TJL

This year, at some, point, I will be saying goodbye to my dad. It may be this Tuesday, when my sister and I go to meet him for lunch--the first time that we will see our dad in almost a year. It may drag on for months, with phone calls and a few awkward visits. We're both going to try our best to keep it light--to tell him we love him--to not let him drag us into arguments about his perceived hurts, about the fact that we will no longer have contact with his wife--to not let the turmoil of the past year get in the way of what may be our final goodbyes to our dad. Regardless of how it goes, my sister and I have to start learning to say goodbye.

And the hurt is deep--the depths unfathomable. Because he's my dad. He's the guy who I wanted to love me unconditionally, although he never really was capable of doing so--he's the one whose approval I searched for for years and years but never really got. Until I became an adult and got married and had a child of my own, he was the one who I looked to for everything but always came away with little. All my younger self (and let's be honest, older self) wanted was to see him light up with happiness and pride upon seeing me; but it never really happened. My damaged psyche tries to blame myself and say that I was never good enough; but I know that really, he was incapable of giving me enough. He got so caught up in his own damage that he could never move past it to give us what we needed.

And then, he became an alcoholic and withdrew further and further away from us--from our children, from our wishes for a father and a grandfather. He was so injured by his own life that he could never make room for us.

And now, the end is nearing--he is an advanced stage alcoholic with wet brain syndrome, so he's confused a lot of the time as to why my sister and I no longer come to visit him. He has systemic heart failure from an abnormal heart arrhythmia. Did the alcoholism cause it? I have no idea. And the melanoma that he had five years ago has come back with a vengeance and is spreading throughout his body. We knew the cancer was back in November--he and his wife did nothing about it and just got around to seeing an oncologist about it now--and now it's Stage IV. Because he doesn't care anymore. He wants no further treatment. He wants no more of this life. His only wish is that it doesn't go to his brain. But it probably will, unless his heart gets him first.

And so, my sister and I will make the trek across the causeway to see a man who is angry at us but who still loves us. A man who wants us to forgive things that we are no longer capable of forgiving from his current family. And we will go and honor him, the best that we know how--while other people are full of advice for us....you should never forgive him after what he's done--you should tell him to go to hell--you should never speak to him again--you should cut your losses and move on--you should do what he asks and forgive his wife, despite the unimaginable hurt she's caused you, to give him peace--you should run away and never look back--you should know that--you should feel that--you should, you should, you should, you should. And still, my sister and I try to swim up from these depths of sadness and grief, not really knowing what to do.

How do you mend a relationship that is this broken--that is built on this much sorrow? A relationship that never really existed in the first place, outside of two little girls' love and adoration for their father?

And still we love him, despite all of the hurt he has caused us over the years--and so we sit within the unfathomable depths of our sorrow. We talk on the phone for an hour every night and cry, my sister and I, wishing it was different--wishing that he was a father who adored us and wouldn't, most likely, go to his grave harboring resentments against us--wishing he would go to his grave feeling loved, and us feeling his love in return. We wish our grandchildren asked about him--were interested in spending time with him. We wish, we wish, we wish....

We wish it was over. We wish it could all be done over. We wish it wasn't ever this way to begin with. We wish we could change it. We wish him peace. And love. We wish for strength. And for the wisdom we need to navigate our way through this, to find our way back from the depths.

Cold as a Razor Blade

I have started this post and erased this post over and over again. Because I don't know what to say or how to say it.

I've been estranged from my dad for almost three months. It's a hurt that is inside me constantly. I don't talk about it with anyone, really, other than my sister--sometimes my husband.

Because what is there to say? Hi, I'm Andy. My sister and I had our dad committed for being an alcoholic. It's been ugly since then. I could write a novel about it, but what's the point? I want someone to feel my pain. I want someone to see my anger. I want someone to see that I did the right thing. But really, I just want someone to see the raw pain that's involved in all of this. I don't want to be right. I just want him to be okay. But he's not.

So what's the point? I'm still right where I was before, even if you hear the whole long, drawn out story and even if you did think I did everything right. I'm still missing my dad. I'm still so hurt.

I've written this post five times now and erased it. I don't know how to express the hurt I have. The anger I have. The fear I have. The sadness I have. I am crushed. There's really nothing to say, is there?

Day after day
Love turns gray
Like the skin on a dying man
And night after night
We pretend it's alright
But I have grown older
And you have grown colder
And nothing is very much fun anymore
And I feel one of my turns coming on
I feel cold as a razor blade
Tight as a tourniquet
Dry as a funeral drum

Home

Home - By Warsan Shire

no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as well

your neighbors running faster than you
breath bloody in their throats
the boy you went to school with
who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory
is holding a gun bigger than his body
you only leave home
when home won't let you stay

Eleven

I hate the Elf on the Shelf a whole lot--and my daughter at age eleven, HAS to know it's me, right? I'll realize, in a panic, when it's bedtime, that I haven't done a damn thing with the elf.

And yet, still...go big or go home, right?

Dear Liberals:

Dear Liberal Friends: Hillary is not going to suddenly be declared the victor because of recounts in a few states. The people who make up the Electoral College aren't suddenly all going to grow a conscience and vote against Trump. The Republican controlled Congress isn't going to use the 25th Amendment to declare Trump unfit for office, nor are they going to impeach him. And if they did, we'd get Pence as POTUS and probably Sam Brownback as Veep.

 As much as I just want to hide for the next four years (please, god, it can't be EIGHT, right???), THIS. IS. HAPPENING. On January 20th, the shit-flinging hate monkey will be sworn in. So stop your fantasies and stop trying to hide under the bed. This is real, and we have to do all in our power not to lose everything that was gained in the past eight years. Write letters to the editor. Put your congressional representatives on speed dial. Call out the racist/homophobic/misogynistic/xenophobic people who did this. (If you're terrified of confrontation like me, you can even be polite about it with something along the lines of "I don't share your views. Please stop talking.")

 Love each other. Look out for each other. We still might lose everything. But we have to try. And then, if all else fails, we move to Ecuador. Or Sweden or something. We'll figure that part out later. 

But for now, fight.

 Love, A

Pride and Joy 2

On the Friday night after Thanksgiving, I got a phone call that my father had fallen down (again), was unconscious (again), and was being rushed to the ER (again). By the time I got there, he was trying to check himself out against medical orders for the third time in as many weeks. The doctor was furious.

As you may know, it's impossible to reason with a late-stage alcoholic, so my sister, stepsister, and I triggered an involuntary commitment. In between his alcoholism, heart issues, and recurring melanoma, he's not in a very good place mentally. So getting him committed against his will wasn't real difficult procedurally but it was devastating emotionally.

Thus far, they've held him for a full 24 hours past the mandatory 72 hours and have told us that they may keep him for up to two weeks. He hung up on me when I called him on Saturday, and then he informed the hospital that he would refuse to take any calls from me and my sister from this point on. He has also forbidden the therapists working with him to contact us.

So, my sister and I have been disowned spiritually (there was nothing left to "own," physically). I cycle back and forth between rage and grief and lots and lots of depression, but I don't know what else we could've done at this stage, and I don't regret it. He is going to die. Probably soon. At this point, I have no idea of whether it was better to keep on standing by and watching it while doing nothing or trying to at least prevent him from further harm. No one can take care of him anymore without help. And now, the result is all the same, in that I've most likely lost my dad for good.

Everybody Knows

Everybody knows that the boat is leaking
Everybody knows the captain lied
Everybody got this broken feeling
Like their father or their dog just died
Everybody talkin to their pockets
Everybody wants a box of chocolates And a long-stem rose
Everybody knows

Pride and Joy 1

True confessions: my dad is in late stage alcoholism and they think the melanoma has moved into his bones. It's a race now to see which one will kill him. I know this is way too much information for the internet, but it's so much easier for me to tell you this way than in person. Because in person, I will tell you everything is great. Because it's painful to share this shit. So if you have seen me burst into tears in the past week or see me do it in the future, that's why. And you don't need to say anything to me about it or feel the need to comment here. Really.

Armand

Kenny and I found out we lost another friend to cancer this past week.

Armand was an incredible person and a brilliant chef--he got his start at Commander's under Paul Prudhomme, then moved on to become head chef at Gautreau's, before moving to the MS Gulf Coast in the 1990s to open his own place. His food was as amazing as he was.

When Kenny and I started dating in 1994, he worked for Armand, and everyone there became a second family to us. Once business started winding down on Friday and Saturday nights, that's where you'd find me--hanging at the bar with Armand while everyone else wrapped up service. It was right around that time that chefs became celebrities, and he absolutely hated that part. I would sit at the bar and stifle my laughter while watching people come up to fawn over him--to meet THE CHEF. He was terrible at that role--he just wanted to do what he loved. Most nights, I would be stationed behind the bar, tasked with getting him a fresh Heineken when his current one ran out. Just as often as not, he would defer customers to me and then be highly entertained while I tried to seriously pretend like I was addressing a complaint, even though I didn't work there. Once the last customer was gone, the party would start and we'd all stay there till way past when we should've gone to bed.

He was a mentor to Kenny, as well as a best friend. He played relationship counselor to us more than once and always did a damn good job of it. When my brother died, he was one of the few who sat and talked with me about it with love, when so may other people weren't able to do so because of the way he died.

He threw the best damn 4th of July parties on the coast, complete with semi-professional fireworks. If you went on July 4th, there was a good chance you'd get burned by falling cinders from those fireworks, but it was worth it.

Everyone who worked for him was family, including Unc, his 80-year-old maitre d'--Armand bought the house behind his for Unc, and they shared the big backyard.

He had phenomenal gardening skills and loved to take you out back to show you his latest crop of snap beans, eggplants, tomatoes, and peppers--always peppers--the hotter the better. He laughed till he cried the first time he got me to try a habanero.

He was one of the most knowledgeable people I've ever met--he'd happily spend hours talking to you about Hannibal or the fall of the Roman Empire. He loved playing with words on his menu; he had a Titanic salad (an iceberg wedge) and a Cassius salad (like a Caesar, but done in the back).

He drove 600 miles to surprise me and Kenny at our wedding.

He was a father, a husband, and a friend. He was our friend.

You will be missed, Armand. May the light perpetual shine upon you.

Yes, Yes, Sweet Jesus, Yes

Cinemax Theory

"This election, you had two major Presidential providers. One offered you the Stronger Together plan, and the other offered you the Make America Great Again plan. You chose the Make America Great Again plan. The thing is, the Make America Great Again has in its package active, institutionalized racism (also active, institutionalized sexism. And as it happens, active, institutionalized homophobia). And you know it does, because the people who bundled up the Make America Great Again package not only told you it was there, they made it one of the plan’s big selling points. And you voted for it anyway."

Cinemax Theory

Thoughts for the Horrified

"But I’m not ready to accept that this is inevitable — because accepting it as inevitable would become a self-fulfilling prophecy. The road back to what America should be is going to be longer and harder than any of us expected, and we might not make it. But we have to try."

Thoughts for the Horrified

Done

I'm done.

I'm done with everyone's racist, misogynistic, nationalistic, homophobic bullshit.

I honestly thought we were making progress--that we were maybe one or two more generations away from true progressivism, from caring about our fellow men and women, from wanting everyone to have dignity and quality of life.

I see now that I was naive. I see now that I was vastly wrong. We weren't. The haters and the racists and the misogynists and the homophobes were right there all along, marinating in their anger and resentment, lying in wait, to take their fucking country back to the goddamn dark ages.

My heart grieves for my daughter, who will now grow up in a vastly different world than the one I wanted for her. My heart grieves for my friends and for my fellow countrymen, whether they are "documented" or not, who are rightly terrified now because Trump singled them out as "other."

My heart grieves for all of us. Except for the fuckers who did this to us. I hope they reap what they sow. Maybe tomorrow I'll feel better--but today, I want to burn it all down.

Portraits

During the fall of 2006, I started thinking about Christmas presents for family, as well as about wanting a picture for myself of my rapidly growing daughter, so I decided to see about getting a portrait of Emmeline taken.

I had a friend at work who was dating a photographer, so she put me in touch with him.  She told me that he had lost his studio and all of his prior work in Katrina (his studio was in Lakeview, so everything was gone), but that he was an amazing photographer.

I called him and we set up a time for him to take the portraits at a spot where he was using loaned space. He warned me that the building didn't have electricity yet, so we set up the appointment for early morning, when the natural light coming in through the floor to ceiling windows was at its best. He asked me to bring a blanket to drape on the floor, as the building had industrial carpeting.

I brought the blanket, he brought a backdrop. And it was the best damn pictures I've ever seen.

And it still amazes me that a year after Katrina, I went to a building with no electricity for a portrait session--and that seemed perfectly normal at the time.

Loving an Alcoholic

Loving an alcoholic is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad thing.

Loving an alcoholic is living in secrecy--because when people ask you how he's doing, what can you really say? Anything but the truth. The truth is shameful to him. To you. The truth is a secret that no one really wants to hear.

Loving an alcoholic is grasping at straws. Deluding yourself. Willing it to be so, only to watch him fail, and fail, and fall again.

Loving an alcoholic is trying to clean up the aftermath left in its wake. The sickness. The anger. The horror.

Loving an alcoholic is shit. And piss. And vomit. On your floor. On your walls. On his pants.

Loving an alcoholic is listening to the same stories. Telling him the same stories. Because he doesn't remember.

Loving an alcoholic is learning to live with excuses, because you just don't have the strength to do anything else anymore.

Loving an alcoholic is violent tremors and bodily fluids. And wine. And scotch. And vodka.

Loving an alcoholic is watching him lose himself. Bit by bit. Piece by piece. Drink by drink.

Loving an alcoholic is learning to lose him. Bit by bit. Piece by piece. Drink by drink.

Loving an alcoholic is sorrow. And grief. And despair.

Hi, I'm Andy. And my father is an alcoholic.

Dear America

Everyone else here is writing "Dear New Orleans" posts this month. I feel the need to write a "Dear America" post. I've tried really hard to refrain from Katrina anniversary posts. But some make it impossible to do so. So here we go.

Dear America: Shut up. No, really. Until you are also willing to judge everyone who lives in an area that could be hit by a tornado (which could really be any of us, if bad luck strikes; but Kansas and the rest of tornado alley, I'm giving you the side-eye in particular right now). Unless you're also willing to judge everyone who lives in any area where there are mudslides, volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, massive river floods, forest fires, etc.--did I miss anything? Oh, yeah--TSUNAMIS. Just. Shut. Up.

Facts: there were ZERO rapes and murders at the Superdome after Katrina. There were ZERO rapes and murders at the Convention Center after Katrina. Did people die? Yes. One guy killed himself at the dome. One man was shot in the back by police at the convention center bc he begged them for help. The cops claim he came at them aggressively. His name was Danny Brumfield. Look it up. Did people die? Yes. From heat exhaustion and no food or water for five days. Or, by, you know, DROWNING.

Fifth Grader

"I'm only letting you take this picture so I'll have memories to look back on."

The Rainbow Bridge

I am sad to report that Phil, one of the feeder fish we won with a ping pong ball at the Atchafalaya catfish festival, has passed on to that great pond in the sky. Emmeline conducted a lovely ceremony for him, and we honored his short, sweet, wet life. Steve, our other feeder fish, is recovering in the loving fins of our other goldfish, Dorothy, Elmo, and Oscar. Long live Steve.

Why Your Team Sucks

This article made me cackle. Who Dat, bitches.

"As Drew Brees enters his twilight years we’re totally fucked. Brees could kill and eat a baby on local tv and we would throw a parade for him. We’re going to keep him around until he’s just a pile of parts tweeting out ads for his Jimmy John’s franchises."

Why Your Team Sucks

Texts from Kara

Texts from Kara. Bc it's been awhile. And I'm missing her hard tonight. And bc giraffes.

Clearance

Kenny: I came THIS CLOSE to buying a toilet at Lowe's.
Me: But we don't need a toilet. We have one.
Kenny: I know, but they were ON CLEARANCE. They were on sale from $300 to $100.
Me: But we don't need a toilet. We have one.

Space!

Notorious BIGGER?

After successfully lip syncing Forgot about Dre on my porch, Kenny and I have decided that I should quit my job and become a rapper. Now I just need a rap name....

Palin, Where Art Thou?

I like the GOP debates better when the audience cheers for letting people without health insurance die. Is that coming up?

Cecil

Hey, did you see that dead lion? I killed him! First, I had to bait him into leaving a protected area, and then I shot him with a crossbow. But even though I'm supposedly an excellent shot, I didn't actually kill him and he wandered around in pain for 40 hours. And then I shot him with a gun. Cool! And then I took off his collar, which showed he lived in an area where he was supposed to be protected. But it was too late then, so I skinned him and beheaded him. And I never had any clue that what I was doing wasn't totally legal, because, hell, I paid $55K to shoot him. And the guy who lured him out of the reserve swore it was legit. My bad. But it's really all about conservation, so this was a good thing. And now, his spirit will live on forever. In the display of his head. My bad about his 24 lion cubs who will now be killed by other male lions who want to take over the pride. But FREEDOM.

Cecil the Lion's Killer

Life with Tchoups

When we have steak for dinner, and no one saves a piece for Tchoups, he gives me the same look that my dad gave me in high school when he found out that I made up a fake weekend field trip, complete with faux permission slip, when I was really planning to spend the weekend partying w friends. "It's not so much that I'm angry with you. I am just SO DISAPPOINTED. It will take a while for you to earn my trust again." Sorry, Tchoups.

Gangsta's Paradise

Me, Kenny, and Emmeline driving in the car last weekend, while E is in the backseat listening to the iPod on headphones, loudly--
Kenny: Is she listening to Gangsta's Paradise?
Me: Yep. Her three favorite artists right now are Gladys Knight, Queen, and Coolio.

Life with Tchoups

If you are wondering at what age your golden retriever will stop obsessively following you around, complete w sniffing under the bathroom door to make sure you're still alive, the answer is 14 years and two months. I just tried to talk to Tchoups while he was on his bed, and his response was very much "OMFG, seriously? You want to discuss this NOW? Because I'm IN BED. I do NOT want to go on the porch with you. I'M SLEEPING." Thanks, Tchoups.

Year 1

I thought I was going to be all brave today. I thought I had done all of the crying and grieving that a person could possibly do in a year's time. That although I would be missing Kara today, and thinking about this anniversary, that I wouldn't cry. But then Van Morrison came on the radio, singing "everything I do, reminds me of you." And I had to sit in the parking garage at work and bawl, just like I did a year ago today.

Then, someone at my side says, "There, she is gone."
Gone where?
Gone from my sight. That is all.

Year 1 is done. On to year 2. Spent tonight having sushi w Krissie and watching Beverly get her Kara Lynn Morgan tattoo. And then watched a crane meander across the street in a place where cranes are not supposed to be. I'll take it. I hope we've done you proud. I miss you. I love you.

CEJ

I often wonder what my brother Charles would be like if he had lived, especially on a night like tonight, when Garth Brooks played the arena, who was his favorite singer when he died in 2001 at the age of 22. Would he be partnered off now? Would he have kids? Would he still live on the coast? What would he do for a living? I know it's a pointless exercise to wonder what he would be like at 36, when he's been gone for 14 years, but I still do.

Muddling

Things we have muddled through without you: your birthday; your funeral; space camp; head lice; Saints pre-season; the obligatory Katrinaversary; Saints regular season; no Saints post-season; trading a bunch of Saints; keeping Marques Colston (HOFSTRA, bitches); Darren Sharper; Mike Smith being fired; Rob Ryan being kept; Cris freaking Collinsworth being the announcer for the Saints/Cowboys game; Halloween and trick or treating; Krewe of Boo (although none of us went); Bill Cosby; Thanksgiving; Genevieve; Christmas; New Year's Eve; Twelfth Night; Joey's birthday; Stuart Smith dying; Beverly's birthday; Krewe du Vieux; parades, parades, PARADES; and parades, always parades; Al's death; Emmeline and Beau's birthdays; St. Patrick's Day and the resultant PARADES; St. Joseph's night; Easter; French Quarter Fest; Darren Sharper, again; Jazz Fest; Mother's Day; Trey's birthday; fourth grade; ISL PARADE; your NOLAversary; Krissie's birthday; Obamacare affirmed; an engagement in Houston; my birthday; gay marriage legalized. And crying. Lots of crying. But also, laughter, and love, and Kara-ing on. And now, in a little over a week, it will be your birthday again. Preceded just one day by the anniversary of your death. And we will do it all over again. I miss you. I love you. It will never be the same, but we still laugh and we still love. And I love an amazing bunch of people, all of whom I met through you. Thank you.

Marriage Equality

I remember the election of 2000. I remember how I felt when the Supreme Court installed Bush as president, despite the fact that Al Gore won the popular vote. And in spite of the fact that it was highly disputed as to whether or not Bush had, in fact, won the popular vote in Florida. But the Supreme Court said he had won, and the fight was over. Did I like it? Hell no. Was I bitter? Hell yes. And I spent the next eight years being called a dirty libtard and told that if I didn't like Bush, or invading Afghanistan, or invading Iraq, etc., that I should leave. Because AMERICA. And how dare I question our dear leader in a time of war? I have spent the last eight years ignoring incredibly nasty posts equating our current president, whom I voted for twice, to a witch doctor and a monkey. I have watched his patriotism, his faith, and even his citizenship called into question. I have never once told those who disagree with me that if they don't like it, they should leave. This country belongs to all of us. But I am so very thrilled to watch our social conscience change. Rights for ALL of our citizens matter. And you don't get to insist that one Supreme Court ruling, like installing Bush as president, is perfectly valid, while saying that another opinion, like legalizing gay marriage, is a case of "activist judges legislating from the bench." It doesn't work that way. If you don't like this decision, you don't have to leave. It will always be your right to oppose our governance. But I hope you will at least think about it, and see if you can find it in your heart to understand that what makes one of us stronger makes all of us stronger. Your rights are not diminished when those same rights are given to others. The same goes for my fellow Christians who are having difficulties with this. Again, I say, your rights are not diminished by giving those same rights to others. Open your hearts. Listen to the true teachings of Christ. There is no mention of intolerance. Of hate. Of bigotry. Only of love. Open your hearts.

Faerie Folk

Kenny and I were talking about Alan Richman tonight, as he spoke at the conference Kenny went to in NYC last week. I would still very much like to give Alan Richman a very hearty f*ck you, with some demonstrative hand signals thrown in for good measure, almost 10 years after his review of post-Katrina New Orleans. His reviews are equivalent to kicking a dying puppy.

"During my time in New Orleans, I sought to keep some perspective. For example, when the sommelier at August brought me an incorrect vintage of the wine I’d ordered, I tried not to be too distressed, knowing that somewhere in the Lower Ninth Ward a house was sitting atop a car. Yet it’s important to come to a tough decision about New Orleans, because it’s going to cost Iraq-magnitude money to get this place back to where it was or, better yet, where it should have been."

I hope that the "faerie folk," aka Creoles, kick his ass at some point.

Yes, We're Open

Grief Anniversary

Grief Anniversary - E.B. Wexler

“anniversary” implies that I do not have grief the other 364 days

I do.

But as the date approaches

I feel, slowly arising

The original grief

The breath sucked out of me when I got the news over the phone.

The early grief

Walking around in a daze, wondering where she went

How things would be now

She was 31

She was my “person”

And it was out of the blue.

I have not been the same since. And I don’t want to be….

Ten

"Mom, you just don't know what it's like to be 10 and have people not like you."

True. I was 12 when girls started shoving me into lockers, throwing spitballs into my hair, and working their hardest to make me want to kill myself. Ah, misty water-color memories. Good times.

Security...

The restaurant where my husband works that shall otherwise remain nameless in this post is apparently hosting some type of Republican senatorial retreat this weekend. Kenny asked me if I wanted to come hang out at the bar, but after a few minutes of discussion, we both acknowledged that it would be very awkward when he had to call security on me after I asked every senator in sight about the magical pill you can swallow that ends up in your vagina.

Ten

Selfie by the TEN-year-old. Happy Birthday, Emmeline. You survived our early parenting missteps, like the time your dad accidentally bathed you with dog wipes instead of baby wipes (and the resultant full body rash), and made it to the double digits!

Fin

PARADES

One day, I will convince those of you who don't live in NOLA that real Mardi Gras isn't about drunk tourists baring it all for cheap plastic beads on Bourbon Street. It's about drunk locals waving their arms and screaming "heeeeyyyyyyyy" (whilst fully clothed) for cheap plastic beads on St. Charles Avenue. And the marching bands. And the bagpipes. And the floats. And the friends. And all together, that's why we love PARADES. If you need me for the next 12 days, I'll be on the neutral ground at St. Charles and Eighth. PARADES!!!

Godless

Okay, here's the thing. I know there are a lot of jerks out there who use their Bible (or Quaran or Tanakh or any other religious text) to justify their rights to be bigoted, intolerant assholes. I don't like them, either. But at the risk of coming off as a whiny #notallchristians post, it does get a bit tiresome being lumped in with the haters all of the time. I'm about as flaming liberal as I can get. I also believe in God. The god I believe in isn't Santa Claus, and hedoesn't have any interest in who wins the Super Bowl or Survivor or finding your lost iPad. He's also not spending all of his time damning people to hell for their sins, bc I don't believe in hell. My God is, however, a source of comfort to me, as is my belief that we have souls that continue after this life is over--in what realm or plain, I have no idea. And I get that--my faith is just a source of comfort to ME. I'm fairly certain none of my friends who are atheist or agnostic would ever say I've tried to convert them to my way of thinking. But as another friend posted recently, it does feel lately as though if I admit to having a faith, I'm opening myself up to ridicule. We don't all suck, okay? And I will never, nor have I ever, told E she has to be good bc SIN. And I still love a good sacrilegious joke. Peace.

Godless Parents are Doing a Better Job

Deep Thoughts, NOLA Style

Things I love about New Orleans: having very animated conversations w Kenny about what phase of toupee Bob Breck was in when I moved here. All I can say w certainty was that it was before his current Caesar/George Clooney look.

Rose Who?

I'm at Comic Con with someone named Rose Tyler from Dr. Who. Now, where is the bar?

Stuart Scott

I avoided posting on this all day, but Jesus, I'm sad that Stuart Scott died. This speech was so beautiful and came into my life at a time when I needed to hear it most, two days after losing my friend.

"I also realized something else recently; you heard me kind of allude to it in the piece. I said, ‘I’m not losing. I’m still here. I’m fighting. I’m not losing.’ But I gotta amend that. When you die, that does not mean that you lose to cancer. You beat cancer, by how you live, why you live, and in the manner in which you live.”

Stuart and Kara beat cancer.

While My Guitar Gently Weeps

Jeff Lynne singing while Prince plays guitar on a George Harrison song equals my musical nirvana.

Deep Thoughts, NYE

It's not officially New Year's Eve until everyone is wearing a hat made of tin foil. While singing "and we want to wear foil" to the tune of "Royals." But that may just be me.

Joyeux Noel

Emmeline decided to leave her Christmas list out next to Santa's cookies to make absolutely certain he knows she wants an Isabelle American Girl doll.

!@#$% Elf on the Shelf

Tomorrow night, Snowflake will be leaving E with a photo collage of her time here with us. These are my personal favorites.

Jambalay, Crawfish Pie

I just made turkey carcass stock and roux all by myself. And now it's almost gumbo. For those of you born and raised in NOLA, this is no big deal. But for a Georgia girl whose only cooking instruction growing up was how to use the electric can opener, it's huge. Yay, me.

@#$%^ Elf on the Shelf

So help me, cat, if you mess up the Elf Christmas Gras parade, I will cut you.

Santa

God Bless Us, Everyone

This so describes Christmas with my family.

A Deficit of Dignity

"But, for those who can’t even see the humanity in the man because of his race, try to respect the title that comes before his name. It’s there forevermore."

A Deficit of Dignity

Evil Genius

Kenny discovered that the receipt for our Christmas tree shows a 90-day return policy, so our plan is to return it on March 8th and angrily demand a refund bc it's dead.

@#$%^ Elf on the Shelf

The adventures of a sarcastic mom and her elf. Alcohol optional but suggested.

Ren Faire

Huzzah.

Your Tax Dollars at Work

You know you're going to get along well w/ your new co-worker when you tell him that someone tried to charge alcohol to a federally-funded grant account and this is his email response.

Never Forget

I hate to say it, but I kinda miss Kenny making our yard as tacky as possible during Christmas time. It made him so happy. (Shh, don't tell him I said that.) The great storage unit fire of 2014.

La Politics

Bill Cassidy just ran an ad where he was practically foaming at the mouth whilst screaming about Obama. Mary Landrieu just ran an ad about how much she loves puppies. Please make it stop.

Deep Thoughts, Thanksgiving Style

We named our turkey Bernice. And then we ate her. Is that weird? She was delicious.

Ferguson Decision

How to put this--I understand that some of you think Darren Wilson was an officer just doing his job. We'll never really know, because Michael Brown is dead and never got to tell his side of the story. As is Trayvon Martin. As are many, many others. What I don't understand is the GLEE in the verdict. What I don't understand is the GLEE in another "thug" being shown his place. If you don't care about the circumstances that put young black men in this position, you're part of the problem. It's not the fault of so many of our country's children that they're born into poverty and have little chance of succeeding in life. It's our fault for not caring.

Deep Thoughts

While mopping my floor, I just flashed back to my childhood, when not only did my chores include having to vacuum my electric lime green-colored shag carpet but having to RAKE it as well so the shag was all nice and neat and orderly. Oh, 1970's, what a very, very strange decade you were.

Say Freeze

Chicago sister selfie.

Texts from Kara, Part 5

Texts from Kara, Part 4

Murica

I'm glad that we can now focus on the biggest threats to our democracy, which are, apparently, poor people, women's reproductive systems, and Ebola.

Vera Lynn

Does anybody here remember Vera Lynn? Remember how she said that we would meet again, some sunny day? Vera, Vera, what has become of you? Does anybody else in here feel the way I do ?

Couplehood

Kenny, rummaging through our CD collection
Me: Oh shit, you're putting on Michael Jackson's Thriller, aren't you?
Kenny: Yep

Twenty years together.

Wednesday

They're creepy and they're kooky, mysterious and spooky, they're altogether ooky, the Addams Family. Happy Halloween.

A Conversation with My Cat

A conversation w my cat, if she could talk:
Cat: OMFG, I'm STARVING. FEED ME.
Me: I JUST put food in your bowl.
Cat: But I didn't SEE you put the food in my bowl. It doesn't count. I need to SEE you pour the food.
Me: Screw you.
Cat: That's it. I'm leaving.

I think I may have mentioned that I need to get out more.

Texts from Kara, Part 3

Another text from Kara. Because we crack me up.

Deep Thoughts

Recipes that call for adding cream of something soup make me sad.

#nolagirl

Emmeline just made a Mardi Gras float in Minecraft. That is all.

Kayaking

Blue Skies

I feel like I'm under a dark cloud today. Oh, wait....

You and Me Miss Her

Kara On

It's been 2 months and 11 days. I'm supposed to be over it, right? That's the protocol for mourning. You're allowed to talk about it for a couple of weeks, three at most, and then you're supposed to be done.

But I'm not done.  I still bring you up on a daily basis in conversation with other friends, and I can tell, to a certain extent, that it makes them uncomfortable. And I don't bring you up to make them uncomfortable. I bring you up because you were a very important part of my life for eight years, and you're still a part of my life, even if you're not here physically anymore.

I don't know how to do this. I just don't. I can go a few days and function normally, but then BOOM--it all comes back. I suppose that I'm still in that stage where I can pretend that it's just been a couple of days since we've actually talked, and I can deal with that. But then the fact that you're gone--that you're really gone, and that I will never talk to you again, always comes seeping back into my consciousness. And I weep. Or I try not to weep, depending on the company I'm keeping at the time.

I've found that I'm at my best when I'm either alone or with "our people." I have isolated myself to the extreme over the past two months and 11 days, just because it hurts so much. When I'm alone, I can talk to you, even if that sounds crazy to other people. Sure, you don't answer back, necessarily, but it still helps--just to talk to you.

Deep Thoughts

If someone paid me to write a composition to musically depict what it feels like when you're having a seizure, it would sound like modern jazz. I hate modern jazz.

Factory of Sadness

Dear Saints: please do not make me feel like this tomorrow.

Word Crimes

I confess: I do sometimes judge your blog and FB posts. But, in the sage words of Weird Al Yankovic, "You should never write words using numbers. Unless you're seven. Or your name is Prince."

Nine

Just got my first "You have to say that, you're my mom." Good times.

1939/2014

This is the thing to bomb. This is the beginning—from "I" to "we." If you who own the things people must have could understand this, you might preserve yourself. If you could separate causes from results, if you could know that Paine, Marx, Jefferson, Lenin were results, not causes, you might survive. But that you cannot know. For the quality of owning freezes you forever into "I," and cuts you off forever from the "we."
--John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath

Tchoups

Tchoupitoulas Lee Meyer. 91 in people years and still lookin' good.

08.29.14

Things lost nine years ago: a house, a car, most of our belongings; and, for lack of a better way to phrase it, the naiveté and false sense of security we all have, to a certain extent, that something as terrible as that happens to other people and not to us. Things gained in the nine years since: a sense of place; a calm, although it was hard fought, in the acceptance of loss; a home; and an extended network of amazing people who I am happy to call my NOLA family. (Although one is dearly missed.) All in all, I think it was a good trade. Happy Katrinaversary.

Bereft

In my Lucia's absence

Life hangs upon me, and becomes a burden; 

I am ten times undone, while hope, and fear,

And grief, and rage and love rise up at once.

And with variety of pain distract me.

--Joseph Addison

Ferguson

[Michael's] personal account of who initiated the physical encounter is forever lost to the grave, but the initiation is likely to be the central question in the case.

To believe [Wilson's] scenario, you have to believe that [Michael], an unarmed boy, chose that man to attack. You have to believe that [Michael] chose to attack a man who was wearing his gun in a holster. You have to believe that [Michael] chose to attack even though he was less than a hundred yards from the safety of the home where he was staying.

This is possible, but hardly sounds plausible.

The key is to determine who was standing his ground and defending himself: the boy with the [cigarillos] or the man with the gun. Who was winning the fight is a secondary question

That said, we’ll have to wait for details of the investigation to be revealed to know for sure. But while we wait, it is important to not let [Michael] the person be lost to [Michael] the symbol. He was a real boy with a real family that really loved him.

--Modified slightly from "A Mother's Grace and Grieving," written for the New York Times by Charles Blow on March 25, 2012, about Trayvon Martin's death at the hands of George Zimmerman. 

Fourth Grader

Antisocial

I left my phone at home today. Now what am I supposed to do on the elevator? Make eye contact with and/or make small talk with people? Blech

Memory Notes

Will the Circle be Unbroken

I have traveled close behind her, tried to hold on and be brave.
But I could not hide my sorrow when they laid her in the grave.

Kara Lynn Morgan

Obituary

Three Little Birds

Although Kara was one of the most positive and joyous people I've ever known, one of the many things I loved about her was our shared black humor. If I was running late for a Mardi Gras parade this year, she would text me and tell me something like she was having stomach pains and I should hurry up and get there. After her brain surgery, she asked me if it was horrible that she was sort of excited about losing 15 pounds. At some point along the way in the past 16 months since her diagnosis, "Three Little Birds" became our song. We were constantly texting each other that "every little thing's gonna be alright." The fact that Bob Marley died of melanoma was not lost on us. Now, when I listen to it, weird as it may sound, it feels like a message from Kara Lynn Morgan. Every little thing is gonna be alright, although it will be a while. I miss you. I love you.

Kara

I'm going to try to write this post without reverting to the words that describe my mood best right now--maudlin, morose, mournful, mad. All of those wonderfully descriptive M words. Maudlin, in particular. But, who am I kidding?

Last Tuesday night, I lost my best friend. And I've wept more in the past month than I probably have in years, because we all knew it was coming. I've thought a lot about that, recently--whether it's better to know that the death of a loved one is coming, like Kara's, or for it to take you by complete surprise, like a Mack truck ran into you, as it was with my brother's accidental death 13 years ago. And although they're both terrible in their own ways, I guess I've decided that an anticipatory death beats out a sudden one, just barely. Because at least you get the chance to say goodbye.

I won't rehash the beginnings of my and Kara's friendship. If you really want to know, you can read about it here. I guess just suffice it to say that, for now at least, I feel completely bereft. (Even though she's playing our song as I type this--every little thing's gonna be alright.)

Space Camp

Texts from Kara, Part 2

Dear Prince:

I'd appreciate it if next time, you could ask us all to wear black. Or white. Or beige. Or any other neutral color. Kenny is enjoying the purple, though. XO.

45

It's not a real birthday party until you decorate a crab...and until everyone looks at you strangely because you decorated a crab. And looks at you even more strangely when you tell them you named him Bob.

Texts from Kara, Part 1

Life with a Nine-Year-Old

If you have or ever had a nine-year-old, does he or she talk ALL of the time? And on the rare occasions when not talking, does he or she fill the void with throat trills, tongue rolls, clicks, and made-up songs, like "My Pudding's Name is Bob?" And does the song have five verses and a chorus? Or is that just my nine-year-old?

Vieux Carre

Ate some Creole tomatoes, had a few drinks, watched a guy throw up on the sidewalk, saw two wedding secondlines, watched a guy do push-ups in the street, and just saw a guy walking around barefoot clutching a Snoopy Christmas doll. Just another day in the French Quarter.

Girl Scout Camp