I'M LOOKING AT THE WOMAN IN THE MIRROR

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

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

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

Infinities of love,

Lola

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.

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 

THE WALDORF

Gentle Readers,

Since I mentioned Mrs. Waldorf, my sixth-grade teacher earlier this evening, I thought I'd fill you in on some fun facts.

Mrs. Waldorf was a widow with a lovely young daughter who appeared to be about twenty. The Waldorf had a disconcerting habit of placing her arms under her breasts and giving them some sort of boost. I never understood if she was getting her bra into a more comfy position or if she tended to sag and needed to give her ample chest a lift.

Waldorf appeared to me to be ancient. Grey haired and old person grouchy. Very angry with the times - didn't like peace symbols or the "stupid" music we kids loved.

I really can't figure out how old she might have been when she was our teacher. I suppose it's possible that her daughter wasn't born until she was 40 or so and that the Waldorf was 60+. Or maybe old people just looked older then than they do now. If the Waldorf was in her 50s, oh my goodness, I hope to God I don't look that old in my 50s.

Waldorf's daughter had taught baton lessons for a few years. All the girls in our class who had learned to toss and spin a baton from Cathy Waldorf received straight As for the third marking period.

I, of course, had not had the privilege of learning baton from Cathy. My best friend, who regularly copied my homework, however, had taken baton. Guess who got straight As and who didn't?

It's o.k. My straight As started to come when it mattered - in high school and college. Can you say summa cum laude former best friend who dumped me while we were in junior high?

Love,

Dumped First Wife