Mary's Walk brings do-gooders [and some dark history] out on Main Street

Yesterday morning a crowd overtook the muddy lawn in front of Thornton Academy. Their "Slancha" shirts, laced running shoes and good spirits gave them away straight off.

It was the 11th Annual Mary's Walk/Kerrymen Pub Road Race. And a fine good-feelin' day it was.

The walk, for me and a town's worth of others, has become an annual endeavor. While I never knew Mary Libby (in whose honor the event was created) and I don't have any close friends or family who've met with and battled cancer, the cause is still one I believe in.

Because despite all the bar lounging, potty mouthing and inappropriate conversation starters, I still like to be a do-gooder. At least every once in a while.

So I joined the hundreds of walkers marching down Main Street in Saco. Most donned the Mary's Walk Slancha shirts. Some got into the St. Paddy's spirit with green hats and pants. And I spotted one group of folks walking in Hawaiian shirts and grass skirts.

Feeling altogether altruistic, I decided to sign myself up as a bone marrow donor too. Because if someone can find a good use for my bone marrow, they're welcome to have it. I'll do my best to take care of it until then.

Aside from the paperwork, I was asked to swap the inside of my cheek for the all important DNA. Should a match come up between now and my 61st birthday, I'll be getting a call. Glad to do it.

But Sunday wasn't all free hot dogs and balloon bouquets.

I also got wind of some dark Saco history, thanks to a handy historical marker on the side of the road. Historical markers often grab my attention because I'm into useless information. Not that history is useless - it's just that, well, I seem to have backed myself into a corner here.

So this marker is on Main Street, sitting comfortably close to a quaint white gazebo. I figure there must be some story behind it involving a stoic early settler or heroic Sacoite.

No, it's the story of Mary Bean. She died during a surgery gone awry and her physician tossed her into a Saco brook. The discovery of her body the following spring lead to a widely publicized trial, unearthed secrets and a couple of novels, including The Murder of Mary Bean.

Not the story I expected to run into this weekend, but I guess that's the way the world goes. Communities often have a few bad seeds or an unfortunate past. But judging by today's Main Street, flooded with good-spirited people and some welcome good weather, I'm still optimistic about the direction Southern Maine is headed.

The Internet is a gift you give yourself

When you're younger, birthdays are day to ask for things. It's a time to shamelessly make lists of all your toy box yearnings - Barbie accoutrements, dirt bikes, Game Boys and whatnot.

Sure, there's Christmas. But the magic of the Christmas wish list is soured by the knowledge that you also have go buy/make/do things for other people.

The birthday wish list is the purest of all lists because it's 100% self-indulgent. They're Toys R Us fantasies mapped out on paper.

My lists often centered on the acquisition of all things Cabbage Patch. But I do recall asking for some rather absurd things too - like the year I wanted a bowling ball engraved with my name. And no, I wasn't really into bowling. I just thought a personalized bowling ball sounded "rad."

My parents, not shockingly, didn't get me one.

I remember asking for a robot that would clean my room. And I think I may have once requested a Jetson car that I could drive to school and then fold into a briefcase.

I asked for these silly things and no one ever scolded me for being selfish. Because when you're a kid and it's your birthday, there's no such thing as "egocentric."

But somewhere in your teens people stop asking you what you want. Maybe they've stopped caring. But who cares, they give you cash! They write checks!

I'm at the point now when I just get birthday cards. No cash. No checks. No money whatsoever.

Just "birthday wishes" that aren't redeemable for a small fry, let alone an indoor s'more-making kit (which is, truth be told, what I really wanted).

So I went proactive this year and got myself something special: I got me the Internet.

No more leaching off the neighbor's wireless!

It's not that I've grown suddenly weary of using a service I'm not paying for - really I'm an ardent supporter of sponging whenever possible. But wireless in my apartment had grown fickle. For months I could only pick up a decent signal in my bathroom. Then not at all.

And I need the Internet. Don't roll your eyes - you need it too. We all do. It's an all-consuming force.

Besides, if I'm going to successfully swap smoking with a debilitating addiction to online gambling, I'm going to need 24-hour web access. Goals, people!

And while the Internet is the gift that keeps on giving, I'm starting to think cable is a curse.

After serious consideration, a long list of pros and cons and a consultation with a spiritual healer, I opted to get cable too. I haven't had cable in any apartment I've ever lived in, but it just felt like the right thing to do.

So the cable guy came yesterday, bringing with him the Internet and over 100 channels of God knows what. Last evening, as I readied to head out the door, I found myself captivated by the made-for-television thriller "The Perfect Tenant" on Lifetime Movie Network.

I mean, this woman rented her guest house to a murderer! She'd just let danger in the door and there's no telling what would happen!

That's not true. It's a Lifetime movie, I think we can all guess what happened.

At any rate, it took a concerted effort to off the TV and leave the house.

I'd thought my will was stronger, but cable's grip is not to be taken lightly.

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.

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.

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.

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.