Great big fat never mind

You know how sometimes, life treats you like crap, but then it backs off and allows you to relax and enjoy the ride? But then the second you let your guard down because something really positive is happening in your life, you just get bitch-smacked and knocked back down to crap status?

Why does that keep happening to us?

I'd had plans to blog again in about a week about this thing that was happening that was going to make August 29 finally have a positive experience. But then with Isaac, that got rescheduled for a week later. Fine, whatever. (Hey, Isaac, nice of you to drop in on Katrina's anniversary, by the way. Way to have me celebrate by spending a week at my parents' house because a tree knocked the power and cable lines off of my house. Way to keep my dad's business shuttered again. Way to keep my phone, cable, and Internet down for two weeks and my electricity down for one. We didn't need that stuff in the freezer anyway. And so what that my online classes started, so now I'm playing catch-up in a totally overwhelming state of existence.)

But before this could happen, it was taken away. It has left in its wake despair and rage. So much pain. And there was nothing to do about it. There will be no happy posting.

I have been stuck inside for three weeks now: one week for Isaac, two weeks for what happened. To say the words, even to type them, is too difficult right now. You can probably figure it out, anyway. At some point, I may talk more. Right now, I just needed to put this down.

There is no justice in life. You work hard for other people, never saying no to anyone, toiling away and being there for other people, furthering your education, working in a career that is rewarding, frustrating, and thankless all at once, and something good should happen, right? You get drunk on trailer trash reality shows, cartwheel without panties, and end up in rehab, with no job, no purpose on this Earth other than taking up oxygen and space, and the class and intelligence of a grain of sand, you should get nothing. But that's not how it works. Oh, no. Those people get everything. They can keep what you cannot.

There. I got that out. But I still don't feel any better. Maybe the "Daria" marathon we've had this week has affected me. As if I wasn't cynical enough...

I need to go back to work. Work makes me think of work. I can block out reality that way. In fact, if it wasn't for my friends at work, the past two weeks would have been even more unbearable. I am lucky enough to work with and for some beautiful people. Monday can't get here fast enough. Somehow, though, as much as I look forward to it and need it, I am dreading it all the same. I don't want to put on the strong and happy face. They're just going to have to deal with me. My poor students. How many times will I be able to handle the "Where were you?!?!"s that get lobbed in my direction before I snap at some undeserving person? It's going to take every last ounce of self-control that I have left, every bit of my acting training, and every bit of my friends' assistance, which I have to take. I don't like having help. It's my best and most frustrating quality, if you ask poor Mark. Poor Mark. So good, so strong, so kind. Stuck with me and my negativity. I don't understand his strength and patience. I'm jealous, and I told him so tonight.

I just need the constant reminders to stop. The whole thing needs to be over. I can't move forward until the last bit is done. So here I sit, in neutral, spinning my gears with no results.

Maybe Life will get her shit together and stop pulling the metaphorical football out from underneath us for once. Life. She's truly a bitch sometimes.

ah, nuts

Summer's over. I go back for staff week in..oh...less than 8 hours.

It was, hands down, one of THE best years at camp ever. We have a solid staff with competent...no, BEYOND competent head teachers. We had people who didn't create or care about drama. It all went too quickly.

I have had to spend the night away from home every week for like 8 weeks.

Week 3 of camp had me spend the night to babysit the Tzofim Friendship Caravan, which is our favorite event. These singing and dancing Israelis are amaaaaa-zing. They stay the night with us the day before performing, and the director and I had to stay with them.

One week later was the camp overnight.

The next week was my cousin's wedding in the French Quarter, and we had a hotel room for two nights.

The next weekend was my brother-in-law's wedding in Thibodaux, so we had a hotel room there.

The next week was the final camp overnight.

This past weekend involved driving my brother-in-law and new sister-in-law to their new home in Starkville, MS.

We should be going to stay at a friend's camp near Baton Rouge this weekend. It'll be nice to put away the suitcase.

Okay, 7 weeks.

Speaking of putting things away, we have not done any more to the house. Too many weekends out of town. There was a third wedding in there, but we didn't have to stay in any hotels for it, haha. I'm losing my mind.

Some people nest because they are having kids. Other people nest because there are too many huge things which need to be done around the house, and they are powerless to do them, and so they start tinkering and upgrading little things around the house as a means of controlling some little part of their lives.

Yeah, that second one is me.

For instance, now that my b-i-l and s-i-l are 5-6 hours away from us, we have no idea how often we'll be able to see them. We'd like to have a place for them to stay if they have a chance. This is really hard to deal with, especially for Mark. He is so close to his brother, and while we live an hour and a half away from his family, he could and sometimes did visit at random. You can't really do that on a 5-6-hour trip.

Anyway, we have two guest bedrooms which double as our offices. Each has a twin bed in it. It would not be fair to have them sleep in separate rooms. While wandering in Target, we were checking out all of the fun back-to-college stuff, and we found a futon on sale. We decided to do what my mother-in-law did for us when we would visit: put the two twin beds in one room (my office, in this case), get one of those foam bed bridge thingies, and turn the two twins into a king. The futon will go in Mark's office.

So now we need king-sized bedding, to get the stuff moved out of my office, and start turning this into a nice guest room.

I've also picked up curtains, some new pillows, new flatware since the dishwasher ruined ours, some new sheets, and countless other things that needed upgrading around here. And I feel like there's SOME control regained over my house.

Hopefully, after this weekend, we can get back on this renovation thing.

Back into it

I've had several people tell me that I need to get back into this. I had neglected things a bit, but the school year tends to be a little difficult for free time. And once we hit spring, I have my bowling team, and then I go back to camp every few days to prepare for the upcoming summer. My available hours are slim.

Don't let my Facebook presence throw you, though. I keep the browser window open and the FB tab on top, so I see notifications. And I get all ADD and start looking at whatever went up there while I'm working on other things.

Anyway, I hate that all of my posts over the past year or so have been "let me catch you up" posts, but, well, sometimes, that's just how it is.

And, unfortunately, I guess that's what this one will be.

Last regular post I'd had was about my little Nala cat. I think I just couldn't write again for a while after that.

The biggest thing to change in my life was a life-saving moment. My quality of life dropped significantly last year. It started getting worse towards the end of the summer and into the beginning of the school year. I would come home, fight to stay awake, fall asleep on the couch, have Mark wake me up, eat, fall back asleep, have Mark wake me up, shower, go to sleep, go to work, drag all day, go home... and repeat.

It was scary, but I'd also lost my will to care about it. I was shedding like crazy, couldn't stay awake, quick to fly off the handle, and constantly dealing with broken nails. As much as I hate the phrase, Mark tried a "come to Jesus" moment. My annual exam was approaching, and he made me promise to talk to my doctor about it. My mom's theory was that I was having thyroid troubles. That WOULD explain the weight gain I've had over the past few years. I just chalked that up to Katrina, but maybe there was more to it.

Sure enough, I was suffering from hypothyroidism. My levels were dangerously low. A few weeks of trying different dosages, and my quality of life started to improve. I was also given something for the PTSD I've been dealing with the past few years, and that did it, too. I lost about 10 pounds almost immediately, all without changing any dietary or exercise regimens.

What do you know. I wasn't crazy. I was just in physical trouble.

The school year was a very good one. I got to repeat my classes from the year before. This is the first time in 6 years that I've been able to reuse my class materials. What a wonderful, wonderful thing. Of course, adjustments needed to be made here and there, but wow. Just reducing that level of stress was amazing.

I remember being in school, probably middle school, and thinking about how my poor teachers had to teach the same things, year after year after year. Little did I know that one day I would long for that luxury. It's pretty neat knowing what I have coming up for first quarter. I like that I can improve upon what I did the year before. It's funny how your perspective changes as you age.

I still do not see much of Mark. He works nights, I work days, and we frequently worked Sundays, and he sometimes worked Saturdays. It's hard. But we try to find things to do, be it drive around or watch a movie we DVRed two weeks prior.

We do have one project we've tried working on together, though. My father told us that he would help us remodel the front of our house. We hit a huge snafu, though. Well, many of them.

We tore down the paneling in the den. Bit by bit, we worked a little on the weekends. We got some of the sheetrock up, but the holidays started getting in the way. The weekend before my dad's birthday, Mark went to work for 5 a.m. Shortly after 5 a.m., the phone rang. It was my mom. My father had a heart attack, and they were in the hospital. I showered, ran out into the cold early Saturday morning with a soaking wet head, and somehow safely made it to the hospital. While they were working on him, my mom broke the news to me that she was having a lumpectomy that week, and she was only telling me because now I would have to take her in for the procedure.

My world crashed down. That night, my family was supposed to go to 5 Happiness for my dad's birthday dinner. We were happy and excited. He was going to come over to work on the house a little with me while Mark was at work. It was going to be a busy but fun day. And then, there we were. In the Cardiac Care Unit, waiting to hear how my father was after a heart attack, my mom telling me she could have cancer, and all of this being the absolute last thing I ever expected to happen.

The heart attack turned out to be a small one, and Dad went home for his birthday. I spent the night there so that I could get up early and bring my mom to the hospital for her surgery. My aunt, a breast cancer survivor, came to keep me company while we waited. Hours later, I was able to bring her home. That weekend, I spent most of my time chauffeuring them around, putting almost 200 miles on my car. Mom's results were good, no worries. Dad has also made a great recovery.

But then we were stuck. We didn't know what we were doing with regards to home repair. My dad wasn't allowed to do anything for a while. We decided to go through a contractor. He was going to replace our doors, but it took him about a month or so to return the new doors to us. All of our old doors, save for the ones on the bathrooms, were gone. The guys skipped out on a lot of stuff, and months went by. We fired him, got all of our doors back, and tried another guy, who gave us the runaround for a few months. We hired a third guy, who came on time on the appointed days, brought a crew, and had the den sheetrocked and floated in two half days. Booyah.

This was in February/March. We started in October.

We are still not finished. We have trouble aligning my work schedule with Mark's work schedule with my dad's work schedule. We've had another guy do our crown molding, and we'll have other people come in to finish the rest. We'd planned to be done by Christmas. We had no idea it would be June and we still would not be finished.

What we've accomplished:
Painting the range hood and the oven/broiler
Repairing the roof
New A/C and heater
Fixing the ceiling in the den, where the leaking roof ruined things
Removed paneling in the den
Put up sheetrock in the den
Painted the den and the kitchen (we left the paneling there, and deglossed and primed it before painting)
Crown molding in the den and kitchen
Removed the doors to the upper cabinets
Put cabinet contents in boxes in the den (sighhhh)
Deglossed the upper cabinets
Painted, mostly, the upper cabinets
Purchased new hinges for the cabinets
Purchased new drawer pulls/handles for the cabinets
Ordered new flooring which will go in the den, kitchen, and hallway
Had the flooring delivered
Put new doors up

What still needs to be done:
Bottom cabinets
Reattaching cabinet doors
Installing flooring
Finishing the doors
Repairing a kitchen fan
Painting pantry doors
Installing a new countertop
Installing a new kitchen sink
Repainting woodwork and reinstalling it around the windows

Sigh. Mayyybe we'll finish before the first anniversary of this project.

Did I fall into Bizarro World this week?

So, I teach in a school for kids with learning differences -- dyslexia, ADHD, and Asperger's are our biggest draws. I tend to forget that some of them are socially inept. They seem really normal until we take them in public, or until days where something really bizarre happens. Don't get me wrong. I love them. But social skills are not their strong points.

This week has been ripe with such days... Make sure you read all the way through. The second story is way better than the first.

Tale the first: Sticky Buns

A few months ago, a former student came to my classroom and said he had a little tiny present for me. Every year, he brings me a Christmas present still. He's a nice boy. A little while later, he shows up at my door with a 2-liter of root beer. I'm not a fan of root beer, so I try clever dodging strategies. He thought it was a day where you could wear jeans to school if you brought in two 2-liter soft drinks. Well, it was, but only for the grammar school. Instead of just donating the bottles anyway, he and his friends drank one bottle, and he decided to bestow the other one on me. I was touched. Slightly weirded out, but touched. I run out of avoidance strategies, and end up stuck with the root beer. I stick it under my desk, where it stays for the next couple of months.

Fast-forward to the other day, when we had to rearrange my classroom to make room for this massive AV closet they brought for the 12" flat screen. I notice that I bumped my big stack of Scholastic Book Order catalogs under my desk, which knocked the root beer over. I straightened the stack, then pushed them further back, and put the root beer right next to it. Why? Because I didn't want kids fooling with it.

Tuesday afternoon, I teach last period down the hall. I return to my room, only to discover that Terry, the teacher using my room at that time, left a note on my desk (name changed to protect the guilty):

Aimée --

Bob "accidentally" knocked over your 2-liter of root beer. I told him he has to bring you a new one tomorrow.

Terry

I walk to the front of my desk, see no spots on the ground, shrug, find the bottle in the trash (which, by the way, looked like it was squeezed by Andre the Giant and has an unscrewed cap. Interesting. Not being a fan of root beer, I have never opened it. I kept it at school so that the next time there was a 2-liter collection, I could bring it to the donations. "Oh, well," I think. "At least I no longer have to worry about the root beer."

Now, I have a very wide desk. To get the bottle and "accidentally" trip on it requires you to "sweep the leg!" under my desk and kick it out.

I sit at my desk and discover that I'm sticking to it. Then I notice that my butt feels damp. I look around, and my purse, the shoes I was originally wearing until I walked to the store and changed into flip flops but forgot to change back into, my candy jar, the arms of my chair, the legs of my chair, the charger for my laptop, and the seat and back of my chair are coated in sticky goodness.

And now I seethe.

I took Germ-X and Kleenex and did my best to remove the stickiness for now. I then filled out a write-up form with a VERY wordy yet detailed explanation, attach a recess detention to it, and wait.

Bernie comes in to talk to Jenn and me, and I pushed back in my chair a little bit to pick up a pen I dropped. I reach under my desk to pull myself closer to the desk again, and what do I discover, Wet, sticky, brown finger tips. I scream, "ROOOOOOOOOOOOOT BEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" in anger, then rant about how Terry must have run away scared, haha. I'm kidding, of course, and I'm not mad at him, but I am mad at Bob and the situation.

The next morning, Bernie starts baiting Terry with tales of my wrath over the situation. Meek little Terry, who is an easy blusher, comes in and stammers an apology as I'm heading to my off-period and Bernie teaches in my room. Bernie is loving every second of this. I manage to convey my non-Terry directed anger to Terry, and figure out that Bernie has scared him. Am I that intimidating? Or is Bernie that good at lying?

Tale the second: "I Have a Cat. His Name is Bony."

As if the root beer explosion isn't crazy enough, I get pushed to the limits this morning.

We have a kid with some communication difficulties and some form of autism spectrum. He's very bright, but he can be hard to understand. He adores me....he's the one who so fiercely defended me against the kid who made lewd remarks about me and attempted to grab my rear earlier in the year. Anyway, I was recoding some grades on my computer when "Mickey" starts rambling to me. I'm trying to concentrate on not screwing up grades, and I'm half listening. All I hear is, "I have a cat. His name is Bony. Want to see why his name is Bony?"

Expecting to have him shove a wrinkly photo of a skinny kitty cat in my face, I say, "Sure." He knows I love cats. He asks me about my pictures of my cats on my desk (What? I don't have kids. I have cats.). I figure he's got a picture of his.

Mickey says, "Look. It's on the desk." I look up to find him pointing at a desk with a Ziploc freezer bag on it. "Where?" I say. No photos are on the desk. "In the bag," he says.

I look closer and am horrified to discover that Bony the cat IS, in fact, rather aptly named. Bony the cat is a decomposing bag of fur and bones. I decide now would be a good time to freak out on the kid.

"WHY DO YOU HAVE THAT!?!?!?!??!?!"
"For science class."
"DOES YOUR TEACHER KNOW YOU HAVE THAT?!?!??!?!??!?!"
"Yeah. I asked her."

There's only one "her" who teaches 8th grade science: my friend, Kristin. Kristin, who only eats organic food and cruelty-free meat. Kristin, who planned a mock protest in front of my room when I wore my Cruella De Vil costume at Halloween. Kristin, who does not believe in dissecting animals and took a "C" in high school biology because she refused to dissect. Kristin, who takes in foster animals. Kristin, who is an environmentalist. Kristin, the closest thing I've found to a real-live member of PETA. This story doesn't add up.

"I seriously doubt that Ms. O would want you to bring that to her class. ARE YOU SURE that she said yes and ARE YOU SURE that you asked her about it?????????"
"Yes. We're studying about mammals and bones and teeth and I told her I have this and she said I could bring him."

At this point, Jenn steps in and suggests he put it away, as I'm bordering on hysterics and absolute disgust. Kristin was in her off-period in the teachers' lounge. I march in there, and apparently have one awesome expression on my face, because Bernie is in there and greets me with, "Hello. Are you okay?" and a concerned expression. I point at Kristin and say, "I have an important head's up for you. Did you by any chance give Mickey permission to bring a DECOMPOSING CAT IN A ZIPLOC BAG TO SCHOOL TODAY!?!?!?!?!?!??!?!?!?"
Now it's her turn to look ill. "NO! Why would you think I would do that?"
"Well, maybe because DECOMP ZIPLOC CAT IS SITTING ON A DESK IN MY CLASSROOM!!!!!!!"

Poor Terry was sleeping on the couch in there, and he woke up. He's as red as the couch, Bernie is practically crying, and they are laughing up a storm. Brendan is there at some point during my freak-out episode, and all three are rolling. Physically rolling, in Terry's case. Kristin and I are near nausea, both yelling and dumb-founded.

Apparently, during class, while they were, yes, learning about mammals and their teeth and bones, and said he had a skull at home, could he bring it. Kristin asked what kind. He said a cat skull. She said she guessed he could.

What he failed to mention was that said cat skull was still attached to the cat's other bones....and its fur...and resided in a Ziploc freezer bag.

Bernie kindly ran interference for us and convinced Mickey to put Bony in his locker for the rest of the day.

I went to Guidance and said, "I need a Guidance Counselor for myself, STAT!" Candice looked up and laughed and asked what was wrong. I told her my tale, and she said, "Oh yeah, he's bringing it for science class." Apparently, he brought it in Guidance and showed it to her while she was meeting with a parent and a student and couldn't really deal with it at the time. She said he has had it for a few years and found it outside. EW EW EW EW EW EW EW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Add these parents to my "List of people I want to punch." They're number 14, correct?

Buried treasure

So, back when I was in college, I wrote a column for the school paper. I don't think it ever ran, but I did mail it to certain family members.

When we removed our belo9ngings from our attic, our sole possessions after Katrina included a random box that held stuff from college. In it were random, useless things, as well as my college diploma, which I thought I'd lost. My buried treasure was this column. The event took place in either late August 1998 or early September 1998. It's pretty funny based on the fact that it is a celebration of meat, yet I won't eat many varieties of meat these days. Remember, this was early in my college career, so bear with me as you read this occasionally cringe-inducing masterpiece.

Meat Fest

It all started innocently enough. My relatives from Philadelphia were coming in town for a few days, and to celebrate, we would all go across the lake to another set of relatives' house.

The visitors from Philly were my uncle Mike, my aunt Jean, and my two cousins, Crissy, 11, and Steffi, 7.

In addition to this bunch were my parents and 14-year-old brother, Geoff, my aunt Mimi and uncle Lance, Granny, uncle Dennis, his daughter Hayley, his girlfriend Kim, my uncle Dave, my aunt Judy, their kids Lauren and Colleen, my aunt Annie, my uncle Ralph, and their adult children Erin and Ralph, and me.

The main attraction of the day was a crab boil. Harmless enough, right?

Ha.

The day started off as planned: crabs. Delicious boiled crabs. Dave has a gift for boiling seafood.

Colleen is allergic to shellfish, so hot dogs and hamburgers were on hand. Steffi has a Yankee tongue, so she of course did not want any part of the crabs. Instead, she wrinkled her dainty little nose and stared at them like they were from the planet Zoltar.

Judy threw a few hot dogs on the grill for the girls. When she went to take them inside to fix them, one rolled off the plate and splattered into the dirt.

That reminds me: Do you know what happens to hot dogs if you leave them out in the sun for several hours?

They turn green. Limp and green.

Just thought you'd like to know.

So anyway, Lance decided that he wanted some sausage. Uncle Ralph, as opposed to young Ralph, announced that he had gotten some sausage from a friend. He called it "Special sausage."

The plate of sausage was passed around. I decided not to partake in the consumption of it since it had been labeled "special." He went on to elaborate that the sausage could only be obtained through friends.

Any guesses on what it was?

Oh, come on. This is South Louisiana.

Yup. You guessed it: venison. Deer sausage.

After consuming nearly all of the crabs, two sacks worth, along with some various other things, like venison, hot dogs, and munchie-type things, they seemed to slow down. It was just a breather, though.

Not long after the remains were disposed of, they brought out a fruit tray and two cakes. A chocolate cake congratulating Mike on his recent promotion to President and COO of Rohm-Haas Chemicals and a "wedding cake" for Annie's birthday.

By this point in time, my brother got bored and got out the video camera. Some of the exciting footage he captured included a turtle eating a large chunk of cantaloupe and Erin trying to feed Young Ralph a piece of cake.

I'm not sure which was more humorous. The turtle had a nice aesthetic quality with the green leaves, green turtle, and orange fruit. Watching his little neck shoot out of his shell as he bit into the fleshy fruit, which kept inching away from him, amused Geoff for a long time. The section with the turtle must be almost 3 minutes long.

Erin feeding Young Ralph is amusing. He did not want to eat it. The scene has Erin coaxing him whilst chanting "Eat it! Eat it! Eat it!" He kept moving his head away from her, and finally the piece of cake hit his mouth, fell off the fork, and bounced off his chest.

Did I mention they are 27 and 22?

We soon grew bored of shouting "Eat it! Eat it!" at each other, so the four of us journeyed inside to watch "Daria."

Erin made an important observation at this point: The men were all standing around the meat and the fire, standing at that safe "man-distance." The women were sitting in a circle at "woman distances," all chatting away.

The subject of our discussion, though, was the men standing around the fire.

"Look at them," Erin said. "That must be some primitive caveman instinct that has been carried through evolution. They feel a need to stand around the kill and make sure it cooks correctly."

That also brought us to our next observation: They were cooking again!

Hamburgers, hot dogs, and ribs, oh my!

This prompted Erin to christen the day as a "Meat Marathon." This evolved into "Meatapalooza," "Meat Festival," and, finally, "Meat Fest."

We discovered that the jambalaya present had turkey sausage in it.

"Hey, do you realize that we have met from every meat genre present?" asked Young Ralph. "Pork, venison, beef, seafood, poultry..."

We went on like that for at least an hour. By that time, it was time to eat. Judy brought out a (ready for some irony?) Sugar-Buster's pasta salad. Guess what was one of the ingredients?

Pepperoni.

Then Dave came inside to inform us that, should we want them, the rest of the crabs were being served, so hurry up and get outside!

We picked at the food for a while. Only picked, because we were waiting for the ribs to cook.

In the meantime, I picked up the video camera and went outside. By this point in time, the mosquitoes were having a "Meat Fest" of their own, with my family as their main course. But did this stop them? No.

I interviewed several people as to what their thoughts were on "Meat Fest '98." Everyone seemed to enjoy it. My mom added that it should become an annual event, and whipped out her personal calendar to write it in the advanced planning section.

I wandered over to the table where they were devouring the rest of the crabs, and Erin suggested making a documentary of how to eat crabs.

She just got her master's in speech pathology, and she had to dissect some cadavers in school. She told us that her cadaver had a Band-Aid on, and she couldn't help but think that that was an absurd and futile point. I jokingly called her crab procedural a "Crab autopsy." She liked the idea and crowned herself "Dana Scully" after the FBI agent on "The X-Files."

She thoroughly enjoyed this dissection. She said, "It felt just like old times."

Young Ralph, who is pursuing a degree in physical therapy, also had to dissect some cadavers for school. "It's just meat!" he said. "That's what we used to say in class. 'It's just meat.'"

Shortly after the crab autopsy, the ribs were ready. We were waiting for them inside, and the leftover hamburgers were sitting on a plate glistening in the light. "Mmmmmmm....glistening meat. Ahhhhhhh...." said Erin in an impression of Homer Simpson.

The ribs were finally ready, and we pounced on them like lions circling a dead zebra. (Hmmmm...there's an interesting meat that was not served.)

Erin stuck out her thumb and said, "Look, you know you're enjoying it a little too much when you get meat under your fingernail."

A moth was circling the table bothering everyone. Young Ralph tried to smash it when it landed in the bread basket. All he succeeded in doing was smashing some buns. The moth landed by me, so I picked up a hamburger bun, separated it, and smashed that sucker between the slices.

This grossed out my littler cousins. Geoff said, "Oooh, moth burgers! More meat!"

I just grinned at them and asked, "Want some flies with that?" (Grooooooaaaannnnn)

Somewhere in there, we started joking about making Meat Fest '98 T-shirts and selling them. Then we turned serious. That wasn't such a bad idea. That night, Geoff immediately got on the computer and designed a shirt. I think we may actually do it.

Ho Ho Ho Dat....and other thoughts.

The Saints won again! Dear Lord...could this be the year? And Dallas delivered quite the prettily wrapped package today by losing so spectacularly to Philly. First-round bye is OURS.

Anyway, the most important thing of all is that Christmas is finally over. No one I know seems to have been excited about it this year. I only shopped and made jewelry because I felt I had to do it. I was purely driven by the need to conform.

I didn't bring a single decoration to school this year. My classroom is now as it was weeks ago. My mom hung a wreath on the door, and we bought a tree on sale for $10 at Lowe's last Sunday after the Saints game. It stayed on the porch until Wednesday, then got brought inside, and has a grand total of zero lights and 8 ornaments on it. Those ornaments are the ones that were downstairs already based on the fact that we bought or received them this year. No stockings are hung by the chimney with care, and who really gave a shit if St. Nick would be here? We had dinner at home...mom, dad, Geoff, me, Mark. We visited Lance and Mimi, then the Cabin exchanged secret Santa gifts. We did Midnight Mass because my mom would cry if we didn't. We went to Pam and John's, but were late to that because we were coming in from Morgan City.

Yes, we got fairly decent things, but with no place to put them, it doesn't matter. Mark gave me a lovely necklace, but I don't deserve it.

But we were talking about it last night, and Geoff mentioned that he was shocked that he wasn't in the mood for Christmas this year, but was last year. I noted that last year, we NEEDED Christmas. This year, it seemed trivial and we really didn't need it.

Holidays are a joke.

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.

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.

Tennessee you later

I slept in my own bed last night!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Last weekend, we spent Friday night 'til Sunday afternoon in Grand Isle. We may or may not have gotten out of the Gulf due to a shark. It may or may not have been a dolphin or porpoise. But in light of recent attacks, we felt it better to get out of the cesspool that is the beach at Grand Isle.


Although, the infinitely wise grandmother-in-law said we wouldn't have to worry about sharks coming to Grand Isle because "we have warm water here, and sharks don't like it where it's warm. They go where it's cooler." Yeah. That explains why there are so many sharks in Antarctica instead of Florida.

Spent Monday with my parents while Mark worked. Packed. Watched "Team America." The funny thing about that movie is that it's political to you. It caters to your beliefs. To me, it blasts the war, calling it dumb, and blasts America for being so self-righteous. To Kurt, it exists totally to show movie stars how dumb they are for protesting the war. To Matt, it was a terrific send-up spoof of action films. So, bravo, you comedic geniuses. But, next time, take out the vomit and add more puppet sex. And panthers.

Sex panthers?

Anyway, moving right along...

Went to Tennessee on Tuesday. Stayed in Memphis overnight. Saw Graceland, that paeon to all that is wrong with American pop culture, and went to a mall to play blacklight mini-golf, blacklight bowling, and to get an aqua massage, which is heaven on Earth. This year, they even made the water heated. Oh yeah...pardon me while I revel in that memory for a moment...

Moved on to Nashville Wednesday. Went to the COuntry Music Hall of Fame. LAAAAAME. Went to Nashville Shores Water Park. Didn't have many slides. We got bored of it quickly. Moved on to a mall. Ate a good salad. It had eggplant and feta in it. Need I say more? Went to the Nashville JCC. We had six kids and three adults: me, new guy, and an Israeli guy who was fun. Reminded me of Alex. Just darker complected. And not a stoner. Annnnyyyyywaaaayyy...the J was HUGE. The bathroom/locker room area was divided into under 17 and over 18. We could use the adult locker rooms, but the kids couldn't. As the only female counselor, I felt like royalty, plunging into the hot tub, having total control of the room, and complete and utter privacy.

Decided that my problems with camp this year come from the two girls who were on the trip. Big surprise, it's my Ritalin kids. I'm giving them to Pam on the Western Adventure. Sorry, but I'll be with Ritalin kids all year long...I'll need a major break.

Like the other campers. Have lost all tolerance with these two girls.

And back to the stories.

New guy didn't have a chance for major eff ups this time around. Not enough kids, and too many adults. As well as not enough chances to lead a group around. Almost had fun with him.

On Thursday, we drove three hours to Whitwell, TN. It's in the Appalachains, and it's about as far-removed from society as possible. The guy we spoke with there said some people still don't have running water and use rain barrels to bathe. Some do not have electricity yet. I didn't know areas like this still existed.

So why Whitwell?

Whitwell is home to Whitwell Middle School, subject of the Miramax documentary "Paperclips." It is a town of 1,500. WMS had four black students and one hispanic. All the rest are white Protestants. Most never leave the valley. But they started a project to study the Holocaust. They wanted to collect 6 million paperclips to represent the 6 million exterminated Jews. The project started in 1998. At the end of the first year, they had not collected even 1 million. They projected that it would take 10 years to reach the goal at the current rate.

Then, two German correspondants to the White House heard about the project from a 95-year-old survivor, who found it on the Internet. They got the Washington Post involved, as well as Tom Brokaw. And suddenly, the project took off. Stephen Spielberg sent in 1 million clips. People sent them clips on pieces of paper that simply said "Paper Clip 1: So-and-so." "Paper Clip 2: Such and Such." Each stood for someone they knew or lost. They received outpourings of support from famous people, from regular people, from 6 continents, from survivors, from survivors families, from the families of the dead. They recieved hate mail, including one from a man who signed his letter, "Seig Heil, Tommy." The letter accused the school of teaching the kids propaganda about a made-up phenomenon. Attached to the letter was a straightened out paper clip, and the message was, "This is what I think of your project." Another letter had clips bent into swastikas. They also received a suitcase, which belonged to a victim and was found in a camp, from Germany. It had pieces of paper in it attached to oversized clips. Each was a letter of apology to Anne Frank from German school children.

WMS has saved everything. They have autographed photos from Jim Carrey, from The Shrub, from Henry Winkler, and from Spock. They have support letters and hate mail in binder after binder. They have artwork from visitors. They have everything saved in their tiny library, which, before the project, had one book on the Holocaust that hadn't been checked out in 30 years. Now, they have cases of videos and literature on the subject.

We spent two hours reading these letters. Or trying to, as many were in foreign languages. I had to pull the kids away from it to move on to the boxcar.

The boxcar is a railroad car that was used during WW2 to transport people to the camps. It had to be disinfected before it could be brought to America. The floors of such cars were covered in lime, and as people died or went to the bathroom, the lime was used to cover the odors. Immediately following the war, the car was used to transport grain. Then, it was retired, and was used in "Enemy at the Gates." Its sibling cars were destroyed during filming. It was also in bad shape and needed to be restored. (See above thoughts on my take on "Team America" to get an idea of how I felt upon hearing that.) It was rescued by the diplomats (the Schroeders), purceased for $6,000, and reached America September 9, 2001. It was en route to WMS on September 11, 2001. There's bitter irony in that. It made it to WMS a few days later.

The car was placed on the WMS campus. The whole town turned out in committee form to prepare the area. Tracks were laid down. The car was restored and braced to hold the weight of its new cargo. A rock garden and regular garden were set all around it. A monument containing 11 million paper clips (one for each victim, no matter what the reason of the Holocaust.) 18 butterflies, symbolizing freedom, children, new life, and, of course, chai, were painted (later mosaics, because the paint wore off) or sculpted around the car. And, another 11 million clips were placed, with the suitcase of apology letters, inside the car. In all, over 32 million clips have been collected.

To walk up to the car, to hold those letters, to sift through the paper clips, and to stand inside the car are all very sobering experiences. We signed a guestbook. We met the man behind the project. We stood in silence and reflected. We dragged the kids away. We cried during the documentary. The juxtaposition of a memorial to something so horrible in a setting so beautiful.....

We brought 9 people. Half chai. Even though the project is over, we are sending in two paper clips each. Chai. They told us that at least two boxes a week still roll in. The extras are added to the car anyway. We will each put our clips in. One for each of us for our visit, one each for a person we want to honor.

The most beautiful thing of all:

One child, and what does THIS say for Orleans Parish Public Schools, did not know what the Holocaust was. She had NEVER heard of it. We had to teach her about it. When it was time to move to the boxcar, I had to drag the kids away from the books. And the last child, the one I had to coax the most, was the one who had never heard of what she was reading about. I think our jobs were done. I almost cry just thinking about it.

We were supposed to go to the Jack Daniels Distillery, but since we were so far away, we didn't make it in time for a tour. So we went to Grand Old Golf and Games. We did two rounds of mini-golf apiece. It was hard-core. We had to jump the balls across rivers and stuff. Then we played in the arcade, where I found...get this....an X-FILES PINBALL MACHINE! I played it. And did well. And took pictures of it. We had a pizza party, played poker (for chips and giggles only), and went to bed at 3. We got up at 5, loaded the bus, and were on the road by 6. I was asleep before 7.

Got home, showered, dressed, drove to Thibodaux. Went to a wedding. Found out someone we always thougth was gay is actually gay and has a boyfriend. Had to prevent to groom from beating him up after he gave the bride a lapdance. Mark had to escort him out early. Bride's brother threatened him. Bride and Groom got in a fight at the reception. No alcohol was served. But the groomsmen all had bottles of beer. The guests whore shorts, stretch pants, slippers, you name it. We were so overdressed. The reception was in the NSU ballroom. Bride works there and got a great deal on it. Spent the night in Mark's old apartment, now Phil's apartment. Went to La Casa for lunch with the in-laws, then to C and M Music in Houma for a sale so Phil could buy stuff. Walked out with Mark's Christmas present to me. Yup...a Guitar. It was on sale as a package deal: amp, guitar, gig bag, picks, strap, tuner....it's an off brand, but it's pretty and will be something great to learn on. Come on, December!! Hung out at the apartment like old times, went to dinner with Amanda and Mike at Ground Pat'i (damn, but Thibodaux is booming!!!!) and got a Blizzard at DQ. Drove home, unloaded car, picked up daiquiris, went to the A5 palace. Came home, slept in my own bed. Nothing sweeter than that.

A lot of deaths...real and metaphorical

The Sunday before Easter, Mary's mom died. She made it back in time to say goodbye, but it was very very sad. But a guilty pleasure to see my hard-core old-school friends and parents and siblings at the funeral. Does this make me a bad person?

Last Friday, there was that terrible motorcycle accident. Yeah...the woman on the bike? One of my mom's friends, who we've affcectionately dubbed, "The Crazy Women/Ladies." I didn't know her, but she had a daughter at SPN who was a grade behind me. I didn't really know her either, but I remember her.

Last week, Geoff and Plan C became officially over, and Geoff was reincarnated with Plan A. Huzzah! (Well, to the reincarnation bit. He's my baby brother. I worry about him.)

Then, alas and alack, my second-favorite comedian of all time, Mitch Hedberg, died. I'm very distraught over this. I mean, I can't eat a baked potato without chuckling. Or watch an oscilating fan. Or see a broken escalator. (In case you are wondering, 1 is Dane Cook, 2 is Mitch, and 3 is Nick Swardson.) Sadder? His death is overshadowed by the following:

Terry Schiavo died, and this can't really be a bad thing.

The Pope is knock knock knockin' on heaven's door. He may be in there now, I dunno. You know those crazy Vatican peeps. Always playin'. Anyway, this also can't be a bad thing. He's like 800 years old, he's been ill for a while, and...well...a changing of teh guards in the Catholic Church can't hurt. I can't wait until someone from my generation can be Pope. I bet we'll have women priests, and less scandals, and maybe even more tolerance of other faiths and LIFESTYLES. Yeah, I know, keep dreaming. But maybe then, I will resuscitate beign Catholic. I can't in good conscience subscribe to them. That's another death that I pretty much finalized last week I realized that I only stay away from meat on Lenten Fridays and do NOTHING else Churchy, except giggle at Dane Cook's routine, so next Lent, FIRE IN THE GRILL, BAYBEEEE.

'Cause I'm a LIIIIIAAAAAARRRRRRR!

So, I have some time, and here I am. I lied. You get me at least this once more before the year ends.

I'll start with a holiday wrap-up.

Work with a hangover #1 and work exhausted #1: My Kate is here. We had a party for her, complete with Lance's food and Lance's alcohol. Word to the wise: never let a man with a serious love of the drink fix you a drink. He made me an apple martini that I think is still scalding my esophagus.

Work exhausted #2: We went to Alicia and Kurt's on Tuesday that week to celebrate Caroline's birthday with fresh baked cookies and a showing of "Napoleon Dynamite." That movie ruled. Whaddaya know...you CAN make a friggin' hilarious movie without gross-out humor!

Work with a hangover #2 and work exhausted #3: We went to '80s night at One Eyed Jack's. Yes, Devon, the Morrissey look-alike was there. But no Dead or Alive. Must have been too cold for them.

I broke out of jail free by taking a half day on Friday. First, there were snow flurries in the morning. We bundled up the kids...hats...coats....gloves....scarves...and one pair of mittens. But, wouldn't you know it, as soon as we got out there, the flippin' snow had stopped. Waste of a trip.

Then, I learned that in order to get out of a grocery store alive on Christmas Eve, one must play Quarterback. Sheesh. I actually plowed down some old people just to buy candy for my grandparents-in-law. Wishing I hadn't in retrospect. Very glad I pawned off that ugly-ass steal-a-gift item that I got at the office Chanukkah party. It was a plaque thingy...hand-painted....that said, "Chocolate lovers know that life is sweet!" Well, in my book, if you're the type of person to display plaques like, "Grandchildren are God's way of compensating us for growing old" in your kitchen, then you should love that sort of thing. So I pawned that piece of crap onto her. She says she liked it. I hope she didn't.

We started the night at Maw Maw and Pops' house, where we dined on such delicacies as chicken salad sandwiches and ham sandwiches, made from pre-packaged meat, and snacky items. We were the only ones who had to open gifts, simply because one branch of the family left early, and so everyone did the exchange two nights previous. So everyone sat down to boredly watch us open our gifts. We scored with the third season of (Everybody...in a deep, gravelly voice) "24" and "Elf." Mark got a cool music trivia game. The cats got lots of gifts. And then there was me.

I AM SO ANGRY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

What did my grandmother-in-law give me for Christmas??? First off, the lesser sins: we established long ago that I hate pink, and that no one should ever buy me anything pink. So imagine my dismay at opening the big box (she doesn't wrap things individually...she gives you a whole box full of stuff) full of pink??? She obviously can't decide whether I'm 12 or 68, because she bought me pajamas that were bright pink and say "Angel" and some stupid slogan all over them, and an old lady night gown with a fuschia housecoat. Ever see that episode of "Everybody Loves Raymond" where Marie gives Debra one to match hers? Well, I got one to match all of the women in the family. Yes, hideous and kind of offensive...but.....

I cried Saturday night over this one....She gave me Dr. Phil's new book, "Family First," on how to raise a "phenomenal family." ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!! RUDEST. PRESENT. EVER!!!!!!! First off, we work cruddy little jobs with zero benefits and hardly any pay. Second of all, I'm about to start grad school. And third of all, we've only been married 2 1/2 years, and we're only 25!!! It was all I could do to keep from yelling, throwing the book at her, and walking 90 miles home in sleet. I mean, if I was a fan of Dr. Phil, then I could see giving me the book. But I'm not. Even if he does look like my dad. But she clearly gave me this book as a big hint that she wants great-grandchildren ASAP. Keep on waiting, lady. Because she doesn't know it, but I don't want to have children. It'll be a cold day in her grave before she gets great-grandchildren from these loins.

I thought maybe I'd overreacted to this, but when I tell it to people, they get angry for me. Which makes it worse, because I'm realizing how justified I am. Eff bees.

We went to midnight Mass, which I only stayed awake during because I felt it was my wifely duty to slap Mark's thigh once in a while to wake him up. The priest spoke like Emo Phillips. But he was fat, so it was in a slightly lower octave. And it was so weird to walk into midnight Mass at midnight and have our pick of seats. Dang. You have to get to SPN by 11 p.m. or you have to stand. No Chrisssamiss Daaaayyy, though. Denied.

We woke up Christmas morning to be told by my MIL that it had snowed. We looked outside, and sure enough....it was a white Christmas!!!

There were icicles on everything and just a smidgen of snow on the ground. It sleeted all morning, then turned to snow. Full-out snowflakes! We were eating lunch at his grandparents' house, and I was the only one who was seated perfectly so that I could see through the doorways to the back porch, where I noticed it was coming down hard and was all snow. So we interrupted dinner to have a snowball fight! It continued snowing and we got snowed in!! It was only like 2 inches, but south Louisiana isn't prepared to handle snow. All roads leading back to New Orleans were shut down. Too many bridges. Most of the ride down to my in-laws is mostly through swamp areas. We were stranded with no clean clothes or underwear. Wal-Mart, Rite Aid, CVS, and the grocery stores were all closed. Stupid podunk town!!! We had to wash our underwear and clothes that night. Luckily, we'd spent the night Friday, so we had pajamas. But all we had were the clothes on our backs, our pajamas, and the dress clothes for church.We couldn't leave until almost 2:30 Sunday afetrnoon because we were waiting for roads to open. But here in New Orleans, you can hardly tell it had snowed.

At work, our playground is always in the shade, so there was some snow left Monday morning. We had a snowball fight at work this morning with the kids. I totally nailed a girl I hate. But it's in the upper 50s today. And it'll be in the mid-70s this weekend. Go figure.The worst part? I had my camera out to bring with me Friday night, and I said, "What am I going to take a picture of?" So I left it HOME. My in-laws took a bunch of pics, though. And, when we got to my parents' house yesterday for a belated Christmas celebration (even sadder, we were expecting to be home Christmas night, so we left our gifts to each other at home, and we didn't get to exchange them until last night!!), what did they give us but a digital camera???? Grrrr.......

We got a bunch of gift cards for Christmas, and some hot chocolate mix, and a stir-fry pan, and Chappelle's Show season 1, and a cool caller-ID/answering machine dual phone set from my side of the family, to name a few things. Yeah...who has the cooler family? But, to be fair, his parents gave us the recliner. To Mark, I gave the Metallica history book, "America: the Book" by those crazy kids at The Daily Show, a Wonder Woman figure (long story), a South Park T-shirt, and a cool nice shirt. He gave me a scarf, the new CD from Muse, a chord book and the Weezer tab book because he's going to teach me to play guitar, and a gorgeous amethyst necklace. Yeah...who's the cooler spouse...HINT: not me!

Work with a hangover #3 and work with exhaustion #4: Calie and Geoff brought us to Nick's bar and we met Kate, Caroline, and Kurt there. It was fun and all, but not a place I'd like to frequent.

Work exhausted #5: Went to see "The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou" with Kate, Caroline, Keith, Alicia, Kurt, Gootee, and some of his family members while Mark worked a crappy shift. It was good, but I prefer Tennenbaums. Hung out at Starbucks later. Kate dropped me off, and we talked for a while. Still had to shower. Blah.

I hate my job. I've got an application for Starbucks...anyone else know anywhere else that's hiring? Stop me before I go postal. Life pretty much sucks right now. I read something online earlier about how when people ask this guy what the best year of his life is, he always says, "This one, because we haven't seen next year yet." Well, I don't see it that way. My answer is, "Hopefully next year, because the last few have been utter crap." Flip.

David Lee Roth lights the menorah....

And so do James Caan, Kirk Douglass, and the late Dinah Shore-ah.

And lately, so do I! Well, I don't touch the real one. But I do color in the flames on a paper one each day at work.

I like Chanukkah. I love gelt (especially the dark chocolate), I love latkes, dreidel is fun, and standing with the kids as we light the menorah together is so much fun. I like buying Chanukkah gifts for baby Ben. I love seeing the kids each afternoon and hearing about/seeing what they got for Chanukkah, and I like their anticipation about going home to get their next gift. Today, the Salad Tosser (it's a dance she made up, I swear) asked me what I got for Chanukkah last night. I told her I don't celebrate Chanukkah. She said, "Why not? I celebrate Chanukkah and Christmas. You can, too!" "But my family isn't Jewish," I said. "That's okay. you can still celebrate it. Just do it here with us!" How cute and warm and fuzzy. I love how accepting these kids are of our differences, you know? Mirit wished me a happy Chanukkah a few minutes ago, and said, "I can say that because I count you as one of us. You're around Jews like 24/7, so you count." Why can't all people in the world be this accepting? Sigh.

I finished my Christmas shopping today!!! YAYYY. Now I just have to do Mark's birthday.

Sorry I'm not funny today, but I started working out again last night and I'm tired and sore and my brain kinda hurts. I'll think of a humorous topic for tomorrow.

I could go for some yellow cake....with chocolate icing.

Just don't drop that...

So I was away for a few days. Don't expect me to do stuff on the weekends. And I was at work all day yesterday and today.

I don't care much for holidays, except that holidays = time off from work. I'm just crotchety like that, I guess. But what I DO like is that people come in town. The Wonger is due here quite soon, and my Kate is coming very soon. Yayyyy!!! People I miss! Par-tay!

Mark and I were discussing Christmas music tonight. Specifically, how Christmas music is often depressing. Ever heard "The Christmas Shoes?" Look it up. I dare you not to bawl. And I'm not just crying because it is country music. I find all Christmas music to be sort of sad, and it brings tears to my eyes, so I do not listen to it. But why do Christmas songs have to be so depressing in subject matter, i.e. the aforementioned song?

There's one Christmas song, though, that brings tears of laughter to my eyes. The church my parents go to has a midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, and it's a REAL midnight Mass, not some 10 p.m. rip-off like Mark's parents' church. Anyway, they play this song that's got a calypso beat to it EVERY year. And this same old guy from the choir has this as his solo EVERY year. And he sings in a monotone baritone with a fake Island accent. This is a pretty non-Islander guy, too. I mean, he's as far removed from teh Islands as he could be. And he has a really obnoxious voice. And he pronounces it "Chrisssss-a-misssss Dayyyyy." And there's all sorts of weird instruments going on. Every year, my family nudges one another and chokes on laughter. And every year, at the end of Mass, the priest includes a special thank you to the choir for being extraordinary as usual, and points the guy out and everyone applauds. Except for us. We snort with laughter and poke each other in mock dismay as we cover our own giddiness. This year will be weird for me, though, because we'll be with the in-laws and I won't get to participate in this. Ah, well. Such is life.

Kate's listed on IMDB!!! She's gonna make it after allllllll!