The Odd Broad

Shopping

My husband bought himself a pair of ladies sunglasses the other day at Filene's Basement.  And I, for my part, just stood by and allowed it to happen.

We didn't realize they were ladies glasses, you see; not until we got home.  Okay, so maybe that's not entirely factual, seeing as Hubby did ask me in the store if I believed they were ladies glasses and I vehemently said no.  They looked too big to be ladies glasses!  And anyways, we couldn't see the purple tint in the lenses until we got them home.  I also didn't notice that they were Jones New York.  And the dude behind the register, whose opinion I asked, did appear to be a little high.

Since Hubby is in school full time and currently I'm the only one bringing home the pancetta, I don't dare naysay any purchases, especially seeing as he feels weird enough about the whole not working situation already.  That having been said, I take great pride in being able to support him this way.  (It's all very Love Story.  Or if we're referencing Slippery When Wet, I am Gina, and I work the proverbial diner all day.)  Just buy the glasses!  I cheerfully ordered.  Well, sort of cheerfully.

Did I mention we were shopping on empty stomachs?  And it was extremely humid that day?  And I was becoming lightheaded and a little grouchy because I still hadn't found shoes to match my dress for our friend Mike's wedding?  There were many crucial factors leading up to this unfortunate debacle.

In any case, that's how I got my new pair of sunglasses.  xoxo

Water down the nostril...

I've been talking about getting one of those neti pots ever since Dr. Oz mentioned them on Oprah.  You know those little tea pots that you fill with warm water and pour into one nostril, and the water comes out the other end?  I was intrigued.

They looked simple enough to use, didn't they?  I added it to my list of products I obsessively longed for but never really remembered to buy. 

Today we were in Whole Foods and finally picked up a neti pot of our very own.

I stood in the bathroom and watched intently as Hubby gave it a go.  "Why are you coughing?"  I wondered.  The water was going down his throat.  "Are you sure you're doing it right?"  It took maybe two tries before a perfect stream of water came dripping out his other nostril.  He then switched sides and did the same thing to the other nostril.  I looked on, amazed.  I couldn't wait to try. 

The instructions said not to share, but we cleaned it out and did so anyway.  This was going to be a piece of cake. 

I couldn't do it.  I couldn't get that f**king neti pot to work!  The water went in my nostril and down my throat, leaving a burning sensation.  What the?  Despite several earnest, increasingly frantic attempts, I could not get any water to come out my other damn nostril.  And believe me, I tried. 

I long for clean, debris free nostrils!  NETI POT!!  I will master you if it's the last thing I do!

6:50 pm: Gave it another go.  Success remains painfully unattainable.

7:00 pm: Just gave it ANOTHER go (after all, is this post really going to end with me not being able to maneuver a neti pot?)  Yes.  Yes, it is.

7:05 pm: I try again.  Kittie makes several endeavors to jump into the sink as I pour.  This time it feels like I'm swimming under water and the back of my head starts to feel sort of funny.  It is all very dramatic.  I tell Hubby I need a hug. 

I think that's enough water up my nostrils for now.  But I will master the neti pot; maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday soon my nostrils will thank me.  xoxo

Odd Broad Addendum:

Sunday, 9:12 PM

It pains me greatly to inform you that Neti Pot has met its untimely end.  It was left perching precariously upon our too small bathroom sink, and Hubby accidentally knocked it over and it smashed.  The minute I heard the crack I knew.  Rest in peace, neti pot; we hardly knew ye. 

OMG

I don't often drink hard liquor.  Like a supermarket in New Hampshire, I mainly stick to beer and wine.  I also don't usually imbibe more than three glasses of whatever it is I am drinking, unless I wish to end up doing one of the following: singing showtunes, telling everyone around me how much I love them, or crying.  Hiccup.

In addition to these three personal rules, I rarely drink with co-workers.  What's that old adage about not shitting where you eat?  A foul visual, I realize, but so very true. 

Last night I broke all of these rules.  I went to a work function and drinking four cosmos on an empty stomach seemed like such a good idea at the time. 

I don't think I made too big of an ass out of myself, (I didn't stay long enough) but I suppose I'll find out shortly.  On the way home I stopped at Trader Joe's to do some food shopping and left with three items: arugula, non-fat Greek yogurt, and chocolate covered peanut butter pretzels.  I also told the cashier I'd just gotten drunk with work people.  Way to go!  After that, I drunk dialed my mother.

When I got home Hubby suggested I eat something.  I did want to, however I decided it was more important to get in a little drunk facebooking.  (Always a constructive thing to do while one is on the sauce.)  Hubby ordered some Chinese food, and he seemed concerned when I only ate a little bit.  I wasn't so hungry, though, especially seeing as I'd just eaten three quarters of a bag of chocolate covered peanut butter pretzels.  Plus, I was having so much fun on Facebook.

I crawled into bed with the hopes that The Golden Girls would lull me into a peaceful reverie, but it was not to be.  At one AM I woke up and Cheers was playing, and I decided to drink a million glasses of water, which in turn kept me awake all night going to and from the bathroom to pee.  While I was tossing and turning I agonized over whether or not I'd made an ass out of myself.  I also kept repeating OMG, OMG, OMG.  (Not oh my God; the actual letters.)

OMG is right.  Time to go to work.  Happy Friday, Dear Reader.  xoxo

The Hole

Something about going out of town sort of gets me in a panic; specifically, the last five minutes before we leave the apartment.  This is when my inner control freak likes to come out and do a little tap routine.  "KICK, ball change, shuff-le STEP!"  (She wears a red leotard.  It's all very frightening.)

As a rule, I tend to lean towards the morbid.  As in, God forbid something terrible should happen to us while we're away, when there are empty wine bottles under the sink and dirty underwear strewn on the bathroom floor!  Leaving town suddenly makes me crave a neat, orderly apartment.  One that doesn't have dishes in the sink, or sour milk in the fridge, or Tampax applicators hanging out in the trash can.  It just doesn't look nice.  That sort of thing.

We went out of town this past weekend, and tonight Hubby and I returned to our rental, sweet rental to find something very peculiar.  (Cue creepy theme music.)

When I came into the living room my husband was standing in front of our bookshelf looking puzzled.  "What's the matter?"  Why was he making that face?

There was a hole drilled into the ledge of our bookshelf, and sawdust sprinkled on each of the three shelves below. 

Oh.  Christ.

 

 

My imagination went into heart thumping overdrive.  Someone had been inside our apartment, with...power tools?  What kind of a sick f**k would do such a thing?  Hubby wondered if the maintenance people had come in to do some work, but why on earth would they have drilled a hole in our furniture?

My hypothesis was naturally more sinister.  It had to be those new neighbors, the ones who were hanging out and smoking beneath our window the other night.  It was sweltering that evening and the smoke was wafting directly into our apartment, and it stunk.  In a particularly passive aggressive turn, I'd yelled out, "Oh that smells SOOOO GOOD!"  Granted, they were a bit confused; but they'd heard me.  Could it be they entered into our apartment and drilled a tiny hole into our bookshelf as retribution for my nasty outburst?

Or could it be dogface and her two portly friends, the perpetual stoopers?  Dare they apply drills to innocent pieces of cheap furniture?  I was beginning to get a belly ache. 

The question remained, how would anyone have gotten in in the first place?  Nothing had been touched, everything was exactly as we'd left it.  It was a baffling mystery.  A woodworking conundrum. 

After serious reflection, Hubby produced two separate theories.  One, perhaps the furniture manufacturer had pre-drilled a hole that was then covered up by the shoddily painted veneer, which popped out due to the extreme heat and humidity.  Come to think of it, he did sort of remember a blemish on the wood that had always sort of bothered him.  Theory number two was maybe some sort of bug had eaten its way through the wood.

OR, I was thinking, a madman with a penchant for carpentry entered our apartment whilst we were out of town and drilled a perfect hole into our Target bookshelf to teach us a lesson.  That would show us.

I called my sister, who called her husband, a police officer, to relay the bizarre details: "Sissy just came home and found a hole drilled into her bookshelf." 

Now, my brother-in-law already thinks I'm a little crazy, but he was kind when I explained to him what we'd found.  He didn't think we should worry too much, although he agreed it was strange.

Hubby checked the closets and under the bed to put my mind at ease.  As he was peering into the hall closet, some twisted part of me braced myself for the nutcase who would surely come running out of our bedroom in full clown face, wearing a tool belt, a drill bit perched between his red clown lips.  He never did emerge.

Honestly, none of the windows or locks had been tampered with, so it just must have been one of those freak occurrences.  All the same, it was creepy.  Me no likey!

Goning on vacation...

The fortune cookies from our neighborhood Chinese restaurant certainly never disappoint:



Hmmm.  I do like horses.  (But not to excess.)



A spell checker might also be helpful.

Presumptuous Gratuity

What is more outrageous: The fact that (in this economy) a crappy Miller Light costs $7.25 at Fenway, or the fact that when I handed the surly woman behind the counter a twenty, she dropped three quarters into her tip cup and handed me back a ten and two ones?

What the?  I was...stunned.  I'm not going to lie, I was also a little tipsy, so it took me a second to do the math.

Now I'm a good tipper; a great tipper, even.  Hubby and I have both waited tables and no matter how broke we are, we always tip generously.  It's karma.  But having said that, I do like to be given the option, for crying out loud!  Let's face it, Sunday was laundry day and quarters are a hot commodity.

I took that bitty's picture with the malicious intent to post it upon the world wide web.  Oh yes, I roll that way. 

It wouldn't have bothered me so much if she'd have looked up at me, or acknowledged me, or carded me, even.  (I'm just saying...)  Furthermore, it's not as if she was schlepping a heavy tray of beer into the sunny stands; she was just standing behind a counter, chit-chatting with her coworker, pulling on a tap. 

Later in the evening, the dude behind the snack counter asked me for identification when I requested a Sam Summer and an overpriced hot dog.  He smiled and thanked me as he handed back my change, which I promptly dropped into his tip jar.  Nice boy.

Debbie Downer

WHY was Michael asked to leave The Next Food Network Star when Debbie was allowed to stay?  I know he keeps saying he hates the cameras and all, but how many times is Debbie going to reveal herself as a selfish little one way before the judges finally catch on? 

I'm not a fan of people who are only out for themselves.  That sort of attitude earns you a two thumbs down rating in Odd Broad Land.  Michael was a blast to watch and had real pizazz; something I feel The Food Network is in dire need of.  (No offense, Sandra Lee.)

Bummer.

The Problem

I'm not particularly proud to admit this, but for the past seven days or so I've stopped at Trader Joe's every evening in a serious but futile attempt to purchase one item and one item only: a bag of Chocolate Covered Peanut Butter Pretzels.  (Insert dreamy sigh here.)

Up until this time I was harboring under the delusion that my relationship with this snack treat was casual; non-committal, even.  How naive I was.

I never knew how much they truly meant to me until I walked into Trader Joe's one day and they weren't there.  Hmmm. 

I decided to inquire as to their whereabouts, in as disinterested and blase an attitude as I could muster.  "Um, do you think you'll be getting any of those chocolate peanut butter pretzel things in?"  I won't lie; upon doing this, I immediately reached a new low.  But they HAD to be somewhere on the premises, goddammit!  And my question wasn't so far fetched, since the employees were unloading a shipment as we spoke.  Couldn't they unpack those effing crates any faster!?

The guy disappeared to check with his manager while I waited in shame over by the tortilla chips.  He then returned and delivered the somber news that they did not, in fact, have any pretzels in stock; but they'd definitely be getting a shipment in tomorrow.

Tomorrow.  It seemed so very far away.  At least I'd only have to wait 24 hours.

The next day I left work with a spring in my step.  I'd even joked to my work friends about having been so desperate for my chocolate pretzels that I'd actually asked after them.  It was all SO hilarious.

They didn't have them.  Trader Joe's didn't f**king have them!  I stared in disbelief at the empty shelf, shaking my head to and fro.  The label was there, describing the item; the price was there, the only things missing were...my pretzels!  But...but...but...the kid said they'd be in today.  He LIED to me!  The sonofabitching bastard.

I had a very bad problem.

I went back the following day.  They were closed.  Well, I suppose it was the Fourth of July, and all, the celebration of our nation's independence, blah, blah, blah...

I had a monkey on my back.  And he was covered in chocolate.

Went back Sunday.  Nada.

Monday.  Zilch.

Tuesday.  Nil.  Goose egg.  Nuthin'!

Hubby, being the sweet, caring man that he is, offered to go out and fetch me something else.  Some other delectable snack treat, perchance.  He even suggested pretzels, chocolate and peanut butter might be a nice idea.  Ha!  I laughed scornfully.  That wouldn't even remotely be the same!  And I wasn't interested in any Nestle's Flipz, either.  I didn't want a cheap imitation of these pretzels, I wanted the real effing deal!  It was making me grumpy.  (And a little insane.)

By Wednesday evening I'd given up entirely.  Who needs 'em?  That sort of thing.  I even wondered if perhaps my memory wasn't embellishing their scrumptiousness, making them seem tastier than they actually were.  Was my admiration for them truly that mighty, or had their abrupt absence merely made my heart grow fonder?  I walked into Trader Joe's that night to pick up a few things for dinner and almost forgot to even check the shelf that was once home to that delightful high calorie treat. 

But wait!  There, collectively beaming up at me, were bags upon bags of chocolate covered peanut butter pretzels!  Oh, sweet Jesus!  It was a modern day miracle.  I nearly wept for joy.  I'd been presenting a brave face to the world at large, but now, at last, it was over. 

Serving size: about six pieces.  Calorie Content: 200 per serving.  I tried to stay within the six piece parameter but who the hell was I kidding.  I can't expect to be civilized when it comes to these suckers.  I offered to share with Hubby, but he politely declined.  Perhaps he doesn't want me to run out.  EVER AGAIN.

These pretzels are good.  Dangerously good.  Too good for their own good.  That bag is gone, having been eaten by myself in two sittings, over two consecutive evenings.  I marvel, even now, at my miraculous self-control.  I stopped at Trader Joe's tonight to pick up another bag.  It's all very casual, I'll probably just have one or two...I can stop at any time...I swear...

STOP JUDGING ME!!!!

Friends, fireworks, and talking to the dead.

I'm someone who believes in things I can't always see or explain.  For me it's not a question of whether or not there are ghosts or spirits, say; I just know there are.  I shrug my shoulders when people roll their eyes at my extensive knowledge of Astrology.  It's not my place to convince others why I feel it's valid, I just happen to believe it is.  I don't go around advertising it, but if you give me long enough, I will probably guess which month you were born.  (But I'll only tell you if I'm drunk.)  If I wasn't scared of my own shadow I'd probably make a damn good medium. 

Speaking of mediums, did I ever tell you about the Fourth of July weekend in the Marriott Copley?  Picture it: July, 1997.  I was eighteen and had just completed my first year at the Boston Conservatory.  My closest friends were Amy, Jeff and Jamie.  Jamie's mom Beverly and her friend were in town for the holiday weekend and we all walked over for a visit.

Beverly's friend was a respected medium who sometimes worked with the police and had read for famous types, including Bill Clinton.  Jamie called him Auntie Mel. 

Like most remarkable occurrences, it all happened very suddenly.  The lights were low and there were candles burning.  Bev was practicing Reiki on Jeff, whose long dancer limbs were bothering him.  And then, Auntie Mel started to go into a sort of...trance-like state?

I hesitate to write any of this because it's a difficult thing to convey unless you were actually there.  (But you already know I'm a crackpot, don't you, Dear Reader?)  That night Mel channeled a woman.  His voice became soft and he began to rock slowly back and forth.  He curled up into himself and was whimpering.  We could barely make out the word he kept repeating: "Sterno.  The sterno.  He used sterno..."

Sterno?  I didn't recolonize it by name at the time, but after my years in catering I'm very familiar with the stuff.  Sterno are the small metal cans you place under a chafing dish when serving food buffet style.  It's a sort of gel-like material that you set fire to and it keeps the food warm. 

So, from what we gathered, apparently this woman's son in law had murdered her and used...you guessed it, sterno. 

It was all becoming beyond intense.  The four of us, Amy, Jamie, Jeff and I, sat there dumbfounded and silent, clinging to one another in the dark.  We were terrified.  As for me, I was pretty much ready to shit myself.  Chills ran up and down my spine and my eyes were watering.  I looked up at Jeff; for a gay ballerina he was actually a pretty macho guy, but even he looked frightened.  When I glanced over at Jamie he raised his eyebrows and gave me half a smile, but I noticed he had a single tear sliding down his cheek. 

I would never look at sterno the same way again.  Beverly seemed a little concerned that things had gone this far in front of us newbies.  This was a case Mel had been working on and this sterno information was something new and valuable.  

Auntie Mel grew quiet.  Someone else was coming through.  His voice was barely a whisper as he chanted, "I am...that I am...I am...Nicodemus."

Oh shit.  I wanted my mommy.  Reader, I can still hear him say it: Nicodemus.  I will never forget it for as long as I live. 

Up until this point, my brushes with the supernatural included 99 cent horoscope scrolls from CVS and seedy Tarot card readings at Hampton Beach.  This was something else entirely.  "Don't be afraid," Bev told us, "Nicodemus was with Jesus."

I made a mental note to check the bible sometime.  I didn't know anything about a Nicodemus, unless you counted The Secret of NIMH.  Auntie Mel's voice became nasal and high pitched.  Everything about him, his voice, his physicality, had changed completely.  He was Nicodemus, whoever the hell that was.

Beverly asked us if there was anything we'd like to ask, though she suggested we go through her rather than speak to him directly.  Jamie wanted to know about his tooth, and I got the feeling he'd already asked this same question before, because Nicodemus kind of seemed pissed at him.  Apparently he felt Jamie had sloppy oral hygiene or something.  I distinctly remember he referred to him as "James" as he chastised him. 

"Does anyone else have any questions?"  Beverly asked. 

I did.  My grandfather had died when I was six and I sometimes had dreams about him.  I'd wake up filled with this amazing energy; I always felt like we'd had a visit.  Was he really coming to visit me?  I asked.

"Do you believe in your heart that your grandfather is there?" 

I nodded.

"Then he is.  And don't be afraid," Nicodemus continued, "of cancer."

What the?  When it was all over, Beverly remarked on how gentle Nicodemus had been with me, as opposed to the stern tone he'd taken with Jamie.  "Has anyone in your family had cancer?" Bev asked.  Nobody had; up until that point, at least.  I barely gave it a second thought.

When Amy and I stepped outside we felt...odd.  I wasn't quite sure what had happened, but after an experience like that I simply wasn't the same.  We left the Prudential Center feeling different, changed. 

"Maybe I died of cancer in a past life," I wondered to Amy. 

"Maybe," my friend mused, "or it could be you'll die of cancer in this life."  Oy.  I hadn't thought of that.

Amy was dating a Fiji from MIT at the time, and when we returned to the frat house to meet up with our friends, we weren't really sure if we should tell them.  These were math guys, after all; they were never going to believe us!  Also, to tell them felt like it would only cheapen it, so I don't think we went into too much detail.

On lunch break that Monday, I relayed the story to my work friends in great detail.  They sat there in silence, listening raptly, all but one who spent the rest of the summer saying "Nicodemus" to me in a spooky voice.  Oh well.  It isn't a story for everyone.

I did look up Nicodemus in the bible.  And more recently, I did some research (aka: Wikipedia) and learned that he was actually with Jesus, as Beverly had told us.  I still get the chills whenever I think of him.

During my ride home that Sunday on the commuter rail, I frantically documented my account of the evening's events on the fronts and backs of two envelopes.  (All the paper I had with me at the time.)  I knew this was a story I would want to remember.  I have searched all day, in vain, for at least one of those envelopes; but all to no avail.  I never throw anything away!  But keeping things organized is another story.  And so I am forced to write this post entirely from memory.  It was exactly twelve years ago, but that's how it happened.

The other day someone asked me if I "believed" in psychics.  "Uh-huh," I answered, and turned and went about my business.  But in my mind I was thinking, honey, you don't even know the half of it.  xoxo

Together, we'll jomple our pope, burn in our bishop, and all the clergy...

Growing up Catholic, I always wondered what happened after the people filed into line and walked to the front of the church.  I had my theories, of course; but my family usually sat in the back so it was difficult to see.  Either way, I was desperate to find out what went on up there.  And whatever it was they came back chewing on, I wanted in on it.  One time I even stage whispered to my older sister, "Bring me back one!"

She didn't. 

I found the mass to be an early morning, tranquilizing sequence of familiar yet puzzling words.  After spending so much time listening, I knew precisely which order they were to be recited in.  Some unknown part of my subconscious knew, for example, that a bell was supposed to ring after the priest said,

"Do this in memory of Me."

Ring-a-ding-a-ding!!!!

One Sunday somebody dropped the ball and didn't perform the ring, so I took it upon myself to do it for them, in my loudest voice: "Ring-a-ding-a-diiiiinnnnnggggg!"  My parents were very proud.

I'd memorized the mass, although most of it was rather hard to decipher.  For instance, when the Priest would say, "Together, with John Paul, our pope; Bernard, our bishop; and all the clergy...", what I actually heard was: "Together we'll jomple our pope, burn in our bishop, and all the clergy..." 

It would be years before I'd figure that mystery out.  (Jomple our pope?  Burn in our bishop?  It sounded violent.) 

Our priest at the time was a kind looking man named Father Sweeney.  I can still hear the soft, sing-song of his voice saying: "The Body of Christ..."

"Amen."

"Good, dear."  This was Massachusetts, of course, so in reality it sounded more like: "Good, Dee-yah."

In our spare time, Sissy and I would often reenact this holy scenario for fun.  ("The Body of Christ," "Amen," "Good, Dee-yah.")  Our mother would always look concerned.

My First Holy Communion was a most solemn event.  I have virtually no pictures from that day, which is strange, seeing as my father was the photographer hired for that occasion.  Back then he would sometimes work photography gigs on weekends to earn extra income.  He worked weddings, graduations; my father took beautiful photographs. 

There were no beautiful photographs taken of me that day.  (What's that adage about the cobbler's daughter having no shoes?  Or the sommelier's baby never having enough Riesling?)  As you may notice in the picture above, I was very much into the habit of sticking out my pointy finger.  This was one of many "habits," as we came to call them.  But that's a post for another day...

After the ceremony, I kept my white First Communion dress on, naturally, but I also decided to add a pair of gray corduroys and traded in my dainty white shoes for dirty white high tops.  It was a daring, edgy ensemble.  I looked hot and I knew it.  I'd also just gotten bangs cut, the act of which definitely marked the beginning of my "awkward" years. 

And I digress.  On the day of my First Holy Communion, we had a party and everyone gave me cards with money stuffed inside.  This was my first true taste of riches and I liked the way it felt, I liked it very much indeed.  Fives and tens and twenties, oh my!  Thanks, Jesus!

During this time I entertained lofty notions of becoming an author.  I would write mysteries, perhaps; about a group of child detectives.  I was obsessed with Louisa May Alcott and her novel Little Women, and I very much wanted a fountain pen so I could write my own masterpiece, old fashioned style.  When I counted up that money I knew immediately what I'd put it towards: I would buy myself a roll top desk.  I had grand visions of myself, sitting at that desk, fountain penning the next great novel of our time. 

This was also around the time I wrote to Louisa May Alcott and asked her for an autograph, and also some advice on how to get published.  I never did hear back from her.

My parents humored me.  I don't know what they must have thought when their seven year old daughter asked to spend her First Communion money on a piece of furniture.  All I know is, one day my father came home and began assembling my desk.  He stained it a warm brown color and gave it a coat of polyurethane to make it shine.  I still remember the way it smelled after the paint dried.  I loved everything about that desk, and I loved my father for making it happen.

That December, my friends really came through for me: for my birthday, I received a gold colored desk lamp, a desk pad, and my good friend Melissa even got me that fountain pen, complete with a whole bottle of blue ink.  It was...breathtakingly beautiful.  One of my better birthdays, if I remember correctly.

To this day that desk remains my most beloved piece of furniture.  I'm typing on it now, in fact.  Some kids wished for Cabbage Patch Dolls and trips to Disney.  I wished for fountain pens and a book deal.  I wished for petticoats and a lacy parasol.  I wished Louisa May Alcott would write me back, goddammit.