Update schmupdate

On this bright and lovely day — the first we’ve had in more than a week and one of the few in months — I was greeted by one of the homeless men in my neighborhood, who croaked, “Miss, do you have, do you like oral sex?” He was lurching into my personal space, but he didn’t catch me completely off guard since I saw him say something to a woman walking toward me. Tough streetwise urban chickette that I am, I shook it off pretty quickly. I wonder what our conversation would have been like if I’d replied, “Very much, thanks for asking.”

The weekend was rather eventful. Cap and recap went out in a boat:

The weekend started off with a whimper — I was feeling really down all day, despite having skived off work and everything. I spent the afternoon editing D.’s latest story, which is actually becoming a novel, and managed
to get kind of upset about a couple parts of it. We were supposed to go to W.’s party and then shake some rock action at the Lizard Lounge, but instead we ended up talking on the couch for 2+ hours. It was good, though.
He has a knack for dissipating my sundry anxieties. Such a primo egg, he.

T. called us shortly after 9:00 a.m. to ask if we wanted to get some brunch at Johnny D’s. Afterward, we decided to go to the Waltham Friends of the Library book sale to see if we could get anything interesting. It was mighty picked-over by the time we got there, but T. found a Popular Mechanics encyclopedia of handy home projects from 1943, and I got a couple of early 20th-century cookbooks and housekeeping manuals, and at a quarter for paperbacks and 50 cents for hardcovers, I couldn’t complain too much.

The four of us then agreed to head up to Portland, Maine for the afternoon. Not the nicest day for a drive, what with the cold and damp and drizz galore.

Our stay in the land of ports began rather inauspiciously: just as we had pulled into town, the SUV in front of us collided with a green car running the red light. Watching the crash was surreal — it seemed to be happening too fast to process but also in slo-mo, especially after the initial (loud!) impact, when the green car bounced off at an angle and up onto the sidewalk into the corner of a building. We pulled over and K. called 911 on my phone, but other witnesses were already on the case. The air smelled burnt, and the cars were a disaster, but the drivers got out of their respective vehicles and were able to walk away.

It actually took several minutes for the realization to occur to me that had we been driving just a little faster, we might have been the car that was broadsided, and D. and I would probably be toast despite seatbelts — T.’s little convertible has front airbags but isn’t exactly the sturdiest vehicle known to man. The revelation about how close we’d come to being pulverized made me shake as we parked and walked around the Portland Museum of Art.

After about an hour at the museum, we walked around the quaintsy downtown for a spell. T. and K. each bought one of those wine bottle openers where you spear the cork and blow the cork out with a puff of CO2. We dithered around, looking for the perfect chowder house or lobster shack for dinner, and settled on Boone’s Lobster. Inside, it was pretty bland — a few nautical knickknacks like examples of sailors’ knots hung on the wall, but that was it — but the food and beer were decent.

We stopped in Yarmouth to see the Eartha, the world’s largest illuminated globe. The DeLorme building was closed, but Eartha was lit up and pretty impressive looking. Sadly, the state-run liquor stores in New Hampshire were closed by the time we drove by.

My plans for holding D. as my love-hostage all day were thwarted when T. called and invited us over — she and K. had found a bunch of paint-by-numbers kits, including a 50th-anniversary reissue of the very first paint-by-numbers set ever, a weird semi-cubist still life entitled “Abstract No. One”. It was my favorite, easily whipping the pants off of leaping trout or deer-in-front-of-a-covered-bridge. I’d always wanted to do a paint-by-numbers picture when I was a kid — I remember my mom doing a few, and the swirly look of the oil paints as you stirred them with a toothpick certainly took me back to those innocent 1970s. We worked on them all afternoon, drinking wine and listening to music. It was hard to tear myself away — something strangely soothing and satisfying to see the shapes come together cleanly — even though I had a ferocious crick in my neck.

T., D., and I had burgers of various substances at the Burren (K. had to go home to water his plants). I’d hoped it would be laid-back, but unfortunately, it was Seisun night and the fiddle was a-whirling. Some chick in a dimestore-looking veil and a pink feather boa tied around her waist bopped from table to table; it must have been a bridal shower or something.

I would keep writing, but that would cheapen me in your eyes, I’m sure.


  1. From stompoutloud on 06/11/03

    actually the conversation would have stopped with the bum if you had said that. He wouldn’t have expected you to say that! :-)

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