My Guilty Pleasure

Please read this story about the new NPR series My Guilty Pleasure, in which writers talk about the books they love privately but would (usually) never share in public.

I love this article because heterosexual male author, Brad Meltzer, discusses his passion for the Twilight series. I, too, am a fan, though I have a sort of love/hate relationship with the protagonist, Bella. I even made the Bunny watch the movie with me, and, yes, I have a huge crush on Edward Cullen (Robert Pattinson). There is something kind of delicious about having ridiculous infatuations at this age.

No One is a Mystery

Just ask this girl, I used to be a real bitchface. It is for that reason that I've taught myself how to chill out and stop confronting everyone about everything all the time. Over the past few years, I've mellowed to the opposite end of the spectrum, and I now realize that I've been allowing others to take full advantage of my giving nature. Mother of Jesus, I've become my Mom.

I started evaluating my life recently, and I realized that I've somewhat turned into a pushover. I feel like I give more to the people I love than I'm receiving in return. Maybe it's just me being selfish again, but I don't want to feel this way anymore.

I've been slowly trying to be honest about the things that bother me with the people in my life. The Bunny has never been the most thoughtful of men. In fact, he takes the whole, "I don't really need anything for my birthday/Christmas/Valentine's Day" comment way too literally. See, now I sound like a girl, but this problem has been a point of contingency between us for years. He's a great husband--I'd say this blog devotes at least 60% of its time to this fact--but he would never be the type to surprise the hell out of me with a real thoughtful day trip or to even leave a romantic note by the coffeemaker. He is more of the, "Want to get fucked up and have sex?" kind of guy.

Is it too hilarious that I just typed that and have no intention of erasing it?

To this end, I've been slowly confronting the things/issues in my life that I feel I can no longer ignore. On the opposite end of that is the realization that I very well might be doing horrible things to others. Is there any real way to have a clear picture of oneself? I shudder if I get a semi-negative teacher evaluation, so I hate to think of what might occur when I learn about the real Bette.

There are Powerlines in our Bloodlines

Yesterday, I went back to the park early in the morning. The sun was just coming in, and my arms started to glisten a bit around the second lap. The barrier surrounding the track is blanketed in honeysuckle vine in full bloom. It is one of the smells that most reminds me of my childhood. The scent was so syrupy sweet that I felt at first like it was pleasant, but then I began to choke on the heaviness of it all.

It takes me back in two ways: First, to the home I lived in for the first seven years of my life. It was in the middle of our small town, and I loved our backyard, which was also lined in masses of honeysuckle. The smell also conjures my time in middle Tennessee when I first started college. I was so unhappy, and I remember spending my first summer alone there writing poetry and creating a zine that now reminds me of that dark time each time I open the pages. There is this one poem in particular that recalls honeysuckle smells, and I copied and pasted it several times over to comprise the backdrop of the cover for the zine. It's like the Dickinson poem "I Felt a Funeral in my Brain," as the poem just keeps on repeating and repeating and repeating.

The meaning for the saying, "Youth is wasted on the young," once escaped me. I don't feel that way anymore. I hold on to all of my memories, good and bad, and I realize that it is these various scents that sometimes create a more powerful flashback than the soundtracks that accompanied them: The Bunny's breath after cinnamon toothpaste when he kissed me goodbye yesterday reminded me of my Mom's breath when she would kiss me in the dark before leaving for her 4:00 am shift at Wal-Mart in the 80s. I'm certain the Care Bears radio I powered on religiously as a child was playing Don Henley or Aaron Neville or some other shitty easy listening music as she walked like a shadow figure down the hallway and out to her warming Pontiac Grand Am, which was both the first brand new car my parents ever owned, and the first car in which she split her head open in a collision shortly after its purchase.

Before bed last night, I sloughed A&D ointment on my cut from where I broke my favorite red mixing bowl yesterday--the same bowl with my father's masking tape and sharpie love note on the bottom--and splinters of vintage Pyrex shot into my hand. It was difficult to discern the hairline cuts of blood from the tiny shards of red ceramic in my skin. The smell of the ointment took me back to the time I got my first and only tattoo. I had just turned eighteen, and when my father found out, he refused to speak to me for a week. I would lie in bed with my new wound slathered in thick, hygienic-scented ointment and cry because I'd never been shunned like that before. That was nine years ago, but my silly little medical cream just took me back to that week before I knew everything would get even worse, and before I would become the sad girl that wrote crazy poems about honeysuckle vines...

Why Don't You Slip into Something More Comfortable

The Bunny and I have been extra restless the last few months. Neither one of us are satisfied with the current set-up: I detest summers as a writing "housewife," and he couldn't be more ready to focus full time on music and less on the drama that is his family business. It seems like every day we have a scheme to get out of this place. Whether that means pursuing an academic-track position in whatever town deems me acceptable or finding a job outside of academia in a town we want to be. Why can't we speed through these next few months so that I might be able to have even an ounce of information about my future? This feeling in my stomach--I'm sure you know the dips and curls.

My restless nature always makes me irritable when it ranges out of control. Dustbunny's game last night--really, it was more like the kicking of a dead dog times two since it was a double-header--made me pace anxiously. I didn't even need to remind myself that it was only local league recreational softball, but something about watching these men getting their asses handed to them over and over again just got to me last night. Something has to give.

This restlessness has pushed me back onto the track, and I logged 6.5 miles in two days on my out of shape and wobbly body. My thighs are crying at this moment, but I feel the pressure of the wind against my chest, and the heat of my sweating shoulders somewhat relieves the tension of being cooped up alone in my quiet home office all day. I'm an extrovert to the point of deflation. The Bunny came home Monday--I was here alone all day--and found me drained of all energy. I slumped against our patio table with an old paperback and a dead affect. I simply had nothing to give, and we called out for dinner.

Yesterday, I had to get out of the house, even if it meant performing all of my mundane wifey tasks. I put on a sundress and went to the market for groceries in the mid-morning. I can't say that I felt sexy or even particularly intriguing. Let's just say that I wouldn't have looked twice at me. The very tall man that usually works the frozen vegetables--we are somewhat grocery buddies, as he is always working when I am shopping--changed it up a bit. I found him stocking the dairy section, and without a hint of sarcasm, he looked down at me, way down at me with this 6'5" frame, and said, "I love your hair like that." Now that's an interesting moment at the supermarket. It just spilled out of him unabashedly where the yogurts, sour creams, and ricottas meet the cream cheeses. My husband isn't this expressive with his compliments, so I'm always taken aback when men compliment something on me without saying anything about tits and ass. I started thinking about how ridiculous situations such as this always lead to cheap porno flicks or trashy dime novels.

Still, I'd be lying if I said it wasn't nice to feel like a woman on a Tuesday at the market. I road home with the windows down and Portishead turned way up.

For the Woman I Love

My Mother just completed her first semester of tech school. Though she struggled every moment--and cried every week--she finished with a 91 average, and I couldn't be more proud of her. As "busy work" for the days that they could not go to school due to inclement weather, my mother had to write a series of short papers on topics from her long-term goals to why she chose the program.

For most people, this would be a simple task. Even my moaning and complaining students would scoff at the notion that this would take someone hours to complete; for my mother, it took days. She sent me her papers to edit, and though they were already good, I tweaked run-on sentences and comma splices and returned them to her.

There is something quite intimate about reading someone else's writing. It is not until mid-semester, when I receive my students' first papers, that I really start to know them. Sure, they could be writing about Flannery O'Connor or John Steinbeck, but even their literary analysis has their traits and personalities written all over them. I often feel voyeuristic, as I'm sure Math professors and the like never feel so intimately attached to their pupil's offerings.

Reading my mother's work was a completely different experience. I felt she was candid, real, and more vulnerable than ever before, for what is more intimidating than writing a college-level paper when one only has a 7th grade education from a backwoods county school?

Mom starts her "Why I am Here" paper: "In July 2007, I received the news that our plant would be closing. I had job security for nineteen years. It had always been in the back of my mind to further my education; needless to say, I would still be there if my factory hadn’t closed."

In her "Further Education" paper, Mom remarks, "Now that I have got my taste of higher education, I feel a little more confident about trying something out of my element. It has been intimidating and challenging to say the least. Even on days when I think I’m not going to make it, I try to pick myself up and keep going. Before I started this class, my daily routine was taking care of my family, working straight for thirty four years, and doing volunteer work."

This is true: Mom never missed a band concert, dance recital, softball game, Girl Scouts camping trip, academic decathalon, bake sale, fundraiser, etc. This coupled with a 50 hour/week job, cooking, cleaning, church service work, and keeping up with all of the bills, birthdays, and banquets, I'm not really sure how she did it. I always wondered what she missed during that time. She claims raising us was the highlight of her life, and that makes me a little sad. It was in Mom's goals paper, however, that I most saw the side of a woman I'd never known, and in which I saw all the things this woman still wished to complete:

One of my long term goals was chosen when I was a child. I wanted a nice home and family. Some people may not consider that a goal, but in my mind, that’s what I wanted, and I have achieved that goal. I have a husband of thirty-one years, two daughters, and a nice home.

Another long term goal would be to volunteer for the Red Cross. Every time I see a disaster, I have such sorrow for the families that have been misplaced from their homes. I may not do anything but hand out blankets, water, or food, but I would like to be part of helping families.

Besides having one of every kind of flower, I have always wanted to travel. I know there is a lot to see in the world. In order to travel and do the volunteer work, I have to have a career to fund this goal. I could say I would like to be a surgeon, lawyer, or another high ranking job, but that would be lying. This may seem boring or dull to some people, but being happy with your life and accomplishments is what it’s all about.

Another goal of mine is to be as healthy as I can be even if I live to be very old. I have always wanted to run a marathon or even a half marathon before I get too old, which I’m not sure how old is too old. I hope to keep learning something everyday, regardless if it comes with a certificate, diploma or just a new task."

My mother has always told me that I teach her so much, but she doesn't give herself enough credit. I find so much beauty in the fact that all she ever wanted was a stable home life and a garden. Even her greatest desires express a need to help others and to see the world. What I wouldn't give for fortunes right now so I could fulfill these desires.

Bands Not Bombs, Part II

Please excuse the gratuitous cleavage.
Beer so early, fellas?
After the platter of BBQ tofu nachos

The Bunny, Louis, and I went to Bands Not Bombs on Saturday, and, on the whole, the day was pretty damn idyllic. The rain held off, save for a few drops, and we drank PBR and ate BBQ tofu nachos. We sprawled out on my old blanket and enjoyed the variety of bands that donated their craft for the sake of the Memphis Peace and Justice Center.

At one point, I left the boys with their beer and punk music to go find coffee. On the walk to the shop, I must have passed a million friendly faces. I guess I'm just used to my own little hostile town, because every person I passed on a scant three block walk smiled or wished me well. Even a classy red fire engine--no, it was not summoned by me this time--passed slowly, and I swear the cheerful little firefighters all raised their hands in passing. I started to wonder if I'd stepped onto a movie set or something, because people just aren't that nice anymore, are they?

Being in the Cooper Young District of Memphis always makes the Bunny and I feel so at home. Because my Bunny spent his formative years in the Memphis music scene, and I've been trekking there for work the last five years, it is our home away from home. He saw old musician friends, and I ran into grad school pals and reminisced. At one point, we even met up with some close friends of ours, who shared the most delicious news. Little Midtown, bohemian babies and their laid-back mommies mingled with tattooed daddies and activists. Honestly, the day couldn't have been lovelier.

Despite all of these sunshine good times, I've cried more in the last two days than I did all last month. I can't explain why I've been an emotional wreck lately. I've always been one to cry at the mention of anything to do with life or death or ceremony, but just yesterday, when we were visiting my mother for Mother's Day, I started crying in the middle of a story about a beloved student who exceeded my expectations. It's so embarrassing to be so emotionally expressive. Sometimes I feel I was cursed by my Mom, who cries every time Oprah gives something away.

I cried a little for the Bunny, who just wasn't able to commemorate Mother's Day for his own mom. I cried for Dax, who must sleep downstairs now, since he nearly slid all the way from the top to the bottom the night before last when we were trying to help him upstairs to bed. I cried for my beloved, beautiful friends, who have so many changes in store for them. I did not, however, shed one tear for myself; it simply is not necessary.

Bands Not Bombs

The Bunny, Bette, and our adopted 30s son, Louis, are trekking to Memphis this afternoon for Bands Not Bombs. Actually, we are only coming for all you-can-drink-PBR, and then we will rudely leave when we've had enough to drink. If you're an avid Memphis reader, please look for these faces:

Then again, Louis cut his man-fro, I now have bangs, and the Bunny will not likely be wearing an elf hat, nor will any of us don our ugly sweaters for today's events. I'd venture to say that without all of that hideousness, we are nearly unrecognizable.

This Blog Might Very Well Seem Offensive

I've been laughing uncontrollably today. Really, my last blog nearly made me wet my pants. Is it okay to say that?

This weekend is Mother's Day, and I always relish the chance to buy something super special for my own mother. My mother-in-law, on the other hand, is a complete bitchface. Is it okay to say that?

Anyways, my husband agrees: his mother is a total bitchface, so we opted for a card this year for Mother's Day. (Afterall, she did just ignore his birthday Monday.) I called the Bunny to say that I was stopping by Walgreen's to get the cards, and he told me, "Pick out something tacky--really trashy, if you know what I mean. Make it cheap and vague."

Here I am in the middle of the card store, and all I can find is the African American Mother section--which seemed like a good idea at first--and the $6.99 singing cards with all of the loud colors. Save for the scant sentimental lot with a novel inside, everything looked too nice, or, at the very least, too mushy for my mother-in-law. All of a sudden, I find a row of tacky $0.99 cards, and I just lost it. For whatever reason, I started rolling with laughter. There were four people all around, but my eyes welled with tears and my arms hunched over and began to shake.

I found a real ugly card with a poorly-illustrated teddy bear in a garden, but it had too much love inside. There were "Happy Mother's Day, my Friend" cards and "Happy Mother's Day from Miles Away cards," but my M.I.L. only lives about ten miles up the road. Finally, I found a hideous card with a poor photograph of a flower in a glass. The cover reads, "For You" and inside it says, "Happy Mother's Day."

I'm pretty sure I got the vague part right.

I learn em' the Engrish

An email from a student two nights ago explained that he "wanted to try out for an upcoming show on CMT" so could I "allow him to take his exam early?" I said yes, because all of my later exam students were allowed to come to the afternoon exam if they so chose. It doesn't really matter to me.

He responded, "okay, i will have to ask my people. let me check my schedule and get back with you." This illustrates two issues that I have with college students: 1. They assume I give a damn whether or not they show up for the exam, much less, at all. 2. If you are writing to your ENGLISH professor, don't you think it would behoove you to use proper punctuation/capitalization/salutations, etc. Often they will write an email without signing it, and all I know is that it came from "balls_deep69@gmail.com," which could be John or Chris or Kel or LeDarrius or... you get my drift.

After our future reality tv star got back from his audition in Nashville, he wrote me an email at 3:04 am this morning. It said, "thanks you for letting me take the exam early. my audition went good. lets hope u will c me on cmt soon. this was the most fun time of all the time ive taken this course."

Because I don't even know the name of the show for which he auditioned, the Bunny said, "What the fuck? Does he expect that you will turn on CMT and keep it rolling until you see his face?"

I'm waiting with bated breath.

The Life and Times of this Ol' Broad

I had coffee with my friends Michael and Louis a few days ago. I told them about the difference between women in their early 20s and women in their late 20s. I'm sure there are individuals who do not do much progressing during this period, but I can say that I'm a hell of a lot better person now than I was even four years ago.

It's as if it happens overnight: I woke up, stopped fucking weighing myself three times a day, stopped being mean to everyone, started feeling as if I was worthy of happiness and health, stopped comparing myself to everyone around me, and now I'm at a point where I'm hard-pressed to feel nervous in new settings, to feel as if I don't belong, or to get embarrassed about even the most embarrassing situations. Really, it's a beautiful way to live.

In example, one of the most embarrassing songs ever is also one of my favorite clean-the-house songs. So when that embarrassing song--Shakira and Wyclef's "Hips Don't Lie"--was performed on my embarrassing guilty pleasure show--Dancing with the Stars--I had a moment of zen. See? That could pretty much destroy any street cred I have with all of my intelligent and cultured readers, but late-20s Bette does not give a damn.

Despite all of this, something embarrassed the hell out of me yesterday. I woke up and made breakfast for the Bunny and I. As my Gimme Lean soy sausage was sizzling away in a skillet, the smoke level got high enough to heat up our fire alarm, which is connected to our ADT system. Apparently, ADT tried to call our land line, which is not even hooked up to a phone, since we just use it for our alarm, and they got no answer. This prompted them to call the fire department BEFORE calling my cell phone.

Once we got the alarm to shut off, I answered my cell phone and explained the situation. The operator said, "Well, I already called the Fire Dept. Would you like me to call them back?" Seriously, she says this like it is no big deal. I'm thinking, "No, it would be totally awesome to waste tax dollars on a faux call to our home to save our sizzling soy sausage." After her promise to cancel the call, we sat down to enjoy our meal.

It was kind of like a movie: We sat silently eating across from one another, and, all of sudden, we hear sirens roaring down the street. We looked up at one another--half-laughing, half-terrified. I sat there in nothing but an old bathrobe with my hair piled on my head, matted from the previous night's workout and pillow slam, and I just know my eyes got huge. The Bunny ran to the door, meeting the fire chief on our doorstep, five firemen in the yard in full gear, two firemen running down the side of our house, and two engines with one smaller fire truck parked down our street. After explaining to the chief that yes, this is our house, "not our parents," and yes, we own it, and "everything is okay. Wife was just cooking breakfast," the chief made him sign some kind of report, and they left.

Where was I, you ask, during this whole scenario? I nervously, and bashfully, scrubbed at the breakfast pans in the sink, peered sheepishly out the window at all of the commotion--a sea of red and flashing lights--and wondered what the neighbors must be thinking now. They haven't seen this much action here since the cops arrested a man on our lawn who worked for us and stole our lawnmower to sell for crack.

Really, we're actually quite dull. I swear it.

All of These Things are True

I've been so focused on my dissertation lately, so I have the sinking feeling that my blog might suffer over the next few months. I like to create blogs that work on a theme and end where they began, but after writing about incest stereotypes all day, I'm tapped out for creativity. That being said, I have an amalgamation of things to share.

We had the Bunny's birthday party--he turned 29 along with Lisa and Brian--this past Saturday night. There was a lot of booze, minimal dancing, some brave souls actually got in the pool, and I wore a sexy dress and drank cheap tequila. As for the photos, I'm too lazy to repost here, but those who are friends on Facebook can witness the photographic evidence there. Here's a teaser:


Thanks, yet again, to Ina Garten, for I just made the most delicious meal ever. Her grilled California pizza recipe was modified to fit our desire for a simple margherita pizza. We utilized fresh basil from our garden on the pizzas and fresh lettuce, also from our garden, for our salads. Check out the recipe, and tell them Bette sent you.

Every week, a new story about a man killing his entire family before committing suicide pops up in the news. Someone please explain this to me. It's just too dark to think on at the moment.

I'm still disturbed by some things I learned recently about my father, so it's no wonder that I was dreading our birthday dinner with them yesterday. Towards the end of the visit, my father and I started discussing the legalization of marijuana. He has a hypothesis that "all the problems in the Middle East could be cured if everyone just sat down, smoked a big doob, and talk it out." Idealistic--yes, but I kind of like his thought process.

As I washed up the vintage pyrex bowl my parents returned to me yesterday--they had to finish off the Nutter Butter Banana Pudding I brought in the bowl last time I saw them--I caught site of something foreign on the bottom. A crude note scrawled on masking tape with a Sharpie read, "Love you. --Dad" Despite my current feelings towards him, I didn't have the heart to peel it off the bowl.

I'll tell you what I am not

I had a conversation yesterday with a friend from grad school, wherein we discussed a woman we both know that seems to be a confirmed misogynist. Really, she is incapable of fostering long-term relationships with females, and she will be the first to put "bro's before ho's," as we so eloquently discussed dead center of a room filled with academics laughing politely. I suppose everyone knows this type of girl: she is the one who flirts with other women's men, while maintaining the pretense of friendship with the female part of the couple, though she never fully "commits" to her girlfriend bond. She sulks and quiets herself in the corner when she feels threatened by other females, and, yet, she can be quite charming if there are no men around for which to compete.

It sickens me to even think about the high ratio of misogynistic girls I encountered all through college, but it makes me even more nauseous to realize that it never stops, even as one grows older and wiser. I have a cousin--second cousin, actually--whose father abandoned her as a child. I hate to say "daddy issues," but this girl had a suitcase full, and she lugged it with her everywhere--from church retreats on into post-college professional environments, where she became the sporty, guy's girl type that sleeps with the married boss, and all of this at the detriment to her professional interpersonal relationships.

I guess this is just another issue about which I am passionate--maybe even more so than my desire to burn down all Casual American Dining establishments (C.A.D.s). What is it anyways with girls who seek to tear down other girls? I always harbored a real abhorrence for females who made statements like, "All of my friends are guys, really," and "I don't get along with women because they are too emotional and catty," nevermind that the statement itself seems quite catty to me.

I thrive on the strong bonds that I have with the various females in my life. It is the kind of relationship where we can "check" each other from time to time, and, yet, there is no cat fight that will in sue and no pretense of competition. We need not compete to see who is the most sexually appealing to our male companions. Really, isn't that bullshit anyways?

I guess I'm just replaying my conversation yesterday--not to mention, reading a horribly indulgent book about such a woman who is married into academe via the husband--and it makes so many things all the more clear to me now. I don't ever want to overthrow a girlfriend to get to the top. I don't ever want to compete with the women that keep me afloat. I look at the young women/girls in my classrooms, and they seem so desperate for attention, and, yet, they are the ones that misconstrue my late-20s confidence as flirtatious competition for their male peers. It is for them that I write this blog and send a wish for them to buck up, and maybe go listen to some Bikini Kill.