Monday, March 30, 2009

Lola vs. Avoiding a Relationship

Lately I have been doing my very best to avoid a relationship at all costs. My friends tease me about it (well the girls mostly) but I have become more and more confident in the ability to circumvent dreaded words like "feelings" and "heart" and phrases like "do you think your mom would like me" and "what are you doing on the 29th as I have a wedding to go to".

Maybe it's because I am shallow and I have no soul. Or maybe it's because my last relationship not only cost me a lot of time and money but also several trips to the local police station. Either way the result is the same. Serious relationship< Something I scrape off of the bottom of my shoes.

Here are some simple rules that once implemented are sure to help you avoid a serious entanglement:
  1. Never see the same person two weekends in a row.
  2. Once you've made a date with someone on a weekend, make sure you relegate him/her to a weeknight next time.
  3. Leave Saturdays for meeting new people.
  4. Don't hook up with your friends. This only leads to feelings. Yuck.
  5. If you are too drunk to drive and must sleep over, make sure you leave before breakfast the next morning.
  6. Never, ever go to a wedding with someone you are dating.
  7. This one should be blatantly obvious but just in case- No meeting families. EVER.

Unfortunately, I also have a great tip on how to get rid of a guy who is interested in you. Sport a big, ugly bruise on your arm and then make the disastrous mistake of telling one of your best guy friends that it was an STD test. That way when you are talking to a really hot guy at the bar, your friend will lie in wait until he hears the guy ask you how you got the bruise. Then, like the incredible homing pigeon that he is, he will swoop in and shout," That's her AIDS test."

Again, thanks Kane. That was really helpful.

Monday, March 16, 2009

Lola vs. Mission Opossumible

I know. The heading is ultra lame but if I giggle at people being named "Breaston", then obviously my sense of humor is not exactly of the refined kind.

Unfortunately as of late, I have had a bit of a crazy social schedule and this has lead to me not being home enough to notice changes to my surrounding property. This apparently includes dead medium-sized marsupials in my backyard. At least possums are supposed to be medium-sized. This one however did not follow the normal marsupial rules because it is reminiscent of an extremely well-fed domestic cat, one that has eaten all of the other neighborhood cats in a fit of rage. I don't know what possums have to be wrathful about but I imagine it has something to do with the foul-smelling fluid that is secreted from their anal glands (thank you wiki for making a dead animal THAT much more disgusting to me).

In any case, I was alerted to this by the guy upstairs and we had a brief discussion on the pros and cons of eliminating this problem ourselves. But when we got to the topic of disposal techniques, we paused. I have no woods in which to ditch the body and my neighbors are all irritatingly close so we eventually settled on animal control as the most feasible option. This is how my conversation went:

"Hi, my name is Lola Lakely and I live in the town of ____. I was referred to you by my local police department." Then I launched into the sequence of events that lead to the possum.

"Excuse me, what did you say you needed?"

Ok, so I had to nutshell it for her. I tried again. "I have a dead possum in my backyard, can you come and retrieve it please?"

"They actually are called opossums, miss, when they live in North America," came the clipped, slightly annoyed reply.

The fact that she needed to correct me on this should have been my first indication that the phone call was not going to go as originally anticipated. "So what, they have aliases when they travel to different countries?"

Dead silence. Oops, maybe joking with the woman who is responsible for animal waste removal wasn't the smartest idea. I mumbled an I'm-an-idiot apology to her and asked," Do I have to be home when you come and get it?"

"Where did you say the OPOSSUM is?" (I swear she said the word in all caps. Bitch.)

"It's in my backyard in a trashcan, floating in some water."

"Then you do need to be home, miss, because this service will cost you $60."

"Whaaaat?"

"That's not including gas."

"60 plus dollars for coming and throwing out a dead POSSUM? That's ridiculous."

"I don't make the rules, lady." Okay so now I've turned from a miss into a lady and apparently the woman is now a belligerent truck driver. "If it's found in your backyard, you pay for it. If it's in the road, the town does."

Light bulb! "So what you are telling me is that if I go home tonight and throw the possum in the street, the town will pick up the tab?"

Click.

So now I'm sitting here at the computer, typing out this blog, dressed in black leggings and a form-fitting black top waiting for my friend Kane to arrive so he and I can dispose of the possum. The only thing I'm missing is a pair of black stilettos, which although they would look kick-ass with the outfit, I am dubious over how it will effect the removal process. Because if I trip and fall while attempting to fling the dead possum into the middle of the street, I am not sure I will want to get up.

However, I can still feel the excitement rippling through me because I've already picked out the street where the dead marsupial will be residing for the next 24-48 hours. Take that, creepy guy who always comes out of his house to leer at me during my Saturday afternoon jog!



Lola- 3 Morality- 0

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Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Lola vs. Crazy Airport Lady

I have realized that I am a magnet for lost souls who are dying to confess their deep dark secrets to perfect strangers. On this long and lonely confessional road, I am apparently the only beacon to the person who enjoys spewing out all sorts of intensely personal details about their lives.

Most often this phenomenon occurs to me in airports.

I was in Newark the other day, sitting at my gate, enjoying a slightly annoyed rant in my head on how my plane was delayed when a woman plops down in the seat next to me and expels a huge, breathy sigh. Which is reminiscent of either vomit or rum.

Did I mention that there were a whole host of empty seats behind, next to, and in front of me?

She sighs again; I wrinkle my nose, shift slightly to the left, and immediately decide that her breath is definitely a mixture of both vomit and rum. She turns to me, her long white-blond hair swinging over her shoulder drunkenly, and fixes me with a red-rimmed, green-eyed stare. “Are were we delayed going to Pittsburgh?”

Now the funny thing about this statement is not that she has just referred to me as her travel companion (oh, joy!) or that she has just used two verb tenses in succession, but that this plane is, in fact, going to St. Louis. So of course I respond to her with, “Yes, we are delayed."

“Oh, thank - (unintelligible word). I thought I might have passed out and missed it.”
“Tired?”
Apparently sarcasm does not translate well into drunken slur because she came back with, “Hell no. Drunk!”

I made a grunting sound which was supposed to be a mere acknowledgment that she had been speaking.

However, what she heard me say was, “You look sad and lonely and obviously three sheets to the wind (because the pretend interpretation of me would say lame expressions like that). Please, unburden yourself! There is nothing I yearn for more on this earth than to hear why you are at an airport drunk by yourself at 10:17am!”

Much to my chagrin, pretend interpretation me was convincing. And so over the course of the next 45 minutes the following crazy airport lady secrets were revealed:

  • Her boyfriend lives in Dublin and she was just over there for two months visiting him. Her parents, who she lives with, do not even know she has a boyfriend, let alone why or where she has disappeared to for two months.
  • She found out she was pregnant in Dublin and is not entirely sure if it is Mr. Irish or her previous boyfriend who- as luck would have it- is an abusive psycho who gave her several black eyes during their tumultuous courtship.
  • Mr. Irish has sworn to marry her and has asked her to move to Dublin with him. However this leaves this lost soul in a quandary. How does she move her stuff out without her parents knowing she is leaving the country?

And for the kicker...

  • She was fired from her museum curator job because of a sexual harassment charge. And she was not, as I had assumed, involved with the prosecution. She was the defendant.

Lost souls I can handle. But now my question has become: how does one become demagnetized to sexual deviants fleeing from the American government seeking refuge in Ireland?

Monday, March 9, 2009

Lola vs. Lying Liars who Lie

I once had the interesting experience of dating a pathological liar. Unfortunately when we first met, his pants were not on fire so there was no way to gleam this particular personality quirk. Which is why I have decided that people need to come with BIG indicators. Or at least ominous music. Wouldn’t that be increasingly helpful? Imagine this scenario: You are at the bar with your friends, getting a drink and suddenly the door opens and he walks in. His dark hair is slightly tousled as if he has just gotten out of flashy red convertible, his features are chiseled, and his lips are hard yet full of promise. Those bottle green eyes of his arrow straight to your face and you shiver in anticipation. He walks over to you, with just the right amount of confidence in his gait, and gives you a grin that practically curls your toes it has so much sex appeal. When he opens his mouth BAM!!: Toccata and Fugue in D Minor.

Approximate time saved: 2 months- 1 year

Lifetime movies do it ALL the time. Which is why I can never understand why the woman consistently dates the man who either rapes/abuses her over several long years, molests her daughter, or is a pilot who has three other wives in three different cities. And sometimes all of these things occur to the same woman. Doesn’t she hear the desolate piano notes that accompany him whenever he either enters or leaves a room? Seriously, they're pretty friggen loud.

If I had heard those foreboding tones when I met Mr. Liar Liar from the Township of Liarsville, I would have been able to run as far and as fast as I could. I know you learn something during every relationship and I could throw in the obligatory he made me a better person, blah, blah, blah, blah… but I still would have liked to have learned that lesson in- oh I don’t know- a year instead of four to five? And it would also have saved me a lot of drama at the end that was nearly worthy of its own lifetime saga which going forward, I would like to call: The Unraveling of Lies- The Lola Lakely Story.

Now doesn’t that movie rate an ominous musical score? But that’s another story.

If someone has any indicators to share with me, I'd really like to know. And not just for myself. I'd like to save some of my guy friends from that girl who likes to cut herself in dark corners when no one is watching. Which sadly has happened to my friend Kane. Twice.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Lola vs. Abrupt Conversation Endings

I was soul searching last night a.k.a catching up on my old Dvred shows (if that hasn't become a noun and verb combo in the dictionary yet it needs to ASAP) and I noticed something that I somehow missed during my recent Dvr-every-show-you-possibly-can-even-if-it's-crap
affliction. Unfortunately since this nagging detail has occurred to me, I can't get it out of my head: No one on television ever fucking says goodbye when they end a phone call!

The conversations usually go something like this:

Girl A: But I've realized that I'm in love with him!
Girl B: (pause) Then that's all that really matters and everything will be fine.
Girl A: Sure, until he finds out than I'm the one hiding- insert "The Big Secret" here- that eventually will come out despite my ridiculously inane attempts to cover it up. (click)

I'm also a big fan of the dramatic statement and trail-off hang up:

Homicide Detective A: That means our suspect's - insert Modus operandi here- doesn't match up with the evidence!
Homicide Detective B: Or so the Germans would have us believe... (click)

In one episode I counted four conversations that all ended in the above fashion. I figure if people on television are all doing this, it has to be an acceptable form of closing a dialog. So I think I'll test this out. The next time I am on the phone with my sister, I am going to hang up immediately after saying, "And that's how he might have gotten me pregnant."

Before ending this, I'd like to thank Spryte over at Spryte's Place for giving me the Kreativ Blogger Award! Her recipe for Stuffed French Toast made me want to weep uncontrollably. In a good way.


Kreativ

Sunday, March 1, 2009

Lola vs. Shiny Plastic

I love how bars around here celebrate Mardi Gras. However it saddens me that not nearly as many people go around flashing their boobs and/or other parts of their anatomy in dingy back corners for shiny pieces of plastic. I suppose it just proves my theory that most people would do something they "never" would do if the conditions were just a bit outside their normal realm of being.

Blaming an extenuating circumstance is my favorite! It's like the ancient girl-dresses -like-a -whore-on-Halloween-just-because-it's-Halloween proverb.

I had the enlightening experience of going to Mardi Gras during spring break once. I remember when I was on the plane I had a slight argument with one of my friends which ended with me stating emphatically, “Beads? Who the effing cares about beads? I’m certainly not compromising my moral values for stupid strung together pieces of plastic! Dude- they’re not even useful.”

So yes, I have three garbage bags full of plastic beads in the back of my closet.

Lola: 1 Morality: 0

And yes, I have on occasion dressed as the sexy vampire in the tight black leather mini-skirt with matching skimpy black corset.

Lola: 2 Morality: 0

From now on, I am going to keep a running tally of how deeply I slide into moral depravity. Want to join?