The Odd Broad

Girls with long noses shouldn't wear hoods.

Sometimes in life things happen that are too hurtful, too mortifying and uncomfortable to even acknowledge, let alone recall on the world wide web.

What can I say?  I'm a masochist.

Picture it: Southern California, October, 1999.  It was my Senior year of college and I'd flown across the country to see Hubby, my then boyfriend, who'd had to leave school and move back home.  We were twenty. 

When Hubby left Boston I was heartbroken, wretched, distracted, woebegone; you get the idea.  The Odd Broad was a total effing train wreck.  This boy was my soul mate!  And suddenly he was gone.  I couldn't get out to California fast enough!

It was my second to last day in California and we were taking a nice drive along the sunny PCH.  Back then Hubby was driving around in a red Dodge convertible whose top was perpetually down.  (We had no choice about the latter, I suppose, since the roof wouldn't really go back up.) 

Dear Reader, I'm just going to come out and say it:  I have a long nose.  I don't know why, really; my mother, father and sister certainly don't have long noses!  They have tiny baby noses.  I suppose my grandfather had a longish nose, however, and now it seems that I do, too.

But I digress.  Hubby and I zoomed along the highway, my hair whipping violently into my face, eyes and mouth.  I decided to pull up the hood on my light blue fleece sweatshirt.  (Can you see this story is heading somewhere painful?  Get out while you can!)

It happened in slow motion, really.  I can still see their car approaching us on the left, from behind.  Inside were about three or four large African-American teenage girls, and one of them called out:

"She has a big ass nose!"

Only she didn't say it like that; she said it more like: She has a Big (pause) Ass (dreadful pause) NOSE!  Her last word was sort of spat out in an awful, high pitched yelp.

What was that?

Oh Reader, I died a thousand deaths!  Had Hubby heard?  No, surely not!  He couldn't have heard!  Sweet Baby Jesus, if he had heard, then surely I would die!  There was no other alternative.

Barely moving my blue hooded head, I peered over at Hubby out of the corner of my eye, as inconspicuously as humanly possible.  He couldn't have heard.

Just then he picked up my hand, kissed it, and quietly whispered, "I love you baby."

Oh Christ Jesus!  He HAD heard them!!!!

The next day I flew back to Boston.  Hubby and I waited until the last possible moment to say goodbye.  I didn't want to leave.  He didn't want me to leave.  We exhibited massive amounts of public displays of affection.  As I walked tearfully down the jetway, a strong feeling in the pit of my stomach told me to turn around.  Later, Hubby would tell me that he'd hoped I might turn around.

I didn't turn around.  I boarded that plane back to the East coast, crying all the way.  I called Sissy from a payphone on my layover, still weepy.  "Oh, Sissy, I miss him so much!  Although I kind of don't know what I'm more sad about, leaving California, or the fact that a group of girls on the highway said I had a big ass nose!"

"Who said WHAT to you, now?" 

My older sister made me feel better in the special way that only she can.  (She has a gift.)  But she also strongly advised me to never wear hoods.

To the few poor souls on this planet with whom I'm closely intimate with, my life is an open book.  But Reader, I am not without ego.  It would be years and years before I'd muster the courage to actually mention this episode to my husband, and even then I was probably drunk at the time.  "Do you remember when..."

I'd never been sure, see?  Had he heard?  But oh, Hubby remembered.  And he'd definitely heard.  Sniff sniff. 

Girls with long noses shouldn't wear hoods.  It just doesn't look nice.

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.

Shopping

Hubby was most enthusiastic about the shoe purchase he made today.  I do like to encourage him in his more eccentric fashion choices. 

 

My plan was simple but inspired: two punk rock shows in five days.  And Reader, I have to admit, if I've been feeling oldish as of late, I certainly don't feel that way now. 

Tuesday night was Flogging Molly.  The tickets were a Christmas present from me to Hubby, though in the end his midterm projects nearly caused us to miss the show.  Indeed, it was 10:15 PM when he finally finished working and I came into the living room in my pajamas and suggested we walk over to The House of Blues.  It was all very punk rock.

We could still smell the fresh paint at The House of Blues.  I'm not going to lie, it had been the shittiest of days; I'd been trying to sell our concert tickets to no avail, at one point even going into McGreevy's where Flogging Molly was making a pre-show appearance!  No luck.  But I'm glad we went.  We stood next to a bunch of guys, one of them a clean cut middle aged man wearing a Pogue's shirt and a scally cap, with a couple of tattoos on his forearms.  His son looked about fourteen.  I noticed he was texting someone in the 603 area code so I figured they were from New Hampshire.  "Look!" I whispered into Hubby's ear, a little tipsy from my Pabst, "That'll be you someday!"

Hubby then remarked that taking your kids to punk shows was just one more thing that was wrong with New Englanders.  Oh dear.  It had been a really long week.  It wasn't long before both of us had relaxed a bit, though.  It ended up being the most fun I'd had in a long while.  And next up would be The Dropkick Murphy's.  My cousin Keely asked if I was planning to go onstage this time.  I'd been wondering that myself, actually.  I mean, seriously, wasn't I getting a bit too old for these shenanigans?  Had I crossed some imaginary numerical threshold, barring me from making a jackass out of myself?

"I'm not going onstage," I told Hubby.  "We've seen them three times already; I'll just relax and enjoy the music."  He didn't really believe me.

They were filming each of The Murphy's shows this past weekend for a special St. Patrick's Day dvd/cd.  There were cameras sweeping from the ceiling, it was all surprisingly high tech.  "They're gonna play our song" Hubby whispered.  "Maybe!" I enthused.  But I knew Ken Casey only sings it when his wife is in the audience. 

Initially we tried to stand in the same spot as last time.  And guess who we saw, leaning over the balcony?  The same crew from New Hampshire, with the dude and his son!  What were the odds?  It was way too crowded up there, though.  Later, when I remarked that maybe we should've stayed next to dad and junior, Hubby shook his head and said, "Nah, that guy kept farting last time!"

We ended up downstairs on the outskirts of the mosh pit, because after all, we're thirty.  Hubby does this endearing thing where he puts his arm around me and sticks out his elbows, jabbing anyone who comes too close to me.  It's all very "Edward Cullen".  (Yes, I'm totally reading Twilight.)  At one point I had to turn to him and shout, "Stop elbowing people in my honor!  I've been around a mosh pit or two before!"

Hubby was certain: "They're gonna play our song, babe."  By this time we were both pretty wasted.  I decided I might sneak in a trip to the ladies room before it got too late.  I was just making my way back through the crowd when I heard the bagpipes signaling the beginning to Kiss Me, I'm Shitfaced.  And just like that, in the pit of my stomach, I knew what I had to do.  "I'm going onstage!"  I squealed up to Hubby. 

Time has turned me into a mother.  There I was, making my way through a sea of sweaty adolescents, yelling, "I'm trying to get onstage!"  That was all I needed to say, really, and they'd step aside and make room for me.  But this wasn't some crappy dive bar; by the time I reached the front a security guard who looked about eighteen shook his head and informed me and about five other girls that we couldn't get past.  What the?

It wasn't going to happen.  I made my way back through the stinky throng and found my husband.  "I can't get onstage!" I said, more than a little disheartened. 

"Ya, you can only get on if you go through the middle, I just noticed."

By this time the song was nearly over.  Reader, for five seconds I was honestly okay with it, watching the rest of the girls who'd made it onstage.  For those five seconds I even thought, there's a new generation up there, it's time for me to hang back, to enjoy from afar...

And then I came to my senses.  Who was I kidding, I wanted to be up there!  Thirty or not, I wanted to have fun just as much as the next idiot!  I'd tried.  There was something very comforting about the fact that at least I still had it in me.

"At least in Boston they know all the words," Hubby noted.  "Ya," I agreed, with just a hint of bitterness in my voice, "But this is the only song those girls know!"  The Odd Broad was back.  Perhaps she'd never even left.  I gave all those green-clad youngsters the finger, in time with the beat, just for good measure. 

They never played our song.  They did do a nice encore of Badlands, however, and another song with Dickie and the rest of The Mighty Mighty Bostones.  As we began our short walk home, we saw him outside the stage door smoking a cigarette. 

"Hey, Dickie!" Hubby called.

"Hey man, how ya doing?"

Hubby's rather fond of spontaneous celebrity shout outs.

I was feeling a little bummed out that I hadn't made it onstage.  Hubby was disappointed that they hadn't played Upstarts and Broken Hearts.  We'd never heard them play it live before, you see.  It wouldn't be until we were home that Hubby would tell me just why he'd been so certain that the Murphy's would play our special song. The one he'd played for me the day he left Boston for California, back in 1998.  The same one we'd played eight years later when we cut into our wedding cake.

He'd emailed the Dropkick Murphy's, he told me, two weeks beforehand, and asked them to play it. 

"You did that for me?" I asked, in disbelief.  Reader, he had.

"What did you say in the email?  Were you drunk at the time?"

"Maybe a little."

My blue eyed Scorpio then turned on his I-Tunes and played our song, and we listened, right there in our living room.  Sometimes I just love him so much that I can't even stand it.  Who needs a vampire boyfriend?  I've got my very own dreamboat. 

Below is the tune that makes me feel nineteen again:

Aging...is for cheese!

Today Hubby bid adieu to his twenties and turned (dun dun DUN!!!) thirty.  The big 3-0.  Happy Birthday, Hubs! 

For the past week he's been consumed with midterms and pondering jolly little existential queries such as, does thirty equal middle age?  It's all been most fun, I can assure you, but now the time has come for some real celebrating.  And so, we are off to the big apple to mark the occasion.  I wonder if it will feel strange to be back?

Happy Halloween!  xoxo

Hubby and me celebrate three

My husband and I grew up over 3,000 miles away from each other, though we were born a mere 49 days and 166 miles apart.  That Fall of 1978, both of our mothers were named Marianne, both pregnant, and as it turns out, both planning on naming their baby Sarah Beth.  (Sarah with an "H" and Beth rather than Elizabeth, since that felt a bit long.)

In the end, Hubby came out a blue eyed baby boy and I was the Sarah Beth, and thank God for that or else how would I have found the love of my life?  Although I suppose fate could have made us a nice lesbian couple with matching names.  "Hey, are the Sarah Beth's coming to the cookout next weekend?"

But I digress.  Two decades later, Hubs would spy me across a crowded Berklee cafeteria and my life would never, ever be the same.  Three years ago today, we finally tied the knot.

Happy anniversary, Hubby.  Granted, I love you more than a board certified psychiatrist would likely deem healthy, but that's just the way it is.  Loving you is one of the few things that come naturally to me, and after nearly eleven years this feeling only increases.  Thank you for inspiring me, challenging me, laughing with me, growing with me, bringing me tea...for loving me through the sweet, the sour, the neurotic...for being your rare, one of a kind, generous, delightful self.  You really never fail to amaze me.

I love you. 

PS- I know this is going to embarrass you.  Just get over it.  xoxo

Tiny Tim

Hubby slipped on Saturday night and took quite a spill.  We thought he may have broken something, but in the end it turned out to be a sprained ankle and bruised heel.  The doctor has given him a cane.  So essentially what this means is that my husband will spend the last month of his twenties hobbling around on a cane. 

This just goes to show that cobblestones and rainfall don't mix well with shoes that have poor traction.  Especially when the wearer of said shoes has been toasting the evening with Long Island iced tea(s).

To make matters worse, he's also coming down with the flu.  So he's sniffy, limpy, Tiny Timmy.  It's just about the saddest thing I ever did see.

As I myself was rather under the weather come Sunday morning, I fear I wasn't much of a nursemaid.  In truth, for the better part of the morning it was all I could do to listlessly toss a bag of frozen edamame in the general direction of his foot.  But by evening I was a regular Clara Barton.   

It's remarkable how a sprained ankle can turn the most mundane of tasks into a king-sized pain in the arse.  Like when I blew the fuse last night.  (Note to self: BUY A FLASHLIGHT.)  Hubby wouldn't let me go down into that spooky basement by myself.  (And thank God for that!)  Instead, he inched his way behind me, step by step, first in the darkness of our apartment and then downstairs.  Now, if that ain't love then I don't know what is.

Poor Hubby.  The ole' geezer.  xoxo

My dreamy musician

In Friday's post I mentioned that Hubby played what might be his last gig in nyc.  NYC proper, I should have specified, because yesterday he played a show in the Hamptons at The Stephen Talkhouse.  I'd never been up that way before and after my drunken animated behavior last Friday evening, I really wasn't sure I should attend.  But I'm awfully glad I did. 

We rented a car and drove home shortly after the show, but in hindsight I do wish we'd stayed overnight.  The area is beautiful and somehow manages to be rustic and upscale at the same time.  I'd never seen so many peaceful vineyards and signs for fresh strawberry picking in my life, each one of them calling out to me, softly, wistfully: Drink me!  Pick me!  Not to mention, a part of me desperately wished to remain within the stomping grounds of the Barefoot Contessa herself: Easthampton dwelling Ina Garten and her lovable husband Jeffrey.  But alas, an overnighter was not in the cards and we arrived home sweet home a little after 2am.

I can't help but smile when Hubby plays his saxophone.  Since the sound is generated by breathing, I find it's very close to singing; and the wailing tone that emerges always reminds me of a human voice.  In all these years, I've never seen him phone it in or play with anything less than complete, full-scale conviction.  He breathes his guts, his soul, his very essence into the music, until the room is brimming with the booming, blazing sounds of bluesy, funky brass.  He and his horn cause a ruckus, they make people cheer.  My mind sees colors as I listen.  It's a gorgeous thing. 

Ever yours,

~The Eternal Groupie xoxo

P.S.

PS: The Stephen Talkhouse venue is named after a Montaukett Native American named Stephen Taukus "Talkhouse" Pharaoh.  Throughout the evening, I couldn't stop staring at the massive, majestic picture of him hanging behind the stage.  I was drawn by the beauty and quiet dignity in his face, and I've posted the image for you below. 

   

For my Mr.

Today the Hubby and I celebrate ten years of being together.  I'm feeling very sentimental about the whole event. 

This day is not to be confused with the anniversary of our wedding.  That occasion touches down in October and so far we've only had two of them.  But this annual, original milestone was something I couldn't part with. 

As the years progress, my affection for Hubby only increases.  I suppose my pre-Hubby self might have suspected love to be the other way around, one sorry downhill fizzle.  With Hubby it proved to be quite the opposite.  My love for Hubbers is like an ipod that can't lose its charge, a neverending box of Godiva, an ever refilling magnum of Veuve Clicquot.  I love him so much it sometimes alarms me.  (Indeed, when we chose The Beach Boys' God Only Knows as our first wedding dance, the sentiment was more or less literal on my end.) 

But semi-creepy, Beach Boy inspired thoughts aside, mostly I just bask in the steady glow of his love, content to feel nothing other than blessed.  I adore my blue eyed, thoughtful, beautiful Scorpio.  His love is respectful, all encompassing, and the best thing I've come across on this earth.

Too mushy?  I know.  I'm in that kind of mood.

xoxo