Life in the Land of Dreamy Dreams

I never written anything about my lovely neighbor, Miss Margaret, even though I’ve thought about it often enough.

 Thought? Fumed. Ranted, more like.

 But in the end I haven’t said anything to anyone who isn’t from here, because… well, because there are already enough people who believe New Orleanians  in general are on the take. Unsubstantiated rumors about FEMA checks going to strip clubs aside, it’s been my experience that the opposite is the case- there are thousands of people who really needed the aid and couldn’t get it.  

 And then there’s Margaret. The exception that proves the rule.

Before the storm I’d never spoken to her except to wave and smile a little uneasily when she passed by, walking toward her decrepit house with her ancient Walkman, screaming to herself in a bizarre singsong. When I moved in I was  warned by another neighbor to “Stay away from that crazy voodoo bitch- she’s nasty.”

I don’t know about the voodoo part, but it does turn out she’s crazy like a fox.

She was one of the first people I ran into when we returned, and she tore into me right away. “You think you got friends,” she howled, “you think you got neighbors, but then everybody leaves you to DIE!”  Well, no, not exactly. Several of us got together before the storm and did a status check- we knew that everybody on the block was leaving- even her. Margaret’s daughter was coming in from the ‘burbs to pick her up.

Her house, which would’ve been imploded if somebody sneezed, naturally collapsed in Katrina’s winds.

Don’t get me wrong- that’s awful. Just not exactly unforeseen.

And the theatre of Miss Margaret began. She dragged MSNBC, Fox News, Time magazine all out to her house. She sobbed, clutched her bosom, flung herself around dramatically…and then asked “Did you get that? Should I do it again?”

She Home Depot donated all the required materials to rebuild the entire house. She got housewares and clothing from Target. She got a free place to stay from a church group. And she got money. Oh, did she get money. Insurance money. FEMA money. Donations, you name it.

 But still, no work was going on. And then one day last summer, there was a little fire sale out of her house. All that stuff she was given got sold. Sheetrock. Tools still in boxes. Shingles.

She announced that she’d been approved for Road Home money and all that was going in her pocket, too. Some home makeover show was going to fix her house for free, and all she had to do was be dramatic.

I’d had about enough. We emailed the makeover shows telling them they were going to look like idiots if they bought her line of crap. We did more research, and found some interesting things like this YouTube video some kids made, trying to help her. They were raising money for poor Miss Margaret- we emailed them, called them, telling them that they’d been duped, but it’s still up.

 I’ll post it even though makes my skin crawl…she lays it on thick, but then I guess she’s had a lot of practice.

 We live in the Irish Channel. We were exceptionally lucky. We did not flood. Not. One. Inch. The only conceivable way she could’ve had 11 feet of water in her house is if she left the upstairs tap running. 

Well, work began a few months ago, though no filming was in evidence. An unbelievable amount of crap came out of that house, including no fewer than 6 ancient computers, and two full sized video arcade games, but it looks habitable again.

And indeed, it must be, because suddenly, this appeared on the front of the house and gave me apoplexy- enough to sit here and subject you to this long-ass post.

Can ya read it? Click it to see for a larger view, but here it is, verbatim.

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