The Odd Broad

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.

I'm sorry

Dear God,

I am sorry that I used the word fuckface while passing a church today, when a man doing work outside flicked a burning cigarette that came inches from hitting me.  It was both an unladylike and immature way to react, although at the time it did feel like a perfectly natural thing to say. 

I will try to be more Zen.

Sincerely,

The Odd B.  xoxo

What good is sitting alone in your room? Come hear the music play!

Hubby saw the incomparable Liza Minnelli outside of the Waldorf tonight.  She was sitting in the backseat of an oversized SUV with the window rolled down, and according to Hubby, looked very much like she was about to vomit.  (This is all very reminiscent of myself last Saturday after our friend Mike's 29th birthday soiree in the meatpacking district.)

I, however, am loathe to believe this about Liza, since I always choose to remember her circa 1991 in the movie sensation Stepping out.

The great irony is, I've had Caberet in my head all week.  Bizarre.

What the?

Only in New York does the recycling get picked up after midnight.  Right now, 12:48 am, to be exact.  Yay, late night garbage collection!