Cooler than You: Stupid Things I Say and Do

In 1981 I was a kindergartner, in all my glory.  Back then, my family and I lived in Tacoma, Washington and I went to a school with oodles of other military and working class kids.  None-the-less, there was one day I particularly remember a glimpse of in the forefront of my mind.  I was in the front office, rather ill, and the secretary needed my name to look up my contact info.  I gave her my name, and she promptly told me that I could not be correct.  She added a V to the first name, while subtracting a N, and added a K to the last.  My name is NOT Vanessa Babick.  My name is Annessa Babic, and it always has been.  Needless to say, she yelled at me.  She also refused to believe the phone numbers I gave her.  Mind you, my parents had gotten me an ID bracelet with my address and phone number on it (we lived on A Street, thank-you very much).  My father had made me memorize his work number by the time I was three or so.  Clearly...

On every trip to Turkey I have come home with some derelicted tale of men making offers, a stack of phone numbers, scarves given to me because my eyes and smile are so charming, and the list goes on. One lamp shop owner, in Istanbul, proclaimed that when I spoke it was "like honey to [his] ears."   Though, when I went and gave an invited talk at Dogus Uni in Istanbul, in December 2008, there I was offered Turk cigarettes, raki, and there may or may not have been a few offers for dates.  Oiy.  Anyone ever noticed that I am something of a magnet for the oddities of life, or that my adventures turn into borderline criminally insane escapes? Yea.  Today's run-of-the-mill errands turned into . . . well, they became an adventure of borderline criminally insane activity. I trotted my happy little self up to Steinway Street this afternoon, not for glitzy reduced priced plastic goods and new sweaters.  Instead, I was headed to have one ring setting resottered, have my ...

Just when I thought my drama for the Thanksgiving weekend couldn't be topped, it has. Thanksgiving Eve brought the infamous "I-love-you-vomit," and I'm still grateful for the Thanksgiving rain that washed it away. Then on Friday night, well actually Saturday morning around four am, one of my roommates had a moment of sleep stupor. Our rooms share a door none of us use, and since I don't have a closet my clothing rack is in front of it. My pretty shoes, that are feeling neglected because the knee won't let me wear them, hang on that door. Well... In the midst of my own nightmare laden sleep I awoke to bangs and that door trying to open. My response was to scream like the second coming of Bezalbub. Yup. I laid there and screamed in frozen, paralyzed fear. Coming to my senses I went into the main apartment--for which I realize that if this were a horror flick I'd so be dead--and the dog greeted me with licks and love. I presumed all was well and that it was ...

In my quest for relative peace and prosperity, I choose to spend Thanksgiving in my favorite way this year.  I stayed in my beloved New York, with French flicks in my Netflix cue, some wine, and myself.  I should make note, since my father made a particularly annoying reference (again) that I drink daily, that I drink on occasion.  I had a glass of bourbon this week and the wine.  If I drank as much as I think about it, I would have died long ago from my liver slithering its way out of my naval and general Lupus revolts of the extraordinary kind.  Clearly, some things still piss me off.  But, back to the lighter moment at hand.  I attempted to avoid the Lifetime movies that entail my life.  Notice I said attempted. On Thanksgiving Eve I opened a bottle of wine and drank.  I sat on my stoop, in superb ghetto form, and drank.  And . . . as happens someone had a honing device for me.  I got a text message, and since I was liquored up...

One of my friends pondered if she could run around hitting people with a stick and yelling "It doesn't matter, it happened in the past."  I responded, in kind, with "If you wanna end up in the nuthouse pokey, sure."  Well, I'm not intending to run around with sticks, but the events of today are slipping into the past.  A crazy start, and a nice ending. The day started with a 25 mile commute turning into two hours.  Fun.  Two exits of the LIE were shut down, from an accident, and an investigation had to ensue.  Yup, someone died on the roadway.  I sent emails to a couple of students, while I sat in idle traffic, and got the class to start the quiz before I got there.  Slightly odd, but nerve wracking as I was supposed to be evaluated this morning.  My department chair was also trapped in said traffic, so we met for lunch and then he came to my last class of the day.  None-the-less, I was still nervous about the whole eval.  Turns o...

There's a semi-infamous scene from Office Space where the waiter, at the mock TGI Fridays, says " Sounds like a case of the Mondays ?" He makes a dorky frown face, talks in a deranged voice, and provides a moment of asshat humor.  All in all, the guy is just a little too happy for a chain restaurant waiter . . . or any waiter for that matter.  Well, I can't say that I have a case of the Mondays, but it has been a Monday . I woke up this morning to the roommate's dog throwing up in front of the bathroom door.  Apparently, she ate a toy--the arms and legs specifically--and then decided to greet us with it this am.  Lovely. On the way in I spilled seltzer water, maybe it was coffee once I got to the office.  Luckily I had on a girly, semi-frilly, and gauzy blouse in deep purple.  So instead of a large gonorrhea looking lactated stain on my right boob, I had a dark circle on the right breast.  Either way, I sported the lactating look all day.  I ...

Lying in bed on a chilly night, too tired to think or work, with achy joints and pleurisy in my heart and kidneys my mind always ponders. Oh, and my face burns like the Sierra Dessert in a heat filled wind storm with trails of red wings for proof...I hate the butterfly and all that it entails. Most days I take this Lupus laden life with grains of salt, usually avoiding them getting under my skin. I call my pill bottles gremlins, I denote my daily handfuls of meds as Wonder Woman's aides, and I flip the bird at the butterfly staring back at me in the mirror. Really, when I lay on a coat of makeup I flip it and say "take that Bitch." Yet, I remain like a stereotypical New Yorker...living in fear. I doubt the majority of New Yorkers really live in fear, but our stereotype abounds. We fear muggers, hour delays on a stopped and crowded subway train, and raises in rent. Yet, we put up with these inconveniences for the beauty and joy that this city brings. We love the late n...

Since a week can't go by without me shelling out hard earned dough as co-pays, I went back to the lady parts doctor this week.  Ironically, it was the day that in class I shirked from a spider.  As I protected myself with the podium and told my underclassmen to "kill that thing, don't hold back," several students laughed.  Several weeks ago something similar occurred, and they got to learn that in my youth my brother put spiders in my sock drawer.  Thirty-some years later that is almost funny.  Well, my students said I should lead them and how would they not be afraid with me showing my fear.  We chuckled, and I told them to "do what I say and not what I do." Ha! None-the-less, in the thread of leading--and as I said on my Facebook status while at the gyno's office--ladies should go see their lady parts doctors.  So why was I back two weeks after my annual? My Pap was clear, no HPV . . . cysts, that's what.  There's one sitting at 4.9 on my l...