Tag Archives: Saints

Busy day of Mardi Gras parades, Superbowl parties & #footballforwomen

Today’s Weight … 121.3

“Losing weight during Mardi Gras season is going to be harder than I thought,” said me, with a mouth full of doughnut.

Don’t get it? Check this post.

I just dropped off my family and an entire truckload of crap at the float for their parade.  My daughter’s on the bottom level with a bunch of friends.  My son’s up top with one friend and a bunch of crazy-looking people I don’t know.  Among them is a tattooed lady in Harley Davidson assless (is that hyphenated?) chaps.  And she’s 72. (Shudder.)  Dave will be running up and down the ladder checking on both of the kids throughout the parade.  And I’ll be running behind the float trying to break my boy’s two-story fall with my body.

Well, that was my personal Facebook post today anyway.  (It’s a joke. And, yes, I know it was hiLARious!)

I will not really be chasing behind the float.  I will be at the end of the parade waiting with friends and family to see my little people on their inaugural float ride (read: rite of passage in these parts) and hoping to get their attention long enough for at least one blurry photograph. (Sniff.)

And we will be dashing straight from the parade (and its after-party) festivities to a Superbowl party.  Those of you who have been following along know I’m not a huge sports fan.  Of course, it would have been entirely different if the Saints were playing today. Sigh.

So, if you’re on Twitter and you’re sitting around today confused … or bored … or just seeking a laugh between plays, look for us on #footballforwomen.  It’s sort of like #shitgirlssay, football-style. And don’t be afraid to put in your (Kick it through the thing!! Kick it through the thing!! ) two cents.

Go … uh … team!



A letter to the New Orleans Saints before today’s big game

Dear Saints,

Today, I am attending a party in your honor. I will be watching the game, cheering you on with a great group of friends. I am ordering a party tray of food. And, in addition to the rest of the city, I will actually be wearing clothing inspired by your team.

We all know this stuff doesn’t happen every day with me. And I take a lot of ribbing about my spazzy (What? Well, then it should be a word! Are we all still using ‘explevatory?’) knowledge of football and whatever it is you guys are doing out there. The entire city is really counting on you. My sweet, moon-hanging son is counting on you. Ellen DeGeneres is counting on you. And, damn it, I am counting on you.

So, please don’t let me down.

Plain and simple. Not while I’m sitting there wearing a Saints jersey and everything. People in these parts were already pretty let down by the performance of another home favorite earlier this week. And they could really use something to lift them out of that funk. And me? Well, I could use seeing that unbridled glee I remember seeing on my son’s face two years ago. Not to mention on the faces of everyone else I know. Including mine.

You guys have what it takes to go all the way again. And every point you score, every yard you gain, every pass you complete and just about every move you make gets us all one step closer to that big game on Sunday. Just think. You could get a trip to Indianapolis and score yourselves another nice, new piece of jewelry for your collection. Yes, I said collection. ‘Cause I’m hoping there’s lots more to follow.

You’ve done so much for my hometown, at a time when we needed it most. No matter what happens, thanks for that. Of course, I’d rather be thanking you late on February 5. That rush was incredible two years ago, wasn’t it? So, allow me to give you a little pre-game advice.

Please listen today whenever the coach is talking to you. Have a good breakfast and make sure to empty your bladders before you head out on the field. Keep your cleats laced up tightly at all times and don’t fidget with your uniforms. If you don’t know where to go or you get lost today, ask someone for help. And always remember to have fun.

What? I never said I was Knute Rockne. I’m a mom … with a heart very much in the right place. Which I think for most of the city means in our throats right about now.

See you on the other side of today’s game, guys. When that heart of mine is bursting with pride back in my chest where it belongs.



Let’s take a minute to talk about my boy

I’ve been reminded a few times that I haven’t written nearly as much about my boy as I have about my girl. Yes, I have two kids. Two. Great. Kids. And I’m blessed that I get the opportunity to experience being a mom to a daughter as well as to a son. My girl is easy to write about. She is and has always been a character. She’s a wear-one-side-of-her-hair-in-a-pigtail-and-the-other-in-a-braid kind of girl. All while sporting a red cape. At the grocery store. On roller skates. Honestly, this stuff writes itself. Except when she actually submits it to me personally for the blog. Easy.

My son is different. Maybe it’s because he’s a boy. Maybe it’s because he’s 12. Maybe it’s because he’s a lot like his mom when she was his age. If everyone around him is wearing a red shirt with yellow stripes then that is so what he’s going to have on, too. He doesn’t want to draw attention or make a spectacle of himself. Unless, of course, it’s because he just scored the winning goal on his basketball team. I think he’d be perfectly comfortable with that.

He’s a truly amazing kid, and always has been. He could name the first fifteen presidents by (full) name in order when he was four. He has such an incredible memory that he can accurately and completely recount incidents from as far back as age two. (I am so screwed.) And that memory now translates to being able to rattle off the name, number, position, college, hometown, favorite snack, high school locker combination, etc. of every professional football and basketball player out there. With a special emphasis on the Saints and the Hornets, of course.

But beneath that we-should-have-put-him-on-Leno-as-a-kid quality memory (not to mention his killer performance in school) beats what I’ve always called his “heart of gold.” We even have an ornament on the Christmas tree illustrating this special trait. I offered a first glimpse of this endearing kid in an earlier post during Breast Cancer Awareness month.


My boy & his heart of gold

He’s a first child which, whether I want to admit it as a fellow oldest or not, means that sometimes you kind of think the world revolves around you. However close you are to your next sibling, there was a time in your life when you didn’t have to share anything and you, as they say, hung the moon. Actually, if you’re lucky, you still do with your parents. (Right, Mom?) And even when your sibling(s) comes along, you still get to be the first to do everything. You set the bar, however high or low, for all of those that come after you. I’d like to think I blazed a trail that was sometimes gravy, sometimes a straight uphill climb for my younger brother.

But back to my wonderful son …

I woke up today feeling like complete garbage. It was nothing really. I just have a bad cold that robbed me of a lot of sleep last night and, as of this morning, most of my voice. I’ll live. No need to send flowers or anything. But my boy was worried.

My husband was out of town this morning. And … before you make any plans to rob my house … he’s already returned so put away your lock-picking tools. (Geez! What kind of people do I think are reading this blog???) And, as the (little) man of the house, he took one look at me and said he wanted to help. He told me to go to my room and get dressed and said that he would handle breakfast. He made toast, poured drinks and took care of everything for himself as well as for his younger sister. He made sure she didn’t complain about the school lunch menu (which I very stupidly have posted on the refrigerator). I even heard him hustling her along to get to her toothbrushing, etc. as she was, I would imagine, moving at her usually slackened, early morning pace.

And the most astonishing part of it all was that it worked. He was in charge. She was listening. Nobody was yelling. It was, aside from the thick-headed effects of my seasonal maladies, a very smooth morning.

Like I said, my boy has a heart of gold. He, like so many of us, can be known to get caught up in himself … and big game days, his Xbox or whatever … when all systems are normal. But when the chips are down, he’s the man.

And, you know, I’m really kind of proud of that.


Thanks, NFL, for enlightening my son … but I’m taking some of the credit, too.

It’s Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

Did you know that? Well, of course, you did.

Even my kids have noticed the ‘pinking’ of their worlds lately. I like that. I like that they’re so aware as children and don’t giggle at all when discussing something this important. Maybe it’s the fact that we’re all saying ‘breast’ and not ‘boob.’ (Yeah, that would likely send them both over the edge.)

My son and I recently got to spend a little one-on-one time together when he was home sick from school a few days. Strep throat. Poor kid missed playing in his football team’s playoff and championship games, which has got to really bite for him. So, what does a mom do to make it up to her boy? Well, once he was feeling well enough to leave home, we went straight for the fast food (greasy and delicious!) and then to a local sports store where, of course, I bought him a for-no-reason present. Love those kinds of days.

And, while we were in the store, my son couldn’t help but notice all of the pink jerseys, hats, gloves, cups, pens and other merchandise that touted the Breast Cancer Awareness message alongside the name of his favorite football team. (Duh, the New Orleans Saints)

I expected him to think all of the pink stuff in a Saints/Hornets/LSU store was oddly out of place. He always asks a lot of questions and I was ready to do some serious explaining. But instead, he just surprised me and said, “Look at all the pink jerseys. All the NFL teams are wearing them for Breast Cancer Month. And pink pants, gloves, socks, cleats, everything. You ought to put it on your blog, Mom.” And then he suggested that I take a few pictures.



My blog??? My boy’s been paying attention enough to know about Breast Cancer Awareness Month and that his mom is writing a blog?? I just looked at him with my mouth open and decided to do exactly as I was instructed.

I don’t know that I’ve been giving him enough credit. His birthday is Sunday. I think I’ll go buy him an extra present.


Still on football … but boobs are mentioned here

Saints  40   ……………………   Texans  33

I spent the afternoon at the Superdome today watching a pretty exciting game with my friend, Holly.  (Thanks again for bringing me.  I’m glad to see I broke my bad luck streak with you.)  Of course, the fun started before we even entered the stadium as we navigated ourselves through the throngs of Black-and-Gold-bedecked fans to get to our gate.  I’m so sorry I didn’t get a picture of the six-inch gold glittery stilettos that prevented one woman from walking with straightened knees.  And I am not exaggerating.

We were both pretty hot by the time we reached our entrance and … although I knew it would open the floodgates (almost literally) for me with bathroom trips … I was really glad I had chosen to make a drink at the tailgate stop we made on the way in.  Seriously, I think I went six times today … and that was with me trying to be good for the men in the aisle seats.  They’re going to really appreciate Holly’s one-pee-per-event husband in my stead at the next game.  (Maybe I should really be pursuing a bladder augmentation. Hey … I might be on to something.  Anyone?)

But back to outside the stadium.

When we finally got to our gate, we got threaded into different lines to get in. It only took a minute for the guys in front of us to point out that there were separate lines for men and women to enter.  I mindlessly complied with their instructions, assuming the segregation was due to the fact that women took longer because of purse checks.

Little did I know.

If you think the pat down at the airport is a big deal, you really need to go to an NFL football game this year.   Your constitutional rights are NOTwhat’s violated here.  And that’s why I needed to have a female employee.  This poor woman left no boob, armpit, stomach, back, butt, or inner thigh (yep, all the way up) untouched.  And remember, everyone was sweating from the heat.

There’s just not enough Purell in the world for me.

Of course, the upside is, unlike the airport where you have to submit to all of this crap without uttering a syllable, this experience allows you to make all the comments you want. I think these unfortunate individuals were either complained to or hit on (by “hilarious” fans) the entire day.

I sure hope they’re paid well.



A (Completely Logical) Segue from Boobs to Football?

This week has aged me seven or eight years, so I think it’s time to take a day off from all of the boob talk and just enjoy the weekend. With fall creeping in, it’s all about football around here and, thanks to a good friend with an extra ticket, I’ll be at the Saints game getting my Who Dat on at the Dome tomorrow. (Thanks, Holly!)

So, in honor of the occasion, I’m reposting an old favorite – an article I wrote for New Orleans Magazine online almost five years ago when the Saints finished up their first season after Hurricane Katrina.  We didn’t think we could ever match that excitement again.  Little did we know what was waiting for us just three years later … 

Good luck, tomorrow, Saints.  I’m expecting a good game. 

 * * * * * * * * * *

A Converted Soul … or should I say Saint?  (January 2007)

All my life I’ve been one of those people at football parties who help to prepare the food and clean the kitchen. I keep an eye on the kids in the other room. I catch up with old friends who dare to dart to the bathroom during the commercials or take a risk by running over to grab a snack between plays. I’ve learned to have conversations with people who aren’t making eye contact with me but rather looking over my shoulder toward the television. And I know that there’s a really good chance that I may be suddenly interrupted by my listener’s screams of joy or frustration at whatever just happened during the big game.

Yes, that’s me. I’m that pain-in-the-butt person who attends the weekly football parties for the engaging company, the always delicious game day spread and the exciting atmosphere surrounding it all. I do my best to blend in by cheering when everyone cheers and booing when everyone boos. I’m neither a big fan nor a big student of football. I get that touchdowns are 6 points with a possible 7th point coming from a kick. I know about the three point field goal. And there are points from safeties and other things like that. I also know that for every one second of football time that it’ll really be about three seconds of actual time. That’s all I really need to know. It’s gotten me this far. I’m good.

Of course, I’ve taken plenty of ribbing from my family about it. I’ve always been more of a theater person. You know, one of those ‘Imagine-if-all-of-the-money-spent-on-just-one-football-game-could-be-put-into-a-theater-company’ kinds of people. Football people hate that and I’ve come to learn to just keep my mouth shut and “enjoy” the game.

But this year was different.

I’m a New Orleans native. I was born here, attended school here and, except for a brief stint traveling only as far away as LSU for college, have spent my full adult life here. I completed graduate school at UNO. And I have lived in the neighborhoods of Algiers, City Park, Lakeview and finally Old Metairie. I brought my husband here from Baton Rouge and we are now raising our kids here. I love New Orleans.

So, when the storm came through and took away my whole lifestyle and daily routine in Lakeview, I (like everyone else within a thousand mile radius) was completely devastated. Would we come back? And, if we did, what would we do? Where would we go? Would we rebuild our home or sell it? And while everyone in the city was floundering over these many questions as well as Guinness Book spools of red tape in which we all found ourselves entangled, in marched the Saints!

Remember them?

I’ve been watching these games for years with the rest of New Orleans. We’ve never been a strong team, but we’ve always been a proud team, one of the proudest in the league. That’s New Orleans for you. We know we’ve got our warts; some of them we even embrace.

But … again … this year was different.

I think on some level everybody knew back on Monday, September 25, 2006 that things were changing. U2 and Green Day were performing together in the Dome for Monday Night Football, for God’s sake. I remember watching the beginning of the game from my rented “home” on that historical night and crying. Me. Crying … about football!

But it wasn’t about football. I mean, for many people it probably was about football, but it was also this feeling of victory in overcoming a seemingly insurmountable obstacle. It made me feel as if everything was going to be okay. Astounding. All of that from a football team.

This past season, I found myself watching every game. I read parts of the Sports section to keep up to date about the team. I even listened to AM talk radio about the Saints when nobody else was in the car!!! I think my family would agree that that may well be the Seventh Sign of the Apocalypse.

I was so excited that every Sunday felt like Super Bowl Sunday. I dressed my kids in their new team clothing every week and found myself even selecting my clothing to support the team and wear the colors on game day.

I never thought it could happen but I got just as caught up in it all as anyone. It was an amazing ride and I for one will be tuning in next year. We may not have made it all the way this year, but that’s what 2008 is for. For me, “I believe” “the Saints Are Coming” and they will forever be “Marching In.”

Thank you, Saints, for a wonderfully uplifting and enlightening year!



Q&A: Do you think about boobs every day?

Um, no.  What am I … a guy?!!?

Go, Saints!!!