Welcome to the America.  We have no plan.

Okay, I know I am becoming obsessed with my southern neighbors.  Or, rather, I'm becoming obsessed with how what could've been a bad natural disaster has become a global example of bad crisis planning.  "Hey, please attack us!  Please?!"

Who could have foreseen a disaster making homeless hundreds of thousands of people?  Who could have wondered how police might communicate with each other if the power went down in a metropolitan area?  Who could have pondered how to move 23,000 people from one place to another in the event of a catastrophe?

Hmmm.

The Department of Homeland Security?

It's a good thing they come up with that one.  Clearly doing a phenomenal job. 

I really set out to write a post about the chaos at the Emerald City. Waddler B's lead teacher recently gave us twelve hours of notice that she was leaving. She's been gone for a while, much to the chagrin of the part-time people trying to fill in the gaps and the stressed-out director who obviously does not embrace the recruiting part of her job, bless her heart.

But then I came home and glanced at the news to see that New Orleans is currently underwater and people are living on bridges.

PEOPLE ARE LIVING ON BRIDGES.

I'll pause to let that settle out.  No, wait, it's not settling.

Oh, the tangled web we weave when we build cities dependent on levees.  I, for one, did not realize New Orleans was actually below sea level. I wonder how many of the residents of New Orleans knew this before Katrina showed them a thing or two about physics. 

It is so bizarre to me that my life is going on about its normal business, my primary concern today is staffing Waddler B and redesigning a software interface and oh, people are living on bridges.  And being bussed, kind of against their will, to Houston.  To another fucking football stadium.

Now, it's nobody's fault. Clearly, this is a natural disaster of extreme scale.  But wow - software interface design vs. finding sunscreen for your child while he fries standing on an air mattress in the hot sun for two days.  Daycare dilemmas vs. squalid bathroom facilities.

I heard FEMA is considering renting some cruise ships to give these people somewhere to go.

Julie:  "Hi, I'm Julie, your entertainment director.  Would you like to play shuffleboard?"

Stranded Masses:  "No, I'd like to know if Grandma is alive."

Is anyone else completely blown away by this?  How can MSN cover ANYTHING ELSE?

Last night after work, my beloved and I went to 1154 Lill to cash in the gift certificate he gave me last Christmas.  We walked in with the little angel.  The salesgirl, very young, took one look at the date on my gift certificate and exclaimed, "Wow!  Where do you live?"

I didn't get her drift.  "We live in Waldo," I said.

"Wow!  I can't BELIEVE you waited this long to come in to the store!  That's only about two miles away!" she said, popping her gum.

"Wow!"  I said.  "You're right!  It could have something to do with that child."  I pointed in the direction of the little angel, who was digging, gopher-like, through the baskets of purse samples.

I perused the store, took in the three purses my gift certificate would sort of ALMOST cover, and chose one.  This took about thirty seconds.  There were seven styles from which to choose.

"Oh my GOD!" she said.  "You just made the fastest decision, like, EVER."

Again, I pointed.  I was starting to feel like Babe Ruth.  "Your decision-making skills pick up a bit when you have microseconds to choose on a regular basis," I replied.  My head was starting to hurt with all this salesgirl-question-answering business.

We laid out all the different fabric choices.  After three complete losses, I chose a faux suede in a nice chocolate for the purse and straps, a cream and orange flower for the pocket, orange silk for the lining and a deeper copper silk for the inside pocket. I'm sure this sounds disgusting together, but it's actually very warm and pretty, and I can't wait to go out and find a bunch of brown, orange and cream shirts to wear out on my many, MANY social occasions this fall, swinging my uber-fashionable handbag prominantly. Oh, and trying to keep it away from the little angel.

Because she is now VERY into fabric.

As I was picking all of these things out, the little angel ran from swatch to swatch.  The soft ones she rubbed against her cheek like a high-end clothes buyer.  Those she liked brought on a fit of clapping.  She kept this up for a mind-boggling fifteen minutes.

Thank God my Ebay addiction is paying off.  Her faux-leopard-print fall jacket just arrived, along with the silver-thread-shot pink jeans and the Stride Rite buckskin shoes, gently used and rock-bottom cheap.  She will be more fashionable than her mama, after all.

My beloved and I have been avidly following the coverage of Hurricane Katrina.  Like the rest of humanity, we're fascinated any time a storm gets biblical.  "What would we do?  Where would we go?  What are those poor people thinking?" we say.  That's one side of the story.  The other side is: "How bad can it get? Why did they go inside a football stadium? Will steel really bend in wind?"

I think the most fascinating part is the roof ripping off the top of the stadium.  First, I'm not really sure why the city fathers thought it would be strong enough to withstand a Level Five (or whatever lingo they use) hurricane.  I think they might've chosen it just because it was BIG.  However, I have to say I love the good old United States for at least designating an area for the urban poor to go and hurrying them inside it like so many Mother Hens, even if it was maybe not the best place to go.   I willingly pay taxes because services like that are what separates us from the Third World.  We have money to herd people into stadiums because we all paid our taxes.  Good for us.

Now, I'm just going to sit here and try to get to work and not think about the hole in the roof of the Superdome.  Maybe I'll say a little prayer for all those people.  These big storms are starting to come a bit more frequently, it seems. 

Yesterday was very strange. Was there a full moon?  First, the little angel got bitten at the Emerald City. There is a perfect half-moon of small red marks approximately the size and shape of her own mouth on her wrist. The accident report said the had a "confrontation with a friend."  This is apparently the politically correct way to say "some little heathen viciously chomped your child."  Really, though, I wasn't too upset because said heathen did not break the skin. If there had been a tetanus shot involved, I would've made them cough up names.  Apparently they are into protecting the identities of the biters at the Emerald City.

After I picked her up, I thought a nice jog might make us both feel better. It was only 80 degrees yesterday!  I almost had to put snowsuits on both of us.  As I strapped her in the jogging stroller, she started moving around, and I accidentally pinched some of her leg in the strap.  The addition of injury to insult to injury was too much. After sobbing for five minutes or so, she passed out in the stroller for the remainder of the ride.  When I woke her up to take her out, she decided NO MORE!  EVERYONE MUST SUFFER!  And, with that...she proceeded to have her first-ever full-drawn, blow-out, everything-must-go temper tantrum.  She howled for 35 minutes. 

I wasn't sure what was going on.  The normally mild-mannered little angel does not usually do this sort of thing.  I took her upstairs to tantrum in her room, on the carpet and far away from other sharp and hurty things.  I set her down on the floor and sat in the rocking chair to watch.  She thrashed for a few seconds, then came over and put her head on my lap and beat me with her tiny, chubby fists.  At that point, I realized she was past the point of control and terrified by her own inability to stop crying. It reminded me of when she was a tiny baby and would be afraid of the sight of her own flailing appendages, not realizing she could stop moving them anytime she wanted.

As she buried her head in my hair and screamed so loudly in my ear I thought I might go deaf, I thought of my own adolescence, which was a bit rocky and emotional.  How I used to howl this way when I realized I could do nothing about that day's predicament.  How hard it is to realize that life isn't fair.  How painful the wake-up call can be, even when you're sixteen months old. 

I had just picked up the phone to call my mother, thinking surely she should've stopped by now and checking (as always) to see if I had done something so odd as a small child, when the storm passed and the palm trees righted themselves.  She snuffled a few times, then smiled.  A rainbow broke out over the living room floor.  A bluebird chirruped from atop the floor lamp.

And all was well again.

I've been on conference calls that begin at 8 a.m. and last between two and four hours for over a month now. Every time I think they will end, some new debacle opens up and forces the project manager to schedule three or four more.  It is bringing out the Louis Black in my personality.

I think the problem here is inherent to the human condition. This sort of thing is currently happening at Large Corporate Telecom, but it has happened every single place I've ever worked. I don't think they are unique in their baffling behavior, however much I would love to believe it is true.  The problem is these meetings to which fifteen or so people are invited, but they don't all come at the same time - oh, no! - because then they might actually reach consensus.  Rather, we get six or seven at a time, and then those six or seven agree, then maybe three or four more show up and completely undo all the card houses built in the previous three or four days.  It is enough to make me want to rip my clothing in agony.  I would, in fact, if I could afford to buy new clothes.  It is starting to drive me to the point of hysterical laughter and zealous tap-dancing while on mute. 

Here's the problem with people:  They all have opinions.  People can't leave well enough alone.  People have to put their own unique mark on everything, especially when their companies are going through a merger and they're worried about their jobs.  I remember working in advertising - there, same problem, slightly different take - the creative people have to out-create each other on an hourly basis. It's an ego problem in advertising. I don't think it's necessarily an ego problem in today's case, rather a problem of "I wasn't paying attention because I was IMing with my recruiter" or "My boss just walked by, and I need to look Important and Busy" or even "I'm talking out my ass right now because I don't even know who I report to anymore."

Pick a reason, any reason. The result is Business Reality Television.  And man, does it suck.

The little angel has known the word "no" for some time.  Usually, though, she is coy with it, flirtatious, even.  The past few days, however, she's forcing the ticket.  Just listen to this conversation from this morning:

5:30 a.m. 

Little Angel:  Wah!  Wah!  WAH!

Me:  Do you want some milk?

LA:  NO!  (Takes milk greedily, sucks down entire cup in fifteen minutes.)

LA:  Wah! Wah!

Me:  Do you want some more milk?

LA:  NO!

Give her more milk.  She throws it back like she's never eaten in her life.  We settle down to watch a 6 a.m. viewing of Baby Wordsworth.

LA:  "Kitty!"

Me:  (groggily) "Do you like kitties?"

LA:  "No!"

7 a.m.

LA:  "Nemo!" (frantically motions for stuffed fish)

Me:  "Shall we play with Nemo while we get dressed?"

LA:  "No!"

Me:  "Bring me your shoes so we can put them on."

LA:  "No!"

Me:  "But you love your kitty shoes."

LA:  "No!"  (strokes them lovingly)

Me:  "Do you love your mama?"

LA:  "No?"

Me:  "Yes, you do."

LA:  "Noooooo."

Me:  "Do you want me to pay for your college?"

LA:  "No!"

Me:  "Do you want a car when you turn sixteen?"

LA:  "No!"

Me:  "Would you like chocolate cake for breakfast?"

LA:  "No!"

Me:  "Good.  Because I wasn't going to give it to you anyway."  (big hug)

Me:  "Okay, off to the Emerald City!"

LA: "No!"

Me:  "See you later, then.  Don't forget to tell Daddy happy birthday."

LA:  "No!"

Me:  "I love you."

LA:  "Meow."

And off she went.

Waddler B has been a hotbed of gossip recently.  Not only did we get a contrite letter from the little angel's main classroom teacher telling us (gasp!) she realized after her month-long vacation that she needed to get a full-time job, but also the carpets will be cleaned next week.  Oh, the drama.

The little angel's favorite teacher at Waddler B, S., has long, thick hair in brown and sometimes fushia, which is arranged high on her head in solid cornrows.  The little angel adores S.  She used to squeal in delight to see her even in the first few scared days at The Emerald City.  I suspect S. will take over for the main teacher - at least I hope so.  She seems to be the Elmo of The Emerald City, if you know what I mean.  The fact that I recently gave the little angel my childhood Cabbage Patch doll, which just happens to be African-American and with braided hair, only fuels the S.-adoration fire.

About a month ago, the little angel learned to blow kisses.  I can't really remember how.  I might have taught her, having something of a flair for the dramatic myself.  However, she's taught the others, and now any exit from Waddler B feels like the departure of a crazed, miniature Love Boat.  Not only do they make the motion, they make the noise.  MWAH!

Finally, the kitty shoes.  Ah, the garish kitty shoes that the little angel picked out herself.  THEY ARE TOO SMALL.  See how fast this happens?  We bought those at the end-of-summer sale, oh, a month ago?  I fear the day we will have to try to get her to wear something other than her kitties.  She LOVES her kitties.   Maybe I can find something equally hideous for fall. 

Speaking of that (oh, it is a rambling post), I have recently discovered the Joy of Ebay.  What with the kitty-growing-out-of and the opinions-on-clothing developments, it's hard to take the little angel into a store without her opinion (and oh, we have not developed her taste well yet).  If offered two cute things, she is satisfied to make the decision.  If offered a store full of the good, the bad and the ugly, she will become fixated on anything bearing kitties.  Even scary kitties wearing tiaras.  Plus, even with shipping, Ebay is unbelievably cheap, and there's the thrill of the chase.

MWAH!

On Sunday, my beloved and I got a babysitter with the intention of taking out our 1974 AMF Puffer (yet to be named, unfortunately).  Also unfortunately, we realized too late that we have not yet purchased for it a new drain plug (which we learned last year is a crucial part of the sailing experience).  However, by that point we already had the babysitter lined up and everything, so we decided to try canoeing instead.

We drove out to the lake, rented a canoe, had a small incident involving a spider and were blissfully paddling around the lake within an hour.  We rented the canoe for two hours, but after a half hour of exploring the perimeter of the smallish lake, we realized we had overestimated our interest in canoeing. 

In discussing the problem - for on the surface, it doesn't seem there is such a huge difference between canoeing and sailing - we determined that there is not as much SKILL involved in canoeing.  Once you've got the paddling part down, there's not a lot you can do to harness the power of the paddle other than push it.  And the floating isn't as fun, either.

Upon further examination, I realized that I myself am not a good floater.  I never have been.  If I'm floating, I will then also be examining some part of the floating experience, trying to determine if it can be improved upon.  As the water lapped against the side of the canoe, I stared at my beloved's back and fervently wished we had bought that dang drain plug .  I love to sail, but God, I hate to float.