I Love Sin

We got back from our whirlwind trip to Sin City Part II last night. I love the hell out of New Orleans, but Mardi Gras is a place for frat boys, drunken underage girls, men with those hideous visor caps, lovers of drinks in hurricane glasses, and all around general douchebaggery. Still, the Bunny and I did make it to a show featuring one of our favorite combined bands, Trail of Dead, and we did get to sit back and take in the train wreck colliding all around us.

Our taxi drive, MJ, was an immigrant from India. In a heavy accent he said over the phone to his imaginary adversary, "Bitch please. I can't deal with this drunken shit all night." Then his phone carried the ringtone of a thousand Bombay House restaurants across the air of our stale taxi van. It was magical.

Having previously given me his personal cell phone number to call if needed, MJ even returned to pick up our slightly inebriated asses at 2 am when others were clamoring for a ride out of Hell/The French Quarter. We felt like royalty as our taxi pulled to the curb in the whipping wind, throwing up the acrid scent of piss as the desperate and the drunken and the debauched squealed behind us for a mercy ride. Again, it was magical.

At the show, we met friendly NOLA natives who were dying to take us on a mystical mystery tour of the city post-show. Really, I've never been so figuratively wined and dined in all of my travels. After sitting through two opening bands--one I liked called Midnight Masses and another ridiculous mess of a fashion nightmare called Funeral Party--Trail of Dead finally took the stage with their two-drummer glory (see evidence below) at midnight in Mardi Gras masks. At 1:00 am, they called it a night, which, really, was just too soon, but they appeased the masses by handing out all of the free beer they'd accrued backstage.

We saw breasts. Really, isn't that what you wanted to know? We saw painted breasts. We saw half-clothed breasts. We saw bare-chested, look-at-me now tits, breasts attached to seemingly pregnant bodies--I wish I were kidding--and boobies bouncing over balconies. It made me flush. I never realized how uncomfortable I would feel in such a liberal environment where cops whistled at drunken nude displays and tramps mingled with scoundrels amidst a backdrop of Jesus Freaks. I texted my parents that my "Southern Baptist upbringing never prepared me for this." They responded, "Don't let us catch you on COPS."

After gourmet crab-stuffed gulf fish in brown butter sauce and meyer lemon eggplant ragouts, we waddled to Cafe Du Monde for pre and post drinking beignets and cafe au laits. New Orleans is food heaven sinking into the pits of Hell. All of its citizens of iniquity only made my food taste more delicious. I washed it all down with Abita, Louisiana's finest microbrew, and chalked it up to just another experience I'll have to censor in the stories for my children.


Jesus on Bourbon Street


Trail of Dead at Midnight

...And an Addendum

The Bunny and I are leaving for New Orleans this weekend. We are going to see one of our favorite bands of all time in the French Quarter: ...And you will know us by the trail of dead, or Trail of Dead for short. We're eating brunch at the Court of Two Sisters, dinner at the Acme Oyster House, and drinking a few places in between. I got a hot tip on a paper/pen store from a school friend, so I'm certainly hitting that up.

Last time I was in New Orleans was for the Tennessee Williams Festival in the Spring of 2007. I met John Waters at the conference, who was there signing the Tennessee Williams memoirs, in which he did the introduction. My friend Ashly did a popping booty dance on Bourbon Street that gave us access to free drinks and some terrible nightclub that needed to pay me to stay. We ate ice cream on a balcony at 1:00 am, and I did my famous leprechaun kick in the middle of Jackson Square.





In the meantime, my dear sister is house sitting for us. Not only do I trust her to take care of my babies and keep the house secured, Sebastian seems to prefer her over me. I guess she is the nicer half of our DNA. Still, if anyone is into spying, feel free to drive by here late Saturday night and see if there aren't some shenanigans occurring in my living room.

When we bought the concert tickets, we didn't realize it was Mardi Gras weekend. Wish us luck.

Dancing Queens

The Bunny and I went to eat some delicious, fresh crab cake tacos at the Mexican joint behind the ghetto Kroger last night. (Thanks for the tip, Shane and Sarah!) Save for one gay couple in the corner, one half of which reminded me of the gay uncle/make-up artist in Mrs. Doubtfire, we were all alone. As the other couple was leaving, Robin Williams' brother said, "Oh my god. Are you guys married? Because if you're not, you totally should be... that is, of course, if you're not related because you do kind of look alike."

I confirmed that yes, we are married, and no, we are not related, though it isn't the first time we've been asked this question. He then asked if we had kids, but stopped himself and said, "No! Don't tell me. You don't have kids, but you will. Yes, you'll have two." Granted, that is the average family size, so it isn't as if we actually met Ron, the gay prophet, though his complimentary comments before he left made me want to keep him around.

I once told my semi-homophobic father that we moved to midtown because we wanted to be closer to the gay community, who, incidentally, has been the main reason for the restoration of this neighborhood. My father shuddered a little bit and took a long pull off his Southern Comfort.

After the meal, after the other couple was gone, we decided to dance. Now, if you've read this blog even once, then you'll know that I've been dancing uninhibited for years now. In fact, my next task shortly after hitting publish on this blog is to dance and clean around this house. Last night's dancing, however, was punctuated by the clang-a-clang of sombrero bopping music, the traditional kind, all the way to punk-inspired Flogging Molly-esque Mexican mixes that made us want to kick up our heels.

So we danced and danced, barely stopping long enough to slide our debit card for payment, and with dinner mints in hand, we tapped right out the door and into the privacy our our waiting car.

Here Come the Poe Poe's

I know how everyone has enjoyed the Sweatpants Man chronicles, but, alas, he has not been in class all week. Actually, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hoping that maybe he'd dropped the course, but I already checked my official roster, and it looks as if he is still signed up. One can hope...

Even without Sweatpants Man, however, we must forge ahead, so, on Monday, I taught Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart," which is always a hit with the undergraduates. I've got a live one in the back that always acts like my class is more fun than the circus. When I asked someone to read, he pumped his fist in the air, and said, "Yeah! I love Poe! I'll do it!" And did he ever...

It is difficult to gets students to read aloud, much less getting them to read loudly and clearly enough to be heard by their peers. Circus boy begins to read the opening lines of Poe, but he does it with a Masterpiece Theatre voice that cracks me up. Imagine: "True!--nervous--very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad?" The words trilled off of his tongue and his nose, instinctively, shot into the air. We couldn't help but applaud his efforts.

Not to be upstaged by this mere amateur, my two theater majors on the front row fought to read the next lines, and so began the battle of words. Granted, one of these latter boys has been popping into my office for frequent "chats," so I'm going to have to nip that in the bud. It isn't the first boy crush--or girl crush, for that matter--that I've come across in my teaching career. I feel as if crushes are almost a hazard of the job, since anyone would start to like something at which they are forced to stare for an hour and a half a few days a week. Still, I felt as if his reading became more of a fight for his honor, the knight proving his strength to the girl, and he looked up wistfully for my approval. It was like the British version of a bar fight, though Poe is American, and, one would assume, so is his narrator, but whatever gets their rocks off...

Is It Really So Bad as All of That?

There is a group of mid-50s to mid-60s women who are sitting in the Starbucks nearly every morning I come here. They talk about restaurants they've visited, books they've read, and, without fail, they discuss who they know that is newly widowed.

I'm sitting here now, and the group is directly in my line of vision. A woman, who appears only about 7 years or so older than my mother, just walked in. The queen bee of the ladies coffee group noticed her and said, "Jane, how in the world have you been?" Jane replied, "I lost my favorite vest, and I lost my husband. I guess I'm losing myself, really."

This overwhelming fatigue hit my body. (Please don't let me ever feel that way.) I'm intrigued by the seeming preference for the vest.

I just paused. Jane leaned in to inquire about my tiny laptop. This happens often. She remarked, "We girls have small hands, so those keys would be about right nice for us, huh?" Without thinking, I smiled and made a comment about men's hands. Now I feel really shitty.

Shoulder Pads on a Sunday

The Bunny has been working on restoring his 69' Dart for the past few Sundays, so I took this morning to really buckle down on my dissertation work. There is nothing like being productive to pull one back from slacker depression, and even though I had a bit too much to drink at the tavern last night with my valentines--the Bunny, Winnie, Will, Galen, Tracy, Lisa, Brian, and Louis--I still managed to get my ass in gear, as my Daddy always said.

Now, however, I'm celebrating. I recorded one of my all-time favorite films in the 80s women's empowerment genre: Working Girl. Melanie Griffith's transformation from uncouth sexpot secretary to a sexy corporate ace in a power suit keeps me mesmerized from start to finish. After all, it is the small pleasures in life, right?

Anyone remember the sexual harassment commercial that came on TV around the early 90s? It's the one where the boss starts flirting with his secretary, and she begins to grow smaller and smaller under his derogatory comments. I like to watch movies like 9 to 5, Baby Boom, and Working Girl--movies that pre-date this PSA and were made before sexual harassment was kind of like a captain obvious issue--and laugh about the ridiculous antics with which white collar males got away. I think Working Girl is a particularly insightful film because it depicts one woman's struggle to not only prove herself in phallus-swinging boardrooms, but she is also faced with conflict from other corporate women who should be her allies, but instead judge her on her appearance and less-than-stellar socioeconomic class and educational background.

Laugh if you must, but I'm pretty sure there is some valid social commentary there. I'd be interested to discuss other films in this genre. Please post if you know any.

Happy Valentine's Day

As promised, here are the pictures of our new master bedroom. We painted over the chocolate brown (Java-Sherwin Williams) with an insane blue (Fountain-Sherwin Williams), bought new, smaller, nightstands for $25 at Marshall's, found sexy lampshades at Target to match my acrylic lamps, one of which I already had, moved my vintage blue typewriter with part of my vintage Valentine postcard collection to the dresser, painted the old white lamp pinky red and covered the shade in my Nanny's old brooches, and found the quilt of my dreams at Anthropologie.com (The Alessandra Set). Here are the results:

The Mommy Prof

I have a student in my afternoon class who has been a delight from day one. He is pensive, respectful, interested, and kind. Up until Monday, he spoke with an Irish accent. It was then that I learned that, as part of his "method acting" for his theater degree, he keeps the accent continually. He even had a story about growing up in Ireland, but he moved as a child to Memphis and began home schooling by his single mother, thus explaining his ability to keep an Irish accent despite extenuating Southern dialect forces..

Honestly, nothing shocks me anymore. Sweatpants man called me a liar in class today when I swore that I had been in my office during my regular office hours, though I never received his alleged phone call. A student emailed me yesterday to tell me he thinks he might have meningitis, so "don't you go drinkin' after me, m'kay?" WTF? Sometimes I forget that I am teaching, technically, adults. Just ask the Bunny. These little bits are always blowing up my email with ridiculous questions.

Still, I guess it is a good thing that I have such a strong maternal drive, or I'd never have made it this long with my little man-children, though I doubt I'll be patting their fever-drawn heads with cool hands anytime soon.

Why Do I Get the Feeling Big Brother is Watching Me as I Type this Blog?

I just sheepishly walked to the administration building on campus and had my rogue files removed from the laptop that I don't even use anymore. I felt like an undergraduate again--nervous, unsure, and awkward--but the boy, he looked like a child, who helped fix my problem kept calling me "Mam," and I had a nice chat with the 50-something woman from the Nursing Department who was there with a disc problem. She showed me a picture of her new granddaughter, and we traded baking stories. I think I was born 40.

Every year of teaching makes me more and more like Matthew McConaughey's character in Dazed and Confused: "I get older, they stay the same age." Though, just a disclaimer here, I don't ogle my students.

I then went to the "principal's office" and handed them my signed form from the IT boy to prove that said files had been removed. We had a little laugh about the whole ridiculous situation, and then they asked me to speak on a panel for professional something or other, etc.

Now, maybe it is just me, but I was put in that weird place where I am both getting a slap on the hand and a pat on the ass. I guess it has just been one of those days.

I was just in the kitchen using up some ripe bananas and buttermilk and trying out the delicious Chinese cassia cinnamon that Lisa brought back from Wisconsin for me with this healthy muffin recipe when Gregg Allman's :"I'm No Angel" came on the local classic rock station. (Okay, you got me. Sometimes I listen to my father's music when I'm in the kitchen.) Anyways, the whole effect was ridiculous, and it made me feel slightly trashy and dirty, as if I were listening to my parents on the fateful night they conceived me on the hood of a Monte Carlo. (I'm just saying... That's the legend, baby.)

It's the same feeling I get when that "Werewolves of London" song comes on or if I hear Bob Seger's "Night Moves." The Allman song reminded me of the clever SNL skit where Amy Poehler is pregnant in a raunchy country and western bar, and "I'm No Angel," obviously, is playing. Alas, the damn internet has failed me in this endeavor, as music laws do not permit the online posting of the clip.

It's not a question, really, so much as it is a comment disguised as a complaint

Mr. Sweatpants was back in full force today in my afternoon class. I taught Boyle's "Greasy Lake," which is sort of an extended metaphor for post-war zombie-making, etc., and the innate violent drives one finds when they place themselves in nature. Because of the sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll, students respond well. Still, old Mr. Sweatpants felt the need to make these weird comment/question remarks that somehow break my momentum every time. I can see his much younger classmates rolling their eyes and slumping down in their seats, so as to settle in for more weary commentary that might as well be spoken in Arabic for all its meaning to them.

I'm staying afloat by smiling--smiling a lot, that is--and finding a way to ignore him when his hand shoots up from the back corner for the fifth time in a 30 minute segment. He has been staying behind at the end of class and attempting to catch me to "discuss things," but I rush like a little spider monkey to the door and down the spiral staircase to the safety of my dungeon office where blogger, dear friend, awaits my rant.

P.S. The answer to one of the 90s Trivial Pursuit questions was "The Riot Grrl Movement." Anyone else remember?

Made-Up Dreams

One of my favorite 90s bands--and favorite all-time bands--is Built to Spill. Even the new music from this midwestern band just keeps overflowing with genius. I already had in mind to share last night's insane dream in which my hairdresser, despite my pleas, gave me a shock of blonde hair diagonally across my bangs because, as she put it, "this is what the kids are asking for these days."

As I was pulling into my illegal parking spot on campus today, shot out from my iPod came the BTS lyrics, "no one wants to hear / what you dreamt about unless you dreamt about them / don't let that stop you / tell them anyway / and you can make it up as you go."

So, okay. Last night I had a dream...but somehow I can't fathom how a blonde streak dyed in my hair against my will could possibly have greater significance for my existence.

No More Mrs. Grouchy Pants

To temper all of the grouchy Bette-at-work-blogs I've posted lately,I wanted to share my perfect weekend. I spent all day Friday hosting our last job candidate on campus, and at the end of it all, I drove home under a slowly sinking sun with my windows cracked to let the warm air brush my work-weary neck. I sang unabashedly to my ipod shuffle--which was being good to me that night--and slipped my shoes off in the privacy of my vehicle. It's a delicious feeling to freely curl rounded toes previously stuffed into a triangular space.

When I got home, my brand new quilt set from Anthropologie was sitting on the front porch. The Bunny and I decided to redecorate our bedroom as a Valentine's Day present to one another, so I'll post the pictures when we finish next weekend. I've already set up the bedding and put in our new lamps, and it is insanely lovely.

After a long day at the tattoo shop finishing his sleeve, the Bunny came home with his new Darwin tattoo, though I didn't actually get to see the unveiling until several hours later. He kept it covered in plastic, which drove me mad, but it was definitely worth the wait:

The quote at the bottom of his wrist is from Darwin. It says, "If the misery of the poor be caused, not by the laws of nature, but by our institutions, great is our sin." The back of his arm is a dark cityscape emerging from Darwin's beard. I think it is pretty damn snazzy, but like all of the Bunny's tattoos, it is already a part of him, and I realize that I'll be waking up to Darwin's face for many moons to come.

We had delicious Mexican food washed down with Coronas, and I'm going to have to go out on a limb here and say that this is the best food/beverage combo for a tired body and a hungry tummy. My beer was consumed on the sly since I forgot my ID and had to sip the Bunny's Corona everytime our waiter left the room. It reminded me of sneaking margaritas at O'Charley's in the 90s.

Afterwards, we went to Katie and Brandon's for a rousing game of Taboo: Part II. We had already ripped through the blue side of the cards, so Friday night we conquered the purple side. It's fast becoming a ritual, as we are happy to find others as enthusiastic about this game as us. Katie made certain that we weren't committing Taboo adultery and playing around on them. I cuddled with their cute baby beagle, Rufus, and later got way too hyped up about the game, but I guess that's part of my ridiculous intensity.

Saturday night we had Brian and Lisa over for the best dinner ever. No, seriously, it was the best dinner ever. I made Ina Garten's
Salad with Warm Goat Cheese and a fresh homemade pesto to top the Bunny's made from scratch sundried tomato, ricotta, and smoked gouda ravioli. We've been itching to break out our pasta maker, and this was the perfect opportunity. There is nothing more satisfying than dining with other food fanatics, and Lisa and Brian didn't disappoint. Brian brought two delicious bottles of red wine that he had been saving for quite some time, and Lisa made the tastiest carrot cake I've ever put in my mouth. Oh, and she also taught me how to use the timed photo function on my camera:

After a rousing game of trivial pursuit 90s edition, good conversation, and three emptied bottles of wine later, the Bunny and I settled in for some informercial watching, but we were quickly lulled to bed. Something about the beauty of their movements--everything seems so easy and fluid in informercials--always gives me abundant pleasure. I slept like a baby.

Why I'm Wearing My Grumpy Face

I have an older male student in one of my classes. He generally wears sweatpants to accompany his bald top/rat tail coif. He not only asks questions that seemingly come out of left field, but he is inclined on a daily basis to make some sort of statement that barely resembles English. Once he neglected to read the assigned story because he "thought it sounded like something for girls."

Today I taught a story that depicts two young disenfranchised females living in India. One becomes pregnant and seeks an abortion as an alternative to certain death by her family--the sad fate of one of her acquaintances. My sweatpants student came to me after class and admitted that he had a hard time reading the text once he saw the word "abortion," which, to him, is like a "weapon." (The word mind you--not the medical procedure.) Therefore, he would likely not be completing the written response because he didn't think that I should teach a story that "includes such a vulgar term."

The point of class today was not to argue for or against abortion. In fact, that is one can of worms I never even touch. Instead, we were studying eurocentric models of literature against negative/positive images from an eastern perspective.

I don't know what is more repulsive: how damn weak a student must be if they can't even engage with material that does not align with their personal beliefs or the fact that a white male living in America feels so vulnerable to the word abortion that he cannot even read about the poor girl in India's whose plight is to suffer the whole ordeal in the first place.

Somebody Had a Case of the Mondays

I am utterly and completely shameless. After having a horrible--and I can't emphasize the word enough--day, I still had to teach my classes. I've worked with the public my whole life, but there is nothing worse than plastering on a fake smile and attempting to act intelligent in front of a room of unwilling participants when you feel like a big pile of poo. It certainly didn't help that when I walked into my hot, loud, corner classroom, my students were melting over their chairs like salt water taffy in the Sahara. In fact, their faces decried the intelligence/interest of something comprised almost wholly of corn syrup and sugar. I was destined for lecture failure.

As I dived into Flannery O'Connor's "Revelation," it struck me as funny that the narration of the snotty nosed child "slumped" in the doctor's waiting room was all too similar to the landscape in front of me. I just couldn't take their complacency--no peignoirs involved--anymore. I made them stand up, move about, and watch me perform a vaudevillian dance with my anthology in one hand like a server's drink tray. It seemed to do the trick.

My night class is a different ballgame all together. There are two older women in that class who sit and sneer at me for an hour and a half. One of these women came to me on the first night and admitted that it was her third attempt at this class, so I'm certain she's been soured to the whole literary heritage experience before ever meeting me. Still, I even let her use my cell phone on night one to call her husband to come pick her up, but something about the way I look/talk/act makes her mouth draw into this hideous pucker. Ditto to the woman on her left. Honestly, if you've ever taught anything to anyone, you know how incredibly off-putting it can be to have someone scowl at you during a lecture. The other lady--not the repeat-offender--won't even answer when I call her name for roll/return papers/reading/etc. She acts as if she can't hear me, though she is staring at my face already with her immutable disdain.

I spent 7am-9pm in a pencil skirt, hose, and heels. When I finally made it home--after a day of meetings, presentations, lectures, phone calls, heated emails, and a 45 minute campus tour with a job candidate, my body felt like that of an elderly woman. I half crumpled in my once crisp attire and limped from my vehicle, across our back patio, into the house where my Bunny was putting away the laundry. Thank god we don't live in the 50s.

I feel like I deserve every minute that I spend in my houseshorts today sinking into this couch.

The Reason I Blog in the First Place

I went to my tiny hometown Saturday to meet my friend Tracy for lunch. She took me to the coffee shop/vintage store downtown, and we had a nice chat. Tracy left me alone for a second to go to the restroom, during which I was privy to the following conversation:

Trashy woman to a man playing shitty cover songs on acoustic guitar: "You from around here?"
Guitar Man: "No, I'm from Humboldt. You?"
Woman: "Yeah. I live here. You look like my husband's age. Do you know _______?"
Guitar Man: "Sounds familiar but I can't say I do."
Woman: "Well, he was the guy that nearly cut his own head off with a chainsaw. Surely you remember that."
Guitar Man: "Sounds familiar but I can't say I do."

Tracy emerged from the bathroom having missed this entire conversational interlude.