Monday, March 19, 2007

Super Sunday

Apologies for the hushed silence that has reigned here many-a-day, but it's tough maintaining the delicate balance between my blogger-by-day and masked-avenger-by-night lifestyles.

Yesterday was Super Sunday. Though I didn't personally manage to see any Indians, my Sunday was, in its small way, super enough. I feel compelled to enumerate:

  • In the morning, sitting in the sun, I assembled the recently purchased chairs and table for the balcony (more hex wrenches) as the girls puttered around and offered to "help". Our balcony is a lovely thing. The back balcony faces the looming figure of Baptist Hospital—less than idyllic—but the front balcony off our bedroom looks out onto a huge swath of sky. One can hear a grand array of sounds: the surging of traffic on Claiborne, the thumping bass of distant cars, accordion music from the Hondurans around the corner, hollered conversations, children playing, squeaky bicycles, birds, boats on the river, trains. It was underutilized before the storm, principally due to its being structurally unsound, but that's all better now, and it's fast becoming one of my favorite things in life.
  • A chaotic lunch with bad service but good company.
  • A drive across the Huey Long to purchase a weeping willow, a purple-leaf plum tree, an oleander bush, and a whole bunch of irises which I packed in my vehicle with amazing resourcefulness, drove home, and planted in the dark, fertile soil of our yard (rich with broken glass and roofing nails).
  • A dinner of sausage, cabbage, and yellow grits. The sausage was from Kreuz's, a birthday gift from our darling Zack and Ana (who will be tying the knot here in mere days!) shipped from the smoky heart of Texas. The cabbage was from the clumsy hands of a float-rider in Saturday's St. Patty's parade*, the drunken-est, sloppiest, skeeziest of all our many parades. (Though I, parade-whore that I am, rather like it. It's a mess at the outset and it only gets worse. By the end it can barely be called an "organized"event as staggering, lecherous, tuxedo-ed men stumble down side streets looking for another drink and many float-riders, having long since run out of throws, gyrate wildly in their own private dance parties or slump lethargically in their seats with distant, unfocused stares.) The grits were from our pantry.
In the evening, alas, I succumbed to the vicious head cold bequeathed to me by my darling snotty three-year-old. This lead to today's Phlegmy Hooky Monday—far less super though alright in its way.

* I once again saw a lady get clocked in the head with a cabbage though not with the near-coma-inducing severity of previous years.

3 comments:

  1. For many years I lived on the Traditional Irish Channel Parade route.

    We always had sacks of cabbage and couldn't give it away. We kept it, cooked it, and krauted it until the nasty black gnats got too thick.

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  2. Anonymous10:06 AM

    A beautiful return to one of the things you do best. gracias, D. See you on the weekend!!!

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  3. Great post. Your Sunday sounded idyllic. Up here on the nawth-shore they have to hand the cabbages out. Guess too many people had been konked in the head

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