Hey bartender….

 

*Disclaimer – This blog was written before the viral pandemic shut everything down.*

 

The following are subtle clues that let you know you might be spending a little too much time at your local pub.

1.    They greet you by name when you walk in, like they did with Norm at Cheers.

2.    They discourage people from sitting in your favorite corner spot at the bar.

3.    They hang a bell to ring when you give a good tip or buy a round.

But the least subtle clue of all?

 

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When the bartender is about to place an order with a new small batch craft distillery…

 

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And asks you which rum you’d prefer.

 

 

Biding our time….

 

In the time of Corona Virus.

Why is it that 3 weeks on vacation flies like the wind, but 3 weeks staying home feels like 6 months?

I know I shouldn’t complain. We’re blessed my husband can work from home and keep a steady paycheck.  But Lord…. what I wouldn’t give for Direct TV to gasp it’s last breath.

My husband is a news hound. Which is mildly annoying any other time… but now?

It feeds the hypochondria he inherited from his mother and his sometimes slightly paranoid nature.

No, I don’t want to hear the new death toll number.

And no, I definitely don’t want to see another Presidential news conference which are anything but.

 

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If only.

In other news, our stores are still out of toilet paper. And people are posting sightings like it’s Bigfoot…. or something hovering over Roswell, New Mexico.

“There’s a dozen packages of Cottonelle on Aisle 6, Hannaford in Westbrook.”

Go!

“A new shipment of  Charmin on Aisle 10, Shaws in Rockland?”

Hurry!

 

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It really is ridiculous.

And makes you wonder what we’re going to do if this trend continues.

 

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Uh oh.

You can’t pick your neighbors…

 

But you can bitch about them on your blog, and that’s something.

When we lived down south we had a rental property next door. It was a revolving door of nightmarish neighbors, each one worst than the last. For 17 years we physically cringed when the moving van pulled up to unload the next batch of morons.

You think I’m kidding when I say morons?

One guy came over and asked my husband how to change a light bulb.

 

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One never mowed the lawn.

One had wild parties every night (and never invited us, which is the definition of rude).

One brought cockroaches to the cul de sac.

One had to be evicted (she may or may not have been a hooker, tough call).

One shot pigeons for fun and left their rotting carcasses in the back yard.

One ran an errand for his wife and never came back.

One painted the house’s exterior trim Pepto Bismol pink.

Yes, in retrospect it sounds entertaining. But trust me, it was anything but.

So when we moved back to Maine and chose to live in the country far away from the morons? When we picked a house where you can barely see your neighbors?

 

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Anyway….

Life was good. Until a dumb ass neighbor moved in to the house behind us.

Have you ever Google Earthed yourself?

This is a shot of our place.

 

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With a giant blue dot for what must have been me with my laptop out on the deck.

We own a smidge over 3 acres and as you can see, mow most of it. Our property line ends a few dozen feet into the woods and the adjoining property runs down to the river. Sadly, it was all one massive piece 2 years before we moved here. Wish we had found it before it was split up… but if wishes came true? I’d be 5’9″, 120 lbs and have a summer home in Tuscany.

The previous owners of our home lived here for 2 years while they built a larger house on the water. They were great…. but moved away after 10 years. Now we have a college frat boy/trust fund baby whose daddy bought him the house (for $750,000), gave him a prosperous business, which he then sold for a fortune and “retired” at 35. He spends all his time playing with numerous expensive toys and traveling on daddy’s dime. Must be nice.

But the reason for this bitchy post?

One of his toys is a giant motor home….. that he parks on the outermost limit of his property so he won’t have to see the damn thing.

 

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That’s us in blue, with our little 3 acres. We own a narrow patch of the woods past the fields….. his house is on the upper left of the picture.

He had all that wooded land in between….

 

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But he parked the stupid thing 2 inches from our property line.

 

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You can’t pick your neighbors… but you can certainly waste 478 words bitching about them.

 

 

Because when I have a lot of time on my hands… it’s what I do.

 

If I’m self isolating?

And the husband is teleworking so I have to tiptoe quietly around the house….

I read.

 

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And when the husband is not working…… but watching old westerns with John Wayne or non stop Corona Virus news coverage that makes me want to scream?

I read.

 

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Problem is I read too much and too quickly.

12 books in 2 weeks makes me wish we were eligible for that stimulus package check.

Because if this keeps up much longer… and Goodwill and the libraries stay closed?

I’m going to need it for my Amazon bill.

Wording.

 

I love to word.

I love to read them, write them, and learn them.

And I love weirdo words most of all.

When you travel you hear words unique to certain regions and words used in different contexts.

Words!

Ya gotta love them.

 

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So when I saw this the other day?

I knew I had to share.

 

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I admit I’ve been known to make use of dingleberry, dicombobulated and kerfuffle now and then…. although I’m not nearly old enough to drop whippersnapper into a conversation any time soon.

In Maine we tend to say things are wicked. As in “That margarita is wicked good”  or “That beer is wicked cold”.

We also can lose control of our cars and end up in the  puckerbrush.

Mainers say  ayuh  when we mean yes.

We call submarine sandwiches Italians.

If you’re cute? We’ll call you  cunnin’.

If something is the best? We’ll say it’s  finest kind.

If you live far away from town? That would be the willy wacks.

And if you live really far away from town? That’s  bumblefuckEgypt.

 

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So educate me.

What words do you use in your backyard?

 

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Grocery store oddities.

 

Proof positive you can find blog fodder everywhere.

Not being a Slim Jim or pork rind fan I passed on these…

 

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I mean, hey… I like spicy food.

But not hot enough to make my pig squeal.

Then there was this –

 

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A clever ad gimmick for Walking Dead fans, but I can turn into a zombie by drinking just about anything.

No apocalypse necessary.

 

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I did buy these lemons.

Although I was little disappointed they didn’t have seed spitting lips.

Next time I’ll look for the GMO versions.

They’re always more interesting.

 

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And finally, back to the liquor aisle.

While the name Screwball caught my attention….

 

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I could come up with no reasonable explanation for adding peanut butter to a perfectly good whisky.

That’s just wrong.

 

 

 

 

 

Because even turkeys get cold.

 

Our local feed store is a delightfully quirky place.

Owned and operated by a wonderful man who shares our love of critters, I always look forward to shopping there.

Case in point….

When a turkey chick failed to sell last year because it had a deformity of it’s wing? He adopted it.

The bird is now large, spoiled silly and something of a feed store mascot.

When the temperature drops to near freezing?

 

 

She comes inside and stays by the wood stove…

Because even turkey birds get cold.

 

 

 

Please note there are two chickens under the table as well.

I love my town!!

Things my husband does that make me say WTH?

 

So I went out to the garage a while ago and saw he had moved the snow blower.

And while that in itself isn’t strange…

This was.

 

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Huh?

 

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Yes, that’s a bungee cord with one end hooked to the mirror…..

 

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And the other end hooked to the blower chute.

It took me a minute to realize he did this due to the limited space on his side of the building.

How limited?

Here’s a shot of the back end.

 

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Yeah.

 

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I’d say he had backed up as far as he could.

 

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The more logical solution of throwing out all that crap treasure not withstanding.