Saturday, April 30, 2011


Gentle Readers,

I have this crazy idea that I want to go to school and get more education in the field of education. Maybe making myself more marketable as a teacher would get me past the whistle blower black ball thing, and even better, maybe I would be more helpful to the students. It's so rewarding to teach a kid something and see the light bulb come on over the head.

The problem is I don't have any money for school. I already owe money out the you know what from refinancing my house so I could get what's his butt off the deed. I can fill out a FAFSA, but I doubt if I'm poverty stricken enough to qualify for a Pell grant. Someone at the school I'm researching suggested applying for a Stafford loan, but man, at my age, the last thing I need is to spend my final years of working paying off loans. It almost wouldn't be worth it.

Or I could become a whore.

Infinities of love,


Friday, April 29, 2011


Gentle Readers,

I've never actually had to perform the perp walk, but I thought it made for a more interesting post title than THE DEPRESSION WALK.

I've been doing the depression walk on and off since I got fired. It consists of barely moving my feet while my head hangs forward and my shoulders droop. Thank God I live in such a small house now. When I did the depression walk in my big house, sometimes I'd have to stop and just lie down on the floor because making it from one room to the next was too much.

As you may have guessed, I've had no luck finding another job. It took me 18 months to get the last one. I was teaching. At a failing school. And by that, I mean their grade from the state was a big fat F.

I kinda doubt I'll get another teaching job. I think I've been blackballed because I was a whistle blower, but I don't know what difference my whistle blowing made because nobody did anything about it. I guess the problem is that now I'm a known whistle blower and so oh Dear God I might do it again.

I think all states now have standardized tests students have to take as a way of judging the school. And the schools have to be judged because of No Child Left Behind. I certainly don't want children left behind, but oy vey, what I saw at that school. Those children were already so far behind I don't know how they could ever recover.

It's really a shame that so much money is spent on the tests and practice tests and materials to prepare for the tests instead of putting the money to work for the kids. Smaller class sizes and more individualized instruction seem like a couple of good ideas to me.

But anyhoo, back to the whistle blowing. The afternoon that I started working with my students, they had taken the state writing test that morning. Some of them told me that the teacher who gave them the test wrote all or part of their essays for them. They wouldn't tell me who the teacher was. One said, I ain't no snitch.

So at the end of the school day, of course I reported what the students had told me. The folks to whom I reported wanted names. I promised to investigate. I think it was my downfall. I know those kids would have talked. They would have told me more as soon as they got to know me.

So, man, I was out the door for no reason in less than a week. You see, here in the hinterlands, teachers can be fired for no reason during the first three months of employment.

I think the administration didn't want to know who cheated. I've read quite a few articles about cheating on the state-mandated tests. They all say it's to the schools' advantage to cheat, and of course it is. They want the money from the state that the school receives for improving. The teachers want the merit pay they get because their students have shown improvement.

They want higher scores.

Especially if the school's grade is F.

I reported all this to the teachers' union and to the appropriate people at the schools' central office. I even fired off a letter to the Superintendent of Schools.

Guess what?

Nobody cares. There was no investigation. No one asked me a single question.

The only response I received was an angry email from the principal who fired me telling me if I wanted to talk about the school I should contact him. Why in the hell would I get in touch with the guy who fired me? We're not exactly on a send each other Christmas cards basis.

The saddest thing about all this is not that I lost my job, although it brings out the depression walk in me.

The saddest thing is that taking the test for the student is tantamount to saying, You're not good enough. You can't do it, and rather than let you do what you are capable of, I will teach you to be helpless.

We should all be doing the depression walk over that.

Infinities of love,


Thursday, April 28, 2011


Gentle Readers,

I have just finished reading The Help by Kathryn Stockett, and all I have to say is Get your copy and start reading. You'll have a hard time putting it down. When I got too tired to finish the book two nights ago, I woke up early because the book was calling me. So I read the last few chapters at about 5 a.m.

It's the early 1960s in Jackson, Mississippi, and all the Junior League women and anybody who is anybody has help, a black maid who comes in to clean and take care of the children. Then one of the white women, the one who actually got her degree at Ole Miss instead of her MRS and who wants to be a writer, convinces some of the maids to tell her their stories of working for the white women. She hides names and the location and the book is accepted by a publisher.

At first I was a little annoyed that it took a white woman to get the stories out into the world, but I got over it. It's the black women who are the heart and the backbone of the book -- and of the families for whom they work. Some have painfully sad stories to tell, but some also tell stories of great kindness.

I think my favorite maid is Minny, who is always getting fired for sassing her employers, while at home her husband beats the crap out of her.

Minny: I lay there grinding my teeth, wondering, worrying. Leroy, he's onto something. And God knows what'll happen to me if he finds out. He knows about the book, everybody does, just not that his wife was a part of it, thank you. People probably assume I don't care if he finds out --oh I know what people think. They think big strong Minny, she sure can stand up for herself. But they don't know what a pathetic mess I turn into when Leroy's beating on me. I'm afraid to hit back. I'm afraid he'll leave me if I do. I know it makes no sense and I get so mad at myself for being so weak! How can I love a man who beats me raw? Why do I love a fool drinker? One time I asked him, "Why? Why are you hitting me?" He leaned down and looked me right in the face.

"If I didn't hit you, Minny, who knows what you become."

I was trapped in the corner of the bedroom like a dog. He was beating me with his belt. It was the first time I'd ever really thought about it.

Who knows what I could become, if Leroy would stop goddamn hitting me.

Yeah, if we're not beaten down the way these women are beaten down physically and emotionally, then who knows what we might become? We might actually have lives of our own.

Did I ever hit you?

You don't know? Or do you just pretend not to know? Is there such a thing as truth with you?

The therapist said I should let out my emotions and the only emotion I know how to have is anger.

And you don't care that I got home from the hospital this morning.

I'm sorry for when I hurt you, but . . . .  

Oh, you don't mind that you hit me. You just don't want anybody to know.

I have enough sorry to last me the rest of my life. Now I just want a life and no more reason for sorry.

Time to read.

Infinities of love,


Wednesday, April 27, 2011


Gentle Readers,

I watched the DVD of For Colored Girls, starring a whole host of our loveliest actresses and I pronounce it most worthy of watching.

It is pure poetry. The music of the language turns this film into a song of beauty and truth and bereavement.

The movie is based on a 1975 play by Ntozake Shange, For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide /When The Rainbow Is Enuf.

Please watch. Glory in the lyricism of the language. You will be glad you did.

Infinities of love,


Juanita: Now, how many times have you heard your man say it don't feel the same? My love is too beautiful to have it thrown back on my face. 
Yasmine: I like that. 
Juanita: Try one. 
Yasmine: What? 
Juanita: Well, I do it all the time in my class. You just say, "My love is too ____," and you just fill in the blank. 
Gilda: My love is too sanctified to have it thrown back on my face. 
Kelly: My love is too magic to have it thrown back on my face. 
Tangie: My love is too "Saturday Night" to have it thrown back on my face. 
Jo: My love is too complicated to have it thrown back on my face. 
Yasmine: My love is too music to have it thrown back on my face. 
Juanita: Yes, and you remember that when a man tries to walk off with all your stuff! 

Tuesday, April 26, 2011


Gentle Readers,

I don't really believe your daughter is a whore, although you'd better ask her where she's getting all that extra money all of a sudden, but Sandra over at Absolutely Narcissism says that if you use whore in the title of your post you'll get more readers. So did the title catch your eye?

Anyhoo, the reason we're here today is to continue discussing the importance of names, which I started yesterday and if you don't believe me then look at yesterday's post bitch.

My major point, today, Gentle Readers, is that you should make the effort to pronounce names correctly and if you don't know how to pronounce a name, then ask.

I've never been an Oprah fan, but I went through a brief spate of Oprah watching a while back because it's the last season of her TV show and I became curious because I'd never watched. I happened to watch the day that Oprah revealed she had a half-sister her mother had given up for adoption. I've always kind of idly wondered about Oprah's name and some Bible study bitches in Illinois told me she was supposed to be named for Orpah in the book of Ruth, but somebody couldn't spell. But I looked it up and read online that she really was named Orpah and her family changed her name because people couldn't pronounce it.

So you can pronounce Oprah but you can't pronounce the Biblically familiar Orpah? What?

When people say they CAN'T pronounce a name, I always have to wonder how hard they're really trying.

I used to go to church with a woman whose husband was Nigerian. Their last name was kind of long and hyphenated and she would never even tell people what it was. She'd say Oh I'm just S*****, forget about the last name. So I went out of my way to learn to pronounce and spell her last name. She was so pleased.

Remember, you are your name, and I grew up with a name that was extremely difficult to spell and pronounce and I absolutely went through hell because of it. You can't begin to imagine the way people mispronounced my name and how I dreaded having substitute teachers because I knew they'd get my name wrong. My seventh grade chorus teacher learned my name right away and actually said, It's too bad we can't all have weird names that are easy to remember.

I still get pissed when people transpose two letters in my last name and turn it into something completely different than what it is. Oh, and what's his name's name, oh my goodness, people were always acting as if it had letters in it that were not there at all and sometimes it would come out sounding way too much like horny. That got old real fast.

When I worked in the nursing home, we had a patient whose name started with C-O. The nurses and assistants were always pronouncing it as if it were spelled C-R-O. I kindly informed a group that the name did not have an R, and somebody said Oh whatever. I said No, not whatever, and then I pronounced her name correctly.

Can't we at least provide people with dignity by pronouncing their names correctly? It's really not that difficult to say, Excuse me, I'm not sure how to pronounce your name. Would you please help me out?

WORDS ARE POWER. Like when I tell you your daughter is a whore and you didn't already know.

Infinities of love,


Monday, April 25, 2011


Gentle Readers,

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

I'm not so sure that's true. What if a rose were called a skrunklebutt?

I had a high school teacher who said, You are your name.

I had a college professor who said, Words are power.

I agree with both of them.

Scrunklebutt does not sound sweet and pretty and I think if a rose were called a skrunklebutt that it would take on the ugly associations of the icky-sounding word.

When I was in elementary school, there was a boy named ****** Dick. He was a year younger than me and was a perfectly nice kid. He got picked on mercilessly. There was nothing wrong with him except that his last name was Dick. Thus, he was not Mr. Popularity. My buds and I yelled at the dumb kids who picked on him and invited him to play tether ball with us.

I also had to deal with a business associate one time who had a difficult to pronounce and spell last name. She helped me out with it and then said, At least it's better than my maiden name, which was Buttkiss.

It took all my strength and will power, but I did not laugh. I simply said, I bet you would have married just about anyone to get rid of that. She smiled and was cheerful about it, but I bet she wasn't smiling and cheerful growing up. I bet she was tortured. And she was a very pretty, nice woman. You can't get anywhere in the world with the name Buttkiss any more than a flower called a skrunklebutt can be beautiful and smell sweet. Some people would defend the skrunklebutt and say its name doesn't matter, but most people would despise the skrunklebutt.

If names didn't have important associations, then lots of German kids named Adolf would still be running around. I don't think Coors beer mentions too often anymore that Adolf Coors was their founder. The name Adolf in and of itself isn't ugly, but it has ugly associations.

How about Adolf Buttkiss Dick? Now there's a name for you. And the altar flowers when he's baptized could be skrunklebutts.

I know I'm dumping lots of ideas on you today, but I want you to start thinking about the importance of names because I have more to say about them,

In fact, I have quite a bit to say about names, but I think this is enough for now.

And the next times somebody gives you roses, I bet you'll think, Ahhhh shit, it's skrunklebutts.

Infinities of love,


Friday, April 22, 2011


Gentle Readers,

I love Good Friday. Although it is a sad day, it leads us to the resurrection of our Christ.

The Good Friday service is so beautiful with the stripping of the altar, leaving the service without chatting, showing silent respect for Our Lord. To me it is the most moving service of the year. It is a solemn, sacred service.

Then we return for Saturday evening's Easter Vigil followed by the glory of Easter morn.

The lilies will smell so beautiful on Sunday.

Infinities of love,


Thursday, April 21, 2011


Someone has said that if Christians really understood the full extent of the power we have available through prayer, we might be speechless. 


Did you know that during WW II there was an adviser to Churchill who organized a group of people who dropped what they were doing every day at a prescribed hour for one minute to collectively pray for the safety of England , its people, and peace?


There is now a group of people organizing the same thing here in America.


If you would like to participate: Every evening at 9:00 PM Eastern Time (8:00 PM Central; 7:00 PM Mountain; 6:00 PM Pacific), stop whatever you are doing and spend one minute praying for the safety of the United States, our troops, our citizens, and for a return to a Godly nation.


If you know anyone else who would like to participate, please pass this along. Our prayers are the most powerful asset we have.


Please forward this to your praying friends.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011


Gentle Readers,

I simply do not understand the pictures of Jesus that a lot of white people have up in their houses. In the first place, they usually look like pretty cheap crappy prints and they're in cheap crappy frames.

But what's really ridiculous is that Jesus is usually depicted as having light brown, almost blond hair, very fair skin, and blue eyes. Jesus was Jewish and he lived in the Middle East. Does a light haired pasty-faced blue- eyed Jesus make the slightest bit of sense?

I don't think so.

A friend of mine who is black (not that this is necessarily a black and white thing; I'm just turning it into one based on my limited experience) has a beautiful portrait of Mary and Jesus. It's a lovely print in a lovely frame and Mary and Jesus are black.

I think Jesus probably would have had olive skin and dark eyes and dark hair, but black certainly makes more sense than white. And if we're going to put up pictures of what we think Jesus looked like, then let's at least make them respectful by using a nice print and not some doo-doo picture.

And that's all I have to say about that . . . for now.

Infinities of love,


Tuesday, April 19, 2011


Gentle Readers,

A new version of Upstairs, Downstairs is on Masterpiece Theatre and I am positively squealing with delight.

George V has just died. Edward VIII is the new king. And the new inhabitants of 165 Eaton Place are newlyweds who must hire servants. Who runs the agency where Lady Agnes goes looking for servants? Why, Rose (Jean Marsh), of course, who was the upstairs maid utterly devoted to her 165 Eaton Place family for so very many years.

Now Rose is training the new and mostly inexperienced staff. The family's first disaster occurs when Sir Hallam Holland's mother moves in with her son and his wife. When Lady Agnes gives her first party, her mother-in-law announces that she has run into Mrs. Simpson and invited her. Mrs. Simpson asks if she may bring a guest. Of course, of course, and everyone assumes it will be the king.

Well, guess what? It's not.

How will they get rid of their uninvited and unwanted guest who could damage Sir Hallam's reputation?

You must watch to find out.

I didn't know if I could possibly enjoy an update of such a classic as Upstairs, Downstairs because I loved the original so much. But I already find the new version to be absolutely delightful.

Check your local PBS station for days and times, but Masterpiece is usually on Sunday nights at 9 p.m. EST.

Don't miss an episode. The behind the scenes machinations have already begun.

Infinities of love,


Monday, April 18, 2011


Gentle Readers,

My dad could have a bit of a temper at times, but in general, he was a pretty calm guy. He raised five daughters without a lot of drama, at least not on his part, although I do remember him chasing one of my sisters around the house, and I mean outside, where she had run to escape, still carrying her plateful of supper.

The only time I recall seeing him embarrassed was once when he and my mom were talking to me about their voting records over the years. I was about 18 years old. He told me that the first time he voted was the last time that Franklin Roosevelt was elected and he had voted for Roosevelt. Then we talked about some other people they had voted for.

All of a sudden my mom piped up, Your dad voted for Nixon. He wouldn't vote for Kennedy because he said Kennedy was too damn Catholic.

I was shocked. My parents were rather ardent Democrats. Although they were Kansans, they despised Republican Bob Dole, rather than being proud of his success.

So I asked my dad, Reeeeeally?

He made faces. He grumbled. He mumbled. He squirmed. You woulda thought he had his drawers full.

And he never answered.

But my mom insisted it was true, and he didn't try to deny it.

I still think it was funny, but I never brought it up again.

There was one other time that he was almost embarrassed, but he managed to squeeze out of it. I was probably 10 or so and I had seen the musical Gypsy on TV -- you know, about the famous stripper, Gypsy Rose Lee.

I guess my mom and I were talking about watching the movie, and my dad suddenly said, I saw Gypsy Rose Lee.

I said, Reeeeeally? What was she like?

I don't remember, he said, quickly and gruffly. And he walked out of the room.

It wasn't until I was older that I realized he wasn't going to tell his little girl what Gypsy Rose Lee was like.

Tee hee.

Infinities of love,


Sunday, April 17, 2011


A 54 year old woman had a 
heart attack and was taken 
to the hospital.

While on the operating table 
she had a near death 
experience.. Seeing God
she asked "Is my time up?"

God said, "No, you have 
another 43 years, 2 months 
and 8 days to live."

Upon recovery, the woman 
decided to stay in the 
hospital and have a
face-lift, liposuction, 
breast implants and a 
tummy tuck.

She even had someone 
come in and change her 
hair color and brighten her
teeth! Since she had so much 
more time to live, she 
figured she might as 
well make the most of it.

After her last operation, 
she was released from 
the hospital. 
While crossing the street 
on her way home, she was 
killed by an ambulance.

Arriving in front of God, she demanded, "I thought you 
said I had another 43 years? 
Why didn't you pull me from 
out of the path of the

(You'll love this)

God replied: 
"I didn't recognize you." 

Saturday, April 16, 2011


Gentle Readers,

I watched Burlesque on DVD. Yeahnyah . . . I don't know. If you have nothing better to do and you want to watch something mindless, then I guess Burlesque would do.

Stanley Tucci's performance was a bright spot, but I could not believe I heard him utter the following line to a character named Coco who thought a good-looking guy was checking her out: Maybe he's cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.


I always love seeing Cher and the dancing at the burlesque club was pretty good. Somewhat provocative, but at least the girls kept their tops on. Of course, Christina Aguilera is the star of the show and I thought her dancing was kind of Mouseketeer mechanical, but the young lady has quite a set of pipes.

All the bloggityblahblahblah when she flubbed a line while singing the National Anthem at the Super Bowl was uncalled for. How many people can sing all the words to the National Anthem and get them exactly right? And then compound it by singing it in front of a kazillion people. It's not as if we sing The Star Spangled  Banner every day.

So watch Burlesque if you feel like it. It's up to you. I'm not telling you what to do on this one. I guess it's mostly for Aguilera fans.

As for dancing, I'd rather watch crazy skanky Britney Spears.

Infinities of love,


Friday, April 15, 2011


Gentle Readers,

I saw the DVD of Fair Game and declare it to be worthy of watching. I confess I was bored during about the first 10 - 15 minutes of the movie, but then it became riveting as the human cost of the U.S. Government's deception became more and more apparent.

Fair Game, based on the book by Valerie Plame Wilson, depicts the story of former Ambassador Joseph Wilson (Sean Penn) and his wife, former CIA operative Valerie Plame (Naomi Watts). The CIA assigned Plame to work with Iraqi scientists and learn more about the Weapons of Mass Destruction that Iraq supposedly had.

As part of the operation, the CIA also sent Wilson to Niger to seek information. Plame did not send Wilson to Niger herself; she merely recommended that he could be of assistance to the operation and the CIA asked him to make the trip, which he did, without pay.

Plame and Wilson and a number of other officials learned that Iraq did not have WMD; however, Dubbya moved forward with the attack on Iraq, insisting on the existence of the weapons. Wilson then wrote an op-ed piece for The New York Times telling the truth, but, of course, not revealing that his wife worked for the CIA. In retaliation, certain members of the U.S. Government, Scooter Libby (Vice President Dick Cheney's Chief of Staff) among them, outed Plame, destroying her career. She was even described by some as a glorified secretary who had arranged to send her husband on this boondoggle -- as if a trip to Niger, considered one of the least livable countries in the world, is made for fun and games and eating wings at Hooters.

I knew about this case, but now I understand it much better. It's very interesting to listen to Wilson and Plame's commentary on the DVD. They stress the extremes to which the filmmakers went to achieve accuracy, and I enjoyed the interaction between this couple who went through hell together and lived to tell the tale. Watts and Penn are excellent in their roles.

Fair Game is definitely worth one hour and 48 minutes of your time.

Infinities of love,


Thursday, April 14, 2011


Gentle Readers,

Recently I was having one of my sleepless nights, in spite of being very cozy and comfortable in my bed with Scout at my head and Harper at my back. Franklin, of course, does not sleep in the bed. He prefers a dog bed on the floor although I would love it if he'd join us in spite of the crowding.

Anyhoo, at about 3 a.m. I got up and went in the family room and the boys joined me. We tried reading a bit and watching a bit of a documentary and then I tried to fall asleep in a chair, which sometimes works.

But I couldn't sleep.

Franklin had gone in the office to sleep on the bed. I don't know why he sleeps on that bed (the office doubles as a guest room), but he won't sleep in my bed. I decided to try joining him.

I walked in the room and very tentatively lay me down to sleep next to him. He didn't budge. After a while, I put my hand on his right front paw. A few minutes later, he stretched out his left arm and put his left paw on top of my hand. We fell asleep, holding paw-hands.

Thank you, Franklin.

Infinities of love,


Wednesday, April 13, 2011


Gentle Readers,

Did you notice we now have an eighth follower? It's a lot of fun and very interesting to read The Restaurant Managers Rant at It gives me a new slant on places I like very much -- restaurants. My favorite post so far by the Manager is Let Me Show You The Door Pinocchio on Wednesday, April 6, about firing an employee who had received warning after warning and was making life miserable for everyone. We've all worked with that person.

One of those people in my life gave the best excuse I've ever heard for not coming to work. This was in a state some people call Maryland when I worked in the healthcare field. I was on the night shift at a nursing home. The Person had befriended another person who worked on our shift and suddenly the two of them seemed to be in charge of the nursing home. They didn't do their work, were always dashing to the telephone to make important calls and doing each other's nails, taking long smoke breaks when they weren't on the phone, you know -- all this important stuff that was a whole lot better than taking care of the pesky patients, lying helpless in their beds and doing their utmost to make the employees miserable by requesting an occasional drink of water or even more seriously annoying, wanting their medication.

It was really unfortunate that this friendship had occurred because previously, the friend had been one of the best workers -- really kind and friendly to everyone and doing her job without fail.

Increasingly, the two of them were late for work or called in "sick."

Well, one night The Person did not show up for work at all. When she was about two or three hours late she called and said she wasn't coming to work because she had needed to go to Baltimore and had gotten lost and was in South Carolina.

Now is that a great excuse or what?

Alas, it was her undoing. Soon after, she was finally fired.

Her friend quit and went to work in a different environment and made the papers for it. She and her mom were arrested for selling certain substances out of their house. What a lovely mother - daughter bonding activity. I wish my children would engage in such fun activities with me.

Makes me wonder what all those telephone calls in the nursing home were really about. Hmmmmm?

So, welcome, welcome, welcome to The Restaurant Manager. Read his rants and get a new perspective on the places where you dine. He has some other interesting things to say too.

Infinities of love,


Tuesday, April 12, 2011


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,


Monday, April 11, 2011


Gentle Readers,

I know I once told you the story of how Faulkner the collie managed to sneak around and steal the marshmallows off my cup of hot cocoa two nights in a row because he was so much smarter than I am.

Well, I don't think I've ever told you about Harper's cake thievery. I love The Cake Mix Doctor. Some of her cakes are better than others, but not one is bad. One of my favorites and a great selection for any occasion is Darn Good Chocolate Cake. It doesn't have any icing and it doesn't need it. It's a nice dense chocolate cake with chocolate chips in it. Mmmmmmm.

Well, after Harper had been with us a month or so, I made a Darn Good Chocolate Cake and set it back on the kitchen counter to cool.

A while later, I strolled out to the kitchen and Harper left the kitchen rapidly, licking his lips.

Half the cake was gone!

I made another Darn Good Chocolate Cake about two months later and set it out to cool, even farther back on the counter. Same thing. Harper comes out of the kitchen, licking his lips, half the cake is gone.

After that, when I baked a cake, I put it in a corner of the kitchen, way back from the edge of the counter, and put the heavy mixer in front of it.

Harper had taught me a lesson. I learn more from dogs than I could ever learn from people.

Infinities of love,


Sunday, April 10, 2011


I asked God to take away my habit. 

God said, No.

It is not for me to take away,
but for you to give it up. 

I asked God to make my handicapped child whole.

God said, No.
His spirit is whole, his body is only temporary. 

I asked God to grant me patience.

God said, No. Patience is a byproduct of tribulations;
it isn't granted, it is learned. 

I asked God to give me happiness.. 

God said, No.

I give you blessings;
Happiness is up to you. 

I asked God to spare me pain.

God said, No.
Suffering draws you apart from
worldly cares
and brings you closer to me. 

I asked God to make my spirit grow. 

God said, No.
You must grow on your own,
but I will prune you to make you fruitful. 

I asked God for all things
that I might enjoy life.

God said, No.
I will give you life,
so that you may enjoy all things. 

I asked God to help me LOVE others, as much as He loves me.

God said... Ahhhh,
finally you have the idea. 

Saturday, April 9, 2011


Gentle Readers,

Recently my Kathy underwent some medical tests and learned she has a kidney problem. It doesn't seem to be serious right now and apparently some people spend their entire lives with this problem and it never gets worse. Of course, if it does get worse, then it leads to dialysis and the need for a donated kidney.

Thus, I made the pledge to her over the telephone, and I now make the pledge in writing, that if she should need a kidney, I happen to have an extra one with her name on it. I was going to make it into a kidney pie, but I can keep it in the freezer instead.

I also mentioned that if she should happen to end up with part of me inside of her, that she would probably start doing some of the things I do, such as pole dancing, streaking, writing porn . . . oops! I didn't mean to reveal so many of my hobbies. Things do just seem to slip out of my mouth.

Tee hee.

I gave Kathy my heart long ago. She can certainly have a kidney if she can tolerate it.

Infinities of love,


Friday, April 8, 2011


Gentle Readers,

Someone I love and I have been having an argument, oh, for about 20 years now, about how to stop hiccups. This someone can be incredibly annoying because this someone hiccups and stops but once this someone gets started hiccuping, the hiccuping continues on and off for the rest of the day.

This began as an attention-getting device when this someone was very young.

I have always told this someone, Hold your breath.

This someone says, That doesn't work.

I say, It might not work the first time, but if you do it over and over, the hiccups will stop, or you will pass out. Either way, it will be the end of the hiccups.

This someone refuses to cooperate, preferring to annoyingly hiccup the day away.

During our most recent hiccup day argument, Favorite Young Man chimed in and said that he knew how to stop hiccups. He said, You lean your head back, pinch your nose, and someone pours water down your throat. You get very wet and it stops the hiccups.

We were surprised to learn that waterboarding stops hiccups but were pleased to realize that when our government waterboards prisoners, it's not torture. It's just to cure the prisoners' hiccups.

What a revelation.

Infinities of love,


Thursday, April 7, 2011


To those of you who think you know the person who writes this blog:

Guess what? You don't know jack shit. And the phone call you made last night couldn't possibly have hurt anyone as much as the phone calls I've received over the years about money lost to gambling and affairs and other things you can't possibly imagine. You think you know someone and you don't. Some people are extremely adept at hiding their true personalities. If you read this blog so you can go running to other people to gossip about what I've said, then more power to you. It just brings me more readers and demonstrates what an asshole you are.


Gentle Readers,

Those of you who follow my followers, and I know that means all of you, have noticed by now that a seventh follower has joined us. Thus, I now have two followers named Sandra. How ever shall I distinguish between them? I guess they will be Sandra 1 and Sandra 2.

I was delighted to discover that Sandra #2 (no implications by the number two, Sandra) writes an absolutely hilarious blog entitled Absolutely Narcissism. I read a few posts and found myself chuckling, then chortling, and then laughing uncontrollably. So I became one of Sandra's followers; however, she has scabs scads of hangers on and won't even notice your poor little Lola.

My favorite post so far is Don't Get Your Weiner Wet on March 22nd. It brought back so many happy memories of the days when I could torture my children and they couldn't get in cars and simply drive away. They were trapped with me.

You may not believe that your Lola could be so cruel, but I used to punish Favorite Young Man by singing in public. If he misbehaved, if he t'was obnoxious, I sang out loud and clear. Someone I love and I would sing while the three of us were bowling or as we perused the aisles of the grocery store. If he had been really bad, we also danced.

Someone I love, who was a mere seven years old, made up new lyrics to Copacabana that went His name was Rico, he had a vagina. Now isn't that just about the funniest damn thing you've ever heard, especially coming from a seven year old? I still laugh about that lyric and it was two years ago that someone I love made that up.

I still try to torture Favorite Young Man, but he simply says, Now that's just about enough of that -- something I seem to remember I used to say before breaking into the punishment songs. But Favorite Young Man doesn't bother to try to punish me by singing. He knows I'd just sing along.

So welcome, welcome, welcome to Sandra and Absolutely Narcissism. Sandra, should we ever find ourselves in a car together, of course I will sing Band on the Run with you. And when I don't know the actual lyrics to songs, I make them up, because what you think you hear is always so much funnier than what people actually say.

Infinities of love,


Wednesday, April 6, 2011


I am a human being. I am not shit or poison or any of the other vicious things you have called me. Simple solution: If you don't like what I write, then don't read it.  You punched me and shoved me and hit me and you just can't stand the truth. I've never used my name or yours and it's not like I have thousands of followers hanging on my every word anyway. So write your own blog and say what you want to say. I promise I won't read it because I don't care. I stuck by you through all the craziness and moving from one place to another and always giving up my friends and my home and when it got so bad that you should have been hospitalized I took you back and I took care of you and you did not have the fortitude to stick by me because everything was about you and how I affected you, not how you affected me. Well, you had a strong effect on me and I don't know where you get the stories you come up with; I guess they're just dropped into your head by one of your spirit guides. You told me for years that people hated me and then you seemed mystified when I didn't want to be around those people. You tell your stories and then they are gone from your life just like the wind blowing a leaf from the tree. So put your stories in a blog and then read your blog and wonder who wrote it.


Gentle Readers,

I keep seeing rumors that someone is going to make a movie about Janis Joplin starring Amy Adams.

Now, I adore Amy Adams. She is cute as a button in Enchanted and Julie and Julia. It wouldn't surprise me at all, though, if she managed to pull off Janis Joplin. Who woulda thunk that Charlize Theron could turn herself into a serial killer in Monster? But Charlize walked away with an Academy Award.

However, anyone who knows me knows that I should be the obvious choice to play JJ in the movie.

Long hair almost exactly the same length and color --  check
Colorful feather boas in hair --- check
Wail the blues -- check
Craziest chick around --- check
Addictions --- check
Age -- kind of a check

Never mind that I'm 52  I mean 42. I look much younger. People ask me all the time if Favorite Young Man and I are "together" as in, Are you his girlfriend?

As if. Hot young guys like Favorite Young Man don't need to hook up with ugly old ladies like me.

But I am totally the reincarnation of JJ. Take my word for it and somebody start a campaign: Lola must play Janis Joplin in THE movie. I cannot start this campaign myself because it would just look so -- I don't know. Like I'm full of myself or something and you know I am simply not that sort of girl.

But I can play that girl.

The movie poster will read as follows:


Oh, I am feeling the adulation and the smack already.

Infinities of love,


Tuesday, April 5, 2011


Gentle Readers,

127 Hours is a jaw-dropping, roller coaster ride of a movie that thrills and terrifies at the same time.

Director Danny Boyle - Whoo! Amazing lighting, cinematography, claustrophobic framing, great score. I'm impressed. A stylish movie.

I've loved James Franco since Freaks and Geeks. He has turned into the actor I thought he would be when I watched that TV show. Excellent performance as mountain climber Aron Ralston, who says this movie is so accurate that it's as close as possible to being a documentary.

Ralston set out for a climb in Utah, fell into a canyon, and was there for five days. Obviously, he lived to tell the tale. Just in case you aren't familiar with his story, I don't want to give away too much; however, if you are squeamish, then be prepared to be a bit grossed out for a while. Having worked in the healthcare field, I didn't need to put my hands over my eyes, but I sure felt the tension build and build and build until finally -- RELEASE!

I'm a little disappointed that the DVD doesn't have extras, such as commentary by Boyle and Franco, and deleted scenes. I read on IMDB that the movie originally had a different ending. But Boyle wanted the DVD to be as much as possible like viewing the movie in a theater. I totally understand. Even though I don't have some ridiculously gigantic big-screen TV, I still felt the theatrical experience. And I loved it. I just loved it.

You should definitely take 127 minutes plus a few more to watch 127 Hours. It's outstanding.

Infinities of love,


Monday, April 4, 2011


Gentle Readers,

For the first time ever, I offer for your reading fascination, a memoir by an author I actually know (and I don't mean the way I know Pat Conroy, although I still consider him a close, personal friend).

The book is Power In The Blood: A Family Narrative by the great and powerful Linda Tate.

Dr. Tate was one of my college professors. She was truly a master teacher -- always perfectly organized and ready to help her students gain knowledge. She was also my supervisor for a time in a college Writing Center.

The first day of class, I went to her to ask if I could take papers she was going to hand out in class to my house to copy them rather than spend money on the copiers in the library. She very kindly trusted me with her originals although she had only seen me once before. I admitted to her that I found the syllabus for the class rather daunting, and she blithely said, Not to worry.

Dr. Tate was right. I had no reason to worry. She guided us through that class so perfectly that it was truly a privilege to be there. And then when she returned my first paper to me, my grade was an "A". More importantly, she had written on it that she had now made the acquaintance of an original thinker.

ME? An original thinker? I often made a point of telling people that I had never had an original thought in my life. But by the time the class ended, I had learned more than writing and tutoring techniques that improved my own writing and ability to teach. I had learned for the first time in my life that I was creative.

Dr. Tate, I owe such a debt to you.

And now for Power In The Blood: Tate looks back at a legacy of family violence, creating voices for family members long gone that seem so true you would think she had been in the room with them. She also faces unflinchingly the manner in which her troubled family affected her. Her research is excellent and her writing absolutely beautiful.

I remember, Dr. Tate, hearing you say that you loved to dance. I had no idea that you loved dancing as a child and that your nickname was Dancing Bear.

I considered the possibility of quoting each of the main characters in this book so you, Gentle Readers, could hear the unique voices Tate creates, but, really, you should read this beauty of a book for yourself.

I'll quote only a small portion:

I gathered friends for a celebration. We danced to tunes on the stereo and sang at the top of our lungs. We sang "Jubilee" and "West Virginia, My Home," "When the Rainbow Comes" and "How Can I Keep from Singing?" We hung the flag [depicting dancing bears] at the top of the stairs, up near the top of this expansive house, right next to the door that led to my writing studio. The flag proclaimed, with joy and gusto, "This is the home of Dancing Bear, a woman who dances and sings, writes and plays, loves and cries with fierceness and passion!"

When the light hits it just right and the fabric shimmers just so, I could swear those bears are keeping time with me.

Dr. Tate, I didn't share my personal life with you when I was your student, and I realize you probably won't read this post; but I want you to know that for the first time in my life I live on my own. No one punches me now. The child who came to the Writing Center with me occasionally, that child is a mathematician. And I am so proud to be able to call myself a writer and you made a major contribution to that accomplishment.

And I am so proud of your accomplishments.

Infinities of love,


Sunday, April 3, 2011


This is dedicated to all of us who are seniors, to all of you who know seniors, and to all of you who will become seniors.


"WHERE is my SUNDAY paper?!"
The irate customer calling the newspaper office, loudly demanded

"Madam", said the newspaper employee, "today is Saturday. The Sunday paper is not delivered until tomorrow, on SUNDAY".
There was quite a long pause on the other end of the phone, followed by a ray of recognition as she was heard to mutter, ..

..."Well, shit, that explains why no one was at church either.


Saturday, April 2, 2011



When I say that 'I am a Christian', I am not shouting that 'I am clean living.
 I'm whispering 'I was lost, but now I'm found and forgiven.'

When I say 'I am a Christian' I don't speak of this with pride. 
 I'm confessing that I stumble and need Christ to be my guide.

When I say 'I am a Christian' I'm not trying to be strong. 
 I'm professing that I'm weak and need His strength to carry on. 

When I say 'I am a Christian' I'm not bragging of success. 
 I'm admitting I have failed and needed God to clean up my mess. 

When I say 'I am a Christian' I'm not claiming to be perfect.
My flaws are far too visible, but God believes I am worth it.

When I say 'I am a Christian' I still feel the sting of pain.
I have my share of heartaches so I call upon his name 

When I say 'I am a Christian' I'm not holier than thou,
I'm just a simple sinner who received
 God's good grace, somehow! 

Today is Beautiful Christian Woman's Day
Pretty is as Pretty does but, Beautiful is just plain Beautiful.. 

I'm supposed to send this to Beautiful Women, and you are one of them!

If you share this with other women, you will boost another woman's self esteem,
and she will
 know you care about her! 

Be Blessed, Be a Blessing.

 A woman's heart should be so hidden in Christ
 that a man should have to seek Him first to find her.