New Orleans

Steve and I were in New Orleans this weekend.

We were lucky that Steve's schedule allowed him the time off this weekend so we took advantage of that to go to New Orleans to visit with our parents.

I apologize to any of you who read the site and have emailed me in the last few months and said, "Call me when you're in town and we'll get together."

We were only in for two full days and between Steve's 4 siblings, parents and my family we were kept busy the entire time.

The last time we visited was Mardi Gras so we didn't do a lot of hanging out with either of our parents so on this visit we made it a point to hang out with our parents.

Some exciting news from home: my parents are getting there house shored by this guy. For those of you not familiar with this process, a bunch of guys dig a trench around your house, dig tunnels under your house and then jack the whole thing up with a pneumatic jack.

I called my parents on Tuesday to let them know we'd be in town and to ask them if we could stay at Casa Martinez. The said, "Sure! We'd love to have you!"

So, we show up late Friday night and as we're moving around the house on Saturday morning my mom says, "Oh, by the way, they cut the gas lines so there's no hot water."

Steve is still hoping his scared testicles will someday descend as currently he thinks they might be hiding somewhere near his liver.

I personally didn't find the water to be that cold.

Yes, at first my nipples could have cut glass but after a while your body kind of adjusts to the cold and you can almost convince yourself that the water is scalding.

It was a lot like camping on a primitve site only with a nice comfy mattress at night.

In other family news: the real reason we visited New Orleans last weekend.

Steve's mom is scheduled to have knee surgery today. Anne is an active senior, but once you're in your 70s surgery is always a risky thing. The last news we heard the surgery went well and she was in recovery.

I love home: I love my mom and dad, I love my in-laws, I love The Swamp Room Burgers and beignets, but there's nothing drawing me home.

Sure, my parents are there but if I were home I would stop being me and go back to Melissa - child, daughter.

I once told a former co-worker that I don't live near my parents because they'd always be calling me to handle stuff. She looked at me contemplatively and then said, "I can see that. You're very capable."

When I say "handle stuff" I don't mean helping them by picking up their dry cleaning or buying a gallon of milk on the way to their house. I mean I think they'd call me to say, "Melissa, your father hasn't handled _____________, I need you to (handle it, talk to him, convince him it's his idea . . . )" Or, "Melissa we need reservations at XX hotel, can you call them and make them?"

Now look, English is a second language for my parents but my mom manages to function at the store and with her English-as-a-primary-language friends and employers and my dad speaks English fairly fluently so it's not like I'm hanging them out to dry.

Then there's my brother. C, you know I love you but in a weird way I think your crazy competitive side would come out if I moved home.

Shortly after my divorce I told C that I was interviewing for a job in LA and his immediate response was, "No, you can't move home . . . " in this sort of horrified whine.

I think that while mom and dad might bug him as much as they would bug me, he sort of enjoys being their go-to child.

He can have it.

In AL I just get to be Melissa - homeowner, wife, co-worker, cycling class attendee and most importantly: adult.

Living in a Cube, Cube World

I'd say in a given week I probably only do about fifteen minutes of real, actual, work.

Office Space, 1999

I work in an environment where the only people with offices are managers. Fine, whatever, they get to make the hard decisions so they deserve walls that go all the way up to the ceiling and a door that shuts. The rest of us are in cubicles.

Take a look at this site and you'll get an idea of what it's like at the bank.

DON'T GO PASSED THE HOME PAGE.

You'll see some text that says "Or Create a Corporate Labyrinth One Cube at a Time," and then the camera will slowly pan out to give you an expansive look at what my floor at the bank looks like.

As you can see there isn't a lot of privacy and sadly we do not get to choose our neighbors. I currently sit next to a woman who would fill (or overfill) Dolores Umbridge's shoes quite nicely.

Aside from her condescending tone I am blessed with the fact that this woman does not know how the phone works.

She is so loud that I recently turned to a co-worker and said, "Jesus! What . . . does she think she's using tin cans and string?"

Which led to some emails between a co-worker of mine that started with me writing:

Tin Cans and String - that is so going to be the name of my first album.

E replied: Oooh, tell me it's going to be some pissed-off, spoken word shit.

From there E and I started writing "poetry" for said album.

I came up with:

Your voice accosts me.
The listener is helpless:
Until you are stabbed.

E's contribution?

Lotus Blossoms

Ding Dang haunts my dreams
cramped in smoky rooms she sounds
pop, pop, click, ping pong.

EA

Genius.

Thanks E for making my days at the bank a little more bearable.

BFF

If you asked me who my close friends were in high school I'd say Janine and Nicole. If you asked me who my best friend was I'd say Janine.

Some of that was proximity (She lived closer to me and for at least three years we were in the same Spanish class.) and part of it came down to similiarities (We are both Hispanic, similar economic backgrounds, similar sense of humor.)

I was digging through some old boxes recently and came across a notebook that we kept when we were freshman. I don't really know how our system worked, but it looks like I started it and then maybe we passed it off to one another in the halls between classes.

It's a 60 page Lisa Frank notebook and from the looks of it we filled it up in like a month.

I think we devised this plan because we could:

1.) Write in it in class and still look like we were doing classwork, and
2.) Discuss boys and sex between the covers of a notebook that looked like the rest in our backpack so our parents were none the wiser.

So much better than an origami folded note that just screamed: READ ME!

Clearly we were diligent students from the following entry:

Me: Guess what? I'm seeing Chris tomorrow night. He's coming over to give me my Valntine's Day present. How do you get genotype and how do you get phenotype?

Janine: Don't ask me, I don't understand it. Listen do we have a quiz? Forget it she answered my question already. Good luck with Chris.

That entry cracks me up because it's so 15, but what is worse is that my nonlinear way of thinking was clearly established at an early age. This also cracks me up because Janine and I had somehow gotten stuck in this honors biology class and neither one of us belonged in there. It was our lament all year long: Why are we in this class??????

This one is the best:

"Don't laugh: what do you actually DO when you're making out?"

We were also kind of bitchy:

"GOD! The barrett DANA made looks like shit. I don't like the lettering, how about you?"

Ooh, and I refer to some guy as "leper."

Damn, I was bitchy.

And, the little feminist in me started waking up:

He said, "I hope you don't want to go out next weekend," and I'm like, "Why?" So, he said, "Because I won't be here," and I said, "Hey, if I want to go out I don't need your permission."

And you know, I underlined the need three times so I totally meant it.

Sometimes I miss the simplicity of being 15 but there isn't enough money in the world to make me relive those years.

LYLAS

The One

I moved to Montgomery in 2001 (I think - it all runs together after a while) and it was then that I heard about this. At the time I was married to J and I said,

"Hey, I'd really like to go to this! Can we?"

He thought I was insane as the last thing he wanted to do was attend a multi-day yard sale that would involve taking at least one day off of work. That was the last time I mentioned it and I moved on.

Now, after my divorce I still wanted to attend the 127 Sale, but like most things in life I'd think about it from time to time and by the time I'd look up the information it had already passed.

So, yesterday Steve calls me up at work and asks,

"What are you doing August 3?"

Me: "You tell me . . . "

Him: "I was doing a search for flea markets and I saw something about the longest yard sale . . . "

I literally could not hear the rest of what he was saying for there was a chorus of angels singing in my ears.

See, Steve has really gotten into collecting antique tools. Stuff that he can display in his workshop and decoratively (after consulting with me) in the house. Right now he's obsessing over a double-claw hammer. I'm cool with this because

1.) It gives me an excuse to go to yard sales
2.) It gives me an excuse to attend flea markets, and
3.) I never have to worry he's bored when we go to yard sales and flea markets.

I think in some way I'd given up the desire to go to the 127 Sale, but Steve reignited that spark and further reminded me of why he's the one for me.

It's right up there with the time he took a detour on our way home from our honeymoon so that I could finally go here.

He just gets me.