Missing the Terrier

I'm not sleeping so good.

I know, the grammar stinks, but, so are my sleeping patterns.

I'm used to a 10lb body of white fur curled around my feet or stretched out along my legs or in my face, telling me she has to go out at 3A.

I lie in my bed, and can't quite fall into that deep sleep, because something is missing... the same way I didn't fall completely asleep until I heard the gate squeak.

When I was home in New Orleans, my mother came and picked the terrier up and took her back to her home. It was for the best, I told myself. I work freelance, and sometimes I'm here, and sometimes, I'm gone for 12 hours at a time.

The terrier would grieve when I left. She had no concept of time, and she would sit by the door even when I was in Utah, and we were at the Neebes' home, and wait.

I've been her 'pack' since she was a puppy and I rescued her from the pound in the Land of Utes... when I'd sworn I'd not have a dog again.

When we first moved to the Land of Utes, we had a dog... a funny mixed breed dog that was our delight. He, too, was a rescued dog, and fit right in with our odd group. He was protective, quiet, slept on his back, and loved us as a dog loves... completely. He moved when we did, adjusting to the new neighborhoods, always a runner, making himself known to the new houses and neighbors, who would know him before they knew us.

When playing fetch with snowballs one day, his tooth caught in a child's glove, ripped skin, the mom called the animal control and he was taken away.

Now, this animal control officer wasn't quite..... hhmmm.... decent is a word I'll use.

He followed his own set of rules on a regular basis. There was no need to take my dog. None. He had his shots and could have been held by me for the week necessary. But, take him he did... I could do nothing about it.

I was told I could pick him up in eight days, and during that time, I left messages.... messages no one returned. My visits saw no one there. Six days later, someone answered the phone...

"Hi, this is Quin. How's my dog?"

"Ummm...."

"My dog... how is he?"

"Ummmm....."

"Hello?"

"Ahhhh...ummmm..."

"You killed my dog, didn't you?"

"Do you want to talk to my boss? He's right here."

"Well, unless his name is Jesus Christ, and he can raise the fucking dead, he's no good to me, is he?"

Obviously, I wasn't too happy.

I spent the next two weeks in either the mayor or police chief's office or on the phone to them. We still remain on a first name basis. I couldn't sue, he wasn't a pure bred dog (unlike poor Blackie, may he rest in peace). The problem was, there was nothing in writing. No law on the books regarding this issue. He told me one list of days for hold, his immediate supervisor told me another amount of days that was shorter... in one meeting, it was an even shorter number of days.

"Yes, well, we checked, and it's a five day hold before we put them down." Hopeful smile.

Crickets.

"Next thing I know, you'll tell me the dog jumped up there and put the needle in himself."

By the time it was all over, and I had my slow, steady, calm way.... the man lost his job. I was one of many who had seen their dogs put down immorally, but, not illegally because there was no law broken. I just didn't shut up about it... ever.

Something I tend to do when I thin...know I'm right.

I pushed and pushed and now there is a new ordinance passed in our town, named after my dog. It sets dates and spells out what will happen if you don't come get your dog/cat. People have to sign and phone calls are made and everyone knows what will happen before the deed is done.

I feel good about that.

Flash forward a year.

The new animal control person is a friend of mine... she calls me.

"Don't you like Westies?"

"Yes, but, who can afford one?"

"I've got a six month old male here... with papers. You can have him... I put your name on him, and people want him, so, hurry up!"

TheInvestment and I drove over and there was the terrier. Dirty, ragged, long white coat, bright black eyes.

"Let's name him Baron von Wolfenstein", TheInvestment suggested, "or D".

I went with D.

Picking D up, I noticed D was missing the male parts a dog with a name like D needed.... no matter, she was named D and it stays with her even now.

The irony?

She belonged to the former officer, and a year to the day he put my old dog down, I adopted his unwanted dog.

Kinda sweet.

Now, I sit in my living room/bedroom/kitchen/dining room/foyer/hallway/guest room/sun room/den and I am alone for the first time in five years.

No little clicks of nails on the floor. No sometimes 'talking' a terrier will do. No terrier.

She's content, it seems. She talks quite a bit, which says she's unsteady as to where she is... she knows my mother, who is thrilled to have her, and feeds her and walks her and sleeps with her and calls me all the time to thank me for this wonderful gift. And she means it.

Yes, she'll settle in and be okay eventually.

I have to wonder, though, will I?

The Bus

I haven't ridden a bus to go shopping since I was a little girl, and I'd go with one of my MaMaw's to either Desiard Street in Monroe or downtown to Canal Street in New Orleans.

Today, I took the bus to do my shopping here on Staten Island. It's how you get around if you don't have a car.

You know, a car? That thing I sold?

It was an interesting journey down the main thoroughfare..... people get on, people get off, the same as on the train, only without the screaming crazy people. One guy was yelling at the bus stop... not at anyone, at the bus stop itself.

The driver just didn't open the door.

I miss the crazy people sitting there telling you about God and Martians and how George Bush really is going to save this country. I kept telling Mr. Cheney he really should find his Secret Service guys and stop grassroot stomping for his boss. It was too late.

He almost had ne believing in the Martians, though.

You cruise by a wealth of beauty shops at one point.... they sit in competition across the road from each other, both fully packed with patrons. The smell of chemical processing agents filled the air, and I noticed everyone's hair starting to curl and lighten up as we sat at a light.

Italian restaurants abound. Big ones, small ones, Mom and Pop size, something that you could put my extended family into, and have room for a few extra people. If you put your hand, you can be sure it will come back tasting of garlic.

There was the cleaners who proudly pronounced: We are a FRENCH Cleaner. Why do I believe if I go in, I'd be greeted with a sneer? "I don't really want your filthy laundry. I spit on your laundry.... it's what gives it that special sheen."

Everything imaginable is there, from autobody shops, to pool stores (where I can get the kit to fix my bed) to funeral homes. There is even a KMart, be still my heart.

I now live in suburbia....New York City style.

Who rides the bus?

A man who was quite large in every way but his feet. He had itty bitty feet encased in nice black shoes that were well kept. He read the Egyptian News, shaking his head and working his worry beads.

A couple.... both tiny. She had a scarf on, and he was meticulous. His pants crease would slice cheese. He had a beautifully groomed white mustache, and a dapper beret set just...so. He bowed slightly to his wife when he seated her, then stood over her while he was in the aisle. He didn't bend physically, you had the impression he was surrounding her being, however. That he was there for her. She'd look up and smile, and he would beam. When they left, he stepped back, took her hand to help her rise, and walked behind her, then somehow slipped ahead to help her down.

It was lovely to watch.

There were a number of women in their 60's with plastic sacks like mine, talking amongst themselves. I heard the stories of children and grandchildren. Of rent control and how crime is rising, how one group of teenagers is suddenly smoking marijuana outside on the stoop. Tsk's are heard.

A lone voice spoke up, "But, I like the smell."

Silence.

They all break into laughter.

A older woman gets on in a tight dress and her long hair is bleached blonde over grey, pulled up in the front, and hanging to her waist in the back... someone told her once she looked good in that hairstyle long ago, and she's never forgotten the compliment. She had on a gold lame belt and high heels. Her eyebrows are drawn on, highly arched... giving her a coy, surprised look. My check is in the mail? Her rouge falls into her deep wrinkles. Her jewelry clanks and claps together as she sways with the bus. When she looks in the mirror before she walks out, she sees a beautiful young woman, long ash blonde hair flowing down.... and she smiles.

A teenage girl and her grandmother... "No, NO Nana, I'm fine standing. You sit." irritable voice...the woman reaches up, and touches this girl's face, and for a moment, you feel this connection between them before the girl moves away, back into her teenage self.

The young mother and her son. He sits and winks at me and I wink back. We play the game until my stop, when I struggle up the hill with my 47 sacks of stuff.

I'm not sure I'll like the bus as much as I do the train.... no welcoming rush of air, no crazy people... but, I get to look deep into a tree and see that first leaf turning. I know other leaves are going to heed the call, and swiftly go the same path. I have trees and plants and green everywhere here, and I like that quite a bit.

Besides, there is always the ferry to take me to the trains... and I'm loving me my ferry.

Am I Back?

Train to go anywhere? Check.

Statue of Liberty? Check.

First time back underground to travel, is there a crazy person, dressed in red, yelling at everyone on the other platform, "GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM!!! DIS HERE IS 'MERICA! YOU PEOPLE ALL CAUSED PROBLEMS!!! (here, she throws an empty coffee cup)I GOT MY WAR PAINT ON YOU COCKSUCKERS!! (please note, she's not Native American) I'M IN RED, 'CAUSE I GOT MY WAR PAINT ON MUTHERFUCKERS!! FUCK ALL OF YOU!" Check

Everyone on my platform carry on with their own business? Check

First announcement I hear "The R train is running slower than usual (we've been waiting 20 minutes). The W train, however, is on time. (The W train has been sitting there for 14 of those 20 minutes.. it moves forward, then back into place). Check.

First stop Chinatown, where I am asked in quick progression, "Do you want to buy watch/purse/movie? Check

The scent and taste of Chinatown? Check

Buy what I need from the dollar store on Mulberry? Check

Lunch with C from a falafel cart on the street? Check

Eight million people, walking as fast as they can, cell phones to their ears, giving me things to listen to, people to watch, stories to tell? Check



Yeah, I'm back.

You Unpack 16 Boxes, and What Do You Get?

A lot of crap.

I only had one broken item.. my favourite teapot.... English in origin, something I've had for ages and ages.. and the handle broke.

I have coffee, coffee cups, a coffee pot... and nothing to boil water in.

I have stainless and knives, and no plates.

I have a topsheet, but, no bottom one.

My pillows are in Brooklyn.

I brought four lamps.... I've no idea why, aside from the fact I like them.

I have my beautiful pottery HRH bought me from the local ceramics teacher. ALL of my old purses; I don't carry a purse in New York. Shoes, boots, four coats, magnets, two alarm clocks, my feather bed, books, dvd's (I don't have a TV) odds and ends... things to make this place a home.

Tomorrow, I take the Ferry into Manhattan.... I promise not to sing. I have curtains to buy, hangers, something to put my clothes in, and the WeatherGuy thinks I should buy a microwave, since I bought microwave food and have nothing to cook it in.

He's amusing, considering I can't carry a microwave home.

I mean, really.

I should have shipped one, I packed everything else.

New to New

Flying anywhere is never a simple task for me.

This time was no different. Oh, I arrived on time, my shrimp po'boy, purchased by Aunt A, and put into my willing hands, placed into my computer bag. I checked my luggage, for the first time ever, placing my jewelry and all of my important papers into the hands of airline employees. Not such a good idea.

The flight was going to be late getting into Atlanta, did I want to take an earlier flight, and go directly into LaGuardia?

No. I had no way of getting home.

I stayed with my current plan, I had a ride, I knew what was going on, and I could work with a 35 minute window. I'd grown up seeing OJ Simpson fly through airports. Of course, I no longer buy black leather gloves or nor would I purchase a white SUV, but, I could move through an airport with the speed of light.

This is, of course, if one's plane isn't left on the tarmac for 20 of those 35 minutes.

And, if one isn't in Terminal E, and has to go to Terminal B.

And, if the Delta rep doesn't tell one that the gate is still B6, and that sure, they know she is coming, and all is well.

And the gate is now B23..... at the OTHER end of the terminal.

And, well, I gave it up.

Re-booked on a flight leaving 48 minutes later, coffee and starting to smell a bit, even wrapped up in two layers of newspaper po'boy, in hand, I rode the train to my new gate on D Terminal.

The Atlanta airport and I became close.

I handed over the shrimp po'boy to be once again put on ice, and settled into my once again by myself seats and off we went into the wild blue yonder.

Realise, when I left New Orleans to go to New York, my luggage was going to North Carolina and Tennessee. I found this out upon arrival.

My car was there, I was there, my luggage was on it's own trip.

It was kindly delivered by Delta at 4AM.

4. A. M.

No gifts for me from said luggage, just drunken ID tags and zipped lips as to why it had taken it's own trips.

My new flat is....small. I'm getting used to it....slowly. My 15 boxes are to arrive today, which will help. In them I have a french coffee press, coffee and chicory, cups... and no pot to boil water. Go figure.

I bought a new, smaller aerobed. It fits into my 'bedroom'. I was pushing it in, and suddenly, it caught on a small bit of sharp wood, ripping a hole in it. As it slowly deflated, I lay in the middle, humming "Nearer My God to Thee".

Duct tape has created a temporary solution to my personal Titanic disaster, I have a towel for right now, one pillow and a blanket until the nice UPS guy shows up.

I'm in walking distance of the Staten Island train which takes me to the ferry which takes me to Bowling Green and there I am, back in Manhattan!

Once I unpack 15 boxes and do the "Why in the hell did I pack that?", I'll be ready to find a TV, sort out a sofa, and get moving back into the life here.

My first call was from K, who woke me up yesterday with "Welcome home"

Yep, I'm home. Now, if I can figure out how to keep Titanic from leaking air in the middle of the night....

Quin in the Big Easy, III

Things you see and do when you are back home.

Lovebugs~ How could I forget lovebugs? They swarm this time of year, settling in your hair, the bushes, filling the air like black soot... sacrificing themselves like miniature kamikaze pilots on the fronts of cars and trucks everywhere, lost in their lust. You swat and move your hand in front of you, and spray the front of your car when it rains to remove their squished little bodies... squished, yes...but, smiling in their death.


Cannolis~THE best dessert in the world. A pastry tube filled with flavoured cheeses and dipped in chopped pistachios. from Brocato's on N. Carrollton's. They are worth every calorie filled bite. Nothing was better as a child or as an adult than to see that string wrapped box with the Brocato's name on the top. Sure, you can find them frozen in some stores... but, it's the fun of seeing them fill the tube and dip the end that makes up the joy of eating the pastry with a nice hot cup of coffee and chicory.

Coffee and chicory~New Orleans in a cup. Strong, black, something you won't find anywhere else. You have it with cream (evaporated milk) and sugar. To try it without, well, you are a tourist or stupid. You have it in the morning, in the afternoon and at night. As a child, you have coffee milk, 3/4 milk, 1/4 coffee with lots of sugar. I started having this in a bottle. I think it's why I can drink coffee and go off to sleep with no problem. You never end a meal without your coffee and chicory. CDM is found everywhere for around $2.50 a pound. I will be getting it in my care packages.

French Bread~Sure, you can find it in every city, but, it doesn't have the crisp crust or the soft insides you find in New Orleans bread. It's the humidity, the altitude, the brick ovens... all of it combined make this bread you use to smear butter on and then dunk in your coffee (see above) or hollow out to put your red beans and rice into (see below). You make po'boys out of this staple in the kitchen, and when it's stale the next day, you make lost bread or bread pudding.

Red Beans and Rice~This means it's Monday in New Orleans. Back in the day, women put this dish on when they started their laundry. You had to soak the beans, then cook them all day with a ham hock and sausage and some spices, and so, it was the perfect thing to cook while you boiled and washed and rinsed and hung and ironed the family laundry. Today, most restaurants, especially those in the Quarter, offer this on their menu on Monday. I grew up with it being cooked on Monday, and it's what I had today, along with some french bread and butter.

Flora and Fauna~It took a year, but, it's green again. Bushes, flowers, trees, grass, azaleas, huge oak trees with spanish moss hanging down....it's green, red, yellow, purple, yellow, orange... every colour you can imagine here. Add to it cranes wading in the swamps and hummingbirds and mockingbirds and bluebirds and you are surrounded by life. A nice change from the dry flatland of Utah and the stark concrete canyon lands of New York. I know you can find things there, but, here, I only open the front door...


Bugs~Big ones, small ones, middle sized ones. Bugs you don't want to ever see again in your life. Roaches the size of toaster ovens. They fly. They talk to you. Bugs that walk on water, and they aren't even Christian. Bugs that climb over fences and go though solid walls to get to you. Spiders that make webs that catch Boy when he runs through the jungle to escape the bad guys. They laugh at pesticides. DDT? Please. They cut their eyeteeth on DDT. I don't like the bugs, and, it's why I always tap my shoes before I put them on (ever squish a roach with your toes? I have) and always put my cups and glasses open end down. We once gave my Uncle G a cup with a ceramic roach on the bottom. Oh, how we loved giving that to people with coffee in it... to see their faces as the little ceramic head would slowly appear on the side of the cup, and they'd realise it was a roach. How we'd laugh as they screamed!

Deaf Family~All of my family is deaf, except for me. Therefore, they all speak at FULL VOLUME. Even their spouses, who have grown deaf from osmosis. At the end of four days, I, too, SPEAK AT FULL VOLUME.

The Saints~Brought New Orleans back from a deep depression by going almost all the way to the Super Bowl last year. Are slowly driving them back to one by going 0-3 this year. Still, we loves our Saints.

Mardi Gras~Except for 1977, when the police went on strike, has been around since Noah. Almost all of my male cousins and their sons are in Krewe's. Mardi Gras throws abound in these households. Mardi Gras was far different when I was little; we costumed and treated it with reverence. Now, you get throws for showing your bits. I'm pretty sure I'd get them for keeping mine covered. People wore great costumes, and then, as now, the French Quarter gave the best shows.




Bayous~Nearby is Bayou Liberty. We take it with the boat, and go slowly though the backwater to Lake Pontchartrain. You pass over Irish Bayou to get here to Slidell. There is a camp (a fishing place) on Irish Bayou... the huge surge from Katrina didn't take all of the camps out... and my favourite one, the Castle, is still there. They are slimy, full of cedar trees, the every present spanish moss, snakes, turtles, and the occasional alligator. They stretch from New Orleans down south to the Gulf.... and make up much of our culture.

Mosquitoes~Nasty flying bugs that love the taste of Quin. I am allergic to these beasts, and swell up where they bite me. Currently, I have 10 bites on each foot, and I absently scratch the top of one foot with the heel of the other, reminding me I also need a pedicure.

Bread Pudding~Made from left over french bread, you mix it with cream, eggs, raisins, sugar and bake it. Then, you pour a sauce made from whiskey, butter and sugar. Then, you eat it. Can't get much simpler.

Seafood~Crawfish, shrimp, crabs (both hard and softshelled), snapper, catfish, oysters in every way. You fry, boil, saute.... have it in salads, main courses, on a po'boy. Dip it in sauces, eat them without. Peeled, eaten on newspaper, with a cold beer and/or sweet tea.... it's all good.

Family~Hearing my name said in that accent. Knowing they've known me forever, and love me anyway. My cousins and their spouses and their kids and what they are doing and how easily I fall back into my place here. And my Aunt A.... she's always there.

There is so much more I'm not thinking of, stuff I'll think of later as my Aunt A walks around fussing right now. Tomorrow, I'm going from one New to another.

But, that's a different tale....I'll get to it later.

Quin in the Big Easy, II (click on photos for detail)

Seeing New Orleans in her current state is akin to catching your Great-Aunt Mamie, whom you've always seen dressed to the nines, in her underwear.

Here is a woman you've known all your life, who is gracious, generous... and one that you know has a bit of a naughty past that the other relatives gossip about. The one who always has on her finery, her flashy jewelry she's received from old lovers, a laugh that is deep and husky from too many cigarettes and whisky, the one with that past... but, she's got this big heart and she danced with you when you were a little girl, and she told you about sex and didn't make it scary.

Sure, you know she doesn't pay traffic tickets, and some of her furniture fell off the back of a truck...and she can be mean at times. She can give with one hand and take away with the other, and her perfume is Tweed, smelly on everyone else, but, it fits her to a 'T'... she's that great, Great-Aunt, the one who combed your hair and pinched your cheeks, you could try on her diamonds and her minks and parade around, who had the house on Burgundy (pronounced BAgundy in New Orleans) in the Quarter and would let you sip a Brandy Alexander at Christmas when no one was looking.

You haven't seen her in a few years, you walk in the house to surprise her and there she is, in her drawers, a girdle and a bra with 14 hooks. No dusting powder on her neck and shoulders, no rouge on her cheeks, not a single piece of jewelry on.... her dress is no where in sight, and she's looking her age. Her hair isn't done up in it's usual style; it's half down, and she's not used that purple shampoo, so, the yellow is showing a bit in the white. Her lips are thin, something you don't notice when her red lipstick is on. She looks...old, tired, kinda broken.

Then, she smiles, and says, "Boo, what cho doing here?" and that voice, with it's kinda Irish channel accent, kinda Cajun, kinda Garden District, kinda Brooklyn, with it's hint of Sicilian and German and Creole and Black and all the people who make up the City comes at you. She straightens up, and pulls on her slip, it's silk sliding over her girdle. "Boo, you were to call me first. And, you know to knock before you come into a lady's boudoir!"

She wears a dress of FEMA blue. Her house is FEMA trailer white. There is a big X on the front door now, showing someone checked to see who was there, if anyone was dead, and when the bodies were removed. The shotgun house, that stood for 150 years is tattered and torn, and the house you played in all of your childhood has been torn down.

Acres of pine trees are dead, waiting to fall with gravity. People can't afford to pay to have them cut down, so, they sit and wait for them to fall. Huge trees, 40 feet tall sit and wait, each one would be $1,000 or so to be cut and cleared. When the city is finally settling property taxes at the real rate, when you find yourself paying $2000 a year on a house you used to pay $200 a year on, and that house is water damaged, and you struggle between the insurance company that says it's hurricane damaged and FEMA who tells you it's water damage, no matter the water came from a broken levee, a levee that was not built to hold back a surge that big... you can't afford to have the trees cut.

People are depressed. They sit on damaged porches and look at the weeds grow. Mold takes hold so fast, you don't realise it's there until you turn around. The heat and humidity here is not like it is in New York. There is no welcoming breeze off an ocean or the East River. The air sits, hot and heavy, and you swelter. I can hear my hair curl when I step outside, and I long for the air conditioned coolness of a home or a car.

The French Quarter remains pristine. The aeons old stench of piss is gone. So are the tourists.

Like your Great-Aunt Mamie, though, the city will get herself dressed, and put on her good dress, and those earbobs.... her necklace that settles in the folds of her neck. Her Cody Red lipstick will be put on with care, rouge applied after she pats her face with a nice loose powder. She'll put her handkerchief in her pocketbook, look around, pick up her keys and say, "Boo, let's take the streetcar downtown."

And, you'll see it's all okay again. She survived, and she can take on anything, and carry on. She's New Orleans. FEMA, Bush, red tape, all of it can't hold her on her knees forever.

She's New Orleans, and the scent of the river and the port and seafood and cannoli and red beans and rice on a Monday... of coffee and chicory with beignets from Cafe du Monde, and eventually of stale piss.... the sounds of street blues singers, of shouts and calls from the stalls in the French Market, the streets that are close to 300 years old, a city that is considered separate from the state it is part of because of the uniqueness that has created it; crime, corruption, Mardi Gras, great food, love of all that is big and loud and good...of all that is this city, the love of it's citizens for this place... she'll come back.

And y'all come down, and ride a streetcar downtown. They'll be glad to have you here.

P.S.

I seldom explain.

I am going to bend that rule in my life, and do so now.

My father had his Military service two years ago, with his grandchildren, including the newly christened Marine, the Jarhead, in his full dress blues, directly following his death.

With Katrina, and the chaos following, his placement in the family grave was put off. It wasn't just Katrina, I realise now, it was also my reluctance to... let go.

The price quoted to me to dig a small hole was astronomical... and dad would have build himself into an agnostic Golem to beat me to death if I'd paid it... swinging his cane at me... and saying, "QUIN!! Dig that yourself! That's my girl... you can do this."

And, I did, Dad. I did.

In Which Quin Buries Her Father

I joked about the urn and TSA.

I laughed about sneaking around and digging a hole to said urn into the family raised grave in St. Patrick's here in New Orleans.

We often would say, "Get PaPaw out, he'd like this show." or "Make sure you grab PaPaw and put him in the car."

I never cried for my father. I keened when I saw him lying there, that day he died two years ago. It was a moment of intense grief, seeing him dead, knowing I'd never hear his voice again...even if that voice had gone querulous with his disease. That few minutes was the last time I really cried, thought of, gave time to my dad's death.

Today, we left with a trowel, his urn in a velvet bag and headed into the city. My Aunt A, my mother and I spoke of a number of things, mostly the city, of the changes that had occurred. Aunt A pointed out various neighborhoods that were struggling to come back, we joked a bit about this and that, and finally came down Canal to St. Patrick's.

My maternal grandmother and my Uncle G are also buried there, in a different part of the cemetery, so, Aunt A dropped mother and I off to find my family's tomb among the ocean of tombs there.

New Orleans has a number of her City of the Dead. We bury our dead above ground, because we are below sea level, so, burying someone IN the ground means, well, the bodies tend to pop up and out.

You can rent a tomb here in New Orleans. For 99 years, a family can rent a tomb, and put their dead there. Since the bodies turn to bone bits and ash in around a year or so, it's a good option for those who can't afford a tomb, some of which are larger than New York apartments.

Aunt A dropped Mother and I off, and she went to put flowers on Uncle G's tomb.....Mother and I started the search.

We had a good idea where it was, but, even when you know, well, you get lost. It's no as if you can tap someone on the shoulder and ask directions.

We walked straight out from the main oak tree, and wandered graves.... looking at names, some of the headstones knocked over from Katrina.

I was hot, tired, and keeping an eye on two employees who were digging a grave legally at the far end of the cemetery.

Suddenly... there it was, right there in front of me. My biggest worry, that a stone top had been put on top was needless... only dirt and some weeds were there. To keep the employees from wondering what was on, I hopped up and started to dig at the weeds, pulling them out of the dirt, then taking photos of the names carved in the marble and granite. My grandparents; John F. Catherine A. My uncle, Dominick, who was 5 when he died....TheInvestment shares his birthday with this long dead great uncle and from the strong resemblance shown in their childhood photos, he gives us a good idea of what Dominick would have looked like had he grown to manhood. My great-grandfather, John J. is there, along with his step-son, Thomas....they died two months apart in 1908.

I can't imagine losing your husband and 20 year old son two months apart.

Mother started digging, but, she threw down the trowel, announcing she wouldn't do it and I took over. We weren't sure how deep to go, even with the custom of flattening out the caskets, I didn't know, nor did I want to think about, if I'd hit something. Aunt A pulled up with the car, and we took the urn out.

After I'd dug six inches, Mother laid the urn in sideways, covered it up, and insisted we leave.

I turned back, still feeling somewhat.... I don't know, flat by it all. I checked, and didn't think it wasn't deep enough, one good rain, and it would be exposed.

"Dad would hate to have his bits showing." I laughed, that mirthless laugh we do sometimes in life.. Suddenly, I was somber. "I have to pour out the ashes." I said to my mother.

"I can't watch", she said as she got back into the car.

I was frantic in digging up the urn... the employees had driven by when we were doing the pretend weeding, and I was worried they'd be back. But, it was more than that... I had to settle this. I started to dig with my hands, pulling out his velvet bag, and the urn inside. I made the hole wider and deeper with my hands, now working in an area where my grandfather was buried, a man I adored.

I opened the bag, and uncapped the urn, which had a plastic bag inside, tied tightly with string. I didn't have scissors or a key, no way to cut into the bag, and I was frantic at that point to get him where he was supposed to be, where I knew he had asked me to bury him. Where he insisted he be buried.

I took the trowel and tried to push it through the plastic, ripping a hole in my palm and in that plastic, embedding bits of dad into my skin. As I upended the urn, shaking the ashes into the hole, I started to sob so hard, I didn't realise it was me crying at first. My mother had left the backseat, and she stood over by the car while I reached in and pulled his ashes out, patting them into the dirt, telling him I was sorry it took so long, telling him I missed him, finally...finally grieving.

I covered the spot, and turned dirt over everywhere so it didn't look as if anything had been done.

I'll call in a month, and order the plaque to be placed by the V.A..

It was the most intense, surreal, emotional experience of my life.

I do not wish it on anyone.

There is burying your father, and there is burying your father.

It has allowed me to accept something I put off for almost two years. I kept a spoonful of ashes to bring with me, I didn't want to lose all of him. My brother, Dar, has a small handful that he will spread one day, in the mountains where he and Dad loved to camp. He'll do it when he's ready, I reckon.

And, as I sat here typing this, I noticed something in my shoe.... there it was, a bit of white. I went outside and threw it into the wind, because he wanted to be here, in his city....

And he loved it here at Aunt A's house.

So, one little bit of him is still here.... I'm just not telling her.

Quin in The Big Easy, I

I'm home again.

Not my new home of New York, but, the home of my childhood; New Orleans.

Flying in last night, after a flurry of last minute packing, shipping, checking around for things I left behind, Mr. Neebes saying he'll deal with Norma and sending my Calvin and Hobbes collection, a long, wonderful drive with HRH where we talked about everything and nothing... two planes and a good terrier who slept through both flights... I looked out the window as we came in, waiting to see my city....

....and it was so dark.

Sure, there were patches of light here and there, but, half of the city is dark. Not the huge, sprawling mass of lights I'm used to. Not what I saw the last time I was here, pre-Bitch. Pre-Change. Pre-Katrina.

New Orleans dates things now as before and after Katrina. "Yeah, well, we had that little camp...before Katrina."

The twin bridges on I-10 are gone. Twisted stumps are there now. Surges of 26 feet of water one way and 32 feet the other lifted them up and moved them. When you build a bridge on the Lake, you sink a barge, then put the supports on it. The Lake swelled, and picked them up, and moved them someplace else.

We had to take Hwy 11 into Slidell. It's longer, but, at least it's not the Causeway.

Driving through East New Orleans, it's still black, over towards the Lake. You see small pockets of light, but, you can see where some neighborhoods are really only a house here and there.

Today, I'll see it in the light... and, I'm not sure I'm ready. It's two years later, and much is re-built, hell, the crime is back full force, but, the city struggles to get off her knees.

It's hot and humid and that scent that is so New Orleans is in the air. Time to see what is there, on the other side...

How to Move Without Really Trying

Take 15 boxes, 3 rolls of strapping tape and an entire day in a storage shed.

Add one bigass truck, two pairs of scissors you keep losing, a black marker, a blue one, your book you change, things you put back into storage boxes, then put into shipping boxes then...you drop and break.

Drive to UPS, where they say, "Gee, you moving?"

No, I'm doing early holiday mailing, all to the same address.

I still have 4 more boxes to pack and mail, the car to finish tomorrow, and a plane to catch at 1P... along with a conference call with my new boss.

Piece o'cake taking an urn and a dog on the plane after all of that....

On a sad note for me..... Hoosier Joe, who is on my blog roll and one of the funniest, driest, most astute writers I've found in the world of blogging or political writing period, has decided to stop blogging.

Go to his site, and beg him to start up again.

For me, for all of us.

This man deserves to be read by all of us... he is genius.

Making Applesauce

Today, Mrs S and I set up the new red apple peeler.

We went into her lower garden with the cute little wheelbarrow, prepared to pick apples, bring them inside, peel them effectively with the aforementioned red apple peeler, and create many canned apple products.

Last year, we didn't get to partake of this ritual, with her having a wedding to prepare for, and me dealing with cancer.... so, we rubbed our hands together in glee, knowing our last day together would be spent in a productive fashion, laughing and making up jars and jars of stuff.

We walked down to the trees... to find the grass beneath them covered with fallen apples.. slimy, disgusting, nasty, rotten apples. The apple tree held around 47 apples, which would produce one jar of applesauce.

One.

I looked at her and said, "Let's go eat lunch."

We did take an apple inside and tried out the new red apple peeler, and it worked a charm. We also broke open a coconut, and ate some of it.... and I did a load of laundry.

Mascara in place, it was into Norma, top down, and off to have bar-b-que at the local place which has amazing Texas style food, served on paper plates with plastic forks and spoons.

Why waste money on cleaning up serving utensils, when you can underpay your staff and just toss everything in the trash? Who needs all those trees anyway

We decided I should focus a bit, and try and pack some of the things I need to ship back home to New York. Instead of clearing out items, I managed to find at least another box of 'must haves' to UPS out. Who can live without that cute tray that once held type and I hang on a wall filled with crap? Oh, and I really, really need the photo of my Dad and his brother. And the many items the kids made me when they were in grade school.

I don't have a bed or anything to sleep or sit on, but, by god, I have an antique coffee grinder!

In other words, I was unproductive.

We did go sit in the park, after going to Sonic and getting limeades and wondering how it was someone managed to crash into the drive through right where it says "CLEARANCE 9 FEET". We looked at the trees changing colours, and talked about finding arrow heads. We didn't cry.

We also picked up my Dad from the old house, and took him along for the ride. Mrs S forgot he was in the car, and patted the urn in the velvet bag, making a comment about my bowling ball... it was fun to see her look so shocked when she remembered it was him in there.

She seldom loses her cool.

Still, with our laid back day, I'm stuck with telling people we were going to make apple products. We found out with a big enough marker, you can sorta change the date on the old stuff to look like 2007.

When I give you a jar, don't ask questions, okay?

Yes, I'll Miss it Here

I've four more days in the Land of Utes.

At first, I was only going to be here two weeks, three at the most. Wedding, some personal stuff to be dealt with, and then return home to New York. I was to have blood work done, the only thing that could put a big halt on my plans....if tests came back dirty, well, I'd be doing a long treatment and not going back until November.

I got lucky....the blood work was great...other things got in the way, and my few weeks stretched into two months.

I've joked around about my little town here, the 14 stoplights, my daily trek to get coffee, the barn I lived in for six weeks, and the last 10 days of my stay here at the Neebes house.

Yes, the Land of Utes is constricting. Last night, when we discussed getting something for dinner, it became a joke... which of the five places in town could we call in and order from? We know all of the menus by heart. I was pushing for the bowling alley, because in all of my years here, I've never had one of their award winning burgers.... I was outvoted, and Chili's won out. Let's be honest, that chocolate dessert thing with sauce, caramel and ice cream is, well, yum. We recently got a Chili's here in town, so, that menu remains fairly virginal to our palettes.

Tomorrow, I'll finish out the last of the things in my little house.... picking up a few things that remained there... including the cradle all of my children slept in. With that chore done, I won't see it again. When it sells, all of the paperwork will be done by fax. I won't hear the antique gate ever squeak again. My front yard is surrounded by an iron fence, and the gate squeaks, we could never fix it.... I'd be asleep, but, not in that full deep sleep, until I heard the gate...and I knew my babies were home.

I tape up the six or so boxes that will be UPS shipped to the new place on Staten Island, boxes holding photos, some bits and pieces that mean home to me, and a few books. I'll put those in the hands of those guys in the brown shorts, and close up the storage until I'm in the apartment I'll call home.

Norma hit eBay, we have our last drives together this week. With my luck, I'm parking her before I leave, so I don't cause any damage. She'll be clean and pretty and with luck, sell quickly.

I spend Tuesday with Mrs. S... we are canning apples. Applesauce, applebutter, sliced apples, diced apples, you name it apples. We'll use the new apple peeler for the first time, which should cut down on our process time. I'm looking forward to this.... it's a ritual I will miss. Plus, it gives me my first items for my new cupboards in New York.

Wednesday is running around day...picking up permits to take dad's ashes on the plane, getting prescriptions filled, changing addresses, making a round of good-byes. When I left in January, I still had a home here, a car.... it wasn't...real. This time, there is no coming back. Nothing to come back to... just a shed of things to be shipped to me when I'm ready.

I leave behind a number of years in a place I didn't think I'd ever live, much less learn to love.

My father spent his remaining years here, as he wished to do... not in the condition he wanted to be in, but, he died here. Because he pushed for us to be in an area he loved, I met some wonderful people..... because of those wonderful people, I became involved in theater, a place I was born to be....

As an aside, CL is directing A Streetcar Named Desire. I gasped when she told me... she heard the longing in my voice when I said, "So, have you cast?"

A pause... and her chuckle. "Oh, you have the talent.. I'm just not sure the world would ever recover from you playing Blanche."

heh.

Because of theater, my life changed professionally, and personally. I will never be the person I was before I moved here, even before two years ago.

This little town gave me many, many things.

Comfort, friends, family of my heart.... and where I gave away part of my soul.

I'll miss the Church of Cinema Eight, the 14 stoplights, the crap coffee, my theater company, everyone I know here... the fact I know so many people.

I'll be back for my family of the heart, for my HRH and her new family... but, it won't be the same.

Still, it's a place where I can always find those skies that stretch out between our far stretched mountain ranges, the millions of stars... my MoMo's....and Orion so crisp and clean.

New Yorker Festival~Update

Not a single ticket was available.

Not one.

Nada.

Nope.

I guess I'll hear about it from those who have the in's and press passes and know someone who invites them to go.

Feel free to brag, I can live vicariously.

A Night at the Movies

Two evenings of birthday screaming.

E had her real birthday on Thursday, with a small family gathering, then a party with 47 children on Friday. Mr Neebes and the Sisterwife dealt with the Friday issue at the local park, while I played sick... upon their return, however, Sisterwife and I made a mad dash for the door, leaving Mr Neebes to deal with the four Neebes children while we drove to catch the 8.20 showing of the new Jody Foster film, The Brave One.

We left in real single woman fashion, top down, feeling free, sister, free!

Upon our arrival at the Church of Cinema Eight, we discovered the paper was wrong, and the actual showtime was at 7.50.... the only film we could catch was Dragon War.... something the ticket girl said was "....better than Transformers."

We believed her.

Have any land in Florida you want us to buy?

Purchasing our BigButtBucket, we settled into the SweetSpot O'Seats, just behind the rail, where you can put your feet up, and watched the previews, marking the ones we wanted to see, the one with Joaquim, and something else that passed us by, drool still in our mouths from Joaquim.

The film started.

It was so bad, we couldn't even make fun of it... not a single portion of it... nothing. Not even the sub-titles were good, even though they were taking place in China in 1508, yet were full of modern colloquialisms. We couldn't even laugh at the fact they inserted parts of an old film called Dinotopia... there was slashing and slaying and squishing and no blood.

It.
Sucked.
Rocks.

We finally looked at each other, stood up and left, holding our still full BigButtBucket....and headed for the manager.

She was all of 17.

"Look, that movie sucked," I said, smiling. "We aren't staying, but, are willing to come back to the next showing of Jodie's film, which was our first choice."

"We don't do refunds."

One ticket seller spoke up, "These two women support us, they come here so much." Another chimed in, "Yeah, they know our prices better than we do, and the dark haired one, she is the one who named the BigButtSpecial."

"You mean, she's....?"

"Yes."

I looked into the office, and saw our photos, with little candles under them. It was a cute shrine.

They marked our tickets, and we left, hearing the whispered voices behind us, knowing we'd made a few people's day.

Wandering around WalMart, we manged to spend time and money, waiting for the showing of The Brave One. Wait time equaled 45 minutes and $39.23 between us.

They re-filled our bucket and drinks, we again found the SweetSpot O'Seats, and sat though the Foster film.

Photos, btw, can be seen at the Sisterwife's site.... she's far more creative than I.

We didn't talk during Jodie's performance.... except to wonder if she had a body double for the love scenes....okay, okay, I wondered. It was a good film, we ate our poporn, drank our drinks and she consumed the M&M's.... unless I wanted to kiss, I was denied chocolate.

Our only regret?

We have no idea how Dragon War ended....so, if any of you know, drop me a line.

Mike at Delta, I Salute You

Mike at Delta, you made my lip quiver last night.

You took my information, you booked me from here to New Orleans, and from there back to Newark....you did it flawlessly, with no asking for a repeat of anything, you lived in Salt Lake...customer service where a Mike really was a Mike.... you made the quickest connections, your making it all one return, thus using my return frequent flier miles as one ticket, keeping me from having to purchase a ticket to New Orleans and...you did it all in a matter of 20 minutes. Mike, thanks to you and your nice voice, your fast fingers, your....competence, I leave here, have a small two day trip to my home town, and will be back home in New York on September 25th.

Oh, Mike... I love you.

The Mousetrap

Klaus called.

Norma is ready to be picked up. He was done, he said. He had discovered the problem, and, his voice, icy with disdain, advised me it could easily have been avoided, if I took better care of my car.

"Why, why do you mean?" innocence dripped from my voice.

"You do not garage this car." Each word was clipped. Dripping with Teutonic scorn.

"I....I...." he had me. I've heard some people use those big attached storage units on their houses for cars, but, I thought it was an urban legend.

"You are right, she sits outside, BUT, she has a car cover!"

"Oh, they love those, the car covers. They can glide under them, doing their evil work. You. Don't. Deserve. This. Car. They got to it." His voice shook with rage.

"Who? What? Did a Keebler elf go bad? What happened to my car??"

"A mouse. A dirty mouse crawled up inside your car, while you had it sitting outside in a carrrr cover... and it made a nest in the wires, and it ate through. You may pick up this masterful piece of machinery at 2P. Bring your checkbook."

He hung up.

A fucking mouse.

*sigh*

Countdown

Storage sorted? Check.

Apartment rented, deposit paid, sitting there empty and unused for two months? Check.

Garage sale held successfully? Check.

Car still waiting to be fixed? Check.

House on market? Semi-check.

Arrangements made to bring dog and dad's ashes to New Orleans, both as carry on luggage, which should be great fun at TSA? Check.

Impatient? Check.

Chance to see at least four new films before I leave the land of cheap film viewing? Check.

Getting to see the WeatherGuy again, after almost two months, 4,275 text messages and a big ass cell phone bill? Check.


Booya.

The New Yorker Festival

......starts 28 September.

Be still my heart.


Readings by Paul Theroux, Annie Proulx, conversations with Norman Mailer, Salman Rushdie, book signings with Fiona Apple, Theroux and Proulx, panels on everything from the war to costume design, music and a sneak preview of The Kite Runner. And, those are the tip of the iceberg.

If anyone can get me a pass to this Festival, I will organise your home. I will create a zen flow to your kitchen. You will find your possessions you thought missing. Imagine. There isn't a panel I don't want to see nor a reading I want to miss.

Oh! New York! This is why I love you.

Toddlers T.V.

Who invented the Doodlebops?

And, why?

Why do The Toddlers find them irresistible? This show, along with Yo Gabba Gabba, have played for hours over the last 36 waking hours I've been here.

Yo Gabba Gabba? Where did they find the name? Did some Account Exec come in drunk, was pushed for the name on the spur of the moment, and his secretary heard him throwing up in his trashbasket? Was it the call of one stoned Yankees fan to another on the 4 train after a win? "Yo! Gabba! Gabba!" and thus a children's series was created?

I can see why the adults who are in said series wear heavy make-up. For some reason, I see them as modern day Soupy Sales and crew, drinking in their dressing rooms.... doing their stint on the set, removing the concealing make-up and wigs, and listing their occupations as 'research assistant' when they apply for loans.

I suffered through years of 'Sesame Street', which wasn't bad, looking back on it. Paul Simon was on, you had the Count, and let's be honest, we all wondered about Bert and Ernie. Mr. Rogers lived in a world where no child ever shoved a broomstick in the spokes of another child's bike as he rode past, and He-Man let my son run around in plastic armour.

I've yet to see any little boy dressed as a Doodlebop.

Well, not in Utah.

Quin, MomAgain

I'm suddenly the mom of toddlers again.

Mr. Neebes and the Sisterwife are out of town for the weekend, and I was elected to watch the Toddlers. True Toddlers, 2 & 4 year olds, who have extensive vocabularies, parents who are both in the arts, therefore giving them rather dramatic personalities, and they have elder siblings (who are farmed out for this weekend, I am beyond handling that many children) who have taught them the ropes.

"I am going to my friends house." T.M. tells me.

"Which friend?"

"If you don't know, I can't see the reason to tell you again. I told you his name once."

A.K. dresses like a princess. Four or five times a day. She sings to me quite a bit, in a clear soprano voice that hints at what it will be in the next few years. I am looking forward to those years. Her ringlets and deep blue eyes betray a razor sharp mind and lead you to think she is nothing but a pretty face in an Ariel dress.

"Miss Quin..." I hear the phrase all day long. We discuss rock people, why the terrier is tired of eating treats and the reason she prefers her pink blanket to her blue one. When you think you simply cannot take another Miss Quin, she smiles, dimples glowing and says, "I love you so much". No one loves like a two year old.

Her brother is a solid block of boy. He saves his hugs and gives them only if you've earned them. He has no idea why his sister is crying. Well, perhaps it's because he slugged her in the back....maybe. He'll have to think on it, and while he's thinking, will you sit next to him and watch TV. He feeds the terrier snacks that come up later on. He races about on his small bike, no shoes, going places in his imagination. He holds doors open and says please and thank you then turns around and can only say one word; no.

They rely on me for everything, food, juice, kisses on owies, being tucked into bed, sitting next to them in the maybe scary part when we watch Harry Potter for the 2,472nd time.

You forget that little boy smell, the way a little girl wraps her arms around your neck as she protests she's not sleepy... the way they stop crying when you pick them up, and listen to whatever it was that upset them, the joy in their voice when you announce pudding for dessert.

I would never do this again full time.....but, for this weekend... we're having a pretty good time. Check with me again on Sunday evening and see how we all survived.

IP-71.203.5 ~ AKA Anonymous

I am flattered.

Not only do you read my journal AND my writings on 6S (thanks for the info, Rob for matching the IP!), you have me on an RSS feed from www.bloglines.com!!

You sly dog!

You actually have it set up to notify you down there in Sarasota, Florida when I post on my journal!!


You cute little gimp, you!

I'm wondering, though... you've got, what, three posts on my journal today.

Did you really just cream your jeans over a stranger's broken car? That seems to me like a "batshit crazy" reaction.

You could have just closed the browser and moved on with your life, but now, by your own definition, something bad might happen to you. Of course, as you have just announced, you love that.

Now, I'll hit post, your RSS feed will notify you I've posted, and you can get ready to wank off on this post, dedicated to you, Mr. IP 71.203.5

You hunka-hunka burning obsessed with me guy.

Wrecks, Part II

Sometimes, cars act like humans.

With my decision to divest myself of everything I own, Mr. Neebes suggested I sell Norma immediately, and rent a car during my remaining visit here in the land of Utes.

It was a good suggestion, I had a couple of people interested, she was in prime condition, and it was still summer... top dollar for a Mercedes-Benz SLK hard-top convertible that does this really cool thing where the trunk opens, and the hard top slides down into the trunk, leaving you with an open top and a nice roll bar and a hot car.

I've said I don't like cars, but, I do like Norma.

I held fast to refusing to sell... I mean, why pay $150 for a few weeks of renting some Elantra when I could still cruise around in Norma? She's the only one of her kind in the area...and, well, I liked driving her this last time. It didn't matter selling her was my nest egg for my move.

Saturday, I ran an errand before meeting up with Mrs S to go have fun at our annual Parade of Homes Day. We go look at the builders Best of the Best, we judge them based on their candy and giveaways, and then have a nice meal. She dropped me off at Norma, and I held out my nice Mercedes key and pressed the 'open' button.

Nothing happened.

I did it again, holding it closer, the way you do when your remotes batteries are going bad, as if the extra few inches will make a difference.

It didn't.

I used the key to open her....manually. It hurt me to do this, she was built to be opened with panache.

Alarms went off, lights flashed, she screamed in protest as she was assaulted with a key. After five minutes, her hissy fit was over, and I was able enter the car, and pull out the trusty five inch thick manual that came with her, that I'd never opened before and includes the road side assistance number that I promptly dialed.

Claudia (no outsourcing for Mercedes) and I discussed the issue. She asked if I had another key, and suggested I try that one. She was out of warranty, but, they do offer a number of roadside assistances... sadly, coming up from Vegas, two hours away, isn't one of them. She would, however, call the local company to help out.

I waited for Mrs S to go to her house and get said key, where it had been left for safe keeping. While I waited, I read the manual, a first for me.

The new key, too, was rejected. Norma was having none of this key stuff. She had separated herself from their marriage.

I took a ride home, leaving her there to think about the consequences...being towed.

Chuck, the only tow operator in town met me the next day, and put his hands all over her engine. Her battery was fine, he said, she just didn't want to start. No! Really?

We took her down to Seth and Dave who work on the imports here in town.

Norma likes Seth and Dave. They take good care of her. Being backed up with other cars they said I had to wait a day to see what the problem was. It was severe enough, it turned out, they had to call in.... Klaus.

Klaus works at the Mercedes satellite shop from Vegas a town down. He came up, puttered, poked, prodded, and announced.....

Norma had indeed initiated separation proceedings from the keys.

What?!? After 12 happy years of locking and unlocking on command? Of setting off the alarm when I pushed the cute red button? With NO WARNING? A separation?

Klaus told me the only thing was to bring in mediation, a new key... one that might soothe Norma's miffed system. Sure, it was $128.00, but, with luck, a push of a button, a twist of a gadget, and wunderbar! Norma would again fall in love with the security system, and again open and close and, more importantly, start.

If this didn't work... if she rejected the key as a cheap date, I'd have to call in the big guns.

Yes, the expert lawyers, disguised as 'mechanics' in Las Vegas. Norma would be taken there, towed at a cost that would buy me a plane ticket to London, and we'd have to discuss the divorce, also known as overhauling her electric system.

The divorce issue worries me.

Who would get custody of the catalytic converter? Would the key or the main security system be allowed to have visitation of the 6 disc CD player? The cute little headlight washers, will they be important enough to be included in the settlement? I was worried about the fight over the hydraulics system that controlled the roof... I know that would be a huge issue, and could see a guardian ad liem being appointed.

What about the leather seats?

This may not turn out pretty. And, I can foresee a number of 0's between the $ the main number and the decimal.

I should have listened to Mr. Neebes.... and if he tells me that one more time, the two warring parties will have to discuss who gets custody of the body in the trunk.

"There's No Place Like Home...."

I knew I would be in Utah for a bit.

Mid August was my goal to return home to New York... medical testing aside. If it was clear, I was booked to wing my way back to Newark, land of stupid airline employees and a train that took me back to the city.

It's September, and I'm still here.

The house still isn't on the market, the Benz died and needed a new battery (thank goodness it was only a battery, there are only two zeros between the first number and the decimal), I still have a few things to sort to have shipped to the place I pay rent on and have yet to see, and the terrier has terrorised the chickens so much, they refuse to lay eggs.

I do my best to look innocent when the neighbor walks off shaking his head, an empty basket in his hand. I'm thinking of buying eggs and putting them in the nest.

If Norma is fixed today, everything is back on track, and I may actually fly out of Vegas on Monday. I will have nothing to sleep on for a week, but, I can live that way. I had the dead front yard repaired, the garage sale was good, the storage is consolidated into one place, and I've signed the sale agreement. Norma has to sell so I can make two house payments a month until the house here sells.

How do people live life this?

The Truth About Me

One of the funniest men I read, Hoosier Joe, tagged me.

I have to elaborate on the words/phrases below....so, here goes:



Accent – I don't really have one, as many people from New Orleans tend to grow up without a real accent. I have what is called the 'non accent' accent. I do tend to reflect any dialect I'm faced with, and can mimic ones fairly easily.

Alcholic Drink – Tonic and lime for me....unless Todd is buying, and he forgets and throws in the occasional vodka. If I do drink, it's tequila.

Chore I Hate – Laundry. I don't mind ironing, I love using linen spray and the mindlessness of ironing, but, the rest....*shudder*

Pets – The infamous Westie.

Essential Electronic – My sweet laptop computer, Bob.

Perfume/Cologne – I use this great rose soap I bought at the street fair I went to with GolfWidow and LisaB and DeniB. I also use ylangylang/rose spray from Bed and Body works...but, they stopped making it. My read perfume, when I go out (both times a year) is Dior's Dioressence. You can't buy it here anymore...ah, well. I've a bottle of Joy, but, I've never opened it.

Gold or silver – I wear pearl earrings or gold hoops, a gold necklace, my dad's wedding ring and a silver watch. That's it.

Insomnia – Depends.

Job Title – Depends

Most Admired Trait – Wow. Good manners, I suppose.

Kids – Five.

Religion – Raised Catholic, now, I believe in God and made a deal... I won't show up in one of his houses if he doesn't show up in mine.

Siblings – One, my brother whom I was allowed to name. Recently, he forgave me. He's in the film industry, and is married to the most wonderful woman in the world. I also have a number of sisters of the heart that God loved me enough to put into my life. Oh, and Mr. Neebes.

Time I wake up – I get out of bed around 8AM. I wake up around 10AM

Unusual talent/skill – I can tear a phone book in half.

Vegetable I refuse to eat – Rutabaga

Worst habit – Pointing out bad props/time continuity in plays to my companions. Pointing out continuity issues during films to my friends. I now find myself attending both alone. When working on plays, I usually have the entire script memorised, and unknowingly will start to say the lines sotto voce, causing said friends (who are usually the directors) to make me sit in the boxes, since I also cringe when a line is dropped.

X-rays – Are difficult props to find.

My favorite meal – A big Southern Sunday dinner or sitting on a back porch eating boiled crawfish and blue crabs with corn and potatoes on a table covered with newspaper while you drink cold beer, followed with bread pudding and fresh strawberry ice cream.


The tagging to continue goes to....


GolfWidow, The Prince, Amber, Bud, ending with CajunBoy

that makes it go full circle on the Louisiana crowd from Joe to me to CB.