...And then my dad went to Pinkberry

So, my dad is a notoriously terrible food orderer.  Really, really, really bad.  When at a restaurant, he will oftentimes order items of food that are not on the menu, and sometimes order items that are not even in keeping with the cuisine.  One time when we went to a Chinese restaurant he tried to order a side salad with oil and vinegar dressing.  When we go to extremely nice and fancy restaurants, he'll ask for saltine crackers and hot sauce.  Maybe it's a man thing, thinking that every restaurant you go into is bound to carry: hot bread, saltine crackers, Louisiana Hot Sauce, and oil and vinegar dressings.  Who knows.  Needless to say, when we walked into the Pinkberry, I knew we were in for some trouble.

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New Orleans: Where The High School Years Never End

I'm sure some of you have expressed the following sentiment, "..oh god, high school was the worst time of my life."  Either you had bad hair, wore bad clothes, had bad skin, drove a bad car or, if you were me, all of the above.   What I mean to say is: It is a truth universally acknowledged that high school sucks, and is something you might talk about when being occasionally nostalgic, but not something you really ever think about unless you are in an awkward hotel ballroom with an open bar at a reunion.  But I am beginning to realize that in New Orleans, your K-12 education, for whatever reason, defines you more than any undergraduate, graduate, or post-graduate work does. 

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