Cooler than You: Stupid Things I Say and Do

In May 1994 my Dad gave this to my Mom for Mother's Day. Okay, in reality he rescued her from neglect.  She was about a year and a half to two years old when we got her, she had lived with a cat for a year, so she was . . . She acted like a cat most of her life, tried to climb trees after squirrels, and chased my dog Charlie.  She taught him to climb on the back of our couch, which is why until his death the sofa had a permanent dip in the back.  Charlie died about six years ago, and she loved to hang on his fur and be carried around the house.  Best trick Muffin had, I had taught her to find Charlie for me.  Charlie was a medium sized dog, so the six comparison was amusing to say the least.  He was loud, chased lunch-meat trucks, and belched and farted on command.  My high school friends and I can take credit for that trick.   Sorry, I don't have one of the two of them on my computer.  Honestly, I don't have it in me to dig up ri...

Last week while watching "Project Runway," my Mom made mention (for about the hundredth time) that she can't stand Anthony. For those not in the know, he's the black and dramatic gay guy who talks and talks and talks. She does this lovely this shake and shudder thing while stating that she can't stand him. Even better for the drama around here. While she was carrying on about Anthony I started having flashbacks to when my brother would kiss her. You should know that Bubs was six foot two or so--somewhere in there--lanky and tooth less. Heh. Whenever he kissed Mom she would shudder, shake, cringe, and bellow "I got kissed by a boy." There's just no way to aptly describe it. I started laughing, Mom started laughing, and we looked at each other and mentioned Bubs at the same time. Laughing some more, she said it was a shame he wasn't around to watch this show with us. She wanted know what he would say about Anthony; as she referenced that he was wor...

Yup, it's that time of year when the reformed fundamentalist in me is thrilled not for peeps and candy coated eggs but for baseball. Eight-o-five pm tonight brings the best stress relief yet. It's the Yanks v. the Red Soxs. Sorry, I did remember that it's Easter too!

I'm coming back from another conference--this time St. Louis, for which I'll detail later--and I am never not amazed. There's the usual internationally weary eyed traveler asleep on the floor, the young children acting as sound birth control for anyone within a hundred miles, there's the religious minded praying before flight (more touching since today is Easter), and then ... there are a group of Phi Sigs. Yes, folks, that's fellow Phi Sigma Sigmas from the sorority I pledged in college. I'm watching there lettered shirts fill up a row of seats, hearing their incessant laughter, perhaps I'm smelling the remnants of their weekend, and my ears bleed from the singing. Oh. Dear. God. I refrain from complete jackassery, and showing my age, by not standing up and shouting "I have seniority in the hallowed walls of Phi Sig, so shut your pieholes!". Instead, I suck on a Diet Pepsi in the Detroit Airport's C concourse.

Oiy! If you've read this blog over the past year or so you know about Jackass. Clearly, there's no need for me to remind you, and if you're that upset I didn't provide a hyperlink to his exceptional level of stupidity just look through the archives...like February for example. Anywho, I'm Crackberry blogger at the moment so deal. I've had my rebound. Last April, to be exact. Yes, 2009 was my last contact. And yes, it sounds even more pathetic once I say it than just knowing it. None-the-less, I'm ready to date again. Yea, I just heard jaws drop. Bite me. I am. But here's the problem, or problems per se. 1. I have little patience for stupidity. I have little tolerance for masquerades. I do not believe in settling. More so, a good friend once told me that there are two kinds of women: those who are good with men and those who are good with horses and dogs. Guess which category he put me into? Hence, dating is a strange plane for me and one that scares...

Dear February, In your first nine days of life, you managed to suck the life-blood, hope, and joy right out of me.  First I got more joy of the nonsense of Jackass, as if anyone could have forgotten Looser McGee's blunder of the century ,  then I found out Heather died, and the month kept on rolling. At some point the damned Sandman forgot my address, and he has continued to bypass my house, and classes started at new prisons.  My personal favorite of that experience was that on a Monday I went in and all was fine.  On Wednesday, in the SAME pants from Monday, I was not okay.  My pants were too tight, yada yada yada, and then I got told that sitting on a desk while teaching is advertising.  I'm still pissed about that one.  But, I get over it long enough to teach.  There was an issue with a student, and I just won't go there.  Let's just say that I'll be fine.  I always am.  The anniversary of my brother's death came and went...

Dear Mr. Sandman, I would like to know why you have waged war on me? I desperatly want to sleep.  I need my sleep.  I love me sleep.  I enjoy dreams, the warmth of the covers, and the loss of five or six hours every night to blissful slumber.  I would even welcome some warm drool on my pillow right about now.   If I could only sleep, I would embrace some tricked out dreams too.  Seriously.  Me, being a good girl and all, requires someone to buy me a few dinners before inviting him into my bed.  But, Mr. Sandman for you I will always make the exception.  I have always been good to you, letting you have your way more nights than not . . . Sigh.  Apparently, you have not enjoyed me as much as I have enjoyed you.   Well, two can play this game.  I will wage my own war on you . . . I do not forgive you for taking me off of your route.  Bully! Sincerely, Sleep Deprived