The Odd Broad

The Double take

Tonight, while riding the bus, I spotted a dude wearing a version of the footwear you see below... 

It was damn near impossible not to turn back for a second look.  I kept peering out of the corner of my eye to confirm what I'd just seen.  Yes.  This guy was wearing shoes...with toes.  While taking Mass Transit.  The fact that he was talking loudly and unabashedly on his cell phone made me feel a little less guilty about rubbernecking. 

A daring choice in foot adornment, my friend; especially while standing on a packed, rather putrid smelling bus.  And yet, I kind of feel the urge to salute you.  Well done, I say.

I wonder if they make them for webbed feet?

She wore an itsy bitsy, teenie weenie, yellow fringed, hot bikini!

Hubby and I are leaving for Aruba tomorrow, Dear Reader!  I'm so excited I could just pee.  It will be our first vacation in over two years, and it's all I've been thinking of since the day we booked it. 

A few weeks ago I ordered some bathing suits online from Victoria's Secret, choosing ones with some built-in va-va-va-voom.  (Who am I kidding, everything I wear on my chest requires a fair amount of built-in jazziness.)  I made the mistake of not shipping the package to work, however, and getting anything delivered to my apartment building is a Nightmare on Elm Street (parts one, two and three.)  Boxes are constantly being stolen.

When I checked the UPS website and saw that my package had been left at "FRONT DOOR" I pulled the hissiest of hissy fits.  My package wasn't at our front door, it was nowhere to be found!  Why on earth would they leave anything at the front door in a city?  Most likely it had been stolen by one of the various college creeps who dwell here.  Those drugged up, jazz playing, heavy footed, bikini stealing punks!  ARRG!  I began to utter terrible, hysterical threats to the room at large (which was empty, of course, except for myself and the cat.) 

So help me, if I caught any of those a-holes walking around in my Miracle Bra bikini I would have to stab them.  I texted my friend Gregg and told him what had happened.  Stealing boxes?  Who were these people?  Gregg couldn't believe it, either.

I called Victoria's Secret and the woman on the phone was instantly able to commiserate, since she has a daughter who goes to school in Boston and the same thing had happened to her.  She re-shipped my package for next day delivery, this time to my work address.  I was on vacation that week, though, so I texted Gregg to let him know I'd be coming in to get it.

"What time are you coming in?"  Gregg wanted to know.  Come to think of it, our friend Spencer had just emailed me the same question.  They both seemed pretty curious about what time I'd be there.  In any case, I was on my way.

When I got to the mail room I noticed the two of them seemed sort of...excited.  "Here's your box!!"

"A box?"  I was expecting it to be more of a package.  "Why does the box have the name of a fruit company on it? "  I started to get nervous.  I'd been having the worst luck with mail lately.

I noticed the UPS label was indeed from Victoria's Secret.  "Do you think they packaged my order in a disguised box to distract people from stealing it again?"

Gregg just stood there smiling, barely able to contain himself.  "Maybe.  Open it!"

Hubby was waiting for me downstairs, so I didn't want to take too long; but Gregg insisted, so I indulged him.

I could see yellow fabric folded and wrapped in plastic, with the letters "VS" neatly handwritten in black marker.  Wait a minute, handwritten in black marker!?  What the?

"Oh my God, this isn't what I ordered..."

Someone was really effing with me.  Could it be those jazz punks in my building?  The label on the box was definitely UPS...what could possibly have happened?

Gregg and Spencer erupted into giggles.  "That isn't your real package!"

Oh, Reader.  Gregg, who has a background in fashion design, had handcrafted me my very own custom made bikini.  This two piece creation is nothing short of spectacular.  I shall be the belle of the ball if I don this swimsuit in Aruba.  The design was cut from a yellow T-Shirt, and the top is fringed with a peek-a-boo back.  Playful, yet classic, although the bottoms look a little bit like they're hiding...a banana.

Check out Gregg's peek-a-boo design on the back:

Pretty nice handiwork, seeing as he had only five minutes and a stapler to work with!  Before he found that T-Shirt he was planning on crafting me a two piece out of bubble wrap.  Eventually, the boys gave me my real package, but I pretty much giggled for the rest of the day.  What would I do without my crazy friends?


PS: The box ended up not being stolen after all.  Turns out my landlord had accepted it and it was there all along.  Who knew?  I mailed the swimsuits back, but I'll be keeping my yellow fringed number forever.  xoxo

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's sock

In college there was a dance teacher named Andy who'd put us through a merciless sit-up routine while making us sing:

"Black socks, they never get dirty; the longer you wear them, the blacker they get...

Someday, I'll probably launder them; something keeps telling me,

Don't do it yet!  Not yet, not yet, not yet, not yet..."

A catchy tune, though the sentiment was kind of filthy.  Sometimes I'd tell Andy I had cramps. 

Speaking of dirty laundry...Hubby and I accumulate it at a shockingly rapid pace.  It perpetually seems to be piling up.  I don't envy my homeowner friends and loved ones their abodes.  I do, however, covet their washers and dryers.  You would too, if you lived in my building.  The path to the laundry room is a bit like a fairy tale: "Down the steps, through the door, beyond the courtyard...(down the ominous looking hallway, past the indoor chain link fence containing the sinister water heaters...)

It's a crime scene waiting to happen.  I refuse to go down there alone.  Freshly laundered linen is lovely, but I'm not about to go all Law and Order for it.

And then there's the local laundromat, where a quarter buys you five minutes of dryer time.  I spent $20 there last weekend.  As I unfurled a sheet from the dryer, I noticed a sock had fallen to the floor. 

I removed the matching fitted sheet and suddenly saw a second black sock pop out and fall to the ground, landing between myself and the girl next to me.  Her arms were brimming with a heaping pile of clothes she'd just pulled from the dryer.

This could be potentially awkward.  Gingerly, I picked up the sock, then realized it might look like I was doing something creepy. 

"This sock was stuck inside my sheet," I explained, in a friendly voice.  "Just didn't want you to think I was stealing your laundry!"

Heh heh.

"Oh, is that yours?  I think it may be mine?"  (So we were going to play this game, were we?)

"My socks keep hiding inside my sheets..."  As a momentary solution, I hung the sock up on the laundry cart between us and got back to my folding.  Minutes later, the girl had bundled up her things and reached out for my sock.  "Um, I found the match, so I guess it was mine after all."

Now this was just weird.  I glanced at the sock.  My sock.  The sole said "HUE" on it, and her "match" did not.  They weren't even the same size!  "Oh, do you have socks that say HUE, too?" I asked, "We must have the same ones, then."  (Liar, liar, pants on fire!)  Oh yes, I could see right through her little ruse.

Was this broad actually lying to me over a measly sock?  Should I stand my ground?  Did I really want to cause a scene over one black sock?  I wasn't sure if my inner child could withstand such humiliation.  And then again, what if the sock wasn't mine after all?  My resolve began to waver. 

Who was I kidding, this wretched girl was a sock snatcher.  Was she not?  

A few days later I was rifling through my dresser and pulled out a single sock with the letters HUE on the sole.  I could only find one of them.  That rotten little sock pilferer!  My only comfort is the hope that she will one day realize her blunder and feel very penitent and bad about herself.  Until that glorious day...I continue to pine for a washer and dryer to call my very own.

Maybe Santa will bring me some black socks for Christmas. 

The Discovery

An addendum to my post last month in which I coveted the high collared coat on the mannequin in the display window of Lord and Taylor:

It's no longer in the window, having been replaced by colossal photographs of Eva Mendes striking provocative, airbrushed poses in her undies.  Needless to say, this is not as heartwarming to look at as the mannequin in the high collared black coat.  My inner child sort of wishes Eva and her Calvin Klein panties would just...go away.

And I digress.  The other day I ventured into Lord and Taylor and discovered the "coat" is not a coat at all, but a dress.  A $330 dress, on sale for $231.  Hmmm.

Sale or no sale, $231 is still far too costly a purchase for poor little old me, Mrs. Cratchit.  It's fine, though.  I did get a nice sweater at Kohl's today.

Que sera.  xoxo

Summer Musings...

I'm coveting the high-collared sleeveless black coat in the display window at Lord and Taylor.  Not that I've ever shopped at Lord and Taylor, and not that I have the disposable income to purchase anything from there at the present moment; but each time I pass that window I give a sort of pained sigh, Garth Algar style: "It will be mine. Oh yes; it will be mine."

I'm jonesing for the damn thing!

Also seen, on the corner of Boylston and Exeter, last Thursday at 5:10 pm: a gentleman driving a white Dining In car, playing a harmonica (with both hands I might add, really quite impressive), jamming out to Walk This Way.  This sight might have been awesome had it not been so quintessentially reckless.  Actually, I take that back, it was still a wondrous thing to behold, albeit a frightening one.  Friends don't let friends drive and rock out on the harmonica.

And lastly, why are the females at Best Cellars on Boylston so goddamn douchy?  I went in to buy a bottle of wine and waited patiently while two saleswomen gabbed leisurely with a couple from New York.  They were ever so amiable and attentive to these people, but never bothered to acknowledge me.  Whatever; it could be I'd forgotten to remove my invisibility cloak.  I do that from time to time.  Plus, the very same thing happened the only other time I went in there, so I wasn't really all that surprised.  On I waited, benignly clutching my bottle of Prosecco.  When an older lady came in asking for a free sample of wine and was greeted cordially, with a would you like to try today's white, or red? I continued to stand there.  Eventually I returned the frigging bottle to its shelf and quietly left.  I know when I'm not wanted.  (Sniff.)  Those broads need a lesson in customer service.  In this economy, can any business afford to be blase towards potential customers?  Especially if said customer is a boozehound who passes by your wine store on a daily basis?

Que sera.  xoxo

PS: Can you tell I'm on the rag?

PPS: I've photoshopped my reflection in the glass out of the picture above, because my hair was a hot mess and my mouth was hanging wide open as I snapped it.  Not a flattering image.  xoxo

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.

Flat tires for everyone!

On Saturday, Sissy and I took Lukey the Wonder Nephew for a stroll around town.  Whatever my complaints have been regarding our move back to Boston, I have to say, these weekend excursions are undoubtedly my favorite part about living here again.  That little baby gets cuter and funnier every day.  And being in the same city as my sister again is...well, it's really very nice.  A dream come true, if I were to be honest.

Sissy tells me I walk way too fast when I push Luke's stroller.  Granted, I've always been a speedy walker, but I was unaware of my recklessness until she called out, "Be careful!  You almost gave that old lady a flat tire!"

Never mind the fact that the old lady in question was mere inches away from us, and thereby certainly within earshot.  (Sissy often uses her stage whisper.)  Incidentally, I'd never realized the action of stepping on the back of someone's heels had a name.  Now I know. 

The weather forecast mentioned a bit of sunshine, but we were cold in our sweaters.  Our breath came out in white puffs as we walked and talked.  To the rest of Boston, however, yesterday was a veritable heatwave.  Take the girl wearing the sweater with beige leggings and Uggs.  Although, upon second glance, was she wearing beige leggings?  No, that was simply her skin.  This jackass was wearing a sweater and Ugg boots, sans pants.  (As in, it's 42 degrees outside, who needs 'em?)  We also saw another imbecile wearing Daisy Dukes and cowboy boots. 

We're havin' a heatwave...a tropical heatwave...

And then of course we have the myriad of joggers wearing spaghetti straps and shorty shorts.  On the opposite end of the spectrum, we also saw a person wearing a woolen hat and mittens.  Go figure. 

Dear Reader, sometimes I just want to traipse around the city with my camera so I can snap pictures of these fools.  I'd really like to be able to give you a visual.

Sissy figures a lot of the college kids went away for Spring break and now they want to show off their tans.  Whatever the reason, in my heart of hearts, I long to give them all flat tires. 

Bigger fish to fry. Or arms, rather.

Apparently a good deal of clothing manufacturers have recently shrunk the arm sizes in their shirts and sweaters.  Have you heard about this troubling trend?  I hadn't realized it until this past summer, when my sister gave me a shirt she'd never worn.  It was a size small from old Navy.  The tags were still on, in fact.  It was a very cute shirt, except for the fact that my arms were barely able to squeeze in.  What the??!!  Obviously there was a defect in the shirt's construction!

Oddly, this nasty phenomenon struck again at NY & Co, and once again this Christmas when Santa brought me a comfy red top from Sears.  Both items fit great, in every place but the arms, which were suspiciously snug.  It was all very, very peculiar. 

There must be some sort of conspiracy.  Some skinny armed seamstress must be secretly out to wreak havoc upon the shirt buying public!

Sadly, this morning I pulled on a shirt I'd purchased to wear to my ten year high school reunion two Novembers ago and...the arms were tight.  Wait a minute, the arms were tight??!!

Oh.  Shit. 

There can only be one logical explanation.  Someone's been secretly shrinking my laundry!!  Creepy.

Why I can't stop eating Milano Double Chocolate Distinctive Cookies

Today was...just one of those days.  Sigh.

It was nearly 10am when I realized that my shirt was on inside out.  Or let me rephrase that, rather; it was nearly 10am when a kind coworker whispered to me tentatively, "Sarah, I think your shirt is on...inside out."

Yup.  Tag and all. 

Everyone present had a good chuckle.  After all, it was funny and I am always more than ready to poke fun at my own asininity.  And yet...mid-morning I snuck a phone call in to my sister and confided that I pretty much felt like going home and crawling back into bed.  For all intents and purposes, I may as well have been back in first grade and sneaking away from Mrs. Swerchesky's homeroom class to cry in the bathroom. 

It was then and there that I decided; tonight was the sort of night that was made for lots of carbs and white wine.  xoxo

VPL

Today I discovered something just awful.  Not only was I sporting what my friend Vanessa would refer to as VPL (Visible Panty Line), but my lack of clean laundry had also forced me to wear my very granniest of granny panties.  My "D" list drawers.  Gym shorts, for all intents and purposes.  It just wasn't seemly. 

It occurred to me that there wasn't really anyone at my new job whom I could divulge this disgraceful information to.  This made me feel just a little sad and lonely.  And so I told someone.  And...she thought I was a complete weirdo.  Ah well.