Dispatches from Storyville
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We Can’t Return, We Can Only Look Back from Where We Came
–Joni Mitchell I am, at long last, back on my bullshit. If it wasn’t exceedingly obvious, I was in a dark place the last time I wrote here. I’d been searching for a full-time job in one of my fields (broadly, nonprofit communications, fundraising, and event planning) for going on two years. I’d had a
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When Her Birthday Comes
Tomorrow (the 13th) is my birthday. My 48th birthday, to be exact. Today marks three years since I sat in the orange leather chair in the living room of our sweet little cottage in Shreveport and listened to my (now) ex-husband enumerate the many ways he felt I had failed him and our two children.
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Runs in the Family
(Trigger warning: Vegans, beware. Lots of, uh, shall we say, “farm-to-table”-type meat talk ahead.) The lack of a very specific type of impulse control, it would seem, runs in my family. Because we’re not all genetically related to one another (my mother, for example, has no biological connection to my brothers’ half-brother), I must assume
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Home Alone
I’m bad at titles, OK? Just ask any editor I’ve ever had. In this writer’s humble opinion, thinking up catchy titles should be in someone else’s job description. You want me to birth the baby AND give it a name? Has no one except me heard of delegating responsibilities? My therapist would say that bit
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Squared Away
Getting a blog post out this week has been hard. Charlotte and her younger daughter move next week, and I start a new part-time job (!) two days before they do. Add in a full schedule of classes and life in 2025 (Jesus, just this WEEK), and I have been struck with the worst anxiety
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Memento mori
Lately, I’ve been contemplating why, exactly, it’s so important to me to live in New Orleans. Unfortunately, this is something I’ve had to give a lot of thought lately. The federal attack on transgender rights, along with those in the legislatures of Louisiana, Texas, and just about every other Southern state have made it necessary
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La Tricoteuse
Neither the threat of a looming recession nor monthly economic blackouts can keep a real clothes horse down, so, at the start of Mardi Gras Break, I committed to doing less doomscrolling and more sewing. In addition to keeping my wardrobe nice and full, sewing calms my mind in a way even writing can’t. Writing
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On Perspective
A few days ago, Charlotte came across this quote by Toni Morrison and sent it to me. Authoritarian regimes, dictators, despots are often, but not always, fools. But none is foolish enough to give perceptive, dissident writers free range to publish their judgments or follow their creative instincts. They know they do so at their
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The Cure
The past couple of weeks have tested my ability to manage my course load, writing, working (or trying to), my contributions to The Resistance, my commitment to overdressing, cultivating community/a social life, and, most importantly, being a mom. There’s obviously the challenge of being present in Harper and Truman’s lives when I live six hours
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Spare Parts
Let me preface this: I’m not saying anything supernatural is happening here, but I’m not not saying that, either. But when I wish for things, sometimes the Universe cranks it up to 11. For instance, I feel mildly responsible for the current state of…<gestures wildly at everything>. You see, even as a wee Phelan, I
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Excellence
Your grammy, your aunty, your momma, your mammyI’ll take those flannel zebra jammies, secondhand, and rock that motherfuckerThe built-in onesie with the socks on that motherfuckerI hit the party and they stop in that motherfuckerThey be like, “Oh that Gucci, that’s hella tight”I’m like, “Yo, that’s 50 dollars for a t-shirt” Limited edition, let’s do
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Lavender Haze
Restarting this blog has been a balm to my soul, especially these days when, you know…<gestures wildly at everything>. When the chips are really, truly down in my life, there are only three things for it: Aaron Neville singing Ave Maria on repeat, cookies dunked in liquor (e.g., Oreos and whiskey – don’t knock it
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Go Time
When I say I’m trying to take my writing to the next level, I’m not playing – I am going to take this thing as far as I possibly can before I die. That may never be much further than this blog, and I would never presume to know what life has in store for
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The Resurrection of Woman
I don’t believe in coincidences. Wise words from a wise man greeted me this morning as I rolled into one of my favorite coffee shops to write. I’ve wanted to restart the blog for a few months, but I’ve struggled mightily with how, exactly, to do so. So much has happened that catching you up
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Warrior Women
I can’t speak for everyone, but I suspect most of us have little lies we tell ourselves in order to get through difficult situations. I know I do. For instance, when I’m in a room full of really intimidatingly attractive people (given that I’m a deeply introverted and committed homebody, this happens to me significantly
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Beautifully Absurd
Fourteen years ago, I landed what was, at the time, one of my dream jobs: theatre critic for my local newspaper, the Shreveport Times. My tenure lasted only about a year – after I married The Guy, who, at the time, acted frequently in community theatre productions, the editor of the paper felt I could
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Going Boldly
Last night, Charlotte told me she prefers Star Wars to Star Trek. I would’ve rather she punched me directly in the face. In fact, I told her so. As a lifelong Trekkie, this revelation was far worse than finding out she likes McDonald’s McRib and powdered coffee creamer. Growing up in rural East Texas, my
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The Legs
Earlier this week, I took my 7-year-old son, Truman, who’s on Spring Break, for a quick, three-day holiday in New Orleans. I realized on the drive down that it was my first time traveling alone with one of the kids, and, I’m happy to say, it went even better than I hoped it would. We
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Life 2.0
If my memory is correct (and it probably isn’t), it’s been about a decade since last I blogged without getting paid to do so. To those who are reading me (whew, just said a mouthful there) for the first time, that statement means nothing, but to the homies, The Peanut Gallery, the O.G.s…that’s insane. Unthinkable.
Dispatches from Storyville 