after katrina

lamb's a lion

2010-08-05T04:05:00.002-04:00

Hear me. Over here: Lamb's a Lion.

whichever way she lands...

2009-08-30T23:59:00.009-04:00

In May 2006, I got this as a tattoo. It's the second of two I have.

The first was engraved in 1998, in summertime. The what and the where were a perfect fit. I was feeling strong again, after a long period of despondency. My renewed power came from my core and I wanted to mark my resurgence with permanence. And thus I became the Atomic Gal.

I've stumbled some in the intervening years, and I've gotten down again. But my first tattoo remains a touch-point, literally. It reminds me what I'm capable of, and of the depths I've reached (as well as the highs). It is a potent symbol, but easily misread; at quick glance, it could be a flower, its loops like petals; the dot in the center might be a seed.

But to me, with its circularity and symmetry, with its simple order, it signifies power, resilience and strength. And for many years, I was content with this one simple, secret tattoo.

And then came the Hurricane. And my divorce. What Katrina didn't do, my ex did. House gutted. Security stolen. Mementos lost to me, washed away to another shore.

It took years to account for the extent of the damage. Times many times over of looking for this thing or that (a kitchen utensil; a Christmas ornament; a book, a cd, a photograph), and realizing that I didn't have it anymore because he did. He took it with his leaving, believing it his right. And I never had a chance to say goodbye.

These things were lost to me (along with many people - many of them once cherished). And though it took years to count the losses, I realized right away what I still had.

I was, despite this misfortune, lucky. I lost a man (who proved by his manner of leaving that he wasn't really worth all the crying); I lost some stuff. But I had - and still have - a family who loves me, friends who support me, and plenty enough talent and wits to survive and surmount any tragedy or obstacle. I also had a comfortable place to live, the same one as pre-K; one without damage or flooding or blue tarp on the roof. I could only feel so sorry. Mostly I counted my blessings.

And I resolved to never take them for granted. I am the recipient of untold gifts, many due to the accident of birth and some due to grace (I strive to be kind and meet much of the same). I resolved to continue to earn it. I made a promise to do good by me, and marked this promise on my body, etched it into the most tender of skin (and had it touched up three months later). I will not falter; I will walk on.

It's black and bold and nearly the size of a beer coaster. But to see it, you must be an intimate. I see it every time I shower, undress or pause to pee.

"Whichever way she lands, she lands on her feet."

It's a reminder that life is but a swirl. That downs come up again (and ups, inevitably, go down). That friends, family and inherent good matter. That I am stronger than I often think myself to be. That grace goes further than faith and sometimes we just gotta go with the flow.

songs of the transformed - courtesy, carissa

2009-08-30T11:58:00.004-04:00

This poem was sent by an old friend and included in her response to my birthday post. Even after all these years, she can still read between the lines and tell me what I need to hear.

Thank you, Carissa.

Songs of the Transformed
by Margaret Atwood
from The Circle Game

Men with the heads of eagles
no longer interest me
or pig-men, or those who can fly
with the aid of wax and feathers

or those who take off their clothes
to reveal other clothes
or those with skins of blue leather

or those golden and flat as a coat of arms
or those with claws, the stuffed ones
with glass eyes; or those
hierarchic as greaves and steam-engines.

All these I could create, manufacture,
or find easily: they swoop and thunder
around this island, common as flies,
sparks flashing, bumping into each other,

on hot days you can watch them
as they melt, come apart,
fall into the ocean
like sick gulls, dethronements, plane crashes.

I search instead for the others,
the ones left over,
the ones who have escaped from these
mythologies with barely their lives;
they have real faces and hands, they think
of themselves as
wrong somehow, they would rather be trees.

happy birthday to me: 39 and counting...

2009-08-22T02:21:00.006-04:00

"She won't do anything she doesn't want to do. She doesn't give a damn what other people think of her. She is tremendously skilled. And she is unlike anyone I've ever met."

Dragan Armansky on Lisbeth Salander
from The Girl Who Played With Fire, by Stieg Larsson

It's been a quiet summer. And a boring one. On purpose. I haven't written much here because there simply wasn't much to say. Or, better to the truth, much I wanted to share. Because I blog under my own name, and am thus easily google-able, I've lost both job opportunities and dates to my online accountings. Sucky, but I suppose if they found something here they thought objectionable, we wouldn't be a good match anyway, whether for work or fun.

Furthermore, I don't think anything in this forum is sketchy; in fact, I know it's all rather reserved. I've got lots more I could say, and want to say, and I've been trying to get up the courage to get it out here.

I've been filling up notebooks and index cards with thoughts, drivel and observations. I have drafts of several essays I don't know what to do with. And I've been readingreadingreading. Mostly online, but books, too.

I recently inhaled "The Girl Who Played With Fire." (I liked it fine, but preferred the first of the series, "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.") The passage above jumped out at me. Because I think that would be an amazing compliment if it referred to me.

I've never been a conformist. I couldn't give a shit about trends or cool, and I really don't care if you don't like me (and if "you" are a man, I don't care if I'm not sexy/hot in your opinion). I do expect respect (and because I tend to give it, I get it). I'm a professional at work, courteous in public, and loving/kind in my personal relationships. The older I get, the less I care what random others think of me. I meet hostility with disinterest and I have perfected the art of the ignore. It's likely I'll never be rich, but I'll always have my integrity. (Unfortunately, I did live in Stockholm for a few years; remind me to tell you about it...)

With this post, I'm coming back online. I'm off to Chicago in a few hours, to spend the weekend with a good friend, her husband and their two young daughters. I'm bringing andouille, books and Hubig's pies, as well as other treats.

I have been promised a birthday cake.

This will be a good year. I will make it so.

on mother's day

2009-05-10T23:29:00.000-04:00

This one's hitting me a lot harder than last year, my first year without a mom. Last year, I had Dad, hand-in-hand, across the table, a hug and quiet company. This year I am alone.

I talked to Dad yesterday, in the morning (my morning, his noon). He says it's been raining on Long Island, all week and expected all weekend. He says the lawn looks good. I say it's hot here, in New Orleans, almost 90 degrees each day. Summer has already come. We've only the humidity to look forward to.

He is stir-crazy, stuck in the house with all this rain, and the sun is beaming while we talk, making him antsy. He's bought flowers for the yard and wants to plant them. We close with that note. His need to get his hands dirty. To go outside and play.

We talk good now. Have conversations. This was not always the case. It took my mother's death and the year we mourned together to bring this change.

We spoke for thirty minutes yesterday. Enough time to cover all the bases (work, health, love, life) and share a story or two. We are both grateful for our boring lives - we talk every week and not much changes in the interim. We agree that this is nice - the boring - since change is a-coming or has just past (he is thinking retirement and a long-distance move; I am still settling in and hoping to settle down).

He did tell his plans for today, Mother's Day: visits to our ladies, his Mom and mine. Loretta and Natalie. Should he go through with it, it'll be a long day on the road: their gravesites are at least fifty miles apart. And he lives smack dab between them.

So do I. Despite the miles and the years (Granny died in 1982), I hover between these women. My north and south poles.

(What's that make the men? The tropics and circles around my world? Does that make my Dad the equator?)

I wrote the draft of this post, as I do much of my writing, in a bar. At the time of the scribble, it was 10:30pm, on a Sunday night in New Orleans (which is my Saturday night, and for a great many other, just another night), and there are only nine people here. Including the bartender.

Today, I went shopping - to Walmart (I know, I know. I'm poor.) and to the local grocery. Both were relatively empty. I waited no time to check out.

It seems most folks are with folks, with their families, with their mothers. I knew that Mother's Day was one of the busiest restaurant days of the year (up there with Valentine's Day and New Year's Eve), but who knew it could kill retail and decimate the pubs?

I sure didn't. Not until I was motherless.

je suis arrivée

2009-03-23T22:01:00.015-04:00

... et je suis retournée.

I'm a lazy blogger. I admit it. It's obvious. The evidence is here, by its absence, in the archives. It's been almost two months since I've posted. BlogHer has had it with me and asked me to remove their code from my site. I've complied. I can make them no promises about my blogging frequency though I have the best of intentions. I mean, I write. I edit. But I don't post. Maybe it's an only child thing; I still have trouble sharing.

The following post was written on February 6th upon my arrival in New Orleans, my first night back home.

Note: It would have posted earlier if Mardi Gras didn't get in the way. Then all the settling into a new place. A place without a secure, private internet connection (yet). As it's been, I've been poaching from neighbors (intermittent and unreliable) or schlepping my computer to bars and coffeehouses (it's heavy and valuable and I bring it out only for must-do internet tasks, like paying bills). But enough excuses; let's get to it.

It is now 9:30pm, Friday February 6th. I arrived in town at 6pm. Since that time, I moved everything from my truck up to the apartment, lit a lamp and plugged in the radio. I put a few things away.

I brought only the most essential bits with me in the truck: cats, clothes, toiletries and personal papers. (Everything else has been shipped and will arrive - *fingers crossed* - on Monday.)

I also have a chair. I meant to pack it with the rest of the stuff but it needed fixin' and it needed to sit for the glue to set.

No matter. I'm glad I left it behind. Now I have a place to sit.

I do not, however, have a bed. I plan to sleep on the floor tonight. I have promise of a soft spot at a friend's house a few blocks away, but it is a few blocks away and I don't have the energy to pack a bag and head over there.

Plus it feels right to be here tonight. To christen it. And this way, I keep the cats company.

The cats. Since I acquired them in 1997, they have moved nine times, only twice locally. Among the long-distance moves, one was by plane (Philadelphia to New Orleans) and two were under great duress (out of and back into New Orleans surrounding Katrina, traumatic bookmarks to their idyllic hurrication in St. Augustine FL). For the move from New Orleans to Oxford, they rode with me in the cab of the moving truck. Leaving Oxford for Long Island, they camped in the bed of my pickup, which was trailer towed by a 26" moving truck (and driven by my dad). They were comfortable, I guess. They had blankets and food, a litter box. They had the whole space to themselves. All tolled, they spent two days back there, including the night in between.

Same thing this time. Babies in the back. Two days, one night. Food, litter and blankets. Except this time I was driving and they had but a fraction of the bed space. Most of it was taken up by my most essential bits.

Despite the presence of the litter box, there were a few "accidents." Mostly on the blankets. At least once in a plant, a rose bush, the offense absorbed by the cotton sheet protecting its branches (and protecting the cats from the thorns). All of it gratefully minor. Nothing on my bedding, thank goodness. If so, I'd be walking that walk to sleep tonight.

It is good to be back. It is different from when I left (as am I). It is more lively now (me, I am more subdued; certainly this evening after two days and 1400 miles on the road). I am living quite near a happening area. Stores, bars, restaurants and coffee shops - four of them, in fact, all within walking distance.

(One of the four is a Starbucks and therefore doesn't really count for me. I am not a fan. Except for the *bucks in the Atlantic Avenue LIRR Station in Brooklyn. And that's only because it has a relatively clean bathroom: a one-seater, somewhat roomy, with a lock that firmly locks. Granted, you usually have to wait for the loo, but after the ninety-minute train ride, it's well worth it.

I've never actually bought anything there. I just pee and go, but if I wanted a coffee at that moment, I might get one. It doesn't have the *bucks stink.

Maybe it's because it's upstairs from the RR tracks or because it's near the station exit and Brooklyn continuously wafts through its doors, but that *bucks is noticeably absent of the malodour that typically pervades the chain. The one in my new neighborhood is steeped in it. I'm lucky to have other options.)

This - the bars, shops and coffeehouses - is one side of my neighborhood. On the other side lies St. Charles and its streetcars, the clangs and the clanks.

At the center, however, it is deathly quiet. Literally. I border on a cemetery. A small one, yes, but still the domain of the dead. As for the rest of the neighbors, they are mostly families and rich folk who live behind gates.

I too live behind a gate. To get to my apartment door, you must have a key to access the courtyard. From there, you ascend twenty-three metal steps making a left-L about two-thirds up. At the landing, another left takes you to my door and into a sanctuary.

It is more beautiful and so perfectly me than I remember. It all happened so quickly, I came away with only an impression of the apartment.

In January, during my New Orleans recon mission, I found the apartment on craigslist and signed the lease less than six hours later. It was perfect timing.

It was also a complete disaster. The apartment, that is. (The tenant then was a nurse, one with long hours, slovenly habits and a poor sense of design.) Nonetheless, its attributes were apparent.

First things first: the location, the local amenities and the security features (you gotta be Spiderman to get in here.)

Next, the inside: high ceilings, hard-wood floors and big windows.

Outside: a balcony. Plus, a landing outside the door (covered) and a courtyard down below (perfect for storing my bicycle).

Last of all and crucially important: the price. It's right on. Smack in the middle of my affordable range. And the property manager is great.

Until I walked in this evening, however, I had no idea how truly perfect (for me) this apartment is.

On my first turn this evening, just me and my keys, I checked all the lights, the windows, and turned on the fans. I lit each burner on the gas(!) stove. Tested the pressure and temperature from each faucet. I flushed the toilet.

I ran the HVAC units through their phases and looked in all the cabinets.

I stepped out onto the balcony and looked through each window for the view.

Most people - wise ones - would have done all these things before signing the lease. I guess I could have, but the previous tenant was so obviously still in residence that to do so felt intrusive. I was in and out, a quick look-see. I trusted my gut (all signs said go) and figured I'd make do with the best of it and fix some of the worst.

Based on my inaugural review this evening, this apartment is even better than I suspected. The ceilings are higher, the windows bigger and the rooms larger. There are also more windows, two ceiling fans, and a kitchen with absolutely no counter space (the gas range compensates). The front room holds a fireplace and considering the ashy evidence, it might work.

I am looking forward to seeing the apartment in the morning. I am looking forward to my sleep tonight. I'll pad a cot in the middle of the living room. Just me and the height and the dead.

And perhaps a cat or two.

Laissez les bons temps rouler!

UPDATES:

my furniture arrived on time and without incident. To save my friends the backbreaking work, I hired movers. That decision flattened my finances, but it was worth it. I say only this: twenty-three steps.

the rose bush died. And my other plants are struggling. I left most of the plants with Dad. He takes good care of them, especially the palms. The plants I brought traveled in a plastic bin and drowned in the humidity. I've rescued a succulent and a philodendron, but the rose bush is history. Perhaps it's the climate change. Perhaps it's the move. Most likely, it's the urine. Since I moved it to the balcony, Iphi has repeatedly defied the thorns and defiled the soil. I've given up hope. I'll get a new one.

my apartment/neighborhood is very quiet at night, but it's a bustle during the day. I'm sandwiched between St. Charles and Prytania, both main drags for uptown/downtown travels. A constant flow of traffic and lots of feet on the streets too. Tourists goggling the houses and visiting the cemetery. Neighbor folk walking dogs and running errands. It's a pleasant buzz and nicely balanced by the lull of night.

the neighbors: we ain't all rich. Or familied. Among the stately homes, there are a smattering of apartments like mine. And like me, many of the inhabitants are single folk in the service industry or young professionals. My immediate neighbors (there are five units in this compound) all seem to fit that bill.

the fireplace: I don't think it works. It's gas and I see ash, but I smell nothing, hear nothing when I turn the valve. I've held fire to every place that might emit fuel, but no spark. In the bathroom, however, there is a heater that works. A pink wall-mounted job that does burst to action with a match. I don't need it now (it was 75 degrees today; it rarely goes below 55 at night), but it's another amenity I'm glad to have. (Especially since it's pink. And nothing else in the bathroom is. The tile is white and turquoise. With seahorses.)

the windows: of the seven in the apartment, only two open. The two fronting the balcony. All the rest are nailed or painted shut. Great for security but lousy for cross-breeze. Fortunately, I've got fans and AC units.

the balcony: there is no better place to be. When I get proper furniture, it'll be even better.

and and and: mardi gras. I worked for much of the build-up to the big day/big weekend. But the Sunday-Monday-Tuesday triumvirate was suitably silly and disparate (uptown, downtown and all around). Joyous, surprise reunions with friends ("you're back? you're really back?!"). And a high-stepping Fat Tuesday decked in my wedding dress.

i know what it means

2009-01-26T16:49:00.003-05:00

My year-long Long Island half-life draws to a close. I'm leaving in ten days, just short of two weeks. My time here is done. It's time to move on.

I lost my job on December 31st. It was a fitting close to a lousy year, the year I've dubbed "The Year of the Living Dead."

2008 began with my mother's sudden and untimely death and my subsequent uprooting from my temporary digs in Oxford, MS. I never expected to stay there long but I thought it would be longer than seven months. I moved there with the prospect of "until..." but I signed the one-year lease on my little house in good faith and I remain grateful to my landlord for letting me exit earlier.

My return to Long Island was fraught with grief and the first few months were sodden with it. I lived with a cousin from February through October and while I'm grateful for the housing, it was not without drama. My cousin was (and still is) deep in divorce proceedings and struggling with various crises related to mid-life, child welfare, and new-found freedom, and all of that spiked by long-simmering familial discord.

The tension oozed through the walls, fueled by outside cell phone fights and inside chaos. It was, at times, more than I could ignore.

He did his best, my cousin, and he always did right by me. And he tries to do his best by his boys, but if there was ever a man who needed a woman to keep his life and home in order, my cousin is that man.

In November, I moved in with my Dad. Into the basement. Me and my cats. For me, it's been great (if quiet). The cats, however, have suffered. An infestation of fleas, followed by overall skin irritation and hair loss. Both cats have lost weight, getting skinny for the first time since they were kittens. I've moved them (for the first time) onto can food, in the hope of fattening them up. It is one small consolation for their unhappy living quarters. It's one way I try to make up for the dog.

Ah. The dog. Teddy. I wish I knew him as a pup. He's three years old now and a beast. Seventy or so pounds. Aggressive with other dogs and generally gentle around cats. The housecats here put up with him. Minky, the super fat one, hisses when he gets too close. Mo, the tough boy, boxes with him, bapping Teddy on the nose and putting him in his place. Ted chases and barks but mostly leaves alone. He is indeed a Teddy Bear and worships my father like a god.

(Since I lost my job, I spend a lot of time around the house. Ted, he mopes. Curled on the couch - ignoring me - waiting for my father to return home. And when he does, Teddy greets his arrival with an enthusiasm I recognize: "Daddy's Home! Daddy's Home!" As a child, during one rambunctious romp of my one-girl welcoming committee, I bounced backward off the couch and straight through the glass coffee table. No damage, fortunately, except for the table. Ted, thankfully, does considerably less damage in his excitement.)

I agree with the dog. My dad is a superhero. A true good man. Certainly, like all of us, he's got his parts to work on, but his heart is pure gold. My treasure this year, despite its loads of crap, is the deepened relationship with my father. We met again in grief - and he matched his with mine (his wife; my life) - and we found a friendship in between. This year was redeemed by his love.

A love that extends to my departure. He is very sad that I'm leaving. If he had his way, he'd keep me in the basement. But he understands, reluctantly, that a subterranean, suburban life is no life for me. He knows that I'm bored. He knows that I'm lonely. He knows I have to go. And he's given his blessing (and loaning his dollars) so that I can leave the place I was born and raised to return to the place I call home.

I toyed with Philadelphia, flirted with D.C. and fantasized about Berlin (all of which would have been more acceptable to my father than my eventual choice). He'd rather have me move halfway across the world than return to New Orleans, but that is where I'm going. I'm going back to New Orleans. I know what it means to miss New Orleans and there's no place I'd rather be.

my new old digs

2008-11-19T13:13:00.002-05:00

My cats have fleas and are miserable. They also hate the sunroom, their exile from the basement during the flea bombing. They're curious about the dog, who is curious about them, and I'm tempted to introduce them but for my fear of a massacre.

The house is quiet and clean and well-stocked with food. The neighborhood is cozy and familiar and each morning buzzes with leaf blowers.

My ride to work is short and sweet, with no traffic. I know all the stop signs by heart.

My mother is present in a photo here and there, but her spirit has long moved out. It's Dad's house now and I'm happy to share it with him.

moving. again.

2008-10-31T01:03:00.003-04:00

Oh geez. The last week or so has been crazy. I'm on the move again, not too far, but the work is still work, packing up my life and, this time, deciding what stays and what comes-with. I'm not taking much this time.

Since I returned to Long Island from my life down South, I've been living with a family member. An okay space, space-wise, but lacking in some necessary aspects for a good-life lived Adrienne-wise. No tub. No proper kitchen. I've made do with showers (long and hot), and with snack food, protein shakes, and take-out (hooray for pizza delivery - the real kind of pizza, the New York kind, not the Dominos-PapaJohns-PizzaHut crap you get in other parts of this great country of ours. You know, the stuff the serve up in the "Real America"). Yeah, delivered pizza, straight from the oven to the door has been a highlight of this lonely gal's life. Sometimes, the simple things are best.

So I've been living here, in close proximity to a family member but still separate, and I've learned more than I ever wanted - or needed - to know about how this particular family member lives his life. Odd. Quirky. Bewildering at times. Maybe even dangerous. But we all make our choices, and, ultimately, have to live with them. Lord knows I've made some bad decisions over the years, and thought they were good at the time. My judgment floats. It doesn't stick. Maybe it's my Catholic upbringing (I'm long lapsed and never to return), but I'm a firm believer in redemption. I believe there's hope for all of us. None of us are condemned. As long as you live, there's a chance to make good.

But yeah. Moving. As much as it's tiresome to be doing this yet-again, I knew from the move-in that it was temporary. Although the notice was short, it's time to move on and I'm curious about what comes next. I am - wait for it - moving in with my Dad ("The Widower and the Divorcee" - yet another real-life phase worthy of a sitcom; preceded by "My Two Husbands" - parts one and two, and more recently, "The Feminist and the Misogynist"). My familial benefactor needs this space back and since I've been living here at his largess (as a "freeloader," according to my Dad, after he ruled out "tenant" - because I do not pay rent - and "guest" - since no guest unpacks books and off-season clothes), it's time to go gracefully (and leave no trace behind).

Honestly, I'm been grateful for the moving project. I've been bumping along since I returned to Long Island, with no anchor and no goals. Just day to day, week to week, month to month living (and how did it get to be almost November?!). So to have a task, nay - TASKS! It's been a pleasure. The great work started on Sunday, when I spent six hours cleaning out the double garage (I'd call it a two-car garage, but I'm not sure a car has ever been in it). It was not a selfless gesture; I needed the space to store the bulk of my stuff - so I will, for the record, declare my gratitude for a place to put all the flotsam and jetsam of my scattered life, saving me the dollars and the hassle of moving it beyond thirty feet. And I've been very grateful for the place to rest my weary head night after endless night for the last eleven months.

So, for the projects, this cleaning and packing and stacking, Thanks. My ex-husband, while working on his dissertation (a long slog), would return home and be grateful to wash the dishes. "The Zen of the Small Task," he called it. A job done and over, a finite end. Hands swiped and dried. The sink clear. The dishboard evidence of a job well done.

There's nothing like packing to feel done. Boxes sealed and stacked. Walls cleared. The rooms echoing with emptiness. I am ready for this move. I'm not so sure about my cats.

My dad lives with two cats and one rowdy, unruly, and spoiled dog. A collie-chow-somethingorother mix. A big boy, maybe sixty pounds. He jumps, begs, barks, and chases. The cats of the household are used to his foolishness; they preceded him. Moe is a fighter and takes none of his crap; swats at his nose like a boxer and sleeps out of reach. Minky (so-called because she's soft like one) is REALLY FAT (like crazy, like unhealthy, like can't-lick-her-own-butt which is a necessary cat-thing to do, though she's better since she started going outside), but she's learned to deal with the dog by playing like a piece of furniture and staying put when he comes at her. "Hssssssssst," she says. "Leave me alone. I'm just waiting for some food." He obeys. He leaves her alone.

But my girls: they don't know dogs. And what they do know, they don't like. In fact, my cats don't know and don't like other cats. Here, in this temporary gig, they have hissed at and tortured the resident cat (who I allow to visit my spare domicile, and who I like very much; a stray that my cousin found at JFK airport when he was a mere fluff of a kitten, and who holds his birthland moniker: Kennedy. Me, I just call him Jack). My cats are ferocious when it comes to Jack, but without front claws and a natural state of fear of loud barking beasts, I don't think they have much of a chance when it comes to Teddy. Keeping the household peace will mean keeping the household animals sequestered.

So to the basement we go! Yeah, yeah, yeah. Big loser me. Living again (see 1994-95) in my parents' basement (though not "parents" this time; just the one). Me and my cats, we're returning home (they lived there 1998-99 - when I moved to Philly and couldn't bring them straight away; my folks put them up for a year - and renamed them. From Iphigenia and Electra to Fluffy and Speckle). I have to keep them down there (it is a finished basement) in order to keep them alive. And if I don't sleep down there with them, they'll be all alone all the time (because I do not intend to set up camp down there; I did that once. That was enough). And I adore them. They've been with me for most of the last twelve years, and through the last six moves.

In twenty years (excluding the eighteen years spent growing up on - and dreaming of getting away from - Long Island, in the house I'm about to move back into), I have moved fifteen times and lived in five different states. Some of those were short jags (changing dorms in college; a year-here, a year-there in the years during and afterward). The longest stretch was in Philadelphia. That was five years. Then New Orleans. I lived there four years. During college, I lived two years in the same place. Ditto grad school: two years in one house. So, if my math is right, for thirteen of twenty years, I lived in four homes. And over the remaining seven years, I lived in eleven different places. How is that even possible?

Yet it certainly explains how good I am at this moving business. Pack. Stack. Go. I got it down.

And more than anything in the world, I want a home. It was the greatest heartbreak of my life when New Orleans drowned. I thought I had found my home. And then it washed away. My fear was the chaser. I ran away because I though I'd be next. I thought I'd drown too. My home didn't feel so homey anymore.

betty white's still got it

2008-10-11T01:29:00.003-04:00

and I want some.

(Forgive me friends for the latest posts. I've been complimented in the past for the stories I tell, as opposed to poaching from others, but some of the fun, interesting, and/or disturbing sh!t I find here-and-there on my late-night internet prowls are just to choice not to share. Count Betty amongst the choicest.)

white power

2008-10-09T22:31:00.002-04:00

Watch it and weep.

Obama/Biden 08: Donate here.

three years after katrina (part II)

2008-10-07T17:33:00.009-04:00

(part one, here)

I haz a big blue.

My depression is, I guess, totally reasonable. So my friends, family, and therapist tell me. In the last three years, I've endured my share of grief: a drowned city and a failed marriage, followed by multiple moves and subsequent loss of support networks, along with mother's sudden, early, though not unexpected, death. I'm currently stranded in a place I've always hated and see no easy escape from. If I could click-click my way out of here, I would. I'd be gone in a heartbeat. Throw my most-favorite treasured bits into the back of my truck and hit the f*cking road. I'd sleep in the truck. Wash up in truck stops. Wait tables in truck stops, if it came to that. Anything and everything to keep moving. Anything and everything to keep this dark cloud from descending upon me. Anything and everything.

But...

After all I've lost, I treasure the stuff I have. When my ex left, he took some treasured bits - forever to be unrecovered (if I didn't fight for it then, there's no sense in holding out my hand now). With my two moves after him (to MS, to NY), I jettisoned quite a bit of crap and hand-me-downs, along with a whole bunch of stuff that reminded me of him. I've whittled it down to the keepers, including an orange couch and chairs, several shelves of books, and many, many boxes of kitchen goods. I don't use the latter; I don't have a kitchen. The pots and pans are space-holders and remind me of a life once-lived and one to-be-lived again (I miss the dinner parties, the brunches, and long-ago red-beans Mondays). Someday...

But yeah, I'd give up the couch and chairs. The kitchen shit. Even the books. ('cept a box or two of near and dear favorites. The ones I'd take to that imaginary deserted island.) My truck's big, so I'd probably take some pictures - the drawings and photos that mark moments of my life, that remind me of what I was like then, those that keep me humble and tender, those that remind me to take care. Maybe I'd take my elegantly framed diplomas (BA and MFA), as proof that I was someone once, that I accomplished things. And that that someone is still me. And I can still accomplish things.

I'd take my purses too, the ones I hang in display. I don't carry a purse. I carry a bag. But I LOVE handbags. I don't know where this fetish came from. I've never carried a purse. I've always toted a bag. But I have an amazing collection of handbags, all proudly displayed on a wall in my current domicile (and both prior ones post ex). I think of it as my womb on a wall. Some are mine - acquired through the years, purchased or gifted - and some are hand-me-downs from grandmothers and mothers. Every now and again, I'm invited to a dress-up event and always, always, I have the appropriate accompaniment hanging on the wall. I would take my purses, yes. Leaving them would mean leaving my ladies behind.

What else? What else goes into the truck? Oh yes. The journals. Only a box of them. They'd fit easily. But what a treasure that box is. I got journals going back twenty years (though the early years are sporadic). They are, so far, my life's work. Yes, a lot of it is blathering garbage and myopic navel-gazing, but - in the hands of a good editor (hello R.Jay) - I believe there's a best-seller in all that prose. Maybe I gotta get famous first, before my journals have any worth, but I know (having written it - and being a very harsh critic) that there's gold in dem dere hills. At least a nugget's worth. Considering the volumes.

So the journals and the pictures. Some clothes too. Toiletries. Music. My address book. My laptop. And the big red "A" that has adorned a wall in every place I've lived since my early teens. It was a gift from an uncle, an "A" from an outdoor sign, like a drive-in marquee, with hooks to hook it into place. It's the first thing up and the last thing down in every place I've lived. Maybe I'll figure a way to hook it onto the truck. On the outside, of course, so folks will see me coming. Or going.

Going.

Ha!

I'm not going anywhere. I'm not hitting the road. While I fantasize about filling my truck with all my precious bits - the bits that fit into boxes - there are precious bits that do not take to boxes, unless they're litter boxes.

I cannot take - and I will not leave - my cats.

My cats have preceded and outlasted my marriage. Except for one lonesome year, my cats have lived (and moved) with me for all of the last 11 1/2 years. (They lived with my parents for that year, traumatized and sequestered in the basement, too scared to meet the other cats and scary dog upstairs. They were also renamed - from Iphigenia and Electra to Fluffy and Speckle - due to the ample fur and spots, respectively. Though be true, fancy-names beside, they're just Iphi (Iffy) and Elly to me, and while they're still spooked by other animals - and most other humans - they're lovely, gentle animals and a great comfort to me.) I adore them, know them, and cherish them. I sleep each night with one on either side, and often, with one on top. They especially like it when I read in bed. The preferred spot is in the way of the book. I never move them out of the way. I move the book. I love them. And I love that they take comfort on the warmth of my chest.

So there's no leaving them behind. If I could leave the bed of the truck free, and just make it an all-cat zone, maybe (they've lived in a truck-bed before). But what kind of living would that be? For them or me? So. No leaving. No living in the truck. Instead, somehow, I gotta make a living here. No. Better. I gotta make a LIFE here. As long as I am here. And I am here.

As much as I hate it. I'm here.

the places I've been

2008-10-03T23:10:00.002-04:00

It's hard to come back to blogging after a hiatus. I never mean it to be a hiatus. For the last few (many) months, and the sporadic posts, I always think that THAT post will be the break-through to spur me on to more frequent blogging. There, I think. You've broke the seal. Keep going.

And then I don't. Days become weeks, and then a month. And, ick, I get a "hey, are you still blogging?" note from one of the admins at BlogHer and I feel like a heel because they have been good to me for the little I've blogged and been a member of their community yet still they list my blog as a "see-here" under the ads in the network. Good folks, them. Thanks for the traffic.

Traffic I squander. I know how it works. I read blogs. Lots of them. Too many maybe. I've pared it down. Lots are bookmarked but only a few get daily tap-ins. Yeah, I know about this feed stuff and getting alerts with new posts, but I'm too lazy to set up the feeds and have gotten used to my sources. Who posts daily. Or, more happily, multiply. (Group sites are best for that). Most bloggers have other jobs, so to keep a site up and interesting all day requires multiple hands and minds.

Other folks I check once a week. Some once a month. Many more rarely. Especially if the posting is irregular. Long gaps. I forget to visit.

On the other side of this, as an occasional blogger, let me tell you: the pressure is fierce. Coming back is always hard. Kinda like calling a friend you haven't spoken to in while: how far back do you go to catch up? Or, is it like handing in an over-due paper? It's gotta be extra-good, you know, because you had all that extra time to do it, to make it great.

And then I find, when getting back on the stick, that it's easy. It's always easier when I do it than when I think about doing it. I often trick myself into thinking that I don't have the time.

In truth, these days, I've got nothing but time. I work, yes, but I have no life otherwise (*sob*). (Disclosure: I just joined a gym. The great out-reach begins.)

In truth, this is the most limbic time of my life so far, disaster behind and what-have-you forward. It's a very strange time. The most curious of my 38 years. (A weirder year that those that immediately preceded it. I wish I could tell you all about it, but the quirkier details must be reserved. You know, out of respect for others, etc. etc. So I just jot it in my journals and dispatch "can-you-believe-it" emails to far-flung friends.)

Maybe someday I'll write a sitcom (as a friend suggested). That is, if I can ever find anything funny about this situation.

While I've been ignoring you, my readership, I have been prowling the interwebs and I found a few more ladies worth a look-see and one awesome dude.

(Don't get me started on the restaurant business. Manuel's got me beat for now. I'm saving it for the goof-ball book: My Life in Service. Twenty years and as many establishments, I've worked with and waited on them all.)

6:50 of Bull

2008-10-03T21:28:00.003-04:00

I mean Bill.

(trigger warning: extreme ignorance and belligerence ahead. video and comments.)

One more thing: I caught most of the debate last night. On the radio, on my way home from work, starting at 9:40. The rest on the radio at home, along with the after-programming on NPR. I fiddled with some crosswords as I listened (a book of Saturday Stumpers) and only yelled at the radio a couple of times. Most vociferously and repeatedly at Sarah Palin's assertions of Republican, conservative "tolerance."

For me, it took a particularly patronizing tone: yeah, we'll put up with you gay people wanting "rights." We'll throw you the "civil union" bone that makes no waves. We'll look the other way as Florida allows gays to adopt, as long as it's a case by case basis. (Yeah. I know. The Official Dem Position is little better, but it is better. And I do believe it's an ugly compromise that they're making for this election. I'll take this poison with a spoonful of sugar with the belief that, in a few years, there will be enough of a ground swell for outspoken support for all Americans - even if there are still slurs spoken in America's private parlors. The bigots may not be routed, but we can make them scared of daylight.)

And, Ladies. Ladies. We're not going to throw you in jail for having (or trying to have) an abortion. Even if you've been raped (and *cough* white), there are lots of nice (*cough* white) families out there to adopt your bastard child. Don't even think of Plan B (see clip above). Plan A's the only one you need. Not Abortion, though. Oh no. Not that. Adoption. Or you can take the Hester Prynne path.

Yes. I know. I'm being inflammatory. But isn't she? Who is she to speak of tolerance? And f*ck this speaking shit. If you're gonna talk the talk, walk the walk. I'm sick of all this half-stepping.

If you missed the debate, TPM has the greatest hits (and misses):

And, for a bit of inspiration, a few words from Lillian (H/t Pam's House Blend):

Additional nods of the cap to Talking Points Memo and Shakesville.

three years after katrina (part I)

2008-08-22T02:01:00.009-04:00

Late May 2007, I left New Orleans and moved to Oxford, MS. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I don't regret it, as many good things came about as well as a few lessons learned. But, overall, it was a dark and lonely seven months, especially toward the end. Often full of thought, heavy and cumbersome; the recent-past and whatever's-next meeting on my doorstep. I had no choice but to carry them in.

Then, 2008 - BAM! - another move. Mom's sudden passing into a U-Haul truck. All packed up and on the road. Cats in the back, and cursing at Dad. Leaving Mississippi behind, along with a few regrets: never did get to Memphis, but for the airport; never did get to that juke joint just up the road.

And now, Long Island. I don't like it here. Never did. I grew up here but always considered myself "from" here - as in, "on my way somewhere else." When I left twenty years ago, I chose a college several states away and I swore I'd never return.

I've eaten those words twice. I returned in 1994 for grad school (a very good decision) and again earlier this year (another right choice, given the circumstances).

Three years after Katrina. This is a thoughtful time. Full of markers. Last Saturday, I attended my 20th High School Reunion. Today is my 38th birthday.

The reunion was fun. I went with my bestest, dearest, oldest friend. We met 27 years ago (or is it 28?). At this point, we are like blood. I am Auntie Adrienne to her two daughters (ages, 2 and 4) and I would readily lay on the tracks for them. Or for her.

Our lives are - and always have been - vastly different, but our minds ride along parallel rails. And we have similar hearts.

As I walked to the hotel hosting the reunion, my knees knocked. Who will be in there?

Our graduating class was over 1600 people. During high school, we knew but a fraction of each other, since we were tracked and placed among our scholastic peers. Add in those we met in gym, art, or typing (hello Tony!), and it's still a piddling number.

Then I wondered what percentage of the class would attend? A tenth?

(Neither Michelle nor I attended our ten year reunion. We had both recently moved to new cities - Chicago for M; Philly for me - and we couldn't make the turnaround back.)

Worst case scenario: M and I sit and snack and talk, looking cool and confident as we make our way back and forth to the buffet.

Three years after Katrina. Three birthdays later. Today, the 22nd of August, is my 38th birthday, and my first one without a mother. No card. No call. No big show this year.

I aim to celebrate, yes, but very low key. I've gotten my shifts covered at work and plan to head north to Connecticut (home of that lily-livered scoundrel, Joe Lieberman). I'll be spending time with "A", my psychic twin - we've been leap-frogging each other in personal tragedies for the last few years. We started with Katrina, holed up in the same church-turned-house:

We spent our 2004 Ivan Hurrication there as well. It was all about Jim's Kountry Pies that year (apple, pecan, and coconut cream). Plus meals for a dozen and general revelry. We all went home a few days later, fattened and energized.

For Katrina, it was a bunker. A command center. Wifi and laptops. Cell phones and cable TV. One of our comrades was Smiley Pool, a photojournalist from Dallas. Starting Tuesday the 30th, he spent his days flying over the city and came back to us at night and shared his shots. I've never seen anything so horrifying. It was all so intimate. That was my home.

A few months after the storm, my husband and I separated. Then, "A" and her husband separated. I divorced. She divorced. I moved to Mississippi. She moved to Connecticut. My mother died. I moved to NY. And now, her mother is gravely ill. We are both only children. We are both reeling.

She tried to turn me off coming, but I insisted. I need her company. And I believe I'll be good for her.

Last year, for my birthday, I threw a party. But no one came. I was too new in town, not enough of a draw for a Mississippi Sunday. But I had a fella at the time, who made the birthday a prime one. He helped me to cook and set up and ran his fingers though my hair as I lay in his lap mid-afternoon with balloons on the road and no guests in the house. Late in the day, a coworker came by, her boyfriend in tow. We sat out back, ate and played games. I remember it being fun.

For my 36th, I dined at August. Flanked by good girlfriends ("A" was one). Champagne, fois gras, and entrees in go-bags. Dessert was had at the table. We thanked the guys in the kitchen. They applauded.

35:2005 was a house party. A brunch. And well-attended. We served cupcakes: double-dipped chocolate chocolate cupcakes filled with peanut butter cream. The day before, I bought a brand new motorcycle.

A week later, the world changed.

This is, Happy Birthday to Me, what I looked like three years ago:

coming soon...

2008-08-21T15:37:00.005-04:00

From Toothpaste for Dinner

toothpastefordinner.com

h/t Feministing

how i learned to read

2008-05-12T13:49:00.004-04:00

I suppose the better title for this post is WHY I learned to read. It's right there at the end of the video clip:

"Today, on The Electric Company, the Lady asks: 'Is it - myah-myayh?'"

And the answer is right there on the screen - in this case, a big, bold NUTTY - an answer out of reach for the illiterate.

I remember being young and watching and being completely frustrated that I could not read what it said right there in front of me. This was, if I remember correctly, a teaser that also closed each episode, so if you didn't read, you had to wait until the next show to learn the answer. Not being the patient sort, and (metaphorically) prone to head-banging when faced with riddles, I learned myself to read.

This is my earliest childhood memory, somewhere in my third year, sitting on the floor in the TV room, the back bedroom of our ranch house, anxious and befuddled and feeling decisively left out.

And, in the first installment of how I became a strong-willed, independent and free-thinking person of female persuasion (aka a Feminist), I offer you this oldie-but-goodie:

Full "Free to Be You and Me" disclosure: as a kid, I had the book and the record, gifts from my Mom, but only saw this video for the first time just a few months ago. My mother NEVER considered herself a feminist nor a democrat (for reasons beyond my understanding, she fancied Nixon as one of the great ones), and in general my parents then (and my father now) were apolitical, subscribing to the "why bother" camp because "they're all crooks." (Only recently did I learn that my parents NEVER voted. NEVER. My father says he *might* vote this year.)

Nonetheless, she (and he) instilled in me a can-do-anything attitude, and I never heard a no-can-do because I was a girl. She encouraged my independent streak and was both proud and frustrated when expression of that streak also meant independence from her. She often blamed the book. It all went back to the book, that damn "Free to Be."

the last days of my decline

2008-05-11T01:28:00.010-04:00

It ends. Right here. Now. Go no further.

Stop.

Reverse.

Detour.

Find your way back to the main road. Your main road. The one that moves you. The one less traveled. Where you walk tall, with long strides. Where you sweep aside brush and duck under limbs. Where you repair for comfort in trusted hideaways, in others' arms, in others' stories.

This, the path you're on, is the road to ruin. You know this, and make light of it. You skirt the edge and laugh (after "whew!"). Your remind yourself to be careful. And you are. As careful as an actuary, assessing risk and calculating consequences. You make safe bets, but you're still gambling.

You believe in smarts more than luck. Nonetheless, you've been the victim of poor judgment. Fortunately, you've learned from each lapse. You've made adjustments. There have been no repeat performances. (Just some eerie similarities.)

Nonetheless, you are bogged down. Nearing an end you can too well imagine, one that viscerally fills you with fear:

No leap off a cliff, but a bone-shattering slide down the mountainside, straight through the scree and the switchbacks, into the dark woods, to tumble over fallen logs and rip through the branches.

You will feel alone. Feel deeply each scrape, scratch, and shatter. You will be consumed by your own pain.

You will be oblivious to those you take with you. Those venturesome few who think they can slow you, or stop you and carry you back up. You will leave them, on a random path or a cross-roads, when they make the wise decision to stop, call for back-up, and get themselves out of the dense, uncertain, and down-sloping slide.

You will, stalwartly, continue on.

Near the end, on land now level, set to the lowest common denominator, you will trudge forward with leaden feet. Your eyes useless, you lead with your hands - searching for steady holds, taking small steps.

You yearn for sunlight, lost in a swampland. You take another step. Wanting. Wishing. Worrying.

You will fall. You will fail.

This is what waits you.

Unless you turn around, look up, and take the hand that's offered you. Begin the long, hard, slow slog back up the mountain. Out of the dim valley and into the land of the living. You can't do it alone. Take the hand that's offered. Step out of the muck.

I sit here, on the eve of Mother's Day, on Long Island NY and motherless, and remember where I was six months ago, living a lonely life in Oxford, Mississippi. I thought it would be a good place for me, for I was so desperate to get out of New Orleans, to leave behind the mounting uncertainty, municipal anxiety, and personal ghosts. I thought it would be a safe place. I thought I would fit in, and I'll credit New Orleans for spoiling me for that kind of welcome, for New Orleans and I were an easy match. As quirky as she is/was, we meshed at the moment we met. I slid easily into a slot along the misfit scale and carried that confidence to Oxford, which I idly considered another quirky place. But I didn't fit there, not easily. I only fit there where I've fit in every other place I've lived: on the margins. It's tight on the margins. Not much room to stretch. Especially in a small town. Especially in a college town, where I top the "ruling class" by at least a decade, almost two. Friends were few. And the older locals had their crowd and were suspect of new blood, and since I'm a drifter and loner by nature, I had my troubles. Hence the loneliness, and the depression. And most unfortunately, a lot of late and lonely and drunken nights. (But bless the godless-universe for my FunHouse, which was lots of fun and a blessing. If only I had wrangled the outdoor bathtub... )

I never could have guessed that the hand to rescue me would have been my mother's, in death. I truly believe that she saved me by dying. Two plus years ago, when my husband left me and moved out, Mom invited me back into the family home (despite the disastrous entanglements a decade prior) and spun dreams of my exciting commuter life into New York City. I begged off then, made my own (sloppy, silly, staggering) way since. And so the story told above tells: I fell, I failed. I've come home.

Long Island is no picnic. In truth, I am as lonely here as I've ever been. Growing up here, I couldn't wait to leave. It's crowded, rife with traffic, bereft of culture (save the big-box, corporate, and market-tested type). Yeah, there's pretty parts and road-side farm stands, but mostly it's rushed, cold, and often mean. I yearn for the south and warmer climes and attitudes. I miss New Orleans. I'm here for as long as my Dad is here and I often think about where I'll go when he's gone.

But he's hale and healthy and has at least a decade left, hopefully more, so it's Long Island and the environs (hello NYC?!) where I'll be. So it's all about making the best of what is, not what I've chosen. It's about taking hold of the hands that have been offered and grabbing tight and reaching up and figuring out what to make of the wreckage of my life and what comes next. It's all been interesting so far. No reason to think it's going to be dull from here on out. I've gone though some rough spots, some hard spots, some very difficult times. I've gotten through them.

My mother, love her, rarely had a life she loved. Rarely had a life in which she felt loved (though she was, by many). I have inherited some of her demons, but that is not one. I have a lot of people on my side, and, in their honor, I promise that none of them will ever mourn me with a "could have been." I am not done yet. I am coming back. It is a long, hard, slow slog back. But I am coming.

A luta continua...

signs of spring

2008-04-12T22:02:00.000-04:00

"Whatever occurs in the confused mind is regarded as the path. Everything is workable. It is a fearless proclamation, the lion's roar."
Trungpa Rinpoche, quoted by Pema Chodron, "When Things Fall Apart"

The daffodils are in bloom. This is a treasure. As one of my favorite flowers, favored because it was my Granny's favorite, I thrill to their upright yellow goodness. They are also a cold weather bloom, planted in late-fall to endure a long winter's nap. So, very few daffies down south, unless you store them in the freezer.

Although there are none here at my house, there are plenty in the neighborhood. My head swivels around turns taking in as many of them as I can. My dad probably has some at his place, but I haven't been there since last Sunday, and it seems that they've popped in the last few days.

He planted more than 200 bulbs around the property, daffodils and tulips. They were planned to bloom in rotation, so that there's continual color and growth throughout the spring. I say here once again how much I love my dad and thank him for all he's given me - life and love and an appreciation for the seasons and the routine and work necessary for growth. We have an odd relationship though, close yet distant. I know he loves me but I stopped getting hugs around the time that I grew breasts. (That's gotta be weird for a father.)

Nonetheless, he was - and remains - my first hero, and I am here - on Long Island, the land of my frustrated and angst-ridden youth - because of my mother's recent death and a need, for both of us, to be close - though in truth, it seems that he needs me less than I need him. He, after all, has a life here. A job, a home, a community. And company. He's dating. Casually, cautiously, and playfully. Good for him.

Me - not so much. I'm lonely. But I think that's okay. I started this period of solitude in Mississippi and I've carried it up North. I no longer question the why or the way. I just accept it (The Path is the Goal). I trust that this is where I need to be. I know that there is no other place I could live comfortably but for a fifteen-minute drive to my father's house; my own discomfort is secondary and necessary. My mother's death has brought me here. I believe that she - by dying - saved my life.

I miss her tremendously.

I am angry that I am here and she is not. I was planning my return to come back and care for her, to take her to the doctor, to walk the dog, to take her shopping, and make dinner according to her direction. I wanted to sit by her side and get all the stories again, this time in writing. To laugh at her jokes and play scrabble - losing again and again to her better strategy (despite my better vocabulary). It is cruel that I am here without her, she who wanted more than anything to be close to me, and yet did her best to push me away - with relentless criticism and subtle and not-so-subtle bullying. She wanted to be the hero, but stomped on top of me (and Dad) to earn that spot. Queen of the misbegotten hill.

And yet, I love her. I miss her. I learned, later in life, with therapy and through divorce, how to give her what she never got - a listening ear, kudos for work well done, praise and hurrahs, and company. I learned to let her in and discovered that she was happy to be the also-ran as long as she was close to the winner (that would be me). I learned that she was proud of me, me of the unconventional life. That even though she was shocked - Shocked! - by some of my choices (such as keeping my own name when I married - "Why even get married?" she asked), she bragged about me to her friends and coworkers and looked each day to the weather in whatever town I lived. Our best times together were when she came to visit and lived for a brief period in her daughter's life and reaped the just awards (I was liked. I learned it from her; she was equally - and more so - likeable). I remember best our lunch at Commander's Palace in 2003; our table was striped with green notifying all of our VIP status. We were treated accordingly. My mother had her first (and probably last) Mint Julep. She felt fancy, but over-served. Half-way through, she dimmed it down with more soda.

What's a woman to do when she loses her mother before she's done with her mother? My mother was difficult. There was nothing easy about her. I hold no romance here. She's caused me more angst and therapist fees than one ought to pay. But I have learned to understand and be kind to her own troubles and costs and I am angry and hurt that I do not get the chance to make full recompense.

Shortly before her death, over Christmas 2007, I learned how to hold her without seeking such comfort for myself. My role was to just be there. To hold her. And it was easy. She was small and bony then. As I now know, she was just a few weeks before death. She was tiny. It was nothing to close her up into my arms, to wrap myself around her and whisper love into her ears. We closed ourselves in blankets and before the TV. We sat there together.

The last time I touched her was in the hospital. She was doped up (down) on morphine, and largely unresponsive. I asked the doctor to take her off, to give me my mother back, to give me a connection. Let me see her, let her see me. I wanted to see her eyes, focused. I wanted to know that she knows that I am here. I was over-ruled. By the doctor and by my dad. My mother's stroke was so bad that giving her consciousness meant her distress. In other words, she freaked out. Better to keep her sedated. She is not suffering.

But what about me? I am suffering. And I mean no harm. Give her to me. I am good for her. Give her to me. Give me my mother. Let me look into her eyes and let me tell her that I love her. Let me tell her that I am here and I am sorry. Let me tell her that I forgive all. Let me tell her that I am grateful.

Instead, I got nothing. Just a body. No soul. I held her the best that I could hoping that she heard and felt me. I talked to her and told her I loved her. I massaged her hands and brushed her hair. I alerted the nurses when she seemed distressed. I watched as the doctor gave her what proved to be the final shot of morphine. I held one hand as she died, while my father held the other. We loved her unto death.

And so I meet another Spring of my life, mother-less, grieving, and lonely. I have not been writing here because my days have been difficult and repetitive. I have had nothing to say worth saying (except in my private journals - and I strive to complain there daily). I do have a job and a lovely one. It's another restaurant gig, and a good one, at a fancy French joint, but due to the depressing economy, business is slow. But it is a good environment for me, and I am most grateful for one particular coworker who is teaching me lessons about grace, kindness, and forgiveness. I am not a godly person, but she (my coworker) makes me wonder about god. I'm asking maybe. I'm wondering if I need not be so alone.

the funhouse, part two

2008-03-14T16:36:00.008-04:00

I spoke with my former landlord today, a call to inquire about my security deposit (the check is in the mail, he says). I like him, and trust him. The check is in the mail.

He went above and beyond the call of duty when I first moved into the FunHouse. I called him over the day after I moved in. I was having some terlit issues - nary a flush, to be specific.

Dean arrived and with tools in hand and a run to the hardware store, he fixed the problem. Sorta. Fixed it enough to make it livable, which meant - in a daily living way - "if it's yellow, let it mellow." The john had an annoying tendency to run and kick on even when no one was around or had been using it. Almost as if it was reminding itself of what it was supposed to do when called upon to do so. But mostly, it was not an issue. Nor was any other quirk of the house. I learned to adapt, to take care, and to fix when things needed fixing. (Such as duct taping the gaps under the sink so no more mouses could come on in and poop.)

But Dean gets the gold star for helping me get my g*dforsaken motorcycle out of the moving truck and next to my porch, where it lived for the next seven months, earning admiring and lustful looks from my neighbors and their visitors (who didn't understand when I told them it wasn't worth anything - crappy and need of work, and too small powered for their big frames; it's a chick bike, 250ccs, great for beginners and back roads - a big man would have to fold himself in half to ride this steed).

The neighborhood kids - and I mean little ones, grandchildren and nieces and nephews of my neighbors - also took a fancy to the bike; took a fancy to the bike and the woman who owned it; the woman who also drove a pick-up truck and a bicycle; a woman who lit her back deck with criss-crossed white lights, and filled her window panes with construction paper to keep out prying eyes but allowed the sunshine in.

During my conversation with Dean this evening, I learned that the new tenants have opted to keep the construction paper. I'm surprised that the house cleaners who prepped the place for the new folks didn't take the paper down - it wasn't held with superglue; just fat-sized double stick tape. But maybe, just maybe, the house cleaners thought that it looked good and, obviously, the new tenants thought so as well. This pleases me. I put some thought into the paper, the colors, the placement, how it looked from the outside as well as from in. When I put it up, I thought it would be temporary, but it worked so well, I made it permanent (trading two-sided tape for better fat, sticky stuff).

In leaving my FunHouse in Oxford, I also left a birdhouse built by my Dad,the lights on the back deck, and some under-counter lights installed in the kitchen. It pleases me to think that others are enjoying these small adjustments and that my FunHouse, save the bikes, still looks much the same from the outside.

(For more about the FunHouse: go here and here.)

quirkyalone

2008-03-10T21:14:00.006-04:00

Yo. I'll play this. I'm not one to join a cause or a movement ('cept demonstrations for human rights, reproductive rights, and against war-mongering; I've steel-toothed and ably managed my claustrophobic/agoraphobic tendencies to stand and march and holler when the cause is greater than my puerile neuroses), but somewhere in the past couple of months, I've hit upon this site, and I'll say the label fits: quirkyalone, that's me.

We are, as defined, not likely to join any group, or blog, or buy a book to celebrate our solidarity (I'll leave it to you to insert the appropriate Groucho Marx joke here). But I'll admit a certain level of reassurance upon discovering this site and that there's a quirky community for quirky folks like me. Even if I don't join up.

Quirky. Even the word looks weird. Quirky. Quirkyalone. Yeah. Quirkyalone. That's me.

In my early-twenties, when I started to come into "my own," I was merely "peculiar."

As a teenager, I wasn't strange at all. I was just a teenager. We're all strange at that age. And during college, well, I traveled all over the map of (ab)normalcy, and any label upon me would have stuck as well as a post-it.

After college, I made friends with a woman about ten years my senior. How we jibed, I'm not sure, but we did. Ballgames. Beers at bars. Dinners out or at our respective homes. She found me a curiosity, and I was just happy to have a friend in town after all my college-mates had graduated and moved on. She pegged me with the "peculiar" tag, in response, I think, to my choice of footwear (practical and rugged soled) and my penchant for smoking on the street (her mother deemed that behavior most unladylike and although my friend engaged in a number of activities her mother would have frowned upon, she followed this one rule).

Me? I've never worried about "ladylike." I came out as a feminist during college, though I walked the walk before I talked the talk. Whether or not I was ladylike wasn't ever a worry. I knew I was a woman. Even when I still had my babyfat.

I come upon quirkyalone honestly, and it's not because I'm an only child - though that's no doubt part of it. My parents are also quirkyalones, and they're both spawns of multi-child families. My Dad is one of three. Mom is (was) one of six. But despite (or because of) the riotous, chaotic, always-something-going-on households, my parents found themselves cherishing and prioritizing their alone time. Amidst the chaos - and often being over-looked - they learned to take care of and entertain themselves.

My father is the youngest of three sons, raised by a single mother, and was often left to look after himself. My mother, a middle-child in the six kids, was lost as well. She's told me stories about majorette tournaments, when she'd done well, but no one from the family was there to see it. Her heartbreak was palpable even after all the years.

As adults, my parents continued to pursue their separate, private interests. My mom was an ice skater and took lessons for a number of years. She also painted and bowled. My Dad is a grease-monkey and carpenter and handy with every kind of power tool imaginable. They were both skiers for a spell.

I learned none of this. I wasn't part of it, except for sitting on the sidelines (and pitching the occasional fit - I was young, and probably tired). Their interests weren't my interests because they were THEIR interests and there was no effort to bring me in. I learned early how to entertain myself (books, mostly), and felt no slight when they went off to do their own thing. It only became a problem later, when I wanted them to be interested in MY interests (you know, for validation and stuff, 'cause us teenagers, we need that kind of stuff), and I generally got a post hoc okay. I was good as long as I didn't get pregnant or arrested, but that's a short bar to raise. It was an easy leap over and off to college.

Now, many years later, post-marriage, and two years single, I've come to embrace the "alone" part of the sobriquet as much as the "quirky." I accepted the quirky a long time ago; the dawning came when I was 24, back on Long Island, after college, heartbroken and wondering about prospects. A good male friend told me that while most women are "vanilla" - and a lot of men like vanilla - I was "peanut butter raspberry nut crunch," and while not everyone likes this particular - this peculiar - flavor, there are folks out there who just LOVE it. And I shouldn't scale back to meet other people's tastes. Good advice, I think. Just be yourself, in other words.

And me, myself, and I, we're alone. But not lonely. That's the quirk part of the quirkyalone. I like my company. I can entertain myself. But, damn, I sure do wish I didn't need to make a long distance phone call to talk to a good friend.

everything you want to know

2008-03-08T22:23:00.004-05:00

Douse me with water for an inhuman amount of time, and do it over and over again, and yeah, I'll spill my guts and the contents of my stomach, then cough out the goop in my lungs. I'll repeat whatever is being demanded and accused of me. Yes. I'll tell you everything. Everything you want to know. Anything to just get a breath of clean, fresh, unwatered air.

*gasp*

So Sir His-High-Almighty President and Guardian of the O-So-Free-and-Mighty-Fine First World has given yet-another-okay to torture. He sez, no, not torture, just, you know, what we need to do to make sure the bad guyz don't go and get us, and the presumptive Republican nominee for president, a former POW, is playing along.

I am f*cking disgusted. And even more disgusted that they're sneaking in this crap on a Saturday, you know, when most folks are mowing their lawns or shoveling their walks or otherwise preoccupied with mundane weekend tasks.

Our war - and yes, it is OUR WAR - has been waged for five years now. Bob Herbert, one of my favorite columnists, recently reported the cost to our country, and our country's economy, and most importantly, the deficit we've incurred as a result. Two Trillion Dollars is the current cost. Here, look at it:

2,000,000,000,000.

Or maybe this makes a bigger impact (by millions):

1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
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1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000...

Or something like that. I'm a poet, not a mathematician, and my rinkadink calculator - used only to balance my checkbook - doesn't have enough spaces to quantify TRILLIONS.

In other news, the US economy lost 63K jobs last month. I don't count in that; I left Mississippi and thus my job in January. I'm old news, when it comes to the unemployment sector, but I'm wise enough to recognize that this doesn't mean that there are more openings. Yeah. Sh*t. Tough(er) times ahead.

The only good news I've read lately is that the Dems might have a chance this fall to take a majority in the Senate, thereby blocking a filibuster and then, maybe, actually turning things around and making progress - that is, being PROGRESSIVE. Yeah, first, they'll have to unf*ck the last seven-plus years, but I'll take this last bit as a hopeful wish and pray for good dreams tonight. 'Cause, lordy, with the tumult in my personal life, and the back-biting bullsh*t in the presidential campaign, I need some happy thoughts.

count me in

2008-03-04T21:52:00.008-05:00

As of March 1st, I joined the great unwashed and uninsured of Great America. It's been 15+ years since I've been part of this oft-cited and still under-recognized part of our nation (we are not easily quantified). I'm not proud. Ick. I'm uncomfortable. Makes me wanna stay home more than ever. Though I suppose I should take no comfort. There's a lot of accidents that can happen in the home.

This post was originally titled "Scylla and Charybdis," because that's where I feel to be: between a rock and a hard place.

I'm job hunting and humbled. My education and work experience do not readily combine to make me a neat fit with any organization, but I know I bring a lot to the table:

Savvy and skilled, mostly self-taught but grateful to those who have trained me. Creative, dynamic, and charismatic. A self-starter who takes direction. An iconoclast who knows the rules. Sensitive, empathic, and honest. A leader without ego. A talker who listens. Gentle and kind. Compassionate and passionate. A genuine people-person. And, sometimes, funny.

Blogging is a liability, being on the job hunt, which is why I've been tongue-tied these last few weeks. Google me and you'll hit this site first (then my Gambit contributions), and then a slew of sites that are a combination of me and not-me (who knew there were so many namesakes in North America?).

I expect that a potential employer will Google a prospective hire, so if I've recently sent you my resume and you've found my site, thank you for your interest.

If you poke around and dig in the archives, you'll quickly learn that my world's been quirky and topsy-turvy these last few years, largely due to geography and the ever-changing cast of characters moving in and out of my life. I started this blog the night that Katrina roared ashore, and, indeed, it's all been "after" that. As for personal defining moments, August 29th, 2005 was indelible.

Thanks for reading. Call me for an interview. Please.

rats

2008-02-11T00:11:00.000-05:00

It is 15 degrees outside. It was snowing this morning. The last time I saw snow falling from the sky was Christmas, 2004 in New Orleans. It was aberrant but delightful. We had a friend visiting from out of town and a local couple who came over for dinner. I cooked a massive Beef Wellington, and prepared both duxelles and brioche from scratch. Should you endeavor such a project, make individual pods. It's near impossible to cook such a slab of meat properly. (Though there were no complaints that evening. Not even about the brussel sprouts - which were, let the record show and the tasters attest, FABULOUS!)

But still, it's been a long time - almost five years - since I've been exposed to such frigid weather. I am grateful that this apartment is better insulated than the FunHouse and my outside exposure is rather limited right now. Such is one joy of unemployment: no reason to leave.

I did travel this morning, to have breakfast with Dad (bacon and poached eggs on english muffins, mine lathered with Crystal hot sauce). It's been one month, exactly, since Mom's passing, and we were both feeling blue and unmotivated today. I returned home to read the NY Times, have a late lunch, and take a nap. He had plans for the grocery store and then to make a meatloaf. Food for the week.

It is, now, a New Year. In recent years, I've held more affinity for the turning of the New in accordance with the Chinese calendar, mostly because the turning is in close proximity to Mardi Gras, and if you're planning on any resolutions and live in New Orleans, you might as well wait for Ash Wednesday. That's when penitence and good habits might have ground to hold. It's futile to diet when King Cakes are plentiful and who has time for exercise when there are costumes to sew. Priorities, along with calendars, shift when there are parties to attend.

This is the Year of the Rat. As the first of the signs, it is a year of beginnings. Okay. I get that. This is certainly another beginning, even if it's coming back to where I started from. According to this website I found while searching for information:

A Rat Year is a time of hard work, activity, and renewal. This is a good year to begin a new job, get married, launch a product or make a fresh start. Ventures begun now may not yield fast returns, but opportunities will come for people who are well prepared and resourceful. The best way for you to succeed is to be patient, let things develop slowly, and make the most of every opening you can find.

Even if you don't believe in this stuff, this is good advice. Personally, I take good advice wherever I find it. Which is why I stop in here each Thursday.

But my latest solace comes not from the stars, but from literature. From the world of theater, a world I once inhabitied, albeit all-too-briefly, and one from which I continue to draw inspiration:

Sometimes a person has to go a very long distance
out of his way to come back a short distance correctly.
Edward Albee, "The Zoo Story"

the dust settles

2008-02-07T01:28:00.000-05:00

It's Ash Wednesday. Well, it's now Thursday, but I'm still awake so it still counts as Wednesday. I'm to bed soon.

What a week. Dad arrived in Memphis last Tuesday night, an hour and half delayed and ravenously hungry. I got lost leaving the airport and he nervously endured a roundabout tour of industrial and desolate southeast Memphis. Finally, I found I-55 and we returned to Oxford, with a brief stop at Taco Bell in Batesville.

The pack-up the following morning was uneventful, though I almost slipped off the ramp while maneuvering my m*ther-f*cking motorcycle into the truck. A friend came over to help with the bulkier items (couch, bureau) and then it was all boxes. My father bitched about the number of boxes of books and the general bulk of my stuff. ("What do you have all this crap for?") This from a man who has lived in the same house for the last 37+ years and has considerably more "crap" than I have, despite the yard sale my parents held last year. Despite the amount of my "crap," I can pack everything in a week, as I recently learned. If he were to ever move, it'll take at least a month.

After a bit of a muddy mishap with the truck and trailer - the former got stuck with the latter behind it - which the U-Haul guys fixed while we got lunch, we drove my pick-up onto the trailer, strapped it down, and hit the road.

If we had a CD player in the U-Haul, it may have been a more joyous ride. As it was, it was mostly silent, excepting the moments when my father and I were screaming at each other. Tennessee is a verrrrrry loooooong state and we crossed half in the first day and all the rest plus the trek back to Long Island on the second day. All tolled, including loading the truck, it was two 18-hour days, and dear old Dad drove most of it. I covered only an hour and half behind the wheel, and barely managed that, with dear old Dad micromanaging every press of the brake, goose of the gas, and necessary but cautious lane change. We're still friends because he has a remarkably short attention span and holds no grudges whatsoever.

I am settling into this new space. Oxford prepared me for a hermit's life and I can deal with Long Island as long as I can be left alone. I still can't walk to a corner store, but there's a cornucopia of shopping emporia just a few miles down the road. In any direction. The traffic is boggling, but I take a bit of smug comfort in my Mississippi plates and being a woman in a truck. I will, soon, trade in the plates, but I'm keeping the truck, no matter how impractical it is for these roads, with these gas prices, and the commuting I'm bound to do. I like my truck. It suits me.

My apartment, a separate unit in my cousin's house, is very comfortable. Plenty enough space for me to stretch and spread out, though it lacks two things I normally consider necessary for basic survival: a bathtub and an oven. Amazing the things you'll compromise, the things that are not so necessary, when life hands you a platter and says, "Take This."

Okay. Thanks. This is Great.

My cousin travels a fair amount with his business (as he is this week) so the upstairs oven is available, as is the HUGE jacuzzi tub in the master suite. I took a bath the other night and I swear, it's big enough to swim in. I'm talking strokes.

So, I'll sneak baths and roast chickens when cousin is traveling. And take them as the treats they are. In the meantime, I'll dine on tuna fish sandwiches and splash in hot-hot-hot showers, eternally grateful for the zero rent due at the first of every month.

____________________________________________________________________

Later. Now fully Thursday. Sleep overtook me before I could finish last night's post.

What a difference a year makes. Last year around this time, I was recovering from Mardi Gras revelry and getting used to my first roommate in ten years. This year, Fat Tuesday was eclipsed by Super Tuesday, and both were obliterated by the tsunami that swept into my life a month ago and carried me from Oxford, MS to Long Island, NY. Then, I read that tornadoes touched down in Tennessee, Arkansas, Kentucky, Alabama, and yes, Mississippi. And yes, Oxford. I found this picture (number seven) on the Washington Post site. The church, His Harvest Ministries, is/was located less than two miles from my Oxford home. A house with no basement and no secure place in the center. I would've been huddled under the deck, terrified, a cat in each arm. (Number nine is another picture from Oxford.)

Speaking of my cats, they are absolutely, positively the best in the world. Troopers, that's for sure. They also traveled for two 18-hour days, and spent most of that time locked in their individual cat carriers in the back of my pick-up, cushioned from road-shock by my down comforter. I let them out of their cages to roam the bed of the truck for mid-day pee breaks as well as the night in between and I felt an incredible amount of guilt the next morning when I went to lock them up again and discovered their water dish a frozen mass. I soothed myself my petting their fur, glad that they have it, and telling them what good girls they are.

I checked on them each time we stopped for gas (every 200 miles), and each would respond with a plaintive meow, seeing me on the other side of the glass. Of course, I couldn't hear them, just see their open mouths pleading with me, and I responded as any good momma would: by mimicking their behavior, my mouth opening and closing, a solemn and silent echo.

Yes. I hear you. Yes. I feel your pain. Yes. You're loved. Yes. This will all be over soon.

They seem to like this new space. They've settled in, found their favorite spots, and although Iphi has no tub to drink from, I've shown her the bathroom sink, and she seems to accept this as a reasonable substitute. Maybe she remembers our life in Philadelphia, when the sink was her most favorite thing in the apartment. She'd sit and sleep in it, waiting for someone to enter the bathroom and turn on the water for her. It's an odd quirk and I indulge it. It's better, to my mind, than camping out on the kitchen counters or sleeping on the table where I eat. My cats are not permitted on hard surfaces, and they know it. A hiss from me and they're off.

I've unpacked and shelved my books. Hung some pictures. Cleaned and arranged my bathroom. I've gone food shopping and made my first meal. I've washed several loads of laundry. I've been here a week now and now it's time to find a job. Wish me luck. According to the paper and online, there are lots of them out there. I'm certain that I'll find a match.