tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43329691131983381092024-03-13T06:06:44.366-05:00StewzieYou think I know, but I have no idea...Stewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.comBlogger128125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332969113198338109.post-47744203074576787332011-10-10T14:09:00.000-05:002011-10-10T14:09:08.276-05:00Excuses, Experiences, Words, PrayersHas it really been 2 months since I wrote something on here? My apologies.<br />
It's just that SO MUCH is happening lately. Sure, I want to document it and write funny, interesting, memorable stuff about it. But even more than that, I want to LIVE it. To be fully present and experience everything that right now has to offer. <br />
<br />
So there's my excuse. But rest assured that despite my lack of words, this stage of <strike>my</strike> our life is totally blowing my mind. And I mean that in the most mind-blowing way.<br />
<br />
In the mean time, I've been meaning to post this. It pretty well sums up the OMG-I'm-about-to-be-a-real-live-mother-of-a-real-live-daughter anxiety that I feel. Thank you <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QSh3btNfek8">Tina Fey</a> for writing this:<br />
<br />
<em><u>The Mother's Prayer for Its Daughter</u></em><br />
<br />
<em>First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.</em><br />
<em>May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the the Beauty.</em><br />
<em>When the Crystal Meth is offered,</em><br />
<em>May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half </em><em>and stick with Beer.</em><br />
<em>Guide her, protect her</em><br />
<em>when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the nearby subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock N’ Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.</em><br />
<em>Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance.</em><br />
<em>Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes and not have to wear high heels.</em><br />
<em>What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.</em><br />
<em>May she play the drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.</em><br />
<em>Grant her a rough patch from twelve to seventeen. <span id="more-15273"></span></em><br />
<em>Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long,</em><br />
<em>for Childhood is short — a Tiger Flower blooming magenta for one day –</em><br />
<em>and Adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.</em><br />
<em>O Lord, break the internet forever,</em><br />
<em>that she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers</em><br />
<em>and the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.</em><br />
<em>And when she one day turns on me and calls me a bitch in front of Hollister,</em><br />
<em>Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends,</em><br />
<em>for I will not have that shit. I will not have it.</em><br />
<em>And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord,</em><br />
<em>That I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 a.m., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.</em><br />
<em>“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck.</em><br />
<em>“My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a mental note to call me. And she will forget.</em><br />
<em>But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.</em><br />
<em>Amen.</em><br />
<hr />Stewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332969113198338109.post-62574290188070512912011-08-08T11:21:00.000-05:002011-08-08T11:21:29.624-05:00Head CaseDear Baby Stewzie,<br />
<br />
I'll probably take some flack for what I'm about to say to you. I may even offend some people. Wouldn't be the first time. Probably won't be the last. But there is something I feel pretty strongly about, so I'm just going to go ahead and say it to you.<br />
<br />
I promise I will never, EVER make you wear anything like this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IW0NL7RcPtU/TkAAeMVXfgI/AAAAAAAAAeI/330b9qC8h2s/s1600/obnoxious.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IW0NL7RcPtU/TkAAeMVXfgI/AAAAAAAAAeI/330b9qC8h2s/s320/obnoxious.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
If your head gets chilly, I will outfit you in a warm hat. If your hair gets in your eyes, I will get you a haircut. However, call me crazy, but I'm 100% certain that you will be adorable and will not require the application of any type of restricting, hubcap-sized, faux floral headgear to enhance that adorableness. <br />
<br />
You'll thank me one day.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Mama<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Stewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332969113198338109.post-30774088164555470272011-07-13T11:05:00.000-05:002011-07-13T11:05:20.855-05:00A Word from our Sponsor...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-O_0HIkBTIZw/Th2_spdgYlI/AAAAAAAAAds/U12sVNHCzyE/s1600/blog+star.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-O_0HIkBTIZw/Th2_spdgYlI/AAAAAAAAAds/U12sVNHCzyE/s320/blog+star.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">He'd like to take this opportunity to remind everyone who the real baby of the family is. He's not jealous AT ALL.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Stewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332969113198338109.post-26479979468519174342011-07-11T11:08:00.011-05:002011-07-11T13:58:57.031-05:00Baby You're a Firework<div><div>It all started out as a sarcastic comment made by my husband. Isn't that always how it starts out?<br /><br /></div><div> </div><div>We were talking about how we wanted to find out this baby's gender. I knew for sure I wanted it to be something memorable. Something meaningful. Something original. "Gender reveal" parties are increasingly common, and while I think the whole "cut the cake to see if the icing is pink or blue" idea is great, it's getting a little overused.<br /><br /></div><div> </div><div>So, we're sitting around one evening tossing around ideas. The ultrasound was scheduled for June 23, a little more than a week before July 4th weekend. Stew blurts out "maybe we should just shoot some fireworks and when they explode pink or blue, that's how we'll find out?"<br /><br /></div><div> </div><div>Of course, my brain started spinning with creative ideas. We could invite all our family and close friends, do a July 4th theme, complete with red & blue fireworks, and BAM! (no pun intended) we have the perfect gender reveal party. I even knew the perfect date for the party. July 3rd is the anniversary of the day we started dating (way back in 1998). What better way to celebrate? After several weeks, I successfully convinced Stew (Sure we can fit 70 people in our house! 27 year old a/c system? No problem!), then began taking steps to turn his sarcastic comment into a reality.<br /><br /></div><div> </div><div>At the ultrasound, we turned our heads as they scanned "the area," then had the doctor write down the baby's gender, print a picture of "the area," and put everything in a tightly sealed envelope. We asked Stew's best friend <a href="http://stewzie.blogspot.com/2010/04/austin-chronicles-part-3.html">Eric</a> if he would do the honor of secretly reading the envelope contents at the party and then shooting the corresponding firework. He agreed. Then we waited until the local firework stands opened up and purchased red fireworks and blue fireworks. We did a test run a few days before the party to make sure the fireworks had the right effect. We forgot to tell my elderly neighbor we were testing the fireworks. Needless to say it was pretty funny when he ran outside at 9 pm, pistol in hand, thinking the explosion was signaling the end of the world.<br /><br /></div><div>I won't go into detail about the million things that threatened to ruin this party (3 hour power outage the day of the party, anyone?) but I will say that thanks to the neverending stream of help from our incredible family and friends, this party turned out to be more perfect than we could ever have imagined. Baby Stewzie, you are surely loved by everyone already.<br /><br /></div><div> </div><div>Here are just a few of the photos from the party. Photo credits: My super-talented brother Tim.</div><div>You can find him @ <a href="http://tjmohrphoto.com/">tjmohrphoto.com</a></div><div><br /><br /></div><div>Team Boy: (the majority)<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XOWg-k4SKC8/Thsi0iWK-2I/AAAAAAAAAdo/nQjXg_9SPVY/s1600/Stewzie%2BBaby%2BParty%2B1031.jpg"><img style="width: 320px; height: 214px; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628130445297908578" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XOWg-k4SKC8/Thsi0iWK-2I/AAAAAAAAAdo/nQjXg_9SPVY/s320/Stewzie%2BBaby%2BParty%2B1031.jpg" /></a><br /></div><div>Team Girl: (the minority)</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aGx7B2VybDY/Thsih5Ld8_I/AAAAAAAAAdg/QvpByvaUhTI/s1600/Stewzie%2BBaby%2BParty%2B1032.jpg"><img style="width: 320px; height: 214px; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628130125009515506" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aGx7B2VybDY/Thsih5Ld8_I/AAAAAAAAAdg/QvpByvaUhTI/s320/Stewzie%2BBaby%2BParty%2B1032.jpg" /></a></div><div><br />Team undecided: We wore black in honor of the power outage.</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-00N34SeeTWU/ThsiMOg3HLI/AAAAAAAAAdY/ggMEVYHzdGY/s1600/Stewzie%2BBaby%2BParty%2B1033.jpg"><img style="width: 320px; height: 214px; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628129752779267250" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-00N34SeeTWU/ThsiMOg3HLI/AAAAAAAAAdY/ggMEVYHzdGY/s320/Stewzie%2BBaby%2BParty%2B1033.jpg" /></a></div><div><br />Red fireworks or Blue fireworks?</div><div>After much anticipation and suspense, Eric lit the fuse. Aaaand...</div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div>It's a GIRL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ePxEtA76ho4/ThshVncO4gI/AAAAAAAAAdQ/aNdUYRMEH9k/s1600/Stewzie%2BBaby%2BParty%2B1035.jpg"><img style="width: 214px; height: 320px; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628128814577934850" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ePxEtA76ho4/ThshVncO4gI/AAAAAAAAAdQ/aNdUYRMEH9k/s320/Stewzie%2BBaby%2BParty%2B1035.jpg" /></a><br /><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GoFjGKfvV24/ThshIvrVMiI/AAAAAAAAAdI/jiuGgov-3h0/s1600/Stewzie%2BBaby%2BParty%2B1000.jpg"><img style="width: 320px; height: 214px; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628128593450447394" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GoFjGKfvV24/ThshIvrVMiI/AAAAAAAAAdI/jiuGgov-3h0/s320/Stewzie%2BBaby%2BParty%2B1000.jpg" /></a></div><div><br />We were shocked! Stew was convinced it was a boy. </div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ukG4jompmbQ/Thsg3f28tNI/AAAAAAAAAdA/EnQgDnZzUsw/s1600/Stewzie%2BBaby%2BParty%2B1036.jpg"><img style="width: 320px; height: 214px; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628128297146430674" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ukG4jompmbQ/Thsg3f28tNI/AAAAAAAAAdA/EnQgDnZzUsw/s320/Stewzie%2BBaby%2BParty%2B1036.jpg" /></a></div><div><br />Big brother Austin was surprised too:</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Uc688RR2CgY/ThsggXWkp1I/AAAAAAAAAc4/T4neAeTYpkM/s1600/Stewzie%2BBaby%2BParty%2B1037.jpg"><img style="width: 320px; height: 214px; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628127899726161746" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Uc688RR2CgY/ThsggXWkp1I/AAAAAAAAAc4/T4neAeTYpkM/s320/Stewzie%2BBaby%2BParty%2B1037.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div></div></div><div>This was by far THE BEST surprise of our lives. I seriously watch this video multiple times a day and I still get chills.<br /><iframe height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/jaEFmSZmaTA?fs=1" frameborder="0" width="425" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div><div> </div><div>Baby GIRL,</div><div> </div><div>We are so excited for you to be our daughter.</div><div> </div><div>Love,</div><div>Mama and Daddy</div></div>Stewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332969113198338109.post-7463752504799313282011-07-06T11:01:00.007-05:002011-07-06T11:36:18.664-05:00Ten<div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-p6sV36aYPoQ/ThSHwyJ1mlI/AAAAAAAAAcw/N_8cghA8j3Q/s1600/002.jpg"><img style="width: 320px; height: 206px; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626271106659097170" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-p6sV36aYPoQ/ThSHwyJ1mlI/AAAAAAAAAcw/N_8cghA8j3Q/s320/002.jpg" /></a><br />Baby Austin, 2001<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0zD7aWC1yFM/ThSHhByeZPI/AAAAAAAAAco/mZEFjMx8sU4/s1600/Stewzie%2BBaby%2BParty%2B1038.jpg"><img style="width: 320px; height: 214px; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626270835978167538" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0zD7aWC1yFM/ThSHhByeZPI/AAAAAAAAAco/mZEFjMx8sU4/s320/Stewzie%2BBaby%2BParty%2B1038.jpg" /></a><br />Grown-up Austin, 2011<br /><br />Dear Austin,<br /><br />Happy TENTH Birthday! It's been a good year for you so far, I mean besides <a href="http://stewzie.blogspot.com/2010/10/austin-chronicles-part-6.html">this</a> and the other time where you almost bled to death from a toenail (claw) cutting session gone awry (your father's fault). The 765,408 bloody pawprint stains on our carpet <em>are</em> a nice complement to the vomit stains, however. Adds character.<br /><br />This year you're going to be a big brother. In fact you were the first <del>person</del> soul I told that little secret to. Should be quite an adjustment for you, as ANYTHING new or different is an adjustment for you. If I move your food bowl 3 inches to the left, your whole world is thrown off its axis. Having a baby around your house 24/7 will surely confuse you to no end, but I'm confident you'll do ok eventually. You always do. <br /><br />Tonight, we celebrate you. I'll even let you drink out of the toilet as much as you please.</div><div> </div><div><br /><br />Love,</div><div><br />Mama</div><br />Stewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332969113198338109.post-6421293144761090932011-06-23T10:09:00.004-05:002011-06-23T10:29:44.170-05:00Boy or Girl?<div><div>Okay y'all, I promise I'm in the process of creating a post with actual words and pictures that'll catch you (and me?) up with everything that's been happening in Stewzie-ville lately. So much!<br /><br />In the mean time, guess what? Today's the "big" ultrasound day! As in, the one where they determine this baby's gender! Just to be clear, <em>we</em> won't actually be finding out the gender today - we're having the ultrasound tech write it down in a very well-sealed envelope, to be opened at a later date (more on this soon). This way, we can be surprised in a setting much more pleasant than a hospital exam room. I mean, who likes hospital exam rooms? You? Well, you're weird.<br /><br />So, for fun, look over at the right side of your screen. See that gender poll? Feel like making a guess? Go for it. I'm curious to see what everyone thinks. For the record, no, I have no intuition about the gender. And honestly I don't really have a preference. Just as long as it <del>grows up, gets a job and makes enough to fund Mama & Daddy's retirement</del> is healthy.</div></div>Stewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332969113198338109.post-72856864606842594012011-05-26T10:03:00.005-05:002011-05-26T10:39:56.052-05:00What goes down must come upDear Baby Stewzie,<br /><br />Today is a good day. Wanna know why? I have now gone an entire week without puking. Thank you for easing up on me. Your mama is not a very pleasant puker to be around. Just ask your father. Or maybe just take my word for it. Want to know the coolest thing I puked over the span of the last 3 months of multiple daily pukes? No? Well, I'm going to tell you anyway. Why? Because I'm your mother, that's why. Chewy Sweet Tarts. It looked like tie-dyed puke. A work of abstract art, if you will. I apologize if those last few sentences embarrass you some day. I have a way of using sentences to embarrass people I love. Just ask your father. Or maybe just take my word for it.<br /><br />So now that I have moved on from using every ounce of energy I have to keep from vomiting up my spleen, I plan to use all that leftover energy to do something productive. Like <del>napping</del> writing embarrassing sentences to you. I never would have thought that 3 months of nonstop nausea would be the most awesome 3 months of my life, but they have been. Did I mention the time I barfed in the drive-thru of Krispy Kreme? Yeah, that was fun. Not the part where I had to apologize to the cashier who witnessed me in action, but the part where I knew that all of this unwanted barfing was happening because YOU. ARE. REAL. <br /><br />Love,<br />MamaStewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332969113198338109.post-44978072121766655222011-05-03T14:09:00.006-05:002011-05-03T14:27:54.234-05:00These are daysDear Baby Stewzie,<br /><em></em><br />Today is May 3rd, your mama's birthday. I mention this only because it was around this time last year that I heard the words to this song and wondered if I would ever get the chance to experience them.<br /><em></em><br /><em>These are days you'll remember.<br />Never before and never since,<br />I promise, will the whole world be warm as this.<br />And as you feel it, you'll know it's true that you are blessed and lucky.<br />It's true that you are touched by something that will grow and bloom in you. </em><br /><br /><br /><p><strong>Would I ever feel lucky? Would there ever be a you to grow and bloom inside me?</strong></p><br /><p><em>These are days you'll remember.<br />When May is rushing over you with desire to be part of the miracles you see in every hour. </em><em>You'll know it's true that you are blessed and lucky.<br />It's true that you are touched by something that will grow and bloom in you. </em></p><br /><p><strong>Would my desire for a miracle be enough? Would another May come and go without the blessing of you?<br /></strong><br /><em>These are the days you might fill with laughter until you break.<br />These days you might feel a shaft of light make its way across your face.<br />And when you do you'll know how it was meant to be.<br />See the signs and know their meaning.<br />It's true, you'll know how it was meant to be.<br />Hear the signs and know they're speaking to you, to you. </em></p><br /><p>This May 3rd, a year later, I know it's true. Meant to be. So many signs. I see them. I hear them. I see you. I hear you. I am blessed and lucky.</p><br /><p>Today I feel the light and laughter you are already bringing into my life. These are truly days I will remember.</p><br /><p>I can't wait to meet you on your birthday.</p><br /><p>Love,</p><br /><p><em>Mama</em></p>Stewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332969113198338109.post-67803831233527801612011-04-29T11:40:00.006-05:002011-04-29T12:04:45.537-05:00SnoBloggeryStew = <span style="color:#006600;">Spearmint</span> (thus the green teeth)<br />Suzie =<span style="color:#660000;"> Black Cherry</span><br />Snoball Stand = Juju's in River Ridge<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iOZS7HMS0Cc/Tbrr0pIrC2I/AAAAAAAAAcc/Rh-qfGPytTw/s1600/IMG_0906.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 240px; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5601048376216587106" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iOZS7HMS0Cc/Tbrr0pIrC2I/AAAAAAAAAcc/Rh-qfGPytTw/s320/IMG_0906.JPG" /></a><br /><br />Small snoball = $1.25<br />Condensed milk = $.50 extra<br />Knowing that THREE people are enjoying a snoball in this photo = PRICELESSStewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332969113198338109.post-76990317140962047422011-04-25T11:44:00.005-05:002011-04-25T12:06:22.940-05:00Second Line<em><strong>second line</strong> (n), is also the name of a "unique dance", performed to the beat of New Orleans’ traditional jazz…The second line's style of traditional dance, in which participants walk and sometimes twirl a parasol or handkerchief in the air, is called "second lining." It has been called "the quintessential New Orleans art form"… </em>
<br /><em>
<br /></em>It’s sometimes hard to describe the unique traditions that take place in New Orleans. It’s sometimes even harder to realize how truly special certain traditions are, because when you grow up doing them, they seem normal, routine. One of my earliest memories is sitting on the linoleum kitchen floor, singing “<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Mardi</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gras</span> Mambo” at the top of my lungs. I remember thinking that the whole world ate king cake, and woke up at the crack of dawn to stake out a good spot for Rex. When I finally realized this <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">wasn</span>’t the case, I felt sad for people in other cities, but at the same time really, really lucky it was the case for me. For me and my city.
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<br /></em>One tradition that has always intrigued me is the Second Line. For New <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Orleanians</span>, second lining is second nature. Nearly any time a group of people gets together, a second line can occur. Funerals. Weddings. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">Mardi</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gras</span> Balls. Impromptu Street Parades. Any occasion worth remembering is an occasion that justifies a good second line. As soon as the first few notes of the song are played, the anticipation is palpable. Excitement washes over you and immediately you jump to your feet, grinning from ear to ear. You grab a handkerchief or napkin, but it’s not for drying tears. It’s for waving jubilantly in the air. At funerals, second lining celebrates life. At weddings, it celebrates new beginnings. At <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">Mardi</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gras</span>, it celebrates pride of being born in the greatest city on earth.
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<br />Perhaps that’s why it’s fitting that on <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">Mardi</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gras</span> weekend this year, Stew and I took part in the most important second line of our lives...
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<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mRiGvB4-cvQ/TbWlEgfAnXI/AAAAAAAAAcE/y5osc540kF4/s1600/IMG_0868.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 240px; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599563208563137906" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mRiGvB4-cvQ/TbWlEgfAnXI/AAAAAAAAAcE/y5osc540kF4/s320/IMG_0868.JPG" /></a>
<br />
<br />...and we haven't stopped celebrating since.
<br />
<br /><strong><em>Baby <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">Stewzie</span>: Due 11-13-11 !!!</em>
<br /></strong>
<br />Stewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332969113198338109.post-12178669249758310962011-04-13T10:38:00.005-05:002011-04-13T10:47:36.660-05:00Tis the SeasonIt's SNOBALL TIME... <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-s8svqTFZfcI/TaXDj5Abh-I/AAAAAAAAAbc/IF8CGIAp38Q/s1600/Robears%2B2011.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 240px; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595093133443172322" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-s8svqTFZfcI/TaXDj5Abh-I/AAAAAAAAAbc/IF8CGIAp38Q/s320/Robears%2B2011.JPG" /></a> <br /><div></div><br /><div>So, to kick of the 2011 snoball season, I took my brother Tim to my all-time fave Ro-bears. I had <span style="color:#cc0000;">raspberry</span>. He had <span style="color:#ff6600;">orange</span>. We kept it simple. And it was perfect. Ro-bears never disappoints.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>This season I want to branch out; try some new places. So tell me...what's YOUR suggestion? Where to go? What flavor to try? </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Happy snoballing,</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><em>Suzie</em></div>Stewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332969113198338109.post-31842894686582079312011-03-18T14:15:00.005-05:002011-03-18T14:30:50.089-05:00Louisiana Iris<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PTVSKjj3Ffg/TYOvauBWfYI/AAAAAAAAAbU/eaSLCp7VGqM/s1600/iris.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 240px; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585500836434705794" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PTVSKjj3Ffg/TYOvauBWfYI/AAAAAAAAAbU/eaSLCp7VGqM/s320/iris.JPG" /></a><br /><br />Finally blooming nearly a year after being planted. <br /><br />One of the many reasons springtime makes me smile.Stewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332969113198338109.post-21996112973792663482011-03-16T13:29:00.002-05:002011-03-16T13:34:32.266-05:00Three OneDear Stew,<br /><br />Today is your 31st birthday.<br /><br />Thirty-one years. You've done quite a lot in those eleven thousand, three hundred and fifteen days. Some days have been incredible. Others, not so much. Point is, you've made it through them all. And you've become you. I really, really like you.<br /><br />I hope today turns out to be one of the incredible ones. I hope this year is your best one yet.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KiJZXK-v3vc/TYEB0pVsVNI/AAAAAAAAAbM/G6XPHwOuQ48/s1600/Stew.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 240px; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584747016877790418" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KiJZXK-v3vc/TYEB0pVsVNI/AAAAAAAAAbM/G6XPHwOuQ48/s320/Stew.JPG" /></a><br /><br />Love,<br /><br />MeStewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332969113198338109.post-78200257782368418752011-02-28T11:18:00.006-06:002011-02-28T11:40:35.504-06:00Itching for RevengeRetaliation. For <a href="http://stewzie.blogspot.com/2011/02/revenge-of-turds.html"><span style="color:#336666;">THIS</span></a>. You knew it was coming.<br />So did Lisa, I guess, but she probably wasn't predicting...<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RqwF_BQluYM/TWvZ_jaYp4I/AAAAAAAAAa8/n8NvAx8dwF8/s1600/IMG_0847.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 286px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578792249289385858" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RqwF_BQluYM/TWvZ_jaYp4I/AAAAAAAAAa8/n8NvAx8dwF8/s320/IMG_0847.JPG" /></a><br /><br />CRABS IN HER BUSH !!!!!!<br /><br />My original plan was to get a big bag of little fake rubber dog poos and scatter them all over her yard, sidewalk, porch, car, etc. But they don't sell fake rubber dog poo anymore. So I settled on a big bag-o-crabs.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HWfkj616NPY/TWvZnznXWUI/AAAAAAAAAa0/3vI2azlqfnw/s1600/IMG_0849.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 240px; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578791841321933122" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HWfkj616NPY/TWvZnznXWUI/AAAAAAAAAa0/3vI2azlqfnw/s320/IMG_0849.JPG" /></a><br /><br />And because I'm an equal-opportunity crabber, I gave them a little case of mail crabs as well.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aMpoBctJr1Y/TWvZB03bVlI/AAAAAAAAAas/Zy4i6lEbbOo/s1600/IMG_0850.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 240px; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578791188822709842" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aMpoBctJr1Y/TWvZB03bVlI/AAAAAAAAAas/Zy4i6lEbbOo/s320/IMG_0850.JPG" /></a><br /><br />Neighborhood Wars: They're highly contagious.<br /><div></div>Stewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332969113198338109.post-41038067313174260522011-02-22T10:59:00.001-06:002011-02-22T11:18:44.894-06:00Stewisms<span style="color:#6633ff;">Stew:</span> What's the name of that egg casserole thing you make?<br /><br /><span style="color:#009900;">Me:</span> It's called a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frittata"><span style="color:#ffcc00;">frittata</span></a>.<br /><br /><span style="color:#6633ff;">Stew:</span> Like Nelly <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nelly_Furtado"><span style="color:#ffcc00;">Frittata</span></a>?<br /><br /><span style="color:#009900;">Me:</span> Eggsactly.Stewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332969113198338109.post-41662808267925390512011-02-11T15:17:00.007-06:002011-02-11T15:57:33.127-06:00Revenge of the TurdsRemember<a href="http://stewzie.blogspot.com/2011/01/seriously.html"><span style="color:#990000;"> THIS</span></a> post?<br /><br />Yeah, well I got home from work a couple days ago and found this in my front yard:<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mufxj-Ri5Sc/TVWneJQow3I/AAAAAAAAAaM/JcV9qUCKwXQ/s1600/dogsign.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 240px; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572544250264470386" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mufxj-Ri5Sc/TVWneJQow3I/AAAAAAAAAaM/JcV9qUCKwXQ/s320/dogsign.JPG" /></a><br /><div><div><br /><div>First reaction? <em>The pooping dog sign reads my blog!</em></div><br /><div>Actual first reaction? <em>Lisa committed Grand Theft Yard Sign.</em></div><br /><div>Turns out my instinct was correct. Mostly.<br /></div><div>My sneaky friend Lisa did in fact <del>deface</del> decorate my property with that awful pooping dog sign, but the sign was obtained completely legally. She didn't steal it from around the corner. She bought it. Which says a lot about my friends. They'll stoop to the level of spending their hard-earned money on useless crap (pun intended) just to give me a good laugh.</div><br /><div>Now I just have to come up with a plan of revenge. One that rivals The Great Toilet-Papering of 2009 (in which i used toilet paper that Lisa bought me...because I'm ruthless)...</div><div> </div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Jti0O4ULevI/TVWtJBiWWBI/AAAAAAAAAak/tOD-GamVHhI/s1600/%2540%2B015.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 242px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572550484483790866" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Jti0O4ULevI/TVWtJBiWWBI/AAAAAAAAAak/tOD-GamVHhI/s320/%2540%2B015.jpg" /></a></div><div> </div><div>Lisa, consider yourself warned. Muahahahahaha....</div><div> </div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qLeXm1eNnu0/TVWs3ADXypI/AAAAAAAAAac/mc3VpBI4l6M/s1600/%2540%2B019.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 274px; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572550174847781522" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qLeXm1eNnu0/TVWs3ADXypI/AAAAAAAAAac/mc3VpBI4l6M/s320/%2540%2B019.jpg" /></a></div></div></div>Stewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332969113198338109.post-49697161362011738872011-01-14T10:55:00.005-06:002011-01-14T11:53:11.568-06:00Who are you? who-who, who-who?Hello <em>(hello...hello...) </em><br /><em></em><br />Is there anybody out there <em>(out there...out there...)</em><br /><em></em><br /><br />So they tell me today is <strong>National <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Delurker</span> Day</strong>. (Translation: National Day where you step out of the shadows of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">internet</span> anonymity and leave a comment on my page to let me know that there are people out there in the universe <del>besides my parents </del>who may have stumbled upon this blog and <del>had their minds blown by my way with words</del> had at least a vague interest in any of what I have to say.<br /><br />Interestingly enough, I recently checked my blogger stats. You know, the ones that tell you what Google searches lead people to your site? So far the top 2 Google searches that have led people to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Stewzie</span>? <span style="color:#3366ff;">MY DOG ATE A BRILLO PAD <span style="color:#000000;">and</span> </span><span style="color:#cc0000;">REDNECK HALLOWEEN</span><span style="color:#000000;">. Am I proud of my online legacy? You bet I am. I'm the go-to girl for dog vomit and hillbilly costumes!</span><br /><br />I know that random strangers are out there. Poor, unsuspecting souls who <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">desperately</span> search for advice on just what the hell to do when your dog DOES swallow steel wool...but find <a href="http://stewzie.blogspot.com/2009/12/austin-chronicles-part-1.html"><span style="color:#3366ff;">THIS</span></a>. People looking for top-notch white-trashiness...hit the jackpot with <a href="http://stewzie.blogspot.com/2010/03/tastier-than-tater-tots-n-cheez-whiz.html"><span style="color:#cc0000;">THIS</span></a>.<br /><br />So do me a favor and tell me who you are. Doesn't matter if I don't know ya. In fact, that's the whole point of today. I WANT TO KNOW YOU! Doesn't matter if I do know ya. I still need to know you're reading. Without comments, I don't have a clue who my audience is. Please, go forth and comment! <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">C'mon</span>, you know you want to!<br /><br />Incentive: If I get 10 comments, I just might post a picture of my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">brillo</span>-swallowing dog wearing full-on redneck attire!Stewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332969113198338109.post-330599988712490412011-01-07T13:57:00.003-06:002011-01-07T14:08:35.296-06:00Seriously<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xvUGs1uTFgM/TSdwklD5Q_I/AAAAAAAAAZ0/HGbPg94iHGU/s1600/IMG_0654.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 240px; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559536038738215922" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xvUGs1uTFgM/TSdwklD5Q_I/AAAAAAAAAZ0/HGbPg94iHGU/s320/IMG_0654.JPG" /></a><br /><div>Is having a painted wooden yard sign depicting a dog taking a dump in your yard... THAT much more appealing than risking having a dog take an actual dump in your yard?<br /><br /></div><div></div><div>Is it bad that I really want to go get one of those fake little rubber dog poos and place it smack underneath that atrocious yard sign? Just for fun?</div>Stewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332969113198338109.post-20344370670834970602011-01-06T13:21:00.003-06:002011-01-06T13:51:17.635-06:00Germans eat MexicanIt all started when I was a kid. My family would travel to the Northshore (of Lake Pontchartrain, for all you out-of-towners) for a New Year's Eve party at my Aunt's house. We'd go early enough in the day to hit up some local firework stands and perhaps do a little post-Christmas shopping. <br /><br />For whatever reason, we'd have a late lunch at a Mexican restaurant. Years have gone by and our New Years Eve plans have diversified, but the Mexican lunch has stuck around. It's become my favorite Mohr family tradition, second only to my dad hanging rubber fried eggs from the ceiling fans for Christmas (don't ask). This year we did some figuring and realized that this is our 20th year of Mexicaning it up. <span style="font-size:78%;">Well, probably our 20th year. Might be only the 19th, but since it took us this long to actually remember to take a picture, we're calling it the 20th. Plus, it's my story so I'll make it whatever year I want.</span><br /><br />Forget black eyed peas and cabbage. We rely on chips & salsa for good luck!<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xvUGs1uTFgM/TSYWYhQV9nI/AAAAAAAAAZs/SM2Lwc2TTY8/s1600/025.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 248px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559155400535045746" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xvUGs1uTFgM/TSYWYhQV9nI/AAAAAAAAAZs/SM2Lwc2TTY8/s400/025.JPG" /></a><br /><br />Happy New Year! (<span style="font-size:85%;">or Feliz New Year, if you prefer</span>)Stewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332969113198338109.post-18957381845619231352010-12-29T10:39:00.004-06:002010-12-29T11:22:09.560-06:00The Question<div>We were 18. Young. </div><div><em>But what does age have to do with it?</em></div><br /><div></div><div>We'd been officially dating for 3 months. Friends for 15 years.</div><div><em>But what does history have to do with it?</em></div><br /><div><em></em></div><div>We were headed in different directions. Me: college in Baton Rouge. Him: everywhere.</div><div><em>But what does location have to do with it?</em></div><br /><div><em></em></div><div>We had dreams, but not plans. We had potential, but no guarantee.</div><div><em>But what do odds have to do with it?</em></div><br /><div><em></em></div><div>We had each other. Love. Committment. Fate.</div><div><em>And that has everything to do with it.</em></div><br /><div><em></em></div><br /><div>It was September 27, 1998. We'd only spoken once in the past 6 weeks. The days were silent, but not empty. Not without words. </div><br /><div></div><div>The letters. From me. From him. Every day. Sometimes 2 or 3 or 10. But every day. Light, deep, funny, painful, real. Our hearts. In those letters. I found my future in those letters. In that boy.</div><br /><div></div><div>I was so proud of that boy. Of us. It was his graduation weekend. USAF Basic Training. We sat side by side in church on a hot Sunday morning. Giddy and holding hands. Together. Finally. Words and songs swirled all around us. We could only hear each other. Time stood still. In that moment, that room full of people and families, it was only us. He told me he never wanted us to end. I told him I wanted us forever. Asked when forever would start. </div><br /><div></div><div>He looked into my eyes. My soul. And whispered "Can forever start now?"</div><div> </div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xvUGs1uTFgM/TRtrzi-NvMI/AAAAAAAAAZc/3oSZ_TiER8g/s1600/10.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 280px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556153098596891842" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xvUGs1uTFgM/TRtrzi-NvMI/AAAAAAAAAZc/3oSZ_TiER8g/s400/10.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div><em>Our engagement day. Before anyone else knew...</em><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><em></em></div><br /><div></div>Stewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332969113198338109.post-48663603408761545252010-10-15T11:23:00.004-05:002010-10-15T13:46:12.682-05:00The Austin Chronicles - Part 6Sometimes there's nothing better than fried fish during a Sunday afternoon Saints game. So a couple of weeks ago, that's exactly what we had. Stew pulled out the burner and cast iron pot, a few gallons of vegetable oil, defrosted some trout and we got our fry on.<br /><br />The weather was unusually fabulous, so after the game Stew took the boat out with a friend and Suzie decided to stay home, open the windows and leave the back door open for Mr. Austin to roam in and out at his discretion. After an hour or two of <del>napping lazily on the sofa</del> using my Sunday afternoon to do productive things around the house, I started to smell a certain greasy, fast-food like aroma. Odd, since we cooked the fish outside several hours ago. The smell seemed to increase as I got closer to a certain guilty-looking puppy. I ran outside to inspect the fryer setup and realized that Stew had left it out, top off, to cool down. It was cool alright, but the pot was missing about 2 quarts of its original contents. Anybody want to guess where that oil went?<br /><br />For the remainder of the evening, Austin moped around the house with his tail between his legs. That night, we heard a strange sound which I can only describe as a cross between Chewbacca, the principal from Forrest Gump, and a deranged goat. We dashed into the (carpeted) front room and found a freshly deposited pile of puke, which had the consistency of sticky marshmallow creme and gravy. Barf #2 came about an hour later in the (carpeted) living room and was brought on with the same guttural fanfare. This particular specimen was less taffy-like and more slimy, but with a topping of foamy meringue. Thirty minutes later in another section of (carpeted) living room, my oil-spewing pet started revving up and I quickly tried to herd him to the back door or at least to a tiled floor, but he shot back onto the carpet and firehosed another installment of his special brew. This one contained about 3 cups of unchewed and undigested dog food pellets, and a roux-like mixture of burned oil and stomach acid. In fact, imagine you're eating a big bowl of Cocoa Puffs. Except, instead of milk, you pour gumbo on top. Now you get the picture, right? His stomach contents did not, however, contain any sort of <a href="http://stewzie.blogspot.com/2009/12/austin-chronicles-part-1.html"><span style="color:#cc9933;">household cleaning device or edible fungi.</span></a> <span style="font-size:85%;">For your reference, the color of this link provides you a handy example of the particular hue of the aforementioned upchuck.<br /><br /></span>The following day concluded with 2 small batches of french onion soupy stomach acid regurgitations, again on the carpet. Of course. I know what you're thinking. That's a lot of friggin oil. Ha! That's what BP said...<br /><br />Good news is that Oily McGreaserson is now back to his normal, non-vomiting self. One question though: Do you think we'd qualify for an oil spill claim?Stewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332969113198338109.post-53478406434079107202010-09-01T15:12:00.005-05:002010-09-01T15:27:41.577-05:00Buttah FaceSome folks have the Virgin Mary appear in the burn marks of their grilled cheese.<br /><br />Some folks have seen the face of Jesus in their dental x-rays.<br /><br />Some folks notice the image of Mickey Mouse in the spots on a cow.<br /><br />Some folks find a potato chip that resembles Elvis Presley.<br /><br />As for me? Homer Simpson just made a cameo in my newly opened tub of Country Crock Butter.<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xvUGs1uTFgM/TH60FuNxF2I/AAAAAAAAAZI/HTZBddgFwVs/s1600/butterface1.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 240px; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512041004346185570" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xvUGs1uTFgM/TH60FuNxF2I/AAAAAAAAAZI/HTZBddgFwVs/s320/butterface1.JPG" /></a><br />D'oh!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div>Stewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332969113198338109.post-47452893071207973332010-08-31T13:33:00.002-05:002010-08-31T13:34:31.260-05:00Feeling guiltyFor eating nothing but a big bowl of Bluebell Homemade Vanilla ice cream for lunch today.Stewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332969113198338109.post-16251622875175102962010-08-04T10:02:00.002-05:002010-08-04T10:25:19.176-05:00SnoBloggery<span style="font-family:georgia;">#11 - Plum Street</span><br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xvUGs1uTFgM/TFmDRz1WQ1I/AAAAAAAAAYw/9mJYO_CDhbk/s1600/plum+street.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 240px; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501572761804751698" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_xvUGs1uTFgM/TFmDRz1WQ1I/AAAAAAAAAYw/9mJYO_CDhbk/s320/plum+street.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><div>Yeah, so what more is there to say about Plum Street <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Snoballs</span>? Pure perfection. Every. Time. My <span style="color:#ffcc33;">Bananas Foster</span> was almost better than actual Bananas Foster. And I've had THE Bananas Foster. For brunch. AT BRENNAN'S. So I feel I can speak with some authority.<br /><br /></div><div></div><div>Speaking of Brunch at <a href="http://www.brennansneworleans.com/r_bananasfoster.html"><span style="color:#ff9966;"><span style="color:#993300;">Brennan's</span>,</span></a> remind me to tell y'all THAT story. It's unbelievable. And not in the way you're imagining...</div>Stewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4332969113198338109.post-86831890162394934802010-08-03T13:35:00.005-05:002010-08-03T13:40:42.219-05:00DoppelgangerAustin vs. South Park Cow...<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xvUGs1uTFgM/TFhhj3iAiSI/AAAAAAAAAYo/kOCoQfi7GL4/s1600/cow+2.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 188px; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501254213662968098" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xvUGs1uTFgM/TFhhj3iAiSI/AAAAAAAAAYo/kOCoQfi7GL4/s200/cow+2.jpg" /></a> <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xvUGs1uTFgM/TFhhejs7YrI/AAAAAAAAAYg/FOptAtORDIY/s1600/cow.bmp"><img style="WIDTH: 183px; HEIGHT: 198px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501254122440712882" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_xvUGs1uTFgM/TFhhejs7YrI/AAAAAAAAAYg/FOptAtORDIY/s200/cow.bmp" /></a><br /><div><br />Am I the only one who thinks the similarity is striking?<br /><div></div></div>Stewziehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08818401542458370350noreply@blogger.com0