Don't Judge

How many times have I gone away and returned, then gone away again only to return. I have no excuse. Check that, I have tons. But you don't want to hear them so I don't want to give them. I really do have a ton to say, so for now I'll leave you with this: my mind is in need of a serious brain dump. I'm not sure what form that will take, but for now, I'm prepping the hardwoods with plastic sheeting.

Obsessive? Yes.

If you ask any of my friends what part of my physical being I'm most anal about, there would be NO QUESTIONS. You would always get one consistent answer – the hair on my fat-cheeked head. And you know what? I'm okay with that. I have worked really hard over the last 10 years to scare the gray peons back into the inside of my scalp versus allowing them to play on the outside. Except that CPS called and said that I can't keep anything locked up inside my head house anymore. They have to be free. Fine. I just costume them in outfits that look much like the rest of the outside scenery. It's like follicle camoflage.

I have several women, who I see on a regular basis, who insist on leaving their house with wet, stringy, unkempt hair. Not just 'kind of' wet, but all-the-way, all-my-towels-are-in-the-wash, I-tried-to-drink-out-of-the-water-hose wet.

I can't, for the LIFE of me, understand how a grown woman – one who wants to get laid (I assume) – would get up in the morning and never once entertain the company of a blow dryer or flat iron. I understand a lack of styling, a lack of makeup, and even a lack of underwear, but I just don't get how wet hair makes you feel as if you are "put together" when you get in your car to travel to someplace where other people are.

There are many women, my mother and sister included, who don't use a blow dryer at all. That is totally fine with me, because they wait to exit their homes until they don't look like they just walked through a hurricane.

I know that I'm odd – that I'm one of those freakishly obsessive women who actually care about the fact that they might see Kevin Bacon at the coffee shop in downtown Chattanooga. Regardless, sopping, wet hair just isn't pretty. It makes you look like you said, "you know, I really wish everyday could be a 'just got out of the ocean' look kinda day." Keep it up and you'll soon be wearing your slippers to the office.








Oh shit, I know women like that too.

oh dear Lord...

<GASP!!> oh dear, Lord...this person is me

tell me how you really feel...

This morning I awoke to a big, fat, gray cat sitting on my pillow eating my hair. I know that some of you might find this astonishing, but quite honestly, he does it every morning and I've learned that it's the best way to get rid of my split ends. Talk about saving money!

My routine is consistent – I awake, pee, feed the cats, jump in the shower, dress, blow dry my hair, and then I wake up the dogs. You know, those dogs who can't be bothered to get out from under the covers anytime before 7:30 am.

So, today, I arise to hair chewing and the cries of a cat who clearly has enough meat on his bones to last him until 2015. But as I head out into the kitchen to feed he and his partner in crime, Bailey, I realize something is amiss. Bailey, my sweet, little, black and brown tortie, is no where to be found. I call for her, spring into "mad momma" panic mode and start tearing the house apart. She's no where - not in any of her hiding places and not locked in the basement. I'm freaking out. This is a cat who is a total momma's girl and will do anything she can to get my attention. Unless of course, she's living with Mike at any given time and then she's HIS cat - can't even be bothered to say hello to me. Come to think of it, she's quite a little shit.

Anyway, no Bailey. Anywhere. I check the screened in porch, just in case, but I know that it's impossible that she's out there because she NEVER (read: NEVER) goes out on that porch. It spooks her out. It makes her wild. I call for her, whistle, and no Bailey. Until, from the underside of the bar, I hear this little whimper. She's hunkered down in the warmest place she can find, crying for her momma.

I'm relieved, guilt-ridden, and most of all I'm glad that I won't be any later for work. We come inside and I'm amazed at her clinginess to me. She doesn't want to eat by herself or even be left in a room alone. Poor baby, she's just suffered a traumatic experience and she wants her momma to comfort her. I bring her cat bowl back into the bedroom where I'm getting ready and she eats the rest of it there. I'm thinking, "aw, look at this little girl. So happy to be back inside and not wanting me to leave her again."

At that point, she looks at me, screams this blood-curdling howl, and pounces on my arm. She pounces on me like she's never attacked before and continues to scream at me as I wrestle her off me. It's like a scene from National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. Once she's free, she stands at the edge of the room and berates me for a solid 2 minutes – screaming, hissing, crying – I think at one point she actually meowed, "how DARE you??" Here I am, being sympathetic to her cries and feeling so bad for her. When in her mind, all she wanted to do was disembowel me and send me to the Dexter set.

I got told off by an eight pound mini-cat this morning. Who else can say that? Huh? Come on, I'm listening.

Life changer

There is no where in the world that I love more than New Orleans. I've been all over Europe, Asia and North America, and still haven't found a place that makes me feel as comfortable or warm. That being said, the city is not without its foibles. The city government has been filled with corruption – long before the Katrina disaster – and the politicians have always had their true motives called into question. The class structure is as dynamic as any other city of size, but is more pronounced with a minimalized middle class within New Orleans parish. The cops and the streets are dirty, the Mississippi dirtier times three.

Still, I smile when I hear mention of NOLA, I bask in the Quarter's glow every chance I get and I would be hard pressed to say that Mike and I have not thought about making the city our permanent home if the stars aligned in our favor.

Last weekend I had the chance to play "tour guide" to one of Mike's classmates who had never seen the city. It was nice for me, because I have been there so often that I don't always get to do the things that we did. It was a refreshing reminder of all the amazing things that the city, specifically the Quarter, has to offer. When B left on Monday morning, I stayed an extra day to hang out with my girlfriends and experience Halloween on Bourbon Street. The costumes were AMAZING and the party was out of control. I loved almost every minute of it.

That night, I experienced something that I thought I never would. As I was walking between two bars, on either end of Bourbon St, I came upon an crowded intersection. Nothing odd about it, really. The mounted police were high above the crowd, keeping their eyes out for drunks and flashing boobs, when out of the blue, I was met with several "pop...pop....pop-pop-pops." I watched, twelve people away from me, a young man be shot in the head and another in the shoulder. This happened right in front of the police, right in the middle of a crowded, celebratory, costume-wearing crowd. The target was intended, presumably gang-related, but none of us knew that at that given moment.

In my thirty-something years, I've never seen anything shot. Not a deer, a turkey, a horse – much less a human. There are many more details to this story, but most of you are as uninterested in hearing them as I am in telling them. Suffice to say, I was a shaking, panicked mess who paused for a moment and wondered where my city went.

I realized, however, that it hadn't gone anywhere. I was simply more immersed in it than I ever had been in the past. This world has evolved into one that allows us to comfortably hunker down in the pockets of life that don't scare us, that don't put us in harms way. We are given the freedom and right to live free from danger and to travel in relative safety. But just like anything, we live with choice – free will.

I'm proud to love the city of New Orleans, and I'm even more excited to travel back. I appreciate the sentiment of those who say, "uh, are you crazy?" – and to that I say, "I doubt it." But I will say that this event has taught me to be less cavalier about all my travels and all my adventures outside my own door – whether they be in Chattanooga or Shanghai. All I know is that fear won't help me make better decisions, but it will cause me to miss out on what life has in store for me.

funny bone...

If you haven't seen this book, you are missing a MAJOR belly laugh. Chewed is the brain-child of Arne Svenson and Ron Warren, co-writers and the funny bone behind sights that the dog lovers in my readership will completely understand. They built a book around the invented stories of chewed up pet toys and their destroyers. Here's my favorite:

Q. *Gracie. What happened?

A. I can't remember the details. I blanked out. But I'll be honest I loved every minute of it. We'd been polite for years and then one day *Georgie just lost it and he started going for it.

Q. Is there any part of it you regret?

A. In my line of work it's what you expect. You come off the assembly line fresh and fluffy and you pray for this to happen. I don't know how I can explain it to you except to say it's what I'm created for.

Q. But from the looks of things there was violence.

A. Violence? Are you kidding? Try Ecstasy!

Q. Did you learn anything?

A. I learned to surrender. To live my life. I faced my worst fears and was delighted with the outcome. Okay maybe I'm not as beautiful as I was ten years ago but who is? I considered plastic surgery but I hate it. It's so obvious and desperate. Better to look your age...

©2011. Chewed.