The Odd Broad

Friends, fireworks, and talking to the dead.

I'm someone who believes in things I can't always see or explain.  For me it's not a question of whether or not there are ghosts or spirits, say; I just know there are.  I shrug my shoulders when people roll their eyes at my extensive knowledge of Astrology.  It's not my place to convince others why I feel it's valid, I just happen to believe it is.  I don't go around advertising it, but if you give me long enough, I will probably guess which month you were born.  (But I'll only tell you if I'm drunk.)  If I wasn't scared of my own shadow I'd probably make a damn good medium. 

Speaking of mediums, did I ever tell you about the Fourth of July weekend in the Marriott Copley?  Picture it: July, 1997.  I was eighteen and had just completed my first year at the Boston Conservatory.  My closest friends were Amy, Jeff and Jamie.  Jamie's mom Beverly and her friend were in town for the holiday weekend and we all walked over for a visit.

Beverly's friend was a respected medium who sometimes worked with the police and had read for famous types, including Bill Clinton.  Jamie called him Auntie Mel. 

Like most remarkable occurrences, it all happened very suddenly.  The lights were low and there were candles burning.  Bev was practicing Reiki on Jeff, whose long dancer limbs were bothering him.  And then, Auntie Mel started to go into a sort of...trance-like state?

I hesitate to write any of this because it's a difficult thing to convey unless you were actually there.  (But you already know I'm a crackpot, don't you, Dear Reader?)  That night Mel channeled a woman.  His voice became soft and he began to rock slowly back and forth.  He curled up into himself and was whimpering.  We could barely make out the word he kept repeating: "Sterno.  The sterno.  He used sterno..."

Sterno?  I didn't recolonize it by name at the time, but after my years in catering I'm very familiar with the stuff.  Sterno are the small metal cans you place under a chafing dish when serving food buffet style.  It's a sort of gel-like material that you set fire to and it keeps the food warm. 

So, from what we gathered, apparently this woman's son in law had murdered her and used...you guessed it, sterno. 

It was all becoming beyond intense.  The four of us, Amy, Jamie, Jeff and I, sat there dumbfounded and silent, clinging to one another in the dark.  We were terrified.  As for me, I was pretty much ready to shit myself.  Chills ran up and down my spine and my eyes were watering.  I looked up at Jeff; for a gay ballerina he was actually a pretty macho guy, but even he looked frightened.  When I glanced over at Jamie he raised his eyebrows and gave me half a smile, but I noticed he had a single tear sliding down his cheek. 

I would never look at sterno the same way again.  Beverly seemed a little concerned that things had gone this far in front of us newbies.  This was a case Mel had been working on and this sterno information was something new and valuable.  

Auntie Mel grew quiet.  Someone else was coming through.  His voice was barely a whisper as he chanted, "I am...that I am...I am...Nicodemus."

Oh shit.  I wanted my mommy.  Reader, I can still hear him say it: Nicodemus.  I will never forget it for as long as I live. 

Up until this point, my brushes with the supernatural included 99 cent horoscope scrolls from CVS and seedy Tarot card readings at Hampton Beach.  This was something else entirely.  "Don't be afraid," Bev told us, "Nicodemus was with Jesus."

I made a mental note to check the bible sometime.  I didn't know anything about a Nicodemus, unless you counted The Secret of NIMH."  Auntie Mel's voice became nasal and high pitched.  Everything about him, his voice, his physicality, had changed completely.  He was Nicodemus, whoever the hell that was.

Beverly asked us if there was anything we'd like to ask, though she suggested we go through her rather than speak to him directly.  Jamie wanted to know about his tooth, and I got the feeling he'd already asked this same question before, because Nicodemus kind of seemed pissed at him.  Apparently he felt Jamie had sloppy oral hygiene or something.  I distinctly remember he referred to him as "James" as he chastised him. 

"Does anyone else have any questions?"  Beverly asked. 

I did.  My grandfather had died when I was six and I sometimes had dreams about him.  I'd wake up filled with this amazing energy; I always felt like we'd had a visit.  Was he really coming to visit me?  I asked.

"Do you believe in your heart that your grandfather is there?" 

I nodded.

"Then he is.  And don't be afraid," Nicodemus continued, "of cancer."

What the?  When it was all over, Beverly remarked on how gentle Nicodemus had been with me, as opposed to the stern tone he'd taken with Jamie.  "Has anyone in your family had cancer?" Bev asked.  Nobody had; up until that point, at least.  I barely gave it a second thought.

When Amy and I stepped outside we felt...odd.  I wasn't quite sure what had happened, but after an experience like that I simply wasn't the same.  We left the Prudential Center feeling different, changed. 

"Maybe I died of cancer in a past life," I wondered to Amy. 

"Maybe," my friend mused, "or it could be you'll die of cancer in this life."  Oy.  I hadn't thought of that.

Amy was dating a Fiji from MIT at the time, and when we returned to the frat house to meet up with our friends, we weren't really sure if we should tell them.  These were math guys, after all; they were never going to believe us!  Also, to tell them felt like it would only cheapen it, so I don't think we went into too much detail.

On lunch break that Monday, I relayed the story to my work friends in great detail.  They sat there in silence, listening raptly, all but one who spent the rest of the summer saying "Nicodemus" to me in a spooky voice.  Oh well.  It isn't a story for everyone.

I did look up Nicodemus in the bible.  And more recently, I did some research (aka: Wikipedia) and learned that he was actually with Jesus, as Beverly had told us.  I still get the chills whenever I think of him.

During my ride home that Sunday on the commuter rail, I frantically documented my account of the evening's events on the fronts and backs of two envelopes.  (All the paper I had with me at the time.)  I knew this was a story I would want to remember.  I have searched all day, in vain, for at least one of those envelopes; but all to no avail.  I never throw anything away!  But keeping things organized is another story.  And so I am forced to write this post entirely from memory.  It was exactly twelve years ago, but that's how it happened.

The other day someone asked me if I "believed" in psychics.  "Uh-huh," I answered, and turned and went about my business.  But in my mind I was thinking, honey, you don't even know the half of it.  xoxo

Back to life, back to reality

In elementary school I had a teacher with a reputation for being a hardass.  Looking back as an adult, I couldn't tell you if she truly was mean or not, but back in those days she certainly fit the mold.  She had flaming red hair, a permanent scowl, and an imposing, hands on hips type of physique. 

She referred to a grade of zero as a goose egg.  She threatened goose eggs pretty much on a daily basis.  In all fairness, I can't say this woman was ever anything but kind to me, but then again I never gave her reason to behave otherwise.  After all, I was no dummy.

She'd also chant, "Time for ketchup, time for ketchup!"

Ketchup?  I always found that one particularly baffling.  I think I might have been in college when I finally figured out that she meant "catch up."  As in, time to catch up on homework. 

It's time for the odd broad to ketchup on life. 

The other day I awoke from the strangest dream, about a friend I hadn't thought about in a long time.  I tore out of bed, frantically flung open the lid on my desk and there it was...

A seemingly harmless pile of papers, stacked a million miles high.  Or, technically, eight inches.  What was lurking in this pile, you may wonder?

Oh, an invitation to a baby shower.  (RSVP by May 15th)

An invitation to a wedding shower (Kindly RSVP by May 1st, and please include a favorite recipe.)

An invitation to a 25th Anniversary party.

Bills upon bills, a postcard from the Shark Vacuum company telling me they'd charged my debit card and were sending my filters in two to three weeks.  To Queens.

A letter from Kittie's insurance company, who also still thought we lived in New York. 

Suddenly I thought of the rest of the things I'd allowed to pile up:  The email from my friend in Colorado who'd recently given birth, complete with pictures of her newborn baby girl.  I hadn't responded.  I hadn't even opened the picture files, in fact.  The warm email from my old boss.  The emails from hubby's Grandpa. 

Now, I wouldn't exactly label myself as anal, but I do like to think of myself as moderately thoughtful.  May was a horrible month, but I'm shocked and amazed that I'd allowed things to pile up so drastically.

And now, I will ketchup, one RSVP at a time, which is really the best I can do.

Sincerely,

Ms. Bad Manners xoxo

F bombs on aisle nine

On Mother's Day I stopped into Shaw's to pick up the last bunch of flowers I would ever buy my grandmother. 

I chose tulips for Nanny and decided my mom might like some miniature purple roses in dainty little tins.  They were so impossibly pretty, I hoped maybe they'd cheer her up.  Although, did a few of the roses look wilted?  I popped my head around the corner and discovered a woman working behind the flower area, putting together arrangements.  She was having a conversation with an elderly man.  They weren't talking flowers, mainly they were just shooting the breeze.

I made myself visible, my arms bulging with bags and plants and flowers, but the woman still wouldn't acknowledge me.

I was running late.  Immediate action was necessary.  "Excuse me, I'm sorry to interrupt, but I just have a quick question about these flowers..."

BAD choice, Odd Broad.  The old buck went effing ballistic.  Now that I had a good look at him, I did notice he was kind of off his rocker.  He was wearing a Yankees baseball cap and when he opened his mouth to yell at me I saw he was missing some teeth. 

"You just interrupted us!  How dare you!  You rude, fucking, bitch!"

Awesome.

The flower woman looked totally nonplussed.  "That's not nice, she said 'excuse me'..."

"I don't care!  I was talking and she interrupted me!  She's a bitch!"  He leveled his wild eyes back on mine.  "YOU are a BITCH!"

As there appeared to be a brief window of opportunity in between the scolding, I decided it might be a nice time to pose my question.  "Do these flowers look wilted?"  The woman assured me that she'd just gotten the roses in the day prior, so they were very fresh, and I was on my merry way.  The old devil was still railing, going on about what a horrible bitch I was. 

I knew this poor soul probably had a touch of the dementia, but I'm not going to lie; his impromptu nastiness made my eyes sting with a moisture that was entirely involuntary.  Let's face it, I was already in a somber mood to begin with.  "Thank you," I said to the woman.  "Have a nice day," I said to the old dickhead.  It figured he was a Yankees fan. 

As I walked away I could hear them talking, and the old man was already regretting his outburst.  A second later he came around the corner and repented.  "You did say excuse me; I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called you a bitch, that was wrong of me."

"That's okay, sir.  It's alright."

He then disappeared behind the wall and I heard his friend tell him she was proud of him and that it was very nice of him to have apologized.

Nobody around had witnessed this oddity, save me, flower lady and old Yankee dude.  I glanced about to see if there wasn't some stranger I could roll my eyes at, laugh, and say, "Can you believe it?  Never a dull moment," that sort of thing.  But my sudden need to commiserate only made me appear creepy.  A woman dressed in traditional Indian garb actually hurried away from me with her shopping cart.

I walked home, the sun beating down on me.  I was starting to sweat.  On the way, I passed a man begging for spare change who said, "Nice flowers." 

Thanks.

That was the last day I saw Nan alive.  I put the tulips on top of her television set; she'd gotten so many flowers she was running out of table space.  I don't think she knew who I was, so I never really got to say goodbye.  I wanted a moment alone with her, to tell her...I don't even know what.  Anyway, I never got the chance.  So I'm going to tell her now, on the world wide web: You made me laugh.  You were beautiful and brave, and I always wanted to make you proud.  You were a constant, irreplaceable staple in my life, and now you're gone, and a part of me just can't believe it.

And...Nanny, an old man called me a bitch on Mother's Day, at the grocery store.  Can you believe it?

Girls with long noses shouldn't wear hoods.

Sometimes in life things happen that are too hurtful, too mortifying and uncomfortable to even acknowledge, let alone recall on the world wide web.

What can I say?  I'm a masochist.

Picture it: Southern California, October, 1999.  It was my Senior year of college and I'd flown across the country to see Hubby, my then boyfriend, who'd had to leave school and move back home.  We were twenty. 

When Hubby left Boston I was heartbroken, wretched, distracted, woebegone; you get the idea.  The Odd Broad was a total effing train wreck.  This boy was my soul mate!  And suddenly he was gone.  I couldn't get out to California fast enough!

It was my second to last day in California and we were taking a nice drive along the sunny PCH.  Back then Hubby was driving around in a red Dodge convertible whose top was perpetually down.  (We had no choice about the latter, I suppose, since the roof wouldn't really go back up.) 

Dear Reader, I'm just going to come out and say it:  I have a long nose.  I don't know why, really; my mother, father and sister certainly don't have long noses!  They have tiny baby noses.  I suppose my grandfather had a longish nose, however, and now it seems that I do, too.

But I digress.  Hubby and I zoomed along the highway, my hair whipping violently into my face, eyes and mouth.  I decided to pull up the hood on my light blue fleece sweatshirt.  (Can you see this story is heading somewhere painful?  Get out while you can!)

It happened in slow motion, really.  I can still see their car approaching us on the left, from behind.  Inside were about three or four large African-American teenage girls, and one of them called out:

"She has a big ass nose!"

Only she didn't say it like that; she said it more like: She has a Big (pause) Ass (dreadful pause) NOSE!  Her last word was sort of spat out in an awful, high pitched yelp.

What was that?

Oh Reader, I died a thousand deaths!  Had Hubby heard?  No, surely not!  He couldn't have heard!  Sweet Baby Jesus, if he had heard, then surely I would die!  There was no other alternative.

Barely moving my blue hooded head, I peered over at Hubby out of the corner of my eye, as inconspicuously as humanly possible.  He couldn't have heard.

Just then he picked up my hand, kissed it, and quietly whispered, "I love you baby."

Oh Christ Jesus!  He HAD heard them!!!!

The next day I flew back to Boston.  Hubby and I waited until the last possible moment to say goodbye.  I didn't want to leave.  He didn't want me to leave.  We exhibited massive amounts of public displays of affection.  As I walked tearfully down the jetway, a strong feeling in the pit of my stomach told me to turn around.  Later, Hubby would tell me that he'd hoped I might turn around.

I didn't turn around.  I boarded that plane back to the East coast, crying all the way.  I called Sissy from a payphone on my layover, still weepy.  "Oh, Sissy, I miss him so much!  Although I kind of don't know what I'm more sad about, leaving California, or the fact that a group of girls on the highway said I had a big ass nose!"

"Who said WHAT to you, now?" 

My older sister made me feel better in the special way that only she can.  (She has a gift.)  But she also strongly advised me to never wear hoods.

To the few poor souls on this planet with whom I'm closely intimate with, my life is an open book.  But Reader, I am not without ego.  It would be years and years before I'd muster the courage to actually mention this episode to my husband, and even then I was probably drunk at the time.  "Do you remember when..."

I'd never been sure, see?  Had he heard?  But oh, Hubby remembered.  And he'd definitely heard.  Sniff sniff. 

Girls with long noses shouldn't wear hoods.  It just doesn't look nice.

A case of mistaken identity

Last night Hubby and I went to hear our friend Corey's band play at Church. 

I can be insecure.  I like to think it's part of my charm.  So when a husky, sturdy looking blond woman gave me a dirty look the minute we walked in, my initial thoughts were: Is my dress too short?  Why did I wear these leggings?  etc. and so on.  I had to be imagining it, right?  Because it did seem an awful lot like this woman wanted to...kill me.

Truth was, my outfit actually had very little to do with why she was giving me the evil eye.  She thought I was somebody else, you see.

"Oh, you know her, you know who SHE is," she slurred to the lead singer's girlfriend, who for her part looked absolutely mortified.  There was another woman standing next to them who looked a bit less hostile than blondie, but even more intoxicated.  She was celebrating her 43rd birthday and licked my hand when I put it out for her to shake.  What the?

It was pretty much the filthiest thing a stranger has ever done to me.  After I'd scrubbed up in the bathroom, more drama ensued.  The brawny blond was walking towards us again, saying something malevolent yet unintelligible.  This broad was two times my size and looked like she could do some real damage.   

When I went over to Hubby and informed him that two ginormous ladies wanted to beat me up, he looked at me like I'd lost my mind.  Surely I must be overreacting?  I felt like that old lady in Throw Momma from the train.  ("They're trying to kill me!")

I looked up at my husband with genuinely concerned eyes and reminded him that I don't really ask for much, (that made him chuckle), but at that moment I needed him to protect me from two strapping brutes who for some unknown reason wanted to hurt me. 

I'm not going to lie; I was outsized and a little terrified.  Hubby kept his arm around me for the rest of the evening, but at one point he had to hit up the men's room and warned me to watch my back. 

HA HA.  So funny I forgot to laugh.

Luckily for me, Blondie and her gentleman companion ended up getting into a brawl and were escorted out of the establishment.  I'm not really sure what happened to Licky McGee.  She was cutting a rug on the dance floor for a while and then all of a sudden she was gone. 

After the show, I found out from the lead singer that the women did indeed think I was somebody else, namely a girl, also brunette and dressed in black, who'd been putting her drinks on other people's tabs earlier that night.  He thought she may have been a hooker or something?

So apparently I looked like a prostitute.  (A prostitute wearing a dress from Ann Taylor Loft.  What the?)  But they really did want to clobber me!  It wasn't all a figment of my imagination!  What a relief.

The singer apologized and said his acquaintances (actually the wife of his boss and her friend) were ordinarily very nice people who'd simply had way too much to drink.  They'd attended the Yanks/Red Sox game at 4:00 and had spent the rest of the afternoon boozing it up while waiting for the show to begin.  I feel I should mention, the band didn't go on until midnight.  Hiccup.

It's quite possible that these folks are lovely, upstanding citizens, but let's face it, I'm just relieved they didn't bash my face in. 

I'm a writer, not a fighter!  xoxo

Thanks, FDA!

This week I honestly thought I was losing my mind.  But it turns out I was only taking Zyrtec.

Have you ever ingested this over-the-counter anti-histamine, Dear Reader?  And if so, did it by any chance turn you into a raving lunatic? 

I had no idea what was wrong with me until today, when I googled "Zyrtec side effects" and discovered a host of telling information.  It's making people crazy!

Some of the symptoms patients described include (and I quote): malaise, frustration, rage, aggression, excessive irritability, defiant behavior, severe mood swings, impatience, tearfulness, depression, disproportionate anger, suicidal thoughts, uncontrollable tantrums, erratic sleep patterns, night terrors.  That sounds about right.  One woman said this medicine turned her sweet daughter into a "demon child."  Another told her husband she wanted a divorce.

If I were to write my own personal list of side effects for this medicine, it might be as follows: spontaneous spitefulness, semi-functional despair, the strong urge to wallow in bed and compulsively watch consecutive episodes of As Time Goes By; impatience with hair, especially bangs, to the point of tears; terrible, twisted nightmares... 

Last night I dreamt that several of my co-workers wanted me to saw off their fingers with a steak knife!  And I didn't want to do it.

Yay, Zyrtec! 

My body is still getting used to the ever changing Boston climate.  If I wish to stay sane, however, I guess I'm just going to have to suck it up.  After all, a runny nose and sinus headache seem far more preferable than feeling like a hopeless, crotchety, drugged up zombie.

Pretty Girl

It was almost 2:00 pm today when I glanced in the bathroom mirror at work and realized there was dried toothpaste on the corner of my mouth.  Granted, it had been a busy morning and I hadn't taken a bathroom break up until then, but still.  What must people think?

And here I was thinking I was having a cute day!  At least my shirt wasn't on inside out. 

Does this mean I'll get a $5 million book deal, too?

Why is it whenever somebody begins a sentence with, "Has anybody ever told you you look just like..." I immediately want to cover their mouth with duct tape? 

Let's face it, they're never going to finish that sentence in the way I expect (or hope) they would.  This afternoon I was in the elevator when a middle aged man standing on my right turned to me and asked, "Has anyone ever told you that you bear a slight resemblance to..."

Alright.  Who was it going to be this time?  I told my inner child to block her ears and braced myself for the stranger's oncoming observation...

Tina Fey. 

Ok, so that's one I haven't heard before.  I will attribute this unwanted midday elevator parallelism to being a brunette who happened to be wearing glasses. 

Mind you we still had about ten floors to go.

"Nope, nobody's ever told me I look like Tina Fey.  But that's...interesting."

(And by interesting I do mean would you shut the @%$# up!!!!????)

I should be grateful he didn't say Celine Dion.  That one really smarted. 

She bangs! She bangs!

Cutting bangs always seems like an irresistibly charming idea at the time.  Why, just over a month ago my fringe was short, stylish, trendy...

Of course, now it is long, infuriating, and WING-LIKE.  I could very possibly take flight.

I don't know about you, Dear Reader, but I feel a Ricky Martin song coming on...

Hi, Clay

When I call loved ones from my cell phone more often than not they answer me thusly:

Hi, Clay.

No, I am not named Clay.  But the previous owner of my current cell number apparently was.  For whatever reason I haven't rectified this confusion with my cell phone provider, probably because most of the time I forget all about it until I call my sister or mother and they answer, in a low, droning tone:

Hi, Clay.

Sometimes Clay gets texts.  And sometimes I answer back.  This holiday season he received quite a few, actually, the most thoughtful being:

December 25, 2008 8:23:55 AM

Money Is Short.  Times Are Hard.  I Just Texted ur Ass ur Christmas Card.

Sincerely, ur broke ass friend, ME ;)

MERRY CHRISTMAS CLAY!

The odd choice in sporadic capitalization intrigued me.  I began to wonder, which texts warrant a reply, anyway?  Am I obligated to answer each and every one of Clay's friends, informing them he's changed his number? 

Hubby suggested I write:

Clay isn't here...because I killed him.  

or:

Stop harassing me, you asshole!

or:

Haven't I told you never to contact me again, psycho??!!!

But it was the holiday season and that might not be nice.  I attempted to form a reply that was polite, yet clear:

This isn't Clay.

No, that wouldn't do, they might think Clay was joking.  Kind of like the way my mother used to suddenly turn to me as a child, her eyes wide, an unpleasant smile creeping across her face, and say: "I'm not your mother..."

That still scares me.

But is Clay a jokester?

Hi, sorry, this isn't Clay.

Hmmm.  Could this texter be a past love interest?  Might they think Clay's new lover was simply answering his texts?  Does Clay get around? 

Hi, sorry this isn't Clay's phone.

Better.  Regretful and yet concise.  I mean, how close could they have been if Clay never bothered to give them his new contact information?  My guess is not very.

Do you ever receive random texts from total strangers, Dear Reader?  And if so, do you reply?