keep on swimming

I mentioned in a previous post that I went on vacation for two weeks in the tropics. As I said, a couple nights in San Juan at the Gallery Inn, a week on a boat with Groom's family,

the view

and a few days at a house overlooking the water and near a small beach that we could afford because it was on the road to the airport. Plus it had cockroaches the size of my thumb.

right next to the airport. kinda neat.

Let's go back to the good stuff. I swam every day--something I don't do. Ever. I don't kick. I don't run. I don't swim. I mean, I know how to swim. But, I never really learned, per se. Rather, I walked into the lake when I was a kid and hoped for the best. I was the last of five kids. I didn't expect a swimming lesson. In fact, I didn't expect much--I spent the first six years of my life facing the wrong way on top of luggage in the way back of a Gran Torino for crying out loud.

I walked through the muck and leeches and lily pads and kept walking until I was close to the big rock in front of our camp, up on my tippy toes. A boat and waterskier screamed by and the wake hit me. First lesson about boating: Wakes disrupt the calm water. My head went under water and I gasped. I remember very little about my childhood, but I remember this very clearly. Air. Water. Air. Water. Air. Water. Air. Dogpaddle. And, voila. I could swim.

For the rest of my life, I've hated to get my face wet. I wouldn't jump into water. I wouldn't swim under water.

his ridiculously good looking family

yeah, I jumped

Now I think I might. First day in the Caribbean, I went snorkling. By the end of the trip, I had jumped off the bow of the boat. I had my nose blocked, but still. It was worth the effort. (As for getting actual exercise, I was unable to stand for any length of time on a paddleboard and I definitely couldn't haul myself up on a kneeboard. And, no, I did not feel incredibly demoralized when my ridiculously good looking sister-in-law with two kids did all of it with barely an effort. Shut up.)

I still haven't worked up the courage to sign up for a swimming lesson. I just feel like such a dope, but Groom and I did go to the Y. We both hopped on stationary bikes. Groom went to work and I took a few laps around the indoor track. (God, I love to jog.) That was Saturday. On Sunday, Groom and I went to Sugarloaf where I got my ass kicked in the late spring snow. Yesterday, I was sore from all the activity and wanted to get some work done, so I skipped exercise altogether. But, I swear I will overcome my fear of talking to people and will sign up for swimming lesson this week. After I conquer that fear, I will face my fear of wearing a Speedo in public. Then, we'll talk about actually getting my face in the water for laps.

vegetables, not much dressing

For eating, I've been sticking to vegetables, unprocessed foods, fruits, grilled chicken, steamed vegetables, an obligatory Bag Burger with fries (I'm not a superhero, but I did skip supper), plenty of yogurt, and Kashi 7-grain waffles. Please don't ruin those waffles for me by telling me about GMOs.

Crap. I know. I know. I'll stop eating them.

No I won't.

Today, I woke up with a new lease on life, did a little work, ate my Kashi waffles, and then quietly consumed an entire jar of artichoke hearts.

Jumping right in

you want me to get into...what?

"How much do you weigh?"

When I saw the tiny little two-prop Cape Air plane, I knew I would be asked that question. And, I knew I couldn't lie. I don't have much of an issue with telling people my weight. All winter long, if I had my ski bindings adjusted, I would have to offer up my weight to people I saw on a daily basis.

But, for the plane ride, I went a little farther with it. I stated a weight I knew to be a little higher than my actual weight. I don't know why I felt it was necessary to add ten pounds to my figure, but I am terrified of flying, so my brain wasn't exactly thinking all that clearly.

My brain was thinking clearly enough, however, to notice the guy behind the counter didn't flinch. He didn't raise his eyebrows. He didn't even look up at me. And, that's when it dawned on me. Am I heavier than I think I am?? Do I look like I weigh that much?

way too many of these

After two weeks in the tropics drinking nothing but Painkillers (rum, orange juice, Coco Lopez, and nutmeg) and eating nothing but butter and cheese and more butter, I stated my weight for the plane ride home with much more certainty. Again, no reaction from the guy behind the counter.

I got home last night, wiped away the spiderwebs on the bathroom scale, changed the acid-encrusted batteries, and hopped on. Not only am I heavier than I thought, I am 20 pounds heavier than I thought.

I've already gone through the "muscle weighs more than fat" and "the guy at the airline has been trained not to react when a woman offers--nay, practically declares--her weight" arguments. Cutting to the chase, I don't want to die.

Don't let me fool you. I didn't ski. I did this, mostly.

Let me circle back to this winter. I'd like to apologize for being quiet all season. At the risk of sounding like a big whiner, winter for me is intense. I work at the ski resort 40 hours a week--which includes at least two days a week getting up between 4 and 5 in the morning and I'm an owl so that just throws me off entirely. I also work on freelance up to 30 hours a week. And, I like to have social drinking time. And, I like to eat out. And, the dog needs to be walked three and four times a day. In short? You know how much I love to write, but I have my country's 500th anniversary to plan, my wedding to arrange, my wife to murder, and Guilder to frame for it.

Reading that last paragraph fills me with shame. Am I really complaining because I work at a ski resort and I have too much freelance work? Do I have a place to live? Yes. Do I have resources to eat? Yes. Are my loved ones mostly healthy? Yes. Am I happy and grateful? Shut up. Of course. My biggest complaint is that I'm a lazy shit sack and I eat too much. This is crazy.

Carrying on.

The ski season ended for me on April 7. (Just there, I linked last year's end-of-season video but I think it's so beautifully edited, I could watch it over and over.) On April 9, I hopped a plane to go sailing for my father-in-law's birthday (it was spectacular), spent a few days in Tortola, a couple nights in San Juan.

Not allowed to complain.

At all.

And, now we're back.

Sorry. No. I have to post just one of many pictures I took in San Juan. We stayed at the Gallery Inn and it was, in a word, amazing. My friend Caroline suggested it (and, no, Caroline, I did not get pregnant there like some people...ahem), and it was more than I even anticipated. Sculptures, amazing rooms, parrots in the building, beautiful ocean views, rooftop overlooking the city, crazy spooky old building, and nobody there.

I can report that since I started this blog, even though I haven't been writing, I have gotten my strength back, mostly from walking the dog up the side of a mountain every day and skiing almost every day. Whenever I could walk, I would. I walked to work. I walked to meetings in other buildings. I guess that's about it, but when you live on the side of a mountain, everything is uphill. Both ways. Oh my god it sucks.

eggamuffin and coke

But, my diet? That's another thing. I survived on eggamuffin sandwiches, BBQ potato chips, and bourbon. Every now and then, I would eat a salad, but only if it was smothered in cheese. Even the occasional yogurt would be full-fat vanilla yogurt, aka pudding.

My body is just plain weird now. The good stuff: My butt is no longer attached to the backs of my knees. My calves have some nice definition. My thighs are rock hard. (Oh, that just triggered a memory. I went to see a friend play some music in Portland a few weeks ago and after a few drinks I was convincing everyone to squeeze my thighs. Then, I would go, "Hard. Am I right?!" I'm obnoxious.)

But but but, my top half? Jesus. It's a mess. My midsection continues to grow and I have no strength in my arms--I couldn't haul myself onto a kneeboard last week. The easiest watersport ever and I couldn't do it. I also couldn't work a standup paddleboard--I've even used those before. I know how they work. But, nope. No strength in my core; no strength in my arms.  I look like the hanker for a hunka cheese guy. My muffin top has a muffin top.

So, even though my lower-body strength is entrenched in the plus column, my weight remains decidedly on the plus side. (Heh. You like that play on words? It's good, right? No?)

Today, I did a few things. First, I got on the elliptical. I figured I'd be good for about 10 minutes since I haven't set foot on that thing since last fall. I was on it for 30 minutes and could have continued for another 15-20, no problem. So, yay for me.

Second, I signed up for Weight Watchers. I don't plan to follow the program to a T, so I know I won't lose 50 pounds or whatever--for instance, I don't intend to stop drinking alcohol, although I will stay away from Painkillers for a very long time. I like the program because it totally taps into the gaming/OCD side of me. I want to fill in all the blanks and earn all the points and use the points I have. I don't need, nor want, the meetings, the daily affirmations, and the "atta girl" stuff. But, checking off the little drinking water tabs and filling in my workout? I am just dorky enough to LOVE that.

Honestly, Phippsburg. Waterfalls now?

Third, after an hour-long walk through the woods around Sprague Pond (Phippsburg, you are such a delight), groom and I joined the YMCA. The Bath Y is freaking incredible with an indoor track, racquetball courts, a pool, etc. I'm not a confident swimmer, never actually having learned as a child, so I plan to take a swimming lesson this week. I need to get my face in the water. Even though I loved snorkeling and thrashing around in the ocean these past couple of weeks, I just...I don't like being in the water sometimes.

But, I think I'd like to try to swim for exercise. I'm pretty sure I've mentioned that before, so we'll see if I actually do it.

Tomorrow, I'll take a few laps on the indoor track at the Y and hop on the bicycle. I recognize neither of those will do anything for my upper-body strength, but whatever. Baby steps.

A quiet mind

lazy dinner for a lazy girl

My sister emailed me to remind me that I haven't posted here in a long time. She's right. So, I creaked open the blog box, wiped away some dust, and discovered a few drafts I never published. It's lazy, true. But, I think we've established pretty well that I'm lazy. Well, I'm lazy about eating right and working out.

Aw hell. Let's be honest. I would choose a nap on the couch over pretty much anything. Tonight, I have a bunch of work to do so I plopped on the couch with some Annie's Mac and Cheese with frozen peas and arugula. A whole pile of non-local. All in one bowl. That I'm eating with a shovel.

Here's one of my old drafts: 

I have no idea where I heard "A quiet mind lives in the present" or something similar--I'm pretty certain it was on a sitcom--but it weirdly resonated with me. But, no. My brain doesn't like to be shut off, unless it's been shut down by copious amounts of bourbon, in which case it loves it.

While it's true that the more exercise and activity I see, the better I feel and the more I can accomplish. It's like perpetual motion. My muscles are stronger since partaking in this new "daily exercise" routine and I stand taller. My ass is slightly higher too, and I'd be lying if I said I don't enjoy looking in the mirror and noticing my ass has moved closer to where it's supposed to be as opposed to resting comfortably on the backs of my knees.

But, overall, the laundry gets folded, the trash gets picked up, and I'm more likely to hop up and run upstairs to grab something I want when I want it, rather than making a list of all the things I need on the second floor and finally trudging up the stairs out of necessity.

But a quiet mind? No. I was just folding laundry and had that moment of quiet. I have a list of things I need to do today, both personally and professionally, but I wasn't thinking about any of it. I wasn't thinking about anything. Just folding.

And then I realized I wasn't thinking about anything. The only other times that happens are 1) when I'm super drunk and 2) when I'm utterly exhausted. I'm neither of those things.

(Aside: "The only other times that happens..." That clause right there is a hot mess.)

And then I thought...well, what am I missing? What needs to be cataloged that I'm not cataloging in my brain? What am I going to forget to do today? Hunh...Oh, I need to email that guy about the newsletter and I really need to finalize that web copy today and I have to call that woman about some A/V requests for an upcoming conference...crap I gotta go to the bank and the dog is out of food and you know what? I'm folding only jeans here. I should wear skirts more often. I'll buy some tights this afternoon, and while I'm out I'll pick up a pound of coffee....this shirt has a stain. Do we have any of that rubby-rub stain remover? I'm going to bake some cookies tonight. How much data usage is Groom using when he listens to his sport podcasts?

Aaaah. I was back. Slightly anxious, slightly overwhelmed, and slightly annoyed. Much better.

My mind will never be quiet.

Lady or the Tiger

I went to my 25th high school reunion with my friend Amy this past weekend. And, after spending a little over 12 hours with her, I started writing. She is an absolute delight to be around and, I'm realizing, acts as a bit of a muse. I started writing the following in my post about the reunion, but things were running long so I saved it to post later. It seems a waste not to share.

***

Amy is always sardonically cheerful and brutally truthful. She has an open, honest, pretty face that allows her to ask unapologetically and without retribution for what she wants--a window booth at a restaurant, a better parking space, a reasonable discount on her car insurance (I made these up, but you get the point)--while earnestly asking pointed questions and observing her surroundings with a critical yet unassuming eye--wondering who catered a party, noticing a man who seems to be looking down a woman's shirt, quietly suggesting you "lose the sweater" when, say, you're getting ready for your 25th high school reunion. In short, I adore her and I adore her ability to come across as a really sweet lady when deep down she is the tiger.

To her credit, when aforementioned sweater-wearer ignored her sage advice, Amy did not mention it again.

One of her most admirable traits, however, is her ability to know the right thing to do. I have many friends like this, but Amy has perfected it. She knows how to dress; she knows to offer a cocktail to someone who is anxious at a party; she knows to ask the right questions. And, when someone is not acting with manners or good grace, she flutters her eyes in slight indignation, sighs quietly, and either laughs appreciatively in the case of someone flirting with a dangerous proposition like sleeping with her high-school boyfriend--something we witnessed--or walks away in disgust, such as when someone asks her what she does and continues to push her for answers until she really answers him. "This is what I do..." And, he starts glancing over her shoulder, disinterested, unaffected.

She was irritated by that. Not because he wasn't interested, but because he feigned interest and then ignored her.

Her irritation always intrigued me but also acted as a compass in social situations. Case in point: At the end of a very long high-school reunion night, we got off the elevator in our hotel after last call to discover a pack of our old high school peers--most of them popular in high school, I had recently discovered. They seemed excited to see us and asked whether we had any alcohol in our room. The answer to that question was no, said with a smile and a laugh.

"Oh well," they said and molded back into an impenetrable wall of gorgeous hair, nice watches, and Spanxed bellies. As we walked down the hall, fully aware that we no longer existed for them, we heard someone announce within the group they should all pile back into their cars and head to someone's house for more partying. We, as you can imagine, were not invited.

We got back into the room and Amy was irritated. "Can you believe them?"

"What," I said. "They're going drinking....?"

"No. They asked us whether we had booze and when we didn't, they ignored us. They didn't even have the grace to ask us whether we wanted to come with them. They didn't even pretend to ask us."

"Would you have wanted to go drinking with them?" I asked incredulously.

Her eyes fluttered closed and she smiled slightly as she shook her head.

"Sarah."

She sighed.

"That isn't the point."

Realization Nation

I don't remember high school. The space reserved for my high school memories was long ago filled with vats of bourbon, tequila, and wine. Anything that didn't immediately float to the top drowned a dismal and dark death.

This past weekend, as I headed to my 25th high school reunion, I briefly considered claiming I had suffered a head injury in order to avoid those blank moments while someone reminisced at me about something we did at the mall or during math class. And, I really wanted to avoid sneaking a peak at someone's name tag when they took a sip of their drink and looked over my shoulder to search for someone more engaging to talk to.

I'll admit I was a little angsty leading up to the event in the "what should I wear, aw nuts I didn't pack anything, am I successful?" kind of way, not in the "I need to get my teeth whitened and visit a tanning salon after I finish my fasting diet" kind of way. But, angst is angst. I did have a fleeting moment where I realized I would probably be one of the top 10 fattest people in the room. Did it bother me? Yes. Did I plan to do anything about it? No.

Prior to heading over to the school cafeteria where a cash bar, some '80s music, and a catered buffet awaited, I mentioned to my friend Amy, with whom I was attending the reunion, that I didn't remember there being cliques or factions in high school. In fact, if you had held a gun to my head, I would have crapped my pants because I'm scared of guns, but also I wouldn't have been able to name a single "popular kid" from school. I just didn't know who they were.

When we arrived at the party, I felt some anxiety--I'm not embarrassed to admit I asked Amy to hold my hand--but for the most part, I was fine. Could use a cocktail, but otherwise fine. I chatted with people about how they're doing, what they're doing, where they're living, and was stumped when someone asked me, "What do you do for a living?"

Why hadn't I worked this out in my head? I went through all the ways I see myself as successful. I love my husband. I love my friends. I live a happy life. But, in normal yet awkward social gatherings, none of that makes a difference.  I was able to answer only one question with confidence, and then I was lost.

Where do you live?

In Maine!

Where in Maine? 

Oh. Ummm.... I live...ummm... I guess I live on the coast in the summer and then in the mountains in the winter....

What do you do?

Ummm.... I'm a writer?

Who do you write for?

Ummm.....I write boating....stuff...for...ummm...boating magazines and people who work in the boating....industry? And I do some communications and PR at a ski resort? I do some PR for some boating clients, too...yes.

So, yeah. A "PR" person talked like that. I was about as credible as a woman with huge boobs, bleached white teeth, and no body fat. Bitch, please.

Eventually, when the question would come up, I would simply say, "I...don't...know, frankly." That usually ended the conversation quickly enough to fill my cup with more bourbon so I could discover more things about my friends and myself that I had simply forgotten or ignored.

It was a night of realizations more than remembrances. Although I knew my high-school boyfriend was smart, it was an absolute treat to realize he is also very sweet. I was delighted to realize my best friend (who wasn't my best friend senior year and I can't remember why) had become a beautiful, successful, interesting woman. And, I watched with pleasure as my very crowd-anxious old friend walked into the room with his wonderfully supportive and kind husband and took that room over; even though he didn't realize how happy every single person was to see him, I realized how happy everyone was to see him--except one person who didn't hug him, but whatever. Popular kids are asses sometimes.

band practice with Bill Cosby's sweater

Which brings me to the popular kids. As it turns out, there were popular kids in high school and let me be very clear: I was not one of them. But, the truth is, I never noticed because I was both completely self-absorbed and 100% a snob.

I had no idea.

totally rocking the stripes as a drama club officer

By the end of the evening, however, I realized I never wanted to hang out with those kids. I'm sure they were (and are) nice and fun and interesting, but I just didn't want to.

But, I always felt like I should want to. Hence a very oddly tortured high school existence. As a 43...44? How old am I? As a 40-something woman with too much back fat, terrible hair, and disgustingly puffy eyes, I can discern between what I want and what other people want. As a teenager with the occasional pimple, very thick hair, and a 14-inch waist (I'm not even kidding with that fact; I still think back on that and shake my head at my love of french fries), I knew only that I had to live to some specific standard of popularity and getting in with the kids who were skipping class to go get a Chilly Willy was very important.

For whatever reason, I do remember some kids getting grounded for getting Chilly Willies, and though I had no desire to be part of what they were doing, I wanted the inside story and I wanted my questions answered. For instance, what the hell is a Chilly Willy? Is it a real thing? Is it a metaphor?

But otherwise I just wanted to be left alone. But I wanted to fit in. But I didn't want to talk to anyone. And why did I feel like I needed the approval of a bunch of people who spent their Friday nights having more fun that I was having? How did I even know they were having more fun?

knob-jiggling zombies

At one point in the evening, high-school boyfriend, disgustingly awesome Amy, and I wandered the halls of our old school. High-school boyfriend (I'm just going to refer to him as HSB now) was jiggling the doorknobs (not a metaphor) to all the classrooms until eventually we found an unlocked classroom, flipped on the light, and stood around--nostalgic and a little freaked out. (I'm talking about me. I can't speak for my pals.)

Within moments, a crowd of others walked through the classroom door. I was surprised. Where did they come from? Couldn't they find their own room? Why were they in here with the three of us?

"I guess I'm glad those guys came in here," I said. "But now I want them to leave."

HSB laughed. "You haven't changed a bit since high school."

I'm blurring out her face b/c
I didn't ask her permission to post this image. She's
actually quite pretty.

The photo to the left, which I totally stole from this woman's Facebook page because it made me laugh, is exactly how I think high school went. That's me in the black sweater. I sat in the back, laughing with my friends while the more popular and significantly prettier girls held everything together, all of us oblivious to one another, but I suspect pretty girls more oblivious to me.

God, I love this picture. I blurred out her face, but I can assure you, she is really pretty. I don't want her to be upset that I posted an image of her in here without her permission, though.

Another bit of trivia, which came as news to me, was that I had written a large chunk of the yearbook copy. (Our yearbook was called "The Lance." I'm going to let you allow that to sink in for a moment. Our yearbook was called...The Lance.)

Anyway, my byline is everywhere. According to Amy, that over-achieving wench who was in all the honors classes and was editor-in-chief of the yearbook and is now a partner at a law firm, I must have been on the yearbook staff.

No...no, I was certain that I wasn't. I don't remember much, but I think I would have remembered that. A quick flip through the old yearbook and my objections were confirmed. I wasn't on the staff. I wrote those pieces as a free agent. Amy laughed.

"Even then, you really wouldn't commit to anything."

I drove back to my world of freelance writing and seasonal jobs with the oddly comforting realization that, other than my ever-increasing waist size, nothing has really changed. Somehow, through it all, I've remained. Uncommitted, unintentionally snobbish, and absolutely aware that someone, somewhere, is having much more fun than I am.

Anniversary

As of today, I've been married to Groom for eight years. Many people have heard stories about our wedding; I don't know whether it's worth getting into it here. Let me make a quasi word cloud for you:

rainy windy burgundy warehouse COCKTAILS music curtains food costumes gold CARNIVAL smoke chocolate feathers blackness pantomime skeletons MASKS old-boats fabric halloween diamonds pirates cream-puffs DARKNESS sex

The entire affair was decadent and luxurious, brought together by one of the most talented designers I know, Richard Reitz Smith. He had the vision to transform a giant wooden waterfront warehouse into an intimate Masquerade Ball. I will never be able to repay him and his partner for their blood, sweat, stress, and skill. Sara Cox debuted a new song and King Memphis rocked the party. It was over-the-top fabulous, and to say we had a nontraditional wedding would be an understatement. These photos taken by Derek Jackson are some of my very favorites.

Plus, the Red Sox had just broken the curse, so Groom-To-Be was happy. And, I'm pretty certain there were rats scurrying about, so I was happy

What I like about being married to Groom, other than the fact that he is now and forever legally obligated to deal with this pile of crazy, is that he makes me feel like we just got married. Honestly, I don't feel like it's been that long.

me and the sibs

Just before I got married, my friend Dave--who I did not invite to my wedding and I still regret it--asked me whether I thought things would stay the same between Groom and me. I said, of course, I knew things would change.

I said that because Dave was clearly looking for that answer; I didn't really think things would change. To this day, I think about his question and to this day I appreciate that he asked it.

Everything changed; everything continues to change. We went from being a long-standing couple to being married. Coupled and married are two entirely different things.

Things settle. Things get safer. I make decisions based on what we both feel as opposed to what I feel. Before I married Groom, I would say these same things, but no. No. It's different. I can't explain it. It's just different to know he can't walk out when I'm over-the-top insane. I can't walk out when he decides to disappear.

I thought I would hate it.

I love it.

So now I have to ask--as an aside, until recently I would have written "which begs the question," but I have discovered that would be the incorrect use of that phrase thank you Jay--I have to ask, why don't we allow everyone to have this safety, this comfort, these four shoulders to bear the weight? (Thank you again Sara Cox for the origins of that phrase.)

Groom was in the hospital a couple of years ago and I could come and go as I pleased because I'm his wife. I know that would be true of any couple, married or not, but what if he were in intensive care? I took care of him when the nurses were busy--and they're always busy because they are understaffed, but that's a topic for another day, keep up the fight nurses....

Wait, I have to say. I would choose a nurse practitioner over a physician's assistant because I truly trust that nurses pay attention to the whole body. Enough. Topic for another day.

But what if Groom were in intensive care and we weren't married? I'd be SOL. Now imagine we're a gay couple and he's injured and I would have to have his family's permission to be there. That is so demoralizing.

NOW imagine his family doesn't like me. (I'm super lucky, by the way. I love Groom's family like my own and I flatter myself by hoping/thinking they like me all right themselves.)

I recognize I'm being extreme here, but not really. I love my husband. I would tear down walls for him. Because I can. When he was in the hospital, I changed the bedding; I cleaned his room; I monitored the machines; I went all Shirley MacClean when he was uncomfortable. How is it fair that just because I have ovaries and he has a penis that I am allowed to fight for him and he's allowed to fight for me? I was born hetero (please do not call me a breeder; loved the band, hate the term) so somehow that gives me special rights? How is that fair?

And here it comes: I believe in equality. If two people have found each other, are willing to stick around forever, and want the legal right to sign the scary dotted lines when necessary, those two people deserve the right to be recognized as a married couple.

Yup. You guessed it. I'm voting Yes on Question 1. 

Oh, and happy anniversary, Groom. 

Kelsey Grammer

he hates these stairs

I haven't been getting any exercise, unless you count walking the dog a couple times a day, and that's just so boring. I'm still trying very hard to stay away from processed and non-local foods, but I do work within striking distance of a vending machine that is always stocked with kettle-cooked BBQ potato chips--my Achilles Heel.

And, I am a sucker for candy corn because it's really fun to put them in my mouth and pretend they're my teeth. My friend's son was smart enough to put them in his mouth upside down so they looked like fangs. Dammit. I can't believe I didn't think of that. I always go for funny and not scary. Sigh.

not even that funny

I should put a transition here, but I'm not going to [editor!]. I went to see Argo at the Nickelodeon this weekend. It's a great movie. Ben Affleck's stupid quivering chin is completely covered in a beard and he's learned to stop breathing through his mouth, so he doesn't look like he's about to cry in every scene. I hated the long meandering handjob scenes in Gone Baby Gone, but wow is he an amazing director now. Holy crap. Awesome movie.

I will have to see it again, however. See, I went with a friend who always talks through movies. And, it isn't "What did he say?" kind of stuff. It's "Did I tell you what my son did yesterday?" kind of stuff.

I'm always prepared. I know how to watch the movie and acknowledge her talking without getting pulled from the story. This weekend, though, was Olympic-level chatting--all my training, all my focus was put to the test. While the movie played, she chatted about her son, her most recent exam, her plans for the weekend, etc. I was able to field her chatter while keeping track of the various characters walking across the screen and the multiple story lines and trying to remember the history of the hostage crisis in the late '70s, early '80s. I had this. I was about to get the gold medal in "watch the movie while I distract you with my random thoughts."

Then, as Ben Affleck's character was driving the streets of Tehran heading into a possible volatile situation, I hear her lean over and ask, "Isn't Kelsey Grammer dead?"

I tilt my head toward her, my eyes never leaving the screen. "No," I whisper.

I'd like to point out that Kelsey Grammer is not in this movie.

I hear, "I think he killed himself."

"No, no he didn't..." I lean in, curious but still my eyes are on the screen. "Did...what? When?"

"A few years ago."

"No. He's alive," I say dismissively and lean back in my chair, confident that the questions are over.

"Yes. It had something to do with his wife.""

Finally, she has me. This line of questioning is so bizarre, I feel myself get pulled from the movie and thrusted into her weird chatty realm.

"No," I look straight at her. "His wife is on Housewives of Beverly Hills."

There's a pause. I wait.

Nothing.

I settle back into the movie.

"You mean his ex-wife," she says.

I don't respond.

"I'm thinking of Phil Hartman," she continues.

"No," I say. "Phil Hartman didn't kill himself. He was murdered by his wi...fe...." Ugh. I roll my eyes. Sigh.

"OH, right, yes," she says and leans back in her seat to continue watching the movie, but I am plagued with questions. What made her think of Kelsey Grammer? Why did she ask the question if she knew Kelsey Grammer's ex-wife was on that reality show? How could she get Kelsey Grammer confused with Phil Hartman? And, why is the housekeeper at the Canadian Embassy so important to the Argo story? Why is Ben Affleck drinking alone in his hotel room?

After the movie, I left my friend and wandered town, picked up some yumminess at Standard Bakery, got a pound of coffee at Coffee By Design, browsed the racks at Bliss. But, really, I needed a drink. So, I met a couple of friends at Nosh.

i don't remember taking this picture at nosh

I don't know why I sometimes find myself at Nosh. It's generally because someone else wants to go there and I never fight hard enough to say "No, let's walk across the street to Taco Escobarr or a block up the street to LFK or Local." (I had lunch at Sonny's, Local's sister ship, earlier in the day, but I totally prefer Local. I don't know. Maybe it's the clientele. The food is always, always, freaking delicious at Sonny's but the people kind of bum me out.)

But back to Nosh. Nope. I just go, thinking it will be yummy. And, I suppose it is--who can be unhappy with fries covered in bacon dust? But, this Friday night? The median age in that place was somewhere between 50 and 70. Did it get written up in DownEast or in Yankee or something?

Sorry for the digression. I'm not linking Nosh here because I'm not saying anything positive about them and there's no reason for them to get a Google alert about it. Just because I don't like it, that doesn't mean it isn't a perfectly nice place. Either way, my mission was accomplished. I left there well in my cups and had to spend the night at a friend's house before limping home the next morning with very puffy eyes.

A hangover walk on the beach at Popham with a lobster stew reward from Spinney's and I was right as rain. I could even join Groom at a friend's house for supper last night and keep track of a  conversation that wandered through everything from stereo systems for iPods to the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator to the upcoming election to the cost of dinner in New York City to David Brooks.

Yes, I just reread what I wrote. I'll put a dollar in the douche tin for being such an elitist weenie. And, yes, NPR did come up in conversation last night.

That reminds me. Did anyone catch Governor LePage's weekly address on MPBN yesterday (Sat., Oct. 27)? Did he really haul out 9/11 and a Pat Tillman reference? One word: pandering.

Today, I swear to spend a number of hours on some freelance work, but Sandy is on the way and Groom and I really need to batten down the hatches and whatnot. Since our house is pretty well protected and on high ground, we rarely see a lot of damage, but our place was crushed by the Patriot's Day Storm back in 2007, so I'm feeling cautious.

I should put some type of conclusion here, but I'm not going to [editor!]. Blah blah blah, at the end of the day, blah blah blah, feel better after exercise, blah blah blah, funny snarky comment.