Feeling guilty for…

… picking out most of the strawberry Now And Laters from the Halloween candy basket and eating them. The Guy is so totally going to kill me if he reads this, he gave me a Look after I ate just *one.* But seriously, COME ON. These kids don’t even understand what Now And Laters *are,* they can’t appreciate them like I can! The kids are just lucky this bag didn’t have Laffy Taffy, man, that Laffy Taffy would’ve been ALL gone ten minutes after I opened the bag.

I guess I also feel a little guilty for, um, taking an orange sucker from the basket, too. I have a weakness for orange suckers (one of the best parts about dining at Macayo’s!). I’m so getting coal in my stocking this year.


Looks like we made it

One year ago this day-but-not-date, I made plans to see "Saw" with The Guy. I wrote about the aftermath (here and here), but I sort of failed to mention that while we’d watched "Being John Malkovich," we’d been sharing a blanket on the couch and he had taken my hand into his and held it throughout the whole movie.

His hand, by the way, was a little sweaty. Probably because he was nervous. Probably because after the movie was over, he happened to kiss me. He had actually kissed me before, after a night spent drawing on each other’s arms, but it was after 4 a.m. and I was not only tired but cold, so as I wasn’t fully conscious at the time (we were standing in the parking lot of Shuck’s in front of cars, and I was falling asleep on his chest as he tried to keep me warm by putting his arms around me), so I still don’t count that as our first kiss.

Oh, and another complication to the matter: I was seeing someone at the time. It wasn’t an official relationship, but we saw each other occasionally and certainly I’d developed feelings for him which for one reason or another were unrequited, but in any case, it hurt me like hell when I started developing feelings for The Guy after the whole "Saw" incident– at which time, I was still, yes, "seeing" the other guy. Granted, I hadn’t seen him in nearly a month, but there had never been an official "let’s see other people and what we have, let’s end it now" moment. In fact, there never was. He just sort of eventually found out that The Guy and I were together, and that was that.

And now I feel like a huge bitch.


The Guy and I have pondered it briefly, when the actual "anniversary" is. We saw the movie together on October 30, but he didn’t actually kiss me until October 31 (it was 2 a.m. when he finally did), and oh, when I mentioned that I "ended up just crashing there," yeah, I sort of meant I crashed with The Guy. And before you get all "well, wasn’t that a brief courtship" snippity with me, know that we’d had two prior dates over the course of more than a month, except I didn’t consider them dates except in the buddy-buddy sense– we saw "Shaun of the Dead" and "I [Heart] Huckabees" together and that was it, no dinner, no drinks (remember, I was only 20 at the time), no nothing else before or after– mostly because 1) I was seeing that guy at the time, and 2) I refused to believe that he could possibly be attracted to me.

It turns out he was attracted to me, though I learned *that* after the second movie, when he reached over in the middle of the [insipid] movie, took my hand, and laced his fingers through mine. And then we had an Awkward Talk after, during the walk back to our cars, and it was settled that we would Just Be Friends.

Except then he kissed me again, and it turned out I was attracted to him, too, and that was a year ago and many turbulent periods (and exactly five Arguments) later, we’re still together. Except, hey, he loves me now! And yeah, I love him too.

But– the question of the exact date. I don’t know. I suppose it’s the 31st, except it seems kind of sucky to have an anniversary of anything coincide with Halloween (not to mention Nevada Day, woo), so I say, why not have a two-day anniversary? And as I am Lola and I get whatever I want, dammit, a two-day anniversary it is. For me, anyway. I don’t expect him to do anything for it.

So even though I’ve been not-posting on weekends lately, this weekend I’m making an exception and I’m posting today and tomorrow and Monday some other day in the near future, an inundation of sappy We-Survived-A-Year-Together posting, and you can deal with it or not, I don’t care, but in case you don’t come back until November 1– Happy Halloween!

Childhood was a sham

Picked up a package of Airheads at the checkout line a few nights ago. My best friend and I used to consume these things all the time when we were kids, and from what I remembered, we thought they were the crown jewels of the candy world (or at least, we thought that until we discovered Gollipops. Gollipops, those things were manna).

Opened one in the car, ate it. Chewed. Frowned in confusion. Chewed some more. Deepened frown. And finally, swallowed.

I don’t know if it’s true, that taste buds can change over time, but rest assured, there were no nostalgic butterflies of joy flittering across my tongue. Then-Lora thought Airheads were fan-smacking-tastic.

Now-Lora? Now-Lora thinks Airheads have the consistency of a Tootstie Roll eaten with the wrapper still on.

This is definitely going to hinder the flow when I write my autobiography.

Could you transcribe that a little louder, please?

We’re watching "Maria, Full of Grace" on one of the HD movie channels, complete with English subtitles as neither The Guy nor I hablamos mucho espanol, if you get my drift.

The Guy gets up for reasons unknown, and as he passes by the TV, he pushes one of the buttons. There’s a pause, and then he starts laughing to himself.

Me: What?
The Guy: I just turned up the volume.

The substance-free alternative to passing that dutch, baby

My mother is one of the most technologically inept people in the world. People in Third World Countries whose lives lack the existence of even running water, are more capable of operating appliances than she is (kitchen appliances aside, though even those can pose a utilization hazard if too tech-savvy).

As far as using the computer, she’s the master of the power button and in the process of receiving an honorary title for her success in the "shut down computer" field, given that there are no errors in attempting to shut down the computer. Error boxes send my mother spinning into a frenzied panic. Actually, any box that appears on the screen without her prompting will do this, which is why a pop-up blocker is so necessary for her. You’d think that the advertisers were shooting bullets at her each time their windows show up, the way she starts and exclaims.

She has, however, been consistently okay with e-mail. Voicemail is an issue and my sister and I have learned that it’s the ultimate exercise in futility, to leave our mother a voicemail and expect her to retrieve it; but e-mail, e-mail she can handle, in both the sending and the receiving part.

And in the forwarding part. ::sigh::

My mother is the queen of forwarding e-mails. It almost makes me feel like I’m back in junior high, when 90% of my inbox was filled with e-mails bearing cheesy subject titles that all began with "Fwd:" and invariably contained some Message of Importance. "The love of your life will reveal himself to you! Just pass this along to 10 of your friends!" "You will have 20 years of bad luck… UNLESS you send this on to five other people!" "The only way you will get the read the punchline of this joke is by sending this to eight other people, then after you have sent it, hit Alt + F8 while standing on one leg and singing "Born in the USA" in falsetto!"

Her forwards are tamer in the sense that they involve pictures of kittens and puppies and inspirational quotes, and every now and then she passes along some warning of newly surfaced scams or health care scares. The latest one she sent me was a long scroll of animated witches, and the last witch in the e-mail was facing the other way and bent over with her skirt pulled down, surrounded by a colorful, cheerful message: "It’s not Halloween without a full moon!"

I’m just waiting– any day now– for the e-mail from her that’s going to read, "Fwd: FWD: 50 question survey about me!!!! do this and then pass it 2 ALL of your frendZ this is SO KEWL!!!!!!!"

The food diaries of a woman gone mad

I get home and unwrap my burger. "Goddammit! This ISN’T SUPPOSED TO HAVE ONIONS ON IT!" I mutter furiously under my breath as I scathingly whisk the onion circles off the patty (and pickles as well, ew, pickles, ALSO not supposed to be there), then delicately arrange onion rings in their place. Finally, burger perfection.


Off comes the plastic wrap, in goes the unpopped bag of popcorn into the microwave, "this side up" facing, of course, up. Turn on the air vent so the whole house doesn’t end up smelling salty-sweet, set the timer, hit start, sit down at the table to do some writing while I wait.

A minute-and-a-half later, deep in philosophical thought, I hear a loud bang emit from the microwave. First thought: "Shit!"


I suddenly remember that there’s popcorn in the microwave and thereby nothing is amiss. I sit back down and return to my writing.


Current food addiction:



Grocery shopping list:

CRANBERRY JUICE. (Dammit all to hell.)

The best of the best of the worst about the best

From The Morning News: "Lone Star Statements," by Matthew Baldwin

[Ed: These are my favorite two excerpts]

The Sound and the Fury (1929)

Author: William Faulkner

“This book is like an ungrateful girlfriend. You do your best to understand her and get nothing back in return.”

The Sun Also Rises (1926)

Author: Ernest Hemingway

“Here’s the first half of the book: ‘We had dinner and a few drinks. We
went to a cafe and talked and had some drinks. We ate dinner and had a
few drinks. Dinner. Drinks. More dinner. More drinks. We took a cab
here (or there) in Paris and had some drinks, and maybe we danced and
flirted and talked sh*t about somebody. More dinner. More drinks. I
love you, I hate you, maybe you should come up to my room, no you
can’t’… I flipped through the second half of the book a day or two
later and saw the words ‘dinner’ and ‘drinks’ on nearly every page and
figured it wasn’t worth the risk.” 

Ways in which my cat is secretly a dog in disguise

1. She follows me (and The Guy when he’s around) from room to room.
2. She comes when called (and I’m teaching her to sit on command).
3. She begs for food at the table.
4. She likes to chew on shoes (thankfully not mine).
5. She tries to dig holes in the living room floor.
6. She chases her own tail.
7. She likes to lick people.

BONUS! "Ways in which my cat is secretly a parrot in disguise:"

1. She delights in sitting on my shoulder, regardless of what I’m doing at the time.

Prediction predilection

I’m not really sure where I stand on the whole psychic business. I guess it’s about where I stand on the "God" business, which is to say, if I had to choose between absolutely believing in it and absolutely not believing in it, I’d go with the former; but in everyday matters, in any given moment, I’m perpetually stuck in a state of "I don’t know."

My mother is an absolute believer in psychic readings and the like; the stacks of books on the subjects in our house testify to this. Having grown up listening to her talk about chakras and auras and pranic healing and animal communication and mind reading and reincarnation, etc., it’s hard for me to now dismiss it all as nonsense. All the same, with a good portion of my academics deeply rooted in science, it’s equally hard for me to embrace.

Since having seen "The Matrix," I always think back to that scene when Neo has just rescued what’s-his-name (Morpheus?), who tells him, "See? I told you you were The One!" and Neo’s like, "No, no I’m not, the Oracle said I’m not The One!" and what’s-his-name replies, "She told you what you needed to hear."

And I wonder, is that how all psychics operate?

Here’s the thing about the future, According To Me: it’s impermanent and subject to change with each passing moment. I like to subscribe to the theory of infinite universes, a byproduct of which is infinite futures. Assuming this is true, it’s therefore impossible for a psychic to give you a concrete reading of your future, as it cannot be determined which of your infitite futures will actually come to pass.

Factor into all of this the self-fulfilling prophecy, and you’ve got a true dilemma on your hands.

Say, for example, the psychic tells you that in two months’ time, your lover is going to up and leave you. Say you believe her and you go home, paranoid and hypersensitive to everything pertaining to your relationship. Say your overactive imagination kicks into overdrive and you start thinking about two months from now and how hard it’s going to be, living without the person who has been your closest companion for so many months or years now, and suddenly you start withdrawing from your lover– you figure, the more distant you are, the less painful it will be to finally lose him or her. You keep withdrawing, keep wallowing in the bleak thoughts of what is supposedly to come, and you lover tries to console you, tries to figure out what’s going on, but you refuse to open up.

This goes on for two months. You lover, frustrated with your distance and your constant tears and your refusal to communicate just what the hell is going on, finally snaps and breaks things off.

And you think to yourself, My god, the psychic was right.

But was she right? Or did you bring it upon yourself?

I don’t like to believe psychic readings, mainly because I like to believe I have power over my own life, I have power of my life’s direction. The most I will budge when it comes to giving up this power is, I’ll believe that my life has predestined checkpoints, but it’s up to me how I get to each checkpoint.

All the same, there’s a nagging little voice at the back of my mind that wheedles at me, tells me that the psychics are right and I just don’t want to admit it because I don’t like what they’re telling me. Of *course* I don’t like what they’re telling me– who in their right mind would enjoy hearing bad news? Who would enjoy hearing that the foundation upon which you’ve built towers of dreams, is flimsy and will disappear completely in a short matter of time?

The worst of it all is, when you do start to think that maybe, just maybe, she was right– and you start justifying her words. You start to find little shreds of evidence that back up her predictions. You start to look for more shreds of evidence every day that further back up her predictions. And you start to lose it all over again.

It’s borderline ironic, really. Going to a psychic has only made me less unsure of my future.