I do know this: Writing is one thing that does make me happy. It always has done, for as long as I can remember. So I’m going to do my best to make more time to come over here and write. And I hope you don’t mind my using this space as a place to work things out and explore my feelings and ideas. I hope y’all will comment and be a sounding board for me — I love your comments and feedback.

I will give you a sneak peek at a few things I’ll be writing about soon. I can’t wait to tell you about the most amazing event I attended last night. Plus, I have to tell you about a party I attended weeks ago and still haven’t written about. And I haven’t forgotten Part 3 of my NOLA weekend!

In the meantime, let’s all think on this:

P.S. I just stumbled across this blog post today. I can so relate. I’m looking forward to reading more from Katrina Alcorn.

Ever since Flapjack got a DS, he’s been begging me for the Mario Kart game. It’s like $35 or something. No way, kiddo. I’ve been telling him to bring it up with Santa.

Now every time we go to the cafe at our gym, they put a pickle on his plate. And it KILLS him. Y’all, Flapjack has some major food issues. We’re talking therapy-grade food issues. This kid is beyond picky eater, and has terrible physical reactions (like a pregnant woman) when he even smells something he doesn’t like. So these pickles are his arch enemies. Most of the time the kitchen remembers to leave them off his plate, but last night, they forgot.

But instead of freaking out, he calmly looked at me and said “I’ll eat this pickle if you buy me Mario Kart.”

I didn’t even have to ask! I’ve tried bribing him a million different ways from Sunday to try new foods, and he’s refused. But he just offered this up to me on a silver platter!

So of course, I told him to go for it. His brother was going to be his cheerleader. Our favorite waiter was the referee. The other diners were totally into it. And of course, I whipped out my phone to film it.

This was better than any episode of Fear Factor. In the middle, he does some lawyer-worthy negotiation/stalling tactics. But the chest beating around 3:30 is my favorite part.

I was so proud of him. He may never eat another pickle in his life, but at least he’ll enjoy his Mario Kart game for a while. But not yet, because I told him he can’t get it until pay day.

I’m such a mean mommy.

Whatevs.

I use Facebook in a very limited fashion – mainly to keep up with friends and businesses and post the occasional picture. I’m a lurker. And one of the reasons I don’t do more on Facebook is because I think some of their practices, including their default settings, are pretty crappy.

So I’ve already gone in and changed my Privacy Settings so that I don’t get caught in a Places trap. Here’s how to do it:

1) Go to Account, then Privacy Settings.

2) Hopefully you’re already on Custom Settings, not Recommended. (Because like I said, their recommended settings are bad news.) If you’re not, make sure to click “Custom” on the left hand side.

3) Click “Customize Settings” just below that, kind of in the middle.

4) In the “Things I Share” section, go down to “Places I Check In.” Decide who you want to allow to see that.

5) Just below that, tick the box to choose whether or not you want your name displayed with others who have checked in at the same location. This is the “People Here Now” feature.

6) Go down to the “Things Others Share” section (the worst part of Facebook, in my opinion). Decide whether to enable or disable the “Friends Can Check Me In To Places” feature. That’s right, the default setting is that other people, unbeknownst to you, can check you in to places.

So you want to know where I am on Facebook? I’ll tell you. I’m in front of my computer, checking my Privacy Settings while I give Mark Zuckerberg the finger.

UPDATE: I FOUND ANOTHER SNEAKY SETTING!

Follow steps 1 and 2 above.

Then, just below the “Customize Your Settings” link, you’ll see a header that says “Applications and Websites.” Click “Edit Your Settings” below it.

Click “Edit Settings” next to “Info Accessible Through Your Friends.” (This shouldn’t even exist!)

Uncheck “Places I’ve Visited” if you so desire.

You’re on my list, Mark.

I also don’t chime in because I loathe unoriginality. By the time I get off work and get everyone fed and can sit down to write, a couple of dozen other bloggers have tackled the subject, and they’ve probably done so better than I ever could. So I just ignore my inner monologue and go watch So You Think You Can Dance or something.

But today is different. I can’t not say something today. Because what I, and many others, are outraged about today can’t be ignored. I can’t be apathetic, because lives are at stake. And it’s a very personal topic for me.

Earlier today, AOL posted an article about the South Carolina mom who killed her two children. In that article, criminal profiler Pat Brown provided an expert quote. The problem is, Pat Brown decided to give her “expert” opinion on postpartum depression. And she said she thinks it’s a crock. She doesn’t think there’s any kind of hormonal or chemical changes in the body after pregnancy. She thinks that women who are depressed after giving birth are just kind of ticked off because they’re fat or because they can’t go out with their friends as often. I kid you not.

News flash, Pat Brown. You’re a criminologist, not a doctor. Stick to what you know.

This is a picture of Pat Brown from her website. You may recognize her from some of those lousy true crime TV shows. Feel free to print this picture and use it as a dartboard. In my expert opinion, doing so is an instant cure for any kind of depression.

Well, it didn’t take long before the blogosphere was up in arms. And rightfully so. The backlash was so sudden and severe that the editor had to amend the article and remove Brown’s quotes. (Shame on writer David Lohr for even including such a specious quote, and shame on the editors for let it slip through in the first place.)

I’m not here to argue the finer medical points of postpartum depression or psychiatry or obstetrics or endocrinology. I, for one, know not to spout off at the mouth about things I’m not well-versed in. And besides, I think there’s only a relatively small amount of people as stupid as Pat Brown or Tom Cruise, who think that there are no hormonal or chemical changes in the body during and after pregnancy.

But I do know that there is still a huge stigma when it comes to any kind of mental health issue. And there’s also a huge stigma about women who are less than picture-perfect new moms. These stigmas need to disappear, NOW. And people like Pat Brown and Tom Cruise don’t help that happen.

I am not afraid to say to all the world that I suffered pretty severe postpartum depression after the birth of my first child. It was one of the scariest experiences of my life. As if coping with a new baby wasn’t hard enough, I was losing my mind. And I didn’t know what to do about it. There I was, well-educated and with a loving family and friends, and I was still hopeless and helpless. I was scared to say anything to anyone. Scared that my child might be taken away from me, but then also scared that he wouldn’t be. Scared that everyone would think less of me if I was less than perfect. Scared that if I saw the wrong doctor, my cries for help would be ignored.  I can still remember the horrible workings of my post-pregnancy mind like it was yesterday. I had hallucinations and violent thoughts. And it wasn’t because I thought I was fat, fer chrissakes.

So I’m speaking out today in a feeble attempt to counteract the Pat Browns and Tom Cruises of the world. I’m speaking to let women know that postpartum depression is real. It happens. You don’t have to be poor or dumb or a bad mother for it to happen, either. It’s a result of chemical imbalances and raging hormones and sleep deprivation and it is fixable and it is not your fault.

My advice? If you’re pregnant, and you’re feeling down or nervous, quit reading all those sickeningly sweet pregnancy blogs and listening to the women in your life telling you how special pregnancy is. Sure, for some people it is. But for many, pregnancy sucks. It’s a nightmarish 40 weeks of pain and discomfort and stress. And a bad preganancy can set you up for postpartum depression.

And if you’re a new mom, and you’re feeling the least bit overwhelmed or depressed, talk to someone. Immediately. Not someone judgmental. Talk to someone who will listen. Heck, let me know if you want to talk — I’ll give you my phone number. Better yet, talk to an expert. A real doctor. Do not be ashamed. Do not be afraid. Do not think you can’t go on meds because you need to breastfeed — your mental health is way more important than breast milk, for pete’s sake.

Please, please, please don’t let the naysayers and dummies and people who don’t have a clue scare you from taking care of yourself.  And please believe me when I say everything will be OK.

Oh, and one day, if you want to, you can get your body back and go out with your friends again. Yeehaw!

There is no greater gift to a harried working mom than the gift of convenience. And convenience is only having to go one place to drop off your kids in the morning and pick them up in the afternoon.

(Now if we could just get Peapod in Little Rock, I’d be set.)

Lil" Goldfish suits up in a uniform for the first time

Protective big brother

Hamming it up

He had a conehead hairdo for his first day

The old pro

My homework is to write about my child. To let her know what he’s about and what he likes. So as long as I’m going to have to sit down and write, I might as well blog.

The first thing that comes to mind is I am so in love with this boy. It is an all-encompassing love affair. Despite his faults and foibles, I love him for exactly who he is. Almost to the point I can’t stand it. To say I’m smitten is an understatement.

I know this sounds like typical parental bragging, but he’s smart. Not in a reads-on-6th grade-level can-do-long-division way, but in a very-perceptive-beyond-his-years way. In many ways, he’s like a little adult.

But in some ways, he’s almost like a toddler. Emotionally, he has issues. He doesn’t always react appropriately. He doesn’t handle small disappointments well. Ignore? Chill out? Relax? Those words are not in his vocabulary. I guess he’s really a control freak, but when he loses control, watch out. His world crumbles around him. Sticking things in his mouth is his coping mechanism. I know this is not a good thing. We are working on it. And we would appreciate your help.

He is also very strong-willed. I once complained to a pediatrician about his poor eating habits. The doctor suggested that I only offer him the foods I wanted him to eat, and that eventually, he’d get hungry enough to eat them. Not so. He went on a hunger strike to rival the most desperate political prisoner. He didn’t eat for days. He won. He always wins a battle of wills, because he fights to the death. Granted, this is something I’m working on myself (because he admittedly gets this willfulness from me), but please promise me you won’t try to get into a battle of wills with him. It won’t end well.

He is my own flesh and blood, and yet he tries my patience to the point where I just lose it sometimes. I realize he is not your flesh and blood, and that you don’t love him like I do, and so if I can can lose it with him, it will be even easier for you to do so. Please just know that if you can overcome this, and love him even when he is at his worst, I will love you forever for that. You don’t know what this will mean to me.

He’s sensitive in a beautiful way. For example, his little brother can be a real toot sometimes. I mean, that kid can be mean as cuss. But Flapjack is so wonderfully patient with him. His brother literally beats him up, but Flapjack just takes it, without fighting back. At times it makes me worry that his gentleness will make him the victim of bullies, but I also very much appreciate that he doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. That’s a trait that too many people are lacking these days. I think he may grow up to be a do-gooder. And I have no problem with that.

The girls in his class just love him. And he couldn’t care less about them. I’ve got no problem with that, either!

He’s also my cuddler. If I were to admit the truth, I’d have to admit that I could easily spend the rest of my life with him in my arms. And he’d oblige me. If you ever need a kiss and a hug, he’s your man.

He smells good. Especially behind the ears. When he was a baby, that spot always smelled like spoiled milk. Now it smells like what I imagine Heaven must smell like. Feel free to take a deep whiff. I don’t mind sharing.

He’s usually the smallest one in his class. For a while there, he was always in like the 2nd percentile for height and weight. But it seems to me as if he’s grown a foot this summer. Hopefully his size won’t be such an issue this year.

He loves school, and he loves learning. I hope this makes your job easier. He also loves swimming and going to the gym and art and watching TV and playing his DS and Bakugans and anime and traveling and anything to do with Louisiana or England or Italy or Los Angeles.

In Flapjack, I see the possibility of him being everything I ever dreamed of being. But I would never let him know that. I’ll let him do his own thing. He doesn’t need that kind of pressure. (Please remind me I said this in ten years or so!)

In Flapjack, I see my best traits. And I see my worst traits. He is me.

And I am so in love with this boy.

W Hotel French Quarter

I am a straight up hotel snob. I have worked for, stayed at and written about some of the best hotels in the world. For that reason, most hotels leave me less than satisfied. The W is no different. Meh. It’s overpriced, the pool is tiny, the rooms are tiny, it needs some repairs and it tries too hard to be something it’s not (namely, a Morgans hotel). But whatever. It’s in a primo location. And you can say you’re staying at the W. Many people consider that something to brag about. There you have it.

Cafe du Monde

Heck yeah I’ll stand in line for some fried dough with powdered sugar on it. Wouldn’t you? CDM is big-time famous. And unlike most tourist traps, it’s deservedly so. Here’s what you can order there: beignets, cafe au lait and orange juice. I think maybe they serve Cokes, too. I wouldn’t know. Those three things are all I’ve ever seen, and all I’ve ever needed the morning after. And if I know one thing for sure, it’s this: Blowing powdered sugar on your friend’s black shirt is one of life’s great pleasures.

Masperos

This building is old. Like really-old-for-America old. Over 200 years old. And they have very tasty cochon de lait. Give it a try.

The Gold Mine

Oh, my, the Gold Mine. This is where I had my first Zima. Events as significant as that make an imprint, you know. The Gold Mine is good for one thing: dancing your little hiney off. It is a straight-up dance club. And it’s awesome. Yes, it’s filled with annoying college students. As a matter of fact, when I first went there, I was one of those annoying college students. But it is still oh-so-much-fun for all adults. If you like to get your groove on, you must go here.

So Good Jewelry

I actually saw this place for the first time this past trip. It must be fairly new. It’s on Decatur. It has a huge selection of really cute and cheap fashion and costume jewelry. I loved it.

The Little Toy Shop

This is a fun toy shop, and it’s located on Jackson Square. It’s got a great selection of offbeat and cool toys. Also, it has the best selection of kids books written about NOLA and Louisiana, and written in Cajun French. If you’re looking for a unique souvenir for a kid in your life, you can’t do better than a book from here. Plus, Angelina totally shops for her kids here. That’s an endorsement.

Jackson Square

As long as we’re talking Jackson Square, I’ll just say you should go there in general. Hang out among the artists and fortune tellers and musicians and bottle cap tap dancing black boys and odd freaks who paint themselves silver and act like Transformers. Visit the Cathedral and the Cabildo and the Presbytere. Wonder at the gorgeous scrollwork on the Pontalba Apartments. Lounge in the park. Jackson Square is just a great place to be.

Royal Street

Another great place to be, if you love to shop and you’re a bazillionaire. Royal Street is home to the most amazing art galleries and antique and home furnishing shops. You could spend days wandering through each and every boutique, marveling at the antiquities and treasures housed within. When I was growing up, I always heard it was the most expensive street in the world, and I can see why. Besides the great shopping, Royal Street is also home to some world-famous hotels and restaurants, including Brennan’s and The Court of Two Sisters.

Monteleone

One of those great Royal Street hotels is the Monteleone. I’ve always loved this hotel, mainly because it’s haunted as all get-out. I know from firsthand experience. And the Monteleone is also home to the Carousel Bar. Yes, that’s the bar that is shaped like a carousel and spins. It’s often filled with annoying Yankees in town for a buddy’s wedding, and they serve a really lousy bar mix there, but we’ll forgive it all that.

Pat O’Briens

This is the scene of many an unforgettable night for me. I find it hard to even write about Pat O’s. Words, at least mine, cannot do it justice. It’s where I’ve fallen in love with boys and friends, and fallen out of them with them both, also. It’s where I’ve had too much and too little to drink. It’s where I realized you could care about a blind man and a piano player as if they were a part of your family. In short, it’s always been a NOLA haven for me. I feel like I know every square inch of this place, from the steins to the guns to the fire fountain to the pink marbled bathrooms. Pat O’s is the home of the Hurricane. Order one in a souvenir glass – they’ll pack up the glass in a box when you’re done and you can take it home. Also, make sure to get your picture taken by the professional photographer when you’re there. The black-and-white 8×10 makes a lovely souvenir. (P.S. The fact that they have a Pat O’s in Cancun just ticks me off to no end. The one in Orlando I can kind of forgive. But not Cancun.)

Lucky Dog Cart

Read A Confederacy of Dunces. Cry. Go to the French Quarter. Find a Lucky Dog cart. Eat a Lucky Dog. Cry. Live through the experience. There’s your bucket list, right there.

Dante’s Pizza

Ah, Dante’s. Besides the nearest Lucky Dog cart, it’s my favorite late night eatery. NOT the one on Bourbon — the one on Saint Peter. It has really good greasy pizza. It’s often cold, but who cares at 3AM? I think it’s run by mobsters or something. One night I watched Dante himself whip my date with a rubber hose. I have no idea how that fight got started, but I remember that I didn’t like that date much, either. Obviously the staff there has good judgement. And good pizza.

So there you have it. Just a few of my favorite places in the French Quarter. I make no claims that you’ll like them all, or even that you’ll survive them all. But I can guarantee you a memorable experience!

I get it.

But sheesh, have I ever been busy. It’s all Tobi’s fault. Ever since I started working with her, it’s been one grand idea, one huge project after another. Boy, are we having fun. But boy, does my head feel like it’s going to explode. I come home every day, exhausted, both mentally and physically. These days, I’m either running full speed ahead or at a dead stop. And unfortunately, my blog has suffered because of that.

So I guess there’s nothing like your boss saying she’s going to link to your blog from her widely-read, award-winning blog to get your rear in gear and get you posting again, right? Right. So as soon as Tobi broke the news to me, I 1) ran a find-and-replace to change any dirty words to “golly-gees” and “darn-tootins” and other Mayberry-approved phrases and 2) decided to post something right quick like.

Hopefully this will get me back in the writing groove. I’ll get more of my NOLA tips published soon. And in the meantime, if you’re hungry, please meet one of my most popular posts ever. You can thank me later.

If anyone ever stands a chance of truly understanding me, they must know this. In my life, there has rarely been any difference between family and friends. My parents had me at about the same time as their friends had kids (or in the case of my friend Suzanne, on the exact same day). So all of us kids were raised together. We were dressed in the same outfits. We slept in the same cribs and beds. We even went on vacation en masse. We stayed at the beach, about six or seven families in two or three houses. A dozen adults. A few dozen kids. And yes, we enjoyed it. I didn’t really know there was any such thing as a family vacation that only involved only a nuclear family. To us kids, our parents were interchangeable. To the parents, their kids were interchangeable. Discipline, love, food, money, cars, siblings — all were shared. Although we didn’t live together, we may as well have. It was the closest thing you’d ever get to a hippie socialist commune in the conservative, Bible-belt South.

Thank God it’s never changed.

We’ve never grown out of it. That big group of parents are still friends. They still get together almost every Friday night. And us kids are still close. Though life has often flung us apart like scatter shot, we have clung to each other. Whether it’s a result of the sting of misery from some terrible shared experiences or the camaraderie forged by rarely being separated, something in us all is like a magnet, a compass. We feel, without knowing, that we can never be pulled apart. We are each other’s North Star.

This past weekend, I got to hang out with some of my family/friends (to me that’s kind of like sister/wife, in a non-creepy, non-religious way). We don’t all live in the same area, so getting together is all too often a rarity. But whenever I do spend time with them, it does my soul good. It’s cleansing. It’s reinvigorating. It’s validating. And at times, it’s hard. I can’t help but get into comparisons with those who are doing “better” than I am. And I can’t help but fall to pieces over the commingled pain I share with those who aren’t doing so well. Like it or not, I am attached to them, like Siamese twins. We may pretend we have separate lives as adults, but in reality, we are conjoined.

These women are my lifeblood. No matter what other friends I find in my life, I can’t imagine anyone else will love me as much as they do. I’d like to see someone try! For even more so than my own flesh-and-blood family, these sisters have taught me what unconditional love is. And for that, I will forever be thankful.

Some of my dearest friends and me in New Orleans. I think we look pretty good for a bunch of middle-aged broads!

Do you know what building this is, or where it is? It’s quite famous. I’ll tell you more about it, and my weekend, a little later.