The Odd Broad

Under the Weather...Still

This morning I sneezed on the subway and the man sitting next to me said "Bless you" and I said "Thank you" and then an awkward silence ensued and everything got kind of weird. 

That's right, I'm still sick.  Since two Wednesdays ago I've been walking around in a constant state of stuffy, achy, coughy (real word?) medicine head.  What my Grandmother might refer to as "acting ragtime."  (Well, more specifically, talking ragtime.)

Initially I didn't mind feeling sickish, since I usually view it as the green light for nap-taking, sympathy collecting, and guzzling potions that have the word nighttime on their labels.  But after a few days even these pleasantries have lost their luster.  Screw Nyquil and Vicks Vapor Rub, I want a frigging glass of Reisling!

I'm tired of having medicine head and carrying tissues around with me.  I'm tired of people asking, "Are you feeling better?" only to have me say that I'm not.  I'm tired of the menacing pulse on the right side of my neck that keeps sporadically throbbing and grossing me out.  (I guess I should tell you I have kind of a "thing" about pulses.  Veins in general, really...my Sister and some of my cousins have it, too.  Even talking about it makes us feel weak.  Other than that we're pretty rugged.  Just don't ask us to give blood.)

Did you know the phrase under the weather is actually nautically inspired?  In ye olden days (before dramamine), when passengers felt seasick, they were instructed to go below the decks and sit in the middle of the ship where they wouldn't feel the rocking as much.  So they were literally going under the weather.  (And here I'd always thought that phrase came from sipping too much Jose Cuervo!)  I learned that fun fact in Reader's Digest this morning, just before a stranger blessed me for sneezing. 

And with that, my pulsing neck and I bid you good night.  Take your vitamins and have a happy weekend!

XOXO

Sudsy's rocks

Family members have told me I was a strange child.  For example, my Godmother was often afraid to be left alone with me when I was an infant, as I was sometimes known to giggle and laugh when nobody was in the room.  I think she thought I was possessed or something.

I also used to walk around the house with a sock on my left hand to cover up a birthmark on my palm that I'd christened my "dot."  I despised my dot and convinced my Mom it was from a pencil, since the day I discovered it I'd been drawing.  She eventually took me to our pediatrician, who assured her that despite my adamant claims it was only a birthmark and there was no fear of lead poisoning.  One morning I woke up and thought the dot had disappeared, until I sadly realized I was only looking at the wrong hand. 

I never left home without my favorite accessory, a pair of red plastic glasses with the lenses popped out of them. 

It didn't end with these mild eccentricities, of course.  I had a wide array of curious catchphrases, the majority of which were wildly inappropriate.  When I was about two and a half, my Mom brought me into work and introduced me to her boss.  "Well, hello there!"  he cooed, to which I immediately replied, "So you're the naked doctor."  Why I was compelled to make such a statement we'll never know.  My Mom worked in retail, not a doctor's office, so her boss was neither a doctor nor naked. 

There were countless other cringe-worthy moments.  I've been told when I was learning to talk I called my paternal Grandfather a "Goddamsonbitch."  (Sorry about that one, Grandpa.)  The first time I met my Uncle Jim, I proclaimed: "My father puts his underwear in the microwave."  When strangers would comment to my Mother on what an adorable little child she had, my usual response was, "don't-cha touch-a my bones," or "Gimme dem shoes, Leroy."

I'm not sure where all of this stemmed from, I only hope it will skip a generation or two.  Or four.  One tale my parents love to recall happened during the summer my family went to Seabrook, NH, where my Aunt and Uncle had rented a cottage.  I must have been about three or four...

I had taken an instant fancy to one person in particular, a Speedo-wearing buddy of Uncle Steve's named Sudsy.  I was both fascinated and bewildered by Sudsy's curious choice of swimwear and constantly eyed his nether regions, which coincidentally fell just at my eye level.

Anticipating a situation, my Mother prayed her inquisitive child would keep quiet.  She tells me she knew she was in trouble when I loudly asked, "Mommy, why does Sudsy wear his underpants outside?"  Not satisfied by whatever explanation she had given me, I soon followed this question with a disgusted, "Why does Sudsy have rocks in his underpants?"

After that, and much to the relief of all those present, Sudsy immediately threw on a pair of cut-off denim shorts.

Even as a toddler, I was strongly bothered by the Speedo.  Any way you slice it, it's just not a flattering swimwear look.

P.S. In my last post I made mention of childhood tales that in hindsight may have been inappropriate storytelling for after-work drinks with co-workers...the Sudsy story came out after my third margarita...there's more, but alas, it's time for bed.  XOXO 

Medicine Head

For some reason when my husband started to feel sick on Sunday, I thought I'd be fine.  I made him tea, brought him Nyquil, gave him sympathy, the whole time thinking I would somehow escape his sniffly fate.  Foolish girl!  By Wednesday afternoon I had the chills, the aches, the sore throat and headache.  There was no denying it, I was a sickie broad.  Now the only one around here who isn't sick is Kittie, but she doesn't know how to use the stove so she can't make tea or Lipton noodle soup. 

This is reminiscent of a Brady Bunch episode, though I can't recall which one.  Curiosity and medicine head prompted me to visit tvland.com to try and find said episode, and I was horrified to discover that I've actually watched all five seasons in their entirety.  Probably several hundred times over.  I'm still not sure which one I was thinking of, though it may have been the episode where Cindy and Carol get swollen glands and miss the boat trip with Mike's boss and stay in bed and eat ice cream? 

Cold meds definitely eff me up.  On a good day, I am a bad message leaver.  Ask anyone unfortunate enough to have been on the receiving end of one of my messages.  I ramble, I meander, I cause people in the room to think I'm speaking to an actual person and not an answering machine.  You can imagine the strange voicemails I leave while on cold meds.  It's unfortunate, really it is, especially when I'm trying to call in sick to work.

Yesterday I couldn't leave well enough alone and called into work a second time and spoke to a co-worker, remarking that it didn't sound like him, to which he replied, "I'm kinda busy."  I continued to ramble on in my medicine induced state, the entire time positive that I was speaking to an impostor, and not my actual co-worker.  I'm fairly certain he had me on speaker-phone, too.  Great! 

All this after taking the non-drowsy cold formula!  Yes, even daytime medicines send me into a groovy psychedelic tailspin.  For the most part it's quite enjoyable, though next time I will remember my golden rule: don't mix cold meds (or any mind-altering product, really) with work.  It will only lead to embarrassment and paranoia, and will possibly cause me to talk foolishly whilst on speaker-phone. 

After work drinks in particular have led me to reveal numerous childhood tales that in hindsight may not have been 100% appropriate for the work setting, but I think these anecdotes really deserve their own post.  Perhaps when I'm feeling a bit less under the weather.

And on that note, it's back to the couch for more trash tv! 

The cups are half full

An important message for the DSL delivery guy who bumped into me today on East 54th and bashed a box into my left breast: May a thousand birds poop on you, you brazen, no good, unapologetic, sonofabitching bastard. 

There.  I feel much better now.

Not that I actually felt a thing, of course, thanks to the significantly padded brassiere I was sporting.  But how was DSL man to know I was wearing underwear of the embellishing variety? 

Incidentally, Hallelujah for padding.  Had I not been modestly endowed in the chest area I'm sure today's run-in really would've been an ouchie.  Guess there's an upside to everything.

Padded undergarments.  Keeping boobs safe from intrusive pedestrians for over 70 years, one cup at a time.

Holy Moley!

May was skin cancer awareness month, though I didn't realize this until yesterday when I perused the June issue of Health magazine.  Olay was even sponsoring free skin cancer screenings throughout the month of May, a lovely gesture that I wish I'd known about earlier.  Health claims these free screenings continue through July, but the doctor's offices I called in NY all told me they ended in May...

Gratis or not, this Broad has scheduled an appointment with a dermatologist and I enthusiastically urge you to do the same.  After all, it doesn't take much time and it's something kind to do for yourself.

My tanning bed hopping ways and I have parted (it was an amicable split, though now we're not on speaking terms) and these days I wear moisturizer with sunscreen on my face every day.  I'm trying to get hubby to do the same, but he needs a little prodding.  I fear I'm going to have to buy him his own special bottle of Manscreen.  It's imperative, though.  Let's face it, Mother Nature is pissed...either that or she's going through menopause.

Dearest Reader, please wear your SPF, and consider scheduling a skin cancer screening!  XOXO

Oh no they didn't

Earlier this year I voiced what I felt were very sound concerns regarding skinny jeans, in a post entitled: "Do I really want to look like an upside-down Christmas tree?" 

Label me closed minded, but I'm not convinced there's a place in today's society for trousers of the tapered, skin-tight variety.  Honestly, did we not learn our collective lesson during the 80's and 90's?

Picture my surprise yesterday, as I strolled down Lexington Avenue and spotted a fashionista sporting not only a tapered leg, but an extreme high waist as well!  Dun-dun-dah!!!

I've observed these slacks in magazines before, but have never actually seen them out in public on a civilian.  I could barely contain my awe, Dear Reader, but alas, in an instant, the trendy woman and her elevated waistline had turned onto 59th and were sauntering well out of my eyeshot.

As you may notice, I've taken a crack at depicting this worrisome image, but really how could any illustration ever give true justice to such an ensemble? 

In closing, if this sort of get-up is fashion forward, then Jeeves, kindly put the car in reverse.  (Jeeves is my imaginary butler/driver.  He goes everywhere with me, we're inseparable.  I'll introduce you sometime.)

XOXO

The Broad-Way

I didn't watch the final episode of The Sopranos, so I have no idea whether Tony got whacked or not.  Saying whacked is fun, though.

What I did spend a number of hours watching were the Tony Awards, the annual program which never fails to leave me feeling nostalgic, nerdy, and slightly wistful.  Of course, I can barely recall when the last audition I went on was, only that I was secretly hoping not to get called back so I could go home and watch Top Chef.  (I can't believe I've just admitted this in writing.)

I have actor friends who say they'll never go back, that the performing phase of their life has officially ended.  I'm not sure I'll ever be able to utter those words, no matter how true they may be.

In the meantime, Dear Reader, please allow this wistful broad to share with you a curiously named yet tasty malt beverage:

Your eyes aren't deceiving you, the name of this Pale Ale is indeed Porkslap.  And yes, the can does depict the noteworthy image of two pigs bellyslapping each other.  Disturbing?  Certainly.  Tasty beer?  Hubby thinks so.

As for me, I passed on the Porkslap and enjoyed a glass of Riesling, ate some delectable carbs, and invited my inner musical theater nerd to come out to play.  (and interpretive dance, just a little.  She doesn't get out much.)

In the aftermath of this lengthly exposure to splashy song and dance I cannot be held responsible if I should spontaneously burst into song...can I?  Nah.

I don't know about you, but I suddenly have a hankering for a showtune.

Wow.

While searching online today for a new travel case for Kittie, I stumbled across the most disturbing pet product I have ever laid eyes on.  I feel compelled to share it with you, Dear Reader, for it is far too frightening an image to keep to myself.

Behold the horror...the terrible horror:

The mere knowledge that a person actually dreamed up this invention concerns me, but not nearly as much as seeing the poor creatures to your left who were forced to model it.

This Pet Pouch Carrier makes the following claims about itself:

~A hands-free (freaky weirdo) way to carry your pet

~A soothing, calming way to carry your pet (while simultaneously alarming every person you come in contact with, of course.)

~An infant-style carrier (not for actual infants, though, for cats.)

This carrier costs $33.99, but for an extra $7.50 they'll monogram it for you.  (With the initials FW, perhaps, for Freaky Weirdo?)

So with the embroidery it'll run you just under $55, not including tax, shipping, and the sizable cost of your lost dignity.

And for you dog lovers out there...now you can comfortably tote Fido around, too!

Please don't get me wrong, my Kittie is my darling, furry little friend.  If I dote on her any more a loved one will most surely stage an intervention.  But even I realize the ramifications of carrying her around in public like a baby.  I mean, for starters, Kittie would never allow me to haul her around the neighborhood in one of these contraptions...

Happy weekend to one and all!

PS- Mom, I promise not to buy an infant-style cat carrier.  Seriously.  I mean it.  You have my word.    

Enquiring minds want to know!

If skeletal, emaciated Nicole Ritchie weighs a mere 83 pounds and has the public speculating if she's with child, I suppose I shouldn't allow myself to feel slighted, right?

Can you tell I'm about to relate to you another unfortunate tale of mistaken reproductivity?

That's right.  Yet again, yours truly has found herself the victim of a Random Pregnancy Inquiry.  I'm becoming frightfully proficient at navigating through these painful situations, Dear Reader.

It started out innocently enough.  The time was today, 4pm, the location, a nearby diner.  Patricia, our favorite waitress there, greeted me by putting her hand on my arm and asking, "How are you feeling?  OK?"  I told her I was feeling great, thank you.  Gee, Patricia is so nice.

Hubby ordered an iced tea and I told Patricia I just felt like a glass of water, to which she replied, "Are you sure?  I'll leave the menu here in case you decide you want something else..."

A minute later she returned and asked me if I'd like a glass of milk.

Oh. Frigg.  I'm getting quite savvy at detecting the signs leading up to these terrible experiences.  What we had here was a potential Sunday afternoon situation on our hands, folks.

I was doing my absolute best to remain cheerfully oblivious, until Patricia dropped off our check and finally whispered the question I had partially begun to anticipate: "So, how is the baby?"

Ah, Reader.  I did my best to placate Patricia, who for her part was at least humiliated and remorseful.  She began to babble confusedly that she could've sworn I had told her I was pregnant the last time she saw me.  It's all just another notch in the humiliating belt I like to call I'm not knocked up, I'm just just wearing a flowy top/bloated/slouching... 

Hubby has never been there to witness the horror firsthand and couldn't believe an acquaintance would ask something so awkward to someone who didn't even look pregnant.  Welcome to my world.  We still left her well over 25%..after all, she's a fabulous waitress.

But seriously, though, this is the fifth or sixth time I've been the recipient of the same impertinent, highly personal query.  I've written earlier about similar offenses and have since had another two run-ins of the same nature.  For these I place the blame entirely on empire waisted tops, but today I'm wearing a cute fitted outfit without the slightest hint of a muffin top.

This may be getting too personal, but I am 5'5" and my weight usually fluctuates between 120-123 pounds (Dig my Napoleon Dynamite socks to your right...didn't want to scare you with my unsightly feet).  What the eff?  Why do casual acquaintances insist upon asking if I've got a casserole in the oven?

If one more mother-effer stares at my mid-region and asks if I'm knocked up, I will be forced to do one of two things: I will either develop a complex or I will start slapping them.  The latter may get me into trouble but definitely sounds far more rewarding.

Until next time,

Preggy McGee xoxo

The Pits

 

I somehow managed to shave only one of my armpits this morning.  The right one.  I'm not sure how I could have allowed such an oversight to occur, but nearly half the day had elapsed before I happened upon this curious discovery. 

My outfit was cute today, I even took the time to straighten my hair.  The key component missing from my ensemble was a clean-shaven left armpit.  An unfortunate detail to overlook, though I don't generally raise the roof at work.  Not today at least.

xoxo