Dear unknown artist….

 

I live in Maine.

And I’m a Red Sox fan.

(Note to out of staters – this is non negotiable. Yankee fans will be shot on sight.)

But this?

Towering over me as I ate dinner the other night?

Not cool.

 

 

I’m guessing subtlety isn’t your strong suit….

But let me leave you with just one word:

Proportion.

Yours truly,

The unfortunate diner who sat in the shadow of these Sasquatch sized mammary glands for far too long.

You can’t make this stuff up…..

 

Yes, this is really happening.

 

 

Animal rights organization PETA said Wednesday it had asked the Maine Department of Transportation (DOT) for permission to build a “roadside memorial” along Route 1 near the site of an Aug. 22 crash in Brunswick involving a truck carrying live lobster.

On Aug. 22, a Cozy Harbor Seafood Inc. truck transporting an estimated 7,000 lobsters packaged in 60-70 crates rolled over along Route 1 in Brunswick, sending many of the live crustaceans into the road and ditch. Police said hydroplaning likely caused the crash.

(Click the link to view the carnage)

All lobsters were removed from the scene and many were deemed no longer sellable.

“Countless sensitive crustaceans experienced an agonizing death when this truck rolled over and their bodies came crashing down onto the highway,” said PETA Executive VP Tracy Reiman. “PETA hopes to pay tribute to these individuals who didn’t want to die with a memorial urging people to help prevent future lobster suffering.”

 

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Ummm….
Does PETA realize where those lobsters were headed?
News flash –
It wasn’t Club Med.
The five foot tall tombstone memorial proposal was shot down and denied by the Maine DOT this afternoon.
You can’t make this stuff up.
Image result for make love not stew lobster

You’re never too old to learn…. Spoons.

 

I love my state, I really do.

Maine has beautiful scenery, clean air, quaint villages, a huge craft beer industry and lobster I can’t eat….

 

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But we also have a thirst for knowledge.

And classes for almost everything… as proved by the local continuing education brochure I received last week.

 

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(There’s an ass on the cover named Jack Cass, you know it’s going to be good.)

Alongside the normal foreign language and computer courses there are some Maine-centric things like boat captaining and crossbow hunting, but I’m going to focus on the odd. The funny. And the downright bizarre.

 There are too many seriously wackadoodle choices for one blog, so it’s going to be a weekly series until I run out of ridiculousness. Let’s begin.

Class #1 :

Quantum Spoonbending.

Yes, you read that correctly. The description is as follows…

“What is the value of this spoon bending class? If, with very little training, you can easily bend a spoon that you could not easily bend before (if at all), then you can begin to see how powerful you actually are! Learn to access the subtle energy field that surrounds us all. The metal softening mechanisms you will learn in this class are actually quantum mechanics techniques you can transfer to enhance your daily life. This is the same energy field ancient and new age healers are accessing to perform healings and miracles. You will learn and practice several different techniques that will not only allow you to bend spoons, but allow you to experience inducing other changes in material reality. Learn how healers have been able to mend broken bones instantaneously and see how it might be possible for you to perform miracles in your own life. There is a $10 materials fee payable to the instructor at the start of class. No discounts.”

Let’s break this down –

1) Do I need a spoon to realize how powerful I really am?

Doubtful.

 

 

2) Transferable techniques to enhance my daily life.

Really?

 

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(Sorry, I couldn’t resist)

3)  If it’s the same process people are using to perform healing and miracles… why would I be happy just bending a damned spoon?

 

 

4)  A $10 material fee with no discounts.

   But… but…

What if I bring my own spoon?

 

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Classes start  Nov. 7th  6-8:30

Duration 3 weeks.

High tech hair?

 

So I’m an 80’s girl.

I grew up with MTV,  parachute pants and yes…

Big hair.

 

 

Okay, not that big.

But it’s fair to say I went through a considerable amount of hair spray in that decade and did my part to widen the hole in the ozone layer.

Fashions may have changed….

 

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But my  naturally curly hair still requires a  vat of industrial adhesive and a trowel  bit of work.

I’m always on the look out for new products and stumbled across this the other day:

 

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Helmet Head sounded about right, so I bought it.

But what did Cationic Hydration Interlink mean?

Definition of cationic. 1 : of or relating to cations. 2 : characterized by an active and especially surface-active cation. a cationic dye.

Thanks for nothing Webster.

Wikipedia?

Cationic polymerization is a type of chain growth polymerization in which a cationic initiator transfers charge to a monomer which then becomes reactive. This reactive monomer goes on to react similarly with other monomers to form a polymer.

 

 

Beyond confused, I went to the source.

 

 

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Proof positive that even the company who produces it has no clue what the heck it is.

Well, you can string a bunch of science terms together and stamp sucker on my forehead, but that’s okay.

 

 

It’s the price we girls pay for looking good.

 

 

I’ll huff and I’ll puff…..

 

And I’ll blow your paper garage down.

(Alternate title – You have got to be sh*tting me.)

 After years of  relentless nagging  gentle persuasion, I finally talked the husband into replacing the old rotted siding on our garage this weekend.

He started removing it out front, which was fine.

(No plumber’s butt shots. You’re welcome.)

 

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Then he turned the corner…

 

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Started ripping, and found….

 

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Paper.  Lots and lots of paper….. but no walls.

Paper walls!

Fuckety, fuck, fuck.

There was literally nothing behind the old siding but paper.

 

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Who does that?

“Gee honey, wood is expensive. Grab me that spiral notebook and the trashy romance novel you were reading last week.”

Good grief, even the 2 little pigs used sticks and straw.

Needless to say, the husband was not amused at all the extra work this was going to entail.

 

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I tried to make light of it and told him we could have an awesome transom window, but  he had a hammer in his hand and a strange look in his eye  that didn’t go over well either.

To be continued….

(Face it, this project is going to take a month of Sundays and if I have to live through it? So do you. That’s the beauty of blogging! But if it makes you feel any better, I had a large splinter in my butt from rubbing against a piece of rough cut wood yesterday so …. I still get the worst of it.)

Now they’re just screwing with me.

 

I live in Maine, land of the lobster I can no longer eat.

 

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It’s a cruel twist of fate which came about 7 years ago. I’d eaten that glorious, butter dripping crustacean all my life and loved every scrumptious bite…. until my traitorous body woke up one day and said no more.

No more lobster chowder, no more lobster rolls, no more lobster pie…. hell they hadn’t even invented lobster mac and cheese yet so I missed that too, damn it!  (I’ll spare you the details of what happens if I eat it now, just think Linda Blair in the Exorcist and leave it at that.)

It’s not easy being lobster allergic in Maine, the damned things are everywhere.

On our license plates…

 

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At every biker rally we attend…

 

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See?

 

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That’s me… cursing everyone for eating  lobster when I can’t …. not sitting at the table.

Hell, we even have a festival devoted to the creature.

 

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They crown a queen who leads the parade with King Neptune.

 

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Everyone eats lobster.

Except me.

 

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(I can’t attend anymore. The husband says drool isn’t my best feature)

Yes, we take our lobster seriously up here and I’ve  railed against fate, banged my head against the wall, invented new swear words   learned to live without it.

So why?

Why does that damned bottom dwelling bug continue to screw with me?

Yesterday… this showed up in our local grocery stores.

 

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And if that’s not bad enough…

A friend sent me this card.

 

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Now that’s just…  wrong.

 

 

Never trust a Corpse Reviver.

 

(Bet that got your attention.)

So it started out simply. Dinner with friends at a trendy, boho chic restaurant in a converted mill.

They’re famous for their infused liquors, so we ladies started out with these:

 

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They were small.

And pink!

 

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And with names like Garden of Eden and Frankly My Dear…

How bad could they be?

Bad enough that after 2 of them, our husbands were telling us to lower the decibel level.

After 3, they were waiving down the waiter and telling him to rush our food order.

The men had chosen curried mussel appetizers, which didn’t appeal to us in the least.

 

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Mussels, blech!

Those slimy little nuggets that get halfway down your throat and say, ” I think I’ll just sit here a while and let her contemplate what she swallowed.”

No way. Not this chicka…

The guys were happily cracking them open and getting covered in green slop in the process.

 

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It was disgusting.

It looked like pea soup, or vomit. (Same thing in my opinion.)

But then my girlfriend and I ordered Corpse Revivers.

 

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They’re traditionally known as the hangover cure, so we figured we’d skip a step and get right to it.  Gin, Cointreau, Lillet Blanc, lemon juice and Absinthe.

I blame the Absinthe.

Have you ever had Absinthe? Whew!

In no time at all? Those mussels looked GOOD.

We were digging in with gusto.

 

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Slop covered shells were flying, we were dragging the bowls away from our husbands. We had to order extra Naan to soak it up.

I believe we may have fought over the last piece.

It wasn’t pretty.

Never trust a Corpse Reviver.