Mornings

Jordo and I both have to be at work by 8 a.m. so we get up and get ready at about the same time.

He takes a shower, shaves, and puts on a pressed suit.

I roll out of bed (easy because it's the low air mattress), yawn, find the dirtiest clothes I have, ignore all make-up, and stick on a baseball cap.

Then we leave the house, The Dirtbag and The Lawyer.

Yes, my work down here doesn't require much in terms of personal appearance. I have gone days without blow drying my hair, at least a week without a hint of make-up. Instead of showering before work, I shower after, when I'm covered in dust and grime. Instead of going to an office, I travel to different locations every day. I'm never quite sure what kind of work I'll be doing: could be knocking down walls, could be pulling up floor boards, could be general clean up of someone's trashed yard.

But you can guarantee I'll be wearing ill fitting clothes, (I had a rule during my pre-trip shopping venture at thrift stores: No more than a $1 for tshirts, no more than $3 for pants. As you can imagine, these guidelines have led to some interesting ensembles. The one word that consistently describes me? H.O.T. I have to beat off the male admirers with my faithful crowbar.) I always wear a baseball cap. I spend 90 percent of my day wearing leather gloves and a dust mask that covers most of my face.

It's just ... funny. It's so different.

Yet also similar. As with any job, I've developed favorites and routines. But I never thought I'd be telling you I had a favorite crowbar. (I do.) I have a preferred shovel. (I call him "Pointy," as in, "Are you using Pointy? That's my shovel. Find one of your own.") If given a choice between taking out tile or pulling out walls, I'm going to go walls every time. (I generally hate tile. Hate, hate, hate it. Much of it sticks and requires Herculean strength to remove. One day, we were getting killed by the tile because it just wouldn't come up and as my friend was about to give in, I inspired her with, "Don't let the tile win." Tile and terrorists, terrible.) (Oh, and sometimes, tile is a little dangerous, as in, "I could kill you." : In one house we were gutting, we got through two separate layers of kitchen tile to find a third. We started the prying. Then someone turned the tile over and it said, "Asbestos tile," because apparently, that's how you made tile back in the day. One friend said, "One fiber of this and you'll have cancer in 5 to 10 years." We stopped working on that house. I think it has to be classified as toxic now.) I love swinging a hammer and having the pieces of wall pile up by my feet. I enjoy shoveling them out of the house and into a wheel barrow or a garbage can.

Before I left the Inky, I'd been having pains in my hands, probably from too much typing, they told me. Now, I sometimes suffer from what I call "Hammer Hand." You can get it from holding a hammer all day. My right hand frequently catches HH. I try to balance things out, giving the left hand a shot at breaking things, but that doesn't last for long. (The joke is that I'm going to go home with really buff arms. Or arm, as my right arm gets all the work out. I'm going to be walking into bars and restaurants right side first. All photos must be taken from the right.)

At the Inky, at the end, I felt mentally battered. Here, I am physically battered. My arms and legs are covered with cuts and bruises. It's really quite gross. I know I bruise easily, but this is just ridiculous. One friend said to me, "People are going to think Jordan beats you." I said, "Have you met me? Have you met Jordan?"

She should see us in the morning.

Oh, and before I sign off: For those who don't read The Times Picayune, check out our latest media star:
http://www.nola.com/news/t-p/metro/index.ssf?/base/news-20/1173422078209920.xml&coll=1