The Odd Broad

Turkey Day

The Odd Broad wishes a Happy Thanksgiving to one and all!  XOXO

A very worrisome finding

Reader, I woke up two nights ago from a most peculiar dream.  I was singing a creepy la-la melody with a pretty Chinese woman.  In the dream, I remember thinking she had a husky tone, while my la-las would only come out in a breathy, sickly sweet tone.  I awoke with those la-la's filling my brain, Rosemary's Baby style.

La, la, la-la-la...

Why is it that dreams which can simply be categorized as "weird" the next morning always seem so terrifying in the middle of the night? 

In the light of day, there was nothing particularly scary about the dream I'd just experienced, but for some reason that night I was definitely spooked.  I was almost too chicken to get up for a pee, such was my fright.  Feeling jumpy, I paid a visit to the loo and found a darling little surprise in the living room.

WHAT THE?  "Hubby...Hubby!!  HUBBY!!!!!"  Now I was really alarmed.

There, on the very same floor that my beloved nephew crawls around on just about every weekend, were four perfectly uniform little cat poops all lined up in a perfectly uniform little row.  It was as if a human hand had plucked them from the littler box in the bathroom and had made a twisted attempt at arts n' crafts. 

Hubby emerged to groggily analyze my findings:  "That's disgusting." 

Without going into too much detail, these were not fresh poops; and two of them were sprinkled ever so slightly with cat litter, like mini munchkins with icing.  Only, these were no munchkins.  These were poopies.

   

"Kittie," I asked my cat daughter, "Why would you do this?  Are you acting out?  Is there something you'd like to talk to me about?"  She totally didn't want to discuss it.

Of course, if you know me you won't be surprised that this whole poo affair freaked me out big time.  I went back to bed (Hubby, hold me!!), convinced that one of three occurrences had just taken place:

1.) An intruder had entered our apartment and had had his or her way with our cat's feces.

2.) A supernatural intruder had entered our apartment and had had his or her way with our cat's feces.  (This was the more probable theory, I figured.)

OR...

3.) Kittie was acting weird.  And, as I have explained to you above, weird in the middle of the night equals...creepy.  Scary.  Terrifying!

Has this cat poo business ever happened to anyone else?  Am I alone in this?

Turkey Balls

Last month Hubby brought home frozen meatballs from Trader Joe's.  When I peered into the freezer to see what he'd gotten, I immediately inquired, "What made you buy frozen turkey meatballs?"  (We'd already had one rather unpleasant incident involving turkey chili, so I was curious as to what his motivation had been.  An impulse buy, perhaps?)

Turns out he thought they were beef.  Fair play. 

In theory, I really would love to substitute lean turkey meat in my burgers, chili, meatloaf, stuffed peppers...but it's simply not for me.

Eventually we did try the meatballs.  We put them in the crock pot, covered them with sauce and within minutes the apartment smelled like an Italian feast.  I wondered if I hadn't jumped to conclusions about ground turkey after all.  I mean, they certainly smelled tasty enough! 

In hindsight, the fact that my mother had sent us home with her delicious homemade meatballs the day before may have been setting the turkey balls up for failure.  After all, how could they possibly compete?  But alas, there were only four of Ma's meatballs left, so turkey would have to do. 

I took one bite and had to spit it into the garbage, Gordon Ramsey style.  "Arrggg!  Sick!"  From the look on Hubby's face I gathered I was being overly dramatic.  He was getting annoyed: "If you don't stop making that face and those sounds, how am I supposed to eat it?  That's not helping."

So it appeared we were bickering over the turkey balls.  It's just, their flavor was so very disappointing that it had actually made us grumpy.  Hubby tried his best; he doused them with sauce, grated over a generous amount of fresh parmesan, but all to no avail.  In the spirit of marital goodwill, I offered him the last four of Ma's meatballs.  By that time I'd already gone off meat and had decided to make some toast with peanut butter and call it an evening.

I still don't like to think abut them, those turkey balls.  Call me quaint, but I just don't enjoy unexpected culinary twists and turns.  If a food appears to look a certain way and smell a certain way, I do expect it to taste the way it looks.  If it looks like beef, let it taste like beef, for frigg's sake!!  (Don't even get me started on tofu.  Soy-sage links my ass.)

But the turkey saga doesn't end there.  The next day I ordered food for a large work meeting and was told I'd receive a free lunch myself.  I didn't specify my choice, opting instead to be "surprised," which, in my opinion, is the surest path to disappointment.

I opened the bag and found an inspired pasta salad, a brownie, chips and what appeared to be a chicken salad wrap.  Oooh!  Only, it didn't taste very much like chicken.  Come to think of it, it didn't taste like chicken at all!  Upon further inspection I discovered, to my dismay, what the taste in my mouth actually was...

Turkey.  It was turkey.  Big, meaty chunks of mayonnaise covered turkey.  A smoked turkey salad sandwich.  What are the odds?  I gave the sandwich away.  I could retch just thinking about it.

PS: I know I sound like a wasteful, nasty bastard; but I'm not really all that bad.  Tomorrow I'm volunteering at a food bank which will hopefully make up for my spitting out the turkey balls. 

Hot Tot

I was staring at the news screen in the elevator today when I read something about Suri Cruise being #1 on the Forbes list of the world's Hottest Tots.  And then I died a little inside. 

Celtic Pride

The Celtics game went into overtime tonight and Hubby and I entered into a lively debate over Big Baby Davis.  For some reason I was insisting that #43 was Big Baby, even going so far as to declare I would bet my life on it. 

Hubby begged to differ and decided to prove me wrong by checking the facts online.  Turns out # 43 is Kendrick Perkins and not Big Baby, not even a little.  In truth, Perkins doesn't in any way resemble a big baby, more like the evil baby from the Simpsons, if anything.  And I call myself a Celtics fan!

So I was way off.  I will blame the Riesling.

Here's what I think:

If the people of America aren't yet ready to support gay marriage, then it's time for the federal government to wake up and intervene.  Change doesn't occur because the majority agrees in unison, change occurs when it becomes blindingly clear that the right thing must be done; politics, popularity and religious bullies aside. 

Massachusetts and Connecticut are on board, what is the rest of the country waiting for? 

Misty, water-colored memories...

Circumstances warranted that Hubby and I DVR the first episode of the new season of Top Chef New York rather than watch it live on Wednesday.  When we saw that Jamie and Danny would have to cook Greek food Astoria, Queens style, Hubby and I turned to each other and mouthed the name of our former home in giddy unison: Astoria.  They even showed the entrance to the N train on 31st Street!

I'm not gonna lie.  I'm desperately jonesing for some authentic tsatziki. 

PS: My choice in title has inspired me to perform my Barbara Streisand impersonation, even though Hubby doesn't know what her voice sounds like and therefore can't appreciate the quality of my efforts.  It's unfortunate, really.

Split ends

Finding a hairdresser is no easy feat.  If properly nourished, the relationship between cutter and cuttee can often grow to be long term, complex, rewarding.  It calls for delicate balance and mutual respect.

Lacey cut my hair for eight years.  I was a monogamous client, never once straying, trusting her scissor wielding completely.  During our time together my hair went from long to chin length, to medium, short, very long, to shoulder length.  We went dark, light, streaky, caramel.  She would tell me fascinating stories about her large family in Brazil, her implants, hot yoga.  She called me, "mi amor," and her "caramel baby."  If she found a gray hair on my head she'd always ask, "You want me to pull it?" and would then proceed to yank it expertly, at no extra charge.

Sigh.  I haven't gotten my hair trimmed since Lacey, which means my ends have been splitting since early August.  I've been feeling dumpier than dumpy.  Immediate action was painful but necessary. 

Tonight in a salon on Newbury Street I told the friendly faced woman holding the scissors that I'd like an inch taken off, perhaps?  She fingered a few strands of my straggly hair and looked at me kindly but doubtfully: "I'd say two inches, at least.  Are you comfortable with two?"  Who was I kidding, I was comfortable with just about anything provided the rats nest on top of my head be removed!

Going to a new stylist is a bit like interviewing for a love interest.  I got the feeling this new one sensed that I was on the prowl.  It was our "first date."  As I sat down after my shampooing I heard myself say, "I was with my old hair dresser for eight years..."  "Wow," she nodded, eyebrows raised, a look of somber reverence upon her face. 

Small talk was made, and throughout it all I couldn't help but feel a bit wistful, wondering what I'd be talking about had I been sitting in Lacey's chair.  (Her ex-husband, perhaps; was that silly goose threatening suicide again?  Was her teenage daughter behaving?  How was her latest romance unfolding?  Did she remove that close-up picture of her thong clad bum from her myspace page?)

We talked about daycare.  Not exactly Lacey caliber conversation but hell, it would have to do.  I made some casual inquiries: What days did she work?  Would I have to call very far ahead to get an appointment?  (Oh God, was I sounding desperate, already asking about her schedule?  And what was I doing, anyway, she'd barely even started cutting and here I was talking about highlights and lowlights?!  I was acting a total slut!  Giving everything away before the blow dryer had even come out of its drawer!!)

She cut bangs.  She made me feel...like a pretty girl again.  And I'm going back this Saturday for a color.  I know, I know, it may seem a bit too soon after Lacey, but what can I say?  I long for continuity!  I'm a one stylist woman! 

Having issues

Should one really have to choose between facial hair and acne?  My wax of choice has been breaking my skin out lately and so I am forced to ponder a conundrum most inconvenient: do I prefer a beard, or acne?

The writing is on the wall(s)...

If you were, perchance, to visit the home of my parents, walk up the stairs and enter the bedroom to the right, you would find a room with bright, yellow colored walls.  These walls are bordered with quotes and poems scribbled in Crayola marker which to this day my mother still doesn't have the heart to paint over.  (For Ma is and always has been, after all, my creative champion.)

Quotes like:

"LIVE YOUR DREAM OR DIE"  -Jewel

"What is a weed?  A plant whose virtues have never been discovered" - R. W. Emerson

"Worrying is nothing more or less than the misuse of your imagination"  -Uncle Jim

"Doubt, if you must...but persist!"

"When the thumb of fear lifts, we are so alive!"

"Forget regrets...or life is yours to miss...  (RENT.  OK, I'm a frigging theater geek, so sue me!!)

Over the years, as I came back to stay in this room, usually the quotes would inspire me; though more times than naught they would mock me in a manner most menacing.  Was I ever really that idealistic or was I merely trying to convince myself?  As my childhood dreams began to fade and morph, I sort of stopped looking up at my walls.

I'm not going to lie, I was embarrassed the first time Hubby saw my childhood bedroom and especially prayed that he'd overlook the sloppy poetry marking the wall behind the door.  That poem I penned about everyone at Conservatory being a fake and a phony and how I wished I'd never laid eyes on them!!:

"But the sickest part of all this shit...is I am the fakest part of it!"  (Yes, I dared to rhyme with the word "shit".  Even performed it as a theatrical piece in movement class.  Oh ya, I went there.)

So I was a passionate youth.  But what I've been thinking of mostly this week, this monumental week in American history, is of a small sticker adhered to my closet door, bought from The Body Shop in the Pheasant Lane Mall about a million years ago.  It's a bumper sticker with a picture of Martin Luther King, Jr., and on it are the words: Remember the Dream. 

This week, as the magnitude of what has recently come to pass soaks in, my thoughts inevitably keep turning to Mr. King.  As a rule, I generally don't like to talk politics with anyone but Hubby and my sister; but I would like to simply say this: Hooray America!!  It's about bloody time. 

xoxo