Today, E and I went Christmas shopping. And it was one of the most frightening experiences of my life. Not because E acted badly--I bribed her with the opportunity to go to a movie at the end of the day. And not because of the long lines--although they were bad--at one point, I left a shopping cart full of intended gifts when I saw that we'd have to stand in line behind about 50 people before we'd get out of there. All of that was okay. All of that was expected.
But then, we walked into the Arby's of the Damned. It was my fault, I suppose, for going to a fast food restaurant during lunchtime AND Christmas shopping season to boot. But really--it was damn scary. Just now, I tried to go to sleep and had to get up because I couldn't get the freaks we saw at Arby's out of my head. It was just. That. Disturbing.
I should've known something was up when we walked into the place and there appeared to be only one person working the counter, the drive-thru, and the kitchen. But I decided we'd hang in there, as Arby's is marginally more healthful than the McDonald's, the Wendy's, and the Burger King that were the other options.
I should have backed away when I noticed the table where a man, two adolescent children, and three stuffed dalmations (each with their own chair) were sitting. All talking to each other in voices that you could hear in the parking lot. And carrying on a conversation with the dalmations, I might add--including voices that I can only assume represented the dalmations' points of view. But I didn't.
I should have left when the man was carrying on a conversation with his wife about their cat, which they'd just dropped off at the animal shelter. Did I mention that he was at the counter and she was at the table all the way by the front window? And they were conversing? Like there weren't about 50 feet and 30 complete and total strangers between them? (The cat had it coming to him, in case you were wondering.)
I should have left when the 10-year-old boy asked me for help in getting one of those little paper cups you use at Arby's to put your condiments in--he couldn't reach them and made a show of jumping up and down for one. When I asked him if he needed help, he grunted and said he needed a cup. When I handed him three, he shrieked at me, performed facial contortions the likes of which I've never seen before, and got pissed that I'd handed him three cups instead of one.
I should have left when we sat down next to the scary, inbred looking family who all proceeded to belch as loudly as possible, one after another, including mom and dad, and then look around to see who was giving them horrified stares. And then laugh. And then talk about what they'd name the new baby that was on the way.
I should have left when the mildly retarded guy started wandering around, taking people's trays away.
I'm serious, people, I live in New Orleans. I see LOTS of freaks. This was one of the most disturbing lunches I've ever had. E and I left after about 3 bites of food.
No point other than that. Next time E and I go shopping, I think I'll pack a lunch. Scary, scary, scary.
11.29.2009
11.17.2009
Conversations With a Four-Year-Old, Volume Five
E: Mommy, where do you think unicorns come from? Because I think they come from Texas!
Me: Really? How come?
E: Well, I've never seen any unicorns in New Orleans or in Georgia, so they must all be in Texas.
Me: Hmm. Maybe so.
E: Mommy, how come some caterpillars turn into butterflies and some turn into moths?
Me: Um, because some caterpillars are moth caterpillars and some are butterfly caterpillars?
E: Mommy, when you eat a chicken leg, is that bone part of its skeleton?
Me: Yes, dear. Bones are part of a skeleton.
E: Mommy, why are pigeons afraid of owls?
Me: Because owls like to eat pigeons.
E: But that owl at your work isn't real. Why do the pigeons still get scared of him?
Me: Because pigeons aren't real smart.
E: Mommy, can pigeons talk?
Me: Well, they can coo, so that's their way of talking to each other.
E: Mommy, do I sometimes ask a lot of questions?
Me: Yes dear, sometimes.
E: Mommy, is it okay if I stop asking questions now?
Me: Yes, sweetie. That's fine.
E: Good. Because my mouth needs a rest.
Me: Really? How come?
E: Well, I've never seen any unicorns in New Orleans or in Georgia, so they must all be in Texas.
Me: Hmm. Maybe so.
E: Mommy, how come some caterpillars turn into butterflies and some turn into moths?
Me: Um, because some caterpillars are moth caterpillars and some are butterfly caterpillars?
E: Mommy, when you eat a chicken leg, is that bone part of its skeleton?
Me: Yes, dear. Bones are part of a skeleton.
E: Mommy, why are pigeons afraid of owls?
Me: Because owls like to eat pigeons.
E: But that owl at your work isn't real. Why do the pigeons still get scared of him?
Me: Because pigeons aren't real smart.
E: Mommy, can pigeons talk?
Me: Well, they can coo, so that's their way of talking to each other.
E: Mommy, do I sometimes ask a lot of questions?
Me: Yes dear, sometimes.
E: Mommy, is it okay if I stop asking questions now?
Me: Yes, sweetie. That's fine.
E: Good. Because my mouth needs a rest.
11.13.2009
Dear Charles
You've been gone for 8 1/2 years now. How is that possible? And is it really quite possible that I think about you at least once, still, every day? It seems that way, but sometimes, I'm not sure--it's like when you try to check to see if you've fallen asleep, but then realize that in order to do so, you have to actually be awake. Or when you realize you really are doing two things at once, like reading and singing the lyrics to a song at the same time. Am I the only one who does that?
Anyway....I can't be 100% certain, but I'm pretty sure that I still think about you at least once every day. For some reason, it's usually in the morning, on my way to work. It's become almost a habit, even, to have some random thought of you right around 8:15 a.m., right around the time that I've turned onto Jena Street--the part that's so potholed that you have to smile each morning, as you pass the "Go Slow or You Will Kill Your Car" sign that someone affixed to a telephone pole.
So, what do I think, when I think about you each morning?
I think about Emmeline, and how I wouldn't be able to function if I lost her, the way that Mom and Nick lost you. I think about how I don't think I could continue to live in the same house and walk by Emmeline's room every day. I think about how I'd be a basket case and most definitely have to move out of my house, at least for some period of time, rather than be confronted with memories every day. I think of you, and I think of how incredibly strong Mom and Nick (and Patty and Paul) must be to have lived through that.
I think about our brother Andrew and at how much he grieves at having lost you, whether he wants to admit it or not. I think about the fact that maybe, if you were still here, he wouldn't have felt the need to start a new life halfway around the world, separate from all of us.
I think about Kendra, and how much she grieved after you left, and the guilt she felt for not having spent more time with you, getting to know the person you were becoming as you left being a teenager behind and became an adult.
I think about blue butterflies, thanks to Kendra.
I think about Mom and Nick, and how much they love you and miss you. And again, I think about the courage and sheer force of will it must take to go on living after you've lost a child.
I think about Garth Brooks, and how much you loved his music. (And, to be quite honest, what a geek you were, sometimes, in your exuberance for Garth.) But still, when I'm missing you particularly hard, I put on Garth and, no matter how cliche it may seem, it's like a small part of you is there.
I think about our Friday night pizza and a movie routine.
I think about the Lion King.
I think about the poem that Nick wrote for you and Andrew, that I came across by accident during a google search. Did you ever see that poem?
I think about the tattoo that I share with Kendra and Andrew, "CEJ."
I think about you as a four-year-old boy, a nuisance who drove me crazy. A little boy who shadowed me everywhere, destroyed my personal belongings, and took great joy in tormenting me by mispronouncing my name.
I think about sailing on the Dawn Treader on Lake Hartwell with you and Mom and Nick.
I think about you as a nine-year-old boy, a little skinny boy with sun lightened hair, big, expressive eyes, a deep, dark tan, and a smile that could light up a room.
I think about a teenager who was so earnest, so kind, so sweet, so shy, who wanted nothing more than what every teenager wants--to be somewhat popular, to have a girlfriend, to be happy.
I think about the many, many hours we spent in my Jeep, with you behind the wheel. I think about how much I enjoyed being your "big sister," teaching you how to accelerate into a curve, interspersed with "this too shall pass" advice about the oftentimes agonizing world of high school.
I think about the time that the police called me to come pick you up, after you'd snuck out in my car. I had to take a cab, because you had my car.
I think about the first, and last, time we said "I love you" to each other.
I think about the time that you first went out with me and Andrew. You ordered a frozen strawberry daiquiri, and we all cracked up at your choice.
I think about the two of us driving to Gulfport to pick out a tree from the Christmas tree farm--riding the tractor together, picking out the tree, and bringing it home, just the two of us.
I think about the fact that I wanted to ask you to play the trumpet at my and Kenny's wedding.
I think about having introduced you to the world of '90s rock, like Nine Inch Nails and the Cult.
I think about you and that absolutely obnoxious "Beavis" laugh you had for several years.
I think about you and how much you would have loved being here for Katrina, irregardless of how weird that must seem to people who didn't know you.
I think about all of the pictures of you that were lost during Katrina.
I think about the person that you would be--should be--at age 31. I think about what we've lost with the loss of you.
I think about the red Jeep, the one that looked identical to the one I had that you coveted, that pulled out in front of me from nowhere, on the afternoon that you died, and within a split-second of my asking the heavens for a sign that you were okay, wherever you were.
I think about the last time I saw you, in the funeral home, and I often wish I didn't have that image in my head. I think about your last day here and pray that it was peaceful.
As weird as it may seem, I sometimes light a candle, put on some music, and do nothing but think about you.
I think about you every day--I do. And I miss you.
Love, A
Anyway....I can't be 100% certain, but I'm pretty sure that I still think about you at least once every day. For some reason, it's usually in the morning, on my way to work. It's become almost a habit, even, to have some random thought of you right around 8:15 a.m., right around the time that I've turned onto Jena Street--the part that's so potholed that you have to smile each morning, as you pass the "Go Slow or You Will Kill Your Car" sign that someone affixed to a telephone pole.
So, what do I think, when I think about you each morning?
I think about Emmeline, and how I wouldn't be able to function if I lost her, the way that Mom and Nick lost you. I think about how I don't think I could continue to live in the same house and walk by Emmeline's room every day. I think about how I'd be a basket case and most definitely have to move out of my house, at least for some period of time, rather than be confronted with memories every day. I think of you, and I think of how incredibly strong Mom and Nick (and Patty and Paul) must be to have lived through that.
I think about our brother Andrew and at how much he grieves at having lost you, whether he wants to admit it or not. I think about the fact that maybe, if you were still here, he wouldn't have felt the need to start a new life halfway around the world, separate from all of us.
I think about Kendra, and how much she grieved after you left, and the guilt she felt for not having spent more time with you, getting to know the person you were becoming as you left being a teenager behind and became an adult.
I think about blue butterflies, thanks to Kendra.
I think about Mom and Nick, and how much they love you and miss you. And again, I think about the courage and sheer force of will it must take to go on living after you've lost a child.
I think about Garth Brooks, and how much you loved his music. (And, to be quite honest, what a geek you were, sometimes, in your exuberance for Garth.) But still, when I'm missing you particularly hard, I put on Garth and, no matter how cliche it may seem, it's like a small part of you is there.
I think about our Friday night pizza and a movie routine.
I think about the Lion King.
I think about the poem that Nick wrote for you and Andrew, that I came across by accident during a google search. Did you ever see that poem?
I think about the tattoo that I share with Kendra and Andrew, "CEJ."
I think about you as a four-year-old boy, a nuisance who drove me crazy. A little boy who shadowed me everywhere, destroyed my personal belongings, and took great joy in tormenting me by mispronouncing my name.
I think about sailing on the Dawn Treader on Lake Hartwell with you and Mom and Nick.
I think about you as a nine-year-old boy, a little skinny boy with sun lightened hair, big, expressive eyes, a deep, dark tan, and a smile that could light up a room.
I think about a teenager who was so earnest, so kind, so sweet, so shy, who wanted nothing more than what every teenager wants--to be somewhat popular, to have a girlfriend, to be happy.
I think about the many, many hours we spent in my Jeep, with you behind the wheel. I think about how much I enjoyed being your "big sister," teaching you how to accelerate into a curve, interspersed with "this too shall pass" advice about the oftentimes agonizing world of high school.
I think about the time that the police called me to come pick you up, after you'd snuck out in my car. I had to take a cab, because you had my car.
I think about the first, and last, time we said "I love you" to each other.
I think about the time that you first went out with me and Andrew. You ordered a frozen strawberry daiquiri, and we all cracked up at your choice.
I think about the two of us driving to Gulfport to pick out a tree from the Christmas tree farm--riding the tractor together, picking out the tree, and bringing it home, just the two of us.
I think about the fact that I wanted to ask you to play the trumpet at my and Kenny's wedding.
I think about having introduced you to the world of '90s rock, like Nine Inch Nails and the Cult.
I think about you and that absolutely obnoxious "Beavis" laugh you had for several years.
I think about you and how much you would have loved being here for Katrina, irregardless of how weird that must seem to people who didn't know you.
I think about all of the pictures of you that were lost during Katrina.
I think about the person that you would be--should be--at age 31. I think about what we've lost with the loss of you.
I think about the red Jeep, the one that looked identical to the one I had that you coveted, that pulled out in front of me from nowhere, on the afternoon that you died, and within a split-second of my asking the heavens for a sign that you were okay, wherever you were.
I think about the last time I saw you, in the funeral home, and I often wish I didn't have that image in my head. I think about your last day here and pray that it was peaceful.
As weird as it may seem, I sometimes light a candle, put on some music, and do nothing but think about you.
I think about you every day--I do. And I miss you.
Love, A
Malcontent
Do you ever have one of those nights where you question what you were thinking when you agreed to get married and have children? I'm having one of those nights.
I'm not real worried about it--I've been in this relationship for 15 years (how is it possible that I'm old enough to have been in a relationship for 15 years?). I'm not real concerned that this is going to be the big one that does us in.
But still, sometimes, I just want to bitch and kvetch on this blog. I started this blog as an online journal, after I lost all of my journals in Katrina. And I stayed under the radar for the first 2-3 years, with no one reading this blog but me. But now, knowing that there are at least a few people who read this blog regularly and a few more who stop by every now and again, I feel more of a need to censor myself.
I tell y'all about the good stuff, the mundane stuff, and the bad stuff, especially when it comes to certain parts of motherhood, Katrina, and life in the City of New Orleans. But I don't talk about the days when I'm ready to strangle my husband. And I won't talk about it now, other than to say, once again, I'm having one of those nights.
We've been together 15 years, and I'm fully committed to us being together until death do us part. But that doesn't mean it's always easy, right? I love him, but good God, does he irritate me sometimes.
I'm not real worried about it--I've been in this relationship for 15 years (how is it possible that I'm old enough to have been in a relationship for 15 years?). I'm not real concerned that this is going to be the big one that does us in.
But still, sometimes, I just want to bitch and kvetch on this blog. I started this blog as an online journal, after I lost all of my journals in Katrina. And I stayed under the radar for the first 2-3 years, with no one reading this blog but me. But now, knowing that there are at least a few people who read this blog regularly and a few more who stop by every now and again, I feel more of a need to censor myself.
I tell y'all about the good stuff, the mundane stuff, and the bad stuff, especially when it comes to certain parts of motherhood, Katrina, and life in the City of New Orleans. But I don't talk about the days when I'm ready to strangle my husband. And I won't talk about it now, other than to say, once again, I'm having one of those nights.
We've been together 15 years, and I'm fully committed to us being together until death do us part. But that doesn't mean it's always easy, right? I love him, but good God, does he irritate me sometimes.
11.04.2009
Proud Moments in Motherhood
I swear, she's not really flipping the bird in this picture, even though she is. If it helps, she didn't know she was doing it. (Or so I keep telling myself.) I think it was a redirected nose-pick attempt, once she realized the camera was on her. Anyway, look--a fire truck!
How to Irritate the Piss Out of Me*
Be a pedestrian in New Orleans. Walk up to the light and see that you have the "don't walk" signal flashing at you. Look at me in my car and see that I have a green light. Proceed to walk into the crosswalk anyway, and then walk as slowly as possible, making me miss the entire green light waiting for you to cross the street illegally.
Alternately, look at my car, traveling down the street at 40 miles per hour, and decide that right then would be a great time to walk directly in front of my car, causing me to slam on brakes and scare the hell out of myself, while alternately fantasizing about running your ass over.
Repeat, 3-5 times per day
What is it with the pedestrians in this town? I really wish I could explain to everyone that the old adage, "the pedestrian always has the right of way," does not apply when you're disobeying traffic signals and/or walking directly into oncoming traffic. And don't even get me started on tourists in the French Quarter who think we're Disney World and not an actual functioning city.
Deep, cleansing breath.
*I would've preferred to call this post "How to Annoy Me," but Dooce already claimed it. By the way, expect this to be a regular feature. I get annoyed. A lot.
Alternately, look at my car, traveling down the street at 40 miles per hour, and decide that right then would be a great time to walk directly in front of my car, causing me to slam on brakes and scare the hell out of myself, while alternately fantasizing about running your ass over.
Repeat, 3-5 times per day
What is it with the pedestrians in this town? I really wish I could explain to everyone that the old adage, "the pedestrian always has the right of way," does not apply when you're disobeying traffic signals and/or walking directly into oncoming traffic. And don't even get me started on tourists in the French Quarter who think we're Disney World and not an actual functioning city.
Deep, cleansing breath.
*I would've preferred to call this post "How to Annoy Me," but Dooce already claimed it. By the way, expect this to be a regular feature. I get annoyed. A lot.
Google Search of the Month
I'm sorry, y'all, I know I'm obsessed with the people who end up at this blog via a google search. But I just can't help myself. It's a sickness, I think. I'll try to restrain myself to only posting about this once a month, starting...now....
Funniest search this month? "Do old grits turn into bugs?" Um, no, but if you leave them exposed long enough, the weevils will get into them, along with your flour.
Weirdest search of the month? "Free XXX gris porn." Not weird in and of itself, now that we've established that people are typing "gris" instead of "girls." But whoever did that search ended up spending 21 minutes on this site. What in God's name could they have found that interested them? My mom blogging? My witty banter? I guess I'll never know....
Funniest search this month? "Do old grits turn into bugs?" Um, no, but if you leave them exposed long enough, the weevils will get into them, along with your flour.
Weirdest search of the month? "Free XXX gris porn." Not weird in and of itself, now that we've established that people are typing "gris" instead of "girls." But whoever did that search ended up spending 21 minutes on this site. What in God's name could they have found that interested them? My mom blogging? My witty banter? I guess I'll never know....
10.28.2009
I Heart SupaSaint
Miami Vice. Although, as a child of the 80's, the SupaLoose video is still my all-time fave.
Signs That I'm A Better Parent Than the Guy Who Made the Cover of Today's Metro Section
Really? Really? You tried to shoplift DVDs by putting them in your two-year-old's diaper bag and then you ran away and left him at Walmart when you got busted? Wow. Just. Wow. And also--point, Louisiana!
Other signs that I'm not that bad of a parent--I have yet to leave Emmeline in the car in August so I can play video poker. And if I did, I'd leave the windows cracked. And maybe throw the dog in there to keep her company.
Other signs that I'm not that bad of a parent--I have yet to leave Emmeline in the car in August so I can play video poker. And if I did, I'd leave the windows cracked. And maybe throw the dog in there to keep her company.
10.27.2009
City Living
K and I had a long talk over the weekend about where we'd like to be in five years. In sum, it all comes down to wishing for a slightly larger house--what we call a "grown up house," which in our minds equals a house with more than one bathroom and less scary neighbors. We would also really, really, really like to find a place to live where we could get cheaper (read, free) school tuition for our child. As Kelly commented, I'd love to be able to put some of the $800/month we're spending on tuition toward a larger mortgage instead.
As I've mentioned before, we briefly toyed with the idea of moving to Slidell about a year ago, namely due to the fact that we could buy a "grown up house" there and E could actually get a decent education at one of the public schools. Kenny brought up this idea again over the weekend--but I have to say, it really turns me off. Not because I have anything against Slidell--I just don't necessarily want to live there. If we could get a really nice house, right on the water, and have a boat and several hundred more dollars a month in disposable income? Sure--I'd be game for that. But otherwise, I'm not really interested in moving across the lake to trade free tuition for more commuting time, hassle, and gas money, wiht the only possible payoff being the chance for a slightly larger fixer-upper house.
If, by some minor miracle, we're able to get Emmeline into one of the Jefferson Parish magnet schools, I'll happily commit to living in Jefferson Parish indefinitely. You would have to drag me kicking and screaming to get me to move to Metairie or Kenner, but I'll stay right here in Old Jefferson, which to me feels more like New Orleans than the farther removed suburbs anyway (possibly due to the drug-related arrests we've had among our neighbors and the regular appearance of the police at the four-plex across the street).
We've pretty much given up on being able to afford to move back to New Orleans any time soon, but I'm wondering if we should revisit that idea. And so, the point of this post. What does it cost to live in the city these days? When we moved back into our house in Jefferson in March 2007, the last bill we received from Entergy New Orleans for the apartment we were living in was for $600. Granted, that was for the month of February, when it was quite cold, but $600 for electricity?
So I'm curious--is Entergy still screwing the residents of New Orleans? What do you pay for property taxes? For water? For gas? It seems to me that in the time since I first moved to New Orleans in 2001 until Katrina came along that the cost of living in New Orleans was comparable to the surrounding area. But then after Katrina, things got out of control.
In the spirit of sharing, here's approximately what we pay:
Electricity - Around $150-$175/month in the peak of summer when it's 800 degrees outside and the a/c is running constantly; around $80-$100/month the rest of the year.
Gas - $20/month (electric heat).
Water/trash - About $50/month in the peak of summer when my husband is watering the lawn constantly; about $34/month the rest of the year.
Property taxes - $650/year, after our homestead exemption.
Wind/hail insurance - $1,400 a year through LA Citizens FAIR (ha!) plan. And this doesn't allow for enough coverage if we have a total loss on our house; but for some reason, they won't insure our house any higher.
Hazard insurance - About $1,300 a year through Allstate, just to make sure our house doesn't burn down. It was $2,300 a year, but they recently reduced it, thank God.
Car insurance - about $275/month for two relatively new cars for full coverage.
And you?
As I've mentioned before, we briefly toyed with the idea of moving to Slidell about a year ago, namely due to the fact that we could buy a "grown up house" there and E could actually get a decent education at one of the public schools. Kenny brought up this idea again over the weekend--but I have to say, it really turns me off. Not because I have anything against Slidell--I just don't necessarily want to live there. If we could get a really nice house, right on the water, and have a boat and several hundred more dollars a month in disposable income? Sure--I'd be game for that. But otherwise, I'm not really interested in moving across the lake to trade free tuition for more commuting time, hassle, and gas money, wiht the only possible payoff being the chance for a slightly larger fixer-upper house.
If, by some minor miracle, we're able to get Emmeline into one of the Jefferson Parish magnet schools, I'll happily commit to living in Jefferson Parish indefinitely. You would have to drag me kicking and screaming to get me to move to Metairie or Kenner, but I'll stay right here in Old Jefferson, which to me feels more like New Orleans than the farther removed suburbs anyway (possibly due to the drug-related arrests we've had among our neighbors and the regular appearance of the police at the four-plex across the street).
We've pretty much given up on being able to afford to move back to New Orleans any time soon, but I'm wondering if we should revisit that idea. And so, the point of this post. What does it cost to live in the city these days? When we moved back into our house in Jefferson in March 2007, the last bill we received from Entergy New Orleans for the apartment we were living in was for $600. Granted, that was for the month of February, when it was quite cold, but $600 for electricity?
So I'm curious--is Entergy still screwing the residents of New Orleans? What do you pay for property taxes? For water? For gas? It seems to me that in the time since I first moved to New Orleans in 2001 until Katrina came along that the cost of living in New Orleans was comparable to the surrounding area. But then after Katrina, things got out of control.
In the spirit of sharing, here's approximately what we pay:
Electricity - Around $150-$175/month in the peak of summer when it's 800 degrees outside and the a/c is running constantly; around $80-$100/month the rest of the year.
Gas - $20/month (electric heat).
Water/trash - About $50/month in the peak of summer when my husband is watering the lawn constantly; about $34/month the rest of the year.
Property taxes - $650/year, after our homestead exemption.
Wind/hail insurance - $1,400 a year through LA Citizens FAIR (ha!) plan. And this doesn't allow for enough coverage if we have a total loss on our house; but for some reason, they won't insure our house any higher.
Hazard insurance - About $1,300 a year through Allstate, just to make sure our house doesn't burn down. It was $2,300 a year, but they recently reduced it, thank God.
Car insurance - about $275/month for two relatively new cars for full coverage.
And you?
10.23.2009
Okay, Who Forgot to Tell Me That Hell Froze Over?
New Orleans Crime Camera Leads to First Conviction
Well then, we should definitely continue to spend millions and millions of dollars a year on them. And while we're at it, are there any more coastal Communist countries we can send C. Ray to so that he can study their disaster management techniques?
Well then, we should definitely continue to spend millions and millions of dollars a year on them. And while we're at it, are there any more coastal Communist countries we can send C. Ray to so that he can study their disaster management techniques?
Point, Louisiana
Kenny and I have a game we like to play called "Whose Native State is More Embarrassing?" Each time your native state does something incredibly stupid, it gets a point. Bonus points if whatever your state does is so bad it makes the national news.
It all started one night when we were watching a History Channel special on the Klan. Early on in the show, they mentioned that the Klan had originally started in Louisiana; needless to say, I was all over Kenny about his racist, backward-ass state. About 20 minutes later, they mentioned that the Klan had all but died out at one point but then gained a resurgence during the Civil Rights movement.....in Stone Mountain, Georgia.
There have been many, many points awarded to both sides along the way. But Louisiana, I think you've most definitely earned a point with this story. Good God. How appalling can you get? Kenny called me the minute he saw the news, ranting about how some idiots were once again giving Louisiana a bad name. All I could tell him was that the story broke on the same day as the balloon boy ridiculousness, so maybe this appalling story would get passed over in favor of poor little Falcon Heene. Unfortunately, as we all know, that wasn't the case. So all I can say is--point, Louisiana.
But don't feel too bad--I'm still trying to live down the Waffle House wedding. By the way--the name of the Georgia town where this took place is Dacula. It is not, in fact, pronounced as if it rhymes with Dracula--it's pronouned DaCOOlah. Like "da beer is in da coolah." I know this because we found it hysterical when driving through this town when I was in college.
By the way--if you click on the Waffle House wedding link, do NOT leave without watching the slide show at the bottom of the story. Trust me--it's worth your while.
It all started one night when we were watching a History Channel special on the Klan. Early on in the show, they mentioned that the Klan had originally started in Louisiana; needless to say, I was all over Kenny about his racist, backward-ass state. About 20 minutes later, they mentioned that the Klan had all but died out at one point but then gained a resurgence during the Civil Rights movement.....in Stone Mountain, Georgia.
There have been many, many points awarded to both sides along the way. But Louisiana, I think you've most definitely earned a point with this story. Good God. How appalling can you get? Kenny called me the minute he saw the news, ranting about how some idiots were once again giving Louisiana a bad name. All I could tell him was that the story broke on the same day as the balloon boy ridiculousness, so maybe this appalling story would get passed over in favor of poor little Falcon Heene. Unfortunately, as we all know, that wasn't the case. So all I can say is--point, Louisiana.
But don't feel too bad--I'm still trying to live down the Waffle House wedding. By the way--the name of the Georgia town where this took place is Dacula. It is not, in fact, pronounced as if it rhymes with Dracula--it's pronouned DaCOOlah. Like "da beer is in da coolah." I know this because we found it hysterical when driving through this town when I was in college.
By the way--if you click on the Waffle House wedding link, do NOT leave without watching the slide show at the bottom of the story. Trust me--it's worth your while.
True Confessions
Tonight is the first time I've posted anything interesting (which I know is debatable) in several weeks, so I'm getting it all out of my system tonight, while the husband's at work. You're thrilled, I know.
True Confessions
I'm 40 years old, about as white bread as they come, and yet still I love "Forget about Dre" by Eminem and Dr. Dre.
I also write sentences that include "and yet still...."
I also write sentences that include "and yet still...."
True Confessions
I'm 40 years old, write and edit for a portion of my living, and I STILL cannot spell "occasionally" without having to spell check it--two c's? Two n's? Who knows?
Further Signs That I'm a Bad Parent
Emmeline's school has this thing called "happy grams." You're supposed to send notes to school occasionally, talking about something great your child did at home, which the teacher then reads aloud and posts on the blackboard. I think it's a great idea, and E really loves it when I send her to school with a happy gram--it's the least I can do, seeing as how I can't afford the tuition to send her to a school where she would by now be fluent in Mandarin or something.
Anyway--this week, I sent a happy gram to school, praising Emmeline for the fact that she had set the table all by herself one night this week. She was thrilled. Then, yesterday, when I went to pick her up from school, I stopped off at the bulletin board to peruse the happy grams. And there was E's note, praising her for setting the table, right next to the note that one her friend's mother wrote. It said something along the lines of "Sally is doing very well in the extra coursework we assign her at home. She can now count to 223, and, when using the abacus she got for Christmas, she can add sums up to 30." Our children are four. Am I supposed to be doing calculus with her at home now? How inadequate am I?
To further add to the mix, we got a notice in the mail today saying that the magnet schools in Jefferson Parish are accepting applications for next year. Kenny and I go back and forth on this idea--we're happy with her current school (my misgivings about Catholic education aside) and we don't necessarily want to move her. But, at the same time, $800/month for where she is now versus ZERO/month for a magnet school certainly makes it worth thinking about.
We applied last year, trying to get E in there this year for pre-K. We took her in for their required testing, and they said she did well. When the test scores came back, we were hopeful--she scored in the 96th percentile. Still, we knew that there were only 40 available slots for 400 children, so we weren't counting on her getting in and weren't surprised when we got the your-child-has-been-wait-listed letter.
Long story short, I called them today to see if we should even bother re-applying. I wasn't certain as to how the selection process went, as you have to score in the 75th percentile to be considered. My thinking was that if they put all of the kids' names who scored 75th percentile and above into a hat and just pulled names out until they'd reached their quota, it was pretty much impossible that she'd ever get in. But--but--if they were selecting kids based on their scores, maybe we had a chance. So, I called. Turns out, they do select kids based on their scores. But the woman said they didn't go any lower in scores than the 99.7th percentile, because the kids in the applicant pool were Just. That. Smart. So if E scored 96th percentile and they had at least 40 kids who were in the 99.7th percentile or above...yikes! Apparently, everyone but Emmeline got an abacus for Christmas last year. I don't know what we were thinking buying her that Sleeping Beauty outfit and Santa coloring book instead....
Anyway--this week, I sent a happy gram to school, praising Emmeline for the fact that she had set the table all by herself one night this week. She was thrilled. Then, yesterday, when I went to pick her up from school, I stopped off at the bulletin board to peruse the happy grams. And there was E's note, praising her for setting the table, right next to the note that one her friend's mother wrote. It said something along the lines of "Sally is doing very well in the extra coursework we assign her at home. She can now count to 223, and, when using the abacus she got for Christmas, she can add sums up to 30." Our children are four. Am I supposed to be doing calculus with her at home now? How inadequate am I?
To further add to the mix, we got a notice in the mail today saying that the magnet schools in Jefferson Parish are accepting applications for next year. Kenny and I go back and forth on this idea--we're happy with her current school (my misgivings about Catholic education aside) and we don't necessarily want to move her. But, at the same time, $800/month for where she is now versus ZERO/month for a magnet school certainly makes it worth thinking about.
We applied last year, trying to get E in there this year for pre-K. We took her in for their required testing, and they said she did well. When the test scores came back, we were hopeful--she scored in the 96th percentile. Still, we knew that there were only 40 available slots for 400 children, so we weren't counting on her getting in and weren't surprised when we got the your-child-has-been-wait-listed letter.
Long story short, I called them today to see if we should even bother re-applying. I wasn't certain as to how the selection process went, as you have to score in the 75th percentile to be considered. My thinking was that if they put all of the kids' names who scored 75th percentile and above into a hat and just pulled names out until they'd reached their quota, it was pretty much impossible that she'd ever get in. But--but--if they were selecting kids based on their scores, maybe we had a chance. So, I called. Turns out, they do select kids based on their scores. But the woman said they didn't go any lower in scores than the 99.7th percentile, because the kids in the applicant pool were Just. That. Smart. So if E scored 96th percentile and they had at least 40 kids who were in the 99.7th percentile or above...yikes! Apparently, everyone but Emmeline got an abacus for Christmas last year. I don't know what we were thinking buying her that Sleeping Beauty outfit and Santa coloring book instead....
Wisdom of the Ancients
Tonight, I got to attempt to explain to Emmeline what a record player is. Needless to say, I was met with utter confusion. I can't wait until she's a teenager and I get to tell her about how I was 12 when we first got a microwave and a VCR and that I was in my mid-20's when the internet became accessible to the average person. (Of course, then I'll have to explain to her what a VCR is.) Now I know how my parents felt when they explained to me that they didn't have television until they were about eight or nine and that it was in black and white. The horror! This could be fun....
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