The Moose River Mix

Once upon a time, I "ran" a "website" called the Mixtape Collective. Through a series of unfortuante events, I closed my P.O. Box and ended the service. It was really fun while it lasted, and sometimes I fantasize about getting it up and running again. There were all of these great mixes that I'd made to give away, like the Cruise Mix, the Back to School Mix, etc. It's been so long since I've made a mix for someone, a tape or whatever, but one of my favorite things to do is make an accompanying tape narrating over the songs and why I decided to include them.

Here is the written version of that for the Moose River Mix:

Take Me to the River: Seems kind of an obvious first choice, the live version off of Stop Making Sense. It's an Al Green cover and a big hit for the Talking Heads, and although the river is obviously a metaphor for like, love or whatever, it's kind of perfect since we were, you know, going to the river. I've been totally obsessed with this album for weeks months, and I think it's because of Andy Lyman's performance as David Byrne at the Clash of the Titans. I've been to a couple of these things, and mostly I've been underwhelmed, but these guys really pulled out all the stops and I was blown away. Andy even had the dance moves. Mandy's been so sick of me listening to it, imagine my joy when the Talking Heads came on two for Tuesday on WBLM at the Q Street Diner the other day.

I'll Be on the Water: Akron/Family's I'll Be on the Water is such a sad, lovely song. "Thinking of you/there's lightning bolts in my chest. I know you know/I think our love's the best." The Moose River trip is entirely on the water, aside from the portages, and when we say, I'll be on the water, really,we left and said, see you in four days, there's no cell service up there, we're totally cut off. In the wilderness. On the water.

Sitting By the Riverside: I almost always find a way to include the Kinks in my mixes. This song came up when I searched for "river" in my iTunes. So did all my Weezer albums and "Ghost of the River" by the Anniversary (blast from the past!) We often beached the canoes and had lunch sitting by the riverside, sometimes we've taken shelter from a flash thunder storm. Nick did some fishing, I did some sunbathing. This mix is really literal, a narration of sorts, in case you haven't caught that. Two years ago we passed the time in the boats by brainstorming Karen's epic 8 disc (plus two bonus) 90s Mix, which could've been marketed in an infomercial by Time Life during late night reruns of Friends and 90210.

Northern Sky: Anyone who's seen the clear night sky, unpolluted from city lights, knows how beautiful and magical it is. It's something that I took for granted growing up. The first night it was pretty warm and clear and we took all three canoes out and did a little mega-canoeing, where we held all three together and jumped off and swam and stuff. Under the Milky Way was also in the running for this idea of sleeping under the stars, but I thought because we were so close to Canada (ahem, north,) and this song matched the tone of the mix and the trip a little bit better. We brought an iPod this year, and listened to a bunch of Magnetic Fields songs.

Wind of Change: It was so fucking windy. Darcy almost had a meltdown. We were paddling as hard as we could against a really strong headwind and were barely moving. Every year the weather significantly changes the trip... this year it was just so incredibly windy right away. Plus this song fucking rules.

Proud Mary- CCR can EAD, this is all about Ike and Tina. One of my favorite memories from last summer was Erin talking about the really mean geese on the farm she was working on, named Ike and Tina. You know what you're supposed to do if a goose is chasing you? Grab it around the neck with both hands and throw it. I'm terrified of large birds, so I'd probably be pecked to death. "Left a good job in the city, working for the man every night and day. Never lost one minute of sleep worrying about the way things might have been." Don't we all just want to leave our jobs to do whatever the hell we want? Someday I'll be the person that saves up, quits and lives in New Zealand for a year, or takes that cross-country road trip- throws caution to the wind. The Moose River trip is like a little taste of that, and I know we all fantasize about making that sort of thing a bigger part of our lives while we're out there. Proud Mary is also an awesome karaoke song, and someday I'll get to see Kate Digby Skinner and her bff Lauren preform it in person.

Big River- This came up in the brainstorming sesh while we were on the river itself. I love Johnny Cash.  Enough said.

Harvest Moon- I usually try and use some of the time while we're gone to reflect on the things I'm happy with in my life, how thankful for everything and everyone in my life, and it fills up my chest with happiness. Kind of like this song. "There's a full moon rising, let's go dancing in the light."

Red Squirrel Sun Rises- There was literally this little red squirrel at the campsite who was PISSED at me for shoeing it away from our food. That sucker got really, really close to me. Then a chipmunk came, and they chased each other around the campsite up trees and through the fire pit (no fire was actually going.) I was alone when this happened, and I had a really difficult time conveying the ridiculousness of the scene, the squirrel chirping at me from the tree. It was like a cartoon.

Walking On Sunshine- Remember that scene in High Fidelity that Barry takes off the new Belle and Sebastian ("sad bastard music") and put this song on, then did that obnoxious dance around the store? This song is like, pure happiness. We had some really beautiful weather once the wind died down.

With Arms Outstretched- I've loved this song forever, and I can't believe how well it describes the trip in so many ways. "It's 16 miles to the promise land/and I promise you, I'm doing the best I can" Halfway through the trip is actually about 16 miles and we are like, so tired but we're still trying. "I visit these mountains with frequency, and I stand here with my arms up. Now some days, they last longer than others, but this day by the lake went too fast." Third year in a row, check. Mountains, check. Lakes, check. Feeling like the trip was going too fast, check. Big singalong at the end, check.

End of the Line- Wrapping up the tail end of the mix, End of the Line by the Travelling Wilburys. I've always, for as long as I can remember, hated Tom Petty. But in recent years, I've relaxed, and realized that actually, he's a really great song writer.  "Even if the sun don't shine/Well it's alright/we're going to the end of the line." It's such a relief to see that final stretch of lake and know that in a matter of hours I'll be in a shower and a bed with a pillow. This song also kind of embodies the way I've been living my life, "Well, it's alright." Some friends recently described me as organized, which is sort of ridiculous. Here's a good example of how not organized I am: I left my backpack at the lodge at the Northern Outdoors in The Forks three and a half hours away, and didn't realize it until we were already two hours away. Yeah, I made a mistake. Especially because I was borrowing Angela's backpack, sleeping pad and Heather's sleeping bag and I would have to spend hundreds of dollars to replace those things, but it was already done, and I could've flipped out about it, but it's so much easier to not flip out and try to problem solve. I knew I could create a shipment on UPS.com, and I knew some friends would be up in The Forks in a week or two, and worst case- I could've made someone drive me up. In the end, the Northern Outdoors ended up sending me the pack and I didn't even have to pay. It was alright.

Right Back to Where We Started From- My love for this song was born from two things: My Best Friend's Wedding and listening to the Oldies station every single day in the office from 9-5. The Moose River trip is a big circle, a bow, if you will. Get it? We're right back where we started from. The relationship she's talking about in this song sounds pretty screwed up, though, and I'm glad I get to use the song as it relates to the trip and not "If you get hurt by the little things I say, I can put that smile back on your face." What a bitch!

The Final Countdown- The Arrested Development references first started on the trip when John Holt decided to come along, and even though Nick was the only one that he knew at that point, we automatically rebranded him Steve Holt! Then in Mama Bear's diner in Jackman on the first morning this epically ridiculous song GOB used as the theme song for his "illusions," and it's actually incredibly catchy. Unfortunately, we don't really know any of the lyrics other than "It's the FINAL COUNTDOWN.". We added a day of whitewater rafting, since we were all so psyched about not being in Portland for another day, and our raft guide, cute as a button, thought we were  singing Eye of the Tiger because we just repeated the synth parts over and over. So catchy. I just happened to look up the lyrics, and it turns out the song is about leaving the Earth and travelling to Venus in a space ship.

Notice the one river song I left out here: River of Dreams by Billy Joel. I hate that song. It was stuck in my head for the entire fourth grade.

Let me know if you want a copy. amandajennifer@gmail.com

Best Summer Ever

I have two weeks before school starts, roughly, and I just wanted to reflect a little bit on the best summer I've been having (therefore preventing me from being motivated to write in this thing.) I've basicly been on a bender since June. I should be outside right now.

Things I've crossed off my to-do list:
Moose River
whitewater rafting
lobster rolls and steamers at J's
patio dining at Sapporo
ride on the back of a motorcycle (bonus: it was from 1970.)
hang out on a sailboat
leisurely afternoons on the Eastern Prom, reading, listening to podcasts
host awesome 4th of July party
eat a lot of hamburgers, hotdogs and s'mores
lobster bake
Peaks Island
Sea Dogs game
drive-in movies
under the Milky Way on Bailey Island

Things that weren't on my to-do list but were still awesome:
Mackworth Island
flying kites at Fort Williams
getting a tan
late nights on the back porch (having a back porch)
the Laura Palmer (pink lemonade/bourbon)
the cover of the Portland Daily Sun and subsequent follow-up story
Missed Connection
booze cruise with Foam Castles

Things I need to cross off in the next two weeks before school starts:
buy books
boogie boarding
skinny dipping
Old Orchard Beach
Funtown
beat my high score at bowling and skee ball.
Kennebunkport Pub Crawl
make a fall to-do list

The Texas Roadhouse and the Rosetta Stone

My sister is awesome and I love her quite dearly, but we are two completely opposite people. I mean, completely. She looks like our mother, I look like our father. She makes poor emotional decisions, I make poor financial decisions. She's good at math and I'm... not. She dates guys who are alternately in and out of jail and/or the military, I date guys who are in and out of bands and/or New York City. She has two kids and well, I'm minorly terrified of most children, except, I guess the children of my close friends and family. One panic-inducing occasion at my old office had a six month old baby mistaking me for her mother. I think I actually ran away from the crying child and hid in the bathroom until they left.

Three years ago, Ashley, my sister was dating this guy who she'd known for a long time. He was graduating boot camp, and she'd just had her first baby, my nephew Andrew. Unbeknown to me, she went down to Georgia for his graduation, and he proposed marriage. I wasn't even positive that they were back together when she called me to tell me the news. He was stationed in Germany, they were going to get married at City Hall, pack up the kid and go with him. A number of things happened between the proposal and the deployment and they broke up, but these are some highlights from the conversation we had:

Me: Oh my god, are you kidding? Really, how'd he do it, do you have a ring? Oh my god, Ashley. This is insane.

Ashley: (clearly smiling on the other line) No, no ring yet... We just kind of... decided.

Me: Well, where were you  when he did it?

Ashley: Oh my god, Amanda, we were at this really nice restaurant- (picturing white tablecloth, candlelight, Alex in his fatigues, the baby sleeping next to them with soft jazz music playing in the background, no booze because they were both under 21) -it's called the Texas Roadhouse.

Me: (silence. Don't get me wrong, I really love the Texas Roadhouse. Really. Their baked sweet potatoes are amazing, and they give you hot, fresh rolls. They serve Blue Moon and you have to ride a saddle if it's your birthday. I've always had a great time there, except for that one time I found my server crying in the bathroom.)

Me: Ashley. Oh my god. The Texas Roadhouse is NOT a nice restaurant. It's a chain, like Applebee's or the Olive Garden.

Ashley: Oh. Well, anyway, our food was really good.

(a few minutes later, as I'm processing the idea, thinking about Ashley and the baby living on the base, being an army wife, making a life for themselves...)

Me: So, if he's stationed in Germany, and you guys are living on the base, I wonder if that means you're under American jurisdiction or German jurisdiction. Because if it's German, you can drink. But, there probably aren't any bars on the base so...

Ashley: There are probably like, neighboring towns we can go hang out in if he has leave or whatever.

Me: But you don't speak German.

Ashley. But there are neighboring towns.

Me: Ashley. You don't speak German.

Ashley: What do you mean?

(silence)

Me: Ashley....   German is a language spoken in Germany. Like French or Spanish.

Ashley, brow furrowed, ignoring my laughter: Oh. I thought they just spoke English, but with an accent... (pause) I might have to get that Rosetta Stone thing.

--

One of the funniest parts of this story, I think, is that she knew what the Rosetta Stone program was, but probably has no idea what the significance of the name is. (Please don't let this story reflect my thoughts on the Lewiston Public School system, or judge my sister for not knowing German was a language.) She has her GED and is taking classes at the Central Maine Community College, where she'll probably end up being a really awesome, funny, caring nurse.

The Writer Guy

I'm excited to bring you this story, finally. It's the second story from the Scratchpad Series.

I recently ran into the guy from this story in a bar, he was obliterated. Absolutely shitcanned. I texted him after I left, knowing this, and asked if he'd be interested in having sex with me. He said yes, although I feel fairly certain he has no recollection of this. Moral of the story: Writer Guy didn't, in fact, reject me- he DOES want to sleep with me, as proven by his drunken text.

Chicken Dance

Sometimes you turn to television to entertain yourself, even if you're in the middle of the woods. Too bad I don't have a video of Nicka P doing his version.


Arrested Development Chicken Dances - Watch more Funny  Videos

The Article and the Boat Guy

It’s really weird to have your face on the front page of the paper, even if it’s a free alternative-daily newspaper. I didn’t think anyone really read the Portland Daily Sun, I just thought people picked it up for the crosswords. Not the case, and here’s a story about the repercussions of having your fifteen minutes of local fame.

The night of the run in with the promiscuous 85 year old, this cute guy came by the bowling alley. This is nothing out of the ordinary, tons of cute guys come by all the time. But then I recognized him as a friend of a friend, and had a tiny freak out because I had a crush on this man, even though we’d never actually met. What was he doing in Portland, at my bowling alley? Before I had a chance to go over and introduce myself, busy caught up with my senior citizen suitor, he was gone. So, I did what I do best- I wrote him an email. He came up right away on the Google search, and right there on his website, I found his email. Although Googling someone usually yeilds results, it never ceases to amaze me. This was like the scene in High Fidelity where Rob is going through his what-does-it-all-mean phase and finds Charlie in the phone book. “She’s in the fucking phone book.” There is the whole stalker factor one has to be considerate of when confessing to someone that you found them on the internet, so I carefully wrote him a pleasant, complimentary email, trying as hard as possible to not sound like a total creep show, and offered to buy him a beer.

Much to my surprise, he wrote back within 24 hours with his phone number. We sort of text a little bit about a potential time and place to meet, but I soon realize we were going to have to have a conversation to figure this out due to my complicated transportation issues and scheduling conflicts. Unbelievably nervous, I call him. It goes to voicemail. He calls back almost right away. I try to smile the whole time, which is the only thing I learned during my one week of telemarketing, other than that telemarketing is the worst job on the planet. I recommended Flatbread to a friend for a lunch date, once. Since he’s now in a serious relationship with that girl, I figured my intuitions were correct that it’s a good lunch date spot. Although, anyone who was at the Scratchpad Series knows how I feel about lunch dates. For lack of a better nickname, we’ll call this man the Boat Guy (but not the man in the boat,) because he has a boat.  I call him the night before our scheduled meet-up to confirm plans, and we talk on the phone for over an hour. I love talking, and I love talking on the phone. This is already a really good sign.

***

My day consisted of meeting Matt from the Portland Daily Sun at the Hilltop for a quick picture for the paper, then a lunch shift at the bowling alley and then my date with Boat Guy. My hair was a mess and I had no make-up, but there was no turning back now. What does one WEAR on a day with so many different kinds of activities?! A severe thundershower narrowly misses me as I duck into the restaurant. (So much for the eating outdoors idea.) I’m right exactly on time. He’s already sitting at the bar, and from the amount of beer in his bottle, I can tell he’s been there for more than five minutes. This is actually a stunt I usually pull- showing up extra early for a date. That way you just sit, cool and collected, letting them come to you. There’s always the possibility that they’ll walk in, see you, turn around and walk out, but luckily that hasn’t happened to me, and it definitely didn’t happen to Boat Guy. We make eye contact right away and he waves me over. I breath a sigh of relief and sit down.

It seems to be going well. He’s asking me a lot of questions, which keeps the conversation moving. We talk about travelling and Portland and food. I make him tell me everything he’s done since college, which is a lot, and he confesses that he’s recently ended a serious relationship. Noted. At some point in the process of getting to know someone, they’re going to want to know what you “do.” What I mean by this isn’t your job, but what drives you. What your passions are, what you would spend all of your free time doing if money wasn’t an issue. For me, lately, the answer has been writing. Looking back, I’ve been writing for years, I even had a LiveJournal way back when, but never seemed to realize it was like, my thing. I went to art school, so new people usually tend to focus on that- “Oh, Amanda, well, what kind of art did you do? Are you still making art?” I hate that question, and so does everyone who’s ever “done art.” I’m halfway through my second pint, and apparently feeling some sort of liquid courage, because I start talking about the blog. I mean, you’re here, reading it. My Google Analytics tracker tells me that my readership has been steadily growing, which wouldn’t happen if it sucked. And I tell him that the next day I was going to get my first big press- the Portland Daily Sun. It seemed like all of the silly stories I’ve been putting down were actually kind of going somewhere. My writer friend Sean even said that he was thinking there might be a book in there somewhere.  A book! Holy shit! This is completely self-motivated, I’m in complete control of the whole thing, I’m working on it a lot, and I’m happy.

This does not go over well. Boat Guy says things like, “I can’t believe I ended up here with a blogger. This is the last thing I need in my life right now.” Suddenly, Boat Guy was no longer smiling and his body language has completely changed. I back pedal. “Listen, Boat Guy, I don’t write to offend or hurt feelings. My relationships are more important to me than the blog. It’s supposed to be funny, that’s all.” (This is all completely true, by the way.)  I try and change the subject, but I’m totally flailing. This date did a 180, and I’m not even sure if it’s still considered a date at this point. No amount of arm touching or eyelash batting was helping.  I had unknowingly struck some sort of nerve. Something was going on in his life that he wasn’t going to tell me, but was making him freak out. He was invited out under the pretence that I was buying him a beer. So, I insisted on paying for lunch. The check came, and I threw down. This probably made things even worse, in some kind of old fashioned emasculation way. We walk outside and I seriously want to get the fuck out of there, it’s awful. I’m fairly certain at this point I’m never going to see Boat Guy again, and don’t know if I even want to. I make a lame excuse and try not to run. I barge into Angela’s office two blocks from Flatbread, flabbergasted, and tell her the whole story.

That night at work, I’m sad. When you’re trying to get over someone, having someone new to take up that space in your brain is always helpful, and I was especially disappointed that Boat Guy was not going to be my new distraction. I’m good at dating and it shouldn’t have gone down like that. But whatever. Whatever was going on with Boat Guy had nothing to do with me. We all have varying degrees of fucked-upness in our lives, he was at some sort of peak. My blog is awesome, and I shouldn’t have to make excuses for my writing. Men should be lining up at my door to take me out, blog or no blog. So... imagine my surprise when I miss a call from Boat Guy later that night. He doesn’t leave a voicemail. Perplexed, I decide to call him back in the morning.

***

8:30 a.m., I get a call from Kate Digby Skinner. I can’t imagine what on earth she needs at this ungodly hour of the morning, especially since I had a pretty good idea what she was doing the night before and until what time, but I answer. She screams into the phone: AMANDA YOUR FACE IS ON THE PAPER AND IT’S HUGE AHHHHH!!!! I wince, then smile, and wince again. I hang up the phone, immediately throw some shorts on and run out to Sonny’s Variety, then over to the Greyhound Station. I probably grabbed 30 copies, not really knowing what to do with them. It was hard to not make eye contact with anyone, but I didn’t need any crazy St. John Street people stopping me. (Except for the Pizza Villa people. I wanted them to see it and think, that’s our GIRL! By the way, I didn’t tell anyone there I was moving. They probably think something happened to me.) Upstairs, in the comfort of my room, I read the whole thing twice. Although I’m reasonably satisfied with how the blog is represented, with Matt’s reporting, it’s shocking that my picture is so huge, a full half of the cover. Then there was the headline, “Putting it all on(the)line/Blogging as commentary on the modern dating scene” which might as well have said, “BEWARE! Amanda Pleau has a dating blog, do not go out with her!!!” That copy editor must’ve felt pretty fucking good about themselves.  I spent my remaining minutes with Boat Guy downplaying the whole thing, and this headline couldn’t have made things worse. “Oh, but Boat Guy, no, don’t worry about it, it’s not even like that. No one really reads the blog, it’s not that big of a deal, I don’t really write about dating, it’s just a fun hobby that I’m not even really that into. It’s not about dating or anything, I promise I’m not going to write about this or you or anything. This isn’t just like, research for the blog. REALLY, it’s not that big of a deal. The only reason that reporter guy talked to me about the blog is because we like, know each other and it’s been a slow news month. REALLY.” This headline made me feel like I had to give a disclaimer in the first thirty seconds of a date: I have a blog and you might be the subject.  

I call Boat Guy back and he’s on the boat. He says he read the blog, and I’m assuming this has put his mind at ease from whatever shit show he was picturing. It’s a beautiful Friday morning, and he asks me to meet him for coffee. This would be all well and good, I love/need coffee, except I told him I was going to be in the paper. I panicked. Up until Blog-Gate 2010, the Great Blog Meltdown, it seemed like things were going well between us, and I wanted to put the blog in the past. I weighed my options, which were few. There was definitely not enough time to beat him to Aurora and hide any papers there, and those papers are everywhere, anyway. Unless maybe I ran. He could have forgotten, although that seemed unlikely. I sucked it up, got dressed and headed over. It’s on his table when I arrive. Right there, my face, same hair and clothes that he had seen the day before. Thinking quick, I acknowledge that he’s seen it, by pointing and rolling my eyes, in and attempt to act annoyed rather than embarrassed. We don’t talk about it, it’s as if nothing happened. Close call.

You, my awesome and devoted readership (have I mentioned I work for tips for a living?) might be wondering how it’s possible that you’re reading this right now, since I promised Boat Guy I’d never write about him. Well, I pled my case. “Listen, Boat Guy, I’m reasonably certain that I’m never going to be in the paper again. It’s incredibly funny and ironic- the timing of all this whole thing, and it’d be a shame if I didn’t get to write about it.” He agreed, gave me the go-ahead, as long as he remained completely anonymous.

Moose River Vacation

Tomorrow I'll be leaving for a four day-three night canoe trip extraveganza. This will be our third year in a row, and it's really exciting. I remember way back when I didn't know what a Crazy Creek was and I couldn't pee in the woods. Now I'm thinking about buying serious gear and my J-stroke is getting better every year. 

The first year we had unbelievable weather, but took a wrong turn on the first day, putting us almost half a day behind. We had no gear, no gps, no flashlight and ended up in the middle of the lake. I had a serious panic attack, made everyone put their life jackets on while bats were flying around us under the moonlight. We had no idea where our campsite was, but thanks to some barking dog waking up their owner in a house on the middle of the lake, we got there safe and sound. She probably rolled her eyes, thinking we were really fucking stupid to be out there so late. We had Magnetic Fields singalongs around the campfire at the most beautiful campsite and Paddled for our Soul. 

The second year the weather wasn't quite as good, ahem, it rained so much we practically needed an arc. Although there weren't any singalongs, we did have a Rock Paper Scissor tournament and survived a tipped canoe. I also madeout with the self-proclaimed best rapper in Maine and ate a lot of jerky.  

Not sure what's in store for this trip, but I'll hopefully have stories for when I get back. 

 Giant Beaver Dam, first year

Riding Princess with the boys, second year

More Adventures at Bayside Bowl

Here is a recap of my last two days:

My first table of the night was four guy who were competing, two against two. Their first game was a tie, 136 and 136 to 134 and 138. A TIE! It was awesome. When they were ready to pay their tab, they gave me their credit cards in a pile and told me to just pick one, a credit card roulette. I laughed out loud. One guy said, this is my card. Don't pick my card. It was a smart move, because I really felt like I couldn't pick his card.  The other was an AMX, and we don't take AMX. Therefore, I had only one choice left (fourth guy came late, didn't eat, and only had two beers,) and ran the card. But to them, it was still a roulette and we had a good laugh about the whole thing.

Meanwhile, I bowled two pretty decent games, 110 and 117, which is where my scores should be every time. People come in all the time and ask how I bowl and I tell them all the time that I'm terrible, but those were better than my average. Though I don't have very many tables, things are looking up. Then I get a group of four bowling, they've been drinking at the bar, so they're feeling GREAT. So great, even, they leave me a fifty percent tip. Awesome.

There are some candlepin people bowling, drinking Bud Light and diet Coke. I can tell they're candlepin people, like hardcore candlepin bowlers, because they have their own shoes, but aren't friendly at all, and don't tip well. They're focused on this new and confusing world of tenpin and don't have time to talk to the waitress. There are also some guys who get moved to my side of the lanes, and they keep asking me the most annoying questions, even though I'm not their server. "Can we leave our stuff here while we go out and smoke? If we want another game can we do that here or do we have to go to the front? What does the red circle on the scoreboard mean? Do we close our tab with our waitress or do we go to the bar?" Me: "Yes, the front, a split, how the hell should I know." Then they spill their beer. SO ANNOYING. Oh, and it's brought to my attention that none of them are wearing socks with their rented shoes. At this point, it's like 10 pm,things haven't really picked up, and I'm thinking I wanted to go home. Or start drinking.

But luckily, Nate and Colleen show up with their wedding party and things get AWESOME.  Everyone is smiling, drinking, having a great time.  Colleen is making really funny jokes about how her husband is a douche for saying it was the happiest day of his life and rolling her eyes. There are two guys dressed like the Blues Brothers. I start getting beers for Elwood  and he tells me he wants to makeout with me just as someone I've had the pleasure of making out with on a previous occasion walks over and hears the whole thing. I can't stop laughing at myself and the ridiculousness of the timing. I love my job. Then I start getting beers for a bald man who was having trouble ordering at the bar. After I tell him that yes, I like MC Hammer, he tells me I'm HOT! Then an amazing balls to the wall Michael Jackson dance party starts, like, people dancing on tables and shit. I have a Bulleit bourbon on the rocks and go home.

The next night I skip dinner, roll a 126, and accidentally get drunk after work. I stumble into and East End bar at 12:30, run into a frequent customer from Maine Roasters. We have an awesome talk about life, death, marriage, canoeing, backpacking. I stay and hang out with the bartender for a while longer after they close, and make my way to the 7-11 because I need a snack. At 2:45 I run into Adam, the bartender from DTL, who has been serving me for years. I insist on buying his sandwich, refuse his cab, and stumble up the Hill. The next morning I woke up with a penny stuck to my ass, a "Do you remember calling me last night?" text, and a string cheese in my bag. My eyes are barely open, when I look down at my cat who's sitting next to my bed. We make eye contact, then in unison, turn and look at her empty bowl. New low. Great weekend.

Best Brunch and Where to Find It

I had to be out of my Gilman Street apartment by noon on the first of July. It took me right up until 11:59 to throw the last box down the stairs, sweep and find a piece of paper to leave a note with my new address. The first of July was a Thursday, and we had advertised a huge 4th of July cookout for that Sunday. This gave us exactly two days to unpack, organize, clean, hang pictures, etc. One of those days being Angela's birthday, and all of us working in some capacity on one or both of those days. There wasn't very much time, and honestly, I kind of freaked out.

The biggest job, by far, was the kitchen. I started Saturday morning, and balls to the wall, unpacked everything. Much to my discouragement, this is approximately what I found: five coffeemakers (four percelators and a press,) two blenders, two food processors, two mortar and pestles,  two dish racks, at least two, sometimes three containers of every spice imaginable, seven wooden spoons of various shapes and sizes, eighteen pint glasses, twenty mugs, five whisks AND  an old school crank mixer AND a Kitchen Aid mixer, two full sets of china, a partridge and a fucking pear tree. I was feeling stressed, and opening another box and finding another double or triple was making it worse. Especially because hardly any of this stuff belonged to me, and how was I going to decide whose things were kept and what went into storage? But in the back of my mind, I kept thinking to myself, "Amanda. It's going to be alright. They are going to use these magic kitchen devices to feed you incredible meals and you're going to be happy."

I was right. This morning Rebecca had some friends over for a brunch/bluegrass jam session (yes, that's what they call these things.) I was treated to the following: crepes with either homemade pesto cream cheese or a strawberry rhubarb sauce (strawberries from Rebecca's garden, rhubarb from the farm,) sliced mango and peach, homemade pain au lait bread, (baked by one of Rebecca's friends the day before, kind of tasted like pound cake,) a crab/avocado/cream sauce of some sort over a poached egg ON the fresh baked bread, coffee, bellinis, and sun-dried tomatoes. But I don't even know where the sun-dried tomatoes were supposed to go. And we ate on the porch. It was amazing, and I didn't do a goddamn thing. I'm seriously going to have to do some hardcore cleaning, grocery shopping and sweet talking to be able to hold up my end of the roommate bargain. Anyone on a quest for the best brunch spot in town, look no further. My house!

Oh, and to top the whole thing off, I'm sitting in my living room, checking my email. Rebecca is bustling in the kitchen, preparing for her guests to arrive. I hear a motorcycle pull up, and I run to the window. I decided way back in our days of frequenting Bentley's that one of my summer goals is to get on the back of one of those things, along with skinny dipping and Moose River and Great Falls Balloon Fest. I've had a few leads, but it'd be awesome if he ended up being my neighbor. Then I realize, the guy that gets off the bike, no jacket, no helmet, is kind of hot. He stands there for a second looking at his phone, and I run to the kitchen to get Rebecca. "REBECCA, get over here." (The sixteen year old in me lives on.) She's like oh, I know that guy. He's here for bluegrass. "Hey! C'mon in!" He walks in, I shake his hand, and realize that he looks like this guy, only younger:

The Infamous Bobby Lipps

If you live on the Hill, you know Bobby Lipps. You might not have ever spoken to him, but he's lengen... wait for it... dary. I had a blowout fight with an ex boyfriend once about Bobby's paintings. He said he liked the paintings, and since my ego was slightly bruised from him judging my taste in art earlier that day, I shot back, "You only like it because it's outsider art and he has no idea what the fuck he's doing!" Yes, in the heat of the moment, I can be a raging bitch. Anyway, we made up, and for the next gift-giving occasion that came along, I got him a Bobby Lipps original.

I found this documentary about him on the St. Lawrence website. It's 20 minutes, but it was worth posting.


bobby lipps from lcm=liquidcreativemedia on Vimeo.

To the Window, To the Wall

I just moved to Munjoy Hill, and I'm sure the bartender at the Front Room thinks I'm probably stalking him. No, they just have really amazing happy hour deals. I'd been wanting to move back to the Hill for a while. I won't miss that terrifying place known as the St. John Valley, except of course, Nicka P and the Pizza Villa. 


Mandy had picked me up the day before we moved into our new place at Vesper Street, and we went to meet Angela at the Front Room. We parked on Howard, my old stomping ground, and I pointed out a house next to my old house which had a beautiful garden. The couple that lives there used to put on MPBN Saturday morning while they did their gardening. From the windows, I could tell that their decoration of the entire house was really amazing. Mandy happened to mention the walls and the windows as we walked by. A few steps later, in unison, out loud, we started singing Lil' Jon's Get Low, "To The Windows/To The Wall!" IN UNISON! Urban Dictionary says um, well, you'll just have to look at it.  


Here is a video which might accurately capture the whiteness of the whole situation, Mandy and I, Munjoy Hill, Lil' Jon...  There was a girl at karaoke once who did the song, actually, she nailed it, while wearing a yellow cardigan. I'd post a video of that, if I could. 

Fan Mail

I received this story from a guy who saw the article in the Portland Daily Sun. Some names have been changed. I guess the blog could use a man's perspective, so here you go:

It's a cold winter day in Burlington, Vermont and I am in the middle of my shift at Speeder and Earl's coffee shop. At the time, I was managing two shops, as well as the roastery and was looking forward to my first day off in weeks. As I am making someone their beverage, I glance over to the entrance and see a stunningly beautiful girl walk in. I held her glance much longer than normal- not only was she gorgeous, but I didn't recognize her. At that time of the year 99% of our customers were regulars. When she gets to the counter to order, I notice she has a name tag from across the street. Her name is Chloe. My lame attempt at humor went something like this:

"Hello! My name is Steve, I will be your barista for the next 45 seconds to 1 minute what can I get for you?" I was expecting either a polite chuckle or an eye roll, but got a full on guffaw. We both proceeded to make coy small talk. She told me that she just moved to town a week ago. That sounded the internal guy alarm- it was time to storm the beach. As I gave her back her change, I informed her that Burlington just became a much better place with her presence. She blushed as she walked away, and turned around twice to wave goodbye. I decided right then and there that I was going to go across the street after work and ask her out. I could have waited until she comes in again,  which was probably a better idea, as to not seem desperate. But since she was brand new, I didn't want to wait for the other sharks to circle, so after work it was. The last 3 hours of my shift took forever. As I am cashing out, I hear a knock on the front door. I figured it was one of the many stupid customers who don't realize that even though the door is locked, the place might be open for 'them'. It was Chloe. I tried to suppress my insta-huge smile but failed. My walk to the door was probably more of a sprint than it needed to be. When I opened the door she uncomfortably said, "Hi, umm,,,,this is a little awkward for me....I'm not used to doing this but...."  I decided to cut her off and ease some of her embarrassment. (Awesome.)

"Never mind that, why don't you let me take you out for drinks and perhaps dinner tonight." She relaxed immensely and concurred that would be a good idea. We joked and made small talk while I finished closing up the shop. As we were walking down the street to our restaurant of choice, I ran into an old friend that I had not seen in over 2 years, who happened to be female. This is where things start to go bad. Chloe stood there with her arms folded tightly and just glared at my friend as if she had just kicked her cat. She let out at least two hmmmphs. When my friend departed, we continued down the street, but the energy and vibe had changed significantly. The flirty, sexual tension was replaced by a cloud of potential confrontation. She went from chatty Cathy to short, clipped, one word responses. This is where, in hindsight, I should have asked her right then and there what exactly was the problem. Waiting until we got to the restaurant was a bad idea. I decided we would have a drink at the bar before getting a table. I ordered us drinks. Looking at this angry girl, I decided to ignore her obvious mood and make like we are out to have a good time. This was thwarted with, "Did you fuck her!" This was said much louder than necessary. It stopped the other conversations around us dead in their tracks.

"Ummm, excuse me?"

"DID YOU FUCK HER!!" 

I turned to the bartender and told him to cancel her martini and just get my magic hat. She asked why I was cancelling her drink and I told her that it was because I was going to have a drink and enjoy myself and didn't need her see you next Tuesday attitude to ruin it. Now, considering how she overreacted to my lady friend, I should have known better than to deliberately provoke her. She grabbed a drink of the person sitting next to her and threw it at me while calling me a bunch of rated R type words. The owner came around and tossed her out and told her never to come back. I apologized for her and had my beer. You are probably thinking that I didn't handle it as maturely or as civil as I could have, but why waste my time trying to explain myself to someone I just met? Who in the world did she think she was to interrogate me like that? I know quite a few guys that would have done anything to appease her because of the hottie factor and three months down the road would be in a miserable controlling relationship.

I believe this story is 100% true, based on the details of the geography of Burlington, having lived there myself. I believe this girl was probably hot, and therefore bat-shit crazy. One of my coworkers, who also bartends on Wharf Street, told me he's figured out there is a direct hottness:craziness ratio. The hotter the girl, the crazier she is.  The only thing missing from this story, which from my perspective is REALLY interesting, is that Steve never actually specifies whether he did sleep with that girl. Which makes me think yes, he probably did. 

The Penis Heater, Take 2

Darcy was doing a language exchange with a friend a few months ago and they were talking about the differences between "hooking up" and "making out" in English. She said: "Well, my friend Amanda will often kiss guys in bars, but that doesn't mean she has sex with them. So she can make out with them but not necessarily hook up." This is, on a side note, not the case in British English… she thought her British friends were sluts until she realized her mistake.

He looked at her and said "Ah, pero eso es una calienta pollas!" - literally, “someone who heats penises”.

Turns out that is the Spanish equivalent of calling someone a cock tease. She fell out of her chair laughing and left me a voicemail via Skype that night telling me I was a penis heater. Sometime after that, I wrote myself a note to blog about the "Penis Heater," lost the note and forgot the story. Thanks, Darc.

My making out in bars phase ended with the move to Kennebunkport last summer, but I thought since my name was recently plastered all over Portland as having "a dating blog," I might as well try to live up to the hype for a few posts. Although I consider this stupid thing to be about telling entertaining stories, Laura pointed out, in her infinite wisdom, that since I'm single, all of the stories I tell are from the perspective of a single person. Here's a story of a time that I was making out in public, a real-life penis heater.

It was a fucking blizzard, one of those bitterly cold, silent storms. It seemed so bright- the roads, sidewalks, buildings covered in snow reflected the streetlights, completely untouched late that night. Angela, her niece and I were hanging out at Angela's apartment, if I remember correctly. We probably had beers with dinner, and decided that the Nor'easter outside was no match for us. This is Maine, it's a storm, we're going out. Gritty's was celebrating their 21 IPA anniversary on December 21. It's not my first choice of hangouts, certainly not the closest place to our house, but Angela was in the middle of trying to get them to sign on for a fundraiser at work. We bundled in our Bean boots, our peacoats, the thickest mittens. We couldn't really see each other's faces, so in order to communicate on the walk, er, knee-deep trek, we had to turn and face each other and yell above the wind, through our scarves.


We arrive and peel our wet layers off, just like a Campbell’s soup commercial, revealing dry sweaters, rosey cheeks and runny noses. A reggae-influenced band is playing, but I’m so happy to be warm that I ignore the fact that I never voluntarily listen to reggae of any kind and cozy up to an IPA. We find some of Angela’s friends from high school, sit down and introduce ourselves. Quickly, the conversation turns to our “numbers.” By this I mean the number of people we’ve slept with. The people at the table in their late 20’s, 30ish, all seem to be around twenty. I was almost 25 at the time, and I believe my number was between 5 and 7. Angela’s niece, however, is 21 years old, if that, and her number blows us all out of the water. She whispers it to Angela and Angela tells her not to say it out loud. She does, and immediately I text my younger sister, who is the same age, and ask her what her number is. First she tells me her phone number (which is ridiculous, considering I was TEXTING her phone number,) then her cup size, and I am relieved when she tells me it’s about half Angela’s niece’s, although, it’s still, not low.

The IPA and the music is moving us, literally, and we get up, three single girls, making our moves. Angela starts talking to some damn painter, the Niece is chatting up one of Angela’s high school friends (ten years her senior, him knowing full well how many people she's had relations with), and I set my sights on this guy. He’s dancing like a fool, possibly yelling incoherently, and from the looks of it, not drinking the IPA, but vodka Redbull. (Did I mention I was drunk?) He has to tell me his name five times and I still don't understand it. He gives me his business card, and I find out his name in Russian is the equivalent of George. Russian George is cute, about 5’7”, with round shoulders that nicely filled out his red and black buffalo plaid shirt. We're dancing, everyone is dancing, and it's getting really warm. No one wants to leave the bar to step out into the storm. We probably would've partied there all night. Russian George sits down next to me at one of the long benches. He's been living in DC, grew up in Portland, and tells me about his job- I can't remember- investment banking, or something. Since I now have all of the necessary information, we start making out. In the bar. Penis. Heater.

This doesn’t last very long, and eventually the Niece and I are talking to Russian George over by the bar, shouting over the music. He’s telling a story about some girl he knows, and somewhere, somehow, Russian George says the c-word- the see you next Tuesday word. This is when the Pizzo fire inside flares up and the Niece goes absolutely bananas. I don’t know if she thinks that he is calling her the c-word,  she wasn’t acting particularly c-wordy. Granted, it was loud and I was three sheets to the wind, but I’m fairly certain that he was referring to a woman who wasn’t in the room and merely describing her as the c-word, not recounting a conversation in which she was called the c-word. In any case, the Niece karate chops Russian George in the shoulder. If this was a movie, the music would’ve stopped, and the slow-motion would’ve kicked in. Actually, it kind of felt like it happened in slow motion. My jaw drops. They start yelling at each other, and I’m surprised we haven’t been kicked out of the bar. Angela sees the scuffle from across the room, goes all Mama Bear and flies over. She starts yelling at Russian George, pointing her finger, poking out her chest. I’m begging the Pizzo girls to let it go. The Niece walks away. Angela calms down and she enters into a serious conversation with Russian George about the meaning of words, social context and how your upbringing affects your vocabulary. I'm livid. Those damn Pizzos totally cock blocked me! Defeated, I pulled my famous leave without saying goodbye, cursing them up and down the whole blustery, snowy, hike back to Deering Street. I haven't seen Russian George since, and I'm not positive that I'd even recognize him.

 

The Daily Sun

Yes, you found me.

Thanks everyone, for everything, especially Matt at the Portland Daily Sun, my friends for putting up with being blogged about, and all my readers and critics.

The Little Black Skirt that Could

I wasn't born yesterday. I'm well aware of the fact that I work for tips, and sometimes I'll put on clothes that, well, you know, aren't exactly modest or dumpy. This one skirt, however...

Mandy and I are pretty much the same size, so we share clothes. The other day when picking up some key pieces of mine that she had, I grabbed this black miniskirt. She wears a lot of skirts and heels, I wear a lot of jeans and tee shirts. This was everything a miniskirt is supposed to be, short and snug, pockets. Before wearing it to work, I tested it out on a trip to Gritty's with Angela Pizzo. She has a mug, and I ate a cheezburger. Everything about my outfit that day was totally normal, except the length of the skirt. We're mid-pint, mid-conversation when a man, out of nowhere, comes over to us and says, "Can I tell you a story?" I'm psyched. I ask him if I can record, because a) the voice recorder app exists, b) I know how to post audio to the blog, and c) Laura is always looking for stories for her project. But the story is so stupid and he leaves out key pieces of information. He lives in DC, and his Mongolian girlfriend punched him in the face last week. He said he was just making dinner, $32 worth of scallops, she got annoyed and punched him in the face. Closed fist. So he gets in the car and drives to Maine. He rambles on and on about his house in Damriscotta, cell service in Lincoln County, this bartender he was talking up at a pub in Waldoboro, and his eventual reconciliation with the Mongolian woman. Angela said that she could see the disappointment on my face after five minutes in this wasn't going to be a great story. I recorded for almost 20 minutes and promptly deleted it when he walked away. It wasn't even a story. THEN the bartender told us that the reason she punched him in the face, which we poked and prodded him for and he never told us. I mean, seriously. She was Mongolian, not insane. He forgot again that she was allergic to shellfish. It was probably one of those, "If you forget again I'm going to punch you," situations. I would've been annoyed, too. Strange men approach me at bars sometimes, but based on the next two incidences which occurred during the skirt wearing, it's definitely to blame.

I wear the skirt to work on Saturday. Oh, it sort of looks like this. Except, black, with little pleats and pockets on the front. Similar fit, though. Don't forget my Tony's Donuts/Pizza Villa belly and Spanx indent, Dexter boat shoes (not spike heels), messy ponytail and glasses. Right, I was really knocking 'em out.

The night started slow. As with every really nice day at the bowling alley, I assume that no one will come in. If I wasn't working on a beautiful Maine summer day, I'd be on the beach, on a boat, at a baseball game, eating BBQ, or a combination of all four. Anyway, things picked up around 9, because Bayside Bowl is awesome and supersedes decks and boats. Then a couple of things happened:

I was propositioned by an 85 year old man. This is not a joke. A 50-something year old man with a name everyone in Portland knows, was doing shots of Crown Royal. He asked me for one for him and one for his uncle, the 85 year old, who's name might've been Jack. Jack was old, looked old, acted old, without a doubt the oldest person in the building by at least 20 years. He corners me at the waitstation. "AMANDA!" I look up. "Let me ask you a question." I know there's no response to this other than okay, so I say okay. "Have you ever made love to a senior citizen?"




!!!




What?! Oh my god. I blushed. Hell no, why would I ever want to put my body up against your old, hunched over, wrinkly body? Do you even still have all of your teeth? Not to mention I'd have to do all the work! Gross, no thanks. It takes a nano second figure out how to let this man down gently, by using words instead of running away or dry heaving (my two instinctive reactions), so I smile and say, "I don't think my boyfriend would like that very much." The boyfriend is a fragment of my imagination. He replies, "Have you ever considered it? You have, haven't you!" I'm really, just so stunned, that I paused, went into auto pilot, and must've blacked out, because I don't remember the rest of the conversation. He said something about my boobs (which I don't believe were particularly pushed up or exposed that night.) I must've changed the subject to bowling, which luckily, is always a topic, then made an excuse about getting an order in. Instead of helping actual customers who probably needed things, I ran into the kitchen and had a mini-freakout and gave the kitchen staff a pretty good laugh.

A bit later, things are winding down, but I'm still shellshocked when the Bayside Bowl phone rings. Micaela answers it, and apparently, a man on the other line insists that she take down his number, in case "the dark haired waitress with the glasses wants some cock." So Micaela, says, "Amanda??" Great, so the creep knows my name. She takes down his phone number. I freakout, crumple it and throw it in the trash immediately. Then I try to pull my skirt down. I just facebooked this guy's supposed first name, and the first person I found had pictures on his profile bowling at a different alley. Interesting.

Anyway, that skirt has gone back to it's rightful owner, and I'm going to wear jeans, tees and muumuus to work for a little while. (In case you were wondering, my tips were awesome that night.)

The Penis Heater

Very often I'll write myself notes about funny stories and such to write blogs about. Usually, I keep a list in my "Notes" app on the iPhone, and just now while doing some cleaning, I came across an actual handwritten note. Some the the things, I've already written about, like that amazing Theodore Treehouse show, stupid things people order at the coffeeshop. Some of them I haven't, like "Intern, Bring me a campari," or the time in my seventh grade algebra class I swallowed a note I was caught passing. This was a desperate measure to make sure my crush, Danny McKellick, wouldn't discover my undying love for him in front of the entire class. That teacher absolutely despised me and wouldn't bat an eyelash before ruining my entire tween life. That was pretty much the whole story. I probably had to do detention, but then again, I probably shouldn't have been passing notes.

But then sometimes, I'll find a list like this and see something like "Penis heater..." and have no fucking clue what I was talking about.

Cardigan Innovations

In case you and I are ever hanging out, and you're not sure how much I've had to drink, if I'm acting like this: then yes, I'm drunk.

Darcy took this video a couple of years ago when we were on an all-girl camping trip. If I remember correctly, we decided to make margaritas the first night, which was fine, but the second day we were all out of margarita mix, and had a bunch of tequila leftover. Because I'm a genius, I decided to just get some Stewart's Key Lime soda to mix with the tequila, and drink that instead of the beer. One thing led to another, and well, here it is.



Note: I can totally admit when I'm wrong, and yeah, I was wrong. Please, everyone, don't let me button my cardigan like that ever again. Mandy, sorry for the dis.

Bowling Barefoot

A few days ago, I was working laneside. This one girl tells me that she'd lost her job earlier that day. She's with two guys who are bowling, and no one is drinking very much. Eventually, she decides to get a fruit and cheese plate, then an ice cream sundae. I asked if it was tough economic times, but no, she was fired. She was working as an executive assistant and blamed office politics. It's one thing to lose your job, it's even more depressing to be fired from a job- I was in full support of her ice cream sundae decision.

So, a little while later I come back to check in, and the guys are starting their second game, and I asked her why she wasn't bowling. She was wearing flip flops and said that she didn't bring appropriate footwear- like, no socks for the rented shoes.

Okay wait a second. Let me just tell you, that I've never thought of myself as someone who could sell things. I tried telemarketing once, and I went home crying practically every day. It was terrible. Apparently, though, judging by my tips, I'm doing an alright job convincing people to drink, eat and bowl. Really, it's not completely self-serving- I want everyone who comes to Bayside Bowl to have a great time, tell their friends, and come back. I guess it's kind of like when I try to convince my friends to stay out for one more drink. It's easy, and it usually works.

So I find myself saying to this girl, "Oh, but the shoes are brand-new, we've only been open a week. They've only been worn like, once or twice, I'm sure you'll be fine."* She gave me a long, unblinking sidelong look, paused, and said very seriously, "Yeah. (long pause) I've heard that one before."

...wait for it...

She was comparing wearing rented shoes with no socks to sex without a condom. Oh my GOD! And she was RIGHT! And the best part is that somehow she knew that I would know exactly what she meant, right away and I did! I laughed for about a minute straight. She made me feel like a total creep for trying to get her to wear the shoes barefoot. I've heard that line a million times, and I'm positive the girls have heard it more than once or twice, drunk or not. Something like, 90% of the men I've been with have tried to go, ahem, barefoot, and guys. We all know that going barefoot is better. Act like a responsible adult and put socks on or don't bowl.

Did I mention we have a pastry chef? Here's a lemon square, a blonde brownie sundae, and a Maine Root root beer float with some kind of fancy cookie I forget the name of:

*Really though, you probably won't get any fungi. Our customers are pretty well-kept, and plus we have this spray that MUST kill everything, it's so potent.

Boston the Rock and Roll Band

The other day a customer was kind of lingering at the counter at the coffeeshop, which is a bit of a personal pet peeve. I had nothing to say to this man, I'd used up all my small talk with him the day before. I introduced him to my coworker, Layla. And he said, "Wow! You both have really great rock and roll names." My initial reaction was, eh, not really. My song, Amanda, by Boston- is it really that great, and does anyone even know about it? I've always sort of felt ambivalent about my name, leaning towards dislike. But that guy, he convinced me otherwise and I've decided to start thinking about my name, and therefore, myself, being rock and roll.

The Snoop Dogg Story

Here is the audio from the second story I read at the Scratchpad Series, for those of you who couldn't make it. Mandy was nice enough to use the Voice Memo app on my iPhone to record it, but there was a bit of an issue somewhere in there, and it came out in two parts. 

One of my favorite pieces of criticism from the reading was, "I hope I never hear another white girl impersonating a black man ever again."

Life at Bayside Bowl

I love my new job. No, really. Did I mention I'm working at Bayside Bowl now? We've officially been open for three days. Everyone is really excited, and there are a few people who've been in multiple days of the three. You remember a few posts ago when I mentioned my Spanx Scar? Well. Not only will this job keep me running around all night, but I'm also going to be drinking a lot less, less Tony's Donuts, less iced vanilla lattes. I think I'll be ready for bathing suit weather mid-July. There are quite a few baggy t-shirts in my closet until then.

Opening night was sort of ridiculous. To be a good server, you need to be timely, accurate, and friendly. Sometimes, I was able to only get two of three- there were a lot of ups and downs, but I was smiling the whole time. The owner's brother in law told him that I was really nice, that he was happy with the service. I told the owner that his brother in law was the one being nice, because he didn't mention that I brought him the wrong meal and the wrong beer. But I had another table who absolutely hated me. It was two couples- later realized that one of the guys was the twin brother of one of my coworkers, and that I'm friends with his girlfriend's ex boyfriend. I made a weird joke about their taste in whiskeys being different and it was NOT FUNNY, just awkward. I was trying to make fun of myself for not knowing the difference between Crown Royal and Maker's in the glass, but it came out as a criticism of the future of their relationship. Big problem with the brain to mouth filter, here. Note to self: just because I feel comfortable with someone, doesn't mean I can joke about details of their personal lives. Then, I put the wrong cheese on their pizza, forgot to ask the kitchen about egg whites, and the kitchen didn't put mushrooms and onions on the veggie burgers, as specified on the menu. These people absolutely hated me, and I don't blame them- when I was bringing them their checks I made an awkward mini-speech about bumps in the road, opening night, etc. Every once in a while, I'll be out somewhere, and not gel with the server. Like, this one woman at Flatbread. I was that woman to these people. They went to the bar and hung out for the rest of the night... and probably got drunk and forgot about it.

One kind of funny thing that's been happening, when I'm working the lanes: there are a lot of couples coming in, and an astounding number of women are beating the men, way more than 50%. "She's kicking my ass." Awesome. A busty waitress from GR DiMillo's, across the street has been coming in and bowling alone, for the practice. There are a lot of ladies who're really into bowling. I've had my first drunken customer come back the next day and confirm that they paid their tab. Been there, done that. She gave me a $13 tip on a $17 tab. Woot.

Q: Who carries cash anymore?

A: People who wait tables.

Tips at Bayside Bowl + tips at Maine Roasters - amazing brunch with great company at Local - new jeans at forever 21 =

The Doppelganger

Occasionally, I get mistaken for this blonde girl who waits tables in town. She's about twenty lbs smaller and dresses better, so, I take it as a huge compliment. She's actually waited on me before, and I wonder if she knows that people tell me I look like her all the time, and what she thinks of this. And just the other day, I was at Pizza Villa, and I saw a Bradley Cooper doppelganger. If you knew anything about the clientele at Pizza Villa, you'd understand that this is really weird. Between this encounter at the Villa, celebrity doppelganger week, and the recurring doppelganger references on How I Met Your Mother, I decided to write about it.

A couple of years ago, I had a doppelganger in Portland. It started out with a mistaken identy at Shay's, in Monument Square. I was going there occasionally that summer- they had $5 bourbon lemonades served in mason jars, but the people watching was priceless. The bartender asked me if I wanted a Jim and Coke, which was weird, because although not opposed to the idea, I'd never ordered that before. I don't really name drop alcohol. Weeks later at Rosie's, where I'd consider myself something of a regular, once, the waitress asked me if I wanted a Sam Adams, which I'd also never ordered there. I kind of looked at her funny and said no, but thank you, and ordered a Hooker Brown. (Not until recently did I occur to me that the beer is called HOOKER and that's weird.) Then, when she came back for my food order, she asked if I wanted the buffalo wings with blue cheese sauce. Hold on. No way. Blue Cheese sauce is WICKED GROSS. Sam Adams, honest mistake, but there's no way I'd EVER eat blue cheese sauce. And it's not the sort of thing that someone just suggests off the menu, this was obviously a case of mistaken identity. Confirmed one morning about a week later at the office when Michelle came into work and said, "I saw Amanda's doppelganger on Wharf Street last night. She had the same purple tights and everything. I had to look long and hard before I realized it wasn't her." I looked at her really confused, and remembering NO! I wasn't in the Old Port that night. Holy shit, I have a Portland doppelganger. Really, hopefully, we never meet. What if we have to fight to the death?

This was not the case with my friend Betsy, especially because in a fight to the death, she'd probably win. She worked at a bank in Westbrook for a while, and I went in frequently for my job. Much later, we become friends, and she told me this story.

I poke fun, but Westbrook isn't that bad. I imagine that regulars at the coffeeshop there are the same regulars as at the bakery and the grocery store and the bank. I worked in Westbrook for three years, and despite the commute, the occasional encounters with crazy Westbrook people (remember that guy who showed me his colostomy bag?), and limited lunch options, I liked it. Betsy was a teller, and every so often someone would come through her line and say that they saw her at Hannaford, and that she didn't say hello back. She's really friendly, this sounds like a very uncharacteristic thing for her to do. And she realizes that no, she wasn't at Hannaford at the time you specified. Occasionally, someone calls her Megan, with absolute confidence. She's thinking, no, you're not even close, and I have a nametag. These numbers weren't adding up. One guy finally says, "You know, there's a girl named Megan who works at Hannaford who looks just like you." Betsy's like, whoa, well, I have to see this girl. Personally, I'd be terrified. So, she boldly walks into Hannaford for a bottle of seltzer, or whatever, on her way home that night, and asks the cashier if there is a girl named Megan working there who looks like her. Again, I'd be terrified. The cashier pages Megan, she comes to the front, and she asks Megan if she ever gets called Betsy. Megan says, yeah! with a 'how did you know' sort of tone in her voice. Betsy responds, well, I'm Betsy. As if this wasn't weird enough, there is one extremely distinguishing difference between the two: Megan is unmistakably cross-eyed.

Oh, and Darcy made this for me:

Pulling Mussels from a Shell

My sister has two young children. A few weekends ago, I was fortunate enough to spend the weekend with them. Andrew is 3, and Alahna, or “La La,” just turned one. She isn’t the happiest baby; she smiled like three times over the course of 48 hours. I have no idea what the timeline is for babies growing and developing, when they start getting teeth, crawling, walking, resenting. La La eats potatoes, chicken fingers, toddler-ready meals, and just about anything else you’ll put in front of her. She’s kind of huge. I hadn’t seen her for a few months and she had grown so much in the lapsed time that I accidentally exclaimed, “That baby ate my niece!” (This is probably only second to the time in the hospital, Andrew, the hours-old newborn wouldn’t stop crying. Partially because I’m not comfortable around babies, and partially because I deal with my feelings by making jokes, I got really close to my sister and said very seriously, “You know, Ashley, I hear that babies really like it when you scream in their faces and shake them.” Holy shit, was my mom pissed!) I’ll be allowed to joke about La La’s weight until she’s old enough to understand. I kid because I love.

Occasionally, I’ll tell someone a little bit about my Lewiston upbringing, the current state of my family- my mother has worked the same job at the hospital for 30 years. My father has been unemployed since, well, I don’t know when. My sister, bless her heart, is struggling through community college, while taking care of two (healthy and happy) babies. I’m a student, working at a coffeeshop. I surround myself with inspiring, engaging, artistic people, musicians. There are no babies, no welfare, no blue-collar boyfriends. And they can’t put two and two together, other than that time that I met this girl Bitzy at a part and she said, “Oh! You LOOK like you’re from Lewiston!” which was weird.

Anyway, we were at breakfast at Uncle Andy’s Diner, “Where the Elite Meet to Eat.” Ashley, La La and I were out to celebrate Mother’s Day. Since our mother was working. I figured, hey, Ashley has kids, which makes her a mother- consider my Mother‘s Day obligation fulfilled. We’re feeding La La some chocolate chip-strawberry pancakes (my idea, fucking awesome.) Sometimes we broke off pieces and put them in front of her to let her pick them up off the plate, and sometimes we put the fork in her gummy little mouth and fed her that way. Because she’s a baby, and doesn’t like, know baby sign language, and hasn’t been watching Baby Einstein, and isn’t Stewy, when she’s done eating, she just stops. I put a piece of pancake in her mouth, and she just pushed it out with her tongue, wearing a completely blank expression on her face. She drools on her chin a little bit, and the slimey pancake bit falls to the floor. Now picture me, as an adult, doing that in a fancy restaurant.

Which takes me to the night before I was scheduled to go on my first ever trans-Atlantic flight. I was so nervous and excited- this was it. I was going to FRANCE. Twenty four years old, and leaving the continent for the first time- I had a Passport (which, holy shit. You try and use a Passport as a form of ID at a bar… Prepare to feel the heat. In my early days at Pizza Villa, this one DMB-listening-douchey bartender gave me a really hard time about using it as my form of id. I was like, REALLY? I can get into UZBEKISTAN with this thing, but I can’t get a vodka soda at Pizza Villa? SERIOUSLY?) Angela Pizzo had a gift certificate to Ribollita, and we went there as a sort of, a "This trip could change your life and you could be a different person when you come back/what if something goes wrong and your plane crashes or worse, you end up like Tom Hanks in Terminal, stuck in the airport for ten years, or whatever" meal. It was... amazing. Since breaking my veggie edge, discovering Thai, Indian, Sushi and fine dining in my adult life, as a Portland resident, I've also developed a love for seafood, mussels in particular. The amazing thing about eating mussels is that the broth can be complicated or simple, fancy or traditional, and the mussels can be just as good. Mussels at J's Oyster Bar, the Blue Spoon, Local 188 and the Dogfish Bar and Grille (coconut milk base, ridiculous,) have been contenders for the top mussel-spot, but something about these Ribollita mussels were indescribably delicious (obviously, I'm not a food writer.) The bread they served with it was buttery and fluffy fococcia... maybe it was the lighting in the restaurant, or the wine, or the fact that I knew I could possbily never be the same after this trip... I dipped that bread in that broth practically up to my wrists. I was like a mad woman, having to consciously restrain myself from licking my fingers. Angela was really into it too. They were so. good.

In Lewiston, cloth napkins are few and far between. It's not that I don't have manners, per se, I know how to say please and thank you, and wait my turn to speak. But sometimes I'll pick a wedgie, or wipe my hands on my jeans (worn-in, faded jeans are the best, so I tend to move the process along as fast as possible,) completely forgetting that it's inappropriate in public.

That night at Ribollita, I forgot my table manners. But it wasn't my fault, I could have died. Angela and I both wore dresses, and I remember the hostess having some kickass boots. Cue the shoe-envy. We had probably been talking about work, or something work-related, my nervousness about flying to France, alone. All of a sudden, I was sopping up a particularly huge piece of bread in the mussel broth- it was like a sponge. I made sure to get bits of the floating onion and garlic. All of a sudden, something hard crunches between my teeth. This isn't supposed to be happening, it was just soggy bread. Flashback to all of the many, many times I've had nightmares about my teeth falling out. In waking life, too, they've been through a lot. Fillings, root canals, my wisdom teeth being taken out. I chew slowly, with my mouth full of food, wide open. See-food. It's a shell. It's a triangular, dagger-like piece of shell, and it was in my mouth. My life flashed before my eyes. If that thing went down my throat, it would rip through my esophagus like it was warm brie, and I was as good as dead. France? France what? So I pushed it out of my mouth with my tongue, just like the baby. It fell into the plate, at the restaurant, where we were probably going to spend over a hundred dollars on dinner. You can take the girl out of Lewiston, but you can't take the Lewiston out of the girl.

There's a song I always sing to myself when eating mussels. This is it: