Ok. I've been very absent for a while. I know. I apologize. You can stop making me feel guilty now. Seriously. Stop it. I can feel your judgy eyes from here. We're good? Ok. Good. Now that the awkward apology is out of the way, I'd like to take a moment to explain why my virtual blog presence has been missing from your life. 1. I live in New Orleans. Yeah. That's all I got. It should be enough. It's hard to type with a beignet in your hand or while day drinking on Bourbon or while going on terrible first dates or while traveling back to Wisconsin or while...well, you get it. I've been a bit busy. But, I had a nice little phone chat with my lovely sister and we discussed how to make this blog even better. "First." she says, "you have to write it." Ok. Yeah. That makes sense. "Second," she says, "you have to write about all of it." Ok. Yeah - maybe not ALL of it - my mother does read this, and although she would love to hear about the juicy details of all my drunken (and sober) shenanigans, some things are just not meant to be typed and broadcast to the internet universe for all time. With that said, this second (or maybe third) attempt at blogging, will be different. How so? Well here's how: No Skinny Bitch, where I only talk about dieting. Because that's just sad. Seriously. I love food. I hate working out. It was a bad idea from the start. No Wine and Wrought Iron, where I only talk about Nola. Because there's so much more. Seriously. Some of my best moments have happened elsewhere...like Jimmy Buffett in Wisconsin. Oh yeah. We're going to go there...censorship on that weekend will be pretty high. Also - No daily blogging. I can't keep up with it. And if I promise, I'll let you down, and I would hate myself forever and cry myself to sleep. Probably not. But I would feel bad. So the posts will come when they come. (Did you just hear Steve Carrell from The Office saying "that's what she said"? I did. I never claimed to be mature.) I've got a lot of catching up to do. So hang in there with me. I promise we'll have fun. So cheers, lovelies.
So for those of you on my Facebook, you've seen my posts about getting towed. Because that happened to me. Tonight. Super fun. Please learn to read my sarcasm. Because it was really really not fun. Here's the little gem of a story of Alison being an idiot...
There's a street one block over where you can park your car for free. No meters. No permits required. You can never find a place to park. And there I was, driving in the rain last week when the heavens opened and the sun shone down and there was a parking spot! What had I done in my life for the gods to shine down upon me like this? What matter of karma had come back to keep me from having to walk blocks upon blocks in a monsoon? It wasn't really a monsoon, but it was raining pretty hard. Well sprinkling and I was feeling lazy. Don't judge me. If you can score a spot, you hoard it and guard it like a fat kid guards the last candy bar. You don't move your car. So, even when Ryan drove in from Slidell, I wouldn't give up the spot for him. "Nope," I said, "No way sucker. I earned that spot." So I left my car there for five glorious days and it was magical. I did worry about getting vandalized or car-jacked...this is New Orleans after all, so every night, MJ and I would take our little evening stroll and check on the car. Every night it was there. Content in it's temporary home less than a block from my apartment. Everything was right with the world for me and Mary Jane and the Nissan. But then, street sweeping day! Shit. Shit. Shit. Here I thought that this unholy and terrible day occurred every Thursday. I was wrong. If your car is on the street when those sweepers come through, you will face the wrath of the parking gods. I was struck down. The Nissan was winched up and towed away without so much as a see-ya-later to her heartbroken owner. Not that I knew this was happening at the time. I was blissfully unaware, dealing with aphids on my hibiscus. After eating a wonderful little dinner of macaroni and cheese, I figured it was time for Mary Jane and I to wander down to check on the car. I turn the corner and glimpse an SUV under the flood of the streetlights. I let out a breath of relief. She's there, I think. Oh no. She wasn't. Something didn't look right. I felt it in my gut. Something was very amiss. As we creeped closer to the spot, I begin looking up and down the street. The Nissan is GONE! My initial thought is that someone stole her, but then I glimpse the sign. Damn street sweepers. And I knew, it was no theft that robbed me of my Nissan, but rather my own stupidity and ignorance. Mary Jane did not grasp the severity of the situation. She wanted to continue sniffing and rooting around and walking. Not me. We hightailed it back to the apartment. I had to find out what had happened to my beloved Nissan. What if she's not at the impound? Oh God! What if she was stolen? My heart raced and Mary Jane struggled to keep up with my panicked pace. The whole way, I mumbled "oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck" to myself. Some folks peered from their doorsteps at me like I was crazy. And I admit that I may have been at the time. I look up the number for impound and place a frantic call to the desk. Are they open? Will I get her back? A lovely gentleman answers and informs me that yes, my vehicle was indeed locked away in the depths of impound, but I could come and get her now. I mean, this is New Orleans. I don't think anything ever really closes. So I scurry downstairs to meet the cab and I descend into the bowels of the city. Well, it wasn't that bad, but the impound was under an overpass and I was really creeped out. The cab driver gallantly assured me that he would wait until I was safely inside the tiny trailer that housed the impound clerk. So after $200, the Nissan was free. We were free. Now, my first thought was that I would park her back on my street, but then I looked at myself in the rear view mirror and asked myself how stupid could I be in one day. Really, Alison? It's not like you don't have a damn parking garage in the Quarter that you pay $110 a month for. So, I grudgingly accepted the fact that I would have to walk several blocks back down Bourbon after parking the car. Let me tell you. Bourbon is gross and annoying when you're sober. Between puking frat boys and twerking strippers and homeless dudes begging to guess where I got my shoes from (seriously - it's the stupidest line ever), I fought my way down to Bourbon to the safety and comfort of my cute little apartment with my cute little dog knowing that my cute little Nissan is safely tucked in for the night. The only thing that makes this story fun is that I get to tell Chase that Auntie Ali met Tow-mater.
Hello my little angels. I wanted to keep you up-to-date on our dealings with a little thing called cancer. For those of you who don't know, my poppa, John, (or Juan, or Papa Juan, or Juan-ton, or Juan-ton-a-mo, or whatever other nickname my sister comes up with) has cancer. So here's a little timeline. Fall 2009 - John begins feeling numbness, tightening, and pain in his chest and back muscles. Like cry-for-your-mom kind-of pain. Doctors have no clue. This continues for almost a year. Late Spring 2010 - Diagnosis is a Pulmonary Lymphomatoid Granulomatosis (which we've not-so-affectionately dubbed PLG), an incredibly rare form of Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma (a cancer of the blood). Tumors appear on both lungs which are removed. Who needs tattoos when you're rocking scars like that. Chemo treatment begins. Prognosis is good. January 2011 - Cancer is gone? What? Rock on. Diagnosis is remission and we all breathe a sigh of relief. February 2011 - Double vision. Trouble with coordination. Not being able to feel hands or feet. Back to the doctor. Cancer is back. WTF? Although the PLG has been extinguished, cancer appeared in the brain. Can't operate because it's in the brain stem. Close your fist around a penny and then try to get that penny out without touching your hand. Impossible. Prognosis is iffy. Radiation is out of the question. No one wants to melt their brain. So chemo begins again with first rounds successful in reducing size. Summer 2011 - Tumor is gone? What? Rock on. We all breathe another sigh of relief. Fall 2011 - Tumor is back? WTF? Are you fucking kidding us? A followup MRI reveals that the tumor has returned in force. This is starting to get really really old. Start chemo again. A bad ass combination called Methatrexate that can be given in 8 rounds. No one has ever had it past 6. John rocks the 6 rounds. Spring 2012 - Tumor is gone. A "mere wisp" on the MRI. We thank our lucky stars and God and Buddha and Stonehenge. Summer 2012 - God-damn mother-fucking tumor is back. WHAT THE FUCK? Really?!? REALLY?!? This roller coaster ride has never been fun and its starting to make us sick. The doctors at this point have no clue how to proceed. Prognosis is bleak. I mean - really really bleak. Like start-thinking-about-the-end kind of bleak. October 2012 - We, especially my dad, are not ready to give up. Second opinion at Sloan-Kettering in New York City. Best doctor in the world confirms diagnosis of some type of cancer (we still really have no clue what it is). Doctors are still stumped how to treat and really have only one option left. Back to Methatrexate. It's never been given in second series. They tell us he'll be lucky to see Thanksgiving. November 9, 2012 - It's a Friday and my sister and I are driving to Minneapolis for our pseudo-sister's bachelorette party. We receive a phone call. It's my dad. In tears. The man doesn't cry. And he tells me this could very well be his last weekend on earth. That he's opted to go with the Methatrexate even though it could kill him in a few days. That he would never let cancer take him without a fight. That he would go down swinging. And my heart stops and the world falls out from under my feet. We turn around and go home because there's only one place in the world we want to be. Laughing and dancing and cooking and living with our dad. November 12, 2012 - Treatment begins. And we wait on pins and needles and bite our nails and cry and pray and drink and laugh and cry some more and pace. Some of us get tattoos. Well. That would have been me. November 17, 2012 - He made it through. How? We don't know. But we thank our lucky stars and God and Buddha and Stonehenge. Winter 2012 - Spring 2013 - Methatrexate treatments continue and John is a rockstar throughout it all. A few scary moments, but he's still working full-time and life is going on. Last Week - April 23, 2013 - The tumor is gone. GONE! Although we'll go ahead and be proactive and continue treatments, he's made it. Again. I hate to hold my breath, but if we've learned anything throughout this, it's that nothing is certain. But his coordination is returning and he's going to the gym and he's working and it looks like my pop will be around for his grandbabies. And I want to thank God with everything I am that this story has turned out this way. God only gives us what we can handle. Trust me, there were times when we thought he was just being a bully. How could he do this? How could we deal with any more? But, I've learned so much through this. I think we all have. Life is short and beautiful and tragic and fragile and sweet. To take even a moment for granted is to waste it. I don't worry about five years from now. I plan for it, but don't worry about it anymore. I have today. That's the best I get. And today, even though its raining and storming and a bit muggy, is beautiful. Because I have my daddy.
All my love, Ali I seem to have a thing for leaving a video for you all, so I'll leave you this one. Love.
So one of my biggest fears about moving down here was that I would be crazy lonely. Like-sitting-in-my-apartment, talking-to-the-dog, while-drowning-my-sorrows-in-cheap-wine kind of lonely. So when I wished my mom and sister a safe flight and drove sadly away from the airport, I was pretty scared. A new city where I knew no one and now that my two buffers from that reality had left, I was facing the city alone. But my darlings, don't worry for me. As most of you know, I can have a lively conversation with a brick wall and crave social interaction, so it didn't take long for me to settle in and meet some amazing folks. That Friday, I went on my first first date in the city - and my first first date in a long ass time. It's hard to date back in Marshfield. Love you guys, but not necessarily the easiest place for a single chick. But that's been the only first date I've had, because the dude I met is pretty awesome and we're now going steady (cue the "awww"). Now I'm sure you have some questions, so I'll fill you in a bit. I mean, who doesn't love to hear the details of awkward first dates and meeting boys. First off, who is this dude? Well my little darlings, his name is Ryan and he was born and raised here in Louisiana near New Orleans in a town called Slidell. He works at Charter during the day and rocks the guitar at night (which he's been playing for 20-some years). He's an only child and close with his family (I've met the parents and I can vouch that they are pretty awesome). He has a two-year-old little boy named Baylen who is the most gosh-darn-cutest little guy in the world. He rocks out in a band called Lying in Wait - a little metal for me, but pretty great none-the-less. He has tattoos and looks like a badass but may be one of the sweetest guys I've ever met. Ok then, sounds legit. How'd you meet? Match.com. Yep. An internet dating website. And no. I'm not really embarassed by that. I mean, think about it. When you meet someone traditionally, you're probably in a) a bar, b) at work, or c) through friends. You typically don't know too much about them or what you have in common, so you have to go on a few dates before you get to really know someone, although you know that the chemistry is there. Well Match.com is a little reversed. You chat with someone so you already know you have stuff in common with (hence the title...match) and get to know them BEFORE you meet. You find out if you have chemistry at the first date. It's not like you sit there and date online and never meet in person. And yes, loves, there are creepers out there. I think I told Ryan at that first date that I was happy he didn't turn out to be a creeper and was who his profile said he was. It could have been sketch. Alright. Where'd ya go? What'd ya do? We met in the French Quarter. Ryan was supposed to meet me at Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop just a few blocks up from my place, but he got a little turned around and couldn't figure out which way the street was. So, he called, and I happened to be walking the same way, just one block over. So I told him to turn down the street and meet me on the corner. "Not like a hooker-on-the-corner, but just on the corner" I said. And then I saw the bubbles. Floating down from a balcony above and I giggled like a little kid. "Follow the bubbles" I instructed. And there he found me, under the bubbles. I freaking love bubbles! So after we met and did that awkward first meet hug, we wandered the Quarter talking for a long long time. And it was great. Really. A really really great first date. Obviously, because here we are a month later. So yeah. Love life = check. On to some of the amazing friends I've made. Alexandra and Robbie top that list. A couple from Michigan and good friends of Ryan, I fell in love with those two creeps immediately. We were just three yankees and we love to talk about cheese and corn fields and Big Ten football. I'm actually headed there later today to use their washer/dryer to clean my shoes. Apparently they have a special contraption just for washing shoes and Robbie is really excited for me to try it out. But don't worry - I'll bring them pizza too. Trading laundry for pizza. Pretty good deal in my book. So darlings, that's where I'm at in the social department. Not crying in a little ball in my apartment while the dog stares at me puzzled.
All my love, Ali
I'll leave you with this Friends clip where Joey gets his head stuck in a turkey. If this doesn't make you laugh, then you have no soul.
So the most important part of my apartment, besides the bathroom, is the balcony! I am in L-O-V-E with my baloney. WTF? Not baloney. Stupid auto-correct. Balcony! So get ready to meet the many members of my balcony gang...but don't worry. They're not mean gang members. They won't cut you or anything. Up first is....MR. PEACOCK! This lovely addition is courtesy of my sister who saw it sitting in Target. Looking lonely and abandoned among the lawn chairs and garden gnomes, this peacock needed a home. A place where the wind could blow and makes it cute little head bob up and down. It truly is a magical thing to behold. Born in China, Mr. Peacock now stands proud while keeping the flowers in line.
Next up...MRS. MERMAID-FLAG! I discovered her on a venture down to the local liquor store for booze and cigarettes. Yep - I'm classy like that. I spotted her perched high on the wall of the t-shirt shop and she now hangs proudly from the upper balcony...calling to pirates and revelers and small children. Born in Thailand, Mrs. Mermaid-Flag adds just the perfect touch of tacky to my home.
MR. BUBBLES is the showstopper. This bad boy lights up peoples' days. I've never seen so many grown ups stop and chase a bubble or two. Everyone smiles and looks around for the source of bubbles. Most people enjoy it. Except for the lady that owns the Smart car. Who doesn't like bubbles? Whatevs - we won't get into that. The bubble-maker was a gift from my new friends, Alex and Robbie, who after hearing the story of my and Ryan's first date and then hearing how much I love bubbles, thought it would be perfect. The first date story goes as follows: Ryan got lost and as I was on the phone trying to give him directions, I noticed a shit-ton of bubbles and giggled like a little kid. Seriously - I'm kind of surprised he still wanted to meet me. But, luckily, he did, and he found me under the bubbles. A somewhat ridiculous story, but the inspiration for the bubble-maker.
The flowers round out the group... On to the HIBISCUS. Known fondly to the rest of the group as the Peach Twins, these guys grace the corners of the balcony. Although their blooms last only a few days, they have taught me a lesson in resilience. You can't hold them down. They will bloom again. Bad ass hibi's. Plus, they are Miss Mary Jane's favorite flower...that little dog will sniff and sniff and sniff them. I think it's like crack for her. We may have to stage an intervention at some point.
Then we have the ANNUALS - Miss Pomegranate Punch and Ms. Blackberry Punch, sisters by nature but unique in their own right. They were supposed to live in the window baskets, but after being fearful that they would fall, were relocated to their current home on the floor of the balcony. From here, they grow out through the railings and help the climbing flower seeds grow to their true potential. Thanks Em for the climbers...those little guys are making their way in this big world.
The IXORAs are next. These coral/red exotic beauties came to us from Home Depot. Although it took me 30 minutes driving around to find the damn entrance to the parking lot, it was well worth it when I caught a look at these gals. Relaxed and whimsical, the Ixora's are the stoners of the group. Damn hippies.
And let's not forget about the BOUGAINVILLEA. This sassy little number is making my life hell. The blooms come and go and I can't seem to figure out if it's dying or just being a pain in the ass. Alas, there's always one black sheep in the group. It probably doesn't help that I was mispronouncing its name for the longest time...Borgenia, Borgia...I still have no idea how to say it. So this girl needs to shape up or may find herself trying to grow in the garbage can.
MR. and MRS. PETUNIA are next. These guys came to me from an amazing nursery called Urban Roots near Mary Jane's doggy daycare. Not only are the ladies who work at this place extremely helpful and informed, but the plants are frigging beautiful. So I found these huge baskets and knew immediately they were meant to sway in the breeze on my balcony. So far, they seem to have thrived in the sun, although dead-heading them (removing the dead buds) has been a royal pain in the ass.
Now hurry up and buy a plane ticket so you can enjoy a glass of wine with me on the balcony!
Oh, my loves. I've neglected you for far too long. I apologize with all of my heart about waiting 18 days to blog again. 18 days. Shit. I suck. Really. One of the many things I'm terrible at. Right up there with doing laundry. It's not that I don't know how to do laundry...that I can handle. It's actually physically doing the laundry. I'm the girl that buys new underwear instead of throwing in a load of clothes. So blogging timeliness and laundry = Alison fail. But, no worries my little darlings. I'm feeling inspired today which means that you get to hear all about my many wonderful adventures over the past 18 days! Yay. I know. I know. Settle down. It's hard to read when you're jumping around with excitement. So prepare yourself. Find a bottle of wine or beer or whiskey or Pucker and make yourself comfy. You are in for a real treat. XOXO (but not open mouth kisses ...just cute-little-pecks-on-the-cheek kind-of kisses) Ali
