The Odd Broad

The God-mutha

This post comes to you a bit late in the day, Dear Reader, but for a worthy cause.  Luke the Wonder nephew has been baptized!  We just got back from Massachusetts a little while ago.

Being Lukey's Godmother, I wanted to give him something really meaningful as a gift.  I walked over to the Saint Patrick's Cathedral gift shop on my lunch hour last Wednesday hoping for divine inspiration.  What I ended up buying was a very pretty night light and a Saint Luke prayer card, but what I told my sister I'd bought was...a twelve inch statue of Jesus, Our Lord and Savior. 

I don't even know what possessed me to do this.  I got back to my desk and emailed Sissy that I'd bought a statue at Saint Pat's, not too big, only like twelve inches or so.  I later modified this and said that the height was actually fifteen inches, since unbeknownst to me, the ruler I'd used to measure was oversized.

I could tell Sissy was nervous.  Her tone was cautious: "Um, did you really do that?  I kind of think you're joking..."  I told her I most certainly wasn't joking, and that I'd had the statue blessed so there was definitely no returning Him now.  I also suggested that she could perhaps put Him in the back yard, if they ever move to the suburbs. 

As a final flair, I added that the Jesus statue also kind of matched the baby's bedding.  This is when Sissy frantically called our mother, who wondered if Jesus was clad in polka dots and multi-colored stripes.  I cleared up the confusion immediately by informing my sister that Jesus was wearing a sage green robe.  (Very tasteful and totally within the color scheme of the room.)

I don't know why things like this amuse me, but they do.  As the days wore on, news of my very special gift was spreading.  On Saturday morning my cell phone rang.  It was my cousin Keely:  "Did you really buy the baby a life size statue of Jesus?" 

I got to Sissy's apartment and told her the statue was in the trunk and we'd need help getting Him out.  (Apparently He'd grown over the past few days.)  She was relieved when I finally exposed my ruse.   

The Christening was lovely.  My eyes welled up as I stood next to my sister and her husband on the alter, rubbing Luke's chubby little baby arm and kissing his head, which smelled like olive oil from all that anointing.  He was very angelic up there on that alter. 

The hopes and dreams and love I feel for this baby are infinite and ever increasing.  He is more beautiful and sweet than anything I've ever seen.  Ah, Reader, I adore being a Godmother. 

At the suggestion of my dear friend Amy, all I need now is a pinky ring.  xoxo

Love thy oven

OK, so Shepherd's Pie certainly won't be falling into the category of health food any time soon.  Although I suppose one could make the argument that this dinner is undeniably good for one's mental health.  I was absolutely famished when I came home from work the other night and this was the only meal I longed to create and devour.  And since the warmer weather is thankfully on its way, I am embracing my oven while I can.  This hearty, comforting meal delivers and it really couldn't be easier.

Hubby finds it interesting that since I hail from Massachusetts I've always referred to this dish as "Chinese pie."  I have no idea why.  I've also always eaten it with corn.  Go figure.  This time around, my vegetables of choice were carrots and peas.  I simply chopped up a few carrots into small pieces and boiled until tender, about 15 minutes.  During the last few minutes of cooking, I tossed in a couple of handfuls of frozen peas.  No fuss, no muss.  After draining, I seasoned them.

I have to admit, I have a deeply embedded, lifelong aversion to peas.  In order to enjoy their taste, however, I added a liberal amount of butter, salt, pepper, and (The Secret Weapon): fresh rosemary.  I credit my friend James for bestowing me with this herbal inspiration, after he cooked Hubby and I an Easter dinner to really write home about.  He added fresh rosemary to his carrots and the taste was out of this world.  Trust me. 

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Since the mashed potato is quite possibly my most favorite sustenance ever, I would strongly advise against using instant.  If you go through the effort of lovingly mashing up some real spuds I guarantee your taste buds (and perhaps your significant other) will thank you.  This is just my own personal preference, of course. 

Also, since we're aiming strictly for flavor here, don't skimp on the butter and salt.  In other words, show your potatoes some love.  You can always snub the carbohydrates tomorrow.  (Or not, depending.)

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Lastly, but not leastly, we have the ground beef.  Naturally, you could also use lamb or turkey or no meat at all, for that matter.  I think an all veg edition of shepherd's pie would be equally delightful. 

To cook the beef, I started off with a chopped shallot sauteed in a little oil and butter.  To that I added just under a pound of ground beef and seasoned with salt and pepper.  Next, I grated in a clove or two of garlic and added some chopped rosemary.  (Do you detect a theme?)  Finally, I drained the meat, added about a cup of beef stock and allowed the mixture to simmer for a few minutes.

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And now, we layer.  I just love these miniature au gratin pots I picked up at Crate and Barrel.  They were only like 6 bucks a piece and they're perfect for chicken pot pies. 

I've been told by a co-worker whose wife makes a killer shepherd's pie that the secret is all in the layering.  The first layer of our little pie is comprised of the vegetables.

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The second layer is the juicy beef along with the stock.  With the shallots, garlic and rosemary, the meat really ends up being flavorful. 

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The final, glorious layer is a bountiful portion of buttery mashed potatoes.  This is a calming layering process, especially this concluding step, since there is a fair amount of sculpting involved.  I enjoy playing with my food. 

I brushed the top with a little butter to help them brown up.

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Now we're ready to slide those babies into a pre-heated 375 degree oven.  Let them bake for about thirty minutes or until their tops become golden and crusty.  Since the pots will be piping hot and probably leaking some of that bubbly beef stock, I recommend using a baking sheet.  Safety first!  (Says the woman with oven burn scars all over her forearms.)

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I realize I could've waited for these Shepherd's Pies to turn browner, Dear Reader, but the truth is I ran out of willpower.  In the end, this is as golden and crusty as my ravenous belly would allow them to become.   

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Yum.  I wish I could offer you a bite, really I do.  But Typepad doesn't offer that service yet. 

When Hubby got home from his band rehearsal that night around 12:30 he was finally able to eat his pie.  He said thank you.  Like ten times.  Guess it was a hit.

xoxo

What good is sitting alone in your room? Come hear the music play!

Hubby saw the incomparable Liza Minnelli outside of the Waldorf tonight.  She was sitting in the backseat of an oversized SUV with the window rolled down, and according to Hubby, looked very much like she was about to vomit.  (This is all very reminiscent of myself last Saturday after our friend Mike's 29th birthday soiree in the meatpacking district.)

I, however, am loathe to believe this about Liza, since I always choose to remember her circa 1991 in the movie sensation Stepping out.

The great irony is, I've had Caberet in my head all week.  Bizarre.

This Is Just Weird

My dear friend Jamie, aka The Broad's on the street field reporter, recently snapped this picture with his i-phone.  Jamie deemed it necessary that I witness the horror, writing me: Backpacks should not have pictures on them, let alone pictures of one's children.

I love the fact that he chased down this soul in order to take the picture.  We decided to cross out their eyes for privacy's sake.  A bold, if disturbing choice in backpack wear, indeed:

 

Thanks to Jamie xoxo

Just in time for Good Friday...

My Sissy forwarded me this picture today in an email.  It's a Peep Show...

Speaking Up

There are plenty of unpleasant aspects to growing older.  Discovering a wiry white hair on my head while peering into the bathroom mirror is the least of them, I'm sure.  (By the way, it's ok to yank them.  Seven more don't grow back, that's been refuted.) 

Although, I have to say, as my twenties head toward their glittering finale, I do notice certain aspects about myself beginning to evolve for the better.  Specifically, I'm not putting up with as much shit as I used to.

My Mom used to tell us this story (I like to think she was talking about my older sister and not myself):

"There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead.

And when she was good, she was very, very good.  But when she was bad, she was horrid."

During my many years in the workforce I've come across a handful of these types.  Haven't we all?  The kicker is, at work (if nowhere else), I am ridiculously even tempered.  I am polite, cheerful, predictable, you get the picture. 

In my everyday life I know how to handle people with little curls right in the middle of their foreheads.  But in a professional situation I often feel like my hands are tied.  Taped together by a chain of Post-it notes, perhaps.

The other day, after arriving at work to find my deskmate in yet another of his foul, sulking moods (today he was horrid), I decided I'd finally had enough.  We'd already had a discussion about this a few weeks earlier.  Our desks are facing each other, and I was desperate for a way to block out his negativity.  Gingerly, I pushed my computer monitor over a few inches to block out his face.  This passive aggressive action seemed to work quite nicely.

While the horrid one was at lunch, my boss casually asked if I'd taught this person how to do a certain task yet, and I uncharacteristically let loose: "No, I haven't.  We're not talking, actually."  I proceeded to inform my boss that I wouldn't treat a dog the way this person was treating his co-workers.  (This was harsh, I realize.)  I watched as my bosses eyes went very wide.  He'd never heard me speak this way before.

Who was this communicative woman?  I barely recognized myself.

After my outburst, I ran outside and called my husband, mother and sister, who all assured me this had been a long time coming.  They were all very proud and there was nothing to feel bad about.  So why did I feel so awful?

Later, when the horrid one in question innocently asked me why my monitor had been moved, I lost it again.  "I moved it because I couldn't sit facing you another minute!  I can't deal with your negativity!!  It's killing me!!"

"Should we take this outside?"  He asked, looking shocked, horrified, and seasick.

As we walked together down the hallway, I could feel the rage surging through my veins.  "Why did I move my monitor?  You're a smart man," I told him, "you can figure it out!"  (I didn't even remember I'd said this until the next day.)

Once out in the hallway, I explained my position in depth, finally, completely.  I omitted no detail: he was moody, unpredictable, unprofessional, and was making my work experience miserable.  In short, he was the little girl who had a little curl right in the middle of his forehead.

This is the point where he very nearly started to cry.  I almost fainted.

Yes, I am a monster.  If you know me, you'll know how out of character this public display of emotion was.  It's not that I'm not communicative to the people closest to me, for I am.  I'm an open book.  That circle is teeny tiny teeny, however.  That's also not to say I'm fake to the rest of the world, just wildly preoccupied with never hurting people's feelings, even at the expense of my own sanity.

He was hurt.  Wiping his eyes, he haltingly told me: "To hear this coming from you, of all people...it breaks my heart.  I thought we were...cool.  I thought we were friends."

The thing is, we are cool, most of the time.  (Except for the times when he's horrid.)  He went on to explain that he can't help it, that this was how he was raised.  He grew up in the projects, he said, so he tries to bottles his feeling, he shuts down, you can't teach an old dog new tricks, etc.  (He's not really old, actually, only 30.)  The truth was, he honestly thought this was acceptable behavior for the workplace.  He had no idea the chip on his shoulder was affecting anyone, least of all me. 

After our pow wow things seemed fine.  I gave him a hug and told him I liked him very much.  And to his credit, he's acted completely lovely since.

There is something ridiculously empowering about Taking Action.  That old adage "we teach people how to treat us" finally makes practical sense to me.  Of course, along with this also comes ownership.  After all, I'd nearly made a grown man cry.

In fact, that night I couldn't keep visions of his teary, tormented eyes floating into my mind.  I had exposed someone for their bad behavior when no one else would.  I had stood up for myself, so what did I feel so effing guilty about?  My heart and my mind duked it out into the wee hours of the morn.

I'm 29 years old and in nine short months I will turn 30.  On Wednesday, I taught somebody how to treat me.  They don't have to be cheerful and chipper, they don't even have to like me.  They just have to treat me with the same respect with which I treat them.  It wasn't easy and the entire experience shook me to my core.  But I did it. 

There are certain advantages to getting older.  Not caring as much about what people think has got to be one of them.

Happy Easter, Dear Reader.  xoxo

What the?

Only in New York does the recycling get picked up after midnight.  Right now, 12:48 am, to be exact.  Yay, late night garbage collection!

If yer Irish, step inta the paaa-laaa!

   

Let's face it, corned beef and cabbage is not for everyone.  For as long as I can remember, every year my large extended family got together for corned beef and cabbage on St. Patty's day.  They still do, in fact.  Seeing as I've never been much of an enthusiast for the salty, stringy corned beef, I mostly just ate the potatoes and carrots.  I thought perhaps I might grow into having a taste for this meal, but so far this hasn't happened.

Although my husband is of New England Irish descent on both of his parents sides, I was astounded to discover he'd never actually tasted a boiled dinner.  (Hey, how did he escape doing that?)  I decided to cook one for him a few years back, carefully following both my Dad's instructions as well as the ones that came with the beef.  I served Hubby a heaping plateful of corned beef, cabbage, potatoes and carrots and breathlessly awaited his reaction, which turned out to be:

"Is it supposed to taste like this?" 

(Was it supposed to taste like this, of COURSE it was supposed to taste like this!)  This was not the loving response I'd been hoping for, though I sensed he was aiming for diplomacy.  He proceeded to politely inquire if I'd perhaps not cooked it correctly.  I reacted calmly: 

"Of course I cooked it right!  That's how it's supposed to taste!"   

It turns out Hubby just likes to eat the vegetables, too.  I can't say I blame him.   

This year I won't be preparing corned beef, but there are a number of other nostalgic ways in which I like to mark this occasion.  (And they do not all include getting plastered and singing The Unicorn Song, although that doesn't sound like a bad idea, either.) 

I might play my Tommy Makem and The Clancy Brothers record, or maybe pop my ancient Darby O'Gill and The Little People VHS tape into my dusty VCR.  Incidentally, have you seen this movie?  If you haven't, I suggest you do.  Sure, this film is rife with stereotypes and a few shockingly poor attempts at the Irish brouge, but it remains charming all the same.  I'd even go so far as to say it's Sean Connery's finest work.  And I still cover my eyes when the wailing Banshee comes to take poor Darby away.  She is nothing short of terrifying. 

This Saint Patrick's Day, The Odd Broad raises a toast to her handsome Irish grandfather, Pa, who is no doubt somewhere up in Heaven eating a plate of corned beef.  xoxo 

I've had it!

I'm feeling rather punchy as of late.  In light of this, I would like to unleash my wrath in several directions, in no particular order:

1.) The media.  When a news story hits, be it tragic, sexy or scandalous, the same pathetic, predictable bullshit inevitably ensues.  The media will pounce and rabidly pick away until there is no story left to discuss or analyze.  Like the carcass of a juicily succulent rotisserie chicken, there is nothing left to chew.  It's all bones, folks.

I am especially bitter this week, since I've been unable to catch the weather forecast because news of a more pressing nature has taken precedence.  Namely, our fine married Governor spending a shocking amount of time and money on high class prostitutes.  (I love that term: high class.  Is this meant to separate the high class hookers from the low class ones?  Jeeze, whatever career path one embarks on, that pesky status thing is simply unavoidable.)

It's not that a part of me doesn't feel sorry for the gov, no matter how sleazy and hypocritical his actions may have been.  But come on, Spitz.  You've publicly betrayed your three daughters and your accomplished, intelligent, beautiful wife and for what?  For a 22 year old hooker from Jersey?  A young woman who possessed neither the foresight nor presence of mind to switch her Myspace page to "private" after the nasty scandal hit?

There is no weather, apparently, for Spitzer paid for putang.  This is, after all, a far more pertinent and sensational matter.  At the end of the day, is the media really anything more than a glossy, shiny bunch of glorified gossips? 

2.)  K-Fed: The Unsinkable Mr. Spears.

I have had just about enough of this opportunistic little rat.  Does anyone else agree?  It saddens me that he's rising above the ashes while his hot mess of a wife continues to self destruct.  Just this morning I was reading AM NY on the way into work when I read that Alicia Silverstone refused to tape an episode of How I Met Your Mother because Britney was slated to play her receptionist.

Alicia, my vegan friend, I just looked into your refrigerator in this month's issue of Rachael Ray at Home and you really seem like a nice enough girl.  But I feel you have some maturing to do.  I mean, first you refused to shake conservative Elizabeth Hasselback's hand on The View, and now you're turning on Brit?  What political grudge can you possibly hold against her?  Do you not brake for trashy, pot bellied ex-pop divas?  I've had it with Hollywood and their holier than thou antics.  Alicia, I loved you as Cher Horowitz, and it's obvious you care about a number of worthy causes, but I think you should perhaps take a page out of the 1960's musical sensation Hair: 

"...especially people who care about strangers, who care about evil and social injustice...do you only care about the bleeding crowd?  How about a needing friend?"  (Random musical theater moment there, Dear Reader.  I'll try not to let it happen again.)

Not two inches above this article I found a picture of K-Fed, in all his mousy glory.  It seems Mr. Spears may be set to embark on a bright new endeavor: The Great White Way.  That's right, talks are in the works for him to appear in the Broadway production of Legally Blonde.  It was all I could muster not to vomit.  K-Fed, do you feel no remorse for abandoning your collective babies' mamas not once, but two times?  I am in no way excusing the irresponsible actions of Britney Spears.  But after being bled dry by mother, father and husband, is there truly nobody who can come to the aid of this train wreck?  The media is having a field day tearing her to shreds, and these are the same people who will no doubt be salivating over her funeral, Anna Nicole style.

Under these circumstances, for K-Fed to not only gain but sustain a career that was born out of his estranged, drunken wife, and then climb higher and higher even as she continues to publicly unravel is just astounding. 

3.) My final lashing goes out to Laura Ingraham, the political reporter and radio host who labeled Brett Favre a woman for crying when he announced his retirement after playing what many consider to be one of the most stellar seasons of his career.  So what you're saying, Laura, is that a man who is capable of expressing his emotions and acknowledging his appreciation for something he deeply loves is a...woman? 

As if being a woman is something to be ashamed of, something wretched, something undesirable, something weak?  This is exactly the type of woman I cannot bear: a self hating female.  I myself have never equated strength with being able to deny one's feelings.  As if young boys don't already receive enough unhealthy messages: don't cry, be tough, be a man! I say cry all you want, or else live your life being a suppressed, repressed douchebag. 

Laura, you denigrate not only strong, sensitive males everywhere, but your fellow women.  I am sorry to share my gender with you.  You don't even deserve to have a vajayjay.  I think it should be revoked.

Phew.  I feel better.  xoxo

Over 21 (and pushing 30)...

Tonight we went to the village to hear our friend Dave's band play.  I am both relieved and exhilarated to mention that I was asked to show identificaton at the door.  (This information is only significant seeing that I experienced a brief moment of despair when it looked as if I wouldn't be carded.)  I gleefully offered up my inner wrist to receive the kind bouncer's "ok" stamp.

One of the bands that played before David's was decidedly "metal."  I find it amusing that I'd spent most of my day tugging at my outfit, wondering if it was possibly too risque for work?  At times I felt almost naked in my short dress and leggings!   That is, until I saw the opening band, which consisted of several young men who were clad in the tightest of spandex.  And they, unlike myself, had nothing to cover their bums, let alone their frontal regions!  A daring look, indeed, but the overall effect was rather unpleasant.  Especially since the lead singer kept putting his leg up onto the amp, unabashedly gyrating his spandex covered nether regions to all and sundry. 

This display moved me to make Hubby vow never to wear tightie pants, under any and all circumstances.  I just don't think it's a good look.  He told me I needn't worry.  Phew!

Our friend David played wonderfully, as usual, and his band was excellent!

And on this note, I am off to bed...while visions of spandex dance in my head...