There’s a children’s book called “Hazel’s Amazing Mother” about this small raccoon that always ends up in a pickle and right when it looks like there’s no hope, her mother swoops in and saves the day at the last minute.
Even though the daughter raccoon is far from home, she would cry, "Mother, I need you," and mother would be there.
Hazel’s Amazing Mother was my amazing mother’s favorite children’s book to read to us, and for very good reason: she is Hazel’s amazing mother. I’d like to say that after 27 years, I wouldn’t need to cry “Mother, I need you!” anymore — I mean, most of my classmates from high school are mothers themselves — but I do.
And My Amazing Mother still swoops in to save the day. Her amazing feats used to be physical things. Somehow, even though her office was on the other side of the Mississippi River, she would find a way to leave work and come home to deliver homework and school projects to us that we had left sprawled out on the living room floor.
She would drag my brother, Franklin, and our father to support our gymnastics and jump rope careers. She even took off work to be the school mom chaperone at the Louisiana state fair, a field trip our class looked forward to every year.
The fair was a blast; you could eat your weight in elephant ears, listen to authentic Cajun music and see the world’s ugliest dog.
They also had a hula-hoop contest.
My mom, a teacher, was stuck chaperoning the token “bad kids” in the grade. As if putting them all together in a group would make them behave or something.
“Oh, you’re a teacher?” my mom was asked when she showed up for chaperone mom duty.
“Yes.”
“You can have this group.”
So, there was my mom, chaperoning a group of kids that her daughters weren’t even in, and they were the bad kids and they were acting up at the fair.
“Just sit down and watch the hula hoop contest!” my mother told them. “Sit down and behave!”
Right then, they asked for kid volunteers to enter the contest. My mother urged them to all enter, because then she could keep an eye on them all at the same time.
“Enter the contest everyone!” she said. “If they had an adult group competing, I’d definitely enter!”
“CALLING ALL ADULTS NOW!” the announcer said, as the kid group finished.
All the bad kids pointed at my mom and said, “You said you’d do it!”
Without blinking an eye, My Amazing Mother said “Yes! I’m going!” and all the kids kept their eyes on her and she WON. THE. CONTEST. !!!!!!!
My twin sister, Joy, and I were not in the bad group and we stumbled upon the stage and looked up and there was our mom, out-hula hoping the rest of the adults and all the bad kids clapping and cheering. We felt so cool. Jenny’s Amazing Mother.
Other amazing feats during elementary school? Mom would tirelessly drive us around New Orleans, because our friends always lived in other parts of town, and she would have no problem picking everyone up for a Friday night sleepover.
One time, Jenny’s amazing mother became our friend’s amazing mother, and, not to be dramatic or anything, but kind of saved her life.
She was our childhood friend, one of the handful of 20+ year friends we still keep in touch with, and my mom remembers when she would drop us off for tea parties at her house when we were in elementary school.
She was asthmatic and always had an inhaler with her just in case. (We used to all use it and pass it around; I didn’t see what the big fuss was about. It just felt like cold air.)
So, her mom went out of town when we were in high school and she was spending the week at our other longtime friend’s house, and that friend lived all the way uptown and lived with her not-so-amazing-father.
That rainy Wednesday night, our friend had an asthma attack and found her inhaler empty. She panicked.
She was all the way in uptown New Orleans, a good half hour away from my house and it was pouring down rain, like New Orleans pouring down rain.
Who did she call for help?
Jenny’s Amazing mother.
My mother ran to the K&B down the street (awww I miss K&B) and pleaded with the pharmacist, who she knew.
My daughter’s friend is having an asthma attack, and her inhaler is empty and her mother is out of town. Can you fill it?
Because he knew my mom so well, and because it was New Orleans, and in New Orleans, you always help people’s mamma and dem, he filled it.
My mother drove all the way uptown with prescription in hand to deliver the medicine to our friend in the pouring rain. It was amazing.
Now that I’m older, my mom provides more advice-type amazement. She and my dad navigated through the complicated college application and student loan process and has used her influence to land her children jobs.
She flew me back from Spain for a job interview when I studied abroad and has used frequent flier miles to fly me back to New Orleans countless times.
My Amazing Mother has been quite the miracle worker at airports, now that I mention it.
I was plagued by a missing bag fairy, and when my bag got lost from New York to South Carolina, my mother spent hours on the phone and even drove to the airport to track it down. Ask her about the process of missing baggage at airports, I dare you. (All the unclaimed or lost bags go to a big warehouse in Atlanta.)
She saved my favorite blue jeans. Jenny’s Amazing Mother.
The most adult help was when she helped me and Joy buy a house. And then spent hours on the phone with our sleazy broker to get us re-financed.
Jenny’s Amazing mother.
What I find the most amazing about My Amazing Mother is that her life continues to surprise me and Joy.
(Oh, yea, she’s also Joy’s amazing mother. And my brother Franklin’s amazing mother. But enough about them.)
Joy and I lived with my mom's best friend from childhood for a wonderful summer in New York, and heard all kinds of stories about our mom from her former life.
She lived in the French quarter and would meet sailors at bars and take them home to teach them how to juggle with fruit.
She single-handedly got rid of the curfew in the dorms at Syracuse University. She used to sleep in caves in Ibiza, Spain for crying out loud!
My mom has twin brothers, so it’s not surprising that she has twins of her own. She said she used to paint my toenails when we were little to tell us apart.
And she subscribed to Twins Magazine (Yes! Twins Magazine! I told someone pregnant with twins at brunch about it!) and she recalls all these tips from the magazine about being the parent of a “multiple.”
One really cute twins tip — that I tell people who ask about me about being a twin — is to teach an older sibling (in this case, Franklin, who is a “single” and 18 months older than us) to tell people how old we are.
It’s a common question, you see, after the aww look twins! is How old are they?? And then Franklin can come in and say in his high-pitched two-year-old voice, “They are six months!” even though he has no idea what six months means.
“Oh, and aren’t you just the cutest little boy!!!” people would then say, and BOOM! Instant attention for Franklin. It’s genius.
One of my recent blog entries was about being a twin, and all the silly twin questions we get and how people confuse us and how it’s an integral part of our beings.
(Seriously, when I hear about twins not being friends, I feel bad for them.)
My Amazing Mother read the blog entry, and being the supportive mother and friend she is, submitted it to Twins Magazine. I do some freelance writing, but this is a national magazine! Big time!
I got an email from the editor saying they would love to print it and it came out this month, and I have added it to my resume.
It never would have happened without my Amazing Mother.
I am thankful everyday.
Happy Mother’s day mom!!!!
-Jenny
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Day dream
It’s easy to dream of a “perfect day” where time, money and transportation aren’t factors.
(If that were that case, I would be lounging on a beach in Morocco or zip lining through the Amazon. Or buying clothes in Tokyo---I wouldn’t have to get pants hemmed there!!!)
But, as far as thinking of a dream “average” day?
Howard Stern would be just starting to interview a celebrity when I'd get in the car, and I’d have the whole 40-minute drive to work to hear it, uninterrupted.
I wouldn’t forget my cell phone on my bed.
18-wheelers wouldn’t drive up my ass or wave to me through their tall, tiny window on the long stretch of interstate I drive everyday.
(Have you ever looked in your rearview mirror and seen a MACK truck inches from your bumper? Imagine Dionne in Clueless, and Murray’s face.)
My office would send out a mass email: “Hello, wonderful workers. We have decided to switch out our coffee maker with a Chai tea pot. Take as much as you want.”
My email inbox at work would be filled with “thank you” emails: “Thanks for taking the time to write that article,” people would say. “I’m sure you stayed up very, very late before deadline to get that in and I appreciate it. You’re a star!”
(This hardly ever happens. People only email me when they are mad about something printed in the paper. Such as, “For the record, you got about 50 percent of what said accurate. At least the quote was correct and not taken out of context.”)
Lunchtime would be at my favorite soup place near my work. When I arrive, they would not have run out of any of their soup specials (it’s a crapshoot) and the servers would be on task and I’d eat within a reasonable amount of time (another crapshoot).
I wouldn’t get stuck waiting on a train to get through town. I’d get to read the daily newspaper without sections missing…ahem ad reps.
I wouldn’t have crazy people coming to the office to talk to me about government conspiracies.
Sir, raising taxes is unfortunate, but I wouldn’t call it a conspiracy. You would? Ok, well, I’ll look into this right away.
No one would email me at work for one full hour. My inbox is always stuck at 40 unread messages no matter how many I read and respond to. (They never stop. Sometimes I have nightmares about drowning in them.)
I’d go to the gym and not have to watch FOX News when I’m on the treadmill. Someone would say, one time, that they aren’t watching both TVs, and I’d get to switch one to the Food Network.
I’d come home to find the house clean, the lawn mowed and the fridge stocked with imported beer. There would be no bills in the mail.
I thought about this “dream day” as I drove to work this morning. And you know what? I wasn’t harassed by 18-wheelers! In fact, everyone was driving very, very well (a shocker in South Carolina.)
Howard Stern was interviewing Michelle "Bombshell" McGee of swastika homewrecker fame right as I got into the car. (She said she didn’t realize Jesse James was married to Sandra Bullock when they had an affair. And what about that swastika tattoo? "It's just a small one." She nuts.)
When I got to work today, I was floored by an actual thank you email. It was even more meaningful because it was about something that was a huge pain to get in the paper. You’d think sending a press release and photo by email would be easy.
“Ma’am, you need to send us a photo with a larger resolution ….you don’t know what that means? Ask your grandson.” The article was finally printed in today's paper.
The morning email from her said,
“Hey Jenny precious girl....THANK YOU SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO MUCH! I fully expect to sell all our tickets as the result of that article.”
Precious girl! I like it. I forwarded the email to my boyfriend, so he’d know how cute people think I am. Haha.
No, really, I did.
It’s not even noon, but I feel like Ice Cube: “Today was a good day.”
Maybe I’ll give the soup place another try.
-Jenny
(If that were that case, I would be lounging on a beach in Morocco or zip lining through the Amazon. Or buying clothes in Tokyo---I wouldn’t have to get pants hemmed there!!!)
But, as far as thinking of a dream “average” day?
Howard Stern would be just starting to interview a celebrity when I'd get in the car, and I’d have the whole 40-minute drive to work to hear it, uninterrupted.
I wouldn’t forget my cell phone on my bed.
18-wheelers wouldn’t drive up my ass or wave to me through their tall, tiny window on the long stretch of interstate I drive everyday.
(Have you ever looked in your rearview mirror and seen a MACK truck inches from your bumper? Imagine Dionne in Clueless, and Murray’s face.)
My office would send out a mass email: “Hello, wonderful workers. We have decided to switch out our coffee maker with a Chai tea pot. Take as much as you want.”
My email inbox at work would be filled with “thank you” emails: “Thanks for taking the time to write that article,” people would say. “I’m sure you stayed up very, very late before deadline to get that in and I appreciate it. You’re a star!”
(This hardly ever happens. People only email me when they are mad about something printed in the paper. Such as, “For the record, you got about 50 percent of what said accurate. At least the quote was correct and not taken out of context.”)
Lunchtime would be at my favorite soup place near my work. When I arrive, they would not have run out of any of their soup specials (it’s a crapshoot) and the servers would be on task and I’d eat within a reasonable amount of time (another crapshoot).
I wouldn’t get stuck waiting on a train to get through town. I’d get to read the daily newspaper without sections missing…ahem ad reps.
I wouldn’t have crazy people coming to the office to talk to me about government conspiracies.
Sir, raising taxes is unfortunate, but I wouldn’t call it a conspiracy. You would? Ok, well, I’ll look into this right away.
No one would email me at work for one full hour. My inbox is always stuck at 40 unread messages no matter how many I read and respond to. (They never stop. Sometimes I have nightmares about drowning in them.)
I’d go to the gym and not have to watch FOX News when I’m on the treadmill. Someone would say, one time, that they aren’t watching both TVs, and I’d get to switch one to the Food Network.
I’d come home to find the house clean, the lawn mowed and the fridge stocked with imported beer. There would be no bills in the mail.
I thought about this “dream day” as I drove to work this morning. And you know what? I wasn’t harassed by 18-wheelers! In fact, everyone was driving very, very well (a shocker in South Carolina.)
Howard Stern was interviewing Michelle "Bombshell" McGee of swastika homewrecker fame right as I got into the car. (She said she didn’t realize Jesse James was married to Sandra Bullock when they had an affair. And what about that swastika tattoo? "It's just a small one." She nuts.)
When I got to work today, I was floored by an actual thank you email. It was even more meaningful because it was about something that was a huge pain to get in the paper. You’d think sending a press release and photo by email would be easy.
“Ma’am, you need to send us a photo with a larger resolution ….you don’t know what that means? Ask your grandson.” The article was finally printed in today's paper.
The morning email from her said,
“Hey Jenny precious girl....THANK YOU SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO MUCH! I fully expect to sell all our tickets as the result of that article.”
Precious girl! I like it. I forwarded the email to my boyfriend, so he’d know how cute people think I am. Haha.
No, really, I did.
It’s not even noon, but I feel like Ice Cube: “Today was a good day.”
Maybe I’ll give the soup place another try.
-Jenny
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Barbie and the LBD
My twin sister, Joy, and I used to buy Barbie comic books.
Yes! Barbie! She had her own series! (Lots of pink ink).
Her superpowers?
Oh, just being able to accessorize a little black dress to several different events throughout the day so she's perfectly appropriate.
Oh, I’m serious. It was fascinating.
Barbie — tall, thin, perfect blonde hair— wakes up in her dream mansion and looks at her day planner in the morning.
She had “work 9 – 5” all day (where does she work? No one knows. But it is a fancy office.) And then she had a “business lunch – 12:30” (About what? No one knows.) and a “dinner date with Ken – 7”.
That Barbie is busy!!
What am I supposed to wear to do all those things in one day? Barbie questions. It was quite the crisis. She looked in her large closet for ideas.
She pulls out a classic little black dress and hangs it up in front of her.
Maybe I can wear this dress all day and accessorize it! Barbie reasons. More digging in the closet.
All I need is a scarf, a fitted blazer and a pearl necklace! (The necklace was the accessory for her date with Ken. Hahahaha. Mom, don’t ask.)
So then you see Barbie at her different events and see how perfect the scarf, blazer and necklace work.
The cartoon ended with Barbie and Ken at dinner at a fancy restaurant and Ken compliments Barbie on her outfit.
“Oh, you have NO IDEA!” Barbie laughs and Ken doesn’t get it, but that’s OK. Barbie’s major stress in life is how to accessorize her LBD (little black dress).
And Ken is perfect.
However, other times, Barbie has to solve a problem, like WHY SHE WAS NOT PLAYING WELL IN A TENNIS TOURNAMENT.
Barbie is playing against a nemesis (it’s always a brunette…hehehe nice) and Barbie suspects her of rigging the tournament. Barbie, the sleuth!
I’m not playing right! Barbie told Ken, in her cute tennis outfit during a break. Something doesn’t feel right!
She kept missing all the balls hit to her. That wasn’t like Barbie at all.
Ken scratches his head and shrugs, and Barbie says she has to go to the bathroom. As she walks into the locker room, at that exact moment, she sees the nemesis brunette placing a small magnet inside the tennis ball.
“This way, the ball will always go towards Barbie’s ankle tennis bracelet!” The brunette said and her friends all laugh.
My tennis bracelet! Barbie looks down at her delicate, shiny bling. I’ll show her!
Barbie promptly removes her tennis bracelet and goes out to win the tournament!
“Good job, Barbie!” Ken says, as the brunette nemesis scowls nearby. “How did you do it?”
“Oh, I took something off that was weighing me down!” Barbie said, or something perfect like that.
See, girls, it’s not always about accessories!
Yesterday was national comic book day. The comic book store owner that we interviewed for our paper never mentioned Barbie comics. I’m actually not even sure if they still make them.
The interview was all about “Superman” and “Archie” and…Shrek (shrek??) comic books. That's all people want to hear about.
Is it because saving Gotham City is more interesting than planning out the fastest route through the mall?
My dad and brother used to buy and collect comic books regularly and some are still sitting in boxes in my parents’ house in New Orleans.
When Joy and I went with them to the comic book store, we would always run to the Barbie comic book section, flipping through any we hadn’t read already. We bought them with our allowance.
“You know when you read them, the value goes down!” our brother said. He kept his in a nice, sealed plastic sleeve.
“But, how would we know what it’s about?” we said. “How would we know how it ends?”
Would Barbie find her friends after being separated in a haunted house?
Will she have a successful BBQ?
And what about that missing poodle?
These are things we needed to know.
Barbie didn’t go around saving people (only cats in trees) and she didn’t rid the world of nuclear annihilation.
Her feats were very ordinary, very realistic and...you know, I actually do think that having a successful BBQ is a talent. Superman would never have made lemonade.
-Jenny
Yes! Barbie! She had her own series! (Lots of pink ink).
Her superpowers?
Oh, just being able to accessorize a little black dress to several different events throughout the day so she's perfectly appropriate.
Oh, I’m serious. It was fascinating.
Barbie — tall, thin, perfect blonde hair— wakes up in her dream mansion and looks at her day planner in the morning.
She had “work 9 – 5” all day (where does she work? No one knows. But it is a fancy office.) And then she had a “business lunch – 12:30” (About what? No one knows.) and a “dinner date with Ken – 7”.
That Barbie is busy!!
What am I supposed to wear to do all those things in one day? Barbie questions. It was quite the crisis. She looked in her large closet for ideas.
She pulls out a classic little black dress and hangs it up in front of her.
Maybe I can wear this dress all day and accessorize it! Barbie reasons. More digging in the closet.
All I need is a scarf, a fitted blazer and a pearl necklace! (The necklace was the accessory for her date with Ken. Hahahaha. Mom, don’t ask.)
So then you see Barbie at her different events and see how perfect the scarf, blazer and necklace work.
The cartoon ended with Barbie and Ken at dinner at a fancy restaurant and Ken compliments Barbie on her outfit.
“Oh, you have NO IDEA!” Barbie laughs and Ken doesn’t get it, but that’s OK. Barbie’s major stress in life is how to accessorize her LBD (little black dress).
And Ken is perfect.
However, other times, Barbie has to solve a problem, like WHY SHE WAS NOT PLAYING WELL IN A TENNIS TOURNAMENT.
Barbie is playing against a nemesis (it’s always a brunette…hehehe nice) and Barbie suspects her of rigging the tournament. Barbie, the sleuth!
I’m not playing right! Barbie told Ken, in her cute tennis outfit during a break. Something doesn’t feel right!
She kept missing all the balls hit to her. That wasn’t like Barbie at all.
Ken scratches his head and shrugs, and Barbie says she has to go to the bathroom. As she walks into the locker room, at that exact moment, she sees the nemesis brunette placing a small magnet inside the tennis ball.
“This way, the ball will always go towards Barbie’s ankle tennis bracelet!” The brunette said and her friends all laugh.
My tennis bracelet! Barbie looks down at her delicate, shiny bling. I’ll show her!
Barbie promptly removes her tennis bracelet and goes out to win the tournament!
“Good job, Barbie!” Ken says, as the brunette nemesis scowls nearby. “How did you do it?”
“Oh, I took something off that was weighing me down!” Barbie said, or something perfect like that.
See, girls, it’s not always about accessories!
Yesterday was national comic book day. The comic book store owner that we interviewed for our paper never mentioned Barbie comics. I’m actually not even sure if they still make them.
The interview was all about “Superman” and “Archie” and…Shrek (shrek??) comic books. That's all people want to hear about.
Is it because saving Gotham City is more interesting than planning out the fastest route through the mall?
My dad and brother used to buy and collect comic books regularly and some are still sitting in boxes in my parents’ house in New Orleans.
When Joy and I went with them to the comic book store, we would always run to the Barbie comic book section, flipping through any we hadn’t read already. We bought them with our allowance.
“You know when you read them, the value goes down!” our brother said. He kept his in a nice, sealed plastic sleeve.
“But, how would we know what it’s about?” we said. “How would we know how it ends?”
Would Barbie find her friends after being separated in a haunted house?
Will she have a successful BBQ?
And what about that missing poodle?
These are things we needed to know.
Barbie didn’t go around saving people (only cats in trees) and she didn’t rid the world of nuclear annihilation.
Her feats were very ordinary, very realistic and...you know, I actually do think that having a successful BBQ is a talent. Superman would never have made lemonade.
-Jenny
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Happy thoughts
Sometimes when I’m getting yelled at, or feeling annoyed, or really hungover, I’ll access the happy thoughts portion of my brain to keep me sane.
I’ll vividly remember eating boiled crawfish on a beautiful Saturday afternoon in New Orleans while I return an angry phone call from my desk in South Carolina.
I’ll remember how PERFECT the weather was at my recent birthday park party while I wait on hold for the electric company, again, to figure out why we haven’t gotten a bill for the third month in a row.
I’ll even go as far as to dream about sitting on my couch watching bad reality TV with a bowl of Kraft Mac and Cheese to ease my mind while I go to the eye doctor.
Yet, like gym music, happy memories can lose their effect after a while.
Sure, there are some “go-to” happy memories — like laying out on the beach with a juicy celebrity magazine, or remembering the look on my horrible former boss’ face when I told her, “I quit!!!!! OH YES I DO! I QUIT, QUIT, QUIT!”
While those are particularly happy memories, I find I need a fresh, regular supply in order to continue to function.
I’ll forget the exact feeling of older happy memories, and less-than-vivid thoughts don't always get me through an all-nighter at work. Or cheer me up when I check my account balance.
Thankfully, I got more than my share of new, happy memories this past weekend at Jazz Fest. They're gonna sail me right through spring.
It was just a perfect, perfect weekend back home, even with torrential rain, a 12-hour drive to get there and daily hangovers.
I spent the entire weekend with my boyfriend, who is fortunate enough to live in the city, and we danced OUR FACES OFF to true New Orleans music — during the day, at night and well into the early morning hours.
A large percentage of my happy memories involve dancing to live music, you see. And the bands we saw during Jazz Fest were just perfect. Can I say that again? Perfect? Ok, once more. PERFECT!
For me, happy memories that involve dancing are even better when the memory includes someone else to dance with.
All weekend long we fast-danced, slow-danced, Zydeco-danced and I even danced on a bench against the wall to better see the bands play. My boyfriend kept holding my hand and dancing in front of me.
All that dancing went right into the happy memory vault in my brain, locked away with that time I caught a ridiculous fly ball in kickball and the day I graduated college.
Another happy Jazz Fest memory was spending time with my brother, who I only see a few times a year.
He’s in the movie business and pointed out actor Steve Zahn from the TV show Treme at the bar we were at.
He was just sitting by a doorway tapping his foot to the music. A celebrity! I tried to check out what he was drinking.
“I’ve never seen Treme,” I pouted, as I looked at the actor without recognizing him. Damn HBO for being so effing expensive!
“Well, he was also in the movie, ‘You’ve Got Mail,’” My brother said.
“Ooooooh, reeeeeaalllllly???”
Even though Steve Zahn didn’t excite me as much as, say, Justin Long “the Mac Guy,” I placed the memory of checking out a celebrity at an awesome bar in New Orleans into the happy memory vault as well.
I made some surprising happy memories at the George Clinton and the Parliament Funkadelic show during Jazz Fest, seeing as it was pouring down rain pretty much the whole time.
I made new friends among the umbrellas and raincoats — Monty and Bill — a gay couple that welcomed me into their seating area without judging me for being at the festival alone.
I hadn’t planned to go to Friday’s festival alone, but a torrential downpour and the possibility of hail and tornadoes scared my friends away. Wusses.
I, for one, would not be deterred. Of all the bands playing all three days, the ones I was most excited to see were George Clinton and the Black Crows — come hell or high water!!!
As I was waiting for the show to start, I made a reference to a movie called PCU to the strangers sitting next to me because George Clinton had made an appearance in it. Monty and Bill said they knew exactly what movie I was talking about and started quoting it. We became instant festival friends.
Monty, Bill and I watched the hour-long George Clinton show together, pointing at people falling in the mud, clapping and cheering when the rain subsided and wondering aloud exactly how old George Clinton is.
It didn't matter than we were dirty, smelly and soaking wet. It was much more fun than being alone. Happy memory vault check.
Give these happy legs a bath STAT!
That Sunday — the one day I skipped the festival due to exhaustion and my throbbing calves from all the dancing — I met up with my dear friend Tatiana, who I have known since I was 7 years old and who has a wonderfully fascinating life in the French Quarter.
Tatiana lives in a beautiful brick apartment on Royal Street where her grandfather used to live, and I’m fully convinced that if the apartment could talk, it would beam with pride at the number of musicians, artists and pot luck dinners found within.
Tatiana’s house has become a makeshift hostel for musicians from all over the world, and she fully embraces each person’s talent, spirit and life experiences. Inside the house there's swing dancing, authentic New Orleans music from 1940s and postcards from all over the world.
It just so happened that on that Sunday, the French Quarter musicians threw a “Tatiana appreciation party” on Royal Street and set up instruments, food and wine outside her apartment, playing music and singing a capella.
There was Tatiana — my best friend — being celebrated for being such a wonderful person and it was wonderful to witness.
We caught up with one another as I drank a screwdriver in the street, people on bicycles peddling up and giving her hugs and kisses.
Happy memory vault check.
The last happy memory before I returned to South Carolina was a makeshift early Mother’s Day dinner we had Sunday night, since my brother, twin sister, Joy, and I were all in town at exactly the same time.
My dad grilled steak — using the same recipe we ate growing up — and we sat on the back porch in the mild weather eating and drinking wine.
My boyfriend came, too, and even he had a good time hanging with my family. What a trooper.
I put these new memories to use right away. They were exactly what I needed to focus on during the 12-hour drive home Monday. With a wine hangover.
Work today has been rough, with 105 emails I've accumulated in my four-day absence and 8 voicemails that needed immediate attention.
I sat at my desk this afternoon, SAD. Sad that I had no crawfish for lunch, sad to no longer be in New Orleans, and exhausted from yesterday’s drive.
Then I started remembering things. And immediately started to feel better.
-Jenny
I’ll vividly remember eating boiled crawfish on a beautiful Saturday afternoon in New Orleans while I return an angry phone call from my desk in South Carolina.
I’ll remember how PERFECT the weather was at my recent birthday park party while I wait on hold for the electric company, again, to figure out why we haven’t gotten a bill for the third month in a row.
I’ll even go as far as to dream about sitting on my couch watching bad reality TV with a bowl of Kraft Mac and Cheese to ease my mind while I go to the eye doctor.
Yet, like gym music, happy memories can lose their effect after a while.
Sure, there are some “go-to” happy memories — like laying out on the beach with a juicy celebrity magazine, or remembering the look on my horrible former boss’ face when I told her, “I quit!!!!! OH YES I DO! I QUIT, QUIT, QUIT!”
While those are particularly happy memories, I find I need a fresh, regular supply in order to continue to function.
I’ll forget the exact feeling of older happy memories, and less-than-vivid thoughts don't always get me through an all-nighter at work. Or cheer me up when I check my account balance.
Thankfully, I got more than my share of new, happy memories this past weekend at Jazz Fest. They're gonna sail me right through spring.
It was just a perfect, perfect weekend back home, even with torrential rain, a 12-hour drive to get there and daily hangovers.
I spent the entire weekend with my boyfriend, who is fortunate enough to live in the city, and we danced OUR FACES OFF to true New Orleans music — during the day, at night and well into the early morning hours.
A large percentage of my happy memories involve dancing to live music, you see. And the bands we saw during Jazz Fest were just perfect. Can I say that again? Perfect? Ok, once more. PERFECT!
For me, happy memories that involve dancing are even better when the memory includes someone else to dance with.
All weekend long we fast-danced, slow-danced, Zydeco-danced and I even danced on a bench against the wall to better see the bands play. My boyfriend kept holding my hand and dancing in front of me.
All that dancing went right into the happy memory vault in my brain, locked away with that time I caught a ridiculous fly ball in kickball and the day I graduated college.
Another happy Jazz Fest memory was spending time with my brother, who I only see a few times a year.
He’s in the movie business and pointed out actor Steve Zahn from the TV show Treme at the bar we were at.
He was just sitting by a doorway tapping his foot to the music. A celebrity! I tried to check out what he was drinking.
“I’ve never seen Treme,” I pouted, as I looked at the actor without recognizing him. Damn HBO for being so effing expensive!
“Well, he was also in the movie, ‘You’ve Got Mail,’” My brother said.
“Ooooooh, reeeeeaalllllly???”
Even though Steve Zahn didn’t excite me as much as, say, Justin Long “the Mac Guy,” I placed the memory of checking out a celebrity at an awesome bar in New Orleans into the happy memory vault as well.
I made some surprising happy memories at the George Clinton and the Parliament Funkadelic show during Jazz Fest, seeing as it was pouring down rain pretty much the whole time.
I made new friends among the umbrellas and raincoats — Monty and Bill — a gay couple that welcomed me into their seating area without judging me for being at the festival alone.
I hadn’t planned to go to Friday’s festival alone, but a torrential downpour and the possibility of hail and tornadoes scared my friends away. Wusses.
I, for one, would not be deterred. Of all the bands playing all three days, the ones I was most excited to see were George Clinton and the Black Crows — come hell or high water!!!
As I was waiting for the show to start, I made a reference to a movie called PCU to the strangers sitting next to me because George Clinton had made an appearance in it. Monty and Bill said they knew exactly what movie I was talking about and started quoting it. We became instant festival friends.
Monty, Bill and I watched the hour-long George Clinton show together, pointing at people falling in the mud, clapping and cheering when the rain subsided and wondering aloud exactly how old George Clinton is.
It didn't matter than we were dirty, smelly and soaking wet. It was much more fun than being alone. Happy memory vault check.
Give these happy legs a bath STAT!
That Sunday — the one day I skipped the festival due to exhaustion and my throbbing calves from all the dancing — I met up with my dear friend Tatiana, who I have known since I was 7 years old and who has a wonderfully fascinating life in the French Quarter.
Tatiana lives in a beautiful brick apartment on Royal Street where her grandfather used to live, and I’m fully convinced that if the apartment could talk, it would beam with pride at the number of musicians, artists and pot luck dinners found within.
Tatiana’s house has become a makeshift hostel for musicians from all over the world, and she fully embraces each person’s talent, spirit and life experiences. Inside the house there's swing dancing, authentic New Orleans music from 1940s and postcards from all over the world.
It just so happened that on that Sunday, the French Quarter musicians threw a “Tatiana appreciation party” on Royal Street and set up instruments, food and wine outside her apartment, playing music and singing a capella.
There was Tatiana — my best friend — being celebrated for being such a wonderful person and it was wonderful to witness.
We caught up with one another as I drank a screwdriver in the street, people on bicycles peddling up and giving her hugs and kisses.
Happy memory vault check.
The last happy memory before I returned to South Carolina was a makeshift early Mother’s Day dinner we had Sunday night, since my brother, twin sister, Joy, and I were all in town at exactly the same time.
My dad grilled steak — using the same recipe we ate growing up — and we sat on the back porch in the mild weather eating and drinking wine.
My boyfriend came, too, and even he had a good time hanging with my family. What a trooper.
I put these new memories to use right away. They were exactly what I needed to focus on during the 12-hour drive home Monday. With a wine hangover.
Work today has been rough, with 105 emails I've accumulated in my four-day absence and 8 voicemails that needed immediate attention.
I sat at my desk this afternoon, SAD. Sad that I had no crawfish for lunch, sad to no longer be in New Orleans, and exhausted from yesterday’s drive.
Then I started remembering things. And immediately started to feel better.
-Jenny
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Girly games on the open road
You know those statistics about the amount of time you spend doing everyday things?
Like, “The average person spends 4 days of their lives brushing their teeth! Two weeks every year pumping gas!”
And then you think, well, not at one time! Gaw!
Well, I’m going to spend an entire day—24 hours — in the car this weekend, pretty much all at one time.
It’s 12 hours to get to New Orleans from South Carolina and my twin sister, Joy, best friend, April, and I are hitting the road for Jazz Fest.
Have you ever taken a 12-hour road trip? It’s kinda fun; whatever time you leave in the a.m., that’s the time you’ll get there in the p.m.
-Leave at 8 a.m.? Arrive at 8 p.m.
-Leave at noon? Get there at midnight.
-Fall asleep in the backseat? Get there faster.
I’ve made the road trip back to New Orleans nearly 10 times in the nine years I’ve lived in South Carolina, several times with Joy and April. I’ve even done it alone.
I remember being so tired on the solo drive when I got to Atlanta that I stopped at a shopping area and bought a David Sedaris book on CD from a Barnes and Noble. The minute the first CD went in, I laughed and laughed all the way home.
Years later, when Joy and I saw David Sedaris perform, I waited in line for AN HOUR to tell him how awesome it was that his book on tape got me through the long haul.
“It was so funny!” I said, as I gave him my book to sign.
He looked at me and blinked.
“So…you like road trips?” he asked.
“Um...”
(He’s kind of an oddball)
I don’t mind road trips. I like to think I’m a good road trip companion because I’ve got stories and jokes and fun games like “I say a unisex name and you tell me if you think of a boy or a girl:”
-Casey
-Jamie
-Chris
-Cameron
-Reiley
-Taylor
-Nicky
I also like road trips with girls because we can talk about boys, which can take hours.
Once, when my friend and I were on a road trip we played a “I hate Charlie because…” game. (Charlie being her ex-boyfriend). That game lasted surprisingly long.
Another girls' road trip, we took turns picking out our favorite elements from ex-boyfriends to build the perfect man: I’d take Brad’s smile, Jason’s abs, Conner’s sense of humor, Jordan’s car…
(It was very shallow. What can I say? Men are pieces of meat. Kidding mom.)
Mom thinks the “I packed my trunk for a trip” game is a classic that will never get old, but I disagree. I think DUMP, MARRY or SCREW is much more engaging and revealing.
I promise we're not mean people. We’re just cooped up in a car for 24 hours and sometimes you need something silly to think about. Like, if you really had to dump Brad Pitt, Leonardo DiCaprio, or Matthew McConaughey. (I’d dump Brad Pitt! I swear!)
We hit the open road in T-minus 45 minutes. We’re driving through the night and won’t get to New Orleans until 6 a.m., which pretty much makes us badasses.
Ex-boyfriends, watch your backs. ;)
-Jenny
Like, “The average person spends 4 days of their lives brushing their teeth! Two weeks every year pumping gas!”
And then you think, well, not at one time! Gaw!
Well, I’m going to spend an entire day—24 hours — in the car this weekend, pretty much all at one time.
It’s 12 hours to get to New Orleans from South Carolina and my twin sister, Joy, best friend, April, and I are hitting the road for Jazz Fest.
Have you ever taken a 12-hour road trip? It’s kinda fun; whatever time you leave in the a.m., that’s the time you’ll get there in the p.m.
-Leave at 8 a.m.? Arrive at 8 p.m.
-Leave at noon? Get there at midnight.
-Fall asleep in the backseat? Get there faster.
I’ve made the road trip back to New Orleans nearly 10 times in the nine years I’ve lived in South Carolina, several times with Joy and April. I’ve even done it alone.
I remember being so tired on the solo drive when I got to Atlanta that I stopped at a shopping area and bought a David Sedaris book on CD from a Barnes and Noble. The minute the first CD went in, I laughed and laughed all the way home.
Years later, when Joy and I saw David Sedaris perform, I waited in line for AN HOUR to tell him how awesome it was that his book on tape got me through the long haul.
“It was so funny!” I said, as I gave him my book to sign.
He looked at me and blinked.
“So…you like road trips?” he asked.
“Um...”
(He’s kind of an oddball)
I don’t mind road trips. I like to think I’m a good road trip companion because I’ve got stories and jokes and fun games like “I say a unisex name and you tell me if you think of a boy or a girl:”
-Casey
-Jamie
-Chris
-Cameron
-Reiley
-Taylor
-Nicky
I also like road trips with girls because we can talk about boys, which can take hours.
Once, when my friend and I were on a road trip we played a “I hate Charlie because…” game. (Charlie being her ex-boyfriend). That game lasted surprisingly long.
Another girls' road trip, we took turns picking out our favorite elements from ex-boyfriends to build the perfect man: I’d take Brad’s smile, Jason’s abs, Conner’s sense of humor, Jordan’s car…
(It was very shallow. What can I say? Men are pieces of meat. Kidding mom.)
Mom thinks the “I packed my trunk for a trip” game is a classic that will never get old, but I disagree. I think DUMP, MARRY or SCREW is much more engaging and revealing.
I promise we're not mean people. We’re just cooped up in a car for 24 hours and sometimes you need something silly to think about. Like, if you really had to dump Brad Pitt, Leonardo DiCaprio, or Matthew McConaughey. (I’d dump Brad Pitt! I swear!)
We hit the open road in T-minus 45 minutes. We’re driving through the night and won’t get to New Orleans until 6 a.m., which pretty much makes us badasses.
Ex-boyfriends, watch your backs. ;)
-Jenny
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
The trouble with veggies
I spent last Friday cleaning out the refrigerator because the whole house smelled like something had died.
Green onions had died. They died from neglect and non-consumption, and ended their two-week life in the fridge by pulverizing themselves into a thoughtful, brownish liquid and spilling all over the bottom bin.
The green onions belonged to one of my roommates. I know this because they a.) both regularly cook and b.) are vegetarian.
Exploding vegetables is the only downside to living with vegetarians. Trust me; almost all my roommates over the past nine years have been vegetarians. The green onion episode was not my first, second, or even eighth time removing a slimy, wet bag of vegetables from the bottom drawer.
The vegetables are a welcomed addition to the fridge before they explode. They’re healthy and colorful and have uplifting phrases like “good source of…” written on their bags.
But one day — one day, friends — the vegetables will turn on you. They will turn on you and explode.
Exploded vegetables is one of the worst, most offensive smells imaginable: a layer of body odor stench permeating the house, like a bad banana that’s been sitting out in the sun for a month. In Calcutta.
There’s no discrimination. Any vegetable can go bad very quickly, as well as pasta (Beware opening that tupperware! Especially if the pasta was made with cheese...ten days ago).
The absolute worst of the worst, though, is the smell of exploded potatoes. Have you ever smelled exploded potatoes? It’s positively gag inducing. It makes dog poop smell like roses, sewage smell like apple pie. I often wonder how French fries are so delicious.
There really is no excuse for potatoes to get to the point of exploding. They warn you by sprouting these gross white polyps all over and then you’ve got two, maybe three days until the warfare.
Let’s just say your college roommate decided to put a bag of Yukon Gold potatoes on the top shelf of a dark pantry and forgot about them for a month.
You’ll wake up one day to an unusually sweet, but foul smell that could arguably rival the stench of a rotting dead body, with slow-moving flies hovering over the bag of liquid and the sticky, brown goo spilling (burning?) through the bag, forming a layer on the shelf.
Smelling potato liquid up close in order to clean it up and the mountains of brown-stained paper towels filling up stinking up the trash can is an absolute nightmare.
The only silver lining from that experience is that I now have a great plan of revenge for any enemies. It will only cost a few bucks and a month of waiting.
Once the polyps sprout, the bag will be shoved in a forgotten closet or car trunk of an unsuspecting victim. I honestly can’t think of a worse prank. I’d rather have shrimp heads, or a skunk in heat, hidden somewhere over exploded potatoes.
I could chock up the veggies going bad to forgetfulness, or (in the potato case) dumb college moves, but I think the real reason veggies turn sour is that it’s hard to buy and eat vegetables for just one.
I don’t know why, but none of my vegetarian roommates have ever consolidated their produce, and, really, who can eat an entire onion by themselves before it goes bad? Or a stalk of broccoli? Better question: who would want to??
Not only is it a lot of food to consume, but people get sick of broccoli and asparagus and cabbage and then they have an impromptu happy hour and end up eating dinner at the restaurant and then Oh! Another thing after work the next day! and the veggies never get cooked and a week later someone is breathing into her armpit as she takes liquid green onions out of the fridge. (For example).
I know how annoying it is grocery shopping for one. I get funny looks from the deli people when I ask for a quarter pound of turkey. No, not a half-pound. A quarter pound. Yes, 8 slices. Thanks.
Loaves of bread routinely end up turning moldy and hard as a rock. Gallons of milk turn to chunks. Grape tomatoes get wrinkly. Strawberries get covered with a fuzzy layer of mold. And, for some reason (see: sucker) I end up being the one throwing everything away.
This is why I hardly ever buy vegetables. The only reason I go to the produce section is to get onions (because I love onions and can, actually, eat a whole one before it goes bad) and avocados, when they are ripe and not ridiculously overpriced.
I often wonder what the inside of my fridge would look like if I lived alone. Probably just a case of diet coke, a six-pack of beer, string cheese and pre-made dinners. And eight slices of turkey and an onion.
Now I know what you’re thinking: Jenny, that’s it? That’s all that you’d keep in your fridge??
Yes. Don’t worry. I’m not counting the vodka because it belongs in the freezer. And it never explodes.
-Jenny
Green onions had died. They died from neglect and non-consumption, and ended their two-week life in the fridge by pulverizing themselves into a thoughtful, brownish liquid and spilling all over the bottom bin.
The green onions belonged to one of my roommates. I know this because they a.) both regularly cook and b.) are vegetarian.
Exploding vegetables is the only downside to living with vegetarians. Trust me; almost all my roommates over the past nine years have been vegetarians. The green onion episode was not my first, second, or even eighth time removing a slimy, wet bag of vegetables from the bottom drawer.
The vegetables are a welcomed addition to the fridge before they explode. They’re healthy and colorful and have uplifting phrases like “good source of…” written on their bags.
But one day — one day, friends — the vegetables will turn on you. They will turn on you and explode.
Exploded vegetables is one of the worst, most offensive smells imaginable: a layer of body odor stench permeating the house, like a bad banana that’s been sitting out in the sun for a month. In Calcutta.
There’s no discrimination. Any vegetable can go bad very quickly, as well as pasta (Beware opening that tupperware! Especially if the pasta was made with cheese...ten days ago).
The absolute worst of the worst, though, is the smell of exploded potatoes. Have you ever smelled exploded potatoes? It’s positively gag inducing. It makes dog poop smell like roses, sewage smell like apple pie. I often wonder how French fries are so delicious.
There really is no excuse for potatoes to get to the point of exploding. They warn you by sprouting these gross white polyps all over and then you’ve got two, maybe three days until the warfare.
Let’s just say your college roommate decided to put a bag of Yukon Gold potatoes on the top shelf of a dark pantry and forgot about them for a month.
You’ll wake up one day to an unusually sweet, but foul smell that could arguably rival the stench of a rotting dead body, with slow-moving flies hovering over the bag of liquid and the sticky, brown goo spilling (burning?) through the bag, forming a layer on the shelf.
Smelling potato liquid up close in order to clean it up and the mountains of brown-stained paper towels filling up stinking up the trash can is an absolute nightmare.
The only silver lining from that experience is that I now have a great plan of revenge for any enemies. It will only cost a few bucks and a month of waiting.
Once the polyps sprout, the bag will be shoved in a forgotten closet or car trunk of an unsuspecting victim. I honestly can’t think of a worse prank. I’d rather have shrimp heads, or a skunk in heat, hidden somewhere over exploded potatoes.
I could chock up the veggies going bad to forgetfulness, or (in the potato case) dumb college moves, but I think the real reason veggies turn sour is that it’s hard to buy and eat vegetables for just one.
I don’t know why, but none of my vegetarian roommates have ever consolidated their produce, and, really, who can eat an entire onion by themselves before it goes bad? Or a stalk of broccoli? Better question: who would want to??
Not only is it a lot of food to consume, but people get sick of broccoli and asparagus and cabbage and then they have an impromptu happy hour and end up eating dinner at the restaurant and then Oh! Another thing after work the next day! and the veggies never get cooked and a week later someone is breathing into her armpit as she takes liquid green onions out of the fridge. (For example).
I know how annoying it is grocery shopping for one. I get funny looks from the deli people when I ask for a quarter pound of turkey. No, not a half-pound. A quarter pound. Yes, 8 slices. Thanks.
Loaves of bread routinely end up turning moldy and hard as a rock. Gallons of milk turn to chunks. Grape tomatoes get wrinkly. Strawberries get covered with a fuzzy layer of mold. And, for some reason (see: sucker) I end up being the one throwing everything away.
This is why I hardly ever buy vegetables. The only reason I go to the produce section is to get onions (because I love onions and can, actually, eat a whole one before it goes bad) and avocados, when they are ripe and not ridiculously overpriced.
I often wonder what the inside of my fridge would look like if I lived alone. Probably just a case of diet coke, a six-pack of beer, string cheese and pre-made dinners. And eight slices of turkey and an onion.
Now I know what you’re thinking: Jenny, that’s it? That’s all that you’d keep in your fridge??
Yes. Don’t worry. I’m not counting the vodka because it belongs in the freezer. And it never explodes.
-Jenny
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
The grass is greener
I live on a fairly busy road, which — like hitchiking or eating Taco Bell late night — has its pros and cons.
The pros are that it’s easy to give people directions, because I live on the busy street. Yes, on it!
Four houses from the blinking light!
Also, I don’t think a burglar could easily rob us blind (knock on wood) because people who know me and my twin sister, Joy, drive down the road everyday and check out our house. Yes they do! I’ve caught them doing this!
(It’s also very hard to get a large truck discreetly in and out of our driveway to load up our things. The burglars would have to walk out into traffic and stop cars in order to pull in and out. It would be a problem.)
The cons of living on a busy road? Just your average early Saturday morning wake-up call with fire trucks, ambulances and police officers wailing down the street to cut through town.
My friend, April, spent the weekend at my house and was not pleased by the sirens, which were particularly bad last weekend. Someone must have really been caught in a pickle.
April lives in a neighborhood that is so quiet deer and foxes actually run in the road and nibble on the front lawn. The only way an emergency vehicle would drive down her street is if the neighbor at the end of the cul-de-sac had a heart attack.
Not our road! We have motorcycles! Buses! Large postal trucks! And Jehovah’s Witnesses! Actual ones on bicycles!
This older woman used to come to our door on the weekends and give us pamphlets on the dangers of prescription drug abuse.
“It’s a widespread epidemic!” she would say, week after week, asking us to choose God instead.
Our roommate at the time eventually collected the all brochures that were piled up by the door and mailed them to her friend. (She told us it was an inside joke and her friend would find the whole thing hilarious.)
Another problem with living on a busy road is that it’s easy to mistake our house for other houses. When Joy and I first moved in three years ago, we had this teeny tiny problem with a rough-looking middle school bicycle gang ringing our doorbell every night.
We’d peek through the window and ask them what they wanted, but they’d run (bike) away without saying anything.
We knew they were at least ten years younger than us, but they were bigger and they were boys and we weren’t very well going to open the door.
One day, Joy called me crying, frustrated and spooked because the bicycle gang had returned and she was home alone. She locked herself in her bathroom as a precaution.
“That’s it!” I said. It had been a week of this foolishness.
“We’re not going to be scared in our own house!”
The next day the gang came back, and I swung open the door.
“Can I help you with something?” I asked in my meanest voice. I made sure to put on heels so I’d at least be as tall as them. And I crossed my arms.
The “leader” (also the fattest, largest kid in the bunch) took a step backwards and the other three boys stared at me wide-eyed.
“Um…does a guy with a beard live here?” he asked.
“No!’ I said. “No! You have the wrong house!”
They never came back.
Getting the wrong house, or driving past our house completely, is a challenge for first-time visitors.
Our road is no place for somebody traveling 10 miles per hour looking for numerical addresses. (If you do this, you will get honked at by a bus. I’ve seen it.)
This problem has been made considerably easier by our WHO DAT flag on the front door. HOLLA!!
It would also not be wise to have a dog (or a toddler) on this busy road because if either were to get out in the front yard, it would not end pretty.
Thankfully, Joy and I are happy not have either of those right now.
On the PRO side, the busy road is nice when you order things to get shipped by mail. There’s no apartment number, no obscure street name. Any delivery driver in this town knows where our road is, no problem.
Also, since it’s a busy road, it’s a very quick drive to get anywhere: the grocery store, the pizza place, the beach, Wal Mart.
(If you need more beer, for example, you can actually buy some and be back before the commercial break is over. If you hurry).
It’s also nice living on a busy road when you throw a birthday party. Or a Memorial Day Party. Or a Labor Day Party. Or a Christmas Party. Or a Superbowl party.
This is not a neighborhood that minds a little noise (see: ambulances, buses and trucks). We have never been called out by a neighbor or had the cops called on us for loud, obnoxious dance parties on the back porch.
I mean, if we had a party on April’s back deck, we’d be joined by deer and rabbits and snakes and coyotes. And neighbors would very well complain if Lil Wayne came on the radio.
Sometimes I fall victim to The Grass is Greener mindset. Like, it would be nice to go to sleep in a quiet neighborhood and not get woken up by automotive traffic.
And those gated communities look so inviting with their gyms and their pools and their pass code that Jehovah’s witnesses don’t know!
But, then again, I like my packages delivered on time. And my late, loud parties. And I have a feeling a homeowner’s association would make us take down our WHO DAT flag. In that case, I’ll take the noise.
-Jenny
The pros are that it’s easy to give people directions, because I live on the busy street. Yes, on it!
Four houses from the blinking light!
Also, I don’t think a burglar could easily rob us blind (knock on wood) because people who know me and my twin sister, Joy, drive down the road everyday and check out our house. Yes they do! I’ve caught them doing this!
(It’s also very hard to get a large truck discreetly in and out of our driveway to load up our things. The burglars would have to walk out into traffic and stop cars in order to pull in and out. It would be a problem.)
The cons of living on a busy road? Just your average early Saturday morning wake-up call with fire trucks, ambulances and police officers wailing down the street to cut through town.
My friend, April, spent the weekend at my house and was not pleased by the sirens, which were particularly bad last weekend. Someone must have really been caught in a pickle.
April lives in a neighborhood that is so quiet deer and foxes actually run in the road and nibble on the front lawn. The only way an emergency vehicle would drive down her street is if the neighbor at the end of the cul-de-sac had a heart attack.
Not our road! We have motorcycles! Buses! Large postal trucks! And Jehovah’s Witnesses! Actual ones on bicycles!
This older woman used to come to our door on the weekends and give us pamphlets on the dangers of prescription drug abuse.
“It’s a widespread epidemic!” she would say, week after week, asking us to choose God instead.
Our roommate at the time eventually collected the all brochures that were piled up by the door and mailed them to her friend. (She told us it was an inside joke and her friend would find the whole thing hilarious.)
Another problem with living on a busy road is that it’s easy to mistake our house for other houses. When Joy and I first moved in three years ago, we had this teeny tiny problem with a rough-looking middle school bicycle gang ringing our doorbell every night.
We’d peek through the window and ask them what they wanted, but they’d run (bike) away without saying anything.
We knew they were at least ten years younger than us, but they were bigger and they were boys and we weren’t very well going to open the door.
One day, Joy called me crying, frustrated and spooked because the bicycle gang had returned and she was home alone. She locked herself in her bathroom as a precaution.
“That’s it!” I said. It had been a week of this foolishness.
“We’re not going to be scared in our own house!”
The next day the gang came back, and I swung open the door.
“Can I help you with something?” I asked in my meanest voice. I made sure to put on heels so I’d at least be as tall as them. And I crossed my arms.
The “leader” (also the fattest, largest kid in the bunch) took a step backwards and the other three boys stared at me wide-eyed.
“Um…does a guy with a beard live here?” he asked.
“No!’ I said. “No! You have the wrong house!”
They never came back.
Getting the wrong house, or driving past our house completely, is a challenge for first-time visitors.
Our road is no place for somebody traveling 10 miles per hour looking for numerical addresses. (If you do this, you will get honked at by a bus. I’ve seen it.)
This problem has been made considerably easier by our WHO DAT flag on the front door. HOLLA!!
It would also not be wise to have a dog (or a toddler) on this busy road because if either were to get out in the front yard, it would not end pretty.
Thankfully, Joy and I are happy not have either of those right now.
On the PRO side, the busy road is nice when you order things to get shipped by mail. There’s no apartment number, no obscure street name. Any delivery driver in this town knows where our road is, no problem.
Also, since it’s a busy road, it’s a very quick drive to get anywhere: the grocery store, the pizza place, the beach, Wal Mart.
(If you need more beer, for example, you can actually buy some and be back before the commercial break is over. If you hurry).
It’s also nice living on a busy road when you throw a birthday party. Or a Memorial Day Party. Or a Labor Day Party. Or a Christmas Party. Or a Superbowl party.
This is not a neighborhood that minds a little noise (see: ambulances, buses and trucks). We have never been called out by a neighbor or had the cops called on us for loud, obnoxious dance parties on the back porch.
I mean, if we had a party on April’s back deck, we’d be joined by deer and rabbits and snakes and coyotes. And neighbors would very well complain if Lil Wayne came on the radio.
Sometimes I fall victim to The Grass is Greener mindset. Like, it would be nice to go to sleep in a quiet neighborhood and not get woken up by automotive traffic.
And those gated communities look so inviting with their gyms and their pools and their pass code that Jehovah’s witnesses don’t know!
But, then again, I like my packages delivered on time. And my late, loud parties. And I have a feeling a homeowner’s association would make us take down our WHO DAT flag. In that case, I’ll take the noise.
-Jenny
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
You might like...
