So, today, I went on the first field trip for school that I will take this year. While all field trips are awesome, none can compare to the one I will take from March 27- April 4: GREECE. Yeah, you right. I'm going to Greece. I was supposed to take 7/8 to Puerto Rico. Then 7th grade moved out of the high school. There weren't enough 8th graders to support the trip. They canceled my trip and moved me to the Greece trip the 9th-12th graders are taking. They are going to allow the 8th graders to travel to Greece IF they have a parent accompany them.
Anyway, we saw "Hurricane on the Bayou" at the IMAX. Perhaps this was not a good week for me to go. I silently cried my eyes out and half expected my contacts to float away. I thought it was all just about the wetlands conservation just in case the big one ever came (they started filming three months before Katrina), with an afterthought of the big one having almost hit. Yeah, people not from here, she was not THE big one. She hit Mississippi dead on. We could have been much, much worse.
I would have been a little okay, but seeing aerial footage of the city pre-K was hard. I immediately flashed back to what life was like back then.
THEN, they followed little Amanda Shaw, the violinist, as she evacuated, watched the news, went to her destroyed home, reunited with her grandfather who was rescued from his roof....and Tab Benoit as he found his destroyed home on the bayou.
Did I mention the footage of the baby alligators blowing away from their mother? 50-60 babies, down to 1 after the storm.
Did I mention all of the footage, some real, some news clips, some weather channel clips, some probably recreated CGI? Oh, and what about that transition scene where they showed the Dome with the Dominion Tower and the Hyatt (the two places where I stayed during the storm, if you remember...), while the roof blew off the Dome, and a piece of it slammed the camera lens?
Or how about, when the visuals got to be too much, so I closed my eyes, but there was no way to block out the audio, and it was just like the real thing, all over again, when I was laying in the ad office, trying to sleep, as windows broke and water drenched the rug, and we had to move to a more inward location of the radio station?
Is this what it's like after 'Nam for soldiers?
I could have left, but that would have dropped the student/teacher ratio. I could have left, but I didn't want anyone worrying about me. SO I sat down, and stayed, and cried in silent hysterics.
Didn't experience the storm? Want to? Go see this.
What about the kids? Well, none of them seemed upset, but they were in 4th and 5th grade when it all happened. They moved on. They don't remember. This is both good and bad. As much as I don't want to remember, I don't want to forget or be forgotten.
Why did I go? I was available, they needed help, I wouldn't need a sub, and I teach Louisiana History. I figured I HAD to. Now I wish I hadn't.
Bad week to go. Bad, bad, bad week to go.
Showing posts with label anxiety. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anxiety. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Friday, February 08, 2008
I am PISSED
Every day, generally, I check into a great "news" website, www.fark.com. They link news articles to sarcastic headlines. It's a great way to kill some time. Well, today, they had this headline, which linked to a story on www.nola.com: "New Orleans continues to make the case against rebuilding it" (this was also tagged "Obvious" by the people at Fark. http://www.nola.com/news/index.ssf/2008/02/man_fatally_shot_in_lower_gard.html is the article, if you're interested.
What had me upset was, yeah, we're in trouble. Yeah, things aren't good. But it's not the whole city, and it's not everyone, and it's generally crimes committed against people the murderers know and sometimes innocent bystanders. You know, same thing in cities all over the world. Charles Grant, a New Orleans Saint, was an innocent bystander victim the other day. Outside a nightclub. He was stabbed in the neck with a broken bottle. IN GEORGIA.
You can't cover up these grisly stories. That would do everyone an injustice. But for crying out loud. Don't kick us while we're down. I love Fark. I love their headlines. Generally, when there's a story about New Orleans, the headlines are funny. It's not like I got so offended I'll never go back to the site. I'll go back tomorrow to see what else is new. In fact, that headline is NOT what has me so pissed off right now. I got over that quickly.
Why am I pissed? Because of what just happened that has me blogging at 1 a.m. Luckily, since it's Mardi Gras week, I'm off of school all week and don't have to get up early tomorrow. However, Mark, who has a cold, is still up because of this, and he DOES have work in the morning. Good thing he's not at WWL any more...otherwise he'd have to be to work in 4 hours.
I was sitting here at my computer, watching an instruction video for the Cat Genie...you've GOT to see this thing...it's a self-flushing, self-cleaning litter box. My idea of heaven, really... www.catgenie.com if you're interested.
Anyway, I heard four close together popping sounds. We live next to the Interstate, so we're used to weird noises. We just wound up Mardi Gras. We're used to weird noises. People were still shooting fireworks around here as of Endymion and the Super Bowl. For a split second, as I always do when cars backfire and when fireworks go off out of season, I thought, "GASP! GUNSHOTS!" Then I told myself I was overreacting and should continue watching this amazing video. Within a couple of minutes, a loud crashing sound happened. I called to Mark, who was in his office, and we both got up to investigate. We live at the end of a street. There are street signs posted warning of the dead end. Yet since we've lived here in May, we've been at home in time to hear what now amounts to THREE cars slamming through the signs and getting stuck in our yard. Usually, the people can't back up because the signs are stuck under their cars, and they have to pull up into our front yard and go through our driveway. But on two occasions, we've had both cars in the driveway, and they've had trouble getting out.
The loud crash was the sound of a car running through the signs again. And since we were both parked in the driveway, Mark went to see if the driver, who was frantically revving his engine, needed help, i.e., Mark moving his car. The closer Mark got, the faster he revved his engine. It was an old hoopty of a car. He peeled out, leaving a burning smell in the air, and managed to not hit Mark's car in the process. We tried to catch the plate numbers but missed. Our nice next-door neighbor, Brett, was outside on his cell phone calling it in. He also missed the plate. It was dark outside.
We went to talk to Brett, who, it seems, we only see when something weird happens in the neighborhood...like the 5 times trucks pulled down our power and/or cable lines, or when the meth kids across the street got busted and subsequently evicted. But our neighborhood is nice. Our section hasn't been overtaken by mini-mansions yet, and it has a lot of old people. There are rentals closer to the train tracks, but it's nice and quiet. Neighbors talk to each other and wave. In fact, we met another one tonight, who came out to see what the ruckus was.
Anyway, we could tell Brett was on 911. We heard him say, "There were four shots fired, poppoppoppop, and then a few minutes later, a car came screaming down the street, ran into the street signs in my neighbors' yard, got stuck, peeled out, and drove south down our street, then turned right."
Shots fired.
SHOTS FIRED!
It wasn't until we eventually came back inside that the enormity of the situation hit me. We live in a decent area. Mark was going to see if the guy needed help. His car didn't look like it belonged here...a gold four-door late '80s Chevy Malibu (according to Brett)...and the driver was kind of thuggy-looking. Now, we have a mostly white neighborhood, but there are several black families who live further down our street. He didn't look like any of them. Or like he would even be going to visit them. He definitely didn't belong here. Yet, being nice people in a nice neighborhood, he went to see if he could help. Thankfully, he didn't have anyone else in his car. Otherwise, I'm pretty sure we would have been shot at. If he fired four shots, chances are he would have two rounds left, right? Mark. Me. Or Brett, who has two young kids, a wife in the hospital, and his mother staying with him.
Time to feel awful, because the racial divides in this city are ridiculous -- Jefferson Parish cops pulled up within 4 minutes of Brett hanging up with them. At LEAST 5 squad cars passed us. Three blocked our street for the majority of the time. In fact, Mark went to make sure we'd locked up a little while ago, and he said he thinks the cops are patrolling the neighborhood because he saw one pass.
If this wasn't a predominantly white neighborhood, we'd still be waiting for the cops, and they probably wouldn't be patrolling still. Why is this fair that we should get this attention? It's not. It's disgusting. That's yet another reason why I'm pissed and blogging at...well now it's 1:30 a.m.
So here's what we're thinking. Something happened a few streets west of here...no more than about 3 or 4, I would assume. Other reports about shots being fired were from the street and possibly block that my uncle Dennis lives on with his fiancée, Kim. Guy got in his car to make a getaway, in the darkness couldn't see the road signs because they're already a little slanted from the last idiot who ran into them, and slammed into them and the no-longer-connected-to-any-wires telephone pole that's right there. He broke the pole off, pulled it out of the ground, and thankfully slammed it into the tree. It's precariously balanced in the crook of some tree branches right now. There's a gaping hole where it was, and broken wood next to it. He definitely lost pieces of his car, because, despite the darkness, we found them in the grass. The cops have a piece of what may be the thing that holds his headlights. It's metal. I found plastic parts covered in oil. He leaked a trail of oil down the street. I told the old cop to just follow the trail, and they'll at least find the car. It was making far too much noise as he sped away, and smelled like burning, too. He's going to have a lot of front bumper damage, maybe rear bumper damage, and definitely undercarriage damage. He'll more than likely break down, and they'll at least get his car.
But holy crap. We could have been killed, all because we thought he was an innocent idiot who needed help getting out of our yard.
Goddammit.
Anyway, Obama was at Tulane University today. I'm not attaching myself to any candidates just yet. It's too early. And as a registered independent, I can't vote in the primaries, so I'm waiting until I see who gets narrowed down. The man has great speech writers and researchers in his employ. He made a great deal about this area and helping it recover and education, especially here...and now assholes like our yard idiot are just giving people more reason to say, "Fuck New Orleans. They don't deserve to recover."
Editing this to add that Entergy is outside right now taking care of our pole. Again, white neighborhood, fast response.
What had me upset was, yeah, we're in trouble. Yeah, things aren't good. But it's not the whole city, and it's not everyone, and it's generally crimes committed against people the murderers know and sometimes innocent bystanders. You know, same thing in cities all over the world. Charles Grant, a New Orleans Saint, was an innocent bystander victim the other day. Outside a nightclub. He was stabbed in the neck with a broken bottle. IN GEORGIA.
You can't cover up these grisly stories. That would do everyone an injustice. But for crying out loud. Don't kick us while we're down. I love Fark. I love their headlines. Generally, when there's a story about New Orleans, the headlines are funny. It's not like I got so offended I'll never go back to the site. I'll go back tomorrow to see what else is new. In fact, that headline is NOT what has me so pissed off right now. I got over that quickly.
Why am I pissed? Because of what just happened that has me blogging at 1 a.m. Luckily, since it's Mardi Gras week, I'm off of school all week and don't have to get up early tomorrow. However, Mark, who has a cold, is still up because of this, and he DOES have work in the morning. Good thing he's not at WWL any more...otherwise he'd have to be to work in 4 hours.
I was sitting here at my computer, watching an instruction video for the Cat Genie...you've GOT to see this thing...it's a self-flushing, self-cleaning litter box. My idea of heaven, really... www.catgenie.com if you're interested.
Anyway, I heard four close together popping sounds. We live next to the Interstate, so we're used to weird noises. We just wound up Mardi Gras. We're used to weird noises. People were still shooting fireworks around here as of Endymion and the Super Bowl. For a split second, as I always do when cars backfire and when fireworks go off out of season, I thought, "GASP! GUNSHOTS!" Then I told myself I was overreacting and should continue watching this amazing video. Within a couple of minutes, a loud crashing sound happened. I called to Mark, who was in his office, and we both got up to investigate. We live at the end of a street. There are street signs posted warning of the dead end. Yet since we've lived here in May, we've been at home in time to hear what now amounts to THREE cars slamming through the signs and getting stuck in our yard. Usually, the people can't back up because the signs are stuck under their cars, and they have to pull up into our front yard and go through our driveway. But on two occasions, we've had both cars in the driveway, and they've had trouble getting out.
The loud crash was the sound of a car running through the signs again. And since we were both parked in the driveway, Mark went to see if the driver, who was frantically revving his engine, needed help, i.e., Mark moving his car. The closer Mark got, the faster he revved his engine. It was an old hoopty of a car. He peeled out, leaving a burning smell in the air, and managed to not hit Mark's car in the process. We tried to catch the plate numbers but missed. Our nice next-door neighbor, Brett, was outside on his cell phone calling it in. He also missed the plate. It was dark outside.
We went to talk to Brett, who, it seems, we only see when something weird happens in the neighborhood...like the 5 times trucks pulled down our power and/or cable lines, or when the meth kids across the street got busted and subsequently evicted. But our neighborhood is nice. Our section hasn't been overtaken by mini-mansions yet, and it has a lot of old people. There are rentals closer to the train tracks, but it's nice and quiet. Neighbors talk to each other and wave. In fact, we met another one tonight, who came out to see what the ruckus was.
Anyway, we could tell Brett was on 911. We heard him say, "There were four shots fired, poppoppoppop, and then a few minutes later, a car came screaming down the street, ran into the street signs in my neighbors' yard, got stuck, peeled out, and drove south down our street, then turned right."
Shots fired.
SHOTS FIRED!
It wasn't until we eventually came back inside that the enormity of the situation hit me. We live in a decent area. Mark was going to see if the guy needed help. His car didn't look like it belonged here...a gold four-door late '80s Chevy Malibu (according to Brett)...and the driver was kind of thuggy-looking. Now, we have a mostly white neighborhood, but there are several black families who live further down our street. He didn't look like any of them. Or like he would even be going to visit them. He definitely didn't belong here. Yet, being nice people in a nice neighborhood, he went to see if he could help. Thankfully, he didn't have anyone else in his car. Otherwise, I'm pretty sure we would have been shot at. If he fired four shots, chances are he would have two rounds left, right? Mark. Me. Or Brett, who has two young kids, a wife in the hospital, and his mother staying with him.
Time to feel awful, because the racial divides in this city are ridiculous -- Jefferson Parish cops pulled up within 4 minutes of Brett hanging up with them. At LEAST 5 squad cars passed us. Three blocked our street for the majority of the time. In fact, Mark went to make sure we'd locked up a little while ago, and he said he thinks the cops are patrolling the neighborhood because he saw one pass.
If this wasn't a predominantly white neighborhood, we'd still be waiting for the cops, and they probably wouldn't be patrolling still. Why is this fair that we should get this attention? It's not. It's disgusting. That's yet another reason why I'm pissed and blogging at...well now it's 1:30 a.m.
So here's what we're thinking. Something happened a few streets west of here...no more than about 3 or 4, I would assume. Other reports about shots being fired were from the street and possibly block that my uncle Dennis lives on with his fiancée, Kim. Guy got in his car to make a getaway, in the darkness couldn't see the road signs because they're already a little slanted from the last idiot who ran into them, and slammed into them and the no-longer-connected-to-any-wires telephone pole that's right there. He broke the pole off, pulled it out of the ground, and thankfully slammed it into the tree. It's precariously balanced in the crook of some tree branches right now. There's a gaping hole where it was, and broken wood next to it. He definitely lost pieces of his car, because, despite the darkness, we found them in the grass. The cops have a piece of what may be the thing that holds his headlights. It's metal. I found plastic parts covered in oil. He leaked a trail of oil down the street. I told the old cop to just follow the trail, and they'll at least find the car. It was making far too much noise as he sped away, and smelled like burning, too. He's going to have a lot of front bumper damage, maybe rear bumper damage, and definitely undercarriage damage. He'll more than likely break down, and they'll at least get his car.
But holy crap. We could have been killed, all because we thought he was an innocent idiot who needed help getting out of our yard.
Goddammit.
Anyway, Obama was at Tulane University today. I'm not attaching myself to any candidates just yet. It's too early. And as a registered independent, I can't vote in the primaries, so I'm waiting until I see who gets narrowed down. The man has great speech writers and researchers in his employ. He made a great deal about this area and helping it recover and education, especially here...and now assholes like our yard idiot are just giving people more reason to say, "Fuck New Orleans. They don't deserve to recover."
Editing this to add that Entergy is outside right now taking care of our pole. Again, white neighborhood, fast response.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
And the walls come tumbling down
And when they tumble, they tumble hard.
I never, when I started up with Blogger a year and a half ago....which seems like an entire lifetime ago..... intended it to be a real-live blog. I never wanted to be all emo and sad and sorry on this. It was something I could write goofy observations on, and maybe share what Kate once called my "windbreaker" stories in one place without having to tell the stories orally.
But I feel that it had to take a serious detour less than 14 months ago. It served a purpose: a place to put down all of the bad thoughts and memories in order to get them out. A therapist's couch, if you will. A place where, if people didn't want to hear about it, they could just close, instead of feigning uncomfortable interest in what I had to say.
I finally catalogued all of the horror plus the small triumphs. It's all here; from the fear of facing death in the eyes to the reopening of my father's business in May, I've chronicled it.
And now, I don't know what to do. I suppose I need to keep it open. Because no one wants to hear what I have to say. It's too uncomfortable. I have a new gift in life: bringing people down.
At one point in my life, I'd venture to say that I was a fun person to be with. I am not that any more. And on the occasions when I try to talk about it, no one wants to hear it. Or they cut in with their own miseries. Or they get uncomfortable and change the subject. So I have shut down. They don't want to hear it, so I don't say it. Not even my family wants it any more. My mother loses patience and snaps at me, my father comes up with all of his trials and tribulations of the day, my husband is at a loss for what to say or do and goes to his computer while i sit and cry, and my brother...well...one of the last things I heard him say, just before he tried to slam my fingers in his car door and Mark tried to throw him from his car was, "I will not set foot in this house until they are out of it."
The amount of loss experienced in the last 14 months in this area is astounding. People try to say we're moving on, that things are improving, that things are looking up, that we'll all be okay once we settle down. And I just want to scream.
I face a new antsy these days. Antsy for me before was waiting in line to see a concert, hoping to see a test grade, wondering what my Christmas presents will be, hoping to get a job I applied for. But now antsy is different. I feel antsy at night. Like I have to do something, but am unable to. Like I want to run a million miles without stopping or looking back. I can't sit still, but it's all I want.
I may have developed reflux in the past year. If I am hungry, I get heartburn. I find that I must eat something every 4-5 hours. If I eat, I get heartburn. Fried, spicy, bland, raw, homecooked, prepared....it makes no difference. But if I don't eat, things are worse. And so I carry Pepcid AC at all times and eat and eat and eat, and I have added more than 30 pounds in all of this time. I don't know what I'll wear this winter. My pants do not fit. I bought one pair of jeans and one pair of pants. The rest do not even button. I saw a picture of myself taken about 3 weeks ago. I didn't realize it was me. My face is so round, and my body is distorted. I dont' know who I am any more. My shirts are tight, my underweart is uncomfortable, and I can't button my pants. Shopping makes me sad.
A friend said to me the other day that "We'll all do better once things settle down for us." For us. Us? I know not of whom she speaks. Yes, she has some very serious money issues going on. But she has all of her stuff and a place of her own. I have things I dont' recognize and am still living with my parents.
I go to bridal showers and feel angry and sad. I leave in tears. Sometimes, it's because it's a relative of Mark's, who was untouched and lost three, maybe four days of work after the storm. Nothing else. And I see things given to them that were given to us 4 years ago. And I ache, because I do not have them any more. I didn't even have to like the item. But I see it, and I ache. Sometimes, it's just because here is someone living out life, batting a single eye at the storm, if that, getting all of these items, dreaming, hoping, anticipating. And I realize that here are people who, four years after receiving this items, will still have these items. And if not, then it will have been a matter of choice, not a matter of necessity, to throw it to the curb. These people will not have to carry out every item they ever owned and throw it for the neighborhood and the tourists to see.
And what hurts even more is that when we were first married, we had nothing. We were dumb kids fresh out of college playing grown-up. People helped us. We had showers and a wedding. We were given almost everything and started our married life with a fully-stocked kitchen. Bedroom. Office. Bathroom. My God...people gave us everything from Tums to sheets, from Mr. Clean to sofas. And who will do this this time? This time, when we're starting out with even less than we had before? It's not a greed issue. It's an "Oh my God how will we survive without so much as a whisk?" issue.
Logistically, how will we? We got a whopping $9,000+ for more than $56,000 worth of belongings. It is nto possible to replace it.
People say, "Well, you ought to have a good bit stocked up, what with not having to pay rent and all." Easier said than done. Where has my year's salary gone? Breakfast and lunch items. Clothing and shoes and underwear and socks and pajamas and pantyhose and toiletries and everythign else you use in your daily life but take for granted. Do you know what it is like to stand there, owning a trunk full of photo albums and four days worth of clothes and your two cats? No, you don't. You go to shower, and you have nothing to put on. You have nothing to get clean with. You have to replace it all. More money went into my classroom. It went straight from school back into school. It went to four doctor's visits and tons of medicine each time. It went to gasoline, especially now that I have such a long commute to and from work. It went to having something to do.
My parents, I love. I can never repay them for these past almost 13 months that I have been here. And like 11 that Mark has been here. But we are not at home here. It may sound silly, but it's true. We have nowhere to go. We cannot do anything without being in the way. If we want to watch TV, we have to do it in the den, as we don't have a big enough stand for the tiny TV in our room. There's nowhere to sit and comfortably watch it. My father, who owns the house and the TV in the den, does and should take control of it. But even if we don't want to watch TV, we can't go in there and talk, because he is watching something. We can't sit at the kitchen table, because it connects to the den, and we also hear, "I don't know where you think we're going to eat dinner." My old room is an office, and has nowhere to sit. I wouldn't dream of going in their room. The dining room is full of things from my now-deceased grandmother's place, while the living room is full of the junk we've somehow accumulated this year. There is nowhere to go but this tiny, cramped, progressively dirty room that was my brother's. And the only places to sit are this hard chair at the computer and the bed. Neither is conducive to long-term sitting. But if we want anything to do, this is where we must be.
Go for a walk or do something physical, you say? No. I've tried. I want nothing more than to lose this horrible weight, but there is no way to do it. I leave home at 7 a.m. and get home about 11 hours later. And work doesn't end when I leave. I have things to prepare, things to grade, things to think about. A teacher's work is never done until summer vacation. And even then, it's not done. I spent my summer thinking about school-related things. I am physically tired when I get home. And then I am mentally tired, as I have to be on my feet (figuratively as well as literally) all day. And then I am emotionally drained, as I drive through Mid-City, City Park, and Lakeview, as I drive past FEMA trailers, as I drive home to this sorry little existence we've had to take up. Physical activity, of ALL types, is not an option for me.
As it is, I do not even socialize with people who A. dont live with me and B. don't work with me any more. We have nowhere to bring people. What do you want? " Sorry, mom and dad, but you can't be in your own home tonight. We're having friends over. Hope you can find something to do, especially after a long, hard day at work." We've lost touch with so many people.
Our other friends only ever hang out at "The Cabin" anyway. And they all seem happy and well-adjusted. Even the ones whose parents lost everything. Maybe they just conceal better than I do. I don't know. But it's like life never changed for them. And I am tired of both that and of the "same-old, same-old." As it is, that's my brother's house. I cannot go over there any more. I went when my cousin Kate was in town last weekend, but it was very hard for me. But since it's my brother's house, and that's where all of our friends hang out, I have essentially lost them as well.
All of this has left me feeling so very alone.
And so we go out to eat on weekends, we go to the mall on weekends, we go to Target and Best Buy and Wal-Mart and Halloween stores and the French Quarter, and all it leads us to is nothing. False happiness.
Some people will ask what's wrong, and I can't even verbalize it. Because I get told to cheer up. To just try harder. To wait it out, and it'll all settle. That I'm not the only one who lost something. That everyone has lost something. That things will be better. That things are looking up. That things will get back to normal. But it won't. As I think I wrote before, every time we try to get ahead, something happens to throw us backwards. One of us is laid off. A grandparent gets sick. A killer hurricane comes up and body slams the city, leaving us homeless and with nothing but, literally, the clothes on our backs.
I just finished the 13th and finally installment of Lemony Snicket's "A Series of Unfortunate Events." And this passage struck me deeply:
"There is a kind of crying I hope you have not experienced, and it is not just crying about something terrible that has happened, but a crying for all of the terrible things that have happened, not just to you but to everyone you know and to everyone you don't know and even the people that you don't want to know, a crying that cannot be diluted by a brave deed or a kind word, but only by someone holding you as your shoulders shake and your tears run down your face."
There were actually a great many passages in these books which made me upset. Mostly, they involved the Baudelaires missing some part of their lives from before the Series began, and generally they involved Klaus looking at destroyed books. But usually, they were about extreme sadness.
But sometimes, not even someone holding you is enough.
I cry still. I cry often. I usually cry in the safety and solitude of the shower. Sometimes it spills into less solitary and safe places.
I still do not sleep well. I stay up later than I should because of this. But why not be productive in these hours instead of lying awake, staring at the ceiling?
I have no drive. I bought jewelry-making things, with the intent of making Christmas gifts for people. I am not interested. Mark offers to play chess or checkers, and I am not interested. I made a students give me homework, because I can feel myself losing my desire to read one again. I have nowhere to go. And I feel the urge to run, but cannot. I want to go out with friends but cannot. I want to do something spontaneous and fun, but don't want the effort. I feel urges to eat, and I do that. I want to sleep for a minimum of 8 solid hours, but do not. Six interrupted is the most I can hope for. Even this is a struggle. But if I dont' put this down here, I will not get it out.
Now for one metaphor-less translation of the heading of this post: A while back, I said that I hoped that our house would be torn down. I would not be able to handle seeing another family move in and have fun, because my closure was false and forced. People reacted strangely to hearing this, but if we can't have it, then no one can.
About three weeks ago, the day after we applied for a home loan, I drove home on my normal route, and there was a huge pile of rubble where our house was. The cranes were still there, but the men had gone home. I circled around, tears burning the backs of my eyes, my breath somewhere other than inside me, and drove up to the wreckage. I had my moment. I cried. I had my camera and took pictrues of it. I stopped my tears, turned off the car, and grabbed a brick. A souvenier of what was.
Today, it is a vacant lot filled with mud. And I am okay with that. No one else will have our house. No one else will throw a party and wonder A. where the guests will park or B. how to fit the guests inside once they have found parking spaces. No one else will haul laundry to the carport and have to balance the heavy basket while trying to unlock the laundry room door. No one else will sit in lawn chairs out front, dirty and sweaty from working in the yard, sipping on snowballs from Fireman Phil's. We were the last to do those things. No one can move into our place.
And I can almost pass without looking now. But I have to pass that way. If I don't, I panic. But at least I don't have to look at it.
We haven't heard back on that loan yet. I don't think we'll get it. SOMEONE has very low credit, and I think that will hurt us in the long run. I will let you know, though.
I need to be held, so that I can cry. But I can't do it without an audience.
I want my life back. I want my body back. I want myself back.
I never, when I started up with Blogger a year and a half ago....which seems like an entire lifetime ago..... intended it to be a real-live blog. I never wanted to be all emo and sad and sorry on this. It was something I could write goofy observations on, and maybe share what Kate once called my "windbreaker" stories in one place without having to tell the stories orally.
But I feel that it had to take a serious detour less than 14 months ago. It served a purpose: a place to put down all of the bad thoughts and memories in order to get them out. A therapist's couch, if you will. A place where, if people didn't want to hear about it, they could just close, instead of feigning uncomfortable interest in what I had to say.
I finally catalogued all of the horror plus the small triumphs. It's all here; from the fear of facing death in the eyes to the reopening of my father's business in May, I've chronicled it.
And now, I don't know what to do. I suppose I need to keep it open. Because no one wants to hear what I have to say. It's too uncomfortable. I have a new gift in life: bringing people down.
At one point in my life, I'd venture to say that I was a fun person to be with. I am not that any more. And on the occasions when I try to talk about it, no one wants to hear it. Or they cut in with their own miseries. Or they get uncomfortable and change the subject. So I have shut down. They don't want to hear it, so I don't say it. Not even my family wants it any more. My mother loses patience and snaps at me, my father comes up with all of his trials and tribulations of the day, my husband is at a loss for what to say or do and goes to his computer while i sit and cry, and my brother...well...one of the last things I heard him say, just before he tried to slam my fingers in his car door and Mark tried to throw him from his car was, "I will not set foot in this house until they are out of it."
The amount of loss experienced in the last 14 months in this area is astounding. People try to say we're moving on, that things are improving, that things are looking up, that we'll all be okay once we settle down. And I just want to scream.
I face a new antsy these days. Antsy for me before was waiting in line to see a concert, hoping to see a test grade, wondering what my Christmas presents will be, hoping to get a job I applied for. But now antsy is different. I feel antsy at night. Like I have to do something, but am unable to. Like I want to run a million miles without stopping or looking back. I can't sit still, but it's all I want.
I may have developed reflux in the past year. If I am hungry, I get heartburn. I find that I must eat something every 4-5 hours. If I eat, I get heartburn. Fried, spicy, bland, raw, homecooked, prepared....it makes no difference. But if I don't eat, things are worse. And so I carry Pepcid AC at all times and eat and eat and eat, and I have added more than 30 pounds in all of this time. I don't know what I'll wear this winter. My pants do not fit. I bought one pair of jeans and one pair of pants. The rest do not even button. I saw a picture of myself taken about 3 weeks ago. I didn't realize it was me. My face is so round, and my body is distorted. I dont' know who I am any more. My shirts are tight, my underweart is uncomfortable, and I can't button my pants. Shopping makes me sad.
A friend said to me the other day that "We'll all do better once things settle down for us." For us. Us? I know not of whom she speaks. Yes, she has some very serious money issues going on. But she has all of her stuff and a place of her own. I have things I dont' recognize and am still living with my parents.
I go to bridal showers and feel angry and sad. I leave in tears. Sometimes, it's because it's a relative of Mark's, who was untouched and lost three, maybe four days of work after the storm. Nothing else. And I see things given to them that were given to us 4 years ago. And I ache, because I do not have them any more. I didn't even have to like the item. But I see it, and I ache. Sometimes, it's just because here is someone living out life, batting a single eye at the storm, if that, getting all of these items, dreaming, hoping, anticipating. And I realize that here are people who, four years after receiving this items, will still have these items. And if not, then it will have been a matter of choice, not a matter of necessity, to throw it to the curb. These people will not have to carry out every item they ever owned and throw it for the neighborhood and the tourists to see.
And what hurts even more is that when we were first married, we had nothing. We were dumb kids fresh out of college playing grown-up. People helped us. We had showers and a wedding. We were given almost everything and started our married life with a fully-stocked kitchen. Bedroom. Office. Bathroom. My God...people gave us everything from Tums to sheets, from Mr. Clean to sofas. And who will do this this time? This time, when we're starting out with even less than we had before? It's not a greed issue. It's an "Oh my God how will we survive without so much as a whisk?" issue.
Logistically, how will we? We got a whopping $9,000+ for more than $56,000 worth of belongings. It is nto possible to replace it.
People say, "Well, you ought to have a good bit stocked up, what with not having to pay rent and all." Easier said than done. Where has my year's salary gone? Breakfast and lunch items. Clothing and shoes and underwear and socks and pajamas and pantyhose and toiletries and everythign else you use in your daily life but take for granted. Do you know what it is like to stand there, owning a trunk full of photo albums and four days worth of clothes and your two cats? No, you don't. You go to shower, and you have nothing to put on. You have nothing to get clean with. You have to replace it all. More money went into my classroom. It went straight from school back into school. It went to four doctor's visits and tons of medicine each time. It went to gasoline, especially now that I have such a long commute to and from work. It went to having something to do.
My parents, I love. I can never repay them for these past almost 13 months that I have been here. And like 11 that Mark has been here. But we are not at home here. It may sound silly, but it's true. We have nowhere to go. We cannot do anything without being in the way. If we want to watch TV, we have to do it in the den, as we don't have a big enough stand for the tiny TV in our room. There's nowhere to sit and comfortably watch it. My father, who owns the house and the TV in the den, does and should take control of it. But even if we don't want to watch TV, we can't go in there and talk, because he is watching something. We can't sit at the kitchen table, because it connects to the den, and we also hear, "I don't know where you think we're going to eat dinner." My old room is an office, and has nowhere to sit. I wouldn't dream of going in their room. The dining room is full of things from my now-deceased grandmother's place, while the living room is full of the junk we've somehow accumulated this year. There is nowhere to go but this tiny, cramped, progressively dirty room that was my brother's. And the only places to sit are this hard chair at the computer and the bed. Neither is conducive to long-term sitting. But if we want anything to do, this is where we must be.
Go for a walk or do something physical, you say? No. I've tried. I want nothing more than to lose this horrible weight, but there is no way to do it. I leave home at 7 a.m. and get home about 11 hours later. And work doesn't end when I leave. I have things to prepare, things to grade, things to think about. A teacher's work is never done until summer vacation. And even then, it's not done. I spent my summer thinking about school-related things. I am physically tired when I get home. And then I am mentally tired, as I have to be on my feet (figuratively as well as literally) all day. And then I am emotionally drained, as I drive through Mid-City, City Park, and Lakeview, as I drive past FEMA trailers, as I drive home to this sorry little existence we've had to take up. Physical activity, of ALL types, is not an option for me.
As it is, I do not even socialize with people who A. dont live with me and B. don't work with me any more. We have nowhere to bring people. What do you want? " Sorry, mom and dad, but you can't be in your own home tonight. We're having friends over. Hope you can find something to do, especially after a long, hard day at work." We've lost touch with so many people.
Our other friends only ever hang out at "The Cabin" anyway. And they all seem happy and well-adjusted. Even the ones whose parents lost everything. Maybe they just conceal better than I do. I don't know. But it's like life never changed for them. And I am tired of both that and of the "same-old, same-old." As it is, that's my brother's house. I cannot go over there any more. I went when my cousin Kate was in town last weekend, but it was very hard for me. But since it's my brother's house, and that's where all of our friends hang out, I have essentially lost them as well.
All of this has left me feeling so very alone.
And so we go out to eat on weekends, we go to the mall on weekends, we go to Target and Best Buy and Wal-Mart and Halloween stores and the French Quarter, and all it leads us to is nothing. False happiness.
Some people will ask what's wrong, and I can't even verbalize it. Because I get told to cheer up. To just try harder. To wait it out, and it'll all settle. That I'm not the only one who lost something. That everyone has lost something. That things will be better. That things are looking up. That things will get back to normal. But it won't. As I think I wrote before, every time we try to get ahead, something happens to throw us backwards. One of us is laid off. A grandparent gets sick. A killer hurricane comes up and body slams the city, leaving us homeless and with nothing but, literally, the clothes on our backs.
I just finished the 13th and finally installment of Lemony Snicket's "A Series of Unfortunate Events." And this passage struck me deeply:
"There is a kind of crying I hope you have not experienced, and it is not just crying about something terrible that has happened, but a crying for all of the terrible things that have happened, not just to you but to everyone you know and to everyone you don't know and even the people that you don't want to know, a crying that cannot be diluted by a brave deed or a kind word, but only by someone holding you as your shoulders shake and your tears run down your face."
There were actually a great many passages in these books which made me upset. Mostly, they involved the Baudelaires missing some part of their lives from before the Series began, and generally they involved Klaus looking at destroyed books. But usually, they were about extreme sadness.
But sometimes, not even someone holding you is enough.
I cry still. I cry often. I usually cry in the safety and solitude of the shower. Sometimes it spills into less solitary and safe places.
I still do not sleep well. I stay up later than I should because of this. But why not be productive in these hours instead of lying awake, staring at the ceiling?
I have no drive. I bought jewelry-making things, with the intent of making Christmas gifts for people. I am not interested. Mark offers to play chess or checkers, and I am not interested. I made a students give me homework, because I can feel myself losing my desire to read one again. I have nowhere to go. And I feel the urge to run, but cannot. I want to go out with friends but cannot. I want to do something spontaneous and fun, but don't want the effort. I feel urges to eat, and I do that. I want to sleep for a minimum of 8 solid hours, but do not. Six interrupted is the most I can hope for. Even this is a struggle. But if I dont' put this down here, I will not get it out.
Now for one metaphor-less translation of the heading of this post: A while back, I said that I hoped that our house would be torn down. I would not be able to handle seeing another family move in and have fun, because my closure was false and forced. People reacted strangely to hearing this, but if we can't have it, then no one can.
About three weeks ago, the day after we applied for a home loan, I drove home on my normal route, and there was a huge pile of rubble where our house was. The cranes were still there, but the men had gone home. I circled around, tears burning the backs of my eyes, my breath somewhere other than inside me, and drove up to the wreckage. I had my moment. I cried. I had my camera and took pictrues of it. I stopped my tears, turned off the car, and grabbed a brick. A souvenier of what was.
Today, it is a vacant lot filled with mud. And I am okay with that. No one else will have our house. No one else will throw a party and wonder A. where the guests will park or B. how to fit the guests inside once they have found parking spaces. No one else will haul laundry to the carport and have to balance the heavy basket while trying to unlock the laundry room door. No one else will sit in lawn chairs out front, dirty and sweaty from working in the yard, sipping on snowballs from Fireman Phil's. We were the last to do those things. No one can move into our place.
And I can almost pass without looking now. But I have to pass that way. If I don't, I panic. But at least I don't have to look at it.
We haven't heard back on that loan yet. I don't think we'll get it. SOMEONE has very low credit, and I think that will hurt us in the long run. I will let you know, though.
I need to be held, so that I can cry. But I can't do it without an audience.
I want my life back. I want my body back. I want myself back.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Part 20: It was a day
"Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans, when that's where you left your heart?... The moonlight on the bayou.......a creole tune.... that fills the air...I dream... about magnolias in bloom......and I’m wishin’ I was there" - Louis Armstrong
Yesterday was a rough, rough day. But it was a day. As our school president said at our staff meeting, "People keep saying, 'Do you remember what you were doing a year ago at this time?' And I do. It's all so clear." Here, everyone in the group nodded and murmured noises of assent. "And it raised my anxiety levels. And really, it's just another day."
Yes, my anxieties were raised. But the difference is, it's like what I imagine acid flashbacks and 'Nam flashbacks are like. Most of the people who say these things are not the ones who were here on the front lines. Most of these people don't have to drive through their rotted shell of a neighborhood to and from work every day. Most of these people left the city before, not after, the storm, and did it of their own accord.
This drive is killing part of me every day. It's bad enough that it takes half an hour to get to work in the morning. It's even worse that it takes an hour in the evening to get home. But to have to pass through my neighborhood.... and City Park.... retracing the route I used to take a year ago... and there's no way around it. At the very least, I'd have to pass through the Park or around the Park. My school is on the other side of it. City Park is a ghost of what it was. It looks like undeveloped land. It's not really grass -- it's the rough, nasty weeds that sprouted once things started growing again. The trees, the ones that remain, at least, are brownish. They all have missing limbs. The golf courses are a wreck, and you can see the New Orleans Museum of Art a lot easier than you could before.
The houses in my school's neighborhood are all tainted with X's. The same type of X that appears on my own home: the top bears the date the hosue was searched; the right bears the number of hazards found...or survivors, in some cases; the left bears the squadron which conducted the search; the bottom bears the number of found bodies.
I have not found one of those. I hear of them. I try not to look, but I also do look. My parents know where some are in Lakeview. Apparently, on Canal Blvd., near I-10, there's a house with a 2.
Several of the houses on my block have holes in the rooftops. Rescue holes? Holes people made from inside? Some look like they were from the inside. Others look like they were done with a tool from the outside.
I pass so near to my home, and if I am in the region, I cannot help but pass it. It's not ours any more. We got our deposit back. We pulled everything out. It has been gutted. We do not own the property. It is our landlord's house once more. But if I am driving nearby and I don't pass it, I HAVE to pass it. I cannot miss it. If I do, I get panicky. I have to schedule in a stop.
You know, I keep hearing from people how they admire me and my strengths. They tell me how strong I am. But I don't see it. I can't understand it. If I were stronger, I would be able to avoid the house. I would be able to drive to work without a "happy CD." I had Mark make me a CD of fun songs to listen to so that I can't get caught listening to something sad while I take the misery tour. He offered "Good Life" by Weezer. I love that song and said okay, but then panicked and told him he wasn't allowed to put it on.
"Excuse the bitchin', I shouldn't complain/I should have no feeling, 'cause feeling is pain/As everything I need, is denied me/And everything I want, is taken away from me/But who do I got to blame? Nobody but me...
"…And I don't wanna be an old man anymore/It's been a year or two since I was out on the floor/Shakin' booty, makin' sweet love all the night/It's time I got back to the Good Life/It's time I got back, it's time I got back/And I don't even know how I got off the track/I wanna go back…Yeah!
"Screw this crap, I've had it! I ain't no Mr. Cool/I'm a pig, I'm a dog, so 'scuse me if I drool/I ain't gonna hurt nobody, ain't gonna 'cause a scene/I just need to admit that I want sugar in my tea/Hear me? Hear me? I want sugar in my tea!"
If I am so strong, then why do I feel so down all of the time? Why do I break down in the shower where no one can hear me? Why do I have panic attacks? Why can't I sleep any more? Why do I lash out at everyone? Why can't I just feel happy for one day? That's all I ask.
I am no hero. Those with the boats who rescued even just one person, or as many as 200, those are heroes. The doctors and nurses who walked around on IVs so their patients could eat and drink are heroes. Those who stayed home and climbed into their attics or onto their rooftops, waiting in heat beyond heat for help that wasn't coming? They are brave. Those who stood up to looters are brave. Those who boldly came down here to help, be it gutting a home or serving food or patrolling our streets are brave and heroic.
I sat in a building with power thanks to a generator. I had to have help carrying a cat carrier down pitch black stairs. I had to seek a ride to safety from someone. I had to stand in lines for FEMA and Red Cross money. I had to live with my in-laws. I still have to live with my parents. I had to accept gifts and money from virtual strangers. I had to wear donated clothes. I had to argue with the Insurance people just to get a piddling amount on our renter's insurance. I am no hero. I am not brave.
"You've probably heard that many of us stayed behind. As bad as it is, many of us cannot fathom a life outside of our border, out in that place we call Elsewhere. The only way you could understand that is if you have been there, and so many of you have. So you realize that when you strip away the craziness and bars and parades and music and architecture and all that hooey, really, the best thing about where we come from is us" --Chris Rose, The Times-Picayune
I stayed because I had to. I came back because I had to. It is too scary to go somewhere else. Away from the family and friends who returned. Away from the food and the culture that I know. I cannot imagine a world with white gravy and bland crabs. I cannot imagine a parade where you just watch a float roll by, never interacting with the riders. I cannot imagine a state without politicians named "Junior" and "T-Boy." I am too afraid to meet normal. And so I stay.
We were instructed to keep the day as normal as possible for the students. We had a list of assigned journal topics, all with positive slants. The only special thing that happened was that we had a prayer service at school. It's a Catholic school, so it's almost required of us. We met in our Church at 2 p.m. They sang "Our God is an Awesome God." They read the parable of Jesus calming a storm (or something, I don't know. I'm not a practicing Catholic.). Children got up to read special thank yous in place of their intentions. Some thanked cities that helped them. Some thanked God that they were alive. They sang "Sing a New Song." They had another reading. They ended with some closing thoughts from the high school religion teacher. They closed with "I've Got That Joy." They sent us to the cafeteria for snacks. They gave 200 kids, most with ADHD, cookies and Coke. I don't know whose bright idea that was, but we had 20 minutes left to the day after that, and it was rough.
And that was it.
I went home. Traffic was easy. Many people may have stayed home. I wanted to, but I knew I couldn't. I would sit in front of the TV all day and relive it.
One local station aired 18 hours of continuous coverage. At our staff meeting, one of the teachers said that she thought it was wrong: OTHER STATES should have shown that much coverage. We have daily reminders. We don't need to be reminded.
I'm going to keep chronicling life in the New New Orleans. If I stop, you'll think we've stopped and that everything is okay. But it's not. We have so far to go. In Jefferson Parish, life is almost back to normal. My parents, for example, got their new roof, their bedroom sheetrock, the molding in their bedroom, the walls freshly painted, the den ceiling crack repaired, the fence restabilized, and their sidewalk and driveway replaced. We're pretty much down to waiting on carpet. It took 11 months to get that far, but it happened. Stores are staying open later, and restaurants are bringing back more of their pre-hurricane menus. You may remember I discussed how restaurants have been operating on shorter "hurricane menus."
But east of the 17th Street Canal, it's a whole other warzone. My dad is still pretty much the only game in town. The houses are still pretty much empty. My friend's parents just knocked down his childhood home in Lakeview last week. I can't imagine what that was like. They went to watch it. He said he overheard someone say, "I bet there are a lot of memories in those bedrooms." Dammit. How can you only think of that as you are watching a family's hopes and dreams get bulldozed into oblivion? I bet there were a lot of memories in those bedrooms...and front yard...and porch...and hallway...and kitchen...and den...and bathrooms...and back yard....and shed....and each and every spot of land.
You try watching the sum of your married life pile up on your front lawn, where curious people stop to stare and see what you had. It's all a big soggy pile, taller than you and as long as your house, then wraps around to the front of the hosue. And this is after it's already been picked up once. You find the dress you wore when your husband proposed to you discolored and moldy beyond recognition. You find that book that was your favorite as a child, that is now a soggy cover filled with brown pulp in the muck that was your office/guest room. You find that picture of your brother and brother-in-law still hanging on the wall somehow, but that now looks like a swirl art painting. You find your childhood stuffed animals in a puddle of God knows what. And then you stand there and say "I bet there are a lot of memories in those bedrooms." And then you throw yourself into the lake because you have no soul, so why bother living, scumbag.
We watched, or tried to watch, Spike Lee's "When the Levees Broke" last night. We were recroding it. Forty minutes into the first hour, we lost electricity. No reason. Was Entergy trying to commemmorate the day all of the lights went out? Cruel joke if they were. I made Mark bring me to get ice cream. It was one of those days.
But they're all one of those days. I lost 5 pounds immediately after the storm. Then I gained about 25. I don't look like me. I don't like it. I could work out at the JCC. But I can't motivate myself. I am too tired, mentally and physically, and too upset over my long drive home. We get off duty at 4:15, and then I have to drive an hour home. At that point, I just want to be home.
And I turn to food.
I don't want Katrina to define my life. I want to move on. But it is so hard. I want a happy day. I want a blog that's zany. But my life is defined by her, and try as I might, I can't separate from her. I am reminded every morning that it happened from the moment I open my eyes, and I keep it up all day. Sometimes, when I sleep, I move on. Sometimes, she still haunts my dreams. She will be with me forever. My albatross.
I want to go home.
"She is a New Orleans girl and New Orleans girls never live anywhere else and even if they do, they always come back. That's just the way it is." -Chris Rose
Yesterday was a rough, rough day. But it was a day. As our school president said at our staff meeting, "People keep saying, 'Do you remember what you were doing a year ago at this time?' And I do. It's all so clear." Here, everyone in the group nodded and murmured noises of assent. "And it raised my anxiety levels. And really, it's just another day."
Yes, my anxieties were raised. But the difference is, it's like what I imagine acid flashbacks and 'Nam flashbacks are like. Most of the people who say these things are not the ones who were here on the front lines. Most of these people don't have to drive through their rotted shell of a neighborhood to and from work every day. Most of these people left the city before, not after, the storm, and did it of their own accord.
This drive is killing part of me every day. It's bad enough that it takes half an hour to get to work in the morning. It's even worse that it takes an hour in the evening to get home. But to have to pass through my neighborhood.... and City Park.... retracing the route I used to take a year ago... and there's no way around it. At the very least, I'd have to pass through the Park or around the Park. My school is on the other side of it. City Park is a ghost of what it was. It looks like undeveloped land. It's not really grass -- it's the rough, nasty weeds that sprouted once things started growing again. The trees, the ones that remain, at least, are brownish. They all have missing limbs. The golf courses are a wreck, and you can see the New Orleans Museum of Art a lot easier than you could before.
The houses in my school's neighborhood are all tainted with X's. The same type of X that appears on my own home: the top bears the date the hosue was searched; the right bears the number of hazards found...or survivors, in some cases; the left bears the squadron which conducted the search; the bottom bears the number of found bodies.
I have not found one of those. I hear of them. I try not to look, but I also do look. My parents know where some are in Lakeview. Apparently, on Canal Blvd., near I-10, there's a house with a 2.
Several of the houses on my block have holes in the rooftops. Rescue holes? Holes people made from inside? Some look like they were from the inside. Others look like they were done with a tool from the outside.
I pass so near to my home, and if I am in the region, I cannot help but pass it. It's not ours any more. We got our deposit back. We pulled everything out. It has been gutted. We do not own the property. It is our landlord's house once more. But if I am driving nearby and I don't pass it, I HAVE to pass it. I cannot miss it. If I do, I get panicky. I have to schedule in a stop.
You know, I keep hearing from people how they admire me and my strengths. They tell me how strong I am. But I don't see it. I can't understand it. If I were stronger, I would be able to avoid the house. I would be able to drive to work without a "happy CD." I had Mark make me a CD of fun songs to listen to so that I can't get caught listening to something sad while I take the misery tour. He offered "Good Life" by Weezer. I love that song and said okay, but then panicked and told him he wasn't allowed to put it on.
"Excuse the bitchin', I shouldn't complain/I should have no feeling, 'cause feeling is pain/As everything I need, is denied me/And everything I want, is taken away from me/But who do I got to blame? Nobody but me...
"…And I don't wanna be an old man anymore/It's been a year or two since I was out on the floor/Shakin' booty, makin' sweet love all the night/It's time I got back to the Good Life/It's time I got back, it's time I got back/And I don't even know how I got off the track/I wanna go back…Yeah!
"Screw this crap, I've had it! I ain't no Mr. Cool/I'm a pig, I'm a dog, so 'scuse me if I drool/I ain't gonna hurt nobody, ain't gonna 'cause a scene/I just need to admit that I want sugar in my tea/Hear me? Hear me? I want sugar in my tea!"
If I am so strong, then why do I feel so down all of the time? Why do I break down in the shower where no one can hear me? Why do I have panic attacks? Why can't I sleep any more? Why do I lash out at everyone? Why can't I just feel happy for one day? That's all I ask.
I am no hero. Those with the boats who rescued even just one person, or as many as 200, those are heroes. The doctors and nurses who walked around on IVs so their patients could eat and drink are heroes. Those who stayed home and climbed into their attics or onto their rooftops, waiting in heat beyond heat for help that wasn't coming? They are brave. Those who stood up to looters are brave. Those who boldly came down here to help, be it gutting a home or serving food or patrolling our streets are brave and heroic.
I sat in a building with power thanks to a generator. I had to have help carrying a cat carrier down pitch black stairs. I had to seek a ride to safety from someone. I had to stand in lines for FEMA and Red Cross money. I had to live with my in-laws. I still have to live with my parents. I had to accept gifts and money from virtual strangers. I had to wear donated clothes. I had to argue with the Insurance people just to get a piddling amount on our renter's insurance. I am no hero. I am not brave.
"You've probably heard that many of us stayed behind. As bad as it is, many of us cannot fathom a life outside of our border, out in that place we call Elsewhere. The only way you could understand that is if you have been there, and so many of you have. So you realize that when you strip away the craziness and bars and parades and music and architecture and all that hooey, really, the best thing about where we come from is us" --Chris Rose, The Times-Picayune
I stayed because I had to. I came back because I had to. It is too scary to go somewhere else. Away from the family and friends who returned. Away from the food and the culture that I know. I cannot imagine a world with white gravy and bland crabs. I cannot imagine a parade where you just watch a float roll by, never interacting with the riders. I cannot imagine a state without politicians named "Junior" and "T-Boy." I am too afraid to meet normal. And so I stay.
We were instructed to keep the day as normal as possible for the students. We had a list of assigned journal topics, all with positive slants. The only special thing that happened was that we had a prayer service at school. It's a Catholic school, so it's almost required of us. We met in our Church at 2 p.m. They sang "Our God is an Awesome God." They read the parable of Jesus calming a storm (or something, I don't know. I'm not a practicing Catholic.). Children got up to read special thank yous in place of their intentions. Some thanked cities that helped them. Some thanked God that they were alive. They sang "Sing a New Song." They had another reading. They ended with some closing thoughts from the high school religion teacher. They closed with "I've Got That Joy." They sent us to the cafeteria for snacks. They gave 200 kids, most with ADHD, cookies and Coke. I don't know whose bright idea that was, but we had 20 minutes left to the day after that, and it was rough.
And that was it.
I went home. Traffic was easy. Many people may have stayed home. I wanted to, but I knew I couldn't. I would sit in front of the TV all day and relive it.
One local station aired 18 hours of continuous coverage. At our staff meeting, one of the teachers said that she thought it was wrong: OTHER STATES should have shown that much coverage. We have daily reminders. We don't need to be reminded.
I'm going to keep chronicling life in the New New Orleans. If I stop, you'll think we've stopped and that everything is okay. But it's not. We have so far to go. In Jefferson Parish, life is almost back to normal. My parents, for example, got their new roof, their bedroom sheetrock, the molding in their bedroom, the walls freshly painted, the den ceiling crack repaired, the fence restabilized, and their sidewalk and driveway replaced. We're pretty much down to waiting on carpet. It took 11 months to get that far, but it happened. Stores are staying open later, and restaurants are bringing back more of their pre-hurricane menus. You may remember I discussed how restaurants have been operating on shorter "hurricane menus."
But east of the 17th Street Canal, it's a whole other warzone. My dad is still pretty much the only game in town. The houses are still pretty much empty. My friend's parents just knocked down his childhood home in Lakeview last week. I can't imagine what that was like. They went to watch it. He said he overheard someone say, "I bet there are a lot of memories in those bedrooms." Dammit. How can you only think of that as you are watching a family's hopes and dreams get bulldozed into oblivion? I bet there were a lot of memories in those bedrooms...and front yard...and porch...and hallway...and kitchen...and den...and bathrooms...and back yard....and shed....and each and every spot of land.
You try watching the sum of your married life pile up on your front lawn, where curious people stop to stare and see what you had. It's all a big soggy pile, taller than you and as long as your house, then wraps around to the front of the hosue. And this is after it's already been picked up once. You find the dress you wore when your husband proposed to you discolored and moldy beyond recognition. You find that book that was your favorite as a child, that is now a soggy cover filled with brown pulp in the muck that was your office/guest room. You find that picture of your brother and brother-in-law still hanging on the wall somehow, but that now looks like a swirl art painting. You find your childhood stuffed animals in a puddle of God knows what. And then you stand there and say "I bet there are a lot of memories in those bedrooms." And then you throw yourself into the lake because you have no soul, so why bother living, scumbag.
We watched, or tried to watch, Spike Lee's "When the Levees Broke" last night. We were recroding it. Forty minutes into the first hour, we lost electricity. No reason. Was Entergy trying to commemmorate the day all of the lights went out? Cruel joke if they were. I made Mark bring me to get ice cream. It was one of those days.
But they're all one of those days. I lost 5 pounds immediately after the storm. Then I gained about 25. I don't look like me. I don't like it. I could work out at the JCC. But I can't motivate myself. I am too tired, mentally and physically, and too upset over my long drive home. We get off duty at 4:15, and then I have to drive an hour home. At that point, I just want to be home.
And I turn to food.
I don't want Katrina to define my life. I want to move on. But it is so hard. I want a happy day. I want a blog that's zany. But my life is defined by her, and try as I might, I can't separate from her. I am reminded every morning that it happened from the moment I open my eyes, and I keep it up all day. Sometimes, when I sleep, I move on. Sometimes, she still haunts my dreams. She will be with me forever. My albatross.
I want to go home.
"She is a New Orleans girl and New Orleans girls never live anywhere else and even if they do, they always come back. That's just the way it is." -Chris Rose
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Part 6: Everything starts sinking in in Morgan City
Recap: We just made it out of New Orleans to Baton Rouge, thanks to John "Spud" McConnell and were picked up by my in-laws, who had no damage in Morgan City to speak of.
We arrived in Morgan City that afternoon feeling exhausted. But, even though we hadn't slept since we woke up around 6:30 p.m. Monday night, and it was now Tuesday night, we were beyond sleep. We were brought to the shop Mark's family owns and saw some of his family. They were very happy to see us. While I would have rather seen my own family, I was grateful to see them. It was some people we knew, who were safe and fine and had electricity and were going about their everyday lives. But at the same time, it was very upsetting, because here were people, some of whom never even lost electricity, going about their daily lives as though nothing had happened. We told bits and pieces of our story, and we were finally taken to his parents' house.
We were due to visit them the following weekend for the Shrimp and Petroleum Festival. We arrived early. They had purchased some king sized sheets, an egg crate, and a bed bridge to turn the two pushed together twin beds into a king sized bed. When we eventually went to bed, it was a true luxury. We'd been sleeping on my unzipped sleeping bag under a little fleece blanket on the floors of WWL for a while.
I say for a while because it's reflective of our bodily clocks at the time. We had been catching sleep in cat naps whenever the chance arose, and it was very rare that we had such a chance. As a result, we had no idea of what day or time it was. That went on until about the weekend, when we fit into a schedule of sorts.
Once we got to Morgan City, our cell phones shut down again. But we had Internet access. We got online for the first time in what seemed like months, judging by the way our bodies felt. The e-mails, the blog messages, the MySpace Forum my group of friends and I have, and my other forum: all were jumping with questions regarding everyone's safety. But one question that kept popping up was, "Has anyone heard from Aimée and Mark? Are they okay?" We typed up brief notes letting people know we'd made it out of the rapidly declining conditions of our (once) fair city. We promised more in-depth messages later. We were too close to the tragedy, and more than likely suffering from shock. We need to decompress.
We ate our second real meal since Saturday night. I couldn't tell you what it was, to be honest. But I once again ate as I never had before. I'd lost a few pounds, which surprised me since we hadn't really moved around. But then I remembered we weren't really eating anything, and it made sense. I continued until I'd lost between 5-7 pounds by the time I got where I am now. I've been eating a lot better here, and so some of those have come back. But oh well. At least it's because I'm eating, as opposed to not.
The main role people seemed to adopt was to tell us that everything was going to be okay, that we didn't know anything for sure, and that our stuff was just stuff that could be replaced.
I'll be brutally honest here. If I can't get it out, then it will fester inside me and so I have to say it all. Just remember that these are thoughts I was having at the immediate moment, not thoughts that popped up after the fact. I just feel that if I'm not honest, then why do this? I am not writing this for entertainment purposes; I am writing this blog to get it out of me, and to have it for posterity, and to let people in on how things were and, eventually as I catch up on my blog, how I'm doing. If you don't like what I have to say in this place, well, no one is forcing you to read.
The running theme the entire time we were in Morgan City and Thibodaux was as I said before. At one point, I told Mark, through tear-laden eyes and snot-dripping nose, that if one more person said "It'll be okay," "Cheer up," or "It's just stuff," that I was NOT responsible for my words and actions. I did not want to be placated. I did not want to be told to cheer up. I did not want to be told that everything will be fine. Because, yeah, some day, it may be. But it will take a VERY long time for that to happen. And the worst of all was that every person who told me, "It's just stuff" was someone who had lost NOTHING, usually including electricity. Yeah. It may just be stuff. But it's OUR stuff. It's stuff we got as wedding presents. Stuff from our childhoods. Stuff we'd saved up for and bought during the last three and a half years of financial struggle in our marriage. We were just turning our lives around, finally.
Our marriage has been frought with trouble: Right after we were married, Mark was laid off when his temporary job at Toys R Us ended. He went to work for my father at his service station: a job he hated and knew nothing about that had him out in all extreme temperatures, which he kept until the storm ended. A week or so after that, I was laid off from that Newspaper Which Shall Not Be Named. That day, Lily escaped for the first time but was under the house. Three months later, I got the Kids Konnection gig for a grand total of 14 hours a week. I bounced a check the week before I got the first paycheck. Not because I bought frivolous stuff, but because I'd been helping Mark with the bills all along. A couple months later, I mentioned that I wasn't making enough money and would probably have to look for another job, and then I got more hours and a pay raise. Mark started working that summer on Sunday mornings at Entercom. The following spring, when my more hours kicked in, that included me working on Sundays. For three years, roughly, we worked 6-day work-weeks. Neither of us was paid much. We had a lot of financial problems because of this. I went through a lot of heart-ache getting into grad school. Then, things were starting to look great for us. Mark was getting more hours at Entercom and less at my dad's. I finally got my job, and we made plans all summer long. I would be making almost twice what I'd been making. Mark was possibly getting a raise to go with a sort of promotion he'd gotten. We both were losing our Sunday hours, but it wasn't going to impact us financially. I started my teaching job, and I fell immediately in love with the job, the administration, the kids, and the cameraderie of the staff at my grade-level. I was planning on keeping up with Travel Camp and helping with birthday parties at the J for extra money...money that we would put towards the vacation we've been dying to have since...well, since our honeymoon ended....but have never been able to afford. Two weeks after school started, Katrina took everything from us.
I just feel we'll never get ahead.
So anyway, every time someone who was sitting comfortably in his or her own home, or car, going to work, or school, used electricity, saw family and friends regularly, and didn't have to worry about what would happen in the near future said, "It's just stuff," I wanted to bash in his or her head. I tried to be polite. I tried to be nice. But there's only so much a person can stand when she's in the depths of despair and feels alone.
The worst was when we went to a football game at Mark's alma mater and someone turned around with an "It's just stuff." She then went on to say that, "Water damage is not as bad as fire damage. We had a fire one time, and we never got the smoke out. But we got a couple inches (try EXACTLY a couple, at most) in the apartment when Allison came through, and all we did was turn everything upside-down and it dried. Everything's going to be okay. At least it wasn't fire."
I will not say who said that, as it is not fair. I gritted my teeth, stared at the game, and tried to grin, but I'm sure it came off as a grimace. I almost hope it did. The mild damage from Allison was not a levee breaching a few blocks from her home...this was the condo they owned but did not live in. It cannot be compared. If it was an attempt to make me feel better, it had the opposite effect.
I know each comment was made in an attempt to console or placate us, and the effort is appreciated. But no one was allowing me to grieve the way I needed to grieve. The constant news watching was making things worse. The few times the TV was not on a news station, it was on Discovery and the History Channel, where specials about hurricanes and the levee system and the Causeway aired almost 'round the clock. Other than that, we only saw "Big Brother" and "Rock Star: INXS." At least we enjoyed INXS until the final episode.
Anyway, that first night, around 9 p.m., my cell phone went crazy. Eighteen voice mails and 22 texts came through all at once. Apparently, I would have cell service at night. I scribbled down strange long distance numbers and returned a few calls. I made some more to other people, and a texting war waged on through the next few nights. We went to bed around midnight or so, and did not wake up until 2 p.m. Wednesday.
But did we feel rested? Not really. There was a split second of feeling mild curiosity over where I was and how did I get there. Then I realized it. And remembered why. And cried again. I did not have a restful night of sleep. I woke up all night long, sometimes in tears, sometimes feeling panic. Always feeling horrible. It was what I was afraid of. As I slept, I kept seeing everything and reliving everything again. It got to the point where I didn't want to sleep anymore. I wanted everything to stop and to go away. I wanted everythign to return to normal. The nightmares, or reliving sessions, as I call them, went on in full force for about two weeks. Then, they slowly tapered off. I still get them; I wake in panic, in fear, in confusion, in tears. It's not as often, 6 weeks (has it really been that long?) later, but it still happens. And more than likely will keep happening. And that is why I write.
On Wednesday night, I was able to get in touch with Kate. I think this was my lowest point. When I heard her voice, which was full of fear because she hadn't heard from her parents since the storm, with Lance's last sentence to his sister being, "Oh shit, a tree just fell on the shed, I have to go" from across the lake in Folsom at our mothers' sister's house. The two of us lost it. I'd cried on the phone every time I spoke to someone. But for some reason, when Kate and I spoke, the two of us were inconsolable. We finally hung up the phone because neither of us could understand the other very well. After I hung up, I went into hysterics. No one knew what to do with me. My in-laws watched news programs almost 24 hours a day. They get the Morgan City, Houma, Baton Rouge, New Orleans, and Lafayette news stations. They also get the cable news networks. They did not stop watching it. For a while, neither could I. But then it became a grim reminder of what we'd been through and what we'd lost.
We found out that there were suicides and rapes and murders in the Superdome Tuesday night. We were almost subjected to taking shelter there. Remember what they had been doing Monday night? They were singing Gospel music. What had happened to turn hopefulness and joy over survival into the basest of human behavior? Things were bad for my hometown; they were deteriorating rapidly. Later, it would come out that only one person leapt to his death. And only a couple of rapes happened. And murder? Allegedly, only 2 people were killed by violence once the Dome was evacuated. Allegedly.
Looting was taken to a new level. We were not the only sanctioned looters. Calie's dad is a Jefferson Parish cop. He was living in the Landmark Hotel with their tiny precious dog. Sheriff Harry Lee sanctioned their looting of the Whole Foods Market across the street. People started out looting for survival...black, white, yellow, brown, purple plaid....all looted for survival. Police stood at the doorways, watching, keeping the peace. Then some got greedy. They moved to electronics, tennis shoes, non-essential items. Riots broke out. Things were even worse than imagined.
But amidst this unimaginable ugliness, there was some beauty. I belong to an Internet forum. I will protect the people there by not naming it. But they knew I was at the Hyatt, and that I was staying for the storm. I joined it at Danielle's request in 2001, posted a lot at the beginning, then slowly tapered off. I had slowed down a lot in posting...maybe making a comment once every week. But I popped into the Hurricane Season topic and posted what we were doing. We recieved a lot of well-wishes. When I logged in on Thursday, Wednesday, whatever, after the storm, a frenzy of worry broke out. It seems that one person organized a care package relief effort. People were pledging to send stuff to us as soon as I could post my address. I was amazed at what I saw. I sent my address to the leader, Misti, and in a few hours, I started getting e-mails and private messages like you would not believe. Days later, I got my first package. I will reserve some tact and not say what was in each package, but we've gotten money orders, checks, gift cards, nice-smelling lotions, CDs, cat toys, cash, puzzle books, candles, and homemade cookies, to name a few items. And each was accompanied by a beautiful note. Some simply snet notes, and each note has meant more to me than anything else. These are some of the most beautiful people in the world. People whose real names I did not know until I opened the mail. People I've never laid eyes on or heard speak. People from all over the U.S., Canada, London, and Wales. Messages sent from Israel, Australia, and more. Each time a letter or package arrived, I cried. If people were around, I usually held it together. But if I was alone, or as soon as I could be, I cried. These are debts I can never repay. I hope I never have to. I will always love these kindred spirits of mine.
Also happening in that first week, it was arranged to get my parents from Auburn to Morgan City, where they would live rent-free in Mark's great-grandparents' home, next door to his grandparents. The house had been empty since 1993, but his grandparents still own it. They were, as you may recall, getting kicked out in favor of the Auburn football fans and had nowhere else to go. That week, Mark and Phil helped Pops with some maintenance, and Maw Maw made sure the house was clean. My in-laws brought me to Rouse's to stock the fridge with things they like. The house was made as homey as possible, with a sunporch for the cats to live. When I called my dad to tell him they had a place to go, he had to hand the phone to my mom. He was rendered speechless. Just physically speechless. My mom sounded scared when I handed the phone to her. When I told her what I'd just told my dad, she cried. I had to tell Geoff, because she couldn't. I think we all cried that night. We had to send them around the state in a round-about way, because there were reports of horrendous traffic in big cities like Baton Rouge, and they also couldn't get there through New Orleans, as a total evacuation was in order. Phil and Mr. Loy plotted out a perfect route. It took them about 15 hours to get to Morgan City, including a couple of hours waiting in line for gas along the way. But they made it safely, and I don't think I've ever been happier to see my family or hug them in my whole life. Happy tears were shed for the first time since the storm.
I spent as much time as I could with my parents. For fun, we went across the street to watch two football games...including Homecoming...for Mark's high school. Mark went to work at the family shop. I applied for a job as a babysitter at the health club, a job I was overqualified for, I believe, as I never heard back from them. We went to Thibodaux and registered me at my alma mater, Nicholls State, as a visiting student. Colleges were accepting displaced students on "good faith credit." I was losing my mind sitting around doing nothing all day. I had to do something. I took charge of my life and tried to get some normalcy to return. Maw Maw and Pops brought us to Houma and bought us some clothes. Devon mailed us some clothes. Emi sent us some clothes. Karen and Anne brought over some shoes and clothes they didn't need any more. Kate sent me things. Female Blake sent stuff. I was too numb to everything. Too overwhelmed. I never thought I'd have to accept charity.
Accepting and learning to accept charity was hard. I felt like I was taking things without needing them. I felt guilty because I hadn't done anything to deserve this stuff. It was hard to accept. I had to keep reminding myself that I had nothing left. I'm still not comfortable with it. When people ask, "What do you need? Is there anything I can do?" I clam up. I don't know how to answer that. People have enough stuff to do without having to take care of us. And where do I begin with what we need? This is worse than a wedding registry list. This is a living registry. I usually try to change to subject or shrug cluelessly. How DO you answer that?
Back to female Blake, I told you she would come into play eventually, and now she does. We found out on MySpace that she rode out the storm in Covington. About a week or so went by before anyone heard from her. Matt got a text from someone saying she was making her way to St. Louis to see her mom. She was alive!!!! We couldn't be happier!
Except for the Keith situation. Keith stayed home in River Ridge for the storm. No one heard from him. No one could contact him. We sent frantic texts. I can't imagine how Caroline felt. He finally got in touch with her. But his family never did leave. They went to Houma one day out of boredom and a search for food. They had plenty sotckpiled, and they had a generator, so they were fine. But the looting was spreading into the suburbs. We worried. He's fine today, don't worry. But he never once left the city. We heard about him, we thought, from Calie's dad, who was now staying in their house in Harahan. Some guy rode his bike over, asked about all of us, accepted a drink from Mr. Frank, and left. He thought the guy's name was Kevin. He was just delerious from 16-hour shifts.
Finally, our group was all accounted for. But what about our homes? Would we ever all be together again?
Stay tuned for part 7: Post-Katrina blues set in.
We arrived in Morgan City that afternoon feeling exhausted. But, even though we hadn't slept since we woke up around 6:30 p.m. Monday night, and it was now Tuesday night, we were beyond sleep. We were brought to the shop Mark's family owns and saw some of his family. They were very happy to see us. While I would have rather seen my own family, I was grateful to see them. It was some people we knew, who were safe and fine and had electricity and were going about their everyday lives. But at the same time, it was very upsetting, because here were people, some of whom never even lost electricity, going about their daily lives as though nothing had happened. We told bits and pieces of our story, and we were finally taken to his parents' house.
We were due to visit them the following weekend for the Shrimp and Petroleum Festival. We arrived early. They had purchased some king sized sheets, an egg crate, and a bed bridge to turn the two pushed together twin beds into a king sized bed. When we eventually went to bed, it was a true luxury. We'd been sleeping on my unzipped sleeping bag under a little fleece blanket on the floors of WWL for a while.
I say for a while because it's reflective of our bodily clocks at the time. We had been catching sleep in cat naps whenever the chance arose, and it was very rare that we had such a chance. As a result, we had no idea of what day or time it was. That went on until about the weekend, when we fit into a schedule of sorts.
Once we got to Morgan City, our cell phones shut down again. But we had Internet access. We got online for the first time in what seemed like months, judging by the way our bodies felt. The e-mails, the blog messages, the MySpace Forum my group of friends and I have, and my other forum: all were jumping with questions regarding everyone's safety. But one question that kept popping up was, "Has anyone heard from Aimée and Mark? Are they okay?" We typed up brief notes letting people know we'd made it out of the rapidly declining conditions of our (once) fair city. We promised more in-depth messages later. We were too close to the tragedy, and more than likely suffering from shock. We need to decompress.
We ate our second real meal since Saturday night. I couldn't tell you what it was, to be honest. But I once again ate as I never had before. I'd lost a few pounds, which surprised me since we hadn't really moved around. But then I remembered we weren't really eating anything, and it made sense. I continued until I'd lost between 5-7 pounds by the time I got where I am now. I've been eating a lot better here, and so some of those have come back. But oh well. At least it's because I'm eating, as opposed to not.
The main role people seemed to adopt was to tell us that everything was going to be okay, that we didn't know anything for sure, and that our stuff was just stuff that could be replaced.
I'll be brutally honest here. If I can't get it out, then it will fester inside me and so I have to say it all. Just remember that these are thoughts I was having at the immediate moment, not thoughts that popped up after the fact. I just feel that if I'm not honest, then why do this? I am not writing this for entertainment purposes; I am writing this blog to get it out of me, and to have it for posterity, and to let people in on how things were and, eventually as I catch up on my blog, how I'm doing. If you don't like what I have to say in this place, well, no one is forcing you to read.
The running theme the entire time we were in Morgan City and Thibodaux was as I said before. At one point, I told Mark, through tear-laden eyes and snot-dripping nose, that if one more person said "It'll be okay," "Cheer up," or "It's just stuff," that I was NOT responsible for my words and actions. I did not want to be placated. I did not want to be told to cheer up. I did not want to be told that everything will be fine. Because, yeah, some day, it may be. But it will take a VERY long time for that to happen. And the worst of all was that every person who told me, "It's just stuff" was someone who had lost NOTHING, usually including electricity. Yeah. It may just be stuff. But it's OUR stuff. It's stuff we got as wedding presents. Stuff from our childhoods. Stuff we'd saved up for and bought during the last three and a half years of financial struggle in our marriage. We were just turning our lives around, finally.
Our marriage has been frought with trouble: Right after we were married, Mark was laid off when his temporary job at Toys R Us ended. He went to work for my father at his service station: a job he hated and knew nothing about that had him out in all extreme temperatures, which he kept until the storm ended. A week or so after that, I was laid off from that Newspaper Which Shall Not Be Named. That day, Lily escaped for the first time but was under the house. Three months later, I got the Kids Konnection gig for a grand total of 14 hours a week. I bounced a check the week before I got the first paycheck. Not because I bought frivolous stuff, but because I'd been helping Mark with the bills all along. A couple months later, I mentioned that I wasn't making enough money and would probably have to look for another job, and then I got more hours and a pay raise. Mark started working that summer on Sunday mornings at Entercom. The following spring, when my more hours kicked in, that included me working on Sundays. For three years, roughly, we worked 6-day work-weeks. Neither of us was paid much. We had a lot of financial problems because of this. I went through a lot of heart-ache getting into grad school. Then, things were starting to look great for us. Mark was getting more hours at Entercom and less at my dad's. I finally got my job, and we made plans all summer long. I would be making almost twice what I'd been making. Mark was possibly getting a raise to go with a sort of promotion he'd gotten. We both were losing our Sunday hours, but it wasn't going to impact us financially. I started my teaching job, and I fell immediately in love with the job, the administration, the kids, and the cameraderie of the staff at my grade-level. I was planning on keeping up with Travel Camp and helping with birthday parties at the J for extra money...money that we would put towards the vacation we've been dying to have since...well, since our honeymoon ended....but have never been able to afford. Two weeks after school started, Katrina took everything from us.
I just feel we'll never get ahead.
So anyway, every time someone who was sitting comfortably in his or her own home, or car, going to work, or school, used electricity, saw family and friends regularly, and didn't have to worry about what would happen in the near future said, "It's just stuff," I wanted to bash in his or her head. I tried to be polite. I tried to be nice. But there's only so much a person can stand when she's in the depths of despair and feels alone.
The worst was when we went to a football game at Mark's alma mater and someone turned around with an "It's just stuff." She then went on to say that, "Water damage is not as bad as fire damage. We had a fire one time, and we never got the smoke out. But we got a couple inches (try EXACTLY a couple, at most) in the apartment when Allison came through, and all we did was turn everything upside-down and it dried. Everything's going to be okay. At least it wasn't fire."
I will not say who said that, as it is not fair. I gritted my teeth, stared at the game, and tried to grin, but I'm sure it came off as a grimace. I almost hope it did. The mild damage from Allison was not a levee breaching a few blocks from her home...this was the condo they owned but did not live in. It cannot be compared. If it was an attempt to make me feel better, it had the opposite effect.
I know each comment was made in an attempt to console or placate us, and the effort is appreciated. But no one was allowing me to grieve the way I needed to grieve. The constant news watching was making things worse. The few times the TV was not on a news station, it was on Discovery and the History Channel, where specials about hurricanes and the levee system and the Causeway aired almost 'round the clock. Other than that, we only saw "Big Brother" and "Rock Star: INXS." At least we enjoyed INXS until the final episode.
Anyway, that first night, around 9 p.m., my cell phone went crazy. Eighteen voice mails and 22 texts came through all at once. Apparently, I would have cell service at night. I scribbled down strange long distance numbers and returned a few calls. I made some more to other people, and a texting war waged on through the next few nights. We went to bed around midnight or so, and did not wake up until 2 p.m. Wednesday.
But did we feel rested? Not really. There was a split second of feeling mild curiosity over where I was and how did I get there. Then I realized it. And remembered why. And cried again. I did not have a restful night of sleep. I woke up all night long, sometimes in tears, sometimes feeling panic. Always feeling horrible. It was what I was afraid of. As I slept, I kept seeing everything and reliving everything again. It got to the point where I didn't want to sleep anymore. I wanted everything to stop and to go away. I wanted everythign to return to normal. The nightmares, or reliving sessions, as I call them, went on in full force for about two weeks. Then, they slowly tapered off. I still get them; I wake in panic, in fear, in confusion, in tears. It's not as often, 6 weeks (has it really been that long?) later, but it still happens. And more than likely will keep happening. And that is why I write.
On Wednesday night, I was able to get in touch with Kate. I think this was my lowest point. When I heard her voice, which was full of fear because she hadn't heard from her parents since the storm, with Lance's last sentence to his sister being, "Oh shit, a tree just fell on the shed, I have to go" from across the lake in Folsom at our mothers' sister's house. The two of us lost it. I'd cried on the phone every time I spoke to someone. But for some reason, when Kate and I spoke, the two of us were inconsolable. We finally hung up the phone because neither of us could understand the other very well. After I hung up, I went into hysterics. No one knew what to do with me. My in-laws watched news programs almost 24 hours a day. They get the Morgan City, Houma, Baton Rouge, New Orleans, and Lafayette news stations. They also get the cable news networks. They did not stop watching it. For a while, neither could I. But then it became a grim reminder of what we'd been through and what we'd lost.
We found out that there were suicides and rapes and murders in the Superdome Tuesday night. We were almost subjected to taking shelter there. Remember what they had been doing Monday night? They were singing Gospel music. What had happened to turn hopefulness and joy over survival into the basest of human behavior? Things were bad for my hometown; they were deteriorating rapidly. Later, it would come out that only one person leapt to his death. And only a couple of rapes happened. And murder? Allegedly, only 2 people were killed by violence once the Dome was evacuated. Allegedly.
Looting was taken to a new level. We were not the only sanctioned looters. Calie's dad is a Jefferson Parish cop. He was living in the Landmark Hotel with their tiny precious dog. Sheriff Harry Lee sanctioned their looting of the Whole Foods Market across the street. People started out looting for survival...black, white, yellow, brown, purple plaid....all looted for survival. Police stood at the doorways, watching, keeping the peace. Then some got greedy. They moved to electronics, tennis shoes, non-essential items. Riots broke out. Things were even worse than imagined.
But amidst this unimaginable ugliness, there was some beauty. I belong to an Internet forum. I will protect the people there by not naming it. But they knew I was at the Hyatt, and that I was staying for the storm. I joined it at Danielle's request in 2001, posted a lot at the beginning, then slowly tapered off. I had slowed down a lot in posting...maybe making a comment once every week. But I popped into the Hurricane Season topic and posted what we were doing. We recieved a lot of well-wishes. When I logged in on Thursday, Wednesday, whatever, after the storm, a frenzy of worry broke out. It seems that one person organized a care package relief effort. People were pledging to send stuff to us as soon as I could post my address. I was amazed at what I saw. I sent my address to the leader, Misti, and in a few hours, I started getting e-mails and private messages like you would not believe. Days later, I got my first package. I will reserve some tact and not say what was in each package, but we've gotten money orders, checks, gift cards, nice-smelling lotions, CDs, cat toys, cash, puzzle books, candles, and homemade cookies, to name a few items. And each was accompanied by a beautiful note. Some simply snet notes, and each note has meant more to me than anything else. These are some of the most beautiful people in the world. People whose real names I did not know until I opened the mail. People I've never laid eyes on or heard speak. People from all over the U.S., Canada, London, and Wales. Messages sent from Israel, Australia, and more. Each time a letter or package arrived, I cried. If people were around, I usually held it together. But if I was alone, or as soon as I could be, I cried. These are debts I can never repay. I hope I never have to. I will always love these kindred spirits of mine.
Also happening in that first week, it was arranged to get my parents from Auburn to Morgan City, where they would live rent-free in Mark's great-grandparents' home, next door to his grandparents. The house had been empty since 1993, but his grandparents still own it. They were, as you may recall, getting kicked out in favor of the Auburn football fans and had nowhere else to go. That week, Mark and Phil helped Pops with some maintenance, and Maw Maw made sure the house was clean. My in-laws brought me to Rouse's to stock the fridge with things they like. The house was made as homey as possible, with a sunporch for the cats to live. When I called my dad to tell him they had a place to go, he had to hand the phone to my mom. He was rendered speechless. Just physically speechless. My mom sounded scared when I handed the phone to her. When I told her what I'd just told my dad, she cried. I had to tell Geoff, because she couldn't. I think we all cried that night. We had to send them around the state in a round-about way, because there were reports of horrendous traffic in big cities like Baton Rouge, and they also couldn't get there through New Orleans, as a total evacuation was in order. Phil and Mr. Loy plotted out a perfect route. It took them about 15 hours to get to Morgan City, including a couple of hours waiting in line for gas along the way. But they made it safely, and I don't think I've ever been happier to see my family or hug them in my whole life. Happy tears were shed for the first time since the storm.
I spent as much time as I could with my parents. For fun, we went across the street to watch two football games...including Homecoming...for Mark's high school. Mark went to work at the family shop. I applied for a job as a babysitter at the health club, a job I was overqualified for, I believe, as I never heard back from them. We went to Thibodaux and registered me at my alma mater, Nicholls State, as a visiting student. Colleges were accepting displaced students on "good faith credit." I was losing my mind sitting around doing nothing all day. I had to do something. I took charge of my life and tried to get some normalcy to return. Maw Maw and Pops brought us to Houma and bought us some clothes. Devon mailed us some clothes. Emi sent us some clothes. Karen and Anne brought over some shoes and clothes they didn't need any more. Kate sent me things. Female Blake sent stuff. I was too numb to everything. Too overwhelmed. I never thought I'd have to accept charity.
Accepting and learning to accept charity was hard. I felt like I was taking things without needing them. I felt guilty because I hadn't done anything to deserve this stuff. It was hard to accept. I had to keep reminding myself that I had nothing left. I'm still not comfortable with it. When people ask, "What do you need? Is there anything I can do?" I clam up. I don't know how to answer that. People have enough stuff to do without having to take care of us. And where do I begin with what we need? This is worse than a wedding registry list. This is a living registry. I usually try to change to subject or shrug cluelessly. How DO you answer that?
Back to female Blake, I told you she would come into play eventually, and now she does. We found out on MySpace that she rode out the storm in Covington. About a week or so went by before anyone heard from her. Matt got a text from someone saying she was making her way to St. Louis to see her mom. She was alive!!!! We couldn't be happier!
Except for the Keith situation. Keith stayed home in River Ridge for the storm. No one heard from him. No one could contact him. We sent frantic texts. I can't imagine how Caroline felt. He finally got in touch with her. But his family never did leave. They went to Houma one day out of boredom and a search for food. They had plenty sotckpiled, and they had a generator, so they were fine. But the looting was spreading into the suburbs. We worried. He's fine today, don't worry. But he never once left the city. We heard about him, we thought, from Calie's dad, who was now staying in their house in Harahan. Some guy rode his bike over, asked about all of us, accepted a drink from Mr. Frank, and left. He thought the guy's name was Kevin. He was just delerious from 16-hour shifts.
Finally, our group was all accounted for. But what about our homes? Would we ever all be together again?
Stay tuned for part 7: Post-Katrina blues set in.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Sometimes, you really can't go home again.
It looks like our house is submerged completely under water. We live a city block away from the 17th St. Canal and about half a mile from the breach. I found satellite photos of it, and I picked out our roof. And that's it. Our roof. I picked out the Robert's and my dad's service station, and it's the same thing. UNO is partially dry. The area where the Education Building is is wet, but the further east you go, the more grass you see. But this photo was taken on Wednesday. Who knows by now.
We had to go through the storm, as I said previously, IN New Orleans. And it was hellacious. I mean, I don't have any adjectives to describe what we went through. I can try to describe it, but you'll never fully understand.
And I have decided that I need to blog it. I have to write it down. I thought that I was going to have to wait until I was ready to do it. But I can't sleep at night. I wake up thinking about it all over again. When I finally sleep, it comes back, and the cycle repeats. So I think I have to move on this and get it out before I can start to heal.
I mean, we know that we will come back to nothing. We are prepared. Our area is decimated.
So I need everyone I sent an e-mail or anything to during the storm, while we still had Internet access at WWL, to send me what I sent you. I can track my MySpace stuff easily. I can grab that. But I don't have copies of my Yahoo mails and my Cox mails. So help me help myself. And stay tuned.
We had to go through the storm, as I said previously, IN New Orleans. And it was hellacious. I mean, I don't have any adjectives to describe what we went through. I can try to describe it, but you'll never fully understand.
And I have decided that I need to blog it. I have to write it down. I thought that I was going to have to wait until I was ready to do it. But I can't sleep at night. I wake up thinking about it all over again. When I finally sleep, it comes back, and the cycle repeats. So I think I have to move on this and get it out before I can start to heal.
I mean, we know that we will come back to nothing. We are prepared. Our area is decimated.
So I need everyone I sent an e-mail or anything to during the storm, while we still had Internet access at WWL, to send me what I sent you. I can track my MySpace stuff easily. I can grab that. But I don't have copies of my Yahoo mails and my Cox mails. So help me help myself. And stay tuned.
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Yeesh.
We have to stay in town for Hurrican Katrina because Mark has to work. That's what happens when you work for "THE News, Talk, and Sports Leader!" of radio.
They're putting us up at the Hyatt, which is next to the building where he works....but we have to rotate the room. They get half as many rooms as there will be people. So for like 12 hours, it'll be ours, while the other people are working. Ugh. We can bring blankets and pillows for if he's working overnight or something.
This looks like it will be the big one. The one that could wash us away. We have to leave the kitties here. We're closing them up in the computer room, because there's stuff they can climb on to escape any flood waters. It's breaking my heart, but that would be the safest room for them, should anything fly through our windows. We can't bring them with us. And my parents have two cats, so they can't take them. They're waiting until morning to decide whether or not they are evacuating. To me, that's too late. But Mayor Nagin is making the final call for mandatory evacuations at daybreak tomorrow.
The thing about this storm is that it snuck up on us. With my work and school schedule, I haven't had time for the newspaper or for TV. So I was vaguely aware of Katrina, just by listening to the radio to and from work and school. But they were expecting her to hit Florida and travel the coast of Florida. Until today, apparently. I mean, Mark works for, as I said, "THE News, Talk, and Sports Leader" of N.O., and when he got off work at 5 yesterday, there was no reason to worry. The principal of my school came around again after work to tell us all to have a nice weekend, asked if we had anything planned. Didn't say anything about paying attention to the local news media to see if we would have school. But today, they announced that the Archdiocesan schools are closed Monday. UNO's website says that they are closed through Tuesday. We went out to dinner with friends last night, then hung out with more people afterwards. No one said anything like, "Hey, are you evacuating?"
We slept in today, and went to the mall around 1:30 to get lunch and kill time. I noticed some buildings were boarding up, and that's nothing unusual. A bar we passed had this sign, "Due to Hurricane Katrina, we will be OPEN on Tuesday!" (Down here, people have hurricane parties...you evacuate from a lower-lying area of town to your friends' or relatives' house in a higher area, and you get food and candles and batteries and booze, and you party because there's nothing else to do. But when the threat is so bad, like it is now, that kinda dies down.) Anyway, we pull up, and there's a bunch of cars, but not many. We pull in the parking garage at Penney's, because that's the only garage and it's so flippin' hot, and walk to the store. An employee was sitting outside on a smoke break, we thought. She stopped us and said, "Store and mall are closed. Sorry." So I guess the cars there were all employees, and I'm guessing the mall had been open.
So now, we're feeling really dumb and very twilight-zoney. We stopped at Burger King and got lunch (yuck), then came home. Mark noticed two voice mails come through, both from his boss. Boss tells him that if he isn't evacuating, they need him to work. He doesn't have to, but that the main bosslady said something to him about, "This is where we separate the men from the boys, especially where pending promotions are concerned." So in other words, if Mark wants this promotion/raise he's been trying to get, he has to work.
So we're stuck here to ride it out. I'm bringing my textbooks with me, along with some stuff for school. But this monster is headed straight for us. She's a Category 3 right now, but they expect her to go to 4 before landfall. That's because she's moving too slowly, and she's building speed and strength.
I'm not religious by any means, but there's a theory that Our Lady of Prompt Succor (quick help in Latin) once saved the city of N.O. when the Ursuline nuns prayed to stop a raging fire that destroyed much of the city. The fire stopped before it reached their convent. OLPH is considered our protector. So when hurricanes come through, the city starts praying to her. The first words out of my mom's mouth were that she was already praying. The craziest part about it is that I'm almost inclined to believe it. The last few big ones headed towards us turned at the last minute. One, I think Lilli, slowed down speeds when it hit the friction of the coast, and we were spared. I'm not a praying person, but I'm hoping that if this is a real thing, that it pulls through. And, I figure my mom is praying enough for me, and maybe about 1,000 other people.
I'll let you know how we fare.
They're putting us up at the Hyatt, which is next to the building where he works....but we have to rotate the room. They get half as many rooms as there will be people. So for like 12 hours, it'll be ours, while the other people are working. Ugh. We can bring blankets and pillows for if he's working overnight or something.
This looks like it will be the big one. The one that could wash us away. We have to leave the kitties here. We're closing them up in the computer room, because there's stuff they can climb on to escape any flood waters. It's breaking my heart, but that would be the safest room for them, should anything fly through our windows. We can't bring them with us. And my parents have two cats, so they can't take them. They're waiting until morning to decide whether or not they are evacuating. To me, that's too late. But Mayor Nagin is making the final call for mandatory evacuations at daybreak tomorrow.
The thing about this storm is that it snuck up on us. With my work and school schedule, I haven't had time for the newspaper or for TV. So I was vaguely aware of Katrina, just by listening to the radio to and from work and school. But they were expecting her to hit Florida and travel the coast of Florida. Until today, apparently. I mean, Mark works for, as I said, "THE News, Talk, and Sports Leader" of N.O., and when he got off work at 5 yesterday, there was no reason to worry. The principal of my school came around again after work to tell us all to have a nice weekend, asked if we had anything planned. Didn't say anything about paying attention to the local news media to see if we would have school. But today, they announced that the Archdiocesan schools are closed Monday. UNO's website says that they are closed through Tuesday. We went out to dinner with friends last night, then hung out with more people afterwards. No one said anything like, "Hey, are you evacuating?"
We slept in today, and went to the mall around 1:30 to get lunch and kill time. I noticed some buildings were boarding up, and that's nothing unusual. A bar we passed had this sign, "Due to Hurricane Katrina, we will be OPEN on Tuesday!" (Down here, people have hurricane parties...you evacuate from a lower-lying area of town to your friends' or relatives' house in a higher area, and you get food and candles and batteries and booze, and you party because there's nothing else to do. But when the threat is so bad, like it is now, that kinda dies down.) Anyway, we pull up, and there's a bunch of cars, but not many. We pull in the parking garage at Penney's, because that's the only garage and it's so flippin' hot, and walk to the store. An employee was sitting outside on a smoke break, we thought. She stopped us and said, "Store and mall are closed. Sorry." So I guess the cars there were all employees, and I'm guessing the mall had been open.
So now, we're feeling really dumb and very twilight-zoney. We stopped at Burger King and got lunch (yuck), then came home. Mark noticed two voice mails come through, both from his boss. Boss tells him that if he isn't evacuating, they need him to work. He doesn't have to, but that the main bosslady said something to him about, "This is where we separate the men from the boys, especially where pending promotions are concerned." So in other words, if Mark wants this promotion/raise he's been trying to get, he has to work.
So we're stuck here to ride it out. I'm bringing my textbooks with me, along with some stuff for school. But this monster is headed straight for us. She's a Category 3 right now, but they expect her to go to 4 before landfall. That's because she's moving too slowly, and she's building speed and strength.
I'm not religious by any means, but there's a theory that Our Lady of Prompt Succor (quick help in Latin) once saved the city of N.O. when the Ursuline nuns prayed to stop a raging fire that destroyed much of the city. The fire stopped before it reached their convent. OLPH is considered our protector. So when hurricanes come through, the city starts praying to her. The first words out of my mom's mouth were that she was already praying. The craziest part about it is that I'm almost inclined to believe it. The last few big ones headed towards us turned at the last minute. One, I think Lilli, slowed down speeds when it hit the friction of the coast, and we were spared. I'm not a praying person, but I'm hoping that if this is a real thing, that it pulls through. And, I figure my mom is praying enough for me, and maybe about 1,000 other people.
I'll let you know how we fare.
Friday, June 03, 2005
The saddest thing in the whole wide world happened yesterday...
But last night, Shazzy scared Lily. She jumped up to get on the windowsill facing a street, and she jumped so hard and so fast that she broke the window and disappeared through it. By the time we got around to the side of the house, she was down the block. This woman was jogging past. I yelled, "Lily!" and Lily stopped right in front of a hole between the driveway and the house next to ours. The woman saw her and tried to help, but you know how Lily is afraid of strangers. She squoze out of the woman's hands and under the house. I sat by the hole for 3 hours, but she never came out. I finally had to leave because the bugs were eating me a live and it was 9:40. We have no idea if she's hurt or even alive, and we haven't seen her since.
We spoke to most of the neighbors today, and I drove all over the neighborhood. We put water and food under our carport, but there are so many cats in our neighborhood that those probably won't last. We made fliers and put them up near the house. Tomorrow, we're going down to the SPCA and we're going to file a missing cat report. You have to do it in person and bring them a picture. She wears a collar but no tags...hopefully she still has her collar on and hopefully if someone finds her they'll figure out that she's someone's pet. We're also going to put an ad in the Times-Picayune's classifieds section, as well as read it.
I'm just absolutely heartbroken. That's my baby girl cat.
We spoke to most of the neighbors today, and I drove all over the neighborhood. We put water and food under our carport, but there are so many cats in our neighborhood that those probably won't last. We made fliers and put them up near the house. Tomorrow, we're going down to the SPCA and we're going to file a missing cat report. You have to do it in person and bring them a picture. She wears a collar but no tags...hopefully she still has her collar on and hopefully if someone finds her they'll figure out that she's someone's pet. We're also going to put an ad in the Times-Picayune's classifieds section, as well as read it.
I'm just absolutely heartbroken. That's my baby girl cat.
Friday, January 07, 2005
When keepin' it real goes wrong....
So I'm going to be vague on this because I don't want this person (who won't know this is here) to know I said it, but I have to get it off my chest because I got really embarrassed and I feel bad.
So this person I know thought that he/she...I'll call this person "Pat..." had been exposed to a disease that can be kinda deadly and was feeling bad, so I looked up on the Internet the causes, etc. (Don't worry....it was a false alarm because the original sick person apparently doesn't have this deadly diease.) So I'm reading along, and one thing the site says is that other viruses in a person can cause it to happen. Including herpes. So, I say, "Uh-oh, Pat.....better quit sleeping around!" And Pat says. "I have herpes!!!" And I say, "Shut up." And Pat says, "No, seriously. I got it from my ex, Jordan. (I love gender-neutral names....) Jordan was my third, I was Jordan's 300th, practically."
Pardon me while I scream like Howard Dean.
How do you get out of something like that? As I told Kate, no more bringing circle jokes into the unsuspecting public. Sheesh. I'm mortified. And I am willing to bet Pat was, too.
In other karmic news, though, yesterday, a kid I will refer to as "Surfer chick" and I were building a popsicle house at work. She said, "Hey, I'm going to give you horns, okay?" I'm thinking in terms of bunny ears.
Oh, how wrong I was.
SHE GLUED A FLIPPIN' POPSICLE STICK TO MY HAIR!!!!!
Yes, to my hair. With so much glue, it soaked all the way through to my scalp. So I went to wash it out, but it was too far back for me to see. So I went to Jean's office, where i found Nijel, too. I said, "You know, there are days when I love my job, and days that make me want to quit. Today is one of those days." I turned around and showed them my hair. "Know any ways other than getting in a shower and actually washing my hair to get glue out of it?" They didn't, of course.
So I just had to let it dry. Then, I obsessed over picking the glue out as it dried. I looked like I needed 42 bottles of Selsun Blue. It was all flaking on my chocolate colored shirt and everything. Surfer chick and one of the Rachels helped. Ok...attempted to help. All they did was remove chunks of my hair. It hurt so bad.
Then, I get home. And I am in the kitchen, talking to Mark, when I knock over the stack of Christmas cards on the counter. He's holding Lily. As I bend over to pick up the cards, she gets wiggly, jumps onto the china cabinet, misses/bounces off, and LANDS ON MY HEAD!!!
A FLIPPIN' CAT FELL ON MY HEAD!!!
It's rainin' cats...hallelujah it's rainin' cats, meow meow!
On her way down, she clawed my right arm, and I have a puncture wound now.
Then, we were taking down our Christmas stuff, and I got behind the tree to get the rear ornaments. I leaned over to unplug the lights, and I smacked my head on the corner of the windowsill. It left a red mark. Today, it feels bruised, but you can't really see it. However, I never realized how often one touches one's forehead throughout the day. Everytime I push my hair out of my face....every time I rest my head on my hands....Torture.
So, I think I've paid my dues for the herpes joke attempt.
Incidentally, Pat is okay with it. Surfer chick was banished to the Game Room yesterday until she drew me a card with Cartman on it. It was hilarious. Cartman was saying, "I uh, I uh, screw you guys, I'm going home." Under that, it said, "If he won't say sorry, then I will. I'm sorry!" On the inside was a drawing of the back of my head with a popsicle stick stuck to it. Under that, it said, "It wasn't funny" and had an insert arrow pointing to the word, "That," which was written above wasn't and funny. It said on the next page, You're cooler than chocolate and black nail polish, and those are pretty cool. I love you, Aunt Mae." All was forgiven, It's hanging on my fridge. Lily is fine. And my head still hurts. And Mark? Mark's still laughing at that series of unfortunate events. Bum.
So this person I know thought that he/she...I'll call this person "Pat..." had been exposed to a disease that can be kinda deadly and was feeling bad, so I looked up on the Internet the causes, etc. (Don't worry....it was a false alarm because the original sick person apparently doesn't have this deadly diease.) So I'm reading along, and one thing the site says is that other viruses in a person can cause it to happen. Including herpes. So, I say, "Uh-oh, Pat.....better quit sleeping around!" And Pat says. "I have herpes!!!" And I say, "Shut up." And Pat says, "No, seriously. I got it from my ex, Jordan. (I love gender-neutral names....) Jordan was my third, I was Jordan's 300th, practically."
Pardon me while I scream like Howard Dean.
How do you get out of something like that? As I told Kate, no more bringing circle jokes into the unsuspecting public. Sheesh. I'm mortified. And I am willing to bet Pat was, too.
In other karmic news, though, yesterday, a kid I will refer to as "Surfer chick" and I were building a popsicle house at work. She said, "Hey, I'm going to give you horns, okay?" I'm thinking in terms of bunny ears.
Oh, how wrong I was.
SHE GLUED A FLIPPIN' POPSICLE STICK TO MY HAIR!!!!!
Yes, to my hair. With so much glue, it soaked all the way through to my scalp. So I went to wash it out, but it was too far back for me to see. So I went to Jean's office, where i found Nijel, too. I said, "You know, there are days when I love my job, and days that make me want to quit. Today is one of those days." I turned around and showed them my hair. "Know any ways other than getting in a shower and actually washing my hair to get glue out of it?" They didn't, of course.
So I just had to let it dry. Then, I obsessed over picking the glue out as it dried. I looked like I needed 42 bottles of Selsun Blue. It was all flaking on my chocolate colored shirt and everything. Surfer chick and one of the Rachels helped. Ok...attempted to help. All they did was remove chunks of my hair. It hurt so bad.
Then, I get home. And I am in the kitchen, talking to Mark, when I knock over the stack of Christmas cards on the counter. He's holding Lily. As I bend over to pick up the cards, she gets wiggly, jumps onto the china cabinet, misses/bounces off, and LANDS ON MY HEAD!!!
A FLIPPIN' CAT FELL ON MY HEAD!!!
It's rainin' cats...hallelujah it's rainin' cats, meow meow!
On her way down, she clawed my right arm, and I have a puncture wound now.
Then, we were taking down our Christmas stuff, and I got behind the tree to get the rear ornaments. I leaned over to unplug the lights, and I smacked my head on the corner of the windowsill. It left a red mark. Today, it feels bruised, but you can't really see it. However, I never realized how often one touches one's forehead throughout the day. Everytime I push my hair out of my face....every time I rest my head on my hands....Torture.
So, I think I've paid my dues for the herpes joke attempt.
Incidentally, Pat is okay with it. Surfer chick was banished to the Game Room yesterday until she drew me a card with Cartman on it. It was hilarious. Cartman was saying, "I uh, I uh, screw you guys, I'm going home." Under that, it said, "If he won't say sorry, then I will. I'm sorry!" On the inside was a drawing of the back of my head with a popsicle stick stuck to it. Under that, it said, "It wasn't funny" and had an insert arrow pointing to the word, "That," which was written above wasn't and funny. It said on the next page, You're cooler than chocolate and black nail polish, and those are pretty cool. I love you, Aunt Mae." All was forgiven, It's hanging on my fridge. Lily is fine. And my head still hurts. And Mark? Mark's still laughing at that series of unfortunate events. Bum.
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