Pedestrian Crosswalk Rage

I was attempting to cross the road the other day, a busy, four lane high speed traffic road, at an intersection with a crosswalk but no traffic light. I waited patiently, in broad daylight at the crosswalk, as far out into the road as I could venture without getting nailed. Three lanes of traffic stopped for me to proceed, careful to not block the intersection. I looked both ways, then again. A car was approaching in the last lane that was not stopped. The vehicle was not an eighteen wheeler, and the roads bore no trace of snow, ice or anything that would compromise my safety. There was plenty of time to brake by the time I got there, so I went. Said car was not happy to be interrupted on his highspeed journey to wherever the hell he was going, so he honked. Angrily.

This was absolutely enraging. It was my turn. I had the right of way. "HEY!" I yelled and pointed, now completely stopped in front of the car. "Pedestrians have the right of way!" The driver probably couldn't hear me, on account of the windows being up. So he honked again. Angrily.

I did what any self-respecting green-friendly pedestrian would do- I looked into his eyes and flipped him off.

Happy Christmas and a Merry New Year

Christmas wasn't horrible! I laughed, listened, and smiled. My family didn't make me want to gouge my eyes out- my sister said it best when she declared that she might not dread next year. Maybe it was the multitude of movies, maybe it was the Muppet Christmas Carol, maybe it was my conscience, maybe it was the documentary, maybe it was Josh... but I didn't come home feeling empty.

These are big shoes for New Year's to fill.

O Tennenbaum

This is the Christmas tree that Josh and I cut down from the woods outside of Laura's parent's house. I think it's really something.

Christmas Movie Madness

Every year, for a few years now, I've been less than psyched that Christmas is coming. It's a holiday that lost it's magic for me along with my innocence, especially when I called my childhood best friend and she said she was dreading it, too. She was always the type of girl who had her own little tree- she had Christmas socks and plush Grinch toys. Forget the Advent calendar, at her house, the countdown started 24 hours after Halloween.

But now I'm an adult. I don't believe in Santa Claus, I don't make a wishlist. Instead, I fret over my checking account balance and hate receiving gifts because I'm always disappointed. I have to have two Christmases because my parents are divorced, unlike the first 15 year of my joyous, innocent little life. I try to brainstorm how to make a conversation with the family I haven't seen since last year. My bank statement indicates that last January I over drafted more than once. You're welcome, Bank of America. Even my first ever Eve of the Eve party ended poorly. Christmas is even worse when you're hung over.

This year things are different. I'm forcing myself to get in the holiday spirit, whether I like it or not. I'm literally watching as many Christmas movies as I possibly can, i.e. Christmas Movie Madness. I need to remember the joy of giving and selflessness, that this is a season of love and kindness not stress and sadness.

So far, I've seen You're A Mean One Mr. Grinch, Love Actually, Die Hard, Miracle on 34th Street and White Christmas. I'll let you know how it goes.

New York, New York!

I'm making sausage apple stuffing, in the oven, to bring to my mom's house tomorrow, where we will enjoy a Thanksgiving dinner much quieter than the one I had last week at Josh's family's friend's house.

There, Josh beat me at Taboo and I got hella pissed when he gloated. His ninety-something year old grandma told me about how she recently misunderstood her new granddaughter-in-law, and was under the impression that she spent five grand on a new picture frame. My name was mistaken twice, first Ingrid then Amy. I had the most delicious sweet potatoes ever, plus there was a twelve layer cake.

New York is a strange place. It's somehow both the greatest and worst place ever. I'm glad to know that in such a stress and anxiety ridden place there can still be kindness. Josh and I were sort of yelled at twice for walking, but then neither of us had exact change for the bus, but the driver let us on anyway. The food was excellent, but everywhere we went I felt underdressed. Even in the Peruvian place. Williamsburg seems like a very surreal place, with a lot of cool shit, but I'd rather relish in the quest of finding cool shit than have it handed to me on an expensive platter.

I'm thankful that New York exists, and is not too far away. I'm also thankful for being able to live in Portland and feel like I'm part of a community.

My Food Network

I don't know if everyone knows this, but I've totally been getting my groove on in the kitchen, and I'm proud of myself. Josh and I prepare these really delicious meals together- and it's all thanks to this great book by Marc Bitman called How to Cook Everything. We make chicken and pork chops and all kinds of things, but some of my favorite things to make are ones that take the least time and preparation. There is this chicken breast that I make which takes less than half an hour, by covering the chicken with chili, lime, salt and pepper, then using the juices to make a reduction sauce, served with pasta and yellow corn. Seriously, it's great.

But recently, I started making this pizza, pictured above. It's a wheat dough, with shredded cheese, red pepper, tomatoes, salt, fresh ground pepper, feta cheeses, olives and anchovies (for Josh.) I bake it for twelve minutes and and broil it for three. And it also takes less than half an hour.

My quiches are pretty great, too. I like putting swiss chard, maple cured bacon, spinach, broccolli, onions, garlic, and whatever cheese we happen to have around. I buy the crust frozen at Hannaford.

Nice View if you Can Get It

Sometimes conversations at my job meander. Five ladies, over worked and underpaid are often eager to not get back to work. We talk about jewelry, our significant others, travel and crazy people. Here's where it started, I think. Someone exposed himself on the bus to one of our temps. She takes my bus. I could've been on that bus, it could've been me. Not only was he showing but he was also touching. I thought it was bad when some man touched my hair, this would've been a million times worse.

On the subject of crazy people not being able to keep it in their pants, by boss tells us this story about her cousin who went on the road with her husband in his big-rig for two months, across the country. She said that you would not believe what people did in their cars when they thought no one else could see them. Women and men naked from the waist down, men pleasuring themselves, women with dildoes, men and women performing oral sex on the driver, the driver pleasuring the passenger. And this happens all the time, apparently. Everyone in the room was pretty disgusted by this, but I thought it was more dangerous than anything else. But it's pretty easy to get turned on in the car, what with all of the bumps and vibrations in the road... these people are putting their safety at risk. If I were them, I'd stop at the nearest rest area and deal with my problems there.

In the meantime, I'm praying that my dad will fix my transmission so I can stop taking that stinking bus.

Hey Lady, Nice Pom Pom

This weekend, we hit the church-fair circuit. My mission: mittens. There are few things that make me more nostalgic for my childhood than a pair of hand-knit, brightly colored mittens. Unfortunately, my upper body is about the size of an adolescent boy, and sometimes my feet fit in little girl shoes from the Gap, but my hands are normal, average lady sized hands that can't squeeze into the brightly colored hats any longer. At the table o' knits, much to my delight however, there were some reasonably cool beret-styled cable knit hats- the gem amongst baby sweaters and afghans. The only problem was the pom-pom. The slate blue hat that I was coveting had the most horrific pom pom made of white, pink and blue yarn. I locked eyes with the grandmother behind the table, who was eyeing me expectantly with her hand close to the cash box. "I sort of like this one..." I trailed off. She replied, "But this pom pom is ruining it, isn't it?" Shocked at how forward she was being and how dead on correct she was, my mouth gaped a few times before I agreed, with a quick save, "But it'd be no big deal to just chop it off." A second woman joined the first at that moment, and I debated, to buy the hat, to not buy the hat, while the second thanked the first for watching the table while she was gone. She said it was no trouble at all then added, "The pom pom completely ruins this hat."
I look to my left, then my right at Andrea and Heather who are clearly as awestruck as I was at one grandma saying to the other, hey, you can't match a pom pom worth shit. Not being able to help myself I blurted, "But I would never have said that." And repeated it twice before lady number two said, "Oh, I didn't make this."

That day I went home with one ugly pom pommed hat, a secret present for Laura's cat, a San Antonio mug, suede boots, black patent leather heels, and a brooch.

Bells Will Be Ringing

So, just in case you were thinking of what to get me for Christmas, here are some ideas from FredFlare.com

Pomegranates

Tonight I bought a bottle of Beaujolais, put some pictures on the wall, and learned that the best way to peel a pomegranate. First, cut off the top, then make shallow cuts down the side, from top to bottom. Then take the fruit and pull it apart, submerged in a bowl of water. I just ate a bowlful of delicious pomegranate seeds! Next: Jason Bateman singing karaoke. Josh is still in Chicago, which means I can watch as many low-brow comedies and chick-flicks as I want!

Happy Halloween, Part 2.

My most memorable Halloween could have been the year Mandy and I found ourselves in San Fransisco's Castro District. I was dressed as Meg White, Bridget was dressed as a zombie lifeguard and I forget what Mandy was- but it was total chaos. People everywhere. It was like an alternate universe, like a dream, like Hell even. We were surrounded by people decked out in the most serious costumes I'd ever seen. To me, the holiday had always been about jack-o-lanterns and trick-or-treating, and parents were with kids in their parent costumes, and most kids were Power Rangers or Barbie, very mild, non-scary costumes. But in the Castro, there was no telling men from women, young from old- anyone could have been under there. We joined a crowd gathering around this fire-juggler and I turned around to make sure Mandy was still next to me. But instead came face-to-face with this thing. It was a monster, or alien, unlike anything I'd ever seen. It had a long beak-nose, a black face, and was wearing a black nun-like garment concealing it's whole body. Lit by the fireballs, the effect was especially scary. I turned around and tried to forget it, tried to rationalize that it was just a person under there, but couldn't. I could feel it breathing on me. So I grabbed the girls and pushed my way out of there.

But I shouldn't rule out the year that I tried to face my fear of all things scary and see the re-release of The Exorcist. In the dark theater. On Halloween. While it was brave of me to try and see one of the scariest movies ever, it didn't help me face any fear. I drove home doing eighty, convinced that if I drove fast enough nothing that might be following me could catch me. I slept with the light on for the next two nights, and for the next two months I swear to God I could feel my bed shaking.

I really don't like being scared. I am such a scary-cat that I run away from turkeys. Literally. So I was extremely excited to last minute join my friends Erin and Hillary to the College of the Atlantic in Bar Harbor to see the Arcade Fire play a secret show. They were, and possibly still are my favorite band, and how appropriate to see them on the night before Halloween, because a lot of their songs were about funerals and death. We got there and took the haunted tour of the College, since there was time to kill before the show. The tour was scary- the campus alone would do the trick, but if was very foggy out that night. You couldn't see two feet past the dock to the water, and they had some girl in a white dress follow us. It was totally scary.

So I was really glad to be home this past Halloween, in no danger of getting scared. Josh was gone, so even though I was home alone, I planned on cooking dinner, showering and watching a non-scary movie. I had just finished the shower part of my night, walking out of the bathroom in only a robe, when someone knocked on the window, hard, frantic and relentless. I jumped three feet in the air, my breath was caught in my chest and my heart skipped two beats. Someone was be getting chased. Someone was murdered and they need me to call 911. It was a trick my some crazed rapist dressed as a werewolf. I ran to the door and opened it, unsure what I'd find... and it was my neighbor, a full grown man dressed as a dinosaur. Holding a drink. He wanted to invite me to his party, but didn't see my doorbell.

Fresh Air

Happy Halloween! Today my mail man or, shall I say, letter carrier asked me what I was going to be for Halloween, and I said that I was going to be home. Josh is gone to Third Coast, a big deal radio conference, so I might have persuaded him to go to a masquerade (free buffet with paid ticket) but instead I'm home. For dinner, braised butternut squash and chicken breast with a lime-cilantro sauce and broiled pita chips, then balancing by checkbook, then I'll spend some quality time on ABC.com.

The best costume of the day had to have been Portland columnist and really cool guy, Justin Ellis.

My new favorite radio program is Fresh Air with Terry Gross. I listen to the show almost every day, either to get me through the three o'clock slump by streaming on New York Public Radio, or on MPBN while I'm making dinner at home. She's got a great laugh, and transitions seamlessly from guests Steve Carell to that outed CIA lady.

The Bearded Lady

In addition to figuring out ways to save money on our heating bill, like which rooms we can turn the radiators off in (bathroom? no. dining room? most likely.) this is what I've been up to:

I saw the Darjeeling Limited, which was just as fantastic as I expected it would be. I'm getting a new neighbor. Josh and I cross dressed for a Halloween party this past weekend. He was the bearded lady and I was the Strongman. He drew a mustache on my face, and I helped him adjust his breasts.

Two weeks ago, I was almost kidnapped, raped and murdered (i.e. took a wrong turn on the trail and was lost for all of, 15 minutes.) The same weekend, for Josh's birthday I wrote him a list of my top 20 favorite memories we've had over the last year and a half. It warmed his cold heart. My sister is getting married and moving to Germany like, now.

The Red Sox won the World Series, and now I'm not sure what my identity as a fan is.

Pushing Daisies

I've been on a budget. I've even been balancing my checkbook. Part of the plan to conserve funds has been to not go "out" every weeknight and to bring my lunches to work. The first part, staying in, is going pretty awesome. But if Josh in engrossed in a baseball game while playing online games or working, I need a way to amuse myself that doesn't involve spending a whole lot of money. Sometimes I work on personal projects, sometimes I read, sometimes I'll call a friend, but most of the time, I stream television on ABC.com.

You might have heard about this new show on ABC called Pushing Daisies. Before it came out it was widely regarded by critics as one of the best new shows to premier this season (or at least, that's what they were saying when I heard the director interviewed on Fresh Air, I think.)

I can see now that it's because they completely ripped off Amelie, they admitted to totally ripping off Amelie, and I love it. Here are some really specific similarities:

There is a considerable amount of narrating.
Counting things by the years, months, hours and minutes.
In one of the scenes of Pushing Daisies, they used a song FROM the Amelie soundtrack.
The leading ladies have similar cheekbones.
Very bright, saturated colors, and a lot of red.
The espresso machines are the same
The outside of the pie place and the coffee shop are in the same type of corner building.

The Portland Club

I think it's pretty safe to say that my favorite thing is free stuff. Tonight, we went to an open house (with free snacks, deserts and a pasta station) at the Portland Club with food by the Black Tie Catering Co. Not only did I have the most delicious pita chips ever, but there was chocolate mousse in martini glasses. It's nice to hang out with my coworkers, because even though I spend more time with them than anyone else in my life, it's not fun, quality, hangout time. We literally have an office full of women, so we get to chatting often enough. For example, a few weeks ago, there was an owl at my house. Luckily, after seeing the second season of Twin Peaks, I wasn't scared of it because it was no more than six inches tall and therefore could not have possibly been possessed by an evil spirit. I snapped a picture with my camera phone, and when our conversation meandered to my fear of large birds, I happened to mention how there was an owl at my house. For the next fifteen minutes, we went back and forth, my coworkers and I, as to weather or not this little owl perched where the gutter ran out at the base of my house was real or someone was playing a trick. If it was a trick, whoever it was got me really good, because I am still totally convinced that it's real. We might start a once a week happy hour.

At the Movies

It's not every day you get to see a world record!

***

I've been thinking about movies a bit recently, Josh and I just watched the Conversation. He really likes it, and I did too, but I couldn't help but notice how emotionally disconnected the main character was. As the main character was in his favorite movie, Five Easy Pieces. That last scene was completely devastating! It made me wonder about people's favorite movies, and what, if anything, you can tell about a person by what their most beloved films are. I, for example, love the movie Amelie. It's got an amazing soundtrack, the cinematography is incredible, and I am just as sensitive as the main character. She is shy and has a hard time working up the courage to get herself the things she wants, meanwhile being totally adorable and well dressed. But I also like slapstick comedies, and family movies, smart movies and silly. So what if Toy Story is on my top ten list? It was awesome, and everyone knows it. Do I have a favorite animated Disney movie? Absolutely. But that doesn't mean I can't watch an appreciate the Godfather or Dancer in the Dark, it just means I prefer warm, heartfelt, touching stories.

Does this just bring us back to the ever-ominous statement "What really matters is what you like, not what you are like... Books, records, films -- these things matter." Sometimes I feel like my life would be easier if I just still worked at Bull Moose!

My Google Twin

I listen to 400% more public radio than I did two years ago. This morning, on Morning Edition, they were talking about high-price domain names. Like for example, this man owns southie.com, which is a neighborhood in Boston. There are a lot of different organizations in South Boston who'd probably really like to have southie.com as their website, and now they'll have to bid for it. The internet is pretty lucrative! They then moved on to "googling yourself" and how many people find that they have a Google twin, someone with the same name as you. I know for a fact that there are more Amanda Pleaus out there, but I have no Google twin as of now. My boss googled me and the rest of my coworkers and said my results were the most interesting. Here they are:

PRX » Members » Amanda Pleau I joined the Public Radio Exchange (which was free) so that I could listen to a piece of radio my boyfriend made. If you become a member, tell me, and I'll send you the link. As a member, I also get to hear a lot of other radio made by people I don't know, and review them. Mostly, I stick to pieces Josh made and This American Life archives.

Seven Days: Bosnian Buzz I had two really great, slightly crazy, bosses when I worked at the EuroCafe. And I was more well-fed when I worked there than ever before in my life and to this day still. This Seven Days article quotes me as saying there is too much meat at the cafe, which is funny, because I'm a vegetarian no more.

Getty Images -Search



I think this one speaks for itself. I also have a copy on my refrigerator.

Rebecca Minnick District 1 school committee "Amanda Pleau, who works for the (ahem) and who organizes the Mix Tape Collective of Portland, has offered herself as my campaign manager..." She's actually at a committee meeting as we speak! Yay!

Lewiston School Department--B&W Photography Gallery I'm actually a little bit surprised that this is still here, seeing as though it was put up when I was a junior in high school. This was taken during a really great photography class.


Skip Maine state header navigation Maine.gov State Search ... "Panelists: Nat Lippert, Wiscasset High School; Amy Riddell, Trenton Elementary School; Amanda Pleau, Lewiston High School; Sara Choate, Lewiston High School ..." I was on a panel at a Civil Rights Coalition convention when I was in high school. Our high school planned a Diversity Day, which I think went really well, and we were invited to talk about it. It was especially important for us to be there because of the recent Somalian immigrant influx in the community.


www.myspace.com/quietcity I'm Courtney's hero.

I think this Google experiment sort of becomes a retrospect of my life, who I was in high school, who I was in Vermont, who I am now. And yeah. I met Al Gore.

Wanted: Cheap Fine Jewelry With No Baggage

Ever since I got this office job, I've been much more aware of... bling. For the first time in my life I work at a job where we talk about it. Or at least, all of my coworkers talk about their jewelry and I feel like an irresponsible little kid who can't be trusted with such things of value. One girl can spot a fake diamond. Another does all of her business at one specific jeweler. We talk about how much a man should spend on the ring. I silently decide if the cost of the ring could one day be translated to stay-at-home-mom. Or if someone has a right-hand rock that outshines their engagement rings, it means they got married when they were still kinda poor.Which brings me to the subject of Engagement Rings. It's something that every girl thinks about, because it's something every other girl talks about. The ring is a huge deal. The idea for this post was sparked by a recent trip to Craigslist (like it's a destination.) I recently posted an ad selling my car, and therefore am in need for a car. My search was yielding few results, so I made the rounds and moved on to jobs, furniture, and still not satisfied, for the first time ever I clicked "jewelry." I expected to find some cute, reasonably priced pearls or amber or something. But this is what I found:

wedding band is brand new never worn. never sized. engagement ring is sized to a 4 but can easily be sized back. engagement ring was worn 6 months.

1k gold engagement ring. Never worn. Bought almost 6 years ago for $1800. I bought to give, and never got the chance, and I have been holding it ever since...way to long

Beautiful ring set,great condition, only worn for about 5 months. Paid $500 for set, will sell for $200. I also have the mens Gold band to match for additional $50.00 Size 10

Divorcing and in need of cash. Looking to sell my diamond ring. I believe it is an engagement ring though it was used as my wedding ring.

Band is engraved: "For my love on the day we become one" Will sell as set or individually

This is a gorgeous ring set complete with wedding band. I would love pass this on to someone special for that someone special! And I need the money for college! Call Jessie.

It was shocking and heartbreaking. I was completely unprepared. Deciding what to do with your engagement ring once the engagement was off seemed like life in Sex and the City, not real life. It made me wonder how many engagement rings actually make it to the wedding. Or if the jeweler can tell it's going to be the right fit. Who buys these second-hand rings? Your wedding bands are supposed to be special symbols of your love, a piece of jewelery you'll have to live with for, hopefully, the rest of your life. Not a sweet deal you found on Craigslist (although, I do love a good deal.)

This is a story a friend of mine told me about her coworker. Her coworker is in her early thirties, madly in love with her boyfriend, and at a point in her life where she was ready to get married and start a family. Meanwhile, she's moved in with her boyfriend, to a brand new city, and they start fighting about how she wants to get married and he hasn't proposed. These fights end horribly, with her crying, a lot. But this whole time, her boyfriend has an engagement ring, and is planning a very elaborate, memorable, heartwarming proposal. The first gifts they got for each other were a pair of silver earrings for her and a silver bracelet for him. He went abroad and bought her these earrings with a specific pattern on them that she loved and wore often. Shortly after, she went to a different country and found the same pattern on a bracelet. While they were having this fight over spending the rest of their lives together, he had secretly had the earrings and the bracelet melted and used the silver to make their wedding bands.

This is the part where I begrudgingly refrain from posting rings that I like, because I know my boyfriend reads this. And he knows I know. Not going to go there.

Feist - 1 2 3 4

Has anyone seen this? It's a pretty great one-shot video from Feist, who you might know from her recent iPod Nano commercial, or as a member of Broken Social Scene. I've been on a bit of a YouTube binge, and thanks to Josh's sister, we've found a million Flight of the Conchord episodes. If you haven't seen it, they are side-splitting funny.

Hey Chicago

Chicago was... exactly like taking a trip to a really great city to go to a fancy wedding with people you don't know and spending the rest of your time driving around in a full mini van with all of Josh's really loud, Jewish family. It was a great trip. Although I didn't see Oprah or John Cusack or Jeff Tweedy, I did see this crazy giant mirror bean thing. It's in this place called Millennium Park, which is home to a lot of really interesting and accessible art. In fact, it seemed like everywhere we turned there was art. From Frank Lloyd Wright to Picasso to the bean in the park, it was inspiring. But it also forced me to consider Portland, and how lackluster our public art is. I've always thought of Portland as arty, especially for it's size, and there is really no reason why there shouldn't be more public art. Note to self: look up Kevin Donahue's email.

Seeing as though I work in a non-profit that helps wheelchair bound people, it shouldn't have been too shocking to see there was a convention at the hotel of more than a hundred wheelchair confined people zooming and parking everywhere. However, my job is to answer the phone, not hang out with our clients, so I might not be as "PC" as I thought... I told all of my boyfriend's family that it's actually okay to call them "electric chairs" until I realized with horror that electric chairs preform capital punishment, and don't move you from point a to point b.

The majority of the weekend was spent in the minivan with four of Josh's closest relatives, his sister's boyfriend, and myself. It was a seven-passenger minivan. For some reason, every time we had to get in or out of the car, a timely enough process as it was, Josh's father insisted on opening the side doors with his remote control. Every time. Each time the car was in motion, no more than ninety seconds passed without Josh's mom exclaiming, "Look at that!" Which was innocent enough, aside from that no one except the people sitting on the same side of the van could see what she was looking at. I could only see the floor, ceiling, and guardrail from the opposite side. Everyone ooed and aaahed while I pretended not to hear. Everyone in the family, with the exception of maybe his sister, talks at an incredible volume. Additionally, we only ever vaguely knew where we were going. Josh and his father knew the area well enough not to have a map, but not well enough to miss turns and such. At the end of nearly an entire day bound to the backseat, Josh's sister finally pleads, "Mom, every time you say Look at that, Ryan dies a little inside."

The food was incredible. I had swordfish and spaghetti squash for the first time. There were a lot of free drinks, more drinks, frittatas, extremely phallic artichokes, and carrot cake. At a place Josh knew I'd love, which was like the Friendly Toast meets a carnival, I had the most delicious salad. It was delicious. A salad. Salads are not supposed to rock my world, but it kind of did. And it would be a shame to forget to mention my Chicago dog. Like the salad, it had a lot of vegetables. Which I'd rather just, save for the salad.

When I returned to work from my luxurious three-day weekend, there was bad news in the Men's Room. Someone had explosive diarrhea which splattered onto the rim of the bowl, meaning, the part that doesn't get flushed. And let me tell you, there is nothing funnier to try and talk about than someone else's uncontrollable bowel movements. Through the process of elimination, we figured out that it's probably one of the two new temps in the office. Firstly, this hasn't happened since the current staff line-up fell into place. And for the first time in months, there are men in the office. Which means it's got to be one of the two new men in the office. Most of the ladies have been using the Men's Room, due to lack of men. I know it was not any of us, because without asking, everyone offered their willingness to clean up after themselves if they had a poop explosion. My cleaning guy called today to tell us that he make a special trip last night to take care of business.

The Puppetmaster

Nearly every time I hear an artist explain their work, they're totally full of shit. This is probably because of my short art school stint where I basically paid the school thousands of dollars to listen to other student recite a lot of bullshit. Okay, but, since cynicism isn't really my thing, here's a fun video to watch:



I think everyone could use a little Dancy-Dance time. Also, I don't think I've ever been so attracted to Elijah Wood. When did he become a dancing indie rocker?

When perusing bookstores, videostores, and musicstores, I tend to get really overwhelmed, essentially trying to recall all of the times I've thought "hey, I should pick that up." On numerous occasions, I've walked into Videoport, and left after forty minutes of walking up and down the aisles thinking, "well, it's tough and triassic day, so I really should get a classic or an action, but I've been feeling like my foreign film library needs to be broadened, but what I really want is a Sex and the City, even though I shouldn't because I've seen every episode twelve times" and eventually leaving the store with nothing. Today at Borders was almost the same story. But I held out, waiting for some kind of sign... and it ended up being, "Children authors writing for Adults" which is where the Best of Roald Dahl was, and I'm intensely happy about my purchase.

Leaving for Chicago in T-minus five and a half hours. Maybe I'll get some sleep and hopefully I'll meet Oprah.

Hotels, Motels and Backseats

I have to go on a business trip this weekend. I'll spare you the details. My job has this policy in place that states you aren't allowed to commute more than two hours to an event and drive back the same day. It also has a policy in place that you can't stay in a motor inn, it has to be a hotel, with hallways. But it can't cost more than a hundred dollars. There are a lot of rules. While I'm packing for Labor Day weekend in scenic Bangor, I'll be thinking of the difference between motels and hotels.

Growing up, trips were few and far between. And therefore very exciting. Sleeping in a bed other than my own, in a place I'd never seen before was like the thrill of my ten year old life. Running down the long hallway, jumping on the bed, an ice machine and free breakfast, who could ask for anything more? But then, as an adult, I realized that there is something uncomfortable about the sterile-ness of hotel rooms. Everything is tucked in and wrapped up, and although I'd rather know that everything is clean and sanitary, I feel a little weird. I've stayed in more motels than hotels because it's more cost effective, but it also feels a little more like home. More friendly, the front desk has a cat, and a don't feel guilty if the room service sees my bottle of booze because they would do the same if they were me. I grew up in a house with wood paneling, so it sort of feels like home. So although it will be nice to have a bathroom with a mirror which will let me see 360 degrees of my naked body when I get out of the shower, and five different types of product for the shower, I really don't mind the cheap motel.

Which reminds me, the first time I stayed up all night was at Foxwoods Hotel and Casino. I was 16, didn't drink and couldn't gamble. There were four of us- two girls, two guys and two beds. It would've been very childish to insist on sharing a bed with my girl friend to avoid facing rejection of either of the boys, so I just decided to stay up all night. The hotel room at Foxwoods had the most powerful toilet I've ever seen in my life. It was like WOOSH!

The most momentous overnight of my life was not in either a motel or a hotel. It was that night the girls and I slept in the backseat of the car, on the side of the road, somewhere between Rhode Island and Connecticut, after seeing the most amazing Thursday show. I was underage, and my mom still doesn't know.

Meanwhile, look at the great website that I just found for this bed and breakfast in Montreal: http://www.lesimone.com/en/index.htm

Interlock Wrap Dress

My least favorite thing is seeing something in a store, but not on their website. Or seeing something on the website, and it's not in the store. But most of all, I can't stand it when you see a cute dress/shoe/earring in a magazine and then it's nowhere to be found either in the store or on the website!

My NEW favorite thing is posting things that I find (and buy) in this blog.

Simpsons!

Look! I'm a Simpson!

The Oob

At Old Orchard Beach today, I really wanted to eat a lot of fried foods, then not wait 20 minutes before running into to ocean for a swim, then whip Josh's butt at some games at the arcade, then have a margarita at some overpriced touristy place. But I had one slice of pizza, one soda, rode the log flume once (which is nothing compared to the log flume at Funtown, and I don't even want to talk about missing Canobie Lake Park this season, again) and beat Josh at SkiBall twice, which is unusual.

Tourist traps really work. It's really a trap. I love walking into a store and seeing a million things with "Maine" written on them and I want nothing more than a T-shirt with a lobster on it. Everything is so ketch and cheap! Who wouldn't love it? In Bar Harbor last weekend, I got this, and it was only $29.

Mount Dessert Island

We were talking about the pronunciation of that island that is home to Bar Harbor and Acadia National Park. Mount Dessert Island. All my years living in this state, I've only ever heard it pronounced "desert," like the Sahara. Then I'm informed that the correct pronunciation is actually "dessert," like ice cream. Although a mountain of ice cream does sound a lot less ridiculous than a mountain of dry, barren sand. The desert pronunciation evolved over time, bastardised from the French-Canadian (ahem, Acadian) dessert. Now you all know. To be on the safe side, if you're there, it's safe to refer to it as "The Island" or "MDI."

Last weekend was another long road trip, but instead of heading southeast to Boston, we headed Down East, to Ellsworth and Bar Harbor. I found a lot of similarities between Portland as a tourist destination, and Bar Harbor as a tourist destination. I will henceforth compare:

	Portland, ME	Bar Harbor, ME
	Booze Cruise with the Awesome	Whale and Puffin watch cruises
	Cool as a Moose store	Cool as a Moose store
	That guy in a lobster suit	Lobster Pounds, where you can hand-pick your live, thrashing lobster, and get terrific meal deals!
	Bars with decks	Bars with decks
	Lots of affordable housing	Lots of affordable Motels
	More bars than anyone could ever go to	More T-shirts and Ice Cream than anyone could ever want
	Serious art in Museums and Galleries	Not so serious art- priced so people like me can afford (including sweet frames!)
	The Space Gallery, The Soundpost	Timber Tina's Great Maine Lumberjack Show, Dr. Wilson's Memory Elixir Medicine Show
	WABI, TV5	WGME 13
	The Portland Press Herald	The Bar Harbor Times
	Scenic Cityscape	Scenic Landscape
	The Downtown Lounge	Geddy's Pub (has a "Jeter Drinks Wine Coolers" T-shirt in the shop downstairs.)
	$53 Average dollar amount spent on a Josh and Amanda seafood dinner at J's Oyster Bar	$78 Average dollar amount spent on a Josh and Amanda seafood dinner at some place we picked from a tour guide
	Maine Narrow Gauge Museum	Whale Museum
	Maine College of Art	College of the Atlantic

Chocolate Oh My Gods

I was just fortunate enough to attend a cookie swap party, where there were dozens and dozens of cookies. I brought pumpkin chocolate chip, but the best ones were something called "Chocolate Oh My Gods." They weren't kidding.

Anyhow, in the apartment next door to my friend's apartment this



was unmistakably hanging in the window. When we realized it was there, we gawked and shuttered, not necessarily because we thought Freddie lived there, but because what kind of a creep show would have that thing out, on display?

With a full belly, sugar high and achy cheeks from laughing, Kai and I walked downstairs, and looked up at the second floor window, where we saw the glove earlier that night. It was gone. In wordless unison we ran back upstairs as fast as we could and yelled that the glove moved to the people still milling about the party. They looked, it was still there, and we all laughed at how foolish and seriously scared we were that the Freddie Kruger glove was on the move.

Those summer days

This weekend had to be one of those fantastical summer weekends that Portlanders dream about all winter, including possibly the two greatest summer pastimes: beaches and baseball. The beauty of Portland is that temperatures hardly rise above 80, there's an ocean breeze, very few insects, and in addition to the nightlife, entertainment and dining in downtown, and there are half a dozen beaches twenty minutes from the city limits. Heck, the ocean is three blocks and a grassy knoll from my apartment! The water might be cold, but we're Mainers, we're used to being almost completely frozen. A good beach, in my opinion, has a bathroom, a snack shack and a lot of Canadian tourists who are just as pale and as unprepared for bathing suit season as I am.

For reasons I'm not quite sure I understand, as a young adult, summer fun is generally equated with the consumption of lots of alcohol, mainly fancy, fruity-tutti drinks. The kind with little umbrellas that taste just like Kool-Aid until you stand up. My boyfriend suggested we take a bottle of champagne to the beach, but reasoned that making mimosas would be a more logical choice: the vitamins in the orange juice would counteract the dehydrating properties of the booze. They were delicious, but we still became dehydrated and sleepy over the course of the afternoon. We were also doing some serious rule-breaking, there is absolutely no alcohol allowed on the beach! Not to mention the seagulls. There was this one seagull who stared me down like he was a junior high big kid trying to wordlessly threaten me to give him my PSP. I didn't want to give it to him, but I knew there would be consequences if I didn't. I continued eating watermelon and sipping mimosa, and eventually he and his cronies left. It was almost five dollars for each of us to get into the state park, but I see it as an investment in the beautification of my state, or at least conservation of.

Saturday, after filling our stomachs with homemade savory crepes, my boyfriend and I were off to Fenway Park in Boston. Anyone who has ever been to a professional sporting event knows that sports fans are insane about their teams. The Boston Red Sox fans can be described as particularly fanatical... "Regular Rob", who is running for President of Red Sox Nation, explains it best in his blog: "They experience unparalleled euphoria when things are going well, but are vulnerable to deep depression when the team disappoints." In 2004, when the Red Sox broke an 86-year losing streak and won the World Series, people actually died in celebration riots. Kid of like Brazilian soccer fans. Since Boston is one of the most popular baseball teams ever, tickets are hard to come by. Josh and I found our opportunity to see the ballpark from the inside without paying hundreds of dollars to get in: the Portland Seadogs, our double-a Red Sox affiliate team, were playing the Harrisburg Senators in a special double header at Fenway. It was also clear to me now why the Boston Red Sox are like the Vatican of baseball franchises, and can pay the Japanese like fifty million dollars for exclusive negotiation rights, let alone the millions of dollars for the contract itself: seven dollar bud lights. I never would have guessed the most expensive beer I'd drink in my life would be bud light.

Like most people who grew up in northern New England, Boston is sort of my city. It's where I took public transportation for the first time, where the best bands play, and usually the major sports hub of the region. People from Indiana have Chicago, people from Maine have Boston. This being my case, I've always considered myself a Red Sox fan, but just a fair-weather fan. It's almost part of my genetic make-up. But since I started dating a serious baseball fan, it was in my own best interest to keep tabs on what's what from April to October. I knew I caught baseball fever when the five Harrisburg fans sitting in the section next to us started yelling "Portland Sucks" in our general direction. Portland, the team and my town, however, does not suck. Before I knew it, I yelled at the top of my lungs, "YOU SUCK!" I was as shocked as everyone around me that such a thing would come out of my mouth... it was almost an epiphany, sort of like, "I am one with baseball, I am a fan."

All in a Morning's Work

This dress was purchased on my lunch break today at Macy's for the wedding we're going to in Chicago. I think it's a very smart purchase- brown and black in one dress, which means more shoe and accessories possibilities, plus it was 70% off. Whitney is going to take it in for me, in exchange for a case of moxie. When I brought it home to show Josh, he asked if I was sure it wasn't too casual for a black tie optional event. I might have scowled a bit, because he quickly piped in, "I don't know. I don't really understand women's wear." Unlike my friend's boyfriend. Before they left the house tonight he advised her that black shoes didn't match the printed dress she was wearing. I laughed out loud.


Last week, it was a rat in the car. The calamities continue. In the first ten minutes after I left the house this morning, I unknowingly left my debt card at home, had no cash, and left my barista no choice but to take pity on my foolishness and give me coffee for free. I then checked my bag to see if my debt card was floating around in the bottom somewhere, and there was a bug crawling around! I turned my bag upside down on the passenger seat, started driving, but was so shook up at this point that I took a corner too sharp spilled my coffee on a considerable portion of the dashboard. In less than ten minutes.

The bug sort of looked like this, and was black:
I was just thinking... you really should be careful how much of yourself you put on the Internet. There is a young man who is volunteering at my job, and when we told him that we saw he had a MySpace page, his response was, Uh-Oh. (I didn't actually see his page, I found it when I searched for his first and last name.) And I just saw on this girl's MySpace page today, photos of her on the job teaching and slightly S&M photos of her tied up with rope (though fully clothed.) All I could think was, Wow, I would really not want my boss to see that on my page. It's highly possible that my boss has seen my profile on MySpace, it's possible that she's read this blog. Although it might be less revealing and therefore less engaging to express intimate details of my personal life, I have to keep in mind that members of my family and people at my job have access to all of this. This is just a reminder to to everyone else not to put things on your MySpace page that would cause you to say Uh-Oh if someone mentions it.

They, whoever They is, really need to add Myspace to the dictionary.

Seagulls

I love the Internet. Posting things like this is one of my favorite reasons for having a blog. I think I've told just about everyone how funny I find this image, especially to reiterate why Justin Ellis is my favorite columnist/blogger.

Josh and I went to Willard Beach in South Portland yesterday. Willard Beach is great because it's fifteen minutes from my house and has a snack shack. Sunday however, the beach was wrought with confrontation. I'm really scared of birds that are bigger than kickballs. Like, wild turkeys, eagles, ostriches, flamingos, pelicans, and in general anything that is taller than me, could out run me, or has huge talons and could gouge my eyes out. However, the sheer number of seagulls in existence is quite enough to do the trick. They're everywhere. I'm lying on our beach blanket, enjoying a watermelon slice. It was part of the picnic we packed, also including mimosas and chickpea salad. Josh and I are listening to the ball game and a flying seagull lands three feet from where I'm lying. And it proceeds to look me square in the eye and stares me down. It felt like death rays were shooting from it's eyes, and they were saying, "Give me the watermelon... or die." I got scared, and threw an ice cube at it. Causing it and it's two backup goons to fly away, only to cue two other birds to fly over. I really hate seagulls.

Breakfast at Tiffany's

Josh and I went to the coolest museum today in the middle of nowhere, i.e. outside of Skowhegan. Here's the link: http://www.gwh.org/museum/museum.htm

Could this dress be any more Audrey Hepburn??

Cross out the Eyes?

I just had the biggest blast from the past. Ever wonder what happens to all of those bands that you see play for five bucks at American Legion halls and local college campuses? Some of them make it. As most of you know, I'm a MySpace fiend, I check messages, comments and bulletins on the site constantly. Much to my surprise, the featured band on the site this morning was The Receiving End of Sirens or TREOS, to the real fans... and it all came back in a flash. Before discovering indie rock, before Courtney moved to Texas, before I moved to Vermont, before I started eating hot dogs again...

I was a straight edge, emo kid with a facial piercing. This tattoo that I have? It's from a band that most my new friends and readers have never heard of. They're called Thursday, and their second full length record came out two days before my birthday in 2001. I don't mean to sound cliche, or trite, but seeing them live was an experience, an overwhelming rush. In all honesty, I think it changed my life. Imagine being in a hot, dark room, packed in so tight it feels like you're whole body is in contact with someone else. The band takes the stage, and the music starts- a wall of sound that resonates through your entire body. Whether you like it or not, you start moving. Your feet leave the ground and you stumble in unison with everyone around you- swelling and retracting like waves of the ocean. To your left, to your right, and as far as you can see everyone is screaming the words to the songs at the top of their lungs... but you can't hear them, you can't even hear yourself... and it feels unbelievable. People weren't crowd-surfing, and only a few jerky hardcore/metal kids were "pit dancing" or "moshing." That's when Courtney, Laura and formed a lifelong friendship (with matching tattoos to prove it) before I left for college. The freedom of the open road, the adventure, the rest stops, the shows, the bands, the boys... the first time I ever spent the night in a car was with them somewhere between Rhode Island and Connecticut. Here's a map of the places that we drove, up to five hours in the car to the furthest points in CT. We saw Thursday 13 times, if I remember correctly, and more bands than I can even think about. Looking back, sometimes I can't even tell some of those other bands I saw apart. The Receiving End of Sirens, mentioned earlier, is a band that a friend of mine used to manage, therefore I saw them a lot. Since then, they faded from my memory, and sort of blew up, I guess, so when I saw them on MySpace this morning, I was flooded with the memory of those summer nights.

Coincidentally, I don't think there is a single person that I've gone out with since then who doesn't own a guitar.

I wish I was Japanese

I'm pretty sure I came close to crying when I saw that this bag was sold out at Fred Flare dot com.

I guess I'll just have to move to Tokyo, were money is falling from the sky.

Can't Tell Me Nothin

I'm a little bit obsessed with this video. You have to watch it- I think I have at least six times now... Will Oldham can't stop laughing in the backlighted scene. And Zack Galifinakis is so spot on I can't even handle it.

Oh, and who would have thought that there was a place like this is Portland? "Here's to being single, seeing double, and sleeping triple." Really??

Tis The Season...

...To get married.

We just confirmed: Josh and I are flying to Chicago for his cousin's Black Tie Optional Wedding. I have not attended a wedding ceremony since dearly beloved Courtney and Adam, as long as you don't include the season finale of Grey's Anatomy (shocked!). One of my favorite things to do at weddings is critique. Yes, those flower garlands are tasteful. These mini-quiches are gross. The bride's hair and make-up look beautiful. There should be more slow dance music because I'm exhausted. When I was much, much younger, weddings were the stuff Disney movies are made of, and I fantasised about them all the time. But now when I think about planning a ceremony, I think hassle. And money. Expectations. Money. Disappointment. Not too long ago, I decided that I'd rather elope to Vegas and get married by Elvis than to have a wedding that was less than perfect.

But what's most exciting about this wedding invitation is that I get to buy a new dress and possibly shoes! I started shopping online today, and almost hyperventilated, much, much more excited than a child in a toy store.

Here are my exciting new prospects:

Bad Date: Road Closed

Our bartender tonight was recounting her clumsiness throughout the night, and I agreed (it seemed like she was a bit off.) Then reminded her that she kind of sprayed beer on a guy who was sitting with his lady friend at the end of the bar. She shrugged and with a half smile said something along the lines of yeah, but his date laughed a lot, so it was fine. I asked her if she thought they were on a date and she said yeah, maybe even a first date. While mulling this thought over, were those two people really on a first date? The bartender piped in, you can usually tell when someone is on a date because they talk a lot. I motioned to Josh and I playing cards between watching baseball on the HDTV, and said oh yeah, unlike us. She replied that at least it seemed like their date was going well. There is nothing worse than witnessing a bad date. Although, trying to beat your friends in the worst-date competition makes the experience sort of worth it.

***

I had a date with a customer from my job in high school. It was the worst date that I've ever gone on. He was on the football team before he graduated from the school across the river, and just quit his job at the Gap. His best friend was currently dating the head cheerleader/class president of my class. Clearly, we had a lot in common.

Not only was he a half an hour late meeting me, but he popped pills at least three times throughout the night and excused himself to the bathroom at least as many times. Drugs? Prescriptions? Who knows. Unfortunately, the show that I wanted to go to had been pushed back almost two hours, so after dinner, we had another entire hour to kill. He suggested that we drive around town to waste time. Trapped, I agreed. We were headed for the lake and I thought, oh how nice, we're going to drive around the lake. Until he turned right and Road Closed and Turn Back Now signs appeared in his headlights out of the dark of the night. It was wooded, cold, and I didn't have a cell phone. So if he raped then killed me, he could have left me there and the dogs wouldn't have found my dead body for at least three more days. He parked at the end of this dead end in the middle of the woods, and when one thing did NOT lead to another, I had to tell him that I was a virgin so that he would believe that there was no way we were doing it. And he was a bad kisser. He had the audacity to come back to the store a few months later, which was witnessed from the safety of the back room.

Other bad dates that I've been on include: my date laughing so hard at a movie, Gosford Park, that was so not funny that my friends laughed at him laughing, and when we left he couldn't figure out why I didn't get it, because everyone else was laughing. I'm attractive, you're attractive, so we might as well perform discrete sexual acts in the back of the car even though there is no spark at all. Leaving me alone in a room in his house for over half an hour before I realized he forgot about me. Going to a sushi restaurant when you've never eaten sushi (see also: Ugly Betty)

Magazine Blues

I'm not exactly a hard ass. If someone tells me no, usually, I'll take no for an answer. This is especially true at work, where there is a certain type of finagling I am incapable of doing. I can't get our old postage meter returned. I can't get a copy of a bank statement from an auxiliary account because my name isn't on the statement. If I'm told it's time to renew my yellow pages ad, I'll believe you, until I realize we don't have a Yellow Pages ad. A man calls me on the phone and offers me supplies for my credit card machine, I won't realize it's a scam until I get the ginormous bill.

This is how I got involved in the Magazine Scandal. Some lady calls my work, and I answer, because it's my job. She offers me free subscriptions to a number of different magazines, some of which I read, most of which I don't. I say yes, because, who doesn't love free stuff? She tells me that it's a $25 fee, and I think, hey, that's not bad. But it's actually 25 dollars I have to pay every month for the next two years, which is an amount of money I can't even begin to think about, because I'll start crying. The tip off should have been the ambient noise of the call center. You can always tell when it's a call center by the faraway sound of the voice on the other line. I forgot to pay last month, and haven't had a chance to pay the double charge due this month, and they're calling me at work and harassing me for the money. Oh, and I can't cancel the service. They have my voice on tape agreeing to do this, which is legally binding.

This is what I'd like to say to them when they call:

"Hi. Thanks for calling. Please listen carefully, and I would like it if you didn't give me some canned, scripted response. Don't call my work ever again. Because I could get fired for receiving personal phone calls at my job. You think that I don't pay you now? Try getting me to pay you if I'm unemployed. I've told you once, and I'm telling you again. Don't call my job. I know you know which phone number is which. You can dial my number until you're blue in the face, but I'll pay you when I'm good and ready. You might think that threatening to put my account into collections scares me, but you have no idea how bad my credit is already. I say, BRING IT ON! I hope that our exchange today dampens your mood for the rest of the day, you spineless jellyfish. But it probably won't because you do this horrible job, selling your soul, every day. I know your type. You probably use the money to buy cheap beer and marijuana, and have aspirations to win the gaming championship of the world, or to get your horrible excuse for a band discovered. I help people, and you took advantage of me. I help kids pay for wheelchairs. You should feel ashamed of yourself, preying on innocent, entry level people like me, who are just trying to make a difference in the world. I know you're not listening to any of this, and once I stop, you're going to tell me that I agreed to this service, and there is nothing you can do about it, but this is a scam. and you know it. Don't even think of charging my credit card, or I will call my lawyer."

Commentary

Hey! I just made commenting allowed anytime, anywhere!

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

WARNING!
I'm about to discuss Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

After about 72 hours of intermittent long reading breaks, I finished the seventh and final installment of the Harry Potter series. This is important to note- I've been waiting for this conclusion for six years. Laura, Courtney and I once even had a birthday party for Harry (it was actually a creative excuse to eat cake.) We finally find out the secret to Severus Snape, and it's by far the best part of the book. "Will Harry defeat Lord Voldemort?" (who, to my pleasure, Josh refers to as Lord Baltimore) is a much easier question to answer with an educated guess than "is Snape totally evil or totally good?"


Which Harry Potter Kid Are You?

I just couldn't help myself! Asking the question which Harry Potter kid you think you're most like is sort of the same as asking which Sex and the City character you think you're most like. The answer that you want to say is always Carrie, but not everyone can be the star.

The short list of happenings in the last few days:

I ridiculed a coworker for writing a check for a sixty cent toll on the highway, then had to do the same thing myself after I unexpectedly had to take the highway.

Josh and I went to Rebecca's for a party, brought a sippy cup full of booze, and talked about bad dates and This American Life.
T
Before I go any further, let me explain that the White Stripes used to be my favorite band. I was once even Meg White for Halloween (it would've been a much more clever costume if I had a Jack.) They played in town last weekend. Seeing them wasn't a priority, since I've already seen them twice, and tickets were way more than fifteen dollars. But get this. Jack White, being the incredibly ridiculous king of the hipsters, stopped by Bull Moose Music. Mandy, being Mandy was there. Jack White, after browsing the store for a few minutes, told her that he liked her dress. But that's not all. She inherited the dress when I moved out because I didn't care for it. She sure showed me I was wrong.

And lastly, Josh just had a story air on Weekend America, a syndicated radio show. He recounted to me what happened when his family called to tell him how great it was. His mom, dad, sister and sister's new boyfriend were all at home in New York. When Josh didn't answer the phone, they left a long, pass the phone around voicemail. Sometime later, while he was listening, Josh got so wrapped up in the praise they were showering him with, he forgot it was a message and started to talk back. It went something like this, "Josh, you're so great, we loved the story, you're the best son ever, blah blah blah." "Oh, thank you so much, I'm glad you guys enjoyed it." "Wait, here, let me give Dad the phone." And it wasn't until the message was over that he realized they were not actually there.

My Adult Life

This past weekend, I had the pleasure of visiting the Dirty Water city of Boston. I've always loved Boston. As a girl from Small Town New England, how could I not? It is the city to which all other cities are compared. When I was in high school, everyone I knew dreamt of Boston and it's academia. There are so many institutes of higher education in Boston and the greater Boston area, it seemed impossible that there was not a school to meet your post-graduation plans. Not to mention that we road tripped there once, sometimes twice a month to see all our favorite bands. Home of the Red Sox. The Boston Marathon. Plus there's that whole Boston Tea Party/Paul Revere/first city of our nation thing.

I was there for a few reasons. To see the new Harry Potter movie, to see Andrea and her new yellow house, and H&M. There was a barbecue the night I arrived, and a few of our friends from Burlington, where Andrea and I met and had one magical joyous summer together, also came down from their New England corner to hang out. We had a really nice time, there were hamburgers, PBR, badmitten, a gold motorcycle...

But I feel compelled to go back to a conversation that I had with this drummer guy who I had to introduce myself as the one from the Pretty and Nice cd (see below).

Let me first explain that while I was living in Burlington, my real life was on hold. I dropped out of school. I stayed out at the bar until 2am, slept until noon, worked a retail job and shirked my financial responsibilities. So, in Boston, reunited with my Burlington friends, I said that I felt like I was taking a break from my adult life. Drummer guy, who is three years my senior, challenged me. What makes me more adult than him? Does that make me think I'm better than everyone else here? These questions weren't said out loud, but clearly thought. I have a job with a dress code, office hours, a salary and benefits. I live with my boyfriend in the nicest apartment I've ever lived in. We cook dinner at the same time every day. My bedtimes and wake-up times are strictly enforced by my biological clock- not after midnight or after nine. These things, in totality, project the image of adulthood. But it doesn't mean that I feel like I'm grown up, ready to live the rest of my life here, like this- or that I think everyone who isn't on the fast track to marriage, babies and a promotion is juvenile- it just means that I don't stay out late. His life consists of making money at a job he doesn't care about to pay the bills, then taking all of the rest buy booze, gear and tattoos and one big drunken party. He thought I was "the man."

I am so not "the man!"

In an unrelated note: Rilo Kiley has a new video. Since I'm not as "hip" or "indie" as I used to be, I flipping love it. It's so hot. But I'm supposed to say that it's a corporate sell out and they'll never be the same since they signed to Warner. Or something.

Broccoli Wokoli

Grocery shopping is usually more of a chore than an activity. No one wants to face the facts that it's more cost-effective to eat in, but it's also a blow to spend a huge chunk of change to fill your refrigerator and pantry every week. I would dread going to the grocery store more if it weren't for Josh. One of the first times we went to the store together I sort of wanted to run away and never come back. It went something like this: we were there for an incredibly long time. Josh would stop, put his basket down in, maybe, the Mediterranean aisle, slowly look around and say something like, what I really need is butter. Which of course is halfway across the store. The grocery store is a terrible place to loose your focus.

It's great now though. Because we have a lot of focus. I know that if I forgot the olive oil in aisle four that I can plough on and just send him to get it instead of back tracking while I push the cart, which kind of makes grocery shopping feel like a special operation mission.

One day he was probably gingerly handling the onions to decide which was best, I meandered to the recipe kiosk. There, while browsing recipes for our favorite vegetable at the time, I found an ingredient called: the Broccoli Wokoli. Say it out loud, and you'll understand how ridiculous it is that there is a product on the market called the Broccoli Wokoli. So we called the answer center, and asked where we could find the Broccoli Wokoli, giggled, and then hung up when the kind Hannaford lady put us on hold. We didn't really want to know where we could find it, we just wanted to hear someone else say it so we could laugh at them. Then, then best thing happened. The really nice answer lady, said "Mr. Han's Broccoli Wokoli, aisle five" over the intercom, twice. I think we nearly wet our pants we were so surprised.