Lessons Learned from "Edward Scissorhands"

1. All of Suburbia is a hell populated by manipulative, base, and cowardly people who lack any creativity at all.

2. Suburban women, in particular, are only motivated by spite, sex, or a strange belief in the constant presence of Satan.

3. Social norms and etiquette are significantly less important than poetry (even limericks)and love.

4. There are people in this world who are attractive enough to make gineys tingle even when covered in a pancake-like pallor and rocking a Robert Smith hairdo, sunken eyes, and awkward suspenders.

5. Gaining a hundred pounds or so of muscle will greatly change your typecast, even if you were in "Breakfast Club".

6. "Ambrosia Salad" is a euphemism for sex.

7. Trimming bushes into unique shapes is a highly valued skill in this world, as is creating asymmetrical hair styles.

8. It doesn't matter if the object of a girl's affection is truly human as long as she is embracing an opportunity to relieve her teenage angst.

9. Suburban teenagers seek revenge most often through intricate schemes involving fake burglary and outright betrayal.

10. Snow is always the result of the creation of very large ice sculptures atop a high hill.

10 Things I LOVE about Pregnancy

At 35 weeks pregnant, I have to admit that I am starting to get anxious for the end of this experience. It has gotten to the point where I am uncomfortable sitting in one position for too long, my feet tingle when I stand for any length of time, and I take more bathroom breaks than a drunk old man. Still, I have, for the most part, really enjoyed this pregnancy.

You hear a lot about the pitfalls of gestation: morning sickness, heart burn, difficulty sleeping, etc. Not only have I had very few negative physical effects in the past eight months, but I have a much longer list of things that I have genuinely loved about being pregnant. Here are a few:

1. The fingernails
I was never one to spend a lot of time or energy thinking about the everyday health or appearance of my fingernails until I became pregnant, and they started growing like weeds. I swear pregnant fingernails, especially during the first two trimesters, are made from some brilliant, alien substance. They are long, strong, and beautiful. They are extremely difficult to break, but if one does snap off, it will grow back the next day, looking as lovely as ever.

This may seem like a small thing, but it is quite comforting. While the rest of your body is changing and, to some extent, betraying you, it is nice to have ten little allies at the ends of your fingers. The quickness with which they grow also provides an excuse for frequent maintenance and regular manicures; a wonderful way to take some time to yourself and feel pampered and pretty during pregnancy.

2. Reading aloud
When my developing baby's ears supposedly became able to recognize and distinguish voices at 23 weeks gestation, I began reading the Harry Potter series aloud to my belly. At first, I felt a little bit crazy reading to a seemingly empty room, but as I got into the habit, I discovered that it was something I genuinely enjoyed. We are now almost half way through the last book of the series, The Deathly Hallows, which means that I have read some 3,500 pages to my baby before I have even met him. I have found that this ritual makes me feel bonded and motherly towards my baby, and often he moves around and makes me aware of his presence while I read. Which brings me to...

3. Having a constant companion in my belly
Ever since I felt the first fluttering or "quickening" sensations in my belly a few months ago, my unborn baby's movements and kicks have become increasingly more frequent and strong. This might be my favorite part about the whole experience. While it is a sort of strange and foreign feeling at first, it is something that I became very quickly attached to. Before long after feeling the first movements, I was able to distinguish different body parts as they poked out of my belly. Now, when the baby kicks, I can poke him back and feel him respond in kind. It is like having a playmate always with me, and it is wonderful.

4. Sleeping in
No matter how much you sleep when you are pregnant, no one will ever call you lazy or judge you. This is a wonderful thing.

5. People telling me I look phenomenal
People don't generally expect pregnant women to be a fit size two, or to wear full make up all the time, or to rock high heels. Therefore, when a preggo ventures into public looking fairly decent, people are quite impressed.

I have to admit that at this point, I am starting to feel sort of gross. I am ready to go back to my old body and feel genuinely attractive again. However, up until a couple weeks ago, I was still feeling really content with my pregnant body. People constantly told me how beautiful I looked, even when I was kind of icky or had dirty hair. I think this is partially a consequence of lowered expectations for the pregnant set, and partially a result of what I have termed "pregnancy goggles", which focus observers' energy on a big, round belly and full, ample, baby feeding boobies while distracting from things like eye bags, thunder thighs, and *shudder* armpit fat.

6. Nice women
It isn't a secret that it is often difficult for women to immediately feel warm towards other women upon meeting them. Pregnancy changes this. Women see a pregnant lady and think a) This girl is probably not going to sleep with my bf/husband b)I can identify with that, and c) Awwww babies!

The combination of a,b,and c above creates the kind of friendly, warm, immediately accepting women that I have never known before. And they are everywhere! The drugstore check out lady, the other women in waiting rooms in doctors' offices, chicks on the street; they all want to know when I am due, what sex the baby is, and if they can touch my belly. Many don't even ask about the touching thing; they just go for it, because what is more unifying and communal than a new life?

7. The doctor
I have heard some pregnant women complain about the seemingly constant doctor's visits associated with growing a tiny person, but I have really enjoyed mine. For one thing, until I became pregnant, I had not seen a doctor for an overall check-up since before leaving for college in 2004. So, just hearing that I am in good health was a relief. Then, getting ultrasounds, hearing my baby's heartbeat every couple weeks, and learning about his development became things that I really looked forward to. These days, I have weekly doctor's visits and fetal monitoring, all of which increase the excitement of knowing that he is almost here!

8.The presents
Our baby shower was overwhelming, with more gifts than I have ever received at one time in my life. I was so thankful that so many people cared about me and Tony and our baby and wanted to be a part of the process. Then, packages began arriving in the mail with such frequency that it was strange to have a day when a delivery man did not ring the door bell. Unwrapping adorable baby clothes and toys never gets old, and it makes me feel truly loved by my friends and family.

9.Being sober all the time
I came to college in New Orleans partially because I was ready to party. It is no secret that I loved going out and having some drinks. I worked in a bar for quite a while and genuinely loved the Nola bar life style. Still, I was honestly beginning to tire of the whole thing when I got pregnant. The past several months have been a time for me to grow up, mature, and put that period of my life behind me, and being sober for a while is the best way to do that. There are obvious health benefits for myself and my baby associated with not drinking, but I find other benefits as well. I think more rationally when I have not had a drink for a while than when I am going out many times a week. I am also much more emotionally stable now than I was when I was partying all the time, and I am pregnant, so that is saying a lot!

10. Thinking of myself more and more as a mom
I have always know that I wanted to be a mother, but nobody can tell anyone else how it really feels. As my pregnancy has progressed, I have begun to feel closer and closer to my baby. I have definitely become very attached to him while carrying him, and I feel almost like an actual "mom" at this point. I can envision myself years down the road, with young children, acting like a real mother and loving my family unconditionally, and I like what I see.

Sexy Fake Lady Cops Make Me Sad This Year(Halloween Edition)

Several months ago, I wrote a blog entry about pregnant body image, in which I discussed my fondness for my new, curvier figure. I figure now, with hot, young women running around everywhere in barely-there Halloween costumes, is as good a time as any to talk about the flip side of that issue.

I am finding myself to be much more jealous of all the girls in skanky Halloween garb this year than I would have ever expected. However, it is not a simple form of jealousy. It is not that I want to be out in the clubs with my midriff bared, ass cheeks making frequent appearances, drinking with strangers. That is something I haven't really embraced with gusto since 2006 or '07(see picture). I also don't think it has to do with the fact that my husband is spending his nights this Halloween weekend working at the Boot, which is arguably ground zero for way hot, mostly naked college chicks, although I don't think that is helping.

I think my feelings this weekend are stemming more from the fact that my body has completely robbed me of my ability to look sexy. I know that it is doing something amazing, and most of the time I love my big, round belly. I tolerate my gigantic thighs and giggling butt without more than a passing thought, most days. I have certainly not been consumed with worrying about regaining my figure or anything depressing like that. Overall, I think most people would say my disposition about all of pregnancy's physical effects has been overwhelmingly sunny.

But now there are these goddam women everywhere wearing practically nothing. And the fact is that my body in thigh highs and the miniest of "themed" mini dresses would, at the moment, inspire more laughs than swoons.

For me, sexuality and sexiness were things that came into play in various human interactions on a daily basis from the time I reached puberty. I suspect that this is true for most women my age. It is not something we consciously think about, but female sexuality is an extremly powerful thing. Just ask any man, anywhere, ever. So, the inabilty to be, or at least feel, "sexy" is an unfamiliar and frustrating experience, especially at 24 years old.

So, I suppose when it comes down to it, I am not truly "jealous" of all the scantily-clad women who are out celebrating tonight. They are probably going to be cold later on, and they will definitely have hangovers tomorrow. I am, however, envious of the way they clearly feel, like they can conquer any bar line, and therefore the world, with the sheer power of their young, trim bodies. I miss feeling that way, if I am being honest.

I would imagine that every woman who has ever been pregnant has felt this way from time to time. The fact is that a body that is almost done growing a baby sometimes feels like it is more for the baby than for its true owner. And that is ok. I love my son more than I can say. I like pushing back when he kicks my belly and feeling him respond. I like thinking about holding him in two months, hearing him say "mama" a few months later, and watching him take his first steps before we know it. All of these things are worth a few days of glaring at every "sexy traffic director" I see.

But don't expect me to stop glaring. It may be childish; it may be hypocritical, seeing as there isn't much I enjoy more than R-rated dress up. But it is what it is. And I am too tired from growing a CHILD here, people, to control every emotional impulse I have. My slutty Halloween days are almost certainly over, but that doesn't mean I won't be feeling that "conquer the world" sexiness soon. Because I am going to be sexy again before you know it.... Right?

Dreaming of a Fat Christmas

I heard "White Christmas" playing over the sound system in a store today, and it made me unbearably excited. Don't get me wrong; I know it's obscenely early for Christmas music. This year, though, I have legitimate reasons to get giddy at the thought of the approaching holidays.

I am the kind of person who always becomes excited when the Christmas trees appear like magic in the malls. The incessant cycles of the same old Christmas carols in public places don't bother me. I sing the girl parts of "Baby It's Cold Outside" literally every time I hear it, regardless of where I may be located at the time. Something about "Christmas Joy" is just very real to me; always has been. I guess it has to do with the bubbling anticipation of Christmas morning that is built into American children from birth.

This year, I have already begun dealing with a constant bubbling anticipation, but it cannot be blamed on Christmas's approach. My son's due date just happens to be December 29th, adding a whole lot of excitement and intrigue to the holiday season. It's like waiting for a hundred Christmas mornings, and it is constant.

In a lot of ways, waiting for a baby is like waiting for Santa. Whereas children never know what Santa Clause may bring in his sack, I don't know what our baby will bring in his appearance, his personality, or his temperament. I can make educated guesses based on my own and my fiance's traits, much like a child can safely assume that Santa received her list of wishes and acted obligingly. Still, kids never really know until they unwrap their gifts under the tree, and I will not know until I complete what I presume will be a short and relatively painless labor and birth.

So forgive me if, this year, I nearly pee with excitement the first time I hear "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas", or see a house decorated for the holidays, or smell baking gingerbread and hot chocolate. The normal indicators of Christmas's approach all seem like big signs saying "YOUR BABY IS ALMOST HERE!!" to my crazy, pregnant brain.

I'm just glad I am not in Maryland, where I grew up, and where the first snow flurries of the year always put me into an orgiastic, Christmastastic frenzy. This year I would likely run out into the snow, barefoot, belly out, and chase the snowflakes, wild eyed, while screaming "It's beginning to look a lot like BABIES!" into the night. And no one wants to witness that, not even Saint Nick.

Blaming the Economy for the Failure of Marriage, and Why I Do So

I have been thinking today about the institution of Marriage and its state of crisis in America. I have also been thinking about "I Love Lucy" and Robert B. Reich's new book, Aftershock: The Next Economy and America's Future. This convergence of cognition has led me to believe that there may be some blame to place on the economy when trying to determine what happened to the sacred institution of marriage in this great nation.

First, let me say that I think an argument based purely on a supposed "decline of values" for why so many marriages fail is cheap, easy, and aimed by older people at the youth. It is, in a word, bullshit. Family structures have changed so much since our grandparents were married that to even make a comparison between their marriages and ours is frankly ridiculous. This is where "I Love Lucy" comes in.

There is an episode of "Lucy" where Ricky and Fred accuse Lucy and Ethel of essentially sitting around all day and spending all of the boys' hard earned money. The women, of course, respond that making a living isn't much compared to trying to run a household. The four agree to trade places, with the women getting jobs at a candy factory and the men staying home and doing household chores and cooking. Predictably, the women cannot cut it in the workplace and the men are possibly even more hopeless in the home. Hilarity ensues.

"I Love Lucy" was, of course, a comedy, but it was based very strongly in truth. In the fifties, men were not taught to cook or clean or take care of themselves. Women seldom ventured into the workplace, at least not with the goal of developing a career. At this point in American history, the institution of marriage was vitally important to the survival of adults. Men made money to support women, and women made sure that men ate and had clean clothing to wear to work.

A lot of people would argue that this gender inequality made life unhappy and unfair for women, which is probably true. Women were incapable of fending for themselves should their marriage go wrong, and many became trapped in bad, abusive, or unhappy situations. However, I would argue that the 1950's marriage arrangement bred a kind of love between married men and women that we do not see as much these days. The recognition that one cannot survive without another person fosters unconditional love; that is why children inherently love their parents. In Lucy and Ricky's marriage, Lucy played mother to Ricky and Ricky brought home the bacon and issued scoldings like a father does. And they loved each other unquestioningly for it.

Rob B. Reich's short book, Aftershock: The Future Economy and America's Future is a brief, poignant discussion of the current economic situation in the West, and what America can do to improve while moving forward. His main point, briefly, is that the American middle and working classes are being squeezed too hard economically and are unable to buy things and stimulate the economy. He argues that for decades, the median wage for working men has not risen in order to keep up with inflation. As a result, more and more women have been forced into the workplace in order to support families. In addition, both men and women have begun having to work overtime in order to get by. As a result, families suffer.

I'm not arguing that women should not have careers. Women who want careers should go out and grab them with both hands. I am arguing that women who are forced into the workplace in order to support their families with limited skills tend to be unhappy women. I would also argue that men are happier coming home to warm dinners than coming home to wives drained and bitchy from their terrible jobs. (Not to mention the fact that it is probably nice for children to see their parents from time to time.)

Reich says that in order to heal the American economy, we need to make sure the middle class is provided with opportunities to earn and keep the money they need to purchase things and invest in the economy. I say we need to do the same things in order to heal the American institution of Marriage. We need to have a system that allows for Lucys and Rickys, especially when young children are involved. If not, we need to stop putting so much pressure on the idea of marriage to begin with. It is quite possible that it is outdated, not because of my generation's (and my parents generation's) abominable value systems, but because traditional gender roles that made marriage necessary and reciprocal aren't allowed to exist anymore.

But that's a conversation for another time.

Women Facebook and Fine Wine: Better With Age?

I am basically the epitome of what people are talking about when they refer to the "facebook generation." A good portion of my social interactions occur on the social networking site. This includes messaging my friends, inviting people and being invited to events, posting and viewing photos, and sharing information about my boring day-to-day life. In fact, when I am finished writing this blog, I will post a link to it on my wall in hopes that some of my facebook friends might enjoy it.

I don't have a problem with any of this. Facebook has been a constant and evolving part of my adult life since I left home in August of 2004. (Facebook was launched in February of the same year.) One could even say that facebook and I have grown and matured together.

When I reached Tulane University in the fall of 2004, facebook was still a new, uncertain, moderately well developed networking site for college students at select universities ONLY. This meant that there was a limited pool of users and that these users were essentially all my age. Facebook basically functioned as a collection of those white boards that people hang on their dorm room doors for others to write messages on. Sometimes, friends leave important messages, but mostly people just get drunk and draw dicks all over everyone's doors. God, it was fun.

In September of 2005, facebook became available to students with valid high school e-mails, which creator Mark Zuckerberg considered the next logical step. It wasn't until September of 2006 that the network was opened to anyone 13 and older with an e-mail address. Even then, it took some time for facebook to become the cushy, parent-friendly place it is today.

I have developed a sort of timeline that demonstrates how my use of facebook has changed as the site has become less college-centric and as I myself have aged and matured. I don't claim to fully understand whether my newfound maturity or the diversification of facebook membership has done more to temper my online activity. Let's just assume it was a combination of the two.

The Timeline:
Fall 2004: I drunkenly browse through Tulane student profiles one night after returning from the bar. Upon finding a guy who looks cute in his profile picture, I send him a message saying something like, "This is creepy, but you're a hottie!" This is before the advent of photo tagging and thus my nighttime stalking ends there.
Later, the mystery man and I run into each other at Jimmy's, recognize each other from facebook, and make out for a few minutes. We part ways and have not spoken since.

Fall 2005: Desperately missing my bff Heather during the Katrina break, I either initiate or continue (probably the latter) a rather filthy string of back-and-forth wall comments. This battle reaches its apex when I graphically describe a scene in a pornographic film and indicate that Heather reminds me of one of the less savory participants.
All is well as only college students and a few, bold high schoolers are currently members of the facebook community. That is, until Heather's mother discovers her open facebook and reads the comments. Brief, alternating periods of shame and hysterical laughter ensue.

Fall 2006: While pre-gaming a FIJI frat party in Maddy's dorm room, an impromptu photo shoot breaks out. At one point, I am standing over Heather and Andre as I photograph them on the floor, "looking like they are standing on the wall." (?)
Anyway, an up-skirt photo of me somehow results and we all laugh about posting it on facebook, which we do not hesitate to do. The photo is not graphic or vulgar, but it is not exactly classy or professional, either.

Winter 2006: Apparently nobody is friends with their parents or bosses yet, because a particularly hilarious, pterodactyl-themed porn clip makes its rounds on the walls of many of my friends. We all laugh.

Spring 2007: I post a note containing an instant messaging conversation I had with a friend whom I have not seen since middle school. In it, while discussing sexual ethics, I argue the hypothetical value of raunchy, porno-style sexual relations. The level of filth gradually escalates until my friend abruptly ends the conversation. It is one of the funnier things I have ever experienced.

Summer 2008: I edit my profile to make it acceptable to judgmental and concerned adults and untag any blatantly inappropriate pictures.

Winter 2008: I am home for Christmas break and left with some spare time. I use this time to go through all of my own posted photos and remove anything that may be viewed unfavorably. I also view hundreds of tagged photos of myself, imagining the impression I would get if I were a stranger, and untag any photos that give me a bad fake first impression.

Summer 2009-present: I untag obviously drunk or unsavory photos as they are posted. I often use symbols in place of expletives and staunchly avoid sexual innuendo. I (rarely) remove comments and wall posts from my friends that reflect poorly on me or the company I keep.

Facebook isn't as fun anymore.

I know that my use of the site probably would have changed as I aged, anyway, but I can't help being bitter at all the adults and kids who have invaded what was once a really enjoyable playground for those in their early twenties. I understand that the logical steps for the company were to further expand the network and involve over 500,000,000 individuals worldwide. For the most part, I like the changes they have made. Still, every once in a while, I just want to go back to the days where a facebook wall was like a college white board, gloriously full of sloppily drawn penises, endlessly abused, and so full of youthful promise.

Gross Human Rights Violations in Harry Potter's World

I am a HUGE Harry Potter fan. I have read every book in the series numerous times, and I'm the kind of person who gets really upset when people ask stupid questions or discredit the story after only having seen the movies.

Currently, I am in the process of reading the entire series to my unborn child with the hopes that he will be born already loving Harry and the entire cast of wizard characters. Right now, we are partway through "The Goblet of Fire," and I've noticed a few things this time around that I had never really thought about before.

For example, why didn't witches and wizards simply apparate away from the dangers presented by the Death Eaters when Lord Voldemort was at large? How was Hermione allowed to have a time turner in order to get to all of her lessons in "The Prisoner of Azkaban" without Professor Snape being aware of the situation? (If Snape had known, he would have known for sure that Hermione and Harry had had something to do with Sirius Black's escape, rather than simply suspecting them.) Why, if Harry is inextricably linked to Voldemort, does he sometimes see Voldemort's actions in his dreams, but from the point of view of a third party?

All of these questions are unanswerable and not particularly important. However, there is one thing that really bothers me. We all know that the Wizarding World is not always the most progressive or fair place. It's a terrible place for good hearted werewolves like Remus Lupin, Mud Bloods are often discriminated against, and society is constantly on the brink of civil war due to the potential rise of Voldemort. However, even in a flawed society such as this one, how the fuck is a terrible place like Azkaban allowed to be the ONLY wizarding prison?

For those who are not familiar with Azkaban Prison, allow me to briefly explain. Azkaban is where literally every wizard or witch convicted of any crime, regardless of severity, is sent. This prison is guarded by creatures called dementors who feed off of the happiness of human beings and make it really cold all the time. When they are around, nobody is capable of feeling happy. After even a short amount of time, the vast majority of prisoners is driven certifiably insane by the dementors' presence. Even wrongly convicted wizards often loose their will to live while in Azkaban.

Oh, and if they get pissed off or if you do something really bad, they suck the soul out of your body and leave you, a miserable meat shell, to live out the rest of your life without really living.

This shit would never fly in any developed country in the Muggle World. First of all, America is the only first world country that even allows capital punishment anymore. So you'd better bet that England, where Harry Potter is set, would have a serious problem with this whole soul-sucking scenario. Even in America, where frying up and lethally injecting murderers is quite popular in some places, safe guards are put in place in order to protect prisoners from terrible things like dementors.

The eighth amendment to the American constitution forbids what is termed "cruel and unusual punishment" for convicted criminals. There has been extensive debate since the drafting of this amendment as to what constitutes cruel and unusual punishment, as one might expect. However, psychological punishment is fairly widely considered to fall into the category of constitutionally prohibited.

In fact, on several occasions judges have ruled against allowing capital punishment convictions to stand on the grounds that housing a prisoner while he knows that the time of his death is quickly approaching can be considered cruel and/or unusual. How much worse is allowing prisoners to be stored in a place where they are incapable of having happy feelings? Where it is always cold? Where they are constantly being emotionally drained by the creatures guarding them while all the while living in fear of literally losing their souls?

And the Wizarding World does not reserve this punishment for the worst criminals. As far as one can tell from the content of the seven books in the Harry Potter series, all convicted criminals are stored in Azkaban. Hagrid, an innocent man, was sent to Azkaban for a time in "The Chamber of Secrets" after it was wrongly assumed that he had opened the Chamber. As far as I can tell, he didn't even stand trial! The wizarding justice system is allowing the psychological torture of prisoners to the point of insanity without even giving them due process first.

There are gross violations of basic human rights going on in Harry Potter's world. Sometimes I wish I lived there so I could play quidditch and use magic to do my chores, but I'm not sure I feel that way anymore. Who wants to live in a world where, the next time they get busted for disorderly conduct, they have to go through holding in a place where the prison guards might suck our their soul? Not me. Not Anymore.

The 2010 VMAs and I Think I'm Too Old to Get This Bullshit Anymore

Last night, I watched the 2010 VMAs mostly because I was having back problems and couldn't think of a better stationary activity. (I had forgotten about the Dallas/Washington Sunday Night Football game, for which I am kicking myself now.) I never go into the VMAs with particularly high expectations, as it is an opportunity for MTV to shamelessly self-promote while entertaining some amount of their tween audience, simply disguised as an awards show. Even so, I was particularly disappointed by some elements of last night's show:

1. Rihanna NOT condemning domestic violence- LIVE!
I think everyone was a little bit confused and surprised when Rihanna released a collaboration with Eminem in which he raps about physically abusing his girlfriend in a fairly neutral tone. While all women should be vehemently against any kind of domestic abuse, one would expect an active stance from Rihanna, whose household name stems largely from the fact that she had the crap beaten out of her by then-boyfriend Chris Brown before the 2009 Grammys.

While hearing her voice on the radio was somewhat confusing, seeing her standing on stage singing calmly that she "like[s] the way it hurts," was surreal. I would expect more from someone who should rightfully be a poster child for a zero tolerance policy on girlfriend battering, whether she asked for that job or not.

2. Justin Bieber's Lipsyncing
Justin Bieber is a child who first garnered a degree of fame by posting videos of himself singing on youtube. At some point, the powers that be in the music industry picked up on his star potential, and shortly thereafter Usher somehow became Justin's mentor. I'm not privy to all of the details. The point is, the kid can legitimately sing. I understand that his stage show now features young Timberlake-esque dance routines and that singing and dancing at the same time is hard. Still, it disappoints me to see Bieber being played out like some no-talent kid who was taught to dance, kind of. Let him sing.

3. The Resolution to the Taylor/Kanye Debacle
Both Taylor Swift and Kanye West gave performances addressing Kanye's extreme rudeness at last year's VMAs. While Taylor's performance rang soft and anti-climatic, Kanye's was pure self indulgence at it's finest.

Someone needs to inform Kanye that you can't make up for acting like a douche bag by being even more of a douche bag by glorifying the fact that you are, in fact, a gigantic douche bag. Let me explain.

Kanyes performance began with a not particularly impressive demonstration of his mad one-man production skills, in which he created a beat, step by step, on stage. Ok, self indulgent, but at least somewhat interesting and original. Then, he proceeded to perform a song in which he calls for a toast to the douche bags and assholes out there, clearly referring to himself. He even managed to slip in the adjective "brilliant" when referring to his ability to find fault in his life. This is a man who honestly thinks he is constantly redefining music and culture. I would be willing to argue that he's a pretty good producer and a sub-par lyricist, but I can't stand writing about this douche bag anymore.

4. Lady Gaga's... fashion?
We get it, Gaga, you're wacky. Some of the stuff you wear is cool, original, and interesting. However, after a year where pop music was almost entirely shit, you should have been prepared to take home a couple VMAs. Maybe you should have planned the trip from your seat to the stage a little bit better. Multiple outfits that require assistants in order for you to get up and walk the two rows to the stage are a little out of line. You had the right idea with the meat dress, even though it was disgusting. Also, stop crying.


5. Nicki Minaj
Nicki Minaj is a less talented, less original, more annoying, watered down version of little Kim. I hate her and wish she would drop off the planet. Also, when do rappers EVER lipsync? Apparently she did during the pre-show. That is beyond whack.

6. Chelesea Handler
She's so old and gross and not funny. That is all.

Katrina Questions Five Years Later

With the five year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina right around the corner, we have all been confronted with a new barrage of photos, news stories, and memoirs about that mighty storm. I admit that I have been tuning in to a few of the TV specials and allowing myself to be sucked back into some degree of the anger and frustration I felt directly after the storm.

Over the last two days, I also somewhat coincidentally read Dave Egger's "Zeitoun", the account of a family whose patriarch stayed in New Orleans after the storm. He faced senseless persecution at the hands of the hodge-podge police and justice systems while his family for a time thought he was dead and mourned him. This combination of Katrina-themed entertainment has raised two new questions for me now, even five years after the storm.

Allow me to preface the remainder of this writing by saying that I was NOT in New Orleans when the storm hit. I did not even have to evacuate. I was preparing to board a flight to New Orleans on Saturday, August 27, 2005 when the security at Dulles International Airport was too congested and I missed my flight to Louisiana just as the storm was preparing to move in. I suppose I was quite fortunate in that respect. That means, however, that all of my opinions about Katrina are based on news coverage, books, and personal accounts I have heard since the storm.

My two new questions are:
1) Why was there such an extreme breakdown in the justice system for those arrested during the Katrina aftermath?
Many people who stayed behind in the city, especially after the mandatory and then forced evacuations were announced, ended up being arrested by New Orleans Police, the National Guard, or any number of mercenary peace keeping forces that were brought in from all over the country. Most of those arrested were charged with looting or similar crimes. Many were certainly innocent, but the police were on edge and ready to arrest anyone at even the slightest indication of wrongdoing or suspicious activity.

The jumpiness of the police is understandable and even acceptable to me, given the circumstances. In the case of such an extreme breakdown of society, it may in fact be safer to err on the side of caution and arrest anyone showing any signs of guilt. At that point, the justice system is supposed to take over, allowing the accused to present their cases or at least contact someone who can help legally. In this case, that did not happen. Not even a little bit.

Countless citizens who were arrested after Katrina were held for months without being allowed even a phone call. Many were housed in the outdoor, impromptu jail built at the Greyhound station, which has been compared at length to Guantanamo. This facility was guarded by prison staff borrowed from Angola Prison, who often and unnecessarily used harsh maximum security tactics on quite non-threatening detainees.

Once they were moved from Camp Greyhound to more permanent facilities, many prisoners continued to be denied basic rights, including phone calls and medical care. The correctional facilities to which these Katrina prisoners were transferred in most cases did not even have records of their new wards. The prisoners were considered FEMA's problem and widely ignored by the system.

In this senseless manner, many prisoners were lost in the system, so to speak, for up to a year after the storm hit. Their families in many cases did not even know that they had been arrested or put in prison. When some of these prisoners did face some sort of trial, often the location, time, or purpose was kept secret, even from family trying to ascertain the locations of their loved ones. The similarities between the treatment of the Katrina prisoners and the treatment of captured "Enemies of America" are lengthy and unacceptable, as Eggers, among many others, pointed out.

This, to me, is completely baffling. How difficult could it possibly be to allow someone arrested after the storm to make a phone call to his family or lawyer? Why were official records of these prisoners' whereabouts not recorded properly or made public? Why the secrecy around the trial process? Why were Katrina prisoners denied the basic care afforded to other prisoners? Was there such a breakdown in basic human dignity in New Orleans after the devastation of the storm that these prisoners were simply considered collateral and thrown away? If this is the explanation, it is not an acceptable one.

2) Why was there not a larger privatized effort to provide relief for those left in the city, such as the Convention Center and Superdome refugees?
It has been well documented and essentially accepted that government and relief agencies fell extremely short in providing water, food, medical supplies and shelter for those left in the city after the storm. No one was at all prepared to handle the volume of New Orleanians "left behind". Those housed at the Convention Center went days without food or water and lacked any degree of medical attention. Ten bodies were removed from the Center and seven from the Superdome when all was said and done.

We have been exposed to an abundance of footage showing helicopters flying over the Convention Center while thousands of civilians below wail for help. It is incredibly frustrating to realize that the resources to provide simple relief such as bottled water were so close at hand, yet unused. Pointing out that helicopters were supposedly attacked by New Orleans residents while landing (A sniper took shots at helicopters trying to land on the roof of a hospital, for example) only creates more confusion and frustration around this issue. Suffice to say that the relief promised to those who sought shelter at the authority-recommended facilities was extremely lacking.

I wonder why private organizations, companies, and citizens associated with New Orleans did not do more to provide relief. I cannot imagine a disaster of this magnitude occurring in another major American city without the wealthy and powerful residents of that city becoming extremely involved. Even without initial consent of the government, it seems to me that a private citizen who wanted to airlift some palettes of water to New Orleans on his own helicopters would ultimately be allowed to do so. This is an extremely simplified and under-researched idea, of course, but the point is simple: Where were private resources to provide relief when the "other class" of New Orleans residents so desperately needed it?

If New York or Los Angelos faced sudden, post apocalyptic conditions, I cannot imagine the movers and shakers of those cities watching their TVs while thousands of their home town's citizens suffered so unnecessarily. A racial and class division between those who were left behind and those who were not is glaring and has been widely discussed. It is easy to assert that relief and help for the poverty stricken residents of New Orleans was slow coming due to racial and class divisions. As much as I hate to say so, I buy this explanation to some extent. There was and is a shameful and sad sentiment among some of the wealthy, white residents of this city that we would be better off without the Ninth Ward (for example), all of its residents, and in fact all of "those types" in New Orleans.

I don't think that race or class is the whole story, though. I think that the answer to both of these questions lies in the total shock and devastation left behind after Katrina rolled through and particularly after a levee system meant to provide security failed so miserably. Much like survivors of any devastating natural disaster or military attack, the survivors in New Orleans and those meant to protect and serve them were thrust into a world with a new set of rules. Underlying this unfamiliar physical and sociological landscape was a tremendous amount of emotional stress. The kind of stress that creates widespread feelings of helplessness and despair.

Desperation abounded, clearly and palpably for those left behind, but for those on the sidelines as well. Watching the city one calls home being engulfed by a sea of rapidly dirtying water can certainly create a feeling of powerlessness in even the most confident of men and women.

The only thing to do now is to continue to celebrate the uniqueness and beauty of New Orleans while we continue to rebuild. Hopefully we have learned from our mistakes, but I believe there is no guarantee that a complete breakdown of resources and, as a result, a breakdown in society would not or could not occur again. The best we can do is build better levees, enjoy today, and above all learn to love and appreciate all of our city's residents. Because you never know; the next storm could be the last.

Hurricane Season and Rational Fears

So, is anyone else really bummed out about hurricane season? This year, for the first time, I've been having momentary panic attacks about the possibility of evacuation, or worse, relocation.

I tend to be a pretty roll-with-the-punches kind of chick, and I don't have any all-important ties to New Orleans i.e. a house, a good job, etc. So, I've never gotten that upset over the idea of picking up my life, collecting my possessions and hopefully my loved ones, and moving elsewhere indefinitely. I actually get a little bit itchy when I stay in the same place for too long, so an extended hurrication, if not a new home altogether, would be exciting for me.

This year, though, everything is different. The idea of shoving my swollen ass into a car and driving for days on end, in traffic, with limited pee stops, is horrifying. The idea of searching for a new Ob/Gyn and working out a whole new prenatal care situation is repulsive. Even the thought of trying to move all the baby crap we are slowly collecting as time goes on makes my head hurt.

Beyond that, and even more importantly, New Orleans feels more like home than ever right now. This is where I am beginning my family, and where my partner in that process has his roots. We have ties here: familial; friendly; and hell, gastronomical. This is where we find all of our favorite restaurants, the places we frequented when we first started dating, the movie theater where we saw our first movie together... (Jackass 2, if you're wondering.)

I may talk sometimes about getting out of New Orleans, or Louisiana, or even the South before it's too late, but I'll be damned if it's because of some hurricane. Even worse than the idea of leaving this place on Mother Nature's terms is the thought that it may not be the same or even BE, for that matter, if and when we want to return. What if we can't go to Mandina's for lunch, or have some beers at Cooter Browns? What if the people we are close with decide not to return? What if the whole city sinks underwater and becomes the second Atlantis; the subject of fairy tales for our children?

Right now, I feel like all of these fears are completely rational, and they often occupy the forefront of my mind. I try to drive them away by telling myself that the chance of even having to evacuate is quite slim, but the worry is always there. I just hope that hurricane season takes it easy this year, because I am hormonal, rapidly expanding, and somewhat irrational. Combine those factors with the summer heat; a long, slow evacuation; and a whole lot of uncertainty, and I'm not sure how we would survive.

Gaining Family Members, and Why That's... Pretty Cool

Today, I want to write about something I've been thinking about a lot lately: Family. As in, "There's a rift in our _____," "I couldn't live without my ______," "No one's _____ is as weird as mine," just to reference a few phrases I have heard in the past few days.

Everyone has different opinions about what constitutes, and what is the ideal function of, family. Many people consider their closest friends to be at least as important as their actual relatives in what they would consider their family structures. I can understand that sentiment, as I have many friends with whom I am incredibly close and whom I have known for many, many years. Still I think there is something about family family that is just different.

For one thing, many people spend a lot of time disliking members of their families. All relatives go through ups and downs that sometimes reach Jerry Springer-like extremes. Still, even when hating a family member, we necessarily love that person. I think that's what really makes family unique.

I also think that's a great way to gauge when a significant other should become your spouse. When you can truly love someone even when momentarily hating the shit out of them; that to me means run out and buy that diamond ring because wedding bells are a-ringing... but that's a conversation for another time.

Not completely unrelated though, is how one's definition of family can change in the blink of an eye, like when they find out they're having a baby.

Not to constantly shove all this baby stuff down your throat, but...

Recently I went from having a boyfriend of whom I was extremely fond to having a new family member. As the father of my upcoming child, he has become an incredibly important member of my family structure. Not only that, but he has a whole, big family of his own. So, without the ring or the wedding bells or any of that, I have gained a whole crew of "in-laws" whom I now consider to be family.

I am fortunate to have come into some pretty great family members. I like them a lot. They are lovely, accepting people who have always made me feel welcome and comfortable. Even if they sucked, though, I think my perception of them would have changed through this experience.

Something about knowing your bloodline is getting all mixed up with another person's and making some tiny, hybrid person makes you have more consideration and respect for where that other bloodline came from. If it weren't for my new family there would be no tiny person, and that would be terrible. I love that little guy, and by extension have a lot of love for my baby daddy and his relatives. That's not to say that I did not love them before, it's just a different, more familial love now.

I feel fortunate, aside from having gained a new family that I personally like, to have gained a family where there is a lot of love to go around. Similarly, my family, although by no means perfect, is made up of nice, loving people who I am proud to call my relatives. This is more important than ever, now, because if I'm going to bring another person into this often crappy world, I want him to be surrounded by people who are capable of demonstrating the less crappy aspects of life. I think Tony and I will definitely succeed in providing that benefit for our son, not only through our own love and affection, but through that of our families.

As Martha Stewart would say, "A growing family. It's a good thing."

On Breasts, and Getting Attached to them

I'm not typically a voluptuous woman, and I've never had a problem with that. At a young age I accepted the fact that I simply wasn't going to have hips or big boobs and made do with what I had. My lack of curves was a trade off for the ease with which I always maintained a flat tummy and a god-given ability to tone up without a particularly strenuous exercise regiment. Staying relatively skinny was pretty much my only physical goal, and I never had trouble attracting guys. Life was good.

Then, I suddenly grew boobs this spring, and I knew something was afoot. That was honestly the first thing that made me know I was pregnant. "These things don't belong here," I reasoned, "So I must be knocked up." Turns out I was right, but I did not yet know how attached I would become to my new lady lumps.

As time progressed, I stacked on some other, similarly cushy assets. My butt has a tendency to jiggle when I walk now, and I can physically feel its weight. When I sit down, it's like someone sneaked in a giant, comfy cushion as I was lowering myself into my seat. It is comfortable, which is nice, because I've been warned to enjoy any comfort I can get, while I still can. Aside from that benefit though, is a new found feeling of womanliness that is not familiar for me.

I've never had to force my breasts into a size small blouse before yesterday, and I'm definitely not used to feeling curvy. For now, while my belly is still barely noticeable and my assets fairly new, I am thoroughly enjoying being a more full-figured woman. I often catch myself gazing at my own cleavage. I sometimes give my booty a squeeze when no one is looking. I admit it. I'm already dreading the day I stop breastfeeding and start to lose my new chesticles. It's depressing.

Then again, I know that if I gained this weight without the excuse of a pregnancy, I would be disgusted with myself. I've only gained maybe ten pounds or so, but the weight is evident everywhere from the fun parts, like my chest and butt, to not so fun parts, like my new thunder thighs. Under the circumstances, I have learned to embrace my new upper thighs, which touch when I walk. Any other time, I wouldn't have a moment of it.

I think part of my love for my new body shape is unrelated to the sudden growth of bigger "sexy" parts. It stems from my love for the baby growing inside of me. It's nice that he needs me to grow incredibly awesome boobage and a nice, round booty, but I wouldn't really mind if he required a third arm to sprout out of my chest. Whatever happens to my body now, I can mostly undo in a few months, so it's fine that my little unborn boy is the boss. Not that I could have it any other way, even if I wanted.

Of course, I may just feel less blissful in four months when my belly is huge and swollen, my ankles puff up every day, and I have to pee constantly. You'll just have to check back with me then.

3

AMERICANS CAN'T WAIT FOR ARMAGEDDON, AND WHY IS THAT, ANYWAY?

Every day steeped in suspicion,
Repetition, and extradition
Waiting in anticipation
Of one day down the road

When mountains crack and
plateaus crumble
Buildings shake and turn to rubble
Oceans boil,
Rivers bubble
And reactors explode

And people run into their houses
Grab their children or
Their spouses
Cry or scream or pray or
Shout and
Party in the streets

And drink until their stomachs spew up
All the fear, affairs, and pre-nups
All the contracts, pain, and
Screw ups
And years of treated meat

The blood will soak like spilled merlot
Through sheets tucked low
And white like snow
As mothers choose
How their babies go
In a holy, tear streaked rite

Our days filled with anticipation
Conversation, and explanation
Of what we dream of
As a Nation
When we lie in bed at night

A Foray Into Children's Literature

There once was a little girl who wanted nothing more than to be a princess. She had seen princesses in her story books, and she just knew that, if she tried hard enough, she could grow up to be one.

Every day , she wore a pink, puffy dress and a crown. She had her mother put her hair in curlers, and when she shook her beautiful ringlets, she just knew she would one day be a princess.

The little girl played tea party and practiced sipping her cup with her pinkie pointing straight out.

She took tiny, dainty steps and curtsied to all the neighborhood pets. She looked so much like a princess that she sometimes fooled the mailman.

"Hello, princess!" the mailman would say, and the little girl did not tell him that she was just a regular girl-- for now.

On the first day of kindergarten, the little girl's mother told her that she could not wear her princess dress. She had to wear a school uniform, instead. The little girl cried and cried because the uniform was ugly.

That night, her daddy gave her a present for being brave for the first day of school. It was a golden necklace. The pendant was in the shape of a princess' crown!

"Now you can be a princess every day, even without your dress," he said. The little girl did not feel like crying anymore.

The girl wore that school uniform for twelve more years. Every day, she wore her princess necklace underneath.

When she was a senior in high school, the girl was voted prom queen. She wore the necklace with her beautiful pale, pink gown.

That night, the princess necklace got caught on the girl's dress as she urgently pulled the dress over her head. The necklace snapped. Later, she could not find it in the back of her boyfriend's car. She didn't feel very much like a princess just then, anyway.

The girl went to college and learned about the world. She heard about evil dictators and ineffectual monarchies. She definitely did NOT want to be a princess anymore.

For a time, the girl spent every waking moment with an older woman from class. The woman called her "princess", especially when they were lying in bed together in the morning. The girl did not like the nickname, and soon she grew tired of the woman, as well.

The girl met her husband in her third year at college. They had been dating for several months when he proposed. For their wedding, the girl wore a small tiara and an empire waist dress to hide her expanding belly.

The girl gave birth to a daughter who was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She spent the next two years completely in awe of this tiny person who looked just like her. She didn't notice her husband's increasing absences.

Just before their daughter's third birthday, the girl stumbled upon a series of e-mails that her husband had sent to someone he called "my queen". The e-mail address that they were sent to was not her own.

The girl's husband moved out of their house. She cried for several days, but she soon realized that she would not be unhappy forever. She still had her daughter, who was getting more beautiful every day.

Soon, the girl was hosting her daughter's third birthday party. In honor of the occasion, the girl's mother brought over a big box of toys that had once belonged to the girl herself, when she was a child.

They all opened the box together. It was full of building blocks, costumes, toy trains, tea sets, and all sorts of fun things! At the very bottom were a pink, puffy dress and a gold, plastic crown.

The girl nearly sobbed with relief when her daughter passed right over the princess clothes and began trotting a plastic pony around on the wooden floor. "Neigh, neigh," she said.

That night, the girl sneaked out the front door while everyone was asleep. She had the pink dress and the plastic crown bundled in her arms. She shoved the entire package deep down into the bottom of the garbage can while tears streamed down her cheeks.

The next morning, the girl lifted her daughter into her high chair and asked, "What would you like for breakfast, princess?" "I'm not a princess; I'm a cowgirl," responded the toddler. The girl smiled. "I'm glad for that," said the girl. "I think that a princess is a very silly thing to be."

The girl and her daughter ate cereal for breakfast and spent the rest of the morning playing with plastic ponies. That evening, they bought matching cowgirl hats from the tack shop down the street.

Brett Favre and my Horsey Soul

Brett Favre sort of, maybe announced his retirement again today, and regardless of how one feels about Favre personally, it is clear that he truly loves football and has an emotional attachment to it. That made me think about how many of us never get to participate in the sports we love again once we hit a certain age.

Most boys who grow up playing football love the game. They may start as young children and dedicate countless evenings to practices in order to get better. Weekends are devoted to games where the boys gain a sense of achievement and get their football fixes. Over the years, they advance in skill and eventually probably play for their high school football teams. The sad thing is, once the last game of their senior year ends, the vast majority of those boys will never play in a football game again. Sure, they may play a game of pick-up here and there and maybe participate in an intramural league during college, but let's face it, their careers end with high school.

The same is true for most participants in all major team sports. It seems a shame that activities that teach children valuable lessons about teamwork, practice, winning, and losing are so easily cast aside when those children reach adulthood. I'm sure most former athletes miss their sports from time to time as they move through their adult years.

I am fortunate to have grown up loving a sport that is not necessarily off limits now that I am an adult. As an equestrian, I could potentially continue to ride horses until I am too old to mount one. At the moment, owning or leasing a horse is prohibitively expensive for me, but there is a good chance that that will not be the case in the years to come. The odds that I will have a horse in my adulthood are quite high. At least I certainly hope so, because I frequently ache for the joys of riding and developing relationships with horses.

It is difficult to describe what it is exactly about horses that is so intoxicating for me. Part of it is just the sheer power that you control when you are guiding one. A well-conditioned horse is basically a couple thousand pounds of pure muscle. Feeling that tremendous strength moving below you and responding to your slightest touch is exhilarating. Moving through the world at nearly 40 miles per hour while sitting back and trusting a gigantic animal to keep you safe is an experience that you can only get from riding horses.

Often in my dreams I am sitting forward in two-point and feeling the impact of each hoof as it hits the ground while some churning gelding and I gallop through the fields. As often, I dream about spending time on the ground with various ponies and horses from my past, just petting and grooming and talking to them quietly.

The emotional and-- dare I say spiritual?-- connection I have shared with my horses is as important as the joy I experienced at being on their backs. Just the knowledge that this animal could seriously injure or even kill you at any moment but that he chooses to obey you instead is heart warming. Horses develop true and honest emotional connections with their owners and riders. The first time you convince a horse to do something he is scared of, simply because he trusts you to guide him to safety, is like watching a child take his first step. Horses are capable of tremendous love and trust, and they make sure that their owners feel that.

Not many days go by where I do not think about horses from my past or plan for my horses of the future. Riding was a constant part of my life from the age of three until I left Maryland after high school. Even since then, it has never been far from my mind or heart. I cannot wait until my life has reached a point where finding a new horse of my own would not be financially suicidal. When that day comes, I will pour my heart into that animal, and I know he will return the favor.

2

FEARS
Their eyes move
From belly to finger
Finger to belly, and
They are scowling
As if something is mistaken
Or missing
and
Their eyes are moving
Up to meet my own
As if searching for a glimmer
Of the sin that must be stored there
And that Southern Hospitality
Feels achingly absent
For once
For now

On Being Sober in Bars

When I have occasionally ventured into public since beginning my great pregnancy adventure, there is one question that basically everyone has asked me: How do you like not being able to drink at all?

The truth is, it has been incredibly easy for me. When there is something as important as the health of your child at stake, there is not even a thought process involved aside from, "I am pregnant; I cannot drink." That's it. The simple fact that something truly important is at risk makes it very easy to abstain, even in "drinking establishments".

I have fortunately discovered that I have some great friends whom I enjoy spending time with when I am sober, even when they are drinking heavily. Case in point: Last night I played designated driver for my longtime friends Sarah and John, who moved here just a few days ago, so that they could get properly New Orleans smashed on a Sunday night. Even though they were getting pretty drunk and I was not, I had a wonderful time just hanging out and talking with them. Our friendship is strong and complex enough to overcome little obstacles like a considerable difference in sobriety. It's nice to have friends like that, and I love them wholeheartedly.

Unfortunately, along with that happy discovery has come the realization that I have some friends, at least in name, who I cannot stand to be around unless everyone in the room is hammered, practically.

"College age" people tend to build relationships with their peers while drinking, often to excess. In fact, in recent history, I have considered individuals who I have never even seen sober to be friends. These are people who I have hung out with on countless occasions, and whose secrets I am privy to, but whose sober mannerisms would be completely foreign to me. It seems sort of crazy even writing that down, but I spent my party years in a drinking town, and such are the consequences.

I suppose some drinking buddies are meant to be nothing more than that. Some people have golf buddies, fishing buddies, or even sex buddies. I happen to have some buddies with whom my connection does not go any deeper than our mutual love for jager bombs and other fun shots. And that's ok.

Until it's not. Until I am necessarily sober for nine months, minimum, and suddenly find that the basis for some of my friendly relationships has been extremely tenuous. It is not possible for me to tell someone whom I have recently considered a friend that, to sober me, their obliterated company is borderline tortuous. I am just not that kind of person. So, I guess the next step is to gently and considerately weed out the relationships that have turned out to be, for lack of a better word, shams.

I think that part of growing up is to select the relationships in your life that are healthy and beneficial to your growth and nurture them while moving away from the ones that are not particularly deep or meaningful. At this stage in my life, that apparently means saying goodbye to some of my drinking buddies.

I wish I could have taken the time to learn some of their middle names or maybe see where they lived, but it's time for me to move on.

1

It stands to reason
Through centuries and seasons
We keep squandering the pristine, clean dreams
Sewing up our sore seams
And festering in moonbeams
Bartering with flawed beans
And to this day
I Can't stand to see you
Crying in your free beer
It's hotter every year
And full of toxins here
So everything flows faster, harder
But a single tear
We meet so much resistance
And have faith in our existence
But you've fallen for too many more
And before I know,
I've fallen, too
In a pile, on the floor

(Sometimes?) Proud to Call it Home

I started reading Sean Payton's book, Home Team, last night. It begins with an intro set during the few days after the Saints' Superbowl win, focusing on their victory parade. Payton manages to capture the essence of New Orleanians in a raving, appreciative manner that you will hear from every New Orleans resident from time to time. When something good -- or even something bad-- happens to bring the people of this city together, it is unlike anywhere else on Earth.

This is a city that celebrates (with cocktails) funerals and tropical storms and pretty much anything else worth thinking about. It is an emotional place where people feel truly connected to each other and to the culture and heritage of the region. It is a place that you absolutely cannot describe to an outsider without washing it out and dumbing it down to the point where it is unrecognizable. Yet, I feel that many of the people who live here have an extremely volatile love-hate relationship with their city.

For years, I have been answering the question of whether I plan to stay in New Orleans in the same manner. "For a while, but I don't want to raise kids here," I would say. Now that I am just months from giving birth to my first child, this answer is not really satisfactory. My plans regarding my New Orleanian citizenship have been brought to the forefront, and I am forced to reexamine what it is I love, and absolutely hate, about my home of the past six years.

An easy explanation for my reticence to raise children here is simply the desire to give my kids everything I had as a child. I was, quite frankly, blessed with an extremely rosy childhood which I would be proud to approximate for my own kids. It is easy for me to imagine raising a few kids in a big house in the rural suburbs where public schools routinely send students to the best universities in the country. I can picture my kids running around on a few acres of land with a bunch of dogs and maybe a pony or two and venturing into the nearby city for weekend outings to the National Museum of [fill in the blank]. I imagine most well-raised parents are motivated to give their children the same upbringing that they themselves experienced. That's not rocket science.

However, I do not think that explanation acceptably addresses my emotional relationship with New Orleans. The few times that I have been away from Southeast Louisiana for extended periods of time since first moving here in 2004, I have missed the city desperately. When I was younger, a lot of the pain I felt at being separated from New Orleans could honestly be explained by the simple fact that it is a hell of a lot harder to party underage anywhere else. That may be a sad and simple explanation, but there it is. Now that I have been comfortably above the legal drinking age for a few years, I find that there are other things to miss about New Orleans as well. The small town friendliness, the heaping pots of boiled seafood, the crashing choruses of "Who Dat! Who Dat!": all of these are just tiny swatches in the quilt that is the beauty of New Orleans.

The problem is that the flip side of that quilt is ugly and torn, and there doesn't seem to be a decent seamstress in sight. This is a city with appalling violent crime rates and an even more appallingly low rate of conviction. The impoverished sections of the New Orleans population often do not even consider cooperating with the police in investigations. There have been DAs in New Orleans' past who brought only 30% of violent criminals to trial and then convicted only 30% of those (cough Eddie Jordan cough). The 30% indictment rate is not unusual. Everywhere else, though, 80% of the cases DAs see fit to try go down in favor of the state. The criminal justice system is so broken here that, looking at our crime and prosecution statistics in comparison to those of other major cities, one might think that New Orleans' files were full of typos.

Similarly, the educational system here is a disgrace. Steps are being taken to improve that situation, and I give props to everyone tackling that monster. Still, the simple fact is that anyone here who is educated and even comfortable financially does not send their child to public school. It is not even a question. Asking an employed, especially white, parent which public school their child will be attending is as ludicrous here as it would be in the richest homes in Manhattan. I mention race here only because an awareness of racial division permeates everything in New Orleans. I don't want to go into this issue at length at the moment, but I have never experienced ingrained, institutionalized racism anywhere else like I have in New Orleans. It's alarming.

Finally, there is a sense of defeatism here that makes me feel like screaming sometimes. All of the flaws that I mentioned above seem to be things that true New Orleans natives view as unalterable. They are used to disappointment and neglect. The lack of government response after Katrina and the horrible response to the recent BP oil spill were outrageous. People here were angry, but you'd better bet they weren't surprised. The people of New Orleans are tired of being neglected, ignored, and killed in gang violence, but more than that, they are tired of caring and fighting. The same people who can celebrate for days after a Saints victory and who hold their heads so high when talking about their culture walk around day to day with their tails between their legs. They are a wonderful, passionate people whom I have grown to love and identify with, but quite frankly, their standards are not high enough. There is a difference between easy living and a complacence in shit, and I think a lot of New Orleanians have lost the ability to make that distinction.

Still, I love this place. I love the lazy Sundays, the live oaks, the big brass bands. I wish every city could have our corner bars and our mom and pop restaurants. Everyone should experience crawfish boils and the soul-crushing madness that is the fuzzy line between Fat Tuesday and Ash Wednesday. I love too many things about New Orleans to do it justice in writing. That is another frustrating thing about this place: it can't be described to outsiders, and once you are away, it feels vaguely like a dream.

So, should my kids grow up here? I'm still leaning towards no. I'd rather give them a home with some grass to play in and a public school where the level of education and discipline is reasonable. Frankly, I want my kids to be safe, accepting, and full of fresh air. I want them to pass some AP tests and climb some trees. But that's not to say New Orleans won't have a place in our life. Maybe it can be the city to which we venture on the weekends. Instead of the National museums, they can grow up knowing every corner of the Audubon Centers and the countless art exhibits in this town. Maybe they will grow up listening to jazz on Saturdays and know how to say "throw me somethin' mister!" by the time they can complete full sentences. It's possible I've come too far in my sordid love affair with this city to deny my children an acquaintance with it.

Then again, Annapolis and other such places often sound pretty good. And that's the great thing about life isn't it? Sometimes you just don't know, and usually that's OK.

And so it begins

I used to write something every day, whether it was a poem, a short story, a diary entry, or something altogether nameless. I was for quite a while a fan of the "free writing" system for countless reasons ranging from a belief in "creative juices" and their inherent desire to flow, to simple self indulgence. Unfortunately, the online social revolution has ruined me and I don't often feel the desire to write without some kind of perceived audience.

Out of this sickening dilemma springs this blog, shamelessly named after two terms coined by an author named Neal Stephenson, whose "SciFi" label doesn't begin to do him justice. This blog lacks purpose beyond giving me somewhere to spew bits of hacked up literature to imaginary millions from the comfort of my home.

At 24 years old, 4 months pregnant, and clueless as to where the future is taking me, I am happy, a little bit bored, and anxious to write some shit down whether anyone reads it or not.

I intend to write every day, and I do not intend to transform this endeavor into a meandering ode to my unborn child, but I imagine his influence may creep in from time to time.

Enough about me, from here on out this blog will be pure self-indulgent slop cleverly disguised as something much more noble. And that's sort of a promise.