Another New Orleans Just Like in the Movies Moment

This one is right up there with the time I met a guy with my same rainbow umbrella, and his iPod was playing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" (see Silver Lining) But this one is better.

Some time during the day last Wednesday, February 2, I realized I still hadn't paid my rent. I think i have a three day grace period, but I am RARELY late on rent, and I pride myself on that, so this initiated a minor panic attack. Still, I recognized that I had options. I would just have to act fast.

Normally on a Wednesday, I'd drop the check off on my way to Rock'n'Bowl for Swing Night. Only there was a private party last Wednesday, no Swing Night. Now, I avoid moving my car at all costs, since I have street parking in the Quarter. But there's always the St. Charles streetcar, which runs right by my office building, and has a stop two blocks from the realty office where I drop my checks.

So that's the only reason I got on the streetcar that day, and ended up sitting a few seats back from a young man in a fedora who sat down on a side facing seat, pulled out his Macbook, and started typing. A few stops later, and old blind man was helped onto the car, and sat down next to him. They began talking about the Superbowl, how Green Bay was going to win, historic football games of note, it was just one of those wonderful moments of incidental acquaintance where everyone within earshot becomes a friend.

When the old man reached his stop, the young man mentioned that he'd left behind some stuff he need to work on, and he helped the old blind man off the streetcar and across the street as if they'd been friends forever. I was pleased and touched to be reminded that there are such effortlessly NICE people in the world, and I texted a good friend about what I'd seen, as one of those made-my-day moments.

But that's not the end of this story.

Last night I decided that there were too many distractions in my apartment, and that going down to the coffee shop for a few hours to finish my book would put me in just the right frame of mind and environment to do some writing afterwards. So I packed up my things and headed down to Community Coffee, on the corner of Royal and St. Philip. (I love living in the French Quarter.)

I was waiting at the counter when he got into line right behind me, the young man with the Macbook. With all my usual finesse, I turned to him and said, "You were on the streetcar. You helped the blind man across the street."

And somehow, with a smile and a laugh, it wasn't weird and awkward, and I was able to tell him how much I had appreciated seeing someone doing something so nice. He thanked me and held out his hand, and said, "I'm Bera, like Yogi, but only one R." So I introduced myself, then it was my turn to order.

I got my coffee, and sat down at a table (with other empty tables nearby). He did come to my area at first, but he needed a power outlet and couldn't find one, so he walked away. Looking around, I realized I was sitting right in front of one, and had been hiding it, and since he was still hovering at the other end of the coffee shop, scanning walls, I went over to him and told him I'd found one.

I offered to move to the next table, but he said the cord would reach, and I didn't have to move. Then he saw my book, Sandworms of Dune, the last of the Dune sequels by Bryan Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson. He asked me how Bryan Herbert's Dune books were, and that launched a discussion which also touched on Greek tragedy, PTSD, and Isaac Asimov's Foundation series. Then we both subsided into our respective work for the next hour or so, until CCs closed down.

Standing outside the coffee shop, we talked about Clash of the Titans, both the old one and the new one, other movies, Greek epics, aural poetry, Middle English literature, Steinbeck... and where I was headed next. I said I was headed home, but I'd probably stop at Lafitte's to see if anyone I knew was around to say hi to.

"What's Laffite's?" he asked.

"Laffite's Blacksmith Shop? How long have you lived in New Orleans?" I returned.

"A week and a half."

So I told him to come with me, and I explained a bit about Jean Lafitte and the blacksmith shop and bar, and brought him to read the information they have posted on their doors. We went in and I bought him a drink (a Coke, because he doesn't drink much). He let me pay, but said that I needed to let him buy me a drink in return soon. We sat down near the piano in the back and talked for another hour about, well, life and everything. It was that sort of evening.

When we left the bar, he gave me his number ("In case something comes up. I'm really good at lifting things.") and I texted him back with mine and my name ("Ah, Berwick, that's the English/Scottish you mentioned.").

So I had a great evening, just out of nowhere, and I've definitely made a new friend...

And all because I was late with the rent. What kind of lesson is that?

This Week in Review... or... Halloween, Part One

There have been so many things I wanted to share, and thought to myself, as they happened, I need to blog about that. But I keep forgetting them. Such is life.

I do remember that people have been saying awesome things about my dancing lately. I still feel like following is fundamentally against the grain of my personality, and I'm not very good at it. There's a lot to work on, but considering I've only been dancing seriously for about five months and many of my partners have been at it for years, I should probably go easier on myself.

This past Wednesday at Rock'n'Bowl, one of my frequent partners who has been out of town for a while struck up a dance with me, and immediately said, "Wow, you're moving a lot differently now!" Something good about style, confidence, attitude, things I really found myself settle into during the 5 days of dancing around ULHS. I danced a lot and found my step in many ways, and I felt this, but it's nice to know that it shows.

Later, chatting at the bar with Mr. Bud (who is one of the most cheerful, courteous, and complimentary partners a person could have), Mr. Bud said how much he always enjoys dancing with me, how nice it is to have someone he doesn't have to be afraid to try new steps with, how ATHLETIC a dancer I am (I've never been called athletic before in my LIFE!), and how he'd come off the floor after a dance with me, and a brand new dancer he talked to was *amazed* at all the cool moves we had. I know I watch the dancerly dancers I know and marvel at the moves, so it was both humbling and exhilarating to think that someone thinks that when they watch me. Wow. Just... wow.

Today I got my latest and so far most cherished compliment. I had just finished a dance at Nickel-a-Dance on Frenchmen Street when an older lady with a cane, sitting in the front row of seats by the dance floor waved me down. She said she'd been trying to get my attention three times already, and as I leaned forward to hear her better, she reached up and took my chin in her hand and said, "Sweetheart, I just had to tell you how much I enjoy watching you dance. You and that young man you were just dancing with. I used to teach dancing, and you have such a step, you keep up so well, you dance beautifully. All you need to do is smile just a little bit more, but you dance just beautifully."

I swear, I nearly cried. I love dancing so much, and I have a good time, but I've tried not to worry about whether or not I look any good doing it, because I know self-consciousness will just kill whatever poise I'm currently scrounging up. Apparently I don't need to worry. I guess if I look half as good as I feel, I'm doing just fine.

Hmm. So far this hasn't been much about Halloween. Let me correct this. I know it isn't actually until next Saturday, but, like any other excuse for a party, they start early here in New Orleans. I went to a birthday/Halloween/swing dance party on Friday night. Costumes were optional, but I love dressing up, so I wore my gypsy ensemble. Seemed like it would be fun to dance in. I also brought a change of clothes in case I was the only one there in costume.

Well, I was, but every time I started feeling awkward, someone would say how awesome my costume was, so I never did change out of it. It was a BLAST to dance in. In fact, a little too fun. Every time I spun, my skirt would keep going for two beats, and I would watch it with that easily-amused, childlike delight that I tell myself is endearing, but is probably mostly silly. Whatever. :-P

Even cooler than my twirly skirt, though, was how, about halfway through the evening, a bassist, a banjo player, and a trombonist walked into the party. I know that sounds like the start of a joke. What it *was* was the start of the dancing to LIVE MUSIC portion of the evening. Some of the best musicians I've heard play around the Quarter and Frenchmen Street, and they just show up at a party as guests, and decide to pull out their instruments and play out the dance.

I.

Love.

This.

City.

The next day I went to my friend Adé's Mad Hatter Tea Party as the Queen of Hearts. That was too, too fun, and we've decided to wear our costumes again on Wednesday at Rock'n'Bowl, so Halloween just grew an extra day. I went home early-ish in the afternoon so that I could get my car parked and all before things got too nuts for the Krewe of Boo parade. Then I decided to slink up my costume and go tool around the Quarter and see the parade in style.

I got SOOOO many compliments on my costume! Most were of the simple, "I love your outfit!" sort, but I think I did steal one heart. There was a guy standing by himself waiting for the parade whom I had to walk past to get where I wanted to watch from, and he watched me for about fifty feet as I walked towards him, and as I passed and smiled, he said softly, "You *are* something!"

The parade was fun, though I think maybe the most fun part was walking down the route after it had ended where I had been watching, and seeing three Ursuline nuns laughing and clapping and reaching to catch beads. No, those weren't costumes. I see those same three nuns often on my walk to work, as they head to morning mass. Too fun!

I decided to walk up and down Bourbon Street just to see and be seen. I got high-fived by two frat boys, told that I "got it goin' on" by lady encouraging people to enter one of the gay bars, and caught countless stares and double takes. It was fun.

Outside of Fritzl's I stopped and looked in to see the trombone and banjo players from the night before, along with a different bassist and a washboard player, on the little stage at the back. I hesitated, then couldn't resist, and went on in. I sat down near the band and ordered my drink while they finished a song. Afterwards, the banjo player said he wanted to welcome all the beautiful people who had just come in, and especially this pretty lady in the costume. He looked at me again and asked, "Weren't you at the party last night?" And I said yes I was, and he asked me to stand up and show everyone my absolutely beautiful costume. Yeah, I tipped the band and bought a CD after that. :-) After a while the guy who hosted Friday's party and the girl whose birthday it was came in. They didn't recognize me at first, but when they did they asked me to join them, and the guy said I looked BEAUTIFUL.

All that attention, all that costume-wearing, and Halloween isn't even until next weekend! Then the weekend after that I dress up again for Ren Fest! I am LOVING life right about now.

So, yeah, I feel amazing tonight. Incredibly happy, incredibly liked. If I'm walking around for the next few days or weeks with a really self-satisfied grin and a little extra confidence in my step, and if my head is a bit of a tight squeeze getting through a few doors, don't blame me! Everyone is saying such nice things! I love this town, I love these people, and I LOVE Halloween!

Dance, Dance, Yeah

I want to tell you all how mind-blowingly spectacular Ultimate Lindy Hop Showdown this weekend has been for me, but I can't. I really just can't. But of course I'm going to try.

On Thursday, I danced on a paddleboat. On Friday I danced in front of the steps across from Jackson Square, then in a wax museum. On Saturday I danced in the rain at the French Market, then at the World War II museum. Today, Sunday, I danced all over Frenchmen Street.

I learned new moves. I met new people. I lost five pounds. I listened to phenomenal live music. I watched competition dancing that had me wide-eyed, jaw-dropped, clapping-along-until-my-hands-hurt, heart-poundingly enthralled. These people are magic.

I made new friends. :-)

I tried to work on some of my existing technical issues and, yes, discovered a few more. But thanks to one partner in particular, I started to loosen up and follow his steps in blues dancing better, and I'm MUCH better now at relaxing into a dip instead of doing the cat-about-to-be-bathed cling that I've been specializing in lately. Oh, and I found out that my hips CAN move like that, as long as I don't pay any attention to them. :-P

All in all, I can honestly say that I have NEVER IN MY LIFE had a more amazing, more fun weekend. I woke up every morning energized and ready to go, in spite of the late nights. I walked down the street to the next dance event with my heart singing and my feet keeping time to the song. I wish I could have done all the events today and this evening. Next year, because there WILL BE a next year, I'll schedule my vacation accordingly. This has been an experience of a lifetime for me, and over the next few days I expect I'll be thanking everyone who convinced me to come and who danced with me from the bottom of my heart for the gift it's been. If you EVER get the chance, even if you don't dance, go to one of these. Go search ULHS 2009 on YouTube and see some of what I saw.

Now. My legs and feet are screaming and I have to get some sleep tonight. I'm going to take some more Advil and go soak in a hot bath and dream of next year... when I'll actually know the Lindy Hop

Otto's Trials, Otto's Triumphs

Poor Otto. He had a bad weekend, didn't he? For those of you following along at home...

When your coolant temperature sensor fails, it can sometimes forget to tell your radiator fan to turn on.

When your radiator fan doesn't turn on, the coolant generally overheats.

When your coolant overheats too much, it can crack your radiator and ruin the pump.

Believe me. I ought to know.

So, while they were fixing Otto up with a new radiator, etc., they pointed out that the timing belt was due for a change. Well, was going to have to happen sooner or later. Sure, why not now, while he's already in various stages of disassembly?

With the engine out for the timing belt change, they noticed a cracked engine mount. Ooooh, so THAT's what that rattling sound was when I was stopped at stop lights.

With the damage repaired, or the damage done, depending on the damage you speak of, Otto came home with a NEW strange rattle. So the next day he went back to the doctor, to find that an exhaust clamp had slipped loose, but was repaired easily enough, and for free. Unlike the other repairs!

So now my Otto is no longer an overheating rattletrap of a little white car. He runs smoothly and quietly, and is perfectly content!

Except for the intermittent hiss of the air conditioner compressor valves slowly going out.

But that's another story, for another time.

Always an Adventure

So after work today, I had two goals:

1. Purchase clear sewing thread.
2. See Harry Potter movie.

I decided to join these with another goal. Go see what's on the West Bank. Now, in Google searching for stores I've wanted to visit, I've often seen that there are locations both in Metairie and Gretna. Gretna is actually a bit closer, but, it's a funny thing, I've always gone to Metairie. See, to get to Gretna I have to cross the river. There's a bridge, yes. A HUGE bridge. For some reason, though, the river is just deeply ingrained in my mind as an insurmountable barrier. Which is ridiculous. So today, I set out to conquer the West Bank. Which, incidentally, is east of here. o_O

(N.B. I realized today that my office building is, in fact, east of the Mississippi, west of the Mississippi, north of the Mississippi, and south of the Mississippi.)

I also needed to pick three pictures up at the framers, but it was raining, so I figured I'd wait until tomorrow, after the couch is delivered.

I accomplished my two (or three) goals with reasonable ease, and even found a Texas Roadhouse restaurant, which I think Mom and Brooke had been asking about. Yes, they have one here. No, the chicken fried steak is not worth it.

Thread purchased and movie viewed, I turned to go back the way I came. Which worked fine until I saw the sign that said the bridge was tolled. Get that. No indication on the way over that there would be a toll coming back. It caught me a bit off guard. My thought process went something like...

"Toll, is that on the bridge *I* need."

"Looks like it. I have money, right?"

"Shit, do I have money?"

"Shit, what if they don't take money, and it's tag only?"

"Uh oh, last exit to not pay."

So I exited, found a gas station, bought a drink, and asked the attendant if the toll booths took money, and how late the ferries run. The ferries run until 9pm, apparently. This was told me at 9:15pm. Fortunately, the toll booths do, in fact, take cash. Disaster averted.

Or so I thought, especially after I paid my toll and reved up to cross the bridge and get back on my side of the river.

Everything seemed fine, until I took the exit for I-10 East and Slidell, and in glancing down at my dash, noticed...

1. The check engine light
2. The temperature gauge in the red zone

SHIT.

I'm on flippin' I-10. The closest exit is the one for home. I throw on the hazard lights, slow down to 40 mph, and start praying.

I prayed and prayed and prayed, and finally parallel parked as soon as I could, partially blocking a driveway, it's true, but I've been told no one ever uses that drive. I hope I've been told correctly. I'll sort it out tomorrow.

As I pull into my space, and, in fact, at any point off the highway when I had to slow down and stop, billows of smoke came from under my hood. This is not going to be good. I can feel it. I'm also pissed, because I know the problem has been there for a while, but the last time I took it to the mechanics and asked them to fix the rattling, they insisted there was nothing wrong. Great.

Well, it's parked now. I have the number for a mechanic, obtained from a friend here in the Quarter, who was finally available when I called (been trying to reach him for some other stuff for a while). Well, this was when it counted, and he was there, and let me come over and have my nervous breakdown with a friend. I'm thankful for that. I was feeling very alone.

So, tomorrow, after the couch is delivered, I'll be arranging for my car to be towed to a mechanic somewhere, and then I'll have to sort out how to get my pictures home from the framers. It's only 3 blocks. If the weather is dry, I'll just walk back and forth three times. That's about my morning walk anyhow.

So, yes. It's been an adventure.

Wish my Otto good luck. I'm really worried about him. :-(

Finally Caught a Brake...

... Tag.  A brake tag.  They're infuriatingly hard to get.  Elusive little beasts.

First, what is a brake tag?  I have two simple answers.

1) It's the rough equivalent of the Texas state inspection, only it's fairly curtailed.  They check lights, wipers, horn, and brakes, but not emissions or anything.

2) It's a scam.

Seriously.  If it was really about my safety, it would NOT be so hard to get one!

Brake tags can only be obtained:

1. In your parish of residence
2. Between the hours of 8am and 4pm
3. Monday through Friday
4. When the streets are dry

I've compiled most this list through some trial and... well... error.  So, there are eleven stations listed on the City of New Orleans website as providing brake tags. Four of them are reasonably close to the Quarter, though not exactly spitting distance.  I had things to do nearish the closest one, so I headed down there.  I pulled into the station at 4:06pm, and got several heads shaken at me, one arm waving me away, and another pointing towards a sign listing the hours.  So I'd have to leave work early.  Great.

So, this Tuesday I left work early, made it home before the downpour, changed, and hopped in the car.  I pulled into the station parking lot, completely deserted.  Then I saw the sign. I'd missed it the day before.  "If it's raining, we'll be closed."  Sigh.

Wednesday I was home sick.  By the afternoon I felt pretty much better, so I thought about trying again.  It had been raining off and on, but the sun kept peeking out, so I thought maybe it was done.  I decided to call first this time.  I looked up the numbers, and in passing noticed that one near me was open on Saturday mornings.  Didn't see that before.  Well, the place I called said that they were 1) out of brake tags and wouldn't have any more until the next day, and 2) it had been raining and the streets were still wet.  Can't do the inspections when the roads are wet.

Well, glad I called.

Now, I'm not much of a morning person.  Especially not on on Saturdays.  Plus I have a lot of stuff to get done this Saturday.  So leaving that for a last resort, I decided to take off early from work one last time and try to get this done.

So today I checked the weather forecast.  After a drizzly morning, it was expected to be clear until night.  I left work early for one last try before I resorted to the Saturday option.  I drove out to a different station this time.  I got there and it looked pretty deserted, but had a sign that it was still open during construction.  So I pulled in, parked, and went in and asked the attendant if they did brake tags.

Guess what.

They don't.  Funny, that's the station that listed Saturday hours.  So much for even trying on the weekend.

At this point it was 3:15pm.  I headed back to the closer station, the one I'd missed at twice.

Third time's a charm.

I pulled into a line with some other cars.  After a bit of a wait, my car was inspected, FINALLY, the tag placed on my windshield, and I pulled back out onto the road and headed for home.

Just then, it started raining.

It's My Move...

I've been talking about moving for almost a year now. I came to Houston at eighteen for college, and going to school here and living here with the wonderful friends I made then and continue to make has been an amazing experience for me. I've lived here now longer than I have in any other place, but this has never been where I wanted to spend my life.

I've chickened out on moving this year, because it would mean finding a new home and packing up this one in the next two months (my current lease is up on December 1). I don't want to spend Thanksgiving that busy, and I want one last Christmas playing with my band. So I've signed a six month lease, which puts me moving at the end of May. This gives me another basketball season and six more months to watch Dylan grow. This should also be a better time for finding a new place to live.

Last year in December I took a short vacation in New Orleans. I had business in the Big Easy, and decided since my flight was paid for, I'd tack on the weekend. I had borrowed Interview with a Vampire from a friend, and my goal was to read it while I was there, in the midst of its initial setting.

I fell in love.

Not with Bourbon Street, of course. And not even with Cafe du Monde or the touristy ghost, vampire, and voodoo tours, even though I love taking them.

I fell in love with the Mississippi River. With quiet courtyards behind wrought-iron gates. With the narrow old streets, steeped in history. With the pork chops at Fiorella's. With a ham and cheese croissant and a mille fois at Croissant D'Or. With beignets for breakfast on a bench in Jackson Square. With St. Louis cathedral, its choir, and the bishop who welcomed all the people in town for the St. Louis football game, but pointed out with a mischeivous, beatific smile, that God does love cardinals, but saints are even better.

I fell in love with the way this city haunts my heart and pulls at the edges of my mind like a memory out of a dream. I don't know if it's a call from the past or the future. I don't know if there's anything there for me but the adventure of starting out somewhere new completely on my own. But I'm ready for adventure. I know what is there for me. A town I'm eager to explore, and the security of a job I already hold.

There are downsides, of course, but Ike has reminded me that Houston isn't any safer as far as hurricanes go. I'll need to talk to my boss. I'll need to plan out a great apartment hunt. I'll need to remember, when fear makes me think maybe I should just stay put, that I can always come back, or move elsewhere if things don't work out. And I'll need to remember that I can't escape the things I want to leave behind just by moving. They'll follow me, and it's up to me to be stronger than they are, but I can hope that adventure and new experiences can weaken them, make them easier to shake. There are a lot of questions I still have, a lot of doubts.

I have eight months to hash them out, so here goes!

Exciting News!

My little sister is now engaged! Scary. Kind of hard to wrap my head around the fact that she's an adult.

So anyway, if you see her on Facebook, give her a shout. She's very happy, and we're all very happy for her!

The Sun'll Come out...

Tomorrow, I'm a little nervous about. Mom's scheduled for surgery at 11am. I'm going to try to meet them at the hospital before she's admitted. I'll be working on my laptop, so I'll stay occupied. I'm not *really* worried about how things will go. It's a routine thing to fix herniated discs. And it's not like Mom hasn't had a surgical procedure, like, when I was born. Still, I get nervous. And I don't much care for hospitals.

Still, I want to be there in case the doctor needs to anything. And because I want to know the score. When she'll get out, what she'll need. My sister's got class, then work, and, I dunno, I just don't want my mom dropped off at the hospital and left there until the next day. It's not likely anything will go wrong, but it could, and someone should be there. Family. I hate that my mom lives alone, and I'm just so glad my godparents are letting her stay with them in Bryan while she recovers, and that my sister will be in the same town if Mom needs anything.

And, well, I'll be there tomorrow, it's the least I can do. But I have to come back tomorrow night so I can fly out to Louisiana tomorrow. And I'll visit on Saturday. But... I feel bad I can't do more. I mean, she's my mom.

So, anyways, thoughts, prayers, fingers crossed. Here's to a safe, successful surgery and a quick recovery! It's going to be a long day.

Projects Beget Projects

My project for today was to get ready to do a painting. I've been tired of the canvas over my couch for a while, but it's better than blank wall. Still, it's an unfinished seaside landscape from Big Sur. I haven't touched it in years, and now I realize I never will. I've lost interest in the project, and I don't see a way forward.

Still, I need something over the couch, and it's a $65 canvas.

I decided on something that would pull together elements of the Tuscan countryside, the architecture of Siena, and the colors of the contrada flags I brought home. I've been working all day on some ideas. I've been working with Photo Shop and a picture I took through an archway at San Bernardino. I cropped and moved and scaled and copied and pasted to get something that looked right. Then I used Visio to work out a technique I learned in drawing class, superimposing a grid and cross-hatch over the image, to give me landmarks to work with when I begin painting, to get proportions and spacing right. I still have to piece together my print out, which will end up being the same size as my canvas. Still a lot of work to do, but I feel better about being able to finish this one.

I do need to get some photographs to figure out how to do the draping on a contrada flag I want to include. I've had them hanging above my patio doors, folded and fastened with hem tape. I need this one to hang differently for my studies, and I've been wondering if the tape was the best idea anyway. Thus a new project is born.

I've discovered that pulling at the tape doesn't rip the fabric, but it does distort the weave. And it's hard to detach. It turns out, Goo Gone is my friend. Which then washes out fairly well without bleeding the color. So the next project is to pull them all down, remove the tape, wash them out, and press them. After I get my photos to help with my painting, I plan to fold them the way I want to hang them, press them into that shape, then hem them with a minimal amount of stitching. Then I'll need help hanging them again.

I think when I finish my painting, I'll post pictures of all the things I've done in the process. But for now it's a surprise. :-)

Mending

A long time ago, we visited Grandma and Grandpa, and Grandpa showed us the new carvings he'd been working on. Visiting Grandpa's shop was always memorable for me, and as he showed us the bigger, more sophisticated pieces, my unsophisticated eye was caught by a small carving, maybe three inches tall, a little blue jay. More stylized than realistic, and painted, unlike most of his pieces. A simple little thing, but I fell in love.

I asked Grandpa what he was going to do with it, and he smiled and said he didn't know, and I could tell he knew I wanted it. I didn't want him to think I was greedy, and I don't think I could ever ask an artist to give me even the smallest work of his hands. We went home, and I put it out of my mind. When I unwrapped my present from Grandpa the next Christmas, and I saw that little blue jay carving, I don't think I've ever had a gift that made me happier.

Grandpa died back in 1998. When I got the news, time stopped. I hung up the phone and walked to the window. They were unremarkable moments, everything my eyes fell upon were things I'd seen every day. I looked out of my apartment into the courtyard, and heard the call of a blue jay. I stared blankly into the sunlight, my mind empty, and the jay fluttered down onto the sidewalk, the sunlight irridescent on wings like lapus lazuli. He looked at me looking at him, and cocked his head, hopping a bit, then he flew away as my eyes filled with tears.

Ever since then, blue jays bring Grandpa to mind. Daddy died on the same day, four years later. The pair of jays that nest outside my window at work give me pause every time I see them.

A few years ago, when Mom was moving to Schertz, one of the dogs got into one of the cardboard boxes, and one of the things in that box was my blue jay. Mom tried to glue some of the broken off splinters back, but finally asked if I just wanted her to send it to me. I said that would probably be best, but when I saw it, all I could do was cry and put it back in it's wrappings.

The second and third times weren't much better. But finally I was able to take a look at the damage and Mom's repair. Most of what she'd done I decided I'd need to undo, so I started in with an exacto-knife. I cut away the glue and shaved some slivers off some of the edges so they'd fit better. I glued the tail back together, and set it aside. I wasn't sure how to proceed, and it was still pretty emotionally draining work.

Yesterday I was putting some things back in the tool box that we'd used in setting up the new TV. And I saw the wood glue. And I got an idea.

I pulled out some tooth picks, put down a paper towel, and started dripping wood glue into the cracks where things had to be glue back, and to fill the pits where Ollie's teeth crushed in the wood. The glue softened the wood some and I was able to push some things back into place. Today I pulled down my acryllics and my brushes and began to paint over the glue.

I'm not the artist he was; I haven't put in the time. And I don't have the paints he used so I couldn't match the colors just right. But you'd have to look a lot closer to see the damage now. It's fixed, and I can display it with his other carvings. It means so much to me, and I'm so happy I'm crying. :-P

I was talking to Tim last night about my repairs, and I asked him, at what point, as I poke and prod and glue and paint, does it cease to be my grandfather's work?

Tim answered, "It's a collaborative art project between your grandfather, you...

"and your mother's dog."

Quick Update

In as few words as possible. Details available upon request.

* Mom's having her surgery on July 2.
* I'm getting a new TV tomorrow.
* Danny asked if I still wanted to move to New Orleans. Maybe in December...
* I've now held a job for 2 years.
* I switched to Green Mountain Energy and have started drinking herbal teas.

Other than all of that, life is pretty much what it's been for the past few years.

Work of my hands

Tomorrow is the last class for the beginning drawing class I'm taking. I just finished my homework drawing, and I'm very proud of it, so here's me showing off. My scanner wasn't big enough, so the top and bottom curves are cropped, but you get the idea. I've posted other homework drawings here, and will probably post the other projects I've been working on inspired by this class later.

This last one, though, I think I'll frame.

Seeds

I have three packets of green bean seeds. I borrowed a nickel from my mother and paid for them in exact change. $0.65.

I bought a watering can and two long rectangular planters that are sitting by the door to my back porch.

I also bought two bags of organic potting soil specially for potted vegetables that are sitting in the trunk of my car because they’re heavyish and bulkyish, and I can only handle one of them at a time.

Eddie has a note to make sure I keep Easter Saturday clear, because on that day, I will plant my little seeds.

Then I will have green beans a plenty, and hopefully enough during the summer to eat fresh, and then some to freeze for the rest of the year.

Mostly I can’t wait to have tiny sprouts to tend.

Happy New Year, 2008!

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' auld lang syne?

I need to go to bed soon, but first I wanted to share my pictures of my busy and fun filled New Year's Eve party.

I got my candles all burned, with only one minor setback. I got some great pictures. For those of you who know about my pyrophobia, you should be proud of me, though mostly my fingers never got anywhere near the fire, and I *was* pretty nervous. But I managed.

I watched my Mythbusters, chatted with Katy after she texted me at midnight her time, drank and ate my yummies, and had fun melting my candles. I wrote in a journal for the first time in a long time, and now I'm ready to call it a night. Tomorrow I start the new year in earnest. Happy New Year, my loves!

First Frost

I looked in the mirror after washing my hands for dinner at Momo's, ran my fingers through my hair, then stopped, and looked closer. I leaned forward, lifted a hand, and gently sifted a single strand of silver out from the rest of my hair. I called Brooke to come with me into the bathroom light, and looked again, and asked, "Is that really...?"

"A gray hair? Do you have a gray hair?" she asked.

"I think I do!" I replied, and I laughed. I must be the first woman who noticed her first gray hair, and thought about *not* dying her hair any more. I probably will keep it up, because I do like being a red head. But honestly, I remember seeing the strands of silver at Michael's temples, and thinking how pretty they were against the dark of his hair. This one strand on my head shines against the rest and glitters in the light, and for all it might mean in terms of my surrendered youth and the inexorable march of time, it is beautiful to me, and precious in a way I don't really understand.

I laughed, and rushed out to tell my mother, and they probably all think I'm insane. How can I explain to anyone who clings to their own youth as a golden age that my twenties have been the hardest time of my life, and I can only hope to rise out of them into the rest of my life like a phoenix. I know in my soul that I have the strength and grace for this. That in fact this is what I do every day that I get up and greet the world with an open heart full of faith and hope and love. This is what I intend to do all my life, and I hope that life is a long one. Long enough for every hair on my head to turn.

So bring it on, gray hair! I'm ready!

The List

I haven't ever had this sort of list before, and I didn't really think to sit down to make one, but slowly I've been thinking of things. The world is so big, and I'm so small. This year I'm going to travel, and hopefully see a lot of things I've never seen. Daddy was so alive, and then he was gone. I'm not sure when I'll reach the bottom of my glass, but I hope to drink deep and savor every drop. So here's my list of things I want to do before I die.

• See the Northern Lights
• Hear a nightingale
• See New England in the fall
• Write a novel
• See Times Square
• Visit the Grand Canyon
• Take the tour at Alcatraz
• Make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land
• Visit Gettysburg
• Go into the catacombs
• Visit Ellis Island
• Read every Agatha Christie mystery novel
• See the Anne Frank house in Amsterdam
• Eat Chicago deep dish in Chicago
• Visit the Guggenheim
• Relax on a black sand beach
• Stand in the middle of Stonehenge
• Visit Delphi
• Drink tea and eat fish and chips in London
• Ride a paddle boat on the Mississippi
• See the St. Louis Arch
• Visit Death Valley
• See the sun set over the Everglades
• Sing a solo on stage in Jones Hall (Done)
• See Paris from the top of the Eiffel Tower (Done)
• Watch elephant seals on a beach in Big Sur (Done)
• Play the slots in Vegas (Done)
• Eat beignets in Cafe du Monde after drinks on Bourbon Street (Done)
• Pray in St. Peter's Basilica (Done)
• Listen to blues on Beale Street (Done)
• Wine tasting in Napa Valley (Done)
• Watch Old Faithful erupt (Done)
• Visit the Monterrey Bay Aquarium (Done)

Thankfully I've got some of them out of the way. I hope I have enough time for the rest...

I Recommend Fiori

I was telling my friend Kevin last week about how I’d pulled something and my neck and shoulders were sore. Kevin told me in no uncertain terms that what I needed was a massage. He sent me the link to Fiori, a spa near the Galleria, that he had visited with Kari. I was impressed by the website, thought the prices were reasonable, and was thrilled to learn that they had Sunday appointments. I made one for this past Sunday, between lunch and the HCB concert. Granted, a relaxing afternoon at the spa isn’t something you should squeeze into your calendar with a shoehorn, but I had no choice if I wanted to do something about my neck any time in the foreseeable future.

This

Place

Is

Amazing.

I got there early for my appointment, as requested, filled out a form that asked me some very pertinent questions, such as my gender preference for people providing my services, whether or not I bruise easily, allergies to foods or herbs, etc. Then I was shown to the ladies locker room. Which was palatial. It had wood paneled lockers with key pad combination locks, sinks made to look like basins of glass on top of marble counters, two large showers, two large toilet stalls, a steam room, bottles of chilled water, towels, towels, and more towels, and in my locker, a stack of towels, some washcloths, and a soft, fluffy, chocolate brown robe. The attendant brought me my spa slippers, and told me to find her in the shop when I was done changing, and she’d show me around.

I put on my swimsuit, just in case, wrapped myself up in that warm, thick robe, and padded off to the shop for my tour. The attendant showed me the pool (too cold), the underground mineral bath (YES in HOUSTON!), and the Jacuzzi hot tub. That’s about as far as I made it. She said she’d send someone down to get me when it was time for my manicure and pedicure (after wandering over Italian cobblestones in the dust of Rome and Tuscany wearing sandals, my feet needed some pampering). I soaked in the warm, foamy water, relaxed by the sound of water flowing all around me in the small, rock-walled room. I had the place entirely to myself at the time. I closed my eyes and cupped my hands along the water’s tumbling surface, feeling the fizz of the bubbles as I trapped them in my hands. It reminded me of a dream I had where I lay along the hill side of my old home as clouds skimmed along the ground, and I reached out to catch them as they raced by.

I kinda got bored of sitting around after a while, so before anyone came for me, I went back to the locker room to towel off and put on dry things again before padding along in my robe to the shop again to figure out where to go for my nails. The attendant sent me to the top of the stairs to find the quiet room and wait for the manicurist to collect me. I went up and found some soft comfy couches and chairs, and sank down into an armchair to wait.

In a bit Tracie came to get me, and took me to the manicure and pedicure room. She told me to pick out an enamel, but I asked if I could get a buff shine instead, and she said of course. (I really don’t like nail polish much. It’s fun, but it chips too easily, and I don’t have the patience to let it dry properly.) We started with my hands, and while I was quiet, she just let me be quiet. Eventually I got over my usual shyness, and asked how long she’d been a manicurist. She laughed and said too long, since high school, but that she’d always worked with people, and was glad she had this to fall back on. After a number of other jobs, all requiring more patience than I certainly have, she had come back to this, and enjoyed her job very much.

We talked about how beautiful the building was, and the attention to detail in its décor. I haven’t really mentioned this, but the spa is a rock and timber building with slate floors, for the most part, or warm tile, covered with sisal mats or rugs. The walls are painted warm colors in some rooms, or a soft ivory, with decorative patterns painted inside the archways or around the wooden doors and wooden doorposts and lintels. The windows are shuttered with thick wooden blinds, and the lighting is soft and indirect. As Tracie gave me my pedicure, I could look alternately into a small, sunny courtyard, or at the bronze and amber chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The room with the mineral pool had a blue ceiling and red ceiling painted over with beige lattice that reminded me of a ceiling in the Vatican museum. Warm woods and leathers and ceramics were everywhere, and the whole looked quite a bit like the pictures Summer showed me of the villa they visited near Siena for a stargazing trip.

After Tracie told me what not to do to my nails in the future (I did rather hack at my toenails recently, since it had been so long since my last pedicure), and buffing all my nails to a lovely shine, she released me for my massage. I went back up to the top level, and finally found the quiet room, though all the ottomans were taken, so I didn’t go in, but instead sat on another plump armchair just beside the curtains that separated it from the corridor to the massage rooms.

My masseuse, Maziel, came and led me to a dim, wood-floored room and a soft massage bed. She asked if there was anything in particular I needed her to work on, so I told her about my shoulder. She let me choose between eucalyptus, orange, or lavender oils (I chose orange) and left so I could get myself situated. The massage bed was warm (I think there was an electric blanket somewhere in there), and the sheets covering me were a cotton so rich it felt almost like silk. She came back in and started my massage. She was pretty shocked at how tight my shoulders were. I think at least 30 of the 50 minutes I got were spent working out the tension there.

The knot in my right shoulder felt like a golf ball-sized lump of pain that she kneaded and kneaded at until it finally broke up and dispersed back into the muscles of my shoulder. She did my legs and arms, and kept coming back to that shoulder to work it around some more, stretch out the muscles, loosen the joints. It hurt pretty bad, at times, but it’s the sort of pain you grit your teeth through because you know it will only get better by getting worse. She told me I’d be sore today, and I was this morning, but I also have full mobility in my neck and head again, in spite of slight bruising over everything between my shoulder blades. I did check off on the form that I bruise easily. Still, it was worth it.

She finished off by massaging my neck, my temples, and all through my scalp, then waited outside while I robed and slippered up, to take me to the quiet room. She handed me a glass of water with a hint of lemon and lime, and settled me into one of the tan, micro-fiber covered ottomans in the dim room behind a chocolate velvet curtain. There was a rich brown blanket to cover up my legs, and two huge candles on the center table, melting into soft golden curves beside a bunch of stargazer lilies. The lamps were dimmed, and I didn’t bother with the books on the tables, but closed my eyes and let my mind drift along with the music playing softly from somewhere.

After some number of minutes, I began to hope that the music was computer generated, and that no real musicians had been forced to sit in a studio for hours playing subtly shifting chords. I don’t care how celestial the sounds are, pages full of whole notes would just be cruel and unusual. I think it was mostly synthesized, at least, but still, if a person had to sit there and push the keys, I pity them, and hope it paid well. It was just background music, and thoroughly innocuous, but still!

By the time I’d gotten completely lost in the sounds, found myself again, and finished my glass of water, I decided it was time to refill the glass (“Drink LOTS of water, okay?” Maziel had said) and go sit in the steam room for at least ten minutes, like she’d recommended (“Otherwise you’ll be really sore tomorrow”).

So I slipped back down to the locker room with a fresh glass of ice water, wrapped myself in a humongous towel grabbed a chilled, damp, lavender-scented washcloth, turned the steam room dial to ten minutes, and went in. I sat on the caramel colored stone-tiled bench listening to the dial outside tick, which fortunately drowned out the sound of those interminable major chords, until a strange rumbling gurgle in the wall made me open my eyes to watch this new novelty: steam pouring from a spigot near the floor, filling the little room, clouding the air until I couldn’t see my own hands on my towel-covered lap, and the light above and the light from the door were just a gentle glow through the haze. I shut my eyes and breathed deeply in and out through my nose. Breathing through my mouth made me cough on the warm dampness in the air. My nose filtered most of it out, and (forgive me for reporting a less than graceful and sophisticated detail) the steam made my nose drip like a faucet. I found this amusing, intriguing, and thoroughly predictable, once I thought about it, but still, it surprised me.

Ten minutes wasn’t enough in the steam room. When all my lovely humidity had seeped away, I went out and reset for another 10 minutes. This time was better because the steam was warmer to start with and I found the spray bottle of eucalyptus and citrus scented something or other that made my nose tingle. I decided after 20 minutes of steam that I shouldn’t push things, because I still needed to shower and go change into a black formal for my concert.

I don’t think I got any more than half of my massage oil off in the shower, but didn’t mind going to the concert smelling slightly fruity, so I dried off, dressed, and paid my tab. The entire afternoon, gratuity included, cost me $188.80. Not bad at all for 3.5 solid hours of luxury!

Now, how do I get rid of thing lingering pain in my trumpet playing muscles that made me have to come home early from jazz band, and how do I get rid of the lingering guilt for spending so much money on luxury and not on feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, and defending the widow and orphan? I think that's another blog for another day.

Du Jour

Soup! Of course!

It would be a pretty silly idea, since I'm singing in a huge concert on Tuesday next, to go to the Rice football game on Saturday. I don't feel like anywhere near half a fan if I'm not yelling my guts out, and face it, that's just a baaaaad idea at this point.

So instead, I've decided I will make soup. Yesterday's (rather ephemeral) cool snap put me in the mood for thick rich hearty soupy goodness. The question becomes, what kind of soup?

I have a bag of navy beans in the pantry and ham and venison sausage in the freezer. That has worked well for me in the past. But I'd really like to make chicken noodle. I can't get my egg noodles from Weikel's, though. Well, you know, I could. I could get up early on Saturday, pack a cooler, drive out to La Grange, grab some noodles, and while I'm there, really I ought to buy the chicken from the city market. Because it will be about 20 times as fresh as anything I'll get here.

But that involves getting up Saturday morning. Hah, sooooo not happening. I bet I can find egg noodles and a reasonably fresh fowl this side of Highway 6. Then some cheese cloth. A large onion. Carrots. I have spinach leaves. I like to boil them in, then pull them out. I don't really like spinach, but it adds something.

Yeah. Chicken noodle soup. That sounds like a good sort of day.

Always an Adventure

I clomped down the stairs of my apartment this morning at 0-too-early and out onto the sidewalk. I glanced up and was stopped dead in my tracks by the brilliance of the stars. In Houston, you don't normally see stars. The air was crisp and clear, and the sky was dark. All the defining points of Orion were visible, my favorite constellation. He rises high in the sky for the autumn and early winter, my favorite part of the year, with Canis Major and the Dog Star. The brightest star in the sky. Venus blazed in the east with two other planets. I haven't been following my astronomy reports, so I don't know which one, but they were like diamonds. I was floored.

Of course, I still had that flight to New Orleans to catch. I got to the airport in plenty of time, and decided that a breakfast taco from the Pappasito's in the airport sounded good. Better than one of the bagel sandwiches from the counter in the Hudson News. So I got one and wandered down to my gate. I sat down to eat it. It tasted really good, but about halfway through, the foil at the bottom got really hot, then my knee felt hot. The eggs were... a bit runny. :-(

So I set some stuff down and grabbed some napkins. I had my computer bag on my shoulder, and when I picked my taco up and put it on the bag it came in to contain the dribble, my bag slipped down, jerked my arm, and bag and taco went flying, and, I kid you not, they did a 360 degree flip together, and the taco landed on top of the bag on the ground.

Splattering my shoe, pants cuffs, and computer bag with egg water. I sat down laughing with my head in my hands. What else ya gunna do? I mopped up, and since my taco landed face-up, so to speak, I finished eating.

I got on the plane right on time (i.e. way too early), got all settled, and looked around me, and noticed something funny about the overhead bins. They were blue, and had... pictures of... Shamu... and... the Sea World logo... and... one of them *said* Shamu!!! Was it really....???

I looked out my window at the rotor.

Which was encased in a smooth cylinder panted in black and white! I was on a Shamu plane! Eeeeee!!!!

I was in the sky before the sun was. That's a hard way to start the day. But the sun was bright in a blue sky when we landed. And the traffic on I-10 was a swamp. And my cabbie was *nuts*. It was like that scene in Office Space when the lane the guy isn't in is always the faster one. But my cabbie was undeterred. At one point he went across all three lanes, then went right back. At some point I started pondering why on earth I would feel complicit in his insanity, just because I was paying for the transit. Huh.

Another thought to ponder came from a bumper sticker I saw on a flatbed. "Our trucks don't run on Citgo" it read. Anyone know what's up with that? Is there something I should know about Citgo?

My meeting went well. My mission to get us set up with an application the Shell folks keep wanting us to use turned out to be a wild goose chase. Ugh. Spun my wheels on that all afternoon, then dragged myself out the door, into another cab, slightly more sanely driven through a similar traffic tangle, and into the airport, where I walked calmly and quietly to the nearest Popeye's. Did I mention that I was chasing geese so intently that I didn't eat or drink anything at all the entire day after my breakfast taco and diet coke? Oy.

At some point during my morning meeting my phone had gone off and I'd quickly shut it up. I finally remembered to check my voice mail, and the message was from Kid saying she'd be coming to my concert so to save her a ticket!!! Yay!

I'd IMed Frank during the day and found out he was in New Orleans, and would be coming home in the evening too, so I agreed to meet up with him at the airport for a drink. It was fun to chat with him, though I hate it when he starts razzing me about going home early after HCB. Just because *he* doesn't get sick when he doesn't get sleep... grmblgrmblgrmbl pout.

Frank had to leave earlier than I did. And then my flight was late. The 6:30pm to Houston is ALWAYS late. Ugh. So I was up in the sky after the sun had left for the day. The stars were faint in a dark hazy sky when I got back to my apartment. And I'm home and I'm tired and my throat hurts. Not a good sign. Done with adventures. I'm going to bed.