Cooler than You: Stupid Things I Say and Do

As life goes, last summer I found myself looking at the heartland's horizon, and this summer I'll be duplicating and extending some of these travels.  And with that, I have thoughts.   Yes, I was in the American Midwest, rolling my economical car forward, with iTunes blaring, and some flavored water at my side.   In a poetic manner of speaking, I woke up and found myself on the road.   Though, as we all know, the realities of life don't afford for that.   Instead, I had spent weeks planning, crafting ideas in the wee hours of insomnia on my Pinterest boards, and I had prepped my car.   I had ample data for my GPS, I had a cooler with bottled water and a couple of sandwiches, I had carrot sticks, and I had a somewhat curated playlist.   What that came down to was my asking friends for road trip songs and adding their suggestions to my questionable music library.   I planned to stop and see some old friends, from college and before, but as...

When my last book released, another academic marvel and a monograph this time, someone asked how my book party was and where it was at.  I stood there, rather stunned, as--well--there was no launch party.  None of my books, articles, or literary forays have ever gotten a launch party or social nod.  Instead, my reviews and critics have generally been kind and warm with notes of praise, yet when you are me, and always on the outside looking in there is no one to throw a party for as we say.  I'm still taken aback by the question.  Still shocked by how hard it hit me. Yet, the reality has long been there.  Waking up alone is one thing.  Always being alone another.  Never having anyone to celebrate with . . . well, that's a marker in and of itself. Though, as any socially adjusted adult does (I use that term loosely) I attempt to engage in adult activities, socialize, meet people for drinks, and do this tango from hell called dating.  I...

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...