Thursday, February 24, 2011

Embracing NOLA a.k.a Get Me To Kwee Must Wee Lodge


My newest mantra has been: Embrace New Orleans. Sure, it’s different from what this Kentucky girl is used to, but that’s OK, I tell myself. Embrace it! I chant this when my pesky “creature of habit” excuses begin to surface. In most cases, my embrace-ometer already boasts a 10 in terms of how well I’m adjusting to my new digs.
For example, jogging along Lake Ponchartrain, in shorts, in February as opposed to facing the brutal wintry-mix elements for a run (and I use that term loosely) around the neighborhood. Easily embraced difference.
French doors, shutters, balcony and palm trees…easy 10.
One way streets, U-turns, round-about expressway intersections, 4 way stops mixed with 2 way stops, traveling to the neutral ground between opposite one way streets and waiting for a green light to continue…I’d say 6-ish. I’m learning, slowly but surely. (“Moooooom! How come so many other cars honk at us?”)
I’m desperately trying to embrace seafood. For a gal whose sole fish intake, until now, has been tuna salad sandwiches…this is a challenge. The whole “not a fan of fish” thing is also a big “no no” in N.O., where shrimp, lobster, craw fish and oysters are specialties. However, I adore spicy food. And the spicy-seafood combo does much to woo this Kentucky girl. In fact, I’d like the records to show I enjoyed a shrimp etouffee on Monday. Yet, as far as embracing seafood, I’d say I’m about a 3 on the ol’ embrace-ometer.
Carnival season is in full swing and this family plans to embrace all that is Mardi Gras. The Pea, to her eternal delight, has been chosen to participate in her Academy’s Royal Court. (I must confess, I had to check out a library book to garner details on this tradition. I’m a rookie, it’s obvious.) Apparently each of the krewes (which is kind of like a group of folks who put together different parades) selects a King and Queen and Royal Court. Said royalty dons crowns, tiaras, sashes, scepters and even gets to ride on a special float in that krewe’s parade. There is also a Royal Ball, attended only by the Court and a few honored guests.
The Sweet Pea (basically needing a chauffeur) has invited me, the husband and the Bug to join her highness at the Ball. As such, we are encouraged to dress accordingly. The Husband, as I’ve mentioned before, is quite a “keeper.” He single-handedly chose and purchased lovely dresses for the girls to wear. A fact that is impressive on two accounts: 1.) the girls and I were not with him at the time and 2.) seriously, this is my husband we’re talking about, who’d have thought a few episodes of What Not To Wear could have prepared him to pick out perfectly appropriate formal attire for the children? But I digress. So, the kids are all set, the Husband has a dark suit, that just leaves me.
In a stroke of genius, Mom threw in a purple dress from my closet in KY when she came to visit this past weekend. (As I’ve mentioned before, I brought one suitcase of winter clothes, and I’m thinking my torn blue jeans and sweatshirt circa 1980 ain’t gonna cut it.) So my problem now. Well, my challenge, is to be able to zip up said dress come next Wednesday. Thus my recent desire to resume running and coexist solely on lettuce wedges. Namely because, aside from shell fish, I’ve been embracing New Orleans cuisine with much gusto. (Seriously, cheese fries topped with gravy, these are my PEOPLE!)
When the folks arrived last week, Mom took it upon herself to find “throws” for the girls. Throws are not to be confused with small blankets or pillows, “throws” during carnival season refer to objects jettisoned to onlookers from atop floats during parades. She’d read up on all things Mardi Gras, and was prepared to stockpile beads and moon pies.
While browsing through the French Quarter, we noticed the prices of bead strands. Generally a few dollars each, some strands close to $10. I quickly did the math in my head: we could afford one strand of beads, the kids would have to share, perhaps they could toss individual beads to the onlookers? Wait, no, that’s not gonna work.
Later that evening, Mom and I happened upon a native New Orleanian. Or perhaps a gentleman who had lived in town for some time, and was familiar with the area. At the time I was showing Mom our double-decker Target. (Because, seriously, for this KY girl, paying homage to a two story Target – with it’s own escalator for shopping carts – and it’s own parking garage – is just slightly below the French Quarter in terms of tourist attractions.) Anyhooooo, we were looking through the seasonal items and frowning at the price of individual bead strands. Mom wondered aloud, “Where do you go to get throws? Does everyone just buy them individually?” The Asian gentleman beside us looked both ways. Once the coast was clear, he leaned closer.
He whispered, “Across street.”
Mom and I exchanged glances. “We can buy throws in bulk across the street?”
Our new BFF nodded. “They specialty. You go to Kwee Must Wee Lodge.” And then, like a spy in the night, he sped quietly away.
With this new found information, we headed toward the parking lot. (OK, technically we checked out a huge cart of things we just HAD to have…and then we got in the car.) We were determined to load up on throws at this magical Little Lodge and bulk bead store. I drove across the street…U-turn, stop light, drive to middle, stop light, one way street, two way stop…only a single honk. And lo and behold, the neon marquee we’d been searching for: Christmas Village. (Who’d have thunk it?)
Sufficed to say, I have a trunk full of multi-colored strands of shiny beads for the girls to toss during their school’s parade. (Heaven forbid I alert the kids to the presence of said beads until the very last minute, or else I’ll subject myself to the individual counting and dividing of hundreds of strands. “Wait! That’s mine! That will make my 103rd purple necklace!” “No! That’s mine! I only have 206 green necklaces!”)
Anyhoooooo, carnival celebration will be in full force this coming weekend. And we plan to be on the parade sidelines, arms in the air, gathering beads and moon pies and gadgets galore. Events which are sure to top out at 10 on the ol’ embrace-ometer. The four of us will embrace this wonderful season of carnival: Royal Court, tiaras, throws, gowns, parades, floats, crowds, and maybe even a double order of gravy topped cheese fries at R&O’s up the street.
(Well, AFTER I zip up my dress for the ball…)

Thursday, February 10, 2011

In Which I'm Rescued From Embarrassment


My youngest daughter’s looks of pity are hardly disguised. She sighs as if the weight of the world rests upon her shoulders.
“Really, Mom? Is THAT what you’re wearing? It's so EMBARRASSING!”
Her eyebrows furrow and she scampers upstairs to the wooden wardrobe in my bedroom. The lovely closet serves two very distinct purposes: 1.) It holds the extent of my wardrobe – one suitcase full of clothes from Kentucky, and 2.) It provides the perfect Narnian storybook hiding place for the Pea.
On this particular evening, the child flings open the double doors in mock despair. She sorts through the blouses (3), the pants (3) the skirt (1) and the dresses (2). She pulls out the black dress with the green and blue polka-dots. She tosses the newly chosen outfit upon the bed and scurries away.
With slight pause, I change out of my uniform – my favorite chocolate colored cargo pants and my prized bohemian-esque tunic TJ Maxx clearance item circa 1999. (I only hope my friends will recognize me in something else, I skulk.)
I hear activity in the bathroom across the hall. I peak in to say “goodbye.” The Pea continues to organize an impromptu work area. Toothpaste, comb, floss, deodorant (Teen Spirit), hair de-tangler (strawberry scented), mascara, hand soap, baby powder, box o’ makeup, mirror, tissues. Glancing my way, she preempts the objection with an appropriate rebuttal: “I KNOW you need to leave, this will only take a moment.” She ushers me to the salon make-over chair (a.k.a. toilet seat). “Seriously, Mom. You don’t have ANY make-up on. I mean NONE.” (Not entirely correct, I still had the remains of chap stick applied earlier in the afternoon.)
My child, with the dexterity of a magician, proceeds to open the various secret compartments of the (brilliant) Christmas gift from Aunt S.E.M. A make-up box of which you have never seen the likes….rows and rows of eye shadows, blushes, lip-glosses. She rubs my face with a cloth drenched in liquid hand soap. (A wet washcloth would have been lovely, but the soap did maintain a type of adhesive quality on my skin…especially when the powder was applied.) I close my eyes as layer upon layer of shadows are brushed on my lids. I feel eyeshadow rubbed on my forehead, followed by a sticky matter I later identify as toothpaste. A copious amount of blush is applied beside my lips, and I'm asked to open my mouth as a pick containing dental floss is thrust inside. (After gagging profusely, I'm allowed, albeit briefly, to brush my own teeth, floss, and then take my seat once more.) A powder puff flamboyantly distributes baby powder to my cheeks, my neck, and my dress. (I question the latter and am told I need to “sparkle.”) The Little One hands me a mirror to admire her work. I smile gratefully, then shriek as a shower of icy spray hits my back.
“This final touch will make you smell pretty.” Says the Pea as she replaces the strawberry-scented hair detangler back on the vanity.
I make a move to leave, escape the bathroom, sneak down the stairs, grab my purse and my car keys. My youngest beats me to the lower level. “MOM! Don’t forget to Air Kiss!”
Eyebrows raised, I await an explanation. “Seriously, Mom, have you forgotten your basic manners? Were you raised in a barn?”
“When you see Ms. J and Ms. B, you must immediately stop and air kiss both cheeks while holding your keys in one hand.” The Pea demonstrates and then evaluates my feeble effort. “I suppose you’ve forgotten the Pinky Rule too.” (Obviously, it’s been AWHILE since I’ve had dinner out with the Grown-Up Girls.) “Pinky out, Mom. Pinky out like this when you take a drink.”
I consider pointing out the difference between tea party and tapas restaurant, then think better of it. (The Husband: “WHAT? You’re going to a topless restaurant? Me: No Sweetheart, Tapas…tapas…you know, little plates of food. The Silent Husband: No response, zoned out at the mention of tiny servings of food.)
“And remember,” wraps up the Pea, “ALWAYS cross your legs at the ankles and sit waaaay far back in your chair.”
“Are you sure I’m not supposed to sit up straight with good posture?”
“Uh, Mom. HELLO. I think I’m the one with the most manners around here.”
I give the Little One an air kiss – on both cheeks – dangle my keys, pinky out, and reach for the doorknob. I slide my newly made-over strawberry scented, powdered down, tooth-pasted, sticky self out the door. All the while praying fervently for a dark restaurant.
“Don’t stay out too late, Mom. Remember, it’s a school night.”