tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25656507479692797092024-03-05T04:15:53.267-08:00Lola LouboutinEmotional vomit. Love. Shoes. Music. Makeup. Emotion. Fashion. Hate. Hope. Anger. Fear. All that and more. Possibly the pinkest blog on the interwebs.Lola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2565650747969279709.post-78486058343306322852012-09-15T08:11:00.000-07:002012-09-15T08:11:12.212-07:00I wanted to share this weirdly awesome dream I had so y'all could enjoy it, too!<br />
<br />
My dearest friends & I (aka The Collective) were in a bar but on a Sunday morning, enjoying brunch. We were sitting in one of those large, round-ish booths, and there were several of them in the room. The decor on the walls was musically-inspired, with pictures of musicians and lots of those framed albums they make when singers or bands sell a lot of records. It was somewhat bright in the room, as there were a few high windows, letting in the warm sunshine.<br />
<br />
I decided to explore the rest of the bar, so I walked through some saloon doors into another room, quite different from the first. On my right was a small, about knee-high, bricked in area, with 2 mechanical (sort of like remote-control but really fancy & expensive) dinosaurs fighting. On my left was a 6.5-foot tall T-Rex from "Toy Story." When I walked past him, his forelegs flailed around and he said, "Oh! You scared me!" And I had to walk past him, as in the center of the room was another, much larger pit where people could quite literally wrestle alligators.<br />
<br />
Past that took me into yet another much smaller and much quieter room. It had a circular area in the center, slightly elevated, with a few chairs scattered around it, music stands, a couple of amplifiers, etc., where local musicians or bands could play or people could get together for a haphazard, impromptu jam session.<br />
<br />
Through another set of doors brought me to the fourth & final & most epic room of the bar. The walls were decorated with a wild assortment of colorful stuffed animals, creepy-cool taxidermy, and other weird, fun, and Gothic-inspired items. The bartenders/waitstaff in this area were all dressed differently from the casual denizens of the other rooms, in white tuxedo shirts with black vests<br />
& bow ties. This room was my favorite because you could order any kind of dessert you could<br />
think of, and they were all amazing and creative and heavenly. I was ordering a rolled-cake, dark<br />
chocolate with hazelnut vanilla buttercream, and a freshly-made raspberry purée drizzled over the<br />
top. With it came a glass of champagne. On the counters were bowls & jars of various<br />
individually-wrapped, tiny treats, those that normally come like that. For example, closest to me was<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">a bowl of bite-sized Walker's Shortbread Cookies, nearby was a jar of imported fancy chocolates, and farther down were 4-piece samplers of cocktail-inspired candies.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">So, to sum up: dearest friends, Sunday Brunch, weirdly wonderful bar with good food, weird decor, amazing desserts & a unique experience. It was a really fun dream & if I were independently-wealthy, I would get that place built & running with a quickness!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">Dreamily,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">Lola</span>Lola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2565650747969279709.post-52160288651131996912012-09-11T20:18:00.001-07:002012-09-11T20:21:14.421-07:00i don't understand...Hello, darlings! It's late and I'm very tired, so this is going to be brief. Just had some little tidbits floating around in my brain...hoping by writing them down, maybe I'll sleep better.<br />
<br />
Being a woman in my (gulp)...oh, let's just stick with "in my 30's," shall we?...there is still so much about myself that I thought I'd have all figured out by now, and conversely, so much I thought I had figured out when I was younger that looks so much different from here. So here are a few of those things:<br />
<br />
I don't understand why I so often feel SO much sexier and prettier at night, when most of my makeup has worn off, and I'm in my standard uniform of jammie bottoms, a tank top, & a zip-up hoodie. Something about my hair being just the right amount of dirty, the softness of my comfy clothes being so much nicer than most of my restrictive work clothes (beauty is pain & fashion is hard & all that, loves). Maybe it's the invitation or promise of getting to be snuggled up in bed. I don't get it at all. Especially since, if I were to leave the house looking like this (I ain't too good for it, either), it would read less "sexy" and more "lazy college student" at best. What gives?<br />
<br />
I don't understand why, even if I can't think of anything that's truly stressing me out, even if the sometimes-throbbing pressure of being an adult lets up for a while, I still manage to be tense nearly all the time. It feels like there's always something, even if it's just my sub-conscious gnawing on a thought not yet bubbled-up. It's supremely frustrating not to be able to fully relax.<br />
<br />
I don't understand why laying on my couch with my woobie, watching TV, is more appealing than nearly anything else I could be doing for that time. Shopping is a close second, but the couch is definitely cheaper and usually more comfortable. Incidentally, my woobie is a hand-made quilt I received as a gift from a student many years ago. It's one of my favorite things. I probably wouldn't try to save it if my house were on fire, but I would mourn its loss forever.<br />
<br />
I don't understand insurance.<br />
<br />
I don't understand willful ignorance.<br />
<br />
I don't understand fishing shows. Or hunting shows.<br />
<br />
I don't understand why coffee is so amazing, but I know that it is.<br />
<br />
I don't understand how my cat Rory can be such a total shit to everyone else, most especially the other cats, but be such a sweet, loving little monster to me.<br />
<br />
I don't understand why it's so hard for me to get rid of magazines (just think of the potential art projects!!!)<br />
<br />
And to wrap this nonsense up, I don't understand why I'm writing this when I could be snuggled up in bed with a good book.<br />
<br />
So good night, loves, until next time.<br />
Sleepily,<br />
LolaLola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2565650747969279709.post-89465477219461728312012-08-06T12:00:00.000-07:002012-08-06T12:00:00.952-07:00just a few suggestions, darlings...DISCLAIMER: The views expressed herein are mine and mine alone. They do not reflect the opinions of my friends, family, co-workers, employer, or anyone's but my own.<br />
<br />
This is something else that's been weighing on my mind a lot lately, in large part because of what I do. Without getting into too much detail, I'll just say that my job requires me to be intimately acquainted with applications. And all the time, I see the silliest mistakes on these applications and can't help but wonder what people are thinking. (I'll save my rant about peoples' wild and crazy names for another time, dears.) So for all of your reading pleasure, I'd like to present Lola's Tips for Filling out Applications. It matters not if they are job applications, loan or lease, college applications, or what. I'm just asking for a little attention to be paid.<br />
<br />
1. If you're filling out an electronic application of some kind, TYPING IN ALL CAPS IS JUST AS RUDE AS IT IS ON FACEBOOK, VIA EMAIL, OR ANY OTHER TYPED COMMUNICATION SO PLEASE STOP DOING IT. I KNOW IT'S EASIER BUT IT MAKES YOU LOOK LAZY AND I FEEL AS IF YOUR INFORMATION IS BEING SCREAMED AT ME FROM THE PAGE. Ahem. Thanks.<br />
<br />
2. Please know the difference between "County" and "Country." It's really silly how often I see those two answers get mixed up, and it's always really obvious you just weren't paying attention.<br />
<br />
3. If the application asks for a nickname or preferred name, I promise it's referring to your preferred first name only. If your legal last name and preferred last name don't line up, getting that paperwork squared away via the proper channels is on you, and it causes all kinds of havoc for me and my kind when you "accidentally" lie about what your legal name really is. Also, even if you go by "Big Hoss," "McDangle," "Super Sassy," or "Babee Gurl," just stick with a derivative of your name, if that's what you go by, or leave it blank. I'm assuming you're trying to make a good impression on whomever will be reading said application, so just consider that as you're filling it out.<br />
3.a. If you list your preferred name as a school you previously attended, I'm going to wonder what question you thought you were answering. I'm saying it because it's happened, folks.<br />
3.b. If you've never legally had a different last name, it's not necessary to list your previous name as the name you currently have.<br />
<br />
4. If you can't spell the city or county in which you currently reside, I'm going to question your claim of legal residency. Just sayin'.<br />
<br />
5. If an application asks for several phone numbers, such as your home, work and cell, and you list the same for all three, how am I to know if it's really a cell phone or a landline? Sometimes this information is important. If you only have a cell number, then simply list that in the proper space and leave the rest blank.<br />
<br />
6. If an application asks you for prior universities or colleges attended, and you list the school to which you're applying, including dates that occur in the future, you're making my life difficult. Knock it off. If you haven't been anywhere yet, that's ok, we all gotta start somewhere, right?<br />
<br />
7. If you're filling out an application for a job you've held before, an employer for whom you've previously worked, or re-admitting to a school of any kind, please don't assume that they have all of your most current information, or even that the old information they have on you is correct. Generally, we treat every application as new, and sometimes don't even have the ability to double-check some of your old information (depending on the circumstances). So please, be thorough and pretend that this is all brand-new information for us, even if you feel it's redundant.<br />
<br />
8. Your birthdate should be the day, month and year that you were actually birthed (or whatever your legal documentation says it is). What I mean to say is that if you list your correct day and month but the current year as your date of birth, you again may be causing all kinds of havoc, so knock it off. Please.<br />
<br />
9. Please learn the difference between "approximately" and "exactly." They are two very different words with different meanings and should be treated as such. <br />
<br />
10. Trust me, the application is interested in what you actually accomplished, not what you were enrolled in or hoping to complete. For example, if you list that you earned 12 credit hours from the University of Bologna, but then indicate you also earned a Bachelor's degree from said school, but don't list any other colleges you've attended, I have to wonder what's going on. Either you earned 12 hours and completed a degree with work earned at another school, or you earned 12 hours and NOT a degree.<br />
<br />
11. The emergency contact information we ask for is for your own good. You don't have to fill it out, that's cool with me, I get it. But if you do, please ensure you list their complete name (first and last--I don't want to make any assumptions about their relation to you), the complete address if it's asked for (I can't tell you how many times I've gotten a street address but no city or state--we do actually utilize this information), and finally, be sure you list the complete phone number--that's the MOST IMPORTANT PART! I canNOT assume that the phone number you listed is attached to a local area code, especially when you didn't give me a city or state with the address! Also, if the application asks for this person's relationship to you, I'd rather you leave it blank than put "Baby Mama." (Again, I'm saying this because it has happened.)<br />
<br />
12. And finally, please, just be honest. If you lie, mis-represent information, or try to get something over on us, we WILL find out. Just trust me, we have our ways. I certainly understand honest mistakes, not knowing exact dates or amount of credit earned, but if you lie and say you attended a school you didn't, you're causing extra work for yourself AND me. Also, if you conveniently leave off a certain school you attended because you didn't perform as well as you'd hoped academically speaking, we WILL find out, and you'll cause extra work for a whole lot of people, including yourself.<br />
<br />
My darlings, I don't think all people who fill out applications and make mistakes on them are idiots, and I hope you haven't been given this impression. I want you all to make smashing good impressions on the people reading your applications, and I want to help you help yourself. Please, just take your time, pay attention, and if you have questions, ASK THEM! <br />
<br />
Helpfully,<br />
LolaLola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2565650747969279709.post-28995581064107826382012-08-05T17:13:00.001-07:002012-08-05T18:52:23.283-07:00a little catching up...The DH is all hard-working monkey now that he's retired...2 part-time jobs and will be going to school full-time in just over a week. So I'll have time, maybe, to post more. I'll try anyway. OK, I'll think about it more. I really do have things I want to write about, and sometimes I even make notes, but somehow I rarely manage to make/take the time and I should, because I love it so much. Even if none of you are reading it, though I hope you are. At the moment, I'm updating my iTunes, which is quite a chore because of the seemingly billions of podcasts I listen to. Plus I had to buy some new music, and take some old stuff off--you know the deal. What I'm saying is that I'm in front of the compy here at home, got some music playing, checking my Facebook, and typing away. Cold beer in front of me, kittehs at my feet, and here we go...<br />
<br />
The 1st thing that springs to mind that I've been wanting to write about is poop. Well, maybe not poop specifically, but poop-adjacent...um...apropos of poop...OK, I think you get the point. Those of you who know me personally know that I will rarely pass up a chance for a conversation about poop. I love to talk about poop, largely because everyone does it but it's still such a verboten topic, and it makes me laugh. Plus I enjoy making people uncomfortable.<br />
<br />
So I have this sort of on-going battle happening in the restroom at work. There are close to 30 or 35 people altogether working on my floor, and nearly all of them are women. We have 3 stalls, and for some bizarre reason, 2 urinals...Yes, it's strange. Yes, I've seen feet in those stalls, which is even stranger. Anyway, I personally sometimes feel that 1 stall should be the designated poop stall, although I realize this could present a problem if more than 1 of us needs to poop at the same time, so practicality deems that we scratch that idea. My issue is the air freshener (which shall heretofore be referred to as "AF.") We generally all take turns purchasing a can or 2 of air freshener for the bathroom, which is placed on the floor between 2 of the stalls. Look I get it, easy access for both, right? Sure. I don't like it, I prefer my AF to be placed on top of the toilet paper dispenser, for discreet access. I mean, I like discretion even though I like to talk about poop. So usually when I require the AF, I kick the flusher to cover up the noise of the spray, then quietly place the giant metal can of AF on the toilet paper dispenser. Makes sense, right? But every time I come back in there, there the AF is, on the floor once more. Fine, I get it. Except. Except that now, we have 2 cans of AF. That's right, there's enough for 2 of the 3 stalls to have their own, and therefore both be designated as poop stalls. So why, for FSM'S SAKE WHY, do I continue to come into the bathroom and find BOTH cans sitting inches away from one another, beneath the stall divider?!?! I DO NOT UNDERSTAND why they BOTH now need to be placed on the floor, especially TOGETHER! I don't think we really need variety of fragrance choices at work when it comes to pooping. Lavender, vanilla, lemon, I don't give a shit (see what I did there?) as long as it covers the fucking poop smell!! But no. No, I must be subjected to this non-stop, passive-aggressive battle over proper placement of the AF. Fucks' sake. DISCLAIMER: The views expressed herein are mine & mine alone. They do not reflect those of my friends, family, co-workers, employer, or anyone else I know.<br />
<br />
The other minor thing is that I've been having really elaborate, very vivid dreams lately, and not all of them are medication-induced, alcohol-induced, or food-induced. At least I don't think they are. I've always done this, but lately I seem to be remembering them more. Last night I dreamed that I was living in a post-Utopian future, and I was an indentured sex servant to a soldier (hint: he looked a bit like a young Hugh Jackman bred with Ryan Reynolds) in this really extreme, futuristic military faction. The problem was that we were in love with each other, but if anyone found out, we could both be killed. It was very intense and romantic and a little sexy but also sort of sad.<br />
<br />
I have other things to share with you, but I think I'm going to save those to another post so as not to get too terribly messy and stream-of-consciousness with you.<br />
<br />
With love and poop, <br />
LolaLola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2565650747969279709.post-45114702641630530672012-06-18T18:42:00.002-07:002012-06-18T18:42:56.066-07:00On the death of Rodney King...I don't know why, but learning of the death of Rodney King yesterday at the age of 47 has left me deeply saddened.<br />
<br />
Like the OKC bombing, the OJ Simpson car chase and subsequent trial, the Rodney King beating and the riots that followed were major historical events from my teen years that I'll be unlikely to forget in my lifetime. I remember watching footage of King's beating at the hands of members of the LAPD and being absolutely horrified at the unwarranted violence. I thought things like that only happened in action or horror movies, not in reality, with sworn law-enforcement members nearly beating a man to death in the street.<br />
<br />
I know that King was no angel. I don't remember why the LAPD even crossed paths with King. Honestly, I could look it up, but in the end, what difference does it make? What those men did to him was wrong, and I feel certain the circumstances did not warrant the treatment King received. I know he was no saint, but no one deserves what happened to him.<br />
<br />
Later, when those officers were acquitted of their crimes, the riots that followed were utterly terrifying, even from so many states away. And yet, there King stood, before the media and anyone who would listen, begging for peace, for calm. He didn't want that to happen, never asked for it, and obviously didn't know how to handle being suddenly thrust into infamy. Truth be told, I don't know how anyone could've handled that.<br />
<br />
So his struggles continued--his struggle to come to terms with his role in contemporary American history, his struggle with the national spotlight, his struggle to maintain his health and his sanity. I confess, I'm a fan of "Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew." Mostly because Dr. Drew is sex on toast...but also because I find that humanizing these "celebrities" reminds me that in spite of all our differences, people are people, and the afflictions are the same. So I remember watching him and crying because he just seemed like such a sweet, gentle man, still grappling with all his proverbial demons on top of his addiction. It was just so goddamned sad, so real, so brutally honest, and so heart-wrenching.<br />
<br />
I had hope for him, as I do for almost everyone, sometimes to my detriment. I hoped that he had finally moved on with his life, retired to find some sort of peace. I guess those demons just wouldn't let go, and finally dragged him to the bottom of his swimming pool in the wee hours of Sunday morning. I don't believe in an afterlife, so I hope that in death he simply found a release from the turmoil he fought with his entire adult life.<br />
<br />
I hope we who are left behind can remember the awful lessons we learned during that time. I hope we can find some way to honor the memory of a man who never seemed able to find his saving grace in life. I hope to never witness another event like that in my lifetime. I hope to never forget.<br />
<br />
Peacefully,<br />
Lola<strike><strike></strike></strike><br />
<br />
<br />Lola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2565650747969279709.post-47790031617049754662012-05-28T13:03:00.002-07:002012-05-28T13:05:00.536-07:00Memorial Day...I'm seeing a LOT of Facebook & Twitter posts about honoring veterans and soldiers today. "Freedom isn't free," "Thank you for your sacrifice," and my personal favorite, "Never forget..." (insert supportive military sentiment/patriotic cliche here). And I just have to say, for myself anyway, that forgetting isn't possible. I couldn't forget...literally not a day goes by that I don't think about it. I remember the injured, the dead, the veterans, those currently serving...they are all so close to me...<br />
<br />
My DH is in the process of retiring after 23 years of active-duty service in the U.S. Army.<br />
His brother M was a commissioned officer in the Army for a time, and his little sister A is currently serving as a medic in the Army. Their dad has served in the Navy for years.<br />
My sister N is currently serving in the Air Force and is a Lt. Col. and totally an awesome badass.<br />
Her husband W served in the Navy.<br />
My brother K retired after 23 years of service in the Navy, and his son C is also now serving in the Navy.<br />
My brother B was in the Air Force.<br />
I have so many exes who were or are military, it's not even funny, to include a handful of one-night-stands.<br />
Kids with whom I attended high school or college, or even met briefly once at some function are now lost to us.<br />
I've had friends or relatives serving in nearly every branch of the U.S. military for as long as I can remember, since I grew up adjacent to an Army base.<br />
<br />
Forgetting, ignoring, or not paying attention to those who serve isn't an option. I don't mean to sound ungrateful--what I mean to say is that I don't need a special fucking day set aside to acknowledge them, their service and their sacrifices. They are always on my mind. Every day, I dread reading the news or the obituaries just a little bit, because there is always a possibility that I will see the name & face of someone I know, or someone I once knew.<br />
<br />
So today and every day, I salute those who serve, those who have served, and those who made the ultimate sacrifice. <br />
Patriotically,<br />
LolaLola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2565650747969279709.post-62602985030148056422012-05-07T18:25:00.001-07:002012-05-08T07:03:41.439-07:00stuff like that there...I am oh-so-sorry, my darling readers, that I haven't posted in literally months. I have plenty to say--words bubbling up like hot lava in a volcano, just bursting the seams of the earth with all the pressure--but I just haven't. I have been really busy lately, brain full of so many other things I can't keep everything straight...but honestly, I manage to find the time to do other things like watch movies and shop. I just get so tired and overwhelmed with all the other directions I'm being pulled in that I can't seem to muster the mental capacity to do this, too.<br />
<br />
I find inspiration constantly. I make mental notes about things I need to talk about here. I may even go so far as to jot things down on a scrap of paper or post-it note...but somehow, something always seems to get in the way. Something stops me; laziness, boredom, anxiety, distraction, you name it. So I don't. And another day goes by in which I feel I've dropped yet another ball. And the shame spiral continues.<br />
<br />
So I figured that tonight, after I placed my Sephora order, I would just do it. Just break the chain of days gone by with no bloggy word vomit. Just type. And here we are. Funny thing is, I don't have much to say at the moment. Maybe if I get back in a regular habit, if I force myself to take the time to bang something out on this keyboard at least a couple of times a week, it won't feel so daunting and I'll be much more interesting.<br />
<br />
Right now, I'm on my very comfy couch. Wearing some of my favorite Victoria's Secret jammie bottoms, a black tank top, and a ratty old black hooded sweatshirt that is thin and soft and comfy. My hair is in a ponytail. The DH and I are watching some shows on our DVR. Laundry is tumbling in the dryer. I have a very sweet little orange cat named Maggie at my elbow, another fluffy love monster named Hector on the arm of the couch, and a dapper little tuxedoed cat named Rory on the chaise in the corner. DH & I had a small CPK margherita pizza and salad for dinner, and I savored a small glass of a blended red wine from Washington state. I'm wondering what the weather will be like tomorrow, what work will be like tomorrow, what my hair will be like tomorrow. The point I'm trying to make is that my life is so very normal, so mundane, so...perfect.<br />
<br />
Perhaps next time I'll manage something more controversial, more annoying, more frustrating, more moving...just more. I promise to try.<br />
<br />
Lovingly,
LolaLola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2565650747969279709.post-345815331994649832011-11-08T19:56:00.000-08:002011-11-08T20:18:37.818-08:00confronting mortality...I find myself today, at the age of 33, confronting mortality. I learned of the death yesterday of a junior high & high <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">school</span> 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. <div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>I love you all. May you never forget it.</div><div>Lola</div>Lola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2565650747969279709.post-8742778500618550002011-07-23T14:24:00.000-07:002011-07-23T15:44:08.303-07:00ink & memories...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy9CFWlGIZRa3tFqoL3kQST_NEkXJJLErj1t0y_KgcNmmavdfvdNETJEkuzTqVF3mlvZ9kXlvxG9Gnkc9AfCo3KKYe3OSFbMBZ1j2n8fO4XDX-hQWq1_Z4-dam9gpHrBU47_LB05QnKNE/s1600/272999_2275455765744_1229212911_32850613_6293195_o.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy9CFWlGIZRa3tFqoL3kQST_NEkXJJLErj1t0y_KgcNmmavdfvdNETJEkuzTqVF3mlvZ9kXlvxG9Gnkc9AfCo3KKYe3OSFbMBZ1j2n8fO4XDX-hQWq1_Z4-dam9gpHrBU47_LB05QnKNE/s400/272999_2275455765744_1229212911_32850613_6293195_o.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632670073559360770" border="0" /></a><br />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!<br /><br />On Friday, July 18, I finally got a tattoo I've been talking about getting for a few years now--a rhododendron blossom ("<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">rhodies</span>" are the state flower of Washington) on the top of my right foot, in honor of my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Momsie's</span> 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!<br /><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">innanetz</span>. 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-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">rans</span>, just in case. We headed out in the direction of the 1st one, in downtown Vancouver.<br /><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">gifties</span>; 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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Burnz</span>. 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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Facebook</span> 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 "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">rhodie</span>," which he thought was strange since the shop is in Washington.<br /><br />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!!! <br /><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">sonofabitch</span> 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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">BAMF</span>. Oh, because I am! <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">LOL</span><br /><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">texted</span> 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 2<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">nd</span>-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.<br /><br />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 '<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">im</span> I sent ya. <br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Inkily</span>,<br />LolaLola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2565650747969279709.post-1822052602876257802011-06-15T08:29:00.001-07:002011-06-15T13:42:43.826-07:00i wish i was brave enough...Dearest Lola fans,<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">MySpace</span> 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. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Ya'll</span> 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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">interwebs</span>. 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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">sittin</span>' 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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">batshit</span> crazy without that outlet.<br /><br />I know, I know--get down to the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">nitty</span> 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. <br /><br />Have I said too much? Probably. Isn't that why <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">ya'll</span> keep coming back?<br />With Love,<br />LolaLola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2565650747969279709.post-29258756883582095952011-03-06T18:54:00.000-08:002011-03-06T20:10:31.790-08:00Isadora (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...<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />RIP, my darling girl. You are my sunshine, always and forever.<br />Love,<br />MommyLola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2565650747969279709.post-71386958698548986462011-02-02T10:15:00.000-08:002011-02-02T12:58:08.970-08:00the invisible sky daddy...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEganYcDPAyzpJ71InOdAYiddSVwqfUBjh1ueZL3N1clKgvxoY4yjhgZphsGevuEqqXc7-qqZYBu6z0yuEY2kZW-peydol0qEi9eDhy5WQRRJ7dZQ2yhp7V_edct1SgKfCq0IQxHIGKT4-w/s1600/god+note.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569158609835112322" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEganYcDPAyzpJ71InOdAYiddSVwqfUBjh1ueZL3N1clKgvxoY4yjhgZphsGevuEqqXc7-qqZYBu6z0yuEY2kZW-peydol0qEi9eDhy5WQRRJ7dZQ2yhp7V_edct1SgKfCq0IQxHIGKT4-w/s400/god+note.jpg" /></a><br />"Hey-<br />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.<br /><br />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...<br /><br />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...<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?)<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Now, to address some of the comments made on my FB:<br />@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.<br />@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!<br />@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."<br />@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.<br />@Sophia, I know, right?<br />@Matthew, um...Yes, nervy. Not sure what to say about the other thing you said. <br />@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."<br />@Derrick, I adore you for saying that.<br />@Shannon...LOL!<br />@Ludwig, a lot about organized religion makes me think of VD's.<br />@Erik, you know I love you and you know exactly how I feel about this. Thanks again for having my back.<br />@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.<br />@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.<br />@Heidi, I think I've addressed your points sufficiently between FB and this blog posting.<br />@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.<br />@Richard, I will give you the phone number if you want. LOL<br />@Sarah, you're welcome. <br />@Stephanie, go right ahead. No one is stopping you and I for one enjoy your dancing.<br />@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.<br />@Jacqueline, I just might.<br />@Angela, I think many of your points have already been addressed here and on FB.<br />@Corina, what would you have done in my place?<br /><br />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:<br />*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."<br />*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?<br />*Live and let live. If I'm wrong, then you can gloat for all eternity.<br />*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." <br />*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.<br /><br />Respectfully and lovingly,<br />LolaLola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2565650747969279709.post-16266789093431009972011-01-18T17:50:00.000-08:002011-01-18T18:44:35.816-08:00control...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.<br /><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">kittehs</span> 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) <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">WHYYYYYY</span>????? So to sum up: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">BEDroom</span> door=hard to close; <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">BATHroom</span> door=closed inappropriately.<br /><br />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...<br /><br />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.) <br /><br />So at home, I try to remind myself that it's <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">OK</span> 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 <span style="font-style: italic;">this</span>?" 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. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Ya'll</span> know the roadblock between my mouth and my brain only works about 20% of the time!<br /><br />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. <br /><br />I love you all,<br />LolaLola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2565650747969279709.post-58697506623470645272010-11-03T18:31:00.001-07:002010-11-03T19:34:45.580-07:00i know it's been a while...I'm sorry, my lovely Lola fans. I haven't written for a while, for several reasons. Largely because I've been incredibly busy and overwhelmed, both at home and at work. But also, instead of suffering from a lack of inspiration, I've had several topics in my mind...rolling around like rocks in one of those polishing tumblers. The problem is, I'm either unsure how to approach them, afraid of putting it all out here for the world to consume, or I've already emotionally vomited enough on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Facebook</span> and I feel purged. But today, my darling Jack (as in the Jack to my Karen) listed my blog on his blog and it reminded me that I haven't written. And I felt a little guilty. So here we are.<br /><br />So today, what's weighing so heavily on my mind, in addition to the stress I'm under at work and the overwhelming amount of things I need to take care of at home, are the mid-term elections, not to mention the issues my state voted on yesterday. I take voting very VERY seriously (it's not just a right but a privilege and an honor), in spite of feeling it's largely pointless in my case, being a blue dot in a red state (though I feel compelled to point out that I did vote for 2 Republicans yesterday, because I vote for PEOPLE not for a PARTY). I feel like, even if my desires have been completely obliterated by the majority, hey, at least I tried...I put my voice out there to be drowned out by everyone <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">else's</span>. But it's so frustrating. It's scary right now, and I'm not saying that to be dramatic.<br /><br />I'm afraid of losing my rights. I'm afraid of my loved ones losing their rights. I'm afraid of my loved ones never being accepted, never being given equal-footing in this allegedly free country. I'm afraid that my right to choose, that my desire to never be a parent or to be pregnant, will be ripped violently from me. Yes, I'm on birth control and we are planning on a more *ahem* permanent solution. But let's face it: I come from an extremely fertile line of people and birth control is far from 100% safe. I refuse to apologize for my feelings and I ADAMANTLY refuse to be celibate for the rest of my child-bearing years. So who the fuck are these politicians to tell me I can't have an abortion?!?! Is it REALLY that much better to bring even more unwanted children into the world?!! I want to see more of these fucking "pro-lifers" put their <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">goddamned</span> money where their mouths are, by adopting unwanted special needs crack babies. I can't even imagine the resentment I would feel toward the world if I were to get knocked up and then be FORCED to carry that child to term because of some BULLSHIT religious beliefs that have nothing to do with me and should have ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to do with law and policy in this country.<br /><br />Beyond that, I'm afraid that my homosexual friends, my lovely and amazing <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">LGBTQ</span> and just flat out unsure friends, my flaming queens and my lipstick lesbians, and even my gay Republicans, will continue to be marginalized by the religious right and the social conservatives. I hate that the people in this country who squawk the loudest individual liberties are the very same people who want to take mine away. For people who claim to be all for personal freedom, freedom from an over-bearing government, they sure do seem intent on ensuring that so many Americans will never be truly free. They tell me that my beliefs (or lack thereof) make me <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">un</span>-American. They claim that two men who fall in love with each other and wish to get married somehow negate or denigrate my heterosexual marriage. How is that even possible?!?! The so-called fucking "sanctity of marriage" that the heteros have been violating for CENTURIES is so precious, we have to keep it away from the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">queenie</span> boys and the bull <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">dykes</span> who want nothing more than to commit themselves to their lovers for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health...They don't want anything more than what the rest of us straight-folk have been taking for granted.<br /><br />I'm sad that my state voted a governor into office who feels superior to me and other women who do not have children. I'm sad that an abusive, narrow-minded bigot like Sally Kern is not only given a platform in this state but re-elected to her post. I'm embarrassed that my state felt it necessary to pass anti-Muslim legislation. I'm embarrassed that my state feels it is above federal health-care legislation. I'm embarrassed that my state demands that you read and speak UH-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">MUR</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">ICAN</span> or GET THE FUCK OUT!!! (Disclaimer: This only applies to "fur-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">ners</span>" who ain't from here. These red-blooded <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">UHMURICAN</span> kids don't need to learn a fucking thing in school, let's just give them all ribbons and trophies and tell them they're glorious and unique and special no matter what they do!)<br /><br />But you know what? I'm not fucking leaving. For one thing, I can't (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">har</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">har</span>). In all seriousness, if I left, that would be one less blue dot in this ocean of red. If I left, that would be one less person in this state demanding equal treatment, equal pay, and equal rights for all of us. One less person to stand up against the bullies, the ignorant, the racist, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">mis</span>-informed, and the flat-out delusional. So I stay. I stay and I fight and I push and I write and I scream and I do whatever I can at any given moment to further the cause, to remind people that we are all the same on the inside, that we can make a difference. I will make a difference. So to all my fairies, twinks, bears, lipsticks, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">dykes</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">asexuals</span>, queers, lovers, queens, and my fellow straight allies, I will not stop. I hope I never let you down. I will stand by you and I will keep pushing until we find ourselves on a truly level playing field. To those who still believe that same-sex marriage is wrong, then here's a novel idea: DON'T MARRY SOMEONE OF THE SAME SEX!!<br /><br />To my fellow <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Pastafarians</span>, Atheists, to the agnostics and those disillusioned with organized religion: We're in this together. Let's prove that there's life after the fairy-tale that is the Bible, that church isn't the answer for everyone, and that one can be a good person and have a strong moral code without it being dictated by religion. <br /><br />To my fellow women who believe it's their right to chose how and when and if they reproduce, to my friends who are mothers who don't want any more children, and most especially to my pro-life friends who agree that there are still certain exceptions where abortion should be allowed and should not further traumatize the woman: Let's get together on this and make sure our rights aren't eroded. If you're so pro-life that you don't believe an abortion is appropriate in any case, then here's a novel idea: DON'T HAVE ONE.<br /><br />I'm here. I'm staying. Get used to it. I will not be quiet and I will not back down.<br />DEFIANTLY,<br />LolaLola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2565650747969279709.post-49108459661721732772010-10-17T14:35:00.001-07:002010-10-17T15:09:30.486-07:00just some words of experience...I've been feeling lately that there are some things I need to share. I'm not typically given to dispensing unsolicited advice (or am I?), but I have some phrases that keep swimming around in my brain and I feel like they need to be put out here. And away we go...!<br /><br />Just because you love someone does not mean you get to be with them. This is absolutely one of the HARDEST lessons I've had to learn in my life. This is also one of my most fundamental issues with the traditional Christian version of "Heaven." What about the people I love who don't love me back? Do I get some facsimile of them in Heaven? What about people who loved me but are not loved back by me? Does that mean I'm sentenced to spending eternity with them in Heaven--because that sounds WAY more like Hell to me. What if they're in Hell? What if someone in Heaven wants to be with me in Heaven, but I'm in Hell? Or vice <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">versa</span>? How can it be Heaven if I know someone I love is in Hell? (Yes, I recognize and acknowledge that this is one of the justifications for Christians trying to convert the rest of us. I still think it's BULLSHIT. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">JMHO</span>.)<br /><br />I've loved many many people who did not love me back. I have never stopped loving most of them. I couldn't stop, even if I wanted to. I can rattle off a handful of names right now. It doesn't hurt any less, but I've accepted (as much as I can) that the love is all on my end.<br /><br />There is a difference between like, love, and in love. I firmly believe for a relationship to be successful, you need all three, though not necessarily in equal amounts or at the same time. For example, I love my family because they're family...but there are plenty of times I don't necessarily like them. Sometimes, the longer you're in a relationship, the more important it is to like the other person than to be in love with the other person. <br /><br />Sometimes, relationships just flat don't work out. There may be a reason, there may be many reasons, or there may be no tangible reason at all. The other person may have been distracted, or feel they can't give you their best. Or you pick your nose and they find that off-putting. Or you just don't smell right to them. Perhaps they just decide they need to be elsewhere at that moment in time. Just remember that there is absolutely NOTHING YOU CAN SAY OR DO that will change their mind. If that change is to happen, it will take time and it will absolutely be on the OTHER PERSON'S time line. It's perfectly fine if you no longer feel the same way about them.<br /><br />I truly think you can be absolutely IN LOVE with more than one person, at the same time. Different people invoke different reactions within us, but different does not equal less powerful. I wish we didn't feel that we had to stifle these reactions or fight against them. I think in a lot of ways, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">polyamorists</span> have it right.<br /><br />Sex does not equal love. Love does not equal sex. We must stop thinking of these actions as being mutually-inclusive. <br /><br />Just because you don't like someone doesn't mean you have to be hateful to them. There are plenty of people I don't particularly care for, but I RARELY go out of my way to be mean to them. Stupid assholes are an exception to this. <br /><br />As blunt and honest as I am, I still sometimes find it difficult to be honest about certain things. Mostly things that could make my life "better" or "easier" but would bring hardship to someone else. So...honesty is NOT always the best policy.<br /><br />A dear friend once said to me, "Please know that just because I don't call and I don't get to see you as often as I'd like, it doesn't mean I don't think about you. It never means I've stopped caring. It just means life gets in the way sometimes."<br /><br />If I had it all to do over again...I wouldn't. Because I'm happy with the woman I've become, and I don't believe I would be ME if I hadn't gone through what I've gone through. All the stupid things I did and continue to do must simply be chalked up to learning experiences.<br /><br />That being said, don't be afraid to do something stupid, especially when you're young. Trust your instincts, though, your gut-feeling is there for a reason. You'll know immediately when you disregard that inner-voice that you shouldn't have done that.<br /><br />I think this might be all I have to say about it all. For now, anyway...<br /><br />Affectionately,<br />LolaLola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2565650747969279709.post-73641853248186918012010-09-11T17:40:00.001-07:002010-09-11T18:15:29.120-07:00it's a little bit funny...*Le Sigh*<br />I have a little bit of a sad today, and I'm just not exactly sure why. Part of it is that I'm overloading myself with this particular anniversary by watching the History channel all day today. I'm a little bit of a tragedy magpie (if that makes any kind of sense) in that instead of collecting shiny objects (though I do love a good shiny object!) I find myself wallowing in any given tragedy, collecting stories and anecdotes. I have this compulsive need to try to understand what cannot ever fully be understood. I did it with the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">OKC</span> bombing, with the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">JonBenet</span> Ramsey murder, with the West Memphis 3 (still a favorite cause), with Matthew <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Shephard</span> and Harvey Milk, with WWII, and of course, 9/11. I read books and I watch movies and TV shows and read articles and just generally obsess and try try try try to comprehend it all. But I never do. And I never will. But you know what they say--"those who do not know history are doomed to repeat it." Yet for all of my obsessing, rarely do I fully let myself REALLY feel it. It's just too overwhelming to let it all in at once. I'll never forget how shaken I was after watching "United 93" in the movie theater. The entire audience just sat there through the credits, silent (save for some sniffling), absolutely unsure how to process what we had just experienced. I got up to go to the bathroom on my way out and nearly fainted in the stall. When it hit me, it hit me hard and my legs shook, my hands shook, and one of those god-awful silent sobs welled up in my chest. As for the real event, witnessing September 11, 2001 in real time, even all these miles away, I still can't grasp it. I remember thinking, "Plane...into...building? How is that possible?" Part of it was the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Okie</span> in me, so used to low, tornado-prepped buildings and wide-open skies. Part of it was the sheer shock of it all, of realizing our world would NEVER be the same again. Knowing that the current class of college freshmen don't really remember a world before 9/11 is unsettling to me. Then again, we didn't really understand tragedy at my age until April 19, 1995 (and I use the word "understand" VERY loosely). I suppose nearly every generation has their event, their "Pearl Harbor." But 9/11 was different, somehow. And while I can in NO WAY claim her as a friend or really even an acquaintance, I did lose a classmate at the Pentagon that day. I think of her smiling, gorgeous senior yearbook photo every year at this time. I think about my fellow classmates who were close to her. I try not to think about her last moments, I simply hope they were painless and somehow peaceful. <br /><br />I'm also a little sad because I miss the DH. Our time apart is growing shorter each day, but it also seems to stretch on almost endlessly. In spite of my strength and fierce independence and contentment and distractions, I know I am not my complete self when he is not with me. Marrying him allowed me...it gave me the freedom...to become the woman I always wanted to be. And I will never be able to express to him my gratitude and unending love.<br /><br />Luckily for me, I have wonderful kitties who give me loving snuggles and remind me that food still must be poured into their bowls every morning and fresh water must be added to their fountain. I have a lovely home with comfortable furniture where I may retire after a long day. I have a wonderful job that I really do love. I have loads of sick time and vacation days available if/when I need them. I have amazing, supportive, wonderful, generous friends who get me through the dark spots, even if they don't realize they're doing it. I have my Puma Bait for glorious flirtation with absolutely no-strings-attached. I have a fabulous, ever-evolving fashion sense and hot pink hair and some pretty damn cool tattoos. My bills are paid and there's food in the kitchen. My family is for the most part healthy and doing well, also. I have so very much to be grateful for and I am, every day.<br /><br />But some days, the sad just catches up. Some days I just don't want to talk about it, because anyone to whom I would speak about it already knows exactly what I'm feeling, so there's no need. So some days, I just don't have the energy to keep the smile up. Some evenings, I just need to sit here on my sofa in Mutts pajama pants and a black sweatshirt, kitties purring contentedly nearby. Some days the laundry doesn't get done and the dishes don't get washed and I have pretzels and peanut butter for dinner, with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Twizzlers</span> for dessert. Some evenings, I just can't convince myself to do anything but sit here and watch TV and try not to think about anything but this moment. Right now. So that's what I do. And that's what I'm doing. <br /><br />Sadly, but gratefully,<br />LolaLola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2565650747969279709.post-5625767232889015842010-08-24T17:08:00.000-07:002010-08-24T17:52:16.033-07:00some days ya gotta dance...Some of you may already know this about me, some of you may have no idea: I love to dance. And I used to be quite the party girl in college and for a few years thereafter. In other words, before I got married and settled into being an old married lady. The other night, I actually got the urge to go out to the club and dance my cares away. I know how ridiculous that sounds, but I also know that it used to keep me sane. When I was single, there were a lot of nights I would do almost ANYTHING not to be alone in my shitty apartment. Those 5 rooms were so depressing sometimes that I almost couldn't bear it. Factor in the lack of central heat or A/C and it's pretty easy to understand why I went out so much. Funny thing is, I probably drink more now than I did then. (And I certainly drink better quality stuff now!) <br /><br /><strong>Many</strong> Friday and/or Saturday nights, I would get dressed up in some ridiculously cute outfit, occasionally bordering on the very inappropriate but fun, climb into my vehicle, and head out. I usually went alone, thinking that would keep me out of the drinking kind of trouble but allow me to engage in the naughty kind of trouble, if I so chose. I would listen to my "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Goin</span>' Out" compilation CD, with all the glorious randomness of the B-52's, Destiny's Child, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Monifah</span>, and Blondie, and I would sing my heart out and wiggle along to the beat while I drove. I went out to one particular club so often, the bouncer at the front recognized me by my tattoos. (I wore wigs a lot back then, so my hair and makeup always looked VERY different from night to night!) I would make a round, see who I could see, feeling bold and sexy and free. If a good song came on, I got on the dance floor. And I didn't gravitate to the middle of the floor, hoping to hide from the spectators, oh no, I stayed out on the edges and put on a fucking <em>show</em>. Sometimes I would pick a boy to dance for. Sometimes boys would try to dance with me and get shut the fuck down. I was ruthless if I wasn't interested. If I was interested, well..."ruthless" also applies. Most of the time, though, I wasn't after anything. I just wanted to DANCE. To sweat and to make myself sore and tired and thoughtless. To literally shake off everything that built up on me for the week before. To talk if I wanted to talk or to just shut the hell up and dance my ass off. To drape myself on some hot boy during a romantic country song, singing into his ear and then walking away.<br /><br />When I was exhausted and couldn't take any more, I would leave. Sometimes alone, sometimes not. If I was hungry, a stop at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Whataburger</span> or Taco Bell was a must. I would go home reeking of cigarette smoke and sweat and pheromones. Too tired to shower sometimes, I would just put on my PJ's and fall into bed, hair still stinky and sometimes even still sweaty. It was delicious. And if I didn't go home alone? Well, a shower was inevitable. <br /><br />So this past weekend, I thought for a few brief moments about putting on my favorite jeans and a sexy top, mussing up my hair, spritzing on some perfume, and chumming the proverbial waters at the club. I didn't do it, obviously. I realized after those few brief moments that it would be insane of me to do it. I wonder now how I didn't get myself hurt or killed back then. Some of the choices I made, well, they're for another post, darlings. Don't get me wrong, I don't regret a fucking thing. Matter of fact, I've said before that the only things in my life that I would remotely consider regrets are missed opportunities to hook up with a boy. Not all the times I did hook up with boys. Of course, my objective had I gone this weekend would have had nothing to do with boys and everything to do with me dancing and dancing and sweating and dancing until I had nothing left. <br /><br />Some days, ya just gotta dance.<br /><br />Sweatily,<br />LolaLola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2565650747969279709.post-90692157454730286662010-08-11T18:39:00.000-07:002010-08-11T19:34:42.317-07:00so many questions...I just want to ask him, "Why do you hate me? What did I ever do to you to make you loathe me so much?" But I can't. For one, I'm afraid. I just don't have the nerve to look him in the eye and see it there. But mostly, I just feel that it's so pointless. I'll never get the truth from him. He doesn't have the nerve to look me in the eye and let me have the peace of the truth. Even though it might hurt me. It might feel shattering in the moment. But the knowledge...maybe knowing what happened...what REALLY happened...could finally set me free.<br /><br />I know people think that by not confronting other people, by not ever really telling them how they feel about them, they're letting those people down more easily. "They'll figure it out soon enough." "Can't she take a hint?" "Why doesn't he get it?" But they deprive us of that dreaded word, "closure."<br /><br />Then again, those of us who have been abandoned by someone we cared about eventually come to terms with that abandonment. We may never fully understand their motivation, but we have to tell ourselves that maybe, just maybe, it was US and not, in fact, THEM. That maybe I did something to drive him out of my life forever. And depending on my mood, that can be good or bad. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Some days</span> I tell myself that he just loved me too much. That he had to be stronger than me and walk away because I never would. That I brought him pain by being so near and yet so unobtainable. Other days I tell myself that clearly, I am an annoying stalker psychopath and he didn't get me because I'm <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">nutso</span>. That he didn't walk away, I DROVE him away. And that's when I feel sick. I threw something so beautiful away with both hands and there's nothing I can do to get it back. Nothing I can say that will fix it. Nothing I can do to put us back to where we used to be. And then I get sad all over again. I mourn that loss over and over and over.<br /><br />You can tell me to let go. You can tell me to get over it. But I honestly don't believe that will ever happen. This pain, it stays with me as a reminder. I can try to let it go and get over it, but either it will happen or it won't. So go ahead and judge me for holding onto this pain. Go ahead and think I'm a silly girl for letting these men get to me. Go ahead and think I'm being ridiculous that it's been so long and I'm still not past it. But this is me. The pain and abandonment and thwarted desire and longing and joy and anger and loss and memories are all mine. They have created this woman I am right now. I'm more than OK with me. If you're not, then show yourself the door.<br /><br />LolaLola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2565650747969279709.post-77338926871848356172010-08-06T16:44:00.000-07:002010-08-06T17:15:28.497-07:00sweet dreams are made of this...My oh my. I had an absolutely lovely dream about <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">OFH</span>2 last night. One of those dreams I didn't want to wake up from and couldn't wait to get back to. We were part of a group, maybe a choir or something, and we were all traveling together--we were out of town at a hotel. We were sitting together during a presentation of some kind, when he reached over and took my hand, entwining his fingers with mine and squeezing...Keeping me close and making sure we were touching. But we couldn't let anyone see us, so we had to keep our hands hidden between us. Then later, when there was no one around, he leaned down and kissed me. It was so sweet and totally romantic in that whole "forbidden love" kind of way.<br /><br />Also, my darling Puma Bait came to see me today, wearing a shirt & tie (he's usually rocking MUCH more casual clothing, like t-shirts and basketball shorts). I was rendered speechless. He looked so...YUM. It made me think all sorts of naughty things! I needed a cigarette after he left and I don't even smoke! I'm not trying to make too much of it, but darlings, the world around him went all blurry for a minute. I forgot myself, forgot all my stress, damn near forgot where I was and tossed my kit off right then! It was a lovely sight. Many a fantasy will be constructed around that particular outfit.<br /><br />I'm such a lucky girl to have boys to fantasize about and flirt with who never have to see me sick or take care of me or suffer my wrath when I'm cranky. Likewise, I don't have to wash their dirty socks or put up with their temper tantrums or pick wet towels up off the floor. I'm even luckier to have a DH who has seen me at my worst and at my best and still loves me. Sick, tired, cranky, stressed, excited, hyper, rude, horny, hateful, over-worked, broke...he has dealt with all of it and stuck around. Not to say I haven't put up with all the same crap from him! We got a good thing and I KNOW IT. But hey, a girl's gotta dream, right?<br /><br />Dreamily,<br />LolaLola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2565650747969279709.post-13903048630780763272010-08-04T18:16:00.000-07:002010-08-04T19:09:03.445-07:00i don't know what it is...I don't know if it's because it's summer time, or because I'm lonely, or because I'm stressed out and tired, or maybe it's some <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">junky</span> combination of all three...But I find myself longing...<br /><br />Maybe longing isn't even the right word. Missing? Wishing for? Remembering? I don't know.<br /><br />I miss having free time stretched out before me like that glorious yellow-brick road in Oz. I remember spending entire days in bed, whether I was snuggling with someone special or just watching TV alone. It's the snuggling with someone special I miss the most. That languid, sexy, peaceful feeling of having NOTHING but time, to do with whatever I pleased. Tangled naked in the sheets, limbs wrapped around each other, fingers entangled, hair a mess. Kissing for hours with no other intentions. Smoking cigarettes and eating pizza dipped in ranch dressing. Watching some ridiculous movie and laughing our asses off. Waking up in the morning feeling warm and safe and loved. Getting up only to make coffee and grab doughnuts from the kitchen before rejoining the mattress-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">monial</span> bond. More kissing. Making love until we were hungry again, then taking a shower and not bothering to get dressed after.<br /><br />I miss DA. Yes, I know. Just when I haven't thought about him in weeks, I think to myself, "I haven't thought about DA in weeks!" Then I realize...I just did. And it starts hurting all over again.<br /><br />I hate to say it, but I even miss Adam Levine a little bit. It's just a smidgen, more in that whole "he-got-away" way. If that makes sense. Or not, fuck it, it makes sense to me.<br /><br />I miss <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">OFH</span>2. He ignores me about 75% of the time online and I don't know how to take it. It hurts.<br /><br />I miss...oh, shit...I just realized this one doesn't have a nickname...OH! I've got it. Let's call him AC/DC, because he looks like if Anderson Cooper and Daniel Craig had a baby. (A strong <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">possibility</span> now in California, thanks to the overturning of Prop 8...And that I think AC and DC are both gay.) AC/DC...we have a long history that I think belongs in another post. But he's gone, too, and my connection with him grows longer and thinner every day, like gum stretched from your lips to your fingertips.<br /><br />Having Puma Bait helps a lot. An outlet for my flirtations is definitely a requirement for me. He's just <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">smokin</span>' sexy dipped in totally adorable.<br /><br />What this boils down to is that I want. I long for the indiscretions of my youth. I want a good, long, slightly painful make-out session. I want new discoveries. I want something naughty. Food and booze only satisfy so much. But that's all I've got. It sucks.<br /><br />I want power, I want to be desired, I want to be dominated, I want to be worshipped, I want to be devoured, I want to be comfortable, I want...I want...I want...<br /><br />Longingly,<br />Lola<br /><br />P.S. I feel compelled to add that YES, I know how lucky I am. I'm extremely lucky/fortunate/grateful...I have a job that I love (most of the time), a comfortable life, and a man who has seen me at my absolute worst and loves me anyway...sometimes even because...<br /><br />But the grass is always greener, and we always want what we can't have and we can't always get what we want and all that...blah blah blah.Lola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2565650747969279709.post-7825085892311676562010-07-26T18:17:00.001-07:002010-07-26T19:12:24.488-07:00the acting bug...So I thought I should share a little bit with all of you about my whole acting "thing." I have to say that without acting, without the theatre, I would not be who I am today. I auditioned for and was cast in my very first show (sad to say, not the same show) at the age of 5. Not only does performing shape my personality, it has shaped my life by bringing people to me that I might otherwise have never met. I met my first boyfriend at Cabaret Supper Theater. We shared our first kiss there, too. I have a wide network of people who have built me up, shaped me, loved me, and been loved by me. It has taught me things. Memory skills, teamwork, musical ability, emotional connectedness, grace under pressure, confidence, and many other very valuable lessons. These have served me throughout my life and I hope will continue to do so.<br /><br />I don't just love performing, I love watching others perform as well. I love musicals, I love comedies, I love dramas, I love a little bit of all of it. Musicals are definitely my favorites to perform in, but I'm told I'm funny sometimes, so comedies are really fun for me, too. Also, being the sex goddess that I am, I tend to be cast as the mistress, the tart, the slut, the slutty ingenue, the...well, I think you get the point. It's a tough cross to bear, being the go-to sexy chick, but it's my cross and I'll bear it well...<br /><br />Doing a show, no matter how big or how small, is a HUGE time commitment. Between rehearsals themselves, learning lines/songs/choreography/etc., and the time to and from and in between rehearsals and work, I get very little time for myself or for relaxation or really much of anything. But I wouldn't trade it. I need it. I live on it. I thrive. It keeps me sane. I work so hard on a show, I almost always get very sick as soon as it closes. Sometimes it's more emotional this physical, but no less draining. And at some point during the run of the show, I start questioning my sanity--why would I do this to myself? I want my life back! I need SLEEP! I want to watch TV and make a real dinner and have a whole weekend to myself or to spend time with friends! But then...<br /><br />Then we take those curtain calls...I hear the applause, the cheers, and I feel all that love and joy and I wouldn't trade that feeling for ANYTHING. Then I get to see my friends and family and supporters and hug them and get kisses and flowers and ego love, and it makes it ALL so worth it.<br /><br />Although, no matter how many times I do this...how many performances, no matter how many songs I learn or dances I dance or lines I spout or giggles I tease from my audience...I get nervous every time. Sometimes worse than other times, but I've learned to love and embrace the nerves. I learned that if I'm not nervous, it means I don't care, and I will fuck it up royally. I have to be invested...desperately invested...in this role, this story, this EPIC. Some shows it starts very early in the day, and for those shows, I try to take at least half of the workday before opening night off. This gives me time to slow down, relax, and get focused. I usually can't eat very much before a performance, and certainly nothing very rich or heavy. I try not to even drink too much water because...well, inevitably, just before I'm about to go onstage, I have this moment: "Oh, oh no...Oh goodness...I have to PEE...OH! Oh no, no, no, I'm going to throw up...Shit, no, shit...yes...that's it, oh <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">gah</span>, I'm going to shit myself...Bathroom, I need the bathroom...Oh god, now I don't have time/can't get out of this costume/am too far away..." Then sometimes I go through something like this: "Oh god, I'm going to forget my lines. What if I forget my lines? What if SOMEONE ELSE forgets their lines? What if I mess up that lyric again? Will I hit that note? I've got to get that right, or I'm bombing out there...<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">OK</span>, go over the song...<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">OK</span>, go over the choreography...<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">OK</span>, I think I've got this...Oh god, I am going to fuck this up so bad!" Of course, no sooner do I step onto the stage than that is completely forgotten.<br /><br />That's why I love this so much. I get to step onto a stage and for a couple of hours or so, I get to be someone else. I usually have a very similar routine for each show, including what I wear to the theater and how I carry all the stuff I will need. I sit down at "my spot" in the dressing room and begin changing my appearance. This is all very meditative for me and I'm not my usual talkative, friendly self. I may answer you if you address me, may crack-some-wise, but mostly I try to stay quiet and allow myself to get focused. I put on makeup in a very certain way for the character. I style my hair differently or put on a wig so that I get farther and farther away from looking like myself. Then I step into a costume and the transformation is complete...I am now another person. This someone else doesn't have my problems, doesn't have my headache, doesn't worry about my job or my house or all the things I have to get done this weekend. I get to play...no, I get to BECOME someone else. I step out of myself and let this other person take over for a while. And her problems get wrapped up/solved/<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">remediated</span> during the course of her 2-hour journey. Somehow, when I remove myself from her to go home...when I take off the costume and wash off the makeup and take down the hair, I'm back to myself again...but my problems don't seem as major anymore. Sometimes my headache is gone. Other times it hurts even more than it did before but I still feel, somehow, better. Maybe I'm all hopped up on adrenaline and afterglow, and that's <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">OK</span>. It restores my soul more than any church or religion ever could. On the stage is where I both find myself and leave myself. It is my first love and my last love. It consumes me, it builds me, it destroys me and nourishes me. The theatre is my Alpha and my Omega. <br /><br />Theatrically,<br />LolaLola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2565650747969279709.post-76945243606848232602010-06-17T17:19:00.001-07:002010-06-18T08:01:02.415-07:00Oh Joey, I'm not angry anymore...I honestly have SO much I'd like to write about. I get the hint, though, darling readers and new Lola fans, that ya'll do NOT like when I rant and rave and write like a crazy bitch. Noted. Alright, I will return to the salacious naughtiness you've all come to love from your Lola. So here goes...<br /><br />I've reconnected with an old...er...ex-boyfriend. He's one of the few exes with whom I had lost touch and was actually sorry for it. He was one of the ones who really sculpted me, who aided in the formation of the woman I am today. It's lovely to know that he's doing well and that he still thinks of me, too. Most of his story I'd like to save for my book, but I figure a short introduction/overview won't hurt...<br /><br />I met him through Steve. Steve was an acquaintance of mine from college and we had lots of mutual friends. One fateful night, Steve threw a party at the home he shared with...oh, let's call him SR for Steve's Roommate, shall we? I don't remember the first moment I met SR. I know I was having a fairly dramatic time at the party, having gotten into a fight with the boy I was...oh, let's just say the boy I had recently had a one-night-stand with and we had previously hated each other and I don't think either of us quite knew what to do or how to feel about it...I know he left early and that was essentially the end of that. Doesn't matter now, didn't really matter then. What I do remember is that I made my way over to the trash can, full of, well, yes, of course--trash can punch. I remember hands taking my plastic cup and filling it from the sizeable plastic repository of booze and fruit. I remember brushing fingers as I took back my cup. Then I looked up into warm brown eyes, sparkling and fringed with feathery lashes most women would drop a mad amount of money to have. We smiled at each other. I might have done that coquettish thing where I looked down then back up at him through my own envy-inspiring lashes. Then his thumb and forefinger tipped my chin up to his face and he kissed me, right on the lips. I was startled but thrilled and I swear my fingers and toes tingled in that moment. That was also exactly the moment EVERYONE at the party began to hate us. Why? We became attached at the mouth...making out in the back doorway, making out on the front porch, making out in the kitchen, making out on the couch in the living room. It was so ridiculously hot. Throughout what would become years of on-again/off-again togetherness, we never lost the heat. That much was consistent for us.<br /><br />I don't want to say it was all downhill from there, because I don't really believe that. We had a fantastic time together for several months. But his ex-drama and fear and my immaturity and slight neediness started to get in the way and we ended things. Truth be told, I don't even remember our breakup. It's possible that it never happened, that we just stopped calling, stopped craving each other, stopped wanting to spend time together, and that we eventually just let it all slip away without a fight.<br /><br />Years passed. I ran into Steve again one evening and asked about SR. I was informed that he was still in-state and single. I gave Steve my number and practically begged him to make SR call me. I guess it didn't take much convincing, because I got a phone call the next day. Long story short, he came to visit me for a long weekend, and all the promise of a new start with our new knowledge but same history proved to be something we both seemed to want but still couldn't figure out how to create. We had a great first date night, mind-blowing reunion sex, and the next day spent time with his family. No sooner did we get back to my apartment than things started going to hell. Things happened, I don't care to get into all the dramatics of it, but suffice it to say another boy was involved, though it was all very innocent (well, then it was, but I will admit things got very...<em>guilty</em>...later in our relationship. But that's for another blog, darling readers...) So we fought some more. Then we tried to put things back to rights. We tried to end the weekend on a happy note. We tried to stay in touch after he returned home. But we once again let things just...fall away...<br /><br />I know he loved me, in his own way. I hope he knows that I loved him, too, in <em>my</em> own way. But I don't believe we were ever truly in love with each other. I think we wanted to be. Desperately wanted to be. Because all the good was SO SO good. Sadly, it never canceled out all the bad, all the fear, all the indifference, all the disappointment...<br /><br />Now here we are, years later again, and I think we stand a pretty decent chance of staying friends. Not super close, not besties, not anything dangerous or inappropriate. Just friends with a very long history.<br /><br />Reminiscently,<br />Lola<br /><br />P. S. I also have a new fake boyfriend, but I think I'll save that for another post. This one seems strong enough on its own.Lola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2565650747969279709.post-954054853969963822010-05-13T19:07:00.001-07:002010-05-13T19:41:13.631-07:00ok, now i'm just pissed off...There is nothing like a trip to my local WalMart to remind me of just how much I loathe people in general. First I got gas at Sam's, and my anger-fire got stoked there right away. The lanes for the gas pumps are CLEARLY marked by signage AND paint that they are ONE WAY. People who have gotten gas at Sam's more than once should be aware of this. So WHO THE FUCK do these assholes think they are, going the WRONG WAY and thwarting all of us who are waiting in line the RIGHT way because we are decent human beings?! Is their time more valuable than mine? Apparently they think so. "Fuck you, I drive a gas-guzzling SUV for NO reason other than that it's BIGGER than your vehicle and BY GOD, I'm going to get MY gas however it suits me and you can kiss my ass!" That's essentially what they're saying to the rest of us who bother to do things the right way.<br /><br />Then...WalMart...CROWDED...No baskets, only buggies. Great. Assholes. I need 3 fucking items and I have to push a cart around becuase they're too awkward to carry loosely. Fine. I get my cart, I put my cloth shopping bag and my purse in it and head toward the back of the store. I get my stuff. I ignore my brain screaming for COUNT CHOCULA LUCKY CHARMS BEN AND JERRYS CAKE PIE CANDY COOKIES CRACKERS MORE CHEESE POPCORN SNACKMIX DOUBLESHOTS POPTARTS MOUNTAIN DEW!!!!! I get my 3 items (milk, roasted red pepper hummus, and whole grain pita chips, if you must know), I push the unwieldy cart up to the front of the store and holy sweet mother of George Carlin the lines the fucking LINES! All the 20-items or less lines are backed up across the main aisle. All the regular lines are just as bad and of course, those people have more items. So I just pick a line and get in it, figuring they're all about the same, what's the difference? All the folks in front of and around me have 2-5 items, so I figure it won't be that bad. After a few minutes of no movement in front of me, I crane my neck to see the woman in front of the young man in front of me...ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?!?! She was doing a week's worth of grocery shopping!!! So here we are again, with this woman, this dumpy middle-aged soccer mom in a baggy t-shirt and matching dumpy shorts and fake blond hair, is saying to the rest of us that she is better and more important and she will do WHATEVER SHE PLEASES because NONE of us have the BALLS to confront her about it. <br /><br />Look, I have my moments of rebellion, but they never (to my knowledge) inconvenience those around me. I am a selfish person. I can freely admit this and I'm ok with it. I'm selfish about the things I provide for myself, selfish about my time, selfish about the people I love, and selfish about many other things I don't need to list here. But because I'm really not, at heart, an asshole, or a disrespectful cunt (oh yes, I went there), or completely oblivious to those around me, and I manage to be a bitch while still being considerate, I'm unwilling to cut in lines or go the wrong way at a gas pump or blatantly ignore the "20-item or less" signs. I'm unwilling to assume that my time is any more valuable than that of other people. I'm unwilling to think that I'm more important than those behind me.<br /><br />I could lament the loss of common courtesy, I could bemoan our society's sad ways. But really it's just a series of decisions we each make at any given moment. The "me first" attitude is something that is taught, just as good manners and consideration are taught. So please, all I'm asking is for each of you to THINK for a moment before you do something. CONSIDER the repercussions before you act on your own behest and disregard the feelings of those around you. All it takes is a handful of generous moments to make their day better. And this will make my day better. Which in turn makes your day better, because you don't have to read my ridiculous, screedy blogs anymore about what assholes people are.<br /><br />Peacefully,<br />LolaLola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2565650747969279709.post-47674243429002696552010-05-12T18:32:00.000-07:002010-05-12T19:08:14.918-07:00and now for something a little bit different...Alright, I've got to write. I've got to vent but not at all in an angry way, just in a sort of word-vomity way. I actually had another blog started last night before my wireless internet decided to shit the bed...I saved it as a Word document and filed it away. I've got a lot on my mind, a heavy heart, and a burdned soul. None of this is crushing or overwhelming, but I'm feeling kinda beat-down right now. And some of that is my fault. How, you ask? Well, because I keep forgetting that it isn't about me. Things people say and do and how they behave...not about me. Even if sometimes it is. Even though I try awfully hard to make it about me. I'm tired. I'm sad. I want things I can't have. Please don't think of me as ungrateful. I know how lucky I am, and I've written about that before. I'm thrilled with so many things. But isn't it human nature to want more? To desire something other than what we have? It's hard to fight that, even in times of true contentment. And I'm far from content right now.<br /><br />OFH2 and I are in a weird place right now. There's pressure, there's stress, he's on his way out of the country for another deployment and is so stressed-out, he's actually looking forward to it. With everything he's carrying around, I sort of get that. But selfishly, it makes me sad because he won't be near me again, and possibly for a very long time. I want time with him--just a couple of hours or so, for a meal, drinks, or a cup of coffee. I have fears that cannot be addressed and I just want to see him again for a little bit before he's gone again. It's been about 5 years since I saw him last, and it's been too long. Because in spite of my...oh, let's call it obsession...and our long-running history of flirtation and missed opportunities, he's my friend. And above anything else, I'm his friend. I'd like to be there for him. If not now, when? This is not to much to ask, and yet...it is. But you know what? In the end, it's not about me. As much as I would <em>like</em> it to be, it's not about me.<br /><br />Shit, this isn't helping. There are things I am thinking about that I can't talk about. Things I need that I can't ask for. Things I want that I have no right to want. I miss people. I miss places. I'm wallowing in memories and clinging to fantasies and just wishing for a slightly better reality. And then I feel like an asshole because I know how much better off I am than so many others. So again, even when it is about me, it's not about me.<br /><br />And I know that other people are busy and stressed out too, and that they have other things going on and sometimes the timing just sucks. You guessed it...Not about me.<br /><br />Maybe I'm just tired and stressed-out and overwhelmed with work and emotional flotsam and I need a nap. Or a vacation. Or a drink. Or...well, you get the idea. And quite frankly, there's nothing that anyone can say or do to fix it. I just have to keep my head up and work it out, or plow through it, or whatever, until I'm in a better place emotionally.<br /><br />Thanks for suffering with me, and I'm sorry for such a whiney blog. I'll try to do better next time.<br /><br />Gratefully,<br />LolaLola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2565650747969279709.post-35685321717107136662010-04-20T17:35:00.000-07:002010-04-20T18:43:37.854-07:00i'm so loneleee...Let me preface this by saying something: I'm writing this blog because this is the stuff I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT. OK? So I'm writing to get it out. I'm not going to call any of you and weep through a lame conversation about how lonely I am. I'm not going to show up at your house and talk about how much I miss...them. Yes, them...I'll get there in a minute. So when you read this, DO NOT MENTION IT TO ME. If you have a comment, great, put it on here or on Facebook. But I know...I KNOW that there are those of you who will say, "you can talk to me anytime, you know" and yes, I know that. BUT I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT. Don't you understand that some things are just too painful and/or too unsavory to be spoken aloud? SO DON'T BRING IT UP? MMMMMKAY? Alright. Now we've got that settled, let's move on.<br /><br />I'm so lonely right now, it's physically painful. It's bone-deep. The kind of lonely that there's not enough wine and chocolate in the world to cure it. Yes, there's the obvious, that the DH is not here. But also one of my favorite exes (the one I broke up with to marry the DH--he's still a very close friend) just deployed for the 4th or 5th time. Oh, and OFH#2? Yup, he's also deploying again...his 3rd or 4th time. So literally ALL my husbands are out of the country at once. And I'm still dealing with the emotional shut-down of OFH#2...I know what we have and I refuse to give up on it. I will continue to fight until he finally does tell me to "fuck off." I haven't heard that yet, and as a matter of fact have been encouraged by OFH#2 to stick around. I just wish he would let me in a little bit more. Ah well...the only proof I have that I'm not going anywhere is to just be patient and not go anywhere. I'll be here, if you're reading this, OFH#2...No matter what. So don't ignore that if you're ever in need. <br /><br />And of course, what would one of my blogs be without mention of DA? Yes, I still miss him. Right now, it's so much more the friendship than the flirting. I had someone who knew & understood me, to whom I could speak about anything without judgment. Of course, the sexual tension just made the conversations more interesting. Plus there was so much reassurance in the flirtation...I'm running low on tension-filled male contact right now, and I don't like it.<br /><br />The sting of rejection from Adam Levine has lessened very much over time. But I'm not going to lie...it still REALLY hurts my feelings to be rejected so completely for no good reason. To wonder if people think I'm psycho because they didn't get the fun part of the whole thing. I'm trying to subvert it ya'll, I really am. I'm striving for glorious indifference. I'll get there. Eventually.<br /><br />Oh how I miss all my boys. On a positive note, though, I DO have a new fake boyfriend! His nickname is Puma Bait. He swears to represent for the younger men. He's TOTALLY adorable. He's a little bit different from the others, though, in that he's married and has a baby. He says his wife is totally cool like my DH is totally cool, so the flirting has a green light. However, there's no room for inappropriate text messages...*sigh* And I only get to see him when he comes to visit me...so we'll see how this all rolls out. I'll keep ya'll posted.<br /><br />Now. I'm off to have another drink and go to bed.<br />Love,<br />LolaLola Louboutinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02948061652686769462noreply@blogger.com0