My sister, Terry, called me last night just as I was falling asleep to tell me she had the hiccups.
She and her husband, Dan, were in New Orleans and I wasn't. I'm sure the fact that I wasn't with them was the real purpose of the call. It was one of those nana-nana-boo-boo calls. I'm here and you're not. Smart-ass.
I could hear all those wonderful Bourbon Street sounds in the background. People shouting, "I'm gonna kick your ass!", bands playing Play That Funky Music White Boy, the clickity-clickity-click of the tap dancing street performers and drunks hollering, "WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO HOOOOOOOOOO!!!!" (I couldn't actually hear all of that but I could feel it deep down in my New Orleans yearning bones.)
I simply said, "Good for you," and she hung up. I can't wait until the next time I'm in Vegas or New Orleans without her and I call her at 2:00 a.m. to tell her I have something stuck in my teeth.