The Odd Broad

Springtime flowers bloom, with an air of mystery...

Poor Corey Feldman.  If reports are true that he and Susie are indeed headed for splitsville, I'd like to offer my deepest condolences.  I was really hoping those two crazy kids were going to make it. 

One wondrous, rose scented thought does spring to mind: I smell a reality series!  Let's get those two Corey's back together!  What could be a more appropriate time for them to reunite than in this, Feldman's hour of need?

Please, God, I don't ask for much.  These two boys belong together!  For the sake of our nation.  America needs the Two Corey's.  The world needs them, for that matter!

I'm just saying.  It's a good idea and stuff.

Remember the episode when Feldman sang for Susie?  When he shouted/rasped into her face, "I REALLY LOVE YOU, BABY!" and made Susie cry?  (It would have made me cry, too, if Hubby screamed into my face while simultaneously projecting his voice into a microphone.)  Riveting television.  I had to cover my eyes and could only watch this musical monstrosity unfurl in bits and pieces.  But I want more.  Dear God, I want more.  Who the hell doesn't?

I went home sick

I rarely take a sick day from work.  (What can I say?  I'm my mother's daughter.)  But on Thursday I just felt so rotten that I asked to go home around noon. 

I repeat, I went home around noon, and who began filming directly outside my work shortly thereafter?  BEN FREAKING AFFLECK!  What the hell?  What are the damn odds?

My friend Gregg accidentally walked through the filming area on his lunch break and brushed by Ben.  He shot these pics on his iphone. 

Boston isn't a terribly large city, and yet there are three movies currently being filmed here.  (The inner worrywart in me wonders, is three movies not perhaps a bit...excessive?)  Granted, it's neat that Katie and Suri have been hobnobbing by the Esplanade and I'm sure these film crews are bringing some much needed revenue into the city.  But it does seem like there's an awful lot going on. 

Take a few weekends ago, for instance, when we had a movie filming and the Phantom Gourmet festival both happening simultaneously within a block of each other.  (The Red Sox, thankfully, were not in town.)  Sissy and I couldn't help but notice the multitude of police officers milling about, the swat cars with the windows busted out, and the police vehicles being driven by dudes in T-shirts.  It was bedlam.  The cops looked...weird...not quite right...kind of freaky.  This was because they weren't real cops, of course, they were extras.  But where were the real cops? 

I've noticed excessive sirens, firetrucks and gunfire lately, presumably all filming related, but who knows really.  (Why should the residents be notified, anyhow?  Silly residents!)  In any case, I'm sure mashed potato mouth, Mumbles Mayor Menino has things under control.

Christian Bale and Marky Mark were even filming the Micky Ward movie in Lowell recently.  And Ricky Gervais filmed in L-Town, too!  Lowell, my birth city, of High on Crack Street fame.  Who knew?

Who am I kidding?  I'm just bitter because I long to rub elbows with the beautiful people.  Sniff.  Why'd I have to be sick?  Ben does seem like a nice boy.  I just watched him on Oprah last week, when he traveled to the Congo to speak out for women's rights.  Aw, Ben.

(Thanks for the pictures Greggie!)

Make it work!

Tonight was my first time ever using a sewing machine.  I am really enjoying the pedal.  Almost made me want to start driving again. 

I imagined Tim Gunn's voice over my shoulder murmuring, "Carry on!" and "Where's Andre?"

Here are my straps. 

Dear Reader, I'm sewing!

The crafty broad

Sissy has somehow talked me into taking...(wait for it)...a sewing class, at the Stitch House in Dorchester.  At the end of three weeks I will have created my very own Amy Butler Frenchy bag! 

Tomorrow is class number two, when we'll begin sewing on the machines.  Last week was strictly pattern and fabric cutting, and sticking myself with pins.

I can't say I've ever used a sewing machine, and I certainly wouldn't call myself a patient person.  This will surely be an adventure!

xoxo

One year ago yesterday, my husband, Kittie and I left New York and moved to Boston.  I can hardly believe how quickly these twelve months have flown.  Hubby has already completed three semesters at Berklee College of Music and by this time next year he'll have earned his degree, finishing what he began thirteen years prior. 

I think back to last September, to that first day of classes, when I walked into the apartment and found him staring at the floor, a dark look in his blue eyes, convinced he wouldn't be able to do it.  The other students were teenagers, the material was dense and unfamiliar, he didn't remember anything.  I stood there dumbfounded; it had never even occurred to me that he'd doubt himself this way.  I hugged him hard, a little panicked to see him so vulnerable.  I'd have done anything to fix it, but there was really not much more I could do except hold him and cry.  What had I gotten us into? 

And now, a year later, he's earned himself a spot on the dean's list and is achieving obscenely high marks.  School definitely agrees with him the second time around.  To say that I'm proud of him would be a wild understatement.  After all these years he never ceases to amaze me.  He makes my heart full.

I wouldn't classify it as an easy year; to be sure, some parts of it downright blew.  But we made it, and I can honestly say that Boston is finally starting to feel like home.  Again. 

And Hubby, thanks for moving here for me.  xoxo

Rose colored glasses

For eight years, Hubby and I resided just outside Manhattan, in Astoria, Queens.  It wasn't as expensive as Manhattan, it wasn't as hip as Brooklyn, but it was our borough and we came to love it. 

The day after we moved in, there was a street fair on 31st Avenue.  It was there that we learned our new neighborhood had the largest Greek population outside of Athens.  Who knew?  I didn't.

We were only seven subway stops from Manhattan, but Astoria was a tiny village in and of itself.  When the weekend rolled around, sometimes I wouldn't even leave.  And when I did, the view riding home over the Queensboro Bridge upper roadway from the backseat of a cab never failed to make my heart do a little flip flop.  It was magical.  (Plus, the lower roadway only had hookers and crackheads to look at.)

When I miss New York, it's usually a faraway, intangible sort of ache; not something I can even put my finger on.  But some memories are specific.  I miss ordering chicken cardinale at 10:45 pm for delivery from the Last Stop Cafe.  I miss gyros and good, authentic tsatziki.  I miss impromptu dance parties and singalongs at Vanessa's house.  I miss walking over to the bakery for flaky, powdery kourambiedes.  I miss Top Tomato, the 24 hour vegetable mart.  Come to think of it, I miss the many places that stayed open all night.  I miss sitting on the back patio of Fatty's Cafe, and not even having to order, because they already knew what I was going to ask for before I even said it.  I miss the familiarity of it all. 

What I'm getting at here is, I'm sort of falling in love with Boston all over again.  And I think some sick part of me feels like I'm cheating on New York.  As if getting comfortable here means I'm somehow turning my back on the memories and life we made there.  Sometimes I can be so mental.

So it only took ten months, but I think it might be safe to say that Hubby and I are kinda sorta warming up to Boston.  Naturally, it helps that the temperatures are no longer idling in the single digits.  It also helps that Boston just so happens to be a breathtakingly beautiful place in the Spring.  It seems everywhere I turn there's something pretty to look at.  Not that New York didn't have its wow factor, but Boston is smaller, so somehow there seems to be more beauty within a much closer proximity.

The James P. Kelleher Rose Garden is one spot I'm especially taken with.

Seriously, I don't recall there being a rose garden in the Fens!  All I remember about the Fens was you couldn't go there at night, and sometimes you'd see businessmen mysteriously emerging out of the tall weeds, walking funny.

But a rose garden there was, apparently since 1930, and it's still there today.  And Reader, everything is in bloom.  I walk inside and instantly feel like I've stepped into a page straight out of Frances Hodgson Burnett.  (If I haven't mentioned, I have a vivid imagination.)  I see so many beautiful things to feast my eyes upon!  I get the feeling there are fairies hiding behind every corner.  There are magical looking archways crawling with buttery, yellow blooms, and never ending rows of fragrant rose bushes with whimsical names like Carefree Wonder, Gypsy Dancer, Super Dorothy, Miss Elsie Mae, Merlot, and even one called:

Last weekend I made like a tourist and snapped these pictures, just for you, because I want you to come to Boston, and walk through the rose garden yourself...

 

 

A public rose garden in the middle of a city.  It's a truly magical place.  Happy Friday, Dear Reader.  xoxo

Springy Ding Ding

Are we really to believe the weather forecast for today, Dear Reader?  70 degrees?

I carried a watermelon. And I'd do it again.

Call it serendipity.  My Godmother was unable to use her ticket to today's performance of Dirty Dancing The Musical, and asked if I'd like to go in her place.  (Thank you, Auntie Kimmy!)

Now, back in December you may recall The Odd Broad made some rather disparaging remarks concerning this movie turned musical.  Oh, how very wrong I was.  But I'm a recovering musical theatre nerd, so who can blame me for being a bit judgmental when it came to musicalizing one of my favorite childhood movies? 

I'm just going to come out and say it.  I had a blast!  This was pure, unadulterated entertainment!  Granted, it's not Shakespeare, but it truly delivered.  From the moment the curtain was raised, I gave in completely to my inner school girl. 

I found myself anticipating every line before it was even spoken, such is my fondness for the film.  It was a lot like watching the movie, in fact, except the audience gets to applaud and cheer at will.  (There were oodles of payoffs and chances to oooh and aaaah and scrunch up our noses and do silent screams.)

The crowd went hog wild more than once, and my cousins and I certainly did our own fair share of giggly squealing.  The middle aged ladies in front of us were hyperventilating and behaving in an all around uncivilized manner.  It was effing awesome.

The sets and lighting were creative and impressive in and of themselves.  And the dancing!  Could Penny's legs be any longer?  It was all I could do to not jump out of my seat and start gyrating and swiveling my pelvis.  But I waited to do that until I got home.

Since theatre actors generally make an effort to enunciate, I'm afraid I can settle the score once and for all regarding the controversy that overtook Odd Broad Land back in December.  (Does Lisa Houseman tell her sister Baby she is "prettier her way," or is "pretty in her own way"?)  The answer is thus, at least in stage form:  "I'll do you hair, it would look pretty if...no, you're prettier your way." 

In summation, if you're interested in seeing a Swaze lookalike bear his muscly torso and move his pelvis in ungodly ways, this is the show for you.  It was nothing less than delightful.  I had...the time of my life.  (Oh yes, I went there.)  And now I am going to see if Hubby will do the lift with me.

xoxo

Stopping to smell the roses

This week The Odd Broad is having herself a little Staycation. It's Hubby's spring break (college kid!), and the fancy struck me to take the week off as well. 

Our one income household (apartment-hold?) leaves us a bit too financially strapped to go anywhere excessively fabulous, but still it's heavenly to suddenly have time to do all of the random things I often fantasize about doing.  And so, I am making like Billy Mays and finally Orange Glo-ing my hardwood floors, spending extra time with Sissy and Lukey The Wonder Nephew, and unapologetically laying in bed and watching consecutive episodes of Slings and Arrows on DVD while sipping a glass (or three) of Riesling. 

Ahh.  It's not Aruba, but I'll take it.  xoxo

In the eye of the beholder...

Tom Brady, New England's sweet little darling, has finally tied the knot.  In light of this, Tom and his bride Giselle have been gracing the covers of many a Beantown newspaper. 

Now, I've given my thoughts on this Brazilian bombshell before, and I'll give them again.  SHE'S TOO DAMN SEXY.  It's just not amicable to be that sexy.  Her sexiness should come with a warning label!

Last week, a male coworker of mine was perusing the Boston Herald when he expressed a certain nonchalance towards the new Mrs. Brady.  When pressed, he revealed that he believes Giselle's looks are simply okay: "Tom could have his choice of any lady, and he picked...her?"

What the?!  What was that??!!

And Reader, as surreal as it may sound, I then found myself defending, of all people, Giselle. 

"How can you not think she's drop dead gorgeous?  I mean, look at her!  That face!  That bod!  I hate her guts!"

But my friend would not concur.  I even Googled her to further my standpoint, but he only scrunched up his nose and shook his head. 

Dear Reader, I have met the male whom Giselle just doesn't do it for.  Let us bottle him and preserve him for science.