Cooler than You: Stupid Things I Say and Do

I apologize.  Below is the email I just received . . . I have removed the multiple links for continued donations.  Read below for my response. And if you did not know, I am an Obama supporter.  I continue to be one.  This email, from the Democratic committee, is just poor form. Annessa — We're reviewing supporter records in advance of the final Federal Election Commission deadline and noticed you haven't yet made a contribution to protect President Obama and a Democratic Senate. I pasted your supporter record below: Supporter record:  21746160 Most recent:  none Suggested:  $5  Election Day:  22 days If you are concerned about Republicans defeating President Obama and taking over the Senate, time is now short.  This is the final FEC deadline before the election. More than 20,000 supporters have contributed in the last week alone, can you join them? [Redacted links for donations] Thank you for your time and commitme...

In 2012 the concept of a woman needing anything beyond her own wit and merit almost seems passe.  Yet, in this world of instant messages, ATMs, debit cards superseding checks, and steel-toes stilettos a women (or, girl if the term--like me--makes you feel a little more hip, at ease, and at peace within your changing skin) should have a little black book–– or a little black digital phone book–– filled with names beyond old lovers, forlorn exs, or divorce lawyers. These are the things, as I tell students, that just make life easier, richer, and full. A list, per se, that I deliver to Women's Studies when I can and to students, friends, and sometimes strangers when I see or feel the need . . . or just plain hate what I am hearing. In no particular order: 1. A former lover, partner du jour if you will, that is no longer a shag buddy.  Just merly a name and number in her book who she can text or call just to say hi.  Why? While not all rel...

Of the many things that cross my mind meat is sometimes one of them. This time...the taste and texture of meat are center stage. In this case, I've been pondering ways meat can be tough, bitter, or just foul when fresh. We'll pretend that I am a carnivore. Of course, I should tell you how this thought began. Back in February my back muscles got so tight that knots formed upon knots. When my now husband rubbed my shoulders he somewhat freaked out saying my muscles felt like braids. Perhaps they did. As the pain intensified I finally gave in and got a script for a muscle relaxant. My muscles mellowed, I could lift my arms again, and my back didn't feel like cement had taken its place. Yet, my mind spiraled to the absurd. Of course, last week when I caved/splurged on a massage from knots and shooting pains, the thought came back... When cows are slaughtered, and they are tense with knots, does that change the taste of the meat and make it tough?

Sometimes the insomnia hits at the most infuriating moments.  Like now.  I nodded for a few moments this evening, not nearly long enough, and now . . . now I am tinkering away at my keyboard, too idle and blocked to write aptly. I long to drift off to sleep, but--aside from the insomnia--there is a dog hogging my part of the bed. Of course she is adorable, but she is a stinkin' bed hog none-the-less.  A smaller stack of work, than I have seen in months, but still a formidable stack glares at me.  Instead, my mind is too idle to function. Hence, I write moronic meanderings at 12:30 in the morning.  I flip through a French reader, I struggle with an Italian chapter, and I tinker with more Turkish.   Je parle un peu languages, mais franciase est ma favori pour son rythme et de romance implicite de l'espirt et du coeur.   My spelling sucks in all of them.  Yet . . . yet, I can not focus.  Apparently, there is a theme developing to my aimless ...

Today, being Friday, I made my weekly trek to my NYC Mecca for local, organic, and groceries du jour.  Per usual, I went to Union Square to bedazzle my fridge with fresh greens and vegetation of many colors.  Or, as the husband says, make the fridge look like a "weed garden exploded in there." As I wandered the stalls in the blazing heat, long before a half second monsoon hit, I eyed my favorite vendors, bought a bottle of Eve's Cidery wine, and meandered my way through another day of organic scents and delights.*  Though, on the far side of the square I spotted a basket of seemingly misshapen carrots.    Today, upon seeing these, my mind traveled to a memory a few years old of a grad school professor and I discussing the taste of produce on the American market.  Color, shape, and quantity surpass desires for rich, robust flavor.  In many ways it is a tragedy.  The taste of unaltered food--as in those grown or...

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...