Cooler than You: Stupid Things I Say and Do

In the year, plus I've had this tiny basement studio I seem to have lost my mind in it more than once.  Okay, well, probably more than once or twice but . . . the point du jour here: there are moments in life when you have to stand back and laugh, cry, or just throw in the towel.  Lately, as it has been no secret, I've been doing a lot of contemplating of where I'm moving to next.  Boston was long on the life list, as has been parts of Europe, a sojourn (or more like a prolonged stay) in India, and a writer's retreat to France (with a long stop in Paris, the city of my long-time fantasy lover's dream).  Honestly, I can't stomach to think about it all right now . . . the spiral is not a pleasant one to view at the moment.  The sending of articles, the waiting on review, the wonder if the you'll cobble together enough writing checks to pay the bar tab . . .  The markers of life and stress should note: This is not a roach.   Yea.  Twice now I...

Since February has been a revertible roll in the hell fires and outright damnation, leaving me with little desire beyond pouring gasoline and lighting a match to it, I deviate from the broken soul, transgressions of life, disasters and other affairs on the sewing machine, and Lifetime Movies via travel to perhaps loose my NOW card.  Okay, really, I probably lost the NOW card ta couple of weeks back when I saw a mouse--in my trash can--and went running to an upstairs neighbor and banged on the door in panic.  To add to that imagery, I was in a pair of well-worn sweats from an alma matter, a pair of Uggs, and since I was home post working hours I was sans bra.  The wife beater, under the hoodie, did not really shield the bounce as I jumped on the bed when my neighbor pulled that mouse out of my house.   Judge me later.   On that note, since it is Leap Day--a damn fictional day that should be an international holiday since what do you do with this day beyond...

I'm on an Amtrak bound for nowhere. Rhode Island and New England farms and towns speckle the countryside like a patchwork quilt of urban design, artistic merit, and natural design. Yet, this train ride leaves me gently rocking on the rails knowing this phase of my life, prolonged jaunt, is nearing a close. My New York story is done, long over really. I've been here probably a year too long. Certainly not a year too short. The city I've dubbed my longtime lover, repeat offender, and continual defender of my soul has crossed over and the romance has died, the rose colored passion has turned to grey skies and muddy sidewalks, and the springtime blooms and promise of brighter skies fails to turn the charms back on. Instead, the ache of heartbreak eases in like an old uninvited friend on a cold, snowy winter's night. I stand there shivering, at the door, letting him in just so I can shut the deepest gusts of fury out. My teal walls and orange kitchen whispering of ...

I could lie and tell you in light of the impending Crown Jewel of Hallmark Holidays I replenished my lingerie drawer.  I could.  Yet, like a bad penny that always comes back, I'm too damned honest.  I've been home a whopping three weeks (shocker, I know . . . hold your gasps, it won't be for much longer), and in that time an impressive list of to-dos has been done and an even more surmounting of stitching has been done.   Last year, about to the day, I posted the first (of a few  (or this one  too)) diatribe on bra making.  Then, there was the one post where my Mom and Dad (who apparently read things their daughter writes--who knew!) found out about my newest tattoos.  Yea, that sports bra  and top is like a feat of gravity in and of its own . . . though, the final frontier is a strapless.  I heard a rumor of one being released this year, and let's just say if that happens I'm all about that.  No lie.   Anywho . . . L...