Well, Tiffany’s birthday was celebrated last night by a white trash party.  I was all decked out.  Panties and bras were on the clothes line in the car hole bar (complete with weeks worth of beer bottles on not-quite-patio furniture.

Some other touches:  had sports on the tv on mute.  Sports Illustrated on the table.  Tums out with the food.  A framed poster of young anakin in place of the monet.

Ken objected to the latter.  He said that since the poster could be a sign of geek-dom, it can’t be considered white trash.  Well, my outfit could have been a sign of me being a hooker, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t also connote white trash.

Methinks Ken protests too much.  (I acknowledge that many of my day-to-day decorations are signify white trash.  I can defend their kitsch value or their nerd value (in case of The Simpsons), but that doesn’t mean that they wouldn’t signify trash to people who didn’t love me.)

We found out that we shouldn’t have the tv on, after we turned it to cops.

We also found out how strange it is to have this party (with us decked out as trash) was perhaps not the best time for the neighbor to come over to let us know that the sound machine used at night (to try to keep me from killing Ken since he’s in the bedroom playing video games while I’m trying to sleep) is too loud.

All in all, there was much cheese, beer, and chocolate.  Hooray!

Being in The Big Easy was hard, mainly because we were all sick.  Also, a certain mother behaved badly.  Enough said–I don’t want to rant about that (I’m still sick and I don’t want to get sicker by writing for hours).

My mother and step-father used to have a time-share in New Orleans, so that was our family vacation destination when I was a child.  I’ve returned only a few times as an adult and each time, the place loses a bit of magic for me.

Why was it better before?

Lucky Dogs were a dollar instead of 5.25 (and New Orleans was the only place I could have hot dogs before).

I hadn’t been any place else (now I’ve been to two whole other countries and found cities I love more.

Growing up hasn’t made me like Bourbon Street any more.  It still smells bad & is full of annoying drunk people.

As I have my own income now, being in New Orleans isn’t the only place where I can have a little bit of money to spend at a place like the French Market.

Don’t get me wrong–New Orleans still has its charms–I love being covered in powdered sugar at the Cafe Du Monde and listening to Jazz and Blues.  I like that the people are friendly for the most part and I generally like the food.

I’m just glad that, unlike when I was a child, this city isn’t the only vacation spot available to me.

Ack.  Have been down South with the family in anticipation of a low-attendance conference presentation (8:30 p.m. in New Orleans–really, who do they think is going to be there?)

Am exhausted from a lack of sleep and family-induced stress and illness.  Ken can now walk around again, but we’re both having to take a lot of medication to do so.

I had the opportunity to watch a few hours of 7th Heaven with my grandmother (and by opportunity, I mean the viewing was forced upon me).  Vacuous characters, inane dialogue.  One episode managed to make the evils of smoking part of all four intertwined plots!  If you need these people telling you about smoking for an hour, you really need to be smoking something.

Now that Obama is the president, my grandmother no longer believes America is a great country.  She said so twice.  Now, if I’d said something like that a few months ago, when someone else was President, I would be called unpatriotic.  For once, I would like consistency.  Just a little consistency.

Margaret Atwood has been nominated for an award for her nonfiction Payback, which I’m teaching in UWP 18. 

I love the beach, but not when it’s filled with Spring Breakers.  What is it about Spring Break that makes people act like that?  Why don’t they just drink and have sex in regular life, so it’s not such a big deal on vacation?

I miss Kelly and Tessa.

I keep thinking about drinking games I could start with my mother (like every time she starts talking bitching about a certain thing that she’s obsessed with now, I could take a shot).  Unfortunately, all conversation roads apparently lead to this subject and I’d be dead of alcohol poisoning in half an hour.  It’s still tempting, if only to dull the road to death that will surely be caused by these conversations anyway.

Hi, Emily!  (I heard you’ve been reading!)

I’ve been bragging to everyone about the boy.  He’s in a magnet program, he’s building robots, he’s taking violin, he loves scifi and Eddie Izzard and Monty Python and The Simpsons. 

His hair is long and is starting to show a slight curl.  A group of juniors (a year older than he) are starting to use his middle name (Dante) and thus he is happy, finally, to have it.

His high school put on a sort of history fair last week–they did group project on WWI.  We went, not expecting much, and were suprised to find costumes, props, videos, and a bunch of dressed up teenagers.  Someone had told them to make eye contact, which means that some of us saw the boy’s eyes (his hair was in a ponytail) for the first time in years.  The kids were articulate and when asked questions, could answer (with the correct information).  I actually learned a lot from them, though not from the boy, who wouldn’t let me hear his presentation (apparently, I make him nervous).

The most interesting thing was watching my son standing outside and getting people funneled into his group’s presentation.  My somewhat shy child was basically a carnival barker and I’ve never been prouder.

So, I don’t have to celebrate this holiday, right?  I mean, I’m not Catholic, so I don’t have to do Saints’ days.  However, Jeopardy! just taught me that some believe this holiday was actually based on a Roman fertility festival.  So if I’m feeling pagan . . .

I’ve never been that into this holiday.  It’s not out of bitterness.  I’ve been partnered for more of them than I’ve been single.  And they’ve all been more or less adequate, as far as these things are supposed to go.  In fact, some of the times when I’ve been single have been better (as I used to have pizza and beer and watch The Hunt for Red October).

I think what mostly turns me off to this holiday is the bullshit expectation in heterosexual circles that this is the day men are supposed to go broke for their mates.  It’s about flowers and candy and cards and sometimes rings, but always about spending money on her (in rather predictable ways).  So, two things:

1.  If this is supposed to be a day about love, women should be contributing.  (And fine, if that means the guy wants a bj for all the money he spent, whatever, but that does bring up how close to prostitution this all is.)  In my perfect world, the couple should be equal, even on v-day.  (That’s why Ken and I bought each other a roomba last year).

2.  While I’m not knocking flowers and candy on v-day, I don’t think it’s the height of romance.  Because a day when that kind of thing is mandated is not about romance.  If your partner is only romantic on v-day and anniversaries, your relationship must suck.

Let me clarify, though.  Romance is not candy and flowers exclusively.  Ken washed my car inside and out this week because I complained about the dust aggravating my allergies.  That’s more romantic than holiday-nazi mandated flowers because the washing indicates that he listens and cares and is willing to take actions to make my life better.

On another note, I feel sucky this Valentine’s Day because I didn’t get out any cards or anything to my friends, though they made me cards and cookies and such.  In fact, am tempted to scan the card MD made because it was hilarious. 

I just hope they know I love them without the cards. 

Speaking of love, The Simpsons premieres in HD tomorrow.  I wonder if I’ll actually be able to tell the difference.

People who should get Valentines this year:

Obama (duh)

George W Bush (I love that you’re not President; many happy returns).

Creationists (I love that you give me something to write about).

Weird Al Yankovic, Eddie Izzard, Colin Firth, and many other crushes.

The forefathers (if only for Free Speech).

Panama City Beach, which Joy Turner on My Name is Earl declared “classy” a few weeks ago.  Hooray for one of my hometowns!

Margaret Atwood, but I already send her birthday cards, and it’s only my affiliation with the Atwood Society that doesn’t make that slightly creepy.