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I received an email a few days ago from a friend who said she wants nothing more than to come visit me but only if I turn up the music, open the car doors and dance in the streets. Decades ago, I found out a classmate referred to me as “that tappy footed” girl. A colleague from back when sent me a note that she misses me dancing on tables. Night before last, we rolled to a stop sign and jumped out of the car and sang Valerie while we danced in the streets.

I have a basic need to dance that is deeply rooted in me. I come from a family of dancers. Maybe it’s our Sephardic roots. Don’t know. But I do know dancing is the nearest I’ve come to nirvana and without it my life would be too, well, still.

Every drop of news I read is more talk about just how bad this recession is and how this the worse one yet. But how much of this is media mumbo and what are we supposed to do about it in our own little worlds? I’ve been going out to restaurants because we have guests visiting us – truthfully the meals we have had at home have all been superior to any of the restaurant dining we’ve done – but interestingly enough the restaurants are full. I asked one waiter if they were seeing any signs of a recession and he said, January was slow but now things are like they always are.

Was speaking with a friend about what provokes anxiety in a relationship. He thought it is when the couple is at odds with the individual. I think it is more that like most things, there is an ebb and flow to love that occurs between two people and that all parties need to be represented. There are three separate entities – the individuals and the relationship – each vying for its own space to thrive in.

Ideally, we can overcome our own ticks to accommodate the greater rewards that come from sometimes yielding the individual to the relationship.

I wrote the other day about how email and its viral messaging helped capture a couple of criminals in the hood. The speed at which information was going around surpassed anything the Times Picayune or Channel 4 news could deliver. Then this week, a couple was on their way to a Mardi Gras parade, something their neighbor knew because she read it on their Facebook page, and so when she saw a strange man jumping the fence to their yard, she instantly called the police and the emails went in full motion and text messages were sent to the couple and then many police showed up with the canine unit and chased the perp and caught him! Seems he has a rap sheet that’s pretty long.

Now that is the new reality – text, email and Facebook saved the day – that and a neighbor.

My gal Barbie and I are both turning 50 this year and so isn’t it perfect that stopping in at the Blue Nile the other night we stumbled across Cree’s beautiful designs and there waiting for me in all her glory was my Mardi Gras costume – Barbie in a red queen gown with a ruby tiara and a scepter on a hat. Now how perfect is that I might ask you? T bought it for me as my Mardi Gras costume and now she will have to be Ken – and it looks like she wants the Jon Bon Jovi gay looking Ken to emulate.

Speaking of which, my birthday itself falls on Jazz Fest and guess who is playing on my birthday – you got it – Jon Bon Jovi himself – the prince of hot! But more interestingly to this woman is the fact that another woman is playing Jazz Fest this year who I will be standing in the front row for and that is Emmylou Harris herself – the one, the only.

So get out the hats and balloons – it’s the 40th anniversary of Jazz Fest, the 50th birthday of Rachel and Barbie, and the days of wine and roses are just getting started.

As I mentioned before, we are hosting our Croatian friends and trying to show them New Orleans in as many ways as we can slice and dice it and yet, sitting at the Phoenix last night chatting with a friend who kept asking did you do this, did you do that, you’d think we haven’t shown them diddly.

All I know is today I ate a large bowl of kale and collard greens and drank a ton of water trying to detox. Later in the afternoon I walked Loca around the bayou and overheard this woman walking in front of me with her partner say, “Green leafy vegetables is supposed to speed up your metabolism.” Is that right?

The astronaut diet starts on Friday morning and truth to tell, I can’t wait! Getting dressed is getting to be a royal pain as all my clothes are too tight. Take your protein pills and put your helmet on! Can you hear me Major T?

Last night after our friend made us the BEST LASAGNA I HAVE EVER TASTED, and some delicious red wine, we decided to rally to take them out on the nonstop New Orleans tour. We put on wigs – I wore blonde and T wore pink – and got dolled up and went to the Spotted Cat with our boys to hear the Jazz Vipers. It was perfect for our Croatian guys who smoke nonstop to stand there watching these six guys play music with cigarettes dangling from their mouths.

But wait there’s more.

Then we headed to Phoenix for a little S&M on film and introduction to our own NOLA leather bar on Elysian Fields. Sometimes you just have to drop in to see what condition your condition is in and our condition has been precariously exhausted but a hot bubble bath had helped to revive me earlier. We ran into another friend there and told him we were acting tour guides and were rallying for our friends as well as getting all adult spontaneity out before we become largely housebound.

The tour continues tonight as one of our boys celebrates his birthday in typical New Orleans food and wine indulgent fashion. Next stop, Dick & Jenny’s.

Before I moved into the LaLa a bird flew into one of the windows and died on the side porch. Freaked me out but M came by and picked the bird up and disposed of it without flinching. Then when the house was almost finished, the 11 foot windows had gone up in the office and a bird flew smack into one and dropped on the shed roof overhang of the downstairs porch. Again, S was here and he jumped over and knocked the bird down to the ground and disposed of it. Yesterday, a bird flew smack into the east facing window – the one that looks at the bayou – and now it is lying belly up next to the gargoyle that sits there. And there is no one, and no way, to get to the bird.

So for two days, I’ve come up to my office and been horrified to find the bird is still there. And when I took a shower outside, I saw feathers sprinkled around, and thought, oh horror, what to do?

But I was thinking about the portents of dead animals. A squirrel that fell from a tree on Perrier and Napoleon and circled three times before dying that signaled a return to San Francisco. A series of three dead birds in the mid 90s that warned of miscarriages one, two and three. And now the house has been christened by a trio of songbirds colliding with the outer shell. Death always symbolizes birth. Perhaps that is why I dreamt of my pregnant friend’s water breaking and again of beginnings and endings.

Three little birds.

Took the boys down River Road to see the plantations or at least those still standing. Between New Orleans and the plantations lies a chemically altered landscape of oil refineries that has removed bucolic from the description and replaced it with horrific. Yes, and some people call it home, but still. Nonetheless, I’m sure we can all think back to the plantations as horrific as well.

We stopped at Destrehan but didn’t go on the tour, then we went to San Francisco Plantation where the staff was so weird, we decided to mosey on before they charged us for breathing. $10 to look and use the bathroom. Then we ended up crossing the river and stopping at Oak Alley – the only plantation you actually need to go to.

On the tour, we learned about the family, the lifestyle, the deaths and marriages of all the people who lived in the big mansion, but we heard zilch, squat, nothing about the people who ran the plantation (aka the slaves). You’d think in this day and age maybe the narrative might include that part of the story.

The last time I was at Oak Alley, I recall a young woman walking up and speaking to the group as if she had marbles in her mouth so poor was her diction. She ended up being our docent. Now that is horrific. Today, our docent was much improved, even if the narrative was not.

We started Sunday morning with the breakfast of champions – grits and grillades and scrambled eggs and biscuits and bloody marys and mimosas. Then we loaded up and headed to Barkus for the annual dog parade. This was the 17th year and we got a good spot in front of Good Friends where Angela Hill was the MC and the entire court had to stop and pirouette in front of the cameras. This year wasn’t as good as last in terms of floats and creative themes but the day was pleasant and for our friends from Croatia, it was still a spectacle to behold.