If you live on the Hill, you know Bobby Lipps. You might not have ever spoken to him, but he's lengen... wait for it... dary. I had a blowout fight with an ex boyfriend once about Bobby's paintings. He said he liked the paintings, and since my ego was slightly bruised from him judging my taste in art earlier that day, I shot back, "You only like it because it's outsider art and he has no idea what the fuck he's doing!" Yes, in the heat of the moment, I can be a raging bitch. Anyway, we made up, and for the next gift-giving occasion that came along, I got him a Bobby Lipps original.
I found this documentary about him on the St. Lawrence website. It's 20 minutes, but it was worth posting.
bobby lipps from lcm=liquidcreativemedia on Vimeo.
July 8, 2010
To the Window, To the Wall
I just moved to Munjoy Hill, and I'm sure the bartender at the Front Room thinks I'm probably stalking him. No, they just have really amazing happy hour deals. I'd been wanting to move back to the Hill for a while. I won't miss that terrifying place known as the St. John Valley, except of course, Nicka P and the Pizza Villa.
Mandy had picked me up the day before we moved into our new place at Vesper Street, and we went to meet Angela at the Front Room. We parked on Howard, my old stomping ground, and I pointed out a house next to my old house which had a beautiful garden. The couple that lives there used to put on MPBN Saturday morning while they did their gardening. From the windows, I could tell that their decoration of the entire house was really amazing. Mandy happened to mention the walls and the windows as we walked by. A few steps later, in unison, out loud, we started singing Lil' Jon's Get Low, "To The Windows/To The Wall!" IN UNISON! Urban Dictionary says um, well, you'll just have to look at it.
Here is a video which might accurately capture the whiteness of the whole situation, Mandy and I, Munjoy Hill, Lil' Jon... There was a girl at karaoke once who did the song, actually, she nailed it, while wearing a yellow cardigan. I'd post a video of that, if I could.
Mandy had picked me up the day before we moved into our new place at Vesper Street, and we went to meet Angela at the Front Room. We parked on Howard, my old stomping ground, and I pointed out a house next to my old house which had a beautiful garden. The couple that lives there used to put on MPBN Saturday morning while they did their gardening. From the windows, I could tell that their decoration of the entire house was really amazing. Mandy happened to mention the walls and the windows as we walked by. A few steps later, in unison, out loud, we started singing Lil' Jon's Get Low, "To The Windows/To The Wall!" IN UNISON! Urban Dictionary says um, well, you'll just have to look at it.
Here is a video which might accurately capture the whiteness of the whole situation, Mandy and I, Munjoy Hill, Lil' Jon... There was a girl at karaoke once who did the song, actually, she nailed it, while wearing a yellow cardigan. I'd post a video of that, if I could.
July 5, 2010
Fan Mail
I received this story from a guy who saw the article in the Portland Daily Sun. Some names have been changed. I guess the blog could use a man's perspective, so here you go:
It's a cold winter day in Burlington, Vermont and I am in the middle of my shift at Speeder and Earl's coffee shop. At the time, I was managing two shops, as well as the roastery and was looking forward to my first day off in weeks. As I am making someone their beverage, I glance over to the entrance and see a stunningly beautiful girl walk in. I held her glance much longer than normal- not only was she gorgeous, but I didn't recognize her. At that time of the year 99% of our customers were regulars. When she gets to the counter to order, I notice she has a name tag from across the street. Her name is Chloe. My lame attempt at humor went something like this:
"Hello! My name is Steve, I will be your barista for the next 45 seconds to 1 minute what can I get for you?" I was expecting either a polite chuckle or an eye roll, but got a full on guffaw. We both proceeded to make coy small talk. She told me that she just moved to town a week ago. That sounded the internal guy alarm- it was time to storm the beach. As I gave her back her change, I informed her that Burlington just became a much better place with her presence. She blushed as she walked away, and turned around twice to wave goodbye. I decided right then and there that I was going to go across the street after work and ask her out. I could have waited until she comes in again, which was probably a better idea, as to not seem desperate. But since she was brand new, I didn't want to wait for the other sharks to circle, so after work it was. The last 3 hours of my shift took forever. As I am cashing out, I hear a knock on the front door. I figured it was one of the many stupid customers who don't realize that even though the door is locked, the place might be open for 'them'. It was Chloe. I tried to suppress my insta-huge smile but failed. My walk to the door was probably more of a sprint than it needed to be. When I opened the door she uncomfortably said, "Hi, umm,,,,this is a little awkward for me....I'm not used to doing this but...." I decided to cut her off and ease some of her embarrassment. (Awesome.)
"Never mind that, why don't you let me take you out for drinks and perhaps dinner tonight." She relaxed immensely and concurred that would be a good idea. We joked and made small talk while I finished closing up the shop. As we were walking down the street to our restaurant of choice, I ran into an old friend that I had not seen in over 2 years, who happened to be female. This is where things start to go bad. Chloe stood there with her arms folded tightly and just glared at my friend as if she had just kicked her cat. She let out at least two hmmmphs. When my friend departed, we continued down the street, but the energy and vibe had changed significantly. The flirty, sexual tension was replaced by a cloud of potential confrontation. She went from chatty Cathy to short, clipped, one word responses. This is where, in hindsight, I should have asked her right then and there what exactly was the problem. Waiting until we got to the restaurant was a bad idea. I decided we would have a drink at the bar before getting a table. I ordered us drinks. Looking at this angry girl, I decided to ignore her obvious mood and make like we are out to have a good time. This was thwarted with, "Did you fuck her!" This was said much louder than necessary. It stopped the other conversations around us dead in their tracks.
"Ummm, excuse me?"
"DID YOU FUCK HER!!"
I turned to the bartender and told him to cancel her martini and just get my magic hat. She asked why I was cancelling her drink and I told her that it was because I was going to have a drink and enjoy myself and didn't need her see you next Tuesday attitude to ruin it. Now, considering how she overreacted to my lady friend, I should have known better than to deliberately provoke her. She grabbed a drink of the person sitting next to her and threw it at me while calling me a bunch of rated R type words. The owner came around and tossed her out and told her never to come back. I apologized for her and had my beer. You are probably thinking that I didn't handle it as maturely or as civil as I could have, but why waste my time trying to explain myself to someone I just met? Who in the world did she think she was to interrogate me like that? I know quite a few guys that would have done anything to appease her because of the hottie factor and three months down the road would be in a miserable controlling relationship.
I believe this story is 100% true, based on the details of the geography of Burlington, having lived there myself. I believe this girl was probably hot, and therefore bat-shit crazy. One of my coworkers, who also bartends on Wharf Street, told me he's figured out there is a direct hottness:craziness ratio. The hotter the girl, the crazier she is. The only thing missing from this story, which from my perspective is REALLY interesting, is that Steve never actually specifies whether he did sleep with that girl. Which makes me think yes, he probably did.
The Penis Heater, Take 2
Darcy was doing a language exchange with a friend a few months ago and they were talking about the differences between "hooking up" and "making out" in English. She said: "Well, my friend Amanda will often kiss guys in bars, but that doesn't mean she has sex with them. So she can make out with them but not necessarily hook up." This is, on a side note, not the case in British English… she thought her British friends were sluts until she realized her mistake.
He looked at her and said "Ah, pero eso es una calienta pollas!" - literally, “someone who heats penises”.
Turns out that is the Spanish equivalent of calling someone a cock tease. She fell out of her chair laughing and left me a voicemail via Skype that night telling me I was a penis heater. Sometime after that, I wrote myself a note to blog about the "Penis Heater," lost the note and forgot the story. Thanks, Darc.
My making out in bars phase ended with the move to Kennebunkport last summer, but I thought since my name was recently plastered all over Portland as having "a dating blog," I might as well try to live up to the hype for a few posts. Although I consider this stupid thing to be about telling entertaining stories, Laura pointed out, in her infinite wisdom, that since I'm single, all of the stories I tell are from the perspective of a single person. Here's a story of a time that I was making out in public, a real-life penis heater.
It was a fucking blizzard, one of those bitterly cold, silent storms. It seemed so bright- the roads, sidewalks, buildings covered in snow reflected the streetlights, completely untouched late that night. Angela, her niece and I were hanging out at Angela's apartment, if I remember correctly. We probably had beers with dinner, and decided that the Nor'easter outside was no match for us. This is Maine, it's a storm, we're going out. Gritty's was celebrating their 21 IPA anniversary on December 21. It's not my first choice of hangouts, certainly not the closest place to our house, but Angela was in the middle of trying to get them to sign on for a fundraiser at work. We bundled in our Bean boots, our peacoats, the thickest mittens. We couldn't really see each other's faces, so in order to communicate on the walk, er, knee-deep trek, we had to turn and face each other and yell above the wind, through our scarves.
We arrive and peel our wet layers off, just like a Campbell’s soup commercial, revealing dry sweaters, rosey cheeks and runny noses. A reggae-influenced band is playing, but I’m so happy to be warm that I ignore the fact that I never voluntarily listen to reggae of any kind and cozy up to an IPA. We find some of Angela’s friends from high school, sit down and introduce ourselves. Quickly, the conversation turns to our “numbers.” By this I mean the number of people we’ve slept with. The people at the table in their late 20’s, 30ish, all seem to be around twenty. I was almost 25 at the time, and I believe my number was between 5 and 7. Angela’s niece, however, is 21 years old, if that, and her number blows us all out of the water. She whispers it to Angela and Angela tells her not to say it out loud. She does, and immediately I text my younger sister, who is the same age, and ask her what her number is. First she tells me her phone number (which is ridiculous, considering I was TEXTING her phone number,) then her cup size, and I am relieved when she tells me it’s about half Angela’s niece’s, although, it’s still, not low.
The IPA and the music is moving us, literally, and we get up, three single girls, making our moves. Angela starts talking to some damn painter, the Niece is chatting up one of Angela’s high school friends (ten years her senior, him knowing full well how many people she's had relations with), and I set my sights on this guy. He’s dancing like a fool, possibly yelling incoherently, and from the looks of it, not drinking the IPA, but vodka Redbull. (Did I mention I was drunk?) He has to tell me his name five times and I still don't understand it. He gives me his business card, and I find out his name in Russian is the equivalent of George. Russian George is cute, about 5’7”, with round shoulders that nicely filled out his red and black buffalo plaid shirt. We're dancing, everyone is dancing, and it's getting really warm. No one wants to leave the bar to step out into the storm. We probably would've partied there all night. Russian George sits down next to me at one of the long benches. He's been living in DC, grew up in Portland, and tells me about his job- I can't remember- investment banking, or something. Since I now have all of the necessary information, we start making out. In the bar. Penis. Heater.
This doesn’t last very long, and eventually the Niece and I are talking to Russian George over by the bar, shouting over the music. He’s telling a story about some girl he knows, and somewhere, somehow, Russian George says the c-word- the see you next Tuesday word. This is when the Pizzo fire inside flares up and the Niece goes absolutely bananas. I don’t know if she thinks that he is calling her the c-word, she wasn’t acting particularly c-wordy. Granted, it was loud and I was three sheets to the wind, but I’m fairly certain that he was referring to a woman who wasn’t in the room and merely describing her as the c-word, not recounting a conversation in which she was called the c-word. In any case, the Niece karate chops Russian George in the shoulder. If this was a movie, the music would’ve stopped, and the slow-motion would’ve kicked in. Actually, it kind of felt like it happened in slow motion. My jaw drops. They start yelling at each other, and I’m surprised we haven’t been kicked out of the bar. Angela sees the scuffle from across the room, goes all Mama Bear and flies over. She starts yelling at Russian George, pointing her finger, poking out her chest. I’m begging the Pizzo girls to let it go. The Niece walks away. Angela calms down and she enters into a serious conversation with Russian George about the meaning of words, social context and how your upbringing affects your vocabulary. I'm livid. Those damn Pizzos totally cock blocked me! Defeated, I pulled my famous leave without saying goodbye, cursing them up and down the whole blustery, snowy, hike back to Deering Street. I haven't seen Russian George since, and I'm not positive that I'd even recognize him.
He looked at her and said "Ah, pero eso es una calienta pollas!" - literally, “someone who heats penises”.
Turns out that is the Spanish equivalent of calling someone a cock tease. She fell out of her chair laughing and left me a voicemail via Skype that night telling me I was a penis heater. Sometime after that, I wrote myself a note to blog about the "Penis Heater," lost the note and forgot the story. Thanks, Darc.
My making out in bars phase ended with the move to Kennebunkport last summer, but I thought since my name was recently plastered all over Portland as having "a dating blog," I might as well try to live up to the hype for a few posts. Although I consider this stupid thing to be about telling entertaining stories, Laura pointed out, in her infinite wisdom, that since I'm single, all of the stories I tell are from the perspective of a single person. Here's a story of a time that I was making out in public, a real-life penis heater.
It was a fucking blizzard, one of those bitterly cold, silent storms. It seemed so bright- the roads, sidewalks, buildings covered in snow reflected the streetlights, completely untouched late that night. Angela, her niece and I were hanging out at Angela's apartment, if I remember correctly. We probably had beers with dinner, and decided that the Nor'easter outside was no match for us. This is Maine, it's a storm, we're going out. Gritty's was celebrating their 21 IPA anniversary on December 21. It's not my first choice of hangouts, certainly not the closest place to our house, but Angela was in the middle of trying to get them to sign on for a fundraiser at work. We bundled in our Bean boots, our peacoats, the thickest mittens. We couldn't really see each other's faces, so in order to communicate on the walk, er, knee-deep trek, we had to turn and face each other and yell above the wind, through our scarves.
We arrive and peel our wet layers off, just like a Campbell’s soup commercial, revealing dry sweaters, rosey cheeks and runny noses. A reggae-influenced band is playing, but I’m so happy to be warm that I ignore the fact that I never voluntarily listen to reggae of any kind and cozy up to an IPA. We find some of Angela’s friends from high school, sit down and introduce ourselves. Quickly, the conversation turns to our “numbers.” By this I mean the number of people we’ve slept with. The people at the table in their late 20’s, 30ish, all seem to be around twenty. I was almost 25 at the time, and I believe my number was between 5 and 7. Angela’s niece, however, is 21 years old, if that, and her number blows us all out of the water. She whispers it to Angela and Angela tells her not to say it out loud. She does, and immediately I text my younger sister, who is the same age, and ask her what her number is. First she tells me her phone number (which is ridiculous, considering I was TEXTING her phone number,) then her cup size, and I am relieved when she tells me it’s about half Angela’s niece’s, although, it’s still, not low.
The IPA and the music is moving us, literally, and we get up, three single girls, making our moves. Angela starts talking to some damn painter, the Niece is chatting up one of Angela’s high school friends (ten years her senior, him knowing full well how many people she's had relations with), and I set my sights on this guy. He’s dancing like a fool, possibly yelling incoherently, and from the looks of it, not drinking the IPA, but vodka Redbull. (Did I mention I was drunk?) He has to tell me his name five times and I still don't understand it. He gives me his business card, and I find out his name in Russian is the equivalent of George. Russian George is cute, about 5’7”, with round shoulders that nicely filled out his red and black buffalo plaid shirt. We're dancing, everyone is dancing, and it's getting really warm. No one wants to leave the bar to step out into the storm. We probably would've partied there all night. Russian George sits down next to me at one of the long benches. He's been living in DC, grew up in Portland, and tells me about his job- I can't remember- investment banking, or something. Since I now have all of the necessary information, we start making out. In the bar. Penis. Heater.
This doesn’t last very long, and eventually the Niece and I are talking to Russian George over by the bar, shouting over the music. He’s telling a story about some girl he knows, and somewhere, somehow, Russian George says the c-word- the see you next Tuesday word. This is when the Pizzo fire inside flares up and the Niece goes absolutely bananas. I don’t know if she thinks that he is calling her the c-word, she wasn’t acting particularly c-wordy. Granted, it was loud and I was three sheets to the wind, but I’m fairly certain that he was referring to a woman who wasn’t in the room and merely describing her as the c-word, not recounting a conversation in which she was called the c-word. In any case, the Niece karate chops Russian George in the shoulder. If this was a movie, the music would’ve stopped, and the slow-motion would’ve kicked in. Actually, it kind of felt like it happened in slow motion. My jaw drops. They start yelling at each other, and I’m surprised we haven’t been kicked out of the bar. Angela sees the scuffle from across the room, goes all Mama Bear and flies over. She starts yelling at Russian George, pointing her finger, poking out her chest. I’m begging the Pizzo girls to let it go. The Niece walks away. Angela calms down and she enters into a serious conversation with Russian George about the meaning of words, social context and how your upbringing affects your vocabulary. I'm livid. Those damn Pizzos totally cock blocked me! Defeated, I pulled my famous leave without saying goodbye, cursing them up and down the whole blustery, snowy, hike back to Deering Street. I haven't seen Russian George since, and I'm not positive that I'd even recognize him.
June 25, 2010
The Daily Sun
Thanks everyone, for everything, especially Matt at the Portland Daily Sun, my friends for putting up with being blogged about, and all my readers and critics.
June 21, 2010
The Little Black Skirt that Could
I wasn't born yesterday. I'm well aware of the fact that I work for tips, and sometimes I'll put on clothes that, well, you know, aren't exactly modest or dumpy. This one skirt, however...
Mandy and I are pretty much the same size, so we share clothes. The other day when picking up some key pieces of mine that she had, I grabbed this black miniskirt. She wears a lot of skirts and heels, I wear a lot of jeans and tee shirts. This was everything a miniskirt is supposed to be, short and snug, pockets. Before wearing it to work, I tested it out on a trip to Gritty's with Angela Pizzo. She has a mug, and I ate a cheezburger. Everything about my outfit that day was totally normal, except the length of the skirt. We're mid-pint, mid-conversation when a man, out of nowhere, comes over to us and says, "Can I tell you a story?" I'm psyched. I ask him if I can record, because a) the voice recorder app exists, b) I know how to post audio to the blog, and c) Laura is always looking for stories for her project. But the story is so stupid and he leaves out key pieces of information. He lives in DC, and his Mongolian girlfriend punched him in the face last week. He said he was just making dinner, $32 worth of scallops, she got annoyed and punched him in the face. Closed fist. So he gets in the car and drives to Maine. He rambles on and on about his house in Damriscotta, cell service in Lincoln County, this bartender he was talking up at a pub in Waldoboro, and his eventual reconciliation with the Mongolian woman. Angela said that she could see the disappointment on my face after five minutes in this wasn't going to be a great story. I recorded for almost 20 minutes and promptly deleted it when he walked away. It wasn't even a story. THEN the bartender told us that the reason she punched him in the face, which we poked and prodded him for and he never told us. I mean, seriously. She was Mongolian, not insane. He forgot again that she was allergic to shellfish. It was probably one of those, "If you forget again I'm going to punch you," situations. I would've been annoyed, too. Strange men approach me at bars sometimes, but based on the next two incidences which occurred during the skirt wearing, it's definitely to blame.
I wear the skirt to work on Saturday. Oh, it sort of looks like this. Except, black, with little pleats and pockets on the front. Similar fit, though. Don't forget my Tony's Donuts/Pizza Villa belly and Spanx indent, Dexter boat shoes (not spike heels), messy ponytail and glasses. Right, I was really knocking 'em out.
The night started slow. As with every really nice day at the bowling alley, I assume that no one will come in. If I wasn't working on a beautiful Maine summer day, I'd be on the beach, on a boat, at a baseball game, eating BBQ, or a combination of all four. Anyway, things picked up around 9, because Bayside Bowl is awesome and supersedes decks and boats. Then a couple of things happened:
I was propositioned by an 85 year old man. This is not a joke. A 50-something year old man with a name everyone in Portland knows, was doing shots of Crown Royal. He asked me for one for him and one for his uncle, the 85 year old, who's name might've been Jack. Jack was old, looked old, acted old, without a doubt the oldest person in the building by at least 20 years. He corners me at the waitstation. "AMANDA!" I look up. "Let me ask you a question." I know there's no response to this other than okay, so I say okay. "Have you ever made love to a senior citizen?"
!!!
What?! Oh my god. I blushed. Hell no, why would I ever want to put my body up against your old, hunched over, wrinkly body? Do you even still have all of your teeth? Not to mention I'd have to do all the work! Gross, no thanks. It takes a nano second figure out how to let this man down gently, by using words instead of running away or dry heaving (my two instinctive reactions), so I smile and say, "I don't think my boyfriend would like that very much." The boyfriend is a fragment of my imagination. He replies, "Have you ever considered it? You have, haven't you!" I'm really, just so stunned, that I paused, went into auto pilot, and must've blacked out, because I don't remember the rest of the conversation. He said something about my boobs (which I don't believe were particularly pushed up or exposed that night.) I must've changed the subject to bowling, which luckily, is always a topic, then made an excuse about getting an order in. Instead of helping actual customers who probably needed things, I ran into the kitchen and had a mini-freakout and gave the kitchen staff a pretty good laugh.
A bit later, things are winding down, but I'm still shellshocked when the Bayside Bowl phone rings. Micaela answers it, and apparently, a man on the other line insists that she take down his number, in case "the dark haired waitress with the glasses wants some cock." So Micaela, says, "Amanda??" Great, so the creep knows my name. She takes down his phone number. I freakout, crumple it and throw it in the trash immediately. Then I try to pull my skirt down. I just facebooked this guy's supposed first name, and the first person I found had pictures on his profile bowling at a different alley. Interesting.
Anyway, that skirt has gone back to it's rightful owner, and I'm going to wear jeans, tees and muumuus to work for a little while. (In case you were wondering, my tips were awesome that night.)
June 17, 2010
The Penis Heater
Very often I'll write myself notes about funny stories and such to write blogs about. Usually, I keep a list in my "Notes" app on the iPhone, and just now while doing some cleaning, I came across an actual handwritten note. Some the the things, I've already written about, like that amazing Theodore Treehouse show, stupid things people order at the coffeeshop. Some of them I haven't, like "Intern, Bring me a campari," or the time in my seventh grade algebra class I swallowed a note I was caught passing. This was a desperate measure to make sure my crush, Danny McKellick, wouldn't discover my undying love for him in front of the entire class. That teacher absolutely despised me and wouldn't bat an eyelash before ruining my entire tween life. That was pretty much the whole story. I probably had to do detention, but then again, I probably shouldn't have been passing notes.
But then sometimes, I'll find a list like this and see something like "Penis heater..." and have no fucking clue what I was talking about.
But then sometimes, I'll find a list like this and see something like "Penis heater..." and have no fucking clue what I was talking about.
June 16, 2010
Cardigan Innovations
In case you and I are ever hanging out, and you're not sure how much I've had to drink, if I'm acting like this: then yes, I'm drunk.
Darcy took this video a couple of years ago when we were on an all-girl camping trip. If I remember correctly, we decided to make margaritas the first night, which was fine, but the second day we were all out of margarita mix, and had a bunch of tequila leftover. Because I'm a genius, I decided to just get some Stewart's Key Lime soda to mix with the tequila, and drink that instead of the beer. One thing led to another, and well, here it is.
Note: I can totally admit when I'm wrong, and yeah, I was wrong. Please, everyone, don't let me button my cardigan like that ever again. Mandy, sorry for the dis.
Darcy took this video a couple of years ago when we were on an all-girl camping trip. If I remember correctly, we decided to make margaritas the first night, which was fine, but the second day we were all out of margarita mix, and had a bunch of tequila leftover. Because I'm a genius, I decided to just get some Stewart's Key Lime soda to mix with the tequila, and drink that instead of the beer. One thing led to another, and well, here it is.
Note: I can totally admit when I'm wrong, and yeah, I was wrong. Please, everyone, don't let me button my cardigan like that ever again. Mandy, sorry for the dis.
June 12, 2010
Bowling Barefoot
A few days ago, I was working laneside. This one girl tells me that she'd lost her job earlier that day. She's with two guys who are bowling, and no one is drinking very much. Eventually, she decides to get a fruit and cheese plate, then an ice cream sundae. I asked if it was tough economic times, but no, she was fired. She was working as an executive assistant and blamed office politics. It's one thing to lose your job, it's even more depressing to be fired from a job- I was in full support of her ice cream sundae decision.
So, a little while later I come back to check in, and the guys are starting their second game, and I asked her why she wasn't bowling. She was wearing flip flops and said that she didn't bring appropriate footwear- like, no socks for the rented shoes.
Okay wait a second. Let me just tell you, that I've never thought of myself as someone who could sell things. I tried telemarketing once, and I went home crying practically every day. It was terrible. Apparently, though, judging by my tips, I'm doing an alright job convincing people to drink, eat and bowl. Really, it's not completely self-serving- I want everyone who comes to Bayside Bowl to have a great time, tell their friends, and come back. I guess it's kind of like when I try to convince my friends to stay out for one more drink. It's easy, and it usually works.
So I find myself saying to this girl, "Oh, but the shoes are brand-new, we've only been open a week. They've only been worn like, once or twice, I'm sure you'll be fine."* She gave me a long, unblinking sidelong look, paused, and said very seriously, "Yeah. (long pause) I've heard that one before."
...wait for it...
She was comparing wearing rented shoes with no socks to sex without a condom. Oh my GOD! And she was RIGHT! And the best part is that somehow she knew that I would know exactly what she meant, right away and I did! I laughed for about a minute straight. She made me feel like a total creep for trying to get her to wear the shoes barefoot. I've heard that line a million times, and I'm positive the girls have heard it more than once or twice, drunk or not. Something like, 90% of the men I've been with have tried to go, ahem, barefoot, and guys. We all know that going barefoot is better. Act like a responsible adult and put socks on or don't bowl.
Did I mention we have a pastry chef? Here's a lemon square, a blonde brownie sundae, and a Maine Root root beer float with some kind of fancy cookie I forget the name of:
*Really though, you probably won't get any fungi. Our customers are pretty well-kept, and plus we have this spray that MUST kill everything, it's so potent.
So, a little while later I come back to check in, and the guys are starting their second game, and I asked her why she wasn't bowling. She was wearing flip flops and said that she didn't bring appropriate footwear- like, no socks for the rented shoes.
Okay wait a second. Let me just tell you, that I've never thought of myself as someone who could sell things. I tried telemarketing once, and I went home crying practically every day. It was terrible. Apparently, though, judging by my tips, I'm doing an alright job convincing people to drink, eat and bowl. Really, it's not completely self-serving- I want everyone who comes to Bayside Bowl to have a great time, tell their friends, and come back. I guess it's kind of like when I try to convince my friends to stay out for one more drink. It's easy, and it usually works.
So I find myself saying to this girl, "Oh, but the shoes are brand-new, we've only been open a week. They've only been worn like, once or twice, I'm sure you'll be fine."* She gave me a long, unblinking sidelong look, paused, and said very seriously, "Yeah. (long pause) I've heard that one before."
...wait for it...
She was comparing wearing rented shoes with no socks to sex without a condom. Oh my GOD! And she was RIGHT! And the best part is that somehow she knew that I would know exactly what she meant, right away and I did! I laughed for about a minute straight. She made me feel like a total creep for trying to get her to wear the shoes barefoot. I've heard that line a million times, and I'm positive the girls have heard it more than once or twice, drunk or not. Something like, 90% of the men I've been with have tried to go, ahem, barefoot, and guys. We all know that going barefoot is better. Act like a responsible adult and put socks on or don't bowl.
Did I mention we have a pastry chef? Here's a lemon square, a blonde brownie sundae, and a Maine Root root beer float with some kind of fancy cookie I forget the name of:
*Really though, you probably won't get any fungi. Our customers are pretty well-kept, and plus we have this spray that MUST kill everything, it's so potent.
June 9, 2010
Boston the Rock and Roll Band
The other day a customer was kind of lingering at the counter at the coffeeshop, which is a bit of a personal pet peeve. I had nothing to say to this man, I'd used up all my small talk with him the day before. I introduced him to my coworker, Layla. And he said, "Wow! You both have really great rock and roll names." My initial reaction was, eh, not really. My song, Amanda, by Boston- is it really that great, and does anyone even know about it? I've always sort of felt ambivalent about my name, leaning towards dislike. But that guy, he convinced me otherwise and I've decided to start thinking about my name, and therefore, myself, being rock and roll.
The Snoop Dogg Story
Here is the audio from the second story I read at the Scratchpad Series, for those of you who couldn't make it. Mandy was nice enough to use the Voice Memo app on my iPhone to record it, but there was a bit of an issue somewhere in there, and it came out in two parts.
One of my favorite pieces of criticism from the reading was, "I hope I never hear another white girl impersonating a black man ever again."
June 7, 2010
Life at Bayside Bowl
I love my new job. No, really. Did I mention I'm working at Bayside Bowl now? We've officially been open for three days. Everyone is really excited, and there are a few people who've been in multiple days of the three. You remember a few posts ago when I mentioned my Spanx Scar? Well. Not only will this job keep me running around all night, but I'm also going to be drinking a lot less, less Tony's Donuts, less iced vanilla lattes. I think I'll be ready for bathing suit weather mid-July. There are quite a few baggy t-shirts in my closet until then.
Opening night was sort of ridiculous. To be a good server, you need to be timely, accurate, and friendly. Sometimes, I was able to only get two of three- there were a lot of ups and downs, but I was smiling the whole time. The owner's brother in law told him that I was really nice, that he was happy with the service. I told the owner that his brother in law was the one being nice, because he didn't mention that I brought him the wrong meal and the wrong beer. But I had another table who absolutely hated me. It was two couples- later realized that one of the guys was the twin brother of one of my coworkers, and that I'm friends with his girlfriend's ex boyfriend. I made a weird joke about their taste in whiskeys being different and it was NOT FUNNY, just awkward. I was trying to make fun of myself for not knowing the difference between Crown Royal and Maker's in the glass, but it came out as a criticism of the future of their relationship. Big problem with the brain to mouth filter, here. Note to self: just because I feel comfortable with someone, doesn't mean I can joke about details of their personal lives. Then, I put the wrong cheese on their pizza, forgot to ask the kitchen about egg whites, and the kitchen didn't put mushrooms and onions on the veggie burgers, as specified on the menu. These people absolutely hated me, and I don't blame them- when I was bringing them their checks I made an awkward mini-speech about bumps in the road, opening night, etc. Every once in a while, I'll be out somewhere, and not gel with the server. Like, this one woman at Flatbread. I was that woman to these people. They went to the bar and hung out for the rest of the night... and probably got drunk and forgot about it.
One kind of funny thing that's been happening, when I'm working the lanes: there are a lot of couples coming in, and an astounding number of women are beating the men, way more than 50%. "She's kicking my ass." Awesome. A busty waitress from GR DiMillo's, across the street has been coming in and bowling alone, for the practice. There are a lot of ladies who're really into bowling. I've had my first drunken customer come back the next day and confirm that they paid their tab. Been there, done that. She gave me a $13 tip on a $17 tab. Woot.
Q: Who carries cash anymore?
A: People who wait tables.
Tips at Bayside Bowl + tips at Maine Roasters - amazing brunch with great company at Local - new jeans at forever 21 =
Opening night was sort of ridiculous. To be a good server, you need to be timely, accurate, and friendly. Sometimes, I was able to only get two of three- there were a lot of ups and downs, but I was smiling the whole time. The owner's brother in law told him that I was really nice, that he was happy with the service. I told the owner that his brother in law was the one being nice, because he didn't mention that I brought him the wrong meal and the wrong beer. But I had another table who absolutely hated me. It was two couples- later realized that one of the guys was the twin brother of one of my coworkers, and that I'm friends with his girlfriend's ex boyfriend. I made a weird joke about their taste in whiskeys being different and it was NOT FUNNY, just awkward. I was trying to make fun of myself for not knowing the difference between Crown Royal and Maker's in the glass, but it came out as a criticism of the future of their relationship. Big problem with the brain to mouth filter, here. Note to self: just because I feel comfortable with someone, doesn't mean I can joke about details of their personal lives. Then, I put the wrong cheese on their pizza, forgot to ask the kitchen about egg whites, and the kitchen didn't put mushrooms and onions on the veggie burgers, as specified on the menu. These people absolutely hated me, and I don't blame them- when I was bringing them their checks I made an awkward mini-speech about bumps in the road, opening night, etc. Every once in a while, I'll be out somewhere, and not gel with the server. Like, this one woman at Flatbread. I was that woman to these people. They went to the bar and hung out for the rest of the night... and probably got drunk and forgot about it.
One kind of funny thing that's been happening, when I'm working the lanes: there are a lot of couples coming in, and an astounding number of women are beating the men, way more than 50%. "She's kicking my ass." Awesome. A busty waitress from GR DiMillo's, across the street has been coming in and bowling alone, for the practice. There are a lot of ladies who're really into bowling. I've had my first drunken customer come back the next day and confirm that they paid their tab. Been there, done that. She gave me a $13 tip on a $17 tab. Woot.
Q: Who carries cash anymore?
A: People who wait tables.
Tips at Bayside Bowl + tips at Maine Roasters - amazing brunch with great company at Local - new jeans at forever 21 =
June 2, 2010
The Doppelganger
Occasionally, I get mistaken for this blonde girl who waits tables in town. She's about twenty lbs smaller and dresses better, so, I take it as a huge compliment. She's actually waited on me before, and I wonder if she knows that people tell me I look like her all the time, and what she thinks of this. And just the other day, I was at Pizza Villa, and I saw a Bradley Cooper doppelganger. If you knew anything about the clientele at Pizza Villa, you'd understand that this is really weird. Between this encounter at the Villa, celebrity doppelganger week, and the recurring doppelganger references on How I Met Your Mother, I decided to write about it.
A couple of years ago, I had a doppelganger in Portland. It started out with a mistaken identy at Shay's, in Monument Square. I was going there occasionally that summer- they had $5 bourbon lemonades served in mason jars, but the people watching was priceless. The bartender asked me if I wanted a Jim and Coke, which was weird, because although not opposed to the idea, I'd never ordered that before. I don't really name drop alcohol. Weeks later at Rosie's, where I'd consider myself something of a regular, once, the waitress asked me if I wanted a Sam Adams, which I'd also never ordered there. I kind of looked at her funny and said no, but thank you, and ordered a Hooker Brown. (Not until recently did I occur to me that the beer is called HOOKER and that's weird.) Then, when she came back for my food order, she asked if I wanted the buffalo wings with blue cheese sauce. Hold on. No way. Blue Cheese sauce is WICKED GROSS. Sam Adams, honest mistake, but there's no way I'd EVER eat blue cheese sauce. And it's not the sort of thing that someone just suggests off the menu, this was obviously a case of mistaken identity. Confirmed one morning about a week later at the office when Michelle came into work and said, "I saw Amanda's doppelganger on Wharf Street last night. She had the same purple tights and everything. I had to look long and hard before I realized it wasn't her." I looked at her really confused, and remembering NO! I wasn't in the Old Port that night. Holy shit, I have a Portland doppelganger. Really, hopefully, we never meet. What if we have to fight to the death?
This was not the case with my friend Betsy, especially because in a fight to the death, she'd probably win. She worked at a bank in Westbrook for a while, and I went in frequently for my job. Much later, we become friends, and she told me this story.
I poke fun, but Westbrook isn't that bad. I imagine that regulars at the coffeeshop there are the same regulars as at the bakery and the grocery store and the bank. I worked in Westbrook for three years, and despite the commute, the occasional encounters with crazy Westbrook people (remember that guy who showed me his colostomy bag?), and limited lunch options, I liked it. Betsy was a teller, and every so often someone would come through her line and say that they saw her at Hannaford, and that she didn't say hello back. She's really friendly, this sounds like a very uncharacteristic thing for her to do. And she realizes that no, she wasn't at Hannaford at the time you specified. Occasionally, someone calls her Megan, with absolute confidence. She's thinking, no, you're not even close, and I have a nametag. These numbers weren't adding up. One guy finally says, "You know, there's a girl named Megan who works at Hannaford who looks just like you." Betsy's like, whoa, well, I have to see this girl. Personally, I'd be terrified. So, she boldly walks into Hannaford for a bottle of seltzer, or whatever, on her way home that night, and asks the cashier if there is a girl named Megan working there who looks like her. Again, I'd be terrified. The cashier pages Megan, she comes to the front, and she asks Megan if she ever gets called Betsy. Megan says, yeah! with a 'how did you know' sort of tone in her voice. Betsy responds, well, I'm Betsy. As if this wasn't weird enough, there is one extremely distinguishing difference between the two: Megan is unmistakably cross-eyed.
Oh, and Darcy made this for me:
A couple of years ago, I had a doppelganger in Portland. It started out with a mistaken identy at Shay's, in Monument Square. I was going there occasionally that summer- they had $5 bourbon lemonades served in mason jars, but the people watching was priceless. The bartender asked me if I wanted a Jim and Coke, which was weird, because although not opposed to the idea, I'd never ordered that before. I don't really name drop alcohol. Weeks later at Rosie's, where I'd consider myself something of a regular, once, the waitress asked me if I wanted a Sam Adams, which I'd also never ordered there. I kind of looked at her funny and said no, but thank you, and ordered a Hooker Brown. (Not until recently did I occur to me that the beer is called HOOKER and that's weird.) Then, when she came back for my food order, she asked if I wanted the buffalo wings with blue cheese sauce. Hold on. No way. Blue Cheese sauce is WICKED GROSS. Sam Adams, honest mistake, but there's no way I'd EVER eat blue cheese sauce. And it's not the sort of thing that someone just suggests off the menu, this was obviously a case of mistaken identity. Confirmed one morning about a week later at the office when Michelle came into work and said, "I saw Amanda's doppelganger on Wharf Street last night. She had the same purple tights and everything. I had to look long and hard before I realized it wasn't her." I looked at her really confused, and remembering NO! I wasn't in the Old Port that night. Holy shit, I have a Portland doppelganger. Really, hopefully, we never meet. What if we have to fight to the death?
This was not the case with my friend Betsy, especially because in a fight to the death, she'd probably win. She worked at a bank in Westbrook for a while, and I went in frequently for my job. Much later, we become friends, and she told me this story.
I poke fun, but Westbrook isn't that bad. I imagine that regulars at the coffeeshop there are the same regulars as at the bakery and the grocery store and the bank. I worked in Westbrook for three years, and despite the commute, the occasional encounters with crazy Westbrook people (remember that guy who showed me his colostomy bag?), and limited lunch options, I liked it. Betsy was a teller, and every so often someone would come through her line and say that they saw her at Hannaford, and that she didn't say hello back. She's really friendly, this sounds like a very uncharacteristic thing for her to do. And she realizes that no, she wasn't at Hannaford at the time you specified. Occasionally, someone calls her Megan, with absolute confidence. She's thinking, no, you're not even close, and I have a nametag. These numbers weren't adding up. One guy finally says, "You know, there's a girl named Megan who works at Hannaford who looks just like you." Betsy's like, whoa, well, I have to see this girl. Personally, I'd be terrified. So, she boldly walks into Hannaford for a bottle of seltzer, or whatever, on her way home that night, and asks the cashier if there is a girl named Megan working there who looks like her. Again, I'd be terrified. The cashier pages Megan, she comes to the front, and she asks Megan if she ever gets called Betsy. Megan says, yeah! with a 'how did you know' sort of tone in her voice. Betsy responds, well, I'm Betsy. As if this wasn't weird enough, there is one extremely distinguishing difference between the two: Megan is unmistakably cross-eyed.
Oh, and Darcy made this for me:
June 1, 2010
May 19, 2010
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.
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:
May 17, 2010
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."
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."
May 15, 2010
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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(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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May 10, 2010
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 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."
May 2, 2010
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?
See you there?
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