My love affair with my city

I think I've made a terrible mistake. I might have sealed my fate. I decided that if I  never married, never had a family, never knew what it was like to have a soul mate- that it was OK. I have New Orleans. I can't help it. Sometimes, when I'm in Audubon Park, I find myself letting out a small sigh coupled with an inward smile. It's like a furtive glance shared between a couple- words aren't necessary to express the emotion. They just know.

Except my furtive glances are not furtive and they are not at another human being. They focus on flowers and palm trees. On streetcars and cast iron gates. On ornate facades and on sidewalks made uneven from the roots of ancient Oaks.

I recently went to a New England wedding that was beautiful. It was cold and snowy. The bride went to school in New Orleans and many of the guests had visited at some point. Most of my conversations rotated around the trips they had made to NOLA and how much they loved it- which was awesome. I got to talk about my relationship without being THAT GIRL who stood around telling everyone how great her boyfriend was. (I was, however, THAT GIRL when I pulled out my phone to show people pictures of my cat... you win some, you lose some).

I always loving hearing people giddily recount their trip to Mardi Gras or their first experience with poboys. I also always love hearing the questions that come from people who have never been here. I got two doozies during the wedding weekend that were too good to pass up:

• You're from Louisiana? So do you speak French?
•  I think my "please stop making eye contact with me you idiot" look answered his question, but really I should have said "Si- hablo espanol." (Given his question, he probably would not have known the difference).
• You live in Louisiana? Have you ever harvested wild boars?
• I couldn't immediately make a face to this one because I wasn't sure I heard the question right.
• Me: What?
• Them: You know- boars?
• Me: Yes- I know what boars are but what did you ask me about them?
• Them: Have you harvested them?
• Me: What the hell are you talking about?
• Them: My friend went to Alabama once and did it.
• Me: You do know there is an entire state in between Alabama and Louisiana and that New Orleans is a city, right?
• ......
• Me *Turn around to start talking to someone else.*

Ultimately, I guess my love affair with my city somewhat relies on the magic and mystery that comes with New Orleans. As long as I love it and am all too eager to talk about it, I am going to have to put up with idiotic questions.



Or, if things get really bad, I can always pull out pictures of my cat.

And here's one of her in my laundry...

That time I accidentally thought I was naked

HEY YALL- IT'S MARDI GRAS!!!!

Which means that I have been and will be beadwhoring it up for the best plastic POS that anyone is throwing off of a float. I will also be dancing to all of the bass drums and cheering for all of the fly girls with the bands. I LOVE THIS CITY.

And in the middle of my parade merriment last week, I was so overcome with that love that I decided just to take my shirt off.... or so I thought. And my reaction was priceless.

It was a nice night, one that required some light layering. And, after beadwhoring and bassdrumdancing, I had worked up a sweat, so decided to take my top layer off. I was talking to my friend in the process and totally unconcerned with what I was actually doing-- that is, until I felt air on skin that should not be exposed to said air.

I grabbed my shoulders and glanced down to realize that my short sleeve shirt had come off with my long sleeve shirt. 

I immediately hit the deck. 

My friend, mid sentence- stopped.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?" she asked me. 

I was in a schmiegel squat on the neutral ground feverishly trying to pull my shirts apart and yelling 'COVER ME! COVER ME! STAND THERE SO NOBODY CAN SEE ME!!'

"What is wrong with you!?"

"I PULLED MY SHIRT OFF ON ACCIDENT--- I AM NAKED ON ACCIDENT!!!"

She bust out laughing and as I told her to shut up, I realized that I still had a tank top on.....

I forgot that I had triple layered (for protection... you never know?) and that while I did not mean to take the short sleeve shirt off, I was not completely exposed for all of Mardi Gras to see. 

But my reaction certainly told a different story. 

And if viewed from an outsider, the story probably went "did yall see that crazy girl take her long sleeve shirt off and then freak out?"