The Odd Broad

Disturbing things

When my lunch hour finally arrives, I try to get outdoors and walk for at least 30 minutes.  Even when it's freezing, or raining, I need my daily escape from the world of the working.  I think it's the Sagittarius in me.

While on my travels I regularly encounter a wealth of oddities that never fail to delight and amuse me.  I thought I might share with you a few disturbing yet diverting things I encountered while on my lunchtime walks this week.

For starters, the question I pose to you is this:  Which is more vexing, the knowledge that the Olsen twins created a hair care line, or the fact that I actually purchased said products?  I'm sure both are equally upsetting, but in my defense, Rite Aid is having an "Everything Must Go!" sale and I was unable to resist, for sheer novelty's sake.

You see, Dear Reader, I longed to be able to share with you the image of these noteworthy products:

I have to hand it to them, the twins have created a lovely formula.  The scent is a heavenly coconut and my hair feels soft and hydrated.  Do you think the girls send free samples to D.J. and Uncle Jesse? 

While wandering around during yesterday's break, I stumbled across some other fine gems which inspired me to perform a risky experiment, in the name of blogging:

     

I mean, who really needs to ingest actual popcorn when you can just smear it all over your lips?  This popcorn flavored lip balm smells like maple syrup and tastes of plastic yuckiness.  (Very descriptive, huh?)  If pressed to go into further detail, I'd have to say it tastes the way one of those cheap, generic Barbie dolls smell.  You know, the kind hanging on the back wall of the toy section that don't bend at the knee... 

For my next trick, I will dazzle you with something even more astounding:

Ta da! 

   

Hostess Sno Balls lip balm!  These trying times demand for a product like this, do they not?  The question is not why a Sno Balls lip balm, but rather, why not?  The children of the world not only need but deserve a cherished high-calorie snack treat in lip balm form, wouldn't you agree?

I feel like if I was a child and brought this product home to my Mother she would think it was "dirty."  Even now, as I type the words "Sno Balls lip balm," I feel like I need to gargle with some Listerine.

But what are my thoughts after applying this lip balm?  Sno balls balm smells like a chocolate scratch and sniff sticker and, not surprisingly, causes my lips to taste the way a plastic generic non-bending Barbie doll smells.  (Do I detect a trend in lip balmy taste here?  Just to be safe, I will hereafter refer to these non-bending dolls as P.G.N.B.B.'s)

Sno Balls comes with a warning directly on the tube: *Not to be eaten* Discontinue use and consult your physician if: Rash, redness or irritation develops.  I see the Sno Balls team has really covered all of their bases, and rightly so, rightly so.

Last but certainly not least, and just in time for the Easter season...

(drum roll please...)

   

Peeps!  Yes, now the revolting Easter candy also comes in lip balm form! 

I'm not sure I can convey to you how disturbed I was when I stumbled upon this product.  Try as I might to enjoy this particular candy, I have a deep seated aversion to it.  In my opinion, Peeps are up there with black jelly beans in the "give away" Easter candy category.  Incidentally, my Dad is the only person I know who loves black jelly beans and my friend Amy is the only person I've ever met who loves Peeps.  Perhaps I've lived a sheltered life, I'm not sure. 

What is my opinion of Peeps in lip balm form?  I will say only this:  My mouth feels violated.  So does my camera, for that matter.

OK, on trying it a second time I actually think the lip balm tastes better than actual Peeps candy.  It smells not so much like a P.G.N.B.B., but more like the frosting on a sticky bun.   

So there you have it: A Holy Trinity of sickening lip care products.  Please don't try this at home, folks, I already did, and now I feel more than a little nauseas.  And my husband is refusing to kiss me goodnight.  See how I sacrifice for you? 

I'm pretty sure I'll be consulting my physician sometime soon.

Happy Friday! 

~The O.B.

* * * * * 

P.S.

Friday evening, 10pm:

At the urging of my friend Wendy, I have embarked upon one last quest...to try her beloved Dr. Pepper in lip balm form.  In the name of friendship, I have complied.

My finding?  Although this lip balm comes in an adorable miniature can form, it smells of a public restroom (and at the same time, Tums Antacid) and gives off a metallic, almost burning sensation when my tongue touches my lips.  Actually, after licking my lips I am forced to spit out rather than swallow what I have just tasted.  I think that really says it all.  Cute packaging, though. 

     

Note how under the Ingredients it says it "may contain" things like Red 27 Lake, Yellow 6 Lake...isn't there a way we could pinpoint what this monstrous product actually contains?

OK, my lips are burning and I'm starting to feel carsick.  It's time for me to lie down. 

Have a good weekend, everyone! 

The Science Project

I realize homeowners have mortgages to pay, hot water tanks to replace, lawns to mow...but being a renter is no Sunday walk in the park, either.  Whereas home-owning folks can decide to do whatever they choose to in the way of repairs, renters are at the mercy of their landlords.

As you may have heard me make mention of before, my husband and I happen to rent a charming two bedroom apartment from Smeagol from the Lord of the Rings.  It's a cute apartment, aside from a few minor problems, the most glaring one being our bathroom.

I think my Dad said it best when he described our shower as a "science experiment."

I admit our shower is pretty revolting, but it's not from a lack of cleaning on my part.  I have bleached the hell out of that bathroom, all to no avail.

I can't count how many times I've scrubbed, disinfected and cursed the ancient, filthy tiles lining my shower.  This shower is permanently stained from at least 50 years worth of use.  It seems these tiles have existed since before time began.  I keep saying one of them should really write a memoir:  "Withstanding the test of time: one tile's time-honored chronicle of mold and redemption."

Last year I asked Smeagol to remedy this situation and he complied, but not before having the gall to say, "Wow, I wouldn't take a shower in there."

Smeagol's answer was to bring someone in to re-tile the bathroom.  As you can imagine, my husband and I were ecstatic.  The Heavens opened, rainbows appeared, a choir of angels sang...

Not surprisingly, there was a catch:  Smeagol opted to have the top half of the moldy shower wall tiled, but chose to let the prehistoric tiles on the bottom half remain. 

Why would anyone in their right mind elect to have half of a shower tiled?  Your answer is as good as mine.  I'm really at a loss to justify such an extraordinary move. 

I suppose one explanation could be this: drugs are bad, people, drugs are bad.

Case in point:

Glorious, pristine tiles above, besmirched, rotting ones below! 

It's truly a miracle of sorts: new tile and old coming together to live in peace and harmony, within my little shower. 

I also have to add, these are the after pictures.  (As in after my parents brought me miracle spray and helped me to remove a good deal of the grime.  Hubby couldn't believe how "clean" it looked!)

I don't mean to sound like a brat, I just watched an Oprah episode the other day where people were forced to collect their water in dirty jugs and it made me cry.  I'm not trying to be ungrateful for my grungy bathroom...rather, I've taken on more of an air of perplexed awe.

I've been a little gun-shy of deep-cleaning since that time last year when I attempted to de-slime my shower.  Basically I spent an entire Saturday afternoon spraying the tiles with a bleachy solution, waiting a while, and then throwing cups of water onto the tiles to rinse.  Sadly, it was mostly for naught, since the grime was unmovable.  This mold has a mind of its own.

Later that day, as I lay resting and nursing my bleach-induced headache, the phone rang.  It was Smeagol.

"Uh, Sarah, I had to shut the water off.  There's a leak, there's water downstairs in the hallway.  We have to wait for the plumber to arrive before we turn it back on."

I was polite: "A leak?  Really?  You know, I'm not running the water now, but I was cleaning the shower all day...that's strange...maybe that has something to do with it? 

Smeagol was not convinced.  We would wait for the plumber.  Great. 

"When will the plumber be able to come?"  I asked.

"Oh, sometime tomorrow, hopefully.   If not, the day after that." 

In my experience, every NY landlord has some relative or friend of a friend that they turn to in these circumstances.  Why can't they just hire a freaking professional from the Yellow Pages?  I mean, I'm no electrician but I'm pretty certain my refrigerator should not be plugged into an extension cord. 

The next morning our plumber, a dead ringer for Joe Pesci, arrived, hammer in hand.  Warning: If a plumber enters your home and the only tool he appears to have with him is a hammer, please be wary.  This is never a good sign.

Joe Pesci concluded there was definitely a leak and he would go downstairs to the hallway to bang holes in the ceiling until he determined the source.  Oh dear.

As my husband and I sat listening to the banging, the idea once again occurred to me: Could all of this have something to do with me cleaning the shower yesterday after all?

I yelled down into the hallway: "Um, I was rinsing my shower yesterday, splashing water onto it...do you think the water could've just dripped down through the hole in the wall?"

That's right, I forgot to mention the HOLE IN THE WALL OF MY BATHROOM.  It's been there since the time Joe Pesci ripped out our sink (while my in-laws and a German foreign exchange student were visiting) on New Year's Day, 2006.  I have to add that Mr. Pesci replaced the sink lop-sided, so there is an ever-present pool of water that collects daily upon our sinktop.  Smeagol advised us to "wipe it with a cloth.")

I could hear Smeagol and Joe Pesci discussing this new and vital piece of information.  Smeagol's voice echoed throughout the hallway: "She never said anything about cleaning, this is the first I'm hearing about it..."

"Yes, I did, yesterday on the phone!"  All of my ladylike manners had long since left the building.

Smeagol disagreed:  "Well, she's saying she told me, but..." 

It turned out the hole was most definitely the cause of the problem.  The water had dripped downstairs while I was splashing the bleachy tiles with a plastic Yankee's cup filled with water.  (Frigging Yankees!  Always causin' trouble with yer A-Rods and yer Giambis and yer plastic cups...)

Smeagol came upstairs, patched the hole in my bathroom, and left.  They never did patch the hole in the ceiling of the hallway, but I suppose we've grown accustomed to it by now.

The hole and I have actually developed a nice repartee.  Sometimes on my way out the door I call out, "See ya later, hole!"

"See ya later, yourself!"  It seems to reply.

Ah, Rental, Sweet Rental.

Friday night dinner

How The Odd Broad is coping with meatless Fridays during Lent:Mashies w/Rosemary, garlic, shallots and butter A well-balanced meal if ever I saw one.  I may just become a full-time vegetarian.

Kittie, you complete me.

An update on the health of my daughter/cat, Kittie:

A mere two weeks ago I was holding back my cat's hair as she wretched onto every square inch of rug in our apartment.  Oh yes, our girl doesn't vomit on tile or wood, she strictly prefers carpet, preferably throw rugs when available.

It was devastating to watch her suffer.  And how could it not be?  Kittie has always been there for me when I've needed her. 

This was the cat who spent an entire Sunday spooning and watching the Food Network with me after my Appletinis Gone Wild fiasco.  (All-important lesson learned: when the vodka runs out, do NOT drink Apple Puckers straight from the bottle.  I promise you this will only lead to desolation and woe.)  During those nauseas 24 hours Kittie was a tremendous source of comfort to me. 

Why couldn't I have met Kittie while I was in college?  She undoubtedly would have provided me with much solace during those tender, Boone's Farm-filled years.

Although I'm still somewhat hesitant, I think it's pretty safe to say that Kittie has made a full recovery. 

Behold this sultry feline pose I captured with my camera on Tuesday evening:

I know, I know, all parents say this about their children, but this cat really knows how to work it for the frigging camera.  I'll have you know Kittie held this unusual position for a solid ten minutes. 

What can I say?  The cat delivers. 

I'm aware that the sheer volume of pictures I take of Kittie automatically files me into the creepy cat owner category, and rightly so.  But I cannot help myself, she is simply too adorable.  There, I've said it.  Day after day, she breaks my heart with her cuteness.  And I'm a dog person!

Kittie sits companionably upon my lap as I write this and is at this instant looking up at me with her fuzzy little face.  I think she probably wants a snack.  Yup, her convalescence period has thankfully come to an end. 

~Fun Facts about The Wonder Cat~

~Is currently seeing two boyfriends: one white cat who watches her from the window across the street, and another who sometime sits on our front steps. 

~Greets my husband and I at the door every evening. 

~Is notorious for opening the bathroom door.  While bathroom is in use.

~Is a Red Sox fan.  Before they won the World Series. 

~Won my heart by jumping onto my lap at the ASPCA.

~Was mistaken for a male when we first brought her home.  (Sorry about that, Kit.)

~Despises manicures, Emeril LaGasse, dogs, Ryan Seacrest, and other cats.

~Does not allow her fur to be blow-dried.  (Please don't ever try that one at home.) 

~Has six fingers on each paw, which is known as being polydactile.

~Has a fondness for napping in sinks, Public Television, and Alan Rickman.

~Sits like a human.

~Is a Sagittarius.

~Is occasionally surly, but always lovable. 

The wheels on the bus go round and round...

Good Deed: 

Sunday, March 18, 4:25pm:  A man gave me quarters on the bus after I realized my monthly Metrocard had expired. 

Bizarre Deed:

(As told to me by Hubbers, also on Sunday, around 1:15pm)

A bus driver pulled over her bus, partially into a snowbank, and yelled, "Two minutes!" before hopping out to run into a bagel store.  I shit you not.  Hubby and most of the other passengers got out and walked while she was inside.

Only in NY!

Everything's Comin' up Roses!

As a child, my friends and I dreamed up a number of inappropriate yet delightful activities with which to amuse ourselves, among them:

Swear Barbies:  "Ken, you deadbeat, how many times do I have to ask you to take out the fucking garbage?"  (There was a lot of resentment lurking in Barbie's Dream house.  Ken drank.)

Swear House:  "You've murdered her, you bastards!"  (Our childhood version of "house" was usually very melodramatic, and almost always obscene.  You know, imagining the Love's Babysoft powder we had sprinkled on the Cabbage Patch Kids hand mirror was actually the cocaine our enemies had planted in our penthouse...all very childlike and playful.  What can I say?  My friends had cable.)

As I ease into my late twenties, I am constantly discovering new pleasantries that make my heart sing, among them:

Swear Family:  This is swearing within the family setting just for the novelty of it all, really.  And we always ask permission or give clear warning beforehand, as in, "Mommy, can I tell this story using the F word?"

Drunk Family: Riesling + Christmas = Holiday fun for everyone!  Seriously, have you ever played the game Catchphrase after imbibing three goblets of white wine?  (My Mom's holiday wine glasses are adorably festive, not to mention enormous and quite dangerous.) 

Yay!  I love playing drunk family!  "I love you guys...I mean...hiccup...you gave me LIFE!"

I'm enjoying this newfound adult relationship I have with my parents, but although I'm a mere two years shy of hitting the big 3-0, I'm definitely not immune to the occasional relapse into the land of childhood. 

Sometimes I find myself reverting back to a 9 year old version of myself, complete with braces and bad home perm.  (Incidentally, Mom and dearest Auntie Kim, the question still begs to be answered: In good faith, how could you have administered those monstrous home perms to my Sister and I during the entire latter half of the 1980's?  I believe these perms should be seen for what they truly are: a vicious form of child abuse.)

My most recent childhood relapse occurred a mere week ago.  Journey with me, if you would, back in time to the Sunday before last, in Midtown Manhattan, around 8:00pm...

My Mother and I were enjoying an off-Broadway performance of The Fantasticks when I realized the piano accompanist was a member of the chorus I belonged to.  (My friend Vanessa recently asked me to join a chorus and I complied, mainly because it dawned on me that my life as of late had become far too safe.  My epiphany occurred while I was at the Gynecologist.  I decided if the scariest things in my life were pap smears then something was very wrong.  Coincidentally, I do believe auditions and trips to the Gyno are a lot alike, what with the nervousness, the feelings of vulnerability, the stirrups...)

After spotting the man from chorus at the piano, ten year-old Sarah (Me) excitedly hissed, "Mommy, that piano player is from my chorus!" 

Upon hearing these words, Ma's dormant but ever-present Stage Mother (Mama Rose, I like to call her) came swimming to the surface.  "Sah, this could be a connection!  You need to ask him how you can get an audition for this play." 

It was all Ma could do to stop her inner Ethel Merman from bursting into song:

You'll be swell, you'll be great, gonna have the whole WORLD on a plate...and, jazz hands!

Oh dear.

Never mind the fact that this play was already perfectly cast, and this man probably had no more advice as to how I could get my Keister onto a Broadway stage than my cat did. 

This is truly one of the mystical wonders of Stage Motherhood, is it not?  In my Mommy's eyes I am unquestionably the finest singer/actress in the universe, just one lucky break away from making it. 

I love my Mother fiercely for this.  After all, this kind of unconditional, rose-colored love ain't easy to come by.  Plus, Ma has invested countless hours of her life sitting through singing lessons, recitals, an entire July's worth of bad dinner theater performances of Carousel where the man playing Billy Bigelow sang with a prominent lisp...

Let's face it, this woman has put in her time.  If she wants to get a little Stage-Mothery once in a while, well, so be it.

The cast of the Fantasticks had taken their bows and we were putting on our coats when Ma elbowed me and said, "I thought you were gonna say hello to that man?"

"Well, give me a second, he's still playing."

The music finally came to a halt.  "He's not playing anymore." 

Mama Rose was getting antsy.  Curtain up!  Light the lights.  You've got nuthin' to HIT but the heights...

I couldn't ignore the fact that every fiber in my being was begging me to please exit the theater.  Or could I?

What did I have to lose?  After all, wasn't I a confident, friendly adult?  I would just say a quick hello and be on my way...

And thus, my humiliation commences.

I walked across the tiny stage and approached the man seated at the piano.  "Hi!  You did a great job!"

He seemed a bit taken off guard.  "Oh, thank you..."

"Chorus!!"  I cheerfully blurted out. 

The man gave no response, nor the slightest bit of recognition as to who the smiling freak standing in front of him was.

"Chorus..." I tried once more.  "The N.Y.T.C.C.!"  (NY Theatrical Community Chorus)

"Chorus..." he repeated, nodding slowly, as if by nodding he could somehow make me disappear. 

This was not going as planned.  It was time to abort my plan immediately.

"Well, see you Friday!"  I called out, backing away.

"Yes, Friday..."  He murmured, as if he had never been to a chorus on a Friday in his entire life, and moreover had no prior knowledge as to what the word Friday even meant. 

You wouldn't mind, but our chorus has all of twelve people in it and is teetering dangerously on the brink of extinction.  I am one of about 5 Sopranos.

By the time I reached Ma and told her what had transpired, her Mama Rose had already retreated back to her resting place and my real Mother had returned.  "Ooh, Sazzy, maybe it wasn't the best idea after all..." 

But that's the beauty of bad choices, no?  They are only bad choices in hindsight.  Ah, well.  We had ourselves a good ol' chuckle over it. 

Vanessa and I skipped chorus this past Friday, due to inclimate weather.  (That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)  I have to admit I'm a bit sheepish about returning this Friday evening, but I do plan on attending.  After all, a little embarrassment never killed anybody, did it?  It certainly hasn't killed me yet, although that isn't from lack of trying.

I will keep you posted on my adventures in Choral Arts.

Until next time,

~The Odd Broad (and her Mama Rose)

Out, damn spot!

It's truly a phenomenon.

Could somebody please explain to me how I always manage to get either toothpaste or deodorant all over the shirts that are actually CLEAN?  (Not that The Odd Broad makes a habit out of wearing unclean clothing to work, but...)

On this snowy Friday morning, toothpaste was the nasty culprit.  Mischievous toothpaste had dripped all over my sparkly black sweater.  In a frantic, obscenity-ridden dance, I did my best to remove the spots before rushing off to work, late as usual.

I presumed I had triumphed over the pesky stains, but apparently I was mistaken. 

Witness my shame:

9:30am: In the bathroom at work, I spy a white spot on my right breast.  (Why oh why must these stains always lurk in the boobage area?)

9:31am - 9:35am: I clean off said stain with a wet paper towel.  This seems to do the trick, although it leaves behind a papery residue.  Damn you, papery residue!

9:50am: I realize my aforementioned efforts were futile, for the enchanted stain has magically reappeared upon my chest.  Stains do tend to cling to me, I guess I'm a fun gal.

9:52am: Male Co-worker witnesses me fiddling with my stain (breast) as I walk to the Ladies Room.

Yesssss!! 

Happy, happy Friday to one and all!!

Lester

Ok...has anyone seen the trailer for that terrifying movie about the ventriloquist lady, Dead Silence?  What in the name of all that is Holy??  That movie frightens the bejeezus out of me and I haven't even seen it!  Nor will I, for that matter.

When I first saw the grisly commercial I was so intrigued I felt the need to hit rewind on the DVR so I could watch it again.  And again.  Watching this ad actually caused me to feel kind of queasy, yet I was powerless to tear my watery eyes away from the nightmarish images on the screen.  It was so deliciously disturbing.

When my husband walked in and found me in this semi-trance, he immediately wondered what madness was prompting me to keep watching.  He knew as well as I did that this sort of behavior would only keep me awake all night in a cold sweat checking for ventriloquist dolls under our bed. 

Some background on my relationship with said dolls:

As a young child, a good pal of mine owned two ventriloquist dolls, Charlie McCarthy and Mortimer Snerd.  For some inexplicable reason it became my deepest desire to also have a doll to call my own.  You know, a friend that I could speak for without moving my lips. 

Ever the entrepreneurial child, I think I was hoping my future dummy and I could one day take our act on the road.  I wouldn't just be a good ventriloquist, I would be the best ventriloquist there ever was!  A child prodigy in the world of ventriloquists, even.

Opportunity finally knocked when health circumstances required me to visit the Children's Hospital in Boston and I was a very brave girl.  My concerned parents decided that I deserved a toy for my courage, any toy I wanted, in fact. 

My pick?  The object of my childhood fancy?  Lester, an African-American ventriloquist doll, decked out in funky 1970's style complete with plaid beret, matching pants, glasses and vest.  Lester was frigging awesome.  As a child I had always yearned for a friend who was black, and since much to my dismay the small town I lived in was predominantly Irish, French, and Polish, Lester was the closest I could get to this. 

My silent friend Lester and I spent many companionable years together.  I would take him with me to sleepovers and on vacations during the summer.  He played the part of a secret service man to my "first woman president" at a fourth grade costume party.  Yes, Lester and I were a happy duo, until...until...well, until he began to terrify me, quite frankly.  (I'm typing this in a whisper because I don't want him to hear me, wherever he is.)  You see, for my own safety the authorities won't tell me exactly where they're keeping him.

Somehow, practically overnight, my cherished Lester's cheerful eyes had morphed into sinister, maniacal orbs, relentlessly seeking out one person: ME.  I would wake in the dead of night certain that someone was gazing at me.  Distraught, I'd turn on the light and see Lester sitting crossed-legged on my toy box, his once benign eyes beaming wickedly at me. 

Suffice it to say Lester had really started to freak me out.  One night before tucking me in, my Mom decided to take matters into her own hands and turned Lester around so his eyes were facing the wall.  It didn't work, of course.  Lester turned right around the minute she left the room.  Just kidding.  (NOT REALLY.)

Even my cousin Little Jimmy (ok, Jimmy isn't little, he's fully grown, and 21, we are just unable to cease calling him "little") is afraid of Lester.  One night Lil' Jim had to sleep over my parent's house and he actually asked my Mom to remove the doll from the room, for fear of his life.  I can't say I blame him, of course.

Lester's reign of terror nearly came to an end a few years ago...almost.  My parent's neighborhood was having a group yard sale and one afternoon my Mom called me and casually asked, "Is there anything you'd like me to sell?" 

I knew what game she was playing.  This was the chance we'd been waiting for since the early 90's.  Tentatively, I answered, "Well, if you want you can sell...Lester."

That was all I needed to say, the rest would remain unspoken.  We knew we couldn't say too much anyway, or Lester would hear and foil our plan.  And possibly take someone's life. 

I suppose we were amateurs to think our subterfuge would actually succeed.

A few days later my Mom was unloading the stuff to sell for the yard sale when a man approached and instantly grabbed Lester from the trunk of her car and asked, "Hey, how much for him?" 

What luck!  The yard sale hadn't even started yet!

Seeing the stranger clutching Lester, my Dad came racing over, saying, "Wait a minute, Lester's not for sale!"  Accusingly, he asked my Mother, "How did Lester get in there, anyway?  Sarah would never forgive us!" 

My Mom glanced anxiously at Lester before quietly saying, "Actually, I thought we'd...(gulp) sell him..."

My Dad was adamant: "No, no, Sarah would be crushed, we can't sell Lester!" 

At that moment, Lester's laughing eyes sparkled just a little bit brighter.  "They can't get rid of me that easily..."  They seemed to say. 

My Dad refers to this incident as The Day He Saved Lester.  I'm not really sure how he wasn't aware of the doll's alarming effects on his youngest born.  I guess I didn't have the heart to tell him.

In summation, Dear Reader, if you or someone you love is thinking about purchasing a ventriloquist doll, there is some crucial information I feel you need to know:

1.  Whatever you do, for the love of God please don't refer to ventriloquist dolls as dummies.  They don't take kindly to that.  Trust me.

2.  If your new doll begins changing positions, or moving himself to different areas of your room, or doing needlepoint, do not be alarmed.  He is simply trying to get comfy and may also be looking for something with which to amuse himself.  After all, even demonically possessed toys have the right to be entertained, and certainly this behavior is harmless enough.

3.  If you should hear your ventriloquist doll singing softly during the middle of the night, calmly get out of your bed and immediately tiptoe to your older Sister's room.  If she turns you away, and screams, and says you are way too old to be afraid of the dark, pay her no heed.  Sleep on her floor, sleep under her bed, sleep standing up if necessary, just avoid returning to your bedroom AT ALL COSTS.

4. If you happen to wake during the night to find your doll's tiny fingers wrapped around your throat, ever so gingerly remove them, douse the doll in 2 1/2 quarts of holy water and scurry away as hastily as you can. 

There.  I feel you have been adequately warned and I can therefore rest in good conscience. 

Lester, thanks for the laughter, thanks for the tears, thanks for the frightening, terrifying years.  Although you've tried to possess me, and murder me, too, in my deepest of hearts I will always love you. 

Now, please, STOP TORMENTING ME!

Motherhood ain't easy

Since last Thursday I have been an emotional basket case.  The cause of my hysteria?  Kittie, my cat, my lil' companion, has been very much under the weather. 

Over the past few days Kittie has been through a lot of shit.  She has been to visit the Vet twice, taking one cab and some wildly nauseating bus rides to get there.  (Incidentally, When did the MTA finally decide that bus drivers are allowed to smoke crack?) 

While at the Vet Kittie was forced to endure a myriad of unpleasantries, one of them being when the nurse shaved underneath her adorably furry chin in order to draw blood.  (I cried.) 

Kittie was given fluids via a needle on two occasions, causing her poor little back to swell up like the hunchback of Notre Dame.  (I cried.)  She suffered through the Vet's finger poking her little bum-bum twice.  (We both cried.)  She also has had x-rays taken and received a de-worming treatment, laxatives, shots of antacid, antibiotics, and lustful stares from two overzealous pit bulls.  (OK, she's run-down, but still hot.)

As for me, I have been coping with Kittie's malaise in the only way I know how: by swaddling her in blankets, wiping her forehead with damp facecloths and singing "Green Eyes" by Coldplay to her, sometimes while my husband was within earshot.  (As a rule I generally only do this when Kittie and I are alone.)

I do worry that if a cat has this much of an effect on me, what kind of a mother will I be?  My husband made a valid point, though: at least our future child will be of the same species and possibly easier to communicate with.  I mean, although I do try, I don't speak meow.  I've signed up for a class on it at The Learning Annex, though. 

As for now, Kittie is my responsibility, my child, if you will.  (Will you, though?  Because most people won't.)  And this evening I am overjoyed to report that Kittie definitely appears to be on the mend.  Her appetite has returned and she is once again meowing in her surly, demanding manner, while sitting upright on the couch like a human. 

Reader, I can't tell you how relieved I am.

Motherhood is tough, but it definitely has its rewards. 

Your womb or mine?

Should it hurt my feelings that yet another co-worker has asked me if I am with child? 

At which point should the laughter cease and the weeping begin?

Oh, damn you, tiny white tank top from H+M, 92% nylon 8% spandex, and worn with a too small sweater from Target that I had buttoned at the top but not at the bottom!  I know better than to think this is a flattering work look, as it was obviously showcasing my PMS bloat.  But alas, it was 7:00 am and I was too tired to care.

It all caught up with me yesterday around lunch time.

Co-worker: "Sarah, are you pregnant?!!"

Me: (embarrassed, pissed, but smiling) "Nope!  Just bloated!  And slouching!  Gotta stand up straight!  See, my Mom always tells me not to slouch and stick my stomach out!" 

And the babbling commences.  Hey, this was fun!

Co-worker (brazen, unapologetic): "Oh, I ask because my daughter just got pregnant."

Me: "Oh, how wonderful!"

Her: "Yes, and she looks like you, that's why I ask.  Her belly looks just like yours!"

Great.  What would be considered an appropriate response to this?  Thanks?  That's exactly what I was hoping someone would say about my stomach today?  Fuck off?

The rest of the afternoon I couldn't help feeling like all eyes were on my womb.  Was I imagining this?  For some reason I felt compelled to start holding my belly.

This broad has had enough.  Next time I will say nothing at all, I shall just turn and skip away, humming the theme to Charles in Charge, perhaps.  Or maybe I'll pull out a nip of Jack Daniels and start chugging away: "Sure I'm pregnant!  We're so happy!!"   

NOTE TO THE WORLD:  Please stop asking women of child-bearing age if they are expecting.  It is invasive and absolutely none of your beeswax.  It is a potential day-ruiner, and can quite possibly cause a gal to feel bloated, vile, and dumpy.

Bite your tongues, wicked ladies.  Bite your tongues.  That is all.