Ya know ya from N'awlins when......
Post Katrina ones!!

You know how to read the X's spray painted on every home in New Orleans, and you cringe when there is a number in the bottom portion.

Thanks Houston for taking me in!!! Really!!, BUT also thanks for taking in the Superdomers, ya’ll can keep ‘em!

You have your own acronym for FEMA, Mine is Fix Everything My Ass

 You know what Contra Flow is, and now know to wait to leave when they announce when it will start!

 You know what, “Did ya get water, Dawlin?” means!

 You can quote chapter and verse of your Home Owner’s Insurance Policy

You now know the real reason why they light the bonfires for Christmas! To help FEMA find their way to New Orleans. 

You thought that getting to Baton Rouge in over an hour and a half was a long time, now ya know that it can take 8 hours!

Now you REALLY know what it means to miss New Orleans!!!!!!!!!!! And you tear up when you hear the song.

Blue Roof Tarp, is not a blues song sung by Dr. John, but should be!

You drive down St. Charles Ave. and notice that the oak trees look like chia pets!

You now have and ax in your attic! And you are not hiding it from the New Orleans Police!! (Like they could find it if you told them it was up there!!!)

 U Loot, I Shoot!

You have spray painted something on your fridge! And laughed!

 You thought your car was “SAFE” on the neutral ground!

 Whenever you hear the word “chocolate” you think of Nagin.

 You have a mind’s eye check list of the places that have reopened, and you haven’t been there yet, but want to go soon.

Pre Katrina
Ya know that a Zephyr is an old rollercoaster and a baseball team!

You proudly claim that Monkey Hill is the highest point in Louisiana.
(You know it's not but you'll fight anyone who don't believe ya.)

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 can pronounce `Chop-a-tool-is' but can't spell it.

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 make a `right-hand turn' instead of a right turn.

You get off the stoop, walk down the banquette and cross the neutral ground to go get a sno-ball in the summertime.

You judge a restaurant by its bread.

The white stuff on your face is powdered sugar.

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.

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

You consider having a good meal as your birthright.

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

You love Maspero's, like the prices, hate the line, so you know to sit at the wonderfully old bar to place your order and enjoy.

A seven-course meal is a pizza and a six-pack of Dixie beer.

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 put Tabasco sauce on your Hershey bar.

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 Muffuletta with a Barq's while sucking hot crawfish 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 yaselfs in da line by Galatoire's.

You think `drinking water' when you look at the Mississippi River.

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

Someone at a crawfish boil says, `Don't eat the dead ones’, and you know what they mean.

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 No. 5.

You were told as a kid that Venezia's Restaurant was owned by the Mob and were looking at ya from behind the mirrors, but ya didn't care because they make the best pizzas.

You enjoy sucking heads more than sucking face.

Your idea of foreplay is pinching dem tails and sucking dem heads and chasing it down with a cold Dixie beer.

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?'

There is a St. Joseph lucky bean in ya mama's coin purse.

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 to take home. On Mondays, you get da begneits, coffee and da 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 Cat-lick, 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 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.

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 wonder what Anne Rice has against a building that looks like a Mardi Gras float.

You know the color purple is a drugstore and not a movie.
(Soon to be Rite Aide, That Sucks!)

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

You still call the convenience store `Timesaver.'

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

Everywhere else just seems like Cleveland.

You know the lyrics to the jingles for Seafood City, Pontchartrain Beach and Rosenberg's.

Every so often, you have waterfront property.

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

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

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

You know where you got your shoes.

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

You ask someone where they went to school and they tell you which high school they attended.

You remember waiting up and staying awake for complete TV coverage of the meeting of the Comus and Rex courts.

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.
(Not counting Mardi Gras day!)

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 describe a color as K&B purple.

You like your rice and politics dirty and dislike clean living.

You worry about deceased family members returning in spring floods.

You can ask for lagniappe and not feel guilty.

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

You really were in Tulane Stadium during the Saints first game when John Gilliam ran the opening kickoff back for a touchdown.
(No me, I was punished and had to pick the weeds out of the garden, but ya know where you were when ya heard it!)

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 light breakfast.

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

You have a monogrammed go-cup.

A friend gets in trouble for roaches in his car and you wonder if it was palmettos or those little ones that go after the French fries that fell under the seat.

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

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Contribute to the list, I'll give ya credit!!! email Emile at .... ChefEmile@CustomCatering.net

Chef Emile L. Stieffel, Aurora Catering, Inc. email address: ChefEmile@CustomCatering.net
4016 Red Cypress Dr., Harvey, LA 70058
Copyright © 1995 -2017 [Aurora Catering, Inc]. All rights reserved.
Revised: January 14, 2017
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