I've just returned from a long trip home to Atlanta, where I traveled to the mountains with my parents, celebrated Aalia's 30th birthday, shopped a lot, fought a little, and slept badly. The weather was beautiful and the trip generally relaxing, but one thing I've begun to hate about going home again is how it reminds me of aging--my own, my parents'--and how when I return to New Orleans, everything is the same--Murder Capital, devastated landscape, messy house, hurricane season. I don't want to be any younger, mind you, I just don't want to get any older anymore.
In more uplifting news, Simon and I met with producers of the TV show, This Old House this morning, and it seemed to go as well as it could. We don't have the exciting "story" they're probably looking for (couple caught behind during the storm struggles to rebuild historic home), but we are camera-ready, and I wore my "Make Levees, Not War" T-Shirt, which the director seemed to really dig. The executive producer asked us why we were moving down to a devastated neighborhood, calling us "urban pioneers." The real reason is a complex one, largely dictated by our wanting a lot and being able to afford very little in any other neighborhood. But of course there's our love of the neighborhood, and the house, and our city, and so we recited that list (also: having the levee--the largest lawn we will never have to mow--for our future kidlets to play on).
Anyway, I don't know if our "story" will be compelling enough, so I am hoping that the house, itself, for This Old House; perhaps our good looks and charm will get us on board.
Meanwhile, I have been catching up on sleep--all day--and looking at the piles of crap I need to confront. We'd agreed we'd spend a good bit of the summer preparing the house for our end-of-the-year move, and I'm realizing that what that really entails is my getting rid of a lot of my crap. I wouldn't call myself a hoarder, but I do hang onto a lot of books, papers, music, shoes, and clothes, fearing that if I throw them away I may someday miss them. So I will try to get into my most zen-like state and throw, throw, throw stuff away (or, rather, sell it at a yard sale so we can finance our champagne taste in furniture).
I'm doing what I do every summer, too: cutting down on TV watching. Simon says he is proud of me, but really my giving it up has more to do with his not having so much work to do; during the school year I make every effort to get my work done during the day so we can be all couple-y at night, but Simon always, always has to bring work home, so I wind up keeping myself company with TV. Giving up TV is pretty hard to do in our house, where we don't have many good, well-lit and uncluttered spaces for reading. (This is what happens when two lives converge, with their historic crap, on one 900-square foot house.) Simon, however, is not giving up his reruns of The Sopranos on A&E, and so here I am catching up on this blog.
This is a lame entry. I am in a poo mood. I will try to do better soon--complete with pictures and narrative and meaning and whatnot.
Yeah, that's it: meaning and whatnot.