A Google Epiphany

I just figured it out--all of this time, I've been wondering if there's some weird definition of "gris" that I don't know about, other than when it's used in the context of "gris-gris." You see, people keep ending up at this blog via the google, where, as I believe I've mentioned, they type in weird-ass things like "big ass gris," "gris porn," and "gris on my body."

They're not trying to type gris. They're trying to type girls and are just terrible typists. (They probably don't blog much.)

Maybe this occurred to everyone else a long time ago, but I just got that. Duh.

Up on the Roof

Did I mention that I moved into my office? (Why yes, you've mentioned that several times now.) How about pluses and minuses to my new office? Have I mentioned those? No? Okay, here we go.

Fill In the Blank....

Way back in the dark ages, when I was pregnant with Emmeline, I signed up for one of those sites where you get a weekly email telling you what to expect during that week of your pregnancy, what to expect now that your child is XX weeks, months old, etc.

Now that Emmeline is officially a pre-schooler, the emails have narrowed down to one maybe every couple of months. Usually, they languish away in my inbox, with me always meaning to open them and read what words of wisdom they may have but never finding the time to do so.

I had to laugh this afternoon when one appeared in my inbox. The title, which was too long to show up fully, was abbreviated to "Your 4-Year-Old: Your Little...."

My little what? Oh, the words I could use to finish that sentence....The correct answer is "Your Little Reporter," but I prefer some of the answers I came up with, which I won't repeat here.

Dear Crawfish Gods:

Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for letting this story happen in Lafayette rather than in New Orleans. After the whole teenager stabbing a bus driver story, we could use a little break. What kind of idiot tries to force their child to eat an entire crawfish, shell and all?

On the plus side, I think I just got a point in the game my husband and I like to play, "Whose Native State Contains More Jackasses?"

Random Musings #7

I haven't had a chance in the past couple of days to do my usual perusal of pretty much every NOLA blog known to man, but in light of the news that's come out over the past few days, I'm willing to make a wager right now that the phrase "Shanghai surprise" is making the circuit. Time will tell when I have a chance to surf. I'm also willing to go out on a big limb here and predict that people in New Orleans are not exactly broken up over the fact that our mayor is being quarantined in China. How could our city government get any worse? I, for one, will not be pining for C. Ray's return.

As I said in a FB posting, I am so officially old now. Yes, I will be FORTY in 20 days (technically, 19 days and two hours, but who's counting?). For the most part, I feel okay about this whole aging thing. Would I like to go back and be 17 for a couple of days? God, yes. But it's okay--I've had 15 years to get used to gray hair (thank you, Ms. Clairol) and all of the other joys that go along with aging. But the thing that still kinda disturbs me and makes me realize that I really am officially middle-aged now (other than the screaming at children to get off my lawn) is the fact that I'm so out of the Top 40, Entertainment Tonight loop that it's not even funny. Who in the hell is Shia LaBouef? I see his name all over the place now. I have no idea of who he is, and I don't care--I'm not even willing to google it and find out who this guy that all of the teeny-boppers are swooning over is. Did I mention that everyone should get off my lawn?

Thank God I'm Normal, aka Conversations With a Four-Year-Old, Volume Three

I have discovered a post that, in my humble opinion, is the funniest damn mom-blogging post ever. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Watch Your Mouth. Go read it. It's well worth it.

And now, in the spirit of that honesty, I'll share my own watch your mouth moment, otherwise known as Conversations With a Four-Year-Old....

E: *#$%^&*!

Me: What did you just say?

E: Sorry, Mommy. I said f*ck. But it's okay, because I was just talking to my Barbie because she won't let me put her damn clothes on. I wasn't talking to you.

I really honestly can't imagine where she's heard such language....

The People on the Bus are Carrying Knives

Sometimes, when the crime in New Orleans seems particularly out of control, like, oh, every day, I wonder why there are so many people in the world who seem to have no sense of responsibility and absolutely no moral compass. I wonder why people are so willing to solve their disputes with violence and why they don't know any better.

And then, when something particularly disturbing happens, it makes me remember how many people there are in this world who don't have responsible parents or authority figures in their lives and don't have anyone to teach them the difference between right and wrong.

Like this story--"RTA Bus Driver Stabbed by Young Woman in Stroller Dispute." How screwed up do you have to be to get on a bus with your two-and-a-half-year-old, get offended when the bus driver tells you to fold up your stroller, and decide that the appropriate response is to throw milk in the bus driver's face and then stab her with a steak knife?

The perpetrator is a 17-year-old girl, which means that she got pregnant at 13 or 14. I have no idea of whether her parents are in the picture, but you do have to wonder what, if anything, she's been taught if she thinks it's appropriate to stab someone over a minor dispute. Another child having children. I hope like hell she gets some help, for her sake and for her child's.

Depressing.

Really, Riley?

This is enough to scare the hell out of me. Please, dear God, let us be smart enough not to elect Warren Riley as mayor. I think that could just be the final nail in New Orleans' coffin.

And speaking of that jackass, why is it still considered news when the FBI ranks us as the murder capital of the U.S. and then Riley comes out to dispute the FBI's designation by spouting off something similar to "Blah, blah, blah, the census figures are wrong. Blah, blah, blah, crime rates are down." Great. Crime rates are down. We're still watching people around here get killed on an almost-daily basis.

My favorite part of the Times-Pic story on the population dispute is this: "Using the highest of [the] population estimates, the city last year recorded 55 murders per 100,000 residents. The number used by the FBI notches that up to 64 murders per 100,000 people. St. Louis has the nation's second-highest rate, about 47 murders per 100,000 people."

So, even if we do have 45,000 more people than the U.S. Census Bureau originally gave us credit for, as Riley insists, we're still killing people at a higher rate than anyone else. I don't know of anyone who thinks that the responsibility for the astronomical murder rate in this city rests solely with the NOPD. But coming out and denying that murder rate by saying that the FBI's numbers are wrong is NOT making anyone feel better--especially when this is about the fourth year in a row that Riley's trotted out that tired excuse.

I think that's one of the things that drives me up the wall the most about the Nagin administration. Not a single damn one of them will ever just be honest and admit that there's a problem--they're always trying to spin, spin, spin.

God, how I can't wait for these idiots to be gone. Surely we can't do any worse, right?

A Four-Year-Old First

This morning around 6:30 a.m., I was sitting on the back porch having my usual breakfast of champions of a Coke and a cigarette. Then, all of a sudden, the clouds parted, angels with harps appeared, and the Hallalujah chorus began playing around me.

In other words, today was the first morning EVER (or since she learned how to talk, at least) that my daughter woke up, came out and found me on the porch, and didn't start immediately demanding that I turn on the bathroom light, turn on some cartoons, get her some cereal, get her some juice, cover her with a blanket, etc., all of which should be done RIGHT. THIS. VERY. MINUTE.

Instead, we sat on the porch together for about 10 minutes and had a conversation about dogs and squirrels. And then we calmly walked into the house together and I got her some breakfast and turned on the Disney Channel. And THEN, she got dressed. By herself.

If this is what people have been talking about in regards to how delightful it is to have a four-year-old, sign me up for more, please!

The Google, Again

Dear Google Users:

You're really starting to creep me out a bit. All because of this post, you people keep ending up at my site, with your weird-ass questions, like, "Is it okay to give my two-year-old Xanax?" and "Xanax for a four-year-old."

The answer, in case you were really wondering, is NO. No, you cannot give your child prescription drugs. Okay? Does that make it clear? Now go google something about "funky grits" or "grits porn" or something else weird and let me be, okay? Maybe I should change the name of this blog to "No, you cannot give your child Xanax, even if you really wish they'd be quiet, just for a little while." Sheesh.

Now, just for the fun of it, let's type "hallucinogenics and toddlers" and see who ends up here....

I Want to Play, Too!

Following the lead of Jeffrey and Kelly, here’s what I was up to 81 days after Katrina—trying to explain to the insurance company that I had no idea of where my car ended up after it went under a 30+ foot storm surge in Bay St. Louis. Ah, good times.

Other misty-water colored memories of that time include getting into serious discussions with my husband (some including yelling, crying, and screaming) as to whether we should move back to New Orleans or not, while we lived in an unfurnished house in Atlanta that someone had been kind enough to loan to us until we figured out where in the hell to go. And then there's the laugh-a-minute memories from around Day 81 like fighting with Allstate about whether or not our house would be declared a total loss, fighting with Allstate about why they kept reassigning us to a different adjustor, and coming to terms with the fact that everything we owned at the time fit into a couple of Rubbermaid plastic containers, thanks to Katrina. I think I would’ve preferred a first-class, all-expenses paid trip to Jamaica, too, mon.

To see what we’re talking about, go here—81 Days Later, Life Was a Beach

Oh, happy days.

Ah, Spring - Part Two

Have I mentioned how much I really dislike the wide world of insects found in New Orleans in springtime? At least I'm used to palmetto bugs (aka, big-ass flying cockroaches)--they're gross, but they're familiar. But stinging hairy caterpillars? Those huge gigantic mosquitos that are about 20 times the size of a normal mosquito? And what in God's name are those weird-ass bugs that look like beetles wearing a shell and then spin around on the ground making horrible noises? Really, what in God's name are those?

Yesterday evening, K, Emmeline, and I were sitting on the porch, hanging out, when all of sudden, this bug cruised up and over the chair Emmeline was sitting in. I guess it was a beetle of some sort, but it was black with white stripes. It looked like a zebra. With a horn. I've never before in my life seen one of those.

But anyway--the point of this story. Tonight, I tried to tough it out and sit on the porch, Formosan termite swarms be damned. And I did just fine there, for a while, killing them as they landed on my arms and legs. But then one landed on my head and tried to burrow into my scalp. My porch-sitting time for this evening is officially over. I'll be picking termite bits out of my hair for the rest of the night.

Ah, spring in New Orleans. I'm off now to turn off all the lights in the house in a futile effort to keep the termites out.

Edit: A big-ass flying cockroach just swooped down on me. He was probably trying to get the termite in my hair. I am so moving to Alaska.

Conversations With A Four-Year-Old, Volume Two

A conversation that took place at 3:00 a.m.

E: Mommy, wake up. Mommy?

Me: Uhnnnnnn.

E: Mommy, wake up. I don't feel good.

Me: What's wrong, sweetie?

E. My tummy hurts. I think I have the swan flu.

Progress, Part Two

The "recovery" is moving along at a rapid-fire, lightning-quick pace now. Only 44 months later, the flooded-out, abandoned house that sat a block down on our street since Katrina, complete with moldy furniture, was finally demolished. Progress, people! Next up, cranes on the skyline....

Four-Year-Old Blues

Lately, I feel like I can't do anything right when it comes to mothering. Everyone has told me how wonderful four-year-olds are, that they're finally in a sweet, agreeable, tantrum-free phase, and some of the time, I agree with them. Emmeline is funny, and smart, and sweet. But she's also incredibly defiant, and I'm incredibly tired.

It seems like lately that everything is a battle. And I mean everything. It starts off in the morning with her arguing about what I'm fixing her for breakfast, we then move into an argument over whether or not she can have candy after breakfast, and then transition into the battle over what clothes, shoes, and underwear to wear to school. Believe me, I let her pick whenever possible--even when that means she goes off to school in a dress that's too short and is wrinkled beyond belief and is accessorized with a pair of scuffed-up old shoes that are worn on the wrong feet (for some strange reason, she prefers them to be on the wrong feet).

A Question?

Has anyone ever noticed? That Travers Mackel? Can't report the news? Without sounding like? A teenaged girl? Who makes every sentence? Sound like a question? Am I the only one? Who finds this? Really irritating? And thinks that he needs? Some coaching? And that WDSU? Is quite possibly? The cheesiest local television? News channel?

Just wondering. I don't know why I even watch their evening newscast, as none of the reporters really do it for me. And their constant patting of themselves on the back has me rolling my eyes constantly. I guess I watch it out of habit, because I like ol' Roop in the morning, and I prefer NBC nightly news at night.

But still? Travers Mackel is really irritating. As is Fletcher. And don't even get me started on how happy I am that the stupid DARN scale retired with Dan. And get off my lawn.

Conversations With a Four-Year-Old, Volume One

E: Mommy, Ryan was talking about his tee-tee at school today. He has a tee-tee because he's a boy.

Me: Yes, that's right. Ryan's a boy.

E: Yeah, he's a boy, but I told him I didn't want to hear about his tee-tee. I told him that's biscusting.

Me: Biscusting?

E: Yeah. Biscusting. That's when something's really gross.

A Quiz

If you woke up at 4:00 a.m., realized that your husband had never made it home from work, then called his cell phone and discovered it was either turned off or the battery was dead, what would you do?

A. Call his cell phone obsessively every 5-8 minutes in the hopes that he'd eventually turn it on and answer it.

B. Start calling hospitals to see if he'd been in an accident.

C. Start calling police departments to see if he'd been arrested.

D. All of the above.

I went with option D and didn't get a lot of sleep last night. I've never been so happy in my life to see him as when he finally showed up around 7:00 a.m. Of course, I was extremely irritated with him as well. Turns out his boss asked him to stay at the restaurant all night and re-inventory the food, as they discovered last week that there was some sort of error that was resulting in their food costs being off by about $150K. He just forgot to mention that to me. And forgot to charge his cell phone.

Husbands. Will they never get the whole "call me if you're going to be late" thing?

What I Learned Today

Whew--it's over. The grand opening of our new office and all of the minutiae that were involved in pulling it off are done. Now, for the things I learned today:

1. If you send out 1,200 invitations to an event, consider yourself fortunate if 50 people reply to the requested RSVP.
2. It's hard to plan how much food to have for an event when no one RSVPs.
3. When people who didn't RSVP show up at the event, expect some of them to complain about the fact that there isn't enough food to go around.
4. It seems that some people live for showing up at an event so that they can complain about the logistics of it.
5. If you feed them, they will come.
6. Portabello mushroom tarts taste a lot better than they look. They kinda look like something you'd scrape off of your shoe in horror.
7. Some adults get waaaayyyy more excited about free pens than they should.
8. My new office is pretty.
9. Some people get really pissy when they don't have a pre-printed name tag because they didn't RSVP. My advice? Get over it.
10. I now remember why I got out of the PR/special events business.
11. All in all, it went really well.

 I can haz my raise now, please?

Note to Self

Try to be a lighter sleeper the next time Emmeline sneaks into your room at 5:00 a.m., finds the nail polish in your bedside table, and proceeds to paint her toenails and fingernails. And her toes. And her ankles. And her calves. And her fingers. And her wrists. And her forearms. And the sofa. And the coffee table. And the rug. And the floor. And the Elmo chair.

P.S. Find a new hiding place for the fingernail polish. And buy more nail polish remover.

CEJ+

Dear Charles:

I love you. I miss you. I remember you. I wish you were still here. It seems wrong that you're not. You should be 30 years old. You should be married. You should have kids, or at least one on the way. You should be here. You should be playing with Emmeline and be her favorite uncle. We should be sitting on Mom and Nick's porch, catching up on what's going on in each other's lives. You should have a good job that you love. You should be making Mom and Nick and Patty and Paul proud of the man you've turned out to be. You should be the brother that I love to hang out with during the holidays. You should be the person who's found himself. You should be here.

You should be here. I try to tell myself that you moved on because you were ready to do so--because you had one of the kindest, wisest souls that I've ever known. And it's true. But you should still be here. We weren't ready for you to go.

Eight years. I love you. I miss you. I remember you.

Charles Eric Johnson. 1978-2001.

I Think I Would've Gone With Mary Jane

My favorite part of the story appearing in the Times-Pic this morning entitled "NO Man Convicted of Attack on Tourist" would have to be this:

Rayfield, who was acquitted of an armed robbery charge in 2003, took the witness stand in his own defense, saying that after a night out with a friend on Bourbon Street he was walking up to his sister's apartment in the Iberville when police grabbed him and slammed his head into the wall.
His sister, Marijuana Rayfield, also testified for the defense that her brother couldn't have been involved in the crime that morning.
The jury deliberated for 1 1/2 hours before finding Rayfield guilty as charged.

Can someone please explain to me why you'd even consider naming your child Marijuana?

Us Versus Them

I don't know why this stuff still gets to me. Almost four years later, you'd think I'd be over it. That I would have long since grown accustomed to the callousness, insensitivity, and downright meanness of some of my fellow Americans. But after seeing the ridiculous mid-west flooding versus Katrina comparisons begin anew, it still brings out the same reaction in me that it would have in 2005. It makes my head start buzzing and my heart start pounding. It makes me want to cry and punch something at the same time.

If you haven't already, please go read Scout Prime's excellent post on the false comparisons that are being drawn between the recent flooding in North Dakota and the flooding in New Orleans after Katrina. She says it much better than I can.

I talked with an old boyfriend on Facebook recently, for the first time in oh, about 20 years. After telling him that I'd lived in New Orleans for the past 10+ years, had gone through Katrina, etc., his response was interesting. He said he'd been one of those people that sat around in their living rooms, watching the coverage of Katrina, and commenting on what idiots we all were for living there in the first place, etc. He said that I was the first person he knew of that actually lived in the area and was affected by Katrina and that, to be quite honest, he felt like a bit of an asshole for his earlier analysis. His comments didn't offend me--at least he was honest about it.

The Google

Today's odd Google search that led someone here: "Can chihuahuas have grits?"

I'm seriously concerned about some of the weirdos out there on the internets, a large portion of whom seem to end up at my blog. I'm also concerned about the fact that this blog seems to come up as the likeliest place to look for answers to some of y'all's very weird questions.

A Question

If you live next to railroad tracks that are pretty much in regular use by freight trains, and the weather is bad enough that all of the meteorologists are saying that tornadoes are a possibility and to listen for the tell-tale sound of a freight train, what do you do when you actually hear a freight train? Snatch up your daughter and immediately run and hide in the bathtub, since your house isn't large enough to have an interior room? Or hope it really is just a freight train and ignore it?

This is what I was thinking last night around midnight. Luckily for me, there were no sounds of approaching freight trains, either caused by actual freight trains or by tornadoes. Man, that was quite a thunderstorm, though--it sounded like bombs going off.

I think Kelly had a good point--maybe this weather will keep a few more people off of the streets who might ordinarily be out and about looking for someone to shoot. Come to think of it, I didn't hear about any overnight murders on the news this morning. Maybe we're on to something here....

Laying Odds

So, should we start placing bets now on when the inevitable comparisons will begin anew, contrasting those hard-working, earnest mid-westerners in Fargo, as they battle to keep their town from flooding, with New Orleanians, those shiftless, lazy, morons who just sat around whining and asking for hand-outs after Katrina?

Random Musings #6

The Directv receiver/DVR that's attached to the ridiculously large (by my standards) television in our living room broke about a week ago. Did you know that if you have service through Directv, even though you pay them a subscription fee of $75 a month, you're on your own if any of the equipment breaks, unless you've opted to pay them a $7/month maintenance fee? So now, in order to have television in our living room again, I have to pay $100 for a new receiver AND agree to a new 24-month contract for services. Correct me if I'm wrong, but if I had a receiver through Cox and it broke, wouldn't they give me a new one for free? Isn't that part of the whole service contract? We give you equipment to use our service, and if it breaks, we'll replace it? Yes, I looked into just telling Directv to go screw themselves and going with Cox, but the price that they want to come out and install cable at our house is even more than it'll cost to replace the damn receiver.

I hate cable companies and electric companies--can someone explain to me again why monopoly laws don't apply to them? Note to self--tag this post with "Directv Sucks" and "Entergy Sucks." Might as well not let Allstate have all of the fun, as someone from that fine company ends up at this blog at least once a month after doing an internet search for "Allstate Sucks." Which it does. Big time.

The Princess Turns Four

Emmeline and her princess-licious cake.

Ah, Spring

Oh, how I love spring in New Orleans. The weather is lovely, daylight savings time goes into effect, and it's nice enough to sit outside on the porch in the evenings.

How can I tell spring has arrived in New Orleans? Why, by the big-ass flying cockroach that scuttled across my floor this morning. I was still groggy and not quick enough to stomp him with my shoe, so I'm sure he's lying in wait for me now. He's probably in our bedroom, cruising in and out of the closet, and perhaps taking little rest breaks on my pillow as I type this.

We'll know that spring has fully sprung once the buckmoth caterpillars take over the trees, streets, and sidewalks and start stinging us. As Emmeline says, "Don't touch the hairy caterpillars!" My four-year-old is a smart girl.

Ah, spring.

A Letter to My Daughter, 03/09

Dear Emmeline:

Four years have passed since you were born, and, as mentioned earlier, all of my well-intentioned plans to keep a journal of your babyhood and toddler years haven’t panned out. I really meant to do it, I promise, but like most parents, overcome with the task of the actual parenting, I haven’t often taken the time to put my thoughts into words. And now, in the blink of an eye, my baby girl is four.

You were such a beautiful, easy baby. I rarely remember you crying after the first few weeks-- once I learned what you needed from me, which was not much, other than love, you were about as happy as a baby can be.

There were many, many times when I had absolutely no clue what I was doing and was convinced I was going to be a failure as a mother, like on our first night together, in the hospital. Kenny and I had no earthly idea of why you were crying and tried everything to get you to stop--feeding you, changing you, rocking you, singing to you, putting you in your bassinet, all to no avail. When we finally called the nursery to ask the nurse on duty if she had any advice, her answer was simple. “Do you have a pacifier? If so, then give it to her.” And we gave you the pacifier, and you stopped crying--as simple as that. We had several more sleepless nights those first few weeks after you were born, while we were still muddling our way through this new relationship—I remember one night in particular, when I couldn't get you to sleep, no matter what I did. I finally gave up, and the two of us watched Purple Rain together--it's amazing what you can find on television at 3:00 a.m. (You seemed to prefer the scenes with Morris Day and the Time as opposed to Prince, but you were an infant, so I'll forgive you.)

Mardi Gras, Take One

Random Musings #5

Does every large office building have a crazy person who insists on talking to anyone and everyone in the elevator? You know the one--the person who asks about your weekend and you say it was fine. Then, because it's the polite thing to do, you ask how her weekend was. And then you get to listen to a monologue that lasts all the way to the 18th floor, with multiple stops on the way up to let other people onto the elevator. And all the way up, you have to nod politely while the crazy person tells you about her trip to the gynecologist, and then somehow that segues into her telling you all about the terrible fight that her husband and her daughter had over the weekend. And all of the other people in the elevator are looking at you with sympathy, because you're the one that got stuck talking to crazy lady today. Or even worse, they don't realize that you're not friends with crazy lady and they think you're crazy by association, because why in the world are the two of you (even though crazy lady is the one doing all of the talking) having this wildly inappropriate conversation in front of 10 other people in the elevator? We have one of those. Today was my day to be her elevator friend. Have I mentioned that we don't work together and don't know each other outside of the confines of the elevator? Crazy. Lady.

If I ever win the lottery, my dream is to immediately run out and buy the biggest, heaviest, tank-like old car I can find. Perhaps an old Cadillac or something. And then, when I'm out driving in my very large, very heavy car, I will simply stop avoiding wrecks. That jerk who gets in the left-turn only lane and then forces me to slam on my brakes in order to avoid him when he goes straight and cuts me off? No more braking for you, buddy. Ditto to the people who run traffic lights, slam on their brakes for no apparent reason, swerve into my lane while reading the paper or talking on the phone, or try to get around me in a traffic jam by taking the emergency lane. I won't go out and purposely seek out ways to get into accidents, mind you. I'll just stop avoiding accidents because of the stupidity of other people. After I've had my fill of not avoiding accidents, next up on the list is traveling around the country to ride all of the biggest, tallest roller coasters I can find. And then perhaps a nice relaxing vacation in Italy.

If Mardi Gras krewes don't have a code of conduct for their float riders, they should. Maybe I'm just getting old and cranky, but I think it's incredibly tasteless when a rider starts making the universal sign for "show me your tits" at a girl along the parade route and thinks that's a fair trade for a string of plastic beads. Despite what you see on television, the majority of Mardi Gras really is attended by families--save that stuff for the drunk tourists in the Quarter. I once had a rider request that I "hop like a bunny" in exchange for a string of beads. I'm sure you can imagine the universal sign I gave him. Don't be an ass just because you're on a float. Thankfully, most of the float riders are great and want nothing more than eye contact and an enthusiastic "Hey!" for their beads.

I'm swamped at work, again. I think it's highly inconsiderate that NIH set a due date of the Friday before Mardi Gras for grant progress reports. I'm kidding, mostly. But they do seem to have a knack for setting their deadlines around holiday weekends. If I ever get to take off for Thanksgiving, 4th of July, Memorial Day, etc. without having to kill myself to meet their deadlines, I'll be a happy camper.

The move to my new office is coming along and should happen right on schedule, around April. I'm trying not to think too much about the fact that one of my co-workers told me that the fire alarm doesn't work up on the 25th and 26th floors and that I should probably make sure I have a buddy on a lower floor who'll be kind enough to call and let me know if the need to evacuate the building ever comes up. That's slightly disturbing, considering I've already been abandoned at work once before. I used to be the public relations person for a government agency and was responsible for not only taking pictures for use in publications but also developing said pictures. One Christmas Eve day, I was holed up in the darkroom for several hours. When I came out, the entire building was dark and locked up. The boss had uncharacteristically let everyone go home early for Christmas and no one had thought to come to the darkroom and tell me that. Good times.

On a related note, at that same job, I once wrote a long email to my mother, describing in great detail what an absolute jerk my boss was. Everyone--and I mean everyone--who worked for him hated his guts because he was such an egomaniacal tyrant. Anyway--I accidentally sent that email, meant for my mother, to a gentleman who worked for the state agency that was in charge of regulating our local agency. I have never in my life been so mortified as when he called to let me know he'd gotten the email. Thankfully, he thought my boss was a jerk as well and didn't forward the email on to him. The friends that I keep in touch with from that job still like to bring that story up. Needless to say, they thought it was much more entertaining than I did.

That's life on this end. See y'all after Mardi Gras.

Conversations With a Three-Year-Old, Volume 9

E: You're my bestest mommy. I like being around you all the time.

Me: Aw, thanks.

E: Except for when I don't like being around you.

Requiem – Eliza Gilkyson

Mother Mary, full of grace, awaken.
All our homes are gone, our loved ones taken.
Taken by the sea.

Mother Mary, calm our fears, have mercy.
Drowning in a sea of tears, have mercy.
Hear our mournful plea.

Our world has been shaken.
We wander, our homelands forsaken.
In the dark night of the soul, bring some comfort to us all.
Oh, Mother Mary, come and carry us in your embrace.
That our sorrows may be faced.

Mary, fill the glass to overflowing.
Illuminate the path where we are going.
Have mercy on us all.

In funeral fires burning,
each flame to your mystery returning.
In the dark night of the soul,
your shattered dreamers, make them whole.
Oh Mother Mary, find us where we’ve
fallen out of grace. Lead us to a higher place.

In the dark night of the soul, our broken hearts you can make whole.
Oh Mother Mary, come and carry us in your embrace.
Let us see your gentle face, Mary.

The City That Can't Forget Crime

New Orleans crime. It's on everyone's minds. At least, everyone in the New Orleans blogosphere. Clay. Eli. Maitri. Liprap. Amy. And too many others to count.

I picked up the Times-Pic yesterday and opened it to the metro section first, as I always do. I was immediately struck by the headlines. Of the 12 headlines, 8 of them referred to violent crimes committed in the city and surrounding parishes. "Juvenile court judge says 14-year-old Kenner boy can be held in killing of French Quarter bartender. "Son accused of killing father, beating mother." "5 wounded in shootings at Iberville." "Trial delayed for mother accused of arming son." Eight out of 12 of those articles. And if that wasn't bad enough, one of the articles of the remaining four was a report of a man being arrested for sexually molesting an eight-year-old girl. All of the letters to the editor were from people voicing their anger, their fear, and their disgust at the sad state we're in.

Conversations With a Three-Year-Old, Volume 8

E: Mommy, when I grow up, I want to be a doctor.

Me: Okay, that sounds great.

E: And a sea lion!

Whew! And Geese!

Well, that was a rough couple of weeks. I guess I had it coming, since work was incredibly slow during the entire month of December. I think I may have just made up for it, though, after the time I've had at work since getting back--V, a friend and co-worker, informed me on January 5th that she'd decided to go ahead and submit that research grant application after all. It normally takes about 4-6 weeks to prepare a federal grant application--we did this one in 9 days, with 7 whole minutes to spare before the FedEx guy showed up for the last pick-up of the night. I may or may have not cried a couple of times before it was all over. But thank god--it's DONE! And now I can do all of the other work that I've been neglecting for two weeks and that people are on my ass about! Yay, work!

And Emmeline has another infectious ailment and can't go back to school until some time next week. Ah, motherhood.

There were some positives over the past couple of weeks, too. First, K and I hosted a baby shower, along with some other friends, for a couple of our dearest and closest friends. A good time was had by all, I think, especially at the after-party. Who knew conversations involving Suze Orman and Fred Flintstone could be so entertaining?

The other plus is that I'm getting a raise! And a promotion! To management! And a new office! With a window! And a door! That's not a cubicle! Can you tell how excited I am?!? And, in the typical lightning-quick speed that accompanies all staff decisions at my job, all of this should go into effect by April! Or May! Not as excited now! Oh well.

And finally, is it just me? Because I think all of the people at 20/20, Dateline, the local news, etc. are just a wee bit disappointed with having to report the whole story of "A bunch of people were on a plane that crash-landed in the Hudson River! And they're just fine! And did we mention there were geese?!?" Right now, 20/20 is running a special on how the crash could have been much worse!!!!! They could have died, people! And there were geese! GEESE, I tell you! Be afraid!*

And that concludes yet another exciting Friday evening in my world. Watch out for geese.

*Sorry for all of the exclamation points!!!

Why I Fear Winning the Lottery

Yes, my husband loves Christmas lights. He thinks that everyone's house should look like Al Copeland's at Christmas. For the first, oh, ten or so years of our relationship, I fought this love K has of the "more is more" school of Christmas decorating. Then, I let him do it and got mildly embarrassed when people would come by the house.

This year, I just accepted that my yard was going to look like this. It's even my fault, a little, as when K first got started decorating, all he had up was the Abominable Snowman, the icicle lights, and one Santa. My response was, "If you're going to go tacky, go tacky all the way--this is half-assed."

Two days later, I came home to the above Christmas wonderland, complete with lights on the roof, two penguins (because nothing says Christmas in New Orleans like penguins), an inflatable Rudolph, complete with flashing nose, and the piece de resistance, the Snoopy Christmas countdown display.

If we ever win the lottery and K has an even larger house, a larger yard, and a larger budget, I am so screwed.

Random Musings #4

Well, thank God--Christmas is behind us. Don't get me wrong--I absolutely adore Christmas. As I type this, I'm sitting next to our Christmas tree--which is about as dead as a Christmas tree can get--and am delaying taking the lights down for another day or two. I love me some Christmas lights. And they have to be colored ones. Yes, yes, I know that some people think that colored Christmas lights are tacky, but so be it--to me they say Christmas. I would prefer colored blinking lights, but K absolutely draws the line at that one. He comes from the white Christmas lights school. Blech. Sorry, but BOR-ing. I'm sure I've now offended all three of the people who read this blog.

Anyway--it seemed like this Christmas went by way too quickly, but at the same time, I'm glad it's over. I guess that's what happens when you host both your and your husband's families at some point during the week of Christmas. (Hi, Mandy!) We had a very good time, but I was exhausted by the time it was all over, with five separate Christmas gatherings, all but one of which were at our house. One on Christmas Eve, one on Christmas day, one on the Saturday following Christmas at my mother's house, one on Monday night, and one on the Tuesday following Christmas.

So, I wanted it all to be a Martha Stewart Christmas--it was the first time that I've seen my mother AND my father AND my sister--all in the same room--on Christmas day--since 1981. And it all went pretty well, I think. Other than the fact that we didn't finally eat until 6:30, because we (or should I say I) decided to cook too many dishes. And then my husband set himself on fire. Not too badly, but nonetheless--having to find a Walgreen's that's open at 11:00 at night on Christmas so that you can go buy burn cream kinda puts a damper on the evening. Note to self--in the future, don't let the husband play with the new chimenea after he's had a few drinks.

Anyway--a Christmas summary:

• Number of eggnog daiquiris drank: 0 (I think that's why it just didn't feel like Christmas this year)
• Number of times I was irritated by extremely warm and humid weather: About 112
• Number of times I made warm apple cider: 0 (see, extremely warm and humid weather)
• Number of times I sadly threw one of my pretty new sweaters in the closet and pulled out some summer clothes: 3
• Number of times I visited Al Copeland's house: 2
• Number of times K and E visited Al Copeland's house: 4
• Number of times K got sad that this is really (no, REALLY!) the last year that Al Copeland's house will be decorated: I'd say about 6
• Number of times I apprehensively thought about the fact that if we ever win the lottery, my house will be the next Al Copeland's house: Approximately 4
• Number of times my husband caught himself on fire: 1
• Number of times I cried: 2 (see: husband, fire)
• Most expensive present purchased for E: A large, stuffed tiger for $30 (no, it is NOT an LSU tiger)
• Gift E found most exciting: A tube full of miniature plastic animals purchased for $3.
• Number of Christmas decorations that K put up in our yard: Hmmmm--15? 20? In between all of the inflatable snowmen, inflatable Rudolphs, Santas, and penguins, I lost count.
• Number of times E shoved her cousin Graham: At least 4, that we saw.
• Number of times that K and/or Sean played "Oh, Metairie" by the 12 Yats of Christmas: 432
• Number of times I wanted to shoot myself: 432

Let's see--what else. I realized on New Year's Eve that this is only my second NYE in New Orleans since I moved here in 1998. People, can y'all let the fireworks go just a little bit? Or go down to the river and watch the professional show? The fireworks started around my house at about 5:30 and kept on going until well after 1:00 a.m. As someone who was born and raised in a state where private fireworks are illegal, it got a little old after a while. Of course, I'm usually in Atlanta on NYE, hanging out with my sister and various friends, drinking too much and seeing who can make the most creative hat out of tin foil, so what do I know? I guess I should just be thankful that I didn't end up on the news, a fatality of a stray bullet.

Emmeline got a beautiful baby doll from her Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Sean, her godparents, for Christmas. In keeping with the "what's the weirdest name I can give one of my dolls or stuffed animals?" theme, she named it Hooga. Apparently, Hooga is Myga's sister.

My blog was visited by someone from Wasilla, Alaska. You don't think it could really be HER, do you? (Hi, Sarah!)

Speaking of which, where is Sterling? And hi to whomever is from there that's stopped by here.

I couldn't care less who wins the Sugar Bowl tonight.

Okay, 2009--this is it. I will be 40 this year. FORTY. Geez, I'm disturbed. Let's make it a good year, shall we?

Random Musings #3

K bought me a Bush countdown clock about a year ago as a joke. Every day, I'd see it hanging on my refrigerator and be a little bit depressed by how many days were on it--380, 250, etc. Now, when we've finally gotten down to the really exciting 30+ days to go, the damn thing broke. Guess I'll just have to content myself with our soon-to-be new president.

I'm not sure what to make of Louisiana being the first state to elect an Indian-American governor AND a Vietnamese-American congressman. Kinda makes us look somewhat progressive, even. Thank god we still have Nagin so we don't get too full of ourselves.

Conversations With a Three-Year-Old, Volume 7

On Monday night, Emmeline dropped the Rudolph snowglobe ornament we bought her, and it rolled under the big stuffed chair in our living room. I was in the kitchen at the time, and heard her crying like I haven't in quite a while--one of those full-on fear cries. I ran into the living room, found her stuck prone under the chair, and helped her get out. She wasn't hurt--just scared as hell.

Anyway, the next morning on the way to school, we had the following conversation.

E: Mommies are great people. They help you get out from under chairs when you're stuck.

Me: Yep, Mommies do help you get out from under chairs. What else do Mommies do?

E: Mommies wash dishes, and they read books to you, and sometimes they let you have treats.

Me: That's right. And what do Daddies do?

E: Daddies read the paper and drink coffee.

From the mouths of babes....

SNOW!!!

Yes, we all act like a bunch of children around here when it snows--it's just so damn rare. The last time was Christmas Day 2004, when we had the briefest of flurries and I was pregnant with E. Today was a full-fledged snow storm by my standards.

The sleet turned into snow around 8:00 a.m., right when E and I were on the way to her daycare. When we got there, she wanted to know if she could eat some snow off of the ground. I'm sure you can guess what my answer was.

When I got to work, I stood outside on the sidewalk on Canal Street for a while, just smiling and watching the snow fall. The guy who came out and stood next to me to smoke a cigarette was definitely not impressed. Turns out he just moved here from Michigan and was amazed at all of the people running around like school kids taking pictures of the snow.

I cruised around at about 9:30, right when the snow was coming down the thickest, and took some pictures on my camera phone. I'll be damned if I know how to get them off of my phone, though--I believe some special attachment is required?

So, the above are the shots I got from my office on the 18th floor.

I love snow. But not so much that I want to move to Michigan....

Conversations With a Three-Year-Old, Volume 6

E: NO, Mommy, I will NOT put my shoes on!

Me: Emmeline, who, exactly do you think you're talking to in that tone of voice?

E: Ummm, my shoes?

The Bagpipe Didn't Say No - Shel Silverstein

Just because it's my favorite poem from childhood, and I like the fact that if I post it on this blog, I'll have access to it for the foreseeable future, hurricanes be damned.

It was nine o'clock at midnight at a quarter after three
When a turtle met a bagpipe on the shoreside by the sea,
And the turtle said, "My dearie, May I sit with you? I'm weary."
And the bagpipe didn't say no.

Conversations With a Three-Year-Old, Volume 5

E: Mommy, I like that Shrek guy.

Me: Yes, he's funny, isn't he? He's a nice ogre.

E: Yogurt? I don't really like yogurt. Especially not the strawberry kind. The strawberries are too small. I like big strawberries--I really like those ones that Gigi makes with the dip. But I like Shrek--he's a nice yogurt.

Conversations With the Father of a Three-Year-Old

Me: Why are you taping the Wizard of Oz?

K: I thought Emmeline might like it.

Me: The girl who has screaming nightmares about the Care Bears and an imaginary frog in her closet? How do you think she'll feel about the Wicked Witch of the West?

K: Yeah, now that you mention it, I guess the flying monkeys probably wouldn't go over real well, either.

Me: Not unless you want her sleeping in our bed until she's 12.

K: (Deletes Wizard of Oz.)

A Letter to My Daughter, 11/08

Dear Emmeline:

You are a funny, funny child. At least a couple of times each day, you say something that cracks me and your father up, often much to our dismay--like the times when we're trying to discipline you and you say something outrageous, which leads to both of us holding back laughter and smiles and flashing each other looks across the room. We try really hard to be stern when the situation calls for it, but sometimes we just want to collapse in laughter as a result of some of the things you come up with.

Your favorite game in the whole wide world right now is when I or K blow raspberries on your stomach. You think this is hilarious and will lie on your back with your arms spread wide, screeching, "Do it again, do it again!" Your second favorite game is pretending that you're going to kiss K and instead giving him a raspberry on his cheek. You then scream out "I tricked you!" and dissolve into hysterical giggles.

I Voted for Barack Obama Because...

This post has been percolating in my head for awhile--let's see if I can get it out.

I voted for Barack Obama because I'm tired of the terrible turn that political discourse has taken in this country. And during the past eight years, I can count myself among the people who have, at times, been blinded by anger and intolerance when discussing politics, even with people that I love and value dearly.

I voted for Barack Obama because I want my country back--the country that I believe in. The country in which we don't torture people, no matter who they are, because it's wrong. Because it's immoral. Because how can we lead by the power of our example when we're on the wrong side of the argument? It doesn't matter whether the people we're torturing are terrorists or really, really bad people, or whether they really might be the key to that elusive ticking time bomb. Did you ever stop to think that some of them are most definitely innocent? Torture is wrong. America is better than that.

11.04.08, Part Two

Thrilled beyond belief....

11.04.08

Home

I saw this a few months back and meant to post it then but got distracted, so thanks to Leigh C. for reminding me. I can't watch this without wanting to weep--it says a lot about what people in this area lost after Katrina. Not just a house, but a home.

Home

A Letter to My Daughter, 10/08

Dear Emmeline:

You're three-and-a-half now, rapidly going on 30, and I thought that it was about time that I started something that I've meant to do for your three-plus years here, which is to write to you. I started with good intentions--I bought a leather-bound journal when I was pregnant with you, and even recorded a few thoughts in it, starting with the night you were born.

But then, of course, Katrina happened, and all of my good intentions fell by the wayside.

Anyway--you won't see any of this for quite some time to come. Some day, I suppose, I'll decide that the time is right to let you know that your mom is also a person, and I'll clue you in to this blog, if it still exists. I have a feeling, though, that that day is a long way away--I don't think my mother gave me the gift of knowing her as both a person and as a mom until I was around 25.

Tonight, I thought I'd start off by telling you about me.

I'm a sentimental fool, often to my detriment--I almost always look back on my past--and the people who were important to me--with fond memories, regardless of how things may have ended--ex-boyfriends, long-lost friends, all those "I wonder whatever happened to..." people. I have a hard time letting go of people who were once important to me, and I'm a firm believer in letting bygones be bygones.

I'm an ISFJ, which means that I have a hard time expressing my feelings (except semi-anonomously, via this blog) unless I feel extremely comfortable with someone. It also means that I can be too sensitive and too self-conscious. I'm working on it.

When I was pregnant with you, my hormones, like those of most pregnant women, swung wildly. I went from being the even-tempered person that my family and friends know to a crazy person on occasion, most memorably when I yelled at an elderly woman in the grocery store (she started it) and the time I threw the vacuum cleaner across the living room because the hose was clogged. (That one really freaked out your father.)

After you were born, my hormones, like those of most post-partum women, swung wildly. I went from euphoric highs to the lowest of lows. During the first six weeks of your life, I regularly sat in the kitchen each afternoon and cried. When K would ask what was wrong, the only answer I could give--which was completely truthful--was "I don't know."

Stray animals know that I'm a sucker. Just ask Boo-Boo, one of our cats, who came to live with us 11 years ago (bearing that name, I might add), when my friend Curtis, who was an animal control warden, called to tell me that there was the cutest kitten at the shelter who was scheduled to be euthanized that day. Or Betty-Kitty, our other cat (and I have to take full blame for that name), who joined our household 10 years ago, after she finally learned to trust me after she showed up at our house one day and lived under our porch, only coming out for food, for about six months. Or Lola, the stray chihuahua/min-pin/I-don't-really-know-what-in-the-hell-she-was that found us and lived with us for a few months until we found her a home, because I'm a sucker and didn't have it in me to take her to the shelter. Or hell, ask the rats that took up residence in our house after Katrina, that I didn't want your father to poison.

I can be cranky, irrational, bitchy, and/or selfish. I'm working on it.

Some of my favorite movies are the Shawshank Redemption, the Straight Story, and Immortal Beloved. Yes, those movies are, respectively, about a prison breakout, a guy that drives across the mid-west on a lawn mower, and Beethoven. Did I mention that I'm weird? If it makes you feel any better, my favorite books are Where the Redfern Grows, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, and To Kill a Mockingbird. And the movie version of Mockingbird was great as well--Gregory Peck will always be Atticus Finch.

Speaking of To Kill a Mockingbird, I asked K when we found out we were having a daughter if he would consider the name Scout. I won't repeat his answer here. I was really surprised when he liked the name Emmeline, as that was another one I threw out there thinking I didn't have a chance in hell of getting agreement on. (See, ferry--or fairy.)

I'm really looking forward to passing my suitcase full of Barbie clothes along to you--one of the few things that survived Katrina. As soon as I find it in the attic and wash all of the dead roaches that you know are hiding in there out of the clothes, it's all yours. I hope that you're a little gentler on them than you've been on the Barbie dolls I handed over to you--so far, you've ripped the heads off of Mrs. Sunshine Family, California Barbie, and Skipper. Mr. Sunshine Family, Ken, and Plain Old Barbie are hanging in there, but their future looks pretty grim.

The sleep-aid commercials with Abraham Lincoln and the talking beaver really crack me up, as do the Filipino prisoners performing Michael Jackson's Thriller. But nothing will ever compare to the dramatic gopher (who's really a prairie dog) for pure comedy gold.

I hate George W. Bush (and will be expecting a visit from the NSA to this blog shortly).

My favorite all-time joke, much to the dismay of everyone I know, is the one about the horse walking into the bar.

I think that just about covers it. You're probably a little bit disturbed now and wishing that you could have a different mother, but I'm afraid you're stuck with me. Sorry.

Love, Mom

Dear Canal Street Panhandler...

I can't speak for the other customers at the Chevron, but repeatedly slapping the hood of my car while screaming "Gimme two dollars!" is a pretty sure-fire way to not only scare the hell out of me but also make me very unlikely to give you any money.

You might want to work on your technique.

Sincerely, A

A Valediction Forbidding Mourning - John Donne

As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
"The breath goes now," and some say, "No."

So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.

Moving of the earth brings harms and fears;
Men reckon what it did, and meant;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers' love —
Whose soul is sense—cannot admit
Of absence, 'cause it doth remove
The thing which elemented it.

But we by a love so much refined,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss.

Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to aery thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.

And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.

Progress

I really need to get a life. The amount of excitement I feel about the fact that the FEMA trailer that has sat across the street from our house for the past three years (and vacant for two of those three years) is finally gone is a bit disturbing.

Yay! The trailer's gone! The trailer's gone! No more gigantic formaldehyde-ridden projectile across the street during hurricane season! No more above-ground sewage lines made of PVC piping!

Who knew that FEMA could act with such lightening speed to remove a vacant trailer? Only two years? That must be a new record! Progress, people!

Next up, cranes on the skyline....

Conversations With a Three-Year-Old, Volume 4

E: Mommy, guess what?

Me: What, sweetie?

E: I love you. You're the best mommy in the whole wide world.

Me: Aw, thank you.

E: You're welcome. Now leave me alone and go vacuum or something.

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.

Dear Neighborhood Gods...

I'd really appreciate it if you could get the new neighbor next door to stop wanting to have 15-minute conversations about what's going on in his life at 6:30 in the morning when I step outside still wearing my pajamas and just want to pick up my newspaper.

Also, if you could maybe convince him and his wife that sticking red and white plastic flowers in the grass isn't really the most tasteful landscaping option, that would be great.

Thanks.

Surfacing

I'm still alive, not that the lack of action on this blog has really been missed by anyone. I think I may have the dreaded blogger's block. I've been so immersed in meeting a deadline at work the past couple of weeks that I've had very little life outside of the office.

I'm supposed to be going to Atlanta this weekend to visit with family but am wondering if that's a really bad idea, given the gas shortages.

Jeez, my life is dull right now. And with that, I give you the latest weird google search to direct someone to my blog: "What happens if you eat spoiled crab?" Sorry I couldn't help y'all out with that one.

Speaking of the word y'all, I noticed last week that E has begun referring to me and K as y'all. We also discovered over the weekend that she loves boiled peanuts as much as I do. It's nice to know some of my Georgia genes carried over and that she's not 100% New Orleans.

Dear People at Work

This is a 24-story building that houses the offices of several hundred people. As you know, of the nine elevators in this building, only two or three are usually working at one time. Therefore, it would be very helpful if you wouldn't get on the elevator at the eighth floor just to ride up to the ninth floor. There are two staircases in the building, and I would be happy to point you in their direction. I'm not exactly the poster-child for physical fitness, but even I can manage walking up a few flights of steps rather than getting on the elevator to travel one or two floors.

Also, if you're going to use one of the restrooms, please flush the damn toilet. Your mother doesn't work here.

Thank you.

Conversations with a Three-Year-Old, Volume 3

Although not really a conversation, I thought this comment from E was too good to resist. Please note that the following occured in Atlanta, after E had suffered from days of evacu-pation (my new word for evacuation-induced constipation), which resulted in me having to use the dreaded glycerin suppositories.

E: You are NOT a good mommy and you are NOT my friend anymore! Now take that white thing out of my butt!

Good Riddance, Gustav

God, am I glad these past couple of weeks are over and that, thanks to Ike's change of heart, we don't have to do it all over again this week.

Our evacu-cation to Atlanta was more evacuation than vacation--Mom and I were too stressed out the first few days to do much other than get increasingly irritated at the coverage provided by the idiots on CNN, followed by mad dashes to the computer to watch live video from WDSU and Fox8 to find out what was really going on.

Oh, Google

Today's most bizarre Google search to bring someone to my blog: "my mom in strip club."

Sorry to disappoint, googler. No strip clubs here, other than that one picture in front of Larry Flynt's.

Watching, Waiting, Hoping

Angry, sad, scared. Not much more to say than that.

08.29.05

Created by WetBank Guy, one of the great NOLA bloggers. A beautiful tribute on the eve of this anniversary.

We are not all poor. We are not all "sitting around waiting for a handout." We are not all stupid for living here. But even if we were, we are still people. We are still Americans. We are your family members, your co-workers, your friends. And we still deserve dignity and respect, compassion and love.

On the Night Before My Evacu-cation

Onward to the ATL tomorrow. Spent the evening packing up clothes for me and clothes and toys for E, as well as making a list of things for K to pack up later on in the weekend if things look bad. After packing only 3 pairs of shorts and some t-shirts when leaving for Katrina, which didn't come in real handy 3+ months later in winter in Atlanta, I had to restrain myself from throwing everything I own into my suitcase. Luckily, I really don't love most of my clothes that much. As those of you who know me will agree, high fashion isn't nearly as important to me as comfy.

Even though they're still predicting that Gustav will hit us, I don't really believe it yet. Yes, I went around the house and looked every room up and down, trying to decide what things I would really, really miss if they were gone--needless to say, the list is relatively small, as we've only had three years to re-accumulate things.

Premature Evacuation

As luck would have it, I have a trip to Atlanta planned for the weekend to see my sister. Currently, my mom, E and I are planning to drive to ATL on Friday and come back home on Tuesday. I guess we'll have to wait and see whether driving back to the Gulf Coast will be possible come Tuesday, but at least perhaps we'll beat the evacuation rush out of town if Gustav continues heading this way.
I know, I know, we're still at least five days out from landfall, but I think Gustav has all of us feeling a bit jittery. It didn't occur to me until last night, when talking with my friend Curtis about how unsettled this has made me feel, that this is the first time we've even had to discuss evacuating ahead of a storm since Katrina.

Fay, Fay, Go Away

I am NOT going to worry about the two tracks that show Fay cruising over the Gulf before she makes landfall in Louisiana, with New Orleans in her northeastern quadrant. Nothing to see here, Fay, move along. And I'm sorry for making fun of your name, if that makes you feel any better. Fay is really a lovely name. God, how I hate the cone of uncertainty.

Three Years On

Three years on. Long enough to heal, but I haven't. Long enough for others to say "move on," which they have. Long enough for others to forget.

But for me, it's still there. It will always be there. Katrina was a death, and you don't easily just move on from a death. It was the death of my home, the death of the homes of those that I love. It was the death of my innocence--where before, I thought that, even despite our disagreements, we were all Americans, Katrina demonstrated that we were not. That there are those that hate us, simply because we're here. Because many of our citizenry are black and poor. Because we are "them" and not "us."

Three years on. Three years of despair, of anger, of disillusionment. Three years of being told that we're not good enough. Of comparisons to evacuees from forest fires who are treated to massages and live entertainment, as opposed to a people left on their own, to do the best that they could, with no water, no food, and guns pointed at them. Three years of emails about the self-sufficiency and resiliency of Minnesotans during blizzards. Three years of "finishing what Katrina started."

I don't want to be angry. I don't want to despair. I know what it means to live in a place where you can embrace life without turning your back on death. Here, we can be the yin and the yang, the light and the dark, the black and the white....

But still, three years on, I grieve. I grieve for my losses. For my family's losses. For my city's losses. For the lives lost.

I just can't put into words how I feel sometimes. When I think about it, I can feel it well up inside of me, this giant ball of anger and hurt and disbelief. Ourselves alone. But why does it have to be that way? Why do we have to deal with the callousness of others, who haven't lived here and haven't experienced it? Why is our suffering less than that of an Iowa flood victim? Or an Oklahoman living in Tornado Alley? Or a Californian living where wildfires strike, year after year. Why, simply because we live in New Orleans, are we less than?

Katrina, three years on.

Angst

angst (ängkst) n. - A feeling of anxiety or apprehension, often accompanied by depression. See: New Orleans in August.

Bob & Carol & Tomas & Alicia

In my next life, I think I'd like to be the one that gets to choose the names of hurricanes. Does anyone else out there think that some of the names are ridiculous? I mean, come on--Fay? Paloma? And what about Dolly? It seems as if that name was chosen solely so that newspapers could run with a "Hello, Dolly" headline. I remember back in the late 70's (yes, sadly, I'm old enough) when someone at the National Hurricane Center decided it might be sexist to designate only female names, so now we have some masculine ones thrown into the mix. It seems that they also decided to spice it up a bit with some monikers with an international flair, thus Humberto, Henri, Georges, and Eduoard.

I, for one, will be anxiously awaiting the arrival of Hurricane Nana later on this year. Perhaps she can bake homemade cookies for everyone in her path and spawn lace doilies instead of tornadoes. At the time, I thought Katrina was a stupid name. I'm now considering myself lucky that we haven't had to spend the past three years talking about all of the destruction that Nana wrought.

If Nana threatens us, I'll be seriously irritated. If we get hit by another storm, I at least want it to be one with a more intimidating name--Hurricane Otto or Igor, perhaps.

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?