Cooler than You: Stupid Things I Say and Do

Thanksgiving comes but once a year  . . . yea, that’s an in-your-face-you-gotta-be-stupid saying.  None-the-less, even this jaded chick of the moment celebrated the American holiday this weekend.  Did I do it with copious amounts of alcohol? Did I see friends? Did I have another epic Lifetime Movie drama develop? Did I sacrifice sleep and body safety for bone-crushing sales of plastic crap, holiday glitter fashions, and electronics? Well . . . Last year I had the infamous “I still love you” followed by my throwing up .  Yea . . . the two bottles of wine helped, but . . . None-the-less, this year I was hell bent on having my drama free holiday of wine, French movies, and day old Chinese without the insanity of some dumbass crossing my path.  Did I get it? One word . . . no two words: Hell yes! Now, I sit with trepidation hoping that jackal has finally moved the fuck past me.  Time will tell.  Now, to this one. Old friends, from the land of Ke...

Christmas needs to stop throwing up on my fall.  Seriously.  Thanksgiving, the gloriously mystified American holiday, is still a week away.  Yet, everywhere I look white lights, colored lights, red holiday coffee cups, and signs of Christmas trees and the impending wraps for presents underneath abound.  The reds and greens post a stark contrast to the brilliant golds, reds, and oranges of fall leaves.  Fall needs no decorating, as the leaves and changing plant life do the job splendidly.  Instead, in the uber fast world of consumption and bringing in the highest dollar amount fall has taken a backseat to the high consumption and fast-paced Christmas Season.  I sigh.  I sigh some more.  I’ve always had a fond affection for fall.  The changing leaves, the smell of dying leaves in the air, the smell of fires for the first time of the coming months.  The browns and tans.  Sweaters, sweater dresses, and boots s...

I find myself eating pickles and peanut butter, as I’ve had a hankering for days.  No, I am not pregnant.  Far from it.  Instead, pickles and peanut butter are an old staple I picked up from my days in the borderlands of Dixie, which is really just Dixie under a defensive name, in Kentucky.  More so, the Maysville kids generally all know the simple joys of pickles and peanut butter.  That town, a sleepy little one of about 9,000 along the Ohio River in northern Kentucky, has resonated in my mind’s eyes for nearly twenty years now.  We lived there for two years of high school, but those two years—and not withstanding the total of nine states I’ve lived in—seemed to have shaped and marked me the most.  Perhaps it was that I was in high school, perhaps it was that the kids did well on bringing me into the many folds, clichés, and complexities of Maysville.  Perhaps . . . perhaps it was just the natural course of life, and the trials of existenc...