Cooler than You: Stupid Things I Say and Do

It's funny how things work out. Once upon a time there was a jaded single chick, living in the middle--struggling with bills--and dating NYC.  Then . . . then came a Halloween party with her as the Queen of Hearts.  A crew of people joined as Alice in Wonderland, and along came a March Hare.  He fell for her, as he says.  She wasn't sure how she felt about him . . . as she was seeing--or trying to--other people.  Though, she thought he stalked her Facebook page a bit too much.  That was October.  She went back to the layers of NYC.  He stayed in Manassas . . . home of the Confederacy. He sent her texts and messages passed.  Then, for New Year's, they went to the Outer Banks with a group of friends for the weekend.  In short, a timeless, classic, and storybook beach romance occurred, with walks along the shore and his chipper black lab in tow.  She went home, he did too.  Well, on her way back to NYC she stopped ...

I had these tights . . . not just any tights, but spectacular tights.  They were sweater tights, without the bulk.  They were grey plaid, with blue and yellow.  They were cool, hip, happening tights.  They were 25 bucks from Mod Cloth. They ripped, on the second wearing.  How did they rip? I snagged them on the foil wrapper from a yoghurt container.  In my house.  Shit.  Of course the larger question is why in the hell did I spend 25 bucks on a pair of tights? Okay, they are cool . . .But, my poor, cheap self really was lost in a Lupus haze of hell literally sitting on the floor, in the corner, with a hand on each wall praying for the room to stop spinning.  When the room did stop spinning, after a round or two of upchucking, I crawled into bed.  As the dizzy subsided I laid there fearing to get up, so I watched movies online and window shopped.  Yea . . . I blame the dizzy.  I also blame the sheer and utter exhau...

Word on the street is that there is an unusually high smog alert over New York City. Yea, I apologize.  It is my fault. I’ve got the plaquenil farts again.  When the carbon monoxide detector goes off in the neighboring buildings I will not apologize.  I will deny any doing or knowledge.  As of late, compliments of finally getting my health insurance reinstated (though, the dental and vision are still being hijacked by bureaucracy), my days have been filling up with doctor’s appointments and the gremlin bottles have been multiplying on my dresser.  I haven’t even spilled any water, as of late.  Though, give that five minutes as I’ve got a bottle of seltzer calling my name.  Those bitches always bathe my carpet, bed, and me before settling down.  You would think there would be a better way to open them . . .I wonder if getting a boyfriend to open them would make things less wet? Oh wait, would need a boyfriend first.  Though, I have dude...

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...

Late last week, an encounter with a student set the stage--so to speak--with the roller coaster du jour.  In short: Student: "Mrs. Babic. . . " Me: "Mrs. Babic is in Jarratt, VA." Student, looking befuddled and sighing while rolling eyes, "Well, Miss Babic . . . " Me: "Miss Babic is in Fayetteville, NC." Student, with a huff, "Well, then, who do you think you are?"* Well . . . I'm your professor.  But . . . the point: when I told a later class about this encounter mouths did drop open, but--as with so many times before--"Do you want to get married?" was assaulted my way. Good grief.  There are many things I could say, but . . . My weekend boded with work and more work.  Then, somewhere along the way, a neighbor friend died.  He played guitar, was a teacher, and was generally nice.  More pointedly, he didn't just die.  He killed himself.  Word is that it connects to him loosing his job.  In reality, in a selfi...