The Odd Broad

Tan Lines

For the past week or so, my disposition has been just a little bit brighter, Dear Reader.  (And not simply because the Red Sox are World Series champs!)  After all, that wonderful occurrence only just happened, and I was already quite chipper before this joyous event: Remarkably, I somehow managed not to fling the gentleman wearing the enormous backpack while simultaneously reading his unfurled newspaper at rush hour on the crowded subway.  (Highly flingworthy, and a double offense since he was consuming precious train space from both the front and the back). 

I hummed while doing the dishes, sang merrily as I cleaned out moldy, mysterious Tupperware from the fridge.  (Two chores that ordinarily hand me a one way ticket to the pits of despair.)  And just this morning, I merely sighed when the 6 Train passed me by, too full for anyone to squeeze in.  C'est la vie!

The cause of this sudden, drastic change in mindset?  I will tell you.  The Odd Broad is going on vacation. 

It all began two Wednesdays ago.  The morning sky was blue, the air was crisp, and a naughty little voice in my head told me to play the Aruba mix on my ipod.  (Go on, play it.) 

My Aruba mix is an eclectic, curious collection of songs Hubby and I heard played on our Honeymoon.  It includes everything from Sugar Ray, AC/DC and The Beach Boys to Smashmouth and then over to Bob Marley.  (A strange mix indeed.) 

These songs are forever etched upon our memories, conjuring up images of clean air, flamingo filled beaches and neverending buckets of Corona.  Most days I'm unable to listen to this mix, of course.  (It makes me wistful.)  But there was something so hopeful about Wednesday morning that instinctively made my thumb click "play".

On a whim, this time last year we spent our one year wedding anniversary back in Aruba.  It was heavenly.  Upon our return to The Big Apple I immediately began to wonder if it wasn't already too soon to go back.  (Aruba is truly the cheddar and sour cream potato chips of vacations.  You could eat the entire bag and still want more.)

I waxed philosophical.  After all, simply hearing these songs must have a positive affect on my brainwaves, right?  Surely my psyche was getting a boost every time I even thought of this Shangri-La, no?  Hubby and I agree those two trips were the most relaxed we've ever felt. 

This all got me to wondering: is the mere knowledge that a place like this exists, where beachy naps, mild daylong intoxication and endless eating reign...is this really enough to get us through our workaday existence?  Because I think sometimes it is.  Some days I can close my eyes and be transported back to where the biggest decision of the day is what I'd like to eat that morning.  And afternoon.  And evening. 

Transcendent thoughts danced dreamily in my brain as I pondered what was actually more effective: going there in my mind or physically traveling there on a plane? 

I made a wish that morning.  A wish that included blue skies...peace and quiet...24 hours a day spent with my sweet husband...non-stop fruity cocktails...

And then...then...then...

Ok, so Wednesday sucked.  By the time I reached the subway station I was already late for work, train service had mysteriously been suspended and a creepy stranger walked up to me and started nodding and smiling three inches from my face.  Inwardly blowing a giant raspberry at the universe, I turned off the Aruba mix just as I hailed a cab.

However, those few inspired minutes must have been enough because...we're going!  We really are.  We leave tomorrow.  And I'm taking you with me.  (Telepathically, of course.  They only allow one carry on.) 

Is this the most practical of decisions?  Not really.  Should we perhaps be aggressively saving for a home, a car, a child or two?  Yes, yes, and yes yes. 

In the meantime, I'll be lounging and feeding my mojito hole in a tropical paradise.  Hey, we only live once.  (Perhaps.)

I promise to write...

~The Odd Broad xoxo 

PS: Some of my relatives have expressed concern that my trip to paradise will leave me with tan lines for my cousin's upcoming nuptials.  I suppose they're afraid The Odd Broad's potential strap lines will make her the "trashy" bridesmaid of the group.  This is a risk I am willing to take, (for relaxation's sake), though I will certainly do everything within my power to avoid this tacky outcome.  I'll let you know how it turns out.  xoxo

PPS: Here are some pictures I took last year. 

Yes!!

         

The Red Sox did it!!!!!  Again!  I can hardly believe it.  What a season.

I'm off to bed...while visions of Papelbon, Lowell and Papi dance in my head...

xoxo

Cats on Leashes

In New York, I often find myself standing before a veritable smorgasbord of all things strange.  Like the other day when I saw one of those horse and buggy drivers yapping on his cell phone while driving around a family of tourists.  Bizarre. 

Yesterday in Central Park, I spied something that made me look twice.  Then thrice.  (Is thrice a real word, by the way?)  A middle aged man was walking his black cat, at dusk, on a leash.  They were keeping quite a pace, actually. 

Don't go getting any ideas, Hubby's eyes seemed to tell me.  Although come to think of it, he said that out loud, immediately.

I did have several ideas, but surprisingly none of them seemed to involve putting Kittie on a leash and parading her down the streets of New York.  Go figure.

A nearby toddler was also having difficulty averting her eyes from this troubling scene.  "Come here, Sweetie, that's not a doggie," her Mother told her.  A couple stopped to speak to the man soon after, as well.  I couldn't hear what they were discussing, but something told me the conversation was feline on leash related.

It's funny, usually people can do just about anything here without attracting the slightest bit of attention.  Though I suppose walking a cat on a leash just fits into a creepy little category all its own.  And rightly so, I say, rightly so.

xoxo

I Don't Want None, Unless You Got Buns, Hun!

Have you ever paused for a second and realized your inner voice has been singing some random song, like, all day?  Last Monday my friend Amy's brain was singing Cherish the Love.  She left a message telling me about it and then of course my brain started to sing it, too.

In most instances, the song looping through my mind pertains to what is actually going on that day, which I find neat.  I think it's fascinating that my subconscious can musically pick up on my mood.  Kind of like my brain is playing dj.  Sometimes, of course, I have no rational explanation as to where a song on my inner playlist is emanating from.  At times this can be downright disturbing.

This morning at 7:53am, I found myself pressed against the filthy doors of the 6 train (this, of course, the better alternative to being pressed against a filthy stranger on the 6 train) when I realized my inner voice was buoyantly belting out I like Big Butts.  (And I cannot lie.)  Truly, I was already to the second verse.  Hey, how did that get in there?  Now, I don't by any means have a problem with big butts, but nor do I have a particular affinity to them.  In general, I remain pretty neutral. 

I decided to perform a little experiment.  I would pay attention to my inner soundtrack and see what comes up.  Hopefully it wouldn't be too mental.

9am:  Fergie.  Big Girls Don't Cry.  My co-worker's ipod was a touch too loud, apparently.  (He likes the Fergie.)

9:20am:  Theme song from The Nanny.  "She was workin' in a barber shop in Flushing, Queens..."  (This song is agony, pure agony.)

12:20pm:  I Ain't Too Proud to Beg, No!  I have no idea where this one came from, although I was extremely hungry at the time.  Perhaps my inner child was begging for her lunch break?  I was also in the middle of trying to learn a boring Excel task from a woman who loves to hear herself talk about her many romances, or lack thereof.  Maybe she's the one who ain't too proud to beg, no?  (My subconscious is a bitch when it hasn't been fed.)

2:15pm: Danger, do the smoke detector!  Rilo Kiley.  I fear I possess not the fortitude nor the will to stop myself from singing this catchy song.  Truly, if this persists I may need a musical intervention. 

Sometimes the melody in my head bursts forth onto the scene at the most inopportune of moments.  Like the other day in the elevator when I absent mindedly started to mumble: they tried to make me go to rehab, but I said no, no, no...

And naturally, the elevator doors opened onto my boss.  And why wouldn't they?  Why shouldn't I be singing songs about rehab in front of my workplace superiors?  Ah, awkward. 

Happy Wednesday!

xoxo

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!

Walking

Last night on Good Eats, Alton Brown mentioned that the Incans used to measure time by how long it took to cook a potato.  As in, I'm gonna take a nap, wake me in thirteen potatoes, please.  Or something like that. 

I have an eight minute walk to the subway from my apartment, though today I discovered my own new and satisfying method of measuring time and distance:   

Two thirds of a King sized Caramello. 

Considering I was carrying several heavy bags, and began eating about two and a half minutes into the total eight, I find this feat downright amazing.  (If not just a little sad.)

Either way, now you'll know what I'm talking about if I ever tell you to hold your horses, I'll be there in two thirds of a Caramello.

(It will mean that I'm on the rag.)

Blocked Call

Damn you, alumni phone-a-thon!

OK, so last year I said I'd give a donation to my college and I "forgot" to mail the form back.  I suppose I was naive to think I'd gotten away with it... 

Thursday, 7:25 pm, my phone rings.  I glance at the caller i.d. 

Blocked Call. 

Now, there are only two people in my life whose numbers show up as blocked: my uncle John and my sissy.  I assumed it was the latter.

"Hi Sissy."

Only, this wasn't Sissy.  This was a perky, bright eyed bushy tailed voice who after a brief pause tentatively asked, "Um, is this Sarah?" 

Shit.  A frigging telemarketer?  No, we signed that do not call list.  Or, actually...was this alumni pledge drive time?  Surely I hadn't been duped again?  No!

"Sarah?"  The polite voice asked again.

"Yes, yes it is, whoa, I thought you were my sister!"  And the babbling commences.

"Oh, is this a bad time?"

I couldn't be rude, but let's face it, I didn't have the energy.  "No, it's just, I thought you were my sister.  (a pause.)  She's pregnant." 

I'm not sure why I felt the need to add in that last bit, perhaps it was my desperate attempt at being let off the hook?  (I can't donate this year!  My sister's with child!)

The poor girl was a trooper: "Oh, do you need to go?  Is this a bad time?  Are you waiting for her to call?"

Good God, now I was actually causing phone solicitors to want to hang up on me. 

I sucked it up, explained how I'd misplaced the form last year, and yes, I'd love to donate, etc and so on.  When she asked if I had any alumni news I'd like to report, I answered, "No, not really, actually."

She waxed positive: "Well, no news is good news, right?"

I don't know much, but I do know this: when you're an alumni of a college for dance, music and theater, no news is not good news.  No news is bad news.  At least in the world of theater geekery it is.  Does my older sister being pregnant count?

All in all, our conversation turned out to be pretty painless, minus most of what came out of my mouth, of course.  (Sometimes I'm a very bad talker.) 

Until next Fall...

Damn you, alumni phone-a-thon!

Dancing With The Macabre

Since All Hallows Eve is fast approaching, what occurred last night only seems fitting.  Hubby and I were leaving our favorite restaurant when a pale, thirty something year old man dressed all in black jogged by and looked directly at us before quickly averting his eyes and jogging away.

Instantly hubby and I turned to each other and silently mouthed a name we both knew all too well.

Yes, there had been a sighting. 

Is it peculiar that our former upstairs neighbor of nearly five years refuses to acknowledge us while jogging, shopping at the grocery store, buying toiletries at CVS?  Yes.  Yes it is.  But then again, what isn't strange about this man?

For starters, as I've previously mentioned, he strictly wears black, and there are no deviations upon this rule.  His funereal uniform is as follows: black shirt, black suspenders, black trench coat, black beret.  It could be 95 degrees outside with humidity at 100% percent and he'd still be sporting black combat boots.  While jogging.  A sandal, sneaker, T-shirt wearing kind of guy he is not, no siree.

Not that I've ever been one to form judgments based upon dress or appearance.  You see, it goes much, much deeper than this...

It was September of 2000 when we first met him on the staircase a day or so after moving into our first NY apartment.  Our building had a business below and two apartments above, ours being on the second floor.  "Hi there!"  I'd said in a friendly, obviously not from The Big Apple kind of tone. 

"Oh, hi."  His demeanor was guarded and awkward.  It seemed our very existence was causing him discomfort.  OK, so it was evident we wouldn't be partaking in any neighborly Beer Pong tournaments with our somber new acquaintance.  Who really gave a good crap, though?

Oh, if it had only ended there, Dear Reader...

Shortly thereafter, we met up in the hallway again.  "I'm not being too loud, am I?"  he nervously inquired in his muted, polite tone. 

"What?"  Hubby and I laughed.  Was this guy for real?  "Of course not!  Not at all!  You're perfect!"

"Good"  he sighed, looking relieved, before racing back upstairs to his lair.

I'm not really sure when we started hearing the banging.  Or the dance macabre, as I lovingly came to call it.  I only remember the rhythmic, aggressive pounding that would emanate daily from above, making it impossible to do anything but sit there and wonder what in the hell was going on up there?

Was he dancing?  Truly, this seemed unlikely, but...

Exercising?  Perhaps he was exercising.  But in a trench coat? 

Was he passionately walking in rhythm?  Or could it be he was performing some kind of Gothic, woebegone aerobics routine? 

I prayed he wasn't sacrificing small animals. 

The nightly banging was nothing like the Dance Macabre of my youth, that annual October ritual where my elementary school music teacher would turn on psychedelic lights and have us dance to a moody, melancholy orchestration, our colorful scarves billowing behind us.  Some of us were skeletons, some were ghosts, some were possessed Jack-o-lanterns on broomsticks.  I can still close my eyes and hear the music.  This was certainly my first and very best experience with interpretive dance.

But I have digressed.  Back to the story at hand.  Much of my time and energy was spent trying to decipher our mousy neighbor's secret identity.  His maniacal midnight banging was driving me absolutely bonkers, and some nights he even sang, though the lyrics were always indecipherable.  I think it was the singing that scared me the most. 

It became increasingly necessary for me to justify this curious behavior, almost as if knowing what was going on up there was somehow going to make the situation more tolerable.

Hubby, being hubby, let it roll off his shoulders.  "Why do you let it bother you so much?"  he'd ask me.

I wasn't sure why.  As the months wore on, my imagination ran wild, leaping to absurd, paranoid conclusions.  My inner Catholic feared the worst and decided he was probably a devil worshiper.  (Hence the suspenders.  And the beret.)

Thankfully, there were brief respites in between all the noise.  It turned out our upstairs friend would leave for weeks at a time, sometimes months even.  But he'd always return.  As would the rhythmic banging. 

It all came to a boiling point one eventful night around 3am, when I was jostled from sleep by a loud thumping.  Ah.  So the dance had begun.  But this time he was experimenting with some new vocalization, to keep things fresh perhaps:

"Do you want me to fucking kill you?  Do you want me to fucking kill you?" 

What the?  I shook hubby and he woke up just in time to hear our neighbor yell:

"Pain, Fire, Pain, Fire..."

Or could he have said "Rain, Fire, Rain, Fire?"  I really couldn't tell.  Whatever he was chanting, it was fa fa fa freaky. 

What in the name of all that is Holy????!!!! 

The banging was one thing, but this?  I desperately tried to rationalize what I'd just heard.  Did he have headphones on, and was he singing his favorite angry, freaky weirdo song?  And if not, what poor creature was he talking to?  A mouse?  A cockroach?  A Goth hooker? 

Was he flogging himself, penitent style?  I lay awake pondering the possibilities.  Perhaps he'd met someone nice and the evening had turned sour?  I decided the lesser of several evils would be if he simply turned out to be a crackhead, though I knew this was only wishful thinking.

That. Was. IT.  We had a potentially murderous, macabre hermit loner living above us, and I was through being polite.   

The next day we went to our landlords, who listened intently, though didn't really hide their amusement.

"Well, ya, he's always been a weird guy, but..."

My excitement could barely be contained.  I blurted out that which desperately needed blurting:  "He dances."

"What?"  My landlady looked skeptical.

"He dances, in rhythm, and last night he was chanting while dancing in rhythm."  In great detail, I elaborated on last night's performance.

She looked confused:  "Rain, fire?"

"That's not all..." I went on.  "There are always stinky smells coming from his place, terrible, sickening odors..." (I suppressed the urge to describe these as dead body smells, since I didn't want her to think I myself was crazy, too.  After all, these were our starving artist days and we'd been almost 12 days late paying the rent that month...)

My landlady shook her head.  "He doesn't cook..."  I always thought this was a strange statement for her to make, since how could she know if he was cooking meals or not?  (Let alone squirrels and other small mammals?)

They would talk to him, they assured us.  He had been their tenant for years.  It was nothing.  He was just odd.

Naturally, my family two states over was most concerned.  All but my sister, who found the entire situation to be very entertaining.  I suppose everybody wanted to sneak a peek at him, but macabre sightings were few and far between.  A rare, mystifying experience.  A total eclipse of the goth.

One day Hubby got a call on his cell phone from a friend of ours whom I'd told about our living situation.  "I think I saw him!"  Christos excitedly told hubby.  "In the store, just now, he was wearing a black trench coat...it had to have been him!"      

It seemed this macabre man was becoming a legend of sorts.

Eventually, mercifully, and not nearly soon enough, we moved from our cozy little apartment.  (We went from living below one nut job to living above two new ones.  But that's another story.)

These days when we see him, there is always the same inevitable (macabre) dance: the eye contact and the split second of recognition followed by immediate speedwalking in the opposite direction.  This is far less painful than the awkwardness that has ensued when we've actually said hello to this man. 

I'll tell you one thing.  I will go to my grave wondering what or who the hell was up there during the night of the rain, pain and fire fiasco.  Poor little squirrel. 

The Broad Makes Breakfast

On Saturday night I was in the mood for a Greek inspired banquet: grilled chicken with roasted eggplant, squash, zucchini, onions, tomatoes, all tossed with olive oil, garlic and fresh thyme.  Along with this I served feta cheese, olives, pita bread and tzatziki sauce.  It was delish.   

In hindsight, perhaps I was a wee overambitious in my roasting, since I now have enough leftover vegetables in my fridge to feed a small nunnery.  (Do vegetarian nunneries exist, Kittie wonders?)  In lieu of my sudden surplus of roasted eatables, I've decided to prepare you a healthy breakfast.

Do you happen to own one of those mini Corningware dishes?  (The 16 oz size?)  My friend Karen gave me mine, (hi Kar-bear!) and I find they work quite nicely for omelette making. 

If you don't have one, a small, microwavable bowl will do just fine.  Give it a spritz with some cooking spray, and in a separate bowl beat together one egg, two egg whites and a dash of milk or water.  (I'm being healthy-ish today, hence the egg whites.)  Pour the egg mixture into the mini Corningware, then add the chopped roasted veggies, lots of crumbled feta cheese and maybe a pinch of pepper and salt.  (Feta is already kind of salty, so today I omitted the latter.)

Cook on High in the microwave for two minutes, then check to see how it's coming along.  At this point I usually run along the edge with a knife to make sure it's not sticking, though nothing should stick since you've greased the dish with cooking spray. 

Let it cook for another minute or so, until everything looks firm, and then slide that sucker onto a plate, pretty side facing up.  Careful, though, the dish will be hot! 

And it's as simple as that.  In mere minutes, and before you can say the words Sunday morning hangover, you'll have whipped up a beautiful, healthy, mostly egg white omelette. 

The bowl really gives it a cute little shape, don't you think?  I'm serving mine alongside some pita and hummus. 

Using this method, you can substitute my ingredients with anything you prefer.  In the past I've used cheddar, monteray jack, spinach, roasted red peppers, mushrooms...truly, the breakfast possibilities are endless.

Okay, now what to do with the rest of these damn veggies...minestrone, anyone?  Roasted vegetable dip?  Anyone for vegetable lasagna?

XOXO

PS: This is a super easy way to cook eggs, but you may have to use an SOS pad to scour your bowl afterwards.  It'll come clean easily enough, though.  (Just an FYI for whoever's on dish duty, though hopefully it won't be you, Dearest Reader.) 

It's Leah!

As a kid, I always sort of dreaded night time.  Something about everyone being asleep and me being alone with my overactive imagination has always kind of freaked me out.  Plus, for whatever reason my childhood bedroom has never failed to fill me with a sick feeling of unease.  This really doesn't make much sense, since the house was being built while we were waiting to move in.  Maybe the drywall was haunted?

I've often tried to rationalize my fear.  Why is it that I'm able to sleep soundly in the city but get spooked out by the 'burbs?  Also, if my bedroom is truly haunted, who's haunting it?  My home town used to be vastly populated by Native Americans, perhaps a spirit took up residence in my toybox?  From all I've learned about early American history, I of course wouldn't blame the spirit for feeling bitter. 

Or could it be all of the Civil War relics my Dad has collected throughout the years?  (Union, of course.  We're Yankees.)  Is it far fetched to believe a disgruntled ghost has shimmied its way into one of those rusty old bayonets?   

Of course, I did have an extensive porcelain doll collection daintily perched upon the shelves lining my bedroom.  And we all know how terrifying those little doll faces can be.

I sometimes even had trouble sleeping in college, though I don't really blame myself for that since it's pretty much common knowledge that the dorms at the Boston Conservatory are a wee bit haunted.  The buildings are ancient old brownstones in Boston's Back Bay, and though they're gorgeous and have rooms boasting fireplaces and built-in bookcases, I always sensed some freaky shit was going on.  (If memory serves me right, rumor had it that there was a ballerina ghost hanging out in the basement of one of those buildings, practicing endless pirouttes or something?  I always pictured her wearing a pink tutu, though this has never been confirmed.) 

On more than one occasion I awoke in a cold sweat and one time even saw the shadowy figure of a boy standing by one of my roommate's beds.  At the time I made light of it and even teased that of course it was a male ghost, since this particular roommate was especially skanky slutty friendly with the menfolk.

I tried everything I could think of to de-haunt our otherwise lovely dorm room: I sprinkled sea salt in the four corners, hung rosary beads by the bed, made frantic night time prayers to every Saint I could remember, all to no avail.  A classmate's Mom worked for a renowned psychic who eventually put a special blessing on the room.  After that things finally seemed to mellow out a bit.  (No more guy ghosts trying to get with the skanky roomie.) 

But my childhood bedroom, that's another story.  To this day I'm still not comfortable sleeping in there alone.  Aren't I too old to harbor irrational fears?  Shouldn't I have grown out of this years ago?

Towards the end of 2006, my husband confirmed for me that which I've secretly suspected all along: there is indeed a ghost loitering in that bedroom.  I've named her Leah.

I remember Hubby waking up in that room once and acting...well, weird.  That night he sat upright in bed and loudly said, "What?" 

"What's the matter!?!?"  I shrilled.  Sleep mode can make me unbelievably excitable, and what Hubby went on to utter did not send me peacefully back to my slumber:

"Oh, it's nothing, I just thought I saw someone at the window.  I was dreaming, though.  Go back to sleep."

Um, what was that again?

On a different occasion Hubby woke up and this time groggily informed me that there was a woman sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed.  Awesome!  Needless to say, I didn't go back to sleep that night either.  At the time I desperately hoped it was the drink talking, but who was I kidding. 

Later, when we were back in NY, I started musing about how I'd never been able to sleep peacefully as a kid.  "I don't blame you," Hubby said, "that room's haunted!" 

Now, he may have had a wee bit to drink on this night also, and he may even deny saying it now, but he was serious.  And my husband is not really one to believe in ghosts, or spirits, or any of my weird, Tarot card reading mumbo jumbo.  On the contrary, he's a very rational lad. 

Every hair on my arm immediately stood up and my eyes began to water.  Finally, after years of feeling like an irrational chicken shit, my fears had been confirmed!  And by my husband, of all people!

But how did I come to believe my ghost was named Leah?  (You may be wondering, if you haven't already stopped reading.)  On one recent visit home I fell into a deep, booze-enhanced sleep.  That evening I dreamed of a girl, a futuristic robot woman who had one eye larger than the other and was made of metal and very sad about her situation. 

In the dream, my heart went out to her and I must've decided to cheer her up and her name must've been Leah because all of a sudden a song and dance number invaded the dream.

My dream self did an elaborate dance routine around the room, singing, "Who's the one who cheers us up when we are down?  It's Leah!"  (The word "Leah" was sung jubilantly, using three syllables instead of two.  Lee-ee-aahh!  Hubby really wants you to hear the song, but I'm not sure I have the energy to record it for you tonight.  Perhaps another time.)

I went on: "Who's always there to lend a helping hand?  It's Leah!  It's Leah..."

The song went on for quite some time.

The next morning I woke up rested, though still feeling slightly sad about the poor robot girl who had one eye bigger than the other.  I went downstairs and told everyone about my dream.

"Leah?"

My Sister decided Leah must be the spirit haunting my childhood bedroom.  Now when I go home and stay at my parents house instead of hers, she'll always say, "Have fun!  Say hi to Leah for me!"

I know what you're thinking, Reader.  You're thinking I'm mental.  Perhaps. 

But you have to believe me. 

It was a really catchy song.