Fo' Shizzle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hello?" She's like, terrified.

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

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

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

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

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

Amanda, You're like, the Bomb

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

These Boots

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

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

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

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

LL Bean

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

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

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

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

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

Dark Shadows

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

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

...a body bag.

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

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

Up North

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



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

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

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

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

"No," she replies.

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

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

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

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

This is what it said:

Hello There,

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

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

Sincerely,

Amanda


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

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

Breve Cappuccino

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

BLUEBERRY latte. I shutter to think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Free Records and Theodore Treehouse

At some point over the last few years, I took a break from my perpetual search for the most exciting, new, awesome music, only to face dismay and ridicule from my friends. It's partially because I stopped working at the string of various record stores which fueled the fire for six years, and partially because my time is devoted to other things (like, writing this blog?). A few "new" bands have trickled in here and there, like Fleet Foxes, Midlake, Bat for Lashes, Lil Wayne, Lady Gaga, but I'm embarrassed to say that I can't remember the last time I set foot in a Bull Moose, and most of the music I've purchased recently has been either digital (Whitesnake, More than Words) or vinyl. On the side of the road a few days ago, in a "free box" was the mother of pearl best free record ever: a live Fleetwood Mac disc from 1980, the Tusk Tour. I gave it to Tess, because she loves Fleetwood Mac more than anyone, ever... Gosh, I'm an amazing friend. But this is an adequate portrayal of my recent music acquisitions. Records from free boxes on the side of the road.

I digress. So, for my listening pleasure there are my Pandora stations, (which have seeds ranging from AC/DC, Beyonce, Cat Power, Johnny Cash, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, and so on and so forth), my records, public radio, or best of all, all of the amazing local bands here in town. I wrote a spot for the Pure Pop blog, my old stomping ground, and composed a list of all of my favorite local musicians. Friends who saw it considered it a bit of a roast, but seriously, I love everyone. (Even the Clash of the Titans, even the Awesome, even the haters who say all anyone in this town cares about are cover bands. Darn shame I missed that Guns N Roses tribute...)

For us, myself and my peers, Portland is a young, transient place, much like Burlington, where people are always coming and going, enriching the creative community. Every few months there is a new local band to be discovered, and I can't get enough and it's amazing. First, there was the Enchantments. Then Diamond Sharp, Cult Maze, the 500s, Feel It Robot, Spencer and the School Spirit Mafia, and a band I just discovered at a free show at Space- Theodore Treehouse. It's like they were inside my brain, playing exactly and only the music I wanted them to play. We danced and danced and danced and it was amazing.

Licture Piste

Hey! It's been a while. I don't even know what to say... I've been hemming and hawing over this stupid blog thing for months. Like "Man, I wish my blog was still functioning." "Man, I wish my blog was as funny as Joe Ricchio's blog." Or the infamous, "I'm so totally going to go home and blog about that!"

So, I'm going to. Go home and blog about it. Actually, I am home... so... It's been almost a year, and life is so completely different, a little recap is in order:

March: Ordered new glasses, got my passport, and cut all my hair off. (Locks of Love... you're welcome.)

April: PARIS!!! Turned 25 on Easter. Wore an inappropriately low cut dress to my birthday party, got drunk and had a one-night-stand.

May: Decide to move to Kennebunkport.

June-August: Hilarity ensues. Lots of beach, cocktails on the patio, loving life, waiting tables, karaoke at biker bars, failed romances. Another awesome Moose River trip, and multiple teary goodbyes to Darcy.

September: Baby and I move back to Portland, where I have an awesome roommate and enroll full-time at USM, leave the MDA peeps to professionally sling coffee and procrastinate on my homework.

October: Classes? What classes? I get a Missed Connection and Bangs. What a month!

November: Mom makes the best Thanksgiving dinner ever.

December: Crash my car on the day before finals week, break my phone, and successfully ruin the rest of my year. Thank god that's over.

January: Rung in 2010 with EIGHTY Happy New Year's txts (WTF?) and classes started this week. My eyeball still isn't better, but, I can still wink, so who cares? Started modeling for Mandy's Etsy. That's right, I'm a model now.

Anyway, you know I love telling stories. So, here's one from Paris:

After a few hang-ups with my bus ticket, my luggage, and staying up like, 36 hours straight while consuming surprisingly little alcohol, Kate and I meet Tess and Mandy at the airport, and... we're in Paris. It's everything I expect it to be. Kate's family is amazing, the city is obviously ridiculously beautiful. We spend our time eating really outstanding food, drinking espresso and wine, sightseeing, and hanging out in blissful ignorance of the conversations going on around us. We tried to be ultra-considerate about giving Kate enough personal space and making sure her needs were met, after all, we were crashing her visit home- and she did the same for us. We'd go on little excursions without her, bravely navigating the RER and constantly putting our fingers on the maps, a surefire giveaway that yes, we were tourists (at least we weren't wearing Crocs? I tried to remember everything David Sedaris ever said about living in Paris, but I was too overwhelmed.


Kate brought us to this fancy restaurant where the customers were rich and a man at the table next to us had one of those dogs that Charlotte has in Sex and the City. In the restaurant. We're told that this is the best hot chocolate in all of Paris, there, on the Champs-Elysees. And it was, I think. We part ways with Kate, she's spending some QT with the rents, and we leave in search of a post office. Tess and Mandy have promised post cards, and this seems like a relatively simple task we can complete on our own, no translator required. We find a few blocks down there is a post office, with a kiosk. I was too irresponsible to remember to write down anyone's addresses, so Tess and Mandy are on their own. I stand over Mandy's shoulder, eager to jump in with my opinion, just in case. It was relatively easy to navigate the automated system, as the first option was selecting language. English, stamps, international, 10, credit card. Right? So, she swipes her card. "Licture Piste" flashes in yellow on the screen. What the hell does that mean? Didn't we select English? She swipes her card five more times, upside-down, backwards, left to right, right to left, and each time, "Lecture Piste." I walk over to Tess to see how she's doing at her kiosk, and things seem to be running smoothly until it's time to swipe her card. Licture Piste. I start laughing, because it's completely and totally ridiculous. Say, Licture Piste out loud, seriously. And we can't even buy stamps? None of us are Survivor candidates, obviously. Licture Piste! It could've meant get out of here, you silly children, for all we knew. We're so baffled by the whole thing, why wasn't it reading our card, why wasn't the error message in English, and how the hell are we supposed to get the stamps? This was supposed to be a quick stop, but was quickly becoming a fiasco.

I'm almost doubled over laughing, as Mandy walks over the counter: "PARLE-ANGLAIS?" which is pretty much the only French she knows. The man shrugs, and she sighs. "STAMPS?" So he gives her ten stamps. Tess is still struggling to decode "Licture Piste," when Mandy walks back over, slightly defeated, but with stamps in hand. I'm still laughing, trying to help Tess, when the unthinkable happens... I fart. The smelliest fart that's ever come out of my body, by far. So let's recap: We're three young American girls, standing in the post office of one of the most elegant, posh, richest streets in the world, trying to buy stamps. We have no Kate, no dictionary, no phone, and I farted on the Champs-Elysees. Which only makes me laugh even harder. Obviously, they haven't smelled it yet. I can hardly breathe. Between gasps for air, I manage, "Guys, we have to get outta here," (long pause, more laughter,) "I just farted." Tess's face drops. Mandy and I walk out while Tess fends for herself at the counter. They get the stamps, mail the postcards, and I've never laughed so hard in my life.



Guess what Licture Piste meant? Kate, the native French speaker didn't even know: The magnetic strip on your card is unreadable."

"Hey intern, Get me a Campari."

100 Songs in 100 Days- A Dance Off!

BOOMBOX from Ely Kim on Vimeo.

Hamburger Dress

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

Spoon Girl

Laura told me this great story in an email and I thought I'd share:


A woman who I work with told me the other day I should just ask for a full-time position in the Justice Building.. as I have been there enough in these last few months that I might as well have one. And you know, I might just get it too. I mean, I am the only part-time employee there who even has a repore with the security guards. They call me the "spoon girl" because one time, in haste for leaving to the job (I always leave in haste to go there, mostly because Voter Reg lets me make my own hours and this makes me always feel late), I grabbed this giant silver serving spoon, which I mistook for a teaspoon, to eat my soup lunch with. Well, upon arriving to the building, which has a million steps and holds both the jail and the courts inside, you have to go through a security checkpoint. This is where anyone who has baked a cake with a nail file inside is arrested. Well, I throw my l.l.bean backpack through the x-ray machine and the security guard laughs outloud and says in a bellowing voice, "Is that your giant spoon?" For some reason he and the other men, all ranging in ages that featured gray hair, found this to be strange and alluring. Possibly in a world of fancy pens and spiral bound notebooks that they see pass through the gates, a spoon is like a fucking golden nugget. One of them even motioned for me to come behind the x-ray machine and view my bag with the spoon inside myself because he thought it looked so absurd in a sea of unidentifiable nonmetal shapes. Now when I come in these men make comments such as, "What's for lunch today?" or the classic, "If it isn't the one with the spoon!" It didn't help the matter that I forgot the spoon, post-soup, in my bag for the next three days in a row - always forgetting to take it out and wash it, its x-ray image now smeared with minestrone.

New Years's Eve Wall Street Party

2008 in Review

In the last year, things have changed quite a bit. The biggest change, for all of us, of course, is our selection of Barack Obama to be the next President of the United States. Our country is in one of the lowest of the lows, and this is huge. It seems like this is a moment in history our kids will be asking us about, and we'll remember.

For me, personally, things have changed quite a bit. The year I had my first skinny dip. My first apartment, all to myself. My first case of Shingles. SO many new friends. The top three events to define 2008 would have to be Paddling for My Soul (Moose River canoe trip.) The Break Up. And I know it sounds ridiculous, but singing I Would Do Anything for Love with Tess at karaoke. I think I'm that much closer to figuring out who I am and what I want- I almost feel like a different person. A new woman. I've gone from dating a journalist to Journalistic dating. And rekindling. Spring break Indiana wasn't bad, either.

Here are a few other standout 2008 things:

My cat Baby!

ChaCha!

Telethon at WABI (I do what I do for YOU!)

Best Birthday ever! (Thanks, ladies!)

The Theme Party that was not to Be.

Homecoming at Space.

DZUSA and Feel It Robot.

Best burger ever at Kelly's birthday party- it was made of Bison!

My Beyonce Pandora station.

"Hey, You bitches want some olives?"

The Mujoy Hill Exxodus (and the bittersweetness of it all.)

Gossip Girl.

The iPhone, obviously.

Booze or Bacon?

darcy: if you had to give up drinking or meat what would you choose?
me: whoa. that's really hard, considering i've done both.
darcy: so?
me: well. what would you give up?
both are really important parts of my life...
on one hand, i can't imagine not coming home and grabbing a beer after a really hard day at work.
or whatever.

darcy: right
me: but on the other, i don't know if i could go the rest of my life dealing with the smell of cooked bacon.
it would be more economical if i chose to give up drinking, but it makes me sound like a lush if i give up meat.

darcy: yeah i don't know what i'd choose either
me: i guess i'd have to choose meat and be that jerk that brings the boca burger to the bbq.

Prop 8- The Musical

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

Just a Quickie

I know I've been a deadbeat blogger. Here are some things.

• I love Beyonce's new single.
• My apartment might not be too small for parties.
• Over Thanksgiving I read five books in one day (to a child.)
• This month is my three year Portland anniversary. Hard to believe.
• At karaoke at the gay bar a drag queen compared me to Thora Birch in Ghost World, and after my performance told me I'd won a gold medal in the Hipster Olympics.
• I broke my iPhone and was able to get it replaced for free. My guy was so cute I couldn't help but flirt. Never underestimate the power of being cute.
• OMFG Gossip Girl!
• The Darjeeling Limited is on repeat at my house.
• This month I'm making my NPR debut.
• Making new friends is incredible.
• I'm finally interested in new music again.
• I subscribe to the Woody Allen theory of first kisses.

Hope all is well.

Warm Up to Winter

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

The New Apartment! Revealed!

Happy Halloween!

On my way home, my last walk home to the Hill, I saw two Uma Thurman character costumes. Poison Ivy and that chick from Pulp Fiction, with the syringe sticking out. Ha! Ivy and syringe! Then someone dressed as the teen wolf waved at me from across the street, as if we were friends. I couldn't tell who it was because they were wearing a mask.

I decided to stay in, battle a cold, and prepare for the big Move. At the video rental place, I felt as though I should've gotten Psycho, or something. But then remembered the last time I attempted to watch a scary movie on Halloween. It was the reissue of the Exorcist in the theater, and I'd never seen it before. I drove about 90 miles an hour home, went to bed with the light on, but was completely convinced that my bed was shaking. I slept maybe two hours that night, and for the next two months I'd be falling asleep then bolted awake by the moving bed. There were no earthquakes in Lewiston, so it had to have been an evil demon trying to possess me.

I left the store with When Harry Met Sally. Very Safe.

My New Digs

Pringles Come in a Can

It just occured to me that Pringles taste a lot like cold Burger King french fries, just crunchier.

That's right. I'm eating Pringles. I made sure to NOT accidentally get the fat-free kind made with Olestra, which causes anal leakage. It didn't actually happen, even though there is a WARNING LABEL, but it was a very stressful 24 hours of my life.

Chocolate Dipping

This afternoon I had a bit of a renactment of this episode of I Love Lucy when I was posting about 900 peices of mail. I thought I'd post it... the humor really stands the test of time, I think.

Stars "Bitches in Tokyo"

Lewiston High School, Class of '02

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 Ancient Japanese Art of Karaoke

For the past few Saturday nights in a row, a few friends of mine and I have been going out to karaoke night at a former gay bar called the Flask Lounge. And it's amazing. I don't understand the social stigma that comes with karaoke- every time I've been to this particular night it turns into one big giant dance party. Journey, "Don't Stop Believing;" Mama's and the Papas "California Dreaming;" any number of Bruce Springsteen songs; Fleetwood Mac; someone always does You're the One I Love from the Grease soundtrack... There are a few 'regulars' who are truly karaoke masters, who shine in the spotlight, tear it up, if you will. Other times the song isn't quite the right choice or the stage presence isn't there, but that's when you talk about the next song you're doing, get a drink, use the bathroom. In fact, I'd go so far as to say karaoke has been my sex substitute as of late- singing, dancing, my heart rate goes up, I start sweating... And no babies!

I've only ever sang once at karaoke, and it was... painful for everyone involved. My own boyfriend didn't even suck up and tell me that I did okay. It was Wham's Wake Me Up Before You Go Go, which sounded good in theory, but in actuality was really difficult. In my mind, the key is to pick a song that you already know some of the words to. I've been picking out the perfect song. It has to be something that everyone knows, gets excited about, and isn't too vocally challenging, because I'm rather tone-deaf. I'm thinking it's going to be a Violent Femmes song, but my ears have been open. Once, my friend Hillary tried to convince me that I should be in an all-girl band with her and Mandy- I was like but Hilla, I don't PLAY anything. She said it's okay, you can sing, you have the look! I'll try to remember that next weekend.

Oh, and there's this guy, who gets in on all the action with his inflateable guitar. He gives the term 'air guitar' a whole new meaning...

Tina Fey as Sarah Palin, Of Course.

Homecoming- A Night to Remember

When I found out that Space was throwing an all out Homecoming Dance, I got really, really excited. The only thing I could do to not jump out of my skin with excitement was listen to Meatloaf's 'I Would Do Anything For Love' on repeat, for an hour. I picked out my date, started shopping for a dress, and decided that this would be the end all be all of dances- to make up for all those dances gone wrong in high school. Like the time Annie ran over Renee's foot with the car. Or when I asked this college guy, and he still came, even though he was totally into someone else and I was resentful all night. OR when I went to Mandy's prom and everyone at her school thought I was her lesbian lover.

But a week before the dance, the 'date' I had picked out and just wanted to be friends, in perfect unpredictable fashion. So Mandy and I had a re-do of her prom in '03. On the big night, I went over to her place to get ready- pick out shoes, fashion elaborate updos, and inexpertly apply mascara. Two Sex and the City episodes later, we headed out in our three inch heels, ready to dance the night away.

And basicly, that's what we did! I danced, danced, danced. All the girls looked really pretty, and all the boys looked really handsome. I mean, we're not the kinds of people who exactly put on 'going out' clothes, you know? When we arrived the band formerly known as Cult Maze was getting ready to go on, and I was unbelievably happy- they were one of my favorite local bands until they broke up. They covered Feel Like Makin' Love, My Boyfriend's Back, and much to my utter delight MEATLOAF!! It was prefect. I could not stop smiling. The last time I'd felt that happy had to have been the This American Life live show, when Mates of State played. From then on the night was pretty dream-like, including photos, and even an onstage dance party started by yours truly and my Mandy. Some girl told us we were the 'hottest bitches in Portland.' I danced myself nauseous in three inch heels.

At some point, I happened to tell Mandy that I thought a boy was cute, she proceeded to tell his brother, and I spent the rest of the night coyly making eye contact from across the room. But in true high school fashion, I was too shy to actually let him come over and risk letting something happen (not even after a little liquid courage in the form of bottled PBR.)

We ended the night taking the Limo Taxi home to the Hill. I only wish I would have seen the faces of everyone milling about when the limo pulled up and we got in. There was no Red Hot 95.9, but he only charged us five bucks, which would've been less than an actual cab!

I'll take a side of truth with that coffee

Me: Good Morning

Brian: Good Morning, how's it going?

Me: S'ok. Tired, though. I stayed up late watching Gossip Girl. That show is amazing, just perfect. You just... Turn your brain off. I love it.

Brian: Yeah, I bet you were watching Sex and the City, too.

Me (not making eye contact): Yeah...

Brian: I can smell it a mile away! And then you wonder why you have problems with dudes in your life!

Me: ...(silence.)

woody Allen: Still Got It.

I've been satisfying a lot of guilty pleasures as of late- like listening to a crapload of Beyonce, watching movies like Superbad and Pineapple Express, and putting Laguna Beach and Gossip Girl at the top of my Queue. Is it because it's been summer and this is what you're supposed to do? Like, beach all day, then Gossip Girl then margaritas on the patio? Maybe. But it's also possible that I'm trying to make up for lost pop-culture time. It's possible I crossed the line, though, when on a recent trip to Marden's, I purchased a Gossip Girls novel for three dollars.

It's now the beginning of fall (yes, I said it.) I'm going to try and stimulate myself creatively. I'm most likely moving next month, so maybe this is a good time for me to do some more productive things with my time. Actually use those brain cells! I'm excited to say that I just saw Vicky Christina Barcelona, and not only was it amazing, but it reminded me that there needs to be more zing in my life.

Maybe I'll start that novel, finally. It's time to decide how I'll keeep myself occupied this winter, and, you know, figure out what I'm doing with my life.

Breaking News

Another year, another Teleton, another brilliant Photoshop job.

Me and the iPhone Don't Care What You Think

have I mentioned I'm now the proud owner of the new iPhone? It's 6 a.m., I'm at Telethon, waiting for the percolator to warm up, the volunteers to show, the phones to ring, and all I can think to do is blog about the iPhone and how cool it is.

So far, the best use of the iPhone was this past weekend. In the car we hooked it up to the car stereo. I then YouTubed the Lazy Sunday SNL digital short and we sang along on our way to Old Orchard Beach. I can also shop online while riding the bus. Last night I used the camera to take ridiculous pictures of my coworkerspretending to be anchors on WABI TV-5, then upload and tag them on Facebook. The iPhone is incredibly self-aware; it can capitalize it's own name, and knows what kind of accent to use on 'touché.' Though I try to not let this gadget get in the way of my normal social interactions, I have on several occasions walked by my destination because my head was buried in the iPhone.

If Craig were to read this, he'd tell me I sound like I'm working for Apple. In this case, I'd have to agree. I just found out I can stream mp3s. Seriously.

Can you hear me now?

Welcome to the world of mobile blogging! I just have to comment- sometimes there are people on my bus at 8am who stay on the phone for more than, say, 5 minutes. I can't help but wonder who on earth they're possibly having a conversation with so darn early. I mean, seriously. Most of my fellow commuters probably aren't working the kind of lucrative job that requires them to be available by phone 24/7.

I'm listening to Funeral by Arcade Fire, and it's still as good as the first time. It's more intense than doing it in a tent! (Get it?)

More to come on the most epic canoe trip of all time.

Last night at Greendrinks, a free happy hour for people who are interested in living green, everyone was asked to disclose their green vice. Meaning, what's the most wasteful thing you do, but really can't help doing? In my personal life, I commute green and have probably the lowest carbon footprint of anyone I know. We recycle everything we can at home, and I use a travelmug that has Cruella DeVille on it. I might not Buy Local or organically all the time, but I feel that's more of an income issue than a mindset.

Anyway, when e began disclosing our dirty little ungreen secrets the were pretty similar- I love using paper towels. I get a lot of takeout. I take long showers. And I realized how much more embarrassing mine was going to be, but I couldn't think of anything else. If I'm in the bathroom, and there is no lock on the door, I run the water the whole time. It's totally neurotic and stupid, if someone is going to try and come in without knocking, they're probably not listening for running water.

Bum Fights

Some guy beat up a drunk bum today because the drunk bum was yelling at me. I was on the corner, standing with this guy, and I'm like, 'Yo, that dude is yelling at me." Thinking he'd just tell me it was okay. But he yelled at the guy, then decked him in the face, he went down, and got kicked in the face.

It was almost as disturbing at the colostomy bag. But I guess chivalry isn't dead?

Washington, Washington

I know most of you, my loyal readers, will have watched this George Washington animation, but it's so funny, and Darcy has been using lyrics in her Gmail chat away message for DAYS. I had to watch it again.

Today on Funny or Die .com

See more Paris Hilton videos at Funny or Die

Indecent Exposure

Last Saturday about twenty or so of us Portlanders migrated north to an island in Harpswell called Bailey Island. Darcy was born and raised there, and her parents were gracious enough to let us invade their house, drink beer and eat lobster. It was great to get out of town for a day, and on the overcast but scenic drive over, Darcy explains that she would like to beat her skinny dipping record- most times skinny dipped in one summer. I had never taken that plunge, partially because I'd never had the chance, partially because I'm modest.

Well, a little liquid courage goes a long way. We'd been drinking, eating, playing croquet, earning weird nicknames from Darcy's nephew (you can call me, Slippery Pete.) Although it was unclear whose idea it was to head over to Land's End, which is iterally the beach at the end of the main road on the island, I took the lead once we got there. I'd say it was somewhere around 70 degrees that night, and normally, in daylight, I really only like to swim when it's almost eighty. Hot. But I took off my Chucks, my socks, my jeans, my shirt and finally my underwear until I was down to my birthday suit and ran into the water. Five of the twenty people I was with also went in, while everyone else, including one of my old boyfriends, stood on the beach with their beers and watched us get nekkid. The water was cold, but like a good Mainer should, I sucked it up until my body adjusted and it was fine.

It would've been the perfect first skinny dipping experience, with friends, under the moonlight... if the police hadn't shown up with their industrial strength FLASH LIGHTS, pointed them on us AND LINGERED.

Here is a pitcture I found on Google Maps of Land's End:

The Dean Machine

*Names have been changed so as not to embarrass anyone*


This is an email that I recieved about a month ago from a friend of mine, who we'll call "Roberta":

We are anxiously waiting for when Howard Dean shows up - it will be any minute - the other Maine Democrats are milling around our conference room like they own the place - and we're just pretending to work as though this is something that happens all the time. If I'm introduced am I supposed to say "lovely to meet you governor"? I'm more flustered about this than any first date i've ever been on. (also Amanda, just between you and me - I AM NOT WEARING ANY UNDERWEAR UNDER THIS DRESS - because while walking to work today they kept falling off - I'm deadly serious)

I then had an online chat with "Roberta" and "Josephine" about it:

Josephine: hahaha
me: i just laughed out loud at your email and had to tell my coworker because she was like, what's so funny?
Josephine: you're going to meet Dean without underwear
Roberta: it's all around very funny in here right now
neither myself or my supervisor can keep it together
Roberta: i can't look at her without cracking up
me: why is howard dean coming?
is he going to do that yell thing?
Roberta: howard dean is speaking in that performance space at like 4 and they are having their little pre-party in our conference room
Josephine: Let me point out again that you are about to meet Dean without underwear on
I hope you don't slip up and talk about it because you're really nervous.
Josephine: like, 'uh, it's nice to meet you governor underwear'
Josephine: 'uh, i mean, no underwear'
Roberta: STOP
I SERIOUSLY CAN'T KEEP IT TOGETHER
Josephine: 'uh, i mean, no just kidding I am wearing underwear i promise.'
me: okay. I checked. he's not the governor anymore
me: but he's the chair of the party, and also a dr.
Roberta: ok good, so - "hello chair man?:
Roberta: so is he dr. former governor?
Roberta: "head chair man?"
"dr head chair man"
Josephine: "hello Mr. Underpants' should be fine
Roberta: ok thanks for clarifying
Josephine: or Dr. Underpants if you prefer that
Roberta: i like that the most
me: okay. my coworker thinks it'd be pretty funny if you addressed him dr. governor chairman
i just laughed so hard i cried.
this is the second day in a row... my boss made me laugh so hard i cried yesterday too

Colostomy Bag, Anyone?

We all know I take the bus. It's my earth-friendly public-transportation cost-effective ride to and from work. There are stories, oh so many stories about the bus people. People saying things, doing things, which I suspect will eventually lead me to the end of my proverbial rope. People talking about their ex-boyfriends sex fetishes (right next to me), people who wear hand-knit tank tops under un-buttoned button-down shirts, and people who check their blood sugar. I've learned the best way to deal with this is to wear headphones and sunglasses at all times. But, it's just not always avoidable.

I was walking toward my bus stop when a man approaches me and says, "Excuse me, can I ask you a question?" I'm thinking YOU JUST DID, but I look at him and keep walking, indicating, yes, you can ask me a question, but make it fast because I'm not stopping. I expect he's going to ask me for a dollar, or where the bus is, or whatever.

He starts, "Hi, I'm Roland." I stare blankly. "Do you know anything about prescription medication?" I stare more. "See, I'm from Arizona, and I was stabbed seven times last week." WHAT?! So I reply, "Listen, if you're in pain, you need to go to the emergency room." "No, I've been there ya see? Do you know what a colostomy bag is?"

This is where I made my mistake. I was nearly one hundred percent sure I knew what it was, but decided maybe if I played dumb he'd go away. Instead he lifted his shirt to show me stab wound bandages and a fucking colostomy bag. I cringed, yelled through my hands covering my face while looking away, "If you need medication there's a pharmacy right there. Ask them." And I ran away while he apologized profusely to the back of my head for scaring me.

Totally Stupid: I love AWK

For this blog I tried to find a postable video for Andrew W.K.'s Totally Stupid, but I couldn't find the one. It's awesome. The video contains a lot of really funny clips from his short lived show on MTV, and I always laugh out loud, even if I'm by myself. For about two months now, nearly every day on the way to work I've been listening to an AWK mix, trying to stay positive and gear up for the long work day.

You might be thinking, "Amanda, really? Don't you listen to Belle and Sebastian and only Belle and Sebastian?" (Or whatever sissy indie band you'd like to name that I do actually like.) Really. Andrew W.K. Ever catch him on Conan? They're like, friends. And once, AWK got Conan to do "moves." Like air punching and shit. Oh yeah, seriously. Anyway, this whole AWK thing happened when I found out that he was starting to give motivational talks. Josh ended up interviewing him and doing a whole story for the radio. My idea, technically. Check out his website, http://www.andrewwk.com/, and prepare to be wowed. Oh, and I also have a Pandora station seeded from AWK and a few others. It's called Rock Your Socks Off.

Here's an old picture from when I had a facial piercing and listened some tougher music. When I went to find this in my comments section on MySpace, there were SO many people that I don't recognize. It's been four years, me and my space.

I Heart ChaCha!

Has anyone else heard of ChaCha? Because it's this amazing question answering service. For free, you text a question to ChaCha (242-242) and within about a minute, you get an answer. I'm serious. It's not only incredibly useful, but really fun.

Here are some of the questions I've had answered so far:

Q: How do you say, "Please use other door" in French?
A: Veuillez employer l'autre porte.

Q: Should Amanda get a dog?
A: Only if Amanda promises to feed it, take care of it and love it every single day.

Q: What ingredient do I need to make crepes?
A: 1 cup/125g all-purpose flour, pinch of salt, 3 eggs, 1 cup/250 ml milk (more if needed), 2 tbsp/30 mg melted butter.

Q: Should Katie have the grilled chicken sandwich or the cheeseburger for lunch?
A: I guess whatever she feels like! I would have a cheeseburger! ChaCha!

Q: What does Probate mean?
A: Probate is the court-supervised legal process of providing a will, appointing an executor and settling an estate.

Bastille Day BBQ!

Heather and I threw our first party in honor of Bastille Day, and much to our surprise, it was a success! Despite being a Monday, and all the way on the Hill, at least twenty people showed up! We drew moustaches on faces (with Heather's expensive eyeliner.. oops!), served brie, French 75s (then switched to High Life, the champagne of beers!), listened to French pop, played bocce, and said "Merci" instead of "Thank You." No French kissing or spin le bottle, which I'm thankful for. The night ended at a reasonable hour with night swimming at the East End Beach. Perhaps next year we'll get someone to smuggle in some illegal fireworks.

Where's the Beef?

Yesterday, my bus honestly mooed like a cow. It was actually more like close cow-shaped cream dispensers, and it happened every few minutes. So weird.

More Office Humor

The First Time I've Ever Felt Bad for Knowing Trivia

At Trivia on Wednesday, the first question of round five was, "Please name the more common name of Herpes Zoster." We'd been significantly behind the whole game. My teammates exchanged blank looks, and I put my head down. "I know it," I said, then wrote "Shingles," and stared at my lap. Heather and Laura then gave me the most sympathetic faces. I'd gotten it a few months before, due to stress. Shingles, Herpes Zoster, adult chickenpox... All I could think when the doctor told me was, "Isn't this an old people disease?" Apparently, you can only get it if you've had chickenpox as a child. The virus stays dormant in your body your entire life.

It wasn't as bad as the time I saw Michael Showalter doing stand-up and he started going on about all these health problems and... nevermind.

The Key to Getting In

My friend Laura is staying with me for the next few weeks, while she teaches at a summer camp here in Portland. Since I'm not the most organized person, I did not think to get a set of keys to my apartment before she moved in, so loaned her mine, assuming that we'd be able to work it out for a few days until we got the keys copied. I was on a coffee date Monday, and Laura called me ten minutes before the coffee shop closed to tell me she'd left to run an errand. So, instead of waiting around on my porch for half an hour until she got home, I went and got a beer.

Half an hour later, she called me because she couldn't get the door open. (I had at least half a beer in front of me.) Please keep in mind, no one has ever not been able to open this door. She had to come pick me up at the bar, unlock the door for her, then bring me back. Since she didn't know how to get there, I gave her directions. She did not see the sign, drove by it, so I chased her car for three blocks. It didn't help her case that she was holding the key with two hands, two fingers pinching the top and two fingers pinching the bottom.

Apologies for the recent lack of posting, I've been preoccupied with some things. My coworker said that I should write about it, that it'd be very Carrie Bradshaw of me.

The Theme Party that was Not To Be

Has anyone else ever had one of those naked dreams? The dream where you're naked in a crowded corridor of your high school and you feel embarrassed, panicked, and confused? Well, the closest real life equivalent to this nightmare happened to me on Friday night, when I told my friends to come to a theme party, which turned out to not be a theme party at all.

When my friend Tess emailed me this invite, I figured, awesome! Tess is throwing an Office theme party! I can't wait to dress up!

But when we got there, my friends and I completely decked out as Pam, including hairdo; Angela, including turtleneck, framed cat picture; the Purse lady, including multiple purses for sale; and Roy, in his warehouse uniform, including Dunder Mifflin patch and Roy name tag; we were the only ones dressed up. What Tess MEANT was to have an awkward dinner party, LIKE the one in the office. Darcy laughed so hard she cried, but at the time I was pretty sure that she was just crying. I couldn't believe it! It was all my fault! I asked all of my friends to dress up and come to this party with me, where they didn't really know anyone. They could have totally mutinied. But luckily, they can all take a joke, and for that, I'm glad. It's also pretty lucky that I didn't accidentally invite them to a KISS party, or a Pimps and Whores party. In my defense, she did tell me to find a Dwight and bring him.

Slightly Windswept

I was walking to work this morning, and there was a slight breeze. I happened to catch my reflection in a window walking by... and that breeze made my hair look so much better than normal! So I was thinking how awesome it would be if I could have a slight breeze blowing through my hair all day, when I remembered that recent episode of 30Rock when Tina Fey's ex boyfriend came by and he met her in the studio- and she had a slight breeze blowing through her hair. I love that show.

The Office

Looks like I'm going to a party themed "The Office" this weekend. As in, the hit NBC show. I'm totally going as Pam, and I think I can do a wicked Pam hairdo, like this:

I think I'll bring Post-Its and a pencil. Here is a link to Jenna Fischer appearing on FreshAir, and she's really funny.

As I believe I've mentioned, I also work in an office. Mine, in particular, has a bunch of women, and as an office, we spend a lot of time together. Here is a little anecdote...

Last summer, my boss had plans of some sort, it was school vacation or something. She comes over to where the other assistant and I sit and starts complaning- going on and on about Aunt Flo. It's such a horrible time for her to be visiting, and she never wants to see her but she has to because she's Aunt Flo. That their plans to go to the beach and they were going to have to be cut short, or something. And the whole time I'm picturing an actual Aunt Flo, with that blue-ish old lady hair, a cane, rhinestone sunglasses and maybe a red tracksuit (or something.) I'm nodding in agreement and thinking, "It's really too bad that she can't just tell her aunt that now isn't a good time to be visiting, because it sounds like she's all alone in her life, and that's what family is for." Really, this is what I'm thinking, and all of a sudden it dawns on me and I say out loud, "Wait, you don't actually have an Aunt Flo!!" (She was talking about her period.) To which all of the ladies in the room died laughing.

Seperate, but Equal

Got links to two websites today that I found MOST interesting:

http://loannabeek.blogspot.com/

http://www.cassettefrommyex.com/

I Can Haz Cheezburger

more cat pictures


This is my one-hundreth post.

Not for all the Olives in Italy

Last night at the Beer Garden, There is this new bar in the Old Port which has some foreign name and about a million really expensive beers, which we've been calling the Beer Garden. Last night, some friends and I were enjoying a round after dinner, on their deck, just a quiet Sunday night, when this happened...

Guy from table perpendicular to us: HEY! You bitches want some olives?

Me (frowning): No!

Guy: How'd you know I was talking to you?

Me: Because you're looking right at me! I don't even like olives!

Sound Opinions

As most of you know, I've become the biggest public radio nerd ever. I know almost the entire Maine Public Broadcasting Network weekend schedule, by heart! Ask me what the difference between NPR, PRI and APM is... and prepare to get bored.

But in all seriousness, it's partially because of my job. For approximately an hour every day, I have this one task that involves some data entry, then mail merging that data, then stuffing envelopes. That hour goes by much faster when accompanied by an episode of This American Life or Weekend America, or some other hour long program. Next week is my two year anniversary at this job, so ah, I've sort of run out of shows to listen to. I was streaming New York City's public radio station, and then I was streaming Chicago's public radio station (the two best in the country) but in the morning they do a lot of local news... and it doesn't really apply.

Let me get to the point- I've been listening to this great show called SoundOpinions. As a person who has spent a lot of her life talking about music, it's been great to kick back and hear someone else do the talking. People I agree with, no less! The hosts of SoundOpinions, the only rock and roll talk show in the country, are both critics at newspapers in Chicago... the Sun and the Tribune. They are very, very aware of things going on in the world of music, and have some great opinions! They don't always agree, and they often take calls from listeners. I highly recommend checking it out at soundopinions.org, especially the episode they recap their SXSW trip.

If you are right now thinking to yourself, "I would never ever listen to that, Thanks for a waste of a blog entry, Aman-duh," do me a favor and mentally count the amount of times you've watched High Fidelity, then reconsider.

Like a Unicorn jumping over a Rainbow

Heather and I were just blog-skimming. We saw something of interest... that was pretty awesome. Without saying a word, our jaws dropped, we BOTH pointed at the screen, then gave each other the best, most in-sync high five ever.

Then proceeded to laugh really hard at how ridiculous we are. AMAZING!

Hopefully this is newsworthy...

My cat just played fetch with me. She is pretty awesome.

Jon Lester and the Fabulous No-Hitter

Me (upon arriving at my coffeeshop in Westbrook, The Daily Grind): Hey, how 'bout that Jon Lester no hitter!

Daily Grind Guy: I know! It was awesome!

Me: Yeah, what cancer! (high five) And did you know that Varitek-

DGG: Caught the last four no hitters! That's a record!

Me: I know. And that diving catch Ellsbury made? He's like, on fire.

DGG: Man... chicks who like sports are awesome!

What kind of music do YOU like?

Being a person who worked at a record store for a long time, I've had a fair amount of time to think about the question, "What kind of music do you like?" It's just about the dumbest question you can ask a person. How are you supposed to answer without sounding like an idiot or a snob?

I never know what to say. I can't say "Rock," because that's too broad, but it's the most accurate. I can't say "Indie Rock," because that's too specific, and half the time people don't even KNOW what indie rock is! Plus, it doesn't nearly explain the wide range of my collection. It's also not appropriate to say "Everything." When people say that they like "everything," they mean everything on the radio. But it's awkward to explain, "Well, I like Indie Rock, Soul, some Rap, Top 40, Jazz, but only in the morning, Showtunes, and the occasional Punk Rock."

This happened to my friend Heather the other day, while she was working at the coffeeshop. Her coworker, who usually listens to upbeat Soul, Dance and Hip Hop while working. He asked her, what kind of music she liked. I saw her face go blank and the wheels in her head turning, not knowing what to say. She is the kind of person who likes bands no one has ever heard of, and things that are only available on vinyl. But you can't really say that, even though it's true. So I piped in and SAVED her, with a joke. In a matter-of-fact voice: "Heather really likes hits of the 90's... especially TLC and 'No Diggity.' " Which isn't necessarily false, but we had a good laugh.

Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom

You might think I'm crazy, but I just saw Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom for the first time. And, I'm not sure if it's held up! I was offended on behalf of Indian people everywhere- I know that they don't eat scary bugs and monkey brain, they eat nan and mush! Sure, the end was exciting with the freeing of the children slaves and the train car ride (which reminded me of Kong for Super Nintendo... what a great game!) This doesn't however, hinder my excitement whatsoever to see the new Indy movie.

Just thought you guys might think this is funny:


It was a Red Cross Blood Drive. And I got bangs:

Blue Skies...

I know it's been a while since I've written, and it's certainly not due to a lack of happenings in my life. Indiana was great, Heather's birthday was great, the Kentucky Derby was great... I'm at sort of a turning point in my life, things are changing, decisions are to be made, and I've had to give these things a lot of thought. What do I really want to do with my life, what will really make me happy?

* * *

The other night, I was out with Josh's kickball team, celebrating their victory. Has anyone else had the experience of talking to someone new and them causing you to remember something you'd long forgotten? There was this senior thesis exhibit that I saw while I was attending Montserrat, and it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. This girl took all of these pieces of white, antique fabric, which turned out to be many different shades of white and textures, then quilted them together. But before she did that, using a typewriter, she wrote on some of the squares what seemed like random lines from a diary or something. I stood there and looked at it and wept like a baby. And I'd completely forgotten.

From the Portrait Studio