The Odd Broad

Oh yes, I've been here before...

Yesterday I stopped into our old apartment by Fenway to do some cleaning and discovered the window in the kitchen had been cracked, and the frame bent!

What the?  The apartment had been empty for a week, save for a few random things.  Why would anybody want to break into an empty apartment?

Luckily someone was still next door at the management company.  It was the pleasant, helpful woman I'd dealt with over the phone when I was trying to get out of our lease.  I explained to her about the window situation and waited for her reaction.  She smiled, made a circular motion around her stomach, and proceeded to ask the same brazen, intrusive little question I am apparently destined to hear spoken by strangers and casual acquaintances everywhere:

"You're pregnant, right?"

Honestly, what is it about me that inspires such invasive reproductive queries?  I have a mass body index of 21, for crying out loud! 

I blamed my purple sweater jacket.  I even opened it up so she'd see I wasn't with child.  This immediately propelled her into an apologetic spiel about how she'd mistaken me for someone else, someone who'd just moved away because she was expecting.  "I'm SO SORRY!  I thought you were her!"

"Nope!  Not me."  I smiled back at her.

At least she was apologetic.  "I really, really thought you were her.  This woman and her husband just moved away because the building was too noisy and there was a person below them always playing on the drums.  And she was pregnant!"

"Yeah, that was me, actually.  But I'm not pregnant."  Awkward. 

So even over the phone people assume I'm knocked up.  I think it's time I started developing a complex.

I'm sorry I went missing for a few days there, Dear Reader; but I was caught up in the process of moving into our new rental sweet rental.  I might have found the energy to write to you, perhaps, if our realtor hadn't been a double talking little skank, who prompted me to cry at work, and whose unprofessional, evasive behavior inspired me to act in a manner I normally shy away from: I was forced to be the "C" word.  Confrontational.  (The realtor, on the other hand, was the "other" C word.  Nasty thing.)

I won't bore you with all the gory details.  I will only say for a few days there I was in a state of unholy fury and thought we'd made a huge mistake.  At the time I couldn't wait to relate the harrowing tale to you, but now I'm not sure any of it even matters.  Isn't it funny how life works that way?  All I can say is thank God I have such amazing family and friends, or else I may have lost my mind.  

Tonight, I am pleased to report that Hubby, Kittie and I are all settled nicely into our new place in South Boston.  I am happy.  And, as Andrew Lloyd Webber once suggested: no more talk of darkness...

Especially when what I really feel like talking about is what a dickhead Sandra Bullock's husband is! 

You know, I don't even necessarily care for Sandy- she wouldn't have been my first choice to play Siddalee Walker in Divine Secrets of the YaYa Sisterhood, and I didn't see The Blind Side.  (And don't even get me started on that tedious Keanu Reeves time travel Lake House debacle.)  But I watched her recent interview with Barbara Walters and was touched by the candid and sweet manner in which she spoke of her husband, Jesse James.  She even went so far as to tell Babs she'd finally found someone who genuinely "had her back."  In light of the rampant, Tiger-esque infidelity that's been so publicly revealed, I can't help but feel really heartbroken for her.

Winning an Oscar is what millions of little girls dream of; not an ideal time to find out one's husband is a philandering bastard who's been screwing around with a tatted up, formerly Amish, white supremacist stripper.  Gross.  Apparently there are at least three other women this man has had affairs with!  And all of them have lawyers.  For what?  And why are these women scampering to humiliate and undermine Sandra Bullock just when she's at her most powerful?

It's the oldest story in the book, but the feminist in me hates to see Sandra's recent accomplishment marred by all this foolishness.  It's such a cliche.  And it just goes to show, no matter how rich, famous or successful one becomes, one can still be susceptible to doggery.  Sandra's had to cancel appearances for The Blind Side and is reportedly hiding out; it's really such a shame.

A powerful woman can be a threatening entity.  Reese Witherspoon's husband couldn't handle it, and neither could Hillary Swank's.  (Or Hillary Clinton's, for that matter.)  And don't even get me started on that little wiener of a man John Edwards or that slimy Elliot Spitzer.  Now Tiger Woods is a sex addict.  Frankly, I'm sick of hearing about it!  If you want to have sex with copious amounts of women, the answer is simple- don't get married!  If you don't wish to be plunged into the spotlight or held accountable after making poor choices, then don't be a public figure!  If you want us to purchase the products you peddle, Tiger W., then stop acting like a slutty egomaniac!  It's just not professional.

When I was a teenager, I read in a Marianne Williamson book (and I'm paraphrasing here) that weak men make us feel crazy, while strong men make us feel calm.  As an adult I've come to realize just what she meant by that, and how wonderful it can be when it actually comes true.

Hang in there, Sandra- I think a lot of us are hoping you'll rise to the occasion.

Domino's pizza delivers!

We live across the street from a Domino's pizza.  We ordered from them the day we moved to this neighborhood over a year and a half ago, but we haven't called them since.  Until tonight.  (Dun Dun DUN!!!)

Well?  Everything's been packed in preparation for our imminent move!  There's nothing left to cook with!  Especially seeing as my mommy came to town today and put the smackdown on my obsessive compulsive ass.  ("No, honey, you can't individually wrap your silver ware; put the whole tray in the box and step away.  Good girl."  God, I love that woman.)

Back to Domino's, though- has anyone else been following those promising new commercials, where they revisit the formerly irate customers who gave negative testimonials?  Every time I watch one I sort of think, hmm, aren't these people being kind of harsh?  It's only pizza, after all!  How crappy can it be?

How naive I was.

Hubby placed our order online, which at first inspired me with a certain amount of hope.  We could even monitor it on the Domino's tracker timeline.  We watched as our order was placed...and was then being prepared by a man named Carlos...

Hey, maybe they really have changed!

The timeline informed us our pizzas were baking and before we knew it, Carlos was double checking them.  Soon after, our order was ready for delivery.  Not bad!  Thanks Carlos! 

Unfortunately for Carlos, Bartosz, our delivery person, was kind of off his game tonight.  It seemed Bartosz would need thirty minutes from the time the Domino's website stated our order was "out for delivery" to bring the damn thing across the street!

His excuse?  Traffic.

Our food was cold and pathetic.  It was an instant tummy ache.  What did I expect?  It was Domino's.

Do you think a camera crew will come to my apartment tomorrow to prove me wrong?  Hope they bring Tums!

In a New York state of mind...

Walking the streets of New York as a visitor is drastically different than being there as a resident.  I lived in the big apple (in Astoria, Queens) for the better part of my twenties and returning there for a visit last month made me feel a way I never wanted to feel: tourist-y.  (I was also suffering from pms so it's safe to say my emotions were really running the hormonal gamut.)

We arrived on a Thursday so Hubby could play a gig at the Canal Room with his former band.  He had rehearsal that night, so I was heading over to see my old pal Vanessa.  Standing outside the Doubletree at 51st and Lex around 5:45 pm, I gave Hubby a smooch and was on my merry way.  It was just like old times!  Only I didn't live there anymore.  (Wuh-Wuh.)

Would people be able to tell I was an out-of-towner? 

"Which direction is Third?" I asked a blond woman in scrubs walking a tiny dog.  Sigh.  I was rusty, all right.  The kicker was, I knew which direction Third was, so why on earth did I ask?     

Vanessa's husband was away for the weekend so the two of us were left to our own girlish devices.  What this specifically means for us is: the swillage of a fair amount of wine (hiccup), lots of estrogen fueled, soulful chatter, followed by unabashed song and dance.  Basically, it's musical theatre geekery on steroids.  I don't know about you, but I like that in a Thursday evening. 

We dialed our friend Jamie just as the Les Miz medley began:

"Do you hear the people sing?  Singing the song of angry men...it is the music of the people who will NOT be slaves again!"

"Who IS this?" the confused man on the other end asked.  He had a thick Asian accent and sounded a little frightened.  Turns out we'd dialed the wrong number.  Woopsie.

The next afternoon, Hubby wanted to walk through Central Park.  I remember the days not too long ago when I'd spend my lunch hour doing just that.  For whatever reason, being there again filled me with an inexplicable heaviness of heart.  I felt as if some menacing spirit were pressing its hands down upon my chest.  (Drama!)

I'm not a mysterious kind of spouse; when Hubby asked me what was the matter I merely replied I was feeling an overwhelming feeling of oppressive sadness.  (So I have a penchant for the melodramatic, what do you want from me?) 

It's just...Hubby and I constructed eight years of memories there, and it seemed they were closing in on us from every direction.  Even those crappy $4 pretzels filled me with a certain nostalgia.  (And still, through my temporary malaise, I mustered up the energy to wonder...where do those street vendors go to take a wizz?)

I'd been very concerned that Hubby would feel homesick for the city when we arrived, but in the end it was myself who acted the gloomypants.  I sat down on the nearest bench and allowed the lump in my throat to manifest itself into a discreet but satisfying cry.  What was I crying for?  The city?  My twenties?  The bygone dreams of my squandered youth?  In any case, I learned long ago that in New York one can openly cry in public without fear of judgment or even interruption. 

When I was a New Yorker, I frequently longed to be back in Boston with my family.  Now that I've gotten my wish, I adore seeing my loved ones, but I often miss my life in New York.  (I know what you're thinking, the Riesling always tastes sweeter on the other side of the vineyard.)  But for me, leaving New York was never a black or white issue, and it will most likely remain a classic shade of gray.  Cest la vie.

I ate a nice Thai dinner with my friend Emma that Friday evening while Hubby had soundcheck for the show.  Regrettably, it turns out the only thing Hubby had to eat for dinner that evening was one puny beef slider.  (He doesn't like to eat too much before a gig anyways, and he figured he'd just get something to eat afterward.)  WORST.  PLAN.  EVER!  We schlepped back to our hotel many hours and barfs over the side of our taxi drinks later.  I haven't seen my husband that intoxicated since the infamous Flying Crab Rangoon(s) incident of 2006.  Not pretty.  It was the opposite of pretty, in fact. (Think Heidi Montag post the plastic surgery debacle.)

It was a great weekend, though.  I love watching my husband play his saxophone.  I will forever remain his eternal groupie.  And it's always nice to see old friends, and to revisit old stomping grounds...

Life is wondrous, bittersweet and sometimes willfully gray.  Choices, especially the most important ones, can't always be black or white.  But I think I'm at peace with it.  At least I have these amazing choices to feel gray about.

One of the best things to come out of this trip was the realization that we needed to move to a new part of town and we needed to do it immediately.  The Fenway area doesn't feel like much of a neighborhood, and the college kids are slowly driving me out of my mind.  Not to mention, the two of us are constantly comparing Boston to New York, with the latter always winning out.  And frankly, that's getting kind of obnoxious.

I returned to Boston and decided if we were going to give this city a fighting chance, we needed to address our living situation.  We needed somewhere a bit more quiet and homey, with an office, in a building where we wouldn't feel compelled to shank our neighbors quite so often.  We've found it, I think, (I pray).  Ask me in a week and a half, after we've moved into our two-bedroom in Southie, and I'll be able tell you for certain.  xoxo

You were my favorite Corey

I just received a text and for some reason I knew it must be bad news.  Corey Haim has overdosed!  I was genuinely pulling for him.  Couldn't whoever's who have set him up with Dr. Drew or something?  So sad.

I can only imagine what Feldman will have to say.

Snap out of it, Bella! Are you a method actor, or just a dud?

Dear Kristen Stewart,

You are the worst.  Could you BE any more sulky or fidgety?  Can you not crack just a little bit of a smile, if only for Oscar?  And while we're on the subject, must you cough into Taylor Lautner's face, mid sentence, without covering your effing mouth?  Taylor is only eighteen, and he still pulled it together enough to be poised and dashing! 

Listen girl, you're living the dream.  Suck it up and smile.

Love,

The Odd Broad  xoxo

PS: R-Pat, what are you thinking?  How could you fall for such a pill?  (Call me.)

Restaurant Review: Petit Robert Bistro

If you think affordable French cuisine in Boston is a contradiction in terms, then think again.  Petit Robert Bistro, in the heart of Kenmore Square, serves up authentic French fare that won't break the bank.

SERVICE: The waitstaff, many of whom are actually French, are knowledgeable, which makes up for the sometimes escargot-like service.  We always opt to make a reservation in advance, seeing as this place fills up very quickly on weekends.  I definitely recommend calling ahead!

Be prepared to enjoy a leisurely meal.  You will not be rushed, even if you'd prefer to be.  We ate there this past Saturday, and our entrees did take quite a while to come out; our server brought us plenty of warm bread while we waited, however.  Hubby and I didn't mind, since we had nowhere else to be.

DECOR: The milieu is cozy French bistro.  There is limited outside dining in warmer weather.  This small restaurant has two floors, and if you're seated on the top floor, you'll have a direct view of the bustling action inside the kitchen.

COCKTAILS: Hubby usually opts for a dirty Grey Goose martini ($10).  As for me, I've never met a heavy pour I didn't love, and $8 at Petit Robert will buy you a robust glass of Sauvignon Blanc.  There are also a number of fun, fruity signature cocktails on the menu.   

STARTERS: The menu offers savory soups and delectable salads, all of which are well under $10.  Needless to say, I've never tried the Crispy Calf's Brains.  But I have tried the Moules Marinières.  The mussels were a little sandy and the flavor was rather bland; so I'm not sure I'd order it again.  

ENTREES: In my experience, the food comes out piping hot, which I consider a lovely thing.  Back in my carnivorous days, I delighted in the roasted half chicken with natural jus.  At $14.75, this scrumptious dish is an amazing value, and extremely satisfying.  My latest obsession would be the pan seared scallops with creamy crab and endive sauce ($19.25).  These scallops are perfectly seared and the taste is wondrous and slightly salty.  I have daydreams about this dish.  It's heaven on a plate.  Hubby is a fan of the duck confit and grilled sausage with braised cabbage ($16.75).  He's ordered it several times now, which leads me to believe it's the stuff his dreams are made of, too.

DESSERT: Sadly, by the time dessert rolls around I have usually gorged myself to capacity.  Therefore I've never sampled any of the tasty sounding items from the pastry menu.  One of these days I'll wise up and remember to save room.

THE BROAD'S VERDICT: In the Fenway/Kenmore area, food tends to be aimed at either college students or tourists (ie: low quality or ridiculously overpriced).  Either way, I am usually left feeling bitter and disillusioned.  Not so with this place.  Petit Robert offers flavorful, high quality French cuisine at surprisingly reasonable prices.  (Every delicious entree is under $20.)  While the service can be somewhat unpredictable, I enjoy the romantic atmosphere and find the food to be consistently excellent.  You will certainly get your dollar's worth.  I have yet to leave there not feeling blissfully satisfied.  Therefore, the broad gives this eatery: 3 glasses of Riesling.

Last night I had a very vivid dream.  I was in Science class and my 7th grade Geography teacher, Mr. Phelan, had just asked me to give a witty speech about why Robert Pattinson was smoking hot.  I had only minutes to prepare.  My friend Amy was with me, and I sat at the back of the auditorium, hunched over my notebook.  I wrote frantically.

My sister wasn't surprised at my dream.  She's in her second trimester of pregnancy now, and will be the first to credit Edward Cullen as a good deal of the inspiration for conceiving her second born.  R-Pat is even better looking, she contests, when he's not wearing:

1.) a peacoat

2.) whiteface

and

3.) lipstick

You may already know my thoughts regarding the Twilight sensation.  While I find the self-loathing Bella a wretched role model for young girls, and the intensity of her relationship with Edward dangerously limiting (ie: she'd rather lie in a field staring into the sparkly boy's eyes than take the frigging SAT's), even I can admit that vampire is rather dreamy.  If one is into that sort of thing.

I won't lie, most of the time I play for Team Jacob.  Especially after watching New Moon.  (I'm raising my eyebrows as I type this last sentence, can you tell?)  Yes, the sunny werewolf has my vote even after I went on imdb and discovered, much to my horror, that Taylor Lautner was born in 1992.  (He did just turn eighteen, though!)

Impure thoughts regarding shirtless, tanned werewolf minors aside, my dream last night was a weird one.  R-Pat dominated much of the conversation at work today, and a friend told me to google what he revealed this week on The View.

Have you heard about this, Dear Reader?  How R. Pattinson told Details magazine he's allergic to (and hates) vaginas?  He was also quoted on The View as saying he thinks Betty White is one of "the sexiest women in America."

Say what?

So, R-Pat...what you're saying is...I have a chance.  Come on, even on my worst day I'm way hotter than Rose Nyland!  I'm just saying.