I actually ventured into the great outdoors this weekend and did some yardwork. To be precise, I edged most of the yard. Why just most and not all? Edging was much harder work than I imagined it would be, so I ran out of weekend before I could get it all done. We've been in the house since March so it hasn't been edged for at least seven months. However, I'm willing to bet that the person who'd been renting the house prior to our buying it had not edged for quite some time either. Our driveway is about a foot wider than we previously had realized. And, I uncovered another four to six inches of sidewalk.

Early on in the edging process, a little nest of red ants was stirred up. I forgot all about them until I was picking up all the clumps of turf that had been clipped away. I remembered the nest when about thirty of the little bastards began tearing into the flesh on my hands and arms. Ant bites are nasty. Within minutes of my attack, I started swelling. My face became swollen...my hands...my feet. The worst part is that the damned bites form little pustules...nasty. The bites I got on my legs at the boy scout campout a few weeks backed had finally healed, now I have a new set of wounds on my hands and arms. I keep messing with the bite on my ring finger, if it isn't already infected it will be by the end of the week. I can't stop picking at it. It is either itching or throbbing.

Curse you damned red ants!

To know me is to know that I can be a bit of a hot-head, I like to feel sorry for myself, I'm a pessimist, and basically I think the world should revolve around me. When routine, every day events, force me to come face-to-face with the fact that the world does not revolve around me, I bitch and pout.

Having said that, the trip to New Orleans was wonderful. My in-laws actually footed the bill for the entire trip. Why? Because they are kind and generous and completely wonderful. I love them. They probably hate the fact that their only child married them into my family and, in particular, me. But, they put up with me, and for that I love them even more.

But I digress. Where was I? Yes, a couple things happened in New Orleans that sucked. That is to say, for me they sucked. Probably for everyone else, they didn't suck so much...except for the fact that they had to put up with me bitching and/or pouting.

If you read my blog, you may walk away feeling sorry for me and my bleak existence. This is what I want...read the first paragraph again if you must...it's what I live for, it ties into the whole "world revolving around me notion."

Anyway, I bitch-blog because I know the things that irritate me and piss me off will seem silly and insignificant if I can get them out in a way amusing to me. If you choose to read, I hope you laugh, I am.

So, why don't I write about the good things? Occassionally I do, there just doesn't seem to be as much humor in things going well.

Did I mention that the trip to New Orleans was wonderful?

Does 3 a.m. count as the end of day one or the beginning of day two?

I forgot to bring the 3-year-old's safety rail for the bed. A little after 3 a.m. she fell out of bed. Not only did she fall out of bed, but she fell out and wedged herself behind the nightstand. She was crying, I think she also screamed “help me Mommy” and “I hurt Mommy.” I could not find the light switch to the lamp on the night stand. It took me longer than it should have to pull her from behind the night stand. It also took awhile to calm her down.

Once she settled back to sleep, I noticed the music and loud talking. I don't know where it was coming from. I could not make out anything other than a repetitive drum beat and loud murmuring. The drum beat became something akin to Chinese water torture for me. The rhythm was such that there were moments when I thought it had stopped. Then it would pick up again. The husband said it had stopped by 4 a.m The nightstand clock was taken out when the toddler fell out of bed, and I didn't feel like retrieving it, so I have to take his word for it. It felt like it went on for hours.

Needless to say, I did not want to get out of bed at 7:00 a.m. However, I pulled myself out from under the sheets and managed to wake myself up with a shower. We headed to Café Du Monde for beignets and café au lait.

Fried dough, sugar, hot coffee. Sweet bounty of the earth you are mine!

After breakfast, the husband went into Virgin Records to buy a t-shirt. His sense of humor varies from mine. He bought a shirt I really didn't find all that amusing. So what? Right, it wouldn't have stopped me either. A smart ass remark from me about said shirt later in the day would, however, prove to cause me nothing but pain and anguish.

Let's see, after Virgin, it was IMAX for a movie the 9-year-old recommended. Let me just note:

Movie + 3 year old = crappy time

After IMAX it was Mother's. I got a half-Ferdi and pissed off. The Ferdi was good. The wait for the food sucked. The 3-year-old is obviously running on fumes and there is no nap in sight.

With full tummies, we head to the Audobon Zoo. This was when I made a fatal mistake.

When we arrirved at the zoo, the husband switched into his new t-shirt. As we are waiting for his parents at the entrance. I say, “so you think that shirt is funny?”

The furies of hell are unleashed. I am no longer a human being. We spend four hours at the zoo and I was treated like garbage the entire time.

Since I'm the one responsible for the toddler, I am the one left to navigating the stroller. At a busy zoo, this often means I am not able to move through exhibits as quickly as everyone else. Also, the 3-year-old loves animals. She actually wants to look at each animal. She wants to know what it is, what it eats, etc.

This is the first place she's been on our entire trip that she actually behaves like a little person. She's totally interested in savoring the zoo experience. However, since my husband does not wish to communicate with me, he does not wish to be near me, which means he also does not get to be with the toddler. He misses some priceless moments with his little girl. His little girl who is enjoying what is to her an incredible and amazing world.

Since he does not give a rat's ass about me, the toddler and I are repeatedely left behind. This also means every so often, she has to skip parts of exhibits because I have to move through things quickly to catch up to everyone else.

By far, the "best" moment of the day was when grandma was waiting in line for snow-balls. The line is long and moving slowly. The decision is made to move on. The three-year-old who has been hanging around next to Daddy is upset. She knows what we've been waiting in line for, and she isn't leaving until she gets a blue one. The husband tells her to come along. She looks at him and folds her arms and says “no.” This is a game to her, a test of wills. He looks at me and says, see if you can do something with her. And, he walks off with everyone else. Ouch, he knows that she is going to have a full blown temper tantrum if she doesn't get a sno-ball. He doesn't want to be around when she has her meltdown, so he walks off and leaves me to conduct this scene by myself.

I try several different bargaining chips I have. They don't work. The sno-ball is the only thing she will agree to. So there it is. We either have a full-blown temper tantrum or I stand in the long line and buy a sno-ball while we are left completely behind.

You know what?! If I'm going to be treated like total crap, what the fuck do I care if they leave us behind?! The toddler and I have been having a grand time without the rest of them. If I'm the only one who wants to put in the time and the effort to help her enjoy the only part of the trip she's actually interested in, well, so be it.

We stand in the line, which has suddenly started moving quickly. The toddler gets her snow-ball. The world is a perfect place for her at this moment.

After the zoo, it's time to head back home. Our adventure is over. The three-year-old falls asleep almost as soon as the car starts moving. The ride home is quiet.

Once home, mounds of laundry and grocery shopping await me. Only me. The toddler sleeps, the 9-year-old holes himself up somewhere and plays, the husband gets to prop his feet up and read.

Life is sssooooo good.

Well, we did better than I expected this morning. I believe we were officially underway by 8:45 a.m.

By 10:45 a.m., we were actually walking into Jax Brewery as our official first pit stop of the day. Of course, the 3-year-old did not want to use the “family friendly” restroom on the first floor. She climbed out of her stroller and darted up a flight of stairs, following the rest of our group to the restrooms on the second floor.

Since the 3-year-old is my responsibility, no one else in our group is hanging around to see if I need any assistance, and so my plight goes unnoticed. Except by passing tourists, who can't be helpful and perhaps attempt to impede the progress of my little runaway. However they can be “helpful” by saying smart-ass things like “ha-ha I remember those days” or “I wish I had that kind of energy.” Yeah, shut the fuck up and get out of my way.

I'm left dragging a stroller up a flight of stairs while screaming after her to slow down. The first of many visions of a pedophile making off with my little one flashes through my head. I manage to catch up to her just as she is heading into the men's restroom. She screams and kicks as I drag her into the women's restroom. Once we are safely cramped into our little stall, she proceeds to give the entire restroom a play-by-play of what is happening. It occurs to me that closing and locking the door is a luxury I really shouldn't try to engage in. Privacy is a thing of the past.

After the potty stop, we continue our trek down Decatur. We don't make it too far before we pass a toy shop. Actually, that isn't quite accurate because we don't actually pass the toy store. I tried to scoot on by but the other adults think it would be a grand idea to go inside and have a look around. I tell the husband he is on 3-year-old patrol. “Fine” is the response I get. We aren't even in the store five minutes when I look around to see that he, in fact, is not on toddler patrol. She is a good twenty feet away from him digging through some over priced pieces of plastic that look highly breakable. I fuss as him, only to be put in my place by him and my mother in law. What can I do? I'm out-numbered. The only thing to do now is hope the toy store bill doesn't reach triple digits. Thank-goodness I can find peace and happiness in my 9-year-old. No, actually that is not true either. He has found his Mecca, he's in a toy store with grandparents--utopia. I get in trouble because I discourage him from making his grandmother pay $8.99 for a pack of plastic bugs he could by at Wal-mart for $1.99. He will be pissed at me for the rest of the day.

Amazingly, we make it out of the toy without making a purchase. However, I am now the official black sheep of the family. I probably was before, it's just now it is painfully obvious. The walk down Decatur continues. We now take our little adventure to the French market. The walking room is sparse to non-existent. Of course, since I am navigating a stroller, I am given the respect of a leper. I am less than human, to be disdained, hated, and ridiculed. It doesn't help that the 3-year-old wants to be in the stroller…out of the stroller…in the stroller…out of the stroller…pushing the stroller…in the stroller…out of the stroller…

Once our journey through flea-market hell is complete, it's time to grab some lunch. We stop in at Fiorella's Cafe. Thankfully it is uneventful. (And the fried chicken is to die for.)

With full-tummies, we head over to Ripley's Believe-It or Not. Overpriced. An interesting diversion though.

Now, we walk over to the D-Day museum. We head to the museum via the River Walk. There will be more toy stores to dodge, but the air-conditioned walk will make it worth it.

We stop at a gelato shop. I get dolce latte. The nuts in it taste old, but otherwise it's a cold, tasty treat. The 3-year-old gets chocolate. She and I are both wearing white tops. She makes it through the whole “eating melted, chocolate ice-cream” process and only manages to get one little drop on her sleeve. Oh, and it is smeared all over the table. I don't have any on me, yet. I don't know how I did this, but as I'm wiping up a puddle of ice cream off the table, I splash it onto my shirt. I get to spend the rest of the day with chocolate splash marks on my shirt. I'm now a black sheep, leper in a nasty white shirt.

After some minor navigational errors, and an expected opportunity to check in at our hotel, we finally make it to the D-Day museum. Don't ever go to this museum with a 3-year-old. It is a remarkable museum. But when you're only three, you really can't move through it with the solemn countenance that it really deserves. I'll leave it at that…

After the museum, we headed back to the hotel. We ate at Mulate's, both kids behaved quite well considering we were on the move the entire day. I drank two blackened voodoos. The trials of the day melted away.

We're heading down to New Orleans for a weekend get-away. "We" being, the husband, the kids, and the in-laws. I'm trying to get everything all packed-up this evening. The plan is have everything ready to go so we can hit the road early in the morning.

Sounds simple, but with a cranky nine-year-old and a demanding three-year-old in the mix, nothing is ever as straightforward as it seems.

So, I'm stopped at a traffic light this morning, impatiently awaiting the green signal 'cause I'm already 30 minutes late to work. I look up to the utility line running over the road and, I see two squirrels running on the line toward each other. When they are about two feet away from each other, they stop and stare at each other (frantically twitching their tails).

Although I can't hear them, I know they must be barking up a storm at one another. I'm thinking, surely one or even both of them are going to turn around or back up. Do they realize there is no way they can get past each other without falling?

Then, they both started moving towards each other. Holy crap! Collision! But wait, no, just as their noses are mere inches away from each other, one of them ducks its head and the other one jumps over (a la leap frog).

What the hell?! How did they know what to do? How could they be certain that they both wouldn't be jumping? There was no hesitation in either one's movement. Is there some sort of squirrel instinct when squirrels meet at dire straits? Squirrels coming from the south-east instinctively duck while squirrels coming from the north-west jump. You know what I'm thinking...all that barking is actually Squirrel-ese.

You must go watch 30-Second Bunnies Theatre. Jaws and Alien rock.

I filled in for TM this weekend and went camping with my son and his boy scout pack. I was very apprehensive going into it. I'd say it's been close to 20 years since the last time I camped.

We left early Saturday morning, armed with questionalbe diretions and warnings from more than one person that two crucial turns to the camping grounds are not well marked and are quite easy to miss. I was also told by these same, well-meaning individuals that I couldn't trust the boy scout pack in charge of checking people in and providing diretions to the proper camp site.

In addition to not feeling secure about the directions, I was certain I'd left some necessity behind. The entire drive into the wilds I alternated between thinking "we've brought to much crap" and "we don't have enough food and water to survive." My child sat quietly in the back seat and read whichever "Narnia" book he is presently consumed with. Any questions posed to my experienced nine-year-old camper, were met with "huh" or "shh."

We actually located and made both turns to the campground without any drama. When we checked in, we were told to go to a camp ground that was not located where our pack's "normal" camp was located. Armed with the knowledge of not being able to trust the boy scout in charge, I questioned a scout leader to make sure we were being given the correct information. I was told the scout was correct, so the nine-year-old and I drive to the "not-normal" camp site.

The camp site is at the bottom of a U-shaped drive. In other words, we're about as far away from the roads to civilization as it is possible to get. Also, no one else is here. The nine-year-old and I recheck the map, campsite numbers on the map, and the make-shift signage for the camp. This has to be the place.

I find it odd that no other families are here yet. I call our den leader, they haven't even left town yet. It is going to be at least another hour and a half before they get to the camp grounds. I describe where we have been told to set up camp and I am told we are in the right place.

So, my little Webelo and I stake out some prime real-estate and set up our tent. The tent goes up without a hitch, so we start unloading and move in. Something in the back of my mind tells me I probably shouldn't have unloaded everything from our vehicle. My inner-voice is convinced we're in the wrong place.

About fifteen minutes after we're all set up, another family from our pack shows up. Relief floods over me. The Dad is also a first time camper. He pitches his tent next to me. I'm thinking, we're like an established community now...squatters rights and all that. There's no way we're moving. By the time our neighbors are all settled in, two more families arrive. Waves of relief flow over me.

We did it! We made it two the campground and actually set up camp with no drama, no screaming, no crying. Perhaps this weekend won't be so bad after all!

So, it's Friday and I just got paid...I'm eatin' out for lunch. Earlier in the week, Lefty and I agreed to meet up for lunch. It took us a good fifteen minutes to decide where we would eat:

Me: What do you feel like?
Lefty: I don't care where do you want to go?
Me:I don't care, what are you in the mood for?
Lefty: Hmmm I don't really know, anywhere is fine, you decide.
Me: Well, what do you feel like?

Eventually one of us said "Mello Mushroom." Aaaah, yes.

So, I get to the 'shroom and I'm thinking Lefty must be waiting for me. As I was leaving the office, I got caught by a phone call and an office visit before I could make a break for the lunch line. I figured surely my delayed departure would mean Lefty would have to wait. No, not so, for the umpteenth time, I sit and wait for her. Lefty once more opted for the 20-minute interstate route when all she really needed to do was make a 3-minute drive up the road. Just once I would like to be the one "fashionably late."

And, she was "fashionably" late. I'm not sure about how things work at your office, but at my office, Friday is casual day. I pretty much dress for farm work, you never know when you'll have the urge to plow a field on a Friday. Lefty however dresses for the cat walk on Friday's. I have to say, as a woman, I never want to be the "under" dressed in a group. I don't mind being "equal" dressed or "over" dressed. But I don't like playing farmer brown to anyone's Cindy Crawford.

Lunch was tasty, but I couldn't help wondering if are co-patrons were questioning why the super model was sitting with the farm hand.