The Muddy Rudder in Yarmouth, ask if Millie’s working, because she’s a kick-ass waitress.
Things I want to do in Maine in 2004:
1. Go on a Bailey Island or Portland Cruise
2. Walk around the Back Bay in Portland (I never have!)
3. Walk the bike path in Brunswick (I never have!)
4. Go to Boothbay or Bar Harbor
Things I do not need to bother packing when I’m packing for Maine in 2004:
1. Blowdryer or any kind of hair styling things (curling iron, etc.); you won’t use ’em, and if you need a blowdryer there’s one on the premises
2. More than 5 pairs of pants or 5 shirts. There’s a washer, y’know.
We saw a license plate that said “IMI UBU2”, and I thought Debbie was going to pass out, she was laughing so hard as we discussed the possibility that rather than it meaning “I am I, you be you, too”, it was someone’s name. “Ibi Ubu!” she giggled all the way home. “Ibi Ubu!”
Maybe you had to be there.
And lastly, while we were at The Christmas Tree Shop in Portland, I picked up a paperback, read one paragraph in the middle of the book, and decided that it was probably the worst book ever written. Blood Posse, y’all. I’d even rank it below that fucking Mulvaneys book.
* * *
So the spud has decided that she’s interested in collecting coins, this interest probably brought about by her visit with her paternal grandparents earlier this summer. So she wanted a certain kind of envelope to keep said coins in, and I ran her over to Staples last night so we could find them and buy them and she’d shut the hell up about them.
As we drove home, the spud sitting in the passenger’s seat, happily clutching her box of envelopes to her, I reflected upon just how BORING the act of collecting coins is. I mean, the only thing more boring is collecting stamps, I’m sure.
And then I remembered that when I myself was just a tad younger than she, I collected bottle caps. I had hundreds of the fucking things, all kept in a coffee can, and every time someone in my family found a bottle cap, they were all “Hey, do you have this one?”, and I’d get excited and say “I do, but this is in MUCH better shape!”, and I’d hold it happily to my heart.
One day I realized what a freakish thing it was, to collect bottle caps for no reason, just the sheer act of collecting them, I decided I was lame, and I tossed ’em in the trash.
They’d probably be worth a fortune these days.
(Hee!)
* * *
And amen to this:
Ex-Smokers are not ex-smokers, they are the televangelists of QuitWorld, and do they have a story for you!
I’ve never smoked (except for that one week when I was 19 and didn’t actually inhale. The first time I did actually inhale was the last time I ever put a cigarette to my mouth. But I think I’ve told that story before), and I’m far more tolerant of smokers than many ex-smokers.
See, I’m a big fan of “Say it once, maybe twice, and then keep it to yourself, because NO ONE is interested”, whether it’s about smoking or drinking or failing to clean the bathroom in a timely manner.
* * *
The sunset from our back yard.
Miz Poo hanging out in the back yard.
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