Jambon (giant buff cat in foreground) alerted Dave to the deer out back this morning at dawn. Jams thinks venison jerky sounds good right about now.
Stay, Summer, Stay
We have this overachiever patch of land where all plants thrive and some even defy Maine’s short growing season and ever-long winter. Last March, purple pansies that somehow dodged fall clean up and defied a six-month winter regenerated rather miraculously. This May, I planted sunflower seeds to test the growing prowess of this crazy spot of earth. As you see, I’m now living among giants, with a few stalks brushing the gutters of our house. Living La Vida Gatsby – on Casco Bay, Maine
The view from Long Island, Maine's Finest Porch
Thanks to our gracious hostess Beth for a lovely day on Long Island, Maine, last weekend. Friends were embraced, wine and lobster consumed, Maine and all its summer glories appreciated. Sitting on Beth’s porch, feeling spoiled to be in the company of such natural beauty and good friends, it almost made up for February. Almost.
The Day My Spanx Melted: Hot Mainer in the City Part Deux
Some days stretch the bounds of hyperbole. This past Saturday in New York City, it was 97 degrees, a tie for the record, with approximately 12,000 percent humidity and a heat index of Louisiana at noon on the sun. My friend Deb and I compared our calendars this spring, and the weekend of July 23 was the availability overlap winner. Knowing better, I reasoned that the sweet summer cheapness of a great hotel would assuage any heat discomfort. I’ve rarely been more stunningly misguided, unless you count that time in 1999 I cut all my hair off.
On a jaunt to celebrate our 20 years of uninterrupted friendship (no hissy breakups, no stretches of fuming silence masquerading as “it’s just been so busy”), I wanted to show off the city I love to the friend I love. But the city really put up a fight. It’s hard to worship a place that’s melting your flip flops and enlarging your feet to the size of the Intrepid’s decks.
Friday, we had drinks at one of my fave spots near Lincoln Center, the rooftop bar at the Empire. It’s a pretentious place with spotty service, but it’s always been a terrific first stop to kick off a weekend in the city. Friday night, however, we had one drink and fled to Rosa Mexicano’s air conditioning and table-made guacamole. Departing the restaurant, we got caught in a big thunder/lightening storm and took cover at Lincoln Center, a pretty wonderful place to ride out a deluge.
I prefer to take the subway, but given street level was unbearable by 10 a.m. Saturday, we hopped in a cab to hit Century 21, the giant off-price department store across from the WTC site. I start to hyperventilate I bit when I walk in, as much of the first floor is dedicated to handbags. I’m a very practical girl, but I’ve a weakness for bags – I’m positive that one day I’ll find one life-altering bag that turns me into Juliette Binoche of New England.
I don’t generally enjoy the eddy of humanity that is Macy’s Herald Square, but because Deb had enough coupons to decoupage 34th Street, we headed uptown. It was a bust acquisition-wise, but we spent about two hours sucking up the free AC before going back to the hotel. And because we were already wilted – and had bloated out about three dress sizes – we decided to walk to the Upper West Side. 45 blocks and few aves later we seeped into the Lucerne Hotel, my favorite hotel in the city. (Where else can you be treated with such welcome, pay just $4 for room-service coffee and get the Times delivered? Weekend morning perfection.)
Never have I been so happy to come home to Maine. As I sat up late and marveled at the huge moon and cool breeze, I felt like I have the best of urban/rural worlds – life in Maine with art/hedonism/shopping fixes in New York.
Hot Mainer in the City: My Latest Liaison With Manhattan
Old-timey escalators at Macy's Herald Square
You know a love affair has legs when its first stirrings outlive the Port Authority experience. For the dodgy New York City bus station is where I first laid eyes on my beloved Manhattan. It was 1985 and I was in a posse of nubiles en route to Florida for spring break. New York came on like a brash, arrogant suitor who knows he’s gonna make you love him – despite his fickle, high-maintenance tendencies. For 25 years, I’ve made my way to NYC often – sleeping on friends’ floors in the early years, frequently for business later on and now whenever my book-publicist friend Sarah visits clients and graciously allows me to share her Serta.
I hadn’t had my city fix since last September, so when I went last week I was all nerved up with anticipation. I get squirrelly after a few months of no contact, and my anxiety peaks a few days in advance of each trip, so eager am I to plant my feet on city streets. All jumpiness evaporates once I’m in the LaGuardia US Air terminal; sitting in a cab speeding toward the east side is pure contentment.
It was crazy hot and muggy last week, and I my enthusiasm flagged a few times. Sarah and I stayed in Murray Hill for cheapness, though the Upper West Side is our preference. Like old ladies on a bus tour to see Wicked, we completely blanked on what a pain it is to get crosstown at rush hour (and we take it as an insult to our lady charms when we can’t hail a cab – she has the boobs, I have the legs). We went to Grand Central, thinking that’s the place for cabs. What we didn’t expect was a stupid English-style queue system – 20 hot ‘n’ cranky people deep. Refusing all rickshaw pedalers (seriously, I know you’re working hard, but you want me to pay $26 to bake in the back of a pull cart?), we thought we’d beat the system by snagging a cab on the quiet side of Grand Central until a cop chased us off for long-distance line jumping. (We ended up taking the bus – thank goodness Sarah is a mom and always has about nine pounds of change at the bottom of her purse. This isn’t the first time she’s bailed us out of a transportation mess with her magic fist o’ coins.)
My four days on the island were, as Sarah puts it so well, worth five sessions with a shrink. Here’s a little laundry list of activities, some planned and some serendipitous, that explain why I can’t stay away:
- Rooftop drinks at the Empire Hotel, where we randomly met a jazz musician performing at Lincoln Center and his documentary filmmaker wife.
- A free event at a public library where authors talked about the sacred feminine in Christianity and Islam. The audience was Sarah and me, some homeless people, a high/skinny/crossdresser decked out in a hot pink leotard, an old man in pajama bottoms and a guy talking Revelations. (Tip: It’s your sign to leave a free event about Islam and Christianity when someone starts talking Revelations.)
- Blessed MOMA air conditioning where we ogled Picasso and photography exhibits.
- Talking a private cab service guy down $25 to $11 for a ride on a killer hot day.
- Yummy, organic dinner in Chelsea with friends Alan and Dan followed by dancing at Splash on Pride Weekend. I was one of approximately three women in a sea of men and I’m OK with that.
- Waiting forever for a cab, then getting one that followed an ambulance for thirty blocks. Fastest east/west side ride ever.
- Upgrade to a suite (with three closets!) at the hotel, with a view of the Empire State Building.
- Nordstrom Rack at Union Square. Yeah, I know it’s just a department store, but it’s the first Nordstrom in NYC and it cheered me greatly.
- Paying $60 for two drinks and shrimp cocktail.
See you again in a few weeks, city! I’m bringing Deb, pretty much a city neophyte. Show her your stuff. XOXOXO
Lusting for Louboutins, Living in FitFlops: One Woman’s Sad State of Shoe Affairs
A young woman trudged the parking-garage stairs before me recently, laden with bags, sporting three-inch espadrilles. I complimented her ability to climb wearing shoes that would’ve seen me sprawled at the bottom of the stairwell with my wrap dress over my head. (I actually did fall a full flight of cement stairs years ago, when a heel caught the hem of my skirt. I’d like to say I stuck to ballet flats after that emergency room visit, but I’ve made myriad unrequited forays into foot fashion over the years.)
It goes like this: I get a new pair of heels, some sweet leather concoction that Zappos’ reviewers pronounce “comfy.” Within minutes my toes are pinched; hours later my back seethes, my feet are blistered/bleeding. In a feminist pique, I swear off instruments of sole torture and return to more earthbound footwear. But, after a few months, I forget the angst and resolve, convincing myself that if I just find the right pair, I can wear heels. Thusly, the cycle repeats Sisyphus-style.
In one attempt to boost my 5’7” frame a few inches, I invested in beautiful, if somewhat pedestrian, Cole Haan pumps with Nike Air footbed. Positive I’d finally found my perfect pair, I stepped into the new shoes at my office all flush with girl happiness. As I went on a coffee run, I fell out of the shoes. Seriously: I didn’t trip, catch my foot or take a header into the supply closet. I actually fell out of a pair of heels.
My love for shoes and fashion usually turns out to be more artistic appreciation than wearable reality. I look at a well-made dress, bag or pair of pumps and see a Matisse. Given my cheapness and troubled feet, however, it looks like I’m on well on my way to those thick old-lady sneakers with Velcro straps (and don’t you dare try to sell me on Crocs – never gonna happen).
Women, Food and God – An Intriguing Read to Energize Your Path
This particular portal, while it may lead to the divine, is actually on Cottage St. in Bar Harbor
My spirituality is a kind of sloppy sundae: Protestant vanilla base sprinkled with Buddhism, Hinduism, Judaism and Oprahism. I have yet to identify which creed will be the top cherry to make the mushiness work. I know the physical and metaphysical worlds are far bigger than I am, but like so many women I know, it’s hard to give over to any force, let alone pick one. After much study, I believe that ceding power would be the enlightened thing to do, but today I can only manage that in 20-minute intervals.
If you’re a seeker, you’ll likely enjoy Geneen Roth’s Women Food and God: An Unexpected Path to Almost Everything. It’s a modest volume, though not an easy read. I haven’t whipped out my highlighter so often since I discovered Pema Chodron’s books on Buddhism. Roth, who struggled with weight for years, describes how women she works with feel compelled to shame and revile their bodies, thinking that once thin all troubles will wane. Her premise is that our relationship with food is essentially a portal to our relationships with God (and this God can go lowercase for those eschewing he of locusts/original sin/floods) and that overeating is an attempt to numb out and escape feelings we think will destroy us if truly experienced.
Since becoming a vegetarian with benefits (I eat meat – rarely – only if I can determine it’s from a humane source) I’ve started a new relationship with food – more inquisitive and appreciative. But that doesn’t mean I’m immune to a bag of blue chips to go with my Sunday Times. Roth’s book is a thoughtful look at why it’s less about the food than our understanding of ourselves, what hurts and how to live in it without needing to fix it.
Bar Harbor Dreamin’
Coffee. Balcony. Ocean. Bliss
Just back from a mini getaway to Bar Harbor to celebrate our #20 wedding anniversary. We spent about 18 months on MDI before we walked the aisle - working a million jobs, carless and cashless. But not clueless, as we had the good sense to marry each other. If you’ve not been to Acadia/Bar Harbor, put it on your travel bucket list.
Happy Spring
Bodega is excited to be spared the ignominy of his Brokeback coat for a few months
Riggins Lives: The Return of Friday Night Lights
Smart people aren’t supposed to like television unless it’s PBS/Ken Burns/Al Gore/Jon Hamm related. My DVR presets are all over the place; if a pattern were discerned it would probably suggest a lady with lots of cats (we have two) and meds (the only soul on meds in our house is the OCD Rottie, Izzy, who pops Prozac and Pepcid). I enjoy all the usual suspects: 30 Rock, The Office, Jon Stewart. Add the cable indulgences Nurse Jackie, United States of Tara, Dexter, Big Love and The Tudors. Dave and I have been sucked into Justified, the Elmore Leonard-inspired show about a very fine U.S. Marshall. None of these shows are terribly embarrassing, but then I take a steep intellectual header for Gossip Girl, America’s Next Top Model and the rehab/recovery oeuvre on VH1 (I rarely empathize with anyone in reality shows, but I have a soft spot for addicts).
Since the Sopranos said ciao, I’ve been truly mad for just one show: Friday Night Lights. I won’t watch it unless conditions are perfect – no threat of interruption, no need for a bathroom break, no multitasking, no chance that Dave might arbitrarily fire up the weed whacker (he has a real gift for untimely noisemaking, always directly under a window, when I’m trying to hold a Yoga position or watch some quiet period piece involving Edith Wharton and/or Daniel Day Lewis). I love FNL for its dead-on depiction of marriage, for portraying high school as hellish and sweet, for how Coach Taylor serves as superdad for the entire town, and, well, who am I kidding here? It’s for Riggins. I watch for Riggins.
So ladies, queue up your recording devices – Friday Night Lights is back in all its Riggins’ glory on May 7. And if you’re late to the Dillon party, get thee to Netflix for the first three seasons. Other than a mini-shark-jump storyline a few seasons ago, the series is well worth a shut-in weekend.
