September 27, 2012
Yesterday was sort of sad. The baby has been talking about Dave a lot. I’m remembering now that the grief counselors advised that the kids would re-grieve at each new developmental stage in their lives. The baby is turning into a big boy. He’s going to school. He’s doing bigger boy things. And realizing that Dave is dead….again.
I went through some photos yesterday, so I could print a few pics of him with his daddy. I framed one and put it in his bedroom. Merely looking through the photos cast me into a tail spin. I was quickly clicking from one to the next, when I came upon a video. His voice sliced me open like a knife. It was like he was standing right there. Dear God I hate the sadness. I tortured myself for a few more minutes, and then decided I should do something I’ve been putting off too long. The cemetery. I’m not much of a grave lurker. The place creeps me out. Especially if I’m alone. But Dave has not had new flowers in several months. I don’t want his stuff looking all ratty. It’s disrespectful, I guess.
Sort of like killing yourself. But I do still have moments in which I love
him and miss him. Even though I say I
don’t. In fact, just since I recently
declared that I don’t cry for him anymore, I’ve actually been crying for him a
lot. Well played you brilliant universe,
So I sulked over to the cemetery, feeling as sorry for myself as anyone could. I got out of the car with my head slung low and a painful lump in my throat. I’m a widow, and I still can’t believe it. I’m only 43 years old. My babies are still so little. These should be the happiest moments in our lives right now. Instead I am here. I don’t think it’ll ever sink in completely. How could this have happened?
Increasingly I feel guilty. Guilty for every fight we ever had, for every mean thing I ever said to him, for every time I was hateful and revengeful towards him. I torture myself by pressing the rewind button in my head, over and over again. Eventually I come to my senses and admit that I didn’t make him do this. I remind myself over and over of what was really going on. And how little I knew about what my own husband was doing. That part makes me feel stupid. I can’t believe he got me so good. Fooled me over and over and over again, relentlessly. Then I get mad again. Up and down, up and down, the rickety roller coaster…until I just say fuck it, and push it all away.
Where was I? Oh yes, how I almost had my arms amputated by flowers. I quickly scooped up the faded and fraying flowers, and drove straight to the flower store. I like to do the arrangements myself. It’s the only thing I can still do for him, I guess. I decided on sunflowers, some pretty browns and yellows and oranges. Nothing too bright, but pretty enough for Fall. I knew the kids would like them. I came home and started arranging. Some were too long. These assholes who make these flowers, they don’t want you to cut the stems. No siree. They want them exactly the length they made them. I know this because they put like six very thick strong wires all together. I tried bending. I tried giant garden loppers. I tried wire cutters, at least I think that’s what I was using? I finally had enough of the ridiculous charade and decided I will show these fucking flowers who’s the boss. I will cut them with this big ass table saw. Still a big pile of sawdust under it. I can’t clean it up. Because it’s Dave’s pile of saw dust. So I turned it on, and held the flowers in front of the blade and WAM! Sparks flew everywhere and the flowers were not cut. No, that would be too normal. The flowers, instead, with their thick wires made by the people who like too-long stems, got sucked up into the blade. My hand was instantly jerked and pulled towards the blade, with the force of I don’t know what? The gods obviously did not select the amputee card this day, because I let go. Just in time. My heart was pounding at what I just did. I think I almost lost my hand. The wires were all tangled up in the blade. A big knotted mess. I unplugged the machine and surgically removed the demonic wires. I looked down, and every flower was now off the stems. Every single one was lying in the pile of sawdust. It was a weird moment, really. I just stood there. I said, “What, you don’t want these flowers?” I’m so weird sometimes. I felt even more defeated. I can’t even cut the fucking flowers. But I’m the Goddess of Everything. I will have my way with these prick flowers. So I dug around and found some type of sharp filing or scraping hand tool. I laid the flowers down, put the tool just so, and whacked them with a framing hammer. Mutha-1, Demonic amputating flowers-0.
September 25, 2012
The madwoman is tired of eating roundup. And tired of feeding it to her kids. I don’t want to squirt roundup into their mouths at night after they brush their teeth. They don’t like the taste. And it makes them sick. And it causes cancer. So why have I been doing it? I’ve been doing it for the same reason you’ve been doing it. Because the FDA said it was ok. Our government said it was ok. The farmers said it was ok. Why would any sane person say this is ok? This is why:
June 27, 2012 (Reuters) - Global agribusiness group Monsanto Co (MON.N) posted higher-than-expected quarterly profit on Wednesday as net revenue grew 17 percent on gains in sales of seeds and genetic traits and surprising strength in herbicides
June 29, 2011 ST. LOUIS -- Monsanto Co. says higher sales of genetically engineered seeds helped it nearly double its third-quarter profit, as the company convinced more farmers to try its pricier new generation of corn and soybean seeds.
The St. Louis company reported Wednesday its net income rose to $680 million, or $1.26 per share, for the quarter ended May 31, compared with $384 million, or 70 cents a share, a year ago. It says revenue increased 21 percent to $3.59 billion.
The St. Louis company reported Wednesday its net income rose to $680 million, or $1.26 per share, for the quarter ended May 31, compared with $384 million, or 70 cents a share, a year ago. It says revenue increased 21 percent to $3.59 billion.
Monsanto makes billions of dollars. So what, right? Free enterprise. The government doesn’t control Monsanto. You know why? Because Monsanto controls the government. Yeah, right, you say?
These are all the former employees, executives, lawyers and lobbyists for Monsanto, that now or in the past held policy making positions in OUR government.
Look closely at Michael Taylor. He was Monsanto's VP of Public Policy. Pretty important position. So important, that Obama hired him to be the Deputy Commissioner of the FDA. Soo, the person who created public policy for Monsanto is now in charge of deciding if YOUR FOOD is safe. If YOUR BABIES should have roundup squirted into their mouths before bed. Just so we're clear on that.
These fucking food scientists managed to genetically modify corn (among other things) so that they could spray the whole crop with roundup and only the weeds would die, the corn wouldn't die. The corn wouldn't die because the corn, in fact, would contain the same genetic qualities as the roundup. Get it? They said eating the corn was safe, because the roundup wouldn't survive our guts. Our miraculously created guts, which account for our immunity, our well being, even some of our emotions....can withstand roundup. Ohhh....if only it were true. If only our guts weren't so delicate and sensitive and.....important. It's not true, because a little over a year ago, the journal Reproductive Toxicology published the results of a study which showed that Bt toxin, the pesticide now routinely genetically engineered into GE corn and cotton, was found in the blood of pregnant women and in their fetuses, as well as in non-pregnant women. This same study also discovered that glyphosate, the active ingredient in RoundUp, was found in the blood of non-pregnant women. This is not good. This is incredibly alarming to me. What is even more alarming is that the small group of people who care is so....small. The rest of us just keep eating it. We just keep squirting it into our mouths everyday. I guess we'll stop when Michael Taylor tells us to stop, right? Because he's concerned with our well being. He gives a shit whether our precious babies get cancer. Whether we get cancer. Whether we die and leave our kids to fend for themselves without parents. In Europe, this toxic food is not tolerated. IT IS OUTLAWED. In America, we gorge on it like fat nasty pigs. Why?
Mostly because not eating it is so difficult. That's why. GE Corn and soybeans are fed to almost all animals that we eat. So we eat it even when we don't think we're eating it. It's being squirted into our mouths daily, whether we know it or not. Throw your ear of corn away. So what. You're still not safe. Because high fructose corn syrup and corn syrup solids and corn meal and soybean oil are in almost all packaged foods. EVEN BABY FORMULA. Likely the first ingredient in your baby's formula is CORN SYRUP SOLIDS. Go look.
Not many people can afford to eat 100% organic. I sure can't. But every single one of us can become informed. Every single one of us can complain about it, question it and make small changes. Because that is free.
I'm not a scientist, but I'm going to tell you something I know about. And it's death. Don't let these wealthy corporate giants make you sick so they can get richer. You think they eat this shit? Hell no they don't. You think their personal chefs are feeding them this? They all eat organic food. Eating roundup and Bt causes cancer. Read the labels on the packages in your garage. While you're in there, I dare you to lick it. There is really nothing else to say, is there?
September 19, 2012
Things have been really great. The last couple weeks have been awesome. It’s been such a welcome reprieve. Tonight, though, we had quite a moment. Everyone started crying at the same time. It was so sad. So fucking sad. I realized while I was sobbing that I no longer cry ‘for Dave’ at all. I cry for my babies. I cry on behalf of them. I cry because of what he did to them. Bastard.
The baby started it, by suddenly declaring that he was sad. At first I thought he said he was ‘scared’, and was trying to delay going to bed. Then I realized he was about to cry, and he blurted out in sobs, “I miss Daddy and I want him to come home.” I broke into a million little pieces. I gently reminded him that Daddy cannot come home because when you die you can’t ever come back. He said something like, “Why is he just gonna die again and again and again?” Then middle darling started crying really hard. Sobbing that he misses daddy. I pulled both of them on top of me and we held each other and cried long and hard. And all my tears were for them. I can’t cry for him anymore. I just can’t.
Big darling was in his room reading, oblivious to the grief ninja’s attack. This in itself worries me. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t say anything. It makes me nervous. The silence is scary. When I ask questions, he admits to missing Dave and feeling sad, but says he mostly doesn’t think about it. I asked him about feeling angry towards him, and he says he is angry. I confess that I am more than a little angry myself. I tell him it’s ok to be angry. I tell him that his silence worries me. Goddamn you Dave, if my kids are fucked up one iota because of you, I will do fucking nothing to you, because that’s what I can do. Nothing. You rat fucking bastard.
Someone asked me the other day about whether or not my stepdaughter reads the blog. If you haven’t read all of the blog, you may not even be aware that Dave has a 17 year old daughter from a previous relationship. The answer is yes, she does know about the blog. I do not blog about her because she is not my child. I don’t have a relationship with her parents, and I wouldn’t want someone blogging about my own kids without my permission, so she is absent from the blog.
What does she think about me writing about her daddy? I have no idea. I don’t write based on what people are going to think about the writing. If I wrote that way, this would be a really short story and it would be incredibly boring and also not true. Therapeutic value - zero. Go read a grief brochure or one of those generic parenting sites if that’s what you want. That stuff makes my eyes roll back into my head. BORING. I get bored easily. I can be obsessed with something one day, and I’m not kidding not a day later I will drop it like a hot potato. It takes a lot to hold my interest.
Sometimes I think about people judging me. But then I realize something. If you are judging me, fuck you. Just fuck you. It is liberating to not care. It is liberating to be brutally honest. I do try not to hurt the feelings of others. I haven’t been perfect with that part. Sometimes I’ve been so hurt that I have deliberately lashed out and not cared. So, I’m an asshole. The events of the last few years have rendered me incapable of caring about some things. My survival instincts are so strong, and ever present, because we are always fighting the beast here. Your day is good, the sun is shining, you are humming along, and out of the dark shadows steps the beast. He strikes you. Then hands you your ass. A couple hours later you are walking in the grocery store. You are not the same as the people around you. Most of them didn’t participate in a battle of that magnitude today. Your emotions are still scrambled. You are still reeling from the pain. You are still distracted, tired, annoyed, confused, sad, angry, guilty. Everyone else is just buying groceries. I want to just buy groceries. I do. Sometimes, maybe even I do. Sometimes I’m not thinking about it. But mostly I am. It’s becoming me. A part of me. And I can’t rewrite it. I can’t lose it or kill it or burn it down. I can only keep fighting it. Which keeps me in attack mode. The shrapnel is always flying. On great days the love pours out of me and I’m invincible. On mediocre days, the humorous sarcasm protects me. On shit days, I’m an asshole. C’est la vie.
September 13, 2012
Day 3 of being alone in my house. I still have not turned on the radio or the tv. I am so in love with the silence. With the peace. And quiet. The last time I was alone in my home for this many uninterrupted hours was the last week of school. That was in May. It’s September. September, people! It’s been way too long. It’s been like the summer that wouldn’t end, to be honest. The big kids had only two days of school before the Hurricane hit. Then everything was shut down and it was a whole week before they returned to school. Little darling’s school had an a/c issue, so his school’s opening was postponed a week. So, Monday was twix day. I swore I would eat twix and crank up the radio and all that silly stuff. Instead, I cleaned out every cabinet I opened. Every drawer. Every closet. I can’t stop organizing. I’m in a frenzy. I washed and vacuumed my car. Caulked around my big tub. Bleached and cleaned my maggot loving garbage can outside. Organized piles of papers, paid bills, scheduled appointments…all that little shit that you just don’t do because there is no time. I went to dreaded Walmart today. I bought weird shit because I had time. In a complete stupor, I almost bought a fucking sewing machine. No, I do not sew. I was out of control.
I feel as if I’ve been reborn again. My cancer and my lupus have disappeared. I’m so reenergized. It’s exhilarating. I am actually thinking clearly. I do miss the darlings. But not as much as I’ve been missing me. I am no fool. I know I am a better mama when I get regular breaks from them. It’s just so hard in the summer. The majority of the summer was fabulous. The last few weeks took me down. I know I need to shake it up a bit next year. Figure out how to get them all out of here for a couple days here and there during the last few weeks of summer when I’m worn down. I’ve been so patient and extra loving and full of praise for them this week. I am always loving and affectionate, but just having the extra energy to give more is so meaningful. This has been a real lesson for me. I’ve always said that the best way to teach my boys self worth is to show them how much I value myself. I may need to value myself enough to have a week in Cabo at the end of the summer next year, as opposed to having cancer and lupus.
People look at me with these three little boys and constantly say, “I don’t know how you do it.” I always laugh and say I don’t know how I do it either. But the truth is that it’s exhausting. It’s physically demanding and I’m old. I’m so old that next month I will be 44 facking years old. That is almost 50. It’s shocking. And crazy. Because I mostly feel 30ish. Except when I’m picking up after the baby for the 4569th time of the day, then I feel 60. And at the end of summer, I feel 90.
While cleaning under the washer/dryer, I found one of Dave’s dirty socks. We all passed it around and touched it and smelled it like it was some sort of religious article. The irony is not lost on me. This is what we have…a fucking dirty sock.
I don’t even care, because I’m going eat my twix. On my bed. That is made. My bed is made. My floors are not sticky. My laundry basket is empty. My supper is already cooked. I’m drinking tea. And reading a magazine. Tonight when I get in bed, my bed will be all tight. I will slip in without disturbing it too much. I might stack some books on my nightstand. If you’d like to send Elle Décor to come take a picture, that would be fine.
September 10, 2012
I badly want to give you my take on the MILF March Saturday, but seriously, how does one describe hysterical electricity? Because that’s what it was. It was just incredibly electric. It was like a Mardi Gras vibe. You all will not even believe me if I say every mutha I met was nine kids of fun. You’ll just think I mean ‘funny’ or ‘amusing’…but these women were so much more than that. Everyone was in a mood…and the mood was hysterically funny. I met women from all over the country, and Canada. Each came with her own posse of muthas. There were doctors and lawyers and judges and teachers and entrepreneurs and artists and health care workers and secretaries…you get it…women from all walks of life. Some were tall, some were short, some were fat, some were skinny…but they were all amazing. They were all beautiful. It was awesome because there was not one judgemental person present. It was awesome because each mutha was able to celebrate her real self, out of her shell, and with her guard down. We weren't moms that day, or wives; we weren't whatever our careers dictate. We weren't any of the 900 hats we normally wear, all stacked up so that we must walk rigid, lest they all tumble down and reveal how vulnerable we really feel. We were just a pack of muthas. All together. Friends...having fun and celebrating OURSELVES! Shy people were dancing. Quiet people were proudly boisterous. It was that kind of vibe. It was just real. Didn’t matter if you knew anyone or not…you knew everyone by the time it was over. The muthas were all comediennes. They could make a lot of money. A movie could have been made right there. I swear to you one day I’m going to start carrying a hidden camera around and I’m going to get rich quick. Fuck the book, and the blog. I need to start vlogging. Because these muthas are running the world. They’re not young, they’re not old. They are in the prime ass kicking stage. In the thick of it every day. 24/7. The material overflows. Because they are the doers.
The day kicked off for me at the Club because big darling had his first swim meet for school. I watched his first heat, then was off in a flash to pick up some other muthas. We raced back to my house, just in time to catch a group of muthas backing out of my driveway. We ran upstairs and changed into our MUTHA shirts, put on our heels, and away we rolled.
Drinking vodka at 10:30 a.m. is its own kind of awesome. A bloody Mary is the breakfast of champions and it really elevates the mood. As soon as we got there I saw people I hadn’t seen in 25 years, and let me tell you I’ve been missing some shenanigans with this group. They were wearing shirts that said GAW in big letters. “Grown Ass Women.” This happens to be one of my favorite sayings (I love to answer stupid questions with the phrase “because I’m a Grown Ass Woman, that’s why”.) They had their own funny story behind the meaning of their tag line. Present were women sporting pink boas and butterfly wings and pink wigs and fishnets.
To kick up the badassery we had “Goddess of Everything” tattoos and “Ninja Juice” party cups.
After an hour at the first bar, we sauntered to our next destination, a few blocks away. The chalkboard sign outside said this:
Honestly I didn’t really pay too much attention to it, until we got inside and I went up to the bar for a drink. I suddenly realized the bartenders were incredibly hot. Within moments, they were taking their shirts off. And then their pants.
Holy Mother. What the fack? Oh yeah, I’m thinking this shit’s about to get really facking fun right nah!!!! And it did. To say it was a blast in that bar is just an incredible understatement. The bartenders were not shy, and at one point there was an apron clad man hula hooping. Apron's don't cover your ass.
Shit was flapping and all I could think was truly they couldn’t have known a pile of us were bloggers? I was more than a little sad to leave that place. We made another stop after that, freshened up our drinks, and headed to our final destination. The drinks were flowing, the music was pumping, and the muthas were shaking some serious boo-tay.
Let me tell you something about the Hot Mess. That mutha knows how to throw down. Like for real. There was a stripper pole, complete with a stripper pole instructor, ya hurd me. Yeah, the pole had instructions, and shit. Stripper pole + hundreds of drunk muthas = alotta funny shit. Of course I had my turn on the pole, but since I'm the chief of the badass motherfuckers in charge, I didn’t have a lesson. I just did this.
Because I’m an awesome pretend stripper, and slightly full of dumbassery. Lest you get the wrong impression, I'll tell you a small secret. I hit my head when I slid down upside down the first time. Sexy, right?I met Gooley, frequent guest blogger on HotMessMom.com. Gooley is a hottie, I’m not going to lie. The muthas loved him. In fact, I had to tell the muthas to stand down, because he is slightly gay. Gay man + hundreds of drunk muthas = alotta funny shit.
It was the Hot Mess’ 40th birthday, so of course being the attention whore that she is, she had a brass band playing ‘Happy Birthday to You’ with hundreds of muthas second lining…what else do you expect? Some of you might not even get what that means. All I can say is that you should come here for the experience. This city is the Queen of party and it’s not just because we declared it. One of my girlfriends who grew up here and moved away many years ago was a blubbering, crying fool by the end of the night. Because she so misses the city, so misses the awesome collection of muthas assembled here, and isn’t having much success replicating it in another state. That makes me sad. Women need to be having this much fun. A lot more. Wherever they are. With whatever funny muthas they can lasso. Because it’s awesome.
The madwoman, with Hot Mess Mom.
Now I know you muthas like some lists, so without further adieu:
Now I know you muthas like some lists, so without further adieu:
How to party like a grown ass woman
1.) Drink vodka in the morning. It makes you feel so goooooood. Put a few salad items in there so you can skip breakfast and lunch.
2.) Drive around and kidnap all the muthas who ever made you laugh.
3.) Go to a gay bar. Gay people are fucking funny.
4.) Find a stripper pole. Take turns pretending you’re strippers.
5.) Go to a bar with nekkid bartenders. Just keep going to bars until you find one. (Note: the gay bar does not count, if you are heterosexual.)
6.) Tell every funny story you've ever heard, like it’s a contest. Try really hard to win. Use a really funny drunk voice. Everyone has one. If you don’t, you are not cool. Hurry up and get one so we don't have to make fun of your nerdy ass.
7.) If people from home call you and text you and shit, and try to bust up your good time, threaten to put the phone on vibrate and shove it up your bathing suit area. Or just do it, don’t even threaten.
8.) Go to a kick ass restaurant for dinner and order everything. Then you can start over drinking all fresh for the night time festivities.
9.) Be really funny, the whole time, so that everyone in the room wants to be standing right next to you at all times. Make it so that they can’t stand not knowing what you’re saying. Make fun of all your friends, relentlessly, to their faces. Only call them hookers, librarians, or cafeteria ladies. Real names are boring.
10.) Invent an alter ego. Immediately. When people try to judge you, just say you are not who they think you are. You’re Chardonnay.All photos credit LoriMonahanBorden.com. (Check out her Nola water meter address stamps...GREAT Christmas/Wedding/Shower gift idea!!!....Just sayin....)
To register for this year's march, go here.
To register for this year's march, go here.
September 7, 2012
I’ve decided that I’m no longer going to use the word “procrastinator” to describe myself. Because the truth is that I really just work better under pressure. In fact, I’m so awesome, that I can wait until the last minute, and still do whatever I want for all the other minutes. Once I decide I’m doing something, I do it fast and precise and awesome, so who cares when I do it? The point is that I do it. I get it done. So kablammo! I’m not a procrastinator. I’m just really awesome.
As part of my new outlook, which isn’t really new - it’s just my old outlook that I’m adopting again, I’m reinstating the attitude that I’m the Goddess of Everything. Because I am. I’m sick of assholes. I’m sick of weirdos. I’m sick of people whose mere existence makes me feel like anything less than the Goddess of Everything.
Tomorrow is the Million Milf March. The muthas are busy primping and coloring and waxing and buffing their bodies. This is going to be some fun, crazy shit, and I’m super excited. Be on the lookout tomorrow for some insane uploads. Or not. We might be too drunk to work our phones. I’m so looking forward to flying out of this birdcage for many hours uninterrupted. Little darling has displayed a horrific, sassy attitude the last few days, and he’s making me question my parenting skills. Apparently, he hasn’t received the Goddess of Everything memo. Yesterday morning, he peed on my neck in bed about 5:45 a.m. Do not even ask me how this happened, I have no idea. The other muthas were yelling at me to go directly from carpool to the t-shirt place to pick up our mutha shirts, and I had to tell them no, I had to bathe first, because I had urine on my neck.
The Hot Mess and I met on my porch for wine Wednesday night. She is indeed lovely and we are now BFFs for life. My original plan was to hire a transvestite that sort of looks like me (not that I know one or have one handy…but I’m sure I could find one quickly, because I work well under pressure) to say he/she was me at our first meeting, but she tricked me into meeting her early so my funny plan was foiled.
The muthas here think that I have misled my blog followers into believing that my level of badassness is higher than it actually is in real life. They are trying to coerce me into dressing like a biker chick, with a spiky dog collar around my neck. Even the Hot Mess cracked up when she met me. She was disappointed that I didn’t have a husky Emma voice and wasn’t yelling curse words like I was on fire.
I can’t really say much more now, because I’m so hyped on caffeine that my palms are sweating and sliding off the keyboard. It’s making my pits stinky. Someone just made me drink some kind of healthy energy drink, like I need to be more of a lunatic than usual. Everyone around me is stressing me out about meeting times and deciding who is riding with whom, and I’m sitting here ignoring them and pretending I don’t know what they are talking about. I will figure my shit out at the last minute because I am extremely awesome.
Goddess of Everything. Ya hurd?
September 2, 2012
Friday, August 25: I notice that a few people on Facebook have changed their profile pictures to this:
Saturday, August 26: The models are still not certain if Isaac will commit to Nola. Sometimes the smaller storms are harder to predict. They’re not the bowling balls that bigger storms are. They don’t barrel through. They linger. Lingering is bad. These yats around here are just funny, and this starts appearing on my FB news feed
While unpacking our supplies and trying to figure out where to hide the flashlights from my boys, I get a call from the Kentucky muthas. BFF’s only child, Drew, age 23, has flipped his car, been sawed out by the jaws of life, airlifted to a hospital, and is profusely bleeding from multiple head wounds. I grab the kitchen counter for support because my world is momentarily pulling a G force that threatens to knock me on my ass. I hold my breath as I wait for the answer. For the first thirty seconds of the phone call, I’m pretty certain she’s going to tell me he’s dead or dying. Instead I learn it’s bad, but not that bad. I feel far away and helpless because all I can do is offer love and prayers from afar. Everyone here is texting back and forth about hurricane plans, and I am transported to Kentucky emotionally. I don’t even care about the hurricane.
Sunday, August 27, 3:00 pm: My brother texts to say his pregnant wife has toxemia and is being induced at 36 weeks with their miracle baby. I’m not worried at all, but sense they are terrified. Again I feel helpless and wish I were there. They live in another state.
6:00 pm: We gather with neighbors to commence the hurricane gluttony. We begin grilling our freezer contents in anticipation of losing power, and drinking from hoarded stocks of alcohol. By now it’s clear Isaac has plans to hump Nola. I walk up 16 steps to get in my raised house every day. My house is 100 years old and has proved itself worthy over as many years. Other muthas plan to evacuate here. It’s still just a tropical storm.
11:00 pm: We walk home from neighbors after drinking and especially smoking way too much. Between the vehicle accident, the hurricane and the baby on the way, I was chain smoking. I now have an Emma voice.
Monday, August 28, 4:00 am: I wake up and haven’t heard anything about the baby. I frantically text and learn he’s been born, but wasn’t breathing well and is in NICU. Mom and baby are both in jeopardy. I rush to coffee pot and start pacing and texting. There are no pictures of the baby. I wonder if he’s deformed?
10:00 a.m.: The evacuees arrive to hunker down at my house. We have enough food and drink for a small Caribbean Island, yet we nervously anticipate running out.
11:00 am. I text Kentucky mutha to check on her and get a reply saying: “This is dress boss” and then a bunch of shit I’m not sure about. Has Kentucky mutha lost her mind? The muthas here are already drinking and are yelling at me and calling me a pussy because I’m hung over. They’re telling funny stories about a mutha who had a tumor with hair and nails on it. “Sweet Baby Jesus, was it a baby?” I’m screaming. “It wasn’t a baby!” is the response in a hysterical yat voice. I’m laughing so hard, I decide I should drink a Bloody Mary and join in the fun. I text my brother for baby info. He responds with nothing about the baby but says he hasn’t drank water or eaten anything in 24 hours. I finally scream text: TAKE A PICTURE OF THE BABY YOU FOOL AND STICK YOUR HEAD UNDER THE FAUCET FOR SOME WATER. We make fun of him for the rest of the night. (Mom and baby are fine.) We try to watch the news stations with the most hysterical coverage. We find it makes you drink more.
9:00 pm: We get texts from some muthas across town. Apparently they are not rationing alcohol because their text says: “Pine tree down across street. Drink heaving omit.” We crack up laughing at the Chinese text then go to bed. The wind is whipping ass but we still have power. Cable is now out so we no longer have a visual of what’s going on beyond our street. Facebook is out, but works slowly on our smart phones. Cell phones never work during hurricanes. Historically texts have been reliable during storms, but now they are not going through most of the time. Facebook quickly becomes the only reliable means of communication. The muthas who evacuated to Baton Rouge want updates. We refuse to tell them what anything looks like. It's their punishment for leaving. We won't even say it's windy or raining.
Tuesday, August 29, 5:57 am: It’s the 7 year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. Adonis texts asking my whereabouts. I say I’m home and house is shaking and rattling but I think the worst should be over. He is watching news about levees breaking and streets flooding and he thinks we are drowning. I say I’ve been sleeping, but all is well. He calls us a bunch of “cwaaazy coonasses” and I go back to sleep.
8:00 am: I wake up to find out that Isaac has moved a total of six miles all night long. A couple hours later I figure out what Adonis is talking about. I have family in another town, and it’s flooding. People are being evacuated in boats. I’m in panic mode now. The storm is not even to us yet, and there is flooding. Isaac is enjoying his stay, barely moving, while dumping rain and swirling Lake Pontchartrain in a counterclockwise motion. Right now, the water is pushing southwest into LaPlace. There are no levees there, this town has never flooded.
1:20 pm: Receive text from cousin saying her gran and paw paw had to be evacuated by boat because their neighborhood is flooding. I think about how nervous they must have been. How she is always pretty with her jewelry and makeup on. My heart aches for them. A photo follows of someone standing waist deep in the neighborhood.
Facebook is still our only means of communication. People are posting their parent’s addresses on their walls, and other people are confirming whether or not they have been rescued. Good old social media is not just for being social now. It seems incredibly crazy, and it is.
We finally lose power, so we sit on the patio and drink heavily, while the kids play in the rain. Little darling falls asleep for a 3 hour nap. When he wakes up, I notice he is drenched. Forgetting he has played in the rain, I conclude he is sweating due to being in a diabetic coma. I scoop him up and race downstairs for an assessment by the muthas. I am quickly scoffed at and reminded that he was playing in the rain. Clearly, I'm losing it.
Niece arrives with friends and some new tasty liquor. We discuss the flooding and their eyewitness reports, including a photo of a transvestite in a bathing suit and heels, holding an umbrella, which was apparently taken around the corner just minutes ago. Niece feels sorry for Tran, so won't give me the photo to post. Try to visualize a skinny African American Tran, kinda pretty, pink bathing suit, driving rain, black umbrella, big smile.
We slept with the windows open, and the wind was gusting strong all night. With the rain, we have a slight mist coming through the windows, so we are not hot at all. But when the power comes back on, my a/c is broken. There’s the usual broken limbs and leaf debris in my yard. No other damage. We pack up our hoard of food and liquor and move everyone to the other muthas house. We forget little darling's clothes. He yells at us the rest of the night because his shirt is too big.
Thursday, August 30: I can’t take not knowing what is going on at my grandmother’s house and I know she can’t stand not knowing either. Some people are saying inches of water went in, some saying four feet. Everyone just keeps saying, “You can’t get there.” I find this an unacceptable answer for the 93 year old matriarch of our family, so I impulsively leave my kids with the muthas, hop in the car and just drive there. Some roads are underwater, so we bobble and weave through neighborhoods until we can’t get any further. We then hoof it about 10 blocks through thigh deep water to her house. As soon as we put her key in the door we know she’s had water. It smells like poo. We quickly move furniture to the dry part of the house, then rip out carpet and padding and throw it out the window. There’s no power and no running water, so that’s about all we can do for the day and it’s getting late. We give all her frozen food to the neighbors because it’s too heavy to carry. Does anyone understand what food cooked by a 93 year old Louisiana native tastes like? I felt like I was sinning when I reluctantly handed it over. I should also add that her fudge is so incredibly delicious that some people ate it with poo-y fingers and it was indeed carried 10 blocks through floodwater in a Styrofoam container. I will never tell who ate the poo fudge. It wasn’t me.
Friday, August 31: We return home, so we can meet the a/c man. As I’m getting out of the car, my phone rings with a Kentucky number. It’s a stranger saying they found Kentucky muthas wallet at Sams. Apparently they watched her drive off with it on the roof of her car. I have no clue how they got my number, but we coordinate the return of the wallet.
Air conditioning is the Goddess of Everything. It’s 85 inside when we get here, so not great but bearable. Some of the muthas who evacuated to Baton Rouge want to come home, but they have no power. They’re coming here. We are so exhausted by this point that I’m staring at the microwave trying to feed people and I can’t even figure out what buttons to press. I just keep staring. I’m doing weird things, like texting people and then putting the phone to my ear while I wait for them to answer. At first I silently wonder if I’m getting Alzheimers, but then everyone else confesses they are doing the same thing.
Saturday, September 1: The last group leaves here, and I start cleaning up the frat house. Everything is sticky. There are almost as many leaves inside my house as outside. Blankets are everywhere, pictures are askew, kids have scribbled with markers on my desk. The baby has no shoes. I’ve left all my condiments and liquor somewhere else. We need to go to the grocery and start getting back to normal. I put my kids to bed at 7:15. I realize I haven’t spoken to big darling in five days. I cuddle with him on the couch and suddenly feel like I have the flu. I’m asleep in about 15 minutes; I miss all of the movie. I wake up and realize I didn’t have the flu, I was only exhausted.
Sunday, September 2: I travel to LaPlace to my best friend’s house. I’ve known her since we were four. We danced in a recital together dressed like monkeys and pigs. She is a teacher. She bought a new house 20 days ago. Her flood insurance was to kick in on day 30. She had inches of water everywhere, just enough to require all new floors and sheetrock. Did I mention she's a teacher? We walk in circles and she mostly cries. I boss them around for a couple hours, then can’t figure out what else to do without more labor. In desperation, she calls the priest at church and he sends people over. I leave. I come home and bathe the stink off of me. Dear Diary....what a crazy week this has been.
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