The Odd Broad

Friends, fireworks, and talking to the dead.

I'm someone who believes in things I can't always see or explain.  For me it's not a question of whether or not there are ghosts or spirits, say; I just know there are.  I shrug my shoulders when people roll their eyes at my extensive knowledge of Astrology.  It's not my place to convince others why I feel it's valid, I just happen to believe it is.  I don't go around advertising it, but if you give me long enough, I will probably guess which month you were born.  (But I'll only tell you if I'm drunk.)  If I wasn't scared of my own shadow I'd probably make a damn good medium. 

Speaking of mediums, did I ever tell you about the Fourth of July weekend in the Marriott Copley?  Picture it: July, 1997.  I was eighteen and had just completed my first year at the Boston Conservatory.  My closest friends were Amy, Jeff and Jamie.  Jamie's mom Beverly and her friend were in town for the holiday weekend and we all walked over for a visit.

Beverly's friend was a respected medium who sometimes worked with the police and had read for famous types, including Bill Clinton.  Jamie called him Auntie Mel. 

Like most remarkable occurrences, it all happened very suddenly.  The lights were low and there were candles burning.  Bev was practicing Reiki on Jeff, whose long dancer limbs were bothering him.  And then, Auntie Mel started to go into a sort of...trance-like state?

I hesitate to write any of this because it's a difficult thing to convey unless you were actually there.  That night Mel channeled a woman.  His voice became soft and he began to rock slowly back and forth.  He curled up into himself and was whimpering.  We could barely make out the word he kept repeating: "Sterno.  The sterno.  He used sterno..."

Sterno?  I didn't recolonize it by name at the time, but after my years in catering I'm very familiar with the stuff.  Sterno are the small metal cans you place under a chafing dish when serving food buffet style.  It's a sort of gel-like material that you set fire to and it keeps the food warm. 

So, from what we gathered, apparently this woman's son in law had murdered her using...you guessed it, sterno.

It was all becoming beyond intense.  The four of us, Amy, Jamie, Jeff and I, sat there dumbfounded and silent, clinging to one another in the dark.  We were terrified.  As for me, I was pretty much ready to shit myself.  Chills ran up and down my spine and my eyes were watering.  I looked up at Jeff; for a gay ballerina he was actually a pretty macho guy, but even he looked frightened.  When I glanced over at Jamie he raised his eyebrows and gave me half a smile, but I noticed he had a single tear sliding down his cheek. 

I would never look at sterno the same way again.  Beverly seemed a little concerned that things had gone this far in front of us newbies.  This was a case Mel had been working on and this sterno information was something new and valuable.  

Auntie Mel grew quiet.  Someone else was coming through.  His voice was barely a whisper as he chanted, "I am...that I am...I am...Nicodemus."

Oh shit.  I wanted my mommy.  Reader, I can still hear him say it: Nicodemus.  I will never forget it for as long as I live. 

Up until this point, my brushes with the supernatural included 99 cent horoscope scrolls from CVS and cheap Tarot card readings at Hampton Beach.  This was something else entirely.  "Don't be afraid," Bev told us, "Nicodemus was with Jesus."

I made a mental note to check the bible sometime.  I didn't know anything about a Nicodemus, unless you counted The Secret of NIMH."  Auntie Mel's voice became nasal and high pitched.  Everything about him, his voice, his physicality, had changed completely.  He was Nicodemus, whoever the hell that was.

Beverly asked us if there was anything we'd like to ask, though she suggested we go through her rather than speak to him directly.  Jamie wanted to know about his tooth, and I got the feeling he'd already asked this same question before, because Nicodemus kind of seemed pissed at him.  Apparently he felt Jamie had sloppy oral hygiene or something.  I distinctly remember he referred to him as "James" as he chastised him. 

"Does anyone else have any questions?"  Beverly asked. 

I did.  My grandfather had died when I was six and I sometimes had dreams about him.  I'd wake up filled with this amazing energy; I always felt like we'd had a visit.  Was he really coming to visit me?  I asked.

"Do you believe in your heart that your grandfather is there?" 

I nodded.

"Then he is.  And don't be afraid," Nicodemus continued, "of cancer."

What the?  When it was all over, Beverly remarked on how gentle Nicodemus had been with me, as opposed to the stern tone he'd taken with Jamie.  "Has anyone in your family had cancer?" Bev asked.  Nobody had; up until that point, at least.  I barely gave it a second thought.

When Amy and I stepped outside we felt...odd.  I wasn't quite sure what had happened, but after an experience like that I simply wasn't the same.  We left the Prudential Center feeling different, changed. 

"Maybe I died of cancer in a past life," I wondered to Amy. 

"Maybe," my friend mused, "or it could be you'll die of cancer in this life."  Oy.  I hadn't thought of that.

Amy was dating a Fiji from MIT at the time, and when we returned to the frat house to meet up with our friends, we weren't really sure if we should tell them.  These were math guys, after all; they were never going to believe us!  Also, to tell them felt like it would only cheapen it, so I don't think we went into too much detail.

On lunch break that Monday, I told my work friends the story, in great detail.  They sat there in silence, listening raptly, all but one who spent the rest of the summer saying "Nicodemus" to me in a spooky voice.  Oh well.  It isn't a story for everyone.

I did look up Nicodemus in the bible.  And more recently, I did some online research (aka: Wikipedia) and learned that he was actually with Jesus, as Beverly had told us.  I still get the chills whenever I think of him.

I was never the same.  During my ride home that Sunday on the commuter rail, I frantically documented my account of the evening's events on the fronts and backs of two envelopes.  (All the paper I had with me at the time.)  I knew this was a story I would want to remember.  I have searched all day, in vain, for at least one of those envelopes; but all to no avail.  I never throw anything away!  But keeping things organized is another story.  And so I am forced to write this post entirely from memory.  It was exactly twelve years ago, but that's how it happened.

The other day someone asked me if I "believed" in psychics.  "Uh-huh," I answered, and turned and went about my business.  But in my mind I was thinking, honey, you don't even know the half of it.  xoxo

Together, we'll jomple our pope, burn in our bishop, and all the clergy...

Growing up Catholic, I always wondered what happened after the people filed into line and walked to the front of the church.  I had my theories, of course; but my family usually sat in the back so it was difficult to see.  Either way, I was desperate to find out what went on up there.  And whatever it was they came back chewing on, I wanted in on it.  One time I even stage whispered to my older sister, "Bring me back one!"

She didn't. 

I found the mass to be an early morning, tranquilizing sequence of familiar yet puzzling words.  After spending so much time listening, I knew precisely which order they were to be recited in.  Some unknown part of my subconscious knew, for example, that a bell was supposed to ring after the priest said,

"Do this in memory of Me."

Ring-a-ding-a-ding!!!!

One Sunday somebody dropped the ball and didn't perform the ring, so I took it upon myself to do it for them, in my loudest voice: "Ring-a-ding-a-diiiiinnnnnggggg!"  My parents were very proud.

I'd memorized the mass, although most of it was rather hard to decipher.  For instance, when the Priest would say, "Together, with John Paul, our pope; Bernard, our bishop; and all the clergy...", what I actually heard was: "Together we'll jomple our pope, burn in our bishop, and all the clergy..." 

It would be years before I'd figure that mystery out.  (Jomple our pope?  Burn in our bishop?  It sounded violent.) 

Our priest at the time was a kind looking man named Father Sweeney.  I can still hear the soft, sing-song of his voice saying: "The Body of Christ..."

"Amen."

"Good, dear."  This was Massachusetts, of course, so in reality it sounded more like: "Good, Dee-yah."

In our spare time, Sissy and I would often reenact this holy scenario for fun.  ("The Body of Christ," "Amen," "Good, Dee-yah.")  Our mother would always look concerned.

My First Holy Communion was a most solemn event.  I have virtually no pictures from that day, which is strange, seeing as my father was the photographer hired for that occasion.  Back then he would sometimes work photography gigs on weekends to earn extra income.  He worked weddings, graduations; my father took beautiful photographs. 

There were no beautiful photographs taken of me that day.  (What's that adage about the cobbler's daughter having no shoes?  Or the sommelier's baby never having enough Riesling?)  As you may notice in the picture above, I was very much into the habit of sticking out my pointy finger.  This was one of many "habits," as we came to call them.  But that's a post for another day...

After the ceremony, I kept my white First Communion dress on, naturally, but I also decided to add a pair of gray corduroys and traded in my dainty white shoes for dirty white high tops.  It was a daring, edgy ensemble.  I looked hot and I knew it.  I'd also just gotten bangs cut, the act of which definitely marked the beginning of my "awkward" years. 

And I digress.  On the day of my First Holy Communion, we had a party and everyone gave me cards with money stuffed inside.  This was my first true taste of riches and I liked the way it felt, I liked it very much indeed.  Fives and tens and twenties, oh my!  Thanks, Jesus!

During this time I entertained lofty notions of becoming an author.  I would write mysteries, perhaps; about a group of child detectives.  I was obsessed with Louisa May Alcott and her novel Little Women, and I very much wanted a fountain pen so I could write my own masterpiece, old fashioned style.  When I counted up that money I knew immediately what I'd put it towards: I would buy myself a roll top desk.  I had grand visions of myself, sitting at that desk, fountain penning the next great novel of our time. 

This was also around the time I wrote to Louisa May Alcott and asked her for an autograph, and also some advice on how to get published.  I never did hear back from her.

My parents humored me.  I don't know what they must have thought when their seven year old daughter asked to spend her First Communion money on a piece of furniture.  All I know is, one day my father came home and began assembling my desk.  He stained it a warm brown color and gave it a coat of polyurethane to make it shine.  I still remember the way it smelled after the paint dried.  I loved everything about that desk, and I loved my father for making it happen.

That December, my friends really came through for me: for my birthday, I received a gold colored desk lamp, a desk pad, and my good friend Melissa even got me that fountain pen, complete with a whole bottle of blue ink.  It was...breathtakingly beautiful.  One of my better birthdays, if I remember correctly.

To this day that desk remains my most beloved piece of furniture.  I'm typing on it now, in fact.  Some kids wished for Cabbage Patch Dolls and trips to Disney.  I wished for fountain pens and a book deal.  I wished for petticoats and a lacy parasol.  I wished Louisa May Alcott would write me back, goddammit. 

The Message

Hubby was watching Sports Center the other day and couldn't believe his eyes.  The announcers made a Hot Dog Soup reference!  What the? 

Hot dog soup, as far as I've ever known, is a recipe my grandmother concocted many years ago.  It's tomato based and delicious and everyone in my family eats it.  We come out of the womb craving it, in fact; it's just sort of in our blood.  I've even dedicated a post to it. 

This had to be a sign from my grandmother.  There's no doubt in my mind she's enjoying a heaping bowl of hot dog soup in Heaven now as I write. 

Love you, Nanny. xoxo

Just Beat It

In April 1984, the Easter Bunny hopped into our home and bestowed my sister and I with matching Thriller muscle tees.  It was the BEST EASTER EVER.

  

Over the course of his life, Michael Jackson touched a lot of people.  I couldn't believe the news when Sissy texted me today.  Wacko Jacko was...dead!  I decided to bring my MJ doll out for a special photo shoot to commemorate this sad occasion. 

 

 

 

Kittie, as you might imagine, is beyond devastated.  She was a regular at Neverland Ranch. 

  

Stooping it

There's a sort of clique that hangs out on the front stoop leading into my apartment building.  There, they chain smoke, drink beers, and give off an aura of general unpleasantry. 

What is this, Jr. High?  Was detention just dismissed?

Furthermore, if one is going to christen oneself the gatekeeper of the front stoop, one might think about being a bit friendly.  One might even consider oneself a "people person."  Not so with this lot.  I'm thinking of one woman in particular, who lays horizontally across the front steps with her legs stretched out, making it quite impossible to pass unless you choose to step over her.  This broad is surly and sour and her face perpetually looks annoyed.  For such a young person, she's developed a rather impressive chip on her shoulder.  Her little dog is cute, though.

If the steps are occupied by this douchebag, the only other alternative is to take the ramp.  It's a pretty long ramp, that zigzags, and most of the time I just don't feel like using it.  And so I step over her.  Oh yes, I go there.  Here's the real kicker, though: this girl doesn't even live here!

And we mustn't forget the middle aged couple who think they're the coolest kids in town.  Strangely, these two have established quite a following amongst the college set.  They actually moved away the week Hubby and I moved into the building; I can't remember which state they were relocating to, all I knew is they were leaving.  Good riddance!

Only, they're ba-ack!  They're staying about two buildings over.  And yet...they're always in front of my building!  I saw dog lady also coming out of a nearby building not too long ago; can these people not loiter on their own effing stoops?  And could they please throw their empty beer bottles away?  If they want to loiter, fine.  But don't glare at me as I walk up my own goddamn steps. 

On Memorial Day they actually held a barbecue on the damn ramp!  How can they be territorial about a ramp/stoop of an apartment building they don't even reside in?  If it wasn't so odd, I might consider the situation to be very, very sad.

It makes me wax philosophical.  Do I take the steps, for principle's sake, or do I take the ramp?  I spend my entire day on my feet, so a few measly extra steps aren't going to kill me.  And yet, 99 percent of the time I take the stairs.  Dogface barely bothers to move her legs.  What the hell did I ever do to her?

When I encounter people who are inconsiderate to the world at large, I often wonder what motivates them.  What makes these stoop covet-ers tick?

And so I am faced with a moral dilemma.  Glaring at them and yelling, MOVE, please!, isn't really going to make me feel any better.  Though this method may work successfully for a number of people, it's simply not The Odd Broad's style.  Taking the ramp is going to make me feel like a sucker.  Stabbing them is going to land me in prison.  And so I step over them, which can be awkward but certainly produces a statement I can live with.  

Who are these people and where the heck do they come from? 

Still on the wagon...but not for long

Today marks day twelve of our self-imposed exile from the drink.  And tonight, so help me God, I am getting my drink on.

It was refreshing to take a bit of a break, though.  My family continues to be supportive.  It was helpful of my mother to announce that I had a rampant drinking problem at my cousin Dan's high school graduation party last Sunday.  "Have you ever ruined a Holiday?"  My auntie Donna wondered.  (In case you're wondering, technically that's a no, unless of course we're counting her son's 26th birthday, which just so happens to fall on New Year's Eve.  Still, he kind of started a drunken fight after my wedding, so I suppose we're even.) 

All kidding aside, I honestly can't remember the last time I didn't booze it up on a weekend.  Seeing as last Friday was day 5 of our sobriety experiment, I wondered how the evening would pan out.

Earlier that day, Hubby and I met up at Lir for lunch.  I ordered a club sandwich and Hubby got a Greek salad with chicken.  Like clockwork, the minute I got back to work my belly began to hurt.  Apparently Hubby was experiencing a problem of a similar nature, only much, much worse.  He felt...bad.  Really bad.

When I got home from work, Hubby was still feeling terrible.  And to make matters worse, we'd run out of toilet paper.  Still, it was 7 o'clock on Friday night and we needed to eat.  I changed clothes, ran into the living room to get my shoes and stepped down hard on something very sharp.

Sweet Baby Jesus!  What was that?

I'd stepped on a staple.  Both prongs were sticking into my bare foot.  Perfect. 

Still, as I said before, it was Friday night and we were going out!  Hubby pulled out the staple and we were out the door, me limping slightly, him walking funny because of his stomach ache.  We looked like an old elderly couple.

Time to pick a restaurant.  Now, we're pretty indecisive on a good day, but this was awful.  Every other place was a tavern, which would've been fine except for the fact that we were on the damn wagon.  We must've looked at a dozen menus before Hubby decided his pain was unbearable and I suggested that we just go home.

We went home.  Hubby took an Imodium.  We decided to give it another try. 

And that's when we really started acting elderly: two restaurants had hosts that ignored us and we eventually decided to leave.  Hubby took this opportunity to go on a small rant about how restaurants in Boston lack proper management.  (Elderly.)  My foot still ached and Hubby still had stomach issues.  (Elderly.)  This was pathetic! 

We didn't eat until after 9pm.  And by that time, we were both absolutely delirious with hunger.  We finally decided upon a small Thai restaurant.

I suppose the meal was doomed from the start.  We sat down and I ordered a sparkling water, and the waitress brought me a limeade.  I would have drank it, but it sort of tasted like a mojito, which simply wouldn't do.  (God I wanted a mojito!)  I managed to get our waitress' attention, and she eventually brought me a Pelligrino. 

I guess I was hungry for stir fry, but every menu item that looked remotely appealing to me was either breaded or steamed.  My head was really starting to ache.  Hubby's, too.  I was feeling really lightheaded.

"Why does my head hurt so bad?'  I wondered aloud.

"From not eating" Hubby deadpanned.  I started to giggle.  Why did I find that so funny?

The waitress brought us plates.  "That's one step in the right direction," I heard my husband say.

The calamari was overcooked and way too crispy, but we scarfed it down.  "At least it's food,"  Hubby mused.  More giggles.

At last, after a long interval, our entrees arrived.  What to say about our entrees?  The basil was so overpowering that the whole dish tasted like black licorice.  I made a face.

"You don't like it?" Hubby asked.

"NO," I answered, a little too loudly.  I then burst into silent, uncontrollable giggles, the kind that once they start they can't be stopped.  Hubby started laughing, too.  What was wrong with us?  We don't normally act like this! 

"How's yours?"  I asked. 

"The chicken is gamey."

This information sent me entirely over the edge.  I haven't laughed that hard in ages.  And I wasn't even drunk.

The waiter and waitress were so genuinely lovely, we started to feel guilty.  My plate was full, so I held my breath and forced down as many bites as I could.  Hubby picked around the gamey chicken and tried to eat some of his meal as well.

We didn't have the heart to tell our waiter we didn't want our food wrapped up to go.  "Did you...like it?  Was it okay?"  His face looked confused, but hopeful.

"Oh, yes, delicious.  We're just full."  He seemed to buy it.

"That was an academy award winning performance right there," said Hubby.

We figured there would be a homeless person to give our leftovers away to, but  there was noone in sight.  We did see an old lady sitting on a bench with a walker, but it was hard to tell what her circumstances were.  I could just picture myself asking her if she wanted our picked through, nasty leftovers, only to find out she wasn't even homeless.

I left the bag on a ledge outside Boston Market.  Hopefully whoever claimed it likes basil and gamey chicken.

And so, Hubby and I spent a Friday evening sans booze.  And somehow, I laughed more that night than I have in a long while.  In the end, we lasted a whole eleven days without drinking.  All the same, tonight I have a date with a tall glass of Chateau Ste. Michelle.  xoxo

On line

I can't stand waiting in long lines.  (If I still lived in nyc I'd have to refer to it as waiting "on line.")  But seriously, even Disney World made me kind of pissy.

I passed the Apple store on my walk to work this morning and noticed that a moderate looking line had formed outside.  There were people walking up and down the line, offering beverages.  I guess it's pretty strenuous work, standing in line.  One needs to stay hydrated.  The AT & T store also had people waiting outside, but they weren't giving anything away.  At least it isn't raining.  Wait a minute, actually, it is.

All the same, it's Friday, and thank God for that!  I am definitely over this week.  xoxo

When life hands you a rainy day, make chicken pot pie

The day was cold, rainy, and to top it all off, the Yankees were in town.  But I didn't care, I was making pot pies.  Every day can't be sunny and gorgeous, after all, and this one provided me with the perfect opportunity to turn on my oven.  (In June.)

I wouldn't exactly call this dish figure friendly, but hell, I'm on the wagon and need some comfort.  Bacon and puff pastry really seem to do the trick.  I use a recipe from Nigella Lawson that I've modified slightly.  I think you'll like it.  Hubby and I do.

Ingredients:
3 Slices of bacon, (Chopped or scissored into tiny pieces)
1 Package Frozen Ready-Rolled Puff Pastry (Thawed)
1 Container Baby Portabella Mushrooms
1 1/2 Cups Low Sodium Chicken Stock
1 Pound Boneless Skinless Chicken Breast (Chopped into bite size pieces)
3 Cloves Minced Garlic
2 Shallots, diced
1 Tablespoon Thyme (1/2 Teaspoon if using dried)
1 Teaspoon olive Oil
2 1/2 Tablespoons Flour
1 Tablespoon Butter
Salt, Pepper

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.  Into a plastic freezer bag, add the chicken, flour, thyme, and a little salt and pepper.  Seal up the bag and toss.  Set aside.

Pour the olive oil into a large skillet (I use my dutch oven) and saute the garlic and shallots over medium heat, until softened.  Add in the bacon and cook until crispy.  (I usually take my time on this step because in our house we like our bacon crispy.) 

Stir in the mushrooms and cook until softened.

Add in the tablespoon of butter, then tip in the contents of the freezer bag (adding the chicken, flour and thyme.)  Stir everything around until the chicken starts to brown, about 3-5 minutes.

Pour in the chicken stock and stir; let the mixture come to a bubble and simmer until thickened, about 5 minutes.  (If needed, add in a little more salt, pepper and thyme, to taste.)

Take two 1 1/4 cup pie pots (or au gratin pots) and dampen the rims with water.  Cut thin strips out of the puff pastry and press around the rims.  (See picture above.)  Cut two small circles out of the puff pastry, for lids, and set aside.

Next, fill the pots with the chicken and mushroom mixture.  Dampen the puff pastry ring around the pie pots with water, and top each one with a lid.  Seal the edges with the prongs of a fork and bake for 20 minutes, turning them once halfway through cooking. 

They'll be piping hot when they come out of the oven, so if you have the self control to, it's a good idea to let them cool a bit.  I cannot tell a lie; I usually just go ahead and burn my tongue.  These pies are that good.  I could eat them every day, although I'm sure that's not advisable.  I also enjoy eating this meal with a spoon and a fork, because that's just the way I roll.

The next time the weather turns lousy, turn on your oven!  xoxo
 

On the wagon, sans Riesling

Picture it: 2002, in the kitchen of a restaurant in Chelsea, New York City.  A young Odd Broad had had too much caffeine and remarked to her coworker, in a thick Massachusetts accent, "Jeez, I'm shaking like I've got the DT's!" 

This was a phrase my grandmother used to say.  Not that she ever had the DT's, of course, she rarely ever drank.  I suppose I'd never really thought about the meaning behind it.  Either way, my friend certainly didn't find it very amusing.

"Do you know what that means, Sarah?"

Shit.  "Um, (pause), sure, isn't it when you shake because you're going through withdrawals from...drinking?"

"Yes, that's exactly what it means.  I just wanted to make sure you knew.  Sorry, I have a father in the program."

Yikes.  If I could have disappeared into the tuna tartar, I would have.  I felt bad.  Later, I learned that this girl was also in the program.  And then I felt very bad.

And I digress.  What I really wanted to tell you was that for the next two weeks, Hubby and I are giving up drinking.  For what it's worth, that sentence doesn't really sound nice in polite conversation.  If you don't believe me, try saying it out loud sometime.

I'm giving up drinking for the next two weeks.  Nine inconsequential words, but when linked together in this fashion, it does cause one to wonder:

Why are you giving up drinking for the next two weeks?  Do you have some sort of...problem?

Do I?  Am I addicted?  Is drinking white wine on weeknights...bad?  Is wanting to drink bad?  Do I need it?  Can I stop?  Will I get the DT's?

I broached the subject with my mother and sister last Saturday night and the two of them burst into giddy hysterics, right there in the middle of Victoria's Diner.  I think what finally set them off was when I told them I thought I should maybe "talk to someone" about my rampant drinking. 

"Here we go, now she's an alcoholic!"  Reader, they could barely get the words out.  There were tears of laughter in their eyes, for crying out loud.  The waiters were staring. 

Not that they're heartless or unconcerned; I guess they just know me all too well.  I suppose I can be prone to dramatics; and maybe slightly impressionable with a dash of hypochondria.  (I was the type of child who longed for poor eyesight, just so I could wear glasses.  I read Go Ask Alice and wondered if I too might turn into a drug addicted hippie living in the late 1960's.  When I bought a box of caffeine pills in college, Sissy accused me of trying to become addicted, just to get attention.  That sort of thing.) 

And so my relatives merely assumed I was being melodramatic, inventing a situation, if you will.  But honestly, I do sometimes worry that I may be pickling my liver in Riesling and Sauv blanc!  And the idea of having a bit of a detox is definitely an alluring one.

My sister continues to be supportive.  "One day at a time," she text messages me.  Smart ass.  She also called to inform me there's a weekly AA meeting in her neighborhood every Tuesday evening, if I'd like to attend.  "Let go and let God,"  I text back.

It's day four of my recovery now.  I'll keep you posted.

Back to life, back to reality

In elementary school I had a teacher with a reputation for being a hardass.  Looking back as an adult, I couldn't tell you if she truly was mean or not, but back in those days she certainly fit the mold.  She had flaming red hair, a permanent scowl, and an imposing, hands on hips type of physique. 

She referred to a grade of zero as a goose egg.  She threatened goose eggs pretty much on a daily basis.  In all fairness, I can't say this woman was ever anything but kind to me, but then again I never gave her reason to behave otherwise.  After all, I was no dummy.

She'd also chant, "Time for ketchup, time for ketchup!"

Ketchup?  I always found that one particularly baffling.  I think I might have been in college when I finally figured out that she meant "catch up."  As in, time to catch up on homework. 

It's time for the odd broad to ketchup on life. 

The other day I awoke from the strangest dream, about a friend I hadn't thought about in a long time.  I tore out of bed, frantically flung open the lid on my desk and there it was...

A seemingly harmless pile of papers, stacked a million miles high.  Or, technically, eight inches.  What was lurking in this pile, you may wonder?

Oh, an invitation to a baby shower.  (RSVP by May 15th)

An invitation to a wedding shower (Kindly RSVP by May 1st, and please include a favorite recipe.)

An invitation to a 25th Anniversary party.

Bills upon bills, a postcard from the Shark Vacuum company telling me they'd charged my debit card and were sending my filters in two to three weeks.  To Queens.

A letter from Kittie's insurance company, who also still thought we lived in New York. 

Suddenly I thought of the rest of the things I'd allowed to pile up:  The email from my friend in Colorado who'd recently given birth, complete with pictures of her newborn baby girl.  I hadn't responded.  I hadn't even opened the picture files, in fact.  The warm email from my old boss.  The emails from hubby's Grandpa. 

Now, I wouldn't exactly label myself as anal, but I do like to think of myself as moderately thoughtful.  May was a horrible month, but I'm shocked and amazed that I'd allowed things to pile up so drastically.

And now, I will ketchup, one RSVP at a time, which is really the best I can do.

Sincerely,

Ms. Bad Manners xoxo