Supposed to Be

Talked to K yesterday and told him about my book concept . . . he asked how old I was now and then said "oh, honey . . . yes, it's time". Kind of depressing coming from him. He told me how he promised himself to be in a relationship by forty and that's how he ended up with C . . . but I don't want to end up with anyone. Ending up = settling, in my mind . . .

"Only Half Naked" is the book title derived from a conversation at the azure foul this afternoon at book club.

Funny, I was so adamant that A not call me until he got home in a week and now I kind of miss him. I don't know how that happens so soon . . . I think it's the "absence makes the" trick. I could just call him but that would be breaking rules and I am all about these silly rules made up in my head. I need a break anyhow. I need to go to Target and just wander around the aisles for nothing (or Meijer . . . it's getting late). I need to sleep. I need to not talk for a while.

MSU/U of M game tomorrow . . . we are going to get killed, only because we look like the better team this year.

Miss Jenny Cleaves

(Disclaimer: This is NOT referring to anyone specific. If you are looking for Jenny Cleaves, hit back on your brower and click on another link)

Just a story from the wickedness of last night . . .

My friend's brother evidently will make fun of her if she is showing any cleavage by calling her "cleaves" which quickly moved to "Jenny Cleaves" or "you're being a Jenny Cleaves". It is all a bit fuzzy.

So blurry story short, there was a woman last night that was having far too good a time . . . for any human being. She was having some sort of surgery at some later date, though we were never clear about what kind of surgery (come on, I'm having surgery in November and I don't think I get to have that kind of fun). There was dancing on tables and chairs and another woman kept licking the surgery lady's cleavage for the multitude of men watching . . .

I should probably state, for the record, that this was a neighborhood bar in Dearborn. There was not supposed to be any of this funny business. But in amongst the free show, the cleaves term came up.

The bar was very cool. Little neighborhood place in Dearborn which another friend suggested. Howell's bar (since 1941) . . . pretty happening for a Wednesday. And evidently, pretty hedonistic if you are having any surgery the next day.

So today at work I was an accidental Jenny Cleaves and will now relegate this Gap tank top (oooh, sparkles!) to a part of my bar wardrobe. Luckily, I wore a jacket so I was not overtly cleaves. This is what happens when I only get two hours of sleep to start the week. My judgement goes all wonky and I end up being cleaves . . .

"jenny cleaves" and "cleaves" copyright MW and CAW 2005

Alien Babies and The Flying Spagetti Monster

First off, you have to check out the Flying Spagetti Monster . . . or rather The Church of The Flying Spagetti Monster. I'm seriously thinking about joining because I always wanted to be a pirate. Being a pirate is definitely something I can believe in, because "pirates . . . they're not trustworthy".

Second, whatever came out of my head this morning looked like an alien baby when I spit it onto the pavement. I have to get rid of this pestilence . . . I'm beginning to think I have mono or something. And if you see a bright chartreuse alien baby in the parking lot at work, don't step on it . . . it's mine (and it may eat you alive).

"We're All Monkeys in a Long Line"

Nothing like a good Matthew Good quote.

Okay, now I'm feeling much more balanced. Still full of snot but less woozy/dizzy. Had a two hour nap and then went to a school board meeting, which was kind of a nap session in itself.

Have to redo my nails . . . remember the nail obsession? Some of them are so long that they look fake at this point. Also have to dye the hair and mow the lawn. All this in between meetings . . . so many meetings. Meetings all over the place, one tomorrow and two on Wednesday.

AND I have to get to someplace with noise so I can grade journals. I have reverted to my old college ways, where I need movement and noise to study and concentrate. Best if I have the Mp3 player going in addition to whatever noise is going on in the place. The whole keeping my brain too busy so it slows down alittle idea (like knitting in faculty meetings).

And I must get more sleep . . . at times when people are supposed to sleep, like now for instance.

Banned

I am banned from coffee drinking after . . . say, 8 a.m., and I am no longer allowed to go anywhere on Sunday nights. Did get some antibiotics today and had a lovely conversation about the yellow goo in all parts of my head. "Oooh, yeah, I can see that bony growth" is really not something you want to hear while someone is looking up your nose. I also lost my car/house keys for about 15 minutes (okay they were not lost . . . I just didn't remember that I had put them there) and I had this panic attack about a kid stealing my keys. So much so, that it occurred to me to go look to see if the truck was still there but I was AFRAID to . . . but what would I do if it was stolen? Found them right in the drawer where I put them this morning but I am so tired that I can't think. It's all fuzzy.

Bought another color of hair dye yesterday and will try it tonight after the board meeting, if I wake up from the nap that I'm going to take in about ten seconds after I finish typing. While it's fun being a fabulous disaster . . . I think I may need some time off. Stay home and clean my bathroom or something, maybe do some laundry. Nap some more. Must get more than two hours of sleep. I'm not in college anymore and I'm certainly no spring chicken.

Best Lines of Homecoming Dance

Number One: Who is that lady with the bright red hair? She has a camera around her neck . . . She's a teacher? I'm not judging or anything . . .

Number Two: (Emily [muppet hair teacher lady with camera] to DJs) Hi . . . I'm a teacher here (to compensate for the hair). Is there any way we could play something maybe upbeat and clean? Cause we've had a whole string of dirty and I think some of the kids would like to dance to something just fun.

Number Three: (Emily to DJ girl) (again) So could you play some Ska?
DJ Girl: Is that a band? Or is it a song? Emily: No, it's a genre.

Off to Homecoming . . . Again

I am doing penance for not being interested in anything having to do with "school spirit" in high school. Six years of homecoming duty for being too cool to go to homecoming in the first place. A whole evening of awful music (oh, boy! The "Skeet, skeet, skeet song again! Because I don't know what "skeet" means . . . I'm an adult) and horny teenagers packed into a gym. All this and a sinus infection to boot! It's gonna be a blast!

I did do my annual "shop for a Homecoming dress four hours before Homecoming" mall trip and found something this year for fifty bucks. A bit too much cleavage, but hey, it was fifty bucks . . . I can wear a sweater. Gotta go though, since I'm already 30 minutes late. Will post pictures if I get anything interesting.

This is Fun! (Insert Evil Laugh Here)

I'm in Michigan Electronic Library Training . . . and much like the kids I teach, I'm "multi-tasking".

Yahweh is gonna be mad

So I made a run to the grocery store this evening. The very local grocery store. The store nearest my house . . . that I never go to because it's in Oak Park. I might be mugged or something, or not have to pay $4.00 for soup like I do in Royal Oak. I went to the low rent Farmer Jack because I am sick and I wanted popcicles and I wanted them NOW. Cool popsicles to soothe the awful throat sickness that is coming from the lurking sinus sickness. (Not cool when you have a cyst in there too and a deviated septum that won't let anything out)

Now I'm making Oak Park sound like a hole . . . and it's not really. The Farmer Jack is conveniently located, well lit and had everything I wanted (unlike the evil Meijer). While making my selections (yogurt, water, strawberries, cool whip, lean cuisine’s and soup that was on sale), several odd things happened in the Farmer Jack. First, a unsupervised small child stood next to me and danced at the yogurt fridge. I don't know if it was the music or that he could see his reflection but he was doing a damn good robot while I was deciding to go with plain vanilla or creamy French vanilla (got some of both, thank you). Just this six year old, doing the robot to some eighties song on the P.A.. Wonderful. If God appears to people in the grocery store, I think that's how he does it.

As I am walking to the soup aisle, there is an orthodox woman with her three girls next to me. The oldest has to be about twelve, the youngest four or so and the oldest is pushing the cart. Now living near the "Jewish Box Store" (Jewish Costco?) on Greenfield, I do not raise an eyebrow to wigs and skirts or all the walking on Saturday. I just drive more carefully on the Sabbath. However, the littlest girl points at me and says "Look at that lady's hair". I do raise an eyebrow at her but no one says anything. There is no mother grabbing the finger and saying in a hushed voice with clenched teeth, "Don't point, it's rude" (what my mother would do). There is no sister admonishing "I know it's weird but shhh . . . " (what I would have done to my sister). Just the pointing and the yelling about my hair.

Other than the look I give the kid (my students' call it the ______ stare of death'), I say nothing. I walk down the soup aisle. Suddenly, it's as if the orthodox foursome has to be where I am. The follow me into the soup aisle. They block the aisle at the pancake syrup. They block the aisle again at the bread. Each time, one or the other daughter stares at me, occasionally pointing. The mother doesn't notice since she is too busy blocking every aisle I'm in . . . and quavering about the cheapest pancake syrup. Funny, I never thought, at the time, why aren't they in the kosher aisle? (They have the most amazing kosher aisle in this Farmer Jack . . . every kind of matzo, every kind) Finally, I am at the checkout . . . and they stand behind me. The middle child, in addition to staring coldly, audits my cart items. Evidently, only sinners buy Lean Cuisine.

Now I know that this hair is a cry for attention. Heck, I've been pointed at before I even had muppet hair. But even the mothers at the Farmer Jack on Warren in Detroit would admonish their children for pointing at me because I was the only white person in the store. (No really, the child did say "Look mommy, a white girl" when I was living in Detroit and went to the store . . . humbling really, because how many times did that mother have to deal with "oh, a black girl" in her lifetime?) But really, repeated pointing? Repeated stare downs? What am I? A circus act for orthodox kids? . . . Don't answer that. All I know is the Methodist version of God is way against pointing and staring. I have to think the orthodox Jewish God feels the same way. At the very least, no one is for pointing and staring multiple times.

You'd Think They Could Just Do Inventory

The upside of having worked in the restaurant business is that you know to tip well, and when to do that. The downside is getting poor service when there was no need to . . . and knowing that there was no need. The ultra-downside is having a brother in the business also, and knowing the intricaties of having all your chicken stolen at 3 a.m. (stupid padlock) and actually having chicken for your customers by the lunch rush, cause the customers . . . they want chicken burritos and they don't care about your freezer burglar problems.

So everyday I go to the Starbucks in Roseville because 1. it has a drive through and 2. they are much like crack dealers. Realistically, I think a drug habit may be cheaper at this point but just so much more unseemly. Now everyday I order the same thing . . . a grande (though at times I rebel and call it large) soy latte. Everyday. Yummy soy goodness with caffiene mixed into it. They should just see my truck pull up and wave it out the window.

Now every Monday, they are out of soy milk. So we have to have this conversation with the talking box. "Hello, what do you want?" (that always annoys me because I was once a well trained McDonald's employee and you never, ever ask the customer what they WANT . . . that would be vulgar. It's always may I help you?) The Monday person always starts like this . . . the other days are better. "Yeah, I'd like a grande soy latte, please." Best not to confuse the obviously not very well trained employee with "large". "We don't have any soy today." Never soy milk, just soy. Like they have pods somewhere that they are squeezing or something. "Ummm, then give me a non-fat vanilla latte instead." They then repeat it to me but in Starbucks speak, because there is a certain order to things at the Starbucks. Funny, they can't say "can I take your order" but they make sure to repeat my order in Starbuckese. "Vanilla latte, non-fat . . . pull up for your total."

This is only on Monday . . . and I know I could go the the Starbucks near my house instead. Park my car, go inside, wait in line (Roseville hasn't discovered Starbucks addiction yet), get my own cardboard wrap, go outside, walk to my car, start my car and drive. But the drive through means I don't have to have too much human interaction. Those who have met me . . . we all know how we don't want Emily and too much human interaction.

Despite what the doctor's said when I was six, I can drink milk. I'm not allergic to it (just everything else minus cockroaches and chocolate). However, I do not like to drink milk. Even mixed with caffieney goodness. So during third hour something was wrong . . . and it was wrong with my mouth. Finally, I figured it out. I had dead animal taste in my mouth. Now I know that they don't kill the cows to milk them . . . but maybe it's the vegan in me (ignore all that steaking eating). It was definitely a "ehwweh, I have animal on my breath" feeling and I had to go chew some gum and you all know how teachers feel about gum chewing. It's a sign of the apocalypse, the gum chewing.

Now I know that the world does not cater to my weird food rules, like "family chicken" and "I don't want to know that it came from an animal" (again, ignore all the steak eating) or the whole "I could just eat soup" kick. But I used to help with inventory at the bar and I know that my brother keeps track of what he sells everyday. (Today he made some "killer" sangrita. Evidently, not necessarily good but really strong) One would think that someone would figure out that they run out of soy milk every Monday and order an extra case on Friday. In fact, I know that is someone's whole job . . . that and making sure that the drive through people don't say "whatdawant?". There is no need for it. If I wasn't addicted, they would definitely lose my business.

By the way, if someone steals all your chicken . . . you go to four Publix stores and buy them out of chicken breasts. I don't know what the Publix does after that, however . . . because they would be out of chicken.

What do you mean you don't know what Pottery Barn is . . .

For my mother's birthday I bought her Pottery Barn ledges. Actually, I bought her PB ledges and a squirrel with a spoon because I went in to buy the shelves and saw the squirrel and HAD TO HAVE IT . . . right now, right now. I believe it's a squirrel shaped salt cellar, which my mother doesn't need, but somehow a squirrel holding a tiny bowl with an accompanying spoon is something my mother definitely needs. He is now living on the kitchen window and taunting the real squirrels . . . "ha, ha, I have a spoon!"

Mom and I put up the shelves without Mr. Crabbypants, despite our mutual astigmatism. Our astigmatism is usually used to get out of doing such annoying things such as hanging Pottery Barn ledges, because we do not see straight. However, with Mr. Crabbypants, there is yelling. The shelves would be very straight and my nerves would be shot for being sworn at for not giving him the pencil at the right moment. Mr. Crabbypants yelled at the television in the basement instead. My sister somehow joined in this activity so they were both yelling at the television, while my mother and I rolled our eyes upstairs and tried to see straight with the help of those little level thingies incorporated in the shelves.

After the shelving, which you cannot screw in too tight or they won't hang (lesson learned), we brought out all the boxes of baby pictures. My mom had a whole wall of them two houses ago, which I remember vividly. My sister then did the "I'm the youngest and I didn't get enough pictures and Emily has all the pictures and it's just not fair" thing but I think we are even because she is way cuter and always was. My mom is going to need about seventy-five more Pottery Barn ledges to put all the pictures up on them. She will now spend the next several weeks arranging and rearranging the pictures . . . which keeps her from making me help her rearrange the furniture. Plus it's free fun. And the little wooden squirrel taunts the cat . . . "ha, ha, I have a SPOON!"

My Friends are Lunatics

My high school had open house tonight. I am not going to talk about open house because that would be talking about work however, I did miss my current school playing my former employer at junior varsity football and I'm alittle bummed.

After a school event with parents involved, the teachers usually go out to a book club to read some books and talk about our day (because being the moral, responsible, role models, that we are, we cannot go to bars and have drinks). Word at dinner was that we were going to a book club relatively near the school but in another municipality. I'd been there before . . . wasn't impressed, but hey, books are cheaper at a dive book club.

I was late since I was coaching yearbook again (they tried to sell yearbooks at the open house). I pull into the parking lot, which is packed, thinking this is odd . . . it wasn't EVER this packed when I was here before. I was on the phone though, so I just parked. Then I noticed that the only vehicles in the parking lot were pickup trucks and motorcycles. Oh, and an old school bus that had been spray painted blue. Obviously spray painted bus . . . not a good sign. Loud music blaring, biker dude walking towards me, and I notice the sign - "colors and patches are not allowed on the premises." Colors like what? I'm wearing a red dress (to match my hair . . . I was thinking that the parents wouldn't notice the muppet hair as much if I matched) so am I allowed to come in? Again, just not a good sign, especially when I don't know exactly what the sign means.

I go in. There is a guy that I'm sure is an alternate to the Hell's Angels sitting at a table with a wad of money in his hand. A blonde chick, and I do mean chick . . . as in that's what she likes to be called because that is nice . . . is standing next to him, talking closely because of the blaring music.

Now I would probably be okay if I had my regular, covered in paint, clothes. But I have my "open house I have strange hair but really I'm conservative" outfit on. Ponytail man looks me over. I'm thinking, "They have a cover? What the hell?" "Ummm, I'm supposed to meet a group of teachers here." He laughs, but it is a short kind of chuckle. "Yeah, one teacher came in and looked for people but left . . . You're welcome to go in if you like." It was like I was being invited to hell.

My teacher friends are lunatics and/or closet bikers and I feel sooo set up. So much for going to book club with them. Luckily, I was driving a pickup truck too or I would have been mugged by the people kicked out for having "colors" and "patches" who were waiting in the parking lot. I can't even imagine what came off the blue spray paint bus. Lunatics, I tell you.

Blood Red Does Not Equal Vampire Red

Who knew? Special Effects brand "Blood Red" does not look a thing like Manic Panic's "Vampire Red". My hair is now too dark for my liking.

I enjoyed the vibrant "Elmo-ness" of the vampire red . . . hence the muppet/fraggle hair discussions. Now it is just really blood red, which seems a little dingy in comparison. Don't get me wrong, my hair is definitely still "bottle head" but just not as shocking as last week (though there were those orange days last week, this is an improvement from the orange). Perhaps it will fade.

The other problem with Special effects versus Manic Panic is that it is (according to all the punk kids at school) supposed to last longer. This is great, if you get the right color, but not so great if you assumed that blood and vampire would be close to the same thing (we all know what assume means). So I'll have to deal for . . . it says on the bottle . . . three to six weeks. Taking into account the lack of truth in advertising, probably a week or two. The Special Effects stuff is more gooey, this being better in the not dripping and looking like you have a large head wound catagory. So I may try the "Devilish" color to see if that is more Elmo like. Considering my problems at Noir, this should be an interesting conversation (as if every conservation at Noir isn't interesting).

"So what color is Elmo colored? Excuse me, girl with blue hair and patent leather bra, which of these bottles will give me Elmo colored hair? You know, Elmo . . . the muppet? He's on Sesame Street, owns a goldfish name Dorothy? Elmo? At the Target, the Tickle Me Elmo? Yeah, I want that color . . ."

Can't wait. Could just order Vampire Red on the internet. But then I wouldn't be able to torment those Noir employees would I?

My Nephew is not a Cheap Date

I had the pleasure of babysitting Z this afternoon.

Since I live so close to Royal Oak and if Z had a choice he would just eat McDonald's, I have started the tradition of taking him out for "new food", meaning restaurants that his parents (bless their hearts and patience) would never take him to eat. I also allow him to order off the adult menu, which makes him feel very grown up and gives me the behavioral nagging of "if you order off the adult menu, you have to act like an adult." This cuts down on the wiggling and the dipping under the table (except to get our napkin 27 times).

Today was the Belgian restaurant on Main. Z considered the Fish and Chips, which would be new, as his mother does not eat fish ("NOTHING FROM THE SEA!" my brother will shout about her, "she touches nothing from the sea . . .") but settled on the steak sandwich. The steak sandwich turned out to be a bad idea . . . it had onions on it and evidently Z hates onions. He has the kind of loathing (already? The kid is seven) that if an onion touches something, well, it's just ruined. He choked down half the sandwich for me and politely asked for the rest to be wrapped. He liked dessert much more and we had a very good discussion about the word tart and it's two possible meanings.

We then went to the "skeleton store" again and watched a German couple buy matching red patent leather outfits. We walked up to see the real train on the tracks. We went to Old Navy and bought a skeleton shirt. We discussed the coming movie "The Corpse Bride" and how we both very much wanted to see it . . . his mom is going to let him go because it is PG. We did some homework: Reading about a funny octopus and answering many questions. We bought more scary stuff at Target . . . one dollar spooky fingers, one for each of his fingers with long black nails. They glow in the dark. We discussed Germany -- Mr. Crabbypants does not live there, as Z thought, but goes there often. All in all a great day. But not cheap at all.

Vague Desire

Lately, I've had a vague desire to go to church. Been rumbling around in the back of my brain for a couple of weeks now and I should just go . . . which would get it out of my system very quickly, I'm sure. Unfortunately, I've been programmed by Mr. Crabbypants (both in genetic material and 18+ years of intense behavioral training) that you cannot go to the late show. The First United Methodist's have an early "show" at 9 a.m.-ish and a late show at 11-ish. Through my behavioral training I have been taught that only the lazy, slouchy, disorganized, un-goal oriented, who may, in fact, be more evil, Methodists attended the late service. Again unfortunately, this behavioral training from Mr. Crabbypants did not break my liking of sleep -especially on Sunday morning. He tried, he really did . . . but I can only get up early on Sunday morning if he is here to yell at me AND there is large amounts of coffee.

Now the Royal Oak F.U. Methodist's (hee, hee, I had no idea that would work out that way if you shortened it) have a Friday service at 5:30 p.m. which is perfect for the "I want to be holy for a while before I go and change for the bar" but quite frankly, it is in conflict with my football/photography coaching sessions. So I guess next week I'll have to meet the lazy Methodists . . . how bad could that be? Before you go all questioning motives and intentions, I really don't know why. It's certainly not to meet any Methodist men . . . I'm way more into Catholics for that. My mom did this too. Every so often, our family would go on a "church kick" where we would go to church for several months. One time we kept it up for several years, during which I think I was president of the church youth group or something. I was quite the "God Squad-er" in ninth grade but I just couldn't keep up with the "testifying" . . . it seemed too much like forcing people.

Maybe I just miss the singing. So next week I'll try to get up early again. I am currently on the two alarm clock plan, as I can sleep soundly through my regular alarm clock (lack of sleep? or just used to it?). I might need three for a Sunday morning though.

So Darn Busy . . .

. . . considering I have nothing to do . . .

Funny how this whole "get a life" plan is being derailed by my actual life. Haven't signed up for classes . . . remember the art class and the yoga class? Yeah, just haven't gotten to it yet. Weekend is already booked, with nothingness . . . go to Noir and get more hair dye (shudder at the amount of hair dye to keep me happy and not orangey), spend the afternoon at the union office, wrangle the mother since Mr. Crabbypants is going to Germany, make it to the yarn store before closing . . . the yuppie yarn store not the craft store. I have no use for the Michaels or Jo Ann crafts, have to go to the Yarn store for the fancy-smancy natural yarn, or "fiber" as they call it. Oh, and the presentation on Greek history and Homer that I have to prepare . . . since I just found out that none of my students have had any world history (today was . . . you know, the fallow field from Medieval times? no? well, okay, once there were these people called serfs . . . no, not surfs . . . )

Sure, I'm home on a Friday night but I just got home from a football game . . . where I smiled and waved at what seemed like a thousand students and parents. I coached my first yearbook kid (an investment, he's a sophomore) through a football game (get closer, take more shots, try to focus the camera). Luckily, he has a very good eye. Informally coached some cheerleading (it's time for the defense cheer). Me coaching cheer, ridiculous.

I'm tired . . . beat even. Have to catch up on the sleep I have missed all week. Have to sleep.

So this whole "getting a life" plan . . . I may already have too much of a life . . .

What a Great Halloween hat

It is time to start making hats again . . .

Once upon a time, last year in fact, Princess and I were at a high school football game of some flavor or another. This was unusual because Princess loves the football and I have to take pictures of the football. It was finally cold enough to wear my favorite hat and Princess exclaims, "Oh, how nice! You're wearing your halloween hat. How festive!" I then had to inform Princess that the hat with skulls on it was my regular everyday hat . . . that I wore all winter . . . and not a hat for the holiday of Halloween.

What this leads to? It is my favorite shopping time of the year. The time of Halloween merchandise, which I then use as all year round clothing. Old Navy has wicked cool skull socks, I really should have bought two pair. I have yet to find the right bat T-shirt for the year but I know it's out there waiting for me. And one dollar bags of bats for my classroom. Always good to have things hanging off the ceiling.

Goin' to the yarn store this weekend for some red yarn. Gave away all the devil hats last year and didn't keep one for myself. Soon it will be cold enough to wear the skull sweater I made this summer. Yippee! And I should probably wash the fuzzy kitty hat. Ahh, Halloween . . . the most wonderful time of the year.

Put the Dog in the Basket

As I scream at the television, hoping that the Air Force helicopter personnel will hear, "Put the dog in the basket put the dog in the basket please put the dog in the basket please god let the dog go in the basket", the dog finally goes into the basket with the person's arms wrapped around him and goes up.

My mother admitted to me that one of the first things she would pack, should she ever have to evacuate, would be Sammy's ashes. (Thinking about it . . . I probably would too) Mr. Crabbypants insists that he would put everything important in a plastic bag and bury it in the backyard. This is why we don't let them live in areas with hurricanes. The black outs and ice storms are enough . . . Mr. CP keeps breaking bones in the ice storms because he goes out to get the paper.

My brother however does live with the hurricanes . . . with his girlfriend, six cats, two dogs and evidently two tanks of fish. He is a small business owner and often stays in spite of evacuation orders. He stays partially to keep an eye on the store and potentially to make some money when everything else is closed but often he stays because of the pets (the kids, as we call them). You cannot take your pets with you to a shelter. Since every one of this animals is a rescue (except for the fish . . . I suppose he rescued them from the store), J would never leave them to fend for themselves in a hurricane. Often they go to his girlfriend M's parent's house, who are saints for taking in the zoo, but her parents also live in the Miami area so in a catagory 4 or 5 it is not far enough. My brother would be one of the people standing on his balcony with his cats, dogs and fish in little plastic bags. (though since he lives on Miami Beach, I suppose the surrounding water would be ocean . . . so he could let the fish go) But looking at the pictures of Gulfport, MS, there probably wouldn't be a balcony to stand on.

The news is now saying that the dog didn't even belong to the two men who were just rescued off the roof . . . I wondered why they weren't holding the dog . . .

Have to turn off the television. Have to get the NHS people to run a blood drive. Have to talk to the people at school about having kids donate. Have to get a group to donate their Christmas break to Habitat for Humanity.

I was so pissed at WJR on Monday morning for suggesting that other countries should come and help "us" with the situation. We are the richest country in the world, I thought, certainly we can handle this. I was wrong. Let's hope that our government comes to it's senses . . . take the aid, get more organized, communicate better. And put the dogs in the basket . . . and the cats too.

Snake and Jake's

Back in the days when I was fun . . . and I had a friend in law school at Tulane, I would go visit New Orleans. It is how I know that I love to vacation by myself. S would get up and go to school and I would wander the streets. Amble with no direction in mind, making no compromises for anyone else's agenda. Sometimes I would go to the French Quarter, to the East End, far past where the tourist shops were. Sometimes I would stay on Magazine Street. Sometimes I would walk the Garden District.

I flared my fake vampire teeth at Anne Rice's mansion. I talked to Voodoo and Hoodoo priestesses. I sat and watched the Mississippi. S didn't get home until at least 3 p.m. and we would sit under the hum of the air conditioner, nap by 6 and then go out into the night. And stay out all night. With "to go" cups.

His first year we went to some Irish place near the house. By his third year, we would go to Snake and Jake's, a very hip dive that was in someone's garage. It was painted red, I think, with random Christmas lights strewn about. S insisted that he saw the lead guy from "Thrill Kill Cult" there at the bar one night.

That trip, or the trip before, we went to see The Toasters and S ended up somehow finagling having a drink with Bucket, the lead singer. S was so good at meeting famous people, or maybe just people we thought were famous. S and I got in a fight that night, so angry that he intentionally spit on my boot. I was sure my world was going to end.

S is married now, with a wonderfully cute daughter. He no longer lives in NOLA, a place he told me that he would never leave, once . . . but things change and people grow up and nothing stays the same. I miss him terribly, the panicked late night phone calls and the long drawn out discussions of nothing and everything at the same time. The coffee and the scotch . . . or the smell of it, since I didn't like scotch. The hum of the air conditioner in the background while we talk of the possibility of the translucent lizards in his bathroom . . . are they real?

I never moved to New Orleans, though I could have I'm sure. I would have been welcomed at one time. I just couldn't leave my "career", my family (as much as they put the "fun" in dysfunctional), my life . . . Perhaps New Orleans was so romantic that I didn't want it to become everyday.

And now it is gone . . . covered in water. The neighborhoods I once walked with water up to your knees and helicopters. People dying in the streets, surrounded by filth. People looting and shooting and behaving badly.

S was always leery of the levees. "This place will fill up with water someday" he would say to me. Turns out he was right. And the genteel place where people would say "hello" to you was they passed you on the street has changed. Filled with water.

Not to be too preachy, but please consider donating to the Red Cross . . . or better yet consider becoming a volunteer, for the next time something happens. "Think globally, act locally"

Get Well Soon NOLA . . .