101 ways to pass the time during Snowpocalypse/Snowverkill ’10
13 Feb 2010 5 Comments
in Lists Tags: Ashlie, blog, checkbook, e-mail, Facebook, knit, letters, music, my cat, Netflix, Nutella, read, Snowpocalypse, Snowverkill, winter
Snowpocalypse/Snowverkill 2010: a series of significant snowfalls in the Mid-Atlantic region, which have grounded me for over a week. The scooter is snug under its duct tape-patched nylon cover and about three feet of snow, and I have tried to creatively pass the time. Here are some of the highlights.
1. Netflix. The Gods gift to the housebound. For as little as $9 per month, you will have unlimited access to endless supplies of streaming B-movies, random A-list cult classics, and obscure television shows. So whether you want to work your way through the cheese-tastic Xena and Hercules series or indulge in the crack cocaine that is LOST, Netflix is a wise investment for even the snow-free times of year. Caution—the sensual red of the viewer screen can easily seduce your productive life away. Set a timer for safety.
2. Facebook. I think everyone I knew in the region was on Fb this past week. From posting/enjoying nonsense links (Calvin & Hobbes Snowmen) and perfecting crop rotation schedules on Farmville to partaking in communal lamenting/rejoicing over cancellations and stalking old lovers from the other side of the world, Facebook took up large chunks of my raw, non-baked time.
3. Clean out your e-mail Inbox. This is probably the only genuinely productive task I accomplished this entire week. Nevertheless, I am proud to announce that my mired swamp of communication is down to under 100 e-mails and only a handful awaiting reply.
4. Index your music. Tasks like this are the ones that generally slightly improve quality of life but are too tedious to actually sit down and do. However, during times of emergency, or substantial procrastination, they are the perfect activity for making you feel like you are actually accomplishing something worthwhile. I take an obsessive-compulsive pleasure in organizing all the albums and artists, with proper album art, into the appropriate folders on my external hard-drive. I also like to keep track of how many different languages I have in my 14GB collection: 14 and counting.
5. Balance your checkbook. Another worthwhile task; unfortunately, this only took a couple of minutes of creative math. The mysterious $5.10 made another reappearance. How long before you just decide it really is your money and not just an oversight or un-cashed check?
6. Spend quality time with your pet. Ashlie was quite happy I was home with her. She showed her pleasure by sitting on top of me at every opportunity and curling up between my arms as I type. Of course, she does this normally, but she seemed more relaxed this past week. I tried to convince her we should go play in the snow; however, she reminded me she knows where I sleep, so I took the idea off the agenda. We did spend some time on the porch knocking icicles off the skylights and eating last season’s verbena. Crunchy, and if you squint your eyes, the snow looks like powdered sugar.
7. Knit. Well, in theory, I should have finished several of the 20+ projects I have on my needles, but I guess this seemed just a bit too productive. Sorry, everyone, 2008 and 2009 yule presents will be further delayed.
8. Read. If you are a student, this may, unfortunately, be a drudgery, but for those of us who are not chained to mandatory books or teachers buried under white mounds of essays, snow storms are a good time to catch up on some light reading. I am currently reading Chuck Palahniuk’s Choke, which is enjoyable in a bizarre way but is not really the best stuck-in-your-house-without-any-social-outlet sort of book. “Desperate” isn’t the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind.
9. Clean your house. Yeah, right…
10. Bake-fest. The prerequisite for this step, of course, is having stocked up on needed ingredients before the storm(s) hit. I did not. The thought of going to the market sent chills down my spine. Think about it: the normal after-work rush, on Super Bowl weekend, before a massive, “history-making” snow storm. Not a chance. However, in a stroke of forethought several storms ago, I bought a large jar of Nutella. So I replace this suggestion with “Find out how many things in your cupboard taste even better with Nutella.” If you have never tasted the sweet nectar of the gods that is Nutella, let me assure you that you have not yet lived. Nutella hails from Italia and is made from hazel nuts and chocolate. The recipe came about as a result of government oppression, true story. So in the name of activism and forestalling boredom, I empirically researched the enhancement capabilities of Nutella on a wide variety of things and discovered my current favorite: Pepperidge Farms’ Chessmen.
11. Call your mom (or relative of choice). I mean, I probably don’t call her enough anyway. I think she likes hearing from me even if I am not her favorite child. And she can talk for quite a while about her cats. I think she spoils them rotten to make up for past shortcomings, but they are extremely ungrateful. At least I never peed on her bed. Well, not for many years.
12. Watch your neighbors try to dig out. This kept me entertained for hours. With no curtains, it was like impromptu theater.
13. Have a wine tasting, by yourself. Again, this requires pre-storm preparations. Nothing like watching the snow fall while sipping a glass of red wine by a fire. Unfortunately, all I had was the effin’ snow.
14. Write letters. Who doesn’t like getting something in the mailbox other than bills? I have several friends, including one who is teaching in Ghana, who write to me, rather more faithfully than I reply. So I used the quiet time to catch up on some correspondence. Of course, the mail was not running in the area, so my letters, rent check, water bill, and Netflix disc went out and came back in several times before they actually were taken, each time looking the worse for the wear. My porch gutter is spilling an icy cascade onto my steps, including my mailbox. So if you receive a very smeared envelope with water stains, please don’t be afraid to touch it. It is just melted snow; I promise. However, I make no claims as to what was in the snow before it got to me.
15. Write a self-indulgent blog. Obviously, this is a personal favorite. Who doesn’t like talking about themselves? Plenty of free hosting places exist on the Web, and blogs are supposed to be the new (last several years) trend in writers marketing the hell out of themselves. Decades have passed since the only necessary skill of a writer was, well, writing. Writers must do the work of legions of paid professionals (agents, editors, marketers) yet are only paid for the writing part of the process. If they are lucky. However, like the allure of Nigerian princes, state lotteries, and capitalism, somebody’s father’s cousin’s former roommate won a movie deal, so the cycle perpetuates.
16. Lather, Rinse, Repeat.
In the end, I spent more time these last few days having paralyzing panic attacks over the state of the weather than I did being productive. So while I should have a pile of edited poems and essays tucked safety in envelopes waiting for the next time I can catch the elusive mail-person, all I have to show for myself is a neat Inbox and a balanced check register. As the snow melts, I hope so will my anxiety, and next week awaits.
*Note: This blog is meant for edutainment purposes only, and to that end, I may occasionally use some literary license. Furthermore, by reading this notice, you are acknowledging that no legal liability exists for following the aforementioned suggestions, and you are aware you should enjoy yourself at your own risk.
Nola never leaves your heart
06 Feb 2010 2 Comments
in Work
Dawn’s early rays streamed through the massive glass airport doors behind me as I sat on the marble floor, waiting for the ticket counter to open. The air conditioning was obviously set on “meat locker” to ward off the triple digit Louisiana summer heat. As I sprawled across floor and luggage alike, I realized with a giggle that I was leaving New Orleans the only way a person not fleeing a hurricane should: completely drunk from the night before.
I lived in NOLA from May 14, 2008 until September 16, 2008. I can honestly say my time living there changed my life, primarily due to the things I realized.
Realization # 1: Outside of a small pond, no one cares about your aspirations, ideas, or personal achievements. For years, I had assumed I could win anyone over through a winning combination of friendship, ideology, and commitment. If I happened to encounter someone who took a strong dislike to me, I was always able to put on a front of pleasantness while ignoring his or her displeasure, condescension, or ego entirely.
However, once I moved to N’awlins, my previous strategy began to fail. Six days after graduation, with no solid plans and no liquid money, I flew into the Louis Armstrong Airport. I was to volunteer at a local women’s shelter semi-residentially. I felt satisfied about my decision, coming full circle. Yet I quickly realized my training in advocacy was in sharp contrast to the ironically anarchist ideals and bourgeois funding of the shelter. One month into my three-month stint, the situation came to a head when my supervisor learned I was a lesbian. Only a few days later, I was given less than an hour to pack my belongings, while being supervised, and leave. My awareness of my Self cultivated at St. Mary’s, a relatively tolerant campus, was called into question. I had been lulled into a false sense of security in the arms of dear SMCM, and the shock of suddenly being alone in a new city forced me to re-evaluate my sense of self. While this realization was unpleasant, it had to take place. The big pond, or more properly, bayou, helped me thicken my skin. I still use my troika of charms to pull me through life, but I’ve stopped making assumptions about how successful I will be in winning anyone.
Realization # 2: Work is not worth dying for. After my neurotic, homophobic supervisors kicked me out, I only had enough money to either survive for a week and a half or buy a plane ticket back to Maryland. Determined not to declare defeat, I decided to stick it out.
Those desperate for a quick, possibly short-term, job in New Orleans learn quickly that hitting the pavement in the Quarter is a necessity. Unfortunately, the first day I did this in heels and barely limped back to the Canal streetcar. June is also a lousy time to be looking for work in the city as low tourism means fewer jobs. Eventually, as my funds dwindled into nonexistence, I found a job working for one of the souvenir shop syndicates. I was rather creative when detailing my retail experience: my money handling know-how hinged on accepting the late fees at the St. Mary’s library and making change for the copier. Training was brief and chaotic, and I quickly moved to my own store. I could fill books on the misadventures of drunken retail on Bourbon Street from customers too inebriated to sign a credit card slip to the joys of re-hanging beer soaked feather boas, but the “fun” peaked on July 24th.
On that morning, I went to open my store across from Swamp Shots, the bar with the electric-pink-haired bouncer with the leather cat o’ nine tails, yet before I could finish cleaning up the mouse droppings on the candy counter, I received a call to wait for a replacement and move to another store that needed opened. This happened twice, and I ended up in a Pirate Jean Laffite-themed store with a plywood boat anchored in the center of the floor. The “ship” was rigged with authentic looking rope attached to the ceiling. The large colony of mice who lived in the store used the rope to crawl, in broad daylight while I was re-folding T-shirts, from the discarded food trash filling the hull and their nest behind the asbestos ceiling tiles. I am continually surprised by what people on vacation will overlook. At 7:00 pm, more than halfway through my 17 hour shift, I started to feel ill.
People always ask what a stroke feels like. I admit I had never been curious. Imagine what a severe migraine feels like. Amplify it a bit and add some alarming tingling sensations on one side of your head. You’ll be pretty close. Months later, when I finally was able to seek medical care, I learned it was a transitory ischemic attack (TIA) with no permanent damage. By “permanent,” they mean you won’t feel the same way in twenty years, but for the next seven months thinking was extremely difficult. Sudoku puzzles would produce the same tingling sensations along the left side of my scalp. As someone who lives primarily on her wits, this was terrifying. Less than three weeks later I quit. Never be afraid to leave a job. Quality of life is more valuable than any sort of fleeting material security.
Realization # 3: Communal living can be one of the most maturing experiences of your life. The majority of my time living in Nola was happily spent at the India House International Hostel. A mishmash of long-termers, European or Asian fly-bys, and other various lost souls, India House became a welcome haven. I often wondered how people ended up there, month after month, some tipping into years. I imagined we were all running from something, or hiding. Broken homes, failed lives, endless mediocrity, crushing boredom—we fled, going south to the Crescent City.
New Orleans has a burgeoning population of gutter punks and migratory college drop-outs, who stand on streets and live in houses where poor black people died, making room for them, the wandering masses of pale children. Nevertheless, India House boasts a slightly higher class of hippies. Monk, the Nordic-looking meteorologist, who calmed nerves during Gustav. Suki, the barefooted English flower-child, who helped me during evacuations. Kelly, the former northerner who rode her bike at night across Mid City to stay with me in the hospital ER during a nasty fever. Amazing people. When I look back on my time in New Orleans, it is India House and my friends there who I remember most. I may have shared a room with 15 other strangers, but when I came back from work, it felt like coming home. The night before I left, Kelly and another resident took me out for drinks. Somehow, we ended up in a gay bar, which is how every night of drinking should end. I came back at about 3:00 am, threw up the excess Vodka, showered, passed out on my bunk for a while, and then finished packing just as the airport shuttle pulled up.
And that is why even though I don’t have cable and am not a fan of football, I will be rooting for the Saints. WHO DAT!
Laissez les bon temps rouler
*Note: This blog is meant for edutainment purposes only, and to that end, I may occasionally use some literary license. Additionally, I retain the right to remain completely neutral in matters of copyright law!
