Pulling Mussels from a Shell

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Friday

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




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




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






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





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






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






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






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





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

All Things Gaga

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

The Gnome

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






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


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Lewiston High School, Class of '02

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


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


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

"Hey, so how do you know Matt?"

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

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

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

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

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

The Blow, at Space!

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



See you there?

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.

I might need to rethink the name of this thing.

Scratchpad Reading Series, Take One

For those of you who follow me is an RSS feed (whatever that means), Google Reader, and are around Portland this week I'm reading some of my writing on Tuesday night at Mama's Crowbar. It's kind of exciting! If anyone ends up filming or recording, I'll be sure to post it here. Wish me luck!

For more information, go here.

Texts from Today

Me: I have a sinking feeling they're getting back together.

Former Lover: At least she can't say anything if you and I hook up, then?

Me: Wait, did she tell you that I threated to start sleeping with you if she started hanging out with him?

FL: Oh my god, you are amazing. No, she didn't.

FL: That's going in my blog.

Me: Not if I blog about it first!!!

FL: Again with the amazing.

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:

Portland Pins

Google really is a funny thing.

http://www.portlandpins.com/tag/amanda-pleau/

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder...

Names Have Been Changed to Protect... Someone.

In my last post, if you happened to see right when it was originally posted, you saw sightly different, slightly more realistic names used. Although it's not even close to the funniest, offensive, raciest story I've told, I received a lot of heat from all kinds of different sources.

So, this text conversation ensued, word for word:

Me: Okay, what do you want your fake blog name to be?

Javier: What suits me?

Me: Well, my first thought was something ridiculous, like Javier.

Javier: Holy shit. I had Javier typed out, but I erased it because I didn't want to seem racist. No joke.

(stunned two minute pause.)

Me: You're the apple of my eye.

Happy Easter

In My Wine, Belly Up

There are things that you do when you're in a relationship, standard procedure, unless you really suck at being in a relationship. You meet parents, you attend work functions, you go on double dates, holidays, etc. These things are mildly annoying and can be borderline unpleasant. Last summer, I was involved romantically, sort of, with an ex-boyfriend. Javier and I, we were retrosexing, if you will. The details of the relationship, subsequent break-up, the whole story is irrelevant, however, I will say this: the first time we saw each other over coffee after three years, I thought to myself, yup, what an ass hole, this is never going to happen; and he thought to himself, yup, I'm into it. He was right, obviously, because a year later we were making out and I was driving to Auburn to have dinner with him at his boss's house, a very relationship-like thing for me to be doing with someone I'd already broken up with, years earlier. (Editor's note: to Javier's credit, he's handsome, funny and smart. The fact that he isn't in a serious long term relationship is minorly baffling, especially because as we all know, girls are into ass holes.)

Denny is a big deal criminal defense lawyer in the State of Maine and Javier was his protege for the summer. His wife, Karen, is some sort of news director at the public radio station. Javier and I originally met Denny while working at Austin's Fine Wine and Foods in Auburn, five years ago. I guess they were shooting the shit in the car one day, on the way to some district attorney's office, and the plan was hatched for us to go over there, for dinner. I get to see Denny again, Karen and I will probably talk public radio, and Javier will look like a guy who can, maybe, get girls to spend time with him.

Anyway, we arrive at the scheduled day and time. It's cozy. Karen offers us something to drink, and alcoholic options are gin and tonic, red wine or beer. Since I like all of these, and to remain agreeable at all times, I tell Karen I'll have whatever she's having. Normally, I would've let Javier speak up first and say, I'll have the same, but he is a non-drinker. At a coffeeshop once, I did this to Josh Gleason, and it absolutely blew his mind. Moments later, she comes into the living room, where Javier and I are sitting with Denny. She gives Javier a seltzer, and hands me a glass of red wine. I'm totally cool with this, until I notice like, five to ten fruit flies, belly up. In the wine. Silently... I freak out. Javier and Denny are talking shop and my mind races. The only thing worse than being embarrassed is knowing you're going to embarrass someone else. But I couldn't not say anything, could I? I did NOT want to swallow the bugs. But someone would definitely notice if I dumped my glass in the bathroom sink and came back with an empty glass. "Amanda, you nervous?" Maybe I could accidentally spill it? No, because the bugs might be noticable in the spill, and I'd have to lie and say I didn't notice. I'm a terrible liar. Maybe swallowing the bugs wouldn't be THAT bad. It wouldn't kill me... I mean, the bottle was probably only open for a couple of hours, and it was the middle of the summer... lBut then she'd offer me another glass and I'd have to refuse, which would make it sound like I didnt like it. But maybe I could fish out the bugs.Yes. That's what I'd do. I'll go into the bathroom, and fish out the bugs with toilet paper, then flush the toilet paper, then repeat if necessary. There'd be no evidence, and I'd get to drink the wine. No one would be the wiser.

The worst part about the whole thing is that I was getting so stressed, I really WANTED to drink the wine. Eventually, though, Denny got up. I showed Javier, and he acted like a man and took care of it. They laughed, she apologized, dinner was good, Karen and I retire to the kitchen and have a rousing discussion about the ins and outs of public radio for like, an hour. We thank them, and leave. Javier and I get ice cream, make out in the driveway of my mom's house, and the rest is history.

Party in the USA

Some friends of mine are in this hardcore band, and this video went viral a little while back- Perez Hilton tweeted it. I love this video, I love this song.

I love this song so much, in fact, that I played it once at bowling, and it blew the speaker. This is not a joke, Miley Cyrus actually blew the speaker at Yankee Lanes, right around lane 20, and it was actually my fault. Bowl Portland is over for Hyperbowle, and it was a great run. Despite never quite performing at the top of our game, we had a great time, a great team. There were some great memories, like the time Nat rolled over 200 to Don't Stop Believing, or the time I fell (crumbled?) into the lane, and DJ Mic Check. I'm not totally sure what I'm going to do with my Tuesday nights from here on out.

Members Only: The Mile High Club

It seems like a great time to go on a cross-country roadtrip. Kate Digby Skinner and I were Skyping, and throwing around ideas for such a trip, and somehow, the subject of having sex on a plane came up, and I told her this story.

I tried to join the mile high club, once, sort of. On my way back from Paris last year, I had a connecting flight in Munich. I've flown with a boyfriend on one trip, we did not do it, and the rest of my limited time in the air has been alone. Darcy once had a party on a trans-continental flight with the crew and some of her friends in the back of a plane, and during a rowdy game of Never-Have-I-Ever half the staff admitted to doing it, which makes me really want to be a flight attendant.

It was overcast but bright, in Germany that day, and the terminal was very white. Very few of the signs were in English, and it's really ignorant of me to assume that everything will be in English everywhere. So I'm exhausted, ready to go home, almost out of money, with a long day and a long flight ahead of me. I was probably alternating reading a book and people watching, trying to decide who was American and who wasn't, which I was terrible at. David Sedaris had a really funny passage in Me Talk Pretty about identifying Americans by their clothing, but it didn't help. Just as I'm thinking about this, a man sat next to me, a few seats over, and starts talking. Really, I couldn't have cared less. He seemed like kind of a d-bag, bragging about how much he travels and how easy loud, obnoxious American tourists are to spot. (If I can't identify them, does that mean I am one? Like, if you don't know anyone like Michael Scott from the Office it means you ARE Michael Scott?) He's wearing jeans, sneakers, a ball cap, possibly lightweight North Face jacket. Oh, and a black longsleeve shirt, made of some kind of material that people buy if they are very physically active, or camp a lot... I only know that it dries fast and does something like wic the sweat from your body. Darcy was helping me pack for the canoe trip last year, and she said to bring fleece, polyester, or wool... Anything that will dry fast. That's when I realized all of my clothes are cotton- no excessive physical activity or die hard camping for this kid.

I digress. This guy tells me that he's not even sure that he's getting on the plane, because it's overbooked and the airline offered him $100 cash and a night in a hotel to stay in Munich for the night to go on standby. I'm thoroughly annoyed- why didn't Luftansa offer ME that deal? I had a really difficult time getting to Munich, and they owed me. If I had little interest in talking to this man to begin with, when I found this out, it was gone. He was only talking to me because I was alone, American, not fat and under 25- he striked me as the type of guy to have an oval sticker on his SUV. I have this way of acting like a raging bitch and causing people to not want to talk to me anymore, and that's what must've happened, because he got up and walked away.


Without a doubt, I'm judgemental. But as quickly as said judgement is made, I'm willing to change it. I get in line to board, they take my ticket and I'm in. It's a huge plane, and there are a lot of babies and it's taking a long time to get to my seat. I'm at a window, towards the back. When I finally get there, guess who is in the seat next to me. That guy.


"I swear I'm not following you," was my opening line. He smiles. I realize that this guy, Joe, and I are going to share an arm rest for the next six hours. We start talking, and as he's telling me about his travels (Germany for two weeks, drinking a lot of beer,) his job (nurse, but, people often mistake him for the doctor, which probably pisses off the actual doctor, royally,) where he lives, (Idaho,) his hobbies (volunteer smoke jumper, deer hunter, marathon runner, amateur photographer,) things we have in common, (the iPhone, taking planes from Munich.) He laughed at my jokes, I laughed at his. We had two poor quality meals together, he flirted with the stewardess and we got as many free drinks as we wanted- I even napped on his shoulder. It was like a six hour date, and the more time passed, the more attracted to him I became. His body was rock hard, and though I've been known as something of a chubby chaser over the years, this guy was hot... or the pressure in the cabin was low and I was delusional.

It was after I had to stop watching Marley and Me, the in-flight film we were both watching, (because I was going to start sobbing uncontrollably if I didn't take my headphones off immediately and stop watching,) that I started to consider how to make this mile-high club thing happen. Hey, I wasn't a virgin anymore, I could have sex with anyone I wanted to! The world was my oyster! I let my leg touch his leg and he didn't move. I brushed my body against his when I got up to use the bathroom an annoying amount of times, hoping he'd read my mind and follow me in. I'm good, but I'm not that good. But there was no condom, was there? Absolutely not going to risk it. There was no way to get kicked off the plane if we were caught, but would I have to pay a fine or something? We were the only two people in our row, but I was paranoid someone would hear me if I started talking about it.

To make a boring story shorter, we stayed together until the bitter end, through customs, through baggage claim at Logan, I said goodbye, and that's it. I texted him and said he was the handsomest guy I'll ever fly from Munich to Boston with, and we're now friends on Facebook, which is the new first base. I seriously regret nothing happening, but I'm prepared for next time, though, thanks to Kate's sweet Googling skills and this eHow article she found. My favorites are steps 6 and 7:

Having sex on an airplane is many people's fantasy. The idea of engaging in sexual activity high above the rest of the world is so exciting that it leads people to have sex in very uncomfortable situations, like tiny airplane bathrooms. If you want to join the mile high club, follow these steps.

 

Difficulty: Moderately Challenging

 

Instructions

1. Book a flight to anywhere you desire. If you want to have a better opportunity to have sex, take a red-eye flight--most of the passengers will be asleep and you will have more privacy.
2. Find an attractive person to have sex with, if you didn't bring a partner along. Choose someone who is traveling alone and try to negotiate a seat close by so you can invite him to join you in the bathroom.
3. Get up and head for the bathroom one at a time so you are less obvious. Go at a time when you are least likely to be disturbed such as during the in-flight entertainment.
4. Clean the toilet seat and cover it with a seat protector before you sit down to be extra cautious. It's safest to have sex while one partner sits on the toilet so you avoid injury if there is turbulence.
5. Finish quickly because other people may need to use the restroom. Be courteous to others and don't tie up the restroom for too long. Clean up all evidence of your adventure so you stay discreet.
6. Exit together and if anybody approaches you about having sex, deny it. Having sex on an airplane is illegal, so pretend that one of you got sick and the other was helping out.
7. Brag about having sex on an airplane to your friends. You have officially joined the mile high club and you deserve bragging rights.