Back on track. Mostly.

broken home

This morning, a little hornet in the bedroom caught my eye. We're having our kitchen remodeled and a hornet nest got disrupted and destroyed. I'm guessing this was one of the hive members. It was struggling to get outside, climbing up the window, investigating all the corners, crawling up and down and over like it had no sight and needed to physically touch every crevice in the window. It would fell down to the bottom sill and then it would climb back up again, each time reaching farther afield.

I wish I had that kind of tenacity, but I don't and I fall away from my plans at the first setback. I've been terrible this week while we've been moving. As of tonight, however, we are about 95% moved out of the apartment in the mountains so I should be able to get back on track. I caught myself saying "Goodbye Porpoise Spit!" as we drove down Main Street in Bethel. I was planning to link the final scene from Muriel's Wedding, in which the main characters yell that line, but this scene seems much more appropriate for this blog, mostly because I feel a lot like Toni Collette from that scene. Big and uncomfortable and very very goofy. (By the way, look at young Rachel Griffiths. Awkward.)

cherry cherry boom boom

Moving can be hard on any routine--not to imply I have a routine, but I do have some semblance of order in my days--so it's been difficult to keep up with my new life plan. This morning, however, Groom and I packed some cherries and blueberries for the drive back to the apartment for a final truckload of stuff and some final cleaning. For breakfast, because we have no food in the house, we stopped at Mister Bagel. I know it's a franchise, but at least it's a local franchise and, regardless of my "eat local" rule, Mister Bagel blows Dunkin' Donuts out of the water.

Mister Bagel carries Green Mountain coffee, which isn't locally roasted, but again...better than DoDo's. I was a barista at Green Mountain in Portland before I picked up a bartending job in my mid-20s, so I have an affinity toward the coffee, even though I do prefer Coffee By Design. When I worked at Green Mountain, the uniform was a white shirt and khakis, or chinos if you were raised in the '70s. I bought a size 10 pair of khakis so I could wear them cinched high on my waist (come on, it was the '90s, think: Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally). I remember laughing to myself that size 10 made for enormous pants! I couldn't imagine they would ever fit me for real! Are you kidding me?

It was also around this time, perhaps a couple years later, that my friend Sara got pregnant and refused to wear maternity clothes. We went to Lane Bryant or some such shop to get her some loose-fitting shirts and I exclaimed loudly, "Can you believe people wear these huge clothes for real??!"

God, I was such a snotty little bitch, but I got my comeuppance. These days, I find those "huge clothes" to be quite comfortable, actually, thank you little miss skinny pants. (Yes. I just got bitchy at my younger self.)

I lied yesterday when I said I wasn't tired or sore. I was definitely wired from moving around so much and then I was exhausted. Today, I feel a bit sore in my midsection, mostly from throwing heavy brick clusters yesterday. I like it. I like this feeling. I like being muscle sore.

Speaking of midsections,  I used to get so grumpy riding in Groom's truck because it handles the road...well...like a pickup truck. Any winding road would bounce me back and forth against the doors and windows. Now? Not so much. We took a particularly curvy route back to the mountain this morning and I was able to hold myself still with my newly worked core muscles. Huzzah!

Well. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I am still soft in the middle and I have a long way to go.

This reminds me of a day while Groom was in the hospital with his shattered leg. I've told this story about a million times, so if you already know it, feel free to skip ahead. I won't be insulted: Groom was on heavy painkillers and he said to me, as I walked around his bed, "Oh. Your midsection is so tired."

He doesn't remember saying it, but I remember him saying it. This is the same man who also said, when I asked him whether a pair of pants were too tight, "I'm thinking...ham."

And then there was the time he said, in response to the same "are my pants too tight" question, "Not really. That's how all the middle schoolers are wearing their pants these days."

I was 35.

I have a relatively early morning tomorrow with plans throughout the day, so my challenge will be to get in some form of exercise that elevates my heart rate. I'll have to figure out a way to make the time, but that's what this is all about, right?

Music principle

I woke up with Janet Jackson's song Control in my head this morning, and played Death Cab for Cutie on a loop for most of the afternoon to get it out of my head, but it was quickly replaced with  Stronger by Britney Spears--what the hell is she doing with her tongue as she sings in the video?

Britney's Stronger video brought my brain to the Pleasure Principle, which brings us back to Janet Jackson's Control album--I mean CD...I mean...wait, whatever the kids are calling a group of songs sold together now. It all makes sense since both singers utilize a chair in their videos and both are thin girls who would become fat, ala John Bender's theory.

Which brings us back to this blog. Aren't brainstorms fun?!

country road, take me home

Today, I walked the third of a mile to the closest store to get some coffee, hauled a final few loads of bricks for about half an hour (but I'm at that point where I need a little help so the rest will wait until Groom is around), and then I mowed the lawn for 45 minutes. I don't feel tired, but that's a nice amount of activity. I mean, let's not get crazy here.

I still have 765 (give or take) loads of laundry to do after moving, which means lots and lots of folding. Can I count that as an activity? I bet Weight Watchers would give me at least a point for it, right?

I have nothing else to report. I bought lunch at the local store, but it was a cold cut sandwich on white bread. I'm slacking in the local foods department because I've allowed myself to think purchasing locally means I can consider everything purchased at a local shop to be local, which means barbecue potato chips purchased at the Phippsburg General Store are okay. They shouldn't be. I'll work on amending that.

Christ. Even the music on my iPod wasn't local today. This reformed Catholic might have to work on her penance with a 20-minute somethin' somethin' on the elliptical. It sure beats kneeling on pencils or self flagellating with a knotted cattail whip.

Wait a second. The song I link above for Death Cab for Cutie is the exact song I used to have as a ringtone for my friend Sara, who is a local singer/songwriter. So, clearly File Man (the guy who sits in my brain and gives me the correct information when I need it, such as giving me John Bender's name from The Breakfast Club so I could make that fat girl joke earlier) was desperately trying to get me the "local" message today. I was just too busy getting my Britney groove on to notice.

In the linked videos, I'd like you to please compare Britney's weird singing tongue with Sara's perfectly normal singing tongue. Yet another reason to listen to and watch local musicians.

Now I feel guilty for bringing your attention to Sara's tongue. That's just weird. The elliptical is calling my name.

Fail

We're moving.

moving does not equal exercise

Getting some form of sustained, elevated heart rate activity into a day of moving is nearly impossible for someone like me who doesn't really want to do it in the first place. Groom and I spent the day packing and cleaning, with short breaks online checking email or flirting with each other via Facebook...

Let me stop for a second. Can we discuss how annoying it is when couples who are clearly within spitting distance of one another log onto Facebook and start tagging and posting? It's the worst kind of PDA.

...and we are now mostly moved out of our apartment in western Maine. Yay.

I had intended to hop on the elliptical when we got back to our house on the coast, but a cocktail at JR Maxwell and takeout Thai from Best Thai II in Bath was far more appealing. Best Thai II is so new, they don't have a website, but I think they are the same people who own Best Thai in Damariscotta, which begs the question: There's a Thai place in Damariscotta? Did not know that.

Sorry for the exercise and eating fail today. I cleaned houses and office buildings to make money in college and I remember being in great shape, but I don't know. I think calling "cleaning" a form of exercise is a copout. And, air drumming to The Black Keys to entertain my very tired husband can not be considered exercise (but I hit that cymbal with power, baby).

Having said that, I am thoroughly and to-the-core exhausted. And, okay, fine. I did convince myself I shouldn't get all sweaty from the elliptical because I was told by the woman who extracted the whatever from my face yesterday that I shouldn't get my face wet for a couple of days. She actually said "no shower or swimming," which made Groom laugh. We all know I don't get my face wet when I swim.

For eating, I shopped mostly local, but I did stop for a bottle of iced tea (bad) at Big Apple (bad) instead of locally owned Mallard Mart (better). 

Today was one big fail. Tomorrow, I'll get on the elliptical, move bricks, and mow the lawn.

No I won't.

It's just a number

No clock ticks louder than a wall clock that ticks in a doctor's examination room while you're waiting to have a biopsy done.

When you see an older person walking around with a bandage on her face after an obvious biopsy, you don't ask, "Oh? What happened?" It's assumed that person had a carcinoma or melanoma removed and you just silently hope for the best. Or, if you're an uncouth cad like I am with my own father-in-law, you point to the giant bandage and ask, "Who'd you piss off this time?"

I'm still young enough, I think, that most people will probably ask me--most likely in the form of "hiding a hickie?" or "pop a giant zit?"--why I have a bandage on the side of my face so I'm coming clean now to the four people who actually read this blog.

I have a lesion on my face that refuses to heal. (God I hate the word "lesion" because the only other time it's ever been used in relation to me and my body is when I had lesions on a very sensitive area that is cancer free but for a while was dangerously close to being cancer full. Thanks Planned Parenthood. I owe you my life.) I'm 100% positive my skin is fine and even though I live in the world of language and spin, even though I know a "more affordable" vacation is the same exact thing as a "dirt ass cheap gross" vacation, I am fully comfortable having the lab "rule out" cancer as opposed to the more terrifying "verify as" cancer. It's semantics, but in this case, I'll take the positive language thank you very very much.

I never get too excited about things because experience has taught me that my excitement level for an event has a direct correlation to the chances said event will never actually happen. Whether we're talking about going to the movies when I was 10 or buying a new car when I was 25, every time I got really excited about something, it wouldn't happen. Over the years, I've learned to maintain as blase an attitude as I can about things. Yes, we are having our kitchen remodeled. Yes, I am excited. Sooo, no, I do no think I will see the final product. I'm way too psyched. Does my fear of cancer make me reluctant to buy a car? No, of course not. Does my fear of cancer make me think I'll never see my kitchen finished? Absolutely. I assumed I'd end up in a car accident, but fatal illness is as good a reason as any other.

There is a point to all of this, I swear, and it has to do with the "honesty" part of my new life plan. I was indulging in the concept that I may not live to see my remodeled kitchen and I was so annoyed by the irony (or is it coincidence) of Don Henley's "Boys of Summer" playing in the background....brown skin shining in the sun.... that it took me a moment to recognize the numbers on the scale when I weighed myself.

My blood pressure and pulse? 125/80 with a resting rate of 76. Okay. I'm not an athlete and I don't have an athlete's numbers but I'm okay with them. My weight? I'm not telling you what my weight is, I'm not going to be that honest, but let's suffice it to say...holy too many donuts. Yea yea, we can go down that "muscles weigh more than fat" road for a while but... whatever. I am not Arnold Schwarzenegger and my muscles are heavy only because they are wrapped in a delicious layer of bacon like a bunch of scallops.

This whole day has reminded me of a story from about 10 years ago. I was having some health problems, difficulty breathing, weird anxiety. I had multiple doctors take a look at me and there were various possible diagnoses going about. Heart condition? Ruled out. Autoimmune disorder? Likely, but too many options to rule everything out. Bad lungs? Maybe. I was just coming out of another test for another possible diagnosis; it was summertime; and I wanted to buy some shorts. So, I called a good friend and we went to Old Navy. While perusing the aisles, I started losing my breath and passed out.

This good friend piled me into her car and drove Mach 10 to the closest emergency room all the while asking, "Did you have panic attack because you couldn't get shorts this late in the season?" and exclaiming, "You're not dying on my watch, Devlin!"

While I sat on the ER examining table with the weird restaurant paper sticking to my ass, she started a phone tree. One by one my lovely friends showed up at the ER to offer their support. The final friend to arrive was holding a bottle of orange juice and a thermos filled with tequila. Within 10 minutes, my ER bay was empty as everyone had wandered outside to drink margaritas and, as I imagine it, play hacky sack in the hospital parking lot. In short, I imagine the parking lot looking like this.

Alone in the ER room, I was told I had suffered an ordinary, run-of-the-mill panic attack and I should go home.

Yes. I am an incurable hypochondriac.

Oh, and all those ailments with the breathing? I went in for my annual gyno appointment and my doctor said, "Have you tried taking some Pepcid AC for your symptoms?" I was better within a week. So, multiple doctor's appointments, visits with specialists, and thousands of dollars later? It turns out I had acid fucking reflux.

Back to today. It takes me a long time to acclimate to a new lifestyle. I've worked at the ski resort for four years...five years?...and I have yet to acknowledge that I spend more time in the mountains than I do on the coast. Heck, I moved out of my apartment in Portland after Groom and I got married eight years ago and I still act like I live there. So, as you can imagine, changing my habits is pretty dang hard. I've been working some form of activity into my daily routine and I definitely appreciate a difference. But, I never weigh myself. I've always believed my weight shouldn't be a factor in how I feel about myself.

If I'm going to be honest, my weight number gave me a scare today.

PS, While looking at cars online today, I found a car that looked affordable, got great gas mileage, and was just super damn cute. I glanced at Groom with as serious face as I could muster and he said, "Look at you trying not to get excited." So, even he knows. Tch. I'm not getting a new car now, am I.

Letting go

I lost control of the mower and ran over the exposed cable line outside our house today. Don't tell Groom.

Our mower is a self-propelled walking unit that you control by squeezing levers on the hand grips. If you squeeze the right hand grip, the mower turns to the right. Squeeze the left, it moves left. Squeeze them both and the mower moves in reverse. Tell me: If you're gripping something and you get nervous, is your natural instinct to squeeze your hands? Mine is.

nemesis

So, as I approached the cable line, I squeezed, which made the mower buck back and come toward me, but since my left arm is stronger than my right arm, it backed up at an angle. Naturally, I let go with my left hand and that caused the mower to jump forward and bank sharply to the right. And, since I didn't let go, it continued around in a full circle with me still attached and chasing after it until it crossed over the cable line.

I can already hear Groom, "It will automatically turn off when you let go. Just LET GO!"

I worked this winter with a former gymnast (yes, gentlemen, she is smokin' hot). She told me she lost "body awareness" once during one of her routines and couldn't complete her drills or whatever. I was like, "There's such a thing as body awareness?"

Groom is giving this advice of "just let go" to someone with no body awareness, someone who gets disoriented diving under a wave, someone who gets vertigo from walking down a spiral staircase, someone who closes her eyes in a fender bender--even when she's driving. (Is it weird I'm referring to myself in the third person here? It works grammatically, but...ew....)

I'm afraid of flying. (Yeah yeah. Laugh away. Whatever.) But, here's the thing. If there's even the slightest chance the plane is going down, I will be the first person to go into shock and ignore my surroundings. I start going into shock when there's turbulence. Of course I'm going to panic when the lawn mower starts backing into me and of course I'm going to lose all sense of what's happening.

I may be able to fight the zombies, but if there's an earthquake or tornado, my name is going to be on death certificate number one.

For what it's worth, Groom is so happy I'm on this "get some form of activity every day" kick he may not mind that I nearly sliced the Internet cable in half. My new life plan means I plan my day according to what the weather's doing, how long it might take me to mow the lawn or move the bricks from our fallen chimney, and how long it will take me to do my regular work. (Yes! I work from home, but I do actually work for money! Yes.)

He'd rather watch me go through this physical experiment...I mean...life change...than have to deal with the lawn himself or pay someone else to mow it. I know paying someone to do your gardening or clean your house shows some form of financial success, but it makes me (and him, I suspect) feel like a failure. If I'm paying someone to do that work, it means I'm working all the time in order to get ahead or I'm rich enough to pay someone else and I'm just a lazy shit sack.

yea, i can't work that machine...

I say this, of course, as I listen to the hammering sounds of the guy we paid to frame out new doors for our remodeled kitchen. That officially makes me a lazy and hypocritical shit sack. Well, actually, maybe not. He has the expertise and know-how, so we're really paying him for his brains and talent--and there's a lot of talent there. Seems to me, a contractor has to act as a designer, a craftsman, a mind reader, and a marriage counselor.

Okay. So. Yes. When he's doing his trade, we're fine. When he's hauling trash to the dump, we're lazy shit sacks. Got it.

I really should run in there and ask if he needs help.

He doesn't.

On another note, I realize that working to fit in some form of activity each day is a luxury. I know this. Listening to someone work eight hours a day to make our kitchen some sort of dream room while I sit at the computer writing this silly blog and writing PR pap about marinas and boating makes me super aware of this. People who haul bricks all day, every day...they don't need to "find some form of activity" every day.

...or figure out these dimensions

The folks who work in a boatyard or install custom cabinets? They can't just take a day off because their shoulders are a little achy and, since most of them are sole proprietors, they don't have health insurance for physical therapy. I can afford to see a doctor and then take time off from work to attend physical therapy sessions when my lower back is a little sore from sitting on my ass all day, but the guy who shoots a nail into his leg actually has to work more hours to pay for his one visit to the ER.

When my dad was in the cancer ward, hooked up to hoses and tubes and needles, and assessing all the treatment and care he was receiving, he asked, "What do people who have no health insurance do?" I don't want to know the answer to that.

My dad definitely paid someone to mow the lawn when I was a kid, but I don't think it made him feel successful. I think it made him realize he was stuck with a youngest daughter who would eventually have to find ways to work physical activity into her lazy shit sack days.

The Empty Lot

All I wanted Saturday afternoon as I was heading out of town toward Boston was a pile of french fries and a hot dog. I'm not even kidding. What I got instead was a blueberry pancake (yummy), a bag of almonds (meh), a banana (okay), and a handful of popcorn (tragic and stale).

First of all, Friday night was a blast. Darien Brahms played a bunch of her old songs in her first set and then played her entire new CD Dogwood, as far as I could tell, during her second set. The night included great local musicians, including Sara Cox singing some backup vocals--listening to "So Low" live with Sara and Darien together is.... It's like looking up at two giant....no... It's...I can't explain. It makes my teeth feel weak...what?

Even though this was a night of local music, one of the highlights of the night was Darien covering The Rolling Stone's "Bitch" with Nate Schrock from The Coming Grass on lead guitar and Chicky Stoltz of White Zin playing drums. I thought I was going to pee my pants. (If you're reading this on a mobile device, the links here are links that I've placed. It's safe to click them and some of them can be maybe a little fun.)

Needless to say, Saturday morning was calling for a hangover-curing eggamuffin from the OhNo Cafe. Never happened. Instead, after discovering I hadn't packed any clothes for my trip to Boston Saturday night, I found myself at Target where I bought something to wear, soup to nuts, top to bottom. It was there that I opted for the banana and almonds rather than that devilishly delicious dog and fries.

I know I should have wandered over to a small shop on the peninsula but I'm too fat for Bertini, too old for Club 21 (figures their website is a Facebook page), too broke for Black Parrot, have too much self esteem and not enough sanctimony for Mexicali Blues or Siempre Mas, not hip enough for Rogues Gallery, and surprisingly too young for Tavecchia, which used to be my go-to spot for "ironic" clothing. Now? I'm too old to pull off an ironic sweater set or flowery pantsuit and yet I am too young to wear their clothes. (Did anyone follow that?)

By the way, did you know there's an Urban Outfitters in town? How did they sneak that in? I've always marveled at the City of Portland's ability to keep chains out of the Old Port, Starbucks and Five Guys Burgers notwithstanding. Now that I think of it, there's a Life is Good shop there too. Maybe I need to revisit my notion that Portland keeps the big guys out.

you can bowl at this Flatbread

Last night I attended my sister's culinary school graduation dinner at Flatbread in Somerville--she was valedictorian and can make a crazy assortment of delicious foods now.  Yay!

We did have a discussion about whether or not I can consider Flatbread local. I don't consider Flatbread to be local, but I guess I can if I'm in Massachusetts since it launched in Amesbury. I'm just still pissed that they took over prime working waterfront property on Commercial Street in Portand and share a building with another non-local establishment, RiRa. (I'm a total hypocrite of course. I had my wedding rehearsal dinner at RiRa, but I did use The Regency as our main hotel, so...maybe it cancelled out? Yeah, I know. The same way a slow mile-long walk cancels out the four slices of pizza I had last night. Or the slice I had at Otto after midnight Friday night. Mm-hm.)

The conversation ended when a pizza covered in arugula landed in front of me. Local arugula. Back on track.

I woke up this morning slightly disoriented at a hotel over by Logan, remembered that I stayed with my brother who flew out this morning to go to Costa Rica, and hopped on 1A in search of local coffee. You ever looked for local anything on Route 1A, Route 16, or Route 1? Not gonna happen. So, I checked out the "AroundMe" app on my phone as I approached Peabody (my old stomping grounds) and drove along 114, past the Liberty Tree Mall, and through Danvers. My phone located two Starbucks, Treadwells Ice Cream, and a bunch of Dunkin' Donuts--which, I suppose, could be considered local since it was founded in Quincy.

The only local coffee place listed was "The Custom Cup Coffee," and I drove aimlessly back and forth around Danvers looking for it via GPS. (Note to Bill: Create an app that lists only local businesses.)

So today, I searched for this windmill of my mind, all the while tripping along memory lane (and mixing my metaphors), "Oh...there's the Portside Diner where I used to meet my friend Dora after school...Danversport Yacht Club where I had my prom....The Friendly's where I had my first job...is now...a bank?"

I always knew I grew up near water but most of my early childhood boating was in Maine. I had no idea I lived on the coast in Massachusetts--even with Portside Diner, which is on River Street near Harbor Street and is spitting distance from a marina, and having my prom at a yacht club. What the hell else did I miss?

prom to the left

invisible marina to the right

At one point during this little adventure, I was driving along the section of Rte 128 where the girl who gave me my first tour of high school got into a terrible accident and died. I remember thinking she must have been a bad driver or didn't drive well if she flipped her car on 128. It was an unkind thought, lacking any empathy. I remember thinking what I saw in the world was the only way to see it. How I viewed the color green or what I considered to be a triangle was my one and only way to see those things. I actually thought each impression on my brain was unique. That's a bunch of bullsh*t, of course. If each of us were truly unique, pop psychology wouldn't exist and I wouldn't be forced to tell people I am an ENFP or a D in the DISC personality assessment--I've never had a DISC profile, so I have no idea what my letter is, actually. I chose "D" for "Devlin." I do know I'm an ENFP, according to the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator, and I have heard an ENFP can be difficult to work with. And, yes, there are certain people with whom I absolutely cannot work. But, those people tend to be assholes.

8 Maple Ave, my ass

Anyway, what I mean is, there's collective thinking--why do you think zombies are so popular right now?--and people tend to cluster together. Speaking of the collective, at what point will the collective decide Gotye's "Somebody That I Used To Know" has played enough already? This cover is pretty cool/creepy though.

To get back to the Custom Cup Coffee, I followed my GPS all over Danvers and eventually ended up at an empty lot.

So, figuring I had done my due diligence, I went out in search of one of the dozens of Dunkin' Donuts in the area. At a stoplight in Danvers Square near Supreme Roast Beef--where I used to get a large beef with my boyfriend Jim and his friend Ed back in high school (wow that sounded naughty) even though I preferred Land N Sea--I looked to my right and saw... ta da... Custom Cup Coffee. Searching for local goods is a little like searching for those windmills, but I don't think I'm entirely crazy. The coffee wasn't great, but I did get to spend my morning on a neat little Quixotic quest reviving the ancient art of artisanal artistry.

Yeaaaaa....sorry. I just vomited in my mouth a little as I typed that.

there it is

it's not the OhNo but it'll do

Local Music

this frigging thing

It appears as though I didn't post anything yesterday. I'm extremely flattered that even one person noticed--yes, I'm talking to you, Kate. Writing these posts, although I use them as a means for accountability, feels really narcissistic. I mean, how many people say, "I have a blog"? And, how many times when you hear that, do you want to say, "Who cares. Shut the f**k up. Loser."?

In short, yesterday was busy. I had a couple of editing/writing projects I wanted to get out the door before the end of the day and I had to get in my hour of moving bricks. Yes, I'm moving those bricks wheelbarrow load by wheelbarrow load. The wheelbarrow alone weighs about 70 pounds. I think it's made out of concrete.

one load at a time

It's also one of those wheelbarrows with one wheel in front so it kind of has a mind of its own. I'll be all, "Hey, let's stay on the path we've been using all along," and the wheelbarrow is like "Noooo...What's that over there? A squirrel...no...is that water down there....what kinds of herbs do you have in the garden....hey, wanna check out the neighbor's barn?"

As it turns out, this type of wheelbarrow is great for a core workout, so I ignored the advice of a co-worker, who recommended I use a two-wheeled wheelbarrow, and am suffering through with this one while working my inner self.

lazy whipping

Anyway, at the end of a day of writing pap about boats and marinas, I went for a martini rather than write a blog post. I was written out.

too much booze

But, I did have it in me to make a salad with local greens, local cucumber, and local meat. I never did get those ribs. Groom will have them tonight because I'm going out. For dessert last night, strawberry shortcake with local strawberries and biscuits from Groom's mom. The whipping cream? Not local. And, I really should have whipped the cream by hand.

Today, I got up and moved more bricks with attention-deficit wheelbarrow and, though I had the Katherine Hepburn shakes, I'm pleased to report I'm not actually sore from moving brick by brick. I thought I'd at least feel...something. I feel nothing. Crap. That means I have to up my brick-moving time to two, maybe three hours. Who has time for that? Me.

I'm headed out tonight for more local fun, but this time it's local music. Maine has some of the most interesting musicians, from metal rockers to accordion players. Tonight is Darien Brahms' CD release party at The Big Easy and I plan to see a bunch of old friends. I'm really looking forward to it. Seriously. I feel like I should have done some situps this week to prepare for all the laughing. And, the people playing the music? Holy shit, are they good. Darien puts on a fantastic show.

Last night, as I was whipping the cream for the strawberry shortcake, I belted out "You spoiled the whipping cream/tryin' to spoon feed it to me...." because I put WAAAAAY too much booze in the cream. Cream Machine. It's a really good song.

The Big Easy is where Granny's used to be, back where I cut my teeth on adulthood in the early '90s. It's fitting. Most of the people I will see tonight will be the same people who made my 20s one of the best decades of my life, even if I was sullen and bitter and angry and skinny and mean.

i have no idea what's happening here

I just looked around to see if I have any pictures from that era and this is the only one I could find. Before camera phones, I never took the pictures so, sadly, all I have are pictures that other people have taken of me and handed over. I have no pictures of my friends. Why do we give people pictures of themselves? I want pictures of my friends. Coincidentally, that's a baby Darien off to the side there. If I remember the party correctly, Darien and I bonded over making fun of someone. That person we teased eventually became a really good friend, even though he thinks he's the most important person in the room.

Side story: I won't name names, but this friend once got angry at a restaurant because the waitress wouldn't serve him from the full dining room menu while we sat out on the deck associated with the bar. He said, "Don't you know who I am? I'm a very important person." His then-girlfriend gave him such a withering look, he shrank down and whispered, "I mean self important...." He married that girl. Thank god.

I won't mark the "local" checkbox on my new life plan list tonight, and I don't feel like I'm supporting local music by going to the show tonight. I feel like I'm going out to see some great musicians who play well together, regardless of their home state. I feel the same way about Standard Bakery. It's freaking good, no matter the location.

I probably won't update again this weekend (sorry Kate). I'm headed to Boston tomorrow from Portland to celebrate my sister's graduation from culinary school--I'm totally going to be eating all kinds of local yumminess at her house forever and ever and ever. 

Big plans, little accomplishments

My plan for today was simple. Get up early, eat some oatmeal (traceable) with strawberries (local) and maple syrup (local), spend an hour outside moving some of the bricks piled in the yard from one spot to another (strengthening activity), then come inside to work on some freelance until noon. Eat lobster salad (local) for lunch with some arugula (local) and some cherries (traceable) for dessert.

Go back outside after lunch to move the bricks (strengthening activity) for another hour or so while listening to Adam Corolla read his book on my iPhone (mental break). Come inside, prep the ribs I bought at the market this weekend (local) to grill for supper and work on some more freelance to ship out tonight.

these bricks

Here's what happened (honesty). I was on track with breakfast. Oatmeal, check. Strawberries, check. Maple syrup, check. Then it all hit the slowly oscillating and ineffective fan.

need to go here

I went outside to move the bricks. Realized after a few loads I should have waited 20 minutes before jumping in the pool. I came inside to settle the cramp in my stomach and decided to read the news online. Got frustrated with the whole "vagina" debate. (That links to one of many articles.) Yes, what she said, albeit on point, was a bit inflammatory (not the word "vagina," but the flippant remark she was making). But, I do see her point. Having a transvaginal ultrasound is invasive and, if administered poorly, is akin to rape. Trust me. It's not comfortable, it's incredibly demoralizing, and the memory haunts in a very strange way.

Suddenly it was 9:00 in the morning. Shit. Okay. Went outside to move the bricks. What the F with this weather? Twenty minutes of sweat stung my eyes and holy crap was it hot out. Moved back inside. I'd been thinking about this "vagina" debate some more and was getting increasingly more frustrated. I then hopped onto Facebook to voice my opinion. Isn't that what everybody does these days? No? Whatever.

A little bit of freelance. More Facebook. A little bit of freelance. More Facebook.

Then... What was that box on the kitchen table? Looked like something delicious. I'm pretty sure my friends from the Stephen Tabor brought it to the house when they were down this weekend. I decided to have one.

Two.

Three.

Oops. It was nearly lunchtime. I ate my handful of traceable cherries, but never cracked the leftover lobster. Poured a bit of coffee (purchased locally) and some water. I was back in business. More freelance.

Took a break to check the mail, which was a 20-minute excursion because our road is now choked with people headed to Popham Beach, which made me remember it was too hot to move bricks, so I decided to take dog for a swim at the boat launch ramp, which would require no activity on my part, but would make him happy. I opened my computer to finish up a quick proofreading job and promptly fell asleep. For two hours.

I was awakened when Groom called to pull a total Darren Stephens by informing me he would be bringing his boss home for dinner. Actually, it was probably more like a Ricky Ricardo. Rather than coming home to a nicely set table with martinis chilling in the shaker, he would be far more likely to find me sitting in the middle of the kitchen covered in flour and sobbing hysterically while my best friend danced around me inexplicably playing a tuba. We would be eating out.

cocktails or not, the view is pretty nice

Prior to dinner, I had to run into town to purchase items for his fishing trip tomorrow. I went to Brackett's (local) to discover they don't have item number three on the list: drinkable yogurt. What...the....okay.

I headed off to Shaw's (not local) to buy an entire basket of not local items before rushing home for a shower before meeting Groom and his boss for dinner at Anna's Water's Edge (local) where, for some reason, we were not drinking cocktails, local or otherwise.

From the perspective of my new plan, today was a colossal failure. But, when you look at it as a typical summer day? A little time spent outside, a handful of delicious caramels, an impromptu afternoon nap, a nice dinner with interesting people for whom I was 100% alert and sober? Not bad. Tomorrow, however, I plan to try again. And tomorrow? We'd better have some damn cocktails with dinner.

Wheels on the bus

I fell twice when I hiked up to take this photo

In the winter, I walk my dog two, three, sometimes four or five times a day. I don't ski every day, but I ski probably three or four times a week. Other than that, all forms of exercise consist of schlepping my ass up the three flights of stairs to my office and walking down to the food court in the main ski lodge. My desire to walk up and down those flights of stairs is directly proportional to the strength of my craving for a slice of pizza. I wasn't in good shape this winter, but I was strong enough to hike the side of the hill in ski boots in order to get a picture of the one mound of snow still showing more white than brown in mid-April. And, believe me, that mound of snow was not near the bottom of the mountain. Well, it was near the bottom of the mountain, but I still had to hike for 10 or 15 minutes to get there.

Come to think of it, I'm not sure I why I didn't take the chairlift. I believe it was because I felt it would be easier and faster to hike than to slog my way down a ski trail. LAZY!

I say all this because I realize sometimes we make things harder than they have to be. I'm stronger than I was when I started this weird little navel-gazing life plan adventure journey of discovery and it's all because I do schlep and slog but now it's starting to feel less and less like a schlep and a slog. The little changes can make a difference.

But, there's a reason I brought up the dog at the beginning of this post. Today, while walking the dog, I was looking around. I walk the dog in the winter, but rarely in the summer. I know that's a bit counter-intuitive, but in the winter we live in town and in the summer we live with a large yard by the water. The dog comes and goes as he pleases and we take him swimming for exercise. In the winter, however, he requires a lot of walking because he can't come and go. And, for most of last year, I was a single dog walker because groom broke his leg and was on the DL for about eight months.

Eight months' recovery might seem like a long time. It was a nasty break, believe me. I'd love to make fun of his long recovery, but I'm talking about a shattered leg. I'm also talking about a guy who got a fishing hook stuck in his hand and needed to go to the emergency room this weekend to have it removed, which took multiple tries. I pricked my baby finger while cutting a bagel this weekend and I claimed I couldn't crack my own lobster because it stung too much. My husband, on the other hand, who had a hook in his hand--he had a hook in his hand--nonchalantly squeezed lemon juice over the lobster he cracked for me.

He also got a Tetanus shot and didn't say a word about how much his arm hurt. If that had been me, I would have been curled up in bed for two days demanding bubbly water and Percocet. 

stretch of road

I'm walking too far down this rabbit hole. Let me rein things in. I bring up the dog walking because, as I looked around at all the greenery and the stretch of road ahead, I remembered today why I used to love jogging so much. The stretch of road in front of me was always so....what...comforting, I suppose. I used to dream about running and I would wake up thinking about running. (I keep using the word "running," but I don't run. Let's be serious here. I jog. Slowly. Like Private Benjamin thinking about lunch.)

I'll probably start stretching and working out my IT band issues so I can hit the road again. I do miss it.

But, first, I have to tackle some demons. I had a backslide today and, as you can imagine, it involved cheese. Well...actually, it involved "cheez," as in Utz Cheez Balls.

You can laugh all you want, but I'm a sucker for Utz Cheez Balls. If you show up at a party with a barrel of Utz Cheez Balls, I guarantee you, the night will include a contest involving how many of those Utz Cheez Balls people can fit in their mouths. If that doesn't happen, chances are you just spent the night talking about genocide in Darfur or sex crimes in Somalia, but if that's the case, what were you doing showing up at that party with a barrel of Utz Cheez Balls in the first place? Know your audience, man. If you're invited to a potluck and one couple is bringing their famous tofu scramble while the woman next door offers to bring her special kale salad, don't show up with the cheez balls. Unless you're a douchebag. Then, you get my applause, but otherwise you're on your own.

so gross and so great

but this is a better choice

You know what? Scratch that. The one person I know who is devoting her life to saving the world by visiting places like Darfur and Somalia would totally challenge me to an Utz Cheez Ball contest. So far, much to my husband's delight, my personal best is 17 of those little orange tragedies in my piehole.

Back on topic, today, I ate a handful of Cheez Balls.

And...wait for it...they were stale.

And I ate more.

I know. I'm disgusting. This is why I'm doing what I'm doing.

Today, after backsliding, I went for a walk with Little Miss Bounce a Quarter and I'll probably hop on the elliptical for a bit this afternoon. And, I did travel with fruit in the car so I wouldn't be tempted to stop for a snack at the Irving station--well, that's a bad example. Irving does always sell bananas. I just never buy them.

Ha. And, all this time, I thought this post was going to be about the little changes people can make to feel better about themselves.

FREE hit counter and Internet traffic statistics from freestats.com

...the livin' is easy

it's a pretty nice path

I fully realize my new path of eating local foods and working some form of physical activity into my day is super easy when you consider I have no kids and few responsibilities, there are walking trails all around my house, it's summertime so the garden is full, and I have a steady income.

I don't live in a bad section of town and I don't work long hours for minimum wage with no money for diapers. I can afford to purchase local and mostly more expensive food. I'm not the victim of a major weather catastrophe and I've remained mostly immune to the recession we're experiencing. And, I don't have any health issues, or at least I won't until I am officially diagnosed with Lazy Fatass Syndrome.

I pat myself on the back for making smart choices, but until I'm changing the world like this guy, I will remain flippant and silly about it.  I can't be too cocky about changing tiny things within my day and I'm certainly not embarking on some journey of self discovery. In fact, I'm not discovering anything about myself other than, until the zombies take over the world, things are pretty damn easy for me.

reward at the end of the trail

That said, for exercise today I took a walk over Morse Mountain to Seawall Beach with my mother-in-law--and we can save the MIL jokes. Even my mother-in-law is a lovely, gracious woman I adore. I don't even have that to complain about.

My mother-in-law is also in great shape. When we go skiing together, she stays on the hill well after the rest of us have kicked off our boots and cracked a beer. (Listen to me. Really? I mean, I'm not Gwyneth Paltrow writing a cookbook and discussing the wood-burning pizza oven in the garden but honestly. How obnoxious is that...when we go skiing together....)

i really should do this more often

I still haven't tackled the bricks that need to be moved because I don't have a wheelbarrow and...well, that's it. I'm a lazy fatass and I haven't gone out to purchase a wheelbarrow.

Back to the purpose of this post... for lunch today, more arugula from Squire Tarbox Farm with a bit of hard cheese some friends brought to the house this weekend from Sweets and Meats along with strawberries from the farmers market. I cannot for the life of me remember what farm supplied the strawberries. I supplemented the salad with some curry chicken salad from Whole Foods because it's just so freaking good and I think maybe I can get away with eating chicken salad from Whole Foods, right?

yum

Yes, I'm one of those assholes who marches into Whole Foods with my canvas tote bag slung smugly over my shoulder. And, yes, I wander aimlessly around, getting into everyone's way like someone who hasn't eaten protein in a long time.

Tonight, we're having lobster (and now lobster, princess?) from the waterfront in West Point, but I think those guys are super ornery, so I might try to convince everyone we should pick up lobsters from Plant's. And, while I'm lobbying for that and since they'll be running into town, I just might work on getting them to pick up some stracciatella from Gelato Fiasco. Not good for my arteries, but great for my soul.

FREE hit counter and Internet traffic statistics from freestats.com

Goat cheese

pop

This past Thursday was my last day working at the mountain for the season and, this weekend, I celebrated my break from mountain life with plenty of tequila, gallons of wine, and as you can imagine lots and lots of goat cheese. Tequila and wine, not local. Goat cheese, very local.

I was going to write a post about the local meat we purchased at the farmers market, and how it was frozen, so we ended up buying more meat at Brackett's so we'd have something to feed the people coming to our house for supper. And, how I spent four hours this weekend mowing, vacuuming, mopping, wiping, and folding in order to get as much activity as possibly while whipping the house into some semblance of clean. But then I remembered something.

Today is Father's Day. I don't need a special day to remember my father, the same way I don't need Valentine's Day to remember my husband. I don't celebrate holidays or birthdays--well, within reason, of course. If you offer me a slice of cake, I'll eat it with you. I mean, I'm not a barbarian. But, I don't generally go out of my way to celebrate specific days on the calendar.

My father passed away in 2006 after a very brief but not quite merciful fight with cancer. Week before Christmas, we got the phone call to change our holiday plans. First week in February, he was gone.

I think I'd prefer to go that way. Give me some time to clean out my hard drive, to allow for my friends to organize a fundraiser or living memorial with a pantload of live music (you hear that, friends?), to have a chance to say goodbye and clean out all the crap I've accumulated over the years. I don't want to be in an airplane thinking, "Well. This is it. I hope nobody notices how many episodes of Charmed I saved on my TiVo."

guess what we ate on the boat?

When my dad was nearing the end, we kids twisted and contorted ourselves in the hospital hallways and waiting areas at night in order to get some rest. My pretzel of a sister somehow wedged herself into a phone booth with one of those cheesecloth hospital blankets over her head. My resourceful and charming brother found an empty room and convinced the nursing staff to let him sleep there. I don't remember being physically uncomfortable in the ICU waiting area but I do remember I couldn't eat anything solid, nor could anyone else for that matter.

We were in a hospital on the border between Washington DC and Virginia--an area neither I nor my husband had spent much time. Groom disappeared one evening and came back an hour later? 20 minutes later? Three hours later? I have no idea. All I know, suddenly he was gone and suddenly he came back armed with hummus, feta, pita, grape leaves, and goat cheese. Lots and lots of goat cheese. All soft and easily swallowed foods. My sherpa husband had found a Middle Eastern restaurant somewhere in DC or Virginia and came back with enough takeout to feed the entire family. I still don't know how he found this local spot and I still don't know where it is.

sherpa

What follows is related, so bear with me. I wake up every morning singing a different song. This morning, it was "Here with Me" by REO Speedwagon. (Note to self: Delete The Hits from iTunes account when I am diagnosed with a fatal illness.)

This means very little to me, just a weird quirky thing that happens in my brain. Except, I used to work with a guy who was convinced it meant something. Britney Spears "Oops I Did It Again" meant something. Roger Miller's "King of the Road" meant something. Kermit the Frog singing "The Rainbow Connection" meant something.

If that's true, then my stupid subconscious was stupidly anticipating this stupid Hallmark holiday by making me crave so much stupid goat cheese and my stupid brain is nostalgic and sentimental. My father passed away the night of the goat cheese mission. And, I couldn't eat goat cheese for two years after he died.

I wonder what all the arugula means?

FREE hit counter and Internet traffic statistics from freestats.com

It won't kill me

dog could use a break

At some point when I was younger, a friend told me I shouldn't exercise every day because it would be bad for me.

I always believed that. I'll even admit I used it as a crutch. If any friend asked me if I cared to join her at the gym, I would say, "Oh no sorry I can't. I worked out yesterday." I allowed myself to get to the point where I would convince myself a quick jog today meant I was all set until a week from Thursday.

Ironically (it's ironic, right?), I have never heeded this advice in any other part of my life. I suppose if I had gin one night, I might switch to bourbon the next, but more likely than not, I would drink gin two days in a row. (Who am I kidding? I would drink gin 10 days in a row.) Cheeseburgers on the dinner menu both Tuesday and Wednesday nights? Count me in. Two full nights on the couch watching movies? Child's play.

I would say to myself, "Well, one more piece of pizza won't hurt me." But, somehow, I would also convince myself an extra day of exercise could actually kill me.

Clearly, this advice about exercising came from someone who runs marathons or competes in triathlons. I imagine, when someone is in training, a day off makes a lot of sense to avoid injury or to give the body a break. It was a bad idea to give that advice to someone who casually meanders down to the store and calls it "exercise."

local beer is yummy

Having said all that, I feel great today after taking a day off yesterday. All the creaks and groans coming from my hips, shoulders, ankles, and wrists have settled down and I feel comfortable--but not in the "I'm wearing sweatpants and flip flops because that's all I can fit into" kind of way. Comfortable, like, in an "I'm sitting up straight and I'm holding my stomach in but I don't care that my coin slot is showing" kind of way.

Today, I took a walk with dog, but he got tired, bless his murmuring little heart. Tonight, for local eating, groom and I had supper at Beale Street BBQ. This "eating locally" thing is so freaking easy when I eat in restaurants.

This weekend, I plan to move two tons of bricks from one spot in our yard to another because our chimney was taken down. But, two tons of bricks + one wheelbarrow = lots and lots of exercise and not just a few creaks and groans in my body.

I can't wait.

Beef Jerky and Rioja

Day 11

I didn't deserve a break today, but I took one. Still, I'm pretty happy to see some physical changes, however slight. For instance, my waist seems to be coming back, which is a little like saying the economy is improving. When you start at a terrible deficit--or in the case of my waist "a terrible excess"--then any improvement needs to be qualified. But, I'm sore after mowing the lawn for nearly two hours yesterday and I want to give my creaky body a rest. Not muscle sore. Bone sore--my wrists and ankles feel like crunched rubber bands.

Anyway, no. I didn't get any exercise, unless you count running to the break room to grab a brownie exercise. In fact, today I ate an egg sandwich groom made for me this morning--it would have been rude to say no--then I ate some leftover yogurt peanuts out of my office drawer, a chunk of toffee, the aforementioned brownie, and beef jerky.

Oh my god, I'm disgusting.

Groom handed me the beef jerky as we were leaving work. "It's local," he said. And, in fact, he had chosen a non-local beef jerky at the Phippsburg Center Store the other day and switched it out when he noticed one made in Monroe, Maine. I was impressed, but the beef jerky wasn't very good.

The beef jerky ("there's plenty you know") got us talking about local vs artisanal, which lead me to another amendment to my rules. If it's made in small batches, it's acceptable. Because, as groom pointed out, Jerky Unlimited in Dundee, Michigan, makes some of the best jerky ever and it's made in small batches. So, even though it's available only in Michigan and it technically falls under the local rule, if it were available here in Maine, I'd have license to eat it.

I love small, local shops. I really do.

While this artisanal conversation was happening, we stopped at the New Gloucester Village Store to pick up supper--only because Sausage Kitchen "where the world's best sausage COMES FROM" isn't open after five. The New Gloucester Village Store has some good stuff and their pizza is delicious, but I've come to another conclusion. Shopping local can be very expensive and indulgent, so my smart choices have to be even smarter. No more tiny little batches of granola for five bucks a pop. Who do I think I am? Charles Koch?

Driving through the back roads of New Gloucester and Pownal, you can see tons of farmland with produce and poultry and plenty of cattle. As we crested one bank, I looked to my left to see some super cute calves wrestling in the field and, as I turned to look out the other window, I thought, "I shouldn't be so harsh about farm--" and that's when I noticed a calf taking a giant dump. Yup. It's all about poop.

"No, I don't need a cart."

We did pick up a bottle of Rioja, which is my favorite type of wine. The bottle we purchased isn't a particularly good bottle of wine, but it has that delicious...what is it...musty finish? That sounds terrible, but I don't know the right words.  It makes me think of when my sister moved home after college when I was still in high school. Our kitchen and basement had flooded and we ordered roast beef sandwiches from Land 'n' Sea (large beef, extra sauce, no cheese)--my husband contends that Maria's Roast Beef (large roast beef, pickles, tomatoes, onions, mustard, mayo, oil, hot peppers) is better, but that's like saying the Caribbean is better than Baja. They are two entirely different sandwiches.

At any rate, my sister decided we should drink the wine my father had stored in the flooded basement, so we grabbed the first bottle we could find and brought it upstairs. I recognized the word "rioja" because I took Spanish and I looked for any reason to brag about knowing that "rioja" meant "red" because I was a huge know-it-all pain in the ass.

We opened the bottle and--huzzah--it was amazing. I don't use that word lightly. It was flavorful, palatable, and left such a nice taste in my mouth. This, from a 16-year-old girl who smoked pot or drank whiskey and ginger exclusively. Red wine was--and would remain for several years--a no no for me.

But this bottle was different. We drank and ate it in our family room--what we called a "sun porch"--curled up on the couch, watching Miami Vice or something equally as ridiculous. To this day, I love the smell of wet wood (no jokes please), wet wallpaper, and barbecue sauce.

I did nothing today to further my strength, but as I sip this Rioja, I don't mind.