The Odd Broad

Presumptuous Gratuity

What is more outrageous: The fact that (in this economy) a crappy Miller Light costs $7.25 at Fenway, or the fact that when I handed the surly woman behind the counter a twenty, she dropped three quarters into her tip cup and handed me back a ten and two ones?

What the?  I was...stunned.  I'm not going to lie, I was also a little tipsy, so it took me a second to do the math.

Now I'm a good tipper; a great tipper, even.  Hubby and I have both waited tables and no matter how broke we are, we always tip generously.  It's karma.  But having said that, I do like to be given the option, for crying out loud!  Let's face it, Sunday was laundry day and quarters are a hot commodity.

I took that bitty's picture with the malicious intent to post it upon the world wide web.  Oh yes, I roll that way. 

It wouldn't have bothered me so much if she'd have looked up at me, or acknowledged me, or carded me, even.  (I'm just saying...)  Furthermore, it's not as if she was schlepping a heavy tray of beer into the sunny stands; she was just standing behind a counter, chit-chatting with her coworker, pulling on a tap. 

Later in the evening, the dude behind the snack counter asked me for identification when I requested a Sam Summer and an overpriced hot dog.  He smiled and thanked me as he handed back my change, which I promptly dropped into his tip jar.  Nice boy.

Debbie Downer

WHY was Michael asked to leave The Next Food Network Star when Debbie was allowed to stay?  I know he keeps saying he hates the cameras and all, but how many times is Debbie going to reveal herself as a selfish little one way before the judges finally catch on? 

I'm not a fan of people who are only out for themselves.  That sort of attitude earns you two thumbs down rating in Odd Broad Land.  Michael was a blast to watch and had real pizazz; something I feel The Food Network is in dire need of.  (No offense, Sandra Lee.)

Bummer.

The Problem

I'm not particularly proud to admit this, but for the past seven days or so I've stopped at Trader Joe's every evening in a serious but futile attempt to purchase one item and one item only: a bag of Chocolate Covered Peanut Butter Pretzels.  (Insert dreamy sigh here.)

Up until this time I was harboring under the delusion that my relationship with this snack treat was casual; non-committal, even.  How naive I was.

I never knew how much they truly meant to me until I walked into Trader Joe's one day and they weren't there.  Hmmm. 

I decided to inquire as to their whereabouts, in as disinterested and blase an attitude as I could muster.  "Um, do you think you'll be getting any of those chocolate peanut butter pretzel things in?"  I won't lie; upon doing this, I immediately reached a new low.  But they HAD to be somewhere on the premises, goddammit!  And my question wasn't so far fetched, since the employees were unloading a shipment as we spoke.  Couldn't they unpack those effing crates any faster!?

The guy disappeared to check with his manager while I waited in shame over by the tortilla chips.  He then returned and delivered the somber news that they did not, in fact, have any pretzels in stock; but they'd definitely be getting a shipment in tomorrow.

Tomorrow.  It seemed so very far away.  At least I'd only have to wait 24 hours.

The next day I left work with a spring in my step.  I'd even joked to my work friends about having been so desperate for my chocolate pretzels that I'd actually asked after them.  It was all SO hilarious.

They didn't have them.  Trader Joe's didn't f**king have them!  I stared in disbelief at the empty shelf, shaking my head to and fro.  The label was there, describing the item; the price was there, the only things missing were...my pretzels!  But...but...but...the kid said they'd be in today.  He LIED to me!  The sonofabitching bastard.

I had a very bad problem.

I went back the following day.  They were closed.  Well, I suppose it was the Fourth of July, and all, the celebration of our nation's independence, blah, blah, blah...

I had a monkey on my back.  And he was covered in chocolate.

Went back Sunday.  Nada.

Monday.  Zilch.

Tuesday.  Nil.  Goose egg.  Nuthin'!

Hubby, being the sweet, caring man that he is, offered to go out and fetch me something else.  Some other delectable snack treat, perchance.  He even suggested pretzels, chocolate and peanut butter might be a nice idea.  Ha!  I laughed scornfully.  That wouldn't even remotely be the same!  And I wasn't interested in any Nestle's Flipz, either.  I didn't want a cheap imitation of these pretzels, I wanted the real effing deal!  It was making me grumpy.  (And a little insane.)

By Wednesday evening I'd given up entirely.  Who needs 'em?  That sort of thing.  I even wondered if perhaps my memory wasn't embellishing their scrumptiousness, making them seem tastier than they actually were.  Was my admiration for them truly that mighty, or had their abrupt absence merely made my heart grow fonder?  I walked into Trader Joe's that night to pick up a few things for dinner and almost forgot to even check the shelf that was once home to that delightful high calorie treat. 

But wait!  There, collectively beaming up at me, were bags upon bags of chocolate covered peanut butter pretzels!  Oh, sweet Jesus!  It was a modern day miracle.  I nearly wept for joy.  I'd been presenting a brave face to the world at large, but now, at last, it was over. 

Serving size: about six pieces.  Calorie Content: 200 per serving.  I tried to stay within the six piece parameter but who the hell was I kidding.  I can't expect to be civilized when it comes to these suckers.  I offered to share with Hubby, but he politely declined.  Perhaps he doesn't want me to run out.  EVER AGAIN.

These pretzels are good.  Dangerously good.  Too good for their own good.  That bag is gone, having been eaten by myself in two sittings, over two consecutive evenings.  I marvel, even now, at my miraculous self-control.  I stopped at Trader Joe's tonight to pick up another bag.  It's all very casual, I'll probably just have one or two...I can stop at any time...I swear...

STOP JUDGING ME!!!!

Friends, fireworks, and talking to the dead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Together, we'll jomple our pope, burn in our bishop, and all the clergy...

Growing up Catholic, I always wondered what happened after the people filed into line and walked to the front of the church.  I had my theories, of course; but my family usually sat in the back so it was difficult to see.  Either way, I was desperate to find out what went on up there.  And whatever it was they came back chewing on, I wanted in on it.  One time I even stage whispered to my older sister, "Bring me back one!"

She didn't. 

I found the mass to be an early morning, tranquilizing sequence of familiar yet puzzling words.  After spending so much time listening, I knew precisely which order they were to be recited in.  Some unknown part of my subconscious knew, for example, that a bell was supposed to ring after the priest said,

"Do this in memory of Me."

Ring-a-ding-a-ding!!!!

One Sunday somebody dropped the ball and didn't perform the ring, so I took it upon myself to do it for them, in my loudest voice: "Ring-a-ding-a-diiiiinnnnnggggg!"  My parents were very proud.

I'd memorized the mass, although most of it was rather hard to decipher.  For instance, when the Priest would say, "Together, with John Paul, our pope; Bernard, our bishop; and all the clergy...", what I actually heard was: "Together we'll jomple our pope, burn in our bishop, and all the clergy..." 

It would be years before I'd figure that mystery out.  (Jomple our pope?  Burn in our bishop?  It sounded violent.) 

Our priest at the time was a kind looking man named Father Sweeney.  I can still hear the soft, sing-song of his voice saying: "The Body of Christ..."

"Amen."

"Good, dear."  This was Massachusetts, of course, so in reality it sounded more like: "Good, Dee-yah."

In our spare time, Sissy and I would often reenact this holy scenario for fun.  ("The Body of Christ," "Amen," "Good, Dee-yah.")  Our mother would always look concerned.

My First Holy Communion was a most solemn event.  I have virtually no pictures from that day, which is strange, seeing as my father was the photographer hired for that occasion.  Back then he would sometimes work photography gigs on weekends to earn extra income.  He worked weddings, graduations; my father took beautiful photographs. 

There were no beautiful photographs taken of me that day.  (What's that adage about the cobbler's daughter having no shoes?  Or the sommelier's baby never having enough Riesling?)  As you may notice in the picture above, I was very much into the habit of sticking out my pointy finger.  This was one of many "habits," as we came to call them.  But that's a post for another day...

After the ceremony, I kept my white First Communion dress on, naturally, but I also decided to add a pair of gray corduroys and traded in my dainty white shoes for dirty white high tops.  It was a daring, edgy ensemble.  I looked hot and I knew it.  I'd also just gotten bangs cut, the act of which definitely marked the beginning of my "awkward" years. 

And I digress.  On the day of my First Holy Communion, we had a party and everyone gave me cards with money stuffed inside.  This was my first true taste of riches and I liked the way it felt, I liked it very much indeed.  Fives and tens and twenties, oh my!  Thanks, Jesus!

During this time I entertained lofty notions of becoming an author.  I would write mysteries, perhaps; about a group of child detectives.  I was obsessed with Louisa May Alcott and her novel Little Women, and I very much wanted a fountain pen so I could write my own masterpiece, old fashioned style.  When I counted up that money I knew immediately what I'd put it towards: I would buy myself a roll top desk.  I had grand visions of myself, sitting at that desk, fountain penning the next great novel of our time. 

This was also around the time I wrote to Louisa May Alcott and asked her for an autograph, and also some advice on how to get published.  I never did hear back from her.

My parents humored me.  I don't know what they must have thought when their seven year old daughter asked to spend her First Communion money on a piece of furniture.  All I know is, one day my father came home and began assembling my desk.  He stained it a warm brown color and gave it a coat of polyurethane to make it shine.  I still remember the way it smelled after the paint dried.  I loved everything about that desk, and I loved my father for making it happen.

That December, my friends really came through for me: for my birthday, I received a gold colored desk lamp, a desk pad, and my good friend Melissa even got me that fountain pen, complete with a whole bottle of blue ink.  It was...breathtakingly beautiful.  One of my better birthdays, if I remember correctly.

To this day that desk remains my most beloved piece of furniture.  I'm typing on it now, in fact.  Some kids wished for Cabbage Patch Dolls and trips to Disney.  I wished for fountain pens and a book deal.  I wished for petticoats and a lacy parasol.  I wished Louisa May Alcott would write me back, goddammit. 

The Message

Hubby was watching Sports Center the other day and couldn't believe his eyes.  The announcers made a Hot Dog Soup reference!  What the? 

Hot dog soup, as far as I've ever known, is a recipe my grandmother concocted many years ago.  It's tomato based and delicious and everyone in my family eats it.  We come out of the womb craving it, in fact; it's just sort of in our blood.  I've even dedicated a post to it. 

This had to be a sign from my grandmother.  There's no doubt in my mind she's enjoying a heaping bowl of hot dog soup in Heaven now as I write. 

Love you, Nanny. xoxo

Just Beat It

In April 1984, the Easter Bunny hopped into our home and bestowed my sister and I with matching Thriller muscle tees.  It was the BEST EASTER EVER.

  

Over the course of his life, Michael Jackson touched a lot of people.  I couldn't believe the news when Sissy texted me today.  Wacko Jacko was...dead!  I decided to bring my MJ doll out for a special photo shoot to commemorate this sad occasion. 

 

 

 

Kittie, as you might imagine, is beyond devastated.  She was a regular at Neverland Ranch. 

  

Stooping it

There's a sort of clique that hangs out on the front stoop leading into my apartment building.  There, they chain smoke, drink beers, and give off an aura of general unpleasantry. 

What is this, Jr. High?  Was detention just dismissed?

Furthermore, if one is going to christen oneself the gatekeeper of the front stoop, one might think about being a bit friendly.  One might even consider oneself a "people person."  Not so with this lot.  I'm thinking of one woman in particular, who lays horizontally across the front steps with her legs stretched out, making it quite impossible to pass unless you choose to step over her.  This broad is surly and sour and her face perpetually looks annoyed.  For such a young person, she's developed a rather impressive chip on her shoulder.  Her little dog is cute, though.

If the steps are occupied by this douchebag, the only other alternative is to take the ramp.  It's a pretty long ramp, that zigzags, and most of the time I just don't feel like using it.  And so I step over her.  Oh yes, I go there.  Here's the real kicker, though: this girl doesn't even live here!

And we mustn't forget the middle aged couple who think they're the coolest kids in town.  Strangely, these two have established quite a following amongst the college set.  They actually moved away the week Hubby and I moved into the building; I can't remember which state they were relocating to, all I knew is they were leaving.  Good riddance!

Only, they're ba-ack!  They're staying about two buildings over.  And yet...they're always in front of my building!  I saw dog lady also coming out of a nearby building not too long ago; can these people not loiter on their own effing stoops?  And could they please throw their empty beer bottles away?  If they want to loiter, fine.  But don't glare at me as I walk up my own goddamn steps. 

On Memorial Day they actually held a barbecue on the damn ramp!  How can they be territorial about a ramp/stoop of an apartment building they don't even reside in?  If it wasn't so odd, I might consider the situation to be very, very sad.

It makes me wax philosophical.  Do I take the steps, for principle's sake, or do I take the ramp?  I spend my entire day on my feet, so a few measly extra steps aren't going to kill me.  And yet, 99 percent of the time I take the stairs.  Dogface barely bothers to move her legs.  What the hell did I ever do to her?

When I encounter people who are inconsiderate to the world at large, I often wonder what motivates them.  What makes these stoop covet-ers tick?

And so I am faced with a moral dilemma.  Glaring at them and yelling, MOVE, please!, isn't really going to make me feel any better.  Though this method may work successfully for a number of people, it's simply not The Odd Broad's style.  Taking the ramp is going to make me feel like a sucker.  Stabbing them is going to land me in prison.  And so I step over them, which can be awkward but certainly produces a statement I can live with.  

Who are these people and where the heck do they come from? 

Still on the wagon...but not for long

Today marks day twelve of our self-imposed exile from the drink.  And tonight, so help me God, I am getting my drink on.

It was refreshing to take a bit of a break, though.  My family continues to be supportive.  It was helpful of my mother to announce that I had a rampant drinking problem at my cousin Dan's high school graduation party last Sunday.  "Have you ever ruined a Holiday?"  My auntie Donna wondered.  (In case you're wondering, technically that's a no, unless of course we're counting her son's 26th birthday, which just so happens to fall on New Year's Eve.  Still, he kind of started a drunken fight after my wedding, so I suppose we're even.) 

All kidding aside, I honestly can't remember the last time I didn't booze it up on a weekend.  Seeing as last Friday was day 5 of our sobriety experiment, I wondered how the evening would pan out.

Earlier that day, Hubby and I met up at Lir for lunch.  I ordered a club sandwich and Hubby got a Greek salad with chicken.  Like clockwork, the minute I got back to work my belly began to hurt.  Apparently Hubby was experiencing a problem of a similar nature, only much, much worse.  He felt...bad.  Really bad.

When I got home from work, Hubby was still feeling terrible.  And to make matters worse, we'd run out of toilet paper.  Still, it was 7 o'clock on Friday night and we needed to eat.  I changed clothes, ran into the living room to get my shoes and stepped down hard on something very sharp.

Sweet Baby Jesus!  What was that?

I'd stepped on a staple.  Both prongs were sticking into my bare foot.  Perfect. 

Still, as I said before, it was Friday night and we were going out!  Hubby pulled out the staple and we were out the door, me limping slightly, him walking funny because of his stomach ache.  We looked like an old elderly couple.

Time to pick a restaurant.  Now, we're pretty indecisive on a good day, but this was awful.  Every other place was a tavern, which would've been fine except for the fact that we were on the damn wagon.  We must've looked at a dozen menus before Hubby decided his pain was unbearable and I suggested that we just go home.

We went home.  Hubby took an Imodium.  We decided to give it another try. 

And that's when we really started acting elderly: two restaurants had hosts that ignored us and we eventually decided to leave.  Hubby took this opportunity to go on a small rant about how restaurants in Boston lack proper management.  (Elderly.)  My foot still ached and Hubby still had stomach issues.  (Elderly.)  This was pathetic! 

We didn't eat until after 9pm.  And by that time, we were both absolutely delirious with hunger.  We finally decided upon a small Thai restaurant.

I suppose the meal was doomed from the start.  We sat down and I ordered a sparkling water, and the waitress brought me a limeade.  I would have drank it, but it sort of tasted like a mojito, which simply wouldn't do.  (God I wanted a mojito!)  I managed to get our waitress' attention, and she eventually brought me a Pelligrino. 

I guess I was hungry for stir fry, but every menu item that looked remotely appealing to me was either breaded or steamed.  My head was really starting to ache.  Hubby's, too.  I was feeling really lightheaded.

"Why does my head hurt so bad?'  I wondered aloud.

"From not eating" Hubby deadpanned.  I started to giggle.  Why did I find that so funny?

The waitress brought us plates.  "That's one step in the right direction," I heard my husband say.

The calamari was overcooked and way too crispy, but we scarfed it down.  "At least it's food,"  Hubby mused.  More giggles.

At last, after a long interval, our entrees arrived.  What to say about our entrees?  The basil was so overpowering that the whole dish tasted like black licorice.  I made a face.

"You don't like it?" Hubby asked.

"NO," I answered, a little too loudly.  I then burst into silent, uncontrollable giggles, the kind that once they start they can't be stopped.  Hubby started laughing, too.  What was wrong with us?  We don't normally act like this! 

"How's yours?"  I asked. 

"The chicken is gamey."

This information sent me entirely over the edge.  I haven't laughed that hard in ages.  And I wasn't even drunk.

The waiter and waitress were so genuinely lovely, we started to feel guilty.  My plate was full, so I held my breath and forced down as many bites as I could.  Hubby picked around the gamey chicken and tried to eat some of his meal as well.

We didn't have the heart to tell our waiter we didn't want our food wrapped up to go.  "Did you...like it?  Was it okay?"  His face looked confused, but hopeful.

"Oh, yes, delicious.  We're just full."  He seemed to buy it.

"That was an academy award winning performance right there," said Hubby.

We figured there would be a homeless person to give our leftovers away to, but  there was noone in sight.  We did see an old lady sitting on a bench with a walker, but it was hard to tell what her circumstances were.  I could just picture myself asking her if she wanted our picked through, nasty leftovers, only to find out she wasn't even homeless.

I left the bag on a ledge outside Boston Market.  Hopefully whoever claimed it likes basil and gamey chicken.

And so, Hubby and I spent a Friday evening sans booze.  And somehow, I laughed more that night than I have in a long while.  In the end, we lasted a whole eleven days without drinking.  All the same, tonight I have a date with a tall glass of Chateau Ste. Michelle.  xoxo

On line

I can't stand waiting in long lines.  (If I still lived in nyc I'd have to refer to it as waiting "on line.")  But seriously, even Disney World made me kind of pissy.

I passed the Apple store on my walk to work this morning and noticed that a moderate looking line had formed outside.  There were people walking up and down the line, offering beverages.  I guess it's pretty strenuous work, standing in line.  One needs to stay hydrated.  The AT & T store also had people waiting outside, but they weren't giving anything away.  At least it isn't raining.  Wait a minute, actually, it is.

All the same, it's Friday, and thank God for that!  I am definitely over this week.  xoxo