First, the silliness....
Yes, that's me with powdered dye all over me. My partner in all this mayhem is none other than the irrepressible Alicia. This was technically an occasion to celebrate Holi, the Hindu spring festival held in India and Nepal, also called the festival of colors. But Alicia and I used the occasion to celebrate her completing her MA exam. Chantalle, who elected to maintain the purity of her clothes, acted as camerawoman not only for Alicia and I but also for several other UTK students wanting to memorialize the event. Everything was fun and frolic until the water guns were loaded up. The cool weather simply did not lend itself to the shot I took to the back.
People who know me must realize that I've never done anything even as remotely insane as this (well, maybe back in my Job's Daughter days). Now I see what's been missing in my life--powdered dye! While said dye came out of my hair and skin, my Hermitage tee, a pair of jeans, hard-to-reach spots in my wristwatch, and my formerly white bra will serve as reminders of the day I celebrated a friend's accomplishment by being decorated like an Easter egg.
The evening after celebrating Holi, Adrien and his "honeys" met at Waffle House for a much-needed breakfast-for-dinner. It was waffles for Alicia, Chantalle, Minami, and me while Adrien bucked the trend with a breakfast sandwich. With much merriment, we stayed long at our table in the fairly deserted Waffle House. Conversation grew so lively that Chantalle felt no compunction about stating quite loudly that she'd gladly prostitute herself in order to visit Rome. Adrien immediately shushed her: "You can't talk like that in Waffle House." Waffle House is at once a sacred place and a place where lonely truck drivers might want to help Chantalle earn her plane ticket.
This past weekend was given over to cave time. While the weather was nice, I chose to do some reading by the pool. Guess who is already working on his tan?
It's Leatherback! He has a new cooler for his generic beer but he still stays entertained with weird music from what appears to be a little radio (hell, it might be an old cassette tape player!)
By Japan class on Tuesday I had recovered from the early Leatherback sighting and was ready to get down to business. But the need for social interaction was strong--and not just for me. At break, I checked my FB and saw that Dr. Bob had inexplicably posted a photo of nefarious historical figure John C. Calhoun.
Chantalle, always looking for an excuse to go out, suggested that dinner at Calhoun's on the River was now in order. Next thing you know, Chantalle, Nick, Tess, Michael, and me were tucked into a booth for some delicious Southern cooking.
But the dining out experiences were not yet complete.
Enter the stupidity....
In this instance, the stupidity came in the form of a surly little blonde waitress named Yvette. (Apologies here to the "real" Yvette--this girl brought no credit to the name you share.).
Wednesday class being horrific as ever, it was decided that between the end of class and Minami's kendo demonstration at the International House on campus, a group of us would dine at Cracker Barrel. Michael and Nick provided chauffeur services for Alicia, Chantalle, Tess, Catherine, and me. First, a Cracker Barrel was chosen that was actually quite some distance from campus. Poor choice. Upon arrival, drinks were ordered--which order Yvette promptly got wrong. The next ordering process, that of food, seemed especially difficult for Yvette to manage, considering that her order-taking notepad was wet and she seemed oddly clueless. Somehow she managed. I mentioned to this dimwit that we were in a hurry, but those words were either: (1) incomprehensible to her; or (2) seen by her as an opportunity to delay us as much as possible. It was forty minutes before we saw Yvette again, in spite of a light crowd in the restaurant overall. Changing the orders for Alicia, Michael, and Chantalle to take-out (oh, I cancelled my order altogether--no way was I going to spend money on this shitty service), Yvette decides at this point to bring the food out for those at the table who were staying. Once again, however, she got the order wrong (Tess' cheese omelette came with a long slice of bacon in the middle, which Yvette informed her was the "standard omelette.")
I was so angry by this time and so concerned that we would miss Minami's demonstration. Michael drove like a cautious-but-crazy man to get us back to campus, right in the nick of time. Or so we thought.
Racing in to International House, we breathlessly asked for directions. That's when a big Australian guy lying on a couch in the reception room advised us that tickets were necessary AND that tickets were sold out. The vein in my forehead began to throb.
Into Stella to dejectedly drive Chantalle and Alicia to their apartments. Leaving Alicia's, I was unsure how to find the freeway (shut up, I've only been here for eight months). I asked Siri for directions home, and that helpful electronic miss began to guide me. It wasn't until I was well north of town and she told me to "continue on this road for 165 miles" that I realized something was wrong. Yes, that bitch Siri was directing me to the town of Home, Minnesota.
So many iterations of the word "fuck" were used when I corrected direction and drove home that I'm sure some of them must have been new to mankind.
Finally, syllabi....
Syllabi is the word of the semester. I must develop one for my African American seminar and one for my Teaching World History class. For two long days, I have worked on my African American assignment, putting my nose to the grindstone with such ferocity and focus that today I found a note on my laptop.
Guess it's time for more social-me!
Knighty-Knight from Knoxville....
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