MOVIE MOVIE MOVIE

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

It's New Year's Eve. If you're in the same situation I'm in, then you're not invited to a party; you don't have a significant other to tolerate you; you're at home with your dogs, or maybe your cats; and you prefer the company of your dogs or cats to other human beings, not that there are any human beings who would toast the New Year with you anyway.

Just in case you haven't figured out what to do tonight, or if you want something to do tomorrow when you're hungover, I can recommend a couple of movies.

The first is Crazy, Stupid,  Love. Steve Carell stars as Cal, along with Julianne Moore as Emily. Cal and Emily go out to dinner one night, they've enjoyed a delicious meal, Cal suggests they share a dessert, and when he tells Emily, Let's say what we want at the same time, Cal say creme brulee, while Emily says she wants a divorce. Dessert? Divorce? What's the difference? Cal's out; Emily's boyfriend is in.

This movie is amusing, and it has two stand out performances. The first is Cal and Emily's son, Robbie --played by Jonah Bobo -- who gives his dad excellent advice, and is heartbreakingly sweet because he's in love with his teenage babysitter.

The second performance comes from the great Ryan Gosling as Jacob, a suave bachelor who teaches Cal never-fail tricks to get a woman into bed. Gosling is hilarious, but ultimately, touching and personable. I've had a bit of a thing for Ryan Gosling since I saw the indie film Lars and the Real Girl. Gosling = Great

An even better movie, whether or not you've read the book, is The Help. It's well made and every performance is excellent. I thought it was rushed into production after the novel became a success and that it wouldn't be very good. I am pleased to say I was wrong.

It's the 1960s in Jackson, Mississippi, and Skeeter, a recent graduate of Ole Miss, convinces the local black maids to tell their stories to her for a book about the work they do for white people. Of course, the book is called The Help. The black women have some pretty wild stories to tell, and a few sweet ones.

Hilly Holbrook, a.k.a. Two-Slice Hillie (Bryce Dallas Howard), is the Queen Bitch of the Jackson Junior League, and she makes the most of her part.

Viola Davis's quiet dignity as Aibileen Clark absolutely glows.

I certainly hope I see some award nominations for this film

So if you want to look at TV on Demand tonight for something to watch, or if you're still in the mood to pop out to a Red Box so you can pick up beer and popcorn at the same time, Crazy, Stupid, Love. and The Help are my two recommendations.

Infinities of love,

Lola, who is really sick of people shooting off fireworks and guns and it's not even close to midnight.

Happy New Year!

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

MARVELOUS MEN

 Gentle Readers . . .  and Maxwell,

Recently I think I frightened some of you with my men in the nursing home story.

If you were upset or offended, I apologize. If you liked hearing about those gross old men, then what in the heck is the matter with you?

Oh, it's o.k. I know some of it was funny.

But now I'd like to tell you stories about some of my favorite men in the nursing home.

One such gentleman was D. He fought in Italy during World War II and for him the war had never ended. The sound of a door slamming was a bomb. Any loud noise frightened him. So many years since that war and he still struggled with post-traumatic stress disorder.

I tried to be very quiet and gentle with D. and he appreciated it. He knew my name, but he always called me honey. It's funny -- when I was a reporter I absolutely could not stand it when a man called me honey or sweetie. But in the nursing home I didn't mind at all. I knew those men called me honey because they loved me.

D. couldn't walk or turn himself in bed. We could have moved him to a special chair that's on wheels but has more padding than a wheelchair and also features neck and head supports, but he refused. I guess D. felt more secure in his bed.

However, D. did not feel secure in bed when we had to turn him on his side to wash him or treat skin problems on his back. We had to put down his guard rail because we would have injured our backs if we leaned over the rail to turn a patient. D. would get pretty panicky when his guard rail was down, even though I was standing right there, holding him.

I would tell D., and other patients who were afraid, You're safe. No one has ever fallen out of bed when I'm in charge. You can't get past me. Invariably the patient would reply, Yeah, but you're not very big and I might be the first.

Because I trusted D., I told him that while he was on his side, he could put his arm around me. He did, and I whispered, You can even pat my bottom if you want.

D. gave my rear a little pat, and a huge smile spread over his face. Before he knew it, we were finished, and the guard rail was back in place. Thanks, honey, D. said.

I was also in love with Mr. A. Every time I gave him a pitcher of fresh water, he'd tap his cheek and say, Give me a kiss right here baby doll.

I was happy to oblige.

As his death approached, he quite often asked me to sit and talk with him in the wee small hours of the morning. He liked to tell me stories of his childhood -- running and playing in the woods.

 I was so sad when the end approached for Mr. A., but when his oldest son came in to be with Mr. A. during his last days, the son greeted us and I thrilled at the sound of his voice.

You sound exactly like your dad, I said.

Thank you, he said.

And I could see that Mr. A lived on through his son.

And we had E., who couldn't speak, but it was clear he loved his ladies. I'd put my arm around him and kiss his forehead and I'd see this sly grin on his face. He looked like a little kid who had stolen some candy from the store and gotten away with it.

I liked to imagine that E. could remember the pleasures he had enjoyed with ladies in the past, and when he went to bed, he dreamed of dressing up in a tux and taking me to a nightclub to dance. I would have been honored to dance with him.

Infinities of love,

Lola

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

FLY BY

Gentle Readers,

I really hate it when I'm walking from the bathroom to the family room or from the family room to the bathroom or sitting in front of the computer or sitting in the family room reading a book and . . .

SOMETHING FLIES PAST ME AND I DO NOT KNOW WHAT IT IS!


It really freaks me out and I hardly ever find anything flying around or dead on the floor later.

Quite some time ago I discovered a LIZARD in my house and it disappeared and . . .

I NEVER FOUND IT!


I know someone who had a BAT flying around in her house and it disappeared and . . .

SHE NEVER FOUND IT!


WHERE DOES THIS SHIT GO?


I just wanna know. Can someone please explain life to me? There's so much I don't understand and it's depressing me and I can't accomplish a fucking thing.

Infinities of love,

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

MILESTONES

Gentle Readers,

Here we be at 300+ posts. So, I think I will take advantage of the opportunity to tell you 300 three fascinating things about myself that I don't think I've ever mentioned. And if I have mentioned them, too fuckin' bad.

I base these items of interest on a recent perusal of my high school yearbooks. I looked at all the loving messages friends wrote in the books and noticed three recurring themes:

1. You speak Spanish really well. I was in your Spanish class, and you speak Spanish so much better than I ever did.
2. You play the piano really well. Keep on playing.
3. Damn - you are hot. I had fun working with you in school and even more fun playing with you out of school.

So, I still speak Spanish reasonably well, though I've forgotten past tense. However, 30-some years after taking high school Spanish, I still can and do carry on simple conversations in Spanish.

I have continued playing the piano and still love to play, but I don't do so in public anymore. I used to accompany a lot of kids when they auditioned for the school musical or for the elite chorus.

Only guys said I was hot. In fact, I found a few love notes in the yearbook pages. Some boys promised to love me forever. I haven't seen any of them in about 25 years. That's probably a good thing. They would be disappointed in my current hotness factor, and they probably aren't so hot now either. But sometimes I wonder what happened to those erstwhile lovers. I've found a couple on google but can't locate the ones with really common names.

I was also amused by the fact that so many "friends" wrote in my yearbook that they would remember me forever and would never forget the fun things we had done together.

I have no idea who these people were and no clue what we did together that was so much fun.

Infinities of love to you, gentle readers, and to my past,

Lola

JUST KIDS

Gentle Readers,

I read Just Kids, the National Book Award Winner by Patti Smith -- poet, singer, songwriter, artist.


I don't even possess the words to praise this book highly enough.

Smith tosses about names of people I've seen in photographs and documentaries -- Andy Warhol, Edie Sedgwick, Janis Joplin. She actually knew and sometimes frolicked with these people. She wrote a song for Janis.

But throughout the book there is Robert -- Robert Mapplethorpe -- and their never-ending love and support of one another. Mapplethorpe died in 1989 but Patti Smith's love for him lives, as does their artistry.

I don't know what to tell you other than this book is a must read. It is pure poetry.

Infinities of love,

Lola