You know you live in New Orleans when...

Since I've been revising EVANGELINE, I realized that I missed writing about New Orleans. I love setting, and I especially love this city. So in lieu of a real post today, I thought I'd share some of my favorite "You know you're from New Orleans" lines...



Enjoy!



You know what a "second-line" is, and where to find the best spot for Super Sunday.

You reinforce your attic to store Mardi Gras beads.

You proudly claim that 'Monkey Hill' is the highest point in Louisiana.

You drive your car up onto the 'neutral ground' if it rains steadily and heavily for more than two hours.

You have 'flood' insurance.

Someone asks for an address by compass directions and you say it's 'Uptown, downtown, backatown, riverside or lakeside.'

Your idea of a 'cruise ship' is the Canal Street ferry, and your idea of a 'foreign cruise ship' is the Chalmette ferry.

Your burial plot is six feet 'over' rather than six feet 'under.'

You know the 'Irish Channel' is not Gaelic-language programming on cable.

You don't worry when you see ships riding higher in the river than your house.

You get on a bus marked 'cemeteries' without a second thought.

You have no idea what a turn signal is or how to properly use it.

You can cross two lanes of heavy traffic and U-turn through a neutral ground while avoiding two joggers and a streetcar, then fit into the oncoming traffic flow while never touching the brake.

You can consistently be the second or third person to run a red stop light.

You know how long you have to run to a store, get what you need and get back to your car before you get a parking ticket.

You got rear-ended 10 times by people with no insurance.

You take a `right-hand turn' instead of a right turn.

You judge a restaurant by its bread.

The white stuff on your face is powdered sugar.

You know better than to drink hurricanes or eat Lucky Dogs.

You visit another city and they 'claim' to have Cajun food -- but you know better.

You have the opening date of any sno-ball stand in your Daytimer.

You know that a 'po-boy' is not a guy who has no money, but a great-tasting French bread sandwich.

You judge a po-boy by the number of napkins used.

The major topics of conversation when you go out to eat are restaurant meals that you have had in the past and restaurant meals that you plan to have in the future.

You consider having a good meal as your birthright.

The four seasons of your year are crawfish, shrimp, crab and oyster.

Your stomach can handle a dozen Manuel's tamales at 3 a.m. after having a few at Markey or Saturn Bar.

The waitress at your local sandwich shop tells you a fried oyster po-boy dressed is healthier than a Caesar salad.

You know the definition of 'dressed.'

You can eat Popeyes original chicken, Haydel's kingcake and Zapp's while waiting for Zulu. Then you go to Jackson Square for a Central Grocery muffaletta with a Barq's while sucking hot crawdads and cold Acme oysters, hurricanes and several Abitas. Then you can ride the St. Charles Avenue streetcar home past Camellia Grill for a chili/cheese omelette ... without losing it all on your front stoop.

You have gained 10 or 15 pounds permanently, but you don't care anymore.

Ya stood ya'selfs in da' line by Galatoire's.

You think 'drinking water' when you look at the Mississippi River... but you know better.

You don't really teach people the right way to eat crawfish, so there's more for you.

Your idea of cutting back on calories is to suck the heads and not eat the tails.

The smell of a crawfish boil turns you on more than Chanel#5.

You burl (boil) crawfish and fry them in erl (oil). Don't forget to pack the uneaten tails in furl (foil).

The first thing you do every morning is pick up The Times-Picayune obit section to see `who died inna'papah.'(paper)

There is a St. Joseph lucky bean in ya mama's coin purse and on yo'dressa' too.

When you speak with a tourist, he asks, `Are you from Brooklyn?'

You make groceries at Schwegmann's to get da' Zatarains for da' crawfish. Den', ya' suck da heads of those crawfish for da' juice. Don't forget da' beer and da' white Russian daiquiris. Afterwards, you go down to Randazzo's for some king cake. While in da' parish, you stop at Rocky's for some baked macaroni and pok(pork)chops to take home. On Mondays, you get da' begneits, coffee anna'Gambit. (Dat' Gambit has everything.) For lunch, you go down to Mother's for some red beans and rice. Tomorrow, you get da'muffaletta at da'Central Grocery. And dat's what we do in N'awlins, dawlin'.

You're not afraid when someone wants to 'ax' you.

You were born at Baptist, raised in Metry and hang with Vic and Nat'ly.

You go by ya' mom-n-ems on Good Friday to eat crawfish, drink beers and play touch football on the neutral ground.

You believe that purple, green and gold look good together -- and you will even eat things those colors.

Every time you hear sirens you think it's a Mardi Gras parade.

On Christmas Eve, your daughter looks up in the sky, sees Santa Claus and yells, 'Throw me somethin' mister.'

You fill your Nativity creche with king cake babies dressed like Jesus, Mary, Joseph, the wise men and the angels.

You go buy a new winter coat and throw your arms up in the air to make sure it allows enough room to catch Mardi Gras beads.

You have a parade ladder in your shed.

Your finest china has 'Endymion' written on it.

Your first sentence was, 'Throw me something mistah,' and your first drink was from a 'go-cup'.

You describe a color as 'K&B' purple.

You have a special set of well-broken-in shoes you refer to as your 'French Quarter' shoes.

You move somewhere else and you feel like you are from Oz and you moved to Kansas.

Everywhere else just seems like Cleveland. Sorry Cleveland! ;)

You're a lil' short on money but it's O.K. 'cause ya' can get a 'french fry poboy wit' ros' beef gravy and it's jus' as good and it'll fill ya' up too.

You can remove the cap from a Tabasco bottle with one hand.

You have spent a summer afternoon on the Lake Pontchartrain seawall catching blue crabs.

You watch a movie filmed in New Orleans and say things like, 'Dere ain't no way they can run out of a cemetery right on to Bourbon Street ... and don't call me "Cher."'

You haven't been to Bourbon Street in years.

You bring empty 'grocery bags' to a parade.

That brown bag you take to the Saints game ain't your lunch.

You know that 'Tipitina' is not a gratuity for a waitress named Tina.

You have to buy a new house because you ran out of wall space for Jazz Fest posters.

You drink 'Dixie', whistle 'Dixie' and name your dog 'Dixie'.

You worry about deceased family members 'returning' in spring floods.

You're sitting on the Lakefront reading the Gambit, eating hot crawfish and drinking Abita beer.

You can ask for 'lagniappe' and not feel guilty.

You reply to anything and everything about life here with, "Only in New Orleans."

You're out of town and you stop and ask someone where there's a drive-thru daiquiri place (then they look at you like you have three heads).

You consider a Bloody Mary a 'lite' breakfast.

You go to sleep Friday evening before you go out Friday night.

You have a monogrammed 'geaux-cup.'

You like your crawfish so hot, you can't distinguish between sweat, a runny nose and crawfish juice.

You save newspapers, not for recycling but for tablecloths at crawfish boils.

When you give directions you use “lakeside and riverside’ not north & south.

Your ancestors are buried above the ground.

You get on a green streetcar to go to the park and a red one to the French Quarter.

You listen to holiday songs such as “The 12 yats of Christmas” and “Santa and his reindeer used to live next door.”

You walk on the “banquet” and stand in the “neutral ground” “by ya mommas.”

Someone asks for directions and you stop and help them with a smile.

You start an angel food cake with a roux.

You think a lobster is a crawfish on steroids.

You think boudin, hogshead cheese, and a Bud is a bland diet.

You think Ground Hog Day and the Boucherie Festival are the same holiday.

You take a bite of five-alarm chili and reach for the Tabasco.

Fred’s Lounge in Mamou means more to you than the Grand Ole Opry.

You have an *envie* for something instead of a craving.

You use a “#3″ washtub to cover your lawn mower or your outboard motor.

You use two or more pirogues to cover your tomatoes to protect them from the late frost.

You use a gill net to play tennis, badminton, or volleyball.

The horsepower of your outboard motor is greater than that of your car motor.

You pass up a trip abroad to go to the Crawfish Festival in Breaux Bridge.

You are asked to name the holy trinity and your reply is “onions, celery, bell pepper.”

You let your black coffee cool, and find that it has gelled.

You describe a link of boudin and cracklins as “breakfast.”

Every once in a while, you have waterfront property.

Your mama announces each morning, “Well, I’ve got the rice cooking …what will we have for dinner?”

None of your potential vacation destinations are north of the old Mississippi River Bridge (US 190).

You refer to Louisiana winters as “Gumbo Weather.”

You think of gravy as a beverage.

You greet your long lost friend at the Airport with “AAAAAAAYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.”

You sit down to eat boiled crawfish and your host says, “Don’t eat the dead ones,” and you know what he means.

You don’t know the real names of your friends, only their nicknames.

You give up Tabasco for Lent.

You worry about a deceased family member returning in spring floods.

You don’t learn until high school that Mardi Gras is not a national holiday.

You push little old ladies out of the way to catch Mardi Gras throws.

You leave a parade with footprints on your hands.

Your last name isn’t pronounced the way it’s spelled.

You know what a nutria is but you still pick it to represent your baseball team.

You like your rice and your politics dirty.

No matter where else you go in the world, you are always disappointed in the food.

Your loved one dies and you book a jazz band before you call the coroner.

Your accent sounds nothing like Harry Connick, Jr’s.

You ask, “How they running?” and “Are they fat?” but, you’re inquiring about seafood quality and not the Crescent City Classic.

Your town is low on the education chart, high on the obesity chart and you don’t care because you’re No. 1 on the party chart.

Nothing shocks you. Period. Ever.

Your idea of health food is a baked potato instead of fries with your seafood platter.

You have to take your coffee and favorite coffeemaker with you on a three-day trip.

You have sno-ball stains on your shoes.

You call tomato sauce “red gravy.”

Your middle name is your mother’s maiden name, or your father’s mother’s maiden name, or your mother’s mother’s maiden name, or your grandmother’s mother’s maiden name, or your grandfather’s mother’s maiden name.

On certain spring days, Crawfish Monica is your breakfast. Ahh, JazzFest!

Your house payment is less than your utility bill.

You’ve done your laundry in a bar.

You don’t show your “pretties” during Mardi Gras.

You know that Tchoupitoulas is a street and not a disease.

You “boo” the mayor on national television.

You wear sweaters because it ought to be cold.

Your grandparents are called “Maw-Maw” and “Paw-Paw.”

Your Santa Claus rides an alligator and your favorite Saint is a football player.

You suck heads, eat tail, sing the blues and you actually know where you got dem shoes.

You shake out your shoes before putting them on.

You don’t think it inappropriate to refer to a large adult male as “Li’l Bubba.”

You know why you should never, ever swim by the Lake Pontchartrain steps (for more than one reason).

You cringe every time you hear an actor with a Southern or Cajun accent in a “New Orleans-based” movie or TV show.

You have to reset your clocks after every thunderstorm.

You waste more time navigating back streets than you would if you just sat in traffic.

You consider garbage cans a legal step to protecting your parking space on a public street.

You fall asleep to the soothing sounds of four box fans.

Your one-martini lunch becomes a five-bloody mary afternoon… and you keep your job.

You’re walking in the French Quarter with a plastic cup of beer. When it starts to rain, you cover your beer instead of your head.

You refer to people older than you as Mr or Mrs. and their first name.

And lastly, you eat dinner out and spend the entire meal talking about all the other good places you’ve eaten. Mmm, Boucherie tonight for my husband's birthday. Can't wait!