How to Torture Your Brother, Part 2 (and give your Grandmother an ulcer too)

I'm not sure Martha is going to make it. Someone is going to be victorious in the battle of wills and I'm wagering on my kids. Hearing her scream brings back all sorts of childhood memories. My kids have never heard their grandmother use her 'mean' voice. She's already made two thirds of them cry today and we're only on day two of our journey. She is not sympathetic to middle son's footwear issues nor his inability to keep a pair of shoes on his feet or within a 500 yard radius of his person. After I let him walk barefoot thru the streets of New Orleans, she made us stop at an outlet mall so she could buy him flip-flops (the crocs were rubbing blisters).

Female child continues to engage in psychological warfare against her older brothers. Everytime a song comes on the radio that one of them wants to hear, she suddenly has a question for me. Brothers beg her to be quiet so they can listen to the Jonas Brothers for the 862nd time. Grandmother has little patience for the bickering and for girl child's tactics. Not sure if grandmother will ever choose to vacation with us again. She has issued all sorts of proclamations today; "We must never unload the car again!" and "If you loose your shoes again, I will spank you!" and "If you bother your brother one more time, you will sleep on the sofa."

Walking around New Orleans today was akin to walking on the surface of the sun. It was 800 thousand degrees in the shade at 9 am. As we walked down Bourban Street the smell of urine and warm beer permeated the air. My oldest has a penchant for endless questions so the scenery provided him with a well-spring of intrigue. "Why do people drink so much beer?" and "Why are there naked ladies that dance for people?" and "Why do homeless men pee on the side of the road in broad daylight?" and "Why are there so many poor people?" and "Why is this place so dirty?" I was able to take a walk down memory lane and that was fun and satisfied that urge for the next 15 years, especially since very little has changed since I started college in New Orleans 22 years ago.

Gotta love Americana! Ain't nothing quite like it. What a glorious day!