A word on New Orleans

Usually I don't watch 24-hour disaster coverage on television. There have been a small handful of times (September 11th, Tsunami) where I've watched a lot more than usual. Hurricane Katrina wasn't on the top of my list because I spent most of my teenage and early adult years hearing regular alerts and foreboding commentary. So I guess I didn't really think that Katrina would be all that bad when it actually hit. I must admit that I am shocked by the amount of damage. I've been to most of the places affected and I lived in New Orleans for over four years. I was quite happy to leave that area behind. But, still, nobody deserves this kind of horror.

New Orleans is a great historical city steeped in its own strange and dark culture. The mood there is always a bit somber and disturbing. The poverty, juxtaposed with the ostentatious wealth, often literally on adjacent streets, creates a perpetual tension. It is a racial and economic clash, literati vs. crippled masses. The heritage of the French, then Spanish mixed with Creole and Cajun, white Southern gentry and Black sharecropper-turned-project-dweller have all made an indelible imprint on the city and all it's very different neighborhoods (they call them wards sometimes...an indication of how much on the brink of chaos it has always been).

It doesn't surprise me that now, when the city may truly and finally be washed out the way the Army Corp of Engineers has always feared, the people have either fled for safety or stayed to find themselves under seige and pilage. I can only imagine what the vast green lawns and the limestone and brick buildings of Tulane that have been the shining gem of the New Olreans elite must look like now or what will become of them as the waters from Lake Pontchartrain fill up the bowl of the crescent city, connecting it to the muddy Mississippi.

I'm not totally callous. I do feel great remorse for the people who will have lost everything including, probably, some of their dearest. And sadness for the loss of the city itself as it is really and truly one of the most unique architectural and cultural places in the world. I have a few friends there, still. Plus, I know that the state of Louisiana is functionally bankrupt and the city of New Orleans may never, ever be able to recover itself to its former level, thereby taking away the only real source of revenue the city or state had (which was from tourism, mostly). It's a bad situation, maybe the loss of a whole civilization like in ancient times.

New Orleans was once a great lion that attracted all of Europe, but it is no New York City and it seems it may go out like a lamb.

The Shushing Game

I'm not sure where this sound originated or why it's associated with telling someone to shut up, but shushing seems to be a built in understanding among all animal life. I know this because my daughter does it all on her own and my cats know what it means. Tonight she woke up out of a dead sleep to shush the rather loud and obnoxious caterwauling* of our male fat cat. It went something like this:

Fatty begins pacing in front of the bedroom door, claws clicking on the wood floor. "Meow. Rowr? Woooooooow. "

Heavy sleep breathing stops for a minute.

"Meow? Mow. Woooooooow."

Two year-old Daughter bolts upright in her bed and raises her index finger to her lips, "Ssssshhhh!!"

"MEEEEEOOOOOW."

"Ssshh! Sh."

"Mah? Prrrow.Meeoow."

Yawning, turning over. "Sh." Heavy breathing ensues.

Angry, heavy footsteps begin chasing blubber belly down the hall. "Mahahahahah."

I smile to myself, thinking how nice it is that I don't live in a Studio with the black-furred singing twins from hell anymore. Even better is that I don't have to be the one chasing them around a 300 square foot circle with a squirt bottle at 2 a.m.. Or missing those last 15 minutes of morning sleep because the pre-alarms are sounding. Now I just have to play (or hear) the Shushing Game.


*Caterwauling technically refers to the crying of a female cat in heat (i.e. somebody come and get some of this and quick). But it is commonly also used to describe the kitty equivalent of howling at the moon a la Tom and Jerry, Sylvester, etc. You know, the singing in the moonlight on top of the fence that caused neighbors to throw shoes or pots and pans.

Windows

People always say that eyes are windows to the soul. This was originally a poetic concept, but it's become cliche now. The idea of this, though, makes me wonder what is a window to somebody's soul. Do I even believe in a soul? Yeah, I think I do. Something like that anyway. Maybe the soul is really the unique roadmap of your brain--whatever makes you completely individual with thoughts that nobody may ever know but you. So how do you see into somebody's soul?

At times, I've spent ridiculous energy trying to figure out what's in a particular person's soul. I'm curious and I consider myself perceptive (usually), so it's like my personal game to try to figure out what people are thinking. If somebody is bitchy, I try to create a whole back story to explain how they became that way. If they're vulnerable like a soft-shelled crab, there's absolutely some reason why and I'm often trying to figure that out (since I often fall into this category myself). My middle name is subtext. Maybe that's why I was a shitty account manager. I was too suspicious and sensitive and at the same time defensive of myself and people I liked. I know, really objective of me.

Anyway, back to the windows to the soul. Some people do have amazingly expressive and telling eyes. Most people don't. But I think everyone has something that is a "tell." Music, writing, jokes, art, whatever. Sometimes it's not a creative outlet, it's just a question of adding up all the little phrases they throw in as asides. Often it's just a way they have, a certain carriage. I can usually tell when a person is attracted to me by his behavior more than anything. In most cases, I can sense when someone is conflicted or hurt or depressed, etc.

What is really hard to understand, though, is what people honestly think of me. I am extremely self-conscious when I can't read them and maybe I have pushed them away because the uncertainty is too difficult for me. I'd like to avoid misreading people and making poor choices as I've done in the past and which has sometimes cost me very valuable relationships. That's why I want to understand where is the right "window."

Anyone have Kreskin's phone number? Actually, I think there's a psychic with my name, maybe I can channel her for free.

Modern Grace

I watched the made-for-TV biography of Audrey Hepburn tonight. I do enjoy Audrey Hepburn, but I think my interest in her would not be as great if it weren't for the constant reminders of Forego.

Audrey did have a certain je ne sais quoi, an innocent kind of charm that was less about sex, more about being alive. That is almost non-existent today, I'll admit. But, times have changed and that sort of naivete would not be appreciated much by anyone in the business of stage or screen. People want vamps, saucy women with attitude that kick box and rip people's clothes off. The butt-kickin' woman of the world propoganda was being spread even when I was a young girl. For me, it was balanced by my absolute love affair with romantic era literature like Jane Eyre, Little Women, and Portrait of a Lady. Oh, yes, and one set of rigidly religious and judgmental parents. But, the books, unlike the lectures, made me dream about being a refined, educated, but benevolent lady only losing composure in the cleansing winds of the heathered moors. That was in between wanting to marry Simon Le Bon or David Gahan and swearing like a sailor (thanks, Dad), of course.

Growing up, I felt guilty that I was not really a jock by nature and that I never wanted to tell or hear gross, sexual jokes (which believe me were rampant all through jr. high and high school and, sadly, even a bit in elementary school). I could've been considered a downright prude in college for not detailing every sexual experience and not being willing to expand my repertoire with every "date." Since I didn't come with monetary class, I had more to lose by that sort of behavior than my heir- apparent classmates.

Okay, anyway, back to Audrey. She was a lovely presence, sort of what I would picture Isabel Archer to be like. She walked lightly, she was pretty but not fakely glamorous, and of course she had that lilting English/European way of speaking. Most importantly in my opinion, she was never ever ever flaunting her wares for public display. That's not to say she didn't have her share of nightclubs and rolls in the hay. But she seemed to conduct herself with class (hey, she did in the movie--it must be true, right?).

Unfortunately, though, ladies are obsolete in film because it's all about sex. While it absolutely doesn't add up to grace, the modern standard for classiness is a decent actress that doesn't take her clothes off and dolls up nicely for the award shows. Ah, but I dare you to name more than two.

An ode to calcium carbonate

There comes a time in every woman's life when she has to break down and admit that digestion is an ugly thing. It's ugly at the start and ugly in the end. Pregnancy exacerbates this problem and we won't talk about what childbearing itself does.

Suffice it to say that once you have been pregnant, things just never go back to their proper order. Organs literally shift to make room for a growing fetus and I think they just don't have the werewithall to put themselves back into place. So, the digestion circus (the literal latin and vernacular meanings of the word) is set in motion.

Shortly after the process begins, there is a chain of events: mommy tries to eat food, mommy's stomach gurgles, mommy needs a Tums (or six), mommy waits to see whether Tums can save the evening or whether progesterone has foiled them again. All the while fetus is happily sucking his/her thumb, excreting waste into the umbilical cord and testing the amniotic boundaries with death-defying gymnastics routines.

In a futile effort to avoid this battle, various foods are blacklisted in growing numbers correlated to the size of the protrusion. It starts with the obvious things like spicy, ethnic foods: anything Thai, most of the Indian menu, a lot of Mexican, and pretty much anything else produced by countries that use spice as a replacement for refrigeration. Gradually it becomes almost everything you knew and loved including scrambled eggs, burgers of any variety, souvlaki sandwiches and any kind of bubbly beverage. By the end, you may as well be sucking mashed potatoes through a straw with a side of applesauce and warm milk. This must be preparation for serving these foods to the baby not long after her/his arrival in the air-breathing world.

All this is to say that I couldn't live without my chemical friend, calcium carbonate (better known as Tums, Rolaids, etc.). It reminds me of a little ditty I learned from my friend's refrigerator magnet when I was 12 (her dad was a doctor).


Doxidan in the p.m.
For a b.m. in the a.m.

I'll leave it to you to create your own rhyme about Tums and how they help Bums (the Canadian kind, not the ones that hang out on Hollywood Blvd.). They might be chalky, but at least you can...walk--y?

A life less ordinary

After a very long day visiting family, we came home and had a very long night trying to get our daughter to sleep. At 11:40 p.m., my husband threw up his hands and said that she was just going to stay up until she naturally wound down. So, as my eyes began blinking and I became one with our new sofa, I searched for some news on TV. Much to my surprise, I tuned into ABC and Charles Gibson was eulogizing Peter Jennings. Instantly, I was awake, calling for my husband to pay attention to the news broadcast. We wondered what happened, it was all a huge shock.

I never have time to watch the evening news these days. Usually I get my news at some point in the afternoon and/or online. So I wasn't aware that Jennings had announced he was battling lung cancer in April and since then has been absent from his post.

I can't say that I was a devotee of Peter Jennings, but he has been a fixture since my childhood. After the departure of both Tom Brokaw and Dan Rather and now this, it seems that I am in uncharted territory, in the hands of untested guides. But more than that, Peter Jenning's death is disturbing. He was the perpetually young one, the handsome guy, the one that wooed lady luck. I wasn't aware that he was sick and it seems unfathomable that death can descend so abrubtly. In a time when people seem largely shallow and news is increasingly about celebrity activity, it is sad to see the demise of someone who seemed to pursue more weighty matters. In short, I realize only now that I will miss his presence (and Tom's and Dan's), if not always his journalism.


Perhaps I am waxing sentimental because I don't deal well with death. It reminds me of my own family members that have died, some terribly young like my step-mom. I think about eulogies and the awkward eating afterwards. I think about how one day I'll be the one in the casket eating worms while a small group of people that care will line up in front of the lox platters.

For Peter Jennings, there will be millions of people eulogizing him over extra salty water at the company cooler. That, if nothing else, is a testament to his successful life.

My humble apologies

I did indeed look up Jorie Graham and, in addition to the fact that I feel like a complete dunce for not knowing who she was in the first place, I owe an apology to Anonymous. Although I have a deep appreciation for poetry, especially the finest examples of economy of words, I am not much informed about modern poets. It takes a certain level of concentration and reflection which I seem to lack these days.

In my mid-twenties I went through a phase of wanting to devour poetry, to educate myself on modern influences, to learn all the classics which my public school education skipped over. I wrote some extremely poor specimens myself, mostly to create a release valve during a time of frustration and inner conflict in my life.

But I did not learn about Jorie Graham. Thanks to Anon., I know her now. Without further adieu, a sampling for you.

The Way Things Work

is by admitting or opening away. This is the simplest form of current: Blue moving through blue; blue through purple; the objects of desire opening upon themselves without us; the objects of faith. The way things work is by solution, resistance lessened or increased and taken advantage of. The way things work is that we finally believe they are there, common and able o illustrate themselves. Wheel, kinetic flow, rising and falling water, ingots, levers and keys, I believe in you, cylinder lock, pully, lifting tackle and crane lift your small head-- I believe in you-- your head is the horizon to my hand. I believe forever in the hooks. The way things work is that eventually something catches. Jorie Graham

Unfabulous

There was one year when I was considered popular by some: sixth grade. Instead of the knee-length dresses my grandmother had forced me to wear in earlier grades, I started dressing like a normal pre-teen, donning "Madonna pants" and tank tops. As a result of this, I finally attracted the attention of the boy that I'd had a crush on since the fourth grade, Ryan V. Going around with Ryan launched me into a whole 'nother social stratus. Even though I wasn't loose enough for him at the age of 11 and I eventually lost him to a French girl that came to our school midway through the first trimester, I was already on the A-list at Dixie Canyon Avenue Elementary School.


Every year, a different grade would put on the school production so that during your years at the school, you should be in at least 2 or 3 of them. That year it was the sixth grade's turn to perform a very strange medley of different plays with a circus theme. I got the only singing solo in the whole play. This following my triumphant win at the school spelling bee. I tell you, I was on top of the world in my ballerina costume squeaking out the lyrics to, "Love Makes the World Go Round," from Carousel. In fact, the French girl, Valia, who had stolen Ryan was one of my back up ballerinas. Touché, mon cherie.

The day after the performance, I was happily buzzing about the four square court with my usual team, my three best friends. While we waited for our turn, Steve M, one of the guys in my larger circle even though he'd been consistently tormenting me for three years, approached me. He was a big boy, already taller than everyone else in our class. He came with a small posse of other cool guys.

"Hey Bianca," he said. "Guess what I saw yesterday?"
"What?" I said, half laughing, expecting a joke forthcoming.
"Your right boob."
My face dropped completely. "You're lying. There's no way."
"No I'm not. You were changing in the classroom and the blinds were open. I saw it." His posse chuckles in a mocking way.
"No way, you're totally lying." My best girlfriends nodded in agreement with me.
"Really? You put on that ballet dress thing and you were trying to pull your shirt over your head and your boob was showing."
I began to turn red, realizing that Steve, one of the most merciless boys in our class, had actually seen my bare, completely flat right breast. He was never going to let me live it down.
"Ha ha. He saw your boobie! He he he. Boo-bie, boo-bie," the posse's refrain began. They pinched their shirts at the nipple level and held them out to indicate breasts.

The rumor spread like wildfire and soon all of the sixth grade knew that Steve had seen my right nipple. A few girls were symphathetic, thanking the heavens that they weren't me. But mostly, everyone was laughing. I tried to deny it and tell everyone he was lying, but they all knew it was true. I was completely mortified.

Despite my chagrin, however, my social status was never better. In fact, it was the year we started playing Spin the Bottle and Truth or Dare after school in my grandmother's Recreation Room down the street from Dixie. We were always a group of four or five sitting in the dark, at least two boys, often including Steve.

That year, I learned a little something about what it meant to be popular. But that was really the last time that I had any reason to care.

As of today, I am officially not young. I don't feel old per se, but I am supposed to be a real adult now, no longer a member of the American royalty of youth. For a lot of my peers, this milestone is depressing, a full stop in their telegrams. Although I must admit it hasn't quite sunk in yet, I definitely haven't been affected this way.

I have been searching myself for signs of aging, though: some crows feet, maybe, a few extra gray hairs. There are some really subtle things I've noticed, like the fact that my skin is a lot dryer than it used to be. Why am I peeling when the humidity outside is 900%? The stretch marks aren't really helping either. So much for those stylish little bikinis and midriff shirts. You can visit Piedras Blancas, California to see elephant seals on the beach. (By the way, go if you can and take the drive up Highway 1 to San Francisco).

But really, it's not so bad. I haven't been consumed by anti-aging cream fever yet. I'm actually still wrestling with the oily skin demon lingering from my long-gone teenage years. What I'm praying for is that I won't ever need to be dealing with both at the same time. I actually saw a commercial for a combo cream that said something like, "Wrinkles and blemishes at the same time? Who knew?!" Could we elevate the paranoia even more, please?

I don't much care about those things, anyway. After all, I've already roped in a husband and been making babies. Ha ha ha. Ha. Ha?

What I am more concerned with is that my time on this earth is limited and I need to be doing something constructive with it. Speaking of which, maybe I should get started now...