Maine is an interesting place, in that it completely lacks diversity--racial and other wise. Last I heard we were one of the whitest states in the Union, second only to Vermont. In all seriousness, the only non-white friend I've had in Maine was my lab-partner junior year. And get a load of this--you can't even find a Spanish channel in this state, but there are two French channels and a lot of NASCAR shows. Those viewing choices are mad caucasian if you ask me.
Religious diversity is also a novelty in these great North Woods. Basically you can choose between St. Andrew's Catholic Church, St. Michael's Catholic Church, or St. Mary's Catholic Church. Mormons like us are about as rare as the red-tailed-yellow-belly-sap-sucker, and I don't even know if that's a real bird.
And to top off this lack of diversity, there are only two general breeds of people in State of Maine: the yuppies and the hicks. It's not a spectrum, so there's no in between--if you live in this state, you're one or the other. You might as well choose your identity and go with it.
Having been raised in a middle-class family in a trendy Connecticut town, I like to believe that I fall into the first category. After all, I took a field trip to Europe in high school, I live in a house with lovely bay windows, and every once in a while, in the dead of the night, I'll find myself lying awake imagining how peaceful my soul would feel in the driver's seat of a BMW SUV.
Then I roll over and remember that I'm married to this man:
Not only does he drive the '89 Blazer that's currently in the shop for a fallen-off front wheel, he also wears outfits like that one. He won the hat, shirt, coaster, mug, and coordinating tote in a contest at the local fish n' game club. And whoa is me, he's strategically placed the items throughout the house in an effort to help with the decorating.
He's like, "Amy, I don't understand why we can't display this coaster in our hutch next to the crystal."
And I'm all, "Because there's a picture of an otter wearing sunglasses on it--that's why. And take that tote-bag off of the curtain rod."
Just when I think it couldn't get any worse, this little person comes waltzing around the corner:
He was on his way out the door to dig up some worms to catch some catfish. When I heard what was on the agenda, I was glad that Jared had put him in the camouflage pants--because honestly, it's important to dress the part.
As the screen door slammed behind him I was like, "Don't forget to mess your pants buddy! That's how the real hick kids do it!"
I should shred the Pottery Barn catalog, bronze a large mouth bass and take up smoking--I'm afraid my fighting is in vain.
Any other hicks out there? Got any tips for me?