Hey guys. Merry Christmas!
I have bronchitis. I’ve had it for like – a decade. (Read: 10 to 15 days). Since the antibiotics are not working, I’ve decided to take care of it with this:
It’s whiskey, in case you were under the mistaken impression that it was a large bottle of honey. It’s HONEY whiskey – which basically just means it’s amazing, and I’m pretty sure now that I’m in Maine whiskey will INSTANTLY cure my cough, along with the take-out salad I’m eating right now because I’m too tired to think through a meal.
Doesn’t that picture make you want to come over and sip honey whiskey with me? With the candles, all romantic like? We’ll listen to Alison Krauss and Kenny Rogers, you’ll tell me stories about how when you get bronchitis you go to the doctor’s, and I’ll be all “THAT’S NOT HOW WE DO THINGS UP HEAAAH” and then I’ll throw another log on the fire and take out my guitar. Maybe other friends will show up over the course of the evening – someone with a fiddle perhaps. I’ll move to the piano while you find a country beat on your knee – or my washtub bass? (Will someone get me a washtub bass?)
That’s totally the way life should be.
In other news:
I went to the dump: In the beginning, the level of anxiety I had about whether or not my garbage would pass muster (I’ve never in my life said pass muster. I don’t even know what it means.) was intense. I think it’s because the ladies at the town hall scared me talking about one guy that had his garbage bag ripped in front of like the WHOLE STATE OF MAINE and then arrested for putting a can in the bag. Or something like that. In the end, since it was the day before Christmas, no one was actually there. There was one guy that I watched not watching me while I put a pizza box in the cardboard area. When I went to put the weird plastic from one of the boxes of somethingorother new I had gotten in the plastic area – since it didn’t seem TOTALLY to fit in the bin, I asked him where it should go – since he was still not watching me at all – and he pointed to the plastic bin. He didn’t make eye contact though.
Maybe he knew I was from New Hampshire?
Or maybe it was because I was NOT wearing my Maine: the way life should be sweatshirt. (I’ll fix that for next time)
We had Maine Christmas: We didn’t actually, but I thought you guys would like it if we did. We were actually Living Free or Dying in New Hampshire. It was great though – I think we all understood it was likely the *last* SantaChristmas, and that was a little bit sad, but everything else about it was lovely. Lovely down time with Anna uninterrupted (and also ANNA PUT THE IPOD DOWN WE ARE HAVING FAMILY TIME!!) and lovely down time with my parents uninterrupted (and also – great, do YOU WANT TO BRUSH OUT HER HAIR I’M DOING MY BEST!) and my mother trying to pass off words that we could only find in the urban dictionary as legitimate words in our annual Christmas Eve Scrabble game.
I’ve become slightly obsessed with talking about how I live in a state that touts it’s the way life should be. I find myself inserting it into conversations with locals in a way that I’m positive pronounces me as a transplant. I can’t help it though. At the Town Hall. At the Post Office. At the Hardware store, and of course, at the Rite Aid, where I will inevitably be tomorrow night to refill my honey whiskey, instead of picking up another round of antibiotics. A while back – one of my transplant NY friends was openly bashing folks that got the I heart NYC t-shirts, because they weren’t ‘true new yorkers’. It didn’t matter that she had lived in NYC for a solid 10 minutes – she felt it was not the tourists to own. I believe there was a movement against them – the tourists who would wear them.
I believe I will start that kind of movement around the way life should be with how much I love the way life should be.
I’m sorry, Maine.
I’ll calm down when my love dies down a little.
In the meantime, I thought I’d share a session we had last night when everyone came over.
See? The way life should be.