Our Third Wheel

They say that rain on your wedding day means good luck. I can say that, after sitting through two typhoon-worthy graduation ceremonies (both my own) I feel lucky just to be alive, having not died of hypothermia on another milestone day. So it seems only fitting that on another very important day (well, weekend) of my life, I should be met with rain of historic proportions.

This weekend marks the first that Ben and I will spend together in our new apartment. And we will be greeted on this momentous occasion by none other than…Hurricane Irene.

Besides the obvious logistical wrench that Irene has thrown into our carefully-laid plans (shopping for a new couch in 90mph winds? Count me out!) there’s a psychological one as well. For weeks, we’ve been looking forward to finally settling into the apartment, maybe painting a wall or two, and exploring our new neighborhood. We talked about a nice dinner out (my favorite restaurant, Pure Food and Wine, is right up the street…aka, YES PLEASE) followed by a nice bottle of wine in one of the nearby parks. Maybe we’d even get a romantic moonlit stroll in there. You know, hold hands and stuff.

Home Depot, maybe Bed Bath and Beyond - I don't know if we'll have time!

The point is, it’s not gonna happen. As of noon today, public transit is no longer running, which puts a serious damper on shopping for houseware. Good luck getting a cab in a city that has too few of them even on bluebird days. And sloshing in gail-force winds through fifteen inches of rain is hardly a romantic stroll by anyone’s standards.

At first, I shook my fist at Irene for becoming the unwanted third wheel to our party of two. But then, as I considered the alternatives, it dawned on me: Netflix movies, cozy sweats (probably stolen from Ben’s side of the closet) and having a legit excuse not to see another human being for the entire weekend? Could this be real??

Turns out that we couldn’t have lucked out more. Crafty Irene created just the romantic weekend we were hoping for. 

Soaked...and happy

Batten Down the Hatches! (Alright, If You Say So)

For those of you who have been living (or hiding) under a rock for the past few days, Hurricane Irene is on her way up the East Coast as we speak. For New York City, this means the following:

- Mayor Bloomberg held an emergency press conference last night, announcing that the city’s transit system would be shut down as of noon on Saturday, effective (at least) through Sunday.

- President Obama declared the state of New York in a federal state of emergency. F-E-D-E-R-A-L, my friends.

- 300,000 New Yorkers have already been evacuated, and hourly updates will ask more to leave their homes or move inland from the water that surrounds the 23-square mile island of Manhattan.

- Flashlights, bottled water, and candles are now relics of the past, to undoubtedly be auctioned off at Christie’s for exorbitant amounts in the coming weeks.

Oh, and perhaps the most egregious of all:

- All transportation is suspended this weekend to and from the Hamptons.

Now, it’s not that I’m not taking this seriously. 90mph winds are a kick to the face – literally – and 15” of rainfall…well, that’s more than a foot, which can’t be good. But, as a Mainer, I can’t help but look on as the increasing panic ensues and think…”So what?”

But it's so nice out!

Back home, preparing for storms is part of every family’s routine. “Look’s like a Nor’easter,” the lady at the grocery store checkout will say. So you buy a few more batteries (to go inside the 17 Maglites you undoubtedly already have at home) and a few jugs of water. And maybe a six-pack of Shipyard, too, to make those hours spent reading fireside by candlelight bearable. If by bearable, I mean, downright enjoyable.

I could get used to this.

We lose power at home all the time. In fact, I think that one of my roommates was starting to wonder when we didn’t live without power, until she finally made the trip to Maine with me this summer and witnessed our (working) lightswitches for herself. Because nearly every time I called home from New York my parents were sitting in the dark, sipping nice wine by a huge fire and…loving every minute of it.

“Omg, ew, I thought they meant you all had to bathe in there,” one of my friends said with relief when I explained to her that, no, filling the bathtub with water before a storm is NOT for taking communal baths, but for flushing the toilet (manually), brushing your teeth and using for drinking water should the power go out and faucet’s not work. No. Big. Deal.

It’s funny, but to see uptight, jaded New Yorkers in panic-mode is honestly a little refreshing. After all, beneath those stern, too-cool-for-school exteriors are real human beings. Human beings that would rather not get carried away from their townhouse apartments in a flash flood.

Or, maybe, I just have more salty Mainer in me than I realized.

I hope it’s the latter.

Spotted: Mainers in their natural habitat.

The Nomad Shuffle

My life had stood -- A loaded elevator --

It's late August in New York, which means one thing: everyone under the age of 30 (at least, everyone I know) is in the midst of what I like to call the "nomad shuffle."

As young, mobile professionals, we lead lives in constant flux: changing jobs, going back to school, moving across the country, or — gasp! — settling down with a special somebody. Add to this mix the fact that most apartment leases last twelve months and you have an annual ritual of epic proportions: the yearly apartment search. While you usually have the option to renew your lease for another year, the stars rarely align for three or four roommates to find themselves in the same circumstance year to year that would make staying in the same apartment feasible. In fact, I don’t have many friends who haven’t moved every year. 
 

To exacerbate the problem, most of us moved to the city shortly after graduating, which — you guessed it — was sometime during the summer. This means that most of us signed our first leases in the summer…and got stuck in an endless cycle of moving at the same time every twelve months thereafter.

(Oh, and by the way, approximately 2 million people live in Manhattan, an island that covers only 23 square miles.)

Trying to rent a U-Haul? Good luck with that. When I moved last year, a friend and I had to go all the way to 300-something street in the Bronx just to rent a 14-foot truck for the day.

All of this is to say: moving in New York is not easy. In fact, it may be just about the most painful thing you do all year.  Surgeries, all-nighters, and extreme hangovers included. It’s stressful, sweaty, and always takes longer than you think it will.

Let the games begin.

And, as an added delight, it’s also painfully expensive, with most moving companies charging $125+ an hour for a minimum of three hours, plus traffic and parking costs.

If you’re lucky enough to live in a nice building, you’re also un-lucky enough to have a building manager who thinks he’s operating the Plaza Hotel. Our manager recently insisted that one of my roommates hire a moving company — even though she’s moving across the country, so she’s shipping everything, and doesn’t actually have any stuff to move.

“So…what you’re saying is, that I need to pay movers $300 to move my bed from the apartment to the curb?” she asked him, jokingly.

“Exactly,” he replied. Not jokingly.

But, all gripes and UMIs (Unidentified Moving Injuries) aside, there’s a reason we put up with this nonsense every year. There’s a reason we haul our belongings like hermit crabs across town, only to settle in for what feels like a few months and then do it all over again. There’s even a reason we eat oatmeal for a week (er, make that a month) after signing away an entire paycheck to the movers…and then next month’s paycheck for the first month’s rent and security deposit which are required by most NYC landlords.

We endure because, at the end of the day, we get to live on this 23-square-mile scrap of land. We get to close our eyes at night against the twinkling lights of the city, and wake in the morning to a glorious cacophony of car horns and break pads. We get to walk out our front doors and be a quick walk, train, or cab ride away from the best theater, dining, shopping (you name it) in the world. We get to order Thai food on a Sunday night at 2:00am from our favorite restaurant just because we can.

Goodnight, moon!

Of course, I can only say this now because I just finished this year’s nomad shuffle. After the most stressful week of my life, I’m settled into my new home, and — like we all do — have already forgotten how terrible it was in the excitement of exploring a new neighborhood.  I’ve forgotten about the boxes, grumpy building managers, and stalled elevators in favor of picking out new bathmats (more thrilling than you’d think!) and deciding which way the couch is going to go. 

Welcome home, my fellow New Yorkers…until next summer.

Home sweet home.

The Maine Event

A few weeks ago, I traveled back to the homeland for the wedding of two dear friends. I went to high school with both of them, and also college with the groom, and now one of them teaches at the same high school that we all graduated from. So the event was a true homecoming — family and friends from childhood, high school, and college were all in attendance. It was a big day for the happy couple, for obvious reasons — but seeing so many familiar faces was a cause for celebration for me as well.

Allow me to elaborate. Chris and Courtney have been together for 10 years — yep, you read that correctly, a decade — meaning that for most of the time I’ve known them, they’ve been a couple. Chris was one of my brother Ian’s best friends growing up, and they both ended up at Colby College, too. I followed them two years later. Courtney went to Bowdoin College (we try not to hold that against her) and she and Chris burned up the turnpike to maintain their relationship long-distance. During this same time, while I was a little baby freshman at Colby, I met a wonderful boy named Ben…who, as it turns out, was friends with Chris, too.

…And so, six years later, that’s how I found myself getting ready for Chris and Courtney’s wedding, in the same bathroom where I got ready for my high school prom, while my brother Ian and boyfriend Ben waited downstairs. Talk about a (wonderful) collision of different worlds.

Me and my prom, er, wedding date

The ceremony was held at the First Parish Church in Portland, and was truly “Chris and Courtney” from start to finish. The bride and groom descended into the church from opposite staircases, met in the middle, and then walked each other down the aisle. They also read their own vows, inspired by Dr. Seuss ("I will love you if you're poor or rich, I will love you if you're in a ditch..."). One of Courtney's teaching colleagues – and also my high school social studies teacher – officiated the ceremony. Every time I turned around in my pew, I saw another familiar face: neighbors from my childhood block, my second-grade teacher, friends from high school that I hadn’t seen since graduation. As we watched Chris and Courtney say “I do,” I felt nested in a little cradle of family.

Camp Colby strikes again!

After taking the obligatory Colby picture outside the church (okay, fine, there was a Bowdoin one, too...but we far overwhelmed, I mean, outnumbered the other wedding guests) we headed to the ferry to take us to Peaks Island for the reception. It was a beautiful ride and gave me the chance to look back on the mainland where I grew up. The Maine coast is even more breathtaking from the water! 

We're related.

Despite a few minor setbacks (the caterer and DJ both missed the ferry and came two hours late...nothing cold beer and an iPod can’t fix!) the party got underway and was "Maine" through and through. Inscribed shells told the guests where to sit and dinner was a fancified lobster bake, complete with shell-shaped whoopee pies for dessert. We even lucked out with a gorgeous Maine sunset over the water.

Mmm...lobstah

Over the course of the evening, I caught up with friends and family that I hadn’t seen in years (including an hour-long heart-to-heart with Janet Galle, my favorite teacher of all time, and the reason I became an English major), many of whom now live all over the country. Which got me thinking: was it a coincidence that all of these people came together in…Maine, of all places? Sure, weddings typically do bring people together from all over the place, but for one person to have every stage of their lives represented at one party on one island – wasn’t that more than a coincidence?

I’d like to think so. After all, that's what being from a Maine community is all about: maintaining ties, remembering your roots, and rallying together in good times and bad. So as we raised our glasses to Chris and Courtney, I offered a quiet little toast of my own in my head: to the wonderful Maine community that I'm from, both at home and away, gathered that night in celebration on a small patch of land in the Atlantic.

Forever Plaid

There is nothing more comfy and comforting than crawling between soft flannel sheets at the end of a long day. Or changing out of your stuffy work clothes and pulling on a worn flannel shirt with leggings. It’s the same feeling that I get when I step off the plane at PWM after a brief but typically stressful flight from my (current) home in New York City – the air smells, tastes, feels different. Like home. 

That is what flannel (especially of the plaid variety) means to me.

Bliss, is that you?

Anyone you knows anything about me knows that I am a Mainer, a Maineiac, a native of the north – and am darn proud of it. I consider myself extremely fortunate to have grown up there, between the mountains and the sea, and I find almost any excuse to bring it up in conversation. That’s easier to do here in New York than you might think; I am constantly running into people who summer in Maine or went to summer camp there as kids, and for those people Maine holds a very special place in their hearts.

As for the others, those who haven’t been so fortunate as to experience the Pine Tree State? Not so much. I get a lot of “Wow, you’re a long way from home” (not true – it may be psychologically worlds away, but in actuality is only a 50-minute flight up the coast). Or, more often than not, a blank look followed by: “What’s up there, exactly?”

As my opening quote says, "what's up there" is no secret if you’ve ever lived there. But if you haven’t, I hope that this blog will give you a glimpse into the wonderful world of ME…and me.