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!
February 25, 2010
February 22, 2010
Dark Shadows
It's a fifteen minute walk from my apartment to Tess's, through the heart of the West End. It was extremely windy, dark, about 9pm on a Friday night. In addition to an actual cemetery, which to me, is scary in the daylight, most of the houses on these streets are huge brick mansions with vast, expansive yards which create a lot of dark shadows. Most of the windows in these houses were dark. There are no cars, no other pedestrians, not even any fanatical dog-walkers. (Even people who live in the heart of this neighborhood agree that it' haunting... check out the story at maine. Magazine.) Lady Gaga coming in through my earbuds is not blocking the deafening rustling of the trees in the wind. Through this noise, I hear a creaking, like metal on metal. In my wildest imagination, I can't think what terrifying thing could possible be producing this noise, but that's just it- the unknown is so much scarier than the known. It was discovered earlier in the week my boots are NOT made for running, so to take my mind off of things lurking in the shadows, watching my every move, I do what I always do when I get scared: I called Laura and leave her a lengthy voicemail in a panicked tone of voice and arrived at my destination in one piece.
The next day she says she has a story to rival my story, which yeah, wasn't really that spooky unless you were there. Big deal, I was freaked out by the WIND. She was cleaning out a closet in her house (one that hadn't been used since she moved in,) and there was...
...a body bag.
They couldn't identify it at first, was it a tarp, or a garment bag... because other than people who work in hospitals, funeral homes, and oh yeah, people who watch Grey's Anatomy or Six Feet Under, no one should know what a body bag looks like. There was a toe tag, and a little contents key to mark weather the body had an infectious disease or was decomposed or whatever other ailments dead bodies might have.
Holy. Shit. Was their landlord plotting a murder??
The next day she says she has a story to rival my story, which yeah, wasn't really that spooky unless you were there. Big deal, I was freaked out by the WIND. She was cleaning out a closet in her house (one that hadn't been used since she moved in,) and there was...
...a body bag.
They couldn't identify it at first, was it a tarp, or a garment bag... because other than people who work in hospitals, funeral homes, and oh yeah, people who watch Grey's Anatomy or Six Feet Under, no one should know what a body bag looks like. There was a toe tag, and a little contents key to mark weather the body had an infectious disease or was decomposed or whatever other ailments dead bodies might have.
Holy. Shit. Was their landlord plotting a murder??
February 9, 2010
Up North
With the exception of a few short stints in other New England towns, I've lived in Maine my whole life. I know the geography of the state, were you can get lobster flavored ice cream, I've lobbied to the state appropriations committee, I've been to "the County." Corny Maine jokes always make me laugh: "Bangor? I hardly know her!" "You can't get there from here." Everything sounds funny in the accent. Here's a video some friends of some friends made (because everyone here has a mere two degrees of separation):
Mandy and I have been doing a lot of thrift shopping- mostly for her website shopgrandmajune.etsy.com. We scour the Goodwills and Salvation Army's within a ten-mile radius of Portland. I have my favorite locations, she has hers. We'll walk in the door, split up, then meet up after 20 minutes at the dressing room with our arms full. She and I will go in together, because four eyes are better then two (well... in our case, three and a half are better than two...) bringing in way more than ten items. We make yes, no, maybe piles, and make decisions.
On one such trip, recently, I found a grey sweatshirt, no hood, no zipper, that read: "Up North," in the same style one might find a state or univsersity name. I hold it up for Mandy and ask, is this funny? The woman behind us starts laughing. Out loud. So yes, it's funny. Up north, the general vicinity of the state above Portland where people camp, hike and ski. It's five dollars- kind of a no-brainer.
At this point, I'm starving. I had completed a nine hour shift at the Maine Roasters, and I was anxious to meet Angela for oysters at J's. Mandy is still deliberating, so I run over to Shaw's to grab a pre-oyster sandwich. She says her car, a 1984 tan VW Jetta we call Peacock, is unlocked, so I throw my prized find in the front seat, quite pleased with myself as I'm crossing the parking lot. I happen to notice that the contents of the driver's front seat of the car are a little bit different than before, but Mandy had to grab her phone while we were shopping, so I think nothing of it.
Ham sandwich in hand, I meet Mandy back at the car, just like we planned. She's not there. But... neither is the sweatshirt. She's still in the store. Had she gone back to the car, again? I practically run. I grab her by the arm, "Did you go back to the car?"
"No," she replies.
"Oh my god, the sweatshirt isn't there." (Because this is Maine, the thought doesn't even cross my mind that it could've been stolen. Once, I didn't lock Josh's car and his winter coat was stolen from the backseat. I felt terrible, obviously, but what the hell was his jacket doing back there, anyway?? Still haven't learned.)
"Well... there was a gold Volvo parked two doors down from me. I almost went to it when I was grabbing my phone."
And then it dawns on me. I put the Up North sweatshirt in the wrong car. I get really upset for a few reasons. 1, Why didn't that car lock it's doors?! 2. The contents of the car were obviously those belonging to a woman. This is definitely not going to be the beginning of a romantic comedy. 3. Why wasn't that car still there? 4. The Up North sweatshirt is GONE and I might as well have thrown that five dollars in the trashcan. Mandy explains the whole thing to the clerks at the Goodwill, how I bought the sweatshirt, to see if anyone returned it, and they laughed at her, well, me. Kate did the same thing a few days later, and the employees were equally bemused by my mishap.
A few days after that, even, I see a gold Volvo on Free Street. I'm with Kate, and I decide there's only one thing to do: leave a note. The chances of this Volvo being the same Volvo are slim, but it's ridiculous not to.
This is what it said:
Hello There,
This is extremely embarrassing, but a few days ago I mistakenly threw a gray "Up North" sweatshirt in a car just like yours (thinking it was my friend's car which is a very similar VW.) Obviously, this is a long shot, but I'd be pleased to find said sweatshirt.
Thank you for your time, and have a great day.
Sincerely,
Amanda
I leave it on the car and run back. Kate asks me if I left my phone number or email... and I realize this sweatshirt might be not be in my future. Because I didn't leave my phone number. I had to run back to my note and revise it. In the middle of Free Street.
No word, yet. I'll keep you posted.
Mandy and I have been doing a lot of thrift shopping- mostly for her website shopgrandmajune.etsy.com. We scour the Goodwills and Salvation Army's within a ten-mile radius of Portland. I have my favorite locations, she has hers. We'll walk in the door, split up, then meet up after 20 minutes at the dressing room with our arms full. She and I will go in together, because four eyes are better then two (well... in our case, three and a half are better than two...) bringing in way more than ten items. We make yes, no, maybe piles, and make decisions.
On one such trip, recently, I found a grey sweatshirt, no hood, no zipper, that read: "Up North," in the same style one might find a state or univsersity name. I hold it up for Mandy and ask, is this funny? The woman behind us starts laughing. Out loud. So yes, it's funny. Up north, the general vicinity of the state above Portland where people camp, hike and ski. It's five dollars- kind of a no-brainer.
At this point, I'm starving. I had completed a nine hour shift at the Maine Roasters, and I was anxious to meet Angela for oysters at J's. Mandy is still deliberating, so I run over to Shaw's to grab a pre-oyster sandwich. She says her car, a 1984 tan VW Jetta we call Peacock, is unlocked, so I throw my prized find in the front seat, quite pleased with myself as I'm crossing the parking lot. I happen to notice that the contents of the driver's front seat of the car are a little bit different than before, but Mandy had to grab her phone while we were shopping, so I think nothing of it.
Ham sandwich in hand, I meet Mandy back at the car, just like we planned. She's not there. But... neither is the sweatshirt. She's still in the store. Had she gone back to the car, again? I practically run. I grab her by the arm, "Did you go back to the car?"
"No," she replies.
"Oh my god, the sweatshirt isn't there." (Because this is Maine, the thought doesn't even cross my mind that it could've been stolen. Once, I didn't lock Josh's car and his winter coat was stolen from the backseat. I felt terrible, obviously, but what the hell was his jacket doing back there, anyway?? Still haven't learned.)
"Well... there was a gold Volvo parked two doors down from me. I almost went to it when I was grabbing my phone."
And then it dawns on me. I put the Up North sweatshirt in the wrong car. I get really upset for a few reasons. 1, Why didn't that car lock it's doors?! 2. The contents of the car were obviously those belonging to a woman. This is definitely not going to be the beginning of a romantic comedy. 3. Why wasn't that car still there? 4. The Up North sweatshirt is GONE and I might as well have thrown that five dollars in the trashcan. Mandy explains the whole thing to the clerks at the Goodwill, how I bought the sweatshirt, to see if anyone returned it, and they laughed at her, well, me. Kate did the same thing a few days later, and the employees were equally bemused by my mishap.
A few days after that, even, I see a gold Volvo on Free Street. I'm with Kate, and I decide there's only one thing to do: leave a note. The chances of this Volvo being the same Volvo are slim, but it's ridiculous not to.
This is what it said:
Hello There,
This is extremely embarrassing, but a few days ago I mistakenly threw a gray "Up North" sweatshirt in a car just like yours (thinking it was my friend's car which is a very similar VW.) Obviously, this is a long shot, but I'd be pleased to find said sweatshirt.
Thank you for your time, and have a great day.
Sincerely,
Amanda
I leave it on the car and run back. Kate asks me if I left my phone number or email... and I realize this sweatshirt might be not be in my future. Because I didn't leave my phone number. I had to run back to my note and revise it. In the middle of Free Street.
No word, yet. I'll keep you posted.
February 5, 2010
Breve Cappuccino
For a living, I serve coffee. I like my job, I meet the best people, and get to talk about coffee all day. Not to mention, as much coffee as I want. I drink like, 25 cups of coffee a day. Actually, this is how it goes: in the morning, a 16 ounce Rocky Coast Roast, which is a Maine Roasters Coffee strong, dark blend- people go bananas over it; in the afternoon, an iced soy chai or a nonfat vanilla latte, sometimes iced, sometimes hot; but when the closing tasks begin, it's always a fresh brewed iced tea, with either peach, orange or raspberry Torrani flavor. These are all reasonably normal drinks, pretty straightforward, but you would not believe some of the ridiculous drinks orderd by the patrons of Yarmouth.
BLUEBERRY latte. I shutter to think.
Short cup of Vanilla Foam. (that's right, FOAM!)
Tall red-eye with Gingerbread flavor and room for cream.
Quad grande soy vanilla latte (this drink costs over five dollars.)
Medium coffee with like, four shots. Actually how this guy orders it... prompts me to say, really?
"I drink Dunkin Donuts coffee. Can you make my coffee as Dunkin Donuts-y as possible?"
Anyone that wants extra room. More than a splash of cream makes me want to gag. It coats your mouth with disgustingness. Double breve cappuccino. Same goes with anything made with half and half. Gross. Actually, Splenda. That's gross too.
Speaking of things that make me gag, Bea Wood and her infinite hilarity said the other day after a young man came by sporting the ever atrocious ponytail, "Ehhh. I'd rather date a guy with like... a Guido blowout than a ponytail. (scoffs) Even a Jewfro." She's got this dry, really Daria kind of delivery. I laughed out loud.
I know some Amato's employee somewhere is also making a similar list of ridiculous things people order, and I'm one of them: Ham Italian, no onions, no oil, plus pineapples. Stay tuned for more coffee ridiculousness and excellent Bea Wood quotes.
BLUEBERRY latte. I shutter to think.
Short cup of Vanilla Foam. (that's right, FOAM!)
Tall red-eye with Gingerbread flavor and room for cream.
Quad grande soy vanilla latte (this drink costs over five dollars.)
Medium coffee with like, four shots. Actually how this guy orders it... prompts me to say, really?
"I drink Dunkin Donuts coffee. Can you make my coffee as Dunkin Donuts-y as possible?"
Anyone that wants extra room. More than a splash of cream makes me want to gag. It coats your mouth with disgustingness. Double breve cappuccino. Same goes with anything made with half and half. Gross. Actually, Splenda. That's gross too.
Speaking of things that make me gag, Bea Wood and her infinite hilarity said the other day after a young man came by sporting the ever atrocious ponytail, "Ehhh. I'd rather date a guy with like... a Guido blowout than a ponytail. (scoffs) Even a Jewfro." She's got this dry, really Daria kind of delivery. I laughed out loud.
I know some Amato's employee somewhere is also making a similar list of ridiculous things people order, and I'm one of them: Ham Italian, no onions, no oil, plus pineapples. Stay tuned for more coffee ridiculousness and excellent Bea Wood quotes.
February 4, 2010
Free Records and Theodore Treehouse
At some point over the last few years, I took a break from my perpetual search for the most exciting, new, awesome music, only to face dismay and ridicule from my friends. It's partially because I stopped working at the string of various record stores which fueled the fire for six years, and partially because my time is devoted to other things (like, writing this blog?). A few "new" bands have trickled in here and there, like Fleet Foxes, Midlake, Bat for Lashes, Lil Wayne, Lady Gaga, but I'm embarrassed to say that I can't remember the last time I set foot in a Bull Moose, and most of the music I've purchased recently has been either digital (Whitesnake, More than Words) or vinyl. On the side of the road a few days ago, in a "free box" was the mother of pearl best free record ever: a live Fleetwood Mac disc from 1980, the Tusk Tour. I gave it to Tess, because she loves Fleetwood Mac more than anyone, ever... Gosh, I'm an amazing friend. But this is an adequate portrayal of my recent music acquisitions. Records from free boxes on the side of the road.
I digress. So, for my listening pleasure there are my Pandora stations, (which have seeds ranging from AC/DC, Beyonce, Cat Power, Johnny Cash, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, and so on and so forth), my records, public radio, or best of all, all of the amazing local bands here in town. I wrote a spot for the Pure Pop blog, my old stomping ground, and composed a list of all of my favorite local musicians. Friends who saw it considered it a bit of a roast, but seriously, I love everyone. (Even the Clash of the Titans, even the Awesome, even the haters who say all anyone in this town cares about are cover bands. Darn shame I missed that Guns N Roses tribute...)
For us, myself and my peers, Portland is a young, transient place, much like Burlington, where people are always coming and going, enriching the creative community. Every few months there is a new local band to be discovered, and I can't get enough and it's amazing. First, there was the Enchantments. Then Diamond Sharp, Cult Maze, the 500s, Feel It Robot, Spencer and the School Spirit Mafia, and a band I just discovered at a free show at Space- Theodore Treehouse. It's like they were inside my brain, playing exactly and only the music I wanted them to play. We danced and danced and danced and it was amazing.
I digress. So, for my listening pleasure there are my Pandora stations, (which have seeds ranging from AC/DC, Beyonce, Cat Power, Johnny Cash, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, and so on and so forth), my records, public radio, or best of all, all of the amazing local bands here in town. I wrote a spot for the Pure Pop blog, my old stomping ground, and composed a list of all of my favorite local musicians. Friends who saw it considered it a bit of a roast, but seriously, I love everyone. (Even the Clash of the Titans, even the Awesome, even the haters who say all anyone in this town cares about are cover bands. Darn shame I missed that Guns N Roses tribute...)
For us, myself and my peers, Portland is a young, transient place, much like Burlington, where people are always coming and going, enriching the creative community. Every few months there is a new local band to be discovered, and I can't get enough and it's amazing. First, there was the Enchantments. Then Diamond Sharp, Cult Maze, the 500s, Feel It Robot, Spencer and the School Spirit Mafia, and a band I just discovered at a free show at Space- Theodore Treehouse. It's like they were inside my brain, playing exactly and only the music I wanted them to play. We danced and danced and danced and it was amazing.
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