confronting mortality...

I find myself today, at the age of 33, confronting mortality. I learned of the death yesterday of a junior high & high school classmate. It's shocking and terrifying to be reminded that as a relatively healthy young person, I could still drop dead at any moment. I do NOT wish to make this tragedy about me--it is most certainly not. I hadn't seen him but a small handful of times since our graduation, though one of those times was at his wedding, to his junior high & high school sweetheart. The marriage didn't work out, though they both seemed to handle it with grace and dignity. My point is that I personally have not suffered a loss, at least not in my immediate circle. But this becomes about me in a very vague, existential sort of way--in that he was very close to my own age, in that our mothers have been acquainted since we were infants, in that it is simply not possible that someone like us could be dead.

When I think of him and our fellow classmates, although I have seen many of them in person, or at least via social networking, I still imagine us all frozen in time at roughly 15 or 16 years old. We were just children and it's so much easier to picture us all that way. Intellectually, I realize that we have grown up, many of us are married, have children and homes and careers. But I also almost feel that must be impossible--that any moment now, we'll all end up in the gym at a pep rally or something. I know this must seem ridiculous, but there it is.

I keep thinking of the sheer horror of his new wife and what she must be going through. Even briefly imagining this burns my heart. I think of his parents, his sister, his many friends. And I ache for them. I wish they never had to experience anything like this. I wish none of us did. I know that's not possible, but hey, that hope will always be there.

So as much as I don't want to commandeer this tragedy and make it about me, I seem to have managed this anyway. For that, I am so sorry. But I am human and in that way I am internalizing this loss. I mourn for a life cut all too short.

Tonight, the DH and I raised our pints to my fellow JJ. I hope those who feel his loss most acutely find peace and comfort. I hope that those of us left behind can carry on the memories, both good and bad. And I hope that we can all honor him by remembering to LIVE.

I love you all. May you never forget it.

Lola

ink & memories...

Hello, darling readers! I've been running at the mouth (and keyboard/keypad) for a couple of weeks now about how amazing my most recent tattoo experience was and how I wanted to blog about it. So here we are!

On Friday, July 18, I finally got a tattoo I've been talking about getting for a few years now--a rhododendron blossom ("rhodies" are the state flower of Washington) on the top of my right foot, in honor of my Momsie's birthplace. You see, I have a nautical/Texas star on the top of my right foot in honor of my Dad's birth state and thereby my heritage, so I've been wanting to balance that out with a Washington State tattoo on my other foot. Why did I pick my feet? Well, because those are my "roots," silly gooses!

I was so taken with this particular experience that I am compelled to write about it & share it with all of your because it really felt somehow fated--as though all the planets somehow aligned in order for me to get to have this happen. First of all, I had no clue when we got out there which studio I was going to go to, since I don't know anyone in Vancouver, WA who has tattoos and therefore had no real resource but the innanetz. I had done many searches and read many reviews but still really had not settled on any one tattoo shop. We had spotted some whilst driving around but they all looked super-sketch. Finally, the morning I had decided it was time to get it done, I did one last search on my phone, read more reviews, and chose 2 front-runners and a couple of also-rans, just in case. We headed out in the direction of the 1st one, in downtown Vancouver.

Now, downtown Vancouver had already been real good to me on this trip already--I found some lovely vintage goods, to include a mink stole for about $61, a paisley clutch, a woodcutting for the house, and some boutique gifties; I also enjoyed some of the most fabulous food & beer & atmosphere at a local pub. So I had a good vibe about this one already. The name of the shop is Hopeless Ink and right away, I kind of fell in love with it! It was super clean, even for a high-end tattoo shop. The art and decor was eclectic and fun and everything just felt really right. We got there right after opening, and it seemed only 1 artist was working--that artist was Joey Burnz. I vaguely recalled seeing his name in a LOT of the really great reviews this shop had gotten online. I showed him my reference photos & we talked about what I had in mind for the tattoo. He seemed to get really excited about it and took me back to his area in the back of the shop where he let me look at his "portfolio," which was posted almost entirely on his Facebook page. We went back & forth and got some ideas and he seemed to be almost giddy at the prospect of getting to do this tattoo! I'm telling you, every artist should be this excited. He told me that he loves tattooing flowers and his goal is to eventually tattoo 1 of every flower; also that he has not yet had the opportunity to tattoo a "rhodie," which he thought was strange since the shop is in Washington.

So I asked him if we could go ahead and get it knocked out, but he informed me that he had an appointment coming in at 1 (this was about 12:45 PM) and that he was booked up for nearly 3 months! But he hadn't heard from his appointment, in spite of having called her to confirm, and after some waiting in the lobby area, the front manager informed me that if the girl didn't show up by 1:15, I could have her appointment. Obviously, she couldn't make it (she did eventually call) so I snagged her spot! Joey was super-stoked to do it and as we were getting geared up, he told me he was also excited because he hasn't tattooed a walk-in in probably 2 years! LUCKY ME!!!

Now, let me tell you loves, this tattoo was not for the faint of heart. For those of you keeping track, this was #13 for me, and EASILY my most painful tattoo. I said cuss words. Out loud. I do NOT pay someone to stab me repeatedly with a needle and then bitch about it, so I tend to not complain during a tattoo, at least not out loud. But this sonofabitch hurt SO bad. It's much larger than the one on my other foot and took much longer, too, not to mention that Joey used at least 25 different colors in it! I took lots of deep breaths and blew a lot of air out through my teeth during this process. It didn't help that I was seated on a metal folding chair with my foot propped up on one of those adjustable, padded rests--so my ass kept falling asleep, as did my right foot, depending on which cheek I was resting on. There were a few places the pain was damn near unbearable, but I knew it was going to be totally worth it. So I shut up & took it. About 30 minutes in, Joey stops tattooing me for a second and says, "You know what? If I wasn't talking to you right now, I'd think you were asleep. You haven't moved AT ALL!" Over the course of the tattoo, which took about an hour & a half, a couple of the other shop guys came over and remarked that I was taking it like a champ, which naturally made me feel like a complete BAMF. Oh, because I am! LOL

Now, all that being said, the high wore off and the process of healing this sucker began. It's been a difficult one, being on the road, away from home. We were only in Vancouver for 1 more day, then headed down to California. Apparently, California fleas think I taste delicious, because I look like Trailer Park Barbie with about 30-40 bites, almost all concentrated on my left leg, and yup, you guessed it, right on my tattoo. Also because of the size and dimensions and location of the tattoo, my foot & ankle swelled up quite a bit, which was also challenging to manage while spending most of my time in the car or at the hospital with my in-laws. I texted a friend with tattoos on both of his feet to ask if his swelled up like that. He told me that not only had his feet swollen but they looked like 2nd-degree burns for a while. That gave me great comfort because that was almost exactly what I was working with! Here we are, 2 weeks later, and the swelling is nearly non-existent, the redness is mostly gone, and I just have a lot of dryness to contend with. I think once this last layer of dead skin falls off, it's going to be truly beautiful.

Aside from the healing part, I wish that everyone could have a tattoo experience like this. I especially hope that everyone can find a talented, enthusiastic, personable artist like Joey. If not, just fly to Vancouver & tell 'im I sent ya.

Inkily,
Lola

i wish i was brave enough...

Dearest Lola fans,
Please accept my sincerest apologies on having taken so long to write. My career and my driving need to be on a stage every so often have precluded much of my free time. The rest is often spent trying to recover from all that, leaving me unwilling/unable/unmotivated to write. It's not that I have nothing to say--I do. I have much I wish to leave here on this page. So much *stuff* inside that I wish I could allow to fly from the tips of my fingers, out of my psyche and onto this blog.

Which brings me to the point of this post. I wish I was brave. I wish I had the proverbial balls to REALLY say what I need to say. To put something on here so honestly brutally outrageous that it makes the rest of you nod your heads, saying, "Yes! Why didn't someone say this before now?!" But I can't. Because so much of what I want to say, what I need to say, affects people near and dear to me. It would be harder in some ways for me to say something honest here, because it's so public, specifically when that honesty will likely hurt someone I love.

The stories I tell you on here, when they affect other people, well, I turn those people into characters. The boys you read about on here, well, they're not exactly figments of my imagination but I wouldn't call them real, either. They're in that lovely grey area somewhere in the middle. The experiences I have and the feelings I write about are absolutely real...most of the time. Generally, I try to let you know when I'm posting pure fiction.

I started this blog so I could write about things like this. So I could share chapters of the book I'm sure I'll never write. So I could entertain you. So I could have some peace of mind by emotionally vomiting all over my keyboard. But the really true things...the really honest, really real, really painful things, I just can't get out. I don't want you to think less of me. I don't want people I care about to be caught in the middle. I don't want you to think less of them.

When I created this, I wondered if I shouldn't tell anyone it was mine, but instead, somehow just post the link or share it and ask people to read it and see what they think. But I knew that those who know me best and who read my blog on the deserted carnival that is MySpace would recognize it as mine immediately. So I figured, why bother? And I knew that at some point, we would get to this. That I would need to post questions for which there are no answers. That I would want to say something divisive and awful about someone close to me, and I refuse to do that. It's not fair to those people--they didn't sign up for this. Ya'll know I have zero problem posting my opinions on other issues that are traditionally verboten, like religion and politics, and that's different. I can be brutally honest about how I feel because, while certain readers may object or won't like or agree with what I have to say, it doesn't hurt them personally.

So somehow, I have to figure out how to deal with these ugly feelings I'm having. I have friends I can talk to, sure, and they offer advice and suggestions and that's great, but at the same time, they can't fix it for me. Nor do I want them to. I have to get around this myself. Being as painfully self-aware as I am, I completely understand my motives and failings and where they come from, but this rarely saves me from...well, much of anything, frankly.

Moving on to a much happier note, I have a new fake boyfriend! I met him a few months ago via a mutual friend. I asked him officially yesterday after some very salacious flirtation via the interwebs. His nickname is Laundry. Why? Because for one, I had a VERY naughty dream involving the two of us in a laundry room. Also, because, you know, I'm just sittin' around here, doing my Laundry. Just something I gotta do when the need builds up, know what I mean? I asked, he approved, and here we are. Flirting is so much fun. I think I would go batshit crazy without that outlet.

I know, I know--get down to the nitty gritty, Lola! Right? Yes, he's adorable, of course. Sexy in a sort of nerdy rock-n-roll kind of way, if that makes any sense. Tousled light brown hair. Tall & a bit lanky. Tattoos (in fact, we have tattoos with something in common). But more importantly, he's fucking smart. And witty as hell. He can actually not just keep up with me verbally but his innuendo often tops even mine. That, my friends, is fucking sexy. It makes me hate him in that really really delicious way.

Have I said too much? Probably. Isn't that why ya'll keep coming back?
With Love,
Lola

Isadora (2002-2011)...

Yesterday was one of the worst days of my life. It started off as normally as any Saturday and ended in heartbreak such as I haven't experienced in a very long time. The DH wasn't feeling well, so we agreed to just chill out on the sofa all day. We watched some TV, I took a bath. As I was getting out of the shower, our fire alarm went off randomly. (It does that sometimes.) We got that taken care of then decided it was about time to have some lunch. As I headed through the entry-way and into the dining room, I noticed our oldest cat, Izzy, laying in the floor, sort of half in the kitchen and half in the dining room. I called to her, said something mindless like, "Izzy, baby, what are you doing, you silly girl?" I mean, she's a cat, ya know? They're freaking weird, wild creatures and therefore unpredictable. But she didn't move. Not even a whisker twitch. I leaned down to check on her and simultaneously noticed four things that were very, very wrong: Her eyes were wide open, her mouth was open, there was drool on the floor and she had urinated. I shook her a little bit and heard myself saying, "Baby, I think she's DEAD!" I said "I think" without really thinking, because it was clear that she was gone. I jumped back and DH leaned down to her and said, "Baby girl?" I got back down on the floor, weeping and shaking my head and saying, "oh no my baby, my poor poor baby," over and over again...Then it hit me hard that she was really really gone...And this sound...this god-awful wailing started escaping from somewhere in my guts...I was screaming and crying and I know, I know, she's a CAT but damnit, she's MY CAT and I love her!! And all the DH could do was hold me while I rocked back and forth. In that horrible, shocky way we humans have, I stood up and tried to pull myself together. I couldn't figure out what to do with myself or with her. And then it hit me, she needed to be wrapped in something. So I went into the back bedroom and came out with her favorite yellow blankie she used to sleep on. DH helped me put her on it and sort of wrap her up in it. I leaned back down and started petting her some more and telling her how sorry I was...

And I was. I was so so very sorry...Sorry it had happened, sorry I hadn't been there, sorry it wasn't what I had imagined for her. I imagined that YEARS from now, she would get sick, we would take her to the vet, we would get the bad news, we would opt to put her to sleep, and I could be there with her as she drifted off to sleep for good. But it didn't work out that way. I was left to find my beloved pet's corpse in the middle of a cold kitchen floor on a sunny March Saturday...completely unprepared for it in every way.

As I sat there on my hands and knees, keening for my beautiful lost pet, her life began to flash before my eyes...The day I brought her home as a tiny black fluffball of a kitten during Labor Day weekend 2002, after some boy had wounded my ego. Cracking up after bringing her home from the vet after her spay surgery, because she was drunk on the anesthesia still--so much so that she face-planted out of the cardboard box I was transporting her in, then mustered all her drunken dignity to stagger across the living room. Going to the bathroom one night only to find her curled up asleep, in the bathtub, with her stuffed pink piggy under her paw like a child would hold a teddy bear. Introducing the DH to her and watching as they bonded over early-morning pee sessions. Wanting to toss her across the room every morning because her favorite way to wake us up was with a plastic bag, and she ALWAYS got the last "word." Watching her sweet face as she listened to voice mails the DH would leave her on the answering machine at home. Not being able to find her for 3 days after we moved into our new apartment because she was so completely freaked-out. The way she would get 3 of 4 paws out on the balcony but no more--as long as she had that 1 foot still inside the apartment, she was safe. Her sense of horror that turned into near-loathing each time I brought home another cat. Her poses, her sass, her constant irritation with me. She was just so put-upon, you know. Her demands to be present in the bathroom whenever I soaked or showered. Her further demands while in the bathroom that I blow bubbles for her, which she LOVED. Her resemblance to the famous cat on the "Tournee du Chat Noir" poster, beneath which she would pose just like the picture. Her loathing of the camera. Her quiet snoring as she slept behind my head on the sofa.

She was an awesome cat for all the reasons that most people hate cats: She was black with eerie green-yellow eyes, she accepted affection on her terms and her terms ONLY, she would go for days without acknowledging my presence (or anyone else's, for that matter), she really loved those who were allergic to her, and she was just all-around a mean bitch. So, when she deigned to curl up on my chest, look me in the eyes and sigh, put her dainty paws on my shoulder and drift off to sleep, well...I never felt so loved or trusted.

But there she was, dead, in the middle of the floor. Such a shocking, undignified end for such a beautifully regal creature. And now what? There was no vet to call--they were closed. By the time we finally got ahold of someone, we couldn't form the questions correctly in order to get the answers we needed. What the fuck were we supposed to do with her? I mean, I know, cremation, burying, etc. But what if something was wrong with her that was also wrong with the other cats? We may need to have her examined or tested. And we couldn't get that done until Monday, so...what...I mean, how...I mean...We had no clue. Finally the kind lady at the pet cremation place gently told us that we should preserve her with some ice in a cooler until the vet could examine her. We don't own a cooler. So we got dressed. We said our good-byes to her and wrapped her fully in her yellow blankie and gently put her in a plastic bag and carried her out to the garage, where we placed her in a storage bin until we could...well, you know. We drove to Atwood's and as the sun streamed in through the windows of the car, all I could think was how fucked-up and surreal and awful it was for this to be happening to us on such a beautiful day. For us to be driving to buy a fucking new cooler in which to store our dead pet for the next 2 days. To try to figure out what size cooler we needed and how much ice. It was awful. So we came home and we put her in the cooler, careful to make sure the opening of the bag was above the ice and that we didn't pour too much on top of her. And it's still awful, because as I type this, she's still out there...I keep going out there and checking to make sure the ice level is ok and I have to remind myself that it's not really her anymore. It's just a body and whatever made her Izzy is gone.

Last night was hard. I drugged myself with a Lortab I'd been saving for a rainy day. I still couldn't sleep well. I dreamed of dead cats and worried so much about my other ones that I finally got up and slept on the couch in the living room with them. I haven't cried as much today and I know it will get easier. But I miss her. She was my girl. My first pet that I adopted as an adult, all my own. She saw me through heartbreak and happiness. And now she's gone. I have the other cats, and they are each special to me as well, but Izzy was my closest, my oldest, my...My Izzy.

RIP, my darling girl. You are my sunshine, always and forever.
Love,
Mommy

the invisible sky daddy...

"Hey-
My name is Erin!! I heard you say you didn't believe in God!! He Will/?? (it appears to me she's referencing Will.I.Am here, but I didn't think he had such a deity complex...Honestly, I can't read what that says.) do Amazing thing (just the 1 thing, for the record...what is it??!) in you life (my inner English teacher is being murdered slowly with this note)!! Please Call & we can visit!" On the back, she actually left her phone number, which I have kindly and graciously opted to not post.

I received this note from a waitress at a local eatery, who told me that "some girl" had asked her to give it to me. I was enjoying a leisurely, late lunch with my DH and my Tobias. (Tobias is my new friend, he's my gay husband, he's my new friend soul-mate...I have promised to blog about him but this took precedence. Later, faithful readers. Promise.) Please keep in mind that yes, I am an Atheist/Anti-theist, that the DH is more or less indifferent to the whole thing, and that Tobias is also an Atheist. I have already posted this note to Facebook, and it started quite a conversation there. I had no intention or desire to post another blog about religion or my lack of faith so soon after the last one, but this pretty much forced me to. So here goes...

There are SO MANY WRONGS here, and I've said all I'm going to say about the atrocious grammar. I will also ignore the excessive exclamation points. First and foremost, this note is rude, passive-aggressive, and completely un-called-for. I have no idea who handed it to the waitress to pass to me, which is a completely juvenile move in & of itself, for she apparently handed it to the innocent go-between and then promptly left, not even waiting around for my (priceless, I'm sure) reaction. So score 1 for passive-aggression and 2 points for immaturity (the note passing, then the leaving). That leaves the note-passer up 3 points at the start. With me so far? Good. Let's continue...

My initial reaction was, "Are you freaking kidding me with this?" Again, the passive-aggression and the lack of maturity really got to me here. Then it hit me that I don't care HOW loud I was being (I'm not a shrinking violet and tend to "perform," even for my dining companions--I really don't do it deliberately but it's my nature and I forget to rein it in), this little tidbit of conversation, not to mention the REST of our conversation, was NONE OF HER BUSINESS. So let's give her another point for sticking her nose where it doesn't belong. That's Erin-4, Lola-zip.

Some of my FB friends blatantly stated that I was only bothered because this note was about "God." I have several points to make about this: 1) Yes, I'm bothered that the note was about "God." 2) I'm bothered that they didn't think I should be bothered that the note was about "God." 3) If the roles were reversed, this discussion would have taken on a whole other flavor. 4) Frankly, I should be upset about it REGARDLESS of the subject, as her nosiness was altogether out of line. (I'm going to go ahead and score myself a point for each of those, but as one of them was directed at my FB friends and not Erin, we'll call it Erin-4, Lola-3. Fair enough?)

Let's address those 1st 3 in a bit more depth, shall we? 1) Yes, I'm bothered that the note was about "God." I don't believe in God. I don't believe in ANY gods/Gods/deities/higher power. So right away, she should have known this note was NOT going to be met with any positivity whatsoever. Did she HONESTLY think I would read that and say, "OH MY STARS, you're RIGHT! I've been an idiot all this time and NOW I see the light!!! Clearly this STRANGER and her 'GOD' know what's best for me when I do NOT!! Thank you, Jesus!! Erin, I'm going to call you right now and confess my instant spiritual conversion!" I mean, COME ON! At the heart of why I'm bothered is not just the passive-aggression found in the note itself, but ALL the subtext. This is what the note "sounds" like to me: "HI, I was eavesdropping on your private conversation and heard you say you don't believe in the invisible sky daddy. CLEARLY you must be an Atheist because you are too IGNORANT to know any better. OBVIOUSLY I know better than you, know you better than you know yourself, and want to tell you what's right for YOU after having heard you utter that you don't believe what I believe." That's how it feels to me. Erin-4, Lola-4.

2) I'm bothered that my FB friends didn't feel I should be bothered that the note was about "God." Let's face it, folks--THE NOTE WAS ABOUT GOD. So all the "points" made about the note being about something else and not bothering me as much are completely MOOT. But just for the sake of argument (ya'll KNOW how much I love that!), let's imagine that the note said something like this: "Hi, my name is Erin and I overheard you say you don't like vanilla ice cream. That's just awful, because vanilla ice cream really is the best ice cream and you should like it because I do, and lots of other people do. Call me and we'll go out for plain ol' vanilla ice cream!" The subtext is the same as stated above.

3) If the roles were reversed, this discussion would have taken on a whole other flavor. Let's imagine now that I had handed a note to a waitress, to be given to a fellow diner AFTER I left the restaurant. And let's imagine that the note said, "Hi, I'm Lola. I heard you say you are a Christian!! I'm sad for you that you're buying into the whole 'invisible sky daddy' bullshit!! I think you should call me so that I can explain to you why you're wrong and show you what is clearly the truth and the right way and the only way for people to understand the world around them." That would come across as so hateful and so rude and so pretentious and so obnoxious and so out of line, that I would probably be lynched and/or burned at the stake. OK, maybe that's extreme but I think you're picking up what I'm laying down. Erin-4, Lola-5.

Now, to address some of the comments made on my FB:
@Serena, you're right! Since I didn't ask for it, I think she should spread her love where it will be appreciated and welcomed.
@Loretta, I wish I could have! But since she passed the note and bolted, there was no chance for me to tell her to "butt out" or anything else!
@Kelly, sure, ok, I guess I can say that yes, she is doing that particularly CHRISTIAN type of proselytizing...What I don't understand is WHY these folks want a bunch of band-wagon, fair-weather Christians up in "Heaven" anyway. For the record, hanging out in the clouds with a bunch of closed-minded, self-righteous, nosy Christians kinda makes me prefer the idea of the fiery pits of "Hell."
@Amber, I would have LOVED to have laughed in her face!! I would love to have told her exactly how I felt about her little note, her behavior and my feelings about religion in general, Christianity in particular. I know how rude this sounds but this is PISSING ME OFF.
@Sophia, I know, right?
@Matthew, um...Yes, nervy. Not sure what to say about the other thing you said.
@Brenda, excellent point!! I'm sure there's some rule about shepherding the weak...wait, that's Pulp Fiction...But yes, apparently this chick thought maybe her God had missed me and that she should inform me of the "truth."
@Derrick, I adore you for saying that.
@Shannon...LOL!
@Ludwig, a lot about organized religion makes me think of VD's.
@Erik, you know I love you and you know exactly how I feel about this. Thanks again for having my back.
@Eric, bullshit. I know you're just trying to play devil's advocate, but I'm throwing a bullshit flag. You would not have appreciated that any more than I did. Also, with regard to your later comment, again, I must point out that the girl did not stick around to have any sort of conversation with me or to let me see her shining face at all. So there was no chance for argument, rebuttal, or intelligent discourse.
@Gilley, there are scientific studies that put forth that "visions" had during "near-death experiences" are simply hallucinations brought on by brain death. The subconscious is a powerful thing and I think people see partly what they want to see and partly the brain short-circuiting.
@Heidi, I think I've addressed your points sufficiently between FB and this blog posting.
@Steven, since you were around for that time when I was all kinds of gung-ho about "God," "Jesus," and church in general, I think you have more appreciation than most for the changes I've been through. Thank you so much for your elegantly-stated point. You just don't know how much I appreciate it.
@Richard, I will give you the phone number if you want. LOL
@Sarah, you're welcome.
@Stephanie, go right ahead. No one is stopping you and I for one enjoy your dancing.
@Andrew, I'll do my best to answer your questions. I have mixed feelings about this "warning." See my above comment about bandwagon Christians. Not like that. No, she should have just stayed out of it, but to have the balls to approach me directly would have made for an...interesting...conversation. Yes, I believe she would have been furious in that case. I don't know...I don't understand evangelizing in general. I think your last 3 questions have already been answered.
@Jacqueline, I just might.
@Angela, I think many of your points have already been addressed here and on FB.
@Corina, what would you have done in my place?

I know this has been a doozy and I want to thank you all for reading and participating in the discussion. I would just like to make a few more brief points:
*I know how hateful and judgmental I may sound to some of you here. Some of that is me being angry and argumentative. Some of that has more to do with you than it does with me. I refuse to apologize for this. To quote Nao from Work of Art: Next Great Artist, "I am not responsible for your experience with my art."
*I don't believe that all Christians are this obnoxious. Some of my dearest friends are believers. That's fine with me, as long as they don't try to convert me, I will show them the same respect. But if you want to have a discussion with me about this, please know that you WILL NOT change my mind any more than I could change yours. I've considered "your" side, but have you truly considered mine?
*Live and let live. If I'm wrong, then you can gloat for all eternity.
*I understand belief. I really do. I get it. It must be very comforting to believe there is a higher power looking out for you, listening to you, and loving you "unconditionally." There is comfort in the community and comfort in the ritual. I find comfort in NONE OF THIS. (For more in-depth reading about my feelings toward religion, please read my April 2010 posting titled "indignant."
*We can't all be wrong, and we can't all be right. Maybe the truth is really somewhere in the middle. But I believe what I believe and you believe what you believe and let's just leave it at that.

Respectfully and lovingly,
Lola

control...

Again, apologies to my faithful Lola fans for not having written for so long. As many of you know, my DH just recently returned from a year-long tour in Korea. I didn't talk about it much because...well, for several reasons. For one thing, although there were some pretty rough moments for me, I knew I was going to make it through just fine. I felt strong and I had lots of support. I also felt it was inappropriate for me to complain, having married the man knowing that would be a possibility. Plus I felt strongly that it put me in a vulnerable position, emotionally and physically. We are told constantly that we shouldn't advertise online when we're going to be away from home or alone at home or whatever, so I thought it wise to just keep that to myself. My point is that I'm sure you can all understand that I've been a little caught up, what with DH coming home, the holidays, and then getting re-settled back in at work after lots of time off.

Of course, I'm THRILLED to have my honey home safely with me again. Being lonely sucks, and being worried and lonely REALLY sucks. But of course, the readjustment from living alone to once again living with someone has been a little bumpy. For example: We have a "no kittehs in the bedroom" rule after...well, let's just call it an incident and leave it at that. Yet, for some reason, closing the bedroom door is a challenge for the other person who lives in this house. Then last night, crossing the living room in the dark, I walked SMACK INTO my CLOSED bathroom door! I yelled 3 things: 1) OUCH! 2)FUCK!! 3) WHYYYYYY????? So to sum up: BEDroom door=hard to close; BATHroom door=closed inappropriately.

Please, I absolutely understand that I'm no picnic to live with. I get cranky when I haven't eaten and I take things personally that really have NOTHING to do with me. Which brings me to my main point...

Hi, my name is Lola and I'm a control freak. (This is where you all say, "Hi, Lola" in a really unexcited way but loudly enough to make me feel welcome. Thanks.) I try to leave it at work, I really do--I'm just not good at it. I absolutely would rather work myself into the ground by doing almost everything myself, because I'm supremely confident that if I ask for help (aside from feeling like a FAIL for having to do so), you'll just fuck it up and I'll have to re-do it anyway, thus wasting the same amount of time you were supposed to have saved me. (I say "you" in a very general, hypothetical way. Just go with it.) Or, in some feeble attempt to head that off at the pass, I'll spend an inordinate amount of time patronizing you by trying to show you each detail of how I like things to be done. And I try REALLY hard to be nice about it, and I go out of my way to make sure you know IT'S NOT YOU, IT'S ME. So by the time I have "taught" you to do it "right," I could EASILY have done it myself. (Please, do NOT attempt to point out that I would only have to teach you once but could reap the benefits of you doing it from then on. I just don't see it that way. I take it as one more thing that's been chipped away from my responsibility, thereby rendering me ever-so-less useful. This is another mark of the control freak.)

So at home, I try to remind myself that it's OK if things don't get done exactly as I would do them, as long as they are done. Like, it doesn't matter what road you take, as long as you get home, right? But I can't help myself...I hear myself saying, "Why are you going THAT way?" or "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?!" or "Um, honey? Wouldn't it be better if you did this?" Trust me, I get it. As soon as the words start forming, I'm trying to stop them. Again, I'm just not good at it. Ya'll know the roadblock between my mouth and my brain only works about 20% of the time!

I think what I'm trying to say is, let me handle it. I think I've proven that I can and I will. Don't expect me to ask for help, I just won't do it. And if you offer me help and I turn it down, it has everything to do with how that makes me feel and not how I feel about you.

I love you all,
Lola