So it's one of THOSE apartments

I recently moved into a new apartment. It's a sweet, small space in an area I love and I'm quite happy to be on my own again. My description of its location usually goes something like this:

Inquiring Friend: Where are you living now?

Me: Do you know the Excelsior & Grand area?

Friend: Sure, that's an awesome location!

Me: It is. Do you know those gorgeous condos right at the intersection?

Friend: Yeah, wow, way to go! Those places are beautiful.

Me: *laughing* I live in the ghetto apartments behind those gorgeous condos.

Friend: Oh. Cool. I didn't know there were apartments back there.

Me: Yeah, they like to hide us away, we po' folk.

Anywho, I love my somewhat ghetto place, warts and all. I called my landlord a few days ago because for the life of me I could not get my windows to lock. I pushed and sweated and cussed and still, no locking. I live on the first floor and I watch too much Law & Order SVU so, really, locking windows is kinda high on my priority list. The landlord explained to me, very sweetly, that the windows DO lock but everytime you open the windows you have to realign the panes. You have to pull the lower pane out, push the upper pane up, and finally slide the lower pane back into place.

Ah. It's one of those apartments. One of those lovely little places where every moving part has a system. My bedroom door in New Orleans had a similar process that involved having to reattach the doorknob every 5th opening. And 4th step in the hallway had a dip in it that, despite living there for 3 years, I could never master the height of and I always half stumbled my way upstairs.

I'm not complaining. I'm happy I have one of those apartments. Who needs perfection when you can have a slightly contrary, slightly annoying, but totally individual place? Perfection is overrated. I have my own idiosyncracies (applying condiments alphabetically, being moderately intimidated by escalators), so it only makes sense that my new home should be equally eccentric.

My thoughts exactly

Rocko, looking none too pleased that his trip outside involved a snowy backside and frozen whiskers. I feel ya, little buddy, March 31st is WAY too late to be getting 8 inches of snow. Where, oh where, is spring?

Why I'm Voting For Her

I do not fall for it. I am an eternal optimist but I do not believe that gives me license to ignore reality. Obama's incessant talk of change does not convince me of anything beyond his ability to speak in pretty, inspiring tones. He holds himself well. He smiles and exudes warmth in ways that Hillary does not. But I am not electing a buddy. I am not electing someone I want to go have a beer with. I'm electing the next Commander-in-Chief. I'm electing the individual who will get us out of Iraq, who will effectively maneuver the halls of Congress, who will do what it takes to clean up the mess Bush leaves behind.

Regardless of the nominee, 'change' is imminent. After eight years of Bush incompetence, a Democrat in the White House will mean a restoration of good sense, good choices, and hope for all Americans. So this constant harping on 'change' by the Obama camp frustrates me. 'Change' is the buzzword used by candidates who lack the credentials to support their plans for the future. I should hope any candidate would be working for change, otherwise what the hell is the point? Obama assumes his ideas are enough, that what he lacks in experience he can make up for in heart. How sweet. Cute, almost. And I don't consider myself to be a cynic. But I will take experience over eloquence any day, especially when the fate of the country is involved. Hillary supports our military, our health, our environment, our position in world politics, in ways bolstered by years of experience and inspired by a lifetime of public service. Obama has convinced me that he wants the job. Hillary has convinced me that she can do the job. Period.

Whoa Nelly!

My car, a 2003 blue VW Golf, has been through a lot. Her name is Nell (a shortened form of Dub-Yuh-Nell, which is the nickname for my undergrad, Washington and Lee...I couldn't name her 'Dubyuh' for obvious reasons). She was purchased in St. Louis after I returned from Peace Corps in Morocco. She then traveled highway 70 between St. Louie and Kansas City routinely for a year while I was living in KC and visiting family in St. Louis.

Then I decided to move to New Orleans for law school. This meant three round trips between Kansas City and Nola as I looked for an apartment, moved my belongings, and visited friends. Living in Nola also meant multiple hurricane evacuations to Little Rock, trips that resulted in 1 flat tire, 1 busted headlight bulb, a handful of bad mix CDs, and the murder of one unfortunate turtle crossing highway 55N. Evacuations aside, Nola was not a good place for a car. A sinking city means a city of potholes. And in New Orleans these are not your average potholes. These are not tire-sized potholes. These are large cow-sized. These are VW Golf-sized. I saw an 18 wheeler get stuck on a city street because its front tire sank into the road. And still, despite the potholes, heat, and humidity, by dear Nelly survived. Not unscathed, of course. A couple of teenage hooligans stole two of my hubcaps right in front of me. And I lost a third due to a faulty U-turn. But she's alive and kicking.

And now. Now I bring her to Minneapolis. I cover her in so much salt and gook and mess, she doesn't even look blue anymore. I freeze her senseless so that half the time I come back to the bus station after work I say a little prayer for her to start. I can't blame her orneryness, I wouldn't want to wake up either if I'd been hanging out in a -5 degree garage all day. So today, I gave her a bath. I never spend money on car washes, they were a waste in New Orleans since it rained so much. And here it seems silly since she'll just get salty again with one trip downtown. But she looked so sad and grey, I had to perk her up a bit.

Nelly, in her clean and hubcapless glory, says hello.

Cry for Help

I miss the jazz on Frenchman's Street. Someone find me some jazz.

I Miss the Sidewalk

Well, I don't really miss the sidewalks in New Orleans. They're the most awful, ankle-twisting sidewalks in America, ripped apart by oak roots and the constant sinking of the streets. But I do miss walking up and down my street, State Street, to and from school. I miss seeing houses I'd never noticed before, in colors I'd forgotten about, with flowers I could never describe.

This was my favorite house. On the corner, the yard always smelled like clay and jasmine. It was beautiful.

A New Day

For the last few years, ever since the Cardinals were defeated by the Red Sox, my family has burned a Red Sox cap in the fireplace to welcome the new year, bring good luck. We're a rabid Cardinals family, and watching the Red Sox cap melt and pop and disintegrate in open flames is a welcome sight. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

May the New Year bring similarly bizarre joys to you and yours.

The Perfectly Iced Cookie

Trinity, the very adorable young lady with her mouth stuffed with sugar in the pic, probably ate more frosting this past Saturday than any child should ingest in a week. My little sister (behind her in the picture) later helped Trinity decorate a construction paper stocking and was a keen competitor in a vicious Heads Up, Sevens Up duel.

It takes so little to make children smile. Giggles are so easy. Children should be tickled and hugged, laughed with and played with, danced with and chased, every single day.

And adults need all that, too. I hope this Christmas all my friends are blessed with perfectly iced sugar cookies, hugs as huge as can be handled, nifty toys, kisses under the mistletoe, and most importantly, peace from God. And sprinkles, can't have icing without sprinkles.

In case you were wondering...

I PASSED THE BAR EXAM! On October 26, 2007 I will swear in and be an official, true blue, card-carrying member of the bar. A lawyer! A REAL REAL REAL REAL LAWYER!

My kid sister

Isn't she beeeeeeeautiful?! Sometimes I can't believe she's MY sister, she's so much more poised and mature and adorable than I ever was at that age. I like to pretend that some of that awesomeness she gleaned from me but I think most of it's just God-given fantasticness.

Little Blessing

I was raised in a Southern Baptist family and saints are not part of that religious picture. Saints, to me, were always odd, almost pagan focal points that didn't belong to my faith. I thought they detracted from the most important aspect of Christianity, that a belief in Christ's sacrifice was the singular requirement for salvation. So I largely ignored these so-called saints...

Maggie, a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer, had a St. Christopher medal with her while we were serving in Morocco. It was from her that I first learned St. Chris was the patron saint of travelers. I felt the medal was about as religiously significant as a rabbit's foot but something in me liked the idea of a guardian, of a Christian sentinel protecting my steps in new countries, new cities, new everythings. I found out later that he is also the patron saint of epilepsy, which made me smile. Guardian of adventures and seizures, good to be protected in both regards.

Before leaving New Orleans I bought a St. Christopher medal. It's small and silver and tarnished already but it's mine. I kept it in my pocket as I moved from Louisiana to Minneapolis and it will be in my pocket again this weekend, when I will learn whether or not I passed the bar. I don't think it does anything. I don't think it's magic. I don't think it provides any additional heft to my prayers that I pass. But it's something extra, one more pair of watchful eyes, maybe. I imagine St. Christopher, if he is what he is and does what he does, sitting somewhere just above me with his chin leaning into his palm and a half-smile on his face. He reminds me of my grandfathers. His fingers are crossed for me.

Well what did you expect?

When I'm stressed I do things to my hair (see 2005 post re: The Perm). In less than 10 days I will find out if I passed the bar. Hence, a haircut was in order...

This is the kissy face, which I do (in conjuction with the fish face) when I'm nervous. Nervous is a small word for how I feel about the bar results.

I think my eyes are kinda buggy in this picture but my nose looks nice.

Yes, these pictures were taken with my two year old camera phone. Don't judge. Yes, they were taken in my parents' basement on a Saturday night. Don't judge.

I Want to Be Ina Garten When I Grow Up

Seriously, she was a budget analyst under Carter and worked at the White House as a nuclear energy consultant and now she's the coolest Food Network personality. I'm totally making her pomegranate cosmopolitans for my birthday (yes, it's two months away but I can daydream, right?) and if my souffles EVER turn out as pretty as hers I will move to Paris, open up a cheese shop, and flirt with dark-haired men in too-tight pants.

I miss it

I miss riding in Stephanie's car. She parallel parks much better than me. I miss green salads, ham and brie pitas, diet cokes in wide plastic glasses. I miss wondering what will happen after law school, talking about boys, stopping by Shoenami to try on yellow shoes with gold heels. I miss living in the same city as my girls. I miss parking behind that SUV with the offensive bumper sticker around the corner from Kat's apartment, calling "hellooooo" as I walk up her steps, hearing Stephanie's "yay!" as Kat opens the door. I miss opening wine bottles, slicing up cheese, eating nuts that Steph made too spicey. I miss the Wicker Wonderland.

I miss New Orleans so much it hurts sometimes. And I miss my ladies even more.

My not-so-secret dream

I am baking a double chocolate cake with vanilla cream icing on Friday for Julie's birthday. And I'm making pralines for my dad tomorrow.

Why didn't I go to culinary school instead of law school? Someday I will open a bakery. A beautiful, yellow-trimmed, red-bricked bakery. With tiers of cupcakes. Vanilla bean icing. Ganache ripples. Rosemary focaccia. Apple dumplings. Wrought-iron chairs with soft floral cushions. Each seat will have a warm blanket draped over the back, in case customers get a chill from the fall air and want to wrap themselves in love-worn chenille while they sip cider and lick chocolate off their fingers.

I will do it.

Weddings are so fun!

I think every bride should look like this on their wedding day--so happy their face kinda looks like it's going to explode. Katherine was a beeeeeeeautiful bride and the wedding was so sweet and perfect and fun. Three cheers for true love!

A bit of a hiccup

Obviously there has been a bit of a temporal hiccup in my postings of late. I blame leaving New Orleans, graduating from law school, moving to Minneapolis, studying for the bar, taking the bar, and my present daily panic attacks for my absence. Life is okay, but odd, up here up North, living with the family again.

I've been reading again, real books not law books, and it has been at once exhilirating and depressing. I remember reading pre-law school, pre-bar study, and I remember it being fun and rejuvenating and inspiring. Now, it is still those things on occassion, but it kills me that my attention span has been destroyed by months of cramming. Bar exam studying, for those who have had the pleasure of not experiencing it, involves 7-10 hours a day (on light days) of learning, re-learning, memorizing, practicing, outlining, graphing, comparing, digesting, and beating various rules, theories, and tests into an unwilling brain. It is impossible to learn everything that can be tested so you become a master at focusing on the key points, the big tests, the most logical outcomes, which means you skim ridiculous amounts of material very, very quickly. This works well for the bar exam. It does not work well for experiencing Susan Sontag's In America or anything written by someone other than a law professor. I have to remind myself to slow down, to read every word, to picture and imagine each sentence. I have to reacquaint myself with READING, for pity's sake. READING. This is me. Reading has been my greatest escape since I was five. And now I've lost it, or temporarily misplaced it. Very sad. Very pathetic.

I am in limbo these days. I don't know if I've passed the bar and won't until October, so finding a job is difficult since I'm unable to practice law until I'm licensed. And the job search itself is painfully complex since I'm interested in many things, some which require bar passage and some which do not. I'm not emotionally invested in the idea of practicing law. Litigation seems interesting enough but from my perspective today it doesn't thrill me. I'm curious about transaction work and feel I'd be good at it but curiosity seems a strange thing upon which to base a career. Perhaps the most frustrating part of the search is talking to people about what I'm interested in. It's odd, when you talk about going to law school, everyone applauds the choice because law school "opens so many doors" and there are "so many opportunities" to use the degree OUTSIDE the practice of law. This is quite true, to an extent. But these days, if I mention pursuing positions outside the realm of Law & Order or The Firm I feel like I'm met largely with cocked eyebrows and questions as to why I don't want to practice. It isn't that I don't want to practice, it's that I'm very interested in many non-practicing career paths. Why is that so hard for some people to digest? And more importantly, why do I care?

Tuesday I'll be headed to Katherine's wedding in California. It's odd to think it's happening, that such milestones have finally arrived. I remember when she called me to tell me Nathan proposed. I was in Little Rock, after Katrina (there's an earlier post about it somewhere), and I was in bed staring at the sparkly stucco on Mamaw's ceiling. When I saw Kat's number pop up on my cell I knew she was engaged. I just knew that was what had happened. It was so nice to have a slice of celebration during those months of waiting and watching the news. And now The Day has arrived. A week from today she will have been married for over 24 hours. Life happens so fast. Sometimes I wish it would slow down so I could breathe a bit. But some days, like today, I wish this year would be over, wish I could skip ahead 12 months and have the reassurance of knowing I'm employed and possibly happy and living somewhere fulfilling (here or elsewhere). But then I'd miss Kat's wedding, and who knows what other happy moments, so it's a wish that I don't mind God ignoring.

I'm Currently Studying for the Bar Exam

in Minneapolis.

The weather's nice.

I drink a lot of coffee.

And I go for walks.

Leaving New Orleans was awful. But I think maybe I'll like it here, too.

There is a great Ethiopian restaurant, so that's a bonus.

Mardi Gras, Caenaveron, A little Louisiana for everyone...

Beads on wires, beads on trees. I think it's one of my favorite times in the city, just after Mardi Gras. The crowds are gone, the streets are quieter, no more parade traffic, but the beads are still there, still shiny and pretty and hanging from anything that can be hung on to. Eventually, maybe a couple months from now depending on the rain, the beads will fade and dull and bleach in the sun. Eventually, they'll be sad little reminders of a party, mini-invitations for next year's shenanigans. Kinda pathetic, really. But for now they're still lovely.

But there is another Louisiana I saw today. I'm doing a project on river diversions to create new wetland. My partner, Brandi, and I, with her husband, drove to one such diversion, Caenaveron, this morning. After what can only be described as an adventure getting to the ferry, we crossed the river to the side heavily hit by the Katrina surge. It's amazing, really, and I don't understand the science of it. How one side of the river is fine and the other leaves nothing but shattered skeletons of homes and empty foundations. I think the diversions are important. I think they could work, in theory. But, heavens, it seems like chump change sized up next to all the destruction. And I suppose that is my state's dilemma these days.

There is so much that's gone wrong for Louisiana, some by luck and some by its own lunacy, inaction, and readiness to sell to the highest bidder. How many price tags are there? How many homes to rebuild? How many street lights to repair? How many deaths to mourn? How many businesses demolished? How many schools still unopened? How many acres of wetland destroyed? And that last one, that wetland question, it pales in comparison of importance for almost everyone. Including myself. If you asked me today would I rather see an uprooted family back in their pre-Katrina home, rebuilt and happy, or see an acre of wetland restored, I would quickly choose the former. And I am one of the educated ones on this issue. Environmental impacts, environmental law: this is what I've chosen as the focus of my legal education. I KNOW the link between wetland destruction and New Orleans' fragility to future hurricanes. I know that the wetlands are our best defense. I know that we brought this on ourselves to some extent, that the failure of the levees is one thing, the wholesale prostitution of our wetlands another. But wetlands do not have a face, despite their importance, they do not evoke the same emotional reaction as a family left homeless. Because I can vaguely imagine that feeling of human helplessness, what it would feel like to have your home rotting and worthless before you. It did not happen to me, but it came close, close enough for me to smell what that flavor of despair must taste like. How do I empathize with a wetland?

Unfortunately for the future of the wetlands, Louisiana's best hope, they do not cry loud enough. Which isn't to say that you can't have both, restoration of the communities themselves and the wetlands. But I feel like there must be an end to the money somewhere, that it's impossible to get in the first place, and when there's a shortage the windfall will go to building more homes in flood plains, and the wetlands will be left to fend for themselves (with the small but mighty support of environmentalists) against OIL and DEVELOPMENT (such wealthy patrons deserve all caps).

Today, after seeing a diversion which made me hopeful, and the destruction, which made me sad...the emotional balance weighs heavily in favor of pessimism. But despite everything, driving back, seeing the beads in the trees, I could not imagine a world without this city, this deltaic wonderland, so it has to work. River diversions, green spaces, urban planning, education and health care reform...all these ideas swimming around, they simply have to work.

(picture courtesy of Jason Rinehart, photographer extraordinaire)

Longer Hair, Finally

I think my hair has reached the "no-longer-short" category. It's not long. But it's not short.

Baby steps.

An Edible Afternoon

Somedays are so so pretty, I just want to hug them. Or eat them. They're so perfectly warmish but coolish enough for a soft long-sleeved sweater. They're perfect for sitting outside a coffee shop and watching other happy humans buy things they don't need, smile at people they don't know, and bop their heads to music they barely hear.

I think a pretty day in New Orleans is prettier than any beautiful day in some other city. But I am fantastically biased...

A Letter

Dear Jerkface,

The next time you are inclined to speed in the middle of a rain shower AND do so dangerously close to a sidewalk, please keep in mind that the humans you see walking to school on the side of the road are trying really hard to stay dry. That's why they're carrying umbrellas. So, you can deduce from this that they are not appreciative of being drenched by the puddle your wormstinking carcass of a car just plowed through. I hope you have a really rotten day. I hope your peanut butter and jelly sandwich gets totally smashed. And I hope the apple slices your mommy packed for you (yes, you are 45 and still live at home) are brown and nasty by the time you get to eat your lunch.

Sincerely,

Me

You Know You Need A Break When...

You're laughing at Pat Sajak on Regis and Kelly.

That's a new low for me.

But he is hilarious!

Just One of Those Days

I cannot sit still today. I can't do work. I can't take a nap. I can't decide where to take the bar. I can't decide if I want to sleep in tomorrow. I can't decide if I want tea now or maybe later. Maybe now AND later?

And, just now, one nanosecond ago, I couldn't decide if I was done with this post.

Jeez.

The Pursuit of Happiness, Not Just Another Will Smith Movie

One of my dearhearts, my kindreds, Stephanie, has found the love of her life. I met him last night and he’s perfect. Not perfect. Perfectly imperfect and perfect for her. They compliment each other the way men and women are supposed to compliment each other. He teases her, which she needs. And she blushes when he looks at her. It’s a beautiful thing, love. And she hasn’t always been able to see how worthy she is of such a thing, so it’s good to see a good man sit her down and tell her not only that he loves her but she’s deserved that love all along.

One of my other dearhearts, my other kindreds, Katherine, is not having so lovely a time. Love, yes, she has oodles of that as her fiancé is good at reminding her of happier days to come. But her back hurts today, and has been hurting, and it has been raining here for at least a lifetime. And we are all so so done with this chapter in our lives. So ready to see what’s next, to make homes and explore new lives. And I think she’s stifled here. It’s not really a feeling I can relate to, honestly. I’m not in love with anyone (but I’m feeling something). The closest thing to a lover I have at the moment is this city. She breaks my heart daily and I return daily for abuse, hoping this time she’ll love me back. Katherine, unlike New Orleans, has love waiting for her just a few months from now. Marriage, kisses, a white dress, a new home…all thousands of miles away and a few too many days to count. I suppose it would be tough, near impossible, to wait like that. Wait for your life to start. I think she’s a strong woman, and a patient one, for loving us as well as she does when her heart is so far away.

And then there’s me. And I’m happy. Happier than I’ve been in a long time. And I cannot tell what’s changed. I was so sad for so long, and so angry. Katrina ruined everything. Threw everything away that I thought I was keeping. Changed the city that I thought would be my forever home. My life felt like it was built by some outside consultant, some contractor sent here from Whoknowswhere to shape a life that would be Successful and Prosperous and Proud. But I feel safer now, and more at peace with where I’m going. I can only believe that God has a handle on the things I cannot see, that he knows where I’m headed even though I change my mind daily. I can only trust that he’s pointing me somewhere grand, maybe it’s here. And maybe it’s not.

You Need To Go To Delachaise

It's an oddly-shaped little restaurant. It's thin and long and parked between a gas station and a hospital. For the longest time post-Katrina it had wood planks covering the front windows which only enhanced its shabby-chic aura. Now the windows are repaired and the lights skimming the panes are small and bright and give the impression of flickering when one has had more than one glass of the Grenache. It's a beautiful, warm, dusky place and probably my favorite haunt for a slow, happy evening.

Try the chocolate souffle.

Baby, It's Cooooooold Outside

My parents live in Minneapolis so I realize my definition of "cold" is probably highly offensive to my northerly friends and family members. But Louisiana cold is different. It's a wet, humid, windy cold that seeps in through every crack and crevice of these poorly insulated buildings.

My Peace Corps friends will have the best understanding of this as I'm sure some of you nearly froze to death (like me) shivering in a house made out of stone with constant gusts of cold pushing through under every door, through every window (no window panes, people, just wood shutters), through the walls themselves. I used to boil water and then put it in my Nalgene bottle and snuggle up with that for the night (outfitted with leggings, sweatpants, sweatshirt, hat, gloves, scarf, and teddy bear). Louisiana is, of course, very different from North Africa, but there are days when the similarities are eerie. This morning I was sitting on my floor (cold) nibbling on almonds and hard boiled eggs for breakfast, dipping my egg in a mixture of cumin and black pepper and I had the most powerful deja vu of my life. I remember sitting on a similarly cold floor, cursing similarly messy soft-boiled eggs, eating similarly too-salty almonds, and similarly wishing I could crawl back under the covers.

Such deja vu led me to thumb through my old lesson planning book from Morocco. I had maybe 150 lesson plans written out, half of which I never got to use. I am so blown away by my innocence, my desperation to save a little portion of the world. I was so brave! And strong and undaunted. I jotted notes in some of the margins after class, and my messages are so honest and silly.

"They hated this."
"This was incredibly dumb."
"I love it here so much! And they really like the Shel Silverstein poems."
"What was I thinking?"
"Need to learn more Arabic before I try this one again."
"I wish the girls would participate more."
"Abdullah cracks me up."

I am so surprised at how carefree, and yet terrified, I was. I haven't reread my journal much. I've picked it up a few times, thumbed through a few pages, but I've never actually sat down and read through it. I always thought it would be so painful. But now I think I refrain from reading it because that life seems so far away and that girl that I was seems so much more powerful and self-assured than I am today. I feel like I should have "improved" exponentially since then. It's been nearly four years. Shouldn't I be smarter, stronger, more self-aware today than I was in that village?

But then I think maybe that's a ridiculous expectation to have of oneself. Why "improve"? I do not know that I am better at anything since leaving Morocco. But perhaps I am better at being myself, and less prone to moments of self-doubt. I think maybe law school makes one forget how powerful a person can be outside their career, their school, their future plans. Everything here seems so dollar sign-oriented and success is predicated on some outsider's vision of wealth and its attributes. That seems so silly to me. My ability to make the perfect pizza dough using only Moroccan ingredients and the most ass-backwards "oven" on the planet is not exactly marketable. But it's special. And cool. And it kept me warm on chilly days far from home.

Keep warm, everyone.

A Week From Today

I will be on the west side of Memphis, crossing the river, touching Eastern Arkansas and curving towards Little Rock. A mere 113 minutes from my Mamaw's house and my Marmee's hugs.

I'm Wearing Too Much Black Eyeliner Today

I think my freckles are starting to connect...

Apple in the Square

I got down to the Quarter early today, about 2 hours before work. The weather is cool and windy now, perfect really. I walked around searching for Caroline's birthday present but found nothing I liked enough to purchase. After pacing Royal and Dauphine and Chartres I stopped at the A&P on some corner and bought a Diet Coke and a very shiny apple.

I followed the sound of horns to Jackson Square and sat in front of St.Louis Cathedral, eating my apple, watching the tourists. The horn section directly in front of me broke into a rough, gorgeous version of House of the Rising Sun and Mark Antony (that cannot be his real name) walked over and told me my hair was gorgeous in the light. I think he said something about "lovin" as well, but I focused on the sweet compliment and not the inappropriate insinuation.

He said something else. He said, "you by yo'self, that's powerful, means you not from 'round heah." I'm not sure what he meant by "powerful," maybe he doesn't see a lot of young women eating apples alone in the Square. But the "not from 'round heah" hurt. Is it so obvious? And why? Because I feel like I'm from "heah" more than St.Louis or Kansas City or Virginia. I feel like I'm from Arkansas and New Orleans, like the rest of those places were just cities where I happened to live.

And now I'm applying to jobs in cities that have never been home to me. It isn't to say that I was unhappy in those cities. But some places are just lonelier than others, and I have never been lonely in New Orleans. The pull of being closer to family and friends is what drags me away from here. And proximity to my parents and siblings is worth giving this place up. But that doesn't make the losing of it easier.

I would like to take this opportunity to say

DEMOCRATS KICK ASS!

Impatience

We are an impatient, easily aggravated species. The tiniest hiccup in our day can send us spiraling into despair or anger. A misunderstanding, a misplaced hello, an unaccepted invitation...all can make the world seem bent on our destruction, especially on the days we forget to bring enough change for the coke machine. Aggravation is so rarely logical.

I voted today. Just barely. I drove to the school where I normally vote as I imagined myself stopping for all of 5 minutes on my way to work. Of course, things never end up how I imagine them. I managed to arrive at the same time every criminally insane and/or slow person decided to vote and/or pick up their child. At one point the one-way street next to the school suffered a jam as people decided to park on both sides and then people decided "one way" just meant "pick whatever way you like" and tried to squeeze their hummers and let-me-suck-all-the-oxygen-out-of-your-personal-air-space SUV monstrosities into parking spaces that wouldn't fit a tricycle.

After excavating myself from the jam I wanted to give up. To hell with Karen Carter and Louisiana's only hope for sane representation. To hell with democracy. But then I noticed that half the cars that had been stuck in front of me, cars that had sat idle longer than me, were pulling over, parking on the burb, sidling up to the side of trailers. People got out with their driver's license in hand, scowls of impatience and annoyance on their faces (mirroring mine I bet), and skulked into that building.

I skulked in, too.

Nobody talks in those voting rooms, nobody even smiles. We all have places to go, people to love, cars to unpark, annoyances to get over. It struck me that everyone in that room had a viable reason for skipping the voting booth today. Traffic's too bad, Louisiana doesn't even matter (doomed red state), rush hour's coming on, dinner will get cold. But even impatience can take a back seat some days for bigger, hopefully better, things.

My Life Fits Into a Thumb-sized Gadget

Due to the complete and utter breakdown (implosion, blue-screen-of-death) of my computer (NEVER BUY DELL!), I have become unnaturally attached to my memory stick.

It contains all my notes for the semester, my soon-to-be-published article, my resume, several job letters, my references, two writing samples, research for my legal history paper, and a few poems...

And it is the size of my thumb.

Technology is insane.

Because I was Bored, that's Why...

I fell down my stairs last night. Nothing serious, but I caught most of my weight with my left wrist. It was really sore this morning, especially when I moved it. I have one of those ace bandage things because I'm accident-prone (and that's putting it nicely) so I figured if I wore it today it would feel better. This is background for the following pseudo-conversation:

Brilliant Man on Street: What happened to your arm, dahling?

Me: I fell down my stairs.

BMOS: (laughs) Why'd you do that?

Me: 'Dunno.

Now, this appears to be a pretty normal conversation. Nothing crazy. The insanity actually occured in the 10-15 seconds following my elaborate "dunno" as the Inner Moi That Always Thinks Of Witty Retorts 10-15 Seconds After They Are Needed came up with this lovely diatribe:

Inner Moi: Because I like hurting myself. Because I need to pay off this law school debt and a tort action seemed like a clever, and ironic, solution. Because my left wrist has a death wish. Because I'm tired of being pale and figured a nice bruise would liven things up a bit. Because it's easier than fallin up the stairs. Because I was hungry and I thought pain would distract me. Because I was privately protesting the war in Iraq. Because I was chasing the little white rabbit. Because it was faster than walking. Because I was bored. Because those stairs deserved a beating. Because my left wrist had been bad that day.

I know that there is no such thing as a "stupid question" but if a normal question is used by a stupid person...same difference.

Christopher Walken's Twin is in the Library Right Now and It's Freaking Me Out

Both

I found this written in a journal I never got attached to (they're like people, journals, some of them just don't fit). It isn't dated but I imagine it was written in Kansas City, when I was still trying to fathom how I'd ended up in Kansas after what felt like a small eternity in Morocco. I should have written more...

I couldn’t breathe some mornings. I woke up in various training locations (a shared room in Fes, a camp-like dormitory in Rabat, a family stay in Immouzer) feeling as though a pack of wild dogs sat on my chest, pressing my lungs with their weight and threatening various arteries with their jaws. Bee stings ran through my veins, tears made my nose run, and then I’d close my eyes for the split second I allowed, and decide to survive the day. The scariest moments are always in the beginning, when you don’t know where you’re headed, when the language is still gibberish, when the stares at your red hair are still new and disturbing. The beginning is full of companions, fellow Volunteers, and they cushion the daily assault of culture, toilets you “flush” with an expertly tossed bucket, stares, discomfort, and fever. They are your anchor and you, their halfdead dinghy.

I sometimes wonder if it happened. If I walked the souks of Marrakech and Essaouira and Youssoufia and Safi. If I bought those scarves from the crippled man in Fes or if I picked them up at the mall in town and wished my way to Morocco. If I fasted for Ramadan and broke fast with that soup and those honeyed cookies and those perfectly boiled eggs. I wonder if I loved it as much as my heart tells me I did. And can love really increase so much? Exponentially? Or is that only regret?

The feeling is different now, missing Morocco. When I wrote in that journal I could barely contain my loathing for my life, the way it had ended up. I hated Kansas City then, hated Megan for making me stay, hated my President for forcing me there after finding a home in that village. I was angry more than I was sad. The sadness came later and sank in only when I started law school and realized the freedom I sacrificed for this education. But I'm not so sad anymore, I don't think. My life feels like mine again, and not some accident or consequence of outside action I could not control. In all its mistakes and missteps and adventures and surprises, my life feels like something I built. So now missing Morocco feels like a part of my day, a part of my life. It no longer consumes every perspective, it's just there. Like a scar. Or a favorite sweatshirt. Both.

A Cool Front

I don't think there's anything lovelier than a cool front blowing through New Orleans after days of heat and pea soup-consistency humidity. Walking to work this morning I actually got slightly chilled, it being in the 70s and all. I almost bought hot coffee instead of my usual iced skim cafe latte.

Last night I went to a BBQ at Katherine's place. After an embarrassingly inept how-do-you-use-charcoal moment, we did manage to get a fire going and the bratwurst were perfectly charred. The wind picked up about the time we settled into our brats and beers, and it was the first time I felt a twinge of autumn in the air. It made me slightly sad, honestly. I love autumn, love the connection between cool weather and library days, but it's also likely the last autumn I'll spend in New Orleans and the last I'll have with these friends. It's exciting of course, to know that this time next year we'll all have directions and homes and careers or new studies elsewhere. But it's also terrifying how quickly it all flies away, how your life can alter so drastically in a matter of months.

I think it's odd how you can get very attached to certain people and yet know that it isn't forever. I've had several of these friends. Women and men that I was completely connected to, who saw me cry and throw up and yell and freak out, and then who just slowly disappeared into marriages or careers or homes. I disappeared, too, of course. Disappeared into Morocco or law school or Katrina. But then, there have always been those other friends, too. The ones that have stuck around for what seems like forever (and aren't they all tiny forevers? college? law school? Peace Corps? high school? snippets of time that keep on recurring...) and that I've always known would be around forever. It's just a comforting feeling, to have that moment of, "you're not going anywhere, really, you're staying with me."

I had that moment last night. Katherine and Stephanie were sitting across from me and I was talking to a girl I don't know and they were talking to each other. I just watched the two of them for a handful of seconds. Stephanie was tired and not in the warmest of moods, which always upsets me and throws me off a bit (and I'm no good at communicating that so that throws me off, too). Katherine was calmer and pretty, a wedding magazine will do that to a woman sometimes. They were laughing softly about something. I was cranky over my leg (long disgusting story...skin infection...blood...no need for more details) and feeling rather puny. But I saw them and everything ugly and impatient inside stopped exploding. Everything calmed. I just knew that it would all be okay. That they weren't going anywhere. California, yes. Texas, perhaps. Places other than places I will likely end up, definitely. But we aren't really leaving each other. Just spreading out, finding other things and people to love, but not loving each other any less. They are in the latter group, the group that does not disappear into the changes life brings. I had not known that before. I had hoped it, hoped they'd be in the small, select group of the Undisappearing, but it was just a hope until last night.

So now I know. And that's nice.

Blue

is my new second favorite color.

My color preferences (in order) are as follows:
Orange (all shades)
Deep Blue
Cornflower Blue
Gold
Bronze
Kelly Green
Avocado Green
Peach
Silver
Black
Charcoal Grey
Baby Blue
Turquoise
Seafoam Green
Forest Green
Lime Green
Chartreuse
Mustard Yellow
Light Yellow
Dark Yellow
Burgundy
Dark Brown
Russet
Sienna (Sienna is more red than Russet, more sunsetish)
Fire Engine Red
Wine
Rose
Bright Pink
Pale Pink
Brick
Cream
Off-white
Winter White
Beige
All shades of purple

All colors are necessary. I would not eradicate any dear shade. I just think purple is kinda lame. And lavendar? Don't even get me started...

I can either take pictures of myself or read for legal history class...hmmm

Sometimes I Get So Antsy

Sometimes I feel like my body slows me down. Not in any need-to-get-in-better-shape way (although I do need to do that), but in a way that's hard to describe. I feel like my head, my heart, all this pudding and playdough inside me, everything is whirling around with so many great intentions and grand plans...but the reality of skin and the responsibilities of it hold me back. Or perhaps it's just the impact of time. As a child I'm sure I dreamed ridiculously big and planned for greater things than can be remembered (I told my Dad once I wanted to be a "missionary ballerina"), and now everything is boxed in and quartered and divided and parceled out into manila envelopes decorated (decorated?) with law firm addresses.

It isn't to say that I doubt my ability to be happy as a lawyer. I know that I can be content, maybe more. I know that I smile easily and that work is largely what you make of it, what you decide it means to you. But I can't help feeling that my life, my body, my age, are nothing more than an elaborate cage to keep me from doing what the 5 year-old me dreamed of. I always thought growing up would provide me with the skills and information I needed to pursue those goofy and gorgeous kid fantasies. Instead, it seems that age and the quest for independence only create new burdens, thicker burdens, burdens that feel impossible to escape.

I read an article today about regret. I get it.

Om and All that Jazz

I'm reacquainting myself with yoga. I'm inherently skeptical of practices that are too self-centered and yoga is certainly that. My father believes it to be a form of self-worship and therefore un-Christian but I think that would have to be a conscious choice. I think it's one thing to listen to your body and figure out what feels good, what feels awful, and it's quite another thing to worship yourself in some way that displaces or replaces God. And for someone like myself who has always had issues of self-worth wrapped up in her body, I think yoga is a balancing activity, one that allows me to see how strong my body can be and how precious a gift it is (one that I should maintain with more care than I presently allot), not unlike the temple God would like it to be, right?

All that being said, yoga is weird. I love the class I go to which has a mix of rest poses and super-intense poses that make my arms and legs and abs feel like jell-o afterwards. But good jell-O. We end the class with a set of three "om"s, exactly the type of thing I would crack up over if I were not actually in a yoga studio. Stephanie can't hack that, she sits to the side and listens to the "oms" but doesn't join in. I respect that. I always feel more than slightly foolish doing it and I think I grin sometimes. It's supposed to be a meditative practice but in my head I'm thinking, "this is such a hippie, treehugger thing to do...Rob would die if he saw me right now." Rob (aka Roberta...being my little brother I get to refer to him with childish, teasing nicknames for the rest of eternity) is my little Republican brother who enjoys pointing out my obvious leftist craziness (Peace Corps, environmental law, yoga...) and would probably never let me live it down if he knew I actually sat cross-legged on a mat with my hands on my knees listening to Enya and saying "om" three times with a dozen or so strangers.

It's odd, the things we do to feel comfortable in our own skin.

I want to be Modigliani's Muse

"Redhead in an Evening Dress" is one of my favorite paintings of all time. She's so coy and beautiful but she also seems tired of wherever she is, like she's at a party hosted by an acquaintance she isn't fond of. I love it. I've always imagined her in some great hall, having danced for an hour or two in the ballroom just around the corner. She's been bored by every suitor, of which she has not had many. And some friend approaches her, maybe it's a man, maybe it's a woman. Just a comrade, a friend who feels her ennui. Someone with a glass of red wine in their hand and a smirk on their face. Someone who says, "the food here sucks, want to get a burger?"

Poem of the Day

Famous
by Naomi Shihab Nye

The river is famous to the fish.

The loud voice is famous to silence,
which knew it would inherit the earth
before anybody said so.

The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds
watching him from the birdhouse.

The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek.

The idea you carry close to your bosom
is famous to your bosom.

The boot is famous to the earth,
more famous than the dress shoe,
which is famous only to floors.

The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it
and not at all famous to the one who is pictured.

I want to be famous to shuffling men
who smile while crossing streets,
sticky children in grocery lines,
famous as the one who smiled back.

I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous,
or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,
but because it never forgot what it could do.

Apparently there was an earthquake today

About 260 miles off the coast of Florida in the Gulf of Mexico there was an earthquake measuring 6.0 on the Richter scale. Residents from Louisana to Florida called in reports on the mild shake.

I'm trying to think if I felt something this morning that could have been an earthquake...

I dropped my contact in the sink. I'm totally blaming that on seismic disturbances.

So THAT's why I don't have a boyfriend!

I was reading an article about feng shui the other day and I came to the conclusion that all of my problems stem from a lack of decor cohesiveness. Yup. My table is definitely blocking my chi. And it's too heavy to move. Actually, it's not that heavy. But two of the legs are kinda screwy and the table only remains upright because it is precariously balanced against the wall. This is what happens when you find furniture on the street corner, it totally doesn't jive with your chakra. Or whatever.

My Little Pony...

Maybe I had too much coffee. But today while I was driving down Magazine street I saw two men in their mid- to late 30s walking two shetland ponies on the sidewalk. These two men were smoking cigarettes. And walking their ponies.

Ummmmm...

The Music that Floats In

I work downtown some evenings this semester and despite this emotional, haunting week one year post-Katrina, I am loving this city today. The building I'm in is old, as are all the buildings in the Quarter, and the walls aren't especially thick. I hear music all night. There's a restaurant across the street and the Man With The Sax plays from 6pm until long after I've turned out the lights and gone home.

I'm trying so hard to stop loving New Orleans. I need to leave, take the bar elsewhere, somewhere safer and closer to family and further from evacuations. I should work somewhere less foreign, more comfortable, less damaged, more promising. And yet I love this night music so much and I love the crawfish boils and the hot, hot spring and the constant green of this place.

I need to stop loving it here, or Here will tempt me to stay.

This is Justice?

I'm spending the summer working in criminal defense. Criminal law has never really interested me, I took the job because I was told it would be research-intensive and after an eon of filling out immigration forms I was desperate to use my brain.

I spend most of my days staring, shocked, at the docket master (database of what goes on in court on every case). I don't know how to adequately describe the trainwreck that is the New Orleans criminal system. Men and women are lost, LOST, within the system. There are people accounted for on jail lists that have never seen the inside of a courtroom. Many people who were arrested pre-Katrina on small charges are sitting in a jail cell right now, having never seen or spoken to a lawyer. The prisons are so overcrowded, and the courthouses so incapacitated, that inmates are lodged hours away, sometimes in other states, and "brought it" for their court dates. And really, "brought in," is a relative term. I have been in courtrooms with exasperated judges, watched them call inmates who are listed on the docket but who were never brought in from their facility. Their case is pushed back AGAIN, they sit in their cell a little longer, and many times the inmate doesn't even know he's been called to court half a dozen times. He's just sitting there with his fingers crossed, hoping the situation improves. Months, nearly a year, lost without their day in court. Yes. This really happens. In America. You should be angry.

Give the Telemarketer a Break, A Smiley Break

A friend of mine mentioned a common woe this morning: the telemarketer. Specifically, the ridiculous task of spelling things to a telemarketer (whose English probably isn't topnotch anyway). B-as-in-boy, E-as-in-Edward, etc., etc. And I got to thinking, those poor little telemarketers probably hear "E-as-in-Edward" at least thirty times a day. And as it is my duty to bring smiles to the downtrodden I have assembled the following list of lesser-used and ever-happy words for just this dilemma. So spell your heart out and give a telemarketer the giggles.

A as in Ahoy
B as in Bootylicious
C as in Cootie
D as in Diggity
E as in Effervescent (don't laugh, expand your vocab, people!)
F as in Funkadelic
G as in Goober
H as in Heebeejeebee
I as in Igloo
J as in Jazzercise
K as in Knight (pronounced in the Holy Grail fashion)
L as in Lollipop
M as in Mahhhhvelous
N as in Naughty
O as in OPP (yeah you know me)
P as in Porcupine
Q as in Quest
R as in Rachelerific
S as in Sassy
T as in Tumbleweed
U as in Unmentionables
V as in VaVaVaVoom
W as in Woooo-Doggy
X as in X-Men (Wolverine is hot)
Y as in Yam
Z as in Zebediah

See, these are smiley words. Not boring words like "Edward" or "Boy."

Boredom

Last night, after a lovely meal with Daniel (good company, freaky African food that tasted kinda like a liquified tortilla) I came home to experience that hallmark of summer living: soul-crushing boredom. I did some immigration work, flipped through the channels twice, instant messaged a couple folks, and called it quits when I found I had been staring at a fly's fight with my window shade for about 6 minutes.

What do you do when you're bored? I'm a horrible bored person. I get cranky. Very cranky. And I talk to inanimate objects. And I doodle. And I alphabetize things. Last night I alphabetized the plates in my cupboard by color. This seems especially OCD to me so I rearranged them this morning. I don't want too much evidence of my insanity lying about.

Whenever I'm bored I make up silly lyrics to the tune of Camp Town Races. Yup.

The Question that Haunts Me

MY NEW ORANGE BATHROOM aka HOLY CRAP I'M SHOWERING IN A GIANT ORANGE TIC-TAC

Alright, this picture was taken with my camera phone so don't laugh.

BUT ISN'T IT FABULOUS????

Yes, that is a fuzzy orange toilet seat cover. Mwahahahahaha.

I Have Nothing of Value to Report, but Master Blaster Kinda Perks Me Up

I think the decision to have a full time AND a part-time job was ill-advised, at best. Who advised me? Whoever advised me: you are no longer on my good side.

So.

Um.

What's up?

Okay, Daniel sent me this picture and because it is bizarre and ridiculous I will post it. Daniel is my new friend. He's crazynutsbonkers about this girl who wears cowboy hats. I am being supportive of this endeavor. And in showing my support I will post this picture and quietly mock Daniel's myspace attachment.

Things I Find Truly Offensive

1. These damn caterpillars. WHERE DO THEY COME FROM? One got caught INSIDE my skirt last night and I didn't notice until I was in my kitchen and felt red darts of fire against my thigh. Luckily I was alone as I just hopped around screaming for thirty seconds or so while trying to rip off my skirt. The little evildoer landed on my foot and I now have a four-pronged square of pain that looks kinda like a hickey, kinda like stigmata.

2. Styrofoam.

3. My complete inability to exit the front door without getting my skirt caught in it. It's not that tough, Rachel. Open the door wider, wear skirts that aren't so long. You're a grad student, surely you have the brain power to not fall down your steps every other day.

4. The freckle at the top of my forehead. It looks like someone took a sharpie and made a big black dot just below my hairline.

5. Condensation on the outside of plastic cups.

6. George W. Bush

7. The lack of Ethiopian food in the New Orleans area. I need to eat ethnic food with my fingers several times a year, people.

8. The amount of money in my bank account. Or, should I say, the complete lack of money in my bank account. I flipped a coin this morning to see whether I would go out to lunch with my roomie or buy groceries for the weekend. I flipped it twice because the "groceries" (tails) won. Why did I even flip the coin? Wasted a couple seconds of my life on that one.

9. Small, yippy dogs. Why can't everyone just have a REAL dog, complete with full-bodied bark and muddy paws? If I am attacked by one more manicured chihuahua at Audobon I will not be responsible for my actions.

10. My friends are leaving town. I'm gearing up for loneliness.

Sorry, compadres. I'm in a low mood today and decided to complain. As most of you know that this is not in my nature, I expect a plethora of emails sending virtual hugs and "snap out of it"s. Flowers would be cool, too. And chocolate. And if someone wants to volunteer to pay off my loans I'd really appreciate it.

Yes, I am Doing What You Think I am Doing

Yes, I am sitting in my car outside Madigans with my laptop checking my email. Yes, that is correct. There is a redheaded woman sketchily checking her bank balance from the comfort of her Volkswagon Golf in the Walgreens parking lot across from the Bar and Grill. Yes, that is correct. You can stop staring now. You can go back to your important walking-to-the-bar business.

Oh, yes, officer. Hello. Is there a problem? No, sir. I'm just checking my email. The internet is free this way. I don't want to buy a beer. Okay. Thank you, sir. You have a nice night, too.

Grrreat. Hello, drunk man. Are you actually knocking on my window? Is that what you're doing? And you're laughing at me. Fabulous.

Can a woman not check her email from the Walgreens parking lot with a clandestine internet connection in peace? Is there no sanctity in the world?

It's a Scary Time for all Law Students

I would like to introduce you to Javier and Diego, the homosexual gerbils currently cohabitating with my dear friend, Katherine. Katherine, bless her dear heart, is currently studying for her Legal Profession final exam. And by "studying" I really mean "placing her homosexual gerbils into the stuffed bunny basket I gave her for Easter and taking pictures." This is what happens during finals, people. We go CRAZY. I'm currently studying for Business Enterprises and by "studying" I really mean "playing tic-tac-toe with myself on the inside cover of my textbook."

I just didn't want there to be any misconceptions as to the "studying" going on at present. Homosexual gerbils, tic-tac-toe...these are the current pasttimes being pursued by the future generation of American lawyers.

It's Been Too Long

I suppose it is fitting that I revive the blog on my city's birthday of choice. There's an hour and half left of this odd, lovely, broken, and laborious Mardi Gras so I suppose I will make the most of my alone time and detail what I have found of the city I left behind:

There are moments when I can forget Katrina ever existed. I can sit in the same corner of the same bar, in the same booth at the same restaurant, and sometimes I can order what I once ordered, drink what I once drank. But those moments are no longer normal, no longer expected. Comments are made. Even the new places, the spots I've found since returning, are peppered with scars. Delachaise, my favorite wine place and my favorite spot for discussing Katherine's nuptials, is beautiful and perfect. And one of its windows is boarded up. Still. And a boarded window is nothing, it is a tiny thing. A boarded window would be nothing to my friends waiting for their fema trailer. But the small things touch me now. Six months later, my city and my places are still lovely only to a certain point. The ugliness is as much a part of the experience now as the beauty once was.

I have mentioned to a few people that I am seriously considering staying here, that I can't imagine leaving, that law school feels like the beginning of a life here, not a transitional period. Part of me is afraid of what that could mean, staying in a city that is, on a good day, merely destroyed. New Orleans on a bad day? On a bad day I think maybe the city has ceased to exist, that it drowned beneath the waters and we are desperately trying to revive a shell of flesh. But even the bad days have some sick, solid, magical quality. Even the days I am exhausted by my life here, I feel like the exhaustion is an impetus in itself, that the terror of living amidst destruction is some variety of life I was built to embrace. I don't know.

I will always love walking around the Quarter with a friend, stopping for a beer, laughing, getting my heel stuck between cobblestones. I will never tire of the momentous and momentary exhultation that accompagnies a perfectly tossed bead, the shine of greens and purples and blues and golds hanging from those oaks. I will never stop thinking this city has a capacity for beauty that outshines this heavy Katrina mud.

N'Awlins or Bust!

So this is my last day in Little Rock. Almost exactly 4 months ago I evacuated from New Orleans and I've spent the last few months in a weird vortex of school, stress, depression, terror, and hope. I know this is a departure from my normal blogaliciousness but I wanted to say a few Thank Yous. In no particular order:

Mom and Dad: For everything.
Stephanie: For sticking it out, and for being my friend
Megan: For being you and letting me stress out
Juice: For taking my mind off things, letting me spend the night, loving me
Katherine: For emails I needed and being there
Pete: For giving me someone to look forward to hugging, you are missed
Morgan: For your hard work, you're doing great things, and I will help in every way I know how
David: For instant messaging don't-freak-out-everything-will-be-okay pep talks
Jeff: For being a new friend, not chalking me up as a wate of time
Richard: For making me laugh, for being okay with being weird
Courtney: For taking me to dinner, for calling me after the storm
Christina: For the purse, the Christmas card, and the phone calls...for letting me know I'm not alone
Everyone who sent clothes: For keeping me stylish and warm, I cried when I opened each box

To my fellow New Orleans survivors: I look forward to seeing you, hugging you, laughing with you, drinking coffee with you, complaining about reading with you, helping you, and rebuilding the city with you. God bless and see you soon!

Lovies,
Rachel, Rae, etc.

Howdy, Y'all...I'm Headin' Over Yonder

In honor of my flight to Dallas tomorrow I am requesting all people not flying to Dallas to partake of something Texan in my honor sometime before noonish. Eat some barbeque. Wear a ten-gallon hat. Ride a horse. Rope a steer. Swear in an unintelligible language that you promise is English. Find oil. And I shall be back amongst the normal folk in due course. If, however, no one has heard from me by Dec. 21, please place all blame for my disappearance on Stephanie.

Where I'd Rather Be

Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans? And miss it each night and day...

Velvet Anonymous

My name is Rachel and I have a problem. A problem with velvet. Full thread or crushed, I get my poison the only way I know how: wardrobe injections. I know. It's the worst thing you can do, really, to overload on one fabric. But recently I just ache for it. My whole body begs for just one square of material, just one simple heel, one little cuff, one wrinkle, one belt loop of the stuff...

Today I shot it twice. Twice. Within two hours. I bought brown velvet pants, palazzo-style because they swing more. But the fix didn't stick. I couldn't stop at just one hit. That's how I knew I was really in trouble this time. The last time I overloaded on a fabric was in 7th grade when I wore flannel everyday for a year. I thought I could just WALK AWAY. But the gold velvet shoes just took me in, gave me comfort, loved me the way only an addiction can.

Help me.

My Very Own Marriage Proposal

This little message is in honor of my dear friend, Kitty Kat. Miss Kat recently acquired a shiny bauble for her left hand ring finger and I wish her all the JOY in the world.

But, Miss Kat is not the only one acquiring proposals. That's right, ladies and gents, I received one of my own this past Thursday morning. I was sitting at Walmart doing homework while my four new tires were being mounted or spun or voodooed (whatever you do to new tires) when the main mechanic came in to tell me that I was missing two lugnuts on one tire and he could not mount a new one without said nuts. The problem was that Walmart, being uber-American and so hoighty-toighty, did not carry lowly German Volkswagon lugnuts. So I walked to one auto place and they were out and then I called a cab to take me to the VW dealership. My cabbie arrived in yellow splendor and as soon as I hopped in he said, "Damn! You the sweetest thang I seen a sure long time." Yes, sweetest thang. I smiled my sweet smile and asked him to take me to the dealership and along the way I mentioned something about New Orleans. He asked if I was married and upon hearing my answer he said, "you need to take me down there with ya." Fabulous. So after trapping myself two lugnuts at the dealership, the cabbie asked me when we would be getting married. This question was followed by the truly important one, "you know how to make that jammy-laya stuff? Cuz that stuff is damn good." I assumed he meant "jambalaya" and was about to tell him I did not know how to make it when he informed me that his first tasting of it was when he was in PRISON. Evidently at the state penitentiary in Arkansas they have special days of different varieties of ethnic food. Mexican, Chinese, etc. And his favorite day was Creole day. Awwwww.

I think it's meant to be.

I Kinda Sorta Made a Bomb

I have a cold. I bought Emergen-C powder (100% of your vitamin needs in a handy-dandy little packet). I don't like the taste. I decided to mix it with my Diet Mountain Dew. I was unaware of any fizzy properties contained in the Emergen-C powder. I was in a rush to get to Evidence. I was thirsty in class. I took out the Mountain Dew and added the powder, under my desk, thinking I was being incognito. The drink began to overflow. I did not panic, I thought this was merely a small explosion that could be contained without too much hassle. Then it started making fizzy noises and the overflow escalated to an untenable degree. The professor stopped the class and asked, "what is that noise?" I muttered an expletive under my breath and told him I accidently made some sort of mountain dew-related bomb. He looked at me weird. I went to the bathroom to get towels. Came back. Got called on to do the next case.

End of story.

Halfway

I can measure my frustration by the lack of miles on my car. I'm in a city now where I lived as a child, a small child. I can still remember the halfway points between home and church, home and Mamaw's house, home and school, home and the doctor's office. I would always keep a watch for that halfway point. Usually it was just a bend in the road or a particular tree but that's where I decided "halfway" belonged. And I would picture the car driving up some hill to that point, and then coasting down to the desired destination.

I do the same thing in New Orleans. There's a halfway point between home and the Quarter, home and church, home and Lebanon's (by bike or car...different halfways), home and the bookstore in Mandeville, home and Audobon Park. I used to drive over to Elizabeth's on the West Bank for no good reason other than to feel the halfway point on the bridge. I'd drive over and back again to see the city at night. I miss that drive.

I have only one halfway point now, a patch of grass on the highway, between Mamaw's house and school. I drive around a lot, killing time, but I have no destination. In New Orleans I always had a place to go, to get to, to drive to and then turn around. Here, it's just an aimless meandering. Killing time. That's all I do.

Evidently y'all don't like my heels...

Due to an almost unanimous vote I will be wearing my brown sneakers with pink socks tomorrow. I must admit, however, that I have an engagement in the morning that requires me to dress in conservative heels. I hope this disappoints no one. I was so sad my pretty green heels got NO votes...

And this week's poll? How well do you know me? Well enough to know my middle name? We shall see...

Stupid, Ridiculous, and Fabulous Things I Have Done in the Past 2.5 Months Due to Boredom

1. Baked a cake
2. Drove to Memphis and parked outside Graceland for 5 minutes, drove back
3. Went to school
4. Went on dates with lunatics who cry at dinner
5. Permed my hair
6. Painted each nail (fingers and toes) alternating patterns of stripes and dots
7. Became addicted to America's Next Top Model
8. Cried
9. Joined Weight Watchers (lost 12 lbs so far...hell yes)
10. Ate no less than 200 olives
11. Bought a coloring book
12. Made celebrity boyfriend trading cards
13. Went to movies alone, brought banana chips
14. Discovered the surprisingly tasty combination of strawberry yogurt and fig newtons
15. Picked up a stray dog, played with it for two or three hours, bought it a chew toy, took it to the Humane Society
16. Read the newspaper
17. Watched Wheel of Fortune with Mamaw
18. Climbed Pinnacle Mountain
19. Counted freckles on right arm (89...but I stopped halfway)
20. Plucked off half my right eyebrow (not on purpose...just got carried away)
21. Tried to teach myself how to cross my eyes
22. Planned worldwide tour of places I've never been (Quebec City-->Capital of Iceland that I can't spell-->Luxembourg-->Vilnius, Lithuania-->Sarajevo-->Athens-->Venice-->Cairo-->Nairobi-->Addis Ababa-->Johannesburg-->Sydney-->Kuala Lumpur-->Tokyo-->Los Angeles)
23. Almost bought a ticket to Seattle. Just kinda felt like going there.
24. Tried to do a headstand.
25. Mixed together three lipstick shades, found perfection.

We Have A Winner!

After an intense run-off between Kurt Vonnegut and Henry Miller, it appears that Miller has clinched the title of "Next Book Rachel Will Read" by a mere vote. That's right, folks, one measly click of a mouse. Don't you feel powerful? You are designing my reading experience. With a single motion of your finger you are telling me what to do. Wow. It must be rather daunting, to have that sort of control over a human being.

And now you get to decide what shoes I will wear on Saturday! Those of you who know me well can understand how large a burden I am placing on your shoulders. I am offering up a vital part of my self-expression for your molding. May the force be with you.

The Cutest Thing in Life

http://www.sandiegozoo.org/zoo/ex_panda_station.html

Oh mercy, I want a pet baby panda.

Poemetry

A little blip I wrote after I saw my apartment in New Orleans:

The heat of this place leaves nothing to be wished for. Ever. Hopes float like lead in air that cannot be broken with rain.
And I will not pass this way again.
Not this crack, not this bend with these shoes with this blister against this passion punch painted toe nail. Ever.
I will walk, perhaps. Or skip as I do on some morning when the trees are moving. But I will be faster, maybe, or I’ll be sick and fevered and slow.
I will pass this way again
but not this way. Not this method of motion.
I thought that I should document it, set down for posterity the way my body made its way along this way this morning.
But it’s evening now, and the way is gone, the move is gone. It floated away.

Grease: The New Beer

I just got back from The Flying Fish, a lovable Little Rock establishment dedicated to southern-fried gluttony. I went with two friends, Juice and Richard, and after an hour or more of stuffing our faces full of goodness we got into a conversation regarding the glory that is southern homecookin'. Unfortunately, Richard is not from The South. He is a Kansan and therefore inferior in ways of the flesh. Juice and I, being Southern by blood and birth, felt it was our duty to enlighten our young charge.

Upon our table sat plates of hushpuppies, coleslaw, frog legs, catfish, shrimp, oysters on the half shell, tartar sauce, and pickled green tomatoes; a veritable smorgasbord of edible joy. After completing our meal with the reverence it deserved, the drunkenness began. This is a special intoxication that only worshipers in the House of Hushpuppy understand. The perfect hushpuppy is small, the size of a large kumquat. The size is important as it is imperative that the grease seep deep into the pup. The middle of the pup must be shiny and moist and when you pop the pup into your mouth, grease should slide to the back of your tongue and the top of your throat before any swallowing occurs. This provides the perfect level of slickness to aid in the slow digestion of the pup. It's a science, truly.

The hushpuppy grease, mixed with the crispy fried goodness of the frog legs/catfish/shrimp, creates a feeling of wellbeing akin to the perfect level of drunkenness. It's beautiful, heartbreaking. Every pore of your body rejoices as grease slowly replaces the blood in your veins. Every half-second you feel the pulsating of a happy heart as it joyously begins the work of keeping your fat-soaked body alive. People wonder at the slow speech of Southerners, the almost-laziness of their lives. This is the truth, my brethren, we are a loved and lovable people who know the beauty of perfectly fried dough, the power of perfectly buttered grits, the tear-soaked joy that accompanies the discovery of a kitchen stocked with oleo, karo, rotel, and okra. It is a beautiful life, and too short to be lived without a deep fryer.

*All this being said, and perhaps for this very reason, I am a Weight Watchers member. In the past month I have lost 9 lbs. Hopefully, by the grace of God, the Flying Fish did not completely screw me over. Oh the woes of food and fashion...

Thrillin' Like a Villain

Don't forget to vote on my new poll to the right of the posts. And in honor of this fantasmical celebration of death, stink, and all things crusty I have created the following poem:

I have decided to eat your brain,
with ketchup, peas, and toast.
Please enjoy your final hours,
as you'll soon become a ghost.
The squish of blood mixed in with pus
makes my tummy growl with glee.
I cannot wait to slit your throat
and sip your marrow like sweet tea.
I can't decide what to eat first,
your toes or your inner thighs
so maybe I'll make a casserole
and eat both with finger fries.
Groceries are bought, recipes made
and I'm sharpening my favorite knife
so lock your doors and hug your mommy
and prepare to lose your life.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

The Things I Miss About New Orleans

1. The Roman Candy Man
2. Lebanon's
3. Walking to Audobon Park after class and feeding the ducks with Stephanie
4. Riding my bike to Mona's for falafels
5. Reginelli's tomato sauce
6. Random parades
7. Walking down Bourbon with a Hand Grenade
8. Dancing
9. Bread Pudding at Commander's
10. 25 cent martinis at Commander's with my lady friends
11. My spot in the reading room
12. Driving across the Causeway
13. Muriel's
14. Eating beignets at Cafe du Monde at 3am
15. Standing on my porch
16. Opening my windows
17. Sweating
18. Smelling flowers all year
19. Old ladies on bicycles
20. Tipitina's
21. Complaining about how nasty the Bubble food is then going there anyway
22. Canal Place movie theatre
23. U-turns
24. My laugh (I think I left it there by accident)
25. Music coming from nowhere
26. Crawfish boils
27. Professors Davies and Houck
28. Working at the Advocacy Center
29. Going to my church
30. Orange dreamsicle flavored snoballs
31. My quilt
32. Getting new freckles every afternoon
33. Driving downtown and back while listening to Iron & Wine
34. Sitting in Katherine's apartment drinking wine
35. Watching Scrubs
36. The Bulldog
37. Riding the streetcar to the Quarter
38. Shoenami
39. Discovering new places
40. Everything

This is the Look I'm Going For

So Halloween is upon us and due to recent changes in my hair (ahem...the perm...see below), I have decided to make my hair the focal point of the holiday and dress like, no, I WILL BECOME, Miss Cyndi Lauper. This photo is my inspiration. Thus far the game plan is as follows:
1. use gold glitter spray and black hair streaks to emphasize craziness
2. tease hair until it's bigger than a regulation size basketball...swoop hair to one side
3. huge earrings, preferably in a primary color
4. ripped black tshirt worn off the shoulder
5. bright red satin bra (to show beneath ripped shirt of course...gotta have visible straps)
6. burgundy lace tutu-esque skirt
7. lace and or zigzaggy patterned stockings in a color yet to be determined
8. bangles
9. red lipstick
10. various shades of blue eyeshadow
11. hot pink heels
12. black purse that looks almost like leather
13. attitude

Elizabethtown

Heavens, where do I begin? I saw this last night. I'm a soundtrack addict, love the way a song can transform a scene. I love the way music can underscore the look on someone's face and communicate feelings that aren't verbalized. Crowe, of course, is quite good at manipulating music to fit a scene. Unfortunately, in this film he built the story around the music instead of using the music to strengthen the storyline's emotional muscles. He loved the music more than the characters, more than the journey. Juice de la Juice, my partner in crime and my date to the movie, said it perfectly when she mourned, "He totally prostituted that U2 song." And as much as I'd love to see Bono ho-ing it up in true streetwalker fashion, I would prefer for that to occur on a personal, one-on-one, candlelit basis. A true disappointment.

That being said, I will go see it again. There were some lovely moments. And I love lovely moments.

Holy Crap, I got a Perm!

Um, yeah. This is what happens when I'm bored and/or depressed and/or indecisive about my attractiveness. I always feel slightly guilty screwing with my hair because everyone's always telling me how pretty it is. And I truly appreciate that. But despite the fact that I was blessed with, I admit, gorgeous red hair (hey, we all get, at the very least, one vanity to revel in, right?) it is the same hair I've had since birth. I've had lovely red hair for 24 years and it's been painfully straight the whole time (give or take the handful of months I crimped or permed it in the 80s).

So, this salon was having a sale on perms and I just bit the bullet. I've been wanting a perm for an age but felt a bit sheepish admitting it. But I have stick straight hair and I'm tired of it so now I have CRAZY AWESOME FABULOUS red corkscrews popping out of my head. Sweet! I know, dear friends of mine, it sounds insane. It is slightly insane. But it's joyful hair and my hair was looking sad. We can't have sad hair looking back at us in the mirror. We must have masses of JOYFUL INSANE hair to look forward to every morning. And I've always had this feeling that redheads should have curly hair, a la Orphan Annie. I always felt I'd been robbed of my redheaded birthright. Just rectifying the situation.

Tripping

This morning I went to Barnes and Noble because I've become addicted to iced coffee with cinnamon. I drank half the cup and then drove to school (yes, I relocated due to Katrina. I'm currently studying at University of Arkansas-Little Rock Law School and am counting the days until I can return to N'Awlins). In the process of walking to the building from my car, while balancing my family law texts and wearing my new pink heels, my knee seemed to momentarily dissolve and I landed in the grass. This is my life. I don't know why it made me happy to fall down, but it did. I've been walking around in a semi-daze these past few weeks, missing New Orleans, missing my friends, missing a life I loved. I've been hard as nails and have maintained perfect posture in my classes and have smiled to the point of pain. It felt good to trip and spill things and be clumsy. Clumsy and comfy is what I am in New Orleans. This is so hard to explain. Here I've just been trying to maintain the status quo, try not to feel too much or I'd explode. Never stop crying. But recently I've started to relax again, be happy again.

I still haven't laughed MY laugh. It's odd to think about, that I haven't had a huge outright guffaw (those who know me know what I'm talking about) for weeks. But it's coming, I can feel it. And for some reason, getting grass stains on my knees brings me that much closer.

Much love to my roommate Stephanie, for being a friend and compatriot amidst landlord drama, boy drama, evacuation drama, cleaning-out-the-fridge drama, too-much-wine-in-the-hotel-room drama, etc. You are a blessing. And I can't wait to love New Orleans with you by my side again.