HELLO - IS IT ME YOU'RE LOOKING FOR?

Gentle Readers,

We've had a couple of visitors recently who left behind comments, which is one heck of a lot better than leaving some things behind that I can think of.

Raine and MulledVine have been here, so Hello and Welcome and please come back.

I imagine they visited because of LegalMist's Friday Feature on moi, and perhaps we've had some other guests as well who slipped in and out without commenting.

Now that you have me on the subject of leaving things behind, I must tell you about taking Thoreau the Treeing Walker Coonhound with me when I picked up my Favorite Young Woman from school.

F.Y.W. attended a private high school - a very ritzy prep school with only a few students in each class and fancy schmancy stuff going on all the time. When they put on a play, they had the most gorgeous costumes - oy. And the grounds. Oy Oy Oy The perfectly cut green grass stretched on forever. It was in the middle of nowhere with mountains visible in the distance. Cell phones didn't even work there. Such a place you wouldn't even believe exists and my little F.Y.W. went to school there.

Her first three years she was a day student because we just barely lived within driving distance
so she couldn't have a scholarship to board. Quite often when I went to pick her up, I took one of the dogs with me, which pleased her immensely. Sometimes we had to wait a while for her so whichever dog and I would frolic on the gorgeous grounds, trimmed with scissors by dozens of yard elves who crept out at night to work.

However, I soon discovered that if I took Thoreau with me, then we always left something behind. I don't know what it was about that place that made Thoreau go, but he went; and I always imagined some snot-assed rich kid stepping right in the middle of it. It kind of pleased me because some of the snot-assed rich kids were not so nice and they needed a little something to bring them down to earth. "OMG I have shit all over my Jimmy Choos."

It was especially gratifying because when Thoreau shit, it looked like he was leaving great big brown barrels that he had just built. He was a big dog, and he could shit with the best of them. Oh my goodness how I loved that dog. I didn't mind scooping the yard after he decorated it, but when he pooped at the fancy school, I told my daughter that we had made a donation that day.

They were always asking the parents and alumni for money for this fund or that or their million jillion dollar capital campaign fund, and Thoreau made our donations for us.

Now don't get me wrong. It really was quite a good school, and I'm glad my F.Y.W. had the opportunity to go to school there and have better than average teachers and kick the rich kids' asses (valedictorian and lots of other awards). But everyone must have a little shit in their lives, and Thoreau and I were happy he could provide it.

Oy Oy Oy

Infinities of love,

Lola

LOLA FEELS LESS THAN LUKEWARM ABOUT ONE MOVIE BUT FRABJOUS ABOUT ANOTHER

Gentle Readers,

I describe myself as less than lukewarm about the first movie because less than lukewarm is actually cool, and I don't think Bride Wars is at all cool.

I suppose if you want something pretty mindless to watch, it will do, but if you're going to really watch it and think you like it, then at least keep in mind what I have to say about it.

The two main characters, whose names I forget (played by Anne Hathaway and Kate Hudson), are BFF who go insane when they find out that the most important day of their lives, their wedding days, have accidentally been scheduled on the same day.

I have news for you: If your wedding day is the most important day of your life, then what do you have to look forward to for the next 40 or 50 years? Will it be all downhill from there?

Yeah, probably.

And I really hate it than when your plans don't work out, what's your names, you fall into catty female stereotypes instead of finding a way to solve the problem. Problems are made to be solved.

I also don't like it when Anne Hathaway's character starts to stand up for herself, and her supposedly loving fiancee tells her she's not a bitch, but she's in the neighborhood. Remember, girls, go after what you want and the world will call you a bitch.

It's o.k. for a man to be aggressive, but damn, girl, you best keep your mouth shut and take what's comin' to you or you are a capital B itch.

Now, the movie I liked - no loved - is Young @ Heart.

It's a lovely documentary about a group of seniors who sing covers of songs by The Clash, James Brown, The Rolling Stones, you name it, they do it.

Sometimes their renditions are hilarious; sometimes their renditions are poignant.

I loved it and so frabjous is the best word to describe Young @ Heart.

Infinities of love,

Lola, the naughtiest girl in North Dakota

THANK YOU

Gentle Readers,

I give thanks every day, but Sundays offer even more opportunities for giving thanks with a group of brethren and sistren at church (I think I just made up a new word; I love doing that).

Today I give extra thanks to and for LegalMist, who so kindly made WOMEN: WE SHALL OVERCOME her Friday feature, and I didn't even have to pay her to do it.

I feel like a doggie getting an extra biscuit every time she publishes a post. She's so amusing and interesting. Her children sound absolutely hilarious. So, thanks again LegalMist.

And again, I give thanks because Harper is home. He and I have a new agreement, based on an agreement that my favorite young woman had with Faulkner.

When Favorite Young Woman came to visit, Faulkner waited patiently by her side when she ate toast, yeah toast. The last corner of the toast always went to Faulkner. They had an agreement that it would be so.

My new agreement with Harper is that he receives the last bite of my dinner. Will it end his wanderlust? I doubt it.

But he's here's now, and Harper, I'm making teriyaki chicken and rice for dinner.

Infinities of love,
Lola

HELL WEEK

Gentle Readers,

Here's why it has been Hell Week in Cougartown.

As you may recall, my beloved collie died on July 27th, the day after his 13th birthday -- an event from which I may never recover because I've never communicated with a dog the way I could with Faulkner, who was admired for his beauty everywhere he went. I am an attention whore, and I loved the attention I received because I was in the company of my man Faulkner.

So one collie gone, one collie remains. Harper Lee does not possess the brilliance of a Faulkner, but he is a sweet and beautiful dog with big brown eyes who takes treats from my fingers without touching them.

However, Harper is an escape artist. He was a stray who got picked up and what's his name (that husband guy) and I adopted him about seven years ago after Thoreau the Treeing Walker Coonhound died.

It's easy to see why he was a stray. The dog has wanderlust. Given any opportunity, he takes off. He weighs 80 pounds but he can turn himself into the Incredible Shrinking Dog and wiggle out of the tiniest spots. He can dig a little hole under the fence that you would think wasn't even big enough for a chihuahua to get through, roll over on his back, and slide out as if he's been greased with Crisco.

Normally when he gets out, I follow him around the neighborhood with biscuits and a lead, followed by a group of kind and caring neighbors, and eventually he stops to check out somebody's cat and we all scream SWARM SWARM and the lead is on his collar and the collar is on him and we walk wearily home after thanking the neighbors and he gets a big drink and falls asleep.

But on Monday, I made a big mistake - huge (I have to go shopping now, Pretty Woman). I needed to fix a spot under the house where Robin the cancer-stricken foster bulldog had been escaping (yes, Robin is still alive and kicking and shows absolutely no sign of buying the farm).

I had the gate open because I, with my hilariously funny broken back, had to carry bricks and a 50-pound bag of quikrete into the backyard to make the repair and I couldn't open and close the gate with all that crap to carry. So, yes, the gate was open, but all the dogs were shut in the house.

Fatal error. The door wasn't locked.

Either Robin or Scout the black Lab mix stood up and turned the handle on the door and everybody came trooping out.

Scout stopped on the deck. I suggested that he go back inside, and being an intelligent little guy who enjoys his meals and sleeping in bed with Mom, he turned around and trooped right back into the house.

Robin and Harper departed, via the open gate. I grabbed a couple of leads and a box of biscuits and set off after them, desperately calling their names. Usually this would bring half the neighborhood out, but can you believe nobody was home? Not a soul. Not even Dennis who had a motorcycle accident and can barely walk with a crutch and spends most days sitting on his porch watching the neighborhood go by while he recovers.

Robin ran up to me after about 5 minutes, looking pleased that I wanted her. Big goofy grin on her face as I took her home and locked her in the house with Scout.

Then I hopped in the car to search for Harper. Eventually I saw him in a yard a considerable distance from my home. I got out and called him and tossed biscuits in his direction. He took off running as if he gets beaten at home instead of being served excellent kibble in a silver bowl, having a beautiful backyard where he talks trash with the rottie who lives behind us, and sleeps in bed with his back pressed against mine.

I followed on foot, leaving the car just sitting in the street, and to my horror, he left the neighborhood. He ran across an extremely busy street. I followed, dodging cars with their screaming horns. I followed him as he ran and ran and I finally lost sight of him. I returned to the car to drive around in the hood on the other side of the busy street.

No Harper.

Suddenly I realized I was almost to the door of the writer of If Martha Can Do It I Can Do It (she's not blogging a lot lately; she's very busy, but I assure you she's a wonderful writer). I pulled into her driveway and stumbled to the door, sobbing that Harper was gone and I absolutely could not take losing him. She was all business. She grabbed the telephone and started making calls to animal control to watch for him, and she even called his vet's office in the state where we used to live because his rabies tag was on his collar and it had that vet's number on it. She gave them my new phone number and explained that he was missing. She gave me a glass of water and a chance to calm down.

I went back out her door, tearless and determined to search in a logical fashion. I decided to go to animal control and got directions from my friend google. I arrived at animal control, which had a sign that said animal control with the name of my county. There was a building with kennels visible. There was a sign that said office. But there were no barking dogs, no one in the parking lot, nothing but a sign on the door that said we've moved to *****. But that was the address I had googled. That was the address where I was supposed to be. Animal control was as lost as Harper.

I came home and searched some more.

When he didn't come home at 5 p.m., I knew he was lost because 5 p.m. is supper time and he knows when it is 5 p.m. and he is not one to miss a meal.

I slept on the couch, which means I dozed and awoke every 10 minutes, because I hoped that somehow he would find his way back to me and bark at the door.

He didn't.

I got up first thing in the morning and started the search again. If Martha Can Do It I Can Do It knew how to get to the real animal control building where she checked for him and filled out a missing pet report. She was there at 8 a.m. with her 18-month old daughter. If that's not a good person, then who is?

About noon I went to Office Depot with a picture of Harper and asked them to make HARPER IS LOST flyers, offering a reward. They said it would take about 90 minutes. I went to have lunch and then asked I.M.C.D.I.I.C.D.I. if I could stop by. On my way to her house, my phone rang. I thought it would be Office Depot calling to say my flyers were ready.

But it wasn't Office Depot.

It was a young man who said Harper had been hanging out in his sister's yard all day and they had called animal control, in their county, to pick him. But the young man had copied down all the info from Harper's rabies tag and had made calls to Illinois, where the vet's office told him my name and phone number and he called me and told me Harper was on his way to animal control.

I was so excited I got lost on the way to my young friend's house, and it's only about five minutes away. I gave her the good news and she called the other county's animal control and learned they closed at 4 (it was 3:45) and that the officer wouldn't arrive with Harper until after they closed. She told them his name, my name, everything there was to know including that I haven't had sex in years (oops that just slipped out; she didn't actually say that and probably did not know it until now though she might have suspected) and, finally, that I would be there to pick him up when they opened at 10 a.m. on Wednesday.

And I was. It was an hour away from home, and I sure wish Harper could tell me how he got there.

I wish I could say nice things about the people at that animal control, but I can't. They didn't care that Harper had a rabies tag. They didn't care that my friend had called to tell them that I would be there to pick him up. They acted as if they didn't know what I was talking about when I arrived, but the truth slipped out as they spoke privately. They knew he was wearing the tag. They knew my friend had called. But they treated me like crap and made me wait 45 minutes to look in the kennels for him (I'll write nice things about other animal control places some other time).

When I finally had my Harper in my arms, he glanced at me as if to say, "Oh, it's you. I knew you'd come." I noticed immediately that his tag with his name and address was gone, so it's a really good thing the rabies tag didn't come off too.

So I have a huge thank you for the guy who found him. You rock, kid. You kick major ass. You want my first born male child? You can have him. Oh, please, take him.

Anyway, I called Harper's savior to thank him and I said I never would have found him out there and animal control didn't care. He said, I know. That's why I wasn't going to quit calling until I found you.

I gave Harper biscuits on the long drive and thought about stopping at Micky D's to get him a burger but was afraid I'd upset his stomach. But we didn't come straight home. We went to the vet's office and got a new name and address tag and got Harper a microchip. He's a high tech dog now.

And he's home. He was exhausted, but not injured in any way. He slept on the couch all afternoon and on the deck during the evening and we went to bed for snuggling at 9:00.

Now, I realize this has been a very long story. Sometimes my posts are short, and sometimes they are long, and this one has been extra long, so I'll give you my conclusion and then it's time to feed the dogs.

Conclusion: First, I asked all my friends to pray for Harper's safe return, and they did. I received so many supportive emails and calls. Second, that wonderful young man made sure that Harper came back to me. If this isn't proof that prayer has power and that there are still good, kind people in the world, then I don't know what you need in order to believe.

Infinities of love,

Lola

HELL WEEK

And itchy. Gentle Readers, I am so tired and itchy. This has been the week from Hell (I'll explain more on another day), and my skin likes to reflect my feelings.

I am itchy on my toes
Itchy up my legs
Itchy down my back
And all over my hairy . . .



Finish it yourself. I'm too tired.

Just love today, not infinities,

Lola

SLEEP TIGHT

Gentle Readers,

I have a long-standing fear of bugs.

In fact, my fear goes back as far as I can remember, and I remember a lot (this is a warning to some people). As a small child, I had nightmares that bugs were crawling on me.

They stopped when I was a teenager, but when I was an adult, they started again, and after a nightmare about red ants crawling on me, I realized why I had the bugmares. It was because I was so itchy that it made me dream that something was crawling on me.

You see, I've had eczema since I was a baby, it subsided during my teenage years, and then returned - as it often does - when I reached my form of adulthood.

Although I've been plenty itchy this summer because of mosquito bites and the rashes that crop up on my always-fragile skin, I didn't have a summer bugmare until about two weeks ago when I woke up believing that bedbugs were crawling all over me.

After all, every time I turn on the news I hear about another posh place in New York City that had to be closed while they get rid of the bedbugs. Horror stories about bedbugs in hotels abound. Exterminators have scary advertisements that scream BEDBUGS ARE BACK.

Well, it just so happens I have been to a lot of those fancy-schmancy places in New York that now have bed bugs and I have been there within the past 10 to 15 years. I have also stayed in a number of hotels, and at one time or another, I employed an exterminator in houses I used to own.

I have every reason in the world to fear bedbugs.

Anyway, I did my bedbug research (I've already provided two links for you as you may have noticed, should you care to join me in my bedbugmares), and I've been watching for signs of bedbugs. Do I have even more bites that usual? No. Do I find little smears of blood on my sheets? No.

So I don't think I have bedbugs, yet, but if I get them, you will be the first to know.

After the exterminator.

Infinities of love,

Lola

LOLA RECOMMENDS TWO BOOKS

Gentle Readers,

I have made my way through two more of Joyce Carol Oates' tomes (I think tome is the appropriate word here because it sounds weighty to me and she tends to write pretty long books so they're a bit heavy and unwieldy when I rest them on my chest while reading in bed, which I love to do), and I pronounce both books worthy.

First, I read The Gravedigger's Daughter, which I found difficult to put down.

Then I read My Sister, My Love, which I found even more difficult to put down.

It's based on the Jonbenet Ramsey case in some of its twists and turns, and that's all I will tell you about it. Just read it, and absolutely no skipping ahead. Allow it to unfold as it should and I think you'll be quite surprised by the conclusion and don't go getting Mummy confused with Patsy Ramsey. Just because the book is based on the Ramsey family that doesn't mean you should take everything it says as fact. I know you won't do that, Gentle Readers, but I feel I must post a warning in case someone drops by the message center and thinks Oh this book is about Jonbenet Ramsey. I quite often see people confuse reality with fantasy. In fact, for 30 years I lived with someone who did that and it was no fricking fun.

Anyway, stylistically, I think My Sister, My Love is Oates' best novel to date. That woman has written 35 novels, that I know of, and I can't get past the first six chapters of mine.

Maybe I should serialize my novel on my message center and if I had the world (hahahahahaha) looking forward to the next post, it would pressure me to write so I wouldn't disappoint you, World.

Ah, I can see it now. I shall be famous for blogging an entire novel.








Nah.


Infinities of love,

Lola