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.

DOGGIE DEPRESSION

Gentle Readers . . .  and Maxwell,

I have written about my depression on more than one occasion, most recently in  The Illnesses You Can't See.

But I'm sure you've heard that dogs can become depressed too. Faulkner the smooth Collie became extremely depressed when Thoreau the Treeing Walker Coonhound died.

 

I think it was because Faulkner was so sensitive, and because he was the one who discovered that Thoreau had died.

Reau, as we liked to call him, didn't seem like himself one night when it was time to go to bed. He acted as if he didn't know how to come in the house at bedtime. I suspected he was preparing to die, but decided not to take him to the emergency clinic if it could be avoided. I wanted to let him die peacefully at home.

So I led him into the house and we all went upstairs to bed. At first Reau slept on the bed with me, but after a while, he got down to sleep on the floor. At 3 a.m., Faulkner sounded the alarm. He was always the one who awakened me if one of the other dogs needed to go out in the middle of the night or if someone got sick.

He would put his nose directly on mine, and if I didn't wake up, he would put his nose under my head and lift my head. That never failed to open my eyes.

But this night he barked and I knew why. I got up, and there was my beloved Thoreau, gone to Heaven.

I was at home alone with the dogs. I called a neighbor and she very kindly came over so we could place Thoreau on a blanket and move him to the garage. This was no easy task. He was a very solid dog.

In the morning, some of the men who worked with my ex-husband came over, and they buried Thoreau under the tree where he liked to nap in the shade.

I sobbed and sobbed when Reau died and cried on and off for days. But if I was unhappy, Faulkner was absolutely disconsolate. He became extremely depressed and would lie on the couch in the living room all by himself when the rest of us were in the family room. The poor dog barely moved.

It surprised me a little bit because he and Thoreau were not special buddies. They didn't run and play together. Reau wasn't one to play. He pointed at squirrels and chewed through boards on the fence so he could go to a farm pond to swim. Then he would come home -- wet, dirty, happy -- and Voldemort would replace another board in the fence.

Faulkner also held himself a little apart from the other dogs. He wasn't unkind to them. He knew he was there to take care of all lesser creatures, including us.

Maybe Faulkner was so upset because he and Reau had that apart from the gang thing in common, or perhaps, he recognized his own mortality that night.

For weeks after Reau's death, Faulkner was glued to the couch, not a tail wag in sight.

I took him to the vet, who said to give him extra petting and walks and attention, but it could take some time for him to come out of it. Eventually, he did. We lived happily together and in love until he joined Reau in Heaven.

But it's not just us who can get depressed. Our closest friends can too.

Infinities of love,

Lola

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

WHAT? MONDAY

Gentle Readers . . .  and Maxwell,

Pearl Harbor Day is this week: "December Seventh, 1941, a day which will live in infamy."

Folks who are old enough to remember that day know where they were when they heard that Pearl Harbor had been attacked by the Japanese. D., one of my marvelous men 
at the nursing home, couldn't remember what he said the second after he said it. But he knew exactly what street he was on in Baltimore and what he was doing when he heard about Pearl Harbor.

So today's What? Monday question is

What days of historical or personal significance do you remember?

The first one in my life would be Friday, November 22nd, 1963 -- if I actually remembered it. It was the day President Kennedy was assassinated. I was four years old. Strangely, I remember the funeral. The procession went by over and over again on our black and white TV with the poor, snowy reception. I specifically remember my dad explaining the significance of the riderless horse.

However, I don't remember learning that the president had been killed.

Some other important dates for me:

February 9th, 1963: First time Beatles were on Ed Sullivan show (I don't actually remember this date; I remember the event.)
August 9th, 1974: President Nixon resigned.
February 14th, 1977: Lost my virginity in the back seat of my Mustang.
August 16th, 1977: Elvis died
December 9th, 1980: John Lennon murdered.
November 9th, 1989: Berlin Wall started to come down.

I know exactly where I was when each of these events occurred, and I could go and on with important dates, but I guess I'll skip to September 11th, 2001.

It was Someone I Love's first day of her sophomore year in high school. I took her to school and got home and turned on The Today Show. The first plane had hit and as the country watched, the second plane hit. It was a day that seemed never ending.

So, tell us please:

What days of historical or personal significance do you remember?

Infinities of love,

Lola

P.S. This is the final week that I'll collect funds for the blogger in need. Please donate if you can. The PayPal button is to your right.

THE ILLNESSES YOU CAN'T SEE

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

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

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

But I have other problems -- invisible illnesses.

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

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

Sounds as if they could have used some help.

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

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

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

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

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

But then I experienced a huge letdown.

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

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

Infinities of love,

Lola

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

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

HIDE UNDER YOUR DESK!

Gentle Readers,

When I was in school we had fire drills and tornado drills. But the days of bomb drills were over. I have never ceased to be amused by the idea that having children crawl under their school desks would somehow protect them from the dreaded atomic bomb. Fire bombs? Maybe. Napalm? Perhaps.  But not atomic bombs.

Here's how Sharon Doubiago describes her elementary school bomb drills in My Father's Love: Portrait Of The Poet As A Young Girl :

We had to learn to distinguish between the sirens to know the correct thing to do. The Bomb siren would go off and instead of lining up and filing out of the building to the sand dunes we had to jump out of our desks, throw our right arm up across the back of our neck to shield our selves -- the neck is where the Bomb's radiation will penetrate -- while maneuvering with the left to get under the desk. Being exactly between Los Angeles and Long Beach, being a neighbor of Douglas Aircraft and right on the Los Angeles River, at the very heart of the Basin, Hollydale School was a prime target.

When I worked at the nursing home, we had a book with instructions to follow in case of an emergency. The instructions for nuclear warfare were hilarious:

Stay inside. Do not open any windows or doors.

Yeah, a lot of fucking good that would have done.

 
  Close the door! Here it comes!

Infinities of love,

Lola

DAY AND NIGHT

Gentle Readers,

When I worked at the nursing home, long ago, I chose to work the night shift. I'm not sure why. It paid a little more. That didn't hurt. And I had done my clinicals during the day shift. I didn't care for the way the staff behaved during the day. The nurses were rude and lazy and the assistants were rude and lazy. To me they seemed far more concerned with getting their breaks than with getting their work done.

So I took the 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. shift. At first it was hell. But then this bond began to form between most of us. It wasn't something we really talked about. We just knew we wanted to provide better care and have better working relationships. So a group of us made it happen.

Staff members who couldn't get with the program soon left or were fired.

The night shift got better. The patients were cleaner and more comfortable. We cleaned out bedside table drawers and bathroom drawers that were filled with useless crap. Speaking of crap, I even found used toilet paper, and I'm talking used poopy toilet paper, in the drawer of a bedside table. A candy cane was in the drawer too. The patient was in a vegetative state. I don't know why in the hell anybody would give her a candy cane, and she certainly did not reach over after wiping her butt and put that toilet paper in her drawer.

Yes, night shift did better and better work because of our unspoken commitment and the bond we shared.

Yet, when we "got the report" from the charge nurse, she quite often told us about complaints from the day shift about how poor our work was. Supposedly, we spent the entire night sitting around reading the newspaper. A few people did act that way, but not many. We all took our meal breaks, but most of us did not take other breaks. There wasn't time. Our people needed us.

A few times when the day shift was very poorly staffed, like hardly anybody showed up for work, I went in to help and always regretted it. There I was, giving up my day off, and people treated me like shit -- treated me like I didn't do anything.

Haven't you fed so and so? Miss Snotty Ass asked me.

No, I replied. The charge nurse told me to do this so I'm doing it.

Miss Snotty Ass applauded sarcastically and walked away.

One time a day nurse noticed some bruises on my arms and asked how I had gotten them. Oh, I'm sure I just bumped into something. I bruise easily, I replied cavalierly.

Well, it looks, you know, like handcuffs, she said.

And I don't think she meant the pink furry kind.

I was appalled. I was Mrs. Lola Tweedledee. My husband was Dr. Iam Tweedledum. I was somebody around town. No one had ever spoken to me that way before. And it didn't really matter who I was. She had no business speaking that way to the lowliest among us. A friend of mine said to her, Lola is not that kind of a person.

That nurse got fired before long.

Then there was the day nurse who wouldn't get up off her ass and come to help me when I fell with a patient. The patient didn't seem to be hurt, Thank God, but I had hit my face on a table and had a black eye. More important, we needed to assess the patient and if she was o.k., we needed to get her in bed. She was very large and it would require several of us to get her in the Hoyer lift and in bed.

I went out and called to the nurse that I had fallen with a patient and needed help immediately. Then I started rounding up assistants to help us get the patient back into bed as long as she was not injured. The nurse said lackadaisically, Was it a fall or a lower? Meaning did I lower her to the floor or did we actually fall.

It was a fall.

She asked me again, Was it a fall or a lower?

A FALL.

The third time she asked me I lost it and shouted at her to get up and help. She finally unglued her ass from her chair and came down the hall. We checked out the patient with another nurse helping and determined she was not injured. She had no complaints of pain. When they were ready to put her in the Hoyer (mechanical) lift, I left the room and went to another floor where I knew one of my best colleagues was the charge nurse. I hid behind some file cabinets and burst into tears. She heard me and came to find out what was wrong. She called the HR person, who arranged for me to go home with the agreement that I would go to an occupational medicine clinic the next day to have my bruises looked at by a doctor.

I was so upset I could barely drive home.

The next time I worked my beloved 7 p. to 7 a., I told the night supervisor what had happened with the day shift nurse. She said, You're used to working with us at night.

There was something about being with a group of people at 3 a.m. and knowing we were all of one mind that brought out the best in us. That was my all-time favorite job.

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

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

BOTTOMS UP

Gentle Readers,

Do you ever feel like there's something sticking out of your poop chute and you don't know if a poop has popped out and is hanging on or if it's a hemorrhoid?

You don't?

Oh.

Me neither.

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

IF I WORE A BATHING SUIT

Gentle Readers,

If I wore a bathing suit, I fear some good Samaritans would think I'm a whale and try to shove me into the ocean.

Because of course we have lots of oceans here in the Dakotas.

The thing is, though, I am never going to have a bod like that of Sandra at Absolutely Narcissism.

That fucking bitch is fucking hot very nice lady works very hard to maintain a lovely figure.

I used to be skinny, but not so skinny that I had no boobs. I had very nice boobs, according to a number of young men who attended my high school. I was even named Best Body in the school newspaper. I hope schools don't do shit like that anymore. It's really pretty cruel. I remained thin until everything went nuts in my marriage and I took an anti-depressant and gained a ginormous amount of weight, leaving me feeling that I am no longer me.

Off the anti-depressant, I did not lose an ounce. Well, occasionally I could tell I dropped a couple of pounds, but I would also gain them back immediately plus add at least one for good measure.

Then recently I decided to try NutriSystem. They were having a 50% off sale on your first shipment. My health insurance also knocks some money off the price.

The nice thing about NutriSystem is that you don't have to worry about portion control or weighing how much you're eating. The food is all pre-packaged.

The bad thing about NutriSystem is that quite a bit of the food tastes like the cardboard container it comes in, and I never get enough to eat.

Always
always
always

HUNGRY.

At first, I had dreams about cinnamon rolls and other yummy foods. I felt pretty miserable.

Then I realized I could not eat NutriSystem 24/7 or I would go crazy and run to the nearest bakery, buy a large cake (the kind intended for a party where you'll serve 50 people), and eat the entire thing.

So now I take little NutriSystem breaks and have something like one of those little packets of cookies that has 100 calories or a Special K bar, which has 90 calories.

During the first three weeks I lost 11 pounds and that was about three weeks ago. I haven't weighed myself since then. I don't have a scale. But some pants that were too tight last summer now fit just fine.

However, no matter how much NutriSysteming or Jenny Craig or Weight Watchers I do, I am never going to look like Sandra.

But I admire her for her commitment to preparing for a fitness competition. Sandra, you inspire me. I'll try not to give up.

Infinities of love and pounds,

Lola

UNITED STATES V. ANTHONY

Yes, Gentle Readers, I know it was not the United States that prosecuted Casey Anthony -- it was the state of Florida.

But now it seems as if an awful lot of people in the United States want to persecute this young woman.

I was concerned from the beginning that Casey Anthony couldn't get a fair trial. The case was too well known, it generated a great deal of negative energy, and it was pretty obvious that she was guilty of something.

I did not watch the trial every minute of every day, but I followed parts of it each day that it was on TV. When it came down to the closing arguments, I felt convinced that the jury should vote Not Guilty. She is, of course, guilty of lying, and she was found guilty on those counts.

But I think the State of Florida made a major mistake when they charged her with first degree murder. First degree murder (please correct me if I'm wrong LegalMist) means that the perpetrator intends to commit murder and plans the murder in advance. It's not a crime of passion.

I've been hearing and reading hundreds of comments that Casey Anthony should have been found guilty and there was no justice for her daughter.

Well, if that's the case, tell me, please, when and how she intended to murder her daughter AND when and how she carried out her intention AND when and how her daughter's body ended up where it was.

You have no answers because there aren't any. Thus, Not Guilty. It was the only reasonable response.

If she had been found guilty, would it really have brought about some form of justice for her child? Executing Casey Anthony or even sending her to prison forever would not restore life to that little girl.

As for child endangerment, I think she could have been found Guilty on that count because she did not report her daughter missing. The jury thought otherwise. Another Not Guilty.

Manslaughter: I don't think she could have been found guilty because there really wasn't any evidence. Again, Not Guilty.

This is the United States of America, and the jury has spoken. Casey Anthony should not be threatened or harmed in any way, but she will be, and for the rest of her life, she will be known as that mom who got away with murder. She will not have one minute of peace. I think those of you who are so hell-bent on punishing her will have to accept that she is going to be punished for all eternity.

If I were Casey Anthony, I would do whatever it takes to move to another country and start over with a new name. I hope I would also seek the help of mental health professionals because it's obvious that something is not right with that young lady. She lives in some alternate bizarro universe in which telling lie after lie -- even when your daughter has vanished -- is acceptable; and naming someone as the nanny who kidnapped your daughter is fine; and having some sort of culpability in the death of your child is not a problem.

The entire Anthony family needs our prayers, not our condemnation. Leave it to them to condemn themselves and allow the case to rest where it belongs -- in the hands of God.

Infinities of love and prayer,

Lola

SLOVENIA

Gentle Readers,

In between chasing, shushing, and bathing dogs, I want to take a moment to mention that I just saw a woman from Slovenia on TV.

You might not get as excited about Slovenians as I do, but I adore Slovenians because they are my most faithful readers except for Americans.

God Bless You Slovenians! You rule!

Infinities of love,

Lola

MORE ME 'N MY GEE PEE ESS

Gentle Readers,

After posting  ME 'N MY GEE PEE ESS last week, I received an email from my beloved LegalMist, telling me she had tried to comment on that post and had been unable to do so. Apparently, blogger is still having commentary problems.

So, I'm going to post her comment here, because you really should click on the link she provides and read about the murderous Mrs. Tom Tom.

Thus, from LegalMist:

I love my GPS, "Mrs. Tom Tom," too... 

... even though she tried to kill me once: 
http://legalmist.blogspot.com/2008/10/marriage-saving-murderess.html 

Then again, it was probably all my fault for not following her directions properly in the first place.

Or maybe she's just a vengeful bitch.

I know of another case of attempted murder by a GPS. I used to work with someone who retired and took off on a celebratory car trip with her husband. They were in a rather remote area and not sure what to do. So, they obeyed the GPS and ended up off the road with their vehicle in tatters. No cell phone service. Heat during the day. Freezing at night. No one in sight. Food and drink stores depleted.

They decided they had to try to walk out to save their lives. Eventually some motorcyclists came upon them and rescued them. They were covered in insect bites and their lips were so swollen they couldn't eat the little bit of food they had left. 

Hospital. Recovery ensued.

They decided never to obey the GPS unquestioningly again and to always keep friends and family apprised of their whereabouts and when their arrival should be expected. 

I guess all I have to say now is watch out for your GPS because the sweet little lady in it might be a killer in disguise. 

My new cell phone has a navigation feature, which I have used once so far. Ms. ATT was quite pleasant.  

But I haven't yet angered her.

I'll be very careful with Ms. ATT.

Infinities of love and care,

Lola

TECH NO GEEK

Gentle Readers,

I admit it: I am not exactly a technological genius.

I can do the basics. I blog, text, email, google, jabber on my cell phone, poke people on Facebook, and have a Web site I created.

But currently I am on technological overload.

I had the same cell phone for several years. I loved it, but it was starting to fall apart. So I went to the AT&T store where nice, polite young Rad always helps me. I was due for a free upgrade on my telephone, so I got the same kind of phone Rad has.

The telephone is very nice. I have been told it will even do the laundry -- if only I can find the correct spot to tap tap.

And because of my dissatisfaction with my TV and internet providers, I decided to sign up for a U-Verse package, which was installed two days ago.

I could operate the old remote for my television in the dark, and now I'm learning how to use a new remote and I have to become accustomed to a different channel guide and different ways of setting up my close personal friend DVR.

I now have wireless internet, which I particularly wanted so I could make more use of my laptop. The computer is running well. But my laptop is so old that it can't do much on the internet. Rad says I need a new laptop. He told me to go to Wal-Mart and get an HP. I told Rad that Wal-Mart is Satan and I can't go there. Besides, I can't afford a new laptop.

I have also regressed in the sense that I now have a land line in addition to my cell. So my fax machine is hooked up and Someone I Love can send me the math problems she doesn't know how to do. I shall solve them and fax them back to her.

(The part about doing the math problems is a joke. She's getting her Ph.D. in math. I have no comprehension of what she does, but I'll never admit it to her. I have told her for years that it wouldn't be fair to the other kiddies if I helped her with her math.)

I'm very happy I got the U-Verse package. Everything -- TV, wireless internet, land line, new cell phone -- costs the same as my old cell phone, internet, and TV combined. Plus, the new stuff does so many things the old stuff couldn't do -- if only I can figure out how to use it all.

So, here I sit, head pounding, wishing I had a nice Valium or two. I realize this may sound paranoid, but I think the tech world is out to get me. Its glance at me quickly turns into a look of sheer disdain, kind of like the edge in the voice of the GPS lady as described in  ME 'N MY GEE PEE ESS. I know I'll learn how to do everything eventually. It's just that I want to do everything right now. At first, I couldn't even figure out how to answer a telephone call, and the directions do not include instructions for doing something as simple as answering a call. It turns out all I have to do is pick up the phone and say hello, is it me you're looking for? I don't have to press any buttons to answer.

And some day, some way, I will have a new laptop. But probably not this year because to put the icing on the fuckme cake, the school district has a teacher hiring freeze because of budgetary concerns. The district should hire me to fix their budgetary concerns. I bet they're already paying big bucks to consultants who are supposed to solve the problems. Hire me! Hire me! I can fix it all with three hands and a foot tied behind my back.

I'd start by making the schools more energy efficient. Makes sense, right? When I taught back in March, the AC was so cold that the students wore hooded sweatshirts and jackets to class and covered the registers with the literature text books. Why keep a building that cold? Waste, waste, waste.

Turn off the lights when you're not in a room. Turn off the computers when you don't need them.

Second, I'd cut all sports and offer private concerns the opportunity to rent the school gyms and stadiums and sponsor sports clubs. To participate, the kids would have to be enrolled in school, actually attend school, and have a GPA of at least 2.5.

I know cutting sports would make people insane, but they've already cut band and chorus classes, so cut the damn sports too, or at least insist that parents pay a fee if their kids participate in sports. I had to pay a fee every year for Favorite Young Man to play basketball, so it's not as if paying for playing is unprecedented.

Finally, I would cut transportation to magnet schools. If you want to send your kid to a magnet school, then you need to be responsible for getting your student there safely.

There. I think I just took at least 60 million off the budget.

Ah, well. I don't expect the school district will take me up on my offer to solve their budgetary concerns. I would make it all look very simple, which it is. School administrators prefer to make things seem complicated to justify their salaries, which are so much higher than what teachers earn.

Woe woe woe woe.

Infinities of love and woe,

Lola

FUNNY HA HA NOT FUNNY PECULIAR

Gentle Readers,

I love this recent post written by My Dear Mrs. Tuna about her very funny girls' weekend
with her friends and how they think she is the funniest person they've ever met.

Well, I have an eentsy-weentsy problem with this post, My Dear Mrs. Tuna. MY friends
 have been telling me for years that I am the funniest person they've ever met. But I don't 
want to get snippy with you about which one of us is funnier. I mean really, did you read 
my recent post about my gas entitled EVERYONE KNOWS IT'S WINDY? 

You simply cannot beat farting when it comes to funniness.

So, My Dear Mrs. Tuna, I think the solution to which of us is funnier 
is to let our friends get together and duke it out. We will drink and 
chuckle and chortle and make jokes about their prowess, or lack 
thereof. One of your friends will have to take a dive  bow out of the 
fighting to stand on the deck rail and snap your picture whilst 
you drink sangria, and I shall sit in a comfy chair chugging a 
mimosa, not having my photo taken because I am forced to 
avoid the paparazzi -- the result of having given birth to Elvis' 
alien love child and Michael Jackson's chimpanzee's alien love 
child and my current preparation to be a surrogate mom
for Zsa Zsa Gabor's loving husband. 


Yes, her husband will be born again and I am to be his
mommy this time.


When the battle ends, if we are not too toasted, one of us 
will be proclaimed funnier than the other. Or, perhaps we'll 
be drunk enough to agree to share the title. Sharing is not 
easy for those of us who come from large families. 
We have grown accustomed to fighting for a mere crumb of 
attention and, sometimes, a crumb of food. I used to fight the 
family dog for his steak bone.


However, I find it interesting, My Dear Mrs. Tuna, that you 
think you are funny because you were a 
middle child in a large family with only 
eight years between oldest and youngest. 
And your parents bred poodles. 


I, on the other hand, am the youngest of six with 
seventeen years between the oldest and me. 
My parents bred nothing but children, and I don't know how 
because they certainly never did "it." 


So why am I funny? 


I think it runs in our family, kind of like people 
whose kids are all unattractive
or stupid. My sisters and I seem 
to have a finely honed sense of the ridiculous, 
and we are sometimes just a wee bit sarcastic. 


Or perhaps I am funny because they all beat me 
silly (pun intended) while I was growing up. 
After all, I was Mother's favorite. 
The baby is always Mother's favorite. 
I was also dropped on my head a number of 
times, accidentally on purpose, I suspect.


Another point we have in common, 
My Dear Mrs. Tuna: No one ever seems 
to be appalled by the things I say 
(except my own children who, even 
though they are adults, have never recovered from
feeling embarrassed by me). Even the women 
who kicked me out of Bible study acted as if I were a 
riot, laughing uproariously at everything I said, 
until the day I dropped the F bomb when my back was 
broken and my world had come to an end. 
They didn't think I was funny then. 


But I think that's the only time folks haven't found me amusing. 


I also laugh at myself -- A LOT. 
One of my favorite activities is telling 
myself jokes I've never heard before.


So you keep it up Mrs. Tuna, and 
I shall do my best to bring more laughter 
to the world. God knows we need it.


Infinities of love and laughter,


Lola 

EVERYONE KNOWS IT'S WINDY

Gentle Readers,

You may need to back away from your monitors once or twice while reading this post because I don't know what sort of noises and odors will come along with the words.

You see, I'm gassy. I think I've added a little extra fiber to my diet, but I'm not pooping more. In fact, I'm pooping a bit less. Instead, I'm farting. It's not stinky most of the time, but we are talking audible farts here.

I go to church and sit there with my cheeks clenched trying not to let loose with a whopper that can be heard over the angelic sounds of the choir. I walk across a parking lot, along the sidewalk, down the street, and worry who might be behind me because I know I'm going to cut the cheese good and loud. No two ways about it.

I gave the dogs their breakfast one morning and BRRRRRRRRRWWWWWTTTTTTTT let her rip so loud that the boys all jumped back from their bowls. I could outgun Hell's Angels with my butt.


What to do, what to do, Oh Lordy, what to do?


Good thing I lost my teaching job or those kids who pretend to be so tough would, in reality, be frightened and appalled by the cloud that currently follows me. 


Ahhhhhh, there goes another one. 


Run, I say, run! I don't know where it might land and sometimes they are squirty.


Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble
Hemorrhoids burn 
And my butt bubbles.


Infinities of love,


Lola the Windy Shakespeare

MEMORIAL DAY: AFTER THE FALL

Gentle Readers,

Memorial Day, for most of us, is a day to honor our fallen heroes. But for a particular hate group in my home town of Topeka, Kansas, every day is a day to despise our fallen heroes.

Yes, you may have heard of them before: It's Fred Phelps and his family, who use their Westboro Baptist Church as a front for their campaign against the people they call fags. According to the Phelps, 9/11 was caused by the fags because God was showering his wrath on the people of the United States. And people who serve in America's military are fags, and I'm a fag, you're a fag, everyone except the Phelps family is a fag, fag.

(By the way, they call their church Baptist, but they are not recognized as such by any other Baptist churches.)

I'm not going to provide a link to any of the Phelps' Web sites. You can find their crap if you want. I write this to call attention to their activities in case you are not aware of them, and because my dad served in the military and died on Memorial Day. I know my parents detested the behavior of the Phelps.

The Phelps like to protest. They go out with their signs and call people fags and blame the fags for everything that's wrong. Worst of all, they protest at the funerals of our fallen soldiers. Because of them, President George W. Bush signed a law that prohibits protests within a certain distance of military cemeteries before, during, and after a funeral. But that doesn't stop them from protesting at other cemeteries and it doesn't stop them from protesting at other venues and it doesn't stop them from protesting at other times. They also protest at the funerals of gay people. They were there for Matthew Shepard's funeral, as if his family hadn't already suffered enough.

I've seen some news clips about various ways people deal with the Phelps, and don't think the Phelps are just a Topeka problem. They show up all over the place. In one town, the Phelps obtained permission to picket on a certain corner. So, many people in town showed up and parked their vehicles near the corner so the Phelps would have difficulty getting a place to park their bus, and then the townspeople took over the corner and left no room for the Phelps, who actually gave up and left. When they protest at a funeral, sometimes motorcyclists show up and form a ring around the family and rev their engines to drown out their noise.

Yes, the Phelps family is entitled to freedom of speech. But families should be entitled to bury their loved ones in peace.

I recall Fred Phelps mostly from his days as a lawyer, when I was growing up in Topeka. His antics were always in the news, and eventually he was disbarred for unethical conduct. Some of his 13 children have become lawyers and they now fund the protests with the money they earn from the family law firm, according to an article I read in the Topeka newspaper. Although Topekans hate what the Phelps do, one person admitted that if you want to win your case, you go to the Phelps. It's a shame Kansans don't boycott the firm in a shared commitment to dry up their money.

Recently I watched a documentary about the family called Fall From Grace: Westboro Baptist Church. It was  made by a young man named K. Ryan Jones, first as a short film for a film class he was taking at the University of Kansas in Lawrence, and then it became a full-fledged documentary. As Jones himself says in a DVD extra, he had to try very hard to be fair to the Phelps because "everybody hates them."

As I watched Fall From Grace, there I saw one of the boys, now in his fifties just as I am, but with the same face he had when we were in the seventh grade together. And I saw one of the girls, who was in the ninth grade. I sometimes saw the girl in the ninth grade laughing and talking with other kids, but the seventh grade boy seemed to stick pretty close to his brother, who was in the eighth grade. Those boys looked so sad, and I have never forgotten the miserable and embarrassed silence that fell over the school cafeteria the day those two boys came to school with their heads shaved. Guys did not shave their heads then, and we felt so sorry for them.

Other students who had known the Phelps for years explained to me that Fred Phelps had shaved his sons' heads to punish them, just as they were punished by having to run to Lawrence from Topeka and then back home again. They also had to sell candy for hours after school to support the church. One of them came to our door once, and my mother said NO immediately. She mentioned afterwards that she knew the money went to the church so she wouldn't buy anything from the Phelps.

What I didn't know was that the children and Mrs. Phelps were severely abused, according to two of the children who have left the family. One of them, Nate Phelps, writes a thoughtful and intelligent blog that I suggest you check out. Nate is interviewed by telephone during the documentary, and he recommends ignoring his family if you should encounter one of their protests. They are definitely attention whores, so cut them dead (figuratively of course). Don't engage them in an argument; don't give them what they want so desperately.

Why do they do what they do? Who knows why such evil lives in the hearts of humankind? Fred Phelps is a sick man and his sickness has infected most of his children. And now his grandchildren, right down to the youngest ones who are barely understandable when they speak, parrot what they hear from their parents and their grandfather, although it's obvious they don't know what they're saying. They are already brainwashed and if someone doesn't help them, it will only get worse.

I found it fascinating that in the documentary one of the Phelps daughters says, My father had 13 children. Hmmmm . . . did he become pregnant and give birth? Mrs. Phelps is never mentioned, I think because her husband's control over the family is so complete.

Thus, I recommend the documentary; I recommend Nate Phelps' blog; and I recommend ignoring the Phelps family if you should ever have the misfortune of seeing them in your town. They have fallen. Don't let them take you down with them.

Infinities of love,

Lola