The Odd Broad

Split ends

Finding a hairdresser is no easy feat.  If properly nourished, the relationship between cutter and cuttee can often grow to be long term, complex, rewarding.  It calls for delicate balance and mutual respect.

Lacey cut my hair for eight years.  I was a monogamous client, never once straying, trusting her scissor wielding completely.  During our time together my hair went from long to chin length, to medium, short, very long, to shoulder length.  We went dark, light, streaky, caramel.  She would tell me fascinating stories about her large family in Brazil, her implants, hot yoga.  She called me, "mi amor," and her "caramel baby."  If she found a gray hair on my head she'd always ask, "You want me to pull it?" and would then proceed to yank it expertly, at no extra charge.

Sigh.  I haven't gotten my hair trimmed since Lacey, which means my ends have been splitting since early August.  I've been feeling dumpier than dumpy.  Immediate action was painful but necessary. 

Tonight in a salon on Newbury Street I told the friendly faced woman holding the scissors that I'd like an inch taken off, perhaps?  She fingered a few strands of my straggly hair and looked at me kindly but doubtfully: "I'd say two inches, at least.  Are you comfortable with two?"  Who was I kidding, I was comfortable with just about anything provided the rats nest on top of my head be removed!

Going to a new stylist is a bit like interviewing for a love interest.  I got the feeling this new one sensed that I was on the prowl.  It was our "first date."  As I sat down after my shampooing I heard myself say, "I was with my old hair dresser for eight years..."  "Wow," she nodded, eyebrows raised, a look of somber reverence upon her face. 

Small talk was made, and throughout it all I couldn't help but feel a bit wistful, wondering what I'd be talking about had I been sitting in Lacey's chair.  (Her ex-husband, perhaps; was that silly goose threatening suicide again?  Was her teenage daughter behaving?  How was her latest romance unfolding?  Did she remove that close-up picture of her thong clad bum from her myspace page?)

We talked about daycare.  Not exactly Lacey caliber conversation but hell, it would have to do.  I made some casual inquiries: What days did she work?  Would I have to call very far ahead to get an appointment?  (Oh God, was I sounding desperate, already asking about her schedule?  And what was I doing, anyway, she'd barely even started cutting and here I was talking about highlights and lowlights?!  I was acting a total slut!  Giving everything away before the blow dryer had even come out of its drawer!!)

She cut bangs.  She made me feel...like a pretty girl again.  And I'm going back this Saturday for a color.  I know, I know, it may seem a bit too soon after Lacey, but what can I say?  I long for continuity!  I'm a one stylist woman! 

This is where we used to live

Same old Broad, typing from a new desk in a new chair in a new room in a new city. 

Moving was...absolutely wretched.  I cannot lie.  By the time Hubby and I had finished loading everything into that bastard U-Haul it was a quarter to eleven.  (P.M.)  In the beginning of this process, I cautiously sorted, I tenderly bubble wrapped that which was not breakable (silverware?), I donated bag after bag to charity.  In the bitter, baleful end, I did not sort; I did rash things like cram all of our shoes into one ginormous trash bag, and was forced to leave perfectly good items out on the rainy, dark street. 

Oh yes, I forgot to mention- it hailed on moving day.  There were pellets of ice angrily dancing from the hot August sky.  That was especially fun.

I want to send a gigantic shout out to our friend David, who helped move many, many large pieces of furniture into that truck.  (And one unwieldy green couch onto the street).  Hubby and I heart you, for reals.  Also, we're delighted you and Emma our moving into our old place!  There's something comforting about that.  And now we can continue to enjoy Smeagol stories from afar.  I'm sure they'll be better that way. 

Why does an apartment look so much bigger after it's been emptied?  I said goodbye to each room, thanking them for those happy four years.  We'd gotten engaged in that apartment.  We watched the Red Sox win a World Series after 86 years. 

Smeagol and his mother were still awake when we were finally ready to drive off.  We knocked on their door and said goodbye.  S's mom was especially sad to see us go:  I had such good tenants, please keep in touch, etc.  Give me a call sometime!

I started to babble; told her perhaps the next time she saw us we'd have a kid.  Maybe in two years?

"Two years??!!  How far along are you?"

One last Mistaken Pregnancy Inquiry for the road.  Ah, New York, you do not disappoint.  I would never expect you to.

Mama Smeagol blew us kisses as we drove away.  I blew them back.  The departure was all very surreal.

As Hubby started up the U-Haul I took stock: "It's almost eleven, which means we won't get there until, like, three am.  Who does this?  Who moves in a U-Haul in the middle of the night?" 

Hubby turned to me, exhausted, bordering on the giddy, and mused: "well, I mean, that's kind of how we do things, isn't it?"

For whatever it's worth, it is.  I am not really that surprised by the way things transpired.  I was a little surprised, however, when Hubby stopped to get a coffee near the Mass Pike and saw the guy from Jordan's Furniture waiting outside the restroom.  I sat inside the truck with Kittie.  "How did he look?"  I wanted to know.  "Just like he does on TV" Hubs replied.  "He had glasses and a pony tail.  Everyone was staring at him.  He looked kind of tired."

Fascinating.  I wondered if he could've gotten us a deal on a couch.  You know, if Hubby had gone up to him and asked, "Know where I can get a good couch around these here parts? 

Sometime during the drive that Barenaked Ladies song came on, the one I'd been unconsciously humming in my head all day:

Broke into the old apartment.  This is where we used to live...

Only memories, fading memories, blending into dull tableaux...I want them back...

I felt a twinge of sadness stab my heart, just for a moment.  Let's face it, by that point I was far too fatigued to get very sentimental. 

Earlier I'd pictured us arriving at my parent's house at dusk, sitting out on the deck, having a few beers, happily toasting our new endeavor.  Instead, we would show up at 3:00 am, greeted only by Guinness, the overeager but lovable Golden Retriever.  Dad had left cold Murphy's in the fridge for Hubby, but there would certainly be no "decking it" that evening.  My parents were fast asleep, exhausted themselves from helping us in New York earlier that day.  (Big thanks also to Mom and Dad.  We heart you, too.)  We fell wearily into bed.  Kittie was confused, I was pre-menstrual, Hubby was delirious.  We were both very, very sore.

The next day Hubby, me, my parents, two uncles and two cousins all drove into Boston to move us in.  If packing up the damn U-Haul took twelve hours, unpacking it took probably one.  For reals.  I nearly cried when I saw them all arrive.  I think Hubby wanted to as well.  Later he confided to me that he was pretty much "done" before we'd even started.  I don't know how we would've managed without them.

"That's what we do," uncle Jimmy shrugged with a smile.  And in a way, I suppose that's one of the reasons we moved back.

We are here! (And finally have internet!)

Dear Reader, I am pleased to report that The Odd Broad, Hubby and Kittie have successfully relocated to Beantown!

Please stand by and I will fill you in about the following:

Leaving NY; Hubby seeing the guy from Jordan's Furniture at a rest stop at 1:45 AM; arriving in MA in a crammed U-Haul at 3 AM Friday morning; beginning a new job (Tomorrow!  Wish me luck); and much, much more.

We are still living out of boxes, which makes everything rather difficult to find.  Once we actually locate something we always tend to announce it, as in: "Oh look, it's the (salt shaker/extension cord/contact lens solution/etc and so forth)"  This is always very exciting.  Naturally, 45 minutes later when we actually REQUIRE said product, mysteriously it is nowhere to be found.  It's an ongoing phenomenon that continues to baffle and infuriate me.  But such is moving.

Once I have permanently located my sanity, I promise to report back to you asap.

Love,

The Odd (Boston) Broad

XOXO

Smeagol and his mutha strike again! (One final time)

Packing.  Purging.  Blah. 

Yesterday I emptied bottle after bottle down the drain, rinsed each one and tossed them into recycling bags.  Old (nasty) cologne, bottles of mayo, zesty Italian dressing, spicy mustard, expired Robotussin, NyQuil... 

The collective smell was enough to make even the strongest stomach feel queasy.  It was totally barf worthy.  (And after our raucous going away party this past Sunday, The Odd Broad has experienced quite enough vomiting to last an entire lifetime.  Sadly.)

"Why are you being so CRAZY with the garbage?"  My sister wondered.  Why?  WHY?  With each new bag we take downstairs, within maybe two minutes, like clockwork, my landlord Smeagol (or his mother) will sneak outside to investigate.  I know because I can see them in the reflection of our neighbor's window.  (Hubby laughs at me as I stand there and watch, hands on hips, outraged.)

So my landlord and his mother rifle through our trash, this isn't really news, right?  Well our neighbor apparently doesn't sort her trash and five minutes ago our phone rang.  It was Smeagol, asking gently if the bag with the bottles in it belonged to us.  I, true to form, lost my shizz.  Hubby, naturally, explained in a calm manner that we always sort our trash so it must be the neighbor girl.  The one with the rabbit.  The one who is probably behind the stinky, suspiciously rabbit poo scented aroma that is festering in our hallway as I speak. 

One last vent...I've taken items outside over the past few days...framed prints, barely used lawn chairs, etc, all of them with "FREE, PLEASE TAKE!!!!" plastered on them.  They've been disappearing quite rapidly, much to my joy and delight.  Too rapidly, come to think of it...

I hear a screen door squeak open.  Through the reflection in the window I see a Sophia Petrillo look-a-like slowly dragging the chairs down the alley.  So it was HER!!  (Smeagol's dementia ridden mother!!) 

They have this obsession with not getting ticketed when it comes to garbage.  Not that the department of sanitation makes many stops on our quiet, out of the way road.  And it's not like we're putting out crap!!  These are nice things, we just don't have room for them anymore!!  Not to mention, this is New York; free items placed on the sidewalk disappear faster than my appetite after watching the Valentine's Day episode of The Two Corey's!!  (Did you see it?  It was real bad.  And by bad I mean wicked awesome.)

We totally ratted the old lady out to Smeagol.  It felt kind of nice, actually. 

PS:

8:54 PM

We just saw Smeagol's Mom outside on our way to the Thrift Shop.  She was very, very sweet.  And now The Odd Broad is feeling rather...ashamed of herself.  I have not been behaving like a very nice girl.  Not very Zen.  No siree Bob.  I will blame it on the dust.  What is it with all of this dust?  Where does it come from?  We are fairly clean people!  And yet...

OK, back to packing.

Kittie hearts boxes

Kittie continues to be delirious with enthusiasm concerning the upcoming move.  (She packed up all her catnip weeks ago.)
 

Packing up, winding down...

I've always been captivated by this Rumi quote:

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you; Don't go back to sleep. You must ask for what you really want; Don't go back to sleep.

This morning, the breeze at dawn had secrets to tell me.  I was trying to go back to sleep.  My brain had gone into sudden overdrive, though, and I tossed and turned for hours.

It's really turning out to be a week of LASTS.  Yesterday was my last official day of work before the move.  A few of my colleagues took me out and I proceeded to have enough celebratory drinks to become intoxicated enough to tell this story, not to mention disclose to everyone that I write this little website.  (A confession that surprised even me, seeing as this has been my undercover, covert brainchild for the past year and eight months!)

But out my darling secret spilled, and once something like that comes a'tumbling it can never untumble. 

After I bid my friends goodnight I met up with Hubby and his work pals.  There, some of them were tipsy enough to reveal to me that my husband's coworkers have bestowed upon him the title of "Grumpy Bear."  I must say, I'm not entirely sure what to make of these disturbing tidings.

This afternoon I experienced yet another last.  My final haircut with Lacey, my fiery, beloved hairdresser for the past eight years.  We exchanged emails.  Over the past week, I've said goodbye after goodbye; each one feeling distinct and yet surprisingly anticlimactic.

Will leaving New York also be so anticlimactic?  What am I going to miss the most?  The drunken, impromptu dance parties at Vanessa's apartment?  The penne ala vodka from Angelo's Pizzeria?  Going home over the Queensboro bridge upper roadway in a yellow cab and turning back to see the city skyline glittering behind me?  The homeless man who stands by the steps to the N Train and sings, "They say it never rains in Southern California?"

Less than 5 days left to soak it all in.  Oh, and to finish packing.

xoxo

Bubble Girl

A mere seven days remain until we flee NYC.  Today I decided it was time to clean out my refrigerator. 

Have you ever tried to rinse out a jar of hot hot hot sauce that has somehow become coagulated, to the point of becoming frozen, after years upon years of idling at the back of a too crowded fridge?  The label on this particular jar proclaimed: "Pain is Good".  I rinsed it with a flow of scalding hot water and instantly got a waft of jalapeno laced agony.

I'm still coughing, a bit.  Pain is NOT good, no siree Barbara.

Recently, a wonderful someone I know made it possible for Hubby and I to be the proud owners of 2,000 square feet of bubble wrap.  (If you've never dealt much in bubble wrappings, this is a ridiculously large quantity.)  It's totally awesome.  I'm actually considering giving a roll of it to Nanny as a Christmas present, since she enjoys popping bubble wrap unlike anyone I have ever met.  I can just see her, curled up on her couch, popping away, watching the ball game... 

But I digress.

This gargantuan amount of bubble wrap has transformed me, who on a GOOD day borders on the obsessive compulsive, into a maniacal, bubble wrapping lunatic.  Even Hubby has fallen prey to its crafty wiles.  Last night he started bubble wrapping a small pair of wooden maracas before he came to his senses and said:

"Wait a minute, these things aren't even breakable!!!!"

They are not breakable.  Not even a little.  They are made of wood. 

Dear Reader, send help.  We are losing our minds.  xoxo

Why do crowded closets always make me feel itchy?

The prospect of packing up and starting over in a new city is sort of driving me to drink.  Oh, I don't mean drink in a brooding, what in hell am I doing, alone on a Tuesday evening chugging Boone's Farm kind of way.  It's more of a perpetual let's celebrate, cheers to our new beginning, you only live once, who cares if I'm hungover on a weekday, exuberant kind of way.  Having said this, I fear if there was anyone around who was lucid enough to stage an A & E style intervention, now might be the perfect time to do so. 

Today I spent the day packing, sorting and sifting through the vast, herculean piles of paper that have been cunningly lurking in the shadows of our cozy two bedroom abode.  This is proving to be no easy feat.

I'll be the first to admit I have pack-rat tendencies.  I'm a hoarder, pathetically sentimental; to the point where I will keep things that would make a normal human being wonder if there wasn't perhaps something wrong with me.  (I've glued things into scrapbooks that should probably have gone straight into the garbage, but hey, that's how I roll.)

I take a certain comfort in being able to go back and look through items that evoke the past.  When I think of a particular dress or letter, it's nice to be able to find it and pull it out.  That is, if I can actually locate it amongst all of the debris. 

As bad as I am, I've learned how to purge as of late.  Apartment dwelling really helps to facilitate this skill.  I'm trying my best to be ruthless and have decided to only pack those items which I will truly use.  This is decision making time.  For example, is it imperative that I take five hoodies with me to Boston, seeing as I probably wear a hooded sweatshirt maybe a couple of times a year?  I'm giving away four.  (For now at least; nothing has actually been taken to my local thrift shop as of yet.  Said hoodies are dangerously lurking in the hallway as I type, begging me to keep them.)

But honestly, must I hang onto the following?

A wrinkly receipt from the pool bar from our Honeymoon in Aruba.  By 2:21pm we'd already racked up $76.50.  Thank Heaven for all-inclusive libation.  (And thanks to my wonderful in-laws for providing this.)

The list Hubby and I made in 2000 right before we moved to New York, counting the supplies we needed.  Which were, incidentally:

phone

microwave

curtains

food

bathroom stuff

vacuum

tv stand

(Yes, apparently curtains came before food.  We've always been nesters, what can I say?)

My temp agency time sheet from the week of 9/11, noting that the only day I worked that week was Monday the 10th, for Ralph Lauren Womenswear.  Several checklists of things I needed to do before my wedding, scribbled on blue Paxil controlled release tablets paper (this from my years as a server in catering; we hosted a good deal of pharmaceutical parties.)

What is it that makes me unable to toss these things?  Because, if I think about it, that's all they really are- things.  And they're old, make me feel itchy and are taking up space.  And yet...

I'm grateful I taped so many episodes of Roseanne on the DVR.  This has really been my saving grace throughout this tedious organizing process.  Around 5:00 pm I stopped sorting, shut off the tv and decided it was time to take a shower.  I came to this conclusion for two reasons and two reasons alone:

1.) I was filthy

and

2.) Fresh Direct was coming and I needed to go out and get cash so I could tip the delivery guys.

Once clean, I emerged into the humid daylight for a quick trip to the corner quickie mart.  I decided I deserved a treat, having packed and sorted through so much personal history: ice cream.  I would buy myself a pint of Haagen Daas Banana Split.  Only, the object of my desire seemed to be missing from the cooler case.  I dug further.  After all, this wasn't the time for pussyfooting around, this was serious.  I spent a good four minutes digging through the icy case until finally I abandoned my efforts and settled for chocolate.  (So not the flavor I was hoping for but it would just have to do.)

And on that final, hopefully not too wretched note, this packer bids you good night.  xoxo 

Feeling thankful

I may have a lot to learn, (I DVR The Two Corey's, for starters, which most certainly makes me "part of the problem"), but of one thing I'm certain: the most wondrous things in life aren't meant to be set in stone.  Even wishes.  Rather, make like a lillypad and learn to float.  Resistance is futile.

Is there something you've been wanting, Dear Reader?  A yearning secret or perhaps not so secret; a pining that wakes you up in the middle of the night?  Why not try asking for it.  Ask, and then immediately release the outcome.  I'm afraid this last part is crucial, since the less attached you are to actually getting what you want, the more likely you are to receive it.  (What can I say?  The universe appreciates irony.) 

I firmly believe what is meant to be will transpire, if only I can listen, wait for the signs and get out of my own way.

What has prompted this late night philosophical mumbo jumbo?  Well, earlier this month I was desperately yearning for a job transfer so as to remain with my wonderful company.  I longed for this to happen, although rationally I knew that it:

a.) probably couldn't

and

b.) perhaps shouldn't. 

But on I pressed, in spite of the odds; I wished and then released the outcome.  After all, who was I to instruct the powers that be what to do with me? 

Last week I learned my miracle job transfer may be in the cards after all!  Feeling relieved and slightly surprised, I saw before me the answer to my fervent prayers: a transfer with lateral pay, not to mention holding onto the many perks and rewards I'd worked so hard for over the past four years.  So I was going to get what I'd wanted after all. 

A few days later I found myself sitting in a stylish conference room playing the interviewee.  I told my story over and over to every new face that walked through the door.  These meetings lasted almost four hours, in total.  In between I watched the ferry boats make their foamy lines in the Boston Harbor and tried to imagine myself working in that quiet, subdued place.  It was the same company I'm with now, but completely different at the same time.  Certain people I trusted had strongly advised me against going there.

Later I went on a separate interview that had been previously set up by my placement agency, and I told my story a few more times to some very kind people.  This other place, I noticed, was neither quiet nor subdued.  The people were lovely. 

The opportunity to receive exactly what I'd wanted was dangling before me.  Two dangling opportunities, to be exact.  To quote my Auntie Donna: Who knew I'd be in demand?

I was torn.  As we drove back to NYC I gnawed mercilessly on my fingernails and weighed my options.  I had to, since my placement agency was calling my cell phone off the hook, looking for an answer.  From the Mass Pike to 84, all the way to 95, I pondered and gnawed.  Hubby gently patted my head, placed a hand on my knee and told me, "You need to go home, do your Qi Gong and decide what it is you really want.  That's all." 

And that is exactly what I tried to do, in that very same order.  I waited and watched for the signs until my gut told me what I should do.  At one point over the weekend it occurred to me that I was making a huge problem out of something utterly wonderful: having options.  In the midst of my decision making process I'd forgotten the most important thing; saying thank you.  Instantly I was overcome with a tremendous wave of gratitude.  I said thank you, over and over, and almost immediately the answer came to me. 

I took the other job.  A fabulous, slightly less paying job with a company who'd called the morning after meeting me to say they'd be thrilled if I would join them.  In the end it was a no brainer.

I walked over to FDR post office today and dropped their signed offer letter into the mail slot.  It felt really good.  If you'd have told me a week ago things would turn out like this I'd have said you were a crazy old Corey Haim.  But it's true.    

Reader, make a wish.  You may feel silly at first, but trust me, you'll get over it.  Write it down, whisper it into the night sky, tell it to your dog.  And then let go of it.  We don't always ask for the things we're meant to have, so it's best not to get too hung up on the outcome.  Wish for something you want and you just might get it.  Or perhaps...you'll get something even better.  xoxo

No lock unlocks itself...

You may remember me telling you about the college student/realtor Hubby and I encountered recently?  The guy who brought us to bong strewn apartments with graffiti covered entry ways?  The young man who at one point remarked, "I'd never feel comfortable renting that place to a married couple, but I figured I'd show you nonetheless"?  The dude who began to mildly hyperventilate as he stood at a door and angrily tried key after key, to no avail, the jingle jangle of his massive key ring echoing viciously throughout the empty hallway?  "Welcome to my world!!!" he cried into the stale air of the otherwise silent building.  It was...an awkward spectacle to behold.  Fearing an ill timed giggle fit was about to emerge, eventually I had to turn away, quite unable to make eye contact with my husband's baby blues. 

The realtor we went to this time was much more effective.  He really got the job done.  (Plus, all of his keys worked on the first or second try.)  He led us into an ancient elevator up to a fifth floor apartment where we peered out of a sunny window and saw before us...the lights and Budweiser sign of Fenway Park.  Oh my.  I could almost hear Hubby's brain murmuring "uh huh, yes, I like what you're doing here..."  But the kitchen was a mess and so we ended up taking a one bedroom a few floors down.  And so, come August 15th we will be living behind Fenway.  Hubby is ecstatic.  We'll be a stone's throw away from my cousin Keely (her boyfriend John described the stretch between us as within stumbling distance), and a short T ride away from Sissy and Lukey The Wonder Nephew.  It's really happening!

I'm finding it virtually impossible to sleep lately, as if every night is Christmas Eve.  It's all happening so quickly, but I suppose that can sometimes be the best way for things to unfold.  The countdown is on.  xoxo