Random Musings #2

After getting back from Atlanta last night, I learned that Bill Jefferson made the run-off and that there were several shootings in the city over the weekend. I'm glad to know that we're keeping the brand out there. In other news, water is wet.

A three-year-old that refuses to take a nap, combined with a seven-plus-hour car ride, makes for a very long day. The next time I take a solo road trip with E, I'm going to play a tape of myself saying the following phrases, over, and over, and over again: "Sweetie, I can't pick up your crayons right now, I'm driving." "Sweetie, I can't look at the picture you drew right now, I'm driving." "Yes." "No." "Because I said so." "Sweetie, I can't read the book to you right now, I'm driving." "Emmeline, please stop shrieking--I'm driving." "Uh huh." "Yes, you're right--that was a cow." "No, we're not there yet." "Maybe." "We'll see." "Yes, we're almost there." "I don't know." "Emmeline, please be quiet." "Yes, that car is yellow." "No." "Because I said so." "Sorry, sweetie--I was yelling at that driver--not at you." "Well, why didn't you tell me you needed to go potty?" "Please take that off your head."

Geauxbama.

There's a cockroach hanging out in my closet. This morning, when I went to get some clothes out for work, he was cruising in and out of my hanging clothes. I knocked him down and then tried to stomp him with a shoe as he scurried into a dark corner, but I missed. When I opened the closet later to get some shoes, he crawled out of one and I started shrieking. I hate freaking cockroaches. Now, every time I go into my closet for the next fews days, I'm going to live in fear that when I pull a sweater over my head, he'll start scurrying around on my back. Does anyone know if roach motels really work? My preferred method of cockroach extermination is the above-mentioned stomp the hell out it with a shoe technique, but I'm 0 for 2 on that one with this particular cockroach.

Did I mention how much I freaking hate flying cockroaches? Growing up on St. Simons, they were called "palmetto bugs" because: A) that's where they live when they're not invading your house; and B) it's a much more genteel term than big-ass flying cockroach. I've had several run-ins with palmetto bugs, the most memorable of which were the one time when one crawled up under my skirt while I was driving on the interstate and I almost wrecked my car as a result, and the time when a friend who had recently moved to NOLA from San Diego saw a palmetto bug for the first time, while it was swooping around in her living room, and called me crying, begging me to come over and kill it for her. Cockroach, 0; me and a broom, 1.

It's a very small world. This weekend, my husband met a guy who was born and raised on St. Simons Island, my hometown. As they talked, they realized that this guy's mother and my father know each other and have business dealings together. Then, as they talked more, they discovered that he was a chef at the restaurant where we had our wedding reception and that he was one of the guys that prepared the food for our reception. And then, K found out that he was currently living in Bay St. Louis, where we lived for four years, and that he's over there helping with Katrina relief and living on the grounds of Christ Church, the church where my stepfather was the priest for almost 20 years. Of course, I've never met the guy. Weird.

One of our new neighbors is very fond of blasting country music on the car stereo from his driveway, which is right next to our living room, while simultaneously scraping a shovel over the driveway, over and over and over again, to get rid of weeds. My other neighbor, Arlene, is about as thrilled with the new neighbors as I am.

I watched several people stalk Jeremy Shockey throughout the Tchoupitoulas Sav-A-Center tonight. I was very proud of myself for actually recognizing him. Apparently, that groin injury isn't interfering with his ability to shop for produce and dairy products.