Sunday, September 30, 2012

Angry little swedish fish

closed
I was feeling sorry for myself because I closed my computer on work stuff and looked at the clock to see it's 4 in the afternoon. It's Sunday and I've been working all day. I shouldn't complain. There are so many people who can't find work and I'm complaining because I have too much work. That's...what is that? Ridiculous, that's what that is.

I was considering a blog post because I've been lax about posting, mostly because I have nothing to report and partially because I consider myself to be too busy (see pity party above). I decided to scroll through some photos on iPhoto to see what the hell I've been up to...you know... in the daily activity/local foods arena. It's pretty abysmal, but I seem to have had a pretty nice day yesterday.

closed
open
Groom and I took the car to Cundy's Harbor for lunch where everything was closed for the season except Gurnet Trading Company, which is this funky little roadside seafood shack along the Gurnet River. It makes me think of old-time-y Florida. Then we drove back to Bath to eat lunch underneath the bridge bridge. I love industry and steel.

After that, I did a little freelance and then headed to Brunswick to see Sara Cox play at CLZ's Singing for their Supper to raise money for the Mid Coast Hunger Prevention Program and then cocktails at El Camino (oh, I'm drinking again and I feel a little like Harvard Jim after he snacks on the funny brownie). Local music followed by local food and all for a good, local cause.
under the bridge

I do have to say... oh lordy here we go... Okay. You know what? I'm a lefty, bleeding-heart, party-line liberal. I vote D all the way down the ballot--though I should admit I once voted R because, frankly, I believed in the R candidate more than the D candidate in one election. Oh! Did you feel that? It was like an earthquake. My dad totally just rolled in his grave. Sorry pop. You were alive when it happened but I never told you.

In my defense, I've never voted for Jerry Brown or Nader... Aaaahhh...that settled my dad down some. He couldn't abide a Nader vote either.

Back to the thing. Okay. This CLZ event was a lefty liberal "feed the hungry" thing. It was at the First Parish Church, outside on the lawn, in misty rain. The radio station was giving away reusable grocery bags as the freebie collateral. You can probably imagine the crowd. A lot of wet wool, plenty of hand-knit scarves, mud boots, long gray hair, long earrings... I think you get the picture.

I am on the same team with these people. I believe in marriage equality, miss muck boots in the poncho. I believe in a woman's right to choose, ms short hair/long earrings. I believe in supporting local farmers, mr twig sweater and dreadlocks. But for the love of all that's holy, can you please stop thinking about yourselves for one moment and stop talking while there is a performance going on and watch your damn kids because we are not a village that wants to raise your child.

One woman was up front and center openly and elaborately stretching her legs and rolling her neck before engaging in one of the loudest gossipy conversations, not 10 feet away from Sara. (People conversing during a movie or performance or while in a meeting? That's a huge pet peeve of mine. What makes you so important that you can't walk away or leave the room for your conversation?)

Sara was playing on a little stoop on the church steps. Not two feet away from her were two children playing on the handrail. They were yelling and shouting and leaning into the amplifiers. I wondered to Groom, "That is so weird. Where are those kids' parents?"

After about 15 minutes, one of the children walked toward "I need to stretch in front of people and show how comfortable I am within my own skin" loud talker and addressed the man to whom loud talker was shouting. That was the boy's father or guardian or whatever.

This weird antisocial behavior is why the left side of the argument gets a bad rap. To get anything done these days, you have to work within the confines of social order. Newsflash: This isn't about you and your needs. This is about society and society's needs. I'm not on welfare, never have been. And I still most definitely believe we should take care of those who live outside the margins of our money-making society. But god as my witness if you...you self-absorbed, self-congratulatory, self-righteous, ill-mannered so-and-so...if you're on welfare? I'm going to start voting Libertarian.

No I'm not. Who am I kidding? I think everyone, no matter who you are, deserves to live at a certain standard and in good health. That comment I made above about confines of social order... That might be extreme because sometimes I don't agree with what's considered the "norm." Some of the quote craziest characters are, in my opinion, some of the best people. Brother Boy from Sordid Lives comes to mind.

Just...just be a good person.

Damn it.

Is it weird I use a totally fictional character to make my point? Probably.

I haven't worked out in a month. I think the pneumonia germs have left the building so I can't use that as an excuse anymore so I'm giving some thought to hopping on the elliptical, which will definitely get rid of some of this anger I feel toward these ridiculously self-involved personalities.

But, frankly, I'm far more interested in eating the Swedish Fish sitting on my desk, beckoning me with their chewy delicious sweetness, before I dive into a bowl of homemade fish chowder, courtesy of rainy-day Groom.

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

hey helen

After a summer of house arrest with no car, I realize how lazy I really am. I'm back for my fourth season working full time at a ski mountain and it's simply exhausting to go to an office. I don't know how you people do it.

In the summer, I walk downstairs, make some coffee, feed the dog, wander over to my computer, work. Sometimes I might put on a pair of pants. Occasionally, a bra.

These days, I get up early, get the coffee going, iron a shirt or a pair of trousers, hop in the shower, put on my freshly pressed clothes, decide I look terrible, throw the clothes on the bed, pick something else, try it on, repeat.

Sip some coffee, blow dry my hair, put on some makeup, decide I have VPL, change my trousers. Again.

Make a lunch, pack a small cooler, realize I haven't eaten breakfast.

Grab a yogurt, toss an orange in my bag, leave the condo.

Go back inside the condo to grab my damn to-go mug because I forgot the damn thing, walk four flights of stairs to the parking lot, see the dumpster.

Walk back upstairs, bundle up the stinky trash, walk back downstairs, discard trash in dumpster.

Drive to work, park the car, walk across the parking lot (uphill both ways), walk three flights to my office.

Work a normal day, walk back down to my car, drive back to the condo, climb four flights of stairs. Open my computer, work on freelance.

Help myself to a slice of pecan pie, set alarm, crawl into bed.

All I can think is, please dear god, let this count as exercise. Can you imagine if I had kids? I am a top candidate for leaving an occupied child seat on top of my car.

But, today, something motivated me to get my ass into gear after this spate of busy work time. How many times have I had something motivate me and how many times have I come up with excuses to avoid exercise? Well, here's another.

I saw a video of myself today and as funny as people think it is, all I see is my BINGO arms, otherwise known as "Hey Helens," and my floppy abs.

And why do I keep touching my boobs?

Hey, the team I helped for Reach the Beach is hoping to win a video contest in order to maybe get a free entry in next year's race. So, if you have a moment, can you like their video? I'm unclear as to where the video needs to be "liked," whether it's Facebook or YouTube, so like it on Facebook and we'll hope for the best. Here is the page; the video was posted by Kate Crooker.

Oh my god that's complicated. If you do it, I'll buy you a beer. I'm still pretty much on the wagon, but for this? I suppose I can sacrifice myself and have a beer with you.

Monday, September 24, 2012

The booze post: local fat girl falls off a wagon

Gosh, I've been lax about posting. And, we all know what that means. It means I've been lax about eating right and getting exercise.

outta here!
I got a car on Friday after being without a car all summer and I just wanted to drive. As I may have mentioned, Groom is a fishing guide. He fishes for mostly striped bass and bluefish here in Maine. In September, however, he hightails it to Cape Cod and chases false albecore (called "albies" in fishing slang, or if you're me and not paying attention, "falsies"). Groom practices catch and release, which means unless he plans to eat the fish, he releases it back to the water. Falsies, when they are released, will fly into the water and flip their tail as they head back to their school of friends.

I got that car on Friday afternoon and all Groom saw was the flick of my tail as I headed back to my school of friends. So, I haven't had time to post. But I can tell you, I stuck to local venues.

this is blurry because I was so excited
Friday night, I celebrated with a friend at Robinson's Wharf before heading back to her cabin and eating some type of concoction her husband made. Saturday, I spent the morning trying to locate a mechanic because my newly purchased car was making a bad noise. While I waited for the mechanic to verify it was merely a backing plate and it wasn't my axle pulling away from my transmission...sorry wait whaaaat's that now?...I joined my friend for lunch at Under Currach Tavern for the most amazing bloody mary and a split order of the most delicious fish and chips. Seriously. I'm going back there as soon as I can.
local pet store = local cuteness.

After spending some quality time at Two Salty Dogs, where I saw my fair share of cute as hell little dogs, I picked up my car and met another friend so we could go to a local show at SPACE Gallery in Portland, but we ended up stopping first at Katahdin where Winnie the bartender made us feel beautiful and valid while getting us liquored up on vodka for my friend and bourbon for me.

that's the stuff
Here's where I need to stop the a-to-z details of my weekend. This friend I was meeting in Portland, she mentioned that I seem to be talking in exclamation points. I took one sip of my manhattan made with delicious Maker's Mark and I actually felt those exclamation points slide out of my head. The world went from being a local cable station with bad sound and bright greenish hues in a loud studio filled with pasty and miserable beings to a softer digital golden-hued living room filled with smiling beautiful people--all of whom found me to be delightful.

I don't want to glorify drinking, but my god was it glorious.

We missed the show at SPACE and ended up at Empire to see a young angsty rock band with one young groupie swaying in the front of a largely empty room. They were followed by Murcielago, a band comprised of some old Portlandites, including Matt Robbins (of King Memphis fame) who is both a great photographer and an amazing guitarist. If he were in a double bill with Nate Schrock from The Coming Grass, I might just fall into a puddle on the floor.

Was that too honest? I guess I can console myself with the knowledge that only a handful of people read this blog. And the fact that I love my husband...who I know for a fact reads this blog. So....

Annnyyyywaaaayyy.... the rock show--seriously, it was the kind of music that keeps going with, like, this always-present undercurrent of guitar--ended and we took a trip over to Otto's pizza for a little late-night what-what hangover stop gap. It didn't do its trick sadly because my friend needed to nurse her hangover on the couch Sunday with her half awesome half evil cat Frank.

I took the opportunity Sunday to wander town (exercise?) and pick up a pound of coffee at Coffee by Design and some cupcakes at Two Fat Cats for a potluck cocktail party I planned to attend on Sunday night.

I also bought a pecan pie. I think of my friend Nat every time I eat pecan pie. About...oh dear...10 years...ago? No. Ugh. About eight years ago (oh, that's much better), I was eating lunch with Nat at Norm's on Congress (now called Congress Bar and Grill, not to be confused with what used to be called Norm's and then Downtown Lounge) and he ordered pecan pie. I crinkled my nose. Yuck. My mom had given me a bite of pecan pie when I was a little kid and I remember thinking it was the grossest thing ever, tasted like...meat...and had the skeeviest consistency, like...raw...meat... Blech.

When it arrived, he offered me a bite and swore I would love it as an adult. I reluctantly complied.

It was amazing. Delicious! Who knew! It dawned on me that my mother hadn't given me a bit of pecan pie. She had given me a bit of raw hamburger.

always a hit
When I brought this story up at a family dinner a few years ago, speculating that perhaps mom didn't want me to enjoy pecan pie, my sister said, "Well, sure she didn't want you to like it. There were only six pieces to a pie but there were seven of us in the family."

Oh, to be the youngest of a large family.

Right now, I am not having a piece of delicious pecan pie from Two Fat Cats. The cupcakes, however, were a big hit at the potluck. I mean, who doesn't love cupcakes?

I will say, however, yesterday between wandering Portland and racing to the potluck cocktail party (that really is begging for a joke, but I don't have one), I threw in a load of laundry and instead of crawling onto the couch to watch an episode of United States of Tara (thanks to Shanta for turning me on to that show), I drove down to Popham and walked along the beach for over an hour. Exercise!

Today, my exercise hour was eaten up by a trip to Auburn to get a headlight fixed in my new car.

Maybe I do deserve a slice of pecan pie after all.

Of course...it would be better if it had bourbon in it.

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Here fishy fishy

sunrise
This week has been a bit of a whirlwind and I have to admit I haven't done anything to slow it down. After the Reach the Beach relay, Groom bundled me into the car and brought me to his parents' house in southern Massachusetts where I slept for something like 13 hours. He then wrapped me up, dropped me onto his father's boat, and whisked me down to the Cape for a few days of early morning boat rides. We were supposed to stay down there until the middle of next week, but weather and worries brought him back to Maine.

While we were on the Cape, we stayed with some friends who are active without being all "Look at us! We do stuff!" about it. While I slept off a long morning on the boat, this couple packed up their tennis gear and headed to the courts. And, while I sat on my computer cursing my inability to keep a good file system instead of scrolling through the new Mac Mail program for emails related to one of my freelance projects, the woman we were staying with threw on some running clothes and went for a jog before picking up her daughter at dance class and just before her husband left for his hockey game. I imagine he plays some sort of forward, but I don't know. He's kinda wirey, strikes me as quick on the skate.

breakfast of champions
My point is, I really have to stop talking about it and do something already. I mean, people work out all the time and I feel special enough to start a blog? That's just crazy. I had a mild "p" for "pneumonia" setback the other day and had to sleep away my afternoon while Groom stayed on the water and caught us some dinner, but otherwise I'm pretty much back to fighting form. And by "fighting form," I mean "sumo wrestling" form. I'd like to count sitting in a boat as exercise--you really do work the core in rough water--but I know that's cheating. Enough with the excuses, already.

well worn recipe
Since I haven't gotten any exercise, I'll talk about local foods. It's tough to eat locally when you're constantly on the road and you don't have a schedule, you don't know when you'll be hungry, you're at the mercy of others. I did eat some Pringles, but only a couple of them and it was because I wasn't paying attention. And I had way too many Kit-Kats, but that's because Groom bought a variety pack of white chocolate, milk chocolate, and dark chocolate Kit-Kats and I got carried away with the taste tests.

Most of my meals were eaten at the active friends' house or at Groom's parents' house. For breakfast one morning, I had some leftover delicious fish stew, courtesy of my father-in-law with a modified recipe from...I don't know...1840, as far as I can tell from looking at the dog-eared recipe page. It was fish, scallops, potatoes, wine, and cream and butter and fat. Holy goodness.

by all accounts, that's a great view
Then, Groom and I headed out on the boat with some roast beef subs from Maria's in Scituate. For as long as I've known Groom, we've had this debate over which is better: A Kelly's roast beef sandwich with extra sauce or a Maria's roast beef sub with tomatoes, pickles, hots, mustard, and mayonnaise. He almost has me convinced, but I'm a North Shore girl through and through. I will admit, however, riding through the Cape Cod Canal with a Maria's roast beef sub? Pretty much 100% awesome.

Last night was leftover lentil soup that my mother-in-law left on the stove for us. Again, delicious and I have to assume mostly local since she's a really good shopper. Tonight, Groom cooked up a black sea bass that he caught down on the Cape; he stuffed it with lemon, garlic, parsley, and basil and brought out some asparagus he had frozen fresh and tossed in the oven. Pretty smart, that guy.

I'm looking at my list of foods and I realize I've been eating a lot of red meat and fish. I don't normally eat so much red meat but I've been craving it. I should probably take a vitamin and eat more kale instead. The fish, however? It's funny. It makes me think of my mom who could never get me to eat fish. Scallops? Yes. She would broil up some bay scallops and eat them like popcorn while watching Days of Our Lives when I was a kid and I would sit right next to her, psyched beyond psyched for some of those little pencil erasers of goodness.

I had a psychic tell me once that my mom was telling her from beyond the grave that I wasn't eating enough fish. This same psychic told me I would have a spiritual awakening with a woman who had a name with a long-sounding "e" in it like...Kathleen or Sheila or Colleen. Oh, and I am supposed to be obsessed with a certain pair of twins and I should be married to someone named "John John." This was when John Kennedy Jr. was alive so I was psyched. Psyched about the psychic. Nice.

My mom would be psyched that I'm eating so much fish. My dad would be psyched I'm not a vegetarian. My grandmother would be disappointed I'm not more active. And, I don't need a damn psychic to tell me any of that.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

The amazing race

race start, the pretty girl in front with the bib ran the first leg
I just had one of the most amazing weekends. I'm going to try to stay on track here (you'll see, that's a play on words, heh) but as I've stated before, I don't edit these posts--mostly because it keeps me honest but I'd be withholding if I didn't also admit it saves me time. If I get off track (there's that play on words again), I'll do my best to reel it back in (that's not a play on words; that's a metaphor). I tend to watch people, so I suspect I'm about to head into a "personality type" post rather than a "running is so inspirational" post. Also, I really dislike the word "inspirational," so...no...I probably won't end up there.

This past weekend, I drove one of two vans for a team competing in Reach the Beach, a relay race--I mentioned it briefly here--that started in Franconia, at Cannon Mountain, and ended at Hampton Beach. It was a little over 200 miles in a little over 24 hours.

The team for which I was driving--"Sunday River Twisted Sisters" with Black Bear Energy in parentheses--consisted of 12 runners (hence the two vans) running relay legs ranging anywhere between two miles and nine miles. I had trouble wrapping my head around this before I got involved so I'll try to explain it here so you can understand.

Fri morning pre-race breakfast in NH
In a nutshell, one runner started the race at Cannon Mountain and one van (holding five more runners) would check in with that runner along the course before driving ahead to a transition area. At the transition area, the first runner passed the baton onto a second runner from the team and hopped into the van. This repeated until all six runners from the first van finished their legs, at which point a second van (the van I was driving) met the final runner at a transition area and the sixth runner of the first van passed the baton to the first runner of the second van. The second van of runners completed its first six legs. Then, the first van met the second van at a transition area, picked up the baton, and carried on. Each van of six runners completed three running courses, which translates to 36 individual relay legs per team.

The final push of the final leg, by the way, was on sand. Imagine getting into a van on a Friday morning and running and sleeping for the next 24 hours, all within reach of that van. How do you think you'll feel? Kinda shitty, right? Now imagine getting out of that van Saturday afternoon and running a few miles to the finish line. You're almost done. How do you feel now? Kinda psyched, right? Now imagine the course directs you into a sandy beach. That's just cruel.

getting breakfast Sat morning while I napped in van
Our team seemed to average about an 8-minute mile. I could be wrong. And I suspect if any of the team members are reading this, they will correct me. You know how I know that?

Let's go back to my "imagine" scenario. Now, I'd like you to imagine the type of person who might get involved in this type of race. Multiply that mental image by 12. This was a tough, focused, competitive, and driven group of ladies. I'm pretty sure at least one member of this team knows precisely what the team average mile is.

Aw nuts. I wanted to get through this post without using the word "inspirational," but I'm already failing. This was an inspirational experience. These women inspired me. Most of the team had never done anything like this. Many of them were not "runners," per se and had just started training within the past couple of years. And a bunch of these women are over 40. I mean, come on.

You ready for another? One of the women is five months pregnant. If I were five months pregnant, I wouldn't get up from the couch to refill my bowl with ice cream (thank you Groom), never mind get into a van with five other stinky ass ladies and go running at all hours of the night.

check out the body on this one. jesus.
Speaking of stinky asses, the smell in the van was never all that bad. I suspect, along with being intensely driven and focused, these ladies were highly adept at privately freshening up all that had gone sour. But, even if it did get a little ripe, I'm okay with that. Bodies are bodies. I'm not like some weird hippy who thinks dirt is cleansing, but I'm not going to criticize someone who is 18 hours into a 30-hour car ride for pooting.

Let me get back to this van of women. First of all, I knew six of the runners personally, one I had met once while hammered on red wine at a work party, and the rest I had never even seen before. Within my van of runners, I knew two runners plus the one from the work party, and the rest were just strange faces. My role was solely to make sure my group of runners got where they were going on time. A daunting task, especially considering the level of adrenaline and estrogen cruising atop those four wheels. This was a group of leaders being led by...me. Son of a bitch.

As I mentioned to the women in my van, I grew up the youngest in a large family of alpha personalities. I'm comfortable recognizing the difference between reasonable expectations ("make sure I'm hydrated") and unreasonable demands ("bring me a glass of cool water with three ice cubes at mile marker 3.7"). If the situation warrants it, I'll put up with an unreasonable demand because those demands tend to stem from anxiety, but when you have six people relying on you to take care of business, it felt a lot like juggling, except... instead of three uniform balls (heh-heh..balls), I had an axe, a flaming torch, one rubber ducky, a bowling pin, and two pairs of scissors.
Sat morning rest stop
My solution? Remove all my expectations (which makes me think of my favorite song by the Coming Grass but I can't find a link to it, so I'll just link their MySpace page). I can't juggle scissors so I let them drop. And all was good. It doesn't hurt that I found myself liking this team of women. I really like them.

It's a physical and mental challenge to compete in this race. At the starts, there was a lot of gig head--that moment when someone grows introspective and slightly bitchy just prior to performing. I have plenty of friends who play live music and hold art openings and perform in theater, and I've managed my fair share of speakers at corporate seminars, so I recognize the signs. It's totally normal to forget everyone else in the room when you're so focused on your own needs. And, at the finish line, there was plenty of crying and hugging and smiling--we even witnessed a few people drop, like all the famous footage of people shitting themselves at marathon finish lines and such. Full disclosure, I suspect most of the crying came from me. I was so proud of these women, so (ugh) inspired.
the finish line

I should point out here: I'm a team player, but I'm not a team person, if that makes sense. I don't smack talk other people and I don't fight in battles just because your flags are orange and mine are green. This shouldn't be confused with being competitive (I take pride in my work and I notice when others outperform me) and it's quite different than my ability to hold grudges and dislike people who have done me wrong. I'm just not all "same jacket, rah rah siss boom bah, we are the champions" about things.

I was okay getting involved with this team because running is an individual sport, in my opinion. It's human nature to want to pass people on the track, but for the most part, it seems, runners track their own progress and speed. Don't get me wrong: There was plenty of team spirit and some smack talk, but for the most part, people were really supportive of other runners on other teams, cheering them on and offering water if someone seemed to be fading. But, we did have team jackets and shirts and all the material trappings of group think. I suppose it was necessary.

For me, I stopped running about four years ago--a pulled IT band and a twisted ankle were too much for me to bear because I'm a big wimp. But, last night, I had a dream I was running again with that raging slab pulling me forward while I listened to my breathing and a little more rage to keep me going. I didn't have anyone around me in the dream, but I know who inspired me.

Woo hop, Twisted Sisters. This weekend, I was proud to wear a team jacket.

Hold the phone! I just heard Twisted Sisters came in 4th out of 18 all-women teams and came in 277th out of an overall 418 teams. Not even a bronze, ladies. What a bunch of slackasses. I take all this pride and "inspirational" nonsense back.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Reach the Beach

I'll admit I hold myself to some pretty low standards when it comes to exercise, but nothing makes me feel both inspired and disgusting quite like watching a dozen women between the ages of early 30s to early 40s embark on a 24-hour relay race. Because I like to cheer people on while simultaneously feeling bad about myself, I volunteered to drive a van carrying these runners between relay points this weekend.

See, this is how it works. This group of hard bodies--honestly, some of them? They make me wish I were a sculptor--is collectively running from Franconia, NH, to Hampton Beach in the Reach the Beach Relay. I'll be leap frogging along, picking up and dropping off, for the duration of the event.

Some of these ladies just started running within the past couple years or so; some of these ladies have been participating in various athletic competitions for year, like triathlons and mountain-top obstacle courses, but never really ran; some of these ladies are former track stars. In some way or another, they have been training for this relay race for a long time. Me? I'm like this Tootsie interloper when I'm around them. (I was thinking about the scene with Geena Davis where she's in the dressing room all hot and Dustin Hoffman is simply bothered, but the scene I linked is one of my favorites.)

I just realized that paragraph and link make it seem like I'm sexually attracted to these girls. If that question popped into your mind, the answer is no. If that question popped into your mind because I drew your attention to it, the answer is still no.

Naturally, I am happy to volunteer to drive them because, when you think about it, I've been training for this relay race for a long time too. Pulling an all-nighter and driving a bunch of people around? Come on. Child's play. The only difference is that I won't have to listen to yet another drunken rendition of Bye Bye Miss American Pie (because that seems to be the only song people remember when they're pie-eyed, unless you are three certain fellas from Camden who seem to remember only the words to a certain acapela song that requires one person to keep time with his foot, which is always conveniently located under the driver's seat, which makes me get a kick in the hoo hoo with every beat).

I'm hoping some of the adrenaline or ambition or healthy metabolism will rub off on me, but I doubt it. If anything, I'll be driving along, singing some stupid REO Speedwagen song, offering Mr. Rooney a ride, and yelling at the girls in the back to sit down or get off! For the most part, I think it's going to be a lot of dozing and driving and dozing. Or, perhaps...this. (For what it's worth, the movie clip I linked here scarred me for life when I was a kid. So, let's hope the relay is nothing like that, actually.)

that's my dad on the left with his palm out
One thing I look forward to, besides cheering on these amazing women--seriously amazing women--is seeing Hampton Beach. I haven't been there since...well, I've never been there. At least, not while I was a fully formed human. My dad ran a diner at Hampton Beach during the summer of '68. My entire family, including me inside my mom's belly during her first trimester or, as the conservatives think we liberals categorize it, during her abortionable-mester, packed up and moved to this little coastal tourist spot. So, I don't remember much from that time period. All I have now is the picture here. I always assumed it was from the diner, but I've never been entirely sure.

Growing up, when I wasn't getting traumatized by movies like "The Shoot Horses, Don't They?" I would put Peter, Paul, and Mary (the band, not my siblings) on the turntable and listen to Puff the Magic Dragon while looking through photo albums dedicated to the many many years that existed before I existed. Hampton Beach took up pages of those albums and it looked like everyone had so much fun--birthday parties and days on the beach and funny hats. I know the reality was that my mom and dad worked their tails off at the diner while my grandparents watched my very young brothers and sisters because my 29-year-old dad was trying to raise four kids (with a fifth on the way) on a math teacher's salary (go CTU!). I also used to hear stories about my sisters and brothers helping to count the earnings from my dad selling roasted peanuts at the football games at Salem High School, but by the time I was cognizant enough to really interpret my surroundings, those salad days had ended.

Well, there I went on another tangent. Back to Reach the Beach. I've asked one of the runners to write up a post for me, from her perspective, so look for that soon. She had a baby in March and has since competed in the Tough Mountain Challenge (this past July) and will be running as part of this relay.

Did I mention she had a baby? In March? I've never had a baby and I still couldn't do this. You know what? I blame Jane Fonda for this exercise madness. If she hadn't shown off her awesome post-40 hard body in On Golden Pond, we could all be sitting quietly on our couches right now.

I'll be back online after the weekend. 

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Pretty good day

It doesn't matter how sick you are, how lazy you are, how tired you are. When you have a dog, you have to get outside and give your little friend some exercise.

Yesterday, I was feeling pretty good. Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty good. Groom was here, mostly because I was feeling so rotten Sunday after spending a glorious day at the Botanical Gardens, and I convinced him we should take dog for a walk. I know that sounds ridiculous--scheduling my day around taking the dog for a walk, but just a few days ago, I couldn't walk to the end of the driveway without getting winded, so this was kind of a big deal.

We ended up at the Bath Dog Park, which is right along the bank of the Kennebec River, just downriver from Bath Iron Works. It's the nicest dog park I have ever used. I was thinking I might even start using this dog park on a regular basis--it has a little loop for a walk, a cool breeze from the water, a sweet little pier with benches in case you want to eat some lunch, and it's close to town.

And then the dog park people started showing up.

One of them even greeted us like we were at a cocktail party. It was like we had crashed a playdate at a playground. (Oh, hello there, mixed metaphor.) It's just so weirdly cliquey. I know cliques exist in the world, and since I hate cliques, I'd like to think I don't belong to any cliques, but who am I kidding? Of course I belong to a clique or two or ten.

There are different types of cliques though. What I don't like? I don't like self-conscious cliques. The types of cliques that attract people who assume you want to be a part of their group so they sort of "welcome" you to their clique and invite you to their parties but then tell only private jokes. The thing is, I don't want to be part of your clique. I'm sure you have fun, but I have my own groups of friends with my own private jokes. When you flaunt your private jokes at me, I just feel bored.

Wait. Maybe I'm the cliquey one. Aw nuts.

At any rate, that's how I feel about dog park people. Nuts, again. I'm the snob, aren't I? They're just being sweet, aren't they? But, they're so overly sweet without actually being nice.

yay new dog friend

bummer new dog friend is attached to people
Now I feel terrible. Let me straighten this out a little. My feelings about cliques should not be confused with my feelings about people who are genuinely nice and who are trying to strike up a friendship. I love to make friends. It's just that I'm a private person--well, that's obviously not true. Let me rephrase: I'm a "leave me alone" person. My dad used to say, "I have many acquaintances, but few friends," and I suspect I'm a lot like he was.

I imagine it's like I run a big old, somewhat off-putting hotel. Anyone can come into the lobby of the hotel and some people rent a room. And, occasionally, you might see the back office at the hotel. But you don't necessarily need to see my private residence. Of course, some people have permanent rooms where the linens are always fresh and they can come and go as they please without checking in at the front desk. And there are a few little houses out behind the hotel, like where Groom lives. But, for the most part? I prefer people to take their calls in the lobby while they gaze at old time-y pictures and admire the butter sculpture by the breakfast buffet.

Speaking of breakfast, let's talk about food. I failed with a capital F yesterday. Groom went to pick up some milk for my coffee (because baby loves me that's why) and came back with a breakfast sandwich with ham. Most days lately, I eat oatmeal for breakfast and then I have a light lunch, like a tomato salad or some hummus, and then maybe soup for supper. That's partially because I've lost my appetite some and that's partially because I'm trying to cut back on the calories since I'm not getting any exercise right now.

My sister told me something as I was lamenting my inability to do anything without getting winded and how I really need to watch what I eat. She's a union organizer (Go Norma Rae! It's because of people like her that we have Labor Day Weekend and 40-hour work weeks and...well...weekends in general, really) and she's been in labor contract negotiations all summer. My sister is a daily runner. She has legs...jesus she has legs. But, even though she exercises, this summer she gained 13 pounds, she says, because as they were negotiating this labor contract, they would eat cake. Every single day. And, because she loves cake, she would eat two slices of cake. Every single day. I love her so much.

The point of her story was that you need to exercise and watch what you eat--you can't have your cake and eat it too, as it were. But, ignore the calorie and fat intake for just a second here and bear with me. My sister, while negotiating a labor contract to get better hours, better health coverage, and better working conditions for workers, would eat cake. I wonder how much her head weighs because I think a guillotine could probably take care of that extra 13 pounds, Marie Antoinette.

I digress. Yesterday, I ate like a king who lives off the hard work of others. A breakfast sandwich then some toast then some oatmeal for lunch then a chocolate chip Clif Bar, which is really just a glorified cookie, and then...then...

Ravioli with kale from Parnell's garden and sausage made by the butcher at Brackett's Market and tomatoes from Sara and Nate's garden and sage from our garden and garlic from Swango Farm (I think) and some hard cheese from I assume Hahn's End but I'm not really sure because it was in the bottom of the cheese bin. But, if you ever have an opportunity to try Hahn's End City of Ships cheddar, seize it. Trust me.

But that's not all. THEN, and this was something I tried to resist and couldn't, I had a slice of raspberry apple pie from Valley View Orchard Pies in Hebron (their crusts are so EFFING good) with a dollop of vanilla bean gelato from Gelato Fiasco in Brunswick (well, I picked it up at Brackett's but their flagship store is in Brunswick). I thought I might burst, but instead I just went to bed.

In other news, I'm still staying away from the empty calories that come with booze and dog was happily snoozing away under the covers after what had been a pretty good day. A pretty, pretty, pretty good day.

Monday, September 10, 2012

Not on a boat

I'm supposed to be sailing right now. For the past few weeks, I've had it in the back of my mind: "you can get through this deadline, you can get through this dinner, you can get through this day because you're going sailing in September." I was going to spend four days on my friend Noah's schooner, the Stephen Taber, drinking, eating, yanking on some line if I felt like it, rolling my eyes at people who insisted on talking in pirate (I chose that link because it reminds me of someone I used to work with; if you've worked with me in that last year or so, you know who I'm talking about), and sailing into my old stomping grounds in Brooklin, Maine, for a little party. Obviously, that didn't happen. I'm not on a boat right now.

Instead, I'm lounging in my bed typing up my words like Edith Wharton, only without the servant picking up pages of my manuscript that I nonchalantly toss to the floor, surrounded by meds and lozenges and heat packs and a cooling eye mask.

Actually, that doesn't sound so bad, does it? And, let's be honest, Groom is totally picking up the pages of my manuscript as I nonchalantly toss them to the floor.

Some friends broke me out of the health ward this weekend and took me to the Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens in Boothbay. It led to a minor setback with the "p" as in "pneumonia" yesterday, but it was 100% totally worth it.

I've been thinking about local activities. I mean, shopping at local markets and boutiques is great, but I've never really talked about patronizing local establishments. This state is riddled with fun, local things to do, owned (or funded) by local companies and managed by local people. The Taber is one example; the gardens are another. But, First Friday is one of the greatest things ever--most towns have them--when galleries and shops open their doors the first Friday of the month and you wander about town. I've talked about local music a little bit, but there's so much more than that. Right off the top of my head, I can think of a bunch of great local visual artists: Paul Brahms, Gideon Bok, Tom Curry, Michael Alderson, Tanja Hollander... this is just a quick think, too. What I'm trying to say is, check out your local gallery or museum or aquarium or even a festival, like the Pumpkin Fest in Damariscotta. Full disclosure, I don't go to the Pumpkin Festival, but I hear it's very fun.

I'm rambling a little. I should admit I'm at the tail end of my ride along the codeine express right now.

Let's get back to the Botanical Gardens. First of all, I was with three of the coolest kids I know. The oldest daughter, a teenager, is interesting and interested. She's talented and fearless. And, she doesn't roll her eyes. Well, she does. But, when she does it, it's almost endearing--and you can roll your eyes back at her without her running into another room and slamming the door. She introduced me to Robert McCloskey books (yeah, I never actually read them as a kid)--here, I totally busted her hugging a statue of the bear from "Blueberries for Sal"--and I introduced her to the Yeats poem "Leda and the Swan." Seems like a fair trade. The kid has to grow up sometime.

The middle girl is near and dear to me because she's my godchild, which means nothing other than the fact that I had to stand uncomfortably close to a christening bowl on an altar in a church in Portland about a decade ago, and if anything happens to her parents (god forbid) I would have to carry on her religious teachings. This girl--who started middle school this year, poor thing--will walk up to a pond of frogs and, while everyone is excited about the frogs, she will point out the one dead frog off in the corner. I adore her. Look at the look on her face as she pretends to paddle a dinghy.

Finally, the third child is this quirky little girl who eats yellow mustard by the spoonful, knows how to play quietly by herself when nobody is paying her any attention (something I, myself, have never mastered), and has fun no matter what. She just...has fun. Always. I was trying to take a picture of the rotating sculpture near the entrance to the gardens and she photo-bombed me. It was fantastic.

So, needless to say, the company I kept at the Botanical Gardens made it worth the trip, but there's so much to look at, like the fairy house garden, an area to learn about vegetable gardening, a treehouse, the garden of the five senses, which uses plant life and garden...amenities?...to stimulate your sense of sight, hearing, touch, taste, and smell.
stone rabbie

purple tomatoes

vertical herb garden that I totally want to replicate at my house

I'd like to add, as we wandered through the garden of the five senses trying to remember what the five senses actually are, we got into a conversation about the seven deadly sins. I was thinking through the murder scenes in Se7en to try to remember them. I still couldn't. Let's see...there's the one with the air fresheners hanging from the ceiling, the one with the guy in the pile of spaghetti, the awful one with the guy wearing the blade strapon, the one with the woman glued to a cell phone, the one with the pound of flesh, the one with the head in a box...sloth, gluttony, lust, pride, greed, envy, anger! Anger. The movie gets so murky for me at the end, I couldn't remember anger. Nice.

Oh, and see? Religious teachings for my godchild.

Next on the list, we went to Mine Oyster because the teenager wanted oysters--she eats them like candy; it's awesome. We got some Damariscotta oysters, Glidden Point Cocktail oysters, and Taunton Bay (Acadia) oysters. In order of how I liked them: Glidden Point, Damariscotta, and Taunton Bay. I'd post a picture, but we ate them too quickly, so here's a bad shot of the view instead. Here's an oyster guide, courtesy of Portland Monthly.

We then headed back to a friend's cottage, camp, cabin, what have you where the mom of the these three girls made dinner. Now, let me tell you something, there's a reason these girls are so cool. They have their parents' DNA and this mom? She's a chef. A real chef. We get back to this galley kitchen and she cooks up some vegetables from her husband's garden with local potatoes in sage-infused olive oil from Eventide and sears the f*ck out of some scallops from Robinson's Wharf, all accompanied by a salad with goat cheese from the Village Market and Deli and figs from I don't know where. Mother of god, it was delicious.

too much goofing around got me into sicky trouble
Sadly, I fell asleep during dinner and had to be driven home. Yesterday, I spent the day in bed sweating, whimpering, moaning, and making an overall giant nuisance of myself to my poor husband who was trying to get some work done.

I'm up and about today--which means, I'm sitting up in bed with my computer--and I took a shower. I noticed a bunch of my hair has fallen out from being so sick. My hair is the most disloyal part of my body. One sign of trouble and it abandons ship like a pack of rats in a storm.

Dang. That reminds me. I'm supposed to be on a mother*fuckin' boat right now.

Friday, September 7, 2012

Recovery

I haven't had a sip of alcohol since this stupid pneumonia hit me. What's that...10 days now? I don't really want a cocktail either, which is good because I still can't do much more than walk from the couch to the kitchen. I don't need those empty calories.

But, you know how I know I'm still a little off? All right. Here's the thing. I'm about to admit something that I have admitted to friends in joking conversations over dinner, but I've never stated publicly. I like to have a couple glasses of wine at night because it really takes the shine off my morning. See, a slight hangover dulls the edges of my day. When I've stopped drinking in the past, suddenly everything had become bright and shiny and loud and I got really really really productive. It was annoying.

(As an aside, I'm not particularly happy with the way the verb tenses are playing out in those last two sentences.)

There's an episode of 30 Rock in which Jack, the character played by Alec Baldwin, quits drinking. It feels like that. (I just looked it up. I can't find a good link, but it's Season 5, Episode 4, "The Live Show.") A sip of bourbon just makes everything so much...softer. And the mild fuzziness the next morning makes things move so much...slower.

Anyway, I haven't been afflicted with clarity or productivity yet. In other words, I am definitely still sick if I've been sober for 10 days and I haven't re-wallpapered the upstairs bedroom and covered the driveway in decoupage.

But, it's okay. Like I said, I really don't need those empty calories.

Come to think of it, though, my appetite hasn't returned yet either. I mean, I have a really good appetite anyway, so for me to say my appetite hasn't returned...it's like saying Kirstie Alley looks thin because she lost 50 pounds. That joke doesn't work. It's mean-spirited and it doesn't even make sense. What I mean is, my idea of "no appetite" is the equivalent of a normal person's regular appetite.

Moroccan chicken!
Oh! My low appetite is the equivalent of Groom being in a bad mood. When he's feeling afoul, he just acts like a normal person whereas a normal person feeling afoul acts like a douchebag. There. That makes sense. Right now, I have the appetite of a douchebag. Or something.

For local and traceable food, Groom came home last night with some Moroccan chicken from What's Happenin', aka Good Times, aka Good Food Store in Bethel. It's the most delicious thing ever with raisins and curry and cashews and creamy cream fatty cream and butter. I think he's trying to help me get used to the idea that I go back to work at the mountain on Monday. (See how I buried that bit of information in the middle of this post? I'm not ready to fully admit it yet).

This morning, after eating some steel-cut oats that Groom left for me for breakfast this morning (he really is a saint), I made a sandwich on wheat bread with hummus and arugula from the aforementioned What's Happenin', aka Good Times, aka Good Food Store. I also chopped up a cucumber from Blackie's and tossed it in balsamic and olive oil with Sara's tomatoes and some feta from Balfour Farm. I was not hungry again for hours. Such a satisfying meal. So, for supper I just had more Tom Kha (soup) from Best Thai in Bath.

For activity, I paced the driveway while chatting on the phone with my friend Mo. And, I've now spent the better part of my bedtime trying to kill the biggest, hairiest housefly that continues to buzz and crash into the wall above my head.

Frankly, I'm exhausted.

HAHAHAHA! Got it!

 

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Quick recap

Just checking in, I guess. I'm still on the road to recovery. Groom bundled me into the car yesterday and drove me to Popham Beach to sit in the warm tropical storm breeze and watch the storm surf gettin' all crazy. I would have taken a picture, but I was winded by the time we got from the car to the edge of the beach--a distance of about 20 yards. So, instead, I sat on the seawall, wrapped myself up in my scarf, caught my breath, and made my way back to the truck.

It was, without a doubt, the best bit of activity I have had in over a week.

For today's recovery milestone, I am wearing pants.

I got sick right after buying a bunch of these tomatoes from Shamrock Green Farmstand. Never got to eat them.
Here's a recap of the week. I comforted myself by watching every dramatization I could find related to English history, mostly so I could remind myself things could be much worse; I wasn't getting publicly whipped, beheaded, and I wasn't shivering with plague in the Tower of London. I became obsessed briefly with Oliver Cromwell, who I still despise. I have a weird fascination with Charles II, who took back the throne when Oliver Cromwell died. And, though I can't believe the Magna Carta has been around since the early 13th century, I find it more amazing that King John died a year later of a bad case of the shits. (I was going to link the scene from Dumb and Dumber there because it seemed appropriate but I just rewatched it and, you know what? It doesn't seem as funny to me as it did when I first saw the movie. I hate growing up.)

The thing that really got me through, however? Miranda Richardson's interpretation of Queen Elizabeth I. Priceless.

My friend Sara, who came by this morning with yummy tomatoes and squash from her garden along with the healthiest, most delicious cookies ever...except for all the butter and chocolate, sang this song for me when I started talking about the dandy movement and Beau Brummel in the late 18th century.

So, things are really looking up. To say I'm starting over is an understatement. I can't get a full breath yet, so even yoga seems out of the question. And, even though it's the best medicine, I can forget about having a good, hearty laugh for a while. But, I feel okay.

For eats, Groom has been carrying the local torch for me. Oddly, I can't stop craving meat. I'm like Fred Flintstone trying to get past the neighbor's BBQ without the smell of grilled meat pulling him off his feet. (Oh my god, I just found this Beau Brummel reference from the Flintstones based on this band. I had no idea where this band got its name until this week! Thank you, pneumonia!)

Back to eats. Groom purchased local foods and vegetables for me whenever he could. He even got a bag of Fox Family Chips and a whoopie pie from the local store for me to eat when I felt better. I ate the whoopie pie the other day (it was delicious), but the chips remain on top of the refrigerator.

When I'm not pulling on a piece of meat, I've been craving mostly soup. My first made-by-myself meal while Groom was at work was squash and tomatillo soup topped with croutons made from Borealis Bread (which is just terrible bread so why do we keep falling for it) and Balfour Farms feta. Last night I had the most delicious Thom Ka (soup) from Best Thai in Bath. Otherwise, it's been primarily green tea (not local) with honey from Pleasant Point Orchard in Richmond, Maine. And lots of Riiiiiiicolaaaaaaaa, which isn't local but it's European (which I allow) and Groom's friend who works for the company sent us a case of it (which I allow since it's a gift).

That's a new rule, the gift rule. But, I'm thinking about the holidays. And those cookies in my kitchen.

This weekend, another friend has offered to drive up to see me for a little bit, which is just wonderful. I'm rattling around this house--literally rattling around the house with my seaweed and Rice Krispie lungs--getting very restless. Evidently, I'm at a critical point: if I'm not careful, I could come down with pneumonia again.

But then, maybe I'll learn all I need to know about the history of, say, Italy. That might be interesting, si?

I have no reason to post the following picture. But, while I was sick, Groom got up early one morning to go fishing along the beach at Popham. When he came home, he came directly up to the bedroom with something wet and weird in his hand. He said, "I brought something back for you!"

I was tired and cranky and sore and I sort of ignored him. When I finally made it downstairs to the kitchen, this is what I found sitting on the butcher block. There's no reason to share this other than as a way for me to go, awwwwwwww...... sweet.


Monday, September 3, 2012

Lost blog post, found

SD NOTE: I initially published this post on August 13 but it disappeared from my feed. I would have left it alone, but it mentions one of my favorite restaurants. (In other news, if you use Blogger and you have a post mysteriously disappear? Give me a shout. I've put in the legwork on that one.)

Long Week
8.13.12

Can we consider juggling schedules to be a daily activity? Because I haven't done jack in terms of getting exercise this week.

how can you resist this booth?
Groom's family was staying with us from Boston and San Francisco and my family is visiting from Massachusetts, Connecticut, Washington DC, and Tampa at the family lake house about half an hour away from my house. And, a friend who owns Two Salty Dogs Pet Outfitters asked me to work the Maine, Boats, Homes & Harbors Show in Rockland this past weekend. And, I have a sh*tload of freelance I need to get out the door. And, I still have no car. 


SUP jousting at MBH&H Show
So, I've been juggling schedules for over a week and I'm headed into another week of it. Frankly, darling, I am exhausted. Dinner plans tonight with one family; dinner plans tomorrow night with another. I'm so tightly scheduled, if anyone changes anything in the plan, I have to bail completely because I'm struggling to keep this little house of cards standing, which makes me come across as flighty. Awesome.

one more minute...you can do it...
I hope to sneak 20-30 minutes on the elliptical today, which will be a challenge, but I think I can do it.

I'd like to make it very clear that I realize my problems are awesome problems to have. And, while I'm clearing the air, let's address something else:

Someone made a few comments to me that made me wonder whether I've been misrepresenting myself. She mocked and criticized me (but not in the fun way) for not wanting to walk to the store in the rain and I realize that maybe in this post, I made it seem as though the store is really far away. It isn't. I was making fun of myself. These were my exact words:

It's pouring rain outside so I don't want to walk to the store and I can't drive in good conscience since it's only about a third of a mile away. Yes. I know. I'm rationalizing. And, I'm realizing I'm a bit of a princess.

Secondly, when she saw the work on our new kitchen, her comment was, "Oh, you made it seem like a hardship. You've been using your apartment kitchen all along. Huh."

I'd like to offer a formal apology to anyone who inferred that I think having our kitchen remodeled is a hardship. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I'm excited about the remodel and, no, it isn't a hardship. We do use the kitchen in a little mother-in-law apartment attached to our house. We normally rent this space out, so I guess I could say it's a bit of a financial hardship, but certainly not a day-to-day hardship. No. All those pictures of us cooking our meals? Those are taken in an actual working kitchen that we use on a daily basis.

What else? I think that's it. But, if anyone thinks I'm being false, please let me know. I see no reason to lie about things. I have a nice life but I don't want to smear that all up in your face every day. On the other hand, I don't, in any way, want people to think I'm spewing off about how hard my life is. I live free from disease, free from financial hardship (the real kind), free from pain and war and fighting and starvation, and free from discrimination...for the most part. (I mean, I am a woman after all. Fat or not, as long as I have these 36Ds on my chest, I'll always face some form of discrimination, but I'm not a so-called illegal immigrant or a minority that faces daily hate crimes. Unless you count rape. Which I do. Soooo.... let's just pretend I didn't really say I'm free from discrimination even though it isn't really widely acknowledged that women face daily discimination in our wages and in our interactions at the hardware store and in our dealings with the dockmaster at the local marina--I put that in to be douchey...please....you're on the big blue watery road, girlie...relax about the discrimination--and in our healthcare system and in how we get promoted in corporate America, unless you count women who are promoted because they are women, which is another form of discrimination and leads to co-worker sabotage and staff disgruntlement, especially among the fellas, and even backlashes toward women who deserve the promotion.)

That's the longest parenthetical statement ever. Kids, avoid long sentences and parenthetical statements in your writing because such items will be edited down. (Immediately.)
  
Where was I? Oh yes. Eating local foods and getting my daily exercise. I've been trying to sneak some exercise in--mostly a little paddling, but not much; a walk on the beach that seems hardly worth mentioning; and a lot of schlepping and lugging. I was able to get onto the elliptical last week while Groom had his family out on the boat. They were gone all day, so my fears that I wouldn't get some time alone were completely unfounded. True, my in-laws were here, but they were reading and fussing in the kitchen, so I could sneak off without too much notice.

specials at Trattoria Athena
For the most part this week, I was able to stick to my "local foods only" rule. For eats, we went to Trattoria Athena in Brunswick after visiting the Wegman exhibit at the Bowdoin College Museum. That museum is totally worth a visit. The Wegman show is great and it's complemented by an installation about the history of the Androscoggin, or "Andoscroggin" as a friend from away used to call it. For short, he would say "Scroggin." How freaking awesome is that?

super cute interior
Trattoria Athena is worth a mention because the food is amazing--even my mother-in-law who never says anything negative about food, but rarely says anything effusively positive when it's good said, "This is delicious." Twice. That's enough of an endorsement for me.

The other thing worth noting about Trattoria Athena is that the owners worked the farmers market circuit a couple of years ago selling their homemade pasta. It got us hooked and now we eat at the restaurant. Kinda brilliant marketing and PR really.

I went local Anchor Inn in Round Pond last week with my sister and her family while Groom and his family went to the Topsham Fair. It's what you'd expect--plenty of fish and lobster and butter and breadcrumbs--but the haddock cooked in parchment paper is really good and they have this raspberry white chocolate mousse cake that...well...just order it. And don't even pretend you're going to share. Because you won't share it. I'll probably end up at the Anchor Inn again this week. I can't say I mind.

Sweets and Meats was at the boat show this weekend so I gave then a whirl. Their shop is in Rockland and I plan to make that one of my favorites now. Totally recommended. Their chocolate croissant gave me fits.  

the drive to Five Islands for local eats
Primo for dinner on Saturday because what's a weekend in Rockland without a little Primo action? As always, delicious. Aren't we sick of talking about Primo? I'm not sure what I can say about it that other people haven't already stated. Local, delicious, thoughtfully prepared meals. Worth every penny. Yadda.

Of course Conte's was on the list for the weekend as well. Maybe I'll talk about that later. It's worth its own post. But, here's a link to some pictures of Anthony Bourdain's visit to Maine. He stopped by Street & Co and J's in Portland, and Primo and Conte's in Rockland for his show "No Reservations." The Conte's segment was priceless. Basically, owner John Conte cussed and cursed about "that f*ckin' asshole" from the city coming into his restaurant and ordering "every god damn f*ckin' thing on the damn menu." So good.

Tonight, I have some more juggling with my schedule, Groom's schedule, my family's schedule, his family's schedule, last-minute plan changes, and one car. I guarantee someone will be annoyed with me. Oh, wait! How about stress? Can stress be my daily activity?