Once I got back to the house T's sisters were all changed and waiting with their respective groups of friends. As proof positive of my state of mind, I went up to K's adorable 18-year-old boyfriend and say, "You are so cute." I think I even poked him in the chest when I said it. Then I went to get a glass of champagne.

Uncle Jack, not anyone's uncle really, but actually T's uncle-by-marriage's brother, was sitting on the porch sipping whiskey. When I walked past him he asked in his Louisiana drawl, "Hannah darlin, where y'all goin?" I told him I didn't know, but that it was up to RG, and Uncle Jack said that there was a great blues bar called Le Bon Temps that he wanted to go to, and why didn't I round everyone up to go there.

So we piled into the back of some guy's truck, a group of 20-somethings and Uncle Jack, and drove off towards Magazine Street. (And when I say piled, I mean it. We should've gotten 87,000 different traffic tickets for that little stunt.)

The bar, like a lot of places in New Orleans, was old and built almost like a shotgun house, with a bar in the front and a narrow hallway leading into a back room, where the band was staged. We got drinks and I started playing pool with one of RG's really, really cute friends (who I seriously think I might have kissed, innocently of course), and J and an old neighborhood kid from Spring, Texas. Last time I saw this kid he was 13 and I was like, Dude - I used to baby-sit your ass.

I got bored with pool in about 39 seconds and so I traipsed to the back room where the Atlanta girls were watching the band. Court was dancing with Uncle Jack, and I went over and cut in.

He's a really good dancer, and despite my wearing flip flops, I did a pretty good job of keeping up. I really wish there was some way to package up Uncle Jack and sell him all to you, but there are just no words. Let's just say, I would not be surprised, if in some point in the past Uncle Jack thought to himself at some time, I just have to wait a few more years for that one, about me or someone else like me. But yet, it's not creepy, because well, he's Uncle Jack.

So we danced and he complimented me on keeping up with his "drunk ass" and he said something like, whenever he asks a woman to dance they always assume that he wants to [ahem] them, and it ain't about that. It's about dancin. Personally, I just like the spinning.

When the song ended I skittered back up to the front, stealing a french fry from some guy's basket along the way. Details are a blur, but I do recall taking a cigarette out of RG's cute friend's mouth and quizzing him on his history. I really wish I could tell y'all his full name because you would drop dead from the stereotypical Southerness of it, but let me just say he can trace himself back to signers of the Louisiana Purchase. Maybe that's when I kissed him.

Around 2:30 a.m. some of the Atlanta girls were ready to go, so we had the bartender call us a cab and RG made us promise to call him tomorrow to make plans for the following night. Of course I didn't see him the rest of the weekend, so it's a good thing we hugged tightly and I made him promise to take care of himself.

Sunday morning came quickly, but I had to drag myself out of bed because some of T's paternal family was hosting a brunch at the house. T and C were already on their way to Hawaii, or at least on their way to the airport, by the time we regrouped and left the hotel. Allison, the MOC and I caught a ride with my mother and stepfather, who'd already packed in a touristy trip to the cemeteries that morning.

In the glaring light of the morning-after the house looked much different. Burned down candles sat sadly on the tables on the porch and a small piece of wedding cake sat wrapped up in the formal room.

We, of course, went right to the bar for bloody marys and mimosas and loaded our plates with cheeses, eggs and fruit. It was only after Al and I had full plates that we noticed the jambalaya, but if you think that stopped us you'd be seriously wrong. I think I had no less than five plates of jambalaya.

On one of my trips back inside I passed Uncle Jack who was wearing shorts, knee socks and some safari-looking hat that had a string keeping it around his neck. (He also arrived at the house on his bicycle that has a milk crate afixed to the back.) He asked if we'd had a good time the previous night but I just wanted to run away.

After we had more than our fill we went back to the hotel to pick up Hallie, who had a bit of a rough morning, and to lose Allison, who'd had too many mimosas. Which left Super Trooper MOC stuck with me and two other girls he didn't know well. (There are a million good things to say about Chris, but the foremost in light of this day, is that he's a good sport.)

We took the streetcar down to Canal Street and ran into a Lady Footlocker where Court and I bought these slipper-like DKNY slides because neither of us were bright enough to pack comfortable shoes. We walked the Quarter for a few hours, hitting Jackson Square, the French Market and of course, Cafe Du Monde. The whole time we were wandering around Court kept pointing out former spots of debauchery from Mardi Gras '99. "Hey! That's where that guy ran into the horse's ass!"

On our way back up Bourbon Street, towards the streetcar, we passed a gay bar, whose doors, like all bars in the Quarter, were wide open. There were nice looking male specimens shaking their groove thing up on the bar and we stood there, mouths agape, for a few minutes. Court kept pushing me to go inside, and as I was standing in the doorway one of the guys inside leaned over to me and said "Nasty boys." "Beautiful boys," I responded, which caused him to crack up. When we turned around to leave there was a chubby, four-eyed 11-year-old girl standing slack-jawed on the sidewalk staring in, looking like she'd just landed on Mars.

We hopped in a cab and went back to the hotel to clean up and rest before dinner. The whole ride back we planned out the night before us and I was practically bouncing out of my seat at the thought of impending karaoke.

We met back up at 7 p.m. to catch the hotel-provided shuttle down to the Quarter, but we unfortunately missed it. So we walked across the street to the neutral ground to wait for the streetcar. There was a large group of lesbians wearing matching yellow T-shirts embroidered with "Road Trip 2002" and denim shorts. They jokingly told us that they were a volleyball team. "Or maybe a softball team!" They were all clearly bombed, but they were also funny and made the short ride downtown entertaining.

There's just something that happens in the Quarter when the sun goes down that makes it feel less sad and more alive. Maybe it's because the neon signs look pretty and not garish, or that you don't notice the garbage as easily. Although you can still smell it.

We walked down Bourbon Street toward The Gumbo Shop, which is on St. Peter, soaking in the Disney for grown-ups vibe and trying to figure out what kind on convention was in town.

The wait to eat was relatively short, even though we had to split into two tables of four, which left Al, MOC, Court and I together. (As we were waiting in line Chris, Al and I were talking about one of the films from SXSW 2001 that featured a group of guys from Oklahoma who fish with their hands. Allison was trying to remember what they called it, and I, using my brilliant copywriting intellect, said: "Hand-fishin'?" Actually, it's called Noodling and a woman standing behind us apologized for eavesdropping, but said that her sister [or somebody] had dated one of the Noodlers in the film. I just thought that was funny. And random.)

As soon as we sat down Al pointed to the pretty orange drink she saw at the table behind us and we decided, no matter what it was, that we'd get one. Y'all know it was a hurricane, right? Welcome to drink uno.

I had this amazing crawfish pasta and as we ate with gusto conversation revolved around engagement rings and stories. The MOC and his Lady Cheese got to recount their story again, and I never get sick of hearing it. And as is par for the course both Court and I tried on her ring, but Court took it a step farther pretending to wave to people across the room and point at things.

After dinner the rest of them whimped out, as I suspected they would, so it was just Al, Chris and me. Our next stop was Pat O'Brien's and The Cheeses were shocked when I told them I'd actually never been there before. (As far as I'm concerned, that place is to be avoided like summertime Dallas blacktop during Mardi Gras.) The MOC went up to the patio bar and ordered three hurricanes while I stood mesmerized by the Fountain of Fire! (You have to say it like that - Fountain of Fire!)

We lucked out and found a back table in the piano bar and got to work on our drinks. (And initially, it is work.) We listened as the ladies played old favorites, including one of Al's much-beloved George Jones ditties, and cheered loudly when they broke into "The Yellow Rose of Texas." After they finished playing a table off to our left broke into "Deep in the Heart of Texas." Of course the three of us joined in, clapping and all.

After I was about not even halfway done with my drink, I looked over in Al's cup and she was already sucking the remaining 'cane nectar out of the fruit. So I gave a little of my drink to her and the MOC and chugged the rest and we were out.

We walked across Bourbon to the best karaoke bar evah, The Cat's Meow. (And can I just say thank the lord their karaokecam archives are only up for 24 hours.) I headed straight for the sign-up area and ran into three of the ATL girls, including Court. Yay! I put my name in and doubled back to the bar, picking up two beers and a vodka tonic for myself.

There was a lot of singing, and not a little dancing, and drinking. At one point the MC went and got a tray full of shots to pass out to the crowd. For some reason he handed me the first one, and started passing out the rest based on conditions like - The first person with a Texas driver's license, the first person wearing a black bra etc. (I won't tell you how Court got her shot.)

Finally it was my turn to sing, and when I walked up there the MC said: "Ladies and Gentlemen - Uma Thurman!" And then I rocked the mic with Cher's "If I Could Turn Back Time," one of my standbys. I pretty much just sang right to Al and even reenacted the "drove a knife deep into my heart" line. It was brilliant.

I'm sure I went and got another beer after that and we watched a few laughably bad performers and a cute group of girls do Madonna's "Like a Prayer" complete with a little choreographed dance. Then the Atlanta girls and I got up to sing "Material Girl," but I don't really remember that part so well.

After that, because it was on the spreadsheet, we stumbled down to Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop, supposedly the oldest structure used as a bar in North America. On the way down Bourbon Street we passed a group of tourists trying to get more tourists up on a balcony to throw them Mardi Gras beads. As we walked past a pretty cute guy I fingered the string around his neck and said: "Y'all know it's May, right?" He clearly didn't get it.

Lafitte's looks like it's going to fall down and inside it's extra dark and history-flavored. (I think the MOC was in his own personal beer soaked, American history tinged heaven.) The Atlanta girls, looking as though they were going to fall down, called it a night, leaving Al, Chris and me.

I can't really tell you anything else because we made a pact, sealed with Gouda, that anything said in Lafitte's stays in Lafitte's. And really, my recollections of our conversation are spotty at best.

I do remember, however, that instead of going to the bar to get us all a drink, Chris would get one beer at a time that we'd all share. Of course, he made no less than three trips. Finally, around too late o'clock (keep in mind I'm staying in a room with my mother), we left this little ramshackle bar to go back to the hotel.

We hop in a cab I flagged down on Bourbon, and for some crazy reason, decided it was a good idea for me to tell Chris the naked football player story. Let's just say that I got more detailed than I did in that entry and that I have no doubt the driver pushed record on some creepy device.

Needless to say, Monday morning came all too quickly. After sleeping in as much as a I could, while my mom and stepfather were off at the D-Day museum, I rolled myself off the sofa bed. I showered and repacked and tried not to throw up. We ate lunch, where I had my only po-boy of the trip, at Copeland's before they drove me to the airport.

It hit me in a really weird way, as my mom and stepfather drove away, leaving me curbside at the airport, with my little green rolly suitcase in one hand and my bouquet in the other, that Atlanta is my home now. I had to walk past the gates for Cincinnati and Houston, to D3, where a plane bound for Hartsfield would take me home.

It was an amazing long weekend, and even though my right knee is still all puffy and jacked up from god knows what, every moment was worth it.

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The notify mourns my unemployment.

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