The Fly That Broke the Camel’s Back

There are a few things that have happened to me since I moved to the South. First and foremost, I got over my fear of bugs. Okay, I didn’t get over my very rational fear of bugs, but I can deal with it like the quasi-adult that I am.

This is not to say that they don’t eat me alive if they can because apparently my pheromones are exactly what the want and need. However, bug bites aside, I can now kill them with a murderous rage that has no hesitation. Barehanded sometimes. (Of course only if they are inside and a threat to humanity/mental health – I guarantee you couldn’t sleep at night if your roommate didn’t know about the termite invasion and left the front door light on and the door ajar and thirty of them set up camp underneath your lamp on your bedside table until they were all dead.)

Flash back to 2006. Katrina just ravaged the city and I’m pretty sure there was a larger population of rats and cockroaches than humans. My mother, being the amazing human that she is (and also former city dweller) taught me the pro tips about lights. Turn them off when you leave a room to not be wasteful, but keep them on when it’s important. Meaning – don’t do anything in the dark that you wouldn’t do in the light. (She was talking about sex.) And then later, “If you turn on the lights and give them a minute, they will go away.” – in regard to kitchen roaches and whatever the fuck else lives in my dilapidated but very cute kitchen.

When I was 19, I had to put on a special outfit to kill roaches. In the south they fly. No one warns you that. I’d take my white faux leather belt with studs on it (so Emo) and put on rain books and attempt to wreak havoc by wildly swinging the belt through the air. And then miss repeatedly. Not very effective; better is to turn on every light and leave for a while so it goes back to wherever it was hiding.

Five years later I was crushing them barehanded, with adrenaline pumping and a meat tenderizer or even underfoot without hesitation. The other day, I killed a bee on a beer can with one hand while everyone else ran away.

But you know what. Regardless of my dexterity with the scary bugs, the fruit fly (and termite) situation here might be my undoing. Sure they are tiny, but your roommate doesn’t take out the trash when you are away one weekend, and next thing you know you lift a plate and mushroom cloud of tiny bugs erupts, I can’t deal.

I mean LOST. MY. SHIT.

I scrubbed, I cleaned and still, they resisted. Fortunately the roommate is pretty chill and responded quite well to my note (we have different schedules!) asking him to please MacGyver the bartender-style fruit fly traps in some shot glasses around the kitchen.

Seriously, it doesn’t matter how many times I tried his magic trick of red wine vinegar (we didn’t have apple cider) topped with a little bit of Palmolive and sealed with plastic wrap with holes. Oh yeah, you also put a piece of fruit in the bottom. **My traps were a complete and utter failure. As a matter of fact, I think I made them a snack**

However, I am not happy to report that the fly population is zero. (Or close to it.) And I found joy in wiping their fallen carcasses from the bottom of the refrigerator when I cleaned it the other day. And even more so when I peered into their final fluorescent bath. So much so, that I took a photo!



Also, in case your roommate can’t solve the problem he created, find out how to cure yourself here.


Table for One, Please

Ah yes, friends. The magic of dating. Mardi Gras, as you all probably can guess, is not my strong suit for the meeting or retaining of boys. And, if you happen to live in New Orleans, that also puts Valentine’s Day creeping around one corner or another. Yippeee.

I met Dr. Glitterbeard at the Space Ball. We met in line to get ourselves jazzed up with some Get Fly Bodypaint and were having a good time. We had mutual friends, and apparently, he was of the opinion that I was the hottest girl there. (High five, me!) My costume wasn’t fully baked because of the pressures of graduate school but the final product was some sexy red star pasties, a gorgeous handmade hood, and matching red bottoms. I was pretty on fire. Fun times.

He asked me to dance, and then if I wanted to get a drink. (Yes!) And of course, Sometimes Boyfriend happened to be nearby with The Ogre so the timing was pretty nice for me to get such flattering male attention. Two vodka sodas and an almost kind of kiss later, we were cutting it up under the black light. After a song or two, I took him to find some other friends that we realized we shared in common from his undergrad days. We realize we’ve lost his friends so he excuses himself to go find them. I figured I’d bump into him later and went on with my fun. Fast forward to me, bumping into his (our) friends first. Here is what I get: “You know he’s married, right?”

Ummm no, I did not. Got ZERO married vibes. Of course, it was all fairly platonic so not real lines were crossed (unless you count the no-tongue kiss thing) although I’m sure if the wife was there I would not have been the center of attention for so long. Anyway, awkward and moving on. I did bump into him later with a coarse “Hi, you are MARRIED!?” to which he responded “Wasn’t gonna happen, lady.” Or something to that effect with a fairly rude undertone.

Whatever, dude. Enjoy the ball.

Then, of course, Fat Tuesday happened. Yippee. And as I attempted to gather my life together and sweep up the glitter, Valentine’s Day came and went with another year of light acknowledgement of another day where society expects us to eat too much food in the name of LOVE. (Pro tip, have sex before dinner so that the after dinner sex can be kind of drunk and relaxed.)


Even though I had no special someone to drape myself in gorgeously scandalous lace for, I do have an awesome friend who got super crafty and made some great Valentines (see below). We did venture out on the sunny Sunday for some quick binge eating of Vietnamese food at the annual Tet Celebration. That was a good call. It was a beautiful day for a drive out to the East (when I wasn’t the driver) and it was nice to catch up.

And later, because I am a graduate student in English, I hung out with Henry James (really, dude…why so many words?) and enjoyed a long walk and two solo glasses of wine. Because you know what, I’d rather just date myself than someone that doesn’t light my fire.

12717504_10103695866555600_5276383802883651588_n(Photo and Art Cred: Camilio Estevez)

Dear 2015…

Dear 2015,

I wish I could say that it’s been great and I will miss you, but that would be total and complete bullshit. The fact that 2014 ended with me toasting bubbly with my coworkers after another long holiday season in the service industry ($$$) and then welcoming 2015 by getting super sloshed at work while we cleaned up leading to a near miss of my flight home on Jan 1 suggests how pathetic you would end up. But hindsight is 20/20, right?

To be fair, the ratio of good to bad in the year that marked the 30th anniversary of my birth wasn’t so so bad, and since I don’t have a television, I’ve been spared a lot of the past 6 month’s political discourse that social media tells me consists heavily of people saying stupid things that are unproductive and sometimes outright offensive. This resulted in some pretty funny memes though, so thank you?

I had a few new romances and handful of awful dates to laugh about and a lovely and passionate repeat of my favorite flame. (Watch out for those, they might burn you alive.)  I partied in some excellent outfits and danced the night away with some magical friends. I fell down pretty hard a few times (literally and metaphorically) but magically a I still get out of bed most days because everyone knows how much I love breakfast.

Surely it was disappointing, but the getting of and then quitting of a proper job was somewhat rewarding and suggested that one day I might find my niche in the adult world. I’ll let you know when I figure out where that is and what it looks like in case you want to join me. (On Pluto?)

You marked then 10-year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina and thus my ten-year anniversary in the city of New Orleans. What a long, strange trip it’s been.

I have a huge pile of books on my bedside table because I’m taking a course in the art of the novel (yaaay) so my sleepless nights will have no shortage of entertainment. <- in addition to Netflix, my usual array of books, an occasional late-night text session, and of course, my blog.

I’m not one for “resolutions” but I do have some goals for the coming year. First and foremost I plan to get my sister to pull through like the awesome chick that she is and help me make my AMAZING blog a better, funnier place to procrastinate at work. (For all 50 people that read it, you’re welcome.)

I suspect dating is the same in 2016 so I might opt out completely but there are a handful of restaurants popping up around town so once I’m done with a month of no dairy and no booze I’ll resume the regular consumption of food and drink. Om nom nom.

Also, because we managed to find the most horrific human to move into our apartment who managed to upset the entire home in a mere 2 weeks (Mind = Blown) I’m sure that the situation will eventually become funny and end up here because if you don’t laugh about it all that there is left to do is cry. And I don’t want to give myself any unnecessary wrinkles. I do, however, want to throw a frozen burrito at his head. I’ll explain that later.

So, 2015, I guess all that’s left is Happy New Year, bitch.

Yours faithfully,

Andrea’s Bananas




How to Get Drunk at a Bar without Looking like an Alcoholic: Gramercy Tavern Edition

A long time ago I had an idea – to start a blog and talk openly and honestly about funny things like sassy leggings, getting drunk, falling in love and falling down. Here goes, the inaugural Andrea’s Bananas…

Last year I sent a text in the morning to a friend. It read something like this: “OMG I’m dying.” If you know me well, you’ve probably received such a text, most definitely related to a debilitating hangover or some soul crushing heartbreak because of a boy. In the follow-up texts, I revealed that I got silly drunk at Gramercy Tavern, where I “grabbed a bite” after finishing up a work project next door. Hangover aside, I also thought I was dying because I shit you not, I was literally pooping and peeing red. Clearly signs of imminent death. Unless of course you consumed as many beets as I did. (Did you just learn something? This is educational!)

How? I will tell you. I wrote a quick email with the rundown, and am sharing it here. Pro tip: Always go to “eat” and drink while you are at it.

How to get drunk: A short essay.

I love dining at the bar for a few reasons – with company and solo, because it is so fun to order one thing at a time.  I feel like with a waiter, you order everything and hope the kitchen doesn’t fire things too soon, AND you have the added pressure of deciding what you want to order in a short period of time. I’m a waiter, I try to not be an asshole when I go out on the town. The bar allows for browsing the menu and people watching and usually comes with perks like free drinks and humor. I also have the benefit of being a pretty girl so whether I like it or not, people always talk to me. Even if I’m reading a book and showing zero interest in conversation, someone inevitably asks, “What are you reading?” — “Nothing now, you asshole.” Just kidding. Okay, half kidding.

Back to Gramercy Tavern – I started with a glass of Brunello which was tasty while waiting for a seat at the bar.  The bar is packed. Its fancy, Christmas time, and I’m feeling very New York. A seat for 1 was easier to come by than I thought. They actually have a wait list for bar seating so you don’t have to hawk people aggressively to get a spot. Once seated, I went right for the beet salad, which was SO good.  Possibly on the tops for the best thing I’ve eaten, ever.
And with that, they had a really nice Riesling (the German kind, not the sweet American-style crap), and I had that. And then I had the duck pate (mousse?) and I thought I wanted the Brunello with it so I ordered another but it was all very rich and I decided I preferred the dry, crispness of the Riesling. That’s why I back burnered the red for another glass of white.  And by then, I made a friend, the girl sitting next to me, who was drinking a shockingly yellow but very mild white that was great so I ordered my own. Then I had a cheese plate for dessert, and finished my red.  And had a Hot Toddy. It was very lemony, so I ordered a shot of bourbon to fix it, which was HUGE. I poured some and drank some.  And then I was drunk and ordered another shot… b/c what the heck.  They threw on an extra cheese which was sweet, and total bar perks of course and I got a round of bourbon shots on the house (did not need another…) and that is how you get drunk “grabbing a bite” at Gramercy Tavern.