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...

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...