F*#k It Friday

As part of my job I have to come up with clever little social media slogans and campaigns like "Moon Pie Monday" or "Hangover Wednesday." I decree today to be "Fuck It Friday" and I'm posting pictures of everyone who needs an attitude adjustment on my work Facebook. NO, not really. But if I did, it would include a picture of myself.

I've made myriad work and social faux pas all week and I'm really kinda proud of myself for how much embarrassment I can handle. I've sent emails with the wrong dates to the wrong people and mixed up details  like only the newest intern could. I blame Super Gras.

Last night our friend who v. sadly is moving away was telling us about a sub division in her new town where they might buy. And without thinking, I blurt out "Sub division?!?" in horror. Like my second-story apartment is a frickin' palace and why would anyone want a house with an actual yard and a parking spot? So to apologize, I've made a pros list of sub divisions vs. Uptown New Orleans:

Sub division:
Big house
Big yard
Garage to store tools and kegs
A place to park
Trees
Less dog poop
Possibly gated and secure
Friendly neighbors

My apartment on Prytania Street:
Big House, half of which I get to rent for what should be an illegal amount of $
Decent yard but next to raised house with no cover so dog can run under house and then escape to front of house to be squished on Prytania Street or stolen by mean neighbors
Storage under house (with no cover from the elements and cats)
NO Frickin' close place to park EVER and this makes me crazy
There are some trees
Lots of dog poop not made by my dog
No gate and no security from teenagers selling "magazine subscriptions" and people who throw up on flower baskets
LOTS of neighbors in all shapes and sizes and temperaments, not all of them pleasant

But we are:
right off the parade route
within walking distance to several awesome bars
in Uptown New Orleans

We met a guy from NYC who is living in DC who showed me a video of the Inauguration (you have no idea how many times I had to type that word before I got the spelling right) and parade from his office window. I was like, "yeah, that's cool. But where are the costumes? Who's that guy? Is he the King of the parade?"

Going back to Fuck It Friday, here's how I started it today:
I had do the weekly long run by myself this morning because all my friends have, like, lives or something. And I'm chugging through about mile 5 and my phone rings. I recently got a new phone which I still really don't know how to work. (side note: I ran into my co-worker's office yesterday laughing my head off at something Seri replied and she was like, "yeah, my kids love that." Like I'm the last dumbass on earth to discover this feature). So my phone rings and I'm listening to music and I can't figure out to pause the song before the call ends. I don't recognize the number but I somehow call the person right back while at the same time, the worst song ever comes on the Spotify station I'm listening to. So I hit the thumbs down and then say, "yes, improve my fucking station."

And a voice replies, "Samantha?"

And I'm like "Mother f'er!" I have called back the anchor of the show one of our people is appearing on this morning and said to her, "Yes, improve my fucking station."

Fortunately, she has a great sense of humor. Happy Fuck It Friday! (Sorry for all the f bombs!)

Elbow's Birthday, Cherry Photos and Running

This morning I ran 10 miles with J &L and all I got was this bloody sock:

"Ew, that is so gross."

 It is gross, but that's why I like it! Elbow would be so proud of me. Running was one of only two forms of exercise he took seriously. The other was lifting weights like Ah-nold.

So I used to really hate it when people talked about running. And I hated running. But now I have running partners who basically sprint for 10 miles every morning and I hate losing so I try to keep up. And then I go home and throw up. Not really. Well, maybe.

Now I find myself talking about it all the time with other people who run. And we have lingo. Like "How many'd you do?" I did 10. We did eight. I only did four. What kind of crazy person thinks that running four miles is slacking? Back in the old days, I used to do 10 minutes and then be like, "Oh yeah, I run."  Daniel Tosh said the only thing more boring than running is talking about running.

Here's K doing the running man:

Don't tell him I put this on here.

Wednesday was Elbow's birthday so I celebrated the way wives and widows all over the world do: by getting s#*t-canned. But I'm just gonna say that I wasn't the only one and if this were a Facebook post I would be tagging a few people, including the dude in the sweater busting a move above. Oh yeah, and J.S. is now called Elbow, Jr.

We all have Cherry names. Mine makes no sense.

Then, last night I had to go to Bon Temps for Cherry Bomb photos! We did a big group shot and then individual ones. So basically it's a Thursday night and I'm putting on sequined hot pants, a tutu, a mask, boots and a red feather in my hair. Then I have to walk outside in the freezing!!! 40-degree weather we've been having and go to a bar and act like I'm happy about it. And I'm thinking, "Why can't I just go home and watch tv like everyone else?"

But I know the answer. It's because I live in New Orleans. And starting this weekend, s#*t is going to get crazy here. Stay tuned. I'm going to NYC this weekend and I'm hoping to get some good pics of Sarah Jessica Parker and people slipping on ice.

Boob injuries and butt grabbing!

I'm baaack. (Creepy Carol Anne's voice)

Went to a new bar that opened on Freret Street this week called the Public House. It should be called "where drunk Bama fans go to hoard bar stools" since that's what happens there.

But they have lots of beer on tap and the newest NoLa trend which is to install those crappy daquiri machines but fill them with "craft" ingredients and charge $35 for one "craft cocktail." It's uber trendy and cool. And they taste like daquiris, so that's a bonus.

I moved into an apartment with my little sister and so far we've only had one screaming fight. Buddy! took her side and slept with her that night. Little traitor. So I threw away his Jazz Fest mini-frisbee. I actually feel kinda bad about that.

On Sunday I had a 2-and-a-half hour marching practice for The Cherry Bombs since Mardi Gras is coming up! And this is what happened: The following evening I suddenly had what felt like a cramp in my chest. And it hurt every time I laughed. Then it progressed to hurting when I moved. That night I couldn't sleep on my left side.

So I'm thinking, "Really, I'm going to have a heart attack? What kind of s*#tty luck can one person have?" The next morning I have an early appointment and I can barely focus because my chest hurts so bad. And I'm googling things like "heart attack signs in women" and "chest pains on left."

So I run through the list of doctors I know - radiologist, no; dermatologist, no; pathologist, uh no; psychiatrist, maybe! - but then I remember I know a family doctor. So I call him and literally say, "I have pain in my left boob." And he's like does it hurt when you move or press on it? Yes. What exercise have I been doing? Marching practice and boxing. And yes, I wear a 2-pound men's watch on my left wrist.

I'm a genius.

He prescribes laying off the upper-body exercise for a few days. That night my sister and I are supposed to have a training session since she's a workout guru. I tell her I'm not supposed to do arm workouts. And she's like, "Can you do push-ups?" And I'm like, "sure!"

And so my b#*b injury has taken longer to heal than I expected.

But tonight we're going to Channing Tatum's bar Saints and Sinners. My friend L is in town and when I told her, she was like "Can I grab his butt?" And I was like, "hells yeah!"

Great Summer Pics and Pie

I've been extremely nostalgic for West Virginia summers since I was there in June. I know what all you Northerners are doing: planning barbecues where you can actually sit outside, swimming in yourr barge-free rivers, catching lightning bugs, running in city parks with real unpaved trails. You're so smug in your ability to wear synthetic fabrics. Whatev. So you caught some crawdaddy's. Down here, we suck their heads!

I forgot to post the pics from the Running of the Bulls. This was fun. Elbow's mom came with us as we drove to the CBD at 7:30 a.m. on Saturday. Actually the real Mrs. F was a trooper. She walked the whole route, although she avoided the crazy gals with bats. And in case you were wondering, that s*#t hurt. When people run from these crazy roller derby girls, they aren't doing it for their health.

I want to hire this guy for parties.

She may look cute but she means business.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We went on the Sippin' in Seersucker Streetcar tour during which I rode the streetcar exactly ONE time. The streetcar line was all ripped up so they were routing people to buses. I refused a seat on a bus (I inherently distrust jumping on a bus when unplanned. Something to do with the hundreds of movies I've seen about people trapped on them - Nightmare on Elm Street 2 or 3 or whatever, Speed, The Crazies...) So some of us walked all the way to Avenue Pub, where we had fantastic and entertaining conversation, about 15 percent of which I can recall. The spots we hit included Superior Seafood, The Columns, The Mayfair, Fat Harry's and The Sovereign Pub (I have zero percent recollection of what we did at this bar). Some of us wore hats.

See how much fun you have when you wear stripes?

J. carried a fake microphone. They are using it for karaoke at The Mayfair.

Don't tell Elbow I put his picture in here.

I can't remember what this was about.

I keep thinking about what the lucky bastards on Nantucket are doing this week. So I made a blueberry pie:

This totally reminds me of that "boom-badda" scene in Stand By Me, the movie.

Bon Voyage trashcan!

Our friend JK is moving to NYC so tonight we are going on a Bon Voyage Streetcar bar crawl called "Sippin' in Seersucker." According to Nell Nolan of the Times-Picayune there is already an event with the same name during which really important people pay $75 or whatever to go hang out in Canal Place. That's almost the price of a movie there.

Yesterday thunderstorms caused the streets to turn into canals and scared the crap out of me and everyone else who is new or semi-new to this town and didn't realize you could leave your house in light rain and end up 15 minutes later up to your side mirror in water, sure you've ruined your car and hoping to God a live oak doesn't topple over on you. It took me longer to type that sentence than it did for the water to carry away this trash can:

Here it comes.

Cruisin'.

There it goes.

I snapped these pictures from my perch in Coliseum Square where I nearly tore my bumper off trying to reach once I remembered I was not driving a SUV. Nobody cares where you park when you're trying to get to higher ground in New Orleans. That's why this guy just pulled his little Fiat onto the walking path:

Is that Jennifer Lopez?!

How convenient.

The one bright spot of being marooned in the Garden District was watching this guy in pink shorts decide if he should really leave his girlfriend's car there. He walked away and then came back and stared at it hard. And then he walked away again all like "screw it. It's just a Fiat."

I of course took some pictures:

Take 1

So Pink Shorts walks away. He stops. He turns around and walks back to the car. He stares at it and then he walks away again:

Take 2

I learned a very important lesson. From now on I will always have in my car these items:

1. rain boots

2. slicker

3. whiskey

4. crossword puzzle

5. inner tube