The Odd Broad

Green eyes, you're the one that I wanted to find...

I won't lie; I'm feeling a little deflated as of late.  Last night, after sensing something wasn't quite right with Kittie, we took her to a vet to be checked out. 

I've noticed she's been peeing an awful lot lately and knew that couldn't be good.  When I called to make the appointment, the woman on the phone asked what my pet's name was.

"Kittie," I answered.  "With an "ie."  (Oh yes.  I went there.)

An ominous kind of feeling had me sort of crying before we even walked through the door.  But still, I wasn't fully prepared when the doctor came back into the room and told us Kittie had feline diabetes.

"Okay," I nodded, perhaps a bit too quickly.  I kept on nodding vigorously as she explained that Kittie was far too overweight (the nerve!) and we'd have to put her on a special diet.  But I stopped nodding when she told us in the same breath that we'd need to administer shots of insulin to her twice daily for probably the rest of her life.  It would be a serious commitment, she continued.

Her tone was matter of fact and clinical, but not completely unkind.  I lowered my head into my chest and tried in vain to conceal the fat tears escaping from my eyes.  I couldn't keep nodding anymore, not really.  I couldn't even look the woman in the eye.  Eventually she handed me a paper towel.

And there we were.  Our little friend was sick and was going to need us now more than ever. 

Pain is relative, and I fear only an animal lover will understand.  I just feel so anxious, upset and alone.  I can't even clip Kittie's nails, let alone stick a needle in her!  Will she understand it's for her own good?  Or will she think I'm trying to hurt her?  I suppose I'll never know.

On my way home from work tonight I stopped into church, a place I haven't stepped foot in since my grandmother's funeral this past May.  There in the darkness, I fished $1.50 out of my bag, lit a candle and let myself cry for a moment as I asked God for a little bit of...strength. 

Yes, I sing "Green Eyes" by Coldplay to my cat; you wanna f*cking make something out of it?

I said no, no, no...

Hubby and I attended my friend Lindsay's Halloween party last night.  (She was dressed as JonBenet Ramsey, complete with babydoll dress and pageant sash that read "never good enough.")  I was Amy Winehouse and Hubs was Kenny (f*cking) Powers.

Not many people knew who Kenny Powers was, but Hubby worked it.  And it was amusing to see him wearing a mullet.  I wished to make my ensemble as realistic as possible, so in addition to my bouffant wig, wife beater and black skinny jeans, I added dark circles under my eyes, temporary tatts and bruises on my arms.  I also puffed on fake ciggies all night.  Indeed, as the evening wore on, my pretend nicotine habit escalated to two or three smokes at a time.  (Very hardcore.  People kept asking me for a light.)

This morning I reflected on the fact that I'd posed for many a snapshot, always in character.  I even mugged for the camera with a friend "burning" my forearm with one of the fake cigarettes.  At one point the girl dressed as Courtney Love pretended to shoot her syringe into my arm.  (Say cheese!)  Surely these photos will be ones to show the (hypothetical) grandkids.

We live in a one bedroom apartment, always tight on space, but somehow I don't have the heart to throw my Winehouse weave away.  She's been hanging out in our hallway all day, smoking and cursing...

Surely there must be room for a bouffant in my life?  Perhaps I'll wear her to work tomorrow.

Mrs. Whimby's Daughter

I've been singing to Lukey the Wonder Nephew since before he was even born.  He's definitely the most receptive audience I've ever had. 

I sing him songs, mostly improvised, the most colorful of which is about a woman named Mrs. Whimby and her illegitimate daughter, who is just about to be married. 

This little ditty blossomed into existence right after I moved back to Boston.  We'd had a Brigham's ice cream party at work and the delivery man brought along a small yellow stuffed dolled.  That doll's name was Mrs. Whimby.  Anglophiles that we are, my sister and I decided almost immediately that Mrs. Whimby would have a cockney accent.  Lukey really took to Mrs. Whimby; indeed, the two became nearly inseparable.  (Luke loves her dearly in spite of the fact that she's kind of an old slut.)

When I first moved into my apartment I had virtually nothing to entertain a baby with.  Nothing, that is, except the little stuffed bear wearing a wedding veil that Sissy bought me when I got engaged.  It would have to do.  I began to sing, child star style.  The tempo was upbeat, maniacal, with a Polka/German drinking song feel:

I'm...Mrs. Whimby's daughter, and today's my wedding day

All I'm asking, Lukey, is would you give me away?

Walk me down the aisle, to my fiance...

I'm Mrs. Whimby's daughter, won't you give me away?  HEY!

Mrs. Whimby's daughter didn't know who her biological father was, you see.  My sister was more than a little disturbed.  She told me to stop, if I remember correctly.  Luke looked at me as if he was having a bad acid trip.  And then he laughed.  More than laughed, he guffawed.  Naturally, this song became an instant staple in my repertoire, with several verses ensuing. 

My collectible Michael Jackson doll and Harry Potter action figure were both eventually incorporated into the song:

I'm Mrs. Whimby's daughter, and today's my wedding day

I'd marry Harry Potter, but he up and flew away...

He's summering in Maui now with Michael J...

I'd marry Harry Potter, but he's off with Michael J!  HEY!

On a side note, my Michael Jackson doll has been resting on a shelf in our hallway since his untimely passing; and we've since set my Harry Potter action figure next to him.  Hubby has placed Michael's hand on Harry's...wand.  It's not right.

And I digress.  It's remarkable how babies really listen to everything you say.  Lukey already knows his numbers, can sing his ABC's and a bevy of other songs.  Last weekend my mother was singing a song she'd sung since Lukey was born, and he was finishing each line for her, in tune even.  (Yes, this baby even understands the concept of pitch!  I know I'm his auntie and all, but musically he's extremely intuitive.)

"When did you work with him on that?" I asked my mother, impressed.

"Oh, never really, I've just been singing it to him forever..." she answered.

A light bulb went off in my head.  I turned to Luke.  And I began to prompt him, singing:

I'm......Mrs. Whimby's...

"Daughta"

And today's my wedding...

"Day"

What I'm asking...

"Nokey"

Is would you give me...

"Away!"

Walk me down the aisle to my fee-an...

"SAY!!"

I'm Mrs. Whimby's...

"Daughta"

Won't you give me...

"Away!  Yay!"

Christ almighty, Luke David had been listening.  And now he knows how to say the word fiance.  This boy is not even two.  God I love that child.

The Accidental Carnivore (or "Pork You")

As you may have heard me already mention, on September 1st I decided to give up meat.  Well, actually, I tried to become Vegan and succeeded for a good two weeks, but there are times when I desperately hanker for a hunk of cheese.  (So I've eaten a bit of feta.  And what's homemade pesto without the parmesan?)

I've come down with the flu twice since this experiment began, and after talking to two long-term vegetarians who recently began eating fish, I decided that maybe I should give it a try as well.  (Making me more of a Pescatarian?)  I've eaten shrimp twice and one night we baked some cod.  I've never particularly liked fish, but I liked it that night, because I was a woman on the edge. 

I want to be clear though: I've eaten no red meat, or milk, or butter; no chicken stock, even, which I probably consider to be the most difficult staple to do without.  There have been no evenings filled with roasted pork tenderloin, no Thai basil chicken.  Mashed potatoes certainly don't taste the same without milk, but you won't find me adding any to my spuds.  No siree, Barbara. 

This is something I've taken very seriously.  Nobody can believe I've lasted this long, least of all myself.  Just yesterday, in fact, I privately marveled at how amazing it was that I hadn't eaten chicken, pork, or beef since the start of September.  Pretty freaking monumental, if I do say so myself.  (Smug-e-ty smug smug smug.  Smug as a bug in a rug.)

I plopped down on the couch next to Hubby and proceeded to watch Ina Garten grill beef sliders.  (Oh, I haven't given up watching other people prepare meat, masochist that I am.)  I continue to lust after meat.  Even as I mentally replay the image of those poor chickens being sent to the slaughter in the PETA video, it still can't totally curb my desire to bake them in a pot pie.  Old instincts die hard, I suppose.

Beef sliders.  Beef sliders covered in melted cheese.  They looked nice.  Real nice.  And then it hit me.  It hit me like a ton of bricks.  It was as if someone had dropped a cow on me.

"OH MY GOD!!!!!"

I gasped in horror and covered my mouth with my hands.  I stared blankly at my husband, unable to utter another word.  (Yes, it was all very dramatic and musical theatre but what do you want from me?)

"What?  What's the matter?  What is it?"

It would be a good forty seconds before I could spit it out, and even then I didn't want to say it.  Because if I said it, then it would be true.  And it couldn't be true, although I knew there was no denying it. 

"I FUCKING ATE MEAT YESTERDAY."

Mother f*cker.  Reader, it was true.  Something about those mini sliders had jogged my memory.  I was flabbergasted.  I'd fallen off the wagon, and hadn't even realized! 

Sliders.  The day prior was the Halloween party at work, and I was in charge of it.  Sliders were on the menu; cute little sliders with tiny buns and little tomato slices.  My mom was in town and she and Sissy brought Lukey the Wonder Nephew to the party.  (He was the cutest damn cowboy you ever did see, complete with John Wayne swagger.)  I'd been quite busy all day; all week, for that matter.  At one point I made a plate up for Lukey with a chicken finger, mini pizza and a pig in a blanket.  Our little cowboy went straight for the pizza. 

And that's when it happened.  Like a dream, I can now clearly remember reaching for that chicken finger, and taking one bite, then another.  A minute later, without even being aware, I mechanically popped that frigging mini wiener right into my piehole.  I feel I should mention, I WASN'T EVEN HUNGRY!  And by that time both bits of food were stone cold and therefore not very tasty.  Neither my mother nor my sister thought anything of it, and I didn't either, until the next day at 2:00 pm when I watched the Barefoot Contessa get her grilling on.

Am I a complete nut job?  Who falls off the wagon without noticing?  Is this something people do?  Should I be nervous?  Is my subconscious so starved for pork and poultry that I would accidentally consume it?  Or was I so preoccupied by work duties that I momentarily became a nervous eater? 

If I am to fall off the wagon, I'd like the act to be pre-meditated.  I'd like it to be a fully conscious decision.  I'd like the meal to be...really effing delicious.  Truly worth it, you know?  Not a goddamn mini wiener and a cold chicken finger!

When I went back to Sissy's house that night I even complained that there was nothing for me to eat.  (Because I couldn't eat meat.)  Even that night, when I got home, I remarked to Hubby that the only thing I'd had to eat that day was a crappy slice of pizza.  I really, truly believed this was so.  I reheated some pasta puttenesca, devoured it, drank a glass of wine and promptly fell asleep.

I must be mental.  Do I have early onset Alzheimer's or something?  And here I'd been acting all high and mighty for forgoing eggs and chicken stock when I'd already tumbled head first off the chuck wagon!  And furthermore, I didn't even get to enjoy it! 

If that's not a kick to the balls then I don't know what is.

Poor little chicken.  Poor little piggie.  I'm really very sorry.  I honestly didn't mean to eat you.  xoxo

Arts 'n Crafts

Over the past two nights, I've spent roughly seven hours cutting teeny tiny shapes out of construction paper.  Lots of glue sticking ensued.  The end result: thirty-one custom made goodie bags for the Halloween party at work tomorrow.  That's right.  The Odd Broad got her craft on.

I enlisted Hubby's help and he came up with the Frankenstein design.  God bless that man.

xoxo

Funky cold medina

A girl from my graduating college class was recently cast in a Broadway show where she'll be acting alongside Angela Landsbury and Catherine Zeta-Jones.

How nice for her.  I told her as much, on her Facebook page.  (And then I died a little inside.)

A few days later, I noticed her FB status update said something like (and I'm paraphrasing here):  "...trying to figure out what this FUNK is all about.  Could it be astrological?"

SHE'S IN A f**king astrological FUNK????!!!!  Holy shit.  In all fairness, I realize a funk is usually relative.  But it really got me to thinking.  I'm prone to the occasional bout of funkatude, the moody blues, moments here and there when I'll question certain choices and wake up in the middle of the night in a mild sort of panic. 

I don't own a home.  I don't even own a car.  I don't have any children.  I've all but abandoned my acting career, my childhood dream; and leaving New York really seemed to put the final nail in that coffin.  I try not to think about that last one, though.

Sometimes, if I'm feeling especially morbid, I can feel as if I'm floating aimlessly...

The irony is, most of the time I'm actually quite happy and grateful.  I am married to my soulmate; to a man who does kind, sweet, funny things and who tells me he loves me at least ten times a day.  We just booked a trip to Aruba.  And it's okay that we don't own a home yet.  I certainly don't want to drive, and as for children...

I have Kittie.  And, of course, my wonder nephew.  (And a flat(ish) tummy.)

I hate questioning myself like this because it's not generally the way I do business.  I have my own path, as we all do, and usually I trust very strongly in that.  Except for when I don't.  And that's okay, too.

Hmmm

For reasons unbeknownst to me, I've suddenly begun receiving free issues of Family Circle magazine.  Now, a magazine's a magazine, and I love getting mail; but Family Circle?  Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but it's a little odd. 

I suppose it might be useful to read up on personally non-relevant topics like:

Crashproof your teen driver!  (Let's face it, I can barely drive myself)

Smart ways to help your tweens & teens navigate the real world!  (I have not a teen nor a tween)

And did you know that 78% of moms are sure their teens have never sexted?  (And that 45% of teens admit to sexting?)

I don't even want to go there. 

All the same, it's a nice bathroom read.  

I went home sick

I rarely take a sick day from work.  (What can I say?  I'm my mother's daughter.)  But on Thursday I just felt so rotten that I asked to go home around noon. 

I repeat, I went home around noon, and who began filming directly outside my work shortly thereafter?  BEN FREAKING AFFLECK!  What the hell?  What are the damn odds?

My friend Gregg accidentally walked through the filming area on his lunch break and brushed by Ben.  He shot these pics on his iphone. 

Boston isn't a terribly large city, and yet there are three movies currently being filmed here.  (The inner worrywart in me wonders, is three movies not perhaps a bit...excessive?)  Granted, it's neat that Katie and Suri have been hobnobbing by the Esplanade and I'm sure these film crews are bringing some much needed revenue into the city.  But it does seem like there's an awful lot going on. 

Take a few weekends ago, for instance, when we had a movie filming and the Phantom Gourmet festival both happening simultaneously within a block of each other.  (The Red Sox, thankfully, were not in town.)  Sissy and I couldn't help but notice the multitude of police officers milling about, the swat cars with the windows busted out, and the police vehicles being driven by dudes in T-shirts.  It was bedlam.  The cops looked...weird...not quite right...kind of freaky.  This was because they weren't real cops, of course, they were extras.  But where were the real cops? 

I've noticed excessive sirens, firetrucks and gunfire lately, presumably all filming related, but who knows really.  (Why should the residents be notified, anyhow?  Silly residents!)  In any case, I'm sure mashed potato mouth, Mumbles Mayor Menino has things under control.

Christian Bale and Marky Mark were even filming the Micky Ward movie in Lowell recently.  And Ricky Gervais filmed in L-Town, too!  Lowell, my birth city, of High on Crack Street fame.  Who knew?

Who am I kidding?  I'm just bitter because I long to rub elbows with the beautiful people.  Sniff.  Why'd I have to be sick?  Ben does seem like a nice boy.  I just watched him on Oprah last week, when he traveled to the Congo to speak out for women's rights.  Aw, Ben.

(Thanks for the pictures Greggie!)