Cold Spaghetti

It wasn’t about football.

It isn’t about a game.

When so many had doubted the possibility, belittled the successes, and ignored the reality — in that moment, with the whole world watching, our Saints emerged on top. The similarities between that story and our own are so obvious that it shouldn’t be a surprise that yesterday, today, and tomorrow are not because or about or for some sport. What is there not to get?

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The scoring drink was New Orleans rum, fresh pineapple juice (yes, Ann Marie juiced a pineapple, do not doubt this woman’s dedication to doing things right), lime, and bitters. Good thing that we decided to celebrate in this way, or else the moments of the game may have been more of a blur — because what a game!

Thanks to the short-cut Emmy had learned earlier in the day from a friendly taxi-driver who was stuck in traffic near her (think: banging on window ‘hey lady, you must take secret road! trust me!’) we made it around traffic, into downtown, and safely within a parking space in record time. Then hoofed it down to Canal.

Which, to the first time in my memory, was completely closed to traffic.

I’ve heard about destruction in celebrating groups; when Virginia Tech won a key basketball game while I was a student there, I remember some car destruction and something about a street light coming down. That sort of thing is what police ready for after big game wins, so I hear.*

This didn’t happen here, at least not last night. And I doubt that it is the sort of thing that locals would do; there are other ways of celebrating.

Like doing the jitterbug.  To hip-hop Saints re-mixes.

But then a dixieland jazz song starts.  And you may need to learn some crunk moves.  Someone in the crowd will teach you.

I know this sounds flip, but I’m really reporting what was happening.  What happens here.  The sort of party our City throws.

Here’s the thing.  In other places, you get up and get dressed or cleaned up or whatever so that you can walk out of your house and go see something, go experience some cultural thing.  In New Orleans, we get up and get dressed and go out of our homes and we ARE that cultural thing.  It happens because we create it.

There is something very satisfying about living here that fulfills a natural and often forgotten part of life in the United States: that we long to have responsibility in making happiness and celebration in our communities.  Purposefully making time and putting energy into merry-making seems very irresponsible in the specter of the American work-ethic.  Energy into something that seems so opposite from work comes across as lazy and extraneous; and over time, I think we forget to really appreciate the beauty of life and the necessity of celebrating a moment.

This correction of priorities is something I learned living abroad.  It wasn’t an easy lesson, either.  It STILL isn’t.  But it is the way of life in New Orleans, and gives us incredible rich experiences that remind us of what life is about and how we truly want each day to be.

And so we went.  Into the Quarter and through the Quarter.

Stopping for high-fives, dancing with strangers, listening to musicians on the street, following bands in a second line.

This picture is silent, but the reality was full of voices and music and joy and laughter.

Here’s a video of a second line that passed us on our way to Frenchman Street.

Most bars and clubs were empty — everyone was out on the street — but we did stop into a few to listen to who was playing inside.  (Including these kids below, who were very good and also seemed very young; I’m officially a woman who says things like, ‘does their Mother know they are out this late?’)

Paul took the pictures above and below.

But like I said, the party was really in the streets.

Eventually, we got back into the Quarter and into Jackson Square — note the quiet below — but Cafe du Monde, right across the street, was filled at 2:30am.  We had to wait for a table and wave down a waitress.  (Worth it; the cafe au lait helped get us the rest of the way to the car.)

How wonderful that we were able to celebrate the Saints with so many — and right here, in New Orleans.

Even if you’re not here, please do celebrate with us!  Here’s the soundtrack.  And here’s something else, something wonderful, to read.  Geaux Saints!  And bless dem boys and New Orleans!

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* Something crazy did happen — along Bourbon and Iberville — though I don’t know much more than this report.  We were around that area, at roughly that time, and didn’t see or hear anything alarming.  What a shame that someone had to ruin the night for others and what a blessing it wasn’t any worse.

So there’s the one job that is going really well but applications for the new fellows are due Friday and the questions and the calls and meetings and the board and ad hoc committees and event planning and current Fellows and writing articles and doing interviews, well, it’s a busy work time — but then the other job is gearing up again, too, so Sunday I did the design layout for 15 or so groupings for this conference next month, but there are meetings and measurements and emails and phone calls to confirm all that — and then the dissertation, which I’m really working on for real and have to call back my committee chair after seeing him out at a bar last weekend so I owe him a call but can’t get over to do it — and then we bought a mattress for the first time ever yesterday and it’s a Keetsa and we’re so excited — and we also got a ‘returned, no box’ TV on big time clearance from Sam’s because we’re hosting the Superbowl party on Sunday and yes I ordered fajitas from Whole Foods and picked up some chips and drinks but need to clean out the back room of dangerous tools and other things so that the kids can play — and my mother-in-law and her friend arrive on Friday and she’s a gardener and all the flowers are dead from the freeze and still sitting there dead on the porch can you imagine the horror — did you call Sears, the ice maker is broken and it’s under warranty — and it’s Carnival season, which is actually a whole season, not a day, sort of like Thanksgiving, Christmas, Halloween, and the Fourth of July, all wrapped up together except that they go on every day for more than two weeks — and there’s sittings for photography clients, yes clients, how did that happen? — wait, did you see this video, you have to see it — who dat nation united — and oh, the kids have appointments and school conferences and nightly homework, and soccer practice and soccer games — and Paul just signed on for more work — and then after the more work, an old boss calls and wants Paul to contract for even more work — Will, do you have clean uniform shirt to wear to school today — oh, by the way, maybe I’m in DC the week of Mardi Gras — and can I come and have a meeting at the school of social work about more teaching? — and did we put cash in the envelope for the field trip, I don’t know — what’s for dinner — did you pick up the drycleaning, I didn’t know there was drycleaning — he hit me Mommy and I didn’t do anything — Paul why is the phone not working — have you seen the warranty for the ice maker anywhere, I swear it was in this file — wait, is the vacuum clogged again, can you check it is making this sound — why is the fridge thumping — taxes, taxes, did you sign the forms wait I’m not done where are the forms — did you hear the dryer buzz– oh no, Kate, that took paint off the wall — it was my night to make dinner, why didn’t you tell me — the cat just threw up on our bed — let’s go buy a TV, why not — my head hurts, take some medicine — it’s just a lot right now but I’m okay, thanks for asking.

Last week, I joined A-M, an actress/singer friend of mine, to take part in an “Improv Anywhere” style event. On the request of another friend, we crashed her hospital nursing department’s Employee of the Year luncheon. A-M was the crazed fan. I was the paparazzi. The shtick was that A-M (character name: Nola Bee) was a hospital volunteer and completely head-over-heals for the Employees being honored at the event. Mz. Nola Bee brought a book — complete with staff pictures and areas for signatures — and dutifully requested each to sign with me snapping away (“she’s photographing for my documentary”).  A matching red-wig for me and a few practice sessions and I think we could have pulled a Sweeney Sister routine out, too.

I can officially check “Crash a formal event” off of my bucket list.  Maybe even add it to my resume?

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Carnival is gearing up. Krewe du Vieux was over the weekend.  Krewe du Vieux is one of the earliest parades and is known for its satirically-oriented adult theme.  It’s not the parade to bring the kids to, particularly if you child wants to know why the Governor is in THAT position, for-goodness-sake.  The whole leaving the kids at home situation has made it tough for us to go in the past.  This year, a friend graciously offered her 16-year old for sacrifice: he watched 4 kids (ages 2, 3, 4 and 6 — two were his younger siblings, two were ours) waaaaay past their bedtimes.  It felt a little like babysitting crashing; which, for the record is very worth it.

For us, Krewe du Vieux was a great night out with many friends.

Costumes are encouraged, of course, so we obliged.  I wore my favorite purple wig (Kate: “Mommy, why isn’t your hair white?” Me: “Because I thought I’d make it LAVENDER, that’s a fancy word for light purple!”)  I also used a purple and gold feather boa as a scarf (it was cold) and left purple plumes flying behind me wherever I went.  Paul wore a Fleur-di-Lis cape and helmet.  To my knowledge, no one got a picture of us and for that, I admit, I lose 2 points and do not pass go.

To be fair, we were busy.  Friends, socializing, drinks, food, and parade and all.

The bar where we collected ourselves for the start of the night had food for sale outside, including FRITO PIE.  I had never heard of this culinary delight before and I can honestly state our horizons have been significantly broadened.  Open up a bag of Fritos, dump in a scoop of your favorite chili, and viola!  FRITO PIE.  A friend demonstrates it’s goodness:

It really IS good.  I’m still craving it two days later.  And with the assortments of bagged junk foods available, the creative options are endless.

After the parade and after-parades filed through, we made our way down Frenchman and eventually ducked into Maison, the very location of the coming Krewe du Vieux and Krewe du Jew (no, I’m not making this up) after-parties.  A great brass band was playing and eventually we found drinks and headed up to the (relatively) quiet upstairs where we snagged chairs at the balcony.

The place was actually quite cleared out for over an hour (the crowded area shown above had a kid hulla-hooping in it for awhile).**  We enjoyed more bar-eats and general conversation.  And then I saw my Committee Chair.  Yup, the very person who holds all the cards in my game of doctoral degree-seeking.  Then he and his girlfriend joined us for awhile.  At first, it felt a little like being out at a party with your parole officer, but hey, it’s Carnival time in New Orleans.

Crashers welcome.

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** We left when the Krewes were arriving — had to clear out to get back to the kids — but here’s a video of the fun when the Krewes entered!

Hello, world. Are you still there? It’s been about 24 hours now and everything is still coming into focus.

It’s sort of like every holiday, event, celebration, party, and tradition all converged on one point.

If you want particulars or specifics or play-by-play or impact, go here. Oyster’s got the line-up well represented.

Us? Well. We went out to watch the game with the intention of leaving “soon.” Several hours later we rolled home, threw the kids through the tub-teeth-bed routine, and then I left. Off to the Quarter to celebrate our Ah-Maze-zing win (!), that Fan-Fricking-Tastic kick, and the joy of Favre’s last pass to… our Porter. E, G & I were out until 3am and are still a little loopy.

In other surprising news, my 16-year vegetarian husband makes pretty darn incredible blueberry barbecue ribs. RIBS.

But back to the Quarter. Here are some highlights:

• Fireworks, music, dancing, costumes, high fives, kisses, and singing… all before we even got to Canal.
• It was insane.
• It was packed. PACKED.
• We shook hands and thanked every Vikings fan we saw. And you know what? The ones I saw, who were there, I believe they got it. They understood.
• I was the envy of co-eds for the cool beads I caught (lordy, people, forget the stupid flashing thing — that is what tourists who don’t know any better do for other tourists), though when they asked how I got them when they were stuck with “only shitty beads” I should have responded that clearly my rack was superior.
• Emmy and Georgia broke a few dozen hearts.
• Music was everywhere.
• No one should name a bar “Napoleon’s Itch.”

Photo Highlights below.

It’s playoff day. The entire city is buzzing. Everyone is happy. Even people in work uniforms are wearing black and gold.

Football? What’s that? I’m talking about the Saints!

We go blue in the face talking about this adopted home of ours and in light of the questions — How can you live in New Orleans?  Why do you stay there?  How IS New Orleans these days? — I was hoping to find some words to describe what it’s like to be here right now.  In this season, this day, this moment, where every living thing is thinking and wishing and hoping for the same thing.  This particular marvel of unified thought and energy is actually quite common in New Orleans — we all come together each and every Mardi Gras Day, when we reach up hopeful hands for a Zulu Coconut — but in this instance, in this time and place, we are coming together in a whole different way.  This is something that we can be proud of on a National scale.  In a way and with a spirit that is unique.  The examples are everywhere, but it’s still hard to explain; take this, written last month while we were still undefeated:

… These are strange and beautiful days in New Orleans, and they must be seen to be believed. …  Last week, when I went down to experience the mania over the Saints’ undefeated season firsthand, I found myself not sure whether every street was a dream. Some moments made me laugh, and others were so full of a desperate love that I had tears in my eyes.

Where do you even begin? Maybe you describe the couture shops that have replaced the latest fashions on the storefront mannequins with Saints T-shirts? Maybe you tell how vampire novelist and native New Orleanian Anne Rice, never much of a football fan and now living on the West Coast, recently ordered a Drew Brees jersey with “Anne” on the back. Maybe you use numbers: 84 percent of the televisions in town were tuned to the recent Monday night game against the Patriots. Maybe you use bizarre trends, such as an NOPD cop telling me the 911 calls almost stop when the Saints play …

There are other things, too.  The Cinderella story of our Saints resonates far beyond the football fan base.  Read any article about New Orleans then go to the comments and it all makes sense.  We see the hate: the assertions that the city should be left to rot, the value judgments on our population, the incredible lack of compassion and ignorance of fact.  Yeah, we know it’s some Ditto-head in dark, lonely basement apartment, spewing hate while some porn site loads on another browser window.  But we also know that this loser isn’t spouting off thoughts that haven’t occurred in the minds of more reasonable people.  The fact that our team is composed of players who were similarly doubted, or misjudged, or miscast is simply part of our shared history, where defeat, resurgence, rebuilding, and celebration are all part of the package:

” … They are a motley group, undrafted guys and late-round fliers, players cast off from other teams. Brees landed in town after an injury convinced the Chargers that his best days were behind him. “When we came here,” he has said, “I was in the process of rebuilding, as well.”

Running back Mike Bell was out of football. So was cornerback Mike McKenzie, who watched the games from the stands with a mouthful of food before getting the call a few weeks ago. Darren Sharper arrived unwanted and has resurrected his career. Running back Pierre Thomas wasn’t drafted. Star wide receiver Marques Colston wasn’t drafted until the seventh round of the 2006 draft, and his college football program, Hofstra, just folded.

It goes on and on. This is a team of underdogs. …”

I know that folks love their home teams, their home cities, and all stuff that comes with it.  Every place has something special about it.  But today?  This season?  Well, the professional sport writers put it best:

May I root against the New Orleans Saints?

No, you may not. Rooting against the Saints is like rooting against Elin Nordegren. They’re the Sentimental Team of the Century; if Dick Enberg were calling the NFC championship game, he’d need a trailer truck of Kleenex. Even if you forget everything that New Orleans endured during Hurricane Katrina—and how could you?—they’re the Saints, the former Aints, one of the most hard-luck franchises in the history of hard luck. Not long ago, newborns came into the world in New Orleans hospitals with tiny grocery bags on their heads.

If the Saints win this weekend, we expect the Louisiana Superdome to levitate off the ground, stop at Parkway Bakery & Tavern for a roast beef po’boy and fly straight to Miami for the Super Bowl.

Around here?  We’re preparing for take-off.



Wanna come along?  This will help out.



Or, if you need to ease into it, go with the U.S. Marine Corps Band.

Geaux Saints!

- How I came to clean Kate’s pee off of Will’s bedroom floor this morning.
- The many ridiculous hours it takes to prepare for a board meeting, and by extension, the high suck-factor found in Kinko’s website.
- My fantasy workday, complete with regular deliveries of food I do not cook.
- A discussion of when self-help books become lame and indulgent.
- Paul’s sudden decision to empty, clean, purge, and re-organize the entire kitchen.
- A philosophical quandary regarding house-disruptive projects: does timing matter?
- What mattress is best?
- A 6-year old debate on which is stronger: gorillas or boxers?

I am in a really bad mood.

Yes, I’m upbeat and if you ask I’ll be fine, but the truth is that I’m just really pissed off.

I’m pissed that it’s Mardi Gras. I’m not ready for it and therefore, it’s presence and pressure in my life is totally pissing me off. If you’re preparing for, thinking about, or planning for Mardi Gras, I can guarantee that it’s pissing me off. I’m sorry, really. It’s not you, it’s me.

I’m pissed off that I’m not done, that I’m not asleep, and that my sheets aren’t clean. I’m pissed that I didn’t take my jeans out of the dryer and they’ll be short and I fucking HATE that because nothing is more ridiculous than pants that are too short on someone who is already clearly too short.

I’m pissed over the size of the piles of laundry yet to do. And every damn piece of clothing that is stained, inside out, twisted, or mis-organized (which means every damn article there) is each, individually, a source of pissing-me-off. Really, it’s out of control. If you saw it, I feel certain you’d find it pretty offensive. Chances are, it’d piss you off, too.

Every damn sign I see for Jay Batt pisses me off.

I’m pissed over work stuff for which I have no control and pissed over work stuff for which I do have control. I’m pissed that I’m distracted. I can’t stay on schedule and I can’t clear my schedule and it pisses me off. Every new tidbit of information to process, new detail to remember, new task to incorporate feels oppressive and stifling.

I hate feeling oppressed and stifled.

I’m pissed about people. I’m pissed about places. And I’m pissed that I’m even bothering to be pissed about people and places.

And I’m pissed that I really shouldn’t be pissed because horrible things are happening in the world and we’re okay so I don’t have any right to be pissed in the first place. By all rights, I should be bouncing out of bed every morning, eager to work to enjoy all we have going for us. I try to turn it around, picturing myself greeting the bright day with flowers in my hair and a smile for each moment but that image really gets on my nerves.

Try as I may, in my heart of hearts, I just feel pretty unpleasant.

Am I just a total whiny bitch? It’s okay, please tell the truth. It doesn’t matter because either way, my guess is that it will piss me off.

A good chaser is needed here. Something sickly cute. So cute it might even piss you off. I take no offense if it does. I know it’s not personal.

“Do something wonderful, people may imitate it.”

- Albert Schweitzer

Thursday was Albert Schweitzer’s birthday and chances are, if you’re under age 40, you have absolutely no idea who I’m talking about.

Not too long ago, Schweitzer was a household name.  A globally respected, Nobel-honored physician and humanitarian, Schweitzer was so well-known that even the Jungle Cruise ride in Disney World makes references to him.  (The ride schtick, while passing a waterfall: “… and here we see Schweitzer Falls, named for the famous doctor, Dr. Albert Falls…”)

At the dawn of the 20th century, Schweitzer was a musician and a theologian.  Through his early professional career, he specialized in Bach and wrote about the nature of Jesus Christ, putting emphasis on non-literal interpretations of the New Testament (controversial of that time).  Then, at age 30, much to the disappointment and frustration of his family and friends, he dropped it all to go to medical school.  In 1913, armed with medical degree and every penny he had, he and his wife traveled 200 miles (14 days by raft) upstream from the mouth of the Ogooué River into the French colony of West Africa (in what is now Gabon).  There, in Lambaréné, a spot where several tributaries combined into the river, Schweitzer built a hospital in a old chicken coop.

The rest of his life involved much of the same.  Schweitzer toured Europe playing concerts to raise funds for his hospital and then went back to care for the patients who came to the facility.  He continued to write as well, searching for a philosophy that unified all types of people.   Eventually his personal philosophy (which he considered to be his greatest contribution to humanity) hit upon the idea of “Reverence for Life” (“Ehrfurcht vor dem Leben“).  (“Ethics is nothing else than reverence for life.”)  He felt that modern times, characterized by World Wars and hate and weapons, had lost it’s ethical foundation.  And that the universal principle uniting us was that we simply seek to live.  Because of this universal experience, Schweitzer argued, our respect for life leads us into service for the lives of those around us.  He felt that showing respect for life by serving others to fulfill their own was not only the highest calling for all humanity, but the one true way people could find peace and happiness.  (“One thing I know: the only ones among you who will be really happy are those who will have sought and found how to serve.”)

With colleagues Albert Einstein and Bertrand Russel, Schweitzer was a harsh critic of nuclear testing and nuclear weapons.  In 1952, he was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, and the speech he gave at that ceremony, “The Problem of Peace” is still considered one of the greatest speeches ever delivered.

What a shame that Schweitzer’s teachings, philosophies, and examples have fallen into pages of history.

The man wasn’t perfect.  And he continually argued that he wasn’t anything special or unique (“a man doesn’t have to be an angel to be a saint”)… just someone who decided to do something and did it.  It’s an example from which I personally draw a lot of inspiration.  (“Example is not the main thing in influencing others. It is the only thing.”)  And one that I think could do much of the same for others.

“You don’t live in a world all alone.  Your brothers are here, too.”

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The hospital built in 1956 in Deschampelles, Haiti, and named after Albert Schweitzer is the one I mentioned in the previous post.  This weekend, it became more clear that this facility appears, in fact, to be the closest facility to Port-au-Prince with surgical capabilities.  You can keep track of how they are handling the deluge of patients at the HAS blog.  The website is equipped to accept donations.

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A note about giving to Haiti…

Many have asked my thoughts on donating to Haiti in the aftermath of yesterday’s terrible earthquake.  My preference is to give to smaller organizations.  In particular, I like to have contacts at the organization whom I trust.  In the Haiti example, we donated to Hôpital Albert Schweitzer.  Deschapelles is located north of Port-au-Prince and is currently treating patients from the suburbs of the capital.  As now homeless residents of Port-au-Prince travel for medical care and shelter, I imagine that this community will grow in size and in medical need, beyond the injured they are currently treating.  I do have a professional relationship with the managing director, and have heard compelling stories of the programs and projects they undertake at this center.  The medical staff at the Hôpital is Haitian.  When you give, you give directly to this center, to this community, to these people, within this country.  For those reasons, I feel, based on my experience, that my donation will go the furthest.  It is my recommendation for giving.

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December 2009 Just Posts:

• Claudia at The Bottom of Heaven with:Some Thoughts on the Princess and the Frog
• Country Girl of Country Girl/City Girl with Can we talk?
• Emily of Wheels on the Bus with A letter to the peeps in Copenhagen
• Erika of Be gay about it. with Everybody hurts., Merry Christmas to all. and Shine your light, share your story …AND WIN A CONTEST!!
• Ginny at Praying to Darwin with: A Tree Grows in the Psych Ward
• girlgriot at If you want kin… with: I’m asking again: How long? again-how-long/
• h.e.g. of Faith and Aids with Speaking out against Uganda’s Anti-Homosexuality Bill 2009
• Kitty at The Show Must Go On with: See Ya in Your Nightmares
• Magpie of Magpie Musing with Charity vs. Democracy
• Meloukhia at This Ain’t Livin’ with: Glee: Sectionals and Antifeminist Spam
• submom of The Absence of Alternatives with” All things on cable TV considered, I wish my hotel had porn…
• Thailand Chani of Finding My Way Home with Sacred Life Sunday: No Slime Zone!
• wrekehavoc with world aids day 2009

Thank you for reading, nominating, and thinking about Just Posts!

NINJA TRAINING. (Or so we’re told.) As demonstrated by Will, age 6.