Jazz Breakfast at Portland Museum of Art

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.

Food and a flick at Smitty's Cinema

Going to the movies. It's been a fall-back option to the "What do you want to do tonight?" question for decades. It's not the most creative suggestion, but it works thanks to its simplicity and cheapness.

Dinner is inevitably added to the plan as a pre-movie warm up. But the thing about dinner is you're often compelled to, you know, talk. Have a conversation. Swap stories.

It's a lot of effort some nights. But try eating in silence just once and suddenly you're "awkward" and "no longer needed at the office."

Bless Smitty's Cinemas for providing a conversation-free dining experience. All you need to do is sit back, chew your fries and watch the big ol' screen up front.

Smitty's in Biddeford (there's also one in Sanford) looks like any other movie theater at the outset. Brightly patterned carpeting flecked with escapee popcorn, the scent of microwaved butter, the electronic gunfire of a video game audible from the arcade.

The real Smitty's draw isn't obvious until you press through the door to the theater. Goodbye rows of tightly packed seats. Hello table for six! Hello rolling, reclining chair from heaven!

There are a handful of tables in the theater - and rows of seats up front if you're really hankering for the traditional theater experience. If you didn't grab a menu from the ticket counter a waiter will bring you one. That's right - a waiter.

It's a dinner-while-you-movie kind of theater. The menu consists of the deep fried basics like chicken fingers and fries, burgers and nachos. Beer ($2.99 Bud, Bud Light, Michelob Light, Miller Light, Coors Light, Rolling Rock and Michelob Ultra), a few mixed drinks ($4.99 Bacardi and cola or Bacardi and punch) and even wine is available as well.

Doors open long before the movie starts, so you can snag a table and get chowin' if you don't want food distracting you from your movie concentration. But you can order when the lights go down, too, if you dig the screen-watching/burger-chewing combo.

The theater is dark during the movie, though still well-lit enough for you to see what you're eating. Three cheers for that - since we were brought a side sauce that appeared to be growing some sort of fuzz. The waitress apologized profusely for the hairy marinara, but the full bill came at the end of the meal. Oh well.

It's a different way to see a regular old movie - with a bigger screen than your apartment and more personal space than other theaters. And being able to sip a couple of beers while you watch (without having to hide the bottle under your coat jacket) is kind of nice.

It isn't gourmet dinning here, but that's not the point. You don't go FOR the food - you go because there IS food (and drink).

C.I.A. Improv at City Theater

Get your laughs watching strangers trip over the Old Port sidewalks if you must, but laughter is best when it's guilt-free and pure. And good, pure laughs are dealt out in good score by Biddeford's C.I.A.

Wipe that image of suited government men out of your mind - this C.I.A. is Comedy Improv Alliance. They started up last year based out of Biddeford's City Theater. And thanks to new sponsorship by Blow Bros./B.B.I. Waste Industries (no joke) they've got several shows planned for the upcoming year.

Lucky for us Portland folk, Biddeford is just an easy 60-cent toll away.

The City Theater is a well-kept classic amongst the aged mills of downtown - the old-school signage makes it easy to find off Main Street.

After paying $10 at the door, my friend and I opted for front-row seats (despite that nagging apprehension that sitting so close would make us easy targets for the "audience participation" referenced in the calendar listing).

While waiting for the improv festivities to begin, we were both handed three colored slips of paper and a pencil. One each slip, audience members were asked to supply skit fodder - specifically: a memory from a past family holiday, a sentence from a recently overheard conversation and something that - if you heard it in reference to another person - might make you think negatively about him/her.

The slips were collected and a few moments later the show began. C.I.A. "misdirector" Steve Burnette briefly welcomed everyone for coming out and introduced the night's seven players.

And then they were off. The first "game" was The Dating Game - and the audience was asked to give the each of the three contestants an unusual habit and a mood. The result: a hyper-giddy woman with Tourettes, an angry woman with excessive gas and a paranoid woman who repeated everything. And it was hilarious.

The players adopted their personas instantaneously - the gaseous woman cringing in apparent discomfort every few moments and waving her hand behind her to disperse the fumes. The curse words came flying - followed by crazed giggles - from the woman with Tourettes and Miss Paranoid's eyes darted with the fervor of an over-caffeinated conspiracy theorist.

The bachelor asked questions - though I can't recall a single one of them. The antics of the bachelorettes was too distractingly entertaining.

After the laughter and applause from that game died down, one of the players did what all comedy audiences fear most: She asked for a volunteer. My breathe stopped. I looked around (please don't pick me!), fiddled with my camera (not me, not me, not me), watched the walls (good lord, people, someone volunteer!).

Thankfully someone did. A high school-aged guy walked up on stage and took a seat. He was asked a stream of questions about his day (he woke up, got dressed, skipped breakfast, went to school, played cards at lunch...you get the idea). And much to his chagrin - after he recounted his routine in enough depth - the players began acting out a day in his life.

And again, it was hilarious. Funny-on-the-fly is impressive enough - but it's cool to watch the players feel their way through a scene without any preparation or discussion.

Later there was a game in which players acted out the fond (or not so fond) holiday memories the audience had written down. In another, players had to fold the sentences of conversation we had given them into a scene (which, thanks to the suggestions of the audience, centered around a police raid at a gay bar).

Volunteers were requested again to be the "buzzers" for a game of Jeopardy - and three much braver people than I raised their hands. A sincere "thank you" to them - and to courageous audience members throughout the state - for making it possible for the rest of us cowards to hide in our seats.

The whole show was a riot - too many one-liners to recount. Let it suffice it to say that I laughed nearly without pause for over an hour and a half - quite a bargain for 10 bucks.

But the best line of the night, by far: "Apple cranberry juice - works well both as a chaser and a lubricant."

I'm a fan of comedy in all its forms, but there's something tangibly electric about improv - that on-the-fly energy you don't get with stand up. You're not just waiting for the punchline - you're involved, you're wondering where it's all going to go, you're trying to come up with the joke first. But you can't - not like these guys can. That's when you realize that good improv is a talent.

Check C.I.A. out for yourself - you'll see what I mean.

Cross-Country Skiing at L.L. Bean

Sure, it's possible that a heavy dose of prescription medication is responsible for your coworker's winter-long serenity.

But chances are pretty good he's keeping himself sane this season with some good old fashioned outdoor therapy.
If you're going to survive winter without a weekly keyboard-chucking meltdown, you're going to need some winter activity. And L.L. Bean's Walk-On Adventures are cheap and easy way to get it.

Snowshoeing and cross-country skiing "adventures" are available this winter for $15 (which includes instruction, equipment and 1-2 hours out there trying not to fall down).

Having never cross-country skied before, I wasn't about to dish out the cash for equipment (and find out two days later I hated the sport, curse fate, chuck the skis into the basement where they'd rot for six months until I sold them at a garage sale for $10, which I'd then waste on a chicken wrap and some chips).

So instead I tagged along on a walk-on, where I was told we'd get the luxury of trying out the sport without the monetary expenditure.

Our group met up inside the retail store (at the Outdoor Adventure info center near the new hunting/fishing wing) and filled out the obligatory "should-you-die-your-mom-can't-sue" forms. We boarded a bus with Instructor Suzanne (a sure sign you're on your way to something special) that dumped us off at the nearby training "lodge" (a repurposed house). We were greeted by Tom inside, who instructed us to grab a pair of boots and take a seat.

Tom and Suzanne (of bus driving fame) spent the next 20 minutes going over the basics (i.e., how to lock your boot into the ski, how to hold the poles) until we could absorb no more and we headed outside.

No one fell putting on their skis (the falling came later) but Tom prepared us for the inevitable with a quick demonstration of the "turtle." If falling isn't embarrassing enough, rolling into turtle position will surely kill your pride. A few practice steps to the right - a few to the left - and we were ready to get moving.

The field we skied in was adjacent to a moderately busy road, which I noticed at one point, but forgot about quickly. We followed - single file - a set of precut tracks in a large practice circle, with Tom and Suzanne skiing alongside us to offer helpful tip. Still, no one fell.

After confidences were built up high enough, Tom led us into the field, keeping close to the tree line (apparently a good out-of-the-wind place to ski). Not being at all graceful or athletic, I spent the next twenty minutes unsteadily scooting along, staring at my skis in mild panic.

Eventually, as anxiety gave way to a rhythmic push of my left ski, right ski, left ski, right ski, I was able to actually look up.

Not a bad-looking view.

Although amply warm, I didn't find the exertion overwhelming (although a few of my cohorts had already begun removing layers). And Tom, as any good teacher does, told us we were doing better than most groups (riiiiight). Maybe it was a lie, but I'll take it just the same.

Seeing as we were all such fantastic cross-country skiers (don't argue, we're just going to ride out that delusion) Tom decided to take us into the woods.

Here the tracks weren't as easy to follow, and leaves and branches on the path kept tripping me up. And here is where people began falling down. First it was an icy decline (fair enough, it's to be expected). Then it was just an icy patch (again, ice is slippery. Falling happens). But once you've seen someone fall, and you have the notion of potentially falling in your head, it does something awful to your nerves.

People began dropping for no apparent reason. "We're like spooked horses," I heard someone say. Perfect analogy.

We stopped to enjoy some much-appreciated hot chocolate (thanks, Tom) and take a breather, but trying to simply stand still was nearly more trouble than it was worth. Looking back, I think think Tom's "hot chocolate break" was a well-disquised set up. Think about it: ten unsteady skiers, spillable hot drinks and a resting place that just happens to be a giant patch of ice. I'm just sayin'.

We headed back toward the lodge with a little less enthusiasm and a little more I-think-I'm-going-to-fall shrieking (and yes, more tumbles). But seeing as most of our group was brand-spanking new to cross-country skiing, I think we did pretty darn well.

We were out for about an hour and a half (it flew by), which was just long enough to get a real feel for the sport but not so long that you needed to crawl back to the bus. Still, it was nice to get the skis off.

Truthfully, there's an ulterior motive for the Walk-On adventures: L.L. Bean is hoping you'll test out a sport, fall in love and return to the store to spend your hard-earned dough on equipment. I figured we'd have to hear out a sales pitch or two before the afternoon was over.

I was wrong.

Tom answered questions (of which there were many about what kind of equipment to buy, his suggestions on the essentials to get started, etc.) and encouraged us to grab catalogs or browse the store. But it was a no-pressure event.

I have no complaints about the entire day. In fact, I'm thinking an archery walk-on this spring might not be a bad idea - maybe some target shooting. I'll try it all.

And for $15, you can't go wrong.

Swing Dancing at North Deering Grange Hall

I hadn't thought about my first school dance since...well, probably since the day after my first school dance.

That awkward sixth-grade memory of a nearly empty dance floor, some boy's sweaty palms and me - unable to stop cracking bad jokes because it was the only way I knew how to deal with the intense nervousness.

Granted, when a couple of friends and I walked into the North Deering Grange Hall recently, anxiety was low (though the bad jokes always keep coming). It wasn't until my friend Victoria joked, "It's like junior high all over again. Guys on one side, girls on the other," that a hint of that strobe-lit gymnasium panic came back to me.

We were there to swing. Or at least learn a few basic steps thanks to the one-hour beginners lesson. And we weren't alone. At least two dozen others milled around the large main room or took a seat in one of the many chairs that had been pushed up against the wall. There were a few older fellas (and by older I mean AARP older) and a few younger (high school age, if I had to guess) though most hovered somewhere in between.

A few minutes after 8:00 p.m. instructor Ashley Berry (who I hadn't realized was the instructor because she seemed so young - my bad), asked us to create two lines: ladies in one, gents in the other. With the two lines facing each other, it was clear that he women outnumbered the men - though not by much.

Ashley started with the basic steps: step, step, rock step, step (if I remember correctly) and after running through it a few times in lines, had us split into pairs.

I should note that it isn't necessary to bring a partner to the lesson (a perk for those single wannabe swing dancers). Unfortunately it also means that some swing dancing ladies must learn to share (for the record, no cat fights broke out on this night). A few women also opted to "be the man" to even out the pairs.

Ashley and her partner (who, we couldn't help but notice, bore a striking resemblance to Clark Kent) moved into the center of the room and called out the steps as the couples tried their luck. After a few minutes, partners were swapped (remember the sharing thing).

Though clumsy at first, everyone seemed to get it quickly. A few turns were tried and some more-complicated maneuvering. I found the steps to be simple, but never mastered the rhythm enough to not count out loud.

As 9:00 neared, the crowd in the room began to thicken. And as Ashley congratulated us on a class well done - and we applauded ourselves for the effort - the live band took to the stage.

It was nothing but live swing for the rest of the night. And wow - some of those folks can dance. Forget my stiff step, step, rock, step. These guys were flinging each other all over the place. With the lights low and the band loud, it didn't even look like the same room.

It seemed like there was a core group of folks that probably show up every month - but I didn't feel out of place as a new person.

My friend Victoria danced with one of the instructors and a guy we met a few months ago at a hip-hop class (essentially, you could show up alone after the lesson and not worry about finding someone to dance with). I, on the other hand, used the need to take photos as an excuse to not embarrass myself further.

Ashley did a first-rate job teaching, though she informed me that she's not the usual teacher.