it's good to be home.
pizza, wine, good friends.
up all night, snow, mulled wine, and downtown chicago.

it's good to be home.
my own bed, board games, and blizzard conditions.

yes, it's good to be home.

where the lovelight gleams

mother nature sure doesn't like me travelling.
when i moved to n.o. i had to drive through the tail end of a hurricane.
now i'm heading north, and there's an icestorm waiting for me in chicago.

if i don't get make it to the windy city tonight, there will be a tidal wave of tears.

Talking to T

I wish I could tell you T's story.

But I can't.

We were reading City of Refuge by Tom Piazza in our class earlier this fall. T reacted very violently to the story. "Why we reading this?" We explained about the purpose of One Book One New Orleans. That wasn't good enough. He wanted to know why Piazza wrote the book. The teacher and I talked about the grieving process.

"T, maybe not for you, but for other people, this is part of the grieving process. It's something they have to do in order to heal."

He shook his head.

"Honestly, T," I said, "I don't think he is telling this story for you. I think he is telling it for people like me who aren't from New Orleans. He's trying to tell your story, so that people who aren't from here will understand why New Orleans is important, why it matters." I meant you in a collective term for all of New Orleans, but T didn't understand it that way. He took it personally, which told me without words, what he went through during the storm.

"I don't appreciate it that. I do not appreciate it."

The conversation ended there. I cannot forget his words or the emotion that shook his voice.

Throughout the session, I continually found myself at odds with working with T. He was great with numbers and was a huge help in helping others with their math problems. His vocality increasingly frustrated me. If T didn't like something, he felt no qualms about expressing it. He spoke relatively freely, asking whatever was on his mind.

When I asked the students to write a short essay about what they would suggest a tourist to do in New Orleans, he quietly leaned over to ask me some questions. Knowing I was a newcomer to New Orleans, he asked, "So, lemme just ask you. Whatchu think about all the murders going on in this city?" I'd like to imagine that I kept my face straight holding a steady expression, but in my memory, my mouth gaped open like a fish and I could only blink while drawling out, "Weeell..." Thankfully the teacher distracted us, and the conversation was lost.

T came in one day after Thanksgiving, asking for make-up work because he would miss class due to a funeral. He didn't say much, but I knew it was a death that could have been prevented. After that, T's attendance was spotty.

Last night we handed out the post-session test. T called me over during the test to argue about one of the math questions. "Just look at that. None of those answers are right. I'm not asking you for the answer, but how'm-i supposed to answer that if none of these answers are right? Just look?" Mind you, this test, the Test of Adult Basic Education, is a nationally recognized test. There's really no arguing with it. After he handed in his test, T said, "I just gotta problem with a coupla things on that test." This came, of course, as no surprise. I followed T outside the classroom to talk about the test. Some of his complaints had to do with criticism of the class, the teacher, and myself, and I wanted to address it.

After his short tangent was done, I asked T how he was doing outside of the classroom. And not everything came out, but an awful lot did. He told me about things that were going on in his life, things about his past, and who he used to be. His story astounded me. As he continued to talk, I kept hearing the voices of criticism that tried to prevent me from moving here. But T's voice stilled all of that worthless prattle, with a powerful message that said, "I am here for change. Don't give up on me. I'm not worth giving up on."

I wish I could tell you everything he said here, but I know, based on his reaction to City of Refuge, he would not care for me to share. In fact, he'd probably be angry if he knew I'd written this, even though I haven't used his name. Change can happen. T is proof of it.

A Series

***********
Cultish.

Saturday I waited for the Canal streetcar to take me downtown. Usually whilst I wait, I have nothing to watch but traffic. Not true on Saturday. There was a man standing near my stop with posterboards. He wore a stocking cap, a fumanchu, and an orange county choppers tshirt. The first poster had an arrow and said "Cult this way." As I approached the streetcar stop, I was a little concerned I would be solicited to join a cult, and maybe kidnapped, and forced to call someone "master." The 'Cult this way' sign didn't seem to be a very effective measure of recruitment, if you asked me (which he didn't) because I found it unlikely that someone would turn their car down a side street to hunt down the meeting place of this obscure cult.

The next sign read, "HONK IF YOU HATE SCIENTOLOGY." This confused me even more. Was his cult a rivalling Scientology? Several cars honked. Mr. Fumanchu crossed back and forth between the boulevard waving the sign at the traffic. Finally I saw the Scientology office across the street. His signs made sense then. I must admit I was a little disappointed that he wasn't advertising his own cult. :-/


**********
Dinner.

My roommate and her friend went out for oysters that evening. None of us had ever had one, and since Chrissy and I celebrate the days of our birth in December and her friend was leaving town, we agreed oysters would be a perfect way to celebrate.

We ordered an appetizer of charbroiled oysters, and were looking at the other oyster options. "OOooh, oyster shooters!" Kristen said. "Let's get one." Fine. Let's get oyster shooters when there are no descriptions of what they are. I assumed that they were raw oysters on the half shell. It made sense to me.

I was a little thrown when the waiter asked how old we were (No one ever asks for your i.d. down here, just how old you are). "I didn't know you had to be a certain age to eat oysters," I said. "Maybe it's because they're natural aphrodisiacs."

WRONG.

The waiter brought oyster shooters for the three of us. My stomach flipped. It was a shotglass with orange, brown, and clear. "Oh no. This can't be good." And it really wasn't. How do you gulp down vodka, oyster, and cocktail sauce? It is very difficult. I almost didn't make it. It was the most painful thing I've ever put in my mouth, even worse than the goldfish I was dared to swallow in college. Even at this moment, I still feel squeamish about that shooter.

Let us speak of this no more.

*********
Bears Game.

I haven't watched any Bears games since I've moved to N.O. I know full well that I could go to a bar and watch the game by myself and meet other Chicago fans, but that just has little to no appeal to me. I looked forward to December 11 since I found out in September that was the date of the Saints/Bears game.

My friend Caitlyn picked me up. We were going to watch the game at my favorite local establishment, Finn McCools. "What is that?" Her voice pointed in disgust at my hat.

"A Bears hat."

"Molly, this is New Orleans."

"I know. And I'm a Bears fan."

"I'm not walking into the bar with you."

I got looks from strangers as I made my way through the bar. "Are you really from Chicago?" someone asked. "And they still served you?"

Our friends had seats at a table underneath the tv. There place was crowded and there were no more stools left...Leaving me to stand directly underneath the tv. The man next to me kept shouting at the tv. Then he'd look at me. Then he'd shout at the tv. On commercial breaks, he would tell me just exactly what the Bears were doing to foul it up for the Saints. After several beers, his anger at the Bears started to melt, and he started to hit on me.

"Uh, your girl sent me over here to talk to you. She said you liked me."

"Oh she did? I don't think she did." Caitlyn and I had just finished a conversation about how he was staring at me, and how I was not interested in the least.

"Yeah, she said she knows you real well, and that you would want to talk to me."

"Uh, I don't think so."

"Yeah."

"Well....I have a boyfriend."

"Why would she do this to me?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Well, now I feel stupid."

(And I thought: good mission accomplished.) And after all of that, he bought me a beer, and we quit talking.

As the gamewent into overtime, everyone was biting nails. The Saints fans waited for the team to blow it, while I waited for the Bears to screw it up. After the game was over, I tried not to smile too big....But it was still a little too much because I got booed at on my way out of the bar.

I <3 Chicago.
(only two more days until the windy city....)

Christmas Sailing

last night i went to a grown-up christmas party.
i managed to spill my cranberry drink on the gorgeous pottery barn rug and in my shoe. i took my shoe off, and made for the kitchen for paper towels. i almost slipped on the hardwood floor because my feet were still wet. i am physically incapable of being a grown up.

at least, though, the bells of christmas will always ring for me.

Closer to Wonderland

When I moved to NOLA, the prospect of not dealing with winter in the traditional Chicago sense was more than appealing. Ice, snow, long underwear, radiators, and drafty apartments were a thing of the past. I aimed to have a sexy little tan when I returned to the North for the holidays(And I do. At least a little.). The snow and the cold get a little depressing after a while. I liked the idea of avoiding the Winter Blues this year.

This year, however, I've suffered from a different strain of the Winter Blues. The weather stayed nice. It never dipped to freezing. It gets brisk for a few days, and then out of nowhere the warmth and humidity are too much for my favorite turtleneck that I've been dying to wear. I'm not begrudging the weater too much, since I do ride my bike to work every day and I don't have gloves or a hat. The other night on my bike ride home, it felt more like late fall to me than winter because leaves were falling and crackling, the temperature was brisk, and the wind was blowing through me.

As a Mid-Westerner, I'm used being prepared to experience all four seasons in the same day. Or just freezing cold at this time of years. It's hard to maintain a consistent temperature in the classrooms, and the teacher likes to keep it cold because she is constantly moving around. The students would rather have it warm. Whenever the cold air kicks on, I wrap my scarf around my neck or put on my jacket. My students used to look at me like I'm crazy. "Molly, what are you doin'?" "Putting my scarf on..." "Why?" I shrugged. "Because I'm cold." "Why don't you just turn the air off?" "......I'm from Chicago....We just deal with layers, and don't mess with the temperature." They're learning not to question my methods.

This year I've suffered from a different variety of the Winter Blues. No snow. No cold weather. The christmas season doesn't feel like the Christmas season because there isn't the brisk smell of cold air and snow, no cheeks flushed red with cold.

Then this morning, my Winter Blues fever broke. I was snuggled into my cozy bed, dreaming about gloves (I really need some good ones for my bike and these were SUPER cool ones that lit up. Oh dream gloves.). My phone woke me up, beeping the annoying sound of three missed texts.
"Snow!"
"It's snowing!"
"What did you do?! It's snowing in NO!"
I couldn't believe it.

Then "away the window I flew like a flash, tore open the shutters and threw up the sash!"
Or more appropriately: Away down the hall I ran without socks, threw open the front door and fought the iron work's lock.....
And there it was. The cure for my Winter Blues. Snow. Everywhere. Slush. Most importantly, the smell of winter, the smell of snow, the smell of Christmas. It smelled fresh and new, and cleared my sinuses of all the Blues buildup.

I grinned on my front porch in my pj shorts, sweatshirt, and leg warmers. I wanted to turn on Christmas music and dance in the street. Across the street, the neighbors walked by with their hoods up and their hands in their pockets. I grinned even bigger and waved. They were unresponsive.

I made a big pot of coffee and opened the curtains in the kitchen. The smell of the cold air is slowly permeating the kitchen because I keep opening the door to look at the snow. It's already beginning to melt, but I don't mind. It was just the thing to clear up the winter blues, and get me prepared for Illinois weather.

I can't wait to get back to the Mid-West where the Winter Blues are of a different variety.

I love this time of year. I really do.

I'm Out of Material

I'm having a writing crisis.
I don't know what to write about, and should I have an inspiration, I don't know how to write it. They say that if you force yourself to write, then you'll get something eventually. Somehow, I can't see how that will happen.

Worse, I can't even make myself write. And worst of all, I can't see what the point of writing is anyway.

Any topic suggestions would be most lovely.

Maybe I'll bring Hal back. He's the character of my life. It would be foolish to let a man like that out of my life.

WTF NOLA + Craigslist

craigslist missed conncetion forum (my one true love)

Original Post:

WTF? Single Men in NOLA? - w4m

Reply to: pers-940156848@craigslist.org [?]
Date: 2008-12-01, 11:11AM CST

Three thirty-somethings wondering if y'all could answer a couple of questions for us... 1) Do we have to date fifty-five year-olds? Really? 2) Do we have to date twenty-two year-olds? Really? 3) Is every thirty-something straight male in NOLA married or broken?
and 3a) If not, where in the hell do they hang out?

Inquiring minds want to know...

kisses, single, straight girls.

My Response:

Re: WTF? Single Men in NOLA? - w4m

Reply to: pers-941513551@craigslist.org [?]
Date: 2008-12-01, 11:54PM CST

while we're wtf-ing, maybe someone can shed some light on this too....

wtf is with the absurd number of men that wear pleated khaki pants?
i've never experienced a phenomenon quite like this.





seriously though. they're everywhere: ugly pleats and bad bowl cuts. why would you ever do that to yourself? WHY?!