Night of Louisiana

I spent this past Saturday evening in the company of my divine, hilarious, but-getting-old younger sister Angela. Together we danced the night away to Cajun music, played by some saucy Louisiana hotties: the Lost Bayou Ramblers. I've come to two conclusions: 1) the accordion is dead sexy, and 2) crazy people can't be faulted for their craziness, but they can be blamed for not taking their meds.

I came to the first conclusion in an obvious manner, by watching a smokingly talented boy armed with an instrument and a charming accent play a two-hour long set of fun tunes. The world's gotta respect a man whose music can make people waltz and smile.

I came to the second conclusion in a less obvious manner. At Night of Louisiana, people sit at long picnic-like tables, so even if you sit across from people you don't know, the atmosphere is very congenial and you'll start talking eventually. This is what happened with myself, Angela, our friend Dan, and the woman who was sitting across from us. What follows is an approximation of her conversation with us:

Crazy Lady (CL): Had you been to New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina?
Me: Uh, no. I've never been to New Orleans.
CL: Well, do you speak French? (at this very moment, the band was playing a Creole song)
Me: Uh, no.
CL: Well, you really ought to learn a foreign language...
Me: I minored in Spanish.
CL: (rattles off something in Spanish, not sure what, but maybe heard the phrase Rico Suave somewhere in it) Forget about Spanish! You should learn Mandarin Chinese. You know how many Chinese people there are in the world?!
Me: Yeah, good point...

CL gets up to "dance". Her version of this consisted of walking around the dance floor in a circle, and then stopping every few feet to gallop and flutter her feet. Angela and I are laughing. CL comes back and sits down.

CL: WOW! What a great band! And they're just kids!
Angela: Yeah, they're really good. (Angela takes out her cell phone, to send a message to her boyfriend Kevin, who was off playing D and D with some Nerds).
CL: I'm sorry, but could you please be QUIET!
Angela: Uh, my cell phone's on vibrate. You can't even hear it with all the music.
CL: If you have to play with someone's cell phone, play with MINE! (she reaches into her purse, and pulls out a gallon-size Ziploc bag containing her cell phone and all its tangled wires and accessories... then, she walks away)
Angela: What a freak.
Dan: Seriously.
Angela: Let's go sit somewhere else.
(We get up to move, and as we do, CL comes back)
CL: I'm sorry, I don't mean to be so rude, but DON'T TALK TO ME AGAIN UNTIL YOU CAN SPEAK MANDARIN!

There were other things, too, like she told me she was 54, but was a teacher for 28 years, and then a public health nurse for 17. If that were true, that would mean she's been working since age 9. Highly possible if she were a Doogie-Howser-alike, but probably untrue.

The moral of this story is: Even crazy people like Cajun music, but you shouldn't like the crazy people who do.

Brokeback isn't for bitches

If you fancy a big fat cry... go see Brokeback Mountain. What a grand story!

It relies wholly on character and landscape to develop the storyline, and that's something I really like. It's not overdone or sentimental at all. And while the pacing was a little slow sometimes, there's just no other way to tell the story. Two people, falling deeply in like and lust and love over a span of 20 years... it just has to unfold... it can't be rushed...

(BONUS: the movie is full of butt-scenes, ranging from anal intercourse to bathing in the river. It's usually hard-- no pun intended-- for me to watch the former, having only seen the anal penetration scene in "PULP FICTION" before. But-- again, no pun-- the one in Brokeback isn't violent--it's more a long look into just how deep their desire for one another is... it's like you can see how long it's been taken for each of them to meet someone they can openly be THEMSELVES around, so when you see it it looks like release, relief, the beginning of comfort....)

Mama's Mental Illness

Mothers of toddlers are mentally ill. I am qualified to make this conclusion for three reasons: 1) I am a mother, 2) I have a toddler, and 3) I have become mentally ill since becoming a mother to a toddler.

This AM, I was getting ready for work. The sounds of "Mister Roger's Neighborhood" pleasantly filled my ears as I lifted the mascara wand to coat my eyelashes with goo. Who should join me in the bathroom but Evan, my curious, overly helpful, I-have-to-run-not-walk two-year-old son. Before I knew it, Evan had plucked my little container of bobby pins from my make-up bag. His little fingers pried open the box, and soon enough he was doing his "sneaky walk" (envision a bent-knee side-stepping squat) all over the house and shoving little handfuls of bobby pins under closet doors, under the dressers, etc.

So, I shouldn't let him play with bobby pins, right? Because they are a choking hazard and all. But, because I embrace wholeheartedly my son's explorer spirit, I pretty much let him play with anything he wants. I took him by the hand, and we went around the house collecting the bobby pins, and I set him up in the hallway, explaining, "Mama says play with the pretty-pretties where she can see you." That was OK with him, and that's what he did.

The mental illness doesn't come from letting Evan play with bobby pins. It comes in when I do things like refer to myself in the third person, or say anything beginning, "Mama says..." Fill that ellipsis in with anything-- "...we're not going to put Daddy's deodorant in the toilet," "...don't put the fork in your hair, please," "... we're not going to draw on our faces today," "... we should keep the water in the bath tub..."-- and you will notice that MOST of my day is spent telling Evan what NOT to do. I'm not emphasizing the negative, I'm just setting foundations for proper social interaction. That is, by telling him what NOT to do, I'm creating a stronger person for the future.

In college, it will probably be OK with his roommates if he plays with the bobby pins; but, he will have learned that it's not OK to wash people's deodorant in the toilet.

Questions?

ESB (Early Semester Blues)

So, I'm working a lot more these days. I was fed up with semi-retirement... more time to do things (like watch FoodTV) can get sort of boring.

While I'm only teaching nine credits (you need 12 to be considered full-time adjunct faculty), I have five classes. And, sometimes, part-time work can feel full-time... especially when my students, lovely young people though they are, have issues with turning in assignments only half done-- and this, when I've taken care to list at the bottom of the assignment sheet: "On the day this assignment is due, you will hand in four documents. These four documents are..."

Hm. Nothing like clear expectations that are still unclear. God bless 'em; God love 'em; God, make 'em READ and PAY ATTENTION.

What else is new, you ask? Andrew has a tenure-track job interview at a tiny college called MCLA in Massachusetts. I've been invited to go as well-- I'll see the campus and the town, etc. Hopefully, I'll be able to catch up on my FoodTV viewing late at night in our hotel room.