After three months offshore, Kris FINALLY came home for a short vacation. At first I was thrilled to see him, but a week later my attitude started to change: I was getting progressively more annoyed with him. My problem? Kris is in party mode and I am a full-time graduate student. Each day I came home to find a bigger mess and a drunker husband.
Kris could see that I was irritated. After a long conversation on our patio, we finally came to the root of my anger: I not only want Kris to be home, I also want him and me to have a "normal" life together. So, instead of being happy for him that he finally has a few weeks to lay back and enjoy life at home, I was sad that we don't have a repetitive and predictable home life. It's ironic that the very things one finds attractive in a mate eventually become the source of argument in a marriage.
It didn't take me long to realise that this is just a phase in our life (I'm quick like that) and that, one day, Kris and I will settle into the monotony of "regular" life because he won't be a diver forever. I'm sure that, when that day comes, I will look back on these challenging years and think one simple thought: I can't believe I ever complained about a time when Kris was NOT at home. The grass is always greener on the other side, eh?
Monday
Two Spring Pins Shy of a Dive Hat...
You know, Kris and I had three blissful years of seeing each other every day before he decided we had to move to Louisiana so that he could try his hand at this diving career (I will cash in on THAT favor when the time is right). I am an independent woman, so it’s not like I can’t handle the time alone in principle. The problem is, like most women, I worry.
I don’t mean about Kris specifically – that much is implied – I mean I worry about everything: I worry about my figure; I worry about the quality of the water that comes out of my tap; I worry that the dog’s heartbeat might be a little off this week; I worry that a tornado will hit my house; I worry that, although Kris has been offshore for nearly three months, I could unknowingly be pregnant and now the baby will be deformed since I have been out drinking every weekend and a doctor will tell me that I am a bad person. I can’t help it: if you have a uterus, you have a license to worry about anything and everything at any given moment. And Kris is my voice of reason; the person who smiles while I show him a new beauty mark (alright, they’re moles) and ask him if he thinks I might have cancer.
The reason I mentioned the three years Kris and I actually spent together is to point out that they were nothing but a big tease. They were like a drug: the dealer gives you the first one for free and then he jacks up the price. Now I’m addicted to Kris’ ability to keep me grounded and he’s never around. Creative people should not be left alone with their imaginations.
I only have a weak solution: When I have one of my moments of female insanity, I try to hear Kris’ voice in my head telling me that I am overreacting. Sometimes that is enough. Sometimes I find another mole…
I don’t mean about Kris specifically – that much is implied – I mean I worry about everything: I worry about my figure; I worry about the quality of the water that comes out of my tap; I worry that the dog’s heartbeat might be a little off this week; I worry that a tornado will hit my house; I worry that, although Kris has been offshore for nearly three months, I could unknowingly be pregnant and now the baby will be deformed since I have been out drinking every weekend and a doctor will tell me that I am a bad person. I can’t help it: if you have a uterus, you have a license to worry about anything and everything at any given moment. And Kris is my voice of reason; the person who smiles while I show him a new beauty mark (alright, they’re moles) and ask him if he thinks I might have cancer.
The reason I mentioned the three years Kris and I actually spent together is to point out that they were nothing but a big tease. They were like a drug: the dealer gives you the first one for free and then he jacks up the price. Now I’m addicted to Kris’ ability to keep me grounded and he’s never around. Creative people should not be left alone with their imaginations.
I only have a weak solution: When I have one of my moments of female insanity, I try to hear Kris’ voice in my head telling me that I am overreacting. Sometimes that is enough. Sometimes I find another mole…
Friday
Ask me no secrets, I’ll tell you no lies…
Every once in a while, Kris and I will be talking with friends and Kris will tell a story about work that I have never heard before. At that moment, I feel like I have caught him in a lie. I mean, it’s not a lie, but it’s an omission of the truth, right? I feel annoyed that our friends are hearing something that I was not told first (yes, I am that much of a brat). Today I found out why Kris leaves out certain details of his job when he calls:
We were enjoying a flirty text conversation on our cells (Kris has been gone for two months, I'll take what I can get), when Kris told me that he hadn’t slept in 20 hours because they had a diver emergency. Since I asked, he let me know that a diver had a seizure in the water and they had to jump the standby diver to go get him out. Kris had to replace the original diver in order to finish the job. It wasn’t until we said our goodbyes that I started to mull over the scenario. Now I am sad because I remember how easy it is for Kris to get hurt at work. Plus, he won’t be home for 18 days, so I have over two weeks left to worry about him.
The lesson I learned is to trust Kris’ instinct not to tell me horror stories about his job because he knows how easily my imagination goes wild. I told him that he is not permitted to have any seizures. He has accepted my demand.
We were enjoying a flirty text conversation on our cells (Kris has been gone for two months, I'll take what I can get), when Kris told me that he hadn’t slept in 20 hours because they had a diver emergency. Since I asked, he let me know that a diver had a seizure in the water and they had to jump the standby diver to go get him out. Kris had to replace the original diver in order to finish the job. It wasn’t until we said our goodbyes that I started to mull over the scenario. Now I am sad because I remember how easy it is for Kris to get hurt at work. Plus, he won’t be home for 18 days, so I have over two weeks left to worry about him.
The lesson I learned is to trust Kris’ instinct not to tell me horror stories about his job because he knows how easily my imagination goes wild. I told him that he is not permitted to have any seizures. He has accepted my demand.
Thursday
I don't think you're ready for this jelly...
I read a story today that made me cry laughing (I mean really hard). It seems this diver for Global (in Louisiana) wrote an email to his sister about a particular experience he had while diving. It sounded just like something that Kris would tell me (about someone else). In fact, when I read it to him he said, "you wouldn't believe how often that happens". I realise that this email has been circulating on several sites, but mine is likely one of the few that would consider this on topic, so here it is again (or for the first time for some):
Just another note from your bottom-dwelling brother. Last week I had a bad day at the office. I know you've been feeling down lately at work, so I thought I would share my dilemma with you to make you realize it's not so bad after all. Before I can tell you what happened to me, I first must bore you with a few technicalities of my job. As you know, my office lies at the bottom of the sea. I wear a suit to the office. It is a wet suit and this time of year the water is quite cool! So to keep warm we have a diesel powered industrial water heater. This $20,000 piece of equipment sucks the water out of the sea and heats it to a delightful temperature. It then pumps it down to the diver through a garden hose, which is taped to the air hose. Now this sounds like a darn good plan, and I've used it several times with no complaints. What I do when I get to the bottom and start working is take the hose and stuff it down the back of the wet suit. This floods my whole suit with warm water. It's like working in a Jacuzzi. Everything was going well until all of a sudden, my butt started to itch. Of course, I scratched it. This only made things worse. Within a few seconds my butt started to burn.. I pulled the hose out from my back, but the damage was done. In agony I realized what had happened. The hot water machine had sucked up a jelly fish and pumped it into my suit. Now, since I don't have any hair on my back, the jellyfish couldn't stick to it. However, the crack of my butt was not as fortunate. When I scratched what I thought was an itch, I was actually grinding the jellyfish into the crack of my butt. I informed the dive supervisor of my dilemma over the communicator. His instructions were unclear due to the fact the he, along with five other divers, were all laughing hysterically. Needless to say, I aborted the dive. I was instructed to make three agonizing in-water decompression stops totaling thirty-five minutes before I could reach the surface to begin my chamber dry. When I arrived at the surface I was wearing nothing but my brass helmet. As I climbed out of the water, the medic, with tears of laughter running down his face, handed me a tube of cream and told me to rub it on my butt as soon as I got in the chamber. The cream put the fire out, but I couldn't poop for two days because my butt was swollen shut. So next time you're having a bad day at work, think about how much worse it would be if you had a jellyfish shoved up your butt.
Oh man, it never gets old. I am still laughing. God bless those guys for all they put up with. A tip for any diver: if you didn't dive naked (and I know MANY of you do) you could put the hose between your coveralls and your clothes. Consider it.
Just another note from your bottom-dwelling brother. Last week I had a bad day at the office. I know you've been feeling down lately at work, so I thought I would share my dilemma with you to make you realize it's not so bad after all. Before I can tell you what happened to me, I first must bore you with a few technicalities of my job. As you know, my office lies at the bottom of the sea. I wear a suit to the office. It is a wet suit and this time of year the water is quite cool! So to keep warm we have a diesel powered industrial water heater. This $20,000 piece of equipment sucks the water out of the sea and heats it to a delightful temperature. It then pumps it down to the diver through a garden hose, which is taped to the air hose. Now this sounds like a darn good plan, and I've used it several times with no complaints. What I do when I get to the bottom and start working is take the hose and stuff it down the back of the wet suit. This floods my whole suit with warm water. It's like working in a Jacuzzi. Everything was going well until all of a sudden, my butt started to itch. Of course, I scratched it. This only made things worse. Within a few seconds my butt started to burn.. I pulled the hose out from my back, but the damage was done. In agony I realized what had happened. The hot water machine had sucked up a jelly fish and pumped it into my suit. Now, since I don't have any hair on my back, the jellyfish couldn't stick to it. However, the crack of my butt was not as fortunate. When I scratched what I thought was an itch, I was actually grinding the jellyfish into the crack of my butt. I informed the dive supervisor of my dilemma over the communicator. His instructions were unclear due to the fact the he, along with five other divers, were all laughing hysterically. Needless to say, I aborted the dive. I was instructed to make three agonizing in-water decompression stops totaling thirty-five minutes before I could reach the surface to begin my chamber dry. When I arrived at the surface I was wearing nothing but my brass helmet. As I climbed out of the water, the medic, with tears of laughter running down his face, handed me a tube of cream and told me to rub it on my butt as soon as I got in the chamber. The cream put the fire out, but I couldn't poop for two days because my butt was swollen shut. So next time you're having a bad day at work, think about how much worse it would be if you had a jellyfish shoved up your butt.
Oh man, it never gets old. I am still laughing. God bless those guys for all they put up with. A tip for any diver: if you didn't dive naked (and I know MANY of you do) you could put the hose between your coveralls and your clothes. Consider it.
Wednesday
Back to life, back to reality...
It's amazing how quickly life returns to its homeostatic state. I felt like I would never again think about anything other than the hurricane, or hurricane-related subjects. It has been just under two months and I am finally thinking about regular life again. I love this feeling. For anyone bummed out because life is boring, don't be. Boring is so very nice. Boring does not cause ulcers, headaches, nausea, and high blood pressure. I love boring.
Kris is back offshore for a couple of weeks. I am proud to report that he was promoted from Dive-Tender to Diver III. He can finally and officially call himself a real diver. Of course, in keeping with the tradition of moving from big fish of small ponds to guppy of the ocean, Kris was promptly sent to do some mudhole diving. That means that he is spending the next two weeks in a fabulous eight feet of gunk. Still, the prestige, and the pay raise, are in effect and he has no complaints.
We are very happy in our new home, in our new town, with a renewed sense of safety and calm. Of course, now that I have woken out of my daze, I realize how far behind I am at school. Nomatter: I will do my best to complete my assignments and be thankful for any passing grade I receive. Master's degree, here I come...
Kris is back offshore for a couple of weeks. I am proud to report that he was promoted from Dive-Tender to Diver III. He can finally and officially call himself a real diver. Of course, in keeping with the tradition of moving from big fish of small ponds to guppy of the ocean, Kris was promptly sent to do some mudhole diving. That means that he is spending the next two weeks in a fabulous eight feet of gunk. Still, the prestige, and the pay raise, are in effect and he has no complaints.
We are very happy in our new home, in our new town, with a renewed sense of safety and calm. Of course, now that I have woken out of my daze, I realize how far behind I am at school. Nomatter: I will do my best to complete my assignments and be thankful for any passing grade I receive. Master's degree, here I come...
Friday
Steven
Something else happened the weekend I drove into New Orleans, but I was not prepared to write about until now:
I decided to go back to Lucy's, the bar and restaurant where I worked for a year and a half before evacuating. Truthfully, I was going to see if someone could direct me to my final and outstanding paycheque. Once again, I found myself stepping into the past. This time, however, things were not how I had left them. The restaurant was bare and only contained a handful of customers which, for twelve noon was abnormal. I didn't recognize the three new staff members or the new manager, but when I looked in the kitchen window, I saw a familiar face.
Steven was a bus boy at Lucy's for almost the entire time that I worked there. We were on the company kick ball team together. We even had the chance to play some poker both at work and at my house. Steven left Lucy's to pursue a carpentry career a few months earlier. He's a great guy and I always looked forward to his occasional visits. I was surprised to see him in the kitchen.
I swung open the door and realized that Steven was alone in the kitchen. It turned out that he was the only kitchen employee left. He was acting as a manager, cook and dishwasher all in one. We had a great time catching up. It was nice to see someone I knew. Just the same, I felt like something wasn't right. I asked him how his house faired during the storm. He gave me a little smile and said, "So you didn't hear what happend to me".
It turned out that Steven and his girlfriend Courtney decided to ride out the storm in her house just east of New Orleans. When the waters began to rise, the two of them had to climb out onto her roof like so many others I saw on tv. They spent 8 hours on the roof before they were rescued and taken to a church nearby. The next day they were dropped off literally in the middle of an intersection with 200 other people where they had to spend the night. They were relieved to be picked up the next day and taken to shelter. Unfortunately, the "shelter" was the Convention Center. These sweet kids in their early twenties spent three days watching people starve, dehydrate, loot and fight without any way to contact friends or family. A week and a half after the storm, they were taken to the Astrodome, where Courtney's sister, who lives in Austin, came to pick them up.
Steven had been working at Lucy's from open to close for weeks without a day off because his school was closed and he wanted to keep busy.
I mention this story for three reasons:
1. It still amazes me that I knew anyone who was directly involved in that whole mess at the Convention Center while I sat in comfort in Baton Rouge and watched the horror on CNN.
2. I will now debate anyone who claims that "those people" who did not evacuate did so because of a lack of education; Steven is an intelligent guy who simply lived in New Orleans for over 20 years and didn't believe that he was in any real danger.
3. I have no intention of joining the military, nor have I ever lived in a dangerous country, so this was the only situation I have come across in my life where I saw the innocence drain out of a boy's eyes and I felt it deserved attention. I was no longer looking at a child - he had seen things I cannot imagine. I am sorry that he had that experience and I am especially sorry that there is no way to reverse the effects.
I decided to go back to Lucy's, the bar and restaurant where I worked for a year and a half before evacuating. Truthfully, I was going to see if someone could direct me to my final and outstanding paycheque. Once again, I found myself stepping into the past. This time, however, things were not how I had left them. The restaurant was bare and only contained a handful of customers which, for twelve noon was abnormal. I didn't recognize the three new staff members or the new manager, but when I looked in the kitchen window, I saw a familiar face.
Steven was a bus boy at Lucy's for almost the entire time that I worked there. We were on the company kick ball team together. We even had the chance to play some poker both at work and at my house. Steven left Lucy's to pursue a carpentry career a few months earlier. He's a great guy and I always looked forward to his occasional visits. I was surprised to see him in the kitchen.
I swung open the door and realized that Steven was alone in the kitchen. It turned out that he was the only kitchen employee left. He was acting as a manager, cook and dishwasher all in one. We had a great time catching up. It was nice to see someone I knew. Just the same, I felt like something wasn't right. I asked him how his house faired during the storm. He gave me a little smile and said, "So you didn't hear what happend to me".
It turned out that Steven and his girlfriend Courtney decided to ride out the storm in her house just east of New Orleans. When the waters began to rise, the two of them had to climb out onto her roof like so many others I saw on tv. They spent 8 hours on the roof before they were rescued and taken to a church nearby. The next day they were dropped off literally in the middle of an intersection with 200 other people where they had to spend the night. They were relieved to be picked up the next day and taken to shelter. Unfortunately, the "shelter" was the Convention Center. These sweet kids in their early twenties spent three days watching people starve, dehydrate, loot and fight without any way to contact friends or family. A week and a half after the storm, they were taken to the Astrodome, where Courtney's sister, who lives in Austin, came to pick them up.
Steven had been working at Lucy's from open to close for weeks without a day off because his school was closed and he wanted to keep busy.
I mention this story for three reasons:
1. It still amazes me that I knew anyone who was directly involved in that whole mess at the Convention Center while I sat in comfort in Baton Rouge and watched the horror on CNN.
2. I will now debate anyone who claims that "those people" who did not evacuate did so because of a lack of education; Steven is an intelligent guy who simply lived in New Orleans for over 20 years and didn't believe that he was in any real danger.
3. I have no intention of joining the military, nor have I ever lived in a dangerous country, so this was the only situation I have come across in my life where I saw the innocence drain out of a boy's eyes and I felt it deserved attention. I was no longer looking at a child - he had seen things I cannot imagine. I am sorry that he had that experience and I am especially sorry that there is no way to reverse the effects.
Everyone's a critic...
So, it appears that I am not updating fast enough for some of you (Dr. Myers). SOME of us still have school to worry about (we don't all have PhDs, you know).
In an effort to keep my promise:
Last weekend, I opened the door to the past. I drove back to New Orleans for the first time since I evacuated. The city was clearly much cleaner than it was weeks ago, so I didn't think it looked that bad. Of course, the skyline still included a brown Superdome top. It's funny how that little detail is so disturbing. I didn't drive by the Hyatt, but I did notice boarded up windows on other tall buildings, including the trade center.
The one common image in all neighbourhoods was streets lined with refrigerators. Nomatter where we drove, New Orleans was infested with rotting food coffins wrapped in duct tape. My initial thought was judgemental: Why can't these lazy people just brave the smell and clean their fridge? I got my answer when I came home.
We pulled up to our house on Henry Clay and immediately noticed the giant tree lying roots-up in my front yard. Incredibly, it fell away from the house and did not pull up the foundation with its roots. The upstairs neighbours (accept my Canadian spelling, or move on) had lost a number of windows in their front room, but we had just installed storm windows, so our front room was fine.
I opened the door to the house. Immediately, the last month and a half came rushing towards me. It felt like returning to a childhood home after a long stay away at college. A lifetime ago, I lived in New Orleans. Now, my friends had moved, my school was closed and my job was gone. The shell of the city remained, but the soul, at least as it affected my life, had washed away.
We spent the weekend cleaning and packing. Kris and I had decided that we were moving away from New Orleans. It would be a long time before that city would function properly and we did not have the strength for another evacuation. We avoided the kitchen on Friday and Saturday, but on Sunday we decided to attack. We took the fridge out to the back porch, so that we could hose it out. Even the outside of the fridge had tiny bugs on it, but it was nothing compared to the inside. We positioned a garbage can in front of the fridge so that we could immediately dump everything in it. We looked like terrorists from a cheesy movie with sunglasses, shirts tied around our faces, and yellow rubber gloves. We took a deep breath and opened the door. We closed it just as quickly when we saw and smelled the horror inside: a month and a half of summer heat and no electricity had produced black, rotted food, a stench that immediately caused gagging, and thousands of maggots. We took a second to regain composure and tried again. Screaming the whole time, Kris and I managed to completely empty the fridge and the freezer. Kris hosed it down and we decided to let it dry outside before hitting it with the bleach. A few hours later, Kris tried his best to clean this fridge out (all of this at the request of our landlord, mind you), but the maggots had worked their way into so many unreachable crevices that the effort was clearly futile. I did learn one important lesson: If you are evacuating, throw ALL food away immediately. A new fridge costs much more than some wasted food (in case you are a poor math student).
The rest of the house was easy to clean. Kris and I are packed and ready to move. We are in the process of buying a house in Geismar. Hopefully we will close before the end of the month. Otherwise, we will have to pay for another month's rent on Henry Clay. Even if the house deal falls through, we have decided to move. We will just have to find the one rental near Baton Rouge that is still available. Sorry NOLA, we love you and will visit often, but our time here has passed. If you don't move forward, you move backward and living in New Orleans is a step back for us at this point. Who knows, maybe a few years from now we will find that the siren song of Bourbon Street is too sweet to resist. For now, however, we are going suburban.
In an effort to keep my promise:
Last weekend, I opened the door to the past. I drove back to New Orleans for the first time since I evacuated. The city was clearly much cleaner than it was weeks ago, so I didn't think it looked that bad. Of course, the skyline still included a brown Superdome top. It's funny how that little detail is so disturbing. I didn't drive by the Hyatt, but I did notice boarded up windows on other tall buildings, including the trade center.
The one common image in all neighbourhoods was streets lined with refrigerators. Nomatter where we drove, New Orleans was infested with rotting food coffins wrapped in duct tape. My initial thought was judgemental: Why can't these lazy people just brave the smell and clean their fridge? I got my answer when I came home.
We pulled up to our house on Henry Clay and immediately noticed the giant tree lying roots-up in my front yard. Incredibly, it fell away from the house and did not pull up the foundation with its roots. The upstairs neighbours (accept my Canadian spelling, or move on) had lost a number of windows in their front room, but we had just installed storm windows, so our front room was fine.
I opened the door to the house. Immediately, the last month and a half came rushing towards me. It felt like returning to a childhood home after a long stay away at college. A lifetime ago, I lived in New Orleans. Now, my friends had moved, my school was closed and my job was gone. The shell of the city remained, but the soul, at least as it affected my life, had washed away.
We spent the weekend cleaning and packing. Kris and I had decided that we were moving away from New Orleans. It would be a long time before that city would function properly and we did not have the strength for another evacuation. We avoided the kitchen on Friday and Saturday, but on Sunday we decided to attack. We took the fridge out to the back porch, so that we could hose it out. Even the outside of the fridge had tiny bugs on it, but it was nothing compared to the inside. We positioned a garbage can in front of the fridge so that we could immediately dump everything in it. We looked like terrorists from a cheesy movie with sunglasses, shirts tied around our faces, and yellow rubber gloves. We took a deep breath and opened the door. We closed it just as quickly when we saw and smelled the horror inside: a month and a half of summer heat and no electricity had produced black, rotted food, a stench that immediately caused gagging, and thousands of maggots. We took a second to regain composure and tried again. Screaming the whole time, Kris and I managed to completely empty the fridge and the freezer. Kris hosed it down and we decided to let it dry outside before hitting it with the bleach. A few hours later, Kris tried his best to clean this fridge out (all of this at the request of our landlord, mind you), but the maggots had worked their way into so many unreachable crevices that the effort was clearly futile. I did learn one important lesson: If you are evacuating, throw ALL food away immediately. A new fridge costs much more than some wasted food (in case you are a poor math student).
The rest of the house was easy to clean. Kris and I are packed and ready to move. We are in the process of buying a house in Geismar. Hopefully we will close before the end of the month. Otherwise, we will have to pay for another month's rent on Henry Clay. Even if the house deal falls through, we have decided to move. We will just have to find the one rental near Baton Rouge that is still available. Sorry NOLA, we love you and will visit often, but our time here has passed. If you don't move forward, you move backward and living in New Orleans is a step back for us at this point. Who knows, maybe a few years from now we will find that the siren song of Bourbon Street is too sweet to resist. For now, however, we are going suburban.
Monday
So, we left New Orleans...
Here is my journal entry from 8/29/2005:
When I bought this writing book at the Borders on the corner of Veterans and Causeway, I intended to use it to log my experiences working at Lucy's restaurant on Tchoupitoulas. Now both of these places my not exist.
We're sitting in our "refugee shelter" in Baton Rouge: a fully-furnished, two-bedroom apartment on the fifth floor of a building overlooking the governor's mansion. We have been here since 3:00 am on Sunday. We can probably boast the least interesting evacuation story in New Orleans: We decided to evacuate on Saturday night. We took all of Saturday morning and afternoon to pack every possible thing that we could into our truck and our car. Victoria, our neighbour, grew up in New Orleans and was convinced that this storm was "the big one". It was only on her advice that we took everything. It kills me to think of how many people did not have or did not heed the same advice from their friends. Victoria's boyfriend, Mike, works in the film industry as a location scout and was being housed in Baton Rouge by Warner Bros. until the first of November. He invited us to stay with him. Mike and Victoria said that we could ride out the storm in Baton Rouge and, if we could not return, we would at least have a place to stay until November. If it weren't for them, I have no idea where I would be right now.
On Sunday we drove to Sam's Club and fought the crowds for non-perishable food and for water. Even if Baton Rouge was not expecting more than a hurricane 2, there was still a good chance that we would lose power. We wanted to be prepared. We took everything that we packed into our vehicles and brought it upstairs into our "new house". It was the most depressing chore , because it meant that we were preparing to live here for more than a couple of days.
On Monday the storm took a sharp turn to the east, which meant that we in Baton Rouge were not going to feel it's effects too severely. We lost exactly five seconds of electricity. New Orleans was not as fortunate. We will not be going home soon.
We have been watching the storm updates all day on CNN and on the local news channels. Unfortunately, there is still no indication of the status of Uptown NOLA. We have no idea if our house is still standing...
When I bought this writing book at the Borders on the corner of Veterans and Causeway, I intended to use it to log my experiences working at Lucy's restaurant on Tchoupitoulas. Now both of these places my not exist.
We're sitting in our "refugee shelter" in Baton Rouge: a fully-furnished, two-bedroom apartment on the fifth floor of a building overlooking the governor's mansion. We have been here since 3:00 am on Sunday. We can probably boast the least interesting evacuation story in New Orleans: We decided to evacuate on Saturday night. We took all of Saturday morning and afternoon to pack every possible thing that we could into our truck and our car. Victoria, our neighbour, grew up in New Orleans and was convinced that this storm was "the big one". It was only on her advice that we took everything. It kills me to think of how many people did not have or did not heed the same advice from their friends. Victoria's boyfriend, Mike, works in the film industry as a location scout and was being housed in Baton Rouge by Warner Bros. until the first of November. He invited us to stay with him. Mike and Victoria said that we could ride out the storm in Baton Rouge and, if we could not return, we would at least have a place to stay until November. If it weren't for them, I have no idea where I would be right now.
On Sunday we drove to Sam's Club and fought the crowds for non-perishable food and for water. Even if Baton Rouge was not expecting more than a hurricane 2, there was still a good chance that we would lose power. We wanted to be prepared. We took everything that we packed into our vehicles and brought it upstairs into our "new house". It was the most depressing chore , because it meant that we were preparing to live here for more than a couple of days.
On Monday the storm took a sharp turn to the east, which meant that we in Baton Rouge were not going to feel it's effects too severely. We lost exactly five seconds of electricity. New Orleans was not as fortunate. We will not be going home soon.
We have been watching the storm updates all day on CNN and on the local news channels. Unfortunately, there is still no indication of the status of Uptown NOLA. We have no idea if our house is still standing...
Friday
I promise to update this blog
I promise I will update this blog very very soon. I am trying hard to keep my head above water (and not the the poo water in New Orleans) with school. We "displaced students" at LSU are a good two weeks behind in every class. Once I am caught up I will have the pleasure of ten seconds to play on the Internet. I miss writing for fun...
Sunday
something new
I have decided to temporarily change the subject of this blog to our hurricane evacuation. I argue that it is somewhat related to being married to a diver since Kris' job is the only reason we moved to New Orleans.
Wednesday
I just can't talk to that man...
Kris does not work for a specific oil company; He works for a company that contracts out their divers. So, unlike people who work on one set of rigs (one week on, one week off, or the like), Kris is always on call. This limits our ability to plan any holiday, birthday, anniversary or vacation. In only one year, I have learned to accept this fact (and I believe that I am entitled to a large reward), but what really drives me nuts is that we have little to no contact when he is out on a job. There is rarely an Internet connection and the satellite phones provided cost upwards of $1.00 per minute. Of course, his cell phone does not have reception in the middle of the ocean (I guess the “can you hear me now” guy didn’t make it into the Gulf of Mexico). Sometimes I don’t talk to Kris for weeks at a time. What is worse is that he cannot always tell me if a job has been delayed. I may think that he will be home in 3 days, when it will really take him 5. In those two days I can conjure up some pretty crazy ideas of why he hasn’t come home. Most of them involve a hospital bed and the phrase "clinging to dear life". I was cursed with an overactive imagination.
So, my new "thing" is staring at passing traffic, sending psychic messages to the universe (how easily the “ic” becomes an “o”) and hoping to see Kris’ big, red truck. His truck has a V8 engine (I say engine in case you were thinking vegetable juice), so his arrival is always preceded by a loud rumble. Even the dog recognizes the sound of this truck (I like to think that he is exceptionally smart anyway).
So, last night went something like this: There's a truck coming…it’s not red…well maybe it just looks black from a distance…nope not him. Wait, I see something red…could it be…no it’s not a truck. I hear a rumbling sounds…no, it was just another car…why is their car so loud? They should get that checked out. And so on…but, no Kris.
Then the pointless bargaining began: If I do the laundry like I should, instead of just sitting here, then he’ll come home. It’s insane, but productive. I have very clean dishes, too.
I guess until someone invents a phone that runs on anxiety instead of cellular towers, I will be spending my days sitting on the porch of our very tidy house with clean dishes and fresh laundry, staring longingly at passing red trucks...and occasionally black trucks and inexplicably loud cars.
So, my new "thing" is staring at passing traffic, sending psychic messages to the universe (how easily the “ic” becomes an “o”) and hoping to see Kris’ big, red truck. His truck has a V8 engine (I say engine in case you were thinking vegetable juice), so his arrival is always preceded by a loud rumble. Even the dog recognizes the sound of this truck (I like to think that he is exceptionally smart anyway).
So, last night went something like this: There's a truck coming…it’s not red…well maybe it just looks black from a distance…nope not him. Wait, I see something red…could it be…no it’s not a truck. I hear a rumbling sounds…no, it was just another car…why is their car so loud? They should get that checked out. And so on…but, no Kris.
Then the pointless bargaining began: If I do the laundry like I should, instead of just sitting here, then he’ll come home. It’s insane, but productive. I have very clean dishes, too.
I guess until someone invents a phone that runs on anxiety instead of cellular towers, I will be spending my days sitting on the porch of our very tidy house with clean dishes and fresh laundry, staring longingly at passing red trucks...and occasionally black trucks and inexplicably loud cars.
Tuesday
Jodi
The most common question that I am asked when people find out what Kris does is, “Aren’t you lonely?”. What people don’t seem to realize is that there is a difference between being lonely and being alone. The truth is that I enjoy this time to myself; it gives me the opportunity to explore my interests and to be independent. I went straight from living with my mum to living with my husband, so I missed out on all of that "Bridget Jones" singledom. It's nice to have the chance to explore my selfish, girly side while Kris is away (not that he objects to watching me drink wine by candlelight in the bathtub).
Besides, I don’t understand why everyone pities me – Kris is the one off in the middle of nowhere on some barge without television or Internet or women for miles and miles. I, on the other hand, get to spend our time apart in the comfort of our house, with our friends and with easy (and frequent) access to the charge card. Personally, I think that Kris is the worse off of the two of us, so aim your pity in his direction.
In fact, a recent experience made me realize just how scary this lifestyle of frequent travel can be for divers: Kris and I decided to move our money to a new bank and, since he was going offshore that night, I was in charge of making any necessary changes. Before he left, I had him sign and void a check for me to give to his company's accountant to update the direct deposit of his paycheck. When I called the next morning, I was informed that, despite my legal rights as his wife, and the fact that we share a joint account, it was company policy that only the employee could make changes to the direct deposit. Why, you may ask, must his company be so difficult? Perhaps its time I introduced you to Jodi.
Jodi is the name of the man that every diver fears. What, is so scary about Jodi? It's simple, really: Jodi is the man who is sleeping with your wife while you are away at work. Nothing pleases a seasoned diver more than to regale the newlywed, young, wide-eyed tender with tales of the dreaded Jodi. In fact, Jodi is so scary, that some tenders have quit their jobs for fear of their young brides finding comfort in his arms.
The name Jodi gained popularity during the Viet Nam war. Originally, Jodi was the military nickname given to draft dodgers. The idea was to train young draftees to despise Jodi for staying behind while they honorably served their country. Of course, as a young, naiive soldier, you were told that Jodi was a filthy being who, not only sherked his duties as an American, but who also took the opportunity, while you were away, to move in on your unsuspecting wife. So, first you learned to hate Jodi; then you learned to associate Jodi with the enemy, and next you learned to hate the enemy. Isn't brainwashing fun? Still today, the fear of Jodi lurks in the hearts of all married men who work away from home (and some who only work down the street).
The reason I bring up Jodi is to illustrate the point that some divers cannot trust their wives. This sad but true fact is so common that it explains why Kris’ company will not allow me to make changes to his banking information. I assure you that I am not just jumping to conclusions; the accountant told me that this was the reason for the policy.
When Kris first got his job, he told me that a tender at his company had recently quit. Apparently, he was married to a professional cheerleader who seemed to think that her husband would be diving for oil out of their backyard. Or, at least, that is my assumption since this young man was sent offshore on his first job and, two days in, received a frantic phone call from his wife threatening to divorce him if he did not come home immediately. Some women just can’t handle the pressure. The saddest stories that I hear are of women who take their husbands' earnings and leave town without notice. These women are famous in commercial diving legend and are the inspiration for strict company policy when it comes to paychecks.
Somewhere between Jodi and these glorified-prostitute wives, divers must be very cautious about who they trust. The companies that they work for are forced to implement some extreme policies to protect their workers. Whether you dive or not, I guess it is a pretty sick world out there. Everyone handles the stress differently. Take me, for example: I may not be a cheater or a thief, but my shoe collection is quietly growing…
Besides, I don’t understand why everyone pities me – Kris is the one off in the middle of nowhere on some barge without television or Internet or women for miles and miles. I, on the other hand, get to spend our time apart in the comfort of our house, with our friends and with easy (and frequent) access to the charge card. Personally, I think that Kris is the worse off of the two of us, so aim your pity in his direction.
In fact, a recent experience made me realize just how scary this lifestyle of frequent travel can be for divers: Kris and I decided to move our money to a new bank and, since he was going offshore that night, I was in charge of making any necessary changes. Before he left, I had him sign and void a check for me to give to his company's accountant to update the direct deposit of his paycheck. When I called the next morning, I was informed that, despite my legal rights as his wife, and the fact that we share a joint account, it was company policy that only the employee could make changes to the direct deposit. Why, you may ask, must his company be so difficult? Perhaps its time I introduced you to Jodi.
Jodi is the name of the man that every diver fears. What, is so scary about Jodi? It's simple, really: Jodi is the man who is sleeping with your wife while you are away at work. Nothing pleases a seasoned diver more than to regale the newlywed, young, wide-eyed tender with tales of the dreaded Jodi. In fact, Jodi is so scary, that some tenders have quit their jobs for fear of their young brides finding comfort in his arms.
The name Jodi gained popularity during the Viet Nam war. Originally, Jodi was the military nickname given to draft dodgers. The idea was to train young draftees to despise Jodi for staying behind while they honorably served their country. Of course, as a young, naiive soldier, you were told that Jodi was a filthy being who, not only sherked his duties as an American, but who also took the opportunity, while you were away, to move in on your unsuspecting wife. So, first you learned to hate Jodi; then you learned to associate Jodi with the enemy, and next you learned to hate the enemy. Isn't brainwashing fun? Still today, the fear of Jodi lurks in the hearts of all married men who work away from home (and some who only work down the street).
The reason I bring up Jodi is to illustrate the point that some divers cannot trust their wives. This sad but true fact is so common that it explains why Kris’ company will not allow me to make changes to his banking information. I assure you that I am not just jumping to conclusions; the accountant told me that this was the reason for the policy.
When Kris first got his job, he told me that a tender at his company had recently quit. Apparently, he was married to a professional cheerleader who seemed to think that her husband would be diving for oil out of their backyard. Or, at least, that is my assumption since this young man was sent offshore on his first job and, two days in, received a frantic phone call from his wife threatening to divorce him if he did not come home immediately. Some women just can’t handle the pressure. The saddest stories that I hear are of women who take their husbands' earnings and leave town without notice. These women are famous in commercial diving legend and are the inspiration for strict company policy when it comes to paychecks.
Somewhere between Jodi and these glorified-prostitute wives, divers must be very cautious about who they trust. The companies that they work for are forced to implement some extreme policies to protect their workers. Whether you dive or not, I guess it is a pretty sick world out there. Everyone handles the stress differently. Take me, for example: I may not be a cheater or a thief, but my shoe collection is quietly growing…
Monday
So, I married a diver...
In September of 2001, I married a diver. Actually, at the time that we married he was still a student. We had no concept of the life he had signed up for. A pleasurable scuba dive in clear waters hardly compares to the rigors of the riggers (I have been dying to use that one). Kris had not worn a dive hat, he had not welded under water, nor had he ever dove deep enough to require breathing anything other than the air we breathe on land. In fact, even at this point in his career, Kris is still considered a dive-tender and not a diver. But, being a diver is not really about your job title. You are either born a diver, or you're not.
It became obvious at an early age that Kris possessed the unique (read: insane) qualities inherent in all divers. When Kris was a child, he used to hold his breath in the bathtub. Surely this is not an unusual behavior, you might say (if you talked like that). The difference is that Kris would not come up for air until he reached that peak moment when his brain kicked out the endorphins one receives just before he or she drowns. More than once, his mother entered the bathroom in a panic at the sight of her son lying under the water only inches from death.
And this is the man I married.
Divers are a fascinating breed. They live with true passion and conviction. I think it comes with the knowledge that they have one of the most dangerous jobs in the world. They actually rank second in the "Two Bricks Shy Of A Load" competition. Ranked number one, in case you are curious, is crab fishing in Alaska. Apparently the crabs are not too eager to be fished. At any rate, divers risk death every time they go out on a job, and they live their lives accordingly (i.e. drink like there is no tomorrow).
Of course, being married to a diver has its perks: The upside is that Kris pursues me with the same passion I spoke of earlier. The downsides (note the use of the plural indicator "s") are worthy of individual attention. In fact, there are enough to fill a blog. And I think I will...
It became obvious at an early age that Kris possessed the unique (read: insane) qualities inherent in all divers. When Kris was a child, he used to hold his breath in the bathtub. Surely this is not an unusual behavior, you might say (if you talked like that). The difference is that Kris would not come up for air until he reached that peak moment when his brain kicked out the endorphins one receives just before he or she drowns. More than once, his mother entered the bathroom in a panic at the sight of her son lying under the water only inches from death.
And this is the man I married.
Divers are a fascinating breed. They live with true passion and conviction. I think it comes with the knowledge that they have one of the most dangerous jobs in the world. They actually rank second in the "Two Bricks Shy Of A Load" competition. Ranked number one, in case you are curious, is crab fishing in Alaska. Apparently the crabs are not too eager to be fished. At any rate, divers risk death every time they go out on a job, and they live their lives accordingly (i.e. drink like there is no tomorrow).
Of course, being married to a diver has its perks: The upside is that Kris pursues me with the same passion I spoke of earlier. The downsides (note the use of the plural indicator "s") are worthy of individual attention. In fact, there are enough to fill a blog. And I think I will...
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