The results from the Post-it Note NieNie Free Book Prize Drawing are in and there are TWO winners! Yes, two winners! Why? Because I'm saintly. Also, because I decided that Heidi deserved a book no matter what, because within two hours of my quiz posting she had coughed up all of the answers, every whit correct on each and every one. She made me happy. It was also proved to me that the Fates wanted her to have one because I put her name in the drawing for laughs anyway and hers was the first name I drew out. So congratulations to Heidi! As soon as I get the books in the mail yours will be out the door to you.
And the second winner in the drawing was....Stephanie! Congratulations, Stephanie! She answered everything more or less correctly and got it in within the deadline I gave to her since my original deadline was before she even came home from vacation. So she got another day to get them in. Good job to her and to everyone who took the time to take the quiz and trip down memory lane with me in hopes of free prizes.
And now, for your edification, here are the answers:
1) Who or what do I consider my arch nemesis? Annapolis. Or more accurately, "the blasted city of Annapolis" as Stephanie, one of our winners you recall, answered.
2) Why is my kitchen linolium famous? There's a photo of it up on Cake Wrecks with my poopy Rudolph cake on top of it.
3) Who did Mark Austin tour with when I saw him in concert? Janis Ian. Remember, that's just one of the time when I got lost in Annapolis. You see how it all links together with me?
4) Say you chuck your model of the USS Constitution down two flights of stairs. Who could you get to fix that for you? Jerome Morris. Yes, that Mainer artist extraordinaire who indeed read my blog post about him and never spoke another word to me. I don't think he was nearly as amused as I was. I've said it before and I'll say it again: the theme of my blog is "It's funny when it's not you." On a related note, if you or your wealthy parents would like to pester Mr. Morris during a lovely and relaxing vacation to the coast of Maine, we rent our beautiful family cottage (it sleeps 6! Or 7 1/2 if you like couches!) out for the summer. Email me. We'll talk prices.
5) What is Michael Phelps's real name? Bob Carol. Oh, like he wouldn't be just as good at swimming with a name like that? Please.
6) What do I absolutely NOT OWN A COLLECTION OF? Barbie dolls. A non-collection that has grown since I last wrote about it, by the way.
7) Name one professional organization that is stalking me. DNC, NSA, FBI, Smithsonian . I'd tell them to give it up, but I fear I'm just too addictive.
8) Why is my dad so good at hiding Easter eggs? He is a former USAF intelligence officer trained in the art of being masterly sneaky. Or as Heidi, our first winner, put it, "Because he was a career USAF officer with Jason Bourne-like skills at hiding documents from the KGB-impersonating counterintelligence guys." Right on, Heidi.
9) They're foreign and ridiculously, unintentionally funny. Who are they? Celtic Thunder/Celtic Man. To quote Gwennifer, "I didn't realize it was possible to feel physically assaulted by a singing group, but I now know the feeling." So do the rest of us. So do the rest of us.
10) Who has mastered the art of the Evil Eye to the point of making me poop my pants? The ever-endearing, overly self-confident, and always entertaining Dr. Combat. Did I mention healthgrades.com tells you where your doctors work? And that it told me Dr. Combat is alive and still in the Army torturing others at yet another Army hospital? It's nice to know he hasn't been stripped of his natural environment.
Many thanks again to everyone who participated. I wish I was rich enough to give books to everyone who submitted answers because you all deserve it. For everyone but Heidi and Stephanie, go buy the book! If you buy the digital copy all proceeds go to the NieNie Fund; the hardcopy version gives all proceeds minus $8 printing costs. Hurry! Buy it! Be famous by association! And do something nice for a nice couple with four nice kids who suffered unmeasurable tragedy. Go. Buy. Help. And feel good about yourselves afterward.
Showing posts with label Maine. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Maine. Show all posts
22 January 2009
16 October 2008
Lobsters and Blueberries
For all you whiners out there, I've broken my last post into two different posts so you won't have as much to read at one time. You know, because I haven't spent the last four days catching up on the 200 posts you wrote while I was gone or anything, but whatever makes your life full of sunshine and rainbows. This is why we're still friends, right? That, and the money?
So here is my mushy post about my undying love for Maine. There's nothing funny here at all I'm sorry to say. There was nothing funny in the last one either, but at least I tried with that one. (Amazing how my thoughts are so much more hilarious to me at 2am.) If the Simpsons have taught me anything it is "You tried your best and failed miserably. The lesson is: never try." For those of you who already read it in the last post, you can go ahead and skip this. In fact, I highly doubt the rest of this post would be of interest to anyone else but me, so consider yourselves duly warned (and how often do I do that for you?). So go read Here in Idaho instead. It's funny as always. Go.
Since I just deleted the whole portion of the last blog I'll give you the gist of what was there. My ancestors have been in Maine since they moved there from Massachusetts in the 1600s, right on up through my grandfather and his family. Evidence of my family's presence is scattered across the entire town where our cottage is. My dad and his sibling visited every summer to a cottage there on the shore, a cottage up the street from where his father vacationed in the summer and down the street from the cottage we visit in the summer now, all three having been on property that has been in the family for four generations. I have gone there since I was a small kid and I have always loved it there. It's been a part of my heritage, my family, and it's seared into my blood. I long for it and I feel a strong connection to the state, but more to the area we visit. I feel like I'm supposed to belong there. And yet I am an outsider.
Mainers are a private people. They don't like outsiders with loads of money taking their state away from them (we're outsiders with no money at all, does that make it better?). If a Mainer perceives you as one of his own you are treated as an old friend. If a Mainer sees you as an outsider, you get the cold shoulder. I've known this since I was small and I've tried to fit in the best I can when I'm there, trying to avoid typical touristy behavior, if nothing else to avoid the chilly reception. Some people don't perceive it as much, like the Husband (a relative newcomer to the state), who suggested he could get away with laying his own lobster traps off shore expecting to catch his own lobsters. While I couldn't expect him to know otherwise, the thought make me snicker and I had to tell him the best that could possibly come from that situation would be to have his line cut by the other lobstermen. The worst would be, well, much worse. "Oh. So not like crabbing then." "Not at all." I still laugh at the image of him trying to get away with that without getting killed.
Back to the outsider thing. I've explained where I'm coming from. I love it there and I feel the familial and lifelong connection. But I never feel like I belong. Even walking around I feel like I'm wearing a sandwich board advertising I'm a tourist on vacation and it would be in your best interests to shun me. And egg my car if you have time. I don't expect Mainers to accept someone like me, especially knowing their attitude towards people just like me. But I can't help feeling a part of it nonetheless. It's like I'm in some sort of limbo. I love them and their state and they hate me and can't wait for me to leave. It's an awkward feeling to say the least. I have never been one for needing to fit in anywhere--marching to the beat of my own drummer you know--but I want to belong there. And I don't. And I never will, either. It reminds me of a question that was submitted to Yankee Magazine several years ago. A couple had moved to Boston and their children had been born there. They asked if that then meant their children were Bostonians. Yankee's answer was, "If my cat had kittens in the oven, would that make them biscuits?" That's pretty much the attitude in Maine, only more so. And I'd never do something as stupid as try to fake a Maine accent or start saying "wicked" after every third word just to try to fit in or anything. I would just like to be regular, normal me, but minus the fricking sandwich board. Not to be.
And now I will go cry into my little pillow until I feel better. STOP LOOKING AT ME. Go watch Youtube. Hey! Remember, Celtic Thunder is always good for a laugh! Now go.
So here is my mushy post about my undying love for Maine. There's nothing funny here at all I'm sorry to say. There was nothing funny in the last one either, but at least I tried with that one. (Amazing how my thoughts are so much more hilarious to me at 2am.) If the Simpsons have taught me anything it is "You tried your best and failed miserably. The lesson is: never try." For those of you who already read it in the last post, you can go ahead and skip this. In fact, I highly doubt the rest of this post would be of interest to anyone else but me, so consider yourselves duly warned (and how often do I do that for you?). So go read Here in Idaho instead. It's funny as always. Go.
Since I just deleted the whole portion of the last blog I'll give you the gist of what was there. My ancestors have been in Maine since they moved there from Massachusetts in the 1600s, right on up through my grandfather and his family. Evidence of my family's presence is scattered across the entire town where our cottage is. My dad and his sibling visited every summer to a cottage there on the shore, a cottage up the street from where his father vacationed in the summer and down the street from the cottage we visit in the summer now, all three having been on property that has been in the family for four generations. I have gone there since I was a small kid and I have always loved it there. It's been a part of my heritage, my family, and it's seared into my blood. I long for it and I feel a strong connection to the state, but more to the area we visit. I feel like I'm supposed to belong there. And yet I am an outsider.
Mainers are a private people. They don't like outsiders with loads of money taking their state away from them (we're outsiders with no money at all, does that make it better?). If a Mainer perceives you as one of his own you are treated as an old friend. If a Mainer sees you as an outsider, you get the cold shoulder. I've known this since I was small and I've tried to fit in the best I can when I'm there, trying to avoid typical touristy behavior, if nothing else to avoid the chilly reception. Some people don't perceive it as much, like the Husband (a relative newcomer to the state), who suggested he could get away with laying his own lobster traps off shore expecting to catch his own lobsters. While I couldn't expect him to know otherwise, the thought make me snicker and I had to tell him the best that could possibly come from that situation would be to have his line cut by the other lobstermen. The worst would be, well, much worse. "Oh. So not like crabbing then." "Not at all." I still laugh at the image of him trying to get away with that without getting killed.
Back to the outsider thing. I've explained where I'm coming from. I love it there and I feel the familial and lifelong connection. But I never feel like I belong. Even walking around I feel like I'm wearing a sandwich board advertising I'm a tourist on vacation and it would be in your best interests to shun me. And egg my car if you have time. I don't expect Mainers to accept someone like me, especially knowing their attitude towards people just like me. But I can't help feeling a part of it nonetheless. It's like I'm in some sort of limbo. I love them and their state and they hate me and can't wait for me to leave. It's an awkward feeling to say the least. I have never been one for needing to fit in anywhere--marching to the beat of my own drummer you know--but I want to belong there. And I don't. And I never will, either. It reminds me of a question that was submitted to Yankee Magazine several years ago. A couple had moved to Boston and their children had been born there. They asked if that then meant their children were Bostonians. Yankee's answer was, "If my cat had kittens in the oven, would that make them biscuits?" That's pretty much the attitude in Maine, only more so. And I'd never do something as stupid as try to fake a Maine accent or start saying "wicked" after every third word just to try to fit in or anything. I would just like to be regular, normal me, but minus the fricking sandwich board. Not to be.
And now I will go cry into my little pillow until I feel better. STOP LOOKING AT ME. Go watch Youtube. Hey! Remember, Celtic Thunder is always good for a laugh! Now go.
15 October 2008
"The Pine Tree State" is No Exaggeration
Ahh, Maine. You know Maine is a special state when the second you drive into it the authorities have posted each of the state's laws along the side of the highway. I guess they figure you've got nothing better to look at for a while so why not? I especially enjoyed the last time in, bottlenecking to watch some idiot get put in bracelets by the cops not 50 feet past the border. He obviously didn't read the signs.
For those who didn't know, which is most of you since I avoid human contact, we were off to Maine for a week's vacation this past week. And no Abby Vacation would be complete without incomprehensible levels of Utter Stupidity! Hooray! Earlier last week we went out to Marshall Point Lighthouse, which is known to the rest of you as the Forrest Gump lighthouse. It is gorgeous there. It's impossible to take a bad photo of Marshall Point and I took LOADS of fabulous photos there. We also went to Port Clyde, which for those who have not been, is the quintessential Maine coast town. "Picturesque" is the best word for it. It is also completely impossible to take a bad photo of Port Clyde. You could swing your camera in a circle and fling it into the water and you'd still somehow wind up with several photos suitable for framing. That town is the very definition of perfection. I took another load of marvelous photos (photos I even tried to make look good, which made them even better) and I was so happy with them I could have cried. And then at the end of the week I managed to erase EVERY SINGLE PICTURE. Yes, it's a new digital camera and no, I shouldn't have been screwing around with it going, "Oo! What's this do? Oo! And what's this do?" (FYI, do not reformat your camera while photos are in it or you will lose them all. Every. Last. One.) So it's not even the fact that I lost all of those beautiful photos, but the fact that my own stupidity was what caused it. I would hit myself over the head with a crowbar, but I think it would hurt too much. And probably make me stupider.
And the second bit of stupidity: after leaving the state one of Peanut's toys fell out and under the car.
I bent down to pick it up and burned my hand on something on the car underneath. I think they heard me scream in New York. Fortunately, we had stopped at a hotel for the evening so I ran it under cool water every hour and I think it's turned out nicely. And then yesterday it tore. Felt like angels kissing a summer breeze! What you see on the right is pre-tear. I showed Stephanie the tear last night and she started to heave so I figured I'd save you all that pleasure. You're welcome.
Later in the week I insisted we stop in at an art gallery I've driven past for years but never been in. Called "The Art of the Sea," it's made up entirely of maritime-themed artwork and it's great. But the best part of the museum is the restoration workroom. The gallery has you go up one set of steps, tour the upstairs, down the other set of steps, and down into the workroom and back out the front door. I'm not certain if they intended the workroom as part of a "tour feature" of sorts, but it worked out that way just the same. The gallery owners saw me dragging Peawhistle and Peanut and suggested I skip the first set of steep stairs and just go straight back through the workroom; I spent almost the entire time there.
You would absolutely not believe this place. Actually, you probably would. What you wouldn't believe is the man who works there, Jerome Morris. He is a professional ship restorer and he repairs and restores old and damaged model boats and ships (along with other odd requests that he is also capable of fulfilling). The boats range from small toy models to six-foot-long schooners you race on the water. One model clippership he got in the mail from someone asking for its repair had experienced "one or two bumps along the way" according to Mr. Morris. He said this because nearly every single piece of the ship was lying at the bottom of its glass case when he got it. Not only did he clean and restore it to what it was supposed to look like (wooden sails, ship's crew, and all), but he had to take the glass case apart to do it, a glass case that had been built and glued around the ship and had bowed glass--and then he had to put the case back together around the ship without punching the bowed glass in and squashing the ship after he'd fixed it. And that was just one ship of numerous ones he'd done so far. I questioned him to death about the ships and what he does to fix them and he was very kind about answering my questions.
I am especially impressed that he didn't kill Peawhistle, either. The second he saw me drag her into his shop I watched his expression and fully expected him to grab his chest and collapse, but he held it together very well and never said anything. She, of course, was thrilled to see so many boats and naturally wanted to touch every single one. And that's when I leaned down and whispered as lovingly as I could, "DON'T. TOUCH. ANYTHING. YOUR LITTLE LIFE DEPENDS ON IT." I held her hand in a death-grip--everytime she moved he flinched. In a distracted moment she got free of my hand and made a dash for some of the huge sailboats, all while the restorer and I stared in complete horror, but she instead chose to sit in a chair, saving everyone from an embarrassing conversation with the police and paramedics. It is especially fortunate that Mr. Morris did not know of Peawhistle's love of chewing on everything she sees, particularly wood products. I had visions of her tucking a napkin under her chin, declairing "Bottoms up, mate! 100 hours' of work down the hatch!" as he watches one of his restored schooners be devoured by an insane four-year-old.
It was his obvious and extremely warranted discomfort around Peawhistle, combined with a few subtle hints from him ("I'll have to wait to paint the detail on that one until I have no distractions....like customers coming through.") that made me push on to the rest of the gallery, but I was certainly loath to leave. I had approximately 53 more questions I would have thrown at him, were he not completely preoccupied with rescuing his livelihood from my offspring and actually wanting to get any work done. I think if he ever lets me in the door again he will insist on padding me down for small children. Poor man.
I also wish I had actually had the brains to look for some of the model ships he built from scratch himself in the gallery, but I was too busy looking at the ships themselves to notice the names attached to them. Before I went to the gallery I had been eyeing a small tugboat in a shop window in town. I thought it was awesome. I thought, "Man! That is one fabulous tugboat!" After seeing what craftsmanship Mr. Morris is capable of doing, I look at the boat now and think, "Man! That is one crappy tugboat!" I still like it, but holy cow, the difference in ability and detail is like night and day. I wish I had a photo of that clippership he restored so your jaw could hang open, too. I will instead offer my best rendition of the artist and his product:
Clearly, a true genius. Now you know who to go to if you drop-kick your 19th century model riverboat. If you have the chance to visit be sure and stop in and by all means keep him from his work to see what he's done lately. You absolutely won't regret it. But leave the kids at home; his job seems stressful enough as it is.
For those who didn't know, which is most of you since I avoid human contact, we were off to Maine for a week's vacation this past week. And no Abby Vacation would be complete without incomprehensible levels of Utter Stupidity! Hooray! Earlier last week we went out to Marshall Point Lighthouse, which is known to the rest of you as the Forrest Gump lighthouse. It is gorgeous there. It's impossible to take a bad photo of Marshall Point and I took LOADS of fabulous photos there. We also went to Port Clyde, which for those who have not been, is the quintessential Maine coast town. "Picturesque" is the best word for it. It is also completely impossible to take a bad photo of Port Clyde. You could swing your camera in a circle and fling it into the water and you'd still somehow wind up with several photos suitable for framing. That town is the very definition of perfection. I took another load of marvelous photos (photos I even tried to make look good, which made them even better) and I was so happy with them I could have cried. And then at the end of the week I managed to erase EVERY SINGLE PICTURE. Yes, it's a new digital camera and no, I shouldn't have been screwing around with it going, "Oo! What's this do? Oo! And what's this do?" (FYI, do not reformat your camera while photos are in it or you will lose them all. Every. Last. One.) So it's not even the fact that I lost all of those beautiful photos, but the fact that my own stupidity was what caused it. I would hit myself over the head with a crowbar, but I think it would hurt too much. And probably make me stupider.
And the second bit of stupidity: after leaving the state one of Peanut's toys fell out and under the car.
I bent down to pick it up and burned my hand on something on the car underneath. I think they heard me scream in New York. Fortunately, we had stopped at a hotel for the evening so I ran it under cool water every hour and I think it's turned out nicely. And then yesterday it tore. Felt like angels kissing a summer breeze! What you see on the right is pre-tear. I showed Stephanie the tear last night and she started to heave so I figured I'd save you all that pleasure. You're welcome.Later in the week I insisted we stop in at an art gallery I've driven past for years but never been in. Called "The Art of the Sea," it's made up entirely of maritime-themed artwork and it's great. But the best part of the museum is the restoration workroom. The gallery has you go up one set of steps, tour the upstairs, down the other set of steps, and down into the workroom and back out the front door. I'm not certain if they intended the workroom as part of a "tour feature" of sorts, but it worked out that way just the same. The gallery owners saw me dragging Peawhistle and Peanut and suggested I skip the first set of steep stairs and just go straight back through the workroom; I spent almost the entire time there.
You would absolutely not believe this place. Actually, you probably would. What you wouldn't believe is the man who works there, Jerome Morris. He is a professional ship restorer and he repairs and restores old and damaged model boats and ships (along with other odd requests that he is also capable of fulfilling). The boats range from small toy models to six-foot-long schooners you race on the water. One model clippership he got in the mail from someone asking for its repair had experienced "one or two bumps along the way" according to Mr. Morris. He said this because nearly every single piece of the ship was lying at the bottom of its glass case when he got it. Not only did he clean and restore it to what it was supposed to look like (wooden sails, ship's crew, and all), but he had to take the glass case apart to do it, a glass case that had been built and glued around the ship and had bowed glass--and then he had to put the case back together around the ship without punching the bowed glass in and squashing the ship after he'd fixed it. And that was just one ship of numerous ones he'd done so far. I questioned him to death about the ships and what he does to fix them and he was very kind about answering my questions.
I am especially impressed that he didn't kill Peawhistle, either. The second he saw me drag her into his shop I watched his expression and fully expected him to grab his chest and collapse, but he held it together very well and never said anything. She, of course, was thrilled to see so many boats and naturally wanted to touch every single one. And that's when I leaned down and whispered as lovingly as I could, "DON'T. TOUCH. ANYTHING. YOUR LITTLE LIFE DEPENDS ON IT." I held her hand in a death-grip--everytime she moved he flinched. In a distracted moment she got free of my hand and made a dash for some of the huge sailboats, all while the restorer and I stared in complete horror, but she instead chose to sit in a chair, saving everyone from an embarrassing conversation with the police and paramedics. It is especially fortunate that Mr. Morris did not know of Peawhistle's love of chewing on everything she sees, particularly wood products. I had visions of her tucking a napkin under her chin, declairing "Bottoms up, mate! 100 hours' of work down the hatch!" as he watches one of his restored schooners be devoured by an insane four-year-old.
It was his obvious and extremely warranted discomfort around Peawhistle, combined with a few subtle hints from him ("I'll have to wait to paint the detail on that one until I have no distractions....like customers coming through.") that made me push on to the rest of the gallery, but I was certainly loath to leave. I had approximately 53 more questions I would have thrown at him, were he not completely preoccupied with rescuing his livelihood from my offspring and actually wanting to get any work done. I think if he ever lets me in the door again he will insist on padding me down for small children. Poor man.
I also wish I had actually had the brains to look for some of the model ships he built from scratch himself in the gallery, but I was too busy looking at the ships themselves to notice the names attached to them. Before I went to the gallery I had been eyeing a small tugboat in a shop window in town. I thought it was awesome. I thought, "Man! That is one fabulous tugboat!" After seeing what craftsmanship Mr. Morris is capable of doing, I look at the boat now and think, "Man! That is one crappy tugboat!" I still like it, but holy cow, the difference in ability and detail is like night and day. I wish I had a photo of that clippership he restored so your jaw could hang open, too. I will instead offer my best rendition of the artist and his product:
Clearly, a true genius. Now you know who to go to if you drop-kick your 19th century model riverboat. If you have the chance to visit be sure and stop in and by all means keep him from his work to see what he's done lately. You absolutely won't regret it. But leave the kids at home; his job seems stressful enough as it is.
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