The Odd Broad

The New Man In My Life

Part 1: The Baby

If I ever write a memoir, perhaps I should entitle it Weeping on Public Toilets, since you could say I have a habit of doing this.

I wept on a work toilet (paper seat cover down, of course) Wednesday morning after I learned my only sister was going into labor. 

Hubby and I were already renting a car on Friday to drive to MA for my cousin's wedding, so I could meet the baby then.  Surely I could wait two days? 

After my bathroom breakdown I called Hubby, who had absolutely no confidence I'd be able to wait.  Immediately he was searching Amtrak, Expedia, Travelocity, offering to drop me off a suitcase on his way to work.  He even apologized for not buying me an open ended ticket.  God I love that man. 

I told him I could hold out.  Not long after, I got myself a plane ticket.  By the time I was in the taxi on my way to JFK, The Tadpole had already made his glorious debut: eight and a half pounds, with a dimple in his teeny little chin.  I have a Godson!  His name is Luke. 

An hour later, I'm about to get onto the Jet Blue shuttle bus when the lady with the walkie talkie says no.  Apparently the shuttle bus was on fire.  About ten feet away.  Curiously, they wouldn't allow us onto another bus, yet they also weren't advising us to back away.  In the end an angry fellow passenger wearing a red blazer started bossing, Everybody back!  Now!  Everybody move!  Ordinarily I'd feel the urge to punch her in the face, but my NY impulses were extremely subdued that afternoon.  After all, I was on my way to meet the new man in my life. 

After three taxis, one non-burning shuttle bus and a bumpy plane ride, I was knocking on the door to Sissy's room.  Two seconds later, I was sobbing, washing my airplane hands, sitting down and holding the most beautiful little baby I'd ever laid eyes on.  I knew he'd be a boy, and I knew his face would look the way it looked, since I'd had several dreams about this baby.  (Did I ever tell you I was psycho psychic?)   

I realize women give birth every day, but my sister doesn't.  I am in total awe. 

Incidentally, last week when a cleaning lady at work asked if we knew the baby's gender, I said we didn't, but I had a feeling it would be a boy.  "I always dream of a boy..." I said, to which she replied, "A healthy baby, that's all you should dream for" and gently squeezed my arm as she got off the elevator.  Great.  Now Mary the cleaning lady thought I was one of those freaks who prayed for boy babies.  It was too late to say, "Wait Mary, when I said dream, I literally meant dream, not hope!  Not wish!"  Ah well.  Such is the life of the misunderstood.  You'd think I'd be used to it by now.

Luke is a dream, though.  He is gorgeous, amazing, and utterly perfect in every way.  I don't know how I'll ever return to New York now that he's arrived on the scene, in all his sweet cuddliness.  I am in love, Dear Reader.  My heart is so full. 

There's nothing more to say.

xoxo

Please stay tuned for Part 2: The Wedding.  I pray my husband doesn't leave NY without my bridesmaid's dress.  I've reminded him several times, but now even he seems skeptical.

Memories...

Want to know why my husband is no longer permitted to drink shots?

Press the 'play' button!

Thanksgiving Wishes

May your pies turn out heavenly, May your turkey be scrumptious...May your stuffing be sinful,Your gravy, quite lumpless.   May your green bean casserole be all you hoped it would be...Happy Thanksgiving to all Love, Kittie and mexoxo

I hope you have many things to be grateful for this Thanksgiving, Dear Reader.  And if you should find your glass of Reisling half empty...by all means, send someone out to buy more.

(Well, nothing really rhymes with empty.)

I hope this never happens to you

I've come to terms with the fact that I'm accident prone.  There was the time I got dragged by a car in high school, the time a friend accidentally hit me in the head with a golf club at the driving range, and just the other day I turned to look at a fender bender and very nearly almost walked into a telephone pole. 

But sometimes it's just silly.

Two nights ago I did something I've never done before and in hindsight should probably not do again. 

The time was 2 am and my husband's incessant, chronic snoring was in the process of spiraling out of control.  I ransacked the nightstand in vain, but nary a nose strip was to be found.  I tried earplugs, I tried sleeping with a pillow on top of my head.  Then I tried both.  Mustering up an attitude of both tolerance and calm, I lovingly nudged my noisy soul mate and informed him he was terrorizing his wife.  "You hear that?  Hmmm?  YOU ARE TERRORIZING ME!" 

Hubby seemed somewhat repentant, but the cacophony commenced the second he closed his eyes.  I would almost admire this ability, if it wasn't barring my entrance to dreamland.

I lie awake on our comfy pillowtop mattress, wearily observing my brain as it ping ponged its thoughts back and forth.  I wondered if the universe wasn't trying to send me a message.  My inner Shirley MacLaine might ask if the snoring was the universe's way of telling me I needed to hear something, otherwise why else would it keep on happening?  Hmmm.  Do I need to be a better listener to my husband?  Do I literally need to hear him right now?

At the moment it seemed I was hearing him just fine.

Philosophical thoughts aside, in the end the only way to escape the ever increasing crescendo of snore was to place my pillow at the foot of our bed and sleep with my feet by my husband's face.  I hoped this wouldn't startle him, but I decided to take my chances.

Somehow it just hadn't occurred to me to remember that the foot of our bed is strictly Kittie's domain.  (That is, when she's not spooning me or trying to lay on top of me or taking up most of my side of the bed.)  She wasn't around that night, though, so she must've been snoozing on the couch.

Undisturbed, I drifted into a deep sleep.  This improvised arrangement worked nicely for a few hours, as it removed my ears from being directly in the line of fire. 

It was some time later when I awoke to a reality I will only describe as horrific: namely, my cat leaping up onto her usual spot on the bed, (where my head was, of course), her tiny paws landing directly on my face, gouging the inside of my bottom lip.  My reaction was as follows: AHHHHHH!!!!!!!!  SON OF A!!!!!!

Ouchie.  Oh Dear God, ouchie.  I stumbled to the bathroom.  There was blood.  I rinsed with expired hydrogen peroxide solution and went back to bed.  Two minutes later I realized the Fresh Direct van was waiting outside, which was what Kittie had been trying to alert us to.  I decided to let Hubby answer the door to receive the groceries.  After all, I was wounded.

Kittie remained blissfully unaware of the terrible pain she'd unknowingly inflicted.  She curled her furry little self up next to me for a cuddle, which did make me feel better.

Now, I'm a germophobe at the absolute best of times, but I'm really trying not to think of where that paw was hanging out prior to being inside my mouth.  But of course we all know the ugly answer to that question. 

Hey, wait a minute, is the universe trying to tell me I have a shitty mouth? 

I think I'll go have another rinse.

XOXO

Joining "a Cult"

I've been a journal keeper for about as long as I can remember.  These countless scribblings are the cringe inducing, disturbing culmination of my years here on this earth, and most days I think I should probably burn them.

The other day I was flipping through a journal from my Sophomore year of college when I happened across an entry most unfortunate.  The date was October the 31st, 1997.  The journal entry begins thusly, and I quote:

"So I had my huge epiphany 2 days ago to start performing up to my true potential + etc + so on.  Vanessa and I were discussing the matter of inner beauty and such when we were approached by a Dianetics man for a free "Personality" test.  We took it.  Here's where it turned into a big after school special."

And an after school special it surely was, Dear Reader.  Vanessa is a bosom friend of over ten years, the Laverne to my Shirley, if you will.  So it's quite fitting that our teenaged selves would wind up in a hairbrained scheme involving a cult. 

We were both pms-ing, I believe, and walking down Newbury Street discussing the unfairness of life and how misunderstood we were, in the way only pining, angst filled eighteen year olds can.  In short, we weren't feeling very "jovial".  This probably explains how two Catholic girls from Massachusetts fell prey to strange religious persuasion.

Once inside the Scientology center I remember sitting at a table and performing some kind of a puzzle, before taking a test with questions like:

"Do you feel you have family and friends who love you and support you?" 

I laughed bitterly and clenched my jaw as I circled "NO".

"Do you often feel alone and desperate?"

Yes!  Ya, that's it, I was alone!  I had nobody, man, nobody!

I chose to respond to all of the questions in a similar manner. 

Back to 1997, via the journal:

"The results of the test are not based on what they think of me, but of how I see myself.  She asked if I was on medication for depression + if I had experienced a great loss.  I see myself as nuts basically."

Reader, in my defense I was not and never have been on medication for depression (not that there's anything wrong with that) and thank God I've not experienced any losses too out of the ordinary for someone my age.  I've had a happy life, filled with family and friends who love me dearly.  I just...wasn't feeling the love that particular afternoon.

Apparently Vanessa wasn't, either.  They'd separated us, by the way.  I remember her telling me that in the end she'd broken down and started to cry a little.  They told her, "Your friend is joining, why don't you?"

The introductory class they got us both to sign up for was $35.  Luckily they accepted debit cards.  (Phew!)  I barely had $35 to my name, of course, but this was really going to be worth it, I could just feel it.  Mainly I was interested in the past life regression they had talked so much about.  (Isn't this what every normal teenager dreams about?)  A past life reading would reveal to me all the secrets of why I was the way I was: neurotic, repressed, and hormonal.  I could hardly wait!

A man in the lobby showed us his gigantic Scientology pinky ring and talked about "JT".  (John Travolta, I'm assuming.)  I remember finding this name dropping a bit peculiar, but who was I to judge?  We returned back to our dorms triumphantly, copiously laden with space aged paperbacks by the illustrious Mr. L. Ron Hubbard. 

Back to the journal:

"We basically decided to spend $35 to take a personal efficiency course + became Scientologists for almost an entire day.  Everyone freaked out and Dad was mad because I told him I don't try + this could teach me how."

(I realize that hindsight is 20/20, but this is not the thing to tell your father when he and your mother are investing their hard earned money in your $100,000 education.  Especially when you are being schooled in the science of ballet, drama and showtunes.)

I called Mom and Dad, practically bursting with excitement.  I was finally going to learn to be efficient!!  This would be my salvation!!  And I could totally still stay Catholic, that was no problem at all!!  Wasn't this all very, very exciting!!??

Their reaction?  My Dad wanted to drive to Boston that night to retrieve me.  And pull me out of school.  And lock me up in my childhood bedroom, perhaps.

My Mom's response?  Oh, she contacted the Boston Police and told them Scientologists had attempted to lure her daughter into a cult.  (Incidentally, this is the same woman who warned me not to get drugged at frat parties because she feared I'd get sold as a white slave to China.)

Of course, the police weren't able to help much, really.  After all, it wasn't as if I'd been kidnapped or anything.  On the contrary, I had gone completely of my own free will and stupidity.

A few days later, at the desperate urging of all who loved us, Vanessa and I were off to see the Scientologists to un-cult ourselves.  My level headed friend and roommate Amy accompanied us on our somber journey.  I can still see her face as she sat there in the waiting area wearing a bemused, I'm not joining your silly cult kind of face. 

Curiously, the Scientologists refused to refund our money unless we provided them with our social security numbers.  Vanessa did it, but my Mother became most hysterical so I decided it was best to let them keep the money.  The next day my Godmother generously sent me a check after making me swear on my Grandfather's grave that I would never return to the land of the creepy. 

The gratuitous self analysis marched on: 

November 5, 1997:  "Kathryn (my college voice teacher) said I'm concentrating on all the wrong things.  Like worrying about what people think about me.  She said the Dianetics people promised me optimism + success + no negativity- probably why I was so attracted to it."

Hmmm...you think?  Kathryn was always inviting me to embrace my negativity.  She seemed to want me to stop smiling so much.  I actually think I've mastered this art.  She would be extremely proud, I'm sure.

These days, I feel a pang in my chest whenever I hear about Katie (or Kate, as Tom calls her) Holmes.  She's not the only brunette Sagittarius Catholic actress you know to have fallen prey to Scientology.  (I'm the other one, by the way.)

Below please find the rantings of a teenaged lunatic:

xoxo

PS- That Halloween was the night I threw up on the steps of the student Union.  Miraculously, the vomit stayed there for almost an entire week.  Sadly, this was the last night I ever allowed myself to taste or smell Malibu rum.

Arts 'n Crafts

Last week we picked up some vodka at the Duty Free and decided to infuse it.  We aren't yet certain just how we'll utilize these fruity potions.  Will we give them as Christmas treats, perhaps?  Or for a Holiday/Odd Broad birthday bonanza?  Or for...our own shameless personal imbibing?

We've done this before and it's really easy to do.  And it certainly makes for some scrumptious cocktails.  (Just the thing you need to get you going on a Monday morning, no?)

First, decide which dried fruit you'd like to use.  We chose dried blueberries and dried cranberries with orange essence. 

Pour the dried fruit into empty bottles and cover with sugar.  We eyeballed it, but we maybe used about half a cup? 

Give it a lil' swirl.  (In case you're wondering, Dear Reader, that is hubby's hand you see on your right.  The Odd Broad does not possess man hands, thank you very much.)

Now, add that vodka!  (Curiously, all the Duty Free had was Tanqueray vodka.  In our more penniless days we've used Georgi vodka, though, so I suppose anything is a step up from this fine libation.) 

Swirl it, shake it, mix it all up.  Sing a little Streisand, if the fancy strikes you.

And now we play the waiting game.  We'll probably let it sit for a month or so, shaking it every day for the first week, and once a week for the rest.  In the past we've made coffee vodka, strawberry bourbon, pineapple rum...the beverage possibilities are limitless!

Please drink responsibly.  (This means no spontaneous showtunes, people.  Although, I suppose there is a strike on the Broadway...)

XOXO

Insanity!

People are demented.  Absolutely demented.  I know this is a harsh statement to make, but please hear me out and let us see if you agree.

Two days ago Hubby was at work waiting on a table with a botox filled grandmother, her impeccably dressed, thirty-something year old daughter and a little girl who looked about seven.  As they were sitting down, the child's mother wordlessly handed my husband the following note, which he graciously gave me permission to show to you:

What the??!!  Naturally, Hubby had no intentions of doing anything of the sort, though he did pass the note on to another coworker who in turn approached the child and asked her if she was "Zoey" from "Zoey 101."

"Oh, I get that all the time!" the child apparently responded.  Later, when Hubby went back to the table the mother mouthed the words "thank you" before leaving eighteen percent gratuity.  (Call me crazy, but I'd have thought this strange request would warrant at least a twenty percent tip?)

Hubby was quite bothered that someone would assume he was familiar with a television show called "Zoey 101."  And who can blame him, really?  I'd actually never heard of it before this unfortunate occurrence.

I myself am disturbed on a number of levels.  For starters, it really irks me when someone chooses to end a question with a period.  For some reason it just seems kind of mental to me.  (As in, Can you please mistake my daughter for the character 'Zoey' from Zoey 101.)  She's telling, not asking.  Which in my opinion somehow makes this wretched request all the more pathetic.

On another note, do seven year olds really need to be flattered?  Is this truly necessary?  The fact that this was obviously a premeditated ruse also concerns me greatly.  Has she done this before?  If so, what on earth would possess a mother to beseech a stranger to falsely inquire whether or not her child was Jamie Lynn Spears? 

Is this some twisted threshold modern day mothers pray their adolescent offspring aspire to?  If so, I bitterly weep for the collective Jamie Lynn's of this nation.  What kind of a psycho is this woman.  (See, it looks mental without the question mark, right?)

If you haven't already noticed, Dear Reader, we're back from Aruba, the land of flamingos, orange colored sunsets, and fruity rum based cocktails. 

When we hopped into our taxi outside JFK, something told me our vacation had come to an end.  Perhaps it was it the cab's aroma of stale cigarettes, or the throng of rushing people...or the Lifestyles Triple Pleasure wrapper curiously perched inside the door handle of the cab... 

    

And with that, yours truly found herself back in New York.  Suntanned and longing for hand sanitizer.  Lots and lots of hand sanitizer.  xoxo

Ahoy!

This ship was parked near the resort and there was a lot of fanfare when it finally sailed off.  Our bartender friend Fernando told us they were the Columbian Marines.  Look closely, do you see those teeny tiny figures that look almost like people perched on those platforms?  They're people.  They stayed like that for quite some time, long after everyone on land had stopped waving and had gone back to watching the Pats/Colts game at the poolbar. 

As the ship slowly sailed off into the distance I kept peering out from the corner of my eye, nervously wondering how in God's name they were going to get down.  I kept imagining the ones on the tip top tentatively calling out, "Um, hello?  Do you think we can get down now please?  Anyone?"  It was all very flashy, albeit in a recklessly dangerous way.

Sandy Musings

   

Scribbled in the air on a Delta cocktail napkin, Tuesday morning:

Our flight is bumpy, lumpy, and riddled with the usual array of "bad fliers" - two stinky, increasingly drunker hippie types in front of us, a snoring old man behind me to the left and an elderly woman with big hair "knowing it all" 3 seats in front.  Are we there yet? 

P.S. Someone just farted.

It was at this moment that Hubby whispered someone needs to check their pants.  I giggled for almost two minutes.  This was all before we arrived in paradise, and since then everything has been relaxed and refreshing.  Like a mojito...

Beachy Musings:

There are no cell phones here...no honking horns...I haven't dropped an F bomb all week.

There is only the sound of the water hitting the sand, hot sun upon my skin, and a tiny crab who hides in the sand when I try to take his picture.

Oh, and beer.  Buckets of beer.

We can't stop making fun of the burly, bronzed man to your right who wears the black Speedo thong.  (Yes, a Speedo as well as a thong.)  We've lovingly named him Thong Sarong Man (for he wears an orange sarong, as well.)  Two nights ago I even made up a theme song for him, though sadly, I forgot to write it down.

I feel very strongly that a Speedo thong resides in a category all its own.  Much like a shorty longback mullet (or Sho-Lo), it's business in the front and a party in the back.  I am a bad person for snapping Thong Sarong Man's picture.  Hubby made me do it. 

On Halloween, Hubby turned 29.  I tell him, as I do every year around this time, that I'm now in love with an older man.  He says this may take a while to get used to, maybe I should give it a month and a half or so.  (This is when I will turn 29.  Tee hee.)

That morning, Hubby has a dream.  He's working and has 17 tables to wait on and one of them is on the roof.  He has to keep taking the elevator up to the roof.  (I tell him we should definitely start doing yoga when we get back.)

I have a bone to pick with parents who make their children wear Speedos.  Much like the home perm of my youth, I find this choice in swimwear a form of child abuse.  (I suppose I'm still bitter about my shorty Longback childhood hairdo.  But still...)

On Thursday night I eat baked camembert with jelly.  I've been dreaming of it for the past year and it's really as good as I remembered.  Don't you love it when that happens?  I then go on to devour chicken smothered in gouda cheese and banana crepes.  And two cosmos.

Floating in the water, we start to ponder what Kittie is up to back home.  Our good friend James is staying with her and we concoct stories about Kittie mixing martinis, playing Dean Martin records and throwing "sexy" parties.

I have become obsessed with something called Arubian pastechi.  It's kind of like a croissant, though denser.  Sometimes it's filled with meat, sometimes with cheese, and sometimes simply a warm buttery goodness.  I exclaimed aloud when I tasted the latter.

Yesterday on the boat I thought perhaps I might lose my pastechi, though it all worked out just fine.

As far as tan lines are concerned, both of my feet have been mysteriously, seriously sunburned.  The only phrase I can think of to properly describe them is lobster red.  I'm not quite sure how this happened.  This is definitely not the look I am going for.

Lobster feet aside, vacation is certainly everything I hoped it would be and more.  We've watched sunsets from the warm water, had late night swims, creme brulee, and lots and lots of other delicious food.  I heart chimichurri sauce. 

My body still feels like it's rocking on water as I write this, though I'm sitting in our hotel room.  And with that, we're off to the beach.  After a pastechi or two. xoxo