There are some people...

...who are brilliant beyond comprehension in one fashion or another but cannot find that spark of faith in themselves to allow for happiness.  Reasons, excuses, justifications; all convenient but just another layer of pretty wrapping for a blackened cancer.  It grows, it spreads, it eats away at each flimsy facade becoming bigger and bigger with every chance to feed.  Fear is its nourishment, misery its goal.

I want to be happy.

A long time ago I came to the conclusion that my happiness was attainable in conjunction with my set of morals and standards.  I was fortunate enough to have been judged worthy by those on a higher plane but that I needed to "loosen up".  Sometimes it is possible to try too hard.  If you lose all the joy in life by single-mindedly focusing on ideals, it is just as bad as not abiding by them at all.  That isn't to say that ideals aren't worth having, but extenuating circumstances don't mean an automatic trip to hell.

There's an exchange between deceased British schoolboys in the "Season of Mists" portion of the Sandman series in which the two temporarily escape Death.  One says to the other, "I think hell is a place, but I don't think you have to stay anywhere forever."  Our prisons are ourselves and sometimes it takes a great earthquake to rattle the doors down.  Even then, a lot of people just don't know what to do.  Like lab rats who've spent a lifetime in confinement, when it comes to the choice of escaping their pain or sitting they stay because they don't know how else to react.  And while it would be a far simpler matter to be able to blame all problems on a fearsome godlike hand wielding implements of torture from the bigger side of locked bars, it's never that easy.  Most of the time, it's the cage that we create for ourselves that keeps us trapped.

Find your happiness and you'll find yourself.  When you get hold of it, hang tight and everything you need will come through.  At the end of the day, you still have to look at yourself in the mirror but maybe you can be satisfied with what's on the other side.

Mrs. Stein Don't Rent to Gypsies Anymore

It is mid-festival season here in New Orleans and I am working at a name brand hotel near the airport.  It's a job, and it pays, but not well.  There are small perks to it such as getting occasional tips and fed homemade nummies, but aside from that it's fairly banal.  For the most part we get a lot of repeat customers such as the oil workers or corporate contracts, but every once in awhile people try to return who aren't wanted; the Gypsies.

Now, I'm not entirely new to dealing with gypsies.  There are actually two Gypsy groups that go through the South on a regular basis.  The first are the Travellers, a set of Irish gypsies with brogue and all, who typically move with the carnivals.  They're not above picking your pocket, but are more likely to sit and have a beer with you while they do it.  Travellers love a ruckus and bar workers can't stand them once they've had to deal with them.

The Romani on the other hand, are of the stock that you might picture wearing colorful flowing outfits bedecked in coins and tassels.  If only it were that glamorous or obvious.  They wear average or sometimes poor clothing, depending on what angle they're working.  As the song says, gypsies come in bunches like bananas on a green banana tree.  Where there is one, there are likely at least twenty of his friends hiding out waiting to see what they can get away with.  Tonight was a perfect example.  But before we get to that, let me backtrack a bit.

A few days ago, two women in outfits that made me immediately think they were "working girls" came into the front lobby.  Now, we've had women who practice the world's oldest profession in before, and quite obviously so, but as long as they don't try recruiting customers nobody really cares.  (By the way, this is a good quality hotel.  The attitude is just the typical New Orleans perspective about vice.)  So it surprised me that this pair was immediately ushered out of the hotel with undisguised glares directed at them and pointed comments between housekeeping and the front desk.  I've never seen so many of the crew agitated at one time.  The housekeeping manager made it a point for me to get as good a look at the two as possible before they left.

When the head of housekeeping explained they were gypsies who'd been in before, I understood.  The look on the lead's face was one of pure disgust and loathing.  Gypsies are not the images of romance and adventure they're made out to be in books and movies.  They're shysters who are trained from birth as part of their culture to rip people off, especially the weak and naive.  Typical gypsy tactics are to send in one or two unassuming (or deliberately distracting) people as scouts to figure out the best way to divide and conquer while the other thirty or so (minimum--I'm not joking) wait in the sidelines for the cue to swarm.

Tonight, the same two girls came in wearing decidedly different clothing than two days before.  Had I not taken a good look (though that sixth sense definitely kicked in) I might have missed the correlation.  I say girls but they were easily in their forties and were road beaten.  Their dark, gritty complexions had lines like leather and an air of permanent travel b.o..  Definitely rough around the edges, but given that they were posing as blue collar workers it fit the disguise.  They came in asking about room rates, discounts, could they pay half up front and the other half in the morning...you see where this is going.

Sure enough, as soon as they were told in no uncertain terms that the rate would stay and must be paid up front per management they left; chittering in obviously disappointed Romanian.  One truck full of gypsies down, and a van with no windows carrying god knows how many following behind them.  Score one for the good guys!

Wait a minute, did I wear underpants today?  Dammit! 

Milk and Eggs

I like eggs.  Eggs are good for you, they taste good, and they are absolutely indispensible in baking.  (I've tried it without before; it's not the same.  Crazy vegans.)

So when the farmer's market that's held down the block on Thursdays opened up I took the opportunity to peruse the wares.  $8 a pound for greens is ridiculous, but I was willing to concede to the $5 a gallon (no different than the grocery store here) farm fresh whole milk and $2.50 a dozen eggs, gathered that day.

Before I give the review, let me say that genetic modification of food is a major issue for me.  I firmly believe that if it wasn't for all the hormones they pump into chicken and cows for faster production that my childhood growth rate would have been far different.  I was in third grade (and a year younger than my other classmates) when I started getting the molehills that turned into mountains.  I was ten when I won the monthly lottery and abruptly stopped growing taller, leaving me at my currently stumpy 5'3.  My mom and dad both come from families where the average height runs from 5'5-5'7 and with minimal to average boobage.  My brothers are 6', 6'1, and 6'2.  I look like a toadstool next to them.  Coincidence that chicken was on the menu a minimum of three times a week, eggs once or twice, and we drank an average of three gallons of milk every seven days?  I think not.

Further, I have a theory that all of these additional hormones exacerbated my existing genetic predisposition toward Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS) that I've been fighting since I was walloped with puberty.  It sure as heck didn't stop the little buggers forming.  Or slow the hair growth.  Or improve the mood swings.  Or any prevent of the other fun things like having these irritating, sometime exploding, cysts grow to the size of goose eggs that have to get removed with surgery.  Yeah.

Not to put too fine a point on it, as a result I've become particular about the dairy and poultry products I consume.  Thus, the milk purchased direct from the two old men running the booth for the farm.

First off, it actually looks like milk should look.  Not watered down white "all bills paid" apartment paint (you know exactly what I'm talking about; especially if you've lived in them) but something that looks like it might have a modicum of nutritional value.  The jug actually says "shake before pouring" because it hasn't been uber-purified and still has the straight from the source fat and vitamins in it.  It was flavorful and a healthy off-white with a few flecks of cream floating at the top.  In other words, it tasted like milk should taste.  And now for something truly horrifying, go to the link below:

Human Milk from Cows

As far as the eggs are concerned, they were so fresh there were still tiny bits of hay and chicken feather in the carton.  They ran the gamut from dark brown, to speckled, to one or two "Easter Egger" eggs; naturally light green.  Cracking them open actually took effort as opposed to the standard, brittle, white-shelled eggs you get in the store.  Inside was a "white" that was see-through clear until cooked as opposed to that cloudy gunk you usually get.  The yolk was so bright it was almost orange, and when put in the frying pan became nuclear (no pun intended) yellow.    

I now remember why I never liked eggs over-easy or over-medium as a kid; it's just too strong a flavor for me.  The texture of a farm fresh egg is completely different from the industrial standard of atomic chicken goo offered today.  Its yolk is extremely rich and gooey to the point of resembling a thin paste.  The act of ingesting one is a constant reminder of the fact that it's an organic protein and not just some prepacked glut.  This is how I remember them being as a kid on Sundays waiting for mom to put together our big breakfast of the week; waiting for the bright yellow goodness of scrambled eggs that tasted like more than just a conduit for salt and pepper.  Come to think of it, breakfast was the only meal that never really burned.

And for perfect timing in the name of newsworthiness, this article.  Be sure and read the comments about the picture.

http://www.nola.com/pets/index.ssf/2011/04/feral_chickens_have_proliferat.html

Tired Heather

My day has finished up with a quickly scarfed greaseball of a dinner (Krispy Krunchy...uh, Kchicken?) followed by drinking pre-mixed TGI Friday's White Russians straight from the bottle.  I am going to regret this in the morning (and probably at about 2am as well).

Good and/or humorous things that happened today.  I remembered to make coffee and it was good!  I earned $20 in tips from the local cabbies for sending them hotel business.  I didn't kill anyone today.  My garden seedlings are doing quite well.  La Quinta in Slidell had a meth lab blow up in it.

Not so good things that happened today:  I forgot to eat.  It was extremely busy due to French Quarter Fest, the Ponchatoula Strawberry Festival, and Lady Gaga.  The manager (who could give a crap about how well he does at this site and seems perpetually stoned) wandered off leaving me by myself to close.  Bleah.

I am currently reworking my resume because my tiny two-week paycheck gets nowhere near to covering even half my expenses.   Thus, I sent it to Mike for a second opinion.  He noted that as I only had the last five years of job history this could be a potential problem as most employers look for the last ten.  I explained that the time missing was hosed due to my ex-leech and I was reluctant to note it.  Mike pointed out it was all in how creatively you worded the situation.

"In that case," I said.  "I took a four year sabbatical helping at-risk children and the mentally ill."

The more I think about it, the better it sounds.  Who's gonna question that?

Post Tornadic Stress Disorder

Aaagh!  My poor garden.  I just get it set up, the plants are settled in, and today we had one of the scariest storms I've been in for ages.  No thunder, no lightning, just extremely heavy winds and rain of tornado like proportions.  And then everything got cold so I have to dig my jacket out of the closet again.  52 degrees outside just when I thought it was safe to wear shorts.  Oh well.

Aside from that, the only other interesting bit is that the dog next door is a very good puppy.  She heard somebody going through the backyard and alerted her people appropriately who then informed me.  Sure enough, the gate I'd put up the day before was moved like someone had taken a shortcut or been snooping.  It also makes me feel better that next door couple like guns too.  We'll have to do a day at the range.

There Are Times...

...in life, in which the Universe in no uncertain terms tells you to stay put.  It is times like these that I heed that advice, even when my chocolate pudding attacks me.

Gardening and Weapons of Mass Destruction

I don't believe I've gone into detail about the 300 Incident.  Please allow me to backtrack and give the following account.

Just prior to Mardi Gras, James (unofficial roommate and all around cool guy) asked me to order him a sword for his Princess Bride costume for the Pal's annual parade.  Here is James as Wesley; hero and princess rescuer. 

 James is of the opinion that banks and credit cards suck so he gave me cash and I used my ancient PayPal account to order the above really nifty sword for him.  Is that a corset on the floor in the foreground?  I didn't notice that before.

Anyway, the sword was ordered with only one minor difficulty; that being my need to correct my address.  The vendor said fine, no problem, and we went about our business.  Approximately a week later we were out running errands and came back to find a UPS notice on the door saying we'd missed a shipment.  As both of us had received all our costuming bits, neither knew what it could possibly be.  I went online and found that it was from an online weapons supplier different than the one his sword had been ordered from.  Further, there were two packages involved weighing a total of 89 pounds.

This was intriguing!  What possibly could it be?  A prize?  A major award?  A year's supply of pet food?  Who knew?  At this time, it was determined that in the spirit of adventure and early Christmas we must find out.  At 8pm, we arrived at the UPS office to pick up the packages.  They were so huge we had to put them on a Home Depot style dolly and cram them into my Suzuki SX4 as best we could.  James was so thrilled I doubt WWIII would have stopped him from getting this fabulous unknown package.

Bristling with excitement, we hauled both boxes into the house and started opening the bigger one.  IT'S...another box.  And another box.  And another.  All of these were about the same size and nondescript.  Finally I saw on the inside of one of the flaps a label reading "Spartan Helms, Standard.  8 count, 2 boxes".

Around the same time, James had opened one of the the smaller containers and produced an absolutely beautiful solid brass licensed replica of the helmets worn by the soldiers in the movie 300.  The helmets were functional, had leather chin straps, and a nice solid wood stand to show them off on.  They also smelled like gun oil having been well-lubricated to keep a decent shine.

James was wiggling like a six-week-old puppy.  I have to admit, I was rather excited as well.  After looking at the invoice, it was determined that there had been a mix up when I'd updated my address with the original company.  Company number 2 had accidentally assigned me my own wholesale account and sent me stuff (which had already been paid for by the people wanting it).  In addition to nothing being owed and they not having my bank account information in any case, it also appeared that there were 16 sharpened Spartan swords from the same series on back order.

Oh, it was birthday, Christmas, and National Beer Day all in one when James saw that.  However, after checking the company's website and discovering that each helm retailed for approximately $350 I knew there was no way we could keep this neat swag.  Somebody had sent out a very costly wrong shipment to a stranger with no liability and the oversight would be quickly discovered.  Not only that, my conscience wouldn't let me keep it.  James pleaded not to return his windfall and so we made a deal.  If a month passed and nobody found the error, he could keep his helmets.

Unsurprisingly, within a week and a half I got an e-mail from the company.  The dealer knew full well I was under no obligation to return the helmets (though I would have anyway without prodding) and offered me a gift for my troubles.  James was in a pout about losing his awesome helmets, believing nothing could be cooler than having enough headgear to start an army with.  Plus, having gone as a Spartan for Mardi Gras some years back and pulled it off exceedingly well he felt he was entitled.  Nonetheless, one gift was better than no gifts and the helmets were going back no matter what.  And after I pointed out that with his new gift he could go on the offensive against invaders rather than being defensive he felt a lot better.

This week James got his prize.  It's a Raptor Katana of Spiffiness, which also has its own YouTube videos that the erstwhile conqueror/anarchist had been glued to until its arrival.

I can sum up everything you need to know about this sword in one word:  sharp.  It makes me very nervous, especially with James leaping around my new tv with it while cackling with glee.  However, it did extremely well against the outdoor shrubbery.  That bush never saw it coming.

And on the subject of outdoor horticulture, we finally made the garden!

It was by far the easiest garden I've ever made.  Soft ground without being mushy, only a few roots, and no rocks to speak of!  Earthworms were everywhere and the soil was dark enough to resemble Michael Jackson in his early days.  I used the pile of bricks that have been in the far corner of the yard as a border and the two gates that were sitting rusting as climbing trellises.  The plants in progress are pickling cucumbers, Creole and Beefeater tomatoes, kidney beans, watermelon, and okra.  I'm so excited!  I'm going to try to put in a blackberry bush too once the new fence is put in.

I also found out that the bunch of banana trees that grow like crazy in the corner are actually meant to be there.  Most banana trees around here are essentially a weed variety which don't yield much, if any, fruit.  This particular set in my back corner originally came from one of the previous tenants.  He was an old Cuban man who lived in the house about 30 years prior that brought the seeds/sprouts with him and let them go in the backyard.  My landlord Edgar said that they were the only thing in the yard that Katrina didn't kill.  Prior to the storm he had some thriving red tip photinias against the back fence that kicked the bucket but the bananas were just fine.  

Now that I think about it, there may be a good reason the soil was as dark brown and rich as it was.  Eww.  Well, it's far too long now for anything like Hepatitis to have survived from the flooding and contaminate potential crops.

In any event, woo hoo!  Yay for not starving!