The Odd Broad

Crumb cake, anyone?

The other night Hubby and I went to eat at our favorite restaurant and afterwards stopped into our local quickie mart to get some toilet paper.  Much to my dismay, all they had was Marcal but we were desperate and one-ply would have to suffice. 

This got me to wondering, when exactly had we become accustomed to nice, soft, two-ply toilet paper?  I guess around the time we stopped drinking Natty Light, or taking the $10 Fung Wah bus to Boston or buying our subway rides one token at a time...(Back in ye olden days when they still sold tokens.)

The friendly store owner was especially giddy that evening and began telling us about a spectacular deal he had gotten on Entenmann's pastries:  "You should buy some cakes!  Me and two of my friends all own shops and we all bought cakes from this guy for $1.50 less!  It's a great deal!  A super deal!"

Did I mention I had imbibed two tall glasses of Riesling over dinner?  I wasn't exactly crystal clear on what all the frenzy was about, were the cakes a dollar or something?  As a rule, I generally don't eat boxed pastry, but he just seemed so genuinely excited...

Hubby was just paying when a wave of good deedery caused me to go over to the cakes to peruse them.  "We'll take one!"  I exclaimed. 

Drunken good deeds are the best.  Except the cake wasn't a dollar, it ended up costing more like five.  Ah well.

Anyone for crumb cake? 

Good game

The game was great, the Sox played well.  It always amazes me how many Red Sox fans there are at these games.  It's nice. 

It's only 7:30 and already I have a hangover.  Is that...bad?

When I went with my friend to purchase a (twelve dollar) Heineken, the beer man asked me for i.d. and then said he couldn't believe I was 28.  I tipped him five bucks. 

When the 4 train arrived at Yankee Stadium, the train announcer said the following: "This is 161st Street, Yankee Stadium.  I ask all Boston fans to please stay seated until the Yankee fans have left the car.  I ask this out of respect, thank you and have a nice day."  Kind of funny, right?  I'm not used to comedy routines on NYC Transit.  Well, I guess there was that one instance when Hubby drunkenly snuck behind the door and spoke over the loudspeaker..."this is Queensboro Plaza, next stop 39th Avenue, stand clear of the fucking closing doors, please!"  That story will certainly be one to tell the Grandkids...

Some shots from the game:

 

Time to go nap off my yucky overpriced beer buzz...

~The Sleepy Broad   

Let's go Red Sox

Hubby and I are going to our first Red Sox/Yankees game of the year on Sunday.  I've promised not to say any bad words.  We're going with our Yankee lovin' friends, so I've promised to be on my best (semi sober?) behavior.

We sometimes bring Wally with us to games for good luck, though Hubby is very superstitious about moving him from his special chair.  I actually moved him for this photo shoot, but hopefully this will not affect the outcome of Sunday's game... 

 

ps: I don't care what anybody says, it still breaks my frigging heart to see Damon wearing pinstripes.

Lovely Spring

Springy New York City: (as opposed to rude or urine scented...)

It's that time of year...Trees are blooming, the maniacal song from the Mr. Frosty truck is already haunting my dreams, and old men are just beginning to wear their speedos again in Astoria Park.  Welcome, Spring! 

(No Broad was injured during the snapping of these photos... although in hindsight it does appear in the top two that I was standing precariously close to oncoming traffic.)

The Intervention

I have a problem.  A real bad one.  To quote the timeless words of George Michael circa 1987, Don't look now, there's a monkey on (my) back.

Much to the dismay of those closest to me, for the past month a catchy 1970's TV theme song has taken up permanent residence in my head.  Sadly, it seems I am either unable or unwilling to stop myself from serenading anyone within earshot with this ditty. 

All of my past attempts at quitting have proved futile.  The fact is, I cannot expel this remarkable tune from my head and I find myself spontaneously bursting into song in the shower, on the toilet, washing dishes, sauteing mushrooms, on the phone, in my sleep, in the elevator at work, walking down the street...

It's HELL, I tell ya!

Two days ago Hubbers decided the time had come for an intervention and I have been subsequently banned from vocalizing this song in any form.  It is now permanently exiled from my repertoire. 

This isn't the first time I've been the recipient of such radical measures.  I found myself in a similar pickle last year when I was forced to excommunicate the words dingus and dingleberry from my vocabulary.  The latter word was overused and abused even more when I discovered its actual meaning.  (At first I thought it only meant silly.)

In theory, this musical prohibition should be a simple thing for me to adhere to, right?  Not right.  While brushing my teeth within the first two minutes of going cold turkey, I made six unconscious attempts to sing or hum this addictive melody.

The object of my constant musical obsession?  The tune that's been haunting me morning, noon and night?  Dare I even speak its name, for fear it will creep back into my life?

Ah, why not.  You won't tell anyone I sang it, will you? 

The tune I speak of is the remarkable theme song from the 1976 situation comedy, *Alice.  Here, I'll sing it for you:

There's a NEW girl in town, with a brand new style...

She was just passing THROUGH...

But if things work out she's gonna stay...ah-a-while...

Bum-bum-BUM-ba, ba-a-ahhh...

This is just an excerpt, in actuality I prefer to belt out the song in its entirety, including the closing credits version...you know, when Linda Lavin doesn't actually sing words, only la las and doo doos? 

Quitting has been harder than I ever imagined possible.  I only hope I have the willpower to stay on the wagon.  Pray for me, Dear Reader.

Ba Ba BAH Ba, Ba-ah-aahh...

*Although there's no denying this show possesses a painfully catchy theme song, I realize in the past I've spoken harshly about "Alice."  In retrospect, I will continue to stand by my beliefs.  After all, I could hardly enjoy a meal at Mel's Diner while Alice is licking her fingers after buttering the toast and Flo is smacking her chewing gum and fluffing her hair while serving the customers.  The entire sitcom is crawling with health code violations.  It makes for riveting television, though, don't you think?

Name! That! Smell!

NYC, like most big cities, I imagine, is a veritable potpourri of sights, sounds and smells.  Not all of these smells are good.  Actually, most of these smells aren't good.  Over the past seven years I've developed quite an aptitude for anticipating offensive odors and know instinctively when to hold my breath, or at the very least breathe through my mouth.  Gross, huh?

It's fair to say I have a superhuman sense of smell, one of my more unusual talents.  I also possess the ability to remember and (sometimes) accurately guess people's Astrological signs.  I like to say I'm psychic, though Hubbers likes to say psyco.  Tee hee.

Should I ever participate in a beauty pageant, I could perform smelling as my talent.  Coincidentally, my Grandma's Sister's Granddaughter was once Miss Massachusetts.  She didn't win, although she did attend Harvard, which this broad feels is far more impressive than participating in dehumanizing swimsuit challenges.  Tiaras are nice, too, though.

In other things completely (well mostly) unrelated, the man who works at the quickie mart up the road once told me, "You're such a pretty lady, you're always smelling."  I assumed he meant smiling, but what actually came out of his mouth was smelling.  The irony is, I am a very gifted smeller!  Hey, how did he know?! 

When I was a child my Grandma used to try and conceal her cigarettes from me, often dangling one out the window while we were in the car.  What did she think I was, a rookie?  From the backseat my toddler voice would eerily call out, "I can smell it..."  Eventually she ended up quitting, which I guess was easier than listening to me.  I'm persistent (irritating?) like that.

These days I sometimes play a slightly nauseating morning commute game that I like to call: Name! That! Smell!

The rules are simple: when an offensive subway stench invades my nostrils I attempt to decipher where said reek is coming from.  I know what you're thinking, wouldn't the origin of a nasty nearby stank be obvious?  Some days it ain't as straightforward as you'd think, my friend. 

Wednesday, April 18, 9:35am: a pungent subway odor appears, and just as I was relaxing into my Paulo Coelho novel.  (The Zahir, incidentally) Could this rankness be wafting from the sleeping gentleman positioned directly across from me?  Or, more likely, could it be emanating from the girl sitting to my right, maniacally knitting a brown scarf?  And if so, is there something within her bag (cabbage soup?  A dead body?) that would cause such a foul odor to emit into her general area?  She appears otherwise to be a pretty, hipster type girl...

Just when I think my nose cannot participate in this foul game for another second, a heavily perfumed woman invades my personal space and I gratefully breathe in the scent of White Diamonds by Elizabeth Taylor.  Ah, sweet relief.  Thank you, Baby Jesus.  I spend the remaining moments of my commute practicing deep breathing.  The pleasing Liz Taylor aroma reminds me of my Auntie Donna (as this was formerly her signature scent before she officially converted to Hanae Mori) and once again, all is right within my world.

By the way, the smell was definitely coming from knitting hipster girl. 

Please join me next time, Dear Reader, for more fun in horrendous aromas on Name! That! Smell!

Shrimp(s)

I'm kind of a foodie.  A lot of times I watch The Food Network strictly for comfort, though there are many occasions when a recipe will rally me to get off my arse and give it a whirl.

On Saturday, Giada De Laurentiis was the inspiration for the dish you see to your left: a shrimpy, lemony, garlicky, shalloty, arugula filled delight, and very easy to create.  Although I have to warn you next time I might add less than the recommended 1/2 cup of olive oil, since I've sometimes found Giada's measurements can be a teensy bit off.  (Hence her penne ala vodka that actually tasted like vodka.  I was nervous to bring the leftovers to work for fear of smelling like a wino.  Not that there's anything wrong with winos...)  Other than that, I find Giada simply glorious.  Except, does anyone else find her vast cleavage distracting?  Sometimes my eyes just don't know where to focus: on the pancetta or on her herculean decolletage.

This was a scrumptious linguine dish, though.

PS: Surprisingly, frozen shrimp are quite nice, especially given the fact that in the past I've ruined many a raw shrimp by overcooking it.  I've discovered even my dreadful (drug dealin' at the deli counter) local supermarket carries pre-cleaned peeled frozen shrimp, and I think now that I've purchased them I'll be far less squeamish in the future.

PPS: I really have a soft spot for arugula.  After last year's spinach scare I found myself turning to arugula for solace, and this nutty leafy green delivered, it really delivered.  It's tasty on a sandwich, too, or wilted in Pasta Puttanesca.

PPPS: This particular shrimp dish pairs well with a glass (or three) of Chateau Ste. Michelle Riesling.  (Who am I kidding, a peanut butter sandwich with crushed Lays chips goes well with this heavenly wine.)

PPPPS: Why is it more fun to say "Shrimps" than "Shrimp?"  It reminds me of my sinister childhood neighbor J.P. and the excuses he'd make up not to play with me: "Na, I can't, my Ma's taking me ta K-Marts ta buy a toy."  (And remember I'm from Massachusetts, so we actually pronounce it K-Maahts.)  Call me wacky, but I find inappropriate pluralization to be one of life's simplest and best joys.

If you're a shrimp(s) fan, click here to try this dish.  It was refreshing and light.  Hubbers agreed.

xoxo ~The O. B.

A Cruise For Two

My older Sister came to visit me this weekend and I'm still basking in the warm glow of her visit.  Not that we did much, or anything at all, actually.  One could accurately say our weekend was a marathon of eating, watching reruns of The Golden Girls, Kath and Kim, and anything else we deem as being "warmie." 

In defense of our laziness, a Noreaster had hit the city, bringing with it windy, cold rain.  Although had the weather been balmy we probably still would've lounged about, for in the words of my hubby, "That's what you guys always do when you get together."  And why not?

My sister is my oldest and best girlfriend, someone who was waiting to play with me before I was even born.  In short, I couldn't wait for her to arrive and I blubbered like a baby when she left. 

Sissy has put up with her fair share of crap over the years, such as the time I peeled off her extensive sticker collection and stuck them onto the pages of her sticker book.  These were nice stickers, too...remember those oily stickers?  Fuzzy stickers?  Scratch and sniff stickers?  What about those Michael Jackson Thriller stickers?  I peeled and stuck all of them without offering up any explanation.  It was a senseless act, to say the least. 

There was also the incident where I prodded and annoyed her until finally she exploded, only to realize I was capturing the whole episode on tape to later play for my parents.  Of course, she didn't get in trouble, I did.  That tape is now a cherished artifact of our youth, part of the million terrible little things we happen to know about each other.

I suppose I'll always feel remorseful about the time...

I had made it to Kindergarten.  I was four years old, soon to be five, and it was finally my turn to ride the big girl bus to school with my older sister.  The feeling was nothing less than exhilarating.  I had arrived! 

One day I was sitting at the big wooden table in our cozy kitchen when I overheard Sissy tell Mom she had a crush on Stephen H., the boy who lived up the street.  Well, not even a crush, I think she actually only said he was kind of cute.  In any case, I had heard all I needed to hear.  This was something good, something juicy, something I could really work with!

Me: So you like Stephen H?

Sissy: No, I just think he's kind of cute.

Me: Do you love him?

Sissy: NO!

Me: Do you want to marry him?

Sissy: NO!

Me: Do you want to go on a cruise for two with him?

I'm not sure where someone under the age of five even learns a phrase like cruise for two, but learned it I had, and I suppose something like that begs to be put to good use.   

My Mother stepped in.  Under no circumstances was I to repeat this information to anyone outside of our home.  Hmmm.  I think I could try and zip my lips...

As we waited for the bus the next morning, I found myself filled with exceptional glee, nearly bursting with the knowledge I had happened upon the other day.  Keeping a big girl secret was going to be trickier than I had anticipated. 

The bus arrived and all of us kids started to pile on.  I couldn't help myself, it was too much, before I knew it I had bellowed out: "My sister is in love with Stephen H!" 

Oh dear.  I had said it.  And now everybody was...laughing!  Well, now that I had a captive audience I could hardly quit here, could I?  This was exhilarating! 

I felt compelled to continue: "She loves him, and wants to marry him, and she wants to go on a cruise for two with him!"

The bus erupted into more rowdy laughter.  I was a hit with the big kids, and only at four years old!

Poor Stephen H. looked like he was going to swoon.  Both he and my sister were simmering in an inferno of third grade hell. 

Looking back on it, this event really jump started my lustrous career in the art of big mouthery.  It's in my nature to discuss things (a euphemism for being unable to keep a secret, although often times I can and do.) 

My loved ones have learned that all juicy tidbits must be prefaced with "now don't tell anyone this..."  I think I may be lacking that piece of my brain that instructs me not to blurt things out sometimes.  The inner voice, the custodian of all things secret, if you will.

I asked Sissy over the weekend how the Stephen H. episode had made her feel at the time and she recalled the incident as being "completely humiliating." 

Sorry for that one, Sister.  Truly, I'm penitent to this day.

As I meandered up 53rd street after dropping Sissy off Monday evening, the inevitable, involuntary tears sprung to my eyes.  A minute ago she was here, and now she was on a bus on her way back home.  I've lived in NY for seven years and I guess at some point I thought this would get easier, or at the very least not make me cry.  But I guess this is the way I am, and maybe I'm just going to have to accept it.

I know I'm lucky to have people in my life who I love so much it makes me sniffly, or, as I like to say, people who know me and love me anyways... 

PS- For anyone who may have wondered...you can totally cry on the subway here and nobody will say a word.  They won't give you their seat, either.  I tried.  Dirty bastards.

:)

Lovely Things

Since the news is filled with such upsetting, depressing headlines, I thought perhaps I'd take a break from writing about all things disturbing.  Today I will focus instead on a few Lovely Things.

The truth is, if I look for it, delivery men on bikes will swerve at me, abrasive cab drivers will yell at me for not having my money ready, and people who smell like cabbage will sit next to me on the subway.  I suppose these unpleasantries are inevitably a part of my life, at least until I learn to not let them piss me off so much. 

Of course, if I open my eyes there are all sorts of nice things happening around me all of the time, and I've been keeping a mental checklist so I can share them with you:

Adorable: The other day I passed a Yorkshire Terrier wearing a yellow rain slicker, complete w/tiny hood.  It was so impossibly cute that even Hubby had to laugh, and as a rule he usually finds this sort of thing mildly ridiculous. 

Heavenly: Ben and Jerry's Banana Split ice cream.  I wasn't aware that this heavenly food product even existed, but now that it has come into my life I pray that it never, ever leaves me.  Hallelujah!

Bargain-y: My dainty new Nicole Miller umbrella, purchased yesterday from Daffy's at the agreeable price of $9.99.  Not only is it much more presentable than the broken, menacing umbrella I've been wielding as of late, but it also makes me less of a hazard on the sidewalks of Manhattan.

Romantical: A (usually surly) lady at our post office asked Hubbers and I how long the two of us "have been in love," after watching us interact with each other in line.  (9 years 56 days, by the way.)

Beachy: I purchased the hair product to your left (Fekkai Summer Hair) at Victoria's Secret.  This delightful spritz transformed my hair into a mass of wavy beachiness.  (Not a real word, I'm aware.)  Not only does this product deliver, but it has a luscious fragrance to boot.  Plus, when the girl at the counter asked if anyone had assisted me and I said yes, she gave me a free travel sized bottle and a cute hair wrap.  This gal says YES to Gisele hair!  (Seriously, why should Gisele be the only broad with tousled, sexy tresses?  I ask you.)

Refreshing: It doesn't get dark outside now until 7:30 (ish) pm...this phenomenon was marvelous when I was 11 and is equally exciting now that I'm 28... 

So as you can see, for today I am choosing to see the splendor this world has to offer.  And if tomorrow I hold the door open for some jackass who walks right through without saying thanks, or if some pig coughs in my face on the subway without covering his mouth, or if I witness some buffoon littering with reckless abandon, well....who really gives a good crap.  (Although I suppose I could just pick the litter up myself...but not if it's icky.)

In the meantime, go get some of that Banana Split ice cream and make your hair big and sexy.  You'll thank me.

Hot Dog Soup

In my opinion, nothing is more delicious than a steaming bowl of hot dog soup on a raw, rainy east coast day in April.

And that is why, after this especially trying work day, I stopped by the store to pick up the ingredients necessary to create this comfort in a bowl.

What is this concoction, you may wonder?  (I say this because people are usually simultaneously fascinated and repulsed when I mention this family recipe.  One time I mentioned it during an acting class in college and rather than dissect my performance, the students (and teacher) continued to ask numerous questions about this soup.  "Did you say hot dog soup?  What is that, exactly?  What does it taste like?" 

Hot dog soup, or HDS, as my family lovingly refers to it, is a family tradition.  Recently my Auntie Kim passed it off as "hot dog stew" to people outside the family and it was a big hit.  Ma suggested I refer to it as a stew today, but somehow I cannot bring myself to do that.

Nanny, my Portuguese Grandmother, used to make HDS with linguisa, but somewhere along the line she converted to hot dogs.  All the women in my family love it, while most (all?) of the men do not.  Although I must say my husband enjoys a nice bowl of HDS on occasion.  (His reply when he heard I was making it tonight?  "Oh good, it's a perfect night to eat that."  See?  He's breaking the cycle, one bowl at a time.) 

If you're partial to tomato based, onion-y (is that a word?) flavored soups, please give this recipe a whirl.  You may just thank me.

Heat a large pot over medium heat.  Add to the pot 1 large diced onion, and 2 packages of hot dogs, cut into about one inch pieces.  Cook until the hot dogs start to brown and the onions are translucent.  Now, fill the pot with water until everything is covered.  (Make sure to do all this in the same pot- it really enhances the flavor)  Add one can of tomato paste, a little salt, pepper, 1 package of frozen green beans and two to three potatoes, peeled and diced.  Bring to a boil and then simmer until the potatoes are tender and your home is filled with a warmie, pleasing aroma. 

My Mom would say to simmer the soup for 45 minutes, while my Auntie Ding would ridicule her and say to simmer for no less than two hours.  Either way, it's salty, soothing, and reminds me of home.

Here, I'll show you:

Please allow me to introduce to you my lime green dutch oven, whom I love very dearly.  She was given to me by my Mother in law for Christmas.  I also received an orange Rachael Ray one from Santa (woops, I mean my Mom) this year, too.  If you don't have one of these babies you really must get one, she goes from stove top to oven and does so with a smile.  Sometimes she evens sings a little Streisand while she's simmering.  (The early stuff, though, none of that Bryan Adams duet shit)

And here is my HDS:

Warmth in a bowl, my friends, warmth in a bowl.  I forgot to buy potatoes today at the store, and it was so cold and I felt so exhausted and my ten pound shoulder bag was so heavy and my umbrella I got from work was so obscenely over sized (really, it comes up past my navel) that I decided to just go without.  This will explain the lack of starch in the picture to your left.  There really should be potatoes in there.  Nevertheless, my bowl was still bursting with oniony, green beanery, hot diggety doggedly goodness.

Now I've gone and done it.  I think I need another bowl.