Cooler than You: Stupid Things I Say and Do

In the end, it is always about those left behind.  This we always know, but as the throws of life prove to us (every time) we never remember it until an end has arisen.  Every. time. In 2013 I met a woman named Barb, and when I met her she was recovering from just having discovered a cancer the size of a football in her leg.  A football.  A fucking football.  Barb with her three kids, a widower herself, a new husband with two nearly grown teenagers, and a suburban house.   When we met, she was just starting her home daycare up again . . . her Dad got certified so he could help her, and her family moved the daycare chaos up to the main floor since the surgery and cancer made walking up and down the stairs to the basement difficult on a good day and near impossible on most. I hadn't been married a year, when Barb and I met.  After that January meeting we saw each other again in the spring, after I helped moved a friend up there.  There was a par...

I'm late in posting, as well . . . I've got a handful of things to blather about.  Like the ending of summer, which turned (as usual) into an Indian Summer, the settling of fall, my beignot skirt that I've only worn once on account of that Indian Summer, another pencil, the new jeans I made, and other items.  Yet, work and life played games with me this past week, and then yesterday there was a passing.  Uncle Harry, technically a cousin, passed expectantly.  Yet, a passing is still a passing.  Grief and loss still creep up and embrace you like an unwanted in a snow storm who drinks your last beer and hogs the fire warmth.  In a day or so I'll release the post I had ready.  Right now . . . it just doesn't seem fitting.   So instead of talking about how layers of fabric hide the curves of my ass that shouldn't be there, I'm wrapped in a series of emotions.  Many of those emotions I am not entirely comfortable with them lurking around.  ...

In light of the upcoming Naked Baby Angel Day holiday, and my known in-difference and often contempt for it , I bet many thought I would be spilling all kinds of ruckus humor at the latest infusion of candy coated pink and red assault of late. Yea, if I hadn't just gotten the news that I did you can bet your candy coated fingers and diamond studded jewelry that I would be. But . . . as life goes crap happens and February can now officially piss off. Tonight I got to read the news that an old friend and former grad school roommate died. Pisser indeed. You might remember mention of Heather from the Dave Diaz posting.  I met Dave via her, and rifling through my memories connects to two together in some ways and divides them apart in others.  Heather and I met by chance in Las Cruces, back in the fall of 1999. We were living in the grad apartments, and we shared the bathroom. Well, we quickly teamed up and moved off campus. We had a quaint little two bedroom on Foster R...

Some of you know what this time of year means to me . . . one broken heart, hard memories to face, and the perpetual avoidance of phone calls from one person. Actually, since I have a new cell number I won’t have those calls this year. Woot on that one. These things have nothing to do with the Hallmark holiday. Someone I once hung out with, had relations with, talked to (you find the phrase . . . ) called it "Naked Baby Angel Day." That name has stuck with me, so "Naked Baby Angel Day" it is. For the Hallmark holiday I have got more bad memories and experiences than I should, and on a disturbing level most of those memories have become funny. In 1998 my college roommates (well MC and Jess—Mellie and I wanted no part) decided to put out a "Wanted Ad for the Ladies of Unit 2." That action alone easily surpasses the other memories. Essentially, those two had watched entirely too many episodes of _The Dating Game_, and they thought it would...