Pulling Mussels from a Shell

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Friday

I was at Sonny's on a Sunday night a few weeks ago with Mandy. This should come as no surprise, since Mandy and I spend a lot of time together, and I hang out at Sonny's on a regular basis. Across the corner of the bar, I see a man and a woman finishing their drinks, possibly the ineptly named FDR. (This cocktail is deeeelish, made of Hendrix Gin and Fresca. It should have been the LBJ, or even just the Johnson, since Fresca was actually not invented when Franklin Delanor Roosevelt was President, and it was a Johnson's favorite drink, not Roosevelt's. Minor confusion of the initials, FDR, LBJ.) Anyway, I recognize this man from Match.com. He's broad shouldered, seemingly some sort of Middle Eastern/Indian descent, and has a longish haircut. His picture was memorable in the search results because it was a clear, well lit picture. He was smiling, wearing a tie; he stood out from all of the other buzz-cut LiveStrong bros. Mandy and I actually looked up his profile from my iPhone while they were right there to confirm my suspicions were correct. Sometimes we spend a lot of time together and run out of things to talk about... this was one of those times. But this girl is so CLEARLY not into it. His body language has him facing her and leaning in, acting very interested in everything she's saying. I can practically hear her thoughts, "Oh dear god, Revenge of the Nerds seriously needs to shut. up. so I can get the fuck out of here. Hmmm... I think there's a new Grey's Anatomy on Hulu..."




Two weeks later, it's Sunday night again, I'm back at Sonny's with Angela Pizzo this time. Low and behold- same girl, same spot, same drink, different guy, different earrings, same boring conversation. It was weird. This guy looked like more her type, and she was absolutely into it. She played with her hair. Once in a while I overheard her saying boring, inane things about herself. The Best Bartender in Portland gives them their bill, and they both reach for their wallets. I know this game. She looks up from her wallet and sees he has put his card down first, but since she's already holding her card, she offers to split the bill. He smirks and says, "I'll let you decide." Are you fucking kidding me? What a dick! What was she supposed to say? "Oh, well in that case you pay, because I was just trying to be polite by offering. I actually had no intention of paying $9 for this stupid mixed drink." Every girl wants to be taken care of, and despite popular belief by modern men and modern women, chivalry isn't dead." I'm anxious to see if she'll be back there this Sunday with a different guy.




Overall, my experiences internet dating have been entertaining for the purpose of story telling, but I know that I'm not going to meet the love of my life online. Although in a day in age when we turn to the internet for finding jobs, paying bills, shopping, apartment hunting, watching tv and communicating with friends, it's not unreasonable to think that it's possible. A friend told me after he found out that I was registered on Match.com, "Amanda, what are you doing, that's not fair. Internet dating is for fat, ugly chicks who can't meet people in real life." Not totally true, but I see his point. I don't have trouble meeting people.






If I do a search for guys to potentially date, in a specified age range, in a specified distance from Portland (remember, no car), about two hundred dudes come up (if the search is reversed with the same criteria, there are twice as many ladies.) Of those two hundred, I've probably already gone out with five guys from the site since I first signed up like a year and a half ago. Obviously, it didn't work out. Then there are about ten people I know in real life, former coworkers, local musicians, frequent customers at the coffeeshop, guys I went to high school with, a friend's crazy ex. In addition to those guys, I've actually seen about four or five more guys that I've met in real life, and I've driven them to the world wide web of dating, where guess what, there I am again! So numbers-wise, roughly one in ten in the search is no good. Then, take away everyone who has Phish, Run/Ski/Snowboard or Red Sox in their username, anyone who is pictured holding a guitar, a sword, a cat or wearing sunglasses, anyone who claims to be "easy going" or a republican, and guys with major spelling or grammar mistakes, and there's pretty much no one left. I'm more likely to meet the love of my life at a Cult Maze reunion show than on the internet (Get it? Because it's never going to happen. Ha!)





Seeing that girl on an internet date reminded me that I have a couple of stories worth sharing.






So, I find this guy, um, Larry on Match.com. We seem to be on the same page, humor-wise and he seems like an attractive guy, so we decide to meet up. He shoots down my Dogfish suggestion, which is highly annoying, and because I liked taking dates there to be judged by the Best Bartender in Portland. Since he lives in the Old Port, I concede to go to Gritty's, douchebag capital of the Old Port. Like anyone I have anything in common with who is roughly within my age range and lives in Portland, we end up knowing a few of the same people. He was geekier in person than in his pictures, and if I remember correctly, he had a slight lisp or something. We had a couple of pints, and ended up hardcore making out in his stairwell about two blocks away. I had plans to meet some friends for Neon Garden at the White Heart, so I left with that giddy, just-madeout feeling and danced the rest of the night away.






Days passed, and I heard nothing. This was confusing, I thought we hit it off. He tried to bring me upstairs, and I refused, so maybe he was just looking to have sex? It's not that I was opposed to doing it with this guy... A week later, I texted him and asked him to hang out sometime. His response: "I'm trying to keep things pretty casual, but sure." What?! A text message after a week somehow implies something but casual? That's the most nonchalant you can possibly be while still expressing interest. I was so annoyed with his assumption that I never wrote back. If a guy sleeps around, he's a player. If a girl sleeps around, she's a slut. It's just not fair.






A month later I received an equally annoying text from him. "Happy Friday!" Really? Coming up with a clever response to Happy Friday! was just too much work. This guy was really irritating me. So I wrote back, "Happy Friday to you too.... but wait, who is this, again?" ZING! You mess with the bull, you get the horns! Days later he emailed me through the site and said, "Well played." I waited a day and wrote back, "Don't hate the player, hate the game." The texts came reasonably more frequently after that, and although I usually wrote back, it was in a non-responsive kind of way.





Here is one of the funniest things I've seen someone write on a dating site: "The worst part of online dating is the inability to express myself through interpretive dance."

All Things Gaga

Here's a video combining two of my favorite things in an unlikely way: Lady Gaga and public radio. 

The Gnome

We were outside of Geno's the other night, after I had volunteered at an event for the Maine College of Art. Between sets by Theodore Treehouse and Foam Castles, Mandy insisted that she had a story she HAD to tell me, that it was even blog-worthy. Yes, we say these sorts of things. So Bryan Bruchman, Mandy and sat outside Geno's, while she smoked a Bali Shag and Bryan snapped a few pictures of us in the glow of the streetlamp. I recorded it with my "Voice Memo" recorder for the iPhone. Please excuse the failed previous attempts you might've seen in your Google Reader RSS Feed thing, can't believe I actually figured out how to do it. All of my radio friends- I hope this makes you proud. 






(Sidenote: this MECA thing was a fundraising event for the school. Voluteering meant a little bit of networking, a chance to help some friends, and of course, a little free food. The tickets were $60, and the invitation stated to wear "Creative Party Attire." What a mindfuck! Previously, I had thought all of my party attire was creative, which is part of what makes me who I am. But when forced to try and come up with something specifically creative, what I wanted to wear was a plain gray dress and plain black heels. But how creative is recycling an outfit from a previous party? This is art school, so the envelope has to be pushed. The obstacle of trying to find "creative" party attire, fancy enough for a ticketed event, flattering and comfortable, in my mess of a closet, but also impressive and on-par to whatever a bunch of Maine College of Art people would be coming up with. It was like a sick, twisted joke. I've never felt more doubtful of my creative ability than when I was standing in the middle of a pile of black clothes on the floor in my room, trying to decide how creative an all black outfit could be. It came together in the end, barely. Pictures soon.)


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Lewiston High School, Class of '02

This is a re-post of a story I wrote back in `08, which I retold to Tess Van Horn and a friend earlier tonight. I think it's still funny. 


The girls and I decided to eat massive Rosie's cheeseburgers this weekend before going out to karaoke. I'm sitting there, burger juice dripping down my arm, and I see a man who I'd met a few weeks before. Since he was new in town, I prayed there was no cheeseburger on my face, turned around and said hello to the Carhart overall-wearing man on my left, Matt. We exchanged pleasantries, but it was brief, since it's not exactly polite to carry on a conversation while holding a giant cheeseburger.


A few minutes goes by, and a man comes over to our table, and crouches next to me and introduces himself.

"Hey, so how do you know Matt?"

"Matt??" I did not see the people Matt with the Carharts came in with.

"You know, my friend Matt," he gestures.

"Ohhh. That Matt." I explain that he's a friend of a friend, who I'd met only once before, meanwhile I'm thinking, what the hell is this guy doing over here, where could this possibly be going. You see, this man, who for the purpose of this story shall remain nameless, taught at my high school. It escapes me what exactly he taught, Jobs for Maine Graduates or something along those lines in the vocational wing. His classroom might have even been attached to the school store. Anyhow, I knew of this man for two reasons- the first was that my locker was right outside his class, and he was a young, handsome new teacher; the second was that he had to leave his job because he slept with student. That's right. He's Mrs. Robinson. From what I understand, the chick was 18, not that it makes it okay.

So he's going on and on. "You look so familiar, where have I seen you before, do you work downtown, etc." I'm thinking, "Holy effing shit I can't believe this is happening." Two of the three other people at my table had no idea what was going on, the other watched in horror.

It was at this time that I decided to go big or go home. I looked him directly in the face and said, "I went to Lewiston High School." He shut right up. 'Caught with his pants down' as my mother would say. It looked like I had sucker punched him in the stomach, and I wish I was quicker at the draw with the camera on the iPhone. He proceeds to make some even more awkward conversation about the high school, finally asking me if I was proud of my Lewiston heritage. I blinked twice for emphasis (did he really just ask me that?) I said I didn't know how to answer his question, because really, nine o'clock at Rosie's was neither the time nor the place for me to explain my complex feelings of being born and raised in Lewiston, let alone in front of two Bates graduates (humble, but proud and very defensive.) Finally acknowledging his defeat, he stood up and left with a meek, "Go Blue Devils."

The Blow, at Space!

Kate Digby Skinner and I were just talking about how amazing we think the Blow is. Low and behold, they're coming to Space. Check out this video:



See you there?