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.

Secret shopper

been doing a lot of this but not much else

I think I may have come up with the best new job.

First of all, I'm sorry for being so quiet lately. I worked something like 70 hours the week before last and about 55 hours last week. Quick recap: I've walked the dog quite a bit, but that's all. Groom took the dog birdhunting this past week, so I didn't even get some dog-walking exercise--though I did get to eat fresh grouse for supper tonight.  Local, traceable.

I went drinking and partying in Portland Friday night and, to be perfectly honest, I remember only about 15 minutes of it. (But the feeling that I had a great time continues to resonate through my marrow.)

I went to sleep Saturday at about 4 in the afternoon, woke up a solid 17 hours later, and worked out.

Heh-heh. No I didn't.

I volunteered my time at a soup kitchen and washed some dishes that were already clean.

No, no, sorry, no. I'm an asshole.

I went shopping.

While I was browsing the racks at TJ Maxx (I can make a rhyme any old time, and yes I know TJ Maxx isn't local but the only thing I can afford at Bliss is a scarf, as much as I love that place), I overheard a woman struggling with her daughter. It was the worst case of stereotypical mom and teen ever. The girl...I'm sorry young woman...was shuffling around, trying to distance herself from her mother, and mumbling inaudibly in response to the incessant "How about this? This color is good for you...." from her mother.

I was working the rack next to them (i.e., they were in "Juniors" and I was in "Old Ladies"), but I noticed a sweater the girl...I'm sorry young woman...had picked up and found one in my size. It was a cute little turtleneck. So, I grabbed it to try it on.

The girl...no, seriously, I'm sorry, young woman...saw me pick up her sweater and she put hers back. I'm not even kidding.

I pretended not to notice.

And then I went around grabbing items identical to hers--not all items, just a select few that I might plausibly wear--and she put every single one back on the rack. Every. Single. One.

Her mother was very much unhappy with her daughter's choices and I believe was very much relieved when she put some of those clothes back. I couldn't do anything to help the mom in the fitting room, however, when I overheard her mother say, "Honey, that's cute, but it's far too big."

The girl...it was a girl, come on...mumbled something in response that sounded like, "But I liiiiiiiike it this waaaaaaay."

Since everything I tried on was far too small, I knew I and my fat ass would be of no help. In other news, a turtleneck on my body, no matter how ironic I am trying to be, looks like hell.

I left them and went to another store. I was feeling pretty good as I squeezed into a pair of dressy pants and envisioned the type of boots I might buy to pair with them, when I overheard a woman...a real woman...in an adjacent fitting room ask the attendant to bring her "something a little smaller, maybe a size zero?"

Demoralizing.

I looked down at the size 14 loose-cut trousers I was wearing (damn you skinny jeans), with the cuffs extending about four inches past my feet and wondered how tall Miss Size Zero might be. I'm 5'8". I remember when I was in my 20s I wished to be taller, more filled out, bigger. I wanted curves.

You see, that was when I wore a size 0. And, I remember being pissed that clothing manufacturers thought I must be 5'3" to fit into their clothes; everything was too short. These days, I'm guessing those same manufacturers think I'm 6'4".

Oh! But, my new job. Yes, that was the point of this post today.

I'm going to follow moms shopping with their teenaged daughters and get those girls to stop picking terrible clothing, just by virtue of the fact that I am carrying it.

turkey run

Do you know, writing this blog makes me feel the way a good workout must make athletic people feel? It cheers me up and it calms me down. Add a glass of wine, and we're looking at a perfect evening. But, here's the thing. In the morning, I write emails to people about marina stuff. All day I write copy about skiing and snowboarding. In the evening I write materials on sailing and boating and more marinas. By the time I have a moment to write anything in here, I am completely written out. It's like trying to get up the energy to run a few miles after spending the day waiting tables.

I'll apologize in advance for the staleness of this post. But, I do feel compelled to continue posting even when I'm a little tapped out because I have to keep myself honest.

on the clock

I've been getting some form of activity every day, mostly because I'm drinking again so I really have to do something. That, and I live with a dog who requires a lot of walking. And, I live in a four-story walk-up now.

I do have something exciting to report. Last week--has it really been so long since I've posted?!--I was sitting in my office and was asked to take a picture of something up on the hill. Everyone was stupid busy so it made sense that I should hike up and take the shot. I'm mostly dispensable, and I say that without any displeasure or disgruntlement.  In fact, being dispensable can be one of the most awesome things to be.

i swear there were turkeys up there

So, I hiked up to get this picture that we needed--I don't know that it's worth going into what I was taking a picture of, mostly because it's not very exciting, a construction shot of something on the mountain--and I realized about halfway up, the loop I was walking was the very same loop that kicked my ass the day I started this blog.

Not only did I walk up the trail without feeling like I might die, when I reached the top of the walk, I saw some turkeys and I ran--let me reiterate, I ran--up the hill to try and get a picture of them. Of course, they bolted before I got to them.

not high, but pretty

I should make it very clear that I was walking along a ski trail that, for most skiers, isn't really even considered part of your ski run. It's the part of the trail that you start unbuckling and unzipping and generally stop paying attention. So, it's not like I'm hiking the Matterhorn or anything.

And, a guy on a mountain bike pedaled past me. Uphill. Sooo.... though I'm stronger than I was when I started this blog, I'm not exactly strong.

Still, I'm pretty happy about it.

The BBQ potato chips in the vending machine down the hall, however, continue to menace me. And, I saw a Dunkin' Donuts Munchkin box in the office and even though I knew the box had been there since Saturday, I still walked over to eat one. Then, when I discovered the box was empty, I was actually disappointed. I don't know what's worse: diving in to eat a two-day old, stale Munchkin or looking forward to eating a two-day old, stale Munchkin and feeling bitterly disappointed when it doesn't happen.

afternoon delight

tragic

delicious

You want honest? I'll bring you honest. No activity today and I ate a bag of Bugles. And they were delicious. I was eating an orange but it was so tragically dry and sad, I needed to make myself feel better by eating a bag of processed sodium. Don't judge.

We drove from the mountain to the shore today--oh my god that sounds so glamorous and douchie, I'm putting a dollar in the douche jar, I swear it--and had supper at home, not to be confused with condo on the mountain.

Aw nuts. That's another dollar.

Groom promised he would make me lunch tomorrow if I walk the dog and then maybe take another loop solo because dog is old and sick and can't really walk that far. So, if I go home with Groom at around noon tomorrow and "get some exercise," he will make me lunch. Seriously? (Frankly, I wanted to link an Arrested Development scene with Maeby and Michael there, but I couldn't find it. Made me feel a little bit like this. I don't wanna finish this stupid blog post now.)

too excited for this

and this

Tonight, after no exercise, but two hours of driving, we ate a bunch of vegetables from Blackie's along with some leftover chowder that Groom made last night. I was supposed to make some croutons from leftover Borealis Bread, which makes me wanna get all Nicholas Cage, but I got so distracted by how excited I was for asparagus and cucumbers and tomatoes from Blackie's, and arugula from Squire Tarbox Farm, and feta from Pineland Farms, that I burnt the wheat croutons until they looked like pumpernickel croutons.

to worry about these

They were still good though.

You know that joke, right? A bunch of cowboys are traveling out west in a giant convoy and they're complaining about the food. And it was getting on the nerves of the lead cowboy.

So, the lead cowboy says, "Anyone complains about the food one more time, he has to be cook for the rest of the trip!"

The cook is super psyched because he's sick of preparing meals so he gathers up a bunch of cow patties, fries them up, and serves them to the gang.

final presentation

Each cowboy takes a bite, grimacing all the while, until finally one guy shouts out, "What the hell?! This tastes like a bunch of cow sh*t!"

There is a moment of silence before the guy then says, "Tastes good though."

See, my dad told me that joke when I was a kid. I think there's more to it than that. Like, maybe, the next person to complain gets a hot poker up the ass or something. But, whatever. I grew up saying, "Tastes good though."

Tonight, I also cooked up some hard-boiled eggs, which we never ate, but I'm really looking forward to busting into a certain colleague's office to peel said eggs and stink up her whole work space.

Tomorrow is officially going to be hilarious.

slippery shame slope

I was feeling so proud of myself today because I managed to get my car registered with only a few mishaps and then I saw on Facebook that an acquaintance of mine ran 50 miles this weekend.

But you know what? Considering she looks like Sarah Connor and I look more like Pizza the Hutt, I'm going to consider us even.

yea, that's a glass of wine

I'm on a slippery slope of no activity and processed food right now. Groom saved the day yesterday with a delicious fish chowder he made with cod he caught himself, potatoes from Squire Tarbox Farms (they always have the best arugula too), herbs from our garden, and corn from...jeez, I don't know what farm supplied the corn because we bought it at the farmers market and I wasn't paying attention. (By the way, I played "jeez" in Words with Friends the other day and earned 77 points. Hello!)

This morning, I lazed out and got a venti iced coffee from Starbucks, instead of going to locally owned Cafe Creme. I also got one of those weird over-processed turkey bacon sandwiches and a yogurt parfait.

And then this afternoon, I wandered down to a vending machine and bought a bag of BBQ potato chips. I have no willpower. They were just calling me.

I'd like to know what's missing

Groom saved the day again by bringing home some broccolini, quinoa, and Moroccan Chicken from What's Happening, aka Good Times, aka Good Food Store for supper.

I've made Groom promise me he'll walk to work with me in the morning to get some kind of something that sort of resembles exercise. He did walk the dog tonight for a really long time while I worked on some freelance. I'd like to say I'm jealous that he was able to get out when I couldn't, but I promised I would be honest.

I'm not jealous even a little bit.