July 1st

July 1, 2010

It’s been a little more than a year since our arrival in New Orleans. Just before our first anniversary I spent 2 weeks in Mexico with my closest friend. Fully renewed --I desperately needed a break from my job, my man, my life and, as it turns out the city-- I returned with gusto. I was fully committed to look at things with fresh eyes, with high spirits and a positive attitude. That lasted about an hour. Literally.

A day later I had lost my job and fell back into depression. Try as I might my so-called world seemed to have a negative slant. Even the weight loss was sure to have experienced had actually been weight gain. I felt like shit all over again. I was a giant piece of depressing shit that was without a job or a clue. I did none of the things I said I would do. I did not write in my blog, read more books nor did I commit myself to an exercise regimen. Instead, I started smoking after quitting successfully for a year (the one thing I had been proud of myself for doing) and I drank as much or more than I had been.

I still struggle with the city --with my life-- but I suppose all of that is natural as a “middle aged” woman in a new city. Not long ago I was a young, thin, over-achieving professional with a thriving career . . . or so I thought. Maybe I gave up. Maybe I was pursuing something that I no longer felt challenged by. Maybe I wasn’t even doing the things that I should have been. Maybe I didn’t know what I wanted so I picked up impulsively, like I had some 17 years prior, and relocated somewhere new. Better or worse, it was new.

Recently, I’ve been taking it in better stride but that is only in great part due to the fact I have been virtually free of burden. Sure, I still have to pay the bills, cook most the meals, and do all of the laundry house work and domestic administrative work but I was doing that anyway while working 45 hours a week at a job that made me want to cut my throat – or yours. Whomever it seemed more convenient to take my rage out against. I will have to continue all of those things and I will eventually, sooner rather than later, have to find gainful (and hopefully meaningful) employment. But I feel more like things will come together – at least I feel more like they will more than I feel like they won’t. Here I am today doing my laundry across the street and for a change I felt like yelling at the nasty woman speaking down to the laundry assistant instead of the assistant herself. Note: I still felt like yelling at someone. But that too is improving.

I walk a little lighter these days (not literally as the weight loss still seems illusive) and occasionally with a smile on my face. I’m surprised when I notice it, (when I am smiling) because for the last few years I seem to do that only when I am in Mexico. I started wearing make-up and fixing my hair but often here in the heat, humidity, and heavy rain it is an exercise in futility. I suppose it is meaningful that I try.

I have cooked a lot this last year. That has been fun if not detrimental to my non-existent waist line. I still laugh at my sense of outrage when I feel my knowledge of food or its preparation is minimized by someone one – whether they are more or less knowing than I. And then I remind myself my scope is actually relatively small – my error numerous. (I can’t even begin to tell you how bad my hash browns were yesterday --HASHBROWNS for god sake-- all because I totally forgot to wash the starch free of the shreds and didn’t remember until it turned into a glutinous mucky mess. ) I still get embarrassed when I realize I have grown less smart and my vocabulary more narrow – especially after insisting to my friends that I am smart and vocabulary diverse. I still wish there were more hours in the day and that I was more motivated. I did, after all, spend tan entire day this last weekend in bed doing nothing more than eating and watching tv after having had a 3 day bender.
Sure, yesterday I had a grilled cheese sandwich made with fake cheese singles and too much ketchup for lunch. I smoked one cigarette (hey, only one today!) and I am going to go make myself a margarita in a few short minutes but, hey, I feel okay with it. Because, like I said, I am taking things in greater stride these days. I feel more like things will get better more than I feel like they could get worse.

Burning Down the House and Other Fat Tuesday Happenings.

While the air hung thick with Mardi Gras jubilation the last 2 weeks – that is to say it reeked of piss, puke, stale beer, and cigarettes – I was busy working my ass off. Mandated overtime at a rate of pay not even at half the rate of Federal minimum wage I was over Mardi Gras by the time I got my one day off. Fat Tuesday was a bust. I wasn’t feeling it; I was over it before it began.

The boyfriend had worked more hours than I with a job that actually had expectations and responsibilities so it was really a feat that he rose before I and made breakfast and bloodies to rouse me from slumber. We weren’t up late nor had we drunk exuberant amounts of alcohol but I just ain’t a morning person. I roared and growled and shushed him into submission – LEAVE ME BE. I finally got up and going around 9:30. Bloody in hand we headed to Canal to see if we could catch what would be our only real parade of the season for our very first Mardi Gras – on the very last day of the celebration.

The streets we already filled with drunken costumed belligerents who didn’t notice that they were bumping into me at every pass. They got in my pictures, stood in my way, blew smoke in my face. I hated them. Round one corner and on to Canal (finally) and there was dancing, grills on the sidewalk, and excited adults and children alike. I was tired, my feet hurt; I just wanted to find a place to park but I hadn’t found it yet. There was to be an intersection of 2 parades but where was it? We walked on.

When the sea of people went from white to black it was obvious we’d hit the crossroads of the two big parades of the day: Rex (the Klan-looking parade that has, since 1872, introducing the King & Queen of Carnival) and Zulu (the more festive and laid black counterpoint). We were there to watch Zulu. We wandered a bit farther looking for a place with a view.

As we walked on, I watched a crowd of coordinated peeps doing the electric slide in perfect harmony and I knew M, my bff, would have loved it. I was warming up to the idea of Mardi Gras but as I was not yet there. I drank my drink, I felt the warmth of the sun through my many layers and waited for the parade to commence.

It’s been years since I had seen a parade and it was strikingly different than those I’d attended up north as a kid. Parades there were no longer permitted to throw candy or toys and they were never for the amusement of adults. Here, on the other hand, the festivities were clearly enjoyed by all. We met tons of locals who had been in attendance for years if not decades and others whom had traveled short and long distances to partake. It was decided: It is the tourist who celebrated Mardi Gras all year long but it is the local who really (so it seemed to me) participates fully in the festivities in the weeks between the 12th day and Fat Tuesday.

The coveted token for today’s parade was the elusive coconut. Some seemed to have acquired ½ a dozen while others, like myself, received none. This parade stuff was serious shit. You had to be aggressive. There were strategies. There were bags and bags of shit to be caught and the crowds weren’t scared to bowl you over for it. While I found all of this amusing it wasn’t until the later part of the parade that I finally raised my hands and joined in, “throw me something mister.”

My bag and neck swelled with booty; my camera filled with images; but the one moment that would stick with me was this one little boy that sat on the shoulders of his father. He was adorable and probably no more than 4 years old. He was so excited as he and his extended family stood ready on the curb. As the parade began, his family and others that surrounded him would pass him a token: a necklace, a stuffed animal, a football. His arms out reached, he was smiling and having fun but his face lit up in a whole new way when he caught his very own necklace. I am moved to tears now just thinking of it – it was such a genuine and bright moment. This kid was so proud and so grateful. The sincerity in his voice when he thanked the thrower was unbelievable. It is difficult to explain just how moving this moment was. Words do no justice but in that instant, I got it. That was my highlight, my token, my golden coconut; I didn’t need anything else.

I grew tired of the crowd and the weight of our newly acquired junk so we headed home scavenging the now vacant streets for left over goods. We were still strikingly sober when we crossed paths with our neighbor. My failure to feel the festivities were still palpable (I was so tired and so sober) and D, my next door neighbor, eagerly fetched me a drink. He was a New Orleanian and was bound and determined to make the most of our day. We would intermittently hang out throughout the rest of the day and night as we watched ticker tape parades from our stoop, refilled our drinks, and danced at clubs down the street.

After a handful of cocktails I was starting to have fun. I guess alcohol is what one needs to “feel” the mood (and ignore the pain of my feet) and alcohol is what I had in great quantities. By 9 or 10 my alcohol induced whirl wind led me astray as I seemed to have lost my group. Lost or abandoned, I had headed out alone – and this was a bad idea. It is easy to get carried away here and literally as I would discover.

I pieced together the remainder of the night through pictures, hazy recollections, videos, news reports, and the feedback from of my drunken friends and boyfriend after a litany of questions. Here seems to be how the night concluded:

My neighbors and friends headed down Bourbon to partake in the fun on the street and in the clubs. I didn’t need any more booze but everyone seemed so eager to keep my glass full. And by everyone I mean any old friend or stranger who brought me a glass of anything. What did I care? I was having fun and keeping warm now that I was bundled up in my gorilla suit. (Hey, I finally wanted to dress up too!) Along with my suit I drug along several cameras and a large vintage blonde doll. I was so clever, I thought, I was King Kong. But I kept saying Godzilla because apparently King Kong was too difficult to remember. Now here is where it gets really fuzzy.

I’m not sure if I grew confused as to the location of my friends or if I just decided to head out on my own but I wandered off farther down the street. I was in a club – a gay club if I recall correctly – and while I danced with the crowd I seemed to have found a new friend. An unattractive 40-something man who had taken a liking to me. I distinctly remember trying to lose him in the club but there he was by my side on the street. I wasn’t sick but everything was whirling. Sights and sounds were twisting into one continuous blaze of color and noise – I knew I needed to get home. Again, I tried to ditch this guy but we were on Bourbon and I lived on Bourbon. Did I mention I was drunk? There weren’t a lot of clever tactics at this juncture.

I made it to my front stoop but couldn’t seem to find my keys. When I was found (thank god for the boyfriend who had gone looking for me shortly after my departure) I was drunkenly propped up against my fence with this man hovering above me. The boyfriend told him to scram. (I later discovered this dude’s number written on a piece of cardboard with my junk and he reportedly showed up at my work looking for me a couple of time later that week.) I was tucked into bed. End of Mardi Gras – and it should have been, but it wasn’t.

While I lay passed out inside, my next door neighbor’s house caught fire. A two alarm fire that took more than 20 minutes for cops or firemen to respond to. Delays were, in part, due to the festivities themselves but also thanks to some illegally parked cop cars blocking off Bourbon Street. A crowd grew as did the fire so my boyfriend and another neighbor took out garden hoses and began watering down the houses (ours and the neighbors). Neighbors were being called and doors were being kicked in as the entire block was being evacuated.

The boyfriend, playing the neighborhood hero, left me inside because, “I couldn’t wake you up.” He had left the side gate open and that is how the cops and gained entrance into my home. When he saw them going in, he quickly followed which led him to witness them reach for their guns as I sat up right in bed flipping them off with both hands yelling “fuck you assholes.” You see, I thought it was a joke – or a dream. Either way I had no idea what was going on. “Gentlemen,” he explained, “she’s loaded. Let me get her up.” Disgruntled, they let him give it a go and this time he was successful. I think they would have been happier cuffing and booking me as they did others in the area.

I was dragged outside and left with the other on-lookers. Others, as I mentioned, were getting arrested for one bullshit reason or another. Some snacked on late-night munchies from the Quarter Master. I was confused and crying as I thought MY house was on fire and the cold realization sunk in that I had grabbed nothing. I took nothing with me as we evacuated our home. Not a single fucking thing. In fact, I don’t think I even had shoes on.

You always think you know what you would grab but it hadn’t even crossed our minds. It did now. Oh fuck, I thought. I have no insurance. All my cash was inside. My computer, my things, my crap; all inside. I compiled a list in my head and when I saw the boyfriend again I told him to go get these things. I demanded, loudly in fact. When he refused and told me to shut up about the cash (because, hey, even the cops were likely to go in and steal it) I demanded that he give me his phone. Hysterically, I called my best friend and my sister. Fortunately, the later answered and talked me down.

If not for the fact that the fire occurred in a brick house the many wood houses that surrounded it surely would have caught flame too. In fact, coals had fallen on our roof which would later explain why I thought our house had caught fire (of course being engulfed in smoke while 2 cops roused me from a drunken slumber might have added to the confusion).

The neighbors and gawkers stood on the corner as the neighborhood filled with sirens and smoke. Drunk party-goers video-taped and commented much to the dislike of those of us that lived here (@ the conclusion of the video you can see my other next door neighbor yelling at the cameraman. Josh and Sam moved out less than a week later – they were done with the Quarter.) They extinguished the fire but not until the newly restored home had been completely gutted by the fire. We were eventually permitted back on the block. I didn’t go home. I was still freaking out and my friends tried to sooth me as I was tucked into their bed. They stayed up later still drinking; too adrenaline ridden to sleep. I slept there until about 5 am when I rose, finally remembering where I was and what had happened and went home. On the short walk my sinuses ached as they filled with the air that now hung heavy with the distinct smell of a fire: smoke, chard tinder, campfire and chemicals. The smell of Mardi Gras was no more.

Maybe next year I won’t drink so much. Maybe next year I will don a costume before a sun sets. . . . maybe next year my feet won’t hurt, the air won’t stink and I won’t wait until the last day to celebrate. Maybe next year a house won’t burn down.

April 14, 2004

I was reading an old notebook (I almost always carry one around) and I came across this note:

Jo –

You are (underlined) funny. (I’m guessing I was declaring that I was in fact funny after what was probably a poorly executed joke or saying something I found clever and none laughed.) Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. But, - you can tell Edward that I think he’s cute.

Don’t get me wrong – I think you’re (underlined) cute – and funny and . . . yes. .. you’re boobs are big and I do appreciate that but . . . well . . . you’re cute – Edward’s cute and I’m fairly cute so there it is . . . we’re all cute. Life is just fantastic – isn’t it? Enjoy!!

Written my someone named JP 4/13/04 at the Eagles Club (FYI – 3 for ones and a big gay bar)

On the next page I had another one of my lists.

Minnesota Things To Do:

1. Boundary Waters – International Falls
2. Gooseberry Falls
3. Duluth
4. Spam Museum
5. Wineries
6. Madeoline Island – Bayfield, WI

On the next page I had another list.

New Orleans, Louisiana

Pro:
1. Mardi Gras
2. Speak fucked-up French
3. Good temperature all year round
4. H20
5. Old City!/History
6. Food
7. Diversity of Culture
8. Cultural Attractions

Con:
1. Mardi Gras
2. Hurricanes – Humidity
3. High Crime (Potential)
4. Expensive?
5.



Not only did I think that it is hilarious that some 6 years later I’m basically the same person doing the same shit (which I think is funny shit by the way) but that I am actually able to make a plan – No, that I’m actually able to make things happen for myself. (That is, not that I even recalled having considered NOLA as a place to move prior to my impromptu decision last year.) I did 4 of the 6 MN things to do list (Spam museum and International Falls I’ve not yet visited) and I did move to NOLA.

So there you have it: you choose to be happy, you choose to do things for yourself and you choose the life you will lead even if you choose only tiny little things.

My current NOLA list is way different than that one (which reminds me to add “no water” on the "hate" side of my list) so I’ll get around to posting that one of these days too.

Turns out life really is kind of fantastic. Isn't it?

Hate This Job

Hate is a bit strong but I cannot understate the amount of disdain I have about most of the folks that I work with; selfish, self-absorbed bunch of queens and fag-hags. I haven’t been there for like 8 or 9 days now (except for when I went in 4 days ago to talk to a manager about being sick) and their first response when I approach the family meal table: Are you still sick?

Wait, I didn’t explain that correctly. They weren’t inquiring in a way that was like, “oh, you poor thing, are you still ill?” No, it was this: they leaned away from me and they covered themselves – if they acknowledged me at all. They weren’t joking or trying to be funny. Most of them just went about chatting amongst themselves.

I- in my still terribly horse voice- tried to make a joke like, “Hey, this is what happens when you ignore your sickness.” And in response to their self-serving inquiry I said, “Yes, I am still sick but I am not contagious – just riddled with infection.” I stood there not knowing how to even take their response (or lack thereof). Not a one of them wished me well or, “hope you feel better.” So I just walked out.

I hate my fucking job and the people I work with. No assurance, however, that it’ll be any better anywhere else. But for the record . . .

Get That Gorilla Off My Back

Oh shit, another year has passed and I’m lying in bed sick. Part of it self induced and, in part, due to my having ignored allergens and sickness to the point of no recovery; compound that with a lot of bad (by which I mean good) eating, a lot of drinking, in addition to a rapid suction of over-drinking while good, good friends were in town .. . Well, there ya go, sickness.



If you know me you know I don’t have a monkey on my back but a gorilla. Seriously (literally), a gorilla (suit) and on this fine weekend I had two. (If you are not familiar with the gorilla shenanigans, your loss for sure.) Although I promised I’d spend this self-induced sick time looking for a new job, I lied (just a little). I’m mixing my meds with a bloody (just one I swear!) and working on my cookbook round up for the year. So, I’m gonna hunker down and review my notes, ask around a little, reflect on my purchases and, if I get around to it, maybe take a peek at Craigslist.


Missing my M like chickens!

P.S. I don't know (not me!) who to blame for the blurry shot but that would be me and my bff with 2 of the cheffie types at the Bourbon House. It is not the first time this kitchen has seen the gorilla, but a first for the two.

All Super 6's Are Not Created Equal

Everything you ever needed to know about getting a cheap hotel room on a road trip

• Location is key but a dump is a dump is a dump – no matter how close to your attraction.

• Check on line: I found a differences of more than 100$ between the hotel’s site versus a discount (not to mention the crap prices they quote you in person). You can sometimes negotiate for web prices in person but not always.

• Amenity differences: Super 8's has a Kleenex dispenser by the sink and Motel 6, a bottle opener.

• Seriously, move away from the highway. If you’re forced to get a place cuz you’re gonna crash if you don’t at least request a room on the other side of the road or as far away from it as possible (and babies, and pools, and anyone likely to be hooking). Just a suggestion.

• Request to see a room before giving them any money. Make sure it’s actually the room you’ll be sleeping in. There are such things as decoy rooms.

• Would you like a diet cherry Fontana? Check out the vendi situation before you settle in for the night.

• Wi-Fi: if they don’t know what it is chances are they don’t have it. (In the case of Motel 6 they only certain rooms offer it and they may or may not require that you purchase a card for $3.99; if you stay at a few chances are the first one you bought will actually still work at the others).

• All confidence is lost when the GM of the hotel gives you the key to someone else’s room.

• Don’t look too closely – yes, I found a wall booger.

• Flip Flops – highly suggested!

• The check-out times are negotiable, especially if you’re checking in later. Have yet to talk someone into 5 o’clock but we did manage 3 o’clock once.

• Bring your own pillow.

• All Super 6’s are not created equally.

• Cleanliness is subjective.

• Mold, optional.

• Ditto on “non-smoking.” One non-smoking room came complete with ashtray and cigarette burns on the comforter. The topper: we had to sign an agreement that assesses a $175 fine if they decreed the room to have been smoked in.

• Alarm clocks grow scarcer the farther south you go.

• What about “DO NOT DISTURB” do you not understand?

• Even bad coffee (either in your room or in the lobby) can be better than no coffee. Never knew it but coffee houses can be scarce.

• Who cares if they offer free continental breakfast (cereal, stale donuts, canned fruit. . .) if you don’t rise before 10?

• Guess what, if you actually tip your housekeeper the room does get cleaner and they’re less likely to steal something from you. I’m just saying.



OK, it's not everything you need to know but it is a good primer.

Otherwise Known as Useless

Although it did my soul a world of good catching up with my BFF over the phone it nearly killed the rest of me. I couldn't tell you exactly how I got that drunk (OK, that's kind of obvious) or why I stayed up so long but come rising time I was a wreck.

I figured it was Monday and despite being stuck on a double it would be slow and my walking-dead status would go barely noticed. Au contraire, we were under staffed and very busy. We ran out of glasses, of silverware... 30 minute ticket times for burgers, I had a new serving partner - who is an idiot - and 35 covers all at the same time glaring at me in that way that says "where is my food you dumb bitch?" Compounded by the fact that was simultaneously still drunk and hung-over, I was doing lunch the hard way.

I managed to run into every corner, knock into every chair, pour wine onto the table instead of the glass, dump whole loaves of bread on the floor and drop a tray onto another server's head (don't ask I don't even know how I managed that one). After 5 hours of hell I walked with a measly 67 dollars. My head still hurt. I was starving and now terribly craving a burger - of which I sold probably 15 of the previous shift - go figure.

My meager hour and half break was spent with the in-law, my man, and my neighbor. Instead of that burger I got the left overs from their boring ham, brie and apple panini but - god help me - my man made me a spicy bloody mary. I was feeling better already. (The glass and half of wine helped too).

I literally ran back to work (damn, I gotta start doing some cardio!) to do it all over again. Dinner was really no easier than lunch and karma has a way of sneaking back up on you.. . Or, rather, a way of sending someone else to hit you in the face with a large tray of food. (Thanks, Evan).

6 and a half hours (and 25 dollars) later I took myself out for a burger and a bloody. Both were delicious.

Today I may have crossed the threshold from being a functional drunk to alcoholic. Oh well, I guess all there is to do is poor myself another drink. Which I did promptly.