I remember thinking when we were planning this trip, wondering when we should stop in New York - on the way up or back - that it would probably be best to stop there on the way back. I thought we’d probably be tired and dirty and want a few days in the big, sophisticated city, teeming with people, after our foray into madness in the Maine house. Now that the time to leave is nigh, I believe we planned wisely. While I can’t wait to get home to North Carolina and J, I’m happy we decided to spend two nights in the city on our way back. For one thing, it will break up the car trip, and for another I absolutely love it there.

But more importantly, perhaps, the New York trip will sort of soften the fall…our big trip is over. There is going to be a let down period. But we’ll still have a few days with friends, not yet back to our real lives, not in Maine anymore.

That’s tomorrow though. The trip home - part one. Today is packing. Hanging out on the patio. Dinner together tonight. Buying gifts. Debriefing.

The things I didn’t do:
Finish a screenplay with Jennifer
Write an article about the band, or my own experience here
Catch a lobster
Exercise sufficiently
Take lengthy walks on the rocks
Get a pedicure
Have a glass of wine at the wine bar downtown
Finish a large, difficult novel

Things I did do:
Wrote some of a screenplay with Jennifer, and learned a lot about the process
Conquered an island
Ate a lot of (caught for me) lobster
Partied like a college kid
Went swimming in the ocean
Became almost a regular at a downtown bar
Lived with a rock band
Sang on an album

I am, now, wounded and weary and it’s time to go home, but not without the memories of a summer vacation well spent. Very well spent.

I am, by the way, literally wounded. Cuts all over my legs. It turns out that when faced with challenging situations, such as jagged rocks and sea creatures, I am pretty clumsy. It’s pretty unbelievable, actually, how many times I fell down.

I’m taking a break for a few days while we’re in the city, but will be back and writing next week once I’m home with no job. Exactly, no job. We shall call those entries the “soap opera and gallons of ice cream sessions.”

You can see all my pictures from this trip (and I’ll add more once I’m back in NC) on my Flickr page.

I’ll write a more reflective post on this whole experience soon, promise. For now it’s time for maybe a little nap and one more night out. A last farewell to Boothbay Harbor and the people who’ve, thankfully, put up with us for the past few weeks.

“Jesus. Aren’t you going to devein him?”

“It doesn’t really matter. I mean, you end up eating some of that green stuff any way you do it.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“What is that? Lobster poop?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“What do lobsters eat, anyway?”

“Shit.”

“What kind of shit?”

“Just whatever shit is on the bottom of the ocean. Fish shit.”

“Uggghhh.”

When we were younger my mother always used to tell us that the sign of a really good vacation was that, at the end of it, you were ready to come home. She would tell us this without fail at the end of every family vacation. It was just one of those things she said - like how if one of us were sick, no matter with what, she’d tell us that it made sense because there was a “bug going around.” It could have been the middle of a beautiful summer, healthy children frolicking everywhere, and if one of us came down with something, she’d tell us that there was a “bug going around,” obviously, because she’d heard that other people were sick with very these very general, non-specific symptoms, like achiness and fatigue. And it always made me feel better - that the fact that there was some bug going around meant I was a less weak person for getting sick. She still does it.

She still says the thing about vacations, too. Now, granted, most of my vacations have been less lengthy than this one, but that that idea has always held true. A week…two…three and a half…I’m generally ready to return to the banality of my normal life at the end of those beach-going/sleeping late/eating whatever I want-filled weeks.

I knew before coming to Maine that there might be some times I’d want to come home. Mostly, I thought this would be because I would miss J. I haven’t written much about that - being apart from my husband for so long, but not because it isn’t a notable feeling. On the contrary, I constantly wish he was here. He’s a much stronger person than me when it comes to being alone. While I dread him taking a weekend long trip (but, of course, by night two am sleeping across the entire bed and watching Lifetime nonstop), he assured me before coming here for so long that he’d be fine. He had a lot of lab work to do. A lot of weekend trips planned. I knew he’d be ok and I also knew there was no way I’d be lonely up here. I’d miss him - definitely. But I woudn’t be lonely. And that’s proven true. I can honestly say I haven’t - not for a second - been lonely. Not in this house of friendly maniacs. Its a constant party. But I miss Justin terribly and can’t wait to see him next week. I can’t wait to return to our daily habits. Reading at night in a quiet house. Making dinner for two.

That’s one reason I can’t wait to go home. I can’t wait to be with J, every day. It isn’t that I haven’t had the time of my life, though. Obviously, this trip has been a very successful “last hurrah” of sorts, if that’s what you want to call it. I’m not going to go back and become a nun, of course not. But this, this magnificent summer vacation, probably won’t repeat itself in my life any time soon, if ever again. I’ve loved every minute.

Even the moments, like this morning, when I wanted nothing more to be home in my bed, far away from this place. Those moments are fleeting, but important when looking at the entirety of this trip. Feeling a little worn means there have been some good times.

Really good times.

I awoke this morning with a headache. Not your run of the mill headache, either. The kind where you wonder, what, in the name of God, happened. And then I remembered.

We’d gone out for dinner and cocktails last night while waiting for Cory’s dad to get into town. We decided to meet him at The Thistle Inn, a slightly upscale little place where we like to act upscale. Like by drinking lots of Pimm’s Cup, which I will, from now on, equate with debilitating headaches, as well as horse races and other snobby endeavors.

Afterwards we returned home for one of our favorite things - drinking 7,000 beers out on the patio. When I came downstairs to let the dogs out this morning, I saw the remains of our drinking frenzy. Beer cans and beer cans and beer cans covering the table and ground and in the middle of it all, a large pot. Like the kind of pot you’d use to boil lobster or make giant vats of stew.

I used it to make punch. When, at a certain point in the night, I realized we’d run out of alcohol, I dragged Jennifer and our new friend Georgia, into the kitchen. “We’ll just make punch” I explained. I knew we had the dregs of a few kinds of liquor in the cabinet and my making punch has always been a popular choice in the past. I just think when I’ve made punch in the past I’ve maybe had some better ingredients to work with, and maybe haven’t had tons of Pimm’s Cup.

Some things we put in the punch:
7Up
Bailey’s
Courvoisier
Whiskey
A bottle of red wine
Coke

Don’t tell me that doesn’t sound delicious.

When we brought the frothing (literally, there was a rising foam) outside, after acting like crazed witches making our best brew, no one, surprisingly, wanted to drink it. And besides a few sips here and there (the general consensus was “It’s very mild” along with wondering why the concoction stuck to the outside of our plastic cups like cement) no one had any. That signaled, I think, that it was about time to go to bed. Because when you’ve had enough to drink to think that you think it might be ok to put Bailey’s and soda and red wine in the same recipe, you are probably done for the night. And this morning when I saw the scene and remembered what we’d done, I felt equally disgusted and impressed, equally completely ready to go home and overjoyed that we still have a few more days.

One of the challenges we seek to take on before departing is catching our own lobster. Why, you ask, would a person want to do that when they are available down the road, with drawn butter, and corn, and pitchers of beer, for a reasonable price - a price that, compared to the time and energy you’d put into catching your own, is very, very small?

I’ll tell you why. Because we have the time. We like to take small boats out to islands because they are just close enough to reach. We like to swim in the very cold waters of the Atlantic, where there are dead seals, when there is a nice pool and hot tub minutes away, because it is there, in front of us. Because we are in Maine. And because we have the time to dedicate serious thought to these projects.

A while ago we were all downtown when Rogue and Max decided it might be a good idea to go into the hardware store to get some tools. You know, lobster-catching tools. Max had earlier discovered a washed up lobster trap on the nearby beach and dragged it over to our backyard.

They got some thick, strong rope, and even looked at buoys, before deciding that they were too expensive. We decided we could just as easily use this old piece of washed-up styrofoam we’d seen down on the rocks by the water as a buoy. We’d attached the trap to the styrofoam piece using the strong rope, and surely, we’d catch ourselves a nice dinner.

Needless to say this hasn’t happened yet. Not even close. What distracted us? Probably the same things that distracted us from the other goals we haven’t even come close to finishing. The 30-packs of Budweiser. The television. The ping pong table. The internet.

Today at the pool though, lying in the afternoon sun, I heard Bryan and Max discussing something very seriously. “That lobster thing,” I heard. I asked them what they were talking about, if maybe the plan was back on, and felt happy that even during a carefree jaunt to the pool, we still had our minds on the business at hand, and that when we get home we might be able to say that we did some serious shit up here while on vacation - “It wasn’t just lying in the sun and all. We caught ourselves dinner. That’s right, how about a little respect.”

In less than a week we’ll be leaving Maine. Jennifer, Max and I are headed to New York City for a few days. I’ll then drop them off at their individual next stops before a night with my parents in Alexandria. Then - home. Home with Justin. Home with no job. Time to see what’s next.

I haven’t been as good as I should be about keeping you all up to date on the happenings here in this house. The happenings, in fact, have kept me busier than I thought I would be and putting aside time for writing proves difficult. Before you go doing it for me - I’ll admit that the things keeping me “busy” like getting ice cream and taking night hikes…those thrilling and painful dips in the ocean and dance parties on the veranda…might seem frivolous. But the mere fact that these events are shaping a magnificent summer adventure mean they carry more weight than they normally would, I think.

When we got here we had fairly modest goals. Write a screenplay. Eat a lot of lobster. Once we’d spent a few days here in Boothbay, of course, our goals grew and changed. We longed, for instance, to conquer “Hippie Island,” which lies, foreboding and mysterious, in the harbor, just off our property. After wisely judging that swimming the frigid expanse (especially after a dead seal washed up on shore) would be idiotic, we decided on a slightly less idiotic plan: Borrow two rowboats from the inn and just head on over. The island’s name stems from the story of a hippie who lived in a small shack there and who one day decided to try and traverse the stormy waters to the mainland. He died. We, however, conquered (on a clear, calm day).

We came up with the rowboat plan after meeting a bartender at the inn named Angus. Jennifer and I headed over to the pub one afternoon for some martinis and quality time together and Angus immediately began chatting with us. Not only did he tell us about the rowboats and where to find the oars, and that if we just sort of took them nobody would notice, but also told us we might want to crash the upcoming wedding that weekend. He even gave us the itinerary. He really understood us, I think. We love antics, we explained. There have been a range so far. There have been lies, and practical jokes, like when, after returning from a secret swim in the pool after hours, we decided to “really get Max,” who opted to stay behind, and turned off all the electricity in the house. This required that Nick and Cory sneak into the garage to get to the breaker switch without setting off the dogs, who bark when, say, a butterfly lands too loudly for their taste on a nearby flower. We carried off the prank successfully, though, if you consider success meaning your friend wants to kill you immediately following the act. But he got over it. We all do. There’s not much room for negativity up here in beautiful Maine.

The band has been going strong with their recording, getting ready for the upcoming tour and their weekly gig at McSeagull’s. This past Sunday’s show was especially nice, since my Dad was in town, as well as Rogue’s mom and some of her friends. The result was a serious dance party. And it wasn’t just us. The bar was crowded and people were into the music - the covers (”Werewolves of London,” and “Just What I Needed” among many others) as well as original Buffalino songs (you can hear some of the new (and old) Buffalino tunes on their MySpace page).

The whole gang got to hang out with my Dad a lot while he was here. Last night we went for a group dinner at a great Italian restaurant in town. Since we were all sitting at a table together it got competitive fairly quickly - we split our group down the middle and each end of the table vowed to order the best appetizers. Really. Can’t we just relax for a moment? No. No we can’t. Team A verses Team 1, as neither of us wanted to be the underdog. It got serious when Team A sent my Dad, but not the rest of us, some kind of alcohol-infused sorbet. We fought back by sending the entire table an after-dinner Sambuca. The restaurant owner threw those in, plus an extra bottle of wine, for free, and needless to say by the end of the night we were all in a fine mood.

This morning we headed downtown for breakfast, taking a few cars. My father suggested the Topside, a great place for breakfast, he said. Vinnie arrived first and called him a few times, trying to find the elusive Topside. “The Topside, Vin, it’s right down the street from Anderson’s,” my father told him over the cell phone, which is always on speakerphone, whether he wants it that way or not, and therefore, he got a few open-mouthed stares from vacationers trying to pick out postcards and window shopping.

When we finally caught up with the rest of the group we saw that what my father had meant was the Ebbtide. It’s down the road from Sherman’s. Close enough. It’s another funny memory in the making. There are so many. And that’s what I’m getting at. The few times I’ve woken up after a late night and felt a little down about my life and where’s it’s going, or wondered what sort of reasoning justified my taking off for Maine, for a summer adventure, it’s only a little while before something funny or wonderful happens and I remember that those moments are reason enough.

While I can’t deny that we are having the time of our lives up here, I also can’t deny that there is sort of a severe lack of privacy/state-we’re-living-in-issue. I’m not one to complain. Really. Empty beer cans on all the end tables? Cracker boxes lined up on the bookshelves? This sort of thing has become common and accepted. Just as walking into a room to see eight people crowded around the television watching Colbert and settling yourself in between them on the least crowded sofa has become the norm. Or sitting on the floor, if there’s no room. Sometimes it’s - what can I say? Intense? But I’m living for free in Maine and eating tons of lobster, so it evens out, you know?

However, going over to the Grays - our neighbors down the street - yesterday, was close to heaven. I mean, I was about ready to ask them if I could spend a few nights in the spare bedroom when we walked in there.

Spruce Drive - where the Maine house is located - is situated in a little colony of sorts called “Newagen” complete with an inn and homeowners and a hot tub (that is “closed” after dark, but, um, believe me, you can get around those rules) and what have you. The Grays live a few houses down from us and my parents got to know them when they were buying the place earlier this year. Since they hit it off, my parents suggested Vinnie and I head down to their house to say hi. Because we are living in some sort of time warp where even having one commitment a day is kind of pushing it (because how are you going to check your email and finish a row of knitting?) getting around to saying hi to the Grays took Vin and a while. But yesterday, just before an afternoon storm hit, we grabbed a bottle of wine and headed down the road to meet the neighbors.

We were greeted at the door by their black standard poodle, Jack. This was the first good thing. Since the death of beloved poodle, Ziggy, I’ve retained the opinion that the breed is the best in the world, and when I’m done rescuing mutts, I plan to have one again. Then there were the Grays themselves, a middle-aged couple, dressed immaculately (and I in my flip-flops and mosquito-mauled feet and Vinnie in his pumps and gym shorts) and relaxing in their beautiful home with whiskey drinks. The storm was brewing, the house was quiet with the lack of television noise, a band playing or heated ping pong matches. “This can’t be the Rotondaro children, can it?” Mrs. Gray exclaimed. Yes, we said. Yes, it’s us.

Moments later we were seated in comfortable chairs in the (clean!) living room drinking wine (me, white, Vinnie, red - they had both available, no problem) and were being served crackers and cheese and Chex Mix that had materialized out of nowhere as though these people were constantly prepared for visitors to drop in. The immediate contrast to our very own Maine-i-ac Mansion was astounding, obviously. Let’s say, for instance, someone dropped in for a visit here. Some of us would probably be wearing pajamas.

We stayed at their house for an hour or so, chatting about our families, throwing a toy for Jack, watching the storm rage and subside and then returned home to the grill and rum and 7-Up and all our friends. I was very happy for the brief respite from this insanity, but strangely happy to return, especially now knowing an oasis lies just down the road. And that should I need a moment of clarity or parental unit the solution is only a short walk away.

Groceries purchased Wednesday (for nine) :1 lb. american cheese, 1 lb. turkey breast, 1 lb. roast beef, 1 lb. provolone, tortillas, 1 jar peanut butter, 2 large jars Prego tomato sauce, sour cream, 2 cans garbanzo beans, 2 cans cannelini beans, 30-pack Budweiser, 1 bag and 3 boxes toasted oats cereal, 3 lb. package hot dogs, 10-pack hamburgers, 4 cans tuna fish, whole wheat bread, tomatoes, 2 cans salsa verde, hot dog buns, hamburger buns, 18 eggs, 2 containers chicken broth, 2 jars pickles, 1 pack applesauce, 2 cans clam chowder, frozen green beans, 2 boxes fettucine, 2 boxes pasta shells, 4 cans refried beans, 2 cans vegetable soup, 5 boxes macaroni and cheese, 1 jar mayonnaise, 1 jar mustard, 1 bottle vegetable oil, 1 block cheddar cheese, 1 bottle olive oil, hot sauce, 5 boxes crackers, diet Pepsi, regular Pepsi, 2 gallons milk, 2 boxes granola bars, 1 bottle tequila, 1 jar strawberry preserves, 6 yogurts, 2 economy packs english muffins, 2 jugs orange juice

I’ll admit, writing posts has been somewhat of a challenge for me since I’ve been here, even though I’ve managed to get a few down. But not for the reasons you might think. I’ll explain how I normally write, first. Normally, something funny will happen in the course of a day. J will do something noteworthy while shopping at Wild Birds Unlimited, for instance, and I think immediately, “That might make a good blog post.” I think about it for the rest of the day from time to time and when I finally sit in front of my computer I have a pretty good idea of how that particular piece of writing is going to play itself out, and it gets done quickly.

That’s how it normally occurs.

Here, however, here in Maine, with the band and our friends (the house currently holds nine), my days are different. I wake up, we make coffee and have breakfast, 100 or 200 funny things happen, and then it is nearing the end of the day and, yes, I have time to write, but what the hell do I write about? Do I write about all the funny things? Do I really tell you what’s going on up here, really? Because the thing is, if I did, you would hate me. “Oh no,” you’re saying, but I’m not kidding, you might. If you didn’t hate me - if you didn’t hate us - you’d shake your head slowly and go, “Those guys…” and by “Those guys…” you’d mean, “Those guys are being ridiculous.”

It just is. It. Is. Ridiculous. Here. In a good way, sure, but in a way that if I simply wrote what we’re up to, you’d certainly recognize that the amount of fun we are having is shameful. But for a few reasons (like the fact that we’re all planning on resuming fulfilling and productive lives once this is over, and because I believe that sustaining some level of writing integrity means not leaving all this wonderful material out) I’m going to do it. I’m going to tell you as much as I can about Our Summer In Maine, because honestly, it’s been great and I’m not lying when I say that I wish you all, except maybe people who are total strangers (although that would probably be ok, too) were here.

First you need to know who you are dealing with (and I’ll catch you up as the visitors increase).

The Cast of Characters:

Jennifer - Best friend, maid of honor, partner in this Maine adventure. You can see a picture of Jennifer here. That picture is very informative as it pretty much sums up a normal day for her.

Max B. - (who arrived yesterday). You all know Max from previous blog entries, so I’ll leave him for now, but needless to say he’ll be prominent on this site these next few weeks.

Matt (Rogue) - Buffalino manager and PR agent extraordinaire.

Pete - Singer, rocker, dreamer.

Nick - The keyboard player and sometimes vocalist, as well as a fabulous dancer.

Cory (Hawk) - Bass player for the band, intellectual superstar.

Alaina - Another Wooster alum who is (very sadly) only here until Thursday when she must depart to return to the world of doing-important-and-career-oriented things.

Vinnie - My brother, the drummer, who is constantly using excuses like “This is my house,” and “I made all this happen,” when we try to get him to do things he doesn’t want to do.

On our way back from picking up Max in Manchester yesterday, a subset of the group - Pete, Rogue, Jennifer and I, who, by the way, are not only the ones who got pumped about driving hours to and from Manchester to get to the airport, but are also the ONLY people who had gotten in the ocean at that point, and therefore, a superior bunch - were telling our new housemate about our adventures. I told Max it was a little like “The Real World” and he said maybe it was actually like “The Intellectual Real World” since a lot of people in this house are incredibly smart and very well-educated. We decided that in between eating lobster rolls and hanging out on the patio overlooking the ocean, snuggling up watching movies in the cozy den and making rum cocktails, drinking cold beers, or heading out to town in the tour bus to make a scene, we’d probably be discussing a wide variety of worldly, weighty issues. We’d use our skill and logic to examine those issues, not looking facts up on the internet, or in books, because, well, let’s face it, we’ve got the time. And what better way to spend one’s time in Maine, jobless, living in a house of musicians and other crazy, fun individuals, than examining philosophical truths and then maybe later that night making movies of ourselves playing basketball and dancing in the house? Really, you tell me, how we could better spend our time. That’s right. We couldn’t do anything better than that.

If you’re starting to get angry at this situation (Max said he was actually afraid to tell some people what he’d be doing this summer because it was “too awesome”) just remember that there is a sad part, and that’s the fact that we are going to have to go home at some point, and it’s going to be very, very sad.

(By the way, I thought about writing this post while on a run this morning and actually had to write an outline in a notepad when I got back because I was afraid I’d be distracted during the day by the prospect of a trip into town to do some shopping or maybe a swim in the frigid ocean followed by some sunbathing on the rocky beach. And I was. I was diverted by both.)

Yesterday was my last day at the Chatham Record. I knew I’d be sad. What I didn’t know was how busy I’d be. Final stories, for instance. My last story was a touching one - about a local church that raised funds to send a young man and his family home to Mexico after the man nearly drowned in Jordan Lake several weeks ago, suffering severe brain damage. I spent some of the morning of my last day talking to the pastor of the church that had raised over $3,000 for the family. He invited me into his home, and I thought about what a wonderful job being a reporter is, getting to talk to all these amazing people.

My second to last story was about a new handicap ramp in town.

I also had to clean off my desk for my coworker, who will be taking my place in Pittsboro. Photos, notes, story ideas, business cards. Some I threw away, wondering why the hell I’d posted it on my bulletin board in the first place, but most I kept.

I ran up and down the main street in town, saying goodbye to friends, and made stops at local offices where’d I’d spent a lot of my time to tell everyone I hoped I’d run into them again soon.

Josephine, the woman I’ve shared an office with for the last three years, took my to lunch. Afterwards we hugged a few times and said how much we’d miss one another. On my drive over to Siler City one last time, to say goodbye to the rest of the crew, I felt sweaty and hurried and realized I hadn’t even had time to think all day and suddenly I felt very, oppressively sad - not that anything was wrong, really, just realizing in one huge moment how much I’d miss everyone - and had to try and stop myself from having a major breakdown, which I was pretty sure would necessitate pulling over on the side of the road. Luckily, once at the news office I felt better, and said goodbye to my friend and boss, Randall, and the rest of my coworkers without losing it. In fact, most of the paper got done early and we were able to spend a little while purely messing around, joking and laughing hysterically.

It’s not like I’m never going to see these people again, but working there has meant a lot to me. It’s not all something I can get down in words, at least not yet.

You can see some pictures of Chatham County and my experience working at the newspaper here.

The other emotion that I felt when I had time to think yesterday was, of course, excitement. We’re headed to Maine!

J and I went out for drinks and dinner to celebrate my last day but also my upcoming trip. We had amazing food and had interesting conversations and observed those around us. We ate at one of our favorite places. The lights were low and the conversations loud. Two tables down we watched an older couple, the woman appeared to be asleep, slumped against the bench. We noted that everyone seemed to have glasses of prosecco, a new item on the menu, and said that, obviously, we’d started that trend when we served it instead of champagne at our wedding. J whispered to me urgently at one point that Mac McCaughan, of the bands Superchunk and Portastatic, and co-founder of Merge Records, was sitting at a table nearby, talking to a friend. He then got really nervous, as he always does when he sees someone he sort of knows, or someone who is perhaps somewhat famous, especially if it’s a musical artist he respects. He starts talking loudly about something else all the while shooting me glances that tell me if I go over there and talk to That Person and in any way embarass him, well, there will be hell to pay.

After the crowd subsided and we were one of the only tables left in the place, J and I went home. I fell asleep quickly, exhausted, and now it is Wednesday morning, and time to go. Despite the fact that, yes, I’m travelling to a house in Maine with my best friend and a band, three dogs and God knows who else, I promise frequent updates on what’s going on. I mean, now that I’m not working I suppose I’d better keep some sort of schedule that involves some semblance of responsibility, as well as practicing and bettering my skills as a writer. Or maybe rock star. Blueberry farmer. I don’t know. These next few weeks, I’m sure, will be full of self-discovery. I’m looking forward to telling you all about it.