Fo' Shizzle

Mandy might be one of the whitest white girls you'll ever meet. Not only does she have flaming red, Irish hair and the palest porcelain skin to match, she's also extremely... white. She's from Mechanic Falls, Maine. She'd never had rice until age 21. She listens to Black Music that Black People Don't Listen to Anymore, and wears scarves and drives a Jetta. Which makes the story I'm about to tell so. much. funnier.

Snoop Dogg, legend of hip-hop, played at the Gray Cage at Bates College in Lewiston, Maine, my hometown last week. ("Seriously? Snoop is playing in LEWISTON? They hate black people there." Well, kind of.) Snoop Dogg is kind of a big deal and he's had a pretty huge impact on my life. The week leading up to the show, I kept getting this one song stuck in my head everytime someone said his name... the one where in the background someone sings, "Snoop-dogg-y dooo-ooo-awg."  When I decided to try drinking alcohol for the first time, I went with gin and juice, because that's the first thing that came to mind. When "Drop It Like It's Hot," came on the radio in my car, I'd crank it and try and click my tongue along to that part. You know the part. See? I'm really white, too.

Anyway, Mandy talked to Snoop Dogg on the phone once.

Last week wasn't the first trip to Maine for Snoop. Back in 2004 (I Googled it), Snoop played at now-defunct the State Theater. That night, Mandy, age 19, was working at the Bull Moose warehouse in Scarborough. It was 10pm, there were, possibly, two customers in the store, and she was working with a girl she describes as a beautiful, voluptuous, lesbian named Jamie. They're getting ready to close the store, when a giant limo speeds into the parking lot, almost crashing into the front windows, tires squealing. Mandy assumes that it's a fancy date, prom or something, until two black dudes covered in bling step out of the car.What the fuck? There are hardly any black people in Maine, and none of them ride in limos and have bling. It's just not how we do.

These two guys walk in, one is older, with a bulldog face, droopy red eyes, and the other is a little bit younger and slightly overweight. He says to Mandy when he walks in, "Yo, girl! Yo, girl, where's your soul section?" So she walks him over to the section, and as she's about to walk away he's like, "I need some babymaking music, I need some BABY-making music. You know anything about soul music?" Which is a little bit ironic, because at the time, Mandy was a virgin. Technically, she didn't know anything about babymaking music (disclosure: neither did I.)

She's not really sure what he's looking for- like, if he wants the best one she has, or an assortment, so she starts grabbing whatever and throwing it in his arms, running back and forth to the used section. Compilations, Al Green, Otis Redding, and before she knows it, there are like, 20 cds in his hands. At some point, the bizareness of the whole situation just gets to her and she asks, "So you mind if I ask, what's going on here, who are you?"

"Oh, yo girl, I'm Snoop Dogg's cousin!" WHAT?? And that's when it dawned on her, holy fucking shit these cds are for Snoop Dogg, because he's playing tonight, in Portland. "Yo girl, Snoop told me to come down here and get some BABY makin' music for after the show. Yo girl, you gotta help me out."

Now, maybe I'm being stereotypical here, but this guy was 30ish, and the other guy was probably closer to 45. How is it that they had no idea about any soul music at all? "Yo girl, you think this one would be good, you think this one'd be sexy?" This guy probably said babymaking music like fifty times... to Mandy, the 19 year old virgin. He's probably got like hundreds of dollars worth of cds in his hands at this point when he's like, "Yo girl, I like what you got for me here. But hold on, hold on just one second. We gotta make sure, we gotta make sure just one second." He pulls out his cell phone, which back then was probably a Motorola Razor, and makes a phone call. Mandy, again, is thinking, what the fuck.

"Yo Snoop, yeah, yeah, I'm here. I'm lookin at the soul music right now- I got this girl, she's helping me out. Let me read off to you what I got," and he names a few things and pauses after each one then stops. "Hold on- hold on Snoop, Hold on." And hands the phone to Mandy. "Yo girl, Snoops on the phone. You gotta tell him what we got, he's gotta approve."

She stands there for a second, with the cell phone extended to her, and she knows that on the other end of the line is Snoop Doggy Dogg, waiting to talk to her.

"Hello?" She's like, terrified.

"Yo girl, I hear you're picking out some babymaking music for me tonight." So she starts explaining all the different gospel soul, southern soul, modern soul, and even though this sounds completely ridiculous, after every single thing she said, he responds, "Fo' shizzle."

Mandy: I've got D'Angelo, Untitled.
Snoop: Fo' Shizzle.
Mandy: Sade, self titled.
Snoop: Fo' Shizzle.

She finishes reading off everything and asks what he thinks, is that good, is that enough.  "Yo girl, that's great girl, I can't wait." She hands the phone back, ending the coversation. He called her girl like five times, and said fo' shizzle like 50 times. While she's ringing them in, the older guy speaks up for the first time and says to Jamie, the lesbian, that he think she's pretty attractive, and the young guy disagrees and says that Mandy is more attractive. Then they give the girls the room number at the Eastland, where Snoop is staying, so they can come party after the show. Mandy doesn't go.

This is an excerpt from the article I found in the Press Herald about the 2004 show:

"If you're wondering what the kids mean when they say "fo' shizzle" after you ask them if they want takeout for dinner, you can thank Snoop Dogg for the linguistic confusion. Meaning "for sure," the phrase is part of a slang vocabulary created by Snoop Dogg, aka Snoop Doggy Dogg, Snoop Dizzle, the …"

Amanda, You're like, the Bomb

On a recent Monday night trip to the Dogfish Bar and Grille on Free Street, I was hanging out with this kid from portlandtaps.com, catching up. Some more friends showed up, and after a couple pints of Arrogant Bastard, we started talking a little bit about how fun unlikely hook-ups can be. This chick started laughing, remembering the time she hooked up with a man she was convinced was 90% gay. "It was so much fun, even though he was totally completely gay. We laughed so much! He really loved my boobies... and hey, a blow job is a blow job, right?" (Dad, now would be a great time for you to stop reading.)

So I started telling the story of the most fun, least likely hook-up I've ever had.

It was last May, and I met some friends at the most lengen... wait for it... dary house party on Exchange Street. Everyone was there... It was a beautiful spring night, there were Jell-O shots. We all left around three a.m., after the fourth floor deck shifted under our weight and the toilets started clogging. Well, I tried to leave. But I saw this cute guy... and asked him for a drag of his cigarette (I don't smoke, and this is a very clear indication that I've had too much to drink.) We started making out. The plan was to leave with Darcy and crash at her house... but then this kid, Connor, ran outside after me, begged me to come back in the party, and I said no, and drunkenly agreed to let him walk me home. (Ditching my friends and leaving with a complete stranger was obviously a huge mistake, I was hardly standing, let alone able to make responsible decisions about my safety. I also got into a huge screaming match with this super obnoxious queen outside of the party... I said he was generic, he told me I was like Janeane Garofalo. I told him to find a new hangout and he replied, I am! It's called SAN FRANCISCO!)

In the morning, it took me a few minutes to remember his name, where I was, and what happened the night before. Then I remembered he was four years younger than me. Just a baby, he turned 21 only a few months prior. I'm cringing, thanking GOD that I didn't have sex with this stranger. I roll over, so completely hungerover I could've actually slept the entire day. When we met, Connor was wearing those Vans, the ones with the checkers on the side, faded black Levi's, and a black Jesus Christ Superstar T-shirt. We talked a lot on the way home. He was from Sanford, loved skateboarding, and worked at a pizza joint in town.

"Amanda." Oh my god he's talking to me, and he remembers my name. What if he doedsn't realize that I was wasted last night. Oh God. "You're like... the bomb." I laughed out loud and looked him in the eye. He was serious. This kid totally talks like a Jeff Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High. "Amanda... how did an ass hole like me wind up in the bed of such a beautiful girl like you. Oh man, you know, when I go out drinking like that, I should be waking up in the gutter somewhere or something. This is like, awesome." He's right, there is no way I would've been into him if I wasn't drunk, but it was kind of awesome. I laugh, roll over and say, "Five more minutes." We alternate snoozing and making out for a little while.

"Amanda. I just like, really want to spend the day with you. I've got some VHS' at my house we can watch." I laugh. VHS aren't hip and retro. He pins me.

"Amanda. Let me take you out to breakfast. How about Denny's?" I roll my eyes. "No? No, Denny's? How about the IHOP. Denny's or IHOP. No? C'mon, what's the deal? You don't eat? It's a free meal! Who DOESN'T want a free meal. What? Is it me? Do I smell?"

My phone rings, it's Darcy. She probably thinks I'm dead in a gutter somewhere. I reach for my phone, and Connor pins me again. We wrestle for a little while and I'm laughing hysterically. This kid was so much fun! Finally, I answer and apologize PROFUSELY to Darcy for ruining the rest of her night by going completely MIA. Feeling even worse, I try and roll over and go back to sleep. At this point, Connor can leave for all I care. My back is turned... and he pulls down my underwear, like the Coppertone baby. I giggle, and tell him to quit it. He does it like four more times until I turn around really fast to make him stop. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Uhhh, nothing. I was just going to dickslap you."

These Boots

It's no secret that one of my favorite songs to karaoke is "These Boots Are Made for Walking," by Nancy Sinatra. It's easy, short and I have a little dance, and it works because even in the summer, I'm usually wearing boots.

A few months ago, I was running across Middle Street to see Tess Van Horn at the Black Parrot, one of the best clothing boutiques in Portland. That day I happened to be wearing a pair of caramel colored imitation-leather knee high slouch boots. I got them at the Salvation Army for six dollars, and wasn't totally crazy about them- my old Nine West boots had huge holes and were in dire need of repair. Six dollars for new boots was a lot less than the fifty dollars I'd probably pay at the cobbler to have the Nine West boots repaired.

So this woman, probably 50 something-ish, sees me run into to the store, parks her car and follows me in. She says that she loves my boots, and asked me if I got them there. I tried to not look completely shocked- there was no way in a million, bajillion years I'd ever be able to afford ANYTHING at the Black Parrot, let alone the boots! They were six dollars and not even leather! She told me they were a great find, I blushed, agreed, and tried to explain that she should just get Frye boots, which are expensive, but would probably last her the rest of her life. She shrugged and left the store.

At the time I could've never anticipated the events of last week... I got tipsy at (well, before and during,) the Black Parrot anniversary sale, and went home with these Rachel Comey boots. Thank you, student loan refund.

LL Bean

A few days ago, on my way to work, trudging through a really nasty rain/wind storm, I felt like I had stepped out of an LL Bean ad. I was wearing a hunter orange hat, from Goodwill on St. John, Bean Boots, a blue flannel fleece and a yellow rain slicker, featuring a navy whale print lining, while carrying a classic blue and white oversized boat-and-tote bag, which kept the contents wicked dry. I wasn't going to get rained on, hypothermia, shot at or well, whatever else could've possibly happened while waiting for the bus in that monsoon. I've realized recently, my wardrobe is containing an expanding number of Bean items, boat shirts and pullovers, and of course, the ol' dark denim and the Bean boots. It's all very "Maine."

But I'm in luck. Turns out Mary Phillips Sandy is working on web content for this new, exciting line from LL Bean and the Rogue's Gallery dude. The new line, called LL Bean Signature, is inspired by pieces from the '30s and '40s, and will be marketed to a younger, hipper demographic. Mary was fortunate enough to see the LL Bean archive, which is a room, only open to LL Bean employees, containing items from as far back as 1918, when the company was started. There is a hunting jacket from the 30s with actual dried duck blood. There is a pair of Bean boots that a soldier wore all through his tour of duty in World War II. The US Army tried to get this guy, a Mainer, to wear Army-issued boots, but he refused. After he died, his family just sent the boots back to Bean's, and the archivists there receive this kind of thing all the time. It's such a bummer that this great collection isn't open to the public (yet?).

My childhood best friend is the only person of no relation I can say I've known my whole entire life (seriously, our moms were friends while we were still in the womb.) She left her job at Victoria's Secret, choosing her family, friends, and boyfriend and a job as Assistant Marketing Manager at LL Bean over climbing the corporate ladder and moving to Ohio, where the Victoria's Secret corporate offices are located. At Bean's, she's on the floor a lot, which means talking to customers. I shouldn't have been surprised to learn that people who shop at LL Bean LOVE shopping at LL Bean, which is the opposite of how people feel about shopping at the mall. She tells me that people drive from Minnesota to come to the flagship store. A 91 year old woman came in and told her that shopping at LL Bean was like, her dying wish. She tried to help her pick out some nice clothes, but the woman kind of shrugged, confessing that she couldn't really even see what she was holding up for her, didn't care and would just take whatever.

But the best story she had, however, was when this man, a normal looking, 40-something man, came over and asked her where in Maine she lived. She's currently living in Auburn, not far from where we grew up, but this would mean nothing to a person in town only to be shopping in Freeport- we're not the capital, the largest city, or where the Bushes have a summer house, well, compound. So she tells the guy, and this is what he said, "Let me ask you, in Auburn, can you see lobster walking around in your back yard?" Her mouth gapes open a few times, like the live trout they keep at the store. She's flabbergasted. This is ridiculous and hysterical for a few reasons: 1.) Immediately I pictured red, cooked lobsters walking around in the back yard of the house I grew up in. 2.) Lobsters live on the bottom of the ocean. No one can see them from their house, even if you live on a boat. 3.) Auburn... landlocked. So, she replies as politely as she can without letting on that this man is absolutely crazy, "No, well, occasionally we might see a Moose, but no, no lobster."

Josh Gleason produced a story that aired on NPR about being up all night at Bean's, which is open 24 hours. See you there!

Dark Shadows

It's a fifteen minute walk from my apartment to Tess's, through the heart of the West End. It was extremely windy, dark, about 9pm on a Friday night. In addition to an actual cemetery, which to me, is scary in the daylight, most of the houses on these streets are huge brick mansions with vast, expansive yards which create a lot of dark shadows. Most of the windows in these houses were dark. There are no cars, no other pedestrians, not even any fanatical dog-walkers. (Even people who live in the heart of this neighborhood agree that it' haunting... check out the story at maine. Magazine.) Lady Gaga coming in through my earbuds is not blocking the deafening rustling of the trees in the wind. Through this noise, I hear a creaking, like metal on metal. In my wildest imagination, I can't think what terrifying thing could possible be producing this noise, but that's just it- the unknown is so much scarier than the known. It was discovered earlier in the week my boots are NOT made for running, so to take my mind off of things lurking in the shadows, watching my every move, I do what I always do when I get scared: I called Laura and leave her a lengthy voicemail in a panicked tone of voice and arrived at my destination in one piece.

The next day she says she has a story to rival my story, which yeah, wasn't really that spooky unless you were there. Big deal, I was freaked out by the WIND. She was cleaning out a closet in her house (one that hadn't been used since she moved in,) and there was...

...a body bag.

They couldn't identify it at first, was it a tarp, or a garment bag... because other than people who work in hospitals, funeral homes, and oh yeah, people who watch Grey's Anatomy or Six Feet Under, no one should know what a body bag looks like. There was a toe tag, and a little contents key to mark weather the body had an infectious disease or was decomposed or whatever other ailments dead bodies might have.

Holy. Shit. Was their landlord plotting a murder??

Up North

With the exception of a few short stints in other New England towns, I've lived in Maine my whole life. I know the geography of the state, were you can get lobster flavored ice cream, I've lobbied to the state appropriations committee, I've been to "the County." Corny Maine jokes always make me laugh: "Bangor? I hardly know her!" "You can't get there from here." Everything sounds funny in the accent. Here's a video some friends of some friends made (because everyone here has a mere two degrees of separation):



Mandy and I have been doing a lot of thrift shopping- mostly for her website shopgrandmajune.etsy.com. We scour the Goodwills and Salvation Army's within a ten-mile radius of Portland. I have my favorite locations, she has hers. We'll walk in the door, split up, then meet up after 20 minutes at the dressing room with our arms full. She and I will go in together, because four eyes are better then two (well... in our case, three and a half are better than two...) bringing in way more than ten items. We make yes, no, maybe piles, and make decisions.

On one such trip, recently, I found a grey sweatshirt, no hood, no zipper, that read: "Up North," in the same style one might find a state or univsersity name. I hold it up for Mandy and ask, is this funny? The woman behind us starts laughing. Out loud. So yes, it's funny. Up north, the general vicinity of the state above Portland where people camp, hike and ski. It's five dollars- kind of a no-brainer.

At this point, I'm starving. I had completed a nine hour shift at the Maine Roasters, and I was anxious to meet Angela for oysters at J's. Mandy is still deliberating, so I run over to Shaw's to grab a pre-oyster sandwich. She says her car, a 1984 tan VW Jetta we call Peacock, is unlocked, so I throw my prized find in the front seat, quite pleased with myself as I'm crossing the parking lot. I happen to notice that the contents of the driver's front seat of the car are a little bit different than before, but Mandy had to grab her phone while we were shopping, so I think nothing of it.

Ham sandwich in hand, I meet Mandy back at the car, just like we planned. She's not there. But... neither is the sweatshirt. She's still in the store. Had she gone back to the car, again? I practically run. I grab her by the arm, "Did you go back to the car?"

"No," she replies.

"Oh my god, the sweatshirt isn't there." (Because this is Maine, the thought doesn't even cross my mind that it could've been stolen. Once, I didn't lock Josh's car and his winter coat was stolen from the backseat. I felt terrible, obviously, but what the hell was his jacket doing back there, anyway?? Still haven't learned.)

"Well... there was a gold Volvo parked two doors down from me. I almost went to it when I was grabbing my phone."

And then it dawns on me. I put the Up North sweatshirt in the wrong car. I get really upset for a few reasons. 1, Why didn't that car lock it's doors?! 2. The contents of the car were obviously those belonging to a woman. This is definitely not going to be the beginning of a romantic comedy. 3. Why wasn't that car still there? 4. The Up North sweatshirt is GONE and I might as well have thrown that five dollars in the trashcan. Mandy explains the whole thing to the clerks at the Goodwill, how I bought the sweatshirt, to see if anyone returned it, and they laughed at her, well, me. Kate did the same thing a few days later, and the employees were equally bemused by my mishap.

A few days after that, even, I see a gold Volvo on Free Street. I'm with Kate, and I decide there's only one thing to do: leave a note. The chances of this Volvo being the same Volvo are slim, but it's ridiculous not to.

This is what it said:

Hello There,

This is extremely embarrassing, but a few days ago I mistakenly threw a gray "Up North" sweatshirt in a car just like yours (thinking it was my friend's car which is a very similar VW.) Obviously, this is a long shot, but I'd be pleased to find said sweatshirt.

Thank you for your time, and have a great day.

Sincerely,

Amanda


I leave it on the car and run back. Kate asks me if I left my phone number or email... and I realize this sweatshirt might be not be in my future. Because I didn't leave my phone number. I had to run back to my note and revise it. In the middle of Free Street.

No word, yet. I'll keep you posted.

Breve Cappuccino

For a living, I serve coffee. I like my job, I meet the best people, and get to talk about coffee all day. Not to mention, as much coffee as I want. I drink like, 25 cups of coffee a day. Actually, this is how it goes: in the morning, a 16 ounce Rocky Coast Roast, which is a Maine Roasters Coffee strong, dark blend- people go bananas over it; in the afternoon, an iced soy chai or a nonfat vanilla latte, sometimes iced, sometimes hot; but when the closing tasks begin, it's always a fresh brewed iced tea, with either peach, orange or raspberry Torrani flavor. These are all reasonably normal drinks, pretty straightforward, but you would not believe some of the ridiculous drinks orderd by the patrons of Yarmouth.

BLUEBERRY latte. I shutter to think.

Short cup of Vanilla Foam. (that's right, FOAM!)

Tall red-eye with Gingerbread flavor and room for cream.

Quad grande soy vanilla latte (this drink costs over five dollars.)

Medium coffee with like, four shots. Actually how this guy orders it... prompts me to say, really?

"I drink Dunkin Donuts coffee. Can you make my coffee as Dunkin Donuts-y as possible?"

Anyone that wants extra room. More than a splash of cream makes me want to gag. It coats your mouth with disgustingness. Double breve cappuccino. Same goes with anything made with half and half. Gross. Actually, Splenda. That's gross too.

Speaking of things that make me gag, Bea Wood and her infinite hilarity said the other day after a young man came by sporting the ever atrocious ponytail, "Ehhh. I'd rather date a guy with like... a Guido blowout than a ponytail. (scoffs) Even a Jewfro." She's got this dry, really Daria kind of delivery. I laughed out loud.

I know some Amato's employee somewhere is also making a similar list of ridiculous things people order, and I'm one of them: Ham Italian, no onions, no oil, plus pineapples. Stay tuned for more coffee ridiculousness and excellent Bea Wood quotes.

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.

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. We 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."

100 Songs in 100 Days- A Dance Off!

BOOMBOX from Ely Kim on Vimeo.

Hamburger Dress

In case you were wondering what to get me for my birthday...

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.

New Years's Eve Wall Street Party

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.

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.

Prop 8- The Musical

"Prop 8 - The Musical" starring Jack Black, John C. Reilly, and many more... by Jack Black

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.

Warm Up to Winter

I just ordered this coat online. I couldn't help myself! I'll let you know how it turns out.

The New Apartment! Revealed!