The perfect recipe for procrastination includes the following: a church, a category two hurricane, and an irresistible ex-con. Said ex-con is smarter than he looks, and as it turns out, he's also an incredible kisser.
There would be no studying thi...
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Pushing Debbie's stroller through the busy streets of downtown New Orleans on a late afternoon was no easy feat. Excited that we were going on a road trip, she wouldn't stop babbling, her words still mainly incoherent, driving me crazy.
My wife was craving beignets and not just any beignets. She wanted the ones from Café Du Monde because those were apparently made by a chef with golden hands using golden dough to bring life to what were, in my opinion, ordinary fried fritters.
I would never tell her that though. She wouldn't let me hear the end of it because there was absolutely nothing ordinary about those particular beignets she craved like a cocaine addict.
"Dada, cown." Debbie pointed across the street excitedly.
"Baby, that's a clown. Close enough though. We have to work on those 'L's", I said as I maneuvered the stroller around a busy fruit stand.
"I'm not baby," she told me boldly.
The clown with his purple hair and big red painted lips spotted Debbie and crept slowly toward us. I saw him in my side vision and didn't stop, causing him to run and catch up with us.
"A balloon for the little one, perhaps?" He grinned, looking a lot like the clown from the movie It.
I was a grown man and I couldn't bear to look at him for too long. There was something disturbing in his eyes. I glanced down at Debbie and she didn't look as excited anymore, large hazel eyes bulging in fear and confusion.
"Look what I've got here," the clown said, stepping into the path I intended to take, forcing me to a stop.
I looked around me warily. Big crowds made me uncomfortable and this man wasn't helping.
"Make it quick," I mumbled.
I watched in fascination as he quickly made a flower balloon for Debbie, who was now smiling at him, eager hands stretching forward. The final knot was tied and Debbie grabbed the creation that was made for her.
"Me," she said.
"Yours," I nodded and handed five dollars to the clown so he could leave us alone.
"Bye, cown." Debbie waved as the clown went looking for other susceptible parents to trap.
We made it to Café Du Monde without any more disturbances. The place was packed with loyal customers, but the second I walked in, Ali, a waitress who worked there, made eye contact and waved me over to the counter.
She wore her blonde hair up and her black apron, which she wore over a mini dress, had a light coating of flour on it. Blue eyes twinkled and winked when I reached her. Ali had a mad crush on me, and it was visible now going by her reddened cheeks.
"Nice day to take the baby out," she said, pinning her gorgeous smile on Debbie.
Debbie who was two years old shook her bouncy head of dark curls. "Not baby. I'm not baby."
