Babbles of a Lover and a Fighter

In true Nicolle fashion, I have pretty much dropped off of the face of the earth blog-wise.  Why?  Who knows.  I could make up a bajillion excuses, but it all boils down to my tendency to be very excited and gung-ho about hobbies in the beginning then it petering out after an unforeseeable amount of time.

The general hobbies that have stood the test of time so far in my years of being alive are sports and artsy things.  My current drugs of choice are Crossfit, flag football, and (of course) photography.  And although I feel great love for these things in my life, I recently balked when faced with the questions, “What are you passionate about?  What is in your life that you can’t live without?”

Well, that second part is easy.  Air.  Food.  Water.  A roof over my head.  Family.  Friends.

But my passions?  If I absolutely couldn’t play a sport or carry around my camera for a year, I would say…okay.  And find a way to deal with it.  Maybe I’m just that type of person.

I guess when I take a step back from the tangible, there are certain things in my life that tug at my heartstrings, things that could be seen as a passion.  I have a uncontrollable urge to do well in everything I do.  I’m currently kind of obsessing over my career path and what I can do to play a part in helping people.  I enjoy…life.  And living.  I suppose my passion is life and living it.

And I’m sure this was from some greeting card or something, but it’s kind of become my life mantra:

Free your heart from hatred.
Free your mind from worries.
Live simply.
Give more.
Expect less.

That last thing is what gets me, though.  Low expectations are met more easily, but at the same time…how low do you really want to set the bar?  Does this apply mostly to people?  Or just life in general?  Also, I want to add “Have fun.” at the end.  Because if you’re not having fun, what’s the point…right?

Ah, life.  I feel like I’m standing at a crossroad.  And I can’t see past the next turn.  All I know are my tendencies, thoughts, feelings and those will be enough to get me where I want to be.

Independence day
White rabbits kick the bucket
But it’s for science

Ah, festival season is upon us.  Traffic is wacky and tourists are fun to people-watch.  The weather’s been exceptional, and it’s been fun catching random bands and amazing foods at events like Wednesday at the Square.  And shout out to The Rum House for the most ridiculously delicious Creole rib and brisket tacos EVER.

We also made it to the Ponchatoula Strawberry Festival (first time!) where there was deliciousness to be had and a really good Beatles cover band to be heard.  When we first got there, there was basically a road of everything fried and everything strawberry, but we’ll get to that later.  The rides were your typical (scary) carnival rides:

and only got crazier as they lit up when the sun went down:

As with most festivals, strawberry fest was prime for people watching.  Most notably this adorable strawberried little girl:

(I think I will make some overalls like that) and this dude who WON A GIANT PIG (jealous.):

He literally stood like that for HOURS.  I mean, the pig looked squishy and comfy enough to make one wonder…

And the food.  Oh the food.  Anyone who knows me knows I am a fat kid at heart.  It’s craziness like these monstrosities…

(yes, that’s a CINNAMON-BATTERED, POWDERED SUGAR-DUSTED FRIED STRAWBERRY.) that make my taste buds squeal and my arteries cry.  It’s a love-hate thing.  Also, not pictured, we sampled spicy meat pies, chocolate covered strawberries, strawberry lemonade, grilled corn, sausage…and other strawberry and non-strawberry foods.  All fantastic.

And afterward, we all kind of felt like this:

…and this (if Katy were “food” in general):

DOES NOT WANT.

So yes, my first time at Strawberry Fest was strawberry-licious.  Lots of food, music, friends, people watching, strawberries and fun times.  Double rainbow!  Double thumbs up!

Mardi Gras has come and gone. For some people (tourists), it’s all about Bourbon Street and boobies. For those of us who know better, it’s all about the parades and meeting new friends and dressing up and being awesome.

Mardi Gras is about getting hit in the face by gigantic pink beads…about screaming ’til you’re hoarse and have a bad case of the man-voice…about being handed a real rose by a guy in a mask you’re pretty positive is cute.

It’s about buying ridiculously colored backpacks at Walgreens for 7 bucks and filling them with crazy treasures like brilliantly engineered cooling cases for tasty beverages and heavily protected precious camera gear.

It’s about being SUPER excited for floats that proudly display your lifelong dream of becoming an astronaut…

It’s about cramming pasta in your pie hole on the way to a night parade because you were too busy having fun at the morning one to eat anything…

But most of all, it’s about friends.

Having not been in New Orleans for Mardi Gras in two years and having to march in all of the ones I have been able to go to, I realized this year that it really is like a second Christmas.  Work was closed, it was gorgeous weather (except for Saturday’s deluge), and everyone just seemed…happy.

So, I’m getting into the swing of things here in New Orleans.  The job is going relatively smoothly, I’m working out, I’ve reconnected with old friends, and I’m even finding time to let loose and hit a couple of parties here and there, the most recent being an America-themed party.

My friend, Kelly, has met a lot of people from outside the US through her Albanian roommate, Ina.  They wanted to throw a party where all of her American friends dressed as American icons and all of her foreign friends dressed as their version of Americans.  Needless to say, it was an interesting night.

Unfortunately, I left my camera at home, and aside from this south-of-sober-ly taken picture (thank you, Kelly), you will have to rely on my words to paint a picture of the evening.

From left to right we have Mr. Rogers (rockin’ the Converse instead of the traditional Keds), Johnny Appleseed (yes, that’s a Swiffer handle and yes, there are actual apples in my bandana sack), the Statue of Liberty (with her trusty torch and dry-erase-marker-high inducing crown), and Honest Abe (felt beard and all).

We walked into the house and were greeted by Marilyn Monroe, an excellent Sarah Palin (who was actually from Alaska), a couple of cowboys, and (of course) a good number of people who seemed to not get the America Party memo.  After awhile, more and more people showed up, and eventually, English wasn’t the dominant language spoken in the house.  French and Spanish dialogue floated around, and it was awesome.  The fluidity of the words kind of made speaking English sound like somebody chopping into a tree.

I saw a super gangster-looking guy saunter up.  He had the shades, the sideways cap, the basketball shorts and shoes, the oversize Nike shirt, and a bit of stubble befitting a respectable rapper (Eminem excluded…he rocks the clean shave).  Turns out he was French.  According to Kelly, he always wears vests or nicely fitted shirts, so she didn’t even recognize him when he came through the door.  He asked why I had a pot on my head, and the most amazing conversation was born.  He learned about our crew and who we were, and we learned that apparently they don’t call French horns French horns in France (whoda thunk?).

The rest of the night was filled with dancing and random French guys playing beats on the pot on my head and asking who I was.  I guess there’s nothing like a pot on your head to strike up a conversation haha

It was a really fun night, and thanks to Kelly and her roommates, I think we all crammed a little more knowledge into our heads.