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.