Lizard Innards & Misplaced Weather Vanes

Coming from a city where you count cows and sheep, horses and goats on your drive to school, it’s a bit of a change moving to a city where the homeowners themselves describe their yards/lots as “postage stamp” size. I’ll admit I felt a tad claustrophobic at first, not being able to issue my standard “Get Your Wiggles Out” command: OK kids, run three times around the yard and then finish your homework! But after a few days, I eased into our current state of affairs with a sense of peace. We are doubly blessed in our rental to have both a courtyard and a balcony overlooking said courtyard. Two architectural distinctions that virtually scream “New Orleans!” and delight me to no end. (At this point you are envisioning the balcony of a southern plantation and you can most certainly keep that image in your mind, but know that OUR balcony is such that you must hold your breath if two people are to fit while you pray that the French doors’ detached shutter does not tilt forward and push you to your death on the brick pavement below.) That being said, it is our very special little corner of this new world and we are quite fond of it.
The courtyard is brick, has bamboo shoots extending heavenward which block our view of the bordering apartment complexes and occasional police visits. (Don’t panic Mom, it was like, one time…two tops…) The palmettos are surrounded by Birds of Paradise as well as actual birds. A patio table and charcoal grill and baker’s rack (?) and horse adorned weather vane (?) fill out the ensemble. One enters the courtyard through two sets of French doors lined with two sets of wrought iron gates. (Our key chain has four separate keys for all the doors and gates, which I find amusing and comforting at the same time.)
Our carport has a brick pillar on which there is yet another locked door. The pillar doubles as an outdoor storage closet, as garages are few and far between. The Bug and the Pea have found gardening equipment within the “secret” pillar closet. (I’ve told the girls a garden gnome named Nola lives among the shovels and rakes. One way to quiet the kids on the car ride to school is to entertain them with stories of my most recent encounter with Nola Gnome. They laugh and roll their eyes, but always open the pillar door slowly and quietly so as not to disturb the red pointy-hatted resident…)
Anyhooooooo, they cart the garden tools to the courtyard and weed and rake as if they are Annie Lennox and Dickins with a Secret Garden of their own. I’m quite sure will have our own wild menagerie in the near future. When I called the Bug and the Pea in for dinner, I noticed the two had assembled a virtual smorgasbord of fresh produce for the passing wildlife. (I’m serious, magnolia leaf plates of raspberries, blueberries, strawberries and a flower pot bowl of bottled water! “Do you think I’m made of money?” I was tempted to shout, but calmed myself and showed them where the special “bird food” bread was stored for future use. But I digress…)
A few days ago, I undid the lock at the top of the French doors and a lizard fell into my hair. While I don’t DO snakes, I am rather fond of lizards and pulled him easily from my hair to show the girls. At which point an argument ensued about how The Pea held the lizard for 10 seconds and The Bug only “got” 8 seconds and so the world was going to come to a screeching halt etc. at which point (mercifully) the lizard leaped to his freedom and scurried over the bricks and into the leaves. Each day the kids look for Mr. Lizard as they weed and dig and set out a buffet for the birds. One day they stumbled upon a tiny reptilian skeleton- which they promptly presented to our first Kentucky visitor, “Look Mr. David! Lizard innards!” Oh to be seven, again.
When the Bug and the Pea need to “get their wiggles out” we simply head to a park. They climb trees with low lying branches and dangling Spanish moss while pelicans and sea gulls fly by. The Pea likes to collect piles of moss which she proudly calls “the funk” and construct ginormous nests for humans pretending to be birds. Sometimes she’ll organize a group of unsuspecting children to help gather acorns to store away for hibernation.
The other day I popped open the trunk to put in bags of groceries and I discovered a pile of Spanish moss, undoubtedly stashed there by my youngest. (“Uh, Sweet Pea…you wanna explain the pile of Funk in my Trunk?)
Today promises a high in the 70’s. We plan to explore several new (to us) parks and historical sites. On the way we won’t be able to count cows, pigs, sheep, goats or barns. But we’ll make up for it with balconies, courtyards, palm trees and pelicans. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll be lucky and another lizard will drop out of the sky into my hair for an afternoon of rollicking rib tickling fun here in the Big Easy. In the words of Little Orphan Annie (as the Pea sings over and over and over and over again to me….) “I think I’m gonna like it here!”

Balconies & Blow Torches a.k.a. Temporary Permanency

So my Nanny asked my Mom how I’m spending my newly found free time in New Orleans? My token reply, of course, is eating bon-bons, because that is a worthy way of spending an afternoon. (Let’s face it, that’s a worthy way of spending a morning, afternoon or evening…) Nevertheless, I followed my answer with a laugh, namely because I have yet to experience this “free time” she speaks of.
Picking up and moving a family of four to a new state is, to put it mildly, a bit of a challenge. (I’d like to send a ‘shout out’ to my military friends who organize graceful family moves at the drop of a hat, with finesse and poise. You are my heroes, on many levels.) But me? I’m a novice. Sure, I’ve changed residences multiple times, in 5 different cities, once with a wicked case of “morning sickness” in my ninth month of pregnancy with a toddler in tow. But I’ve never moved to a new state, 12 hours away from family, with 2 elementary school kids and a husband already working in said new state.
In my urgency to provide my kids with some sense of permanency (which, for now, is more aptly stated “temporary permanency” as my daughters are sleeping on an air mattress in a –mostly- furnished condo) I set out to obtain a Louisiana Drivers License. For the record, the DMV operates like a well-oiled machine if you’ve brought the right identification. (I am not kidding when I say I produced my KY drivers license, my birth certificate, my marriage license, my social security card, my passport, my car title and the rental contract establishing residence before I was given a number and told to take a seat.)
The kind lady who assisted me was glad to speak with a Kentuckian. She said her friends didn’t believe her story, and she wanted me to verify a “sighting” from her past. Which, I’ll be honest, as the question came from a born and bred New Orlean-ian, I was exceedingly curious what she considered so bizarre. She wanted to know if our farm animals wore clothes? At first I was picturing those stone geese some folks put on their porch and dress up for the holidays. I was debating how to tell her the geese weren’t “real animals” when she added details. Apparently her family was driving through Kentucky one winter and she saw what looked like cows and horses draped in blanket/coats. She was delighted when I confirmed her “sighting” and added how The Bug, The Pea and I counted all the horses wearing coats on the drive to school each morning.
Once I got the OK, I moved to the “Drivers License Photo” area. The man told me to take a seat in front of the camera. And I did. Then he asked me to take a seat in the waiting area. Which I thought was odd, since it would have seemed more productive just to go ahead and take my picture while I was sitting in the chair. Next thing I knew, he handed me the already laminated copy of my new drivers license. Sufficed to say, he HAD taken a picture after all, and the snapshot is HORRIBLE. (“Mommy, you should REALLY go back and ask the man to try again. This picture is embarrassing,” says The Pea.)
Nevertheless, I took my license and my new license plate and headed for the door. Next stop, car inspection. (Apparently an annual necessity in LA, who knew?) Driving a mile down the road I spotted what looked like an abandoned warehouse with a cardboard sign out front marked: Brake Tag. I swerved in. You will not believe me, but Santa Claus “mans” the Brake Tag Car Inspection Garage. He asked me to turn on the headlights, put the car in reverse, test the blinkers and the brakes. Then he promptly handed back my paperwork through the window and advised me to visit a mechanic (“Darlin’ none of your lights work. None of them.”) I was not discouraged, I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. I’ve changed car bulbs before. I headed to an auto-parts store. I bought bulbs for the brake lights, I bought bulbs for the reverse light, I bought enough bulbs to illuminate a Christmas tree. A fellow from the store shook his head as I turned on the ignition and “tried” out the new bulbs. (“I’m afraid you’ve got bigger problems than light bulbs, it could be the electrical system. Darlin’ none of the lights work.”)
 
Long story short, a trip to the mechanic, some electrical maintenance and several dollars later, I was back at the Brake Tag Place. (The mechanic asked, “Dat guy at the shop, he look like Santa Claus to you?”) This time St. Nick was pleased to give me my Brake Tag sticker and send me on my way.
Back at “home” I searched for anything resembling a flat head screwdriver to remove my KY plate and replace it with my brand spankin’ new LA license plate. A trip to Wal-Mart later, I was on my knees in the carport trying desperately to undo completely stripped screws. I had purchased pliers, and I tried to wrench off the screws. I grabbed a gardening trowel and tried to pry up the plate. I found some rose clippers and tried to tear off the plate. It was while I was wielding the ginormous hedge trimmers that my next door neighbor appeared. We had not met yet, and I’m sure I made a grand impression sitting on my hiney, stretched under the car, with hedge clippers firmly gripped, cutting a license plate into shreds. She introduced herself¸ and interestingly enough, told me that her mother grew up about 20 minutes from our Kentucky home. Small world.
At this point, the husband appears. He looks at me, the hedge clippers, the trowel, the pliers, the screwdriver, and then the neighbor. He introduces himself to poor E, who clearly thinks I was recently released from the looney bin, and then offers some sage advice, “Why don’t you try some WD-40?”
At this point, the Bug and the Pea emerge from the condo, ready to hit the Zoo. (“Wow. How many of you are there?” asks our stunned 23 year old neighbor. And who can blame her, smaller doses are best when it comes to spending time with my family.)
This morning, I admitted defeat. I stopped by the mechanic’s garage once more and begged them to help me switch the plate out. (“Darlin’ all ya need is a screwdriver…”) Right. I just want the records to show: it took 2 mechanics, one trip to the hardware store, 30 minutes and a tool resembling a blow torch to remove my KY plate. (“Gee, those clips are made to last, huh?” I conversed.)
But the good news is: I am now official. Louisiana Drivers License, Louisiana License Plate, Louisiana Residence, even a Louisiana Library Card. I’m starting to feel a little bit more like I belong. And as I sit here and type, peering out our balcony, into our courtyard, I’m starting to feel a little bit more like I could fall in love with New Orleans. That, and I could use some bon-bons…
 

Casting, Christmas & The Art of Fly Fishing

Cast your cares on the LORD and he will sustain you; he will never let the righteous fall. (Psalm 55:22)

So I can’t seem to get this verse out of my head this week. Humor me as I relive an afternoon from my childhood.I’ll get to the point, as Ellen DeGeneres says, “And I do have one…”
When my brother and I were young, we’d explore the world on our bicycles. The most exciting adventures began when Dad hopped on his bike and let us follow along like ducklings. Much to my mother’s chagrin, we’d first cruise the heavily trafficked thoroughfares until we reached a quieter country road. This particular road was paved, and lined with trees and fields and leaves and butterflies and pebbles. Toward the end of our journey we’d come across a creek. At this point, we’d pull our bikes off the road, rest them in the grass, yank off socks and sneakers. The water before us was an unknown treasure trove of creatures.
I’d set out in search of a stick, something straight and sturdy. Something that resembled Opey Taylor’s fishing rod from the intro to The Andy Griffith Show. My brother would dig in his pockets for string. We’d fashion our own fishing pole from the rudimentary elements available. It was no trouble finding worms, -- and once Dad informed me worms have no nervous system, and therefore feel no pain when being attached to a hook – it was no trouble fixing bait. (Although I’m not quite sure why this information was comforting to me, as the worm’s destiny included being eaten alive.) Nevertheless, the three of us would spend an afternoon wading in the creek, trying to catch fish with our fishing rod. When our handcrafted pole proved futile, we’d catch tiny fish by cupping our hands together. The water was fairly murky, but sometimes we’d feel a craw fish skitter over our feet. If we were lucky, we’d snatch the critter before it scurried off under the bridge. Of course the fun was in the catching, we’d always release the creatures back to their habitat. (Much to our mother’s joy and happiness…) Then back to our bikes, the trek home, and a nice loooooong sudsy bath.
During college, my brother traded sticks and string for rods and reels. He’s become quite the fisherman, and quite the artist creating masterful fly ties. (Who knew bait hooks could be so intricately ornate?) There is something awe inspiring about fly-fishing. (I feel I must insert a shameless plug for the film A River Runs Through It…the cinematic photography captures the intrinsic, almost musical, beauty of casting the fly…) My brother has tried to teach me the art of fishing, to no avail. I’m not what you would call a “natural.” Sure, I can bait a hook with an earthworm…I’m a bit squeamish with other creepy crawlers. But I’m beyond horrible when it comes to casting. I try to wave the fishing pole in a graceful circle above my head and release the line to sail toward the waters. It just doesn’t happen. Either a few inches of the line releases, and the worm dangles from the top of my pole. Or twenty feet of the line releases, wraps around my body, and the worm hooks firmly to my clothing.
So, getting to my point…and I promise I have one. I was pondering this verse about casting. And thinking that the act of casting involves throwing the object away from you, not keeping it close, not wrapping it tighter around you so that you are enmeshed. But hurling it far away. I think that’s what God wants us to do with our fear, our worries, the stuff that keeps us awake at night. I think He wants us to take that anxiety, and hurl it from our backs –as far away as possible-- on to His capable hands. And then we wait. (I’m reminded of a verse in I Samuel 22:3 where David is fleeing from Saul and he asked the king of Moab, “Would you let my father and mother come and stay with you until I learn what God will do for me?” – David knew God would sustain him.) And He will sustain us. He will keep us going.
This bit about casting isn’t only in the Old Testament, but also in the New Testament. In 1 Peter 5:7 – Cast all your anxiety on God because he cares for you. What a powerful message, over the course of thousands of years. And while we’re in I Peter, one more verse in closing: Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. (I Peter 3:15)
And that reason, that answer, that hope is Jesus Christ.
Merry Christmas.

Ornery Kiddos, Big Plans & Snow...

The more I ponder the story of Christmas, the more I am in awe of the brilliance and majesty of God. Ok, that sounded really “Sunday School Teacher’s Pet-ish,” but SERIOUSLY, how exceedingly brilliant is the part of the plan unfolded thus far? For the sake of discussion, let’s start toward the beginning of the Bible and consider the Exodus story (you know, Moses, the Hebrew people escaping the bondage of Egypt, wandering in the desert, searching for the Promised Land) from the role of a parent and extrapolate the concept out a billion-fold as we seek to understand an inkling of God.
You have these kids. You love them unconditionally, but…let’s face it, they’re ornery. They kind of know right from wrong, but they aren’t ones to tow the line. You give them everything they need. You give them everything they want. They aren’t happy. They get into a heap of trouble. They make some atrociously bad choices. You try to rescue them, to lead them to a safe place. They still aren’t happy. So you set up 10 hard and fast rules. All about love. Loving you, loving their neighbors. But no dice, still ornery, still getting into a heap of trouble, still choosing to face the consequences of their actions. And no matter what you do, you can’t force them to love you. They have to choose to love you.
It all comes back to love, and you have a plan, a fabulously perfect plan that you can’t wait to reveal, but the kids would go completely bonkers if they understood the extent of your plan. I mean, let’s face it: if they knew too many details of the future, their world would be ROCKED. Big time. But you want them to see the light at the end of the tunnel. To realize they can turn around, ask forgiveness, and cling to a relationship with you. After all, you’ve never stopped loving them, regardless of what they’ve done.
Thousands of years ago, folks listened to prophets and heard scripture, even if they couldn’t read. So you start to tell them what to expect:
“For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the increase of his government and peace there will be no end. He will reign on David’s throne and over his kingdom establishing and upholding it with justice and righteousness from that time on and forever.” Isaiah 9:6-7But even this, if they understood correctly, would have freaked them out. Because God’s people, well, they begin to look for a King. Not just a regular ruler, but a Mighty God kind of King. And what would that look like? Well, clearly a muscular commander, powerful because of his physical strength, not afraid to slaughter enemies, a super-hero who dresses the part, dependent on no one, possibly riding in on a stately horse to save the day.
But God’s way (“as for God, his way is perfect.” II Samuel 22:31) is certainly (thankfully) different from our way. Turns out the prophecy is fulfilled when He actually sends himself, in the form of a human: His Son to earth. I’d be willing to wager that not too many folks saw that coming. I mean, if you were to think of the exact polar opposite of King…would it not be an infant? Tiny, fragile, vulnerable. Perhaps THE most vulnerable, needy creature of all.
I’ve been listening to this beautiful collection of Christmas music on Chris Tomlin’s “Glory In The Highest” album. One of the songs struck me as particularly powerful as I was pondering this brilliant plan of redemption through love. These lyrics to Winter Snow are written by Audrey Assad:
Could’ve come like a mighty storm
With all the strength of a hurricane
You could’ve come like a forest fire
With the power of Heaven in Your flame
But You came like a winter snow
Quiet and soft and slow
Falling from the sky in the night
To the Earth below
Could’ve swept in like a tidal wave
Or an ocean to ravish our hearts
You could have come through like a roaring flood
To wipe away the things we’ve scarred
No, Your voice wasn’t in a bush burning
No, Your voice wasn’t in a rushing wind
It was still, it was small, it was hiddenGod loves us, but never forces us to love Him back. For Christmas, He gave us the greatest gift of all, Himself in the form of a human infant. As I explained last night to the Bug and the Pea, the biggest gifts of all come in the tiniest packages.

Panic! Patience. Peace

This morning I came across scripture I’ve read a billion times before, in fact, I committed to memory as a child: “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 4:6-7)
But it is the perfect verse to describe this week. Well, this month. Even the past few months. I found myself explaining to a friend, “I honestly feel I couldn’t possibly BE anxious, even if I tried. It’s as if my mind can’t even possibly GO THERE. To that place of worry”.
“So let me get this straight,” she said, “You haven’t sold your home, you haven’t bought a new home, you’re not sure where you are going to live, you haven’t made Christmas plans because you don’t know where you’ll be, you’re not positive where your kids will go to school next month…and you’re ‘at peace’ with all of this?”
And as crazy as it sounds, because believe me, I am the Queen of Anxiety, it’s the truth.
We’ve had a great week. And yet as I was writing an e-mail recapping the past few days, I actually used phrases like, “Fortunately, Tuesday’s CT scans ruled out appendicitis…” and “The repairman was able to fix the heat in our temporary place, we won’t need to sleep in coats tonight!” And honestly, it never even occurred to me to be anything but truly grateful that God was watching over us. So very un-Leigh like. Usually I would have put my own plan in action, considered some serious complaining, contemplated a pity party. Yet, strangely enough, I haven’t been able to relate stories of our topsy-turvy week without laughter.
As I’m working through a Bible Study on the book of Isaiah, I’m reminded to keep my eyes focused on God, and his ultimate, perfect plan. My Bible Study leader really gave me something to think about when she said, “When we take our eyes off God and focus on circumstances….fear results. We can either choose to look at God through our circumstances or choose to look at circumstances through God.” Now THAT is powerful stuff. Do I live by faith or by fear?
A few nights ago, I began to feel overwhelmed with this process of transitioning from one state to another over the holidays. The instant, I mean…the very instant…that fear began to creep into my heart, I heard the angelic voice of The Bug, wafting down the hall, singing a hymn I didn’t even realize she knew: “What have I to fear? Leaning on the everlasting arms!” I immediately shifted my focus back to God, who has always been faithful to provide, and my peace was restored.
“Mama,” said the Bug as I was tucking her in bed beneath a mountain of blankets. “For whatever reason I just can’t get that song out of my head tonight! Sing with me…”
And I did.

“You will keep in perfect peace him whose mind is steadfast, because he trusts in you. Trust in the LORD forever, for the LORD, the LORD, is the Rock eternal.” (Isaiah 26:3-4)

Papaw, Potatoes & Piano Playing...

I've had 3 Thanksgiving meals already, and it's not Thanksgiving yet. No complaints, I'm just saying I've never been one to turn down mashed potatoes.
My first Thanksgiving meal was last Thursday with the Pea at the Pond. A "shout-out" goes to the cafeteria ladies - I love their food. (My Mother is reading this and saying, "Seriously? I packed a sack lunch every day for you for years and NOW you decide to love school lunches?") Anyhooooooo, I helped myself to salad (both kinds) mashed potatoes AND stuffing, turkey and green beans, sweet potatoes, a roll and banana pudding. Once I reached the sweet tea, it occurred to me I was probably supposed to choose a meat and 2 sides instead of the self-proclaimed Sampler Platter I piled on my tray. Nevertheless, nothing but a smile from the lunchroom ladies. LOVE THEM! So the Pea and I sat down and I mostly listened and nodded while inhaling the meal. Partially because I was hungry, but partially because of strategy. One can learn a lot from the conversations of second graders.
Last Friday I had lunch at school with the Bug for her grade's Thanksgiving. Again I piled on the fixin's. Again the sweet cafeteria ladies smiled. Again I inhaled the meal. Again I listened to the wild and wonderful conversations, this time of fourth graders.
But Saturday's Thanksgiving meal took the cake (well, apple pie). My Aunt J graciously invited our family to her lovely home on a lovely farm in Kentucky. You won't find a more Rockwell-ian (yes, I did just coin that word...) Thanksgiving anywhere. Mounds of mashed potatoes, green beans, made from scratch butter rolls, turkey, corn, homemade macaroni (or mac-a-noodles, as I used to request when I was a kiddo). China on the table, crystal, big pitchers of sweet tea and lemonade. Family everywhere. Ages ranging from my cousin's newborn twins to my 94 year old grandfather.
I sat next to my Papaw during the meal and caught up on all the goings-on. He just had cataract surgery on both eyes and he hopes to be able to read by Christmas. I mentally set aside some books to loan him. (Like me, he's a sucker for Yancey and Strobel.)He chatted about the new gadgets my Dad helped install...an intercom system, hospital bed, medical-alert bracelet ("Look, all I have to do is press this button." "No Papaw! Don't really press it NOW!!")He told me all about Brooklyn, one of his home health nurses. The Meals-On-Wheels delivered to his door, the doctors appointments. And then something happened that I don't remember ever happening during our family Thanksgiving meal...
My Aunt P, who is an accomplished pianist, gathered everyone close to the piano in Uncle B's den. Papaw grabbed his walker and strolled over to an armchair, and settled himself next to the piano bench. Aunt P began to play hymns, by heart, and my Papaw....my 94 year old grandfather...began to sing. Loud and beautiful and clear. I have never heard him sing before, ever. I've seen pictures of him with guitars, I knew he was musically gifted, I'd just never heard him.
A few hymns later, the Bug and the Pea scrambled up beside Aunt P and began to sing as well. They tried to teach Papaw, "Peace Like A River...", that was a new one for him! Then they dove into Christmas carols, as my cousin's newborn twins drifted off to sleep in their pumpkin seat carriers.
Thursday we've been graciously invited to spend Thanksgiving with a sweet neighbor...who also happens to be a fabulous cook, I'm just sayin'... And the food will be amazing. But more than the food, I'm thankful beyond measure for the amazing blessings God has bestowed on me. Blessings that include time spent with chatty second graders, lunchroom ladies, feisty fourth graders, next door neighbors, infant second cousins, old friends, and new friends, and Papaws singing about the birth of baby Jesus...

What Is This Cocktail Fork You Speak Of?

I’m happy to report the more time I spend in New Orleans, the more I learn what I ought to do or say. (Unfortunately, this is a process of elimination that usually begins with me sticking my foot in my mouth. At which point I realize, too late, what NOT to do or say.) My biggest fear is to inadvertently hurt someone’s feelings, so please allow me to apologize…in advance…to the entire city of New Orleans, as my family transitions from the Bluegrass State. Although the proverbial road is long before me, I have high hopes that one day…I, too, will proudly bear the moniker of a NOLA “local.”
In the meantime, it appears you can take this girl out of Kentucky, but you can’t take the Kentucky out of this girl. Thankfully, I’ve recently made the acquaintance of three lovely locals. Little do they know, they are my new BFFs, a trio I refer to as The Super Heroes. These gals are sharp, funny and beautiful. Sweet BB, LG, and JC continue to gently and diplomatically share nuggets of wisdom, for which I will be eternally grateful. Bless their hearts, the poor things have had to start at the absolute, very beginning with me. But to their credit, even in a matter of weekends, I’ve learned several crucial lessons regarding the metamorphosis from “tourist” to “local”. The early fundamentals include phonetics, and food.

TOP TEN WAYS TO REMOVE ALL DOUBT YOU’RE NOT A NEW ORLEANS LOCAL…YET10. Sit down in front of a shrimp & crab platter and announce your seafood experience, thus far in life, consists of tuna salad sandwiches
9. Wear a sweater and winter coat in mid-November, instead of shorts and a blouse
8. Appear bewildered at the drive-thru window of a store serving Take Out Daiquiris
7. Get lost on the way to Bourbon Street for dinner
6. Ask your realtor to suggest homes north of Espionage (instead of Esplanade - Es-plah-nade)
5. Forget the French culture and ask the concierge where nationally known Gala-‘tor-ees is located, instead of Galatoires (Gal-uh-twah-z)
4. Remember the French culture and ask for museum suggestions in ‘Or-lay-own-z Parish instead of Orleans (Or’leeens) Parish
3. Mention you’d love to try a pound of crayfish instead of three pounds of crawfish
2. Show up for the Po’Boy Festival, expecting only seafood sandwiches, not realizing the distinguishing feature is the bread…and there’s such a thing as a Po’Boy Hamburger
1. Keep referring to the city as New Or-‘leeeens. Apparently rule number one is: pronounce the name as New ‘Or-Lenz. End of story.

Of course, I’m still a novice. Perhaps the best advice was given by my new Super Hero BFF JC: “Leigh, just think about what you WANT to say, and then say the opposite.”
Watch out New Orleans, here we come!