It's a dress up weekend. I'm going as a grown up.

It's Halloween weekend, which means many of you have the face paint primed and the cape washed and pressed for the dressed up festivities. Perhaps you've been plotting tonight's ensemble for weeks. Your costume this year might finally be the costume to put all others to shame.

I've got my costume ready, too. I'm sticking with the Orbit Gum chick ("Dirty mouth? Clean it up.") for the second time because I was too lazy to think up a new idea and I like being able to talk in a fake accent.

It isn't the most enthusiastic approach to Halloween, I know, but I've already had my dress-up entertainment for the week.

Two days ago a friend of mine called me up with some last-minute tickets to last night's 'Reception with Massachusetts Governor Deval Patrick benefiting The Obama Victory Fund.'

Sounds swanky, doesn't it? Tickets to the event ranged from $500-$5,000. Not exactly the cover charge I'm used to. This was a whole different breed of event.

"What do you wear to something like this, anyway?" I asked.

"I'd go with conservative cocktail. Definitely heels," friend said.

Ah. OK.

Wait. I don't have anything like that. Sure, they say every woman should have a simple black cocktail dress in her closet for just such a last-minute occasion. But I never followed that advice. (It sounded like useless advice no one follows, like how you should watch the road while driving or pay for your meals at restaurants.)

"I wouldn't worry too much about it," my friend said. "But you don't have an LBD? For shame!"

According to her, the little black dress is to 30 what the cosmo was to 21. But I never drank cosmos either. My maturation has averted such stepping stones.

I guess it's a good thing I'm getting older and learning all this junk. So off to the store I went.

I eventually found a conservative dress.

I dusted off my black heels (that haven't seen sunlight since I first bought them two, maybe three years ago) and made myself purty.

I swapped my over-the-shoulder ragged bag for a decent purse.

I wore pantyhose.

And to anyone who wasn't privy to the rampant immaturity in my head, I looked all grown up! Though I still drank my beer out of the bottle (sorry, mom. Some habits you just can't shake).

My learnings:

Thigh-high nylons are a gravity-defying wonder.

High heels are a form of self abuse.

30 is a stalking number (or, stop looking at me 30!)

Sometimes you don't notice things until you do.

Like how you don't notice the inordinate amount of "for sale" signs protruding from lawns around town until you decide to start looking for a house.

(And then, when your employment status becomes suddenly precarious and you decide home-buying might not be a smart idea right now you still see all those dang "for sale" signs. But now those obstinate signboards seem to taunt you.)

With the Turning 30 countdown at a mere 13 days, I've become highly attuned to spotting references to the number. In fact it almost seems like 30 is stalking me.

At the grocery store my food total rings up to $30.30.

My Google mapped directions say it'll take exactly 30 minutes to reach my destination.

The speed limit everywhere, suddenly, is 30.

The inspection number on my cheap fabric bag is - you guessed it - 30.

Even my bib number for the recent Think. Go. Get it. scavenger hunt was 30. Okay, it was 32. But you still have to say "thirty" when you say "thirty two" so it counts.

30s are everywhere. But they always have been. My keen sense of observation is only a symptom of a subtle pre-30 anxiety. Nothing a few deep breaths and a few tall drinks can't pacify.

And I know the panic - however mild - is absurd. I also know I'm not alone - and I have proof. (Ha! "Overdramatic" my arse!)

See, I was chatting about whole 30 thing with a friend recently and he admitted to being similarly pensive about the 20-to-30 transition when he went through it this summer.

Even better, he has a song about it.

He didn't write it himself - it actually came free with an EP he bought online through Wrapping Paper's Myspace page. The seller offered to write a personalized song as part of the sale: "The 'Hold Up The Neon Sign' ep by Wrapping Paper can be purchased here for $6 and is an mp3 only release. No shipping charges! Also if you buy a copy of the ep, I will write a Wrapping Paper song of your very own."

My friend happened to have his impending 30th on his mind (as well as a bit of melancholy over years past). The grass, it seemed, was greener back then.

But I think maybe we all look too fondly on the past. Or perhaps we're just to harsh with our present. Deep thoughts.

At any rate, without further adieu:

The somber turning 30 song

For those of you can't listen to mp3s at the moment (because you're at work and you're supposed to be working but, like me, find yourself routinely distracted by e-mails, inter-cubicle conversation and -- oh! Is that a helicopter out there?) here are some of the lyrics:

"Turning 30 isn't a crime
but it seems like
it's a sentence"

Sing it, oh wise, eBay Wrapping Paper songwriter from St. Paul named Andrew Meyer.

I'm erring more towards 30 optimism, but I still feels ya.

Show me your orbs! (says the Wicked Walking Tour guide)

Yes, yes. It sounds dirty. I'll give you a moment to chuckle over it…

I regret to inform you, though, that the orbs I'm talking about are the ghostly orbs of a paranormal presence. Less enticing to some, but not to Wicked Walking Tour guide Gordon. He's very much turned on by the haunting spirits of the Old Port.

He led a group of us around on Saturday night during a Wicked Walking Tour and regaled some tales of the haunted places downtown - most of which we still live, work and drink in.

We didn't actually see any ghosts, though.

Or maybe we did...

Gordon walked us over to Wharf Street (where locals often catch a frightening glimpse of drunken apparitions stumbling over the treacherous cobblestone) and pointed out a brick corner building.

"This building here," he said, "is known to have a great deal of orb activity." Orbs, he informed us, are the circular forms of a ghostly presence that are sometimes captured in photographs.

We cynics call them "dust particles." But hey, I'm on a walking tour. I'll just play along. So I whipped out my digital camera, directed the lens upward and snapped a photo. A few others did the same.

"If you capture anything, e-mail me the photo." Gordon said. "I want to see your orbs."

Yeah he does.

According to Gordon, this area was particularly prone to orbs because of its history. (Think Irish laborers and back-breaking work building Commercial Street. Think merchants, fishermen and sailors. Think brothels and ladies of the night. Think rum and drunks and more rum. Ah, the old days.)

With all that Old Port activity, it's no wonder that Wharf Street (which once upon a time was waterfront property) still seems to capture the attention of the long dead.

I checked out my photo and low and behold, orbs galore! (Visions that were in NO WAY connected to the gales of wind that blew dirt in our faces during part of the walk.)

Gordon noted that even a photo that appeared to have nothing in it might reveal its haunted evidence when blown up and examined. So when I got home, I blew it up.

Well hot damn. Color me a believer.

Wicked Walking Tours run Wednesday-Saturday though Halloween. Don't forget that digital camera if you plan to capture any orbs of your own.

Grand Tasting at the Office Gateway: The birth of a bread master

Yesterday's Grand Tasting at the Gateway (the first event of the three-day Harvest on the Harbor) was a wine/beer/food tasting frenzy. A wee gluttonous? Sure. But a little gluttony never hurt anyone.

Actually that's not true at all. Gluttony hurts lots of people. Gluttony is actually kind of a jerk, come to think of it. But I didn't intend on writing a PSA here guys, so let's put gluttony on the back burner for now..

My chum Avery wrote a nice round-up of the event so I'll keep redundancy to a minimum and simply say it was a sampler's feast.

Edible contrivances of all kinds (though most seemed to lean toward the seafood variety) and wine, wine, wine. Peak Organic and Shipyard brought the beer, along with Nappi Distributors.

Our stomachs so enjoyed the event that we decided to recreate it back at the office this morning. Our office chefs may be slightly less prestigious than those in charge last night, but I'd venture to sat that today's tortellini salad and apple cinnamon sausage rivaled the creations of Portland's culinary kings.

I made apple bread - the recipe courtesy of my colleague Karen who insisted the bread was easy to make (read: even a kitchen dolt like myself could figure this one out).

She was right. I made a loaf and ate it. I was so filled with pride that I made another loaf and brought it into work to share. But I ended up eating most of that one, too.

In just over two weeks I've made four loaves (because I still have a load of apples from apple picking). They've all been delicious. If this routine continues I'll need an apple-product intervention before the month is out.

But the success of the apple bread means I now have two (that's TWO) food items I'm able to prepare and bring to a potluck: Apple bread or a meatless taco dip I perfected in high school. I can also make mashed potatoes, but they're not as potluck friendly.

Thus I move forward into the land of grown-up people who can prepare foods for office parties instead of stopping off at the CVS on the way in for a box of Fiddle Faddle.

So yea, I'm kind of feeling on top of the world with my new baking skills. I'm sort of an apple bread master - and it just feels right.

Harvest on the Harbor continues through tomorrow. I had planned on taking part in the Wine Flight 5K tomorrow morning, but then realized that the Culinary Marketplace is essentially the same thing, only without all that pesky exercise.

I think I'll make some more apple bread and slyly slip it onto the Fore Street exhibitor's table tomorrow. See if anyone notices.

Photos from Grand Tasting at the Gateway (some even with a well-executed "overkill flash!")

Worker Appreciation Day (aka, the coldest day ever)

It's Downtown Worker Appreciation Day! Though Mother Nature apparently read the memo wrong and thinks it's Torture the Workers Day. She's given the task over to Wind, who's taking the opportunity to express his anger over being stuck in middle management for too many centuries to count. He's chosen to deflect his frustrations on the good people of Portland.

But on the upside, Portland Downtown District and Portland Buy Local volunteers are out in full force to warm our collective working hearts.

There are booths set up in three locations: Portland Museum of Art, Lobsterman's Park and Monument Square.

There's coffee and breakfast goodies (including a salmon and bagel sample from K. Horton)

Volunteers are handing out bags filled with stickers, pens and valuable coupons for local businesses. (Any from "Get a free treat at Old Port Candy Co." to "Free long stem rose from Harmon's Bartons" to "Free Guatemalan friendship bracelet at Mexicali Blues.")

There's even a fellow giving massages (at least at the Monument Square booth).

A coworker just asked me if I feel appreciated. I said absolutely. But it has less to do with the coupons and coffee and more to do with these folks. ====>

It's freezing outside this morning and they're standing out in the brisk wind just so we feel appreciated.

Thanks guys. We do!

Downtown Worker Appreciation Day details

Some love for your labor: Downtown Worker Appreciation Day

It's true, things WILL be great when you're downtown.

At least on Thursday anyway, when Downtown Worker Appreciation Day fills the streets with gratitude, acknowledgment and best of all: free stuff.

Portland Downtown District and Portland Buy Local have teamed up to applaud the workers and workplaces that make Portland the bustling downtown that it is.

And the event couldn't have come at a better time.

The Journal of Invented Facts for Dramatic Effect recently published a study noting the striking impact employee underappreciation has on each aspect of the workplace, including worker performance, department productivity and cafeteria condiment supply levels.

The study, titled "Not Much Appreciated: The Correspondence between Worker Recognition and Freebie Hoarding," might enlighten company managers as to why workers often stockpile items (usually those of little to no value) when they are confronted with feelings of unappreciation.

"When an employee feels like he isn't getting enough acknowledgment from peers and/or superiors, she may be inclined to react passive-aggressively," stated study leader Noah Natoll, Ph.D., B.S. during a recent interview.

"She may go into the employee lunch room and take, say, fifty packets of sugar and a stack of Styrofoam cups. And it's not because she needs those cups or intends on using that sugar. Instead, it's her way of 'socking it to the man.'"

According to Dr. Natoll, even the most even-keel employee can quickly slip into a state of frenzied ketchup packet hoarding if work conditions don't meet certain levels of appreciation.

So, to my fellow Downtown Portland workers, I ask that you be proactive in the fight against workplace underappreciation. Seek out the three tables scattered throughout downtown Thursday morning. Find the PDD and Buy Local volunteers. Get your goodie bag of freebie items donated by local businesses.

Let's bring this workplace saboteur to a standstill.

Downtown Worker Appreciation Day details
[This event was originally scheduled for Wednesday but has been pushed to Thursday due to expected bad weather]

The Amazing Race (peninsula edition)

Portland is said to be a walking city (i.e., in comparison to its larger urban cousins, the peninsula's small square footage makes it easy to navigate on foot).

I had the opportunity to test that theory this weekend during Portland West's Think. Go. Get it. race across Portland (and I have the strained calf muscles to prove it. Oh, and all the photos).

The event served as a fundraiser for the West End social service agency - and it sent participants on an Amazing Race-like tour of the city.

A friend and I showed up at Reiche School early Saturday morning to see a good collection of folks already congregated near the playground. Our competition.

It was clear that we weren't going to win the "matching uniforms" portion of the event. We both happened to be wearing fleeces, but that wouldn't stand up to the crafty duos I spotted milling about.

This pair opted for a "Joe the Plumber" theme. The back of the gray t-shirt has a roll of toilet paper on it and says, "That's how I roll."

I asked if the plungers would be used as weapons during the competition (I didn't read "no shanking" in the rulebook) but apparently they were simply props.

By 10:00 am everyone had been checked in and the Portland West volunteers gave us the details.

We'd be given a list of clues, each of which would direct us to a specific location on the peninsula. To prove we'd been there, we needed to snap a photo of both teammates at the destination.

And (hallelujah) we could phone a friend, Google the heck out of clues and pester strangers on the street.

We had three hours to complete as many of the clues as possible. And only our own two feet or the city bus could be used to get around. Volunteers would be everywhere, we were told, so no cheating.

With the swift rip of an envelop, the race began. Some pairs bolted out of the park without seeming to know where they were going. Some lingered to read the clues and come up with a plan. Michelle and I started with an easy one:

"Find Coffee by Design on Congress street. Find the man with a polka-dotted shirt and green eyes and have your picture taken with him."

We found the coffee shop easily. But there wasn't a polka-dot man to be seen.

We re-read the clue, looked again. Finally a woman behind the counter gestured to a large mural on the wall.

Ah, sneaky.



Next: "Go to Longfellow Square and take a picture with the ladybug."

We circled the Longfellow statue, scoured the benches, even peered in the One Longfellow Square windows. Then, at my feet, I saw bricks imprinted with an array of animal life. The ladybug must be somewhere in these here fancy bricks - the ones I never noticed before.

One clue led us to the Thomas Brackett Reed statue on the Western Prom. Once there we needed to fill out a crossword puzzle in order to uncover the next clue. (Bless you Michelle for already knowing that lobsterss teeth are in their stomachs.) The crossword led us to Tsunami Tattoo on Pleasant Street where we needed to apply a Portland West temporary tattoo. (I asked if getting a real one would ensure our victory. I was told no. Too bad, I would've done it.)

One clue led us to the art studio of City Councilor David Marshall, but he was helping to clean up Dow Street. A note indicated that he'd be happy to take a picture with us as long as we brought him one piece of trash (because every bit helps, people!).

We also took a trip to the popular Fish Market with the red facade down off Commercial Street. There we sought out "Buzzy" as requested and took a photo with him and our free gift (a fish market magnet).

Michelle and I traipsed along the streets of Portland until we finally knocked every clue off the list. We headed back to Reiche. On the way we saw the Joe the Plumber pair running up the street ahead of us. For a moment I thought maybe we should run, too. Luckily the thought passed.

At the finish our evidence was checked. Our photos were looked at, the tattoos were shown and the completed crossword was reviewed.

Our final time: an hour and 59 minutes.

And Michelle and I won! Well, not first place. Or second. Or third.

We won in that intangible we're-still-winners- even-if-we-didn't-win kind of way.

This pair won first place with a time of 1:05 ==>

Michelle and I chalked it up to the fact that they had an iPhone and we were just working with Blackberrys. iPhones do tell the future now, I'm pretty sure, so they had the advantage of knowing the clues in advance. I think there might be a jet pack application as well, which could account for their speedy finish.

But there was free grub after the race, so I guess it all evens out. Winners got cash prizes, I got two hot dogs.

Plus I think I gleaned some interesting Portland facts from the experience (like how George Cleeve founded Portland but nobody seems to like him much now).

I also learned that the distance between the East End and the West End grows exponentially depending on how hungry you are. And I learned that scavenging is so much better when you do it during the day and without the ski mask.

And hey, it was an ideal way to get acquainted with parts of the city I wasn't familiar with.

If you missed out on this event, don't fret. There's more Saturday peninsula fun to be had.

Next Saturday, October 26th:

"East End vs. West End All-City, All-Day Capture the Flag-O-Rama in Portland"

The Capture the Flag festivities kick off at 11:30 am in Monument Square.

Find all the details on Facebook

[See all the photos from Think. Go. Get it.]

Brett doesn't live here anymore. Dr. Vinyl either.

I know more than I should about a guy named Brett.

I say that because I've never met the fellow. I have no idea who he is and I'm sure he doesn't know me.

But we're connected in a modern-day way: A cell phone number.

It seems dear Brett was the previous caretaker of my current ten digits. I only acquired them a few months ago (I was compelled to get a new phone after a nasty collision between my cell and a cup of coffee that left my phone comatose and unresponsive). I opted to get a new number, too.

With the new number came the phone calls desperately seeking Brett. And thus I was inadvertently made privy to the odd minutia that make up the life of a stranger.

Por ejemplo: I know that Brett gets his prescriptions filled at CVS. I know that he drives an Oldsmobile Cutlass and gets car parts from VIP.

I think I also have a good inkling as to why he opted to forfeit his old phone number.

Blame Dr. Vinyl.

See, for every call I get for Brett, I get two for Dr. Vinyl. (I was dismayed to discover that Dr. Vinyl is not a comic book villain who wraps his victims to near suffocation in a layer of imitation leather. He's not a rescuer of old records, either, or a physician catering to the employees of strip clubs.)

Dr. Vinyl is an auto and multi-surface repair company. There apparently used to be a franchise in Maine and that franchise used to have my phone number. (Hark! I've figured it out! And Mom said watching those Colombo reruns would never benefit me.)

The shop has closed its doors, though it couldn't be for a lack of business judging from the calls I get.

My coworker suggested I take advantage of the phone number mix up and start charging Dr. Vinyl's competitors a referral fee.

Or there's always the option of opening my own Dr. Vinyl:

"Dr. Vinyl offers a great business opportunity. If you are tired of punching the time clock, exhausted from your bosses outlandish requests, you have the option to become part of an amazing franchise system." [From the Dr. Vinyl site]

Goodbye outlandish requests from my boss, hello Dr. Vinyl franchise!

At the very least, I should get some cash from the Doctor just for writing this blog entry.

So maybe Brett got sick of the calls.

Or maybe Brett ran the Dr. Vinyl franchise in Maine and decided to focus his energy on refurbishing his Cutlass instead.

The speculation could go on for days. Until then, Brett, I wish you well, wherever you are.

And anyone who currently find him/herself in need of a job, it seems Maine is in dire need of a car and multi-surface repair specialist.

So there's that.

The light at the end of the huge cardboard tube

I'm hardly an art connoisseur. I appreciate it, of course, but I'll leave the heavy dissection to the artists/art majors among us. Besides, someone who's only artistic talent consists of poorly Photoshopped blog photos probably doesn't have much authority in the world of artistic critique.

But I still like art walking on First Friday, and I still like peeking my head into new exhibits.

I like the Portland Museum of Art too, but I must have the look of a troublemaker because the staff tends to follow me around.

During my last excursion there, a friend and I lingered in front of a painting of Portland. I lifted a finger to point out a building I thought I recognized (we were having trouble doing the old-school/modern day comparison) and was promptly interrupted and asked to please not touch the art.

She was just looking out for the art, I understand that, but I honestly would never really put my grubby hands on any of it.

But that's not to say I don't want to. Art is tempting that way. But I'm an adult and I restrain myself from pressing my hand into the textured canvas of a 100-year-old painting, even though it looks like it'd feel really cool.

But then came along artist Amy Stacy Curtis and her new interactive art installation, Light. That's right. Interactive. We get to touch stuff.

The installation is spread out on the fourth floor of the Sanford Mill. Each of the nine pieces is prefaced by directions, so we know how we're expected to interact with it. Here, viewers are asked to walk all the way around the giant circle of empty cans.



So I start walking.

It soon becomes apparent that the color of the collective circle is changing. Initially it appears blue.



Blue fades to green.



And then to red and orange.

Every color of the spectrum is canned in this circle. I think I walked it at least three times. Very trippy.



Some of the installations required you to touch something, such as this one where we pressed nine floor lights of our choosing, causing them to light up.

I also had the strange desire to imitate a departing airplane.



Some required nothing more than your gaze, like this succession of tubes hung end to end to form one really, really long one. If you look into it you can see a series of white rings formed by light filtering through the gaps between the tubes.

Were I not the mature art appreciator that I am, I might've been inclined to yell into it.



Another installation consisted of two rows of mirrors hung from the high ceiling by fishing wire. When you walked between them, the reflections mirrored back into space. It was like seeing the mill in multiple dimensions.

I also noticed that, despite the human inclination to stare at ourselves in the mirror, that wasn't the case here. My eyes tended to look into the mirror just ahead of me so I could get that reflection-to-eternity effect (while simultaneously praying that I wouldn't become entranced and stumble into the dangling glass).

A table topped with a layer of mutli-colored beads. The directions asked us to slide a handful off the table into our palm, them dispense them into appropriately colored glass tubes nearby.

It may also have been an inexpensive way to get us to sort the beads for an underhanded bead distribution company overseas.

I'm just sayin'.

LIGHT

The exhibit is open daily through October 24th at the Sanford Mill (there are excellent directions on Amy's web site, including the fact that Emery Street has no sign and some people - ahem - might drive right past it). Hours: M-F 12-5pm; S-S 10-5pm. Free admission or donation. 'Light' details.

Go forth and touch stuff.

Roadside Maine: Now that's using your headstone

This time of year brings the leaf peepers in droves. Maine roads are congested with distracted drivers and swerving vehicles. And I don't blame them. Heck, I think I'm one of them.

But even after the leaves let go and the trees stand naked and cold across the state, there's still plenty to see on Maine's roadsides.

There are still the oddities: The random displays, the signs, the artwork, the woodwork, the painted houses, the junk made into something other than junk.

My coworker Wendy introduced me to Long Island's curiosities this summer, which include a parade of Barbie cars, a row of branch people sporting swimsuits and a large tree decorated with hanging bicycles.

And there's the roadside traffic jam, instigated by lady duck. Looks like somebody spent the night flashing her breasts for beads and is having trouble dealing with the shame and the hangover. You're angry at yourself, duck, stop deflecting your hostilities on other drivers.

[Wendy's Raising Maine entry on Long Island]

I appreciate homeowners who go out of their way to create some front-yard spectacle simply to entertain passersby.

Of course, then there are the roadside oddities that aren't intended to be roadside oddities. But there they are, on the road, being odd.

Like this innocuous monument company in Sanford. If you drive by, your peripheral vision might only register an array of granite and marble headstones, statues and the like. Things you won't (hopefully) need anytime soon.

But if your eyes are trained to spot the strange...or if you have a bad habit of not watching the road when you're driving (because houses and trees and signs are honestly way more entertaining than asphalt)...then you might notice something interesting.

A headstone. A loveseat. Both.

It makes sense, after all, that while you take the ultimate, eternal rest, your friends and family should be able to take a temporary load off too.

Maybe it's a ploy to encourage people to visit, like that kid in grade school who no one wanted to play with until the summer his parents installed a swimming pool.

I pondered what unique headstone I'd choose if I were trying to lure my friends and family to hang out at my grave site more often.

Marble ottoman? Maybe a granite sundae bar. Or a prehistoric pool table cut from stone.

I'm not coming up with anything too extraordinary yet. Let's hope it's a decision I won't have to make for a good, long time.

What to expect when you're expecting (to turn 30)

There is nothing more frightening than the unknown.

And the Future - that ethereal near-reality we're fated to walk into - is the most unknown of all.

We try to prepare for our presumptive futures (it's expected to rain, grab an umbrella; long drive, fill the tank; dinner with the family, bring the gin). And while all of our preparation may ultimately prove futile, there's a comfort in trying anyway.

So as I linger on the precipice of turning 30, and all the unknowns that come with it, I thought it might behoove me to research what to expect.

Unfortunately not much is known about the third decade of human life. While turning from 29 to 30 is a transition most people will eventually experience, the topic is still considered taboo in modern society.

Many deny being 30 - or act as though the age doesn't even exist. Many more wrongly think, "Sure, it happens to other people, but it will never happen to me."

Thankfully I was able to locate one woman who was willing to go on the record about the realities of [dun dun dun] turning 30.

Michelle Greenlaw* "crossed over" on October 4, 2008 and spoke openly about the grisly details in a recent interview.

Q: So Michelle, what changes did you notice on the morning of your 30th birthday?

Michelle: Well, to be honest, I didn't notice anything at first. I woke up and didn't feel any different. I started thinking that maybe I had the date wrong or that maybe being 30 years old wasn't all that different from being 29. But when I walked by the mirror I had to do a double-take. I didn't recognize myself.

I'm still getting used to the dramatic physical changes.

Q: I see. Definitely a dramatic alteration. What else did you notice?

Michelle: I knew things that I hadn't known earlier.

Q: You felt smarter?

Michelle: I AM smarter. I suddenly know how to do things like balance my checkbook and invest intelligently to maximize my financial viability. The electoral college makes perfect sense to me now and I finally understand the benefits or aerating the lawn.

Q: Wow, those are impressive gains.

Michelle: That's only the half of it. I never make the wrong decision any more. It's like I just know what to do all the time. Do I stay at my job or accept a new one - is the turnpike faster or the side streets - with cheese or without? Every time my decision is the right one!

Q: Sounds like 30 has brought with it a renewed confidence.

Michelle: Absolutely. Now that I'm 30, I don't get stressed out anymore. I don't worry at work or second guess myself. I'm never self conscious or sad either. Life is just perfect all the time!

Q: Interesting. Sounds like 30 is a dream come true. Why do you think people try to suppress this information?

Michelle: You know, I asked the same thing when I went to my first Decade Three Secret Society meeting.

Q: Wait, you mean there's a secret club for thirty year olds?

Michelle: Of course. I found out about it the day I turned 30. They sent me a text message. You don't HAVE to go to meetings, but you only get the free house if you do.

Q: Come again? They gave you a house?

Michelle: Well sure, I'm 30. And 30 year olds should own houses, right? I heard the Decade Six Secret Society gives out golf carts and ill-fitting pants.

Q: This is unbelievable. I find it hard to believe that all this is happening and 20-somethings have no idea.

Michelle: Well, the Decade Three Secret Society requested that newcomers help maintain the secret. I'll probably get in trouble for talking to you now. But they said that our 20s are still a decade of learning and we shouldn't hinder that. Twenty-somethings still need that time to explore the world and grow as individuals. Besides, it's incredibly funny for us to watch them screw up all the time.

Q: You're laughing at the expense of the inexperienced? I find that mildly disconcerting.

Michelle: We are. In fact it was hilarious watching you struggle to make that apple pie When you turn 30, you'll know how to cook everything! But my new 30-year-old friends and I had quite the laugh over it.

Well, thanks for your openness today Michelle. While I'm perplexed by some of this information, I do look forward to laughing at younger people from the comfort of my new house.

So the truth finally steps into the light. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to the sandwich shop to drink coffee and await my Pulitzer.

*Names have not been changed to protect the innocent. Innocent people don't laugh when you're trying to make a pie anyway.

Forbidden fruit in the forbidden kitchen

Anyone who intends on claiming the title "Adult" should be able to get herself fed.

There are other adult criterion too (i.e., remembering to pay the electric bill, putting your pants on right side out and showering semi-regularly). But the food thing is important (that whole calorie-consumption-is-required-to-sustain-life thing).

And I can do that…mostly. I can GET food for myself and consume it. It's the food preparation aspect I seem to have trouble with.

Oh sure, I can add milk to dry cereal with the best of them. But cooking? Baking? I'm entirely incapable.

When you're in college, knowing how to boil rice is sufficient kitchen know-how. No one asks the hard questions then, like, "Do you even know what 'julienne' means?"

But when you're damn near 30 and the burners on your stove are coated with dust…well, then you have a full-blown kitchen phobia.

So I figured now was as good a time as any to have it out and teach that oven who's boss - maybe tie it to a parking meter and smack it around.

My excursion to the apple orchards this weekend wasn't simply to experience the autumn tradition of apple picking. It was also a well-planned covert operation to secure a collection of fresh Cortlands in order to bake them into what laymen refer to as a "pie."

An apple pie satisfied my two recipe necessities: I'd been told it wasn't difficult to make and I knew it wasn't difficult to eat.

Initially I had considered making it from scratch, crust and all. But I was looking to build my baking confidence, not punish myself. So pre-made crust it was.

At the grocery store I picked up everything on the list (sans apples, which I had already picked locally, and sugar, which I always keep around for the coffee).

Once back home I wasted no time getting started.

The recipe said, "Press crust into pie pan…"

Pie pan? Who has a pie pan just lying around? Oh, probably everybody. Back to the store.

The rest, I'm happy to report, went swimmingly. I only sliced my finger once with the potato peeler. I only momentarily questioned what "thinly slice apples" really meant. (Is that healthy-weight thin or Barry Manilow thin?) And when I realized I had no aluminum foil to cover my masterpiece with, I remained calm and substituted an overturned foil pie pan instead.

The outcome?

Perfection!

Okay, the filling was a tad runny, but it's my first pie so back off.

Shore do look purty, though.

Saving Fall, one apple at a time

As seasons shift from one to the other, as they tend to do here, there are specific things we need to do. Things that make the season official. Things that ensure the continuation of Nature's regenerative cycle.

Summer isn't quite summer until you've fallen asleep on the beach (and perhaps been awoken by a frisbee throw to the head).

Winter isn't quite winter until you've dug a car (your own or someone else's) out from under a monumental pile of snow (and then maybe built a fort).

If we were to stop these seasonal activities - if we were to behave in the spring no differently than we did in the fall...well, the seasons might cease altogether.

And if the seasons ceased (I shudder to think about it)...if the seasons ceased we'd become (gasp!)...
Florida!

It's our duty to chuck snowballs in the winter and get farmer's tans in the spring.

And in the fall? In the fall we must go apple picking.

Randall Orchards in Standish is an ideal place to go for such an activity. Allow me to elaborate:

The views at the apple orchard aren't too shabby, if you're into that whole "scenic fall at it's best" thing. And you are - we all are.

Rows and rows of apple trees extend out toward a line of tall pines. There's plenty of trees to keep you occupied in the front, but most many of them have already been stripped of their fruit in weeks past.

Instead you can walk deeper into the orchard or hitch a ride on the tractor.

Many of Maine's orchards bear a variety of apples, so you sort of have to sample them, right? Maybe you fancy the McIntosh, but you might discover that Cortlands are really your apple soul mate.

Oh look, the young apples who leapt too soon from their perch above. Dang teenagers think they know everything. Sure, they're all "I can take care of myself. You don't own me, Dad!" But life's rough in the grass - most of those poor kids will start fermenting before the week is out.

Sometimes all you need is an extended arm to nab the best apples.

Sometimes all those low-hanging treasures have already been taken - and you need to get more invloved.

Or, if you're altogether lazy, you can just get your apples from the bins. Takes all the fun out of it, I suppose, but not everyone is up for trapsing around the orchard every time they want a few apples.

The pumpkins are out in full force, too. Randall Orchards has a load of pretty, plump ones.

And a few that have apparently cast off their special Halloween purpose and opted instead to melt quietly back into the earth. A strange phenomenon, those depressed pumpkins who shun Jack-O-Lantern glory.

Cannon Ball pumpkins - rounded for easier chucking.

If you're mind is often in the gutter, a glimpse into the gourd bin will probably make you giggle in an immature fashion. Or so I've been told. I don't think that way.

He he. OK, maybe I do, just a little.

If you haven't been out to pluck something from a tree lately, I encourage you to do so. The seasons as we known them depend on it.

FYI, the Maine SWITCH's fall guide has a list of apple and pumpkin picking spots.

A three year Maine-iversary

Has it really been three years already? Couldn't be.

Feels like just yesterday that I rolled into town with a carload of nonsense I couldn't seem to part with, not knowing a soul, flooded with equal doses wanderlust and panic.

But when I recall the me of three years ago - well, then it seems like ages.

See, back in Illinois I had a developed a "routine" problem. I'd grown overly fond of the familiar.

Not much changed about where I ate, where I drank or how my weekends were spent.

I drove out of my way on nearly empty tanks of gas so I could use a familiar gas station (never did run out of gas - lucky me). I was stifled by the thought of walking into a bar or restaurant alone to meet up with a friend. "Meet me outside," I'd insist.

I was particular about making lists too - lists of things I needed to buy, things I needed to do. I was particular about my calendar and being early to appointments (sometimes awkwardly early). I was particular about cleaning my apartment from corner to corner every week.

My adventurous spirit was suffocating and there I was pressing the pillow to its face with all my might.

So how I came up with the idea to pack up my stuff and move, alone, to somewhere generally in the east, I'll never know. New York? Too big. Baltimore? Too criminal. Boston? Too confusing (you've driven around there, you know what I mean).

And then there was Portland, a place in Maine I'd never heard of. A place with it's own chapter in a New England travel guide.

Portland. Sure, why not.

In the beginning I used to revel in the randomness of how I ended up here.

But my story was met with similar ones - people who came here by happenstance. A job transfer, a vacation that turned permanent, a followed boyfriend who soon thereafter became a followed ex-boyfriend. I have one friend that intended on moving to Portsmouth and came to Portland on accident - and stayed.

I suppose that explains some of Portland's unique spirit. It's an off-the-beaten path kind of city - almost a secret. Some of us unwittingly tripped over it (three cheers for being clumsy).

Portland is also a city that can change you (in a good way, not in that what's-happened-to-you-I-don't-even-know-you-anymore kind of way).

For me, that routine thing went straight out the window. I still make lists at work, but that's mostly so I have evidence to show how "busy" I am. (Kidding. Please don't lay me off.)

And the weekly apartment cleanings fell by the wayside (in fact, when I first moved into my current apartment, I didn't have a vacuum. Rather than throw down a whole $40 right away, I decided to see how long I could go without one. FYI, two months is too long).

And the unfamiliar? Let me at it.

Snowboarding? Tried it (stunk at it). Surfing? Tried it (wasn't completely awful). I've learned to knit, cross-country ski and kayak. I've tested mountain biking, salsa dancing and karaoke. I've white water rafted and run two 10Ks (well, 2.5 if we want to get technical) and went to the batting cages for the first time. I bought snowshoes, took an acting class and floated the Saco.

And on my official Maine-iversary last weekend I decided to follow a suggestion from Yamo (who posted a comment on last year's Two Year Maine-iversary blog entry) and test out the champagne of Maine.

You heard me. I had Allen's Coffee Brandy. That's how serious I am about experiencing Maine.

Overall, I'd rank the "Biddeford martini" somewhere between learning to knit and the crushed tailbone pain of learning to snowboard. (If you're offended by the drink's name, take it up with the Portland bartenders. I learned it by watching them, alright? I learned it by watching them.)

So thanks, Maine, for being you. And thanks, Portland, for making it so easy to stay.