Portland's competative spirits - er, cocktails

I'm not by nature a competitive person (chalk that up to a healthy self-awareness. I know where my talents are and I know where my talents aren't [the "aren't" list is much, much longer]).

But a cocktail competition? Now that I can get into. I'm hardly a cocktail connoisseur, but I'm willing to try new drinks things.

Last night was Portland's first Signature Cocktail Competition. And no endless downpour was going to steer me away.

The event pits participating bars/restaurants against each other. Each venue concocts its own signature drink - and we lucky tasters get to try them all and vote for our favorite.

It's a tough job, I know.

The cocktail crawl started at Portland Harbor Hotel where we picked up our passes and maps (and a goodie bag of freebies including a shot glass, some sweets, tea and other stuffs).

The competitors included: Eve's at the Garden (at Portland Harbor Hotel), DiMillo's, Ri Ra, Vignola and Una.

We tasters could chart whatever course we wished, so long as we were back at Una by 7:00 pm for the vote.

So my drinking cohort and I went down the hall to the bar and got started.

Eve's at the Garden: Apple Crisp Martini

Behind the bar, Jeff was mixing his new creation. The Apple Crisp Martini is perfect for fall. It is apple picking time after all, and Jeff clearly put some thought into it. It's the kind of drink that makes you feel the season (think Pumpkinhead beer). I had Christmas in a bottle once. This drink is fall in a glass. I half expected to see fallen leaves sunken to the bottom.

What's in it:
Maine apple cider, simple syrup with apple crisp spices, Circo vodka and a caramel and apple crisp rim.

The free sample was good. Really good. The word I used to describe it at the time: fall-y. True, fall-y isn't a real word, but you get my drift.

I opted to upgrade my cocktail to a full size for $4.

DiMillo's: Red Lobster Martini

We meandered over to Dimillo's next. The bar was busy, but we managed to snag seats (I had no idea Sunday evening drinking was such a hit here).

I expected a bold red cocktail - maybe with a lobster skewer (you know, because it's DiMillo's and they're into that whole lobster thing).

Instead the cocktail was on par with a strawberry mudslide. It would make for a decent after-dinner drink, but was too sweet to have much of. Perhaps it was a little too frozen for the season too. I got a chill just looking at it.

What's in it: Amaretto, Frangelico, Godiva chocolate liqueur, strawberry and vanilla mix.

Ri Ra: Irish Aphrodite Martini

Off to Ri Ra, where the upstairs bar was quieter (much to our relief - we needed food in a bad way). The Irish Aphrodite Martini was bright - it looked the way a cocktail should. It was sweet, though not too summer-like. I could surely have had a full one of those (though I didn't - I don't want to go overboard here, people! Quit pressuring me).

What's in it: Chambord, triple sec, Boru vodka, fresh raspberries and fresh squeezed lemon juice.

Vignola: Peach Basil Lemonade

Vignola was packed with diners (those would be legitimate patrons - not like us jerks just looking for a free sip of booze). Unfortunately that meant some standing and waiting at the bar. We hadn't managed our time very well (lingered too long over the potato cakes and crab dip at Ri Ra) and 7:00 pm was upon us.

But sometimes waiting is worth it - and that was the case for the Peach Basil Lemonade cocktail. My glass had more basil in it that the others, which meant that the drink smelled like pureed plantlife. Gardens smell good, to be sure, but I don't want to drink them.

The initial basil smell was soon forgotten, though. The drink was tart and light - perfect for summer. But summer is gone, gone, gone.

What's in it: Maine peaches and basil, fresh squeezed lemon juice, Citrus vodka and a "secret ingredient."

Una: Stargazer

Our final destination - Una. I was bummed to learn that the cocktail, Stargazer, has been on the drink list for some time. It took the fun out of it. Where's the effort?

But this is a "Don't mess with what works" situation, because the cocktail not only looks pretty, it tastes pretty. Er, it tastes delightful. I've had a few cocktails by now, cut me some slack.

A powdery silver sheen is sprinkled in, which looks all celestial and whatnot, but I couldn't help but wonder if the powder would seep into my bloodstream and cause fits or premature gray.

What's in it: Absolut mandarin & citron vodkas, Quady Electra Orange Muscat, white cranberry and sliver sheen. A final flourish: a flower floats on top.


It was a fine collection of cocktails. Applause all around. But there could only be one winner.

[Drum roll and dramatic pause]

The Apple Crisp Martini from Eve's at the Garden came away with the title. That's also where I placed my vote. Jeff took the time to consider the season, came up with an excellent drink (one that I plan to go back for) and served it with enthusiasm. He earned it.

In second: Una's Stargazer

In third: Ri Ra's Irish Aphrodite Martini

But in the world of cocktail crawls, there are no losers. We all left Una last night with that warm world-loving cocktail haze.

Here's hoping this event grows in 2009 and the competitive spirits really blossom (and it doesn't rain). Until then, you can still get out to Eve's, DiMillo's, Ri Ra, Vignola and Una and try the cocktails yourself. I usually don't know what I'm talking about anyway.

Besides, it'd be a good way to thank the places that participated - and ensure they're back on the cocktail bus next year.

[See photos of some of the folks I spotted cocktailing]

Desperately seeking pig: A county fair mystery

...and an unnecessarily elaborate story...

Dusk brought with it an unexpected chill that settled on the under-dressed fairgoers in a hurry. My hands pressed deeper into my coat pockets, seeking warmth that wasn't there.

The midway was a commotion of flashing neon lights and the harsh squeaking of children blowing into pink plastic trumpets.

I hadn't been to a fair since junior high school - and back then such carnivals were simply an excuse for a pre-teen to sample mascara and practice at being coy amidst the loitering pre-teen boys.

Of course times had changed. And my mission this night didn't allow for childhood reminiscing.

I had questions, see. Questions that could only be answered at the Cumberland County Fair. Questions that could only be answered by a pig.

And not just any old swine. I needed to see a specific pig, one who'd I'd heard about but never met. One who had eluded me until now. One who had no real name but who I had begun calling simply, "The Pig."

I had it on good authority that the pig was amongst the farm animal crowd that had congregated here. It was a known hangout for his sort. An informant also got wind of some shady blue-ribbon dealings taking place in the quiet corners of the fairgrounds. Dealings that stunk of the pig.

Following my nose, I headed down Stall Alley. I attempted to question the sheep, but they weren't talking. The pig, it seemed, had already gotten to them.

Discreetly I meandered through a high class cattle neighborhood. Again I was met with turned backs and zero information. I circled back, frustrated at the wasted effort, when a shuffle in the dust caught my attention.

"Psst! You lookin' fer that pig, right?"

I nodded, stepped closer.

"I seen him just this mornin' hangin' out in that pen right up the midway. But you didn't hear that from me."

"Thank you," I called out as my pace quickened toward Downtown Fairground.

The midway was a long stretch crowded by locals. But just ahead I caught sight of the 4-H Pen. The pig, I assumed, was likely inside. I considered called for back-up, but there wasn't time. I stepped toward the pen, lowering my head to peer between the wooden slats. And there I saw...

Nothing.

While there was evidence that the pig had indeed been here recently, he was gone now. Nothing left but a fenced-in pile of sawdust.

Some young 4-Hers nearby claimed to know nothing of his whereabouts. I didn't believe them, so I ducked behind a corner and waited. When the group began to disperse I trailed one unsuspecting fellow directly to the top-secret 4-H headquarters/food booth.

A woman at the window tried to sell me a hot dog.

"I'm not here for that," I said. "I need to see the pig."

The woman looked at me quizzically. I couldn't tell if she was in on a cover-up or just another pawn in the dark world of underground pig trafficking. I flashed my camera from my pocket to show her I meant business.

"The pig for the raffle. I need to see him."

"Oh! Well sure!" Finally I was getting some answers. "He's right up there in the 4-H pen."

The run-around again. I wasn't getting anywhere. "It seems he's been moved. Any idea where the pig has gone to? It's imperative that I see him."

"Ah yes, someone must have shown him this morning. Ask around by the livestock office." She points across the way to the showing arena and I move toward it.

The thick layer of sawdust inside makes it hard to move with my usual stealth. I dodge a cluster of children who are playing outside the livestock office. They all manage to run safely back to "glue," much to the chagrin of the "it" child.

The children's parents are stationed outside the office door - perhaps as livestock guards. I can't tell if they're armed. I'm certain someone has already been sent to warn the pig that I'm here.

"Pardon me," I started. "I'm looking for the 4-H raffle pig. I know he's here somewhere."

A woman stepped from the group and motioned me to follow.

Around a corner stood a row of pens, each with its own snorting or sleeping occupant. We walked up to the first stall and the woman gestured, "This is the pig."

So, pig. We finally meet! I have raffle tickets and if I win you I'm going to...

Wow. Look at the little feller. He's not quite as threatening as I'd imagined - kind of sweet, to tell the truth.

Hearing my coworker Wendy's tales of last year's pig had me all excited (all the bacon I could ask for! Ham to last the year - maybe longer!)

But now that I'm looking at him, "hungry" is a feeling I can't seem to muster.

I get the whole "Circle of Life" thing, but dang it - after all the raffle ticket buying and running around the fair, it seems I've gone soft on the pig.

Note to self: in the future, don't try and meet the food.

Acting class: From the stump to stardom

My coworkers expressed some concern over my new endeavor.

I thought an acting class would certainly be a learning experience, would probably be entertaining and possibly cathartic.

But drama, it seems, is already an adjective ascribed to me - and not in the Shakespearean theater kind of way. It's more of a loudly animated, talkative, storytelling (with details exaggerated for effect) kind of drama.

"What are you going to be like AFTER the class?" my colleague asked with a nervous laugh.

I did my best to allay the worry: "Who knows, this class could be therapeutic. I'll probably come in the next morning mellower than ever." I only half believed it myself.

In all honesty, I have no desire to be an actor. I'll leave that to people who love the stage and who can cry on command. But I've been on this "try new things" kick for over a year now and acting is something I haven't tried yet.

Well, that's not entirely true. I do have some theater experience.

Back in elementary school I took a drama class through the local park district. We staged a brilliant performance of "The Giving Tree" in which I was chosen to play the role of the stump.

Laugh if you will, but scholars agree that The Stump is the most dynamic and significant role in the short production and actors selected to play the part are clearly destined for greatness.

Or maybe I just made that up to make myself feel better. I mean, I played a stump. And I looked like a boy. But at least my snow boots were awesome.

Clearly I still have to work on that long-buried hostility. This acting class might be just thing thing to flush some of it out.

Last night was the first session of Acting for Ordinary People at Acorn Productions. We gathered in an airy studio room at the Dana Warp Mill in Westbrook, made introductions and laughed uncomfortably for the first few minutes.

But acting teacher Rachel Flehinger was quick to get us standing up and started on an exercise.

First things first, we need to learn names. So Rachel pointed, we spoke our name. At her instruction we also shouted it or whispered it. (Some had trouble speaking up. I had trouble speaking down.)

We spoke each other's names (yelled them, whispered them) and Rachel got a rhythm going that - if perfected - would run Stomp out of business.

We moved on to a game called "passing the zop." With a step forward, a clap of the hands and a point, we passed an ethereal "zop" back and forth to each other. Child's play, right?

Then Teacher Rachel added a "zap." We needed to pay attention to two words flying around the room - and we couldn't do it.

"Congratulations on failing!" Rachel cheered. "Go slower this time."

We still couldn't do it. The zap kept getting lost somewhere. So Rachel added a "zowie." I think you can guess what happened.

We eventually made headway with passing the zap (thanks to the introduction of props) and discovered the art of making sure the other person is "ready to receive" what you're trying to give them. Simply shouting across the room proved ineffective.

Ah, learning.

The next exercise was a practice in discomfort. We individually stood up, took a deep breath, looked each audience member in the eye and then finished the sentence, "The truth about me is..."

I'm a chatterbox by nature, and in front of a group of strangers I tend to launch into a speedy, breathless, one-sided discourse. It wasn't easy to take that breath. And it wasn't easy to look every one in the eye.

We all seemed to crack a joke when we first stood up - that innate response to break the nervous tension. I did too. It's a habit. I guess that's the one big learning I'd like to take away from this class. Let me be able to speak seriously (just every now and then).

On the way out the door we were given homework: Find a modern monologue and memorize it "as much as possible" for next class. No problem.

Stardom, here I come.

And no, I'm not telling you what the truth about me is.

Trail to Ale to extreme quad soreness

I ran the Beach to Beacon back on August 2nd. Immediately afterward I vowed to never run again.

And I didn't for an entire month. But as sluggishness began to reappear in my life, I worked my way back to the gym and started trotting on the treadmill.

Knock the treadmill if you must, but I appreciate the ability to start and stop at my leisure - and I appreciate the ability to watch the Discovery Channel while doing so.

But running on a treadmill and running outside are two very different animals. So when the Trail to Ale 10K approached I hesitated to register. I'd just finished a 10K so that whole "I just want to accomplish this" thing wasn't applicable anymore. I wasn't motivated by the desire to cross the finish line victoriously. That was soooo last month.

But there are other motivators, you know. Like free beer and pizza.

The Portland Trails race is sponsored by Shipyard Brewing and Portland Pie - so the finish line is made all the more enticing by plastic cups of beer and paper plates of pizza.

So okay, fine. I'll do it.

Runners and walkers are brought to the starting line via train (they can choose to walk the mile from Portland Company, but why waste the energy walking when you can sit, right?)

There were over 700 entrants this year - quite a crowd. I recall walking the 10K two years ago and there weren't nearly as many entrants.

Aw, look at the wee bitty runners up ahead. What's the rush, guys? Oh yeah - fame, fortune and Shipyard.

While I applaud the effort of everyone out on the course that morning, I have to take issue with people who run with small children in strollers. I had this problem during the Mother's Day 5K, too. See, I have this theory that new parents who run with strollers only do so to make the rest of us look bad. Sure, they act like it's about "maintaining a healthy lifestyle" or whatever…but I'm keen to the conspiracy, people!

Adding insult to injury, after I snapped this picture during the race I was slapped in the face by a tree branch. Just the world's way of telling me to stop being such an idiot I suppose. Sorry world, you cannot stop it.

By mile three my running partner and I were still going strong. Hadn't walked yet, though we were diligent to keep the pace slow. Guess I hadn't totally lost what I'd gained during the Reach the Beacon training after all.

By mile four I was petering out. I walked the incline leading to the 295 bridge but picked the pace back up for the final mile and a half. Then, coming around the Eastern Prom trail my eyes searched desperately for the finished line. "Where is it?!?" I yelled to a friend (who had finished long ago and was kind enough to stick around to cheer us on).

"You're almost there!" she responded.

"I need [pant, pant] specifics!" The path was curved and I could see no finish line "almost" ahead.

Then a stranger on the sidelines: "You're looking for specifics? See that big yellow thing up ahead? That's it!"

Hallelujah. Thank you. That's what I needed.



Worry struck me as we meandered (and sweat) our way back to Portland Company. Two years ago it took us so long to finish the race that the faster jerks participants ate all the pizza. A finish time of 1:12:54 isn't exactly fast - but is it enough to get a girl some dang food?

Apparently yes.

And for the record, free beer at 10:30 am on a Sunday is a beautiful, beautiful thing.

What isn't beautiful is waking up Monday morning to discover your legs are strict adherents to the Golden Rule. You tortured them yesterday, they shall torture you today. And probably tomorrow, too.

Is a little quad soreness worth it? Absolutely.

If you are likewise motivated by local events that involve drinks of some kind, here are a few dates you need to mark on your calendar:

Sunday, September 28: Portland Signature Cocktail Competition

Thursday, October 23: Grand Tasting at the Gateway (Harvest on the Harbor)

Saturday, October 25: Portland Wine Flight 5K

Saturday, November 1: Maine Brewer's Festival

Competitive eating: It ain’t pretty

Warning: The following images may ignite an appetite for competitive eating. They may also kill your appetite altogether, possibly forever. View at your own risk.

The World Burrito Eating Championships came to Costa Vida in South Portland on Saturday. The thought of it brought back memories of the pie-eating scene in the movie Stand By Me. (The one that starts with "Boom-Ba-Ba, Boom-Ba-Ba" and ends with a gratuitous amount of throwing up.)

I'm equally frightened and intrigued by competitive eating, though I'd never witness the mouth-stuffing event first hand. So when I met Costa Vida owner Fred Abaroa at a networking event last week and he said, "Come on down Saturday," I did.

Gluttonous? Absolutely. Entertaining? Yes, in that it's-so-disturbing-but-I-can't-look-away kind of way.

Here, I'll show you:

Put ten minutes on the clock, line up the world's biggest eaters (and two really skinny fellas from Scarborough) and keep the burritos coming.

The eaters inhale burritos the best way they know how. Some eat hunched over like criminals in a prison cafeteria.

Some grimace, some palm the burrito into their face.

Occasionally they pause - maybe to "be in the moment" and reflect on the joys of competitive eating or because they have the sudden urge to become ill (an automatic disqualification, by the way).

Whatever the method, it isn't pretty.

Some just don't have the stomach to compete. One of the Mainers was only able to get one burrito down. Good effort, though, buddy.

Sometimes there's a tie for first. In this case, the crowd wouldn't allow the eaters to go home as equals. "Eat off, eat off!" they chanted until both first-place eaters agreed to a two minute winner-take-all eat off.

Eater X became the clear winner after Humble Bob stopped eating. His stomach, it seemed, was refusing any new additions. In fact, as Eater X accepted his $1,500 check, Humble Bob ducked under the table to (uh, how can I say this delicately...) let go of some previously consumed burrito.

An interesting event, to be sure. It didn't expect to get into it, but I found myself cheering along (mostly for the Chicago guy - partly because I'm from Illinois too and partly because I appreciated the "Lobster burrito" truckers cap). Though I can't say as I'll be having a burrito any time soon.

The clock reads 11:00 pm, so clearly I'm not old yet

A good indicator of aging is the noticeable decline of skills you used to perhaps take for granted (ie, when you're 90 and you discover you can't scale that indoor rock wall as gingerly as you used to).

So when you're in that cramped, speedy tunnel between your "no worries" 20s and "quit foolin' around" 30s, you tend to become hyper-sensitive to minute changes.

Your skinny-pants pile looms taller than in years past, you start actually getting colds, the three flights of stairs to your apartment are...steeper. That kind of thing.

People start saying, "Well, you ARE getting older."

And you think "Stop deflecting your anger at the world on me!" but you smile and say, "Must be it!" then walk away while fantasizing about drugging their coffee.

Maybe you even find yourself telling interns, "You know, when I was your age..." and you shudder at the realization that you've become THAT person. That I'm-older-and-wiser-and-will-find-every-opportunity-to-interject-my-aged-superiority person. That person who drove you nuts (you know, when you were younger).

I had such a third-life crisis this week when a friend of mine told me she'd be playing a gig at Blue this Thursday at 10:00 pm. Two thoughts emerged:

1. Nice! I've haven't been to Blue before.
2. 10:00 pm on a Thursday? That's so late!"

I caught myself before I bemoaned the time out loud. What am I, 80? 10:00 pm on a Thursday is early for young, sprightly folks like me. I can hack. I'll just need some coffee. Several potent cups of coffee.

But no, that'd be cheating. If I was going to reaffirm my youth I was going to do it the old-fashioned way - starting with happy hour.

I met some friends for drinks on the Novare Res patio (where we confirmed summer is, in fact, nearly dead) and then left to grab some grub.

Eventually we made our way to Blue (Read John Everett's descriptive Blue Bar Guide entry for details on the music-geared venue) in time to catch the last set from blueswoman Pam Baker.

My friend Andrea Delan took the small stage soon after. And at some point between a Tom Petty cover and one of Andrea's autobiographical originals it occurred to me: it's 11:30 pm on a Thursday, and I'm still awake.

Three cheers, I've done it! It's like college again! Only without the spilled drinks and trampy chicks!

I'm not old yet!

It's a small win in the battle against the inevitable, but I'll take it.

I'll also be longing for an afternoon nap in about 20 minutes.

Every move you make, I'll be wasping you

Consider this your Thursday afternoon psychological exam. Today's topic: that old curmudgeon Paranoia.

Question
If you were sitting at a small table on your small apartment porch and you happened to notice a solitary wasp (as in the insect not the Protestant) resting on said table seemingly watching you...would you take it personally?

Would you think it was out to get you?
Watching your every move?
Planning an attack?
Building an arsenal?
Radioing its comrades?

Perhaps you wouldn't.

But what if, only days earlier, you had discovered its family's compound hidden within the folds of your patio umbrella?

And you had trapped the nest inside the umbrella with an industrial strength garbage bag?

And sealed it with Jesus tape?

All the while you're thinking "I've got 'em!" while forgetting that teenage Harry has just left for college and wasn't in the nest when you so heartlessly entrapped it.

Of course Harry - feeling homesick already - returns for the weekend under the pretense of doing some laundry only to discover his family has been destroyed.

Now? Now would you be paranoid?

It's a shame, too, about that wasp family. Sure, Uncle Lloyd always was kind of a pervert, but he was finally starting to get his act together after that stint at County.

And to Harry: I'm sorry. Please don't kill me in my sleep.

Surviving Cow Island: A tale of green drinks

I'd like to think that I'm a trusting person. But as I boarded a chartered boat headed to Cow Island yesterday evening, I couldn't help but wonder if I wasn't unwittingly stepping into the soon-to-be-popular reality series: Survivor Cow Island.

110 people ditched work early yesterday to head over to the island (owned by Rippleffect) in honor of this month's Portland Green Drinks. The newly founded Kaleidoscope was sponsoring the event and figured it was the ideal place to tell people about the organization and the upcoming Kindle Conference. Or at least that's what they were leading us to believe...

While everyone shuffled aboard and took seats, made introductions or perhaps headed straight for the bar, a vague premonition started to materialize:

I saw crazed and half-starved Green Drinkers desperately tipping empty cups over their mouths for one last drop of Peak Organic. Others push for space inside the military battery. In the distance a splash - some one is attempting to swim back to Portland. We've been left on the island.

I surveyed the group on the boat, looking for signs of likeminded hesitation or anxiety. That guy up front looks disturbingly mellow. That girl doesn't seem to sense a thing. Those people in the corner are just chatting away unaware. Wow, is that fellow drunk already? And what is Kate putting on her head?

I appeared to be the only one with apprehension, which made me think I'd either a) gone entirely off the deep end, or b) was the only one appropriately utilizing my powers of intuition.

As the boat pulled away from the dock, I suddenly regretted not bringing a crossbow.

Once on island, I did my best to calm my imagination. But after we were spilt into groups for a tour I couldn't help but spot the obvious.

Island motto: For promoting island sustainability? Or an ominous warning?

Tables: for community discussion, eating and crafts? Or tribal council?

Fire pit: For warmth and nighttime camaraderie? Or to burn the evidence?

Zip line: For adventure? Or for dangling dissenters?

Yarn art: For artistic expression? Or entrapment?

Oven: For cooking food? Or for cooking people?

I pushed the notions down and did what I came there to do - mingle, drink some Peaks and enjoy the island. The group was jovial and our hosts were generous - and I had to admit that they didn't appear to be the devious, scheming types.

Eventually the sun began to set and I heard a shout, "The boat is back to pick us up." Hallelujah.

We collectively walked to the island dock, oohing over the sunset (and maybe breathing a welcome sigh of relief). There was the boat, motoring over.

But then, there goes the boat. Wait! Where is the boat going! Don't leave us! Please! I have too much to live for!

Oh, it's just positioning to dock. My bad.

Back to Portland we go, now oohing over the moon.

So I guess I'm a trusting person, but not really.

[If you want real information on the event, my colleague Avery Yale Kamila wrote what we'd call an "accurate" account of the evening.]

Welcome to my office. Careful not to fall in the tub.

Lucky me. At 29 I've already hooked my ideal job.

Some people don't get here for decades. Some people never do - maybe because they never really go after it or maybe because they never figure out what they want to go after.

And yes, maybe you've heard, the company I work for is currently experiencing some...uh...difficulties. But let's ignore that for now. I'm not here to focus on the layoffs or the financial crisis. I'm not even thinking about future sales, new owners and the likely changes that would ensure. Not thinking about any of it.

As it stands, today, I enjoy coming into the office. It's true.

It's also true that work doesn't always get done in the cube, so home with me it goes.

I have a pretty sweet setup at home. My apartment office has everything I need: good lighting, a place to sit, a place to prop my laptop, wireless internet and an impressive view of my shower.

See, my apartment office also doubles as my bathroom.

It's not that I find some disturbing comfort in the bathroom, so don't go flipping through that catalog of psychological diagnoses. Freud can speculate all he wishes, but I'm just there for the internet.

I have access to a neighbor's wireless; unfortunately, the signal is worthless except in my bathroom. Sure the situation lacks ergonomics, but I can floss while I check my e-mail and that's pretty sweet. Of course I don't really ever floss, but it's nice to know that I can should the idea move me.

How long would your dead body go unnoticed?

We'd all like to believe that if we died suddenly in a freak apartment accident involving a bottle of Febreze and an unstable floor lamp, someone would notice.

We'd like to believe that our friendly Maine neighbor would miss hearing us scamper down the back staircase in the morning on our way to work.

Or that the fella at the coffee shop would wonder why we hadn't come in for our morning cup of sugar and coffee.

Or that our office would come to a near standstill at 9:05 a.m. when the star employee (who, really, keeps the whole place together) didn't show up.

Or that our beloved friends and drinking cohorts would be ardently pounding down our apartment door wondering why they hadn't seen or heard from us in 24 hours.

But in truth, days might go by.

I'm lucky, though. I have a friend who's a wee bit text obsessed. She sends me a message nearly every morning, even if just to say, "What's shakin'?"

If I don't reply, she might send one at lunch, too.

Sure, it's slightly stalkerish (can you blame her?) but I tell you what - if you die in a freak Febreze/floor lamp accident on a Saturday afternoon with no one else around, a diligent stalker might be the first one to notice. He or she may even be able to leap out from your shrubs, jimmy the window and provide you some much-needed CPR before life complete drains from your body.

(Or he may just wait it out, then haul your corpse back to his place, seat it at the kitchen table, cook it dinner and then challenge it to a morbid [and truly one-sided] game of Trivial Pursuit.)

But back to my original point.

So this friend of mine sends a text message and hears nothing back, so she tries again and again hears nothing. Thinking that was unusual, she calls and gets, "We're sorry, the customer you're trying to call is not available at this time."

Worried now, she sends me an e-mail asking if I'm a) alive and b) aware that my phone is dead.

No, I had no idea. But I went on over to the AT&T store and had the issue resolved, the service reinstated.

I gave my pal a call after leaving the store and she asked, "Am I your first phone call now that your phone is working again?"

"Yes," I said. "Because you're the only one who noticed. Had I died, it would have been your frantic phone call to the cops that would lead to the discovery of my cold cadaver."

So thanks, buddy, for noticing my absence. Should you ever mysteriously disappear without warning, I hope to notice it too.

That's right. That sweet ride is mine, all mine

Five years it's been.

Five years since I signed on the dotted line and drove off the dealership lot with my first brand-spanking-new car. The days of hand-me-down Hondas with torn leather seats and a dysfunctional gas gauge were over. Praise heaven! And low-interest payment plans!

The new car was a gift to myself for finishing school and getting my hands on one of those "real" jobs. The car was my first I'm-an-adult-now expenditure. Sure, I'd been paying rent, utilities and grocery bills for years. But the car - this was special. I was growing up (sniff, sniff).

I remember thinking, "Wow, by the time I pay off this car, I'll be nearly 30. That's so old."

Three weeks ago I mailed off my final car payment. I dropped that certified check into the mailbox, grinned widely with hubris and then remembered: "Shit. I'm almost 30."

Two weeks ago the title came. I fancied putting it in a frame and hanging in a place of importance - kind of like you do with your diploma when you first graduate from college and you're all proud of yourself and your "accomplishment" and then quickly you realize that you're not a doctor or a lawyer and nobody really cares to see your B.A. in English and besides, the economy stinks and you're not finding a job that relates in any way to your skill set so the diploma is truly nothing more than a highly overpriced piece of parchment.

I knew the title wouldn't stay behind glass - but it was the shiny silver lining in a dark time-defying cloud. If I had to deal with the reality that five years of my life had just blinked by, then I was going to revel in the one tangible product of those five years: I finally own something!

But then here comes that annoying adulthood troublemaker, Murphy's Law.

One week ago (you know, just after the car was officially mine) the brakes called it quits, forfeit their job and started begging for change near the turnpike on ramp. Immediately after, the driver's side tail light exhaled one final time, flickered and died right there on the back of my car. And, oh yeah, my inspection sticker is overdue.

Figures, I guess.

So off to the shop it goes with its list of maladies. Add "malfunctioning seat heater" to the list, too. I should have gotten that fixed years ago when the recall was first announced. But not experiencing any problems with mine - and being a generally lazy sort - I never took the car in.

Fast forward six or so months to see me, cruising along the highway on a cold winter afternoon, the seat heater/tush warmer doing its job under my rear. Then suddenly - a sharp, searing pain. Still driving, I attempted to lift my butt off the seat, away from whatever fire had apparently ignited there.

Once pulled over the damage was evident: a dime-sized hole into the seat cover, a hot spot on my pants and a mild burn on my arse. Awesome.

I guess the burn hole and the scratches (mostly of unknown origin) and the dents (from hitting a rock wall...a few times) and the paint smears (from hitting a parked car...okay, two of them) are all part of my car's journey - the battle wounds of life, so to speak. And evidence that maybe my driving could use some work.

But mostly that damage proves that the car is no one else's but mine. Mine, free and clear. Well, free until the transmission goes. But let's not fret over that yet.

Because life is lava-lampy

I turned 29 last November. And while that's admittedly no unique feat on my part, it got the old (okay, not that old) noggin churning.

Most obviously, it meant that I'd be turning 30 on my next birthday. And I remember not so long ago thinking 30 was so old.

I thought once your chronological clock tolled the 30th year, you were done. At 30, life was decided. Thirty was the peak, the pinnacle, the pause before the downward turn. Career in place, house settled, maybe marriage and a few youngins running 'bout the place.

I don't remember being afraid of turning 30. In fact, there was a comfort in the number. Like all that effort and all that schooling and saving and dating would come to some delightful fruition. Like it would culminate in this 30-year-old figured-out person who could finally breathe out, recline back and coast happily into retirement.

Because 30 year olds have it figured out. Or they should. Right?

Yea, so maybe I was slightly off the mark on that one. But I was 19. We can forgive the stupidity of 19.

In truth I'm no more figured out at 29 than I was a decade ago. At least back then I could cling to the delusion that I already knew exactly who I was and what my future held. I could cling to the delusion that whatever I imagined would come, would.

Of course, if what I imagined would come had, I'd be living in a decrepit loft in Chicago above my screen printing/sliver jewelry shop with my goateed live-in boyfriend and our brilliant, non-conformist offspring (marriage is an archaic formality, you see).

Alas, none of those things happened (hallelujah). Instead I ditched the mid-west for Portland (three year Maine-iversary on Sept 26) and it was the best decision I ever made. You can quote me on that.

And sure, I'm single, cubicled and renting. But I can also afford to go to happy hour. And I do. Often.

The moral of the story - and the meat of what will make up this blog - is that life isn't a liner arrangement of checkboxes (To do: graduate college, get apartment, get married, buy house, have kids, die). Rather, to use a phrase a colleague of mine coined, life is more lava-lampy than that. And we'll all continue to motor on, hopefully gaining more than losing. And hopefully being amused along the way.

I had a hell of time blogging about my Beach to Beacon training in Couch to Beacon, and it was nice to bring readers a chuckle. Because hey, I'm here to please. (That's not true. I'm here to entertain. I displease often.)

There are a handful of entries from last year's short-lived Another Two Minutes Wasted in the 'O7 archives, including the well-received Lost wallet entry and the photo of the misspelled "Lobser" sign.

So, here I go again with Portbrio - and the futile-feeling attempts to grow up and get my business together.

The regular goings on in my life aren't all that exceptional. What is distinctive, however, is my entirely perverse and absurd perspective on those otherwise unexceptional things. But it's a spirited point of view, too. Hence the word "brio."

If I may be so bold to say so, I think you'll like it.