Hurt - Johnny Cash via Trent Reznor

I hurt myself today to see if I still feel.
I focus on the pain, the only thing that’s real.
The needle tears a hole, the old familiar sting.*
Try to kill it all away, but I remember everything.

What have I become, my sweetest friend?
Everyone I know goes away in the end.
And you could have it all, my empire of dirt
I will let you down. I will make you hurt.

I wear this crown of thorns upon my liar’s chair,
Full of broken thoughts I cannot repair.
Beneath the stains of time, the feelings disappear.
You are someone else and I am still right here.

What have I become, my sweetest friend?
Everyone I know goes away in the end.
And you could have it all, my empire of dirt.
I will let you down. I will make you hurt.

If I could start again, a million miles away--
I would keep myself. I would find a way.

*Just in case any of y’all are scared, this blogger has never tried, and never plans to try, any drugs that require needles. I just like really, really sad songs. Especially if they’re sung by Johnny. Or Willie. Or Patsy.

Conversations With a Four-Year-Old, Volume Five

I think it's only fair that E should need therapy, at some point, due to my parenting skills. Because she sure throws some zingers out at me occasionally. For example:

E: Mommy, can we have some quiet time now?

Me: Sure. Are you tired of talking?

E: Yes. Sometimes, when you talk, it makes my ears hurt.

Dear New Orleans Gods...

I'm leaving in the morning to go to Puerto Vallarta for a week.

Since someone is indicted every single time I go out of town, it would be really great if it could be Ray Nagin this time. If you can't swing that, I'd settle for Greg Meffert. Or Veronica White. Or if there can't be an indictment, a resignation from Warren Riley would be super, too.

In exchange, I'm willing to bring you back a bottle of tequila. And I promise that if I run into Captain Stubing, Julie, Isaac, Gopher, or any of the rest of the Love Boat gang, I'll tell them you said hi.

XOXO, A

P.S. Anthony Jones' firing doesn't count--that happened before I left.

Competition

I went to renew our Louisiana Citizens FAIR (hah!) Plan today for wind and hail coverage. The woman at the insurance office and I got to talking, and she asked how many feet of water we'd had during Katrina. When I answered 3 1/2 feet, she got a little pissy with me. "Hmph. I wish that's all the water we'd had in our house." Turns out, she lived in Chalmette and had water to her rooftop.

Really? Is there an "I got more water than you did during Katrina" competition that no one told me about? Because, for the record, 3 1/2 feet of water did a hell of a lot of damage. And for that matter, 6 inches of water, if it sat inside of your house for two weeks, did a hell of a lot of damage. And even if you got no water during Katrina, I'm sure you felt (and possibly still feel) a little pyschologically damaged.

Let's not fight amongst ourselves, m'kay? Three-and-a-half feet of water sucked. As did 20 feet of water. As did 6 inches of water. We all had to replace a hell of a lot. And recover from a hell of a lot.

I don't know why that set me off. Is therapy calling my name?

Four-Oh

So, I'm 40 years old now--is it time for me to have my mid-life crisis? Personally, 40 seems a little late to have a mid-life crisis. I think my chances of making it to 80 are fair to middling.

Do people in New Orleans say "fair to middling? Or is that just another Southernism that y'all have never heard of? Like "full as a tick on a hound dog?" That's my personal favorite. I'm going to go out on a limb and venture that people from, say, Vermont have definitely never heard of the hound dog simile. Prove me wrong.

So anyway, I'm 40 now. What do you, my faithful two readers, think I should do to celebrate? Right now, there are about 4 votes that I should go get a tattoo and a nose ring (kidding). Although I have thought about getting another tattoo. Yes, I have one--it's personal. But not in an "I got drunk and got some guy's name tattooed on my butt and then we broke up" kinda way. Just in an "It's personal, it meant something to me, and I did it only for me and very few people know about it" kinda way.

Thank you, dear husband, for a wonderful surprise 40th birthday party, complete with getting old friends into town and a very hungover brunch at Commander's the next day. Pictures to follow at some point, once I find the time to edit them.

Conversations With A Four-Year-Old, Volume Four

So, with all of the celebrity deaths lately (I mean, c'mon--Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson AND Billy Mays? Oh, the humanity!), the subject of death was bound to hit Emmeline's radar eventually. Somehow, Michael Jackson's death made it into her frame of consciousness this week.--I think it has to do with the fact that she absolutely loves Thriller. (I blame her father. And Vincent Price.) So, we got to have the following conversation on the way home from daycare today.

E: Mommy, why did Michael Jackson die?

Me: (Me, thinking to myself, "Oh lord, the death conversation. I'm so not ready for the death conversation. Shouldn't she be having this conversation with a trained professional?") Oh, he was sick honey. Sometimes people get sick and die.

Insomnia

So, what do you do when you can't sleep and end up staying up all night? Me? I could've taken advantage of catching up on my blog last night, when I was up roaming around the house between the hours of 12:00 and 5:030 a.m., unable to sleep. But that would've been too productive. Instead, I finished my book, hoping I'd get sleepy, and started a new one. No luck. So, I turned to my fail-safe insomnia method--surfing channels and watching infomercials until I was sure I'd get so bored that I'd be able to get to sleep. Again, no such luck. And I must say, when you can't sleep at 5:00 a.m., those infomercials start to look pretty tempting. I consider myself lucky that I made it back to bed around 5:30 without giving into temptation and becoming the proud owner of some Bare Minerals makeup (with a FREE compact!), a Shark vacuum cleaner (as good as the Dyson! And it comes with a FREE steam mop!) and a body shaper (drop two dress sizes INSTANTLY!). But I must confess, it's just not the same without Billy Mays shouting at me. And how big of a bummer is that, to have the Oxi-Clean guy die on your birthday?

I have lots to blog about--my trip to Peru, my insane four-year-old, my upcoming trip to Mexico, turning 40 and having my husband actually throw me a surprise birthday party. But I'm feeling sleepy. Guess it will all have to wait while I go in search of an infomercial for the Magic Bullet....

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.