The Odd Broad

Obligatory greetings

If there's one thing I learned from my years in New York it was not to talk to strangers.  How quickly I forget...

Things have started to get a little awkward with my train conductor.  It's just, I take the same train every evening, and after a while I noticed everyone else was friendly with him, so I decided to throw in a "hello!" or "good night!" of my own.  Why not?  I live in the burbs now, don't I?  Perhaps it's time to start being friendlier.

But then there was that rainy evening when the train was short staffed and no announcement was made when we arrived at my stop.  I looked up after a second, panicked, and noticed the doors weren't being opened.  Huh?  It was then that I found myself sprinting down the car, into the next one, and then the next one, bags flying, all the while being cheered on by my fellow commuters: You'd better run for it!  Hurry, hurry!

I was making a total dickhead out of myself, but I didn't care.  I wanted off that train!  I wanted to get home!  When I reached the door we were already pulling away.  "Oh no, wait!" I panted in vain, "Oh, I missed my stop!" but the conductor just stared blankly at me and walked away.  It was the weirdest thing ever.  "You missed your stop?" a lady asked as I stared out the rain speckled train doors, pathetic and dejected.

Um, yes.

"I'm through with that conductor," I told Hubby that night.  "No more hellos, that asshole is dead to me!"  

Hubby's expression seemed to suggest, I'm sure he'll be very upset.

But the next day, as I was boarding the train, I decided to ask exactly which car I should sit in so I wouldn't miss my stop again.  "Oh ya, you missed your stop last night, huh?" the conductor said, all smiles.  "We were down a conductor, so that's why there weren't any announcements."

That night he pointed towards the exit when he passed by and made a special effort to make sure I knew when we reached my stop.  A little humiliating, sure, but at least I knew I was in the correct spot.  

Since then there have been many friendly Hellos! and How ah ya's? exchanged between us.  I've gotten to know the faces of people who sit in my car, and among them is a woman and small child who I assumed to be his wife and daughter.  He carries the little girl up and down the aisles sometimes, it's very sweet.  But then a few days ago, as I was walking down the platform, I noticed the woman gave the baby to a different man to carry, and, wait a second, did she just say, "Oh, there's Bob and Jerry!" to the little girl as they passed the conductors?

That wasn't his kid at all!  And now that I'm actually paying attention, it kind of seems like this woman hands her kid over to a lot of different people.  Hmmm.  

I'll see my conductor on the occasional morning, too, and of course we inevitably end up making eye contact.  And because I've already established the precedent of acknowledging him, if I take a day off from doing it I feel like I'm being rude.  These hellos have started to feel forced and expected and a little...awkward.  Yes, they're definitely getting awkward.  When did that happen, anyway?  And when did he start smiling at me like that?  Dear Lord, does this guy think I've got the hots for him or something?  Me, a married mother?  No, surely not, right?  I carry a Medela breastpump bag with me, for crying out loud! Of course, he wouldn't recognize it as such unless he had one of his own, which, unless he is lactating, he doesn't.

Whether it's all in my head or not, I've systematically been decreasing my hello and goodbyes.  When I walk down the platform, I pull out my BlackBerry so I have something to focus on.  Well?  I don't want to give anyone the wrong idea, do I?  Jeesh.

"Have a nice evening!"

Team Coco

It was Saturday night and Hubby and I had tickets to see Conan O'Brien on his Legally Prohibited From Being Funny on Television Tour!

He put on a great show.  Andy was there, and The Masturbating Bear; the Dropkick Murphys even made a surprise appearance.  But the real show, folks, was up in the balcony, sitting in row F, seat 6, directly next to yours truly... 

That's right, I was seated next to a Bad Laugher.

I suppose everybody has their own unique style of laughing.  Some people are silent laughers, some are gigglers, some laugh till they pee, some like to snort.  But the man next to me, I can honestly say, possessed THE WORST LAUGH I have ever heard in all my born days.  People were craning their necks to get a glimpse of where this foul sound was coming from!

It would have been impressive, had it not been so irritating.  This laugh was even more annoying than the one that belonged to Laugher Steve, a guy I worked with on an assembly line back in the summer of '97.  It's been years since I've thought about Laugher Steve (who, incidentally, earned his nickname by laughing loudly after every unfunny sentence he uttered). 

The dude on Saturday night made Laugher Steve look like an amateur.  At first he seemed harmless enough.  Granted, I got a whiff of stale beer when he and his lady friend squeezed by us into their seats, each of them double fisting their drinks, but I didn't take proper note of him until something tickled his funny bone.

"AHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!  AHAHAHAHAHA!  Oh, oh my God, oh my God, AHAHAHAHAHA!"

Um...what the f*ck?  We've got a live one here. 

I feel I should add, Conan hadn't even taken the stage yet!  This was merely the opening act we were watching, and not a very funny one at that.  The comedian was recording loops of himself singing, which the dingus sitting next to me found unbearably riotous. 

This got me to worrying, really worrying, about what the hell was going to happen when Conan actually took the stage?  Conan, a man I find so humorous he actually makes my face hurt; how will this person ever withstand the side-splitting hilarity?  It was possible the poor thing might spontaneously combust in one final, colossal howl of madness.

HA HA HA!  HA HA!  HA!  And his girlfriend was just as wasted as he was.  I'm not a particularly violent woman, but I wanted to stab them both.  When there was a brief break in the action, the couple decided to make another beer run.  Just what the doctor ordered!  Boobs.

Hubby and I pondered our lousy luck at being stuck next to this drunken, wretched mad cackler.  I caught the eye of the girl seated next to the Cackler's girlfriend.  "What the hell is wrong with that guy?" I asked, which pretty much opened the floodgates for everyone in our vicinity to begin analyzing the Mad Cackler.  

The guy behind me spoke up: "At first I hated him; but then I saw how people were reacting to him and I had to laugh."  The couple in front of me turned around and rolled their eyes, shaking their heads in helpless commiseration.  The girls behind us felt sorry for me because I had to sit beside him.  It seemed everyone had taken notice of this fool!  He was quite the distraction.

Hubby kept offering to switch seats with me, but somehow just knowing the rest of my neighbors hated this soul as much as I did gave me some comfort.  I was able to endure the laughter, even as it emerged at inappropriate moments, at things that weren't even intended to be funny.  And then he spilled his Bud Light on me, and Hubby insisted we switch seats.  In hindsight this was a good choice, seeing as once the Murphys came on this dude began gyrating and flailing wildly, barely able to even stand.  (I pray he didn't drive home.)

After we switched seats, I really enjoyed the show.  And since I now had the aisle seat I got a close up look at Conan as he ran by me during the finale.  All in all, it was a splendid evening.  Hubby even snuck out his Blackberry to get a quick sound bite of the Mad Cackler, seeing as he knew I'd be desperate to share it with you. 

Click "play" below to experience the laughter.  Please bear in mind that this brief but terrible montage is MILD, and Hubby was seated two seats over, so it's not even especially loud.  We weren't able to capture one of his more aggressive howls, because I was too nervous he'd see what we were doing.  But anyway, you'll get the drift.

Hair.

Oh Lacey, my feisty Brazilian bombshell, you who cut my hair so intuitively for nearly a decade; how I miss thee!  It's been nearly two years and I have yet to find anyone to replace you.

Tonight I stopped into a new salon, a promising looking neighborhood spa.  Five minutes prior, I'd decided to do something radical, ie: blunt bangs, but the hairdresser must have sensed this choice was purely hormonal because she voted against it, despite the fact that she herself had bangs.

No matter, because I was still getting my hair cut to my collarbone.  That would be a change, at least.

The stylist was a soft spoken, sweet faced young woman who made pleasant enough banter.  Until she got me by the sink, that is.  Once there, she unleashed upon me a surprise attack so aggressive, so militant, so wrathful, that I sort of wanted to weep.  She gave me a head massage. 

Don't they usually ask before they administer that sort of thing?  A little warning would have been nice! 

It must have lasted ten minutes.  Ten minutes of hellish torture.  I only know when I realized it wasn't conditioner she was feverishly working into my scalp, but a second lathering of shampoo, I nearly fainted in the chair.  Just rinse me, bitch, for the love of God!   

Was this supposed to feel good?  Or somehow be therapeutic?  Was there a hidden camera somewhere or something?  Was this person having an especially bad day?  Had she just been dumped by her live-in lover?

She was violating my scalp.  Now, as a rule, I don't enjoy professional massages.  Too painful!  But this was ridiculous.  I know I am thirty-one years of age, and I probably should have spoken up and put an end to the forceful temple pressing, but I never really found an opening.  There was never a, is the water too hot?  Or, does this feel nice...or excruciating?  No conversation at all, in fact, once the water was running.  It was the damnedest thing.  Also, the Miss Manners in me didn't want to insult the poor thing.  After all, she obviously thought she was doing me a nicety. 

Before she was through, she delivered a vigorous neck torture treatment.  Needless to say, that didn't feel nice, either.  For the love of all that is holy, please make it end!

"Thanks?"  I tried not to phrase it as a question, but I couldn't help it.  "You're welcome," she answered, with obvious pride in her tone.  Perhaps her other customers actually enjoy it.  Where on earth did she learn to do this, Beauty School, or in a back alley somewhere?

The thing is, I actually like the way she cut my hair, but I'm not sure I can get over her going all spontaneously apeshit on my head.  It may be too big of a hurdle for us to surpass.  At this point, what could I possibly say?  "Hey, remember that head massage you gave me the last time?  LOVED it, by the way, really nice technique, but could you please NEVER DO IT AGAIN? 

Ah, well.  Anyone have any Advil?

The incident

It's Saturday morning, and the sun is shining brightly on our cozy front balcony, beckoning me to come outside and bask in its gleaming rays.  And I would, truly I would, if there wasn't a dead bird out there.

A dead bird??  What??  AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

To make maters worse, it happens to be of those cute, tiny little things, the kind that hop around on two legs.  And now those legs are sticking straight up into the air (from what I can see, since my hands are covering both of my eyes.)  By this point I've also instinctively removed my glasses to blur the grisly death scene. 

Is this some kind of a bad omen?  Have I been boozing too much and is the Baby Jesus trying to send me a warning?  I momentarily ponder the potential existential symbolism of finding a deceased animal on one's front balcony.  It can't be a good thing.

The bird's partner is standing there motionless beside it, just staring.  This I find incredibly sad.  I don't know how long it's been there, but it appears to be sitting shiva.   

Hey, Hubby?  HUBBY??  HUBBY!!!!

I inform my other half that there is a dead bird lying outside on our lanai.  (For this is what I've taken to calling our front balcony, in true Golden Girls vernacular.)  I watch nervously as Hubby assesses the situation.  I can see he has one of those looks upon his face, the kind he gets when he realizes he will soon be required to do something unpleasant. 

He goes back to bed for a minute and I sit on the couch, slouching down low so the bird is out of my direct line of vision.  Now, I consider myself a lifelong feminist, at times even bordering on the inappropriately bitter.  And yet, during wretched moments such as this, I rest safe in the knowledge that while there may indeed be a dead creature lying several feet away, I will not be forced to dispose of its birdly remains.  (Because that is my husband's job!)

I know, I know, I'm a chauvinist bastard.  But there you have it.  I am fairly unapologetic in my stance on this.  I realize it's a paradox, that a feminist would expect her husband to perform certain macabre household tasks based upon his lack of ovaries.  But let's face it- there is no way in hell I'm picking up the carcass of a dead animal.  

My thoughts turn to the night prior, when we sat outside sipping cocktails, being entertained by the unsuspecting inebriated townies below.  (Our new favorite pastime.)  I was curled up in my purple blanket, barefoot, relishing the crisp night air and the distant sound of young yuppies trying to hail cabs. 

Oh, God.  Was the bird already dead then?  Did my blanket skim the bird? 

I look at said blanket now, carelessly strewn across our couch, possibly oozing with E. coli.  I think I may be sick.

Hubby and I decide that we would've known had there been a dead bird lying at our feet.  The mere notion of this atrocity gives us both the willies, however.  But the porch had been illuminated by LED candlelight, and there was no way we could've missed a dead bird.  But when (and how) the heck did it die, then?

Just because Hubby is male, it doesn't mean he finds this morbid undertaking anything other than a total Nightmare on Elm Street (Parts I, II, and III).  I suggest he use two Improper Bostonians to scoop up Birdie, then place him in the empty Arugula container I fished out of the recycling bin.  (I'm helpful!  See?  Aren't I so helpful?)

Hubby looks skeptical.  I watch as he tentatively approaches the corpse, brow furrowed, his nose slightly crinkled.  He seems to be postponing the inevitable.  I spy the pail and shovel sitting on the tiny chair we bought for The Wonder Nephew.  "Just use Lukey's shovel to do it," I call from behind the safety of the screen door.  "We can always buy him a new shovel."

Hubby naysays this, suggesting the shovel isn't big enough. "But that's a tiny bird!" I counter.  He is too preoccupied, however, to become annoyed by my backseat dead bird comments. 

I run to the kitchen and return with a pair of rubber gloves I bought to wash dishes with but never use.  I offer them to Hubby.

"Can't I use the dustpan and we'll just get a new one?" Hubby wonders.  It seems like the easiest solution, and it works nicely.  I offer up a silent prayer for the bird's soul as I watch it drop unceremoniously into a brown paper Trader Joe's bag.  Poor little thing.  It's not a dignified way to go, but all the same...where does one bury a bird in South Boston?

Sometime during this ordeal, I recall the loud THUD I heard while lying in bed that morning.  (What was that?  I remember thinking.)  So the unlucky bastard must have flown into the French doors and died upon impact.  (Damn you, Windex, and damn your streak-free shine!)

This solves the mystery of the bird's unfortunate demise, and also rules out my two other more sinister theories: the disgusting squirrel theory, or the slightly more disturbing bird randomly dropping dead on front balcony theory.  We decide to douse the outdoor rug with Clorox cleaner.   

Afterwards, Hubby and I sit and share a moment of quiet reflection.  And then the handsome man poses a question, a dreadful question, and one that just so happens to be sitting right on the tip of my tongue:

"Do you think this is gonna happen often?"

Mamma mia.

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!