When the speaker talks about her mother, I'm not talking about my mother, who was the soul of generosity and could churn out pies with homemade crusts like nobody's business.

And I feel I must mention that we're now up to 94 followers. I'd love to have six more of you by Christmas. Remember when we only had 13 followers for the longest time?

No, of course you don't. You weren't following then.

Infinities of love,

Lola

Words

I did not go home when my mother was dying. I feared Her power over me so I could not go. She held me captive with Words. If I had gone, I would have heard Her Words. I waited until she was dead. Then I went home.

I thought I might be Safe.

I Studied Her in Her Coffin. I've always heard that people shrink as they age, particularly if they suffer protracted illnesses. She had aged. She had suffered a protracted illness. She had not Shrunk.

But Her Power wasn't in Her size.

I looked at Her hair. The same. I looked at her hands. The same. Ears, same. Skin, same. Clothes, same. Jewelry, same. Mouth, Not the same. No Words. I began to believe she had lost Her Power over me.

I was wrong.

I try to write. I hear Nabokov, Shakespeare, Fitzgerald, Joyce, and others in my mind. I hear my own words in my mind. I try to put the words on paper. They become pathetic, weak, puny. Their greatness disappears.

I know why.

Her Words still hang in the air, overpowering mine before they can drop to the paper. 

Yet I believe in words. 

I know words in all their ugliness and in all their beauty.

I know words.

I know the power of words.

Rereading this poem now, I don't think I like it. Maybe I'll feel better tomorrow if I get a little honest bloggy criticism, suggestions, and love.

IN DEFENSE OF AMERICAN YOUTH

To NFO and those who agree with his recent post:

I realize you're reprinting what someone else said, but because you and a number of other people seem to be in agreement that this post is excellent, I feel I must say something about it. My daughter is a 25-year-old graduate student. Although she's not part of occupy Wall Street, she does attend the University of California at Berkeley.

I don't care for the generalization and the implication that "America's youth" does not care about or support the military. My child is the granddaughter of a veteran of World War II, the granddaughter of a veteran from the time of the Korean Conflict, the niece of a Gulf War veteran, and the daughter of a veteran. If any child was brought up to appreciate the military, she was.

I am particularly offended by the following statement: "The 99 percent demands that the government pay back their student loans, often for expensive degrees in academic fields not adequate to compete in today’s tough employment market."

When my daughter was an undergraduate student, she worked as a server in a Chinese restaurant, tutored students, and worked as a mentor for math classes. She has paid for her entire education on her own. She did not even accept my offer of money to pay for her textbooks each semester. Yes, she has student loans, but she knows she'll be paying them back. She certainly does not have a $300 phone. She now gets by on fellowships, and by teaching and tutoring.

The protests on the Berkeley campus frighten my daughter; however, she is not afraid of the protesters. She is afraid of the police, who injured a 70-year-old Pulitzer Prize winning poet, among other innocent people. She stays away from the part of campus where the protesters are to make sure she isn't pepper sprayed or beaten, although she has done nothing wrong and the protesters are peaceful.

As for her expensive degrees that supposedly might leave her unable to compete in the job market, as an undergraduate she majored in mathematics and physics. She graduated first in her class. Her closest friends majored in chemistry, biology, pre-med . . . all fields in which American students have trouble competing with their counterparts from European and Asian countries. After going to class and working at one or two jobs, she stayed up until 2 a.m. to study -- every night -- and graduated with the highest grade point average in her class.

Although she attended a small Midwestern liberal arts school, she was accepted to the Ph.D. program in mathematics at Berkeley. She deferred for a year to get the equivalent of a master's degree in mathematics from Cambridge University. Now in her third year at Berkeley, she works nearly non-stop to be at the top of her field. She rarely takes a day off. She visited me for three days last spring and worked on her mathematics at least part of every day during her visit.

Do you really think that you'll be flying new and improved jets without students such as my daughter? Or do you prefer that the improvements to technology in America come from other countries? We need mathematicians, physicists, chemists, engineers, computer scientists; and she and her friends are receiving excellent educations in these fields.

The writer of your post uses "let's feel sorry for the military" logic to attack the so-called 99%. Well, my daughter and her friends are not part of the 99%, and they are not part of the 1% in the military. Does this make them non-existent?

I don't want to see the military's budget cut, but if it is, it is not the fault of the students who are working so hard to get an education so they can be America's future.

I will not sit back and allow anyone to portray my daughter and the students with whom she works as free-loaders receiving useless educations.

Infinities of love to my daughter and so many other excellent students,

Lola


P.S. And on a lighter note, I want to recommend a blog I should have told you about sooner: Paige Kellerman -- There's More Where That Came From.
 Paige is so funny I almost hate her. Nobody should ever be funnier than I am, but she does it consistently (I'm a little competitive). Paige is merely funny some weeks and other weeks she's almost pee my pants funny, my stomach hurts funny, and I'm afraid I'll fart and blush in the presence of my gentleman friend funny.

CALCULUS

Dear Little Chick . . .  and Anyone Else Who Has Suffered from the Calculus Blues,

Little Chick, I know you hated your calculus class, and we're so proud of you for earning an "A"  in spite of it being, you know, calculus.

 Photo: Little Chick kisses the Jolly Ginger Giant.

I was talking to Someone I Love about how you made it through the class, Little Chick, and I felt rather surprised when she said, I hate calculus. It's just another hoop colleges make students jump through so they can weed out pre-med students.

She went on to say that there is a movement afoot to replace calculus in the core curriculum with a statistics and probability class. SIL also said she only does calculus when she has to teach it, and she does the problems slowly because she doesn't really remember calculus. She takes her time as part of a pretense that she's helping the students keep up and understand the class.

SIL finished by saying, Calculus is a sordid business. Be sure to tell Little Chick I said calculus is a sordid business.

There you have it, Little Chick. Calculus is a sordid business.

Infinities of love,

Lola

I'M LOOKING AT THE WOMAN IN THE MIRROR

-I'm asking her to change her ways, Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

   I NEED YOUR  HELP!
  I'm STILL trying to  find out which IKEA sells this  mirror!! (Hope the picture comes through!)

My friend Carol sent this to me, and no, that's not me in the mirror. I know you don't think the chubby woman could be me.

Infinities of love,

Lola

WHO? MONDAY

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 

Grammarians

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,

Lola   

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

CELEBRITY ENCOUNTERS

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,

Lola

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

LOSIN' IT

Gentle Readers,

Some of you may have noticed recently in my comments that My Dear Mrs. Tuna mentioned I had lost 15 pounds, but it's 15 1/2. Let's be accurate.

True, my boobs are bodacious and overall, I'm quite salacious. But I weigh more than I should.

Menopause and midlife marriage dissolution added the pounds, and to my shock, they did not simply drop after the divorce.

Hmmmmm . . . Which should I have? Cake or cake?

So last spring I started thinking more and more about changing my eating habits. Then I saw a commercial for NutriSystem: Fifty percent off plus I received an additional discount with my health insurance plan.

I decided to go for it.

The minute I made that decision, my sugar use waned. When the NutriSystem meals arrived, I got my portions under control.

To help me even more, Sandra decided to return to fitness competitions. Hearing about her workouts and what she was eating inspired me so much that after three months, I felt I could go off the NutriSystem and design my own diet.

 Which one is me and which is Sandra? Can you guess?

When the weather cooperates, I walk the dogs for my exercise and their joy-- one dog at a time to provide me with even more exercise.

I'm under no illusion that I'm ever going to be as ripped as Sandra, whom I admire tremendously for her devotion and will power.

Sandra is Sandra; Lola is Lola. The world couldn't handle more than one of each of us.

But I'm continuing to lose, and I ain't gonna quit till I feel like me again. No crazy fad diets or fasting. Good healthy meals and snacks that let me take off the weight slowly and don't make me feel deprived.

In fact, since I'm doing so well, I'm going to start posting photos of myself as I turn into more and more of a loser. This is a pretty big deal because the only photo of me that's ever been on this blog was when you saw the back of my head in front of City Lights Bookstore during my San Francisco holiday.

So here's my current photo:

Tee hee. Just kidding. You haven't seen me yet.



Infinities of love,

Lola

THE PICKLE HATERS

Gentle Readers,

In restaurants, I say to the server, Please don't put a pickle on my plate. Occasionally, I even say, I'm the President of the Pickle-Hating Society.

That's right: No pickles will pass these lips, Papa.

My sisters and I will  not eat pickles, and no, that's not a euphemism for penis.

Blow jobs: Fine.

Pickles: Not fine.

 You see, our mother did a terrible thing to us when we were growing up: She made pickles. It was childhood pickle abuse.

That's because the stench from the pickle cooking made us all sick. I almost fainted once because of that odor and she could not figure out what might be wrong with me. But, we weren't allowed to say OH MAN THOSE PICKLES STINK! Because she would say, Oh, shut the hell up! They do not.

But I don't remember HER ever eating a pickle either. I think my dead brother ate them.

Ate the pickles. Died young.

Coincidence? I think not.

Infinities of love,

Lola

P.S. My sister has taken a turn for the better! She shakes and nods her head to answer questions and can move her fingers. Probably puts up the middle finger most of the time. Thank you all so much for your concern, your good wishes, and your prayers. I'll let you know when I hear about more progress.

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

MS. LOLA PAYS A CALL ON MISS CINDERITA

Gentle Readers,

What are you doing here? Get your asses over to Cinderita's and do it NOW.

I hate to be so bossy -- well, no, it actually doesn't bother me in the least -- but I told you I'd be guest posting at Cinderita's today. The post is about gratitude. I'll be very grateful if you leave comments there and give me your bloggy love.

Infinities of love,

Lola

GO TO THE ADVENTURES OF CINDERITA, PLEASE. I'M NOT GOING TO ASK SO NICELY IF I HAVE TO BRING IT UP AGAIN.

IF WOMEN CONTROLLED THE WORLD

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MEN CAN FIX ANYTHING

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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

CRY BABIES

Gentle Readers,

I've been hearing some people on the news yipping in a very loud and obnoxious manner about children on airplanes. Some of them want children banned from first class; some want children banned from airplanes all together. A restaurant in Florida has banned children younger than six.

I haven't heard any mention of how old children would have to be in order to fly. Is six the magic age? Or 12? Or perhaps even 18?

I heard one particularly unpleasant fellow griping about how he shouldn't have to put up with somebody's crying kid when he's paid for his seat.

Well, I have news for you, buddy. You should stuff a sock in it and bite the bullet and learn some patience. You should "put up with somebody's crying kid" for the same reason I put up with you when you're drunk and boisterous on the plane, laughing too loudly with your buddies who are seated three or four aisles away and I'm in the middle, wanting to nap or read. I prefer children to YOU.

I fly first class, and all I expect when I get on a plane is that I will be treated decently. Obviously, children should not be running up and down the aisles of a plane. It's dangerous, and if it happens, then the flight attendants should deal with it.

But sighing, whining, rolling your eyes, more whining -- it's all just as bad if not worse than a crying child because you should know better.

Before Someone I Love was two years old, she flew from the West coast to the East and back several times. We always purchased a seat for her, where she took a load off in her FAA approved car seat. Most of the time she fell asleep or was content to look at a cloth book about a soft bunny.

But occasionally Someone I Love cried. She couldn't help it. She was just as uncomfortable as everybody else who has been crowded onto a plane and longs to escape as soon as possible. I have also cried on a plane because of an extremely rude flight attendant who harassed me. Should I be banned from flying?

What did you expect us to do when we needed to travel? Drive from Seattle to New York and back? Leaving my children behind on such trips was not an option. We did the best we could. Case closed.

Now suck it up, cry babies, and face facts. You have no more right to ban children from airplanes than I have to duct tape your mouth shut, no matter how much I long to do so.

Infinities of love,

Lola

LAP WARNING SIGNS

TEN WARNING SIGNS YOU MAY BE A LAP

(LUTHERAN AMERICAN PRINCESS)

1. Your mom never taught you to make tuna hot dish or jello salad because she was sure you were destined for better things.

2. You played the cello in the school orchestra even though it meant you had to part your knees like Moses was about to enter your Red Sea.

3. The name of your college started with a "C," but it was Columbia, not Concordia.

4. Relatives say you are too smart for your own good..


5. When the women went to make coffee after the service, you always begged off, saying you didn't know how. 


6.You are a registered Democrat.


7. You have to read the liturgy from the Lutheran Book of Worship.


8. You deny your Norwegian-ness.


9. It doesn't bother you at all to admit you can't stand your in-laws.


10. You live in New York, won't visit your relatives in the Midwest, call yourself a shiksa and your husband a putz.


***** Note: Lose half your Lap Points if you sneak into a local Lutheran church on Christmas Eve to sing Silent Night during the passing of the peace or you arrive at 6 a.m. on Easter morning and a tear comes to your eye at the scent of the lilies.