And you would think, living with a photographer and all, that he would take charge and snap photos all over town with all of our friends.  Nope.  He feels the same way.  That and he doesn’t like taking photos of people.  Period.

But I have to get over that.  Why, you ask?  Because it’s Mardi Gras and not only that, it’s our last Mardi Gras.  I believe someone else took maybe 4 photos of us at Mardi Gras last year, posted them on Facebook, and then proceeded to get rid of Facebook, therefore we have no photos from last year (side question: do you feel like Facebook has made us photo lazy?  How many families have physical family photo albums as opposed to Facebook albums?).

Flynn bought me a camera for Christmas and I believe I have 5 photos on the camera right now.  It is time to exponentially multiply that number.  I am ready to be a photog.  Every night, I will take photos of Flynn, friends, and floats and I will look back at all of them, old and gray, in actual physical albums because I refuse to let that tradition die, with fondess and nostalgia for our little blip in New Orleans, Louisiana.**Taken in our drive way after the St. Patrick’s Day parade.  I’m not sure if I even took a photo with this camera.  Thank God someone else did – happy there is documentation of all the trash in the street and, of course, my awesome outfit.

called me a “charming moron.”  Hey Wes Anderson, get out of my head but before you go, I do think I just found a little tid bit for your next script!  That sounds like it is right up your melancholy, monotone alley!  Let’s discuss soon.

You and me both, sister.

I do not want to turn this blog into a wedding blog.  There are plenty out there: some are fabulous and creative and all together gorgeous.  I’ll leave the wedding blogs up to those guys.

But I am getting married, so I am allowed to talk about it.  And although we have been engaged for well over a year, it is finally just settling that we are, in fact, having a wedding and getting married.  Woah.  We have the date, venue, caterer, DJ, photog and dress.  We are sitting pretty right now, so I find my idle time spent on these wedding blogs.   I read articles about brides that pour their hearts and souls over every minute detail.  These brides strive for the details to be 100% representative of the couple’s personality.  But here is a question: how is a vintage plate, or a crochet napkin, or a mason jar representative of the couple?  I get boggled sensing the vindication in these brides’s description of their rustic chic weddings, how truly representative their selection of raffia is to them as a couple  I have a lot of personality traits, and obviously I want the wedding to be representative of us.  But I find napkins to be a utility and raffia just annoying and neither a form of expression to me.  What do I do find representative of us at our wedding?

Cornhole!

Jenga!

And dancing so hard you are sore for days afterwards!

I thought that I was always predestined for this delicious old school favorite, but I guess my relationship with birds is proving to be even more twisted than ever expected (another blog post worthy explanation).

Flynn and I hosted our first Thanksgiving dinner in our little apartment in New Orleans this Thanksgiving.  It is no secret that I love lists and if given the opportunity, I can get real OCD real fast with organization skills.  Case and point: my Thanksgiving grocery list!

I’m actually quite embarrassed to show you this as I usually will use highlighter to differentiate, as I find it a lot more distinctive, and of course, gratifying.  But I couldn’t find any highlighters while I was comprising all lists.

After multiple trips to the grocery store, strategic time management of the oven, and an early morning crisp run to calm the turkey cooking nerves, my lists and OCD were all systems go for a Thanksgiving feast.  T’was the season for the O’Brien Family Jalepeño Cheddar Cheese Rolls, the favorite Green Bean Casserole, Joy of Cooking Stuffing, Flynn’s Bourbon-Cranberry Compote, and the most unreal turkey that I never thought would come from my loins.  For how escalated the turkey task is, the pinnacle of the holiday menu, I never thought I would amount to anything close, especially not on my first go ahead.  Vegans, Vegetarians, and all together fat and/or sodium-phobes beware!  My secret?  I don’t know if it was a strange Paula Dean influence, the amount of pork and/or pork product I have consumed while living in Louisiana, or the constant smell of fry in the air, but I got the most insane idea to smother the entire bird in bacon fat after I brined it in a salt and brown sugar solution for 24 hours.

And it was fabulous.

But Flynn on the other hand, has such disdain for the article of clothing.  Knowing that I am directly helping his mother with his Christmas list, Flynn took it upon himself to look me straight in the eye and say “don’t ever buy me a turtleneck,” as if that gift would make or break our relationship.  I said alright and proceeded to let his mother know, that along with anything red, anything with buttons, anything with a graphic on it, anything with irregular pockets, anything with too deep of a V-neck, anything with an irregular collar, don’t get him a turtleneck.  And I thought that I was the picky one in this relationship.

Here is a tip: Don’t buy a turtleneck or risk serious ramifications.

With gut wrenching heat already gracing it’s presence in the South, I have a few things to keep me distracted from the sweat beading down my face at 11pm at night.  Parties.

Ah yes, I love them so.  All of them.  BBQs to fancy weddings.  And I got those and everything in between in the next few months in THREE different states.  And of course, there is the ever-looming party that I am supposed to be planning for 200 people on Sept. 2nd 2012, but, that is another blog entry.  Or 20 blog entries.

With all of these parties in my planner, my omni-present desire to buy fabulous dresses has grown stronger and stronger.  But being the bargain shopper that I am, I keep my eyes peeled.  Accompanied by a friend last weekend, I was shown the 25 dollar rack at a boutique/stationary store (beautiful marriage of two things I love, pretty dresses and beautiful cards).  I immediately gravitated towards a gorgeous, perfect, Chloe & Reese turquoise strapless dress with a sweetheart neckline with a fullish skirt ending right above the knee.  It was beckoning my name and I was instantly in love.  When I tried it on, I flew out of the dressing room for all to see.  I, being a bride to be, have tried on many wedding dresses in search of “the one” that makes my heart go pitter patter and, before this day, I was beginning to think that I wasn’t that kind of person to be giddy over a dress, since I wasn’t getting excited about any of them.  But, this perfect dress on the $25 rack solidified the fact that I can be beyond elated for a dress.  My friend, Danielle, loved the dress, as did all the attendants and boutique owner.  But the experience took a turn for the very worst after Danielle exclaimed “and I can’t believe it is on sale for $25!”  The owner immediately and abruptly responded “That dress is not $25, it’s full price.”  My heart sunk, not even glancing at the tag to begin with, I still knew I was in for some really upsetting news.  I looked down at the tag. $460.  I asked her why it was on the rack with the other $25 dollar dresses.  She responded that there was no other room for the Chloe & Reese dresses so she placed them on the same rack.  I looked at her with an evil eye, hoping that her bad organizational decision would somehow transition into the realization she should sell me the dress for $25 out of guilt but it didn’t work.  I may or may not have also called the whole situation “cheating” but I was upset and I take no responsibility for my actions.  I took the dress off, devastated and heartbroken, and left.

Dear New Orleans, your organizational skills really kill me sometimes.  It’s ok, I have parties this summer to make me feel better.

Another idea:  If I was a professional party planner and I was assigned to plan a 1950′s old Hollywood glam party in Palm Springs, I would be very very excited.  Then, I would make sure that the venue had a pool.  Then, I would hire a synchronized swimming team to dance in the pool for all the guests to watch and admire.  Then I would ask them if I could be their water girl as a side job and in exchange they could teach me some moves.

I always forget I make tea for myself or for Flynn.  Always.  I put the water in the kettle, have it boil, even pour into mugs with tea bags in.  Then I forget.  I walk away to let it brew a bit but end up remembering 45 minutes later that I even did it all in the first place.  With this pattern, Flynn has taken it upon himself to be in charge of tea making, along with the coffee making that is, apparently, too demanding for my mental capacity in the morning.

He takes these deep breaths in, rolls his eyes and shakes his head at the same time when he walks into the kitchen to find tea left neglected.  It is even a much more vigorous shake of the head when it is his tea.  He yells something to me in the next room that I can’t make out; I retaliate with a smart retort that he probably didn’t hear either.  He puts the water back on, boils, brews, adds honey, hands the tea to me and says to me “you slay me, Curley.”  Some men use the line “I’ll love you forever,” “You are the apple of my eye,” “I’m so lucky to have you.”  But I get “you slay me, Curley” – not even using the endearment of my first name.  It is as if he is my baseball coach and I just struck out for the third time that game.

It is this line however, that comes up multiple times a day from both parties involved.  I don’t want to end this blog by presenting myself as incompetent and Flynn, the patronizing spouse.  No no, I can be just as patronizing.  That article is truly right in saying engagement is the word used for marriage and combat – and in the O’Brien/Curley household, we are the idea’s personification.

But not only does Flynn accept my ineptitude to not follow through with tea-making, he also finds it endearing.  Not only do I accept Flynn’s undying love for watching the Star Wars animated series, in his sweat pants, on the blow up mattress in the living room with martini in habd, I love him for it.  Of course, I make a sarcastic remark – reminding him he is, in fact, 26 years old and he has been watching cartoons for far too many hours than what is socially acceptable.  But I say it with a loving smile.  He looks at me, takes a sip of his martini, and goes back to watching his show and says “I’m in grad school, I need a break sometimes.”  ”Quite the break,” I say and jump over the pile of air mattress and blanket and head off to the next room.

To love and to cherish. In sickness and in health. In combat and in marriage.  Apparently you need a little bit of both to help the world go ’round.  I head back into the living room where he has set up Star Wars shop.  I have gotten into my sweat pants and I curl up next to him and begin to watch.  I secretly like watching the show.  He turns to me, grabs my finger with the engagement ring on and says “Life Partner! You are stuck with me!”  ”Yes,” I say, “but you are stuck with me too” and nuzzle my head on his shoulder and watch Ben Kenobi, yet again, yell at Anakin for doing something irate and passionate and not reasonable.  Very un-Jedi.

I avoided the blog, in case you didn’t notice that the last entry was in September.  I have no reason.  I have no valid excuse.  Nor did I ever join the Big Easy Roller Derby league.  That I would like to blame on not ever coming up with a name bad ass enough to make them weak in the knees, or I guess in derby diction, bad ass enough to break knees.  But if there is a consolation prize, I did get health insurance and joined a water polo team.  I did get punched in the eye on Saturday – my head got mistaken for the ball.  Water polo balls are yellow.  Bright yellow.

Yes, New Orleans has treated us kindly with a warm welcome of blows to the head, heartburn, and hangover.  Other consolation prize: no car theft, bike theft nor hurricanes!  No wonder I have been so blog-world MIA, I’m having such a smashing good time.  I’m not really sure where the next line would go.  I want to avoid a very superficial recap of the past 6 months and go straight to a specific incident that encompasses all and really hits it out of the park, all the while avoiding predictable rhetoric and sensationalism that I’m sure I have already fallen guilty of within these past few paragraphs.

There is a bar across the street from our apartment.  Once called the Irish Garden, privy to the Irish Channel neighborhood that we dwell in; to me, it looked like a front for a large drug operation.  No one would ever be there, yet always open.  I assume for the large amounts of cocaine smuggled in from the Gulf of Mexico.    It closed without anyone knowing and the next thing we know, Parasol’s – the city-wide acknowledged home of the best roast beef po’ boy and just blocks away from our apartment as well – is under ownership scrutiny.  Days later, the Parasol’s po’ boy ups and leaves with manager and staff in tote to buy the lost and forgotten drug dealership front “Irish Garden,” renaming it Tracey’s, established in 1949, after Parasol’s original name.  T’was a grave and whirlwind fight over Miller High Lifes and gravy fries.

Tracey’s is currently frocked with 10 Irish flags between 10 Mardi Gras flags, waving high from the second floor’s cast iron balcony.  You know when LSU scores a touchdown in the apartment from the crowd screaming, watching the game on its 12 flat screen tvs.  I was one of about 5 who watched the Giants fight their way into the world series there.  I was one of about 10 there, who actually saw them win it all.  I order Miller High Life, the champagne of beers and the drink of champions in NOLA.  I have ventured out from the roast beef po’ boy and order the turkey club with extra bacon.  I ordered gravy fries every night the Giants were playing, convinced it would help them win.

We went to Tracey’s to celebrate Flynn’s 26th birthday.  Loads of spinach and artichoke dip, queso con carne, and ti many martoonis later, he finds himself at a table with his closest friends from New Orleans, a new group but a special group, at Tracey’s.  He sips his jack and coke as his buddies drink High Lifes.  It is a High Life.  I read his face.  His level of happy birthday-ness is read through the eyes and he is having quite the happy birthday.  He gets up, kisses the forehead of every girl at the table with us and goes home.  Birthday over.

He wakes up to nausea and a head ache.  Reliving the night before, he takes his phone and reaches out to those who were there, couldn’t be there, should have been there.  While I do damage control in the kitchen and eat leftover king cake, he sits and takes his coffee with asprin, relaying back and forth with his two thumbs flying around the mini keyboard. It was a great birthday – the first of many here in our new city.  He has to let that be known.

And it is as if they all told him “think of me next time you get a hangover.”  Except, I don’t think Mr. Sedaris ever anticipated his nuanced phrase to be a positive one – but that is New Orleans after all, to never miss the nuances, to never anticipate, to never expect.  To call each other while hung over because, although death may be the better alternative at the present moment, it is still a moment in New Orleans worth talking about.

dem prettiest tree around

purple, yellow, and green leaves so fine

I do a lazy sway

I do a lazy sway.

some trees, dey try to act like Me

all trees, dey want to be like Me

down here in the big easy

where the livin’ easy

ooo wee where the livin’ so easy.

dey bring dem 2^nd lines ‘round

po’ boys and girls and rich ones too

walkin’ and dancin’ and singin’ like

dey be celebratin’ Me

always celebratin’ Me.

I’m a mardi gras tree

dem prettiest tree around

My fine purple, yellow and green leaves

I do a lazy sway

I do a lazy sway.

ooo wee.