The Odd Broad

On my lunch break

Pigeons are brazen and annoying.  But I still don't like it when people kick at them.

I've come outside this afternoon to feel the sun on my face.  And that's okay, since I'm wearing spf 15.

Someone muttering about God sits on my left.  The man on my right is arguing with someone who isn't even there, or is at least not visible to the general public.  He smells.  The pigeons are everywhere.  But I don't kick at them because I'm a good person.

Behind me, by the Irish Famine Memorial, a singer accompanies himself on acoustic guitar.  His singing style sounds like someone familiar, but I can't quite pinpoint who.  He sings Wonderwall, but he's singing it slowly, gloomily.  The Gallagher brothers would be none too pleased.  I picture them scowling at him, in a manner most surly.

When the breeze blows it's cold and stings my skin.  But just as soon as it arrives, it suddenly subsides.  It reminds me of being at the beach, when a cloud moves in front of the sun and momentarily blocks out all the warmth and light.  The sun is hidden, but I know it will return if I'm patient.  I'm trusting that life is like the weather. 

My break's over.  Time to go back inside.  Later, pigeons.

 

Bring a change of clothing?

Not too long ago, I read an article about how a certain nearby hospital had asked their workers to stop wearing their scrubs to and from work, because they were spreading germs and endangering the general public.  What the? 

I'd never really thought about it before, but it certainly makes sense.  If those blue pants are unsullied in the morning, how clean will they be after sitting on the filthy, nasty subway?  And if these docs have been wearing their scrubs all day at work, think about the reverse situation on the commute home.  Eeew.

I don't know about you, but being on the subway and being in a hospital evoke within me the same dire need to suddenly sanitize myself.  Or at the very least, my hands.  And now, it seems I'm seeing people wearing scrubs all over Boston!  On the T, at the salad bar, and just this morning, passing me in a Volvo...

Could they perhaps commute in sweats?  If only to appease germophobes like myself?  The docs on Grey's always seem to change into trendy attire when they leave Seattle Grace!  You'll never catch McSteamy hanging out at The Emerald City Bar in his dirty scrubs!

PS: I don't go to any salad bars.  I made that one up.  I thought it sounded good.  The other two examples are totally for reals.

I'm sensitive and I'd like to stay that way...

I suppose it's inevitable that sometimes in life people are just going to make me mad.  Boiling mad.  So mad I could scream, or cry, or cut the offender's face out of group photos.  (Don't get nervous for me, Dear Reader, this really doesn't  occur all that often.  And furthermore, sometimes it can be very fun to do creative things with those tiny faces after they've been removed.)

But I digress.  What I'm getting at here is there are people I've been close to my entire life who lately feel like strangers.  I've been telling myself I don't care, that I shouldn't care, but deep down I know that I do. 

What irritates me the most is the constant biting of my tongue, the polite restraint, the respectful manner in which I'm expected to treat these people, even as they act irrational; even as they say mean things behind my back, or my loved one's backs, and sometimes even to our faces.  

Seeing as The Odd Broad usually makes it a point to try and treat people with respect, I'm usually quite surprised when someone shows me an unkindness.  Which leads me to yesterday.  Since my grandmother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer back in December, the people in my extended family have been dealing with the news in various ways.  Truth be told, I don't care for the way some of them are dealing.  Yesterday when I tried to clear the air by lightheartedly (but directly) acknowledging the fact that my mother, sister and I were being treated by some people as if we weren't even in the room, I was pretty much kicked in the balls, figuratively speaking.

On the surface, I smiled and brushed it off.  Inside, of course, I was enraged.  But if people choose to behave in a delusional manner, why am I going to suffer over it?  Why am I going to cry over it?  Why am I going to feel wronged if they judge me, when I judge them right back? 

Incidentally, yesterday my horoscope said the following:

Sagittarius:  Personal growth is happening under the surface today and you can feel yourself stretching out in exciting new ways. 

I don't really know about exciting, but I like the idea of looking at what happened on Saturday as an invitation for personal growth.  And so, even though my ego has been bruised, and my feelings hurt, I'm willing to entertain the possibility of forgiveness for these dingleberries, even if only for my own self interest.  You see, it pains me to be angry at these someone(s), and that's not doing me any good.  (And it's driving my husband insane!)

I'm not going to get all spiritual on you, but I'd like to let you in on something personal.  Marianne Williamson once recommended we say the following to people who have hurt us: "I forgive you (person's name), and I release you to the Holy Spirit."  Now, this little phrase has been working for me for years.  Even if I don't necessarily feel like forgiving the person in question, I find there's something quite powerful about uttering that sentence.  It melts my heart, opens me up, allows me to remember the other asshole's person's humanity.  The outer circumstances may or may not ever change, but internally, a real shift occurs.  Even if I repeat, I forgive you, douchebag, and I release you to the Holy Spirit; just the simple fact that I'm saying it helps.

Is there anyone who has pissed you off, Dear Reader?  Is there someone you need to forgive?  In the middle of all this bullshit, I'm trying to keep my class and be more like my amazing mother, but it's not always easy.  Spilling my guts on the world wide web seems to help, though.  Thanks for listening.  xoxo

PS: I suppose when it comes right down to it, I'd been looking for people to fantasize about while playing boxing on Wii Fit.  Looks like my prayers have been answered.  Sweet Hallelujah!

My 9/25ths life crisis

The other day somebody brought to my attention that I couldn't possibly be having a mid life crisis unless I expect to perish at the untimely age of sixty.  (Admittedly, math has never been my strong suit.)  Seeing as I definitely don't plan on checking out at sixty, I began to wonder just how to categorize my current state of existential unease.  It begs for a name, you see, and yet I don't have the foggiest idea what to call it. 

I was going to have to do some math.  If I expect to live to my mid eighties, say, then my true mid life crisis will come in exactly 12.5 years, when I'm 42.5 years old.  So in the summer of 2021, I will plan on having myself a proper, respectable mid life crisis.  Hooray!  What to do in the meantime, though?

I can't accurately label this a quarter life crisis unless I plan on living to be 120.  Furthermore, my calculations tell me that my quarter life crisis has already come and gone, and happened when I was 21.25 years old.  Looking back on my earliest twenties, this certainly seems about right.

If I wanted to call this a 1/3rds life crisis then I should have done so back in 2007, when I turned twenty-eight.  (Why am I always late for everything?)  And my 2/5ths life crisis won't arrive for another four years.

So it's not a mid, and it's definitely not a quarter; hell, it's not even a one thirds!  So what the eff is it?

Hubby figures I am 35% done living.  He says that's about  9/25ths.  But a 9/25ths life crisis doesn't sound very exciting, does it?  It sort of just makes me sound mental.

I suppose what I'm feeling these days just can't be pigeonholed.  

When I first met my husband, he introduced me to his favorite punk band, NOFX.  We even went to see them in concert a few times.  (Picture the Odd Broad in a mosh pit!)  This afternoon I found myself distracted from my maniacal cleaning frenzy by a NOFX reality series airing on the Fuse channel.  Before I knew it, a song popped into my head, the Theme From A NOFX Album.  The lyrics revolve around the fact that the guys are all over thirty, and doing just fine.  Granted, when the song came out back in 2000 I really didn't give two craps about turning thirty.  (Because I was twenty-one then, and enjoying my quarter life crisis.)

And with that, my 9/25ths began to dissipate.  Once again, punk rock saves the day.  And so, Dear Reader, I leave you with a song...

A list of Random Musings

Reader, I'm sitting here at my keyboard, achy, pms-ing, and not really knowing quite what to write to you about tonight.  Perhaps I'll just tell you everything.  Or, I'll make like a Facebook note and tell you:

Thirteen Things You Probably Never Needed To Know About The Odd Broad

1.) I am surprisingly bitter about the most random of things lately.  I've even tried to burn a few bridges, though I'm not sure the intended recipients were paying attention so it didn't count. 

2.) I'm pissed that Hosea won Top Chef. 

3.) For the first time in my life I'm considering joining a gym.  Hopefully I won't catch a staff infection.

4.) I'm still coming to terms with turning thirty.  Sometimes I think I'm having a mid-life crisis.

5.) My hard earned, pristine credit score was recently shat upon because the people at ACS are heartless, soulless sons of bitches.  Damn you, student loan debt and all your evil minions!  Damn you to the hottest crevices of Hell!  (Satan's ass?)

6.) Today Hubby purchased a Wii Fit.  I have been consistently and passionately lobbying against the Wii for quite some time now, mainly because I am tired of listening to everyone gush about how wonderful and entertaining it is.  For that matter, the same goes for reading the Twilight series, although I'm shockingly close to opening that can of worms. 

7.) I thought the Oscar's were really interesting this year.  Did you?  Granted, the Baz Luhrmann musical extravaganza made me a bit nervous, but overall I could appreciate what he was aiming for.

8.) I don't like it when people think ill of me.  And yet two weeks ago, I was on the phone with my grandmother and made a semi-derogatory (but necessary) comment about one of my uncles and then heard him say, "You're on speakerphone, Sarah."  Creepiest.  Moment.  Ever. 

9.) I got my hair dyed on Saturday.  Not because I wanted to, but because I had to.  I have crossed a new threshold and now there's no turning back.

10.) Hubby wrote something so sweet on my Valentine's card that I keep sneaking back to re-read it again and again.  Eleven years together and the guy still gives me butterflies.

11.) Sometimes I think Hubby and I aren't going to have children.  At least not any time soon.  But this morning I pressed my snooze alarm for a total of thirty minutes because I didn't want to stop having the dream about the dark haired little girl whom I was feeding tiny bits of Trader Joe's freeze-dried mango to.  I pressed that snooze button until nearly eight o'clock, just so I could keep on dreaming.  Go figure.

12.) I want a vacation.  I need a vacation.  Alas, we're too poor to go on vacation.  And so I drink.

13.) Hubby's breaking in the Wii right now and I'm kind of scared he's going to accidentally swipe me in the head.

Happy Friday Dear Reader xoxo

Two years of Oddity!

January 21st marked the two year anniversary of this little online journal.  In light of this, I plan to imbibe bubbly intoxicants and eat foodstuffs that are bad for me. 

In case you're wondering; that means YOU, Cadbury Creme Eggs, that means you.

My quiet little rut

In hindsight, as I sit at home typing on Martin Luther King day, Michael Chiarello's groovy voice emanating from my television, it dawns on me that the past five months have been a bit of a whirlwind: I quit my job of four years, found a new one; my husband quit his job, quit his band, and together we changed cities.  Hubby went back to school and finished up this semester with a GPA that is nothing less than shiny and beautiful.  And Reader, I am just so proud of him.  Hubby turned thirty, I turned thirty, the holidays were suddenly upon us, my Nan was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, the year became 2009, and somewhere along the line I fell into a big, bad, ugly rut. 

Don't you just hate ruts?

As for turning thirty, I know some people like to hear that it's fab, wonderful, no big deal; but if you ask me, turning twenty-nine in New York was a hell of a lot more fun.  And that's okay.  C'est la vie. 

As for my grandmother becoming sick, well, I don't really know what I want to write about that.  I will say I worry a lot about my mom lately.  Though she'll tell me I'm silly, I've always felt protective when it comes to her.  I may be thirty, but she's still my mommy.

It's not as if I've been refusing to get out of bed or forgetting to apply eyeliner; no, it hasn't been that kind of a rut.  More of a low grade, functional variety.  And yet, I can't help but feel terribly hopeful.  Who wouldn't, on the eve of this presidential inauguration? 

Three things I simply have to keep reminding myself: 

It's okay to feel blah.

Ask and I shall receive.

If all else fails, remember to breathe.

xoxo

I caught you a delicious bass

Apart from prize fighters, wrestlers and jockeys, I don't know many people who would willingly disclose their body dimensions to all and sundry.  Do you?  So why is it whenever someone has a baby they feel compelled to share its exact height and weight, right down to the ounce and half inch?  And if they don't, why is it always one of the first things people ask? 

I've never given this parental custom much thought until today, when I received the most recent in a string of emails announcing the births of various co-worker's children.  This latest baby girl is healthy, beautiful and weighs in at 7 pounds, 4.5 ounces and is 19.5 inches long.

As I pondered this information a thought suddenly occurred to me:

Is she a Prize-Winning Striped Bass?  A Bigeye Tuna?  A King Mackerel?  Is she a Real Beaut?  Will she be forced to endure endless photo ops, Dad dangling her by her toes, Mom beaming and giving the thumbs up? 

Just wondering.

2009

I kept telling myself I didn't have any New Year's resolutions, but it's become quite clear I do.  It finally occurred to me today, ironically just as I was telling someone that no, I didn't have any.  (Well, smell YOU, Nancy Drew!) 

In 2009, I resolve to...

...try and do Qi Gong at least three times a week.  It's a twenty-four minute workout that makes me feel calm and zen, why can't I just effing do it?

...live more in the moment, and try not to allow the past or future to piss me off and make me have fights in my head with people who aren't even there.  (Yes, you've guessed right, somebody's re-reading her copy of A New Earth!)

...refrain from eating these.

...clean out the closet in the bedroom so we'll actually be able to hang our clothes.  (Seriously, it's a disgrace.)

...order less takeout.

...not be late for work.  (Be early, perhaps?)

...refrain from boozing on weeknights.

...make friend(s) in Boston.  (For the love of God, it's time.)

...let my cuticles heal.

There!  A hefty list, but not overly ambitious.  What are your resolutions for 2009, Dear Reader?  xoxo

3-0.

Picture it: December, 1988.  A young Odd Broad stands with hands on hip in her front yard, her bunny like front teeth chattering in the cold, her mullet inspired home perm blowing in the December wind.  She is nine years old going on ten, and simply not ready to enter into the realm of double digits. 

Everything about turning ten scared me.

OK, so I've always harbored a bit of a Peter Pan complex.  I haven't really thought about it for the better part of this decade and yet, in two days I am turning thirty.  My twenty-something period is fast fading and there is absolutely nothing I can possibly do to stop it!

What can I say?  I was one of those six year olds who would lie awake at night, surrounded by my Glow Worms, pondering mortality.  But here I am, on the eve of a brand new decade.

Thirty, you bastard, here I come!  Geronimo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!