HOW SMOKING POT GOT ME UNINVITED TO THE HOMECOMING DANCE

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

My children did not indulge in a great deal of drinking and drugging when they were in high school. There was the time Favorite Young Man came home from "camping at the lake" and barfed up everything including his toenails and then passed out, and I'm sure that wasn't the only time he was inebriated. But then he got into being straight edge. What a loser. Hahahahahaha. I love him.

I feel quite certain that Someone I Love didn't learn to enjoy pot and drinking until she went to college because her fancy-schmancy high school had a zero tolerance policy and there was no way the valedictorian was going to risk getting kicked out. And her school really did send kids home the minute they got caught. Those critters were whisked away so fast they didn't even get to say goodbye to their friends.

Of course, she smoked plenty of weed and did her share of drinking in college to make up for lost time. I know because she told me lots of stories about it and I laughed my ass off at her shenanigans.

However, when she called after her first few days at college, she said, The entire North campus smells like pot. I asked, How do you know what pot smells like? She said, Well, you're the one who took me to a Beck concert.

So she wasn't totally naive, thanks to Mommy.

Not too long ago I wrote a post about walking at my neighborhood park with Franklin and encountering some nice kids who were smoking a doobie, but they didn't offer to share.

One tale always leads to another so I was thinking about the time I got uninvited to the Homecoming dance because I smoked pot.

When I was a sophomore in high school, I had a little crush for a while on this guy named G. He was pretty good looking and intelligent and was rapidly killing his brain cells with all the pot he smoked. The next year when I was a junior, and he was a senior, he suddenly returned my interest, which I had lost but regained when he gave me this look that I now know didn't mean Oh wow, you are so hot and so intelligent. It meant: Do I have a chance of getting laid?

And no, he didn't.

So we were at a party and G. asked if I wanted to go with him to get some beer, so I said sure. I wonder if he was 18. I know I was too young to buy it, although I did all the time. Then when we returned to the party, before I could get out of the car, he leaned over and kissed me. Imagine the little girlish squeal that was going off inside my brain because this cool senior kissed me.

Instead of going back into the party, we stayed outside by the front door, making out, so everyone entering or leaving kinda got the feeling we were together. G. drove me home from the party and on the way he asked if I would go to the Homecoming dance with him. It was coming up in about three or four weeks. I said, Aieeeeeeeee! YES YES YES I WILL GO WITH YOU. Actually that was internal monologue because I just said something intelligent like O.K.

So all of a sudden G. and I were a couple. He came over to my house to make out and we walked around school with our arms around each other. I don't remember why I was dressed in what kind of looks like an army uniform in this photo of us, but girls will be girls.

Then G. and I went to another party. We were playing pool and I really didn't know how, so every time G. turned around to talk to somebody this guy named J.T. would help me get the ball in the pocket.

We finished our game and I sat down at a table to drink a beer. I was sitting next to T., who now went to college and was on my favorites list. Oi! Such blue eyes he had and he wore nice shirts with his initials embroidered on them and he didn't wear a watch. He had a pocket watch. He was sooooo cool.

So I was sitting there talking to T. and all of a sudden I realized G. had disappeared. Where's G? Nobody knew. Some of his friends were gone too. So T. said to me, You wanna go smoke a joint with D. and me?

I said, Sure.

So we walked to a nearby park and smoked a joint.

We got back and G. was there and he looked kinda pissed. What could be wrong?

He said he was ready to leave so we got in the car and drove to my house and on the way he said something I don't exactly remember, but the gist of it was that he uninvited me to the Homecoming dance. Again, I said O.K.

And that was the end of us. Apparently he didn't like it that when he went off to smoke a joint, which was what he was doing, I went off to smoke a joint.

Ah, the never ending double standard.

I guess if I hadn't gone to pot, maybe I would have married G., and I probably would have gotten divorced a lot sooner because he turned into a rabid Republican. I certainly couldn't have tolerated that.

Anyway, G., in the words of the great Lesley Gore: You don't own me. Don't say I can't go with other boys . . . to smoke dope.

Infinities of love,

Lola

P.S. I'm convinced G. turned into a Republican because of pot-induced brain cell loss.

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

EENIE MEENIE MINIE MO

Gentle Readers,

When I was in second grade in Haven, Kansas -- a town so small it had no traffic lights -- each day when we ran out to recess, Sharon and Ricky took off for the playground, shouting, Eenie Meenie Minie Mo, Catch a tiger by the toe . . . .

Except they didn't say tiger. Although I had never seen a black person face to face, I knew Sharon and Ricky were bad.

One day after recess, I raised my hand and said, Mrs. Snyder, Sharon and Ricky say nigger out on the playground.

Sharon raised her hand and countered with, Lola is a tattle tale.

Mrs. Snyder said, Yes. Lola is a tattle tale.

What? I was only in second grade but I already had a sense of justice. If someone is doing something really wrong, then aren't you supposed to tell an adult?

Sharon and Ricky kept on meenie, minie, moing every day on the playground.

Fast forward a few months and my dad was now stationed in Topeka, Kansas. Soon after we arrived we drove down the main drag in downtown Topeka.

It was the first time I saw real, live black people. And I saw that they were, indeed, people. Just people. Walking along, smiling and talking and laughing.

But my mom said, Look at the niggers walking up the street in their short pants.

I felt sick and embarrassed. This word was wrong and bad, but there was no adult to tell except the offender, and besides, I'd already been labeled tattle tale.

I am a bit ashamed to tell you this story about my mother, but fortunately, she changed for the better.

After I married and my parents moved into a townhouse community with a pool, my children and  I visited during the summer. A black woman was sitting in the shade, watching her grandsons play. When we arrived, she called them out of the pool.

After they left, my mom said, They're the only black people who live here and they always get the kids out of the pool when white people get in. I wish they wouldn't. I don't think anyone would be crude enough to say anything.

It was nice to hear that evidence of my mother's change, but perhaps it never occurred to hear that the grandmother did not get her grandsons out of the pool to avoid offending her white neighbors.

Maybe she didn't want her grandsons in a pool contaminated by white people.

Infinities of love,

Lola

WHAT! MONDAY

Gentle Readers,

I think you'll find today's What? Monday question enjoyable. Drum roll, please.

ratatatatatatatatatat

WHAT IS THE FUNNIEST MOVIE YOU HAVE EVER SEEN?

As usual, it's o.k. to give more than one answer. It's difficult to pick just one of anything.

Maybe I tend to enjoy somewhat lowbrow humor, but my favorite movie for quite some time was Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery. Then last year Get Him To The Greek came out and I fell seriously in love with Russell Brand. His Aldous Snow topped Austin Powers.

However, I also enjoy movies that aren't so in your face funny. I absolutely adore The Royal Tennenbaums. Everybody in that movie is hilarious.

O.K. It's your turn to answer.

Infinities of love,

Lola

WHAT? MONDAY

Gentle Readers,

I've decided to start a new feature that will appear every Monday if I remember to do it. I'm going to ask a question that I will answer myself, and then I hope you'll answer it too. It will help us learn more about each other and besides I'm one nosy bitch. It will also get our brains in thinking mode for the week. Remember, now, every Monday be prepared for this feature, which I will continue to do if I feel like it.

I think the first question is an easy one, though I've found in the past that some people cannot make up their minds about the simplest freaking things have difficulty choosing a single answer; therefore, if you like, tell us your two or three top choices.

And the question is

What is your all-time favorite book?

 It can be your favorite childhood book, fiction, non-fiction, poetry, cookbook, coffee table book. Remember Kramer's coffee table book about coffee tables on Seinfeld? It could even be that book.

As a highbrow English major, my Numero Uno favorite book is The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, with A Portrait of the Artist As A Young Man by James Joyce a close second and The Sound and The Fury by William Faulkner an even closer third. 


Fitzgerald is so clean and perfect. Gatsby does not have a single wasted word, and the style if lyrical.

I also love everything Jane Austen wrote, some contemporary fiction, and lots of non-fiction that helps me learn my history. My favorite poets are Emily Dickinson and Sylvia Plath.

Now I hope you'll answer the question, too, or "Daddy, Daddy, you bastard, I'm through."

Infinities of love,

Lola

MILE HIGH LOLA

Gentle Readers,

We are up to 25 followers. Can you believe how quickly this has happened? I thank every one of you who referred someone to me and those of you who followed me after I followed you and those of you who showed up of your own volition, maybe because you had nothing better to do. It's all good Mama.

I'm so happy that I came right out of the closet and said I wanted more followers. It reminds me of a song I used to teach my Sunday School students, and yes, I know it's scary that I taught Sunday School and Vacation Bible School, but as far as I know I didn't cause permanent damage to any children. Anyhoo, the chorus of the song went like this:

• 
  

If you will ask, it will be given to you.
If you will seek, the Lord will help you find.
If you will knock, the door will open to you
Because God gives good gifts to those who ask him to. 

I also went out on a limb and risked the bough breaking and the cradle falling and down will come Lola (isn't that a creepy song for little kids when you think about it?) when I asked Cinderita if I could write a guest post for her. She could have said no. I would have been disappointed, but I would have lived. We have to risk failure sometimes to get what we want, and happily, Cinderita said yes. So,

NEXT FRIDAY IS A VERY IMPORTANT DAY! I GUEST POST AT The Adventures of Cinderita.  YES, I KNOW THAT PREVIOUSLY THIS MESSAGE SAID I WOULD GUEST POST TOMORROW. BUT BECAUSE OF TECHNICAL GLITCHES, MY DEBUT IS DELAYED. 

I know it might seem kind of strange to you that a woman of my age  considerable experience could be a virgin at anything, but I am a virgin guest poster. Please be gentle with me next week. Hold me as you would the finest china. Go to Cinderita's blog and read my post and leave me some love there so Cinderita knows that there are people in the world who like me! Who really like me! And remember, it will be NEXT Friday, not tomorrow.

Now let's get down to posting. Life 101 wrote a post on Tuesday about some folks who on 9/11, on a commercial airliner, in the bathroom, caused a considerable amount of trouble because they got caught  attempting to? or actually did? join The Mile High Club.

I have been confused by The Mile High Club for many years. I am most definitely not a member, and I strongly suspect that the club is a joke that doesn't really exist. If you want to tell me I'm wrong and you know the club exists because you belong, then feel free to write a comment complete with details that make everybody scream TMI, and I promise nobody will snicker at you (yeah, right).

Let's be logical about going in the bathroom of an airplane. I don't use airplane bathrooms unless I absolutely must. The water in the toilet is way too blue, for one thing, and for another, you open the nasty folding door and you slither into the bathroom and then you pretty much have to press yourself against the toilet to close the door. It's rather difficult to walk in and turn around to close the door. There is not enough room to turn around comfortably.

If it's difficult for one person to get in an airplane bathroom, then how could two people get in there? Did the guy drop to his knees and the woman rode in on his shoulders? Did one of them stand on the toilet seat while the other squeezed in (oh gross, what if your foot slipped and ended up in the blue water?)? Were they really skinny contortionists? You tell me how it's done. I always found it difficult to get into an airplane bathroom with a tiny toddler.

Now let's assume that somehow the two of them got into the bathroom, which apparently, actually happened. Once the two are in that teeny-tiny space, uh, how do they manage to do it? There's barely enough room for one woman to get her pants down. How do two people have enough room to get their pants down? And then do they bump uglies standing up? That would be so uncomfortable, and I can see how those people got caught if that's what they did. Somebody would be banging (intentional use of pun) up against the door as the act occurred. I think that would alert the plane's staff pretty quickly.

Another possibility, and this is so disgusting, is that one person sits on the toilet and the other person is on his knees, and I just don't want to think about the rest. 

Or maybe somebody put her bare butt on the sink . . .  This is something people want to do because it's sexy? Oh puh-lease.

I could go on and on and on because I am Lola and I have so much to say, but I'll try to stop for now. 

I'll just make an even greater effort to stay out of airplane bathrooms because who knows what has gone on in there besides peeing?

Infinities of love,

Lola

Seriously: I want to know if The Mile High Club is for real and how doin' the nasty in that tiny stinky disgusting space is accomplished and why would anyone want to? Are there people in first class shit-faced enough from the free liquor to actually think woo-hooing in the toilet is sexy? You get off the plane after a while. You go home and get in your nice comfy bed. Or, if necessary, go to a hotel. Or if you're that desperate, drive the Chevy onto a back road and climb in the back seat. A back seat would be more comfortable than an airplane bathroom. I think I'm really finished now, so good night.

 

MY SMILE IS TURNED UPSIDE DOWN

Yes, Gentle Readers, it's true: I'm frowning. I don't like it that stuff is disappearing from my blog. LegalMist says she can see my followers, but I can't see you; and seeing you, all 13 of you (including me) makes my day. I received an email from amazon about their stuff no longer working and I told them how I've taken everything off my blog and then installed it again and it works for a little while and then it quits again, and amazon was like go to the link and install everything again. I Did That! I Said I Did That! They don't even really read my emails. Amazon should appreciate me. I think they've gotten at least three orders through recommendations on my blog, and only one was my order. So TWO orders! What's wrong with you fuckers at amazon? Show me some love!

And speaking of love: Gentle Readers, you know I adore you, but how come you have so many followers and I only have 13 (including me)? You keep telling me how funny and interesting I am, but my own family members won't even follow me. So what if I say pissy things about them? The pissy stuff is funny, and they should be grateful that I've turned them into jokes. My BFF doesn't follow me. I only say nice things about her. I think she doesn't know how to follow me, and I understand that sometimes things are confusing. I visited Lola is 40 today (not me, another Lola), and I had to send her an email and ask how to follow her. I don't want to follow her on twitter; I just want to be a regular follower. I couldn't find the place to click to just be a regular follower. Maybe about 150 people want to follow me, but they don't know how.

Probably not.

My dogs don't follow me.

Look at that big fuckin' lazy dog, has time to sniff a nasty stinky poopy baby, but can that dog be bothered to follow me?

Hell Noooooo.

So I'm just not feeling loved, especially since my anniversary was not too long ago, and anniversary time is so depressing for a dumped first wife.

But I love you all very much. I even love all the people who should follow me and don't.

Infinities of love,

Lola

MY BELOVED FOLLOWERS

Gentle Readers,

I don't know what's wrong with my blog, but the photos of you, my gentle readers, are gone. My amazon.com links also don't work.

I looked at blogger's problems discussion, and a number of people said their followers had disappeared. Someone said it had been fixed, but then many people said, Oh no it hasn't.

I emailed amazon associates to try to learn why they're freezing me out.

What problems do you have with blogger and what have you found to be helpful in getting your problems fixed? I find that the chat sections and FAQs are of little help.

Infinities of love,

Lola

THE EXECUTION OF WANDA JEAN

Gentle Readers,

I watched an excellent documentary recently called The Execution of Wanda Jean. It was very well made, and of course, it reinforced my belief that our country should do away with the death penalty.

The movie came out in 2002, and it's not easy to watch Jean's (the name she used most often) family go through the ups and downs of appealing her death sentence.

Wanda Jean Allen was in a lesbian relationship. She shot and killed the woman she loved because Gloria Leathers was leaving her. Jean had also killed once before and had received a very lenient sentence. But the second time, she received the death penalty. The lawyer who represented her during the trial openly admitted that he was not qualified to do so, and he did not present evidence of her brain damage and low IQ.

Evaluations revealed that the brain damage (she had been hit by a truck and suffered a head injury as a teenager and had been stabbed in the head) kept her from processing everyday logic that most of us take for granted, and she did not understand cause and effect relationships. Her IQ was 69.

Jean also lied and said she had graduated from high school and completed two years of college. Maybe she was accustomed to telling these stories to try to feel smarter. I don't know; the clemency board didn't seem to care that she was actually a high school dropout. They decided that if she had that education then she couldn't have such a low IQ.

By the time more qualified experts took on the case and presented the evidence that should have been provided during her trial, it was too late. No one had any mercy for Jean. Even Jesse Jackson could not convince the governor of Oklahoma, Frank Keating, to spare Jean, who was upbeat and seemingly more happy with her life as a prisoner than most people would be. I suspect the routine was reassuring to someone who had difficulty with day-to-day life.

Jean was sentenced in 1988, but not executed until 2001. As she went to the table where she would receive her lethal injection, she danced and stuck out her tongue at her lawyer, whom she liked. She believed she would return to her cell in the morning.

One of Leathers' family members was aghast at her behavior, which I can understand. He lost a loved one.

But it seems pretty apparent that Jean, despite all the coaching she received from her lawyer, really didn't know what was going on.

How can we execute people who don't know they are being executed, who do not understand the consequences of firing a gun? When I lived in another state, there was a lovely woman with whom I was acquainted. She had three children, all elementary school age. Her husband kept hunting rifles in the house. One evening the children were playing upstairs and their eight-year-old son shot and killed his six-year-old sister. Should that child be executed for killing his sister?

I don't believe that Wanda Jean Allen knew what she was doing any more than that eight-year-old child did.

The United States should not execute people for the following reasons:

1. Too many innocent people have been executed or sentenced to death. The Innocence Project has proven this and it was well known even before DNA evidence came into use. The execution of even one innocent person is too many.

2. The former chaplain at Huntsville State Prison in Texas, Rev. Carroll Pickett (where they carry out the highest number of executions in the nation), accompanied 95 men and women on their journey toward death. He states in At the Death House Door -- another excellent documentary -- that prisoners who are placed in solitary confinement are so miserable they beg to be executed. So wouldn't society achieve a "higher" level of punishment by letting killers rot in prison?

3. Where there is life, there is hope. When we kill people, all hope for redemption is lost.

We can achieve separation of church and state and still behave as if we are a Christian nation.

Infinities of love and life,

Lola

YOU MUST BE KIDDING ME

Gentle Readers,

We must welcome a new follower: Bouncin' Barb can be found bouncin' through life at http://bouncinbarbs.blogspot.com/2011/07/ive-seen-that-face-before.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+ThisAndThatasIBounceThruLife+%28This+and+That+%28As+I+Bounce+Thru%27+Life%29%29. I hope you read the post you can find by clicking on the link because it's very interesting and unusual and Barb seems to have fun trampolining away.

Welcome, welcome, welcome Bouncin' Barb!

Pssssst - Barb, let's get together and see what we can score. We're never too old.

I also recommend you read Cinderita's very thoughtful and intelligent post at http://cinderitaadventures.blogspot.com/2011/07/will-you-respect-me-in-morning.html
I wrote a ridiculously lengthy comment on this post and was not able to give Huggable Cinderita a good answer to her question. Perhaps you can do better than I did.

Now on to some very serious business:  My Dear Mrs. Tuna informed us recently that the ideal blog post is 200 - 300 words.

I can't tell someone to turn right at the corner in less than 500 words. I'm totally incapable of giving a simple answer to a simple question. In fact, I don't believe there's any such thing as a simple answer. Nuances of meaning and endless possibilities get in the way.

When I worked at the nursing home oh so long ago, one of the nursing assistants asked me what I was going to do with several cups of ice.

Put it down your pants, I responded.

Then I explained that I was actually taking it to put in the watcher pitcher of a man who was in isolation. We couldn't take the pitcher out of the room to refill it, but we could take ice in to add it.

The assistant's response to this was, There's no such thing as a yes or no answer to a question with you, is there?

I had to admit there is not. There's simply too much in the world that must be explained or pondered out loud before I answer a question.

I can't help it.

God made me this way.

Infinities of love,

Lola

SOME SO LONGS AND FAREWELLS

Gentle Readers,

I already wrote to you last week about how much I enjoyed the season finale of Raising Hope. Since then I've watched the season endings of my other favorite shows, and I even watched the farewell of a show that didn't interest me for 24 3/4 years.

First, second season ending of Glee: Glee is not as good as it was in season one. It lost its edge. It's not as funny. I'm not sure if the creators and writers used up their best ideas during the first season, like Quinn telling Finn she got pregnant in the hot tub and Terri Shuester's fake pregnancy, or if it was so over the top hilarious that some people didn't get it and the producers decided to go a little more mainstream for the second season. Because of that loss, there wasn't as much for Sue Sylvester to sink her fangs into. But I still love, love, love the music, and the show is fun. I found the season finale a huge letdown, but I'll be back for season three.

House has finished its seventh season. House lost its edge a long time ago when House had the competition to replace his team and hired Thirteen and Taub and Kutner, who ended up committing suicide because he knew the show was going downhill because he worked on President Obama's campaign and took a post in the administration. I used to love the chemistry between Cameron and Chase, which certainly could not be replaced by House and Cuddy's fauxmance (I think I just invented a new word). Why do I keep watching? House still has its moments, and I adore a good, gross medical mystery.

Then there's The Office. As far as I'm concerned, this show pretty much ended when Steve Carell left. I enjoyed the way Michael Scott's character developed over the years. He wasn't nearly as obnoxious at the end as he was at the beginning, yet he was still funny. Static characters are a bore, just as stasis is in general. I'll watch next fall because I want to know who the new manager will be.

You may sense a pattern here: Once I commit to a show, I usually continue to watch until it ends for good.

Now, a show I avoided like the plague for 24 3/4 years. Obviously, it's Oprah. I watched her final show, and it actually made me wish I had watched a long time ago because I think I learned something. For the most part, Oprah spent her final show talking about why she did the show and what she learned and hoped her viewers had learned. She said, and I paraphrase here, that we all make bad decisions in life and then we go around blaming everyone except ourselves instead of making changes. Lawdy, Lawdy, Miss Oprah, I do believe you hit my nail right on the head. It's taken almost two years of living alone for me to realize that I made bad decisions in my marriage and then thought I was just as trapped as I was as a child in my parents' home. I should have made changes long, long ago. Both my husband and I blamed each other for our unhappiness. I am lonely, but I was lonely when I was married. I'm definitely better off now, but I don't like the thought of growing old alone.

Oprah also said we all have a calling, and we need to go after it. I thought teaching was my calling, but I'm questioning it because of the loss of my teaching job. Did I lose the job because I'm not a good teacher or did I lose the job because it would be a learning experience? I'm confused and not sure what the answer is. I have to think and ponder and pray and decide if teaching really is my calling; if it is, then I'm not going to let one bad principal get in my way.

I'm not sure where I'm going, but I'm definitely headed somewhere. For now, though, I must stop writing because one of the dogs has such terrible gas that I simply must get out of this room and get some fresh air. Dog gas is the worst.

But I loves me my doggie men.

Infinities of love,

Lola

WHORING OR EDUCATING

Gentle Readers,

I have this crazy idea that I want to go to school and get more education in the field of education. Maybe making myself more marketable as a teacher would get me past the whistle blower black ball thing, and even better, maybe I would be more helpful to the students. It's so rewarding to teach a kid something and see the light bulb come on over the head.

The problem is I don't have any money for school. I already owe money out the you know what from refinancing my house so I could get what's his butt off the deed. I can fill out a FAFSA, but I doubt if I'm poverty stricken enough to qualify for a Pell grant. Someone at the school I'm researching suggested applying for a Stafford loan, but man, at my age, the last thing I need is to spend my final years of working paying off loans. It almost wouldn't be worth it.

Or I could become a whore.

Infinities of love,

Lola

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

Gentle Readers,

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

I'm not so sure that's true. What if a rose were called a skrunklebutt?

I had a high school teacher who said, You are your name.

I had a college professor who said, Words are power.

I agree with both of them.

Scrunklebutt does not sound sweet and pretty and I think if a rose were called a skrunklebutt that it would take on the ugly associations of the icky-sounding word.

When I was in elementary school, there was a boy named ****** Dick. He was a year younger than me and was a perfectly nice kid. He got picked on mercilessly. There was nothing wrong with him except that his last name was Dick. Thus, he was not Mr. Popularity. My buds and I yelled at the dumb kids who picked on him and invited him to play tether ball with us.

I also had to deal with a business associate one time who had a difficult to pronounce and spell last name. She helped me out with it and then said, At least it's better than my maiden name, which was Buttkiss.

It took all my strength and will power, but I did not laugh. I simply said, I bet you would have married just about anyone to get rid of that. She smiled and was cheerful about it, but I bet she wasn't smiling and cheerful growing up. I bet she was tortured. And she was a very pretty, nice woman. You can't get anywhere in the world with the name Buttkiss any more than a flower called a skrunklebutt can be beautiful and smell sweet. Some people would defend the skrunklebutt and say its name doesn't matter, but most people would despise the skrunklebutt.

If names didn't have important associations, then lots of German kids named Adolf would still be running around. I don't think Coors beer mentions too often anymore that Adolf Coors was their founder. The name Adolf in and of itself isn't ugly, but it has ugly associations.

How about Adolf Buttkiss Dick? Now there's a name for you. And the altar flowers when he's baptized could be skrunklebutts.

I know I'm dumping lots of ideas on you today, but I want you to start thinking about the importance of names because I have more to say about them,

In fact, I have quite a bit to say about names, but I think this is enough for now.

And the next times somebody gives you roses, I bet you'll think, Ahhhh shit, it's skrunklebutts.

Infinities of love,

Lola

JESUS PICTURES

Gentle Readers,

I simply do not understand the pictures of Jesus that a lot of white people have up in their houses. In the first place, they usually look like pretty cheap crappy prints and they're in cheap crappy frames.

But what's really ridiculous is that Jesus is usually depicted as having light brown, almost blond hair, very fair skin, and blue eyes. Jesus was Jewish and he lived in the Middle East. Does a light haired pasty-faced blue- eyed Jesus make the slightest bit of sense?

I don't think so.

A friend of mine who is black (not that this is necessarily a black and white thing; I'm just turning it into one based on my limited experience) has a beautiful portrait of Mary and Jesus. It's a lovely print in a lovely frame and Mary and Jesus are black.

I think Jesus probably would have had olive skin and dark eyes and dark hair, but black certainly makes more sense than white. And if we're going to put up pictures of what we think Jesus looked like, then let's at least make them respectful by using a nice print and not some doo-doo picture.

And that's all I have to say about that . . . for now.

Infinities of love,

Lola

HOMOPHOBIA

Gentle Readers,

I hear way too many kids calling each other gay or bi. And most of the time they're not joking around. The offender says it seriously and the offended takes it seriously. It's going to lead to physical altercations if it hasn't already.

I don't understand. Has this been a popular way to pick on someone for a long time and I just haven't seen it?

I know that kids who really are gay or bi get picked on. It's not o.k. But why is it such a popular insult? Most of these kids probably are not gay, but it doesn't really matter if they are or not. It's wrong and horrible and it really upsets me.

I also hear a lot of racist "jokes" from teenagers. They aren't the tiniest bit amusing.

Have we made no progress?

I am so confused.

Infinities of love,

Lola

FAILURE TO ATTIRE

Gentle Readers,

I am fascinated by a sign on the door of my credit union: Proper Attire Is Required Inside The Building.

So the question is, what constitutes improper attire?

Such a sign makes me want to push the limits and see just how far I can go before I arrive at improper attire. Would it require a complete or nearly complete lack of attire?

During my most recent visit to the credit union, I was waiting to gain access to my safety deposit box when a young man strutted past me with his jeans tightly belted below his rear end so his pale grey boxers billowed in his self-created breeze. I've seen plenty of guys with their pants slung low, brightly colored boxers peeking out, but the tight belt below the butt was a new experience for me.

What if I belted my jeans very tightly below my buns while wearing a short top so that my pink granny panties waved hello to all viewers?

I can just imagine the comments: Lord Gawd, shee-it, look at that ole' gal, she must be senile.

Or perhaps some kind older woman would tap me on the shoulder and whisper, Sweetie, you forgot to pull your pants up.

I have on occasion managed to tuck my skirt into the back of my undies.

But proper attire is required only inside the building. What if I stand just outside the front door bare-butt nekked? How long would it take for someone to ask me to leave? Perhaps the guard on duty at the front desk would be given this task.

They'd have to wake him up first. When last I arrived, he had nodded off and didn't open his sleepy eyes to stretch and yawn until I had been there for about 20 minutes.

For some reason all this talk of wear and tear reminds me of an old Livingston (brother of James) Taylor song: Jacques, Jacques, Jacques Cousteau, how low, how low, will you go?

Or something like that. How low will I go?

Here's to pushing the limits.

Infinities of love,

Lola