The Odd Broad

Have holy water, will travel

My Mother always told me never to talk religion or politics, but oh well, I'm in the mood.

Ah, the Lenten season is upon us!

For those of you who aren't familiar with the Catholic season of Lent and find yourself curious, please allow this semi-lapsed Catholic girl to enlighten you on the ins and outs of this exciting season filled with self-denial and meatless Fridays.

It all begins on Ash Wednesday, a day where Catholics fast by forgoing meat and eating one meal for sustenance or two small ones, depending.  I love these strange amendments to the rules.  Who makes them up?  If whoever's who can amend the meal rule, surely they can reverse the rule about women not being priests?  (Don't get me started.)

I had mac and cheese and Breyer's peanut butter cup ice cream for dinner this Ash Wednesday.  I'm not sure how many meals that counts as. 

On Ash Wednesday we go to church to get ashes rubbed onto our foreheads in the form of a cross.  As he ashes you, the priest murmurs "Remember that you are dust and unto dust you shall return," or something to that effect.  Very Gothic, I always think.  Macabre.  Kind of gives me the chills.  I'm not sure if they are good chills, though.  I don't know about you, but I'm in no hurry to return to dust.

The Lenten season lasts until Easter Sunday, when the Easter Bunny brings everyone Hershey Kisses, Cadbury Creme Eggs and hides miniature cans of Bud Light wrapped in colorful tin foil around the yard. 

Oh, he sometimes brings Marshmellow Peeps, too.  But I don't care for those.  Hear that, Easter Bunny?  No Peeps this year!  (Is it inappropriate for my sister and I to continue to request easter baskets well into my late twenties and her early thirties?  Nah.)

During the season of Lent we reflect upon the journey and message of Jesus and refrain from eating meat each Friday if we are between the ages of 15 and 58.  Although recently in Boston they deemed it ok to eat corned beef on Saint Patrick's day because it fell on a Friday.  What the?  Like people don't make fun of us Catholics enough already?  Seriously.

During Lent we also attempt to abstain from something meaningful, in the name of God.  The Odd Broad always has difficulty sticking to these resolutions.  I usually try to refrain from swearing, but this always winds up being an insurmountable challenge.  In the end I usually water it down to only being allowed to say shit, then everything but the F word, then who am I kidding it's time to think of something else to abstain from, for fuck's sake!

The same has happened with giving up drinking (No drinking at all!  Well, only on Fridays!  OK, only on Fridays, Saturdays, and sometimes Thursdays.  But not Sundays.  And only wine, but not good wine, terrible wine.  There.  I'm totally abstaining.  Hiccup.) 

Each Ash Wednesday I find myself peeking at the people coming out of line, post ashing, trying to judge the proportions of their crosses to see which line I should aim for.  Inevitably, I am always off.  Yesterday  I spotted a man with a tiny cross the size of a dime leaving the line on the left, so I hopped into that line.  Two seconds later I emerged with a cross that was approximately three inches long by three inches wide, Charlie Manson style.  Ok, I could work with this, I have bangs...

I like to think The Big Guy was chuckling at me from above, "Silly mortal, trying to get away with tiny ashes!"

This past Ash Wednesday I got my ashes on my lunch break at Saint Patrick's Cathedral.  This could pretty much be considered the drive-thru option as far as ashes go.  You're in, you're ashed, and you're out, all in under two minutes.  Truly the value meal of ashes.  More bang for your buck.  This is very different from the Ash Wednesdays of my youth, where we would sit through a 45 minute mass before getting to the main event. 

I've also received ashes in Queens, at a church that's over one hundred years old.  It's a lovely church, but if you ever find yourself there on a holy day of obligation, watch out!  You are about to witness some serious hijinks. 

You don't believe me?

One Palm Sunday a few years ago, while the priest was delivering his sermon, he felt it necessary to lecture his parishioners on the manners and etiquette of receiving the blessed palms.  A stern, chastising, priestly pep-talk, if you will:  "Only take one.  That's one palm per person.  This is not a buffet at your favorite diner, you cannot come back for seconds.  And please, no pushing, no shoving, we want to keep this...orderly and respectful." 

I suppressed a giggle.  I mean, I periodically feel like New York is a freak show, but this was downright odd.  It wasn't until I had reached the blessed palm buffet myself that I actually understood why the priest had deemed such a warning necessary.  People were acting insane!  Ca-RAY-zay!  Grown adults were pushing, cutting children in line, grabbing wildly for the palms.  This was mayhem, people, absolute bedlam!

This unusual episode made me very homesick for my hometown, where churches were repressed and civilized, where people didn't push in line to receive The Body of Christ and Palm Sundays posed no threat of physical harm.  Oh, and I'm not afraid someone is going to swipe my purse when I go up for communion there, either. 

I'll never forget my first Ash Wednesday in New York, at this same church in Queens.  After I received my ashes I went to go back to my seat, assuming there would be an ending to the mass.  But alas, how very wrong I was.  After receiving my ashes I was carried away on a wave, a wave in a terrible ocean of ashed-up Catholic maniacs.  I was in a veritable mosh pit of Catholics, fighting to make their way out of the door.  Hmmm?  Don't we have to, like, finish the mass?  What was this all about?  Was there a hidden camera somewhere?  Was I being punked?

Who WERE these wacky NY Catholics?  What kind of weirdo pushes and cuts in line at church?  While I'm at it, what kind of a nut leaves their cell phone on and, worse than that, answers it during the middle of the sermon?

The first time my husband went with me and my family to church was equally memorable.  He's not Catholic, and he wasn't sure if he could go up and receive the Eucharist with everyone else.  We decided he probably could, what was the big deal, right?  He went behind me in line, and when we got back to the pew he knelt down beside me. 

"What do I do?"  He whispered. 

"I don't know, say a little prayer?"  I answered. 

"No, what do I do with THIS?" 

Horrified, I looked down to see the Holy Eucharist in the palm of his hand.  Brian had carried The Body of Christ back to his seat.  What, was he going to take it home and spread hummus on it? 

"Eat it, quick!"  I whispered.  "It's blessed!  Just swallow it!"  Jeesh. 

We ended up getting married in the Catholic church and had to go to a one day seminar, to prepare.  While there we had to answer a series of questions, ranging in subject.  One of them was "What role do you think God will play in your marriage?"  I was taking this all very seriously.  When it came time for us to read our answer to our partner, mine was something earnest and heartfelt like, "God will hopefully be Someone we can turn to for strength, in happy and bad times, etc..."

What was my future husband's answer?  God will be playing the role of Himself.

I realize he was trying to be funny, but let's face it, it had been an exhausting day.  I started to weep, just a lil'.

My husband sort of remains bemused when it comes to the more mysterious side of Catholicism.  Like that time we were flying to Louisiana in a propeller plane during a tropical storm.  Nightmare, anyone?  We drank margaritas until they ran out of them, and in between terrified gulps I deemed it necessary to apply holy water to both of our foreheads.  Why did I have holy water upon my person, you might ask?  I don't know, I just did.

It's a mystery.

I love the mysticism, the quiet routine, the safety of it all.  I love that I can talk to Mary, the Blessed Mother, and the plethora of Saints and all they represent.  (Did you know there's a Saint for dentists?  And actors?  And exotic dancers?  OK, I think I'm making that last one up, but there probably should be.)

So I got ashed.  But I wasn't doing it for the Catholic church, I was doing it for the Big Guy Upstairs.  The ashes always leave me feeling shy, exposed.  Like I'm telling the world about a secret I don't usually talk about. 

Of course, nobody really said anything.  None of my coworkers said anything when I wiped my nose after touching my forehead and had a nose full of ash, either.  Thanks for that, guys. 

The odd thing is, after reading this, I can see how people might view me as either a religious fanatic, or a son-of-a-bitching bastard on her way to hell in a hand basket.  I am neither. 

I like my religion but just happen to find it...eccentric and sometimes infuriating and always familiar.  Like the strange smelling Great Aunt who you don't want to visit but once you get to her house you're somehow glad you came.  Because she baked cookies.  And pie. 

I don't mean to make fun of it, but I guess I kind of am.  Perversely, when a non-Catholic starts ragging on Catholicism it's like a kick in my nuts.  Figuratively speaking.  Much in the way it's ok to make fun of my own family but the minute someone else does it's no longer funny?

When all is said and done, I brake for the Big Guy Upstairs.  I brake for prayers to Mary, I brake for lighting candles in church when I'm feeling scared, and I brake for drunkenly anointing my husband's forehead with holy water on propeller plane rides.

OK, kids, now let's get out there and hunt for some mini beer cans!

What the?

My landlords pretty much remind me of George Costanza's parents on Seinfeld.  Although I suppose that might sound a little harsh.  An 87 year old woman and her 58 year old son, they can sometimes be...pleasant.  When they aren't violently screaming at each other at the top of their lungs, that is.

And then there was the time they put up that sign in the hallway that read "On the stairs: No running, luggage, or wheels.  Unless with care.  Owner."  This demand appeared to be written in crayon.  Seriously, I endured less nagging when I was a moody teenager living with my parents!  Our landlords had already instructed us not to slam the toilet seat (how to pee), not to be too loud when tenderizing chicken with a meat mallet (how to prepare poultry), and now they were telling us how to walk? 

Enough was enough, these control freaks had finally gone too far!  Fuming, I ripped down the note and threw it away.  I think about three minutes elapsed before my Catholic guilt prompted me to pull the sign out of the garbage and tape it up again.  The sign is still there today, a stained and slightly wrinkled reminder of my short-lived rebellion.

My landlord's son often reminds me of Smeagol (or Gollum, depending on his mood) from The Lord of The Rings.  It's not unusual to hear him screaming at his elderly mother one minute and the next to see him all smiles, simpering in his mildest tone: "Hi Sarah." 

Hiya, Smeagol! 

These landlords take their garbage extremely seriously.  Whenever a bag is added to one of the cans, within 5 minutes, like clockwork, they are outside checking to see what was added, perhaps rummaging through the bag should the fancy strike them.  If I listen closely, sometimes I can almost hear him whispering, "Precious..."

Twice a week, usually no earlier than 10 PM, something begins that I like to call "The dance of the Garbage Cans."  Basically my 87 year old landlord slowly drags each can from the alley to the curb.  This is never a speedy process, to say the least.  The noise is enough to make a grown woman weep: scrape, scrape, scrape...

Now, I understand that garbage is a solemn thing and not to be trifled with.  My husband and I brake for recycling, we most certainly do!  We always have a ton of recycling to put out every week.  I mean, empty water jugs, Mad Dog bottles and 40 ounces of Colt 45 can really add up.  Tee hee.

But could somebody kindly explain to my landlords that not all items are authorized for recycling in NYC, even if they are made of plastic or glass?  I realize they could possibly receive a ticket for any mixed garbage, but come on, not all glass is recyclable!

Could somebody please tell Smeagol not to rummage through my garbage, pulling out objects that aren't sporting the please recycle logo in the first place?  Because surely if they were recyclable, here's a thought, I would be recycling them! 

It's a tricky concept to grasp, I realize.  Some items are meant for recycling.  Some are garbage. 

It's gotten to the point that I sometimes create two recycling bags: one "real" recycling bag, and one "fake" recycling bag containing glass and plastic that aren't actually recyclable.  I'm not sure if my decoy helps at all, but it's a try.

This whole garbage topic springs to mind because this morning, too tired for my decoy tactic, I found myself frantically hiding things within my garbage.  I took a takeout container that wasn't recyclable, triple bagged it, stuck it inside a paper bag (I could've recycled that, I know) and then bagged it again before dropping it into my little garbage can.  So, this was what my late twenties were actually boiling down to:  I was a womanchild smuggling trash within my trash.  How...trashy.

But trust me, these extreme measures are imperative.  Gone are the days when I was footloose and fancy free, chucking away my garbage safe in the blissful knowledge that nobody would be rifling through it! 

A few months ago I was enjoying a restful Saturday afternoon when Smeagol's Mother called to inform me her son had gotten injured.  There were pins in my trash.  Or pie tins.  There were either pins or pie tins in my trash.  Apparently while Smeagol was combing through my garbage he had stuck himself on a pin or a pie tin that I had recklessly placed within one of my trash bags.

In the words of my 5 year old cousin, "What the?" 

We don't even own any pins, let alone drop them into our trash bags!  We later learned that it was one of those takeout tins that had been crumpled up and thrown away.  (Pins, takeout containers, eh, what's the difference, really?) 

Here's a thought: if sifting through your tenant's garbage results in bodily harm, why not, hmmm, STOP GOING THROUGH THEIR GARBAGE?  Nah, too sensible.

It dawned on me that if they were going to hunt through my trash I should probably have a little fun with it.  After all, it's the simple things in life, right?  Where I would ordinarily clean out Kittie's litter box and double bag the poop before dropping it into my trash bag, I was now dumping it straight into my trash with vengeful, hysterical abandon, yelling, "Take THAT, Smeagol!"  If my landlord wanted to live dangerously, Kittie would assist him in this.  And you don't even want to smell that cat's shit, let alone get it on your hands. 

Once a month I try to do the same thing with tampons.

I realize this probably all sounds very disturbing.  But that's because it is.  I mean, Is this really what my life is turning into?  Cat poop as a retaliation tactic against my meddlesome landlords?  I'm sure there's a shrink out there somewhere who can help me work through this...

Does this gown make me look full?

This Wednesday my husband and I are celebrating our nine year anniversary.  Well, not nine years of marriage, we've only been married for a year and four months.  So I guess one could say we spent the first seven years and six months of our relationship just having a good time.  Living in sin, like Jon Bon Jovi so poignantly sang about back in 1988.

Honestly, It really didn't occur to us to even think about marriage until we had been together for almost six years.  And then one day the idea just spontaneously occurred to me.  Then I gently suggested (nagged?  me?  never) until one day it spontaneously occurred to him.  My transformation was both awe-inspiring and immediate.  All of a sudden, overnight, I was a cow and getting milked for free!  Or, how did that saying go again?  He was buying the cheese without the crackers?  No, that's not right either... 

Plus, we had a child (ok, a cat) to consider now, our Kittie, and I longed to make her legit.

But alas, my cat and her legitimacy is not the focus of my story.  Instead I'd like to tell you about the day I tried on my wedding gown for the very first time.  A tale entitled: That time in the Bridal Shop when Ma called me fat.

I had found it.  The dress.  Actually, my beloved friend Amy gets the true credit for discovering it.  Much like my Mom, Dad and Sister get the credit for discovering the reception locale, photographer, the favors...let's just say this Odd Broad is enamored with the word delegate.  I believe delegating is the bride to be's dearest friend, her comrade, her pal.

Anyway, one afternoon Amy called me at work and told me she had found a dress.  "Sah, this dress is you, it even has a flower on it!"  I knew instantly which dress she was talking about.  I had seen it online and fallen in love with it, but I assumed it was too pricey and had therefore averted my eyes. (Look away from the computer screen!) 

But Amy was one step ahead of me.  No rookie to the world of everything bridal, she had already called RK Bridal and found that they sold the dress at an inconceivable discount!  Incidentally, RK Bridal is this huge warehouse of a Bridal shop in NY's Fashion District.  I feel as if I have spent considerable portions of my life at RK, feeling woozy, light-headed, enfeebled, seeing visions...Fabulous as it is, something about the store definitely makes me swoon.  In the same way as a child going to the wallpaper store with my Mom involuntarily made me need a lie down.  I weaken very easily.

So I was no stranger to RK Bridal.  In 2005, curiously close to the time of the spontaneous marriage idea, the Odd Broad was a bridesmaid three times within a span of 3 months.  Three red dresses, three different styles.  Sometimes I wear them around the house just for fun.  It's always entertaining to order takeout on a weeknight and answer the door wearing a strapless a-line gown, fuzzy slippers and a bathrobe, taking swiggs from a bottle of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill...  (I'm teasing, I've never done that!  No, honestly, you should try it, it's a good time.)

Back to RK Bridal.  Swoon-inducing or not, you cannot beat their prices, and they had my dress.  Break out the smelling salts, this broad was dress shopping!  Yee-haw.

The only glitch was that RK Bridal didn't have a sample of the dress for me to try on, but they could still order it for me at the discounted price.  So now all we needed to do was find a store that had the dress so I could try it on, confirm my love for it, and then buy it from RK.  Misleading, you say?  Dishonest?  Yes and yes.  But a bride's gotta do what a bride's gotta do.  Especially when she's sticking to a budget.

Unfortunately, nobody seemed to carry this dress!  Some stores had other styles by the same maker but not the dress I was seeking, which was called Pamela, by La Sposa, in ivory. 

After many phone calls we found an upscale shop in Boston that actually had the Pamela dress and we made an appointment for the following weekend. 

For the record, I am a bad liar.  Ask anyone who I've ever lied to and they'll confirm this.  Aware of this, my Mom decided we should discuss our strategy beforehand.  The plan we eventually devised was for my Mom to mention her Aunt Millie if she liked the dress. 

Aunt Millie is my Grandfather's sister and I'm not sure how or when her name became a code word for everything from periods (What's wrong with you, are you getting your Aunt Millie or something?) to pointing out any randomly humorous situation or person (Have you seen Aunt Millie lately?)  Poor Aunt Millie, I'm not sure she ever did anything to warrant us using her name with such blatant disrespect.

So the plan was in place, but it almost sounded too effortless to be true.  I wondered if we shouldn't make it seem like we might buy the dress, for believability's sake?

No.  Get in, get out, get lunch.  Stick to the plan and nobody got hurt.

When we arrived at the Bridal Shop Amy was already waiting for us, surrounded by white lacy gowns.  Miraculously enough, you'd almost think she liked bridal shops.  Almost.  (I say almost because I know for a fact that even Amy isn't immune to the occasional bridal shop meltdown.)  But I do think in a past life she might have been a wedding planner.  My sister Jenna arrived a few minutes later.  She definitely doesn't love bridal shops.  Or wedding planning.  She's happily married to the love of her life, but somehow manages to remain anti-bridal. 

A moment later, a girl named Lisa appeared and immediately seemed to want to separate me from the rest of my little group.  "OK, let's go into this room here and I can help you can fill out a short questionnaire."  Questionnaire?  What?  Panicked, I glanced over at my Mom, who was now seated next to Amy, whispering about something.  "OK,"  I said meekly. 

Lisa showed me into a small room and closed the door behind me.  "First off, what price range are you looking for?"  She asked.

Now, I knew for a fact that the dresses in this shop started at about 2,000 bucks.  (My Pamela dress was waiting for me somewhere in cyberspace for a fraction of this cost!  No, no, suppress it, don't even think about it or this Lisa character will be able to see right through you...)  "Um, I guess somewhere starting in the $2,000 range?" 

"Perfect,"  Lisa smiled.  She was friendly, with a plump, pretty face and looked like she might have been a couple of years younger than me.  Maybe this was going to be a piece of cake after all.  Lisa then proceed to ask me a barrage of questions that ordinarily would have left me reeling: what is the wedding date, what bra size do I wear, how big is my wedding party, which was my favorite New Kid, Fat Elvis or Skinny Elvis, who did I vote for in the last presidential election? 

I was proud of myself.  Not only was I was keeping the charade going flawlessly, but I was doing so without even breaking a sweat.  There would be no swooning here today, thank you very much.  I guess I was doing too well, because at one point a part of me started to believe the fib, and in my delirium I began to convince myself that I would be buying a wedding gown that very day.  Lisa was just so nice, I really wanted to believe the things I was telling her weren't all fabrications.

Lisa left the room to gather some dresses and I took this chance to go out and talk to my Mom.  "So, what's happening in there?"  She whispered.  "Well, the girl just asked me some questions..."  I began cheerfully, aware that another bridal shop lady was standing close by.  I added, "She asked what my price range is, and I said about $2,000." 

My Mother's eyes widened.  What the...? 

Well, if I was going to play this charade I was going to do it right.  I wasn't going to let Lisa think I wasn't serious! 

"But you're not serious, remember?"  My Mom (aka: the voice of reason) reminded me.  Oh ya.

Lisa returned with some dresses.  I really only wanted to try on Pamela, but Lisa was practicing that enigmatic bridal shop move where they have the bride try on a gazillion dresses that aren't even remotely what she was asking for.  Finally, the moment of truth arrived.  I had found my dress.  I emerged from the dressing room wearing Pamela, feeling like a million bucks.  Or two thousand five hundred, to be exact.

My sister's face lit up.  "I LOVE IT!!"  She blurted out.  My mother and Amy shot startled glances at her.  Obviously someone had forgotten to tell Jenna we were playing it cool this afternoon. 

Amy was the next to speak.  "I like it, it's nice..." she said in her best attempt at half-heartedness.   

My Mom was trying to look casual.  "It looks ok...we'll have to check and see what Aunt Millie thinks..."

I was already too deeply invested in this farce.  Ok, nice, what did they mean nice?  This was Pamela, Pammy, Pam! 

"What do you mean, you don't like it like it?  Because I really love it!  Sister, you love it right?"  I was practically peeing myself with excitement.

"Yes!  Sister, I absolutely LOVE it!"  Jenna exclaimed.  "Buy it NOW!!"

After a few minutes Lisa went into the back to get some flowers for me to hold up to the dress.

My Mom frantically seized this opportunity and whispered, "What the hell are you guys doing?  Jenna, we're not supposed to love the dress, we're not buying it here, we're buying it in New York, remember?" 

"Oh, ya," my sister said, "I forgot." 

"But Mom, in real life you love it, right?"  I asked.

"I love it, honey, you look beautiful, I think you definitely need to get this dress, but are you planning on spending $2500 today on it?  Because you're acting like that's what you want to do.  And plus, didn't you hear me say Aunt Millie?"

Oh, ya.  I forgot.

All the shop ladies agreed, the dress was a perfect match.  Something about Pamela just glued my eyes to the three way mirror, trance-like, even.  Pretty dress, nice dress...

The minutes continued to tick by.  Pretty dress...

"You know, I don't know if I like the top,"  Amy tried.  "It looks too..." 

"Do you think?"  I asked, slightly hurt.  Her eyes widened in disbelief.  Woops, I kept forgetting.

Lisa instantly called out, "Janice, can you come over here?"  Janice was the owner of the shop.  "Janice, do you think we could do something with the top of this dress?"

Janice came over and fiddled, ooohed, and aahhed... 

The minutes continued to tick away.  I was beginning to feel...trapped in my nice pretty dress.  All reason had long since left me and I felt hazy and bleary, my body threatening to swoon at any given moment.

When Lisa stepped away my Mom once again attempted to coax some reality back into me.  "Sasa, what are you doing?"  She whispered.  "Every time we've said something negative you've said something positive.  Honey, just tell her you'll decide later and we'll come back, that you need some time..."

I wasn't sure if I could do this to Lisa, we'd already been through so much together.  I mean, the girl had practically seen me naked.  Plus although I knew I desperately needed to, for whatever reason I wasn't exactly in a hurry to take off that dress.  I was dangerously caught within the grasp of Pamela and all her sparkly loveliness...

Now my Sissy had joined the game, I think probably because she was hungry and starting to swoon herself.  "You know, I'm not sure after all, I don't really like it as much as I thought I did..."  (Oh Reader, it pained me to hear them talk about Pamela this way!)

Lisa disagreed.  "Well, Sarah obviously loves it."

"Yes, but, maybe I should think about it for a few days?"  I tried.

"Yes, Aunt Millie would want to see it on before you actually buy it."  My Mother was getting nervous.  We all were.

Again, Lisa disagreed.  "No, you should really order now if you want this dress in time for the wedding..."

At this point we had been in the store for what seemed like an eternity and there appeared to be no end in sight.  My Mother decided it was time to pull out the big guns.  "Honey, I'm just...not sure." 

"Well, which part aren't you sure about?  Your daughter is really in love with this dress."  Lisa meant business.

I could see my sweet Mother searching for the right words to say.  If you knew my Mom you'd know she is one of the nicest women in the world, practically a saint.  She's not one of those Mothers who say horribly critical things, she's great.  But desperate times called for desperate measures, and after all, her Aunt Millie line wasn't working, I was already too far gone... 

Figuratively speaking, my Mom began to flail wildly.  I think the Bridal Shop may have sapped her energy and imagination as well because the next thing I knew she was saying...

"It's just that...it's just...here, around the middle, this dress kind of makes you look a little...I don't know, full around your middle."

I watched as Lisa's eyes widened in horror, her jaw dropping with an expression of utter disgust.  Jenna and Amy's stunned faces seemed to be fighting back laughter. 

I couldn't help but think, Ma, you couldn't think of something better to say than that?

Reader, it might help to explain:  The Odd Broad can and has been called many things: pointy nosed, neurotic, bony, flat-chested (My Grandmother really wanted to order me those bust-enhancing pills from TV), possibly web-toed, but I think it's pretty safe to say that full would not be considered an accurate description. 

I've never dieted but I've always been slender, I guess due to my metabolism and genetic makeup.  On top of that, Pamela is fantastically slimming, it's just the way she was constructed.  She has a lovely, slenderizing dropped waist with soft fabric gently draping down and nobody would look full in her, it just isn't possible.

"It makes you look full, honey," my Mother said again.

Lisa looked traumatized.  "Full?  Where is she full?"  She called Janice over and shot a nasty glance at my Mother.  "She says the dress makes her look full!" 

Janice was appalled.  "Full?  Where?  That dress looks gorgeous on her." 

The pair of them were staring at my Mother like she was a venomous monster.  Amy started to giggle.

Ma was sticking to her guns.  "I'm just saying it makes you look full.  Around your tummy," she babbled.  (My Mother would like me to add that she sometimes babbles when she gets nervous.  I do, too, by the way.)

So I guess this was my out.  Albeit not an ideal way out, but an out nonetheless.  Under the gaze of Lisa's sympathetic eyes, I finally said,  "Well, if you don't like it Mom, maybe we should wait."

As she led me back to the dressing room Lisa whispered, "You do NOT look full, not one bit, you're so skinny, I don't know what she's talking about..."

Oh God.  Seeing the situation through Lisa's eyes, I was now playing the role of the victimized, emaciated bride to be with the verbally abusive Mommy Dearest who thinks she's tubby.  But at least I was off the hook.

We erupted into laughter once we got outside.  My Mother felt like an ass.  "I'm sorry!  I couldn't think of anything to say, I got nervous and just started babbling!" 

What could we say?  Desperate times had called for desperate measures. 

I ended up ordering Pamela from RK and she was everything I had ever dreamed of in a wedding gown.  I wear her around the apartment from time to time, too, and sometimes to the laundromat if I'm feeling cheeky.  (Kidding!  No, really, try it...)

I still periodically receive emails from that fancy Bridal shop, telling me about sales, discounts, etc.  I always chuckle, just a lil'.  Then I stuff myself with caramellos and cry in the fetal position because I'm afraid I've made my stomach look full.  (Just kidding, Ma.  xoxo Tee hee)

On the Catwalk

My husband wants to turn our cat into a feline supermodel.  A child star, a cat in the biz, if you will.

As you can imagine, I'm not certain how I feel about this.

It all began last month when he was chatting with a coworker about her cat, who apparently has an agent, does commercials, and earns $15,000 - $20,000 per gig...I can just picture our crotchety cat's face surrounded by floating dollar signs popping into my husband's mind.

$$  Ka-ching!  $$

Doting cat Mother that I am, I was leery when he came home that night and relayed this curious information to me.  He began by casually inquiring, "What kind of breed is Kittie?"  Puzzled, I answered, "I'm not sure, black and white?  Surly?  Why?" 

And it was then that the sordid little story began to unfold, how the coworker had bragged about her cat, how Brian told her that our Kittie was, well...

"What exactly did you tell her about Kittie?"  I asked. I had to hear him verbalize this, it was too good to miss.  I needed to hear him say out loud that he had actually told some woman from work that our cat was...what?  Good-looking?  Exceptionally photogenic?  Breathtakingly beautiful?  I mean, I myself make these sort of claims all the time, but Brian?  Although he is admittedly very fond of Kittie, he has yet to make that crossover into the Land of The Creepy Cat Owner.  I, however, own Real Estate there.

He looked slightly embarrassed. "I don't know, I guess I said she's black and white and the coloring on her face is very...symmetrical?"

"Oh come on!  If this lady thinks Kittie could be a child star than you must've said more than that!  You had to have said she was at least good-looking."  I wasn't letting him off the hook this easy.

All the while Kittie was sitting upright on the couch like a human, like she does, staring soulfully at us while holding out one of her six-fingered paws in mid air.  It was almost as if she sensed we were discussing her.  Then she let out a yawn, stuck her leg straight into the air and immediately began licking her butt. 

God I love that cat.

Let's face it, Kittie is drop dead gorgeous, and I'm not simply saying that because she is my daughter.  She's like the Gisele of friggin cats!  She's totally hot.

My sister pointed out that our Kittie has a bit of a weight problem, and this could perhaps hinder her career as a high fashion model. I countered with the suggestion that Kittie could be the most stunning plus-sized cat model this side of the Hudson. "Yes," my sister suggested, "Maybe Kittie could be the before cat on the Science Diet Light ads."   

Weeks passed and happily there was no further mention of whoring out our cat for financial gain.  Until the other night, that is, when my husband came home and said, "That lady and her cat are going to Vegas this week.  She's making a ton of money off of her cat!" 

I tried to dismiss him, but he was excited.  "Look at Kittie, the way she poses for pictures, she loves it!  And I was thinking about it, maybe that's what she did before we adopted her, you know?  Maybe Kittie was a cat model and that's why she feels so comfortable having her picture taken!"

OK, I realize he was joking here, (or at least I hope he was) but it's true, the cat can pose for a picture.  She's a natural, she just sits there, staring at us, holding some impossibly sultry position while we click away.

Could Kittie have been a cat model in her former life?  Not only that, could she be secretly yearning to return to her former career?  A career oozing with glitz, glamor and hunky, catnip-addicted Tomcats?  Champagne cocktails and tuna flavored treats?  Or could she be content to live out her retirement with us, lounging around the apartment, eating, snoring, napping in the bathroom sink... 

Maybe life in the fast lane was just too much for Kittie and she's actually relieved to be living a quiet existence with my husband and me.  I mean, I've heard the world of feline fashion and entertainment can be hell, maybe Kittie had been a catnip-a-holic?  She does have a taste for the stuff...

In truth, this will not be an easy decision...I will consult Kittie and keep you posted.

Kiss it upta Jesus (or "That time I accidentally wore a see-through skirt")

I once heard a wise woman say something like this: Life is full of imperfect moments, challenges, little daily pickles that get in the way of us having a good time.  Her response to this conundrum: give it up to God.  Give everything up, release all the pissiness and crappiness that occurs in our daily lives.  Release the really bad stuff that happens, too, obviously, but I think she was focusing more on the smaller stuff here.  Give it all up, and this will create space for the more joyful moments to take center stage.

I pondered her words deeply.  See, this was a question that I'd already been contemplating for a long time.  I guess I've always pictured life as one big party, God's party, if you will.  And God has invited us all, in a sense, to His (or Her) Big Shindig.  (Go with me here, people) And all God probably wants us to do is enjoy ourselves at His Soiree: drink a little vino, hit up the open bar, nibble on the seafood, the fillet mignon, the mini wieners, and just have a good time. 

I honestly think most of the time it's us humans who can't just relax and take the stick out of our asses and simply enjoy ourselves at the big clambake of life.  And this makes The Baby Jesus cry.  (OK, weird Catholic moment there, sorry folks.)

I can't tell you how many mornings I've begun my day surrounded in splendor: the sun shining through my window, my cat's adorably furry face waking me up, coffee already percolating in the kitchen, little birds chirping on the sidewalk as I walk to the train...then I am out of the door for no more than two minutes when an SUV runs a stop sign and almost hits me.  And there I am, raging and muttering obscenities before it's even 7:30 am.  Something isn't right with this picture.  Nobody should utter the words douche bag before 8 am, it can't be good for your health.

And it's not like the dingbat in his SUV is going to have his morning ruined.  On the contrary, he probably doesn't even realize he's pissed anyone off.  So in the end, the only person I am really hurting by reacting to this situation is...myself.  What to do?  Kiss it upta Jesus.

But seriously, this is NY, if I kissed every irritating person up to The Lord I'd be making out with 99.99% of the damn city!  In the strictly figurative sense, of course.

Every person alive is fighting some kind of battle.  Where did I hear this quote?  On Oprah?  In Reader's Digest?  I can't remember.  But the words struck me.  The idea itself is so logical: every seemingly rude person may simply have something larger going on, making it impossible for them to mind their manners.  The thing is, it's so easy to forget this!  It's almost as if I have to constantly remind myself every five seconds to be calm, to not react to every little slight, to be forgiving. 

Maybe I should tie a ribbon around my finger to remind myself?  Or perhaps someone will invent a gadget that gives out an electric shock every time I react to someone being an asshole?  Because in reacting, I become the asshole and then I feel...bad.  (And then The Baby Jesus cries.)

Or, what about when I'm the bothersome person?  For some reason this always comes as a shock to me.  My husband was the first to bring this to my attention.  I was getting off the train and he was waiting for me at the bottom of the steps.  My cell phone was ringing and I was trying in vain to grab my cell out of my bag, look for my husband, zip my jacket and walk down the stairs all at the same time.  When I finally reached him he said, "Sarah, you were walking so slow, you were being one of those people."  Dun-dun-DUN!!!  The music swelled. 

Is't possible I could be one of those people?  Surely not! 

We all take a turn at being the offender, I suppose.  This is obvious, or there wouldn't be so many aggravating people around.  Hmmm.

It's always especially entertaining to witness someone else getting irate.  Like when the people trying to get onto the subway are blocking the way for the people trying to get off of the subway and all of a sudden someone loses it and shouts, "Move!  What is wrong with you people!?"  And then I can just smile serenely and look at the crazy person and be glad that I didn't lose my temper in such a fashion. 

Of course, nine times out of ten the nut who is yelling in public is me.

This can backfire, of course.  My hard learned advice to you is this: before you reprimand an annoying person in public, be sure they are actually directing their disturbing behavior at you...(Can you tell a painful anecdote is coming?) 

One day last summer I was wearing my taupe colored silk crinkle skirt.  Before I left for work I had examined myself in the mirror, trying to step into the sunlight as I did so to be certain the skirt wasn't see-through.  It wasn't.  It wasn't, right?  I woke up my hubby to ask him.  It wasn't.  Good thing, because I didn't have a slip anyway.

That was the week I bought my pedometer.  I love that thing!  It's the perfect invention for a hypochondriac with self-diagnosed obsessive compulsive disorder, like myself.  (Counting the steps!  Counting the steps!)  I was averaging 10,000 steps a day, which they say is the goal.  Who says this, you ask?  They do!

Anyway, as I walked I started to notice I was getting very strange looks.  Leers, lascivious glances and crude invitations were being tossed in my direction and it was with horror that I realized what was going on:  My skirt must be see-through after all!  Mortified, I ducked into a shady spot and called my sister from my cell phone. 

Me:  "I think my skirt is see through!"

Sissy: "Why?"

Me: "Because people are looking at me like I'm the whore of Park Avenue!  I'm giving a smutty lunchtime show to all and sundry!"

At least I was wearing Granny underwear that day.  (Who am I kidding, I always wear granny underwear.)

The worst part of it was, I had walked such an immense distance from work in order to get my step count up that now I was forced to walk all the way back.  That day I invented a new kind of walk of shame:  Walking while wearing a see-through skirt down the blindingly sunny streets of Manhattan. 

That night, as I recalled the lewd comments and looks I had endured, I made a promise to myself.  The next time someone said something filthy to me I was going to retaliate.  I didn't know how, and I didn't know when, but somehow I was going to exact my revenge on mankind.

I didn't have to wait long.  A few days later I went out for my lunchtime walk, sneakers on, my trusty pedometer firmly attached to my waist.  I had a skirt on that day, too, but there was a built-in slip so there was no chance I would be x-rated that afternoon.  This outfit had a G rating.

And there I was, steppin' along, when out of nowhere I heard, "Heeyyy Sexx-y!!"

That. Was. It.  I turned to the men, who were loading boxes onto a truck, and immediately gave them the finger and screamed out "F@*# you!" 

But here's the thing.  You know how sometimes things happen so rapidly, too rapidly for your brain to keep up with your...mouth?  If I could have replayed the awful scene in slow motion, here is what I would have seen, because after a quarter of a second, when my brain caught up with my mouth, this is what I realized:

After the men had called out "Hey sexy!" and I was turning and raising my finger, they noticed me and called out, "Oh, you too, you're sexy too..." in a shrugging, half-hearted kind of way.  But by then it was too late, my finger was raised and the nasty words were already spewing out of my rotten mouth.  It was too late.  Too late for me to realize these men weren't actually speaking to me. 

Yes, as much as it pains me to admit this, I was not the original sexy woman in question, the men were directing their comment to the sexy lady next to me.  I mean, let's face it, I didn't even look remotely cute that day.  I was wearing sneakers with a skirt and had a pedometer attached to my hip.  As I walked away in disgrace they called out, "Well, you're not sexy now!" 

Oh dear.  I had jumped the gun and performed a premature simultaneous finger flip/F Bomb at men who weren't even talking to me!  All I could do was let my feet carry me away on a cloud of shame as I walked as quickly as I possibly could.  Oh shit!  This was bad.  I was failing at life.  The Baby Jesus was definitely crying. 

I wasn't even that far from work, what if someone had seen me?  I can just picture the shock of one of my co-workers seeing mild mannered Sarah flipping the bird to men for seemingly no reason.

I turned a corner and immediately called my Sister but she wasn't there.  Damn.  I left her a message: "Sissy, I just gave the finger and told these men to eff off because I thought they had called me sexy but it turns out they weren't talking to me, they were talking to a sexy lady nearby." 

I called my husband, but I decided to give him the edited version: "Babe, I flipped these men the bird and told them to F themselves for calling out 'hey sexy.'  Is that... bad?"

Hubby: "Well, you shouldn't be yelling at strangers, I thought you were gonna stop doing that?"

OK, my broken spirit had been humiliated enough, I was waiting until later to tell him the other half of my story.  As in, the men weren't actually calling me sexy...

By the time my sister called me back she was almost in tears and could barely speak with the laughter that was erupting out of her mouth.  "You, you, you swore at people and they weren't even talking to you?" 

These are the days when The Odd Broad really feels like a deficient human being.

Perhaps I had taken a stand for all womankind?  Perhaps I was exacting revenge upon all of the chauvinistic, disrespectful men out there? 

Perhaps I should have just... kissed it upta Jesus.

One of these days I'll get it.  In the meantime, please don't push me, or accidentally wack me in the shin with your briefcase, or cut me in line at CVS, or utter the words "hey sexy!" anywhere in my vicinity.  Because then I might be forced to kiss you up to Our Lord Jesus.  And I may or may not have a breath mint in my mouth that day.

Zipper Madness

I bought one of those long puffy coats a couple of weeks ago.  It's not the cutest coat I've ever owned, but yesterday the temperature was 9.  As in degrees.  Without the wind chill.  So full length puffy coat season it is. 

The thing is...I got my puffy on sale, at a fantastic sale price!  At Daffy's.  This means that I didn't feel too upset when I tore the sleeve on a fence two days after purchasing it.  But it also means that sometimes the zipper gets stuck and then there I am, huffing and puffing in all my sweaty puffiness trying to get the damn thing zipped.  And since it's a full length, I'm forced (in a frenzied panic of zipper rage) to bend over at the knee in order to reach the zipper.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.  After my big steal at Daffy's I bounded jubilantly out of the store, emanating an all-around air of benign goodwill towards humankind.  You know, like you do after you've gotten a bargain.  Unfortunately, these moods can sometimes disintegrate shockingly quickly.

I noticed four girls on the side of the street, one of them holding up a camera attempting to take a picture.  Inspired perhaps by the high of my Daffy's bargain, I found myself blurting out, "Do you guys want me to take your picture?"  A friendly gesture.  The thing is, not only did they not want me to take their picture, they never acknowledged me or responded or said anything at all.  They simply walked away and there I was, standing there on the sidewalk, feeling like a dingleberry.  Instinctively, I turned to the person standing to my right and giggled, "I always want someone to take a picture of me when I'm on vacation..." 

"Ya, you have to be careful of that, though..." she deadpanned. 

Hmmm.  What to say?  Why not just...keep talking? 

"Ya, I might be a robber..." was the next sentence to come out of my mouth.  Yikes.  Those horrible words sort of hung in the air for a moment or two before the signal changed to "walk" and we were both released from that socially awkward moment. 

Whatever, I had my coat.  I just needed to go into Pret to pick up a sandwich before I went back into work and...yup, the girl from the street was going in, too.  Of course she would be, why in the world would she be going anywhere else?  I held the door for her.  See?  I'm not a robber...

I picked up my favorite sandwich, chicken and avocado, the same one I had eaten almost every day that week.  The girl and guy behind the counter were acting kind of, well, wacky.  "Chicken and avocado, chicken and a-vo-ca-do" he sang. 

"Yup!  Chicken and avocado."  I responded.  Well, I was on an awkward conversational roll, why not keep it up?  I even added, "I've eaten this sandwich like every day this week!" 

"Hey!  I'm the one who makes these sandwiches!"  The girl stated proudly. 

"Well, I love them."  I gushed.  (What was happening here?)

"Here, you have a good day, enjoy your sandwich, made by the best sandwich maker here..." 

Of course, the girl from the street who thought I was a camera robber was paying for her salad in the next line over, witnessing this whole bizarre exchange. 

OK, I was talking to strangers about sandwiches, I offer to take people's picture, so what?  Blame it all on my puffy coat bargain.  My guard had been significantly weakened by discount retail shopping and now I was reduced to nothing more than a friendly, blabbering fool!

The thing I notice about NY is, strangers don't really interact all that much here.  I used to try to a lot more, before I realized it's NOT in my best interest to interact with strangers in the big city.  But sometimes I just have to.  And sometimes when this happens, I am warmed by the realization that there are many decent people in this city doing lovely, neighborly deeds.  (OK, a lot of them are just perverts touching themselves dangerously close to their nether regions as they sit next to you on the train, after you've gotten the only seat left and you are so exhausted and just want to stay sitting and, wait, I have digressed...)

I'm talking about the good deeders today.  Yesterday I was on my lunch break in the public atrium near work, finishing up the sandwich that my husband had made for me the night before.  (Turkey, cheese, salami and mustard on whole wheat.)  Incidentally, why do sandwiches always taste better when they are made by other people?  As I finished my lunch and got up to leave, I saw two men eyeing my table and I beckoned to them, suddenly feeling warmhearted.  Getting a table here can sometimes feel like a competitive sport.  "I'm leaving, you can sit here!"  I offered.  (Oh, you're a good person, my inner voice whispered.) 

I stood up and quickly bent over to zip the puff, but here's the thing about a puff coat bought at a discount, it doesn't always do as it's told.  That day my puff must have had her period because she was acting downright bitchy.  Of course the zipper jammed, the fabric of the coat stuck firmly inside of it.  Crap.  "I'll be gone in just a sec, I'm leaving, just gotta get my coat zippered..."  I nervously babbled.  As I tried in vain to unzip the coat, the fabric jammed into the zipper even more. 

Long story longer, there I was, in a sea of people, wrestling with my zipper.  The poor men hadn't even sat down yet.  Strangers were just beginning to turn their heads to stare when one of the men, with a sympathetic look, took pity upon the poor wretched girl in her green puffy coat.  He kindly said, "I have one of these jackets, too, here, let me help you..." 

It occurred to me that I was letting a stranger touch my zipper.  But honestly, he seemed a friendly, nice stranger, in a public place, so it appeared to be...safe?  Unusual, bordering on creepy, embarrassing, but at least safe. 

Of course, what he probably thought would take all of half a second was stretching out into one, two, almost three minutes. At that point I started to feel hopeless, as if the zipper would never unzip and I was merely making a spectacle of myself in public, yet again.  Plus I was beginning to sweat under all that down feathered puffiness.  I thought maybe the best thing to do at this point would be for me to remove myself from this mortifying situation and brave the 9 degrees with my half opened jacket, torso to the wind.  But then, miracles of miracles, the zipper came unstuck!!!  Ah, thank God.  The man then proceeded to zip me back up, taking great care not to get the fabric caught as he did so.

"Thank you!"  I said to him.  "YOU are a good Samaritan.  You've done a good deed."

What nice men, I thought as I walked back towards work.  I must call someone and tell them.  People are nice. 

I called my husband to relay my story, but somehow it lost something in the translation.  "The nicest thing just happened!"  I gushed.  "My zipper got stuck at lunch and these men helped me unzip it and then zip it back again!" 

I guess you just had to be there.

Seriously, though, sometimes New Yorkers can be downright kind.

I hope those men weren't out of towners...

Incidentally, something similar happened to me when I was about five.  It was a snowy day and my friends and I were sledding in my backyard when my boot fell off.  I could have easily just put the boot back on myself, but I'm sad to say I ended up just laying there listlessly in the cold snow, bootless, waiting for someone to put my boot back onto my frozen foot.  My friend Leah tried in vain (and she was only 4), but she couldn't get the boot back on.  Eventually my Dad came to my rescue and got the boot back on, after I began to venture into the land of hysteria.  Seriously, we have it all on video tape.  I couldn't help but feel five years old again yesterday as a kind stranger zipped up my green puffy coat in the Food Court.  Ah well.  Some things never change...