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.