Attention shoppers

It's that time of year again... the turkey is thawing, the cupboard is stuffed with delicious food waiting to be turned into late November nirvana, and the table is covered with battleplans so detailed they put Macarthur to shame. Black Friday (or Thursday, for some of my more unfortunate friends) is here again. As a retail employee, I encourage you to get out and shop if you enjoy it, to have fun with your family and friends, and I hope you score big. But I also hope you keep the following in mind as you spend your money this holiday season:

1. Please remember that retail employees are people too. Just like you, we have families waiting for us at home. That person standing in front of you is a lot more than just a corporate name. He may be pulling a second job to put his daughter through college, or maybe she's just trying to earn money to guarantee a nice Christmas. It may be that kid's first real job, ever, or maybe he's balancing finals at school with a holiday work load. We could be your mom, your dad, your sister, your brother, or your child. Please treat us the way you'd want them to be treated.

2. It's been a really long day. Maybe the store just opened, but considering I worked until after 11pm closing- it still feels like one big, long day to me. We're going to be tired. Our feet will hurt. We'll miss lunches, breaks might be non-existant, and trying to fight our way through the crowds for a bathroom break? Inconcievable. But every time we're going to do our best to give you a big smile and ask how we can help YOU. Do us all a favor- smile back. That's it- just smile back. You'd be surprised at the difference it can make.

3. I promise, we're not plotting against you. We're not trying to hose you. We can not control the fact that we only received a small number of the hot deal that you wanted and that you missed out on. I am not the person who put in that order... heck, my manager didn't even put in that order. Those numbers were predetermined before you had your maps and lists made, or your special t-shirts designed. Take a deep breath. Listen to our other suggestions. You may find that it's better than what your initial plan was. And those accessory items that we mention? We're not just trying to get more of your money, and it's not because we're forced to... we KNOW what will make that product work the best. We get to play with this stuff ALL the time. We know what works and what doesn't.

4. What day is it? Is it Black Friday? Then understand that quantities are limited, and there's nothing we can do about that. I totally understand that you didn't want to camp out for two days to get that television- truly, I do. But the day is what the day is. Play the game if you want to score. Same goes for those few days before Christmas. Waiting until December 22nd brings to mind a saying my grandma used to say- "You get what you get, and you don't pitch a fit." Can I suggest a giftcard for the total amount plus tax along with a printout of that item we've been out of for a week and a half?

5. Have you ever heard the phrase "you'll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar"? Well, you'll get me to help you a whole lot faster and with a whole lot more determination if you treat me with respect. Calling me names, rolling your eyes, and insinuating that because I am working rather than shopping means I'm somehow less than doesn't exactly make me want to unleash the bevy of tricks I've learned over the years. Sometimes I *can* make magic happen... please give me a reason to.

6. But sometimes I can't. And I'm sorry. Sometimes that product is simply NOT available, and there's nothing I can do to make it happen. And I really, really am sorry.

7. Yes, we price match. Aggressively, even. That does not mean you get to name your own price, I don't care what that article on AOL News said. I love saving people money- it's actually fun for me. But no, I can't sell you that cable for $2.

8. Please remember that this time of year you  need to completely eradicate the phrase "real quick" from your vocabulary. In retail, nothing occurs "real quick". Expect waits for everything- for an associate to get to you (they ARE trying), to make a return or an exchange, to get technical support, and to check out. There's two times the number of associates in the buiding, but FOUR times the amount of customers. Registers will go down. Websites will run slow. Phone waits will be longer. Plan for this.

9. Speaking of phones... hang yours up if you are needing our assistance, or while ringing out. At least put it down for a moment. Number one, it saves us all from the embarassment of the "Mime Salesperson" game; Number two, we may have things we need to tell you or ask you to get you moving; and Number three? It's just rude.

10. And finally... remember that this is my job. I am... we ALL are trying to do it the best we can during the toughest time of the year.  We're going to do our best to make your holiday merry AND bright. Give us a reason to love this holiday season by being respectful,patient,and kind.

And chocolate doesn't hurt either.

Hooked on a Feeling!

Follow Michele from ODNT and  Mel of According to Mags to check out
"Ketchup With Us" and other hilarity. Just trust me. Seriously.

'KETCHUP WITH US' - PROMPT#2

Tell us in 57 words or less about your biggest celebrity crush from childhood. Or, you know, now. Either way.

I'm not sure whom I was more in love with... the guy or the car.

Michael Knight, a young loner on a crusade to steal a kindergarteners heart. Leather jacket. Flowing locks. A TALKING CAR. I needed nothing more (well, besides a My Little Pony). Even then I liked my boys tall, dark, and just a little bit bad.

Who knew all I really needed to capture your heart was a cheeseburger?

No coke. Pepsi.

You'll thank me for this... or not. 

Fantasy Land

So, it seems like everyone I know is knee deep in fantasy football. Maybe even deeper... like thigh deep. But it's everywhere- my girl friends, my guy friends, my kid and his friends. Seems like everywhere I go someone is freaking out over their wi-fi connection because "Adrian Peterson is on waivers and man, WHAT A SOLID PICK, YO!" Or something like that.

Thing is, I like football. I like it quite a bit. I'm that loud, crazy (occasionally cowbell ringing DONT YOU JUDGE ME!) football Mama on Saturdays. I like college football. I love watching my Saints, and I can usually make it through a Raiders game without wanting to put my head into a microwave (well... maybe not usually). But I just don't GET fantasy football. I've tried, believe me, I've tried. I've done a few leagues, put together my little team, tried tracking everything... but by week four I couldn't even give HALF a crap about how utterly DEVASTATING it is that Carson Palmer is really utilizing the speed of a healthy Darren McFadden as opposed to getting the ball to his receivers . Can't I just watch the game and get excited that the Raiders are making touchdowns at all?

According to my nearly thirteen year old son, the answer to that question is "Not really."

So while everyone else is busy staring at their iPads and iPhones and iDontCares during commercial breaks and monopolizing all of the good tables at Wild Wings, I'm going to need something to do. And a little competition is good for the soul, right? So what could I do, what could I follow and track and derive such great pleasure from the failure of others? Then it hit me....

Fantasy Reality Television Show.

(I know, I know. Reality TV already exisits in some kind of fantasy world. But hear me out on this one.)

It really has it all. You get together with a group of friends. You draft your picks, choosing no more than, say, six individual cast members, one couple (can be same sex, does not have to be romantic, just two people intertwined for the purposes of the show. Examples: Kim Kardashian and either Kanye OR her mother; Honey Boo Boo and her mother; Maksim from Dancing with the Stars and his anger management counselor), and one ensemble to create your "Fantasy Show Cast," culled from reality television shows (network or cable) that are current- no old episodes of the Real Housewives of Orange County, people. 

Once your cast is established, that's where the fun part starts. While your other friends are anxiously watching picture-in-picture-in-picture games while following play by play on their tablet, scouring sports reports for tales of injury woes and locker room strife, you're doing your research on TMZ, with Perez Hilton, and in the National Enquirer. THE ENQUIRER COUNTS AS A LEGITIMATE SOURCE. Points are awarded not just for SHOW performance... no, no, no! Half the fun of reality television is the train wreck that occurs when the cameras ARENT rolling! Couple gets obnoxious matching tattoos? Three points! Visit by child welfare authorities? Six points! Public intoxication? Eight points? Public URINATION? Give yourself a good ten right there.

The fun doesn't end.

So you can have your quarterbacks, your wide recievers, and your kickers. Take em all, and don't mind me if I just show up to enjoy the game. I'm going to take my guilty pleasures in a true American past-time... some good old fashioned schadenfreude.

Finally, Snooki has a purpose.

Taking the Plunge

We're going to pretend the last six months didn't happen, aren't we? Of course we are. 

Really, the rate things are going around here it was going to take something epic to get me to post a blog. I mean, seriously- who turned my treadmill on high and where's the key to this damned chain??? Anyone that tells you your life will calm down and you'll get more sleep once your kids are older is LYING TO YOU. LYYYYINNNNNGGGGG.

*cough* Anyway.

But seriously, we are talking epic here. Monumentous, even. Something I never, ever thought I'd be saying again. I mean, I thought I was done with all of this, thought I was done with it years ago. But here I am, ready to take the plunge again.

I'm having a garage sale.

(ha! Bet you thought I was going to say I'm pregnant, didn't you? HA HA HA HA. Wait, you didn't? What, was my delivery off? Not sincere enough? Crap.)

I know that, as a card carrying Suburban Mom I should be well versed in the subject of all things yard/garage sale related. You can't spit on Saturdays without hitting a neighborhood sale around here. I've avoided them, though- having one, going to one, driving by one (ok, maybe not so much that last part). Nothing to do with garage sales, no sir, no ma'am. And it's all because of David.  Well, to be more accurate- it's all because of David's MOM.

Once upon a time, back in the Oklahoma Years(tm), I was a part of this kickass online group of moms. We all had kids within a year or two of each other, so we'd organize playdates and nights out. It was so awesome having other people to talk to during those hellish playground hours. Seriously, any mom who tells you that she just LURRRRRRVEEES spending hour upon hour with her special lil' Chiclet romping through the playground without a single adult soul to talk to? LYYYYYYING. Or on drugs. Or maybe both. Probably both.

We saved each other from that. We'd turn all of the kids loose and then we could sit back and chat (or gossip... because really, that's what we were doing. Let's be honest here. There's always good dirt in the Mommies group. Always.) and everyone was happy. We were so happy that we decided to throw a six family garage sale. It made sense at the time.

Six families! Boy stuff and girl stuff and baby stuff and toddler stuff and mommy stuff and daddy stuff and EVERYTHING YOU COULD EVER WANT THAT WAS SLIGHTLY TO MODERATELY USED IN ONE GARAGE!!!!! My garage, to be more specific. This was one of those moments that I volunteered myself and within two seconds really wished I hadn't. I could just feel all the ways it could go wrong festering in my stomach like bad tequila (wait, is there such at thing...?). I suppose it made sense logically, though, to host at my place. We lived in a nice open neighborhood, unlike the moms that lived on base nearby. The streets were wide and spacious for cars to get through, unlike the moms that lived on tiny little streets. We had a big-ass garage... that pretty much sealed the deal right there. Plans were made, permits were filed, signs were made, and on a Thursday night we gathered all the men-folk an' chillern to sort, price, separate, and 

organize.

(I'll pause for you to laugh at the idea of ANY of that getting accomplished with six husbands and nine kids running loose. OK, you can stop now.)

It WAS fun, though... eating pizza and riding around sticking signs in the ground and making fun of the guys playing basketball. And to be honest, Friday went pretty okay. One mom showed up with Krispy Kremes at 6am, another started the coffee, and by 7am the doors were thrown open on a gorgeous June morning and we were ready for business. We sold a lot of crap, made some new friends, and let our kids entertain themselves. Really, it was like one long day at the park.

And then came Saturday. Two days was good. The third day... the kids are getting cranky. The moms are getting tired. Patience is wearing thin. We'd been up late the night before. Chris- who was three at the time, had gotten a new lightsaber Friday night and simply COULD NOT GO TO SLEEP due to the excitement of it all. The thing LIT UP. He was so amped he ended up just crashing on the sofa at about one am, sending me staggering to bed shortly after, the idea of my six am alarm making me cringe. But six came, and I dutifully got up and started the coffee. There were going to be a lot less of us that day; most of the moms had other things that needed to be taken care of, but in the interest of trying to make a little more dough I agreed to open for Saturday (I know, I know.) My help for the day would be David's Mom.

You know that mom on the playground that's always JUST this side of judgemental... she looks at you with a sympathetic smile and mourns how hard it must be to have a child that eats sand/can't climb the monkey bars/has an affectation for Wilson Philips songs. She likes to be in power because darn it, her way is the RIGHT way. Add in a nice heaping spoonful of social awkwardness and a penchant for yoga pants and you've got David's mom. And a little of David's mom went a long, long way. When she arrived just before seven I was half irritated- she was supposed to arrive no later than six-thirty. When I saw that she had four year old David in tow, I found the other half of my irritation. We'd had an agreement, we mommies- Saturday morning the kids were staying at home. In fact, that's why a few of the moms couldn't make it, and hey- I respected that. We wanted to have a couple of hours of sales, and then it would be packing up and separating what people wanted to keep (nothing, really) and what people wanted sorted to take back home (anything David's mom brought). Cranky pre-schoolers and such work don't mix. They don't mix at all. It was the decision that was made. It was MOMMY LAW. Until she came wandering up the drive with her sugared up four year old at 6:50am. 

All I asked was that she not take David inside. That's all i asked. We had a front yard full of toys, and he was wide awake. All I wanted was for Chris to be able to sleep another couple of horus, to spare myself the agony of the sleep-deprived toddler. I was even super specific: "Could you do me a favor and keep David outside? Chris had a hard time sleeping last night and didn't crash on the sofa until well after midnight. I want to let him sleep as long as I can." I even said THANK YOU. Thank you for doing what I freaking asked.

So naturally I shouldn't have been surprised when my seething husband hissed out the front door at me. "What the hell is this kid doing in here sitting on Chris?" Sitting... wait, sitting ON? ON my kid? My sleeping (well, not anymore) kid?  Oh, right. Because naturally "please keep your kid out of my living room where my kid is sleeping" translates to "Go ahead and give your kid a donut for each hand, plop him RIGHT DOWN ON TOP OF MY KID'S LEGS ON THE SOFA, and turn on cartoons as loud as you can." Right.

It went downhill from there. I don't even want to get into the story of her lying in a recliner moaning about how taxing the day had been while directing me on what stuff to pack for her. I can already feel that little vein in the side of my head throbbing.

So that, good readers, is why I don't do garage sales. Until now. And obviously the only thing that can convince me to bust out the marking pens and color coded stickers once again is something very powerful, very powerful indeed.

Pinterest. I need to redecorate. I need money for primer and canvases and Mod Podge. LOTS of Mod Podge. Freaking VATS OF MOD PODGE. I'm not even sure what mod podge is, but it gets mentioned a lot on pinterest.

Freaking Pinterest. Only it could convince me to sell my crap so I can redo other people's crap. Evil genius.

Theological Showers and Zombie Jesus

My six year old is sick. I thought we had made it through this Winter that Never Was unscathed. Z has allergen and illness induced asthma, and we generally spend at least a few weeks every winter hovering with our battery of nebulizers, vaporizers, and synthesizers (ok, not really. I just needed another -izer in there). This season we thought we'd escaped, thought we'd made it through. Then that tell-tale cough appeared Sunday morning and I knew the honeymoon was over. By Tuesday, the kid was pretty much full on miserable. Luckily, the Flake is on vacation this week, so once he finished getting the alien cut out of his eyelid (that's another disturbed story for another disturbed time.), he'd come home and take care of the Z-Man so I could head to work.

One of the things that always makes me feel better, no matter the ailment, is a nice warm bath. So I turned on the space heater, filled the tub with warm water and some coconut bubbles, and helped him slide in the sudsy water. Killing two birds with one stone, I hopped in the shower myself, figuring he would play and relax and benefit from the warmth and steam, and I would manage to get myself to work before it was time to leave again. Soon, the bathroom turned warm and foggy, filled with the scents of coconut suds and whatever crap they put in that overpriced shampoo I buy.

We do this every so often, my little one and I. I'm always amused and somewhat enchanted by the conversations that spring up, voices rising to carry over the shower spray. There's something about the separation of a shower door between that seems to drive us to unchartered territory. Perhaps it's something safer than face-to-face, a confessional for the early elementary set. Tuesday was no different.

It was Mardi Gras, after all, and the kid had questions. We'd been watching parade feeds courtesey of Fleurty Girl, and he'd been enamoured by the tremendous floats, the throws soaring through the air, the crowds of people. So while I sudsed up my hair, I wasn't surprised to hear him ask "Why do they have big parades on Mardi Gras, mom?" A simple question, a loaded answer.

"They do it to celebrate one last time before Lent begins, baby."

"Lint? The stuff in the dryer?" Great, now he's imagining the entire city of New Orleans engulfed in massive piles of dark grey dryer lint.

"Lent. L-EH-nt. It's something that some religions practice in the forty days leading to Easter."

"Who?"

"Catholics, mainly. Like Uncle Chris and Aunt Angie and the girls. They give up something for that whole month before Easter to understand the sacrifice that Jesus made. When he died on the cross."

"Can God die?"

While we're Christian, believing in God and his Son who did in fact die on the cross for humanity, we're not church-goers. I was raised Catholic, genuflected and Hail-Mary-ed my way through Catholic elementary school, but I was raised a very liberal Catholic. By the time I hit high school I began seeing all of the fissures between my beliefs and what the Church tried to tell me was so. Try as I might, I couldn't gel together what I felt in my heart and soul what was true and the path the church set in front of me. We had a parting of ways. And even though a Catholic mass is like my own version of spiritual meatloaf, comfort food for the soul, I still can't seem to reconcile the chasm between my beliefs, the beliefs I personally want to instill in my children, and that of Rome.

I know a lot of people, many of them close friends, find it somewhat tragic that my boys haven't been raised in a church family. And yes, sometimes it bothers me too. I want my kids to have a good spiritual base to lean against. But where to find that? We preach to our children that love between two consenting adults is love, period, and that love should be celebrated. I have found several churches with a vibe I liked, only to feel my heart and soul fall into my shoes when a sermon began to wrap in the evils of the homosexual agenda. I want my child's minister to be someone they look up to, someone whose beliefs are their beliefs... and that is not a belief I want my child to have.

We keep looking, though. Yet during certain times of year I feel that little tug in my heart, that yearning for the beauty of Catholic ritual. Advent always leaves me thinking about the candles, the mystery of the Nativity, the beauty of the church as it prepares for Christmas. And the solemnity of Ash Wednesday, the marking of foreheads as a reminder of your own mortality in this world. There is a poignancy in it.

But on this Ash Wednesday, I was having a theological discussion with my child from behind an opaque shower door.

Z has begun to ask a lot of questions about religion, about God and Jesus lately. I don't mind. He shows a curiosity that his brother never expressed. There are days he is adamant that we say a blessing before each meal. I encourage him to take the lead, and my heart swells as I hear his little voice rise up and thank God for the blessings of good food, a warm home, and Imagination Movers reruns on On Demand. I answer his questions as best I can, scaling down what can sometimes be complex answers to his level, to allow him to process his own thoughts on the matter. And so, with the steam rising around me, I did the best I could to explain the concept of a never-ending diety who can't really be seen, but whose works are all around us, to explain the idea of the Son of God, yes, born a baby like you were, who gave his life for the world, then came back to show us that he was, indeed, who he said he was.

That's the part that always gets him.

"So, Jesus was a zombie."

Oh Lord. "No babe. Jesus wasn't a Zombie. It was a miracle."

"Like when Daddy remembers to take out the trash."

"Pretty much."

"But he died?" Yes. "And then he came back, and that's why we have Easter." Yes. Good, right track. "But if he died and then was alive again, doesnt' that make him a zombie?"

..... ummmmm.......

"But a good zombie," he continued. "One that didn't eat brains or anything. He just kind of walked around and said 'Hey' to everyone and handed out candy because it was Easter."

Clearly, we have more work to do. Best to save that for the next shower.

Beads, Financing, and that sweet, sweet Addiction

Tis the Season...

It's 8:51am, and I'm sitting at my dining room table, sleep still heavy in my eyes, morning having come way, way too early. I wish I could say my slow step and mumbled responses come from a night full of celebration for Lundi Gras, but the only celebrating I did was finally getting my feverish six year old to sleep after 1am, only to be awaked far too soon at 6 to take the 12 year old to speed and agility class.

Ah, parenthood.

So I'm sitting here with a steaming cup of coffee, trying to pretend that it's really chicory cafe au lait and wishing it was gearing me up for a day of parades and revelry rather than a day of smiling politely and asking customers if they have everything they need, and if they're aware of financing opportunities. Today is Mardi Gras, and I want, more than anything, to party. I want to dance and sing and laugh and shout and reach for throws. I want to make new best friends whose names I may never remember.

I'm not a native New Orleanian, or Louisianan. I'm not even a transplant. I'm a tourist, someone who saves her money for 51 weeks in anticipation of four glorious days surrounded by the sights, sounds, and smells (oh, the smells!) of southern Louisiana. I don't go for the cheap thrills, the titilation of naked flesh, or the drunken debauchery. I go because I have to. It was a done deal by the end of my first trip. New Orleans is not an option; it's a necessity.

I believe there are two kinds of people in this world- those who can take or leave the city and those for whom it gets into their very blood, their soul, and settles in all comfortable like. The former can certainly enjoy the city; they can rave about it's cuisine, and how the city seems to have really bounced back from the horrors of years past. They can enjoy the music and the street performers. But it doesnt' become a desire, the nearly physical need to return and hear that music, smell the thick perfume of the camelias in the air. The former doesn't go through the twitching withdrawls when they see images of the Butterfly King's float gliding majestically down St. Charles, or when they pass the jazz station on the local radio band. The former can pack their bags full of trinkets and treasures and head for home with a smile, a fondness perhaps, but nothing more.

A junkie can't do that. And that's what we are, isn't it, those of us who crave New Orleans deep inside? We're hooked on it's atmosphere, it's energy, it's spirit. We're hooked on that mix of Southern gentility, European sophistication, African mysticism, and Caribbean soul, that particular social gumbo that swirls around like eddies in the Mississippi. Getting people to understand can be difficult. People still hold onto the images of a post-apopolyptic Waterworld, of vice, flesh, corruption, and crime, or that of a perpetual spring break, where the booze is cheap and the participants are easy. With a single raised eyebrow they'll pat you on the back, nod politely, and then go back to gossiping behind your back about what dickens you must be getting up to down in the Big Easy. They'd never believe you if you told them your greatest vice was devouring an entire Xocolat mousse on your own.

One day, I like to dream, I will own a little piece of NOLA for my very own. An apartment, perhaps, in one of the grand old homes in the Garden district, with a little courtyard to sit and have a cup of coffee in while the world wakes up around me, and enough room to bed down my friends who have caught this particular bug as well. Until that day comes, I will keep saving my pennies and looking south. And on this particular day I will finish my coffee, smile at the cold sunshine outside my window, and throw on a few sets of beads before I head to work. Now, would you like to hear about our financing offers....

Now THAT is indulgence...

Delicious.

Your Personal Penguin

Fifteen years ago tonight, my entire life changed. Sitting in the passenger side seat of my Valentine's Chevy Cavalier, trying to warm up after walking through a bitter winter wind, the path of my life changed forever. The flowers had been beautiful. The Toad the Wet Sprocket CDs were awesome. The candy, delicious. But the little velvet box sitting in the palm of his hand...

I'd been teased about it all day long. "What are you going to do if he pops out a ring?" everyone had asked, and I'd just rolled my eyes. We hadn't been dating that long, just a few short months. Both of us had recently broken off serious relationships. And, uh, newsflash- I was NINETEEN for crying out loud! Emphasis on the "teen"! There would be no rings!

And then there was.

It wasn't an engagement ring, he was quick to explain. It was a promise, a promise he wanted to make to me. I'll admit that I didn't hear the rest as well as I should have. I was too busy staring wide eyed at that tiny twinkle underneath the thin light of a parking lot arc-sodium. It mesmerized me. Suddenly, I took a ninety degree turn from the path I had been clumsily navigating. Maybe it wasn't "smart". Maybe it wasn't what my parents wanted me to do. Maybe it wasn't what I "should" have done. But I didn't care. I wanted 

him.

Fifteen years later, and it's Valentine's night. Fifteen years, 3 kids, four states, seven houses, three cats, two dogs, and a brief assortment of fish later. We've dealt with the harshest of heartbreak and the greatest of personal triumphs. We learned to rely on only each other as we moved far away from family and friends. We've celebrated rauccously, and we've grieved deeply. We've grown and changed, some for the better, some for the worse. And I realize now, just shy of February 15th, that I wouldn't have changed a thing. Well, maybe one or two things.

There are rough spots along the road, and sometimes you get stuck. That's when you need each other, to lend a hand and dig your way out, and help you celebrate the triumph. That's when you need...

A Personal Penguin.

I've always loved Sandra Boynton, and this was one of my favorite books. And tonight, on this Valentine's Day, I want to tell my special Flake... as much now as fifteen years ago... I want to be your Personal Penguin.

Love you Babe.

(look babe! Sims!)

Slap Me!

One of the prevailing mental images of New Orleans, especially during Mardi Gras season, is that of the Go Cup, alcohol on the move. Its true- in New Orleans there's no need to curtail your drinking to the inside of an overcrowded bar. Feel free to grab that perspiring bottle of Abita Amber or that glistening plastic cup of a classic Hurricane and set out to see the sights.

This February marked my third annual trip to the Big Easy for the classic French Quarter Krewe du Vieux parade, a bawdy, satirical poke in the eye that never fails to leave me shaking my head and asking myself "Did I really just see that?" On each trip I've learned something to make the next year's journey better: when is the best time to get to Cafe du Monde to beat the crowd (too early for this girl)? Where can I find a good, hearty, cheap breakfast the morning after (Daisy Duke's on Chartres)? Which corner marts will open your purchased bottle of beer for you, and which ones will have you asking a guy toting a cooler for assistance? And just how DO you score sweet parade throws (showing the "girls" is just a myth, people. Unless you're on Bourbon, keep em covered!) Going into our 2012 adventure, I knew one thing I needed for this year's trek- a good koozie.

Yes, a Koozie, those wonderful neoprene cup holders designed to keep your beverage frosty and your hands dry. This is important, people. Slippery hands can be a drink's- and your own- downfall. An uneven sidewalk, the press of Gulf humidity, the jostle of a raucous crowd on Bourbon Street... any of it can lead to a bittersweet ending. If you're not careful, that tasty local concoction you just waited 15 minutes in line for could quickly become gutter water- if you're lucky. Many times I've seen some poor girl in a bar bathroom, clothes splattered in that tale-tell Pat O Hurricane red, bemoaning the drink that quite literally slipped from her grasp. And no matter how laid back the Crescent City is, sucking spilled rum from your soiled t-shirt is always a no-no.

With all of that in mind and an epic weekend in the making, I turned to the awesomeness that is Team Cocktail (www.teamcocktail.com) . Described as a "drinking team with a clothing problem," Team Cocktail produces those perfectly soft and worn-in island style t-shirts that will have you daydreaming about island waters and rum punch. They also sell a little something called the Slap Koozie.

If you remember the slap bracelet craze of the late 80s and early 90s, you've got the form and function of the Team Cocktail slap koozie. All rolled out it's a rigid, insulated reminder that Team Cocktail is "Where Happy Hour Never Ends." A simple flick of the wrist and a pop around your bottle or cup, though, finds your drink cozy and your hands delightfully dry.

Therein lies the beauty of the slap koozie- it fits EVERYTHING. Drinks in New Orleans are far from "one size fits all", and while a regulation cup holder may easily fit my bottle of LA-31 biere pale, what about the shorter, stouter bottle of Purple Haze I pop next? And while my usual koozie will take that standard size cup of rum punch I purchase from the outside window of Maison on Frenchman, I'm hosed when I go for the ridiculously oversized Bourbon Street Kool-Aid. The Slap Koozie is an equal-opportunity device- no beverage too large nor oddly shaped. Like your wingman, it's always got you.

It wasn't just my crew (or krewe, perhaps) that was loving on the koozies. All over New Orleans eyebrows raised when we slapped on our brightly colored beverage accessories. So pretty! So functional! So awesome that you didn't have to worry about spilling your drink as you snuggled it in. Even the bartenders were loving on it. Raven, our mixologist at the Rivers Edge, was totally smitten. She and her housemates have all types of drink holders, trying to make sure there's a fit for every cup, can, and bottle. The idea of one item taking the place of their entire collection? Inconceivable. And the fact that it comes in twelve amazing colors? Beyond belief.

In total, the two slap koozies that made their way through the streets of New Orleans snuggled up to 24 cups or bottles of local beer, 10 glasses or plastic cups of rum punch, 8 of Pat O'Brien's potent Hurricanes, 4 large bottles of water, 2 Diet sodas, a beautiful blue Margarita, and a couple of 57 Chevys that came out of nowhere and left us flat on our backs. Every beverage stayed safe in hand as we dance, sang, and yes, even stumbled a bit through our adventures. The final verdict? Next year, we're buying a Party Pack and handing them out.

Cheers!

The only way to walk your Hurricane!

Lost at Sea

It's been six months since I posted last. Oops.

Let's see.... kids in school, doing well, moderate personal drama, diagnosed with ADD, on meds now, oldest dog passed away, cat still evil.

I think that covers it. Now... where were we?