First Draft

Thursday night leading up to Fat Tuesday in New Orleans is known as a night made for Queens – a parade that features only women, dressed in creative costumes and colorful wigs. Muses. Their hats sparkle, and bubbles float throughout the air, hovering above bubble baths which glide down the parade route on electric scooters, the ones the elderly use to grocery shop. Inside the baths are beautifully dressed goddesses, shimmering with high heels on their relaxed feet, hiding the real goods inside their tubs. 

Shoes! OMG, shoes!

The ladies are calmer than the drunken men who ride in Babylon and Chaos directly before Muses’ parade begins. It seems everyone in the crowd dresses their best, shining with crafty swag head to toe. St. Charles Avenue is packed and muddy, and too many people have handmade signs that read something or other like “throw me a shoe!” that obstruct the view of those in the back by the mansion fences. 

Everyone wants to catch a shoe. Will I ever catch one? Probably not. Sometimes, there are people who catch multiple shoes. I find that greedy. Last year, I technically caught a sparkly gold stiletto. But then a rude woman behind me tapped me on the shoulder, I turned, and she snatched the shoe from my hand, claiming ”that’s HIS!” pointing to her husband. 

Muses women usually throw shoes to people they know. They only make so many, so they’re picky about who gets one. I heard a man yelling “Kelly! Kelly!” behind me when I caught that gold shoe… I knew it was intended for someone. But, many believe intent does not matter. A catch is a catch, and I caught it, fair and square.

If only I got to keep the coveted catch.

No, nevermind. 

Now that I’ve experienced another Muses, I take that back. I don’t want your shoe. You can keep it, ladies. 

It would seem the fun of Mardi Gras goes away during Muses. The comradery and joy vanish.  People are so obsessed with catching a shoe, their manners go out the window. Snatching, hitting, pushing and shoving. It’s more common than the gleeful spirits I’m used to on the route. 

This year, I watched as a woman and her sister rallied their three kids for a pep talk about how they were determined to catch at least two shoes. All seriousness, no play. Unfortunately, the older kids started harassing some of the marching band’s members, recording and antagonizing them, so my group and I left our spot and migrated elsewhere. I wonder if they ended up catching their two shoes?

Maybe, maybe not. I wouldn’t put money on it. Whatever it is these Muses riders look for in its recipients is a true mystery. No rhyme or reason. You either know someone, or you… look cool? Flatter them? Get lucky?

I caught diddly squat. Not even a trash bead. The first blue bubbled float stopped in front of me. I looked up at two women who glared at the crowd, dismissing nearly everyone, shrugging us off as though we weren’t good enough for their throws, not even good enough for a measly bead or a baby rubber ducky. 

Bitches.

What? Someone had to say it. 

If Muses is supposed to be some appreciation for women empowerment and feminism, then they’ve missed the mark and consequentially proven just how badly the world, and Mardi Gras, needs men. Men throw. Men party. Men make eye contact and get all excited when their catchees get pumped for a pair of beads or a stupid little trinket. They get it. These Muses ladies can, well, kiss my behind. 

I didn’t see these women smiling or interacting with the crowd. Not at all. They paraded along like a bunch of elitists with their noses high towards the balmy night sky. They didn’t make me want to join them; they made me glad to be removed from them, for I have no interest in mingling with snobby women who think their shit doesn’t stink. 

News flash: it smells more pungent than Bourbon Street gravy puddles. 

After a night of little gain, I woke up the next morning and headed into the office. “Did you go to Muses last night?” asked coworker after coworker, all of us standing in the middle of the office asking and sharing details of our experience Uptown. 

My General Manager came in high energy, per usual, swinging around a Muses lightsaber he was overly proud to have caught. “I got a full bag of stuff!” he exclaimed, the antithesis to all the women of the office who caught hardly anything, if anything at all. 

So much for women helping women… Apparently, Muses graced our General Manager with goodies (no shoes, though), but ignored all the ladies in the crowd. How progressive. 

“Here’s the trick,” began my GM. “Make eye contact. Tell them how pretty they are. And ladies, find a man to make eye contact with.”

“That’s the problem with Muses. No men!” I said, and everyone giggled. We all bonded over our disdain for the all-women parade and how they seemed to have chips on their shoulders. Yep. Bitches. At least it wasn’t just me. 

Next year, I’ll party for Babylon and Chaos, winking at the drunken guys who may stumble on their floats, but at least they throw and play with the crowd. They give it their all. They deserve their place up there on that float. They’re fun. They make it fun for us, too. They live and breathe the spirit of Mardi Gras! And sadly, Muses women have lost that spirit, that purity that made everyone want to cheer them on and participate in shoe-catching to begin with. 

I’d rather go barefoot than dawn a Muses shoe…