Stubborn

I just got off the phone with my mother (hi Mom!) and had to tell her that I didn’t plan on walking in the graduation for my Master’s in May.  I could have sworn I told her this before, but she’s apparently been under the impression that I would be.

Well, I’m not.  For several reasons.

First of all, graduations are just boring as hell.  Second, UT is a huge school and even if they break up the ceremonies by department, it is going to last forever.  Third, I just don’t feel like it!  I still don’t know for certain if I want to stay for a doctorate and if I do, I don’t really want to walk for what wouldn’t be my terminal degree.

Now, I have walked in two other graduations.  One high school (okay, GED, it was lamer than you could imagine) and my undergrad.  But the second one was special and I wouldn’t have missed it anyway.  It was the Katrina graduation, January 2006, and UNO had pulled a fall semester out of thin air following the storm.  Professors scattered all over the country came together and made online courses and crazy satellite campuses and just did the damn thing.  It was very cool.  And that graduation was so celebratory for so many reasons.  We all cheered at everything, no matter how small.  We heard how the president of the university convinced the Coast Guard to bring him across the lake to the school, he and others hiked over the levee and rescued the servers.  We all cheered when they said the name of a department as the graduates walked in.  We cheered for hours at everything, but mostly our own perseverence.

However, we invited lots of our friends to that (C and I were both graduating, a feat in itself) and NO ONE CAME except for MY parents.  I would just like to point that out.  I guess I’m still a little bitter about that.

Anyway, I don’t feel especially motivated to walk in this graduation for tons and tons of reasons and no amount of persuasion is going to change that.  I told my mother that we will be visiting in May for a combined birthday celebration, we’re bringing M with us (maybe) and she can just roll graduation into all that.  Yippee.  Give me some crawfish, a poboy, and a daquiri and I say that’s good enough.

Of course, then my mother mentions that I could get presents.  I tell her I own so much crap that C and I are actually trying to declutter.  Then she switched her game and tried to tell me that my father was crying in a corner due to my new status as an ungrateful, horrible daughter.  I said, “This is neither the ending of The Natural nor The Benny Goodman Story, so I know he’s just fine.”

Not doing it.  Can’t make me.  So there.

Genetic muscle memory

The other night, I was tired and a little silly.  I was trying not to laugh at something C was doing, and I felt my face arrange itself in an expression of my mother’s.  I knew, without looking, that it was precisely the same one.

Weird.

And then I found this picture, probably one of my favorite ones ever.

Yeah, that’s tiny baby me sleeping with Mom.  In the same position.  And I’ve been assured repeatedly that nobody arranged us that way.

And then C looked at this picture and said “It’s like looking at you while you’re sleeping.  Except it’s your mother.  And we don’t have an ugly couch.  Or a baby.  That’s freaky!!“

Not really any point to posting this, I just like the picture a whole lot.

Networking: ur doin it wrong

My mother, like everyone else in the known universe, now has a Facebook page. I was on the phone with her while she was setting up her account:

Mom: Why do they want to know where I went to school?
Me: Because
Mom: (apparently looking through the questions that they ask you). They want to make it easier for people to find me. No. No!!! Oh god, why would I want that?
Me: That’s kind of how it works.
Mom: Well gross! I don’t want people to track me down! Why do I want to talk to people I went to college with?
Me: Wow, you’re perfecting the anti-social networking. You should join myspace instead. And then we can call it Mine, ALL MINE space.

Later in the conversation I had to explain to her what a zombie is. I told her that C was dressing up as one for Halloween and, somehow, she wasn’t clear on what makes a zombie?

Me: They’re like the living dead.
Mom: Like vampires?
Me: No, they don’t suck blood. They eat brains and they’re not as smart as vampires.
Mom: Do they eat brains because they’re stupid? Is it how they get smarter?
Me: Um, no. Well . . . no.
Mom: Why do they do it, then?
Me: I don’t know.
Mom: Why are they walking around? How do zombies get made?
Me: Depends on who you ask.
Mom: I’m asking you.
Me: There’s a few different ways, I guess. I’m not sure.
Mom: Does C know?
Me: Maybe?
Mom: If she doesn’t know much about them, why did she dress up as one?
Me: Because it’s Halloween and it’s easy to do zombie makeup.
Mom: She didn’t look very dirty. Not at all like she climbed up out of a grave.
Me: Not all zombies were buried first.
Mom: How come?
Me: Was I like this when I was a kid? Because I’d like to apologize.

And just to clarify, it was close to 2 am at this point. We were so far into C-time that it was scary.  How does Mom always find a way to make me realize I don’t know stuff?  It’s amazing.

Dammit, Gustav

Talking to my mother yesterday:

Me: What about if a tornado hits, do you know where in the house to go?
Mom: Probably in the closet.  Where do you think is the best place to be if one hits?
Me: Florida!

My parents are staying for Gustav.  I am massively worried.  I don’t like being on this side of things.  Not that it isn’t a luxury to have moved away from a hurricane area, but when you left everyone you love there . . . this is worse.  This powerlessness, this unending worry and helplessness.

I don’t like the fact that they’re staying.  I have made this point time and again in the last 2 days but I’m just their kid, what do I know?  I don’t like the fact that this time they’re on a different side of the storm than in Katrina.  This time they will be on the north and east sides where the worst weather is, the tornadoes and everything else.  And I am worried to no end.  I would be happier if I were home and dealing with this directly.  Instead, I’m in Austin, doing nothing.  This sucks.

Brilliant

What is my favorite story about my parents? My mother’s constant irritation at my father’s ability to just go to sleep. I don’t like it either. It’s not fair. He just kind of decides that “Okay, it’s time to sleep now” and so he does.

One night, he was able to do this after a fight. Mom, like me, can’t sleep after a fight. So his sleeping was especially annoying. Apparently, Mom sat in the living room with a pair of scissors and meticulously shredded an entire spool of magic rope all over the floor. She felt much better after that and went to bed. Dad woke up during the night, went into the living room, and saw the shredded mess. He did not, however, see the scissors. And then wondered if she was keeping them under her pillow and wasn’t able to go back to sleep. Now that is sneaky. I have so much work to do before I reach that level.

Revision: She didn’t shred an entire spool.  Just a little bit of it.  As she is telling me RIGHT NOW on the phone because she doesn’t want to seem crazy.  Like this is going to help.

Back to the weekend

So the trip to Louisiana was good, but we didn’t leave until almost 5 Friday afternoon.  No matter—the trip was easy and all went well.

C attended the services for her grandmother the next day while I lazed around my parents’ house and tried to keep my wits about me.  It’s always weird, but especially once you move, to realize you don’t live somewhere anymore.  That, and every time I visit my parents I get very jealous of their high ceilings.  Coming home to my apartment feels like entering a cave after that.

Saturday night I took my parents to dinner at Croakers where we met Heather and Casey.  The food was great and the service was terrible.  My mother had muttered something as we were walking in once she spied the waiter, but it became a joke as the meal went on.  He really was bad.

Sunday, C went back out to New Orleans to meet up with her family and Heather and Casey came over to my parents’ house for burgers and swimming.  Chris and Reva and Zia ended up stopping by as well on their way to Covington to see C’s parents some more.

Now this is what made me laugh harder than anything.  As Chris and Reva were getting ready to go, they mentioned that they weren’t going to tell C’s parents where they had been all afternoon (they hate me, you see).  And I started giggling before telling them, “Just say that you’ve gone to a house where there was swimming, hamburgers on the grill, homemade ice cream, and a magic show.  Nothing is more wholesome than that!  It just happens to be hosted by the parents of C’s evil girlfriend!”

Also, I think Reva is completely in love with my mother and wants to adopt her.  Upon arriving, Mom walks up and gives Reva a big hug.  Of course, that is followed by much cooing over Zia, who is now 17 months old and more precious than anything.  I think Heather and I started spontaneously ovulating at the sight of the cute baby.  Reva is commenting on how sad she is that she didn’t pack suits for any of them.  Mom, in typical Mom fashion, says “We have swimmy diapers!  Do you want me to take her swimming?”  Now, there is no real reason for my parents to have a cache of swimmy diapers, but they do.  Of course, they come in handy for the people they know with children, but it must have seemed REALLY weird to Reva.  Who is, of course, delighted.  And then Reva asks my mother about a small rash on Zia’s back.  Mom, who is holding Zia at this point, flips her over mid air, raises her shirt and says “Pffft.  That’s nothing.  Besides, the chlorine will kill it!”  And then she marches off with Zia.   At this point, Reva seems happy happy to have met a mother like mine.

The entire day and evening was very pleasant.  It was great to see Chris and Reva and my gorgeous niece.  I love spending time with Heather and Casey.  And of course, I love seeing my parents.  It almost made the late trip home worth it.   Almost.

The thing is, we didn’t get on the road until 7 p.m.   Which put us home at around 3:30 a.m.  I had taken over driving halfway home around Beaumont, but somewhere past Houston had to pull over and wake C up to start driving again.  I don’t know if it was the late hour, exhaustion, or the migraine, but my vision was blurry and I felt like crap.  Every “reduced speed ahead” sign mocked us, as did every sign telling us how far away from Austin we still were.  Driving along 290 is a god-awful experience and more boring than watching paint dry.  But we made it home and promptly fell asleep in time for C to go to work a few hours later.

Even better than Ghandi

While I’m on the subject of my childhood sleeping habits, I feel I should tell the story of how I got a new bed at age 8.

We had recently moved into a new house, the first house my parents bought and where they lived until I was 21.  Around this time, for whatever reason, I decided that I completely hated my bed and could no longer abide having to sleep in it every night.  As part of a prolonged, peaceful protest, I began sleeping on the floor.  I was very careful to do this in full view of my parents.

I began by sleeping in the hall directly outside my parents’ bedroom door, ensuring that they had to step over me every morning.  I was soon told that this was no longer allowed, as my mother frequently either tripped over me due to her lack of coffee or willfully stepped upon me in her effort to quash my rebellion.  Undaunted, I slept in my own doorway with my head poking out into the hallway.  This only took a few months before I was gifted with a new daybed.  I was a happy, happy child, oh yes.  Did they finally get tired of seeing me, in all my pathetic glory, sleeping on the floor like an orphan?  I’m still not sure.  But I surely did feel victorious.

At her request

In a comment to my last post, my mother insisted I disclose the real reason I stick my feet out of the covers. While this isn’t the reason any longer, it certainly was when I was a child.

I had weird rules during childhood. One of them was that my bedroom door remain open. The other was that if any person passed by my room on their way to bed they MUST stop and tell me goodnight or I love you. This mostly applied to my mother, because I apparently felt that I could control her behavior more easily. I worked out a signal, even, to let her know I was awake and she must stop and say something. I made it very clear: if you pass by and my feet are out of the covers, I am awake. Stop and speak. If I have pulled them in, I’m asleep and you may pass.

Of course, my feet stayed out whether I had fallen asleep or not. I don’t know why this signal/system seemed logical but whatever, I was 6. So naturally my mother stopped saying anything because my feet were always out regardless. But there were many times when she THOUGHT I was asleep and I was NOT so I shot up from bed as she passed and screamed “You didn’t tell me goodnight! I see you!!!!”

Now, though, I just have hot feet and I don’t like covers. I use what I call the “technicality blanket.” It’s a slip of sheet over my hip because to sleep with absolutely nothing feels weird but covers are too hot.

To you, Dad

I’m starting to think I haven’t given my dad his due. This is the thing: I am a fairly shy person. It might not be obvious but really, I am so shy. Especially when I have to stand up and talk in front of people. Last semester, I gave an in-class presentation and thought I was going to throw up the entire day before. Which is silly. But when it got down to it, I was fine. And that’s because when it was my turn I just took a deep breath and somehow channeled my father. You don’t grow up watching someone perform and speak to large groups of people without picking up a couple things here and there. And that got me thinking that, wow, my father has a lot more to do with how and who I am than I’ve been giving him credit for.

And I can’t even fully encompass how dad has influenced my music tastes. I am picky about music, god knows. But I’m picky about it based on whether the rhythm is interesting. I need syncopation because it’s the best thing in the entire world and nothing makes me happier than someone making damn good use of an unexpected upbeat. When I listen to music, I hear every part separated and can even be convinced to sing along with each part separately. Which my father does. All the time. It’s a good thing. I was raised on the radio and MTV and yes, I am fully a child of the 80s, but I was also listening to Stravinsky, Gershwin, Ellis Marsalis, Frank Zappa, Billy Cobham, and The Doobie Brothers. Hell, “Clear as the Driven Snow” still knocks me out and I know precisely why-there’s this part in 6/8, I think, overlapped over a part in 4/4 and it all comes together at the end and it blows my mind EVERY damn time. And every time I was listening to this music, either at home or in the car on a trip with dad, I was told to Listen. Listen to this part here. And that part alone would be sung for me and damn if I didn’t listen the whole time.

This musicality has influenced me in other ways. If my mother taught me to love words, my father taught me to love their cadence. Because when you get down to it, it’s the rhythm that counts. My love for poetry has sprung from this marriage of meaning and meter. And also, I’m thinking, my love for how language is used. My father uses language for a living-his words are crafted for timing and effect. And watching him my entire life has certainly led to my asking about how and why language can be shifted and manipulated. What are the nuances that count? Why this word and not its synonym? The fact that I chose linguistics as my field of study isn’t surprising, considering the hyper awareness of language that surrounded me.

I am realizing that my quirks and weird brain aren’t all from my mother (who is weird enough in her own right). They come from dad as well. I laugh at my own word transformations as much as he laughs at his own spoonerisms. I sing along with bass lines or a trumpet if that part is particularly thrilling. I can puzzle my way through anything. And I can command a room, if I have to. Mom taught me grace, to be sure, but dad taught me to wield it with style.

I love you, Da-dee.  Thanks for being exactly who you are.

What I ate when I went home

We returned to Austin last night and this time the weather during the drive was MUCH better. It had to be, barring an actual typhoon or something ramming into the car. Anyway, here is a photo-journal of my culinary experience at home. The people were great and all . . . but as I’ve mentioned before, we can talk to them on the phone. The food, not so much.

Anyway, Thursday C and I met Mom and went to Croaker’s, a seafood market/restaurant for lunch. And oh my god, we were happy. Just look at this . . .

Doesn’t that look good? Now, for the food-porn closeups:

This is what a roast beef poboy is supposed to look like. See that? Gravy mixing with mayonnaise to make a concoction that drips evilly down your wrists as you attempt to eat it. And this is dressed, which means that it comes with lettuce, tomato, and pickle. Basically, this is how the majority of South Louisiana eats their vegetables.

Incidentally, I also got extra gravy on the side for dipping the ends of the bread and my french fries into. Because fries in gravy are one step away from a french fry poboy. Moving on!

This is C’s shrimp poboy. She doesn’t get anything on it except mayonnaise, because she’s weird. I don’t always get my shrimp poboys dressed, but I at least put tartar sauce on it. Whatever. It was also very good and I stole some shrimp from her.

And, lastly, here is Mom’s shrimp platter which was astoundingly good. This not only came with french fries, but also hush puppies and toast. Because there just aren’t enough carbs in the world to make people happy.

Now, while I was sitting here taking pictures of the food and making Mom and C quite impatient, the cook strolled on out into the dining room. I had been having a good time chatting with the wait staff and was happy enough just to hear my home accent and bitching about the weather. But this boy walks out and starts laughing at me.

Cook: That good? You gotta take a picture?
Me: I’ve been homesick, this will make me feel better later.
Cook: Where you been?
Mom: They’ve been living in Austin for the past year (pointing at me and C).
Cook: Ohh, Austin. Got a brother that lives there. At his wedding, someone threw a crawfish boil. God, that was somethin awful. I tried really hard not to laugh. But it’s pretty!
Me: Oh yeah, very pretty. Just can’t get good seafood there.
Cook: When did yall get in?
C: Last night, we’re leaving Sunday.
Cook: (all kinds of shocked) You’re going back?!?! Why?

I mentioned this to M over email that night and she said that most people think it’s really cool when they find out you’re living in Austin. But not people around Slidell and New Orleans. They just give you a blank stare and ask “What in the hell do you eat?”

Anyway, that night Dad cooked for us and used his recently purchased smoker. Dad is already brilliant with barbecue and he’s really branching out with the smoker. It rocked, completely and utterly. Observe the smoked chicken thighs:

He also made smoked pork tenderloin which was equally delicious:

And for sides we had baked beans and Grandma’s Brown Rice. The beans are so black because they have molasses and other stuff in them. They are amazing and decadent:

Again, you will notice no vegetables in this meal, unless you count the mushrooms. Coleslaw was offered, but we were too impatient for it and there was plenty of food. It was incredible.

The next morning we went for brunch at Court of Two Sisters, which I’ve already written about. That night, B and her family came over for Roast Beef, more brown rice, fresh green beans and . . . cake. The best cake. The ultimate cake . . . the Better Than Sex Cake. There are TONS of versions and ways to make this, but B makes it best. It was amazing.

Then it was Saturday and time for the crawfish boil. C and I ran up to Vincent’s Seafood to pick up 30 pounds of live crawfish (at only $1.19 a pound, take THAT Quality Seafood in Austin) and then we ran to the store to get things to dump in there with it. Upon getting back to the house, I started making my potato salad and C, um, watched tv. Then Heather and Casey showed up with their dogs and we got started. Casey did a wonderful job boiling the crawfish along with the corn, mushrooms, onions, and garlic cloves. Quite tasty, all of it. I mean, just check out my crawfish!!!

Normally, you just put a bunch of newspaper down and pour the crawfish from the pot onto the table, but my mother has weird rules about newspaper that she has and has not read yet, even if it’s from 3 years ago, there might be something REALLY important in there that she needs and if you touch her unread newspaper THE FIRE OF HADES WILL RAIN DOWN UPON YOU OH MY GOD I’M COMPLETELY SERIOUS. So we found these seafood trays instead.

I didn’t get any pictures of the corn, because by the time that and the mushrooms came out, my hands already looked like this:

This is not at all good for holding your digital camera. Or scratching your face. Or doing anything, really, besides peeling more crawfish. Which is what I did, with some help from Casey, Dad, and C. I also cut the rest of the corn off the cob and brought it all back to Austin with me so I can make some crawfish-corn bisque. And people everywhere around me will be jealous. I might also use some of the crab-boiled corn to make spicy cornbread. G and M have already been informed of my culinary plans and invited for the yum-yums when they happen.

So, now I’m back home and while it is nice to see the cats and be around my stuff again, I’m kind of craving another poboy. And frankly, looking at these pictures isn’t quite cutting it. Oh well.