I was at Sonny's on a Sunday night a few weeks ago with Mandy. This should come as no surprise, since Mandy and I spend a lot of time together, and I hang out at Sonny's on a regular basis. Across the corner of the bar, I see a man and a woman finishing their drinks, possibly the ineptly named FDR. (This cocktail is deeeelish, made of Hendrix Gin and Fresca. It should have been the LBJ, or even just the Johnson, since Fresca was actually not invented when Franklin Delanor Roosevelt was President, and it was a Johnson's favorite drink, not Roosevelt's. Minor confusion of the initials, FDR, LBJ.) Anyway, I recognize this man from Match.com. He's broad shouldered, seemingly some sort of Middle Eastern/Indian descent, and has a longish haircut. His picture was memorable in the search results because it was a clear, well lit picture. He was smiling, wearing a tie; he stood out from all of the other buzz-cut LiveStrong bros. Mandy and I actually looked up his profile from my iPhone while they were right there to confirm my suspicions were correct. Sometimes we spend a lot of time together and run out of things to talk about... this was one of those times. But this girl is so CLEARLY not into it. His body language has him facing her and leaning in, acting very interested in everything she's saying. I can practically hear her thoughts, "Oh dear god, Revenge of the Nerds seriously needs to shut. up. so I can get the fuck out of here. Hmmm... I think there's a new Grey's Anatomy on Hulu..."
Two weeks later, it's Sunday night again, I'm back at Sonny's with Angela Pizzo this time. Low and behold- same girl, same spot, same drink, different guy, different earrings, same boring conversation. It was weird. This guy looked like more her type, and she was absolutely into it. She played with her hair. Once in a while I overheard her saying boring, inane things about herself. The Best Bartender in Portland gives them their bill, and they both reach for their wallets. I know this game. She looks up from her wallet and sees he has put his card down first, but since she's already holding her card, she offers to split the bill. He smirks and says, "I'll let you decide." Are you fucking kidding me? What a dick! What was she supposed to say? "Oh, well in that case you pay, because I was just trying to be polite by offering. I actually had no intention of paying $9 for this stupid mixed drink." Every girl wants to be taken care of, and despite popular belief by modern men and modern women, chivalry isn't dead." I'm anxious to see if she'll be back there this Sunday with a different guy.
Overall, my experiences internet dating have been entertaining for the purpose of story telling, but I know that I'm not going to meet the love of my life online. Although in a day in age when we turn to the internet for finding jobs, paying bills, shopping, apartment hunting, watching tv and communicating with friends, it's not unreasonable to think that it's possible. A friend told me after he found out that I was registered on Match.com, "Amanda, what are you doing, that's not fair. Internet dating is for fat, ugly chicks who can't meet people in real life." Not totally true, but I see his point. I don't have trouble meeting people.
If I do a search for guys to potentially date, in a specified age range, in a specified distance from Portland (remember, no car), about two hundred dudes come up (if the search is reversed with the same criteria, there are twice as many ladies.) Of those two hundred, I've probably already gone out with five guys from the site since I first signed up like a year and a half ago. Obviously, it didn't work out. Then there are about ten people I know in real life, former coworkers, local musicians, frequent customers at the coffeeshop, guys I went to high school with, a friend's crazy ex. In addition to those guys, I've actually seen about four or five more guys that I've met in real life, and I've driven them to the world wide web of dating, where guess what, there I am again! So numbers-wise, roughly one in ten in the search is no good. Then, take away everyone who has Phish, Run/Ski/Snowboard or Red Sox in their username, anyone who is pictured holding a guitar, a sword, a cat or wearing sunglasses, anyone who claims to be "easy going" or a republican, and guys with major spelling or grammar mistakes, and there's pretty much no one left. I'm more likely to meet the love of my life at a Cult Maze reunion show than on the internet (Get it? Because it's never going to happen. Ha!)
Seeing that girl on an internet date reminded me that I have a couple of stories worth sharing.
So, I find this guy, um, Larry on Match.com. We seem to be on the same page, humor-wise and he seems like an attractive guy, so we decide to meet up. He shoots down my Dogfish suggestion, which is highly annoying, and because I liked taking dates there to be judged by the Best Bartender in Portland. Since he lives in the Old Port, I concede to go to Gritty's, douchebag capital of the Old Port. Like anyone I have anything in common with who is roughly within my age range and lives in Portland, we end up knowing a few of the same people. He was geekier in person than in his pictures, and if I remember correctly, he had a slight lisp or something. We had a couple of pints, and ended up hardcore making out in his stairwell about two blocks away. I had plans to meet some friends for Neon Garden at the White Heart, so I left with that giddy, just-madeout feeling and danced the rest of the night away.
Days passed, and I heard nothing. This was confusing, I thought we hit it off. He tried to bring me upstairs, and I refused, so maybe he was just looking to have sex? It's not that I was opposed to doing it with this guy... A week later, I texted him and asked him to hang out sometime. His response: "I'm trying to keep things pretty casual, but sure." What?! A text message after a week somehow implies something but casual? That's the most nonchalant you can possibly be while still expressing interest. I was so annoyed with his assumption that I never wrote back. If a guy sleeps around, he's a player. If a girl sleeps around, she's a slut. It's just not fair.
A month later I received an equally annoying text from him. "Happy Friday!" Really? Coming up with a clever response to Happy Friday! was just too much work. This guy was really irritating me. So I wrote back, "Happy Friday to you too.... but wait, who is this, again?" ZING! You mess with the bull, you get the horns! Days later he emailed me through the site and said, "Well played." I waited a day and wrote back, "Don't hate the player, hate the game." The texts came reasonably more frequently after that, and although I usually wrote back, it was in a non-responsive kind of way.
Here is one of the funniest things I've seen someone write on a dating site: "The worst part of online dating is the inability to express myself through interpretive dance."
May 17, 2010
May 15, 2010
All Things Gaga
Here's a video combining two of my favorite things in an unlikely way: Lady Gaga and public radio.
The Gnome
We were outside of Geno's the other night, after I had volunteered at an event for the Maine College of Art. Between sets by Theodore Treehouse and Foam Castles, Mandy insisted that she had a story she HAD to tell me, that it was even blog-worthy. Yes, we say these sorts of things. So Bryan Bruchman, Mandy and sat outside Geno's, while she smoked a Bali Shag and Bryan snapped a few pictures of us in the glow of the streetlamp. I recorded it with my "Voice Memo" recorder for the iPhone. Please excuse the failed previous attempts you might've seen in your Google Reader RSS Feed thing, can't believe I actually figured out how to do it. All of my radio friends- I hope this makes you proud.
(Sidenote: this MECA thing was a fundraising event for the school. Voluteering meant a little bit of networking, a chance to help some friends, and of course, a little free food. The tickets were $60, and the invitation stated to wear "Creative Party Attire." What a mindfuck! Previously, I had thought all of my party attire was creative, which is part of what makes me who I am. But when forced to try and come up with something specifically creative, what I wanted to wear was a plain gray dress and plain black heels. But how creative is recycling an outfit from a previous party? This is art school, so the envelope has to be pushed. The obstacle of trying to find "creative" party attire, fancy enough for a ticketed event, flattering and comfortable, in my mess of a closet, but also impressive and on-par to whatever a bunch of Maine College of Art people would be coming up with. It was like a sick, twisted joke. I've never felt more doubtful of my creative ability than when I was standing in the middle of a pile of black clothes on the floor in my room, trying to decide how creative an all black outfit could be. It came together in the end, barely. Pictures soon.)
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(Sidenote: this MECA thing was a fundraising event for the school. Voluteering meant a little bit of networking, a chance to help some friends, and of course, a little free food. The tickets were $60, and the invitation stated to wear "Creative Party Attire." What a mindfuck! Previously, I had thought all of my party attire was creative, which is part of what makes me who I am. But when forced to try and come up with something specifically creative, what I wanted to wear was a plain gray dress and plain black heels. But how creative is recycling an outfit from a previous party? This is art school, so the envelope has to be pushed. The obstacle of trying to find "creative" party attire, fancy enough for a ticketed event, flattering and comfortable, in my mess of a closet, but also impressive and on-par to whatever a bunch of Maine College of Art people would be coming up with. It was like a sick, twisted joke. I've never felt more doubtful of my creative ability than when I was standing in the middle of a pile of black clothes on the floor in my room, trying to decide how creative an all black outfit could be. It came together in the end, barely. Pictures soon.)
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May 10, 2010
Lewiston High School, Class of '02
This is a re-post of a story I wrote back in `08, which I retold to Tess Van Horn and a friend earlier tonight. I think it's still funny.
The girls and I decided to eat massive Rosie's cheeseburgers this weekend before going out to karaoke. I'm sitting there, burger juice dripping down my arm, and I see a man who I'd met a few weeks before. Since he was new in town, I prayed there was no cheeseburger on my face, turned around and said hello to the Carhart overall-wearing man on my left, Matt. We exchanged pleasantries, but it was brief, since it's not exactly polite to carry on a conversation while holding a giant cheeseburger.
A few minutes goes by, and a man comes over to our table, and crouches next to me and introduces himself.
"Hey, so how do you know Matt?"
"Matt??" I did not see the people Matt with the Carharts came in with.
"You know, my friend Matt," he gestures.
"Ohhh. That Matt." I explain that he's a friend of a friend, who I'd met only once before, meanwhile I'm thinking, what the hell is this guy doing over here, where could this possibly be going. You see, this man, who for the purpose of this story shall remain nameless, taught at my high school. It escapes me what exactly he taught, Jobs for Maine Graduates or something along those lines in the vocational wing. His classroom might have even been attached to the school store. Anyhow, I knew of this man for two reasons- the first was that my locker was right outside his class, and he was a young, handsome new teacher; the second was that he had to leave his job because he slept with student. That's right. He's Mrs. Robinson. From what I understand, the chick was 18, not that it makes it okay.
So he's going on and on. "You look so familiar, where have I seen you before, do you work downtown, etc." I'm thinking, "Holy effing shit I can't believe this is happening." Two of the three other people at my table had no idea what was going on, the other watched in horror.
It was at this time that I decided to go big or go home. I looked him directly in the face and said, "I went to Lewiston High School." He shut right up. 'Caught with his pants down' as my mother would say. It looked like I had sucker punched him in the stomach, and I wish I was quicker at the draw with the camera on the iPhone. He proceeds to make some even more awkward conversation about the high school, finally asking me if I was proud of my Lewiston heritage. I blinked twice for emphasis (did he really just ask me that?) I said I didn't know how to answer his question, because really, nine o'clock at Rosie's was neither the time nor the place for me to explain my complex feelings of being born and raised in Lewiston, let alone in front of two Bates graduates (humble, but proud and very defensive.) Finally acknowledging his defeat, he stood up and left with a meek, "Go Blue Devils."
The girls and I decided to eat massive Rosie's cheeseburgers this weekend before going out to karaoke. I'm sitting there, burger juice dripping down my arm, and I see a man who I'd met a few weeks before. Since he was new in town, I prayed there was no cheeseburger on my face, turned around and said hello to the Carhart overall-wearing man on my left, Matt. We exchanged pleasantries, but it was brief, since it's not exactly polite to carry on a conversation while holding a giant cheeseburger.
A few minutes goes by, and a man comes over to our table, and crouches next to me and introduces himself.
"Hey, so how do you know Matt?"
"Matt??" I did not see the people Matt with the Carharts came in with.
"You know, my friend Matt," he gestures.
"Ohhh. That Matt." I explain that he's a friend of a friend, who I'd met only once before, meanwhile I'm thinking, what the hell is this guy doing over here, where could this possibly be going. You see, this man, who for the purpose of this story shall remain nameless, taught at my high school. It escapes me what exactly he taught, Jobs for Maine Graduates or something along those lines in the vocational wing. His classroom might have even been attached to the school store. Anyhow, I knew of this man for two reasons- the first was that my locker was right outside his class, and he was a young, handsome new teacher; the second was that he had to leave his job because he slept with student. That's right. He's Mrs. Robinson. From what I understand, the chick was 18, not that it makes it okay.
So he's going on and on. "You look so familiar, where have I seen you before, do you work downtown, etc." I'm thinking, "Holy effing shit I can't believe this is happening." Two of the three other people at my table had no idea what was going on, the other watched in horror.
It was at this time that I decided to go big or go home. I looked him directly in the face and said, "I went to Lewiston High School." He shut right up. 'Caught with his pants down' as my mother would say. It looked like I had sucker punched him in the stomach, and I wish I was quicker at the draw with the camera on the iPhone. He proceeds to make some even more awkward conversation about the high school, finally asking me if I was proud of my Lewiston heritage. I blinked twice for emphasis (did he really just ask me that?) I said I didn't know how to answer his question, because really, nine o'clock at Rosie's was neither the time nor the place for me to explain my complex feelings of being born and raised in Lewiston, let alone in front of two Bates graduates (humble, but proud and very defensive.) Finally acknowledging his defeat, he stood up and left with a meek, "Go Blue Devils."
May 2, 2010
The Blow, at Space!
Kate Digby Skinner and I were just talking about how amazing we think the Blow is. Low and behold, they're coming to Space. Check out this video:
See you there?
See you there?
April 27, 2010
I'm Getting Fat
Everyone knows that in the winter, it's normal to put on a few pounds, like we're hibernating. You wear wool and flannel and parkas, the gluttony of the Holidays. It's perfectly acceptable, even animals do it. I've been extremely fortunate, and my weight hasn't fluxuated very much at all, except for two specific occasions. There are two specific times in my life when this has happened, and surprisingly, it's been weightloss, not gain. When I had my first seriously devastating break-up, and I survived on coffee for about a week- my body didn't know if it was hungry, nauseated, nervous, so I barely ate anything. Then there was the time that I moved out of my mother's house for the first time, relying on myself to do groceries and prepare my own food. Most college freshman put on a freshman fifteen, I lost the freshman fifteen. Friends visited and grew concerned about my nutrition, rightfully so. Money, and therefore food shopping, was an bit of an issue. I can remember eating a sandwich made of cinnamon raisin bread, fluff, and cucumbers. Maybe I was delusional, but I think I liked it? Don't tell my mom this, but once or twice, I went to sleep hungry, assuming that it would be gone in the morning.
This winter, however, a number of things have changed. Barely noticable to the naked eye and those around me, but proven by a dress I wore to a wedding last year no longer zipping, I put on *gasp* five pounds. My apartment is a lot farther away from everything, so I've been taking the bus a lot more. I could not resist a Tony's molasses donut for breakfast, then I'd eat a delicious Rosemont Bakery ham and cheese croissant for lunch, plus a various mix of assorted coffee drinks throughout the day. Vegetables? What vegetables. Possibly in some veggie cream cheese on my bagel. I was (well, still am,) drinking a lot of cheap beer, and eating at Pizza Villa all the time (ham Italian, no onion, no olives, no oil, plus pineapples or a meatball sub, since it's cheap, and a block from my house. This is a big one: I rounded the corner of my twenties, which means, maybe my metabolism is finally slowing down.
Anyway, there's a really easy way of dealing with this, or so I thought. It was only a matter of time before I shed this winter weight, and in the meantime, Spanx. I wore Spanx under my jeans, under my tights, dresses, and sometimes after a long day, I'd pass out in bed with all of my clothes on, Spanx included. Beyonce wears them too:
But something bad happened. I think I abused the privilege of the Spanx. Here is a picture taken a few weeks ago from a nice morning hike up Bradbury Mountain that I took with Angela Pizzo. I asked Darcy if it was a difficult climb, and she said that I could go up the mountain in a wheelchair.
OH MY GOD, I'm maimed for life! I don't know when exactly I finally noticed this, and it's only on my left leg, but holy shit. Alright, well. A few things to consider: Since then, I've been cutting my donuts in half and throwing the other half away. I got sneakers to go on walks/jogs/the gym. There's a gym at USM that I can use for free, although I don't even know how it works. When my budget allows, I'll order a vodka soda, with it's low sugar content, over a cheap beer. There are precious few weeks before beach weather rolls around, and I don't intend on spending the summer in a baggy t-shirt to hide my Spanx scar.
This winter, however, a number of things have changed. Barely noticable to the naked eye and those around me, but proven by a dress I wore to a wedding last year no longer zipping, I put on *gasp* five pounds. My apartment is a lot farther away from everything, so I've been taking the bus a lot more. I could not resist a Tony's molasses donut for breakfast, then I'd eat a delicious Rosemont Bakery ham and cheese croissant for lunch, plus a various mix of assorted coffee drinks throughout the day. Vegetables? What vegetables. Possibly in some veggie cream cheese on my bagel. I was (well, still am,) drinking a lot of cheap beer, and eating at Pizza Villa all the time (ham Italian, no onion, no olives, no oil, plus pineapples or a meatball sub, since it's cheap, and a block from my house. This is a big one: I rounded the corner of my twenties, which means, maybe my metabolism is finally slowing down.
Anyway, there's a really easy way of dealing with this, or so I thought. It was only a matter of time before I shed this winter weight, and in the meantime, Spanx. I wore Spanx under my jeans, under my tights, dresses, and sometimes after a long day, I'd pass out in bed with all of my clothes on, Spanx included. Beyonce wears them too:
But something bad happened. I think I abused the privilege of the Spanx. Here is a picture taken a few weeks ago from a nice morning hike up Bradbury Mountain that I took with Angela Pizzo. I asked Darcy if it was a difficult climb, and she said that I could go up the mountain in a wheelchair.
OH MY GOD, I'm maimed for life! I don't know when exactly I finally noticed this, and it's only on my left leg, but holy shit. Alright, well. A few things to consider: Since then, I've been cutting my donuts in half and throwing the other half away. I got sneakers to go on walks/jogs/the gym. There's a gym at USM that I can use for free, although I don't even know how it works. When my budget allows, I'll order a vodka soda, with it's low sugar content, over a cheap beer. There are precious few weeks before beach weather rolls around, and I don't intend on spending the summer in a baggy t-shirt to hide my Spanx scar.
April 18, 2010
Scratchpad Reading Series, Take One
For those of you who follow me is an RSS feed (whatever that means), Google Reader, and are around Portland this week I'm reading some of my writing on Tuesday night at Mama's Crowbar. It's kind of exciting! If anyone ends up filming or recording, I'll be sure to post it here. Wish me luck!
For more information, go here.
For more information, go here.
April 16, 2010
Texts from Today
Me: I have a sinking feeling they're getting back together.
Former Lover: At least she can't say anything if you and I hook up, then?
Me: Wait, did she tell you that I threated to start sleeping with you if she started hanging out with him?
FL: Oh my god, you are amazing. No, she didn't.
FL: That's going in my blog.
Me: Not if I blog about it first!!!
FL: Again with the amazing.
Former Lover: At least she can't say anything if you and I hook up, then?
Me: Wait, did she tell you that I threated to start sleeping with you if she started hanging out with him?
FL: Oh my god, you are amazing. No, she didn't.
FL: That's going in my blog.
Me: Not if I blog about it first!!!
FL: Again with the amazing.
April 15, 2010
Bump!
Have you ever been asked to Bump?
This confused the hell out of my friend Bryan once, when someone tried to "bump" him. He was holding his phone, and they kind of hit his hand. He had no idea what was going on. Bryan does not have an iPhone. Bumping... could totally be a euphemism for sex.
It's actually an iPhone (Android?) app, and theoreticly, it's awesome. You download this free application from iTunes or the App Store, and magically, you do a fist bump, holding your phone, and your contact information is exchanged. You can include photos, your email, even a Facebook friend request, and it takes only a second. It's so much easier than typing the other person's name and entering their phone number, the old fashioned way (but just as fast as writing your number down for someone, the even older fashioned way.) I know a lot of people with iPhones. Just went through my contact list and found at least 30 people, including two or three who used to have iPhones, not including anyone who might have an Android or Google Phone or whatever other kind of phone is capable of bumping.
Whoever invented the Bump application, however, did not take into consideration this experience I just had:
I'm at happy hour with Angela Pizzo, and one of our other friends, whom we lovingly refer to as Little Big Snack. We're enjoying a glass of $2 wine when one of LBS's friends meets us. This guy, we'll call him Jeremiah, I've met a few times, but have never established a relationship with outside of LBS. He seems like a nice enough guy... but he's more than a few years older than me, we don't seem to have much in common (other than our Lewiston roots- REPRESENT!), and I'm not attracteved to him at all. According to LBS, however, he's a bit of a ladies' man. Really, though, I'm not one to judge. Jeremiah asks me if he saw me at 90s night at the Asylum the previous weekend, and if you would have seen my dress, you'd know that was kind of a stupid question. It was skin tight, black, and studded. I told Mandy that night that it felt like everyone was watching me, and she said I was right, because the dress was mesmerizing. It was like... Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation, or something (pictures soon!)
It becomes apparent that the four of us all have iPhones, and on our way out, while LBS is in the bathroom, Jeremiah asks Angela and I to Bump. Problem: I have no desire to give this man my phone number. Under normal circumstances, I'd do a number of things to get out of this. I could: offer to take his and tell him I'd call him; write down a fake number; ask him to get it from our mutual friend; change the subject altogether. Fuck you, Bump, now I have to give it to him. The ONLY way out of it is to lie and say that you don't have the app, which is ridiculous, because it's one of the few apps that everyone has. This is what it looks like after you've bumped:
So you're standing there, both holding your phones, and you KNOW if it doesn't go though. There's no excuse.
As luck would have it, I run into Jeremiah the next night at Bubba's Sulky Lounge. He's wasted, I'm not. He tells me we should hang out, very matter of factly. "You have my number, just call me," I tell him, having no intention whatsoever of ever taking his call or calling him back. He tells me he's shy, which I know is bullshit, just part of the game. For the rest of the night he lingers next to me on the dancefloor. I try and make eye contact with his sober-er friend to let him know that Jeremiah is cramping my style. It doesn't work. The lights come up and he asks my friends and I to have a drink at my house. We obviously decline.
The next day, he texts me and invited me to a BBQ. Honestly, there is very little I love more than grilled meat, but I didn't respond.
Here's another guy who has a problem with the Bump app:
This confused the hell out of my friend Bryan once, when someone tried to "bump" him. He was holding his phone, and they kind of hit his hand. He had no idea what was going on. Bryan does not have an iPhone. Bumping... could totally be a euphemism for sex.
It's actually an iPhone (Android?) app, and theoreticly, it's awesome. You download this free application from iTunes or the App Store, and magically, you do a fist bump, holding your phone, and your contact information is exchanged. You can include photos, your email, even a Facebook friend request, and it takes only a second. It's so much easier than typing the other person's name and entering their phone number, the old fashioned way (but just as fast as writing your number down for someone, the even older fashioned way.) I know a lot of people with iPhones. Just went through my contact list and found at least 30 people, including two or three who used to have iPhones, not including anyone who might have an Android or Google Phone or whatever other kind of phone is capable of bumping.
Whoever invented the Bump application, however, did not take into consideration this experience I just had:
I'm at happy hour with Angela Pizzo, and one of our other friends, whom we lovingly refer to as Little Big Snack. We're enjoying a glass of $2 wine when one of LBS's friends meets us. This guy, we'll call him Jeremiah, I've met a few times, but have never established a relationship with outside of LBS. He seems like a nice enough guy... but he's more than a few years older than me, we don't seem to have much in common (other than our Lewiston roots- REPRESENT!), and I'm not attracteved to him at all. According to LBS, however, he's a bit of a ladies' man. Really, though, I'm not one to judge. Jeremiah asks me if he saw me at 90s night at the Asylum the previous weekend, and if you would have seen my dress, you'd know that was kind of a stupid question. It was skin tight, black, and studded. I told Mandy that night that it felt like everyone was watching me, and she said I was right, because the dress was mesmerizing. It was like... Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation, or something (pictures soon!)
It becomes apparent that the four of us all have iPhones, and on our way out, while LBS is in the bathroom, Jeremiah asks Angela and I to Bump. Problem: I have no desire to give this man my phone number. Under normal circumstances, I'd do a number of things to get out of this. I could: offer to take his and tell him I'd call him; write down a fake number; ask him to get it from our mutual friend; change the subject altogether. Fuck you, Bump, now I have to give it to him. The ONLY way out of it is to lie and say that you don't have the app, which is ridiculous, because it's one of the few apps that everyone has. This is what it looks like after you've bumped:
So you're standing there, both holding your phones, and you KNOW if it doesn't go though. There's no excuse.
As luck would have it, I run into Jeremiah the next night at Bubba's Sulky Lounge. He's wasted, I'm not. He tells me we should hang out, very matter of factly. "You have my number, just call me," I tell him, having no intention whatsoever of ever taking his call or calling him back. He tells me he's shy, which I know is bullshit, just part of the game. For the rest of the night he lingers next to me on the dancefloor. I try and make eye contact with his sober-er friend to let him know that Jeremiah is cramping my style. It doesn't work. The lights come up and he asks my friends and I to have a drink at my house. We obviously decline.
The next day, he texts me and invited me to a BBQ. Honestly, there is very little I love more than grilled meat, but I didn't respond.
Here's another guy who has a problem with the Bump app:
April 13, 2010
April 7, 2010
Names Have Been Changed to Protect... Someone.
In my last post, if you happened to see right when it was originally posted, you saw sightly different, slightly more realistic names used. Although it's not even close to the funniest, offensive, raciest story I've told, I received a lot of heat from all kinds of different sources.
So, this text conversation ensued, word for word:
Me: Okay, what do you want your fake blog name to be?
Javier: What suits me?
Me: Well, my first thought was something ridiculous, like Javier.
Javier: Holy shit. I had Javier typed out, but I erased it because I didn't want to seem racist. No joke.
(stunned two minute pause.)
Me: You're the apple of my eye.
So, this text conversation ensued, word for word:
Me: Okay, what do you want your fake blog name to be?
Javier: What suits me?
Me: Well, my first thought was something ridiculous, like Javier.
Javier: Holy shit. I had Javier typed out, but I erased it because I didn't want to seem racist. No joke.
(stunned two minute pause.)
Me: You're the apple of my eye.
April 2, 2010
In My Wine, Belly Up
There are things that you do when you're in a relationship, standard procedure, unless you really suck at being in a relationship. You meet parents, you attend work functions, you go on double dates, holidays, etc. These things are mildly annoying and can be borderline unpleasant. Last summer, I was involved romantically, sort of, with an ex-boyfriend. Javier and I, we were retrosexing, if you will. The details of the relationship, subsequent break-up, the whole story is irrelevant, however, I will say this: the first time we saw each other over coffee after three years, I thought to myself, yup, what an ass hole, this is never going to happen; and he thought to himself, yup, I'm into it. He was right, obviously, because a year later we were making out and I was driving to Auburn to have dinner with him at his boss's house, a very relationship-like thing for me to be doing with someone I'd already broken up with, years earlier. (Editor's note: to Javier's credit, he's handsome, funny and smart. The fact that he isn't in a serious long term relationship is minorly baffling, especially because as we all know, girls are into ass holes.)
Denny is a big deal criminal defense lawyer in the State of Maine and Javier was his protege for the summer. His wife, Karen, is some sort of news director at the public radio station. Javier and I originally met Denny while working at Austin's Fine Wine and Foods in Auburn, five years ago. I guess they were shooting the shit in the car one day, on the way to some district attorney's office, and the plan was hatched for us to go over there, for dinner. I get to see Denny again, Karen and I will probably talk public radio, and Javier will look like a guy who can, maybe, get girls to spend time with him.
Anyway, we arrive at the scheduled day and time. It's cozy. Karen offers us something to drink, and alcoholic options are gin and tonic, red wine or beer. Since I like all of these, and to remain agreeable at all times, I tell Karen I'll have whatever she's having. Normally, I would've let Javier speak up first and say, I'll have the same, but he is a non-drinker. At a coffeeshop once, I did this to Josh Gleason, and it absolutely blew his mind. Moments later, she comes into the living room, where Javier and I are sitting with Denny. She gives Javier a seltzer, and hands me a glass of red wine. I'm totally cool with this, until I notice like, five to ten fruit flies, belly up. In the wine. Silently... I freak out. Javier and Denny are talking shop and my mind races. The only thing worse than being embarrassed is knowing you're going to embarrass someone else. But I couldn't not say anything, could I? I did NOT want to swallow the bugs. But someone would definitely notice if I dumped my glass in the bathroom sink and came back with an empty glass. "Amanda, you nervous?" Maybe I could accidentally spill it? No, because the bugs might be noticable in the spill, and I'd have to lie and say I didn't notice. I'm a terrible liar. Maybe swallowing the bugs wouldn't be THAT bad. It wouldn't kill me... I mean, the bottle was probably only open for a couple of hours, and it was the middle of the summer... lBut then she'd offer me another glass and I'd have to refuse, which would make it sound like I didnt like it. But maybe I could fish out the bugs.Yes. That's what I'd do. I'll go into the bathroom, and fish out the bugs with toilet paper, then flush the toilet paper, then repeat if necessary. There'd be no evidence, and I'd get to drink the wine. No one would be the wiser.
The worst part about the whole thing is that I was getting so stressed, I really WANTED to drink the wine. Eventually, though, Denny got up. I showed Javier, and he acted like a man and took care of it. They laughed, she apologized, dinner was good, Karen and I retire to the kitchen and have a rousing discussion about the ins and outs of public radio for like, an hour. We thank them, and leave. Javier and I get ice cream, make out in the driveway of my mom's house, and the rest is history.
Denny is a big deal criminal defense lawyer in the State of Maine and Javier was his protege for the summer. His wife, Karen, is some sort of news director at the public radio station. Javier and I originally met Denny while working at Austin's Fine Wine and Foods in Auburn, five years ago. I guess they were shooting the shit in the car one day, on the way to some district attorney's office, and the plan was hatched for us to go over there, for dinner. I get to see Denny again, Karen and I will probably talk public radio, and Javier will look like a guy who can, maybe, get girls to spend time with him.
Anyway, we arrive at the scheduled day and time. It's cozy. Karen offers us something to drink, and alcoholic options are gin and tonic, red wine or beer. Since I like all of these, and to remain agreeable at all times, I tell Karen I'll have whatever she's having. Normally, I would've let Javier speak up first and say, I'll have the same, but he is a non-drinker. At a coffeeshop once, I did this to Josh Gleason, and it absolutely blew his mind. Moments later, she comes into the living room, where Javier and I are sitting with Denny. She gives Javier a seltzer, and hands me a glass of red wine. I'm totally cool with this, until I notice like, five to ten fruit flies, belly up. In the wine. Silently... I freak out. Javier and Denny are talking shop and my mind races. The only thing worse than being embarrassed is knowing you're going to embarrass someone else. But I couldn't not say anything, could I? I did NOT want to swallow the bugs. But someone would definitely notice if I dumped my glass in the bathroom sink and came back with an empty glass. "Amanda, you nervous?" Maybe I could accidentally spill it? No, because the bugs might be noticable in the spill, and I'd have to lie and say I didn't notice. I'm a terrible liar. Maybe swallowing the bugs wouldn't be THAT bad. It wouldn't kill me... I mean, the bottle was probably only open for a couple of hours, and it was the middle of the summer... lBut then she'd offer me another glass and I'd have to refuse, which would make it sound like I didnt like it. But maybe I could fish out the bugs.Yes. That's what I'd do. I'll go into the bathroom, and fish out the bugs with toilet paper, then flush the toilet paper, then repeat if necessary. There'd be no evidence, and I'd get to drink the wine. No one would be the wiser.
The worst part about the whole thing is that I was getting so stressed, I really WANTED to drink the wine. Eventually, though, Denny got up. I showed Javier, and he acted like a man and took care of it. They laughed, she apologized, dinner was good, Karen and I retire to the kitchen and have a rousing discussion about the ins and outs of public radio for like, an hour. We thank them, and leave. Javier and I get ice cream, make out in the driveway of my mom's house, and the rest is history.
April 1, 2010
Party in the USA
Some friends of mine are in this hardcore band, and this video went viral a little while back- Perez Hilton tweeted it. I love this video, I love this song.
I love this song so much, in fact, that I played it once at bowling, and it blew the speaker. This is not a joke, Miley Cyrus actually blew the speaker at Yankee Lanes, right around lane 20, and it was actually my fault. Bowl Portland is over for Hyperbowle, and it was a great run. Despite never quite performing at the top of our game, we had a great time, a great team. There were some great memories, like the time Nat rolled over 200 to Don't Stop Believing, or the time I fell (crumbled?) into the lane, and DJ Mic Check. I'm not totally sure what I'm going to do with my Tuesday nights from here on out.
March 24, 2010
Members Only: The Mile High Club
It seems like a great time to go on a cross-country roadtrip. Kate Digby Skinner and I were Skyping, and throwing around ideas for such a trip, and somehow, the subject of having sex on a plane came up, and I told her this story.
I tried to join the mile high club, once, sort of. On my way back from Paris last year, I had a connecting flight in Munich. I've flown with a boyfriend on one trip, we did not do it, and the rest of my limited time in the air has been alone. Darcy once had a party on a trans-continental flight with the crew and some of her friends in the back of a plane, and during a rowdy game of Never-Have-I-Ever half the staff admitted to doing it, which makes me really want to be a flight attendant.
It was overcast but bright, in Germany that day, and the terminal was very white. Very few of the signs were in English, and it's really ignorant of me to assume that everything will be in English everywhere. So I'm exhausted, ready to go home, almost out of money, with a long day and a long flight ahead of me. I was probably alternating reading a book and people watching, trying to decide who was American and who wasn't, which I was terrible at. David Sedaris had a really funny passage in Me Talk Pretty about identifying Americans by their clothing, but it didn't help. Just as I'm thinking about this, a man sat next to me, a few seats over, and starts talking. Really, I couldn't have cared less. He seemed like kind of a d-bag, bragging about how much he travels and how easy loud, obnoxious American tourists are to spot. (If I can't identify them, does that mean I am one? Like, if you don't know anyone like Michael Scott from the Office it means you ARE Michael Scott?) He's wearing jeans, sneakers, a ball cap, possibly lightweight North Face jacket. Oh, and a black longsleeve shirt, made of some kind of material that people buy if they are very physically active, or camp a lot... I only know that it dries fast and does something like wic the sweat from your body. Darcy was helping me pack for the canoe trip last year, and she said to bring fleece, polyester, or wool... Anything that will dry fast. That's when I realized all of my clothes are cotton- no excessive physical activity or die hard camping for this kid.
I digress. This guy tells me that he's not even sure that he's getting on the plane, because it's overbooked and the airline offered him $100 cash and a night in a hotel to stay in Munich for the night to go on standby. I'm thoroughly annoyed- why didn't Luftansa offer ME that deal? I had a really difficult time getting to Munich, and they owed me. If I had little interest in talking to this man to begin with, when I found this out, it was gone. He was only talking to me because I was alone, American, not fat and under 25- he striked me as the type of guy to have an oval sticker on his SUV. I have this way of acting like a raging bitch and causing people to not want to talk to me anymore, and that's what must've happened, because he got up and walked away.
Without a doubt, I'm judgemental. But as quickly as said judgement is made, I'm willing to change it. I get in line to board, they take my ticket and I'm in. It's a huge plane, and there are a lot of babies and it's taking a long time to get to my seat. I'm at a window, towards the back. When I finally get there, guess who is in the seat next to me. That guy.
"I swear I'm not following you," was my opening line. He smiles. I realize that this guy, Joe, and I are going to share an arm rest for the next six hours. We start talking, and as he's telling me about his travels (Germany for two weeks, drinking a lot of beer,) his job (nurse, but, people often mistake him for the doctor, which probably pisses off the actual doctor, royally,) where he lives, (Idaho,) his hobbies (volunteer smoke jumper, deer hunter, marathon runner, amateur photographer,) things we have in common, (the iPhone, taking planes from Munich.) He laughed at my jokes, I laughed at his. We had two poor quality meals together, he flirted with the stewardess and we got as many free drinks as we wanted- I even napped on his shoulder. It was like a six hour date, and the more time passed, the more attracted to him I became. His body was rock hard, and though I've been known as something of a chubby chaser over the years, this guy was hot... or the pressure in the cabin was low and I was delusional.
It was after I had to stop watching Marley and Me, the in-flight film we were both watching, (because I was going to start sobbing uncontrollably if I didn't take my headphones off immediately and stop watching,) that I started to consider how to make this mile-high club thing happen. Hey, I wasn't a virgin anymore, I could have sex with anyone I wanted to! The world was my oyster! I let my leg touch his leg and he didn't move. I brushed my body against his when I got up to use the bathroom an annoying amount of times, hoping he'd read my mind and follow me in. I'm good, but I'm not that good. But there was no condom, was there? Absolutely not going to risk it. There was no way to get kicked off the plane if we were caught, but would I have to pay a fine or something? We were the only two people in our row, but I was paranoid someone would hear me if I started talking about it.
To make a boring story shorter, we stayed together until the bitter end, through customs, through baggage claim at Logan, I said goodbye, and that's it. I texted him and said he was the handsomest guy I'll ever fly from Munich to Boston with, and we're now friends on Facebook, which is the new first base. I seriously regret nothing happening, but I'm prepared for next time, though, thanks to Kate's sweet Googling skills and this eHow article she found. My favorites are steps 6 and 7:
I tried to join the mile high club, once, sort of. On my way back from Paris last year, I had a connecting flight in Munich. I've flown with a boyfriend on one trip, we did not do it, and the rest of my limited time in the air has been alone. Darcy once had a party on a trans-continental flight with the crew and some of her friends in the back of a plane, and during a rowdy game of Never-Have-I-Ever half the staff admitted to doing it, which makes me really want to be a flight attendant.
It was overcast but bright, in Germany that day, and the terminal was very white. Very few of the signs were in English, and it's really ignorant of me to assume that everything will be in English everywhere. So I'm exhausted, ready to go home, almost out of money, with a long day and a long flight ahead of me. I was probably alternating reading a book and people watching, trying to decide who was American and who wasn't, which I was terrible at. David Sedaris had a really funny passage in Me Talk Pretty about identifying Americans by their clothing, but it didn't help. Just as I'm thinking about this, a man sat next to me, a few seats over, and starts talking. Really, I couldn't have cared less. He seemed like kind of a d-bag, bragging about how much he travels and how easy loud, obnoxious American tourists are to spot. (If I can't identify them, does that mean I am one? Like, if you don't know anyone like Michael Scott from the Office it means you ARE Michael Scott?) He's wearing jeans, sneakers, a ball cap, possibly lightweight North Face jacket. Oh, and a black longsleeve shirt, made of some kind of material that people buy if they are very physically active, or camp a lot... I only know that it dries fast and does something like wic the sweat from your body. Darcy was helping me pack for the canoe trip last year, and she said to bring fleece, polyester, or wool... Anything that will dry fast. That's when I realized all of my clothes are cotton- no excessive physical activity or die hard camping for this kid.
I digress. This guy tells me that he's not even sure that he's getting on the plane, because it's overbooked and the airline offered him $100 cash and a night in a hotel to stay in Munich for the night to go on standby. I'm thoroughly annoyed- why didn't Luftansa offer ME that deal? I had a really difficult time getting to Munich, and they owed me. If I had little interest in talking to this man to begin with, when I found this out, it was gone. He was only talking to me because I was alone, American, not fat and under 25- he striked me as the type of guy to have an oval sticker on his SUV. I have this way of acting like a raging bitch and causing people to not want to talk to me anymore, and that's what must've happened, because he got up and walked away.
Without a doubt, I'm judgemental. But as quickly as said judgement is made, I'm willing to change it. I get in line to board, they take my ticket and I'm in. It's a huge plane, and there are a lot of babies and it's taking a long time to get to my seat. I'm at a window, towards the back. When I finally get there, guess who is in the seat next to me. That guy.
"I swear I'm not following you," was my opening line. He smiles. I realize that this guy, Joe, and I are going to share an arm rest for the next six hours. We start talking, and as he's telling me about his travels (Germany for two weeks, drinking a lot of beer,) his job (nurse, but, people often mistake him for the doctor, which probably pisses off the actual doctor, royally,) where he lives, (Idaho,) his hobbies (volunteer smoke jumper, deer hunter, marathon runner, amateur photographer,) things we have in common, (the iPhone, taking planes from Munich.) He laughed at my jokes, I laughed at his. We had two poor quality meals together, he flirted with the stewardess and we got as many free drinks as we wanted- I even napped on his shoulder. It was like a six hour date, and the more time passed, the more attracted to him I became. His body was rock hard, and though I've been known as something of a chubby chaser over the years, this guy was hot... or the pressure in the cabin was low and I was delusional.
It was after I had to stop watching Marley and Me, the in-flight film we were both watching, (because I was going to start sobbing uncontrollably if I didn't take my headphones off immediately and stop watching,) that I started to consider how to make this mile-high club thing happen. Hey, I wasn't a virgin anymore, I could have sex with anyone I wanted to! The world was my oyster! I let my leg touch his leg and he didn't move. I brushed my body against his when I got up to use the bathroom an annoying amount of times, hoping he'd read my mind and follow me in. I'm good, but I'm not that good. But there was no condom, was there? Absolutely not going to risk it. There was no way to get kicked off the plane if we were caught, but would I have to pay a fine or something? We were the only two people in our row, but I was paranoid someone would hear me if I started talking about it.
To make a boring story shorter, we stayed together until the bitter end, through customs, through baggage claim at Logan, I said goodbye, and that's it. I texted him and said he was the handsomest guy I'll ever fly from Munich to Boston with, and we're now friends on Facebook, which is the new first base. I seriously regret nothing happening, but I'm prepared for next time, though, thanks to Kate's sweet Googling skills and this eHow article she found. My favorites are steps 6 and 7:
Having sex on an airplane is many people's fantasy. The idea of engaging in sexual activity high above the rest of the world is so exciting that it leads people to have sex in very uncomfortable situations, like tiny airplane bathrooms. If you want to join the mile high club, follow these steps.
Difficulty: Moderately Challenging
Instructions
- Book a flight to anywhere you desire. If you want to have a better opportunity to have sex, take a red-eye flight--most of the passengers will be asleep and you will have more privacy.
- Find an attractive person to have sex with, if you didn't bring a partner along. Choose someone who is traveling alone and try to negotiate a seat close by so you can invite him to join you in the bathroom.
- Get up and head for the bathroom one at a time so you are less obvious. Go at a time when you are least likely to be disturbed such as during the in-flight entertainment.
- Clean the toilet seat and cover it with a seat protector before you sit down to be extra cautious. It's safest to have sex while one partner sits on the toilet so you avoid injury if there is turbulence.
- Finish quickly because other people may need to use the restroom. Be courteous to others and don't tie up the restroom for too long. Clean up all evidence of your adventure so you stay discreet.
- Exit together and if anybody approaches you about having sex, deny it. Having sex on an airplane is illegal, so pretend that one of you got sick and the other was helping out.
- Brag about having sex on an airplane to your friends. You have officially joined the mile high club and you deserve bragging rights.
March 22, 2010
March 18, 2010
My New iPhone Case
Train Car Cobbler
Sometimes I consider changing the name of this blog to “My Life with Mandy.” Together, we’ve had some ridiculous adventures, some hilarious stories, and I believe soon, we will be working together in a more official capacity. She’s my silly little redhead, and if it wasn’t for her, I might not be in Portland at all- I could still be in Burlington, or Boston, or Paris… who knows. Last week, we had once such adventure... to Westbrook.
Mandy has a million pairs of shoes. She needed a pair to be fixed, so we headed out to Paul’s Shoe Repair in Westbrook. There are a few different cobblers in the area, and it’s one of those things that it seems like everyone has an opinion about. Mary likes the one on Stevens Avenue; Rebecca likes the guy in South Portland, etc. It’s like finding a locksmith or a taylor- something you never think about until you desperately need one. Since I love giving directions to places and I love being right, I always want to know what the best places in town are. I think I’m the only person I know that’s ever been to Paul’s to have shoes repaired, and although it seemed pricey ($50 to repair and resole my boots,) the work was quality, so I didn’t question Mandy’s decision to give this guy her business over the other guys in town. Since my office used to be in Westbrook, and I know that town like the back of my hand, I was able tell her where to park and the fastest way to get there. We even stopped by Mich's work on our way home, just like old times. The shoes in question were bought on Heather’s Etsy, and the tap on the heel crumbled as soon as she got them home. Heather gave her a refund, but they’re too amazing to just cast aside.
It’s a sunny Friday afternoon when we arrive at Paul’s. The counter is directly in front of the door when you walk in, and we are immediately greeted by a 50-something year old man we can only assume is Paul. It’s like being on stage. There’s no time to look around, gather a feel for the place, talk in low voices to each other to decide what we think. Immediately, you have to state the nature of your business. You know how if you walk into a furniture store, or a record store or the Apple store, wherever, and someone approaches you and you turn them away to say no, you’re just looking, or you need a moment? That was not the case. After a short lecture about how she could’ve ruined the shoes and that she should’ve brought them in immediately after the taps fell off, he quoted her twenty dollars. Twenty dollars happened to be her preset limit, so we’re good to go. He’s friendly, in kind of a fatherly way, and since Mandy and I are customer service veterans, we know how to turn on the charm and small talk. I would’ve gone with the whole boring, so, how long have you had the business, are you from around here, etc. Boring, right? But she jumps in and starts explaining that there were many other cobblers that she could’ve gone to, a subject I feel sort of uncomfortable about, and I have no idea where she’s going with this. So, she’s like, “This isn’t the most convenient location, and you didn’t get the best recommendation, but when I found out there was a cobbler in a train car by the tracks in Westbrook I knew I just had to come! I love trains, my great grandfather spent half his life on a train, I used to manage the Narrow Gauge Railroad… if there’s anything I know and love, its trains. I am a train expert! I even had a one night stand with the man who drives the Amtrack Downeaster!” (Oh, wait… that last part… that was me.) She is really enthusiastic about this whole train car thing and makes it explicitly clear to this guy.
Paul is holding her debit card in his hands, up high in the air, as if he’s going to conduct an orchestra with it. He’s about to run in through the machine, stops, and says, “Maybe I shouldn’t run this.” Mandy looks confused, and Paul gets serious. “Because… this isn’t a train car. It’s a mobile home I painted to look like a train car.”
Nice job, train expert, identifying the train car. We leave sheepishly, Mandy's tail is tucked between her legs, and yes, it is so. obviously. a trailer.
Mandy has a million pairs of shoes. She needed a pair to be fixed, so we headed out to Paul’s Shoe Repair in Westbrook. There are a few different cobblers in the area, and it’s one of those things that it seems like everyone has an opinion about. Mary likes the one on Stevens Avenue; Rebecca likes the guy in South Portland, etc. It’s like finding a locksmith or a taylor- something you never think about until you desperately need one. Since I love giving directions to places and I love being right, I always want to know what the best places in town are. I think I’m the only person I know that’s ever been to Paul’s to have shoes repaired, and although it seemed pricey ($50 to repair and resole my boots,) the work was quality, so I didn’t question Mandy’s decision to give this guy her business over the other guys in town. Since my office used to be in Westbrook, and I know that town like the back of my hand, I was able tell her where to park and the fastest way to get there. We even stopped by Mich's work on our way home, just like old times. The shoes in question were bought on Heather’s Etsy, and the tap on the heel crumbled as soon as she got them home. Heather gave her a refund, but they’re too amazing to just cast aside.
It’s a sunny Friday afternoon when we arrive at Paul’s. The counter is directly in front of the door when you walk in, and we are immediately greeted by a 50-something year old man we can only assume is Paul. It’s like being on stage. There’s no time to look around, gather a feel for the place, talk in low voices to each other to decide what we think. Immediately, you have to state the nature of your business. You know how if you walk into a furniture store, or a record store or the Apple store, wherever, and someone approaches you and you turn them away to say no, you’re just looking, or you need a moment? That was not the case. After a short lecture about how she could’ve ruined the shoes and that she should’ve brought them in immediately after the taps fell off, he quoted her twenty dollars. Twenty dollars happened to be her preset limit, so we’re good to go. He’s friendly, in kind of a fatherly way, and since Mandy and I are customer service veterans, we know how to turn on the charm and small talk. I would’ve gone with the whole boring, so, how long have you had the business, are you from around here, etc. Boring, right? But she jumps in and starts explaining that there were many other cobblers that she could’ve gone to, a subject I feel sort of uncomfortable about, and I have no idea where she’s going with this. So, she’s like, “This isn’t the most convenient location, and you didn’t get the best recommendation, but when I found out there was a cobbler in a train car by the tracks in Westbrook I knew I just had to come! I love trains, my great grandfather spent half his life on a train, I used to manage the Narrow Gauge Railroad… if there’s anything I know and love, its trains. I am a train expert! I even had a one night stand with the man who drives the Amtrack Downeaster!” (Oh, wait… that last part… that was me.) She is really enthusiastic about this whole train car thing and makes it explicitly clear to this guy.
Paul is holding her debit card in his hands, up high in the air, as if he’s going to conduct an orchestra with it. He’s about to run in through the machine, stops, and says, “Maybe I shouldn’t run this.” Mandy looks confused, and Paul gets serious. “Because… this isn’t a train car. It’s a mobile home I painted to look like a train car.”
Nice job, train expert, identifying the train car. We leave sheepishly, Mandy's tail is tucked between her legs, and yes, it is so. obviously. a trailer.
March 16, 2010
The Strangest Email
I recieved this email from my dad yesterday. I'm not entirely sure what exactly he's asking for, but I thought I'd share...
| I am on a vengeance to track illegal movie viewing and need your help. Is there some site that I can use to track these pirates? I am working on getting paid for all the illegal sites I can report but I need to know how to track the site for their source of movie downloads. Basically I want to be a CSI for pirating. We could work together on our computer skills and make some serious money. Any info you might have on this subject would be a real big help. Love Dad |
March 10, 2010
March 9, 2010
Fo' Shizzle
Mandy might be one of the whitest white girls you'll ever meet. Not only does she have flaming red, Irish hair and the palest porcelain skin to match, she's also extremely... white. She's from Mechanic Falls, Maine. She'd never had rice until age 21. She listens to Black Music that Black People Don't Listen to Anymore, and wears scarves and drives a Jetta. Which makes the story I'm about to tell so. much. funnier.
Snoop Dogg, legend of hip-hop, played at the Gray Cage at Bates College in Lewiston, Maine, my hometown last week. ("Seriously? Snoop is playing in LEWISTON? They hate black people there." Well, kind of.) Snoop Dogg is kind of a big deal and he's had a pretty huge impact on my life. The week leading up to the show, I kept getting this one song stuck in my head everytime someone said his name... the one where in the background someone sings, "Snoop-dogg-y dooo-ooo-awg." When I decided to try drinking alcohol for the first time, I went with gin and juice, because that's the first thing that came to mind. When "Drop It Like It's Hot," came on the radio in my car, I'd crank it and try and click my tongue along to that part. You know the part. See? I'm really white, too.
Anyway, Mandy talked to Snoop Dogg on the phone once.
Last week wasn't the first trip to Maine for Snoop. Back in 2004 (I Googled it), Snoop played at now-defunct the State Theater. That night, Mandy, age 19, was working at the Bull Moose warehouse in Scarborough. It was 10pm, there were, possibly, two customers in the store, and she was working with a girl she describes as a beautiful, voluptuous, lesbian named Jamie. They're getting ready to close the store, when a giant limo speeds into the parking lot, almost crashing into the front windows, tires squealing. Mandy assumes that it's a fancy date, prom or something, until two black dudes covered in bling step out of the car.What the fuck? There are hardly any black people in Maine, and none of them ride in limos and have bling. It's just not how we do.
These two guys walk in, one is older, with a bulldog face, droopy red eyes, and the other is a little bit younger and slightly overweight. He says to Mandy when he walks in, "Yo, girl! Yo, girl, where's your soul section?" So she walks him over to the section, and as she's about to walk away he's like, "I need some babymaking music, I need some BABY-making music. You know anything about soul music?" Which is a little bit ironic, because at the time, Mandy was a virgin. Technically, she didn't know anything about babymaking music (disclosure: neither did I.)
She's not really sure what he's looking for- like, if he wants the best one she has, or an assortment, so she starts grabbing whatever and throwing it in his arms, running back and forth to the used section. Compilations, Al Green, Otis Redding, and before she knows it, there are like, 20 cds in his hands. At some point, the bizareness of the whole situation just gets to her and she asks, "So you mind if I ask, what's going on here, who are you?"
"Oh, yo girl, I'm Snoop Dogg's cousin!" WHAT?? And that's when it dawned on her, holy fucking shit these cds are for Snoop Dogg, because he's playing tonight, in Portland. "Yo girl, Snoop told me to come down here and get some BABY makin' music for after the show. Yo girl, you gotta help me out."
Now, maybe I'm being stereotypical here, but this guy was 30ish, and the other guy was probably closer to 45. How is it that they had no idea about any soul music at all? "Yo girl, you think this one would be good, you think this one'd be sexy?" This guy probably said babymaking music like fifty times... to Mandy, the 19 year old virgin. He's probably got like hundreds of dollars worth of cds in his hands at this point when he's like, "Yo girl, I like what you got for me here. But hold on, hold on just one second. We gotta make sure, we gotta make sure just one second." He pulls out his cell phone, which back then was probably a Motorola Razor, and makes a phone call. Mandy, again, is thinking, what the fuck.
"Yo Snoop, yeah, yeah, I'm here. I'm lookin at the soul music right now- I got this girl, she's helping me out. Let me read off to you what I got," and he names a few things and pauses after each one then stops. "Hold on- hold on Snoop, Hold on." And hands the phone to Mandy. "Yo girl, Snoops on the phone. You gotta tell him what we got, he's gotta approve."
She stands there for a second, with the cell phone extended to her, and she knows that on the other end of the line is Snoop Doggy Dogg, waiting to talk to her.
"Hello?" She's like, terrified.
"Yo girl, I hear you're picking out some babymaking music for me tonight." So she starts explaining all the different gospel soul, southern soul, modern soul, and even though this sounds completely ridiculous, after every single thing she said, he responds, "Fo' shizzle."
Mandy: I've got D'Angelo, Untitled.
Snoop: Fo' Shizzle.
Mandy: Sade, self titled.
Snoop: Fo' Shizzle.
She finishes reading off everything and asks what he thinks, is that good, is that enough. "Yo girl, that's great girl, I can't wait." She hands the phone back, ending the coversation. He called her girl like five times, and said fo' shizzle like 50 times. While she's ringing them in, the older guy speaks up for the first time and says to Jamie, the lesbian, that he think she's pretty attractive, and the young guy disagrees and says that Mandy is more attractive. Then they give the girls the room number at the Eastland, where Snoop is staying, so they can come party after the show. Mandy doesn't go.
This is an excerpt from the article I found in the Press Herald about the 2004 show:
"If you're wondering what the kids mean when they say "fo' shizzle" after you ask them if they want takeout for dinner, you can thank Snoop Dogg for the linguistic confusion. Meaning "for sure," the phrase is part of a slang vocabulary created by Snoop Dogg, aka Snoop Doggy Dogg, Snoop Dizzle, the …"
Snoop Dogg, legend of hip-hop, played at the Gray Cage at Bates College in Lewiston, Maine, my hometown last week. ("Seriously? Snoop is playing in LEWISTON? They hate black people there." Well, kind of.) Snoop Dogg is kind of a big deal and he's had a pretty huge impact on my life. The week leading up to the show, I kept getting this one song stuck in my head everytime someone said his name... the one where in the background someone sings, "Snoop-dogg-y dooo-ooo-awg." When I decided to try drinking alcohol for the first time, I went with gin and juice, because that's the first thing that came to mind. When "Drop It Like It's Hot," came on the radio in my car, I'd crank it and try and click my tongue along to that part. You know the part. See? I'm really white, too.
Anyway, Mandy talked to Snoop Dogg on the phone once.
Last week wasn't the first trip to Maine for Snoop. Back in 2004 (I Googled it), Snoop played at now-defunct the State Theater. That night, Mandy, age 19, was working at the Bull Moose warehouse in Scarborough. It was 10pm, there were, possibly, two customers in the store, and she was working with a girl she describes as a beautiful, voluptuous, lesbian named Jamie. They're getting ready to close the store, when a giant limo speeds into the parking lot, almost crashing into the front windows, tires squealing. Mandy assumes that it's a fancy date, prom or something, until two black dudes covered in bling step out of the car.What the fuck? There are hardly any black people in Maine, and none of them ride in limos and have bling. It's just not how we do.
These two guys walk in, one is older, with a bulldog face, droopy red eyes, and the other is a little bit younger and slightly overweight. He says to Mandy when he walks in, "Yo, girl! Yo, girl, where's your soul section?" So she walks him over to the section, and as she's about to walk away he's like, "I need some babymaking music, I need some BABY-making music. You know anything about soul music?" Which is a little bit ironic, because at the time, Mandy was a virgin. Technically, she didn't know anything about babymaking music (disclosure: neither did I.)
She's not really sure what he's looking for- like, if he wants the best one she has, or an assortment, so she starts grabbing whatever and throwing it in his arms, running back and forth to the used section. Compilations, Al Green, Otis Redding, and before she knows it, there are like, 20 cds in his hands. At some point, the bizareness of the whole situation just gets to her and she asks, "So you mind if I ask, what's going on here, who are you?"
"Oh, yo girl, I'm Snoop Dogg's cousin!" WHAT?? And that's when it dawned on her, holy fucking shit these cds are for Snoop Dogg, because he's playing tonight, in Portland. "Yo girl, Snoop told me to come down here and get some BABY makin' music for after the show. Yo girl, you gotta help me out."
Now, maybe I'm being stereotypical here, but this guy was 30ish, and the other guy was probably closer to 45. How is it that they had no idea about any soul music at all? "Yo girl, you think this one would be good, you think this one'd be sexy?" This guy probably said babymaking music like fifty times... to Mandy, the 19 year old virgin. He's probably got like hundreds of dollars worth of cds in his hands at this point when he's like, "Yo girl, I like what you got for me here. But hold on, hold on just one second. We gotta make sure, we gotta make sure just one second." He pulls out his cell phone, which back then was probably a Motorola Razor, and makes a phone call. Mandy, again, is thinking, what the fuck.
"Yo Snoop, yeah, yeah, I'm here. I'm lookin at the soul music right now- I got this girl, she's helping me out. Let me read off to you what I got," and he names a few things and pauses after each one then stops. "Hold on- hold on Snoop, Hold on." And hands the phone to Mandy. "Yo girl, Snoops on the phone. You gotta tell him what we got, he's gotta approve."
She stands there for a second, with the cell phone extended to her, and she knows that on the other end of the line is Snoop Doggy Dogg, waiting to talk to her.
"Hello?" She's like, terrified.
"Yo girl, I hear you're picking out some babymaking music for me tonight." So she starts explaining all the different gospel soul, southern soul, modern soul, and even though this sounds completely ridiculous, after every single thing she said, he responds, "Fo' shizzle."
Mandy: I've got D'Angelo, Untitled.
Snoop: Fo' Shizzle.
Mandy: Sade, self titled.
Snoop: Fo' Shizzle.
She finishes reading off everything and asks what he thinks, is that good, is that enough. "Yo girl, that's great girl, I can't wait." She hands the phone back, ending the coversation. He called her girl like five times, and said fo' shizzle like 50 times. While she's ringing them in, the older guy speaks up for the first time and says to Jamie, the lesbian, that he think she's pretty attractive, and the young guy disagrees and says that Mandy is more attractive. Then they give the girls the room number at the Eastland, where Snoop is staying, so they can come party after the show. Mandy doesn't go.
This is an excerpt from the article I found in the Press Herald about the 2004 show:
"If you're wondering what the kids mean when they say "fo' shizzle" after you ask them if they want takeout for dinner, you can thank Snoop Dogg for the linguistic confusion. Meaning "for sure," the phrase is part of a slang vocabulary created by Snoop Dogg, aka Snoop Doggy Dogg, Snoop Dizzle, the …"
March 4, 2010
Amanda, You're like, the Bomb
On a recent Monday night trip to the Dogfish Bar and Grille on Free Street, I was hanging out with this kid from portlandtaps.com, catching up. Some more friends showed up, and after a couple pints of Arrogant Bastard, we started talking a little bit about how fun unlikely hook-ups can be. This chick started laughing, remembering the time she hooked up with a man she was convinced was 90% gay. "It was so much fun, even though he was totally completely gay. We laughed so much! He really loved my boobies... and hey, a blow job is a blow job, right?" (Dad, now would be a great time for you to stop reading.)
So I started telling the story of the most fun, least likely hook-up I've ever had.
It was last May, and I met some friends at the most lengen... wait for it... dary house party on Exchange Street. Everyone was there... It was a beautiful spring night, there were Jell-O shots. We all left around three a.m., after the fourth floor deck shifted under our weight and the toilets started clogging. Well, I tried to leave. But I saw this cute guy... and asked him for a drag of his cigarette (I don't smoke, and this is a very clear indication that I've had too much to drink.) We started making out. The plan was to leave with Darcy and crash at her house... but then this kid, Connor, ran outside after me, begged me to come back in the party, and I said no, and drunkenly agreed to let him walk me home. (Ditching my friends and leaving with a complete stranger was obviously a huge mistake, I was hardly standing, let alone able to make responsible decisions about my safety. I also got into a huge screaming match with this super obnoxious queen outside of the party... I said he was generic, he told me I was like Janeane Garofalo. I told him to find a new hangout and he replied, I am! It's called SAN FRANCISCO!)
In the morning, it took me a few minutes to remember his name, where I was, and what happened the night before. Then I remembered he was four years younger than me. Just a baby, he turned 21 only a few months prior. I'm cringing, thanking GOD that I didn't have sex with this stranger. I roll over, so completely hungerover I could've actually slept the entire day. When we met, Connor was wearing those Vans, the ones with the checkers on the side, faded black Levi's, and a black Jesus Christ Superstar T-shirt. We talked a lot on the way home. He was from Sanford, loved skateboarding, and worked at a pizza joint in town.
"Amanda." Oh my god he's talking to me, and he remembers my name. What if he doedsn't realize that I was wasted last night. Oh God. "You're like... the bomb." I laughed out loud and looked him in the eye. He was serious. This kid totally talks like a Jeff Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High. "Amanda... how did an ass hole like me wind up in the bed of such a beautiful girl like you. Oh man, you know, when I go out drinking like that, I should be waking up in the gutter somewhere or something. This is like, awesome." He's right, there is no way I would've been into him if I wasn't drunk, but it was kind of awesome. I laugh, roll over and say, "Five more minutes." We alternate snoozing and making out for a little while.
"Amanda. I just like, really want to spend the day with you. I've got some VHS' at my house we can watch." I laugh. VHS aren't hip and retro. He pins me.
"Amanda. Let me take you out to breakfast. How about Denny's?" I roll my eyes. "No? No, Denny's? How about the IHOP. Denny's or IHOP. No? C'mon, what's the deal? You don't eat? It's a free meal! Who DOESN'T want a free meal. What? Is it me? Do I smell?"
My phone rings, it's Darcy. She probably thinks I'm dead in a gutter somewhere. I reach for my phone, and Connor pins me again. We wrestle for a little while and I'm laughing hysterically. This kid was so much fun! Finally, I answer and apologize PROFUSELY to Darcy for ruining the rest of her night by going completely MIA. Feeling even worse, I try and roll over and go back to sleep. At this point, Connor can leave for all I care. My back is turned... and he pulls down my underwear, like the Coppertone baby. I giggle, and tell him to quit it. He does it like four more times until I turn around really fast to make him stop. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Uhhh, nothing. I was just going to dickslap you."
So I started telling the story of the most fun, least likely hook-up I've ever had.
It was last May, and I met some friends at the most lengen... wait for it... dary house party on Exchange Street. Everyone was there... It was a beautiful spring night, there were Jell-O shots. We all left around three a.m., after the fourth floor deck shifted under our weight and the toilets started clogging. Well, I tried to leave. But I saw this cute guy... and asked him for a drag of his cigarette (I don't smoke, and this is a very clear indication that I've had too much to drink.) We started making out. The plan was to leave with Darcy and crash at her house... but then this kid, Connor, ran outside after me, begged me to come back in the party, and I said no, and drunkenly agreed to let him walk me home. (Ditching my friends and leaving with a complete stranger was obviously a huge mistake, I was hardly standing, let alone able to make responsible decisions about my safety. I also got into a huge screaming match with this super obnoxious queen outside of the party... I said he was generic, he told me I was like Janeane Garofalo. I told him to find a new hangout and he replied, I am! It's called SAN FRANCISCO!)
In the morning, it took me a few minutes to remember his name, where I was, and what happened the night before. Then I remembered he was four years younger than me. Just a baby, he turned 21 only a few months prior. I'm cringing, thanking GOD that I didn't have sex with this stranger. I roll over, so completely hungerover I could've actually slept the entire day. When we met, Connor was wearing those Vans, the ones with the checkers on the side, faded black Levi's, and a black Jesus Christ Superstar T-shirt. We talked a lot on the way home. He was from Sanford, loved skateboarding, and worked at a pizza joint in town.
"Amanda." Oh my god he's talking to me, and he remembers my name. What if he doedsn't realize that I was wasted last night. Oh God. "You're like... the bomb." I laughed out loud and looked him in the eye. He was serious. This kid totally talks like a Jeff Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High. "Amanda... how did an ass hole like me wind up in the bed of such a beautiful girl like you. Oh man, you know, when I go out drinking like that, I should be waking up in the gutter somewhere or something. This is like, awesome." He's right, there is no way I would've been into him if I wasn't drunk, but it was kind of awesome. I laugh, roll over and say, "Five more minutes." We alternate snoozing and making out for a little while.
"Amanda. I just like, really want to spend the day with you. I've got some VHS' at my house we can watch." I laugh. VHS aren't hip and retro. He pins me.
"Amanda. Let me take you out to breakfast. How about Denny's?" I roll my eyes. "No? No, Denny's? How about the IHOP. Denny's or IHOP. No? C'mon, what's the deal? You don't eat? It's a free meal! Who DOESN'T want a free meal. What? Is it me? Do I smell?"
My phone rings, it's Darcy. She probably thinks I'm dead in a gutter somewhere. I reach for my phone, and Connor pins me again. We wrestle for a little while and I'm laughing hysterically. This kid was so much fun! Finally, I answer and apologize PROFUSELY to Darcy for ruining the rest of her night by going completely MIA. Feeling even worse, I try and roll over and go back to sleep. At this point, Connor can leave for all I care. My back is turned... and he pulls down my underwear, like the Coppertone baby. I giggle, and tell him to quit it. He does it like four more times until I turn around really fast to make him stop. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Uhhh, nothing. I was just going to dickslap you."
March 3, 2010
These Boots
It's no secret that one of my favorite songs to karaoke is "These Boots Are Made for Walking," by Nancy Sinatra. It's easy, short and I have a little dance, and it works because even in the summer, I'm usually wearing boots.
A few months ago, I was running across Middle Street to see Tess Van Horn at the Black Parrot, one of the best clothing boutiques in Portland. That day I happened to be wearing a pair of caramel colored imitation-leather knee high slouch boots. I got them at the Salvation Army for six dollars, and wasn't totally crazy about them- my old Nine West boots had huge holes and were in dire need of repair. Six dollars for new boots was a lot less than the fifty dollars I'd probably pay at the cobbler to have the Nine West boots repaired.
So this woman, probably 50 something-ish, sees me run into to the store, parks her car and follows me in. She says that she loves my boots, and asked me if I got them there. I tried to not look completely shocked- there was no way in a million, bajillion years I'd ever be able to afford ANYTHING at the Black Parrot, let alone the boots! They were six dollars and not even leather! She told me they were a great find, I blushed, agreed, and tried to explain that she should just get Frye boots, which are expensive, but would probably last her the rest of her life. She shrugged and left the store.
At the time I could've never anticipated the events of last week... I got tipsy at (well, before and during,) the Black Parrot anniversary sale, and went home with these Rachel Comey boots. Thank you, student loan refund.
A few months ago, I was running across Middle Street to see Tess Van Horn at the Black Parrot, one of the best clothing boutiques in Portland. That day I happened to be wearing a pair of caramel colored imitation-leather knee high slouch boots. I got them at the Salvation Army for six dollars, and wasn't totally crazy about them- my old Nine West boots had huge holes and were in dire need of repair. Six dollars for new boots was a lot less than the fifty dollars I'd probably pay at the cobbler to have the Nine West boots repaired.
So this woman, probably 50 something-ish, sees me run into to the store, parks her car and follows me in. She says that she loves my boots, and asked me if I got them there. I tried to not look completely shocked- there was no way in a million, bajillion years I'd ever be able to afford ANYTHING at the Black Parrot, let alone the boots! They were six dollars and not even leather! She told me they were a great find, I blushed, agreed, and tried to explain that she should just get Frye boots, which are expensive, but would probably last her the rest of her life. She shrugged and left the store.
At the time I could've never anticipated the events of last week... I got tipsy at (well, before and during,) the Black Parrot anniversary sale, and went home with these Rachel Comey boots. Thank you, student loan refund.
February 25, 2010
LL Bean
A few days ago, on my way to work, trudging through a really nasty rain/wind storm, I felt like I had stepped out of an LL Bean ad. I was wearing a hunter orange hat, from Goodwill on St. John, Bean Boots, a blue flannel fleece and a yellow rain slicker, featuring a navy whale print lining, while carrying a classic blue and white oversized boat-and-tote bag, which kept the contents wicked dry. I wasn't going to get rained on, hypothermia, shot at or well, whatever else could've possibly happened while waiting for the bus in that monsoon. I've realized recently, my wardrobe is containing an expanding number of Bean items, boat shirts and pullovers, and of course, the ol' dark denim and the Bean boots. It's all very "Maine."
But I'm in luck. Turns out Mary Phillips Sandy is working on web content for this new, exciting line from LL Bean and the Rogue's Gallery dude. The new line, called LL Bean Signature, is inspired by pieces from the '30s and '40s, and will be marketed to a younger, hipper demographic. Mary was fortunate enough to see the LL Bean archive, which is a room, only open to LL Bean employees, containing items from as far back as 1918, when the company was started. There is a hunting jacket from the 30s with actual dried duck blood. There is a pair of Bean boots that a soldier wore all through his tour of duty in World War II. The US Army tried to get this guy, a Mainer, to wear Army-issued boots, but he refused. After he died, his family just sent the boots back to Bean's, and the archivists there receive this kind of thing all the time. It's such a bummer that this great collection isn't open to the public (yet?).
My childhood best friend is the only person of no relation I can say I've known my whole entire life (seriously, our moms were friends while we were still in the womb.) She left her job at Victoria's Secret, choosing her family, friends, and boyfriend and a job as Assistant Marketing Manager at LL Bean over climbing the corporate ladder and moving to Ohio, where the Victoria's Secret corporate offices are located. At Bean's, she's on the floor a lot, which means talking to customers. I shouldn't have been surprised to learn that people who shop at LL Bean LOVE shopping at LL Bean, which is the opposite of how people feel about shopping at the mall. She tells me that people drive from Minnesota to come to the flagship store. A 91 year old woman came in and told her that shopping at LL Bean was like, her dying wish. She tried to help her pick out some nice clothes, but the woman kind of shrugged, confessing that she couldn't really even see what she was holding up for her, didn't care and would just take whatever.
But the best story she had, however, was when this man, a normal looking, 40-something man, came over and asked her where in Maine she lived. She's currently living in Auburn, not far from where we grew up, but this would mean nothing to a person in town only to be shopping in Freeport- we're not the capital, the largest city, or where the Bushes have a summer house, well, compound. So she tells the guy, and this is what he said, "Let me ask you, in Auburn, can you see lobster walking around in your back yard?" Her mouth gapes open a few times, like the live trout they keep at the store. She's flabbergasted. This is ridiculous and hysterical for a few reasons: 1.) Immediately I pictured red, cooked lobsters walking around in the back yard of the house I grew up in. 2.) Lobsters live on the bottom of the ocean. No one can see them from their house, even if you live on a boat. 3.) Auburn... landlocked. So, she replies as politely as she can without letting on that this man is absolutely crazy, "No, well, occasionally we might see a Moose, but no, no lobster."
Josh Gleason produced a story that aired on NPR about being up all night at Bean's, which is open 24 hours. See you there!
But I'm in luck. Turns out Mary Phillips Sandy is working on web content for this new, exciting line from LL Bean and the Rogue's Gallery dude. The new line, called LL Bean Signature, is inspired by pieces from the '30s and '40s, and will be marketed to a younger, hipper demographic. Mary was fortunate enough to see the LL Bean archive, which is a room, only open to LL Bean employees, containing items from as far back as 1918, when the company was started. There is a hunting jacket from the 30s with actual dried duck blood. There is a pair of Bean boots that a soldier wore all through his tour of duty in World War II. The US Army tried to get this guy, a Mainer, to wear Army-issued boots, but he refused. After he died, his family just sent the boots back to Bean's, and the archivists there receive this kind of thing all the time. It's such a bummer that this great collection isn't open to the public (yet?).
My childhood best friend is the only person of no relation I can say I've known my whole entire life (seriously, our moms were friends while we were still in the womb.) She left her job at Victoria's Secret, choosing her family, friends, and boyfriend and a job as Assistant Marketing Manager at LL Bean over climbing the corporate ladder and moving to Ohio, where the Victoria's Secret corporate offices are located. At Bean's, she's on the floor a lot, which means talking to customers. I shouldn't have been surprised to learn that people who shop at LL Bean LOVE shopping at LL Bean, which is the opposite of how people feel about shopping at the mall. She tells me that people drive from Minnesota to come to the flagship store. A 91 year old woman came in and told her that shopping at LL Bean was like, her dying wish. She tried to help her pick out some nice clothes, but the woman kind of shrugged, confessing that she couldn't really even see what she was holding up for her, didn't care and would just take whatever.
But the best story she had, however, was when this man, a normal looking, 40-something man, came over and asked her where in Maine she lived. She's currently living in Auburn, not far from where we grew up, but this would mean nothing to a person in town only to be shopping in Freeport- we're not the capital, the largest city, or where the Bushes have a summer house, well, compound. So she tells the guy, and this is what he said, "Let me ask you, in Auburn, can you see lobster walking around in your back yard?" Her mouth gapes open a few times, like the live trout they keep at the store. She's flabbergasted. This is ridiculous and hysterical for a few reasons: 1.) Immediately I pictured red, cooked lobsters walking around in the back yard of the house I grew up in. 2.) Lobsters live on the bottom of the ocean. No one can see them from their house, even if you live on a boat. 3.) Auburn... landlocked. So, she replies as politely as she can without letting on that this man is absolutely crazy, "No, well, occasionally we might see a Moose, but no, no lobster."
Josh Gleason produced a story that aired on NPR about being up all night at Bean's, which is open 24 hours. See you there!
February 22, 2010
Dark Shadows
It's a fifteen minute walk from my apartment to Tess's, through the heart of the West End. It was extremely windy, dark, about 9pm on a Friday night. In addition to an actual cemetery, which to me, is scary in the daylight, most of the houses on these streets are huge brick mansions with vast, expansive yards which create a lot of dark shadows. Most of the windows in these houses were dark. There are no cars, no other pedestrians, not even any fanatical dog-walkers. (Even people who live in the heart of this neighborhood agree that it' haunting... check out the story at maine. Magazine.) Lady Gaga coming in through my earbuds is not blocking the deafening rustling of the trees in the wind. Through this noise, I hear a creaking, like metal on metal. In my wildest imagination, I can't think what terrifying thing could possible be producing this noise, but that's just it- the unknown is so much scarier than the known. It was discovered earlier in the week my boots are NOT made for running, so to take my mind off of things lurking in the shadows, watching my every move, I do what I always do when I get scared: I called Laura and leave her a lengthy voicemail in a panicked tone of voice and arrived at my destination in one piece.
The next day she says she has a story to rival my story, which yeah, wasn't really that spooky unless you were there. Big deal, I was freaked out by the WIND. She was cleaning out a closet in her house (one that hadn't been used since she moved in,) and there was...
...a body bag.
They couldn't identify it at first, was it a tarp, or a garment bag... because other than people who work in hospitals, funeral homes, and oh yeah, people who watch Grey's Anatomy or Six Feet Under, no one should know what a body bag looks like. There was a toe tag, and a little contents key to mark weather the body had an infectious disease or was decomposed or whatever other ailments dead bodies might have.
Holy. Shit. Was their landlord plotting a murder??
The next day she says she has a story to rival my story, which yeah, wasn't really that spooky unless you were there. Big deal, I was freaked out by the WIND. She was cleaning out a closet in her house (one that hadn't been used since she moved in,) and there was...
...a body bag.
They couldn't identify it at first, was it a tarp, or a garment bag... because other than people who work in hospitals, funeral homes, and oh yeah, people who watch Grey's Anatomy or Six Feet Under, no one should know what a body bag looks like. There was a toe tag, and a little contents key to mark weather the body had an infectious disease or was decomposed or whatever other ailments dead bodies might have.
Holy. Shit. Was their landlord plotting a murder??
February 9, 2010
Up North
With the exception of a few short stints in other New England towns, I've lived in Maine my whole life. I know the geography of the state, were you can get lobster flavored ice cream, I've lobbied to the state appropriations committee, I've been to "the County." Corny Maine jokes always make me laugh: "Bangor? I hardly know her!" "You can't get there from here." Everything sounds funny in the accent. Here's a video some friends of some friends made (because everyone here has a mere two degrees of separation):
Mandy and I have been doing a lot of thrift shopping- mostly for her website shopgrandmajune.etsy.com. We scour the Goodwills and Salvation Army's within a ten-mile radius of Portland. I have my favorite locations, she has hers. We'll walk in the door, split up, then meet up after 20 minutes at the dressing room with our arms full. She and I will go in together, because four eyes are better then two (well... in our case, three and a half are better than two...) bringing in way more than ten items. We make yes, no, maybe piles, and make decisions.
On one such trip, recently, I found a grey sweatshirt, no hood, no zipper, that read: "Up North," in the same style one might find a state or univsersity name. I hold it up for Mandy and ask, is this funny? The woman behind us starts laughing. Out loud. So yes, it's funny. Up north, the general vicinity of the state above Portland where people camp, hike and ski. It's five dollars- kind of a no-brainer.
At this point, I'm starving. I had completed a nine hour shift at the Maine Roasters, and I was anxious to meet Angela for oysters at J's. Mandy is still deliberating, so I run over to Shaw's to grab a pre-oyster sandwich. She says her car, a 1984 tan VW Jetta we call Peacock, is unlocked, so I throw my prized find in the front seat, quite pleased with myself as I'm crossing the parking lot. I happen to notice that the contents of the driver's front seat of the car are a little bit different than before, but Mandy had to grab her phone while we were shopping, so I think nothing of it.
Ham sandwich in hand, I meet Mandy back at the car, just like we planned. She's not there. But... neither is the sweatshirt. She's still in the store. Had she gone back to the car, again? I practically run. I grab her by the arm, "Did you go back to the car?"
"No," she replies.
"Oh my god, the sweatshirt isn't there." (Because this is Maine, the thought doesn't even cross my mind that it could've been stolen. Once, I didn't lock Josh's car and his winter coat was stolen from the backseat. I felt terrible, obviously, but what the hell was his jacket doing back there, anyway?? Still haven't learned.)
"Well... there was a gold Volvo parked two doors down from me. I almost went to it when I was grabbing my phone."
And then it dawns on me. I put the Up North sweatshirt in the wrong car. I get really upset for a few reasons. 1, Why didn't that car lock it's doors?! 2. The contents of the car were obviously those belonging to a woman. This is definitely not going to be the beginning of a romantic comedy. 3. Why wasn't that car still there? 4. The Up North sweatshirt is GONE and I might as well have thrown that five dollars in the trashcan. Mandy explains the whole thing to the clerks at the Goodwill, how I bought the sweatshirt, to see if anyone returned it, and they laughed at her, well, me. Kate did the same thing a few days later, and the employees were equally bemused by my mishap.
A few days after that, even, I see a gold Volvo on Free Street. I'm with Kate, and I decide there's only one thing to do: leave a note. The chances of this Volvo being the same Volvo are slim, but it's ridiculous not to.
This is what it said:
Hello There,
This is extremely embarrassing, but a few days ago I mistakenly threw a gray "Up North" sweatshirt in a car just like yours (thinking it was my friend's car which is a very similar VW.) Obviously, this is a long shot, but I'd be pleased to find said sweatshirt.
Thank you for your time, and have a great day.
Sincerely,
Amanda
I leave it on the car and run back. Kate asks me if I left my phone number or email... and I realize this sweatshirt might be not be in my future. Because I didn't leave my phone number. I had to run back to my note and revise it. In the middle of Free Street.
No word, yet. I'll keep you posted.
Mandy and I have been doing a lot of thrift shopping- mostly for her website shopgrandmajune.etsy.com. We scour the Goodwills and Salvation Army's within a ten-mile radius of Portland. I have my favorite locations, she has hers. We'll walk in the door, split up, then meet up after 20 minutes at the dressing room with our arms full. She and I will go in together, because four eyes are better then two (well... in our case, three and a half are better than two...) bringing in way more than ten items. We make yes, no, maybe piles, and make decisions.
On one such trip, recently, I found a grey sweatshirt, no hood, no zipper, that read: "Up North," in the same style one might find a state or univsersity name. I hold it up for Mandy and ask, is this funny? The woman behind us starts laughing. Out loud. So yes, it's funny. Up north, the general vicinity of the state above Portland where people camp, hike and ski. It's five dollars- kind of a no-brainer.
At this point, I'm starving. I had completed a nine hour shift at the Maine Roasters, and I was anxious to meet Angela for oysters at J's. Mandy is still deliberating, so I run over to Shaw's to grab a pre-oyster sandwich. She says her car, a 1984 tan VW Jetta we call Peacock, is unlocked, so I throw my prized find in the front seat, quite pleased with myself as I'm crossing the parking lot. I happen to notice that the contents of the driver's front seat of the car are a little bit different than before, but Mandy had to grab her phone while we were shopping, so I think nothing of it.
Ham sandwich in hand, I meet Mandy back at the car, just like we planned. She's not there. But... neither is the sweatshirt. She's still in the store. Had she gone back to the car, again? I practically run. I grab her by the arm, "Did you go back to the car?"
"No," she replies.
"Oh my god, the sweatshirt isn't there." (Because this is Maine, the thought doesn't even cross my mind that it could've been stolen. Once, I didn't lock Josh's car and his winter coat was stolen from the backseat. I felt terrible, obviously, but what the hell was his jacket doing back there, anyway?? Still haven't learned.)
"Well... there was a gold Volvo parked two doors down from me. I almost went to it when I was grabbing my phone."
And then it dawns on me. I put the Up North sweatshirt in the wrong car. I get really upset for a few reasons. 1, Why didn't that car lock it's doors?! 2. The contents of the car were obviously those belonging to a woman. This is definitely not going to be the beginning of a romantic comedy. 3. Why wasn't that car still there? 4. The Up North sweatshirt is GONE and I might as well have thrown that five dollars in the trashcan. Mandy explains the whole thing to the clerks at the Goodwill, how I bought the sweatshirt, to see if anyone returned it, and they laughed at her, well, me. Kate did the same thing a few days later, and the employees were equally bemused by my mishap.
A few days after that, even, I see a gold Volvo on Free Street. I'm with Kate, and I decide there's only one thing to do: leave a note. The chances of this Volvo being the same Volvo are slim, but it's ridiculous not to.
This is what it said:
Hello There,
This is extremely embarrassing, but a few days ago I mistakenly threw a gray "Up North" sweatshirt in a car just like yours (thinking it was my friend's car which is a very similar VW.) Obviously, this is a long shot, but I'd be pleased to find said sweatshirt.
Thank you for your time, and have a great day.
Sincerely,
Amanda
I leave it on the car and run back. Kate asks me if I left my phone number or email... and I realize this sweatshirt might be not be in my future. Because I didn't leave my phone number. I had to run back to my note and revise it. In the middle of Free Street.
No word, yet. I'll keep you posted.
February 5, 2010
Breve Cappuccino
For a living, I serve coffee. I like my job, I meet the best people, and get to talk about coffee all day. Not to mention, as much coffee as I want. I drink like, 25 cups of coffee a day. Actually, this is how it goes: in the morning, a 16 ounce Rocky Coast Roast, which is a Maine Roasters Coffee strong, dark blend- people go bananas over it; in the afternoon, an iced soy chai or a nonfat vanilla latte, sometimes iced, sometimes hot; but when the closing tasks begin, it's always a fresh brewed iced tea, with either peach, orange or raspberry Torrani flavor. These are all reasonably normal drinks, pretty straightforward, but you would not believe some of the ridiculous drinks orderd by the patrons of Yarmouth.
BLUEBERRY latte. I shutter to think.
Short cup of Vanilla Foam. (that's right, FOAM!)
Tall red-eye with Gingerbread flavor and room for cream.
Quad grande soy vanilla latte (this drink costs over five dollars.)
Medium coffee with like, four shots. Actually how this guy orders it... prompts me to say, really?
"I drink Dunkin Donuts coffee. Can you make my coffee as Dunkin Donuts-y as possible?"
Anyone that wants extra room. More than a splash of cream makes me want to gag. It coats your mouth with disgustingness. Double breve cappuccino. Same goes with anything made with half and half. Gross. Actually, Splenda. That's gross too.
Speaking of things that make me gag, Bea Wood and her infinite hilarity said the other day after a young man came by sporting the ever atrocious ponytail, "Ehhh. I'd rather date a guy with like... a Guido blowout than a ponytail. (scoffs) Even a Jewfro." She's got this dry, really Daria kind of delivery. I laughed out loud.
I know some Amato's employee somewhere is also making a similar list of ridiculous things people order, and I'm one of them: Ham Italian, no onions, no oil, plus pineapples. Stay tuned for more coffee ridiculousness and excellent Bea Wood quotes.
BLUEBERRY latte. I shutter to think.
Short cup of Vanilla Foam. (that's right, FOAM!)
Tall red-eye with Gingerbread flavor and room for cream.
Quad grande soy vanilla latte (this drink costs over five dollars.)
Medium coffee with like, four shots. Actually how this guy orders it... prompts me to say, really?
"I drink Dunkin Donuts coffee. Can you make my coffee as Dunkin Donuts-y as possible?"
Anyone that wants extra room. More than a splash of cream makes me want to gag. It coats your mouth with disgustingness. Double breve cappuccino. Same goes with anything made with half and half. Gross. Actually, Splenda. That's gross too.
Speaking of things that make me gag, Bea Wood and her infinite hilarity said the other day after a young man came by sporting the ever atrocious ponytail, "Ehhh. I'd rather date a guy with like... a Guido blowout than a ponytail. (scoffs) Even a Jewfro." She's got this dry, really Daria kind of delivery. I laughed out loud.
I know some Amato's employee somewhere is also making a similar list of ridiculous things people order, and I'm one of them: Ham Italian, no onions, no oil, plus pineapples. Stay tuned for more coffee ridiculousness and excellent Bea Wood quotes.
February 4, 2010
Free Records and Theodore Treehouse
At some point over the last few years, I took a break from my perpetual search for the most exciting, new, awesome music, only to face dismay and ridicule from my friends. It's partially because I stopped working at the string of various record stores which fueled the fire for six years, and partially because my time is devoted to other things (like, writing this blog?). A few "new" bands have trickled in here and there, like Fleet Foxes, Midlake, Bat for Lashes, Lil Wayne, Lady Gaga, but I'm embarrassed to say that I can't remember the last time I set foot in a Bull Moose, and most of the music I've purchased recently has been either digital (Whitesnake, More than Words) or vinyl. On the side of the road a few days ago, in a "free box" was the mother of pearl best free record ever: a live Fleetwood Mac disc from 1980, the Tusk Tour. I gave it to Tess, because she loves Fleetwood Mac more than anyone, ever... Gosh, I'm an amazing friend. But this is an adequate portrayal of my recent music acquisitions. Records from free boxes on the side of the road.
I digress. So, for my listening pleasure there are my Pandora stations, (which have seeds ranging from AC/DC, Beyonce, Cat Power, Johnny Cash, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, and so on and so forth), my records, public radio, or best of all, all of the amazing local bands here in town. I wrote a spot for the Pure Pop blog, my old stomping ground, and composed a list of all of my favorite local musicians. Friends who saw it considered it a bit of a roast, but seriously, I love everyone. (Even the Clash of the Titans, even the Awesome, even the haters who say all anyone in this town cares about are cover bands. Darn shame I missed that Guns N Roses tribute...)
For us, myself and my peers, Portland is a young, transient place, much like Burlington, where people are always coming and going, enriching the creative community. Every few months there is a new local band to be discovered, and I can't get enough and it's amazing. First, there was the Enchantments. Then Diamond Sharp, Cult Maze, the 500s, Feel It Robot, Spencer and the School Spirit Mafia, and a band I just discovered at a free show at Space- Theodore Treehouse. It's like they were inside my brain, playing exactly and only the music I wanted them to play. We danced and danced and danced and it was amazing.
I digress. So, for my listening pleasure there are my Pandora stations, (which have seeds ranging from AC/DC, Beyonce, Cat Power, Johnny Cash, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, and so on and so forth), my records, public radio, or best of all, all of the amazing local bands here in town. I wrote a spot for the Pure Pop blog, my old stomping ground, and composed a list of all of my favorite local musicians. Friends who saw it considered it a bit of a roast, but seriously, I love everyone. (Even the Clash of the Titans, even the Awesome, even the haters who say all anyone in this town cares about are cover bands. Darn shame I missed that Guns N Roses tribute...)
For us, myself and my peers, Portland is a young, transient place, much like Burlington, where people are always coming and going, enriching the creative community. Every few months there is a new local band to be discovered, and I can't get enough and it's amazing. First, there was the Enchantments. Then Diamond Sharp, Cult Maze, the 500s, Feel It Robot, Spencer and the School Spirit Mafia, and a band I just discovered at a free show at Space- Theodore Treehouse. It's like they were inside my brain, playing exactly and only the music I wanted them to play. We danced and danced and danced and it was amazing.
January 22, 2010
Licture Piste
Hey! It's been a while. I don't even know what to say... I've been hemming and hawing over this stupid blog thing for months. Like "Man, I wish my blog was still functioning." "Man, I wish my blog was as funny as Joe Ricchio's blog." Or the infamous, "I'm so totally going to go home and blog about that!"
So, I'm going to. Go home and blog about it. Actually, I am home... so... It's been almost a year, and life is so completely different, a little recap is in order:
March: Ordered new glasses, got my passport, and cut all my hair off. (Locks of Love... you're welcome.)
April: PARIS!!! Turned 25 on Easter. Wore an inappropriately low cut dress to my birthday party, got drunk and had a one-night-stand.
May: Decide to move to Kennebunkport.
June-August: Hilarity ensues. Lots of beach, cocktails on the patio, loving life, waiting tables, karaoke at biker bars, failed romances. Another awesome Moose River trip, and multiple teary goodbyes to Darcy.
September: Baby and I move back to Portland, where I have an awesome roommate and enroll full-time at USM, leave the MDA peeps to professionally sling coffee and procrastinate on my homework.
October: Classes? What classes? I get a Missed Connection and Bangs. What a month!
November: Mom makes the best Thanksgiving dinner ever.
December: Crash my car on the day before finals week, break my phone, and successfully ruin the rest of my year. Thank god that's over.
January: Rung in 2010 with EIGHTY Happy New Year's txts (WTF?) and classes started this week. My eyeball still isn't better, but, I can still wink, so who cares? Started modeling for Mandy's Etsy. That's right, I'm a model now.
Anyway, you know I love telling stories. So, here's one from Paris:
After a few hang-ups with my bus ticket, my luggage, and staying up like, 36 hours straight while consuming surprisingly little alcohol, Kate and I meet Tess and Mandy at the airport, and... we're in Paris. It's everything I expect it to be. Kate's family is amazing, the city is obviously ridiculously beautiful. W
e spend our time eating really outstanding food, drinking espresso and wine, sightseeing, and hanging out in blissful ignorance of the conversations going on around us. We tried to be ultra-considerate about giving Kate enough personal space and making sure her needs were met, after all, we were crashing her visit home- and she did the same for us. We'd go on little excursions without her, bravely navigating the RER and constantly putting our fingers on the maps, a surefire giveaway that yes, we were tourists (at least we weren't wearing Crocs? I tried to remember everything David Sedaris ever said about living in Paris, but I was too overwhelmed.
Kate brought us to this fancy restaurant where the customers were rich and a man at the table next to us had one of those dogs that Charlotte has in Sex and the City. In the restaurant. We're told that this is the best hot chocolate in all of Paris, there, on the Champs-Elysees. And it was, I think. We part ways with Kate, she's spending some QT with the rents, and we leave in search of a post office. Tess and Mandy have promised post cards, and this seems like a relatively simple task we can complete on our own, no translator required. We find a few blocks down there is a post office, with a kiosk. I was too irresponsible to remember to write down anyone's addresses, so Tess and Mandy are on their own. I stand over Mandy's shoulder, eager to jump in with my opinion, just in case. It was relatively easy to navigate the automated system, as the first option was selecting language. English, stamps, international, 10, credit card. Right? So, she swipes her card. "Licture Piste" flashes in yellow on the screen. What the hell does that mean? Didn't we select English? She swipes her card five more times, upside-down, backwards, left to right, right to left, and each time, "Lecture Piste." I walk over to Tess to see how she's doing at her kiosk, and things seem to be running smoothly until it's time to swipe her card. Licture Piste. I start laughing, because it's completely and totally ridiculous. Say, Licture Piste out loud, seriously. And we can't even buy stamps? None of us are Survivor candidates, obviously. Licture Piste! It could've meant get out of here, you silly children, for all we knew. We're so baffled by the whole thing, why wasn't it reading our card, why wasn't the error message in English, and how the hell are we supposed to get the stamps? This was supposed to be a quick stop, but was quickly becoming a fiasco.
I'm almost doubled over laughing, as Mandy walks over the counter: "PARLE-ANGLAIS?" which is pretty much the only French she knows. The man shrugs, and she sighs. "STAMPS?" So he gives her ten stamps. Tess is still struggling to decode "Licture Piste," when Mandy walks back over, slightly defeated, but with stamps in hand. I'm still laughing, trying to help Tess, when the unthinkable happens... I fart. The smelliest fart that's ever come out of my body, by far. So let's recap: We're three young American girls, standing in the post office of one of the most elegant, posh, richest streets in the world, trying to buy stamps. We have no Kate, no dictionary, no phone, and I farted on the Champs-Elysees. Which only makes me laugh even harder. Obviously, they haven't smelled it yet. I can hardly breathe. Between gasps for air, I manage, "Guys, we have to get outta here," (long pause, more laughter,) "I just farted." Tess's face drops. Mandy and I walk out while Tess fends for herself at the counter. They get the stamps, mail the postcards, and I've never laughed so hard in my life.
Guess what Licture Piste meant? Kate, the native French speaker didn't even know: The magnetic strip on your card is unreadable."
"Hey intern, Get me a Campari."
So, I'm going to. Go home and blog about it. Actually, I am home... so... It's been almost a year, and life is so completely different, a little recap is in order:
March: Ordered new glasses, got my passport, and cut all my hair off. (Locks of Love... you're welcome.)
April: PARIS!!! Turned 25 on Easter. Wore an inappropriately low cut dress to my birthday party, got drunk and had a one-night-stand.
May: Decide to move to Kennebunkport.
June-August: Hilarity ensues. Lots of beach, cocktails on the patio, loving life, waiting tables, karaoke at biker bars, failed romances. Another awesome Moose River trip, and multiple teary goodbyes to Darcy.
September: Baby and I move back to Portland, where I have an awesome roommate and enroll full-time at USM, leave the MDA peeps to professionally sling coffee and procrastinate on my homework.
October: Classes? What classes? I get a Missed Connection and Bangs. What a month!
November: Mom makes the best Thanksgiving dinner ever.
December: Crash my car on the day before finals week, break my phone, and successfully ruin the rest of my year. Thank god that's over.
January: Rung in 2010 with EIGHTY Happy New Year's txts (WTF?) and classes started this week. My eyeball still isn't better, but, I can still wink, so who cares? Started modeling for Mandy's Etsy. That's right, I'm a model now.
Anyway, you know I love telling stories. So, here's one from Paris:
After a few hang-ups with my bus ticket, my luggage, and staying up like, 36 hours straight while consuming surprisingly little alcohol, Kate and I meet Tess and Mandy at the airport, and... we're in Paris. It's everything I expect it to be. Kate's family is amazing, the city is obviously ridiculously beautiful. W
e spend our time eating really outstanding food, drinking espresso and wine, sightseeing, and hanging out in blissful ignorance of the conversations going on around us. We tried to be ultra-considerate about giving Kate enough personal space and making sure her needs were met, after all, we were crashing her visit home- and she did the same for us. We'd go on little excursions without her, bravely navigating the RER and constantly putting our fingers on the maps, a surefire giveaway that yes, we were tourists (at least we weren't wearing Crocs? I tried to remember everything David Sedaris ever said about living in Paris, but I was too overwhelmed.Kate brought us to this fancy restaurant where the customers were rich and a man at the table next to us had one of those dogs that Charlotte has in Sex and the City. In the restaurant. We're told that this is the best hot chocolate in all of Paris, there, on the Champs-Elysees. And it was, I think. We part ways with Kate, she's spending some QT with the rents, and we leave in search of a post office. Tess and Mandy have promised post cards, and this seems like a relatively simple task we can complete on our own, no translator required. We find a few blocks down there is a post office, with a kiosk. I was too irresponsible to remember to write down anyone's addresses, so Tess and Mandy are on their own. I stand over Mandy's shoulder, eager to jump in with my opinion, just in case. It was relatively easy to navigate the automated system, as the first option was selecting language. English, stamps, international, 10, credit card. Right? So, she swipes her card. "Licture Piste" flashes in yellow on the screen. What the hell does that mean? Didn't we select English? She swipes her card five more times, upside-down, backwards, left to right, right to left, and each time, "Lecture Piste." I walk over to Tess to see how she's doing at her kiosk, and things seem to be running smoothly until it's time to swipe her card. Licture Piste. I start laughing, because it's completely and totally ridiculous. Say, Licture Piste out loud, seriously. And we can't even buy stamps? None of us are Survivor candidates, obviously. Licture Piste! It could've meant get out of here, you silly children, for all we knew. We're so baffled by the whole thing, why wasn't it reading our card, why wasn't the error message in English, and how the hell are we supposed to get the stamps? This was supposed to be a quick stop, but was quickly becoming a fiasco.
I'm almost doubled over laughing, as Mandy walks over the counter: "PARLE-ANGLAIS?" which is pretty much the only French she knows. The man shrugs, and she sighs. "STAMPS?" So he gives her ten stamps. Tess is still struggling to decode "Licture Piste," when Mandy walks back over, slightly defeated, but with stamps in hand. I'm still laughing, trying to help Tess, when the unthinkable happens... I fart. The smelliest fart that's ever come out of my body, by far. So let's recap: We're three young American girls, standing in the post office of one of the most elegant, posh, richest streets in the world, trying to buy stamps. We have no Kate, no dictionary, no phone, and I farted on the Champs-Elysees. Which only makes me laugh even harder. Obviously, they haven't smelled it yet. I can hardly breathe. Between gasps for air, I manage, "Guys, we have to get outta here," (long pause, more laughter,) "I just farted." Tess's face drops. Mandy and I walk out while Tess fends for herself at the counter. They get the stamps, mail the postcards, and I've never laughed so hard in my life.
Guess what Licture Piste meant? Kate, the native French speaker didn't even know: The magnetic strip on your card is unreadable."
"Hey intern, Get me a Campari."
February 24, 2009
February 6, 2009
January 27, 2009
Spoon Girl
Laura told me this great story in an email and I thought I'd share:
A woman who I work with told me the other day I should just ask for a full-time position in the Justice Building.. as I have been there enough in these last few months that I might as well have one. And you know, I might just get it too. I mean, I am the only part-time employee there who even has a repore with the security guards. They call me the "spoon girl" because one time, in haste for leaving to the job (I always leave in haste to go there, mostly because Voter Reg lets me make my own hours and this makes me always feel late), I grabbed this giant silver serving spoon, which I mistook for a teaspoon, to eat my soup lunch with. Well, upon arriving to the building, which has a million steps and holds both the jail and the courts inside, you have to go through a security checkpoint. This is where anyone who has baked a cake with a nail file inside is arrested. Well, I throw my l.l.bean backpack through the x-ray machine and the security guard laughs outloud and says in a bellowing voice, "Is that your giant spoon?" For some reason he and the other men, all ranging in ages that featured gray hair, found this to be strange and alluring. Possibly in a world of fancy pens and spiral bound notebooks that they see pass through the gates, a spoon is like a fucking golden nugget. One of them even motioned for me to come behind the x-ray machine and view my bag with the spoon inside myself because he thought it looked so absurd in a sea of unidentifiable nonmetal shapes. Now when I come in these men make comments such as, "What's for lunch today?" or the classic, "If it isn't the one with the spoon!" It didn't help the matter that I forgot the spoon, post-soup, in my bag for the next three days in a row - always forgetting to take it out and wash it, its x-ray image now smeared with minestrone.
A woman who I work with told me the other day I should just ask for a full-time position in the Justice Building.. as I have been there enough in these last few months that I might as well have one. And you know, I might just get it too. I mean, I am the only part-time employee there who even has a repore with the security guards. They call me the "spoon girl" because one time, in haste for leaving to the job (I always leave in haste to go there, mostly because Voter Reg lets me make my own hours and this makes me always feel late), I grabbed this giant silver serving spoon, which I mistook for a teaspoon, to eat my soup lunch with. Well, upon arriving to the building, which has a million steps and holds both the jail and the courts inside, you have to go through a security checkpoint. This is where anyone who has baked a cake with a nail file inside is arrested. Well, I throw my l.l.bean backpack through the x-ray machine and the security guard laughs outloud and says in a bellowing voice, "Is that your giant spoon?" For some reason he and the other men, all ranging in ages that featured gray hair, found this to be strange and alluring. Possibly in a world of fancy pens and spiral bound notebooks that they see pass through the gates, a spoon is like a fucking golden nugget. One of them even motioned for me to come behind the x-ray machine and view my bag with the spoon inside myself because he thought it looked so absurd in a sea of unidentifiable nonmetal shapes. Now when I come in these men make comments such as, "What's for lunch today?" or the classic, "If it isn't the one with the spoon!" It didn't help the matter that I forgot the spoon, post-soup, in my bag for the next three days in a row - always forgetting to take it out and wash it, its x-ray image now smeared with minestrone.
January 1, 2009
December 31, 2008
2008 in Review
In the last year, things have changed quite a bit. The biggest change, for all of us, of course, is our selection of Barack Obama to be the next President of the United States. Our country is in one of the lowest of the lows, and this is huge. It seems like this is a moment in history our kids will be asking us about, and we'll remember.
For me, personally, things have changed quite a bit. The year I had my first skinny dip. My first apartment, all to myself. My first case of Shingles. SO many new friends. The top three events to define 2008 would have to be Paddling for My Soul (Moose River canoe trip.) The Break Up. And I know it sounds ridiculous, but singing I Would Do Anything for Love with Tess at karaoke. I think I'm that much closer to figuring out who I am and what I want- I almost feel like a different person. A new woman. I've gone from dating a journalist to Journalistic dating. And rekindling. Spring break Indiana wasn't bad, either.
Here are a few other standout 2008 things:
My cat Baby!
ChaCha!
Telethon at WABI (I do what I do for YOU!)
Best Birthday ever! (Thanks, ladies!)
The Theme Party that was not to Be.
Homecoming at Space.
DZUSA and Feel It Robot.
Best burger ever at Kelly's birthday party- it was made of Bison!
My Beyonce Pandora station.
"Hey, You bitches want some olives?"
The Mujoy Hill Exxodus (and the bittersweetness of it all.)
Gossip Girl.
The iPhone, obviously.
For me, personally, things have changed quite a bit. The year I had my first skinny dip. My first apartment, all to myself. My first case of Shingles. SO many new friends. The top three events to define 2008 would have to be Paddling for My Soul (Moose River canoe trip.) The Break Up. And I know it sounds ridiculous, but singing I Would Do Anything for Love with Tess at karaoke. I think I'm that much closer to figuring out who I am and what I want- I almost feel like a different person. A new woman. I've gone from dating a journalist to Journalistic dating. And rekindling. Spring break Indiana wasn't bad, either.
Here are a few other standout 2008 things:
My cat Baby!
ChaCha!
Telethon at WABI (I do what I do for YOU!)
Best Birthday ever! (Thanks, ladies!)
The Theme Party that was not to Be.
Homecoming at Space.
DZUSA and Feel It Robot.
Best burger ever at Kelly's birthday party- it was made of Bison!
My Beyonce Pandora station.
"Hey, You bitches want some olives?"
The Mujoy Hill Exxodus (and the bittersweetness of it all.)
Gossip Girl.
The iPhone, obviously.
December 29, 2008
Booze or Bacon?
darcy: if you had to give up drinking or meat what would you choose?
me: whoa. that's really hard, considering i've done both.
darcy: so?
me: well. what would you give up?
both are really important parts of my life...
on one hand, i can't imagine not coming home and grabbing a beer after a really hard day at work.
or whatever.
darcy: right
me: but on the other, i don't know if i could go the rest of my life dealing with the smell of cooked bacon.
it would be more economical if i chose to give up drinking, but it makes me sound like a lush if i give up meat.
darcy: yeah i don't know what i'd choose either
me: i guess i'd have to choose meat and be that jerk that brings the boca burger to the bbq.
me: whoa. that's really hard, considering i've done both.
darcy: so?
me: well. what would you give up?
both are really important parts of my life...
on one hand, i can't imagine not coming home and grabbing a beer after a really hard day at work.
or whatever.
darcy: right
me: but on the other, i don't know if i could go the rest of my life dealing with the smell of cooked bacon.
it would be more economical if i chose to give up drinking, but it makes me sound like a lush if i give up meat.
darcy: yeah i don't know what i'd choose either
me: i guess i'd have to choose meat and be that jerk that brings the boca burger to the bbq.
December 2, 2008
Just a Quickie
I know I've been a deadbeat blogger. Here are some things.
• I love Beyonce's new single.
• My apartment might not be too small for parties.
• Over Thanksgiving I read five books in one day (to a child.)
• This month is my three year Portland anniversary. Hard to believe.
• At karaoke at the gay bar a drag queen compared me to Thora Birch in Ghost World, and after my performance told me I'd won a gold medal in the Hipster Olympics.
• I broke my iPhone and was able to get it replaced for free. My guy was so cute I couldn't help but flirt. Never underestimate the power of being cute.
• OMFG Gossip Girl!
• The Darjeeling Limited is on repeat at my house.
• This month I'm making my NPR debut.
• Making new friends is incredible.
• I'm finally interested in new music again.
• I subscribe to the Woody Allen theory of first kisses.
Hope all is well.
• I love Beyonce's new single.
• My apartment might not be too small for parties.
• Over Thanksgiving I read five books in one day (to a child.)
• This month is my three year Portland anniversary. Hard to believe.
• At karaoke at the gay bar a drag queen compared me to Thora Birch in Ghost World, and after my performance told me I'd won a gold medal in the Hipster Olympics.
• I broke my iPhone and was able to get it replaced for free. My guy was so cute I couldn't help but flirt. Never underestimate the power of being cute.
• OMFG Gossip Girl!
• The Darjeeling Limited is on repeat at my house.
• This month I'm making my NPR debut.
• Making new friends is incredible.
• I'm finally interested in new music again.
• I subscribe to the Woody Allen theory of first kisses.
Hope all is well.
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