The Odd Broad

Thoughts

Did you read about the group of jackasses from Kansas who are planning to protest memorial services for actor Heath Ledger because he portrayed a gay man in Brokeback Mountain?

These are the same douchebags who protested two years ago at my former junior high school, costing taxpayers over two thousand dollars in police presence.  (A twelve year old girl had won a writing contest for an essay she'd written on Ellen Degeneres, who just happens to be a lesbian.  The nerve of this pre-teen!)  These misguided wackjobs can also be found picketing the funerals of soldiers who've died in Iraq.

They have a website, but the domain name is so disgusting, filthy and evil that I will not link to it or even mention its name.  Indeed, I'm loath to even visit it, if only for curiosity's sake.  (I'm partially afraid Satan will pop through the screen and tweak my nose, such is their special level of evil.)

Stories like this just make my blood boil.  I'm a pretty tolerant individual, but I can't say I brake for homophobia.  I never did. 

I remember being in kindergarten and finally getting to ride the big girl bus with my older sister.  There was this sweet, rather portly classmate of Sissy's named Beth who'd kindly allowed me to sit next to her one day.  We were chatting, and things were going quite nicely when I dreamily informed her, "you're fat."

I wasn't an unkind child, so to this day I still have no idea what possessed me to say such a terrible thing to such a nice person. 

I can still hear the sound of Beth's voice: "Jenna!  Did you hear what your sister just called me?  She called me a FAG!" 

I started to panic.  I hadn't said that!  The situation only escalated when I blurted out: "NO I DIDN'T!  I SAID SHE WAS FAT!!!!!"

I don't really recall what followed.  I suppose I've blocked it out.  My point is, although this particular episode is on the list of things I will undoubtedly feel guilty about until the day I die, I never, ever uttered the F word.  My parents didn't go for that kind of thing.

Unbeknownst to me, I'd first been exposed to gay people at a young age.  In elementary school, my best friend had a very cool aunt who had an even cooler female roommate.  They lived together, just like Laverne and Shirley.  They had two guy friends, Gary and Bob, who were always around.  (Lenny and Squiggy?)  I assumed Gary and Bob were their boyfriends, though I could never really figure out which girl went with which boy. 

On special occasions, I'd be invited to go along with my friend and her parents up to her aunt's house.  Much to my delight, these Saturday barbecues would inevitably morph into an endless dance party, right there in the living room!  There I'd be, collar flipped up, home perm bouncing, dancing enthusiastically to Madonna, George Michael, and songs that posed questions like, "Won't you take me to, Funky Town?" 

It would be years before I learned that they were gay.  I remember being surprised when my Mom casually mentioned it to me, having assumed I already knew.  At the time, I even stammered, "But, but, what about Gary and Bob?  Weren't they their boyfriends? 

Oh. Gary and Bob were each other's boyfriends.  It did make sense.

Soon after, I step-ball-changed my way into the world of community theater, and then attended a college for music, dance and theater, where boys dressing in drag was practically a social prerequisite.  I had a blast.  (Did I mention I was elected Queen my Senior year?) 

I'd come from a high school where the only gay student (a sweet, artistic, handsome kid) stressed about attending our graduation for fear someone would call him something he didn't want his mother to hear.  I was delighted to be in such an open minded college environment.   

Having been raised by my parents in what I now recognize as a kind of idealistic bubble, I will always find it upsetting when I learn that someone is homophobic.  Especially infuriating to me is when God is brought into the equation.  (This really gets my granny panties in a bunch.)

And that is why, when I hear someone utter a homophobic slur, for all intents and purposes they might have just informed me that they are chainsaw wielding, satanic psychopaths.  Such is my disappointment and shock. 

My internal organizer files the ugly information away in a mental filing cabinet, to be extracted when the homophobic in question does something "wrong."  As in, so it's ok for them to do or say x, y, or z, yet gay marriage is a sin.  Most of the time I don't even consciously realize I'm doing this. 

I can appreciate the irony here.  I'm judging people for being judgmental.  I'm sure there's a more enlightened, tolerant way to feel, but so far I haven't felt it yet.  (You are welcome to judge me for it.)

XOXO 

Let's go Pats!

Can I just mention how annoying it is to be a Patriots fan living in New York City?  It's almost as bad as being a Red Sox fan in New York City, but not quite.  (I've never had words with someone over football, for example.)  Though I have been known to mildly defend coach Bill and his headbands, Randy Moss, and of course, Tommy.

Giants fans love to complain about how the Pats run up the score when the opposing team is losing.  I say let them do it!  After all, isn't it an insult to the other team if the Pats stop trying just to spare people's feelings?  What is this, a kickball game in third grade?

I'd be insulted, if it were me.  Then again, I haven't played too much professional football lately.

Still, I'm sick of my male coworkers teasing me, making foolish remarks, trying to "get my goat."  As a very wise man I know once said: it's my goat, you can't get it!

I say let's squash those Giants.  My advice to you, Tom Brady (if you're reading, and I know that you are) is as follows: for the time being, please steer clear of Giselle.  She is far too sexy and distracting, and you really need to focus on the matter at hand.

There.  I think that should take care of it.  Let's go Patriots!

XOXO

At the airport

I spent my weekend in Boston, celebrating my mom's birthday, snuggling with my little nephew Luke, The Wonder Baby.  I can't say I was in a hurry to return.

At 6:20 yesterday evening, Sissy dropped me off at Logan Airport.  By 6:25, I was grabbing for my bag at the check point when a uniformed man said, "Wait just a minute, please."

What was this?

"I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to search this suitcase.  I'll be waiting for you over there while you gather the rest of your things."

Great.  Perhaps they thought I was on drugs, since my eyes were red and puffy from saying my tearful goodbyes?  I hopped into my boots and headed toward the table, where the man was putting on a pair of blue rubber gloves.  I overheard him joking with a female coworker who had just commented on his gloves.  I can't quite quote him verbatim, but he basically told her he would not like to have a job where he performed anal cavity searches.  Too much?  I thought so. 

I had thirty minutes to get to my plane.  The man told me I wasn't allowed to touch the bag, and if I felt uncomfortable we could go behind a screen for privacy.  Being contraband free, I assured him this wouldn't be necessary.

I gave an inward cringe as I watched those blue gloves paw through my clothing.  I made a mental note to remember that the clean underwear in my suitcase was no longer clean.  I guess the man sensed my unease.  "Don't feel embarrassed, I have a girlfriend." 

How nice for him. 

In the end, it was my Oil of Olay that had caused all the trouble.  Oddly, nobody had stopped me at LaGuardia.  "I'm going to have to confiscate this, this bottle is too many ounces."

"Really?"  Perhaps I was stepping out of line, but I felt the need to add, "It's just, that's a brand new bottle.  It cost me eleven bucks."

"Tell it to the judge, little lady."  Ok, he didn't actually say that, but I sensed that he wanted to. 

He gave me the option to check my bag, but I declined.  After passing my suitcase through the sensors one last time, just be to sure, I was on my way. 

I write this while sipping coffee out of the Luke mug Sissy made for me.  (It has an adorable picture of him on it and says "I love Auntie Sissy".)  I have wet hair, dry, unhydrated skin and puffy, bloodshot eyes.  (In other words, I look really, really pretty.)  Time to go to work...

xoxo

Sans Elastic

In case you've ever wondered, there is no discreet way to yank up your tights while in public. 

Perhaps I was already aware of this, but I only just rediscovered it on Wednesday morning.  I had decided to take extra caution against the cold and wear my new heavy black footless tights with my dress and tall boots. 

I thought I was being pretty smart, but I wasn't out the door more than two minutes before my tights had shimmied themselves halfway down my thighs.  As if this wasn't unpleasant (and chilly) enough, they'd also mercilessly chosen to drag my drawers along with them.  What had my underwear ever done to them? 

With each step my thoughts grew more desperate.  Maybe the subway car would be deserted?  After all, all I really needed was a few seconds to give those tights a quick hike.  Nobody would ever notice...

The subway was packed.  My covert undergarment adjusting was not about to happen, not even just a little.  It was with sadness and disbelief that I resigned myself to ride the twenty minutes to work with droopy tights and unruly drawers.  You may wonder if it's possible for one to retain an attitude of goodwill under these circumstances.  Let me tell you: it is not. 

Once inside the quiet sanctity of my work bathroom stall, I hiked those suckers up to the high heavens.  (The tights, that is, not my underpants.)

I ask you, if a pair of tights is going to run me fifteen bucks, is it too much to ask that they contain a little elastic in their waistband?  I posed this question to a fellow coworker.  She commiserated and suggested that the only real way to keep a pair of tights from drooping is to wear my underpants on the outside of my them. 

Hmmm?  What was that again?

I don't think I'll try that.  There's got to be a better way.  If you happen to know what it is, would you let me know?

xoxo

Show and Tell

For the past two years I've been entertaining lofty thoughts of making a pie.  Somehow I just never got around to it.  Until yesterday. 

My unused rolling pin and pie dishes were super enthusiastic.  (They were starting to develop a complex, I fear.)

I opted to begin with savory.  Since this would be my first attempt at pie making, I enlisted the helpful aid of Pepperidge Farms.  (Well, I still had to roll out the puff pastry so I'm not counting this as cheating.)  Hubby came home from work to find me wielding my rolling pin in a feverish cloud of flour.  This is certainly a sight he doesn't see every day.

The recipe I followed came from Jamie Oliver.  Doesn't he seem like a nice bloke?  (I have obtained permission to use the word bloke, incidentally, since I happen to be a fervent Anglophile.)  For some reason this recipe wasn't up on The Food Network's website, though luckily for me his is one of the plethora of cooking shows I tape on my DVR.  Usually I watch these shows solely for leisure, but this meat pie made me feel, dare I say ambitious?

The filling was as follows: chop up some red onions, garlic, celery, carrots, rosemary, mushrooms, and brisket of beef.  Saute everything in a deep pan, sprinkle in some salt, pepper and flour and then slosh in a can of Guinness.  Cook in a 350 degree oven, covered, for about two hours, mix in some handfuls of cheddar cheese (yum), ladle the mixture into your pie crust, brush the top with egg wash, cook for forty minutes and viola!!

You'll have your very own beefy weeknight treat to savor and love.  And if I can do it, then you most definitely can, Dear Reader.  I'm still feeling very Martha Stewart about the whole thing. 

Much to my voracious delight, there was still plenty left over for tonight's dinner.  I find something comforting about coming home to a warm beefy pie after an exhausting, soul sapping day of work.  Mmmm.

Perhaps next time I'll finally work up the chutzpah to tackle fruit.  A grapple pie, perhaps.  We'll see.

xoxo

The Odd Year in Review

Today is the 20th of January, Dear Reader, which makes it official:  The Odd Broad.com is celebrating its one year anniversary.  Jeeves, break out the bubbly!

My stats page informs me there have been a total of 166 posts, 414 comments, and 12,723 lifetime page views.  Who knew?

Incidentally, that number is quite easy to say: twelve thousand, seven hundred and twenty three.  I only mention this because recently at work I had to quickly read off a very large sum to my boss and in the end I blurted out something like "nine nine seven six four five two."  This was a low point in my week, naturally, though in my defense I was flustered and hadn't eaten lunch.  Plus, they didn't teach us how to read mammothly large numbers in musical theater college.  (We were too busy tap dancing.)

Throughout this year I've been consistently amused by the myriad of strange avenues by which a new reader arrives at my page.  If they're searching for something on Google, for instance, I just might pop up.  I suppose the topics I choose to muse about really do run the gamut, hence the peculiar nature of my search engine appearances. 

When I checked my Sitemeter recently, I discovered that the following searches had led inquiring minds to my humble little webpage:

chicken without brain

ventriloquist dolls billy doll from dead science for cheap price

ny taxi driver smell

Catholic guilt

pictures of a cat licking a human bum
I have a scabbiness inside my nose.  What might this be and what should I do about it?

"smeller" euphemisms meaning

"bulky" "maxi pad"

Things that smell like vanilla

ten things that smell

tractor rally

pink shoes

mojito

Charlie McCarthy eyes move ventriloquist dolls

open-toed snow

old maxi pads

what to do for bleach induced headache
How do I help my adult children after I've spoken harshly?
sissy panties

food network giada de laurentiis breast augmentation

why does my body emit a pungent odor

Just so we're clear, I have never written about a cat licking a human bum.  I've written about my cat licking her own bum, of course, but never a human's.

What I find equally disturbing are the inappropriate ads that sporadically appear in my side columns.  At first I assumed the content of these ads was determined by the subjects I wrote about, but sometimes they just don't make any sense.  Take, for example, the ad for "Cell Phone Cheating" (9 Out of 10 Cheating Spouses Exposed by Cell Phone Use!).  There was also the "Humiliated by Female Fishy Odor? Permanently Eliminate it, Guaranteed!" ad.  And what about all of those ads for adult diapers?  I'm not sure any of my readers are clicking on those just yet. 

There must be a way to customize things, but so far I haven't figured it out.  I suppose a part of me finds them kind of entertaining.

Adult incontinence aside, things really came full circle for me this past Friday.  I was on the subway when all of a sudden I heard a guy on his cell phone say, "Aw, that was a good one there."  Immediately detecting a Boston accent, I glanced up, and who did I see standing before me?  Why, it was none other than...

Tom!

Do you remember him from this previous post, Dear Reader?  Tom, the guy who drunkenly announced to the N train that he repeatedly logged into his ex-girlfriend's myspace and email?  He was reading emails the poor girl had written to her parents? 

In the light of day, I feel I may have judged too harshly by describing Tom as being a less good-looking version of Jon Lovitz.  That wasn't a very compassionate thing for me to write.  He's really not all that bad.  He's short, of course, but minus his Red Sox team jersey and inebriated stagger I found him to be much more presentable.

I felt a brief twinge of guilt as I peered up at him out of the corner of my eye.  After all, this person had no idea I'd ranted about his foolish antics on the world wide web. 

Ah well.  I silently wished him good tidings.  Perhaps he's found love in the big city?  I certainly hope so, though I do pray he's not checking his new sweetheart's email.

I took the Tom sighting as a sign, as the universe's way of nudging me and whispering, "Hey, remember that jackass?"  I gave an internal giggle of glee.  I couldn't wait to tell you.

And with that, my odd year draws to a close.  To you, my cherished, beauteous, adorable Reader, I wish to say the following:

Thank you for reading.  Thank you for indulging me with your kind support, be it written, verbal or telepathic.  It really does make me smile.

Now, please allow me to pour you a make believe glass of bubbly.  There are mini wieners and shrimp(s) going around too, did you get any?

Love,

The Odd Broad

xoxo

PS- As you may have gathered from my self portrait, I've given in and have succumbed to the stretchie pant.  (The Hubby thinks these leopard print ones are bizarre, but I kind of enjoy them.)

Just Off Center

Who is your favorite Beatle?  Paul was always mine, although these days his lyrics seem to be getting rather...dare I say nonsensical?  I realize he's a Sir, but with all due respect, "Everybody gonna dance tonight, everybody gonna dance tonight, everybody gonna dance around tonight" is a far cry from Yesterday.  Although what the hell do I know?  I suppose it does have a sort of catchy, maniacal beat.

When I got a little older my tastes switched over to John.  I found his voice raw and pure and haunting.  Clay Aiken or Nick Lachey he was not.  (Speaking of Jessica Simpson's ex, I'm disturbed to admit that in my mind I always thought his last name was pronounced "Lake-ie" rather than "La-Shay."  Nick and Drew Lake-ie.)

John Lennon was different.  Even today, whenever I stand outside of The Dakota I get an eerie feeling.  It could be those lanterns that are always burning, or the doorman with the funny looking hat.

Of course, it could also be because that's where Rosemary's Baby was filmed.  Incidentally, did you know that the building where John Lennon lived and was murdered was the location for that film? 

While we're on the subject, that terrifying movie was certainly something I never should have watched.  I don't know what scared me more, Satan or Mia Farrow's haircut.  (For I found them both to be equally upsetting.)

But I have digressed. 

In the liner notes to the John Lennon Anthology, Yoko Ono wrote:

"He (John) had three small but distinct moles straight down the center of his broad forehead, ending where the third eye was.  Buddha was supposed to have had one mole in the center of his forehead, and that was considered in the Oriental Physiognomy as a sign of a very wise man."

I've looked closely at photos and she was right, John Lennon did have three moles on his third eye.

If you don't already know where I'm going with this, Dear Reader, I'll tell you.  I, The Odd Broad, have a mole in the center of my forehead!  For reals.  Just like John and Buddha!   

I'd never even noticed it before, then one day out of the blue I discovered my very own mark of zen wisdom.  As you can imagine, I was delighted.  (After all, I'd always suspected I was extremely wise but this definitely confirmed it.)

Although, if I were to be completely honest I'd have to admit my Buddha mole is actually more of a freckle.  A tiny freckle.  OK, it's a teeny tiny dot and I think it may have been caused by sun damage.  It's also slightly askew, just stage right of my third eye. 

Does this count, I wonder?  Does this still mean I'm...very very wise?  Lennon/Buddha-esque?  Semi-sagacious?  Partially enlightened?   

I think I'm just going to say it does.  After all, my dot lives on my forehead, which is technically still within the third eye neighborhood, right?  Plus, maybe I just have a really large third eye!  Ya, I'll say that.  Nobody will ever know...

PS: Everybody gonna stamp their feet...Everybody gonna feel the beat...Everybody gonna dance around tonight...

My crafty little crack

I'm laying on my couch right now, writing to you from my new laptop.  That's right, The Odd Broad is mobile now, thanks to my wonderful husband!  My laptop is compact and lovely and I teared up when I unwrapped her.  I've named her Ole' Bessie. 

But I digress.  What I wanted to tell you was that directly above me on the wall, just over the molding, there lives a crack.  This isn't just any crack, however...this is a magic crack.  You see, from a certain angle it looks exactly like a cockroach.  And the damn thing fools me every time.

Take for example last month, when my parents came to town to see Hubby's band play.  I was sitting on the couch with my mom when all of a sudden my heart did a sick little flip flop.  Oh dear Lord, there was a cockroach on the wall.  Shit!  What are the odds?  No mother wants to spot a roach while visiting her child!

Gingerly, I got up and went into the kitchen to grab a paper towel.  My time as an urban apartment dweller has made me disturbingly proficient at murdering insects.  Of course, I still call hubby to do it from time to time if the bug in question is especially noteworthy.  (If it's smoking, or dancing the cha-cha, for instance.)

Funny thing was, when I got back to the living room the bug had vanished!  Crap.  Had it scurried down the wall, perhaps?

I sat back down, glancing ever so casually up at the wall.  What the?!  There it was again!  Hey, how did that happen?

Oh yeah.  I'd forgotten.  It was the magic crack.  I breathed a deep sigh of relief.

Sadly, the crafty little crack continues to outwit us.  Sometimes I imagine I hear it laughing mirthfully to itself: Oh ho, got 'em again...score one for the crack...

I think it's definitely time to get that wall repainted.  Too bad it was just painted back in May...

xoxo

My chi needs tweaking

I know I'm out of shape when deep breathing makes me tired. 

Back in my college days I was probably the most active I've ever been.  I did ballet, tap, jazz, yoga, kegstands...(ok, technically I'm making that last one up, though my college roommate did dance once on the fireplace mantle of the frat house next door.  And that, I would say, was pretty damn sporty.)

My point is, back then I had stamina.  Back then I had a flat tummy without even batting an eyelid.  Back then I could do graceful backwards clown rolls!  (I went to theater school, what can I say.)

These days I can barely extend my arms above my head while simultaneously breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. 

It's not that I'm completely inactive; after all, this is New York and walking is inevitable.  On top of the considerable amount I do just to get around, I also fit in at least thirty minutes every day on my lunch break.  This usually pushes my daily step count up to somewhere in the 10,000 area.  (My pedometer is very proud.  Highfalutin, even.)

But I was appalled the other afternoon when I popped my new chi gong dvd into the dvd player.  Incidentally, this particular dvd had been one of my "had to have it" Christmas gifts.  That and a teeny tiny Nigella Lawson whisk.  (It's unbelievably dainty.)  Hubby was mystified that among the myriad of splendid, spectacular gifts I received, a whisk could make me so giddy.  (Truly, I was beside myself and mimed whisking for a good five minutes.)  Still haven't used it for actual whisking yet, but I'm getting around to it.

So there I was, comfy pants on, coffee table pushed to the side, prepared for Zen.  I suppose the only thing I wasn't prepared for was becoming exhausted midway through the dvd and having to lie down. 

It's not as if this was strenuous stuff.  On the contrary, mainly I was just keeping my legs stationary while moving my arms in conjunction with my breath.  It was quite lovely, actually.  Each exercise works something different.  Who knew that moving my arms at a certain angle while inhaling and exhaling could benefit my chardonnay soaked liver? 

When Hubby entered the living room he found me lying limply on the couch, feebly watching the couple in the chi gong dvd practice their chi gong.  (Well, I figured maybe just observing might still do something positive for my psyche.)

I'm not going to pretend that it wasn't a disturbing sight.

Ah, Reader.  Nearly all of my new Christmas pants are snug.  Perhaps I'm in need of something a bit more strenuous than chi gong.  I'll let you know when I find it.

xoxo

The Magical Puff Coat

It's puffy coat season again in the good old Northeast.  Sadly, my bargain (Daffy's) Nicole Miller puff coat is just as temperamental this winter as it was last.  Do you perchance own a down-filled coat, Dear Reader?  If so, then surely you'll appreciate the woe I speak of.

I've recently come to the realization that the effectiveness of my puffy coat is directly related to the universe.  As in, she only zips when she feels like it.  Or perhaps only when she feels I truly deserve it.  Indeed, this coat is a mystical force to be reckoned with.   

Not to say she doesn't have her obliging, agreeable days.  On the contrary, she's been zipping up without complaint quite regularly as of late.  Of course, I've had to gingerly step in and out of the coat, cautious not to ever unzip her completely.  Incidentally, have you ever seen a grown woman step into or out of her coat in public?  In a restaurant, at work, in a store?  Don't laugh, it could very well happen to you.  (Also, it could possibly be me.)

The truth is, I don't dare unzip that mess once I've gotten it to zip.  Most days I'm just grateful Old Puffy has decided to behave.  I'm not always so fortunate, of course.  It seems at times my impudent behavior incites the wrath of The Puffy Coat.

Take the other morning, for example.  I'd woken up on the wrong side of the bed and was running late.  Annoyed, I stepped into The Puff and hastily pulled up the zipper, which promptly became stuck.  Apparently Puffy doesn't appreciate being roughhoused.  So this was how it was going to be, eh? 

The worst part was, not only would Puffy not zip up, she refused to unzip as well.   Fantastic!

Since I was already running late, I did what any reasonable, sensible woman would do:  I walked in the freezing cold with my coat zipped up to my knees.  I believe New York 1 reported the temperature was 14 degrees that morning, before the wind chill, of course.

People looked at me funny.  And who could blame them?  I mean, on a good day New Yorkers make staring blankly an art form, but in their defense, I did look weird. 

By the time I got to the subway I'd had it.  I plopped down my bag, wriggled out of my coat (still having to step out of the damn thing, naturally) and tried to ignore the fact that people were watching me intently.  The crackhead in the sage green puff.

I worked that zipper.  I worked that zipper till my eyes watered.  At last, mercifully, the zipper yielded and vengeance was mine.  Ha!

Later, just before lunch, I approached the coat with an attitude both humble and hopeful.  Would Puffy zipper?  Would she perhaps take pity on me, on that frigid afternoon?  I held my breath.  She zipped.  By God, she zipped.

Thank you, oh wise, enchanted puffy coat, for teaching me the ways of the universe.  Namely, to be gentle and grateful with everything surrounding me, even if the object in question is inanimate.  (Is she, though?)

Until my new J Crew button-up coat arrives in the mail, I will do my best to be more accommodating.   (Thank God I paid the extra seven bucks for three day shipping.)

xoxo