On 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Peacefully,
Lola

Memorial 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...

My DH is in the process of retiring after 23 years of active-duty service in the U.S. Army.
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.
My sister N is currently serving in the Air Force and is a Lt. Col. and totally an awesome badass.
Her husband W served in the Navy.
My brother K retired after 23 years of service in the Navy, and his son C is also now serving in the Navy.
My brother B was in the Air Force.
I have so many exes who were or are military, it's not even funny, to include a handful of one-night-stands.
Kids with whom I attended high school or college, or even met briefly once at some function are now lost to us.
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.

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.

So today and every day, I salute those who serve, those who have served, and those who made the ultimate sacrifice.
Patriotically,
Lola

stuff 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.

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.

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.

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.

Perhaps next time I'll manage something more controversial, more annoying, more frustrating, more moving...just more. I promise to try.

 Lovingly, Lola

confronting mortality...

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

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

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

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

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

I love you all. May you never forget it.

Lola

ink & memories...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inkily,
Lola

i wish i was brave enough...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Isadora (2002-2011)...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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