Pete made fun of me because it was clear to me that the flying object we saw in the sky recently was the blimp and not “unidentified.” He really wanted it to be a UFO. Men.

But now I am starting to get a little paranoid, and it’s got me thinking. I see the blimp around the city maybe 5 times a year. And it is always due to one reason only: a festival. Thinking back to the weekend we saw this flying object, there was no festival. Hmmmm. Mysterious. AND it was raining! When is the blimp ever out in inclement weather? I didn’t think much of it at the time.

And then we DID see it for the French Quarter Fest, as we should have. So it seemed I was right. But now it should be grounded until Jazz Fest–that starts at the end of the month.

But I keep seeing this thing all around town. Let’s take today as an example. I left the house this morning and the “blimp” was overhead. It was 8:30 in the morning! On a Thursday! With no festival to fly over! Then, around 10am, it was zipping along downtown–just outside my window. VERY SUSPICIOUS. I happened to be on the phone with Pete for this particular sighting. Can it be that this damn thing is, well, FOLLOWING ME?

Then I called Pete again some hours later. And while we are on the phone, what pops into my window again but the damn blimp. Three times in one day, a day of no festival? Something is up, people. So now I am officially on the watch for it. I mean–what if it is manned by aliens? Or worse, what if it’s the GOVERNMENT? I mean, I make no bones about not being a “loyal Bushie.” Can it be Pete was right? Am I being spied on? Are my phones being tapped? Who would ever suspect the innocent and iconic blimp? It’s the PERFECT DISGUISE if you think about it (which I have).

So now I spend my time gazing at the sky. Looking far and wide. Being sure to emit the appropriate vibe when the blimp is in sight. If I mysteriously stop blogging, BE SCARED.

CS and I had dinner last night with a friend who confided that she is going through a difficult time. And I recognized something awful in her eyes: deep, raw pain. And it immediately took me to a place of reserved pain that I involuntarily hold within. I had intended not to blog about this issue of mine for various personal reasons. But last night made me rethink that decision at least a bit to discuss the issue of the universality of pain.

A week before Katrina hit, CS and I went to my gynecologist to discuss with him the fact that I’d been off birth control for over a year and had not gotten pregnant. That was the first day the “F word” was thrown out to me–we had a fertility problem. I shut down before we reached the elevator. My doctor referred us to a fertility specialist. I had previously decided that I was not one of those people who’d ever go through the hormone treatments and shots and in vitro. I didn’t want to know who had the problem–CS or me. This was the end of the line for me. I walked out of that office and into my own personal storm. Then Katrina hit and made it easy to ignore this “problem.”

Upon returning to New Orleans, my trusted gynecologist, along with countless other doctors, had relocated out of state. Not knowing what step to take, I made an appointment with the fertility doctor my gynecologist had recommended. I was not ready for this, though, and stormed out of the waiting room unable even to complete the new patient forms. What did me in? The question of whether this problem was negatively affecting my marriage. It was.

I decided I’d start over. I found a new gynecologist–one that would do the initial screening some gynecologists do prior to sending their patients off to a specialist. This felt safe. To make a very long story short, he diagnosed me as having a “T”-shaped uterus. He didn’t know what caused this deformity, other than I was born with a defunct uterus. He explained that getting pregnant would be extremely difficult and maintaining a pregnancy would be all but impossible.

My world fell apart. Completely. It was like Hurricane Katrina ravaged the insides of my body and no one knew. The fault was mine, not CS’s. My body had failed me; I had failed myself. My shock, disappointment, and pain were palpable. I could barely function. Work was the only thing I even attempted to focus on, and, I assure you, that was very difficult. Most days, it was all I could do just to get out of bed, bathe and put clothes on (and some days I failed even at this). I had never felt depression the way I felt this.

Then I was told that a relative was pregnant. And a good friend’s wife. Understandably, I did not handle this type of news well. My family was never brought in on our secret. It was way too painful to explain to them, so instead I wore a mask when I could not avoid them. A few very close friends who had had their own problems in having a child were told, and these friends became my lifeline during this very trying time. The despair was all I knew. I was upset and embarrassed and ashamed. I felt cheated and angry and at the same time deserving of this shit. I mean, wasn’t I the one that had said a decade ago that I never wanted children? Wasn’t I the one that put my education and career before settling down and having a child?

Then my gynecologist recommended that I see a specialist in New York to perform surgery to “stretch” my uterus. This was out of the question for me. It would not be covered by our insurance and I suspected it wouldn’t do any good anyway. If we were going to spend copious amounts of money (or, to state more accurately, go into serious debt) on having a child, it would be in the way of adoption–where we’d be guaranteed a child in the end. But I was struggling with the idea of adoption as well. It was my guilt in not being able to give CS “a child of his own.” I got really good at beating myself up.

Again, long story short, against the advice of my gynecologist, I made another appointment with the local fertility doctor recommended by my previous gynecologist. I wanted to know with certainty that, as I suspected, there was no hope. If, however, he agreed with my new gynecologist that surgery was a viable option, then maybe I needed to reconsider it.

At our first visit with the fertility doctor, he looked at my HSG (hysterosalpingogram) film and said this to me: “Your uterus is ‘T-ish’ shaped. It isn’t technically T-shaped. I see them regularly; this is not one.” I didn’t believe what I had heard; I couldn’t believe it; I wouldn’t believe it. Omitting the details, after 5 months of fertility treatment, I was pregnant. And it is with great relief that I can report that things have gone quite smoothly in my pregnancy.

Now, there is a LOT I can (and, in time, will) write about this whole experience. But the part that sticks in my throat, and I suspect always will, is that pain. All my heart-wrenching pain came to the surface last night when I saw that similar look of pain in my friend’s eyes. The reason for her pain may have been different, but the depth of her pain was the same. I know because once you experience pain that deeply, you can recognize it in another. It’s universal.

I know that her pain is her own, and my pain is my own. And neither of us will ever really know the dark corners of each other’s suffering. But I equally know that real pain, raw pain is universal. And I have learned that the best salve for this type of pain is the help and support of your close and trusted friends.

Well, Monday night was our first 3-hour Lamaze class. The long and the short of it is that it was BORING. My bum hurt after all that sitting and the videos weren’t scary at all. I am holding out hope that in the following weeks we will cover some topics over which I have anxiety and that the classes will give my coping mechanisms for those issues that may present themselves in Sun’s delivery.

After having my mind-numbed Monday night with the Lamaze classes, I then turned my attention Tuesday to our mind-numbing taxes. Good thing my office had no alcohol in it–by around 3pm, I’d have been doing shots. I had to finish one corporate federal return, one corporate state return, one individual federal return, one individual state return, review and file one state and one federal partnership return, and completed countless quarterly filings for two separate businesses. I lost count at, like, 14 separate filings.

I am not complaining about paying taxes. I like roads and hospitals and other such things. But surely there is an easier way for citizens to pony up their fair share. Income taxes, employment taxes, property taxes, excise taxes, sales and use taxes, franchise taxes. I mean, damn. And if you just took a little card out and slid it through some “tax machine” to determine what we each owed, I wouldn’t mind one bit. But the paperwork! Good God. I used to hate what is known as “tax season”–being that time culminating with April 15th. But with owning a small business, we are filing some type of tax return every month. Yes, April is still the mack-daddy of months. BUT IT NEVER ENDS. In less than 30 days, I’ll be doing another damn return of some type. And within these next 30 days, we have those three remaining Lamaze classes to attend.

We could just hire someone to help with all these filings. I mean, just because I CAN do it doesn’t mean I necessarily SHOULD, right? We do get help with the small business (big shoutout of thanks to Mitzi), but I know I’d be as involved in the other stuff if I did farm it out. It’s my sick nature. In fact, at one time, I did farm it out. And it got all screwed up. Well, hell, I can screw it up on my own for FREE and it’ll take about as much of my time. So I pulled it back in some years ago and now just suck it up and DEAL. But I am the first to admit that this is one day in the year you do not want to be around me. I literally stopped people from talking to me. I didn’t answer one single phone call or in any other way communicate with the world. And the world should thank me–’cause you’d be blogging about what a bitch I was if you would have talked to me. Ugh.

Southern Mom posted a response to a blog recently posted by Pontchartrain Pete. Seems SM feels she has a different view than me and Pete of the French Quarter. After having given this some thought, I’d tend to agree with her. Here’s what I think is going on.

Pete and I have many (separate) memories of partying in the Quarter back in our respective heydays. In fact, some of that partying has left us with no memory at all. SM, never having been a big drinker, was never one to get too into the party scene (although she is the reason I ever visited the Blue Crystal). She was always a great friend to go out with because by default she’d be the designated driver. Looking back, I am certain she just LOVED being the lone sober one in the group. What a good sport! No wonder she’s bitter.

SM says that she tends to notice the vomit, the drunks and the men peeing in alleys. And, understandably enough, that turns her off of the Quarter. I am afraid that for me and Pete, some of that vomit was once (and only once) ours; we were once (well, maybe more than once) those drunks. Neither of us ever peed in the alleys–but we both have been with friends that have done so. Maybe our own personal histories with the Quarter make it easier for us than SM to look beyond those flaws.

For me and Pete, going into the Quarter is like revisiting an old friend. She’s still smelly and being violated by today’s youth, but she wears it well and is happy to have us return with newfound respect for her. And we DO respect her. She’s beautiful and reliable and charming. We love her architecture and her rich history. I love that many of the buildings in the Quarter were standing when my ancestors arrived here 150 years ago and are likely to be standing in another 150 years. My father’s great grandfather was a barkeep in the Quarter over a century ago; I love that he and I have walked the same streets. Pete’s ancestors owned property in the Quarter–places that still exist today as they existed then.

Maybe it’s our guilt for having violated her in the past that makes me and Pete make amends to the Quarter by dealing with the dreadful parking and the priceyness without complaint. It’s the least we can do.

You know those experiences in your life, the ones that all but break you–but you survived and damned if you aren’t stronger for the whole thing? I’ve got my fair share of those. I’ve already posted about one of my earliest ones, but there are, oh, so many more. Most of these experiences were downright negative at the time, but some where just very scary. I don’t handle change well, good or bad, and seeing a large, looming change on the horizon can do quite the number on me. During these experiences, there always seems to be one song that I associate with the experience such that the song and the experience are completely intertwined.

Yesterday I was listening to the Indigo Girls. “Closer to Fine” is one of those songs. The experience that song recalls for me wasn’t negative at all, actually, but was very significant in my growth as an individual. I can’t hear that song and not think of that experience. Then there’s the Subdudes “Message Man” that I cried to the day after I got a rejection letter from what I knew would be my “dream job.” That letter cinched that I’d spend an extra year in school out of state getting yet another degree. It scared the bejesus out of me to think about. In the end, it was just as it should have been. I met one of my best friends that year and that schooling altered the course of my career.
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Well, folks, sometimes my life is just down right dull. And sometimes I have nothing that inspires me to blog. And sometimes my pal, Pontchartrain Pete, has more to say than me. Pete hails from my fair city, loves New Orleans at least as much as I do, and can take a much better photograph than me. We have been friends for over 15 years, and I know well enough that sometimes his stories are better than mine. So on the days that he has something “blog worthy” and I do not, fear not–he will step in and pick up the slack. Think of him as my Substitute Blogger.

He promises his blogs will NOT be about pregnancy, house pets, or sarcastic husbands (unless he’s spent time at my house). His first blog debuts today about his adventures, culinary and otherwise, at the 2007 French Quarter Festival. Check him out at www.nolanotes.com/PontchartrainPete. Hope you enjoy it!

My friend started a blog yesterday (yeay!) and poses this question to us all: “Why did you chose to blog under a pseudonym or your real name? Has it changed what you write about, or what you say?”

Here’s my answer:

I write under a pseudonym because three plus years of law school and ten plus years of practicing law makes me suspicious of many things. Plus, one very pushy lawyer friend insisted I do so. I am glad I took his advice. Anonymity works well for me regarding my employer, my clients, and my family (not necessarily in that order). The safety concerns also weigh in favor of anonymity.

What I write about is not very different because I use a pseudonym–I treat it as though the anonymity can be pierced at any time. What more influences me to monitor what I write about is that (1) being on the internet opens my writing to the general public and there are just some topics that are too private (even with anonymity); (2) blogs have no (or very little) copyright protection–so I don’t want to put my magnum opus out there “for free”; and (3) bloggers, generally, are not journalists, and as such they potentially have less protection than a journalist from the standpoint of the First Amendment–what you blog about may land you in legal trouble arguably without the defenses afforded to a journalist.

I stay away from topics I am not ready to deal with openly. If there is someone I feel I would not want to know a certain story of my life, then I don’t blog about it. This is more a test for me to gauge whether I am ready to “go public” with a story. Sometimes anonymity can make you feel more secure in telling something you otherwise wouldn’t. It can be a fine line about being really honest in a post versus discussing something that is not “blog appropriate.”

In the end, blogging means different things to different people. And for me, it isn’t about baring my entire soul. It’s about writing–writing honestly. Sometimes what I write will be quite personal and other days it will be silly, but my goal is for it always to be authentic.

That’s just my opinion. What’s yours?

That’s what the pregnancy website I visit weekly said today: “Welcome to the Third Trimester!” I am in Week 27 and am in the homestretch. These past few weeks, I have been filled with a lot of thoughts like these: “Goodbye, lazy Saturdays”; “Goodbye, personal hobbies”; “Goodbye, vacations as I know them.” The list goes on and on.

I have been in mourning about the things I will be losing by gaining a baby. And this decision was well thought out and all that. And I am sure that once Baby is here–live and in person–I really won’t have a single regret about what we chose to give up. But while she’s just bouncing around in my belly, I have time to miss my childlessness.

To make matters worse, I have been in some strange denial about the actual delivery. I keep pretending this is how it will go down: My water will break (while I am at home and will not be messy at all) and I’ll tell CS, “Well, honey, look at that. Must be time to go to the hospital.” We’ll call ahead and place an order for one cute-as-a-button little girl. We’ll then drive ever so relaxed up to the hospital’s pick-up window to retrieve our order. She’ll be all we expected and more. We’ll both smile and say thanks and then we’ll drive home with our cute little daughter–there will even be flowers thrown in along the way.
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I’ve been sick since Monday–some allergy/sinus thing that has me headachey with a sore throat. It happens whenever the weather changes by 20+ degrees overnight. Being pregnant, the only medicines I can take are Tylenol and Rubitusson DM–not much relief. Why is it when I am at work it seems I spend a lot of time daydreaming about being home and vegging on my couch, but when I am sick it feels like punishment to veg on the couch? I HATE daytime television, and was too tired to pop in a netflix movie (but not tired enough to actually get a good nap going). And for some reason, bloggers seemed to take yesterday off (of course!).

I was feeling well enough to do some work from the couch, but I didn’t plan on not going into work, so I didn’t have any files with me. So I did a whole lot of nothing yesterday. And it sucked. And has left me with nothing to blog about. Even the lazy cat didn’t want to nap with me–she actually jumped off the bed when I joined her in it and went to sleep on the chair in the den. How rude! I am really starting to get a complex about this animal. Maybe it’s my sickened mind talking, but I am beginning to question whether she likes me at all. Like I need this pressure in my life!

It makes me think of Human League’s “Don’t You Want Me” song: “I picked you out, I shook you up, and turned you around . . . . But don’t forget it’s me who put you where you are now And I can put you back down too.” She knows I want her love and attention and for that very reason she holds out on giving it to me. Damn cat. I was happy to think about going to work today just to avoid being subjected to her rejection yet again. Unfortunately, I woke up at 3am with an even more swollen throat. Now I am losing my voice. Ugh.

My love of food and cooking has led me to a new discovery on the web: BakeSpace.com. It’s a FREE website that you can join to swap recipes, chat with other cooks and bakers and do all sorts of cool things. It lets you add your own recipes and create your own cookbook from the recipes you like on their site.

I have recently transferred all of my “non-cookbook” recipes to an electronic cookbook. I did this in response to Hurricane Katrina literally washing away many friends’ cookbooks and personal recipes. From that software, I’ve printed all of these recipes and put them in a cute binder, organized into chapters–each recipe being in its own sleeve to protect against splashes while I cook. I am always adding to it.

I am hoping this website adds to my favorite recipes! It is my goal to add the recipes that I mention on my website to the database at BakeSpace.com (at least the ones that are not straight out of a cookbook).

So go check out this new find of mine and see if you don’t like it, too. If you do, we can link up as “friends” once you are registered.