I remember sitting at home, days after the arrival of my precious baby boy. I remember the TV on, always on. Glued to the TV, I watched hours upon hours of footage.

The first image I remember was a reporter at the side of the interstate, cloaked in rain gear, talking about how the highway was flooding. I remember a car in the background, driving into what appeared to be a puddle, but then slowly beginning to float away as the driver valiantly tried to escape through the window. The reporter, dropping everything, ran for the car to aide this person.

I knew then this was different.

I just didn’t know how different.

I’ve never been to New Orleans or the Gulf Coast, but there’s something that draws me to it. Before Katrina I felt the connection, the need to be there, the yearning to be apart of the magic. Once Katrina hit, my heart broke. I was devastated for a place I didn’t know, for the people that were strangers. It’ a surreal feeling.

I spent the better part of the following three weeks glued to every single report and every single show about New Orleans.

I wept.

I bawled.

I lived New Orleans at their worst.

Once the water receded, once the damaged was done, there was no life to get back to. There appeared to be no future for this great city. There’s been rebuilding, reconstruction and some life brought back to New Orleans, and once that started, the destruction was slowly forgotten - by those f us not directly related to the tragedy.

Like most, I got on with my life. I thought less and less about what the people of that fair city have been through, and are dealing with on a daily basis. I thought less about the non-existent Ninth Ward, the disheveled cemeteries, the lost heirlooms, separated families, properties that were no more.

Abandonment of the greatest magnitude.

Once the one year anniversary approached there were locations along the coast which appeared just as they had the day the waters were pushed back. Cars strewn across roadways, ships and barges haphazardly lying as they had fallen 365 days prior. People without homes, jobs and loved ones. Still. One year later.

Now, as we embark on the 730th day, the city is virtually at a stand still. Two years later. There is life, some have come back, yet many have stayed away. Some places are back in their glory.

Some are not.

Lower Ninth Ward, two years later (click to enlarge).

Those who are New Orleans need us. They need support, help and not to be forgotten.

If all I can do is write this little post on this little blog… well, at least it’s something.

A reminder even.

Just what most people need.

New Orleans is still alive and still full of music.

photo taken by: Adamina

Which doesn’t really pertain to me since I am hardly classy, even though I am definitely fabulous *snicker*… I’m more of the “You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl.”

I grew up in a small town, in the country, where, as a teenager, drinking is a very busy past time. The tolerance for alcohol, for most people, is still pretty high - why, with all the practice to be had. Every weekend there seemed to be a party, a stag and doe, a ball tournament (always with beer gardens) or a wedding. A reason to drink.

I too have indulged; and am (or was) able to go head to head with the best of them. When I moved away to college, friends were in awe of my ability to just keep drinking. I owed it all to small town country life.

This weekend was no exception.

My high school best friend and her high school sweetheart tied the knot; the wedding, themed “Ten Years in the Making” was just that. I remember walking the halls of our high school at sixteen with said friend and scoping out the older boys hanging out by their lockers between class. We’d always take the long route, just so we could walk past, to catch a glimpse of these boys.

The two we crushed on were three and four years older then us; basketball players (as were we) and oh! so! gorgeous! (Still are.) and when I hooked up with my hottie, I worked very hard to get him to help me get my friend and her crush together. When all was said and done between my crush and I (another sad, and long story) they were still going strong.

Now, ten years later, they’ve finally married; and I couldn’t be happier for them. I was giddy as soon as I saw her come down the aisle.

I showed them just how happy I was by drinking their bar dry at the wedding.

Okay, so slightly exaggerated.

But when they are serving BOTTLES instead of just GLASSES of wine. That’s when the trouble begins to brew.
I did the only thing I know how: took complete advantage of the situation.

Boy, did I ever.

Thankfully, my husband loves me so much. Bless his cold, black and shriveled little heart because I was a force to be reckon with after consuming a few too many bottles of wine. I was incoherent, belligerent and down right drunk.

And he did what he does best. Bosses me around.

[I love when he does that. Especially in bed.]

Once I began to stagger and slur my words, he knew it was time for us to head home; save me from embarrassing myself.

[Please, I don't think that's even possible with those friends. But, Mike, Bless that shriveled little heart again, doesn't know what we are capable of when we're back home drinking.]

Thanks to Mike, once again, I made it home in one piece; though, little dehydrated after purging all that wine and my dinner behind a friend’s house. Mike sweetly put me to bed - on the couch, still in my wedding clothes (Spanx and all - yes, I wore them again) , and placed a garbage can beside me.

And I woke up with only a mild hangover.

Thank you homemade wine.

What I learned from the weekend?

1. Yes, you can most certainly take the girl outta the country… but you ain’t never takin’ that country outta the girl.

2. I desperately miss being back home. *sniff, sniff*

3. Homemade wine is definitely fabulous. Will have to make more.

4. Mike is the best babysitter ever! when I get my drink on.

5. I love weddings.

Specifically bad hair.

Seven years old, I went for a haircut. I was very specific about what I wanted; everyone was doing it, and I wanted to too. I begged and pleaded until I was finally allowed, after all, it’s hair, it grows back, right? (Sounds familiar, no?)
Well, I was more then excited when I left the salon with my new do. I remember admiring it in the mirror when we got home.

I remember the picture my mom took, and I cringe when I see it. Cringe.

I can’t believe she let me do that to my head! It was a NIGHTMARE!

It was probably really funny to her at the time, that’s why the pictures; after all, she could very well use those as bribery in my teens.

People. It was the mid-80’s. What was hot then?

A mullet.

Hockey hair.

Business upfront, party in the back.

Full. on. mullet. for this girl. I wasn’t messing around. Long and straight in the back, with short spikes on the top.

Oh, how I am so grateful I don’t have a picture to scan for you! *shakes head* What a mess.

So, without further ado.

Thursday Thirteen

A Tribute to the Mullet - The Celebrity Mullet

Michael Keaton

Steven Segal

Toby Keith

Brad Pitt

Billy Ray Cyrus

David Spade (Even though it’s fake, it’s classic!)

Jon Bon Jovi

Metallica

Heath Ledger - still pretty hot

Richie Sambora (from Bon Jovi)

Tommy Lee (so hot without the mullet)

Our favourite Uncle Jesse, John Stamos

Adam Sandler

And The King of the Mullet…

one for good measure…

Because no one can rock The Mullet like Dog the Bounty Hunter!

Divorce:

1. The legal dissolution of a marriage.
2. A complete or radical severance of closely connected things.

Divorce is an ugly word. I’ve been through a few in my life; never fun; and it’s more and more a part of everyday life. But looking back, no matter how heart wrenching, it’s still usually for the best.

I was two years old when my parents divorced. Throughout my life I’ve heard bits and pieces of just what happened, enough to draw my own conclusions. Infidelity and moving much too fast seem to be the consensus. This divorce was actually good, since both have moved on and are happily married to different people. But the burden of hurt and betrayal is still very evident when talking to my mom. Abandoned (her words not mine) to care for two children under two on her own with no income (since she didn’t work while we were young) has no resonated well with her, even after 24 years.

Though, I love both my parents, I am so thankful they are not together because had they been, I would have led a very tumultuous childhood, worse then it was with the traveling and visiting and fighting over holidays. Those parents that stay together for the sake of the kids, in my opinion, are doing far worse then good. That lifestyle is so very toxic for everyone involved. I have seen how a family lives with constant verbal abuse; I have seen how the daughters grow up to marry and/or date people who treat them as their parents treated each other.

Toxic.

When I first met my mother-in-law she was moving to a new house. It was moving weekend, which she conveniently failed to mention before Mike and I made the 3 hour drive to her house. To move her shit.

When we arrived we were greeted by a bubbly and busy little five year old. Only knew she was five because that’s how she introduced herself: “Hi, my name is S. I’m five.” My task assigned to me, by Mike, was to occupy S. and Mike’s grandfather who had a broken foot and couldn’t move boxes. Fine, I could handle that.

Apparently his mother didn’t agree.

After spending the weekend there, putting up with her Drill Sergent-like rules (Once a Military, always a Military) and acting pleasant and as helpful as I could, I felt very unwelcome.

I was right.

Months down the road it came out that Ms. Sergent has told anyone who would listen that I was using Mike for his money (Ha! we were STUDENTS!) and that I was cold and rude to her; by practically assassinating my character to anyone who would listen she probably figured that she would in turn convince Mike that I was not worth it.

Yet, her constant lies (far beyond me. Worse then just me.) instead, drove a wedge between herself and her son with no way to ever get back what she had lost. Now, years later, she’s missed our wedding, her first born grandson and any contact with us whatsoever. Neither Mike or myself have talked to her since March of 2005.

Trying to explain to you, wonderful internets, what she has done to her children and her family would take far too long. Far too long, and frankly, she’s not worth one more breath then I’ve already wasted on her.

Divorced.

Through all of this. I can honestly say: friendship divorce is the most painful for me. Maybe not even divorce. Separation? Growth?

Friends who were there through so much. Friends that know my innermost thoughts and whom have seen me through some very difficult times, or what seemed so difficult in the years of a dramatic teenager.

Growing apart from people who were once my constant companion, the ones I turned to with anything, and could share it all with. The people whom I’ve had many firsts with and learned so much from; those loses are very painful.

When it’s happening, the changing, the growing apart, it’s really not evident until the damage is done. Slowly moving apart and slowly realigning oneself with other people, starting a new job, a family; it all takes it toll on friendships. Some survive and some, just don’t. But the ones that were meant to stick around have. I cherish the friendships that have remained and realize more then ever that it takes two to make a relationship and two to try even harder to keep a friendship alive through life’s changes.

Some just take more energy then they are worth to keep alive. Some people just require more attention and take it personally when life gets in the way. I’ve had friends like that too. Those are the ones that just haven’t survived. It’s hard to put into words how it hurts to see those I thought would be there forever fall to the wayside. How those people, as heartfelt as the friendship was, it was obviously more one-sided then originally thought because had we been true friends, there would have been more understand of how life just changes and because we don’t talk daily anymore, doesn’t mean that we’re not there for each other anymore.

As I read back what I’ve written, it’s obvious that the pain is still real, since I’ve started babbling.

Losing a friendship is fucking hard.

Divorce sucks. Period.