A few summers back I was out with a few friends. I was wearing a floatier halter top, not typically my style, but it was the summer after I lost all the weight and I was trying to embrace the new me…or whatever. Who the hell knows why I chose this top as I felt supremely uncomfortable wearing it, but I suspect it had something to do with how awesome it made my cleavage look and the fact that the tag had a “S” on it. I am fairly predictable.
The evening ended with me staggering around the streets of Adam’s Morgan with my friend Cindarella and a few other folks. This was probably the most boozy period of my life; I was fresh out of a relationship that crashed and burned with a spectacular brightness and I still hadn’t figured out how much liquor my new, smaller body could actually handle. I could have made Betty Ford blush with the amount of beer I was consuming on the regular and while I wish my staggering was merely a metaphor sadly it was not. I could barely stand up, but a much more sober Cindarella stood by my side, told me I looked pretty in my shirt, talked smack about my ex and generally watched after me.
As we crossed 18th Street, a crowd of clearly strung out riff raff had congregated around the McDonald’s. One man, unshowered and barely coherent, looked at me and screamed “You shouldn’t be drinking when you are pregnant.”
I lost it. This man had touched on a deep insecurity when I was already in a vulnerable place. I absolutely came unhinged on that corner. Crying in public probably ranks just above eating coconut and just below dating a blond on the list of things I aim not to do, so you know it had to be bad. Cindarella yelled at the guy but largely tended to me; she hugged me tight and got me in the nearest cab, fully knowing I could never bounce back from that. The evening was a wash.
Little did I know that after I left Cindarella chased that man down, fixing to give him a piece of her mind. He was nowhere to be found and this is probably for the best. Cindarella is a force and not to be messed with but even I was surprised to hear she chased a CRACKHEAD IN TO AN ALLY for me. Of course when I heard this story I immediately thought about how afterschool special it would have been had she been shanked in that ally. (Kids, this will happen to you if you move in to the big city…) Praise Allah that I have somewhat cleaned up my act, that I haven’t cried in public since, that I have largely forgotten about the guy. I also trashed the shirt. Still, I can’t help and think of that story and still smile to this day. Screw “Chicken Soup for the Soul”; I had someone way better to turn to when the chips were down.
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(Chicken stock is super easy to make and can be adapted to what you have on hand. Just throw some root vegetables in a pot with some chicken backs and necks, or in this instance a chicken carcass. All the measurements here are guesses; I promise you cannot screw this up.)
Chicken Stock
1 chicken carcass (I threw the left over carcass from the last chicken I roasted in the freezer and pulled it out for this purpose)
water
2 carrots, roughly chopped (I threw in a big handful of baby carrots instead)
3 celery stalks, roughly chopped
1 onion, quartered
Handful of flat leaf parsley
1 bay leaf
1 tablespoon peppercorns (or a teaspoon ground pepper)
2 teaspoons salt (or to taste)
Put chicken in large stock pot and cover with water. Add remaining ingredients and simmer for about 3 hours. Strain through a mesh strainer and skim off fat. Freeze or use within 5 days.
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{ 37 comments… read them below or add one }
Bums that hang out in front of McDonalds are no joke. You’re friend is lucky she wasn’t shivved.
She couldn’t find him. It was fine.
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Ugh.
Crackheads are ri-damn-diculous.
Crackheads keep things exciting.
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Did it ever occur to you that a) he was talking about Cinderella or b) there was someone else he was talking to or c) he was high on nuggets and was delirious or d) it was Marion Barry and he was simply broadcasting public health announcements as part of some public service requirement from his sentence/parole he had yet to fulfill? As your weight loss manifested itself in the incredible shrinking you, you became the embodiment of the bauhaus maxim, less is more. And don’t you forget it.
PS In the current markets I don’t think you should be advocating any kind of stocks, even of the chicken variety. Just sayin like.
He was definitely talking to me–he looked right at me and Cindarella is rail thin. And now that I think about it he did look a bit like Marion Barry.
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I think the word ‘fuckbag’ was invented for people who say such stupid, clueless things, even bums. Seriously, I wish you had looked at him and said, “And you shouldn’t be speaking when you are such a fuckbag”. =-)
I like this much better than douchebag.
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If you’re ever so inclined you can also freeze the chicken stock in ice cube trays, that way you always have just the right amount when you need it (and I always need stock). Just make sure you have special trays just for the stock. No one like chicken stock flavored ice cubs.
Oh yeah, and Adams Morgan is full of the douchery. Some people just need manners beaten into them….
Speak for yourself; I love stock flavored ice cubes.
There is a reason I hang out in Adam’s Morgan less and less…
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That really is a great friend. I’m sorry you felt so bad you cried in public. I sympathize as that’s very low on my list of things I want to do, as well. Eating coconut however, is much higher.
I hate crying in general…not a good moment.
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One man, unshowered and barely coherent, looked at me and screamed “You shouldn’t be drinking when you are pregnant.”
This sounded like one of your “friends” applying a neg.
I kid, of course.
No you aren’t.
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Ick. I understand your pain. Those flowy shirts are so deceptive. They look great on stick-thin people with smaller breasts. On those of us well endowed looks like we’re 5 months along. I tried on a dress at H&M this weekend that I swear could be part of a maternity line.
I have since returned to more fitted, tailored clothing. H&M is the worst with their clothes and this trend.
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This is going to be my new standard declaration of love: I would chase a crackhead into an alley for you, dear.
It is a good declaration, methinks.
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You think that’s bad…. once Roosh was on a date with a girl who turned out to be a mud turtle in daylight. But as he was walking with her through the mean streets of Georgetown a group of guys drunk walked past them, one looked right at Roosh and said, “you can do better than that” and kept walking.
Roosh said he’s never felt so bad for a girl in his life, he said he had to pretend like he didn’t hear anything….. sadly there was no second date
Drunk guys can be so mean.
God, people are assholes sometimes.
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I have been known to fight for someone’s honour. I think I draw the line at anyone shorter then me. Tiny people are automatically scrappier. Crack heads be damned, I am more scared of children and circus folk.
Seriously, those carnies are not to be trifled with.
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I love Cindarella. She’s good like that.
And I really cannot believe that, blouse or not, you really looked pregnant.
Perhaps I did a bit…
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Wow, that girl is hard core! Even I won’t chase a crack head into an ally and I used to be a medic in the hood.
Oh she is hardcore alright.
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Good for her! And yes, ballsy friends trump cheesy books.
PS: I’ve also been asked “when are you due?” while wearing a floaty hippie top. I was 95 pounds at the time. I answered “I’m not pregnant, that’s my lunch” and trashed everything in my closet that wasn’t black and/or form-fitting.
My lunch baby–perfect response.
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I’m glad this story ends with a smile. Because it really is a shame how one sentence, or even one phrase, can stick with us. Words suck. Thank god for friends.
Indeed, indeed. She is a good one.
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I agree, brunettes are the way to go.
It is just how we do.
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Well, he might have been wrong with you, but Mr. Crackhead was essentially correct.
Cindarella has more guts than some men. When I worked in retail, I chased down some shoplifters, but that was when I was young and stupid. Half of those people reeked of alchohol and I’m sure had other addictions. Now I’m older and slightly smarter. Oh and lazier, so I wouldn’t chase them down.
So the moral of this story is “Friends don’t let Crackheads calls their friends pregnant.”?
Well, yes, the pregnant ladies should not be drinking. You heard it here first.
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That really is an excellent friend. One of my girlfriends went up to my ex at a party once, while we were still in school, and tapped him on the shoulder while he was in the middle of a conversation and goes, “I just want to let you know, I think you’re an asshole.” And walked away.
Lovely.
Oh yes, this is girl code. We must watch out for each other.
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Oh, Oh, Oh! It would indeed be so very after school special if she had gotten killed in the alleyway! I hate that people (even stupid non-drunk ones) feel free to say such things outloud. Some things just cut you to the core.
You never forget certain things, for real.
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halter tops are the one style i can’t pull off, my boobs are just not made for halters. spilling out would be a great way to describe it.
Yeah, not the kind of spillage one wants. I feel your pain.
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Wauw, she’s a great friend!! Big huggs to her.
Me and my 2 best friends are the same, it’s good to know friends can back you up in moments like that.
And tomorrow i’m making the chicken with lemon curd and i’m planning in eating the skin.
Oh, make sure to let me know how it goes.
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Even more afterschool special? If you actually HAD been pregnant and were wearing the halter top to disguise it and drinking so no one would suspect.
It is a dream to one day pickle my baby.
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That’s a good friend for you…one of my friends did the same…she chased down a guy who told me that he and his friends were taking bets on what my bra size was and gave him a LARGE piece of her mind! Can you say douche-bag???
Welcome Sarah…and your friend was right to lay the verbal smackdown.
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Stupid inconsiderate assholes.
Preach it.
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Honestly, I think that there should be a law that forces some people to wear a muzzle in public. Sorry you had to go through that.
Oh, it really is ok now.
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I can’t wear floaty halter tops, either. They cover up my lovely lady plateaus.
But they sure are lovely…
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It is a dream to one day pickle my baby.
That could be arranged. All you’ll need is a large glass jar, a couple gallons of vinegar, and spices.
Peter
Dream big, baby.
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Fucktard douchemonkey idiot. I hate Adams Morgan on weekends.
And I’m so sorry. What a way to ruin someone’s night.
Also, I have recently started buying the baby-doll kind of top that I think you are talking about – the ones I used to avoid like the plague because they make everyone look pregnant.
I am sure you rock the look though…you are one hot pregnant lady.
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i hate this story. cindarella sounds like a serious gem of a friend.
cracked out dbag doesnt know his ass from his elbow. blow me.
a client asked me last week “how far along” i was whilst wearing a black, flowy shirt.
awesome.
oh, and i raise your cry in public with a cry in public INTO A BEER, which happened you know, yesterday.
Ohh, tears in the beer. We have all been there sweetheart.
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This is one of life’s ironclad rules: Never reference a woman’s pregancy if she hasn’t specifically told you she’s pregnant. Even if it looks like she has a basketball under her blouse.
Well, you are a smart man SD.
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Dating blonds are alright. Coconut sucks. Crying in public definitely sucks. Especially in IKEA. But that’s a story best told over some form of alcohol.
Ikea, in general, makes me want to cry.
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Been there too – the worst for me was the comment came right after I miscarried.
I had no fried with to defendme – so I burst into tears and told the fucktard exactly when I miscarried – at least he felt like th shit he was.
God, Tina, that is so damn terrible. That deserved to be made to feel like a doink.
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I confess to making the best chicken stock of my life recently with a pot of chicken feet — claws and all. It was rich and thick and gelatinous. But OMG, those feet were ugly!
Chicken feet! Ohh, Barbara, that is hardcore. Bravo.
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I ate chicken feet once. They were immensely chewy and had very little flavor. But it was fun to do a dance routine with them at the work cafeteria.
I imagine them having a lot of cartilage.
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I just had flashbacks of trying to make stock with pig bones once. It wasn’t nearly as pretty as this. That’s right. Your stock is pretty!
With pig bones? Oh dear.
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First of all, the friends that chase crackheads into alleys for you are simply the best. Second, I am in love with chicken stock, and am so excited to have a recipe with which to make it!
And it is so easy. Hope you like it.
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Carcass, as in body? Um, this is where I scurry back out of the kitchen, sorta like a crackhead.
Glad to know you’ve figured out your beer to BMI ratio since then. Would be a travesty otherwise.
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