I'm on fire. Not in a good way. Not like, "Hey, check me out, I am rocking whatever I'm doing!" Not like, "Ooh-la-la! Who's the red hot mama?" I'm on fire like my skin is burning and if you rub against my shoulder, chunks of my flesh will come off like well-cooked roast pork clean off the bone. We are back from New Orleans, and I couldn't be happier to be home. Not that I don't love New Orleans. I love that city in a huge way. On our last day there, we went walking about in the French Quarter. Instead of window shopping at the million and one shops in the area or browsing through the French Market, however, we decided to take in the architecture, which meant a lot of walking out in the blazing, unrelenting sun. After about three hours of this, I was starting to feel dizzy, thirsty as all get-out despite the amounts of water I was pouring into myself, and crabby as hell. Well, when I finally saw my reflection, I realized that perhaps this was because I had turned into a crab. I was the most intense shade of screaming red a person could be. Seriously, I wanted to douse myself with ice-cubes right then and there. Instead I settled for some of this:
I love Arnold Palmers. Really I do. So much. It's like a big glass of happy right there.
I am sitting here writing this, and I am in so much pain, I cannot even begin to tell you. Besides, you don't come here to hear me bitch and moan about my seared flesh and potential sun-poisoning. Upwards and onwards, then. We had a great time in NOLA. It was joyous, even if a little stressful at times (you know how it can be with family sometimes). I wish I had taken my camera on the tour of the bayou that Matt's aunt's boyfriend took us on because it was absolutely gorgeous. I had never seen a cluster of egrets all hanging out on the same tree; it was breath-taking. And those cypresses were magical. You can see some of the photos I did take here, although they are mostly comprised of architectural details, not of nature.