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.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
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.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
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.
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.)
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.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
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!
GED recipients of the Greater New Orleans Area
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.
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