The Odd Broad

The Accidental Carnivore (or "Pork You")

As you may have heard me already mention, on September 1st I decided to give up meat.  Well, actually, I tried to become Vegan and succeeded for a good two weeks, but there are times when I desperately hanker for a hunk of cheese.  (So I've eaten a bit of feta.  And what's homemade pesto without the parmesan?)

I've come down with the flu twice since this experiment began, and after talking to two long-term vegetarians who recently began eating fish, I decided that maybe I should give it a try as well.  (Making me more of a Pescatarian?)  I've eaten shrimp twice and one night we baked some cod.  I've never particularly liked fish, but I liked it that night, because I was a woman on the edge. 

I want to be clear though: I've eaten no red meat, or milk, or butter; no chicken stock, even, which I probably consider to be the most difficult staple to do without.  There have been no evenings filled with roasted pork tenderloin, no Thai basil chicken.  Mashed potatoes certainly don't taste the same without milk, but you won't find me adding any to my spuds.  No siree, Barbara. 

This is something I've taken very seriously.  Nobody can believe I've lasted this long, least of all myself.  Just yesterday, in fact, I privately marveled at how amazing it was that I hadn't eaten chicken, pork, or beef since the start of September.  Pretty freaking monumental, if I do say so myself.  (Smug-e-ty smug smug smug.  Smug as a bug in a rug.)

I plopped down on the couch next to Hubby and proceeded to watch Ina Garten grill beef sliders.  (Oh, I haven't given up watching other people prepare meat, masochist that I am.)  I continue to lust after meat.  Even as I mentally replay the image of those poor chickens being sent to the slaughter in the PETA video, it still can't totally curb my desire to bake them in a pot pie.  Old instincts die hard, I suppose.

Beef sliders.  Beef sliders covered in melted cheese.  They looked nice.  Real nice.  And then it hit me.  It hit me like a ton of bricks.  It was as if someone had dropped a cow on me.

"OH MY GOD!!!!!"

I gasped in horror and covered my mouth with my hands.  I stared blankly at my husband, unable to utter another word.  (Yes, it was all very dramatic and musical theatre but what do you want from me?)

"What?  What's the matter?  What is it?"

It would be a good forty seconds before I could spit it out, and even then I didn't want to say it.  Because if I said it, then it would be true.  And it couldn't be true, although I knew there was no denying it. 

"I FUCKING ATE MEAT YESTERDAY."

Mother f*cker.  Reader, it was true.  Something about those mini sliders had jogged my memory.  I was flabbergasted.  I'd fallen off the wagon, and hadn't even realized! 

Sliders.  The day prior was the Halloween party at work, and I was in charge of it.  Sliders were on the menu; cute little sliders with tiny buns and little tomato slices.  My mom was in town and she and Sissy brought Lukey the Wonder Nephew to the party.  (He was the cutest damn cowboy you ever did see, complete with John Wayne swagger.)  I'd been quite busy all day; all week, for that matter.  At one point I made a plate up for Lukey with a chicken finger, mini pizza and a pig in a blanket.  Our little cowboy went straight for the pizza. 

And that's when it happened.  Like a dream, I can now clearly remember reaching for that chicken finger, and taking one bite, then another.  A minute later, without even being aware, I mechanically popped that frigging mini wiener right into my piehole.  I feel I should mention, I WASN'T EVEN HUNGRY!  And by that time both bits of food were stone cold and therefore not very tasty.  Neither my mother nor my sister thought anything of it, and I didn't either, until the next day at 2:00 pm when I watched the Barefoot Contessa get her grilling on.

Am I a complete nut job?  Who falls off the wagon without noticing?  Is this something people do?  Should I be nervous?  Is my subconscious so starved for pork and poultry that I would accidentally consume it?  Or was I so preoccupied by work duties that I momentarily became a nervous eater? 

If I am to fall off the wagon, I'd like the act to be pre-meditated.  I'd like it to be a fully conscious decision.  I'd like the meal to be...really effing delicious.  Truly worth it, you know?  Not a goddamn mini wiener and a cold chicken finger!

When I went back to Sissy's house that night I even complained that there was nothing for me to eat.  (Because I couldn't eat meat.)  Even that night, when I got home, I remarked to Hubby that the only thing I'd had to eat that day was a crappy slice of pizza.  I really, truly believed this was so.  I reheated some pasta puttenesca, devoured it, drank a glass of wine and promptly fell asleep.

I must be mental.  Do I have early onset Alzheimer's or something?  And here I'd been acting all high and mighty for forgoing eggs and chicken stock when I'd already tumbled head first off the chuck wagon!  And furthermore, I didn't even get to enjoy it! 

If that's not a kick to the balls then I don't know what is.

Poor little chicken.  Poor little piggie.  I'm really very sorry.  I honestly didn't mean to eat you.  xoxo

The Odd Broad wonders...

...why are they still airing Billy Mays commercials?  Is nothing sacred?  Can they not find another cocaine fueled high energy spokesperson to peddle the Jupiter Jack, Awesome Auger, or Big City Sliders?

Rachael Ray comes to mind. 

 

The fish eating money runner

Hubby's brother has a very unique way of recollecting things.  And by unique, what I really mean to say is he remembers things...wildly incorrectly.  Slanderously inaccurately.  The man almost turns it into an art form.

There was that time in college when Hubby told him the only thing to eat in his dorm room were Goldfish (as in, Pepperidge Farm).  Over the years this story has somehow evolved into one in which Hubby cooked a live gold fish in the microwave...and ate it. 

For starters, I know for a fact that those guys did not have a pet gold fish.  Pets weren't even allowed at Berklee, for that matter.  And if they were, my husband certainly would not have eaten one.  The boy was eating crackers.  Tiny, fish shaped crackers.  Delightful, cheese flavored, bite-sized treats that his mother lovingly sent him in a care package.  But don't tell my brother-in-law this, because he will declare you are Dead Wrong. 

When Hubby was sixteen he was best man in his brother's wedding.  By the time he arrived at the bachelor party, all of the guys had been drinking for quite a while.  According to his brother, teenaged Hubby came in the door and immediately downed twelve consecutive shots of tequila in under three minutes. 

The truth is, Hubby probably had three shots.  In reality, twelve shots of anything within a three minute time frame would surely leave one...I don't know, dead?  Dying?

But the biggest, most erroneous, distorted, far fetched tale of all came only yesterday.  Hubby's brother is in town and they were having a visit.  As the two brothers walked around Boston looking for the Tall Ships, Hubby's brother turned to him and said, "Remember when you used to run money for people?"

When Hubby just stared at him blankly, his brother continued: "Remember when you worked as a money runner?  And that time when you had to go to LAX Baggage Claim to pick up a black trash bag with a box in it?"

Hubby said the first thing that came to mind: "Um, no?"

"You don't remember being a money runner?  How can you not remember that?  The box in the trash bag that you ended up taking to the Federal Reserve to deposit it?"

My husband worked in a tuxedo store in high school.  In a mall, for crying out loud!  Hubby said as much, in that calm Hubby way of his: "No, I never ran money for people.  I worked in a tuxedo store.  I worked at the mall."  (Which is why he is able to hem my pants, or sew on a button.) 

Not that this job was without its fair share of titillating excitement: he sold tuxes to the likes of Frasier Crane and Mark Summers (of Double Dare and Unwrapped fame, oh my!)  Later he even worked in a tux store owned by Jim Morrison's nephews (I won't lie, I found the latter exceptionally fascinating.)  But run money?  Hubby?  And what the hell does that phrase even mean anyway?

Apparently, when Hubby allegedly handed the woman at the Federal Reserve "the box," she asked him, "Do you know what's inside this box?" and Hubby allegedly answered "No."  She then handed him a check, for three million dollars, that was signed by the President.  He handed her back the check and walked away.

Hubby's brother would not back down.  "How can you not remember that?  I tell that story to EVERYONE!  What, did it happen to one of my other brothers?"  He gave a hearty guffaw.

Oh boy.  Hubby suggested that perhaps his brother had witnessed this scenario in a movie, or had maybe heard it from a friend of a friend.  In any case, it was definitely NOT HIM.  He did not run money, or anything else, for that matter.

They debated back and forth on this for awhile, and eventually Hubby's brother merely chuckled and gave a merry little shrug.  "Oh well.  I tell that story to everybody!" 

And from the look of things, he will surely continue to do so.  Holy fraternal libel.  Oh brother.

Summer Musings...

I'm coveting the high-collared sleeveless black coat in the display window at Lord and Taylor.  Not that I've ever shopped at Lord and Taylor, and not that I have the disposable income to purchase anything from there at the present moment; but each time I pass that window I give a sort of pained sigh, Garth Algar style: "It will be mine. Oh yes; it will be mine."

I'm jonesing for the damn thing!

Also seen, on the corner of Boylston and Exeter, last Thursday at 5:10 pm: a gentleman driving a white Dining In car, playing a harmonica (with both hands I might add, really quite impressive), jamming out to Walk This Way.  This sight might have been awesome had it not been so quintessentially reckless.  Actually, I take that back, it was still a wondrous thing to behold, albeit a frightening one.  Friends don't let friends drive and rock out on the harmonica.

And lastly, why are the females at Best Cellars on Boylston so goddamn douchy?  I went in to buy a bottle of wine and waited patiently while two saleswomen gabbed leisurely with a couple from New York.  They were ever so amiable and attentive to these people, but never bothered to acknowledge me.  Whatever; it could be I'd forgotten to remove my invisibility cloak.  I do that from time to time.  Plus, the very same thing happened the only other time I went in there, so I wasn't really all that surprised.  On I waited, benignly clutching my bottle of Prosecco.  When an older lady came in asking for a free sample of wine and was greeted cordially, with a would you like to try today's white, or red? I continued to stand there.  Eventually I returned the frigging bottle to its shelf and quietly left.  I know when I'm not wanted.  (Sniff.)  Those broads need a lesson in customer service.  In this economy, can any business afford to be blase towards potential customers?  Especially if said customer is a boozehound who passes by your wine store on a daily basis?

Que sera.  xoxo

PS: Can you tell I'm on the rag?

PPS: I've photoshopped my reflection in the glass out of the picture above, because my hair was a hot mess and my mouth was hanging wide open as I snapped it.  Not a flattering image.  xoxo

F*ck this Duck!

Lukey the Wonder Nephew is a mood enhancer.  He's prozac in chubby baby form.

Now that Hubby and I are back in Boston, I see my sister and her little angel pretty much every weekend.  This is hands down my most favorite part about living here again.  Luke refers to me as Sissy, or Sissy Sasa, and can often be found holding inanimate objects up to his ear and saying, "Hi Sissy." 

"It's Sissy" he says in that impossibly adorable voice of his, looking up at me with his big brown eyes.  Oh Reader, that just never gets old.  I love him so much it kind of kills me. 

On Saturday I walked along as Sissy pushed him in his stroller.  At one point Luke peeked out his head to look up at me, and when I reached out, he grabbed my hand in his meaty little fist.  We walked together that way for several blocks.  Just thinking about it is enough to make me melt.

I visit an awful lot of playgrounds these days.  I guess I'm becoming a connoisseur of sorts.  Playgrounds in Boston are abundant and spontaneously located and for the most part really awesome and clean.  Most of the time.

This past weekend Sissy and I discovered a new and wonderful catch phrase to add to our already vast repertoire:

Never mind the fact that this bird is technically not a duck, more of a seagull actually.  Look closely and you can see the poo that the children have kindly added next to the poor bird's tail.

Jose, stop calling your sister a Becth!  That's not very polite, young man!

I can sleep at night knowing that the troubled youth at this last playground was at least an accurate speller.  A+ for you, bitch!

It's a good thing Lukey is still too young to read.  xoxo

Facebooking

I recently deleted my personal Facebook account.  It honestly felt like a daring and emboldened decision at the time, but in the end nobody really noticed or gave a good crap.  Nobody except my friends Karen and Gregg, that is; and about two days later my sister texted: Did you delete fb acct??  

It had all just become Too Much!  I was logging in far too frequently, and found myself increasing vexed by what I saw on there: the pokes, (and what the hell is a superpoke?), the Mafia Wars, those nauseating bumper stickers my eighteen year old cousin posts about her perverted little boyfriend: "I'll love you until my last breath takes you from me," the Farm Town, the pieces of flair.  Furthermore, I was a total slut when it came to clicking that "like" button.  I began to whilst away my Saturday mornings partaking in lifeblood sapping quizzes like "Which truly badass historical figure are you?" or "What Disney villain are you?" or "What Poison song are you?" 

When I took the "What great woman of the bible are you?" quiz, it decided I was Mary Magdalene.  These quizzes are nearly always misspelled and seem more than a little arbitrary.  And yet, I took them.  I took them with abandon.

My friend Gregg did send me virtual poo smeared on a toilet seat once, which I have to admit was pretty effing awesome.  But I have no interest in becoming a fan of Coors Lite, or Bonfires, or Flipping over my pillow to get to the cool side.  My friend Matt actually created a group entitled: Not a fan of groups group.  I admire his edgy sentiment.

But the fact remains, somewhere along the line Facebook just stopped being fun.  Every Tom, Dick and Harriet starting sending me friend requests, even that dude who'd threatened to blow everybody up at our high school graduation.  I even inadvertently noticed a relative had recently posted that it was time for Hubby and me to start a family.  This information, however harmlessly intended, was enough to make me want to walk into oncoming traffic.

All of this culminated in my hitting the delete button.  But Christ, do I miss it! 

xoxo

PS: I just thought of a good quiz to create: Which Corey are you?  Ooooh, that would've been a good one!  Darn.

PPS: I think I'd be Haim.  Even though he's a hot, festering mess, in my opinion he's still preferable over Feldman.  Plus, we're both born on the Sagittarius/Capricorn cusp.  Don't ask me how I know that, I just do.  Don't judge.

Green thumb

I cannot bring myself to throw this wretched specimen of rotting plant life away.  And so it remains, in all its pathetic decrepitude, a bitter reminder of my rampant neglect.  And to think there are people out there who want me to bear children?  Still, call me an optimist, but I think I may be able to resuscitate it.

The Hole

Something about going out of town sort of gets me in a panic; specifically, the last five minutes before we leave the apartment.  This is when my inner control freak likes to come out and do a little tap routine.  "KICK, ball change, shuff-le STEP!"  (She wears a red leotard.  It's all very frightening.)

As a rule, I tend to lean towards the morbid.  As in, God forbid something terrible should happen to us while we're away, when there are empty wine bottles under the sink and dirty underwear strewn on the bathroom floor!  Leaving town suddenly makes me crave a neat, orderly apartment.  One that doesn't have dishes in the sink, or sour milk in the fridge, or Tampax applicators hanging out in the trash can.  It just doesn't look nice.  That sort of thing.

We went out of town this past weekend, and tonight Hubby and I returned to our rental, sweet rental to find something very peculiar.  (Cue creepy theme music.)

When I came into the living room my husband was standing in front of our bookshelf looking puzzled.  "What's the matter?"  Why was he making that face?

There was a hole drilled into the ledge of our bookshelf, and sawdust sprinkled on each of the three shelves below. 

Oh.  Christ.

 

 

My imagination went into heart thumping overdrive.  Someone had been inside our apartment, with...power tools?  What kind of a sick f**k would do such a thing?  Hubby wondered if the maintenance people had come in to do some work, but why on earth would they have drilled a hole in our furniture?

My hypothesis was naturally more sinister.  It had to be those new neighbors, the ones who were hanging out and smoking beneath our window the other night.  It was sweltering that evening and the smoke was wafting directly into our apartment, and it stunk.  In a particularly passive aggressive turn, I'd yelled out, "Oh that smells SOOOO GOOD!"  Granted, they were a bit confused; but they'd heard me.  Could it be they entered into our apartment and drilled a tiny hole into our bookshelf as retribution for my nasty outburst?

Or could it be dogface and her two portly friends, the perpetual stoopers?  Dare they apply drills to innocent pieces of cheap furniture?  I was beginning to get a belly ache. 

The question remained, how would anyone have gotten in in the first place?  Nothing had been touched, everything was exactly as we'd left it.  It was a baffling mystery.  A woodworking conundrum. 

After serious reflection, Hubby produced two separate theories.  One, perhaps the furniture manufacturer had pre-drilled a hole that was then covered up by the shoddily painted veneer, which popped out due to the extreme heat and humidity.  Come to think of it, he did sort of remember a blemish on the wood that had always sort of bothered him.  Theory number two was maybe some sort of bug had eaten its way through the wood.

OR, I was thinking, a madman with a penchant for carpentry entered our apartment whilst we were out of town and drilled a perfect hole into our Target bookshelf to teach us a lesson.  That would show us.

I called my sister, who called her husband, a police officer, to relay the bizarre details: "Sissy just came home and found a hole drilled into her bookshelf." 

Now, my brother-in-law already thinks I'm a little crazy, but he was kind when I explained to him what we'd found.  He didn't think we should worry too much, although he agreed it was strange.

Hubby checked the closets and under the bed to put my mind at ease.  As he was peering into the hall closet, some twisted part of me braced myself for the nutcase who would surely come running out of our bedroom in full clown face, wearing a tool belt, a drill bit perched between his red clown lips.  He never did emerge.

Honestly, none of the windows or locks had been tampered with, so it just must have been one of those freak occurrences.  All the same, it was creepy.  Me no likey!

Where's the beef?

Sometimes I think the restaurants in Boston are taking the piss. 

Take the meal I ate the other night at Whiskey's on Boylston, for example.  I ordered beef fajitas, which turned out to be about two pounds of peppers and onions and seven emaciated little strips of beef.  Seven.  (I know this because my plate was so ridiculous looking that Hubby and I actually counted.)  It was the weirdest thing ever and I've done my best to recreate this oddity in the drawing below. 

Is it because Boston is a college town, and therefore the standards are lower?  In New York there was always a plethora of cheap and cheerful places that offered tasty, quality food!  (And a G. damn mojito didn't cost me ten to twelve bucks.  And it actually tasted good.)

It didn't take long to scarf down my skimpy beef fajitas at Whiskey's.  It was only around 6:30 or so, but a girl at the table next to us was already so drunk she'd fallen off her bar stool.  (Not that I judge.  Broads who live in glass houses...)  By the time we left, the place was packed and there was a line out the door.  All up and down Boylston the kids were getting their drink on.  

I suppose they're going to pay up no matter what?  Still, I wish the standards were a bit higher.  

Oh, by the way, here's what half of a $10 steak sandwich at Dillon's looks like:

Where's the effing beef?  They're totally taking the piss.  Gordon Ramsey would have himself a field day.

Shop at BJ's!

When I was a child I went to elementary school with a very nice boy named BJ.  One day BJ disappeared and didn't return until Jr. High, and suddenly everybody was calling him Will.  Everyone besides me, of course, because I'd known this kid since Kindergarten and his name was BJ!  What the?

"Hi, BJ!"  The poor boy's face looked pale.  "It's Will," BJ told me firmly.  I was baffled.  What was the big deal about me calling him BJ, anyway?  That was his name, wasn't it?  Truly, I was puzzled.

Sadly, it would be years and years before I would figure out why a pubescent boy might not want to be referred to as BJ.  But who knew?  Certainly not me!

And I digress.  At the risk of sounding juvenile, is there a reason why the woman in the BJ's Wholesale commercial is rocking a large, phallic looking, 80's style microphone?  Furthermore, is there an explanation as to why she needs to be holding a microphone at all?  All I'm saying is, with a name like BJ's...

Just wondering.  Because it looks kind of...dirty.