Growing up, I felt robbed. I didn't have a grandmother.
Oh, by the pure definition, I had two. My mother's mother, Granny, was old, had 12 grandchildren, and preferred the company of her fox terrier and her stories to that of her rambunctious brood. Did she love us? Yes. But she wasn't cuddly.
My father's mother refused to believe that she was old enough to be a grandmother. I was born 20 days before her 50th birthday. Rather than have a name like most grandmothers, she declared that she would be called "Dee-dee." Her name was Diane. Scratch that. Diana. She changed it.
When we were sick, we usually went to Granny. Granny let us rest. Once in a while, we went to Dee-dee. Rest was not in her vocabulary. If she had errands to run, so did you. Fever and all.
You'd think that we would hate that. I'm sure there were some days where we preferred to curl up on the couch with a "sleeping buddy." But if you weren't extremely sick, or if you just had the day off of school, spending the day with Dee-dee was a guaranteed adventure. You might go to the cleaner's. You could maybe run through the car wash. Best case scenario, you got candy.
Vivid memory:
Running errands with Dee-dee one day, she told us "We're going to Kay Bee's. If you're good, you can pick something out." We assumed Kaybee Toys. We were so excited. Dee-dee and Paw-paw were NOT the toy grandparents. They were the clothes grandparents. (Something I didn't really appreciate at 5 years old, but grew to appreciate later.) We were wrong. Kay Bee's was KB's. Or K&B, as the rest of New Orleans knew it. The drug store. And since her favorite candy was Hershey's, that meant plopping us in front of the Hershey's section. Forget the other brands.
Her favorite candy was Hershey's Kisses. Or, as she called them, Silver Bells. She had a glass candy jar shaped like one. I broke it on accident while carrying my bags after spending the night at their house. I thought was going to be disowned. A few years later, we went to Hershey Park and bought her a new one.
That was really the only time I felt anger from her. She was the type of grandmother who wouldn't let you splash her in the pool because "I'm getting my hair done tomorrow." So if you splashed close to her in the pool, you would get snapped at. But never anger.
Growing up, I was more my Paw-paw's grandchild. When he died at the end of my junior year of high school, it was absolutely devastating. I felt that I wouldn't have a grandparent on that side. My cousin was "her" grandchild. Or so I thought.
She wasn't the type for mushiness. She was famous for flipping off my grandfather. She laughed when people got hurt. I inherited both her middle finger and her funny bone. This is why "Jackass" will always make me laugh. When I picture her, I picture her laughing.
Because she wasn't mushy, I don't know how often I heard her say "I love you." But when I got older, I heard her say something that I still think of and smile about to this day:
I'm proud of you.
I would trade a million "I love yous" for the chance to hear her say that again.
As a quiet, well-behaved, shy child, I shocked the hell out of everyone by doing school plays. My grandmother was always there to see my shows.
"I'm proud of you," she'd say.
She fostered my interest in theater. My first "Broadway in New Orleans" experience was with her. My aunt and uncle gave her two tickets to see "South Pacific." She decided, out of all of our family, out of all of her friends, to bring me. We went to the Saenger to see it. It was a magical experience for me, and I don't even like musicals. When I went to New York from the College Media Advisers/Associated Collegiate Press conference in college, she gave me money to be spent only on tickets to see a Broadway play. Not food. Not other entertainment. Not souvenirs. I saw "Jane Eyre," which was short-lived, but the most amazing play I've ever seen to this day. Because my Dee-dee wanted me to experience it. It is my only on-Broadway show to this day. I've seen "Wicked" in London. I've seen other "Broadway in New Orleans" shows over the years. But it was Dee-dee who gave me the gift of theater magic. Every year, as I direct my students in their production, I think of her. It kills me that she was never able to see them perform.
When they do perform, I always tell them what she told me:
I'm proud of you.
She was simultaneously the classiest lady in the room and the brassiest lady in the room.
She could burp with the best of them, flip you off, throw some serious side-eye at you, give you a threatening-looking up-down, crunch on ice, stick her fingers in whatever you were cooking and lick them, run her fingers around the icing on the platter where a cake was (we called this "Dee-dee fingers"), invent her own vocabulary, and suck the marrow out of a bone she grabbed off your plate. She literally sucked the marrow out of life.
But then her hair was perfectly coiffed, her clothes were pristine, her make-up was impeccable (she even had her eyeliner tattooed on, later). Her cars were immaculate but smelled like her perfume. She wore the best brand names. She was old New Orleans (5th generation Irish Channel) and wanted everything the family did to match her high standards. When I got married, my cake HAD to be from Swiss, for example. She had the best of everything and always looked like a million bucks.
She was no pampered princess, though. She worked in English Turn's real estate offices until she turned sick. She was well into her 70's. She drove for a while after that. She lived her life and lived it well.
Alzheimer's robbed her of many things. But it couldn't take the love of her family and friends.
Dee-dee, I'm proud of you for being you and for setting in motion the events that brought me to this earth. I love you dearly and will never forget you, my molette.
Sunday, November 30, 2014
Thursday, August 29, 2013
8
Am I over it? That's debatable.
In many ways, yes. I have a home. A car. I still have Lily. I've only lost one family member while Mark lost two. We've gained some in-laws on both sides, as well as watched the third/fourth generations begin. The Saints won a Superbowl, I'm still working my same job. Mark has a job.
But I still take my meds. I still am dealing with the worst year of my life, redux.
I should have been not at work and doing something drastically different today. It didn't happen.
I had to drive down Claiborne to catch the Interstate. Didn't really think about it until I could see Benson Tower, formerly the Dominion Tower. That was my front row seat to the roof blowing off of the Superdome. I still can't handle a certain entrance to Champions Square, which is by the door where we watched the water rise while we had our sanctioned looting of the downstairs convenience store.
I drove past our former lot. Apparently, our landlord sold it. There is a fence around our neighbor's lot and giant pilings in the air and the ground on our lot. Someone is building a home. I wish them more luck than we had.
I'm dealing with all of this alone tonight while Mark works the Saints broadcast.
I think I'll go to bed early.
In many ways, yes. I have a home. A car. I still have Lily. I've only lost one family member while Mark lost two. We've gained some in-laws on both sides, as well as watched the third/fourth generations begin. The Saints won a Superbowl, I'm still working my same job. Mark has a job.
But I still take my meds. I still am dealing with the worst year of my life, redux.
I should have been not at work and doing something drastically different today. It didn't happen.
I had to drive down Claiborne to catch the Interstate. Didn't really think about it until I could see Benson Tower, formerly the Dominion Tower. That was my front row seat to the roof blowing off of the Superdome. I still can't handle a certain entrance to Champions Square, which is by the door where we watched the water rise while we had our sanctioned looting of the downstairs convenience store.
I drove past our former lot. Apparently, our landlord sold it. There is a fence around our neighbor's lot and giant pilings in the air and the ground on our lot. Someone is building a home. I wish them more luck than we had.
I'm dealing with all of this alone tonight while Mark works the Saints broadcast.
I think I'll go to bed early.
Wednesday, August 07, 2013
I just couldn't bear that.
I know it has been almost a year since I last published here. But 33 was the worst year of my life, other than 26.
26 was Katrina.
33 was secret pains and public aggravations.
This blog started as ridiculousness. It became a tragic outlet. I didn't want it to always be that.
As I was turning 33 last year, an erstwhile relative-in-law told me, and I quote, "33 is your best year. It was my best year. It's everyone's best year. You're going to have the best year of your life."
What I forgot is that this person is essentially evil incarnate, and that her words were a curse, not a blessing.
33 was horrendous. I won't go into details, because then this blog slips back into tragedy, and there's no need for that. But here's a timeline:
August 9: Got great, surprising news. September rolled around, and by the 9th, that was no more.
Nov. 26: An idiotic neighbor caused a major problem to some property.
Nov. 30: Devastating news out of left field.
Dec. 22: Hooray! Redo of the August thing!
Jan. 3: Something could be awry, but probably all is well.
Jan. 17: Got my car back.
Jan. 31: Nothing is well.
Feb. 1: One-day surgical procedure.
Feb. 9: Another idiot neighbor caused worse damage, in several different ways.
March: Got my car back again.
June 19: Hooray! Another redo!
June 30: Hmm. That can't be good.
July 4: Not again.
And so, in all of the vagueness, I have had a horrendous life this past year. Very few people know what some of those things are. I'll keep it that way.
But that's why, for the past year, I've said nothing. I need something really good and positive to happen in order to overshadow how awful 33 was. 34 happened June 10, but the bad which followed all happened because everything was set in motion while still 33. I can only hope that the curse is finally over. I can't handle much more. I'll be back as things are good.
26 was Katrina.
33 was secret pains and public aggravations.
This blog started as ridiculousness. It became a tragic outlet. I didn't want it to always be that.
As I was turning 33 last year, an erstwhile relative-in-law told me, and I quote, "33 is your best year. It was my best year. It's everyone's best year. You're going to have the best year of your life."
What I forgot is that this person is essentially evil incarnate, and that her words were a curse, not a blessing.
33 was horrendous. I won't go into details, because then this blog slips back into tragedy, and there's no need for that. But here's a timeline:
August 9: Got great, surprising news. September rolled around, and by the 9th, that was no more.
Nov. 26: An idiotic neighbor caused a major problem to some property.
Nov. 30: Devastating news out of left field.
Dec. 22: Hooray! Redo of the August thing!
Jan. 3: Something could be awry, but probably all is well.
Jan. 17: Got my car back.
Jan. 31: Nothing is well.
Feb. 1: One-day surgical procedure.
Feb. 9: Another idiot neighbor caused worse damage, in several different ways.
March: Got my car back again.
June 19: Hooray! Another redo!
June 30: Hmm. That can't be good.
July 4: Not again.
And so, in all of the vagueness, I have had a horrendous life this past year. Very few people know what some of those things are. I'll keep it that way.
But that's why, for the past year, I've said nothing. I need something really good and positive to happen in order to overshadow how awful 33 was. 34 happened June 10, but the bad which followed all happened because everything was set in motion while still 33. I can only hope that the curse is finally over. I can't handle much more. I'll be back as things are good.
Friday, September 14, 2012
Great big fat never mind
You know how sometimes, life treats you like crap, but then it backs off and allows you to relax and enjoy the ride? But then the second you let your guard down because something really positive is happening in your life, you just get bitch-smacked and knocked back down to crap status?
Why does that keep happening to us?
I'd had plans to blog again in about a week about this thing that was happening that was going to make August 29 finally have a positive experience. But then with Isaac, that got rescheduled for a week later. Fine, whatever. (Hey, Isaac, nice of you to drop in on Katrina's anniversary, by the way. Way to have me celebrate by spending a week at my parents' house because a tree knocked the power and cable lines off of my house. Way to keep my dad's business shuttered again. Way to keep my phone, cable, and Internet down for two weeks and my electricity down for one. We didn't need that stuff in the freezer anyway. And so what that my online classes started, so now I'm playing catch-up in a totally overwhelming state of existence.)
But before this could happen, it was taken away. It has left in its wake despair and rage. So much pain. And there was nothing to do about it. There will be no happy posting.
I have been stuck inside for three weeks now: one week for Isaac, two weeks for what happened. To say the words, even to type them, is too difficult right now. You can probably figure it out, anyway. At some point, I may talk more. Right now, I just needed to put this down.
There is no justice in life. You work hard for other people, never saying no to anyone, toiling away and being there for other people, furthering your education, working in a career that is rewarding, frustrating, and thankless all at once, and something good should happen, right? You get drunk on trailer trash reality shows, cartwheel without panties, and end up in rehab, with no job, no purpose on this Earth other than taking up oxygen and space, and the class and intelligence of a grain of sand, you should get nothing. But that's not how it works. Oh, no. Those people get everything. They can keep what you cannot.
There. I got that out. But I still don't feel any better. Maybe the "Daria" marathon we've had this week has affected me. As if I wasn't cynical enough...
I need to go back to work. Work makes me think of work. I can block out reality that way. In fact, if it wasn't for my friends at work, the past two weeks would have been even more unbearable. I am lucky enough to work with and for some beautiful people. Monday can't get here fast enough. Somehow, though, as much as I look forward to it and need it, I am dreading it all the same. I don't want to put on the strong and happy face. They're just going to have to deal with me. My poor students. How many times will I be able to handle the "Where were you?!?!"s that get lobbed in my direction before I snap at some undeserving person? It's going to take every last ounce of self-control that I have left, every bit of my acting training, and every bit of my friends' assistance, which I have to take. I don't like having help. It's my best and most frustrating quality, if you ask poor Mark. Poor Mark. So good, so strong, so kind. Stuck with me and my negativity. I don't understand his strength and patience. I'm jealous, and I told him so tonight.
I just need the constant reminders to stop. The whole thing needs to be over. I can't move forward until the last bit is done. So here I sit, in neutral, spinning my gears with no results.
Maybe Life will get her shit together and stop pulling the metaphorical football out from underneath us for once. Life. She's truly a bitch sometimes.
Why does that keep happening to us?
I'd had plans to blog again in about a week about this thing that was happening that was going to make August 29 finally have a positive experience. But then with Isaac, that got rescheduled for a week later. Fine, whatever. (Hey, Isaac, nice of you to drop in on Katrina's anniversary, by the way. Way to have me celebrate by spending a week at my parents' house because a tree knocked the power and cable lines off of my house. Way to keep my dad's business shuttered again. Way to keep my phone, cable, and Internet down for two weeks and my electricity down for one. We didn't need that stuff in the freezer anyway. And so what that my online classes started, so now I'm playing catch-up in a totally overwhelming state of existence.)
But before this could happen, it was taken away. It has left in its wake despair and rage. So much pain. And there was nothing to do about it. There will be no happy posting.
I have been stuck inside for three weeks now: one week for Isaac, two weeks for what happened. To say the words, even to type them, is too difficult right now. You can probably figure it out, anyway. At some point, I may talk more. Right now, I just needed to put this down.
There is no justice in life. You work hard for other people, never saying no to anyone, toiling away and being there for other people, furthering your education, working in a career that is rewarding, frustrating, and thankless all at once, and something good should happen, right? You get drunk on trailer trash reality shows, cartwheel without panties, and end up in rehab, with no job, no purpose on this Earth other than taking up oxygen and space, and the class and intelligence of a grain of sand, you should get nothing. But that's not how it works. Oh, no. Those people get everything. They can keep what you cannot.
There. I got that out. But I still don't feel any better. Maybe the "Daria" marathon we've had this week has affected me. As if I wasn't cynical enough...
I need to go back to work. Work makes me think of work. I can block out reality that way. In fact, if it wasn't for my friends at work, the past two weeks would have been even more unbearable. I am lucky enough to work with and for some beautiful people. Monday can't get here fast enough. Somehow, though, as much as I look forward to it and need it, I am dreading it all the same. I don't want to put on the strong and happy face. They're just going to have to deal with me. My poor students. How many times will I be able to handle the "Where were you?!?!"s that get lobbed in my direction before I snap at some undeserving person? It's going to take every last ounce of self-control that I have left, every bit of my acting training, and every bit of my friends' assistance, which I have to take. I don't like having help. It's my best and most frustrating quality, if you ask poor Mark. Poor Mark. So good, so strong, so kind. Stuck with me and my negativity. I don't understand his strength and patience. I'm jealous, and I told him so tonight.
I just need the constant reminders to stop. The whole thing needs to be over. I can't move forward until the last bit is done. So here I sit, in neutral, spinning my gears with no results.
Maybe Life will get her shit together and stop pulling the metaphorical football out from underneath us for once. Life. She's truly a bitch sometimes.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Eyebrows raised
I'm on the couch, soaking up a/c while the wind starts periodically gusting outside.
I'm not necessarily concerned, per se, about Isaac. He has no eye. He sped up his travel speed, so he isn't even due to hit on August 29. I'm not comfortable with the timing, to be honest. Moreso due to him canceling something I had planned on Wednesday, but it is creepy.
I guess I'm just annoyed.
Mark has to work. He's bringing a sleeping bag and should be staying for two days. I'll laterally evacuate with Lily to my parents' house. I'm going to bring the important stuff just in case, of course, but I'm mostly going there to avoid being home alone.
We had three days of school plus book day, and now we're closed for three days. How irritating.
I really miss the days where so long as it was "Just a cat 3," I would stay home and not even flinch. I'd read or play on the Internet so long as we had electricity.
Now, I'm taking important things and the cat to my parents' house for a tropical storm, maybe cat 1, maybe cat 2.
I'm gun shy.
I had something else on my mind which was preventing me for really thinking too long or too hard about the situation, but now I'm starting to think about it. Storm prep did that to me.
I'll have a better 7-year post in a few weeks, but I really don't want to jinx something. So, until then, I'm just raising my eyebrows at everything and considering grabbing a string cheese before the fridge goes out.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Stand by your men
I will begin by saying that I love my hometown and things associated with it with a passion. Even if those things play a game I don't care for.
Growing up, my dad would play his "Who Dat" single on game days. I have at least one distinct memory of being forced awake by it. I remember my dad reclining on his bedroom floor in front of the little TV, yelling, hitting the floor in frustration, and teaching me a lot of words I had never heard before in the process. Words that he only said on game days. I remember having to go to my friend's house to play...or if she came over, playing in the backyard due to his reactions. This was the '80s, of course.
In fact, my very pregnant mother and I got in an accident during a game one time. Dad was so frustrated, he threw the phone. And broke it.
Please note that my father is not a violent man by any means. We were not spanked. I got hit once for something, but I had it coming, for sure.
He realized that nothing was worth that sort of reaction and backed off of his team. He had been there for Dempsey's kick. I'm sure it was hard. He didn't quite kick cold turkey; instead, he would relapse from time to time. I'm sure the "Unbelievable" season was hard to stay away from. He followed them, of course, but he would pretend that he wasn't interested.
Eventually, I met and married a superfan. He's not one of those costumer people, but he is the most optimistic Saints fan I've ever met. They can be down 30 points with 2 minutes to go, and he'll say, "They can still pull it off. Watch." I'll be damned if his faith doesn't pull through way more often than it should.
Through his extreme support, I got suckered in. I don't quite remember when exactly I became a fan. I mean, while dad was there for Dempsey, we were there for the Colts beat down. You know the one.
Honestly, let's go to Katrina. Longtime readers will remember my rant that taking the Saints out of New Orleans and moving them to San Antonio was a bad, bad idea. That the city needed something to hope for. You may also recall that when my school was going to close, Reggie Bush stepped up and donated the money we still needed to stay open. You may also remember impassioned commentary on Steve Gleason's block, the reopening of the Dome, the road to the Super Bowl, and my hatred for Brett Fav-ruh. Hmmm. I think being in the Dome for the 2006 homecoming made me a fan. We went to many games that season and later seasons as well. In fact, our presence in the Dome, minus that Colts beat-down, almost guaranteed a win.
And so, while I still am not a football fan, I AM a Saints fan. I AM a New Orleans fan. If you weren't downtown when they won the Super Bowl, or one of the nearly one million people lining the victory parade route, then you just don't know what it did for this city.
For one thing, crime dipped while they were winning games that season.
Thanks, Gregg Williams. I'm holding you personally accountable for the murder rate right now.
When they announced the bounty scandal, I was hurt. But then I was confused. First, I thought they all did that. Mostly because the definition of paying a salary to a defensive player, then giving him signing bonuses and raises and renegotiated contracts is, essentially, giving bonuses for hits. They don't dock salaries if a hit takes someone out. If the hit is illegal, he will be fined.
Look at that Suh guy who essentially attempted murder in front of a national audience. Suspended for two games without pay. TWO GAMES. TWO!!! Indisputable proof in the form of the millions of witnesses who saw him stomp a dude. And that was his punishment.
Look at golden boy Belichick, who had his people SPY on opponents...a VERY illegal action. Fined. FINED!!! That was it!!!
And then here comes the team that no one thought should do anything. A team they wrote off. One of the worst in the league for most of its existence. Under Haslett, they won a playoff game. We get to Payton and Brees, and we go to the NFC championship game, only to have classy Bears fans throw snowballs with batteries at Saints fans, all while holding signs and yelling at their team to "finish what Katrina started." CLASSY.
And then they went 13-3, going undefeated until the very end. And won. And won. And went to the Super Bowl. No one thought they'd win. And then they did. Spectacularly.
While they didn't return, but they came pretty close until choking. But it's okay. "There's always next year" was the only Saints phrase uttered more often than "Who dat."
We were hoping to see them be the first home team to play in the Super Bowl.
And our coach has been suspended for an ENTIRE YEAR. Thankfully, the ringmaster, who ran bounty pools at every team he'd been with, is suspended indefinitely. I feel for the Rams. We took a coach they fired, and they got a guy who can't work in the NFL for a very, very long time. Sucks to be them.
But here's the thing. They should have all been punished for their actions. If it's not something the league allows, and is against the rules, then, yes, they needed to be punished for breaking them. If, as the new argument goes, the punishment is actually for the lies and not the bounties, then why is lying so much worse than illegal spying and malicious and blatant televised injuries? I mean, honestly. Who gets a stronger sentence? A perjurer or an attempted murderer? Apparently, the perjurer.
People are pointing fingers at former Saint Jeremy Shockey as "the snitch." Let's be honest. First of all: What does that teach anyone? It's like a gang....and a gang member just went and cut a deal with the cops and ratted out his boss for murdering someone. And now all of the gang members are up in arms, berating, threatening, burning his jersey, calling for snitches to get stitches.... DISGUSTING. The team was breaking some rules, and he reported it. If it was done in a malicious sense, as revenge, then I could see being upset. That's low to do that after leaving. Have they even confirmed it was him? A commentator says he "heard" it was him, and the whole state began crucifying him. Someone even changed his Wikipedia page to call him an "American football snitch for the Carolina Panthers." Sick. Whether he did it or not, that is sick.
Another big uproar is everyone screaming about how this is the NFL trying to keep us from winning the Super Bowl at home. Seriously? That's putting the cart before the horse, amongst other things. If we had won the NFC Championship already, then, yeah, maybe. But it's not even the 2012 season yet. Does this mean I didn't think they could do it? No. I know they could. I'm just cautiously optimistic.
And now, everyone apparently believes that now, they have no way to win. I was not aware that a football game is won only on the part of one coach. Yeah. It sucks. But I'm taking a page from my overly optimistic husband's book and saying that they can still do it. One day at a time, people.
I know it will get worse as players get their punishments. But it can't get any worse than these fair weather fans taking the Dad of the '80s approach.
Oh ye of little faith, look at this real-life scenario I'm facing: my girls' team will be in the playoffs on Tuesday, and one of the girls can't play. We will have 5 instead of 6 against the one team we can beat so far. I tried to get a replacement, and one girl strung us along for two weeks and told me that she can't do it when it was too late for me to get someone else. I felt so down. They worked so hard, and last year, my girls became the first (and still only) team in the school's history to ever win a post-season game. I wanted them to do it again.
But I realized that they can still do it. If 4 or 5 of them beat their opponents in each match (difficult, but not impossible), it won't matter if the other team's pin count is higher than ours due to having one more person than we do. They just have to bowl their hearts out. They aren't skilled enough to win a game in the next round, especially if they are short one person. One day, they will, but we're still a young team. I'm looking at it in baby steps. They will be good. Right now, they're okay.
And so my mission these past few days has been to convince the girls of this. Because if I rally behind them and reassure them and pump them up, then they will go in confident and may surpass everyone's expectations.
We've done that to the Saints for years. Why quit now? Stand by your men.
Growing up, my dad would play his "Who Dat" single on game days. I have at least one distinct memory of being forced awake by it. I remember my dad reclining on his bedroom floor in front of the little TV, yelling, hitting the floor in frustration, and teaching me a lot of words I had never heard before in the process. Words that he only said on game days. I remember having to go to my friend's house to play...or if she came over, playing in the backyard due to his reactions. This was the '80s, of course.
In fact, my very pregnant mother and I got in an accident during a game one time. Dad was so frustrated, he threw the phone. And broke it.
Please note that my father is not a violent man by any means. We were not spanked. I got hit once for something, but I had it coming, for sure.
He realized that nothing was worth that sort of reaction and backed off of his team. He had been there for Dempsey's kick. I'm sure it was hard. He didn't quite kick cold turkey; instead, he would relapse from time to time. I'm sure the "Unbelievable" season was hard to stay away from. He followed them, of course, but he would pretend that he wasn't interested.
Eventually, I met and married a superfan. He's not one of those costumer people, but he is the most optimistic Saints fan I've ever met. They can be down 30 points with 2 minutes to go, and he'll say, "They can still pull it off. Watch." I'll be damned if his faith doesn't pull through way more often than it should.
Through his extreme support, I got suckered in. I don't quite remember when exactly I became a fan. I mean, while dad was there for Dempsey, we were there for the Colts beat down. You know the one.
Honestly, let's go to Katrina. Longtime readers will remember my rant that taking the Saints out of New Orleans and moving them to San Antonio was a bad, bad idea. That the city needed something to hope for. You may also recall that when my school was going to close, Reggie Bush stepped up and donated the money we still needed to stay open. You may also remember impassioned commentary on Steve Gleason's block, the reopening of the Dome, the road to the Super Bowl, and my hatred for Brett Fav-ruh. Hmmm. I think being in the Dome for the 2006 homecoming made me a fan. We went to many games that season and later seasons as well. In fact, our presence in the Dome, minus that Colts beat-down, almost guaranteed a win.
And so, while I still am not a football fan, I AM a Saints fan. I AM a New Orleans fan. If you weren't downtown when they won the Super Bowl, or one of the nearly one million people lining the victory parade route, then you just don't know what it did for this city.
For one thing, crime dipped while they were winning games that season.
Thanks, Gregg Williams. I'm holding you personally accountable for the murder rate right now.
When they announced the bounty scandal, I was hurt. But then I was confused. First, I thought they all did that. Mostly because the definition of paying a salary to a defensive player, then giving him signing bonuses and raises and renegotiated contracts is, essentially, giving bonuses for hits. They don't dock salaries if a hit takes someone out. If the hit is illegal, he will be fined.
Look at that Suh guy who essentially attempted murder in front of a national audience. Suspended for two games without pay. TWO GAMES. TWO!!! Indisputable proof in the form of the millions of witnesses who saw him stomp a dude. And that was his punishment.
Look at golden boy Belichick, who had his people SPY on opponents...a VERY illegal action. Fined. FINED!!! That was it!!!
And then here comes the team that no one thought should do anything. A team they wrote off. One of the worst in the league for most of its existence. Under Haslett, they won a playoff game. We get to Payton and Brees, and we go to the NFC championship game, only to have classy Bears fans throw snowballs with batteries at Saints fans, all while holding signs and yelling at their team to "finish what Katrina started." CLASSY.
And then they went 13-3, going undefeated until the very end. And won. And won. And went to the Super Bowl. No one thought they'd win. And then they did. Spectacularly.
While they didn't return, but they came pretty close until choking. But it's okay. "There's always next year" was the only Saints phrase uttered more often than "Who dat."
We were hoping to see them be the first home team to play in the Super Bowl.
And our coach has been suspended for an ENTIRE YEAR. Thankfully, the ringmaster, who ran bounty pools at every team he'd been with, is suspended indefinitely. I feel for the Rams. We took a coach they fired, and they got a guy who can't work in the NFL for a very, very long time. Sucks to be them.
But here's the thing. They should have all been punished for their actions. If it's not something the league allows, and is against the rules, then, yes, they needed to be punished for breaking them. If, as the new argument goes, the punishment is actually for the lies and not the bounties, then why is lying so much worse than illegal spying and malicious and blatant televised injuries? I mean, honestly. Who gets a stronger sentence? A perjurer or an attempted murderer? Apparently, the perjurer.
People are pointing fingers at former Saint Jeremy Shockey as "the snitch." Let's be honest. First of all: What does that teach anyone? It's like a gang....and a gang member just went and cut a deal with the cops and ratted out his boss for murdering someone. And now all of the gang members are up in arms, berating, threatening, burning his jersey, calling for snitches to get stitches.... DISGUSTING. The team was breaking some rules, and he reported it. If it was done in a malicious sense, as revenge, then I could see being upset. That's low to do that after leaving. Have they even confirmed it was him? A commentator says he "heard" it was him, and the whole state began crucifying him. Someone even changed his Wikipedia page to call him an "American football snitch for the Carolina Panthers." Sick. Whether he did it or not, that is sick.
Another big uproar is everyone screaming about how this is the NFL trying to keep us from winning the Super Bowl at home. Seriously? That's putting the cart before the horse, amongst other things. If we had won the NFC Championship already, then, yeah, maybe. But it's not even the 2012 season yet. Does this mean I didn't think they could do it? No. I know they could. I'm just cautiously optimistic.
And now, everyone apparently believes that now, they have no way to win. I was not aware that a football game is won only on the part of one coach. Yeah. It sucks. But I'm taking a page from my overly optimistic husband's book and saying that they can still do it. One day at a time, people.
I know it will get worse as players get their punishments. But it can't get any worse than these fair weather fans taking the Dad of the '80s approach.
Oh ye of little faith, look at this real-life scenario I'm facing: my girls' team will be in the playoffs on Tuesday, and one of the girls can't play. We will have 5 instead of 6 against the one team we can beat so far. I tried to get a replacement, and one girl strung us along for two weeks and told me that she can't do it when it was too late for me to get someone else. I felt so down. They worked so hard, and last year, my girls became the first (and still only) team in the school's history to ever win a post-season game. I wanted them to do it again.
But I realized that they can still do it. If 4 or 5 of them beat their opponents in each match (difficult, but not impossible), it won't matter if the other team's pin count is higher than ours due to having one more person than we do. They just have to bowl their hearts out. They aren't skilled enough to win a game in the next round, especially if they are short one person. One day, they will, but we're still a young team. I'm looking at it in baby steps. They will be good. Right now, they're okay.
And so my mission these past few days has been to convince the girls of this. Because if I rally behind them and reassure them and pump them up, then they will go in confident and may surpass everyone's expectations.
We've done that to the Saints for years. Why quit now? Stand by your men.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Putting the past behind us and our behinds in gear for the future
Haven't thought of that quote in years. One of the plays we did in high school required my friend Tree to say this. She said it with such zeal. And while considering a title, it popped into my head.
Rather fitting, because lately, I've been confronted with things long gone.
First, I have set my DVR to record all of these amazing new episodes of Pop Up Video. Holy cow. I loved half days in high school, because I'd come home, fix a PB&J sandwich or biscuit pizzas or a Lean Cuisine, plop down in my dad's blue recliner, pull up a nesting table, and watch. Also, sometimes, because I got out of school at 2:20, I'd catch it when I got home.
In college, my roommate Lisa and I would race back to the dorm from the cafeteria in order to watch it. Sometimes, we cut it close. Always, it was a bad idea to do so. However, it was always worth it.
When I met Mark, I quickly learned that his musical trivia knowledge knows no bounds. He would always get so mad because he would tell me facts, and I would frequently respond with, "Yeah, I saw that on Pop Up Video once." He hates the show because it allows people to know obscure music trivia that generally only he knows. When it went away, he was happy. He's not so glad to have it back.
In my journalism class, one of my seniors is going to do a new feature called "That '90s Column." In it, he is going to pick apart '90s culture. I guess that the '90s for him are the '80s for me. He did an article on older generations' opinion of Gen-Y. I was his Gen X-er source. First, older generation? Mannnnn. But seriously, he is apparently a fan of everything I find amusing. He wanted to know what some of my earliest memories are and what things I liked. Most of it didn't make it into the article, but it was still fun to talk about. I guess I gave him too much information, haha.
He interviewed me about "Ren and Stimpy" the other day. Another kid did an article on the return of "Beavis and Butt-Head." I then watched that last night with Kurt, Alicia, and Joe. Kurt and I were way into it. Joe watched some through his bottle. Alicia tolerated us fools. Mark didn't get to watch it, but I DVRed it, and we're going to watch it when he gets home.
Both returning TV shows are just as good as they were back then, and have lost none of their appeal. Makes me so happy.
Last week, I once again brought my seniors to my collegiate alma mater. We had a journalism workshop, toured the campus, saw the Dyslexia Center, and visited Student Publications and Printing. Met up with Mark's cousins, Drew and Alison, and my brother-in-law from another mother-in-law, Clyde. He looks like Jones on "Reno 911." I look decidedly nothing like that. For fun, I introduced him as my brother-in-law. The kids' faces were priceless.
It was so much fun going back and showing them every part of the campus I loved so much. Thankfully, I worked so much and spent so many hours in the theater, so there weren't too many stories I had to censor myself on. I guess playing it so safe in college was a bit of a waste, but it was also a good thing. Several of my seniors are interested in going there next year, as opposed to the group I brought last year, so they were very interested in everything I showed them and everything I told them.
Two things that you would have died over.
One. My adviser, who is kind of an ass, but also one of the greatest teachers ever, Dr. C, was handing out some papers. M made a comment about how freezing it was in there, and Dr. C said that it had to be that cold because of all of the equipment in the room. He then added, "So, this is the Iceland of classrooms." He hands B a paper, and B goes, "You mean Greenland. Iceland isn't the one covered in snow. That's Greenland." Dr. C looks at him and goes, "O.....kayyyyy...." and all of us lost it.
Two. My b-i-l Phil's BFF Clyde works for the sports information office. He's a big goofy light-skinned black guy. I used a picture from Phil's wedding as one of my FB profile pictures. It has my m-i-l, s-i-l, b-i-l, f-i-l, Mark, Clyde, and his gf. I introduced him to the kids as being my bil. Their faces were priceless. Clyde explained to them what I meant.
The other teacher, also an alum, who came with us had C and D. C wanted info on remedial courses and math and stuff, so Mr. W brought her to a math dept friend of his. He brought D to visit the basketball team.
They came in after this while Clyde was talking with the kids. Clyde asked if they had any questions, and D goes, "Yeah, I got one. Who are you?" I said, "He is my brother-in-law." Well, the reaction was as awesome as you could expect. The kids played along. I pulled up the profile pic. Now, the gf, Stephanie, is white, so I guess he thinks Clyde married either my sister or Mark's hahahha, because he said, "Ohhhhhhhhh. I see."
So we let him think whatever it is he thinks. In following days, several kids asked me to ask my brother-in-law some stuff about athletics and the school. Heehee.
On the way home, a different female C was behind me and she leaned forward and said, "I never knew people could have black in-laws." This from a white girl dating a black guy. What happened that some level of disconnect exists?? At least Clyde brought some multiculturalism to her life.
Then, on Saturday, we drove to the M.C. to take a photo of three generations of alumni with Mark's family. His grandpa, aunt, uncle, mom, two cousins, brother, sister-in-law, and the two of us all graduated from there, and his two youngest cousins are there now, as I mentioned earlier. Stephanie is actually writing an article for the university about the family's three generations of grads. She and a university photographer took the photo.
After that, we had to go back to Thibodaux to pick up some costumes from my friend Wade, who is also a drama teacher. He did "The Wizard of Oz" a year or so ago, and that's what I'm doing this year. He offered to lend us his costumes, and we detoured to get them. Then, we went to Houma and ate at Outback with Mark's parents and made a detour to the mall for a minute. When we were in college, that was one of the few restaurants there. Good times.
On Saturday, I heard from Wade again, but it was not for good news. Marie, a girl I'd hired based on the fact that, as a freshman, she reminded me of me as a freshman, died. She climbed the ranks and eventually edited the paper. She worked in the same school system I work in, and we would run into each other at workshops and things. We kept in touch via Facebook, but were not close any more. She was an amazing person, and I am very sad about this. She was only 29. Everyone began posting photos from Student Publications. I did, too. It was fun looking through my photos and reminiscing. And it's been fun to see people comment on the pictures, too.
In addition to this revisiting my past stuff, I have listened predominantly to the Gen-X radio stations we have now. Fantastic stuff.
Tomorrow (today?) We are attending a college radio reunion for Mark. It just keeps going!
But then, there's so much progression. It's my 7th year of teaching. I took the GRE last week and have applied for grad school to get a master's in journalism education. I spent the evening with new mommy Alicia.
In fact, babies are stealing my friends, haha. There's lingo I don't speak, there's trick-or-treating plans, there's no one to do things with after work, events end earlier, one moved back to California...glad I have other friends who are childless by choice out there. Otherwise, the world would be so lonely.
Things are changing. When did we get old?
Rather fitting, because lately, I've been confronted with things long gone.
First, I have set my DVR to record all of these amazing new episodes of Pop Up Video. Holy cow. I loved half days in high school, because I'd come home, fix a PB&J sandwich or biscuit pizzas or a Lean Cuisine, plop down in my dad's blue recliner, pull up a nesting table, and watch. Also, sometimes, because I got out of school at 2:20, I'd catch it when I got home.
In college, my roommate Lisa and I would race back to the dorm from the cafeteria in order to watch it. Sometimes, we cut it close. Always, it was a bad idea to do so. However, it was always worth it.
When I met Mark, I quickly learned that his musical trivia knowledge knows no bounds. He would always get so mad because he would tell me facts, and I would frequently respond with, "Yeah, I saw that on Pop Up Video once." He hates the show because it allows people to know obscure music trivia that generally only he knows. When it went away, he was happy. He's not so glad to have it back.
In my journalism class, one of my seniors is going to do a new feature called "That '90s Column." In it, he is going to pick apart '90s culture. I guess that the '90s for him are the '80s for me. He did an article on older generations' opinion of Gen-Y. I was his Gen X-er source. First, older generation? Mannnnn. But seriously, he is apparently a fan of everything I find amusing. He wanted to know what some of my earliest memories are and what things I liked. Most of it didn't make it into the article, but it was still fun to talk about. I guess I gave him too much information, haha.
He interviewed me about "Ren and Stimpy" the other day. Another kid did an article on the return of "Beavis and Butt-Head." I then watched that last night with Kurt, Alicia, and Joe. Kurt and I were way into it. Joe watched some through his bottle. Alicia tolerated us fools. Mark didn't get to watch it, but I DVRed it, and we're going to watch it when he gets home.
Both returning TV shows are just as good as they were back then, and have lost none of their appeal. Makes me so happy.
Last week, I once again brought my seniors to my collegiate alma mater. We had a journalism workshop, toured the campus, saw the Dyslexia Center, and visited Student Publications and Printing. Met up with Mark's cousins, Drew and Alison, and my brother-in-law from another mother-in-law, Clyde. He looks like Jones on "Reno 911." I look decidedly nothing like that. For fun, I introduced him as my brother-in-law. The kids' faces were priceless.
It was so much fun going back and showing them every part of the campus I loved so much. Thankfully, I worked so much and spent so many hours in the theater, so there weren't too many stories I had to censor myself on. I guess playing it so safe in college was a bit of a waste, but it was also a good thing. Several of my seniors are interested in going there next year, as opposed to the group I brought last year, so they were very interested in everything I showed them and everything I told them.
Two things that you would have died over.
One. My adviser, who is kind of an ass, but also one of the greatest teachers ever, Dr. C, was handing out some papers. M made a comment about how freezing it was in there, and Dr. C said that it had to be that cold because of all of the equipment in the room. He then added, "So, this is the Iceland of classrooms." He hands B a paper, and B goes, "You mean Greenland. Iceland isn't the one covered in snow. That's Greenland." Dr. C looks at him and goes, "O.....kayyyyy...." and all of us lost it.
Two. My b-i-l Phil's BFF Clyde works for the sports information office. He's a big goofy light-skinned black guy. I used a picture from Phil's wedding as one of my FB profile pictures. It has my m-i-l, s-i-l, b-i-l, f-i-l, Mark, Clyde, and his gf. I introduced him to the kids as being my bil. Their faces were priceless. Clyde explained to them what I meant.
The other teacher, also an alum, who came with us had C and D. C wanted info on remedial courses and math and stuff, so Mr. W brought her to a math dept friend of his. He brought D to visit the basketball team.
They came in after this while Clyde was talking with the kids. Clyde asked if they had any questions, and D goes, "Yeah, I got one. Who are you?" I said, "He is my brother-in-law." Well, the reaction was as awesome as you could expect. The kids played along. I pulled up the profile pic. Now, the gf, Stephanie, is white, so I guess he thinks Clyde married either my sister or Mark's hahahha, because he said, "Ohhhhhhhhh. I see."
So we let him think whatever it is he thinks. In following days, several kids asked me to ask my brother-in-law some stuff about athletics and the school. Heehee.
On the way home, a different female C was behind me and she leaned forward and said, "I never knew people could have black in-laws." This from a white girl dating a black guy. What happened that some level of disconnect exists?? At least Clyde brought some multiculturalism to her life.
Then, on Saturday, we drove to the M.C. to take a photo of three generations of alumni with Mark's family. His grandpa, aunt, uncle, mom, two cousins, brother, sister-in-law, and the two of us all graduated from there, and his two youngest cousins are there now, as I mentioned earlier. Stephanie is actually writing an article for the university about the family's three generations of grads. She and a university photographer took the photo.
After that, we had to go back to Thibodaux to pick up some costumes from my friend Wade, who is also a drama teacher. He did "The Wizard of Oz" a year or so ago, and that's what I'm doing this year. He offered to lend us his costumes, and we detoured to get them. Then, we went to Houma and ate at Outback with Mark's parents and made a detour to the mall for a minute. When we were in college, that was one of the few restaurants there. Good times.
On Saturday, I heard from Wade again, but it was not for good news. Marie, a girl I'd hired based on the fact that, as a freshman, she reminded me of me as a freshman, died. She climbed the ranks and eventually edited the paper. She worked in the same school system I work in, and we would run into each other at workshops and things. We kept in touch via Facebook, but were not close any more. She was an amazing person, and I am very sad about this. She was only 29. Everyone began posting photos from Student Publications. I did, too. It was fun looking through my photos and reminiscing. And it's been fun to see people comment on the pictures, too.
In addition to this revisiting my past stuff, I have listened predominantly to the Gen-X radio stations we have now. Fantastic stuff.
Tomorrow (today?) We are attending a college radio reunion for Mark. It just keeps going!
But then, there's so much progression. It's my 7th year of teaching. I took the GRE last week and have applied for grad school to get a master's in journalism education. I spent the evening with new mommy Alicia.
In fact, babies are stealing my friends, haha. There's lingo I don't speak, there's trick-or-treating plans, there's no one to do things with after work, events end earlier, one moved back to California...glad I have other friends who are childless by choice out there. Otherwise, the world would be so lonely.
Things are changing. When did we get old?
Monday, August 29, 2011
Sicks
Don’t rebuild.
Those two simple words were heard ‘round the world six years ago. But I’m not hearing them today, the day after Hurricane Irene flooded parts of the northeast.
Vermont, oh Vermont. My heart goes out to you. I know all too well the pain you went through and will go through as you slog through your lives and realize there’s nothing left.
New Yorkers who were not able to evacuate due to some decisions of Nagin proportions, our neighbors hear your frustrations.
People of the Virginia and DC area, I know what it is to have a one-two punch. You could consider Katrina and Rita, or Katrina and the oil spill… your choice… our one-two punch(es). Counterparts to the earthquake and Irene.
And while I empathize with you on levels that no human should ever have to empathize with, I am also filled with self-loathing.
Why is it that, knowing full-well what you all are going through, in many cases on a grander scale, I sat there watching some footage and thought to myself, “Good!”?
How can I, as one of the countless number of people whose lives were unexpectedly changed forever, sit there and think cold thoughts?
There’s a sick satisfaction running through me. And I hate it. I hate it, but I can’t seem to stop it.
Maybe it’s because Washington had two back-to-back natural disasters, and those were the people who spit on us, turned their backs on us, and said we shouldn’t rebuild.
Maybe it’s because people sat there, and said, “I’m so tired of hearing about this coverage.” Well, I’m sick of seeing you whine about a Cat 1 storm, people. Unless you live in one of those hard-hit areas. You can complain all you want. You’ve earned that right.
Maybe it’s because so many people claimed we were worthless and that we were hit for being a den of sin. New York comes to mind. DC. And every other major city that got so much as a drop of rain, for that matter.
Maybe it’s because anyone who sat there and said, “Well, New Orleans is below sea level, and it’s a hurricane prone area, so what did they expect?” might be getting just a taste of “it can happen to anyone.” I mean, a pretty big earthquake on the east coast? A 500-mile-diameter hurricane hitting North Caroline, New Jersey, Boston, New York City, and everything in between? All impossible to imagine, yet in the span of about a week, both happened.
We may be below sea level, and it may be a hurricane prone area, but that doesn’t mean we deserved what we got. And, I was here. On Monday, August 29, my house was fine. Early Tuesday, August 30, the inferior levees broke. And boom. Homeless. Thanks, Corps.
My mother told me that a coworker of hers was on vacation and got to talking to a couple. It came out that she was from New Orleans and had lost everything. For the sake of the story, this woman is white and lived in one of the more affluent areas that was destroyed. The wife turned to the husband and pointed her out like an oddity in Ripley’s Believe It Or Not museum and said, “Look, honey. She’s from New Orleans, and she lost everything in Katrina.” The husband sized her up and said, “Really? I thought only Ward 9 flooded.”
So many things wrong there. First, it’s 9th Ward, but that isn’t the worst of what you said. You looked at this white woman and assumed that she wasn’t from there. I have an uncle from the upper 9th. He’s pretty white. You also seemed surprised that she was middle class. And most of all, you had your facts wrong. How did you miss that so many areas were flooded? Downtown isn’t the 9th Ward. Old Metairie isn’t the 9th Ward. Mid-City isn’t the 9th Ward. Lakeview isn’t the 9th Ward. Chalmette isn’t the 9th Ward.
Katrina didn’t discriminate. Everyone was affected, no matter the color, the gender, the age, the religion, the education level, the financial status. Mother Nature doesn’t care.
Mark told me a great quote: If life was a sport, Mother Nature would be undefeated.
I’m sitting here with clogged sinuses and itchy eyes. Not from tears, but from a marsh fire in New Orleans East which is being left to burn. They are waiting for the surrounding waters to extinguish it. The winds shifted, and the smoke is all out here now. It’s a bitter reminder of today’s date. It is simultaneously a reminder that Mother Nature doesn’t care who you are or where you’re from (since the winds shifted and the smell has wafted all over the place) and a trigger for memories of smells I hope to never smell again. That Katrina smell. If there wasn’t smoky air irritating my allergies (and if I think it’s bad in my classroom, I just have to walk down the hallway to the gym to be completely unable to breathe), I would have smelled and tasted that smell again. They say smell is the sense with the closest ties to memory. That’s the truth. Aryanna and I went to Greek Fest in May, which was more than 5 ½ years since the flood, and while walking through the Gentilly neighborhood where we parked, there were patches of the smell. You never forget it once you smell it. All I have to do sometimes is think about it for a few minutes. I can do it with the scent of my house, as well as the scent of my parents’ refrigerator.
I can’t help this, and I hate it. I hate it, hate it, hate it. How could I become so bitter and still be so angry? I have always said that I would never wish this upon even my worst enemy, and here I am, smiling smugly. I can’t stop. I’m trying to push these feelings out of my head, and I can’t.
Every time the news shows an area where shingles are missing from rooftops, or the raging floodwaters, or people who evacuated, I can’t help but think of two little words.
Don’t rebuild.
And then I hate myself. But they keep creeping up.
Don’t rebuild.
You said we couldn’t. You said it was pointless. You said we were stupid to try.
Maybe we are all a little mad. Maybe we all went off the deep end 6 years ago. But we had something worth fighting for.
We had to rebuild to keep busy and stop the downward spirals.
We had to rebuild to pick up the pieces.
We had to rebuild because we love this state, flaws and all.
We had to rebuild because that’s what we do.
We had to rebuild because we had to prove those naysayers wrong.
We had to rebuild to prove to ourselves that we weren’t ruined.
Louisiana has been populated with rejects since its inception. The Islenos were sent here to give the Spanish some allies when they took over. The casket girls came over to find husbands. The prisoners, loose women, and convicts were sent here because no one else wanted them. The slaves were sent here to do the white man’s dirty work. The free people of color flocked here for better opportunities. The privateers came here because they were chased out of other ports. The Irish were sent here because their parents needed them to make money for the family during the potato famine. Jews escaped the Holocaust. Natives settled here after being run off by the settlers back east. Italians and Germans and Croats all came here for a chance at a better life. Hispanics came here for a better life and to find work. And the Acadians. Oh, the Acadians. Kicked out of Acadia in Canada because they refused to swear allegiance to Britain, to speak English, and to become Protestant.
Our people have a history of staring down adversity. We don’t laugh in its face (at least, not any more), but it’s what we do. Are we crazy? Probably. But, rest of the world, that’s what you get for casting out your less desirables.
Sure, we had French nobility, explorers, pioneers, Natives, military, “Americans,” and more nuns and priests than you can count. They’re probably the ones who kept the state from going completely off the deep end. Maybe they were voodooed into assimilation and became as mad as the rest of them. I don’t know. Either way, we should have been named Phoenix, for we rise from the ashes (sometimes literally) over and over and over again.
The flood of 1927. Getting traded between France and Spain, then getting sold to America. Yellow fever. The oil spill. The two great fires. The Battle of New Orleans. The Civil War. Camille and Betsy and Andrew and Katrina and Rita and Gustav and…
The list goes on and on.
And we, possibly admirably, possibly stupidly, will continue to rise each time something new is thrown in our direction.
So let me motivate you to do as we did, northeast. Let me give you two little words that lit the fires in our bellies:
Don’t rebuild.
Those two simple words were heard ‘round the world six years ago. But I’m not hearing them today, the day after Hurricane Irene flooded parts of the northeast.
Vermont, oh Vermont. My heart goes out to you. I know all too well the pain you went through and will go through as you slog through your lives and realize there’s nothing left.
New Yorkers who were not able to evacuate due to some decisions of Nagin proportions, our neighbors hear your frustrations.
People of the Virginia and DC area, I know what it is to have a one-two punch. You could consider Katrina and Rita, or Katrina and the oil spill… your choice… our one-two punch(es). Counterparts to the earthquake and Irene.
And while I empathize with you on levels that no human should ever have to empathize with, I am also filled with self-loathing.
Why is it that, knowing full-well what you all are going through, in many cases on a grander scale, I sat there watching some footage and thought to myself, “Good!”?
How can I, as one of the countless number of people whose lives were unexpectedly changed forever, sit there and think cold thoughts?
There’s a sick satisfaction running through me. And I hate it. I hate it, but I can’t seem to stop it.
Maybe it’s because Washington had two back-to-back natural disasters, and those were the people who spit on us, turned their backs on us, and said we shouldn’t rebuild.
Maybe it’s because people sat there, and said, “I’m so tired of hearing about this coverage.” Well, I’m sick of seeing you whine about a Cat 1 storm, people. Unless you live in one of those hard-hit areas. You can complain all you want. You’ve earned that right.
Maybe it’s because so many people claimed we were worthless and that we were hit for being a den of sin. New York comes to mind. DC. And every other major city that got so much as a drop of rain, for that matter.
Maybe it’s because anyone who sat there and said, “Well, New Orleans is below sea level, and it’s a hurricane prone area, so what did they expect?” might be getting just a taste of “it can happen to anyone.” I mean, a pretty big earthquake on the east coast? A 500-mile-diameter hurricane hitting North Caroline, New Jersey, Boston, New York City, and everything in between? All impossible to imagine, yet in the span of about a week, both happened.
We may be below sea level, and it may be a hurricane prone area, but that doesn’t mean we deserved what we got. And, I was here. On Monday, August 29, my house was fine. Early Tuesday, August 30, the inferior levees broke. And boom. Homeless. Thanks, Corps.
My mother told me that a coworker of hers was on vacation and got to talking to a couple. It came out that she was from New Orleans and had lost everything. For the sake of the story, this woman is white and lived in one of the more affluent areas that was destroyed. The wife turned to the husband and pointed her out like an oddity in Ripley’s Believe It Or Not museum and said, “Look, honey. She’s from New Orleans, and she lost everything in Katrina.” The husband sized her up and said, “Really? I thought only Ward 9 flooded.”
So many things wrong there. First, it’s 9th Ward, but that isn’t the worst of what you said. You looked at this white woman and assumed that she wasn’t from there. I have an uncle from the upper 9th. He’s pretty white. You also seemed surprised that she was middle class. And most of all, you had your facts wrong. How did you miss that so many areas were flooded? Downtown isn’t the 9th Ward. Old Metairie isn’t the 9th Ward. Mid-City isn’t the 9th Ward. Lakeview isn’t the 9th Ward. Chalmette isn’t the 9th Ward.
Katrina didn’t discriminate. Everyone was affected, no matter the color, the gender, the age, the religion, the education level, the financial status. Mother Nature doesn’t care.
Mark told me a great quote: If life was a sport, Mother Nature would be undefeated.
I’m sitting here with clogged sinuses and itchy eyes. Not from tears, but from a marsh fire in New Orleans East which is being left to burn. They are waiting for the surrounding waters to extinguish it. The winds shifted, and the smoke is all out here now. It’s a bitter reminder of today’s date. It is simultaneously a reminder that Mother Nature doesn’t care who you are or where you’re from (since the winds shifted and the smell has wafted all over the place) and a trigger for memories of smells I hope to never smell again. That Katrina smell. If there wasn’t smoky air irritating my allergies (and if I think it’s bad in my classroom, I just have to walk down the hallway to the gym to be completely unable to breathe), I would have smelled and tasted that smell again. They say smell is the sense with the closest ties to memory. That’s the truth. Aryanna and I went to Greek Fest in May, which was more than 5 ½ years since the flood, and while walking through the Gentilly neighborhood where we parked, there were patches of the smell. You never forget it once you smell it. All I have to do sometimes is think about it for a few minutes. I can do it with the scent of my house, as well as the scent of my parents’ refrigerator.
I can’t help this, and I hate it. I hate it, hate it, hate it. How could I become so bitter and still be so angry? I have always said that I would never wish this upon even my worst enemy, and here I am, smiling smugly. I can’t stop. I’m trying to push these feelings out of my head, and I can’t.
Every time the news shows an area where shingles are missing from rooftops, or the raging floodwaters, or people who evacuated, I can’t help but think of two little words.
Don’t rebuild.
And then I hate myself. But they keep creeping up.
Don’t rebuild.
You said we couldn’t. You said it was pointless. You said we were stupid to try.
Maybe we are all a little mad. Maybe we all went off the deep end 6 years ago. But we had something worth fighting for.
We had to rebuild to keep busy and stop the downward spirals.
We had to rebuild to pick up the pieces.
We had to rebuild because we love this state, flaws and all.
We had to rebuild because that’s what we do.
We had to rebuild because we had to prove those naysayers wrong.
We had to rebuild to prove to ourselves that we weren’t ruined.
Louisiana has been populated with rejects since its inception. The Islenos were sent here to give the Spanish some allies when they took over. The casket girls came over to find husbands. The prisoners, loose women, and convicts were sent here because no one else wanted them. The slaves were sent here to do the white man’s dirty work. The free people of color flocked here for better opportunities. The privateers came here because they were chased out of other ports. The Irish were sent here because their parents needed them to make money for the family during the potato famine. Jews escaped the Holocaust. Natives settled here after being run off by the settlers back east. Italians and Germans and Croats all came here for a chance at a better life. Hispanics came here for a better life and to find work. And the Acadians. Oh, the Acadians. Kicked out of Acadia in Canada because they refused to swear allegiance to Britain, to speak English, and to become Protestant.
Our people have a history of staring down adversity. We don’t laugh in its face (at least, not any more), but it’s what we do. Are we crazy? Probably. But, rest of the world, that’s what you get for casting out your less desirables.
Sure, we had French nobility, explorers, pioneers, Natives, military, “Americans,” and more nuns and priests than you can count. They’re probably the ones who kept the state from going completely off the deep end. Maybe they were voodooed into assimilation and became as mad as the rest of them. I don’t know. Either way, we should have been named Phoenix, for we rise from the ashes (sometimes literally) over and over and over again.
The flood of 1927. Getting traded between France and Spain, then getting sold to America. Yellow fever. The oil spill. The two great fires. The Battle of New Orleans. The Civil War. Camille and Betsy and Andrew and Katrina and Rita and Gustav and…
The list goes on and on.
And we, possibly admirably, possibly stupidly, will continue to rise each time something new is thrown in our direction.
So let me motivate you to do as we did, northeast. Let me give you two little words that lit the fires in our bellies:
Don’t rebuild.
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
ah, nuts
Summer's over. I go back for staff week in..oh...less than 8 hours.
It was, hands down, one of THE best years at camp ever. We have a solid staff with competent...no, BEYOND competent head teachers. We had people who didn't create or care about drama. It all went too quickly.
I have had to spend the night away from home every week for like 8 weeks.
Week 3 of camp had me spend the night to babysit the Tzofim Friendship Caravan, which is our favorite event. These singing and dancing Israelis are amaaaaa-zing. They stay the night with us the day before performing, and the director and I had to stay with them.
One week later was the camp overnight.
The next week was my cousin's wedding in the French Quarter, and we had a hotel room for two nights.
The next weekend was my brother-in-law's wedding in Thibodaux, so we had a hotel room there.
The next week was the final camp overnight.
This past weekend involved driving my brother-in-law and new sister-in-law to their new home in Starkville, MS.
We should be going to stay at a friend's camp near Baton Rouge this weekend. It'll be nice to put away the suitcase.
Okay, 7 weeks.
Speaking of putting things away, we have not done any more to the house. Too many weekends out of town. There was a third wedding in there, but we didn't have to stay in any hotels for it, haha. I'm losing my mind.
Some people nest because they are having kids. Other people nest because there are too many huge things which need to be done around the house, and they are powerless to do them, and so they start tinkering and upgrading little things around the house as a means of controlling some little part of their lives.
Yeah, that second one is me.
For instance, now that my b-i-l and s-i-l are 5-6 hours away from us, we have no idea how often we'll be able to see them. We'd like to have a place for them to stay if they have a chance. This is really hard to deal with, especially for Mark. He is so close to his brother, and while we live an hour and a half away from his family, he could and sometimes did visit at random. You can't really do that on a 5-6-hour trip.
Anyway, we have two guest bedrooms which double as our offices. Each has a twin bed in it. It would not be fair to have them sleep in separate rooms. While wandering in Target, we were checking out all of the fun back-to-college stuff, and we found a futon on sale. We decided to do what my mother-in-law did for us when we would visit: put the two twin beds in one room (my office, in this case), get one of those foam bed bridge thingies, and turn the two twins into a king. The futon will go in Mark's office.
So now we need king-sized bedding, to get the stuff moved out of my office, and start turning this into a nice guest room.
I've also picked up curtains, some new pillows, new flatware since the dishwasher ruined ours, some new sheets, and countless other things that needed upgrading around here. And I feel like there's SOME control regained over my house.
Hopefully, after this weekend, we can get back on this renovation thing.
It was, hands down, one of THE best years at camp ever. We have a solid staff with competent...no, BEYOND competent head teachers. We had people who didn't create or care about drama. It all went too quickly.
I have had to spend the night away from home every week for like 8 weeks.
Week 3 of camp had me spend the night to babysit the Tzofim Friendship Caravan, which is our favorite event. These singing and dancing Israelis are amaaaaa-zing. They stay the night with us the day before performing, and the director and I had to stay with them.
One week later was the camp overnight.
The next week was my cousin's wedding in the French Quarter, and we had a hotel room for two nights.
The next weekend was my brother-in-law's wedding in Thibodaux, so we had a hotel room there.
The next week was the final camp overnight.
This past weekend involved driving my brother-in-law and new sister-in-law to their new home in Starkville, MS.
We should be going to stay at a friend's camp near Baton Rouge this weekend. It'll be nice to put away the suitcase.
Okay, 7 weeks.
Speaking of putting things away, we have not done any more to the house. Too many weekends out of town. There was a third wedding in there, but we didn't have to stay in any hotels for it, haha. I'm losing my mind.
Some people nest because they are having kids. Other people nest because there are too many huge things which need to be done around the house, and they are powerless to do them, and so they start tinkering and upgrading little things around the house as a means of controlling some little part of their lives.
Yeah, that second one is me.
For instance, now that my b-i-l and s-i-l are 5-6 hours away from us, we have no idea how often we'll be able to see them. We'd like to have a place for them to stay if they have a chance. This is really hard to deal with, especially for Mark. He is so close to his brother, and while we live an hour and a half away from his family, he could and sometimes did visit at random. You can't really do that on a 5-6-hour trip.
Anyway, we have two guest bedrooms which double as our offices. Each has a twin bed in it. It would not be fair to have them sleep in separate rooms. While wandering in Target, we were checking out all of the fun back-to-college stuff, and we found a futon on sale. We decided to do what my mother-in-law did for us when we would visit: put the two twin beds in one room (my office, in this case), get one of those foam bed bridge thingies, and turn the two twins into a king. The futon will go in Mark's office.
So now we need king-sized bedding, to get the stuff moved out of my office, and start turning this into a nice guest room.
I've also picked up curtains, some new pillows, new flatware since the dishwasher ruined ours, some new sheets, and countless other things that needed upgrading around here. And I feel like there's SOME control regained over my house.
Hopefully, after this weekend, we can get back on this renovation thing.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Back into it
I've had several people tell me that I need to get back into this. I had neglected things a bit, but the school year tends to be a little difficult for free time. And once we hit spring, I have my bowling team, and then I go back to camp every few days to prepare for the upcoming summer. My available hours are slim.
Don't let my Facebook presence throw you, though. I keep the browser window open and the FB tab on top, so I see notifications. And I get all ADD and start looking at whatever went up there while I'm working on other things.
Anyway, I hate that all of my posts over the past year or so have been "let me catch you up" posts, but, well, sometimes, that's just how it is.
And, unfortunately, I guess that's what this one will be.
Last regular post I'd had was about my little Nala cat. I think I just couldn't write again for a while after that.
The biggest thing to change in my life was a life-saving moment. My quality of life dropped significantly last year. It started getting worse towards the end of the summer and into the beginning of the school year. I would come home, fight to stay awake, fall asleep on the couch, have Mark wake me up, eat, fall back asleep, have Mark wake me up, shower, go to sleep, go to work, drag all day, go home... and repeat.
It was scary, but I'd also lost my will to care about it. I was shedding like crazy, couldn't stay awake, quick to fly off the handle, and constantly dealing with broken nails. As much as I hate the phrase, Mark tried a "come to Jesus" moment. My annual exam was approaching, and he made me promise to talk to my doctor about it. My mom's theory was that I was having thyroid troubles. That WOULD explain the weight gain I've had over the past few years. I just chalked that up to Katrina, but maybe there was more to it.
Sure enough, I was suffering from hypothyroidism. My levels were dangerously low. A few weeks of trying different dosages, and my quality of life started to improve. I was also given something for the PTSD I've been dealing with the past few years, and that did it, too. I lost about 10 pounds almost immediately, all without changing any dietary or exercise regimens.
What do you know. I wasn't crazy. I was just in physical trouble.
The school year was a very good one. I got to repeat my classes from the year before. This is the first time in 6 years that I've been able to reuse my class materials. What a wonderful, wonderful thing. Of course, adjustments needed to be made here and there, but wow. Just reducing that level of stress was amazing.
I remember being in school, probably middle school, and thinking about how my poor teachers had to teach the same things, year after year after year. Little did I know that one day I would long for that luxury. It's pretty neat knowing what I have coming up for first quarter. I like that I can improve upon what I did the year before. It's funny how your perspective changes as you age.
I still do not see much of Mark. He works nights, I work days, and we frequently worked Sundays, and he sometimes worked Saturdays. It's hard. But we try to find things to do, be it drive around or watch a movie we DVRed two weeks prior.
We do have one project we've tried working on together, though. My father told us that he would help us remodel the front of our house. We hit a huge snafu, though. Well, many of them.
We tore down the paneling in the den. Bit by bit, we worked a little on the weekends. We got some of the sheetrock up, but the holidays started getting in the way. The weekend before my dad's birthday, Mark went to work for 5 a.m. Shortly after 5 a.m., the phone rang. It was my mom. My father had a heart attack, and they were in the hospital. I showered, ran out into the cold early Saturday morning with a soaking wet head, and somehow safely made it to the hospital. While they were working on him, my mom broke the news to me that she was having a lumpectomy that week, and she was only telling me because now I would have to take her in for the procedure.
My world crashed down. That night, my family was supposed to go to 5 Happiness for my dad's birthday dinner. We were happy and excited. He was going to come over to work on the house a little with me while Mark was at work. It was going to be a busy but fun day. And then, there we were. In the Cardiac Care Unit, waiting to hear how my father was after a heart attack, my mom telling me she could have cancer, and all of this being the absolute last thing I ever expected to happen.
The heart attack turned out to be a small one, and Dad went home for his birthday. I spent the night there so that I could get up early and bring my mom to the hospital for her surgery. My aunt, a breast cancer survivor, came to keep me company while we waited. Hours later, I was able to bring her home. That weekend, I spent most of my time chauffeuring them around, putting almost 200 miles on my car. Mom's results were good, no worries. Dad has also made a great recovery.
But then we were stuck. We didn't know what we were doing with regards to home repair. My dad wasn't allowed to do anything for a while. We decided to go through a contractor. He was going to replace our doors, but it took him about a month or so to return the new doors to us. All of our old doors, save for the ones on the bathrooms, were gone. The guys skipped out on a lot of stuff, and months went by. We fired him, got all of our doors back, and tried another guy, who gave us the runaround for a few months. We hired a third guy, who came on time on the appointed days, brought a crew, and had the den sheetrocked and floated in two half days. Booyah.
This was in February/March. We started in October.
We are still not finished. We have trouble aligning my work schedule with Mark's work schedule with my dad's work schedule. We've had another guy do our crown molding, and we'll have other people come in to finish the rest. We'd planned to be done by Christmas. We had no idea it would be June and we still would not be finished.
What we've accomplished:
Painting the range hood and the oven/broiler
Repairing the roof
New A/C and heater
Fixing the ceiling in the den, where the leaking roof ruined things
Removed paneling in the den
Put up sheetrock in the den
Painted the den and the kitchen (we left the paneling there, and deglossed and primed it before painting)
Crown molding in the den and kitchen
Removed the doors to the upper cabinets
Put cabinet contents in boxes in the den (sighhhh)
Deglossed the upper cabinets
Painted, mostly, the upper cabinets
Purchased new hinges for the cabinets
Purchased new drawer pulls/handles for the cabinets
Ordered new flooring which will go in the den, kitchen, and hallway
Had the flooring delivered
Put new doors up
What still needs to be done:
Bottom cabinets
Reattaching cabinet doors
Installing flooring
Finishing the doors
Repairing a kitchen fan
Painting pantry doors
Installing a new countertop
Installing a new kitchen sink
Repainting woodwork and reinstalling it around the windows
Sigh. Mayyybe we'll finish before the first anniversary of this project.
Don't let my Facebook presence throw you, though. I keep the browser window open and the FB tab on top, so I see notifications. And I get all ADD and start looking at whatever went up there while I'm working on other things.
Anyway, I hate that all of my posts over the past year or so have been "let me catch you up" posts, but, well, sometimes, that's just how it is.
And, unfortunately, I guess that's what this one will be.
Last regular post I'd had was about my little Nala cat. I think I just couldn't write again for a while after that.
The biggest thing to change in my life was a life-saving moment. My quality of life dropped significantly last year. It started getting worse towards the end of the summer and into the beginning of the school year. I would come home, fight to stay awake, fall asleep on the couch, have Mark wake me up, eat, fall back asleep, have Mark wake me up, shower, go to sleep, go to work, drag all day, go home... and repeat.
It was scary, but I'd also lost my will to care about it. I was shedding like crazy, couldn't stay awake, quick to fly off the handle, and constantly dealing with broken nails. As much as I hate the phrase, Mark tried a "come to Jesus" moment. My annual exam was approaching, and he made me promise to talk to my doctor about it. My mom's theory was that I was having thyroid troubles. That WOULD explain the weight gain I've had over the past few years. I just chalked that up to Katrina, but maybe there was more to it.
Sure enough, I was suffering from hypothyroidism. My levels were dangerously low. A few weeks of trying different dosages, and my quality of life started to improve. I was also given something for the PTSD I've been dealing with the past few years, and that did it, too. I lost about 10 pounds almost immediately, all without changing any dietary or exercise regimens.
What do you know. I wasn't crazy. I was just in physical trouble.
The school year was a very good one. I got to repeat my classes from the year before. This is the first time in 6 years that I've been able to reuse my class materials. What a wonderful, wonderful thing. Of course, adjustments needed to be made here and there, but wow. Just reducing that level of stress was amazing.
I remember being in school, probably middle school, and thinking about how my poor teachers had to teach the same things, year after year after year. Little did I know that one day I would long for that luxury. It's pretty neat knowing what I have coming up for first quarter. I like that I can improve upon what I did the year before. It's funny how your perspective changes as you age.
I still do not see much of Mark. He works nights, I work days, and we frequently worked Sundays, and he sometimes worked Saturdays. It's hard. But we try to find things to do, be it drive around or watch a movie we DVRed two weeks prior.
We do have one project we've tried working on together, though. My father told us that he would help us remodel the front of our house. We hit a huge snafu, though. Well, many of them.
We tore down the paneling in the den. Bit by bit, we worked a little on the weekends. We got some of the sheetrock up, but the holidays started getting in the way. The weekend before my dad's birthday, Mark went to work for 5 a.m. Shortly after 5 a.m., the phone rang. It was my mom. My father had a heart attack, and they were in the hospital. I showered, ran out into the cold early Saturday morning with a soaking wet head, and somehow safely made it to the hospital. While they were working on him, my mom broke the news to me that she was having a lumpectomy that week, and she was only telling me because now I would have to take her in for the procedure.
My world crashed down. That night, my family was supposed to go to 5 Happiness for my dad's birthday dinner. We were happy and excited. He was going to come over to work on the house a little with me while Mark was at work. It was going to be a busy but fun day. And then, there we were. In the Cardiac Care Unit, waiting to hear how my father was after a heart attack, my mom telling me she could have cancer, and all of this being the absolute last thing I ever expected to happen.
The heart attack turned out to be a small one, and Dad went home for his birthday. I spent the night there so that I could get up early and bring my mom to the hospital for her surgery. My aunt, a breast cancer survivor, came to keep me company while we waited. Hours later, I was able to bring her home. That weekend, I spent most of my time chauffeuring them around, putting almost 200 miles on my car. Mom's results were good, no worries. Dad has also made a great recovery.
But then we were stuck. We didn't know what we were doing with regards to home repair. My dad wasn't allowed to do anything for a while. We decided to go through a contractor. He was going to replace our doors, but it took him about a month or so to return the new doors to us. All of our old doors, save for the ones on the bathrooms, were gone. The guys skipped out on a lot of stuff, and months went by. We fired him, got all of our doors back, and tried another guy, who gave us the runaround for a few months. We hired a third guy, who came on time on the appointed days, brought a crew, and had the den sheetrocked and floated in two half days. Booyah.
This was in February/March. We started in October.
We are still not finished. We have trouble aligning my work schedule with Mark's work schedule with my dad's work schedule. We've had another guy do our crown molding, and we'll have other people come in to finish the rest. We'd planned to be done by Christmas. We had no idea it would be June and we still would not be finished.
What we've accomplished:
Painting the range hood and the oven/broiler
Repairing the roof
New A/C and heater
Fixing the ceiling in the den, where the leaking roof ruined things
Removed paneling in the den
Put up sheetrock in the den
Painted the den and the kitchen (we left the paneling there, and deglossed and primed it before painting)
Crown molding in the den and kitchen
Removed the doors to the upper cabinets
Put cabinet contents in boxes in the den (sighhhh)
Deglossed the upper cabinets
Painted, mostly, the upper cabinets
Purchased new hinges for the cabinets
Purchased new drawer pulls/handles for the cabinets
Ordered new flooring which will go in the den, kitchen, and hallway
Had the flooring delivered
Put new doors up
What still needs to be done:
Bottom cabinets
Reattaching cabinet doors
Installing flooring
Finishing the doors
Repairing a kitchen fan
Painting pantry doors
Installing a new countertop
Installing a new kitchen sink
Repainting woodwork and reinstalling it around the windows
Sigh. Mayyybe we'll finish before the first anniversary of this project.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
I'm not crazy, I swear.
As of last Friday, I have officially spent half of my life working at my summer camp. Sixteen years. In some ways, it doesn't feel like it. In other ways, I feel ancient. I think about how young I actually was, about how green I was, and about all of the big events I've gone through since I started working there.
There was the burial ceremony for my grandfather's ashes, the deaths of my maternal grandparents, high school graduation, going to college, meeting the man I would marry, editing the college newspaper, flying to Idaho with my friends for the first wedding of a friend I ever attended, going to New York and DC for conventions, interning for a local weekly paper, spending a summer as a secretary, beach trips, the family trip where we drove to Philly, 9-11, graduating from college, getting my first real job, getting married, having a honeymoon, moving into our house, getting downsized, getting a year-round gig there for three years, taking tests towards certification, going back to school, getting hired at school, travel camp with children, Hurricane Katrina, going back to my alma mater, living with my in-laws, living with my parents, Mark living in Baton Rouge in a trailer, Mark moving in with my parents, living there for 2 years, rebuilding our lives, buying our home, working on our home, swimming with manatees, becoming a certified teacher, getting the plays, taking over the yearbook, coaching bowling, getting my coaching certification, traveling with students, Obama's election, attending his inauguration, getting my car totaled by a drunk woman, traveling to Greece, becoming a certified journalism educator, and so many more little things.
Sixteen years ago, I couldn't drive. Stacy and I rode our bikes to work that first year. Later, she got a car, and she would bring me. We were junior counselors. I rose to senior counselor, then unit head, and now I'm the assistant director. I've been through more directors and assistant directors than I can count.
Sixteen years ago, I wasn't anywhere near what I am today. I teach a kid who was my worst camper ever (the kind that makes you never want to work with kids again). Ten years after he was the bane of my existence, he was one of my bowlers, and he's working for me now. He didn't remember having me as his counselor, but he did remember how he acted back then. He was concerned that I would hold his past against him. I told him that I wouldn't hold his past against him, because I didn't want him to hold my past against me. Ha.
Sixteen years ago, if you'd told me that I would still work here, I'd have thought you were an idiot. I was going to be a JOURNALIST. I didn't know that my years at camp would lead to a year-round gig for three years, or that it would influence me to go back to school for my teaching certification and to make a big career change. I also had no way of knowing that print journalism is a dying art, and that getting out when I did was the smartest thing I ever did.
People always ask me why I keep doing this. It has especially been common this year. I don't really have a solid answer. My standard response is that I need to have something to do during the summer, or else I would weigh 800 pounds and be in debt. Which is true. I've never worked retail and I've never worked in food services. I need a teaching break, and we also don't do our own summer school, so I can't teach that. I'm the assistant director; if I was a counselor, I probably would have given it up years ago. I like being administration. Without a master's, I cannot be scholastic administration. And I'm not sure that I would necessarily want to be out of the classroom. So this settles that desire while keeping me in the classroom. And, it's just something I enjoy. I shouldn't have to justify that.
I guess people are just not used to people who have one, let alone two, jobs which they love wholeheartedly. But I somehow do. Neither pays well. Both demand ridiculous hours and mental strain, as well as work "after hours." And yet, I wouldn't have it any other way. I know how lucky I am. I don't take these things lightly. And so, I continue to work at both places. And will do so for as long as I can.
There was the burial ceremony for my grandfather's ashes, the deaths of my maternal grandparents, high school graduation, going to college, meeting the man I would marry, editing the college newspaper, flying to Idaho with my friends for the first wedding of a friend I ever attended, going to New York and DC for conventions, interning for a local weekly paper, spending a summer as a secretary, beach trips, the family trip where we drove to Philly, 9-11, graduating from college, getting my first real job, getting married, having a honeymoon, moving into our house, getting downsized, getting a year-round gig there for three years, taking tests towards certification, going back to school, getting hired at school, travel camp with children, Hurricane Katrina, going back to my alma mater, living with my in-laws, living with my parents, Mark living in Baton Rouge in a trailer, Mark moving in with my parents, living there for 2 years, rebuilding our lives, buying our home, working on our home, swimming with manatees, becoming a certified teacher, getting the plays, taking over the yearbook, coaching bowling, getting my coaching certification, traveling with students, Obama's election, attending his inauguration, getting my car totaled by a drunk woman, traveling to Greece, becoming a certified journalism educator, and so many more little things.
Sixteen years ago, I couldn't drive. Stacy and I rode our bikes to work that first year. Later, she got a car, and she would bring me. We were junior counselors. I rose to senior counselor, then unit head, and now I'm the assistant director. I've been through more directors and assistant directors than I can count.
Sixteen years ago, I wasn't anywhere near what I am today. I teach a kid who was my worst camper ever (the kind that makes you never want to work with kids again). Ten years after he was the bane of my existence, he was one of my bowlers, and he's working for me now. He didn't remember having me as his counselor, but he did remember how he acted back then. He was concerned that I would hold his past against him. I told him that I wouldn't hold his past against him, because I didn't want him to hold my past against me. Ha.
Sixteen years ago, if you'd told me that I would still work here, I'd have thought you were an idiot. I was going to be a JOURNALIST. I didn't know that my years at camp would lead to a year-round gig for three years, or that it would influence me to go back to school for my teaching certification and to make a big career change. I also had no way of knowing that print journalism is a dying art, and that getting out when I did was the smartest thing I ever did.
People always ask me why I keep doing this. It has especially been common this year. I don't really have a solid answer. My standard response is that I need to have something to do during the summer, or else I would weigh 800 pounds and be in debt. Which is true. I've never worked retail and I've never worked in food services. I need a teaching break, and we also don't do our own summer school, so I can't teach that. I'm the assistant director; if I was a counselor, I probably would have given it up years ago. I like being administration. Without a master's, I cannot be scholastic administration. And I'm not sure that I would necessarily want to be out of the classroom. So this settles that desire while keeping me in the classroom. And, it's just something I enjoy. I shouldn't have to justify that.
I guess people are just not used to people who have one, let alone two, jobs which they love wholeheartedly. But I somehow do. Neither pays well. Both demand ridiculous hours and mental strain, as well as work "after hours." And yet, I wouldn't have it any other way. I know how lucky I am. I don't take these things lightly. And so, I continue to work at both places. And will do so for as long as I can.
Tick tick tick
They did okay in certain areas. Areas which contain family and friends. But that clock is ticking. One day...it could happen to you, too.
Friday, May 13, 2011
It's just Russian Roulette.
Mmm...yep. People of the Atchafalaya Basin, you are playing Russian Roulette. If I see/hear one more of you say, "Well, it never floods here," I will break you/the nearest item. It never flooded here, either. "But we check our levees!" I thought I picked good food that time I got food poisoning, too. Nothing looked weird, and I was sicker than I had been in a very long time; in fact, it had been more than 13 years since I'd last vomited.
Lakeview never flooded, either. So I guess that means we DIDN'T get 11 feet of water at our house. Silly, silly, silly me. I've just been through hell in my imagination.
Did you not learn from us? Three day, 5 days, whatever your window is, don't wait. Get the hell out of there. You want to drown? You want to sift through your bedroom looking for cufflinks (which, years later, your husband finds in a bag he'd evacuated with). Didn't you learn? Didn't you bitch and groan about our kids being in your class? What about all of us flooding Wal-Marts and parking lots where Red Cross tents popped up? Karma's a BITCH.
Didn't you see our zombie stares? Didn't you get impatient when we'd break down in a grocery store looking at something that was in our fridge that we didn't get to eat? Didn't you put up with our mass depression and talk about us behind our backs (or in front of us, because you didn't know we were one of THOSE PEOPLE)?
Go back and refresh your memory in my 2005-2006 archives.
Have you not seen Tennessee and Mississippi? Are you that naive that you trust government-built and -controlled levee systems?
To borrow from the kids, you all need to GTF.
You wait, you miss bringing things. You wait, you get stuck in evacuation traffic. You wait, you drive 36 hours and almost crash your car because you can't keep your eyes open, but a rest stop is 15 miles away. You wait, you drown. You wait, you lose everything.
To those of you who told me, "It's just stuff," well, I'm not going to hold my tongue when you are irresponsible with your life.
Get out. Get out now.
I watch the news and stalk websites. I see inundation maps in my sleep. I'm flashing back like no tomorrow.
I haven't updated since September. Oddly enough, that's a month or so before I got help. Prolonged, postponed PTSD. Five years and two months worth. It's made a world of difference. But, these visuals are bad. Bad, bad, dirty bad. And you're all blindly going about your business, spouting confident answers.
You may be okay. But you may not be. Learn from us. Please, please, please. I've had enough personal tragedy in the last 10 months or so. I should catch you up later.
Don't be heroes. Don't gamble. This could be an empty chamber, and life will go on. Or, this could be the one with the bullet. Learn from us. It's better to be safe than sorry. Go. If you don't, good luck. Don't say I didn't warn you. I'd rather leave every time a threat arose, 10 million times, than take the chance that the 9,999,999th time will be THE one.
Lakeview never flooded, either. So I guess that means we DIDN'T get 11 feet of water at our house. Silly, silly, silly me. I've just been through hell in my imagination.
Did you not learn from us? Three day, 5 days, whatever your window is, don't wait. Get the hell out of there. You want to drown? You want to sift through your bedroom looking for cufflinks (which, years later, your husband finds in a bag he'd evacuated with). Didn't you learn? Didn't you bitch and groan about our kids being in your class? What about all of us flooding Wal-Marts and parking lots where Red Cross tents popped up? Karma's a BITCH.
Didn't you see our zombie stares? Didn't you get impatient when we'd break down in a grocery store looking at something that was in our fridge that we didn't get to eat? Didn't you put up with our mass depression and talk about us behind our backs (or in front of us, because you didn't know we were one of THOSE PEOPLE)?
Go back and refresh your memory in my 2005-2006 archives.
Have you not seen Tennessee and Mississippi? Are you that naive that you trust government-built and -controlled levee systems?
To borrow from the kids, you all need to GTF.
You wait, you miss bringing things. You wait, you get stuck in evacuation traffic. You wait, you drive 36 hours and almost crash your car because you can't keep your eyes open, but a rest stop is 15 miles away. You wait, you drown. You wait, you lose everything.
To those of you who told me, "It's just stuff," well, I'm not going to hold my tongue when you are irresponsible with your life.
Get out. Get out now.
I watch the news and stalk websites. I see inundation maps in my sleep. I'm flashing back like no tomorrow.
I haven't updated since September. Oddly enough, that's a month or so before I got help. Prolonged, postponed PTSD. Five years and two months worth. It's made a world of difference. But, these visuals are bad. Bad, bad, dirty bad. And you're all blindly going about your business, spouting confident answers.
You may be okay. But you may not be. Learn from us. Please, please, please. I've had enough personal tragedy in the last 10 months or so. I should catch you up later.
Don't be heroes. Don't gamble. This could be an empty chamber, and life will go on. Or, this could be the one with the bullet. Learn from us. It's better to be safe than sorry. Go. If you don't, good luck. Don't say I didn't warn you. I'd rather leave every time a threat arose, 10 million times, than take the chance that the 9,999,999th time will be THE one.
Saturday, September 04, 2010
Again, already.
This morning, I had to meet my mom at the Cat Hospital. My sweet baby Nala, who is 16 now, was going into kidney failure. Given her age, the only real option was to put her to sleep. For the second time in 6 weeks, I watched a cat who I loved die.
We got her because in my freshman year of high school, I caught chicken pox from my brother. I missed a week of school right before Christmas break. I am horrible at math, but fantastic at standardized tests. As a result, I was wrongfully placed in Algebra I Honors. I struggled enough as it was, and then missing a week right before exams did me in. My homeroom teacher was my algebra teacher. I asked her for help, and she said, in her thick, unattractive Alabama accent, "You're an honors student. You can figure it out."
This lead to me get further and further behind. The Klumpp refused to help me. As a result, I failed Algebra I and had to go to summer school. In summer school, I had a great teacher. I understood almost everything and made straight As and Bs. The next year was geometry, and I made Bs and Cs with an okay teacher. But when I got to Algebra II, I had another amazing teacher and never got below a B. Senior year I took an extra English instead of math, because I was only required to take three years of math.
Anyway, the idea of summer school was mortifying. Only stupid people went to summer school. I wasn't stupid. I was not going to go to Rummel to take math classes in the summer. No way. Boys school? No thanks. Math? No thanks. Stupid people? No way.
Well, I was now one of them. Stupid.
To get me through it, my parents promised me that I could have anything I wanted. Figuring I could call their bluff, I asked for the one thing that I wanted that I was never supposed to have: a cat.
To my surprise and extreme glee, they said okay. I had to wait until after passing summer school, then until we returned from our trip to visit my relatives in Philadelphia.
We went to the SPCA and were led into a room full of cats. Cats of every color, size, and age. We found scared cats, ugly cats, pretty cats, friendly cats, and one who climbed onto peoples' backs when they bent over to pet other cats. Suddenly, there was my mom with a little grey stripey cat with a white belly. She had a pink nose with a small black dot right above it, a lioness face, and had chosen my mom. As she said, "She chose us. I couldn't turn her away." We brought her home, had her spayed, treated her ear mites, and fell in love. On that first night, she found her way into my bed. I couldn't believe it. I had a cat, and she loved me.
1994 was the summer that "The Lion King" came out. While in Philadelphia, my little cousins Crissy and Steffi wanted to see it, and we went with them. When we got my little girl cat, the only name that seemed to fit her was "Nala." Like the lioness in the movie.
When I had half days at school, she was what got me through being home alone. She was a moody little thing who snubbed my dad, loved me, and loved my mom. In 1997, when I went off to college, it was so hard on me. I missed her so much. If I had a rough day at school, or work, I couldn't hug her. It was all I wanted.
She hated Mark. She would growl at him, hiss at him...and when I brought Lily home between graduation and marriage, she hated her, too. Lily just wanted to play. When Nala was angry at Mark, Lily was there for him. But Nala always loved me.
In April of 2002, we were married. I had made the difficult decision to leave Nala with my parents. It was the only home she'd ever known, she and Lily didn't really get along, and my mom had taken care of her while I was in college. They bonded. No way could I tear her from her only home and the woman she loved more than me. It was hard, but I knew it was the right thing to do.
She'd been slowing down over the years. Had arthritis. She was as cranky as ever, but she would still allow me to hold her and love her. She was a creature of habit, sitting with my mom while she washed her hair each morning, drinking the water dripping from the faucet when mom was done. Waking my mom up every morning, curling up in bed with her.
Last night, my parents noticed she was twitching a bit. This morning, she didn't come in to wake my mom up. She wasn't eating or drinking. Mom brought her to the vet and found out that she was in kidney failure. Her numbers were off the chart, one kidney was enlarged, the other shrunken. She wasn't going to last long. They could treat her, but at 16, it wouldn't really be fair to her.
I'll miss her. I already do.
We got her because in my freshman year of high school, I caught chicken pox from my brother. I missed a week of school right before Christmas break. I am horrible at math, but fantastic at standardized tests. As a result, I was wrongfully placed in Algebra I Honors. I struggled enough as it was, and then missing a week right before exams did me in. My homeroom teacher was my algebra teacher. I asked her for help, and she said, in her thick, unattractive Alabama accent, "You're an honors student. You can figure it out."
This lead to me get further and further behind. The Klumpp refused to help me. As a result, I failed Algebra I and had to go to summer school. In summer school, I had a great teacher. I understood almost everything and made straight As and Bs. The next year was geometry, and I made Bs and Cs with an okay teacher. But when I got to Algebra II, I had another amazing teacher and never got below a B. Senior year I took an extra English instead of math, because I was only required to take three years of math.
Anyway, the idea of summer school was mortifying. Only stupid people went to summer school. I wasn't stupid. I was not going to go to Rummel to take math classes in the summer. No way. Boys school? No thanks. Math? No thanks. Stupid people? No way.
Well, I was now one of them. Stupid.
To get me through it, my parents promised me that I could have anything I wanted. Figuring I could call their bluff, I asked for the one thing that I wanted that I was never supposed to have: a cat.
To my surprise and extreme glee, they said okay. I had to wait until after passing summer school, then until we returned from our trip to visit my relatives in Philadelphia.
We went to the SPCA and were led into a room full of cats. Cats of every color, size, and age. We found scared cats, ugly cats, pretty cats, friendly cats, and one who climbed onto peoples' backs when they bent over to pet other cats. Suddenly, there was my mom with a little grey stripey cat with a white belly. She had a pink nose with a small black dot right above it, a lioness face, and had chosen my mom. As she said, "She chose us. I couldn't turn her away." We brought her home, had her spayed, treated her ear mites, and fell in love. On that first night, she found her way into my bed. I couldn't believe it. I had a cat, and she loved me.
1994 was the summer that "The Lion King" came out. While in Philadelphia, my little cousins Crissy and Steffi wanted to see it, and we went with them. When we got my little girl cat, the only name that seemed to fit her was "Nala." Like the lioness in the movie.
When I had half days at school, she was what got me through being home alone. She was a moody little thing who snubbed my dad, loved me, and loved my mom. In 1997, when I went off to college, it was so hard on me. I missed her so much. If I had a rough day at school, or work, I couldn't hug her. It was all I wanted.
She hated Mark. She would growl at him, hiss at him...and when I brought Lily home between graduation and marriage, she hated her, too. Lily just wanted to play. When Nala was angry at Mark, Lily was there for him. But Nala always loved me.
In April of 2002, we were married. I had made the difficult decision to leave Nala with my parents. It was the only home she'd ever known, she and Lily didn't really get along, and my mom had taken care of her while I was in college. They bonded. No way could I tear her from her only home and the woman she loved more than me. It was hard, but I knew it was the right thing to do.
She'd been slowing down over the years. Had arthritis. She was as cranky as ever, but she would still allow me to hold her and love her. She was a creature of habit, sitting with my mom while she washed her hair each morning, drinking the water dripping from the faucet when mom was done. Waking my mom up every morning, curling up in bed with her.
Last night, my parents noticed she was twitching a bit. This morning, she didn't come in to wake my mom up. She wasn't eating or drinking. Mom brought her to the vet and found out that she was in kidney failure. Her numbers were off the chart, one kidney was enlarged, the other shrunken. She wasn't going to last long. They could treat her, but at 16, it wouldn't really be fair to her.
I'll miss her. I already do.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Cinq ans après Katrina
I would like to refer you to my journalistic idol, Chris Rose, once more. He's moved on from The Times Picayune and can be found at the site of my college internship, Gambit Weekly. This column is making the rounds right now, and it's great. Unfortunately, it's not an original concept, because, if you are from an area affected by Katrina, you play this game on an almost daily basis.
http://bestofneworleans.com/gyrobase/Content?oid=oid%3A80205
Some of the answers are great. Others are not so great. I will start with the down sides, then end on the positive notes.
What if Katrina never happened?
I would have been able to keep living with cheap rent on a decent house in Lakeview and could have put away a lot of money.
Mark would have never had to work the morning show.
Mark would have risen the ranks instead of losing, then regaining, his job at entry level. With few hours. Bad hours. Low pay. Loss of benefits.
I would have waited a while to buy the first Rav and would have saved a lot of car notes.
We would still have things from our childhoods that meant a lot to us.
I would have a sunnier demeanor, not one prone to dark phases. The ones that crop up this time of year are worse.
We would have had no need to replace all of our furniture.
We wouldn't have lived with my parents for two and a half years, which strained our relationship. A lot.
We might have kids.
My father wouldn't have had to rebuild his business and sit and wait on other people to become available to repair it.
My father wouldn't have been so depressed due to his loss of his whole world.
My friends wouldn't have lost their childhood homes in Lakeview.
We wouldn't have had to accept charity, Red Cross funds, and, in parents' case, unemployment.
Maybe my school wouldn't constantly be in danger of closing, and we would have our own campus.
It wouldn't have taken 4 years for me to get certified.
Our population wouldn't have dwindled.
Maybe I would have been able to complete my masters at a local university instead of spending time looking into online out-of-state universities.
Maybe my depression wouldn't have lead me to seek comfort in food, and I would still be super skinny.
Maybe things would be easier all-around.
But maybe I would still be stuck in 3/4 and never would have moved up to high school English.
Maybe I wouldn't be the drama person, or the bowling person, or the yearbook person.
I definitely wouldn't have met some of my friends... Sabrina, Jenn and Chris, Katie and Kurt...people who felt drawn to our city, to our cause, and fell in love.
Maybe the Saints wouldn't have their line-up....or their Lombardi...
Maybe we wouldn't have gotten this house.
I wouldn't be the camp assistant director.
I wouldn't have been able to pretend like I was on "What Not to Wear" and replace an entire wardrobe....and then again after gaining weight...wait...this sucks...
I wouldn't
http://bestofneworleans.com/gyrobase/Content?oid=oid%3A80205
Some of the answers are great. Others are not so great. I will start with the down sides, then end on the positive notes.
What if Katrina never happened?
I would have been able to keep living with cheap rent on a decent house in Lakeview and could have put away a lot of money.
Mark would have never had to work the morning show.
Mark would have risen the ranks instead of losing, then regaining, his job at entry level. With few hours. Bad hours. Low pay. Loss of benefits.
I would have waited a while to buy the first Rav and would have saved a lot of car notes.
We would still have things from our childhoods that meant a lot to us.
I would have a sunnier demeanor, not one prone to dark phases. The ones that crop up this time of year are worse.
We would have had no need to replace all of our furniture.
We wouldn't have lived with my parents for two and a half years, which strained our relationship. A lot.
We might have kids.
My father wouldn't have had to rebuild his business and sit and wait on other people to become available to repair it.
My father wouldn't have been so depressed due to his loss of his whole world.
My friends wouldn't have lost their childhood homes in Lakeview.
We wouldn't have had to accept charity, Red Cross funds, and, in parents' case, unemployment.
Maybe my school wouldn't constantly be in danger of closing, and we would have our own campus.
It wouldn't have taken 4 years for me to get certified.
Our population wouldn't have dwindled.
Maybe I would have been able to complete my masters at a local university instead of spending time looking into online out-of-state universities.
Maybe my depression wouldn't have lead me to seek comfort in food, and I would still be super skinny.
Maybe things would be easier all-around.
But maybe I would still be stuck in 3/4 and never would have moved up to high school English.
Maybe I wouldn't be the drama person, or the bowling person, or the yearbook person.
I definitely wouldn't have met some of my friends... Sabrina, Jenn and Chris, Katie and Kurt...people who felt drawn to our city, to our cause, and fell in love.
Maybe the Saints wouldn't have their line-up....or their Lombardi...
Maybe we wouldn't have gotten this house.
I wouldn't be the camp assistant director.
I wouldn't have been able to pretend like I was on "What Not to Wear" and replace an entire wardrobe....and then again after gaining weight...wait...this sucks...
I wouldn't
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Priorities
Went to Target tonight. Was in the market for some new "ball of foot" cushions from Dr. Scholls to stick in my school shoes (gotta rebuild those callouses after a summer of flip-flops and tennis shoes). In this particular Target, the foot care products are across the aisle from the condoms. Two young males (teens) were perusing the selection. One was on the phone with his mother asking her for money. I guess she was asking why he wanted it, and for what, because he kept saying, "I just need it."
Tuesday, August 03, 2010
What a long 6 months...
So I've finally got some time to sit and post. I return to school on Thursday (the kids arrive on the 11th), and camp ended on Friday. Not a full week off, but I will take what I can get. It's given me time to do this.
First: I've changed the look of the blog for the first time...well...ever.
Second: Here's a preview of topics for this post.
1. Super Bowl
2. Saints parade
3. Greece
4. Portland
5. Oil spill
6. Shazzy
7. Camp
8. St. Petersburg
9. Things that are good.
Super Bowl
My last post was written the day of the Super Bowl. Guess you know we won, right? I was downtown that night, high-fiving strangers (all while pushing aside my inner Howie Mandell), hugging strangers, drinking Dom with my mom, alternately giggling and crying, watching people dance to "Halftime" in the streets, yelling "Who Dat" like an idiot... amazing. I can't properly describe the energy in the city.
My friends and I were reminiscing about it last night, and we were talking about what a long three months of Thanksgiving, Christmas, title games, Super Bowl, victory parade, and Mardi Gras itself. Poor livers. Long, but so very upbeat, positive, and memorable.
Saints Parade
We got out of school early that day. A group of fellow teachers walked to the end of the Carrollton Streetcar line and rode it as far up Canal as we could. We stood out in the (for New Orleans) freezing cold with a minimum of 800,000 of our closest friends. The lines for the streetcar after the parade were ridiculous. We decided to start walking down Canal, because we figured the cars would start emptying out, and we could hop on further down the line. FAIL. We walked the whole way back to school. We stopped at a great pizza place on Canal near Carrollton, rested, re-energized, and made it the rest of the way. My friend Michelle stayed behind because her husband works downtown, and his car was there. Well, our looong walk got us home around the same time their car ride did. Unbelievable.
Greece
Lucky me got to go on the school trip as a chaperone. We went to Greece. I hate flying and thought I would never have a chance to go to Europe, and I was very anxious. But a few Benadryl later, and that trans-Atlantic flight wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.
It was an amazing journey. The weather was perfect the whole 9 days. The food was delicious. Being in the presence of the ruins devoted to the mythological beings I've loved since I was about 7 years old was breathtaking, as was the countryside. Athens itself is pretty funky, but the other places we visited: Delphi, Olympia, Cape Sounion, and three islands: Aegina, Poros, and Hydra, were gorgeous. In Delphi and Epidaurus, I stood in ancient Greek theaters. Me, a theatre nerd and drama teacher. I was speechless, especially in Epidaurus, where the amphitheater has naturally perfect acoustics. We rode donkeys in Hydra, an island where donkeys are they only means of transportation. No vehicles are on the island. We ran a race in the original Olympic stadium. Words cannot do this trip justice. And now, I have a travel bug. I want to see so much more of the world. It's so big, and I am so small, comparatively.
Portland
I went to the Journalism Educators Association Convention about two weeks later. It was my first trip to Oregon, and I fell in love with the city. Public transportation in the form of the light rail is amazing and I realllllly wish we had that here. Or if the streetcars had more lines, that would also do. I learned a lot at the convention, but most importantly, I took a very difficult exam: the Certified Journalism Educator exam. And a few months later, I learned that I passed it and am one of 4 CJEs in the state of Louisiana.
Oil Spill
Over 100 days ago, my state was met with more problems when the Deepwater Horizon Well exploded and started leaking no...pouring... oil into the Gulf of Mexico.
I am so tired of people thinking that this is no big deal or that it won't affect them. Well, to you, those same people who complained when our children overcrowded your schools, our people invaded your towns, and our adults looked for work...guess what. Those areas where the oil, fishing, shrimping, crabbing, and oystering communities thrive...most of whom have known only these trades, who have done this for generations, who will lose their livelihoods, their ways of life, their homes...they will move out and invade your lives again. The jobs, the schools, the towns....all endangered. That seafood you eat? Where does it come from? Already, we had dinner at two seafood and po-boy restaurants where oysters were not available. The brown pelican, that beautiful, graceful bird which represents our state, was endangered. Recently, it came off that list. Guess what? This oil spill is sending it right back. Here's 100 days of tragedy, animated: http://www.nola.com/news/gulf-oil-spill/index.ssf/2010/08/graphic_brings_together_multip.html
Shazzy
My sweet man, my Shazbot Schmoo, stopped eating and started hiding. Two Sundays ago, he could barely walk and wasn't interested in food. He let out a horrendous yowl and vomited bile all over the hallway. There was so much. I didn't know a cat could have that much vomit...especially when there was no food in his belly. Mark was not home, and I called him, scared. We went to an emergency vet center, and they kept him overnight. He was dangerously anemic, and he needed an emergency blood transfusion.
The next day, he regained interest in food, seemed livelier. We were supposed to pick him up that night, but they diagnosed him with feline leukemia, probably picked up in 2008 when he escaped while we were getting our dishwasher installed. It is a virus, and you can go two years after contracting it.
He was never sick a day in his life until that horrible weekend. He started having respiratory distress and they had to drain the area around his heart. He stopped eating. They kept him overnight. The next day, we picked him up, and immediately knew we didn't have much time with him. They thought maybe he would eat in familiar surroundings, but he didn't. Around midnight, we knew he was in too much pain, was unable to breathe well, and was refusing food, water, and medicine. He'd soiled a duffel bag he'd been laying on under the guest bed in Mark's office.
We brought him to the emergency place again, and the doctor agreed that there was only one way to end it. He was in my lap as it happened. I really can't write about it.
Shazzy was 6 years old when he died on July 22, 2010. I love you and miss you, my little man cat.
Camp
Spent my 15th year at camp. The success of it lies in Jessica, our fantastic returning camp director, who amazes me continually. Even more amazing? Next year will be the official marker of me having been there for half of my life. Zoinks. It was a good summer. We ended Friday, and I can't wait until next June.
St. Petersburg
I also spent a weekend in St. Pete (Florida, not Russia) at the Poynter Institute for Media Studies. I earned a spot (one of 22 people in the country) in a workshop on bringing your high school media online. It was absolutely awesome, and I learned so much. I have a million and one ideas for the journalism class I teach, and I am very excited about implementing them. In addition, we had a mini-getaway. We saw the Dali Museum, which was fabulous, ate some good food, and enjoyed being away. We never get to take vacations together, and so this was great and long overdue.
Things that are good
Lily has stopped living in fear. She is playful, highly visible, and using the litter box for the first time in 6 years. This is so very bittersweet.
I am teaching things that I taught last year, all of which I enjoy.
I am looking forward to being with my "school friends" again. I've missed them the past two months.
I'm sure there's more stuff, but I'm a bit overwhelmed at the moment. I'll try to update again faster than 6 months.
First: I've changed the look of the blog for the first time...well...ever.
Second: Here's a preview of topics for this post.
1. Super Bowl
2. Saints parade
3. Greece
4. Portland
5. Oil spill
6. Shazzy
7. Camp
8. St. Petersburg
9. Things that are good.
Super Bowl
My last post was written the day of the Super Bowl. Guess you know we won, right? I was downtown that night, high-fiving strangers (all while pushing aside my inner Howie Mandell), hugging strangers, drinking Dom with my mom, alternately giggling and crying, watching people dance to "Halftime" in the streets, yelling "Who Dat" like an idiot... amazing. I can't properly describe the energy in the city.
My friends and I were reminiscing about it last night, and we were talking about what a long three months of Thanksgiving, Christmas, title games, Super Bowl, victory parade, and Mardi Gras itself. Poor livers. Long, but so very upbeat, positive, and memorable.
Saints Parade
We got out of school early that day. A group of fellow teachers walked to the end of the Carrollton Streetcar line and rode it as far up Canal as we could. We stood out in the (for New Orleans) freezing cold with a minimum of 800,000 of our closest friends. The lines for the streetcar after the parade were ridiculous. We decided to start walking down Canal, because we figured the cars would start emptying out, and we could hop on further down the line. FAIL. We walked the whole way back to school. We stopped at a great pizza place on Canal near Carrollton, rested, re-energized, and made it the rest of the way. My friend Michelle stayed behind because her husband works downtown, and his car was there. Well, our looong walk got us home around the same time their car ride did. Unbelievable.
Greece
Lucky me got to go on the school trip as a chaperone. We went to Greece. I hate flying and thought I would never have a chance to go to Europe, and I was very anxious. But a few Benadryl later, and that trans-Atlantic flight wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.
It was an amazing journey. The weather was perfect the whole 9 days. The food was delicious. Being in the presence of the ruins devoted to the mythological beings I've loved since I was about 7 years old was breathtaking, as was the countryside. Athens itself is pretty funky, but the other places we visited: Delphi, Olympia, Cape Sounion, and three islands: Aegina, Poros, and Hydra, were gorgeous. In Delphi and Epidaurus, I stood in ancient Greek theaters. Me, a theatre nerd and drama teacher. I was speechless, especially in Epidaurus, where the amphitheater has naturally perfect acoustics. We rode donkeys in Hydra, an island where donkeys are they only means of transportation. No vehicles are on the island. We ran a race in the original Olympic stadium. Words cannot do this trip justice. And now, I have a travel bug. I want to see so much more of the world. It's so big, and I am so small, comparatively.
Portland
I went to the Journalism Educators Association Convention about two weeks later. It was my first trip to Oregon, and I fell in love with the city. Public transportation in the form of the light rail is amazing and I realllllly wish we had that here. Or if the streetcars had more lines, that would also do. I learned a lot at the convention, but most importantly, I took a very difficult exam: the Certified Journalism Educator exam. And a few months later, I learned that I passed it and am one of 4 CJEs in the state of Louisiana.
Oil Spill
Over 100 days ago, my state was met with more problems when the Deepwater Horizon Well exploded and started leaking no...pouring... oil into the Gulf of Mexico.
I am so tired of people thinking that this is no big deal or that it won't affect them. Well, to you, those same people who complained when our children overcrowded your schools, our people invaded your towns, and our adults looked for work...guess what. Those areas where the oil, fishing, shrimping, crabbing, and oystering communities thrive...most of whom have known only these trades, who have done this for generations, who will lose their livelihoods, their ways of life, their homes...they will move out and invade your lives again. The jobs, the schools, the towns....all endangered. That seafood you eat? Where does it come from? Already, we had dinner at two seafood and po-boy restaurants where oysters were not available. The brown pelican, that beautiful, graceful bird which represents our state, was endangered. Recently, it came off that list. Guess what? This oil spill is sending it right back. Here's 100 days of tragedy, animated: http://www.nola.com/news/gulf-oil-spill/index.ssf/2010/08/graphic_brings_together_multip.html
Shazzy
My sweet man, my Shazbot Schmoo, stopped eating and started hiding. Two Sundays ago, he could barely walk and wasn't interested in food. He let out a horrendous yowl and vomited bile all over the hallway. There was so much. I didn't know a cat could have that much vomit...especially when there was no food in his belly. Mark was not home, and I called him, scared. We went to an emergency vet center, and they kept him overnight. He was dangerously anemic, and he needed an emergency blood transfusion.
The next day, he regained interest in food, seemed livelier. We were supposed to pick him up that night, but they diagnosed him with feline leukemia, probably picked up in 2008 when he escaped while we were getting our dishwasher installed. It is a virus, and you can go two years after contracting it.
He was never sick a day in his life until that horrible weekend. He started having respiratory distress and they had to drain the area around his heart. He stopped eating. They kept him overnight. The next day, we picked him up, and immediately knew we didn't have much time with him. They thought maybe he would eat in familiar surroundings, but he didn't. Around midnight, we knew he was in too much pain, was unable to breathe well, and was refusing food, water, and medicine. He'd soiled a duffel bag he'd been laying on under the guest bed in Mark's office.
We brought him to the emergency place again, and the doctor agreed that there was only one way to end it. He was in my lap as it happened. I really can't write about it.
Shazzy was 6 years old when he died on July 22, 2010. I love you and miss you, my little man cat.
Camp
Spent my 15th year at camp. The success of it lies in Jessica, our fantastic returning camp director, who amazes me continually. Even more amazing? Next year will be the official marker of me having been there for half of my life. Zoinks. It was a good summer. We ended Friday, and I can't wait until next June.
St. Petersburg
I also spent a weekend in St. Pete (Florida, not Russia) at the Poynter Institute for Media Studies. I earned a spot (one of 22 people in the country) in a workshop on bringing your high school media online. It was absolutely awesome, and I learned so much. I have a million and one ideas for the journalism class I teach, and I am very excited about implementing them. In addition, we had a mini-getaway. We saw the Dali Museum, which was fabulous, ate some good food, and enjoyed being away. We never get to take vacations together, and so this was great and long overdue.
Things that are good
Lily has stopped living in fear. She is playful, highly visible, and using the litter box for the first time in 6 years. This is so very bittersweet.
I am teaching things that I taught last year, all of which I enjoy.
I am looking forward to being with my "school friends" again. I've missed them the past two months.
I'm sure there's more stuff, but I'm a bit overwhelmed at the moment. I'll try to update again faster than 6 months.
Sunday, February 07, 2010
Who dat.
I hate professional sports of all kinds. I hate that they pay their players exorbitant amounts of money to play a game, when people with real jobs that matter in the world get nothing. I hate the endorsements, the pomp and circumstance, the inundation of every medium for 20 weeks, and the way that I don't exist to my husband when the season starts. And I really hate that it takes place in winter, because I hate winter.
But, as you may have gathered from reading this blog, I love my city. I love the colorful history, the culture, the people, the architecture, the food, the life experiences, the costumes, the pomp, the circumstance, the sultry steaminess, the Siren's call...sure, there are things I hate, but this post is not for that.
I love when my grand old lady of a city is positively highlighted on a national or global front. It doesn't happen often, due to all of those things I don't care for about my city. And so when there's something that can elevate our reputation, well, I adore it.
And so, I love the Saints.
It was hard growing up. Saints games meant I couldn't ask friends to come play, because my dad was hitting the floor and saying words 7-year-olds shouldn't hear. There were mornings when I'd be woken up to him blaring his Who Dat 45 and "dancing" around the house. During a Saints game with a particularly bad outcome, my pregnant mom and I were in a car accident. He was so frustrated, between the game and the accident, that he threw the telephone and broke it.
My father is not a violent man. I was spanked once in my whole life. And I deserved it. He's actually an incredibly generous, kind-hearted, slightly grumpy, amazing person. His quirks prevent people from seeing this, but there's a reason why he's Stan the Man: because he simply IS.
But his Saints were hard to love. It took forever for them to get a winning season. It took longer to get to a playoff game, then to win one. After Katrina, they had an abysmal season and looked like they were going to San Antonio. This did nothing for my feelings about Texas. Or Saints owner Tom Benson. Or football. SO many other people had abandoned our city. Citizens, retailers, restaurateurs, the feds.... And then a miracle happened. We got to keep them. And we got Fujita. Brees. Colston. Bush... Mark scored free tickets to every home game that they won that year. I was there for all of them. Including when he scored tickets to the home opener in the Superdome after Katrina. I bawled walking in there. It was one of the first times I'd been downtown since I was taken out in rising floodwaters from the building next door. I'd watched the roof peel back and fly away during Katrina. It was physically difficult to be there. I bawled when proceedings began. I bawled when Green Day performed "Wake Me Up When September Ends," a song I haven't been able to hear since it ran through my head as I locked my door for the last time as we vertically evacuated. I bawled hysterically as U2 joined them and performed "The Saints Are Coming," especially when my Irish musical idol Bono said my drowned neighborhood's name. I kept bawling through U2's performance of "A Beautiful Day," because it truly, truly was. The national anthem didn't dry my eyes, and the opening kickoff, with all of that crowd noise....I ran out of Kleenex. When Steve Gleason blocked, man. Amazing. Then they won. And kept winning. When they finally made it to the NFC championship game, it was a brief moment where you could forget what we'd just been going through.
But then Bears fans yelled things at our Who Dat Nation, threw batteries wrapped in snow at them, and held signs that said, "Let's finish what Katrina started." Classless. Chicago, we will not forgive that. You performed penance by beating the Minnesota Brett Favres and solidifying our 1st place status, but you are not through yet. Don't feel too pleased with yourselves.
And then they lost. But our fans turned out in droves to welcome you home at the airport. It didn't really matter. Well, that's not entirely true.
We saw players come and go over the next few seasons, saw some hope, but lots of injuries. And then came this season. 13-0. A franchise first. Most wins ever, longest winning streak, black and gold fever. A pathetic home field loss to the Cowboys (DAMN YOU, TEXAS!!!!!!!!) followed by a heartbreaking home loss (at which I was a spectator...my first home game losing experience since the Saints were blown away by the Colts at my first ever game in the earlier part of this century), and a game where we phoned it in because everything was locked up. Mauling the Cardinals, sending Kurt Warner to retirement. Beating the Vikings and seeing Favre on the ground over and over again, possibly sending him to his 44th retirement. And now, the Super Bowl. For the first time ever.
I have never watched a Super Bowl before. But that's because I hate football and it has never mattered to New Orleans before. And we'd be saying "Katrina who?" right now if the media would let us forget her, and if Colts fans would stop making Photoshopped pictures of Katrina satellite footage with horseshoes superimposed on them. Hey, we may make fun of how lame Indiana might be, but at least we aren't mocking something were thousands died, millions were displaced, a city was destroyed, and people lost everything they owned. You're about as classy as Chicago, and your quarterback is a normally beloved son. Not today. His high school alma mater even has decided to cheer against him. Today is the first day this city will cheer against a Manning in a Super Bowl. Sorry, Archie, Olivia, Cooper, Peyton, and Eli. We'll go back to loving you after tonight. If we lose, it may take a few days, but give it time. If we win, we'll love you instantly again.
But today, I am watching. I am excited. My mom is making drunken brisket, potato salad, and brownies from Thomas Morestead's mother's recipe. We're busting open the Dom Perignon her boss gave her at Christmas, win or lose. We're going out to the French Quarter, win or lose, to celebrate after the game. If it's possible, I'd like to be at the airport, win or lose, to greet them.
Schools and businesses are closing Monday. We had a black and gold day Friday at school. You could pay $2 for Haiti relief and wear clothes to support the Saints. The day ended with the seniors getting permission to play our unofficial state anthem, the Ying Yang Twins' "Halftime" over the intercom, then a few seniors second-lining down the hallway with decorated umbrellas, while chanting WHO DAT! All with the administration's blessing. I ended all of my classes on Friday with, "Ok, you're dismissed. Have a good day, a great weekend, stay safe, and enjoy the Super Bowl, the parades, and Monday. Geaux Saints, WHO DAT!" It was always answered by raucous cheering. We broke out black and gold pom poms from storage at school, from back when Reggie Bush used to support us financially and would visit. I have a ton in the back of my car, ready to hand out in the Quarter and to share with my parents tonight.
Years ago, local broadcast legend Buddy D. promised to wear a dress if the Saints ever made it to the Super Bowl. He died a few years ago and missed it. His successor, former Saints quarterback Bobby Hebert, carried out Buddy's promise, and thousands of men joined in the Buddy and Bobby's Brawds drag parade last weekend. This came on the heels of the whole state getting up in arms over a faulty claim by the NFL that they owned a public domain statement and the fleur de lis. That public domain statement? "Who dat?" Everyone came together in support, the NFL retracted their claims with watery excuses, and the Who Dat Nation triumphed.
Win or lose, there is a parade on Tuesday night for them. It's Carnival anyway, and many krewes have Saints themed floats. They're all donating their Saints floats to the cause. It's downtown, and a bunch of faculty members are leaving our cars at school, taking the streetcar downtown, and enjoying the evening together.
We can't wait.
And it's all because of how much we love our city.
But, as you may have gathered from reading this blog, I love my city. I love the colorful history, the culture, the people, the architecture, the food, the life experiences, the costumes, the pomp, the circumstance, the sultry steaminess, the Siren's call...sure, there are things I hate, but this post is not for that.
I love when my grand old lady of a city is positively highlighted on a national or global front. It doesn't happen often, due to all of those things I don't care for about my city. And so when there's something that can elevate our reputation, well, I adore it.
And so, I love the Saints.
It was hard growing up. Saints games meant I couldn't ask friends to come play, because my dad was hitting the floor and saying words 7-year-olds shouldn't hear. There were mornings when I'd be woken up to him blaring his Who Dat 45 and "dancing" around the house. During a Saints game with a particularly bad outcome, my pregnant mom and I were in a car accident. He was so frustrated, between the game and the accident, that he threw the telephone and broke it.
My father is not a violent man. I was spanked once in my whole life. And I deserved it. He's actually an incredibly generous, kind-hearted, slightly grumpy, amazing person. His quirks prevent people from seeing this, but there's a reason why he's Stan the Man: because he simply IS.
But his Saints were hard to love. It took forever for them to get a winning season. It took longer to get to a playoff game, then to win one. After Katrina, they had an abysmal season and looked like they were going to San Antonio. This did nothing for my feelings about Texas. Or Saints owner Tom Benson. Or football. SO many other people had abandoned our city. Citizens, retailers, restaurateurs, the feds.... And then a miracle happened. We got to keep them. And we got Fujita. Brees. Colston. Bush... Mark scored free tickets to every home game that they won that year. I was there for all of them. Including when he scored tickets to the home opener in the Superdome after Katrina. I bawled walking in there. It was one of the first times I'd been downtown since I was taken out in rising floodwaters from the building next door. I'd watched the roof peel back and fly away during Katrina. It was physically difficult to be there. I bawled when proceedings began. I bawled when Green Day performed "Wake Me Up When September Ends," a song I haven't been able to hear since it ran through my head as I locked my door for the last time as we vertically evacuated. I bawled hysterically as U2 joined them and performed "The Saints Are Coming," especially when my Irish musical idol Bono said my drowned neighborhood's name. I kept bawling through U2's performance of "A Beautiful Day," because it truly, truly was. The national anthem didn't dry my eyes, and the opening kickoff, with all of that crowd noise....I ran out of Kleenex. When Steve Gleason blocked, man. Amazing. Then they won. And kept winning. When they finally made it to the NFC championship game, it was a brief moment where you could forget what we'd just been going through.
But then Bears fans yelled things at our Who Dat Nation, threw batteries wrapped in snow at them, and held signs that said, "Let's finish what Katrina started." Classless. Chicago, we will not forgive that. You performed penance by beating the Minnesota Brett Favres and solidifying our 1st place status, but you are not through yet. Don't feel too pleased with yourselves.
And then they lost. But our fans turned out in droves to welcome you home at the airport. It didn't really matter. Well, that's not entirely true.
We saw players come and go over the next few seasons, saw some hope, but lots of injuries. And then came this season. 13-0. A franchise first. Most wins ever, longest winning streak, black and gold fever. A pathetic home field loss to the Cowboys (DAMN YOU, TEXAS!!!!!!!!) followed by a heartbreaking home loss (at which I was a spectator...my first home game losing experience since the Saints were blown away by the Colts at my first ever game in the earlier part of this century), and a game where we phoned it in because everything was locked up. Mauling the Cardinals, sending Kurt Warner to retirement. Beating the Vikings and seeing Favre on the ground over and over again, possibly sending him to his 44th retirement. And now, the Super Bowl. For the first time ever.
I have never watched a Super Bowl before. But that's because I hate football and it has never mattered to New Orleans before. And we'd be saying "Katrina who?" right now if the media would let us forget her, and if Colts fans would stop making Photoshopped pictures of Katrina satellite footage with horseshoes superimposed on them. Hey, we may make fun of how lame Indiana might be, but at least we aren't mocking something were thousands died, millions were displaced, a city was destroyed, and people lost everything they owned. You're about as classy as Chicago, and your quarterback is a normally beloved son. Not today. His high school alma mater even has decided to cheer against him. Today is the first day this city will cheer against a Manning in a Super Bowl. Sorry, Archie, Olivia, Cooper, Peyton, and Eli. We'll go back to loving you after tonight. If we lose, it may take a few days, but give it time. If we win, we'll love you instantly again.
But today, I am watching. I am excited. My mom is making drunken brisket, potato salad, and brownies from Thomas Morestead's mother's recipe. We're busting open the Dom Perignon her boss gave her at Christmas, win or lose. We're going out to the French Quarter, win or lose, to celebrate after the game. If it's possible, I'd like to be at the airport, win or lose, to greet them.
Schools and businesses are closing Monday. We had a black and gold day Friday at school. You could pay $2 for Haiti relief and wear clothes to support the Saints. The day ended with the seniors getting permission to play our unofficial state anthem, the Ying Yang Twins' "Halftime" over the intercom, then a few seniors second-lining down the hallway with decorated umbrellas, while chanting WHO DAT! All with the administration's blessing. I ended all of my classes on Friday with, "Ok, you're dismissed. Have a good day, a great weekend, stay safe, and enjoy the Super Bowl, the parades, and Monday. Geaux Saints, WHO DAT!" It was always answered by raucous cheering. We broke out black and gold pom poms from storage at school, from back when Reggie Bush used to support us financially and would visit. I have a ton in the back of my car, ready to hand out in the Quarter and to share with my parents tonight.
Years ago, local broadcast legend Buddy D. promised to wear a dress if the Saints ever made it to the Super Bowl. He died a few years ago and missed it. His successor, former Saints quarterback Bobby Hebert, carried out Buddy's promise, and thousands of men joined in the Buddy and Bobby's Brawds drag parade last weekend. This came on the heels of the whole state getting up in arms over a faulty claim by the NFL that they owned a public domain statement and the fleur de lis. That public domain statement? "Who dat?" Everyone came together in support, the NFL retracted their claims with watery excuses, and the Who Dat Nation triumphed.
Win or lose, there is a parade on Tuesday night for them. It's Carnival anyway, and many krewes have Saints themed floats. They're all donating their Saints floats to the cause. It's downtown, and a bunch of faculty members are leaving our cars at school, taking the streetcar downtown, and enjoying the evening together.
We can't wait.
And it's all because of how much we love our city.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
An open letter to Brett Favre
Dear Brett Favre,
I have hated you since I first heard your name. "Farve." But you don't pronounce it the way it should be pronounced, as documented on "There's Something About Mary." Should be "Fahv," just like the bishop -- Bishop Fabre (Fahb).
I have nothing personal against you for being 40 and playing football still. What I have against you being 40 and still playing is your random forays into retirement. What do you think this is, a real-life version of Ben Folds' "Steven's Last Night in Town?" No one finds that funny. Listen to his lyrics. Retire or play.
You do ads for Wrangler jeans. While there is a funny spoof online of Wrangler's Really Short Jean Shorts that I find hilarious, I have to say your commercials are the lamest. No one plays football in the deep South in jeans during the summer unless he wants heatstroke. You want heatstroke, old man? Go ahead. Be my guest.
And that stubble. Jesus, what's with that stubble? Greying, kinda sparse, always at one particular length....either grow a beard or shave. That's not attractive. You look like you should be in an old Vaudeville act with face paint, patched pants, and a seltzer bottle.
You can't help being from Mississippi any more than I can help being from New Orleans, but Mississippi is 2nd place on my list of states I hate to visit. Texas is first.
You played for Green Bay, which, while I LOVE their cheeseheads, I must say has one of the ugliest team color combos, second only to Denver's Blue and Orange.
For some reason, the Sports media blows off my awesome Drew Brees in favor of riding your jock 24 hours a day. Your team was losing games, the Saints were undefeated, and STILL they called you better than Drew.
And now...your Vikings (I'm sorry, the Minnesota Favres) are coming to OUR house to play OUR boys in the NFC Championship Game. That makes you the enemy, even if you do secretly love the Saints.
But all of those things could, in theory, be forgivable. But now...you go and do this.
http://www.nola.com/saints/index.ssf/2010/01/video_brett_favres_postgame_ce.html
And for this, I cannot forgive you. That is not a funny moment in pop culture. Mildly amusing, but not funny. You're too old for American Idol, just like this guy was. We are done. If you ever thought you could make me like you (Especially if, say, you lose to my Saints next week and send them to Miami), you missed your chance. My list of grievances is too long.
Wait...maybe that parenthetical situation COULD be enough to make me move from intense hatred to strong dislike.....
I have hated you since I first heard your name. "Farve." But you don't pronounce it the way it should be pronounced, as documented on "There's Something About Mary." Should be "Fahv," just like the bishop -- Bishop Fabre (Fahb).
I have nothing personal against you for being 40 and playing football still. What I have against you being 40 and still playing is your random forays into retirement. What do you think this is, a real-life version of Ben Folds' "Steven's Last Night in Town?" No one finds that funny. Listen to his lyrics. Retire or play.
You do ads for Wrangler jeans. While there is a funny spoof online of Wrangler's Really Short Jean Shorts that I find hilarious, I have to say your commercials are the lamest. No one plays football in the deep South in jeans during the summer unless he wants heatstroke. You want heatstroke, old man? Go ahead. Be my guest.
And that stubble. Jesus, what's with that stubble? Greying, kinda sparse, always at one particular length....either grow a beard or shave. That's not attractive. You look like you should be in an old Vaudeville act with face paint, patched pants, and a seltzer bottle.
You can't help being from Mississippi any more than I can help being from New Orleans, but Mississippi is 2nd place on my list of states I hate to visit. Texas is first.
You played for Green Bay, which, while I LOVE their cheeseheads, I must say has one of the ugliest team color combos, second only to Denver's Blue and Orange.
For some reason, the Sports media blows off my awesome Drew Brees in favor of riding your jock 24 hours a day. Your team was losing games, the Saints were undefeated, and STILL they called you better than Drew.
And now...your Vikings (I'm sorry, the Minnesota Favres) are coming to OUR house to play OUR boys in the NFC Championship Game. That makes you the enemy, even if you do secretly love the Saints.
But all of those things could, in theory, be forgivable. But now...you go and do this.
http://www.nola.com/saints/index.ssf/2010/01/video_brett_favres_postgame_ce.html
And for this, I cannot forgive you. That is not a funny moment in pop culture. Mildly amusing, but not funny. You're too old for American Idol, just like this guy was. We are done. If you ever thought you could make me like you (Especially if, say, you lose to my Saints next week and send them to Miami), you missed your chance. My list of grievances is too long.
Wait...maybe that parenthetical situation COULD be enough to make me move from intense hatred to strong dislike.....
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Dear Santa
Dear Santa,
I haven't written to you in quite some time. Perhaps I have never written to you. See, when I was 4, I figured out that you weren't real. I said to my mom, "Mom, I know Santa isn't real." Mom, most likely thinking, "WHO TOLD HER!?!?!?! SHE'S FOUR!!!" asked what I meant. I told her, "At Christmas, there's always sales. Santa wouldn't need money to buy toys. The toys go on sale because the mommies and daddies have to buy the presents." So shocked by this logic, which evidently left me at this pivotal moment in my childhood, my mother knew there was no way to get me to believe again. She admitted that my theory was correct. As a result, I have no memories of believing in you.
Every year, people ask me what I want for Christmas. I don't like to make lists of things I want. First, I feel greedy. Second, if I make a list, then that's what I get, and there are no surprises. I prefer Christmas Eve to Christmas Day simply because of the anticipation and wonderment. Always have, always will.
I'm not religious. Yeah, yeah, Jesus is the reason for the season and all that jazz. But I like Christmas for its secular traditions, the way my family gets together, when normally, they don't. I like to watch people open gifts that I give them. I feel awkward opening gifts in front of people, but I love when they open mine and I can watch their reaction. Means more to me than some scarf.
I finally told my dad last night that I will not make a list because I prefer the surprise. He understood, and I guess he'll leave me alone about it now.
But other people don't. They think I'm ridiculous. Perhaps I am.
So here's my compromise. It's the list of things I DON'T want. Enjoy.
1. Cable knit sweaters
2. Any tops that are turtle necks
3. Velour anything
4. CDs
5. DVDs
6. Video games
7. Clothes from department store petite sections because I am not a 60-year-old prekindergarten teacher or petite, technically. (I'm either the tallest you can be to be petite or the shortest you can be to be regular.)
8. Festive pins
9. Perfume that I don't wear, but you do
10. Holiday items
11. Decorative pillows
12. Books about conservative issues, or "Family First" by Dr. Phil (the only thing I saw flooded in my house after Katrina that made me smile), or cook books (because who are we kidding?).
13. Coat racks
14. Wind suits
15. Something that you, the gift giver, would wear, because chances are, my sense of style is very different from yours.
16. Plaques with sayings on them, like, "Chocolate makes life sweeter!"
17. Muu-muus or housecoats
18. Math text books
19. Tupperware, because we're busting out of our cabinets with that stuff
20. Plush items
I haven't written to you in quite some time. Perhaps I have never written to you. See, when I was 4, I figured out that you weren't real. I said to my mom, "Mom, I know Santa isn't real." Mom, most likely thinking, "WHO TOLD HER!?!?!?! SHE'S FOUR!!!" asked what I meant. I told her, "At Christmas, there's always sales. Santa wouldn't need money to buy toys. The toys go on sale because the mommies and daddies have to buy the presents." So shocked by this logic, which evidently left me at this pivotal moment in my childhood, my mother knew there was no way to get me to believe again. She admitted that my theory was correct. As a result, I have no memories of believing in you.
Every year, people ask me what I want for Christmas. I don't like to make lists of things I want. First, I feel greedy. Second, if I make a list, then that's what I get, and there are no surprises. I prefer Christmas Eve to Christmas Day simply because of the anticipation and wonderment. Always have, always will.
I'm not religious. Yeah, yeah, Jesus is the reason for the season and all that jazz. But I like Christmas for its secular traditions, the way my family gets together, when normally, they don't. I like to watch people open gifts that I give them. I feel awkward opening gifts in front of people, but I love when they open mine and I can watch their reaction. Means more to me than some scarf.
I finally told my dad last night that I will not make a list because I prefer the surprise. He understood, and I guess he'll leave me alone about it now.
But other people don't. They think I'm ridiculous. Perhaps I am.
So here's my compromise. It's the list of things I DON'T want. Enjoy.
1. Cable knit sweaters
2. Any tops that are turtle necks
3. Velour anything
4. CDs
5. DVDs
6. Video games
7. Clothes from department store petite sections because I am not a 60-year-old prekindergarten teacher or petite, technically. (I'm either the tallest you can be to be petite or the shortest you can be to be regular.)
8. Festive pins
9. Perfume that I don't wear, but you do
10. Holiday items
11. Decorative pillows
12. Books about conservative issues, or "Family First" by Dr. Phil (the only thing I saw flooded in my house after Katrina that made me smile), or cook books (because who are we kidding?).
13. Coat racks
14. Wind suits
15. Something that you, the gift giver, would wear, because chances are, my sense of style is very different from yours.
16. Plaques with sayings on them, like, "Chocolate makes life sweeter!"
17. Muu-muus or housecoats
18. Math text books
19. Tupperware, because we're busting out of our cabinets with that stuff
20. Plush items
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