My husband has been in a committed "bromance" since before society had need for such a term. Simply, the Bunny has been "committed," platonically, to another man for over a decade, which is even longer than he and I have been committed to one another.
Every night, the Bunny and his BFF speak on the phone for about 30 minutes. When my husband says, "I'm going outside to smoke," this is code for, "I'm going outside to smoke and call my boyfriend."
I guess it makes sense that he is so enamored with this individual, who'll remain nameless for reasons that will be clear in a moment, because the Bunny's BFF is my male counterpart. BFF and I discover, regularly, that we both like the same bands, films, etc.; we are the dominant ones in our respective relationships with the Bunny; and we both have a turn towards arrogance when it comes to our craft: for me, literature/writing, and for him, music.
The Bunny's BFF, however, though technically a genius, generally and musically, has some issues with the outside world. I guess one could say he is an agoraphobe, though I hesitate to say anything negative about the man my husband has loved for so many years. Due to this social irregularity, many people have never met the Bunny's BFF. Though my husband and his friend are musical soul mates--the Bunny describes it like having sex with someone who just gets your sweet spots--they can never make a real go at it for his BFF's agoraphobia. They meet and play music for hours. They've recorded albums of music together, been on tour in their earlier years pre-agoraphobia, and still the Bunny describes their playing as a glorious dance where BFF almost knows what the Bunny will play before he even taps a note.
I'm like that with my husband, too. Yesterday, after placing an ad on Craigslist in search of musicians who "didn't count radio rock like Stain'd and Nickelback" as their influences, the Bunny had a guy come from Memphis to play some music with him. After being gone all day, I could read the disappointment on my husband's face as he came down the stairs and introduced the traveler to me. Listening in, I could hear the tritisms of which my husband is wary, and I knew it just wasn't working.
Though he didn't want to "cheat" on his BFF, the Bunny has been aching to find musicians in our pitiful, uncultured town, and save for the few Tool imitators or country music fanatics, the well is dry, my dears.
Last night, over a cigarette and under a darkening sky, the disappointed Bunny called his man, not to comment on his melodic affair, but merely to take solace in the fact that, despite his wandering, his bromance will endure.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
Too Much Jazz on a Friday Afternoon
This Starbucks is a microcosm of the post-industrialized South. Old Southern farmers in Tractor Supply Company clothes and Wranglers hitched to their sternums pop in for a cup before heading to the CO-OP for feed. Their bodies look out of place amidst this semi-hipster vibe, though there are none of that breed--hipsters, I mean--in my sheltered, Southern town.
Standing in line behind these Southern fathers are genteel lawyers in black suits, Baptist women with dangly earring/necklace sets and flashy "boutique" tops, and young Jesus freaks seeking refuge from more untoward establishments.
I'm not really sure where I fit into the grand scheme of all of these people. My grandfather, were he still alive, would likely have a conversation with the man in Wranglers and abhor the clan of suits. He'd speak frankly about his distrust of foreign auto makers, but this would come in stops and pauses due to his wheezing from years as the head of the auto body department at my hometown high school and, of course, from sucking down one too many cigarettes.
I do not see my peepaw in this place of faux Europeanisms, though I guess I'm not one to talk. I've rarely had a conversation on purpose with anyone here.
Standing in line behind these Southern fathers are genteel lawyers in black suits, Baptist women with dangly earring/necklace sets and flashy "boutique" tops, and young Jesus freaks seeking refuge from more untoward establishments.
I'm not really sure where I fit into the grand scheme of all of these people. My grandfather, were he still alive, would likely have a conversation with the man in Wranglers and abhor the clan of suits. He'd speak frankly about his distrust of foreign auto makers, but this would come in stops and pauses due to his wheezing from years as the head of the auto body department at my hometown high school and, of course, from sucking down one too many cigarettes.
I do not see my peepaw in this place of faux Europeanisms, though I guess I'm not one to talk. I've rarely had a conversation on purpose with anyone here.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
You Wicked, Wicked Girl
Sometimes, I just can't get my mind out of the gutter. Ever since I got off of oral contraceptives/devil pills last Spring, I have moments each month where a constant porno flick is running through my head. I might see one attractive/intriguing person running to catch the bus, and it is all over. Is this what it's like to be a man?
I hate to make stereotypical statements, but I once heard an episode of This American Life where the theme was "Testosterone." One woman was taking testosterone in order to become a man. She/He said, after doing testosterone treatments for a month or so, that they began to watch people on the subway and would have the most erotic and depraved thoughts for no reason in the middle of the day. They would pass someone attractive on the street, and despite their best effort, they would have to turn around and check them out.
I feel like being hormonally-altered by birth control pills for the last decade has taken a piece of me away. I even feel sexier without the drugs in my body. It's really quite fun to be so naughty minded, and, yet, still so productive.
I guess the mind is the one place where I can stretch out my limbs a bit and walk around without any clothes. God forbid I ever find religion and have to start listening to what the good book tells me about impure thoughts...
I hate to make stereotypical statements, but I once heard an episode of This American Life where the theme was "Testosterone." One woman was taking testosterone in order to become a man. She/He said, after doing testosterone treatments for a month or so, that they began to watch people on the subway and would have the most erotic and depraved thoughts for no reason in the middle of the day. They would pass someone attractive on the street, and despite their best effort, they would have to turn around and check them out.
I feel like being hormonally-altered by birth control pills for the last decade has taken a piece of me away. I even feel sexier without the drugs in my body. It's really quite fun to be so naughty minded, and, yet, still so productive.
I guess the mind is the one place where I can stretch out my limbs a bit and walk around without any clothes. God forbid I ever find religion and have to start listening to what the good book tells me about impure thoughts...
The Business of Being Inappropriate and Other Stories from the Trenches
Monday morning, my dear officemate returned practically in tears from teaching her morning class. She said "some jerk-off" stomped up to her desk in the middle of class and said, "Is there even any reason for me to be here?" He then said he needed to meet with her pronto and stalked out. She was shaken and stunned by his obvious rage, so she cut class short and came back to the office to grab a cigarette. In her absence, a young guy that closely resembled a jerk-off--arrogant face under shaggy head, silky basketball shorts, t-shirt, and Nike flip-flops in the middle of the school day--knocked on the door and invited himself into our office to wait for my mate's return.
There are several issues here:
1. College students often act as if they are being forced to come to your class. It is maybe the worst thing about teaching immature individuals who are "technically adults," but who don't yet know how to act. This guy acted as if he needed his instructor's permission to leave, which he does not. He acted as if she could care less whether or not he is there. She does not. Because many of them still live at home where their parents tell them daily how fabulous they are, these students often expect that we'll share the same sentiment. We do not.
2. Jerk-off just got done insulting my office mate, and now he wants to come ask her for a favor.
3. He forced his way into my personal space to "wait for her" without me inviting him inside. Since our office is so tiny, we were in close proximity for an incomfortable amount of minutes, during which I attempted to ignore him, and he breathed through his mouth.
As I'm sitting there "checking email" and trying not to listen in on OM and JO's conversation, he starts telling her how he got kicked out of his old college, came to the U of M, which he hates, and is now trying to get into another local school. If he fails her class, he'll not be able to attend another college, and it will "ruin his life." Dear office mate, to make a long story short, shuts him down. She says he has missed so many days and assignments that there is nothing she can do.
Jerk-off now begins to cry. He speaks pitifully: "Isn't....there....anything....you can do?" (wails dramatically) "I'll do DOUBLE....work...just...DON'T...FAIL ME!"
Anybody remember in the film The Color Purple where Sofia and Squeak fight over Harpo? Chaos erupts, and the man playing the piano at the juke joint slams the lid down and says, "Okay..time to go..." That was pretty much me when jerk-off started crying. I exited with a quickness and never looked back.
In my evening class, I returned my students' papers. One student--a young, African American guy, who wears the baggiest clothes and, sometimes, bandannas on his head--always leans against the wall in a half-dazed state. He rarely speaks, though the twinkle in his eye underscores my observation that he always reeks of pot. In his Tupac-esque facade, and nonchalant leaning, I imagine "Dear Mama" running through his head, as he sometimes taps his foot lightly against the chair of the hoodlum in front of him, who, incidentally, happens to wear a GPS ankle bracelet according to the rules of his probation.
Seriously, do you think I could make this shit up?
When I return papers, the heady, woody smell around Tupac's desk is unmistakable, and rather than get angry, it always makes me laugh out loud. (Hell, they think I'm crazy anyways, so why not go ahead and reinforce their beliefs.) I look at him during my lecture, and he is smiling pleasantly, if detachedly, up towards my desk, and it makes me chuckle. How much easier a time in undergraduate school would I have had had I been high during every lecture... I'm sure Othello is a hell of a good time when your in smokesville, though that desire for Cheeto's probably gets a little hard to contain from time to time.
His stereotypical, disinterested thug appearance doesn't fool me. He is a smart fellow, and I noted as such on his paper, which was one of the better from the whole lot. Still, I couldn't help myself when it came time to give him some feedback on his work. I said, and I quote, "D, I'm impressed by your work. Though you always come to class smelling like a big fat doob, I'm glad you took this assignment seriously. Well done!"
Immediately after receiving these comments, he walked to the front of the room, grinning from ear to ear and gave me a look of unadulterated veneration. No, he did not mean to deny it, but something in his face told me he wouldn't forget this moment for the longest time. We sort of "shook on it" and went about our business of being student and teacher once again.
For the first time ever, he engaged in the conversation in class last night. Seriously, it stunned me. He took charge of his group's discussion about Iago's deception, and he commented on Cassio's equal deception in regards to Bianca, his mistress. I nearly pissed myself. Appropriately or not, I certainly won his respect.
There are several issues here:
1. College students often act as if they are being forced to come to your class. It is maybe the worst thing about teaching immature individuals who are "technically adults," but who don't yet know how to act. This guy acted as if he needed his instructor's permission to leave, which he does not. He acted as if she could care less whether or not he is there. She does not. Because many of them still live at home where their parents tell them daily how fabulous they are, these students often expect that we'll share the same sentiment. We do not.
2. Jerk-off just got done insulting my office mate, and now he wants to come ask her for a favor.
3. He forced his way into my personal space to "wait for her" without me inviting him inside. Since our office is so tiny, we were in close proximity for an incomfortable amount of minutes, during which I attempted to ignore him, and he breathed through his mouth.
As I'm sitting there "checking email" and trying not to listen in on OM and JO's conversation, he starts telling her how he got kicked out of his old college, came to the U of M, which he hates, and is now trying to get into another local school. If he fails her class, he'll not be able to attend another college, and it will "ruin his life." Dear office mate, to make a long story short, shuts him down. She says he has missed so many days and assignments that there is nothing she can do.
Jerk-off now begins to cry. He speaks pitifully: "Isn't....there....anything....you can do?" (wails dramatically) "I'll do DOUBLE....work...just...DON'T...FAIL ME!"
Anybody remember in the film The Color Purple where Sofia and Squeak fight over Harpo? Chaos erupts, and the man playing the piano at the juke joint slams the lid down and says, "Okay..time to go..." That was pretty much me when jerk-off started crying. I exited with a quickness and never looked back.
In my evening class, I returned my students' papers. One student--a young, African American guy, who wears the baggiest clothes and, sometimes, bandannas on his head--always leans against the wall in a half-dazed state. He rarely speaks, though the twinkle in his eye underscores my observation that he always reeks of pot. In his Tupac-esque facade, and nonchalant leaning, I imagine "Dear Mama" running through his head, as he sometimes taps his foot lightly against the chair of the hoodlum in front of him, who, incidentally, happens to wear a GPS ankle bracelet according to the rules of his probation.
Seriously, do you think I could make this shit up?
When I return papers, the heady, woody smell around Tupac's desk is unmistakable, and rather than get angry, it always makes me laugh out loud. (Hell, they think I'm crazy anyways, so why not go ahead and reinforce their beliefs.) I look at him during my lecture, and he is smiling pleasantly, if detachedly, up towards my desk, and it makes me chuckle. How much easier a time in undergraduate school would I have had had I been high during every lecture... I'm sure Othello is a hell of a good time when your in smokesville, though that desire for Cheeto's probably gets a little hard to contain from time to time.
His stereotypical, disinterested thug appearance doesn't fool me. He is a smart fellow, and I noted as such on his paper, which was one of the better from the whole lot. Still, I couldn't help myself when it came time to give him some feedback on his work. I said, and I quote, "D, I'm impressed by your work. Though you always come to class smelling like a big fat doob, I'm glad you took this assignment seriously. Well done!"
Immediately after receiving these comments, he walked to the front of the room, grinning from ear to ear and gave me a look of unadulterated veneration. No, he did not mean to deny it, but something in his face told me he wouldn't forget this moment for the longest time. We sort of "shook on it" and went about our business of being student and teacher once again.
For the first time ever, he engaged in the conversation in class last night. Seriously, it stunned me. He took charge of his group's discussion about Iago's deception, and he commented on Cassio's equal deception in regards to Bianca, his mistress. I nearly pissed myself. Appropriately or not, I certainly won his respect.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Your Local News Source
I've grown up watching local cable news channel WBBJ my entire life. My affinity for the average looking people sitting behind a prop desk on a cheap set started when my father and I used to watch together just to make jokes about the amateurish broadcast. Now that the Bunny and I take in WBBJ News on a regular basis, I'm less shocked when someone has a Freudian slip and says, "dick" instead of "clip." I only chuckle a little when one of the female newscasters loses a heavy, clip-on earring, and it tumbles and clatters to the floor below while her face remains deadpan. I am still utterly and hopelessly aware of the fact that the first seven stories always detail some crime that was "likely committed by a 5'8" black male in a sweatshirt," and anytime there is another devastating tornado that levels one half of my entire town, the most toothless, stereotypical Southern bastard is always the first one interviewed about the damage: "Damn near took my head off, but the winds just took my tiller instead." I guess the South gets reproduced in Hollywood into mythical, redneck creatures for a reason.
Still, there is always a night where something happens on WBBJ, and even I'm shocked by the producers' inability to see the comedy in their product. Observe the following screen shot of a missing woman, who is reportedly being held "in a room somewhere in Lexington."
Yes, it says "earing" instead of "wearing." You're welcome.
Still, there is always a night where something happens on WBBJ, and even I'm shocked by the producers' inability to see the comedy in their product. Observe the following screen shot of a missing woman, who is reportedly being held "in a room somewhere in Lexington."
Yes, it says "earing" instead of "wearing." You're welcome.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Fooled Around and Fell in Love
Our pre-Spring sunshine is making me restless. I want to drive forever with my windows down. Get me out of this windowless office.
I've been reflecting on past students. Many of them are in various places around this planet due to, at least in some small part, my assistance with their letters of recommendation. There is a blonde girl-next-door type that I taught two semesters ago currently studying in Great Britain. The boy who watched her from across the room all semester is studying, at this very moment, in the Czech Republic. He sent me the blog he is keeping about his travels, and I was delighted to see how his writing has improved.
The "Irish" boy--remember him?--stopped by again on Monday to chat about the play I gave him at the beginning of the semester. (It was Edward Albee's The Zoo Story.) His enthusiasm for this mere extracurricular reading made me feel like I could handle a room full of 30 angry faces for the rest of my career.
The middle-aged mother of two, who has slowly but surely been dropping weight with Jenny, dropped the class, but not before sending me a long email detailing her own fears of "looking stupid" in front of her young peers. I wanted to tell her to read Wally Lamb's She's Come Undone. When I hated myself in 2002, and I couldn't stop stressing over everything in the world, I sat on the sunny back porch of my treehouse apartment and devoured this novel.
I feel like a mother to all of these babies--some of them twenty years my senior--and I watch them grow up and out of my classroom. It is a little bittersweet. I hope I never stop feeling so emotionally invested in my pupils.
The nice Indian woman across the way in the Speech Pathology department just greeted one of her patients--a young boy in a power chair with a slow, shaky voice. She said, "Whoa. Stop now! Here comes Keanu Reeves everybody!" I can only guess that she feels the same reluctant compassion for her charges as I do.
I've been reflecting on past students. Many of them are in various places around this planet due to, at least in some small part, my assistance with their letters of recommendation. There is a blonde girl-next-door type that I taught two semesters ago currently studying in Great Britain. The boy who watched her from across the room all semester is studying, at this very moment, in the Czech Republic. He sent me the blog he is keeping about his travels, and I was delighted to see how his writing has improved.
The "Irish" boy--remember him?--stopped by again on Monday to chat about the play I gave him at the beginning of the semester. (It was Edward Albee's The Zoo Story.) His enthusiasm for this mere extracurricular reading made me feel like I could handle a room full of 30 angry faces for the rest of my career.
The middle-aged mother of two, who has slowly but surely been dropping weight with Jenny, dropped the class, but not before sending me a long email detailing her own fears of "looking stupid" in front of her young peers. I wanted to tell her to read Wally Lamb's She's Come Undone. When I hated myself in 2002, and I couldn't stop stressing over everything in the world, I sat on the sunny back porch of my treehouse apartment and devoured this novel.
I feel like a mother to all of these babies--some of them twenty years my senior--and I watch them grow up and out of my classroom. It is a little bittersweet. I hope I never stop feeling so emotionally invested in my pupils.
The nice Indian woman across the way in the Speech Pathology department just greeted one of her patients--a young boy in a power chair with a slow, shaky voice. She said, "Whoa. Stop now! Here comes Keanu Reeves everybody!" I can only guess that she feels the same reluctant compassion for her charges as I do.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Wouldn't You Like to Know
One need not have sympathy for my long commute to Memphis and back. I quite enjoy the drive. There are certainly evenings when my students have been less than enthused to study ancient Greek theater, and my heels were not the appropriate choice for a ten hour day, so the last thing I want to do is drive the long road home.
Due to DST, I entered my 5:30 classroom, which was now basked in early evening sunlight, and the world just seemed right. I drove home to a setting sun with the windows rolled down and an iPod on suffle that was being very, very good to me.
In anticipation of my return to commuting after a long Spring Break, I went to itunes and checked out the Top 20 list under audiobooks. Somewhere in the teens was a collection of erotica short stories, and, of course, I downloaded them.
There is something really hilarious about erotica. I certainly love sexuality from the female perspective, and the naughty British female that narrated the tales didn't disappoint, but when it becomes necessary to describe the outfits of every person said narrator intends to seduce, I wonder if the writer consciously added these fashion details for her female audience?
When Jane and Henry take a flight from London to vacation in Florida--haha, it is a stereotype for a reason--they find themselves talking nonchalantly on the resort about which people in the surrounding bar they might each be interested in screwing. Jane, to her surprise, finds that she is only attracted to one person--a young woman across the room. She says, "I sawr 'er there with her big bosoms in a pink top with delicate coral trim."
I won't ruin the rest for you, but it gets pretty steamy between Jane and her Southern lover, Belle. Trust me, it isn't all wardrobe rehashing.
So, yes, you've discovered my secret. I listen to erotica on the iPod. Now you all owe me your secrets.
Due to DST, I entered my 5:30 classroom, which was now basked in early evening sunlight, and the world just seemed right. I drove home to a setting sun with the windows rolled down and an iPod on suffle that was being very, very good to me.
In anticipation of my return to commuting after a long Spring Break, I went to itunes and checked out the Top 20 list under audiobooks. Somewhere in the teens was a collection of erotica short stories, and, of course, I downloaded them.
There is something really hilarious about erotica. I certainly love sexuality from the female perspective, and the naughty British female that narrated the tales didn't disappoint, but when it becomes necessary to describe the outfits of every person said narrator intends to seduce, I wonder if the writer consciously added these fashion details for her female audience?
When Jane and Henry take a flight from London to vacation in Florida--haha, it is a stereotype for a reason--they find themselves talking nonchalantly on the resort about which people in the surrounding bar they might each be interested in screwing. Jane, to her surprise, finds that she is only attracted to one person--a young woman across the room. She says, "I sawr 'er there with her big bosoms in a pink top with delicate coral trim."
I won't ruin the rest for you, but it gets pretty steamy between Jane and her Southern lover, Belle. Trust me, it isn't all wardrobe rehashing.
So, yes, you've discovered my secret. I listen to erotica on the iPod. Now you all owe me your secrets.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Circa 1998
I'm at Starbucks grading papers, which means that I'm taking a million breaks and pretending not to stare at all of the fascinating characters around me. I'm in the corner facing out towards everyone, and this affords me the screen privacy I need to write such a blog. I'm certain I look busy and important, though I'm about as useful right now as a privileged white boy attempting to "find himself" in art school. Ha.. That was highly insulting.
To my left are two girls that remind me of me during my high school years. They have their faces shoved in a book, and they are wearing more black than good taste dictates in genteel company. They just whispered and giggled over the sexy bad boy type that just sauntered up to the counter to buy a coffee and left before he seemed real. I watched them watching him, and I felt like someone just flipped on Siamese Dream on vinyl. I should be cruising the strip in a purple 95' Plymouth Neon right about now.
To my right, in one of the comfy chairs, is a person whose gender I cannot decode. This being appears around 48 or so and is dressed in motorcycle gear. Messy, longish red-purple hair wildly flairs around this human's face. There is a stuffed marsupial wearing a head scarf sitting in the person's lap. The individual took advantage of one of Starbucks new "value menu" items, which is about the most hard and fast cultural evidence for our shit existence if any.
The melon man is carving a cantaloupe at the handicap table, which is my favorite place to sprawl when Jen and I are here together. Sitting with him is the local Rod Stewart look-a-like. I see him often at North Park when the weather warms. There, he wears ankle-tight maroon wind pants and a headband. I like his style, but his politics--overheard here on several occasions--make me wish he could've remained this mythical, semi-celebrity creature.
To my left are two girls that remind me of me during my high school years. They have their faces shoved in a book, and they are wearing more black than good taste dictates in genteel company. They just whispered and giggled over the sexy bad boy type that just sauntered up to the counter to buy a coffee and left before he seemed real. I watched them watching him, and I felt like someone just flipped on Siamese Dream on vinyl. I should be cruising the strip in a purple 95' Plymouth Neon right about now.
To my right, in one of the comfy chairs, is a person whose gender I cannot decode. This being appears around 48 or so and is dressed in motorcycle gear. Messy, longish red-purple hair wildly flairs around this human's face. There is a stuffed marsupial wearing a head scarf sitting in the person's lap. The individual took advantage of one of Starbucks new "value menu" items, which is about the most hard and fast cultural evidence for our shit existence if any.
The melon man is carving a cantaloupe at the handicap table, which is my favorite place to sprawl when Jen and I are here together. Sitting with him is the local Rod Stewart look-a-like. I see him often at North Park when the weather warms. There, he wears ankle-tight maroon wind pants and a headband. I like his style, but his politics--overheard here on several occasions--make me wish he could've remained this mythical, semi-celebrity creature.
A Typical Southern Conversation on a Thursday Afternoon
During my undergraduate studies, when I worked at a big box home improvement store, I worked with this guy that looked like a taller Andy Dick. Though he had a Master's in Psychology, he could only go as far as head cashier at the store because of his constant mental breakdowns. He did a lot of baking, went insane and took a six month leave of absence after a break-up with his partner/lover, and he seemed to have a penchant for the tanned teenage boys that came in the store to buy lawn mower repair equipment for their summer lawn care jobs.
I ran into Andy Dick yesterday while I was getting groceries at the store out South, as he now works there after being fired from his former retail jobs for "creeping out the customers." He mentioned the recent murder that happened in the small town just south of here. It has been a shock to the community, and, apparently, the woman who was killed was a member of his church. His first words to me, "Hello, darlin.' You're looking happy these days. Ya'll makin' it in your parts? Did you hear about the murder in H-town? She went to my church. I baked them a casserole. Everyone's sayin' it's gang related, but you won't hear it on the news." I'm not sure I ever said anything before another customer came to him for assistance.
As I was walking to the front to check out, he called my name across the aisles and said, "Do you at least remember your cake I baked? I mean, it was a cake I baked for you. You saw it on the cover of one of them country magazines, and I made it just for you."
I did remembered it: "It was a pumpkin cheesecake, right?" He nodded and went back to his area to work.
There was something so hilarious about the whole exchange, yet I can't get the defeated look on his face out of my head. If you could only see this man. He has a plethora of psychological problems and everyone hated him and made fun of him where we worked together. Still, we were pals for awhile there, and I haven't thought about the time he made that cake just for me in a long, long time.
I ran into Andy Dick yesterday while I was getting groceries at the store out South, as he now works there after being fired from his former retail jobs for "creeping out the customers." He mentioned the recent murder that happened in the small town just south of here. It has been a shock to the community, and, apparently, the woman who was killed was a member of his church. His first words to me, "Hello, darlin.' You're looking happy these days. Ya'll makin' it in your parts? Did you hear about the murder in H-town? She went to my church. I baked them a casserole. Everyone's sayin' it's gang related, but you won't hear it on the news." I'm not sure I ever said anything before another customer came to him for assistance.
As I was walking to the front to check out, he called my name across the aisles and said, "Do you at least remember your cake I baked? I mean, it was a cake I baked for you. You saw it on the cover of one of them country magazines, and I made it just for you."
I did remembered it: "It was a pumpkin cheesecake, right?" He nodded and went back to his area to work.
There was something so hilarious about the whole exchange, yet I can't get the defeated look on his face out of my head. If you could only see this man. He has a plethora of psychological problems and everyone hated him and made fun of him where we worked together. Still, we were pals for awhile there, and I haven't thought about the time he made that cake just for me in a long, long time.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
All the Warm People
So I've been told, Katie's arm tastes like lettuce.
The weekend was good to me. If I can spend time with an intelligent and engaging group of women--see above--and, especially, if Winnie decides to wear a wolf howling at the moon shirt--see above--then one can expect good times to be had by all.
My old Southern Daddy has been gearing up for the return of Dancing With the Stars. I though about him last night with a Miller High Life in the can, eyes transfixed on DWTS, and conversations that likely began, "Well, Karina really got the short end of the deal this season..."
We visited my parents on Sunday, and my father's oldest friend, John, was there. I've known this man my entire life. He has always been an alcoholic but a highly functioning one. His wife was an alcoholic too. They named their daughter Brandy.
I remember playing at Brandy's house once when I was a child. I was always very manipulative from day 1 of my existence, or at least that is what my parents maintain. I convinced Brandy that Santa's number was "9-1-1." She kept dialing it and saying, "Norf Pole, pwease." Eventually, the Sheriff called back and spoke to her father, John, who was likely somewhat blitzed at that time of the day but he merely shrugged it all off and told us to have fun. I felt really guilty after that. This was 20 years ago.
When we came home from my parents' house, the Bunny and I had our kick-off-the-warm-weather dinner. I cooked some tofu yumminess, and we sat outside by the pool and took a lot of pictures of each other and everything around us in the changing night. Thank you daylight savings time.
We are hard-pressed when it warms up and the days grow longer to pull our asses inside. We'll sit out by that purple-tinted water under a foggy moon and talk to each other like old buddies at a watering hole. It's maybe my favorite thing about this atypical domestic existence.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Born In Carroll County and Ain't Never Looked Back
There are a few things that make me feel horrible. I hate to see sad-faced people sitting alone in cafes/bars/restaurants. Granted, I sometimes like to be alone in public places, as I'm sure many others do, but there is a certain look about these sad-faced people that makes my heart drop. The lonely, aging cowboy that sings off time honky tonk country karaoke every Wednesday night at the Tavern is just one example.
I also can't bear animal cruelty, unclaimed dog bodies on the side of the road, elderly women walking long distances, and people who are alone during the holidays.
Still, nothing tugs at me more than when someone makes my mother cry. Nevermind that she is a bulldog in a 90 lb. body, I have always felt somewhat protective over my sweet, country mama. She grew up poor white trash, has a middle school education, and has had more hardships than any charity case child I've ever encountered.
After she lost her job of 20 years at the hot factory in my hometown, she was lucky enough to get a grant to go take some business courses. Though she eventually got her GED after marrying my daddy, my mama hadn't been in a classroom setting for decades.
I remember her telling me as a child how much she loved school--how much she hated having to dropout to work so she could eat. She loved classic books like Wuthering Heights and Little Women, which she read to me as a girl in her slow, steady voice at the end of a 12-hour shift.
When this opportunity to return to school came up, she was excited, anxious, and scared shitless about her abilities or perceived inabilities. A million tears she has cried as she's struggled through the last couple of months. What seems second nature to most--how to change the wallpaper on a desktop, etc.--my mama wrenched her way through. After all, her life in the factory has been so all-consuming for many years that she is nearly as far-removed from society as the Morlocks in The Time Machine. Technology and life and everything vibrant, whimisical, lazy-day'd, and poetic has escaped her existence. I want her to feel and know these things at least once. Life isn't work. Work doesn't own us. It shouldn't own us.
So when she calls me crying because her teacher wants them to edit business letters, I shake with rage because the instructor doesn't think to know that the women she is teaching, like my mama, don't even know how to open Microsoft Word. The reason for my mama's tears this time: she couldn't figure out why her lines "had too much space in between them."
I helped her fix her line spacing, but after years of recording my own existence in Microsoft Word, I felt so utterly despondent. How can I type a dissertation, or any small assignment for that matter, while my mama can't even figure out how to change from double to single spaced lines? For several years now, I've taught countless students how to use Word, and it was my mother who needed my help most. I promised to spend Spring Break teaching her all about Word, and grammar, and all the things we, in the daylight, take for granted.
I'm going to put my mama on equal footing, dammit, with all of these people who could never understand a 60-hour work week in a greasy, dank, factory picking parts out of dusty bins for 20 years. For her, powdered milk was once a goddamn luxury. Teaching her the ins and outs of the Office Suite is mere child's play compared to the things I owe my mother.
I also can't bear animal cruelty, unclaimed dog bodies on the side of the road, elderly women walking long distances, and people who are alone during the holidays.
Still, nothing tugs at me more than when someone makes my mother cry. Nevermind that she is a bulldog in a 90 lb. body, I have always felt somewhat protective over my sweet, country mama. She grew up poor white trash, has a middle school education, and has had more hardships than any charity case child I've ever encountered.
After she lost her job of 20 years at the hot factory in my hometown, she was lucky enough to get a grant to go take some business courses. Though she eventually got her GED after marrying my daddy, my mama hadn't been in a classroom setting for decades.
I remember her telling me as a child how much she loved school--how much she hated having to dropout to work so she could eat. She loved classic books like Wuthering Heights and Little Women, which she read to me as a girl in her slow, steady voice at the end of a 12-hour shift.
When this opportunity to return to school came up, she was excited, anxious, and scared shitless about her abilities or perceived inabilities. A million tears she has cried as she's struggled through the last couple of months. What seems second nature to most--how to change the wallpaper on a desktop, etc.--my mama wrenched her way through. After all, her life in the factory has been so all-consuming for many years that she is nearly as far-removed from society as the Morlocks in The Time Machine. Technology and life and everything vibrant, whimisical, lazy-day'd, and poetic has escaped her existence. I want her to feel and know these things at least once. Life isn't work. Work doesn't own us. It shouldn't own us.
So when she calls me crying because her teacher wants them to edit business letters, I shake with rage because the instructor doesn't think to know that the women she is teaching, like my mama, don't even know how to open Microsoft Word. The reason for my mama's tears this time: she couldn't figure out why her lines "had too much space in between them."
I helped her fix her line spacing, but after years of recording my own existence in Microsoft Word, I felt so utterly despondent. How can I type a dissertation, or any small assignment for that matter, while my mama can't even figure out how to change from double to single spaced lines? For several years now, I've taught countless students how to use Word, and it was my mother who needed my help most. I promised to spend Spring Break teaching her all about Word, and grammar, and all the things we, in the daylight, take for granted.
I'm going to put my mama on equal footing, dammit, with all of these people who could never understand a 60-hour work week in a greasy, dank, factory picking parts out of dusty bins for 20 years. For her, powdered milk was once a goddamn luxury. Teaching her the ins and outs of the Office Suite is mere child's play compared to the things I owe my mother.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
If You Roll Like I Roll
I used to have a real issue with impostor syndrome. Everytime I crossed another academic hurdle, I'd tell myself it was luck--that somehow someone didn't dot their i's, and now I've slipped through to the next phase.
At 10:00 am this morning, I had to present my dissertation research to the public. Basically, posters were made to "advertise" my topic, and people were instructed to show up and grill me including, but not limited to, my dissertation committee members. Save for a few scary questions from highly-intelligent people that I thoroughly respect, I think the 1 1/2 hour process was not as terrifying as I had initially anticipated.
Afterwards--during the still moments alone in the hallway while my committee deliberated--I could only breathe in and out with hope that my veil of confidence and my pretend pretension earned me a golden ticket.
Even after the hand shakes, the accolades, and the smiles, I could only keep thinking that there was a catch. Now that I know I've passed this hurdle, and there are many more to come, I can only make a promise to myself: Never again will I let myself believe that luck took me this far. I am not an impostor.
Warren G's "Regulate" just cued up on my iPod. I think I'll bounce to some old school gangsta rap alone in my office. I have to teach in an hour, and I know that I'll be utterly worthless for the rest of the day.
At 10:00 am this morning, I had to present my dissertation research to the public. Basically, posters were made to "advertise" my topic, and people were instructed to show up and grill me including, but not limited to, my dissertation committee members. Save for a few scary questions from highly-intelligent people that I thoroughly respect, I think the 1 1/2 hour process was not as terrifying as I had initially anticipated.
Afterwards--during the still moments alone in the hallway while my committee deliberated--I could only breathe in and out with hope that my veil of confidence and my pretend pretension earned me a golden ticket.
Even after the hand shakes, the accolades, and the smiles, I could only keep thinking that there was a catch. Now that I know I've passed this hurdle, and there are many more to come, I can only make a promise to myself: Never again will I let myself believe that luck took me this far. I am not an impostor.
Warren G's "Regulate" just cued up on my iPod. I think I'll bounce to some old school gangsta rap alone in my office. I have to teach in an hour, and I know that I'll be utterly worthless for the rest of the day.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Good Things
I'm taking a cue from Martha Stewart today and listing some good things I've recently been lucky enough to encounter.
1. Jack Cafferty's essay about his burgeoning crush on Michelle Obama. He cites her practice of pulling D.C. people off the street and inviting them to tour "the people's house," her arms, which show up unabashedly for Congress bare-armed on a February night, and her obvious success as a mother, evidenced by her "poised and polite" children. Hear, hear.
2. This recipe from Cooking Light for Goat Cheese and Roasted Corn Quesadillas. Drizzled with salsa verde and served with a side of seasoned black beans, the Bunny and I felt like we'd hit the jackpot when we tried this vegetarian recipe. The quesadillas are made with 6" corn tortillas, which give them a wonderful chewy texture and also make for much smaller--ok, cuter--wedges. Don't hate.
3. My beautiful dog, Dax:
4. Trail of Dead's new album, The Century of Self, which features Conrad Keely's ink and paper art on the cover. There is also a fascinating piece in this month's SPIN that details "the things in Conrad's room," including a pipe, which prompts his commentary on the advocacy of marijuana legalization. It is incredible that Trail of Dead have been able to create so much quality music for over a decade now, but this record is evidence of their continued genius. The Bunny and I have played it 100 times over already.
5. Finally, I'll never be able to afford this brilliant green dress from Anthropologie, hell, on my meager pay, I probably won't even be able to buy this vintage-inspired shirtdress, but a girl can dream. Buy this... Buy that... I don't know why I am such a capitalist today.
1. Jack Cafferty's essay about his burgeoning crush on Michelle Obama. He cites her practice of pulling D.C. people off the street and inviting them to tour "the people's house," her arms, which show up unabashedly for Congress bare-armed on a February night, and her obvious success as a mother, evidenced by her "poised and polite" children. Hear, hear.
2. This recipe from Cooking Light for Goat Cheese and Roasted Corn Quesadillas. Drizzled with salsa verde and served with a side of seasoned black beans, the Bunny and I felt like we'd hit the jackpot when we tried this vegetarian recipe. The quesadillas are made with 6" corn tortillas, which give them a wonderful chewy texture and also make for much smaller--ok, cuter--wedges. Don't hate.
3. My beautiful dog, Dax:
4. Trail of Dead's new album, The Century of Self, which features Conrad Keely's ink and paper art on the cover. There is also a fascinating piece in this month's SPIN that details "the things in Conrad's room," including a pipe, which prompts his commentary on the advocacy of marijuana legalization. It is incredible that Trail of Dead have been able to create so much quality music for over a decade now, but this record is evidence of their continued genius. The Bunny and I have played it 100 times over already.
5. Finally, I'll never be able to afford this brilliant green dress from Anthropologie, hell, on my meager pay, I probably won't even be able to buy this vintage-inspired shirtdress, but a girl can dream. Buy this... Buy that... I don't know why I am such a capitalist today.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Well, Fiddle-dee-dee, what do we do with this white mess?
It isn't often that we see such a big snow in the South. Actually, even a mediocre, minimallly-coating snow shuts down most towns for a few days. It is the hot, sticky, wetness of an end-of-July afternoon with which I most associate my days in this region. Snow, however, the vast whiteness of it and the crunch under boot sound--something I once only knew from reindeer movies in the 80s--seems like it belongs with someone else's narrative.
But here we are, blanketed in snow, and grinning at one another like fools. Good Morning America just mentioned my town on Sam Champion's weather map: we received 12.5" of snow! Incredible! I knew it was a lot, but I never realized just how much.
There is one photo of me as a girl. I'm about 5 years old, and my father helped me build a snowman in our front yard. The picture was taken by a passing photographer, and it was published in my tiny hometown's newspaper. I got my 15 minutes of fame very early on in life. I think this snow might've beaten that snows ass.
So, when it began to flurry early evening on Saturday, I didn't give that snow the pleasure of my attention. We Southerners overreact to snow. Evidence of this was confirmed by my trip to the grocery store to buy the ingredients for my garlic naan and raita for Lisa's Indian dinner party. There were human beings exploding out the door, ramming through the aisles with canned goods and bottled water, and mothers clawing at econo packs of toilet paper.
Back at the house, I completed my potluck obligations, and we headed to Lisa's home, which is only a few miles up the road from us, just past the hospital.
Lisa cooked vegetarian biryani and samosas.
The Bunny and Brian watched
But they took breaks to play
After dinner, Lisa and I whooped the boys in Trivial Pursuit, the hard ass edition
The Bunny and Brian cried and sulked
So we went outside to play in the snow
After the novelty wore off, we returned to our family games turned liquor-soaked folly
But we had to stay the night due to a mountain of snow behind our cars. Worried about our dogs in the house, with Lisa as company, the Bunny and I walked Brian home, and then continued on towards our house.
We traveled down Forest, across Lambuth, and traversed Highland.
The Bunny mimicked my leprachaun kick on a once-crowded Forest Avenue.
People posed with their crushes
My bulky clothing and knee boots kept me warm for the trek until I sunk half my 5 foot frame into a mound of snow.
Home was a welcome sight
The Bunny turned into a Snowbunny, not by choice, before we made it into our alley.
The pool sparkled against the snow
The lounge furniture decried the weather they'd endured
Even Dax was happy to get out of the house and enjoy the snow
And I enjoyed the view from my cozy bedroom window where the heat continued to thaw my baby toes.
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