I am under the weather today; I started getting a scratchy throat Sunday on my way to a work event in Rhode Island. I thought maybe I was just thirsty. No, unfortunately, four days later, I’m in the throes of a full blown flu.

So, what is a single gal to do? Sleep, watch old movies and make good ol’ fashioned chicken soup; the Greek way, of course, with egg and lemon. By the way, I am still wearing my “Kiss Me I’m Greek” apron.

I took a stroll over to Whole Foods in the rain. I considered driving but I had already accumulated $100 worth of parking tickets today so, I thought it best to leave my car behind. Let me digress a second… I hate the parking situation in the North End.

Anyway, I was so happy to find organic, grain-fed chicken which I scooped right up into my basket. I’ve been seeing such awful things about how the poor cluckers are treated, after reading the packaging, it sounded like my little guy lived a decent life. Up until he had his head chopped off, mind you.

I had prepared myself mentally and emotionally for “the bag.” You know, the giblets. The last time I worked with a whole chicken, I was directed, to my dismay, to “pull the bag out of the chicken before you stick it in the pan.” “Uh, what bag? And, from where?????” were my immediate thoughts. After I pulled it out of it’s fanny, I suspected that would be the last time I made chicken. But, alas, here I am again.

Can I just tell you? Nothing would have prepared me for the scene unfolding before my eyes. As I cut the bag open, I couldn’t help but notice white things sticking out of the chicken’s body. Yes, feathers. “Are you kidding me???” I thought. I immediately called my mother. Who, once again, was completely lacking in any sort of empathy. She suggested I pluck them! What! With the tweezers I use for my brows? The ones I paid $15 for at Sephora? I don’t think so.

                                                                                                                

It doesn’t end there. If that wasn’t bad enough, when I pulled it completely out of the bag, the neck unfolded like an erect penis! I nearly fainted. It was at least three inches long, almost half the size of the bird! She didn’t believe me when I screamed. I had to take a picture with my phone and send it. She texted back, “Cut NECK off!”

I did it. I chopped that little sucker off with my Cutco cleaver. I teared up when I heard the crack but, I followed through. I was actually pretty proud of myself. I gave Tweety a trim, rubbed him down with a little olive oil and proceeded as planned.

I had a lovely chicken dinner with soup on the side. In fact, I think I’m starting to feel better already.

So, I waited to pack until the night before and didn’t end up getting to bed until after 2am. Our flight was for 11am in RI. Needless to say, I was running a few minutes late in the morning. The flight was quick and painless; we were both thrilled to be there. Our hotel room was on the 19^th floor with a great view of the city and two beds. Everything seemed perfect…

We got the famous cheese steak from Pat’s with onions and cheese whiz. I know, sounds gross but it was one of the best things I’ve ever consumed that wasn’t a dessert.  We walked back to the hotel, it was balmy that day and a little misty but not too bad. We stopped at the Ritz for champagne before dinner. He made reservations at a really romantic place, it took my breath away when I checked it out online. They told him we could walk from the hotel….

There was a line for the taxi cabs so, we set out on foot. I didn’t mind, I was dressed for baseball in late October in a long sleeve turtleneck wool sweater with my favorite Dave Matthews t-shirt as a liner, winter coat and sneakers. I was dressed appropriately for the game and looked nice for the restaurant. My hair and makeup made up for the sneakers.

Little did I know his sense of direction is somewhat lacking. Had I known, I would have made an effort to get my bearings on our location. I’m not sure if I mentioned I’m the oldest of 7 and have a need for a little bit of control. For some reason, I thought it may be a good idea to let go of the reigns and relax this particular weekend.

We got halfway to somewhere and the sky opened. The downpour put my shower water pressure to shame. We made a dash for cover then got directions to the restaurant and sprinted so as not to miss our reservation. Of course, there wasn’t a cab in sight. By the time we got there, I felt like a drowned rat. My hair was completely matted and I could feel mascara making it’s way down my chin. The hostess looked horrified. (“It can’t be that bad,” I thought but, nonetheless, I was still beside myself.) We inched our way to the table; I sat for a second then made a bee-line to the ladies room to tidy up.

Can I just tell you? When I ever walked in and saw the woman in the mirror, I almost screamed. My face was sweating profusely. I know it’s my moisturizer; I can’t lay it on too thick when I go to the gym or that happens. As I’ve mentioned I’m not much of a sweater. When I do perspire, it’s because I have WAY overexerted myself. That must have been the sprinting, I don’t do that often. Plus, the bathroom was like a sauna. I had to peel my clothes off and fan myself for a few minutes to stop sweating. Most of my makeup was gone and there was no help in sight for my hair. I had to go back up to the table in my t-shirt holding my sweater. Talk about embarrassing. Fortunately, I had a glass of wine waiting for me.

As I was drinking the wine, he asked if I was tired. I said, “A little, why?” He countered with, “You have bags under your eyes.” Seriously?! Had I not felt delirious, I would have hurled my baguette at him. Fortunately, that was followed with an arsenal of compliments like, “you look great, you have beach hair and my dad had bags under his eyes, I like it…”

I kept drinking. I knew I’d feel better eventually.

The next day was lovely. We stopped at the Four Seasons for another round of Philly Cheese Steaks before taking a romantic stroll downtown towards Love Park and I noticed a flock of some awful birds flying above us… All of a sudden, I was fired upon and hit, square on the top of my head. I stopped short in my tracks to gasp and declare, “No way!” He hadn’t noticed the offense. When I told him, he ran for cover and immediately asked if any got on him.

Of course, my first thought after, “I can’t (litany of swear words) believe that just happened to me!” was, “Would my husband do that?”  I may need to keep looking.

Am I unreasonable?

I’ve been searching for Mr. Right since I was 17. I’m Greek and the first-born of an immigrant mother. My family has been asking since I was a teenager, “When are you going to find a nice Greek husband?” The pressure has been building for some time so, it’s no wonder the thought crosses my mind with each new beau… “Are you my husband?”

 

I meet a lot of men in my travels, jobs, friends, etc. that I end up dating here and there but very few of the relationships last beyond 3-4 months. I’ve had a handful last a year or more but they’re few and far between. I finally resolved to sign up for Match.com. That lasted a month; most of the men who were writing and “winking” seemed creepy.

 

Blind dating is something I’ve avoided because of a sour experience at the hand of my own mother. I should have known when she emphasized how nice he was… I was naive back then, it was about 10 years ago. I’ll just leave it at, “he just wasn’t my type.” When I tore into the house following the “lovely” date, she practically wet her pants laughing at my summation of the evening. This must be where I get my empathy…

 

So, on October 1^st I was completely taken aback when a client asked if he could give my phone number to one of his customers. He owns a Jewish deli, just like dancing is in my blood, matchmaking is in his. He was sure to tell me he had never set anyone up before (I bet) but he had a hunch about this one. I thought about it for a minute and said, “Oh, what the heck? Yes.”

 

My blind date called me the following week; we met for a first date on the 9^th at a little seafood place near my apartment. He was waiting at the bar when I walked in. When I spotted him, he wasn’t what I expected. After talking to him on the phone, I pictured him to be a rugged man with dark hair and dark eyes. He was on the thinner side with salt and pepper hair, glasses and blue eyes. The second I sat down I knew we were going to have fun regardless of whether or not there would be a second date. His smile was infectious, I just knew.

 

The day before date #3, he texted me in the morning to ask if I’d like to go to the World Series in Philadelphia… I must have made a good impression. I thought about it for about 30 seconds, threw caution to the wind and wrote back, “sure.”

 

So, can I just tell you? I am going to the World Series. Unfortunately, my beloved Red Sox aren’t coming with me but, my husband may be.

So, as you know, I’m 36. When I was around 8, I fell in love with gymnastics. Up until I was 25, I felt like I had a gymnast build and if I put in the effort, I would be able to do back handsprings. (I didn’t learn when I was a child probably because I was a little on the portly side.)

 

My nieces came for a visit in Boston this weekend. They range in age from 7-9 and practice gymnastics diligently. Now, I can still do a cartwheel. In fact, I seize any opportunity to show off my limber self with one I’ve perfected over the last three decades.

 

Can I just tell you? There I was, on the Rose Kennedy Parkway, with the pretend crowd cheering and my nieces, sister and step-mom on the sidelines... 

 

(For those of you who aren’t familiar with the area, you have to check it out. It’s a beautiful park in place of that awful overpass that split the North End and Faneuil Hall.)

 

All of a sudden, I felt like I was 8 again (minus the portly)… I think I may have outdone myself. The girls started doing multiple cartwheels in a row, back bends and handstands. I had to show my stuff too! I’m pretty sure I kept up, the only thing I couldn’t do was get my legs on the other side of my hands for a back walkover. The two youngest girls tried to help but they weigh about the same as my leg. (Yes, I’m still trying to loose that pesky 10 pounds.)

 

At the end of my little time warp, my aching back and throbbing hip reminded me that age may not be just a state of mind…

I am so upset. In an effort to lose some weight, I started running about 3 months ago. I only did it for 3 or 4 weeks but the effects have lingered. Not the slimmer thighs, increased stamina or speedy metabolism but the blisters under each of my second toes. Apparently, they are slightly longer than my big toe. (It’s hardly noticeable. Really.) Trin, the woman who paints cute little flowers on my big toes, pointed it out the last time I was in for a pedicure. I told her not to panic when she took my polish off because I knew the two toenails were black. (Honestly, this is very upsetting.) I thought I created the damage because they were a little sore and I suspected a blister forming so, who knows what possessed me to put droplets of iodine under each nail, but, I did. Just in case there was some infection…

 

Who on earth in their right mind thinks it’s okay to put black/red iodine under a white, almost translucent nail? Honestly. I don’t know where I parked my brain that day but it wasn’t in it’s usual spot.

 

Can I just tell you? It’s been months, they’re still black and NOW there seems to be a mini toenail growing underneath. I’d be okay with that if it looked like normal nails were growing in but, the poor little things are completely disfigured. I’ve also been doing more yoga lately too. So, of course, every time I’m in a position where I get a good look at my toes I have to pick at the two yucky ones. (Gross, I know.)

 

I’m going back to see Trin tomorrow, hopefully, she can help.