The Odd Broad

Dreadful, simply dreadful!

The other morning we were sitting on the couch, Hubby, Kittie and I, quietly relaxing as the news played on tv.  We listened as the anchorwoman spoke of a hit and run by a driver with no liscence, two hits (but no runs), a deadly fire, construction casualties, gunfire, terror, yadda, yadda, yadda...

It wasn't until she uttered the words, "Summer is finally here, once again bringing with it the DREADFUL West Nile Virus," that something inside of me sprung back to life. 

Why in the HELL were we watching this?  And had she really just used the word dreadful?

Call me a pollyana, but isn't there anything happy to report on these days?  Is there not just a smidgen of hope to impart to us amidst all the doom and destruction?  HMMMM?

OK, so I'm trying to be all New Earth and stuff, but I guess I kind of went off.  When I emerged from my diatribe I looked over at Hubby, who silently turned the channel, no doubt noticing my rage had momentarily knocked me off my high horse enlightenment diet.  (Kittie didn't seem to give a good crap one way or the other.)

Reader, when it comes right down to it, how much fear is filtered into our unconscious minds without us even realizing?  And why does it take us so long to turn the channel?

xoxo

Just so you are aware...

I often take pause at the wide ranging ads that appear in the side columns of this website.  Just so you know, these ads are chosen at random and are not in any way selected by myself.  I am at the mercy of chance, it seems, and if the folks in the know wish to place a picture ad for adult diapers upon my humble little page, well, who am I to object?

Last week my sister brought to my attention something that had already been disturbing me: an ad for John McCain on my blog.  (As you may or may not have heard me mention earlier in the month, The Odd Broad is, and has always been, a neutral, nonpartisan arena.)

That having been said, why was there a McCain ad on my page, and more importantly, why does it feature a picture of him from at least thirty years ago?  Are the voters to believe they will be given the option of traveling back in time to cast their ballot for this younger, more youthful version of Mr. McCain?  Or perhaps Hermione Granger will let us borrow the time-turner necklace Professor McGonagall lent to her in Year Three? 

A crafty, if obvious ruse, the transparency of which I find just a wee bit disturbing.  If political campaigns choose to run ads on the internet, especially on my page, include a current photo, if you please. 

I just had to clear that up. 

Below please find some of the more disturbing ads that have graced the odd pages...

xoxo

 

My dreamy musician

In Friday's post I mentioned that Hubby played what might be his last gig in nyc.  NYC proper, I should have specified, because yesterday he played a show in the Hamptons at The Stephen Talkhouse.  I'd never been up that way before and after my drunken animated behavior last Friday evening, I really wasn't sure I should attend.  But I'm awfully glad I did. 

We rented a car and drove home shortly after the show, but in hindsight I do wish we'd stayed overnight.  The area is beautiful and somehow manages to be rustic and upscale at the same time.  I'd never seen so many peaceful vineyards and signs for fresh strawberry picking in my life, each one of them calling out to me, softly, wistfully: Drink me!  Pick me!  Not to mention, a part of me desperately wished to remain within the stomping grounds of the Barefoot Contessa herself: Easthampton dwelling Ina Garten and her lovable husband Jeffrey.  But alas, an overnighter was not in the cards and we arrived home sweet home a little after 2am.

I can't help but smile when Hubby plays his saxophone.  Since the sound is generated by breathing, I find it's very close to singing; and the wailing tone that emerges always reminds me of a human voice.  In all these years, I've never seen him phone it in or play with anything less than complete, full-scale conviction.  He breathes his guts, his soul, his very essence into the music, until the room is brimming with the booming, blazing sounds of bluesy, funky brass.  He and his horn cause a ruckus, they make people cheer.  My mind sees colors as I listen.  It's a gorgeous thing. 

Ever yours,

~The Eternal Groupie xoxo

P.S.

PS: The Stephen Talkhouse venue is named after a Montaukett Native American named Stephen Taukus "Talkhouse" Pharaoh.  Throughout the evening, I couldn't stop staring at the massive, majestic picture of him hanging behind the stage.  I was drawn by the beauty and quiet dignity in his face, and I've posted the image for you below. 

   

Dr. Jekyll And Mrs. Hyde

On the way to Hubby's gig last Friday night, I spotted an ad on the side of a bus that caught my attention.  It was for a religious BET television program called Afternoon Praise. 

Afternoon praise, I mused out loud, in my best preacher voice.  Is that anything like, I love your shirt, is it new?  What a great haircut!  You have such nice eyes...

Afternoon Praise.  Hubby was too preoccupied to fully appreciate my shtick, seeing as he was heading towards what was probably his last nyc gig before the big move.

Friends can't attend every gig.  This is a fact of life.  If someone can come, well, I consider myself very lucky.  What this means is that sometimes I find myself sitting in clubs, perched on solitary barstools, unaccompanied, quarantined, sequestered, solo...and alone.  It's too dark to read and it's too loud to call someone.  And so I drink.  Heavily.  I drink until I'm friendly.  I drink until I ask the bathroom attendant where she's from, and when she answers the Dominican Republic, I exclaim into her bewildered face, "Oh!  Like Manny Ramirez!"  I drink until a hot dog vendor tells me he's from Egypt, and I ask him if he's read The Alchemist.  "You'll LOVE it!" I assure him, as Hubby coaxes my inebriated ass into a cab.  Once inside, I quickly learn that our cabbie is from Africa.  "So, how do you like New York?"  I will ask, ignoring my husband's pleading blue eyes.  "Do you have any children?"  (He does.)  "Oh, they're back home in Africa?"  (They are.)  "Do you miss them?"  (He does.)

Last Friday evening I daintily knocked back five glasses of wine, surpassing my strict three drink limit and thus pushing myself over the edge of sanity and reason.  Often times when I become intoxicated, in addition to being overly friendly I also become very, very...tenderhearted.  Not only do I like everyone within a ten thousand mile radius, I love them!  And I will tell them so, in great, loving detail.  Technology has even allowed me to expand and take this habit to the next level, what with cell phones and text messaging.  It's creepy and disturbing and I don't know why I do it.  OK, I suppose it could have something to do with the wine...

The irony is that anyone who knows me also knows that behind my smile lies a twisted, hateful little secret: I don't really expect to be liked and in turn find myself genuinely liking very few people.  (I can't believe I'm admitting this pathetic fact on the world wide web.)  It's sick and it's wrong and I should probably go talk to somebody about it. 

So I have anti-social tendencies, but why the Dr. Jekyll/Mrs. Hyde routine?  My Mother suggests it's because my true personality is naturally compassionate and hospitable, hence the emergence of the loving demeanor.  This is something only a mother would say, but I'll thank her nonetheless.

Whatever my motivation, I feel I should perhaps harness these powers for the good of humankind.  The other day I suggested the following to Hubby:  He shall place me in a room, in a comfy, oversized armchair.  To my side will be a fresh box of pinot grigio and a glass.  The lighting will be low, with music humming softly in the background.  One by one, he will lead in any person in need of a self-esteem boost and seat them down next to me.  And then I will proceed, slurring ever so slightly, but with vim, with vigor:

Aren't you wonderful!  (Hiccup!)  Aren't you amazing!  Where on earth did you find that eyeshadow?  I absolutely LOVE it!  And I love you.

I shall label my noble endeavor, Drunken Praise.  Starring myself, The Odd Broad.  My next performance begins at eight PM sharp. 

xoxo

AMAZING!

    Seriously, that was awesome.    xoxo

Dad

A while back, I read that Jenna Bush had chosen Joe Cocker's You Are So Beautiful as her father/daughter wedding dance.  My father and I also danced to this song at my wedding, but I didn't choose it, he did, when I was just a baby.  Since then it has always been our song.  He and my sister have one, too.

As we stood at the back of the church that day, getting ready to walk down the aisle, Dad turned to me and whispered, "I thought of this moment the day you were born."

He's always saying things like that.  Really, he is.

My father has been surrounded by women for over thirty years.  Try suggesting to him that it must have been a disappointment having two daughters rather than a son.  Try telling him that he must be so relieved now that he has a grandson, finally getting a boy in the family.  Go on, do it.  (Just to warn you, he's going to think you're an asshole.)

Whether I realize it or not, I compare every man I meet to my father.  Sometimes it alarms me how much we're alike.  We are both sentimental, almost to our detriment.  We feel a strong connection with animals.  He inspired my love of nature.  He is sensitive, artistic, and prone to worrying too much about the people he loves.  I have been known to do the same.  I suspect at our cores we both just want to be loved.

My father is a perpetual reader.  He's a dog person, a Guinness drinker, a history connoisseur.  He hangs bird houses, he recycles.  If for some reason he is forced to cut down a tree, he'll always plant a new one in its place.  He is affectionate, thoughtful, bitingly witty and often times poetic.  He is also the handiest person I know.  He'll install a toilet or a sink, design and build a deck, landscape the lawn; he doesn't pay people to do what he knows he can do himself, and probably faster and better.  He introduced me to the writings of Henry David Thoreau, built me my very own playhouse complete with windows and flower boxes, and sends me a Valentine every year. 

For as far back as I can possibly remember, each day I have known that he loves me.  And I adore the guy.  Being the recipient of his love has provided me with a strength that half the time I don't even realize is there.   

Happy Father's Day, Daddy. 

Love,

Your Human Fly xoxo

Tags and Scuffles

On Tuesday I experienced a random act of kindness.  I was waiting for the doors of the subway to open when a woman standing to my left said, "Your tag's sticking out."  As I reached lamely in the direction of said tag, the woman behind me tucked it in, giving my back a maternal little pat.  "There," she said, as if speaking to a toddler.  "You're all set."  A simple, minor exchange, but it warmed my sweaty little heart nonetheless. 

This week also brought with it subway interactions of a different kind, though this time not as warm and fuzzy.  Take yesterday, for example, when I saw a man from work as we were both heading into the subway station.  He was going one way, I the other, and we were saying goodbye when I realized I'd collided with a female MTA worker, who instantly began yelling.  Instinctively, I momentarily placed my hand on her arm and apologized, which only seemed to incense her more.  My coworker, laughing, said something like "get going, we don't want you in a fight."  As I scurried down the steps, the wrathful old gal was still standing there, outraged. 

New York, in light of my imminent departure, you are certainly pulling out all the stops.  (You should have seen me that day, post my reading of A New Earth, walking down my sunny street trying very hard not to feel like a storm cloud was dangling over me.)

And lastly, this evening while riding home and attempting not to grab the metal pole, my wedge sandal landed hard upon a stranger's flip flop.  I apologized profusely to him as well, and he smiled kindly, though I could tell he was trying not to wince.  Sorry, dude.  It was a total accident.

My ability to balance myself on the subway (no hands!) is advanced, has been commented upon, even.  What is going on with me?

I blame the heat.  It's gotta be the heat.

xoxo

Congratulations!!

Today at 4:03 PM I realized I'd missed a text message:

5:21 AM

From: AMY

Subject: baby time!!!

Holy crap!!  Oh Reader, one of my dearest friends had finally gone into labor!  Only, this had apparently occurred some eleven hours ago!

When I called Amy's cell, her husband Mark answered and informed me that just twelve minutes earlier their beautiful baby girl had been born.

Hip, Hip, Hooray!!!

When my friend got on the phone I found myself choking back tears.  Her voice sounded sleepy, calm, and very, very happy.  Tonight I am sending a gigantic shout out to baby Mary Louise: Welcome to the world, little Gemini!!  I can hardly wait to snuggle you!

Amy, I'm so proud of you!!

XOXO

Hill steps down

Have no fear, The Odd Broad is not about to get all political on you.  It's just, I'm sitting here at my computer experiencing an overwhelming sensation of deja vu.  I feel as if I've already written what I'm about to type.  I see a foggy picture in my mind, but the moment I put my finger on it the vision passes.  Que sera.

Deja vus and all political affiliation aside, to paraphrase Hillary Clinton yesterday afternoon: from now on little girls everywhere will be able to take for granted that a woman can run for president. 

A little chill ran up my spine when I heard her speak those words.  As a child, my dream was to become the first woman president.  My life did not, it turns out, lead me into the vast field of politics.  But my adolescent, unguarded mind immediately sensed the glaring inequity of the situation.  Sure, it had never been done before, but why?  No answer has ever really sufficed. 

Females by our very nature are powerful beings.  We are life givers, life sustainers, mystical, intuitive and mighty.  We are a force to be reckoned with.  For centuries, the masculine way of thinking and doing has been running the show, manifesting war, violence, starvation and the systematic destruction of our beautiful planet.  To put it simply, it's not really working. 

I'm not by any means bashing men; I happen to be married to a balanced, gorgeous example of what I feel it truly means to be a strong and powerful male.  On the contrary, what I'm specifically targeting here is the outdated, ineffectual, strictly masculine style of thinking that a lot of us have been buying into, intentionally or not.

In short, I pray our next president can put a little yin into his yang.  (Wait.  That sounded dirty.  I didn't mean for it to be.)

In my deepest of hearts, I believe in my lifetime we'll finally see a woman presiding over the White House.  What a beautiful, beautiful thing. 

xoxo