Rallying Support for Maine's Same-Sex Marriage Bill

Same-sex marriage rights have been a hot-button topic of late with California passing Proposition 8 and nullifying the 2005 same-sex marriage bill, Iowa and Vermont legalizing gay marriage this past month and now New York and New Hampshire considering their own state laws in support of gay marriage.

The call for action has not gone unheard in Maine. Equality Maine, based out of Portland, is the state's oldest and largest lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) advocacy organization and the only political advocacy program in the state. The group rallied statewide, calling on supporters to attend the April 22 hearing that took place at the Augusta Civic Center for Democratic Senator Dennis Damon's bill (LD 1020), which if passed, would provide legal protections for same-sex couples in Maine.

"It has been our mission for 25 years to affect public policy in Maine," said Betsy Smith, Executive Director at Equality Maine.  They are working closely with the Maine Freedom to Marriage Coalition, a group of 34 Maine based organizations in helping to make this bill a reality, and to offer protection to same-sex couples.

Two groups of participants were organized in support: those who testified in front of the Judicial Committee, and the much larger group of people who came —dressed in various shades of red clothing — to show their support. "We've asked couples who will be effected by this law, who currently don't have protection to raise their families in a healthy and secure way, to testify. We also have what we call content experts," she continues, "including child welfare advocates and the AACP." The content experts stressed the benefit marriage has on children, regardless of the parents' sexual preference, while other testimonies were based on personal experience.

Opposition was also on hand to voice their disagreement to the proposed bill. Many from religious backgrounds quoted The Bible as deeming homosexuality as a sin and same-sex marriage as unholy as their main arguments.

Other religious leaders noted the danger in quoted The Bible too closely. Casey Collins of the Lewiston Methodist Church was quoted in the Lewiston Sun Journal as saying, "If the Bible is taken word for word as it is written, adultery would be punished by death by stoning as would a woman getting married who is not a virgin. No one to my knowledge has recently been stoned to death for adulterous acts."

In a country whose Forefather’s wrote:  

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.

It seems that the answer to whether this bill should or should not be passed was already answered on July 4, 1776.

The Declaration of Independence states that “…all men (and women) are created equal…” Then why should a minority lack the same protections and rights from their government than the majority? That is not equality, that is discrimination.

The argument that The Bible states that homosexuality is a sin and is therefore wrong should be completely disregarded in a political arena based on the saying attributed to Thomas Jefferson in regards to the First Amendment of The United States Constitution: Separation of church and state. If church and state are to be separate, then why bring religion into the argument at all?

April 28 is the earliest the Judiciary Committee is expected to vote. If approved, it still needs to go to the Senate, the House and then to Governor Baldacci.

Here’s to a tolerant America.

Burger Time

Hey, when you’re hungry, you’re hungry. But is anyone really hungry enough to eat a 4lb burger?

The Fifth Third Ballpark in Grand Rapids, Michigan has decided to offer up this heinous meal-time choice. Maxing out at a whooping 4,800 calories (that’s more than double the FDA’s daily caloric recommendation), this gargantuan burger defies a one-person consumption. Or does it?

We’ve all heard our mothers and our mother’s mothers groan on about the hungry children in Ethiopia when we’ve been forced to sit at the kitchen table for not finishing our peas, but those are a few measly peas. Think if we could pass this on to them! The joy! The celebrations that would ensue. I mean, this has the potential to feed a family of five— easily. Maybe even an army! A village!

Unfortunately, I think that if any of those poor starving children even attempted to eat this monstrosity, he or she would surely drop from the shock to the system that the reported 300 grams of fat, 10,000 mg sodium, and 744 milligrams of cholesterol would dole out. Obviously this age-old adage doesn’t work with this monstrosity. Sorry starving kids, I fear that this’ll freaking kill you.

Now keep in mind that this isn’t your normal burger. This puppy is loaded with oddities like corn chips, salsa and a cup of chili. Part of me wants to plead with them to stop the insanity. For crying out loud, corn chips? Frigging corn chips? Come on, that’s obviously just to up the ante on it’s disgusting unhealthiness, isn’t it?

I can see the cooks standing around the kitchen, each in stained aprons, hands wet from spreading chili over the five patties, hemming and hawing over the magnificent creation they just assembled.

“It just doesn’t look finished,” one cook says to another as he scans the shelves of food in front of him.

“Well, what else would you put on it, Jim*?”

“Screw it,” says the first, “let’s just throw whatever the heck’ll make this baby the most ridiculous thing people have seen in a while, and watch them flock!” Enter the corn chips to the equation.

And the funny thing? The funny thing is that people will flock to Fifth Third, just to try to the damn thing. Just as they did in Clearfield, PA to try the "Beer Barrel Belly Buster" or "The Big One" at Mama Lena's Pizza House in McKees Rock, PA (what’s up with your over-sized foods PA?). People big, bigger and relatively small will walk into the stadium with high hopes of ingesting the atrocity and waddle away bloated and full, perhaps even with the misguided idea of topping the whole thing off with the signature deep-fried Twinkie. (oh, yeah. They have those there too.)

This is one giant leap for obesity, and one small step for the evolution of the burger. I’m full just thinking about it.

Hypocrite This

So what? I got a phone. A freakin’ Blackberry Pearl. Am I a hypocrite? Yes, yes I am. But the good thing is that, unlike others, I can admit it. I can swallow it. And I can look at myself in the mirror.

I’m not going to bore you with a bunch of “I needed its” or “work required its” or other explanations or excuses. I got it, that’s that.

Call me.

Death of a Bagger

Dear Hannaford Bag Boy,

Why are you single-handedly trying to smother the Earth in plastic bags? Do you have something against soil? Grass? Pebbles? Stoneconcretesandflowerbedsgravelmulchflowingfieldsofwheat?

Was there some sort of traumatic experience you had as a kid that left you feeling less than snuggly toward our planet?

If so, digress. Please. Because as I see it, you’re on a mission to pollute. I mean, here I am, the lowly purchaser of grocer goods, trying to make my little dent in trying to save the world and all you do is nullify my every attempt.

Things you do that piss me off:

When I come to shop and try to check out with an annoying bulge of recycled Hannaford plastic bags from my house you ignore their very presence until I notice too late and have to accept that I have all new plastic packed purchases and my old bags.

When I request paper, you pack the paper bags in plastic bags? I mean, that defeats the whole purpose for me. Now I’m creating extra waste for crying out loud!

You insist on putting only a very few items into each bag. I’m not 80! Load that shit up!

One time you put the meat with the fruit and I almost barfed – not separated by the special plastic bag for meat. that, I understand. use that.

Why do I have to put all my produce in a separate bag, only to have you bag all the bags? Come on!

 

I have also noticed that Hannaford has stopped offering $.05 for every plastic bag customers bring in. I see your alliance. You are the Panthor to their Skeletor.

I really hope we can resolve this problem without me having to go out and buy those stupid little canvas bags with butterflies and catchy Earth Day sayings on them.

Until we meet again.

Suspiciously,

Molly

I Was Born For This.

So there I was, minding my own business on Facebook when all of a sudden a friend posted a link to The Best Job in The World.

Best job, huh? fine, I’ll bite.

After clicking on the aforementioned link and watching the spiel, I was hooked. Holy schnikes, I thought. I was born for this job! There was only one problem. How do I communicate all I need to say in the allotted 1 minute video… and where do I find a video camera?!

After much searching and procrastination, I finally shot, edited and uploaded my application video for The Best Job in the World. Take a look and please vote for me! (Click “rate this video”).

http://www.islandreefjob.com/#/applicants/watch/13Rx_PujIAo

I’m already packing.

For the Love of Valentine’s Day

When I think of Valentine’s Day, I think of little red, pink and purple construction paper hearts, white doilies and brown paper bag pseudo mailboxes. The Outcast song “Happy Valentine’s Day” plays repetitively in my head like some sort of day-long anthem: “Happy Valentine’s Day/ Every day the 14th/ I don’t think ya’ll heard me/ I just wanna say Happy Valentine’s Day…” It’s a day where everyone indulges in binge chocolate eating, and consciously or not, many people wear a variant of the color red. That’s a damn good holiday if you ask me.

What’s everyone’s problem with the day dedicated to love? The constant whinging on about how it is just a Hallmark holiday is nauseating. Everyone seems to be on a crusade to take down Valentine’s Day. Gangs of disgruntled lovers and those locked into singledom rue the day. They lurk around corners, stomp on roses and spit into cookie batter. They tear off the heads of teddy bears holding faux boxes of chocolate and request tortured songs of love on the radio like J. Geils band’s “Love Stinks”.

Anyone rhyming anything remotely romantic are ostracized, and those staring longingly and doe-eyed at their lover will be taken ‘round back and forced to wear sunglasses. What gives?

Now, don’t think I’m on the side of Valentine’s Day just because I’m happily married – although I’m sure it helps – but I honestly like the holiday. It conjures warm memories of childhood, like wishing Steve Lessard would drop the oh-so-wished-for note declaring his 6th grade crush on me, or filling out specially selected valentines at my kitchen table for friends while my Mother looked on and helped spell things such as, “I like you a wicked lot”.

I mean, what a time! The school day was basically a wash with kids all jacked up on Red Hots® and NECCO’s Conversation Hearts®. Little girls squealed as they read waaaaay to in to what each heart said as if they were some sort of secret message from a crush, and boys tried to act nonchalant about the whole thing, when in all actuality, they probably hand picked each heart. There were parties, activities, hours of scissor use cutting out hearts, and yes, Hallmark cards up the wazoo.

So what’s the big deal? Why hate on one day trying to bring a warm fuzzy feeling to people struggling in a world so afflicted with hurt and hate, crime and war?

It’s that age-old belief that being indifferent and revolting against traditional values is cool. These people who look down their noses at Valentine’s Day see it as a commercial holiday created by capitalistic America, and well, maybe it is, but look at the potential bigger picture. It gives this dirty and dysfunctional world we live in a glow, even if just for one day.

Maybe it shouldn’t be looked at as what you don’t have – but I don’t have a boyfriend/girlfriend, no one took me out to eat at a fancy restaurant, I didn’t get any notes from a secret admirer, there wasn’t a song dedicated to me on the radio this morning – and use the day as a tool in reminding you to be more polite to the toll booth operator, say thank you to a harried waitress, smile at a complete stranger. Instead of expecting, do the unexpected. Imagine if everyone used the day to be reminded of their manners, the heavy burdens of others and became easy going and forgiving – what a day that would be, eh?  Oh, that’s Valentine’s Day.

The origination of Valentine’s Day is shrouded in speculation, but reoccurring themes of heroism, sympathy, fertility and romance appear in all, whether you believe that the holiday was formed to celebrate one of the Christian martyrs named Valentine (or Valentinus), or that that it was a conspiracy to absolve the Roman Lupercalia festival. Each legend holds the silver lining of humanity. It was only in 498 A.D. that Valentine’s Day was declared an actual holiday and romance entered the picture when in the Middle Ages, people associated the day with the mating season of birds. Soon after, the first known valentines were sent professing love on the 14th of February.

Sure the commercial obsession with the holiday has muddled the true meaning of Valentine’s Day, but that’s the same for St. Patrick’s Day (beer anyone?), Christmas (presents, presents, presents!!!!), Easter (more candy?), etc. It’s our job as responsible consumers and self-thinking human beings of the 21st Century not to be too easily distracted and swayed by all the glitter and gold of the market. So if you’re one of the people out there cursing the holiday for it’s superficial and obvious failings, I suggest being an individual and looking a little deeper to see it for what it could be, not what it is to the masses.

I'm Going to Beat Up the Economy

 

Just so you know, I've been lifting weights. Yeah, that's right. I've started going to the gym again and when I get all buff and tough, I'm totally going to kick the economy's ass on the playground.

What has the economy done to me you ask? Pssht, what hasn't  it done to me lately. I feel like I'm in some sort of abusive relationship with it like I'm dating one of the girls from School of Rock. It's all hair pulling and naughty words and frankly, I've had enough.

Some may say that I'm resorting to childish means. I say screw 'em, I'm fed up. I'm desperate. I'm going to show that bully who's boss - fourth grade style. I mean, what am I suppose to do when I get handed a note from the Bush Administration that's all: "Jobs, sure we have jobs." Then later that same day CNN passes me a note saying: “Unemployment rate is the highest it's been in years." Well make up your mind, Economy, which is it? Am I to be employed or not?  I'm not talking a rinky-dink Burger King gig, I'm talking putting-my-two-degrees-to-use-and-earning-a-hefty-salary job. Whatever, I circle "no". As in "Oh, no you didn't!"

Enough already with all the false promises in The Land of (No) Opportunity and the constant picking-on-the-new-kid crap from tangled immigration laws. Not to mention the bailout of the popular "Big Three" car clique. Just because they have fancy designer suits and fly in private jets doesn't make it okay. Especially when we're being evicted from home room and could use a little support.

So I'm jabbing, punching, twisting, pushing, jumping, hooking, pressing, running, sweating and lifting my way toward total body workout all in the name of kicking the economy's derrière. Who's coming to the gym?

Oh, Mr. Postman. Bring Me a...

 

Maybe I'm alone here, but I enjoy the act of sending and receiving mail. Don't get me wrong, I have no issues with email and in fact, I use it all the time. But there's something nostalgic about gathering letters from a mailbox, off the floor after sliding through a slot in the door or from a lock-and-key box from the post office, that isn't comparable to the electronic version.

Perhaps it's a direct result of Americans using email so frequently that this nostalgia has even developed. We've started to look into our cyber-mailboxes multiple times a day instead of savoring the anticipation and enjoyment of collecting scattered envelopes after work. We've become mail-spoiled. Shame on us.

I'm not going to lie, I like getting Publisher's Clearing House prize patrol warnings — it makes me feel alive. There's nothing like seeing that pale yellow envelope to know you arrived. It's so grown up, so here and now, so trash chic. I feel validated as a human being. Yes, I'm here! Heck, they even know where here is, they know where I live! Send me the latest newsletter from some obscure organization I signed up for during my empowered college years, I still may want to save a starving child in Uganda and I love getting those little return address stick-'ems and matching stickers — keep them coming I say!

Sure, "going paperless" may be the hip save-the-environment way to go, but what's the fun in that? Instead of the satisfaction of ripping useless reminders to renew your magazine subscription, you have a full inbox. Hitting delete just doesn't do it. I actually like to stand with the trash can nearby, tearing apart useless information and chucking it into the bin until I'm left with a slim pile of credible mail. That way I know I've accomplished something. And it feels good.

And if not for the sense of accomplishment it gives you, then at least for the mail men and women. I like to think of them as a Norman Rockwell character from his paintings, trudging through knee-high snow in frigid temps just to bring you the daily telegraph. That's dedication. Come rain, come snow, come hail and sweltering heat they suffer so that you can stay communicated to your love ones... or prize patrols. Are we just going to ignore their century-long sacrifice?

Sometimes I even romanticize about the days of the Pony Express and how exciting mail used to be. (*Sigh*) If only we still had that allure: Racing through the mountains atop heated steeds, saddle bags bulging with love letters and prize announcements from Ed McMahon, constantly racing against the clock and the elements to make sure the mail arrived on time. Classy. That's what that is. It's classy. Where's the class in the electronic chiming of "You've got mail"?

The other day I was surprised to see that a job I was applying for requested I send my resume by post. Was it a fluke? I thought it strange at first and was even tempted to ignore the request and shoot my info off lightning-quick via email, but realized that this was a perfect opportunity to do my part in keeping the mail system alive.

I went to my friendly neighborhood post office to purchase a manila envelope for my mailings (you know the ones, they are brownish-yellow 9 x 12 folders with a flap and small clasp.), but I was surprised to find that there were none for purchase. They've all been replaced by flashy white cardboard sleeves, puffed bubble-wrap filled envelopes and origami-inspired boxes. Whatever happened to the discreet manila envelope?

"You can use one of those white jobbies there," said the woman behind the counter, "or you can jazz it up with that there Mickey Mouse or confetti colored one."

Uh, what? Seriously? Mickey Mouse? Yeah lady, that's right. I'm going to send my resume via Mickey Mouse envelope. That should really give me a leg up on the competition.

After much searching and some swearing under my breath I found the damned folders for $4.49 at Office Depot. I then returned to the post office to mail my documents. God forbid the post offices have ordinary envelopes in stock.

Why am I telling you this? Because it made me realize how the mail system is going downhill. Not only is it becoming obsolete, but Disney has taken it over as well and turned it into some sort of circus. I began thinking about paperless alternatives, postmen and women losing their jobs and the utter delight I get in receiving mail, no matter what it is.

Here's to mail!

A Pregnant Pause

 

Is it just me, or did you hear it too? The silence. The awe of billions as they watched America's newest president take his oath at the Capital Building.

Everywhere people fell silent, hunching forward in anticipation of The Change promised to come with Barack Obama's inauguration. Restaurants brimming with lunchtime patrons went quiet. Phones sat unanswered as office workers crowded around televisions or computers transmitting the historic event. Deserted four-square balls rolled through abandoned playgrounds as students huddled together in auditoriums to watch the momentous happening. The knitting needles of the elderly stopped clacking and chainsaws of lumber workers seized to growl as all ears were pricked to listen. Cash registers took a break from transactions as attention was drawn elsewhere. Gas pumps sat idle as people leaned through open doors of their cars to hear each word over NPR. College campuses held no lectures, as one of the biggest lessons of our lives was being broadcast.

Americans with tears in our eyes and hope swelling within our hearts, we watched in united silence. Smiles broke across chapped lips and pride surged through our crippled egos as his hand graced the velvet top of the Lincoln bible. We held our breath, all of us, the entire world, during those 35 words.

Holding Out... Just... a Little... Longer...

So what? I DON'T have a cell phone. Call me prehistoric. Call me technologically deficient. Call me lame and give me a funny sideward glance. But what you can't do is call me when I'm away from home.

It's one part defiance, two parts financial. It's become more of a snub to society and its need to be constantly contactable then me really giving a damn. Sure, I'd like to whip out my slim Motorola RAZR from the back pocket of my skinny jeans as much as the next girl, but why weigh myself down with the burden? Other people have phones; they can call. Is it for social status? To show how hip and techno savvy we are? Does owning a Blackberry put you into a higher social rung?

If so, damn.

Okay. So maybe it isn't as noble as I would have one think. Do I feel a little left out? Fine, yes. I'll admit it. I'm one of the few who still looks out the window at the passing buildings on the subway, rather than watching the latest episode of Heroes or texting my friend Tamika about the great chili recipe I just found. I'm forced to wait until my friends have finished texting to continue our conversation. I listen intently to others' cell conversations and ask "What'd they say?" annoyingly until I get the scoop. It's a little bit like being left out of a conversation, standing gawkily behind the inner circle of a great convo.

I will admit that getting stuck on the side of the road in a snow storm - sans celly - would blow a big one. And you got me at the cool factor and the ability to fill awkward voids. Another point gained for falsified excuses from lame dates and proving yourself immediately on bets. Admittedly it is pretty cool how you can find out what song is playing just by holding up your iPhone to the speaker, and I wish I could text someone with a one-word answer instead of wasting all that time in making a phone call.

On the other hand, I have my own (little as it may be) posse of non-cell phone users as well. We be crazy sons-a-bitches! We do wild things like use PAY PHONES! Oh, snap! That's right we use PAY PHONES. Unfortunately they aren't always easy to find because apparently they aren't being used anymore, but when we find them we USE THEM. Even though they cost us almost a dollar to place a local call, we look super retro standing in a booth. Beat that Samsung Propel user with your crazy text fingers.

I also have gained back incredible abilities – yes, that is right, incredible — one being the knack of numeric memorization, the other being the art of small talk. Oh, don’t doubt yourself. You once had these abilities as well. Remember when you were young and you picked up the receiver and dialed your best friend’s number from memory? Can't do that anymore can you? Lose the phone, you lose all the numbers. What about the crazy cycle of self-absorption this era of technology has got you in? Human connection is diminishing, but not for me, boy! I smile at the person sitting across from me. Perhaps we speak about the weather, bond over how grotesque the fat man in the back picking his nose is, share a chuckle over foreign policy — the norm.

See, we're playing hard to get, us non-cell phone users. You can't just call us up any time of the day and have us answer. There's no GPS navigation here. No widgets or simulated click of a computer mouse. We can't blog while on the pooper and we're sure as heck are not going to know what time The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is playing at the local cinema while driving home from work. Inconvenience? Perhaps slightly. But not to someone that is used to having to check the paper, use the phone book and wait a little while instead of getting instant feedback. It could be said that I am practicing the art of patience; becoming Zen-like in this era of go, go, go.

But In all my martyring, have I missed the cultural bus? According to a Gartner report from Cnet News’s website, "Sales of cell phones are on pace to reach a billion annually by the end of the decade, when nearly 40 percent of the world's population will own a mobile handset.” Forty percent? That’s it? I am NOT in the slow lane! Asia may be the biggest buyers of these handheld devices, but until all of China is chirping on their cellies, I’ll still remain one of the masses. Take that social pressure!

And what’s the deal with Bluetooth? Have we boarded the Starship? Talk about cancer in the brain caused by radio waves, that’s going right in the ol’ canal — direct route! How do you expect to be taken seriously? I understand the need for “hands free” as a non cell phone use, I use both hands regularly. Frankly I couldn’t imagine not. But really? Alien growth headset? I will give it points for being the perfect illusion of having an actually conversation. Sometimes I even think Bluetooth wearers are talking to me; I light up, I shoot back a witty answer, only to be met with rolling eyes and embarrassment. If every Schizophrenic in America was given a Bluetooth headset, we’d never know who the crazies were. And I’d stop being let down by fake conversations.

Bring back the Bat signal. Bring back smoke signals, but don’t force me to get a cell phone. Don’t make me feel inadequate for my lack of ownership just because I’m not getting free incoming calls and Verizon’s free nights and weekends. I get nights and weekends too, and guess what? They’re free anyway. Saturday always comes and Wednesday night is a regular occurrence. Even if I’m not making phone calls from the sidewalk.

Next Step: Sandwich Boards

I saw a news story about a man who had resorted to 1920's-style self advertising trying to find a job: sandwich boards. Now, this may not be the most original idea, but it shows just how desperate people are becoming in this era of unemployment.

Not that negative news is uncommon by any means, but every news story is about companies laying off employees or cutting back. The paper bombards me with stories of unemployment rates skyrocketing and food stamp applications increasing. Everywhere I look I'm confronted by the bleak and dreary outlook of this recession.

What a wonderful time to move back to America. eh?

So here I am, looking for employment in one of the driest employment pools in recent history. Nice one. I thought that going door to door searching for jobs was something I would only need to do once in life. Slinging my portfolio and asking to see the hiring director in Thailand was a humiliating - although normal and expected - experience. But to do it on American soil and as a writer? Ugh!

So here's to the good ol' America, land of opportunity.

Ring it In!

 

Subway, 9pm, New York City. The air is ripe with high expectations for the night and the promise of a clean slate for all come midnight. The end of 2008 is here.

It was a year that had taken me from one side of the world to the other,  from the tropical home I knew and loved in Thailand back to my childhood home in Maine. A year where I made an incredible pack of friends, all dynamic and unique in their own way and forced me to separate from them. It was a year in which I became a married woman, a dedicated daughter and a new family member. It was a time where I found out what the word "stressed" really meant, what an importance positive thinking is and that crying is sometimes necessary and unplanned.

I'm looking ahead towards 2009 with an open mind and a foggy future plan. But foggy is good, it leaves way for the ebb and flow of life to lead me wherever it is I am supposed to go. Sometimes it all feels too overwhelming like I need a plan, a list, a goal. Sometimes I feel my direction is lost, but have my family and friends to reassure that I am right on target. I see travel cropping up again because honestly, how can I not travel? It's in my blood and drives me. I look forward to cultivating a loving and deep relationship with my husband and facing any challenges we may face as a united front.

5am, subway grate, NYC. Eating pizza with a group of friends, I realize what this year will hold. Pure Joy.

What Good is a Snowblower That Doesn't Blow?

We've all been there, looking out from the warmth of inside, our eyes large like dessert plates, watching the falling snow. The burble of excitement for accumulating fluff. We think snow angels. snowmen, snow balls, rollicking through the drifts and white washing our unsuspecting friend. What we don't think about seriously, until we're adults at least, is the duty of clearing walkways, driveways and porches. When we're young it's just a chore added on to the endless list of to-do's forced upon us from our parents. A seasonal addition.

Sure, a shovel does the trick. The repetitive scoop, toss, scoop makes for good exercise but it also exhausts the aching bodies of post-adolescents. And that, my friends, is why we all invest in snow blowers.

The relative ease of turning the ignition (or pulling the lawnmower-esque cord for the older models) is mere child's play compared to the hunched back and strained arms of shovelling. The light forward pressure applied to the handles to start the machine in its slow march through the heaps of snow, whether it be hard and iced or light and airy, is almost too easy. The slow crank of the lever to re-direct the shoot of snow, is almost meditative. And when you're done you simply park the beast and admire the ruffled edges of the snow banks, tapering off where the farthest snow landed.

What really blows, is when you wait all morning for the snow to stop without any mid-way shovel or dent in the accumulation. I'll just blow it all away, you think to yourself. Sure in your plan. Just like I've done a million times before. You recall the envied look of your neighbours, blushed with strain and huffing small clouds of hoarfrost as they struggle to finish the job.

The snow stops falling and you strut outside, sure footed as you make your way to the garage. Smirking as you wade through the knee-high powder, you think what a blast this will be -- literally. The giant, rotating teeth of the snow blower will chew through this dump fast enough to get you inside for the second half -- no problem. You tweak the ignition, push her to the top where the rabbit signifies speed, prime the gas and turn the key --nothing. Must be cold, you think to yourself and yank the cord. Nothing. Ah, the good old electric start, that always works. You plug it into the outlet and saunter back to the machine, push the automatic start button and... nothing.

For-crying-out-loud, the damn thing won't work. Now what? Do you admit defeat and grab shovel? Risk being seen by those same struggling neighbours, deflated from your regularly gloating self? Are you less than a man? Less than a woman? Has your rough-and-tough snow blowing extension of yourself failed you? Hindsight comes slapping back and you peer out from the clouded garage window at the 3 feet of heavy snow wishing you had picked up shovel mid-storm. You consider hiding in the garage until the neighbours have returned inside for dinner, then swiftly and without sound shovelling at the speed of light to avoid being seen. But it's all just pride and you realize that pride won't clear the walkways or allow for a car to get out. So you rummage through the depth of the garage until you find the old steel shovel, rusted on the corners and curved with years of use.

Ah, It's just like being a kid again.

Profanity's Connection with the Downward Spiral of the American Economy

"Well, Fuck."

That's the sound of the economy going down the toilet and with it, Americans' ability to vent frustration verbally -- without the use of naughty words. Usually well-behaved adults have recently resorted to an adolescent expression in everyday language preferring to replace adjectives such as "very" with the more sinister "fucking". As in, "I'm going to get into my fucking car and drive off a cliff." And more descriptive nouns from such simple things as utensils, to the more complex, have been replaced with the vulgar "shit" or "crap". Other unruly words such as the less offensive "damn" to the queen-of-all-swear-words "mother fucker" can be heard in offices, grocery lines and yes, even around kitchen tables.

Once reserved for only the most inexplicable or desperate of times, swear words are fast becoming commonplace in everyday language.

It's obvious that the current vernacular is directly connected to the dismal state of affairs in the economy. With every job lost, comes an expletive; with the New York Times stating that "...The economy has shed 1.2 million jobs since the beginning of the year (2008)," how could we not express our frustrations in heated verse?

The most depressing of cases are reported in households whose use of the once outlawed words are now cropping up. Returning to their childhood homes for what they think is going to be a nice, enjoyable meal, grown children find themselves horrified by the use of course language by once proper parents. Stay-at-home moms are getting together in book clubs and describing main characters as "jackasses" and "bitches". Educated fathers are complaining about the "shithead" that walked into his office during prep time. Elderly folk now regularly use terms such as "dingle berry" and "fuck face" when upset.

Blue-collar workers, known for their colourful language and use of rough terms, are leading the way in the (mis?) education of the country. Once thought of as the only social group with enough to fret vulgarly about, these workers have perfected the complaint. Years of under pay, cut-backs and pink slips have prepared this group of men and women to shine in this time of economic uncertainty and verbal expressionism. Office workers, geared in tailoured Brooks Brother suits and Bluetooth headsets have been seen sharing a pint down at the local pub in an effort to expand their vocab. Manicured CEO professionals are hanging around building sites to catch an earful of "shit and giggle" terminology to use in voicing their own frustrations with today's world and the unstable work environment.

With all that is on his plate as the incoming president, Obama doesn't have time to focus on the degradation of the American vocabulary. With his plans to rebuild the economy, increase jobs and thus, decrease unemployment, he hopes for a trickle down effect to take hold in our language. Otherwise, "we may all be fucked."

Oh, The Spirit Has Arrived (in the form of a tree)

It's the sort of excitement that bubbles up with anticipation, every step a pure delight. Like unwrapping a piece of milk chocolate from shiny tin foil paper, you know what awaits you with every peel and tug of the covering, but just the act is rewarding in itself, the exposed chocolate the definitive and satisfying conclusion. We were going to get a tree today, a Christmas tree.

Faux-Christmas -- as I called it -- had occurred the day before with my father's side of the family. Not obscenely early, but still early enough to make the act feel a bit forced and un-Christmas like. Perhaps it was the lack of my own decorations around the house, I thought. Maybe I needed to get more into the good old Christmas spirit? And what better than the symbol of Christmas -- no, not Santa -- the tree! That classic balsam fir, "Oh, Christmas tree" carol-inspiring, bulb-wielding, light-twinkling holiday icon.

The heat blew out in short puffs from the heater along the back of my bed, its force ruffling the blue curtains by my head and stirring me awake. Erik had been up for an hour already, maybe two, and I lay alone in bed, sprawled diagonally across, happily hogging all the blankets. The winter blue-pink light shone into my room and I peeled back the covers reluctantly, rolling out of bed. Suddenly the thought occurred to me, today was the perfect day for a tree!

A light dusting of snow had blanketed the ground, renegade leaves that had refused to be bagged poked out, reaching for the sun for one last hoo-rah before being forgotten in winter's cover. I checked the thermometer -- single digits, ruthlessly cold. Excited, we made space in the living room, pushing couches this way and chairs that way, piling plants on tables, straining to inch the television just a schmidge to the left until finally a small corner was cleared, prepped for the tree. Standing back I could see it in my mind's eye, full and heavy with ornaments. I inhaled, imagining the sap and fresh outdoorsy scent encompassing the house.

We laced up our boots, exchanging eager glances. I told him about the crudely painted yellow and green wooden sign I had passed the other day. The penmanship was something second grade teachers would roll their eyes at, but incredibly charming nonetheless. In a pudgy line across the middle, four pine trees with spiky boughs advertised the wares: Christmas trees. A shaky arrow pointed down the road to the left, "1 mile" it had read.

"That's where we will go," I told him. "We need to stay local. Why go downtown to get a tree that was grown in North Carolina when we could go up the road to our friendly neighbour the tree farmer and get a fresh, Maine tree?" I had recently read in the paper how most trees people purchase are from out-of-state tree farms, explaining the high prices, and I swore I would stay local.

The air was crisp as we marched outside with our hats, mittens, scarfs and coats pulled snuggly over our bodies. The snow began to fall in fluffy white chunks like someone was sprinkling fine pieces of cotton candy down from above. I held my tongue out to catch the treats, the cold kissing my cheeks and clutching my eyelashes.

Huddled inside the cab of the truck we made our way up the road looking for the splintered sign I had seen before, the rear-wheel drive squirreling out around snowy corners. Spotting the sign, we pulled on the back road toward the farm, unsure of what we would encounter, but giddy.

The tree farm looked like a regular house, only a house with a few rows of trees in the front, back and side yards. "Is this it?" Erik asked.

"I guess so. What do you think we do?" I asked peering out the fogged up back window of the truck toward the house. "Is anyone home?" We shrugged at each other and made our way toward the house, a dog barked somewhere inside and I hoped that it wasn't a large, defensive guard dog. Lord knows a bite to the arm would have ruined this Christmas endeavour, holiday cheer or not.

A slender man in his fifties greeted us as we approached the house (sans dog, thankfully), he wore a faded red sweatshirt with a college insignia and rough blue jeans, atop his head sat a lopsided baseball cap. "Hello there!" He welcomed. "We're not really open, but help yourself to some hot cocoa," he said as he gestured toward a thermos on the picnic table, "and you can just go pick any tree you want, here's the saw. Just go out there and cut one down yourself." How he was technically "not open" was confusing as he seemed prepped for customers, the hot cocoa and all.

We turned to look at the sea of choices and sprinted into the Christmas forest. "This one. No, this one. No, this one!" we shouted out, trying to find the perfect tree for our house. We frolicked through the groves looking for the perfect tree. "That one is too thin. This is too naked on this side. That one has no top." We ogled each tree, comparing it with the last like a piece of fine art for sale. In the end, we both went back to the first, the first tree we both saw from afar.

We took turns with the hand saw, cutting into the trunk easily, our hands chilled by the cold air. With the final cut Erik yelled, "Timber!" as the seven foot tree slowly fell over, his hand guiding it from the top as I drew the blade across the final piece of bark.

Hauling it back to the truck, we smiled, satisfied at our choice. The anticipation was over, it was finally Christmas.

Keep... going...

I'm running. I'm running. I'm running. It's a burst of energy to keep going. Going. Going. Going. I pile on the duties and keep shuffling through the paperwork or everything else I have to do. Procrastination clouds over, a clogged flue to the chimney of productivity.

Coughing, I expel the last article before deadline and strive to make the crossing line. Just to perch in anticipation of release, muscles flexed, sprung and pumping forth. Again, another, a second helping. Bloated with responsibility I scratch for the ends, flitting strands of bridled twine. Woven sometimes carelessly and splayed. Harder to grasp. Harder to put through the eye and make the connection, the breakthrough, the beginning.

Nipping

The cold has come despite all my prayers and muttered expletives. Damn. I thought I'd have it this time. Perhaps global warming would mean something other than the eventual demise of the human race and our beloved planet. Oh, if only it meant sunshine and T-shirts in December, Popsicles being ingested rather than forming on our awnings.

In lew of all my bitching, I've decided to embrace this winter season. I only need a few things for this embrace to come full circle: skis and a ski pass. I'm hoping that I can take full advantage of this snow season and hit the slopes again; me on my skis, carving down the mountain, Erik on his board whipping behind, the sun on our faces, the hot chocolate piping hot in the lounge. Oh glorious ski days!

I'm also looking forward to snow angels, snow ball fights, sledding, snuggling fireside and ice skating. I just hope my blood thickens a bit so I'm not miserable why trying to attempt each. What can I say? I've always had a sensitivity to cold, no matter how many woolen sweaters and long john undershirts I layer on.

Plus, the American holiday season is something I hadn't experienced in two years, so I'm excited to get into the throngs of that! Mistletoe and elves, reindeer and Christmas specials -- the excitement!

So take that , Jack Frost! I'm ready, damn it. With chattering teeth or not, I'm ready.

Special today: manicurist woes

It was a spontaneous thought, provoked by days of agonizing pain. There's been this unwelcome twinge in my upper back and neck for a week or so, and no matter how hard I try to stretch, kneed or contort it out of me, it remains like an uninvited party pooper.

I was grumbling to myself and shifting uncomfortably in my seat at the breakfast table when I randomly thought of a bridal shower gift I had received: a half hour massage. Oh, glorious day! Why hadn't I thought of it before?

It was actually a gift package, a one-of-everything certificates, and I had already scratched off eyelash tinting (looked like I had smudge mascara beneath my lower lashes at first), a facial (where I was red-faced and peeling for a week afterward) and a scalp massage and deep conditioning treatment that was anything but. I was a little hesitant, since I wasn't immediately impressed with my other services but thought, hey, could it get any worse?

I called to make an appointment and to my surprise they had an opening in a few hours. And here I was, thinking that I better call and reserve now because I wouldn't be able to get in until next week. I envisioned more days filled with pain and not being able to look all the way right; nights of tossing and turning in bed, waking up stiff in the morning and constantly stretching my back. It was a relief and I jumped on the opportunity. "Sure, 11:15 is great!" I told the receptionist. "Would I be able to get the manicure today as well?"

"Well, your manicure has been voided because you were late to the appointment before."

"Really? When I talked to them that day, I explained that I was coming from out of town and don't have a cell phone, so couldn't call to let you know that I was running late. " I felt the blood rush to my face. They had mixed up the times and yes, okay, fine, I was running a little late but nothing too serious. We're talking 15 minutes! It was the day before my wedding for crying out loud, and this was my nail appointment! Give the bride a little benefit of the doubt, eh?

"Okay, Let me check with my boss. Do you still want to come in at 11:15?"

Driving into town I obsessed with the time, constantly glancing at the minutes as they changed. There was no way I was going to be late for this appointment. I need this damn knot out of my back and they're not going to void it!

Melanie brought me to the back room. She was rotund and smiley with hairspray-matted hair and layered black clothing. I followed her to the third room where she explained what our session would entail. I happily slid under the sheets and pressed my face into the halo.

Thirty minutes and six classical songs later, I exited feeling a little limber but definitely not cured.

"Thanks Molly. Lisa is ready for your manicure right over there," she said and turned on her heals to go clean up the room.

"Oh, but. So, I'm getting a manicure?" I stammered as I walked towards the black towel covered table. Lisa was of Asian decent and and pushed her butterfly framed glasses up while reaching for nail files on her tip-toes. I had prepared myself for not getting one and found this both a kink in my newly formed afternoon plan and a little frazzling, but why the heck not?

I choose a dark merlot colour and wheeled myself up to the table. It began silently. I glanced around the room at the pedicure massage chairs, the sterilizers with fingerprints muddying up the glass covers and at "Lisa's" small framed wedding photo to my left.

"You're married now, right?" She asked. How did she know? I thought for a moment I was being spied on, but then logic returned and I remembered that I must have mentioned it in one of my previous trips.

"Yes. almost two months now." I was hopeful to return to the silence we were previously enjoying, but Lisa was not.

"I'm married. My husband is a marine... He has problem you know?"

This was heavy ground. A marine with problems? I was hoping to numb my mind with such things as the weather and local gossip -- not like I know any -- but Lisa was obviously not.

She continued to talk about how she got married at the age of 21. How her husband had moved all around the U.S. and even went to Iraq while she stayed in Maine. She talked about her 14 month old daughter and their disciplinary strategies, how she wanted to let her daughter out of the corner, but he said no.

I came to know that her husband's mother was a heavy drinker and drugger and wanted nothing to do with Lisa's child and that they didn't get along at all. That her husband constantly fights with them and they offered him no support when he was overseas and completely relied on her.

I know that Lisa's mother has three grandchildren now. That her family came to Maine four years ago and her sister and her husband live in Maine as well.

She wanted to be a Doctor or a lawyer. Not a beautician.

Her husband is disabled. "That's' what they say, disabled. And he is. He needs help," she told me. But he wants to go back into the military and she thinks he's selfish because he is a good father and husband. She'll leave him if he doesn't get help. She's thinking about it.

Her eyes lit up as she spoke about college in Virginia and how she was in a sorority. She had a loud voice despite her petite size and partied in D.C. Thursday, Friday and Saturday night.

I sat there, my hands in hers, listening and nodding. I chirped in with "oh, yeah" and "right" a few times, but basically listened as she unloaded everything that was wrong in her life onto me and my nails.

When she was finally finished, she looked at me and shrugged. Her lips pouted in a disappointment, "okay, you're finished."

I felt like I should give her a hug. Tell her I'd call her.

She hovered as I paid the cost. (Yeah, they charged me the difference of my manicure from switching it with the eyebrow wax I was never going to have there.) I tried to keep the conversation going with the receptionist so Lisa would walk away and I could tip her. She didn't, so I tipped her anyway and said my goodbyes. I wanted to tip her more.

I studied my nails against the black of the steering wheel. Was it all just for pity tips? Naw. I put on my seat belt and stretched the sore muscle in my back.