When I was home, I stalked an author. I can become completely starstruck in the midst of a poet or a writer. This author had penned her own New Orleans story, which equally intrigued and irked me. I checked it out of the library in Gulf Shores and because I had to leave Brenner and his folks the next day, I bought it at Border's in Metairie, knowing I could complete it under the covers each night at my mom's house, wrap it, and present it to her Christmas morning. I also know that my mom will never read this entry because she has dial-up.

So, I didn't really stalk the author as much as I stalked her house. I nearly rolled over a couple and their twin babies as I searched each house on First Street. They were none-too- pleased with me. Neither was Kane, who asked repeatedly, "What are you looking for?" To which I responded, "You wanted to come with me, so hush."

I found the house, pulled over, and explained the game plan to Kane. He seemed cool with the plan, considering that earlier that week, we had also hunted for Eagle Street in Hollygrove to see the the 'hood of his new idol Lil Wayne.

I told Kane that we would nonchalantly stroll up and down the block and ever so subtly gaze over to perhaps catch a glimpse of the author. This contrasts considerably to over a decade back when I rang Betty White's doorbell to see if she would come out and talk to me, my sister, and the baby on my hip. We picked her because we figured she'd be the most accessible. Rose Nyland's naivete undoubtedly painting our perception.

Well, because that baby is now a full-fledge teenager, he stepped out of the car, jogged to the dead center of the author's house, and yelled back to me, "Is this the one? Is this the house where the author lives that you admire? This one? Mom, is this the one right here?" I jumped back into the car, mortified. He returned, smiling, then stopped smiling to gauge my reaction.

I yelled/laughed at him as he laughed/called me ridiculous.

Later that evening, I met up with a friend that I hadn't seen in fifteen years... thanks to Facebook. She hadn't changed a bit... still lovely and sweet. I was thrilled to see her and saddened that we've missed so much time together. Among other embarrassing reminders of our past, she informed me that her English and Creative Writing degrees aren't really needed in her nursing career. She attributes some of that lack of writing productivity to her unease with risk-taking. Is that what separates the stalked-author from the rest of us? How did she make it work? How does she get to live in that exquisite Greek Revival landmark Uptown?

Is that what separates the girl at Betty White's house from the woman who was set straight by her teenage son?

I didn't catch a glimpse of Julia Reed that day, and back on that whirlwind of a trip to Hollywood in the '90's, Betty White's housekeeper informed us that Mrs. White was busy and that we should come back some other time. Do you know we did? What gall! Of course, later, the same housekeeper reported that Mrs. White had left for an event and she was sorry that we didn't get to meet her and I'm sure she wanted to add, "Now get the hell out of here!" I don't really care that I didn't meet Betty White or that I didn't get to see Julia Reed. The highlights of both experiences lie elsewhere.

Resolution: Take more risks!