The Odd Broad

Dad

A while back, I read that Jenna Bush had chosen Joe Cocker's You Are So Beautiful as her father/daughter wedding dance.  My father and I also danced to this song at my wedding, but I didn't choose it, he did, when I was just a baby.  Since then it has always been our song.  He and my sister have one, too.

As we stood at the back of the church that day, getting ready to walk down the aisle, Dad turned to me and whispered, "I thought of this moment the day you were born."

He's always saying things like that.  Really, he is.

My father has been surrounded by women for over thirty years.  Try suggesting to him that it must have been a disappointment having two daughters rather than a son.  Try telling him that he must be so relieved now that he has a grandson, finally getting a boy in the family.  Go on, do it.  (Just to warn you, he's going to think you're an asshole.)

Whether I realize it or not, I compare every man I meet to my father.  Sometimes it alarms me how much we're alike.  We are both sentimental, almost to our detriment.  We feel a strong connection with animals.  He inspired my love of nature.  He is sensitive, artistic, and prone to worrying too much about the people he loves.  I have been known to do the same.  I suspect at our cores we both just want to be loved.

My father is a perpetual reader.  He's a dog person, a Guinness drinker, a history connoisseur.  He hangs bird houses, he recycles.  If for some reason he is forced to cut down a tree, he'll always plant a new one in its place.  He is affectionate, thoughtful, bitingly witty and often times poetic.  He is also the handiest person I know.  He'll install a toilet or a sink, design and build a deck, landscape the lawn; he doesn't pay people to do what he knows he can do himself, and probably faster and better.  He introduced me to the writings of Henry David Thoreau, built me my very own playhouse complete with windows and flower boxes, and sends me a Valentine every year. 

For as far back as I can possibly remember, each day I have known that he loves me.  And I adore the guy.  Being the recipient of his love has provided me with a strength that half the time I don't even realize is there.   

Happy Father's Day, Daddy. 

Love,

Your Human Fly xoxo

Congrats!

A shout out is in order for my beautiful cousin Keely, who has just graduated from college.  In true Keely fashion, she has finished up one year early.  And next up is law school.

I am proud of her beyond belief.  It's not only because she's strikingly gorgeous, or a diligently hard worker, or possesses the strongest backbone of any young person I have ever met.  For she is all of those things and so much more. 

A friend's mother once remarked on how mature she was:  "It's like...it's almost like talking to an adult" she confided to my aunt.  I think Keely must've been seven or eight years old at the time.

Once in elementary school Keely caught someone cheating off of her test.  She went straight up to her teacher and asked to please have her seat moved.  Well, what was she supposed to do?  It simply wasn't fair!  I remember even then remarking on how strong she was.  At 29, I'm still not sure I'd have the chutzpah to do that.

She is just one of those rare, self possessed, brilliant individuals.  The future is hers for the taking.  I can hardly wait to see what happens next.

Love you, Bubs.  xoxo

Nanny

I have never met an old person like my grandmother.  I'm fairly certain you haven't, either.

My grandmother, better known as Nanny, is eighty-four years old and has to be one of the most colorful people I know.  She never complains about bodily ailments the way most elderly people do.  She doesn't even consider herself elderly, in fact.

One of Nanny's favorite catchphrases is "Oh Balls."  I'm not even sure what it means, but I assume it can't be good, since people seem to disapprove when she teaches toddlers to say it.  She has also been frequently known to declare, in that distinctive voice of hers, "I do not God damn bee-lieve it" and "Ain't that awful."

She loves the Red Sox, though when they're losing she will scream passionately at the tv and call them bums.  She has taught all of her grandchildren to say phrases in Portuguese, among them: go home and take a shit, go and take a shit on your neighbor (or his house?  I've never been sure), you're a whore, and a plethora of choice words for certain parts of the human anatomy.  And I'm not talking technical terms, either.  (I only found that out in college, actually, when a Brazilian coworker told me I was speaking "dirty, filthy Spanish."  And speaking of this particular co-worker, for her to label anything as filthy it had to have been very, very bad.)

The song she likes me to sing best is The Wind Beneath My Wings.  If Nanny had her way, I would sing it at every family function.  Most times, naturally, taking a solo just isn't an appropriate thing to do.  I did sing it for her at her eightieth birthday party, though.  The song came on the radio the other day at work and instantly I thought of Nan.  I went outside to call her and when she picked up she said, "Sasa!  I was just thinking of you."  "You were?"  I asked,  "Because I was just thinking of you, too!"

She told me she'd had the music channel playing on tv and The Wind Beneath my Wings came on, but it wasn't Bette Midler singing, it was somebody else, and if she didn't know better she would've sworn it was me.  Always one for synchronicity, I asked her what time she'd heard the song.  Maybe we'd both heard it played at the same time?  But it turned out we were a day or two off. 

When I got engaged at the age of 25, Nan told me I was too young.  At 29, she thinks I should wait to have children.  I was a little nervous to tell her I was moving back to Boston, in fact, since she loves that I live in New York.  Although she's very concerned that city life will make me forget how to drive.  And driving, in her book, equals freedom.  She never did get her license and it's been a constant thorn in her side.  Indeed, it's been said she'd take a ride from Jack the Ripper in order to get to Foxwoods.

Nanny used to want to buy me bust enhancing pills.  The other day we were talking and I told her I'd just bought a new bra.  "Oh yeah?"  she asked.  I waited for the inevitable question that was to follow:  "What size?"  When I told her and mentioned there was some light padding, she told me, "You don't need padding, you're perfect the way you are."  This actually made me worry a bit that she might be going soft in her old age.

I pray that I age half as gracefully as she has.  She is truly one of the strongest people I know.  Her strength is underrated, I think, mainly because she never complains.  Oh, don't get me wrong, she'll go on about plenty of other things- current events, the Patriots, the old farts who live in her complex, the filthy geese who shit all over the walkway, but as for herself and her own problems, she clams up.  Most elderly people seem to enjoy going into detail about every little thing that's aching them, but not Nan.  She makes it look so easy.

At the age of sixty-two, she somehow kept going when she suddenly lost her husband.  I don't know how she had the strength to go on after that, but she did. 

Oh, I remember her having "friends," among them a man named Bernie with a red convertible, but she told me recently that she has never kissed another man since my grandfather.  She has also never visited his grave since the funeral.  I once asked her why.  "Because I'm mad at him," she said simply.  "Why are you mad at him?"  I asked.  "For leaving me" she said.  I can understand.  He was and is the love of her life.  It's been twenty-three years now and we all still feel his absence.

When Nan's older sister lost her own husband recently, she made a comment about Nan having had it easy, since she'd had her five children to comfort her when she lost my grandfather.  I know this statement came out of pain, but I see nothing easy about Nan's situation.  When my grandfather died that night in his sleep, Nan woke up to find him lying in the bed next to her, gone.  I never appreciated how frightening that must have been for her.  He was sixty-four.  They were planning on leaving for Atlantic City that morning. 

I was six and the only thing I remember about Nan during that time is her sitting on the steps leading into the basement.  She was wailing.  I remember wondering if things would ever be the same, though some part of me knew that they wouldn't.

I was very attached to my grandfather and over the years have written things about him, and Nan has kept them all.  She'll pull them out sometimes to read and it makes her cry.  It hurts me that she cries, because that definitely wasn't my intent when writing them.  She tells me she likes to read them, though, because it's good to remember.  She even told her sister to just pretend like her husband was still here.  "You can still talk to him"  she said.  I was surprised to hear she'd said that. 

This has been a rough couple of months for my grandmother, health wise.  The other day she told my aunt, "If this is what getting old is like, then I don't want to!"  This from the mouth of an eighty-four year old.  Up until this year none of us had ever seen her sick.  Even she is baffled at the way her body is suddenly aging.  It breaks my heart. 

Nan has been a constant staple in my life, has impacted the person I am in too many ways to count.  Hers is a courageous, boisterous, generous spirit.  She's a fighter, which is why I love her, why she has always taken up a special, reserved place in my heart. 

I write this tonight because she is on my mind, always at the back of my mind, in my chest when it gets heavy, in my eyes when they sting.  I don't know what to make of her looking frail and sick.  To see her this way is completely foreign.  When I visited her recently she pretty much summed it up by declaring, this sucks.

I don't know if I would call her a second mother, or a friend, or simply one of my most favorite people in the world.  What I do know is, if I can be even half the woman she is, I will be happy. 

xoxo

The Broad's Guide to Christmas

Happy Holidays, Dear Reader!  Over the years, there are several things I've learned about the holiday season that I feel I should impart to you...

1. Choose your carols with care: Please, for the love of God, don't continue to sing the opening line to John and Yoko's "Happy Christmas" while your parents are in the middle of a heated argument and you're all riding together in the car.  ("So this is Christmas...")  Curiously, I've found this song can be quite instigating when sung in an ironic manner.  At the time it may seem like an irresistibly funny thing to do, but it's just not a good idea.  Unless, of course, you want to be the reason your sweet mother drops an F bomb on The Baby Jesus' birthday.  (Sorry, Mommy)

2. Self help can sometimes hurt, especially when given in gift form: A Deepak Chopra page a day calendar is never a good choice for Dad.  Actually, I think it's probably safe to assume that self help material of any kind is off limits.  Especially if the gift giver happens to be a self righteous 18 year old.  And I do speak from experience: my own poor gift choices helped lead up to what is now referred to in my family as 1997's Christmas That Wasn't.  Well, my page a day and I can't actually take full credit for it; there were many different factors involved, and consequently many tears. 

I still remember Sissy calling over to my Auntie Donna's house late that Christmas morning. Christmas had been called off over there, too.  You see, my teenaged cousins had slept too late and wouldn't come down to open their gifts, causing my Aunt to spin into a terrible menopausal frenzy.  (Something to do with ungrateful, lazy children.)  When Sissy called over there my cousin Michael picked up the phone and their conversation went something like this:

Sissy: "Where is everyone?" 

Michael: "Over Auntie Kim's." 

Sissy: "What's going on over there?" 

Michael: "Christmas."

In the end, my Mother and Auntie Donna chose to eat dinner away from their ungrateful families while the rest of us tried to get on with the celebrating.  My sister later framed the picture of her and I standing in front of the tree, red eyed, posing with one of the very same self help books that helped instigate a Christmas that would go down in infamy.  If I remember correctly, it was a book about bowls.  How they were empty and should be filled with...oh I don't know, it was probably on sale.  I'd even gotten her the accompanying bowl journal, too. 

3. Don't stress yourself out or go into debt buying extra thoughtful gifts for every Tom, Dick, and Harriet you know:  They will only expect you to continue doing so year after year and, let's face it, who has the time?  It's a merry go round you should never get onto.  One year you're giving fabulous, thoughtful presents and the next year you're giving socks.  Or nuts in a plastic cup.  It's too large a leap; just say no and stick with something more moderate.  Something that won't attract too much attention yet isn't too crappy.

4. Respect your elders:  Do not encourage your father when he makes observations like the following, about his mother, your grandmother: "She could depress a hyena."  This is not Christmassy kind of talk.  (Sorry Gram.)

5. Think before you speak: Please don't tell your loving wife, "I already knew they wouldn't fit, I just bought them anyway."  (My sister didn't take too kindly to that statement two Christmasses ago.)

If you and your loved ones follow these rules, you are certain to have a very successful, holly jolly Christmas.  I believe this same theory may be applied to Hanukkah and Kwanzaa, too.

Happy Holidays!!

Love,

The Odd Broad

xoxo

Do a little dance

Somehow I managed to pull myself away from my little angel of a nephew to be a bridesmaid in my cousin Stephen's wedding this past Saturday.

I danced till I dropped that night.  I shudder to think of the moves I performed on that dance floor.  For me, wedding dancing means two things:  one, I am now unable to move either of my legs without wincing, and two, I was very, very intoxicated. 

Three and a half robust glasses of pinot grigio on an empty stomach means something different to everyone.  For me, I suppose it means I will spontaneously break into aggressive dance.  Such is life.

I had to dance at Stevie's wedding, though.  Over the years my cousin and I have had a number of memorable adventures together.  There was the time he saved his brother Mikey and me from a garden snake.  We must've been about four or five.  "Stand back, I'll handle this!"  Stephen solemnly instructed us, and Mikey and I obeyed, clutching each other on top of the picnic table. 

"OK, you guys ready?"  Stevie waited about five seconds before calling out, "Maaaaaa!"   

That story didn't really translate when I told it at a keg party in high school.  "Stevie!  Remember when you saved us from the snake?!  Remember?"

We got thrown out of a bar on his 26th birthday.  It was also New Year's Eve and my husband's band was also playing at the time.  This was not one of our finer moments.

Curiously, from the nose down, everybody says Stephen and I look exactly alike.  Apparently we have the same mouth.  My husband finds this comparison extremely bothersome, and I can't say I blame him.

Creepy twin mouths aside, the wedding was lovely.  There was a tense moment at the rehearsal, though, when our cousin Little Jimmy showed up with an enormous bandage on his right cheek.  Everyone assumed a bar fight was to blame, but Jimmy promptly informed us he'd been whacked with a two by four at work.  He'd gotten eight stitches.  It was the day before the wedding.  What were the odds?

Naturally, the bride was none too pleased.  Perhaps we could find a bandage to match his tuxedo? 

He and my uncle were my partners walking down the aisle.  Uncle had badly hurt his leg recently so he was limping and wearing a sandal on one foot, and half of Jimmy's face was bandaged up.  We made a good looking trio.

I feel I should mention, at 22, Lil' Jimmy is certainly no longer little.  He's a man.  His dad is Big Jim, though Little Jim outweighs him now by probably 100 pounds.  All this won't stop us from calling him Lil' Jim for the rest of his life, of course. 

It would be hours later at the rehearsal dinner, when Stephen and his fiance were giving out gifts and saying sentimental things, when Jimmy would reveal to everyone his bandage was nothing but a hoax. 

He'd really had us going there.  We were all most impressed by his ingenuity.

The idea had dawned on him while he was stopped at a red light.  He'd glanced over at the person in the next car and saw that his face was all bandaged up.  Hmmm.  Lil' Jim called his Mother for guidance and asked if his plan was too sick a thing to do to his cousin the night before his wedding.

My Aunt's response?  "I'll tape you up!"

I should also mention he had the priest very concerned as well.  "What happened to you, son?"

Little Jim later told me he paused at that moment, perhaps experiencing a conflict of morals before answering, "I got hit by a two by four, father." 

Well, he'd gone this far, why stop now?  You can't say he's not committed. 

All in all, the wedding was a fun event.  I wished my sister could have been there, but she and her husband were home, cuddling with their beautiful little miracle. 

I got to see my nephew again on my way back to New York yesterday.  We rocked together and I told him, in my obsessive compulsive style, how very very very much I loved him. 

He seemed to say the same thing back.

xoxo

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.

Homie

I've just returned from a wonderful weekend at Sissy's house in Boston.  Before I continue, I'd like to go on record and mention that my sister's apartment is cozy, spacious and lovely, boasting exposed brick and lots of sunlight.  That said, it just happens to be in kind of a shitty neighborhood.  Good thing she's married to a cop.  (Or the po po, as we sometimes like to refer to him.)

At 6 am this morning, I was enjoying a deep, drool filled, mess your hair up kind of sleep when all of a sudden I heard:

"Police!  Police!  Open up!"

What the?  I turned off the fan by the bed so I could hear better, because I could've sworn I'd just heard a man scream...

"Open up!  Police!"

Yup.  There it was again. 

It seems an early morning raid was being conducted.  Disgruntled and groggy, Sissy and I looked out the window to find a tactical swat team attempting to enter the house next door.  Next door being, of course, about four feet away. 

I nervously peered out the window and then put my glasses on for a better look, since it looked like I'd just seen Darth Vader standing in front of a paddy wagon.  Oh, wait a minute, he wasn't Darth Vader, he was simply a cop wearing full swat gear.  That made more sense. 

"Get back!" I whispered to Sister. 

"Why?  I wanna see!"

"You're eight months pregnant!  I don't want any stray bullets hitting you and my future Godchild!"  I always did have a vivid imagination. 

My brother-in-law later found out what all the fuss had been about.  Apparently the neighbor's son was wanted for armed robbery?  (Guess I should stop complaining about my neighbor who sings all the showtunes, huh?)

We went back to sleep after we'd decided the situation was probably under control.  I mean, the cops were searching under the back porch for guns and all... 

Other than that, the weekend was perfect: a bridal shower for my cousin's fiance, lunch with my college roommate at the very first restaurant we'd gotten boozed at together (we were teenaged Freshmen and she'd ordered a sex on the beach while I'd opted for a bloody mary.  This was before I'd learned this was traditionally a "morning" beverage, of course.)  Then there was quality time with Mom and Dad on Sunday.  I even got to sing a little Karen Carpenter to the Tadpole in my sister's belly.      

The sky was gorgeous as I left Boston.  I knew I shouldn't want to cry.  After all, I'd had a lovely, eventful weekend.  The Red Sox had clinched the division.  I'd seen my Grandmother.  I'd cuddled with my Dad.  My Mother had taken my face in her hands and told me she loved me.  I'd seen my beautiful cousin's very first big girl apartment.   

But the voicemail Sissy left me as I boarded the plane summed it all up: "I miss you already."

Somewhere beyond my adam's apple an old familiar burn started just before the tears came.  And with that, I gave in and cried. 

Nary a tissue in sight, my Sephora black/brown mascara running sloppily down my cheeks, I cried the tears that seem to come every time I leave my family. 

There's something rather freeing about crying in public.  Tonight I couldn't have given two craps really, since the man sitting next to me was also being a bad flier and therefore deserved to sit next to another bad flier.  (He was elbowing me, stepping on my toes, and generally behaving in a manner most terrible.)

I cried because I long for more time with them all.  I ache for more mundane moments to talk, to bicker, to while away the hours watching horrendously painful TV like The Two Corey's.  Also, there's a tiny, persistent part of me that is absolutely terrified I won't be a big enough part of my future Godchild's life.  I try not to think about it, but it sort of gives me the panics.

It's not that the sky wasn't just as beautiful when I arrived back home to NY.  It's not that Kittie wasn't there to greet me at the door, and Hubby soon after, when he got home from work.  It's just...not home.

I refuse to end this post on a weepy note, Dear Reader.  You deserve much better than that.  Here are some pictures I snapped for you of my niece, Trixie, also known as Mew Mew:

   

Mew Mew is a Gemini, loves to cuddle, and much to our chagrin, does not get along with her first cousin, Kittie.  (It breaks their Mother's hearts.)   

I've had a nice weekend, Dear Reader.  I hope you did, too.   

xoxo   

My Little Secret

I've never been able to commit to having a favorite Season, but Fall on the east coast is lovely.  There's an intangible, expectant quality in the air that makes me feel like I should be buying pencils and notebooks, though it's been seven years since I've been in a classroom.  Unless you count TV Commercial Acting classes as school.  (Do you?  Didn't think so.) 

This butterflies in my belly feeling turns up like clockwork every September. 

On a more curious note, something about this time of year also brings out my inner Ina Garten/Nigella Lawson/Lidia Bastianich.  I'm compelled to pull out my crock pot, turn on my oven, and I experience a maniacal urge to begin simmering things.  What the?

Rather than buying a new pair of shoes, I want to go to Williams Sonoma and purchase olive oil that costs $22.  It's not right, and I know it. 

My Sister gets this way, too.  We're both stupefied as to where this make your own marinara mentality comes from, since our Mother has never been the Susie Homemaker type.  On the contrary, she used to jokingly refer to herself as Peg Bundy.

It's not that Ma isn't a talented, skilled cook, because she most definitely is.  (Her stuffed peppers?  Her meatballs?  The best.)  But let's just say she's never gotten giddy over puff pastry.  Or deglazing a skillet with white wine to make a flavorful pan sauce.  Or frittattas made with chorizo, fresh basil and roasted reds.  She cooks, but she's not going to sit on the phone and talk about it.  (Which, oddly enough, her offspring do.) 

Now that I think of it, I suppose my Dad is a bit of a foodie.  He's always marinating something or other.  And all the neighbors do make requests for his split pea soup each winter. 

Still, I'm always intrigued/puzzled (disturbed?) by women who emit June Cleavery type vibes...

Several years ago we were at Hubby's Aunt's house on a weeknight when her daughter announced her high school was having a bake sale the next day.  Well, go to the store and buy a box of cookies, right?  Wrong, apparently.  What happened next, Dear Reader, was Truly Amazing. 

In the most casual of manners, and without batting an eyelid, Aunt Kathy began peeling apples, kneeding dough, and before our eyes prepared two beautiful apples pies from scratch.  I was dumbfounded.  Who was this culinary wizardress? 

Kath couldn't understand why I was so shocked.  "Sweetie, hasn't your Mom ever baked a pie from scratch before?"  (Um, no!  Has anyone's?)

For as long as I can remember, (though my Mother will tell you it was 1988- OK, so I was ten!), Ma worked full time in retail and when she wasn't working was taking me to voice lessons/auditions/evening rehearsals for awful community theater productions.  To this day, my Mother is the most maternal woman I've ever met.  (Maternal and domestic being two very different things, in my estimation.)  But roll her own pie dough, she will not. 

There was another time back in college, when I was at a friend's house and her Mom cooked everyone breakfast.  And I don't mean toast.  I'm talking scrambled eggs, bacon, home fries...and it didn't end there.  There was lunch.  At the dinner table.  I'm fairly certain she would've cooked dinner as well, but we all went to a function that evening.  I think she must've thought my childhood was a page out of Dickens, such was my rampant disbelief at her culinary prowess.

My Italian Mother-in-Law also displays similar behavior, though Hubby doesn't expect this sort of thing from me.  My husband happens to be a thoughtful, independent Scorpio who was cooking and doing his own laundry long before I ever learned how.  (I think he was like ten?)  He's been preparing me romantic dinners for nearly ten years.  In short, cooking for him is a pleasure, mainly because he doesn't expect me to.  Sometimes I flatter myself by thinking I've had a feministic effect on him, but I think perhaps he was just born this way?  (What came first, the Broad or the egg?)

Of course, I don't think I would've fallen for a man who'd expect me to clean and cook for him simply because I have ovaries.  As if my female genetic makeup somehow makes me better at vacuuming or cleaning out a toilet bowl than someone who has a wiener.  The very idea of it makes my skin crawl!   

I was sent to Kindergarten with a tote bag that said Anything Boys Can Do Girls Can Do Better.  I was reading Ms. magazine in the 7th grade (until Ma and Dad decided I was becoming a touch too bitter).  My parents worked hard and brought Sissy and I up to go to college, no questions asked, without any mention of marriage or future grandkids.  I was raised to follow my dreams, not to putter around the kitchen making homemade energy bars! 

Maybe it's the novelty of it that I enjoy?  Or perhaps, after all, my dreams are turning out to be not so different than the ones my parents themselves had? 

Whatever the reason, Dear Reader, I simply cannot help myself.  There's just something so warmie about Fall.  Let's go saute something, shall we?

Jet lagged Musings

Ok, so vacation found me food-poisoned, headachy, and on the rag.  Not exactly ideal circumstances in the way of summer travel, but this broad takes what she can get, Dear Reader. 

I've never actually been food poisoned before, have you?  I've decided the phrase sounds much more exciting when used as a verb as opposed to its noun form.  (Does that even make sense grammatically?  Oh, you know what I mean.)  In hindsight, whatever evil was taking place within my body this week was a veritable Holy Trinity of Wrong: unnatural, unholy, and unpleasant...utterly so. 

As it turns out, my Mother-in-Law and I were the only ones who ended up getting sick this vacation.  Which certainly is curious, since she ordered the fish tacos and I had the beef fajitas.  It's a culinary mystery, I'd say.  OK, no more talk of Mexican food, at least for another week or so.  (Sorry, guacamole, you know how fond I am of you.)

On a happier note, our hotels were fabulous.  Especially the one we stayed at on Saturday, since a travel agent friend of mine hooked us up with a trendy hotel on Sunset.  The trendiness I refer to was in a refreshing, non-hipster sort of way: un-stuffy and unpretentious.  And because of my friend's connection they treated us really nice: complimentary fuzzy slippers, bed-time green apples, a hand-written welcome note, and a room that opened up right onto the outdoor pool.  It was Heavenly.      

I have a soft spot for hotel bath products and such.  This hotel offered something you'll see to your right called personal oxygen.  My inner child was intrigued, but my inner old bitty didn't want to inhale.  (She might get too wild.  Plus she's already got enough hot air in her to last a lifetime.)

The Sheraton we stayed at by LAX was also extremely accommodating.  When I was feeling sick I was able to order toast with butter (even poolside), and later, when I was feeling drunker much better, Room Service brought me an enormous plate of cheese fries, despite the fact that it was 3:00 am and cheese fries weren't on the menu. 

I enjoy LA.  So many aspects of the place are right up my alley.  The spiritual advisors, the tarot readers, the aura cleansers.  One aura cleansing, please!  (You know I repeated this phrase over and over, in my heaviest Boston accent, until being around me became downright unbearable, even for myself.  Sorry, Hubs.)  I was also amused by a sign for Live Nudes!  As opposed to dead nudes, I imagine?  It got me to thinking, what must it feel like for one to refer to oneself as a live nude?  "So, what do you do?"  "Oh, I'm a nude.  A live nude.  And you?"

My inner juvenile giggled at the tanning salon you see to your right, aptly named Bronze Buns.  A direct, if disturbing, name for a business. 

I bet you think I attended this cat show you see advertised on your left...but I'll have you know I did not.  There wasn't enough time.  Tee hee.

The bulk of our week in California was spent with Hubby's family, as we were there to celebrate his older brother's 30th birthday.  (If you're reading this, hi, brother!)  His Mom and Dad also flew out for the occasion, so it was a reunion of sorts, which was nice since we rarely get to see any of them.  My niece and nephew seemed to have grown feet taller since my wedding, if possible.  We also got to spend some time with friends Hubby hasn't seen in years, although the visit was brief (and vomit sprinkled, on my part.)

I could sense the trip was bittersweet for my husband, in the same way it usually is for me when I go home.  There are so many people and places to see, and never enough time for all of them.  My family all live within a concentrated area, though, whereas his are scattered across the country. 

I couldn't help but think back to being 20 years old again, when Hubby, then my boyfriend of one and a half years, left college in Boston to return to California.  Those were the longest eight months of my life.  I charged three airline trips (at 29% interest, a very smart deal!) and spent most of my Senior year divided between two time zones.  My parents were worried, to say the least.  And then, miraculously, Hubby once again came Eastward, to be with me.  That lonely period seems a lifetime away now, though being in California always gets me to thinking...

I do my fair share of wistful planning, doesn't everyone?  As in, will we ever actually own a home, as opposed to renting?  Will we ever have children, as opposed to a cat?  (Mommy loves you, Kittie)  Will we ever move back to Boston?  Yesterday the horoscope for Sagittarius suggested that I be content with what I have right now, today, and I have to agree.  Everyone needs reminding from time to time, I suppose.

Tonight, back at home, with Kittie curled up on my lap, I feel very grateful that my wonderful Hubby has returned to the East coast to be with me...again. 

xoxo

The Tadpole

For much of the Spring and Summer, I've been actively campaigning for the role of Godmother to my only Sister's first born, whom we've been lovingly referring to as The Tadpole.

In truth, Sissy already promised the position to me many years ago, although I've yet to be formally appointed, as there are still over four months before The Tadpole makes its grand entrance.

In light of this, initially I wondered if I was being presumptuous when I'd refer to the baby as my Godchild.  After all, Sissy's husband has three Sisters of his own, in theory all potential contenders.

This demure attitude didn't last long, however; earlier this month I bought Sissy a picture frame that says "I love my Godchild."  She was amused: "Shouldn't you keep this frame, though?"  "No," I explained, "I want you to display it in The Tadpole's room, with a picture of me holding him or her."

I am head over heels crazy for this child already and cannot wait to lavish him or her with toys and gifts, and cute onesie outfits with catchphrases like, "Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner." 

If you haven't already caught on, Dear Reader, The Odd Broad has been feeling rather maternal lately.  And not just with cute dogs, cats and other people's children.

Up until now, I have yet to seriously feel this way, perhaps because none of my close friends have had babies yet.  I do think that makes a difference somehow.  Currently, though, my best friend from high school is expecting, my best friend from college is trying, and my older Sister, my ultimate life-long peer, has a bun in the oven!

Seeing Sissy look so adorable with her baby bump and fashionable maternity ensembles, I can't help but think perhaps motherhood is something I could handle after all!  What was once my lovely, very far off dream is slowly morphing into something tangible. 

In addition, I'm totally interested in being able to unapologetically flaunt my belly.  It would be ever so lovely to saunter around town with a bump on my mid-region without having to explain to every Tom, Dick and Harriet that I am not knocked up, just simply bloated, slouching, or wearing an empire-waisted flowy top.

Futhermore, it would amuse me greatly if I could coax Hubby into referring to me as his baby's Mama.  I think that alone would be worth going the nine months without Riesling.

Nobody is more surprised to hear me talk this way than myself.  Of course, the reality of me becoming someone's Mother is still very far off on the horizon, only to be realized when I move from this Godforsaken city back home to the bosom of my family.  I mean, honestly, who's going to babysit for us here, the crackhead panhandling in front of Chase Bank?  No, that wouldn't do, that wouldn't do at all.

Before I leave you, allow me to touch upon one last subject: Dearest Reader, is anything more off-putting or putrid than the phrase, "we're trying"?  Trying to do what, exactly? What this phrase specifically implies holds no place in polite conversation, wouldn't you agree?  In light of this, when I mentioned earlier that my friend from college is "trying," please know that she herself would never have me publicly refer to what her and her husband are doing (gettin' it on) as trying, nor would I myself.  Not without prior warning or explanation, at least.  There.  Glad we've cleared that one up.

XOXO

A Cruise For Two

My older Sister came to visit me this weekend and I'm still basking in the warm glow of her visit.  Not that we did much, or anything at all, actually.  One could accurately say our weekend was a marathon of eating, watching reruns of The Golden Girls, Kath and Kim, and anything else we deem as being "warmie." 

In defense of our laziness, a Noreaster had hit the city, bringing with it windy, cold rain.  Although had the weather been balmy we probably still would've lounged about, for in the words of my hubby, "That's what you guys always do when you get together."  And why not?

My sister is my oldest and best girlfriend, someone who was waiting to play with me before I was even born.  In short, I couldn't wait for her to arrive and I blubbered like a baby when she left. 

Sissy has put up with her fair share of crap over the years, such as the time I peeled off her extensive sticker collection and stuck them onto the pages of her sticker book.  These were nice stickers, too...remember those oily stickers?  Fuzzy stickers?  Scratch and sniff stickers?  What about those Michael Jackson Thriller stickers?  I peeled and stuck all of them without offering up any explanation.  It was a senseless act, to say the least. 

There was also the incident where I prodded and annoyed her until finally she exploded, only to realize I was capturing the whole episode on tape to later play for my parents.  Of course, she didn't get in trouble, I did.  That tape is now a cherished artifact of our youth, part of the million terrible little things we happen to know about each other.

I suppose I'll always feel remorseful about the time...

I had made it to Kindergarten.  I was four years old, soon to be five, and it was finally my turn to ride the big girl bus to school with my older sister.  The feeling was nothing less than exhilarating.  I had arrived! 

One day I was sitting at the big wooden table in our cozy kitchen when I overheard Sissy tell Mom she had a crush on Stephen H., the boy who lived up the street.  Well, not even a crush, I think she actually only said he was kind of cute.  In any case, I had heard all I needed to hear.  This was something good, something juicy, something I could really work with!

Me: So you like Stephen H?

Sissy: No, I just think he's kind of cute.

Me: Do you love him?

Sissy: NO!

Me: Do you want to marry him?

Sissy: NO!

Me: Do you want to go on a cruise for two with him?

I'm not sure where someone under the age of five even learns a phrase like cruise for two, but learned it I had, and I suppose something like that begs to be put to good use.   

My Mother stepped in.  Under no circumstances was I to repeat this information to anyone outside of our home.  Hmmm.  I think I could try and zip my lips...

As we waited for the bus the next morning, I found myself filled with exceptional glee, nearly bursting with the knowledge I had happened upon the other day.  Keeping a big girl secret was going to be trickier than I had anticipated. 

The bus arrived and all of us kids started to pile on.  I couldn't help myself, it was too much, before I knew it I had bellowed out: "My sister is in love with Stephen H!" 

Oh dear.  I had said it.  And now everybody was...laughing!  Well, now that I had a captive audience I could hardly quit here, could I?  This was exhilarating! 

I felt compelled to continue: "She loves him, and wants to marry him, and she wants to go on a cruise for two with him!"

The bus erupted into more rowdy laughter.  I was a hit with the big kids, and only at four years old!

Poor Stephen H. looked like he was going to swoon.  Both he and my sister were simmering in an inferno of third grade hell. 

Looking back on it, this event really jump started my lustrous career in the art of big mouthery.  It's in my nature to discuss things (a euphemism for being unable to keep a secret, although often times I can and do.) 

My loved ones have learned that all juicy tidbits must be prefaced with "now don't tell anyone this..."  I think I may be lacking that piece of my brain that instructs me not to blurt things out sometimes.  The inner voice, the custodian of all things secret, if you will.

I asked Sissy over the weekend how the Stephen H. episode had made her feel at the time and she recalled the incident as being "completely humiliating." 

Sorry for that one, Sister.  Truly, I'm penitent to this day.

As I meandered up 53rd street after dropping Sissy off Monday evening, the inevitable, involuntary tears sprung to my eyes.  A minute ago she was here, and now she was on a bus on her way back home.  I've lived in NY for seven years and I guess at some point I thought this would get easier, or at the very least not make me cry.  But I guess this is the way I am, and maybe I'm just going to have to accept it.

I know I'm lucky to have people in my life who I love so much it makes me sniffly, or, as I like to say, people who know me and love me anyways... 

PS- For anyone who may have wondered...you can totally cry on the subway here and nobody will say a word.  They won't give you their seat, either.  I tried.  Dirty bastards.

:)

Tractor Races

The other day my Mom mentioned that one of her neighbors is planning on resurrecting the annual Tractor Races.  Nostalgia got me thinking about the first time I introduced my husband to my parents, which was back in 1998, sadly on the weekend of one of these tractor races. 

Reader, please note that when I say tractor, what I actually mean is ride-on lawnmower, and when I say race, what I actually mean is adults dressed in character racing each other atop their lawnmowers, while (mildly) intoxicated. 

This dignified event was the brainchild of (who else?) my Dad.

That summer I was nineteen and home on break after my Sophomore year of college.  You can imagine my distress when my Husband (then my boyfriend of 5 months) called and told me he'd be coming to town to see the Y.M.C.A. play I was directing. 

My sister and I had decided to unleash our inner Damon/Affleck and had penned a script for a children's play.  I think my friend Corey summed it up best when he said, "It was awesome!  It had a little of everything: Karaoke, a laser light show, tap dancing..." 

To this day my Sister refuses to speak of our joint theatrical endeavor, as do five of my cousins who were forced to perform in it. 

"I think I'm gonna come see the play."  Hubby (then Boyfriend) innocently told me one day over the phone. 

"Oh.  OK!"  My eyes were already starting to water. 

"I can get a ride back home on Sunday, but can I just sleep at your house after the show?"  He asked.

"Um, sure!  Of course!  Why not?  That's fine!"  Could he sense my panic?  Probably not, after all, I was attending a top notch acting school.

I hung up the phone and immediately burst into frenzied, desperate tears.  My life was over, finished, and just when I had discovered true love.  It was all so tragic.

My Mom didn't understand my hysterics: "What's the big deal?  Daddy and I will be on our best behavior..."

What does their best behavior look like?  Let me enlighten you.  When my boyfriend's pals arrived to pick him up, Dad was wearing black spandex pants, a wig, false teeth and fake chest hair.  He was Austin Powers, International man of mystery. 

My Mom?  Austin's sidekick, Vanessa Kensington: complete with wig, sexy jumpsuit, the whole nine yards.  I remember one of hubby's friends remarking that this was how he had always pictured my parents would be.

I suppose the Austin Powers theme was pretty mild, considering.  Some of Ma and Dad's past themes included Desert Storm (patriotic tractor), Peg and Al Bundy (tractor strewn with shoe boxes and Dad perched upon a toilet seat purchased specially for the occasion, plunger in hand), and the Flinstones. 

The year prior my parent's had chosen The Beverly Hillbillies as their motif: Ma had dressed as Jethro and Dad was Granny Clampett.  I can still close my eyes and picture Dad atop his lawnmower donning a grey Granny wig and blue dress. 

I tried to decide which would be a more awkward way to introduce my Father to the boy I'd fallen madly in love with: Dad in spandex or Dad in drag? 

The neighborhood takes this solemn event very seriously.  Of course, not everyone participates.  Those who choose not to, or who find the core group too "wild" are unanimously banished from future get-togethers. 

That year one neighbor (a male) was Rose from Titanic, complete with red wig and nightgown.  Another neighbor, dressed as the Red Baron, would later discover the wings he'd created for his lawnmower were slowing him down.  The Red Baron would eventually be forced to throw the wings off, mid-race, in a dramatic last-ditch attempt to take the lead.

As an adult looking back on this, I'm able to find the situation comical.  At the time, Hubby (then Boyfriend) found it totally funny and of course my parents themselves found their antics to be filled with extreme hilarity. 

But back on that monumental weekend I had none of the tractor holiday spirit within me.  I more or less spent the entire day and a half in a constant state of poorly disguised panic.  My teenage self was not rampant with self assurance. 

Years later I discovered that Ma and Dad felt like I'd been embarrassed of them and Hubby found it weird my parents had been missing in action for most of the weekend.  Didn't they want to get to know him?  At the time I hadn't told him I'd orchestrated it so exactly this would happen, and my parents had been instructed to make themselves scarce.  Could I help it that when they finally did choose to emerge they were in costume?

Honestly, it wasn't so much that I was embarrassed, rather I just don't think I was ready for my two worlds to collide.  Back then life was so melodramatic and fragile in a way things only were when I was very young. 

Thankfully, the older I become the more secure I am with myself.  Gone are the days when it bothered me if my family argued in the company of my husband, or rode a lawnmower while intoxicated and possibly in drag.  On the contrary, these days I'd hardly bat an eyelid.  I find this knowledge extremely comforting, and something my nineteen year-old self would never have thought possible.

Right now, I'd give anything to live closer to home so I could attend the annual tractor races.  What a difference a near decade makes...

Everything's Comin' up Roses!

As a child, my friends and I dreamed up a number of inappropriate yet delightful activities with which to amuse ourselves, among them:

Swear Barbies:  "Ken, you deadbeat, how many times do I have to ask you to take out the fucking garbage?"  (There was a lot of resentment lurking in Barbie's Dream house.  Ken drank.)

Swear House:  "You've murdered her, you bastards!"  (Our childhood version of "house" was usually very melodramatic, and almost always obscene.  You know, imagining the Love's Babysoft powder we had sprinkled on the Cabbage Patch Kids hand mirror was actually the cocaine our enemies had planted in our penthouse...all very childlike and playful.  What can I say?  My friends had cable.)

As I ease into my late twenties, I am constantly discovering new pleasantries that make my heart sing, among them:

Swear Family:  This is swearing within the family setting just for the novelty of it all, really.  And we always ask permission or give clear warning beforehand, as in, "Mommy, can I tell this story using the F word?"

Drunk Family: Riesling + Christmas = Holiday fun for everyone!  Seriously, have you ever played the game Catchphrase after imbibing three goblets of white wine?  (My Mom's holiday wine glasses are adorably festive, not to mention enormous and quite dangerous.) 

Yay!  I love playing drunk family!  "I love you guys...I mean...hiccup...you gave me LIFE!"

I'm enjoying this newfound adult relationship I have with my parents, but although I'm a mere two years shy of hitting the big 3-0, I'm definitely not immune to the occasional relapse into the land of childhood. 

Sometimes I find myself reverting back to a 9 year old version of myself, complete with braces and bad home perm.  (Incidentally, Mom and dearest Auntie Kim, the question still begs to be answered: In good faith, how could you have administered those monstrous home perms to my Sister and I during the entire latter half of the 1980's?  I believe these perms should be seen for what they truly are: a vicious form of child abuse.)

My most recent childhood relapse occurred a mere week ago.  Journey with me, if you would, back in time to the Sunday before last, in Midtown Manhattan, around 8:00pm...

My Mother and I were enjoying an off-Broadway performance of The Fantasticks when I realized the piano accompanist was a member of the chorus I belonged to.  (My friend Vanessa recently asked me to join a chorus and I complied, mainly because it dawned on me that my life as of late had become far too safe.  My epiphany occurred while I was at the Gynecologist.  I decided if the scariest things in my life were pap smears then something was very wrong.  Coincidentally, I do believe auditions and trips to the Gyno are a lot alike, what with the nervousness, the feelings of vulnerability, the stirrups...)

After spotting the man from chorus at the piano, ten year-old Sarah (Me) excitedly hissed, "Mommy, that piano player is from my chorus!" 

Upon hearing these words, Ma's dormant but ever-present Stage Mother (Mama Rose, I like to call her) came swimming to the surface.  "Sah, this could be a connection!  You need to ask him how you can get an audition for this play." 

It was all Ma could do to stop her inner Ethel Merman from bursting into song:

You'll be swell, you'll be great, gonna have the whole WORLD on a plate...and, jazz hands!

Oh dear.

Never mind the fact that this play was already perfectly cast, and this man probably had no more advice as to how I could get my Keister onto a Broadway stage than my cat did. 

This is truly one of the mystical wonders of Stage Motherhood, is it not?  In my Mommy's eyes I am unquestionably the finest singer/actress in the universe, just one lucky break away from making it. 

I love my Mother fiercely for this.  After all, this kind of unconditional, rose-colored love ain't easy to come by.  Plus, Ma has invested countless hours of her life sitting through singing lessons, recitals, an entire July's worth of bad dinner theater performances of Carousel where the man playing Billy Bigelow sang with a prominent lisp...

Let's face it, this woman has put in her time.  If she wants to get a little Stage-Mothery once in a while, well, so be it.

The cast of the Fantasticks had taken their bows and we were putting on our coats when Ma elbowed me and said, "I thought you were gonna say hello to that man?"

"Well, give me a second, he's still playing."

The music finally came to a halt.  "He's not playing anymore." 

Mama Rose was getting antsy.  Curtain up!  Light the lights.  You've got nuthin' to HIT but the heights...

I couldn't ignore the fact that every fiber in my being was begging me to please exit the theater.  Or could I?

What did I have to lose?  After all, wasn't I a confident, friendly adult?  I would just say a quick hello and be on my way...

And thus, my humiliation commences.

I walked across the tiny stage and approached the man seated at the piano.  "Hi!  You did a great job!"

He seemed a bit taken off guard.  "Oh, thank you..."

"Chorus!!"  I cheerfully blurted out. 

The man gave no response, nor the slightest bit of recognition as to who the smiling freak standing in front of him was.

"Chorus..." I tried once more.  "The N.Y.T.C.C.!"  (NY Theatrical Community Chorus)

"Chorus..." he repeated, nodding slowly, as if by nodding he could somehow make me disappear. 

This was not going as planned.  It was time to abort my plan immediately.

"Well, see you Friday!"  I called out, backing away.

"Yes, Friday..."  He murmured, as if he had never been to a chorus on a Friday in his entire life, and moreover had no prior knowledge as to what the word Friday even meant. 

You wouldn't mind, but our chorus has all of twelve people in it and is teetering dangerously on the brink of extinction.  I am one of about 5 Sopranos.

By the time I reached Ma and told her what had transpired, her Mama Rose had already retreated back to her resting place and my real Mother had returned.  "Ooh, Sazzy, maybe it wasn't the best idea after all..." 

But that's the beauty of bad choices, no?  They are only bad choices in hindsight.  Ah, well.  We had ourselves a good ol' chuckle over it. 

Vanessa and I skipped chorus this past Friday, due to inclimate weather.  (That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)  I have to admit I'm a bit sheepish about returning this Friday evening, but I do plan on attending.  After all, a little embarrassment never killed anybody, did it?  It certainly hasn't killed me yet, although that isn't from lack of trying.

I will keep you posted on my adventures in Choral Arts.

Until next time,

~The Odd Broad (and her Mama Rose)