we'll know the reason why

The second semester of my second senior year (say that seven times fast) I had a part-time job on campus as a scholarship fundraiser. I would call up alumni and convey this sentiment, “Hello respected alumni, the pride of NMSU, tell me about where life has taken you. Give unto me the wealth of information that you have to bestow upon your fellow Aggie! And now that we have spoken about that.... let me remind you of an incredible opportunity --a chance for you to assist students that ARE as you WERE once. Struggling perhaps and just very deserving of financial support and the emotional and academic relief that comes with having earned and received an alumni sponsored scholarship. This is your chance to share your success with your department and your Aggie community.”

And while you might think that sounds cheesy or pushy... I had many amazing conversations with many awesome Aggies who were happy to donate a little here or a lot there. These people were excited to hear from a student and they wanted to know how they could help us.

Tonight was my turn.

But before I could get a call from NMSU Foundation I received an entirely different sort of call.

A call from ACS. And they ask me the same things they always ask me. Asking me to confirm my address, which takes a few tries because after THREE MONTHS and dozens of calls they STILL HAVE NOT UPDATED my contact information. They ask me why I haven't made a full payment. I break down the math of my budget for them. I live off of less than $200 a month after expenses and partial loan payments. They ask me if I am in school and I tell them I'm not but, “I am considering going back to school to put myself further in debt if it means I won't have to get your calls for a few more years.”

Then they drop the bomb.

“Do you intend on paying this loan?”

Tonight, I finally lost it. I said something like, “Let ME ask YOU a question. Does anyone ever say, 'NO. I do not plan on paying this loan back. I think I will allow my credit rating to continue to plummet and create a financial situation in which I will never ever be approved for a loan ever ever again.'? Does ANYONE ever say that? Does anyone ever tell you that they DO NOT INTEND ON PAYING BACK THEIR LOAN?”

The answer is no. No one ever says that. We all went out there and took out loans to get our degrees because once we had said degrees amazing American boot-strappy jobs were supposed to be all around for us to GET and then live out some intellectually refined professional life that provided financial stability for ourselves, our spouses and our many American babies... who were going to go to college someday. JUST LIKE MOM AND POP!

Paying back our loans was going to happen in the months following landing that first job-- doing something that wasn't what we always wanted to do, but at the very least would LEAD us to becoming that thing we had always wanted to be when we grew up.

Astronauts. Engineers. Architects. Doctors. President.

English teachers who moon-light as small press authors of poignant and modern poetry that will revolutionize nothing but at the very least stir some hearts.

I mean, the revolution part would be nice, but it is not expected.

Sometimes these things don't happen in the time frame between getting a degree and the first round of calls from the loan collectors. I remind myself that it is totally ok. They can't get blood from a stone. I'm a first generation graduate. Obviously there is a period of trial and error. Adjustment. Whatever.

After standing up to the innocent (she's just doing her job) out of country (wouldn't it be cool if ACS created some jobs for a country full of Americans who can't find jobs or pay their loans?) outbound phone support agent... I am still a little indignant about the humiliation of it all. I go to choir. Decompress about debt and re-compress about my sociological place in my synagogue (which is another blog for another time).

That's when the baby Aggie calls me.

As soon as I hear him I know. I KNOW. And I am devastated.

When I had his job, I swore to myself that I would give something each time they called me. I promised myself that I would help sponsor a scholarship in my department. For a few reasons. One- I had received a scholarship for a set of poems in 2008. It wasn't from NMSU Foundation funds, it was from LOLA. But it was a scholarship and it made a, “I don't have to pay for textbooks next semester” kind of impact on my life. Two- the majority of alumni that I called donated to their departments... Ag and Eng. Ag and Eng. Ag... and Eng. Very few Lit majors were in the roster and those that were... didn't have money to give. Three- employees get a lot of praise for landing a donation. After dozens of hang ups, answering machines, wrong numbers and the like... it always just felt good to talk to another Aggie and land a donation. ANY SIZE donation.

Which is why I was nearly in tears while the baby Aggie starts asking me how I am, where I am, what am I doing.... It's all part of the lead up.

I tried to stop him. I said, “You're from the scholarship call center aren't you? I used to have your job. I have to tell you, tonight my answer is going to have to be no.”

And he says, bravely, “That's awesome that you worked here. Then you know I have to keep trying, right?”

“Ok kid. Let's do this.”

I let him know a lot of things. That I'm not using my degree. I'm working retail. I'm in New Orleans. Yes he can update my contact information so they will put me in the right time zone queue. Yes I know that NMSU Career Services can be utilized by alumni. If I had to pick an all time favorite class it would be Chaucer with Schirmer. Though to be fair I loved all of my teachers EXCEPT Cunnar who was a sexist shithead. I'm sorry I can't donate now, but I INTEND on donating to the department at some point. I really, for honest and true, want to help someone in my department. Someone that wants to write a revolution someday. I want to be that alumnus.

All of this is while I am on Broad and Washington waiting for my transfer bus. I have drunk people screaming the N word, young men at least half my age eye balling my person, and a car backfiring... repeatedly... in the back ground.

I tell the baby Aggie to tell the boss I said hello. I apologize for not helping him land a donation and wish him luck. All of this happens and I oddly feel a little more... decompressed but not decomposed.

I've been in need of some revolution. Or poetry. Or both. But just because I need a revolution doesn't mean I get to act a fool and jump from the comal to the campfire.

Revolution or no, I've got to get a plan.

Step one. Breathe. Slide. Aum. Shine.

And always now “here to do or die”.

Time doesn't heal all wounds... but honey does.

The problem with feeling that I was born to be Jewish but failed to be born to a Jewish family?

I don't have a Jewish mother. When I want to bake or cook something that is supposed to evoke memory, tradition and comfort I have to search for a third party fabrication. And pray that some comforting spark of satisfaction will manifest through the unknown. I have to start from scratch.

To be fair my mother taught me a lot of things in the kitchen. Never how to braid a smooth loaf of challah though. I'm sure that if my mom were Jewish she would have taught me how to make matzo ball soup with roasted green chile. I don't know if that's a thing yet... but I'm going to work on making it a thing.

But there are other problems.

I didn't have Jewish parents that made sure I would be inspired by Israel in my youth. Instead I have a parent that is too preoccupied with political agenda to see that I'm just trying to quench a spiritual thirst that had gone on far too long. So I have to go now or as soon as possible. Before my heart becomes tougher with age. And it will get tougher because sometimes I have days like today. Really. Bad. Days. Really, “If this is a cosmic test of my strength and stamina.... why do I have to prove that to anyone or God?” kind of days. I don't even know what my dad would think about me leaving. Honestly, after the first parental reaction... I don't want to find out.

I don't have Jewish siblings to help me remember the words to songs. Or the right time to put out Havdalah candles. Though if Annie were Jewish she would probably think me living on a Kibbuz is overrated and mundane. As it is she thinks it is way cool. And when you've been sisters for 30 years it's hard to come up with things that make your little sister think you're cool. So maybe I'll get to be cool again.

All of this bubbling up because I had a bad day when I was trying to have a good one. And because of Rosh Hashanah. This time last year (ish) the man I was in love with was trying to delicately tell me that he was just not that into me. I cried and cried through a bowl of apples and honey. It was no way to bring in a new year.

I mean, it's flippin' Rosh Hashanah. A holy day covered in honey! It's a sweet and productive taste bud party before some seriously heavy spiritual stuff goes down.

To turn things around I baked muffins. An army of muffins to keep the blues away.

Naomi's Apple Honey Muffins

Makes 12 muffins or an army of 24 mini muffins (I suggest making an army of muffins. They are more fun to look at, eat and share.)

• 2-1/2 cups all-purpose flour
• 1-1/2 teaspoons baking powder
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• 1/2 Tablespoon salt
• 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1/2 cup softened
• 1 cup honey (the darker the better)
• 2 eggs
• 1/2 cup goat milk
• 1 cup chopped apple

Grease muffin tin with olive oil. In small bowl, mix flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt and cinnamon. In large bowl, cream butter with honey until light and fluffy. Note- steal of spoon of fluffy apple butter for yourself. It's flippin' awesome. Put it on some bread. Beat in eggs and milk. Stir dry ingredients into wet mixture until just moistened. Stir in apples. Add more flour if the batter is super sticky.  Pour into muffin tin. Bake at 350°F for 20 to 30 minutes, or until golden brown and toothpick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool on wire racks. Eat muffins. With more honey. Also share them. 

Not all 24 muffins are present in this picture. I was hungry.

I'm sensing a trend here....

I haven't written in a while for the same reasons I always avoid writing. Depression. I have an open door policy about having bi-polar disorder. It's like a fail safe. Obviously it is painful to be open about that sort of thing. But it is also the safest way to be dangerously depressed. In any case-- I dislike subjecting myself to retroactively self imposed cruel criticism because I've said something brilliant under the stress of depression. 

Is that Naomi or Depression writing? And if someone else finds the writing striking... what would it do to Naomi if Depression is what deserves the credit and praise?

I avoid the issue all at once by not giving depression the satisfaction of being a better writer than me.

CALL ME CRAZY.

Speaking of crazy. I made Hurricane Challah.

That's how I deal.

The absolute most stressful part of a storm when living in NOLA... is convincing everyone who loves you that you will be totally and completely OK.

I'm OK.

I mean. I'm not OK OK. I'm stressed the fuck out. Mu is meowing his brains out. It's sent my blood pressure through the roof. Speaking of! Just last week my roof was leaking from the pressure of a normal thunder storm. FUN! I'm going to miss three days of work, putting my finances in an even bigger pinch. GRAGH! All I have to eat is beans. Which I am, now that I think about it, glad for! I've been to two grocery stores since they became sure Isaac was heading our way. What I saw turned my stomach. Disclaimer I'm about to sound like a judgmental bitch.

I saw men and women with children in their carts, children in tow... loading up on shit. TOTAL SHIT. Junk food that comes pre-packaged... and I see where they're coming from. And then again.... I DON'T. We're talking about people who are so wound up about the idea of a Katrina-like event that they want to be prepared. Better prepared than the last time. They want to make sure they have FOOD.

But what I see everyone buying is empty calories. Sodium heavy, processed beyond true nutrition, low protein value... shit that won't fill them up long, won't fuel their bodies for anything more than farting and dashing to the commode because they have high-fructose syrup solid, hydrogenated oil lubed turds to purge from their nutrient starved bodies.

I've seen carts that are more full with soda than water when water is actually available to purchase. People are worried about drowning in storm water when they ought to be worried about drowning in their own sugar powered food ignorance.

I've been reminded that some canned vegetables have, IN ONE SERVING, have up to 20% a daily value of sodium. Why? Not to mention many canned veggies have artificial dyes in them. Because mother fucking nature didn't make GREEN beans fucking GREEN enough.

Someone ran over my foot with a shopping cart and didn't stop to apologize. That has nothing to do with the food stupids and everything to do with common fucking courtesy.

I went to the co-op too. Things there, of course, were calm and not as gross. Canned beans were almost sold out. Fair enough. The small bulk spice section had enough variety to last you a few days of canned food boredom. I bought organic green onions that will at least flavor up my boring diet of legumes and tortillas. They'll keep out of refrigeration a day too. At least the flavor will. And some garnet sweet potatoes because they'll cover a craving for both sweet and savory if I get too stressed out. They were well stocked, very calm, and sensitive.

I have canela and manzanilla to make myself comforting tea. Brown rice and quinoa. Fresh made Challah. Home made ghee (Someone else made it. I might make my own tomorrow). Tortillas, corn and flour. A bag of spinach. Dried soup mixes full of... you guessed it, beans and spices.

I'm not saying chowing down on some junk food in a high stress situation doesn't calm you down a bit. I would kill for some sour cream and onion chips right now. Or mac n' cheese.With green chile.

But if you're going to run over my foot with your grocery cart as if you're in some rush to get somewhere and survive something devastating with someone(s) you love.... at least buy the kind of sustenance that will... I don't know... SUSTAIN YOU AND YOUR LOVED ONES.

Because if your dehydrated and malnourished ass doesn't survive my pain will have been for fucking naught.

Obviously... I shouldn't write when I'm angry and anxious too. 

But on a lighter note... The bread I made is amazing delicious. 

Fried pies and Mole Poblano

New Orleanians have temporarily lost some flavor today. Hubig's Pies will be out of action for a while due to a five-alarm fire that destroyed the Marigny factory.

I have to admit-- I'd been dragging my feet on trying the sweet tooth staple of my new home town. I'm still not on tasting terms with most food items that have any ingredient I can't pronounce. But I hear that Hubig's transcends all that hippie ass shit. It's just going to make that sodium metabisulfite that much tastier once the factory is back up and running. I have a sneaking suspicion that cherry and lemon are going to be my favorite flavors.

On the work front the retail bunnies of Funrock'n are pressing up shirts to represent Nolaites love for all things Hubig's with 100% of the profits going to the company to help the rebuild process. I think  I'm going to buy one that says, “Hubig Virgin. Rebuild that!”

In other news I'm barely coming to terms with the loss of my idea of comfort food. Half a year later I'm still not into red beans and rice, gumbo, or po boys. I want fresh corn tortillas, refried beans and rice the way my Nana makes them. It's slim pickin's for a Chicana girl from New Mexico to get what she wants in this town.

Comfort food, real-my-version-of-comfort-food, is what I need the most right now. I have a few nurses and doctors breathing down my neck about how quickly I've lost weight. It never ends, you know? Before I left home a doctor was telling me I was over-weight. Now I've lost too much too fast. I could really go for some bean and bacon fat burritos with extra cheese.

I did try Tanqueria Guerrero in Mid-City. Their rice was cooked which is more than I can say for Juan's Flying Burrito. The chips and salsa were weak. Why no salsa bar in New Orleans people? It's salsa! Really easy to make! I'll teach you.

I had the Mole Poblano which was like chocolately chile butter in my mouth. The chicken fell off the bones and a generous topping of sesame seeds helped the flavor pop. The beans were mashed up a little too much and a bit runny. They're going to be great on the reheat though.

Oh God. I can not wait to go home next week. I am going to devour all the salsa and green chile that I can find. I suggest New Mexico prepares itself.

I AM LIKE THE GREEN CHILE GODZILLA.

Crazy Catching up time

I have twenty minutes to speed write, drink my delish Goat Milk Latte from La Divina Gelateria on Magazine and summarize the last few weeks.

I got really sick, was out for the better part of a week. Still had to work every day of it... got better slowly. Learned to utterly hate my part time job.

Honestly, if you're a manager in the food service business and your employee complains of fever and tummy aches and they ask to go home... YOU SHOULD SEND THEM HOME! Not tell them to take ten so they can fall asleep at the office desk for half an hour and germ up the place.

Just sayin'.

I put my two weeks notice in.

Mainly because....

I got a place! WOO HAPPY DANCE OF... interruptions... I can't make the full happy dance of living alone again, because I'm not actually living in my studio yet. My totally fabulous studio apartment is in Treme. Slightly other side of town from where I am now. Not a big deal to catch a half hour bus (which has a stop a block from my complex) to get to work at Funrock'n. BIG problem trying to get to work at 5AM... so... I finally get to quit the job that has been making me miserable for the past two months.

My landlords are fabulous. Really sweet old couple who are excited to have me around. No extra pet deposits. I have a home to bring my furry friends to. All utilities except electric is included in rent. They've also thrown in free cable and internet.

So for the next two weeks I'm going to be half timing it at my place and Cher and Pablo's.

I don't even know how to begin to thank them for taking me in and putting up with me for so long. And then Cher got me a great job. And Pablo occasionally tries to help me abide by Meatless Monday. And I've officially been in their house in prime, “It is fucking hot. Let us run around in our Skivvies.” weather.

Two weeks from now Skivvie running for everybody!

I've made a few awesome new friends. D who stays positive even when things are turning to total rot. She's certainly a mentor in optimism. And we've both, in the past week, discovered that good things can and will happen to those who wait. Who knew? And S who is young, single and still slightly bruised over her last relationship. We are a regular club of “Boys Suck... Let us objectify the rear end of our bartender and talk about bitches, cunts, dicks and what we're going to do on our next day off.” Now that I'm going to be living closer to her neck of the woods we can properly delve into bartender objectifying and live music listening. Being single has it's perks.

That's what you're supposed to say, right?

The city is getting hot and sticky. I'm learning to live with it. Thankfully I've lost enough weight that I'm comfortable wearing less clothes. I finally weighed myself. I was a whopping 198 in December. Now? 160. I'll credit the first ten pounds of weight loss to a break up. The rest of the credit goes to New Orleans and myself. We've been making a great team. 

More to come once I get my head straight. Getting a place has certainly cleared up some of the frustration with... everything.

Hearting so hard tonight!

It takes a lot to wake up at four in the morning. Then go to work at five, make coffee for everyone else on Magazine Street, take their orders for five hours, sipping your own free coffee.... IF you get a chance.

And honestly, you've been smelling, brewing, touching, pulling coffee for so long... that the IDEA of DRINKING coffee is more of an expected obligation than a need. Like responding to the late night text of an ex that you had every intention of never speaking to again... but you know, for a fact, that they are the best at blanking your blank. So you cave in and text back, telling them to come over. Because, like a double tall Americano (with a splash of cream because-- who you kiddin'... espresso be too HARD for your American ass)... they are a sure thing.

Five hours. Of, “Would you like an extra shot of espresso this morning? Anything for breakfast? A blueberry muffin or yogurt parfait? Do you need a receipt today?”going through the motions required of you to be praised as the most excellent minimum wage caffeine monkey that ever ground beans.

You take a one hour break.

Then head to a job that you LOVE. L to the O to the V to the E. LOVE. Do that for 8 hours.

Come home and consider your very neglected loves... writing and reading.

Fall asleep, praying that absence only makes the heart grow fonder.

I went to school because I wanted to be a teacher. A poet. An educator. An activist. I wanted to be all of the things that my body vibrates from the core.

Because I didn't want to be a flair wearing waitress, a back of house butchie- prep cook, line cook, baker, a tech support slave (who looses their job to outsourcing! FUCK ALL that shit ain't fucking funny. Sitcom or no.), a house cleaner, co-op cashier than can't be recognized for passion or dedication.

Not that being every ONE of those things didn't teach me a very valuable lesson. They did.

Gimmicks draw money. BOH is the unloved heart of the service industry. Tech support goes to the lowest bidder... which sorta says a lot about the DELL lap top burning your lap right now. House cleaning might be the most honest and honorable gig you can get without having to pay taxes on your wages. Co-ops CARE... about the bottom line.

What is it that I love to do right now? Dress windows with wacky fashion, talk to people about the awesome fashion line, To The Nines, that donates money towards purchasing school uniforms for girls in Africa and supports locally crafted, made and employed endeavors.

Here's to Bootsy's Funrock'n. 

(pictured above-- my first window display.)

The full time job that I hadn't expected. But thank G-d that I have.

Also.... to M. R. And the lot of you who supported me through Stage 1 of ULTIMATE STAR WARS FANDOM. Que la Fuerza te acompane... amigas.

Because the love founded among girls in middle school still runs strong all around.

Saying Gratefuls

Today I had a full shift at my new job as bartender Cafe Soule. Before that I lent a hand as a retail bunny at Fun Rock'n/Pop City (Cher is the manager). This helping involves me playing head dress up and compiling a list of things I want to buy once I have money to spare. Eventually I am going to be the best dressed (and most ridiculous) high school English teacher. 

So it has been a work heavy day today. But I did get my first $20 dollar tip for opening beer and mashing mint with whiskey.... so that was pretty awesome.

Speaking of work. I've been doing a lot of it. Two jobs and any odd job I can find.

Like being a booth girl for my new friend Scott Saltzman  at The New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival. Originally I was going to treat myself to tickets on Sunday and Thursday. But I didn't have enough money saved up. So it was a bit of a blessing that a few weeks ago Scott asked me to sit with him and his family during oneg shabbat. Through the conversation he concluded that I had enough retail/photography/art experience (none) to help him with his booth.

I mean. I wasn't going to argue. Technically I have done it before. I once was a booth girl for electrodes and probes. True story. 

 

In any case, the gig consisted of me sitting in a booth, talking to people about some great photography, learning from visitors about great traditions in New Orleans music and taking lots of great yoga breaks.

At the end of the day I was able to take a break to watch the intro to Esperanza Spalding. They'd done something horrid to the sound and her upright bass wasn't coming through. So... I did not get to witness the full force of her awesome sexy. But I saw enough. 

On the way back to “work” I caught a mini parade. 

 It was never my true intention to make my ex-boyfriend ultra mega jealous of my awesome location.... but... you know... accidental Mission Accomplished. I assure you that I make it up to him by being a good friend, a reasonable ex-girlfriend and giving him an open offering of sofa surfing. 

But the end of the day I was totally wiped out. I had a new coat of Aztec Tan sinking into my skin, I was a bit blissed out on my locale and ready to head home and crash without thinking about how deeply awesome things really are.

Thankfully I have a new little friend, T, who invited me to join her in saying her nightly “gratefuls.” We were grateful for a lot of things that I could share but I won't.

But I will share this. I am so very grateful that I'm only a few syllables away from reciting Shema without stumbling.