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.
February 5, 2010
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.
November 11, 2008
Warm Up to Winter
I just ordered this coat online. I couldn't help myself! I'll let you know how it turns out.
November 4, 2008
October 31, 2008
Happy Halloween!
On my way home, my last walk home to the Hill, I saw two Uma Thurman character costumes. Poison Ivy and that chick from Pulp Fiction, with the syringe sticking out. Ha! Ivy and syringe! Then someone dressed as the teen wolf waved at me from across the street, as if we were friends. I couldn't tell who it was because they were wearing a mask.
I decided to stay in, battle a cold, and prepare for the big Move. At the video rental place, I felt as though I should've gotten Psycho, or something. But then remembered the last time I attempted to watch a scary movie on Halloween. It was the reissue of the Exorcist in the theater, and I'd never seen it before. I drove about 90 miles an hour home, went to bed with the light on, but was completely convinced that my bed was shaking. I slept maybe two hours that night, and for the next two months I'd be falling asleep then bolted awake by the moving bed. There were no earthquakes in Lewiston, so it had to have been an evil demon trying to possess me.
I left the store with When Harry Met Sally. Very Safe.
I decided to stay in, battle a cold, and prepare for the big Move. At the video rental place, I felt as though I should've gotten Psycho, or something. But then remembered the last time I attempted to watch a scary movie on Halloween. It was the reissue of the Exorcist in the theater, and I'd never seen it before. I drove about 90 miles an hour home, went to bed with the light on, but was completely convinced that my bed was shaking. I slept maybe two hours that night, and for the next two months I'd be falling asleep then bolted awake by the moving bed. There were no earthquakes in Lewiston, so it had to have been an evil demon trying to possess me.
I left the store with When Harry Met Sally. Very Safe.
October 27, 2008
October 23, 2008
Pringles Come in a Can
It just occured to me that Pringles taste a lot like cold Burger King french fries, just crunchier.
That's right. I'm eating Pringles. I made sure to NOT accidentally get the fat-free kind made with Olestra, which causes anal leakage. It didn't actually happen, even though there is a WARNING LABEL, but it was a very stressful 24 hours of my life.
That's right. I'm eating Pringles. I made sure to NOT accidentally get the fat-free kind made with Olestra, which causes anal leakage. It didn't actually happen, even though there is a WARNING LABEL, but it was a very stressful 24 hours of my life.
October 10, 2008
Chocolate Dipping
This afternoon I had a bit of a renactment of this episode of I Love Lucy when I was posting about 900 peices of mail. I thought I'd post it... the humor really stands the test of time, I think.
October 9, 2008
October 6, 2008
Lewiston High School, Class of '02
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."
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 Ancient Japanese Art of Karaoke
For the past few Saturday nights in a row, a few friends of mine and I have been going out to karaoke night at a former gay bar called the Flask Lounge. And it's amazing. I don't understand the social stigma that comes with karaoke- every time I've been to this particular night it turns into one big giant dance party. Journey, "Don't Stop Believing;" Mama's and the Papas "California Dreaming;" any number of Bruce Springsteen songs; Fleetwood Mac; someone always does You're the One I Love from the Grease soundtrack... There are a few 'regulars' who are truly karaoke masters, who shine in the spotlight, tear it up, if you will. Other times the song isn't quite the right choice or the stage presence isn't there, but that's when you talk about the next song you're doing, get a drink, use the bathroom. In fact, I'd go so far as to say karaoke has been my sex substitute as of late- singing, dancing, my heart rate goes up, I start sweating... And no babies!
I've only ever sang once at karaoke, and it was... painful for everyone involved. My own boyfriend didn't even suck up and tell me that I did okay. It was Wham's Wake Me Up Before You Go Go, which sounded good in theory, but in actuality was really difficult. In my mind, the key is to pick a song that you already know some of the words to. I've been picking out the perfect song. It has to be something that everyone knows, gets excited about, and isn't too vocally challenging, because I'm rather tone-deaf. I'm thinking it's going to be a Violent Femmes song, but my ears have been open. Once, my friend Hillary tried to convince me that I should be in an all-girl band with her and Mandy- I was like but Hilla, I don't PLAY anything. She said it's okay, you can sing, you have the look! I'll try to remember that next weekend.
Oh, and there's this guy, who gets in on all the action with his inflateable guitar. He gives the term 'air guitar' a whole new meaning...
I've only ever sang once at karaoke, and it was... painful for everyone involved. My own boyfriend didn't even suck up and tell me that I did okay. It was Wham's Wake Me Up Before You Go Go, which sounded good in theory, but in actuality was really difficult. In my mind, the key is to pick a song that you already know some of the words to. I've been picking out the perfect song. It has to be something that everyone knows, gets excited about, and isn't too vocally challenging, because I'm rather tone-deaf. I'm thinking it's going to be a Violent Femmes song, but my ears have been open. Once, my friend Hillary tried to convince me that I should be in an all-girl band with her and Mandy- I was like but Hilla, I don't PLAY anything. She said it's okay, you can sing, you have the look! I'll try to remember that next weekend.
Oh, and there's this guy, who gets in on all the action with his inflateable guitar. He gives the term 'air guitar' a whole new meaning...
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