Day 2 of 2008 FQF is in the bag for me. It was a fun two days, and I doubt I’ll make it back out tomorrow. This Fest has been my best yet.

It started for me the best way it could, at Napoleon House:

Isn’t their courtyard awesome?

and here’s my FAVORITE summertime cocktail, the Pimm’s Cup:

Napoleon House is gracious enough to share the recipe (click here) for this drink. I’ve tried and it’s just like the real deal (even with Crystal Light lemonade). I REALLY love this drink. It is cool and refreshing and let’s you know you are drinking alcohol but is mild enough to drink throughout a hot summer day. Yes, there will be many of these consumed by me in the coming months.

The Fest itself was really nice. The music was all fabulous, as was the food. In the two days, I ate the same two things: Tujague’s brisket with spicy horseradish sauce and Mrs. Wheat’s meat pies. I love, love, love these two items. And once I eat one of each, I am full. And very happy.

We spent much of our time in Jackson Square in a square of our own–a square of shade. We did walk to the river and see and hear what was going on there, too. We heard many bands and saw much art. Here’s artist Martin Wohlgemuth’s work set up in Pirate’s Alley (I couldn’t resist buying more from him today):

And here’s another artist in Pirate’s Alley working on a streetcar scene:

And here’s more art along the side of Jackson Square:

Here are a few sights in and around the Fest:

And a footnote on my latest obsession, absinthe. First, a pic of a cool sign for a bar that is no longer:

And some accoutrement located on a bar that now sells absinthe (again):

I like ritualistic eating, and I think I will like ritualistic drinking, too! However, I refrained from drinking it this time since Sun was with me and I didn’t want to risk seeing her with two heads or other such anomalies.

Yes, French Quarter Fest is my favorite festival of the year. And today the weather was just perfect for it. Also great were the eats and drinks and art and company of friends.

New Orleans is a very Catholic city. Here’s a little tale to show you just how Catholic it is.

CS isn’t much on religious formalities. So when he went to Liuzza’s in Mid-City a few years ago on a Friday during Lent and ordered a hamburger, it wasn’t a big deal to him. It was apparently a big deal to the restaurant. When he said, “I’ll have a burger,” a collective hush of the crowd ensued. The waitress responded, “No; we won’t serve a hamburger to you today.” “Okaay,” CS responded, “Then I’ll have a shrimp po boy.” With CS’s soul protected and undefiled, the diners and wait staff breathed a sigh of relief and resumed normal activities.

Belle, SoMo and I are going to Liuzza’s tomorrow. It’s okay to order a hamburger since it will be Thursday. But I am thinking I will play it safe and order shrimp remoulade. Oh, and a beer served in a frosty fish bowl glass.

co·in·ci·dence /koʊˈɪnsɪdəns/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation(koh-in-si-duh ns) –noun

syn·chro·nic·i·ty (sĭng’krə-nĭs’ĭ-tē, sĭn’-) -noun

1. The state or fact of being synchronous or simultaneous;
synchronism.
2. Coincidence of events that seem to be meaningfully related,
conceived in Jungian theory as an explanatory principle on the
same order as causality.

* * * * *

I was watching a murder mystery show the other day and one of the detectives said about clues, “I don’t believe in coincidence.” And that got me thinking. Do I, really, believe in coincidence? In synchronicity?

This past Monday and Tuesday, I posted about a senior partner that died over five years ago. He isn’t mentioned much at my firm these days. Wednesday, while at the office, one of the attorneys I work with brought him up—he’d gotten a piece of mail addressed to the deceased partner on Tuesday.

Or the day of the deceased partner’s funeral, when I was stuck recalling to the IRS how I had calculated this crazy tax loss deduction for a client and after eight hours of not recalling it or being able to get my math to work, I asked the deceased partner to give me the answer and within minutes the answer came.

Or post-Katrina when I needed a new OB/GYN (mine fled to Atlanta never to return) and I found myself in my favorite knitting store and was introduced to Dr. Socks, an OB/GYN. I saw this as a sign. I became a patient of Dr. Socks, and it was the biggest mistake of my life. Or was it? He misdiagnosed me (or the radiologist did and my doc didn’t actually look at the films himself to realize the radiologist was wrong) and sent me down a spiral I wish I never see the depths of again. But that led me to the fertility specialist that gave me Sun.

Or the first date I had with Captain Sarcastic. He saw Hunter Thompson’s “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” on my bookcase and asked me to marry him. I said no. Two years later he’d ask again and I’d say yes.

Or the night I slept with a lesbian and got pregnant.

As a student of law, you learn to look for the “but for” in strings of events. As a genealogist, you look for things to ring a bell: a name on a gravestone, a date on a ship’s log. As someone who is logical and methodical, I tend to look for threads. But, to be honest, as I get older I tend not to give meaning to coincidences. I tend to be of the persuasion that if you look for some “deeper meaning,” some “sign,” you’ll usually think you see it. But that doesn’t give things independent meaning. Sometimes two roads intersecting are just two roads intersecting and not a sign to take a turn.

And I also think that believing in synchronicity discounts a person’s ability to discern. Like that dead partner giving me the answer? A miracle? Or just me finally giving my mind a rest from the stresses of that crazy week for me to refocus and see things clearly? Or my journey with getting to the fertility doctor? I’d already been referred to that doctor and even been to his office but I hadn’t been ready to accept that I had an “infertility problem.” By the time I had dealt with the aftermath of Katrina and the debacle of Dr. Socks, I was in a different mental and emotional state. I was ready to be rational and seek help for a physical problem. CS asking me to marry him on our first date? Frankly, it creeped me out and made me think he was a bit desperate. But I liked that he at least liked HST and I kept an open mind about him. Me sleeping with a lesbian and getting pregnant? Well, that one really is just a coincidence as I’d had an in utero insemination earlier that day. Don’t get worked up—we shared a bed, not sex, at an out of town conference. But.

But what do you feel? Do you believe in coincidence or synchronicity? If so, what’s the coincidence that convinced you they have meaning? If not, why not? Post about it and leave a link to your post here with Mr. Linky so we can all read about it. Don’t let me hear the crickets on this one! I’m really curious.

Wendy previously described how her Wednesdays are bat shit crazy.  I have to agree with her.  Wednesday mornings arrive like a freight train–fast and rumbling.

I always oversleep and JUMP out of bed realizing I have no more than 30 minutes to get out the house.  I shower at night, so at least that task is not in the picture.  Breakfast is always the first casualty.  CS gets Sun dressed for the day.  And I scramble to get everything else ready. 

I need to get food straight.  I make Sun’s baby food; this is not done on Wednesday mornings; I just need to mix things together and throw a banana in the bag for Wendy to mash in with her food.  That child has an odd fascination with the banana.  Then I’ve got to get my lunch packed–usually leftovers or a sandwich. 

Then I’ve got to get my wallet and cell phone and whatnots out of the baby bag and into my purse.  I don’t like carrying the big bulky baby bag to work as my purse (I use the bag as a purse on days I have Sun).  Why?  Well, for one reason, my effing parking car is in my purse and I’d forget to move it to the baby bag on Wednesdays.  And the parking lot gets fussy if you keep forgetting it.  And I can’t leave the card in the car because I am in CS’s car on Mondays and Fridays.  And I don’t want to use the baby bag as my purse all the time because, well, that’s just weird.

So, once my purse is squared away, I need to be sure the baby bag is stocked–diapers, bottles, formula.  And that my briefcase is ready–including new items that need to go into it for the day.

And in between all this, I need to get dressed and put my make-up on.  I am lucky when my shoes match (they haven’t always).

And EVERY WEEK something gets left out.  Either I forget to pack new formula for Wendy or Sun’s baby food or my lunch.  Last week?  I forgot the banana.  At dinner at the end of the day when the two families meet for us to get Sun, CS was a bit snippy about me forgetting that damn banana.  I finallly snapped at him all “I drink your milkshake”-like (yes, I quoted “There Will Be Blood”–that is my favorite new movie line and use it every chance I get). 

Today?  My cell phone.  In my mind’s eye, I can see it sitting on my counter plugged in to the charger, with the little light glowing green showing it is fully charged. 

But even with the frenzy, or maybe because of it, I LOVE Wednesdays.  I always feel a part of something bigger than just little ole me.  It’s a lot of moving parts coming together (mostly) perfectly.  And its adrenaline rush is intoxicating.

Plus, I get to talk to Sun for a bit of my commute–she babbles, “blalalala,” and I pepper it with questions like, “So then what did you dream?”

And once I drop her off, I have about 30 minutes of unadulterated radio time.  And my latest fix is Bonerama’s “Bringing it Home” CD that I bought from a certain merch chick (thanks for the recommendation, Stacey, I LOVE the CD!) this past Saturday night.

Yes; Wednesdays are bat shit crazy.  And I love every minute of them. 

When I started blogging just over a year ago, I had little expectations of what it’d give me. I began for one purpose: to exercise my writing muscle. From that perspective, I have met my goal.

But something happened along the way. I found that I began to look at the things that I do in my day-to-day world through a NOLA lens. I’d think, can I find this store (be it Nor-Joe’s or Angelo Brocato’s) or this event (like Mardi Gras and City Park’s Storyland) anywhere else? Usually, the answer was no. And I took on an even higher appreciation of my city.

That was all fine and good. But the next thing I knew things had taken a turn, a turn had you told me it’d have taken I would never have begun blogging. Had you said, “you will start to meet other bloggers,” I would have been turned off. I am not one to “meet someone through the internet.” And I could never have envisioned me wanting to meet other bloggers in “the real world.”

Never say never, right?

Last night, we took Sun to my cousin’s, and CS, Pete and I headed to Rock ‘n’ Bowl to see Bonerama and meet fellow NOLA bloggers Stacey and Leigh (and Leigh’s husband, Dan).

When we arrived, we realized the folly of our plan: Pete and I don’t post pictures of ourselves and we have only seen very small pics of Stacey and Leigh. We thought we’d spot Stacey straight off selling Bone merch, but we didn’t. Finally, I worked up my nerve to approach a woman and ask, “Are you Leigh?” And she hugged me. Then we all had a good laugh about maybe bloggers needing a secret handshake or something. Then Stacey walked in with the merch and everyone was introduced and spent time talking like normal folks.

Then the band started. How do I describe Bonerama? To begin with, they are a trombone band. Four trombones, a sousaphone, guitar and drums. Their first song lasted 20 minutes. I thought that’d about do them in—all that blowing. But oh, no; they were just getting warmed up. Their collective sound is really unlike anything I’ve ever heard before: it’s smooth and silky; it’s jazzy and energetic; it’s polished and refined.

Then they played Led Zepplin’s “The Ocean.” I swear one of the trombones “sang” the lyrics. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. I am not musically inclined and will not be able to do justice to what my ears heard and my eyes saw. What I can say is that I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I couldn’t believe that it had been since before Katrina that I’d heard live music (I know–from NOLA and not seeing live music could get me deported).

They also looked really good:

And now that you can’t smoke where food is served, Rock ‘n’ Bowl’s smoke-free environment was just a delight. It was liking seeing an old friend. She was mostly unscathed by Katrina and looked like she always looked–funky and very un-self-conscious.

I hope that this is the first of many Bonerama gigs I attend with other NOLA bloggers. So, thanks, blogosphere, for a truly unexpected gift.

We are in Austin for a business trip for my husband. I intended to take in the sights and have a mini-vacation. But I am feeling sickly and having an eight-month old afoot has made those visions dissipate. But the inside of my hotel room is top-notch!

Although I did have dinner with Captain Sarcastic’s peeps last night. And included in that number was one celebrity among certain circles (circles including CS’s peeps). And guess whose table this celebrity sat at? Yup, mine. This celebrity is totally cool and hip and, oh, yeah, HOT! And in the course of the evening, I mentioned that I was a tax attorney. You know, trying to impress him with my smarts. Except that late into the dinner, he inquired about my work as a taxidermist. Oh. My. God.

I mean, I know I am talking about flirting. With my husband sitting right next to me. But we have an open marriage. Did I ever mention this to you before? Well, it’s not that open. But it’s open enough to allow for pretend boyfriends (and girlfriends and crushes).

Anywho, realizing that even my pretend flirting was bombing, I can still say that I had quite an enjoyable evening. I even learned who Flaco Jiménez is.  This morning I awoke to a sore throat. It seems I am being punished for my impure thoughts.

Instant karma is a bitch.

All,

I was happily wearing my blue wig (generously donated to me by Southern Mom two years ago) all day Saturday. During Endymion, she was getting a bit loose, and before I knew it, she was off my head. So as not to be K screaming, “who took my wig? They’re NOT throwing them from the float!” I grabbed the head sock thingy and my wig and admitted defeat. DAMN.

I turned to CS aghast. My hair was slicked back and stuck–it’d been socked too many hours and I didn’t have a brush. CS could see my situation and lovingly and without hesitation offered me his knitted cap and traded for Ms. Blue Wig. Wow! To complete the ensemble, I gave him the pink boa I’d just caught off a float. All was well in the world. Endymion riders threw like it was the end of the world and everyone was happy. Did I mention CS had drank a bottle and a half of wine by himself by this point?

The parade ended, and we all go back to our friend’s house. CS, again, graciously and selflessly loaded the car with pots and beads and coats and ice chests and, oh, Ms. Blue Wig. We gave the pink boa to a friend visiting from D.C. I am sure that boa has stories to tell!!

Then Monday rolled around and we were heading out to Orpheus. And I realized Ms. Blue Wig was <gasp> MISSING!!!! ohmygod! This was awful! I searched my car and trunk, called Pete to see if it was in his truck–he’d driven our BBQ pit to and from the parade route, and called friends to see if it was with them (which I was adamant it WAS NOT). No one had seen her. ALAS. I didn’t even want to wear her for Orpheus, but the thought that she was GONE from my Mardi Gras experience was too sad to contemplate.

So ALL NIGHT, people, I BADGERED CS and scowled at him and would not let it go (yeah, you know me and know what I’m talkin’ ’bout). So FIRST thing when we get home, I’m all, “so, where’s my wig???” And CS is all, “it’s with my coat–I haven’t seen it since Saturday night either, and I am sure it is here. CHILL OUT.” Then moments later with a smothered chuckle he says, “oh, well, here’s my coat.” Of course, NO MS. BLUE WIG!!! Dammit.

Now I am good and angry. So, of course, I’m all, “well, go check my car again.” I am now working in my head a sad eulogy for Ms. Blue Wig. He’s outside for three long minutes and finally comes inside with a Sav-a-Center bag and says, “Apologize.” Ms. Blue Wig was safe and sound and not even too tangled!!! So I willingly apologized–and called him all kinds of heroic and endearing names! But that wasn’t enough. He, deservingly, wants a PUBLIC APOLOGY–not only to those who witnessed my scathing treatment of him, but also to EVERYONE on the parade route tonight. Well, that I could not do.

So this will have to do: CS, I apologize. I truly thought Ms. Blue Wig was gone. And you never lost faith. I am humbled by your strength and ability to put up with my pestering. You are a good man. Indeed.

To those of you who know Ms. Blue Wig, you will of course rejoice with this GLORIOUS NEWS!!

HAPPY MARDI GRAS!!!!!!

-Nola (and Ms. Blue Wig)

Note: This was originally an e-mail sent on 19 February 2007.

In love, we all know there are no rules. That’d make it too easy to understand.

I’ve blogged in the past about how certain music pulls me back to a memory or a segment of my life. U2’s “Achtung Baby” album certainly has that effect. I am drawn to listen to it. Its slow beats; its echoing pain; its lilting melodies. I became a fan of Daniel Lanois through my days of being a groupie fan of Big Sun. It no longer surprises me that Lanois was one of the producers on “Achtung Baby.” The ephemeral quality of that album is his mark.

Back when I was listening to Achtung Baby, I was in my final year of college, falling in and out of love with a guy I knew from grammar school. That one relationship, aside from my marriage, is one that most helps define who I am today. And in the background of that relationship, U2 and Bob Marley played.

It was Ben that taught me to think critically and independently, to question authority and things I took for granted as constants. He also taught me that in the end we are alone and have to find strength from within first.

He’s who I got peace from when I lost my job and thought the world was falling away from me. When everyone else was aghast and feeling sorry for me (including myself) it was Ben that said into the phone to me from Japan, “You hated that job. They did you a favor! Things get set straight.” Things get set straight. I’ve come back to that bit of advice time and again.

He’s the one that said, “I like your apartment. I really see you in it,” and made me realize that I had opinions about the art (or lack thereof) on my walls and the furniture I chose, even secondhand. He’s the one that introduced me to the works of Milan Kundera and Nietzsche, writings that literally changed my life. He’s the reason I read Tolstoy’s “Anna Karenina.” I’ve forgiven him this last thing.

Ben broke my heart not less than three times. And in the end, I made him tell me it wasn’t me that he wanted and promise to stick to that. To stop coming back to me because I’d always take him back. And he did, and he’s kept his promise. Rejection is a powerful thing. And it can cause the harboring of all sorts of negative feelings. In this case, there is none of that. I am nothing but grateful to Ben. He gave me the keys that in turn have given my life more meaning. And sometimes it’s the not getting what we want that makes us grow.

We are now both married (I truly like his wife and he sincerely likes CS, and the spouses both like each of us), and we have remained good friends. He has a daughter six months older than Sun. We now talk about diapers and daycare and the future of our children.

The feelings I have for Ben will always be strong. And I give CS a lot of credit for understanding this love I have for Ben and being a strong enough man to know that that love doesn’t threaten my love for CS. That that love is part of who I am, is part of what CS loves about me. Take it away, and I lose a bit of my soul.

I can only hope that Sun has a Ben, heart breaks and all, in her life. Before she meets her CS. I just hope that unlike me, she shares her time of great self-growth and maturation with her mother.

Sun looks a lot like her father. That’s really an understatement–she looks EXACTLY like her father. The shape of her face, her eyes, her dimples, her hair color, even her eyelashes. And everyone tells me so. LIKE I DON’T KNOW!

The other day CS and I attended a funeral, and the widow turned to me and said, “Your little girl is beautiful! But you know she looks just like her father.” To which I replied, “Oh, yes, I know, but she has my nose.” To which she replied, “No, she even has his nose.” Hrumpf.

So I’ve given Sun a good hard look. And this is what I see that is mine: her nose (even though at least one widow disagrees with me on this one), her fingertips (but not the rest of her fingers or hands) and every other, yes, not all, of her toes. And I got the even numbered ones, so that means only the second and fourth toes on each foot. And the fourth ones are borderline.

My husband talks in his sleep.  Often, it is things like, “Tell Bob I’ll call him back when I am off the phone with the distributor,” as if he’s going about his normal day-to-day affairs at work.  Does he really dream about returning business calls?

Early on in my discovery of his talking in his sleep, I was reading in bed and he was asleep.  He opened his eyes (they looked very red and dull) and he said, “You put glue in my eyes.”  He sounded like a petulant child with a heavy tongue.  I didn’t understand what he said so I asked him to repeat it.  He did, several times as he rubbed his eyes.  Then I realized what was happening, I chuckled and told him, “Oh, you will find this quite funny in the morning.”  He gave me a glare then rolled over and went to another dream.

Last night as I crawled into bed where he was already sleeping, he looked at me with his red-dull eyes and asked, “Which age?”  Of course, he had his splint in his mouth so I wasn’t sure what he asked and I got him to repeat it a couple of times.  Finally, I asked, “Do you mean how old?”  He responded, “Yes, how old?”  I asked, “How old is what?”  His answer back, “How old. . . cookies.”

Now, I am still not sure of what I heard.  But I guarantee there are no cookies in my house older than a week.  I don’t buy cookies or keep them around.  Maybe he was thinking of the school cookies we recently bought from a friend’s daughter that stay frozen until you cook them.  But even they are only a week old.

I did what I always do: I chuckled.  But this time I added, “Oh, I am SO blogging that.”  Maybe if it wasn’t NaBloPoMo I’d have skipped this story, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.