The Odd Broad

Pretty Hair

15 days until we skip town and I fear the mounting tension/anticipation is inducing spontaneous crabbiness.  I just feel so...utterly spent as of late.  Run down.  I haven't done my hair in ages.  But really, why would I bother with this outrageous humidity?  My daily regimen is shamefully as follows: get out of shower, blow dry bangs, pull wet hair into low bun and head to work.  (I've omitted several key steps here, but you get the gist.) 

This routine has catapulted me into the dumpiest of ruts.  (Indeed, what is worse than taking one's hair down at 9pm and realizing it's still damp from the morning?  It's simply not dignified.)

Needless to say, emotions have been running high and this morning I decided it was time to show myself a little kindness.  Not only did I blow dry my hair but I straightened it as well, even taking the time to apply some Aveda Self Control goo.  As I peered in the mirror, a little voice in my head began a running commentary: "Did your hair today, huh?  Isn't it a bit humid outside to expect your hair to stay pin straight?" 

Against the odds, I would have nice hair today.  I was in dire need of a morale boost and superficial though it may sound, this might be just the lift I needed.  I walked to the subway.

Now, I've roughly spent the past decade riding the subway, and during this time have entertained a casual fear that one of my fellow riders will eventually spill something on me.  I say casual because the only time I ever experience this fear is when I'm:

1.) wearing white (which is practically never)

or

2.) find myself sitting next to someone who is either on the phone, fiddling with a newspaper, doing suduko, etc, and proceeds to precariously perch a hot tea or a melty, drippy iced coffee onto the seat betwixt us. 

If I may provide a note to the wise:  Subway trains lurch, people.  Hold onto your beverages!

I wonder about these people, as I always wonder about folks who block the subway doors/don't move all the way into the train/lean against the pole, preventing everyone in their general area from also holding onto said pole...the list is endless, really. 

After I have made certain that they are neither drunk nor clinically insane, I'm afraid I judge them.  I mean, are they really that:

terribly busy,

consumed by more important issues,

egomaniacal, horrendous S.O.B.'s,

that they have totally lost the Pre-K concept of sharing? 

But I digress.  All I really wanted to tell you was that while sitting on the subway this morning, the woman next to me, the one who had unabashedly unfurled her inky newspaper into my personal space, squeezed her water bottle too vigorously and squirted me all over with cold water.  It got on my shirt, my skirt; ordinarily I might have welcomed a splash of cold H2O, what with the soaring temperatures and all, but...

The water had hit my hair.  Oh dear Lord, not the hair!  The very same hair I'd lovingly straighted not twenty minutes prior, throwing caution to the nasty humidity.  I could already feel it starting to get wavy.

"I'm sorry!!  Oh, I'm SOOOO sorry!" she gushed, and I shrugged and told her it was "fine, fine, it's ok, really!"  (I'm elated you just did what you did, honestly!!  THANK you, actually...!!!)

But we both know what I was thinking.  I was thinking: lady, you don't even know the half of it.

I surreptitiously wiped beads of water off my arms, not wanting to cause her any further guilt.  Gingerly I brushed off the front of my shirt and then lovingly patted my semi damp hair.  It was just some harmless water, but enough to transform locks that had moments before been the very picture of obedience into hair that was reckless and defiantly flipping out and...WAVY. 

Ah, irony.  Seriously.

I didn't even bat an eyelid later at lunch when a bird pooped on my head.  At least, I'm assuming it was a bird, and I'm assuming it was poop, since when I looked up the only thing above me was a tree, and out of the tree came a menacing little chirp chirp chirp.  No, it couldn't be?  I put a hand to my head and it came back wet.  Clear, but most definitely moist.  Poop or no Poop, I decided to take it as a good luck sign.  What other choice did I have?

In closing, if I don't manage to have pretty hair tomorrow, now you'll know why.  xoxo

Why do crowded closets always make me feel itchy?

The prospect of packing up and starting over in a new city is sort of driving me to drink.  Oh, I don't mean drink in a brooding, what in hell am I doing, alone on a Tuesday evening chugging Boone's Farm kind of way.  It's more of a perpetual let's celebrate, cheers to our new beginning, you only live once, who cares if I'm hungover on a weekday, exuberant kind of way.  Having said this, I fear if there was anyone around who was lucid enough to stage an A & E style intervention, now might be the perfect time to do so. 

Today I spent the day packing, sorting and sifting through the vast, herculean piles of paper that have been cunningly lurking in the shadows of our cozy two bedroom abode.  This is proving to be no easy feat.

I'll be the first to admit I have pack-rat tendencies.  I'm a hoarder, pathetically sentimental; to the point where I will keep things that would make a normal human being wonder if there wasn't perhaps something wrong with me.  (I've glued things into scrapbooks that should probably have gone straight into the garbage, but hey, that's how I roll.)

I take a certain comfort in being able to go back and look through items that evoke the past.  When I think of a particular dress or letter, it's nice to be able to find it and pull it out.  That is, if I can actually locate it amongst all of the debris. 

As bad as I am, I've learned how to purge as of late.  Apartment dwelling really helps to facilitate this skill.  I'm trying my best to be ruthless and have decided to only pack those items which I will truly use.  This is decision making time.  For example, is it imperative that I take five hoodies with me to Boston, seeing as I probably wear a hooded sweatshirt maybe a couple of times a year?  I'm giving away four.  (For now at least; nothing has actually been taken to my local thrift shop as of yet.  Said hoodies are dangerously lurking in the hallway as I type, begging me to keep them.)

But honestly, must I hang onto the following?

A wrinkly receipt from the pool bar from our Honeymoon in Aruba.  By 2:21pm we'd already racked up $76.50.  Thank Heaven for all-inclusive libation.  (And thanks to my wonderful in-laws for providing this.)

The list Hubby and I made in 2000 right before we moved to New York, counting the supplies we needed.  Which were, incidentally:

phone

microwave

curtains

food

bathroom stuff

vacuum

tv stand

(Yes, apparently curtains came before food.  We've always been nesters, what can I say?)

My temp agency time sheet from the week of 9/11, noting that the only day I worked that week was Monday the 10th, for Ralph Lauren Womenswear.  Several checklists of things I needed to do before my wedding, scribbled on blue Paxil controlled release tablets paper (this from my years as a server in catering; we hosted a good deal of pharmaceutical parties.)

What is it that makes me unable to toss these things?  Because, if I think about it, that's all they really are- things.  And they're old, make me feel itchy and are taking up space.  And yet...

I'm grateful I taped so many episodes of Roseanne on the DVR.  This has really been my saving grace throughout this tedious organizing process.  Around 5:00 pm I stopped sorting, shut off the tv and decided it was time to take a shower.  I came to this conclusion for two reasons and two reasons alone:

1.) I was filthy

and

2.) Fresh Direct was coming and I needed to go out and get cash so I could tip the delivery guys.

Once clean, I emerged into the humid daylight for a quick trip to the corner quickie mart.  I decided I deserved a treat, having packed and sorted through so much personal history: ice cream.  I would buy myself a pint of Haagen Daas Banana Split.  Only, the object of my desire seemed to be missing from the cooler case.  I dug further.  After all, this wasn't the time for pussyfooting around, this was serious.  I spent a good four minutes digging through the icy case until finally I abandoned my efforts and settled for chocolate.  (So not the flavor I was hoping for but it would just have to do.)

And on that final, hopefully not too wretched note, this packer bids you good night.  xoxo 

Feeling thankful

I may have a lot to learn, (I DVR The Two Corey's, for starters, which most certainly makes me "part of the problem"), but of one thing I'm certain: the most wondrous things in life aren't meant to be set in stone.  Even wishes.  Rather, make like a lillypad and learn to float.  Resistance is futile.

Is there something you've been wanting, Dear Reader?  A yearning secret or perhaps not so secret; a pining that wakes you up in the middle of the night?  Why not try asking for it.  Ask, and then immediately release the outcome.  I'm afraid this last part is crucial, since the less attached you are to actually getting what you want, the more likely you are to receive it.  (What can I say?  The universe appreciates irony.) 

I firmly believe what is meant to be will transpire, if only I can listen, wait for the signs and get out of my own way.

What has prompted this late night philosophical mumbo jumbo?  Well, earlier this month I was desperately yearning for a job transfer so as to remain with my wonderful company.  I longed for this to happen, although rationally I knew that it:

a.) probably couldn't

and

b.) perhaps shouldn't. 

But on I pressed, in spite of the odds; I wished and then released the outcome.  After all, who was I to instruct the powers that be what to do with me? 

Last week I learned my miracle job transfer may be in the cards after all!  Feeling relieved and slightly surprised, I saw before me the answer to my fervent prayers: a transfer with lateral pay, not to mention holding onto the many perks and rewards I'd worked so hard for over the past four years.  So I was going to get what I'd wanted after all. 

A few days later I found myself sitting in a stylish conference room playing the interviewee.  I told my story over and over to every new face that walked through the door.  These meetings lasted almost four hours, in total.  In between I watched the ferry boats make their foamy lines in the Boston Harbor and tried to imagine myself working in that quiet, subdued place.  It was the same company I'm with now, but completely different at the same time.  Certain people I trusted had strongly advised me against going there.

Later I went on a separate interview that had been previously set up by my placement agency, and I told my story a few more times to some very kind people.  This other place, I noticed, was neither quiet nor subdued.  The people were lovely. 

The opportunity to receive exactly what I'd wanted was dangling before me.  Two dangling opportunities, to be exact.  To quote my Auntie Donna: Who knew I'd be in demand?

I was torn.  As we drove back to NYC I gnawed mercilessly on my fingernails and weighed my options.  I had to, since my placement agency was calling my cell phone off the hook, looking for an answer.  From the Mass Pike to 84, all the way to 95, I pondered and gnawed.  Hubby gently patted my head, placed a hand on my knee and told me, "You need to go home, do your Qi Gong and decide what it is you really want.  That's all." 

And that is exactly what I tried to do, in that very same order.  I waited and watched for the signs until my gut told me what I should do.  At one point over the weekend it occurred to me that I was making a huge problem out of something utterly wonderful: having options.  In the midst of my decision making process I'd forgotten the most important thing; saying thank you.  Instantly I was overcome with a tremendous wave of gratitude.  I said thank you, over and over, and almost immediately the answer came to me. 

I took the other job.  A fabulous, slightly less paying job with a company who'd called the morning after meeting me to say they'd be thrilled if I would join them.  In the end it was a no brainer.

I walked over to FDR post office today and dropped their signed offer letter into the mail slot.  It felt really good.  If you'd have told me a week ago things would turn out like this I'd have said you were a crazy old Corey Haim.  But it's true.    

Reader, make a wish.  You may feel silly at first, but trust me, you'll get over it.  Write it down, whisper it into the night sky, tell it to your dog.  And then let go of it.  We don't always ask for the things we're meant to have, so it's best not to get too hung up on the outcome.  Wish for something you want and you just might get it.  Or perhaps...you'll get something even better.  xoxo

Thank you for being a friend...

I've long considered The Golden Girls to be the quintessential comfort show; brimming with cheesecake, wisecracks and plenty of post menopausal sexual innuendo.  I enjoy the way everyone always seems to be wearing heels, even while relaxing on the veranda.  In short, if the GG's are on, this broad won't change the channel.  Indeed, the ladies from Miami even played an integral part in relaxing me on the morning of my nuptials.  (It was the episode in which a young George Clooney guest stars as a cop.  Dorothy falls for his partner and says she is "crazy wild about this guy!!!!"...a classic.  Sissy and I laughed so hard we had to rewind it.)

I was saddened to learn of the death of Estelle Getty yesterday.  She'll no doubt continue to make people happy long after her passing.  Here's to you, Sophia Petrillo.  xoxo

No lock unlocks itself...

You may remember me telling you about the college student/realtor Hubby and I encountered recently?  The guy who brought us to bong strewn apartments with graffiti covered entry ways?  The young man who at one point remarked, "I'd never feel comfortable renting that place to a married couple, but I figured I'd show you nonetheless"?  The dude who began to mildly hyperventilate as he stood at a door and angrily tried key after key, to no avail, the jingle jangle of his massive key ring echoing viciously throughout the empty hallway?  "Welcome to my world!!!" he cried into the stale air of the otherwise silent building.  It was...an awkward spectacle to behold.  Fearing an ill timed giggle fit was about to emerge, eventually I had to turn away, quite unable to make eye contact with my husband's baby blues. 

The realtor we went to this time was much more effective.  He really got the job done.  (Plus, all of his keys worked on the first or second try.)  He led us into an ancient elevator up to a fifth floor apartment where we peered out of a sunny window and saw before us...the lights and Budweiser sign of Fenway Park.  Oh my.  I could almost hear Hubby's brain murmuring "uh huh, yes, I like what you're doing here..."  But the kitchen was a mess and so we ended up taking a one bedroom a few floors down.  And so, come August 15th we will be living behind Fenway.  Hubby is ecstatic.  We'll be a stone's throw away from my cousin Keely (her boyfriend John described the stretch between us as within stumbling distance), and a short T ride away from Sissy and Lukey The Wonder Nephew.  It's really happening!

I'm finding it virtually impossible to sleep lately, as if every night is Christmas Eve.  It's all happening so quickly, but I suppose that can sometimes be the best way for things to unfold.  The countdown is on.  xoxo

Hubby and I had driven about an hour north of New York City when we realized we'd forgotten our checkbook.  What the?  Who leaves their checkbook at home when trying to rent an apartment in a new city?  We decided not to turn back, choosing to trust that everything would somehow work out.  (We've been doing a lot of that lately.) 

Dear Reader, I haven't had a decent night's sleep in days.  I've had a headache for two.  Yesterday I hoofed it around the city of Boston having eaten only a banana and a Kashi peanut butter granola bar.  And yet...we have signed a lease!  For reals.  Looks like our big move is really happening.  Next up, a job...

xoxo

Something nice...

The other night Hubby hosted an X-Box Rock Band party that began around 6:45 and broke up very close to 4 am.  There were energetic renditions of songs by Rush, Kiss, Boston, and even some B-52's.  Not to mention cowbell.  Lots and lots of cowbell.

We're getting to know such nice people just as we're about to skip town.  But such is life, I suppose.

Before the festivities, Hubby and I were on our way home from Key Food when I realized we'd forgotten to buy cream cheese.  Crap!  I needed cream cheese to accompany the hot red pepper spread I was planning on serving!  We ducked into the corner quickie mart on the off chance they might have some.

They had it!  Only, the price wasn't marked and the man behind the register didn't know how much to charge:  "Just come back later and you can pay then.  I trust you." 

Now this was something new!  I stood there clutching a twenty, almost preferring to relinquish it in exchange for the cream cheese rather than walk away without paying.  But in the end we left, promising to return later on to pay up.  We were good for it, I assured him.

The next day I stopped back in to pay and the same guy was manning the cash register.  It turned out he still didn't know how much to charge.  Eventually he and his coworker decided on $2.99, a price I found to be more than fair.

I find it comforting that even in New York, even in the year 2008, one can still purchase cream cheese on credit.  xoxo

Glistening in the urban tropics

It's that time of year again.  It's 9:26 am and I'm halfway to the subway station when I realize my arms are glistening with a glittery, sweaty film.  Glittery, because my Marc Jacobs body lotion happens to contain glitter.  Sweaty, because not only is the temperature some 80 plus degrees, but the ungodly humidity is making New York feel as if it's sizzling inside a wood burning pizza oven.  The city is steaming in its own special, rank juices.  (Parfum de urine!)

Sweaty, unladylike arms is definitely not the look I was aiming for this summer, but it seems I have little alternative.  And let's face it, a bit of sweat on my arms is the least of my worries.  The other morning I relinquished my seat on the subway during rush hour because I realized my bum was feeling a little... sticky under my sundress.  How would that look when I got up to exit the train?  Would my fellow straphangers stare?  Would the screaming toddler in his stroller point and throw his SpongeBob at me?  Soon I began thinking of the countless commuters who sit their own sweaty asses down upon those gritty subway seats, and the many crackheads who stretch out and nap upon those seats.  I wondered if perhaps I couldn't catch something undesirable through my sweat compromised, flimsy cotton ensemble.  (You've heard those myths about picking up nasty things from a toilet seat?  Well, how's about a subway seat, hmmm?)

I'm aware these fears are unfounded and completely mental.  I blame the humidity.

My hubby the California boy is a big advocate for air conditioning.  He loves it, he rallies for it!  He is astounded by the lack of central air in homes on the east coast.  It's not that I myself don't also enjoy the cool blast of a heavenly A/C, but I feel there's a time and place.  I don't like our apartment being shut up like a bat cave.  I don't like not being able to hear if an intruder has entered our apartment and is rifling through the refrigerator and brushing his teeth with my toothbrush.  I long to hear civilization bustling outside on the streets; the old woman who sifts through our recycling on Thursday evenings, our neighbors with their boisterous, atrocious laughter.  (Have I told you we live next door to bad laughers?  They find everything hilarious, simply hilarious!) 

Air conditioning units are lovely but that cooped up silent feeling kind of creeps me out. 

I haven't even mentioned the electricity bill.  For June alone ours was $150, and this was after practicing strict electrical restraint.  These days our apartment is a veritable wattage free for all!  I shudder to think of the impending bills for July and August.  Here's to you, ConEd!

Hubby just got home so it's time to turn on the A/C.  What can I say, it makes the guy happy.

Stay cool, Dear Reader!  xoxo
 

Her name is Kittie (with an "I E")

Recently we switched Kittie over to dry food for "senior" cats.  We haven't informed her it's senior yet, since she's very sensitive about her age.  She's not your typical 9 year old feline, you see.  (Her birth certificate may read 1998 but her level of sassiness begs to differ.)

She's full of shenanigans, my Kittie is.  Do you live with a cat, Dear Reader?  If so, does she lounge about in your bathroom sink, refusing to budge and blinking languidly as you plead with her in vain?  Not only will Kittie flat out refuse to move, she will meow indignantly when you ask her to do so.  If it is in any way possible for a meow to convey insult, Kittie's does.  I hadn't even realized cats could talk back until she moved in.

I usually just work around her, which no doubt makes me a card carrying member of the Crazy Cat Mother's Club.  (Yes, I have brushed my teeth in the kitchen sink to accommodate my cat friend.  Judge me if you wish, I'm too smitten to care.)

This morning while attempting to wash my hands, I accidentally squirted Kittie with antibacterial hand soap.  For rinsing purposes, it was convenient that she was already lying in the sink and thus accessible to running water.  She sat there benignly as I toweled her dry, and enjoyed herself so thoroughly during the subsequent coat brushing that she knocked herself right off of the couch.  She looked up at me and meowed immediately after her fall, as if to assure everyone present that she meant to do that.

Senior cat my ass.

The High Five

When did Hubby and I begin giving each other high fives?  We can't quite seem to figure it out, and yet it had to have been fairly recently.  Did these spontaneous hand slaps creep in during the Celtics playoffs, perhaps?  In any case we will be certainly monitoring this behavior from now on. 

In our defense, I blame the following: Ray Allen, Rock Band, and Mike Lowell.