The Odd Broad

Oh yes, I've been here before...

Yesterday I stopped into our old apartment by Fenway to do some cleaning and discovered the window in the kitchen had been cracked, and the frame bent!

What the?  The apartment had been empty for a week, save for a few random things.  Why would anybody want to break into an empty apartment?

Luckily someone was still next door at the management company.  It was the pleasant, helpful woman I'd dealt with over the phone when I was trying to get out of our lease.  I explained to her about the window situation and waited for her reaction.  She smiled, made a circular motion around her stomach, and proceeded to ask the same brazen, intrusive little question I am apparently destined to hear spoken by strangers and casual acquaintances everywhere:

"You're pregnant, right?"

Honestly, what is it about me that inspires such invasive reproductive queries?  I have a mass body index of 21, for crying out loud! 

I blamed my purple sweater jacket.  I even opened it up so she'd see I wasn't with child.  This immediately propelled her into an apologetic spiel about how she'd mistaken me for someone else, someone who'd just moved away because she was expecting.  "I'm SO SORRY!  I thought you were her!"

"Nope!  Not me."  I smiled back at her.

At least she was apologetic.  "I really, really thought you were her.  This woman and her husband just moved away because the building was too noisy and there was a person below them always playing on the drums.  And she was pregnant!"

"Yeah, that was me, actually.  But I'm not pregnant."  Awkward. 

So even over the phone people assume I'm knocked up.  I think it's time I started developing a complex.

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

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)

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.

Hey crater face!

Lukey the Wonder Nephew is repeating just about everything he hears these days.  He is also able to point out the following automobiles by name, simply by looking at them: Nissan, Honda, Jeep, Subaru, BMW, and his particular favorite, Toyota.  "TOYO!!"

He really, really likes cars.  My sister writes these names in crayon on a sheet of paper, and Luke reads them.  If she writes the president's name down Luke will screech: Bach Bama!

I shit you not.  He's still not even two.

Needless to say, Sissy has put a strict ban on swearing in front of her son.  I do my best to respect her wishes, but even the best of aunties slip up from time to time.  I'm certainly making a concentrated effort, however.

The other day we were headed towards the playground and had the walk sign when a large truck aggressively began taking a turn.  The guy behind the wheel was on his cell phone and steering with one hand (a common sight in Boston), and when we gave him a dirty look and continued crossing, he had the nerve to yank on his horn. 

Honk, honk. 

I instinctively gave him the finger, extending my entire arm upwards in one quick, fluid motion.  Very old school and entirely spontaneous, but this new no swear in front of the baby policy doesn't leave me with very much to work with.

My older sister looked at me in disbelief.  "Did you really just give that guy the finger?"

Um, yes.  I suppose I had.  "He wasn't even paying attention!  We're walking with a baby!"

"So you gave him the finger?  Who are you?  Kenickie from Grease?"

I was, a little.  There, in the middle of Boylston Street, in my checkered wool Chaps jacket, I was channeling Jeff Conaway circa 1978.  We started to giggle and didn't stop for at least two blocks.  For a moment I thought I might pee.

Many folks would describe me as a sweet natured, ladylike individual.  (Many folks; notice I didn't say all.)  I'm honestly not sure what comes over me at times.  I know it was protective love for my nephew that prompted my silent show of displeasure, but all the same.  Sometimes I think I'm going mental.

Although, the middle finger is an entirely underused gesture nowadays, is it not? 

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

Skanky Gourds

The Shaw's on Boylston sold us skunky gourds.  Granted, I did take two from their display shelf, and Hubby did warn me not to, but I did it anyways.  Those gourds were adorable!  They belonged on my tablescape!

And there they were, perched in my hallway, in the little Halloween dish from the Christmas Tree Shop that said, "BOO!" 

Little did I know they'd gone all skanky.  I was bending down in the hallway, dusting, when I smelled something awful.  Something filthy.  Something...fishy.  Stinkiness begs company, so I called Hubby over to have a whiff.  "Come smell this!" I implored.

He wasn't impressed.  "Oh my God!  That's sick!  Why would you make me smell that?"

I'm not sure why.  I suppose I wanted someone to share in the horror.  Our pretty little gourds were skankalicious.  Too bad.  Good thing I bought plenty.

WebMD: enabling hypochondriacs since 1998

I've had a vexing pain in my stomach and back since about Sunday.  At times it's been downright excruciating.  Many of my loved ones are already extremely tired of hearing about it, and therefore I am telling you.

At first I suspected Saturday's late night wing ding dinner from Cappy's was the bastard culprit; but now I'm not so sure.

"Go to the doctor!" my mother advises.  "Go to the doctor!" Hubby tells me.  "You should really call the doctor," Sissy keeps saying.

I probably should.  But I've been so busy lately.  And it's really much more pleasurable to moan and speculate. 

Today I went on WebMD.  I don't know about you, but WebMD brings out the absolute worst in me.  It awakens every paranoid, dreadful fear inside of me and invites them all out for drinks and tapas.  Painful memories come flooding back, of the five years in my earliest twenties I spent uninsured and tearfully conducting self diagnosis over my keyboard.  But still, I'm nothing if not a glutton for punishment, and so I decide to check my symptoms.   

I select the upper abdomen as the source of my anguish.  Muscle cramps and spasms?  Check.  Bloating?  Check.  Pain and discomfort?  You betcha!  Hey, this was fun!

Now to investigate my possible conditions.  Chagas Disease certainly sounds like a likely and thrilling candidate, although it's caused primarily by blood sucking insects and is mainly contracted in Central and South America.  For half a minute I wonder if any of those chicken wings may have contained a bloodsucking insect or two, but it does seem highly unlikely.  Damn.

A peptic ulcer is a burning, aching, gnawing pain between the belly button and the breastbone.  Some people even experience back pain.  Sounds promising.  Especially seeing as one of the causes can be the abuse of NSAIDs, and I do pop a fair amount of Advil tablets for my headaches.  (Hardcore pill poppage; Elvis and Cilla style). 

I have to admit, a peptic ulcer does sound kind of romantic.  But perhaps I have Diverticulitis.  Or intestinal Ischemia.  Maybe even squamous cell carcinoma while I'm at it.  I am suddenly compelled to click through a slide show of precancerous skin lesions and begin to feel lightheaded.  It is only when I commence inspecting the freckles on my forearm that I realize I have been foiled...yet again. 

Damn you, WebMD!!!!!