The Odd Broad

The cab drivers in Providence are crazy

Day three of our Staycation has brought us to Providence, Rhode Island.  Without jumping to any hasty conclusions, Hubby and I might dare to say that Rhode Island in March isn't the most happening place on the planet.  But c'est la vie.

There's an ABC pilot filming here at The Westin, and frankly, it's getting kind of annoying.  But dinner tonight at Al Forno has sort of made up for everything.  Although next time I'd order something other than the baked pasta, Hubby's scallops were out of this world.

We keep joking that we should've brought a board game with us, to liven things up.  In truth, for the past 45 minutes we've been playing a drinking game to Alton Brown's Good Eats.  Every time Alton does something "weird" we drink.  I'm wasted.

Ahoy!

This ship was parked near the resort and there was a lot of fanfare when it finally sailed off.  Our bartender friend Fernando told us they were the Columbian Marines.  Look closely, do you see those teeny tiny figures that look almost like people perched on those platforms?  They're people.  They stayed like that for quite some time, long after everyone on land had stopped waving and had gone back to watching the Pats/Colts game at the poolbar. 

As the ship slowly sailed off into the distance I kept peering out from the corner of my eye, nervously wondering how in God's name they were going to get down.  I kept imagining the ones on the tip top tentatively calling out, "Um, hello?  Do you think we can get down now please?  Anyone?"  It was all very flashy, albeit in a recklessly dangerous way.

Sandy Musings

   

Scribbled in the air on a Delta cocktail napkin, Tuesday morning:

Our flight is bumpy, lumpy, and riddled with the usual array of "bad fliers" - two stinky, increasingly drunker hippie types in front of us, a snoring old man behind me to the left and an elderly woman with big hair "knowing it all" 3 seats in front.  Are we there yet? 

P.S. Someone just farted.

It was at this moment that Hubby whispered someone needs to check their pants.  I giggled for almost two minutes.  This was all before we arrived in paradise, and since then everything has been relaxed and refreshing.  Like a mojito...

Beachy Musings:

There are no cell phones here...no honking horns...I haven't dropped an F bomb all week.

There is only the sound of the water hitting the sand, hot sun upon my skin, and a tiny crab who hides in the sand when I try to take his picture.

Oh, and beer.  Buckets of beer.

We can't stop making fun of the burly, bronzed man to your right who wears the black Speedo thong.  (Yes, a Speedo as well as a thong.)  We've lovingly named him Thong Sarong Man (for he wears an orange sarong, as well.)  Two nights ago I even made up a theme song for him, though sadly, I forgot to write it down.

I feel very strongly that a Speedo thong resides in a category all its own.  Much like a shorty longback mullet (or Sho-Lo), it's business in the front and a party in the back.  I am a bad person for snapping Thong Sarong Man's picture.  Hubby made me do it. 

On Halloween, Hubby turned 29.  I tell him, as I do every year around this time, that I'm now in love with an older man.  He says this may take a while to get used to, maybe I should give it a month and a half or so.  (This is when I will turn 29.  Tee hee.)

That morning, Hubby has a dream.  He's working and has 17 tables to wait on and one of them is on the roof.  He has to keep taking the elevator up to the roof.  (I tell him we should definitely start doing yoga when we get back.)

I have a bone to pick with parents who make their children wear Speedos.  Much like the home perm of my youth, I find this choice in swimwear a form of child abuse.  (I suppose I'm still bitter about my shorty Longback childhood hairdo.  But still...)

On Thursday night I eat baked camembert with jelly.  I've been dreaming of it for the past year and it's really as good as I remembered.  Don't you love it when that happens?  I then go on to devour chicken smothered in gouda cheese and banana crepes.  And two cosmos.

Floating in the water, we start to ponder what Kittie is up to back home.  Our good friend James is staying with her and we concoct stories about Kittie mixing martinis, playing Dean Martin records and throwing "sexy" parties.

I have become obsessed with something called Arubian pastechi.  It's kind of like a croissant, though denser.  Sometimes it's filled with meat, sometimes with cheese, and sometimes simply a warm buttery goodness.  I exclaimed aloud when I tasted the latter.

Yesterday on the boat I thought perhaps I might lose my pastechi, though it all worked out just fine.

As far as tan lines are concerned, both of my feet have been mysteriously, seriously sunburned.  The only phrase I can think of to properly describe them is lobster red.  I'm not quite sure how this happened.  This is definitely not the look I am going for.

Lobster feet aside, vacation is certainly everything I hoped it would be and more.  We've watched sunsets from the warm water, had late night swims, creme brulee, and lots and lots of other delicious food.  I heart chimichurri sauce. 

My body still feels like it's rocking on water as I write this, though I'm sitting in our hotel room.  And with that, we're off to the beach.  After a pastechi or two. xoxo

 

Tan Lines

For the past week or so, my disposition has been just a little bit brighter, Dear Reader.  (And not simply because the Red Sox are World Series champs!)  After all, that wonderful occurrence only just happened, and I was already quite chipper before this joyous event: Remarkably, I somehow managed not to fling the gentleman wearing the enormous backpack while simultaneously reading his unfurled newspaper at rush hour on the crowded subway.  (Highly flingworthy, and a double offense since he was consuming precious train space from both the front and the back). 

I hummed while doing the dishes, sang merrily as I cleaned out moldy, mysterious Tupperware from the fridge.  (Two chores that ordinarily hand me a one way ticket to the pits of despair.)  And just this morning, I merely sighed when the 6 Train passed me by, too full for anyone to squeeze in.  C'est la vie!

The cause of this sudden, drastic change in mindset?  I will tell you.  The Odd Broad is going on vacation. 

It all began two Wednesdays ago.  The morning sky was blue, the air was crisp, and a naughty little voice in my head told me to play the Aruba mix on my ipod.  (Go on, play it.) 

My Aruba mix is an eclectic, curious collection of songs Hubby and I heard played on our Honeymoon.  It includes everything from Sugar Ray, AC/DC and The Beach Boys to Smashmouth and then over to Bob Marley.  (A strange mix indeed.) 

These songs are forever etched upon our memories, conjuring up images of clean air, flamingo filled beaches and neverending buckets of Corona.  Most days I'm unable to listen to this mix, of course.  (It makes me wistful.)  But there was something so hopeful about Wednesday morning that instinctively made my thumb click "play".

On a whim, this time last year we spent our one year wedding anniversary back in Aruba.  It was heavenly.  Upon our return to The Big Apple I immediately began to wonder if it wasn't already too soon to go back.  (Aruba is truly the cheddar and sour cream potato chips of vacations.  You could eat the entire bag and still want more.)

I waxed philosophical.  After all, simply hearing these songs must have a positive affect on my brainwaves, right?  Surely my psyche was getting a boost every time I even thought of this Shangri-La, no?  Hubby and I agree those two trips were the most relaxed we've ever felt. 

This all got me to wondering: is the mere knowledge that a place like this exists, where beachy naps, mild daylong intoxication and endless eating reign...is this really enough to get us through our workaday existence?  Because I think sometimes it is.  Some days I can close my eyes and be transported back to where the biggest decision of the day is what I'd like to eat that morning.  And afternoon.  And evening. 

Transcendent thoughts danced dreamily in my brain as I pondered what was actually more effective: going there in my mind or physically traveling there on a plane? 

I made a wish that morning.  A wish that included blue skies...peace and quiet...24 hours a day spent with my sweet husband...non-stop fruity cocktails...

And then...then...then...

Ok, so Wednesday sucked.  By the time I reached the subway station I was already late for work, train service had mysteriously been suspended and a creepy stranger walked up to me and started nodding and smiling three inches from my face.  Inwardly blowing a giant raspberry at the universe, I turned off the Aruba mix just as I hailed a cab.

However, those few inspired minutes must have been enough because...we're going!  We really are.  We leave tomorrow.  And I'm taking you with me.  (Telepathically, of course.  They only allow one carry on.) 

Is this the most practical of decisions?  Not really.  Should we perhaps be aggressively saving for a home, a car, a child or two?  Yes, yes, and yes yes. 

In the meantime, I'll be lounging and feeding my mojito hole in a tropical paradise.  Hey, we only live once.  (Perhaps.)

I promise to write...

~The Odd Broad xoxo 

PS: Some of my relatives have expressed concern that my trip to paradise will leave me with tan lines for my cousin's upcoming nuptials.  I suppose they're afraid The Odd Broad's potential strap lines will make her the "trashy" bridesmaid of the group.  This is a risk I am willing to take, (for relaxation's sake), though I will certainly do everything within my power to avoid this tacky outcome.  I'll let you know how it turns out.  xoxo

PPS: Here are some pictures I took last year. 

Jet lagged Musings

Ok, so vacation found me food-poisoned, headachy, and on the rag.  Not exactly ideal circumstances in the way of summer travel, but this broad takes what she can get, Dear Reader. 

I've never actually been food poisoned before, have you?  I've decided the phrase sounds much more exciting when used as a verb as opposed to its noun form.  (Does that even make sense grammatically?  Oh, you know what I mean.)  In hindsight, whatever evil was taking place within my body this week was a veritable Holy Trinity of Wrong: unnatural, unholy, and unpleasant...utterly so. 

As it turns out, my Mother-in-Law and I were the only ones who ended up getting sick this vacation.  Which certainly is curious, since she ordered the fish tacos and I had the beef fajitas.  It's a culinary mystery, I'd say.  OK, no more talk of Mexican food, at least for another week or so.  (Sorry, guacamole, you know how fond I am of you.)

On a happier note, our hotels were fabulous.  Especially the one we stayed at on Saturday, since a travel agent friend of mine hooked us up with a trendy hotel on Sunset.  The trendiness I refer to was in a refreshing, non-hipster sort of way: un-stuffy and unpretentious.  And because of my friend's connection they treated us really nice: complimentary fuzzy slippers, bed-time green apples, a hand-written welcome note, and a room that opened up right onto the outdoor pool.  It was Heavenly.      

I have a soft spot for hotel bath products and such.  This hotel offered something you'll see to your right called personal oxygen.  My inner child was intrigued, but my inner old bitty didn't want to inhale.  (She might get too wild.  Plus she's already got enough hot air in her to last a lifetime.)

The Sheraton we stayed at by LAX was also extremely accommodating.  When I was feeling sick I was able to order toast with butter (even poolside), and later, when I was feeling drunker much better, Room Service brought me an enormous plate of cheese fries, despite the fact that it was 3:00 am and cheese fries weren't on the menu. 

I enjoy LA.  So many aspects of the place are right up my alley.  The spiritual advisors, the tarot readers, the aura cleansers.  One aura cleansing, please!  (You know I repeated this phrase over and over, in my heaviest Boston accent, until being around me became downright unbearable, even for myself.  Sorry, Hubs.)  I was also amused by a sign for Live Nudes!  As opposed to dead nudes, I imagine?  It got me to thinking, what must it feel like for one to refer to oneself as a live nude?  "So, what do you do?"  "Oh, I'm a nude.  A live nude.  And you?"

My inner juvenile giggled at the tanning salon you see to your right, aptly named Bronze Buns.  A direct, if disturbing, name for a business. 

I bet you think I attended this cat show you see advertised on your left...but I'll have you know I did not.  There wasn't enough time.  Tee hee.

The bulk of our week in California was spent with Hubby's family, as we were there to celebrate his older brother's 30th birthday.  (If you're reading this, hi, brother!)  His Mom and Dad also flew out for the occasion, so it was a reunion of sorts, which was nice since we rarely get to see any of them.  My niece and nephew seemed to have grown feet taller since my wedding, if possible.  We also got to spend some time with friends Hubby hasn't seen in years, although the visit was brief (and vomit sprinkled, on my part.)

I could sense the trip was bittersweet for my husband, in the same way it usually is for me when I go home.  There are so many people and places to see, and never enough time for all of them.  My family all live within a concentrated area, though, whereas his are scattered across the country. 

I couldn't help but think back to being 20 years old again, when Hubby, then my boyfriend of one and a half years, left college in Boston to return to California.  Those were the longest eight months of my life.  I charged three airline trips (at 29% interest, a very smart deal!) and spent most of my Senior year divided between two time zones.  My parents were worried, to say the least.  And then, miraculously, Hubby once again came Eastward, to be with me.  That lonely period seems a lifetime away now, though being in California always gets me to thinking...

I do my fair share of wistful planning, doesn't everyone?  As in, will we ever actually own a home, as opposed to renting?  Will we ever have children, as opposed to a cat?  (Mommy loves you, Kittie)  Will we ever move back to Boston?  Yesterday the horoscope for Sagittarius suggested that I be content with what I have right now, today, and I have to agree.  Everyone needs reminding from time to time, I suppose.

Tonight, back at home, with Kittie curled up on my lap, I feel very grateful that my wonderful Hubby has returned to the East coast to be with me...again. 

xoxo

Hooray for Hollywood!

Sorry, I kind of have that song stuck in my head right now.  But a maniacal, show-choir version from my high school days, complete with four part harmony and spandex.  There were dance steps, too, but I believe it's unnecessary to humiliate myself any further...

Gone Fishin'

Greetings, Dear Reader!  Today's post comes to you from sunny southern California.  I am happy to announce that for the next few days this broad is on vacation, visiting the in-laws, soaking up some rays, and...not working!  Hallelujah!

Our plane ride was pleasant enough, if a granola bar, crackers, and pasteurized cheese spread can be considered sufficient sustenance for a coast to coast flight.  (Seriously, would it kill you to make some frigging sandwiches, Delta?)  At one point Hubby asked the flight attendant if there was food available for purchasing.  Her answer was so much lemon juice in my proverbial paper cut: "No, but next month we'll start selling food!"

For some twisted reason I chose to watch the Food Network for a good two hours before realizing I was torturing myself.  Ordinarily I would have eaten beforehand, or at least bought food to eat on the plane, but I was doing that terrible last minute packing/cleaning/saying goodbye to the cat thing that it's really a wonder we even made it onto the plane. 

Once in the air, Hubby and I found ourselves surrounded by a plethora of bad fliers, the worst of which was a young lad named Moeshe.  Moeshe terrorized his disgruntled baby sister for the entire flight and was physically unable, it seems, to refrain from kicking the back of our seats.  I very nearly threw a tampon at his face.  (Well, I hadn't eaten!)  Also, the girl next to me kept nodding off, onto my shoulder.  Hey, it's just like being on the subway!

Me + Flying + screaming children = 3 glasses of airplane chardonnay.

Now that we're on land, after a good night's sleep in our comfy hotel bed, I am fully prepared to fling myself into vacation mode.  With gusto.  Although I did have some sort of workplace related dream last night (something to do with binder clips?) I am now ready to relax.  Especially since I know my little Kittie is being looked after by someone lovely.  (Jennifer, if you're reading this, you're a gem!  You're an angel!  You're a saint!) 

When I find better internet connection, I am busting to tell you all about my left coast findings.  For now, happy weekend to all!

xoxo

Mystic Weekend

During my earliest twenties I temped in NYC...for about five years.  Those were interesting days, to say the least, though in retrospect I don't know how I lasted for so long.  Being an uninsured starving artist no longer gives me the warm fuzzies the way it used to, you know? 

One of the aspects I love most about having a permanent job (aside from the steady paycheck and unlimited trips to the dentist and gyno) are vacation days.  I just love them.  I live for long weekends.  What is better than a Sunday that feels like a Saturday, or having a four day work week instead of five? 

Last weekend Hubby and I wanted to take a quick trip and decided upon the quaint seaport town of Mystic, CT.  It was a tough decision.  The last quick trip we made was to the Poconos, and although the trip was quite memorable, mirrors on the ceiling belong as lyrics in an Eagle's song, not in my hotel room.  Seriously, every time I think of the Poconos I start to sing Hotel California in a creepy Don Henley style.

Our weekend in Mystic was quite an adventure, filled with ships, seafood, wine, history, shopping...

It began on Saturday.  We're not what you'd call morning people, and although we planned on leaving the apartment at noon we didn't actually get on the road until 2:00.  Shortly thereafter I found myself famished and our only option on the road was Wendy's.  I haven't eaten at Wendy's in years and was appalled to discover that their medium soda is a whopping 32 ounces!  What the?  Just to add some perspective, that's the medium next to a 1 liter bottle of Canada Dry to your right.  I totally drank the whole thing, too, which is both upsetting and gross.

We hit a slew of traffic on 95, so by the time we actually got to Mystic and checked into the Hilton it was nearly 5:00.  We decided to poke around the shops for a bit and discovered they all close at 6:00.  (We were lucky, on Sundays they close at 5:00!)  It was just enough time for me to quell that desperate vacation urge to buy.  There are over 60 shops with a wide variety of themes.

I have to say, although I am loath to support anything having to do with Paris H., the Hilton at Mystic is lovely. It has a restaurant and lounge on site, a nice pool, offers Crabtree & Evelyn products in the bathroom, and happened to be hosting a knife show that Saturday.  I'm not 100% sure whether they were dealing in cutlery or street blades, but either way we didn't attend. 

Since it was getting late (in Mystic time, anyway) we decided to walk down to the Seaport.  The woman at the front desk said it was about a mile away, and if we were athletic we could probably walk it.  Of course the seaport was closed when we got there, so we decided to eat an early dinner.  We enjoyed a delicious meal at The Seamann's Inne, which had some of the best fried calamari we've ever eaten: tossed with peppers, a garlic sauce, and sprinkled with asiago cheese.  I'm hungry just thinking about it.  It was there that I also devoured the beautiful baked stuffed lobster you see floating before your eyes.  Delish. 

During our cozy dinner I found myself glancing out the window at the setting sun, at first admiring the beautiful scenery, but later realizing we were going to have to walk back to the hotel in the dark, passing a cemetery and haunted houses from 1765 to do so.  Um...check, please!

Dearest Reader, I have walked the mean streets of NY alone after midnight on many occasions without batting an eyelid, but I'm not going to lie, on this night I was terrified.  It's just, in the light of day, historic houses from the 1700's are lovely, cemeteries by the water are peaceful, walking on a narrow sidewalk into ongoing traffic is, well, no, that's still not pleasant, but at least there was still daylight!  That trek back to the Hilton was a bit too Nightmare on Elm Street for my tastes.  We measured the distance with the car the next day and there and back was a total of almost two and a half miles!  Guess I worked off that key lime tart.

Pretty Mystic by day:

    

Nightmarish Mystic by night: (Just drive there.  For reals.  I'm scared just looking at that picture.)

On Sunday we went to Stonington Vineyard, where the midday wine tasting buzz prompted us to purchase a case of wine.  I told Hubby we should be set on wine now for about a week or so.  (Tee hee)  Later that day we saw the guy from the winery in line at Starbucks.  I love small towns.

After the winery and Starbucks we walked around the myriad of shops, ate dinner and then found ourselves looking for something to do.  It's safe to say that off-season this town closes early.  We decided to go to the hotel lounge and found it completely deserted, a veritable ghost town in the way of hotel bars.  I suppose all of the real excitement fizzled out with the knife show.  In addition to the barren scene, the Bartender was playing The Lord Of The Rings on the two televisions.  Whenever Smeagol appeared I jumped, mistaking him for my surly landlord.  (Have I mentioned we rent our home from Smeagol?) 

On our way back to our room we met a woman who's doing a two year cross-country bike tour.  She had just come from New York where she was on some talk shows and she gave us a flyer with her website: www.littlechanges.com.  We saw her at Mystic Seaport the next day, but I wasn't feeling as bold (tipsy?) and didn't say hello.  Although that night I told her what I always tell people when I'm on the sauce: You'll love Boston!  It's (hiccup) the best!

Olde Mystic Village ended up being really interesting, if U.S. Nautical history is your bag.  (But who isn't into that?)  At first we were a bit nervous, since I think we entered through the wrong side.  Hubby was upset that his 35 bucks appeared to have bought us a chance to look at two ships and the olden way to make rope.  (See picture to your right)  But once we turned the corner we found a neat little 1700's village with a schoolhouse, chemist, print shop, and more.  Inside one home there was a woman cooking a chicken over an open hearth fire.  This made me slightly nervous, although she appeared to know what she was doing.  Hubby got excited when he spotted the Tavern below, but it wasn't open for the summer season yet. 

   

If you're the squeamish type, please don't ask the chemist what the leech in the jar on the counter is for, because you really don't want to know.  I started to swoon, just a bit.  I'm actually swooning a little now as I write this.  Incidentally, how did that modern day leech end up with such a crappy gig?  (What are you doing for work these days, Charlie?  Oh, I gutta job over at Mystic, sittin' in a jar all day...)  Hubby said there's a chance it might have been a fake leech, before pointing out that I was thinking entirely way too much about it.

All in all, Mystic was a nice little getaway, with yummy seafood and plenty of opportunities for shopping.  There are even outlets nearby, though we didn't get a chance to hit them up, and an Aquarium in town, though we skipped that, too.  I ate a lot of fish that weekend, but somehow wasn't interested in taking the relationship further.  Foxwoods is closeby, too, if you have a hankering for slot machines and blue haired ole' bitties.   

If you're ever in Mystic be sure to stop in at Mystic Pizza, even if just to say you did.  I dared Hubby to ask the lady at Starbucks for directions and he did.  It's fun to be tourists.  The pizza was good, although I've never seen the movie.

So my long weekend in Mystic was bursting with restful, out of town loveliness.  This weekend, however, will no doubt be bursting with Smeagol, who deemed it mandatory to have our walls and ceiling painted immediately.  Indeed a desperately necessary repair, in an apartment boasting mostly two-pronged outlets and a refrigerator plugged into an extension cord. 

But alas, such is life.  At least I can find comfort in the memory of baked stuffed lobster.  But not 18th Century leeches.  I'd rather just forget about them. 

Happy Weekend!

~The Odd Broad xoxo

ps- I realize I made mention of fudge in my last post...no doubt because I was shoving it down my gullet as I typed.  I think we all need more Snickers fudge in our lives, no?

Gone Fishin'

Hubs and I got outta town and are spending a long weekend in Mystic, Ct. 

Please stay tuned and I will fill you in on fudge, seafood and a town that closes at 6:00pm.

xoxo!

Me, Cooperstown, and Bob Dylan

Perhaps it was the week long binge of anti-histamines still coursing through my blood, perhaps the chardonnay, perhaps the raw, terrible weather.  Whatever the reason, I think I'll never know why I got so very pissed off that evening. 

Wait, maybe I should start at the beginning...

Recently my hubby Brian and I took a trip to Cooperstown, NY, to see...Bob Dylan!  It's been my dream for over a decade now to see him play live.  I've heard all sorts of things about Bob in concert...he's the best, he's the worst, basically I decided to expect nothing and therefore not be disappointed.

I was so sick the week leading up to the show.  Like, really sick- Tylenol with codeine sick.  (The best kind of sick, if you ask me!) But still, I was looking forward to the weekend.  We were also going to hit up the Baseball Hall of Fame, which Brian was really excited about.  (He's not the Bob nut that I am, but that's ok.  He still appreciates him.)

The day of the show arrived and was rainy, cold, and raw.  Just as the weather forecasters had predicted.  (Hey, wait a minute, aren't they always wrong?)  So we bought ponchos.  We enjoyed a nice drive to Cooperstown, despite the gloomy weather.  We listened to Bob for a while on the way and I could hardly believe in just a few hours I'd actually be in his presence. 

Cooperstown is a really small town...when we pulled up to the Best Western and saw a tour bus, Brian teased that it was Bob's.  It probably was.  The town was totally psyched for Bob Dylan and we could almost feel it in the air.  The restaurant we ate in was playing Bob's new album.  I was positively giddy.

After dinner we found a cute little cafe and had a drink or two before the show, and there was a small group of people at the table next to us.  I eaves-dropped while Brian was in the restroom.  I quickly found out the youngish guy drinking a soda was the lighting guy for Bob Dylan!  He was telling this lady how Bob waits in his trailer until just before he takes the stage, then after the show goes straight back to his trailer.  He's got his own chef and everything.  So I guess those recluse rumors may be true.  But hey, he's Bob Dylan, hasn't he earned the right to be reclusive if he wants?  If I were him I probably wouldn't befriend a 20-something hipster lighting guy, either! 

I also heard hipster guy say Bob doesn't want to stand out at all- he wants to be under dim lighting.  Hipster had worked on another tour, did I hear Willie Nelson?  And Willie was always nice and friendly and always gave autographs.  Well, lah-de-frickin-dah.  Then the waiter moved them all to a table in the dining room and eaves-dropping time was officially over.  Too bad.  I went back to sipping my chardonnay.

My mood remained positive. 

We decided to head into the concert.  The show was being held at Double Day Field.  (Dylan was doing a minor league ball park tour this summer.)

It wasn't even raining!  Seriously, what luck!  We weaved our way through the crowd until we were about 10, maybe 15 feet from the stage.  Stoned old hippies are easy to weave through, they're very agreeable.  We sat through two well-known but mediocre blues bands. Lots of gratuitous, predictable guitar riffs.   (What my husband would refer to as "musical masturbation")  The uninspired female vocalist was taking drags off her cigarette in between singing.  I think the hippies surrounding us had either never heard Blues before or were very, very stoned, because they were loving it.  I was starting to get antsy.  I felt like Pee Wee Herman while he's waiting for the tour of the Alamo to end so he can finally see the basement.  Enough, already!

The couple behind us kept swigging from a bottle of liquor.  It was a dry show, no booze allowed.  (Curious, right?   Did Bob make up that rule?)  The couple started getting rowdy.  But in the worst, most annoying way possible.  The girl began shouting "Bobby Dylan!!"  "Bobby Deee-lon!!"  "C'mon, Zimmerman!!" I cringed.  This was a mockery!  Filthy bastards.

To the left of us were four teenage girls.  They couldn't have been much older than sixteen.  The rest of the people surrounding us were just random hippies or hipster couples.

Finally, Bob took the stage and began to play without addressing the audience.  Big deal, I had heard he did this, right? 

I started having one of those magical moments, the kind where life is so wonderful I can hardly believe it, when I couldn't help but notice...the crowd.  Oh, the crowd!  The crowd. Was. Awful.

The teenage girls to the left of us began "rocking out" to Bob.  Dancing to Bob.  Swaying lovingly to Bob.  He started into "Lay, Lady, lay" and the girls positively shrieked.  Um, was I at Bob Dylan or a freaking Justin Timberlake show?  To the left and the right we were surrounded by people absolutely jamming to Bob Dylan.  Bob is not supposed to be jammed to, Bob is supposed to be absorbed.  Enjoyed.  He is a legend, an icon.  He is my favorite.  Sway to his music a bit, if you must, but PLEASE, do not gyrate.  Do not do an awkward, ryththm-free dance to Bob Dylan.  Basically, all of a sudden I had to move.  The crowd was ruining it for me.  Seriously, ruining it!  I couldn't watch Bob through the eyes of these people for another minute!

Brian thought I was crazy when I told him I needed to move.  But at that point I think I was making him nervous, he'd do whatever I asked.  He peed, we got hot chocolate, and then we went and sat on the damp bleachers.

This was Bob Dylan!  This was my dream!  It wasn't even raining!

Brian noted the irony of how we were sitting far away on the bleachers at Bob Dylan when we had been right at the front of the mosh pit for NOFX, and had gone onstage at The Dropkick Murphy's.  I couldn't explain it, either.  I still can't.

So we watched Bob from afar.  I tearfully listened to "Simple Twist of Fate."  He changed almost every song so it was really difficult to know which song it was unless you were a Bob nut, which I am.  Bob's band was really good.  Bob is old, but he sounded really good, too, and he played the keyboard the whole time.  Later, we went a bit closer, maybe to buy a T-shirt, and thought better of it.  45 bucks for a shirt?!  This seemed very un-Dylan, but what do I know? 

The show was almost over.  It was starting to mist.  We stood next to a thirty-something-ish Mom and her daughter.  The Mom was dancing in a manner I can only describe as horrific (think Elaine from "Seinfeld") and when Bob was backstage and the crowd was calling for an encore, she actually shouted out, "Come on, Bob!  Come on, handsome!!"  She said the word "handsome" in this creepy, sing-songy voice.  As a matter of fact, she wouldn't stop saying it.  "Come on, handsome!!!"  Now.  I would call Bob Dylan many, many things:  genius, visionary, national treasure... But handsome is not necessarily one of the adjectives I would use to describe him nowadays.  I could've slapped her.  You should've seen the way she gyrated to "Like a Rolling Stone."  Is nothing sacred?

My heart sank when I saw Bob throw his harmonica out into the crowd.  That should've been me catching it!  I'm like his #1 freaking fan!  But I was frozen in my spot, unable to move.  So strange.  So surreal.

I think in the end it was just too much of a personal experience for me to share with a crowd, regardless of their obnoxiousness.  I think perhaps I felt I had missed something, and found myself wondering what a concert of his in the 60's would've been like.  This sort of seemed like a cheap knock-off of what a real Dylan concert should be.  Real Dylan fans wouldn't maniacally gyrate to "Mr. Tambourine Man," would they?  Also, I knew perhaps I'd be disappointed; maybe this was why I was.  But still, I'll really never know why I couldn't get over the crowd and their bad dancing and just enjoy myself.  It's a mystery to me.

We didn't even end up needing to use the ponchos.  The heavy rain held off until we got back to the hotel.  My Mom called my cell phone when we got back to the room and excitedly asked, "So, how was the concert?!"  I told her we were right up front but had to move because the crowd ruined it.  She thought I was nuts, disturbed.

Who knows. 

The next day we went to The Baseball Hall of Fame and I got a picture of me next to Curt Schilling's  bloody sock.

All in all, it did end up being a very nice weekend.  I think maybe I'll try to see Bob again.  Maybe in a smaller venue?  Where the age is 18 plus?  When it's not cold and raining and outside?  And nobody is allowed to dance?