The Odd Broad

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!!!!

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. 

Crackberry

The folks at Sprint totally had me by the balls.

The wheel on my Blackberry had mysteriously fallen off and try as I might to remedy the situation, the little thingy holding it in place wouldn't stay put. 

Stay put, thingy!  For the love of God!

My choices were few: pay the fifty-five bucks to have the tiny part replaced...agree to pay $7 a month extra for insurance...OR send Blackberry away to be repaired free of charge and have it returned to me TWO WEEKS LATER.

Two weeks?  Visibly shaken, I took a moment to pull my shit together.

I wouldn't call Blackberry a cell phone so much as an extension of my left hand.  A fortnight apart just might prove to be too much for our relationship.  (We're very close.  Like Bella and Edward, only more intense.)  As it was, I'd shimmied the wheel back in so I could fit some texting in over my lunch break!  (I was texting on a broken crackberry!  I was out of control!  Aaaaaah!)

I opted to pay for the insurance.  I relinquished Blackberry over to the dude behind the counter and immediately wished I could text Hubby to see if I'd done the right thing.  But I couldn't text him.  I couldn't text anybody!

"This should just be a few minutes," he assured me.  I took a seat and decided to check my Facebook status updates.  Oh wait, I couldn't do that either.  I suppose I could...read? 

Three minutes later my Blackberry was returned to me.  One minute later I was placing a phone call.  There should be a support group for this kind of dependence.

Oh dear

I'm a woman on the edge, Dear Reader.  I will blame Mother Nature.

All day I was planning to write a nice cooking post for you about one of my most favorite vegetables, asparagus.  (Go with me here, this was going to be interesting, I promise.)  I was looking forward to it all day, in fact.  And then, at the eleventh hour (8:15 PM), as I maniacally slammed down the phone on my sister (well, technically she was simultaneously hanging up on me as well) my shallots went from caramelized to CHARRED, sending me quite over the edge of reason and sanity. 

I kind of lost my shit, so to speak.  (My Martha Stewart tea kettle had to cover her ears.)  Those burned shallots were the free sample of eau de toilette that broke the shopper's new handbag, I suppose. 

And so I'm afraid there is no cooking post this evening.  And my husband is walking on eggshells.  And I'm drinking cheap chardonnay out of a Starbucks mug.  And eating freezer burned ice cream cake straight out of the box.

Happy Wednesday!!  xoxo

Why I can't stop eating Milano Double Chocolate Distinctive Cookies

Today was...just one of those days.  Sigh.

It was nearly 10am when I realized that my shirt was on inside out.  Or let me rephrase that, rather; it was nearly 10am when a kind coworker whispered to me tentatively, "Sarah, I think your shirt is on...inside out."

Yup.  Tag and all. 

Everyone present had a good chuckle.  After all, it was funny and I am always more than ready to poke fun at my own asininity.  And yet...mid-morning I snuck a phone call in to my sister and confided that I pretty much felt like going home and crawling back into bed.  For all intents and purposes, I may as well have been back in first grade and sneaking away from Mrs. Swerchesky's homeroom class to cry in the bathroom. 

It was then and there that I decided; tonight was the sort of night that was made for lots of carbs and white wine.  xoxo

Hot Mess

The Broad is a hot, bubbly mess. 

The other night I attempted to surprise Hubby by strewing festive Christmas lights in our kitchen, but about halfway through my enthusiasm began to fizzle and the end result was a bit slapdash.  In my defense, there were two homemade mini pot pies simmering in the oven so there was already a good deal of multi-tasking going on.

In my haste, I'd left several bunches of Christmas lights on the floor.  Hubby must have stepped on them on his way in, which is the only possible explanation for why I landed on broken glass when I jumped down from the chair in my bare feet.

Oh.  Shit.  I wasn't entirely sure what had taken place, I only knew there was pain.  Pain, and lots of blood.  Blood all over the place.  Drops and drops of it on the floor...on my comfy soft green pants...one bloody, grisly heel print on the white tile in the bathroom.  It was straight out of a bad B horror movie. 

Gagging, I hobbled into the living room and tried to stop the bleeding while Hubby assessed the damage.  At one point he attempted to take a tweezer to my heel to remover a tiny shard of glass, but luckily we discovered it was just a flap of skin.  Good thing, too, since I was howling in pain at the mere sight of him wielding those tweezers.  Oi vey.  Who knew decorating could be dangerous?

On a different but partially similar note, it would be a pity if I left out the current state of my hands.  Has anyone else's skin been affected by the cold, frigid December weather?  My hands are raw, red and cracking.  I've been drenching them in Eucerin lotion religiously, all to no avail.  And naturally my nighttime moisturizing gloves got lost in the move.

I decided to ask Hubby to borrow some socks.  Well?  Desperate times force one to think outside the box.  We agreed on an old pair of white ones, and I slathered on some lotion and slipped them on.  (My hands.)  As I smooched my husband good night, taking his face in my gloved (socked) hands, I realized there was something infinitely wrong with this picture.  (And possibly, myself.)  But alas, I had no choice.  Hubby continues to humor me nightly.

The irony is, as a young child I very much enjoyed wearing socks on my hands.  I preferred it, even.  I believe it had something to do with a strong aversion to getting my fingernails clipped.  Go figure.  xoxo

3:45

Every night for the past week I've woken up at 3:45 am.  On Friday morning I turned over, looked at my i-Home and realized it was 3:45.  Blah!  Eeek!  I hate it!  (And other irrational sounds.)

I was feeling spooked.  Hubby??  I whispered.  Hubby!! I nudged.  HUBBY!!  I sang in a pre-dawn soprano.

Hubby's a deep sleeper.  "Whaa?  What's the matter?"

"Nothing!  Just hug me." 

I couldn't say it out loud because then whatever had been rousing me at 3:45 for the past several mornings would surely have heard me acknowledge them.  And that simply wouldn't do.

I was telling this story in the elevator the other day (omitting my irrational fear, naturally) when someone told me I should play those numbers.  345.  I agreed.  Adding fuel to this fire was the memory of a lovely dream I had just last week, in which I was a contestant on a game show with Gordon Ramsey and won a $1,000,000 bill.

"Do they even make these?"  I asked G. Ramsey in disbelief.

"Sure they do, darling!  And look, it's cash, so now you won't be taxed!"

I didn't want to wake up.  Rather, I longed to linger in my sweet reverie with a wad of green in the right pocket of my jeans.  With Gordon.

I played those numbers.  The ticket said the jackpot was estimated at $1,025,000.  (Just like in my dream!)  But I'm sure the payout wouldn't be just one magical bill.  Probably tens and twenties.

As he was checking my ticket, Hubby regretfully informed me that the jackpot for that evening was a whopping $400.  (Guess the $1,025,000 was actually an ad on my ticket for another game.)  And the $400 was only if I got all four numbers, and since I had only chosen three, the most I could win was $127. 

This threw me, but only for a minute.  After all, $127 is still something to write home about.  (Or technically, to write to you about.)

But I didn't win.  Not that night at least.  Though I kind of think I should keep on trying...

Freshly laundered linen

I've been busy as of late and fear I may have abandoned some of my manners.

It's just the whole relocating to a new city/immediately starting a new job/while the person who took over my previous position continues to email and call me with redundant job-related questions two to three times daily...

That sort of thing.  I'm over it now, I promise.

A few evenings ago my dear mother brought to my attention that in my last post I forgot to give thanks to two key players in the big move: my beautiful cousin Keely and my wonderful Godmother, auntie Kim.

Thanks to Keel for going out and buying crucial household staples and also unpacking many an overly bubble wrapped item without the slightest gripe. 

Thanks to auntie Kim for taking much of my dirty laundry into her home and carefully washing and air drying each piece.  (I did protest, but she generously insisted.)  Now all of my clothing smells like...how shall I describe the heavenly ambrosia, Dear Reader?  I fear it is far too lovely to capture in words.  Let's just say that I now smell like a freshly laundered bouquet of benevolence. 

During the move, among helping me in a million other ways, my mom also took home a bunch of my laundry and returned it to me smelling beyond fresh. 

I suppose doing laundry is a bit like making a sandwich- it always seems to turn out better when someone else does it. 

A note about one particular item my mother took home to launder: specifically, my duvet cover.  Some time last weekend I noticed an unfamiliar aroma wafting from my bedroom.  This smell wasn't in the living room, mind you, or in the kitchen or hallway.  It was strangely absent from the bathroom as well.  No, this smell was strictly lingering in the bedroom.  It wasn't an unpleasant odor; rather, it was just the faintest whisper of a soft perfume.

Hmmm.  Now, if you know me at all, you'll know that I have long harbored several fears of the irrational variety.  Mainly, a stalwart, hearty fear of ghosts.  When I first got a whiff of this particular floral aroma, the truth is I immediately thought one thing and one thing only: the apartment's haunted.

Don't think I hadn't thrown a casual thought in this direction before; years ago when I lived in Boston I dormed in a haunted brownstone.  Internally, I'd already gently been wondering what the spirit status of our new residence would be.

My nose has a super human capacity for scent.  Try as I might to disregard it, the perfume aroma was steadily morphing into an elephant in a pink tutu dancing daintily across our one bedroom nest.  This thing was becoming impossible to ignore.  That night as we unpacked, Hubby might ask, "Should we put this (fill in the blank) over here, or over there?"  And I would answer distractedly, glancing over my shoulder, eyes overly wide, "Oh, sure, wherever...whatever you like...mmm hmmm..."

"What's the matter?"  Hubby was concerned.  "Why are you making that face?"

"What face?  Me?  No reason..."  I was trying to act calm, cool, cheerful, non-jumpy.  As if there wasn't an otherworldly spectre loitering menacingly by our bureau.  Poor Hubby, he had no idea!

I couldn't say it out loud, you see, because then it would be official.  And I refused to acknowledge ole' perfume ghost lady, not for love nor money.

It wouldn't be until later, when I wearily crawled into bed, that I would realize my bedroom was not in fact haunted.  The unfamiliar odor I had been sniffing all evening was coming from none other than my very clean, delightfully floral scented duvet cover, lovingly washed for me by my mommy.

Pathetic feelings aside, my relief was instantaneous and immense.  I slept like a baby.

New city, same nutty old Broad.  xoxo

Dr. Jekyll And Mrs. Hyde

On the way to Hubby's gig last Friday night, I spotted an ad on the side of a bus that caught my attention.  It was for a religious BET television program called Afternoon Praise. 

Afternoon praise, I mused out loud, in my best preacher voice.  Is that anything like, I love your shirt, is it new?  What a great haircut!  You have such nice eyes...

Afternoon Praise.  Hubby was too preoccupied to fully appreciate my shtick, seeing as he was heading towards what was probably his last nyc gig before the big move.

Friends can't attend every gig.  This is a fact of life.  If someone can come, well, I consider myself very lucky.  What this means is that sometimes I find myself sitting in clubs, perched on solitary barstools, unaccompanied, quarantined, sequestered, solo...and alone.  It's too dark to read and it's too loud to call someone.  And so I drink.  Heavily.  I drink until I'm friendly.  I drink until I ask the bathroom attendant where she's from, and when she answers the Dominican Republic, I exclaim into her bewildered face, "Oh!  Like Manny Ramirez!"  I drink until a hot dog vendor tells me he's from Egypt, and I ask him if he's read The Alchemist.  "You'll LOVE it!" I assure him, as Hubby coaxes my inebriated ass into a cab.  Once inside, I quickly learn that our cabbie is from Africa.  "So, how do you like New York?"  I will ask, ignoring my husband's pleading blue eyes.  "Do you have any children?"  (He does.)  "Oh, they're back home in Africa?"  (They are.)  "Do you miss them?"  (He does.)

Last Friday evening I daintily knocked back five glasses of wine, surpassing my strict three drink limit and thus pushing myself over the edge of sanity and reason.  Often times when I become intoxicated, in addition to being overly friendly I also become very, very...tenderhearted.  Not only do I like everyone within a ten thousand mile radius, I love them!  And I will tell them so, in great, loving detail.  Technology has even allowed me to expand and take this habit to the next level, what with cell phones and text messaging.  It's creepy and disturbing and I don't know why I do it.  OK, I suppose it could have something to do with the wine...

The irony is that anyone who knows me also knows that behind my smile lies a twisted, hateful little secret: I don't really expect to be liked and in turn find myself genuinely liking very few people.  (I can't believe I'm admitting this pathetic fact on the world wide web.)  It's sick and it's wrong and I should probably go talk to somebody about it. 

So I have anti-social tendencies, but why the Dr. Jekyll/Mrs. Hyde routine?  My Mother suggests it's because my true personality is naturally compassionate and hospitable, hence the emergence of the loving demeanor.  This is something only a mother would say, but I'll thank her nonetheless.

Whatever my motivation, I feel I should perhaps harness these powers for the good of humankind.  The other day I suggested the following to Hubby:  He shall place me in a room, in a comfy, oversized armchair.  To my side will be a fresh box of pinot grigio and a glass.  The lighting will be low, with music humming softly in the background.  One by one, he will lead in any person in need of a self-esteem boost and seat them down next to me.  And then I will proceed, slurring ever so slightly, but with vim, with vigor:

Aren't you wonderful!  (Hiccup!)  Aren't you amazing!  Where on earth did you find that eyeshadow?  I absolutely LOVE it!  And I love you.

I shall label my noble endeavor, Drunken Praise.  Starring myself, The Odd Broad.  My next performance begins at eight PM sharp. 

xoxo

Bizarre

My Dad was cleaning out the attic the other day and found this letter.  The envelope is postmarked December 16, 1986, which would make me seven.  (Yes, I actually mailed it.)

   

Of course, nobody has a clue as to which book I'm referencing in the letter.  I suppose as a youth I always did have grand notions of writing a novel.  This may explain why I left letters under my pillow for Louisa May Alcott.  I guess I figured she maybe knew a publisher?

I must go now.

Love,

The Odd B. xoxo