Baby you should be in pictures

A few weeks ago we got a note slipped under the gate about location scouts wanting to take a look at our house for an upcoming movie. We never called. If we owned the house or if our landlord wasn't so persnickety (what does that word even mean?) and really, if I just had more time, our house could be in lights!

WTF

Instead, it will be our street. On Wednesday.

I don't mind moving my car, but I bet everyone won't. What do they do then? I will be outside snooping in the bushes during this filming. Don't you worry. The movie is about a track star or tennis star who goes to the University of Kentucky or Tennessee and beats all the odds to become a coach or an Olympian or something. Obviously, the description was not that compelling. Oh, but I'll keep you posted.

Horses love beads

The Quarter was fun last week. We saw my cousin and his wife and the Clyesdales!

This weekend is Halloween, which is apparently the second most popular holiday here. I'll take lots of pictures.

We are still wearing tank tops and jorts down here.

We got this fire pit. For sitting around. It can be used for warmth if the temperature decides to drop below 75 again. Elbow had to work all weekend so he was home all day. I asked him if he wanted to go on a bike ride to the park and he said, "I ate too many potato chips."

Oh yeah, it's exciting down here in Nola.

In other news, my cousin and his wife are in town for a work conference and we are meeting them on Bourbon Street to watch the Clyesdales march through the Quarter. I'm trying to be positive and I genuinely look forward to seeing them, but after you live here for a while, you begin to loathe visiting the Quarter. We wanted to take them out in our neighborhood to show them how beautiful the rest of the city can be, but they haven't had time yet.Word: when you visit New Orleans, spend no more than 10 percent of your time in the French Quarter. Just enough to give the city some of your moola, because that is all they are trying to get down there.

And do not follow any new "friend" to any hidden "club," because it is likely that you will then be charged a $140 cover and not be allowed  to leave until you pay. This true horror story brought to you by my very good college friend, C.

We like the idea of coming out the front door and falling directly into the fire pit.

Blackie & Firestar perform tricks. Blackie grew out of his black spots.

We don't have to feed the fish anymore. They just eat algae off the plants. This is Redhead. Or Fancy. They look alike from this angle.

Random pond debris. 

It's going to be a cold winter. 

Well, that was fast!

When you graduate with a journalism degree, the school should force you to minor in something like Restaurant Serving, Front Desk Reception, or Retail Sales. And they should say, "Here's your diploma so you can pursue your dreams to work at Conde Nast publishing or The Wall Street Journal, but you better know how do to do these other things, too, because you're going to need to actually get paid."

I could have used the advice way back when.

But anyway, I put in my two-weeks notice at the restaurant. Like Hillary Swank's character said in P.S. I Love You, "I can't work for idiots." But that's not really true. I've worked for plenty of idiots.

To put it simply, I was starting to hate it. I loved the people and hope I remain friends with some of them. But the hours were really long, the chef was kinda a jerk, and they kept adding duties to our long list of things to do. On Tuesday when I came in, K (my favorite other cocktail server) was like "We have to polish these plates before they go out." So, when the restaurant is at capacity, and forty people are waiting for their sage juleps, and ten more ladies celebrating Annie's 30th birthday just walked in, I'll be in the kitchen, wiping down share plates. Wishing to God I was wearing special orthopedic shoes.

I'll just have to find some other crap job, I said to Elbow. Like, why can't I find a REAL job? My dream job, other than hiding away in some high turret like Stephen King, spinning out chick-lit novels, is to work as an assistant on a farm. In between deep, dark woods. Like the Black Forest in Germany. But I digress.

We had a mouse. And he tried to eat our house. Actually, he ate an entire bag of brown rice. Poor little guy. He also ate into a bag of flour so that every time we shut the cabinet door, a puff of white fairy dust would float out. And I was like, "What the?" But then Elbow found him sleeping in the toaster. So cute. Like a kid's movie. But he had to be destroyed. Sorry kids. The little bastard ate a hole in every item we had in the cupboard and pooped everywhere. It was really fun to clean.

We now have traps out and I told this whole story because this morning it looks as if one of the traps has been released and the Smucker's Natural Peanut Butter is gone. This could mean that Elbow found a little critter in the morning. Or that we have a really smart mouse. Like a nutria. Did you know that nutrias swim? They look like beavers in the water. No joke.

My Other Job--Cocktail "Waitress"

For exactly a month now, I've been working as a cocktail server at a brand spankin' new "Swank, Posh" restaurant on Magazine Street. I won't say which one, but in certain circles the chef is famous. In my circle, he's just some dude from West Virginia who spent some time in France and sports a serious Pittsburgh 'stache.

But I didn't know he was from West Virginia when I applied. I just needed a job and all the other ones were taken.

Being a cocktail server isn't that bad. I only work three nights a week and the staff is pretty cool. I'm the least smiley one there but only because my feet hurt so BAD.

Here's a typical Saturday night:
My section is the "gorgeous" side patio, where I'm serving a emo hipster dude in plaid his 7th manhattan, "with rye whiskey please." His friend is drinking a mint julep and rolling his own cigarettes. They are having an incredibly stimulating conversation. "I voted because it was such an important election year." I fall asleep refilling their waters.

Inside at the bar, three "ladies" dressed like the Olsen twins (the skinny one) are loudly discussing which of their past flings they did or did not sleep with. They are using the f-word a lot and calling each other "slut." It's super classy.

As I set down an almost full Miller High Life to throw away (It is the only thing like that we serve--I think originally it was as a joke but the hipster kids liked it, so we kept it on the menu), a guy gets all worried that we are wasting beer and says he'll drink it. Even though I picked it up off a stranger's table outside who, for all he knows, could have put the beer in his mouth and then spit it all back in the bottle. I tell him to do whatever he wants and walk away. I want no part of that. This is a classy joint.

In the kitchen, someone has started a rumor that a customer threw up on the front porch. "No, I don't think so." Then the second-in-command chef makes fun of me for stuffing beverage napkins into my shoes but I don't care. Band-aids won't cut it.

Back outside, I watch a woman in an evening dress help her stumbling husband down the steps. When he reaches the sidewalk--I am not making this up--he proceeds to ralph everywhere. Guess the rumors were true. J, the bartender from Pittsburgh, has to dump a bucket of water on the sidewalk to clean it. Once again, classy.

The most amazing thing about working at a bar is seeing how drunk everyone gets. I constantly ask someone if they'd like another drink, convinced they will say "no thank you, I've had more than enough." Instead they say "keep 'em coming" and trip over the furniture or ralph on the sidewalk. Even scarier, some of them just get up and walk out like they've had 2 coca-cola's instead of 15 martini's, and then who knows? Drive home? Take a cab? Sleep in the bushes?

Learning the ropes in city gov

Since 2006 I've applied for numerous positions in various nonprofit organizations. I thought it would be so fulfilling to combine my communications skills and experience with my desire to make a difference in my community (I probably wrote that exact line. No wonder I never got hired).

Now I know the truth. I told Elbow I don't know how he does it. It's great to work in public health . . . except for the public. During our outreach events, I half expect the scary clown and the bearded lady to come rolling through our little circus any time. There are clients, speakers and their children all over the place. And some of them don't speak English. And all of them want to tip over the chairs or run in the elevator or steal the others' door prize toys. And I haven't even started talking about the children yet. OR the big kids circus  traipsing through the corridors of City Hall.

Last week I was charged with chopping three large bamboo-like sticks into individual pieces for a presentation gift bag. As I'm hacking away with a kitchen knife, and then trying to break the sucker over my knee, I ask Ms. Toni "What is this?"

"It's for my presentation."

"Yeah, but what is it?"

"I want them all to have a piece."

"A piece of what?!"

At this point she finally gets what I'm asking and I suffer through one of those "You must be the damn dumbest Yankee" looks before telling me. It's sugar cane. Duh. Well, where I come from, we would be breaking off individual portions of buck antlers and serving cornbread and beans with deer jerky. She served po' boys, pig's feet and greens. Go figure.

Pimpin' New Fish Pad --Hope it doesn't freeze

We got some awesome new furniture for our fish pond. Water lettuce or something and a lily. The lilies need at least six hours of sun a day so we had to chop back some of the banana trees, which is fine because those things like to collect spiders that hang from the end of their leaves and scare the crap out of you. Here's the pic of our new pimp fish pond:

Water lettuce is in the background. The fish hide under the leaves.

ALSO, we don't have to feed our seven fishes anymore, because they can eat the bacteria and whatnot off the plants! It's so exciting down here on Bordeaux Street.

In other news, the temperature dropped below 80 degrees for the first time in months. This morning, Elbow asked, "Where's my fleece?" And I was like "your what?" His fleece. Really. But it is long-sleeve shirt weather.