The Odd Broad

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

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.)

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's sock

In college there was a dance teacher named Andy who'd put us through a merciless sit-up routine while making us sing:

"Black socks, they never get dirty; the longer you wear them, the blacker they get...

Someday, I'll probably launder them; something keeps telling me,

Don't do it yet!  Not yet, not yet, not yet, not yet..."

A catchy tune, though the sentiment was kind of filthy.  Sometimes I'd tell Andy I had cramps. 

Speaking of dirty laundry...Hubby and I accumulate it at a shockingly rapid pace.  It perpetually seems to be piling up.  I don't envy my homeowner friends and loved ones their abodes.  I do, however, covet their washers and dryers.  You would too, if you lived in my building.  The path to the laundry room is a bit like a fairy tale: "Down the steps, through the door, beyond the courtyard...(down the ominous looking hallway, past the indoor chain link fence containing the sinister water heaters...)

It's a crime scene waiting to happen.  I refuse to go down there alone.  Freshly laundered linen is lovely, but I'm not about to go all Law and Order for it.

And then there's the local laundromat, where a quarter buys you five minutes of dryer time.  I spent $20 there last weekend.  As I unfurled a sheet from the dryer, I noticed a sock had fallen to the floor. 

I removed the matching fitted sheet and suddenly saw a second black sock pop out and fall to the ground, landing between myself and the girl next to me.  Her arms were brimming with a heaping pile of clothes she'd just pulled from the dryer.

This could be potentially awkward.  Gingerly, I picked up the sock, then realized it might look like I was doing something creepy. 

"This sock was stuck inside my sheet," I explained, in a friendly voice.  "Just didn't want you to think I was stealing your laundry!"

Heh heh.

"Oh, is that yours?  I think it may be mine?"  (So we were going to play this game, were we?)

"My socks keep hiding inside my sheets..."  As a momentary solution, I hung the sock up on the laundry cart between us and got back to my folding.  Minutes later, the girl had bundled up her things and reached out for my sock.  "Um, I found the match, so I guess it was mine after all."

Now this was just weird.  I glanced at the sock.  My sock.  The sole said "HUE" on it, and her "match" did not.  They weren't even the same size!  "Oh, do you have socks that say HUE, too?" I asked, "We must have the same ones, then."  (Liar, liar, pants on fire!)  Oh yes, I could see right through her little ruse.

Was this broad actually lying to me over a measly sock?  Should I stand my ground?  Did I really want to cause a scene over one black sock?  I wasn't sure if my inner child could withstand such humiliation.  And then again, what if the sock wasn't mine after all?  My resolve began to waver. 

Who was I kidding, this wretched girl was a sock snatcher.  Was she not?  

A few days later I was rifling through my dresser and pulled out a single sock with the letters HUE on the sole.  I could only find one of them.  That rotten little sock pilferer!  My only comfort is the hope that she will one day realize her blunder and feel very penitent and bad about herself.  Until that glorious day...I continue to pine for a washer and dryer to call my very own.

Maybe Santa will bring me some black socks for Christmas. 

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

Facebooking

I recently deleted my personal Facebook account.  It honestly felt like a daring and emboldened decision at the time, but in the end nobody really noticed or gave a good crap.  Nobody except my friends Karen and Gregg, that is; and about two days later my sister texted: Did you delete fb acct??  

It had all just become Too Much!  I was logging in far too frequently, and found myself increasing vexed by what I saw on there: the pokes, (and what the hell is a superpoke?), the Mafia Wars, those nauseating bumper stickers my eighteen year old cousin posts about her perverted little boyfriend: "I'll love you until my last breath takes you from me," the Farm Town, the pieces of flair.  Furthermore, I was a total slut when it came to clicking that "like" button.  I began to whilst away my Saturday mornings partaking in lifeblood sapping quizzes like "Which truly badass historical figure are you?" or "What Disney villain are you?" or "What Poison song are you?" 

When I took the "What great woman of the bible are you?" quiz, it decided I was Mary Magdalene.  These quizzes are nearly always misspelled and seem more than a little arbitrary.  And yet, I took them.  I took them with abandon.

My friend Gregg did send me virtual poo smeared on a toilet seat once, which I have to admit was pretty effing awesome.  But I have no interest in becoming a fan of Coors Lite, or Bonfires, or Flipping over my pillow to get to the cool side.  My friend Matt actually created a group entitled: Not a fan of groups group.  I admire his edgy sentiment.

But the fact remains, somewhere along the line Facebook just stopped being fun.  Every Tom, Dick and Harriet starting sending me friend requests, even that dude who'd threatened to blow everybody up at our high school graduation.  I even inadvertently noticed a relative had recently posted that it was time for Hubby and me to start a family.  This information, however harmlessly intended, was enough to make me want to walk into oncoming traffic.

All of this culminated in my hitting the delete button.  But Christ, do I miss it! 

xoxo

PS: I just thought of a good quiz to create: Which Corey are you?  Ooooh, that would've been a good one!  Darn.

PPS: I think I'd be Haim.  Even though he's a hot, festering mess, in my opinion he's still preferable over Feldman.  Plus, we're both born on the Sagittarius/Capricorn cusp.  Don't ask me how I know that, I just do.  Don't judge.

The Hole

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.  Christ.

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friends, fireworks, and talking to the dead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back to life, back to reality

In elementary school I had a teacher with a reputation for being a hardass.  Looking back as an adult, I couldn't tell you if she truly was mean or not, but back in those days she certainly fit the mold.  She had flaming red hair, a permanent scowl, and an imposing, hands on hips type of physique. 

She referred to a grade of zero as a goose egg.  She threatened goose eggs pretty much on a daily basis.  In all fairness, I can't say this woman was ever anything but kind to me, but then again I never gave her reason to behave otherwise.  After all, I was no dummy.

She'd also chant, "Time for ketchup, time for ketchup!"

Ketchup?  I always found that one particularly baffling.  I think I might have been in college when I finally figured out that she meant "catch up."  As in, time to catch up on homework. 

It's time for the odd broad to ketchup on life. 

The other day I awoke from the strangest dream, about a friend I hadn't thought about in a long time.  I tore out of bed, frantically flung open the lid on my desk and there it was...

A seemingly harmless pile of papers, stacked a million miles high.  Or, technically, eight inches.  What was lurking in this pile, you may wonder?

Oh, an invitation to a baby shower.  (RSVP by May 15th)

An invitation to a wedding shower (Kindly RSVP by May 1st, and please include a favorite recipe.)

An invitation to a 25th Anniversary party.

Bills upon bills, a postcard from the Shark Vacuum company telling me they'd charged my debit card and were sending my filters in two to three weeks.  To Queens.

A letter from Kittie's insurance company, who also still thought we lived in New York. 

Suddenly I thought of the rest of the things I'd allowed to pile up:  The email from my friend in Colorado who'd recently given birth, complete with pictures of her newborn baby girl.  I hadn't responded.  I hadn't even opened the picture files, in fact.  The warm email from my old boss.  The emails from hubby's Grandpa. 

Now, I wouldn't exactly label myself as anal, but I do like to think of myself as moderately thoughtful.  May was a horrible month, but I'm shocked and amazed that I'd allowed things to pile up so drastically.

And now, I will ketchup, one RSVP at a time, which is really the best I can do.

Sincerely,

Ms. Bad Manners xoxo

F bombs on aisle nine

On Mother's Day I stopped into Shaw's to pick up the last bunch of flowers I would ever buy my grandmother. 

I chose tulips for Nanny and decided my mom might like some miniature purple roses in dainty little tins.  They were so impossibly pretty, I hoped maybe they'd cheer her up.  Although, did a few of the roses look wilted?  I popped my head around the corner and discovered a woman working behind the flower area, putting together arrangements.  She was having a conversation with an elderly man.  They weren't talking flowers, mainly they were just shooting the breeze.

I made myself visible, my arms bulging with bags and plants and flowers, but the woman still wouldn't acknowledge me.

I was running late.  Immediate action was necessary.  "Excuse me, I'm sorry to interrupt, but I just have a quick question about these flowers..."

BAD choice, Odd Broad.  The old buck went effing ballistic.  Now that I had a good look at him, I did notice he was kind of off his rocker.  He was wearing a Yankees baseball cap and when he opened his mouth to yell at me I saw he was missing some teeth. 

"You just interrupted us!  How dare you!  You rude, fucking, bitch!"

Awesome.

The flower woman looked totally nonplussed.  "That's not nice, she said 'excuse me'..."

"I don't care!  I was talking and she interrupted me!  She's a bitch!"  He leveled his wild eyes back on mine.  "YOU are a BITCH!"

As there appeared to be a brief window of opportunity in between the scolding, I decided it might be a nice time to pose my question.  "Do these flowers look wilted?"  The woman assured me that she'd just gotten the roses in the day prior, so they were very fresh, and I was on my merry way.  The old devil was still railing, going on about what a horrible bitch I was. 

I knew this poor soul probably had a touch of the dementia, but I'm not going to lie; his impromptu nastiness made my eyes sting with a moisture that was entirely involuntary.  Let's face it, I was already in a somber mood to begin with.  "Thank you," I said to the woman.  "Have a nice day," I said to the old dickhead.  It figured he was a Yankees fan. 

As I walked away I could hear them talking, and the old man was already regretting his outburst.  A second later he came around the corner and repented.  "You did say excuse me; I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called you a bitch, that was wrong of me."

"That's okay, sir.  It's alright."

He then disappeared behind the wall and I heard his friend tell him she was proud of him and that it was very nice of him to have apologized.

Nobody around had witnessed this oddity, save me, flower lady and old Yankee dude.  I glanced about to see if there wasn't some stranger I could roll my eyes at, laugh, and say, "Can you believe it?  Never a dull moment," that sort of thing.  But my sudden need to commiserate only made me appear creepy.  A woman dressed in traditional Indian garb actually hurried away from me with her shopping cart.

I walked home, the sun beating down on me.  I was starting to sweat.  On the way, I passed a man begging for spare change who said, "Nice flowers." 

Thanks.

That was the last day I saw Nan alive.  I put the tulips on top of her television set; she'd gotten so many flowers she was running out of table space.  I don't think she knew who I was, so I never really got to say goodbye.  I wanted a moment alone with her, to tell her...I don't even know what.  Anyway, I never got the chance.  So I'm going to tell her now, on the world wide web: You made me laugh.  You were beautiful and brave, and I always wanted to make you proud.  You were a constant, irreplaceable staple in my life, and now you're gone, and a part of me just can't believe it.

And...Nanny, an old man called me a bitch on Mother's Day, at the grocery store.  Can you believe it?

Girls with long noses shouldn't wear hoods.

Sometimes in life things happen that are too hurtful, too mortifying and uncomfortable to even acknowledge, let alone recall on the world wide web.

What can I say?  I'm a masochist.

Picture it: Southern California, October, 1999.  It was my Senior year of college and I'd flown across the country to see Hubby, my then boyfriend, who'd had to leave school and move back home.  We were twenty. 

When Hubby left Boston I was heartbroken, wretched, distracted, woebegone; you get the idea.  The Odd Broad was a total effing train wreck.  This boy was my soul mate!  And suddenly he was gone.  I couldn't get out to California fast enough!

It was my second to last day in California and we were taking a nice drive along the sunny PCH.  Back then Hubby was driving around in a red Dodge convertible whose top was perpetually down.  (We had no choice about the latter, I suppose, since the roof wouldn't really go back up.) 

Dear Reader, I'm just going to come out and say it:  I have a long nose.  I don't know why, really; my mother, father and sister certainly don't have long noses!  They have tiny baby noses.  I suppose my grandfather had a longish nose, however, and now it seems that I do, too.

But I digress.  Hubby and I zoomed along the highway, my hair whipping violently into my face, eyes and mouth.  I decided to pull up the hood on my light blue fleece sweatshirt.  (Can you see this story is heading somewhere painful?  Get out while you can!)

It happened in slow motion, really.  I can still see their car approaching us on the left, from behind.  Inside were about three or four large African-American teenage girls, and one of them called out:

"She has a big ass nose!"

Only she didn't say it like that; she said it more like: She has a Big (pause) Ass (dreadful pause) NOSE!  Her last word was sort of spat out in an awful, high pitched yelp.

What was that?

Oh Reader, I died a thousand deaths!  Had Hubby heard?  No, surely not!  He couldn't have heard!  Sweet Baby Jesus, if he had heard, then surely I would die!  There was no other alternative.

Barely moving my blue hooded head, I peered over at Hubby out of the corner of my eye, as inconspicuously as humanly possible.  He couldn't have heard.

Just then he picked up my hand, kissed it, and quietly whispered, "I love you baby."

Oh Christ Jesus!  He HAD heard them!!!!

The next day I flew back to Boston.  Hubby and I waited until the last possible moment to say goodbye.  I didn't want to leave.  He didn't want me to leave.  We exhibited massive amounts of public displays of affection.  As I walked tearfully down the jetway, a strong feeling in the pit of my stomach told me to turn around.  Later, Hubby would tell me that he'd hoped I might turn around.

I didn't turn around.  I boarded that plane back to the East coast, crying all the way.  I called Sissy from a payphone on my layover, still weepy.  "Oh, Sissy, I miss him so much!  Although I kind of don't know what I'm more sad about, leaving California, or the fact that a group of girls on the highway said I had a big ass nose!"

"Who said WHAT to you, now?" 

My older sister made me feel better in the special way that only she can.  (She has a gift.)  But she also strongly advised me to never wear hoods.

To the few poor souls on this planet with whom I'm closely intimate with, my life is an open book.  But Reader, I am not without ego.  It would be years and years before I'd muster the courage to actually mention this episode to my husband, and even then I was probably drunk at the time.  "Do you remember when..."

I'd never been sure, see?  Had he heard?  But oh, Hubby remembered.  And he'd definitely heard.  Sniff sniff. 

Girls with long noses shouldn't wear hoods.  It just doesn't look nice.