Beware the Tides of Marsh: Canoeing in Scarborough

There's no backyard like Maine's backyard.

Drive 20 minutes from Portland in nearly any direction and you'll land yourself in yet another place of weekend perfection. (Except east. Only hovercraft are encouraged to drive that direction. If you have a hovercraft, call me. We need to hang out.)

One such example: Scarborough Marsh.

I've taken the area in by bike on a number of occasions. And each time I'd spot some duo paddling their way along the winding trail of water - and I'd insist that, next time, that's how I'd do it.

I finally took myself up on the offer this weekend.

A friend and I headed over to the unassuming Maine Audubon building on Pine Point Road in Scarborough. Folks can rent canoes and kayaks here by the hour or take advantage of a guided tour (which includes an introduction to edible plants. Eat foliage, impress your friends!)

After a quick run-through on the guidelines and the marsh map, two friendly Audubon fellows put our canoe in the water and helped us board without a tragic capsizing.

The tide was low, the sun was high and we wore our PFDs with pride.

It was tough paddling at first, with the incoming tide working to our disadvantage. Our canoe seemed to turn like a frightened horse itching to get back to the barn. But we weren't all too bothered by our zig-zagging course - the marsh shouldn't be plowed through anyhow.

There are birds aplenty here, most of which seemed unbothered by our presence or our calls of, "Look! A bird!...Oh, over there! Another bird!"

At one point we pulled onto a small sand bar - and I made sure to bring the boat well onto the sand to prevent a marsh stranding. A few minutes of bad photography and snail finding and I caught a movement in my peripheral vision.

A snowy egret coming to inspect? A mummichog beaching itself to sun? No, it was the canoe, intending to ditch us. My flipflops were in cahoots, but played dumb upon questioning.

Back in the boat, we headed through the tunnel under Route 9. Man-made though it may be, it's still a nifty feature of the marsh. Eerie and echoey.

If your canoe goes sideways near the end - and sails headlong into the rounded side - snap a photo.

Of course, what's a marsh without some mud? And deep this stuff is. So I learned when I stepped out of the boat in an effort to snag a nearly buried glass bottle. My feet sank a good six inches into the warm muck. Gross? Hardly. People pay big money for mud treatments. And my feet have never been softer.

I can't say that any of the excursion was ugly.

Though the attempt to paddle back through the tunnel with a hearty tide working against us was...well...not a pretty site for the folks fishing there. We had to portage our canoe across Pine Point Road (so, so embarrassing. Even worse, my camera battery died so I couldn't photograph the ridiculousness).

Scarborough Marsh isn't a bad way to spend an afternoon. In fact, I'd say it's down right marvelous. Next time, though, I'll pay more attention to the tides.

Canoes and kayak rentals are available 9:30 am-4 pm daily. $13 an hour or $50 for half day. Or take a guided tour 10-11:30 am daily (additional Sunday tour 1-2:30 pm) for $11 per adult/$9 per child.

All the details on the Maine Audubon's Scarborough Marsh website

From clock towers to the tunnel, explore the secret spaces of Biddeford

Maine is old.

Not paleolithic old, or even Roman Empire old.

But in relation to US history, Maine's got some ancient numbers. Most of our towns have done a stellar job maintaining buildings that are 100 or 200 years old - or older. We walk the same halls as our friends from "back in the day." Those brick walls lining our apartment or office building were stacked by men whose names our grandfathers don't even remember.

My meaning: There's history all over the place. Some of it's been modernized into fashionable boutique space or couch-lined coffee shops. But some of it rests quietly behind doors we regular folk aren't permitted to open.

Heart of Biddeford - a non-profit organization dedicated to revitalizing downtown Biddeford - is opening some of those doors to history during its upcoming "Secret Spaces, Historic Places" event taking place on Saturday, June 6.

I had the happy opportunity to join a "trial tour" alongside Heart of Biddeford board members and volunteers on Tuesday - and was able to get a glimpse of some of the downtown's secret spots.

We started at the City Hall clock tower. Alternating and incongruous staircases led the way (where, I suspect, Escher got his inspiration) to the roof of the building.

A small window below the clock face was open - and another tour-goer waved from inside.

We followed another set or two of stairs to the inside of the clock tower - the machinery clicking away the minutes. The bell, I was told, no longer works. It still sits patiently at the top of the tower, awaiting the day when funds pull through and it can fulfill it's bell purpose ringing the hour, every hour, for another hundred years.

Until then, the sturdy fella has taken to writing solemn haikus on the clock tower wall.

I took a peek out the small window myself. It's historically used by workers to climb out and access the outside of the tower for maintenance and restoration. For those of us with zero intention of squeezing out of its slender aperture, it offers a fine clock tower view of the town.

Next we entered a vacant downtown storefront (I'm told Reny's was its most recent occupant) and took the stairs to the upper floors. Here, original wallpaper still accents the walls, albeit faded and peeling.

There's also a large theater space - though the dancing of dust particles seems to be the only theatrics these walls have seen in decades. One volunteer mentioned that the space may have been used for boxing matches and also served as a movie theater.

But by far the tour highlight is its lowest stop: the thirty-foot tunnel running beneath the Lincoln Mill complex. Tons of water onced flooded this tunnel. Now, it lies empty and dry (which, by lucky coincidence, makes it easier to walk through). Unfortunately the guide who planned on showing us around here wasn't able to make it, so I wasn't able to get inside.

But Vicki Lane graciously shared a stellar photo she took of the tunnel (it's the same one used on all the publicity posters).

[Photo courtesy Vicki Lane www.thephotodocs.com]

To experience the full tour yourself - and afterward dance the eve away at North Dam Mill - check out the Secret Spaces, Historic Places tour on June 6.

Event info: Secret Spaces, Historic Places on June 6

To register ($25), see the Heart of Biddeford website

Let the cars go at it: Beech Ridge Motor Speedway

Watching cars chase each other on an oval track is swell and all, but doesn't a solid crash here and there make the average automobile a bit more innerestin'?

Now I'm not wishing ill on unsuspecting motorists on 295 (not even the ones that are about to exit - then don't - then do, sending you into the breakdown lane). And I'm not encouraging drivers to go ahead and ram empty cars in the Hannaford parking lot (even though it would really improve your spirit after that sour run-in with the boss).

But a little controlled smashing - in an approved environment - can be cathartic.

And smashing is aplenty during Day of Destruction at Beech Ridge Motor Speedway in Scarborough. The seasonal event kicked off on Sunday with pristine weather, packed stands and a stream of feisty autos.

The races began tamely. Two street-legal cars, driving in a circle. It's an activity my horsepower-loving brother would appreciate (he was born with higher levels of testosterone and motor oil), but one that's dang near lost on me.

After a few go-arounds, one duo ends up in the sand. Not bad, but really, haven't we all beached a car once or twice?

Then - a noble fellow decides to take the races to the next level and purposely slams his car into his opponent. A perfectly useful, fully functioning car is now destroyed. I suppose the move wasn't so much noble as it was entirely crazed.

But he seemed to be proud of himself. Perhaps, as a friend noted, the car truly belonged to his soon-to-be-ex.

The trucks came through next. There were big trucks, little trucks, fast trucks and, uh, less-fast trucks.

And there were SUVs that really didn't like each other. This white Blazer raced and won against what looked to be a spanking-new Jeep. Even still, the hostile gentleman turned himself around and drove head-long in the Jeep's side.

Why the feller did it, I couldn't say. I also struggle to reason how the Jeep's owner thought risking those shiny new rims in an amateur drag race was worth the $500 pot.

Whatever the motivation, I suspect there may have been fisticuffs in the pit after the race.

But it wasn't all tragedy and "good Jeeps gone bad."

Once the spectator races were over, the junk cars came running.

There'd be no spent tears on these old beauties. They've lived full, happy lives and were rearing for one last hurrah before they were permanently put out to pasture (aka, sent to play with other cars on a peaceful farm in central Illinois).

The attention to detail during the decorating process - also impressive. (Think plastic Santa's, spray paint, stuffed animals and a blow-up doll).

The junkers raced three at a time backwards - and a few ended up in unexpected places. Number 149 needed to be forklifted back to the ground, but drove away without a problem.

Some cars met their end during the race around the donut. Those fancy blinking lights won't help you now, my friend.

Others kissed this world goodbye during the final backwards race. With thirty or so speeding vehicles clamoring for space on the track, fenders are going to get hurt. Axels are going to snap and a car might find it's engine aflame.

But let's not weep for these fallen cars. Let's be thankful that they were able to live out their automobile destiny.

Day of Destruction only happens twice this year - the next time on Sept 18.

On Thursdays from mid-June to mid-August, catch some racing entertainment during Thursday Night Thunder.

On Fridays, it's Car Wars.

Room to improv: A class in improv comedy

Sure, improv seems impromptu. And it is, on the whole. But I hadn't accounted for the "rules."

Thanks to an Improv Comedy class I signed up for a few weeks ago, I'm getting the insider, improver's scoop on how all the ad-lib action comes to fruition.

The class is co-taught by two members of the local improv comedy troupe Running with Scissors. And all the learning takes place out in Westbrook at the Dana Warp Mill (same joint where I took that acting class last year - the official birth of my inner thespian).

On day one, we were let in on a little-known secret: even improv has rules.

It's comparable to life in general. Sure, we can let spontaneity rule the day (and do insane things like swap out our breakfast bar for a sugared muffin at the last minute). But you can't pay for said sugared muffin with a $20 bill you wiggled free from a stranger's pocket.

Well you can, I suppose, but it's not going to make you popular with the other folks on stage at the coffee shop. Life has rules - and theft is the focus of several of them (so I learned as an 8th grader marching out of Kohl's with three bras in my pants).

In the same vein, improv guidelines exist to help improv comics interact harmoniously.

The first rule we learned: Don't ask questions.

As in, don't ask "What are you eating?" You'll be forcing your improv cohort to come up with something - and they might...ah....um...well...not be able to.

Instead, make a statement: "That's the biggest catfish I've ever seen someone try to eat whole."

If you have experience with cults or extremist religious groups, the "ask no questions" rule should come easy to you.

Rule two: "Yes, and..."

Agree to everything - and then add to it. (Said another way: don't refuse what other folks are offering to you.)

If your fellow improv comic says, "Let's rob those nuns!," don't shoot the idea down. Don't hem and haw and say, "Naw, that's not a nice thing to do. Mom sure would disapprove."

Instead, "yes, and" the situation. Say, "Yes, let's take 'em for every penny and go buy tickets to Star Trek at IMAX!"

The idea is to go with what you're given - and to continue amplifying the scene.

Folks who easily succumbed to peer pressure as teenager (which soon led to drinking, sex and that unfortunate incident with the spray paint on your grandma's garage) will find this rule easy to follow.

Only two weeks in, I think the class is forging ahead well.

Word from the teachers is that we may be performing in town at the end of the class - a final recital, if you will.

If we do, we'll be sure to share the locale and date. Unless, of course, we decide we stink. In which case you'll never hear about this improv thing again.

To inquire about upcoming classes, or to catch some live improv comedy around town, check out Running with Scissors on Facebook

Stones, soil & slugs: A cleanup on Cow Island

Volunteers congregated on Maine State pier just before 10 am on Saturday morning. We wore equal parts optimism and rain gear.

Our destination: Cow Island.

Saturday was cleanup day on the island, and eight or so of us ready-to-work folks met up with Mike Lyle of Rippleffect to travel over for the day.

In case you aren't privy, Rippleffect is a youth and community development organization operating outdoor adventure programming on Cow Island. They're also the org behind the annual Velvet fundraiser each November.

So into the Rippleffect boat we piled for the short journey across Casco Bay.

And while I sighed at the overcast sky and fall-like wind, I still couldn't ignore the stellar bay views - even in inclement weather.

Once on island, Rippleffect's Anna Cynar gave us a tour of 26-acre joint. Most notable are the former military installations that have been repurposed for the island's newfound mission. This battery became office and equipment storage space.

Where once stood military artillery, now sits benches and a campfire. Such reuse is popular on the island, and thoughts are always on self-sustaining.

The newest of the island's inhabitants are the family of chickens. A few people ducked into the coop to say hello. I decided I was most comfortable on the outside, where a tragic chicken pecking situation could be avoided.

And soon we were off, transforming the island gardens for the season. Several of us stuck to prepping the gardening beds, where fruits, veggies and herbs would soon find a home. Some hearty folks laid rocks along the paths to keep the mud at bay.

A handful of Americorps volunteers had spent Friday night on Cow and got elbow-deep into the spring clean. Here, two volunteers sift piles from the compost, separating the rich soil from the larger twigs, rocks and whatnots.

Rippleffect's new executive director, Anna Marie Klein-Christie, took to the weeds.

As we dug in the dirt, we also happened upon a good number of "natives": spiders, ants, worms, grubs and potato bugs (or so the small roly-poly bugs were called where I grew up).

But the slugs take the prize as the most enthralling of finds. Anna gave a young helper an up-close look at one before she redeposited the feller in a safer place.

Once the rock-removing, compost adding and soil turning work was complete, it was time for some seeds. That there, my friends, is some future echinacea.

With a day's work of solid effort under our belts, a few of us took on a more creative task: sculpting. With all the buoys, bottles and tossed items turning up on shore, there's a decent pile of found objects on the island. Visiting groups are welcome to pick out what speaks to them and make an island sculpture.

Our fabulous team effort (a horse man, complete with rope rein) now stands as lookout over the large vegetable garden.

And sure, the weather erred on the side of cold. Our hands got cold - and Sydney's legs (because she optimistically wore shorts) were cold too. But you know what was warm? Our HEARTS, folks. Yup, our hearts were feeling a solid 80 degrees and sunny.

Rippleffect is always looking for volunteers - and some hearty helping effort is an excellent excuse to get out to the island.

Check out the volunteer opportunities page

Keep your eyes peeled for more details on the July 11 Pirate Party on Cow Island

Art, bagels and all that jazz: Jazz Breakfast at PMA

Sundays were created for relaxation (or recuperation, depending on how late your Saturday went). And brunch exists because - let's face it - being functional at 9:00 a.m. on a Sunday just isn't right.

Besides, it feels good to roll out of bed late in the morning, hover over the coffee pot in your PJs and then kick back on the couch for some well-earned TV time.

But it is possible to maintain that leisurely Sunday sentiment and still DO something. Heck, even something cultural [gasp!].

The Portland Museum of Art hosts Sunday Jazz Breakfasts from 10:30 a.m. to noon every Sunday from fall through spring. The featured band each week includes the likes of Port City Jazz and Sean Mencher and his Rhythm Kings.

Enjoying the jazz is free with the cost of admission ($10 for adults) so once the music stops you can still roam the exhibits.

Even better - the art and jazz combo.

When we entered the museum a couple Sundays back, the music welcomed us in just as clearly as the woman at the admissions counter. I didn't need to ask where to head for the jazz breakfast - I just followed my ears.

From the main floor you can peer down into the cafe and watch the band from above (and pretend to be the Puppet Master, if that's your idea of fun). Thanks to the open architecture of the building, the jazz tunes float throughout the museum. The music makes an ideal soundtrack to an art appreciation morning.

But if you're hungry you can head down the stairs and take advantage of the a la carte breakfast spread. Choose from bagels, croissants, scones and a featured hot entree (quiche perhaps). There's fruit salad, too, in case you're trying to adhere to your new-found passion: the gluten-free diet.

It's a cafeteria-style set up - well, minus the cafeteria tables. There are 10 or so tables at the back of the room, though those were well-crowded when we got there.

Instead, find a seat in one of the rows upon rows of folding chairs. It isn't as easy to chow your bagel and hold your coffee at the same time here, but you can make it work.

There's definitely an excellent turnout for these regular breakfasts - and you may be shocked to learn that the crowd errs on the side of "older."

Yes, it's true. Gray hair and orthopedic shoes were in abundance. But don't let that deter you young whippersnappers. The jazz is fabulous, the coffee well-caffeinated and the art patiently waiting your perusal.

Only one Jazz Breakfasts left this spring: Sunday, May 17 Tom Snow.

Open mics are like a box of chocolates

Open mics are like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're going to get.

Of course it's much harder to sample the talent at open mics with your teeth. Perhaps you suspect that novice singer/songwriter is filled with unappetizing strawberry nougat, but try to split him open to find out and you'll only guarantee yourself a slap in the face. And perhaps a few lashings with the microphone cord.

It's true, there's a comfort in going to see a musician or comic who you're already familiar with.

You can feel secure knowing you can sing along with that song about the pitfalls of shoelaces and you can feel confident knowing that dirty joke about proctologists and hand puppets will still make you laugh.

And that's fine, if you want your sense of adventure to atrophy and die.

But open mics are a solid place to find lively entertainment - usually for free. And with budgets being what they are these days, that's no small bonus.

I headed over the bridge to Spring Point Tavern in South Portland last night for open mic comedy. Local guy Bryce Hanson put the evening together and an old pal from Mainetoday was trying out her recently found comedic legs.

The bar was impressively packed for the evening and the lineup included 15 comics from Southern Maine, NH and way up north.

Sure, the sound system had a few jokes of its own, alternately humming, buzzing and dying altogether. But the comics made it work.

There were several newbies in the bunch, testing out material that went over so well with their friends, kids or ferret.

But there were more seasoned comics too, like Seth Bond Perry and George Hamm. These are fellas you'd likely pay to see elsewhere. But tonight was free, free, free.

And sure, some of the jokes were less than awesome. But overall I found myself laughing more often than not.

Besides, all those big name comics of today had to start somewhere. And I dig the idea of one day saying, "I saw that comic way back when." And then I'd lie and say I knew he was going to be famous one day because it'd make me sound knowledgeable.

And for the record, former Mainetodayer Kate Ghiloni rocked it. The "pillowtop vagina" joke should be a staple in her future standups.

Porch looking naked? Add a rondack.

Viewed from a picnic bench or blanket, the Atlantic coast is pretty darn swell. But locals know that the best way to take in New England scenery is from the sunken seat of an Adirondack chair.

The problem is, those comfortably reclined wooden works of sit-able art can be pricey. And even if you nab a Adirondack deal at a naked furniture store, you still don't know where that chair's been.

It could've spent its formative years working the streets in exchange for hits of Thompson's Water Seal.

Are those growth rings or scars of a hard knocks life? Only the chair knows for sure. And it ain't talking.

The only way to trust in the purity of your Adirondack is to make it yourself. And thanks to a class offered through Portland Adult Education, you can. Pretty cheaply too.

The class costs $115 for Portlanders - and anyone who's priced an Adirondack at the store knows that's a bargain. So I signed up.

The class congregated in the woodworking shop at PATHS in Portland last Saturday for the first of the two-day course.

Teacher Tom Fournier walked us through the wood shop machines. The old standbys we recall from Junior High shop class are all still there - the drills, the hand saws and that shark of the shop: the table saw.

To begin, we took to measuring out the wood. With over 40 pieces to each chair, and with ten chairs to be made, it was a test of organization and planning (which I steered away from so as to reduce the likelihood of error).

Tom directed us to separate projects. We weren't building our own individual chairs from beginning to end. Instead, the pieces were cut Henry Ford style - an assembly line.

One person mastered the saw:

While one took over the drilling:

As the pieces took shape, then came the sanding.

And more sanding.

We worried not about so-called swine flu here. Our biggest nemesis: dust lung.

A couple hours into day two, it was time to start assembling. It was hard to tell at first which piece went where. "Craps" and "darn its" were mumbled.

But once once the fanned back was screwed into shape, it was a sprint to the Adirondack finish.

Slowly the chairs began to take shape.

Adirondacks began to rise up along the wood shop landscape.

I resisted sitting on other people's chairs while they were still working to finish them. It wasn't easy. I mean, look at that tempting piece of work.

After the hours of labor (which left my arms sore for a solid day after) it was time to bring those babies home from the nursery.

Mine found an easy landing on the once-lonely porch and made fast friends with a bottle of Geary's.

Welcome home, Adirondack. Welcome home. And sorry about the rain.

Check out the classes offered through Portland Adult Education

Make Mom proud: run the Mother's Day 5K vicariously

The annual Sea Dogs Mother's Day 5K is on Sunday (ahem - that's Mother's Day kids. Quick, go glue some popsicle sticks together and annoint it with your 32-year-old thumb prints. Mom wil love it).

I had considered running jogging jog/walking it for the third year in a row.

But then I had a better idea.

Instead of running it this year, I thought I'd just go back to my Couch to Beacon blog and re-read the Mother's Day 5K entry from 2008. Then it'd feel like I just ran it, without actually having to run anywhere.

Brilliant, yes? [Go ahead Mom, let your pride shine.]

For those who actually want to run it, registration is still open through Sunday morning. It's $18 and proceeds benefit Maine Breast Cancer [Race details and registration]

For those who just want that I-ran-it-in-a-vicarious-way feeling, here's a recap from last year:

Some say that the phrase, "It's not about winning" is just something non-winners invented to console themselves. And while that's 100% true, it's also important to acknowledge the effort that everyone put in.

1,926 racers crossed the finish line during the 2008 Sea Dogs Mother's Day 5K. That's over 500 more than '07, which helps explain why I placed 1,381 this time (as opposed to 1,150 the year before). My time improved by almost two minutes (33:38 from 35:16) - not exactly Guinness-worthy, but I'll take it!.

And sure, 1,380 people ran stronger and faster. 1,380 people beat me. 1,380 people can turn to me and say, "Ha! I'm better than you."

But that, of course, isn't the point. It doesn't matter that 1,380 people are faster than me. What matters is that I'm faster than 545 people.

Just a reminder, that's up from the 289 people I beat in 2007.

And if we're going to be honest here, there were a few runners who perhaps shouldn't have placed as well as they did. I don't mean to imply that anyone cheated - I didn't see any runners on Heelys or any sprinters hopping off Vespas just before the finish.

But I think you'll agree, this gentleman had an unfair advantage:

And I know it was Mother's Day, but overachieving just makes the rest of us look bad:

But it was a beautiful day for a run - temps just under 60 degrees, sun shining. Myself and two friends from the Reach the Beacon training opted to stick near the back of the pack so as to A) not get run over, and B) not be compelled to run too fast at the start. ("Start slow," John Rogers says. "Save your energy.")

Quite an impressive-looking mass of people.

This year's race didn't end in the panting, dehydrated, bottleneck we experienced last year. Runners were lead straight off to water, bananas and bagels.

This picture looks very ethereal - and could be bent metaphorically to show how crossing the finish line is a feeling akin to the calmness and joy one imagines is felt in heaven.

But really it was just my sweaty hands steaming up the camera phone.

And really, nothing beats finishing a race (however fast or slow) and being greeted by a kind feller with a flower.

Congrats to all who ran - whatever your time. I'll even say "Well done" to those crazy fast folks out there...though you still are, collectively, my nemesis.

++++++++++

See? Wudn't that damn near like actually running it? If you sit very still, you can even feel your calves getting sore.

A tasting room of one's own: Maine Mead Works

Buyer's remorse. It isn't limited to large expenditures like houses, Vespas or battery-powered robots with human faces that supposedly bake like Julia Child and give great foot massages.

Regret exists after smaller purchases too.

Remember the time you ordered that crispy bluegill and cheddar sandwich at that questionable street meat stand in town? Your trusty pal had insisted it was "mind-blowing" and worth all 800 cents. Of course you quickly discovered it was a travesty on a Kaiser roll and passed it off to a grateful pigeon...who then died only two bites in.

Your $8 gone, your thoughts consumed by inescapable hunger (and accidental pigeon murder), you spent the afternoon gnawing your own thumbs and wishing ill of aforementioned "friend."

It was money poorly spent. And proof that you can never really take someone else's word for it when it comes to things "you're just gonna love, I swear!"

Thus it behooves you to get a sample before you put your money down. Try things out before you commit.

Take Maine Mead Works for example. Even though praises seem to follow the stuff like a band of complimentary and well-meaning celebrity stalkers, you still can't know that it's right for you.

I've grown quite fond of Maine Mead myself, but then I've been known to eat fried bologna. (We make choices, see. We're not necessarily proud of all of them.)

You need to decide for you. And you can, thanks to the Maine Mead Works tasting room.

The tasting counter opened a couple of months ago in the Maine Mead Works winery on Anderson Street in Portland's East Bayside neighborhood.

It's open Wednesday, Thursday and Friday evenings and on Saturdays - or by appointment. And in addition to getting a sample of the Dry, Semi-Sweet and Blueberry Meads, you can snag a tour of the joint too.

Making mead is an impressive process, so I learned when I took a tour back in January.

Even better, you may soon get to try the process first hand. Eli Cayer and Ben Alexander are hoping to offer mead-making classes in the not-too-distant future.

Until then, head over to the tasting room and give Maine Mead Works a try.

It may be the single thing you and your bluegill-eating friend can both agree is swell. Really swell.

Two hours of Foreplay, two minutes of action

Perhaps the headline reminds you of an old boyfriend.

But alas, I refer instead to Saturday's Kentucky Derby.

The Junior League of Portland hosted a Kentucky Derby party upstairs at Foreplay - and the big hats were in abundance.

I showed up hatless - and in a pair of jeans - and felt severely under dressed. What, with all the quaint summer dresses and all.

The perfect opportunity to don a freakishly large lid, and I missed it.

My excuse: I prepared a quiche for the event.

Stop laughing - people actually ate it and most of them are still well enough to talk about it.

Aside from the big brimmed classics, there were some crafty hats too. This pink one reminds my of a My Little Pony I had once. Maybe I still have it. What's it to you?

Of course, if the hat envy becomes too much to bear, you can always fake it. (Remember how you handled that other old boyfriend?)

Three cheers for Photoshop!

My gamble on Papa Clem didn't yield me any prize money, but I did leave with a Kentucky Derby glass (which I accidentally broke the next day).

At least I have the memories.

Big hats and big winnings on Derby day