Maybe halfway to feeling like this is Home

A month (or two?) ago I met with the Cantor of Touro to discuss my nervousness about joining the choir. It started with the fact that I chickened out on what was supposed to be my first performance with the choir on Erev Rosh Hashanah. I'd sheepishly admitted to my Rabbi that my stage fright was induced by the hundreds of people that show up for High Holy Days. Seriously. A lot of people. More people than I've seen at temple since Jazz Fest Shabbat. And I was supposed to sing in front of everyone? In Hebrew?

Yeah. No. Even if I was just one little voice in the crowd. I was too emotionally overwhelmed.

In hind sight I don't know that I was any better off not singing with the choir I'd been rehearsing with for weeks. Mainly because the congregation plays the old switch-a-roo with the prayer book. On Erev Rosh Hashanah we read from another book. Not the one I read at home, the one that I'd been holding most Friday nights for the past few months. An older prayer book. One without any transliteration.

Fun. The rabbi suggested I speak to the cantor about the incident. Good idea, speak to the person that actually directs me in choir about the momentary freak out.

I let the cantor know that I felt silly at having stage fright. I mean, seriously Naomi? The same girl that has performed in The Vagina Monlogues for the last half decade caught a case of stage fright? Utterly lame. He assures me that these things happen, and that he doesn't doubt I will be doing just fine in choir soon enough.

We end up talking more about everything else that is going on in my life than the actual event. Where am I from. Why I am Jewish. Why I moved here. What I do. What I really want to do. Timeline for when I'd like to learn Hebrew. How I am adjusting to New Orleans.

How am I adjusting to New Orleans?

I am facing my one year anniversary here. And I can say this. This city has the potential to make someone feel loved and welcome. New Orleans can revitalize your sense of adventure. It can make you feel brave. However, New Orleans has it's own sense of time, and you can easily get sucked into it. And while I love (LOVE) the local mentality, the New Orleanian attitude that you aren't “local enough” can be a tough pill to swallow. I might have moved anywhere on the planet and could have created a pro/con list of things I've learned from my adopted city in the first year. Every place has it's own personality. It's own charms.

New Orleans will charm the fucking shit out of you. It's like a cavalier date that shows up twenty minutes late, but with a bouquet of locally purchased flora to present with a sugary whispered smile around the word, “Lagniappe.”

Yes I miss home. And in the face of some of life's most recent defeats, it is sometimes tempting to want to retreat back to a familiar space.

But the cantor had very good advice for me. “Give it two years.”

Tried to stay silent

Last presidential election I was very vocal, very active and very passionate.

With this current election I was just as passionate but without the stamina of my younger self.

Last presidential election I was an intern for a pro-choice organization (which has since, apparently, lost it's funding in the state of NM). I was just coming out of a major depression, just beginning to feel optimistic about the financial risk of earning a college degree, just living with my parents again and generally just trying as hard as I could to grasp onto some hope.

Generically I could say I had been looking for some change.

I was in a new space with an assault of distractions that I could not delegate away this year. Having years ago learned (ish) to deal with depression, attained a degree since, and living on my own (and then not)-- Change had happened. Had been happening. In a universe that offers no constancy I had learned to make fewer plans and hope for the best.

So this year I had not taken my opinion and hopes to the streets which might be why I was so nervous. What if my ounces of efforts in a sea of campaigning in the community is what would cost me my comfort and safety in this nation?

A hope for the best turned to a sigh of relief for my values.

And I never mean to impose my values on others.

I live in a country that is, with more hard work, moving towards marriage equality. Ideally, I'll get married one day. But I don't think I could do so happily when I know that people I love (and people in my nation) were being deprived of the same emotional, spiritual, and LAWFUL bliss. How can any American fall in love, look their love in the eyes and say “I do.” when so many others are being denied that preciously elemental moment?

Think about how your heart would swell in that moment.

And how so many hearts are breaking and waiting to feel the same.

I live in a country that, with little effort, is going to protect the reproductive rights of women. As a woman who has suffered a miscarriage, had an illegal abortion as well as having experience with the legal and medical aspects of abortion... I can honestly say, from all ends of a spectrum... there is no singular circumstance that can dictate right from wrong when it comes to these choices. Legitimacy can not be defined by “God's” intent.

I do not believe that God ever intended for me to be raped when I was young. I believe that I came across a person that did not intend to act humanely towards me. I do not believe that God ever intended for me to lose a child that I intended to keep. Or that I was being punished for the mistakes I'd made. I believe that environment and biology created a situation in which prevented me from carrying to term. I do not believe that God no longer loves me because I could not (and elected to NOT) have children with men who did not love me. I think God, for whatever “God” is, doesn't really give a flip about that sort of thing but if “God” did care... it wouldn't be unforgiving. I think God would say something like, “Good call. Because having a child with someone who does not love you/ respect you and/or likes to punch you in the face/ emotionally abuse you... is not what I intended.”

Obviously the reproductive choice thing is a HUGE issue for me. Even as I get older. And especially because I'm older and faced with the reproductive challenges of being exposed to the wrong type of HPV.

Which brings me to another thing.

Stop slut shaming young women over an HPV vaccine. SERIOUSLY. On any occasion that science is capable of staving off a plague of STI... just stop making it about how no one has any business having sex and start making it about how everyone has a communal obligation to protect themselves and others. Stop lying about the numbers. Stop lying about saving yourself for someone that is coming along. And stop lying about how it's “not that big of a deal.”

It is a really big deal.

Universal healthcare? A big deal. Totally worth it when we calculate how much we're wasting on treating those with preventable problems that have turned south... or terminal. Or, you know, the emotional calculation of how many men, women and CHILDREN go without treatment because of an unbearable cost to families.

You can start to see why I'd been silent. No one wants to hear this from me on a daily basis.

Decriminalizing a basic drug that is contributing to violence in a national neighbor? Also a big deal. The American need to consume an “illegal” substance has devastated the sociological stability of a nation. No. A few nations. Americans lack the dignity to accept responsibility for their addiction to consumption.

Not just to drugs. We also like to criminalize women and men in the sex trade, despite the fact that their actions are often coerced. We let the johns off with a slap to the wrist without offering any sort of rehabilitation for prostitutes. It's in and out of the “corrections” system for them.

I can go on like this. Forever.

We like to shield ourselves with personal “values” without taking into account that.... the singular value does not serve the masses.

Our quality of life can't be improved by trying to cater to one set of ideals and circumstance.

Pre-H-day assessment

I don't know when Halloween became a chore for me.

After years at Club Dedo things threatened to become a bit lack-luster in the costume department. It was difficult to top the atmosphere, drink to wait time ratio, social satisfaction departments. Maybe it was the make-outable DJ's. Maybe it was the bartenders willingness to put up with my shit as well as pour candle wax over me when things were slow. Maybe it was the goth drama. Maybe it was "love you even if you're too loud" vibe I caught... Maybe it was in my head.

For a few years I became the Hostess with the Mostest for a Halloween shindigs that encompassed all of my social circles. Tip of the hat to my parents for havin' a place with lots of room, a tree house, a hot-tub AND a fire pit. I could throw a party that included Vagina Veterans, Rotaractors, Japanese exchange students, my family, co-workers, ex-best-friends, new best friends, and friends of friends of friends.

It didn't matter because we had enough hot dogs and marshmallows for everyone.

But at one point I lost control of Halloween celebration. I might be able to trace it back to being engaged to a man that refused to dress up.Think again. Another story.

Obviously that ended badly and I tried to move VERY FAR away. Only that fell through... only a year later... only a week before Halloween. Giving me no time to arrange for a Martha Stewart level Halloween Party .

Instead I made pumpkin-pineapple-ginger eggrolls and lit up a campfire. At the last minute I let people know there was food and fire to be had.

The ones that I love the most, they were there. The ones I would love deeply showed up by accident.

It was a good Halloween. My last great one.

Now New Orleans had to make up for the lost time and the great memories.

What NOLA does not have? My baby brother, my nephews and niece. Just Dance. My Vaginas. A hot tub in my backyard.

What NOLA does have? Frenchman Street. With Christina at The Revival Outpost inspiring my costume.  Friends visiting from out of town. I can't wait to see V.!

A great job.

A snoring boyfriend.

Things will balance out.

PB and C mini muffins

Yields: 42 mini muffins

2 cups all-purpose flour
1/3 cup granulated sugar
2 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp kosher salt
3 Tbsp unsalted butter, melted
1/2 cup peanut butter
1 cup goat milk

1 tsp vanilla extract
1large egg, beaten
3/4 cup carob chips

Preheat oven to 350°. Combine the flour, cinnamon, baking powder, and salt in a large mixing bowl. In a separate medium sized bowl, whisk together the butter, sugar, peanut butter, vanilla extract, egg and milk. Pour the wet ingredients into the dry and stir just until combined; fold in the carob chips.
Coat a nonstick muffin pan with a mist of olive oil from your awesome PC oil misting thing. Fill each of muffin cup about half full with batter. Bake 15ish minutes or until bottoms of muffins are golden but the tops are oddly not. Make sure they are baked all the way through... by eating one. Try to let it cool first. But you know... don't stress about that step.
Bring to your favorite deli and feed your meat slinging, bagel slicing deli boys.
Maybe undress the man you are dating with your eyes.

Yes, but is he Jewish?

After a few months of my mother struggling off and on with my spiritual path she said something the other day that was so “Jewish Mom” that I had the opportunity to feel normal about being Jewish.

Alienated. But normal alienated.

I informed her I was dating again. To which she asked, “A girl or a boy?” Because in my mom's mind I'm still just a lesbian waiting to happen. I also have a few lesbian friends who feel the same way. Secretly I think it's because of my bazooms of doom... and raging feminism. In any case. After I reconfirm that I self- identify as a heterosexual female my mom hits me with this gem, this rite of passage.

“Is he Jewish?”

I sat and stewed in the iconic and ironic glory. Is. He. Jewish?

No.

Which immediately set my heart and soul to racing. I mean, am I going to miss out on having spiritual spark in my relationships if I don't seek out Jewish men to date? Are non-Jewish men bound to never “get” me? Gosh, what if the man I end up falling in love with is not down with raising Jewish children?

Can of worms. Ye hath been opened so hard.

From what I understand Jewish men my age (or younger) don't get the idea of “spiritual spark” until later... or at least until I'm out of the picture. The number of unattached Jewish men in my age group I've met at temple? Zero.

So he's not Jewish, so what?

He's sweet. When I do something nice for him he is surprised, humbled and grateful. He gets dreamy eyed at me. He's honest. Honest about things most people would lie about. Which is to say more honest than I've experienced in quite some time. BUT... you know... he SNORES. A lot. So that might be a deal breaker.

Heh heh.

I'm a 31 year old poet with maybe a bum cervix and a bad credit score. There are worse things. We both have elements of our past that we're ashamed of. Who doesn't? I could certainly never run for president. Anyone that knows me from age 13 to 28 knows that I spent a solid decade and a half mangling my reputation and tempting fate. I got over it. Some people are capable of that sort of redemption. I might go so far as to say MOST people are capable of redemption.

I don't believe in throw away people. After the damage we sustain in life... we deserve reprieves. After my father treated my mother poorly, people may have regarded her as a throw away. A woman so wound up in pain that she could not love or would do anything to seek the approval of love. Even wait. And wait for love. My step-dad did not see her like that. He just swooped in and loved her.

My Ellie-mom. She got the hell out of situations before anyone could try to pull that shit on her. She is fucking zen-core like that.

And my sister? She's been told time and time again that she's a throw away. Thankfully she has the type of attitude that doesn't give a shit about what people say. She has the type of spirit that means to redeem lost causes. Her own as well as the causes of others. Might be the only reason why she's still with us today. With us and full of life... and bullshit.

I've been thrown away. A lot. So now I'm persnickety. About pretty much everything.

Only, right now, I'm around someone that doesn't mind the attitude. Someone that nose dives into a book about Shabbat. Someone that snores... snores so hard.

Get the fuck out. Sometimes I can be that simple.

A guy walks up to you in a deli and asks about the book you're reading.

The rest is presently surprising you.

Light after Lonliness

A few weeks ago, during a sermon, Rabbi B reminded us that life is full of interruptions. Her interruptions had/have a capital I. Mine... not as much. In life, I think, there should be such a thing as middle case. Middle case maybe.

Hurricane Issac was an interruption. It was devastating in unexpected aspects of my life-- emotionally, financially and spiritually.

No one can really prepare you for three days alone in a house with your cats. Isolation. ISOLATION. Middle case isolation, maybe. Alone with per-cancerous cells, cat fights and lots of thoughts. Thoughts of family, friends, friends (who are not speaking to you for their own reasons) fatal friendships, family fatalities, genetic dispositions, your own look on life and it got that way because of your choices, choices you wouldn't have made if you'd known people were not going honest and true to you, and how does anyone know how to be honest and true when all their hearts know is the bob and weave of listening art... and who are you to accuse because all your heart ever wanted was the bob and weave of speaking art. How does any love ever happen between the two when the zig to the right and the zag to minor never meet?

You're alone with that conglomeration of catastrophe.

And then there's the turmoil of trying, having tried for weeks before Issac, to meet with your local rabbi. To meet with a rabbi, one has to have a few weeks notice. Can you meet on Day XYZ? No. Then you can meet with a rabbi on day A. Ok. Only something has happened on Day A. And then the Capital H came in on the anniversary of Capital/Bold K. You can't expect to meet with anyone during High Holy Days which is stressful.. because... like.. first High Holy Days since you decided to become a Jew... all on your own... so talking to someone about that would be nice.... better than nice... it would be a life line. But that's not going to happen. So you ask to have certain days off so you can attend to your spiritual business as efficiently and business like as possible only to realize you have to prioritize. And a rabbi has to prioritize. Somewhere in the middle you'll keep missing your connection.

And it has STRESSED ME OUT.

Until my best friend was in town. Strained as the friendship is right now, God knows how good it is, because it was when Ariel was here that I was asked to light the candles for Friday services.

In all the isolation and desperation and stress and insecurity.... in all the chaos... a very select, very important moment was created for me to have with someone I love deeply and then shared with a community that is creating a learning and loving experience in my life.

For months I've been trying to be loved by Judaism. For months I've been stressed out and hurt because I didn't feel that I was being loved from a place that I had found love.

Love. Capital in all ways. LOVE.

And just a few moments of creating fire and speaking poetry on the right night, in front of the right people... is all it took to renew my faith in love, God, greatness and light.

Because. ABSOLUTELY... it is no question of maybe/middle cases.

Love alone will Shine.

For what it is worth. For all my faults. And all of yours. It still will Shine.

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.

Attempting to break the radio silence

I made a promise to myself a while back that I would not write when I was depressed. The line between therapeutic catharsis and self-destructive observation is far too easily erased when you're really deep down in it. I'm certainly too old for messy public displays of depression. Certainly. Also, I never want to be one of “those” poets/writers. You can take that as you would like.

That said-- I had a bad few weeks. The first job I had wasn't working out and I had to quit. The second job that I have isn't giving me the hours I need. I did find another job which is when things were starting to look up.

Knock on wood.

I think Nola knew she was on the verge of hurting my feelings beyond repair. In an attempt to make it up to me some great entertainment was provided this weekend. Starting with Touro Synagogues 21^st Annual Jazz Fest Shabbat. Two bands. One choir. And John Boutté.

Attending services usually creates a feeling of emotional vulnerability me. So not only is the choir and congregation wrapping me up in the emotional blanket of Friday night song, but Mr. B is belting out covers of Leonard Cohen's “Hallelujah” and Mayfield's “Please Send Me Someone To Love.” Oh man, and “You've Got to be Carefully Taught.” And the song, “All about Everything”....

I cried and cried and cried. Catharsis. Thy name is song.

I mean, I totally love being Jewish. Jazz Fest Shabbat is icing on cake at this point.

I did win tickets for a latin jazz show from WWOZ on Saturday night... but ended up not going. It was a time management issue. And I live in a city where free Jazz is sorta... a staple. Not really a sin to pass up on it. I would have had a great time if I'd gone. 

But I did I had to take a nap because I had to be bright eyed and bushy tailed at 2:30am (seriously) for a Beats Antique show at House of Blues. 

And I can't say much about the show. It's one of those situations where... you kinda had to be there.

Thankfully I recorded the finale to sort of give y'all a taste of what went down.

The sound isn't great. But to be fair, a digital camera has a hard time picking up sound from two drum sets, a drum machine, other electronic beep-bop-boop making devices and a giant sexy saxophone.

The sound in House of Blues was great. Fault my camera.

In other news.

Giant sexy saxophones get me... you know... totally hot. (The artist played clarinet too...)

The Healing Power of Bagel

For the past two hours I've been trying to write about what is happening in my life. I can't seem to articulate anything in a way that I find satisfactory.

I will summarize the past week.

Blargh. Job. Blargh. Money. Blargh. Emotionally drained. Blargh. Feel like I'm not even close to reaching my goals. Mega Blargh.

But then. Today I took myself out on a bagel/book date at my favorite deli down the street.

I feel a little better now.

There is no way around it.

My blog is going to end up being, primarily, a place for me to store and share my thoughts on converting to Judaism. 

Of course it will still contain deposits of other adventures. For instance, today I sun burned the bottom of my feet while I was sunbathing. I didn’t even know that the bottom of your feet could get sunburned. Hence, lack of tanning oil/SPF 4. In other news, I’m working on a nice Aztec Tan everywhere else. Already looking a good ten pounds lighter. 

But when I’m not sunbathing, working my butt off and reading The Source… I’m at Touro Synagogue for Friday night services, Saturday services, monthly book club, weekly Torah Study, Tea and Talmud, Jewish Journeyers and LGBTQ community support panels, or at the JCC watching film screening about Lea Goldberg, or at home reading and researching. 

Somewhere in there I’m trying to work in yoga, pilates, meditation, and keeping up with my favorite TV shows. 

Choosing to be Jewish is complicated and dashes more exhausting than what I often feel I have the stamina for. But it’s what I want, where I need to be, and exactly what I’ll have for the rest of my life.

Of course, this big of a commitment doesn’t come without a lot of complications, conflict and a crappiness of all sorts of flavors. 

Like the classic, “Once you study the Torah long enough you’ll discover that Jesus is the son of God. He is God. And our Savior.” 

Wow, OK. Well, that’s certainly one way to be SO NOT SUPPORTIVE IN THE LEAST. 

I have to learn how to deal with this overwhelming fact. From here on out my belief in God won’t be good enough for a vast (and sometimes whackily whack) population on this planet. Thankfully I’m an educated person. Thankfully my mother and grandmother wisely decided that I would attend church and Bible Study so when I did make a choice it would be a smart and heart-felt one. So you can rest assuredly that I haven’t made this choice without considering what else there is that has been offered to me.

I respectfully decline. 

Thankfully I am capable as reading between the interpretations and manipulations of literature, society and culture. Thankfully the path that I’ve chosen believes in the spiritual and social evolution of humanity. I can do that for the rest of my life. Happily allow my spirituality to reside in a place that will not apply intellectual and emotional restrictions to my life. 

So, converting… yeah. There’s going to be a lot of angst. But more action because I have a lot to learn, so much to share, and a long way to go. 

Here’s a gem of angst for you. Speaking from a literary point of view—so much of what is written in the New Testament is political propaganda and multiple author revision and a manipulation of language/translation. 

But to be fair a lot of what happens in Genesis parallels creation myths from early pagan civilizations.

Festival. Festival. Festival. (Or, the day I accidentally stalked Davis Rogan for half a day)

 Up up up early early so I can catch a bus and head out to the Tennessee Williams/New Orleans Literary Festival. You know what’s great? Karissa (the organizer) recognized my ability to lead and let me take care of the sales table for a few hours. Then she wanted me to be a site director… which I would have done… if it weren’t for the fact that I really wanted to go to Palm Court for some really amazing panels about New Orleans and Music. And when I reminded her that the panels I wanted to attend were at another location she was fine with it (because we’d talked about it before). 

It was refreshing to hear, “How long do we have you? Which events did you want to attend? Let’s make sure you get there and get to enjoy them!” And every time I turned around someone was thanking me for just being there. 

I liked volunteering for the festival. I was thinking about the Border Book Festival the entire time. But not in a close your eyes and think of England sort of way. Volunteering for TWNOLF was enjoyable and I’m looking forward to working with the organization again. 

Of course, I couldn’t relate to a lot of the workshops, panels and artists. It was a very southern affair. On that count, I miss the southwest. 

I did get to see two panels on New Orleans music in The Palm Court Jazz Cafe

 The first one featuring John Swenson, author of New Atlantis. The book focuses on the return of musical artists and the music scene to NOLA after Katrina. Mr. Swenson knows his shit, and I really want to the book (but it’s a $28 hardback…. So… yeah… that’s going to have to wait). 

Davis Rogan was also there. Yeah, a year ago I would have been all, “Who the fuck is Davis Rogan?” But then Jon introduced me to a little show called Treme. 

So this is Davis Rogan. (It’s a long but hilarious video, the best one I could swipe from YouTube) 

And this is DJ Davis from Treme. 

And all this brings up a very important question that I was faced with in the first week of moving to New Orleans. As a transplant New Orleanian… where do I stand on the show Treme? 

I’m going to go ahead and say it (even if that means I am issued outsider points for it). I fucking like the show. No. Love it. 

Any instance in which a fucking television show manages to call attention to the many injustices issued by local, state and federal government/society in a way that instigates and mobilizes concern from those outside of the situation gets an A fucking Plus in my book. 

And it’s done well. The show creators didn’t import a crap ton of big names with nice tits and rugged chins to portray pathetic caricatures of people who will stop at nothing to get what they want and then get it and everything is happily ever after. No. The characters have to be broken, deconstructed, and wobbily rebuilt… on the promise that things are going to be utterly broken again and again.  

So I fell in love with the show. I could give you a frame by frame of why this show is awesome. The scene where LaDonna freaks out about her rapist being released, while her husband realizes that the woman he loves is trapped because he left her behind? The scene gives me chills. Every. Single. Time. The slow decline of Antoine Batiste's ego-- from fame chasing, 'bone playing DOG to disgruntled music teacher of under-privileged (but not under-talented) middle school musicians? Realistic.

And now that I live here…. I kinda get shit for it sometimes. But loving the show is worth it. In any case, Davis Rogan is the musical adviser for one of the best shows on television. And he’s hilarious. And fucking tall. 

After the panel I had to check out the New Orleans Road Food Festival. I had tamales, pulled pork and a mint julep (with monies raised going to the Tennessee Williams Literary Festival).  

I sit down in some shade and guess who shows up on stage? Davis Rogan is reverse stalking me.

I just saw him play in an air-conditioned bar for the last hour though, so I’m not about to sit in the sun and listen to him again. So it’s off to the New Orleans Healing Center First Annual Sacred Music Festival where I volunteered again—taking tickets and watching the artists entrance. I got to listen to so amazing Buddhist chants. I loved the monks. They were adorable yet potent with language. 

“We make this chant to cut the things that make pain in life. Not with a weapon. But with thoughts.” 

Oh my heart melted. Yes, life is pain and suffering. You can find at least one thing that cuts away at those elements and you are left with a chest full of strength, a heart full of creation and can breathe without burden.

So write. Or play. Or sing. Just find that thing that helps you chisel away the pain.