The Odd Broad

An Awkward Moment, Brought To You By The Odd Broad

One more week wearing my glasses.  One more week sans contact lenses.  The glasses are really starting to cramp my style, and not only from a vanity standpoint.

Allow me, if you would, to share a painful anecdote with you...

It was late this past Friday, somewhere in Tribeca, at an afterparty for a show Hubby had just played.  I must mention that this was the first time he's played with this band, so we virtually knew nobody and were mingling as best we could, for two semi-shy folks such as ourselves.

As I emerged from the ladies room, I spotted Hubby seated at a table with his back partially facing me.  He appeared to be deep in conversation with a band member's Dad.  Upon seeing me, he turned and mouthed something and I leaned in to hear what he was saying and...banged my forehead into a glass window.  A glass window that I'd been standing right in front of, apparently.  I shit you not.  I'm a frigging bird. 

Hubby looked most concerned, but still found himself mid-conversation, and unfortunately (or fortunately?) it was one of those awful moments that nobody else had witnessed.  Or had they and were they simply too tactful and mortified to react?  Good God.  These people must think I'm mental!   

Wanting to share my pain with someone, anyone, I turned to a waiter and informed him that I'd just whacked into the glass, like a bird.  After all, humiliation craves company, does it not?  I hoped he would laugh, but instead he was horrified ("Oh my God!  Are you okay?"), which was not the angle I'd been going for at all.  Oh dear.

I blame my glasses, truly I do.  And Windex.  I blame Windex.  Damn you, streak-free shine!

Bittersweetness

Have no fear, there are no Harry Potter spoilers lurking within this subdued little post of mine.  On the contrary, Dear Reader, I merely felt the need to share this with you: at 6:09 PM today, EST, I finished reading Harry Potter. 

This week was an especially eventful one, but I spent every stolen moment I could find reading in the greediest of manners.  I read on the subway and on subway platforms.  Lunchtimes found me poring over pages, sitting on stone steps or perched on uncomfortable metal chairs. 

One lunch hour I became deeply perturbed, as my cozy reading spot suddenly became the setting for an outdoor jazz concert.  I escaped as surreptitiously as I could, sneaking out after the second song.  (I desperately needed to read without distraction; plus my husband is a blues/rock/funk musician, therefore by marriage I have a strong aversion to all things jazz.) 

And so, I found my reading concluded exactly as it had commenced: nestled snugly in my bed, sipping coffee, Kittie lazily stretched out beside me, snoring sporadically.  Like last Sunday, occasionally I emerged from the bedroom to inform my husband of the many vitally important happenings in the wizarding world.  And let's face it, there was a hell of a lot going on.

I laughed, I cried (aloud), I wanted more.  No doubt I will always want more.  One thing is for certain: my dreams tonight shall be sprinkled with visions of Hogwarts.

Most endings, I find, are bittersweet...

XOXO

'Roids

Dear Reader, I fear the situation is grim: yours truly has turned into a roid rager.  Actually, perhaps I'll back up a bit...

You may or may not recall the period not long ago when I suffered from a medical condition known as devil eye?  (This is a technical term, by the way.  Not really.)  After taking anti-biotic drops, I was under the impression my devil eye had disappeared.  (Or so it would have me believe...)

On Monday I heard the somber news that I had not one but two different infections, in both of my eyes.  What the?  The kind doctor's Instructions were as follows: no contacts lenses for at least two weeks (Crikey!), and eye drops every day for three. 

The first day on the drops I felt...well, I had my period, which meant I felt tired, moody, irrational and bloated.  But aside from these usual unpleasantries I was feeling rather edgy.  I picked two ridiculous arguments with Sissy and Hubby before I issued myself a time-out.  In the corner.  No chardonnay, Young Lady. 

The next day at work I felt groggy and anti-social, not at all my normally chipper work-self.  This seemed like more than my typical monthly menstrual antics.  Could it be the drops?  After all, shortly after dropping them into my eyes I could taste the liquid running down the back of my throat, most definitely preparing itself for a wild romp through my bloodstream. 

That night I took a mental inventory: Feeling bitter?  Check.  Exhausted?  Check.  Temperamental?  You betcha!  As per usual this time of the month, granted, but wait a minute, hadn't the doctor said...

I raced to the kitchen, opened my bag, and discovered what I had been suspecting all along: Prednisolone acetate something or other, blah blah blah...Steroids!  I was on steroids!  Holy shit!

Immediately I called my Dad and informed him that his daughter had been experiencing roid rage via drops to her eyeballs.  I suspected he thought I was out of my mind, but this was confirmed an hour later, when my Mother called and in her sweetest voice asked, "Honey, I have to ask you, is your neck feeling bigger today?"  She then erupted into giggles and I gathered that my Father had told her about my condition.  As in, her youngest daughter was a monster.  An out of control roid rager.  Jason Giambi, for all intents and purposes. 

Ever the comforter, my Sister called to ask me if the 'roids had given me zits on my back.  I didn't laugh.  I lashed out.  Sweet Baby Jesus, I was roid raging! 

Dearest Reader, I still have over two weeks worth of drops in my little bottle.  Like Barry Bonds and Jose Canseco before me, I pray I do not succumb to the luster of steroids.  I don't want to get big and muscley-armed!  (OK, yes, I do realize I'm not on anabolic steroids, but only because my Sister pointed that out to me.)  But truly, I do feel moody.  And not just because I'm on the rag.  This is definitely chemical.

~The Roidy Broad XOXO

PS- Wearing glasses really throws me off.  I totally bumped my forehead into a doorframe today. 

The Wise Cat

  Life is short.  Don't cry over spilled cosmo. Barkeep, 'nother round!

Warmie

Yesterday the guy behind the counter at Barnes and Noble asked if I would like two complimentary Harry Potter temporary tattoos.  Well, I'm hardly going to say no to teeny tiny lightning bolt tattoos, am I?  Certainly not.

And once again, I find myself immersed in the fascinating world of all things Harry Potter.  It's like having a visit with lovely old friends.  Dear, wizardly old friends who do magic and fight evil and stuff.

Is there anything more comforting than spending a Sunday reading in bed?  I would love to slowly savor each and every splendid page, like a king-sized Caramello, but the pressing, fanatical desire to discover what happens next prevents me from doing so.  Now that I think of it, I don't tend to slowly savor king-sized Caramellos, either.

Every now and again I emerge from the bedroom to dramatically inform Hubby of the latest breaking news from the wizarding world.  He indulges me, although much to my chagrin he cannot be persuaded to read any of the books.  He does watch the movies, however.

I don't want this action-packed saga to end, Dear Reader!  If only it could go on forever...      

~The Wizardy Broad

PS- I haven't finished reading yet.  No spoilers, if you please!  xoxo

Harrypotterphile

Went to the Beergarden last night to see a band called Harry and the Potters perform.  At the risk of sounding...cultish, I have to say it was frigging awesome.

Harry and the Potters consists of two brothers from MA, one being Harry from year 4 and the other Harry from year 7.  The lyrics will tickle the funny bone of any true Potterphile, with phrases like, "Are you petrified, of being petrified?" and "Cho Chang, what have I done?" 

The delightfully named opening acts were Draco and the Malfoys and The Hungarian Horntails. 

I became especially giddy after purchasing a T-Shirt that says Save Ginny!  I saw a guy in line wearing a shirt that said Azkaban on the back.  There were ladies sporting wands and wizard hats.  There was butter beer.  As you might suspect, Dear Reader, it was a splendidly bizarre evening.  Almost reminiscent of the time my sister forced me to go with her to King Richard's Faire, but somehow far less frightening. 

My plan was to write to you all about it when I got home last night...but, not surprisingly, it seems The Odd Broad had a little too much fun for herself.  (aka: too much cheap chardonnay.)  I do realize it's not customary to drink wine at a Beergarden, but what can I say?  I'm a wino non-conformist. 

I can scarcely believe a mere few hours separate me from reading the final installment in the saga of Harry Potter!  Although it's exciting, it also makes me feel a little sad.  (Yes, I am a nerd.  A big, big nerd.  Openly acknowledging this fact makes it somewhat more acceptable, however, don't you think?) 

xoxo

The Wise Cat

If you happen to consume a food product which simultaneously boasts the ingredients soy, buckwheat, and flax seed, please don't plan on leaving home for at least two days. Meow xoxo

Countdown to Harry Potter

Holy crap, Dear Reader!  Only four three TWO ONE 0 more days to go...TODAY'S the big day, y'all!

The Tadpole

For much of the Spring and Summer, I've been actively campaigning for the role of Godmother to my only Sister's first born, whom we've been lovingly referring to as The Tadpole.

In truth, Sissy already promised the position to me many years ago, although I've yet to be formally appointed, as there are still over four months before The Tadpole makes its grand entrance.

In light of this, initially I wondered if I was being presumptuous when I'd refer to the baby as my Godchild.  After all, Sissy's husband has three Sisters of his own, in theory all potential contenders.

This demure attitude didn't last long, however; earlier this month I bought Sissy a picture frame that says "I love my Godchild."  She was amused: "Shouldn't you keep this frame, though?"  "No," I explained, "I want you to display it in The Tadpole's room, with a picture of me holding him or her."

I am head over heels crazy for this child already and cannot wait to lavish him or her with toys and gifts, and cute onesie outfits with catchphrases like, "Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner." 

If you haven't already caught on, Dear Reader, The Odd Broad has been feeling rather maternal lately.  And not just with cute dogs, cats and other people's children.

Up until now, I have yet to seriously feel this way, perhaps because none of my close friends have had babies yet.  I do think that makes a difference somehow.  Currently, though, my best friend from high school is expecting, my best friend from college is trying, and my older Sister, my ultimate life-long peer, has a bun in the oven!

Seeing Sissy look so adorable with her baby bump and fashionable maternity ensembles, I can't help but think perhaps motherhood is something I could handle after all!  What was once my lovely, very far off dream is slowly morphing into something tangible. 

In addition, I'm totally interested in being able to unapologetically flaunt my belly.  It would be ever so lovely to saunter around town with a bump on my mid-region without having to explain to every Tom, Dick and Harriet that I am not knocked up, just simply bloated, slouching, or wearing an empire-waisted flowy top.

Futhermore, it would amuse me greatly if I could coax Hubby into referring to me as his baby's Mama.  I think that alone would be worth going the nine months without Riesling.

Nobody is more surprised to hear me talk this way than myself.  Of course, the reality of me becoming someone's Mother is still very far off on the horizon, only to be realized when I move from this Godforsaken city back home to the bosom of my family.  I mean, honestly, who's going to babysit for us here, the crackhead panhandling in front of Chase Bank?  No, that wouldn't do, that wouldn't do at all.

Before I leave you, allow me to touch upon one last subject: Dearest Reader, is anything more off-putting or putrid than the phrase, "we're trying"?  Trying to do what, exactly? What this phrase specifically implies holds no place in polite conversation, wouldn't you agree?  In light of this, when I mentioned earlier that my friend from college is "trying," please know that she herself would never have me publicly refer to what her and her husband are doing (gettin' it on) as trying, nor would I myself.  Not without prior warning or explanation, at least.  There.  Glad we've cleared that one up.

XOXO

Corn, anyone?

I'm one of those people who is perpetually thinking she left her purse somewhere.  Sometimes I'll swallow two Advil and five minutes later won't be able to remember if I've taken any or not.  It's sick, I tell you. 

The other day I put three ears of corn on the cob onto a plate, covered it with plastic wrap and placed it in the microwave.  I figured I'd leave it in there until Hubby was on his way home and it would be all ready to go.

I should explain to you that we have two sets of dishes: one fancier light blue set from Italy, and another set of every day fiestaware. 

Having a nasty little habit of occasionally being non-committal, (See there?  I can't even commit to calling myself non-committal) as a bride-to-be I had difficulty deciding which color of fiestaware I wanted to register for. 

In the end, we registered for them all, two sets of each.  So now we have a colorful array of cheerful rainbow dishes to choose from.  They remind me of life-savors candy.  I like that.

As I was waiting for Hubby to come home, I pulled out two orange plates and noticed something strange.  I saw two red dishes, two orange, two green, one yellow, and, hey wait a minute...one yellow?  Had we really only received one set of yellow?  No, I saw two yellow mugs, two yellow bowls, where the heck was the other yellow plate?

The sink was empty, so the plate wasn't dirty.  Unless...I opened the fridge in the hopes of discovering the plate, perhaps snuggling with a mountain of moldy, long-forgotten leftovers, but nope, I found nothing of the sort.

Ever persistent (loved ones might say neurotic), I returned once more to the cabinet, hoping this time perhaps I would find the plate had only been hiding.  Sadly, this was not the case.  What the?

Eventually Hubby returned home and I filled him in on our curious dishware situation.  Had we accidentally thrown out one yellow plate, in some random drunken stupor?  (I fear this may have happened already with one of our steak knives, though it's never been confirmed.)  Had the plate been missing from the set to begin with, and were we only now realizing this, nearly two years later?  Honestly, were we really that flaky?

While we were eating dinner (grilled chicken and veggies over spinach salad), I suddenly remembered the corn and ran to the kitchen and turned on the microwave.  A few minutes later I checked on it and decided it needed another minute or so. 

I returned to the living room and tried to enjoy my meal, but I just couldn't let the mystery of the yellow fiesta plate go.  "Where in the frigg could it have gone?"  I mused.  Had the dishware fairy come and snatched it away while we were slumbering?  Had it gone to a better place, to dishware Heaven, perhaps?

"Ding!"  Our corn was ready.  I went back to the kitchen, opened the microwave, and screamed like a banshee. 

The sonofabitching yellow plate had been resting safely in our microwave all along.  Sweet Little Baby Jesus.  This was bad, even for me. 

Hubby and I really had ourselves a good old chuckle.  We nearly fell over laughing, actually.  Dearest Reader, it's quite official: your friend the Odd Broad is losing her mind, one piece of fiestaware at a time.

Have you eaten dinner yet?  Would you like some corn on the cob?

XOXO