Post-Vacay Blues

Day One Back on the Job

The college was out of session the Tuesday I got back from Britani's wedding, but not the GED department. We're dedicated to life-long learning in the Adult Education department. Anyway, apparently someone was hosting some big fanfare for the Junior Achievement program that Delgado hosts. They day started off nicely, when I was led to my classroom by a fifth grade marching band.

There are a significant number of pregnant women that pass through our GED programs. I'm not talking a small three or four months along. I'm talking the kind of pregnant where she is only 6 months along and looks like she's going to pop any minute sort of pregnant. And it has never even crossed my mind that a lady could be so pregnant that she might have her baby in my class. Thank God that isn't what happened. Close enough though.

There was a knock on the classroom door, and one of the janitors was there, asking for my boss. She wasn't there, so I stepped out into the hallway to see if I could handle the problem. The janitors and campus police have surrounded one of our students who is big pregnant and sitting in a chair. Sam, a female police officer, is asking the 19 year old girl questions and calling for an ambulance. Meanwhile, inside the classroom to which she belongs, testing is going on, and the teacher thinks she stepped out because she has gas.

Between campus police, the janitors, campus police, and me all pummeling her with questions, we got her into my empty classroom and called her mother. Suddenly, as if compelled by his spidey-sense, my boss Sean and father of 4 (with a fifth due any day), appears out of nowhere. He asks the poor girl question after question, and explains to her about what a contraction is about. I had to leave the room when he asked her, "Do you understand the birthing process?" As the only person without kids in the room, I was already uncomfortable. But there was no way in hell that I was going to take it to the limit and listen to Sean explain what was about to happen to this 19 year old girl's body.

The story resolves nicely. The girl is fine, the bun is in the oven, and I will never again listen to Sean talk about childbirth.

In Rapid Succession

August is over, and now September is almost over. It is time to get back to blogging again.

Things got a little out of control in August. It all started with a nice trip back to Illinois. I have never cried when I got home, nor when I left, until then. It had been eight whole months since I had back there! I take back all of the bad things I've said about Illinois (except about Blago because that is all true). It was soothing to be back where my roots are.

I have a new place and new roommates, and things are , and so far things are going swimmingly at the new house. I never knew what a gift central air was until I spent a year without it. I 'm not kidding you when I tell you I have thanked God for it every day since I moved in. We've christened the new place Circus Circus. I'll get pics up eventually.

Still working on my tan and summer goals, since it is going to be summer for a few more months. I must say, I've done a pretty good job accomplishing them so far. As long as it is hot outside and not scarf weather, I'm going to consider it summer....Many goals still yet to be accomplished.

Current goal for self improvement: hang mini blinds in my room and blog twice a week. I need a new theme...because this blogging from what's going on in my mind is making me lazy, as you can well see.

I'm out like sauerkraut.

To All Bugs of Louisiana and The World:

Please stop biting me. I know it's sort of your livelihood and all, but it's ruining mine. I can't afford to have an eggplant-esque infection or break out in hives and go to the doctor every time you're hungry.

Best regards,

Mosely.

Wallets and Such Like

About a week ago, I was out for my roommate's birthday. It wasn't late, only about 11:30 pm, and we were at a bar in the Bywater neighborhood called Vaughn's (recently featured on HBO's Treme). I walked her out to my car to put one of her birthday presents ( a homemade pinata because, duh, we're grown-ups) in the car. As we were about to leave, a teenage kid solicited us to use our cell phones. We we said no, he pulled out a hand gun, and proceeded to solicit us for our money. Naturally, we obliged. Fortunately, my car keys were in my hand and phone was stashed in, ahem, a pocket. The kid didn't get much from me: credit/debit cards some gum, Tylenol, my $7 man's wallet, my favorite purse, and my $300 William Sonoma gift card (WHICH I bled for) , and from Jennie: her cell and work phone, keys, camera and maybe about 40 bucks. I'm sure he was disappointed that neither of us even had any lipstick in there. Just kidding. All in all, it was a pretty scary situation, but I handled it pretty well. Plus the detective was a major babe, and I totally got his card. ....Ok, ok, for informational purposes only, but still.

FAST FORWARD A WEEK.

I now have my new credit card and one of my new debit cards. I'm even sporting a new purse and wallet, an AWESOME gift from my Aunt Kathy and cousin Jennifer. I'm wearing the same dress. We had some cocktails and went out dancing. The eveninng draws to a close, and BJ, Lauren, Nick, and I hail a cab home. I planned to crash on their couch, since my car was parked at their house. But the cabbie conveniently went right past my house, so I jumped out and went home.   In my hasty exit from the cab, I failed to put my wallet back in my purse.

What a disappointing Saturday morning to realize that thirty dollars and my brand wallet were gone. My debit card didn't even survive its maiden voyage. Fortunately, I am quite the expert at cancelling debit cards, since I am also quite the expert at losing them. But never in this expediency. It was quite the awkward phone call to Capital One. I enjoyed the rest of the weekend doing nothing.

FAST FORWARD TO MONDAY EVENING

After work, I came home and checked the mail. I was expecting my debit card from my bank in Princeton - which still hadn't arrived from when I cancelled it after the robbery. There was a package in the mailbox. A package! Could it be for me?! I thought. No, I concluded; it never is.

But it was.

My wallet had made it's way back to my house with a note found on the packaging from the kind U.S. Postal Service that said, "Found Loose in Mail." No cash, but all my cards and I.D. were there. Yes. True story. The cabby was a good Samaritan thief who took all my cash and dropped my wallet in the mail. Yes. That happens. Good Samaritan thieves. Let us also note, that had my wallet not been stolen from me a week earlier, and it would have been impossible for me to receive a lost wallet in the mail as I had not updated since  I left my first apartment. And now I might go knock on the door of the people who live in my old apartment to see if my handsome man's wallet with the great i.d. picture ended up on their doorstep.

This is my life. It should be on film.

Summer Haikus

     Robbed
Walk down street: fast, slow.
Boy and gun are tremulous.
Bye bye, wallet, bye!

     I think I'm a Medium
Think it's second sight
Predict: coincidence? No.
Control with my mind.

     Insomnia
4:15 am,
again. House creaks. Eyes heavy.
5:30 am.

      Weather
Sweat drip drips. Skin stick
sticks. Rain, rain, please, rain. Break heat.
A breeze would be nice.

Catch-up

"And the thing they thought was going to destroy them, turned out to be the thing that saved them."

I was devastated when I had to cancel my Alaska trip. I put off canceling the tickets until the last possible minute, hoping that by some miracle, my broken foot would heal and I would leap up well again. Obviously that didn't happen. After some serious self cross-examination, I made myself realize that giving up on the summer would be extremely detrimental to my health. The summer heat coupled with a summer funk would only let me simmer until I went postal on someone. It got a little too hot for a minute, but I grabbed the summer bull by the balls and am well on my way to completing my summer goals. Let me also say, that "summer" for me started when it got hot in April or May and will go til September or October when it isn't hot any more.

Here's a quick recap of what's happened lately.

Late June: Mama and Daddy came to visit. It was so good to spend time with them. It had been six months since I had seen them. They made sure I had plenty of good food to eat. We went to the WWII Museum, the French Market, and for a nice drive down Highway 90 to Mississippi to get a nice view of the country. We also saw some base camps where oil spill cleaners set out.

July 4: I spent the fourth of July in Gulfport, Mississippi. We managed to get some beach time, even though the waters may or may not have been closed. I swam anyway. There was no visible oil, and other people were swimming, so I didn't feel bad about it. We spend most of the afternoon bumming around the pool at the bed and breakfast that we stayed at. Imagine three 20 somethings staying at a b&b that served formerly as a retirement community. There were alcoves every 50 ft so you could sit and rest, handles, in the bathrooms, and the room set up clearly hinted at (and slightly smelled like) a retirement community. Regardless, it was awesome. There were peacocks roaming all over the place like they owned it.

We missed most of the fireworks which made me pretty homesick. We headed up to the Hardrock Casino for hot dogs and burgers (everything else was closed!), and had the best foot long hot dog I've ever eaten. I won $10 on the nickel slot machine (which I promptly lost), and settled for winnings of $3.50.

We closed the night down at a bar called EO's with a Mississippi blues band that knew how to break it down. How is it the blues take you out of your funk, whatever it is, and make you feel alright again?

(I've been listening to a lot of Tab Benoit lately, and I suggest you should, too.)



Last weekend's destination: Georgia. I've never been to Georgia, so I took up my friend Caitlin's offer to go visit her fam. We stayed an hour north of Atlanta in Canton, GA. The scenery was absolutely beautiful, rolling hills, trees, cattle and horses. Aside from the big houses and new developments that were coming in, it looked a lot like I pictured it. My favorite spot was at a turn off a highway. THere was a tiny house surrounded by flowers. Flowers on the porch, flowers hanging from the ceiling, flowers on every inch of yard surrounding it. It was called Corner Flowers or something like that, and it was right across from a general store called the Corner Store. It was lovely.

It was great to spend sometime with a family: cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, everybody. It was much needed. The whole family was so gracious and I felt right at home.

We went out in Atlanta on Saturday. It felt a lot like Chicago...but not like Chicago. It was strange. I suggest if you aren't afraid of bars where your shoes stick to the floor, and I mean REALLY stick to the floor, you go to the Clermont Lounge next time you're in Atlanta.

Well now you're caught up on everything. More soon. Love.

BP is really spoiling my summer plans. I suppose I am partly responsible, since I was planning on driving to the beach. Still.  

I didn't know it was possible, but I may have actually bleached my skin whiter with peroxide. Another major wtf moment in my life. Bye bye tan, and hello splotches!

This sort of reminds me of the time I dyed my hands orange in high school, only with less tears and less musical numbers.

In which I Lose Both my Legs

If having stress fractures and a giant boot on my left leg wasn't enough, I have recently suffered another casualty. Since I had to postpone my trip to Alaska (which is looking completely cancelled at this point), I took off for Florida to camp at Big Lagoon State Park with my friend Ashley and her dog Toby.

The people of Florida seem friendly, but the sentiment has not rubbed off on the insect population. At the beach, I got bit by something. I presumed it was a fire ant or something of the sort. Regardless, the little bugger bit me three times, leaving a tiny triangle of tiny blisters an inch above my right knee. At first it slowly swelled up to the size of a quarter, like a bee sting. But it didn't stop there. By bed time, the bite was the size of my palm. It seemed ludicrous to believe that it would continue to grow. I woke up expecting to find it smaller, but instead, it was hot to the touch, brighter red, and the size of my whole hand.

A few Benadryl later, and it hadn't gone down. I really didn't think much of it until I called my dad for Father's Day, and he suggested going to the emergency room. And my dad doesn't use those words lightly. We are talking about the man who, after I broke both of my arms in early morning basketball practice, asked my mom if I could wait until the doctor's office opened at nine o'clock.

I hemmed and hawed about going, and went over to my friend Nick's house to watch Trueblood and Treme  on HBO as per usual Sunday night. Nick is cut of the same cloth as my dad when it comes to going to the hospital. He usually tells me to be man about things like injuries, so when his face screwed up in disgust at the red softball sized lump on my leg, I figured it might be time.

After being quizzed about my antibiotic allergies by the E.R. doctor, he gave me a script Cypro and sent me on my way. The redness and swelling hasn't gone down, but the temperature has.  The kicker is this: He told me to elevate my feet as much as possible and to stay off them. I know I should be doing that anyway with my broken foot, but sitting still isn't in my nature. I don't have much of a choice any more since I don't have any legs left.

If anyone would care to purchase a Hoveround for me, it would be put to good use. I promise.

Louisiana is for Lovers

Pictures from adventuring around: Bayou Boogaloo, City Park, the Quarter, and etc.

As my cousin Elena pointed out, someone's hand to get r.e.a.l.l.y. close to someone else's dog poo.

"Tarot card readings. True and professional." 

 Same guy: "Psychic Readings, Very Accurate!"

Baby trumpeter with Stooges Brass Band

The Dancin' Man with Stooges Brass Band

Yes, he is wearing a sash, and, yes, it says Dancin' Man. It didn't last long in the heat though. After a few tunes Dancin' Man lost his shirt and sash. He was so cut. I am pretty sure it is because he dances everywhere he goes. He has a  jive walking dance that if I could do it, I would be cut, too.

  "Feel free to sit in my chair while I'm out dancing! Happy fest!"

I did feel free.

Neighbor and resident movie star, Earl Maddox and roommate and resident cool person, Eva

Zydeco with Tab Benoit and Beausoleil

(Tab's a major babe.)

I don't know if "itch" is something you necessarily want to advertise at a bar. Maybe that's just me.

Dried fish in Central Grocery Store about to eat my face off.

That's all for now. More another day.

 

Happy 72nd!

You never know what you're getting into when you sign up for anything. When I started working at Angelo Brocato's, I thought I was just getting a job. Instead, I ended up with a new group of wild women in my life that have taken me in and treated me like family. We range in age from 18-72. And the party doesn't stop.

Monday night was Ms. Mickey's 72nd birthday. Ms. Mickey has never been married and doesn't have children of her own. The girls have sort of adopted her and she has sort of adopted them (although I think if she had to choose between the girls and her doll collection, I wouldn't count on her picking any of us!). Since I started working at Brocato's I heard stories about Mickey's birthday dinner at Irene's. I wasn't invited the first year- It's sort of a special thing, they told me. Don't feel bad if you weren't invited.

This year I was invited. It was one of the most wonderful nights in my time in New Orleans so far.

Despite the rain, we met at Irene's for an aperitif. When we were finally seated, a huge bouquet of flowers hand made by one of the wait staff engulfed the table. Mickey was a celebrity at this joint. The owners and the staff just daunted over her, and the rest of the customers stared like we were important. And duh, we were. We were with Ms. Mickey!

After a difficult decision, we ordered dinner. After complimentary bruschetta and caprese salads, we dove into our appetizers. I have never had escargot before, but it changed my life. It was unbelievable. Imagine a giant mushroom topped with tomato, basil, and garlic, and other heavenly deliciousness on top of  a bread crust. My mouth is watering just thinking about it. I expected it to be rubbery, but no. It fell apart easily. The only chewy part is what I assume is the little part that helps the snail walk. The escargot was followed by Oysters Irene, oysters with tomatoes and pancetta. Delicious!

Between the appetizers and the main course we had a light, tart, lime sorbet to cleanse our palets. And then....The main course. I had veal. I can never resist it. The veal marsala was so good that I nearly cried. I am not exaggerating. I almost did. I can't speak about this any more because I am so sad it's gone.

Finally, Irene herself and the entire wait staff brought out a four layer chocolate and strawberry cake. The entire restaurant  stopped and sang happy birthday with us to Ms. Mickey. It was awesome.

When dinner was through, we walked to Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop, the oldest bar in New Orleans (a small challenge for me). When I came out of the bathroom, the girls were gone. They had left their crippled friend at the bar while they walked up the street to look at Ms. Mickey's old house! Fortunately, they came back to join me for a cocktail. And of course, charming Ms. Mickey in her sparkley blouse and done up hair caught the eye of the staff. After she had a couple of pina coladas, she put on her dancing shoes when the piano player started playing Elvis for her. And then he played Louisiana LeRoux's "New Orleans Ladies" , our song. And once again, all of the patrons stared at this loud, wild group of women, dressed to the nines, cocktails in hands, singing along.

The night ended with us stopping at the former Angelo Brocato's, established in the French Quarter in 1905, to take pictures. We all took turns posing in front of the tiling that says "Angelo Brocato's, 1905, Ladies Entrance."

There are moments that I am unsure if I'm in the right place doing the right thing. But it's nights like these that I wouldn't change my life for anything.

 

Grizzly

Well, I guess I can cross Alaska off my summer goals list.

As in it isn't going to be happening kind of crossing off. Thanks to this guy. (Don't let my smiling face deceive you. I didn't know then what I know now.)

At least I have a $640.00 airline credit and a $150 rebooking fee waiting for me at both United and Continental airlines.

The last thing I want to do in Louisiana is celebrate the Summer Solstice. It just seems so wrong and somewhat, I don't know, satanic to do that in a place where it is so hot.

Louisiana Saturday

I was getting a little stir crazy in New Orleans. I needed open spaces, windows down, country music up, and a long drive to clear my head. Nothing's wrong, but the past few weeks have been exhausting. Between work and work things, GED graduation, two fun months of visitors almost every weekend, a stress fractured foot, all the things that are here there, and all the things that are neither here nor there, I just needed a break. And not the kind of break where I drive to Mississippi and sit on the beach. No, the kind of break where I'm out in the country and there's wind and fresh air and lots of country music radio stations.

I almost took off on my own and hopped on the interstate for a long drive, which I do sometimes when I need to drive. I'm too afraid to explore the back roads of Louisiana by myself. More uncertain than afraid, I guess. I really wouldn't know what to do if I ran over a gator or something.

So I called my friend Nick, and we decided to head to Denham Springs, Louisiana in search for some nice  bottles for our limoncello that we're making. Nick is my friend because a.) he drives a pick-up truck, b.) he likes country music, c.) he doesn't mind driving with the windows down, and c.) because he says things like, "Well, this might take a little longer, but I want to avoid the interstate." All of these are things I am down with, but those were just the words I needed to say.

As we crossed Lake Ponchatrain on the Causeway (a bridge that is 23 miles long that goes from New Orleans to the north shore of the lake, )  there were clouds a-brewing west of us, bolts of lighting shooting down. As I have no sense of direction in this state, I didn't know that very shortly we would be turning into those clouds.

It started raining when we hit the short of interstate we had to take I didn't mind that it was raining because I wasn't driving. I didn't mind that it was pouring because I wasn't driving. I started to mind when the rain was coming down sideways. Buckets, cats and dogs, or downpour does not describe this rain. I would say that monsoon is applicable. Instead of white outs with snow, the rain came down so heavily that it was literally impossible to see anything. And of course,  being the good backseat driver that I am, I asked Nick if he wanted to pull over at Robert, LA, the next exit. No. Being the man that he is, he politely refused. We weren't fifty feet past the exit when lighting struck a tree  next to us, and the most thunderous clap of thunder I have ever heard shook his truck. Nick kept driving. I could only sit there with my hands folded, and we did not talk while we tried to regain our composure. When we drove out of the storm, Nick said, "See, I knew it would blow over. . . . . . . . . But I might have a streak in my drawers."

The venture to the antique was completely foiled after we exited for Denham Springs. I should have known we weren't going to make it when we came to a T stop and Nick said, "I can't remember which way to downtown." We went right, mostly because there was a sign offering karate classes, and the first two were free. When we hit Walker, Nick said, "Well, we're not in Denham Springs any more." "Do you want to turn around?" "Nope." And so began our one hour to an antique store turned into an eight hour Sunday drive on Saturday afternoon.

Yes, eight hours. The windows were down, the music was up, and I kept my fractured foot elevated out the window of the car. At every intersection or junction, we took turns deciding which way to go. We saw some great barbecue places (you know it's good if there's a restaurant in the middle of nowhere with a giant inflatable pig in a chef's hat in the yard.) We tried to get to the river, and to a Civil War battlefield, but it closed right as we got there. By five o'clock, we'd made it all the way to St. Francisville, Louisiana. Which now that I think about isn't much of a feat, but considering that we made it anywhere at all, I'm pretty proud of that.

We had dinner at a WASP-y version of a Mexican restaurant. The view was amazing. It was in a valley next to the river. It was beautiful and quiet. It was so quiet that we didn't even talk while we ate, just let the bees buzz and the birds chirp.

The drive back was even more beautiful. I will suggest Louisiana State Highway 16 to anyone who loves scenic drives as much as I do. The only problem is the serious lack of bathrooms. If you ever find yourself in Amite, LA, do not even bother asking if the gas stations have bathrooms because they don't. And if they did, you would probably not like them. But the good thing is that the clientèle outside the gas stations are friendly enough to offer to sell you weed and painkillers. Because really they are just thinking of you - especially when they see the giant walking cast on your leg. I never thought I'd say it, but thank God for Piggly Wiggly.

Eight hours later, after successfully avoiding the interstates for as much as possible, I am home again. And I feel just right. Well, maybe a little sore in the backside from so much sitting. And I do not want to try to comb my hair out. And I'm still limoncello bottle-less. And I did have to pee at a Piggly Wiggly....Louisiana Saturday afternoons turn into Louisiana Saturday nights.

GED Graduation

GED graduation was a few weeks ago. It was incredibly inspiring. I couldn't help bursting with pride. There was an incredible local support. The featured speaker was Lance E. Nichols, a successful actor born, raised, and returned to New Orleans. It was so much fun, and I am so proud of every one of my students. Here are some pictures to show off my students! All of our hard work over the past two years has paid off!

Waiting for Pomp and Circumstance

 

Group photo that didn't turn out so great.... James Appel, the camera is straight in front of you!

GED recipients of the Greater New Orleans Area

Josh

Emmanuel and his parents

Carol - who bought an air horn and planned to blow it as she walked across the stage....until her husband took it from her.

Trineil whose name I've been saying wrong for the past year and didn't know it until the day of graduation.  Her favorite past time is giving me grief.

Cherlyn...whose name I've been saying wrong for the past two years....Thanks, girl. Gonna miss having her around though...she keeps me in my place! 

Practically family.

From top: Erin, coworker, Natasha, and Isabelle, coworker  

Natasha through an awesome party that we were very sad to leave. Crawfish, the best barbecue I have ever eaten, a bottle of  Crown, and a trampoline. We left before it got wild.

This doesn't sum up the past two years, but it's close as I'll be able to get.  

you know it's hot when you don't have to go to the bathroom at all because your body is secreting waste entirely through your sweat glands.

The thing that makes me happiest, the thing I wish I could do forever, is to laugh.

Names

Too legit to quit, man. Call me if you want me to read this list to you. You should hear the pronunciation for the full effect.

Pronounced: Kee-yahnna. A Study in Visual Effects

Keeyana
Keyanna
Kiana
Kianna
Keianna
Quianna

Ends in Nisha

Aaronisha
Bisha
Eri'keisha
Jameisha
Kevinisha
Lakiesha
Lakrisha
Willanisha


Ends in -ika or Close

Jonika
Juaneka
Rosaszeka
Shamika
Shannika
Tamieka
Terrinika
Tramika
Wandrica

Dominic
Dominique
Monique
Sherlrick
Tarik


Rhymes with Coco Chanel

Chanel
Chanelle
Shanelle
Shantelle
Shawtell
Sherelle
Shuntell
Sheena
Shereena
Kechelle
Kentrell
Gaidrelle
Jacquel
Jonquel
Janelle
Jeanelle
Dorishell
Niagelle
Nichelle
Trenel


And the Mens

Jamal
Jemell
Leonel
Cornell
Terrell
Ternel
Trelvin
Delton
Darrell
Darryl
Diamond
Dujuan
Dwayne
Dwight
Jawayne
Jermaine
Jarrard
Jenero
Errol
Louis
Louis
Louis
Cornie
And Mr.Charles


And Honorable Mention, Although Not Poetic nor Rhyming.

Adonirum
Addonis
Ava
Cinnamon (bonafide nickname)
Duran Duran
Hilda
Jazzman (Pronounced like it is spelled. Jazz Man.)
Josie
Kissier
Kenethra
Marva
Mildred
Meatball (bonafide nickname)
Rosetta
Sassey
Violetta
Valencia

Stew

Stew
When I think about all the things in this world
that I can't do because there's just not enough time
and never enough money,
I simmer loneliness to refine bitterness.


Off-Kilter
The grocery store on a busy day always makes
me cranky and nervous and sad. With your arms full of groceries,
you tie my infantile tongue and trip me on your invitation.
Milk, detergent, apples, spinach?
You make me cranky and nervous and mad.


Inside
Is just as dusty as outside and hotter.

Summer Goals

A yearly tradition for me (established circa 2002) is to write a list of summer goals. And so goes this year's summer goals, which even admist adversity, I believe is totally accomplishable.

Summer Goals 2010

-Alaska (conquer) ....Check step one. Bought plane tickets for June 18-26. I will be there for the longest day of the year! Hello Summer Solstice and friend Josh Brown!

-Stock up on strawberry beer, so that it is accessible after it goes out of season

-Establish a poker night

-Learn to play a decent hand of poker

-Catch a fish and learn to clean it (this has been on the list since approximately 2005 and is still has yet to be accomplished in full)

-Baby pool party in the backyard

-Beach it - near and farther

-Mini-vacay as often as possible

-Go camping

-Go to the Insectatarium and WWII Museum

-Keep a basil plant alive

-No tanlines (might be even more challenging now that this oil leak is creeping in on our coastline :( )

-Make new friends

-Start watching baseball

-Go to a Zephyrs game

-High 5 a stranger while one of us is in a car

-Photo scavenger hunt

-Learn to dance Lindyhop

-Write letters (Pen pal anyone?)

-Stay awake for 24 hours (Summer Solstice?! 24 hours of daylight?!)

-Make friends with someone who has a boat/motorcycle/horse/insert something else really cool here (This has also been on the list since 2005...)

-Make something

-Find something

-Go out in St. Bernarnd, the Westbank, the North Shore, and Lafayette

-Make limoncello (check. Nick and I started the 90 day limoncello process on Sunday. It will be a long wait until July when it will be ready.)

-Form a bicycle gang

-Explore parts of New Orleans I don't know

-Complete Summer Goals list

Chivalry

Women are always complaining that chivalry is dead. Men are always complaining that women are complaining about the death of chivalry, but that women are the ones that killed it. Chivalry is not dead. It is still alive and well, but like everything else in this world, it has had to adapt to survive. Women, ignorant women, choose not to see it for what it has become by either setting their expectations to high for their men and consequentially demeaning themselves, or by refusing to accept a simple act meant to show respect. Men, stupid, stupid men think that they can keep chivalry alive in old fashioned ways that are no longer applicable in today, or they completely ignore it all together, operating under the assumption that women will feel demeaned. Both sexes are dangerously ignorant of this age old mating dance.

To clear somethings up, here is a list of what chivalry is and is not.

For the mens, chivalry is not:

-stopping in traffic before a crosswalk to let that female runner cross the street. You both know you don't care about her crossing the street safely, nor are you being polite.

-buying a girl drink and then assuming you are welcome to park next to her for the rest of the night.

-commenting on how attractive a woman is to your friend while she is in earshot.

-talking about how great you are for an entire evening, no matter how funny you are or how great your career is.

-mentioning your wife/girlfriend in a conversation so as not to misinform the girl you're talking to.

For the ladies, chivalry is not:

-talking to guys just so they will buy you drinks.

-being insulted when the mens comment on your goods when you are amply displaying them.

-mentioning your husband/boyfriend in a conversation so as not to misinform the girl you're talking to.

For the mens, chivalry is:

-letting a girl pay for a date without getting upset or embarrassed. I have a job too, dumbass.

-buying a girl a drink, chatting her up for a bit, getting her phone number, staying for just long enough, and then going away. This means not being annoying. If you really want to be impressive, you offer to buy her friends a round, too. This should only be done after you've bought her a drink, she accepted, and she is still talking to you.

-is walking a girl to her car or walking her home.

-doing the dishes if she makes you dinner. Or making her dinner if you cook better.

- opening the door for your lady.

-is believing her if she says she knows what she is doing.

For the ladies, chivalry is:

-is offering to pay sometimes, too. Even if he doesn't always let you.

-is making dinner sometimes. Or doing the dishes if you can't cook.

-still being independent these days, and not look to someone else to do everything for you.

-buying him a round or two.

- verbally acknowledging a man's wedding band when he buys you a drink.

This list is not comprehensive. There are several additions that should be made...Suggestions welcome.

I like lists. So a list of things that have been rolling around in my head of

Things I am Thinking About

1. Buying a hedgehog for a pet

2. New fish in the meantime

3. See the summer solstice from a mountaintop in Alaska

4. Just paid of one of my loans (a small one), but it still deserves a BOOOOOYAHTSKI!

5. April Fools is tomorrow. Brian's dry erase markers + jello = an episode of The Office with more cursing and more tobacco.

6. A new car: sounds nice.

7. A new car: sound really really nice.

8. A new car: sounds like such a commitment and so much work + money

9. Sister and brother-in-law coming soon!

10. Cousin coming soon, too!

11. I suck at plot lines. Seriously. Non-fiction only? If that's the case, then what happens to Hal? Will he be stuck in purgatory forever?

12. I thought about skipping 12.

13. A phone call would be nice.

14. A bike ride would be perfect for this weather.

15. And a picnic.

Dear Chicago,

I miss you at your worst right now. I miss the way you smell, the way the wind blows in my face, and the way the wind blows your worst smell in my face right when I least expect it. I miss the cold, and the way the winter stays until you least expect it. I miss how it is 10 degrees colder down town than it is anywhere else on the brownline. I miss riding the redline late at night with all those freaking weirdos who try to touch my hair, solicite me for money, and tell me that the Sox pitchers are better than the Cubs...until the whole train boos 'em off the car. I miss riding the El, Orange, the Harold Washington Library, and Carols Country Pub. I miss Movies in the Park, even though I only saw half of one, and I miss that dirty old Lake Michigan. I miss riding my bike in the middle of traffic and people who know how to deal with dat. I miss telling people just what I think, and knowing that it's just ok because the people on the street are okay with that. I don't miss Lollapalooza, but I do miss walking on a break and listening to Kanye through the trees and wishing to be free. I miss all the theatres: all the ones I went to and all the ones I didn't go to; museums, too. I miss the snow, and I miss the people who know how to shovel a sidewalk, guard a space, and get outta there because there just isn't any other choice. I miss North Park (a little), King at Neffers (not really), and walking home from the el and the creeps that hollered no mattered how I looked (not really). I miss pizza every block and the best burritos in the world, and I miss boys who bought me a drink even when they didn't have shit to buy one with. I miss 2am being late and 4am being a novelty. I miss driving down Ashland, getting lost downtown, and knowing that Michigan Ave sucks. I wish I had jumped in Buckingham Fountain on my last night in the city, and I miss my Illinois drivers license.

Chicago. I miss you. You haven't seen the best of me yet. New Orleans is making it for you.

Pigeons-2, Molly-0, Cruel Fate-Infinity

Disclaimer: If you find some mild offensive language, well, offensive and by some strange chance actually care for pigeons, then read no further. This blog is not for you.

Seriously.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

My apartment on Jefferson Davis has its pros and cons. Mostly cons, but the pros are pros. Realtors always say "location, location, location" is the key to a good place. I have to say, that is the reason that I took such a shining to this place. It's right on the bayou, two blocks from the streetcar and several good restaurants, and a short jaunt to the park. It was everything I wanted. The ventilation and insulation is atrocious, but the huge front windows, kitchen, and most importantly the balcony are what sold me. And I do say sold. I took one look at the balcony and couldn't get Jeff Davis off my mind (which sounds a little odd to be saying about the Father of the Confederacy). I moved in as soon as I could and took the front bedroom, off the balcony, foregoing having a bathroom in my bedroom so that I could enjoy the great view.

The love for prime real estate transcends boundaries: racial, gender, age, and BEAST. From the very founding of the Brotherhood of 216 (our apartment name), it was impossible to ignore the fact that pigeons had been there first. Dry poop on the porch showed their affinity for the place. Nails protruded upward on any flat landings on the balcony to deter any potential landing pads. There were even nails placed on the air conditioning unit outside my window.

We swept the poo off the porch and thought that was the end of that. It seemed as though the battle had been fought and won. But lo and behold, shortly after I moved in, I awoke to the sounds of pigeons gently cooing in the throes of passion during the wee hours of the morning. Having some previous experience of pigeons roosting on our back porch in college, I knew that this love-making needed to be truncated AS SOON AS POSSIBLE to avoid a long battle that would eventually come to a standstill.

During the Great Pigeon Battle of 2008, the tactic that seemed most effective early on was scaring the pigeons. So as the summer heat of 2009 sweltered and the pigeons cooed lovingly on my air condition, I resorted to my first plan of attack: Throwing shit at them. This actually was deemed quite effective. Because there are blinds on my windows, I could see out, but they couldn't see in, allowing for a perfect sneak attack offensive. When the sounds of hot pigeon sex began to rage in the morning, I screamed, "PIGEON BITCHES!" and launched a pillow at the window. Tiptoeing up to the window, peering out, and banging on the blinds also proved effective. They never knew when I might be there, since pigeons aren't smart enough to figure out my work schedule.

The battle was short, and I was victorious. Little did I know that would not be the end of the pigeons.

Spring has sprung, and all creatures are twitterpated when the weather gets nice and the days get longer. And the pigeon cooing sexy time returned. I groaned and searched my bed for something to throw at the window. I couldn't afford to throw any pillows, so I shouted out in anger, "SHUT UP!" which only proved to be ineffective. When I finally pulled myself from the bed, I checked their former spiky roost on my air condition. No pigeons. No nest. They must've learned their lesson good and roosted elsewhere.

And then I noticed it. Little sticks. An assortment of sticks tangled around the nails on the air condition. "This cannot be happening again," I said to myself. "They are not building a bunker to start a war again." Hopes in vain. Hopes dashed on the nails of a pigeon prevention board that CLEARLY is not doing its job.

The morning love making routine resumed, only quieter and more sporadic. I resumed my sneak attack tactic. But someone must have warned those bitches about it because it didn't phase them. They flew the coop and then flew back only minutes later. I mentally pulled up my Great Pigeon Battle '08 tactic book. How would I put something like a stuffed animal on the nest? I decided to hold off on that option for extreme circumstances, but considered putting a stuffed animal in the window. What pigeon wouldn't be afraid of a stuffed purple cow?!

I prepared to put the plan into action. Then I saw it. The nest had transformed from a hob-nob assemblance of sticks into a nest held together by nails. And resting gently amid this torture chamber nest was a white thing. AN EGG.

AW. HELL. NAW. YOU DIDN'T. OOOOOOH GIRL, YOU DID.

This battle just got UGLY. I returned to sneak attack with such a ferocity, that those pigeons didn't know what happened to them. I'd scare them off, knowing with a matter of time that they would be back to snuggle that little egg. I opened the blinds, and stood out of their line of vision, until they flew back. And just when they thought it was safe, I'd get 'em good.

But since, I (shockingly) have a life, I can't be there on guard for every minute of the day. And they returned. THIS TIME TO LAY ANOTHER DAMN EGG. Oh you wily pigeon bitches, bring it on.

After consulting my advisers, I decided opening the window adjacent to the air condition would allow me to sweep off the nest. WRONG. The window DOESN'T OPEN. All my brute strength in the world is not helping me.

So we are at a standstill. Although the sneak attacks have scared them off for the time being, it is just a matter of time. If I learned anything from the GPB08, it is that pigeons are the stupidest creatures on the planet with the shortest memory next to a goldfish. Which means, any minute, now, I will be suffering the sounds of pigeons sexy coos.

The window is stuck. The pigeons have TWO eggs. And all I've got is a sneak attack and a window that won't open. I might have to call in snipers extraordinaire, Nick and Noel. The saga will be continued and pictures of the nest to follow. . . .

Wednesday.

Tonight I practiced being bored. I don't really know the last time I didn't do anything. After a ten hour work day of being diplomatic, polite, encouraging, stern, and organized, I needed to do nothing. Literally nothing.

You have absolutely no idea how deep the ot do anything work ethic runs in your veins until you try to do nothing. I sat on my balcony and listened to WWOZ do their spring pledge drive. I refused to think about anything, but I kept ticking off a list of things that needed to do. I should call friends I haven't talked to in a while. I should do the dishes. I should pick up my room. I should, I should, I should. Every time I was near to standing up, I wondered how much longer I could sit there.

So I watched the cars going by. And I watched the clouds going by. I listened to the cicadas. I felt the humidity on my skin. I noticed the way the oak trees looked against the night sky, and the way the street like across the street shined just a little like Christmas lights. I looked at the old abandoned hospital that is catty-corner from my house and noticed how even it was beautiful in the witching hour. I imagined myself dancing to the blues and jazz on the radio.

I was truly bored. I haven't been bored in so long. It's a fascinating novelty. I can't say it is a habit I am going to enjoy forever. But tonight it was a choice. It was a lovely choice for a Wednesday.

Here a thing, there a thing, everywhere there's things things

I'm horribly afraid of messing things up. Any things. Big things, little things, work things, home things, outside things, indoor things, my things, your things, things things things!

My friend and co-work Beej knows me better than anyone down here. I don't know what this man is made of, but he has been patient with me when I have been strategizing on how not to mess up my things. And it always seems that the moment when the moment of brilliancy (as I like to call it) strikes me, Beej knocks it all down like a pile of blocks when he says, "Hey, Mose, what are you tryin' so hard for?" Call him my best friend, my life-coach, the Greek chorus in the saga of my life, my translator when it comes to the opposite sex. He manages to be neutral when all I want is someone to tell me what to do, and tells me what to do when I throw everyone else to the wind. Which maybe isn't what the Greek chorus does, and anyway, Beej isn't Greek, he's Creole. Anyway, the point of this post isn't to talk about how great Beej is, even though he does give a mean high five.

The point is, I spend too much of my time worrying myself about that whole Dr. Suess list of things. And I got the best advice from him. Which I know I've heard before. But it never made sense like this. "Just don't mess it up today," he said. Which I like. I can handle today. It's tomorrow that makes me worry. Not messing up right now seems so much more manageable.

Reread for Review

Boxes of Brown
molly losey

In those days we buried people in boxes brown
wood. We traded our smiling flushed faces for black
sullen ones. We ate humble pie and branded ourselves red
with guilt for what we could have done, and we hated the shade
of the grass. It was still green, still alive
when the people we loved were dead.

Remorse comes togehter with the smell of cypress and the dead
air of the sanctury matched the shade
the preacher prayed. His heavy, black
typewritten words with a gold paved certainty they were still alive
someplace beyond the brown
earth in which we were about to leave them and their red

sweaters. We cried hollow tears, ones that were red,
guilty, responsible, maybe. They were the dead
ones, but we, we were just as cold and black,
as inwardly lifeless as skin faded from brown
to an unmoving gray. We hastened to shade
ourselves from such a fate, absorbing the sacraments and coming alive

again. Now it’s a novelty, this being alive;
contradicted by the shade
of sackcloth reasoning and prayer that browns
and wilts with the heat of the slow burning fire. Thirsty and red,
forever at our backs faith won’t settle for dead,
will never leave us charcoaled and black.

Skirts and suits are embraces of black,
their toothy mouths slopping out red
words from the New Testament. Alive
as they say, means that the only dead
is sin. The living suffering the blandness of brown,
a dull sorry existence, an unpolished shade.

The day for us ended with the closing of windows and drawing of shades.
Tomorrow will be new, shining, alive.
We, we though, will have eyes that are red,
hearts that know only what it is to be black,
aching in such a way that we, too, become dead
and buried in a box that is brown.

In the black brown shade of the lonely red earth,
if the dead are weeping and gnashing their teeth,
and their red, tearstained stories tell they’re yet, yet alive.

--fall 2007

I will never never forget how I felt when I wrote the first draft of this poem and shared it with my poetry class. Never.

I have many special skills in life. One such skill is seeing Mark Twain in many places and stages of his life. Yes, I know that this sounds absurd. I know that it does, but it is true. I have come to believe that I will encounter him in every stage of his life before I die. And since he's already dead, I guess I will encounter him once more. That is if we end up in the same place. It's hard to say where he went.

My first encounter with Mark Twain, or if you care to get more personal, Samuel Clemens, was actually here in New Orleans. It was Halloween night last year, and being a socially concientius person, he opted for the public transportation rather than drinking and driving to the downtown Halloween Festivities. He was a bit past his prime; he'd reached the age of white suits with the black tie that we all seem to connect with him. He spoke in his deep and charming southern accent, excused himself when he squeezed through the train, and said yes and thank you ma'am to women on the train. I was not fortunate enough to get to speak with him.

But did you know that Mark Twain is actually involved in present day adult education? When you think about, you probably say to yourself, "huh, that makes sense." Didn't you?! I'm sure I heard you.

Yes, I sat next to Mark Twain yesterday in a test-training professional development I had to go to. He's quite tall, silent, and a little intimidating. He was in a younger stage of life than last time I saw him. His hair was starting to change. It was white, shot through with some strawberry blond, but long and combed back. His beard was still red and his eyes were the kind of blue that terrifies me. I hoped that he would sit somewhere else, but no. Turns out, he's nice and asked me some uestions. His voice wasn't as gruff as I expected. It was very soothing, more like someone who should be reading stories to the blind.

These chance encounters only leave me wondering when will be meet again, Mr. Mark Twain? This time there were only words about TABE testing, but maybe next time a high 5?!

Oh When the Saints

You already know by now that the New Orleans Saints are going to the Superbowl. I know you know this. It is a first time trip for a team that has been around since the 60s. It's been a hard time being a Bears fan in the city, to tell you the truth. It was nearly impossible to watch any of the games. People hate the Bears here. Really, really, really hate the Bears because of that '06 playoff game. I've heard reports from multiple stories about horrible things Bears fans did at that game: pouring cups of beer on Saints, making Katrina comments, etc. So in short, no gives a hoot or a holler about them down here, and so I have taken to watching the Saints play.

There are no fans like Saints fans. I am not kidding. As their record got stronger and stronger during the season this year, you could feel the buzz and the tension everywhere. People who didn't even watch or care about football were getting excited. We won one game, I am certain, by a field goal because a priest stopped into the bar to Brocato's next door to watch the final minutes and say a blessing. (When I served him his ice cream, I thought maybe it was a costume for the game, but turns out it was authentic.)

So as you can imagine, things got p.r.e.t.t.y. crazy down here on Sunday night when they won the NFC championship. We ran outside with a bottle of champagne. People were crying, cars were honking, and you could hear neighbors cheering and fireworks shooting. My co-worker Frank said the lights went out in his neighborhood minutes after they scored the final field goal. I am convinced that it is because there were so many people with their tvs on.

No one celebrates like New Orleans, so what better place to head than Bourbon Street? To be fair, I rarely ever go there. But the city was going nuts, and this was monumental, so we hopped a street car and headed downtown. My roommate Eva was giving out temporary tattoos, and my other roommate Jennie led the street car in several Saints cheers. The street car driver rang the bell the whole three miles downtown. The closer we got, the more congested traffic got, until it finally stopped. People were literally dancing in the streets outside there cars. Bourbon street was packed - with locals.

We stayed out late, but had a hard time getting home. The street car had been closed in the French Quarter because of the chaos. Everyone was in a good mood. Somehow we managed to catch a cab, and finally made it home, somewhere around 1:30 or 2 in the morning. The die-hards didn't leave til 4 or 4:30, and the news said they didn't even leave when cops tried to shoo them home.

As for the Superbowl, it's scheduled for the first major weekend of Mardi Gras. Of course Drew Brees is a Mardi Gras parade king, but they've had to reschedule the parade times...No one will miss this game.

Caroline and Miriam: wish you were here.

i wish i had myself figured out.
it would make the rest of my life just a little less confusing.
and easier.


i forgot to call you tonight, mom. oops, sorry. i watched the bachelor, and started cleaning my room. lame.