What happens in Vegas...

Lucky for me, I lived in Louisiana with rivers and Indian reservations galore, at any place in the state whether I was at home or school I was never more than an hour away from a casino in any direction.
I pictured the glistening lights, the Las Vegas style water falls. But the first sight of the game room told me this wasn’t Oceans 11 and I wouldn’t be running into Brad or George any time soon.
Breaking through the wall of smoke made my lungs pause a little completely unused to the atmosphere. I kept my money safely in my purse and decided to watch for a little while.
Nothing happens in small numbers here. As people lay down paychecks at a time, I couldn’t help but feel pity for the thousands here who spend every last dollar they had waiting for the dice to land on black 13. I wondered about whether there families know or have tried to stop them. Or if they were a few tables down losing even more money.
To many people the casino is a way to free money, but if it was casinos would have gone bankrupt and wouldn’t be multiplying by the hour. And it always seems that no matter how much you win, the gambler in us won’t allow stopping after a big hand. In the typical words of a casino goer “I was up by ____ much, then I lost it.” They go in with such hope that they will walk out richer than they walked in. And the reasons they are trying to make money are all noble. Maybe a child needs braces, or the rent check is due. Those lights are mesmorizing. My friend Matt told me on this first trip that they constructed the casinos so that getting into them was easy but leaving was a bit more difficult. It was like a maze trying to leave, which I guess casino owners figured might ensure a few extra dollars each night. Now the race track ... that's a whole nother story.

An apple a day...

I said I’d do it and I did it. My last weekend in Philly and my aunt threw out several ideas of what we could do. When I heard apple picking my mind immediately jumped to my list. I was gonna get a chance to do it.
At Linvilla Orchards all was well on the farm. We had reached our destination. But where were the apple trees? All I saw were these tall bushes, nothing I had remembered from hearing stories of Johnny Appleseed. My aunt commented “Weren’t you the one who used to draw the apple trees with big trunks and oversized green leaves with apples in the trees?” Sure enough it was me. Because that’s how apples grew, right?
Like a kid finding out Santa Claus didn’t exist, I realized I wouldn’t need a ladder to reach these apples or a bucket to plop them into. But we persevered and picked apples (from bushes) to our hearts content.
So American, the apple. So many different kinds: yellow, green, dark red, light red. We found the most beautiful bunch of red apples and picked some only to turn them around to find the other side completely yellow. Aunt Jan called them sun-kissed. I liked that. I couldn’t believe that this little apple could change in nature and not be controlled by something else forcing it to be a solid red or green.
Then I realized this is where all my store bought foods come from anyway. We took them home along with some corn and raspberries and killed a few cobs moments after arriving home. There I realized that farm days haven’t come and passed. We aren’t eating space food or fed through tubes. I think the process was much like watching a baby being born. You know it happens everyday but you still see it as such a miracle. And that day my miracle was a sun-kissed apple.

Self-fulfilling prophecy

In the shallowest form of news possible, celebrity gossip rags have terrorized Britney Spears and, I believe, driven her to behavior beyond even her realm of normalcy. Everyday there is some new crazy episode that happened to her to read about. “You can’t make this stuff up” they say. That’s true you can’t. But how big of a role does the media play in making things happen? Ten years ago Britney had a pretty pristine image. Just like Lindsay Lohan and so many others. I honestly think the media should leave her alone and let her get her life together. They have to know how much effects they’re having on Britney.
The next generation’s good girl, Miley Cyrus, got a taste of the criticism. No, she wasn’t caught in a cat fight or driving drunk, she was riding in a car with her dad sans seatbelt. Really? Am I really reading a story about Miley Cyrus’ image being corrupted because she didn’t buckle up? Don’t get me wrong, wearing a seatbelt is important but these new sources are obviously scrounging for any dirt they can find. Could Miley Cyrus really be shaving her head and strapped to a gurney in ten years? Right now it seems unheard of but I’m sure living a big brotheresque life with constant cameras could change anyone.
But what about the real media? All around the country, the focus is on a sinking housing market but Lafayette was doing pretty well. Hard to tell though when national stories constantly drive a point of a terrible market. The Lafayette area is now seeing a slump of its own. Why? Because people believe the national news about the market. And though local stories attempt to cover the truth about local markets maybe it’s just not enough to combat the constant national market slump coverage.
I call it all self-fulfilling prophecy. Who knew the media had so much sway in the history of our country? The next step I believe is to address recession scares. It may not just be a scare anymore but burying our country in this news only puts more fear in their heads. How about instead of talking about how bad it is talk about the steps to alleviate it? I have always believed that the media’s job is to tell the story, but our other job is to know what story to tell, why, how and when.

Interview with the President

I have interviewed hundreds of people. I have even had the opportunity to interview a pro-football player, a reality show finalist, an ABC network producer and our new governor but there is one interview that I would love to get. It’s not an interview with our current president. (These responses are usually very mechanical and filled with plenty of phrases you could probably write yourself and he’d assume you interviewed him anyway.)
I want to interview the president a week after he ends his term. As of this moment, no one really cares what the former president thinks about the economy and what to do to fix it. I want to know how much he slept at night. From what I hear it’s about 3 hours. I want to know if it’s a relief to be done. Do you constantly feel unliked though you have received the most recognizable role in our society? How do you memorize so many speeches? Or know so much information on every nationwide topic? How much pressure do you really feel to change our economy or education? Do you have a constant fear of assassination attempts? I know I would. And what will you do now? This four (and sometimes eight) year job seems to pack a lifetime of work into a very small amount of time. Does he want to retire? A recent trip to Dallas answered one of my questions. I drove through neighborhood the president has planned to move to once his term ends. The streets are peaceful. And nothing like the White House’s surroundings. Old cars of the yardworkers line the streets while the BMW’s are hidden in the garage. It reminded me of the streets in Home Alone. Grand houses but seemingly normal lives.
It would hurt to also find out about the dozen or so presidential hopefuls that have already retreated for the vote. What do you do after a presidential bid? You have supposedly a dozen of the smartest minds in our nation and 11 of them wont even be used for the role intended. So where are they now?

SWF seeks the City

If you have ever been to New York, I am sure you remember the first sight of the city. It’s so much more than what you ingested from countless episodes of Sex and the City but at the same time you feel like you’ve been there before. My first trip ended a summer which I considered to be independent and life-changing. An internship at a magazine in Philadelphia took me 1300 miles from home and seemed to hurdle me across the barrier into my adulthood. Now the summer at a close, I was going to hop on my first train and meet family in New York City and celebrate my 21st birthday. Trains seem so antiquated to me. It took me to a decade I have only learned about in history books. I felt like Mary Tyler Moore as I trucked up the underground stairs into the city for the first time. I was independent and ready for adventure. But I had no hat to throw. The city was tall, at least taller than I imagined it to be. It made me feel minuscule and child-like. After standing in awe for a few seconds, I regrouped. I wouldn’t let myself look like a tourist. I think the suitcases and Phillies t-shirt gave it away though. The masses whipped around me like the wind, never staying around long enough to really experience it but I felt it rush by so I knew it was there. The street names were more familiar than many I would find in my own hometown. Park and 5th Avenue. Madison. Time Square. The intoxicating smell was a mixture of food and garbage. And I couldn’t get enough of it. Why did it matter that I was finally standing on this particular blacktop? Or staring at a certain brick and mortar? It didn’t make me different. But it did. There is a certain spirit in New York. One of struggles, victories but never complacency. Few New Yorkers were born but many were transplanted to the city to find exactly what they couldn’t find somewhere else. The options are endless. If you are bored with being a broker on Wall Street, you’re only a few streets away from Broadway. If you’re tired of American cuisine, there's a Greek restaurant two doors down. You don’t have to settle for less because more is usually snapping at your heels. Maybe this blacktop is different because New York is seen as the pinnacle. The phrase “if you can make it here you can make it anywhere” must have stemmed from this idea. You only “arrive” once you reach New York and until then, your simply in purgatory waiting for your turn. But some people only needed a visit to quench that hunger. When I left the city a few days later, I was ready. I had gotten what I needed. Like a much needed pep talk, I took the feeling with me. It was my encouragement to not settle for complacency. And any time I forget I just remember the smell of food and garbage.

Sweet Philly

I have the sweetest memories of Philadelphia. To be exact, it was Wallingford, PA, a suburb of Philadelphia. I spent the summer of '06 there expecting no humidity and fall-like temperatures but was surprised to find the weather near my South Louisiana humidity. Nights were cooler but days were noticeably the same. Every morning I would wake up, close my window and gaze at the sunflowers in the garden that sprouted taller than the first story. My aunt told me that sunflowers “slept” too and would bend toward the sun. And every night their heads would droop to the ground. I’d fix a bowl of cereal while watching hummingbirds outside the screen door. Then I’d sit down with my breakfast and the Philadelphia Inquirer. Some days I would run. In this neighborhood each side the street was identical with the other. Driveways were directly across the street from a perfect replica of the same home. Colors and shutters varied but I had never seen anything like this in Louisiana. An hour later I would walk out the front door and through the picket fence and head to the city. Once on the interstate I was in city gear. You really have to be when you drive in big cities. The homeless man, Steve, and the IKEA I passed every day were stark reminders I wasn't in Wallingford anymore. Parallel parking on the street was always an adventure. Is it Thursday? No parking on the right side of the street. The street sweeper passed that day. Up the steps and into the brownstone with magazine covers draping the wall. Upstairs surrounding my desk were beauty samples and soon-to-be published books. I’d pick up a quick lunch at Wawa or the sandwich shop a few blocks down depending on if I were in heels. Returning home after my commute was the biggest relief from a busy day and quite the contrast. Dixie, the black Labrador would greet me at the door while my cousins Grace and Ryan would do crafts sometimes listening to the Beatles. I’d drop my purse and head to the kitchen to chat with Aunt Jan about the day and help prepare dinner. Dinners were different in the North. Hot meals and stove use were a winter thing. You only used the AC if necessary so you didn’t intentionally heat the house by cooking. I’d help chop vegetables or fruit for dessert. Ryan would make everyone a glass of water and Grace would set out utensils. Everything was new here in Pennsylvania. The North in general made me feel like I was in another country. Icees and snoballs were no where to be found, but the closest thing I could find was a snoball’s cousin, the gelatti. Towns were two miles wide instead of 30 miles long. Our daily routine gave me something to look forward to. A sense of recognition in an unrecognizable place. Once dinner was ready, which was usually about the time Uncle Gerry got home from work, we sat down to eat. Uncle Gerry blessed the food and then entertained us with history of Philadelphia like the Mummers Parade or stories from his childhood. He even educated me on things I never knew about Louisiana. After cleaning the table, my Uncle Gerry, Ryan and I would watch the Phillies game. I had always been a big fan of the sport but after the summer of nightly games I learned more math from stats than I had ever learned in schooling. Ryan would usually have to go to bed before the game was over. And Uncle Gerry would head to his room, too. Ryan would perch on the stairs and ask me the score of the game. Or I’d run up and tell him when they had a safe lead so he could sleep peacefully. After I reveled in a win or moped over a loss, I went to my room. I would thank God for such a day. Each day like the last. Some differences, but all a blessing just the same.

Pull yourself together

There are so many realizations we make throughout our life, but when asked we probably wouldn’t remember the moment we realized it or where you were sitting when you suddenly “got it.” The day I realized I could keep my composure in a tough situation was not one of these. I remember the day vividly.
It was during high school. My parents decided to finally let us stay home alone for a few nights. This was a big step in growing up. And I hate to admit it, but I wasn’t sure I was ready.
So with my parents away, my sister and I asked a friend of ours to sleep over, with adult consent of course. We had a good time hanging out for a while, then my sister Natalie decided to go take a bath. It was a mere few minutes later that Natalie called from upstairs saying she couldn’t turn the water off. I know what your thinking, “turn the other way.” Trust me, I mentioned it. But when I got up stairs to turn the knob, assuming all it needed was some brute force from a body-builder like me, I found for myself that it wouldn’t turn off… So when the handle fell off, you can imagine the situation we found ourselves in. With the handle off, water, being very fluid and all, projected itself into many other directions. So we began to do what any good Tanner daughter would do. Clean it up before neat-freak Danny sees. Full House fans, please appreciate my reference. The episode where D.J. is old enough to watch Stephanie and Michelle, upstairs mind you, they find themselves in a similar situation having to save the bathroom from flooding. So I unplugged the drain to alleviate some of the pressure and grabbed pans. These are the survival tips television teaches us. My friend and I began to scoop water out of the bathtub and into the efficiently working sink. This was working. However, I didn’t think I would last until my parents made it home a few days later. And then I heard a yell and the flood gates opened…literally. I ran downstairs to the living room to find a waterfall of bath water raining from the ceiling right above where the tub sat. My sister’s reaction was tears. I did what any sitcom character would do. I slapped her around a little and said “Pull yourself together woman. Stop crying.” I barked orders like a drill sergeant. This place wasn’t going to go down on my watch. A friend, well-educated in the art of water pipes and armed with a device that could turn the water off finally managed to shut down the water system. A pretty successful first night home alone if I do say so myself. A little soggy but we at the very least we had followed the folks' number one rule. "Don't burn the house down."