The Odd Broad

A list of Random Musings

Reader, I'm sitting here at my keyboard, achy, pms-ing, and not really knowing quite what to write to you about tonight.  Perhaps I'll just tell you everything.  Or, I'll make like a Facebook note and tell you:

Thirteen Things You Probably Never Needed To Know About The Odd Broad

1.) I am surprisingly bitter about the most random of things lately.  I've even tried to burn a few bridges, though I'm not sure the intended recipients were paying attention so it didn't count. 

2.) I'm pissed that Hosea won Top Chef. 

3.) For the first time in my life I'm considering joining a gym.  Hopefully I won't catch a staff infection.

4.) I'm still coming to terms with turning thirty.  Sometimes I think I'm having a mid-life crisis.

5.) My hard earned, pristine credit score was recently shat upon because the people at ACS are heartless, soulless sons of bitches.  Damn you, student loan debt and all your evil minions!  Damn you to the hottest crevices of Hell!  (Satan's ass?)

6.) Today Hubby purchased a Wii Fit.  I have been consistently and passionately lobbying against the Wii for quite some time now, mainly because I am tired of listening to everyone gush about how wonderful and entertaining it is.  For that matter, the same goes for reading the Twilight series, although I'm shockingly close to opening that can of worms. 

7.) I thought the Oscar's were really interesting this year.  Did you?  Granted, the Baz Luhrmann musical extravaganza made me a bit nervous, but overall I could appreciate what he was aiming for.

8.) I don't like it when people think ill of me.  And yet two weeks ago, I was on the phone with my grandmother and made a semi-derogatory (but necessary) comment about one of my uncles and then heard him say, "You're on speakerphone, Sarah."  Creepiest.  Moment.  Ever. 

9.) I got my hair dyed on Saturday.  Not because I wanted to, but because I had to.  I have crossed a new threshold and now there's no turning back.

10.) Hubby wrote something so sweet on my Valentine's card that I keep sneaking back to re-read it again and again.  Eleven years together and the guy still gives me butterflies.

11.) Sometimes I think Hubby and I aren't going to have children.  At least not any time soon.  But this morning I pressed my snooze alarm for a total of thirty minutes because I didn't want to stop having the dream about the dark haired little girl whom I was feeding tiny bits of Trader Joe's freeze-dried mango to.  I pressed that snooze button until nearly eight o'clock, just so I could keep on dreaming.  Go figure.

12.) I want a vacation.  I need a vacation.  Alas, we're too poor to go on vacation.  And so I drink.

13.) Hubby's breaking in the Wii right now and I'm kind of scared he's going to accidentally swipe me in the head.

Happy Friday Dear Reader xoxo

The Odd Foodie

This week, I'm pleased to introduce a new restaurant review feature to Odd Broad Land, lovingly entitled:

First up is Bouchee, on Newbury Street, which bills itself as an Urban Brasserie.  This month, Hubby and I are celebrating eleven years of being together (that's over a third of our lives, y'all!) and we wanted to nosh on something extra special.

SERVICE: Friendly but neglectful.  Although there certainly appeared to be a plenitude of staff on duty, it still took five to ten minutes before anyone offered us any water, let alone booze.  (And if I thought it took forever to get our hands on a measly glass of sauv blanc (small pour) and a dirty martini, it took even longer to place our order.)  Our waiter was pleasant, but he kept performing a disappearing act.  (Was he cooking our damn dinner?)  As it turned out, he was preoccupied with two larger parties, which explains why Hubby and I were a forgotten little two-top.  As Hubby put it at one point in the evening: I just made direct eye contact with three different people and still nobody's coming over!  

DECOR: Hubby didn't like the way everything had its name inscribed on it.  (The napkins, plates and glasses all reminded us we were eating at Bouchee.)  As for me, I find personalization kind of charming so it didn't really bother me.  There were no candles on the tables and the lighting was rather bright.  Not really the stuff romantic meals are made of, but you live and learn. 

APPS: For appetizers, we opted for the warm olive plate and a crabcake special.  Much to Hubby's chagrin, the warm olive plate turned out to be literally just that: a dish of warm olives.  And nary a slice of crusty bread in sight!  The crabcakes were yummy though.

ENTREES:  Feeling snuggly, we decided upon the roasted chicken pour deux, which was served with au jus, pomme frites, garlic aeoli, and asparagus.  My spirits lifted at the announcement of the garlic aeoli, though once I tasted it they fizzled back down again.  (I'm a bit of a garlic aeoli snob, however.)   

Now, I adore a nice roasted chicken.  But I'm sad to report that the roasted chicken at Bouchee was terribly disappointing.  The meat was bland; and Hubby, channeling Gordon Ramsey, wondered if it hadn't been thrown into the deep fryer for a second before being served.  I have to agree the skin did taste mysteriously like it had been placed in a fryer.

DESSERT: We'd sat down a little before seven and it was now nearing nine, and so we opted to pass on our waiter's half hearted attempt at dessert.  By that point we just wanted to get the hell out of there.  

THE BROAD'S VERDICT: Two rounds of drinks, two apps and two entrees ran us about $117, including tax and 20% gratuity.  Personally, if we're going to shell out that much hard earned dough we expect dinner to be pretty damn tasty!  This isn't the place to go if you're looking for romance or to celebrate a special occasion, but having said that, I wouldn't categorize Bouchee as cheap and cheerful, either.  Taking into consideration the slow service, the dissatisfying French fare and the fact that this was our anniversary, my verdict is thus: One and a half glasses of Riesling.  Just not worth the moolah.  (Especially in this economy!)

 

Why I'm tired

A commotion woke me up very early this morning, something louder than the humming of my humidifier.  I squinted at the clock and saw that it was 4:14 am.  What was that noise?

I hopped out of bed, switched off the humidifier and the sound of a man's voice immediately revealed itself.  Or were there two of them?  In my sleepy haze I pulled back my curtain and imagined I saw two college kids sitting out on the fire escape.  I told Hubby as much.

"There's nobody sitting on the fire escape," Hubby determined.  I put on my glasses to get a second look and he was right.  So I was seeing things, but there was definitely someone talking.  Ordinarily I would take this opportunity to scream some choice nighttime obscenity out my window, but something stopped me.  This voice was disturbing, you see; this voice was upsetting.  This voice was...laughing.  Laughing maniacally.

It was the kind of laughter that shows up in bad 80's horror flicks; a high pitched, hysterical falsetto.  Whatever it was this dude was laughing at, once he started he didn't stop.  As I mentioned earlier, I couldn't get a look at him, but for some reason I pictured him wearing clown makeup.  Or at least smeared lipstick.

Now, I'm a bit of a scardie cat.  Shrill laughter emanating from outside my window in the middle of the night is undeniably the stuff nightmares are made of.  And this particular cackle rated extra high on the creepy weirdo meter.  Obviously this person was high on something very special, to be standing outside in the freezing February air unable to stop cackling.

It was then that I decided; this laughter was probably, no, definitely the scariest sound my two ears had ever heard.  Even in the moment I knew this to be true, and stood there in awe and admiration.  It was a perfect storm of sorts; so terribly eerie, so perfectly frightening and horrendous that I almost wanted to congratulate the sick bastard.

Well done, hysterical clown man; well done.

P.S.

I feel I should add a visual addendum to my last post, seeing as SOMEONE got up early enough this morning to not only make steel cut oats, but also to eat them, and most importantly...to tell you all about it.  Yay fiber! 

Of course this probably means I'll be late for work...xoxo

Fiber

Everyone's talking about Steel Cut Oats.  (OK, when I say everyone, I really mean Oprah.)  The funny thing is, when Hubby first took note of my newly found obsession with said oats, the first words out of his ever observant mouth were, "Who says to eat steel cut oats...Oprah?"  For some reason I chose to deny this accusation vehemently.  Until now. 

Lately I've really wanted to buy myself a nice tub of steel cut oats, until I discovered they took over twenty-five minutes to prepare.  This deterred me only briefly, however, as I found some yesterday at Trader Joe's that require a mere eight minutes cooking time!  I can spare eight lousy minutes in the morning, can I not? 

Hubby doesn't think I'm ever going to make the steel cut oats.  He believes they are going to sit in our cabinet collecting dust for the next two to three years.  We've been down this road before.

I'm not sure I disagree. 

Adding insult to injury

It just doesn't look nice when a lady falls from her bar stool.  I may even venture to say there's a definite stigma attached.

Wait.  As Julie Andrews might say, let's start at the very beginning...

This past Friday the thirteenth, I went out for drinks with a work friend to celebrate her last day at the company.  We were having the nicest time chatting when two guys suddenly approached our table.  The shorter of the two immediately turned to me and declared, "I'm supposed to talk to you because my friend likes your friend."  (Gee.  Thanks!)

"Oh!"  I exclaimed, "Does that make you the wingman?!" 

It wasn't long before Wingman would venture to inquire, "If you don't mind my asking, how old are you?" 

"I'm seventy-five.  But I keep myself active."

"No, really?  How old are you?  You seem pretty youthful...," he slurred.

"How old are YOU?  Fourteen?"

These clowns were becoming tiresome.  After telling Wingman I was happily married and old enough to be his mother, I hoped he'd go away.

Some visual detail, if I may:  It turns out Wingman was twenty-five.  At the risk of sounding catty, I would not describe him as a "looker".  For starters, his hair was styled in the standard, rather unfortunate way many males tend to wear their hair in Massachusetts.  (Shall I categorize it as a Brutus gone wrong?)  If you're not familiar with the hairstyle I speak of, try to picture someone who's accidentally shaved his head and then let his hair grow out, resulting in teeny tiny man bangs that he then combs forward over his hair line.  (Except, of course, this is no accident.  Some boys in Massachusetts apparently pay someone to do this.)

His clothing style was just as distasteful: picture a corporate, tapered leg wearing nincompoop.  (And he's asking how old I am?)

Not that I'm bitter.  Not that this jackass wasn't so intoxicated that a few moments later he wouldn't somehow put his weight upon the back of my tall pub chair and accidentally yank it backwards, taking me along with it.  The next thing I knew the side of my head hit the floor with a sickening thud.

What the??!!  The bartender was instantly at our side asking if I'd like him to call an ambulance.  At that point I was more mortified than anything so I laughed it off and said I was fine.  All smiles.  Like I do.

"I didn't knock her chair over!!" Wingman kept repeating, by way of responding to my friend's accusing glare.  Upon reflection, we were certain he hadn't done it on purpose, and yet...

I am bruised.  I am achy.  And it kind of hurts to brush my hair.

Adrenalin and pinot grigio initially made me regard this whole fiasco as rather hilarious.  Somehow the story lost a bit of its humor in the light of day. 

"It's a good thing I wasn't there!" was my dad's horrified reaction.  (Incidentally, why is it always such a comfort when my father threatens bodily harm upon someone in my honor?) 

On Sunday, at the urging of my loved ones, Hubby and I finally went over to Beth Israel Medical Center to get my noggin checked out.  It didn't look nice, as you may imagine, for a young married couple to be entering the triage unit because the wife had "fallen and hit her head."  Poor Hubby. 

Once registered, I would be obliged to tell a slightly edited version of this tale six times to six different people.  (I decided to leave out the part about being called old.)  Humility.  It's what's for dinner. 

Knowing that a trip to the ER would run me fifty bucks, I figured I'd get my money's worth: "While I'm here...I hit my nose with a ceramic platter two weeks ago at work, would you mind just taking a quick look at it?"  (It was at this point the attending asked me to undress so she could get a better look at my bruises.)

In summation, on Friday the thirteenth, four days after the full moon, an unattractive twenty-five year old asked how old I was before knocking over my pub stool.  If that doesn't add insult to injury, I don't know what will.  xoxo

Joaquin?

I heart Joaquin Phoenix.  I find it weird that often times the celebrities I admire have birthdays that fall around the same time as my husband.  (Something about the strong silent Scorpio type.)  Although I can't quite picture Hubby going on national television and acting the way Joaquin did recently, unless perhaps he was doing it as a practical joke?

And so J. Phoenix is abandoning his stellar acting career to become a hip hop artist.  Could this merely be an attempt at Hollywood tomfoolery?  If so, that's effing awesome.  If not, I'm a bit worried.  What do you think?

5 seconds of fame

I hate commuting.  In fact, whenever someone tells me, "I think I saw you on the train...," I instantly become nervous because I can never guarantee my behavior was polite or appropriate.  For example, sometimes I find myself mumbling nasty declarations under my breath when I witness my fellow pedestrians standing still on an escalator.  Seriously, it's 9:06 in the morning, is nobody else running late for work??!! 

For my part, I usually opt to take the stairs, two at a time, and leave the escalator to the zombies standing there like frozen fill in the blank(s).

The other day after a particularly sluggish commute, a co-worker mentioned he'd seen me on the train.  "You did?" I asked, all sweetness and smiles.

"Ya.  (uncomfortable pause.)  "You walk really fast."

I knew it.  Did you perchance hear me call anybody a dickhead?

A few mornings ago I bounded up the steps of the T Station and was immediately met by a woman with a microphone and a man holding a video camera.  "Excuse me, would you like to be interviewed for Channel 5 News?"

Dear Reader, ordinarily I would've kept on walking, but for some peculiar reason I chose to make eye contact.  "Okay."

"The mayor and his cabinet are taking a 3 percent pay cut.  What do you think about that?"  (And...GO!)

Oh no.  Obviously I hadn't thought this through.  For starters, I was wearing my glasses, no makeup (the lady at Pearl Vision had made me throw it all away until my follow up visit on Thursday), and was slightly out of breath from running up the the stairs two at a time, jacket unbuttoned, like a wild beast...

"Well, I don't really think public servants should be in it for the money, so if they want to take a pay cut, then that's pretty cool."

Pretty cool?  Had I really just said something was pretty cool?  On television no less?  Oh dear.  Well, perhaps they wouldn't use the clip?

Hubby texted me three hours later:  "Hahaha you were on the news."  He also noted that I'd sounded "kind of weird."  Naturally.

Well?  I was out of breath!  I was rushing to work! 

Sissy asked why I hadn't buttoned up my coat.  It was winter in Boston, after all. 

"Because the T is really, really sweltering hot, OK??!!"  Gosh!

My natural inclination would have been to see the camera and walk on by, and I told Sissy as much; which caused her to muse, rather dreamily: "Ya...too bad you didn't."

I later learned that the mayor earns a whopping $175,000 a year and this 3 percent pay cut would trim him down to $169, 750.  (A real Bob Cratchit.  Poor baby.)  And when I think of the tirades I've worked myself into regarding public figures earning indecent salaries at the expense of the tax paying public!  You'd certainly never guess this from the breathy, mild mannered broad who appeared on the twelve o'clock news.  New York City Mayor Mike Bloomberg earns a dollar a year, but that Mayor Menino, he's pretty cool.  Cringe.

And there you have it: the odd broad's five seconds of fame.  I'll try not to let it go to my head.  xoxo

Ringy Ding Ding

My wedding and engagement rings have become such an unconscious part of me that I sometimes don't think about them until I've forgotten to put them on.  On these very rare occasions, I'll look down at my left hand and receive a little shock; an intake of air, a crap I forgot to put on my wedding ring!  It's almost like a, crap I forgot to shut the iron off! only it won't make me turn back if I'm already running late.  (Although, who the hell am I kidding...I don't iron.) 

I don't like to say my wedding rings have morphed into some sort of snuggly security blanket; though there's a very good chance they have.  But if two blingy, sparkly platinum rings can remind me of the Scorpio I love in the middle of a busy workday, I say there are worse security blankies out there! 

I forgot to put on my rings today.  I was with my parents and we were running very late for a Christening party in New Hampshire.  "SHIT!"  I exclaimed, the minute I realized I'd forgotten to slip on my rings. 

For you see, this was no ordinary day.  It wasn't just the fact that Hubby had once again stayed home in lieu of accompanying me to a family function.  It wasn't just the fact that there would be people there whom I hadn't seen in a while who may wonder where my other half was.  It wasn't JUST the fact that I'd banged a heavy ceramic platter smack dab into my nose while peering into a cabinet at work last Monday and now had a slightly swollen nose bearing a tiny red mark and the whisper of a bruise just waiting to reveal itself.

No, it wasn't simply one of these things that made me regret my absentmindedness.  It was ALL OF THEM.

My overactive imagination is such that I sometimes conjure up things I suspect other people must be thinking about me and then begin to actively believe them.  And so, in summation: I had a bruised nose, wasn't wearing my wedding rings and my husband was mysteriously missing from the Christening of my first cousin's child.  Awesome!

In truth, I'd told Hubby not to come so he could try and catch up on his vast mountain of schoolwork.  Still, I understood people would probably inquire as to his whereabouts, even if only out of politeness.  One girl I hadn't seen for some time approached with her husband and the first words out of her well-meaning mouth were: "So...what's NEW?" 

Did I imagine that she glanced down at my bare, naked left hand? 

"Oh, you know...same old same old!  We left New York...moved to Boston.  My HUSBAND and I, we moved to Boston.  He's not here with me today, he's in...Boston!"

And he DIDN'T give me this funky red mark on my nose, I SWEAR!!

Afterwards, as I looked up at my Uncle Dan and relayed the grisly specifics of the above interaction, he looked at me lovingly and said, "Oh, Barbara Streisand nose..."

What the??!!  "Not really the best thing to say to me right now, uncle!"  I spat, a shriek threatening to escape me, before quietly asking, "You don't really think I have a Barbara Streisand nose...do you?"

"What?  Nah!  No...not really."

Note to self: Stop banging your goddamn face into things.  Never forget to wear your wedding rings.  Force your husband to attend family functions.  There!  That outta do it!  xoxo

I wore red

In honor of National Wear Red Day, today I am wearing the red sweater my mother gave me for Christmas.  She intended for me to wear it with stretchie pants, I believe, as it is slightly long and oversized.  For work purposes, though, sassy stretch pants just aren't an option.  Black trouser pants it would have to be.

I wore red!  And the delivery guy from Au Bon Pain asked if I was pregnant.