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.

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!

Missing NOLA

Four years ago, staring down the barrel at thirty, I did what every not-quite-midlife crisis’er does and created a bucket list. If you know me and my boogie shoes, you won’t be surprised to find out that a large percentage of my list had to do with travel. I’m a wanderer at heart, dead set to experience as much of the world as I can in my time here. I want to gorge my mythology loving self on the Greek Isles, I want to drive Route 66 in a convertible, I want to party in Iceland in the middle of June. But first, I had a little business to take care of Down South:

New Orleans during Mardi Gras season.

If you’ve never been to New Orleans, well, what’s wrong with you? There are few places in the world where so many lifestyles blend seamlessly in a kind of steaming cultural gumbo. Where else can you cross yourself with holy water as you exit a Catholic cathedral, only to turn the corner and find yourself in an honest to goodness voodoo shop? It's where the United States meets the Carribbean, where European and African cultures colide in a whirl of color and sound and amazing smells. If you let it, New Orleans will work its magic on you; you just have to let go and let be.

With that in mind, is it any wonder that lately I’ve been jonesing for a trip to the Big Easy? It doesn’t help that I have friends down there, and every mention of beignets, café au lait, and music makes me twitchy. And since Fat Tuesday is officially February 21^st, we are under six months til I head on back… so doesn’t it make sense on Travel Tuesday to take a look at a few of my favorite things about New Orleans?

Of course it does.

I've always thought St. Louis Cathedral looks like Cinderella's castle....

... and even moreso at night.

How we got up this high above New Orleans is a secret, but this man's generosity is not. Eric and Alfred talked for a good twenty minutes about Alfred's life before Katrina, where he worked when the storm came, and what he's done since.

 

Everywhere we go, we hear stories. Maybe we draw them in, maybe there's something about the cameras. Renette was one of those people, one of those stories we won't forget.

My son asked if Smitty lived here....

The first year we happened to plan our trip for the weekend in between the NFC Championship and the Super Bowl, and right in the middle of the Buddy D parade. Merriment commenced.

One of the greatest things about our New Orleans trips is the people we meet. This was Boomah- 87 years old and the life of the party!

Looking out from high above Canal.

February, and the scent of flowers was thick in the air...

A lot of people warned us about the crime. It exists in any city, but everyone seemed certain we'd come back in body bags. This was about as scary as it got.

You have no idea what I'd do for a plate of hot beignets and some frozen cafe au lait from Cafe Du Monde right now. The scent of fried dough and sugar mixing with the first rush of morning caffiene is better than any high around.

Be back soon, dear.

My Own Particular Harbor

So I disappeared for a while, which I suppose makes me a bad blogger. But I think about three people read my blog regularly, so that's okay.

In the last month we did something kind of crazy, kind of extraordinary, and it didn't even take extra rum to convince me to do it.

We bought a lake house.

By "we" I mean the spouse and his folks. My kids, too, I suppose, since we're spending their inheritance (HAHAHAHAHA!). We're now vacation home owners. Well, vacation garage owners. See, the place is on two lots; the house sits on one lot, the extra large garage on the other. When we went to assign deeds and all of those other important legal things we ended up with the garage. It's a very nice garage.

That's right. Be jealous of my garage.

Luckily enough, my in-laws kind of like us, so they're letting us in the house, too.

We're potty trained, so it's okay to let us in.

And so here it is: I'm officially a Fresh Water Pirate. It doesn't take away my desire or my need for that salty sea air, the sand between my toes and my buttcheeks. But the truth is, for me water is water, be it salt, fresh, or chlorinated. Being on, around, or in it is soothing. Now I have my own little harbor to call home.

Of course, the boys- the big one included- are like Davy Crockett or Bear Grylls on crack. The first thing they had to do, of course, was buy a gun.

What, you weren't expecting that? Neither was I. Nor were the snapping turtles, judging by the "Oh shit!" looks on their leathery little faces.

Dive, Leonardo! Dive! (insert other TMNT references)

It's been explained to me that shooting the ginormous snapping turtles that inhabit our fishing pond is necessary. They eat the fish and screw up the pond's balance. Somehow I don't think Master Splinter would care for that explaination, or my kid's rather unnerving degree of aim. Remind me to take away his clown suit.

I have to say, the whole thing is pretty cool. You wake up in the morning to the birds singing, grab yourself a cup of coffee, and step out onto the deck to watch the world wake up. The fish are biting, the dragonflies are humming, and the world is fresh and new. It's a pretty spectacular feeling. Of course, when you're a part of this crew, by late afternoon you've started making rum punches and Margaronas and the scene is a little more like Summer Camp for Idiots.

"It's taking on water. Go ahead and jump in and let's see how long we can row before we go under!"

It's how we roll, though. And in the end, it's all about family, spending quality time teaching your kid to set a hook without your finger becoming the bait, watching the world wake up around the water, just enjoying the good, easy life.

And watching out for the turtles. Swear to God.

A Kitschy Little Secret

Hey there Hot Stuff.

I have a confession to make.

I know where Carmen Sandiego is.

No, no, no, it's bigger than that.

I love Branson.

I do. I love it to death. I can't help myself! Bluegrass! Hillbillies! Kitsch! Barely hanging on celebrities! Beer, Bait, and Homemade fudge, all under one roof! How can you not LOVE something that awesome?

I know, as someone who calls herself the Pirate Mommy, I should be rhapsodizing about the beach, and the crystal blue waters of the Caribbean. And truly, there is no place I'd rather be right now than sipping on a rum punch as I watch the tide roll in over perfect sugar sand. Unfortunately, the only tide I see is the kind I'm pouring into the washing machine with the hope it gets that orange popsicle stain out of my favorite underwear (don't ask). In this part of the country, and in my situation- you do what you can do. And what we do is Branson.

I know a lot of people who roll their eyes and outwardly cringe when someone mentions going to Branson. "Hillbilly Nashville? Are you serious?" The expected thing is that you'll roll your eyes along with them and beg for their comiseration. But they're missing everything that makes Branson so incredible, so awesome, so damned much fun. Yes, it's corny. Yes, it's kitschy. That's the beauty of it. You have to embrace it, embrace the insanity, the deep fried twangy goodness.

With that in mind, here are ten of what I think are the best parts about Branson:

10. Look As You Are

A lovely bunch of Teacup Humans, really. Thank god my thighs don't show in this picture.

Look, no matter how much I love my beaches there is always the issue of the swimsuit and overall appearance. While I know no one in Barbados really gives a damn about my thighs, well, *I* give a damn about my thighs in Barbados. So we spend all of this time and energy working to look perfect on a vacation where we should be just letting it all go. Well, in Branson we HAVE let it all go. You're eating gravy and homemade fudge and you don't give a damn. Unbutton that top button and get comfortable.

9. Osmonds! Are everywhere!

It's full of Osmondy Goodness... and really, that's pretty fabulous.

It's true. The Osmonds HAVE LANDED. It's almost as awesome as when Wayne Newton was there. Almost. No Donnie, No Marie... and I realize, for some people that’s like a Jackson Four Reunion Tour. But... but... it’s the OSMONDS. Not that I’ve ever seen them, but STILL.

8. The Wild Woody

It just keeps going and going and going....

OK, so as a Go-Kart track this one kind of sucks. Yeah, it goes really high, but you spend so much time turning you never get to a decent speed. That said... they named a track The Wild Woody and managed to keep a straight face. That alone earns it a spot.

7. "They've got everything in this mall!"

Oh, like you read it as "Shack" the first time you looked at it!

You can find just about anything in Branson. Need a fancy dress for your dinner at the Outback? Got it. Need lures for your bass fishing expedition? Got it. Need a coffee mug with your name on it so you don't keep getting confused at breakfast? Got it. Need a variety of mixed nuts for your dining pleasure? Got those too.

6. Baldknobbers.

You know it's good comedy when there's a man who can eat his own face.

Historically, the Baldknobbers were a group of late 1800s vigilantes. What these guys are, I have no idea. But they're called Baldknobbers. How awesome is that?

5. Dolly Parton Suckers

Dolly Parton Suckers and Pecan Logs. If that's not a match made in heaven...

We'd gone down to Branson for Labor day weekend and were looking for the restaurant we'd chosen for our Sunday breakfast when we drove past the Fudge Shop. Now there are easily a dozen or two different places to buy fudge and candies in Branson, but this one caught our eye for one particular reason: There in the shop's plate glass window was a sign advertising, of all things: Dolly Parton Suckers. We didn't stop that day- frankly, we didn't want to scar the kids- but I am determined to get back down there and find out just what the holy hell a Dolly Parton sucker is. It has to be fabulous, and probably quite artificial.

4. The Lake

We start our crew out young. He's a ruthless little badger out there.

7. The Lake- I'm a water person to my very core. If I'm in, on, or around water, I am automatically more at peace. While I'd love to be sailing the seas, I have come to terms with the fact that I am indeed landlocked. Table Rock Lake gives me a chance to be a freshwater pirate, even if only for a day. It's also where you can rent a boat for a day, nearly drown while learning to water ski, flash a pontoon boat full of elderly fishermen, and end up so burned you can't wear a bra for two weeks. Not that I'd know anything about that, of course.

Getcherself a guitar, some Natty Lite, and head on down to the lake, y'all!

3. Kitschy, Kitschy Ya Ya

Jewelry and Moccasins! Fireworks and Knives!

I like tacky stuff. I can't control myself. Be it a Wings in South Carolina or Ozarkland on the 76 Strip, I am down with the gaudy frames and trinkets that crowd the shelves. Where else can you get an Ozark backscratcher, a pound of fudge, and a picture frame with a hillbilly and a jug of moonshine under one roof? Where else can you buy fringed and beaded t-shirts? As the billboard outside Ozarkland proclaims: Jewelry and Moccasins! Fireworks and Knives!

2. The Beatles! Sort of...

So... which one is the "Cute" Fake Beatle?

So, we're driving back from Branson, on the stretch of 65 Highway that rolls up and down the hills between Branson and Springfield, when suddenly we see not one, but two Volkswagon Beetles cruising alongside us. Inside each one were two Beatles. Well, not the real Beatles because that would be creepy as hell given that two are dead. They're called the Liverpool Legends, and let me just say that when you're going 70mph up and down hills, they look pretty freaking much like the real deal, haircuts, Nehru jackets and all. Beatles in Beetles. God Bless America; No- God Bless Branson

1. Memories... like the corners of my mind...

And a Good Time was had by all.

My parents weren't beach people. We didn't do Disney World or Sea World. We did do Vegas, but that's another story for another time. What we did more than anything was go to Branson. I've got some pretty awesome memories of waking up on a hot July morning and walking outside our door at JR's Little Dallas Motor Inn (old school Motel, yo!) and smelling the hot asphalt of the parking lot below. I remember breakfasts at Molly's Mill inside Silver Dollar City, of climbing nets and diving into ball pits inside Tom Sawyer's Landing. I remember riding the American Plunge with my brothers, my foster sister, and my awesome 76 year old grandmother. My dad taught me how to kick ass and take names while go-karting... I'm a bitch on the track. We'd be stuck for hours in the traffic on 76, and somehow it was always okay. If it took us an hour to drive five miles, well, we'd just look out the window and talk about what we saw. All in all, it was a pretty cool way to grow up. The beauty of Branson is that even though it's changed and matured... it's still not all that different from the place I went as a kid. We may stay at a Marriott instead of JR's, but there's at least one breakfast at Molly's Mill. My kids still get deputized by the Silver Dollar City sheriff. We still look out the windows at the little houses nestled into the hillsides as if they sprung from the limestone overnight. And Z? He's ripping up go kart tracks already.

And really? that's what makes Branson so damned cool.