The Odd Broad

The Mad Wrapper

On Friday, at 6:37pm, I text the following message to my sister: Brought home a ton of boxes...let the packing commence!

Sissy writes back: Ah, crap.

I respond: What?

Sissy: Packing.

Me: I don't mind.  We have lots of time and I'm thrilled to be moving!  For reals.

Yes, yours truly actually typed those words.  If it were possible to go back in time, in Doctor Emmett Brown's Delorean, perchance, to when I was concocting that rose-colored little sentence...I'd probably stab myself.

I'd forgotten how horrible I am at packing!  It's not that I'm an unorganized sort of individual; on the contrary, I can be quite methodical when I choose to be.  One might even suggest I have mild habits of the obsessive compulsive variety.  (My birthday does fall, after all, on the same astrological cusp as a one Howard Hughes!  Not that I'm sitting around in the nude on a layer of Kleenex or anything...) 

And I digress.  Any way you slice it, there's just something about the whole packing process that makes me a little unhinged.  

It's all just a little bit of history repeating...

Nearly two years ago, Hubby, Kittie and I left New York.  We had eight years of possessions to sift through, and since I'd taken a week off in between jobs, I was in charge of packing up the bulk of it.  (Do you recall any of this, Dear Reader?  How my boss had generously gifted me with about 50 large packing boxes and 2,000 square feet of bubble wrap?)

There I was in the August heat, just Kittie and me, and all that BUBBLE WRAP.  I won't lie.  I went sort of mad.  The boxes were quite roomy but I'd wrapped everything so carefully that each box probably contained about 75% bubble wrapping.  (Of course, at the time I knew not what I was doing; hindsight is 50/50, is it not?)  Hubby had no idea what was going into those boxes, he only knew they were accumulating at a rapid pace.

In the end, our 17 foot U-Haul was so crammed that Hubby and I were forced to leave many of our possessions out on the sidewalk, in the hopes that some vagabond would walk by and discover them.  I'm not exaggerating; we could barely even close the door to the moving van.  Among the items that wouldn't fit in our U-Haul: Hubby's desk, a desk chair, a wine rack, two air conditioners, a cast iron skillet, a portable gas grill, an air purifier,a full length mirror, a fondue set...the list goes on and on.  Total hot messery.

I was under the impression that we just had a lot of stuff.  Until we began unpacking it.

"Sarah!" my mother exclaimed.  "There are like eight plates packed in this huge box!"

She was right.  I'd maniacally wrapped nearly everything we owned.  I ask you...what else was I supposed to do when left alone with 2,000 square feet of bubble wrap?  There must have been 15 boxes for our dinnerware alone.  At the time I'd just assumed we had a lot of plates, bowls and mugs.  Things really came to a boiling point when my godmother discovered I'd bubble wrapped my silverware.

"Well!?" I defended my stance, "We had a ton of bubble wrap!  Why not use it?"

Hubby maintains that if I hadn't gotten so crazy, we would have had a lot more room in that U-Haul.  At any rate, I am loathe to make the same mistake twice. 

Let the packing commence! 

On Saturday I decided to take all of our pictures and tchotchkes off the walls.  This was an obvious choice, no?  I began to individually wrap each small picture frame.  Then, for a split second, I faltered.  It was 7:45 am, and Hubby was still sleeping.  I tiptoed into the bedroom.

"Hey, you awake?"

"Hmmm?"

"I was thinking of wrapping each picture frame separately, so they don't break?"

"Those frames were like $2 at CVS, you don't have to wrap them.  Just put them in a box."

He was right, I didn't have to wrap them.  They probably wouldn't break, after all, the frames themselves were plastic.  And yet...

"But if the glass shatters, that would be a huge mess...it would be awful...all that glass everywhere..."

"Don't individually wrap them, babe."

In the end, I compromised.  I piled up a large stack of them and wrapped a sheet of bubble wrap around the entire thing.  A small step in the right direction, I like to think.

When Hubby awoke there was nothing on our walls.  No Wacko Jacko doll sitting on our shelf, no sign next to the toilet that reads "The Loo," no magnets on the refrigerator...things were looking pretty bare. 

My husband tentatively suggested that since we're still going to be living here for three weeks, perhaps it was an odd choice to remove all of the decorations first, but...

I decided then and there: Hubby will oversee the packing this time around.  There will be no large boxes containing only two mugs and a salad spinner.  There will be no boxes with 75 percent of the contents being bubble wrap.  No, the boxes will be adequately, sensibly filled.  By someone other than myself.  Case closed.

The Ghost Whisperer

It was a Saturday evening and I was enjoying my second glass of Riesling at Cornwall's when my cousin Jimmy informed me he'd seen our deceased grandmother.

My initial reaction: "WHAT?"

Followed swiftly by: "Were you on the sauce at the time?"

Jimmy assured me he hadn't been drinking when he'd seen Nanny.  He'd been asleep on the couch, had opened his eyes and she was sitting next to him.  She gave a playful wave of her fingers and was gone.  He also said he'd seen her at the top of the staircase.  He'd been startled and a little freaked out, but it was our grandmother, after all.

I sat there listening, eyes wide, my mouth hanging open.  I seriously envied Jimmy his visit.  I'd be lying if I said there haven't been a few improvised attempts on my part to contact Nanny.  (And no, I'm not drunk at the time.  Not always, at least.)  I like to think of it as channeling my inner Melinda Gordon, sans the false eyelashes and perfectly coiffed hair.  (I don't own any hot rollers.)  But I'm quite intuitive and can sometimes guess people's birthdays; I'm not a bad Tarot card reader, either.  I suppose I've always fancied that I'd be a pretty good medium, if I wasn't such a chicken shit.

"Well, have you heard about Melanie?" my cousin Keely chimed in.  Apparently our cousin's wife Melanie, who is over nine months pregnant, has been dreaming of Nanny and it's scaring her a little.  In her dream, Melanie asked, "Nan, why are you coming to me?" and apparently Nan answered, "Well, I'm here for a year, and I can't see everybody at once."

She was here for a year?  What did that mean?

My grandmother has been showing up in my dreams ever since she passed away last May.  A few of them have been quite memorable, but many I can't remember.  Once I dreamed that she brought my other grandmother along for a visit.  (And I do firmly believe they are visits, these dreams.) 

There was another dream where she'd given me a gift of a purple manicure set, and the tag read, "To: Va-Jay-Jay and Hubby," but when I looked closer I saw it actually said, "Va-Jay-Sa" and Hubby.  I can't say I ever remember her using the term vajayjay before, but my family does call me Sa...

I can only translate this as my grandmother calling me a vagina from beyond the grave.  (Was Nanny making a funny?)

I miss her immensely.  What did she mean when she said she was around for a year? 

All of this was on my mind as I walked into the guest bathroom at work the other day.  It's a lovely facility; very private, with wooden doors, and the lights go on automatically when you enter either of the two stalls.

The bathroom was completely dark and quiet, except for...a low, mumbling voice speaking in a tongue I could not decipher!  WHAT THE?  Who was that?  In a most un-Melinda-like move, I blurted out:

"WHAT??!!"

It was then I saw Esmeralda, the nice older woman who comes in to change the toilet paper in the bathrooms.  She was huddled behind the door, whispering into her cell phone.

"Sarah," she explained in her thick accent, "I'm sorry, it's my daughter- she's sick today..."

So it wasn't a ghost.  It was the cleaning lady.  And my outburst had startled her just as much as her low murmuring had frightened me.

I told her I was sorry for interrupting, and she apologized profusely for sneaking in a phone call from my company's bathroom.  It was awkwardness all around.  I overcompensated and suggested she go back into the bathroom to call her daughter back, told her I didn't have to pee anymore, and then went on to explain I thought she'd been my dead grandmother.  "My abuela!" I explained, in Spanglish.  I don't think she got it.

It was a most unfortunate situation.  A definite "low point" in the day.

I still haven't given up on trying to contact Nanny, though.  If only to tell her I love her.  xoxo

Anyone have any boxes?

It's 4:30 am, and I should be sleeping.  But I'm not sleeping, sadly; instead, I'm listening to the (insert obscene noun of your choice) upstairs as he pounds, rearranges furniture, clog dances- whatever the hell it is he likes to do in the wee hours of the morn.

I want to shank him.

It's not just him, though- it's the hipsters next door, with their incessant techno; rounded out by the boob in the basement who bangs away at all hours on his FULL DRUM KIT.  It's insanity, I tell you.  And I'm crazy enough as it is.

We moved to the Fenway area because it was convenient and it was what we knew.  This neighborhood had been the best place to live...when I was eighteen.  Unfortunately, it's not so fun at thirty-one.  (My God, am I really thirty-one?)

In a nutshell, we're moving.  To South Boston.  We found the coziest little pad on the cutest of streets and I'm as happy as a pig in shizz.  I'm not even bothered by the fact that in the next couple of weeks I'll be once again packing my life away...it will all be worth it.  (Two decks!  Two bedrooms!  Significantly less rent than we're forking over now!)

I can't move to Southie fast enough.  Just call me Good Will Hunting.

Side effects were generally mild, and included...

A couple of weeks ago, my cousin Keely and I provided the voices for a recording project Hubby was doing for school.  It was a commercial he'd written for an allergy medication, and I was in hog heaven talking into that microphone!  He played the two final cuts for me last night (one a 60 second version and the other a thirty second version) and I thought they were mildly hysterical and wanted to share with you:

(Keel is the one who broke up with "Frank" because his dog was bothering her allergies!  I'm the other broad.)

Click below for the long version...

And below again for the edited version...

Burnt Toast

I love weddings.  Always have.  There wasn't much about my wedding that I can complain about.  I loved it.  Overall, I was overwhelmingly pleased with all but one or two minor details, the first being when our DJ took a break to sit down to dinner and elected to play a compilation cd of smooth 80's jazz.  Seeing as the music was one of the few things I had painstakingly slaved over, and each and every song had been a sentimental one, handpicked especially by Hubby and me, the smooth 80's jazz really came out of left field.  We had to put a stop to it!  And we did.  It was my one borderline Bridezilla moment, and I do not regret it.  As a matter of fact, the smooth jazz incident still sort of chaps my ass.

The only other mishap, if we're excluding the part when my cousin and Hubby's cousin very nearly came to drunken fisticuffs after the reception (good times!), had to have been the speech delivered by our best man, Mike.

Was it the myriad pot references that made Mike's toast such a festering, shit-scented, train wreck?  (I can still recall him mentioning something about "the smoke...and the haze...")

Or perhaps it could have been when he spoke the following: "Brian and Sarah met at the Berklee Cafeteria, and had relations shortly after."

Yes, he uttered those words in front of my GRANDMOTHER.  And Hubby's Grandmother and Grampy.  And the other 127 guests, I suppose, now that we're counting.  (Of course, I'm fairly certain Mike thinks the term relations actually means relationship.  But it doesn't.  Sadly.)

I had forgotten just how unfortunate it was, had likely blocked it all out, when a friend of a friend of ours was introduced to us and asked, "Oh my God!  Was it YOUR wedding where the Italian guy made that speech?"

It was.

I can't even tell you that this speech was the result of nerves or improvisation; no, it had been carefully written out, edited, even- with notes scribbled in the margins.  It was entirely premeditated, amazingly, which somehow makes the whole thing all the more disturbing.  (Originally I had been under the impression that this speech had been ad-libbed.  Not so.)

We never mentioned it to Mike.  Only once did I let it slip, some two years later, over a pitcher of beer(s) at the Bohemian Beer Garden.  I remember Mike's eyes widened in shock and it was then that I realized that he honestly believed he'd given a great speech.  I did my best to backtrack and tell him what a nice job he'd done, but by then it was way too late.  (Plus, I'd already mentioned to his fiance how the wedding planner told us the soups went cold due to the length of said speech.  Hiccup.  Woopsie.)

I was casually hoping for a little retribution last summer when Mike tied the knot in a lavish Long Island ceremony, but no dice.  No, his best man Anthony gave a sweet, heartwarming speech.  He did, of course, make mention that over 50% of all marriages end in divorce, and I suppose the room did go a little quiet, and Anthony did sort of cough and look embarrassed for a moment.  But that was his only misstep, and it was a mild one at that.  But still, it was enough to make me smile, deep in the caverns of my bitter little heart.

But Mike was and is our best man, and I often give him credit for bringing Hubby and I together in the first place.  If it wasn't for him, after all, we never would've met at the Berklee Cafe, twelve long years ago this Sunday; and we certainly never would have had relations shortly thereafter.  (Dear Lord, that last bit still makes me cringe.)

xoxo

An unfortunate Q & A session

I've only been a vegetarian (who occasionally eats fish) since last September and I'm still ironing out the wrinkles.  Basically, I've had to be a lot more thoughtful about what I eat, making sure most of it packs a good nutritional wallop.  Sometimes, especially in the beginning, if I forgot to eat really carefully my blood sugar would drop, and I may have become slightly cranky or woozy.  It's not like I was swooning or anything; I suppose I was just acting a little...spacey...odd...withdrawn.

My Mommy didn't like it.  She persuaded me go to the doctor a while ago to have some blood work done, just to ensure everything was okay.  I sat on the uncomfortable table while the doctor asked me a wide array of questions and carefully typed my responses into her computer.

"Do you smoke, Sarah?"

"No, never."

(typing)

"Do you exercise?"

"Well, I walk an awful lot."

(more typing)

"Do you drink?"

"Well, yes, yes I do..."

"How much do you drink?"

"Well, I do like my wine!  Heh heh!  Maybe a few nights a week?"

(typing)

"How many drinks do you have in one sitting?"

"Well, maybe one, two?  But never more than three..."

"So would you say you have...six drinks a week?  Nine?  Twelve?"

"Well...I'm really planning on cutting back..."  

(typing.  frantic typing.)

Great.  So I was an alcoholic vegetarian.  Awesome.  This was humiliating.  Why couldn't I have simply lied?  My mind raced back in time to the summer after high school graduation, sitting in the office of an ear, nose and throat doctor with my mother, when the doctor asked, "Do you drink, Sarah?"  And I'd hesitated, suddenly becoming very serious.  I'd tried drinking a couple of times pretty recently before then, you see.  (The hard stuff.  WINE COOLERS.  But that's...another post.)  My mother rolled her eyes in exasperation.  "He doesn't mean have you tried drinking once or twice, Sarah, he means do you drink every day?"

What can I say?  I've always been a stickler for details.

Back to the present: "Are both of your parents living?"

"Yes."

"Do either of them have any major health problems?"

"No, thankfully."

(typing)

"Siblings?"

"Yes, one older sister."

(typing)

"Children?"

"Yes, one son- he just turned two in November.  OH, and one on the WAY!!"

The doctor stopped typing then and looked at me like I had a special problem.  So now I was a pregnant alcoholic vegetarian?  A pregnant alcoholic vegetarian who wasn't eating properly?

"Oh, wait a second, you meant do I have any children?  Me, you meant!  I thought you meant my sissy.  No, no, I don't have any children.  And I'm not pregnant either!  Heh heh!"

Sweet Baby Jesus.  The doctor smiled politely, but I won't lie- this was a new low. 

My blood work turned out perfectly fine, although my B-12 count was a little under.  The doctor suggested I go back to eating eggs and to make sure I snacked on walnuts and other healthy fats in the morning.  (And by the way, Sissy is pregnant again!  I have a feeling this time it may be a girl.  We're all very excited.  xoxo)

Chow

When I turned the key in my front door this evening I was met by the heavenly aroma of pot roast.  Pot roast slowly simmering in a crock pot.  This culinary ambrosia had been wafting up to my nostrils all the way down the hall, long before I even stepped foot inside my apartment. 

So, Hubby was slow cooking himself a bit of meat.  Delectable, flavorful, juicy, meaty meat.  For sure, the man needs his vitamin B-12.  I'd been properly warned via text that my husband would be enjoying a carnivorous meal, and yet...

I cannot tell a lie.  It smells divine.  It's divinity on a stick.  But as for this broad...

No siree, Barbara.  I'm vegging, baby.  It's whole wheat penne with asparagus, tomatoes, artichokes and basil pesto for me.  xoxo

The Glow

Last week at work an acquaintance pulled my pal Gregg aside and asked him, in a confidential tone, "Is Sarah pregnant?"

Yes, the Odd Broad has once again been a victim of Mistaken Pregnancy Identification.  But at least this time it wasn't to my face.  And at least this time it wasn't because I had a muffin top hanging over my corporate casual wear.

Gregg looked mortified when he relayed the story to me.  And who could blame him?  "Why would she ask you that?" I wondered, annoyed.  What was he, the keeper of my womb?

"She said you had a glow."

Ah.  The old glow defense.  I could hardly be angry at this woman for saying I had a glow.  Even if said glow is merely a bit of Bare Escentuals bronzer and a habit of smiling too much.  It also helped that my friend Gregg was appropriately horrified and offended in my honor.

I will counteract this invasive inquiry in the way I always do: with form fitting clothing.  No, I am not knocked up, but random dingleberries have been asking me if I am for the past four years.  If and when I finally do become pregnant, how the hell am I ever going to hide it?

Odd Addendum

On my last post my sister commented that it was her and not me who went and got our mother when a strange lady stopped in front of our house to talk about birds.  Lies.  It was me, me I tell you!  I honestly don't even think Sissy was there.

Glad we cleared that up.