Vote, Beer, Vote, Sausage

My friends over at frame d'art, a pithy little blog, were kind enough to post their snapshot of the latest gossip-inducer in Portland's political scene. Apparently, Anna Trevorrow, running for school board, had to take down all her signs after mispelling Tomorrow (that's right there's only one m in tomorrow). Now it's just Anna Trevorrow for a better Tomorrow. I feign ignorance on most of the local races. I do, however, admire the ingenuity of Diane Russell, running for state legislature and wisely doing the majority of her stumping from behind the counter at Colucci's. Go in to buy one of their famed sausages, or pick up a six-pack, and the always personable Russell is more than willing to ring up your essentials and discuss the state's budget constraints. Now that's service! Catch Russell most nights at 135 Congress St, and check out her public service creds here: http://www.new.facebook.com/pages/Diane-Russell/12610231275

I'll give Tina Smith credit for an eye-catching flyer, which I found on my doorstep (and on everybody else's doorstep) this past weekend. Election season's in full swing. This little girl loves debates. But I'll try to be well-informed on the local races before the elections. Looks like I'll have to increase my sausage and beer runs to Colucci's. It's a rough life in the little city.

Time Wounds All Heels

So, not surprisingly I get referred to as a “little girl” a lot. It usually comes from men over the age of 40. It happened today. One of my employers sends me on weekly lunch pick-up at Anthony’s Italian Kitchen, and Anthony himself always greets me with a smile. Today, he scolded them for sending “such a little girl every week to pick up such a large order.” The Gloria Steinem in me might find these types of comments a tad patronizing. From Anthony, it seemed more fatherly. And being little, small, short, well, it does have its advantages. I win limbos often. Even on rollerskates. People at concerts let me stand up front (perhaps the best perk). Sure, I always have to use the step stool in my kitchen or have strangers help me put the overhead bags up on the plane, but it never ceases to amaze me that other less vertically challenged people are willing to help this little girl out.
I often wonder how old they think I am. Once I visited a zoo in Nashville with my mother, just after turning 21, and the man asked her if she wanted the 12 and under ticket for me. She laughed. I scoffed. If people are assuming I’m younger based on my baby face and lack of inches, are they also treating me with less respect? Am I bound for a severe Napoleon complex? Should I be flattered or frustrated when they call me “little”?
For kicks, my roommate actually enjoys having me squeeze into our very short and narrow pantry. For a mere 5 seconds, I smoosh myself, inhaled belly, between the shelves and the creaky wooden door. Mr. Roommate (www.ebspalding.blogspot.com) then pushes the door taut against my body and voila, I actually fit! I literally fall out of the closet after he opens the door. Anything for entertainment in Maine though.
I used to resort to heels to give me an extra 3 inches, bringing my height to a towering 5”3. I’d spend my entire lunch break perusing the selection at Stiletto on Exchange St. Back then, I’d splurge on shoes or James Jeans, usually at Zane. How quickly I caught the consignment bug, and learned to fashion my outfits with someone else’s jeans. And shoes for that matter. I recently went into Material Objects trying to find heels to match my homecoming dress (yes, an adult homecoming, unofficial Picnic after-party this Saturday). When you’re a little girl, have little feet, and a little cash, Material Objects is the way to go.
I’ll get the heels for the dance this weekend, but about a year ago, I gave up and started wearing flats and flip-flops with just about every outfit I owned. I embraced my small stature. And the mildly patronizing comments. “You’re so short!” “You’re so little!” Yes, both true statements. And I know I may not always be this way (well I’ll always be short, but not always little). So I just respond with a blush and a smile. I learned that boots without heels work well for the cold Maine winter. Leather ones, not so much. But still, I’ve amassed a versatile flat-shoe collection.
Come Saturday, you’ll find me at Space, the insufferable little girl on the dance floor, with blistered feet and an awkward heel-induced gait. I’ll switch over to flats at some point in the night for sure. Heck, if I’m really having fun I might just go barefoot. As one of my friends promises those who come, she’ll twirl for you. I might twirl for you too. Just don’t tell me “Put your shoes on, little lady.” Because that's sexist. I’ll probably twirl anyway.

Gonna use my style, Gonna use my sidestep

A short note: Little Girl is now on Twitter. You can now see what's going on in the little city and providing fodder for my next post by tracking me there ( a scary concept?!) Twitterers large and small have been providing great insight into the DNC. My favorite Twitter post thus far comes from The New Yorker's music critic Sasha Frere-Jones. On Hillary's intro music: "What the Joe Hill is this hideous intro song for Hillary? It has old socks and a bad haircut." My sentiments exactly as I sipped shiraz and ate popcorn watching her speech on Maine PBS like it was an NC-17 film my parents were hiding from me. She should have come blazing out to some badass chic rock. Brass in Pocket by The Pretenders. Now that'd been more fitting. Because Hillary's gonna have some of your attention. (For those of you wondering, Hillary came out to Big Head and the Monster's "Blue Sky." The folks at Mother Jones didn't like it either apparently): http://www.motherjones.com/riff_blog/archives/2008/08/9417_hillary_clinton_1.html)

Also, I've been vintage-dress shopping (a tale to be told soon) because Space Gallery is hosting a Space-style Homecoming Dance, Saturday, Sept. 13th. I feel girlishly silly for how excited I am about it. I'm hoping in the Space "alternative arts" spirit, this will be a freakishly unforgettable evening. Just as I hope Obama's acceptance speech Thursday night will be unforgettable. Not so much freakish. But it's politics, so I'll take the freakish along with the unforgettable. Just as long as his intro music rocks...

The High Seas, The Rock Shows

Ah, Portland nightlife. Nightlife? Posed as a question in the north woods and a good Mainer will scoff at you. You mean the sound of the crickets? Red solo cups by a fire in the woods? The kind famed Maine comedian Bob Marley jokes about. I don't want to laugh at his jokes when I hear them. But I have to. I get them. I am, after all, a Mainer. And a Portlander. I heart The White Heart. I know the doorman. Kicked around at a rock show or two.

The peninsula's nightlife is comfortable, accessible, and predictable. Like good homemade mac and cheese. But it's time for some mind-blowing musical cuisine. It's been a while since I left a show thinking, damn, that was amazing and totally unexpected. (Although that wasn't the case for the Parachutes show at Space Gallery I just saw. A whimsical band from Iceland embarking on a tour of the US. Check them out!)

So lately I've turned to sights, not sounds, to get me fired up about the little city. The splendor of the seas sometimes gets to me just as much as an unexpectedly good band. The overlooked Portland tourist landmarks. The ones held dear to the "summer people." Stumbled upon two of these on the East End trail. The Amistad and The Friendship. Mightily restored sailboats, their majestic riggings whipping on this windy August day. Their crews swinging like pirates between the ropes. One deckhand, a woman, was perched high atop the riggings, ruining my pirate fantasy. I wanted them to abduct me Pirates of the Carribbean- style please. Whisk me off to a tropical locale (which will be especially desirable come November). Ships, amazing.

The Portland Observatory is always taunting. Come on, climb up me, it seems to whisper as I walk by. How can I pass up climbing all those flights of stairs to the top of the tower to take in the Portland skyline from Munjoy Hill's most recognizable structure. Somehow, I have for two years. Maybe I will sneak in when the firemen who sit outside all day at the station next door aren't looking. They're always out there though. An alluring building. One I've never been in. Shame on me.

Perhaps Portland needs events that combine the tried and true fun of the rock show with the oft-overlooked tourist destination. A rock show on the top of the observatory? A duck tour converted into a stage? The Casco Bay "Music Cruise," (or lovingly, the Booze Cruise), is on the right track. Throw some people on a boat in one of the east coast's prettiest harbors, add lots of alcohol, and a great local band, and voila.... the best of both worlds. You took a scenic tour of the bay, you'll say to people. No you didn't. You just got really drunk listening to the band you've seen a million times before. But still, music in a somewhat atypical setting. Or at least not a club. Get the drift? You might after a fifth rum and coke on the booze cruise.

A friend recently came up with the concept of a guerilla gorilla rock show. Basically, people parading around town dressed up like gorillas, with all their band equipment, crashing into people's places, playing a renegade set, and then scurrying along to the next venue, guerilla style. A novel idea. Maybe they could even make a stop at the Observatory. We could ogle at the stars and get our ears blown out. Getting the amps up there might be a little tricky, but an unforgettable venture for sure. Any takers? I hope so. Let's rock (and sightsee) on!

Blame Silly's Jilly

"Meet me at Silly's." I've been saying this a lot lately. Silly's meteoric rise on my list of top gathering spots is in no small way due to their eccentric menu. And their location. Which, you may have guessed, is also a stone's throw the to new apartment. (I apologize for continually bragging about the fabulous location of my apartment. Oh, heck. No I don't. It's a fabulous location). Silly's cliched fried pickles epitomize their off-the-wall culinary mantra. (Although anyone who's ever visited Silly's knows nothing is actually off the wall. They're absolutely with pictures and kitschy lamps and lights. How silly). On my last trip to Silly's I stumbled upon Sangria. At $11 a pop, their half pitchers are irresistable. Sangria is a pretty sexy drink, if you think about it. Lusciously red, packed with sugar, wine, and forbidden fruit. Great for an evening out in Barcelona. Not a wise choice if you're about to attend your sister's birthday party in the north woods of Maine. Especially unwise if you are solely responsible for obtaining a Friendly's ice cream cake and transporting it to said birthday party in a hot car for two hours. Needless to say, I found myself and another family member (who I should note, was NOT attending my sister's birthday party), cajoling ourselves into a little mid-afternoon Sangria break at Silly's. An offer I couldn't pass up. An offer I should have passed up. Our server moved at a languid pace. Not a waitress in the good-old-fashioned quick service, great smile, mildly flirty sort of way. More in the screw-the-status-quo, look-at-my-tattoos vein. She did manage to keep the sangria flowing, so no real complaints.

After the second tin cup of Sangria (note more silliness here, relatively fancy drink in a tin cup) were a little silly. And a little sleepy with a two-hour drive and cake-obtaining quest beckoning. Without my timely arrival, no birthday cake. Uh-oh. Were my problems sangria-related? Maybe just a little.


After officially sobering up (under .08 I promise), I proceeded to get lost in the even littler city of Lewiston, Maine. Birthday parties. Always stressful events in my family. When we were little, my mother used to throw us the most wholesome parties with a homemade cake, a gaggle of friends, the grandparents too. My sister, ever the family-oriented anchor of our clan, really wanted to recapture this magic by spending her 29th birthday party in Maine with her husband and family. Did I mention loathing getting in my car? If I did, it is only because I loathe that it is usually for the sole purpose of traveling to a town with a few less places like Silly's, and a few more watering holes in the tradition of Awful Annie's. I love my mother though. And she is a sophisticated lady still rocking it in the little rural Maine town I grew up in, bless her soul. And my car. Which makes the trip north just for her.

The Friendly's worker asked me if I wanted a Sponge Bob or Barbie statue on the ice cream cake. "No, she's turning 29. Happy Birthday Jill will be just fine." I was going to be two hours late, for sure. Getting lost trying to find a Friendly's in Lewiston didn't help either. I drove about 70 mph after getting the cake since I still had another 45 minutes before arriving home. But that's where I came from. Not Portland. A little town. Where the kids don't sip Sangria, they just want birthday cakes. As a matter of fact I didn't even know what Sangria was until last year. (Well, that's not entirely true, but Bud tops the list of preferred beverages back home). No matter how much I love the Little City of Portland, I can't shake my rural roots or get too big for my britches (or in my case my vintage-inspired dresses).

Sometimes, when I reach Exit 75 on the Maine turnpike, a strong yearning for rural life stirs in me. The peace. The quiet. The joy found in small familial gatherings. After packing the cake in the cooler, I even started yearning for the wholesome birthday my sister requested. Down with sangria. Down with hipsters (which is how my family classifies me these days). Give me a Bud Light, some Eagles on the radio, the mountains, and the trees. Sometimes the Little City gets this Little Girl intoxicated with its sights, sounds, and Sangria. And back home, simple is what's on the menu. No kooky lights or fried pickles, just my mom in the kitchen, older folks talking about the days of yore, food flowing. The things my sister loves.

I dedicate this post to her. She is traditional and virtuous in a way I can only dream about being. I wish her a wonderful last year of her 20's, and I hope I survive mine as gracefully as she has hers. Which will involve more birthday cakes. And less Sangria.

Eastern Promenade, Existential Crises

Little girl tends to go stir crazy. A lot. Which is why I love to hop two feet up the street from my new east end digs and lay out on the huge lawn that is the Eastern Prom. The Eastern Promenade might just be the nicest place in Portland on a sunny day. Sure, you have the ornate architecture and tulip beds on the Western Prom, but for sheer grandeur the E. Prom takes the cake. It's a great spot for people-watching, listening, and my favorite new hobby, seagull- watching. Now seagull-watching seems like a bit of a forced past-time in Portland, and for most a rather dull one. Yet such a familiar and mundane sight entertains me for hours. I find seagulls utterly captivating, and I can't quite explain why. I lounged on a blanket for a good two hours on the grass, book and coffee in hand. It didn't take long for me to befriend one particular seagull who seemed to be lost from the flock. Although I sympathize with my neighbor's suicidal cats, this lost seagull and I were in nothing short of a western-style standoff. Would he dare invade the personal space so neatly marked by the edges of the blanket I laid down? Would I dare provoke that ear-shrilling noise? Our stand-off was quickly interrupted when he saw his home flock up above. The seagull alerted them to his whereabouts with an action that seemed to be the equivalent of seagull dry-heaving. So much for my dramatic encounter with the seagull. I did manage to capture his approach tactics on film though. (Note: I don't mean to be sexist by assuming the seagull is male. If seagulls were human I just feel they'd be cranky old men. The retired kind. The ones who get to take strolls about town all day).

After my seagull friend left me, I did a little juvenile cloud-watching. Laid back, looked up, put some Radiohead on the IPOD and transported myself to the sky. Moving, wispy, big gorgeous clouds lessening the severity of the noonday sun. A friend recently recommended "The Story of B" by Daniel Quinn. I tried reading that too, but for some reason the cold subject matter, a book deeply examining the nature of man, seemed too intellectual for such a simply beautiful day. The weather and scenery were more fitting for transcendental or romantic poetry. Something lusher. Instead, I was stuck with The Phoenix crossword and a book by the author of Ishmael so I abandoned my literary pursuits for the sun and clouds. I am severely dependent upon Vitamin D exposure. I often think I must be a masochist for every Maine winter that doesn't propel me to move to a warmer locale. But those three months of summer bliss almost make up for our torturous winters.

I attempted a couple pages. Quinn went on some tangent about the merits of the Gebusi tribe in New Guinea, being considered completely heathen by Western Society, but free from our societal norms. Free. Free as in run-around-naked, kill-with-no-remorse free. Although nudity and/or homicide would have certainly made this trip to the promenade a memorable one, I had to put the book down then. It was about to induce a dreaded existential crisis. I hear these are usually at least a monthly occurrence in the lives of twentysomething liberal arts grads. But taking in the Promenade pleasantness, I was just too happy to be alive to worry about the big questions. The meaning of life could wait while I laughed at seagulls and soaked up sun. Lots of it. Superficial of me perhaps to be so naively optimistic about a sunny day, but why not? As I read more Quinn, he seemed to want to convey that in many ways life's meaninglessness is what also gives it meaning. Okay. I dig that. Seagulls, meaningless. Sun, meaningless. And yet, both made my day a little more entertaining. I will never stop revelling in sunshine, or appreciating it no matter how meaningless Quinn tells me life is. Existential crisis be-damned!

Two Cats, Two East Ends

After two years on the West End of Portland, Maine, I have finally made the move to Munjoy Hill and the sun still shines here on the East End of the city. Many people espouse the community up here on the Hill, and I hear my little city is a hilly town, so I better get used to the elevation. And the sights. Which are diverse and lovely just the same. Walking up Congress St. headed towards the Eastern Promenade, I see a quaint family home within eyeshot of a shirtless man sitting on his stoop with his pet snakes. I could do without the snakes, but here's to eclecticism...

The cats on the third floor certainly don't seem to be scared of heights. They adeptly perch right on the ledge of our old tenement house. As I opened the gate they sensed my newness to the neighborhood and peered down at me with that eery stare that only cats get away with. I thought, no kitty, it's not worth it. Don't jump. There are always answers out there. The black one, oddly enough, turned around and put off feline suicide for at least one more day. The calico just hissed at me. I hope they'll get used to me. I do like cats. Just not giving me evil eyes from such great heights. Or peeing in the hallway. That stinks too (literally), although a strong gust of wind up on the ledge might solve that... But, I jest. I wish ill will upon no feline.

Later the same day as the thwarted kitty massacre, I went in search of the nearest location selling City of Portland trash bags. Recycling was, and still is for the most part, a very foreign concept in the Western foothills of Maine where I grew up. It gives me great pleasure to break down my boxes every Tuesday and place them in the royal blue bins on the streets of Portland to be whisked away at some unknown hour by the secret garbage fairies of the night. Fairies, you know, in the tooth-fairy sort of way. Sadly, these garbage fairies don't seem to leave money after taking my recyclables, although I wouldn't be opposed...

Anyhow, the woman working behind the counter at Colucci's sadly informed me they did not carry the precious bags. I inquired if she knew the nearest locale, and she suggested I get in my car and drive to Hannaford. I loathe getting in my car. I like to walk everywhere if the weather permits, if only in spite of Mother Nature who has made Maine her practical joke. I thought surely some little "hip" establishment in the East End must sell the suckers. Colucci's is a very traditional Munjoy Hill outpost, and the nearest to my abode, so I thought my search might begin, and hopefully, end there. I was mistaken.





Despite the Colucci's employee telling me to throw in the towel and get in my car, I wouldn't give up the thought that I'd be able to get everything I would need within walking distance of home. Rosemont Bakery, up the street from Colucci's, is a "hip" import to the neighborhood. It seems to be mostly frequented by "hip" imports to the neighborhood. People from away. People who probably didn't grow up on Munjoy stocking up at Colucci's. Which is why it didn't surprise me that the woman behind the counter at Colucci's didn't know that the Rosemont carried City of Portland trashbags. She had me driving to Hannaford, a supplier for sure, but that suggestion seemed counterintuitive to my support of the Buy Local campaign, and my greener ambitions. The two businesses are within less than a mile of each other, but in some ways worlds apart.

They say there are two Maines. Walking home with my bags from Rosemont Bakery, not Colucci's, I wondered if there are also two Portlands. Maybe even two East Ends. The world of the born and raised here salt-of-the-earth local versus the world of the hip twenty-something traveling from city to city, searching for authentic experiences in storied little places like Portland. Can the woman behind the counter at Colucci's coexist with the organic-lifestyle-loving cutie working at Rosemont? Can't we all just get along? For the sake of the environment and the cats up on the ledge, I certainly hope so...