Zella is the senior animal in our zoo. She is our 10 year old german shepherd. She’s HUGE, weighing in at around 130 lbs (she’s lost weight in the last year). Her jaw is bigger than my head. Captain Sarcastic already had her when we met. Having never been around large animals, it took quite a long while for me to learn to trust her. But once I did learn to trust her, I found I loved her, too. Deep down, she’s a complete sweetie pie. She doesn’t listen very well, but makes up for that by being very well behaved (she doesn’t jump on people or bark at the mailman or chase other dogs) with one general exception, Lucy.

Lucy is our four year old blue heeler. She is a bundle of energy. We got Lucy because I thought Zella would enjoy a little sister. Shows you what I knew about dogs! They DO get along, but Zella is jealous of all things Lucy. So if Lucy has a toy, Zella wants THAT toy. And Lucy KNOWS this. So Lucy will run around with a toy in her mouth and get Zella to chase her. If Zella is lucky enough to capture the toy, she holds it in her mouth for all of 30 seconds then places it on the ground . . . which Lucy promptly steals. Then it starts over. All this time, Zella is whining, er, I mean barking her big ole head off to no avail.

Zella is the laid back dog. Think Joe Cool. Lucy is the guy you want at your party (until you don’t). The lamp shade will end up on her head before the night is over. She’s gregarious and playful, a seeker of approval, and easy to forgive. But, Lucy is not as well behaved as Zella (though she does tend to listen better). She jumps on everyone, barks at all strangers, and whimpers pathetically to get her way. Here’s a picture we took of her at the Bridge Bar Benefit 2005 (it was a costume thingy for dogs benefiting the local SPCA; Lucy didn’t come close to winning. This Willie Nelson, as memory serves, stole the show. He even had a little guitar strapped around him!)

Having been with CS for almost 9 years, we have plenty of pet stories. Some hysterical, some (physically) painful, some sad. I am sure they will find their way to this website.

Three animals live with us. Two dogs and one cat. The cat lives indoors (ala Babe) and has “outside privileges,” whereas the dogs stay outdoors and have “inside privileges.”

Before I was married, I had a cat that loved no one but me. Although she did come to stand Captain Sarcastic and he did come to love her, that cat’s love for me was a jealous love. It was great! Then she died, and CS and I bought a shop and I decided it needed a shop kitty. And I remembered that a friend at work had a cat he and his wife had been caring for in their neighborhood and for whom they’d been attempting to locate a permanent home. She became the shop kitty.

She’s a bit of a small cat, but very street wise. She’s a tortoiseshell with three colors–black, cream and a touch of white on her tail. The black and cream colors form a straight line down her nose–thus, while living on the streets, a six year old dubbed her “One.” And we are told that her previous owner (just prior to living on the streets) called her “Sassafras.” This woman was not the cat’s first owner. So there is at least one other name that she’s been called.

When we agreed to take her, I began to think of new names. As much as I hate changing an animal’s name, I really did not like the names One or Sassafras. Sassafras in particular irked me. What kind of name is this for a cat? In New Orleans, you get a lot of pets with names like Dixie and Gumbo and the like. This was in the same vein–Sassafras is the plant from which file powder is made–the thickening agent for gumbo. She was no Sassafras. So we decided on “Gonzo” ala Hunter Thompson. But that never really took. Then a customer came into the shop, saw her and screeched, “Petina!” “Do you know her?” we asked. She did not–but to her, this was a Petina if ever she’d seen one. We vetoed Petina to stay with One.

But being small, I started to call her Peanut as a nickname. Then she got sick and we had to take her to the vet. When I called to make the appointment, they asked her name. I froze. Sassafras, One, Gonzo, Petina, Peanut. Who is she? I blurted out Peanut. How stupid is Peanut for the name of a cat? How unoriginal! But Peanut she’s become. For us. In the end, it seems to me that a cat who has at least five names really has no name at all. I mean, maybe she herself knows her real name, and that’ll have to do for us.

Why the moniker “Captain Sarcastic”? Here are two events that happened in just one day. You tell me if I am being too harsh.

Just before getting pregnant, another couple we are friends with invited us to join them on a cruise they were taking with several other friends. Immediately, an old wives’ tale popped into my head: if you want to get pregnant, plan a vacation. You are sure to be pregnant and have it mess up your plans. At this stage in our trials of trying to get pregnant, I was willing to go for it. And if we were not pregnant (which is what I suspected would be the case), then, hell, I’d want a vacation. Our friends were surprised we so willingly agreed. What I didn’t think about was the possibility of actually being newly pregnant and on a ship. That turned out to be a bit of a bummer. But that’s another story.

Our friend’s aunt and father drove all of us to the dock. On the way, Captain Sarcastic looks to Mr. Benny (the father) and says, “Knock, knock.” Mr. Benny cordially asks, “Whose there?” Captain Sarcastic answers, “Nola’s pregnant.”

Then, once we are all settled on the ship, we met on the Lido Deck for drinks. This was the first moment since being pregnant that I longed for alcohol. Everyone in our group had a refreshing cocktail with fruit sticking out. I admit I even told the gang, “you know, you are a lot more fun when I’m drinking.” So as I sat moping, Captain Sarcastic leans in and kisses me! This is most unusual, indeed! A public display of affection? For no reason? All kinds of warm fuzzies rush through my mind. Seconds later, however, Captain Sarcastic says to me, “I had to. The camera was on us.” Then he looks up, and I follow his eyes behind me to the deck above. Sure enough, there was a camera crew locked on us.

The ship does these little films of the cruise for the passengers to buy. That night at dinner, one of our friends told us they’d seen us on t.v. When we got back to our room, we turned the t.v. to the channel showing the recurring feed of this video. And there we were with Captain Sarcastic looking oh, so romantic for what I dubbed the “fake kiss.” We did not buy the video.

Granted, these may not be the best examples of sarcasm. But I think you get my point.

Something weird happened at the chiropractor. No, I don’t mean “inappropriate touching” weird. The doctor asked me the general questions a new doctor asks: what meds am I on, what is the name of my husband, how far along is the baby. Then he asked if we had a name picked yet. I said we did, thinking he was just being polite. He asked what it was. I told him, and he confirmed the spelling. Then he wrote her name down in my chart. In ink. I saw it. He’s the first of anyone other than the occasional friend or family member who’s written her name as HER NAME. And then as he was massaging my right buttock (oh, it hurt so good!), he asked how Sun was doing. She was fine (albeit a bit active). But I was overcome. “Sun.” Sun. She wasn’t just our little “thing” anymore. She now had her own identity. An identity shared with a stranger.

Since that visit to the chiropractor, there’s been a shift with me. I am no longer “growing a baby” (as my OB tells me); rather, I am Sun’s exclusive home for the next four months. It is no longer about me but about her. I get to keep her all to myself for only four short months more (back pain and all) and then she’ll belong all to herself. She’ll be just “Sun.”

Over the weekend, I had very little problems with my back aching. And then Monday, it flared up again. It actually hurt pretty bad–bad enough that I left work early to get horizontal. The yoga and hot bath did very little to help–this was the first time I really could get no relief. Then I woke up Tuesday morning and thought I had a dart in my back–below my waist, on my right side. And from the dart emanated a sharp shooting pain down to the back of my knee whenever I took a step or turned or sat or stood or whatever. This was really bad. I got to work and bent over to get creamer out of the refrigerator when the electronic dart hit me again. I sucked in my breath and involuntarily dropped an expletive, a bad expletive, THE bad expletive. The ladies in the room stopped talking and turned to see what was wrong with me. I apologized profusely. I curse far more than I should, but I usually am in control of what words come out of my mouth and when. I decided right then I’d better call my doctor. This was not what I’d been dealing with to date.
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Being pregnant means worrying about the future. That’s what I do best. Every now and then, though, I am shot down from worrying about the future by being depressed about the past. I am not one to dwell on the negative things that have already passed–not when times a wasting on future things to worry about.

But lately, I’ve been reminded that “we’re all terminal.” Maybe these thoughts have been in part a result of us deciding to name our daughter after my dead grandmothers. Or maybe it’s because I deal with death as a part of my job. But I know that the real reason is a dear friend is dying of cancer. She was diagnosed in October–about 3 weeks before I got pregnant. She was told (I know because I was with her in the doctor’s office) that the cancer was probably minor and that she’d have the “aggravation” of chemotherapy for about eight months and then make a full recovery. By the time I had learned I was pregnant, she was already in the hospital dealing with a greatly enlarged spleen. It’s been a very bumpy road from that point. It seems that now the doctor is just working on getting her strong enough to be able to move out of state to be with her son. To die.
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Captain Sarcastic came home with a Wii about two months ago. This is a man thing–video games, I mean. We had an X-Box. I say “had” because Captain Sarcastic decided to “mod it” by soldering its motherboard. Not only did he FRY it, its guts were exposed forever thereafter. That was the first time I knew of that Captain Sarcastic ever attempted something, failed, and gave up. That was two years ago. Before it was fried, I had enjoyed watching the boys play Halo (gotta love that flashlight!). But I personally could not play it. I was one of those people that got dizzy just trying to make my guy walk straight. The only game I could play was Frogger Beyond. At the end of each level, however, it had a more difficult task you’d need to accomplish to move forward. For that task, I’d have to call in Captain Sarcastic to be my “closer” because I was too uncoordinated to accomplish it.
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Friday evening, I had a pleasant dinner with my friend, Pete, and his sister and parents. As I was driving the family back to Pete’s sister’s apartment, Pete announced that he’d heard on the radio that Vincent Pastore of “The Sopranos” was to be the king of the St. Joseph’s Day parade the following day. He had told me this earlier in the day, and I knew we were on tricky territory. Sure enough, Momma Pete asks, “You mean Pussy?” And Poppa Pete says, “Big Pussy.” Okay, folks. That’s two pussies so far. My knuckles were getting white around the steering wheel. Pete confirms, “Yes, Big Pussy; although the radio announcer was too much of a pussy to say it on the radio.” Four, if you are keeping count; I was.

To be clear, Pete’s parents are not some cool hipsters but are fine, upstanding people, people that are apparently also fans of “The Sopranos.” This is as uncomfortable a conversation as if it were with my own parents.

After a moment of calm, Momma Pete says to sis, “If Dad’s not back by five, we can go to mass then see Pussy.” That did it. I had to REALLY FOCUS on not crashing my car. I muttered under my breath, “That’s two words I never thought I’d hear together in the same sentence.” “Pardon?” asked Momma Pete. I couldn’t repeat myself. But Pete did. I don’t think any one but Pete knew what I meant. Thank God.

Pete informed me later that his parents and sister did go to mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral followed by the parade and that Momma Pete was elated to have caught a pair of beads “directly from Big Pussy.” Welcome to New Orleans.

St.Patrick’s Day is fast approaching. In New Orleans, there are several parades celebrating the day–there are two in New Orleans, two in Metairie (well, the second is Italian-Irish), plus the big block party at Parasol’s in addition to the Italian-American St. Joseph’s Day Parade. I’ve always done the first Metairie parade and never any of the other events. That’s just the way it worked out for me.

With my grandfather living half a block from the Metairie parade route, it’s the thing we do. What stands out about the Metairie St. Paddy’s day parade is that it is the antithesis of a glitzy New Orleans Mardi Gras parade. First, it’s more family oriented than Mardi Gras. But that’s being kind. It starts with the very cheesy marching clubs–men and women. A piece of advice: DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT lest you end up with a cold sore. Okay, so after a good 45 minutes of that (with blaring “Irish” songs ala “Come on Eileen”) preceeding each club, it then shifts to the floats and trucks. Do not attempt to follow the numbering of these two–they interchange. So you’ll get “1F” for the first float, then “2F”, then maybe “1T” for the first truck, then back to “3F” for another float. I don’t understand why they don’t just number ‘em all in order or else have the floats followed by the trucks. I think it must be an Irish (read alcoholic) thing. And forget about marching bands. There is not a single one in this parade.

Now let’s take a moment to talk about these floats and trucks. Three words: Mardi Gras leftovers. It is so apparent that these floats were Mardi Gras floats. At best, they tack on a good shamrock. Most don’t. Most look for a float with some green in it then attempt to come up with an Irish theme that fits the float. They do a very poor job at this. For example, there was one float with the words “Flying Trapeze” written on the float. It had a trapeze artist (with green pants) at the front of the float. The name of the float? “The Flying Irish.” What is this suppose to mean?? Sometimes, if the float has enough green on it, they don’t even attempt to come up with a name. I suppose they think we’ll be wowed by the color alone. Thus, the “Monsters, Inc.” float went by with its green monsters and no name.

Now to the throws. At Mardi Gras, you look for the luscious long beads–a medallion is an extra point; a medallion special for that parade, two extra points; a medallion for just one float in a parade, three extra points; blinky beads, 4 extra points. Then you have doubloons and cups and (the newest great catch) huggies (or as they say elsewhere, koozies), and boas; this can be a very long list. This year, I caught GLASS BEADS–they were way cool. The weirdest throws I ever got came straight from Anne Rice’s hand (of course, she was in a hearse)–a plastic plate with her face on it that she had signed in gold ink and a gold squeaky rat. The rat still sits near my home computer.

That’s Mardi Gras. Leave all those conceptions behind as you step to the curb of the St. Patrick’s Day parade. For beads and stuffed animals, it’s a similar theme here, too: recycled Mardi Gras loot (minus most things purple–not all things purple, mind you, because some of the riders are too lazy and/or too cheap to pull those out). You are sure to catch a Tucks medallion (isn’t he Irish?) and an Endymion one too. One way you can be sure these are used beads is that they leave glitter on your neck from being in such a deteriorated state. If I see a shamrock on it, I’ll actually go for it. My aunt caught this really suggestive bead with “hairy” garlics on it. That was quite the prize.

But what St. Paddy’s Day throws are really about is one thing: FOOD. I don’t know if this is the case for other St. Paddy’s Day parades, but in Metairie, it’s about Irish stew. The idea is that from the throws of food, you should be able to make Irish stew when you get home. Thus, you need to be sure to catch enough of the following: cabbage (that’s the easy one–you’ll have 5 more than you need by the end of the parade); potatoes, onions, carrots, and garlic. This year, none of us caught any garlic. Big bummer. But we did catch bananas. Explain that! Those crazy Irish! We also caught Laffy Taffy, Zapp’s potato chips, gum, and Irish Spring soap, too.

Now, I know I’ve been pretty hard on this parade. Please don’t get me wrong. I LOVE IT!!! Its cheapness is really a lot of fun. And come on–FOOD for throws!! This is GREAT!! Every year I bust it out to catch what I need not to make Irish stew but rather stuffed cabbage rolls. I make this dish once a year and only with veggies caught from the parade (well, except those, like that pesky garlic, I am not lucky enough to catch). Plus, green beer and bag pipes (though not technically Irish) and the Shady Ladies and the Jefferson Parish Buzzards! It is always the same. I love its predictability. Plus, when I see a cabbage fly through the air (although, like the Zulu coconuts, they are not suppose to throw them anymore), I am always reminded of my grandmother chasing down a float to have a rider hand her a cabbage. In her heyday, she’d catch by herself in cabbage what the rest of us would catch together.

This year was just like all the rest. No surprises. Just tradition. And this week, we’ll enjoy the cabbage rolls just like always. God bless St. Patrick.

When I told my parents we were expecting our first baby, my mother offered me her crib and dresser. These pieces had been used by my mother, her two siblings, and all five of my mother’s children (and even some of her grandchildren). I was very excited to get them–I hadn’t thought about them at all. The dresser was especially cute–it was white and had those fuzzy decals in the shapes of bunnies on it.

We went to my parents’ for Christmas, and after dinner, we all climbed into my parents’ attic to check out the loot. Their attic is immaculate, so it was easy to notice a highchair, too! My mother had forgotten she had it, and offered it as well. So the men lugged down the highchair and dresser. We reluctantly passed on the crib–apparently it is instant death to put a baby in one that old these days. The highchair is wooden and stained and is in pretty good shape. The dresser had last been in the hands of my brother. He’d stripped off the paint (and adorable decals) to redo it. Once he started to paint it, it wasn’t going well, and he decided to scratch the idea and buy new stuff. So looking at the dresser was a bit of a let down–but its good bones were still apparent.
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