Cooler than You: Stupid Things I Say and Do

Among the muck, the parka-wearing, the shivering under layers (the real cardio of winter), the pains in every limb and joint, the inability to breathe . . . among all that, not long ago, I fond myself at a private reception at The Met.  Okay, so it's no secret that I've long held The Met as a favorite, on sunny days, on the other side of the moon, when I have a day with nothing to do and no deadlines I'll spend a carefree day there.  Or, I'll just spend a few hours there when I can't stand the fight anymore.  Come to think of it; I should be there now. To dream, as we say. Back to that reception, which sounds swankier than it is . . . Professors got a night, for free, replete with free cocktails at the end.  I mean, seriously, people.  Who in her right mind would turn down free booze AND art? Not I, that is certain.  So, a friend from grad school and I met up and let ourselves into The Met, and then we spotted for which walks and talks to atte...

There are points in your life when you wake up and find that your orchids have died, your yogurt is expired, your coffee is stale as you dug out the cast off bag of grounds in the back of the fridge you tossed aside for a "rainy day" (three or so years before) as you didn't care for their grunge, and your only pair of clean pants are a pair of jeans that even an alcoholic troll would find unattractive on you.    There are points . . . Now, now is one of those for me. I should probably be ashamed about the oddities of my expired yogurt, but--yeah-- here are the things.  It's bacteria anyway.  Also, with as much Pepto as I've been drinking these days can it make it any worse? The Lupus drugs are a bitch, the side effects are a nightmare, and  . . . What? I'm a glass half full kind of gal, so I'm thinking perhaps inside one of these expired yogurt cups we will find the secret to eternal salvation, a cure for these disgusting side effects, and maybe an end t...

It's funny the things we remember, and how we remember them.  A decade ago I remember getting the email for my first book.  It was about this time of year, and Tanfer--my co-editor--wrote me with nothing more than "Yes! Yes! Yes!" It was our first book each and together.  We were younger then, that's for sure.  Ironically, I think I'm slightly smaller now . . . Usually, that proverbial comparison goes the other way.  That meander aside, I remember culling those pages, corresponding with the authors, doing the next to final press review of the chapters at a professor's house in Port Jeff, and in September and October I did the index in Virginia.  I had left NY, and I was in Virginia on a Visting hire.  My parents were delighted to have me around, even when I sat on the couch eating Kit Kats ticking off index terms and numbers.  There was a sense of hope and happiness then.  In the middle of those ticking numbers, I picked up a couple of p...

The daffodils are starting to arrive, as the shop's windows are beginning to show.  Well, hidden behind the layers and mounds of red roses for the upcoming lovers holiday the colors of spring edge through.  None-the-less, I found myself procuring my first daffs of the season as I near annually do.  As in years past, the rain and snow have poetically encapsulated the buy.  Yet, this year, I found myself buying them on a seemingly bright, sunfilled day.  In reality, it was all trickery, as the cold winter wind remained blustery and I could feel slithers of a sharpened frigid blast under the hem of my parka.  Daffodils are fleeting, and the moment of joy of their annual arrival is a glimmer into the wispy darkness that winter brings.  This year the hope and joy eluded me.  The bright flowers, filling my air with their welcoming aroma of fresh life, act as forgotten tchotchkes on the shelves around me.  Those shelves are holding ...

Last Year. There's a reason I went radio silent more often than not.  Let's just say six + rounds of prednisone, numerous ER ventures, a case of fucking elephant face, a damned surgery that makes me a matter for the colonies . . . I give you this. When the revolution comes, I’ll find myself in the colonies.* This assertion I am certain—as if being a college professor, a writer, or a divorcee wasn’t enough— the loss of an ovary certainly sealed my fate in the metaphorical stone. As to how I’d survive those colonies, I am uncertain, but as I wander through my life, I find myself accessing the carnage and the pain left in the proverbial wake I stop and stare. The pain of my ovaries began when I was young, and as the story goes, it has marched on with the beat of a drummer outplaying his companions, always calling out the show and demanding attention. Within the picture, 25 years ago (when I was 16 and young and fresh with plenty of dreams still unformed) I woke up w...

As I rock along the subway line, and pass with throngs of others up and down the stairs, escalators, and ramps, and pour onto the city streets, I can feel the hum of the urban hive.   Its rhythms, its rhymes, its pulse.   It's heartbeat.   These are the things I see.                On an average Monday, with mid-fall overcast skies and leaves beginning to change, billows of steam erupt from the sewers and rooftops.   Those from the lower domains carry the odors of the city, those that out of towners notice and I've long learned to ignore.   The ones from above, I look at them and wonder if they are the cast off dreams of New Yorkers awakening to find themselves in the cog again.   Or, I wonder if they are the cast off dreams of New Yorkers who find themselves awash in regret the morning after, in the middle of, or years into the game.   Are they the bellows of exasperated parents bemoan...

As September cools, and fall begins to awaken, I sit here looking back with a trigger finger gettin' lose and ready on the match.  September, far worse than August, was a surly little chic in too small heels.  Okay, that's a little kind.  She was a surly chick in too small heals needing carbs and a puppy for all the attention she demanded.  Y'all, September needs its own zip code for the love it needs these days.   August might have tried my soul, but damn at least she gave me some breathers and pleasant moments of remiss.  You know, like when the one-time beau met up with me in Denver with a lolli instead of flowers. Yeah, in an aside, pot is legal in Colorado--if you did not know--and so that lolli was a mango flavored THC laden fairy princess ride.  Of course, what I should also remind you is that when one consumes a lolli one should not partake of the entire thing at once and while alone.  Okay, you can . . . But, ya kno...