A IS FOR APPLE

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,

Lola

LIKE GOD'S PROTECTION

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.

 

MY CHILDREN ARE BULLIES

 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,

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

WHAT? MONDAY

Gentle Readers,

A new work week has begun for those of you fortunate enough to have jobs. I hope you can take a minute away from the games you play in the office to answer the What? Monday question, which is

What has been your moment of greatest joy up to now? Or, what part of your life has been the happiest?

It's pretty obvious that my greatest joy was the birth of my two children. They had eyes, nose, fingers, toes . . . everything they needed, especially the required equipment to create wet, shitty diapers. Oh well. Wet and shitty just goes with the mom job unless you can afford a nanny.

I wish I could say my wedding was a joyous occasion, but I can't remember it. I think THIS IS A MISTAKE was buzzing so busily in my head that I couldn't pay attention to the ceremony going on around me. So it was a mistake, and yet it wasn't -- because I got my kids out of it. 


A couple of other really joyful moments involved my two favorite concerts, which I told you about recently. A long time ago when we went to see Paul McCartney, toward the end of the concert Paul and I and a few thousand of our closest friends sang Yesterday together. It was so beautiful. He accompanied us all on the guitar. The voices, so many voices, came together in hushed reverence under the stars.

Then somewhat more recently with Bon Jovi, when the concert was over we headed toward the parking garage. Suddenly we had a moment of spontaneous combustion when we stepped inside the garage and everyone burst into Shot through the heart, and you're to blame . . . . We kept singing as we moved through the garage. There was no agreement to sing. Nobody shouted, Hey! Let's sing.

We simply sang together.

It was a perfect example of the interconnectedness of humankind.

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.

HOLIDAY

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

Infinities of love,

Lola

ANNAFEST

Gentle Readers,

I hereby declare this week to be

ANNAFEST

a celebration of the novelary talents of the amazingingly marvelous Anna Quindlen.

Ms. Quindlen is a Pulitzer Prize winner for her commentary. She is a wife; she is a mom. 

In fact, as far as I'm concerned, Anna Quindlen is all things.

I loved it when she and George Will took turns writing the last page of commentary in Newsweek. I didn't care much about what George had to say, but seeing George made me look forward even more to Anna's return the following week. I frequently saved her columns from the magazine and left them on Someone I Love's bed for her to read when she came home on breaks from school. Someone I Love and I then had lovely discussions about what our beloved Anna had to say because she said it so well and we always agreed with her and we often learned something new from her.

But during Annafest I want to focus on Quindlen's novels because I know you will want to read them. I am so convinced of it that I think taking a Quindlen novel into the bathroom will allow Sandra of Absolutely Narcissism to become so immersed in reading whilst on her throne that the cat at the door will not even bother her and she will leave the bathroom singing the praises of Anna Quindlen because she, Sandra that is, will have had a great poop.

A blurb on the back of her earliest novels states: "At the heart of all these novels, beneath the facade of dramatic events that appear to be the driving force behind them, lies Anna Quindlen's true mission: the exploration of changing identity."

But in my considered opinion, this blurb simplifies Quindlen's novels in a similar fashion to critics who say that Jane Austen's novels are about marriage.

On the surface, yes, Austen writes about marriage, but she does so much more. She writes about a woman's sometimes desperate need to marry, about the fears and failures women experience when they have no hope of marrying or they are left widows and the estate is entailed, and about the freedom the economically independent woman has. No one boils down a character and can make us understand the character completely in fewer words than Jane Austen can.

Likewise, there is so much to be explored about Anna Quindlen.

There's plenty of summer left. Tune in this week and I hope you'll choose the Quindlen novel that interests you the most and get busy reading and feeling fascinated and engaged by her writing and her characters.

More Annafest tomorrow, starting with her first novels.

Infinities of love and Anna,

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

KIDS: YOU GOTTA LOVE 'EM

3-year-old Reese : 
'Our Father, Who does art in heaven,
Harold is His name. 
Amen.' 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A little boy was overheard praying: 
'Lord, if you can't make me a better boy, don't worry about it.
I'm having a real good time like I am.'

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

After the christening of his baby brother in church,
Jason sobbed all the way home in the back seat of the car.
His father asked him three times what was wrong. 
Finally, the boy replied,
'That preacher said he wanted us brought up in a Christian home,
and I wanted to stay with you guys.' 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

One particular four-year-old prayed, 
'And forgive us our trash baskets 
as we forgive those who put trash in our baskets.'

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

A Sunday school teacher asked her children as they
were on the way to church service,
'And why is it necessary to be quiet in church?'
One bright little girl replied,
'Because people are sleeping.'

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

A mother was preparing pancakes for her sons, Kevin 5, and Ryan 3.
The boys began to argue over who would get the first pancake.
Their mother saw the opportunity for a moral lesson.
'If Jesus were sitting here, He would say, 
'Let my brother have the first pancake, I can wait.'
Kevin turned to his younger brother and said, 
' Ryan , you be Jesus !'

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

A father was at the beach with his children
when the four-year-old son ran up to him, 
grabbed his hand, and led him to the shore 
where a seagull lay dead in the sand. 
'Daddy, what happened to him?' the son asked.
'He died and went to Heaven,' the Dad replied.
The boy thought a moment and then said,
'Did God throw him back down?' 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 
A wife invited some people to dinner. 
At the table, she turned to their six-year-old daughter and said,
'Would you like to say the blessing?' 
'I wouldn't know what to say,' the girl replied.
'Just say what you hear Mommy say,' the wife answered.
The daughter bowed her head and said,
'Lord, why on earth did I invite all these people to dinner?' 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

HICCUPS AND WATERBOARDING

Gentle Readers,

Someone I love and I have been having an argument, oh, for about 20 years now, about how to stop hiccups. This someone can be incredibly annoying because this someone hiccups and stops but once this someone gets started hiccuping, the hiccuping continues on and off for the rest of the day.

This began as an attention-getting device when this someone was very young.

I have always told this someone, Hold your breath.

This someone says, That doesn't work.

I say, It might not work the first time, but if you do it over and over, the hiccups will stop, or you will pass out. Either way, it will be the end of the hiccups.

This someone refuses to cooperate, preferring to annoyingly hiccup the day away.

During our most recent hiccup day argument, Favorite Young Man chimed in and said that he knew how to stop hiccups. He said, You lean your head back, pinch your nose, and someone pours water down your throat. You get very wet and it stops the hiccups.

We were surprised to learn that waterboarding stops hiccups but were pleased to realize that when our government waterboards prisoners, it's not torture. It's just to cure the prisoners' hiccups.

What a revelation.

Infinities of love,

Lola

WELCOME SANDRA

Gentle Readers,

Those of you who follow my followers, and I know that means all of you, have noticed by now that a seventh follower has joined us. Thus, I now have two followers named Sandra. How ever shall I distinguish between them? I guess they will be Sandra 1 and Sandra 2.

I was delighted to discover that Sandra #2 (no implications by the number two, Sandra) writes an absolutely hilarious blog entitled Absolutely Narcissism. I read a few posts and found myself chuckling, then chortling, and then laughing uncontrollably. So I became one of Sandra's followers; however, she has scabs scads of hangers on and won't even notice your poor little Lola.

My favorite post so far is Don't Get Your Weiner Wet on March 22nd. It brought back so many happy memories of the days when I could torture my children and they couldn't get in cars and simply drive away. They were trapped with me.

You may not believe that your Lola could be so cruel, but I used to punish Favorite Young Man by singing in public. If he misbehaved, if he t'was obnoxious, I sang out loud and clear. Someone I love and I would sing while the three of us were bowling or as we perused the aisles of the grocery store. If he had been really bad, we also danced.

Someone I love, who was a mere seven years old, made up new lyrics to Copacabana that went His name was Rico, he had a vagina. Now isn't that just about the funniest damn thing you've ever heard, especially coming from a seven year old? I still laugh about that lyric and it was two years ago that someone I love made that up.

I still try to torture Favorite Young Man, but he simply says, Now that's just about enough of that -- something I seem to remember I used to say before breaking into the punishment songs. But Favorite Young Man doesn't bother to try to punish me by singing. He knows I'd just sing along.

So welcome, welcome, welcome to Sandra and Absolutely Narcissism. Sandra, should we ever find ourselves in a car together, of course I will sing Band on the Run with you. And when I don't know the actual lyrics to songs, I make them up, because what you think you hear is always so much funnier than what people actually say.

Infinities of love,

Lola

PARENTS AND UM, YOU KNOW

Gentle Readers,

I will never be convinced that my parents had sexual intercourse. I cannot even use my typical slang when referring to them: They did not do "it," didn't do the nasty, didn't bump uglies, didn't make love. No way.

Where did I come from? I have no idea. Another planet, I guess.

I also have (had) five older siblings. Where did they come from?

I dunno.

Can any of us imagine our parents doing such a thing? Even if our parents were affectionate with each other?

Occasionally my mom perched on my dad's knee and gave him a little kiss. One of my sisters swears that they kissed each other goodbye every single morning before my dad left for work. I have no memory of this.

My husband and I used to smooch sometimes in the kitchen after supper. Favorite Young Man would groan in agony. We were disgusting. I'm pretty sure he knows we did IT, but I doubt if he would admit IT. But come to think of IT, I really can't imagine my kids doing IT either. Don't want to think about IT. Gross, man.

So that's why I don't have grandchildren yet. And when I do, I guess we will find them in a nest built by a stork.

Infinities of love,

Lola

THE BABY WHO PRETENDED TO BARF ON CHRISTMAS MORNING

Oh, what a lovely Christmas, Gentle Readers,

Such good times -- dinner and church with my very handsome Favorite Young Man on Christmas Eve, and late in the afternoon on Christmas he took me to see Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part I, and he let me grab his arm and hold his hand every time I got scared, and I got scared at least six times because it's a wonderful, though very intense, movie. Definitely the best Harry Potter movie so far.

But Christmas morning was the most fun of all. We went to L.L. and R.L.'s house for brunch and exchanging gifts. Their almost two-year-old daughter, A.R., was in fine form, enjoying everything. But the funniest story of the day was something I didn't get to see because it happened before we arrived.

A.R. got an adorable red kitchen for Christmas - the cutest play kitchen I think I've ever seen. I was jealous; I want a kitchen that cute. However, L.L. is pregnant and has morning sickness. A.R. imitated her mummy by wrapping her arms around her new little kitchen sink and making barfing noises and then asking Daddy for water. Mummy and Daddy were laughing too hard to make a video or get any pictures.

It will just have to be a story that goes down in Christmas morning history.

Infinities of love,

Lola

LOVE MY KIDS EVEN IF NOBODY GIVES ME A DIAMOND BRACELET TODAY

Happy Day all you mothers out there.