Damn. You don’t even realize this yet, but turns out I’m doing a disservice to all of you. Wouldn’t you love to come onto this blog and read posts about biking drunk tourists around the French Quarter? What if I wrote about working full time as a doula? Or maybe my evening career as a Queer Burlesque dancer? Well, I can’t. But my friend can. I am in awe of their courage to choose a career path that is unique and creative. I salute them. And I am totally jealous.

I always knew New Orleans was a place where the weird and eccentric flock to coexist with the average citizens, you know, the people who keep the city functional. That’s what attracted me to this swamp land the most. The joke in New Orleans is that  no matter how eccentric you are, you’re not eccentric enough. It’s excellent.

But y’all, my self esteem is dropping. It turns out, in comparison to my neighbors in New Orleans, I’m not a part of the eccentric flock, but rather the average (ack!) citizens. My eccentricity level is so low on the weird scale that I’m practically a heterosexual white male with a full time job in finance, married with 2.5 kids and a golden retriever.

Why do white people insist on dressing their kids in white for family portraits? Seriously, Google "white family" in Google Images.

How did this HAPPEN to me?

This has to be fixed. Right away. But you can’t force eccentricity. It’s too obvious. If it’s not natural crazy, the locals can smell you coming a mile away. This ain’t high school in Pennsylvania where you can become the cool, weird girl everyone wants to befriend by having your choppy hair dyed pink and orange. Driving a Dodge Dart Sedan with a bumper sticker that say “I like your beard” next to a picture of Che Guevara is so mediocre.

In New Orleans you have to try harder.

A gentleman takes his tortoise for a walk everyday on Maple street.

Grown mustached men are known to put on sweatbands and knee-highs before taking to the street.

uptownmessenger.com

There are bad-ass roller derby girls, female boxers and arm-wrestling champs.

This is Nola. We love our crazy.

invadenola.com

In my mind, I’m one of them: super fierce, one of a kind, not interested in being normal.You know, a mix of my idols: Frida Khalo, Johnny Cash, F. Scott Fitzgerald. The image that comes to mind is a tattooed, Elizabeth Taylor-esque writer.

I’ve always laughed at regular people. Especially at the airport. I flaunt a certain type of arrogance that comes from the notion that I am deeply more interesting than most people.

But in reality, I’m just starting to see that I don’t measure up to my counterparts. Turns out, I’m super boring.

A full-time educator who writes on the side and loves her Maine Coon and her boyfriend? Totally average.

Why has everyone continued to let me think otherwise?

I understand if you switch to another blog.

Unfortunately, Kristin was not sporting a Marilyn hair style at Oak. However, unlike some musicians who use retro fashion as a gimmick to hide their lack of talent- yes I’ll watch a Katy Perry video, but only on mute- Kristin doesn’t need a costume.

We arrived later than we had hoped, so we were only able to catch the second half of her set. However, we were able to get a seat closest to Kristin, which enabled us to actually hear her over the loud conversations of 20-30 year olds, too concerned with their own social bubble to know what they were missing.

Kristin sang, played the guitar, and was accompanied by an upright bass player. Her voice retained that crystal clear quality live that she exhibits in her albums and reached a soulful depth many cannot imitate.

I’m not a music critic, or a musician. I’m just a fan of New Orleans music and musicians. My goal here is to share my experiences with you and hopefully open a few of you unlucky non-New Orleanians up to incredible music. For more about Kristin Diable click on over here: http://www.kristindiable.com/

Meschiya Lake = Goddess

For a Catholic city, New Orleans is known for having its fingers in pleasure everyday. There is truly no shortage of music, food, costumes, liquor, or parades.

Speaking of costumes: After my visit home for Thanksgiving, I packed up several costume items from my childhood room. You never know when you’re going to need a crown of roses or a NJ Shore style trucker hat with your nickname spray-painted on the front.

Senior week ballin’

I once was listening to a story on WWOZ (the local, independent Louisiana radio station) about a young woman who was thinking of moving from New Orleans. She said that while packing her belongings a friend asked her if he could have her trunk of costumes. She was shocked at the audacity of the question and told him, like any New Orleanian would, “No, of course you cannot have my costumes.” Her friend replied, “Do you think in any other city you will have use for all those costumes?” And when she thought about it, she realized that her friend had a valid point. Only in New Orleans does one need costume makeup, glitter and corsets all yearlong. The happy ending to this radio-story? The young lady decided to stay in New Orleans.

I’d like to think it was because there is no other place in the world where she could get her coffee on a Sunday morning in a tutu and wig without strange looks.

Like to drink coffee only in your preppy clothes? You don’t belong here.

Anyway,

So I have to be honest. After moving here two summers ago, I have allowed myself to go from a constant state of newbie excitement to a state of complacency with early evenings and thoughts of, “Are all these people really going out after ten p.m. on a Tuesday night? Glee is on!”

It was easy to give up on begin social when I work most Saturday and Sunday mornings. Add to that the fact that I’m not single and my boyfriend lives three hours away, so in the words of my married friend Rachel, “Nothing good can happen to me after midnight when I go out.”

But, I’m 25. That means I have only 5 more years until I’m IN MY THIRTIES and that means that my body only has 5 more years to be abused before it locks down at the thought of going out on a Tuesday night. 5 years!!

Please, please don’t touch me. I’m young, beautiful and feeling fragile at the moment while recognizing my own mortality.

So I’ve made a pact with myself. Starting today, December 1st 2011, I will see live music at least once every two weeks.

Above is just one of the many musicians I plan to see. And I’d like to share that journey with you all on this lovely little blog of mine.

Btw- this resolution is maybe only a teeny, tiny bit of a way to distract myself from the major goal of my 25th year...at least I’m honest!

So last night, also know as Saturday night, I was sweeping the floor free of kitty litter with the tunes on shuffle. And it occurred to me that this small, personal joy of cleaning while singing Beyoncé’s “Me Myself and I” on repeat might not happen as much when I cohabitate with the male friend. Not that he would ever deny me the satisfaction of singing and dancing while simultaneously cleaning the apartment (he’s very good with loud noises after being with me for over two years) but the bliss of singing a pop song about a man I caught cheating on me who I’m better off without isn’t exactly something I can share with him the way I share with, say, the broom. The broom gets it. That old boyfriend’s scum. He’s not worth my time. The broom can’t snap its fingers, but it would when I sing, “No need to front like you’re still with me, all your homies know.” MmmHmm. Gospel.

Even though I’m currently in a healthy relationship (and the most fulfilling one I’ve ever known), certain songs will just bring me back to the angst of the relationship with that son-of-a-bitch-you-know-who-you-are.

Everyone has it. That one jerk of all jerks you’ve dated (female or male) who really just wears the crown for being shitty. The person who you find yourself thinking, “Are you even human?”

I have been able to maintain casual friendships with my exes, so I know it’s possible to break up and then make up as friends. But sometimes there is nothing left to repair between two people.

I’ve only dated one guy who was so selfish and cowardly that his actions caused me to close off from him completely. There’s no point in trying to “talk it out” when that person is 1. a liar 2. a coward.

And a note to the wise: Even if you drink too much whiskey one day and decide that today is the day to bang down his door and confront him for the awful things he did. Don’t. Because you’re so freaking better off without his mind games and lies it’s not worth the humiliation of showing up on his doorstep with nothing to really say besides, “you suck”.

Some other poor woman is going to have to deal with his low self-esteem and depression. And that other poor woman is currently upstairs, doing what you used to do. Except she’s probably going to need more time to figure out his bullshit is not worth it.

And yeah, certain songs will bring you back to the anger of it all. But, that’s between you and the broom. Because, you’re free of it.

And that’s where I’m at people.

And now it’s November 7 and you’re sitting there, pressing the refresh button over and over again wondering, “Has she really forgotten about us?”

Or maybe, “Is she dead?”

videogum

Well I’m happy to inform you, dear readers, that not only did I not forget about you but that I’m also not dead!

tvfanatic

No. Sadly, the real reason you haven’t heard from me in 7 days is because your Janine Julia was playing a game of avoidance.

See if I posted on here what my big goal was, then I would have to face it – you know, like actually do something about it? And who the hell actually wants to realize their dreams? That’s hard work, people!

So I decided to hit snooze for 7 days.

But I’m back. And I am here to face reality. And my first step in that direction is to finally come clean.

In my post about 25 year old Janine I first mentioned that I had several goals to accomplish. I toyed with the idea of creating a list of 25 goals for my 25th year. I went through my brain thinking of all the cool things I wanted to see, all the places I wanted to go, all the ways I wanted to improve my mind, body and spirituality.

I want to see the Northern Lights. I want to ride an elephant. I want to get married (to someone in particular) and have little Janine Julias. I want to go back to school. I want to read all the books on my to-read list. I want to run a mile without throwing up afterwards.

visualphotos

Seriously, don't die

As I perused the possibilities of my life in the next year I kept coming down to one great thing that I’ve always wanted. One thing that I’ve talked about and written about for years. The one thing that would require the discipline of a public proclamation (and therefore public humiliation if I fail) in order to get there.

There is truly only one thing I have ever wanted that I know I was put on this Earth to do- and that thing is to write.

So this is the year. This is the year I grab life by the 25th year-old horns and say, “Let’s do this!”

Because over the past few years I’ve realized that talent is a very small part of the process of becoming a published, noted author. The largest part of realizing this goal is self-determination, relentless hard work and the tenacity of a fool.

And spell checker. Thank God for spell checker.

Luckily, for me, I am that tenacious fool with spell checker.

So can you blame me for taking 7 more days of pretending I wasn’t going to do this before signing my social life’s death sentence?

Behold!

The time has come for the most sacred experience, revered and beloved by all of G0d’s children.

A celebration so great, it causes angels to weep and gangsters to pour out Dom Perignon libations onto shaggy emu carpets.

Halloween-Birthday Weekend*

*I played with word combinations: Hallobirth weekend, Birthween weekend, Humpty-Dumpty Spooktacular Birthfest, but nothing could quite capture the immense power of

Halloween-Birthday Weekend

!!

And this year is particularly epic because I turn 25. 25! That’s a quarter century! That’s like big time adult stuff.

Halloween-Birthday Weekend comes at a very important time of year. It’s not just a holiday, it’s a month long, 32 day festival culminating in the ultimate climax of Halloween night and my birthday on November 1st.

happyplace.com

I’m pumped.

25 years ago people were watching Magnum P.I. and Murder, She Wrote waiting, just waiting for a reason to celebrate the almost end of the 80′s. And then my mamma had me.

I was born on All Saint’s Day, which furthers my theory that I have always been a New Orleans baby. Did you know the Saint’s football team was established on All Saint’s Day as well? Twins separated by birth (and twenty years)? Possibly.

upi.com

La-Brees-Iana? Classic.

Anyway, I’m turning 25 this year and if you keep up with this bizarre blog you know that I promised myself this year was going to be big. Big on goals. Big on accomplishment. Big on cake. Lots and lots of cake. I started thinking about the 25th year plan around June and it’s been 5 months. I think 5 months is an adequate amount of time to consider what I want to do with the next 12 months of my life. Geese.

I’ve been wrestling with a few ideas and since I won’t spoil the surprise just yet, please settle for some happy Halloween-Birthday Weekend excitement:

Happy Haunting…

yankeepotroast

There are moments in my embarrassingly sheltered, spoiled life when I realize I should never have been let off the leash of childhood. Now, I am writing this fully aware that my parents read this blog, but I’m pretty sure they only remember this blog exists every three months or so, and therefore I am placing my bets that they will read this in November when this post is no longer relevant.

Sometimes my adult-ness is awesome. I exercise my freewill the way a junkie exercises her needle, as frequently as she can without any regard for the gross outcome. A bag of candy on my office desk at 10:40 a.m.? Let me unhinge my jaw so I can eat without chewing. Unlimited Netflix streaming of Friday Night Lights? The only reason my eyes burn after a 10 hour television marathon is because I haven’t been training hard enough.

When I have a good run with my adult-ness I feel unstoppable. I drop my clothes off at the dry cleaner and want a high five from the woman behind the desk. Sometimes, after changing the sheets on my bed, I think, “You know what? Let’s put some money in that mother f*ing savings account!”

hyperboleandahalf

This is what being an adult looks like kids. Take notes.

I grew up with financially responsibly parents. My father drove each car for 10+ years. My mother never let me buy clothes at full price. We bought bargain brands and ate dinner at home most evenings. Both my mother and father are gifted with math. Not only can they do it, but they enjoy it. It’s sick. My mother used to quiz me in the grocery store asking questions that would have made the Gestapo  proud:

“If this jar of tomato sauce is 32 oz and costs $3.29 and this jar of tomato sauce is 50.5 oz and costs $7.18 but comes with a free car and three months of cable television, which package of pasta should we buy to guarantee you get accepted to college?”

funnyjunk

Not cool, mom.

So math has always been a touchy subject with me. Put me on the spot with a math problem and my pupils will dilate looking for a calculator and a sharp object.

Unfortunately for me, and all my fellow Liberal Arts majors, math is in fact an essential part of life. Which brings me back to the savings account. The fact that I even have a savings account gives me a false sense of adult responsibility. False because I hardly add to my savings. Now, I’m not blaming any said employer or anything, but I really make peanuts. And by peanuts I mean the bargain brand peanuts that you buy in the gas station that look like they may have been packaged in 1972. I try to live below my means: I don’t buy expensive clothes, I don’t have cable, I don’t need a lot of salon treatments to feel pretty. But I still manage to spend a lot and I’m pretty sure it’s because I have an eating problem. And I live in the greatest city for people who like to eat and eat a lot.

But sometimes, after changing the sheets on the bed, I think, “You know what? I haven’t spent that much money this month, how about I hop over to the friendly banking establishment and deposit some money into my savings? I’m so awesome!”

Wrong

So I went to the bank. I kissed the savings deposit slip for good luck, whispering, “Make mommy rich!” and waved goodbye like a proud parent on her child’s first day of school. At this point what couldn‘t I do?

hyperboleandahalf

Seriously folks, I was being a mother f*ing adult, and by golly it just felt so good.

So yesterday, I’m minding my own business at home on my day off. Then I think, “Oh boy, it’s almost time for my cell phone bill. I better check how many text messages I have sent…” I know what you’re thinking, “Texting, Janine? You have to check how many texts you send?” Yes. I have unlimited minutes, but that’s so 2004. I, even to the deep chagrin of my parents, text a lot. In their opinion, texting is today what rock’n'roll was to their generations’ parents. Society’s demise. But you ask, “Why does it matter what your parents think of your texting?”

Well, friends, because they pay my cell phone bill.

I know.

But it was time I came out of the closet about this.

My parents still pay my cell phone bill.

That’s the reason I have 267 area code. It’s not because I am so Philly proud that I can’t stand the idea of switching to a Southern area code. It’s because I can’t get my act together, and my parents actually feel sorry for me.

So I check my messaging amount and my heart drops to my stomach. I’m over. OOOOOOOOOOOO boy, I’m in trouble.

There’s nothing else to do right now, but turn myself in to the boss. So with my tail between my legs I call my Mommy and tell her I did it.

Again.

And then, after that humiliating phone call when I pledge my loyalty to the Jankovitz family and my disgust with myself and my carelessness I hang up the phone and receive an alert in my email box.

Oh.my.mother.f*ink.god.what.the.f.did.i.do.why.do.i.suck.at.life.so.hard.i.don’t.get.it.what.the.f. am.i.going.to.do.now.

INSUFFICIENT FUNDS!!???!!!! This isn’t fair! I went to the bank to deposit money in my savings account! I should be given a pass because I was being a grown-up! I gave the dry cleaning lady a high five!!! Doesn’t that count for anything these days???

I did it folks. EPIC ADULT FAIL.

I tried to save money: good.

But ended up taking too much out: bad.

And now the bank is charging me because guilt doesn’t pay for insufficient funds: very bad.

Apparently, when math looks like this to your brain:

sodahead

You don’t know how to subtract.

Two epic adult fails in one day. Seriously? I can’t keep track of my crap at this point?

I told my boyfriend about this. I told him, “This is why you shouldn’t marry me.” And he laughed (or at least I think he did since it was over gchat-NOT text message Mom) and he said, “That’s ok, it’s just money.”

Silly boyfriend. This is just one of those cultural differences of growing up in a gentile home. “It’s just money? JUST MONEY?” I can hear my parents screaming at me from Philadelphia: It’s not just money, it’s irresponsibility. It’s carelessness. It’s  something our parents couldn’t do when they were running from Hitler, the Czar, the pogroms because there WAS NO MONEY and now you have money and you spend it on text messaging? How could you? Why don’t you just kill us now while we can still feel???!!!!????

hyperboleandahalf

]]> http://janinejulia.wordpress.com/2011/10/05/epic-adult-fail/feed/ 7 janinejulia superpower woman responsibility11 omg wtf what can't i do INS-CHECK200 math-shirt-full sad face http://janinejulia.wordpress.com/2011/08/24/writers-spotlight-is-still-going-strong/ http://janinejulia.wordpress.com/2011/08/24/writers-spotlight-is-still-going-strong/#comments Wed, 24 Aug 2011 19:58:36 +0000 janinejulia http://janinejulia.wordpress.com/?p=775 ]]> My friend Chris, co-writer of this adorable blog, sent me the following article written by Jackson Free Press editor Lacey McLaughlin about the Writer’s Spotlight:

Last week, I was fortunate enough to hear the works of so many talented local writers. I hosted the quarterly Writer’s Spotlight at Lemuria where local writers such as Bob Hudson, Jeremiah Maeda, Herbert Brown and Anita Modak-Truran read their writings. After the event, someone who just moved to the area told me that she didn’t realize Jackson had so much talent.

Former Jacksonian Janine Jankovitz started the Writer’s Spotlight nearly two years ago, and it’s given writers as well as non-writers a place to connect. Unless you were there, it’s hard to describe how powerful it is to see local writers share their stories and bare their souls as they take the stage. I’ve never felt so proud of my city.

If you’ve been following this blog since the beginning, you know that I started the Writer’s Spotlight in January of 2009. The event was born from my need to meet other writers, create a writing community, hear other writers read their work, and give my own work an audience. It was a completely selfish enterprise. As the event grew to include more and more writers, I met some of the most interesting writers, passionate editors, and successful publishers. We had five Writer’s Spotlights while I was living in Jackson; I had no idea it would catch on and grow to the point that it would once I moved from Jackson to New Orleans.

Pretty exciting stuff. Way to go Jacktown!

jonathan safran foer, extremely loud and incredibly close

suicide blonde

In more than one way, I deserve this. Hands tied. Held back. Mouth covered. I deserve this. I am downhill looking up at the woman I thought I was. She’s standing above me, dark curls framing her face, covering her eyes. She was shouting to me to stand up, claw my way back up the dirt, join her once again. But she’s quiet now. She’s grown tired of yelling. She’s grown tired of hearing the same words come out of her mouth. She’s given up on reminding me of the woman I thought I was. She says nothing. I deserve this.