MY CHILDREN ARE BULLIES

 Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Yes, it's true. You read the title correctly. My children *sob* are bullies *whimper*. I'm so ashamed. Just last week I wrote a post in which I came down very hard on bullies. And now I've learned what my very own children are capable of doing. It's so shocking. I didn't know if I could tell you, but I feel I must take responsibility for their actions. Don't bother calling the police to report their crime. I'll deny everything and offer sexual favors until the cops run in terror.

 I have tried to be a responsible parent. But sometimes nothing a parent does is of any help. I swear to you it's nature, not nurture.

 It happened yesterday afternoon. The kids -- Harper, Scout, and Franklin -- were gathered around the rose bush in the back yard. They were obviously having a look at something and chatting about it. This is never a good sign. It means they are in collision or collution, or whatever, against something.

They were supposed to be outside playing because at times, they become a little too rambunctious in the house.

 I went outside to see what was really going on because I am a diligent parent.

And what I saw, Oh Lord please save my children from their instincts, oh my goodness -- white feathers on the ground under the rose bush. And I knew immediately, oh yes I knew, I knew they had killed a bird.

I suspect they used their sling shots, or maybe one of them took my BB gun when I was drinking beer and watching my few remaining soaps. I don't know the truth yet. No one is talking.

But no bird was under the rose bush. I went to look around the yard. I saw it. A dove. A poor white dove in the middle of the back yard. I thought, I'll have to cover up what they've done because blood is thicker than water. They are my children and I'll punish them, but I won't allow the police to take my babies away.

I took a closer look at the dove to determine how to conceal the crime and realized he was alive. Yes, he was alive, but he couldn't move. Couldn't fly. Couldn't even get up and walk away.

What was I to do?

Should I take him to the nearest hospital, pull up to the ER, and toss him out the window toward the door? Someone might be able to help him.

I went inside to text Favorite Young Man because he is a criminal mastermind. He would tell me what to do.

I started texting him, and suddenly, Harper walked in with the dove and put it on my $750 area rug.

He was now one dead dove and there was no turning back.

I screamed in horror because I simply couldn't believe my very own boys had carried out such a vicious attack. Then I started coughing because I had screamed so loud.

I dashed out the front door because dead creatures freak me out hoping that my neighbor, an RN, might be able to help me with, uh, CPR. Perhaps we could revive the dove.

Alas, Anthony hot, hot young Anthony who gives me so much pleasure when he takes off his shirt to work in his yard was not at home. So I set off up the street looking for any available man who might be of assistance. The only person I found at home was a young mom with her little boy.

I knocked on the door, crying, Suzanne, I'm desperate. My children have killed a dove and I don't know what to do.

She said, Would you like me to take care of it?

You wouldn't mind?

No, I wouldn't mind, Suzanne said.

Now I had a partner in crime. Because it was such a nice day and I decided to stroll around the block before I went to Suzanne's It was too late to revive the dove so he would have to be hidden.

Suzanne picked him up - gasp - with a trash bag, dropped him inside, tied the bag shut, AND WE HID THE BAG IN THE BOTTOM OF THE GARBAGE CAN.

Now how do I teach my children it is a sin to kill? I think it's even a commander, commando, going commando, or something in the Bible.

I sent Franklin to his room.

I lectured Scout.

And because Harper was the one who brought the dove inside, as if he were so proud of himself, I sent him to bed without his supper.

But now I have even more to worry about. In the past I have seen dead mice, dead bunnies, a dead possum, dead moles, dead rats, dead squirrels, and many dead birds.

I fear my children are not mere bullies. They are cereal killers.

Please pray for them.

Infinities of love,

Lola

LOSIN' IT

Gentle Readers,

Some of you may have noticed recently in my comments that My Dear Mrs. Tuna mentioned I had lost 15 pounds, but it's 15 1/2. Let's be accurate.

True, my boobs are bodacious and overall, I'm quite salacious. But I weigh more than I should.

Menopause and midlife marriage dissolution added the pounds, and to my shock, they did not simply drop after the divorce.

Hmmmmm . . . Which should I have? Cake or cake?

So last spring I started thinking more and more about changing my eating habits. Then I saw a commercial for NutriSystem: Fifty percent off plus I received an additional discount with my health insurance plan.

I decided to go for it.

The minute I made that decision, my sugar use waned. When the NutriSystem meals arrived, I got my portions under control.

To help me even more, Sandra decided to return to fitness competitions. Hearing about her workouts and what she was eating inspired me so much that after three months, I felt I could go off the NutriSystem and design my own diet.

 Which one is me and which is Sandra? Can you guess?

When the weather cooperates, I walk the dogs for my exercise and their joy-- one dog at a time to provide me with even more exercise.

I'm under no illusion that I'm ever going to be as ripped as Sandra, whom I admire tremendously for her devotion and will power.

Sandra is Sandra; Lola is Lola. The world couldn't handle more than one of each of us.

But I'm continuing to lose, and I ain't gonna quit till I feel like me again. No crazy fad diets or fasting. Good healthy meals and snacks that let me take off the weight slowly and don't make me feel deprived.

In fact, since I'm doing so well, I'm going to start posting photos of myself as I turn into more and more of a loser. This is a pretty big deal because the only photo of me that's ever been on this blog was when you saw the back of my head in front of City Lights Bookstore during my San Francisco holiday.

So here's my current photo:

Tee hee. Just kidding. You haven't seen me yet.



Infinities of love,

Lola

HOLIDAY

Pardon me, Gentle Readers, but I'm going on holiday (that's my faux British speak for taking a vacation). I'll return soon with great and amusing photos because everything I shall encounter will be great and amusing.

Infinities of love,

Lola

THERE'S A LOT I DON'T KNOW

Gentle Readers,

Favorite Young Man was but a babe in arms, undergoing the inspection of two older women. They admired his tiny blue terry cloth shorts and top.

The shorts are getting too small, I said. He won't be able to wear them much longer.

They felt the waist band of the shorts and replied, Why, all you have to do is take out the elastic and blahblahblah make them bigger.

I don't know how, I said.

YOU DON'T KNOW HOW? they screeched.

No, I don't know how. I don't know how to sew.

I thought they were going to have heart attacks and die on the spot and rather than be responsible for calling the paramedics and have to clean up the damn mess because most people barf when they have heart attacks so I bade them a fond farewell and prayed to God I would never have to look at their stupid faces or hear their screechy voices again  for them to be healthy, wealthy, and wise.

Yes, there's a lot I don't know. It's really easy to say that something is easy when you already know how to do it. But what's easy for me, like writing a blog post or creating a Web site, maybe somebody else wouldn't think it's so easy.

My skills are pretty limited, and I blame it on my mother, as we all must blame our mothers for something that's wrong with us, but don't go getting any ideas Favorite Young Man and Someone I Love.

Mother made my older sisters cook and clean, but in general, as the youngest, I was not allowed to do anything. I would not do it right.


I did not glory in my place of honor as Mother's baby who did not have to do the work. I knew my sisters hated me for it. I actually tried to step in and help at times. Once when I was home alone, I --GASP! -- washed the dishes. Mother yelled at me for not getting all the dish soap out of the cups and I was told to never do it again.

If I tried to wipe off the kitchen counter, I got it too wet -- as if it would never dry. I was not allowed to add an ornament to the Christmas tree because I would not do it right. I couldn't even put on a single fucking strand of fucking tinsel.

So, here I sit at my computer. I don't know how to sew. I don't know how to can corn. I don't know how to do this, that, and the other thing because Mother wouldn't let me and I'm still afraid I won't do it right.

BUT . . .

You want your Chaucer read in Middle English?  I'm your woman.

You need some great quotations from poetry or Shakespeare or want an original poem for a special occasion? I'm your woman.

You need a 14-inch article? Give me the facts and in 20 minutes it's yours and will require little to no editing.

You need a wound cleaned and bandaged? I can do it as well as any doctor and I won't get grossed out and barf.

I have my talents. They just don't involve sewing machines or putting food in jars. It's not a problem. There are people you can pay to alter clothes. It's their job. And -- I know this one is hard to believe but I swear to GOD it's true -- you can buy food already in jars at a store that's meant especially for selling food in jars and cans.

I think Mother was proud of me for a couple of reasons when I was young: She loved it that I was very thin --didn't know I was anorexically thin -- and people quite often commented on how cute I was. Mother would whisper to me with delight about how someone behind her had been whispering about me, Oh she always looks so cute.

And if Mother were here today, I don't think it would bother her that I can't sew or can food or do a lot of the things she did. She would be thrilled that I finished college and that my writing has been published in magazines and newspapers. She would show strangers on the street my byline.

She would go on and on about how hard working and good looking Favorite Young Man is and what a cutie Little Chick is and how sweet LL, RL, AR, and NL are and how talented and beautiful Someone I Love Is and oi! she would love Brilliant Buff British Boyfriend.

And she would still think I'm cute, especially since Sam cut my hair in a wedge recently and it's absolutely the most adorable hair cut I've ever had.

Yes, there's a lot I don't know.

But I managed to jump in and learn how to do a few things and then teach my children how to do those things and then they learned even more on their own.

Best of all, I know how to love, and I love God, my children, my friends, and my dogs. And I know that the more I love, the more love there is. The supply of love is never depleted because you've shared it. Love expands constantly. It's a law of physics.

That's why I have . . .

Infinities of love,

Lola

A MUCH BIGGER PROBLEM THAN FLIES

Gentle Readers,

Since it has become ridiculously hot and humid of late, I have noticed something occurring on my deck after dark: Gigantic cockroaches holding gigantic cockroach races on the deck rails.

The first time I saw one of these monsters I thought it had to be an anomaly. There couldn't possibly be more than one of these creatures in existence.

But then I saw another and another and another.

And then the unthinkable happened.

Twice during the past week I have opened the door at about 10 p.m. to let the dogs in and a major cockroach has trotted in with them.

These
mofos
are
bigger
than
the
chi
hua
huas.

In fact, I'm surprised they haven't carried the chihuahuas away.

These things are so big I'm too afraid to try to smash them with a napkin or paper towel because if I missed and the man-eater got away and ran up my arm or even worse, down my nightie, I would scream so loud that the neighbors would think I was being attacked. Then when they found out I was screaming because of a bug they wouldn't bother to come over when I really am attacked.

So both times, squealing like a pig, I have managed to plug in the vacuum cleaner and suck them up, where they can build their roach cities in the bag until it's so full of collie hair that I throw it out.

Thank God I don't have the kind of bag that has to be emptied.

If this is going to become a regular problem, then I have to have a better way to kill roaches.

Bazooka?

Sawed-off shotgun?

I avoid Wal-Mart like the plague, but perhaps I will have to go there and check out the fire arms section.

La cucaracha, la cucaracha
Ya no puede caminar
Por que no tiene, por que le falta
Marijuana que fumar

Learned that from my Spanish teacher in eighth grade. Now I'm the one who needs the marijuana que fumar.

By the way, that squeal like a pig thing is in the movie Deliverance, but it is not in the novel Deliverance by James Dickey, which is beautifully written and indicative of Dickey's skill as a poet, for which he was primarily known.

Love,

Lola