Memorial Day

Ah, Memorial Day. The angry sounds of burning rubber. The twang of Conway Twitty on a portable radio. Tiny dogs with fearsome names yap and their deft masters control them with stern shouts ("Bullet! Bandit! Shut the f@#& up!").

As tempers flared with the rising heat of the day, we quickly packed our bags with water, snacks, books and our tattered volume of NY Times "Easy" Crosswords for our first beach trip of the year. Popham, take me away!

Popham Beach is a convenient one hour drive from our fair city, located on a thumb of land on Maine's mid-coast. Just south of Bath, the drive is pleasant, quintessential Maine. Rambling homes formerly occupied by captains and shipping magnates give way to more modest sized cottages, farmhouses, general stores and bait shops decorated with buoys and lobster traps.

The peninsula is bordered on one side by the Kennebec River which ebbs and flows with the tides, and empties into the frigid Atlantic. Popham Beach and Popham Beach State Park are located on a little hook of land at the end of the peninsula, carved out by Spirit Pond and the Morse River on the western edge, Atkins Bay at the mouth of the Kennebec, and the icy Atlantic on the south. A tributary of Morse River cuts through the beach itself. At high tide, ocean and river merge, save for a few spits of sand that provide a barrier between the two. At low tide, one must wade through the sometime swift channel across to another stretch of beach to get to the ocean.



Tiny islands dot the waters and a trek to Fox Island is a favorite pastime for many beach-goers. The first souls wade waist deep through the channel to the island, who pave the way for throngs of people who stroll to the island at low tide, like ants scurrying on an anthill.

An ocean breeze kept temperatures in the low 70s. The only people that braved the 60 degree waters were the well-insulated children (of which there were many, accompanied by their well-insulated parents), screaming and yelling happily as kids do. Despite the joy of having a picture perfect day to usher in the unofficial start of summer, I couldn't help but feel a little sad on Memorial Day. What is to become of these overstuffed cherubs? I mean, a 5 year-old with plumbers crack? Sad, indeed.

guilty pleasures

Having recently moved to a very small city in Maine, affectionately known as "Disgusta" by some, I've developed some unhealthy addictions. Guilty Pleasures. Blame it on the lack of culture or things to do, but here in our little central Maine bubble, I've been sucker punched by the lure of Fox TV and the tabloids. They are, in no particular order:

1. people.com - This is bad. Like three times a day bad. My mouth starts salivating at the latest brangelina photos. I even had a dream last night where I was clothes shopping with Ange and talking about the sad state of affairs of the paparazzi hungry public. Pretending to have no idea of their latest exploits in Namibia! Who knows where we were shopping...its a dream, damn it! Maybe our dreams coverged in west Hollywood somewhere.

2. American Idol - I'm still trying to figure out how this happened. I mean, I consider myself a sort of hippie at heart, and here I am obsessed over Idol. Chatting up my co-workers on Wednesday mornings about Katherine McPhee's rendition of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow". If Taylor Hicks wins, I'm going to slit my wrists. I'm not immune to his charms, his southern drawl, his soulful songs, his deep love of grits, but I think his so-called dance moves and that wierd palsy contortion he makes when the camera pans to him and hes about to perform is justification enough for elimination.

3. Eavesdropping/spying - I really have no control over this. My sad neighbors scream and yell A LOT. They are big people with tiny dogs. I can't help but be privy to their comings and goings and their arguments. A classic moment was when friends of ours spent the weekend and heard the dad yelling at his daughter, "Take my pants off." When someone delivers a line like that, you just got to peer through the mini-blinds and take a look.

Now that spring is here and the windows are open, moving seems like a really good idea. In the mean time, I will get away every chance I get. The beauty of Maine is just beginning, enough to lure me away from my guilty pleasures.

home again

I've just returned from a week away . The beloved husband and pooch are gone, for a walk I suppose. Its been cloudy and rainy for weeks, and at 6:00 p.m. the sun is shining, illuminating the newly sprung leaves with a flourescent green flourish. Who could blame them for not waiting for my ride to deposit me on our doorstep?

Walking around the house is like uncovering a crime scene. Or a very small frat party. Empty beer bottles: check. Empty fridge: check. A vase full of spent tulips from our dinner party a week ago, yellow shards of petal strewn across the buffet table: check. What have these poor boys been doing in my absence? What have they eaten? The lack of food, liquid or solid, in this house is disturbing. Not that they've starved, mind you. The hubby is famous for his instant meals, a bowl of popcorn will do just fine, thank you very much. And to his credit, he cooks up a very mean pizza, from scratch!

Perhaps hubby has paid a visit to the very wierd ice cream man that lurks around our neighborhood with alarming regularity. His truck trolls the streets blaring a recorded playground tune that I can never quite name. Reminds me of the creepy chitty chitty bang bang lollipop peddling pedophile that gave me and my sister nightmares as a kid.

So, home again. Maybe if I was a Marthaclone, I'd have made a stash of freezer-ready meals to sustain him in my absence. Luckily for me, he is a model of self-reliance. A minimalist, happy when I feed him some home-cooked goodness, but just as happy to dine alone, bowl of Special K in hand.

I can't wait to whip up a meal for my boys and give them lots of carbohydrate hugs.