INTIMACY

Please note that as of tomorrow, or perhaps even this evening, WOMEN: WE SHALL OVERCOME is going underground. Or, in other words, it's going to become a private blog you have to enter as a member. I am too tired of anonymous comments to put up with it anymore. The content of the blog will also change somewhat. I want to spend more time experimenting with my fiction -- fiction that has not been written by Lola. If you prefer not to accompany me on this endeavor, I understand completely, but I'll miss you.



Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Are you in what you believe to be a true partnership? Married or unmarried. Gay or straight.

Do you think the other person spends time with you out of a desire to be with you or does that person deign to spend time with you because you complain about a lack of togetherness?

Do you feel you have true intimacy with another person?

Have you ever felt you had true intimacy with another person?

If you have or have had a true partnership or if you have or have had true intimacy with someone, please tell me how it feels. I would love to know. Perhaps someone would even be willing to guest post and tell me what's it's like.

The closest thing I have to a partnership is with My Kathy, but she lives a million miles away and it's not sexual. But we can have a conversation, not see each other for years, and then get together and pick up exactly where we left off. I have never felt that My Kathy forced herself to tolerate me. We laugh uproariously at the same ridiculous and inappropriate things.

The closest thing I have to an intimate relationship (non-sexual, of course) is with my daughter. But I'm not really sure how she feels about me.

But would you tell me, please: What's it like to be loved?

This is my first big question of 2012.

Infinities of love,

Lola

POETRY TUTORIAL

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Those of you who are regular readers have no doubt seen me mention that you should never confuse the speaker in the poem with the poet. Just because I write about something in a poem, it doesn't mean it happened to me. Let's consider the two poems I wrote for my children: "Mama Zeus and Katrina Athena" and "Boy" at http://dumpedfirstwife.blogspot.com/2011/12/boy.html ."

Am I the poet? Yes. Did I write these poems for MY children? Yes. Am I the speaker in the poem? No. My daughter did not spring from my head to be born as a fully-grown goddess. My son did not have to fly away from an island on wings made of wax and feathers by his father.

I learned to conduct the critical analysis of literature through the use of New Criticism (not really new -- it started in the 1930s and is coming back into vogue). Try thinking of New Criticism as placing a poem or a short story or a novel in a bell jar and studying the text from all angles. Don't compare it to other poems; don't consider the poet's experiences; don't concern yourself with the time period in which it was written unless it's relevant to the text.

New Criticism = Close Textual Analysis

As for poetry, poetry does not make statements. Poetry suggests; poetry indicates. Although the sound of the poetry achieved through the words I use is important to me, I am more concerned with the images I present by putting the words together. And I don't care if the words rhyme.

I appreciate the many kind comments you have made on my poems, but I want to make sure we're on the same page. When Yeats wrote "Leda and the Swan," I assure you he was not present when Zeus turned himself into a swan to rape Leda, a young woman. I can suggest all sorts of things in poetry, but it doesn't make them true.

Normally, my poetry and my fiction come from a kernel of truth in my life -- but that's all.

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

TAKE TWO ASPIRIN

Gentle Readers,

Long, long ago, when I became pregnant with Someone I Love, a lovely woman at church whispered a joke to me that she thought was quite naughty: You know how to keep from getting pregnant again? Take two aspirin and clamp them together between your knees.

I guess it worked because I never had another baby, thank you Jesus.

But man, my legs got tired.

I'm telling you this silly story because also a long time ago in another city in a different state, I worked in a nursing home. I'm sure everyone I took care of there has been dead and gone for a good long time now, and not because I killed them. Time has done its work on them.

Anyhoo, we had this patient who kept her thighs clamped together so tightly all the time that we couldn't even wash her yoohoo in the shower. We had to cath her one night and getting her legs apart was a nightmare for all of us. She was screaming as we slowly pried her open, feeling that our hands and arms might break before her legs did.

Other women we had to cath, no prob. Women are accustomed to spreading them. Most women have had sex and had babies, and it's pretty difficult to engage in either one of those activities with your thighs clamped together.

This patient had been married and had a child; thus, I'm pretty sure her legs weren't always closed like that. So I asked her why she held her thighs together.

She said, I don't know. Just habit, I guess.

What did you do when you went to the gynecologist? I then queried.

She said, What's a guy . . .  What?

I looked at an older nurse and she told me that most of the women we had in our care had never seen a gynecologist, never had a pap test, never a mammogram, never any specialized care that many of us women now take for granted.

So I write this to you now because the thought of keeping your legs closed that tightly if you want to avoid sex might never have occurred to you and perhaps the idea will be of some assistance to you and will greatly strengthen your thigh muscles I want to remind you to be grateful when you get your boobs smooshed and find out you don't have cancer or should you have it, grateful you found out before you had a tumor the size of a third boob. When you spread your legs, sometimes you can do it for a really good reason, like making sure you don't have cervical cancer.

And please be sure to prepare your daughters for their first experience with the gyno. A speculum can be quite a shock even if you have some idea of what to expect. When I saw my OB/GYN the first time I was pregnant, oi! was I dumb! It's too embarrassing to share that I took off my clothes as commanded and sat in a chair instead of getting up on the table and covering myself with the sheet because I didn't know what in the heck was going on what happened that day, but I'm sure all the nurses were laughing at me.

Another important something that our ladies in the nursing home didn't know: Wipe your butt from front to back. Older people tend to wipe from back to front, pushing feces into the yoohoo, and risking an unpleasant and uncomfortable infection. Many of our ladies had UTIs constantly, even though we tried to keep them clean and we poured cranberry juice down them.

O.K. Now you can go off and make sure you wipe your butt correctly -- everybody except Sandra at Absolutely Narcissism, who is the most constipated person on Earth and loves to write about it. She has no need to wipe.

Poor, poor Sandra, whose constipation issues give her more readers than God has.

Infinities of love,

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 

ME 'N MY GEE PEE ESS

Gentle Readers,

I feel as if my relationship with the lady who lives in my GPS is on thin ice.

And it's totally my fault.

She unfailingly tells me which way to turn the car, and when I miss a street, she very calmly says, Recalculating, and then she comes up with a new route.

But I've started to notice, shall we say, a slight edge to her voice if she has to recalculate more than once, and she quite often has to recalculate more than once because I get lost very easily even with the lady in the GPS telling me what to do. I can't read the street signs until I get pretty close to them, so it might be too late to get into the correct lane to make the necessary turn. Or maybe the lady says turn left and then turn right and I make the left turn but it would require getting over two lanes to make the right turn and there's so much traffic that I can't get over the necessary two lanes or maybe I don't understand exactly what she says even though her diction is excellent, and GPS lady stays calm, but I know, I just know, the GPS lady has darn near had all she can stand of me.

Please forgive me lady in the GPS. I try to obey you but sometimes it's difficult. I really appreciate your patience.

Infinities of GPS love,

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

I HATE IT WHEN THIS HAPPENS

Gentle Readers,

Do you ever order a movie from Netflix and sit down to watch it and realize within the first five, or even two minutes that you've seen it before?

I have done this twice in the past month, and I am quite annoyed with myself.

The first time it worked out fine though. I got this movie called The Family Man, starring Nicolas Cage, and then realized I had seen it on TV last Christmas.

I didn't think much of it on television, but uncut as a movie, I quite liked it. The uncut version includes Tea Leoni dancing around naked in the shower, but you just see her through the door, which is not clear glass. However, I think a naked dancing Tea is a thing to be admired.

But now I have 84 Charing Cross Road, starring Anne Bancroft and Anthony Hopkins. This movie is fairly old and I realized when I read the description on the little envelope the movie comes in, Ah yes, I saw this years ago before there was a Netflix.

I recall that this movie was quite good, so I'll probably enjoy it again; but I annoy myself with my inability to remember all the movies I've seen. Instead of watching somewhat enjoyable movies again I should move onward ever onward and always watch something new.

Well, back to 84 Charing Cross Road, which appears to be based on a book (I did not know that, so I have learned something new. Plus, I now watch movies with the subtitles because I got sick of not being able to understand what the characters say. I am a victim of old age so DVDs from Netflix are definitely an improvement over the old tapes or actually, gasp!, watching on TV).

Lola

I'M A WIENER

Oops, sorry Gentle Readers, that should be WINNER!

I entered a contest during which I had to heroically struggle literally for seconds to come up with the best compliment for a blog I follow called WorkForced. And I actually won. I get a gift certificate worth literally less that $61.00 to spend at an online store not of my choosing that has really expensive stuff and not much of it is less than $61.00.

Golly - it's just like Christmas.

Oh my, I've just remembered a joke I must insert here. A dad has two sons and one of them is always the optimist. The other kid is just a regular kid, but no matter what goes wrong, the first kid always looks on the bright side. So the dad decides to test the optimist on Christmas Day. Daddy gives his son a great big pile of horse poop. The other kid gets a nice gift and is enjoying it and Dad thinks the optimist will finally get upset. But he looks over and there the dip stick is, digging through the manure with a happy grin on his face. Dad says, What are you doing? Kid says, Well, there has to be a pony down here somewhere.

But, ah, I digress.

What did I write for the contest? I have no idea. I can't remember, but since I wrote it, it must have been really clever.

And I sincerely thank Don Joe, the writer of WorkForced, which is literally LOL funny. Currently Don Joe is writing a Jargonary - a dictionary of work place jargon. I urge you to check it out by clicking on the link in my second paragraph, or go to View My Complete Profile to see the complete list of blogs I follow.

My favorite thing about winning, actually, is that Don Joe referred to me as that naughty school girl, Lola. What a thrill. I imagined myself ala Brit Spears in the good old days.

I know a lovely young lady who dressed up as B.S. once upon a time for Halloween, and no, she didn't shave her head and take so many pills she had to be hospitalized. This was quite some time ago, so my favorite young lady dressed in a short plaid skirt, put her long tresses in pig tails, and tied a white blouse in the front over two well-padded black bras because she didn't have B.S.'s natural attributes.

I wish I could dress up like that for Halloween, but I might make someone sick. I have the natural attributes, but I also have a belly to go with them.

But anyway, thanks again to Don Joe and WorkForced. Become a follower. It's easier than being the leader.

Love,

Lola