Maine, The Way Life Should Be

January 4, 2009

As far as I remember, my sister and I were raised by the same parents, under the same roof, with nothing but a thin wall between our beds. But in the last ten years, since we've both been on our own, we've taken two very different paths in life.

I, on the one hand, am a successful young (and beautiful) working mother. My sister, on the other hand, is hopelessly addicted to Day of Our Lives and methamphetamines.

Okay fine. That was a lie.

We actually have the exact same taste in music, clothing (frumpy), make-up (none), snacks (lots), and swear words (the really bad ones). We both have twenty-zillion on-line friends, we both complain about our husbands, and we both wretch about our weight as we pull through the Dunkin' Donuts drive-thru to order a jelly-filled.

Aside from practicing different religions--she likes to drink Merlot, while I prefer to drink up the sweet promises contained in the Book of Mormon--we're like photocopies of each other. Except for one thing: I'm a little bit country, she's a little bit rock n' roll.

In other words, she lives in Boston and I live in Maine.

I honestly cannot imagine this woman ever leaving that traffic-laden city. She's like, "Sometimes I get mugged on my way to play-group, my car's been stolen twice, I can see seventy other houses and thirteen billboards from my front steps, and I LOVE IT HERE!"

Then there's me. I'm all, "I lost my dog in a snowbank, my nipple in an unfortunate rifle accident, and I LOVE IT HERE!...Now get the hell off my 40-acres."

This past weekend my sister and her family came to visit us here in Maine, and the visit started in standard fashion--with my sister calling from her cell phone, shrieking, "Uhhh!!! Amy!!! I'm not gonna see a dead deer tied to the top of someone's car, am I?!"

I'm telling you, the girl is absolutely ridiculous--deer hunting season ended a month ago. It's squirrel and crow season now, and those little vermin can easily fit inside of someone's glovebox--no need for bungees or a roof rack.

This time, when Katy and Rob visited, Jared and I were determined to show those two a good time. On Saturday afternoon, we babysat their two kids while we sent them off to a nice little trail system to do some snow shoeing. As they were layering up and preparing to go, my brother-in-law started emptying his bag and rummaging through the gear he'd packed for their little outing. The man had--and I kid you not--two compasses, a head lamp, a mylar warming blanket, a set of walkie talkies, a box of water proof matches, and (seriously) a small mirror to be used for signaling an airplane if they should happen to find themselves hopelessly lost in the wilderness.

I was like, "Dude. If you get lost, just call me from your cell phone. I'll come and pick you up."

They returned three hours later, safe and sound, and never even had to use that signaling mirror thank goodness.

Later that night, Jared and I decided to take Katy an Rob out for a night on the town--Maine style. We settled on our favorite little place for local music, The Solid Ground. It's the same place my husband and I end up every time we hire a babysitter. It's a funky coffee shop during the day and a quirky bar at night--not your typical Mormon hangout, but then again I'm not your typical Mormon. Got that fat ass?!

Okay fine, I'll admit it, I scrapbook. But let me make this unmistakeably clear--my layouts are totally edgy with captions like "This is right before I ravaged my husband in the restroom of the cruise ship gift shop" and titles like "The Day I Came Dangerously Close to Leaving my Three-Year-Old in a Dog Crate at Petco."

Seriously edgy.

So there we were, sitting at a table at the bar--my brother-in-law was drinking a Sam Adams, Jared was drinking in the atmosphere, and I was dipping my tongue in my sister's wine glass, desperately hoping to get a buzz off three drops of Shiraz, osmosis, and a keen sense of smell. No luck.

Anywho...we're sitting around, shooting the shiz, when two sixty-something people at the next table over start making out like crazy. Like crazy. In all seriousness, I saw that man touch that woman's booby, more than once.

I'm 99% certain that their thirty-something-year-old son was sitting with them at their little tiny table--and let me tell you, he looked uncomfortable. Almost as uncomfortable as my sister looked when I yelled "OH NO HE DIDN'T!" when I caught the old dude copping a feelio in a very public setting.

When we finally decided to leave, my sister was like, "Okay, so I still think you live in the strangest place on Earth."

And I just smiled and said, "A-yup."

Boston be damned--I love it here.