Another Night at the Front Room

I love going to the Front Room. Their happy hour is awesome, you can eat for really cheap (giant BLT for $6,) or you can eat reasonably fancy. They have a great happy hour and they're approximately three blocks from my house. A few months ago I had some terrible service there, but it was Sunday morning brunch, and it's possible to get bad service anywhere on Sunday morning. Josh and I used to live like, next door and I wrote about this night in 2008 and the other morning I ran into this guy at brunch. He asked me if I worked at Bayside Bowl. I just about yelled: I KNOW YOU SLEPT WITH A STUDENT YOU CREEPER LEAVE ME ALONE. I'm low maintenance and I tip well- occasionally when I'm at a table I feel like I'm inconveniencing the server, but maybe that's because their entire job is inconvenient. Or I'm over sensitive about pleasing my server, when it should obviously be the other way around.

Bob, one of the bartenders, Angela and I, have an inside joke: Angela was explaining how this cruise ship looked like it was trying to mount the City of Portland and I said that everything was always about sex with her. Bob pipes in and says, no talking about sex at the bar (though mostly stoic and never smiles, he's a good bartender and this proves yes, he has a sense of humor.) A few minutes later, our mussels come out, and a few minutes after that, he asked us how the mussels were. Except... that's what he meant to say. My mouth was full so I just nodded and gave a thumbs up, Angela and Bob exchanged a what just happened look... He actually asked us how the sex was. I change my answer from thumbs up, to non-existent. Now every time he sees us it's, "How's the sex, ladies?"

Tonight, I went by for a hot toddie and some soup. I was travelling for 30 hours, then went out when I got home I went out... and last night my throat started tickling. I set out on this rainy Thursday evening in leggings and Bean boots, a giant sweater which I pulled over my pajama shirt last from last night, meaning, no bra. My hair wasn't washed, frizzy from the rain, and pulled back in a bun. But I planned on keeping my head down at the bar, eating and leaving, plus it was cold and rainy. Once it starts snowing I'll practically live in this outfit. The meal, grilled cheese and red pepper-fennel bisque, was satisfying. Partway through, I moved over to make two open seats next to me on my left, and met some bros who started talking to me about the bowling alley... not uncommon. On my right was now a man in his late 60s-ish, having dinner with a younger guy. When I first look over, I think the younger guy is pretty hot, but then I took a closer look and was less impressed. I heard him recounting this ridiculous story about how when he was 21 and working as some sort of laborer, he would walk around the building with no shirt on, carrying 2x4s, getting in the elevator with men in suits, how he couldn't imagine behaving that way now. Maybe he could tell I was listening... I also heard him say something about his students, so he's a teacher of some sort. Could be karate for all I know.

It's pretty close quarters in there when the dining room is full, and I hung up my wet, yellow raincoat. On my way out, I push my some people, grab my jacket, go back to the bar to get my phone and my purse, and make my way to the door. There are people waiting for a table, blocking the exit and I stand patiently for a second, until they'll notice me and get the fuck out of my way, when I hear, "Excuse me." I'm shocked, my pulse quickens and if someone tries to push passed me to get out the door they'd better be on fire or in labor- otherwise they're getting a big healthy dose of "Go Fuck Yourself." I'm out the door when I hear it again, and I'm about ready to thank that person for chasing me to return my wallet/cellphone/whatever I've left at the bar, and it's that guy. The shirtless at 21 guy, and he's leaning into the door at me. He's taller than I expected. "Would you like to come back here and have drinks and some dinner with me?" Holy shit! This stuff actually happens to people. Maybe my new contacts are working? I wonder what the 60 year old had to say about this. I look him in the eye, look away, look again, smile, and tell him that I usually work nights, and that maybe I'd see him there again sometime.

Just another Monday night...

My new approach to dating is to just sit back and see what happens. Good for life, not as good for blogging. When I decided to post this tonight, I considered the fact that I have to be aware of how many Baby stories I post, just so that I don't start seeming like some sort of lonely, crazy cat lady.

Okay, so, you already know that my cat is a little bit crazy and I'm kind of, well, disorganized, right?

I was at the Front Room for lunch today (seriously, I should just open my wallet and dump it in that guy's pocket,) and I decided to finish listening to the podcast of This American Life after I got to the bar. I didn't feel that weird about wearing headphones, I'm in there often enough, and it was a shift change for the staff anyway. But I did feel weird about the bartender who did not serve me grabbing the napkin I used to wipe my dirty BLT hands off then rub some boogers off my nose. So I stuck it in my bag and forgot about it.

A few hours later, Angela and I were going out to the grocery store, and as I was checking to made sure my wallet was in fact where it should be and had all of the necessary contents, the crumpled dirty napkin fell on the floor. In the bustle for me to find my shoes, jacket, reusable grocery bags, Baby finds the napkin on the floor and starts clawing it and rubbing her face on it. I don't know how or why she was doing this, but I sort of forgot about it on our way out. Anglea, btw, thought there it was like, covered in my perfume or something. Perfume, really? I'm lucky if I remember deodorant.

Once we return from the grocery store, I'm in full-on cooking mode, since we needed to eat immediately, and I still didn't call the oil company, so our heat isn't on. The napkin was ancient history. I decided to make a quick pizza, beef stew and apple crisp to warm us up. Angela, who usually does most of the cooking (or Rebecca, who is house-sitting tonight,) cozies up to the table with the new issue of Real Simple magazine, a glass of wine, and starts changing her toenail polish. It's where the heat is, after all.

Disaster strikes when Angela knocks her hot pink polish on the floor. She's grumbling and I'm still sort of busy chopping and shit, when I hear her say over my Dr. Dog Pandora station, "Luckily, there was a paper towel right there." I go into survival mode and yell, "AH! NO! I BLEW MY NOSE IN THAT!" Really, it was more of a wipe than a full-on blow, Angela gets super disgusted and throws it away. She needs to wipe the spill before the polish dries, and she does so while commenting on how incredibly strange it was that the cat was essentially rubbing her face all over my boogers.

The best part is that on her way out of the kitchen she gives me a distainful, disgusted, disapproving sidelong glance and says, "You two have a weird relationship."

Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner

Have I talked about my cat, Baby? Originally, I was torn between naming her Penelope Whitmore and Beyonce, in the meantime called her Baby, and it stuck. Although I adopted her as an adult, her name was Miss T, and it had to be changed. No daughter of Mr. T would be hanging out at my house.

She's can't meow properly. And she's absolutely insane, like, will unpredictably lash out at people. Well, people other than me, partially because I'm the center of her universe, her one true love, the hand that feeds her. I can also tell when she's in a bad mood and might lash out. Anyway, she is also a really great snuggler, and has killed a mouse or two in her day, so I keep her around, cock block or not. My roommates have been really patient in regards to the cat, for example, not flipping out if she scratches one of their friends. I guess nobody puts Baby in the corner.

A few minutes ago, I was sitting in the kitchen, working on a paper, and the door to Rebecca's room opened. This kind of thing really freaks me out, I mean really. Then the internet stopped working. I went into the other room an gchatted Angela:

 me:  did you get my last chat?

rebecca's door just opened by itself.

then the internet stopped working.

WHAT THE FUCK

 Angela:  I responded...it's the wind!

 me:  the wind made the internet stop working??

i'm thoroughly freaked the fuck out.

baby seems to be cool, though, so i guess it can't be a serious ghost.

 Angela:  Yeh, I would trust baby...if there was something super-natural in there, she'd be clinging to the ceiling fan.

 me:  or trying to attack it.

Then I posted on Rebecca's wall and said, Um, your door just opened by itself and then the internet stopped working. Be honest, are you hiding a ghost in your room? You KNOW I'm like, really scared of ghosts.

Rebecca: You probably know I don't believe in ghosts, so, how could I hide something I don't believe in in my room? (Cue a bunch of really boring stories about how someone swears they saw a ghost once.)

Rebecca: Maybe your cat attacked and killed someone and they're hiding out in my giant closet? That's more plausible.

Angela: Guess I should call Cole [her boyfriend] and make sure he's still alive.

Best Brunch and Where to Find It

I had to be out of my Gilman Street apartment by noon on the first of July. It took me right up until 11:59 to throw the last box down the stairs, sweep and find a piece of paper to leave a note with my new address. The first of July was a Thursday, and we had advertised a huge 4th of July cookout for that Sunday. This gave us exactly two days to unpack, organize, clean, hang pictures, etc. One of those days being Angela's birthday, and all of us working in some capacity on one or both of those days. There wasn't very much time, and honestly, I kind of freaked out.

The biggest job, by far, was the kitchen. I started Saturday morning, and balls to the wall, unpacked everything. Much to my discouragement, this is approximately what I found: five coffeemakers (four percelators and a press,) two blenders, two food processors, two mortar and pestles,  two dish racks, at least two, sometimes three containers of every spice imaginable, seven wooden spoons of various shapes and sizes, eighteen pint glasses, twenty mugs, five whisks AND  an old school crank mixer AND a Kitchen Aid mixer, two full sets of china, a partridge and a fucking pear tree. I was feeling stressed, and opening another box and finding another double or triple was making it worse. Especially because hardly any of this stuff belonged to me, and how was I going to decide whose things were kept and what went into storage? But in the back of my mind, I kept thinking to myself, "Amanda. It's going to be alright. They are going to use these magic kitchen devices to feed you incredible meals and you're going to be happy."

I was right. This morning Rebecca had some friends over for a brunch/bluegrass jam session (yes, that's what they call these things.) I was treated to the following: crepes with either homemade pesto cream cheese or a strawberry rhubarb sauce (strawberries from Rebecca's garden, rhubarb from the farm,) sliced mango and peach, homemade pain au lait bread, (baked by one of Rebecca's friends the day before, kind of tasted like pound cake,) a crab/avocado/cream sauce of some sort over a poached egg ON the fresh baked bread, coffee, bellinis, and sun-dried tomatoes. But I don't even know where the sun-dried tomatoes were supposed to go. And we ate on the porch. It was amazing, and I didn't do a goddamn thing. I'm seriously going to have to do some hardcore cleaning, grocery shopping and sweet talking to be able to hold up my end of the roommate bargain. Anyone on a quest for the best brunch spot in town, look no further. My house!

Oh, and to top the whole thing off, I'm sitting in my living room, checking my email. Rebecca is bustling in the kitchen, preparing for her guests to arrive. I hear a motorcycle pull up, and I run to the window. I decided way back in our days of frequenting Bentley's that one of my summer goals is to get on the back of one of those things, along with skinny dipping and Moose River and Great Falls Balloon Fest. I've had a few leads, but it'd be awesome if he ended up being my neighbor. Then I realize, the guy that gets off the bike, no jacket, no helmet, is kind of hot. He stands there for a second looking at his phone, and I run to the kitchen to get Rebecca. "REBECCA, get over here." (The sixteen year old in me lives on.) She's like oh, I know that guy. He's here for bluegrass. "Hey! C'mon in!" He walks in, I shake his hand, and realize that he looks like this guy, only younger:

The Penis Heater, Take 2

Darcy was doing a language exchange with a friend a few months ago and they were talking about the differences between "hooking up" and "making out" in English. She said: "Well, my friend Amanda will often kiss guys in bars, but that doesn't mean she has sex with them. So she can make out with them but not necessarily hook up." This is, on a side note, not the case in British English… she thought her British friends were sluts until she realized her mistake.

He looked at her and said "Ah, pero eso es una calienta pollas!" - literally, “someone who heats penises”.

Turns out that is the Spanish equivalent of calling someone a cock tease. She fell out of her chair laughing and left me a voicemail via Skype that night telling me I was a penis heater. Sometime after that, I wrote myself a note to blog about the "Penis Heater," lost the note and forgot the story. Thanks, Darc.

My making out in bars phase ended with the move to Kennebunkport last summer, but I thought since my name was recently plastered all over Portland as having "a dating blog," I might as well try to live up to the hype for a few posts. Although I consider this stupid thing to be about telling entertaining stories, Laura pointed out, in her infinite wisdom, that since I'm single, all of the stories I tell are from the perspective of a single person. Here's a story of a time that I was making out in public, a real-life penis heater.

It was a fucking blizzard, one of those bitterly cold, silent storms. It seemed so bright- the roads, sidewalks, buildings covered in snow reflected the streetlights, completely untouched late that night. Angela, her niece and I were hanging out at Angela's apartment, if I remember correctly. We probably had beers with dinner, and decided that the Nor'easter outside was no match for us. This is Maine, it's a storm, we're going out. Gritty's was celebrating their 21 IPA anniversary on December 21. It's not my first choice of hangouts, certainly not the closest place to our house, but Angela was in the middle of trying to get them to sign on for a fundraiser at work. We bundled in our Bean boots, our peacoats, the thickest mittens. We couldn't really see each other's faces, so in order to communicate on the walk, er, knee-deep trek, we had to turn and face each other and yell above the wind, through our scarves.


We arrive and peel our wet layers off, just like a Campbell’s soup commercial, revealing dry sweaters, rosey cheeks and runny noses. A reggae-influenced band is playing, but I’m so happy to be warm that I ignore the fact that I never voluntarily listen to reggae of any kind and cozy up to an IPA. We find some of Angela’s friends from high school, sit down and introduce ourselves. Quickly, the conversation turns to our “numbers.” By this I mean the number of people we’ve slept with. The people at the table in their late 20’s, 30ish, all seem to be around twenty. I was almost 25 at the time, and I believe my number was between 5 and 7. Angela’s niece, however, is 21 years old, if that, and her number blows us all out of the water. She whispers it to Angela and Angela tells her not to say it out loud. She does, and immediately I text my younger sister, who is the same age, and ask her what her number is. First she tells me her phone number (which is ridiculous, considering I was TEXTING her phone number,) then her cup size, and I am relieved when she tells me it’s about half Angela’s niece’s, although, it’s still, not low.

The IPA and the music is moving us, literally, and we get up, three single girls, making our moves. Angela starts talking to some damn painter, the Niece is chatting up one of Angela’s high school friends (ten years her senior, him knowing full well how many people she's had relations with), and I set my sights on this guy. He’s dancing like a fool, possibly yelling incoherently, and from the looks of it, not drinking the IPA, but vodka Redbull. (Did I mention I was drunk?) He has to tell me his name five times and I still don't understand it. He gives me his business card, and I find out his name in Russian is the equivalent of George. Russian George is cute, about 5’7”, with round shoulders that nicely filled out his red and black buffalo plaid shirt. We're dancing, everyone is dancing, and it's getting really warm. No one wants to leave the bar to step out into the storm. We probably would've partied there all night. Russian George sits down next to me at one of the long benches. He's been living in DC, grew up in Portland, and tells me about his job- I can't remember- investment banking, or something. Since I now have all of the necessary information, we start making out. In the bar. Penis. Heater.

This doesn’t last very long, and eventually the Niece and I are talking to Russian George over by the bar, shouting over the music. He’s telling a story about some girl he knows, and somewhere, somehow, Russian George says the c-word- the see you next Tuesday word. This is when the Pizzo fire inside flares up and the Niece goes absolutely bananas. I don’t know if she thinks that he is calling her the c-word,  she wasn’t acting particularly c-wordy. Granted, it was loud and I was three sheets to the wind, but I’m fairly certain that he was referring to a woman who wasn’t in the room and merely describing her as the c-word, not recounting a conversation in which she was called the c-word. In any case, the Niece karate chops Russian George in the shoulder. If this was a movie, the music would’ve stopped, and the slow-motion would’ve kicked in. Actually, it kind of felt like it happened in slow motion. My jaw drops. They start yelling at each other, and I’m surprised we haven’t been kicked out of the bar. Angela sees the scuffle from across the room, goes all Mama Bear and flies over. She starts yelling at Russian George, pointing her finger, poking out her chest. I’m begging the Pizzo girls to let it go. The Niece walks away. Angela calms down and she enters into a serious conversation with Russian George about the meaning of words, social context and how your upbringing affects your vocabulary. I'm livid. Those damn Pizzos totally cock blocked me! Defeated, I pulled my famous leave without saying goodbye, cursing them up and down the whole blustery, snowy, hike back to Deering Street. I haven't seen Russian George since, and I'm not positive that I'd even recognize him.

 

The Little Black Skirt that Could

I wasn't born yesterday. I'm well aware of the fact that I work for tips, and sometimes I'll put on clothes that, well, you know, aren't exactly modest or dumpy. This one skirt, however...

Mandy and I are pretty much the same size, so we share clothes. The other day when picking up some key pieces of mine that she had, I grabbed this black miniskirt. She wears a lot of skirts and heels, I wear a lot of jeans and tee shirts. This was everything a miniskirt is supposed to be, short and snug, pockets. Before wearing it to work, I tested it out on a trip to Gritty's with Angela Pizzo. She has a mug, and I ate a cheezburger. Everything about my outfit that day was totally normal, except the length of the skirt. We're mid-pint, mid-conversation when a man, out of nowhere, comes over to us and says, "Can I tell you a story?" I'm psyched. I ask him if I can record, because a) the voice recorder app exists, b) I know how to post audio to the blog, and c) Laura is always looking for stories for her project. But the story is so stupid and he leaves out key pieces of information. He lives in DC, and his Mongolian girlfriend punched him in the face last week. He said he was just making dinner, $32 worth of scallops, she got annoyed and punched him in the face. Closed fist. So he gets in the car and drives to Maine. He rambles on and on about his house in Damriscotta, cell service in Lincoln County, this bartender he was talking up at a pub in Waldoboro, and his eventual reconciliation with the Mongolian woman. Angela said that she could see the disappointment on my face after five minutes in this wasn't going to be a great story. I recorded for almost 20 minutes and promptly deleted it when he walked away. It wasn't even a story. THEN the bartender told us that the reason she punched him in the face, which we poked and prodded him for and he never told us. I mean, seriously. She was Mongolian, not insane. He forgot again that she was allergic to shellfish. It was probably one of those, "If you forget again I'm going to punch you," situations. I would've been annoyed, too. Strange men approach me at bars sometimes, but based on the next two incidences which occurred during the skirt wearing, it's definitely to blame.

I wear the skirt to work on Saturday. Oh, it sort of looks like this. Except, black, with little pleats and pockets on the front. Similar fit, though. Don't forget my Tony's Donuts/Pizza Villa belly and Spanx indent, Dexter boat shoes (not spike heels), messy ponytail and glasses. Right, I was really knocking 'em out.

The night started slow. As with every really nice day at the bowling alley, I assume that no one will come in. If I wasn't working on a beautiful Maine summer day, I'd be on the beach, on a boat, at a baseball game, eating BBQ, or a combination of all four. Anyway, things picked up around 9, because Bayside Bowl is awesome and supersedes decks and boats. Then a couple of things happened:

I was propositioned by an 85 year old man. This is not a joke. A 50-something year old man with a name everyone in Portland knows, was doing shots of Crown Royal. He asked me for one for him and one for his uncle, the 85 year old, who's name might've been Jack. Jack was old, looked old, acted old, without a doubt the oldest person in the building by at least 20 years. He corners me at the waitstation. "AMANDA!" I look up. "Let me ask you a question." I know there's no response to this other than okay, so I say okay. "Have you ever made love to a senior citizen?"




!!!




What?! Oh my god. I blushed. Hell no, why would I ever want to put my body up against your old, hunched over, wrinkly body? Do you even still have all of your teeth? Not to mention I'd have to do all the work! Gross, no thanks. It takes a nano second figure out how to let this man down gently, by using words instead of running away or dry heaving (my two instinctive reactions), so I smile and say, "I don't think my boyfriend would like that very much." The boyfriend is a fragment of my imagination. He replies, "Have you ever considered it? You have, haven't you!" I'm really, just so stunned, that I paused, went into auto pilot, and must've blacked out, because I don't remember the rest of the conversation. He said something about my boobs (which I don't believe were particularly pushed up or exposed that night.) I must've changed the subject to bowling, which luckily, is always a topic, then made an excuse about getting an order in. Instead of helping actual customers who probably needed things, I ran into the kitchen and had a mini-freakout and gave the kitchen staff a pretty good laugh.

A bit later, things are winding down, but I'm still shellshocked when the Bayside Bowl phone rings. Micaela answers it, and apparently, a man on the other line insists that she take down his number, in case "the dark haired waitress with the glasses wants some cock." So Micaela, says, "Amanda??" Great, so the creep knows my name. She takes down his phone number. I freakout, crumple it and throw it in the trash immediately. Then I try to pull my skirt down. I just facebooked this guy's supposed first name, and the first person I found had pictures on his profile bowling at a different alley. Interesting.

Anyway, that skirt has gone back to it's rightful owner, and I'm going to wear jeans, tees and muumuus to work for a little while. (In case you were wondering, my tips were awesome that night.)

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."

I'm Getting Fat

Everyone knows that in the winter, it's normal to put on a few pounds, like we're hibernating. You wear wool and flannel and parkas, the gluttony of the Holidays. It's perfectly acceptable, even animals do it. I've been extremely fortunate, and my weight hasn't fluxuated very much at all, except for two specific occasions. There are two specific times in my life when this has happened, and surprisingly, it's been weightloss, not gain. When I had my first seriously devastating break-up, and I survived on coffee for about a week- my body didn't know if it was hungry, nauseated, nervous, so I barely ate anything. Then there was the time that I moved out of my mother's house for the first time, relying on myself to do groceries and prepare my own food. Most college freshman put on a freshman fifteen, I lost the freshman fifteen. Friends visited and grew concerned about my nutrition, rightfully so. Money, and therefore food shopping, was an bit of an issue. I can remember eating a sandwich made of cinnamon raisin bread, fluff, and cucumbers. Maybe I was delusional, but I think I liked it?  Don't tell my mom this, but once or twice, I went to sleep hungry, assuming that it would be gone in the morning.

This winter, however, a number of things have changed. Barely noticable to the naked eye and those around me, but proven by a dress I wore to a wedding last year no longer zipping, I put on *gasp* five pounds. My apartment is a lot farther away from everything, so I've been taking the bus a lot more. I could not resist a Tony's molasses donut for breakfast, then I'd eat a delicious Rosemont Bakery ham and cheese croissant for lunch, plus a various mix of assorted coffee drinks throughout the day. Vegetables? What vegetables. Possibly in some veggie cream cheese on my bagel. I was (well, still am,) drinking a lot of cheap beer, and eating at Pizza Villa all the time (ham Italian, no onion, no olives, no oil, plus pineapples or a meatball sub, since it's cheap, and a block from my house. This is a big one: I rounded the corner of my twenties, which means, maybe my metabolism is finally slowing down.

Anyway, there's a really easy way of dealing with this, or so I thought. It was only a matter of time before I shed this winter weight, and in the meantime, Spanx. I wore Spanx under my jeans, under my tights, dresses, and sometimes after a long day, I'd pass out in bed with all of my clothes on, Spanx included. Beyonce wears them too:

But something bad happened. I think I abused the privilege of the Spanx. Here is a picture taken a few weeks ago from a nice morning hike up Bradbury Mountain that I took with Angela Pizzo. I asked Darcy if it was a difficult climb, and she said that I could go up the mountain in a wheelchair.

OH MY GOD, I'm maimed for life! I don't know when exactly I finally noticed this, and it's only on my left leg, but holy shit. Alright, well. A few things to consider: Since then, I've been cutting my donuts in half and throwing the other half away. I got sneakers to go on walks/jogs/the gym. There's a gym at USM that I can use for free, although I don't even know how it works. When my budget allows, I'll order a vodka soda, with it's low sugar content, over a cheap beer. There are precious few weeks before beach weather rolls around, and I don't intend on spending the summer in a baggy t-shirt to hide my Spanx scar.

Bump!

Have you ever been asked to Bump?

This confused the hell out of my friend Bryan once, when someone tried to "bump" him. He was holding his phone, and they kind of hit his hand. He had no idea what was going on. Bryan does not have an iPhone. Bumping... could totally be a euphemism for sex.

It's actually an iPhone (Android?) app, and theoreticly, it's awesome. You download this free application from iTunes or the App Store, and magically, you do a fist bump, holding your phone, and your contact information is exchanged. You can include photos, your email, even a Facebook friend request, and it takes only a second. It's so much easier than typing the other person's name and entering their phone number, the old fashioned way (but just as fast as writing your number down for someone, the even older fashioned way.) I know a lot of people with iPhones. Just went through my contact list and found at least 30 people, including two or three who used to have iPhones, not including anyone who might have an Android or Google Phone or whatever other kind of phone is capable of bumping.

Whoever invented the Bump application, however, did not take into consideration this experience I just had:

I'm at happy hour with Angela Pizzo, and one of our other friends, whom we lovingly refer to as Little Big Snack. We're enjoying a glass of $2 wine when one of LBS's friends meets us. This guy, we'll call him Jeremiah, I've met a few times, but have never established a relationship with outside of LBS. He seems like a nice enough guy... but he's more than a few years older than me, we don't seem to have much in common (other than our Lewiston roots- REPRESENT!), and I'm not attracteved to him at all. According to LBS, however, he's a bit of a ladies' man. Really, though, I'm not one to judge. Jeremiah asks me if he saw me at 90s night at the Asylum the previous weekend, and if you would have seen my dress, you'd know that was kind of a stupid question. It was skin tight, black, and studded. I told Mandy that night that it felt like everyone was watching me, and she said I was right, because the dress was mesmerizing. It was like... Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation, or something (pictures soon!)

It becomes apparent that the four of us all have iPhones, and on our way out, while LBS is in the bathroom, Jeremiah asks Angela and I to Bump. Problem: I have no desire to give this man my phone number. Under normal circumstances, I'd do a number of things to get out of this. I could: offer to take his and tell him I'd call him; write down a fake number; ask him to get it from our mutual friend; change the subject altogether. Fuck you, Bump, now I have to give it to him. The ONLY way out of it is to lie and say that you don't have the app, which is ridiculous, because it's one of the few apps that everyone has. This is what it looks like after you've bumped:

So you're standing there, both holding your phones, and you KNOW if it doesn't go though. There's no excuse.

As luck would have it, I run into Jeremiah the next night at Bubba's Sulky Lounge. He's wasted, I'm not. He tells me we should hang out, very matter of factly. "You have my number, just call me," I tell him, having no intention whatsoever of ever taking his call or calling him back. He tells me he's shy, which I know is bullshit, just part of the game. For the rest of the night he lingers next to me on the dancefloor. I try and make eye contact with his sober-er friend to let him know that Jeremiah is cramping my style. It doesn't work. The lights come up and he asks my friends and I to have a drink at my house. We obviously decline.

The next day, he texts me and invited me to a BBQ. Honestly, there is very little I love more than grilled meat, but I didn't respond.

Here's another guy who has a problem with the Bump app: