The Odd Broad

Kiss my grits!

Hubby and I have been really into Netflicks lately.  (Well, on a Friday night I need something to distract me from the fact that I can no longer daintily imbibe three and a half glasses a nice, tall glass of Riesling.)

I won't lie, I always did casually wonder how pregnant women did it; how they went the whole forty weeks sans alcohol.  When my first trimester came along, I finally discovered the answer to this phenomenon: I already felt like I was hungover, so the mere thought of booze, the smell of it even, was enough to send me gagging!  But I'm not in the first trimester anymore.  In fact, I'm feeling pretty great.  Naturally, the intense love I feel for my little bambino makes abstaining from the drink a worthy cause.  But that doesn't mean I don't miss it every now and then.

In short, I'm a pregnant teetotaler and therefore find drunk people unbearable to be around.  And they're coming out of the woodwork here in South Boston.  I long to smack them upside the head, like Moe Howard so gracefully did to Larry and Curly.  Last night the twenty-somethings were out in full swing, getting their drink on, bantering inanely into the darkness up and down Broadway.  (Good Lord, how these streets echo!  And oh, how I longed to join them!)  But alas, instead I just fantasized about ways to rain on their parade.  ("Get inside!  Don't you know some people are sitting on their couches trying to be pregnant?!")

And I digress.  What I really intended to talk about was Netflicks, because the other day, Hubby informed me that he'd added something...special...to our queue.

"What?!" I asked, never one for surprises.  "What did you order?"

It was something I hadn't seen since we left New York two years ago.  The colorful 1970's sitcom that so lovingly filled my DVR and made me regret having to surrender the contraption over to Time Warner Cable.

ALICE. 

Now, you may already know my feelings on this particular situation comedy.  Yes, if I were actually a paying customer at Mel's Diner, surely I'd never be able to keep anything down; the place obviously wasn't up to code and Mel just never looked as if he showered enough.  And I've seen how the waitresses would sometimes grab the toast with their bare hands and place it on a plate before handing it over to the customer with a sassy remark.  But even still, it's a guilty pleasure of mine, and like most of my guilty pleasures...it's an odd one. 

"Let's watch an episode!" I said to Hubby last night, after singing the theme song aloud two or three times, in full voice.  (Well?  All of my neighbors were already outside being drunk and disorderly, so what did they care?  They deserved it.)

A word about this theme song.  There were so many variations of it!  And all performed by the irrepressible Linda Lavin herself.  It's an exuberant celebration of female liberation and, in true 1970's form, it kind of reeks.  (My favorite way to describe the 1970's is that collectively, they smelled a little...funky.  B.O., curdled milk, stale yogurt, rotten eggs...you pick the scent.)  I realize I was born into this odiferous decade, but at the tail end.  Twelve days before New Year's Eve, even!  It was practically 1979!  Not that the eighties were any less foul scented, but that's another post in and of itself.

At any rate, it appeared the powers that be were smiling down on my husband last night, because sadly, inexplicably, the Alice DVD didn't work.  Not in the X-Box, or the DVD player.  THERE WAS NO SOUND.

This was a real tease, I tell you- because I could see the opening credits, with Alice and Tommy Hyatt stranded on the side of the road in Arizona, despondently watching their car get towed away- but I couldn't hear anything!

Hubby, ever gallant, did spend a good fifteen minutes fiddling with wires and cables, trying in vain to recover the sound.  No, he didn't care to suffer through even one episode of Alice, was most likely dreading it, even; but he knew how disappointed I'd be if I was unable to watch the malodorous hijinx unfold.  Just one of the countless reasons I love this kind man.  He enables my insanity.

This then got us to talking about Alice, and all of the zany plot lines we've sat through together.  Like the ones towards the end of the series, when Linda Lavin was directing and absent from some of the episodes.  Then there were the times she dressed as a man to play that mobster, "Sam Butler;" thirty minutes that I just couldn't ever seem to stay awake for, hence never really witnessing the awfulness they yielded.  And then one day I realized it had been erased from the DVR.

"But I never got to watch that one!" I informed Hubby.

Hubby was unrepentant.  "I've sat through it like three times, and you always end up falling asleep.  I can't do it again!  It's too over the top!  The acting is horrendous!"

Oh dear.  Hubby was actually analyzing episodes of Alice.  What had I done to the man?

Thankfully, another Alice DVD is in the mail and I'm anxiously awaiting its stinky arrival.  Do you have any guilty TV pleasures, Dear Reader? 

Skanky Gourds

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

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

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

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

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

Barnyard boots and Fall Foliage

For some reason the tall boots Hubby bought me last Christmas have turned...for lack of a prettier word, swampy.  They smell like a barnyard.  (Or the platform on the 4/5 train.)  I'm upset by this sad turn of events and as of late have been feverishly trying to stop the stink.  I've even taken to sprinkling copious amounts of Johnson's Baby Powder into said boots, though it seems this effort has been in vain.

Late Friday afternoon, right before the taxi arrived to whisk me to the airport for Sissy's baby shower, I frantically poured about a quarter of a cup of powder into each boot, hoping for the best.  It wasn't until I was checking in at the Delta kiosk that I realized the ramifications of my actions.  You see, I'd forgotten the mandatory airport rule that all footwear be removed.  Oh dear. 

Praying I wouldn't be mistaken for a cocaine smuggler, I tiptoed gingerly through the metal detector, smiling meekly at the security guard.  Amazingly, I don't think he noticed that I'd left size seven and a half powdery footprints all over his carpet.  Some other people in line did, however.  Humiliating?  You betcha.  But this was sort of a wake up call: it's definitely time for new boots.  (Maybe Santa is reading?)

Saturday's baby shower for the Tadpole was a success.  I cannot wait for this baby to arrive!  I think towards the end Sister may have suspected her shower was coming, though.  I called her early Saturday feigning a terrible NY hangover, but she wasn't buying it.  Too many people were fervently trying to get her to come to town that weekend for her not to wonder. 

I continued in vain: "You actually think Ma would plan a baby shower that I couldn't attend?  After all, I'm in New York right now, hungover!  I'm really sick!"

Sister's voice was amused: "Ya, right, you're in NY.  I know you slept in Leah's room last night."  (Leah being the ghost that inhabits my childhood bedroom.  Have you met her?  I wrote about her several posts ago.) 

On a less frightening note, have you ever been to New England in the Fall?  It's lovely.  I snapped some pictures of the foliage while I was home.  As my Dad's car zoomed along the tree lined highway, I was reminded of fireworks: all of the trees were beautiful, but every once in a while I'd see one that was spectacular.  I listened contently as Dad reminded me of why the leaves change color every year and decided then and there that all was right with my world.

Oh, this is my brother, Guinness.  He's a Pisces-Aries cusp, terribly affectionate, but in dire need of some canine therapy.  (He eats tampons.  Used.  He also breathes like an obscene phone caller.)  We adore him anyways, of course. 

xoxo

ps~Let's go Red Sox!  American League Champs!

Mrs. Toad's Wild Ride

I don't know about you, but in my experience, when I share a taxi with someone one of us ends up getting screwed.  (Incidentally, the screwed person in question is usually me.)  Why should last Saturday evening have been any different? 

It began innocently enough: Around 10 pm, I joined Hubby and his co-workers at an Irish pub in Midtown.  By the time 1:00 am rolled around we'd had more than our fill of festivity and decided to head home. 

As I scanned the street for a yellow cab, Hubby beckoned to a co-worker (whom I'll call Kevin, though that's not really his name) who lives in our neighborhood and asked if he'd like to share a cab with us.  No sooner had the question been asked than we noticed that Kevin was swaying ever so slightly.  Oh dear.  Looks like we've got a live one here, folks.

As I slid into the taxi a pungent, sickening stench invaded my nostrils.  Good God, what was that smell?  I leaned forward and conversationally asked the cabbie if someone had gotten sick earlier in the evening.  He said no.  "Really?  It just smells a bit..."  He was adamant, though: nobody had thrown up in his car all night.  Nobody! 

In a desperate ploy to freshen the air, I scoured my purse for my travel-sized vial of Hannaemore and spritzed like mad.  The scent was a welcomed reprieve; now the air smelled of vanilla.  Vanilla and barnyard. 

I began to notice Kevin was turning rather pale, and soon he was sticking his head out of the window, which is never an encouraging sign.  Immediately the cabbie pulled over, in a not so good section of town.  (Think whores, thugs and drug addicts.  Not that there's anything wrong with these types, but...)

"He's thrown up!  He's thrown up in my cab!  You must clean it up!"  the cabbie screamed.  We all got out of the car.

Seeking to remedy the situation, Hubby asked: "Do you have any paper towels?  I'll clean it up...," but unfortunately the driver had none.  Hubby tried again: "OK, I have some at home, just calm down, drop us off and I'll grab some spray and clean it up."

Not that I'm keen to relive the details, Dear Reader, but the barfage in question was not terribly substantial, as Kevin had conveniently managed to aim mostly for the glass of the window.  Hubby had gallantly managed to wipe most of it up with a newspaper, but alas, it was already too late.  This man did not want us getting back into his taxi. 

Kevin, who was already behaving borderline belligerent, became even more so.  (Always a wise way to act when you've vomited on someone else's car, don't you agree?) 

For my part, I was exhausted and hungry, my cheap wine buzz wearing off with every passing minute.  In lieu of this, I anxiously remained silent.  Nevertheless, soon the cabbie turned on me, pointing his finger in my face, hissing: "She said it smelled like shit!  She said it smelled like shit!"  (I would like to go on record here that I never used the term shit, although this would have been a perfectly accurate word to describe what the car smelled like.)

The curbside debate raged on; the cabbie was actually kicking us out of his car, at nearly 2:00 am, on the dark, crackwhore-strewn street. Yay!

"That's illegal!"  Hubby exclaimed,  "You can't strand us here!"  Oh, but he was.  And now Hubby was pissed: "Fine, leave us here, we're not paying you the fare."  This latest development, as you can imagine, did not go over very well.  Hindsight, as they say, is 20/20, and if I'd had any that night, I would've given the nut-job his lousy ten bucks.

I voted for walking home, but hubby wanted to hail another taxi.  This proved extremely difficult, as the cab driver was waving off every cab that approached us.  Each time one stopped, he'd yell out, "Don't take them!  Don't take them!" 

Eventually we hailed a taxi down that didn't drive away.  Feeling desperate, I stuck my head into the car and pleaded: "Sir, please ignore that screaming cab driver and do a good deed and take us home, please..."  Just for good measure, I added that we'd give him a good tip.  Miraculously, and despite the fact that Crazy Cabbie #1 attempted to pin us in with his car, the man agreed.

It was quite the chase.  Cabbie #1 was hot on our trail, avidly in pursuit.  What the?  Actually, what the?  What was that smell?  That's strange, why does this cab also smell like a barnyard?  So, it hadn't been a stinky cab after all.  On the contrary, it was our stinky companion.  Our stinky companion whom I think may have also thrown up prior to leaving the bar?  That sounded about right.

Kevin, his face looking pale, soon decided he was close enough to his apartment and staggered out.  I felt very worried for him, but simultaneously worried for Hubby and myself when I remembered Cabbie #1 was still tailing us, now taking frantic snapshots of us with his camera phone.  Say cheese! 

We decided it was best if we didn't get dropped off at our apartment.  (So much for going home, ordering chicken fingers from the 24 hour diner and watching Top Chef on the DVR.)  "I know!  Let's go to the quickie mart!"  I shrilled.  Our cab pulled over, but with horror we realized the quickie was closed.  Dun-dun-DUN!

I decided quick action was necessary if we were going to make a speedy getaway.  The fare was eight bucks.  I shrieked at Hubby to give him a twenty.  I looked around and spied blue lights emanating from a door across the street.  They were coming from our favorite neighborhood restaurant, whose bar was mercifully still open!  Oh, thank you, Baby Jesus!  Now all we had to do was shimmy past Nutso, who had parked on the curb and was still screaming, "I'm calling the police on you!  I have your picture!"   

"I've already called the police on you, pal!"  Hubby retorted.  And indeed he had.  "You can't just strand people!"  Incidentally, why do people sometimes call each other pal and buddy when they're very angry?  It's funny, don't you think?  Not funny ha-ha, but more funny hmmm-hmmm.

We ran past the taxi, (for a moment I really thought was going to swerve at us), into our safe haven, where we were met by concerned, familiar faces.  We told everyone of our harrowing tale as we waited for the fuzz to arrive.  The owner, bartenders and I watched as Hubby spoke to the officers, who appeared slightly amused by our bizarre ordeal.

It was well after 3:00 am when we finally emerged, peeking over our shoulders for any signs of yellow cabs.  The coast was clear...

The next morning I experienced a funky, disturbed sort of feeling, probably because I wasn't entirely certain who had been 100% in the wrong: the puker for puking, the cabbie for stranding us, or us for refusing to pay him?  In all my years of taxi-taking I've never encountered a problem such as this!

This week, every time I see an effing taxi my belly does a sick little flip-flop.  I imagine I hear the music from the Wizard of Oz, the Wicked Witch of the West's theme song: do-do-do-do-do-doo-doo, DOO!

I'd like to mention that Kevin got home over an hour before us, sans mingling with the law, sans paying, and sans getting his photo snapped by a maniacal cab driver.  Ah, Reader.  At 28 and three quarters, I fear I am far too elderly for such shenanigans.  Which is why I've put into effect a new rule, one that I shall firmly adhere to from this day forward:

I, The Odd Broad, being of (semi) sound mind, will never, ever share a cab with anyone born after the year 1982.  And if I do, I will be sure to get dropped off first.

PS- Kevin has since apologized to Hubby and feels really badly.  Though I've only met him once, he does seem to be a very nice boy and I fear perhaps I wrote too harshly?  It's not that The Odd Broad hasn't been there herself, (though never in a cab, but once on the front steps of my dormitory), it's just that I didn't feel like going there that particular evening.  I felt like going home.  In hindsight I find the story pretty funny, although I'm still freaked out by cabs.  xoxo

Name! That! Smell!

NYC, like most big cities, I imagine, is a veritable potpourri of sights, sounds and smells.  Not all of these smells are good.  Actually, most of these smells aren't good.  Over the past seven years I've developed quite an aptitude for anticipating offensive odors and know instinctively when to hold my breath, or at the very least breathe through my mouth.  Gross, huh?

It's fair to say I have a superhuman sense of smell, one of my more unusual talents.  I also possess the ability to remember and (sometimes) accurately guess people's Astrological signs.  I like to say I'm psychic, though Hubbers likes to say psyco.  Tee hee.

Should I ever participate in a beauty pageant, I could perform smelling as my talent.  Coincidentally, my Grandma's Sister's Granddaughter was once Miss Massachusetts.  She didn't win, although she did attend Harvard, which this broad feels is far more impressive than participating in dehumanizing swimsuit challenges.  Tiaras are nice, too, though.

In other things completely (well mostly) unrelated, the man who works at the quickie mart up the road once told me, "You're such a pretty lady, you're always smelling."  I assumed he meant smiling, but what actually came out of his mouth was smelling.  The irony is, I am a very gifted smeller!  Hey, how did he know?! 

When I was a child my Grandma used to try and conceal her cigarettes from me, often dangling one out the window while we were in the car.  What did she think I was, a rookie?  From the backseat my toddler voice would eerily call out, "I can smell it..."  Eventually she ended up quitting, which I guess was easier than listening to me.  I'm persistent (irritating?) like that.

These days I sometimes play a slightly nauseating morning commute game that I like to call: Name! That! Smell!

The rules are simple: when an offensive subway stench invades my nostrils I attempt to decipher where said reek is coming from.  I know what you're thinking, wouldn't the origin of a nasty nearby stank be obvious?  Some days it ain't as straightforward as you'd think, my friend. 

Wednesday, April 18, 9:35am: a pungent subway odor appears, and just as I was relaxing into my Paulo Coelho novel.  (The Zahir, incidentally) Could this rankness be wafting from the sleeping gentleman positioned directly across from me?  Or, more likely, could it be emanating from the girl sitting to my right, maniacally knitting a brown scarf?  And if so, is there something within her bag (cabbage soup?  A dead body?) that would cause such a foul odor to emit into her general area?  She appears otherwise to be a pretty, hipster type girl...

Just when I think my nose cannot participate in this foul game for another second, a heavily perfumed woman invades my personal space and I gratefully breathe in the scent of White Diamonds by Elizabeth Taylor.  Ah, sweet relief.  Thank you, Baby Jesus.  I spend the remaining moments of my commute practicing deep breathing.  The pleasing Liz Taylor aroma reminds me of my Auntie Donna (as this was formerly her signature scent before she officially converted to Hanae Mori) and once again, all is right within my world.

By the way, the smell was definitely coming from knitting hipster girl. 

Please join me next time, Dear Reader, for more fun in horrendous aromas on Name! That! Smell!

Tim Curry, Mel's Diner, and other reasons why I think the 1970's probably smelled

Warning:  A headache that has lasted 48 hours on my right temple has prompted me to take allergy/sinus medication.  Please bear this in mind if you choose to continue reading.

At the risk of sounding crazy, does anyone else think the 1970's smelled?  And when I say smell, I do mean literally as well as figuratively.  In all seriousness, collectively I think the 1970's could've done with a liberal spraying of Fabreeze.  Granted, I only spent a little over a year of my life existing in the 70's and I can't remember any of it.  But the television, music, and movies that I have witnessed from this era lead me to believe one thing: the entire decade stunk like rotten cheese.

For example, have you ever seen the TV show, "Alice?"  (I usually refer to this show as "Mel's Diner")  It's a terrific show, based upon the movie "Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore" starring the fabulous Ellen Burstyn.  Incidentally, I hadn't realized this until I read the Oprah interview with Ellen.  She was actually the main creative force behind the movie, but chose to only get an acting credit for it.  So when the movie was made into a TV show she received nothing.  Sucky, huh?  Ah, those repressive, stinky 1970's.

But I have digressed, big time.  My point is this: Would you ever have been caught dead eating in Mel's Diner?  Don't you think it kind of looked, oh I don't know, unsanitary?  Don't you think the surly but lovable cook, Mel, could've done with a shower?  I would bet money that Mel, in his white scraggly looking T-shirt, had body odor.  I just don't think I could've brought myself to eat a nice chicken salad platter from his establishment!  Sorry, Mel.  Alice and Vera didn't look like they smelled like roses, either.  Or Flo, for that matter.  I wouldn't have kissed her grits for all the oil in Texas.

The TV show "One Day at a Time" is a glowing example of how behavior in the 1970's also had a stinky-feet kind of odor to it.  I have to say, although growing up my sister and I watched reruns of this show religiously, I find everything about it positively P.U.  We somehow never wanted to eat while watching it.

This especially odorous sitcom starred Bonnie Franklin as the pint sized dynamo Ann Romano.  Ann could frequently be found posing in an overly dramatic, 1970's, pasty-tummy-bearing kind of way as the studio audience enthusiastically applauded.  And you know the type of applause I'm speaking of: it's the kind that begins with one clap, then a second clap, then more claps, then eventually it erupts into wild clapping.  It smelled.  Bad.

I'd be a rookie if I didn't mention Mackenzie Phillips as Ann's oldest daughter, Julie Cooper.  Please, of course Mackenzie Phillips had a stench, that's a given!  But what really stood out to me was the sexual tension between Ann and Dwayne Schneider, her womanizing, gum-chewing super.  Their exchanges positively reeked of stale, sour milk!  In the strictly figurative sense, of course.  Although I think it would be safe to say Dwayne Schneider probably emitted an aroma of cigarettes, b.o., and cheap aftershave.  Of course, I'm only speculating here.

The show's one exception would be Valerie Bertanelli as Barbara Cooper.  For some reason Valerie just didn't seem to give off a nasty odor and I'm not sure why. 

If I haven't begun to bore you or perhaps cause you to wonder if I'm completely mental yet, indulge me a bit more: Tim Curry.  Ah, just saying the name evokes all kids of wonderfully odiferous images!  Some might argue that Tim Curry could be credited with single-handedly stinking up the 1970's.  And I love Tim Curry, although my sister and I have been known to sometimes say, "Eeew, that (fill in the blank) smells like Tim Curry!"  He is a fantastic performer whose actions I just happen to find stinky.  I'm not even sure what he might have smelled like in the 70's, I just know I wouldn't want to have been within a 500 mile radius.

Oh, I could go on all day about why the 70's smelled, but I will bore you no longer.  In closing, I will leave you to ponder these last few examples: The Bee Gee's, The Hustle, men in big-collared shirts bearing chest hair, Fat Elvis, polyester pantsuits, the way Carol and Mike Brady used to always make out on "The Brady Bunch," man perms, "The Love Boat," "Welcome Back, Kotter," "Eight is Enough," "MASH."  (I know MASH took place in the early 50's, but they weren't fooling anyone, certainly not this girl.)

In short, if you ever witness me describing something as "figuratively" smelling like cheese, or curdled milk, (any dairy product, really) or an off-the-air television show from the 1970's, now you'll know what I'm talking about.  Or maybe you won't.