The Odd Broad

Homie

I've just returned from a wonderful weekend at Sissy's house in Boston.  Before I continue, I'd like to go on record and mention that my sister's apartment is cozy, spacious and lovely, boasting exposed brick and lots of sunlight.  That said, it just happens to be in kind of a shitty neighborhood.  Good thing she's married to a cop.  (Or the po po, as we sometimes like to refer to him.)

At 6 am this morning, I was enjoying a deep, drool filled, mess your hair up kind of sleep when all of a sudden I heard:

"Police!  Police!  Open up!"

What the?  I turned off the fan by the bed so I could hear better, because I could've sworn I'd just heard a man scream...

"Open up!  Police!"

Yup.  There it was again. 

It seems an early morning raid was being conducted.  Disgruntled and groggy, Sissy and I looked out the window to find a tactical swat team attempting to enter the house next door.  Next door being, of course, about four feet away. 

I nervously peered out the window and then put my glasses on for a better look, since it looked like I'd just seen Darth Vader standing in front of a paddy wagon.  Oh, wait a minute, he wasn't Darth Vader, he was simply a cop wearing full swat gear.  That made more sense. 

"Get back!" I whispered to Sister. 

"Why?  I wanna see!"

"You're eight months pregnant!  I don't want any stray bullets hitting you and my future Godchild!"  I always did have a vivid imagination. 

My brother-in-law later found out what all the fuss had been about.  Apparently the neighbor's son was wanted for armed robbery?  (Guess I should stop complaining about my neighbor who sings all the showtunes, huh?)

We went back to sleep after we'd decided the situation was probably under control.  I mean, the cops were searching under the back porch for guns and all... 

Other than that, the weekend was perfect: a bridal shower for my cousin's fiance, lunch with my college roommate at the very first restaurant we'd gotten boozed at together (we were teenaged Freshmen and she'd ordered a sex on the beach while I'd opted for a bloody mary.  This was before I'd learned this was traditionally a "morning" beverage, of course.)  Then there was quality time with Mom and Dad on Sunday.  I even got to sing a little Karen Carpenter to the Tadpole in my sister's belly.      

The sky was gorgeous as I left Boston.  I knew I shouldn't want to cry.  After all, I'd had a lovely, eventful weekend.  The Red Sox had clinched the division.  I'd seen my Grandmother.  I'd cuddled with my Dad.  My Mother had taken my face in her hands and told me she loved me.  I'd seen my beautiful cousin's very first big girl apartment.   

But the voicemail Sissy left me as I boarded the plane summed it all up: "I miss you already."

Somewhere beyond my adam's apple an old familiar burn started just before the tears came.  And with that, I gave in and cried. 

Nary a tissue in sight, my Sephora black/brown mascara running sloppily down my cheeks, I cried the tears that seem to come every time I leave my family. 

There's something rather freeing about crying in public.  Tonight I couldn't have given two craps really, since the man sitting next to me was also being a bad flier and therefore deserved to sit next to another bad flier.  (He was elbowing me, stepping on my toes, and generally behaving in a manner most terrible.)

I cried because I long for more time with them all.  I ache for more mundane moments to talk, to bicker, to while away the hours watching horrendously painful TV like The Two Corey's.  Also, there's a tiny, persistent part of me that is absolutely terrified I won't be a big enough part of my future Godchild's life.  I try not to think about it, but it sort of gives me the panics.

It's not that the sky wasn't just as beautiful when I arrived back home to NY.  It's not that Kittie wasn't there to greet me at the door, and Hubby soon after, when he got home from work.  It's just...not home.

I refuse to end this post on a weepy note, Dear Reader.  You deserve much better than that.  Here are some pictures I snapped for you of my niece, Trixie, also known as Mew Mew:

   

Mew Mew is a Gemini, loves to cuddle, and much to our chagrin, does not get along with her first cousin, Kittie.  (It breaks their Mother's hearts.)   

I've had a nice weekend, Dear Reader.  I hope you did, too.   

xoxo   

Chicken Without a Head

Years ago I was eating dinner at my Auntie Kimmy's house when I tasted something scrumptious.  That evening I returned home and gushed to my Mom about the meal I'd just eaten.

"Chicken?"  She furrowed her brow, perplexed.  "I make you chicken all the time!" 

"No, Mom, this was like, a whole chicken, an entire chicken?  Like the only thing missing from it was its head!  It was a whole chicken, with the head cut off."

From then on my family has referred to roasted chicken as chicken without a head.

On Monday night I decided I wanted to roast a chicken with no head.  You know, for the hubby, so he'd say, wow, what a broad, or something to that effect.  The thing is, I can be a bit squeamish when it comes to raw meat.  I'll cook it, of course, but let's just say there's a good deal of hand washing involved. 

The few times I've prepared chicken without a head, hubby has always been there to rinse it, or salt and pepper it, or hold open the cavity so I can stuff it with celery and onions and all the fixin's.

But this time I'd be flying solo.  Could I pull it off? 

I began by unwrapping it.  Shit.  I'd forgotten to get out a pan!  I'd already touched raw meat, though, so I figured I'd better wash my hands before cross-contaminating all of my Corningware.  (And so begins the dance of the obsessive compulsive.)

Removing the giblets didn't prove too difficult, since I just kept the bird in the bag and tipped him upside down over my trash can.  While yelping, of course.  Giblets disposed of?  Check! 

Now for the bird rinsing.  OK, just take that sucker and plop him under some running water, right?

"Aaaahhhh!"  An involuntary howl escaped my lips.  He was heavier than I'd imagined!  My God!  This was so gross.  My voice took on a coaxing tone: "Come on, now, little fella, I'm just gonna wash ya."  The thing is, I didn't really want to even look at it, let alone touch it. 

Irrational, hysterical scenarios kept making their way into my brain, like perhaps the good people at the poultry factory had made a freakish mistake and left a toenail on?  Or, worse still, left the HEAD in the bag?  I braced myself for the possibility of coming face to face with chicken eyeballs.  I mean, accidents do happen...

Within the next several minutes I was reduced to a squeamish, babbling nutcase.  Kittie proved to be little help, though she appeared to want to assist.  At this juncture, however, I needed a human. 

I called Sissy.  I tried my best to dial her on speaker with minimal touching of the phone, since my fingers were covered in raw meat juice and by this point I'd already washed them with anti-bacterial soap five times.

Thank God she was home.  Sissy's voice wafted happily into my kitchen: "Hi, Sister!" 

In a manner most desperate, I bent over and stuck my face into the phone, my arms spread out slightly above my head like I was at a religious revival and had just found Jesus.  "Sissy, I need your help!  I'm trying to roast a chicken and I need to wash it and stuff it and I'm freaking out.  Could you just stay on the phone with me for a sec while I do it?"

I'd like to say it did take two seconds, but of course that would be untrue.

For whatever weird reason, I was stalling.  And my speech was becoming increasingly mental.  "OK, let me just plop this birdie in the sink here and Aaaaaahhhhhh!"  At one point I wondered how the neighbors were interpreting my high pitched monologue.  Ah, who gave a good crap, I had bigger fish to fry.  (Or birds to roast, rather.)

After a while, Sissy became impatient.  (The girl is seven months pregnant, after all.)  "Come on, just wash it!  What's the big deal?"

I continued with my deranged chanting: "OK, sorry birdie, you've never done anything to me...OK, here I go now, eeeekk!!!"  I let rip every expletive I'd ever known.  (And a few I never knew I did.)

"You're acting crazy,"  my elder sister informed me, before leaving with her husband to pick their car up from the shop.  Once again we were on our own.  It was just me, Kittie, and a chicken with no head. 

Eventually, I rinsed the bird.  I stuffed the bird.  I rubbed the bird with olive oil, salt and pepper, the entire time apologizing aloud in a manner most psychotic.  For a moment, my squeamishness subsided as I tried to fit just one more slice of onion into the cavity when I suddenly realized I was zealously clutching the poor bird's leg.  "Ahhhhh!!!!!  What the!!!!" 

By the time Hubby got home, the 375 degree oven had turned our apartment into a sweltering inferno, but at least chicken without the head was ready to be eaten.  Aware that my Martha Stewart persona had gone completely down the toilet, Hubby decided to cut some slices for us.  We soon discovered, however, something very unusual...

Hey, where was all the meat?  This bird ain't gut no meat! 

"Oh, I see!"  Hubby calmly flipped the chicken over.  "There's tons of meat on this side!"

Yeah, apparently I'd roasted the frigging thing upside down.  So shoot me. 

I have to admit, my first solo run proved to be very tasty and quite succulent, once we'd found where all the meat was hiding, of course.  I tasted a piece of the skin and marveled aloud at what a superb job I'd done on my chicken without a head.  Then guilt overcame me as I remembered all we'd been through together: our walk home from Key Food, the rinsing, the stuffing, the roasting...  But still, I ate.  After all, I think it's what birdie probably would have wanted.

In closing, Dear Reader, if you suddenly find yourself with a hankering for chicken without a head, here's what I stuffed mine with:

Fresh sprigs of rosemary, sage and thyme, some lemon wedges, a whole head of garlic, some slices of onion and celery, and salt and pepper.  On the outside, slather on some olive oil, salt and pepper.  Roast it.  Baste it.  Eat it.  (But don't forget to place birdie right side up on the pan or you may have a breakdown and have to cry for a moment, like your friend the Odd Broad did, Monday night.)

Happy eating! xoxo

Proper Etiquette For A Rainy Day

I'm not quite certain where I'll be dwelling in the afterlife, but for the most part I try not to think about it.  All I know is hopefully it won't be down there.  You know, at that eternal barbecue we've all heard so much about?  (The one where there's never enough potato salad and the keg is always kicked?)

I've pondered it a bit, though, and have come to a few key conclusions, the first of which is: In my personal version of Hell it will always be raining and I will constantly be forced to walk down a narrow, overcrowded sidewalk while carrying a broken umbrella.  A mix of smooth jazz and Josh Grobin hits will be playing in my ipod and I will be made to walk behind an elderly person on a cell phone.

Seriously, though, have you ever attempted to wield an umbrella on a NYC sidewalk?  On a good day these sidewalks are a challenge, what with the slow walkers...the cell phone talkers...the crackberry users...

Why, just the other day a woman was walking down the subway stairs while reading a book!  For reals.  I nearly flung her.

I'll save my sidewalk/stair etiquette for another day, however, since today I am strictly discussing...

~Proper Umbrella Etiquette for a Rainy Day~

~For starters, why is it always the tiniest, slowest walkers who feel the need to hold those enormous golf umbrellas, smack dab in the center of the sidewalk?  I like to refer to these offenders as Sunday Walkers.  Please, do stay in your own lane, on the far right if you please, and allow people to pass you as needed.

~For the love of God, don't be a triple offender: If you're attempting to simultaneously dial someone's phone number, hold an umbrella, walk and take a drag off of your Marlboro Ultra, here's some advice for you: DON'T. 

We all know this feat simply cannot be accomplished.  Put your inner directional on, pull over, and save us all some effing aggravation.  The same goes for answering emails on your blackberry while walking.  Please don't make me have to fling you. 

~Now, I'm aware this is a radical concept, but if you're walking in one direction and I am walking towards you in the other, one of us is going have to raise our umbrella and the other will have to lower theirs.  I'm afraid it's one of the great inevitabilities of life, next to death, taxes and the rampant overexposure of Rachael Ray.  This doesn't seem like rocket science, yet apparently it is.

~By the same token, don't try to recklessly speed down the sidewalk while carrying an umbrella.  Walk responsibly.  Nobody needs to suffer injury because you hit the snooze button one too many times.

~Do not, I repeat, do not stand under the store awnings with your umbrella.  Save that space for the poor saps who are getting rained upon, you selfish pig!

Let's face it, though, if you're not evolved enough to politely wield an umbrella down a crowded sidewalk, here's a thought, buy a hooded raincoat, for frigg's sake!  (There's a sale on at Daffy's.)

xoxo

Eating Birds

The other day my husband ran into someone we used to work with a long time ago.  The guy was driving one of those pedi-cabs.  You know, those bikes that pull passengers into oncoming traffic?  These contraptions always strike my inner old bitty as being extremely dangerous, but hey, what does she know?

"Who was it you saw?"  I asked.

"Sadat.  Remember him?"

Oh, but of course I remembered Sadat.  How could I forget?

It was a few months after we'd moved to nyc and I'd just performed in a production of The Sound of Music up in Tarrytown, NY.  The first time I'd played Liesel I really was sixteen going on seventeen, but this time around I was twenty-one so I had to pretend.  (I earned my degree in pretending, did you know?) 

The guy who played Rolf got hubby and I jobs at the place he worked at, an upscale restaurant in Chelsea.  And so commenced our illustrious careers as waiters in the world of Private Dining.  The gig paid $20 an hour, but since we only ended up working a handful of hours per week we were nearly always broke.  I don't think we ever realized it, though, young and in love as we were.  Now I shiver at those uninsured, starving artist, hot dog and Natty Ice filled days.

We worked weddings, bar mitzvahs, rehearsal dinners, corporate Holiday parties (these were always the most entertaining, as they were coincidentally the most inappropriate.)

One of the myriad of co-workers we met during our tenure there was a young man from Turkey named Sadat.  Being from a small town in MA, I'd never met anyone from Turkey before.  I was intrigued.

A rather short man in his early twenties, Sadat had somehow managed to snag a very tall, pretty girlfriend, though I can't recall her name.  I do remember she was a Scorpio, however, and Sadat was a Virgo.  (As I've mentioned before, Reader, Astrological retention is my greatest gift.)

One evening Sadat showed up to work with a huge grin on his face and told me, "I have wonderful news!  I have been married!"

"Wow!  Congratulations, Sadat!"  I hugged him.  "When did you get married?"  (After all, I'd just seen him a day or two ago.)

He was beaming.  "Today!  This afternoon!  We are married!"

What the?

"Wait a minute, you got married today and then came into work?"

"Well, yes, I didn't think Paul would give me the evening off, so...but it's ok, it's fine, soon I am going home and we will have a long and beautiful evening."

OK, I may not remember the bride's name, but I do remember long and beautiful were Sadat's exact words.

I crept over to hubby and whispered in his ear: "Sadat got married today."

"That's nice."  (Hubby is a most diligent worker and has no time for idle chitchat.  It's terribly annoying.)

I was persistent: "No no no, Sadat got married, like two hours ago!  And then he came into work!"

"What the?" 

I suppose I've always been a bit meddlesome, but this was simply too much.  With the air of a five year old who was about to tattle on someone at recess, I marched over to our boss.  My voice had a singsong ring to it as I announced: "Paul! (pronouncing my bosses' name as if it contained two syllables instead of one, of course)  "Pa-aul, Sadat got married today."

"What?"  He laughed.  "Why the fuck is he here?"

"That's exactly what I thought!"

With flourishing congratulations, Paul immediately gave Sadat the night off to go home for his long and beautiful evening.  As for my part, I was more than glad to have done Sadat the favor.  It is my strongly held belief that nobody should have to begin the union of marriage by serving up steak au poivre to the wealthy. 

A few weeks after this, Sadat approached me as I was polishing silverware.  "Would you guys like to come over to our house for dinner?  I am a great cook, I will cook for you!"

Instantly I felt shy.  "Oh, that's so nice.  What do you like to cook?"

"Birds!"  He exclaimed.

I thought maybe I had heard him wrong, because it sounded like he'd said buds? 

"Hmmm?"  I cocked my head to one side.

"Birds!  I will cook birds for you!"  He was smiling from ear to ear.   

"Oh!  Birds!  Thank you!  What...kind of birds?"

"You know!  Birds!" 

Sweet Baby Jesus.  For some inexplicable reason I instantly thought of my Great Uncle Jerry and the pigeons he used to raise in his back yard. 

Unconsciously picking at the cuticle of my thumb, I sidled over to hubby and tapped him lightly on the shoulder, once again employing my singsong, tattlelike whisper:  "Sadat wants to cook birds for us..."

We never did make it over to their house to eat the birds.  And Sadat's marriage never did last that long, either.  I mean, as it was, the three of them were living in really tight quarters.  That is, Sadat, Sadat's bride, and Sadat's bride's Mother.

He seems to be doing well now, though.  I mean, he's got a pedi-cab and all...

 

A love letter to my husband (or)Kiss me, I'm shitfaced

It's funny, I don't feel twenty eight years old.  Am I supposed to?  Most of the time when someone inquires about my age I have to stop myself from saying nineteen.  But twenty eight years old I am, and in three short months I will be forced to turn (gulp) twenty nine.

What does this mean, though, really?   

Is twenty eight too old to stand on the outskirts of a stinky mosh pit, elbows out, as my husband has always instructed?  Is twenty eight too old to pump my fists in the air while surrounded by sweaty, crowd-surfing adolescents and scary men with neck tattoos?  Is twenty eight too old to scramble onstage with girls ten years younger than me and boisterously bellow out lyrics like:

"Kiss me, I'm shitfaced...

I'm soaked, and I'm soiled and brown in the trousers...

She kissed me, and I'd only bought her one round!"

It mustn't be, Dear Reader.  For, if you haven't already guessed, Hubby and I went to see the Dropkick Murphys perform last night at Roseland Ballroom.  And although I said I was just going to hang back and enjoy the music, during the encore I was overcome with nostalgia.  Suddenly I handed my sweatshirt to hubby (Hold this, please!) and disappeared to aggressively hurtle myself onstage.  I was probably the oldest one up there, minus most of the musicians themselves, but that was ok.  (I think?)  At least this time I wasn't holding onto my Liz Claiborne purse like a little old lady! 

Roseland is a much bigger venue than CBGB's, which was the last place we saw them play at.  As I mentioned, at CBGB's I also went onstage (with purse), though I fell in a terribly ungraceful manner while getting off.  I think my ankles are still swollen from that fall.  But last night I was no rookie.  I may have jumped onstage, but this time I politely walked down the side stairs when I'd had enough, happy to make a ladylike, twenty eight year old exit.

See?  We're not old!  I fiercely told myself.  Although, I guess I didn't feel completely young.  Earlier that day, a pounding headache had taken up residence on my right temple and had grown rather attached to me, it seemed.  At one point as we were jumping along to the music, Hubby yelled into my ear, "How's your headache?  Do you need your Head On? 

God, we're getting old. 

"This is a punk show!"  I shrilled, "I can't apply Head On in a mosh pit!"  Seriously, what would the other kids think?

If you'll allow me to get a bit personal, Dear Reader, the Murphys hold a special place in my heart.  It all began back in 1999, when Hubby delivered the sad news that he wouldn't be able to stay in college.  What that meant for me was that my boyfriend of almost two years would be leaving Boston to return to the other side of the country.  Southern California, to be exact. 

How could this be happening?  I'd always been a painfully shy person, but what I'd finally found in Hubby was someone who I could actually relax around.  I'd never felt so close to anybody in my entire life.  I was crushed. 

Naturally, the day before he was to leave, in lieu of packing Hubby spent the entire afternoon creating a mix tape for me.  (I realize I'm really dating myself here: a tape, not a cd!)  That night his apartment was as loud and smoky and crowded with people as ever.  The compilation tape he'd made for me was playing in the background and my belly ached as I listened to the music and half-heartedly pulled posters from his wall. 

A musician himself, Hubby had handpicked songs for me by all of his favorite punk bands, among them NOFX, Lagwagon, and Bad Religion.  One of the songs had an Irish feel to it, with bag pipes, and I recognized it as the Dropkick Murphys.  I'd never heard this particular song before, though.  Hubby's soulful blue eyes looked over at me then quickly darted away.  I was just able to catch some of the lyrics, though they were kind of difficult to understand, as punk songs do tend to be screamed more than sung:

"I once met a young girl, filled with fire, who saw through my front to this shell of a man.  She knew I'd be a handful from the start, this strong willed woman had an angel's heart..." 

And with that, the drums kicked in and I could barely make out another word.  I pretended I hadn't been listening, Reader, but I was.  Towards the end of the song Hubby turned to me and said, "listen to the lyrics here."

"Huh?"  I yelled over the music.

"Listen to the lyrics." He said again.

I listened as best I could.  What did it say?  I gambled on a hand I wasn't ready to lose?  And something about a bride?  His Irish rose? 

Later the next morning I choked back tears as I watched Hubby and his friend Josh drive away.  Was this really the end of the story, I wondered?  He was just going to drive away and leave me crying there on Hemenway street?  What the hell was I supposed to do now, just trust that everything was somehow going to work out?

Ever since I was little, I'd always verbalized feeling sad with one specific phrase, the same one I thought of then: my heart hurts. 

Hubby's friend Zeke, who'd also been waving goodbye, turned to me and asked if I was ok.  I remember feeling grateful to him for asking.  Was I ok?  No, of course I wasn't, I was twenty, overemotional and contemplating hurtling myself into the Charles River!

"Ya, I'll be ok."  I walked back across the street to my apartment, knowing that everything I'd loved about Boston had suddenly changed forever.  Now, no matter where I looked I was only going to be reminded of one thing: him.  Isn't it funny the way that works?

Immediately I popped in my mix tape and hugged my pillow, which still had his scent on it.  Where was that song?  The one he'd asked me to listen to?  What was it even called?  Ah, here it was.  Upstarts and Broken Hearts.  I fast forwarded to the end and listened somberly as hot tears stung my eyes.  Here they were, the lyrics he'd meant for me to hear:

"I remember it well, still I always knew, that she was destined to be my bride...This woman had pride, she was full of life, I could see the passion in her eyes..."

Holy crap!  What the frigg was this? 

That tape got me through a lot of lonely days.  Many years later, hubby admitted to me that as he was driving away he'd already begun to regret his decision to leave.  At the time, what choice did he have, though?  As you may have guessed, Dear Reader, he did eventually return, or I wouldn't be referring to him now as my hubby.  (I would use his real name, of course, but it makes him feel uncomfortable.  Gotta love that guy.) 

There have been a few other times where I thought perhaps I was going to lose him, this quiet, intense old soul whom my world has revolved around since the moment we got together.  I realize when we finally got married nearly two years ago we gained some validity in other people's eyes, but whether anyone can sense it or not, the love I feel for him has always bordered on the ferocious.  He's just so perfectly...him.  The best kind of person, if that even makes sense.  To this day he may be the sole thing in my life I've committed to.

The Murphys didn't play our song last night, since they only play it when Ken Casey's wife is in the audience.  I know this because he told me when we got to meet him after that last show at CBGB's.  Hubby snapped our picture with his camera phone as I slurred into Ken's ear, "Your songs mean so much to us, we played you at our wedding!  We played you when we cut the cake!"

"Ah, God bless yiz," he answered in a thick Mass accent, his arm slung around me.  He was wearing a Red Sox jersey, in New York.  That night they even had the balls to play Tessie, the Red Sox anthem.  It was frigging awesome. 

I don't like to say that a song glued us together when we were hanging on by a mere thread, but I think perhaps it did.  I still get goosebumps when I hear those lyrics.  And I will always get chills when I watch the Murphys play their loud, bagpiping, blue collar, gritty music.   

And that is why, regardless of my impending thirties, I hope I will never be able to stay on the sidelines when the rest of the females run onstage to sing Kiss Me, I'm shitfaced.  I owe it to us, to the kids we were a decade ago.  I owe it to my insecure twenty year old self, who worried so frantically about how it was all going to turn out. 

It turned out just fine!  I want to tell her.  See?  We made it!  It turned out exactly the way you wanted it to!  It makes me wonder what things my future thirty eight year old self is longing to tell me right now...

In closing, and in the words of my eighty four year old Grandmother, we are all as old as we feel.  And I do hope you feel very young. 

xoxo

The Odd Week in Review

Don't you hate it when you're absolutely swamped at work and some bored co-worker saunters over, props his elbows up on top of your cubicle and asks, "So, what are you having for lunch today?" or "Got any fun plans for the weekend?" 

The little devil on my shoulder wants to hiss: "No, but I have plans right now...to finish these f***ing invoices!" 

The angel on my shoulder, however, is always much more generous.  She doesn't seem to mind being interrupted.  She lives for it, in fact.

I had a painful moment this week when a co-worker came over for a visit on an especially busy afternoon.  I was barely paying attention when he amicably informed me he was taking Thursday off to celebrate Rosh Hashanah.  I was smack dab in the middle of doing something and really didn't feel like chatting, so I absent-mindedly answered "Oh, that will be really nice." 

Co-Worker: "Well, I'll be with my parents at Temple for like three hours, so..."

Reader, I'm not quite sure how I allowed myself to blurt out the following.  Perhaps my spirit guide was on a smoke break, or shooting up somewhere?  But it was in a loud, boisterous voice that I bellowed out:

"Three hours?  Oi-Vey!"

Yes, I really did. 

Mercifully, my co-worker appeared to be amused: "That was a nice Jewish answer!"

I then went on to babble aggressively about the following: how I performed in Fiddler on the Roof at a dinner theater when I was twelve.  How I've always felt Jewish in my heart, and how perhaps I was, in a past life.  How at one point I wanted to convert because I found the religion so interesting.  Though in truth I think I mostly enjoyed wearing a babushka.  (I told him that, too.) 

It was an unfortunate moment in a very long day.

On a completely different note, did anyone see Top Chef on Wednesday?  I nearly peed my pants when Anthony Bourdain told Brian that the lobster in his hash had the "texture of doll head."  Apparently it was too chewy.  God I love that show.

And lastly, on a happy note, tonight I learned that my best friend from high school gave birth to a healthy, beautiful baby girl.  And she named her Sarah, to boot.  (A lovely choice, if I do say so myself.)  I am issuing an Odd Broad shout out. 

To the adorable little Virgo baby! 

Now that I think of it, the only other shout out I've had the pleasure of issuing was on my brother-in-law's thirtieth birthday.  We were at the Irish pub across the street from Sissy's apartment and I'd somehow convinced the old man in charge of the music to give me the microphone.  I'm not even sure karaoke was on the agenda for the bar that evening, but I really had the joint jumping.  I was told I could come back any time. 

Just after Borderline and right before Hey Micky!, I gave a lively, slurring shout out to my Sister and the birthday boy, wishing him a happy birthday (hiccup!) and good luck to both of them on their upcoming nuptials.  The crowd really responded. 

I'm not sure if you'll agree, but in my experience, anything involving karaoke is a hangover waiting to happen.  Even saying the word makes me swoon, just a bit.  Does anyone have any Advil?

But I have digressed.  May your weekend be filled with contented sighs, mid-day brunches, and relaxation. 

And perhaps a shout out or two.

The Odd Broad Cooks For You

Have you eaten, Dear Reader?  Here, let me cook you something nice...

I shit you not

Have you ever witnessed behavior so unusual it seems there must be a hidden camera crew lurking in the shadows somewhere?  This happens a lot in NY.  One week ago today, I witnessed a conversation most intriguing, and very disturbing to boot.  I wrote this while the episode was still fresh in my mind.  I tried my very best to recreate the horror...

I was on the N train standing next to two twenty-something guys who reeked of booze.  And why not, I suppose, on a Thursday at 6pm?  Good for them.

The one wearing the baseball cap, I later discovered, was named **Tom.  I never found out what his friend's name was.  From what I quickly gathered, Tom had recently been dumped by his girlfriend, **Kelly.  Turns out Kelly had been communicating with her high-school ex, a military man named Scott who'd been to Iraq.  I cringed when Tom said, "I wish he'd gotten killed over there, actually."  The friend gave a nervous giggle and said, "You didn't just say that."  "No, really," Tom reiterated. 

(What the eff?  Was this psycho for real?)

At this point I was dying to see what this clown looked like, but I didn't want to appear too obvious.  Plus I didn't want to draw any undue attention to myself, since his companion kept pressing his arm against mine, an action I wasn't sure was necessary since there was plenty of room.  Dirty.  Oh wait, they were talking again...

Tom was saying Kelly had the worst poker face ever, so he knew she was lying when she said she hadn't cheated on him.  "It gets worse, man."  (At this, my ears perked up.  You see, I'd forgotten my book at work and was afraid I'd have nothing to entertain me on my way home.  Ha!)

"Well, I only did it because I know she'd do the same fucking thing to me, but...it's bad, dude..." (Spit it out, Tom!)  "I have her email password, and her myspace password, so I was, like, checking her email and stuff.  And I found out she'd been seeing this guy all summer."

(Ouch.  See?  Snooping never pays, Tom.)

The friend was consoling: "With that guy?  Her high school ex?  What's his name again, Seth?" 

Tom: "Scott."

The Friend: "Scott.  What a douchebag, man."  (I gave an inner giggle, since I hold a special place in my heart for this particular word.)

Tom: "Ya, I ended up reading all her emails.  Well, a lot of them.  One even said something like, thanks for last night."

(By this time I'd gotten a seat, so I finally got to take a better look.  Crap.  Tom was wearing a Red Sox shirt.  A great representation for Boston fans.  In my quick estimation, I decided that Tom could be considered a less good-looking version of Jon Lovitz.  Decipher from that what you will.  I was disappointed I'd never get to see what Kelly and her soldier looked like.  Oh, hang on, the slurring was resuming again...)

Tom: "So, yeah, I read some of the emails she'd sent to friends, and like, her Mom, just to see what she'd been telling people, you know?  And she'd written one to her Dad telling him Tom broke up with me, and..."

Friend: "Wait, she told them you dumped her?"

Tom: "Aw, no, I mean, she just told them we broke up and stuff.  So anyway, I got home and checked my email, well, actually I checked Kelly's email..."

(OK, Reader, I started to giggle there.  That was funny.)

Tom went on to describe how Kelly sometimes used to send him pictures of herself via email.  Nothing too bad, of course, but suggestive.  (Granted, more than I wanted to know, but what choice did I have?  I was a captive audience here.) 

Tom: "So I went home and checked Kelly's email and I saw she'd sent one to Scott, with the subject line Well, you asked for it.  It was a picture, like the ones she used to send me, you know."

Tom explained that it was like all the air went out of the room, like he was getting punched in the stomach.  Which is exactly how it should feel if you're checking your ex-girlfriend's email, Dingus!  Ah, poor guy.

The friend interjected with the appropriate "un-huhs" and "wows" and nodded when Tom said he was "fine, happy, I'm fine with it all, man." 

(I couldn't believe nobody else was reacting to this debacle, Dear Reader!  Nary a straphanger was batting an eyelash!  I attempted to make eye contact with someone, anyone, just to do a little eyebrow raise, or a "get a load of these guys" face, or something.  But I got nothing.  Except I think maybe the guy across from me thought I was making eyes at him.  Woopsie.)

Tom's friend mentioned something about getting off at the next stop.  Too bad, because now it was really getting good...

The night of the suggestive picture incident Tom called Kelly after midnight and kept calling and calling until she finally picked up.  (I'm sure she really appreciated this.)  What did he say to her?  (Oh please please say it before you idiots exit the train!  I've been listening to you this long!)

Tom: "Change your email password.  Change your myspace password."

And with that, they got off the train. 

In closing, I think we can all learn some lessons from Tom and his lowly antics:

~Please don't log into other people's email.  Nothing good can come of it, and you will instantly be guaranteed tummy aches and paranoia.  (I've only done this once, Reader, but Catholic Guilt prompted me to confess my bad behavior to the violated party within five minutes.  It was one of those very "low" moments, when I loved myself, but didn't like myself.)

~Please don't drunk dial ex-girlfriends after midnight, especially when they've left you for another man.  It's bad manners.  They won't like it.      

~Please don't wish ill will on our soldiers.  That is just sick. 

~Please, do not wear Red Sox paraphernalia in NYC if you plan on saying crazy things in public! 

I think that will do.  Good luck to you, Tom.  Maybe purchase a self-help book or something?

**Not their real names.  I switched them to Tom and Kelly to be more discreet.  Not that they'll be reading this. 

My Little Secret

I've never been able to commit to having a favorite Season, but Fall on the east coast is lovely.  There's an intangible, expectant quality in the air that makes me feel like I should be buying pencils and notebooks, though it's been seven years since I've been in a classroom.  Unless you count TV Commercial Acting classes as school.  (Do you?  Didn't think so.) 

This butterflies in my belly feeling turns up like clockwork every September. 

On a more curious note, something about this time of year also brings out my inner Ina Garten/Nigella Lawson/Lidia Bastianich.  I'm compelled to pull out my crock pot, turn on my oven, and I experience a maniacal urge to begin simmering things.  What the?

Rather than buying a new pair of shoes, I want to go to Williams Sonoma and purchase olive oil that costs $22.  It's not right, and I know it. 

My Sister gets this way, too.  We're both stupefied as to where this make your own marinara mentality comes from, since our Mother has never been the Susie Homemaker type.  On the contrary, she used to jokingly refer to herself as Peg Bundy.

It's not that Ma isn't a talented, skilled cook, because she most definitely is.  (Her stuffed peppers?  Her meatballs?  The best.)  But let's just say she's never gotten giddy over puff pastry.  Or deglazing a skillet with white wine to make a flavorful pan sauce.  Or frittattas made with chorizo, fresh basil and roasted reds.  She cooks, but she's not going to sit on the phone and talk about it.  (Which, oddly enough, her offspring do.) 

Now that I think of it, I suppose my Dad is a bit of a foodie.  He's always marinating something or other.  And all the neighbors do make requests for his split pea soup each winter. 

Still, I'm always intrigued/puzzled (disturbed?) by women who emit June Cleavery type vibes...

Several years ago we were at Hubby's Aunt's house on a weeknight when her daughter announced her high school was having a bake sale the next day.  Well, go to the store and buy a box of cookies, right?  Wrong, apparently.  What happened next, Dear Reader, was Truly Amazing. 

In the most casual of manners, and without batting an eyelid, Aunt Kathy began peeling apples, kneeding dough, and before our eyes prepared two beautiful apples pies from scratch.  I was dumbfounded.  Who was this culinary wizardress? 

Kath couldn't understand why I was so shocked.  "Sweetie, hasn't your Mom ever baked a pie from scratch before?"  (Um, no!  Has anyone's?)

For as long as I can remember, (though my Mother will tell you it was 1988- OK, so I was ten!), Ma worked full time in retail and when she wasn't working was taking me to voice lessons/auditions/evening rehearsals for awful community theater productions.  To this day, my Mother is the most maternal woman I've ever met.  (Maternal and domestic being two very different things, in my estimation.)  But roll her own pie dough, she will not. 

There was another time back in college, when I was at a friend's house and her Mom cooked everyone breakfast.  And I don't mean toast.  I'm talking scrambled eggs, bacon, home fries...and it didn't end there.  There was lunch.  At the dinner table.  I'm fairly certain she would've cooked dinner as well, but we all went to a function that evening.  I think she must've thought my childhood was a page out of Dickens, such was my rampant disbelief at her culinary prowess.

My Italian Mother-in-Law also displays similar behavior, though Hubby doesn't expect this sort of thing from me.  My husband happens to be a thoughtful, independent Scorpio who was cooking and doing his own laundry long before I ever learned how.  (I think he was like ten?)  He's been preparing me romantic dinners for nearly ten years.  In short, cooking for him is a pleasure, mainly because he doesn't expect me to.  Sometimes I flatter myself by thinking I've had a feministic effect on him, but I think perhaps he was just born this way?  (What came first, the Broad or the egg?)

Of course, I don't think I would've fallen for a man who'd expect me to clean and cook for him simply because I have ovaries.  As if my female genetic makeup somehow makes me better at vacuuming or cleaning out a toilet bowl than someone who has a wiener.  The very idea of it makes my skin crawl!   

I was sent to Kindergarten with a tote bag that said Anything Boys Can Do Girls Can Do Better.  I was reading Ms. magazine in the 7th grade (until Ma and Dad decided I was becoming a touch too bitter).  My parents worked hard and brought Sissy and I up to go to college, no questions asked, without any mention of marriage or future grandkids.  I was raised to follow my dreams, not to putter around the kitchen making homemade energy bars! 

Maybe it's the novelty of it that I enjoy?  Or perhaps, after all, my dreams are turning out to be not so different than the ones my parents themselves had? 

Whatever the reason, Dear Reader, I simply cannot help myself.  There's just something so warmie about Fall.  Let's go saute something, shall we?