The Odd Broad

On the wagon, sans Riesling

Picture it: 2002, in the kitchen of a restaurant in Chelsea, New York City.  A young Odd Broad had had too much caffeine and remarked to her coworker, in a thick Massachusetts accent, "Jeez, I'm shaking like I've got the DT's!" 

This was a phrase my grandmother used to say.  Not that she ever had the DT's, of course, she rarely ever drank.  I suppose I'd never really thought about the meaning behind it.  Either way, my friend certainly didn't find it very amusing.

"Do you know what that means, Sarah?"

Shit.  "Um, (pause), sure, isn't it when you shake because you're going through withdrawals from...drinking?"

"Yes, that's exactly what it means.  I just wanted to make sure you knew.  Sorry, I have a father in the program."

Yikes.  If I could have disappeared into the tuna tartar, I would have.  I felt bad.  Later, I learned that this girl was also in the program.  And then I felt very bad.

And I digress.  What I really wanted to tell you was that for the next two weeks, Hubby and I are giving up drinking.  For what it's worth, that sentence doesn't really sound nice in polite conversation.  If you don't believe me, try saying it out loud sometime.

I'm giving up drinking for the next two weeks.  Nine inconsequential words, but when linked together in this fashion, it does cause one to wonder:

Why are you giving up drinking for the next two weeks?  Do you have some sort of...problem?

Do I?  Am I addicted?  Is drinking white wine on weeknights...bad?  Is wanting to drink bad?  Do I need it?  Can I stop?  Will I get the DT's?

I broached the subject with my mother and sister last Saturday night and the two of them burst into giddy hysterics, right there in the middle of Victoria's Diner.  I think what finally set them off was when I told them I thought I should maybe "talk to someone" about my rampant drinking. 

"Here we go, now she's an alcoholic!"  Reader, they could barely get the words out.  There were tears of laughter in their eyes, for crying out loud.  The waiters were staring. 

Not that they're heartless or unconcerned; I guess they just know me all too well.  I suppose I can be prone to dramatics; and maybe slightly impressionable with a dash of hypochondria.  (I was the type of child who longed for poor eyesight, just so I could wear glasses.  I read Go Ask Alice and wondered if I too might turn into a drug addicted hippie living in the late 1960's.  When I bought a box of caffeine pills in college, Sissy accused me of trying to become addicted, just to get attention.  That sort of thing.) 

And so my relatives merely assumed I was being melodramatic, inventing a situation, if you will.  But honestly, I do sometimes worry that I may be pickling my liver in Riesling and Sauv blanc!  And the idea of having a bit of a detox is definitely an alluring one.

My sister continues to be supportive.  "One day at a time," she text messages me.  Smart ass.  She also called to inform me there's a weekly AA meeting in her neighborhood every Tuesday evening, if I'd like to attend.  "Let go and let God,"  I text back.

It's day four of my recovery now.  I'll keep you posted.

The Inquiry

Wii Fit keeps asking Hubby where I am.  I'm not sure what he's telling it, but I am afraid.  I am very afraid.

Convalescing

The past forty-eight hours have rendered me quite out of commission; lying feebly on the couch, too sickly to go to work, talk on the phone, surf the net or watch trash tv.  Too run-down, even, to sneak in a mid-week post to you, Dear Reader!

At one point I did rally myself enough to eat several helpings of heavily buttered toast and watch the story of Coco Chanel on Lifetime. 

Hubby is an indulgent nursemaid; brewing me unlimited cups of herbal tea, toasting up wheat bread, bringing me bowls of chicken noodle soup.  Although yesterday when I remarked that I still couldn't breathe very well, he gave me a warm hug and suggested, "Well, maybe you should take a shower?"  (Thanks, love!)

Most upsetting about my current condition is the fact that it's prevented me from playing on our new Wii Fit, whom I'm growing rather fond of.  Ours wasn't always a match made in heaven.  Oh, we had a bit of a rocky patch that first afternoon when he informed me my real age was forty-eight.  He also inquired if I often trip over myself?  But that's all in the past, because shortly thereafter he was calling me a Calorie Scorcher.  He also warned that I was running too fast and might injure myself.  By day three he told me my real age was thirty-one. 

Thirty-one!!??  Thanks, Wii Fit!!  

I'm so glad I'm on the mend, for I long to hula-hoop, and ski, and walk on a tightrope, and travel downstream in a magic bubble that I mustn't let pop. 

P.S.

I feel I should add a visual addendum to my last post, seeing as SOMEONE got up early enough this morning to not only make steel cut oats, but also to eat them, and most importantly...to tell you all about it.  Yay fiber! 

Of course this probably means I'll be late for work...xoxo

Fiber

Everyone's talking about Steel Cut Oats.  (OK, when I say everyone, I really mean Oprah.)  The funny thing is, when Hubby first took note of my newly found obsession with said oats, the first words out of his ever observant mouth were, "Who says to eat steel cut oats...Oprah?"  For some reason I chose to deny this accusation vehemently.  Until now. 

Lately I've really wanted to buy myself a nice tub of steel cut oats, until I discovered they took over twenty-five minutes to prepare.  This deterred me only briefly, however, as I found some yesterday at Trader Joe's that require a mere eight minutes cooking time!  I can spare eight lousy minutes in the morning, can I not? 

Hubby doesn't think I'm ever going to make the steel cut oats.  He believes they are going to sit in our cabinet collecting dust for the next two to three years.  We've been down this road before.

I'm not sure I disagree. 

Wear Red!

Friday, February 6th is National Wear Red Day. 

Heart disease is the #1 killer among women.  Click here to learn about ways to prevent it.  xoxo

My chi needs tweaking

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

xoxo

Holy Moley!

May was skin cancer awareness month, though I didn't realize this until yesterday when I perused the June issue of Health magazine.  Olay was even sponsoring free skin cancer screenings throughout the month of May, a lovely gesture that I wish I'd known about earlier.  Health claims these free screenings continue through July, but the doctor's offices I called in NY all told me they ended in May...

Gratis or not, this Broad has scheduled an appointment with a dermatologist and I enthusiastically urge you to do the same.  After all, it doesn't take much time and it's something kind to do for yourself.

My tanning bed hopping ways and I have parted (it was an amicable split, though now we're not on speaking terms) and these days I wear moisturizer with sunscreen on my face every day.  I'm trying to get hubby to do the same, but he needs a little prodding.  I fear I'm going to have to buy him his own special bottle of Manscreen.  It's imperative, though.  Let's face it, Mother Nature is pissed...either that or she's going through menopause.

Dearest Reader, please wear your SPF, and consider scheduling a skin cancer screening!  XOXO