Further proof of why I love that voodoo town: I left my cellphone in the cab yesterday morning en route to the airport. Scott just got a call from the cajun driver who had been trying to track me down to return it to me. He is mailing it back. Unheard of? Yes!

Whit and I got back from the flight last night completely exausted and hungry. We both dumped our bags, changed into something comfy and watched a movie. Whit had to get up and do some cable-networking behind the tube and I looked up from the couch to see her leaning over the back of the set. I realized she'd thrown on some form of gauzy purple pants with a pink hippy pattern running through them, a drawstring with bells, and a sort of fancy detailing around the ankles. Very flowy and loose. I couldnt resist asking her where those came from, and she joked that she actually probably did wear them to a Dead show way back.

We both started laughing at the thought of it. Its downright hilarious to picture happening now. I joked that she would be across the parking lot at a Dead show, far away ordering herself up a tempeh product in a pita inside some tent rig. Right then, Jerry would start pluckin the tunes to one of her favorites. With her tabouleh treat in hand, she'd explain in a complete frenzy, "Cloud, I will bring you the money after the show!" and grab her eco-napkin & snack and sprint across the parking lot. She hair would be in a low, single braid down the back, her fanny pack jingling as her gauzy, purple buttcheeks move to and fro-- she would have a kind of low center of gravity type run, upper body sort of low and her birkenstocks flying through the dust and gravel. Incredible.

Just returned from my first trip ever to New Orleans. I am in love with it.

Some of my bridesmaids and I planned a "bachelorette" trip (sans strippers and phallic straws et al...) in New Orleans. We flew in from all over the country, a few having never met each other before. With Stuart's connections, we secured fantastic room, dining and fun. I honestly laughed so hard my throat is hoarse and my sides still ache. It couldn't have been better, except when we were told here to try a Pimms cup. Ew. There was a cucumber in it. Whitney had to go and lie down.

That is one of the coolest cities. Its a unique enclave with its own jazzy, quirky pace and nearly indistinguishable accent, its as if you did leave the country. Or universe. And you sort of do down there. There is no talk of war, only fantastic parades with dixie music; there is voodoo, sounds of horse and buggies clomping by, balconied restaurants, a slightly taudry and lawless air. Surrounded by French and Spanish architecture. Like a movie set.

I am still foggy from not enough sleep, but I do know that I dont think there wasn't 15 minutes that went by that wasn't spent doubled over and gasping for breath from laughing so hard.

Oh, yes.

"Oh, I'll tell you what gives. I gives a fuck about that planning report! Especially since I haven't slept for three days! If you want me to hand over that planning report you're more than welcome to bomb my cubicle! Who gives a shit anymore?

One more:

"As-Salaam Alaikum. Do you have any alcohol left in your cubicle? I've been studying current events again."

Ah, almost spring!

Which is a euphoric time of year, especially after this winter. The sun! Small, barely-formed buds on trees, a breeze that doesn't make you pull your collar tight.

But also an awkward season. Winter clothes are unwanted: drab, pilly, tired. Its too cold to wear the spring duds. Meaning, there is this month or so of awkward-dressing exposing pasty & unexersized limbs. And usually leaving one feeling cold. Like I am, today, on my floor of men-folk who have turned the air conditioning on.

Everyone is comfortable, working along, and I sit here with my pale knees knocking under my desk. I keep leaning down to turn on my space heater, but it has this hilarious effect-- it puts out a little heat, but lots of noise. Meaning, I sit here, sleepy and slightly warm, while my boss-fellow talks to me excitedly from another room. I have no idea. I was just busted sipping my Smoothie through a straw with a little too much contentment. Like I had yukalele music playing and was slathered in cocoa butter. I'm in my own little springtime here on my execu-island.

But wait, to back up. Cocoa butter?! Ha! Excellent. In these SPF-days, that term is seriously never used anymore. So dated. Honestly, its as if you were trying to baste yourself with some good ol' shortenin'. Psssssssss. I think I will only refer to any sunscreen now as the Cocoa Butter, as in "Yes, a bottle of Evian and a dataport is all I need, thanks" and then "..oh I almost forgot, also a tub of cocoa butter and a bag of weed, thanks!"

Friday afternoon, trying to think of a place to have a few people meet after work. I found myself stating these words: I will not go there, it will be too crowded. I have to sit down.

Baha! When did that happen? Going out now has a whole different meaning than it used to. Thank heavens. I mean, what was that? I suffered some lame, lame nights out. In retrospect, I have no idea why. Here is how a night out would have gone for me, a clueless college, or even post-college girl:

Scene: 10 pm, stupid fratastic bar, flat, loud jukebox belting out "Brown Sugar" for the 9 billionth time. 3-4 close girlfriends standing toe-to-toe in middle of bar, clutching beers in hand, snappy shoewear on, nervously looking around the room for him. Him from the other night, him of the unattainable, or just plain old anyone-him.

"Ohmigahd, I am so tired." Pulls at sweater, looks around the room.
"I know, same here, we were out so late last night.." Also looking around the room, smoothing hair.
"Did you see Flan? He was so wasted." Mild amusement around the circle. Stops.
"You guys, I so don't think he is coming." Just then drunk, sweaty guy knocks into them, some beer spills. Mild irriation ensues, but no one is leaving.
"Hey, Becky, did you ever talk to Julie after Tuesday?" Actually makes eye contact.
"BAHAHAHAHH!" Forced, hyena laughter outbursts, an arm is grabbed: "Stop-- you are soooo funny!"
"What are you talking about?"
"Oh....(eyeroll) Ben must be here."
"Ohmigahd, he is coming, do I look okay?
"Yeah, we'll talk to you tomorrow".
One down. Repeat that until everyone was gone or too drunk to care anymore.

Yes, tonight I will go and sit and make eye contact with only my company.

As I watched my soaps last night, we bombed Iraq. There is an unmoveable telephone pole in the middle of my wedding site. The less-friendly people at work study me like a lab mouse pumped full of of olestra. Sme passed on. As I watched my soaps last night, we bombed Iraq.

In the words of the Continental, "Wow-wee." Its a little difficult to breathe currently.

Now who's mean? The sweet-faced intern arrived and I put her to work doing a haneous project that lasted up until her last hour. She handed the results to me quietly, smiled and left. I walked by her modest desk and realized that I'd placed an enormous, gerrish flower arrangement in the only open space. Meaning she had to do my grunt work with her head in a mauve colored bowl of unruly, dusty 'flowers' all day.

But then again, why wouldn't I put a bowl of fake flowers there? I'm from a far-far away place where no one understands what I say. I am Holly, I come from Papua! Oh, I mean New York.

I have this remarkable effect on people at work. Perhaps I use the wrong lingo, or maybe my hair really is on fire. Socializing is fine, but whenever I need anything from anyone, I'm met with the blankest stare in the continental U.S. Its happened time and time again. I ask, the autoreply bounces back: [Silence, audible hum of heater] Blink, blink.

Its not a stare of bewilderment or irritation-- they stare back at me as if staring at an intructional text book. The only emotion apparent is maybe quasi-amusement, but no interaction seems immenant. I am forced to say awkward things like "..oh, maybe I have it all wrong?" or apologize clumsily. The truly amazing thing? The more urgent my query, the more vacant the stare. Maybe I speak New York? I think I just speak New Girl. Nice.

Soaps should only be viewed at night. Whit & I ended up watching General Hospital on cable last night, after a long Monday out in the WORKFORCE!, drinking a glass of wine.

Its fantastic-- the Evil Woman steps onto the set in black head-to-toe furs, full of vigor, hate and lip gloss. She slams the "door" behind her, causing the jerry-rigged set shake. Loaded threats are exchanged, and the scene ends with the actors poised far too long, glaring each other down. Its drama at its finest-- overdone acting, flashy clothes and the plot history is recounted for the viewer again & again with great flair-- its made for monkies to understand.

Juxtaposed to the usual higher-budget evening selection, the cable soap channel is really putting themselves out there. And I love it. Its hokey and a peculiar strain of acting that deserves a higher level cult following. I think I will try and get hooked.

Low self esteem? Perhaps. I get the occasional "miss you" email from my pals back in NYC, and I am often somewhat surprised. I sort of vanished and thought my memory would too.

I miss my friends. A lot.

Just got a punchy email from Dave that made me chuckle, and it dawned on me that I have been way Too Serious here at my new post. I'm here on time, I'm dressed right, I laugh at the right time, I don't say too much, I'm efficient.

I started thinking how funny it would be if all at once, after months of being prim, I show up on St. Patty's day at 9:00 a.m. completely hammered, like, I woke up pretty early to start my Patty's celebration. I take it really seriously. I arrive in a baggy, makeshift-felt green ensemble, maybe dressed up like a leprachaun; or something more bizarre, like a bright green chicken costume. You know, something I do every year. Complete with chicken-head apparatus, but all kinda lopsided and falling over my eyes. I can see it now, a short distance from my desk-- "..and why is she in a chicken suit?", and they all look over at me sitting there, bleary and winking- trying to stop all passers-by to tell them the same story. There I'd be, happy in my blarney glory. Tempting.

So, I've been sleeping around. A lot. I've been a vagabond, every day or so packing or unpacking things in & out of my little ditty bag. And there's always something crucial forgotten- a sock, contacts, underwear. Oy, its been a heroic feat: sleeping at Scott's house, Whitney's (old) house, my parent's house, her parents house, sleeping in Jeff the housemate's room (when Scott was powerfully sick), sleeping on a couch, sleeping at Rachael's house, and now, just a day ago, in Whitney's new house. The last mention will be my home until I move again when Scott and I find a shanty for ourselves. Just in time, I've officially crashed from crashing.

Needless to say, the whole gymnastic of it all has left me feeling two ways: 1) unbelieveably grateful for, like, a closed door, drawers, a neatly folded shirts, and 2) powerfully disoriented. I am so confused at this point, I honestly don't know if I am coming or going. I feel sound asleep last night, feeling settled at last, until I woke up in the dark. Not quite lucid, blinking at the two unfamilar window shapes glowing on me, my heart almost lept out of my chest. Now, wait, [pound, pound], where am I? I know I have to get up and work-- but where? Am I home? At my parents house? Did I just finally return home to NYC, after a long trip? Am I finally waking up back in San Francisco? Where the hell am I?

Bizarre. But who cares. I'm wholly satisfied to end my stint as a college spring-breaker. The only setback? I unpacked everything last night to find all my clothes intact and accounted for, aside from my undies. Sigh.

I just had a little incident with my Swingline stapler. I just raged myself into laughing.

Years ago, on one of Whitney's journeys up to visit me in NYC, I felt compelled to do the (usual) over-extended tour of downtown-- stopping at 3 billion different places. Tony venues, outside joints, hip dive bars, and finally heading back up toward the village, I had the cab stop at Blue Ribbon for a nightcap. Blrrrp. I think I can admit I was showing off somewhat. I could plop up at the bar and order up oysters from Alonso and get the free vino from James. I felt cosmopolitan and flirty. Now that I think back on it, she was tired and bored.

The next day, and for the following years, anytime I'd mention that place, she'd bust out laughing, interrupt and call it the Floating Rib. The joint from GH?! Ba! Once I stopped feeling stupid, I could completely appreciate it. Yes, yes, yes! Soft lights, clinking glasses, soothing music, a winking bartender. Bobby Brach with heavy gloss dining on Chicken Kiev and blush wine. Yes. Certainly, Blue Ribbon is a great place, but, alas, its a sort of Floating Rib.

(...But the name? Isn't the Floating Rib what Cher removed? Yik.)

There are many Floating Ribs, actually. She just reminded me of a fancy place off a main highway nearby called Northwoods. All in cursive. Clink, wink.

I woke up this morning with what feels like a urinal cake in my throat.

Everyone. Sick. Now me. Ouf.

There aren't many grocery stores in Baltimore, but rest assured there are bars. I'd guess about two per block. All with catchy drunk-names like "Empty Pockets" or "Stumblin' Inn". "Bottoms up!" Nearby Scott's house, the bar of choice was "Cap'm Larry's". Admittedly, Larry's did have some charm, maybe it was the delicious crabcake sandwich they could crank out within minutes, or the old juke box. You could always find a crowd of friendly regulars lined up there, burly men with paint splattered construction boots and a few college boys. Tawdry looking middle aged women. Apparently, everybody loved Larry. I didn't know much of the guy, he was a large, gruff looking man who was always telling a group of wide-eyed men stories of his love-conquests (putting it nicely). I overheard once something about "three fangers" and I sort of sped up my pace to the bathroom. Woo.

There was one regular in particular. This guy was always at Larry's, a brawny man with a rough, raspy voice who was peculiarly optimistic. He was a diehard Redskins fan. During the games when they would be down many touchdowns, this guy would always bark out in smokey-gravel voice: "S'awwright. S'awrrrrright. They'll turn it around!" with 2 minutes left in the game.

Just as the bar was picking up full steam, Larry closed up shop, bought a sailboat and headed South. Needless to say, the neighboorhood was flummoxed. Scott and his housemate Jeff were walking down the street shortly after it closed, and ran into the Optimistic Gruff guy and stopped to see how he was faring without the Cap'm. "Sawwwright!" he said in typical rasp, "We're all down at Paul's now!"

None of us really have gone to "Paul's", but that quote lingers. Whenever there's an awkward silence, or someone recounted a bad experience, someone will bust out in the smoky voice: "S'awrright..we're all down' Paul's nah!"

Its now snowballed. I was telling a story about some guy who irked me, and right then Jeff busted out in regular voice: "Oh, wow, that guy is SO not down at Pauls now." That is now the measurement for everything. "You got the job?! You are so hanging out at Paul's!" or "Shit. My computer is so not down at Paul's now."

I must be easily amused.