Emails from the edge

Welcome! Welcome to a new sporadic segment on my blog where I feature the ridiculous and sometimes offensive emails I receive through the web site I manage. Like most sites, ours has a general "contact us"-type account. This means my inbox is the final destination for all sorts of dispatches from the confused, disturbed, angry or downright arrogant.

My identity as "contact us" goes way back. Some of the most interesting messages reached me when I managed city sites from 1999 to 2001. (I remember the day in 2000 I knew my job was in trouble, when I read that city sites were "so 1997.") People never really understood if we were a government site (we weren't), a chamber of commerce site (sort of), or just a commercial site (bingo), so we'd get all sorts of letters like "you are a blight on our city's educational system" or "there's a typo on the sign at the local cemetery." Poor, lowly "contact us" was the target of so much vitriol.

And so I present to you, my faithful readers, a note I received yesterday. A faculty member from another school wrote, distressed that he couldn't find a professor's email on our site (he didn't look hard enough. It was in the same place most schools post faculty emails--on the departmental page).

"A few minutes ago I heard your Professor XX on [the radio]. I went to your website to find his e-mail so that I could send him a comment. To my surprise, unless I have overlooked it, you do not list the e-mail addresses of your faculty. If so, yours must be one of the few American colleges and universities that does not. I would think that any school that wanted to encourage scholarship (and be recognized for that as your site suggests you do) would list that information. Of course, I would be grateful if you would forward XX's address to me."

What a little nugget of emotion. The initial interest, followed by surprise, and then a quick souring disgust at our clearly lesser institution, all ending with gratitude in advance for a favor. Of course, I thanked him for his comment and sent a link for the page that does, in fact, list Prof. XX's email. All in a day's work.

Office malaise

I think I need a mental health day. My office malaise has solidified into a delicate balance of restlessness and eyes-propped-open sleepiness. I fear if the equilibrium gets disrupted, I may implode. Ah well, it's all a part of the spring fever that hits on a perfectly gorgeous day like today. I can look out my window and see students in shorts and flipflops.

Anyway, I will have to wait another week and a half for my mental health day. Might as well take it Friday the 7th, when my couch arrives. Welcome, powder-blue couch for short people!

Conversation with a young genius

I've been amusing myself by imagining a conversation between myself and my friend MC's 1.5-year-old, whom I will call J.Wren.

Shorttina: So, J.Wren, what are you working on these days?

J.Wren: I have two very important projects--the sounds animals make and the parts of the face. I've been working to differentiate "qak qak" from "vuf vuf," but my research is still preliminary. I suspect Mommy will need to take me to the park a few more times before I can solidify my findings.

S: Wow, that sounds like pretty hard work.

J.W: Yes, and I'm on deadline to expand my vocabulary from the "oh-oh" and "this" I've been relying on. This week, I quit taking naps so I could maximize my productivity. I really want to finish up so I can move on to my summer tricycle training. Also, I'm looking forward to hammering on things.

S: Mommy will be so proud. Do you pursue any hobbies in your free time?

J.W: I enjoy putting rocks and other squiggly things from the yard into my mouth.

More to come....

Happiness is a hard-boiled egg on your salad

All this preparation and moving has served as a god excuse to eat a lot of crap. This weekend, I ate quesadillas, donuts, a chicken finger SANDWICH. Even with all the up-and-down the ladder, paint-rolling, etc., I feel like a big blob. So I grabbed a salad from the coffee shop at lunch and the thing that makes it moderately satisfying is the lovely google-eye of half a hard-boiled egg.

I'm making some egg-and-olive salad this week.

In a not-unrelated matter, I was reading the current edition of Martha Stewart Living, and Martha's letter was all about eggs (with some great recipes for poached eggs and hollandaise. Say what you will about Martha, but her recipes are good). I was most struck, though, with the way she obfuscated her prison term as if she had been away on a long business trip. She mentioned "moving to her new home" in Bedford, NY, and how she was looking forward to mastering her new sewing machine (subtext: she's under house arrest and can't go outside to work in the garden).

Of course, you may say, what else is she gonna do? I'm glad she at least makes reference to her jail stint. It's all just so uniquely Martha. Well, welcome home, gal. Now that my neighbor Bren is off the show, I can't wait to see Martha's version of the Apprentic. Read more dispatches from Martha about her "time in West Virginia" here.

Putting the "pain" in painting

Well, another weekend's come and gone. Hearts were broken, but progress was made. Walls in two rooms that required a second coat received it. Saturday, my sister pointed out that the ceilings we painted last weekend were horribly uneven. They were so uneven, in fact, that they almost looked plaid. Apparently the previous owners used a brownish shade of white on the ceilings, which contrasted nicely with our movie-star-teeth white.

So yesterday I spot-rolled two ceilings and brushed around the edges. They still don't look great, so I'll just thank my guests in advance for not scrutinizing or commenting on the ceilings.

All that's left now is trim touch-ups, assuming the paint we matched to the existing trim does actually match. I discovered yesterday that the molding near the ceiling is flat, whereas the shoe molding, which we have matched, is semigloss. So, the top molding (it's too thin to qualify as "crown molding," which is why I'm not calling it that) will likely remain unpainted. I thank future guests in advance for not noting that someone got over-zealous with the roller and smudged the molding quite a few times.

The security door is another story of heartbreak. Specifically, it's too big and opens on the wrong side. (Didn't think a door could open on the wrong side, did ya? Well, it can.) Also, it's extremely heavy so making the exchange is easy but transporting it back and forth is not. Because someone else in my family who shall remain nameless insisted on getting the larger door although I cautioned against it, that person now is figuring out how to transport it. And he is very, very cranky.

Other news: I totally wimped out and paid some people to do more work in my yard. They cleaned out all the beds and did major weed removal and spreading of the giant compost hill that used to be a tree. It was so worth the money.

Matronly upper arms

This post is going to be completely ridiculous, so don't read it if you don't want to hear me make fun of my arms.

That said, I have what Janeane Garafalo calls Matronly Upper Arms. I do have some muscle tone. Hell, even when I was doing yogic elbow balances everyday (which isn't actually standing on your elbows--it's standing on your forearms), my arms weren't cut.

If I hold my arm out and look at it, it looks ok. It's three-dimensional and fairly normal. It's when I look in the mirror and I'm standing with arms pressed against my sides that they spread out rather amorphously. The solution may be to walk around with my arms held slightly out from my body in Hulk stance, like I'm about to flex. But that would just be silly.

Frozen frat boy on a stick

Here in the land of dramatic weather turnarounds, we had a rather violent storm this morning, and now we're being whipped by winds and the temperture is going to drop about 45 degrees by tomorrow night.

My student worker is deeply dismayed by all of it. He grew up in Texas, "at the southernmost tip of tornado alley," so apparently he awoke when the storm hit at 5:30 this morning and, as is customary, checked the weather online. He already had several instant messages along the lines of "We're gonna die!" from other TX- and OK-hometowners.

I slept through most of it myself. I don't think the storm passed over my neighborhood in the same force as it hit the college. I did wonder briefly if all the roses at my new house, which bloomed sometime between Monday and yesterday, would be beaten to death by hail. Yesterday, the entire backyard smelled of roses. It was amazing.

Anyway, we all survived the storm (one student's fancy Audi was crushed by a tree. Waaah.). But poor student worker has more discomfort bestowed by nature ahead of him this weekend. He and his fraternity brothers have rented cabins at a nearby lake, and the temps will be dropping to 38 tomorrow night. As soon as I told him, he hopped on his cell and started calling people to advise them about warm clothing.

He amuses me so much! Such an adult sense of responsibility, even in preparation for a raging kegger. These millennials, they truly are a different generation.

Spinning a yarn

There's a big yarn sale at (where else?) the yarn store today, so I'm going to head over during lunch and load up on even more yarn I probably won't have time to mess with for the next six months. Guess there'll be frenzied knitting come November so everyone will receive yarn-based Xmas gifts.

In a not-unrelated matter, the giant spider has returned to my office window after wintering somewhere--perhaps the creepy, dirty boiler room below me. We get big, fat flies in our office. The theory was that they came to snack on the tasty treats we always used to have on the conference room table, but our secretary relocated to another part of campus, and along with her went all the birthday parties and sugar-based celebrations.

But the flies are still here, coming in through my and the new secretary's open windows. I thought my spider friend was long dead, but last week a fly got caught in the web I thought abandoned. Oh great, it's going to buzz like a pencil sharpener on speed until exhausts itself, but then the spider came trotting out to take care of business. It's a big fucker, too.

I would be completely hsyterical about the spider if it weren't eight feet up the wall in the window corner, in a place I would never linger. When it's finished eating, it throws fly carcasses down onto the window sill, and I can't even reach over there, beyond my ridiculously huge desk, to brush them off. Obviously, we're not dealing with a jumping spider, or it would have sucked my brains out long ago.

No, it's just a little nature in action at the office, my own collegiate Wild Kingdom.

Mandarin orange sugar-bombs

Not a lot to report. Just plodding along, waiting for another weekend filled with house-painting, etc. I went to a ladies-who-lunch place with Sasha today, which was very pleasant. It's in the middle of a big antique mall, but a nice antique mall with tasteful roomlet displays, like at the furniture store. I call it "the antique mall for those with crippling allergies" because it's the most dust-free antique mall I've ever seen.

I had the mushroom bisque and spinach salad with bacon, bleu cheese, almonds and mandarin oranges. There was fancy basil-butter for the bread. Good stuff.

MC says mandarin oranges are actually little freak-of-nature fruits that manufacturers shoot full of sugar-water. This makes me sad, because they're so delicious. I read once that they're very heart-healthy, too. There were only three little ones on my salad, so they couldn't have been too damaging.

Frickin' computers!

I'm having a moment. It's a job-related, computer-generated moment. It's been building up, really, because I've had to attend to the minutiae of techy stuff all week including, at times, griping from the techier factions when I don't have the exact info they want (but then, they relied on me as a messenger so what do they expect)?

The frustrating moments of this job definitely are the ones when people are talking about computer things I don't understand. They just don't get it because they're immersed in server-side issues all day long, but from my office it's all very abstract. Generally, they don't want me poking around in the servers any way, so how am I supposed to have any better concept of it than the futuristic, air-conditioned room with all the black boxes?

Which reminds me, Alias is on tonight. Joanna has totally gotten me sucked into that show. It's such an absurd opera, rife with family dramas on a near-Oedipal level. Jennifer Garner is so pouty. She needs to work on her range of facial expressions. I like her dad on the show--I don't care if he's secretly evil. I think eventually the Argentine sister (and does anyone else wonder why she's so Latin-looking, if both her parents were pasty as can be? Like just living in Argentina made her Latin-by-osmosis?) will be killed off because she's prettier than J. Garner. Just a theory.

Suburban gothic

Yesterday I got home early enough to take a walk on a lovely, windy day. You see a lot of the same people when you walk regularly, and you vaguely get to know (at least on a "hello") basis who lives where in the neighborhood. It'll be interesting to see new faces on my walks once I move, though the new house is so close I only have to cross one major street to be back on my old walking route.

As I cleared a hill, I could see a young couple up ahead, hanging out by a beat-up car parked at the curb. I judged that they were 18 or 20. The girl had the look of someone who avoids the outdoors--pasty skin, no muscle tone. Long, long blonde hair and loose, black clothing. In other words, she looked just like I did at 18 or 20. The boy was very tall and thin with whispy, thin hair down to his shoulders. He was also wearing black (maybe a t-shirt for The Cult--is that still possible? I mean, do people still care about The Cult?) and smoking a cigarette.

In other words, he could have been a boyfriend when I was 18 or 20.

They were leaning in sullen, unhappy postures and eying me as I neared them. The girl smiled, pointed to her companion and said, "I'm in love with this man and he won't come back to me."

Somehow, I hadn't expected that statement from her. "I'm sorry, that sounds pretty rough," I returned, and kept walking. What was I supposed to say? I feel your pain? Get used to it? It probably won't be the last time?

I'm glad I'm not 18 or 20 anymore.

Ho hum

I'm killing time waiting for this software guy to call me for a demo. He's now 15 minutes late. It's chat software, and if you linger on the company's site too long, a rep will pop up and start trying to talk to you. Very big brother and a little freaky, but also weirdly impressive. Apparently, it's part of the software package. Go to digichat.com to try it out.

So, someone just messaged me from the site b/c I was hanging out there, waiting for my call, and he was able to go look around the office and find out my rep is stuck in a meeting. That kind of diminishes the mystique a bit, but it's comforting to know they're real people in an office, too. You start to wonder sometimes if these reps are question-answer bot programs or maybe sales cyborgs doing the ultimate duty to their companies.

Yesterday, I chatted with a rep at another company around 3 pm CST, and he mentioned it was 4 am where he was (his point was that support is always easy to contact). I think the company was Shanghai-based, though he may have been in India or, who knows, the Philippines.

Call me old-fashioned, but anonymous chatting still freaks me out a little. It smacks of illicit behavior, though all the reps I've chatted with are totally professional. I've gotten internet support on a couple of products that way too, but I just like a face, or at least a voice. The couple of times I've been in recreational chat rooms, I've been a wallflower, or worse yet, a lurker. It's like a dance club--everyone's shouting out and showing off, and no one is really having a conversation. I loved clubbing when I was 18, but it's not really my scene anymore.

Adventures in color theory

Well, some major progress has been made in painting my house. We completed the most hateful part--rolling the ceilings--on Saturday. Dios mio, did that suck! Unlike my sister, who has the copious free time to do weight training, I have flabby chicken arms, and I did most of the ceiling (with help from my dad, for which I am eternally grateful). Also, being a person of shortness increased my distance from the ceiling, so I had to scurry around a lot, dragging the roller.

The good news is, the purple room is no longer purple, and the blue-green that covered it now looks blue-green instead of scary Malibu Barbie aqua. You know the color I mean? When I was a kid in the late '70s my Malibu Barbie had a signature aqua bathing suit and dresses.

Those color theorists really had it going on. When we started painting over the demure peach of the master bedroom with a kind of pistachio green, the old color sprung into baby-girl pink. The room looked incredibly preppie for a while. Suprisingly, the peach has been harder to cover than the purple, though both rooms will need a light second coat. It's too soon to tell on the third room, brown/tan now covered with blue-green.

The blue-green is a gorgeous color. I almost like it better than the green, but I can't really admit that because the master bedroom is now green, and I must learn to love it. The green is close to my current bedroom, and I thought it would be a good transition to the new house to keep that color. Either way, it'll be fine. The main thing is to keep the house light and airy and make the most of the natural light.

Rites of spring is hell

At my dear alma mater, also my employer, there is a yearly festival of debauchery called Rites of Spring. It's starting up right outside my window at this moment, which means I'll be fleeing in about five minutes. Right now the music is pulsing against my window, drowning out Belle and Sebastian playing from the speakers on my desk.

So, every year bands play in the college quad (outside my window), and the entire area is fenced in to prevent interlopers and alcohol (which means everyone makes frequent trips to their rooms for refreshments of liquid and other varieties). I had my share of fun at Rites, but my second year I glimpsed the seamy underside and it was never the same after that.

That year, my angst had reached fever pitch after a recent breakup with my one and only Punk-rock Boyfriend. I joined in some of the drinking, but mostly felt sad and noticed the undercurrent of sadness in everyone else. I remember one incident in particular where I was in a room with group of people, and somehow everyone left except me and this one guy I didn't know very well.

I don't even remember his name now--but I can still picture that he had a lot of freckles. He had always appeared to be a particularly happy fellow, and all of a sudden he was sitting next to me quietly recounting all the slights and loneliness that were weighing him down. He talked on and on in a quiet voice and I kept thinking, this dude was extolling the virtues of St. Louis, city of beers, ten minutes ago.

And so it went. My junior year, probably my most chaotic, I boycotted Rites almost entirely. Also, Kurt Cobain died. Springtime always seemed particularly hard, especially during college. End of term pressures combined with the threat of empty summer, with its move home from the dorms and dull days. So, my mood wasn't ever especially light around Rites.

But, this wasn't going to be my point. I wanted to dwell on the disturbing chain link fence put up at various points to keep people in/out. It always brings to mind a refugee camp. When I was a student (I hear this next policy no longer is in effect), they basically shut down the refectory and served all meals outside. Basically, it was damage control. (People got so crazy, broken toilets in the dorms were a regular casualty. I don't mean clogged, either--we're talking smashed porcelain. Or so I've been told; I never saw one, so it may be a Rites legened.)

So, you're fenced in, your eating crappy cookout food while squatting in the grass. It was the epitome of degradation. It was like wartime. And we all know war is hell. From this, I derive the simple equation:

Rites of Spring = War = Hell.

Worth celebrating

Gentle friends, tonight my parents and I are going out to celebrate a very special occasion. I'm not exaggerating when I say it's a milestone that comes along only once in life and should be marked with joy and gratitude.

What's the big event, you ask?

It's not what you're expecting--it's not my purchase and impending move to my very own home with its ridiculously huge yard (last weekend I finally was able to say that I was out standing in MY field--that joke is so lame, it always cracks me up). It's not an engagement, or a birth, or some stroke of financial good fortune.

No, we are celebrating the five-year (give or take a few days--I don't have the date marked) anniversary of my mother's having kicked cancer's ass. Five years ago, she was diagnosed with breast cancer and had surgery to remove it. In the following months, she had chemotherapy to ensure that there would be no metastasis from trace amounts of cancer cells found in a couple of lymph nodes.

Five years holds more significance than mathematical neatness. After five years of being free from breast cancer, one's likelihood of having a recurrence drops dramatically. So the monster that's been trailing you, always a few steps behind but not so far that you can't hear it grunting, finally gives up and sits down in the middle of the road. You keep running, and the last time you look over your shoulder, it disappears over the horizon. You don't wave goodbye.

My mother's resilience has been an inspiration the past few years. She never looked back, and though she certainly worried about a recurrence, she put all the pain and trauma of surgery and chemo behind her quickly. As horrible as the whole experience was, I am blessed to have lived through the happy outcome because it gave me the chance to appreciate my mother while I still have her here. Viva Mom!

Coffee and the bottom line

It has come to my attention that I spend around $15/week for fancy coffee drinks. This includes only weekday trips to the on-campus coffee bar. On the other hand, I bring my lunch to work 3-4 days a week, so it could be worse.

Still, this means I'm spending about $60/month on coffee. Holy crap! These heady days of new home-ownership have given me the surprise gift of many new bills, and $60/month could easily cover the cable/internet I've been planning to do without. On the other hand, I enjoy my daily walk across campus, and there's no denying the simple truth: caffeine is life.

Maybe I'll just downgrade my order to a simple cuppa joe, at $1.15ish. I could drink the office swill, but it truly is some swill that is swill.

Call me boss-lady

I hired a second student to work for me next year, along with the young man I currently employ. I get along quite well with my current student. He sometimes skips out on work, but probably less than he does on class since he's motivated by the paycheck (we've actually discussed this fact before). He does good work and has an eye for detail, and although some around the office find him a bit surly (really, he's just shy or terse, but not intentionally surly) he has never, ever given me bad attitude. Which is more than I can say for some of the "adults" I've managed in the past.

So, we're cool. I hired another guy for next year, and he may turn out to be a character. He's kind of high strung and a self-described computer geek. I like him and know he has tremendous skills, and he seems willing to work very hard. He also seems like a handful. He reminds me of my computer geek friends from when I was in college--the ones who would stay up for days on end just because they were frenetic little people. They worked hard, procrastinated hard, played hard. If they were overstimulated ten years ago when the Web was barely more than multi-user dungeons and personal home pages, this kid is travelling at the speed of light.

I have high hopes for him, but he is an odd one (I haven't even mentioned his family's unusual business--alligator ranch). Today I encountered him on my way back from the afternoon walk to get coffee. It was raining and I had my hair in a ponytail, which seems to make people not recognize me. But I passed him and said "hi," and he just kind of stared blankly. I would prefer that people I am going to pay $10/hour (that's pretty damn good for student, remember) would say "hello." He's only seen me a couple of times, so maybe he just didn't recognize me. But, I think it's more plausible he was just stoned.

And that amuses me, so that will be my conclusion for the time being. A rainy Monday in springtime--what else would a 20-year-old be doing?

Crowbar through the door

This time, I am talking literally, but the story has a happy ending.

So, I got over to the house late Saturday morning. Picked up paint on Friday, but had to go back with a little piece of trim surgially removed from the shoe molding so they could match the glossy white. Because you know, not all whites are the same.

Will spare all the details, but sometime when I got back to the house, I noticed two unmistakeable crowbar imprints in my back door, between the deadbolt lock and the knob. This is the only door on the house that doesn't have some sort of reinforced metal outer door. It was pretty obvious, so I was sure I would have noticed it before.

Imagine the sinking feeling. Someone had tried to break into my empty house. There have been several incidents of robberies, and even an attempted home invasion in my new neighborhood recently. This is a nice neighborhood, folks, but it's near some major streets and let's face it. The city I live in is a crime-ridden armpit. Also, I have a theory that people go crazy and get brazen in the springtime.

Anyway, I felt pretty sick and depressed. I want to feel safe in my home. I really thought I had made a huge mistake. The evening before, I had sat in the backyard and marvelled at how quiet it was--just me and the birds, chirping and dive-bombing the birdbath. Now I thought I might not even want to be in my backyard at night. Would I have to install the obnoxious motion-detector floodlights that I scorn?

First things being first, after doing a tiny bit of painting, I went to Home Depot with my dad and bought a steel security door. While I was signing the papers, my house's former-owner called (I had left her a message) to deliver the news that the crowbar marks were not, indeed, fresh. No, the house was broken into four years ago, before she had an alarm or good locks.

HUGE RELIEF.

Still, I'm getting the damn door. It's being installed this week.

Brick through the window

No, not literally.

This morning I received what my boss calls a "brick through the window." That's when someone calls you out of the blue with a major project and expects you to drop everything to address it immediately. And this doesn't include minor crises, which I address daily. No, this is a real project that will involve conference calls and help from numerous co-workers who also have busy schedules and their own projects and bricks through the window.

This person actually wanted me to talk to her vendors today, and I had to say, "I'm leaving early today and, next week I'm booked with another major project through Wednesday." She was taken aback that I might have 1. a personal life that sometimes takes me away early on a Friday and 2. other real work and obligations.

Contrary to appearances, I don't sit in my office all day eating bonbons and writing on my blog. And pining for people to call me up and give me assignements.

There, how's that for bitter? I promise my blog will not become a repository of vitriol. I just need to make it through the next few weeks and move into home, sweet home.

Another day of unwarranted crankiness

I'm knocking off from work early today to go run errands for the house. Among my plans: buy a small bookcase that will sort of match my discontinued bedside table, therefore serving as a second bedside table (the eclectic look!); meet a man about an alarm system; buy paint at "Sharon Williams," as my dad pronounces it. I don't know why he always leaves out the "w" in "Sherwin." Possibly a hidden southernism that just hasn't revealed itself until now.

If yesterday was any preview of the weekend, I can say with certainty that there will be a large amount of unnecessary crankiness and sniping. That's my family's way of dealing with any big event, happy or stressful. I'm pretty irritated and worn down by it already. Am I the only member of my family that thinks things can actually be simple and accomplished without arguments and endless consideration of minutitae? Apparently so.

Cake and dysfunction

I attended a division-wide birthday party this morning. Although I enjoy my immediate department of co-workers, our extended family is pretty dysfunctional. I'm lucky because my office is in a stately old building in the middle of campus, overlooking the busy quadrangle. The rest of our division is stuck in a hot, old house in an untraveled corner of campus.

The close quarters must breed pettiness over there, b/c news reaches me fairly often about the bad behavior and turf wars. By comparison, my department, though full of strong personalities, really does cooperate pretty well. I guess we're a healthy mix while the people across the street mostly are, well, how do I say it nicely? The majority of them are Junior League bitches.

So we went over to mingle with the matching haircut people--many of these ladies are my age but look 5-10 years older. It must be related to their hair. I have a lot of ire built up toward them, which is somewhat unfair. They've only done a handful of petty and obnoxious things to me, but I have several years' worth of annoyance built up from working with the same types at other jobs: the clueless and complete sense of entitlement. The leaving work early to get regular pedicures. The name-dropping. The incessant chatter about little junior, or planning to have a little junior. Worst of all, the talk of dieting. New diet, failed diet, need for diet, speculation on so-and-so's diet.

Oh, I could go on but would be giving them more attention than they deserve. I was glad we didn't have cake, though. Instead there were tiny quiches, fruit, and bagels. The matching haircuts sat on one side of the room, and the secretaries on the other. I sat with the secretaries.

Rules of conduct

It's been one of those days when I have to remember Tammi's sister's rule: If two or less people in a day seem like assholes, then they're probably assholes. If more than two people in a day seem like assholes, you're probably the one being the asshole. For most of today, everyone has been an asshole!!

It's better now, though, because I can go home in a few more minutes.

I will use my last minutes at work to recount a bit more about my trip to New Orleans. The first night we were there, I went with my friend and her boyfriend to the Napoleon House. I was really pleased to go there b/c the last time I was in New Orleans, Yvette (the bride) and I had tried to go on SuperBowl Sunday, but b/c it was Sunday they were closing early. We looked through the glass doors and could see people inside still finishing up their meals, so of course that made it all the more enticing.

So, Hayden, Richard and I got in this time and sat in the lovely plant-filled courtyard, sipping Pimm's Cups (a superior springtime cocktail). The level of decrepitude in Napoleon House is quite impressive. In fact, while we were there something (presumably a paint chip or cockroach) fell from the wall or ceiling and onto the plate of a nearby diner. It was all taken in stride--apologies all around, a new plate and a move to a table further from the funky wall.

I had a declicious Corsican Salad loaded with gorgonzola cheese--yum! Don't usually care for the raspberry vinaigrette, but their version wasn't cloying. Wonderful meal with the balmy breeze keeping us just shy of sweltering.

And now it's time for me to go home.

Killer-bee killer

Gentle readers, if you are offended by the wanton stomping of stinging insects, read no further.

There is a certain professor at my institution who teaches a much-lauded class about and involving honey bees. He is adored by students, but administrators look upon him and weep. I think both reactions are based on the fact that he spends much of his time acting like a 14-year-old.

Yesterday, it was a gorgeous, windy day. I left my casement window open so it could slide back and forth on its useless metal track, occasionally banging closed. I heard a buzzing up near the flourescent light and assumed it was one of the giant flies we get in the office (presumably b/c we usually have some sugar-based bee-nirvana out on the conference table.

Later, I noticed it was a bee. By then it had landed on the carpet and wasn't moving. I like to think it was about to expire anyway, but just for good measure, I stomped it good several times. Bee allergies are common, so I probably saved someone's life. And yes, I got a secret pleasure from taking out a little aggression on one of Dr. X's busy little friends.

NOLA hangover

My tiredness is deep right now. Just flew in from New Orleans last night. Will have much more to recount about this trip later, after I've made it through a day at the office playing catch-up and then slept about 12 hours.

All the tourism brochures tell the truth--New Orleans is quite a singular place. Sure, there's a lot of gaudy tourist crap engineered to deliver the "New Orleans experience," but it doesn't take much effort to scratch below the surface and get at least a peek at the true weirdness and decadence of the city. Basically, stay off Bourbon Street (and really only one part of Bourbon--some of it is lovely and quiet) and you'll avoid 80% of the frat boys.

The French Market is the same way. Yes, there are 17 stalls selling the same beignet mix I can buy at the grocery store back home and another 5 stalls hawking Kate Spade knockoffs (which are tempting), but I got some sterling jewelry at a great price, and four ceramic rice bowls (lovely celadon with a brown rim) for $8.

One other shopping coup: a pair of Vietnamese bamboo flip-flops to replace an identical pair I bought with MC last year (and she, as is our tradition, also bought a matching pair). Last year's pair has begun to lose some bamboo strips, and I've been wringing my hands about them, trying to devise some glue or duct-tape repair.

Oh, and the wedding was lovely, the bride even lovelier. The groom's family are the nicest Long-Islanders who ever were. I can say this with authority because I lived there.