Exemplary Customer Service at Wal-Mart

They are restructuring the layout of our local Wal-Mart, and nothing is where it should be.  I am in need, or rather my son is in need, of pull-ups, and I walk to a woman dressed in the recognizable Wal-Mart uniform.  She is sifting through 2T and 3T girl clothing.  I know I can’t be far from the object of my desire.

 ”Excuse me. Where can I find pull-ups?”

She pauses, looks up for a moment, and begins to point.  “I think they are in in aisle-”, then she stops abruptly, and looks at me.  “I’m on my lunch break.”

Really?  Because, I would have wasted 2 seconds less of your lunch break had you bothered to say the aisle number instead of those additional 5 words.

 

What the fine Louisianan folk do on the weekends.

I know all my peeps back in California think this is a podunk place, and probably wonder as they sit stuck in the 405 traffic what the hell we Grahams do out here in our spare time.  We do plenty.  It simply doesn’t involve getting our ankles wet from the Pacific Ocean, hanging out on the veranda at the Getty Museum, or watching the Griffith Observatory go up in flames.  There are, however, flames ravaging in Georgia, and that’s a hot skip and a jump from here.

Last weekend we went to our second Crawfish Festival.  Our first one took place in 1999 in Chalmette when we visited Louisiana shortly after our engagement.   They don’t have crawfish festivals there anymore because that’s one of the places Katrina the Bitch pretty much obliterated.   There are crawfish to be had in Abita Springs though, and that’s where we headed.  So did everyone else, but I reckon the on-location Yellow Handkerchief filming with William Hurt mainly propelled the crowd.

Here’s what 2.5 lbs of crawfish look like:    And?  Did you know you can get your own birdhouse embodying that of a FEMA trailer?   

When there isn’t a festival to attend, we usually find ourselves dropping in on a birthday party.  Today was Grier’s 2nd birthday.

The party took place in Bogue Falaya park.  Thick cypress tree canopies sheltered us from the piercing rays.   The Bogue Falaya river ran nearby, fallen trees from Katrina dotting the shore.  It was one of those parties you could go to, mingle with people, and partake in a variety of conversations.  It was one of those parties where you could be by yourself too.  An opportunity to enjoy the quiet, honey-like heat infiltrating the forest, the Elmo party hats, ourselves. 

    

 

The Birthday weekend.

Three weeks late in posting, but what’s new. 

You can’t ever go wrong with birthdays when they fall on the weekend.  You especially can’t go wrong when you have some of your closest friends fly in to celebrate your special day.  And, when they come in with their beautiful 4 month old child, well, that takes the birthday cake.

We spent much regalement with Holly, Thomas, and little Trey Friday through Sunday.  The weather prevented us from doing much outdoor activity, but that came as a blessing.  We managed to catch up on two award-reaping movies from last year:  Borat and The Pursuit of Happyness.  Yes spellcheck, I know Happyness is misspelled.  Much to Alex’s excitement, Holly stroked my hair as promised during the unwinding evenings.  And I reciprocated.  When Holly and I weren’t languidly sprawled out on the living room floor, we turned our attention to Trey.  It pleased me to see Holly follow my breastfeeding techniques successfully. 

 

I also secretly liked watching Gage get bothered by Trey’s monopoly on attention.   “Don’t laugh, Trey,” commanded Gage.  “Trey needs a timeout.”  He’d then slyly creep over to the vibrating Fisher-Price bouncer, and turn off the music controls as Trey gurgled contently.  As if we wouldn’t notice the ocean sounds suddenly stop.

After their departure Sunday morning, Alex, Gage, and I moseyed (only in the South do people mosey) to the French Quarter Festival.  It’s just another excuse for people to coalesce together for food and music.  Kind of a Jazzfest Lite, but free. And without humidity.  A number of restaurant tents served gumbo, charboiled oysters, mojitos, crepes, softshell crab po-boys, to name a few.

 When we departed, it was only 2pm.  Enough time for me to meet up with friend and photographer Jason to do some character shots.

It was on my 32nd birthday that I decided to initiate a photoblog: 32 Every Day on Flickr.

 

Time to join the minions.

I decided to create a Flickr account. Not the pro version yet. Just basic for now. With the passing of my 32nd birthday, I decided to create a set titled “32 Every Day”. I aim to take a picture of some aspect of my life every day during my 32nd (or I guess 33rd) year on earth. Yet another egocentric project to stage on this ol’ world wide web.

 

Thirty-two.

One year ago on my birthday, I spent part of the day at home enjoying time alone whilst my husband and Gage took my visiting father-in-law back to the airport.  An old friend of mine sparked the desire in me to sing out loud to musical CDs.  So I did, to Chicago, and it fed my soul.

Five years ago, I went to a wine tasting room with a group of friends in West LA.  Our condo, within walking distance, disallowed the need for a designated driver.  How often can you find that in Los Angeles?

Ten years ago, a group of friends (some of them not so friends now) took me to a bar in Westwood where two pianists played.  Duelingly.  Duettly?  You know.

Fifteen years ago, my aunt threw a surprise birthday party at a Chinese restaurant in Irvine.  Surrounded by close friends and theatre comrades, we communed over sesame shrimp and eggrolls.  And karaoke, yes!

Twenty years ago, I had a slumber party.  We all had our Cabbage Patch Kids with us, naturally.

Twenty-five years ago, a girly birthday party.  Filled with jumpropes and hopscotch, and pink flowers on cake.

Yes, my birthday is on April 15th.  Yes, that’s Tax Day, when it’s on a weekday.  Yes, Titanic sank on this day.  Yes, Abraham Lincoln died on this day.  Melancholic, isn’t it?  Aptly named Melany, I am.

Not so melancholic on leaving 31 though.  Rather glad about that.  Much of the year spent drifting mentally… likened to a piece of driftwood, if you will, in an ocean of caca dodo.