Post Holiday Letdown 23 February, 2007 -- Fri

The Whores have all gone home.

My house is still in disarray, feathers float across the room every so often, and I sigh wistfully.

I love having people in my house. I love cooking for them, making sure they are comfortable, sitting and talking to people that I haven’t seen in ten years.

Usually after FWS I am left wanting other things. Last year, I wanted to pick up and move back to the west. In years past I have been left missing New York, missing all the people and places that were once an integral part of my life.

Due to the Blizzard and Jet Blue airlines not flying out of Portland for a bajillion days, I ended up driving Glo back to NYC, just in time for the birthday of one of the people who had been staying at my house. Straight from Maine to Brooklyn in five hours and then straight into the Lower East Village for an overpriced, underportioned dinner at one of the new hotspots. An African French restaurant. Don’t even ask. If I hadn’t of been at a table full of people I loved, I would have killed everyone in that tiny, overheated, pretentious place. That was followed by a very long night of NYC barhopping, adult candy, and very very tiny drinks.

And while I enjoyed every minute of it, I could not believe that this used to be the life I lived every day. I used to live here! I used to do these things! Now I am the frumpy girl from Maine, who pulls out her black skirt, her ironic tshirt, and her mascara for one or two nights a year.

Did you catch that?

I am the girl from MAINE.

I am not the girl from Montana.

And that is very hard for me to get used to.

I drove home the next day absolutely exhausted. Four hours of sleep and a big breakfast did not help out any.

But the closer I got to Maine the more awake and comfortable I felt, and I was excited to be back in my town, back in my house, and back to real life.

I might not be in Maine for the rest of my life, but I love this place, this town, this life, and I am glad that I am finally getting to the point where I am able to enjoy the now, instead of spending my whole life missing the then.

Holidays in Maine. 3 February, 2007 -- Sat

Nine years ago, Anna and I accidentally invented a holiday while sitting in the front window at Gritty’s. This was back before Gritty’s was McGritty’s and you had to have a flipped collar or less than 20% of your body covered in clothing.

We were watching people file past the window, all bundled up and freezing and miserable. It was sub-zero outside and warm and cozy by the window, but the window had only a little tiny bit of it that was not fogged and or frozen. It was a miserable day, like most days in February in Maine.

“I can’t wait for French Whore Season”, I said to Anna.

She stared at me for a minute, and tried to decipher what I had said. Anna and I are notorious for mishearing each other.

“French Whore Season?” she said.

“What? TOURIST SEASON! I can’t wait for tourist season!”

So of course a holiday was born. Next Friday will be our ninth year of celebrating French Whore Season. Last year we had about 70 people come, some all the way from Seattle, some from New York, and a whole lot from here in Maine. This year, pretty much everyone we knew in college will be showing up, and Livia, my liver, is already scared.

What started as Anna and I wearing sparkly shirts and maybe some red lipstick has turned into a corset-laden booze fest. Look! We have a poster! All year people have been asking me, “When is French Whore Season????” Rest easy folks. It has arrived. Five more days!