Fresh, Hot Wastes of Time

Today was such a lovely day that it was cliche. It was the kind of day that you could bottle up and sell for outrageous prices to deprived Yankees. It was sunny and mild, and we took the St. Charles Streetcar through the Garden District. That’s where all the old Victorian homes live, sitting quiet, genteel, and grand. The streetcar goes up the ‘neutral zone’ of St. Charles – in actuality it’s the median. All the windows in the streetcar were open and letting in the breeze, which carried on it the smell of the blooming magnolias, the grape Jolly Rancher the guy behind us was eating, and a pleasant smell that was apparently from the streetcar which was just like a bonfire made out of cedar wood. The monumental live oak trees had Mardi Gras beads tossed up into them, festooning them with a kind of gaudy spendor. In the lower Garden District, the old buildings had an air of desperate elegance, belying their current purpose as hair salons or locals bars. We passed some truly majestic homes and I loved seeing them. If I ever had to move to New Orleans, I think I’d want to live in the Garden District.

Tonight we’re off to Upperline for dinner.

Welcome to my birthday. It doesn’t seem like a special day anymore, not like it did when I was a kid. Then, it would be weeks of build-up; first the potato chips would gradually have 5/23 as an expiration date, then it would be a real sign it was getting closer when that was when the milk expired. Finally the big day came and I felt like it was really important. Usually I’d have a slumber party to celebrate, and there would be 10 girls in sleeping bags in the living room watching movies on the Betamax. Carrie was always a favorite, because I could grab someone and make her scream during the last scene. I pissed off my friend Debbie so much when I did it that she called her mom to take her home.

Slumber parties and spending the night were the best. Up all night giggling and whispering, trying to prove that you can make someone pee by putting their hand in warm water while they sleep, putting bras in the freezer, putting on makeup while wearing pajamas, talking about boys. I miss those times. There are some times that I can recapture that spirit now with hub. We stay up late after the lights are off and just whisper and giggle.

I’m beginning to wish I brought tennis shoes with us on the trip. I brought 4 pairs of sandals.

My, we’ve had a lazy day. Since we were up so remarkably late last night (for which I blame my husband for his 3 AM munchies), we slept in this morning and finally rolled out of bed around 1. Well, I rolled out of bed; hub lounged around and watched TV. We headed over to Mother’s Restaurant for some debris poboys and etouffee. ‘Debris’ is the stuff that’s left soaking in the juices after you cook roast beef. It’s famously good. They serve shredded cabbage instead of lettuce on their sandwiches, so you don’t get that nasty wilted flavor.

Then we drove over to the D-Day museum, but they stop selling tickets at 3:45 so we didn’t get in. We’re planning on getting up while the clock still reads “AM” tomorrow, so hopefully we’ll go then.

Then we proceeded to get lost while trying to find Metarie Cemetery and ended up crabbing at each other the whole way there. We found it and scooted through, not wishing to be locked in when they closed the gates at 5:30. Spending the night in a New Orleans boneyard is not my idea of a fun time. Especially when we have reservations at NOLA tonight.

On the way back we got lost again and ended up in the projects. We felt just a wee bit out of place, between the fancy car and the color of our skin. We were both humming “One of these things is not like the other” until we got out.

Oh, and driving in this town sucks. The streets are narrow and bumpy, there are kamikaze pedestrians, street signs are one sided facing the wrong way on one way streets, and in one memorable intersection between a fairly-busy road and the interstate access road, there are no stopsigns. To my credit, I did not shriek a bone-piercing yell at that point, although I did sing “Nobody has a stopsiiiiiign” rather loudly.

I almost forgot to mention that we’re staying next to the Ritz Carlton, and last night when we went out there was an obnoxiously huge RV with shaded windows offloading an obnoxiously large amount of luggage and the guys doing it were taking up the whole sidewalk. I wondered what cele it belonged to. About a half block away we passed a group of people and one of them was either Reese Witherspoon or her doppelganger. Maybe it was her junk littering up the walkway.

OMG, Ron Jeremy is on an infomercial pimping penis enlargement pills. That’s it, the world is officially coming to an end. Someone pass me the ice cream, I’m going all out for this one.

I just ate an $18 poboy from room service. Plus 19% tax, plus $2.50 delivery. Insane. But tasty.

I really need to go to bed. What in the hell am I doing up at this hour? And why won’t anyone leave comments for me?

Hello, howaya, I’m tipsy. Greetings from Nawlins, where it’s against city code to be sober. We got here around 8:30 and spent a good 30 minutes talking to Bellman Earl, who was very nice but didn’t seem to understand that after the 5 hour drive, I had to pee! So here we are at our hotel, and may I add that it’s really, really nice. Right after getting here we headed down to the elevator, where we were accompanied by a wheezing weirdo who picked stuff out of his teeth and showed it to his wife. Nice.

We walked the couple of blocks over to the Acme Oyster House and had some oysters on the half shell and poboys. And beer. Then we walked down Bourbon Street for a stretch whereupon I proceeded to step in a big deep puddle of ick whilst wearing my sandals. That was, of course, all the way at the other end of Bourbon Street from our hotel, so I had stickyfoot all the way back. I had to buy about a gallon-sized pina colada to make me feel better. Understand that this came straight on the heels of falling off the bed last night while reaching to get something. How embarrassing. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t made such a huge loud thud, especially since we were trying to get the kids to sleep. Whoops.

Here we are on the road in Louisiana, just across Old Man River from Grosse Tete, which hub insists on pronouncing “gross teat”. He is calling me all sorts of bad names because I am blogging in the car. I am ubergeek, hear me roar.

We priests have a happy life! Join us!
-billboard on the side of the road. No more comment necessary.

Is there anything better than Waffle House? We stopped there for lunch and had waffles and eggs and bacon and grits, oh my. And they have these fantastic jukeboxes, too. I had to put a dollar in for my five selections:

I’ll Play for Gumbo – Jimmy Buffett
Heartache Tonight – The Eagles
A White Sportcoat and a Pink Carnation – Marty Robbins
Still the One – Shania Twain
Lying Eyes – The Eagles

…and sat munching on sweet waffles and coffee, slightly humming along with the waitress singing too. Nirvana! I really wish there were a Waffle House closer to home. We used to go to them all the time when I went to school in Virginia, for those middle of the night munchies.

Louisiana roads are miserably bumpy. I’m sure my nether regions are going to be completely numb by the time we get there. This also means that looking at the screen too long will make me want to yark. I’m going to go back to listening to our audiobook – The Puppet Masters, by Robert A. Heinlein.

We’re halfway there; stopping in Houston to drop off the kids. C. is wired and refuses to sleep. J. is totally zonked. I’m posting this from a laptop connected to our cell phone, using it as a modem. Really cool. I can’t wait to get going. Is it wrong to be looking forward so much to time away from the kids? Does it make me a bad mommy? No idea, but I do know we’re going to feast like kings.

I ate my first raw oyster in New Orleans when we went last year. I was pretty nervous about it, since I was pregnant and had heard horror stories about hepatitis and other nasties you can get from oysters. It was ok, in a not bad sort of way. I wouldn’t mind eating them again, which I most certainly will if hub has his say.

N.B.: being pregnant in Nawlins stinks. Literally, in the case of Bourbon St., which has a constant air of yuckysmell, but also in the sense that you can’t go out and get loaded, and drunk people are so lame when you’re undergoing enforced sobriety.

With this connection, I can even blog and publish from the car. Bahahaha! Take that, M.S.!

They teach porn in British schools? I feel gypped.
Naked chickens!
Stripper’s daughter can stay in school but the mom has to find another line of work. Nice bullying.
Maybe Dave Thomas really does have burger powers
Tales from the dark side of fish sex
Start saving your shekels now… cause you’re going to space!

We’re off today for a week. I will try to keep blogging, but if you don’t see any entries for a while you’ll know why.