jaysaint Getting it all down on paper…

We got home yesterday from three days in New Orleans, where we celebrated the wedding of our dear friend Jason. If you knew him, you’d know how funny that last sentence seems.

Jason could be described as brusque. Also impulsive, loud, opinionated and quick tempered. Hard to believe how much I love him. The intensity of his loyalty is unmatched, he’s very funny and he knows his own weaknesses. And he found the woman who thinks that’s the right package for her.

Here is a transcript of the morning after their wedding, according to the groom:

Jason: I think we’ve made a huge mistake.
Jacki: You asshole.

The wedding was a dream, and the reception both glamorous and hilarious. My favorite people were the couple who danced like they were trying to keep their footing in rough seas. And my favorite moment was the Second Line. At the end of the night the bride came out carrying a huge white parasol, liberally festooned and fringed. The groom was wearing beads. They led a parade around the ballroom and everyone followed, waving handkerchiefs in the air. I didn’t really know what it all meant, but was swept away by the sentiment just the same.

Jason is a native to New Orleans, and his accent pegs him immediately. When Jacki finishes graduate school they have tentative plans to return. His mom just returned this month after a year in exile, as her house was under water. Probably the most wholely emotional moment of the weekend for me was when they did the groom/mom dance, which was to “Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans?”

I, myself, do love and miss New Orleans. I’ve been many times. I don’t claim to have any kind of insider knowledge of the city, but I can claim much affection. I generally bypass the wild drinking portion of the traditional trip and go right to walking tours of the Garden District and all the crawfish and oysters I can fit in my mouth. It’s a great walking city, which is my favorite way to see a place. I can wander contentedly for many days, and New Orleans has always offered me something great to point my face at, even if I did have to hold my nose too sometimes.

I didn’t get too far out of the French Quarter this time, as we were staying at the wedding site — The Monteleone on Royal. With all the activities (fittings, rehearsal, brunch) we were never far from an obligation. But the Quarter was definitely as empty as I’ve ever seen it. It wasn’t deserted, or even close to it. But I’m used to having to negotiate for sidewalk space and that definitely wasn’t the case. Some of that probably could be accounted for by the month. I wouldn’t guess many people plan to hit coastal Louisiana in the dead of summer. I shopped a little more aggressively than I am accustomed, in hopes of providing my own token boost to the shop keepers and restauranteurs.

To close on a shallow note: I found a boutique there and bought the most beautiful dress, which I wore to the wedding the next night. Damon was in his tux, and he looked very handsome. And to top it all off we killed on the dance floor. I will post a picture if/when our friends Marcus and Mary remember to email me the contents of their camera.

It’s been a trying time lately for a few peoiple close to us. It feels a little bit weird to me to write about these things, because I’m usually very forthcoming in my journal. But I’ll protect other people’s privacy better than I’ll protect my own.

In the past eight days we’ve seen someone through an abortion and someone else through an alcoholic relapse. Ultimately, all parties are going to be okay. (At least I hope so — it can be a little harder to say with a drinker).

But it’s a good reminder of how tissue-thin a happy life can be. And even if I’m happy and healthy, if someone close to me is not then I really can’t be either.

I hate anything that reminds me that there are some things I can’t fix through force of will. If there is any one element common to any and all successes I’ve ever had, it’s that I’m perfectly prepared to win by sheer force, and my life has taught me that that will almost always do the trick. But I can’t follow a person around all day every day knocking drinks out of his or her hand, even though I toy with the idea of how it might be done.

But, again, I believe both these stories are ultimately going to come out right.

And next weekend I get to go to New Orleans for a wedding. And that will be just pure joy. I can’t wait.

I’ve been flying a lot lately. I don’t love it, but I’m used to it and will do it with minimal complaining.

It’s not news to anyone that airlines have been contracting their schedules, which means every leg of every flight is overflowing. Usually.

Today I flew in my customary window seat. A woman came and took the middle seat. And I rejoiced when I saw that the person with the aisle seat was a no show.

Guess what the middle seat woman did.

Nothing.

Nothing.

She stayed in the middle seat.

I think that is BIZARRE behavior. Who does that? Who would ever do that?

Is she a robot? A freak? A demon?

Damon and I just walked down to Baskin Robbins to treat ourselves to a heat-defying treat.

I see a poster featuring special summer sundaes and say:
I’ll have the peanut butter pie sundae

Guy behind the counter: What kind of ice cream do you want?

Me: Um, doesn’t it come with peanut butter ice cream?

G: It comes with any kind you want.

M: Do you have peanut butter ice cream?

G: No

M: What else comes on that sundae?

G: Whatever topping you want, plus whipped cream, walnuts and a cherry.

M: Walnuts?

G: Yeah

M: So, I can order my peanut butter pie sundae with strawberry ice cream and hot fudge?

G: Yeah

M: And walnuts, whipped cream and a cherry. Anything else?

G: No, that’s it.

M: Okay, that’s what I’ll have then.

I got back to New York at 6am this morning, after having spent the weekend with a huge group of passionate, intelligent, funny, radical, provocative women bloggers. What a treat. Usually when I’m told that I “get to” attend a conference I sigh a little sigh of the inevitable. I do love room service. But generally I reach critical mass of stranger contact far faster than the day’s events end. (Which is not to say I didn’t skip one part of one session to hide in the back of the parking lot and suck up a few chapters of a pure-pulp novel I’d taken along.)

I got to have a chat with blog rock star Dooce. You may not know who she is, but in San Jose this weekend she was as close as it got to Keith Richards. She’s delightful, and seems sincerely a little confounded by the adoration she inspires. If you haven’t read her, do yourself the favor.

I also got to reminisce with Arianna Huffington about the fact that she was a guest on the very last show I produced on CNN. She did indeed remember, because it was the show where Ben Stein flipped her off, live, and then stormed off. Oh, and Sarah Ferguson (the Dutchess of York) was there as well. And I had a guest host who was holding on by a thread already. Poor Arianna took it like a champ, and last night she held my hand, looked deeply into my eyes and purred, “That wasn’t your fault.” Truthfully, I never thought it was. I will stand by my assessment that it was a 100% unpredictable event perpetrated by BEN STEIN of all people. But that doesn’t change the fact that there was no surface in the control room under which I did not wish to crawl. Arianna is still a very active captain of The Huffington Post and she told us that they’re going to add a lot of lifestyle blogs to round out the political stuff come this fall.

If I had all day I couldn’t list all the other cool women I met. There was the tattoo’d and punky woman who is a nurse for the criminally insane in an Atlanta prison, the 16-year-old girls who do a science podcast, the woman who makes her living running 17 individual blogs, the woman who runs Mighty Good… And that’s just off the top of my jet-lagged head.

I left with a new commitment to acquaint myself with the virtual versions of these women, and to join the conversation rather than to just lurk. I’m going to start just as soon as I sleep for about 20 hours.

And ps — To the toddler who kicked my seat from San Jose to Philadelphia: I hate hate hate you!