Oh N'awlins!! Who Dat??

My work takes me to places I might not have gotten a chance to experience on my own. Recently, I was sent to New Orleans. As luck would have it, my hotel was just four short blocks from Bourbon street. Sharon; a short, fiery, red-headed ball of piss & vinegar, is the supervisor for the region. She decided/demanded that I needed to have a "Large" time on the town during my stay in New Orleans. Three of Sharon's employees, Leigh, Nick, and Michelle, joined us. Leigh is from Alabama and Michelle is a local Cajun. Nick and Sharon are both from other parts of Louisiana. All four have accents that require an interpreter and skillful guessing.

For dinner we went to a local Italian/Canjun restaurant (which I didn't know could exist together until that moment). As we walked from the parking lot to the eatery, Sharon nonchalantly waved her hand toward the other end of the street and said, "we ain't a gonna go down thaw...it's all mafia owned-never can tell when they're a' gonna shoot one anotha..." So casual-like all towns have those pesky mafia people. Inside the restaurant an Italian man dressed in a double breasted, pin-striped suit, with slicked back hair and a New York Italian accent asked us where we would like to sit. I immediately began scanning for the nearest exits. It really isn't on my bucket list to get caught in a mafia shoot-out. Stangely enough.

The menu included a wide variety of options...including several dishes with veal, and the very Southern turtle soup. Now, I'm not a vegetarian, but I was really struggling with memories of baby cows and my pet turtle, Isoceles. I opted for a nice chicken/mushroom dish as I have long since made my peace with the demise of chickens, and I was pretty sure I didn't have any strong emotional ties to mushrooms.

As we waited for our meal, the waitress came around behind me and tied a bib around my neck. Now, I know I'm messy, but there is no way that knowledge has gone national. My confusion was cleared up when she put bibs on everyone and placed a platter on the table that contained huge cooked shrimp that still sported all their original anatomy. They were staring at me accusingly with their little black eyes...all of them. Or at least they would've been if their wee little lives hadn't been cut short by a swim in boiling oil and garlic. Eager to seem like the well-educated, worldly trainer willing to try anything once, I endured a "how ta peel da shremp" lesson from Michelle. They weren't bad. Then I had to peel my own. I may not be quite right again after all the cracking noises. The shrimp were extremely delicious though. And the bib was a welcome addition I may have to install permanently to save my shirt fronts from errant spills.

After dinner we drove back to the hotel and dropped Nick and the car off. Nick had a migraine and squinted his way into the hotel after wishing us four ladies a safe time. We headed away from our hotel, crossed Canal street (against all the lights and in peril, because that's what they do here), and made it to Bourbon street. You could hear it and SMELL it from blocks away. It had been over 100 degrees all day and the sewers were putting forth odiferous emantions that had to have come from the lowest circle of hell. And there is nothing like the smell of hot shit to get a party started, right? We strolled down the cracked and uneven street, past the brass band, past the people throwing beads (minus the flashing-much to my disappointment) and past Larry Flynt's Hustler bar. <-----For this picture I was still completely sober...I think. We wended our way into a corner bar with a very loud, but killer 80's cover band. Bliss.

Normally I don't drink and am perfectly content watching everyone else get sloppy and more and more amusing as the night wears on. But you remember the ball of piss and vinegar I mentioned earlier, Miss Sharon? She was having none of it. "Y'awl don't come on down to N'awlins and not have yoreself a large time. Drink this here, y'all were made for each other." She handed me a super-size cup that smelled suspiciously like pure alcohol with a dash of fruit. Just one couldn't hurt me, right? As my eyebrows began to burn and I'm sure hair was growing on my chest, Michelle got a call from her mom. Her dad was in the hospital and she needed to hurry out. We all got up to walk her back to the hotel, but Sharon and Michelle both INSISTED that Leigh and I stay out and experience Bourbon Street.

So we did. And apparently we did it with gusto!!!! Because when I woke up the next morning...hung over, miserable and really wishing the light fixture would just stay STILL...this t-shirt was hanging over the chair in the hotel. It must've seemed way more amusing the night before. As I tried to make the room stop spinning, my liver coughed and called out from the hotel room door-"I'm leaving you, we're over. You won't do this to me again..." Okay, maybe I imagined that, but I didn't imagine the mushrooms putting an end to our culinary relationship at the throne of the porcelain god, or trying to act like I really really cared about the training I was doing that morning. :) Leigh came to training looking like she also got hit by the hang-over bus. Neither of us could remember crossing Canal street or entering the hotel. Which I take to mean that I have MAD navigational skills even when soaked in alcohol and fruit. Leigh doesn't remember when I bought the t-shirt either. Although she has one that says something about being surrounded by ignorant assholes.

What did I learn from this fabulous "opportunity?"

Number one, that I apparently love my penis enough to buy a shirt to proclaim that fact. Which would, of course, make more sense if I had a penis.

Number two: That my liver and I need to go to counseling and will need to agree to make some changes.

And the surprising number three: Later that afternoon, the universe sent me a warning. After I felt better and could stand the thought of food again, I took the trolley out to see all the crazy, above-ground cemeteries. Of all the cemeteries and all the rows of crypts and all thousands and thousands of family plots...this is the first one I came across.... creepy, huh?

Moral of the story, kids? Well, I'll let you decide that for yourselves...I need to go track down my liver.