Gold Shoes and the Krewe de Vieux

It has begun.

Beads, condoms, commemorative cups, and shouts of "Happy Carnival!" were flying everywhere last night as festivities kicked off with the Krewe de Vieux parade and ball. I wore a fabulous pink wig, tights the color of electric Kool-Aid, an absurdly short and shiny dress, and glittery gold high-tops. I got used to being called "Pinky," and earned some special plastic jewels without baring any additional skin.

Satiric floats (Fanny Mae giving it doggy-style to Uncle Sam...) and hilariously decked out folks (read: retirees dressed as sperm) paraded amidst brass bands and hip-shakers. As the procession finally passed- we added ourselves to it and flaunted our stuff out of the Marigny and toward the old school were the Ball was being held. We stopped in to a bar on the way, where I met a pair of fabulous drag-queens who awarded me an almost-vintage bracelet comprised entirely of small plastic high-heels. Turns out, guy is the HR director at a private school down here... This afternoon I emailed him my resume.

A shot of Jaeger and a beer later, we arrive at the post-parade-party where folks dressed as EVERYTHING you could imagine boogied down to some awesome local brass bands until later than we could handle. Awoke this morning to a beautifully balmy, sunny day more reminiscent of May than February. Went to breakfast with blue-glitter still all over my eyes.

Tracing the weekend backward- Friday afternoon was a good time. I reluctantly agreed to go with my roommate Ashlee and take 2 of my her seventh-graders to the mall after school. Turns out they were absolutely fun. They were horrified of being seen by someone they knew while riding in my car. They ducked and hid at every stop. As I drove a legal 60mph on the freeway, one of them asks "Ms. Cratever- is this as fast as it goes?"

"I'm going the speed limit," I respond.

"The speed limit!?!" They screech in unison, like it's the most absurd thing they've ever heard. "Man- people don't drive like that down here. Man, if my grandma was behind you- she'd be cursin' you out."

They helped me find my long-dreamt-of gold shoes and told me that foreal- I'd be the illest teacher at school if I wore my new kicks there. They were drastically more mature than my sixth graders. (One of them recently had a baby.)

Speaking of mature- and the opposite of that--

In the computer lab earlier that day, I heard one of my off-task students talking about syphallis.

"What are you talking about?" I asked him with my best appalled-face.

"You know what syphallis is Ms. Craven?"

"Ew, yes. Why are you talking about that? You have work to do!" But my "eww" wasn't enough to quelch (squelch?) their interest and another student quickly google-image-searched the disease. Pictures of puss-filled infections sooned filled the screen as I quickly insisted she x-out. In half a second the majority of the class had jumped out of their seats to come see what all the fuss was about.

Quoteth my student later on: "Man, I never shoulda done started on none of this syphallis stuff."

Just another day at work.