The Odd Broad

Snacking

Sissy introduced me to this winning edible combination a few weeks ago and I can't stop eating it.  Corn Thins plus Nutella equals...my own tiny little slice of Heaven.  xoxo

F bombs on aisle nine

On Mother's Day I stopped into Shaw's to pick up the last bunch of flowers I would ever buy my grandmother. 

I chose tulips for Nanny and decided my mom might like some miniature purple roses in dainty little tins.  They were so impossibly pretty, I hoped maybe they'd cheer her up.  Although, did a few of the roses look wilted?  I popped my head around the corner and discovered a woman working behind the flower area, putting together arrangements.  She was having a conversation with an elderly man.  They weren't talking flowers, mainly they were just shooting the breeze.

I made myself visible, my arms bulging with bags and plants and flowers, but the woman still wouldn't acknowledge me.

I was running late.  Immediate action was necessary.  "Excuse me, I'm sorry to interrupt, but I just have a quick question about these flowers..."

BAD choice, Odd Broad.  The old buck went effing ballistic.  Now that I had a good look at him, I did notice he was kind of off his rocker.  He was wearing a Yankees baseball cap and when he opened his mouth to yell at me I saw he was missing some teeth. 

"You just interrupted us!  How dare you!  You rude, fucking, bitch!"

Awesome.

The flower woman looked totally nonplussed.  "That's not nice, she said 'excuse me'..."

"I don't care!  I was talking and she interrupted me!  She's a bitch!"  He leveled his wild eyes back on mine.  "YOU are a BITCH!"

As there appeared to be a brief window of opportunity in between the scolding, I decided it might be a nice time to pose my question.  "Do these flowers look wilted?"  The woman assured me that she'd just gotten the roses in the day prior, so they were very fresh, and I was on my merry way.  The old devil was still railing, going on about what a horrible bitch I was. 

I knew this poor soul probably had a touch of the dementia, but I'm not going to lie; his impromptu nastiness made my eyes sting with a moisture that was entirely involuntary.  Let's face it, I was already in a somber mood to begin with.  "Thank you," I said to the woman.  "Have a nice day," I said to the old dickhead.  It figured he was a Yankees fan. 

As I walked away I could hear them talking, and the old man was already regretting his outburst.  A second later he came around the corner and repented.  "You did say excuse me; I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called you a bitch, that was wrong of me."

"That's okay, sir.  It's alright."

He then disappeared behind the wall and I heard his friend tell him she was proud of him and that it was very nice of him to have apologized.

Nobody around had witnessed this oddity, save me, flower lady and old Yankee dude.  I glanced about to see if there wasn't some stranger I could roll my eyes at, laugh, and say, "Can you believe it?  Never a dull moment," that sort of thing.  But my sudden need to commiserate only made me appear creepy.  A woman dressed in traditional Indian garb actually hurried away from me with her shopping cart.

I walked home, the sun beating down on me.  I was starting to sweat.  On the way, I passed a man begging for spare change who said, "Nice flowers." 

Thanks.

That was the last day I saw Nan alive.  I put the tulips on top of her television set; she'd gotten so many flowers she was running out of table space.  I don't think she knew who I was, so I never really got to say goodbye.  I wanted a moment alone with her, to tell her...I don't even know what.  Anyway, I never got the chance.  So I'm going to tell her now, on the world wide web: You made me laugh.  You were beautiful and brave, and I always wanted to make you proud.  You were a constant, irreplaceable staple in my life, and now you're gone, and a part of me just can't believe it.

And...Nanny, an old man called me a bitch on Mother's Day, at the grocery store.  Can you believe it?

On my lunch break

Pigeons are brazen and annoying.  But I still don't like it when people kick at them.

I've come outside this afternoon to feel the sun on my face.  And that's okay, since I'm wearing spf 15.

Someone muttering about God sits on my left.  The man on my right is arguing with someone who isn't even there, or is at least not visible to the general public.  He smells.  The pigeons are everywhere.  But I don't kick at them because I'm a good person.

Behind me, by the Irish Famine Memorial, a singer accompanies himself on acoustic guitar.  His singing style sounds like someone familiar, but I can't quite pinpoint who.  He sings Wonderwall, but he's singing it slowly, gloomily.  The Gallagher brothers would be none too pleased.  I picture them scowling at him, in a manner most surly.

When the breeze blows it's cold and stings my skin.  But just as soon as it arrives, it suddenly subsides.  It reminds me of being at the beach, when a cloud moves in front of the sun and momentarily blocks out all the warmth and light.  The sun is hidden, but I know it will return if I'm patient.  I'm trusting that life is like the weather. 

My break's over.  Time to go back inside.  Later, pigeons.

 

So long

When my grandmother used to tell people about me, she'd describe me as thus:

"My granddaughter Sarah has the most bee-you-tee-ful voice!"

She'd always want me to sing "The wind beneath my wings," because it was her favorite.  And she always believed in me, even when I didn't.  She came to every show and recital I ever performed, all but one.  And she never wanted me to leave New York, even when I'd tell her how lonely I was. 

When I'd call her after an audition, she'd ask, "How much will it pay?"  And most of the time I'd answer, "Nan, it doesn't pay anything!  I'd be doing it for free!"  And she'd just laugh.  For some reason this always made her roar.

I tried to explain to her what a blog was, but she just didn't get it.  I suppose I wanted her to know I was still at least doing something creative.

She didn't like saying goodbye; she'd always make me say so long.

I'm really going to miss her.

Where's the beef?

Sometimes I think the restaurants in Boston are taking the piss. 

Take the meal I ate the other night at Whiskey's on Boylston, for example.  I ordered beef fajitas, which turned out to be about two pounds of peppers and onions and seven emaciated little strips of beef.  Seven.  (I know this because my plate was so ridiculous looking that Hubby and I actually counted.)  It was the weirdest thing ever and I've done my best to recreate this oddity in the drawing below. 

Is it because Boston is a college town, and therefore the standards are lower?  In New York there was always a plethora of cheap and cheerful places that offered tasty, quality food!  (And a G. damn mojito didn't cost me ten to twelve bucks.  And it actually tasted good.)

It didn't take long to scarf down my skimpy beef fajitas at Whiskey's.  It was only around 6:30 or so, but a girl at the table next to us was already so drunk she'd fallen off her bar stool.  (Not that I judge.  Broads who live in glass houses...)  By the time we left, the place was packed and there was a line out the door.  All up and down Boylston the kids were getting their drink on.  

I suppose they're going to pay up no matter what?  Still, I wish the standards were a bit higher.  

Oh, by the way, here's what half of a $10 steak sandwich at Dillon's looks like:

Where's the effing beef?  They're totally taking the piss.  Gordon Ramsey would have himself a field day.

I love my mommy

Abraham Lincoln said it best: Everything I am in life I owe to my angel mother.

When I decided to start this blog, I called my mom and we talked about what its name should be.  She came up with The Odd Broad, of course.  Nobody knows me like her.

When I was little she would sit on the edge of our bathtub and tell me elaborate stories about Grover, because I was terrified to pee alone.  (Apparently Grover had this very same issue, and his mommy sat with him, too.)  I was always afraid of something, it seemed, and she was always there to make it better.  If this ever bothered her, I never knew it; because she certainly never showed it.

She sent me to nursery school early, concerned that I was too attached to her.  (I was.  Probably still am.)  I had no interest in leaving her, however, and told her so in no uncertain terms.  When she'd ask, "How was school?"  I'd tell her I had no friends and nobody talked to me.  (Lies.)

If my mother had a day off from work, sometimes my sister and I would get off the school bus and find that she'd rearranged our rooms.  We loved it.  At Christmas time she'd transform our home into a winter wonderland.

My mother has the prettiest brown eyes but if you try to tell her this she'll roll them.  My dad tells her she's the most beautiful woman in the world.  (She'll roll them at that, too.)  She insists that she's not sweet, but she can't help it, people are going to think she is anyway. 

Special needs people are drawn to my mother and will remember her, years later, and seek her out in a crowd.  We're not really sure why.

My mother throws a killer party.  She has this way of making the people around her feel very comfortable.  She's secretly a little shy, but nobody would ever guess this because she's so friendly. 

My mother makes me laugh.  Her sense of humor is really quite twisted.  It sneaks up on people because her face is so kind looking.

She's fond of a nice glass of White Zinfandel on a Saturday night.  She's not against boxed wine, either.  Her snack of choice is a cup of tea and a strawberry pop tart.  She's an excellent cook, and now that Sissy and I are adults, she'll even take double requests. 

I firmly believe the only reason my mother wears sunglasses is so she can people watch.  This woman turns people watching into an art form.

I'd be willing to bet money she's never gotten a manicure or pedicure. 

My mother never asked either of her daughters the following questions: When are you moving home?  When are you getting married?  When are you having children?  That's not the way she rolls.  Thank God.

She knows her way around a DVR and adores seedy crime dramas.  But she knows we can't watch them together, because I find them too upsetting. 

My Mother is strong.  She tries to do the right thing, even if the other person might not deserve it.  She puts her faith in God and the Blessed Mother.

We could easily spend three hours shopping together at Kohl's, and Sissy adamantly refuses to go there with us.

My mother acts like she isn't an animal person.  (But secretly I think she is.)

My mother is kind of a workaholic.  (But don't tell her that, she'll get annoyed.)

She absolutely loves being a grandmother.

She likes me to read her tarot. 

My mother's love makes me strong.  It has allowed me to do things I would never have thought I could do otherwise.  She has this way of turning to her daughters, when we're in mid sentence, and saying something wonderful like, "You are just so beautiful." 

Being loved by her has been one of the most important blessings in my life.  I will always be searching for ways to tell my mother that I love her. 

xoxo

My mother is a poem
I'll never be able to write,
though everything I write
is a poem to my mother.
~Sharon Doubiago

Girls with long noses shouldn't wear hoods.

Sometimes in life things happen that are too hurtful, too mortifying and uncomfortable to even acknowledge, let alone recall on the world wide web.

What can I say?  I'm a masochist.

Picture it: Southern California, October, 1999.  It was my Senior year of college and I'd flown across the country to see Hubby, my then boyfriend, who'd had to leave school and move back home.  We were twenty. 

When Hubby left Boston I was heartbroken, wretched, distracted, woebegone; you get the idea.  The Odd Broad was a total effing train wreck.  This boy was my soul mate!  And suddenly he was gone.  I couldn't get out to California fast enough!

It was my second to last day in California and we were taking a nice drive along the sunny PCH.  Back then Hubby was driving around in a red Dodge convertible whose top was perpetually down.  (We had no choice about the latter, I suppose, since the roof wouldn't really go back up.) 

Dear Reader, I'm just going to come out and say it:  I have a long nose.  I don't know why, really; my mother, father and sister certainly don't have long noses!  They have tiny baby noses.  I suppose my grandfather had a longish nose, however, and now it seems that I do, too.

But I digress.  Hubby and I zoomed along the highway, my hair whipping violently into my face, eyes and mouth.  I decided to pull up the hood on my light blue fleece sweatshirt.  (Can you see this story is heading somewhere painful?  Get out while you can!)

It happened in slow motion, really.  I can still see their car approaching us on the left, from behind.  Inside were about three or four large African-American teenage girls, and one of them called out:

"She has a big ass nose!"

Only she didn't say it like that; she said it more like: She has a Big (pause) Ass (dreadful pause) NOSE!  Her last word was sort of spat out in an awful, high pitched yelp.

What was that?

Oh Reader, I died a thousand deaths!  Had Hubby heard?  No, surely not!  He couldn't have heard!  Sweet Baby Jesus, if he had heard, then surely I would die!  There was no other alternative.

Barely moving my blue hooded head, I peered over at Hubby out of the corner of my eye, as inconspicuously as humanly possible.  He couldn't have heard.

Just then he picked up my hand, kissed it, and quietly whispered, "I love you baby."

Oh Christ Jesus!  He HAD heard them!!!!

The next day I flew back to Boston.  Hubby and I waited until the last possible moment to say goodbye.  I didn't want to leave.  He didn't want me to leave.  We exhibited massive amounts of public displays of affection.  As I walked tearfully down the jetway, a strong feeling in the pit of my stomach told me to turn around.  Later, Hubby would tell me that he'd hoped I might turn around.

I didn't turn around.  I boarded that plane back to the East coast, crying all the way.  I called Sissy from a payphone on my layover, still weepy.  "Oh, Sissy, I miss him so much!  Although I kind of don't know what I'm more sad about, leaving California, or the fact that a group of girls on the highway said I had a big ass nose!"

"Who said WHAT to you, now?" 

My older sister made me feel better in the special way that only she can.  (She has a gift.)  But she also strongly advised me to never wear hoods.

To the few poor souls on this planet with whom I'm closely intimate with, my life is an open book.  But Reader, I am not without ego.  It would be years and years before I'd muster the courage to actually mention this episode to my husband, and even then I was probably drunk at the time.  "Do you remember when..."

I'd never been sure, see?  Had he heard?  But oh, Hubby remembered.  And he'd definitely heard.  Sniff sniff. 

Girls with long noses shouldn't wear hoods.  It just doesn't look nice.

Shop at BJ's!

When I was a child I went to elementary school with a very nice boy named BJ.  One day BJ disappeared and didn't return until Jr. High, and suddenly everybody was calling him Will.  Everyone besides me, of course, because I'd known this kid since Kindergarten and his name was BJ!  What the?

"Hi, BJ!"  The poor boy's face looked pale.  "It's Will," BJ told me firmly.  I was baffled.  What was the big deal about me calling him BJ, anyway?  That was his name, wasn't it?  Truly, I was puzzled.

Sadly, it would be years and years before I would figure out why a pubescent boy might not want to be referred to as BJ.  But who knew?  Certainly not me!

And I digress.  At the risk of sounding juvenile, is there a reason why the woman in the BJ's Wholesale commercial is rocking a large, phallic looking, 80's style microphone?  Furthermore, is there an explanation as to why she needs to be holding a microphone at all?  All I'm saying is, with a name like BJ's...

Just wondering.  Because it looks kind of...dirty.

Perhaps nobody will notice?

I'm kind of a bad person for snapping the picture you see below.  The quality on my crappy little camera phone couldn't really do justice to this daring fashion choice, but you get the gist. 

Sheer white pants and black drawers on a bright, sunny Saturday is a ballsy move, my friend; a ballsy move indeed.  The Odd Broad salutes you for your bravery.