The Odd Broad

Summer!

I'm aware that Summer doesn't officially begin for another few weeks, (my Harry Potter calendar says June 21st) but in my heart I have already made the changeover.  I declare Summer!

I didn't realize Mr. Frosty could make his cones so pretty.  I was very impressed by his artful sprinkle design. 

If you're feeling indulgent, go and get some Peanut Butter Tracks ice cream.  Sadly, the odds are good that I may become addicted to this delightful dairy treat.  I'm sure there's a support group out there somewhere. 

To all of you dearies, I wish you a lovely weekend filled with relaxation and vitamin D.  Wear your sunblock! 

To the young man who has been singing showtunes in the apartment across the way for the past hour...shut the eff up, Jean Valjean!!  Jeesh.  I need a margarita some ice cream.

I'll leave you with something furry, cuddly and cute...

Kittie held this majestic position for quite some time.  She enjoys relaxing in a sultry manner whilst I prepare potato salad...

Happy Friday xoxo 

Zen and the Art of my Husband

I am married to a Zen Jedi Master.

No, really, It's true.  Among many other things, my husband is the most reasonable, considerate person I know.  Thank God opposites attract.  (Try not to get that Paula Abdul song stuck in your head.  Two steps forward, two steps back...Sorry.)

My husband responds to extreme foolishness with calm, which of course only causes some people (me?) to flail all the wilder.  He never gives away his power by name calling, or taking cheap shots.  This guy really uses the force.

I've watched him gracefully deal with situations that would make the average person pissing angry.  He possesses a quiet integrity, the kind you don't stumble across too often.  Don't get me wrong, this sort of self-control can be downright annoying at times. 

He has his shortcomings, like the best of us.  He snores, threw crab rangoon across the room at my ten year high school reunion (that unfortunate evening really deserves its own post, however) and has yet to read a single Harry Potter book.  But on days like today, as I watch him serenely navigate a potentially maddening situation, I am reminded of just how amazing he truly is.

People forget themselves, they act out of anger, they make delusional statements they may never have the clarity or hindsight to regret.  It seldom occurs to me that I don't have to react, or even feel anything except pity for them.  Who knows, maybe they went off their happy pills?  Maybe they have jock itch?  Maybe they don't have enough Breyer's Peanut Butter Tracks ice cream in their lives? 

It's tempting to rise to the bait and get all riled up, but that's not very Zen Master-like, now, is it?  I forget this, but my sage hubby reminds me.  I learn from his example, and he makes my heart feel proud.  Amazed and proud.   

In the end we all poop, we all blow our noses, and we all act like assholes sometimes.  But the universe is only as big and bad and nasty as I choose to see it, and tonight I don't feel like seeing it that way, Dear Reader.  (Hubby just brought me a big bowl of Breyer's ice cream, can you tell?)

Jackasses of the world, I forgive you.  Why not, right?  Tomorrow I just might take a turn at being one myself.  That's life.

XOXO

Pretty Eye

Yesterday I stopped into my eye doctor and proclaimed that which I had been denying all week:  I have devil eye. 

I'm fairly certain this isn't a clinical term, judging on her reaction to my choice of words.

Merriam-Webster's definition of Red Eye is as follows:

Main Entry: red-eye

Pronunciation: 'red-"I

Function: noun

1: Cheap Whiskey

2: The phenomenon of a subject's eye appearing red in a color photograph taken with a flash.

3: A late night or overnight flight.

I'd like to submit another definition for the folks at Merriam-Webster:

4: A creepy, unsightly orb loitering on The Odd Broad's face, stage left. 

It's true.  My eye is seriously acting out and is demanding attention of the antibiotic kind.  I'm frightening children, animals and co-workers.  I swoon every time I witness my bloodshot reflection in the mirror, and swooned yet again when the optometrist asked if she could flip my eyelid up.  I didn't really like that.  Nobody does, do they?

I categorize eye infections in the dirty bastard column for a myriad of reasons, two of them being having to throw away my contact lenses and go without makeup.  Plus, now I'm forced to wear my glasses, and although they're very cute, I find it ever so difficult to gage distances while wearing them.  Just the other day I got up from my seat on the subway and slammed my head into a man who had been standing in front of me for a good ten minutes.  Woops!  Didn't see your arm there, Sir!  I started to explain that glasses challenge my peripheral vision, but he really didn't seem to give a good crap.  I heart awkward NY moments.

Is it bad that I felt the need to ask my friendly CVS pharmacist if I can have a glass of wine with the antibiotic drops he gave me?  And is it more shameful that I brazenly sipped one anyway, after he advised me not to?  These Chardonnay inspired questions I shall ponder at a later date, when my eye is no longer be-deviled and I am able to rejoin society, sans sinister looking eye.

If I had to look on the brighter side and find something positive about my eye ouchie, I'd say that at least it's made me realize how tired I've been as of late.  I'm amazed by the freakish things that can occur when my body is feeling run-down.  (Crankiness, sporadic workday tears, demonic eyes...)  In light of this fact, I am filling my Holiday weekend with naps, good food, and lots of quality time with my DVR.  We have both missed each other greatly.

xoxo

My Quest for Summer Footwear

An update in my unending search for toe-concealing sandals: Yesterday I ran into the little number you see to your right, and we really hit it off.  She's comfy, supportive, matches everything, and has promised to do her best to hide the hideousness below my ankles. 

So she's open-toed, but not enough to alarm anyone.  I like that in a shoe.  I'm certain the two of us will spend many happy days together...

On a more serious note, I couldn't have found this new pair soon enough.  If you will, please bear witness to what I've been wearing as of late, a pair my sister purchased a few years ago for $1 at Target.  It pains me to admit this, but it's true: I've been walking around in someone else's three-year old, $1 sandals.  The thing is, they're just so damn effective at covering my toes!  I fear I am quite unable to part with them.  Pray for me, Dearest Reader.

Kittie has been blissfully unaware that her Mother has been running around town in footwear of the hand-me-down variety.  She definitely appreciates a shoe purchase, however.  Although she was none too pleased when I interrupted her shoebox nap.  Piss off, her scowl seems to imply. 

Happy Memorial Day Weekend! 

~The Odd Broad (and her new shoe-sies)

XOXO

Sandal Weather

I didn't even realize I had ugly feet until I was about nineteen years old.  Up until that time I was existing under the delusion that my feet were not only normal, but cute. 

I liken my discovery to that time in The Garden of Eden when Adam and Eve first figured out they were naked.  I don't recall the specifics, just that one day I saw my toes clearly for the first time.  In a terrible flash of self-awareness, I knew. 

How could it have taken so long for me to notice that my big toe is a good half-inch longer than the rest of my teeny tiny ones?  Or that two of my toes are semi-connected?  I had always thought it was neat that all of my toes were exactly the same length, minus one, of course.  Not so, not so at all. 

Now that sandal weather is upon us, my thoughts once again turn to all things flip flop and strappy shoe related.  Herein lies my challenge: to find a sandal that conveniently covers most of the toe area, preferably with a flower or some sort of distracting design. 

It pains me, Dear Reader, truly it does.  More than once I've been riding the subway and have watched as my feet have actually caused someone to do a double take.  When the staring person in question has finally been able to unglue their horrified eyes to peek at the face belonging to such feet, they find me staring daggers at them.  It's fun to shame people that way. 

Seriously, though, ladies with adorable, symmetrical feet have no idea how easy they have it.  What I wouldn't give to have free reign over the shoe section, snatching up any old pair my freakish toes desired!      

Loved ones are always eager to give counsel.  My Grandmother advised me to grow out every nail except the one on the big toe, in the hopes of evening things out.  This short-lived experiment really only made things grosser.  Hubbers likes to tease me by saying I could go to the podiatrist and be in and out with a few simple snips.  I always knew he was only joking, until one morning when he woke from a dream where he had won the lottery and surprised me with a gift of plastic surgery for my feet.  What the? 

I used to amuse my younger cousins by taking an eyeliner and drawing in where the separation between my second and third toes should be.  The kids really got a kick out of that one. 

Of course, not everyone is repulsed by my toes.  Several years ago I found an audition in Backstage for a zany comedy review.  I called to find out more and talked to a man who I could tell was a real character.  And by character I mean freaky weirdo.  But I went just the same, after all, an audition is an audition.  On my way there, I remembered the ad had mentioned something about auditioning barefoot?  Come to think of it, hadn't the man on the phone said something about that also?  I decided he was probably joking.

In acting school we were taught to be humble, open, and ready for anything.  So when the sign on the door said to leave your shoes upon entering, I did.  (Hey, I could go with the flow, I could be zany and wacky, I could improvise...)

The man was filming the audition.  I read with another guy and it went very well.  When it was over, he said, "OK now, let's get a looksie..."  referring to my feet.  Was this guy for real?

"Well, I don't have the prettiest feet, I have to warn you"  I nervously joked. 

"Well, let's just see..."  He was still eagerly filming.  Immediately I felt uncomfortable, but when he asked me to grip his pointy finger with my toes I knew I wasn't in Kansas anymore.

Upon leaving, I called my Mother.  "Mommy, is it dirty if I had to take my shoes off at an audition?"

This unfortunate anecdote circulated amongst my loved ones in record time and was the cause of much amusement.  (For everyone except myself and the violated regions below my ankles, of course.)  Needless to say, my toes and I didn't attend the callback audition.

This summer, I shall remain optimistic that I will experience much success in the way of appropriate footwear.  Although I won't kid myself, I'm sure this won't be an easy task.  Sometimes I even think I should start a line of open-toed shoes designed specifically for people who are toe-challenged.  That might be a nice, humane thing to do with my spare time, don't you think? 

Ugly toed people of the world, unite!

Robbing the cradle?

On Tuesday night Bill Murray told me I was robbing the cradle.  Wait just a minute, methinks I should rewind a bit...

Hubby and I were at Shea Stadium for a Mets/Cubs game.  My charming Uncle Dan is friends with a Chicago Cub and arranged for us to have seats behind home plate.  It was fantastic!  After our crappy week it was nice to unwind and see how the other half lives.  This was especially lovely for me, since the only times I've ventured into the nice sections of ballparks things have usually ended...not well.  (As in, can I see yours tickets, please?)  This time we were actually legit.

It was the perfect night for a ballgame.  There were waiters taking orders and bringing food and pinot grigio.  (Well, in the upper deck I'm embarrassed to drink wine but I really felt I had the green light to do so in these seats.)

Around the eighth inning I noticed a familiar face over to my left.  Although I don't experience NY celebrity sightings all that much, when they do happen it's entertaining.  Like a couple of months ago when I saw Brian Dennehy walking down Fifth Avenue toting a tiny suitcase on wheels.  Out of respect I kept my mojito-hole shut, but a small part of me desperately wanted to scream, "I loved you in Tommy Boy!"  Because truly, I did.  (Though I'd be hard put to find the person who didn't enjoy that fine film.)

I wasn't always so reverent, though.  Years ago in Boston I was an extra (though they didn't end up using us) on a film with the guy from Pete and Pete.  These were in my bright-eyed Conservatory days and as I stood near him I heard myself utter, "Hey, it's Pete."  I received no response to this awkward statement and instantly felt like a dink.  Let's face it, that wasn't the proper way to address Nickelodeon royalty, or anyone, for that matter.  But live and learn, no?

Back to the familiar face to my left, who was none other than Mr. Bill Murray.  I know Oprah has said the only thing different about being famous is that more people know who you are, but...

Fueled on by copious amounts of pinot grigio and the burning desire to have an engaging tale to relate to you, Dear Reader, I tentatively approached Mr. Murray and said the following: 

"Mr. Murray, would you mind very much if I took a picture* with you?"   

"Oh, that makes me feel so homesick!"  He replied.  "Nobody ever just says hello, or introduces themselves..."

Woops.  I answered that, well, on an obnoxious scale from one to ten this was definitely a nine and then proceeded to introduce myself.  This led him to ask where I was from, what I did, and what I used to do.  He was extremely nice and down to earth.  I told him I loved The Life Aquatic and his Star Wars song was my favorite SNL skit of all time.  (Even as I said it I knew I was being awful and lame, but white wine tends to have that affect on me.) 

Today my friend posed a valid question, one that I've already kicked myself for not asking, which is what the eff did he whisper into Scarlett Johansson's ear?  Alas, in the hustle and bustle of the celebrity meeting, this worthy question did not come to mind.  I desperately wish it had, though, since the ending to Lost in Translation disturbed me greatly. 

"So who's your photographer?"  Bill Murray eventually asked.  "Oh, my husband," I answered. 

"He's your husband?  What is he, twelve?  You're really robbing the cradle!" 

"He's older than me!"  I retorted, slightly annoyed.  I should tell you my husband is sometimes described as having a baby face.  (Albeit a handsome, blue-eyed baby face.)  He looks young, his Dad is 51 and looks incredibly young, and I suppose there are far worse problems for the two of them to have.

Although, what the frigg am I, some ancient, cradle-robbing old crone?  I'll have you know my husband is a whopping 49 days older than me, Mr. Bill Murray!

"You're robbing the cradle!"  He said it one more time. 

What the?  Was I getting dissed by Bill Murray?  And should I feel bad about this?  And does anyone actually say dissed anymore?  I'm not sure I've ever used that word in a sentence.

Hubby, a huge baseball fanatic, started to talk baseball with Mr. M.  "Are you going to buy the Cubs?"  He asked. 

He said it's something he'd thought about, to which my husband replied, "Well, if you're looking for a business partner, I can put in five hundred, six hundred bucks..."  You've got to love that baby faced man.  I know I do.

Before we knew it, the game was over.  As we exited the stadium, laughing to ourselves at what a random evening it had turned out to be, Hubby spotted Mike Starr from Dumb and Dumber.  Seriously, is this what normally happens in the good seats?  We were dorks and snapped a picture* with him, too.  This Queens native was also extremely friendly.  (And my Brother in Law was totally impressed that we met The Gas Man.)

I had forgotten this, but Hubby reminded me that we've already been in the presence of Bill Murray over five years ago, when the restaurant we worked at hosted the NY opening party for the movie Shallow Hal.  There I was, serving up tuna tartar, chicken sate (those damned sticks!), and dying a little inside.  All I really remember about him was that he was wearing a bolo tie.  For some reason John Kerry was also at that party, and I can still recall the image of my ass-kissing ex-boss genuflecting to him and saying, "Senator, it's a pleasure."  (My old boss was an actor, they bow and stuff.)

So Bill Murray may think I look older than my husband, but I did not genuflect or say, hey, it's Pete!  At least I have that to hold onto.

All in all, it was an eventful evening.  Thank you, Uncle Dan!  And thanks to Matt Murton for giving us those fabulous seats.  What a nice guy.

Happy weekend to one and all!

~The Ancient Broad  xoxo

*In an effort to maintain my secret identity, and keep my lovely job, and not make my parents worry about their youngest born putting her image on the internet, I have refrained from posting said pictures.  Please use your imagination, Dearest Readers.  I do not look old, by the way. 

PS: My Parent's neighborhood have officially resurrected their annual tractor races...they're on for this Saturday.  Crazy kids and their wild parties!

When life hands you lemons, make lemon drop martinis

Sometimes I think it's just not in everyone's constitution to go with the flow and let things slide.  I'm not really sure it's in mine, although I do make furious attempts.

My current predicament with my landlord Smeagol initially prompted me to want to handle things in a zen-like, the glass is half full type of way, but inevitably, like an uneaten Hershey Bar abandoned in the midday sun, I melted down. 

I wasn't calm and cool, I was stressed and frantic.  But how else could I have possibly handled the following asinine situation...

Last week, the painters who recently weather-proofed the outside of our leaky old building coerced Smeagol into having our apartment painted.  In my nearly ten years of renting, I've never heard of walls or ceilings being forcibly painted while the tenants are actually inhabiting the apartment, but hey, what do I know?

I resolved myself to go with the flow, and I did, until we learned that the painter won't allow Hubby or I to be home while he paints and insists on doing it while we are at work.  And before you wonder if Smeagol is putting us up in a hotel so we don't have to inhale nasty paint fumes, don't bother.  He's not.

Naturally I worried about my cat being left in the house while these men worked.  My head immediately filled with menacing scenes of Kittie snacking on lead paint chips or slipping out the front door for wild feline adventures in the big city.  Additionally, my Husband is a musician and has enough instruments to open his own Guitar Center.  We were concerned, to say the least. 

What was the big deal about one of us being home while these guys painted?  Smeagol's answer was a five minute monologue on the trustworthiness of these painters, who had also worked on the neighbor's house without stealing anything.  He said this man is an artist who cannot be watched, and compared him to a master chef who creates art and wild mushroom risotto.  (OK, I'm making up the risotto bit, but he really did say the chef part.)

You see, Smeagol explained, what this painter does is an art form (aka: spackling) and he can't have us watching him while he creates (aka: dripping white paint on my telephone, TV stand, couch, sink, and at least three picture frames.  And that's only so far, he still has two more rooms to go!)

Smeagol assured us he'd be there the entire time to watch Kittie and make sure there was no funny business.  (He also said that he "wasn't an idiot" and could watch our cat.)  So, the stoner who lives with and verbally abuses his Mother was on the job.  Perfect!  I felt much better!

To look on the philosophical side, this could be a much needed exercise in letting go, in releasing control, in trusting, could it not?

I came home from work on Thursday to find both hallway entrance doors as well as my front door propped wide open, two strangers spackling the cracks in my walls, and Smeagol nowhere in sight.  Someone (Smeagol) had laid a small piece of ply-wood across the door downstairs as a precaution against Kittie escaping into the mean city streets.  I later informed him that cats have now gained the ability to jump.  They picked up that jumping skill back in '04 apparently, but I guess not everybody knows about it yet.

Smeagol, at best confused and at worst psychotic, was characteristically defensive: "That was just a precaution, I watched her the entire time."  Except for the times when you weren't in the apartment, right?  Or were you watching her with your x-ray Smeagol vision?

And this was just spackle day.  Please read on, for the story gets better.  Smeagol decided, in an effort to make things nice for us, to mix vanilla extract (or oil?  It's unclear) in with the paint, because this makes the paint smell nicer.  What the?  No, seriously, what the???

On Friday we returned home from work to find our apartment reeked like...how shall I describe the stench to you?  Like the stinkiest feet you've ever smelled?  Like someone gave our apartment a bath using nail polish remover?  Like some frigging jackass poured vanilla into the mother-effing paint can?  Bingo!

Smeagol also took it upon himself to spray lavender scented Lysol throughout the entire apartment.  So stinky, lavender/vanilla/latex paint scented feet.  In the market for a headache, anyone?  Come on over!

One of the the more priceless interactions of the weekend was the following over-the-phone chat:

Hubby: There are paint stains on our couch.

Smeagol: Paint stains on the couch?  No, that's a water stain, I was wiping the couch with a damp sponge.  The painters didn't drip any paint, everything was covered, I saw it with my own two eyes...

Hubby: But there are white paint stains on our couch, I'm looking at them right now.

Smeagol: No, that's just water...

Hubby: Well, the Paint Fairy must have come and dripped it, I guess, because there are white paint stains on our couch.

Smeagol later remembered he was using the "damp sponge" to try and wipe off some paint that had dripped while they took the covering off the couch.  Memories are crazy like that, huh? 

He also told us that at one point he had left to get black trash bags and had cut them to use as furniture covering.  Don't professional painters learn about drop cloths in Painting 101? 

Fed up, we finally told Smeagol either Hubby or myself had to be there when they finish painting next week.  These were crappy ceilings, not the Sistine Chapel, what was the big freaking deal?  Smeagy said he'd try and convince Michaelangelo but it was unlikely he'd go for it.  This is when I said in my nicest yet firmest tone, "Aren't you paying this person?  If you're the one paying him won't he have to do what you ask?" 

Shortly thereafter Smeagol dropped the nice act and raised his voice and started being a real dickhead.  (Don't worry, I raised my voice right back.)  This rental situation has turned into a full-fledged nightmare, Dear Reader. 

If I have to look on the sunny side, I'd say I've learned some valuable lessons.  Among them, the art of being verbally direct, the art of contradicting a psychotic, drugged up landlord as he lies to my face, and the art of going with the flow when asinine events are out of my control.  (OK, I'm still a novice on that last one, but I'm sure the universe will keep supplying me with similar infuriating situations until I become a master.  Don't you just hate love that?) 

Most importantly, I have learned that my family and friends are 150% right, it is time for us to remove ourselves from this moronic, maddening living situation.

Dearest Reader, if you get a minute, please pray for the salvation of my sanity.  Pray that we find an apartment in this Godforsaken town with three pronged outlets, a refrigerator not plugged into an extension cord, and non-psychotic landlords who aren't belligerent when you point out paint stains on your furniture.  (What a wish list, eh?)

XOXO ~The Vanilla Scented Broad

PS- I just went into the bathroom...the cracks Michaelangelo sealed and painted over are cracked again.  Apparently someone's mushroom risotto needs tweaking.

PPS- Hubby just got the mail and this love letter from Smeagol was in our mailbox.  Now you can witness with your own eyes the insanity of which I speak:

 

This was written by the man who took 3 months to finish painting our front door, 7 months to fix the shower he ripped apart, and just now had the ceiling in our hallway sealed and painted after scraping it sometime last September.  Way to go!! 

Mystic Weekend

During my earliest twenties I temped in NYC...for about five years.  Those were interesting days, to say the least, though in retrospect I don't know how I lasted for so long.  Being an uninsured starving artist no longer gives me the warm fuzzies the way it used to, you know? 

One of the aspects I love most about having a permanent job (aside from the steady paycheck and unlimited trips to the dentist and gyno) are vacation days.  I just love them.  I live for long weekends.  What is better than a Sunday that feels like a Saturday, or having a four day work week instead of five? 

Last weekend Hubby and I wanted to take a quick trip and decided upon the quaint seaport town of Mystic, CT.  It was a tough decision.  The last quick trip we made was to the Poconos, and although the trip was quite memorable, mirrors on the ceiling belong as lyrics in an Eagle's song, not in my hotel room.  Seriously, every time I think of the Poconos I start to sing Hotel California in a creepy Don Henley style.

Our weekend in Mystic was quite an adventure, filled with ships, seafood, wine, history, shopping...

It began on Saturday.  We're not what you'd call morning people, and although we planned on leaving the apartment at noon we didn't actually get on the road until 2:00.  Shortly thereafter I found myself famished and our only option on the road was Wendy's.  I haven't eaten at Wendy's in years and was appalled to discover that their medium soda is a whopping 32 ounces!  What the?  Just to add some perspective, that's the medium next to a 1 liter bottle of Canada Dry to your right.  I totally drank the whole thing, too, which is both upsetting and gross.

We hit a slew of traffic on 95, so by the time we actually got to Mystic and checked into the Hilton it was nearly 5:00.  We decided to poke around the shops for a bit and discovered they all close at 6:00.  (We were lucky, on Sundays they close at 5:00!)  It was just enough time for me to quell that desperate vacation urge to buy.  There are over 60 shops with a wide variety of themes.

I have to say, although I am loath to support anything having to do with Paris H., the Hilton at Mystic is lovely. It has a restaurant and lounge on site, a nice pool, offers Crabtree & Evelyn products in the bathroom, and happened to be hosting a knife show that Saturday.  I'm not 100% sure whether they were dealing in cutlery or street blades, but either way we didn't attend. 

Since it was getting late (in Mystic time, anyway) we decided to walk down to the Seaport.  The woman at the front desk said it was about a mile away, and if we were athletic we could probably walk it.  Of course the seaport was closed when we got there, so we decided to eat an early dinner.  We enjoyed a delicious meal at The Seamann's Inne, which had some of the best fried calamari we've ever eaten: tossed with peppers, a garlic sauce, and sprinkled with asiago cheese.  I'm hungry just thinking about it.  It was there that I also devoured the beautiful baked stuffed lobster you see floating before your eyes.  Delish. 

During our cozy dinner I found myself glancing out the window at the setting sun, at first admiring the beautiful scenery, but later realizing we were going to have to walk back to the hotel in the dark, passing a cemetery and haunted houses from 1765 to do so.  Um...check, please!

Dearest Reader, I have walked the mean streets of NY alone after midnight on many occasions without batting an eyelid, but I'm not going to lie, on this night I was terrified.  It's just, in the light of day, historic houses from the 1700's are lovely, cemeteries by the water are peaceful, walking on a narrow sidewalk into ongoing traffic is, well, no, that's still not pleasant, but at least there was still daylight!  That trek back to the Hilton was a bit too Nightmare on Elm Street for my tastes.  We measured the distance with the car the next day and there and back was a total of almost two and a half miles!  Guess I worked off that key lime tart.

Pretty Mystic by day:

    

Nightmarish Mystic by night: (Just drive there.  For reals.  I'm scared just looking at that picture.)

On Sunday we went to Stonington Vineyard, where the midday wine tasting buzz prompted us to purchase a case of wine.  I told Hubby we should be set on wine now for about a week or so.  (Tee hee)  Later that day we saw the guy from the winery in line at Starbucks.  I love small towns.

After the winery and Starbucks we walked around the myriad of shops, ate dinner and then found ourselves looking for something to do.  It's safe to say that off-season this town closes early.  We decided to go to the hotel lounge and found it completely deserted, a veritable ghost town in the way of hotel bars.  I suppose all of the real excitement fizzled out with the knife show.  In addition to the barren scene, the Bartender was playing The Lord Of The Rings on the two televisions.  Whenever Smeagol appeared I jumped, mistaking him for my surly landlord.  (Have I mentioned we rent our home from Smeagol?) 

On our way back to our room we met a woman who's doing a two year cross-country bike tour.  She had just come from New York where she was on some talk shows and she gave us a flyer with her website: www.littlechanges.com.  We saw her at Mystic Seaport the next day, but I wasn't feeling as bold (tipsy?) and didn't say hello.  Although that night I told her what I always tell people when I'm on the sauce: You'll love Boston!  It's (hiccup) the best!

Olde Mystic Village ended up being really interesting, if U.S. Nautical history is your bag.  (But who isn't into that?)  At first we were a bit nervous, since I think we entered through the wrong side.  Hubby was upset that his 35 bucks appeared to have bought us a chance to look at two ships and the olden way to make rope.  (See picture to your right)  But once we turned the corner we found a neat little 1700's village with a schoolhouse, chemist, print shop, and more.  Inside one home there was a woman cooking a chicken over an open hearth fire.  This made me slightly nervous, although she appeared to know what she was doing.  Hubby got excited when he spotted the Tavern below, but it wasn't open for the summer season yet. 

   

If you're the squeamish type, please don't ask the chemist what the leech in the jar on the counter is for, because you really don't want to know.  I started to swoon, just a bit.  I'm actually swooning a little now as I write this.  Incidentally, how did that modern day leech end up with such a crappy gig?  (What are you doing for work these days, Charlie?  Oh, I gutta job over at Mystic, sittin' in a jar all day...)  Hubby said there's a chance it might have been a fake leech, before pointing out that I was thinking entirely way too much about it.

All in all, Mystic was a nice little getaway, with yummy seafood and plenty of opportunities for shopping.  There are even outlets nearby, though we didn't get a chance to hit them up, and an Aquarium in town, though we skipped that, too.  I ate a lot of fish that weekend, but somehow wasn't interested in taking the relationship further.  Foxwoods is closeby, too, if you have a hankering for slot machines and blue haired ole' bitties.   

If you're ever in Mystic be sure to stop in at Mystic Pizza, even if just to say you did.  I dared Hubby to ask the lady at Starbucks for directions and he did.  It's fun to be tourists.  The pizza was good, although I've never seen the movie.

So my long weekend in Mystic was bursting with restful, out of town loveliness.  This weekend, however, will no doubt be bursting with Smeagol, who deemed it mandatory to have our walls and ceiling painted immediately.  Indeed a desperately necessary repair, in an apartment boasting mostly two-pronged outlets and a refrigerator plugged into an extension cord. 

But alas, such is life.  At least I can find comfort in the memory of baked stuffed lobster.  But not 18th Century leeches.  I'd rather just forget about them. 

Happy Weekend!

~The Odd Broad xoxo

ps- I realize I made mention of fudge in my last post...no doubt because I was shoving it down my gullet as I typed.  I think we all need more Snickers fudge in our lives, no?

Gone Fishin'

Hubs and I got outta town and are spending a long weekend in Mystic, Ct. 

Please stay tuned and I will fill you in on fudge, seafood and a town that closes at 6:00pm.

xoxo!

Laughter Yoga

I sometimes liken my time spent in college to four years of very expensive therapy.  It's not as if I didn't emerge from school with a degree (albeit in musical theatre), it's just that...well, while my other friends were buying expensive text books and laptops, I was purchasing makeup kits, pretty leotards and tap shoes.

While my other friends were studying science, math, and engineering, I was weaving the space with my body and rolling around on the floor trying to become the color yellow.  I can do red, too. 

Not that attending the Boston Conservatory** was a picnic by any means.  On the contrary, in many ways those four years were the most challenging, vulnerable times I've ever known.  I always chuckle when people say that Simon Cowell is mean.  Ha!  Compared to a few of my teachers that surly man is downright maternal.

But let's face it, I had a blast.  I loved being constantly surrounded by all things creative, not to mention all things bizarre.  Some schools have pep rallies for spirit week?  We had psychics who talked to ghosts.  Some schools elect class officials?  We gave out awards for best package and biggest boobs.  (And which broad do you think was voted class lush, four years in a row, once on a write-in vote?  My parents were very proud.)  I was even elected Queen my Senior year.  I still have the tiara. 

One day our proprioceptive movement teacher had our class do an acting exercise where we'd trick ourselves into feeling certain emotions.  As in, laughing hysterically until we actually felt happy, or screaming until we felt enraged, basically going through the motions until our minds caught up with our bodies.  Picture a handful of theater dweebs running around the room screaming.  God I miss college.

It might sound wacky, but I remember this exercise as being really effective.  After a few moments of artificial laughing my whole body relaxed and I started to feel unbelievably lighthearted and silly.  I saw something similar on Oprah last week that reminded me of this called laughter Yoga. 

Being a cerebral, semi-neurotic type of gal, changing my mood from the outside in is a concept that interests me. 

We all do it sometimes, don't we?  Just the other night my pigsty of an apartment started making me feel nutty.  (I was also pms-ing, which didn't help.)  So I did a few dishes, arranged some clothes into an orderly pile, drank the chocolate milk Hubby made me and then had a lie down on my heavenly mattress and watched The Golden Girls.  (I heart having a DVR in my bedroom.)  So the result of cleaning, even half assedly so, was that a neater room made me feel all real better.  Chocolate milk helped, too.

I know music can definitely alter my mood, as can clothing.  I have outfits I refer to as grown up and others that are kid clothes, each making me feel a certain way. 

Although I suppose this whole outside in concept isn't 100% guaranteed.  It's quite possible for one to be wearing a dainty pink dress, dainty pink shoes, a dainty pink raincoat and still call people douche bags under my breath.  Woops, I mean, one's breath.

Tee hee.

**No, I didn't go to school with Katherine McPhee, but I was there during Constantine's time, and my college roommate/best friend did "know" John Mayer, who we shared the Berklee cafeteria with...but (with the appropriate permission, of course) that's another story...