The Odd Broad

Happy Birthday, sweet man

Often times, it's the really bizarre things that Hubby and I miss the most about living in New York.  Like that curiously named children's clothing store on Steinway Street, "Temptation, For Kids!"  Kind of...not right.  We decided it was probably a lingerie store in a past life and the owners were too frugal (or clueless?) to buy a new sign. 

Enough time has even passed for us to look back fondly on our former landlord, Smeagol, and how he'd always manage to smoke a joint right before coming into our apartment to make repairs.  It must've taken him three hours to re-caulk the bathtub, and even then he was only halfway finished.

There was also the time we were waiting for the N train at 59th and Lexington and came upon a woman selling churros from an old push cart.  Now, it's pretty filthy down there by the subway tracks, but we were young, so we bought some anyway.  I'd never eaten a churro before, but Hubby said they reminded him of growing up in California.

Sunday was that dear man's birthday, so I decided to surprise him with some churros for breakfast.  I followed this recipe by Nigella Lawson.

As I stood over the stove waiting for the oil to heat up, it did occur to me that a pan of sizzling hot vegetable oil, coupled with my protruding pregnant stomach, was probably a match made in the fiery pits of Hell.  But it was a risk I was willing to take, in the name of love.  (And sugary, cinnamon-y fried dough.)

My Scorpio loved his birthday churros.  And, miraculously, there were no battle scars. xoxo

Hubby graduates! (Almost)

Two Saturdays ago, on a rainy morning in May, Hubby graduated from Berklee College of Music.  (Well, he'd like me to clarify: he participated in the commencement ceremony, but still has just over a semester left until his studies are officially complete.) 

It's been a long time coming; nearly ten years, in fact, since he'd had to leave school.  I couldn't be prouder.  I screamed out his name as he walked across the stage, my heart just about ready to leap out of my chest. 

During the commencement (after the provost suggested it was time for the world to collectively "strike a righteous groove"), the other speakers often gave shout outs to the parents and grandparents of the graduates, because it was their day, too.  What about...spouses?  I silently pondered.  (After all, hadn't I been working my ratty cuticles to the bone over the past two years, supporting us in the style of Jennifer Cavalleri Barrett in Love Story?  Do I not work the proverbial diner all day, as Gina did for her Tommy, after he was forced to put his six string in hock?) 

I do realize, however, the number of married graduates are most likely a minute percentage; and Hubby, at thirty-one, albeit with his baby face, is still older than the vast majority of the other students.

When Hubby reached for his diploma, though, I felt as though I were up there on that stage with him.  My heart was so full.  "This is your day, too, you know" my dad said as he winked and gave me a squeeze after the ceremony. 

It's difficult to go back to school when you've been away for more than a decade.  The curriculum feels distant and unfamiliar, the other students impossibly young and often times annoying.  But returning to school after a long hiatus can be done, and done well.  The Hubs has raised his cumulative GPA up significantly from his time there before, enough so that one department head told him it was a damn near impossible feat to achieve.  "You should be really proud of yourself," he'd told him.  The second time is a charm.  (Even if the first time around was a bit...hazy.)

Hubby's family came to town for the occasion, and it was wonderful to have them all there.  I could tell it made him feel really special.  My husband is a modest individual, but this was cause for celebration; he was going to be the center of attention, whether he liked it or not!  His parents said they wouldn't have missed it for the world. 

It was a happy day.  At one point, I stole a glance over at Hubby.  His face is just so cute that maybe every other day I feel compelled to tell him how handsome he is.  (He rolls his eyes, naturally.)  I don't need some groovy commencement speaker to tell me my husband appreciates me for working nine hour days while he earns his degree; because he tells me so himself.  If I could have created the perfect man for a weirdo like myself, it would be him, over and over again.  The guy makes me feel loved.  So loved.  If anyone ever tells you after twelve years a girl doesn't deserve a bear hug when she walks through the door, then they're wrong.  She does.  And there are certain men out there who will be more than willing to offer them.  I promise you.

I'm terrifically proud of that handsome Scorpio.  And the truth is, I love him more than I can ever say, although I'm sure I'll keep on trying to find ways to say it.  xoxo

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.

Yawn

Hubby (aka: Snore-y McSnores-a-lot) finally went in for his sleep study last night, to see if he has sleep apnea.  He's sort of been dreading it.  We assumed it would be at a hospital, but it ended up being at a Holiday Inn.  Bizarro?

I spoke to him a little while ago and from what I gather, they covered him with sticky suction cups and wires and every time he tried to roll onto his side, a voice over the monitor asked, "Would you please roll onto your back?"  There was an infrared light filming him constantly, all very "Twelve Monkey's," he said. 

A challenging sleep atmosphere, to say the least.  (Apparently peeing was also a bit of a production.)  But I'm certainly glad he did it!  In two weeks we should have the results; Hubby may soon be wearing a Darth Vader mask to bed...

Happy Friday, Dear Reader xoxo

Foul Ball

Since my husband was very young, it has been his dream to catch a foul ball at a major league baseball game. 

Over our long courtship and marriage, every time we attend a game and have good seats, Hubby says, "Oooh, this is foul ball territory!"  And I always say, "Oh no, I hope no foul balls come this way! 

I'm no dummy; I don't want a broken nose.

Hubby and I tend to indulge one another.  I think perhaps this is why the two of us work so well together.  All day today I could think of one thing and one thing only: getting home, changing into comfy pants and snuggling under my green fleece blankie.  Instead, around 4:30, I realized I had the chance to go to tonight's Red Sox game and so of course I said yes.  I knew Hubby would definitely want to go, and I do try to make him happy whenever I can.

These seats were incredible, and free; we looked online and they run about $297 a pop.  And, not for nothing, but the foul balls were flying.  Roger, the man sitting next to us, bought Hubby an IPA and warned me to watch out for the lefty batters especially, because they were the ones who would hit foul balls into our seats.  I nodded and smiled as he lectured us, and decided to really pay attention.

Aromas of heavenly beef burgers and hot dogs were wafting up into my nostrils; I was really jonesing for some meat.  Let's face it, there isn't much for my currently vegan ass to nosh on at Fenway.  But I did decide on something after a while, and Hubby was closest to the aisle so he ordered for me.

"What was that you wanted?"  Jeff, our waiter called out.

"Hummus and a chardonnay," Hubby shouted.

"Huh?"  It was pretty loud, and Jeff was far away.

"Chardonnay!"

"Peanuts and a chardonnay?"

"Hummus and a chardonnay"

He would repeat it several times; would yell it, even.  And when a foul ball was hit directly into our particular section, and bounced off of the hand of the man sitting behind me, Hubby was passing Jeff the waiter his credit card and saying, "Hummus and a chardonnay, please."

And when the elderly man sitting directly in front of my husband snatched up the foul ball and pumped his fist in the air, Hubby was still saying, "Chardonnay."

He does try to make me happy whenever he can.  Yes, my husband was ordering me white wine and hummus while the old man in front of us caught the damn foul.  I felt...bad.  This may have been the closest Hubby has ever been to catching a foul ball, and yet...that hummus was really very good. 

Back on the horse

My heart was pounding and I was petrified my hands were going to shake.  But I did it; I sang in public again for the first time in years.  It wasn't my worst performance, and it certainly wasn't my best, but I did it nonetheless. 

I love weddings.  Afterwards, as I sat next to Hubby and listened to his cousin recite her wedding vows, I gave his hand a sweaty little squeeze at the words, "In sickness, and in health..." 

I had certainly been testing the boundaries of the in sickness category as of late...mental sickness, to be exact. 

I experienced a brief but potent meltdown on Friday evening, you see, after I ran through the song with the church's ancient resident organ player.  She didn't know the song, she told me, but she would learn it before the wedding tomorrow.  I was also singing it at a much faster tempo than she seemed comfortable with, but she told me she would follow along.  I'd be singing from up on the alter, out in front, holding a wireless microphone.  (We'd forgotten to bring a microphone stand, hence my worry over shaky hands.)  It occurred to me that if I was fourteen years old I wouldn't have batted an eyelid at any of this information.  When had I turned into such a wimp?

Back in the car, I called my mother for comfort but found she had none available.  I had made my own bed and it was time for me to lie in it.  This is when I hung up the phone and cried heavy, sloppy tears, my chest heaving in rapid, panicky gasps.  I was going to make a fucking asshole out of myself!  Holding a microphone, up on the alter?  Like Ted Neely or Carl Anderson in Jesus Christ Superstar?  I couldn't do it!

Hubby continued driving, the very picture of calm.  He reached out his hand and patted my knee, gently telling me I was being ridiculous, but still allowing me the freedom to blubber away.  I was hot mess central: broken, pathetic, and very, very ugly.  Ten minutes and one phone call to Sissy later, I wiped the smudged mascara from my cheeks and entered the rehearsal dinner wearing a happy face.  What was the alternative?  I had to be an adult; Sissy said so.  She also told me to make like Mary Magdalene and just sing!

My husband is an exceedingly kind person.  All the same, ten years ago it would have killed me to put on such a shamelessly vulnerable display in front of him.  These days it's a different story.  He loves me even at my very worst, when I am at my most atrocious, and for that I am truly grateful.  I trust him, more than I trust anybody in the world, and there's something very freeing about that. 

"I was being really pathetic and horrible," I tell my husband tonight, back at home on our red couch with Kittie.  "I was acting ugly and childish and hysterical, all for no reason." 

"Yeah," Hubby agreed, squeezing my hand, a smile flickering across his eyes, "But it's okay."

God I love that man.

PS: I capped off my singing performance by getting very, very, very drunk.  (Fast dancing drunk.  Telling my brother in law to shave off his beard because I hate it drunk.  Peeing without putting a liner down on the public toilet seat drunk.)  I then commenced to tell all of my in-laws how much I loved them, again and again, and apologized profusely to Hubby's parents for not providing them with grandchildren.  I also promised to get on this right away, in a year and a half or so.  (Thanks, chardonnay!)  Hiccup. 

All in all, the evening was quite a success.

The fish eating money runner

Hubby's brother has a very unique way of recollecting things.  And by unique, what I really mean to say is he remembers things...wildly incorrectly.  Slanderously inaccurately.  The man almost turns it into an art form.

There was that time in college when Hubby told him the only thing to eat in his dorm room were Goldfish (as in, Pepperidge Farm).  Over the years this story has somehow evolved into one in which Hubby cooked a live gold fish in the microwave...and ate it. 

For starters, I know for a fact that those guys did not have a pet gold fish.  Pets weren't even allowed at Berklee, for that matter.  And if they were, my husband certainly would not have eaten one.  The boy was eating crackers.  Tiny, fish shaped crackers.  Delightful, cheese flavored, bite-sized treats that his mother lovingly sent him in a care package.  But don't tell my brother-in-law this, because he will declare you are Dead Wrong. 

When Hubby was sixteen he was best man in his brother's wedding.  By the time he arrived at the bachelor party, all of the guys had been drinking for quite a while.  According to his brother, teenaged Hubby came in the door and immediately downed twelve consecutive shots of tequila in under three minutes. 

The truth is, Hubby probably had three shots.  In reality, twelve shots of anything within a three minute time frame would surely leave one...I don't know, dead?  Dying?

But the biggest, most erroneous, distorted, far fetched tale of all came only yesterday.  Hubby's brother is in town and they were having a visit.  As the two brothers walked around Boston looking for the Tall Ships, Hubby's brother turned to him and said, "Remember when you used to run money for people?"

When Hubby just stared at him blankly, his brother continued: "Remember when you worked as a money runner?  And that time when you had to go to LAX Baggage Claim to pick up a black trash bag with a box in it?"

Hubby said the first thing that came to mind: "Um, no?"

"You don't remember being a money runner?  How can you not remember that?  The box in the trash bag that you ended up taking to the Federal Reserve to deposit it?"

My husband worked in a tuxedo store in high school.  In a mall, for crying out loud!  Hubby said as much, in that calm Hubby way of his: "No, I never ran money for people.  I worked in a tuxedo store.  I worked at the mall."  (Which is why he is able to hem my pants, or sew on a button.) 

Not that this job was without its fair share of titillating excitement: he sold tuxes to the likes of Frasier Crane and Mark Summers (of Double Dare and Unwrapped fame, oh my!)  Later he even worked in a tux store owned by Jim Morrison's nephews (I won't lie, I found the latter exceptionally fascinating.)  But run money?  Hubby?  And what the hell does that phrase even mean anyway?

Apparently, when Hubby allegedly handed the woman at the Federal Reserve "the box," she asked him, "Do you know what's inside this box?" and Hubby allegedly answered "No."  She then handed him a check, for three million dollars, that was signed by the President.  He handed her back the check and walked away.

Hubby's brother would not back down.  "How can you not remember that?  I tell that story to EVERYONE!  What, did it happen to one of my other brothers?"  He gave a hearty guffaw.

Oh boy.  Hubby suggested that perhaps his brother had witnessed this scenario in a movie, or had maybe heard it from a friend of a friend.  In any case, it was definitely NOT HIM.  He did not run money, or anything else, for that matter.

They debated back and forth on this for awhile, and eventually Hubby's brother merely chuckled and gave a merry little shrug.  "Oh well.  I tell that story to everybody!" 

And from the look of things, he will surely continue to do so.  Holy fraternal libel.  Oh brother.

One year ago yesterday, my husband, Kittie and I left New York and moved to Boston.  I can hardly believe how quickly these twelve months have flown.  Hubby has already completed three semesters at Berklee College of Music and by this time next year he'll have earned his degree, finishing what he began thirteen years prior. 

I think back to last September, to that first day of classes, when I walked into the apartment and found him staring at the floor, a dark look in his blue eyes, convinced he wouldn't be able to do it.  The other students were teenagers, the material was dense and unfamiliar, he didn't remember anything.  I stood there dumbfounded; it had never even occurred to me that he'd doubt himself this way.  I hugged him hard, a little panicked to see him so vulnerable.  I'd have done anything to fix it, but there was really not much more I could do except hold him and cry.  What had I gotten us into? 

And now, a year later, he's earned himself a spot on the dean's list and is achieving obscenely high marks.  School definitely agrees with him the second time around.  To say that I'm proud of him would be a wild understatement.  After all these years he never ceases to amaze me.  He makes my heart full.

I wouldn't classify it as an easy year; to be sure, some parts of it downright blew.  But we made it, and I can honestly say that Boston is finally starting to feel like home.  Again. 

And Hubby, thanks for moving here for me.  xoxo

Shopping

My husband bought himself a pair of ladies sunglasses the other day at Filene's Basement.  And I, for my part, just stood by and allowed it to happen.

We didn't realize they were ladies glasses, you see; not until we got home.  Okay, so maybe that's not entirely factual, seeing as Hubby did ask me in the store if I believed they were ladies glasses and I vehemently said no.  They looked too big to be ladies glasses!  And anyways, we couldn't see the purple tint in the lenses until we got them home.  I also didn't notice that they were Jones New York.  And the dude behind the register, whose opinion I asked, did appear to be a little high.

Since Hubby is in school full time and currently I'm the only one bringing home the pancetta, I don't dare naysay any purchases, especially seeing as he feels weird enough about the whole not working situation already.  That having been said, I take great pride in being able to support him this way.  (It's all very Love Story.  Or if we're referencing Slippery When Wet, I am Gina, and I work the proverbial diner all day.)  Just buy the glasses!  I cheerfully ordered.  Well, sort of cheerfully.

Did I mention we were shopping on empty stomachs?  And it was extremely humid that day?  And I was becoming lightheaded and a little grouchy because I still hadn't found shoes to match my dress for our friend Mike's wedding?  There were many crucial factors leading up to this unfortunate debacle.

In any case, that's how I got my new pair of sunglasses.  xoxo

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.