Why censoring is f-ed

I work with small children, I understand why we should watch our mouths in public. They're little sponges. The other day, a four-year-old told me I was an asshole for telling him to stop talking during a movie.

I also went to school for journalism, so I can appreciate the freedom of speech and am weary of censoring information.

However, this is not a debate on the merits of censoring or not; it's a critique on how censoring has gone horribly wrong.

In case you've been living in a cave for the last six months, Rihanna has a new song called S&M. That's stands for sadomasochism, people. Here's a peek if you haven't seen it:

The song is actually quite catchy. It took me a while to realize what she was actually singing about. S&M isn't my thing, but I can at least appreciate the song. The other day I found myself singing along with the radio when I had to stop and listen again, without my voice horribly out-singing my girl Rih.

Lets be real. The lyrics such as "chains and whips excite me" should have been what shocked me, but it was what the radio station cut out instead that made my jaw drop.

Here's the chorus:

"Cause I may be bad, but I'm perfectly good at it. 
Sex in the air, I don't care, I love the smell of it. 
Sticks and stones may break my bones, 
But chains and whips excite me. "


What I was dumbfounded to hear was that the big, bad S word had been censored. That's SEX. The woman is talking about getting whipped in bed and the radio station censored the word SEX!

If you were going to censor the song, DON'T PLAY IT AT ALL! Do you really think taking the word SEX out of the song will make it more socially acceptable? It's a raunchy song. Period.

I'm not saying it shouldn't be played on the radio, I'm simply suggesting some intelligence in deciding what Cumulus thinks the public should hear. "Sex" is the least inappropriate part of the song.

All I know is that when I'm not surrounded by four-year-olds I'll be singing the real words as loud as I can.

Why it sucks to lose

... or as Stephanie Thrasher would say, "It sucks to suck."

I guess I got my first big dose of failing today. I'm not one to talk about feelings, but I think getting this out in the open will help.

I FAILED.

Ok, that didn't hurt so bad. No ... it still does, but at least it feels good to say it.

I have been applying for Teach for America for well over two months now. I passed three rounds of interviews and faced hours of interrogation from yuppy-ass Yale graduates about my thoughts on "educational inequality." I'm pretty sure no one who went to Yale knows where Thorndike, Maine is or went to school in trailers, but that's besides the point. (I'm still a little bitter. Ok, a lot bitter.)

The real story here though, is the fact that I've waited a whole month to hear back about my in-person interview that took me two previous interviews to get to. Today, I got the fated, "We're so glad you applied to Teach for America BUT ..." letter.

I've been trying to not get so worked up about this program. I knew it was really competitive to begin with. I knew my chances were low and I didn't want to get upset if I didn't get it. Well, I didn't get it and I'm upset.

I guess there is a laundry list of reasons I'm sad I didn't get the job:

1. I really wanted it.
2. I don't have a back-up plan.
3. I thought I nailed my in-person interview.
4. I jumped through so many hoops to get to the final stage only to get a rejection letter.
5. I really wanted it.
6. I don't have a back-up plan.

In reality though, all those things can be wrapped up in to one big reason why it stings. This is my first bout with rejection. I've never had or applied for a "real" job where I eagerly waited a reply. I got into all the colleges I applied to. I even had a status lined-up on Facebook if I got an acceptance letter. As far as aspirations go, I've never had my little dreams tromped on until now.

I know it's not the end of the world. I know there are lots of other things I can do now. I know when I have to tell all kinds of people I failed, they'll still like me. I know I'm a big girl, and should grow up.

I know all these things, but it still sucks. At least the anticipation of hearing back is over.

I won't end this sad self-indulgent blog like that though. Life will move on. Opportunities will arise. New things can grow from here. It's not the end of the world.

Why March is the worst month ever

Today may have been the first day the State of Maine whispered the tantalizing, ultimate happy-feeling word: SPRING. But lets not get too crazy. We all whispered it for a reason.

Sorry T.S. Eliot, March is the cruelest month.

(On a side note, I would like to pause and recognize that March has been much crueler to other people on the planet this month. My thoughts go out to those in need. My irritations remain in Maine.)

Most people have the image of spring in Maine that includes the following:

Lupines

Syrup tapping

Legitimate icons of our great state, but we don't actually see lupines until June, when the rest of the country is well into summer.

March in Maine is the ultimate tease. It was sunny and 40 today, while we enjoyed our extra hours of sunlight, but tonight the lows are approaching a whopping 9. That's 9 degrees. We're guaranteed another snow storm, so we're enjoying the foot deep ruts in the mud right now.

While we welcome our moments in the sun and the first opportunity we've had in months to drive with our windows cracked open, most people don't consider 36 degrees a balmy day. That's the saddest part about March. You want to feel spring-happy, after months of snow and darkness, but it's still just a little too early.

At least in the deepest reaches of winter, you know what you're getting into. You can expect a foot of snow in January and not be too, too upset about it. But after you've had your first warm, sunny day in March, it's hard to see the snow fall again or the temperatures dip below zero.

Why strangers are awesome

As my dear friend Sharon can tell you, the number one rule we learn as children is; "Don't take candy from strangers." I remember my mother digging through my Halloween candy to make sure there weren't razor blades in my Snickers or evidence of my 3 Musketeers being tampered with. I mean there's a whole campaign about "Stranger Danger." Certainly, these are precautions we should all take, but to children, the world begins to seem like a scary place before they reach elementary school.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not slamming teaching children lifelong skills to keep themselves safe. At my preschool, we watch "Be Cool About Fire Safety" at least once a month and our kids sing "you gotta stop, drop and roll" on a regular basis. This is all good information.

But lets fast-forward a few years beyond pre-school and open the window into the "adult world." Once we have all these lessons instilled into our brains, it's time to open up to each other. I'm not suggesting jumping in to that sketchy van parked on the corner (especially if it's owned by Josh Ard) but I am suggesting we open our eyes to the people we pass by everyday.

I guess as a waitress, I'm used to talking to strangers. Not to mention, I'm a pretty trusting, social person. Every time I run errands, I end up chatting with the gas station attendant or the sales clerk at Hannaford. I thoroughly enjoy speaking with people - I guess why I leaned toward journalism in college.

Strangers have the ability to make your day. Some random guy might give you a glance. Some woman might comment on your new sweater at Best Buy. (Whoever you are random lady, I'm still smiling about our 5 minute talk about my sweater. I love it too.) Some table might leave you a 75 percent tip. An older lady may tell you you look like a ballerina - a common remark in my life for some reason.

I try to be that stranger in return. I love starting small-talk. I like giving out small comments.

All of these small things might not mean that much, and if someone you see everyday says it, it's probably just a passing remark in a slew of conversations you've had. But when someone takes the time to seek you out and start a repertoire, the conversation feels meaningful.

There's so much to learn about people. The old man at the gas station may have some really cool life stories. The 4-year-old in line behind you at Wal-Mart may have some awesome joke you want to tell all your friends. If we take the time to initiate these conversations, the world seems a little less scary.

Why Groundhog Day is my favorite holiday

I had a hard time believing Punxsutawney Phil predicted a quick spring today while I shoveled out my car from underneath a fresh eight inches of snow. As my dad concluded, we'd been hit by "Snowtorious B.I.G."

But I really don't mind the snow ... and that's not even the point of this blog. Let's get back to Phil.



I love him.

Groundhog Day seems like such a pointless holiday, if you can even call it a holiday, but that's why I love it. It's a little silliness in the deep, dark of winter. I mean come on, a group of old men in top-hats (who call themselves "The Inner Circle") pull a fat, buck-toothed rodent out of a hole to see if he sees his shadow. Not to mention, little Phil is 125 years old and drinks a magical potion that adds  seven years to his life every year.


As you can tell, I've been doing my research about Groundhog Day. It actually stems from the German tradition of Candlemas and started with a hedgehog. The celebration even has its own website. Here are a few holiday facts:

• There are more than a dozen groundhog celebrations across the U.S. and Canada. Phil is just the most famous. (I wonder if all their shadows concur?)
• Nearly 40,000 people flock to Punxsutawaney to join the celebration every year.
• Phil speaks "Groundhogese"

So why do I love all this craziness? Because it's crazy, duh! But for cereal, I love Groundhog Day because it's a nice break in the cold, dark winter. It gives us hope we'll see the sun and grass again. It's a break that everyone needs, which is why its been such a longstanding tradition. It brings us back to ties when nature was an important part of survival Not to mention groundhogs are pretty cute.

I also appreciate the "holiday" because it's not tied up in commercial garble. It's all about people coming together to watch a furry little creature. I like people. I like furry little creatures. Done deal. 

Why good grammar is sexy

I recently told a friend ... "I'm always attracted to nerds." She didn't scoff. She didn't ridicule me. She laughed and said "I love a man who uses good grammar."

I couldn't agree with her more. At first I thought it was because I majored in Journalism and minored in English. Apparently, I'm not the only one who somewhat enjoyed Strunk and White's "Elements of Style" or wonders if 'e-mail' or 'email' is the correct format in AP Style.

I'm not trying to police the entire English language. I certainly make mistakes myself. All I'm asking is that people use basic correct English. We have a set of standard rules so we can communicate as a whole and understand each other.

When I'm talking to a guy, it's an automatic turn-off, if for example, he says, "I did good on my test," instead of "I did well on my test." I know not everyone loves grammar as much as I do, but let me explain the basic principle between 'good' and 'well' - it will make you sound smarter.

Good: (adjective) enjoyable, satisfactory, pleasing
Well: (adverb) in a satisfactory way, with approval/praise

Not only will using correct grammar make you sound smarter, it will make people respect your opinion more. This picture is a prime example. There are some obvious mistakes in the original text. Readers probably scoffed at the sign and thought the pump attendant had the mental capacity of a three-year-old. The writer could have been a math genius or an engineer, but when your sign reads "all pump is pre-pay," everyone thinks you're an idiot. (Aside from being a foreigner learning English, there's no excuse for this.)


Grammar can be a great weapon as well. I used it to end a middle school fight by correcting a mean note a girl wrote to me. I gave it back to her and never heard another word. Silly - I know, but it's just an example of grammar giving you the upper hand.


Let me just take this time to mention that there is a stark difference between being a bad speller and not knowing how to use grammar. I know lots of people who simply just cannot spell, no matter how hard they try. Luckily for these people, there's spell check and that relic of a book: The Dictionary! Not to mention, when you speak, no one knows if you can't spell or not. Bad spellers can still exude intelligence in a conversation by using good grammar.


There are a few basic things everyone should know about grammar. You need to know the difference between there, their, and they're. You need to know how to use good and well. You need to know the difference between your and you're. You need to know the basic structure of a sentence. (YOU MUST HAVE SUBJECT-VERB AGREEMENT.) Don't use ain't. Don't use was instead of were. And if you're not sure: ASK! Asking makes you seem like less of a dumbass than just giving up and using words wrong.

Good grammar is sexy because it makes a person seem reasonably intelligent. This intelligence brings respect. No one is seriously attracted to someone they can't respect, right? 

Why I believe in music again

One of my random concerns about life is that my generation doesn't have anything to be remembered by. We're not WWII vets, we're not hippies fighting the system, we didn't invent disco. We're the fat generation that worries about people in turbans. We don't even have a defining musical genre. (Trust me ... I went to a 90s party once and the musical/costume planning was actually hard. I grew up in the 90s!) So I've been hopefully waiting for something to turn our generation around.

In my pensive, needless worrying, it was a shocking and pleasant surprise to fall head-over-heels for my newest girl crush. Meet Florence:

Her videos are interesting. She's different. She's immensely catchy. She's beautiful. She's my age. (So not only is she hope for my generation ... I want to be her.) She's incredibly talented. I mean i-n-c-r-e-d-i-b-l-y talented. I can appreciate all kinds of music as long as you can tell the musicians are completely into their work, but Florence is a different story.

She's even good, uncut, raw, in the park.

I'm obviously, unhealthily obsessed with her, but she gives me hope that music for my age is not completely dead. My mom thinks she sounds like a mix of women from the generations of yore. I mean she is reminiscent of 10,000 Maniacs, The Cranberries, Fiona Apple, etc. but all music is influenced by past music. Whoever Florence is channeling, she's doing it right.

And although I sometimes worry about that fact that I'm now in my mid-20s and I'm getting older, I'm going to ride the coattails of this generation if we're associated with this kind of music.

Why shopping before noon is never a good idea (... and why I'm the worst blogger ever)

This morning I woke up at 6:45 as usual. I groggily started the coffee, jumped in the shower and was getting ready to leave for work when my phone rang. The kid I work one-on-one with was not going to be at school today. Score! A bonus, bonus day off from work. (We had a snow day yesterday.) Well, I was already up and the coffee was already flowing through my veins, so no going back to bed for me.

After another cup of joe, the news cycle on TV was starting to repeat itself so I decided I should probably get out of the house and get my usual afternoon errands done. Bad. Idea.

My first clue should have been the radio. Every station I would normally listen to was only airing music that was popular the year I was born. Listen, there was very little good 80s music, there's no need to relive it now simply because time has technically made it retro. No more "classics" please!

I could live with the crappy music, but my second mistake was entering the super Wal-Mart. (I know ... never a good idea anyway.) I just needed a few toiletries and some Christmas cards, but as usual, it's impossible to get out of the store in a timely manner. I was quick to pick up some face wash and shaving cream, but then I had to enter the daunting special Christmas section.

First of all, it takes forever to get from one side of the mega-mart  to the other, but lets add in all the senior citizens doing their shopping. The aisles of Wal-Mart are huge. Three normal sized people should be able to walk side-by-side. Of course, that never happens. But lets talk about the fact that I got stuck behind two slow-moving women who could have been my great-grandmother. As I slowed down my pace, I looked around. EVERYONE IN THE STORE WAS THEIR AGE! Not a person my age in sight. Not a middle-aged person in sight. Only the fogies.

(Don't think I hate old people. I just hate getting stuck behind them - walking, driving, you name it. I'm on a mission. I'm not interested in spending more time than I have to in Wal-Mart.)

So after being stuck behind the snails, I finally made it to the Christmas section. Now don't let these aisles fool you. They're brightly colored and festive in the plastic way, but inside they are a black hole of everything wrong with Christmas. People bumping into each other, hovering over shoulders, piles of shit falling over.

Now, I am very picky about cards and I will take my time choosing the perfect one. I think they say a lot about you. But when there is an obese 90-year-old woman behind you, beeping in her scooter, it's hard to make the perfect pick. So if you get a Christmas card from me this year and you don't like it, blame the fat-ass in the Hover-Round.

(By the way ... if you haven't ever peeked at People of Wal-Mart, do yourself a favor. You can't help but laugh ... and wonder where the hell these people come from.)

I finally make a choice on the cards, run to the nearest checkout and what do I find? I'm stuck behind a stay-at-home mom stocking up on Christmas presents and trying to understand how to use the debit card machine. UGH! WHY? WHY? WHY?

Well if that wasn't enough, I made the mistake of going to Target to search for one more thing I couldn't find. It was just the same. Old people and moms standing in my way. I was done. It was time to come home.

So what have I learned here? Don't shop before noon. Most people who like to get in and out of the caverns of super-stores are at work or school. On that next rare occasion I am not working or sleeping in, I will certainly just stay home.


*On a side note, I have obviously been slacking on keeping up with my blog. I'm hoping this will hold me over for a few days, but inspire me to stay more on top of it. It is the Christmas season, I'm sure I will have plenty more to bitch about and hopefully a great deal more to be thankful about.

Why you should stop hatin' on country music

Growing up in Maine, I've been exposed to country music for as long as I can remember. I'm sure most people are ... I'm just saying, I heard it A LOT. Being groomed for life in a hippie shack filled with folk music and incense, that ole country music was always a no-no in my canon. But the more I heard it, the more I secretly enjoyed it.

And at the ripe old age of 23, I'm admitting it: I like country music. Just like all other genres, it's not all great. But it has its merits.

First of all, it's catchy. You can't help but remember Conway Twitty crooning "Hello Darlin" or The Dixie Chicks wailing "Not Ready to Make Nice". There really is a variety of country music, despite the old "my dog died and my wife left me" adage.

And here is where I'd like to take a moment to address the folk-rock hipsters of the world. If you like Old Crowe Medicine Show, if you were "influenced" by Johnny Cash, if you cover Bob Dylan in an espresso cafe, if you just can't get enough Bluegrass ... you should really stop shitting on country music. It's all the same influence: it's the same rhythms, the same tone, the same tempo. Swing your cowboy boots off your high-horse and embrace the fact that you and the hometown redneck can relate to some music.

Beyond being relatable to hipster music, country music is relatable to life in general. I enjoy making it rain when Weezy tells me to "clap your hands if you got a bank roll" just as much as anybody else, but come on. I don't really have a bank roll. Lets do a quick comparison of lyrics.

The shit on pop radio:

"Girl I keep it gangsta, poppin bottles at the crib
This is how we live, every single night
Take that bottle to the head, and let me see you fly."
- 'Like a G6' Far East Movement

The shit on country radio:

"I know I said I wouldn't miss you
But now I'm saying I'm a fool
You're on the feel good side of leaving
And I'm the backside of a mule."
- 'Come Back Song' Darius Rucker 


I'll say this much. I just found out what a G6 is and I don't pop bottles at the crib, but I know what ole Darius is talking about.

And even if you're still not convinced it's not so bad, let me remind you of this: embracing country music expands your radio options 10 fold, especially if you live in Central Maine.

Why Tuesdays are the worst

I've heard plenty of bitching about why Monday sucks (and it does a little) but lets get real: Tuesday is the day to hate on. No more "case of the Mondays" crap. Tuesday is the worst day ever. Let me break it down for you:

Monday: OK, so your weekend's over. Lame. But you know what? At least it's the start of something. Although Monday usually means no sleeping in, no late-night drinking, and an end to some personal time, at least it's a fresh start to a new week. Rise and shine: It's Monday!

Ha! I wish.

Wednesday: Wednesday, or "hump day," actually has quite a few redeeming qualities. Many of them are to my personal benefit, but this blog is about what I think, right? First of all, I only work at the pre-school Monday -Thursday, so Wednesday means I've almost made it through the week. (As for a regular person's week, it's at least a halfway marker.) Plus, I may be the only person in America to get paid on Wednesdays, so that's also a plus. 

But beyond work and money, Wednesday has some redeeming social qualities as well. Before I worked at 7:45 a.m., Wednesday was my favorite night at the bar - especially if Woodman's was having a good open mic night. Not to mention my favorite TV show ever airs on Wednesdays. If you haven't seen 'Modern Family', do yourself a favor and watch an episode or two. Or the whole season, really. 

Thursday: Obvious advantages to Thursday. 1: It's almost Friday. 2: It's the ultimate socially-acceptable weekday to have a few beers. "Thirsty Thursday?" Yes, please.

Friday: Come on. It's Friday. It's time for a little happy dance as you leave work or school. I just started waiting tables at a restaurant in Bangor and I have to work Friday and Saturday, but I still get a little excited knowing it's Friday.

Saturday: The most superior day of the week. You have the whole day to enjoy, whether it's travel, much-needed house cleaning, visits with friends and family, or nothing at all. The best part of Saturday is knowing you have another whole day to relax after whatever shenanigans you decide upon.

Sunday: I have to admit that Sunday is not my favorite day of the week, but at least it's not Tuesday. I do enjoy the absolute do-nothing Sundays and it is my only full day off in the week. Sunday is fun, but there's always that nagging feeling of the weekend being over. However, if you live with my roommates, which I do, you can understand some other perks of Sunday. Like NFL, for example. Oh, and NFL.

I still don't really understand how football works, but I'm learning. The extent of my football knowledge is that Randy Moss is a pompous jerk and I love him. He used to play for the patriots, he went to the Vikings, they said "buh-bye!" and now he plays for the Titans, which I didn't even know was a team.

So what have we learned here? Tuesday has absolutely no redeeming qualities. None. No relaxing. No drinking. No start fresh attitude. It didn't even appear on my list. Why? Because Tuesday is the worst. 

Why I love canning food

I feel as I get older, I find myself doing "old people" things. Who blows off going to the bar to do a crossword puzzle, make dinner and go to bed at 9 o'clock? Oh wait I do that now. (Only on weekdays, though. I'm not that lame ... yet.)

Either way, this evening I was reminded of an "old person" hobby I have - canning food. I had totally forgot about my stash of fruit and veggies hiding away in the kitchen cabinet until I had a craving for something sweet and spotted my homemade canned peaches. I hadn't tried that batch yet and I was pleasantly surprised with myself when I did.

Andrew gorging on peaches. You can tell how happy he is to pose for me.

This summer, I finally had the room and time to have a garden. I shared duties with one of my roommates, so I won't take all the credit for making it grow, but it GREW. By July we were pulling 5 to 6 cucumbers a day. We had pounds of green beans and zucchini and squash big enough for the state fair. Needless to say, we had more vegetables than we knew what to do with.

My solution: buying a canner.

Living with three boys who worked a regular 9-5 all summer, and working all night shifts myself, I had plenty of time during the day to try out my canning skills. I canned squash and blackberries. I tried my hand at jam. I made pickles, dilly beans, and spiced peaches. Some of it was awesome (the peaches) some of it was not so hot (the jam). Overall though, great success!

An array from the canned goods shelf.

The whole time I pickled cucumbers, I hummed Greg Brown's song "Canned Goods" - a favorite of my mother's and begrudgingly, now one of my own. Although I didn't quite feel like a grandma, I understood where ole Greggers was coming from when he sang:

"Ah she's got magic in her - you know what I mean

She puts the sun and the rain in with her green beans ...

You can taste a little of the summer

My grandma put it all in jars ...

What with the snow and the economy and everything

I think I'll just stay down here and eat 'til spring."

There's something extremely satisfying about eating the food you grew and preserved yourself. There's a pride in my mason jars that makes my food taste that much better because 1. I'm surprised I did it well and 2. It's totally mine.

Although I'm not really a grandma, and I didn't can nearly enough to fill a root cellar, I feel that sense of doing something traditional; something with roots; something to pass on. I'll be sure to save at least one can of dilly beans to eat this spring when the world is ready to produce again.

Why dressing like a slut doesn't count as a Halloween costume

Tis the season ...

Halloween is one of my favorite "holidays" on the calendar. The fall colors are in full bloom, jack 'o' lanterns dot the streets, and there's a general sense of excitement in the air. Obviously a huge part of the holiday is choosing a costume. The feeling of choosing a costume can be overwhelming. You want to be eye-catching and original, but you only have one night to make an impact. With a million choices on hand, here's what NOT to do:

Don't dress like a slut.

Wearing your bra and some angel wings doesn't count as a costume. You are not a Victoria Secret's model for a reason. I don't care how hot you are.

Wearing a skin-tight body suit with a police hat does not make you a cop. I'll give you props for actually wearing a full uniform though.

Wearing cat ears and something black and skimpy does not make you a cat. You're not kidding anyone.

Let's be real, Halloween is really meant for children. The only reason we "adults" still dress up is for an excuse to throw a party. You don't see children dressed as models or "sexy" flight attendents or playboy bunnies. If they are, their parents are not right in the head.

I've heard the excuse "it's my one night to dress slutty" a million times. Guess what? If you're dressing super slutty on Halloween, you're probably not the most conservative dresser to begin with and most of your costume probably came from your existing wardrobe. If you're dressing for the attention from a roomful of drunk guys, are you really going to want to walk-of-shame it in your underwear and some fairy wings Nov. 1? Fail. And the guy you hooked up with is probably still covered in bits and pieces of his costume as well. I can't imagine it would be that cool to wake up to a stranger still wearing his Flava Flav clock or his Jersey Shore blowout.

Choosing an adult costume should be about creativity. If you dress like a slut, you are not very creative. Take a look around the party. You're not the only one dressed as a firefighter whore.

Why waitressing is actually the greatest occupation

Let me just start by saying I hate waitressing.

With that aside, let me divulge into why I shouldn't ...

I started waiting tables the summer after my senior year in high school, in a shit-hole tourist trap on the bay in Belfast, Maine. It didn't take me long to figure out I was pretty good at it. I love talking to people, I'm a superior multi-tasker, and more importantly I love having a plethora of cash in my pocket (even if none of it makes it to my savings account.) Five summers later I have some epic waitress skills spread across New England.

So here I am, approaching 23 years old and I'm in the market to wait some more tables. I just took a part-time job at a pre-school and almost cried when I got my first paycheck today. I won't tell you how small it was, but let's just say a good night in a busy restaurant would have covered it. Which is exactly why as much as I don't want to wait tables anymore ... I kind of do.

Let me break down the benefits for you:

1. The earliest I've ever had to be at work is 10:30 a.m. - that's plenty of time to get my hungover ass together - and you're usually out by the time it's socially acceptable to show up at the bar.
2. I get to work with a gangle of servers my age who are (for the most part) working for a bigger picture. I've made some lifelong friends this way, mostly thanks to Giordano's on Martha's Vineyard.
3. Waiting tables is pretty much recession-proof. Trust me, I've diligently been reading the classifieds.
4. Once you've waitressed (and you're not a total idiot) you can do it anywhere.
5. Sometimes, if you're lucky and you work in sweet locales, you get to meet famous people. My list includes Steve Carrell, Joan Rivers, and Conan O'Brien.
6. You. Make. Money. On a busy summer night in MV or Connecticut, it wasn't unusual for me to make $200 or more in 5 or 6 hours. You might be exhausted, annoyed with every customer in the restaurant, and need a drink like never before, but let's be real - you made close to $40 an hour.

I could go on an on about the annoying parts of waitressing (rude customers, shitty tips, screaming children, stupid uniforms, etc.) but it looks like I need to make my way back into the restaurant business.

Why I love thrift shopping

Don't get me wrong, I love a new addition to my wardrobe as much as anyone else, but when it comes to an exciting shopping trip there is nothing that compares to thrift-shopping. It's basically a hit-or-miss visit, but when you hit, you hit it hahd. (That's 'hard' in a Maine accent. It makes more of an impact when you say it.)

I guess I'm loving-up on second-hand so much right now because I just made the most epic Goodwill purchase. Take a glance at my new bike:

From what I can tell from my internet research and bike enthusiast friends, it's a mid-1970s Columbia road bike in perfect condition. 50 bucks. Not a scratch on her. Even the tires are original and in fairly good shape. (I put a little air in them today and was set to go.) So thanks to my good friend Mike Powers, who convinced me to buy it or he would, I now have what he has deemed "the hippest bike in Orono." Hipsters of Maine, turn your heads as I ride by your skinny-jeaned asses.

Beeming over my newest investment, I started to think about what else I've snatched up from second-hand stores.

Here's my coffee maker I bought for a quarter at the Orono Thrift Shop:

She's no beaut, but she works. And seriously ... it cost a quarter.

Here's my giant cast-iron pot I bought at the same thrift store for 50 cents:

It's currently filled with delicious corn chowder - my favorite.

As I look around my house I can see a handful of other second-hand purchases just within armsreach. I actually have a whole bookshelf filled with used books priced between 50 cents and 4 dollars I got at an ongoing library fundraising sale this summer. I have a framed photo on my wall from Salvation Army, my endtables came used, my roommates and I will eventually start our unopened puzzle from Goodwill, and my favorite necklace in the world was rounded up at a vintage clothing store called (appropriately enough) 'Rhiannon's Vintage Clothing'.

Now I'm not saying any of this stuff is particuarlly nice. (Although some of it you'd never be able to tell it was used.) But it all has a few things in common:
1. It works
2. It was insanely cheap and
3. I like it.

I mean there's something about buying items so cheap that makes you proud. It feels like an accomplishment to tell someone "Oh, I actually bought that at Goodwill," when they mention the object in question. Not to mention, there's some kind of thrill to finding something you need/want in a store full of someone else's discards. You may look through a pile of junk all day until your gem seems to find you. Plus it just feels good to step away from the "consumerism" of the mall sometimes.

And let's be real, on a lazy Sunday afternoon (just like yesterday's inspiration to browse Goodwill), it's just fun to look.

But why a blog?

Well mainly because I've been fighting them for so long. That and I never thought anyone would want to read the shit I ramble about anyway.

But I've given in, so read it and like it ...

Firstly, this blog is inspired by my dear friend Stephanie. I've known Stephanie for a few years now. We met while working at a restaurant in Martha's Vineyard three summers ago and it was love. I always knew Steph kept a blog, but I'm horrible at following. When I came back to the island for a few weeks this September, I started playing closer attention. Steph was an English major in college and I majored in journalism. Being the smart girl that she is, she kept reminding me ... even if you're not writing for a job yet (and I do hope I am someday) ... you need to keep writing. I'm hoping this blog keeps me doing just that. You can follow her here.

Secondly, I have a lot to bitch about. End of story.

And last but not least, the reason I've chosen 'But why?' as my blog name: I've recently begun working at a pre-school for children with behavioral issues. (Besides wanting to be a hardass journalist, my other goal is to be a teacher.) Although they need constant redirection, they still like to ask you why. But then again, most three- to five-year olds do. Since I hear it a million times a day, I thought I would use it for inspiration.

Enjoy!