You Know You're from New Orleans When...

Your sunglasses fog up when you step outside
You reinforce your attic to store Mardi Gras beads
Your baby's first words are "gumbo" and "whereyat"
You save newspapers, not for recycling but for tablecloths at crawfish boils
When you give directions you use "lakeside" and "riverside" not north & south
Your ancestors are buried above the ground.
You listen to holiday songs such as "the 12 yats of Christmas" and "Santa and his reindeer used to live next door"
You walk on the "banquet" (sidewalk) and stand in the "neutral ground" (area of ground between a two sided street) "by ya mommas" (by your mother's house).
You think a lobster is a crawfish on steroids.
You take a bite of five-alarm chili and reach for the Tabasco.
You use a "#3" washtub to cover your lawn mower or your outboard motor.
The horsepower of your outboard motor is greater than that of your car motor.
You pass up a trip abroad to go to the Crawfish Festival in Breaux Bridge.
The four basic food groups are boiled seafood, broiled seafood, fried seafood and beer
Every once in a while, you have waterfront property.
None of your potential vacation destinations are north of the old Mississippi River Bridge (US 190).
You sit down to eat boiled crawfish and your host says, "Don't eat the dead ones,"
and you know what he means.
You don't know the real names of your friends, only their nicknames.
You give up Tabasco for Lent
You worry about a deceased family member returning in spring floods.
You don't learn until high school that Mardi Gras is not a national holiday.
You push little old ladies out of the way to catch Mardi Gras throws.
You leave a parade with footprints on your hands.
You believe that purple, green, and gold look good together
Your last name isn't pronounced the way it's spelled.
You know what a nutria is but you still pick it to represent your baseball team.
No matter where else you go in the world, you are always disappointed in the food.
Your loved one dies and you book a jazz band before you call the coroner.
Your accent sounds nothing like Harry Connick, Jr's.
You can sing these jingles by heart: "Rosenberg's, Rosenberg's, 1825 Tulane;" "At the beach, at the beach, the Pontchartrain Beach..."
Nothing shocks you. Period. Ever.
Your idea of health food is a baked potato instead of fries with your seafood platter.
You have sno-ball stains on your shoes.
Your middle name is your mother's maiden name, or your father's mother's maiden name, or your mother's mother's maiden name, or your grandmother's mother's maiden name, or your grandfather's mother's maiden name.
You don't show your "pretties" during Mardi Gras.
You know that Tchoupitoulas is a street and not a disease.
Your grandparents are called "Maw-Maw" and "Paw-Paw."
Your Santa Claus rides an alligator and your favorite Saint is a football player.
You shake out your shoes before putting them on.
You don't think it inappropriate to refer to a large adult male as "Li'l Bubba."
You know why you should never, ever swim by the Lake Pontchartrain steps (for more than one reason).
You cringe every time you hear an actor with a Southern or Cajun accent in a "New Orleans-based" movie or TV show.
You have to reset your clocks after every thunderstorm.
You waste more time navigating back streets than you would if you just sat in traffic.
You fall asleep to the soothing sounds of four box fans.
You eat dinner out and spend the entire meal talking about all the other good places you've eaten.
You actually get these jokes and pass them on to other friends from New Orleans.