Art, they say, is subjective. That means there’s plenty to be subjective about in Portland.

There are enough galleries and studios in town to keep your inner art critic well exercised for a year. (Try the First Friday Art walk. If you’re not an art fan, start tipping back the free wine until something finally speaks to you. Everyone knows wine makes you profound and intellectual – oh, and richer.)

But there’s unexpected art everywhere, too. Like the Post Office mailbox on Forest Ave. that’s painted to look like R2-D2. That’s art, right?

What about a ball of pants? Is it art? Or just the unfortunate result of putting off laundry day a few weeks too long?

I’ll defer to more experienced art enthusiasts in most cases, but my entirely-clueless-when-it-comes-to-art rule of thumb is, if I could recreate it, it isn’t good.

Take this, for example:

Some construction paper and a stapler and you’ve pretty much got that one covered.

So let's forget all the canvas, all the clay, all the turnpike underpasses and all the back alley brick walls for a moment. There's a new art movement driving through Portland.

Car art is taking over the city. In the last week I spotted a couple of fine works parked in the area.

A Caddy skillfully splattered with paint.

I call it, “You can’t control me anymore, Dad!”

A red pickup embellished with spray paint.

I call it, “I am, therefore I stencil”

It's art for the people. Even I was able to create some car art of my own.

I call it, “Who moved that #&%*$# rock wall?”

Go ahead and tell yourself Labor Day isn't the official end of summer. "Another 19 days!" But my already fading almost-tan says differently. We're now on a fast track collision course with another brisk-winded leaf-peeping season. I know, it hurts.

Labor Day says so long flip flops and hello socks. Air out the tightly packed sweater bin and wake the fleece from it's summer slumber.

Labor Day says summer is over.

More than once over the last couple of days, a fashion-conscious Labor Day die hard also reminded me not to violate the long-ignored “whites after Labor Day” rule. Thanks, but I pretty much gave up wearing white six years ago after an embarrassing spaghetti incident that left a good, honest white shirt with permanent and unsightly injuries.

It’s fairly guaranteed, if it’s white I’ll ruin it. An accidental swipe of a pen, a leaky coffee lid or the ominous "unknown origin."

And white pants? Kudos to those of you who can pull it off, but I’m the girl who’s most likely to sit in the melted ice cream puddle - so I think I'll pass.

Thus, my wardrobe isn’t divided into seasons. It’s divided into what fits (a rotation of four pairs of jeans), what doesn’t (the stuff that fit a year ago that I keep hanging in the closet as a masochistic reminder of what used to be) and that beckoning pile of “comfortable” clothes that says, "Go ahead, have another beer. I'll be here waiting."

But your pride resists. Those sweats or "fat pants" or otherwise loose-fitting items are worn only when desperately ill, when cleaning or when you need milk/bread/sugared cereal/whiskey at 7:00 a.m. and you're 99 percent certain you won't be bumping into anyone you know.

But I digress.

Thanks Labor Day - even though you kill summer every year, at least you give us a day off to mourn.

There’s a woman standing at the edge of the fishless pond that marks the center of your residential neighborhood. She’s holding what appears to be a makeshift fishing pole (complete with yellow-rope fishing line) and she’s “fishing” for a metal rod protruding about 18 inches above the water’s surface.

That woman would be my mother.

Sure, we all have mom stories. Aside from being the altruistic caretakers of our youth, they’re also prone to “random acts of momness” that make good fodder for some light-hearted ribbing.

They’re the kind of stories you rehash on holidays and they’re the kind of stories your memory replays when you’ve read every Happy Birthday, Mom card in the store and concluded that none of them do her justice.

Hence why the fishing story continues to play over in my head: it’s my mom’s birthday.

Unfortunately I wasn’t present when the fishing went down (oh how I wish I had been), but my mom passed it along knowing that I’d appreciate it.

A couple months back my mom decided to hose off her patio furniture. Once the monster umbrella had been sufficiently scrubbed down, she returned it to its rightful place over the table – open, so it could dry.

Enter a sudden storm, complete with hail and high winds, that sent my mom (and her mom, who was visiting) scurrying into the house. But that umbrella! “Well I’m not running back out into the hail for a silly umbrella,” mom thinks. “It’s pretty well secured to the table. I’ll just keep an eye on it.”

A few moments pass and, sure enough, a flash of something shoots past the window. There, in the backyard, the umbrella rocks upside down – either due to the wind or in an effort to comfort itself after that unexpected flight.

Before my mom can move to fetch it, the umbrella moves toward the fence, gets momentarily caught, then takes a leap over into a field.

It rolls on its side, gaining speed, bearing down on a parking lot full of cars. By the time she gets to where the umbrella should be (perhaps nose-down in the windshield of a neighbor’s car) it’s nowhere to be found.

Searching and head-scratching ensue, until a keen eye spots a metal rod poking out of a nearby pond. The rest of the umbrella, it’s assumed, is submerged.

What happens next is a telling moment. Most people would accept the loss and leave the umbrella to its watery grave. But not my mom. She’s getting that puppy back.

Back home she constructs a 15-foot pole using every mop or broom handle she can find. With the colossal pole and a good length of yellow rope, she returns to the scene.

The makeshift pole, however, barely reaches halfway. Even attempts to lasso the umbrella failed (there’s not much lasso training going on in the suburbs these days – but really it’s never too late to learn).

Eventually passing motorists pull over – asking what in the world she’s doing and probably wondering if she’d just escaped from some nearby facility.

No, she’s not crazy. She just wants her damn umbrella back.

One of the generous motorists (who happens to live nearby) agrees to get a pool raft from home, strip to his shorts, enter that questionable body of water and rescue that drowning piece of patio furniture.

The umbrella is saved - thank you kind neighbor. And, bless my grandmother, she took pictures.

So cheers on your birthday, mom – your determination is infallible and the mom stories never cease to entertain.

I had a professor in college who gave an entire lecture on how people don't complain enough. Yes, I scoffed then just as you may be scoffing now.

But he wasn't referring to the daily grumblings about that extra 15 pounds, that lawn that grows too fast or that jerk next door who insists on mowing his lawn in the buff. Instead, he harkened back to a terribly constructed pair of dress shoes that he purchased (for a decent amount of money) - shoes that soon after their first wearing began to fall apart.

The problem, he said, was that people would curse the shoes, curse the brand, toss them into the trash and never look back. He, on the other hand, wrote a letter to the shoe manufacturer relaying his dissatisfaction and the manufacturer responded with a box full of shoes - just his size.

I remember asking myself why I'd want ten pairs of bad shoes, regardless of whether or not I paid for them. I still wonder that. But I think his point was that people weren't diligent enough about voicing their opinions when a product didn't meet their standards. I think he also wanted to stress that free stuff is always good.

After the admonishments on the last post, it's pretty clear that no one here has trouble voicing their displeasure. And that's fine. What floats for one person sinks for another. It happens. But ouch, some of those opinions sting.

So after the ample reproach directed my way, I sought comfort the same way many downtrodden cubicle workers do - with several highly potent drinks and The Office.

Ah, now that's better.

I'll have to contact my old professor to make sure he's since rewritten his lecture.

First there were Tupperware parties. Then came Mary Kay, candles and jewelry made from recycled material in Africa.

I've admittedly been to my fair share (because hey, there's always food, usually alcohol and a slim chance that you might walk away with some free stuff).

There's also a good chance that you won't be able to afford anything there.

Myself, I'm a resale and clearance rack shopper. I'm broke and used to being broke and don't usually succumb to "this is a must-have item" pitches. But that doesn't make the purchasing period of the evening any easier.

Typically, when my cohorts begin pulling out their checkbooks and filling out order forms, I'll make myself busy with the chips and dip - or become suddenly intrigued by a hanging plant or ceramic animal in another room.

But I'm not a total cheap skate. I've purchased an essential item or two - take the beer bread mix from last year. The sales pitch, "just add one 12-ounce beer, stir and bake" was all I needed to hear.

Unfortunately I failed to take into consideration that even simplistic directions like "just add one beer and stir" would still produce an inedible, rectangular disaster in my kitchen. Who screws up a two-ingredient recipe? I do.

But this weekend was the the most blasphemous of all get-togethers: the psychic party. The set-up is similar to its party cousins, only instead of walking out with a knock-off purse or a $150 tourmaline ring, you go home with your future…theoretically.

It’s okay to laugh. Despite the efforts of Montel Williams and prime time TV dramas, psychics haven’t been able to kick their “for entertainment purposes only” status in the mainstream. But I like entertainment. And who am I to say this psychic doesn’t have the power of foresight? Open mind, open mind, open mind.

So I enter the room and take a seat at the table with madam psychic. Greetings are exchanged and, somehow, we begin discussing how I dyed my hair jet black and used to iron it (yes, with an iron iron) back in high school. Then she begins.

Psychic: “You don’t say much. But what you say has meaning.”

[Um, was she not just listening?]

Me: “Actually, I talk a great deal.”

Psychic: “Well, what you say is important. You don’t just talk.”

Me: “Actually, that’s not true at all. I can spend an hour critiquing a Dunkin’ Donuts commercial and that’s not very important.”

Psychic: “Yes, but you’re not prone to babbeling.”

This is right about the time my open mind completely closed up. She really couldn’t have been any more off the mark. Thus, everything after that was met with a smile, a nod and a mental “riiiiiiight.”

But hey, if I DO change careers, become a flight attendant, meet a freakishly tall guy on a plane, marry him and move to Michigan, well, I guess I’ll just have to live with that.

OK, I enjoy beer as much as the next guy.

Strike that. I love beer. I love beer gardens in the summer and supporting the local beer economy year-round. I love beer labels with offensive names or pictures and beer made with the slightest hit of blueberry. I love happy hour beer and ready-for-work beer - in a glass, in a bottle, in a 40-oz. bottle covered by a paper bag.

Of course, caffeine and I are good friends, too. And considering the number of coffee shops within walking distance of where I sit, I'm clearly not alone.

But alcohol and caffeine together? Jagermeister and Red Bull have been doing it successfully for years.

But Maine's Attorney General isn't seeing the benefits of alcoholic energy drinks like Sparks, Bud Extra (referred to as "B to the E" on the web site. I'm not joking.) and Liquid Charge.

The story from the Sun Journal: Feds urged to crackdown on energy-drink claims

The article states:

...the attorneys general warn that aggressive marketing of alcoholic energy drinks targets young people who are buying energy drinks without alcohol.

Also targeted are middle-aged borderline alcoholics who are sick of passing out in the men's room at 8:00 p.m.

I haven't tried it yet, but I would should the opportunity arise. There's plenty worse you could be putting in your beer. Say,pizza, for example:

Suburban Hobbyist Puts New Spin On Beer And Pizza

To quote a Midwestern friend who tried it recently at Beerfest in Milwaukee: "It's not awful. It's not good, either."

The down side to working in a waist-high-cubicle village is that you overhear everyone's conversations. The up side, of course, is that you overhear everyone's conversations.

Now is when I should probably offer an apology to my not-on-vacation colleagues who were compelled to overhear an...um...non-work-related conversation about...

[At this time I'd like to warn you that the following entry may not be appropriate first thing in the morning, or at any time of day for those averse to the word 'urine']

...urine. More specifically, the animal urine derivative "taurine." A colleague kindly (or not so kindly) filled me in on the fact that taurine (remember, it comes from urine) is found in most energy drinks like Monster, SoBe, vitaminwater, etc.

I guess he figured he'd share the info seeing as I had a nearly empty can of Celsius in my hand. I (perhaps naively) didn't think Celsius was an energy drink (I'd had a bad Monster experience not too long ago and try to steer clear of the stuff. But I'll keep my coffee).

So I turned the Celsius can in my hand to glance and the ingredients. Sure enough, there it was: taurine.

The saliva in my mouth suddenly felt very thick. I had the urge to spit into the garbage can, though I didn't. I got a drink of water.

The conversation then degenerated further into a discussion of the specific ingredients of the hormone-replacement therapy drug Premarin, but I won't get into that.

UPDATE: Well, it could be worse:

Norridgewock manure spill a stinky mess

If a friend of yours up and died within four hours of hanging out with you, your neighbors would likely think nothing of it - pass it off as an unfortunate reality.

If 25 friends - on separate occasions - up and died within four hours of you showing up...well, you'd be a lot less popular. And you might be in prison.

Unless, of course, you were a cat. Then you'd be heralded as an end-of-life companion, a phenomenon, and doctors would write about you in the New England Journal of Medicine.

Oscar the cat's story is also noted in today's Lewiston Sun Journal: Nursing home feline has uncanny knack for predicting death.

"Uncanny knack" doesn't seem to relay the gravity of this cat's "talents" - or the fact that this talent makes Oscar the most friendless living creature in New England. Sure, being able to predict death makes you a cool topic of conversation, but it won't get you invited to dinner parties, weddings or backyard keggers. Strike that, you probably would be invited to a kegger.

Poor Oscar. I mean, we've all been screamed out of a nursing home room once or twice, but once you agree to give grandma her teeth back she usually lets you back in.

But making chit-chat with the death cat? I don't think so.

It comes back.

Early in the morning.

Very early.