Today’s Weight … 121.7
I ate cheese, damn it! In pizza form! TWO deliciously-evil, triangular-shaped pizza forms!
Don’t get it? Check this post.
My kids are riding in a parade this weekend. This is New Orleans, remember? It’s their first experience and, needless to say, they are totally pumped. As such, I’ve spent the last few weeks scouring our closets, cabinets, drawers, pantry, pockets, shed, yard, cat box and sofa cushions for trinkets or anything that would be appropriate for chucking off a float. If you’re not from NOLA, know that I’ve caught everything from large leafy vegetables to five-foot Tweety Bird plushes to real, non-novelty underwear … so everything in this house is fair game. I’ve also badgered everyone within driving distance offering to pick up their household sludge. Plus, I visited the nearest Mardi Gras supply store (they abound here) to purchase a few choice items that my kids specifically requested for their stash. The boy’s number one throw request? Moon pies. And the girl’s? Stuffed animals.
Holy crap. Someone call ‘Hoarders.’ (God, I hope we have enough …)
My girl’s so excited about riding that she used it as the theme for her English assignment yesterday to create a cinquain (don’t feel bad – I totally had to look it up, too) which is a class of poetic forms that employ a 5-line pattern. She showed me her creation while she was doing her homework today.
Very cute. She’s got the crown, the masks, all the Carnival colors … it seems right on, yes?
Until I zoomed in a little …
“Fighting, Acting, Yelling??” Well … now she makes us sound like a bunch of uncivilized, redneck hillbillies!
Of course, I guess I’m doing my job right selling it to her as a mom (a New Orleans mom) because she followed up that colorfully violent description with “A Great Experience for Everyone” and “Incredible.”
I guess we are what we are down here. And my kids are riding with their dad anyway. So, if there’s going to be any “fighting” over airborne crap thrown in my direction, I will be the one doing it. Cross your fingers my kids don’t see me.