The Odd Broad

Sharing is Caring

(Odd Broad is going retro this week and bringing you one of her earliest posts.  This was written in January 2007, back when I still resided in NYC...and ate bacon...)

Okay, so I've gathered over the years that good deeds lose some of their natural goodness when you tell people about them.  Seriously, if you want your deeds to count as really really good ones, you're better off zipping your mojito-hole.

But how about an accidental good deed that mistakenly gets noticed, or a deed that stems mostly from being mildly neurotic and ends up earning unwanted praise and misdirected admiration?  Is this type of deed not only considered not good, but double bad?

Generally I'm not a wasteful person, so I don't make a habit out of this...but there have been occasions when I've waited in line for ages, received terrible service, and have watched in dumbfounded stupor as the person behind the counter does something so questionable that after I pay for whatever it is I'm getting, I find myself compelled to either give the thing away or throw it out.  Does this sound insane?  Perhaps it is.  But truly, a strange man blowing on my breakfast sandwich kind of spoils the moment, wouldn't you agree?  Allow me, if you would, to elaborate:

For starters, I think being a crackhead must be one of the prerequisites of being hired at the Au Bon Pain near my work.  Not that there's anything necessarily wrong with being a crackhead, but...

The other morning I stopped in to pick up a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich on a croissant. "Do you want me to to try toasting this?" The man behind the counter asked with a skeptical grin. "Um, okay, I guess?" I answered.  "Well, if it catches on fire then it's your fault, not mine," was his reply.

Well, this certainly had all the makings of a disaster.  I checked my watch: one minute to go before I was officially late for work.  Why had I come here again?  Mama Mia.

The man went into the back for a suspiciously long time, I'm guessing to fetch my croissant.  He returned and put said pastry into the toaster and then watched as it eventually went up in flames.  That's when he grabbed it and proceeded to blow all over it to put out the flames.

He inspected the burnt croissant and for a horrified moment I thought he was actually going to put my eggs and bacon on it.  That's when I asked, "Um, do you think I could get another one please?  You don't have to try toasting it this time, it's okay." 

"You don't want me to toast it?" he asked.

"No, that's okay, you don't have to toast it." (Don't effing blow on it either, I wanted to say.)

This interaction reminded me of the time I went into Hale and Hearty on my lunch break.  The surly girl behind the counter slopped some chicken noodle soup into a cup and started wiping the sides with her fingers and, well, to be honest, I don't remember the exact details of whatever disgusting thing I imagined she'd done to my soup.  I only know I decided then and there I wouldn't be able to eat it.  Even as I was paying the five bucks and change for it, I knew I would not be having soup for lunch.  No soup for you!

I went outside and stopped in front of the homeless woman I'd seen sitting outside of the abandoned YWCA.  "Would you like some soup?" I asked.  She said yes and I gave it to her.  It wasn't a big deal because I had some leftover pizza in the fridge at work, so I would just eat that instead.  See?  It had all worked out nicely.

I entered my building to go back into work and got into the elevator with a crowd of people.  One of them was a co-worker from the Human Resource department and he asked, "Hey, Sarah, did I just see you talking to that homeless woman out there?  What were you guys talking about?"

He'd caught me off guard.  I babbled, "Oh, nothing, I was just giving her my soup..."  He looked at me admiringly and said, "You gave her your lunch?  Wow, that was really nice of you!"  Of course now everybody in the elevator was staring, trying to sneak a peek at the Mother Theresa wannabe who'd given her lunch away to the homeless.  Little did they know my actions had stemmed more out of twisted obsessiveness than selflessness.

A lady turned to me before getting off of the elevator and said, "That was a really nice thing for you to do."  I could feel my cheeks begin to burn.  Well, what was I supposed to say?  That the girl at Hale and Hearty had gotten her dirty fingers all over my soup so I gave it away to a homeless lady because it was too nasty to eat myself?

This wasn't the first time I've been the recipient of undeserved praise and fanfare.  There was that time in Kindergarten when my friend Stephanie had forgotten to bring a snack in for snack time.  Do you remember Zingers, those creme filled pastries with the yummy frosting on top?  I was a big fan of Zingers.  I used to peel off the frosting layer first and then eat the cake part second.  Anyways, Stephanie was sitting next to me and I noticed she didn't have a snack, so I neatly peeled off the chocolate frosting and offered it to her.  You know, no big woop.

The next morning I was surprised to find a small package waiting for me in my cubby at school.  Inside I found two beautiful barrettes with my name on them, a gift from Stephanie's mother.  These were some really good looking hair clips.  But...what was the occasion?

I went home and showed the gift to my mom, feeling slightly guilty.  Ma phoned Stephanie's mother to thank her and listened as she gushed: "Stephanie forgot her snack yesterday and Sarah shared hers and we wanted to say thank you!"

Now this was a conflict of morals.  I had really mixed emotions about the whole situation.  I mean, let's face it, I'd given her the frosting off of my Zinger.  This wasn't a beautiful, rainbow-colored-barrette worthy deed, was it?  Apparently it was.  Even at the tender age of five I knew something had been lost in the translation, but even so, I decided to wax philosophical.  After all, the chocolate frosting on the Zinger could very well be considered the most coveted part...

I guess being wrongly labeled a generous do-gooder is better than not ever having been mistaken for one at all, right?

In the end, I suppose all good deeds are probably counted: the neurotic ones, the accidental ones, and even the not as good as people think they are, but still nice all the same ones, too.  So there.  Stick that in your soup and eat it.  xoxo

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

Remembering...

I was on my way to work this morning and got the ever elusive "walk" signal at a crucial point in my journey.  As I started to cross, a big rig was aggressively attempting to take a right turn.  Oh no you don't, deckhead.  If I waited for him to turn I'd never be able to cross in time!  And I was late enough as it was!

It all sounds so silly now, but in the heat of the moment this situation inspired me to utter a good deal of hearty expletives, which the driver of said big rig vigorously returned.

I'm pretty sure I called him a fucking asshole, amongst other unpleasantries.  I disregarded the horrified Berklee students who glanced my way as I crossed the street.  (Oh yes, I crossed).  So I'd sworn at a stranger and it was only 8:00 am.  Living in New York taught me that.

I was talking on my cell phone with Sissy at the time and she said, "Oh Sister, be nice.  It's September 11th."

It was.  My belly did a sick little flip flop. 

Has it really been eight years?  It seems like only yesterday.  Nanny was the first to call me, and I thought she may have been talking ragtime until I turned on the TV and saw for myself.  A plane had actually flown into the World Trade Center.  It had to have been an accident? 

It was Fashion Week and I was temping for Ralph Lauren Womenswear on 7th Avenue.  Even after the second plane hit, I remember trekking over to the N Line, still thinking I'd head into work.  But as I climbed the steps to the subway, I was told it had been shut down. 

Hubby and I had lived in New York for just over a year then, though we'd been gently resisting it.  It was filthy and gritty, and the people were just so...rude.  But everything changed that September.  We just sort of gave in.  We became New Yorkers.  We even declared a truce and rooted for the Yankees during the World Series that year.  (Of course, I think we must've jinxed them because they lost anyways.)

When I think back to that September, the same old feelings come flooding back.  The sadness, the disbelief, the helplessness, the fear, the outrage.  The city felt exposed, bruised; I wondered how things would ever be the same, how any of us could ever go back to business as usual.  But somehow, eventually, we did. 

I spent the better part of my twenties in New York and I'm a stronger person for it.  It gave me a backbone, forced me to grow up.  New York taught me to ask for help when I need it, and to not be afraid to speak up for the things I really want.  And, most importantly, it taught me that it's okay to scream obscenities in public every once in a while.  

It's September 11th, and I will never forget.  How could I?  How could anyone?

It's Daniel Cleaver!

I'm a sleepy broad tonight, Dear Reader.  It was a happy whirlwind of an Easter weekend.  Yesterday Hubby and I traveled to New York so he could play a gig with his old band in Greenwich Village.  It was after 4am when we finally made it back to our hotel room. 

It was nice to be back in New York, to see our friends, to hear Hubby wail on his saxophone.  (Have I mentioned what an amazing musician that man is?) 

As for myself, I had enough fun (i.e.: cheap wine) to inform our friend David that he bears a striking resemblance to Edward Cullen.  (I can be terribly awkward sometimes.  Just add white wine.)  But the true highlight of the evening came shortly after midnight, when it was brought to my attention that I was standing in very close proximity to a one Mr. Hugh Grant.

(Editor's note: please read the remainder of this post in a British accent.)  

Hugh Grant! 

'ello, Hugh!  I wanted to tell him I loved him as the noble Mr. Edward Ferrers in Sense and Sensibility.  I wanted to tell him how much I'd delighted in his portrayal of the lovestruck, bumbling bookseller in Notting Hill.  I wanted...to get my picture taken with him.  Badly.  But somehow I suppressed this urge and simply admired him from afar.

Above is an artist's rendition of how our photo-op might have turned out, had circumstances been different.

Aura and Mystique

In honor of the final game being played tonight at Yankee Stadium, I'd like to commemorate the moment in song:

Thanks for the memories...

That time I called the girl an effing C-word...and the officer had to move us...

That time I told a guy "Oh you're a big man"...and I thought he was going to knife me...

We thank you, again...

Thanks, for the memories...

That time I balled when Aaron Boone hit his mother-effing home run...then Hubby jumped the turnstile and got a ticket from a copper...

We thank you, again...

Thanks for the memories...

That time when Shilling's sock was bloody but our seats were too nosebleed to tell...

That time we held the sign for Soriano (40/40) and Darren saw us on tv...

We thank you, again...

Over the years I often found my keister planted in Yankee Stadium.  At first in Red Sox shirts, possibly holding signs, definitely screaming loudly.  After not too long, I wisely gravitated to wearing nothing that could possibly indicate I had been born in New England and refrained from cheering of any sort. 

But let's face it, I cheered, I cried, I cursed.  I vowed time after time, especially following rough games, that we should flee the godforsaken state of New York.  And sometimes, on those evenings at the stadium when the Sox weren't in town, I secretly wondered what it would feel like to actually root for the home team.  I could never, of course; but a girl could dream.  After all, I always did admire Jeets.  And Bernie.  And Paul O'Neil.  And Tino, and Scott Brosius...

My favorite part always came at the end of the game, when Frank Sinatra's voice would fill the air, resurrecting old, forgotten childhood notions I held about living in New York:

Start spreading the news...I'm leaving today...I want to be a part of it - New York, New York...

Hubby and I would always stay until that final inning.  And we would always sing along, his arm slung over my shoulder; we may have been outsiders, but at least we had each other.

Goodbye Yankee Stadium.  Thanks for the memories.  (Ya bastid'.)

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

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
 

Tags and Scuffles

On Tuesday I experienced a random act of kindness.  I was waiting for the doors of the subway to open when a woman standing to my left said, "Your tag's sticking out."  As I reached lamely in the direction of said tag, the woman behind me tucked it in, giving my back a maternal little pat.  "There," she said, as if speaking to a toddler.  "You're all set."  A simple, minor exchange, but it warmed my sweaty little heart nonetheless. 

This week also brought with it subway interactions of a different kind, though this time not as warm and fuzzy.  Take yesterday, for example, when I saw a man from work as we were both heading into the subway station.  He was going one way, I the other, and we were saying goodbye when I realized I'd collided with a female MTA worker, who instantly began yelling.  Instinctively, I momentarily placed my hand on her arm and apologized, which only seemed to incense her more.  My coworker, laughing, said something like "get going, we don't want you in a fight."  As I scurried down the steps, the wrathful old gal was still standing there, outraged. 

New York, in light of my imminent departure, you are certainly pulling out all the stops.  (You should have seen me that day, post my reading of A New Earth, walking down my sunny street trying very hard not to feel like a storm cloud was dangling over me.)

And lastly, this evening while riding home and attempting not to grab the metal pole, my wedge sandal landed hard upon a stranger's flip flop.  I apologized profusely to him as well, and he smiled kindly, though I could tell he was trying not to wince.  Sorry, dude.  It was a total accident.

My ability to balance myself on the subway (no hands!) is advanced, has been commented upon, even.  What is going on with me?

I blame the heat.  It's gotta be the heat.

xoxo

Noise

Monday evening, ten till nine.

Outside my window I hear a clanking, and I can't decide if it's the sound of cutlery against plates or a metal baseball bat in the courtyard.

Cars whizz by.  In the distance a voice echos, though I can't understand what's being said.  There are sounds from an airplane up above, a girl laughing huskily, and Hubby's shamrock Guinness clock ticking steadily behind me.  A car door slams.  Someone outside belches.

I listen to sirens, a horn beeping, and a cell phone conversation in a language I can't quite decipher.  There are three loud, resounding booms that I'm hoping are fireworks.  A garbage can is slowly being dragged to the curb. 

Somehow I know I'll miss New york.