James Carville Will Kill You

I recently purchased a new t-shirt. This purchase was exceptional for several reasons:

1) The shirt is bright blue, and I never wear brightly colored clothing.

2) I bought the shirt after spotting it at Jazz Fest, covering the expansive gut of a scraggly-bearded hippy-looking college kid. It probably goes without saying that I (rarely) attempt to emulate the clothing patterns of scraggly-bearded hippy-looking co-eds.

3) The shirt is funny, so so incredibly funny, but also a wee bit controversial. Check it out and you'll see what I mean.

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So anyway. The other day I changed out of said t-shirt, into my running clothes, and hit the streets for a short jog. I was at the corner of Broadway and St. Charles, thinking about the shirt and wondering if it would be appropriate to wear to a (child's) birthday party that afternoon, when a car turning right at the red light came dangerously close to crushing me. The driver slammed on the brakes and glared at me and I glared back at this person who nearly ran me down in his slick black mid-size sedan and then I realized that this person was...have you guessed it yet? James Carville.

I guess he lives here now, which is cool, but I suppose I will have to be extra-vigilant on my runs from now on.

Runners, take heed: Look both ways, because James Carville will kill you.

Watch Your Mouth

• Overheard upon entering house on a rainy day:

Sydney, muttering to self: "It's fucking wet out there."

• Overheard while watching daughter climb into carseat, littered with crumbs and sand:

Sydney, muttering to self: "Look at all this shit."

• Overheard in the early morning hours, from my prone position in our obscenely comfortable king-size bed, sheets pulled up to my ears, groaning at the daybreak peeking through the blinds:

Sydney, talking to Evan: "It's okay, Mommy's coming. Mommy's getting up. Mommy will be here in a minute. It's okay, don't cry. Don't cry, Evan. Why are you crying? Okay, I'm leaving. I can't deal with you right now."