The Odd Broad

I-95

To the girl in the red car who is simultaneously driving, applying makeup and talking on her cell phone: You, my dear, are a boob. And a driving hazard. Are we there yet?

Aging...is for cheese!

Today Hubby bid adieu to his twenties and turned (dun dun DUN!!!) thirty.  The big 3-0.  Happy Birthday, Hubs! 

For the past week he's been consumed with midterms and pondering jolly little existential queries such as, does thirty equal middle age?  It's all been most fun, I can assure you, but now the time has come for some real celebrating.  And so, we are off to the big apple to mark the occasion.  I wonder if it will feel strange to be back?

Happy Halloween!  xoxo

Hubby and me celebrate three

My husband and I grew up over 3,000 miles away from each other, though we were born a mere 49 days and 166 miles apart.  That Fall of 1978, both of our mothers were named Marianne, both pregnant, and as it turns out, both planning on naming their baby Sarah Beth.  (Sarah with an "H" and Beth rather than Elizabeth, since that felt a bit long.)

In the end, Hubby came out a blue eyed baby boy and I was the Sarah Beth, and thank God for that or else how would I have found the love of my life?  Although I suppose fate could have made us a nice lesbian couple with matching names.  "Hey, are the Sarah Beth's coming to the cookout next weekend?"

But I digress.  Two decades later, Hubs would spy me across a crowded Berklee cafeteria and my life would never, ever be the same.  Three years ago today, we finally tied the knot.

Happy anniversary, Hubby.  Granted, I love you more than a board certified psychiatrist would likely deem healthy, but that's just the way it is.  Loving you is one of the few things that come naturally to me, and after nearly eleven years this feeling only increases.  Thank you for inspiring me, challenging me, laughing with me, growing with me, bringing me tea...for loving me through the sweet, the sour, the neurotic...for being your rare, one of a kind, generous, delightful self.  You really never fail to amaze me.

I love you. 

PS- I know this is going to embarrass you.  Just get over it.  xoxo

G to the Z, I, L, L, A

Apartment dwelling is always a bit of a crap shoot.  Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose.  I'm not new; I've been a renter for nearly ten years now and yet some things never fail to set my blood a'boiling.

Take our upstairs neighbor, Godzilla, for example: He of the Heavy Boot, The Midnight Stomper, Old Cement Foot, The Elephantine Sensation.  Or as I was lovingly referring to him at 3 o'clock this morning, One Crazy, Mutha ****ing, Sonofabitching Bastard.  I'm not sure exactly what it is he's doing, but the more he does of it, the more curious Hubby and I become.  Last night poor G-Zilla had misplaced something, or so we imagined as we listened to him bounding from room to room. 

Oh, Godzilla.  You silly little stomper, you. 

 

Their clock is ticking

Sissy and I were driving past a live turkey farm yesterday when she got to musing about the poor little bastards.  As I happened to be savoring a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich at the time, I pleaded with her to stop so as not to spoil breakfast.  Somehow my request only seemed to spur her on further.  She got as far as mentioning the plucking of feathers* when I was forced to passionately beg her, in a sisterly manner, mind you, to cease any talk of poultry.  It just wasn't seemly.

A harmless sibling exchange; mildly annoying at most, and yet...I awoke this morning from a dream about turkeys. 

Gobble gobble.

* Is it true the feathers are sometimes plucked pre-slaughter?  I'm too much of a chicken to google it.  (Please pardon the poultry pun.  I couldn't resist.) 

Oh No!

A note to my faithful, gorgeous readers (all three of you): this week The Odd Broad's hosting site was experiencing difficulties of the technical kind.  Everything seems to be all real better now.  But please remember...I lovingly post every Monday and Friday...if for some reason your browser can't load my posts, please let me know!  xoxo

PS: I realize if you can't see this post then you certainly won't be able to tell me about it.  It's almost reminiscent of the classic 1989 film Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, where Keanu Reeves reminds himself to "wind his watch."  And yet again...I have digressed.

Thoughts on turning thirty

There was a time when I considered finding a few gray hairs to be nothing more or less than an unpleasant novelty.  My, how quickly times have changed. 

Monday afternoon.  I'm in a public restroom, standing in front of a brightly lit mirror.  As I bask in the unforgiving fluorescent glare I spy two gray hairs.  Why does it always come as such a surprise?

As my twenties come to their roaring conclusion, I find these discoveries just aren't as humorous as they used to be.  I hear a tiny voice whisper, you used to dye your hair because you wanted to...will you now be dying it because you have to?  It seems I am standing at a nasty little crossroads.

It suddenly occurs to me: what exactly is the big deal if I have a few grays?  Will strangers stop me mid-crosswalk and demand an explanation?  Will my soul mate of eleven years suddenly realize I'm no longer acceptable? 

No, it's quite clear the judgment lies solely in my own mind, with a little too much emphasis placed on society's collective perception.  So really what it all boils down to is a control issue and nothing more.  And like most things in life, turning thirty is something I just can't control.  Rats!

But please don't get me wrong.  I realize age is a hopelessly relative entity.  Just yesterday I listened to a twenty-two year old gripe about feeling "old".  I don't wish to discredit her seemingly genuine feelings, and yet...a strong part of me wants to tell her she is young, so be young!  Be stupid!  Live!  I told her so.  Just as someone on the eve of turning forty may very well tell me I'm being absolutely ridiculous for feeling old.

You couldn't pay me to go back to my earliest twenties.  I love the life I have now.  I love knowing what I know from the place where I stand.  This little life Hubby and I have created for ourselves is everything I could have asked for and more.  When I really think about it, I'm more bothered by the label of being in my thirties than actually being there!  And that is just silly.  What is thirty supposed to look like, anyhow? 

Something tells me turning thirty in New York is a lot different from turning thirty in Boston.  For starters, this college town seems to be a much younger city.  But the people who I've met that are my age seem so much older than me.  Heck, some of the people who are younger seem older than me!  Is this real, or is it just my perception?  I'm open to being contradicted if you disagree. 

The scary part is I still have so much further to go before I fully realize who I am.  Do I have it all figured out now that I'm turning thirty?  Not even close!  As a female, I wish to remain relevant, desirable, vital, spontaneous, strong.  A contender, if you will.  Something tells me I'll be wearing leopard strecthie pants when I'm ninety, still trying to uncover my innermost dreams.  After all, we never stop yearning, do we?

My thoughts turn to words written by one of my favorite authors, the talented Melissa Nathan, published in The Jewish Chronicle a month before she died of breast cancer at the age of thirty-seven:

"Of course, no one likes the frailty that can come from old age, but guess what?  The opposite of age is not youth: it's death.  Age is not the approach towards death, it's the increasingly precious alternative to it. So, as I grow older, I want to look older, dammit. Otherwise where's the glory in survival?"

She is right, of course.  To hell with lame definitions of what it means to grow older.  What do I do when I'm standing in front of a mirror and spy two gray, wiry hairs?  I yank them out and get on with my day.  I metaphorically spread my arms out to the sides and fall backwards into surrender.  There is nothing else to do, really.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.  xoxo

What the?

Has anyone seen the commercial for High Fructose Corn Syrup?  Where the guy and girl are picnicking in the park and she's offering him a lick of her Popsicle but he refuses and says "I thought you loved me?"  And she naysays him, the silly boy, telling him it's perfectly fine to ingest food containing high fructose corn syrup, in moderation.

I really thought I had seen it all.  I actually watched this commercial three times before I realized what it was an ad for.  They even have a website.

Ballsy.  If not completely sickening.

Under the Weather

One could argue that this hasn't exactly been my week.  On Tuesday, if you remember, I was in a pickle, and on Wednesday woke with a throbbing headache that only subsided a few hours ago.  On Friday morning I even had to call in sick, which is definitely a rarity for me, especially considering it's a new job.  But vomiting is something I really prefer to do within the confines of my own bathroom. 

When I spoke to one coworker over the phone he voiced his concern in no uncertain terms: "Are you sure you're not pregnant?  I mean, you're always warm, you have headaches, and just Tuesday when you went to the emergency room I was thinking..."

(In case you're wondering, no, I did not tell him why I rushed off to the doctor; even I like to practice a bit of discretion on occasion.)

For some unexplained reason, when someone accuses me of being pregnant I always start to feel as if I am.  Even as I'm rationally aware there is no way this could possibly be true; even as I realize this is a wildly inappropriate conversation to be having with a work acquaintance; and even as I protest I understand I'm only causing myself to appear more and more knocked up.

"Thanks, but I assure you that's definitely not what's wrong with me."

To be honest, I'm not really sure what was wrong with me.  But it was nothing a little homemade chicken soup couldn't fix...

This soup is easy schmeasy.  I think you would like it.  Do you have a crock pot?  Turn it on high and fill it with the following:

1 lb boneless skinless chicken breasts
4 Cups low sodium Chicken Broth
Some Onion, Celery Stalks, Carrots and a few smashed Garlic Cloves
1 Bay Leaf
Salt, Pepper

Put the lid on and leave it alone for about 3 1/2 hours, then remove the chicken and shred it with two forks.  Strain the broth and set aside the vegetables.  (You can eat them but they're really mushy so I usually discard them.)

In a large pot, saute some garlic, diced onions, celery and carrots.  Deglaze with the strained chicken broth from the crock pot and add a bit more (I added another 4 cups).  Bring the mixture to a boil, pop in the shredded chicken, add a little of your favorite marinara sauce (I like Trader Joe's Marinara) and some pasta.  Lower the heat and simmer until the pasta is cooked.

That's it!

I'm a fan of slow cooking.  It's nice to leave the crock on low in the morning and come home to a house brimming with delicious aromas.  This method of cooking is also great for chicken salad, enchiladas, anything that calls for soft, shredded chicken.  If I'm making something other than soup I save the broth and freeze it to use later.

And with that, I'm off to curl up and watch the rest of the ball game...

xoxo

In a pickle

Warning: The following anecdote could very well be considered "too much information."

I was a woman living on the edge, a gambler, a taker of risks.  I knew I needed to buy a box of tampons and yet some slothful part of me kept putting it off.  But not to worry, I was sure there had to be a few lurking around somewhere.  Actually, didn't I have an extra one in my purse from the vending machine at work?  It turned out I did.  And good thing, too- because it was Monday evening and I'd just gotten a visit from Aunt Flo.   

A word about tampons purchased for a quarter- they're not always of the highest quality.  In my experience, they can be prone to falling apart.  And wouldn't you know, this is precisely what happened when I unwrapped it.  Times were desperate, however, and I did my best to put that old plug back together.  I went to sleep, never guessing the adventure that would await me in the morning...

~        ~        ~        ~        ~

7:57 am:  It's stuck.  What the?  Nary a string in sight.  And I'm already running late for work.  Shit! 

8:36am:  I call Sissy on my way to the T, hoping she'll ease my anxiety.  She is not laughing, and as it turns out is quite unable to hide her concern.  Oh dear.  Perhaps a vigorous jaunt to the train will help bring on a miracle?  (Or bring out a tampon?)

9:25 am:  In the bathroom stall at work.  In the spirit of true improvisation, I fervently attempt to remedy the situation.  No dice. 

Now, I've been in the employ of my company for less than two months, and yet on that Monday morning I find myself sidling into my new boss's office to utter a sentence I surely never thought I'd have to utter:

"My tampon is stuck."

There is really no dignified way to say it.  And with that, I am in a taxi on my way to Mass General Hospital.  Once inside, I am curiously surrounded by several people wearing facial masks.  (It is all very "SARS") 

10:38 am: The nurse who registers my information gives me a doubtful look.  "Are you sure it's still in there?"  (Of course it's in there!  Wouldn't I know if it wasn't in there?  I may be idiotic enough to get a tampon stuck inside of me, but so help me God I'm intelligent enough to know if it's still in there or not!  For reals!!) 

Alas, this is not the time for hysterics.  I remain calm.  "Oh ya, it's in there."

By this time Sissy and Lukey the Wonder Nephew have rushed to my aid.  We decide to have a nice little visit and make the most of the situation.

12:30 pm:  It occurs to me that I may be forced to see a male doctor.  Oh please, God, please don't let my doctor be the somber looking man who just walked by.  If you can work with me on this one, I will surely be grateful. 

A kind faced doctor opens the door and calls my name.  She is a lady.  Thank you, Baby Jesus!

It takes only three tries.  She apologizes profusely throughout.  At one point she exclaims, "I see the string!"  A voice inside of me wants to scream: "For Christs's sake, PULL!!!!" 

12:45 pm:  It is out.

12:47 pm:  I ask for a pad.

~        ~        ~        ~        ~ 

In closing, I ask you which is more ridiculous: the fact that I'm telling this grisly tale on the world wide web, or the fact that this has already happened to me once before?  xoxo