Cooler than You: Stupid Things I Say and Do

As I sit on a semi-crowded subway car (crowded depends on what kind of New Yorker you are: the die-hard, new transplant, or wannabe vis-a-vie the tourist), the woman on the right scratches bingo lotto tickets in hopes of striking gold. The woman on the left takes an unseemly amount of photos of herself wearing a child's hat. I, stuck very literally in the middle, feel the effects of finals grade deadlines, days of grading, and the post semester exhaustion setting into my weary ladden academic bones. I think back to late August and the jokes of my new superpower being Syllabitch, as I cranked out five different syllabi. The first days of class, getting to know the atmosphere of the two campuses I teach at, memories of New York flooding me at every turn, the thrill of autumn, and the joys of my job. I wore heels every stinkin' day until late October when I did something unkind to my knee. I sported a big, scary assed brace, fought the gimp look, and begged my doctor for a smaller...

It's been two months since I could wear my sweet, sexy heels. They've missed me, and I've missed them. They impatiently stared at me, with forlorn looks of dismay. They thought I had eschewed them for the well worn trainers of 10Ks and 1/2 marathons. Tonight I took my favorite Nine Wests on the town, to American Trash in Manhattan. Being sans brace for two weeks has been wonderful, but a nice night in my favorite heels is even better. Did we dance? No. Did we climb subway stairs and walk the grimy and well worn lighted streets of Manhattan? YES! Did we drink too much at a one of the only dive/working class/biker bars on the Upper West Side? Hells yes. Did we get free shots from the bar keep, drink Jack and Coke to raised eyes, and play wing girl while the gal pal had a drunkard hit on her in epic proportions? Oh yea. Did we do this after the Physical Therapist said I should take it easier? Perhaps. Are we waiting for the N train back to Astoria? Yes, yes indeed. I...

Venturing out during the Christmas, anywhere in the States, take a certain level of intestinal fortitude, hootspa, and resilience. Aw, hell, who am I kidding? I should've packed bourbon in my Coach. I ventured into Soho for some yarn, for those implied Christmas gifts, and along Broadway touristy shoppers, NY shoppers, and street vendors jostled me along. At many points there was no air between me and the next soul. Along NY streets noticing odd smells is not unusual, but noticing body odor is something else. About two weeks ago The Times, I believe, had an article about hipsters not showering on the regular basis. More so, these happenin' chumps don't use deodorant either. Well folks, I am no-so-proud to tell you that these fools are not urban legend. The streets, impressed with Christmas shoppers and people in various levels of batshit crazy, oozed of roasted chestnuts, evergreen sprigs, and the stinky, stinky hispter. These fools make my nose hairs curl, my face contort...

Well...much like I don't introduce my future break-ups to people in my life, I do not discuss the dynamics of my dates until after they've gone down the crapper. For nearly a month I was doing the pre-dating tango with a guy. Not shagging, but just talking. It was nice, novel, and sweet. Then, then one night I had the infamous butterfly on my face. After a month of shameless flirting, he saw the rash and asked "What's on your face?" Me: "A Lupus rash." He asked what that is, and I told him an autoimmune disease that in laymen's terms means my body thinks I'm allergic to me. I chuckled and reminded him that he can't catch it. That was right before Halloween. What did he do? He slinkered away, just like they always do. After all of these years you'd think I'd be used to it. You'd think I'd have an invincible thick skin. For the most part I do, but that doesn't mean it doesn't still piss me off. Sigh. Another one bites...

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 ...