New Orleans!
New Orleans is an interesting place. On the surface, it's an adult wonderland, like Vegas minus the gambling. Anything goes, alcohol is available any time of the day (they have to-go windows for beer and daiquiris), and half-naked women are a dime a dozen.
Underneath its frivolity, New Orleans has a heavier side. Crime and poverty are high, and its citizens are fearful. The general feel is oppressive, like a dark energy has pressed down on the city for centuries.
That said, there are such lovely things about New Orleans. Like its peoples, who must be the friendliest people on earth. Everywhere I went, people stopped to chat. And the buildings and homes were beautiful, with their balconies and hanging gardens.
Unfortunately, I didn't take any pictures of them. No, I have no idea what I was thinking. I did, however, take a picture of this sign, partly because it's hilarious and partly because the bar's name was the Pour House, just like in the Guardian series:
In the mid 1800s, a crate arrived on the docks, marked "EXPEDITE" and nothing else—no name who it was being sent to or where it was from. After several months, someone finally opened the box to find this statue:
Since it was obviously a saint, an executive decision was made to deliver it to the Our Lady of Guadalupe Chapel, where it still stands today. Of course, they named it St. Expedite.
There are a lot of antique and junk stores in New Orleans. In one of them, I found a gaggle of odd birds.
I met a voodoo priestess. Here's a shot of her workstation:
Her "office" was fascinating. You can't imagine how much stuff there was in there, everything from dolls to bottles of alcohol to Christmas lights to money. The impression I got was that everything there had a purpose, or was added for a reason. I asked the priestess about this, but she didn't give me a direct answer. Here's a small corner of her space, but the entire room is covered in kitsch like this:
I also met Dr. Love. My sister and I were sitting on a bench, listening to a jazz band and eating homemade popsicles, when he blew us a kiss from the other bench. Then he got up, picked up his broom, and began to pretend-swat unsuspecting women's butts.
Yeah, I don't understand it either. All I know was that it was funny, because most of the women never realized he was pretending to whack their booties. Then he sat down with us, flirted, and had us sign his white cap. He even let me wear his black sheriff's hat:
No, I have no idea what his story was. I'm going to google him later.
Apparently New Orleans is home to the best fried chicken in the country. So my sister and I trekked for miles on foot (literally) through the hood (also literally) to see if Willie Mae's Scotch House really did have the best fried chicken ever.
The answer: it was the best damned fried chicken I'd ever eaten. It was worth the achy feet and near heatstroke. If you go to New Orleans, go to Willie Mae's. Except unless you're walking with a kung fu princess, you may want to take a cab to the joint.
Since we're talking about fried food...
That's right—beignets! From Café du Monde, at 3am, which is really the best time to have beignets, in my opinion. Yes, there is a cup of powdered sugar on top, and somehow it ends up all over your face before you're done.
New Orleans is a musical city, more so than any place I've ever been. And it was especially musical due to Jazzfest last week. You could find talented musicians jamming on every corner, kind of like this one:
On our last night there, after leaving a club, because it was 3am, my Magic Man took me for beignets. We sat at the edge of the Mississippi and ate them under a crescent moon. After we dusted the powdered sugar off our faces and turned to leave, we were greeted with this view of the St. Louis Cathedral:
Lovely and magical. That pretty much sums up the trip.
Medusa of Love
There are certain questions I ponder all the time. Was Bruce Lee’s death accidental or a hit? Which came first: the chicken or the egg? If my life was a movie, what theme song would be playing as I walked down the street? Who named mauve mauve? What’s my superpower?
Every now and then, I come up with an answer for a question or two, and I’m satisfied for a while, until I decide there must be other valid answers. Life is a multiple choice question where all the answers can be right at any given time, after all.
Lately, I’ve been pondering superpowers again. I’m working on a book where the hero is plagued by the powers bestowed on him and, naturally, I’ve been ruminating on my own superpowers. I go back and forth about what they might be, but I think I’ve nailed it this week.
I am a Love Medusa. Come in contact with me, and your heart won’t turn to stone—it’ll be filled with love and passion.
Is it any wonder I write romance novels?
That’s so cool, you say. I wish I could spread love and passion.
Well, actually you can—and probably do. But it’s not as cool as you think. Remember the part in Spiderman about great powers coming with great responsibilities? Imagine being responsible for hearts you don’t want to be responsible for. Imagine dating if love is your superpower.
Yeah, it’s not a pretty thing. Especially since my powers are always stronger than I realize. Meaning exposure to me seems to render men insane.
Literally insane.
We’re talking the kind of insanity that makes a drunk homeless guy stagger up to you with open arms and say “I wish I had my shit together, because I’d ask you out.” Or that causes men to propose after talking to you for five minutes. Or that inspires flowers and candy and bad poetry. We're talking the kind of insanity that blinds a man into believing a disastrous first date was awesome, when really he was one punch away from a visit to the ER.
At this point, the various men I’ve been going out with—past and present—are nodding their head vehemently. (Hello, boys! Yes, I know you’re reading this.) Or else they have no idea what I’m talking about.
In either case, men, you’ve been warned. Proceed at your own risk. Tread carefully, lest you become my next victim. (Insert ominous laugh here.)
What’s your superpower? Do you know? Everyone has one, you know. Think about it. Or—heck—let’s discuss it.
Signs
Have you noticed how the universe will give you signs when you need to change certain things in your life? And have you noticed that if you don't listen, the universe will smack you upside the head until you do what you're supposed to?
For example, a friend of mine realized it was time for her to move out of her condo, but she kept putting it off. A couple months later, she found a dead bird on her balcony. Then, a few weeks after that, there was another dead bird, this time in front of her front door, on the porch. Did she move? No. So then the top of the tree next to her home broke and crashed through her ceiling. She got the message—she moved a couple weeks later.
I got smacked today as I walked home from the café, where I'd spent several hours working on my revisions. <— That's in case my editor drops by. I don't want her to think I'm slacking.
However, before I get into that, let me tell you about last week, when my friend Dawn (of pet psychic fame) dragged me to a psychic fair so we could get our auras photographed.
After our auras were photographed* and we waited for the results, Dawn introduced me to one of the vendors—a man who sells jewelry coated in essential oils that promote compassion, health, joy, etc.
He took one look at me and said, "We've met before."
I shook my head. "Nope."
"Let me see your hands." Before I could comply, he seized them and looked at my palms. "That's what I thought."
Dawn and I exchanged puzzled glances. Then I asked, "What did you think?"
Only he was staring at me so intently he didn't hear the question. I stood there and observed him, partly amused, partly perplexed, and partly wondering at the strange feeling that I knew him too.
Suddenly he exclaimed, "You need to explore your feminine side. Buy lace."
Dawn gasped. "Yesterday I made her try on a bunch of frilly stuff and she wouldn't go for any of it."
He nodded sagely, his gaze never leaving mine. "Next time buy the lace. And you need to stop kicking men to the curb. You're going to miss the right one if you keep this up." Then he dropped my hands and pulled out two bracelets from a pile hidden behind some boxes. "This one is coated for balance, in work and hormones. This one is coated for love." He arched his brows sternly. "Put them on and don't take them off."
"Yes, sir." I saluted and slipped the bracelets on my wrist.
But then I didn't listen to him. (Sigh.) Which is why the universe stepped in and smacked me today.
This morning, I ran into Peter as I left Java Beach, the café where I go to write. Peter is a bright, shiny neighborhood guy—everyone knows and loves him. He was hit by a car years ago, and it left him disabled—mentally as well as physically—but he's the most cheerful, positive, loving person you'll ever meet.
So Peter lumbered up to me as I crossed the street, an untypical frown lining his forehead. He pointed at my chest and, in his slurry deep voice, said, "Open your heart."
I blinked, stunned. I touched my bracelets, remembering what Dawn's friend said to me. Then I nodded and replied, "Okay," because what else was there to say? I know a sign when I get slapped with one.
Some things are easier said than done though. (Sigh again.)
* In case you wondered: my aura is purple topped with gold, and around my face it's all white. Purple was creativity, perfectly balanced by gold wisdom. The white was apparently guardian angels. I'm surrounded by them. I suspect a couple of them are jokesters too.