If you ever see a pigeon in a big city -- take a look at its' feet. Certainly in New Orleans, a great big giant percentage of the birds are missing a foot:
We figured it was because they get in fights with each other, during which they peck their opponents' feet off. Not too shabby a theory...Well here is an interesting article and I'm sorry about the swear words. I couldn't find a PG version. This person claims there are three reasons:
Predators
Human hair
Standing in their own poop
Who the heck knows? It's kinda cute, don't you think?
Wouldn't it be even cuter if it had had a little eye patch on and a tiny parrot on its' shoulder?
That's how I spell my first name. It wasn't my idea obviously -- my mom came up with it. She and my dad wanted to name me K.D., but when they wrote it down they didn't like how it looked, thank goodness and then they added the A and the Y and that's how it all worked out. As far as I know, I was like the only Kady in the whole universe until Facebook was invented and now there's like a million. Dang facebook.
ANYWAY, I don't freak out too much about correcting people when they go to spell my name with a T, unless it's important -- like medical stuff or for tax purposes or whatever.
So the point of my story is that when you say the name Kady out loud, it sounds exactly the same as Katie, in America anyway (British or Irish people will emphasize the 'T' or Spanish speaking people say it differently tambien). Since it's my name, I can hear the difference, but it's SO SUBTLE. When I say my name, since I know how it is spelled, I can tell that it's just a teensy bit different then when I would say the name of a friend named Katie. And I can tell when the person saying my name knows how I spell it. It's my sixth sense.
Isn't this INTERESTING???
Get to the point.
OK so my point is that this morning I stopped into Caribou Coffee (the Midwest's answer to Starbucks) and ordered a dark roast. They always ask your name so they can write it on the side of the cup. I said "Kady" when prompted and the be-acned-teenager behind the counter said, "Is that with a 'D'?"
I swear in 37 years nobody has ever picked up on the subtle pronunciation difference or asked me if my name were spelled with a 'D'. Ever. I was like, "YAH. HOW? HOW DID YOU KNOW?" He said he could hear it in the way that I said it.
On November 23rd, I was feeling nostalgic for those times as a kid when we'd make plants out of other plants! or seeds! and sometimes there were milk cartons! and so I stuck some toothpicks into an avocado pit, and hovered it over some water in a jar (we haven't talked about me and my jars yet. Oh well, that's another story) and dreamed of the crack and sprout that would happen in six short weeks if I could just be patient. PATIENT! It was gonna be so worth it. I set up the little pit in the sunniest place in my apartment and changed the water religiously. I sang to it. (I mean, I didn't really sing "to it" but I'm constantly singing so it should have heard me, you know?) I hired a housesitter to take care of it while I was on my vacation. I'm not kidding.
Well, yesterday, after almost three months of this crap I realized I'm never going to be happy and that all dreams are futile and what's the point of living anyway and then I deep-sixed the whole thing.
Whenever I've been traveling in a location that has a western coast it has been an unspoken rule that at day's end, I'll position myself somewhere so that I can watch the sunset.
Nicole and I made our way to the beach almost nightly to walk for miles along the beaches of Costa Rica, sometimes speeding dangerously down the highway so that we wouldn't miss that last sliver of light. We learned to time it -- about an inch in the sky was ten minutes. In South Africa, they call it "sundowners" and most often Mineska and I would view it from blankets with wine at Llandudno Beach. When my friends and I visited Sarah in San Diego we made a fire at Oceanside and illegally drank wine from coffee mugs. In Hawaii, every night without exception I and my friends made a plan as to where we would be watching the sunset.
Sometimes orange. Sometimes pink. Sometimes blue and even white. Every night it's different. It never gets old. There's no sense whatever that you can skip it because you've "been there done that".
Costa Rica
Maui
South Africa
San Diego
And the location doesn't have to be exotic. Even in Roosevelt, Minnesota, at the lodge where I worked we had rows of west-facing windows that overlooked gigantic Lake of the Woods. I'd stop running for a few moments to join our guests and watch the sun silently slip below the horizon.
Minnesota, 9:20pm
You know what though? I don't do sunsets in Minneapolis, Minnesota. It's not even on my radar here. Perhaps because there are too many trees and buildings to block it? I don't know. But that stops now.
In my quest for post-vacation-similar-to-New-Year's-resolution-self-betterment, I vow this summer to make sunsets part of my day. I won't even have to go far. Here's the view right out of my apartment window:
So, my mom got a hearing aid. This would have been helpful when I lived with my parents for a few reasons...least of which was the constant "WHAT?!?ing" I got from her and mostly because I might have been able to fall asleep with her TV on right under my bed if it had been at a slightly lower volume than ALL THE WAY UP.
Not that I'm complaining. I lived there for free.
But, you know.
Anyway, I wanted to make her laugh in case she was sad about losing her hearing, or whatever, so I spent part of yesterday googling some stuff about hearing aids and being hard of hearing (to be honest I needed something to distract me from googling and then reading about and subsequently sobbing over the Boston Marathon -- did you SEE the picture of that little boy who died and his cute little missing tooth?). I wanted to find an old cartoon I recalled from my childhood in which (I think) an old lady duck can't hear anything and so she tells the little kid ducks to "speak in the horn". And she holds up this horn to her ear. Nothing. Did I make this up? I could have sworn...
Guess what a google image search brings you when you search for "speak in the horn"?
This guy.
and:
This guy. I'm guessing he really gets the chicks.
I gave up and instead tried to YouTube search for a clip from a movie I remembered from my early teens starring Patricia Arquette who played an abused and abandoned stupid girl who was locked in a barn (it turns out she wasn't stupid at all, she just couldn't hear) and somewhere in the movie she gets a hearing aid and there's this great emotional scene in which she discovers that things make noise. Paper. Hands clapping.
But I couldn't think of the name of the movie. I emailed my friend. She was out of the office. I googled "hands make noise? paper make noise?" (the quote I remembered from the movie) Nothing.
Then I googled "Patricia Arquette deaf girl". Jackpot! The movie was called Wildflower and it was made in 1991. It also starred a young REESE WITHERSPOON as the girl who goes nosing around in barns that aren't her business and finds abandoned partially deaf girls in there and then helps them go to barn dances and get a leg up in life. I still couldn't find the clip I wanted. (The one where Wildflower first gets her hearing aid and says "hands make noise? paper make noise?") Nothing.
I did, however, find the trailer. There's a tiny bit of the scene I'm referring to at 1:31-1:33. ("I hear words!") Funny, I remember it being SUCH a good movie and here it looks kind of awful:
There is no ending to this hearing aid story, nor is there a moral. In fact they don't even call them "hearing aids" anymore, but "Hearing Instruments" (according to my mom.) My point is that some things just aren't on the internet (because you probably made them up in your head). And sometimes people bomb things and you have to try and look away for a few minutes and make fun of your mom.
But you can't. Because there's nothing wrong with being hard of hearing.
And look how cute it is:
That was a trick question. YOU CAN'T EVEN SEE IT.
"Hey mom!"
"What?"
"You have a banana in your ear."
"What?!"
"You have a BANANA in your ear."
"WHAT?!?"
"I SAID, you have A BANANA in YOUR EAR."
"WHAT?!? I CAN'T HEAR YOU. I HAVE A BANANA IN MY EAR."
Last week, as I was removing the 37th staple from the 37th bank statement in a mortgage loan file that I was preparing to send into underwriting, I couldn't help but feel VIOLENTLY ANGRY towards the loan officer who stapled them all together. It's like, I know where the bank statement stops and also where the bank statement ends. Do we really need to be stapling them? My nails are just tore up, guys. TORE UP. Gosh my job is so irritating. Probably the worst in the whole world. I can't think of any worse job in the whole world. I'm paid hundreds of dollars a day to remove staples. It's not enough if you ask me.
These mobile salespeople in Vietnam would agree that I am so mistreated:
I waved to this person and they waved back. I assumed it was "Hi!", but in retrospect I realized it was actually, "don't take my photo."
It's a difficult yet effective way to sell stuff on the go. You can even operate a food truck this way. Got a pho (noodle soup) business? Bring it to the people. I saw a woman with a pot full of soup on each side and asked her if I could try lifting it.
O. M. Gee! I felt like a champion power lifter. It was so heavy. HEAVY. That smile is actually a wince.
So, you cart around thousands of pounds of merchandise hoping to sell a couple bucks' worth each day. Later on I told her about the staples and the low pay. (In sign language of course.) She was like, "Lady. You got to QUIT. That sucks."
When confronted with a situation where telling the truth will hurt or simply embarrass me, it's what I do. The good news is, my conscience hardly ever allows it to continue and I have to come clean immediately. Which is how I accidentally almost committed fraud against the State of Minnesota a couple of weeks ago.
You see, I got this great idea after filing my taxes and seeing that my adjusted gross income for 2011 was only $4040: I decided to take advantage of any low-income Doctor's visit benefits I could since I haven't had any checkups since I was working with health insurance benefits a few years back. I googled "minnesota sliding scale gynecology" and found Planned Parenthood. I called and explained that I had no health insurance and they told me to bring my last year's tax return. They made me feel at ease when they said most women pay nothing for their checkup.
The next paragraph serves only to set you up for the reason I told a big lie to the State of Minnesota:
In real life, my business is mortgage, where I calculate people's income all day long and I always always always use the most conservative approach. So, if I were applying for a mortgage, I wouldn't use my current income because there is no guarantee that it will continue. In fact, I would need to be on my job for a minimum of six months before I would even be able to consider that income. A two-year average over 2011 and 2010 would give a better picture of my actual income, however since I no longer hold any of those jobs, I would have to use a big. fat. zero. and I wouldn't qualify. Isn't my job interesting? ha!
ANYWAY:
I brought my tax return and my "zero-income mentality" into Planned Parenthood where I was asked straight out, "Are you currently working?"
I didn't expect this question. But I knew where she was going. In that split second, I had a crisis of conscience. Why should I be penalized and miss out on free health care just because I DO currently have a very temporary, very medium-paying job? Don't they know that any money I make in the next three months is going to have to last me for the next twelve? Don't they know I am a vagabond by choice and I don't want to spend my money on Doctors and groceries and car tire repair because I'd rather be padding my savings account for my next great adventure? Don't they know I used to responsible and trustworthy and employed and paid taxes for a good decade which probably covered hundreds of exams for the less fortunate?
What did I do? I froze. I panicked. I lied.
FPL!
"NO!" I said, nervously, shaking. As the word escaped my mouth, I immediately felt my cheeks flush. Lying is bad! And of course it just snowballed from there as she made me FILL OUT A FORM stating that I had $0 income. I tried to make it better by averaging $4040 over 12 months which is exactly how I would have calculated my income at work. I told myself I wasn't lying, and that I knew better how to calculate income than the State of Minnesota Department of Health. But I also knew I was lying. Making it right would mean coming clean to the receptionist by admitting to her face that I had lied. I couldn't do it. I signed the form with the fraudulent information and went back to the exam room, stripped down, put my legs in the stirrups and talked to my Maker about what I had just done and how I was going to make it right. FYI I'm pretty sure it was He who made me have to fart at the exact moment the Nurse Practitioner was taking her look-see.
"The House of Lies"
With legs spreadeagle, I decided the best way to make the whole thing go away would be to go back out to the front and tell them that although I wasn't working (lie) I had money in savings (true) and that I could afford to pay for the visit (true) so could we just forget the whole form? I certainly wouldn't want to burden the poor taxpayers in Minnesota with my gynecological needs (lie).
So that's what I did.
For the second time the receptionist totally blindsided me by saying, "well if it's all the same to you, we'd rather get the funding because it's better for us. But if you have money and would like to make a donation for somebody else who can't afford it, we'd be glad to accept it."
My jaw dropped to the floor as I left my body, hovered above and watched myself NOT tell her the truth. We continued the check-out process and I hoped she'd forget about the donation bit, but of course she didn't. "Would you like to put your donation on your VISA?"
"Yes." I said, and donated $50. For my penance.
I drove out of the lot and called Summer. She could barely understand me as I wailed, "I'm going to prison!"
She told me not to panic and to call the Department of Health to withdraw my application in a few days, explain myself and then at least I wouldn't have to worry about the face-to-face aspect that made it so impossible for me to just admit the truth.
Which is what I did.
What did this ridiculous lie cost me? $280 for the doctor's visit, $50 for a donation I didn't really care to make, the squeezing to prevent the fart (which I'm hoping she took as timidity), 20 minutes hold time with the Minnesota Department of Health and some further embarrassment when a bill from Planned Parenthood will shortly arrive in the mail at the O'Connell's. Addressed to me.
Don't you think it would have been hilarious if I had stripped down to my tank top, strewn all my stuff all over the elevator, messed my hair all up, and was in squatting position, eating my sauerkraut with my hand when the doors opened and my whole office was standing outside? I could have talked to them in the made-up grunt language I was forced to use because I had no one to talk to for so long stuck in that elevator.
"Tay inna wiiiiih"
I actually HOPE I get stuck again. I won't screw up such a choice opportunity a second time.
I spent much of 2010 & 2011 traveling the world, living out of a backpack. Here are twelve things I learned:
1) I Never Met a Stranger
If you aren't able to speak the language of the country in which you're traveling, that's OK. This deaf woman and I had a 45 minute conversation using only our hands. Smile. Learn a few phrases in every language. 'Hello', 'Goodbye', 'Thank You' and 'Excuse Me' go a long way.
The less stuff you have, the less stuff you have to carry.
4) People are People.
All over the world people are pretty much the same. Mostly, they're nice.
Indonesia.
5) Face Fears.
They're not that scary when you're staring them in the face. I'm claustrophobic and deathly afraid of sharks. But pass up on a chance to dive the Great Barrier Reef? Not this gal.
Australia.
6) Slow Down.
Going slowly reduces stress, and costs a lot less. The best lesson I learned is how to relax, breathe, quit scheduling and enjoy life at a much slower pace. You'll see and experience so much more.
7) Pack a Towel.
There are always going to be spontaneous trips to a waterfall, the ocean or a pool. A towel also makes a great blanket and/or pillow on a long bus ride.
Nicaragua.
8) Try Something New.
Roasted grasshoppers taste just like roasted nuts. Easy. And no, I don't like tripe. But I tried it, which made my adorable Italian-Brazilian hosts very happy.
9) Waiting Isn't So Bad.
A large part of travel is spent waiting. For the bus. For the plane. For the museum to open. Calm down and be prepared. I listened to a lot of free podcasts of This American Life on iTunes. Always have a book handy just in case. You might be surprised to find you actually look forward to times when you're able to just. Wait.
10) Everything's Negotiable.
Another helpful phrase to learn in the language of the country you're visiting is 'I don't have a lot money'. I brought this home with me, and now I'll frequently ask for discounts while shopping or dining out. The majority of the time I succeed.
11) Accept Hospitality Graciously.
There are so many opportunities while traveling to be gracious and allow people to show their hospitality. I had to learn this one, because it doesn't come naturally. Smile, say 'thank you' and vow to pay it forward to the next visitors who come your way.
It's about the relationships between female best friends. While we were watching it, I asked Summer if she was my laotong? And she said, "I don't think so. I don't think we're the laotong type."
According to Wikipedia,laotong "is a type of relationship within Chinese culture, which was practised in Hunan, that bonded two girls together for eternity as kindred sisters...the Laotong or "Old-Sames" relationship was the most precious friendship bond...the bond was for life...Laotong would frequently develop a language to use to communicate between them that only they could understand (a type of Nu shu), allowing them to send messages back and forth to one another."
Summer and I have been friends for a really long time. Seven years probably. Acquaintances for much longer. But the truth is, we have only maybe hugged four times. (And one of those was because a co-worker brought donuts to work last week.)
Good friends. Best friends. But not always in the purest sense of the word.
The spring that I was training for a triathlon, I decided to do my swim in Lake Nokomis, and then bike over to Summer's place in St. Paul because she had recently sprained her ankle. It was bad. Real bad:
Actual photo of Summer's ankle.
She was pretty happy to see me, being a complete shut-in. We talked and visited for a while and she asked if I would take her to the library so she could get a bunch of movies to watch. "Sure," I said, "but I ain't going in. Not dressed like this."
And so, dear readers, I made my laotong go into the library by herself and rent a bunch of movies. It was only when she came hobbling out, crutches and all, struggling not to drop all five movies and her purse and the crutches that I very reluctantly got out of the car and helped her. But -- come on. I was dressed like this:
I'm sure you can imagine the maxi pad butt.
The other day I jumped out of the car to grab something from the back. Since it was cold and raining, I was trying to hurry. But the back was locked. I did the usual *knock* on the back hatch, to signal that it was locked and needed unlocking. This is a common occurrence, and usually the driver would then just unlock the door, but on this day, I was the driver and Summer was in the passenger seat, unaware that she could unlock right from her seat. She thought the only unlock button was in the driver's seat. I squinted, peering through the freezing rain at her, where she sat, shrugging her shoulders. Unwilling to reach the 18 inches across to the drivers' side to hit the button.
Maybe we're not laotongs. But we're definitely 'old-sames'.
The funny thing about being a woman is that you can go from feeling like a fatty fat fatty to an athletic, thin, strong person and then back to the fat fat feeling again all in the span of ten minutes.
Perhaps because I ran around like a crazy person when I waitressed this summer and ended up losing a bunch of weight without even trying. And now I'm not running around and I'm eating crazy amounts of fried shrimp and beef brisket. Anyways, Summer and I are trying really hard to work out. For example, in the last week, we have gone for several nice long walks, a couple of really good runs, done an ab/arm set, a leg set...we're doing great. But that fat/skinny/fat feeling is always there.
For example, after eating fried chicken I feel like this:
Yes, that really is me. Thailand April 2010
And then I go for a run and do ten pushups and I feel like this:
Yes, that really is me. Costa Rica February 2011
And then I have two glasses of wine to celebrate the nice run and ten pushups and I feel like this:
Yes, that really is me. Minnesota June 2011
Am I right, ladies? I can't be the only one who feels this way? *crickets...
I am in love with this city. In LOVE. Here's a couple reasons:
Paul Rudd works at Starbucks. Or his taller, more attractive doppelgänger
I get to say, "yes ma'am", and "yes sir" whenever somebody finishes a sentence.
I get to call ladies by "miss-and-then-their-name", like "Miss Annie" or "Miss Ruthie".
I have a free apartment in an amazing neighborhood with a free car parked outside and free food in the fridge.
A man on a bicycle will deliver mac & cheese, shrimp po'boys and crab cakes right to your door.
You can buy alcoholic beverages in drive-up windows.
I have a grill on my balcony. You know, the New Orleans balcony, with the lonely jazz music playing in the soft distance?
The man on the bicycle will deliver beer too, if you ask him to.
The architecture is amazing.
Impromptu parades.
Muffalettas:
Oh. My. God.
THAT SAID...
Summer and I saw three rats yesterday (way too close to our apartment), and I've been yelled at by no less than six homeless people.
We see a lot of Katrina devastation. Tons of stoops in the lower 9th ward, with no house on top:
Most houses still have the markings from spray-paint identification. To read a great article about these markings, and see more photos, click here.
These ones always get to Summer:
And of course there are still abandoned homes everywhere with vegetation growing throughout:
Just being here has been an emotional experience. I have gotten used to hearing a lot of tragic stories out in the field every day at work, since everyone has a Katrina story, and they share them with you. Some stories are both horrifying and inspirational. But nothing prepared me for what I heard today.
Miss Annie and I were stopping at our last device-repair with a man in the lower 9th who told us that his son was murdered two years ago. He pointed behind us to two bullet holes in the wall and explained that his son fell right where we were standing. Somebody just came to the door and shot him. "Youngsters these days, they'll kill you for nothin'. Nothin'". I didn't know what to say. And it gets worse. Just one year after the murder, this man's wife died in the hospital and five months after that, his other son was mugged while driving a delivery truck and shot, for his empty wallet and gold necklace.
"We got a beautiful weekend...why are we wastin' it in here?"
"Now listen, you been tellin' me to shut up all night. It's my turn to tell YOU to SHUT UP."
...A couple weeks ago I was bartending and a large group came in just as I was about to call it a night and lock the doors. Dang. Anyway there were a couple different groups, actually, and Group A was celebrating the birthday of one of its members. Groups B, C, and D thought that was pretty awesome and there were rounds purchased and congratulations offered. And then somebody thought it would be a great idea to bust out the Happy Birthday song. When this very loud group got to the <insert name here> part, you know..."Happy Birthdaaay, deaaar ........" they just kinda did the hmmm hmmm because of course, nobody knew the guy's name. I saw it coming...I couldn't help myself...I screamed out "WHATS-YOUR-NAME" during the awkward silent pause.
I've always wondered why public bathroom doors don't just always swing out. But they don't. No matter, at least in some restaurants in Minneapolis. I'm pretty sure this is the best. invention. ever.
Every once in a while, I have a moment, where...I'm laying on a rock, in the most beautiful place in all the world, and I think, 'all my friends back home are working today. And I'm in Brazil. Fishing in the ocean with an Argentinian. Speaking Spanish.'
Unfortunately they made friends right under my kitchen table, and so I had to brutally murder one and set the other one free. A terrible decision, 'which one lives and which one dies'...I didn't have time! Did I make the right decision? Was making my decision based on not wanting to feel the centipede squish in my hand the right basis?
This may haunt me until the day I die.
I may move to New York City and meet a handsome man and pretend it never happened, but he'll sense something is wrong...and finally, one alcohol-ridden night, I'll tell him.
Are you getting these Sophie's Choice references, or are they wasted on you, you idiot? Maybe they're wasted on you because I don't remember much about that movie...just the moving to New York City and the pretending it never happened. I really can't remember how she told him, and if there was alcohol involved. Who's the idiot now?
If there's one word to describe this silly little blog, it would be "eductional". Because my main goal in logging on and posting nearly every day is to open the eyes of the reader to the intellectually stimulating things one finds across the globe. Actually, we're going to take a quick break from poop and tampons today to share a very interesting podcast from This American Life about how money is really just fiction. But specifically I wanted to share the section about the state of money in Brazil just a few decades ago. They were experiencing 80% inflation every MONTH! For 50 years! Super interesting show. If you can't commit to the full hour, just listen to the Brazil bit in Act One. Do it!
p.s. I don't know what I would do without This American Life. It's gotten me through many a lonely night and scary bus ride.
