WHAT? MONDAY

Dear Readers,

What did you do to welcome the New Year?

I did something I have never done before: I committed murder. 

No, your eyes are not deceiving you. It was much easier than I thought it would be. 

 I killed Lola. Since she was a blow up doll, all I had to do was take a nice big needle and puncture her in a few places.

Please forgive me for leaving her chest uncovered in this photo. She isn't all that realistic-looking, so I wasn't too worried about covering her up.

Lola didn't suit me anymore.

I want to explore my identity without Lola hanging around. I want to find out who I am.

Yes, it's true: I am 52 years old, and I don't know who I am. I've had many identities, but I don't know if any of them were me. I made them up in acts of avoidance, such as avoiding abuse. Recently, I tried on a new identity. I thought she fit me perfectly. I thought at long last I knew who I was. I made her the best of me.

But she wasn't good enough. Now I'm lost again.

And I'm not going to find myself in a blow up doll box.

 So that's what I did at midnight. I poked Lola full of holes and threw her in the trash. The demise of Lola does not mean we'll never enjoy her sense of humor again or marvel at her quirkiness. But the aspects of her personality that we like will have to come from within me.

So, what did you do to welcome the New Year? Please don't tell me you killed someone unless you also had an unwanted Lola.

Infinities of love,

Janie  

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

PROOF

It wouldn't be New Year's if I didn't have regrets.  ~William Thomas

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Happy New Year! I guess.

When Someone I Love was a senior in high school, of course the time arrived for her to apply to colleges. She was extremely fortunate because every senior at the prep school had a college adviser to help with creating the list of colleges to which the student would apply. Plus, the adviser would look over applications and make suggestions for improvements.

At one college where Someone I Love applied, rather than writing an essay, she was asked to prove that something intangible exists. I am posting her proof because it continues to awe and astonish me. She wrote it at the age of 17 without any assistance, demonstrating the talent she already had when she was in high school. Writing a proof was the perfect requirement for someone who would eventually immerse herself in geometric algebra. And I'm very pleased that I was able to teach my children how to write because they certainly didn't learn in school.

It also moves me because she writes about our blind sheep dog mix, Kesey (named after Ken Kesey and pronounced Kee-zee). Kesey died during the fall of Someone I Love's freshman year in college. It was horrible. It was heartbreakingly horrible. She was several hours away from us -- no time to come home for a goodbye.

So I love it that this proof also commemorates Kesey. Here it is:

This proof explains love through commonly accepted axioms:

1. God is love. However, as any dyslexic atheist with a sense of humor involving anagrams, or slightly extreme canine fancier can tell you, God and dog are roughly equivalent. Thus, dog is love.

2. Love is blind. If love is both a dog, and blind, then love could be my blind dog, Kesey. Other evidence confirming this involves hours observing said subject, Kesey. Kesey's rotundity suggests Cupid (though not cupidity) and, if any humans feel depressed, they immediately feel much improved upon being within 10 meters of his presence. His presence alone is necessary for these healing effects, thus confirming Lennon's postulate, "All you need is love."

3. Assuming then, based upon presented evidence, that Kesey the sheepdog mix is, in fact, the physical embodiment of love, we come to the axiom "love conquers all." This axiom suggests that Kesey is capable of conquest, an idea confirmed, to some degree, by his Napoleonic stature. Additionally, his administrative skills are honed to perfection. These skills include Insurance of Proper Biscuit Flow, Observation of Neighbors, and Supervision of All Beings in His Residence. Such proficiency in the areas of Economics, Intelligence, and Administration, respectively, will lead to his success as a future world power. 

4. By the logic of causality, every leader has some initial minority of supporters before coming to power. In many such instances, as evidenced by history, the followers in said minority use a code word or phrase to identify themselves to one another. What better word for the followers of Kesey to use than "love," which keeps Kesey's identity unknown to the majority of the hominid populace, who seem largely skeptical about being subjects of a medium-sized white dog, no matter how jovial said dog may be.

Many contend that love her something to do with relationships between beings. This is partially true; all of this love is encompassed by the Buddha nature that is Kesey, and any human ideals about "love" fall short of the world as we know it have come to use this term in its proper sense, referring solely to one fabulous little white dog, whom I am in my dorm room missing.
Q.E.D.

Someone I Love received a very nice note from the admissions office at the university that required the writing. The person who wrote the note said it was one of the best proofs they had seen in a long time.

Ultimately, however, that university did not provide Someone I Love with a scholarship, so she attended and graduated from a college where she was truly wanted and appreciated.

I wish I could show you a photo of Kesey, but I don't seem to have any. When I left Illinois, I tried to keep moving costs down because I wasn't paying them myself. My soon to be ex-husband paid for my move, as was appropriate because I had to move to escape from him. Thus, I left behind items I felt I could do without or that were very heavy, such as most of the photo albums I had compiled over the years.

How I regret doing anything that I thought would help Voldemort, for he ended up accusing me (in settlement papers) of taking everything I wanted from the house and only leaving behind that which I did not want. So untrue.

So untrue.

But I wish you great blessings in 2012. If you have someone with whom you can share at midnight a glass of champagne or sparkling cider or diet coke, then you are blessed. The dogs and I will probably be in our lonely bed.

Infinities of love,

Lola

The only way to spend New Year's Eve is either quietly with friends or in a brothel.  Otherwise when the evening ends and people pair off, someone is bound to be left in tears.  ~W.H. Auden 


 
New Year's Eve, where auld acquaintance be forgot.  Unless, of course, those tests come back positive.  ~Jay Leno


 I made no resolutions for the New Year.  The habit of making plans, of criticizing, sanctioning and molding my life, is too much of a daily event for me.  ~Anaïs Nin

DO BE

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Recently I was walking around the neighborhood park with Franklin and we came across some teenagers I see there frequently. I think they're high school students who relax at the park after school on nice days.

These are nice kids who work hard in school, just like Bert and Ernie when they need to learn something so they can teach children about it.

Franklin loves these kids, and he gave me the look that means, Please, Mom, can we go over there to see them?

So I asked if Franklin could come over to say hello.

They're very friendly, and they said sure.

So we approached them and they started petting Franklin and making a fuss over him as they always do, and he was sniffing them; but I was sniffing something else. And then I saw the joint sitting on the back edge of the bench on which they were seated.

The kids were enjoying a nice fall afternoon by smokin' a doobie.

I didn't say anything, but I felt like it.

I wanted to ask, How bout a toke for an old lady? I even wanted to scold them for not offering to share. Jeeze Louise, what's wrong with kids today?

 But I went on my way quietly. I had no right to give them a verbal paddling, no business expecting them to share. They paid good money for that joint, and I knew I should set a good example by not begging for a little. I shouldn't intrude on someone else's good time. I wouldn't like it if I had a joint and some old woman came by, expecting me to share.

So off I went, behaving myself as always, the picture of uprightness and selflessness, letting the young folks enjoy their good time.

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

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

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

I DON'T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT MY REPUTATION

Gentle Readers,

I had a bad reputation in high school. Supposedly I was a slut. I don't think I did nearly as much as a lot of girls. No sex till I was almost 18.

Have I told you this story before? I can't remember and I'm too tired and lazy to go back through my posts to look. Oh well, if you've seen this stuff before, then you can sit through it one more time, and if you haven't seen it, boy do I have a story for you.

I kind of liked to tease some boys and flirt with them, but I had one and only one serious (read sexual) relationship. However, by my senior year I could tell that rumors about me were getting out of control. Kids were saying some pretty nasty shit about me and to me. I was really confused.

And I was in high school when the double standard (boys are cool if they have sex but the girls who do it are nothing but sluts) was alive and well. I hope it's not as bad now. Why shouldn't a woman be able to enjoy sex without being tortured about it by other people?

Then after I graduated from high school and started college, I became pretty close friends with a very nice girl we'll call Schmoozeann. Schmoozeann had been pretty close friends with a girl from my high school we'll call Barrie, who supposedly was my best friend. It was Schmoozeann who finally told me that Barrie informed everyone that I was having an affair with a married man during senior year.

No wonder people freaking talked nasty about me! Not that it was any of their business, but I don't think much of men who cheat and it's not a good idea for women to grant them the opportunity. As one who has been cheated on, I can tell you that infidelity does not lead to anything good.

Barrie had pretty much disappeared after high school, but I was able to tell Schmoozeann what really happened.

It was Barrie who fucked a married man. Maybe telling people it was me helped ease her guilt, or maybe she liked the attention she received when she told her little tales.

Looking back on that time, however, I wish I had gone ahead and used my bad rep. I could have done the nasty with all sorts of good looking and interesting guys. No AIDS then. As long as we used birth control, very little to fear.

I could have gotten me some damn good sex and I missed the opportunity.

Shit! That's all I have to say: SHIT!

Infinities of love,

Lola

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

DEE DEE UPDATE FROM CAROL

Carol writes:

Just want to let you know how things are going.   Dee dee went for her 5th treatment Friday but her blood count was so low she had to get a unit of blood instead. She has an appointment for this upcoming Friday for the 5th trearment.   Keep us in your prayers please.   Carol

LATER, LATE

Gentle Readers,

I cannot sleep.

I tremble with shock and fear and a chill that has settled in my heart and turned it to ice. Perhaps my heart will shatter and require rebuilding. I am so cold and I cannot get warm. I am bone weary and I cannot sleep.

I heard one television news commentator say that the gunman's beliefs were highly similar to those stated over and over ad nauseum by Glenn Beck. Another asked if the shootings were politically motivated.

Will we ever really know?

What is the truth?

Is there such a thing as truth, or is there only individual reality?

All I know is that eighteen people have been shot, six are dead (one a young girl), and I want Palin, Beck, O'Reilly, et.al., to use their power and influence for good, for the betterment of humankind, to build up and not to tear down.

I tremble with shock and fear and a chill that has settled in my heart and turned it to ice. Perhaps it will shatter and require rebuilding. I am so cold and I cannot get warm. I am bone weary and I cannot sleep.

I cannot sleep.

Love,

Lola

WE DO NOT LIVE IN A CIVILIZED COUNTRY

Gentle Readers,

I think my greatest fear tonight is that there are people in this country who are pleased that Sarah Palin's wish was granted when someone shot Arizona Representative Gabrielle Giffords today. Out there, someone is laughing with delight because a lunatic took Representative Giffords in his cross hairs and shot her in the head. Of course, Sarah Palin quickly removed the cross hairs image from her Web site, but I saw it on MSNBC and I tell you I felt sick.

Do I believe that Palin literally wanted someone to shoot Giffords?

Of course not.

Do I believe that some people took it literally?

Of course.

I do not know how Palin and Glenn Beck and Bill O'Reilly and others of their ilk put their heads on their pillows and sleep at night after they spout their rhetoric of violence.

True, politics has always been violent. Bigotry and ugliness are deeply entrenched in many minds. But I fear that the naysayers of Fox News Channel and some members of the Tea Party and other extremists are too visible, too accessible with their positions on television and their Internet presence. I do not advocate that we curtail freedom of speech, but I advocate that these people who are so in the public eye take responsibility for the words they utter. I advocate positive words and deeds. If criticize you must, then do so in a mature, rational manner.

When President Obama was elected I thought we had taken a turn for the better. We had a brief shining moment when we overcame racism and elected the better man for the job.

But then Palin, Beck, and O'Reilly started in and made the administration ugly and made Democrats ugly and made the thought of kindness and compassion ugly. I name Palin, Beck, and O'Reilly  because I hear about them more often than other commentators, but I know they're not alone.

I want to live in a civilized country, not one where, as Favorite Young Man so wisely put it, the more conservative side of the lower class seems to want to take up arms against the very people who are trying to protect them.

And the people who are trying to protect them are repeatedly denigrated by Palin, Beck, and O'Reilly.

From Roget's Super Thesaurus: civilized a. cultured, refined, sophisticated, educated, civil, acculturated, polished, bred, tamed, humane, socialized, socially organized. "To have some quality of consideration for all who cross our path." -- Agnes Repplier

These words, this quotation, this is what I wish for our country and tonight I pray for Gabrielle Giffords and the people around her who were attacked today and their families who suffer grief at the loss of loved ones, and of course, I pray for the man who shot them because he knows not what he does.

And I pray for Palin, Beck, and O'Reilly and everyone else who promotes social terrorism.

Let this be a turning point in our country, Lord.

Infinities of love,

Lola