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?

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.

The Sounds of Silence

I’m at that point where, like Uncle Jimmy says, I need to take off for a weekend just to try and recall the whole year. Is it seriously the end of August? Despite my best attempts to bury my head in the sand, the
proof is in the institutional pudding. Summer is fading and fall is fast approaching.

Clue one: my house is silent.

No arguments over the television, no fights about Halo 3 or whatever the hell it is they’re playing now (that’s their father’s arena. I don’t do video games… well, except Lego Pirates of the Caribbean. I mean, Jack Sparrow actually MOVES like the movie character. How the hell do they DO that?) There are no chicken nuggets to be baked, no playdates to be arranged. School is back in session and, once more, the hours between 9 and 3 become my own.

I know a lot of parents get misty eyed when their kids go off to school, and I will admit I’ve had my moments. I made the critical mistake of watching the 5^th grade graduation photo slideshow the day
my new middle schooler went to enroll. Sweet suffering on a water buffalo, that was a bad idea. Pictures of my son’s smiling friends hamming for the camera flashed by, accompanied by heartwrenching music about friendship and memories. The cloying sentimentalism got to me, and soon I was snuffling and dripping all over my keyboard. Attractive.

When the day actually came, though, I was pretty chill.  Chris got himself up at 5:30 (bless that child, where the hell did he get the early morning gene from?), showered, dressed, and even deigned to take the yearly “before school” photographs. When the bus came at 8, he was standing nonchalantly at the stop sign, chatting with a friend, waiting to go on to the next part of his life while I hid in the bushes, watching him go.

Can we just get this over with?

"Pretend they don't exist; maybe they'll go back inside."

No, really. I hid in the bushes. I mean, damn, don’t you remember middle school? If I were eleven, I would have wanted me hiding in the bushes too. You know what I mean.

Yes, those are leaves at the edge there. Don't judge me.

So it’s quiet here, and for the first time in 83 days my house is my own. Today marks the first Monday back to school, and it’s business as usual, I’m sure. No one has called home in hysterics. Zack has managed to
navigate his way to first grade without the assistance of his big brother that was there last year. Chris has yet to be shoved into a locker. They come home with smiles on their faces and stories to tell. Mostly about lunch, but I’ll take what I can get. In the meantime, I blast some Buffett, drink another cup of coffee, and wait for them to come home.

No worries here

Because, honestly? I kind of miss the noise.

Kind of.

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.