The kitties missed us this much:

At least one of them attempted to eat our (mostly) inedible Christmas tree ornaments and left evidence lying on the blanket.  Fingers have been pointed at Quixote, who's an excellent jumper and has sabotaged the tree before in other ways, and Bun, our chubbiest cat whose insatiable appetite frequently crosses the boundary into people food.  The cats are remaining mum on the subject, not that it matters at all because WHERE WERE YOU FOR THE PAST FOUR DAYS SURE YOU HAD GRANDMA AND GRANDPA FEED US AND WATER US BUT WHY DID YOU LEAVE US HERE BY OURSELVES AND WE DON'T FEEL THE LEAST BIT SORRY ABOUT THE ORNAMENT AND WHERE IS THE WET FOOD OMG? 

Oh the guilt.  Bun is making biscuits on my stomach as I write this, and she's not holding back on the claws either.  Jeff and I are back after spending a few days in New Orleans. 

We took the train (16 hours each way in a cute little sleeper car), which was tedious at times but unforgettable and romantic.  I've always been fascinated by the wrong-side-of-town views available only to train passengers. 

We see the car batteries, tires, plastic bags, and unwanted card tables that people don't care about enough to dispose of properly.  We see the junkyards and shacks that probably won't make it onto postcards.  The poverty visible from the City of New Orleans line is staggering.  And so is the weirdness.  I saw a medium-small tree decorated with four or five real, decapitated deer heads and wondered if it was a redneck Christmas tradtion, a warning to area deer, or simply a psycho thing to do (sorry, no photo, but check out the bayou pics below!).

And so, in admittedly outrageous contrast, we stayed at our plush hotel chain of choice, the Westin, known for its supercomfortable beds, non-hateful room art, dual shower heads accompanied by a sign beseeching us to only use one so that the planet may be saved, unisex-smelling soaps shaped like leaves, tuberose-smelling lobby, and complimentary USA Todays each morning--their thinness a certain harbinger of the death of print media. 

Within an hour of our arrival in the laughably-balmy-to-us New Orleans, we were face-deep in bread pudding and po' boys at Mother's (we had done our homework).  During the 48 hours that followed, we staggered from one gorgefest to another, taking little breaks to admire the architecture.  "It smells like spriiiiiiing!" and "These flowers are breaking my hearrrrt!" I whined at regular intervals. 

The food was ridiculously divine--highbrow, lowbrow, hipsterbrow, institutionbrow, all of it.  Even the mall food was respectable.  I ate three things for the first time in my life: rabbit (forced myself to stop thinking about cuteness), sweetbreads (convinced myself they were really more like eggs), and turtle (didn't order; merely had a taste of Jeff's soup, but it counts). 

We walked down Bourbon Street at night--I was unimpressed with the fratboy crappiness of it all, and it was mostly just sad in the harsh light of day.  With bellies full of beignets, we searched for the statue of Ignatius from A Confederacy of Dunces, but he was gone, seemingly ripped right out of the pavement!

Hot dog vendors abounded, but the hero of misanthropes everywhere had obviously been kidnapped by fratboys. "They fear me. I suspect that they can see that I am forced to function in a century I loathe."  I was heartbroken, and I hope Ignatius remains somewhere in New Orleans: "Leaving New Orleans frightened me considerably.  Outside the city limits the heart of darkness, the true wasteland begins."

We strolled around the Garden District in the rain, admiring the various homes of Anne Rice, some football player or other, and John Goodman.  Jeff Facebook-documented nearly all of it as it happened, but no one commented on his photos due to extreme, white-knuckled jealousy, we assumed.  We realize that we can be completely unbearable with our little vacations and in-loveness. 

But now we are back in Illinois, it is indeed January, and when the train doors opened this morning at 6:00, the prairie's 4 puny degrees were a sucker punch.  Our return to work and reality on Monday will take us down many more notches, that's for sure.  I've always said that January 4 is the most depressing day of the year.  But I, like Ignatius, take comfort in the fact that that "when my brain begins to reel from my labors, I make an occasional cheese dip."

Comments

[Wednesday Addams]

I found your blog a year or so ago through @u2. I'm guilty of being a lurker and not much of a commenter. You express so well the thoughts floating around in my head sometimes!

"I was unimpressed with the fratboy crappiness of it all"

I couldn't have described Bourbon Street better myself. Happy New Year. I love your food pr0n and more kitty pics please! Oh and more of your artwork, too.

[Kelly]

Thank you Wednesday! Gotta admit that "fratboy crappiness" is my favorite part of this entry too. I mean, that's exactly what it is. :)

Love your show, been a big fan since kindergarten.

[The Beautiful Kind]

I LOOVE New Orleans! Great capture of it. I'm sad to hear Ignatius has gone missing, just like the book - he made an escape with that mischievous minx!

[Kelly]

OF COURSE! That musky Myrna minx!