The City of New Orleans

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Life has been a whirlwind since my last post – we stopped in Austin for a couple days to handle some business, and it began to rain. (I’m sure you heard about the flooding here in Texas).

Lake Georgetown, TX

 

The lake we were camped beside rose dramatically overnight, and it was “colder than the dickens,” so we left and headed to Houston. Gratefully, they had space for us. It was warm, mostly sunny, and their pool was heated. It was fun, but we were so impatient to “laissez les bon temps rouler,” that we both woke at 5:00 a.m. the morning we left for New Orleans! 

 

 

 

The last time we drove through Louisiana, I-10 was in horrible condition. Looking for alternate routes, we followed the advice of another RVer, taking a road they said was better and more interesting. Ugh. It was even worse than I-10. But, it was more scenic!

We drove past endless fields of sugarcane, a crop neither of us had seen before. We drove over too many bridges to count, and sailed past a sea of cattails (another thing neither of us had ever seen).

 

 

French Quarter RV

 

Finally, we crossed the enormous Mississippi River, curved around the Superdome, made an incredibly narrow, and gut-wrenching, turn and arriving at our “securely fenced” RV park in the French Quarter – right beside the oldest cemeteries in New Orleans. I couldn’t wait to go explore!

 

 

 

Vessel NOLA

 

We were meeting friends for dinner that night at 7:00 pm, and I was tasked with finding a place. I chose a restaurant named Vessel, housed in a beautifully restored 1914 Lutheran church. The beams in the open-ceiling bring to mind an old ship, and bar reaches skyward in front of golden glass windows. The bottles residing on the  top shelves are reached via library-ladder. Classic cocktails are their specialty, with an emphasis on  the proper glass (vessel) and ice for each, and their food was delicious, fresh, beautifully presented, and affordably priced. Vessel lived up to all of our expectations!

 

 

Beignets (ben-yays) @ Cafe du Monde

Early the next morning I dragged my sweetie out into the streets to head to Café du Monde for beignets since he’d never had one. The walk was only 8 or 9 blocks, the sun was shining, and the St. Louis Cathedral Bells were chiming as we enjoyed our beignets and lattes. What a guilty pleasure!

We strolled for a while before heading “home.” We were meeting Mike and Patricia for a late jazz brunch in the Garden District at Commander’s Palace, an elegant old mansion that’s been operating since 1880. I appreciated that there was a dress code: no jeans or shorts, men needed a jacket. What a pleasure… everyone looked great and “acted right!” I’ve been thinking about their Ramos Gin Fizz every day since!

 

 

The mansions there were so grand, that the next day we hopped onto the streetcar and rode all the way through the incredible Garden District. However, the return trip was so claustrophobic, that thinking we were closer, I insisted we get off and walk home.

Garden District

It turned out to be a 2.2 mile walk! We missed lunch, but grabbed some lattes-to-go and hustled in order to meet our friends on time for cocktails at The Roosevelt Hotel, they were both looking forward to having a Sazerac, since it was invented there. Afterward we strolled down Canal Street to the Palace Café for a light supper. 

The day before we planned to leave, we met Mike at the Southern Food & Beverage Museum, which includes the Museum of the American Cocktail. Leave it to Mike to find a place this interesting!  There was a lot to see, but not on an empty stomach. We enjoyed lunch, and a Prohibition Cocktail, in the adjacent restaurant, Toups South. (during Prohibition (1920 – 1933) bitters were created, and a “cocktail culture” was born in order to cover up the taste of wood alcohol and bathtub gin.)

 

SoFAB

After lunch we strolled the large open museum, seeing many items we remembered our parents, and grandparents using as we grew up.

There were also many items we knew nothing about. As we perused, we listened to a tour group in an open classroom. They came in for a private class on Absinthe, and every one had a glass of the pale green liquid in front of them… silver sugar-cube spoons (above) and all.

 

St. Louis 2

 

The day we were supposed to leave it was windy and raining hard in the morning, so we asked to stay an extra day. Luckily, the weather cleared, and we walked to Acme Oyster Bar for lunch (personally, I wouldn’t go again).

On the walk home we finally had both the time, and an unlocked gate, to stroll through the St. Louis 2 Cemetery. There are three Roman Catholic cemeteries, built in 1789, 1823, and 1854 respectively. The graves are above ground in New Orleans because of the high water table, and the fact that in places, New Orleans is below sea-level.

 

 

 

Many have nobody left to attend to them, and are in various stages  of disrepair, but a group is currently working to restore “abandoned tombs” in St. Louis 1 & 2.  It was beautiful, sad, and inspiring to think about the courage of these people who braved the journey, leaving so much behind them, to settle in a new territory so completely different and begin the process of that would create this unique and historical city. I loved New Orleans.

XO Donna

Got the Blues

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Before we left Texas, I’d harvested a bunch of the red fruit (tunas) of prickly pear cactus where we were camping. I’d made prickly pear juice quite a learning curve, with quite a few sticky (ouch!) issues.  And I had another bag full of tunas thinking I’d do it again, using my new wisdom, and make thick syrup to give as gifts for swirls in Margaritas.

Passing through Santa Fe, we were invited to return for Mad-Stock, a Woodstock themed celebration of music, peace and love. I decided I’d make tie-dye shirts for the guys our of the prickly pear juice! Both said they didn’t mind wearing hot pink… what a washout!!!  After all my work; cooking them in the hot juice for an hour, then letting them sit overnight in plastic bags, when I untied them they were gorgeous. When I washed them, this color faded completely away.

Now, you know full well that if I spilled any on a good white blouse, it never would have come out!

I was even more determined now, and after looking through Pinterest, I decided to try again, this time using an old friend from the 70’s…  RIT dye in a lovely Indigo Blue.
I used some of my old tying techniques (I used to love doing tie-dyes in pretty patterns, but simple, beautiful colors) incorporating tying stones into the folds, simple pleat-and-band, and Japanese Shibori folding and resistance techniques.

I followed RIT’s instructions TO THE LETTER, and when I pulled them from the dye bath (done in a 3-gallon bucket in my kitchen sink) I was over-the-Moon thrilled! Indigo blue! Shibori folds! Gorgeous circles with marigold-like patterns within!

Still following instructions carefully, I washed and dried them, and what I pulled from the dryer 40 minutes later was a pale imitation of what I had put into the dryer.  My well-defined lines of indigo and white had become a soft cream and denim blue design. Sigh. I went to bed that night feeling like a failure…

Turns out the failure was in RIT’s isstructions, for when I looked online there were completely different guidelines than on the box. Had i known, I would have gladly taken all the extra time they were proposing. I hoped the guys would still wear them.

The next morning when I awoke, the first thing I saw on my FB feed was this post by a friend, Lynn – “Failure is an event, not a character flaw.”  That changed my mind, what I did failed, but now I know where to pick-up next time. This was entirely too much fun, too relaxing, and too fulfilling to quit. I’m not ready to take orders yet, but I see a lot of Blue in my future!

 

XO DONNA

Mother’s Day

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It’s been raining cats and dogs, accompanied by thunderbolts and lightning. Although it’s just past breakfast-time it’s as dark as night and the volume is MUCH louder in our motorhome than in a traditionally built home.  Read More

Where the Wild Things Are

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Looking out at the lake, I see my reflection in the window as I write… and to quote my dear departed friend, Nancy, “I look like the wrath of God!”
Even though I took the time to blow my hair dry this morning, the winds have been blowing steadily at 20+ mph, something no amount of styling product can endure.

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Grace and Frankness

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I’ve been toying with the idea of having some work done on my face. Nothing drastic, just a little filler, since slender oval-shaped faces with sensitive skin don’t age as gracefully as round, or square, faces with an oilier complexion.

When my clients used to look at themselves in the mirror and complain about their fat faces I always told them, “Hush. You’ll really appreciate this in your sixties.”  As we age we lose the fullness from underlying fat, in our face. We also experience bone shrinkage… making a thin face even thinner. Add this to that the fact that I’ve been on medications for 20 years now, and you see why I’ve been considering options.

One reason I haven’t done anything so far, is my fear of looking like a Picasso painting as punishment for being vain.

Mostly it’s my fear of not getting wonderful results because of the aforementioned meds. Or of ending up looking like Melanie Griffith.1D2E8974-899B-43D0-97AE-582D6EA859C0

My first thought was, “Poor thing… didn’t she have any girlfriends to tell her when enough was enough?”  On the one hand, there’s the notion of loving someone enough to tell them the truth as you see it. But, on the other, there’s always the risk of losing a friendship, or alienating someone you care about.

I’ve always admired movies or books about women’s relationships where they can tell each other anything-and-everything and it’s heard, and they are still best friends. Like the Nextflix show Frankie & Grace.  I come from a long line of women who were taught to keep secrets, and to hold our tongue. “Don’t say anything, we don’t want [the others] to worry.” Or, “Don’t tell so-and-so we were talking about this because she’d kill me.”  So, I don’t say lots of things when I feel like something ought to be said because I worry about hurt feelings, about confrontation, and even the fear that my words won’t make a difference after all.

Is this a Universal Truth?  Is it attributable to being a women of this age? Or is it just familial dysfunction, what do you think?

Regarding all of this, there is a quote I love that has been attributed to everyone from Socrates to the Buddha, listing four things to consider before speaking your mind:

  1. Is this true?
  2. Is this necessary?
  3. Is this kind?
  4. Does it need to be said by me?

XO Donna

Grey Haired Beauty

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Notice how when you begin to think about, or buy, a new car suddenly they are everywhere? I decided to grow out my hair to it’s natural color, whatever that was, a few months ago. Now that it’s grown out, and it’s grey, I’m checking out all of the other women close to my age sporting grey hair. Appropriate word… because some women really do “sport it” by wearing bold colors and jewelry, and makeup that highlights their eyes and lips. I admired lots of these women in Santa Fe, whether their hair was long or short.

In the ”hippy-ish” towns of Silver City and Bisbee I saw women who embraced their silver strands as just a natural part of growing older. I saw everything from short shocky haircuts, to gleaming streaming flaxen hair with rainbow-bright streaks atop gorgeous global, open-hearted, chakra-balancing, essentially-oiled, inner-peace clothes.

Both groups felt like women who loved the power of being women, and wore their crowning glory atop faces that radiated lives being well-lived.

That’s what I want, although right now it’s in that Ugly Duckling stage between a pixie and something else. And without color it’s as fine as frog-fur, but with my experience I’m certain  I can come up with something I’ll grow to love.

The last group I noticed was all the women who had become pale water-colors. Pale hair, pale skin, fading eyebrows, dressing in pastels and beiges. We ate lunch in Las Cruces one afternoon and the restaurant was full of women my age and older, and all but one seemed content to have grown invisible. I wondered when their fire went out? Why?

My conclusion: no matter your age, grey hair in and of itself, doesn’t make us look old. What’s going on in our mind about who we are, and what our worth is, those make a woman look old. My solution: the same things I discussed in my book, “Sick and Tired… & Sexy, Living Beautifully with Chronic Illness,” about taking care of yourself first.  

Make the time to do a quick 5-step make-up; tinted moisturizer, fill-in your brows, mascara, a touch of cream blush and a swipe of lipstick.  Wear colorful clothes, they lift your energy. And jewelry. Have a good haircut that is appropriate for your hair, face shape, your ability to style it, and your figure.

To steal a line from a men’s clothier  – “You’re gonna love the way you look!”

XO Donna

 

 

Christmas Countdown

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Two days till Christmas Eve… and an intimate family dinner. Three days till Christmas, and a raucous pot-luck supper filled with games, good cheer, and friends old and new.

44D52D36-52BD-4380-8A6B-30A0917ACBEBI love the tradition of sharing the foods associated with these holidays. When we were children, as a way to decorate the tree, and probably keep my sisters and me occupied, we used to string popcorn and cranberries to use as a garland on our tree. It took a few days to accomplish, but we enjoyed the time spent with our Mom, having her undivided attention while eating a piece of popcorn for every one we strung!

Feeling sentimental, I did it again for the first time in years, and adorned my tiny tree. Now, all is right with the world.

I wish you all a very Happy Holiday Season, and a Healthy, Prosperous, New Year!  Remember… the very best gift you can give, is that of your time and your attention.

XO Donna