A head shot's worth a thousand (not necessarily true) words

Pictures offer "a thousand words" that are, of course, 100 percent presumptive and are in no way indicative of reality. Even still, it seems like you can glean a good deal from a solitary photo.

Particularly if that photo is a head shot on Facebook. (After all those years successfully dodging the MySpace bullet, I did succumb to the Facebook siren song.)

And amid Facebook's virtual gifts, fan pages and pokes (which, thank heaven, have lost their original luster and are rarely used nowadays) I came across a group celebrating my junior high's graduating class of '92.

There are only a handful of folks I kept in touch with from those dreamy K-10 days. So naturally I started browsing the members. Ah, the memories!

There's Karen, who helped me crank call the gym teacher (pretending to be her Spanish-teaching pal, Senorita Glen). And Amy, who was there that Halloween night that I tried smoking a cigarette for the first time.

Knock Facebook if you will, but it really is entertaining to hearken back to those schooldays gone by. Maybe get in touch with old friends, maybe not. Either way, it's worth a gander just for the memories.

It's also facinating to see what became of scrawny Tim or that shy girl from Home Economics who accidentally sewed her hair into a pair of shorts. (On a side note, is it any wonder I can't cook when the only thing I recall learning in Home Ec is how to prepare hot dogs and s'mores in the microwave?)

Sure, Facebook is a personally crafted snapshot of a person's life - a highly edited biography. But even the head shots seem to offer a wealth of information:

"I'm married" [Just an educated guess, of course]

"I have kids! And they're crazy adorable in a way that might make you feel apologetic about the cute factor of your own children." [That includes any current or future offspring]

"Who cares about being single. My heart belongs to happy hour" [Ain't no shame in that]

"My dogs are my life. And yes, they have a place at the dinner table while I make my 6-year-old son eat in the basement." [Rightfully so. Look at those li'l fellers]

"I remember the name of every person who picked on me back in school. And I've already googled their home addresses."

Ah, fond memories of schoolmates past. And gratitude for having been nice to that chick with the gun.

OK, Christmas. You can come in now.

The lighting of the Christmas tree in Monument Square means that the holidays are no longer an eventuality.

In the near distance we can hear the rumble of impending eggnog hazes, shopping highs and heated brawls with a rebellious roll of wrapping paper.

We're now inescapably set on high-speed collision course with good cheer and holiday spirit.

I know, it's a hard reality. But there's no point in fighting it. (I tried to a few years ago but gave up the effort after one of Santa's husky henchman threw a perfectly wrapped brick through my apartment window.)

So now I choose to accept the holiday season with open arms. Well, mostly. There's still something I don't trust about those reindeer. Particularly Donner (aka "Dunder"). He's got crazy eyes and a fight club attitude and I venture to say he's been plotting a Christmas takeover for decades.

Any Christmas now Santa could find himself "accidentally" trapped between the weighty bricks of a collapsing chimney and the boot-melting flames of a recently lit fire. (A fire lit, no doubt, with a pack of matches stamped with the logo: Reindeer Saloon, North Pole.)

But besides that little issue, the holidays are great.

My colleague Avery wrote a blog entry about last Friday's tree lighting that will make your heart glow: "Crowds pack Monument Square for tree lighting"

But amid the Christmas carols and Santa spotting, I witnessed another astounding phenomenon: The rarely seen "Rising of the Toddlers."

During the ceremony, children are hoisted atop their dad's shoulders, one after the other, until a forest of shoulder-sitting kids rises from the crowd.

Scientists have been studying the spectacle years, although the true meaning of the practice is yet to be fully understood.

At any rate, other local holiday lights went bright on Friday as well, including the multi-colored orbs hanging from MECA's facade and the lighted trees in Tommy's Park.

Friday was also the first day of the Portland Downtown District's 12 Days of Christmas.

What in St. Nick's name is that, you ask?

It's 12 days (Fridays, Saturday and Sundays until Christmas) of freebies and giveaways, courtesy of the local shops/eateries downtown. And yes, each day corresponds with that old Christmas carol.

Friday was "Partridge in a Pear Tree" day. After the Monument Square tree was adequately lighted and Santa had long left the stage, some friends and I meandered through the Old Port (which was bustling with foot traffic after the tree lighting) in search of a Partridge in a Pear Tree shop window.

There were twelve partridge windows around town - we just needed to find one. Easier said than done. After walking a few blocks and seeing nothing, I began to question the decorative theme of every window. One shop had a small pine tree with a wooden owl crouched next to it.

I started thinking that "Owl near a Pine Tree" might actually be what we were looking for.

But wait! There! A pear tree in a shop window! And look, partridges in it!

The shop window belonged to Tavecchia on Exchange Street (clothes for the adventurous woman - my, my). Inside we dropped our names into the contest box. The prize for Partridge in a Pear Tree evening? Nutcracker tickets.

None of us won.

That's cool. I'm holding out for the Kids Crooked House they're giving out on Dec 21 anyway. If you've ever been to Buck's Naked BBQ, then you know what the crooked houses look like. If not, the house is going to be displayed in Post Office Park through the month of December. You can peruse it there and maybe peruse a mischievous local sleeping in it (and hopefully not doing anything else in it).

Sure, I'll have to pretend I'm a kid to enter that contest, but I fibbed much worse for much less when I was young.

Santa doesn't give Barbie Dream Houses to just anyone.

What, me? Afraid of Lobsters? Pshaw!

I've been afraid of lobster for a long time.

And by "afraid" I don't mean a mild aversion.

I mean an extreme and fundamental fright in which even the lobsters themselves (if I ever walked too closely to a tank or if a dinner cohort had one splayed lifelike on his/her plate) would talk to me.

They'd mutter things under their lobster breath, like tiny prisoners of fate whispering to me from the next cell over:

"You even think of taking a bite out of me, I'll haunt you every moment of every day until your last breath pushes life from your body."

It was serious.

Back in Illinois, the lobster fear was easily managed. It just didn't come up. But here in Maine, it's an obvious character flaw.

And I've carried the shame with me these last three years.

I did try a lobster roll two summers ago at Two Lights Lobster Shack. But what my accomplice didn't realize at the time was that I'd piece by piece replaced the chunks of lobster meat with french fries. So as I posed for pictures and bit down on my sandwich, I really wasn't eating anything more than bread, fries and a tremendous amount of mayonnaise.

Thus, when I was invited to a lobster feed this week, I hesitated a bit. I figured it could only culminate in one of two outcomes: A new-found lobster adoration or permanent metal scarring. Either way, it was time to find out.

Maybe it was a bad idea, but I had to have a look-see at the underwater creatures I intended to split open. It's a tricky thing, meeting your food. (So I discovered this summer when I met a pre-slaughter 4-H pig at the Cumberland County Fair.) But the lobsters just lie there, piled atop one another like a football team just after a tackle.

Harmless, right?

Of course, when someone pulled one from the bin and it began whipping its tail back and forth like a shellfish ninja, I started inventing reasons to leave.

Knowing that any excuse I might muster would be whole-heartedly rejected, I opted to calm my nerves with a drink or two instead.

A couple of good-looking fellas in the kitchen didn't hurt either.

I watched as the lobsters met their watery execution in the pots of boiling water. And for the record, I didn't hear any screaming - from the lobsters or the chefs.

My friend Jesse was kind enough to walk me through the lobster-cracking process. She's the proud daughter of a lobsterman - and is tragically/ironically allergic to the crustaceans. But I couldn't have had a better ally in the endeavor.

And there, amid the steaming plates, glasses of wine and warm conversation, I ate my first lobster. It was Maine utopia. It was the quintessential New England experience that even I didn't believe really existed.

And I'm proud to report that I didn't bow out at the last minute.

I didn't freak out or spit lobster meat into my napkin. I didn't spill butter in my lap, fling a claw across the table or commit any other lobster-eating sins.

It was an all-around lobster success. And now I happily check "eat a lobster" off my list of things to do.

Thanks to kind host Mason and everyone else at the table who were obliging enough to not point and laugh at my naiveté.

Now, have I ever told you how I'm afraid of shrimp?