I gained ten pounds last night. Didn't take much. I gained TEN POUNDS!... in loot. Hell, yeah, we worked the beads last night. There are many tricks of the trade used for maximum bead snaggin‘. Having a posse is one of them. To my right, we have 'Sweet Cheeks'. Isn't she a beauty? Nuthin' like her. I know busting the adorable kid card is a little low, but it's a battlefield out there and you have to play your aces. So Sweet Cheeks, here, surveys the scene, scopes out her options and muscles herself right down in front and then gets to work on figuring the float angle. If it’s a bunch of woman, she puts on her extra adorable smile an waves and claps using soft giggly noises that attract the motherly ear. Ladies like adorable children. They have someone hand her a teddy bear and two beads, to which she replies, "Oh thank you so much!" One more string for such manners. She can smell a sucker for miles. Damn she's good.

When the men’s’ floats swing by, that's when she gets really entertaining. Magnolia has an odd gift. She can shout louder than a sideshow barker, and just as deep. When her first, "HEY MISTER!!!!THROW ME SOMETHING!" Explode s from her lips the startled people next to her look down to see is she has a bull horn, and, to avoid a ruptured eardrum, take evasive steps to the side. The float riders are obligated to float something her way, or suffer through a few more of her auditory assaults. Sometimes I have to remind her, that we aren't in Louisiana anymore and that some people find that a little bracing. Fortunately for her neighbors on the fence, a float carrying middle-aged, drunk women came next and she assumed the Shirley Temple act. She is using tact and brilliance at a 7th grade level. I'm so proud.

To my left, we have JP 'The Anchorman' Dude. Jules sits quietly in a stroller, ready for bed. His hair betrays him though. His Mohawk is as erect as a math class boner, and ready to party. He sits. In the jogger. It's after eight thirty and he's ready for bed, but has no problem sitting patiently just as long as the loot keeps coming. He is the Fort Knox. Magnolia doesn't wear beads, for fear that it will inhibit her flailing and screaming. Sporadically she makes deposits to 'The Anchorman' who looks sleepily at the shiny and 'fpawkelies'. He just hangs back and counts the stash. What a champ.

And then there's me, and that makes three. I work it, too, but strategically. I was pretty stinking hot last night in my 'come-fuck-me' down vest, scarf and hat. Watch out, I might getcha’. But oddly enough, that's all it took. And every time a man float would waft by, I found myself protecting the tender parts of my body to avoid contusions. That's what they are supposed to do right? Throw beads? I'm supposed to be ready for them. My tip for you, DO NOT TAKE PICTURES. Every time I'm raise my I-faux (not so much and I-Phone but close enough, blog coming soon) I would get cracked over the head, and then I'd look to see a hot conquistador in a mask pointing and blowing kisses. I looked down at my feet and there was a pile of ten beads wadded together in the shape of a concussion grenade. I felt that one. Maybe this is the product of evolution on the carnal mating scheme. Club over head with stick/ beat the shit out of 'em with Mardi Gras beads. I felt like a little tramp, getting pointed to and smiling and accepting all of the beads. I'm married! Am I being a tramp? Then it dawned on me that I was not indeed being a bead slut, as it would have taking me four minutes to shed beads, scarf, vest, sweatshirt, shirt etc. to get down to the goods and get my flash on. Yes, I'd say that I was being a prude bead tease. That's alright, I comforted myself, the kids are around and I am not hammered.

I was pleasantly surprised by the lack of alcohol seeping from my pours. The lack of a headache and the fact that I remembered everything of the previous night. My next tip; If it glows, DO NOT DRINK IT! To elaborate, not being on your lips by the time the first float arrives is pretty fun. And you don't have to make anyone else coffee on the morning. I don't understand why they have Mardi Gras as a work holiday and not the day after. For most revelers, they would rather be dead by Ash Wednesday than brave the mass. There just aren't enough bathrooms in a church to hold that many hung-over Catholics. Plain and simple.

Hopefully these tips have helped, though hindsight is 20/20. But by next year, you should be able to roll out of bed, though perhaps not quite recuperated from the last, and take to the streets with the rest of us once again.

And that ten pounds? Guaranteed, it'll go straight to my ass.