Welcome

A few days ago I got home and there were a dozen roses in the lobby.  Wally, my favorite of all the doormen, handed them to me and said, "These came for you a little while ago."

I was puzzled, because I knew they weren't from Sweetheart because he doesn't actually have the address of where I'm staying right now, which is ridiculous, now that I think about it.  I couldn't think of anyone who had my address and might be inclined to send me flowers, so it was quite a mystery, until I looked at the card.

                  

Of course.  Christopher.  I should have guessed.  I've told you about Christopher before, remember?

We got to spend some time together Wednesday.  We went to look at the Nobel Monument.  We wandered around.  We had a drink.  Christopher is lots of fun to wander around with.  He's a NYC historian, so you say things like "Wow, that's a cool building" and he says things like "Oh yes, that's the blah-bidee-blah building, built in such-and-such year by so-and-so.  It was done in blah-blah-blah style, which was quite common at that time."  Then he'll rattle off what the building was used for in the past, what it's being used for now, if it's an apartment building, he knows who lived there, who still lives there, and probably even who WILL live there.  I showed him a picture I found in my mother's drawer and asked if he knew where it was taken.  He took one look and immediately said "Oh yes, of course, that's the so-and-so building and that's the such-and-such building, so this must be the NW corner of 83rd and Columbus."  Oh, right.  Of course.  The NW corner of 83rd and Columbus.

I think he said 83rd and Columbus.  I'm pretty sure.  I could be wrong.  I'm not quite as smart as he is.  Obviously.

Dining!

New York, NY
Per Se


What we ate:

            



What we drank:

    

Live a little, lady!

I've got a friend from New Orleans in town, visiting New York for the first time.  We've been be-bopping all over town, dining and cocktailing.  Drank a nice bottle of Gigondas the other night.  Saw that street pianos thing thing in Washington Square Park.  Nice.

So Sweetheart says, "You should take your friend out and get her laid while she's in town.  I don't mind if you go out and flirt a little bit, be a wingwoman, lead a motherfucker on for her benefit.  There's a line, I know you know where it is.  Take her out, show her a good time!"  (Yes, "Lead a motherfucker on for her benefit." Seriously?  Where does he get this shit from?)

Now going to strange cities and fucking the locals is definitely my thing.  In fact, before I met Sweetheart, traveling to exotic places and judging the local talent was high up there on my "Favorite Things To Do" list.  But visiting strange towns and sleeping with even stranger men isn't really Lorie's thing.  In fact, it isn't Lorie's thing in any way, shape, or form.

But I think it's time for a new chapter in The Life Story of the Fabulous Miss L.  She needs to shake things up.  Do something different.  Live a little.

She's sleeping right now, all passed out on the air mattress on the floor.  I'll discuss it with her in the morning.  I'll have to turn my powers of persuasion on full blast.  Wouldn't be the first time.  How do you think I lured all those sexy strangers back to my hotel room?

Guessing game

One of the pillows on the bed is mine.  Can you tell which one?

                  

Moving day

Hi!  I'm back!  Did you miss me?  Yes, you did.  Don't lie to me...

I've been busy.  Wandering the country, near and far, far and near.  Went to visit Leigh in North Carolina again, had way too much fun again.  I moved to New York in the meantime, too.  As far as moves go, it might have been the easiest transition I have ever made, even easier than when I left San Francisco.  Because I can't seem to keep still for more than six months at a time lately, I have managed to pare down my personal belongings to the point where they fit into the back of a Jeep Grand Cherokee, more or less:

            

Which is great, because that's about as much space as I have in this apartment, more or less.

Loading the truck was easy, mainly because I didn't have to do it.  Mainly I stood around saying, "I don't think everything's going to fit" while Sweetheart loaded the car and said, "That's everything.  What else did you want to take?"

When I got up here, things were just as easy.  Remember the dude from craigslist I told you about, the one who took all the crap from this apartment that I didn't want?  He had said to call him if I needed help unloading the truck when I got back, he said he'd be happy to help me, seeing as how I had given him so much stuff and he really appreciated it and blah blah blah.  So I called him the day before I got here.  Do you know what he said?  "Absolutely, I'll be over at noon tomorrow, you just hold the elevator door open and I'll do all the heavy lifting."

Wow.  Welcome to New York City...

This, by the way, is a completely different version, in fact, a completely OPPOSITE version, of the story about my first day in San Francisco, my "welcome" to San Francisco, if you will.  Remind me to tell you that little gem someday.  Advance apologies to my friends and former co-workers in the Beautiful Bay Area, who are entirely sick to death of hearing that story by now...

Back atcha...

Lazy day

New Orleans, Louisiana
City Park

            

        

    

See you soon...

Well, that was a lazy exit.  To be honest, it wasn't much of an exit at all.

When I was preparing to leave San Francisco six months ago, it was a "hurry up, get this shit done, everything must go, say a million tearful good-byes, holy shit I'm really leaving" sort of situation.

When I was preparing to leave New Orleans these past few weeks, it was more of a "it's a nice day, let's go to the pool, I can just leave this stuff here, I'll miss you, but I'll be back in two and a half weeks and then again in late September so I'll see you soon" sort of situation.

It doesn't even really feel like I've left.  I'm just taking an extended vacation, or working offshore for a while, as Sweetheart likes to say.  My friends aren't all that concerned, they know I can never stay gone very long.  Besides, half of them are storing shit for me, knowing full well that they'll be getting their closet space back sooner rather than later.

So yeah, no problem, no big deal.  See you soon.  Down by the river, or maybe poolside, mimosa in hand, like I never missed a day.

Getting ready

Last time I was in New York I rented this bicycle:

            

I spent four solid hours riding around my neighborhood.  Up and down the same streets.  Over and over.  Figuring out which gym I should join and where the 24-hour drugstores are.  I found a jazz club on Broadway that will probably get me into a lot of trouble.  I discovered that the Hudson River can be just as meditative as the Mississippi.

In other words, I finally spent a day slowing down a little bit, and learning to love my new home.

Every time I've come to New York the past six months I've been running around at breakneck speed, Doing and Doing and Doing.  Visit this person, see that person.  Dinner here, drinks there.  Sign papers,  meet people, clean out an apartment, haul a dead woman's shit away.  Busy Busy Busy.  But every time I go it gets easier and there's less work to do.

So it was nice to finally have time to be lazy and ride around and see what was going on.  It turns out my mother picked a nice neighborhood.  I liked what I saw.

I liked the bicycle, too.  At the end of the day, when my four hours were up, I bought it from the guy who rented it to me.  There's room for it in the apartment now that all that shit's cleaned out of there.  It's in the hallway, waiting for me to get back so we can go to that jazz club together...

Snoballs on Piety

I know I've said in the past that Hansen's was the only snoball stand I would ever go to, but I lied, OK?  Sorry about that.  Hansen's is still the best as far as taste, no question.  Snoballs on Piety is perfectly acceptable taste-wise, but has won my heart for different reasons.  It's on Piety, (no shit, huh?) right off of Chartres.  They've been there about a month.  Go.  And when you do, make sure you say hello to this little girl:

                  


Actually, she'll probably say hello to you first.  She's not shy.  Trust me.  She's quite a remarkable little girl.  She managed to make a really shitty day completely disappear, at least for a couple of hours.

I was having a shitty day.  From the minute I opened my eyes.  Literally.  Shitty enough that on my way home from work I turned around on my bicycle to try to chase down my best friend's ex-boyfriend, after first texting and getting permission from my best friend, of course.  I was fully intending on starting a verbal altercation with him.  Oh, don't look at me like that.  He has it coming.  Trust me.

Anyway, once my shitty day was over, I decided to go for a long, angry bike ride, at the end of which I was hot and sweaty and still in a pretty shitty mood.  I figured it was a perfect time for a snoball, and Piety is only two blocks away and I'd been meaning to check it out because it was so close and blah blah blah so I stopped and meant to just get a snoball and eat it and go home, but I ended up staying for over two hours.

Because of Ava, of course.

Her parents own Snoballs on Piety, and she hangs out there with her mom all day when she's not in school.  She started talking to me before I even had a chance to order.

"Have we met before?"

"Um, I don't think so.  This is my first time here."

But she didn't give up.

"Where do you live?  Where do you work?  Have we met in the French Quarter?"

She sat down and talked to me while I ate my snoball.  We ended up looking at Youtube videos on my phone until the battery died.  Then she noticed the make-up in my bag.  She asked if she could wear some.  I said she should ask her mom.  Mom said sure.  So I painted her face up.  Then she busted out some nail polish.

"Can I paint your nails?"

"Yeah, sure.  Why not?"

I swear.  Something about letting her paint my nails completely defused whatever time bomb had been ticking inside me since I opened my eyes that morning.  Of course, my fuse ended up being relit a few hours later, but that's another story.  For a couple of hours, I was free.  She let me paint her nails, too.  We joked and laughed and took pictures of each other.  We jumped up and down on an old mattress in the back that she used as a trampoline.  She jumped on my back and made me run back and forth until my fucked up knee was begging for mercy.  I was free and I was happy and it was just me and Ava hanging out and life was good for a while.

I think I need to go to Snoballs on Piety more often.  I think you do, too.

        
P.S.  yes, Ava made the sign she's standing next to.  Not bad for an eight year old, huh?

My neighborhood

New Orleans, Louisiana

I love my neighborhood because there are colorful houses everywhere and Bacchanal is right down the street.  I love it because most of my family and friends live within a five block radius of where I live.  I love it because of stuff like this.  I love it because whenever you're running late you have a built-in excuse.  "Sorry.  The train was passing, I was stuck on the other side."  Those of you who live here know EXACTLY what I'm talking about.

I love the random and bizarre coffee shops, I love the fact that Elizabeth's, where I once had the most incredible paneed rabbit my taste buds have ever experienced, is only six blocks away.  I love riding my bike behind the floodwall down by the river, hoping not to get harassed by the harbor police.  I love the fact that my two favorite street names in the city of New Orleans, Piety and Desire, run parallel, and a block apart.  One right after the next.

Which makes perfect sense, when you think about it...

Shadow Shot Sunday

New Orleans, LA
Bored at work one night

  

    


    

    


                        
                  

                    http://heyharriet.blogspot.com/

      

        

The time my neighbor got into a fight with the pool guy... naked

The following story is entirely true.  I am neither talented nor creative enough to come up with something that good.  Trust me.

This story goes back to when I was living at the Compound in New Orleans.  We had a nice pool back there, secluded enough that the more bohemian members of the Compound (myself included) were able to frolic in the nude on quiet days.

It was a quiet day, and my neighbor and I were enjoying some adult beverages and a bright, sunny, clothing-free day out by the pool.  My neighbor (who I shall refer to as Crazy Dude, or C.D. from here on out) had the entire day off, so he had a bit of a jump on me regarding the adult beverages.  I was running errands in the morning, so my party was just getting started.

Now, we'd been having some problems with neighborhood kids jumping the fence and "stealing" our pool, making a mess and leaving trash everywhere.  Most of us were pretty good about chasing them away.  C.D. was especially good about it.  So when three kids we didn't recognize came down the back driveway and started to get in the pool, C.D. was right on top of it.

"Hey!  HEY!!  GET OUT OF HERE!  You don't live here!  You don't belong here!  Unless you live here, you can't come in this pool.  You need to get out of here RIGHT NOW!!  Did you hear me?  Get out of here!  NOW!!"

At this point, the pool guy shows up behind them, all attitude.

"HEY!  Who do you think you are?  You can't talk to my kids like that!"

Damn.  Wasn't expecting that.  So I jumped out of the pool and wrapped a towel around myself.  I considered going inside, but curiosity compelled me to stay.  You know, to see what was going to happen next.  It was one of the best decisions I have ever made.

Now, C.D. was kind of a hotheaded dude, and had a bit of a temper.  With as much attitude as the pool guy was dishing out, I was genuinely surprised to see C.D. fall straight into apology mode.

"Hey, man, I'm sorry, bro.  I didn't realize those were your kids, man.  We've been having the kids in the neighborhood jump the fence lately... I'm sorry, man, really..."

C.D. was still in the pool (naked) at this point, and the pool guy was pacing up and down the edge, posturing and fuming over the fact that C.D. disrespected his kids.

C.D. said, "Hey man, look.  I'm really sorry, OK?"  He extended his arm towards the pool guy, in an effort to make peace and shake hands.

The pool guy said, "FUCK THAT" and smacked C.D.'s hand away.

Oh, pool guy.  Bad idea.

Remember that temper I told you about?  Yeah...

C.D. was up, out of the pool and in the guy's face before I had time to blink, or at least go get some popcorn for the show.  "You got a problem?  YOU GOT A FUCKING PROBLEM?"

As it turned out, the pool guy did indeed have a problem and was quite eager to settle it.  Whether his kids were watching or not, and whether C.D. had clothing on... or not.

Ladies and gentlemen.  You truly have not lived until you have witnessed a grown man get his ass kicked by a drunken, scrappy-ass, naked-ass hippie.  In front of his kids.  Truly.  I should have sold tickets.  I could've been a millionaire.

Ahh, the Compound.  Never a dull moment...

Randomness

New Orleans, Louisiana

One of the things I love the most about my neighborhood is that sometimes you'll just be sitting in your car at a stop sign minding your own business and some random shit like this walks by...

              

The best part is that it doesn't even faze you.  You just snap a few pictures and think, "Hmm.  He's probably headed to Jackson Square.  Maybe Frenchmen."

Dining!

I was trying to tell Sweetheart yesterday about those delicious donut things that I ate in Hawaii when I was visiting Alika.

              

Me: "They were called, uh, cassas, or casadas.  Or cass, something.  I can't really remember."

Him: "Um, casadas doesn't really sound very Hawaiian."

Which was true.  So I went home and looked through my pictures to find the name of the damned things.  Because apparently I'm incapable of remembering anything anymore, unless I take a picture of it.  Or tattoo it on my forehead.

    


Right.  Malasadas.  Which, actually, doesn't sound very Hawaiian either, now that I think about it.  Hmmm...

Oh, yeah.  Right.  They're Portuguese.  I had forgotten that part.  Good thing I took a picture.

          

Good stuff.
                

Bad taste

I was in New York last week, trying to hurry up and get things done and move shit out and get rid of what I don't need and make room for the things I do need.  Figuring out where I'm going to put all the shit I'm bringing up from New Orleans.  Wondering how it was possible that my mother had such inexcusably poor taste in furniture.  Fuck, that shit was ugly.  Do you want to see how atrociously ugly it was?

                

      

Seriously.  That fucking carpet, too.  Holy shit.  Easy to replace, but holy shit.  Really?

The couch and hideous chair are gone, thanks to an angel from Craigslist, along with a bunch of other unnecessary crap I wanted to get rid of.  It took the dude three trips in his Grand Marquis, but ultimately he went home with a glass coffee table, an ugly couch with a matching chair and ottoman, a blender, two ugly lamps, a huge glass water pitcher with matching bowl, and a well-executed but ridiculously stupid oil painting.  There's another offensively stupid painting that's taking up entirely too much space on my wall that I think I've convinced him to take, he told me to call him when I get back next month.  He's going to help me figure out what to do with the damn kitchen, too.  Have I ever mentioned how much I adore Craigslist?  The amazing, wonderful, magical power of Craigslist?  No?  Remind me to tell you about it someday.