Taking Cajun French Leave

Podners, I've been posting on eViL pOp TaRt quite regularly for about six years now; and it has been a lot of fun. However, lately my efforts have been in my opinion substandard. I'm not sure whether I've run out of stories and fluff; or whether it's a case of writer's block. Anyway, I think it's better to ease up while I'm not too far behind rather than become a broken record or go in for cheap amusements. Also, I now have a surfeit of demands that are the consequence of growing up. I think they need to re-tool that life stage. Being a teen or college student was more fun.

I may put something up from time to time; but I sensed a definite decline from my stuff from 2010-2011. Why subject you to more crap?

I'll still follow others' blogs (see "Blogs I follow) while I continue to plunge into the brackish, algae-filled waters of the workaday world.

Bless you all, mes amis! Lasser les bon temps rouler toujours!

Lie Back and Think of England

When I was a freshman at L.S.U. and lived in the dorm, people would be sure to ask who you were hanging out with that evening. Sometimes sisterly advice was offered; often sarcastic comments were the commentary. Guys, you certainly did not think that this was not going to happen, did you? Anyway, some frat guys speedily acquired a reputation for being brazenly forward; like stealing second base within the first hour!

One older guy, a grad student, asked me out for dinner and a movie! When I answered the inevitable question about who I was hanging out with, I was simply told to "lie back and think of England." I my naiveity I thought this meant that he was English, and tended to dwell on that topic overly long. 

Foolish thought! It turned out he was all hands, and he wasn't following the old "five dates" rule. Anyway, to make a long story mercifully short, I pulled the plug early in the evening. And walked back to the dorm. Fortunately, we had been in Tigerland so it wasn't far. Does coming back early still wearing all your undies constitute the Walk of Virtue?

Since I returned at around nine, there was a lot of speculation about it having gone south. Yes, it did; and he had bigger paws than a Great Dane!

But the evening intrigued me in another way. I did not detect anything Anglo in his speech or interests. He had no apparent interest in cricket or rugby. And did't wear an old school tie, whatever that entailed.

No, it turned out it was a faux historical allusion.

This advice, "Just lie back and think of England" had been around for a while; presumably referring to advice given to Victorian age brides by their mothers in dealing with undesired sexual activity from their husbands. It played on a stereotype of proper English upper-class women as being sexually unresponsive, patiently tolerating the fact that men will be men but they don't have to be pleased with that part. The remark has been specifically attributed to Queen Victoria (probably stridently false) and Lady Hillington, who wrote in her journal "When I hear his steps outside my door I lie down on my bed, spread my legs, and think of England."

[I wonder that if she thought of France or Italy instead, would her experience be different.]

Actually this is good advice for our dealings with the government. 

It's also good advice for the Scots, the Welsh, and the Irish. And, historically, for us before 1776.

Dee-Doh and I Take in a Strip Show

Dee-Doh and I had a long-standing friendship that went back to our childhood days.

Anyway, sometimes when we were in the university, we would do things together.  On one evening we decided to push the limits to some degree: we would go together to see a fashion show; and then later, view a strip show.  Upfront disclosure: neither of us saw either type of performance, so you can say that we were both virgins.

Anyway, in the accepted New Orleans custom, we summoned up a little Dutch courage by first getting some Ramos Gin Fizzes, New Orleans's official girlie drink.

Then we did the fashion show.  We both liked it. We both wondered why the models looked so glum. Did someone shoot their dogs?

On the way to Bourbon Street, we met some friends from the university.  It turned out that they were hanging out there too, and we all took in a show together.

Anyway, the emcee asked if any from the audience wanted to audition; and one of our friends hopped on stage and did a partial strip, down to her undies.  Another one from our group matched her on the dare. 

Then it was, "Come on, Angel!  Come on Angel!  Show your stuff!"  It was peer pressure time, and I was never good at resisting that.

And, under duress, I stood up and unbuttoned a button. Then another. I really didn't want to do it, but . . . .

Dee-Doh immediately pulled me down and told me in his no-nonsense voice, "Stop!"

Thank God!  Sometimes guy pals look after their girl pals and provide excuses for their not doing regretful things. He deserved an affectionate thanks later on.

Things I Suck At

One of the pitfalls of following the old Socratic advice "Know thyself" is being forced to realize that when it comes to doing somethings, we have to realize that we suck at them. And the reflexive reaction is "Oh my God! I can't do this! This is awful!" But is that a valid and appropriate response? Learning not to give a darn works even better!

1.  I will cheerfully admit right here and now that I suck at writing cursive! Oh, the shame! I can imagine nuns shaking their heads in frustration that Tee Angel, soon to be a troublesome pupil, could just not learn to write like a little lady! This is what comes from too much M.T.V., too much idle time, being allowed to be a tomboy, and not enough time praying! But, in reality, is writing cursive such a big deal? Anyway, I think in Comic Sans MS!

2.  Sports talk. Oh, I can play lip service; and I sort of follow the Tigers and the Saints. But sports talk is such a foreign language in which there is little in the way of a helpful phrase book. Could some write a Sports Talk to English jack? I must say that soccer is beyond me. And baseball brings out logorrhea in some people.

3.  Sewing. Apparently this useful skill isn't hereditary.

4.  Keeping a neat checkbook. I just pray that my outgo is less than my income. No, I'm not inclined to OCD. I always wind up with two or three checks unaccounted for until the monthly statement comes in.

5.  Sitting like a lady. I sometimes hook a leg over a chair arm, sit with my knees apart, slouch, and wiggle my foot.

6.  Keeping quiet in meetings. Thus far it hasn't gotten me in trouble. Especially if I toss in a little Yat Speak now and then.

7.  Tolerance for long-winded speeches or sermons. Keep it SHORT, buster! Get to the point!

8.  But I mostly suck at wearing heels! I feel like I'm walking on stilts when I wear heels, especially 4-inch ones, and risk pratfalls and insecurity. What if I split my jeans?

Angel and the Beauty Pageant

I suppose the stage was set for this when I was young.  Daddy took me out to eat at our favorite hamburger joint, Bud's Broiler, where we saw one of the contestants from a children's beauty pageant, all decked out and glamorous.  I thought in my six year old way, wow!

Fast forward to when I was in college.  Like a typical 18 year-old, I joined a few clubs, but did not rush a sorority.  Things were going on well in my freshman year; and it was time for the annual beauty pageant at the University.  True to the pattern, the sponsors requested that various student organizations submit a nominee for the Miss Campus Queen Contest.*  My organization had not been planning to submit an entry; yet the president of a rival academic organization made a crack about our organization having homely girls; and not having anyone worth making an entry, as they knew they were overmatched.

The major league bitch!  My club was so totally pissed; and resolved to enter one of theirs come hell or high water.  However, some of the other girls begged out because of feminism, because of pregnancy, because of being swamped with work or studies, or because "she knew her butt was too big."  Anyway, they were pretty well scraping the bottom of the barrel, and Tee Angel was one of the remaining double-X chromosome certified possibilities, and (most importantly) I could not talk my way out of it.

I must admit that I was secretly pleased; and learned about the scope of the pageant.  Sure enough, it required some display of talent, some  adroitness at answering questions (I was definitely in favor of world peace) while wearing an evening dress, and that dreaded and most expected part: the swimsuit competition. 

Anyway, since I was nominated by an academic nerd organization, I had no one to fill me in on was to expect or how to perform, so I thought I'd wing it.  On further reflection, I asked Mama for some help as I was over my head.  She was a big help by helping me modify my old prom dress for the pageant.  Indeed, she thought it was a total hoot!

So I did a beauty pageant.  And I got a look backstage.  Most of the girls were friendly and doing it for laughs like I was, or because they were talked into it and relatively clueless!  There were, of course, a few professional pageant competers who tended to look down on the unwashed that they had to share a dressing room with.  

 For my talent I performed the dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy from The Nutcracker Suite.   I thought I did well; considering that the competition included a rope twirler, a clogger, someone who could not quite sing on key, a yo-yoer, and someone who sang "Baby One More Time," complete with sexy schoolgirl outfit!  However, I lost to another contestant who twirled the baton!  That's the kind of talent that is recognized.

I'm sorry that when it came to spontaneous answers I was not the one to get the World Peace Question.  Instead, I was asked by a sports-minded judge about what I thought of artificial turf.  I gave a flip answer on a whim thinking that my answer would be remembered for its originality:  I replied that men should go au naturel rather than wear wigs!  He then asked be what I thought of the designated hitter rule.  My response was that a girl should learn to defend herself, and not simply get brothers or boyfriends to do the heavy work!  [Maybe I would have qualified for Miss South Carolina.]  At least I didn't such hard to answer questions as "What if the sun doesn't shine tomorrow?" or "What would you do if your future husband disapproved of you having worn a bikini before he met you?"

My evening gown part of the pageant went well due to Mama having modified it well.  But then there was the dreaded swimwear competition, where we serve as eye candy, more of less, for the yahoos.  Suffice it to say that I did not employ technical enhancements, unlike some of the other participants.  And I did not inspire any "ahh" or "wow!" comments.  Instead, I strutted and fretted my overly long minute on the stage, and was seen no more.  Followed by modest applause.

I was neither the winner or one of the runners-up.  However, this saga ended on a happy note.  When I attended the next meeting of the organization, they gave me a standing ovation, and a tiara, declaring that I was their Queen.  I actually came to tears; and took it with me during my textbook salesperson days and, later, when I went to graduate school.

*There were universities that had Miss Campus Chest contests over 50 years ago.  These supported the Community Chest, but also emphasized certain prominences.

  

Being a Fake Girlfriend

I don't know if anyone else did this, or had an occasion to have one, but I was a guy's virtual fake girlfriend briefly when I was an undergrad. Here's the story:

While I was a student at L.S.U., I was approached by a friend from U. L. - L. who said she had a problem, and I asked if I could help. She told me how:  I was to pretend to be her brother's girlfriend. Now Warren (not his real name) had just gone to U.L. -- Lafayette and had pledged a fraternity that was pretty broad-minded.  Now Warren was in the closet (so to speak). I kind of guessed it; but he was afraid that some less tolerant frat member might blackball him because of homophobia!  [I make no judgments about his preference nor his desire to make it not evident. Anyway, he is a nice guy and was glad to help out.]

The story line is that I was his g.f. away at L.S.U. while he was being a Ragin' Cajun at U.L.- L. (Lafayette is a party town.) Still we would correspond by email, send letters to each other, and occasionally phone.  I was careful to make the tone of the correspondence by post to be somewhat suggestive of closeness, but without explicitness, to indicate we had an enduring relationship. And, of course, add some day-to-day things for verisimilitude. Boys are just as nosy as girls when it comes to possible dirt. And the idea of someone getting laid! [blush] Frat guys are VERY basic in their interests.

This went on for over a semester. Finally, it came time for the fraternity's Spring Formal. He asked me to come visit, and I got away for a weekend, and crashed with my girl friend.   

Warren and I made the scene, and we played at being inseparable and devoted to each other. This called for the best in our acting performance; but I must say that some guys with a few under their belts were not acting critics! I helped him with his dancing; apparently being gay did not make him a better dancer! However, he got the basics, and I did not mind very much even when he danced close with me while holding me close a little lower than was entirely proper!

And we kissed. Repeatedly. I enjoyed his; and I hope he did mine. Somehow, his ardor must have made an impression on his fellow frat members.

We continued to correspond, but at a lower rate. Apparently, he adjusted well to life in Lafayette. And his frat bros figured out his orientation eventually; but no worries there -- they were open-minded. He was even elected an officer.  I guess the faking was not needed.  Oh well; maybe we all didn't have to be so judgmental. Anyway, he's still a great friend I keep in touch with.

Women are supposed to be good at faking orgasms. But faking a relationship is a whole new dimension. Maybe I'm cut out for diplomacy.   The Department of State is good at that.

Encountering a Pit Bull

As a teen, I was briefly employed as a dog groomer in a pet store.  Now I knew very little about trimming dogs' coats, so I was relegated to the easy jobs on breeds not requiring much finesse.  Obviously, no poodles or Chinese cresteds or Yorkies. Cayoodles* are seldom clipped or manicured.

Usually I wound up bathing the dogs; and this usually resulted in an impromptu doggy bath for me as well!  Oh well, when I rode the bus, I was not usually crowded by other passengers!

One day, the worst possible case happened.  A distressed owner brought in his large, drooling, uncomfortable, miserable pit bull named Thor to get a bath after getting sprayed by a skunk!  The scariest breed there was, and with a scary name as well!  And I was supposed to de-stink this fellow?  And, for God's sake, how did he come across a skunk in New Orleans?  Actually, a surprising number of wild animals have become semiurbanized opportunists.  But no Louisiana brown bears or alligators, as far as I know.

Actually, Thor shied away from me, expecting some other enormity on top of the skunk chemical warfare.  I gave him a dog treat to buddy up to him.  He sniffed at it, and accepted it after some thought.  I made sure the water was warm; immersing a pooch in cold water spoils the mood.  However, I started before the bath to massage him with a combination of hydrogen peroxide and baking soda.  (I used gloves with the H2O2.)  He seemed to like the soft sponge.  Naturally, even a short-haired dog shakes off water when wet; and I got the stink removal stuff and some stink all over me.  Darn!   For some reason I put my arms around Thor's neck to better grasp the situation, and he took it as a hug.  That worked.  So I kept on with it, and he settled back and enjoyed the rub down and the following bath with doggie shampoo!  Contrary to the stories, there is no reason to bathe the dog in tomato juice; make the dog gazpacho instead.  Any way, I became his best friend when he realized that he reeked less!  (Or maybe the two of us smelled similarly!)  The story went on: I had to ride the bus going home, and I sat in the back. 

One day Thor and his owner came into the pet store.  As I was in the store itself, and not in the grooming parlor, he jerked his owner's leash and came to visit with me.  Thor was a sweetie!

*A New Orleans expression for mixed breed, garden variety dogs (mutts).

Such a winning smile.

The Quotations of eViL pOp TaRt

I originally wrote this four years ago.  Since I've deleted and added a few "quotations."

----------------------------

I like dogs and cats; and any guy who doesn't is suspect, in my book.

Love is risky; but it is also worth living for.

There are real limits to self-suggestion; otherwise, we would look forward to weekends so we could clean our ovens.

In vino veritas applies only when there's so little veritas to go around, like in advertising or politics..

Leadership does not come ex officio.

Graduation speeches, sermons, and bikinis should be brief.

A stupid idea endorsed by a committee is still a stupid idea.

Living life is like going on a blind date without makeup.

Love is like pi: it's natural, irrational, and very important.

The only saving grace of stupid opinions is that the owner usually does not recognize their stupidity.

Irony is good and cleansing in small doses, but corrosive in large ones.

Beware of men bearing accordions.

One of the dirty little secrets of adult life is how little thought, planning, and execution are given to important decisions made by governing bodies.

Being rushed into a decision is a recipe for making a bad one.

When you think that people can't get any dumber, someone will come along to surprise you.

Unfortunately, there's a tendency to regard many individual differences as psychiatric problems: being shy, feckless, or even a pain in the behind should not necessarily warrant psychiatric intervention.

Idealists can be as scary as fanatics.

There should be no requirement that a person have an opinion, much less an opinion on everything.

It is a real consolation that neither the Papacy nor the Presidency is conferred by heredity.

Very few people have the discipline to edit sufficiently what they have written.

Keeping one's mouth shut is usually an effective way of avoiding trouble.

I'd be more afraid of blockheads than mad scientists.

If you wish to improve critical thinking, require more science.

It's fatuous to think that you can judge people by appearance: in real life you can't distinguish a sex offender from a game show host.

Most editorials are exercises in self-indulgence,

Most people are comfortable in their prejudices; and regard their vices as virtues.

If you read only dreck, then you will tend to write only dreck.

A boyfriend is more than an accessory.

Getting an education is not like receiving a suppository while unconscious: you have to do a lot of hard work in the process.

Prayer may help; but I would also use fuses for electrical circuits.

To understand things is to take them lightly.

Call girls and academic consultants have many similar characteristics; except that call girls are generally better dressed and are more honest.

Religion, toilets, and cell phones should all be used quietly and privately.

To use the opinions of actors and actresses as guides to which politics to support is sort of the equivalent to consulting engineers for fashion advice.

The education of a young person is incomplete unless he or she can make a perfect cup of coffee, a few classical mixed drinks, and to lie convincingly.

Committee meetings that last more than an hour and a half testify that the chair was unprepared for the meeting, unable to control its course, or was self-indulgent.

When all else fails, read the instruction manual.

If an idea still sounds good when you are sober, it's probably a good idea.

Smile at the Dean: he'll either think that you think he's cute or you're up to something. Either alternative is good.

Wearing underwear is a homage given to convention.

Learning a foreign language and a foreign culture is time well-spent.

Temperance should be practiced in moderation.

One possible type of male that should be emulated by more women is the strong, silent type.

Avoid helpful aunts who want to set you up with "a son of a friend of theirs'.

Getting up early in the morning is a necessity or a habit; it is not a virtue.

In your relationships with your pets remember that it's you that gets to give them the worm pills, not the other way around.

No one really looks good in a sombrero.

Don't assume that guys have the ability to read your mind.

It's a bad election when you leave the voting booth with a sense of having done something shameful without the pleasure that comes from many actual shameful activities.

It's easier to understand life if one reflects that the world is run by men who wear ugly ties.

A lie is a lie; no matter how sincerely it is presented. 

Getting an education is worth it.

Idiots fail to distinguish between feeling righteous and being right.

If we ever have philosopher-kings nowadays, they more likely to have engineering than liberal arts degrees.

You never have to be ashamed of having been tolerant of others.

How I Was Pranked

I'm going to admit to being pranked, but good.

It happened back when I was a textbook rep.  Now part of the job was working the academic conventions.  These combined the aspects of the true scholarly meeting with learned papers presented and discussed on a celestial level, a meat market for hiring new talent for teaching America's young adults, and a venue for advertising new products, primarily textbooks.

Actually, working a convention was a plum job occasion, unlike being a road warrior visiting individual campuses and calling on busy professors.  Usually, you get to stay in a nice hotel; and there are social occasions open in the evening.  If you're a textbook rep, it's an opportunity to meet potential customers; and if you have grad school ambitions, it's possibly a way of making connections to get into a good program.

Anyway, one evening I was invited to a party to be held in a hotel suite.  I put on my best evening clothes, made myself up artfully (I thought), and hoped to make a good impression.

When I arrived, I was offered an alcoholic beverage.  Since I was barely legal, I accepted.

Then I noticed the composition of the group.  The men were of mature age, no twenties and few in their thirties; the women were twenty-something and flashy.
 
I felt mismatched.  I was the only one not displaying major décolletage.  As a matter of fact, I think I was the only woman wearing underwear!  Well, not quite.  I met another textbook rep, and we compared notes.

It seems that the other ladies at the party were a different kind of working girl!

Just then an older man approached us, commented that we seem to be  the innocents, and asked if one of us would like to accompany him to his room later on.

We declined politely, and got the hell out of there!

Apparently, this sort of party does happen after hours at some conventions.  Some clown decided that it would be a hoot to invite the textbook girls to a bimbo party!

*Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité, et Soutien-Gorges"

Several years ago, being loose in Paris for a day with some friends, we tried out our hand at shopping primarily on the Rue de Rennes but also on some side streets. There we found one: an example of fabled French lingerie shop, combining risqué with the beautiful; the charming with the practical. How could we resist: why not pick up some nonedible souvenirs that probably should not displayed upon our return to the USA, except by curious customs office functionaries who are detailed to prevent contraband from entering the country. Now this was a place where the mesdames and madamoiselles of fashion, the exotic dancers, and the unfortunate husbands seeking drachenfutter to appease their irate spouses could gravitate to. And three Americans in search of adventure and the Platonic ideal of undies (did the real Plato contemplate such matters?) looked into the den of risqué as well.

We entered into a Temple of Bras. It was a daunting place, befitting being housed in a 19th century building: did we stray to where the showgirls shopped? I'm sure there are the places like that in Paris. Now the proprietress, a formidable middle-aged woman, offered to help. I mumbled something about my sizes, and asked what would she recommend. She said, "Ah, you are Americian; we size you differently here." So she produced a metric tape measure and proceeded to map the topography of Angélique to a greater degree than before! She was charming; she spent a lot of time fussing over us, showing us some examples, assured us that those wispy and lacy confections were the proper mode for us.  "Ces jolies seins!  Cela le montrera correctement."  And it was true: they were both chic and comfortable. We were in undie bliss, and bought several.

Memo to self: Not to let my older sister Jessica see them. She already suspects that I am past wicked and would be shocked enough to forbid her children to see me and to do a flying novena to pray for my immortal soul! It was a hit with shopping.

When we looked back after leaving the store, the building had a partiotic message on the stone facade: Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité. And we felt that Soutien-Gorges (Bras) should also be included.

Later on we found Fachon's and got beaucoup chocolate.  It is a notion widely accepted in Paris that bra-shopping and chocolate naturally go together.

Angel Looks into Employment as a Jackbooted Thug

Henry David Thoreau once wrote "Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes."  It's obvious that he was not a woman.  We like opportunities for wearing something new, flattering, and (even better) politely sexy.  And at the apex of this wish list is the opportunity to wear new, exciting shoes.

Now I must admit that I was intrigued by an advertisement in the employment section of Times-Picyaune advertising to hire Jack-Booted Thugs.  Good salary, benefits, good retirement plan.  And I wondered, maybe this was an opportunity for me!  After all, I was never good at wearing high heels; maybe wearing shoes with a wider footprint would be for me.  (My appearance in "fuck me" shoes is more suggestive that I don't have my sea legs yet).

So, taking a chance, I made an inquiry.  The Human Resources Director of Jack Booted Thugs R Us Temporary Services affirmed that they were an equal opportunity employer, and that they welcomed applications from women as well as men.   Hmm....this sounded good.

And there must be many occasions for this temporary work.  That is good; and it paid more than the typical T.A. 

[Don't read that as T and A.  Okay?]

The H.R. Director asked me my jack boot size.  I said seven.

"Hmmm.....we might need to get special jack boots for you."

Later on that evening I did a little research on possible outfits for jackbooted thug ladies.  This is what I found:

http://www.fashionising.com/clothing/b--Agent-Provocateur-New-World-Order-collection-2148.html#/gallery/collection/1

I seem to qualify in upper measurements, at least.  But the severely cropped haircut seems a bit much for a part-time job.  However, in addition to upsetting the paranoid left and right, I would wear spiffy attire and be well-paid.  Maybe they would even let me ride in one of those black helicopters!

My Brief and Inglorious Career as a Model

"You too can be a model!  Travel!  Meet exciting people!  Excellent hours!  Great drug plan!"

Well, maybe not the latter . . . .

Anyway, on a whim, I answered the ad by telephone, gave them some particulars, and emailed some facial shots to see what came of it.

I got a call, amazingly enough.  But in the meantime I had mentally set some limitations on what or how I would model.  Nothing nude, topless, or thongy. Nothing involving too much exposure.  No boudoir shots.  Only something in good taste.

I would not be a "before" in a weight loss ad. Oh, pleeze! The indignity of it all!  I'm slightly underweight.

Okay, I submitted to some test shots while wearing a bare midriff outfit. I thought, "Is the retro look coming back in swim suits?" The photographer asked me to clutch my stomach and give a pained look. I gave my four-star, pained, pouty Angélique-is-unhappy look that would prompt a statement from the National Weather Service.

And I finally found out what I was to be a model in.

An antiacid commercial.

I will not be be on-line or visiting any web sites for about a week or ten days.  I'm taking a vacation/family visit.  Anyway, I'm less satisfied with what I've posted lately, and I hope to get some inspiration.  I'll catch up on yours when I return.

A Strange Proposal to Be a Footnote in History

There's the Guinness Book of Records, an amazing collection of feats both remarkable and amazing, that some people aspire to being mentioned in for some reason or other. It seems that someone has recently achieved temporary immortality by accomplishing the feat of unhooking 26 brassieres in a minute's time! Now who thinks of such things; and isn't this one of those occasions where just possibly quality is more of a consideration than is quantity?

But was going to be in black and white in the Guinness Book for all to read. And will stay that way until some more enterprising (and manually dexterous) person breaks that record. That sort of thing tempts the enterprising. It's like the Matterhorn: people climb it because it's there.

Anyway, I was approached to be one of the, shall we say, providers of said objects to be publicly unhooked in a local tavern. It was by a friend of mine, a trustworthy sort, a café latte man. It was presented to be as an occasion to help a local Louisianian win fame and glory in doing this feat. It was supposed to be done demurely, with each the assisting ladies lifting up the back of her tee to help our hero set a new record of 30, or even 35! Afterwards, modestly shielding ourselves, we then run to the room of rest for reassembly. The thought of so many in there simultaneously boggled the imagination!

What a rush! To be an accessory to fame! Would I be mentioned in the Times-Picyaune? [Angel B., daughter of Mr. and Mrs. B, a graduate of ______ Academy and the University of ______ was the eighteenth one undone.] Would WDSU-TV cover it live?

Would my grandchildren hear about it someday?

"You know, Cherie, it was Maw-maw, she was a demoiselle of considerable style. She participated in the great bra unhooking of 2008."

"Cool. Can I have a picture for Show-and-Tell?"

"No, but you can take her souvenir t-shirt for having participated."

Cheerleader Tryouts

I had absolutely no reason to be there, as I had about as much chance of being chosen as a snowball would have in the climate of Hell; but I am truly impressed with the absurdity of life and feel that part of life is embracing madness from time to time. Besides, being a student of psychology is so, well, bourgeois that there is an occasional need to break the boundaries of convention.  And it would totally confuse the dickens out of some of the professors!  One in particular, a hyperfeminist.  She was from New York, and consequently was always surprised with the mores of the local area.

What the hell!  I was talked into doing it by a friend, an old high school classmate, who presented as an idea of doing 'just for the heck of it.'  That same notion boosted me into truancy when I was younger, and other indiscretions.

It was a tryout for cheerleaders for a professional sports team, the New Orleans Hornets.  Ahhh, there were over 250 of us dressed in shorts and tops of various degrees of modesty crowded into a gym.  We tried out three at a time on a choreographed dance number before the selection judges and a crowd of onlookers who added to the setting.  The ultimate goal: the selection of 20 from the local area. I went, well armed with irony and the spirit of fun.  It was not like I had what it takes (toilet paper, notwithstanding).

I thought I was physically fit, if not as pneumatic as some of my competition; but running through the paces was quickly exausting. Wow!  Cheerleading is hard work! Actually, it's mainly dancing, and I'm not a household word in my gracefulness.  (Guys liked to dance with me, as I made them look good by comparison.)  However, I kind of got into the spirit of things, and my competititve blood got flowing.  I jumped, and danced furiously. I was gonna show 'em!  Unfortunately, my tennis shoes slipped and I fell unceremoniously on my fanny!

I rated a smattering of applause.  But no halftime and intermission dancing for me!  Ah, that is for the graceful of foot, among other things.

One of my aunts saw me on television in the background when there was a brief panning over the participants as part of the news report on a slow day (no homicides).  Needless to say, she called this fact to all of my relatives.  And also let all and sundry know that she was not pleased.  She wouldn't be.  Mama told her to hush. 

I later visited a voodoo shop to get something to retaliate for her meddlesomeness.

Dee-Doh Thinks About Quitting the Team

My friend Dee-Doh got a fiat from his girlfriend, Jessica:  being on the track team is not enough; she wanted a boyfriend who was also on the football team for his boys' high school.  So, being the good sort that he is, he went out for spring training, and made it through the team roster cuts to make it on the team.  He became a second-string fullback, or some big muckety-muck position like that.  Anyway, spring training was easy and he felt that he could go out for the team and please Jessica the Demanding Shrew.  

You might say that Jessica had the upper hand in their relationship; and this is so totally expected, given that she comes from an old New Orleans family and apparently was taking dominatrix lessons at the community college in addition to being the bitch queen at my academy.

When football resumed with the practices in August, Dee-Doh got a rude surprise: two practices a day in the Louisiana heat!  Oh!  My!  God!  And Dee-Doh, bless his heart,  had more nerd tendencies than jock tendencies.  He didn't really like colliding against other guys during the game.  It gave him a headache; and he didn't enjoy being with Jessica as much as before.

And Jessica would give him criticism -- why didn't he elude that blocker, why no touchdowns, etc.  And the halftime locker room meetings were impossible, but he never said why.

And, darn it!  I missed him.  His time was eaten up by football, studying to keep up his grades, ministering to Jessica, and generally being tired.  It stopped being glorious for him by mid-September, but there were two more months and then the playoffs.

We had a brief time together; but long enough for him to express his ambivalence; no, he indicated that he was fed up with it all. 

I told him, "Quit the team; you're making yourself miserable."  But I warned him that his doing so would probably result in a girlfriendectomy.  I knew Jessica, you see.  And his rah-rah teammates and classmates would give him grief for being a quitter.

Anyway, a little deus ex machina entered the picture.  He was running with the ball, an infrequent experience, when he was bumped by another team's player and injured.  I met him just after he was carried off the field.  Anyway, I rode with an assistant coach who took him and his dad to the E.R.  His ankle was twisted and became swollen, but it was ultimately diagnosed as simply a sprain.  He was to be out for two, possible three weeks, and back for more fun and games, Catholic boy-style.

But where was Jessica?  Nowhere to be seen.  In effect, his little copine (moi) had to fill in the role of morale supporter instead of her. 

Shall we say that, with a little solicitude and counseling on my part, the sprain took longer for Dee-Doh to recover from than the initial diagnosis warranted.  Perhaps because I gave him acting lessons, he was able to convince his dad and his classmates that his sprain lasted longer than first expected and included complications.  He got quite good at getting around on crutches.  It took him longer to get over Jessica, unfortunately.

This is my 200th post in this blog.  I hope you've enjoyed some.

Angel

Girls Sorta Gone Wild

Okay, one of my exploits that led to my becoming the Detention Queen while in high school was the time three of us decided to see a real horse race.

Now, they have a full race card of thoroughbred races at the Fair Grounds in season that starts in the early afternoon.  Unfortunately, high schools have this thing about having classes in the afternoon. . . . . But, a friend (not to be named, as she has aspirations to the state legislature -- she wants to make her money the easy way!) talked up the idea and we decided to make a day of it.

Starting with lunch.  Now, we all had sympathy for both dogs and cats, and passed up the usual school cafeteria lunch and instead repaired to Mandina's where we had oyster po-boys and gumbo. There was a group of elderly ladies there, and they gave us tips on the race, this being New Orleans and all.

It was fun at the races!  We got in without a comment, despite the fact that we were wearing school uniforms.  We were able to bet on the nags, and hang out in the clubhouse (though we had only grandstand passes).  The little guy that blows the horn that calls the mounts to the starting gate was cute and amusing.  Big spenders us, we bet the minimum bet on each race and went for the double and the trifecta.

I won the daily double!  There followed on our part the typical excessive display of delight, usually intended to call the attention of 17-year-olds of the male persuasion. And, while they were present in numbers, this was not a sound tactic.


Alas, but one of the local teevee stations had their camera at the track, and they were panning the crowd. We were caught red-handed, and in our Catholic school girl uniforms.  (Locally, the pattern of skirts worn by Catholic school girls are distinctive, depending on the school.)  What to do?  Brazen it out.  As a matter of fact, we pursed and smacked our lips and made high-five gestures (like the wanton little trollops were to do years later in those sordid little GGW videos that they now offer for sale).  Maybe they wouldn't run the tape: a good thought, since New Orleans always has its usual quota of good sex and violence to entertain the masses watching the teevee news.  (They also watch the hairdos and the cleavage on the News Team, but that's New Orleans for you.)

It was a slow news day.  And they ran the tape, commenting that "here were some happy winners . . . . apparently, school was out at __________ Academy today." Then, all we could hope was for an early bedtime for the nuns.

The next morning, the first announcement on the speaker was: Angel ________, Jessica __________, and Heather _________, come to the office IMMEDIATELY!


Busted!

My punishment on the parental level was slight.  Dad was impressed that I won the Daily Double!

A Seaside Proposal for Marriage

While in a seaside bar in Nag's Head, NC, my friend Clarissa and I were accosted by a pair of Jersey Boys, Tony and Vinnie (no kidding); and we wound up having a mini-episode of Cajun Girls Meet Jersey Shore.

Yes, our stalwarts fit the stereotype, probably intentionally on their part: the deep tans, the wrap-around sunglasses, the slicked-down hair, and some tattooing [ugh!]  Anyway, they seemed interesting at first.

Then things went downhill.

"Hey, you girls talk funny.  Where you from?"

"We're from Louisiana."

"Oh, are Coonasses from the Bayou, or from Noo Orleans?"

I indicated that we were originally from New Orleans, and that "coonass" was an impolite term.

"Oh, sorry.  You're Cajun chicks, then."  We let the term "chick" slip.

Some time passed.  And conversation moved from chatting to their hitting on us.

"Oh yeah, we got some hot Cajun chicks here, Clarissa and Angel.  Tell me Clarissa, are you hot to trot?"

Clarissa pretended to not understand.

"Je ne sais pas?"  Clarissa spoke only passable French; but it was sufficient to confuse those guys that French was our primary language. 

So Vinnie made an obscene gesture using a finger being repeatedly inserted into his fist.  Tony did the same to me.  Clarissa and I got the message.  Tony nodded, so I got it too.  Too bad; just a pair of Yankee sex tourists who may have heard that Southern girls were easy.

Clarissa said, "That would be nice.  But we'll have to ask the permission of my parents."

This confused Vinnie and Tony.  Little wheels went off between their ears.  Did these girls come from a place in which you ask their parents when you want to have sex with them?

Vinnie:  "What you mean?"

Clarissa: "Did you not propose the marriage to me?  I accepted your proposal.  You're my fiancé.  If my parents agree to our marriage, then we may sleep together before.  Maman will even tuck us in."

Vinnie looked confused.  And worried.  Tony assumed that trapped look.

Clarissa said, "Your intentions were honorable, I hope?"

I stroked Tony's forearm.  "Mes freres, they will like you, yes!"

Vinnie and Tony made some lame excuse about having to meet someone.  I never got any further word on our being engaged.