Ah, Memories....

I was playing around on Google Earth today and plugged in our address. Up came this picture of our house taken post-Katrina, with all of our possessions sitting out on the curb. I guess that means Google hasn't updated its satellite photos since around December of 2005. Google Earth was how we originally confirmed that we had some sort of flood damage immediately after Katrina. The CNN reporter crusing around in a boat in the Sav-A-Center parking lot gave us a pretty good idea, but good ol' Google Earth left us without any doubts. Good times.

Early Bird Special

This is one of my favorite pictures. Not because it's a particularly good picture of me (I'm the one on the right) or my sister. And not because it's a particularly good picture in general (which, obviously, it's not). But how often do you get to see a bunch of senior citizens lined up--camping out, even--in front of Larry Flynt's Barely Legal Club? Pay no attention to the pictures of naked women behind you, grandma. Just keep looking forward. Taken during French Quarter Fest a couple of years ago, when one of the jazz band stages, was, unfortunately, directly across from the strip club. This picture always makes me smile, because it's definitely one of those only in New Orleans moments.

The Grass Is Always Greener

I have lots of thoughts floating around in my head but no clear focus, other than a longing for some semblance of a normal life that I know is pretty much impossible to have while living in New Orleans.

K was offered a position in Destin a few months ago, and we considered the idea briefly. But I think we both knew he didn’t have any real interest in it—my husband is a New Orleanian through and through. It was a very nice offer, but by the time we factored in the fact that my chances of finding a comparable job in that area were slim to none, we decided against it. Plus, the odds of selling our house right now in this market are, let’s face it—not real high.

Still, sometimes it’s tempting to put this city and its problems behind us. We briefly toyed with the idea of moving to Slidell—even went so far as to look at some houses on the market over there. But let’s face it—Slidell isn’t New Orleans. And despite how much house you can get for your money over there, and the fact that you can actually just walk into the local elementary school and enroll your child there—no waiting lists, no lotteries, and a solid, tuition-free education—neither of us could really stomach the idea of making that commute every day. And the thought of moving over there made us both feel like we’d be giving up, to a certain extent.

But sometimes I long to live in a place that’s well, for lack of a better word, normal. A place where the local newspaper isn’t running a seven-part series on a 17-year-old murder victim—because there are no such stories, as opposed to too many of them to count. A place where, as mentioned above, I could just walk into our neighborhood elementary school and enroll E. A place where the streets are paved and where people don’t have to find the humor in our atrocious streets by hosting birthday parties for potholes, planting flowers in potholes, posting “no lifeguard on duty” signs in potholes, etc. (All funny as hell, but I’d happily trade the humor for functional streets.) A place where we don’t need to have discussions about whether the mayor is a crook, is suffering from Katrina-related PTSD or just doesn’t give a damn. A place where I can still enter and exit the parking garage at work, even though we just had a heavy rainstorm, because the street isn’t flooded. A place where state senators don’t (allegedly) assault their girlfriends and then get lap dances. A place where our monthly electric bill isn’t comparable to our car payments combined.

At the same time, I don’t really want to leave New Orleans. I just want living here to be better—to be easier. The people of this city are what keep us all here, I think. The love of life that everyone here has, the love for this community. There is no other city like it—or at least none I’ve been to. Nothing can replace the sheer sense of joy I get from hanging out with both friends and strangers during a Mardi Gras parade. Or wandering around shouting “Who Dat” in the CBD before a Saints game. Or any of the other countless, wonderful and unique things and people this city has to offer. Again, sometimes I just really wish it was easier to live here. And I wonder what I can do—what role I can play, if any—to make our city better.

NOPD FUBAR

What in God's name is going on at the NOPD? Seriously, WTF?

First, we have an NOPD cop doing 90 across the Crescent City Connection and then slapping the CCC cop who pulled him over.

Then, the big black shirt versus blue shirt debate.

Then, the appalling and disgusting tactic of entrapping homeless people to steal by baiting a car with Budweiser, Kool cigarettes and candy and charging anyone unfortunate enough to fall for the trap with a felony.

And now we have some enraged female cop showing up at a children's center and brandishing a gun at a mother there trying to pick up her children, followed by the responding officer telling the cop that she should have shot the MFer that told her to put the gun down because there were children present? Are you kidding me?

Jesus, it's like Ray Nagin and Warren Riley are on a mission to see if they can sink the police department to depths even lower than those seen back in the 90s, when Antoinette Franks and Len Davis were around. Is there nothing we can do to get these clueless assholes out of City Hall and off of the police force?

Coffee, Tea or Xanax?

K's latest post over at Good Children got me thinking about traveling with children, and I agree--I hope there's a special place in hell for people who make nasty comments to or about those of us traveling alone with small children. And to those of you who brushed past me impatiently last week at the airport while you saw me trying to keep track of my three-year-old's hand while also trying to walk up the stairs from the tarmac to the jetway while juggling a very large stroller, a diaper bag, a purse, and a portable DVD player, I hope you one day have sextuplets and have to travel alone with them. And that they scream all the way to your destination.

My worst traveling alone with children experience was definitely last summer, when my flight was delayed and we sat on the tarmac for about 45 minutes, waiting for our turn to depart. Emmeline was very cranky and whiny, and the woman sitting in front of us turned around and berated me for not keeping E quiet. When I told her that E was two and that I was doing the best I could, even showing her the books and snacks I was trying to entice E with, the woman told me that she had three grown children and that I was most definitely NOT doing the best that I could, as her children had never behaved that way. Mind you, E wasn't even in a full-blown temper tantrum--she was just being a standard-issue, cranky two-year-old. I love the people whose own children are so far removed from the toddler days that they don't even remember what it's like to try to calm down a pissed-off two-year-old, all while keeping her strapped into a seat on a plane. It's not like time-out is really an option when you're in an airplane.

It seemed that the woman wasn't going to be happy unless I violently spanked my daughter, but that wasn't something I was going to do. So, the woman's next move was to lean over the seat, put her finger in Emmeline's face, and tell her that she was a very ill-behaved child, which caused me to coldly tell the woman not to speak to my child. Then, the woman called the flight attendant over. All of this, mind you, while everyone on the plane was watching. The woman insisted to the flight attendant that I and my daughter be moved to another section of the plane with empty seats. Why the woman herself couldn't move, rather than insist on me dragging E, a car seat and various toys and books to some other seats, I don't know. But at that point, I was so angry I was in tears and couldn't wait to get as far away from that woman as possible. Needless to say, I hope her luggage was lost and never found. And that she had to sit next to a violently ill toddler on her return trip.

Ah, the joys of airline travel.

4th of July on SSI

Emmeline and I spent the 4th in my hometown of St. Simons Island, catching up with family and friends. As you can see, E thoroughly enjoyed the boat ride, especially after her uncle taught her to say "hooyah." I particularly enjoy the look on her cousin Graham's face, like he's thinking, "What in the hell are you doing, woman?"

Motherhood Blues

Even thinking about writing this post makes me feel a bit uncomfortable, like it will expose me for the fraud I am. Like perhaps the mommy police will find out who I am and beat down my door to berate me for these thoughts. But I have to say it--sometimes, I really don't enjoy being the mother of a toddler.

The baby days were idyllic, once E and I got on a schedule that made her happy. She ate every three hours and napped shortly thereafter. Most of her awake time was spent with me marveling about what an incredible baby she was. And she was one of those wonder babies that was adaptable. As long as E was fed on time, she was perfectly content to bask in our adoration and go anywhere--to a restaurant, to a crawfish boil, to JazzFest.

After her first birthday, things became a bit more interesting, as she navigated learning to walk, learning to talk, and beginning to learn that she is her own person. But since she turned two (and now three), I find myself more and more exhausted, exasperated, and frustrated as we both try to learn how to make our way through the toddler years. Now, although there's still plenty of marveling at the incredible being that is my daughter, it seems as if a lot of my time is spent wiping her bottom, picking up her toys, negotiating with her on learning to pick up after herself, putting her in time-out, saying "no," saying "hurry up," doing laundry, and trying to come up with meals she'll eat, all while also holding down a full-time job and having a husband who mostly works nights and weekends.

The best way I've been able to describe it to friends is that at least once each day, she makes me laugh out loud, followed shortly by wanting to beat my head against the wall. Why do so few people talk about this part of motherhood? Is it wrong to get bored with playing princess eight times a day? Or to feel terribly unchallenged when putting together a puzzle for the 432nd time? To get frustrated when you try to prepare a somewhat healthy meal for your child, only to have it rejected, while the ungodly orange Kraft macaroni and cheese is always devoured? To feel frustration when you have to fight the same battles over and over again? To sometimes feel relief when bedtime arrives?

I tried to do an internet search last night for other mothers who might sometimes feel this way--but apparently, I couldn't figure out the right words to google. Searches for "toddler + mother + frustration" resulted in lots of tips for how to deal with a frustrated toddler. Searches for "mother + dissatisfaction" brought up psychiatric evaluations. All of that was a little disturbing to me--is there really no one out there talking about the dissatisfying parts of motherhood? Do I really need psychiatric help because I feel frustrated with parenting some days?

I love my daughter fiercely and immensely. But sometimes, I miss my pre-parent days. I miss staying out as late as I wanted on a Saturday night and drinking too much, knowing full well that I'd have all day Sunday to recuperate, if need be. I miss those long, leisurely Sundays when K and I would order takeout and a couple of pay-per-view movies and never leave the house. I miss long, romantic dinners. I miss going to the movies. I miss sleeping past 6:00 a.m. I miss feeling like I have time for myself to read, to shop, to tackle a new recipe. I miss quietness. I miss solitude. Hell, I even miss going to the bathroom by myself.

This too shall pass, I know. When I pick up my daughter from daycare today, her face will light up and she'll run across the room as quickly as she can to hug me, and it will all be worth it. And one day, I'll look back with longing on her toddler years, just as I do on her too-short babyhood. But still, I wonder--is it okay to sometimes feel less than enthralled with parenthood? And if so, why do so few people talk about it?

Those People

Dear People of the Mississippi:

Let me start off by saying, I'm sorry--I don't know what else to call you. "Flood victims" seems, well, crass. After Katrina, we were called by many names. The nicer ones were "evacuees" and "those poor people."

I remember when I first evacuated to Atlanta and sat, like so many others, glued to the television, watching the coverage of Katrina. After seeing footage of Bay St. Louis, after Katrina made landfall--and of New Orleans, after the levees broke, I turned to my mother and said "We're those poor people now." You know the ones--the ones you watch on television, in the midst of their tragedies. You watch for a minute, shake your head at their fate, and go back to your life.

It's okay. It's normal. It's a part of the human condition, I think--to be able to compartmentalize like that--to disassociate yourself. If we had to sit down and feel--really feel--the daily suffering of our fellow man, we'd go crazy. Hurricanes, cyclones, tsunamis, mud slides, earthquakes. Too much misery in the world. So you think about them while you're drinking your morning coffee and watching the news, maybe you click on the "donate" button at the Red Cross site, and then you go on with your life.

And then, it happens to you. And it's different. And people start donating stuff to you--and you're grateful, except for when they send you things like paint-covered sweatpants and old, used underwear. And that gets you mad. And you think, "What am I, a charity case?" And then you realize that, to some people, you are. And that they think you might actually want their used underwear.

And while you're still reeling from the shock of losing your life as you knew it, the comments start. And you realize that while there are plenty of people in this country whose hearts truly go out to you, there are, unfortunately, just as many that want to blame you for your misfortune. The ugly words begin. "Refugees." "Those people," as opposed to "those poor people." Inevitably, it moves on to venom. "They got what they deserved for living there." "What were they thinking?" "It's their fault for not having flood insurance." And it destroys a part of your soul, at least for a little while

Be grateful that there have not yet been debates about whether you should be allowed to rebuild your homes. Be thankful that John Hagee hasn't yet declared that God's wrath was visited upon you.

And then, you'll walk into your home. The one where flood waters tossed everything around. You'll be both appalled and amazed at what the waters were able to accomplish. How in the hell did your refrigerator end up over there? (Do NOT, under any circumstances, open your refrigerator. Tape it shut and put it on the curb, NOW.)

You may wonder why your government did nothing to make sure your levees were safe. You may rail at your insurance agent, who told you that the chances of a 100-year-flood, or the even more improbable 500-year-flood, were so minuscule that flood insurance wasn't necessary, much less required. And those of you who didn't have flood insurance will sit and stare at your insurance agent and watch your life go down the tubes, as he/she tells you that, even though flood insurance wasn't required, or even recommended, you're screwed now, since you didn't have it. And then, you might become even more bewildered when you find out that your insurer has cancelled your policy, even though they haven't had to pay you a dime for those flood-excluded damages. You see, you're too big of a risk now.

And then, you'll cry. And then, you'll begin the process of rebuilding, even if it's in defiance of those who say you shouldn't. You'll pick up the pieces, day by day. And you'll build your life back, little by little. Three years from now, you'll still cart visiting friends and relatives around town and watch their faces as you point out the flood lines and say yes, the water really did get that high. You'll excitedly point to where something used to be but is no longer.

Years from now, you'll still hurt quite a bit. No one will get it, exactly--what it feels like to lose everything you own and/or the life that you knew. Everyone else will think you should move on (and move). But the camaraderie that you feel for those who do get it--for those who went through it with you--may surprise you. They will be there for you, and they'll foster in you a sense of community and support that you might not have known was possible.

And we, in New Orleans, will be thinking of you--and rooting you on.

Checkbook Blues

Did you know that if you apply for your child to enter a private school, beginning in the fall of 2008, and she's accepted, that you have to start making payments of $650 a month to that school in June, even though she won't begin going there until the end of August and even though you're still having to pay $565 a month for her to continue going to her current daycare? I feel nauseous right now looking at my checkbook balance. I haven't even figured out what we'll do next year during the summer months, when said private school is closed.

Some days, I really wonder about living in a place where sending my child to public school--without winning a lottery to enroll her in a good one--is completely out of the question. Especially on the days when I think I'd like to have another child but am not sure we can afford private tuition for two.

This is especially not helpful on the day that I also have to further drain our rapidly dwindling savings account to renew our wind and hail coverage with the Citizens FAIR (ha!) Plan and our flood insurance coverage. Note to future homebuyers--do NOT close on your new home on your birthday. Getting bills from the insurance companies every year with your birthday as your policy expiration date and subsequently having to write large checks to avoid having your insurance expire on your birthday is not the best way to get yourself into a party kind of mood.

Did I mention that I feel nauseous?

Go, Bill Moyers

I've long respected and admired Bill Moyers, but now I think I just may love him. This ambush of a Bill O'Reilly ambush producer is a thing of beauty.

Lessons Learned

A few days ago, E broke out in a rash all over her face and body. K and I thought it was kind of odd and couldn't figure out what might have caused it.

Every once in a while, K and I will be lax parents and skip E's evening bath. I mean, she's three, right? She doesn't really need a bath every day, unless she gets particularly filthy at school. On those nights that a bath isn't involved, one of us will give her a sponge bath of sorts with baby wipes.

So the day after E's rash, I noticed a box of dog wipes sitting in her room. I picked up the box and took it to K, asking if he'd used them to wipe down E the night before. "Yes," he said. "Why do you ask?"

Even though I was standing there with a box of wipes with a picture of a dog on the front, he still didn't get it until I pointed it out to him. Rash mystery solved. And although I felt a little bit guilty on E's behalf, it was pretty damn funny. (The rash cleared up just fine.)

So for all you unobservant people out there (of which I am often one), don't use the white box of wipes with the picture of the dog on it on your child--go for the blue box of wipes with the picture of the baby on it instead. Who knew they didn't contain the same ingredients?

E Goes to Church

I took E to church for the first time last week--to my stepfather's church--it comes in handy to have an Episcopal priest in the family. We're planning to have E baptized in a couple of weeks, so I thought it would be good for her to get in a little practice at sitting still and being relatively quiet during an hour-long service. Yes, having my daughter baptized at the age of three is a little late in the game, but we were kinda distracted around the time when she should have been baptized, due to the whole Katrina thing.

Church went reasonably well. My mom went with me for moral support, and I was armed with a bag full of books, coloring books and crayons for E. She only talked a couple of times during the service, once to point out the statue of "Baby Jesus" in the back of the church. Needless to say, she's not real familiar with the whole meaning of Christianity, seeing as this was her first time at church. Her only real exposure to Jesus up to this point is that he's that nice baby that appears on billboards around town at about the same time that Santa shows up.

Near the end of the service, we took E up to the front of the church for communion. I'd whispered to her ahead of time that we were going to walk up front, kneel, hold our hands out like so and receive communion (I decided to pass on the wine for her). E daintily kneeled and received her wafer, then we walked back to our seats.

I guess the whole church experience was a big hit for her, as, once back in our seats, she loudly exclaimed, for all to hear, "Mommy, that cracker was good!" Of course, after the service, my stepfather good-naturedly pointed out that E shouldn't have received communion, seeing how she hasn't yet been baptized. Oops.

Min-Pin, Anyone?

I took Lola the amazing Chihuahua-mix to Animal Rescue of New Orleans over the weekend for a medical check. It turns out she's a miniature Pinscher and that she's about three years old.

She received a clean bill of health--she doesn't even have heartworms, which the ARNO staff said meant she must have belonged to someone recently. She now has all of her shots and is up-to-date on her flea and heartworm meds. I do believe that she may be in better health than my golden retriever. And little dogs live a looooong time, don't they?

K and I discussed it Friday night and agreed that we do NOT want another dog. So, I went into ARNO on Saturday, full of firm resolve to tell them that I simply cannot keep another dog. Especially one that eats porch furniture cushions and Little Mermaid dolls, digs holes, isn't housebroken and barks a lot. But then Lola started trembling the minute we walked into the clinic, and my resolve crumbled a little bit. And then when we got home, E was so excited to see her that she carried her around the backyard for about an hour, saying "I love you, Lola. It's okay that you ate Ariel."

So, it appears that I am now the somewhat-reluctant owner--or at least foster mother--of a non-housebroken, pillow-chewing, hole-digging, barks-a-lot dog. Sigh.

Min-pin, anyone? Did I mention that she's very good with children?

What's in a Name?

It seems like I'm surrounded by pregnant women lately (although I'm most definitely not one of them). One of my co-workers is Swiss, and I've learned a lot from her about different customs during her two pregnancies. In Switzerland, for example, it's considered impolite to inquire of someone who's pregnant as to what the sex of the baby is, what baby names are being considered, etc. She told me that in the Swiss culture, pregnancies are not discussed among anyone but the closest of friends and relatives until the baby is born--acquaintances, co-workers, and of course, strangers, pretty much pretend that the pregnancy doesn't exist. And they certainly don't go around annoyingly treating pregnant women as if they're some sort of community property. Having my stomach patted or rubbed by a complete stranger while I was pregnant was one of the most disturbing things I've ever had happen to me and was avoided whenever possible.

I'm guessing that not having to discuss your pregnancy with strangers and co-workers (and possibly in-laws) must be pretty pleasant in a lot of ways. I'll never forget when my mother-in-law asked me what K and I were planning to name the baby. When I told her the name we'd picked out, her response was, "Are you serious?"

My daughter's name is Emmeline. Apparently, it's a very popular name in Belgium, according to my boss. Needless to say, everyone is very confused as to how to spell our daughter's name. The most common variation is "Emmaline," as that's how it sounds like it should be spelled. Even my father misspells it on a regular basis. When he last asked and I spelled it out for him on the phone, he spelled it like above. When I told him that there was no a--just three e's--he spelled it "Emmaleine." At least he got that a in there somewhere.

I suppose E will end up hating me when she's older, after having to spell both her first and last name for everyone she meets (our last name is a common one, but for some reason, people can't spell it). Plus, she will have the additional trauma of never, ever being able to find one of those pre-printed, personalized keychains at Disney World or a license plate for her bike with her name on it.

The best part about Emmeline's name is when my husband tells people that she was named after a ferry. I'm sure that sounds strange enough as it is. But when he talks to people and they automatically assume he said fairy, you can see the looks of total confusion on their faces as visions of Tinkerbelle start dancing through their minds and they're wondering if they need to back away from the crazy guy.

The real story is this--I grew up on an island off the Georgia coast, St. Simons Island. Back in the early part of the 20th century, it became quite the tourist hot spot. Before cars became all the rage, people got to St. Simons by ferry. One of the boats was named the Emmeline and one was named the Hessie. During my childhood, there was a restaurant on St. Simons called, of course, the Emmeline and Hessie, so I've just grown up with those names in my consciousness. I've always loved the name Emmeline--and when, for some shocking reason, my husband agreed to it instantly when I threw it out as a possible baby name, we both settled on it immediately. I'm still surprised that he liked the name as much as I did.

This year, my dad found a picture of the original Emmeline and gave it to E for her birthday. She doesn't appreciate it much now as a three-year-old, but I think it's pretty damn neat having a picture of her namesake around. Although I suppose at this age, she'd prefer to be named after a fairy. And no, if we have another daughter, we won't name her Hessie.

Conversations with a Three-Year-Old, Volume 2

E: Mommy, am I a people?

Me: Yes, sweetie--you're a person.

E: Is Tchoups a people?

Me: No, Tchoups is a dog. But you, me and Daddy are all people.

E: No, you're not a people--you're a mommy.

Keeping the Brand Out There

I was pleased to see that New Orleans was in the news last night, having made the "Oddball" section of Countdown with Keith Olbermann. Gotta keep the brand out there, you know.

Apparently, a cross-dresser robbed the Burger King on Carrollton Avenue last week after climbing through the drive-thru window with a gun. No word on whether his shoes and purse matched, but the police did say that his nails were nicely painted.

Luckily for us, this story was reported in places like Houston, Charleston, and San Antonio, as well as in more far-flung places, like Australia. And of course, on Countdown. Hopefully, C. Ray can hold a press conference soon to tell us how transvestite robbers are a good thing for the New Orleans tourism business.

Smother's Day

My daughter really cracks me up sometimes, and Sunday was one of those days. I didn't get greeted with flowers or cards or breakfast in bed, as K was at the restaurant taking care of other people's wives and mothers, as usual. But E was there to pick up the slack and greeted me with a joyful "Happy Smother's Day!" (No, I don't know why she thinks it's called "Smother's Day, either.)

She informed me that because it was "Smother's Day," she was going to be a very good girl all day. I guess they discussed the topic at daycare or something. But, she was true to her word and was good as gold all day, which, as you may know, is hit or miss with a three-year-old. She serenaded me with her favorite songs, including the alphabet song and "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star." She didn't have a raging case of the "I want thats" when we went to the grocery store. And she made me laugh especially hard when she coaxed Lola the stray chihuahua-mix into her kiddie pool and down the slide. All in all, it was a very nice Smother's Day--and a nice way to spend the day with my little girl.

Dear Hillary...

Please go away now. It's over--I know that you want to claim a 2% lead in Indiana as an amazing win, but it's not. Especially when you said that the Wright controversy proved that Obama was unelectable and that North Carlina would be a "game changer." Last time I checked, a 14% lead in Obama's favor doesn't count as a game changer for you.

Believe it or not, I was a staunch defender of both you and Bill up until the past few months. Even as recently as February, I was defending you to my winger friends who claimed that they'd leave the country if you were elected president. I supported you and Bill throughout Travelgate, White Water, Vince Foster. Even Monica-Gate. I firmly believed (although I didn't necessarily agree with Bill getting lip-service in the Oval Office from Monica) that that whole sordid affair was none of our business and had nothing to do with whether or not Bill was a good president. I even defended the "what the meaning of is is," which was pretty hard to do.

But come on--you've begun veering into crazy territory. The gas tax holiday and discounting the "elite opinion" of economists? Threatening Iran with nuclear obliteration? Duck hunting and boiler makers in Pennsylvania? Suing OPEC for running a monopoly? Terry McAuliffe bragging about your winning a shot contest with John McCain? It's called pandering, Hillary, and it's exactly what turns off those of us who are ready for something other than politics as usual. And the non-stop push to count the votes of Florida and Michigan. Those votes weren't that important when you thought you would have it all wrapped up on Super Tuesday, were they?

If you win the Democratic nomination, you will have my vote. But it will be a vote cast while holding my nose. I used to really admire you and Bill--now you both make me wonder if I was wrong for defending you throughout the 90s, especially in light of your win-at-all-costs attidute, which includes frequent criticism of Obama--you know, the other Democratic nominee?

I am not a Kool-Aid drinking Obama-bot. Initially, I didn't care which of you got the nomination. But you've lost me and a lot of others. Your campaign has been inept from the beginning, and it's time to pack it in.

Please go away.

Sincerely, A

Chihuahua, Anyone?

A very sweet little Chihuahua showed up at my house late last Thursday night, filthy and with all of her ribs showing. I fed her because I felt so sorry for her.

On the way home from school on Friday, I cautioned E that there would be a little dog in our yard and that she was NOT, under any circumstances, to try to pet it, as I wasn't sure how the dog would react. (E has a thing for chasing our cats around frantically--needless to say, they're not amused--especially when she actually catches one, which is rare.) So, we pull up to our house, E gets out of the car, and the dog just comes barrelling up to E and immediately begins jumping up and down, licking her face, etc. It would appear that this dog really loves kids.

She's a very sweet little dog, and E is getting quite attached to her, but we really don't want the responsibility of another pet. (We already have one dog, two cats and three fish. I'm sure as E gets older, there will be some rodents involved in there somewhere, as well.) While saying that I do NOT want another dog, I am also an animal sucker. I brought the dog inside and gave her a bath, have been feeding her regularly, and we even let her sleep in the house last night, where she promptly displayed for us that she isn't potty-trained.* We've been calling her Lola.

So, does anyone want a Chihuahua that's not housebroken but is very sweet and good with kids? I've been scanning the lost and found ads on nola.com and craigslist, but so far no one seems to be missing her. I'm wondering if perhaps she was dumped in our neighborhood. If I can't find a home for her, I guess we'll end up keeping her. (See animal sucker, above.) But did I mention that I really don't want another dog?

Anyone interested? Anyone?

*I realized after writing this that I put "potty-trained" instead of "housebroken." Can anyone tell what's on my mind as far as my daughter is concerned?

School Daze

E is three now, which means it's time to start obsessing about finding the right school for her--even though technically, she won't be old enough to enter a kindergarten program until the 09-10 school year. I suppose she could enter a pre-K program this fall, but the thought of trying to figure out before-care, after-care and summer care really scares the hell out of me. Is it educational suicide to leave her in daycare for an extra year rather than looking for a pre-K program? Does that virtually guarantee that she won't be able to get into a kindergarten program if she isn't already enrolled in the pre-K program?

Any parents out there in the blogosphere with young children who can give me some advice? Seeing as I didn't grow up in New Orleans, I'm not real familiar with the whole private school versus parochial school comparisons here, much less the post-K charter school maze. I certainly know which schools I can't afford, and that would be, it seems, most of them. Perhaps it's crass to say so in my blog, but I can't afford to spend $15-$20K on elementary school. At least not on my salary.

Any thoughts on good schools to look at? The only possibilities that even sound within our ballpark right now are Ursuline and Holy Name of Jesus. Even though I'm not Catholic, I'd consider them. Does anyone know if it's possible to get into either of these schools without a three-year wait list? Anyone out there have kids at either school or know anyone that does?

Of course I've heard raves about Audubon and Ecole Bilingue, but my understanding is that Ecole Bilingue is only positively accepting children of French nationals right now, while everyone else goes onto a lottery/wait list. And it's an automatic lottery for Audubon, isn't it?

Are you supposed to get nauseous thinking about how to ensure a good education for your three-year-old? If so, I guess I'm a real New Orleanian now.

It Is To Laugh

I mean, really--can there be any other response at this point, upon discovering that the COE allowed a floodwall to be stuffed with newspaper rather than the rubber joint that's supposed to, um, you know, help keep the city from flooding?

The best part was on WWL radio this afternoon, when COE Colonel Jeffrey Bedey said it was just a temporary fix (that's been there for two years) and that the really important part of the floodwall is the waterstop, which is on the inside of the floodwall (presumably underneath several layers of newspaper). Bedey went on to explain that the only purpose of the rubber joint (that they didn't put in) is to protect the waterstop by making sure it doesn't get wet or dirty. Oh. Well, then--I feel much better. Because everyone knows about the amazing powers of newspaper to keep things from getting wet or dirty.

Me? Really?

My husband is in Alabama this weekend for a bachelor party, and I dropped E off at my sister-in-law's house a couple of hours ago. The entire house is mine, MINE, for 24 hours. I just don't even know what to do with myself. (Thus, the exciting evening of blogging and reading blogs--it takes very little to make me happy these days.) I might even go crazy and sleep until, say, eight o'clock tomorrow.

Anyway--just got off the phone with K a few minutes ago. While we were talking, he asked if something was wrong. I said no and continued on with the conversation. A few minutes later, he asked again. "Are you sure nothing's wrong?" "No, why?" I asked. "I don't know," he said. "You just seem so, well, um, perky."

Needless to say, the word "perky" is not applied to me very often. Cranky? Grumpy? Tired? Yep. Perky? Not so much.

Okay, fine--I'm perky tonight. It's amazing what one night with no responsibilities can do for me. Now, I think I'll go eat something unhealthy for dinner....

Conversations with a Three-Year-Old

Me: E, do you want to eat your dinner now?

E: No, get away from me!

Me: Well, that's not a very nice thing to say.

E: I sorry, Mommy--please get away from me.

Miss Manners would be so proud.

Somewhere Between - Merle Haggard

Somewhere between your heart and mine
There's a window that I can't see through
There's a wall so high that it reaches the sky
Somewhere between me and you

I love you so much, I can't let you go
And sometimes, I believe you love me
But somewhere between your heart and mine
There's a door without any key

Somewhere between your heart and mine
There's a window that I can't see through
There's a wall so high that it reaches the sky
Somewhere between me and you

Somewhere between your heart and mine
There's a love I can't understand
Oh, it's there for a while, then it fades like a smile
And I'm left in the middle again

Somewhere between your heart and mine
There's a window that I can't see through
There's a wall so high that it reaches the sky
Somewhere between me and you

Ben Harper

K and I caught the Ben Harper concert on Directv the other night. K first discovered him at Bonnaroo about five years ago, and we've been huge fans ever since. It's always surprised me that he's not more popular than he is, given how incredible he is. Reminds me of John Boutte and Ingrid Lucia, in that I think he's vastly underappreciated. (Speaking of which, K severely pissed off Ingrid Lucia when we saw her at the Banks Street Bar and Grill, sans electricity, a few months after Katrina, when he told her she was underrated. He meant it in a good way, but she didn't take it that way. A few less beers on his part probably would've helped him get his point across.)

If you have Directv and haven't seen Harper, check him out--he's an incredible live performer. Channel 334 tomorrow night at 11:00.

Here's a youtube clip:

Dear Bad Drivers...

There are a few things I've been meaning to talk to you about. Not all of you, mind you; I know there are plenty of good drivers in this city. But some of you--and you know who you are--really need a few pointers:

• That wand-looking thing sticking out on the left side of your steering wheel controls your turn signals. They're magical lights that let cars in front of and behind you know when you're planning to turn. These are especially important if you have the right-of-way and I'm sitting at a stop sign, as it gets kind of tiresome not being able to make a left turn because the last eight people with the right-of-way were all turning right but didn't bother to make that known. Turn signals are your friends.
• If a stoplight turns red, that means stop. I know this can be confusing, but believe it or not, it does NOT mean to floor the gas pedal and keep on driving through the intersection. Those of us who have barely missed being sideswiped several times by this little maneuver would appreciate it if you'd just stop.
• Speaking of red lights, for those of you that are waiting for the light to turn green, I haven't come across any evidence yet that proves that you get there more quickly by easing out as far into the intersection as possible before the light turns. What is that about, exactly? Could someone explain it to me?
• Friends are nice. Who doesn't love their friends? If, however, you're driving down the street and you run into a friend who happens to be driving down that same street in the opposite direction, this is not the opportune time for both of you to stop your cars and catch up on what's been going on in each other's lives. Could you pull over? Pretty please?
• Pulling over also applies when you're dropping your kid off at school, waiting for your car pool buddy to come out of his house, etc. I know you're in a hurry, but so are the people behind you.
• Speaking of time, why do some of you think that your time is more valuable than everyone else's? Everyone in New Orleans knows that there are certain streets where the right lane turns into a right-turn only lane. St. Charles at Louisiana, for example. Please don't get into the turn lane and then gun it to try and get in front of me in the one remaining lane. You're not special--wait your turn. And since we're being honest, and because this is one of my biggest pet peeves, I'll do everything in my power to keep you from cutting in front of me. Just so you know. I'm not really an aggressive person, but this move drives me crazy.
• A car horn can be a useful tool--when someone, say, runs a red light, you can honk at them after they almost sideswipe you to get your point across. It's also acceptable to honk when the driver in front of you doesn't notice that the light has turned green. But people, give it at least a few seconds, okay? You don't need to honk at the exact moment the light turns green. I see it, I'm going. I know you're upset that I didn't ease out into the intersection before the light turned green, but get over it, okay? And if we're sitting in traffic, with several cars in front of us who are also stuck in traffic, laying on the horn really doesn't help matters.
• Finally, when driving a 2,000-pound car down the street, you really should try to pay attention to what's going on around you. It really isn't the best time to be applying your eye makeup, playing Suduko or reading the newspaper.

Thanks for letting me get that off my chest. I feel better now.
Hugs and kisses, A

Random Musings #1

If the 17th Street Canal floods my house again, I'm going to be more than a little peeved at the Corps of Engineers. Of course, the COE says there's nothing to worry about, so I feel much better now. (HT, Editor B).

I'm not sure how I'd feel if the NOPD came into my yard and shot my dog. I'm going to go with pissed. Yes, it was a Doberman, and perhaps it did lunge at the officer. But eight shots fired at a dog seems a bit excessive, no? What's that motto again? To protect and to serve?

Yay--the yellow blog is back!

An excellent editorial by Gwen Filosa re: the Dinerral Shavers case (HT, Oyster).

Pope Mania

Although I guess I shouldn't be after living here for 10 years, I was a little surprised that the Pope's visit to the U.S. was the lead story on the local news tonight. I mean, it's not like he showed up here. But then, this is a major Catholic town, so I guess it's relevant.

As a non-Catholic, I can't really get into the whole pope thing. I was raised as a Presbyterian and then started attending the Episcopal church when I was a teenager--not a hard decision, as my stepfather is an Episcopal priest. The Episcopal church works for me--as my brother Andrew likes to say, it's "Catholic-lite." (All of the tradition, none of the guilt.)

I wasn't quite sure what to make of ol' Pope Benedict for the first couple of years. At the risk of offending some Catholics, the whole Hitler youth thing kind of creeped me out a bit. But, any man who shows such obvious disdain for George W. Bush gains a little more esteem in my book. I love that the Pope declined to attend the birthday dinner in his honor at the White House. My kind of pope.

Extraversion Aversion

This pretty much sums it up. Is it neurotic to worry about being 79% neurotic?

Neuroticism - 79
Extraversion - 7
Openness to Experience - 67
Agreeableness - 82
Conscientiousness - 84
Neuroticism - You don't usually get angry too easily but some things can annoy you. You tend to lack energy and have difficulty initiating activities. You are sensitive about what others think of you. Your concerns about rejection and ridicule cause you to feel shy and uncomfortable around others. You are easily embarrassed and often feel ashamed. Your fears that others will criticize or make fun of you are exaggerated and unrealistic, but your awkwardness and discomfort may make these fears a self-fulfilling prophecy. High levels of stress can lead to you feeling panic or confusion, but usually you cope with day to day pressures.

04.11.08

For Charles and Ashley. Rest in Peace.

CEJ

My brother, Charles Eric Johnson, was born on August 29, 1978. He died on April 11, 2001, at the age of 22. It's hard to believe that seven years have passed already--especially when I think about how much the world has changed in those seven years. September 11th, and all of the changes that day would bring into our lives, was still five months away. This August, on the third anniversary of Katrina, Charles, had he lived, would have turned 30 years old.

In a weird way, it's always sort of struck me as fitting that Katrina made landfall on Charles' birthday. He was a weather freak, and all of us were convinced for a while that he would become a meteorologist. When a storm was in the Gulf, Charles would go into action mode--tracking the storm on a chart he kept on his bedroom wall, driving around to take pictures of the increased wave action in the Sound. He loved being a witness to a storm and its power.

Dinerral Shavers

I was saddened--although not shocked--to hear that David Bonds, the man accused of the murder of Dinerral Shavers, was found not guilty yesterday. I got this email from Silence is Violence this morning, and they said it better than I can.

For many months now, we have found the motivation for an entire public awareness movement in one case that has meant a lot to us personally. Dinerral Shavers was our friend and our brother. His murder on December 28, 2006, inspired us to call on our leaders and our fellow citizens to do more for each other and for our city. For over a year now, Dinerral's murder case has been the focus of our efforts to demand more from our criminal justice system in particular. During this time, we have seen a new Violent Offenders Unit formed at the office of the District Attrorney, and more experienced prosecutors take over murder cases. We have seen an ineffective District Attorney forced from office through public pressure. We have seen new levels of cooperation between police officers and prosecutors begin to slow the notorious revolving door at Orleans Parish Prison, in both directions.

This evening, we also had to watch as Dinerral's murder case ended in what we must accept as justice, but can hardly embrace as resolution. The defendant in Dinerral's case was found not guilty by a jury today. So ends the case that has focused us, inspired us, and channeled our energies for over a year. But the end of Dinerral's case cannot mark the end of our movement, or of the determination of all New Orleans citizens to raise our voices when we see injustice, inaction, and silence in the face of violence. We will continue to engage with our neighbors and our leaders: to hold our government accountable, but also, as Judge Jerome Winsberg wisely counseled at the conclusion of today's proceedings, to look inside ourselves and hold ourselves responsible for the chaotic societal circumstances that are breeding violent crime, and which caused Dinerral's death.

In his closing comments, Judge Winsberg expressed "shock" at what he witnessed during the trial. The way these children are living is not okay, he said, comparing inner-city New Orleans unfavorably with Baghdad. "It is appalling...it is shocking..." over and over said a judge who has presided over scores of criminal cases. The world our young people are living in came to terrifying light through the fearful testimony of witnesses, justifiably afraid; through the defendant's assertion that he sells drugs in order "to help my family" (this forming part of the defense in this trial); through the repeated references to petty but clearly deadly turf wars being fought by children too young to drive from one neighborhood to another. We should all heed Judge Winsberg's call for citizen outrage at these situations, and at many other realities that were rendered more stark than ever over the course of this case:

• That brazen intimidation of witnesses is such an ingrained part of the system that witnesses can be threatened while on the stand--and the juror who points out the threats removed.
• That police investigations lack the rigor and thoroughness that can stand up in court.
• That our standards for education and family are so low that our young people believe that living without parents, taking care of other people's babies, and dropping out of school are normal modes of youth.

We are not satisfied to be leaving Dinerral's case behind without a cleaner resolution. But at least we have seen real energy, real attention, and real concern directed toward an inner-city murder case. This, at least, we can take as a step forward--so long as our system commits to treating every murder case with this level of sincerity and seriousness.

"This is our system," said Judge Winsberg today. "It's the system we must live by." We are asking each of you, on behalf of these confused young people, to get to know this system better so we can understand how to fix it. As painful as it is, go watch a murder trial. As reluctant as they may seem, reach out to a troubled young person in your neighborhood. As busy as you may be, take the time to attend a City Council meeting. Clearly, we citizens must continue the hard work of repairing our own city and creating a world for our children that makes some kind of sense.

Running on Empty

It's stupid, really, but I can't stop thinking about Ashley--and Hana--and their three children. I say stupid, because it feels comparable to someone mourning the loss of a celebrity--someone I never knew, but someone who really touched my life. So I keep thinking about them. I tried to explain it to K tonight, as he doesn't really understand how I feel such a sense of community with people I've never met. But when I told him that Ashley was the author of FYYFF, he seemed to get it, at least a little bit.

I think I'm just emotionally drained right now. K has been working a lot of hours at the restaurant, and my constant companion for the past couple of weeks has been E. Granted, we've had some interesting conversations, but you can only get so in-depth with a three-year-old. Right now, we're debating whether she really is too much of a "big girl" for Sesame Street. Are you kidding me? You're already shunning Big Bird, Grover, the Count and the gang at age three? Granted, Bob is starting to show his age, but I was enthralled with Sesame Street at least up until the age of five, when it then became common knowledge that The Electric Company, Shazam, and Electra Woman and Dyna Girl were the new "it" TV shows. She's also very into Candy Land now--if you ever need a break from life, spend an evening explaining the rules of Candy Land to a toddler--and yes, I let her win.

And finally, there's my friend C, who is currently dealing with sorting through all of the stuff his father left behind, who died two weeks ago. Sorting through your dead father's belongings is bad enough. Now imagine that said father molested you as a child and you left home and began living in your car at age 16 to get away from him.

Not a fun week.

Ashley Morris

I just began my daily routine of clicking onto Ashley Morris' blog, only to discover that he died yesterday. At first, I was certain that it must be an April Fool's Day joke or something--but after reading through the comments, I realized it was real. I don't even know what to say, it's such a complete and utter shock. My heart goes out to his wife and three children.

I've never met Ashley Morris, other than during KduV last year, when he handed me one of the "Edwin Edwards, Now More than Ever" postcards his sub-krewe was handing out. He, of course, had no idea who I was, but I was excited about my mini-brush with celebrity.

I feel certain that I would have really liked Ashley, had I gotten the chance to meet him--he was just the kind of person we all needed around here after Katrina. I first discovered him through that classic post, FYYFF. Can't even remember how I came across it, but it was after Katrina, I was hurting, and FYYFF gave voice to all of the anger I think most of us were feeling at the time, as we came to the realization that the majority of the country didn't care about us or New Orleans and thought we had gotten what was coming to us for living here.

Anyway, FYYFF opened up the world of New Orleans bloggers to me, and I've been a devoted lurker ever since. So thank you, Ashley, for your passion for this city, for expressing the anger and outrage we've all felt since the federal flood, and for your humor. Thank you for introducing me to the New Orleans blogging community--if you're on Ashley's blog roll, you're probably on my regular reading list. I feel like I've lost a friend today, albeit a friend I'd never met.

Sinn Fein, Ashley. May the light perpetual shine upon you.

Cotton Field in Hazelhurst

As a girl born and raised in southern Georgia, cotton fields will always be beautiful to me and remind me of home. This picture was taken by my cousin while we were in Georgia for my grandmother's funeral. What can I say? I think it's pretty.

E Turns Three

I See London, I See France....

Does anyone have any pictures of C. Ray in his underoos? If so, we can have him recalled.

Signs

The wayward husband from yesterday had more signs on Jefferson Avenue this morning. One said "I've kept it in." Can you think of anything he might be referring to other than keeping it in his pants? I wonder how his wife feels about these very public apologies.

Happy Valentine's Day

It's been a busy Valentine's Day so far, and it's only 8:30. I finally got E off to school with all of her lollipop Valentines for classmates still intact, after much negotiating. I feel sorry for the teachers at daycare today--they have a long day ahead of them of trying to keep the kids from inhaling candy all day. One of E's friends was sobbing when we got there because the teacher wouldn't let her eat her candy for breakfast. Teachers, both at daycare and of older children, have my greatest admiration.

Then, driving down Jefferson Avenue on my way to work, I saw three hand-lettered signs in the neutral ground. The first one said "I love my wife" and got me thinking "Oh, how sweet. I wish K would do something like that for me." Then I came to the second sign, which said "Then why did I hit her?" and the third sign, that said "I need to change." Well, alrighty then--never mind on wishing my husband would do something like that for me.

Finally, I got into work this morning and had this email waiting for me from my mom. I really do think I have one of the best mothers in the world--if I can do half as good a job of making sure E always knows that she's loved and supported, I think I will have done pretty well.

It's the official "I Love You" day, and I woke up thinking about those I love. I feel so very blessed to have such wonderful daughters - and sons-in-law. You are my friends and confidants, my support and encouragement when I'm down, and my enthusiastic well-wishers when times are good. I'm aware that you're always there, always ready to grieve or celebrate with me - or otherwise just to share in life. I appreciate all of you and I love you. Be loving with one another and have a wonderful day. Love, Mom

Happy Valentine's Day, everybody.

All on a Mardi Gras Day

K and the Jefferson City Buzzards, taken from Times-Pic website.

Mama, why is Daddy wearing tights and purple velvet?

Orpheus/Bacchus

Sword fight

Group shot

Throw me something, um, Sidney Torres!?!

Iris/Tucks

E and her friend Beau, enjoying the view from their ladder before the parades start.

Bagpipes!

I love me some Mardi Gras. We did every parade this weekend, with the exception of Endymion. I'm so glad that Endymion has gone back to its Mid-City route--gives me a night to recuperate before Bacchus Sunday, and it's really nice no longer having to to fight huge crowds camped out for Endymion while trying to watch Iris and Tucks.

E had a ball. This is her third Mardi Gras, but it's the first time I think she really got it. Other than a few mishaps with flying beads making contact with her face, she loved every minute of it.

Our Long National Nightmare...

...is almost over. Counting down the days until one year from now.

Mardigrr

I've realized with both a sense of amusement and a little bit of wariness that I'm most definitely raising a New Orleans girl. E can dance with the best of them (unlike her pathetic mother) when we go somewhere like Satchmo Fest to see the Soul Rebels, Rebirth, etc. She's right up there shaking her thing and having a grand old time.

I read a post on Dangerblond's website recently, where she was reminiscing about being in elementary school and making miniature Mardi Gras floats. Today, E is wearing a sash to daycare and is campaigning to be queen of their parade, which will be held next week. I was quite proud of myself for making a sash out of a yellow plastic tablecloth and a purple feather boa from the Dollar Store. As K said, neither of us knew I was so crafty.

Needless to say, I didn't grow up learning about Mardi Gras, what the colors purple, green and gold stand for, etc. It's not real high on the priority list in Georgia. So it's funny to listen to my not-yet three-year-old daughter tell me all about what she learned in school about "Mardigrr." (She's still working on the pronunciation.) I'm really getting a kick out of seeing what Mardigrr is all about through her eyes, as well--toys and beads, of course.

Last night, we were playing with her little Fisher Price dollhouse. E piled all of the plastic dolls into the station wagon so they could take a trip. Usually, if you ask her where they're going, she'll tell you to the store. Last night, she informed me that they were going to Mardigrr. So the dolls all rode across the bedroom in their station wagon, then she had them all climb out next to her wicker dresser, which is painted green. As one of the Mardigrr colors was involved, E thought the wicker dresser was a fine place for the dolls to watch and participate in the parade. And then she made them all scream their little heads off, shouting "throw me something." I think they had a good time.

Just Call Me Martha

E and I spent the afternoon making homemade sugar cookies, complete with homemade icing. They were not only edible, but quite good--I think we're both in shock.

Louise Sandlin Hutto

My grandmother Lucy died last week. She was 89 years old. It wasn't sudden; it was one of those experiences where you sit around waiting for the call, wanting it to come because you're so anxious, jumping every time the phone rings, but not wanting it to come, because you don't really want to face that reality.

Lucy was an incredible person. She was born in 1918 in Georgia, met and married my grandfather, Vee, in her early 20s and went on to raise five children, 15 grandchildren and 8 great-grandchildren. Vee died in 1989, and though I know she missed him, Lucy just kept on going strong for the next 20 years. She was the kind of grandmother that everyone wishes they had--she always had time for us grand kids, and it seemed like her life pretty much revolved around us. She was attentive and loving, but she was also a firm disciplinarian--I don't think there's a one of us that won't remember how it felt when she fixed her gaze on you and told you to "hush up." You did just that, because you knew that Lucy didn't suffer any fools.

Crawphobia

I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later, but E has developed a fear of the dark and has started having nightmares. At first, it was standard, run-of-the-mill stuff that would scare a two-year-old, like tigers, monsters, etc. But the past two nights, she's woken up screaming bloody murder saying that a crawfish is trying to attack her feet. The best we can figure out is that this sudden fear has to do with the crawfish she saw painted on the side of a seafood store on Jefferson Highway. I guess crawfish are pretty scary when they're six feet tall. Ah, New Orleans--even more things to scare a toddler than your average town!

Just Because #1

In my opinion, one of the saddest and most beautiful songs ever written (sans the happy, dream-sequence ending). But then, I like depressing stuff.

Gloomy Sunday

Sunday's gloomy,
my house is slumberless.
Dearest, the shadows I
live with are numberless.

The Village Idiot

My loathing of the resident in chief is well known among my friends and family. They love giving me buttons, magnets and bumperstickers, including that one about a village in Texas that's missing its idiot.

The downside? That smirk greets me every morning from the refrigerator, before I've had my dose of caffeine. The upside? E now thinks his name is idiot--I try to use polite terms in front of my daughter--and is very proud of herself that she can identify him.

One of these days, she's going to see a picture of GWB out in public, point at it and shout "idiot!" I can't decide whether that day will be highly embarrassing or highly amusing. A little of both, I think.

08.29

Two years ago today. I don't feel as emotionally raw as I did on the one-year anniversary--I guess time really does have a way of numbing pain.

I think I feel the same as most people living along the Gulf Coast these days--one day I wake up and can't fathom the thought of living anywhere else; the next day, I'm longing to escape the realities of life here and just start over somewhere else--somewhere that doesn't have all of these problems. I dream of a city with smooth, paved streets and a local newscast that doesn't lead every day with the latest murder.

I don't think any of us envisioned how little progress we would make, two years down the road. Lakeview, St. Bernard Parish and the Lower Ninth Ward are still ghost towns, sad remnants of what they used to be. Doesn't it at least seem like all of the damaged houses should have been gutted by now?

08.26.05

The Katrina anniversary is upon us. And so it begins. The local newspapers and television stations have begun their coverage, and, I suppose for a brief period of time, the rest of the country will focus on us briefly at some point this week. Some will give us no more than a passing thought, some will wish us well—unfortunately, the vast majority will still not realize that Katrina was a man-made disaster in New Orleans, caused not because we’re stupid enough to live below sea level and got what was coming to us, but because the levee system that the Corps promised would hold did not. And, sadly, there will still be some mean-spirited people who will feel the need to post their scorn of New Orleans and its citizens on numerous websites, for some reason feeling better about themselves and secure in their superiority. It’s been like this for a while and I’m sure it will continue to be for years to come.

For me, August 26th is the day that the anniversary really starts to have an effect on me, as today is the day that the altering of our lives was put into motion. In my head, I've started calling it the Day of Lasts. It’s often struck me throughout life—I suppose even more so since I've had a child—about how many “lasts” we experience. There are the ones that you know are the lasts, like the last night your child sleeps in a crib before you move her into her “big girl” bed, the last time you drive a car before you trade it in, your last day at a job. But I guess I've spent a lot of time thinking about the “lasts” that you don’t know about at the time. There are so many unimportant lasts in our day-to-day living. And then there are the big ones—the last time you see your grandmother before she passes away, the last time you actually pick up your daughter in your arms before she gets too big for that, the last time that you talk to a friend with whom you've slowly been losing touch. I've always found the big lasts that we don’t know about at the time to be rather heartbreaking, in hindsight.

August 26th was a day of lasts that I didn't know about at the time on a grand scale. I don’t need to detail all of them again—you can read about them here. But for a long time coming, I think August 26th will be an especially poignant day for me; it was the last day that our family, our friends, our neighbors, our city, and our region would feel normal for days and years to come. It was the last day that we got to go about our everyday lives, not knowing about the storm that had decided to re-organize in the Gulf. It was a Friday, and the majority of us were content in the knowledge that we’d have a nice weekend and then go back to our jobs and our schools and our lives on Monday morning.

You all know the story by now. Instead, on that Monday morning, we sat in living rooms or hotel rooms or shelters scattered around the country and watched Katrina come to shore. We watched the footage of houses on the Mississippi Gulf Coast reduced to splinters from Katrina’s surge, and we watched the streets of New Orleans fill with water when the levees broke.

And we didn't know it on that Friday, but by that Monday we knew--some of us had experienced the last time we would ever see a certain loved one, a friend, a neighbor, a co-worker, a pet. We had experienced the last time we'd sit in our own living rooms. We had experienced the last time we'd sleep in our own beds. We had experienced the last time we'd be able to work in a particular office, shop in a particular store, or eat in a particular restaurant. Because that's when it started sinking in that it was all gone.

I’m sure I’m not alone in thinking about two years ago today and what’s been lost since that time. A Day of Lasts.

Lives Lost

Another day, another horrifying and senseless murder in the City that Care Forgot. Nia Robertson, a 28-year-old woman who worked for the Road Home program, had her throat slashed by a complete stranger at a bar in mid-City on Wednesday night. She died several hours later. How frightening and f-ed up is that? She was just sitting in the bar, hanging out with a friend, and an unstable man knifed the man sitting next to him and then walked over to her and slashed her throat. Then he slowly walked out of the bar and started walking home, where police arrested him.

Pablo Meija Jr., a third-generation New Orleanian, was shot execution style during a robbery in New Orleans East earlier this month. He was working as a contractor and renovating a flood-damaged home when three men came into the home, robbed him and his friend, and shot him while he knelt on the ground. His wife is currently nine months pregnant with their first child.

Toddler Mutant Ninja Bunny

12.26.05

I remember the first time I walked into our house, after Katrina. It was December 26, 2005, and I'd put it off as long as I could. I went alone--I didn't want Kenny to go with me. He'd been there several times, and I needed to be alone the first time I saw it. And also, if we'd gone together, it would've meant taking Emmeline with us, who was only ten months old at the time.

I drove Kenny's car there--we still hadn't replaced my car--and I pulled up into the driveway with a sense of dread and of wanting to turn around.

When I put the key into the lock--for the first time in four months--it was the weirdest feeling that I can describe. After all, we'd only lived in the house for six weeks when Katrina hit. It was like coming home and walking into a stranger's house at the same time.

Lessons from a Two-Year-Old, Installment #3

After your precious daughter gets her hands on the Sharpie (extra-wide tip) pen that was in the kitchen junk drawer and proceeds to decorate your newly installed kitchen cabinets, bedroom doors and closet doors with it, do not panic. You will try paint thinner first to remove the artwork--it will not work. Luckily, today's installment of Lessons from a Two-Year-Old has your answer. After frantic google searches for removing permanent ink, your intrepid reporter tried all sorts of sundry (and odd) items to do the trick--toothpaste and peanut butter being the ones on the really strange end of the spectrum. Finally, I found one that did the trick--ah, the magical properies of rubbing alcohol! Next time, join us for Lessons for the Husband That's Supposed to be Watching the Two-Year-Old.

Oh, Katrina

Is anyone else as freaking exhausted as I am from thinking about Katrina too much of the time? Is it normal for me to need to take a couple of over-the-counter sleeping pills every night if I want to even think about closing my eyes, 18 months later? Is anyone else still pissed off about the whole "Katrina fatigue" thing from people who live in effing Iowa, or Texas, or name any other state?

Sometimes, it hits me and the frustration just fills me up inside. Really, who do these people think they are, to question our intelligence for living here, to say we're too lazy to do the job of rebuilding for ourselves and are just sitting around waiting for someone to hand us a check? To say that Katrina cottages are just too darn nice and we shouldn't install them (not that that's a problem in Louisiana, where they've yet to issue cottage #1) because then people would never move out of them? Jesus, we wouldn't want to reward people for having the audacity to survive a major disaster with a somewhat comfortable place to live, would we? Stick them all in trailers--that'll show 'em.

Why does the media keep referring to what happened in New Orleans as the biggest natural disaster in history, when it wasn't a freaking natural disaster? Nature didn't cause the levees to break.

And why, when our disaster was brought to us courtesy of the Corps of Engineers, are we written off, scorned, looked down upon, etc., while the people of the Mississippi Gulf Coast are portrayed as hard-working citizens who are pulling themselves up by their bootstraps? Don't get me wrong, I bear no ill will toward the people of Mississippi--my mom, mother-in-law, sister-in-law, grandmother-in-law and closest friend went through the natural disaster part of Katrina and lost everything in the surge. In some ways, they resent New Orleans, rightfully so, because we got the bulk of the news coverage immediately after the disaster--although a fat lot of good it did us.

And in some ways, I resent Mississippi, because, as I said, they get portrayed as good, honest, God-fearing people who deserve sympathy, respect, and even empathy--you know, that emotion where you put yourselves in other people's places and, dare I say, put aside your judgments and think about how you would feel if it were happening to you? But really, that's not Mississippi's fault, any more than the fact that the increased coverage we got was our fault because dead bodies floating in the streets made for more compelling news.

In New Orleans, we get scorn, stupid conservatives talking about what a waste of tax-payer dollars it would be to rebuild here, derogatory comments about welfare queens, etc. Well, to quote a much better blogger than I, FYYFF.

Do you know what my first reaction is now when I see on the news that some town in Oklahoma got blown away by a tornado? "Well, that's what you get for living there." Do I really mean that? Of course not. But after being looked down on and having the same asinine phrase said to us, it starts to get to you after a while. What is my real reaction? Empathy. Concern. Prayers offered up on their behalf. But it's tempered by the anger and hurt of knowing that many people in this country don't feel that my city and its residents deserve that same acknowledgement.

We are a country, are we not? The United States of America? And trust me, there's lots of you people that I'd rather not claim. (28%-ers, I'm talking to you.) But you know what? I do--because you are my fellow Americans, whether you like it or not. God didn't send a plague down upon New Orleans in the form of Katrina to punish us for our heathen lifestyles, assholes. And Chicago Bears fans, an especially big screw you to you for telling Saints fans at the NFC championship game that you wished they'd drowned, or that you were finishing what Katrina started.

And New Orleanians? Sinn Fein.

Lessons from a Two-Year-Old, Installment #2

The dog's water bowl makes a fabulous swimming pool for Fisher Price Little People.

Lessons from a Two-Year-Old, Installment #1

Water from the toilet? Delicious. Water from the toilet in a pink Barbie teacup? Divine!

How to Entertain a Toddler

Squatters

We had squatters in our house. That seems like such a bizarre thing to say in the 21st century, but it's true--someone was living in our flooded-out house while we've been in the process of renovating it. When I told my sister about it, her response was "What's a squatter?" Oh, to live in a place that didn't recently suffer a major disaster.

Kenny discovered this fact about three weeks ago when he went over to see the progress the contractors have made--we currently have no walls, as they recently ripped out all of the moldy sheet rock. When Kenny walked into the house that Saturday afternoon, he found two sleeping bags on the concrete slab in our living room, another couple of sleeping bags in the back den, and various groceries in what remains of the kitchen. After my initial shock at the thought of someone living in our house, albeit a house that's nothing more than a shell, I thought, "what the hell--let them live there until we're ready to start putting in new flooring and walls." The water has remained turned on for the past year and a half, just because it seemed easier to leave it on and pay the minimal monthly fee, so our uninvited guests had been reasonably good about cleaning up after themselves. And as long as they didn't hurt the house, what harm was there? Stupid, I suppose, but I think both Kenny and I were kinda hoping they might just burn the place down or something, as we've been a bit ambivalent about rebuilding.

Stylish!

E's first attempt at picking out her own outfit.
I think it was a great success.

Halloween 2006

Perhaps it was cruel to dress my daughter up in this fluffy bunny costume for Halloween when it was probably about 75 degrees outside last night, but I just couldn't resist. A complete stranger even stopped us on the street to take her picture, declaring her the cutest bunny ever. (And of course, I agreed.) Needless to say, E got plenty of candy and was more than happy to share with Tchoups.

Happy Halloween

Lower 9th Ward

The Chair

When we came back to New Orleans in December 2005, after three months away, I became one of those people who immersed myself in the misery tour, driving around and around the hardest-hit areas, over and over again, taking pictures of what I saw. I'm sure I wasn't alone in this somewhat weird hobby, as there were usually plenty of other people driving around snapping pictures, a mixture of locals and tourists.

In addition to wanting to save the pictures for posterity, so that someday my grandchildren could pull out the pictures that Grandma took during the great (federal) flood of '05, it was my way of dealing with what had happened--being in places where the landscape looked like I felt made me feel better--kind of like visiting the grave of a loved one, I suppose. Clearing out my own flood-destroyed home made me feel lonely, while being out in the greater community of grief made me feel, at least, like I wasn't alone.

In the process of sorting through the pictures I had taken during the year after Katrina, I noticed a lot of details in the pictures that I hadn't originally seen while focusing on the larger frame. An infant carrier wedged under the chain link fence next to where a house once stood. A wall switch hanging from a plywood stud, the wall long gone. A teddy bear propped up next to a pile of debris.

One thing that really stood out was a chair--a beige, non-descript recliner, that sat beside a destroyed house in the Lower Ninth Ward. The gentleman whose mother lived in the house, as I recall, found her body in it in December of 2005, well after the official search for bodies had taken place. I didn't really think about the chair, sitting at the side of the house, until I had all three pictures I had taken side by side--one in December 2005, one in April 2006 and one in August 2006. And there the chair was, in each of the photos.

Everyone knows that our recovery process is slow and shaky--but it still floors me, knowing that that chair sat there for over a year. I keep trying to find the words to describe how it has made me feel--just one more sad symbol of a city abandoned. Would people in other parts of the country be surprised to know this? Whenever I leave the city, people ask me the inevitable question, "How are things in New Orleans these days?" I want to tell them about the chair, but I don't. I'm not sure they'd understand.

Which picture was taken four months after Katrina? Eight months after? Twelve months after? I'll leave it for you to decide.