February, 2010

• Men in dresses. Syd in Who Dat shout-off with man in fishnets and a miniskirt. Me, without the video camera.
• Kindergarten applications. Don't get me started.
  
• Monster Month: in running circles, common term for the peak training month before a marathon. Long runs of 18-20 miles, weekly mileage in excess of 40 miles. Up before 5 a.m. several days a week, pounding out 6 or 7 or 8 miles on the treadmill in the basement, while the world sleeps and I mutter profanities into the darkness.
• Sydney starts flag football with Coach Dave. On the first day of practice, Coach Dave describes how once, about 25 years ago, a little boy stood before him, one of the pack of eager young charges, on the very same patch of grass where my wee one was now standing. That eager young man? Peyton Manning.
• Baby sister gets married. To her high-school sweetheart. In Las Vegas. Super Bowl weekend. Fly in Thursday, leave Saturday. Lots of Who Dats and thumbs-ups and some vaguely hostile stares as we charge through airports in our Saints regalia. In a rare display of enthusiasm, flight attendants chant "who dat" over the loudspeakers as we wait to board the plane in Dallas. Upon landing in New Orleans, the pilot plays "Black and Gold Superbowl" over the intercom. On the bus to the Park-and-Ride lot, every single person looks like they just discovered an enormous stash of money buried in the backyard.
  
• Voting, as soon as we get home from Vegas (like, on the way home from the airport). Mayor Landrieu. Nuff said.
• Super Bowl Sunday. 20 miles that morning, which is ridiculous in and of itself, but even more so because I thought it would be a good idea to wind my way through and along the parade route, which turned out to be loads of fun but added an extra layer of exhaustion (weaving in and out of trash and chairs and that incredibly annoying crime tape that incredibly annoying people insist upon stringing along the perimeter of "their" parade space, etc). At home, I told myself that the heart palpitations were due to exertion, not football anxiety. Riiiiiiiiiight. Jambalaya, boiled shrimp, black and gold king cake, Abita. Ready to go. Lots of half-finished conversations, most along the lines of "I just hope it's a good game..." or "But really, their defense just sucks so bad..." Half-assed attempts to play outside with the children. Confused by Queen Latifa at kick-off ("wait, is that the national anthem?"). Excited that the Saints are playing well, at least we'll show the world that we can hold our own against--wait a second. Did we just win the fucking Super Bowl?? Is this happening? Where did I just kick my cell phone? Is Cade having a heart attack? Never mind about the phone, all the towers are jammed up anyway and--oh my fucking god, we just won the Superbowl and let's get outta here get in the car and drive and whoa look at all these people high-fiving us like we're rock stars cruising down St Charles Ave and this is fucking insane! and I'm hugging strangers and we're crying and the cop horses are going nuts and everyone is standing around them in a circle chanting who dat and this is getting crunk and hey I can finally use that term in casual conversation and let's get outta here it's getting CRAZY. Whoa! Did we really just win the Super Bowl????
• Super Bowl Parade. Say it again: feels good. Super Bowl Parade! People around us start referring to Syd as "The Who Dat Girl" and taking their pictures with her. Caught nothing but a kiss from Sean Payton, but for once in my parading life, cared not one iota about beads.
• Mardi Gras. Lombardi Gras. What? Parades every night and day. Cade constructs a 9-foot Lombardi replica and plants it at St. Charles and Sixth. Hundreds of people along the route stop to have their pictures taken with it. When Bacchus passes, Drew Brees spots the trophy, fist-pumps, and bows down to us, over and over and over again. Cade says, "This is the best day of my life." I remind him that he said that three weeks ago, when we won the NFC championship, and again the week before, when we won the mother-fucking Super Bowl. Whatever. It just keeps getting better and better and better.
• Mardi Gras Marathon. I ran the marathon yesterday. 17 wonderful miles, 9.2 terrifyingly agonizing ones. More about that in another post.

So. Whatcha got for us, March?