Up a Tree House

This Saturday I built a club house. Okay, so I didn’t build a clubhouse as much as I oversaw it being built by people much more qualified. I’m not going to claim carpentry skills, even though as a single homeowner I’ve picked up some pretty cool skills in the last year. Using a saw and a level aren’t among those skills.

My son wanted a club house though. His idea for his new clubhouse was for me to buy a bunch of wood and for him to build it. Umm, no. I could come up with so many reasons to not go that route. All of those reasons in some way or another involving my son attempting to operate tools and ending up with less appendages.

So I bought a clubhouse kit. Trouble with the kit was that Andrew wanted a proper tree house off the ground. (Did I mention I don’t actually have a tree for it to go in like a proper tree house?)  My mother, who was co-builder, talked me into going six feet off the ground because of my son being so tall. Six feet off the ground looks like a tall building now that I’m looking at it from the ground. I can vividly imagine my accident-prone daughter rolling off its front porch. Hopefully, that’s just my overactive imagination.

The clubhouse kit came with a pretty interesting set of directions. My mom and I took turns reading the directions out to the volunteer builders. The directions were sparse to say the least. Whoever wrote those directions needed help. Obviously, they have never built the tree house or they would be much more specific in the steps. There was a clear moment in the process where I experienced all the frustrations of not being listened to by the one that I was calling out directions for. There may have been a little bit of yelling involved. But maybe, I can claim to be a better listener after the process.

The real issue with the directions was that it said it would take about thirty minutes to build. Right. Maybe if we had a crew of professional carpenters and better directions. We started at ten in the morning and finished at 5:30 in the afternoon, not counting the work done on the platform several days before. I’d like to see anyone figure those directions out and build it in thirty minutes.

It is built though except for a method to reach the tree house among the clouds (Yes, that is an exaggeration, I suppose). My son wants a rope ladder. I can see kids tumbling out the front entry, grabbing at a rope ladder. My mom has this fanciful scheme for some grand staircase. I wanted a tree house in my back yard, not a second house. I have only a few days to figure out a solution though because the children return soon, and I can see Andrew figuring out his own way to raise himself into the tree house. I don’t see that going well.

French Quarter Festival

At any time of the year, New Orleans is filled with people making spectacles of themselves. But if you add in a festival weekend, the spectacle becomes something worth seeing.

This weekend I strolled the streets of the French Quarter, taking in the sights of the French Quarter Festival. I’ve never attended a festival in New Orleans before, so I had added it to my list of things worth doing this year. A list that I need to move a little further along on or December will come and I will be forced to do something on my list every day. But I digress. I actually ended up at this festival unintentionally after the item on my list that I had planned for the day didn’t go off as intended. When we ended up in the middle of the festival, we seized the opportunity.

The first thing I noticed was the parking situation. I go into the city frequently, and I usually can get a parking spot for a relatively cheap price. Apparently, festivals are the time for everyone to capitalize on the lack of parking in the city. Parking spots near Canal Street were going for $115 according to one shop owner. A couple in line in front of us complained about the $50 fee for their parking spot. As we were searching for a spot, I actually saw a guy changing the sign for his parking area from $20 to $25.We paid $25 for a grass covered empty lot that some land owner in a lawn chair was selling spaces for the weekend. (Not to mention we walked and walked and walked.)

The stages of the festival’s entertainment were spread throughout the quarters along the river, but the street entertainment was just as lively. On every street corner, musicians populated the area with cases and containers to collect their tips. Several times as I walked past children playing, I thought that some music school must have told its students to get experience playing for an audience. In addition to musicians, there were stilt walkers, bible preachers, and silver and gold statue men, plus many more. It was a busy day for entertainment in the Quarters.

But of course with all of those people gathered together, tempers sometimes flair as well as the entertainers. With cars and carriages attempting to pass down streets filled with people, near accidents are prone to happen. I watched people yell at cars, get out of cars to yell back, and yell their discontent at the people on the streets. The crowded streets became a place to observe human interaction, the good and the ugly.

It was definitely an interesting day in the Quarters, but I would still rather stroll the streets when there a few thousand less people and everything doesn’t cost at least twice as much as usual. Moving onto the next item on my list now.

Easter Suprise

As a young child, holiday traditions abounded in my family even if I wasn’t aware of them at the time. Every year at Easter we placed the same Easter baskets out lined with plastic, green imitation hay and waited for it to be filled with candy the next morning. My favorite candy besides the duck and rabbit sweet tarts was the pink and yellow marshmallow bunnies. They didn’t come in the multiple colors of today, and it didn’t really matter because I preferred pink (still do).

We would also dye Easter eggs in these old green coffee cups that my mother would pull out of the cabinet for the occasion. Nothing fancy, just large ceramic coffee mugs. We’d boil water and drop food coloring into the water and wait for the eggs to brighten into colorful creations.

I’ve continued these traditions with my children, except I have these egg dying cups we usually use because of the absence of coffee cups. I don’t drink coffee, so who needs coffee cups? Usually I buy some cheap decorating kit that comes with the dye as well as some of kind of decoration for the eggs. Colorful eggs are not enough for my children who want stickers and tattoos and anything else flashy that the store puts in a box for the occassion. This year the kit came with these plastic collapsible dye cups, and I figured what the heck. They looked pretty cool, and the children thought that since it came with the kit, we had to use them. More importantly, it would save time in digging out the cups from heaven knows where I’d stored them last year.

Big mistake. Huge mistake.

The cups were supposed to stand up with the water, dye, and eggs. And though I followed the instructions down to putting newspaper beneath the cups, the newspaper was no help as the cups collapsed, spilling their contents everywhere.

The tradition calls for colorful Easter eggs, not festive cabinets, floors, and counter tops.

I ditched the collapsible cups, pulled out the old plastic ones, and began ruining towels as I cleaned up the dye.

The children got their Easter eggs, and I now have cabinets that need to be repainted to cover their pastel hues. The children felt certain that they would never see dyed Easter eggs again as I mopped up pinks and oranges. Maybe my mother knew what she was doing. I’ll be looking for some coffee cups next year instead of whatever cool way of doing it comes packaged in a box.

An Announcement

As all good stories with my children seem to begin, we were in the car. Andrew and I were going pick his sister up at school when I noticed that he was dancing and singing along with the radio in the back seat.

Now for most kids, that wouldn’t be a big deal, but this is the same kid that covered my mouth when I would sing to him as a toddler, and today tells his sister that he’s going to vomit if she doesn’t stop singing or dancing.

I let him know I had seen him with a smile (aka huge, goofy grin), expecting him to stop as he’s always done in the past. Oddly, he asked me what bus he would have to ride when I changed his bus.

“No idea, Andrew,” I said still smiling, thinking he was trying to change the subject.

“I hope it’s bus 42. If it is, I’ll be in heaven.”

Heaven from riding the bus? Did he have fever? A head injury? First singing and dancing and then the bus? This was the kid that groaned every time I mentioned the words riding and bus in the same sentence. Something was certainly wrong.

“Why?” I asked, trying not to let him know that I thought he’d hit his head and was suffering from some sort of concussion.

“Because the girl I like rides that bus, and I’d get to ride the bus with her every day.”

Insert heart palpitations, then goofy laughter, then wild exclamations. “Really? You like a girl? A girl at school? What’s her name?”

“I’m not telling you, and you better not tell Cara.”

And so it begins. Where did my little boy go that said he never wanted a girlfriend and he was going to live with his mother forever? Will he really be ten years old in a few short months?

Eventually, I stopped the laughing and began interrogating my poor child about this unnamed girl. He then proceeded to tell me that this was why he hadn’t said anything. Well, then. How come I was supposed to answer all their questions when I was interrogated? I kept my questions to myself though, but not before asking if she liked him back. His response was how was he supposed to know. I didn’t say he could just ask. I don’t think he’s ready for that. At least I hope not anyway.

Then it dawned on me that some girl would probably break my son’s heart one day; some girl that wouldn’t love my son as much as I do. Oh, I’m so not ready for that.

My babies aren’t babies anymore. If I needed any more proof, my daughter brought two books tonight to read at bed time, but tonight she read them to me. When did that happen? I’ve read books to her since she was old enough to blink in response. I appreciate that she has become a fluent reader in first grade, but that was kind of my territory.

I appreciate their growing independence, but it’s bittersweet. Before I know it, they are going to be complaining that I share their stories with everyone, (Let’s keep the girl story to ourselves. I did promise not to tell anyone.) and who knows how many more of these silly stories they will provide for my (and your) entertainment. Guess that means I better enjoy telling them while they are still happening (especially before they realize that I share them with everyone).

My Answer is Procrastination

So how does a perfectionist deal with not enough hours in the day? Procrastination, of course.

Recently, I’ve found myself with a much longer to-do list than hours in the day. Ideally, I would be able to just add more hours to the day, but I’ve been told that’s not a realistic option. I tried cutting back on the wasted hours I spend sleeping, but crankiness is the side effect. I don’t even want to deal with my own self cranky very less inflict it on others.

I’ve read quite a bit about time management (as I was procrastinating, of course), but I’ve yet to find a solution to my problem. One of the number one words of advice given on the matter is to prioritize by making a list. I make lists daily. I have sticky notes with things to do stuck to my podium and my desk at work, lists on my refrigerator, lists on my island of the daily tasks, and lists on the calendar I keep in my purse. The problem is that when you combine all my lists, I’m right back to the initial problem of not having enough hours in the day.

Which leads to the second most given piece of advice and that is to learn to say no and to eliminate items from the to-do list. Hmm… who do I eliminate or tell no? My kids? My students? My friends? My online instructor who is expecting me to be working on my final exam at this moment?

Not likely. Everyone and everything in my life has a purpose right now, even if it feels like some days I will drown in the responsibility of it all. You know, on those days it feels as if I’ve failed at it all, and that I haven’t accomplished what I should have; I haven’t been there for every single person who’s needed me that day or remembered all the things that I’m expected to say to someone depending on me for advice or support. But at the end of the day, I have done what can be accomplished in one day by one person (I’ve been told superpowers are out of the question, too.).

Basically, I’ve learned to let it go. Perfectionism that is. Procrastination has become a workable strategy, not because I leave things to the last minute, but because there are so many tasks to complete that last minute is all I have left. Everything will work out at the end of the day, and if it doesn’t, there is always tomorrow. And sometimes, things don’t have to be perfect, they just have to be done.

Of course, that doesn’t work with my instructor who is waiting for my final. I probably need to get back to it and stop procrastinating. Probably too late for that.

With a Little Bit of Luck

Have you ever gone through a period of time where it felt as if your luck has run out? That’s where I’ve been recently. Not that I was winning the lottery before or winning anything really. But you can’t help but feel that you have a little luck until everything begins to go wrong. So on St. Patrick’s Day I decided to go find some luck. Not with the luck of the Irish however. I went in search of a JuJu doll instead.

This adventure comes with a bit of back story. In Vicksburg a few weeks ago a friend had purchased a JuJu doll in an art job. The doll is supposed to be the positive version of a Voodoo doll. It looked interesting, so it came home. Fast forward a month and I mention how I’m having a streak of bad luck. He responds by saying that he’s been having good luck and he must owe it to the JuJu doll.

Where can I get one of those now?

So my quest began to find my own JuJu doll without having to return to Vicksburg to claim a bit of good luck. What better place to find a good luck Voodoo doll than in New Orleans?

Apparently, Voodoo dolls have become a tourist commodity in New Orleans. Every gift shop appears to have a collection of dolls. These dolls apparently have the ability to bring success, attract a lover, and a whole host of things that would cause me to blush if I wrote them down. The lucky rabbit’s foot has nothing on these dolls.

JuJu, the good luck charm, must be popular for it was the most difficult to find (Of course it was. My luck hasn’t changed yet.) In the end, we found one at a New Orleans themed store in the Riverwalk. It is not as attractive as the one found in Vicksburg, but it is supposed to bring good luck.

I carried my own JuJu doll home and placed it in my room. I didn’t want to scare visitors away. And I’m not talking about having a Voodoo doll in my house either.  This doll will not be winning any beauty contests. It’s a good thing it’s supposed to be lucky.

It was an interesting adventure whether it changes my luck or not. I still lean in the direction that we make our own luck, but if the JuJu doll helps out, I won’t be complaining.

Star-Crossed Lovers

Even after four hundred years, Shakespeare’s play Romeo and Juliet can still be found on stage. This weekend I attended Nicholls State University’s production of Romeo and Juliet by the Nicholls Player’s Club.

Though the dialogue in the play was original to Shakespeare’s original lines (though shortened and adjusted to the two hour time frame), the play had a modern backdrop of a political campaign. The play begins with Montague and Capulet campaigning against each other in a campaign complete with a video camera carrying press. How relevant in this campaign year? The music soundtrack was also current music reminiscent of teenage television shows, and at times it felt like High School Musical meets Shakespeare.

Somewhere in the middle of the play, I realized why students love Romeo and Juliet much more than the Julius Caesar play I’m forced to teach as a tenth grade English teacher. It’s like the four hundred year old version of Twilight but in a language you can’t understand anymore. (I don’t understand teenage slang either. So that’s just one of the many similarities to begin the list.) Romeo and Juliet has the instant love at first sight storyline, the love triangle with Romeo-Juliet-Paris, teenagers getting married, and the violence similar to vampires trying to kill each other. Romeo and Juliet is not so different from the unrealistic love stories found in today’s teen books. After four hundred years, we’re still reading stories that give us the same storyline. Our tastes haven’t changed though the language has.

The NSU players delivered a great performance though. I can remember back in college when my college professor became enraged when the Leonardo Dicaprio movie came out because of its modern adaption and its use of guns. This version used campaign poster sticks as weapons and even had sword fights with hammers. Not to mention Juliet’s recording of a misbehaving, female Mercutio scene with her cellphone and no doubt posting it to Youtube. There was only one scene where a gun was used, and though it did feel out of place for me, it wasn’t done with the same intent as Dicaprio’s movie version.

In the end Romeo and Juliet died. This certainly requires no spoiler alert. The fate of those star-crossed lovers never changes even after four hundred years.  Though all those modern-day story adaptions appear to forget that when they describe the storyline as Romeo and Juliet like.

Future Meets the Past

What happens when your past and future collide? In the past few days I caught a glimpse into both my past and my future with interesting results.

Once again, for the second year, I visited the psychic. I know, I know. It’s beginning to sound like an obsession. This time was different though. Whereas last time I only experienced excitement at the thought of someone telling me what lay in store for me, I must admit to a large dose of anxiety mixed in with a tad bit of excitement this time around.

Last time I visited her with my life as an open canvas. I was unclear on what I wanted from life and willing to have someone paint the picture over the blankness. This time around, the picture on the canvas has been outlined and mostly filled in, but it isn’t quite complete. Anxiety surfaced at the thought that the psychic would tell me that I’d gone in the completely wrong direction.

Though I have changed much in the last year since I visited her last (name, hair color, etc.), she recognized me. Strangely, I’d hoped she wouldn’t. Part of me wanted to see if she’d remember what she’d told me last year. Would the new predictions be the same or completely different? If they were different, could I dismiss it all as fiction?

I’ll keep the details to myself, but she did not tell me I was going in the wrong direction. Again, she amazed me at how accurately she could describe people and things in my life without being prompted. But most importantly, I don’t feel the need to rush out and immediately make her predictions come true this time around. I’m much more willing to wait. Maybe I’ve also learned patience in the last year.

To put my obsession with the future in perspective, I’ve had surprise visits in the past week from two friends I haven’t seen or spoken to much in the last decade or so. It’s interesting that while catching up all the time you’ve missed from each other’s lives, you realize how far you’ve come from the past and how much further you would like to go.

It hasn’t been a bad journey, for I’ve experienced much on the way to my present point. Ten years ago I couldn’t have foreseen my current place in life, so whether the psychic’s predictions happen or not, I can only live and see.

So between the past and the future, I think I’ll continue to live in the present and allow the future to unravel as it slowly becomes my present. (Though I will also probably not resist going to a psychic again in the future just to see. It doesn’t hurt, and it certainly is interesting.)

Road Trip

Most of my traveling has been what I’d call destination oriented. I travel to get from point A to B and don’t make any stops at point C or D. Recently, my traveling plans included a road trip though. Specifically, a Blues road trip.  

Highway 61 is often called the Blues Highway because many famous musicians traveled the road between New Orleans and Memphis on their way to becoming great. I’d say Memphis is the city of blues and barbeque, and we had both in abundance our two days there. No trip to Memphis would be complete without a trek to Elvis Presley’s Graceland, and it was on our agenda. After our visit though, I couldn’t help but notice that from that moment on, every wall of every place had at least one Elvis photo. Is that what they mean by the king still being alive?

What I really enjoy is a good story, especially if it is told by a good storyteller. After Graceland, we visited Sun Studios, and there I found a storyteller that didn’t require me to wear ear phones. I enjoyed hearing stories that didn’t read like an encyclopedia entry. We also visited the Rock and Soul Museum and the Lorraine Hotel where Martin Luther King Jr. was shot. We listened to great blues music at Rum Boogie Café and B.B. King’s Blues Club, and we ate great barbeque at Charles Vergos’ Rendezvous and Pig on Beale. We even had fried strawberries at Johnny G’s Creole Kitchen (Tastes like beignets filled with a strawberry and drizzled with chocolate and powdered sugar).

Another one of those stories that I enjoyed during our visit was the Peabody hotel. Every day at 11:00 the ducks exit their roof top palace, walk around the roof twice, and enter the second elevator. They then take the elevator down to the lobby where they walk around the fountain twice before entering the water. They swim and play all day until 5:00 where they walk around the fountain twice and then return to their palace via the second elevator. I’d say these are some pretty spoiled (not to mention well-trained) ducks.

Shack Up Inn

Our road trip continued to Clarksdale, Mississippi to the crossroads where blues musician Robert Johnson supposedly sold his soul to the devil to play the guitar better. We visited the Delta Blues Museum there as well as the small downtown area (including Cat Head Delta Blue and Folk Art) before making our way to Hopson Plantation and the Shack Up Inn. We spent the night in an old sharecropper’s cabin just like the blue’s musicians sing about.

The Corner's Inn

Our trip continued to Vicksburg where we added a little civil war history to the mix along with several blues markers that dot highway 61. We stayed at The Corner’s Inn on the river (Yes, we went from the sharecropper’s cabin to inside the plantation within twenty-four hours. I wonder if there is a song about that?). Vicksburg is a beautiful town, and I highly recommend the great food at Rusty’s restaurant in town as well as The Attic for wonderful art and Lorelei books, because, well, I just can’t help myself.

We made one last stop in Crystal Springs at Louise’s BBQ (Because we hadn’t had enough already) and the Robert Johnson museum before heading home.

Not too bad for my first road trip. For me, it’s all about the story ideas, and I have a whole slew of ideas now as I sit back down and work on that next book.

Book Signing

The much anticipated first book signing took place this weekend. My close friends and family have read and evaluated the book, so it was time to get my book into the hands of people who don’t know me. Because of course, my family can’t really say, “No, I’m not really that interested in reading it.” Just like telling your squeaky voice niece that she can sing, reading your relative’s book is a requirement.

There is something unnerving about sitting and waiting for people to approach you so that you can convince them that your book is worth the purchase and read though. How does a person go about choosing a book?  And for that matter, does everyone you approach actually read books?

The book signing went well even with my nervousness. I went with a goal of how many books I wished to sell, and I left having sold exactly that number. It was a great day to have a book signing at LA Cajun with the singer Tete Deur playing music from his new CD on the inside of the store as well as another author signing books opposite me. The store attracted quite a crowd that day.

One of my students came out to have her book signed.

Many people I know came out to see me and I’m grateful for everyone who has bought my book, but for the first time I had the experience of trying to get strangers to read my book. I actually look forward to talking to more potential readers.

Now it is time to work on Muddy Grave. The sequel is still in the works, and hopefully soon I will be sitting down to sign and convince others to read both books.

Tete Deur playing inside LA Cajun.