My time of the month is supposed to start any minute and I am feeling full-on dragon lady right now. I'm tired and bloated and about 99% sure I can't filter the annoyance I'm holding in.
PMS attitude is like a tornado, you never know exactly when it will form, you're powerless to stop it, and it's bound to do some damage. I'm currently an F5.
My grandma's friend, Carol, should be here any minute. Tonight is our spaghetti dinner night, and I graciously dressed up in my nicest pj's. I'm debating which one of the golden girls will be first to blame my current singleness on wardrobe choices.
I can just hear it now, "Emmy, real men don't want a girl who runs around in her pajamas all day. Men wants girls who dress up for dinner. And you're beautiful, but even beautiful girls need a little mascara and lipstick."
Hanging out with grandma Faye and Carol together, is like sitting in the defendants seat at a capital murder trial, but instead of a twelve person jury, you have two bickering old ladies. Oh and they both definitely think you killed the guy.
I answer the door after three loud knocks.
"Carol, I'm so glad you made it," I greet, closing the door back behind her.
"I literally live down the hall. How could I not have made it?" the crazy old bat begins, primed and ready to drive me insane for the next two hours. "Were you worried I was gonna have a heart attack on the fifty foot journey here?"
"Something like that," I say, because what do you say to a real life Oscar the grouch? Especially when I'm grouchy myself.
"Here." She hands me a bottle of red wine, and gives me unnecessary instructions on how I should open it. Newsflash: I'm adept at using a cork screw, but thanks Carol.
These little instructions may not seem like a big deal, and I agree, if...if it were only a few. But Carol comes with more instructions than an IKEA dresser.
But even though Carol taxes my patience, she has some redeeming qualities. She's honest and would give you the shirt off her back. If you're in a bind, stuck in jail perhaps, call Carol. Also, she knows everyone and I mean EVERYONE.
Carol follows me into the kitchen where the smell of my sauce permeates the air.
"How did you make your sauce?" she questions, and I know I'm about to receive lengthy instructions about the way I should have made my sauce.
"...so you only let it simmer for two hours? Come on, Emmy. Sauce needs at least four hours," says Carol in her thick New Yorker accent, as she dramatically gestures with four fingers. "You are never gonna find a husband if you can't make a decent sauce."
"Hey, you can't judge it yet. You haven't even tasted it," I defend.
Carol grabs a spoon from the drawer, blowing away the heat from my sauce, as she spoons it in. I wait, hoping she's impressed, but preparing for harsh criticism.
She makes an almost pleasantly surprised face, which immediately makes me smile.
"Needs more salt."
And off Carol goes to say hi to my grandma, who refuses to get out of her chair even when guests arrive. I chuckle to myself, because that's the closest Carol has ever been to complimenting my cooking.
Carol tries to act more Italian than a Gambino, but she's actually more Irish than a Guinness. Even her gray hair still grasps the natural red tones.
Once the four seater dining table is set, I go in to tell them dinner is served. My presence interrupts one of their many disagreements. This time they are fighting over a healthy diet. (Not a new argument)
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For the Love of 'Old Money'
Romance********************************** "Um...it's from 'Branded', a burger place on Broome Street. They mostly sell burgers and fries," I say, like some redundant nitwit. Because what else would a burger place sell, Emmy? Duh! "Riiight," he drawls, addi...
