Strange and Beautiful

First of all, let it be known that I care little for, or about, football. I have a scattered and generally ambivalent relationship to the sport: growing up in Central Florida, we watched our share of Dolphins' games--Marino was in his prime back then, so it was fun in a look-at-him-go sort of way--at home, while at my grandmother's house, where everyone hailed from Chicago, we rooted for the Bears. After my mom graduated from FSU we cheered on the Seminoles, and there were some moments, years later, living in Gainesville, where I experienced small, silent spurts of inexplicable happiness as I sat in faceless, featureless bar-and-grills and watched the Noles beat up on the Gators. But really, I was no great fan; one of the major factors in my decision to go to New College was it's lack of organized sports--or more specifically, the fact that it didn't have a football team. I had seen enough of the ugliness the game seemed to provoke (someone always died after the FSU-UF game), I wanted nothing to do with the seemingly pointless group-think, the shirtless screaming, the endless, inscrutable statistics.

So. Anyway. What was I saying?

Oh yeah: I don't give a crap about football. I guess that still holds true, in the strictest sense, though last night I cared, a lot, about what was happening on the field. I knew every player's number, their position, their strengths and weaknesses*, I found myself shouting about third-down conversions and bad calls and oh my god, I was singing that Favre-on-the-ground song and I meant it, I did, I wanted to see him writhing on the mother-fucking ground, until WHOA, he was actually writhing on the ground, at which point I felt bad for wishing him ill, but still. The point is: I cared, for the first time, about football. I have cared for a while now, though not nearly as long as some people in this town, but long enough to get it, to understand what drives this crazy, fanatical, heart-bursting-through-the-ribcage love--LOVE!--we have for our Saints.

A lot has been written and said about this team, what it means to this city and vice versa, and I'm sure a lot more will be written and said in the next couple of weeks. But I wonder: if you don't live here, can you really get it? Because this video is so beautiful, and so true, and while I'm sure people watching it in other places--some of them--will shake their heads in wonder and maybe wipe a tear from their eye, do they really know? I don't think so. Because if they knew, they would live here. They would uproot their families and take a big paycut and maybe home-school their kids and they would move here, they would be here--they would, if they really got it. Like John Besh says in that wonderful video--something I've been trying, unsuccessfully, to articulate for years now: "New Orleans doesn't have a place for people that are lukewarm. You're either with us or you're against us."

Our team, this team, is about so much more than football. When Drew Brees played for San Diego, I'm sure it was all about football--about the money, the game, the fame and maybe the titles. When Payton coached the Giants and the Cowboys, it was probably all about football--the money, the wins, the stats, the titles. And don't get me wrong: it's still about that, it's always about that, but here, in our town, it's about so much more. It's about synergy, about underdogs, about being the hated ones, the ones left behind, left for dead, left to pick up the remains of their shattered lives and put it all back together, piece by piece, tile by tile, play by play, win by win. They are a team of NFL orphans; we are a city orphaned by it's government, its countrymen, left to fight our way back, on our own. When the Saints claw their way to victory, we can relate; we all know by now what that feels like, what it's like to sling a sledgehammer against the rotted walls of your own home, or to shovel debris from your neighbors'--and when the Saints soar, when those passes soar down the field and seem to nestle right into the hands of whatever receiver they happen to pick for that particular play, we can relate to that too--we know what it's like to second line, to dance in the streets, to celebrate life, to soar.

So, can we beat the Colts in the Superbowl? Does it really matter? Well, okay, of course it matters--we'd be kidding ourselves if we said it didn't--but at the end of the game, after the clock runs out and the coaches shake hands and the winners mount the podium and the losers trudge back to the locker room, our Boys will get to come home, they'll get to come here, to the greatest city in the world, where we'll all be waiting with wide open arms and huge-ass beers and more gratitude than can ever be expressed in words. No matter what the outcome, they are us, we are them, and when Drew Brees rides as Bacchus, you better believe we're all going to be bringing the love. No matter what. And what will they get in Indy? A couple of parades and a pat on the back? It just simply does not compare.
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Saturday afternoon, the day before the game, I went for a run; about halfway through the 5-miler I stopped, sat down on the sidewalk, and put my head in my hands, overcome with emotion. A man strolled by, walking his dog--both were dressed in Saints attire--and he stopped to ask if I was alright.

I sniffled. "I'm just thinking about the game."

The poor man seemed at a loss; in a reassuring tone he said, "But I really do think we're going to win."

That was it; I totally lost it. "I know," I sobbed. "That's why I'm crying."
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This city has taught me so much, so much about myself, about perseverance, about community and sacrifice and fear and hope. And I'll be damned if it hasn't taught me about football, about how a team--not just any team, but a truly special team--can bring a generally sane person, someone not given to public displays of emotion, to her knees on a random sidewalk, wailing to a stranger in a Saints jersey.

Strange and beautiful days, indeed.



* Like, why the fuck do they keep handing the ball back to Bush? Am I missing something??

It Was Me

This morning, at 6 a.m., I headed out the door for my 15-mile training run. Now, I usually bring a small water bottle with me on long runs, but this morning I decided against it--I could hardly bear the thought of running for two and a half hours in the (dear-god-in-heaven-please-present-me-with-an-animal-carcass-so-that-I-may-crawl-into-it-) cold, let alone the prospect of lugging a plastic bottle filled with liquid for the entire distance. So I set off empty-handed, having mapped my route strategically, with public water fountains in mind.

Sounds like a good plan, right? (This is where you shake your head, marveling at my stupidity. It's okay, go ahead. Don't feel bad.)

The problem, of course, was that the water fountains had frozen overnight. I realized this after I spent a full minute slapping and punching the fountain near the bathrooms at the Fly; I finally put things together when I looked down to find myself standing on a sheet of ice. (Go ahead, please, I promise I cannot hear your snorts and chortles.). So I trotted into the ladies' room, where I hopefully turned the tap at the sink, only to be met with a meager trickle, which told me--I was catching on a little more quickly at this point--that the pipes in the bathroom had also frozen. I was parched, however, and with the knowledge that the next 12 miles would only leave me feeling more so, I bent my head and slurped. When I was finished, I turned the taps until I met resistance, then trotted off. At the top of Audubon Park, near the big playground, I found a similar situation: the water fountain, having frozen, was inoperable; the sink in the woman's bathroom provided me with a trickle. Once again I slurped, turned the taps until I met resistance, then headed off down the streetcar line.

About an hour later I stopped at the same restroom, to have a slurp and an energy gel. It took me several seconds to process the noise; it recalled a quickly flowing stream, though I knew nothing of the sort existed in close proximity. And that's when I saw the water rushing through the entrance to the bathroom, the same bathroom where I had stopped to--

Okay, you know what's coming, right?

--and yes, the sink was gushing water, so much that it had filled the small basin and had gathered in a two-inch puddle on the floor, topped the small ledge at the entrance, and was now spilling out onto the floor of the breezeway. I knew right away what had happened, of course: instead of turning the taps off, as I had intended to do, I had turned them all the way on, so that when the temperature rose just a little and the pipes warmed up, the deluge was initiated. And I was more than a little freaked out, looking around in panic as though someone in charge might realize that yes, it was I who had perpetrated this crime, then tiptoeing through the flood, soaking my shoes and the bottom of my pants, to turn off--off!--the taps.

Funny thing about shame, though: it really does tend to dissipate in the face of certain physical needs. Once, while enduring the Katrina gridlock at 9 months pregnant, I peed in a cup in the front seat of Cade's car, then handed it to him so that he could dump it out the window. So, this morning, despite my embarassment and desire to run far, far away from the scene of the crime, I stayed, I lingered, to look for an alternate source of water. I was so, so thirsty. I briefly considered the water in the sink--that's just how thirsty I was--before the thought occurred to me that, unless there is some male equivalent of me who runs around doing dumb shit really early on Sunday mornings, the men's bathroom would have a sink, and it would not be flooded. So, having determined that said bathroom was empty, I headed inside and turned on the tap.

I was busy slurping away when the door opened and someone stomped inside, muttering and cursing through undoubtedly frozen lips. I bent my head lower and prayed for obscurity, prayed that he would chose a stall, rather than the urinal which happens to be situated right next to the sink. But no such luck: he went for the urinal, and I can only assume that he assumed I was a man--a man of short and slight stature, perhaps--because he didn't seem alarmed by my presence, though we were so close at that point that our asses could have bumped. I slurped, in what I hoped was a manly fashion, while he peed, in what was definitely a manly fashion, and I thought the worst was over until he decided that hey, we're both here, we're both guys--let's have a conversation!

"Sure is cold out there, huh?"

I bent my head and considered my options. 1) Ignore him. Unfortunately, it is not in my nature to ignore people when they are speaking to me, and even if I did, he might assume I didn't hear him and come closer, thus blowing my cover and causing a most awkward encounter. 2) Answer, in my regular voice, and most likely cause a seriously awkward encounter. 3) Answer, in a...different sort of voice.

Now, you're probably sitting there shaking your head and muttering oh no she didn't, but I'm here to tell you that yes, yes I did, I most certainly did, I bent my head over that sink and I spoke like a man. I grunted, actually, in a tone several decibels lower than normal, in what I hoped was a manly fashion. And I guess it worked, because he wished me a good day, left, and I sat around, slurped out and humiliated, waiting until I was certain he was gone.

On my way back around the Fly, I noticed that someone had locked the door to both restrooms. Smart folks, they are. I hope they didn't get their shoes wet turning off- off!- that tap.

So there it is, my confession. Two points of advice: one, if you're going for a long run, bring your own water--it's just so much easier when all is said and done. And also, if you're going to Audubon today, you might want to avoid the ladies' room at the top of the park, near the big playground.

Home Sweet Home

It's a tricky thing, when people ask you where you're from. It used to be no big deal, of course; it used to be you'd smile and say "New Orleans!" and people would nod their heads with recognition and envy and tell you all about the time they came for Jazz Fest/Mardi Gras/Sugar Bowl/Bachelor Party and got totally hammered on Bourbon Street. It was generally acknowledged that New Orleans was a spectacular place, and while maybe you were just a tiny bit crazy for actually living there, it kind of made sense to folks. It was not, in other words, objectionable.

Not so anymore. These days, when people ask what has become for me the Dreaded Question, I find myself hesitating. Sizing the person up, quickly and silently, preparing myself. Is this guy, who seems perfectly nice and ordinary in his polo shirt and baseball cap, secretly one of those Fox News nutjobs? Am I going to spend the next hour defending my city (or, more to my nature, fall silent and listen with seething disdain, having long ago resigned myself to the knowledge that these people are not worth arguing with)? Will this soft-spoken, kind-eyed lady force me to recount every detail of my Katrina Experience, clucking her tongue throughout before posing a diplomatic but pointed question--that being, "But after all that, you decided to come back?" Will I nod, a bit sheepishly, ashamed of my sheepishness, feeling lame and defensive as I list the various reasons we live here, knowing all the time that no matter what I say, this person simply will not get it?
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I spent the weekend before Thanksgiving in New York City, where my best friend and his fiance live. They share a beautiful, tiny studio apartment on the Upper West Side, right across the street from Cafe Lalo, one of my all-time favorite New York spots. I totally heart New York, in every way: running in Central Park, walking walking walking, everywhere and anywhere, the food, the subway, the energy, the people, the random celebrity sightings where I pretend to be all cool and jaded but am, in fact, freaking out just a little on the inside. And New York City in the fall: oof. I mean, you'd have to be brain dead, or just plain evil, not to find yourself awestruck and occasionally overwhelmed by the spectacle, both natural and man-made. It is, to me, an indescribably wonderful place, and although I will probably never live there, I have no difficulty understanding why so many people do.

One evening we visited the home of my friend's friends, a married couple expecting their first child. They were bright, creative, gregarious people who, despite having just purchased a spacious and undoubtedly expensive apartment in Tribeca, seemed as laid back and liberal as they come. Still, though, when the question came, I hesitated. Where are you from? she asked, absentmindedly rubbing her swollen belly, the way all pregnant women do. And I had a small, private moment of panic, knowing the conversation that was coming, the awkwardness I'd feel--do they really want to hear about this? or are they just being polite?--the likelihood that my friend would mention that hey, I was pregnant for Katrina, tell her the story, this is unbelievable. But I went on with it, feeling really tired and bored with myself, and unreasonably frustrated with everyone else, wishing for the first time that I was from Wichita, or Boulder, or anywhere else really, and I could just say so and that would be that.
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This is a hard city to love, in so many ways. It's dangerous, and dirty, and the schools are just so bad. Politics are a joke and yes, there's that pesky hurricane business and did I mention the schools? But still. After all. What I mean to say is--

If you don't get it, you never will. You'll never know what it's like to stand in line for the Buzz Lightyear ride at Disney and see a family with Saints sweatshirts on and find yourself screaming "Who Dat!?" at them, even though you don't really care about football. You'll never understand why a beignet is much, much better than a dougnut, how the clang-clang-clang of the streetcar (NOT the trolley) coming down the line after a two year hiatus can bring tears to your jaded eyes. You will never line dance in the street on Mardi Gras day, nor will you understand how perfectly normal, sane people might be driven to knock down their elderly neighbors for a strand of plastic beads. And you'll never, ever know the pleasure of hearing your four-year-old squeal with joy upon discovering the king cake on the kitchen counter, on the first morning of Carnival. Your kids squeal for Santa; ours, well, they know real magic when they see it.

Thank You

Run (for your life)

10 Reasons I Run:

• Every uphill battle has a downhill reward.
• Get to eat cake and drink beer, often at the same time.
• Better emotional health.
• Exploring new places on foot, in the wee hours of the morning.
• The pleasure associated with 50 BPM.
• Hearing my daughter say, "Mommy, is running your job?"
• Satisfying stockpile of race t-shirts.
• Finishing a race, drinking beer at 9 o'clock in the morning.
• Having another way to define myself, aside from what I do at the office and whose diapers I change.
• Overcoming psychological hurdles, getting faster every year.

I ran the Children's Hospital Half Marathon on Saturday morning. It was a smallish race, just under 1,400 people, which suits me fine; I dislike the anxious jostling associated with bigger races. My plan was to go out easy, about 9 1/2 minute miles, and speed up in the last half if I was feeling strong. I started at what felt like an easy pace, and was shocked to hear, at the first mile split, that I was running an 8:30 pace. My first thought was that I needed to slow down, but then again, it felt easy, so I figured I'd just roll with it, see how I felt at the next split. I ran the next mile at the same pace, then the mile after that, then again and again and again. I felt a surge of excitement as I entered the park and passed the halfway point: I was on track to set a personal record, and I felt amazing! I ran the rest of the way through the park and back up St. Charles Avenue in a state of relaxation and tremendous pride; I screamed "More Cowbell!" at the shirtless dude laconically ringing said instrument from his position on the neutral ground; I chatted with a friend of Cade's during the 11th mile; I smiled and high-fived the kids huddled in their Halloween costumes, cheering us on in their tiny little voices; I visualized calling Cade after the race to tell him how I had so easily surpassed the goal I had set for myself. At the final stretch I kicked up the pace just a bit and came in just under 1 hour and 55 minutes. I felt awesome.

This is why I run. Not just for the easy, satisfying races, but for the hard, discouraging ones as well. I'd had one of those runs--hard and discouraging--last Wednesday, the last day I ran before the half. I felt terrible and ran slowly, lethargically. I was bored and distracted and achy. I thought to myself that I wasn't ready, I was not prepared, but then I remembered the single most important lesson I've learned, not just with regard to running but to life in general: that every day is a new opportunity, every day is a different experience, and what matters most is the overall effort, the persistence, the faith that every effort, exhilarating or discouraging, is equally valuable.

I think that running has helped me be a better parent. No, not just running--I've been doing that for a long time--but running with focus and goals, as I've been doing for the last couple of years. Before, when I would run, it was simply to stay in shape: I felt better emotionally and physically when I ran consistently, and that was enough. But when I started learning more about training strategies, and focusing on preparing for races and getting faster and stronger, a new sort of patience emerged. I'm talking about patience with myself--knowledge that the small mistakes or failures don't matter as much as the aggregate, the accumulation of efforts. For example, sometimes I yell at my kids. I hate to admit this, but I do. I don't fly off the handle and scream and lose my shit, but I yell. I lose patience. And when I do this, I feel so incredibly guilty, so worried that I am doing something really damaging. Or rather, I used to worry. Now, I have more patience, more faith in the aggregate, more secure in the knowledge that a small failure here and there is not going to permanently fuck up my children. Just like a bad run here and there doesn't mean I'm unprepared for a race.

Look, I've never been an athlete. I think I could have been, but childhood circumstances prevented access to the sort of training required to make the teams. I've always admired athletes, the incredible power and wisdom they exude, the discipline they apply, the comraderie they have with each other. And it's so nice, now, as a 30-something mother of 2, to have a small piece of this for myself, to call myself a Runner, to watch my daughter watching me lace up my shoes and to know that I am setting a fine example, to flick a little sideways wave to the people who I pass on the streetcar line on any given Sunday, knowing that we have this thing in common, that I am one of them.

Hey! That's My Therapist.

I have a great idea for a show to add to the increasing and increasingly disturbing line of so-called "reality shows." What about a show that features ordinary people in extraordinary but real-life situations wherein they encounter their psychotherapists engaged in strange, often embarassing public displays? Wouldn't that be funny?

Like, for example...

• Subject spots some lunatic mowing her front lawn in the dark on a Tuesday evening. He wonders aloud, "Who is that crazy person?" Camera zooms in for the close-up as the subject slaps his forehead and exclaims "Hey! That's my therapist!"
• Subject is browsing the aisles at her local organic foods market when some lunatic brings down an entire display of glass jars of caramel and fudge sauces. Subject makes small but audible noises of disapproval, then loudly exclaims "Hey! That's my therapist!"
• Subject is driving to church one frigid Sunday morning when he spots a red-faced jogger execute one of those disgusting sideways booger-blows that runners and other disgusting individuals are so fond of. Subject emits noises of disapproval and, of course, disgust, then after a double-take that nearly causes him to crash his car exclaims "Hey! That's my therapist!"

Seriously, the material for this kind of show would be endless. And endlessly amusing. Unless, of course, you are these people's therapist.

To Sydney, on the occasion of your 4th birthday

What a difference a year makes. Last year, I wrote here about the incresdible force of your personality, your energy, your compassion and nurturing demeanor. I wrote about how incredibly impressed I was at your adjustment to life as a big sister; I talked about your love of baby dolls and playground games. One year later, all these things remain true, and there is so much more to talk about. You are one amazing little person.

First of all, that little booty dance you do just makes my heart trip all over itself. One day, after dropping you off in your classroom at Abeona House, I happened to pass the half-opened doorway and stood for a moment, watching you. There you were, up on a chair, shaking your money maker and the whole class, including the teacher, was laughing along. One part of me wanted to tell you to get down--we don't stand on chairs--mind your manners, calm yourself down. The other part of me was shaking with joy and pride. Your exuberance is one of your greatest gifts.

I love watching you interact with Evan. He is at the age when he's into everything--particularly everything that belongs to you--and while I know this causes you distress, you rarely show it; instead, you are patient but firm. "Please give that back," you will say, in your sweetest voice, prying the object from his tiny hand. You monitor his activities from the corner of your eye, and are quick to catch him on his way to a dangerous activity, or making off with something he is not allowed to have. You give him hugs at school, take him down the slide at the playground, fall into hysterics when he gets annoyed with you and tries to push you down, share your animal crackers with him on the way home from school. When I was pregnant with Evan and was having trouble imagining how things would be when it came time to share my love with another child, a friend told me that the best feeling in the world comes from watching your children play together. She was right: it is magical. You are magical.

Speaking of magic, you have fallen in love with Harry Potter. We talk a lot about the stories, the characters, the good and bad, the scary and the exciting, the happy and the sad. You have a lot of empathy. You like Harry Potter because "he is a good boy and he is nice to his friends." You admire his courage and enjoy the scenes where he acts bravely in the face of fear. I think you harbor the secret hope that one day, on your birthday, Hagrid will come to our house, break the news to you that you are a wizard, and cart you off to Hogwarts.

You can write your name, and most letters of the alphabet. You can count to one hundred. You can carry a tune like nobody's business, and you have an almost frighteningly good memory.

You are in full-blown princess mode, and love dressing up and putting on lipgloss and wearing your "clip clops"--chunky, bejeweled light-up shoes that match your Cinderella and Snow White dresses. Despite this desire to emulate the fairer sex, you also love farting, making fart noises, and talking about butts, farts, and boogers. This, again, fills me with joy and pride, though I know I should tell you that these are not polite topics of conversation.

This is your last year at Abeona House. When the time comes, you will be ready to go--you will be ready for kindergarten, for the next step. But it is hard for me to imagine you leaving this family behind, this place that has held you and all your exuberance for these precious years of your early life. You are in a wonderful place, surrounded by people who see you for exactly who you are, who don't try to change you to fit a program or some notion of what little girls should be. I will fight to make sure you continue to have these experiences, but more importantly, I will try to make sure that I teach you to fight for yourself.

You are so beautiful, so strong and vibrant--every day with you is an incredible gift, one I never take for granted. Thank you for your hugs and kisses, your laughter, your compassion and honesty. Words could never express the love I have for you; hopefully, my actions will. Happy birthday, baby.

Love always,

Mom