The Odd Broad

Going outta my head

So I'm reading A New Earth.  I'd been meaning to buy it, but when a friend lent me his copy recently I took it as a sign.  The only troubling thing is, this person had already given the book to someone else who was apparently reading it a rather leisurely pace.  This prompted the owner of the book to take it back and lend it to me instead.  Did I feel at ease accepting a book that had been snatched away from someone mid-read?  Not really.  Especially seeing as this is a book on enlightenment!  But they both insisted and in the end I complied, promising to return it to the previous reader as soon as I was finished.

I feel I should mention that the owner of this book hasn't actually read it, nor does he plan to.  (He's decided he just isn't ready to be enlightened.)  If he had read it, I'm guessing there wouldn't have been any of the lending/nonlending shenanigans that delivered this lovely book to me in the first place.  But that's neither here nor there.

I love A New Earth.  I'm having trouble putting it down.  I'm sort of in that stage where I seem to be biting my tongue, perhaps deciding if I really want to say that which my brain is urging me to say.  The other night we were watching TV when Hubby turned to me, no doubt expecting a smart alec, wisenhiemer remark to come dancing out of my mouth.  But I had nothing.  Nada.  Zilch.  The content of the commercial we'd just seen was such that ordinarily I'd instantly be off on some sort of mouthy diatribe.  But it didn't bother me, you see.

I have indulged myself once or twice, of course, when I felt something was truly worthy of going off my diet of enlightenment for.  To the man in the park on Tuesday, I'm sorry.  (You know who you are.)  You, who were repeatedly doing flips and practicing some sort of martial arts in a frantic, athletic, feverish way?  I didn't want to say you were "displaying," as the male chimpanzees do when they see the female chimps on Animal Planet's Escape to Chimp Eden.  Pointing this catty observation out to Hubby was perhaps the equivalent to someone on a strict diet devouring several Big Macs.  But it did feel warm and fuzzy, I have to say.  (If that wasn't an example of displaying then I don't know what is.  Although I suppose you'd have to watch the show to really understand what I'm talking about.  It's fantastic.)   

Other than one or two other brief relapses, I do hope these peaceful, in the moment feelings last.  (And no, that's not me speaking with an air of doubtfulness, it's my ego.  She's always trying to get airtime.  The bitch.)

xoxo

Never a Dull Moment

When my phone rang at 12pm this afternoon I was still in bed.  It was my Sister calling, asking: "Did you drunk dial Mommy and Daddy last night?"

Sadly, I had. 

You see, the night before, Hubby and I met my friend Vanessa and her husband Paul at the Beergarden.  I'm not really sure when the night started going pear shaped, but pear shaped it went.

It being Memorial Day weekend, the place was packed.  After standing for a while, we finally were able to squeeze into a table with a bunch of strangers.  They were friendly enough, to Vanessa and I at least.  Feeling neighborly, Vanessa tried on the sunglasses of the guy sitting next to me, who began inching closer and closer until he was practically on my lap.  What the?  I'm almost thirty!  And wearing a wedding band!  And my 6 foot 1 husband was sitting not two feet away! 

Our new friends began asking Vanessa about her necklace, which she'd gotten in Costa Rica.  People kept referring to it as a sand dollar, which it actually wasn't.  "It's a shell!"  she'd laughed, and even went on to demonstrate the strength of it by pounding gently on her fabulous necklace, which promptly split in two.  Woopsie.  (We decided she would superglue it and nobody would be the wiser.)

The conversation continued, although when the eager stranger sitting next to me playfully slapped his hand on my thigh I knew it was time to move.  But that's when another guy started pounding the table, pounding and pounding until...my husband's camouflage cargo shorts were drenched in pilsner.  And I do mean drenched.  As in, it looked like he'd peed himself.

Oh dear.  Words were exchanged, and Hubby expressed his discontent in no uncertain terms.  The table banger in question looked like he was about to either faint or crap himself when Hubby suddenly exclaimed, "I'm joking, man!  It's cool."  Had he been joking, though?  I wasn't entirely sure.

The guy went and got Hubby some napkins.  I heard someone say, "Move down, make room, seriously!"  It seemed my gentle, pacifist husband had really sparked some fear into these Long Islanders.  And then there was the moment when Vanessa tossed a french fry into the table banger's eye.  It was a total accident, you see, her usually having terrible aim and yet...

May I remind you that these people had been kind enough to share their table with us?  It was then I decided that we simply do not play well with others. 

Later, when Vanessa and I joined the rest of the people dancing to the Checkoslovakian band, she noticed someone had accidentally shoved her.  I then watched in horror as my wild eyed friend gracefully kicked her tiny foot into the offending person's ass.  Only, it turned out to be the very same boy whom she'd nearly blinded with a french fry only moments earlier!  This knowledge reduced me to a giggling, incoherent mess.  For reals.  I suppose you kind of had to be there.  (By this time we'd had several pitchers of pilsner.)

Which brings us to the unfortunate issue of the parental drunk dial.  Even later in the evening, when the subject of the Revolutionary War surfaced, I deemed it necessary to call the home of my parents.  I explained to my mother that I needed to settle something history related, and she woke my father, who'd been nodding off in bed while watching a special on Harry Truman.  We wanted to know: had Paul Revere said "The British are coming, the British are coming!" or had he shouted "The regulars are coming, the regulars are coming"?

Dad confirmed and it turned out to be the latter.  My father then spent about fifteen minutes conversing with Vanessa's British husband and no doubt fell asleep with visions of Paul Revere and the red coats dancing in his head. 

Today when I called to apologize, Dad brushed it off with a "what are you talking about?  You're fine!"  Indeed, that night upon hanging up, my mother said goodnight with a "I love it when you're silly."  God I love my parents.

Later that night Hubby and I made friends with three kind men from Turkey, named Mitten (like the glove, he told me), Oz and Oz.  They informed me that Turkey is a primarily Muslim country, which I hadn't actually known, and that Mary had gone there after Jesus' crucification.  Truly, one learns something new every day, even while waiting on line for the bathroom at an outdoor beer hall.

Without boring you with even further detail, it was a sloppy trek home from Bohemian Hall, to say the least.  Vaguely resembling Mr. Revere's famous ride, I'm sure. 

Happy Memorial Day xoxo

Noise

Monday evening, ten till nine.

Outside my window I hear a clanking, and I can't decide if it's the sound of cutlery against plates or a metal baseball bat in the courtyard.

Cars whizz by.  In the distance a voice echos, though I can't understand what's being said.  There are sounds from an airplane up above, a girl laughing huskily, and Hubby's shamrock Guinness clock ticking steadily behind me.  A car door slams.  Someone outside belches.

I listen to sirens, a horn beeping, and a cell phone conversation in a language I can't quite decipher.  There are three loud, resounding booms that I'm hoping are fireworks.  A garbage can is slowly being dragged to the curb. 

Somehow I know I'll miss New york.

Make Your Eyes Twinkle

My friend Richard gave me a piece of chocolate the other day.  I unwrapped it to find this message...

(Incidentally, the combination of chocolate and caramel does tend to make my eyes twinkle.)  xoxo

Thoughts on Beauty

When it comes to appearance, I've always felt that women are far more forgiving than men.  Television and movies seem to support my theory: Doug and Carrie Heffernon, Fred and Wilma Flinstone, Larry and Cheryl David, Beauty and the Beast.  (I mean, come on, would that movie have turned out as rosy had Belle been a grotesque, toothless hag with a heart of gold?  At the risk of sounding cynical, something tells me no.)

Perhaps women are simply more adept at recognizing inner beauty.  And if so, is this by choice or are we wired this way?  And why are we so quick to forgive imperfections in males but cutthroat when it comes to judging other women?  Or ourselves, for that matter? 

It really chaps my ass.  Take the upcoming Sex and The City movie, for example.  With all the buzz and excitement surrounding it, I notice some other less appealing things swarming about, too.  Namely, the biting, nasty, in depth commentary regarding Sarah Jessica Parker's appearance.  It's driving me bananas.

Just what is it about this actress that makes the public feel so threatened?  Was it necessary or even remotely accurate last year when Maxim named her the Unsexiest Woman Alive?  Who were the judges behind this ruling and more importantly, what do their faces look like?  Are we to assume all of them are the very picture of symmetrical, well endowed masculine perfection?  Sadly, I suspect it boils down to nothing more than the age old fear of a successful, confident woman.  Why are we still buying into this garbage?

I am a happy, intelligent woman and even I can't help but let this crap seep under my skin from time to time.  I wonder, if I ever have a daughter, how I will go about tackling the constant bombardment of candy coated misogyny that has become the grim normality nowadays.  Is there a way to explain the existence of Girls Gone Wild while maintaining an air of dignity?  There has to be.

Forget the opinions of trashy, socially irresponsible magazines, the same goes for the comments I've seen posted after nearly every online article I've read about Sarah Jessica's new flick.  These weren't what I'd consider harmless jabs, they were bile filled, cutting digs.  I've also casually asked around and have found that many people agree.  The underlying message is ugly and clear: what right does this woman have to feel beautiful?  And what right does HBO have to expect us to consider her a sex symbol?  After all, the media is clearly supposed to dictate what is beautiful in this country...how did she slip through the cracks??!!

Which brings me to the point of this rant: What's the effing beef with Sarah Jessica Parker?  Does her appearance, unconventional by Hollywood's bizarre standards, perhaps force us to look at the imperfections in ourselves? 

I have to tell you, I have always admired SJP's beauty as something unique, intriguing and highly watchable.  I find her far more fascinating to look at than any of her costars.  She steals the show.  Cookie cutter perfection may make the vast majority of people feel safe, but it can become tiresome.  This is not to say that everyone who finds SJP unattractive is a giant, gaping asshole.  On the contrary, I'm speaking only of those who take such rancid pleasure in popping her bubble, so to speak.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, folks.  If this wasn't the case, nobody would ever get laid.  I have met plain people who I've come to find exceptionally beautiful.  By the same token, I've known stunningly gorgeous people who over time I've decided were just ok looking.  When it comes right down to it, pretty is as pretty does.  I think of the people I know: each of them lovely and individual and so very much themselves.  The people I consider to be attractive are all different shapes, sizes and colors.  There is no common trend, no definitive factor that makes them beautiful in my eyes.   

I wish for our world a collective awakening, a departure from the shallow, depthless, beauty and youth obsessed sleepwalkers we seem to be marauding around as.  They are not us.  And they are certainly not who we were born to be.

Top Chef

I think the highlight of tonight's evening had to be when chef Anthony Bourdain described Lisa's mango sticky rice as "baby vomit with wood chips." 

I liked that.

Congrats!

A shout out is in order for my beautiful cousin Keely, who has just graduated from college.  In true Keely fashion, she has finished up one year early.  And next up is law school.

I am proud of her beyond belief.  It's not only because she's strikingly gorgeous, or a diligently hard worker, or possesses the strongest backbone of any young person I have ever met.  For she is all of those things and so much more. 

A friend's mother once remarked on how mature she was:  "It's like...it's almost like talking to an adult" she confided to my aunt.  I think Keely must've been seven or eight years old at the time.

Once in elementary school Keely caught someone cheating off of her test.  She went straight up to her teacher and asked to please have her seat moved.  Well, what was she supposed to do?  It simply wasn't fair!  I remember even then remarking on how strong she was.  At 29, I'm still not sure I'd have the chutzpah to do that.

She is just one of those rare, self possessed, brilliant individuals.  The future is hers for the taking.  I can hardly wait to see what happens next.

Love you, Bubs.  xoxo

Get yer own!

Sometimes I feel a bit like Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone, when he opens up his pizza box and peacefully declares:

A lovely cheese pizza, just for me.

True that, Kevin McCallister, true that.  It's just, this past Friday something rather petty happened that I can't seem to let go of.  In an uncharacteristic turn, I'd skipped breakfast and by the time lunch rolled around I was famished.  I ordered grilled chicken from Ranch 1 with french fries and honey mustard. 

As you might imagine, when I opened that warm, deliciously scented bag I immediately wanted to devour those fries.  Indeed, their heavenly aroma wafted throughout the office, dangerously announcing to all and sundry that I was about to commence eating.  Unfortunately for me, it just so happened that others also wanted to eat my lunch as well.  One person in particular.

This man I speak of bothers us religiously come lunch time, loudly inquiring: "What's for lunch?  Hey, nobody ordered anything for me?  What a bunch of one ways!"  And every day we say, "Would you like us to order something for you?  It's really no trouble."  And he says, "No, no, no.  I eat too much as it is.  I'll go out for a walk and get something later, it's good for me to walk." 

If he doesn't want us to order him food, then why torture us with this daily sustenance guilt trip? 

As I bit into my first honey mustard covered fry, it occurred to me that I was hunching protectively over my meal, much like a canine might guard her food bowl.   

Yes, I was acting like a dog.  And as I'd feared, my coworker came a'sniffing:  "So, what's for lunch today?"  He then proceeded to reach across my chest and snatch up my container of fries.  A ballsy move, since I'd intentionally placed my food as far away from him as possible. 

"What's this?"  he asked, even as he shoved fries into his mouth.  "What's this?"  he said again.  The whole thing gave me the creeps. 

"You're eating fried food, huh?  Are you hungover or something?"

Reader, by this point I had no energy for niceties.  Smiling but barely concealing my ire, I told him no, I was not hungover.  My deskmate chimed in: "It's Friday!  She likes potatoes on Fridays."

What the?  Now I wanted to kill them both.

"It came from right across the street."  I offered eagerly, trying to put an end to the conversation.  "She ordered it, too!" I added, nodding my head at the woman sitting two desks over.  Sadly, my desperate attempts at diversion were futile.  He began touching the rest of my food.  "What's in here?" 

I was ravenous and weak.  With as much tolerance as I possibly could muster, I explained what was inside, then added, "Sorry, I'm really hungry today.  I guess I'm acting kind of like a dog."

Why the hell was I apologizing?

Is there anything more unpleasant than someone hovering over you while you're trying to eat your kibble lunch?  Seriously, what is this guy's deal?  Apart from feeling violated by the way he'd reached into my personal space, I was also feeling grossed out for other reasons.  I suppose I've always been particular when it comes to eating...

Back in elementary school a classmate once asked for some of my chips in exchange for a bite of her apple.  In hindsight, Mother Theresa herself couldn't have convinced me to take that bite.  (Apples are far too juicy for sharing.)  I shared my chips, naturally, but declined her lackluster offer.  I don't roll like that. 

When I was even younger, my uncle Jim asked me if I wanted a bite of his Snickers bar and I said no, thank you.  "What kid doesn't like chocolate?"  he asked my aunt, who knowingly explained:  "It's not that she doesn't like chocolate, Jimmy, she doesn't like other people's germs." 

No, I didn't.  And I don't.  Although I have gotten better.  I'll share anything with Hubby, for example.  Most of the time he's the one to be skeeved out by me, in fact. 

I'm not the only one in my family who feels this way.  My cousin Keely agrees that anything with a milky consistency is off limits.  You'll never catch that girl offering you a spoonful of her yogurt.  There are rules to follow, you see.

But I digress.  Later my deskmate (the gentleman who noted my apparent Friday love of potatoes), asked if I'd secretly been annoyed by all the lunch time attention.  "Well, yes, a little!"  I confided, adding, "I would never do that to someone!"

And it's true.  I never bother people while they're eating, or ask what they're eating or where they got it from.  Frankly, I feel it's bad manners to do so.  Also, who am I kidding, I don't really give a good crap.  I let people enjoy their food!  I don't want to socialize and I don't really want to share.  Most importantly, I don't want people sticking their unwashed fingers into my delicious cup of greasy french fries!  If this makes me a female dog, then Arf Arf.

His tone became confidential: "Can I just ask, is it that time of the month?"

What the?  Did he honestly just ask me that?  You wouldn't mind, but this guy just so happens to be the moodiest person I've ever worked with!  I've often suspected he suffers from a perpetual man period!  Fucker.

Breathe.

I went outside.  It was raining and windy and my broken umbrella kept turning inside out, but it was still more pleasant than being interrogated inside. 

I wouldn't describe myself as a selfish person.  I grew up sharing and caring.  At lunch time I always give whatever I don't eat away to anyone who'll take it.  I just donated to City Harvest last week, in fact.  But is it too much to ask that I be left alone to enjoy lunch at my desk?  Also, why doesn't anyone come up and disturb me when I'm eating a salad?  For some reason this fry incident has really hit a nerve. 

What are your thoughts?  Does stuff like this skeeve you out as well?  Would you share a saliva covered apple with a mere acquaintance in exchange for a measly few potato chips?  I ask you.  xoxo

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood...

Change is a bit like having one's upper lip waxed.  It really only stings for a second. 

The fact remains, Hubby and I still don't know how we will earn our keep once we move to Boston.  And yet some optimistic, lavender scented part of me is certain we will find somewhere marvelous to work.  I'm aiming for lofty thoughts, hoping for a job I will adore rather than something that just pays the bills.  Sadly, my initial inclination was the latter, though I'm sure the fear of being broke again may have played a part in that. 

Speaking of which, I'm surprised to note how cushy our lives have become as of late.  We have good healthcare, 401-K's, even the cat has health insurance.  I'm ashamed to admit how much money we spend on taxis and dining out.  On paper at least, the decision to move home really becomes the riskier choice. 

And so it seems my future has morphed into something very much resembling a Mad Lib.  There are endless blanks to fill.  For the most part I'm finding it all pretty thrilling.  I have no idea what is going to happen, and I haven't been able to say that for a long time.

At first the neurotic in me wanted to frantically grasp on to rigid hopes and plans, but my voice of reason threw a glass of cold water into her tear-streaked face, so to speak.  I'm old enough now to realize that praying for a specific outcome is basically futile.  I have a wish list of how I'd like things to turn out, of course, but I'm in no way counting on it.  I realize this is faith in its blindest form, but it's sort of the way I've always done things.  My dreams are hopeful, roomy and flexible.  Naturally I feel a little scared and a touch wistful to leave behind the cozy life we've created here, but I know in my heart that new adventures lie ahead. 

As for Hubby, he'll be finishing up with his music degree, which is something he's been wanting to do for years.  Boston is not his home, it's mine, and I realize he is making the same sacrifice he did when I asked him to move to New York in the first place.  Over the past eight years, this city has truly become his home.  His decision to leave inspires me with a curious blend of relief, adoration and awe.  After all these years, I never run out of reasons to love him like a crazy person. 

I can hear him coming up the stairs now as I write.  He's whistling. 

Dear Reader, although I've been known to read a Tarot card or two, at the moment I know not what my future holds.  And it's all very exciting.  xoxo

   

Vegas, Baby

It seems our landlord, Smeagol (see inset), has taken himself on a little holiday to Vegas.  Let's face it, with all the screaming that goes on between he and his elderly mother, the man is certainly in dire need of a getaway.  Hubby was unfortunate enough to have run into him recently or we wouldn't be privy to this information.

Upon learning of Smeagol's departure, seedy images immediately sprung into my sordid little mind: Smeagol sitting in a smoke filled room, surrounded by cheap hookers, the sound of 5 cent slot machines echoing tinnily in the distance. 

I mentioned my theory to Hubby, who immediately agreed: "Oh, of course, naturally."  (God I love that man.)

I realize it is wickedly slanderous of me to insinuate that my landlord would solicit a hooker whilst on vacation.  Indeed, I have never met someone whom I assumed solicited prostitutes, and yet I can't help but feel it's an accurate way to describe this particular gentleman. 

One of Smeagol's sisters will be staying with their mother while he's away.  He told Hubby if we should hear anything fishy to dial 911.  Hopefully this won't be necessary. 

Hubby has a hunch that the whole thing may be nothing more than an elaborate ruse- Smeagol's last ditch attempt to finally off his mother.  What better alibi could there be?  After all, what happens in Vegas...

Have fun, Smeag!