The Odd Broad

Break out the Kleenex

I've been saving the season finale of Army Wives on the DVR all week and I finally just finished watching it.  Holy moly!  My head hurts from weeping out loud crying.  Ah, good show.

It's nice to see Lifetime producing something other than seedy tv movies about people doing sleazy, sordid things.  A plastic surgeon who makes over his lover's face to match that of his dead wife?  Troubling.  Fun loving army wives uttering tearful goodbyes to their hunky soldier husbands?  Touching. 

Call me maudlin, but I've always been a sucker for a good tearjerker. 

The Delicate Art of Flinging

I am by no means a violent person, nor do I posses exceptional upper arm strength.  But for whatever reason, lately I've taken to visualizing something rather disturbing: taking offensive people, lifting them up over my head, spinning them around in the air, and flinging them. 

Flinging on the subway!  Flinging at the Supermarket!  Flinging as an Olympic sport!

I know what you're thinking, and part of me agrees: Oh Dear.

It all began one evening when Hubby and I were in a taxi, returning home from a show he'd played.  The object of my ire was an ego-maniacal, misogynistic, platform-shoe-wearing little man whom Hubby thankfully no longer associates with.  This dingleberry had particularly incited my wrath that night, but for Hubby's sake I'd managed to behave very politely.  Now, however, we were alone... 

Cackling like a madwoman, my voice an unnaturally high pitch from all the cheap pinot grigio I'd imbibed, I described in ugly detail exactly what I'd like to do to the offender in question: I would take him, lift him over my head, spin him in the air and fling him!!  Spin him and fling him as far as I possibly could!   

It was at this point that I noticed the cab driver began peering ever so gingerly into his rearview mirror. 

Over and over I said it, laughing wildly.  Hubby found me amusing, but not nearly as amusing as I was finding myself.  (Don't worry, we gave the driver a good tip.) 

I've now incorporated the phrase into my every-day vocabulary: I will fling them!  They will be flung!  Well, everybody's got to get their laughs somewhere, even if these laughs come from verbally simulating acts of violence.

It's not that I don't like people.  On the contrary, for the most part I try to recognize the redeeming qualities in most everyone I meet, regardless of how annoying or unlikeable they may seem.

Having said this, it's not difficult for me to come up with a plethora of reasons to want to fling people.  Just this past Tuesday, for example, there was a large woman dressed in purple scrubs who grabbed my arm on the 6 train, causing me to think she must be someone I knew.  (Why else would someone place their fingers around my upper arm?)  I turned and looked, only to realize she simply wanted to move me out of her way to get off of the subway before me.  Did I mention that I, too, was also planning on exiting the train in a speedy manner? 

Flung!

Then there was the lady who yelled at me on Wednesday, apparently for not allowing her to cut in front of me while getting onto the escalator at 59th Street.  (I'd already let like six people push in front of me, it was my turn, something had to give.)  Into her angry face I cheerfully smiled, "You have a nice day, now!  Bye!"  But we all know what I really wanted to do with her. 

Fling!

Oh, Reader.  I could fling so many people.  Couldn't we all?  Although I wonder, am I alone in my desire to fling my fellow human beings?

I realize talk of this nature may seem curious and possibly upsetting, but truly there's no need for concern.  The Odd Broad is a happy, well adjusted gal.  Nobody at my workplace would ever suspect I'd be fantasizing about inflicting bodily harm on anyone, such is my peaceful, happy demeanor. 

But we both know the truth: if this broad had her way she'd be flinging morning, noon, and night. 

Guess I'd better start working out.

Feline Therapy

Lately, Mondays aren't my favorite.  It's getting to the point where I'm already beginning to dread Monday on Sunday, which is a point I certainly never aspired to reach in my life.  I realize this calls for some serious soul searching, though at the moment I'm just not in the mood. 

Who knows, maybe it's a full moon?  Maybe it's that September get ready for school feeling in the air, minus the school to attend?  Maybe it's the fact that in less than four months I'll be turning (gasp) twenty-nine, when I honestly still feel nineteen?  How does that work, exactly? 

I feel a bit guilty for having the blahs, especially without just cause (or at least my period) to blame them on.  Whatever the reason, I've devised a plan of attack to combat them, one that I will share with you, just in case you're suffering from the Monday blues as well.  I call it, let's look at the cat being cute:

She really has quite an arsenal of adorable poses, has she not?  Kittie is sitting next to me as I type this.  She wishes us all a happy Monday, or seems to, by the way she just pointed her left leg into the air and began diligently licking her bum. 

As for me, I wish for us all: an extra snooze on the alarm clock...a good hair day...no traffic, late subways or road ragers...no snippy bosses...no surly co-workers...a gigantic fruit salad, with lots of berries (not just cantaloupe and melon, though there's certainly nothing wrong with those fruits)...a guiltless pint of Haagen Dazs Rocky Road...a home-cooked meal (preferably home-cooked by someone else.  Tee hee)...and a kiss on your forehead from someone who loves you.  XOXO

Jet lagged Musings

Ok, so vacation found me food-poisoned, headachy, and on the rag.  Not exactly ideal circumstances in the way of summer travel, but this broad takes what she can get, Dear Reader. 

I've never actually been food poisoned before, have you?  I've decided the phrase sounds much more exciting when used as a verb as opposed to its noun form.  (Does that even make sense grammatically?  Oh, you know what I mean.)  In hindsight, whatever evil was taking place within my body this week was a veritable Holy Trinity of Wrong: unnatural, unholy, and unpleasant...utterly so. 

As it turns out, my Mother-in-Law and I were the only ones who ended up getting sick this vacation.  Which certainly is curious, since she ordered the fish tacos and I had the beef fajitas.  It's a culinary mystery, I'd say.  OK, no more talk of Mexican food, at least for another week or so.  (Sorry, guacamole, you know how fond I am of you.)

On a happier note, our hotels were fabulous.  Especially the one we stayed at on Saturday, since a travel agent friend of mine hooked us up with a trendy hotel on Sunset.  The trendiness I refer to was in a refreshing, non-hipster sort of way: un-stuffy and unpretentious.  And because of my friend's connection they treated us really nice: complimentary fuzzy slippers, bed-time green apples, a hand-written welcome note, and a room that opened up right onto the outdoor pool.  It was Heavenly.      

I have a soft spot for hotel bath products and such.  This hotel offered something you'll see to your right called personal oxygen.  My inner child was intrigued, but my inner old bitty didn't want to inhale.  (She might get too wild.  Plus she's already got enough hot air in her to last a lifetime.)

The Sheraton we stayed at by LAX was also extremely accommodating.  When I was feeling sick I was able to order toast with butter (even poolside), and later, when I was feeling drunker much better, Room Service brought me an enormous plate of cheese fries, despite the fact that it was 3:00 am and cheese fries weren't on the menu. 

I enjoy LA.  So many aspects of the place are right up my alley.  The spiritual advisors, the tarot readers, the aura cleansers.  One aura cleansing, please!  (You know I repeated this phrase over and over, in my heaviest Boston accent, until being around me became downright unbearable, even for myself.  Sorry, Hubs.)  I was also amused by a sign for Live Nudes!  As opposed to dead nudes, I imagine?  It got me to thinking, what must it feel like for one to refer to oneself as a live nude?  "So, what do you do?"  "Oh, I'm a nude.  A live nude.  And you?"

My inner juvenile giggled at the tanning salon you see to your right, aptly named Bronze Buns.  A direct, if disturbing, name for a business. 

I bet you think I attended this cat show you see advertised on your left...but I'll have you know I did not.  There wasn't enough time.  Tee hee.

The bulk of our week in California was spent with Hubby's family, as we were there to celebrate his older brother's 30th birthday.  (If you're reading this, hi, brother!)  His Mom and Dad also flew out for the occasion, so it was a reunion of sorts, which was nice since we rarely get to see any of them.  My niece and nephew seemed to have grown feet taller since my wedding, if possible.  We also got to spend some time with friends Hubby hasn't seen in years, although the visit was brief (and vomit sprinkled, on my part.)

I could sense the trip was bittersweet for my husband, in the same way it usually is for me when I go home.  There are so many people and places to see, and never enough time for all of them.  My family all live within a concentrated area, though, whereas his are scattered across the country. 

I couldn't help but think back to being 20 years old again, when Hubby, then my boyfriend of one and a half years, left college in Boston to return to California.  Those were the longest eight months of my life.  I charged three airline trips (at 29% interest, a very smart deal!) and spent most of my Senior year divided between two time zones.  My parents were worried, to say the least.  And then, miraculously, Hubby once again came Eastward, to be with me.  That lonely period seems a lifetime away now, though being in California always gets me to thinking...

I do my fair share of wistful planning, doesn't everyone?  As in, will we ever actually own a home, as opposed to renting?  Will we ever have children, as opposed to a cat?  (Mommy loves you, Kittie)  Will we ever move back to Boston?  Yesterday the horoscope for Sagittarius suggested that I be content with what I have right now, today, and I have to agree.  Everyone needs reminding from time to time, I suppose.

Tonight, back at home, with Kittie curled up on my lap, I feel very grateful that my wonderful Hubby has returned to the East coast to be with me...again. 

xoxo

Hooray for Hollywood!

Sorry, I kind of have that song stuck in my head right now.  But a maniacal, show-choir version from my high school days, complete with four part harmony and spandex.  There were dance steps, too, but I believe it's unnecessary to humiliate myself any further...

Ouchie

People aren't supposed to get sick on vacation.  It's just not done! 

I'm not supposed to dash to the bathroom, mid-Sunday-barbecue, to vomit into the toilet of my husband's best friend.  But vomit I did.  And with a vengeance.  I strained muscles I'd forgotten I had.

Before you wonder, the barfing was not alcohol induced, as my Mother-in-Law was also extremely sick today.

Not that my violent retching ended today's festivities.  On the contrary, I chose to respond to the nastiness with my typical, perverse sort of style: chipper, cheerful, albeit a bit paler and shakier than before.  Well, we hadn't seen any of these people in ages, I didn't want to spoil the fun. 

This was totally reminiscent of the time my friends and I got into a head-on collision a few weeks after graduating high school.  There I stood, the Benetton t-shirt I'd stolen from my sister now soaked in blood, telling the woman who'd gone the wrong way on the highway, "I'm ok!  (can someone hold me up, please?)  Really, I'm fine!"  When the ambulance finally arrived they said I was the happiest patient they'd ever had.  Lesson learned?  Please proceed with caution when I tell you I'm "ok," since my smile, though frequent, can often be suspect.  Everyone's can, I suppose, which is why I'm always on the lookout for this sort of thing.

So tonight, here I lay...listless, pajama clad, forehead pounding, shivering in the king sized hotel bed, having just finished the toast and tea Hubby ordered for me from Room Service. I've managed to make sure the bed is almost completely covered in crumbs. 

I'm not sure what's sadder: the fact that I threw up last night's $32 petite fillet, or that the hotel's lack of the Lifetime channel nearly brought tears to my eyes.  (It's Sunday night, I need my Army Wives, already!  Have you ever watched it, incidentally?  It's nice.  I'm hooked.)

Other than my moments of spontaneous barfery, LA is splendid.  I'll give you a more pleasant recap very soon, when I'm not feeling so...pukey.

Ok, time to finish my chamomile.

xoxo

Gone Fishin'

Greetings, Dear Reader!  Today's post comes to you from sunny southern California.  I am happy to announce that for the next few days this broad is on vacation, visiting the in-laws, soaking up some rays, and...not working!  Hallelujah!

Our plane ride was pleasant enough, if a granola bar, crackers, and pasteurized cheese spread can be considered sufficient sustenance for a coast to coast flight.  (Seriously, would it kill you to make some frigging sandwiches, Delta?)  At one point Hubby asked the flight attendant if there was food available for purchasing.  Her answer was so much lemon juice in my proverbial paper cut: "No, but next month we'll start selling food!"

For some twisted reason I chose to watch the Food Network for a good two hours before realizing I was torturing myself.  Ordinarily I would have eaten beforehand, or at least bought food to eat on the plane, but I was doing that terrible last minute packing/cleaning/saying goodbye to the cat thing that it's really a wonder we even made it onto the plane. 

Once in the air, Hubby and I found ourselves surrounded by a plethora of bad fliers, the worst of which was a young lad named Moeshe.  Moeshe terrorized his disgruntled baby sister for the entire flight and was physically unable, it seems, to refrain from kicking the back of our seats.  I very nearly threw a tampon at his face.  (Well, I hadn't eaten!)  Also, the girl next to me kept nodding off, onto my shoulder.  Hey, it's just like being on the subway!

Me + Flying + screaming children = 3 glasses of airplane chardonnay.

Now that we're on land, after a good night's sleep in our comfy hotel bed, I am fully prepared to fling myself into vacation mode.  With gusto.  Although I did have some sort of workplace related dream last night (something to do with binder clips?) I am now ready to relax.  Especially since I know my little Kittie is being looked after by someone lovely.  (Jennifer, if you're reading this, you're a gem!  You're an angel!  You're a saint!) 

When I find better internet connection, I am busting to tell you all about my left coast findings.  For now, happy weekend to all!

xoxo

Potty Mouth

I was perusing a mail order catalog the other day and came across a product most disturbing.  (Well, maybe not the most, but it's certainly a contender.)

 

Yes, that's right, a toilet for Fido, and a fish bowl for Kitty!  Now it's easy to encourage your pets to drink from the can and terrorize small fish! 

I'm not sure this is responsible pet parenting.  It's pretty much the equivalent of buying your child candy cigarettes to munch on, is it not?  Although I suppose I ate plenty of those as a child and never took up smoking, but still.  Now that I think of it, I also used to dip my french fries in ketchup and pretend I was smoking them.  And do you remember those bubble gum cigarettes that actually puffed powder?  Now that's what I call whimsical, folks.  What would childhood be without wildly inappropriate candy?   

But I digress. 

In closing, I will leave you to ponder this:  it's all fun and games until someone loses a goldfish.  Or Fido swallows your poo.

The Odd News

I'm in dire need of a chuckle, Dear Reader.  Are you?  Let's have one together.

Last Friday my Sister witnessed a disturbing story on the morning news, one she felt compelled to relay to me in detail.  And now I shall relay it to you.  Apparently there was a wifebeater-wearing woman on tv who was beside herself with anger and grief.  Her beloved dog had passed away and the local pet cemetery was prohibiting her from having his full name engraved on the tombstone.  Her dog's full name being, of course, Dickhead. 

I've tried to picture the scenario in my mind, but somehow cannot.  Fetch, Dickhead!  Good boy!

Needless to say, Sissy had her television tuned into Fox that morning.  (No!  Really?)  She told me the woman kept repeating the word dickhead over and over, only they were bleeping out the last half of the word.  So it was more like dickbleep!  I tried in vain to google the story to show you, but it was no use.  Ah well.  Really sorry I missed that one.

On a semi-related note, Sissy is finding it quite a challenge to decide upon a name for her upcoming little one, whom for now we've dubbed The Tadpole.  She's chosen darling girl names, but just feels it's trickier to pick for boys.  Although...

Yesterday I read up on this gem of a news story on AOL News.  You may have heard about this?  The New Zealand couple fighting to name their baby 4Real?  For reals.  The inspiration came when they first saw the baby during an ultrasound and realized he was their child...for real.  Touching, isn't it? 

But alas, for some crazy reason, the courts in New Zealand don't allow numbers in names!  So for now the parents have settled upon the name Superman.  A much more sensible choice.  Surely the kid will avoid ridicule in Jr. High with a low-key name like Superman. 

Regardless of the official outcome, the parents intend to refer to their baby as 4Reals.  Phew!  And here I was starting to get a little nervous they weren't going to stick to their guns!

The article goes on to mention two babies in the U.S. named ESPN, and one couple in Sweden who were denied the right to name their child Metallica.  4Real.  I also learned that in France you must choose from a list of designated names, in the hopes of preventing children from being teased.  An honorable gesture, although I do think parents should be trusted to have their offspring's best interest at heart.  Although...Apple?  Story?  Blanket?  What the?  What can a kid named Story's nickname be, really?  Stor?  Rie?  You might as well name the poor thing Dickhead, for all intents and purposes.

I fear these hipsters are producing a generation of bitter, foolishly named children.  They'll probably drink.  In pre-school. 

Que Sera Sera!

This has been a long week, but I have to say, using the word dickbleep so many times in one post has more than made up for it.  I'm feeling significantly refreshed now!

xoxo   

The Wise Cat

Why is it that when a Father stays at home on a Wednesday night with his children it's referred to as babysitting, yet when a Mother does it it's called being at home on a Wednesday night?