The Odd Broad

Am I a name whore?

My name is Sarah, but people sometimes call me nicknames for short.  There's Sa, Sasa, Sazzy, Que Sa-rah Sa-rah...and when I was a toddler my mosquito-like demeanor led my Dad to (lovingly) refer to me as "The Human Fly."

But at times I have allowed people to call me by, well...other names.

Actually, this seems to happen to me a lot.

There was the period last year when I allowed Juan* from work to refer to me as Sandra for about a month.  This guy and I were buddies, I was really surprised when he first called me by the wrong name.  I guess I was hoping I could just ignore it and go about my business.  But that's not how the universe works, is it?  It got to the point where he'd pass my desk and playfully call out "Hi, Sandra!" in a sing-song voice.  Oh dear.

I was going to have to address this.  What if somebody heard?  After all, wasn't this exactly what being a grown-up was all about, being mature enough to handle situations such as this with grace and poise?

I never said anything.  The situation was finally resolved when he called me Sandra in front of another coworker, Denise*.  Denise looked at him like he was crazy and said "Sandra?  Who's Sandra?  Are you talking about Sarah?  Juan, her name is Sarah, not Sandra."

Ok, so I felt ashamed.  Here I was in my late twenties and still too meek to correct a coworker for calling me by the wrong name.  Ugh!

After the Sandra fiasco I thought I had learned my lesson.  After all, what's the big deal, just tell the person they're wrong, right?  Of course right.

Well...a few Thursdays ago another person at my work cheerfully greeted me by saying, "Hey Erin, how are you today?"  Oh poo.  Couldn't I just ignore this?  I could ignore this, right?  Please oh please God, maybe he just made a little mistake and he'll go back to his office and realize that Erin is someone else, not me.  I'm Sarah, remember?

You know, this has been happening to me forever.  I can still remember someone calling out "Hey, Stace!" in Jr. High.  I remember thinking, "Well, it's kinda nice that she used a shortened version...she must like me if she called me Stace instead of Stacey..."

Pa-pa-pa-pathetic?  A bit.

The irony is, I am really good with names!  Once I can actually remember your name I will use it all the time.  I'm like a greasy politician in that respect.  People have noticed this skill and have even remarked upon it. 

I was never afraid to address my in-laws, even when their son and I were only dating and living in sin.  I started off with Mr. and Mrs., and then easily made the transition to calling them by their first names when they asked me to.  I just enjoy calling people by their names.  And not everybody is comfortable doing this; if you think about it, it's actually quite easy to glide through life without ever having to call anybody anything at all.

Personally, I love to be called by my name.  Do you know there have been times when I've spent an entire day without ever being addressed by name?  I have even recently requested my amazingly loving hubby to call me "baby" less and Sarah more.  There's just something comforting about being called by my own name.  Do you agree?  Or am I crazy?

As good as I am with names, from time to time even I eff up.  There's this guy Joe* at work who I've been calling Mike all year.  Why Mike?  I don't know, I thought his name was Mike!  I apologized when I finally realized my faux pas.  "Joe!"  I said.  "I'm usually so good with names, I can't believe I've been calling you Mike!  I wish you had said something!"  He just shrugged and said it was ok and he genuinely didn't seem to give a good crap one way or the other.  But let's face it, it's a little weird he never said anything.

Oh. God.  Am I Mike?  Joe, whatever the hell his name is?  Am I nothing but a name whore, answering to whatever anybody feels like calling me at any given moment?  And not only that, answering with a smile?  Why on earth can't I just effing correct people?

A few days ago at work I ran into the same man again.  I held my breath and hoped he had figured out my real name.  He hadn't.  "Erin, it seems like we keep meeting in the elevator, huh?" 

Here it was.  This was my chance.  My big chance.  Come on, be an adult, Sarah, be a fucking adult.

"Guess we're elevator buddies again today!"  was all I could muster.  Ah, shit.

I'll let you know how it turns out.

Sincerely,

Erin

* Names have been changed to protect the innocent.  And my job.

Sharing is caring

Ok, so I've gathered over the years that good deeds lose some of their natural goodness when you tell people about them.  Seriously, if you want your deeds to count as really really good ones, you're better off zipping your pie-hole.  (Or mojito-hole, as I once heard someone call it.  teehee) 

But what about an accidental good deed that mistakenly gets noticed, or a deed that stems only from being a crazy neurotic and ends up earning unwanted praise and misdirected admiration? Is this type of deed not only considered not good, but double bad?

Generally I'm not a wasteful person, so I don't make a habit out of this...but there have been occasions when I've waited in line forever, received terrible service, and have watched in dumbfounded stupor as the person serving me does something so questionable that after I pay for whatever it is I'm getting, I find myself compelled to either give the thing away or throw it out. Do I sound sick? Perhaps. But seriously, a strange man blowing on my breakfast sandwich kind of spoils it, don't you agree?

Allow me, if you would, to elaborate:

For starters, I think being a crackhead must be one of the prerequisites to being hired at the Au Bon Pain near my work. Not that there's anything necessarily wrong with being a crackhead, but...

The other morning before work I stopped in to pick up a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich on a croissant. "Do you want me to to try toasting this?" The man behind the counter asked me with this skeptical grin. "Um, sure, I guess?" I answered. "Well, if it catches on fire then it's your fault, not mine," was his reply.

Hmmm, this certainly had all the makings of a disaster. I checked my watch: one minute to go before I was officially late for work. Why had I come here again?  Mama Mia.

The man went into the back for a suspiciously long time, I'm guessing to fetch my croissant. He came back and put said pastry into the toaster and then watched as it eventually went up in flames. That's when he grabbed it and proceeded to blow all over it to put out the flames.

He inspected the burnt croissant and for a horrified moment I thought he was actually going to put my eggs and bacon on it. That's when I asked, "Um, do you think I could get another one please? And you don't have to toast it this time, it's ok."  "You don't want me to toast it?" he asked. "No, that's ok you don't have to toast it." (Don't f-ing blow on it either, I wanted to say.)

This reminded me of one time I went into Hale and Hearty Soup to get lunch. The surly girl behind the counter slopped some chicken noodle soup into a cup and started wiping the sides with her hands, and, well, to be honest, I don't remember the exact details of whatever disgusting thing I thought she had done to my soup.  I only know I decided then and there I wouldn't be able to eat it. Even as I was paying the five bucks and change for it I knew I would not be having soup for lunch.

I went outside and stopped in front of the homeless lady I had seen sitting outside of the abandoned YWCA. "Do you want some soup?" I asked. She said yes and I gave it to her. It wasn't a big deal because I already had some leftover pizza in the fridge at work, I would just eat that instead. See? It had all worked out nicely.

I entered my building to go back into work and got into the elevator with a crowd of people. One of them was a friend of mine and he asked, "Hey, Sarah, did I just see you talking to that homeless woman out there? What were you guys talking about?"

He had caught me off guard.  I babbled, "Oh, nothing, I was just giving her my soup..." He gave me this admiring look and said, "You gave her your lunch? Wow, that was really nice of you!" Of course now everybody in the elevator was staring at me, trying to sneak a peek at the Mother Theresa wannabe who had given her lunch away to the homeless. Little did they know my actions had stemmed more out of sick obsessiveness than selflessness.

A lady turned to me and said, "That was a really nice thing for you to do." My cheeks started to burn. Well, what was I supposed to say? That the girl at Hale and Hearty had gotten her dirty fingers all over my soup so I gave it away to a homeless lady because it was too nasty to eat myself?

This wasn't the first time I've been the recipient of undeserved praise and fanfare. There was that time in Kindergarten when my friend Stephanie had forgotten her snack at snack time.  Do you remember Zingers, those creme filled pastries with the yummy frosting on top? I loved Zingers. I used to peel off the frosting part first and then eat the rest later. Anyways, Stephanie was sitting next to me and I noticed she didn't have a snack so I neatly peeled off the chocolate frosting and gave it to her. You know, no big woop.

The next morning I was surprised to find a small package in my cubby at school. Inside I found two beautiful barrettes with my name on them from Stephanie's Mom. These were some really good looking hair clips. 

I went home and a bit guiltily showed the gift to my Mom, who called Stephanie's Mother to thank her. "Stephanie forgot her snack yesterday and Sarah shared hers and we wanted to say thank you!" she gushed.

Now this was a conflict of morals.  I had really mixed emotions about the whole situation. I mean, let's face it, I had given her the frosting off of my zinger. This wasn't a beautiful, rainbow-colored-barrettes worthy deed, was it? Apparently it was.  Even at the tender age of five I knew something had been lost in the translation, but still, I decided to be philosophical about it. After all, I suppose the chocolate frosting on the zinger could be considered the best part...

I guess being wrongly labeled a generous do-gooder is better than not ever having been mistaken for one at all, right?

In the end, I suppose all good deeds are probably counted: the neurotic ones, the accidental ones, and even the not as good as people think they are, but still nice all the same ones, too.  So there.  Stick that in your soup and eat it.  Teehee.

A quick, foolproof way to ruin the average woman's day

What would ever possess anyone, anywhere, at any time to ever ask a woman this question?

"Sarah, are you pregnant?"

Today I was waiting for the elevator when a coworker of mine turned to me and asked this very question.

Mind you, she wasn't asking because she thought I had a certain "glow" about me, she was asking because she saw me (and I quote) "from the side and wondered."  Nice.  Thanks for that.

I could just hear my Mom's voice saying, "See?  I told you not to slouch!  Stand up straight!"

After a brief second I got over my shock and was able to tell her that no, I wasn't pregnant, just bloated and wearing what was obviously a very bad outfit.  This is when she added, "Oh don't feel bad, and I get asked if I'm pregnant all the time."  This is the point at which I slapped her.  Right across the face.  Just kidding.

This exchange felt a lot different from last Christmas when my Aunt's house was really warm and my cheeks were flushed and my hair was unusually curly and big.  My favorite uncle asked, "Sa, you look different, are you with child?"  Everyone asked me if I was preggers that day, in fact.  (Yes, it was all very "Eeew.")  But in their defense, at least they're family and have known me all my life and only asked because they thought I had a big-haired, pink-cheeked, newly married glow about me.  So it was yucky, but somehow not as much.

There is no glow about me today.  I am bloated, have scraggly hair, and bags under my eyes. I'm wearing the purple Mr. Rogers H&M sweater I bought last December when I was stranded for two days in Midtown during the NYC transit strike. 

Part of me wants to blame the style of clothes the damn kids are wearing today.  The stores are crammed with low rise jeans and long, maternity-looking tops.  Of course, I'm not wearing either of those today.  Ok, scratch that idea.

Honestly, I have barely entertained pregnancy talk from my own Mother-in-law, let alone a coworker whom I hardly know.  What madness would cause a person to think this was an appropriate elevator-waiting conversation starter?  I might dare to bring up pregnancy to a woman if she were, say, popping out of obvious maternity wear and reading a copy of "Pregnancy Now" magazine.  But even then I would probably exercise a little caution.  Truly, one just never knows.

Sometimes it really is better to M.Y.O.B.

In closing, what is the fastest, most foolproof way to ruin a non-pregnant woman's day?  Ask her if she's pregnant after viewing her "from the side."  Go on.  Do it!  Please.  I dare you.

Sarah and the Maxi Pads

Warning:  The following is too much information about lil' old me.  I have a habit of giving out too much information.  (What my Grandmother would refer to as diarrhea of the mouth.)  The following is an example.  Having said this, continue reading at your own risk.  You have been warned.

Have you ever just had an idea about something?  When I say idea, I'm speaking of a strongly held, perhaps unconscious belief that something is undeniably a certain way.  Maybe you've never even spoken of this belief to another living soul, but it's just something you know to be true?  And then have you ever one day realized that your strongly held belief is absolute insanity?  Insanity with a capital I, dipped in delusion and sprinkled with idiocy?

If your answer is yes, then read on my friend, this story is certain to make you feel better about your own life at the expense of mine.

In elementary school my group of best friends and I used to pray for our periods.  (Yes, I know, very "Are you there God?  It's me, Margaret," but really, we did.)  We actually prayed.  Little did I know that they'd all be getting theirs ASAP and I'd end up waiting until I was 14 years old.  I was somehow always underweight as a kid, and that's probably why my period was delayed.  Of course, looking back on it I am gloriously happy that I got to put off "the curse" for as long as I did. 

The night before I got my first period I remember experiencing a terrible, out of the blue belly ache.  The pain was so excruciating, I had no idea why God was punishing me so viciously.  Then the next morning I woke up and realized, hey, I had just gotten my period.  Hmm, what do you know.

I was in a big fight with my Mom and older sister that weekend.  Looking back on it, had the circumstances been different perhaps I could have saved myself a host of heartache.  But alas, this was not in the cards.  When I woke up that morning and discovered I was now officially a woman, my first thought was, "Ha!  Now won't the two of them feel ASHAMED when they find out months from now that I got my period and never told either one of them!  Ha!  They'll be sorry!"  And so on, in a generally bitter, maniacal sort of way.

I guess you could describe me as being "naive" sometimes.  I'm just going to come right out and say it:  For some reason, for as long as I can remember, I always thought maxi pads went on the outside of your underwear.  Now before you think I'm joking, please know that I am being 100% serious.  It's not like I was a stupid kid.  I was a brainy child, always in honors or advanced placement classes, eventually going on to become a member of the National Honors Society.  I just happened to believe that maxi pads were meant to be stuck to the outside of your underwear.  Like, tape side up, on the outside.  So the blood won't get all over your jeans.  Go figure!

So that morning, I did what any other red-blooded American girl would do.  I stuck the maxi pad to the outside of my underwear.  (Have I actually admitted this to another living non-family member?  Because I'm not sure...)  But that is what I did.  Because, after all, that is what you do!

The next day, as I got ready for school for the first time as a woman, my pants felt a little extra bulky.  To be certain, I felt like I was wearing a diaper.  I wondered if people would notice a "bulge."  Ever the resourceful youth, I decided to deflect from any bulginess by wearing tights underneath my pants.

As the week wore on, I slowly began to realize I was ruining every pair of underwear I owned.  I couldn't help thinking, Boy, this is a really inefficient way of dealing with something that is going to happen once a month for at least the next thirty or forty years!  You'd think by now someone would've thought of a way to take care of this problem without destroying your underwear!  Seriously!

I'm not even sure how I found out.  In the end I think I finally cracked and casually mentioned to my Mom that I had gotten my period.  Relieved to finally be able to talk about my situation, I expanded upon this information, telling her how I had ruined about seven pairs of underwear that week. 

"Mom, it's kind of silly, I'm wrecking all of my underwear!  These pads don't work!"

"Really?" she asked, starting to sound a little nervous, then adding, "Why?  How?"

"Well," I explained, "It's stupid, the pad barely catches any of the blood."

"Sarah, Sasa," my horrified Mother intoned, "What do you mean?  Are you sure you're putting it on right?"  She paused a second before adding, "You're sticking it inside of your underwear, right?"

Now I was beginning to become impatient.  What did she think I was, stupid?  "Ya, Mom, of course I put it on right, I'm not an idiot!  I stick the pad underneath.  You know, like, under."

No, she didn't, like, know.  Nobody, like, knew.  I was alone on this one.  And now the horrible truth had been exposed:  I had been sticking the pad, sticky side up, to the outside of my panties.  Why?  Honestly, why?  Looking back on it, I really can't say.  Logically, it makes no sense.  I thought the blood was meant to get all over my underwear, but not on my pants.  The pad was there on the outside to catch it from going onto my pants.  I have no other explanation, no defense.  This was simply what I believed to be true.  I thought this was the function of maxi pads.

It's not even like I was some terrible, friendless teenage misfit, either.  I guess I was just...clueless with a touch of stubborn?

When I told my Mom I was going to write a story on this subject, first she cracked up laughing because, well, my family always has that reaction whenever we speak of this matter.  But then she got a little serious and said, "You know, honey, are you sure you want to tell people about this?  Maybe don't tell them how old you were...what were you, like, 14, 15?  They might think...something is wrong with you."

I think it's safe to say that sometimes even I think there is something wrong with me.  Sometimes I get sort of nervous.  I mean, what if I hold other wacky beliefs that are just...grossly inaccurate?  Will there be many more bizarre surprises like this in my life?  God I hope not.  I hope when the stork delivers my first born I will have read up on all of the details so I'll know exactly what to expect.  And, do I have to tip the stork?  What, like, 20% or something?

The first time I learned how to use a tampon is another story.  Another long, gruesome story.  But I think I'll probably have to get my Sister's permission before I tell that one.

Tim Curry, Mel's Diner, and other reasons why I think the 1970's probably smelled

Warning:  A headache that has lasted 48 hours on my right temple has prompted me to take allergy/sinus medication.  Please bear this in mind if you choose to continue reading.

At the risk of sounding crazy, does anyone else think the 1970's smelled?  And when I say smell, I do mean literally as well as figuratively.  In all seriousness, collectively I think the 1970's could've done with a liberal spraying of Fabreeze.  Granted, I only spent a little over a year of my life existing in the 70's and I can't remember any of it.  But the television, music, and movies that I have witnessed from this era lead me to believe one thing: the entire decade stunk like rotten cheese.

For example, have you ever seen the TV show, "Alice?"  (I usually refer to this show as "Mel's Diner")  It's a terrific show, based upon the movie "Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore" starring the fabulous Ellen Burstyn.  Incidentally, I hadn't realized this until I read the Oprah interview with Ellen.  She was actually the main creative force behind the movie, but chose to only get an acting credit for it.  So when the movie was made into a TV show she received nothing.  Sucky, huh?  Ah, those repressive, stinky 1970's.

But I have digressed, big time.  My point is this: Would you ever have been caught dead eating in Mel's Diner?  Don't you think it kind of looked, oh I don't know, unsanitary?  Don't you think the surly but lovable cook, Mel, could've done with a shower?  I would bet money that Mel, in his white scraggly looking T-shirt, had body odor.  I just don't think I could've brought myself to eat a nice chicken salad platter from his establishment!  Sorry, Mel.  Alice and Vera didn't look like they smelled like roses, either.  Or Flo, for that matter.  I wouldn't have kissed her grits for all the oil in Texas.

The TV show "One Day at a Time" is a glowing example of how behavior in the 1970's also had a stinky-feet kind of odor to it.  I have to say, although growing up my sister and I watched reruns of this show religiously, I find everything about it positively P.U.  We somehow never wanted to eat while watching it.

This especially odorous sitcom starred Bonnie Franklin as the pint sized dynamo Ann Romano.  Ann could frequently be found posing in an overly dramatic, 1970's, pasty-tummy-bearing kind of way as the studio audience enthusiastically applauded.  And you know the type of applause I'm speaking of: it's the kind that begins with one clap, then a second clap, then more claps, then eventually it erupts into wild clapping.  It smelled.  Bad.

I'd be a rookie if I didn't mention Mackenzie Phillips as Ann's oldest daughter, Julie Cooper.  Please, of course Mackenzie Phillips had a stench, that's a given!  But what really stood out to me was the sexual tension between Ann and Dwayne Schneider, her womanizing, gum-chewing super.  Their exchanges positively reeked of stale, sour milk!  In the strictly figurative sense, of course.  Although I think it would be safe to say Dwayne Schneider probably emitted an aroma of cigarettes, b.o., and cheap aftershave.  Of course, I'm only speculating here.

The show's one exception would be Valerie Bertanelli as Barbara Cooper.  For some reason Valerie just didn't seem to give off a nasty odor and I'm not sure why. 

If I haven't begun to bore you or perhaps cause you to wonder if I'm completely mental yet, indulge me a bit more: Tim Curry.  Ah, just saying the name evokes all kids of wonderfully odiferous images!  Some might argue that Tim Curry could be credited with single-handedly stinking up the 1970's.  And I love Tim Curry, although my sister and I have been known to sometimes say, "Eeew, that (fill in the blank) smells like Tim Curry!"  He is a fantastic performer whose actions I just happen to find stinky.  I'm not even sure what he might have smelled like in the 70's, I just know I wouldn't want to have been within a 500 mile radius.

Oh, I could go on all day about why the 70's smelled, but I will bore you no longer.  In closing, I will leave you to ponder these last few examples: The Bee Gee's, The Hustle, men in big-collared shirts bearing chest hair, Fat Elvis, polyester pantsuits, the way Carol and Mike Brady used to always make out on "The Brady Bunch," man perms, "The Love Boat," "Welcome Back, Kotter," "Eight is Enough," "MASH."  (I know MASH took place in the early 50's, but they weren't fooling anyone, certainly not this girl.)

In short, if you ever witness me describing something as "figuratively" smelling like cheese, or curdled milk, (any dairy product, really) or an off-the-air television show from the 1970's, now you'll know what I'm talking about.  Or maybe you won't.

Me, Cooperstown, and Bob Dylan

Perhaps it was the week long binge of anti-histamines still coursing through my blood, perhaps the chardonnay, perhaps the raw, terrible weather.  Whatever the reason, I think I'll never know why I got so very pissed off that evening. 

Wait, maybe I should start at the beginning...

Recently my hubby Brian and I took a trip to Cooperstown, NY, to see...Bob Dylan!  It's been my dream for over a decade now to see him play live.  I've heard all sorts of things about Bob in concert...he's the best, he's the worst, basically I decided to expect nothing and therefore not be disappointed.

I was so sick the week leading up to the show.  Like, really sick- Tylenol with codeine sick.  (The best kind of sick, if you ask me!) But still, I was looking forward to the weekend.  We were also going to hit up the Baseball Hall of Fame, which Brian was really excited about.  (He's not the Bob nut that I am, but that's ok.  He still appreciates him.)

The day of the show arrived and was rainy, cold, and raw.  Just as the weather forecasters had predicted.  (Hey, wait a minute, aren't they always wrong?)  So we bought ponchos.  We enjoyed a nice drive to Cooperstown, despite the gloomy weather.  We listened to Bob for a while on the way and I could hardly believe in just a few hours I'd actually be in his presence. 

Cooperstown is a really small town...when we pulled up to the Best Western and saw a tour bus, Brian teased that it was Bob's.  It probably was.  The town was totally psyched for Bob Dylan and we could almost feel it in the air.  The restaurant we ate in was playing Bob's new album.  I was positively giddy.

After dinner we found a cute little cafe and had a drink or two before the show, and there was a small group of people at the table next to us.  I eaves-dropped while Brian was in the restroom.  I quickly found out the youngish guy drinking a soda was the lighting guy for Bob Dylan!  He was telling this lady how Bob waits in his trailer until just before he takes the stage, then after the show goes straight back to his trailer.  He's got his own chef and everything.  So I guess those recluse rumors may be true.  But hey, he's Bob Dylan, hasn't he earned the right to be reclusive if he wants?  If I were him I probably wouldn't befriend a 20-something hipster lighting guy, either! 

I also heard hipster guy say Bob doesn't want to stand out at all- he wants to be under dim lighting.  Hipster had worked on another tour, did I hear Willie Nelson?  And Willie was always nice and friendly and always gave autographs.  Well, lah-de-frickin-dah.  Then the waiter moved them all to a table in the dining room and eaves-dropping time was officially over.  Too bad.  I went back to sipping my chardonnay.

My mood remained positive. 

We decided to head into the concert.  The show was being held at Double Day Field.  (Dylan was doing a minor league ball park tour this summer.)

It wasn't even raining!  Seriously, what luck!  We weaved our way through the crowd until we were about 10, maybe 15 feet from the stage.  Stoned old hippies are easy to weave through, they're very agreeable.  We sat through two well-known but mediocre blues bands. Lots of gratuitous, predictable guitar riffs.   (What my husband would refer to as "musical masturbation")  The uninspired female vocalist was taking drags off her cigarette in between singing.  I think the hippies surrounding us had either never heard Blues before or were very, very stoned, because they were loving it.  I was starting to get antsy.  I felt like Pee Wee Herman while he's waiting for the tour of the Alamo to end so he can finally see the basement.  Enough, already!

The couple behind us kept swigging from a bottle of liquor.  It was a dry show, no booze allowed.  (Curious, right?   Did Bob make up that rule?)  The couple started getting rowdy.  But in the worst, most annoying way possible.  The girl began shouting "Bobby Dylan!!"  "Bobby Deee-lon!!"  "C'mon, Zimmerman!!" I cringed.  This was a mockery!  Filthy bastards.

To the left of us were four teenage girls.  They couldn't have been much older than sixteen.  The rest of the people surrounding us were just random hippies or hipster couples.

Finally, Bob took the stage and began to play without addressing the audience.  Big deal, I had heard he did this, right? 

I started having one of those magical moments, the kind where life is so wonderful I can hardly believe it, when I couldn't help but notice...the crowd.  Oh, the crowd!  The crowd. Was. Awful.

The teenage girls to the left of us began "rocking out" to Bob.  Dancing to Bob.  Swaying lovingly to Bob.  He started into "Lay, Lady, lay" and the girls positively shrieked.  Um, was I at Bob Dylan or a freaking Justin Timberlake show?  To the left and the right we were surrounded by people absolutely jamming to Bob Dylan.  Bob is not supposed to be jammed to, Bob is supposed to be absorbed.  Enjoyed.  He is a legend, an icon.  He is my favorite.  Sway to his music a bit, if you must, but PLEASE, do not gyrate.  Do not do an awkward, ryththm-free dance to Bob Dylan.  Basically, all of a sudden I had to move.  The crowd was ruining it for me.  Seriously, ruining it!  I couldn't watch Bob through the eyes of these people for another minute!

Brian thought I was crazy when I told him I needed to move.  But at that point I think I was making him nervous, he'd do whatever I asked.  He peed, we got hot chocolate, and then we went and sat on the damp bleachers.

This was Bob Dylan!  This was my dream!  It wasn't even raining!

Brian noted the irony of how we were sitting far away on the bleachers at Bob Dylan when we had been right at the front of the mosh pit for NOFX, and had gone onstage at The Dropkick Murphy's.  I couldn't explain it, either.  I still can't.

So we watched Bob from afar.  I tearfully listened to "Simple Twist of Fate."  He changed almost every song so it was really difficult to know which song it was unless you were a Bob nut, which I am.  Bob's band was really good.  Bob is old, but he sounded really good, too, and he played the keyboard the whole time.  Later, we went a bit closer, maybe to buy a T-shirt, and thought better of it.  45 bucks for a shirt?!  This seemed very un-Dylan, but what do I know? 

The show was almost over.  It was starting to mist.  We stood next to a thirty-something-ish Mom and her daughter.  The Mom was dancing in a manner I can only describe as horrific (think Elaine from "Seinfeld") and when Bob was backstage and the crowd was calling for an encore, she actually shouted out, "Come on, Bob!  Come on, handsome!!"  She said the word "handsome" in this creepy, sing-songy voice.  As a matter of fact, she wouldn't stop saying it.  "Come on, handsome!!!"  Now.  I would call Bob Dylan many, many things:  genius, visionary, national treasure... But handsome is not necessarily one of the adjectives I would use to describe him nowadays.  I could've slapped her.  You should've seen the way she gyrated to "Like a Rolling Stone."  Is nothing sacred?

My heart sank when I saw Bob throw his harmonica out into the crowd.  That should've been me catching it!  I'm like his #1 freaking fan!  But I was frozen in my spot, unable to move.  So strange.  So surreal.

I think in the end it was just too much of a personal experience for me to share with a crowd, regardless of their obnoxiousness.  I think perhaps I felt I had missed something, and found myself wondering what a concert of his in the 60's would've been like.  This sort of seemed like a cheap knock-off of what a real Dylan concert should be.  Real Dylan fans wouldn't maniacally gyrate to "Mr. Tambourine Man," would they?  Also, I knew perhaps I'd be disappointed; maybe this was why I was.  But still, I'll really never know why I couldn't get over the crowd and their bad dancing and just enjoy myself.  It's a mystery to me.

We didn't even end up needing to use the ponchos.  The heavy rain held off until we got back to the hotel.  My Mom called my cell phone when we got back to the room and excitedly asked, "So, how was the concert?!"  I told her we were right up front but had to move because the crowd ruined it.  She thought I was nuts, disturbed.

Who knows. 

The next day we went to The Baseball Hall of Fame and I got a picture of me next to Curt Schilling's  bloody sock.

All in all, it did end up being a very nice weekend.  I think maybe I'll try to see Bob again.  Maybe in a smaller venue?  Where the age is 18 plus?  When it's not cold and raining and outside?  And nobody is allowed to dance?

Do I really want to look like an upside down Christmas tree?

I bought my first pair of bell bottoms in 1995, before it was considered "cool" to wear them at my high school.  They took forever to find and I happily shrugged off the strange looks I got for wearing my beloved wide leg jeans.  It was liberating!  I was finished with the tapered leg and I was willing to endure ridicule from my peers for it. 

I have even gone so far as to declare, "I will never wear tapered legs again!"

So you can imagine my mixed emotions regarding..."The Skinny Pant."  When I saw the Gap ad featuring Audrey Hepburn, apart from being horrified that yet again piggy pigs were exploiting dead icons to peddle their product, I thought hmmm, now surely this will never catch on...

Honestly, I don't even think Audrey Hepburn looked all that nice in skinny pants, and she was a beautiful lady.  And a stick figure.  Sorry, Audrey, I still adored you in "My Fair Lady."

But I digress.  Back to the skinny pants.  So as I was shopping last week, trying on jeans, I picked up a pair whose tag claimed they were "skinny jeans." Gleefully, I thought, "Oh, how lovely!  They're slimming!  How perceptive these jeans are!"  But then I realized what they really were: tapered.  Magical skinny jeans my ass, these things were tapered. 

Just who are these jean makers trying to fool? Everybody knows the laws of nature, and to steal a quote from my cousin's fiance: nobody wants to look like an upside-down Christmas tree.  (I wasn't there, so I don't know if she was talking about skinny jeans, but it definitely applies here, no?)

I hadn't given a thought to the skinny pant since, but last night walking home from the subway I witnessed a startling phenomenon:  I counted one, two, no, five girls in skinny jeans! 

And they looked...cute!  All but one gal whose bum, although lovely, just sort of hijacked the skinny jeans, dominating them completely.  I could almost hear her bum saying, "Ok, all eyes on me, I'm the one with the gun here people!"  I almost couldn't look away.  Almost.

But the other skinny jean wearers I saw looked...(gasp), cute!

And that's when I started thinking maybe I should get myself a pair of skinny jeans. Maybe they aren't so bad after all!  Maybe if I had the right top to wear with them?

This is when I heard a voice in my head shouting "No!  No tapered denim!  You haven't worn tapered denim in over 10 years!  No! Bad!"

Listen, I can't make any promises.  If anyone sees me wearing tapered denim, you have permission to slap me.