The Odd Broad

Birds

When I was a child, there used to be a commercial on television for "Safety Kids."  It was a cassette tape with an accompanying activity book that was all about (you guessed it) safety.  Already displaying a flair for the dramatic at a very young age, I was desperate to own this.  (Now that I look back on it, Safety Kids would be the first in a long line of self help paraphernalia.)  I begged my mother to order it for me, and she complied.  "Safety Kids" didn't disappoint; these songs were catchier than catchy:

"Look for a grandma, or mother with children...if you are lost she's the best one to fill in...tell her you're lost and she'll know what to do; tell her your name and your guardian's name, too...try to be brave, and she'll take care of you....oooo..."

And we mustn't forget, "Sometimes you just gotta yell and scream" (an upbeat number)

And, "I'm in charge, I'm in charge, yes, I'm in charge of ME!"

Yes, I can still sing most of these songs.  I just sang them for my husband, in fact.  (Lucky him!)

I suppose I've always had what one might refer to as "trust issues," though I'm not sure why.  I can recall an incident from when I was about four or five years old.  I was standing in my front yard with some of the neighborhood kids when an older lady (a stranger) approached us and struck up a seemingly friendly conversation.

"Look at the birds, look at the beautiful birds," is all I can really remember her saying.  (There must have been some birds around at the time, and they must have been beautiful.)

Birds, huh?  I took one look at this woman, turned around and went straight through the front door to find my mother.  After all, this was your classic, text book offense: this broad was a stranger and her ass was about to get tattled on.

"Uh, Ma, there's some lady out front talking about birds."

Mommy immediately went outside to assess the situation.  I followed, feeling slightly embarrassed, slightly ashamed.  Perhaps this was just a friendly, lonely woman who was trying to be nice.  Maybe she just wanted to talk.  Maybe...she really liked birds.  Or perhaps she was a kidnapping pedophile.  At any rate, she was a stranger, and I'd heard it a hundred times: never talk to strangers.

My mother doesn't recall this incident, which confirms my theory that it must have been a false alarm.  ie: it wasn't a botched kidnapping attempt.  (Much to my parent's chagrin?)

Some time later, in first grade, I got reprimanded for telling this story during class time.  "When I was a kid, this woman started talking to us in my front yard..."  The teacher chastised me just as I was getting to the good part, whispering, "Look at the birds; look at the beautiful birds!" to several enraptured classmates, one of them being Mike S. with the blue eyes.  It was a real shame I never got to finish my story.  I'd almost been kidnapped, you see.  Right there in my front yard.

That's me in the spotlight, losing my religion

(Odd Broad Disclaimer: This marathon post took me six hours to write.  Therefore it may take you six hours to read.  Also, it discusses two things my mother always warned me to avoid talking about in public- religion and politics.  I usually hesitate talking about God because I don't want to ostracize anyone, therefore this post may fall under the category of "too much info."  But there you have it.  You have been lovingly warned...read at your own risk!  But do read, if you like, because as I said it took me six hours!  xoxo)

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Part One: Serial dreamer

I have been certain of so very few things.  The rest has been a collective free fall of faith.  (Of this, I am certain.) 

When I was a very little girl I was certain I wanted to be a writer.  I practiced all the time, at my roll top desk; holding my old timey fountain pen, my brow furrowed as I dipped the tip into the little bottle that held the ink.  I wrote letters to Louisa May Alcott and stuck them under my pillow, hoping for some supernatural advice on how to get published.  She never did write back.

When I was twelve I knew very strongly I wanted to go to New York to be a working actress.  Basically everything I did up until the time I was seventeen was a push to make this happen.  My focus was laser sharp, and I knew what I wanted.  I'd give anything to have the discipline I had back then coupled with what I know now.  There is a certain comfort to knowing who you are, and what you want, and where you are going.

I was always certain I never wanted to be apart from Hubby, even when we were nineteen.  I was so sure that I could never tire of him, that my feelings for him came from a well so bottomless it would never dry up.  It was eternally hopeful, this belief, as hopeful as any of my innermost dreams have been.

My love for Hubby continues to bloom and expand with each passing year.  But I have all but abandoned my creative dreams; have neglected them, forgotten to nurture them, have left New York.  Yet still I'll wake up at 3 am in a panic that I'll never sing again.  It's too late, too much time has elapsed, and it's this time lapse especially that makes the loss all the more scary.  So many times I forget I'm thirty-one, and what that specifically means in terms of my creative dreams.  I never played Anne Frank, or Juliet, or Ophelia, and now I never will...

It's not a regret I feel daily, or monthly, even; but it's there all the same, hiding out in a deep pocket of my heart that I usually don't allow myself to reach into.

Dreams are a blessing.  Dreams are a curse.  In all honesty, my opinion changes with the weather.  (Set the scene: Am I pms-ing?)

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Part One and a half: Secret Dreams

I have other, newer dreams, of course.  I think about becoming (or not becoming) a mother just about every day, and have been meditating on it for some time now.  Years, even.  People who know me well are usually shocked to hear this.  My own sister didn't even realize, but there you have it.  It's not that my heart isn't willing, or longing, it's the HOW I'm concerned with.  As in, how will it work when there are so many factors currently standing in the way?

I was on my lunch break the other day and saw the following words written on a sign in front of a church:

"Faith is taking the first step even when you can't see the whole staircase." - Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. 

Tears stung my eyes when I saw those words.  Of course I don't know how it will work.  I never know how anything is going to work, after all, do I?  And don't I still always believe things will turn out fine?  Don't I always know this somehow, deep down?  Isn't it one of the very few things I am certain of?

Like it says on the little placard Nanny bought me (but that Auntie Kim actually picked out), the one that plays "The Wind Beneath my Wings":

When you come to the edge of all the light you know, and you are about to step off into the darkness, faith is believing one of two things will happen...there will be something solid to stand on...or you will learn to fly.

I often say the only choice I've committed to in this life is Hubby.  I am bound to him, and unknowingly tethered one half of my heart to him all those years ago.  Loving Hubby has been a natural free fall, one that I'd always make.

The only other thing I know, in my heart of hearts, concerns my very personal relationship with God.  I've been pondering this an awful lot this week.  Specifically because I've been questioning my Catholic faith.

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Part Two: Are you there God?  It's me, Odd

Now, I've been talked to about God ever since I can remember.  My father's mother taught me all my prayers and would tell me about the Baby Jesus.  I prayed to the Baby Jesus for a long time, even, before I realized he grew up to be a man.  He was easier to relate to as a baby, I suppose, when I was very young.  In her bedroom, Grandma had a picture of Baby Jesus with a halo around his head; an angelic, beautiful little cherub, and it was Him I would pray to when I was terrified in the middle of the night.

Every Sunday we got dressed and headed over to the little white church for Sunday Mass.  My parents had both been raised Catholic, but didn't go to church as adults until my older sister was born.  It was then they decided they'd need some type of celestial reinforcement. 

Going to Sunday mass meant an abrupt interruption of watching Hanna-Barbera to head upstairs and get changed out of my pajamas.  We went every Sunday, not just on Holidays, and usually we were very well behaved.  My father says it's rare that my sister and I acted up, although I distinctly remember being separated, or receiving a pinch to my arm followed by a warning glare.  The mass was long; 45 minutes, and the pews smelt funny.  I'd pass the time by singing verses in my head of "I'm Henry the eighth, I am, Henry the eight I am, I am..."  Ma told me when she was a little girl she'd think of funny things in church.  "Like what?" I'd ask, "What did you used to think of?"  She told me she used to stare at the backs of the people's heads in front of her and picture silly things, like the men would have two pigtails and stuff.  From then on, I'd think of this, too, and would be forced to stifle many an irresistible giggle. 

There were a number of priests that came and went.  The soft spoken Father Sweeney, Father Power, who made everybody sing and handed out wooden crosses to the high school students, but only the males.  (I found this irritating, naturally, and it merely reinforced my already growing disenchantment with the patriarchal system.  My dad eventually asked Fr. Power for one of those cross necklaces and gave it to Sissy, who was in high school at the time.  Go Dad!) 

The prayers, those words softly mumbled under my breath over the years, became embedded in my psyche, and it would be years later that I'd realize I didn't need the missal to recite them, that I could recite them in my sleep.  Years before they would stop being disconnected words and became a message that I'd never heard before, despite all that monotoned repetition.  I knew them all, even that long Apostle's Creed.  One day Father Kiley omitted one small but irksome word that had always bothered me greatly: "For us MEN and for our salvation," and he changed it to, "For us AND for our salvation..."

This edit certainly wasn't lost on me, and I inwardly cheered Father Kiley for this small but respectful nod to my gender.

I was raised to be feminist, socially liberal, and lived in a lovely glass bubble until I left home at seventeen.  The people who didn't believe in equality for everyone were hateful caricatures on The Jerry Springer Show, larger than life villains who could be easily spotted.  Or so I believed. 

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Part Three: The Racist Girl Scout

I was a Brownie in elementary school but I didn't earn many badges.  I might have been in second or third grade, and was on the way to a Brownie field trip.  I was riding through Lowell in the back seat of a fellow Brownie member's car, when her older sister, just a girl herself, made a racist remark about a black man crossing the street.  I think she may have said something to the effect of, "Look at that black bastard."  I stopped breathing for a second and my eyes grew wide.  I had never witnessed anyone making a racial slur before, and the little bigot immediately got a scolding from her mother.  I told my parents as soon as I got home, but I didn't need them to tell me it was wrong and idiotic to refer to someone as a black bastard.  I already knew it was.  I judged that Brownie, and I judged her family. 

It wouldn't be until I was a senior in high school when I'd hear someone make another racial slur.  A good friend, in fact.  The remark was unexpected, caught me off guard, was casually spoken and shook me to the core.  Was she for real?  I will never forget that day, probably, because it was the first time I realized that anyone could be racist, and it wasn't as easy to spot hatefulness as I had thought.  ie: It wasn't just the wackos on Ricky Lake. 

It was all so gray.  Although, it became very easy to spot the openly homophobic kids at my high school, and I hated them, longed to be away from them, pitied them, even, for their backward ignorance.

Whether they realized it or not, my parents had reared me to be an idealistic little dreamer, and my heart was ripe for the breaking. 

My heart broke into a million bits the day the letter came from NYU saying they'd rejected me.  Even still, I knew The Boston Conservatory was where I was meant to be.  It was the environment I'd always dreamed of: tolerant, flamboyant, constantly creative; it was heaven.  Heaven with jazz hands. 

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Part Four: Miss Understood

When I first met my college roommate (now one of my oldest, dearest friends), she balked when I told her I was Catholic: "You are?  So your family hates gay people and stuff?"

She could have stuck her pointy finger up my nose and I couldn't have been any more shocked.  "No, of course not!"

It turned out her friend from high school was gay, and his strict Catholic mother didn't approve.  This was a real wake up call for me, the first time I realized my telling people I was Catholic came with a specific list of ugly implications.  (As I said before, I had been in a groovy little bubble up until then.)  The custom fit, tailor made, cut and paste Catholic blanket my parents had wrapped around me didn't involve anti-gay sentiment of any kind.  No siree, Barbara.

I was a Catholic, after all, but that certainly didn't mean I believed in every little thing the church told me to!  On the contrary, I disagreed with most of it!  Didn't a lot of us?

It wasn't like I was unaware of what the church did and didn't officially approve of; and it wasn't as if those things didn't infuriate me, and it wasn't like my parents and I didn't have open discussions about them, it was just...our parish priests never spoke of these issues.  EVER.  The most controversial I ever remember one of them getting was one Sunday when he spoke out about the issue of being pro-life.  Suddenly there were a lot of people clearing their throats, and I could feel a tension growing in the pews, hanging uncomfortably in the air.  Not that Father Kiley was spitting at the pulpit or anything; I distinctly remember his description of pre-marital sex as the act of "loving someone a little too much, a little too soon."  Hardly a scathing sermon.  We never got scathing sermons, it seemed.  This was the first, and it wasn't even very scathing.  It was more of a plea, to consider other options.

I guess what I'm getting at here is the church had its beliefs, and my family had ours.  The truth is, I had ZERO idea that when I said "I'm Catholic" it would mean I hated gays, was in support of pedophile priests, didn't believe in birth control or safe sex, didn't support a woman's right to choose, and didn't believe women were equal to men.  I didn't realize this, of course, because that wasn't what I believed in!  And as I said, none of it was ever mentioned in that little white church of mine, save for the occasional pro-life talk, which seemed to make the parishioners rather uncomfortable anyways.

Then again, I was raised in Massachusetts, and I'm not sure how the other churches were during the 1980's and early 90's.  I was also raised by fair-minded parents.  And somehow I knew, have always known, in my heart of hearts, that God himself wouldn't, couldn't be nearly as intolerant as the church would have me believe.  Man was intolerant, not God.  Mad had hidden agendas, not God.  It wasn't God's fault His message has been twisted and misinterpreted a thousand time over!  And not just by my own religion, but by a good many of them!  I never believed God had anything to do with a lot of the church's uglier man-made doctrines.  In my idealized little teenaged heart, man's missteps had very little to do with what I felt God believed.  I suppose I assumed this sentiment would translate.

It may seem naive, but there you are.

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Part Five: Getting personal

Somehow, some way, my parents brought Sissy and I up in the Catholic church and we were able to take all of the good and none of the bad out of it.  My father-in-law once summed this up as "eating the meat and spitting out the bones."  I couldn't have put it better myself, because that's exactly what we were doing.  Sissy and I both emerged with a deep love and respect for God, and Mary, the mother of God, and we have personalized our religious beliefs in a way that makes sense to us.

I don't talk about it much, I realize, because it's kind of a touchy subject.  But I'd be lying if I didn't say that I have placed every important decision in my adult life in the hands of God.  (Not the church's hands, mind you; God's hands.)

There.  I said it.  I don't make a move without Him.  When I have been at my most pathetic, at the lowest of my low, terrified and alone, I have literally said, "God, I place this situation in Your hands.  I'm done trying to fix things on my own.  Take this situation, this mess, and do with it whatever You feel is best." 

I will tell you that at these times there has been a tangible force, a strength other than my own, that has swept in and saved the day.  Every time.  All I have to do is ask.

Most of the time I forget to ask, of course, until things go pear shaped.  And then I'll remember, like waking up from a dream, and everything becomes clear.  I usually opt to do things the hard way, when I know the easy way is to place my choices, my very life, into a power higher than myself.  And that pretty much sums up my beliefs.  The God I love certainly doesn't hate gay people, He created gay people for crying out loud, and He wants them to be happy, and accepted, and safe; He wants them to be able to get married.  The God I believe in doesn't condemn; and from a place deep inside me I know, I just know, I know this to be true.

This is what works for me.  I don't attend Mass, but I wouldn't call myself a non spiritual person, and I don't believe it makes me love God any less.  I've attended other churches: Non-denominational, Episcopalian, Baptist, United Church of Christ, but honestly I don't get the same connection I feel as when I enter a Catholic church.  With all the mess, and the lies, and the infuriating, outdated, often hateful beliefs that emerge from the Vatican, I can still find comfort kneeling in those pews.  No other church regards Mary, the mother of God, in the way I've become accustomed to.  I love so many things about Catholicism- the ritual, the mysticism, and yet...

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Part Six: The Next Generation

Hubby and I talk about what religion we'll bring up our child, when we have children.  He was raised non-denominational Christian, but is not religious.  He's always told me we could raise our child Catholic, if that's what I wanted.  And up until now, theoretically that's what I wanted.

Because in theory, it always seemed like a good plan.  After all, my parents did it, and even though we didn't agree with a large percentage of the church's outdated doctrines, my sister and I still emerged with a deep love and respect for God.  It works for us.  We didn't turn out to be conservative radicals.  Couldn't it work again?

It dawned on me that it's an awful lot to hope for.  Wouldn't it be lovely if I could just find a religion that lined up perfectly with my own strong beliefs?  Do I really want to have to keep spitting out the bones?  I'm a vegetarian now, after all!

More importantly, would I want my child to have to do this?  What if she is a girl?  How will I tell her she can never become a priest, because she is female?  How could I explain to her that this is simply the way it is, because it's always been done this way?  What will be her response, when someone at school asks if she hates gay people?

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Part Seven: In Defense

Hubby and I were married in the Catholic church.  We didn't take communion, since Hubby isn't Catholic and the priest suggested it may alienate my new family if half of us took communion and the rest didn't. 

The priest never asked, "Who gives this woman away?"  Now, I had been gearing up to tell him those words would not be welcome at our wedding, but it turns out I didn't have to.  He wasn't planning on saying it, anyways. 

Oh. 

Hubby and I both asked we not be announced as "Mr. and Mrs. (insert Hubby's full name)," and the priest merely shrugged and complied. 

I've attended many a wedding, and have also seen a few non-religious wedding ceremonies (one that was even officiated outside by a radio dj) and one common thread is that the woman has always been "given away" to her husband.  (Gag me with an effing pitchfork.)  But not at my wedding, and come to think of it, not at my sister's wedding, either. 

The church did right by me that day, and I was glad.  For all the shit I've taken over the years for being Catholic - and believe me there is no other religion, I don't believe, which the majority at large feels they have a free pass to bash, even to a Catholic's face, (especially to a Catholic's face?) - I loved everything about my wedding.

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Part Eight: The Beef

However.  I feel very strongly in support of gay marriage.  As an American, I am ashamed and sickened that this hateful lack of civil rights still exists for the gay community.  But that's another post.  (Another long, angry post.)  Do I want to attend a church that would ban gay marriage?  Not to be so naive as to say the Catholic church is the only church who opposes this, because I know that isn't true.  But this may just be the deal breaker.

I told my mother I'm having doubts about Catholicism and initially she asked, "Hasn't God been good to you?"  Of course He has, but I didn't say I was doubting God, I said I was doubting the church!  I don't think one has anything to do with the other.  My whole life I have always spit out the bones.  But what about my children?

God has been so, so good to me, and I want to pass that love along.  It's what I know, it's what comforts me.  Mary the Blessed Mother has been a comfort to me.  The saints have been a comfort to me.  The repetition of the prayers has been a comfort to me. 

One of my dearest friends is Jamie, whom I've known and loved since I was seventeen, when we met in the basement of our dorm freshman year of college.  Jamie was raised Catholic, and is gay, and although it's a bit of a contradiction, he can still find some comfort in church.  I can, too.  Is it because it's all we know?  Dysfunctional though it my be, do we return to it because it's what we know?

It's complicated.  I don't think God or God's love is complicated, I think the rest of it is. 

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 The future

Sadly, I don't think the church is going to change any time soon, or within my lifetime, even.  Therefore, when I tell someone I am Catholic they may always assume I'm a radical religious zealot.  But if I'm not any of those things, is that their problem, or is it mine?

They most likely will never be able to delve into my heart and know what I know.  And I do know.  My beliefs concerning God are long held and unwavering and strong and deep and real.  And I don't feel safe talking about them with most people, especially "religious" people, because in my experience, talking about my strongest and deepest beliefs is an open invitation for me to get my heart trampled upon. 

The Catholic church is what I was born into, and the very thought of leaving fills me with a certain amount of anxiety and sadness.  I'm no quitter, and yet...can I keep on spitting out these bones?

Is the church concerned about losing people like me?  Will they ever be willing to bend, to evolve with the times?  I don't think so.  Not one bit.

Morally and ethically I want to do the right thing by God, myself, and my future children.  Maybe I'll never, ever find a spiritual cookie cutter to cram my personal beliefs into.  Maybe a lot of people don't.  Maybe for now, spitting out the bones will have to be enough.  The rest may have to be another free fall.  (And hopefully not a free fall into Hades.  I don't care much for barbecue.)

What's for dinner?

Hubby bought me the Quick-Fix Vegetarian cookbook for Christmas and I've fallen in love with this recipe for Zucchini, Eggplant and Pesto Strata.  (Actually, Hubby suggested we add in the eggplant, because he really hearts eggplant.  Also, I forgot to add the roasted red pepper to my photo shoot.  My bad.)  What I find most exciting is this recipe gives me a nice excuse to make use of our new mini mandolin.

WHAT YOU'LL NEED:

1/2 Cup Basil Pesto

1 Cup Canned White Beans (Drained and Rinsed)

3 Tablespoons Extra Virgin Olive Oil

1/2 Cup Vegetable Broth

4 Cups Cubed Day-Old French Bread, Crusts Removed

2 Medium Sized Zucchini, Thinly Sliced

1 Japanese Eggplant, Thinly Sliced

4 Ripe Plum Tomatoes, Thinly Sliced

1 Roasted Red Bell Pepper, Diced 

Salt and Freshly Ground Black Pepper

WHAT TO DO:

In a food processor, blend together the beans, pesto and 2 Tablespoons of the Olive Oil.  Add the Vegetable Broth and blend until smooth.  Set aside. 

Step 1: Layer about 2/3 of the bread in the bottom of a lightly oiled baking dish

Step 2: Layer 1/2 of the zucchini and season with salt & pepper

Step 3: Layer 1/2 of the eggplant and season with salt & pepper

Step 4: Spoon on half of the pesto mixture

Step 5: Layer half of the tomatoes and then add the chopped roasted red pepper.  Season with salt & pepper

Step 6: Layer the remaining zucchini slices and season with salt & pepper

Step 7: Layer the remaining eggplant slices and season with salt & pepper

Step 8: Spoon on the remaining pesto mixture

Step 9: Layer the remaining tomato slices and season with salt & pepper.

Step 10: Top with the remaining bread and drizzle with 1 Tablespoon olive oil

Cover tightly with tin foil and bake at 375 degrees for 30 minutes, turning halfway through, until the vegetables are tender and the sauce is bubbly.  Remove the cover and bake for an additional 10 minutes, until the top is lightly browned.

EAT!  Enjoy!  Hubby and I barely have any leftovers.

PS: This recipe is VEGAN.  Who knew?

 xoxo

Vacation mode

The flamingos got fresh with us in Aruba.

I was napping in the sun when I felt something suspiciously cold on the bottom of my foot.  When I opened my eyes I was staring into the beady eyes of a tall salmon colored bird.

Ahhhhhh!

Later, Hubby and I were just eating lunch when I noticed we were eliciting quite a bit of attention from every flamingo in sight.  I instinctively climbed on top of my lounge chair, despite the fact that Hubby obviously considered this a cowardly, gratuitous reaction.

I allowed a few choice obscenities to escape my lips as the birds continued to close in.  This was freaky.  People were beginning to stare.  A woman lounging nearby approached us and said, "Do y'all have a camera?  Nobody will believe this unless I get a picture!"

By then a few of the flamingos had scattered, but the pictures she took still get the point across.  I smiled for the camera, but then ran away screaming shortly thereafter, at the precise moment one of the flamingos stole most of Hubby's french fries.

Rancid.

Spontaneous flamingo interaction aside, I love everything about the vacation experience.  I like the me that emerges: relaxed, rested, silly, well fed, perpetually buzzed.  I don't scowl or swear at complete strangers, or pump my fists at SUV's that don't slow down at the crosswalk.  I walk slower, I breathe deeper, and although I compulsively kept reaching for my Blackberry in my bikini bottoms, it just wasn't there. 

Mostly, I love the uninterrupted time alone with my husband that vacation affords us.  People kept asking if we were on our Honeymoon.  We were so reluctant to return back to the real world that in the end we extended our vacation by an extra day. 

For a high strung urbanite such as myself, vacations are literally the stuff that dreams are made of. 

Even as I type this back in frigid Boston, my skin still kissed by the Aruba sun, I'm strongly resisting the urge to pound violently on the ceiling, or wall, or floor, or wherever the stinking, constant, nerve grating sound of inept bass-playing is emanating from. 

Oh yes, vacation is so over.  Come tomorrow, I'll be back to business as usual.  But I did leave a little part of myself at the bar in the Aruba airport:

I'm a nerd, but I just couldn't resist.

She wore an itsy bitsy, teenie weenie, yellow fringed, hot bikini!

Hubby and I are leaving for Aruba tomorrow, Dear Reader!  I'm so excited I could just pee.  It will be our first vacation in over two years, and it's all I've been thinking of since the day we booked it. 

A few weeks ago I ordered some bathing suits online from Victoria's Secret, choosing ones with some built-in va-va-va-voom.  (Who am I kidding, everything I wear on my chest requires a fair amount of built-in jazziness.)  I made the mistake of not shipping the package to work, however, and getting anything delivered to my apartment building is a Nightmare on Elm Street (parts one, two and three.)  Boxes are constantly being stolen.

When I checked the UPS website and saw that my package had been left at "FRONT DOOR" I pulled the hissiest of hissy fits.  My package wasn't at our front door, it was nowhere to be found!  Why on earth would they leave anything at the front door in a city?  Most likely it had been stolen by one of the various college creeps who dwell here.  Those drugged up, jazz playing, heavy footed, bikini stealing punks!  ARRG!  I began to utter terrible, hysterical threats to the room at large (which was empty, of course, except for myself and the cat.) 

So help me, if I caught any of those a-holes walking around in my Miracle Bra bikini I would have to stab them.  I texted my friend Gregg and told him what had happened.  Stealing boxes?  Who were these people?  Gregg couldn't believe it, either.

I called Victoria's Secret and the woman on the phone was instantly able to commiserate, since she has a daughter who goes to school in Boston and the same thing had happened to her.  She re-shipped my package for next day delivery, this time to my work address.  I was on vacation that week, though, so I texted Gregg to let him know I'd be coming in to get it.

"What time are you coming in?"  Gregg wanted to know.  Come to think of it, our friend Spencer had just emailed me the same question.  They both seemed pretty curious about what time I'd be there.  In any case, I was on my way.

When I got to the mail room I noticed the two of them seemed sort of...excited.  "Here's your box!!"

"A box?"  I was expecting it to be more of a package.  "Why does the box have the name of a fruit company on it? "  I started to get nervous.  I'd been having the worst luck with mail lately.

I noticed the UPS label was indeed from Victoria's Secret.  "Do you think they packaged my order in a disguised box to distract people from stealing it again?"

Gregg just stood there smiling, barely able to contain himself.  "Maybe.  Open it!"

Hubby was waiting for me downstairs, so I didn't want to take too long; but Gregg insisted, so I indulged him.

I could see yellow fabric folded and wrapped in plastic, with the letters "VS" neatly handwritten in black marker.  Wait a minute, handwritten in black marker!?  What the?

"Oh my God, this isn't what I ordered..."

Someone was really effing with me.  Could it be those jazz punks in my building?  The label on the box was definitely UPS...what could possibly have happened?

Gregg and Spencer erupted into giggles.  "That isn't your real package!"

Oh, Reader.  Gregg, who has a background in fashion design, had handcrafted me my very own custom made bikini.  This two piece creation is nothing short of spectacular.  I shall be the belle of the ball if I don this swimsuit in Aruba.  The design was cut from a yellow T-Shirt, and the top is fringed with a peek-a-boo back.  Playful, yet classic, although the bottoms look a little bit like they're hiding...a banana.

Check out Gregg's peek-a-boo design on the back:

Pretty nice handiwork, seeing as he had only five minutes and a stapler to work with!  Before he found that T-Shirt he was planning on crafting me a two piece out of bubble wrap.  Eventually, the boys gave me my real package, but I pretty much giggled for the rest of the day.  What would I do without my crazy friends?


PS: The box ended up not being stolen after all.  Turns out my landlord had accepted it and it was there all along.  Who knew?  I mailed the swimsuits back, but I'll be keeping my yellow fringed number forever.  xoxo

The time that Mormon ball player peed with the door open

During our eight years living in New York, Hubby and I possessed an uncanny knack for attracting house guests.  Who knows why, really, since the studio apartment we dwelled in for the first four years was anything but spacious: the only thing separating the bedroom from the living area was a flowery sheer curtain.  I suppose it was because we lived in New York, and everyone wants to visit the big apple at one point or another, don't they?

Hubby and I entertained a plethora of people in that cozy little apartment, the record being five adults and two children at one time.  We enjoyed having visitors, and most of these souls were lovely guests, though a few of them behaved rather...unsatisfactorily.

Have I ever told you the story of the worst house guests we’ve had to date?  It's a tale I can only refer to as:

The time that Mormon guy peed with the door open.

It must have been around  2003, back when Hubby and I weren't married or even engaged yet.  (For practical purposes I'm still going to refer to him as Hubby, though, because he gets creeped out when I use his real name.)

I have an uncle who umpires for a wooden bat baseball league, and sometimes he'll help ball players find “host families” to lodge with over the summer.  Often times uncle would ask his own family to be one of these “host families.”  Their collective answer: a resounding no.

It’s not that my family members aren’t generous people, it’s just…well, the idea of opening up their homes to complete strangers just doesn’t hold that much appeal to them. 

That summer my mother must have told her brother 'no' a hundred times.  She would not be hosting a ball player and that was final.  Final, that is, until the day she actually met one of the athletes in question, when my uncle brought one along to a family barbecue.  This proved to be a highly effective tactic, indeed.  It turned out this person was a very polite young man from Utah whose wife would be flying out for two weeks.  They wouldn't be able to afford a hotel, and he didn't want her to have to bunk with the rest of the guys.

Somewhere pigs must have been flying because my parents suddenly agreed that the couple would be welcome in their home.

When Ma called to tell me the news, I was definitely stunned: “You mean strangers are going to be staying in your house?  What are you, nuts?”  I couldn’t wait to relay the news to Sissy and inform her that a strange couple would be sleeping in her childhood bedroom.  A young married couple who hadn't seen each other all summer, if you get my drift.  Eeeew.

My mother's voice turned angry: “Do NOT call your sister and don't make fun of me for trying to do a nice thing!”  Apparently I'd hit a nerve.  I think she may have even hung up on me.

I don't know why it was bothering Sissy and I so much, especially seeing as neither one of us even lived in our parent's home anymore.  But bother us it did.  It bothered us to our cores.

The day of arrival came, and Ma was just getting ready for work when the doorbell rang.  It was the ball player, coming to pick up a set of spare keys and drop off his luggage.  She wasn't expecting him until that evening; she hadn’t even gotten a chance to vacuum his bedroom yet!  The guy explained that his wife was flying in from Utah late that night and he wasn’t sure what time they'd be home.  Ma told him any time was fine with her and showed him into Sissy's old room so he could drop off his bags.  She went back downstairs and he left a couple of minutes later.

By this time my mother was running really late for work, but she figured she still had time to vacuum the room.  She wondered if this would be a violation of privacy, seeing as he’d already put his bags in there, but she decided it wouldn't be a big deal.  After all, it would only take a minute and she obviously wouldn’t touch any of his bags.

Ma tentatively pushed open the door, vacuum in hand, and...horror of horrors!  Sweet Baby Jesus!  There, strewn all over the floor, bed and pillows were…ROSE PETALS!!  There were rose petals absolutely EVERYWHERE!  A card and a small gift had also been left on the bed.

Had this young man actually scattered rose petals all over my sister’s childhood bedroom?  And had he then simply shut the door and left?  Apparently, he had.  A detail you should know about my sister’s bedroom is that her door doesn't even shut properly!  This guy really had some brass ones.

Holy f*cking guacamole.  Was my mother running a SEX DEN here?  She closed the door, more than a little disturbed, and left for work.  She didn’t bother vacuuming. 

Sissy and I were appropriately horrified when we got wind of this latest detail in the saga of the house guests.  Sissy even went so far as to vow she would never sleep in that bed again.

It turned out the couple didn't come home that first night, opting to instead spend it in a hotel.  After that the week passed rather uneventfully.  The couple didn’t bother with my parents all that much, coming and going without a lot of chitchat.  It was as if Ma and Dad were running a bed and breakfast, albeit an x-rated, rose petal strewn bed and breakfast.  Bizarre.

I still thought it was kind of weird, but I started to feel badly.  Had I been too harsh for making fun of my parents for trying to do a good deed?  I felt guilty for mocking their new found hospitality.  (Living away from my family often turned me into a giant, heaping bowl of mush.)  I was in this frame of mind when Ma casually mentioned over the phone that the couple were planning a trip to New York to attend a Yankees game.  “They don’t have a lot of money, so they'll be taking the bus back to Boston after the game...”

In a moment of weakness I heard myself utter, “They can stay with us.  We can show them around.”  Was I for real?  What had gotten into me?  I apologized profusely to Hubby.  But honestly, how bad could these people be?  And it would only be for a day or two.

I was still at work when our guests arrived, but unlucky for Hubby he was already home and was therefore forced to play host without me.  When I met up with them later, we decided to get a bite to eat and then go back to sightseeing.  The meal was unremarkable, minus the fact that while we were perusing our menus the wife asked what basil was.

"What's basil?"

"It's an herb," I heard my future husband say. 

This was all kind of odd, eating here at The Last Stop Cafe with two complete strangers.  I longed for a goblet of cold white wine, but alas, I didn't want to ostracize our guests; my parents had already informed us these people were devout Mormons and abstained from alcohol and caffeine for religious beliefs.  I felt a little awkward even sipping my Pepsi.

We spent a mildly uncomfortable evening sightseeing and then headed back to the apartment.

And here’s where the story really begins to turn…peculiar.  Now, I'm not sure quite WHY, but somehow I got it into my head that it might be a "nice thing to do" if we gave the Mormons our bed.  (Isn't it a miracle Hubby goes along with my antics?)  But honestly, our place was so tiny I figured this would be easier than having them spread out in the living room and us having to tiptoe around them while we got ready for work the next morning.  No, I decided I would take the air mattress, Hubby would take the couch, and our guests could take our bed.  After all, they'd been apart all summer.  (Another good deed.  I may have been living in sin and stuff but damn I was such a good person.)

I couldn't sleep.  It was a little unusual, after all, having two strangers curled up in our bed, just a few feet away. 

I laid there in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling, when suddenly I heard a noise.  The ball player was getting up!  I quickly closed my eyes and felt him walk past me into the bathroom.  Being a studio apartment, the bathroom was only inches away from the couch where Hubby lie sleeping; my air mattress was about two feet away from the bathroom. 

I kept my eyes closed and heard the toilet seat being lifted, and then the sound of peeing; curiously, the only thing I didn't hear was...the bathroom door being shut!  In a panic, I opened my eyes and saw that the bathroom door was wide open!  This dude was pissing with the DOOR OPEN!  What the?

Was this kid for real?  He finished up his pee and walked back to bed, and suddenly I felt afraid.  Very, very afraid.  My already overactive imagination went into frantic overdrive.  What kind of a madman pisses with the door open in front of people he'd just met that very same day?  When he’s stone cold sober, no less?  I really couldn't sleep after that.  How could I, when there was a possible lunatic psychotic in my apartment?  And to think he'd been staying with my parents for over a week!  Could this person be dangerous?

Hubby was sound asleep.  I sidled over to the couch and tried to whisper in his ear "that guy just peed with the door open, babe!" but it was no use.  This was a tale that would have to wait until morning.  If we survived the night, that is.

Daylight came, the Mormons left, and life went on.  When Ma called to see how things went, I smugly relayed each gory little detail, in true I told you so fashion.  (The basil...the pissing...)  There was no explanation for this sort of lavatory behavior, was there?  My friend Amy suggested maybe it was a guy thing?  Perhaps ballplayers pee with the door open?  Or could it be he was sleepwalking?  I speculated myself blue in the face, but I could never quite justify it.  I still can't.

Some house guests are messy, some argue, some will drink all your Grand Marnier; some will get wasted and act belligerent after a Mets/Red Sox game, while others will do the dishes and take you out to dinner.  And although it may seem highly unlikely, sometimes a house guest will take a whiz with the bathroom door wide open.

And that is why, Dear Reader, the couple from Utah will go down as the worst, most horrific house guests we have entertained to date.  Case closed.  (And good riddance.)

Happy New Year(s)!!!

Hubby and I made a teeny tiny snowman last night.  We gave him chocolate covered pomegranate seeds for eyes and a baby carrot for his nose.  The snow was really too soft and flaky for packing, so Hubby took his gloves off for the endeavor.  Which just goes to prove, one is never too old (or cold) for drunken arts 'n crafts.  No siree, Barbara.

On a different note, I've noticed that people are posting "HAPPY NEW YEARS!" as their status updates on Facebook.  Has anyone else witnessed this phenomenon?  I find it rather fascinating.  When did we start pluralizing it?  And is this strictly a Massachusetts thing?

At any rate, Happy New Year(s) Dearest Reader!  Here's wishing that twenty-ten holds many marvelous, special things for you and yours.  xoxo