BASILICA BEAUTY - ST. JOSEPH'S ORATORY

It's time for our Gilligan's Island tour of Montreal.

It's a three-hour tour complete with a tiny spitfire of a tour guide.  The bus, driven expertly through the construction that is swallowing the city, weaves from place to place, sometimes stopping but more often not stopping.  The tour guide tells us that two things can be seen from space: The Great Wall of China and Montreal's orange cone invasion.

There is one stop, though, that makes this tour worthwhile.  We stop at St. Joseph's Oratory, which is a minor basilica and national shrine.  L'Oratoire Saint-Joseph du Mont Royal, its French name, this magnificent church is Renaissance style and built on a small mountain.  It contains such treasures as the heart of the devout Brother Andre.  (There really is a shriveled heart in a glass case.)

This place is amazing.  Believers can work for a miracle by climbing up a long stone staircase outside on their knees.  Yup.  Knees.  To the top stair.  The center riser area is roped off for those making the climb on their knees.  We consider it briefly then decide the only miracle we will need after making this climb will be knee replacements. Oh, puhhhleeeeeeeze!  The people we are with had to pull over every few miles to prevent deep-vein thrombosis on the way up here.  Nobody in our group will be kneeing for a miracle.  Some of them already believe it's a miracle just to have knees.

We enter the first part of the church, a room specifically for offerings and candle lighting, and think, "Wow, this is amazing."  We enter a back passageway and come face to face with a statue of the Virgin Mary.  She's alone with a spotlight shining on her, standing peacefully against the stone backdrop, on a giant pedestal in a small indoor brook.  "Wow," we think again, "this is amazing."

Up the stairs or, in our case, the elevator, we come to a landing with a view of just over 180 degrees (we cannot see behind us due to the rock ledge, but we can see Montreal for an eternity.  And we think maybe this is it because wow, this is amazing.

But, no.  There is more.  Upstairs above this on the next floor, cases and displays house information about the devout Brother Andre who lived on the church property, including the case holding his heart that, though a religious shrine, strikes me somewhat as sickly morbid that people loved Andre so much they cut out his heart.

But still, there is more.  The Basilica itself, is amazing, so amazing that I dare not go much further than just inside the doors.  I am not Roman Catholic, and many people have come here to sit or kneel in thought and prayer.  It seems a sacrilege to gawk at the beauty of the architecture while these people, maybe even some of whom kneed their way up here, are having a religious experience.

I work my way back down, leaving my two of my pals behind then finding the third so he can lead me out of the place.  I have a terrible sense of direction, and I'm terrified the bus will leave me here and God will know I'm not a true believer cut from this cloth.

I wish the tour could spend more time here, though..  This place is an excellent feat of architectural and religious glory and the grounds are incredible.  Plus, I grab the bus seat arm rest a mere four times as we make the steep and horrifying descent down the winding road back to the main street.  Thank goodness, unlike Gilligan, our three-hour tour ends without a wreck.  Now, if we can just convince the tour guide to stop talking and the bus riders to hold their repetitive questions so we can get on with our day, we'd hit the
pinnacle of success.

INTRO TO MONTREAL - BORDERING TONIC

My pal has never crossed the border before.  I find this fact absolutely stunning since she is a seasoned and well-versed traveler.  Apparently, though, she has never ventured out of the United States. 

I find this cool.  You see, until she got me on a plane in March, I'd never flown.  I have no great fear; I'm just a cheap person.   I think it is perfectly poetic that I get to escort my pal to Canada, a place I've visited since I was too young to even remember I'd been there.  (I probably shouldn't mention the rumor about my parents "forgetting" to declare me going north and having to smuggle me back coming south.)

This is also the first time I've needed a passport to go to the Great White North.  Before, a simple birth certificate would suffice.  Of course, when bringing the children, I also had to bring my marriage certificate and my late husband's death certificate to show proof that I was not absconding with my own progeny, but, again, probably something I needn't mention.  Anyway, we are both excited to get our passports stamped for the very first time.

The tour guide and bus driver warn us: Do NOT crack jokes with the border guards; do NOT try to be evasive about any question you are asked; Entire buses have been impounded for hours because someone thought about being a smart-ass, we are told.  When it's our turn to speak to the Canadian agents, honestly they do NOT fuck around.  They get right to the hard questions: firearms, weapons, contraband...  I am so nervous that I just keep whispering, "No ... noooo ... NO!" as if I am horrified to be asked.

But, we are incredibly disappointed to discover that no one stamps passports anymore.  Say, what?  I mean, there should be optional stamps and ink pads at each border that are approved for stamping that individuals can stamp on their own.  Now, when I go out of the country again (for surely I'll be back in Canada again at some point, anyway), I'll look like the dork who never goes anywhere.  What's the sense in having the ugly passport picture if you don't get to decorate the rest of the damn thing with cool country stamps?

When we arrive at the hotel, we are told we can either take our luggage or leave it for the bellhops to bring up.  I see no reason to make some poor shclep be responsible for my skivvies, so I grab my own bag, as does my roommate and our two other traveling companions.  I see the key that I am given says 1422.  I look up at the hotel.

Holy crap, we are staying in a skyscraper.  My pal and I are on the fourteenth floor, and our companions are on the twenty-first floor.  Not one for heights, this is kind of ironic, and it takes a few passes at the window to orient myself.  My roommate and I decide that we need tonic water or soda of some kind, maybe some orange juice, to mix with the liquor we brought from the US.  I only brought a few nips because I am afraid of being incarcerated in Canada for illegal trafficking of alcohol across national borders, and also it is because I did not pay attention to allowable amounts.

This is where it starts to get weird.

My pal and I search all over the hotel, find one soda machine, and decide that's not good enough.  We need mixers.  I am also thinking that maybe I'll buy some Prosecco or something easy to drink that doesn't need to be mixed.  We put on our walking shoes and start a recon mission.

Carefully walking around the block in a square, we realize that we are in the retooled Red Light District.    There's a massage parlor then parking for the Forum, dirty movie theater next to an American clothing store, tattoo parlor adjacent to Tim Hortons.  Mostly, this area is all new stores, like a giant mall gone mad and all open-air.  We double-back then increase the size of our square, branching out blocks further than we've been, all the time looking for one simple thing: a place to buy sodas or mixers (without getting lost).

It is at this point that we also realize there is no place to buy alcohol, not even cans of beer.  It's as if stopping into a bar is fine, but god forbid you want to bring a cold one home.  NO ONE SELLS ALCOHOL HERE.

We realize that we have to get back to catch the dinner bus to The Old Port.  Maybe we'll find mixers there.  After all, there are tons of shops along the waterfront.  Alas, nothing.  It seems a little bit like we've been thrown into urban Amish country where the language is French.

Once we get back to the hotel, it's only about 8:30, so we go back on a mission to find soda, retracing our steps but enlarging the perimeter.  We are about to turn back, totally disgusted that there are no 7/11-type stores anywhere, when my friend's husband says, "Oh, let's just go one more block."  Mercifully, we find a pharmacy, a CVS/Walgreens/Rite-Aid type place, and we find lemonade, orange juice, Sprite, and Coke. 

(WithOUT alcohol?  What's the punchline?)

By the time we haul everything back, I'm almost too tired to drink.  Almost.  We do manage to sneak some red and white wine over the border, so I hit up some of that. 

I will say this, though -- The city is beautiful, and both walks (the one in the afternoon and the one by street light and moonlight) are safe and pleasant.  On the bus to dinner, we did see a few homeless people under the bridge in the nearby park, but they were minding their own business and were not out accosting people like the Boston Bums and Lawrence Lynchers (this latter crew operates a spectacular con game).

Better than the walk, though, is the view.  By daylight we can see for a very long distance, and the cityscape is magnificent.  By night, the twinkling lights make the city look magical.  Welcome to Montreal -- We may not be able to toast you with Canadian spirits, but we will mix the US alcohol with Canadian tonic.  Seems appropriate for my pal's first adventure outside her own borders.

BEATING MY SISTER WITH A PLATE

Before I get back to my tale of Montreal, I do have this quick story to share.  I know my sister has  been dominating the blog lately.  She's been putting up with me off and on all summer, and she is a trooper.  However, I do think that my recent visit might give her a chance to reconsider her generosity of time.

You see, it's like this:  I had to beat my sister up this weekend.

Come on, admit it.  You have a sibling you've secretly wanted to throttle once or twice, too.  I mean, really.  Sometimes the pressure is too much and , well, we snap.  I am telling you, this isn't my fault.  She made me hurt her, officer, truly she did.

Okay, let me explain.

My sister finally gets the house to herself for the weekend.  Her youngest is away, her husband has gone camping, and she is "stuck" at home between work on Friday and a singing gig on Sunday.  What a shame, she will have to stay and mind the doggie and have an entire weekend of quiet.  So, what does she do?

First, though, what would a normal person do?  A normal person would pull the shades, lock the windows and doors, unplug the phone, shut off the lights, and hide out in the peaceful heaven that is an empty home.

My sister is not normal. 

Nope, instead she invites me up.  She asks me to stay over night, but I'm not having any of that.  She may not think she deserves some quiet down-time, but I believe she does, so I agree to one day.  Saturday.

I get up there early, and we have the entire day to ourselves.  Kayak?  Hike?  Swim?  Beach?  Shopping?  Play games?  What shall we do?  My arse has been dragging with some weird viral-bacterial-extraterrestrial thingee (I half-expect Signourey Weaver's "alien" to come flying out of my lungs), so I say, "I'll do anything except a long hike or an uphill hike."

We play some games (she wins, just like always) then try unsuccessfully to get tickets to the Portland Sea Dogs game (it's Field Of Dreams night, so tickets are completely sold-out, even standing room only by the toilets).  The pool is a little too chilly, so we decide on a hike through the woods to the ocean at a nearby farm.

Bug spray comes with us in the backpack, but we decide that the air is breezy and why would any bugs want us?  Besides, it's a short walk, less than a mile.  Halfway down the path, we are both sporting welts and blood trails from being eaten nearly alive, so we admit failure and break out the bug spray.  Once at the beach, the sand is damp enough for us to multi-fold our towels as seats.  We have our bathing suits on under our clothes in case we decide to go in and get wet, but the air is nice enough that just getting our legs wet is enough.  Besides, the dampness leaks through the towels and gives us wet bums, anyway.

By the time we get back to the house, we've had enough outdoor time and play a few more heated rounds of Quiddler, Bananagrams, and Cribbage, at which my sister totally kills me.  She wrecks me.  I swear I do not win one single game.  So entrenched are we in our battles that we do not even consider going out to get dinner.  We raid the cupboards, steal some of her kids' Annie's White Cheddar Macaroni, add some broccoli, and continue trying to whip each other senseless at games while we plow through our food.

Finally, we clean up after dinner, turn on the dishwasher, and retreat to the living room to play Yahtzee.  To prevent the dice from flying around the coffee table, we decide to use a pile of three paper plates.  The plates work fine as a buffer, but the two of us are having the worst games of our lives.  I mean, she beats me soundly with only 200 points over and over, but we are both rolling badly.

Maybe it's not the plates.  We change to the lid of the Yahtzee score card box.  Ahhhh.  Finally.  I throw a Yahtzee, even.  It's amazing!  Our scores almost reach 300!  Still, though, still she is winning.  Winning, winning, WINNING!!!!

When it is my sister's turn to throw, I pick up one of the plates from the stack and start whacking her with it.
She grabs it from me and starts whacking me back with it.  I maneuver deftly to my right and grab the other two plates, separating them with Ninja-like fluency.  HA!  I have two plates to her one!  I start flailing madly.

Oh no.  I have forgotten that my sister is much taller than I, meaning her wing span is greater.  She overreaches my assault and attacks me anew.  Curses!  I never win!  I NEVER WIN!

This scene continues until we are certain that the dog is going to come over and bite both of us for our misbehavior.  Yup, this probably means it's time for me to go home.  Any time our fun and games ends in fistacuffs, we should probably pack it in.

Well, sister, you may have beaten me at Quiddler and Bananagrams and Cribbage and Yahtzee (over and over and over...). but you had better hear this:  NEXT TIME, I'M BRINGING THE DAMN PAPER PLATES!  You've been forewarned.

WINE OF THE WEEK ... MINI VERSION

I miss three wine tastings this week, which means I miss by buddy Kurt, my buddy Samanta, and my other buddies who are having a well-known chef cook for anyone who comes to the tasting.  These are not by voluntary avoidance; I am sick with a respiratory infection, and I cannot drink alcohol with the meds I am on.

Oh, sure, I could drag my sick arse to the tastings and ask everyone else their opinions, but the meds are not controlling the fever that springs up in the afternoon and evening, hovering between 100 and 102 degrees F.  I don't feel bad.  I feel pretty good.  Don't know what's going on; I just know this is ruining then end of my school break, just like the weird tonsil infection last August and the bout of pneumonia the August before that.

I think the cure is to avoid going back to school.

However, my incapacity does not minimize the importance of wine, so I'm going to share one that I may or may not have shared before. 

My penchant for Prosecco is well-documented.  There are two problems, though:  1. opening a large bottle is wasteful for one person; 2. the cork pops and scares the buhjeezus out of me.

The solution is simple, and restaurants already know this: individual small bottles of Prosecco.  These are screw-top bottles that open with no more pomp and drama than a regular soda bottle, and they are re-sealable.

Not only are these bottles of wine user-friendly and ever-ready, they are tasty; very tasty.  This week's Wine of the Week is 2014 Perlage Bacaretto Prosecco, It's dry, it's fruity, it's crisp, and it's refreshing.  Is it comparable to Champagne?  Oh, puhhhleeeeeeeze.  Nothing compares to Champagne, but Prosecco is a nice, affordable, refreshing alternative.

Besides, you'll be the envy of your friends when the bottle comes out at the restaurant and you get a serving and a half for the price of a single serving.  Running in stores around $6 and in restaurants between $7 and $9, the Perlage Barcaretto Prosecco is this week's choice for Wine of the Week.

STINKY -- OH, WAIT, IS THAT ME?

OMG  I am sitting here writing my blog when the computer eats it.

No shit.

I have been sick for days, several of them spent unable to get much farther than my couch, and now my beautiful blog is gone.

The entire world is against me.

Okay, here's the gist of it.  I finally get out of my house today for the first real jaunt I've taken since dragging my lung-infected carcass to Urgent Care.  Apparently my sinuses are recovering because as I exit my last errand, which just happens to be Target in a rather remote location, I am quite literally knocked over by stench.  I honestly stagger, it is that bad.

There is a giant oily stink permeating the air that smells of freshly sprayed skunk and human feces.  At first I think someone may have left a diaper nearby, but it grows and grows until it's obvious this is no accidental little leakage.

It smells like a full septic truck hit a skunk.

This is the kind of aroma that sticks to one's skin and invades the core of the nasal cavities.  I cannot get to my car fast enough, but, when I do, a woman is parking next to me.  I cannot get into my front door.  I consider climbing over the passenger seat, it is that bad.

I finally get into my car, hoping the woman doesn't think that smell is coming from me, and also hoping myself that the smell is not coming from me.  I mean, I have been sick for a while now, though I did take a long hot shower last night.

The good news is that I have not had a hot flash in ten days because of whatever is gripping me.  The other good news is that my trip out today allows me to see a pretty decent sunset happening, so it's all good.

Give me a few days to recover, and I'll get back to the Montreal adventure.

PS -- This computer ate tomorrow's blog, too.  So much for perfection.  ;)

BUT FIRST, A STOP ON CHURCH STREET

Montreal, here we come!

My pals and I decide to join a town-sponsored bus tour to Montreal.  This is a great idea!  The price is right (includes two nights in a 4-star high-rise hotel plus two meals and an extra tour of the city), and the company running it has a solid reputation.  Our tour guide is a former elementary teacher, so she talks in short, simple sentences and smiles a lot.  Our bus driver, Thom, is the bomb.  We discover early on that he can out-maneuver any road hazard known to man.

There are two glitches in the itinerary, though.  The first glitch is that most of these kinds of tours are populated by blue-hairs.  Okay, so I am very close to being a blue hair, but I am in limbo between an AARP card and collecting Social Security.  This means that there is rampant arthritis on the bus, so we stop every hour or so to prevent deep-vein thrombosis.  The second glitch is a parade in Montreal that blocks our access to the hotel until later than we planned.

The tour director decides that we will stop in Burlington, Vermont, today instead of our planned stop at the end on our return trip.  Sounds good to us.  This will be stop #2.  Stop #1 is a McDonalds in Lebanon, NH.  My friends and I head over to the beer and wine mart, instead, to buy lottery tickets.  I am thrilled to find sealed single-servings of Cabot cheddar cheese and get myself one extra sharp and one seriously sharp slices of cheese.

When we head back over to McDonalds, my friend's husband strikes up a conversation with a man wearing a WWII hat.  Remarkably, this gentleman is one of the original Tuskegee Airmen.  For those not in the know, the Tuskegee Airmen were the first African-American pilots to be trained in the U.S., officially forming the 477th Bombardment Group and the 332nd Fight Group of the U.S. Army Air Forces.  This wonderful gentleman lives nearby, and my pal's spouse has an animated chat before we are herded back onto the bus.

Our next stop is Church Street in Burlington.  When we exit the bus, we realize that it is the tail end of the air show over Lake Champlain.  The biplane doing stunts is still doing loop-de-loops and touch-and-go's on the lake.  A few jets boom loudly over the area.  I madly text my brother.  He lives across Lake Champlain in New York, and he's a small-plane pilot.  If anyone will be here at the air show, it should be he.  Alas, the show was postponed from the day before, so my brother is still on his side of the big pond over an hour away.

My pals and I settle outside at an Irish pub.  We are next to a girl and her dog, a very friendly dog, and eventually we strike up a conversation with her.  Turns out she is with the Air Corps and is part of maintaining the jets that are flying over, apparently scaring the shit out of the delicate hippies of Burlington.  "They keep calling 911," she explains.

She tells us about the planes that we missed seeing by our late arrival, and then she starts talking about a Tuskegee Airman who lives over the border in New Hampshire, a gentleman who comes for the air show when he can.

We barely believe the coincidence.  My friend's husband just talked to the gentleman about two hours earlier at a random exit off I-89, quite far from where we are right now.  We hone in on the young lady's privacy and keep up a conversation with her and with her dog.

Before we head back to the bus, we go inside the restaurant to use the bathroom, and my pal beats me to the punch: paying for the servicewoman's order.  We are a military bunch: My pals have family members in the service, and I have a niece coming out of the Marines, as well as a brother-in-law who is retired Air Force, my late uncle was Army in Korea, my late father was OSS/Army in WWII in the European theater, and my grandfather was in WWI.


It turns out to be a worthy stop.  Thank goodness for arthritis and thrombosis and a random parade.  Montreal, here we come!

EATING CAKE WITH THE MAYOR

We go to Boston Tuesday night
To listen to the Air Force Band.
The band is awesome ... dynamite,
We see them close (we're up firsthand).

We go to dinner on the wharf,
Seated close to the music stage,
After eating we go forth
With the audience we engage.

To our shock the music ends
Much earlier than most,
But this is when I and my friends
See just who is our host:

Oh, my God, the mayor is here!
I'm standing next to Mayor Marty,
When suddenly what should appear
A giant cake for this giant party!

Columbus Park is in fondant --
We hustle as they cut it.

Vanilla, Chocolate, whichever we want!
I am a big cake zealot.

We move right in around the cake,
Those others have no prayer.
Make absolutely no mistake:
I'm eating with the mayor!

We are so happy that we're fed,
We inhale all the frosting.
I am still scratching my head:
CAKE WITH THE MAYOR OF BOSTON!

LIGHTS OUT, MAINE

After the concert in the log church, my sister and I psych ourselves up for the long ride back through the mountains.  We are two hours from civilization and three hours from her house.

Actually, to say that we're away from civilization is incorrect.  We are close to the town of Rangeley, but we are not going that way.  Rather than circumvent the mountains, we are going to plow right through them just as we did to get here.

We're going to get started home if we can figure out why the car keeps beeping.  "There's a door open," my sister says, looking at the dashboard.

We both open and close our front doors a few times, but the light stays on.  "Maybe it's the rear hatch," I say.  After all, we tossed off our heels and put some gear back there when we exited the church.  I start to get out of the car when I walk smack into the rear passenger-side door, wide open exactly as I left it. I start laughing, then my sister starts laughing.

One of the other performers rolls down his window and calls over to us.  "Hey!  You're having too much fun over there!"  This is true.  We really are having too much fun, but this is how our life together is.  We gather our wits, though, as people warn us the route we are taking is known for moose strikes: cars hitting them and them hitting cars, both kinds with serious injuries and sometimes fatalities of the animal and the human kind.

After a quick stop at the public restrooms, which are, mercifully, still open as dusk falls, we are on our way.  We have waters, snacks, and some sandwiches still in our stash, so we begin tearing into everything as soon as we're out of the village.  We need energy to be on Moose Watch.  It may sound like a game, but we did spend several years living in the woods of New Hampshire as kids, and my sister still lives in a relatively rural area; we understand the realities of Man vs. Nature.

Even though our eyes scan the mountain road and the shoulder, the only animal we come across is a possum with glowing teal eyes.  We stop at one of the scenic overlooks to take a last picture or two as the sun fades away, and we are passed by the only car we will see for many miles.  The moon and the stars come out, brilliant and magnificent with the span of sky we can see from where we are.

As we get back on our way, the sillies come out.  We rewrite lyrics to songs, singing such newly retooled hits as, "Are the stars out tonight? I can't tell if it's cloudy or bright, 'cause I only have eyes for moooooooooooose, deeeeeeeer..."  We don't truly relax until we've woven back through the dangerous construction, now deserted, where the road gapes open with a trench through its center running about four feet wide by five feet deep by about one hundred yards long.  If we accidentally swerve too close, we will topple in; we watched an eighteen-wheeler nearly get swallowed in this exact spot on our way north.

Every time we pass a sign that reads "low shoulder," which is every few miles, we shrug our shoulders as far down as we can then bust out laughing, as if this is still funny after the tenth time we do it (it is).  Her creepy GPS occasionally speaks to us when we least expect it, scaring the buhjeezus out of us but also comforting us as an extra passenger to keep us awake.

As soon as we pull into Lewiston (aka "Civilization"), we stop for some caffeine and to gas up the car.  My cell service is back in business, and the text messages are pinging fast and furiously.  I text people back as fast as I can because it is starting to get late for a week night and also in case I lose service again.  My sister is starting to fade but still insists on driving ... while lying down for a few seconds.  My panicked screaming brings her back to reality, and we go back to our original driving game of singing along to bad eighties music, at least the few choruses we remember.

We roll back into Southern Maine at a respectable hour -- eleven-ish -- still dressed in our concert togs, and even have time for a quick few rounds of Cribbage before we fall over dead asleep, another successful adventure under our traveling belts.

CONTINUING THE MAINE ADVENTURE - PUBLIC RESTROOMS AND MUSIC FOLDER ASSAULT

I am in the northern regions of western Maine for my sisters concert, which is a group of talented singers who are performing at a log church.  The church itself is charming, but, at one hundred years old, it bears the scars of multiple repairs and many coats of paint.  I know what you're thinking because I thought it, too: Who paints logs?  The church, more of a chapel, would be stunning if it were stained and weatherized, but somewhere along the line, people believed in painting everything with dark brown semi-gloss much like somewhere along the line people believed that wallpapering over wallpaper was a brilliant idea.  The church looks more like Lincoln Logs than Maine logs. However, it is still quite eye-catching.

Another thing about the log church is that it has no facilities -- no toilets and no dressing area for the performers.  There is a public restroom two-minutes' walk away, so we are all fortunate that the weather has held out if one considers full sun and ninety degrees with moderately high humidity to be ideal.  I only mind it when I get hit with hot flashes because very little in life sucks more than a hot flash on top of being hot.  While the singers are inside the toasty church rehearsing, I am outside on a bench fanning myself while sweat drips out of every pore on my body.

Weird flies that look like houseflies bite at my legs and arms and any other exposed flesh I have, so I am constantly waving my arms.  This is probably what attracts the charming Quebecois couple riding bikes to stop and stare.  Actually, they are staring at the church, but we start a conversation, anyway.  We chat about how hot it is, and they tell me I should come to Quebec City in February so I can complain about the cold.  "Never!" I assure them (I am still having a hot flash -- I would pay a million dollars to be cool right now).

I should try out some of my French on them; I am taking notes from a book about conversational French as practice for my upcoming trip to Montreal.  Somehow, though, I'm not sure these nice people want me to tell them such wonderful things as zut alors or c'est domage or Sacre bleu or ou est l'eglise (especially since we are all sitting in front of it).

Eventually the singers exit the church for a quick break before their concert.  One of the people sponsoring the event has provided veggies and dip and some cheese, but the platters have been sitting inside in the permeating heat, and, having a somewhat sensitive stomach myself, I encourage my sister to bypass the "treats" and head back to the car.  Ever the ready travelers, we have in a cooler sandwiches, waters, and snacks enough to keep us alive for a month should we get lost on the way home.

After our impromptu dinner, we begin the trek to the public restroom to get changed.  We are both going for sleeveless shift dresses, hers in concert-appropriate black lace and mine in tummy-hiding floral polyester.  We keep the sandals and flip-flops on until we are back at the church lest our heels aerate the entire village center.  Other than the large fly-bite welts across my shins, thighs, upper arms, and shoulders, I don't look too bad.  My make-up that melted off has been reapplied, and to ensure the comfort of those seated around me, I spritz myself with a citrus-based spray from Bath and Body Works.  Of course, this attracts more killer flies until I get inside to my seat.

For a remote location, limited parking, and considering there are no facilities for anyone to use (specifically the elderly and feeble), the turn-out is amazing.  There are families in attendance and people of all ages.  I sit in the back, picking the correct side so I can smirk at my sister as she enters and exits the church to line up, cracking her up just like we are kids.  During one of her passes, she intentionally whacks me on the head with her music folder.  This is good.  It means that even after sharing a three-hour ride up and some off-road hiking, we're still on good terms, which means the ride home should be fun, as well.

POPPLE GOES THE ASPEN

My sister and I are in Northwest Maine for her concert, but we are not staying overnight, so we have to make the most of our one day here.  Our decision to make it a one-shot visit is fortuitous when it pours the following day, but now I'm ahead of myself.

There are two ways to get to where we are going: the direct route, which takes longer because it circumvents the mountains, or the indirect route, which takes less time but plows straight through peaks and valleys.  Once we determine our route (mountains, of course), we start researching interesting things to see and do along the way.  We have paperwork about scenic overlooks (two -- and we stop at both, one that overlooks to the west and one further north that overlooks to the east), multiple hikes of varying difficulty, and some places to rent kayaks.

A few of the hikes are too long and too arduous considering she needs to be in concert formal attire later and I need to stuff my fat arse into a dress.  This would be fine if there were a place to get ready, but the concert venue has no bathroom, so our changing room will be a public restroom stall being shared by people beaching it at a nearby lake.  By the time we roll into town, we decide we have about an hour and a half, just enough time for a simple hike of no more than three miles round-trip.  This crosses many possibilities off our list.  It also means that we won't have time to kayak and get our butts damp in the lake, either, which would be welcome in the sweltering heat of midday.

My sister is navigating, and she starts heading away from the concert venue.  We like to explore when we get someplace new, but we feel like maybe we are heading into the boonies, which is ironic because we have been in the boonies since leaving Lewiston hours ago.  The car blinker goes on, and we decide to turn right at the next road and head in the other direction.

This is when I start jumping around in my seat.  Okay, this is not true.  I started jumping around in my seat after the pee-stop on the logging road because we found an all-80's music station, so I have been warbling (not singing, more like screeching) random song lyrics that I can remember:  "Billy Jean ...  blah blah blah ... blah blah blaaaaaaahhhh..."  "Choke me in the shallow water before I get too deep...."  "Something ... something ... Loving, touching, squeezing ..."  Now I am excited for a different reason.

"Mingo Loop!  Mingo Loop!" I start screaming.

For a moment, I'm certain my sister thinks I see Ed Ames. (For those not familiar, he played Mingo on the television series Daniel Boone.)  I explain to her that there are trails to walk off of Mingo Loop Road.  Score!  We're where we are supposed to be without even trying.  Of course, we are coming in from the wrong end of the road, so the .25 mile the directions tell us are actually 1.5 miles, which I figure out while reading a brochure we picked up at the one and only store we've seen in hundreds of miles.

We finally arrive at a golf course and pull into the grassy area marked for trail parking.  We have successfully reached Mingo Springs Trail and Bird Walk.  Careful trail map reading gives us three options: one-mile loop, two-mile loop, or four-mile loop.  Following a brief but violent wrestling match with bloodshed, we opt for the two-miler and plow into the brush.

The trails are remarkably well-kept, and the flora are marked for informational purposes.  We encounter no less than eleven different types of fern (I have the flyer) -- Sensitive, Cinnamon, Bracken, Hay-scented, New York, Oak, Ostrich, Narrow Beech, Lady, Interrupted, and Common Polypody (though I really cannot discern the differences)-- and many trees we'd never heard of, such as the Popple.  I've lived in or near the woods of New England my entire life and I do not know of this tree.  My sister's husband used to be a forestry major, so we will have to run that one by him later.

One part of the scenic hike runs along the road, which is a bit awkward, then we are back in the woods.  There is one tree with a splay of empty branches around its lower half, and my sister decides it looks like a petticoat.  I take a picture of it with my phone-now-camera, and it sort of does look like crinoline we used to wear under our Easter and finer dresses, you know, that itchy-scratchy white webbed stuff that felt like ... felt like ... tree branches jutting into our skin.

About halfway through we encounter a wooden tree-type bench that the landscapers must've put here for the benefit of people like us, who, after a mile or so need to sit the hell down.  Truly, even though there is an occasional breeze, it is really warm even under cover of the leaves.

When we start up again, I realize we are on a steady incline.  What the ... This isn't a mountain!  This is supposed to be an easy loop!  Oh my God, what have I gotten myself into?  Is there no end?  Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi!  Dear lord, I'm dying here!  Water!  WATER!

My sister turns to me, makes a face, smacks the sense back into me, and tells me to shut up.

We are about to go into a dark part of the woods, and I am briefly afraid that my sister might strangle me and leave me here (deservedly so), so I stick with her trees-look-like-clothing theme when I point out the gnarled roots of a tree.  "Morticia's gown bottom," I say, hoping all is forgiven.

"Sure," she says and keeps trekking along at her usual pace.

Let me point out that I am in reasonably good athletic shape for a woman of my age, but let me also admit that I am markedly shorter than my sister, so she has the advantage of long legs.  Not only can she hike, jog, and run faster, but I have to take 2 steps for every 1.5 strides she is taking.  Not fair!  If I start complaining again, though, she might roll me into the swamp.  My only advantage to this is that the drought has dried up the water, so I would be rolling in any combination of the eleven ferns here along the trail.

In the end, we make it through the woods and back onto the street.  I'm not going to lie about how relieved I am when I see the car.  I am absolutely sweating my eyeballs out (hot flashes included), and I want nothing more than a few minutes with the air conditioner blasting me to Antarctica.

By the way, the Popple tree is an Americanized misspelling of Poppel, which is the Swedish word for Aspen tree.  Popple, Poppel, Poplar, Aspen -- seems they're the same or interrelated.  Either way, I'm just glad that my sister didn't lose complete patience with me and tie me to a Popple or beat me senseless with one.  She's a good sister that way. 

WINE OF THE WEEK

I have to cheat a little bit this week.  I am on antibiotics for a respiratory infection, so I cannot go tasting this weekend.  This makes me sad because I miss my buddies Kurt, Samanta, and a chef. 

So, I'm going old school.  I may have already posted this one before, but there's still one bottle in my fridge.  I love this stuff because it is not a pain to open, does not pop and scare the buhjeezus out of anyone, and no errant cork will break anything flying around the room.

My wine for this week is a Proescco that comes in small single-serving bottles, just right for those times when you need a Mimosa or Bellini or sparkling drink without being wasteful.  It's a pleasant little bubbly, too, a 2014 Perlage Bacaeretto Prosecco, that, when I research it, also gets backed up with a 4+-star rating.

I have two more days on the antibiotic then I'm going to untwist this bad boy and celebrate being able to breathe again!

WINE OF THE WEEK

Finally, the tasting for which I have been waiting weeks: Sauvignon Blancs from Around the World! 

I need white wines to fill the holes in my wine rack.  I have to be honest -- I really don't think I'll find anything that I like.  I'm thinking my palate is failing me because recently many of the whites taste bland to me, watery, flat, and uninteresting.  I've found a few that have come home with me, but more often than not, I'm dancing with the reds.

I approach today's tasting with a slight bit of trepidation.  If only I can find one sauv blanc to call my own, I will be happy.  I am pleased to report that there are four I am happy with but only three come home with me; the last one (#4) is on a list for when there's more room in the rack.

4.  Coming in at #4 is La Craie Pouilly Fume, a 2015 vintage from France.  This wine is fruity and very interesting.  It would be even more interesting with cheese.  The flavor is smoky, aromatic, and lasts on the palate in a good way.  At $17, this is the bottle I decide needs to stay at the store, but it will be visiting my house in the future.

3 and 2.  These two are a dead-on tie.  They do not taste alike per se, but they fall into the same drinkable category: fruity, crisp, and herbal.  These two are not overpowering and would make great porch-pounders, no food necessary to compliment the flavors.  At #3 is Pikorua Sauvignon Blanc, a New Zealand 2013 vintage at $12 a bottle.  #2 is the Indaba Sauvignon Blanc (2015) from South Africa, and the only reason it is ahead of the Pikorua is because the Indaba is an absolute steal at $7.50 a bottle.

1.  Coming in first this week, and this is a tough decision amongst some greats sauvs, is a Californian white that's also well-priced at $14.  Darker in color, this wine is close to a chardonnay without the sharp oaky chardonnay flavor.  It's balanced, it's fruity, and it is described as being "edgy on the palate."  I beg to differ on the edgy part.  I am not a chardonnay fan, but I love this wine.  It is smooth, it has a bit of attitude, and it is yummy.  Therefore...

My choice for Wine of the Week this week is: Sidebar Sauvignon Blanc.

ADVENTURE TO NOWHERE

(Panoramic view)

My sister and I are on an adventure.

She has to sing in a concert three hours north of her house in Maine, and she wants a wing-person with whom she can make the round-trip trek in one day.  I volunteer because we manage to take reasonably decent (outstanding, actually) road trips.  I will need to keep myself entertained during the two-plus hours the group will be rehearsing prior to the concert, so I pack all kinds of stuff: coloring pages, colored pencils, a ton of pens, puzzle of all kinds, an MP3 player with ear buds, and a book on conversational French.

And, of course, I have my phone, so I can always play games with my cyber pals or go through my email.

(Google Earth of the logging road)

We exit the highway in Lewiston/Auburn, which surprises me because we are barely one hour into the trip.  Meandering through urban suburbia, it actually seems like civilization here.  There is roadwork, so orange cones are everywhere, lots of stores dot the street, and abandoned buildings are tagged with rugged and super-dangerous mid-woods of Maine anarchistic gang symbols.

It is at this point that I lose all cell phone service.

My phone has turned itself into an expensive camera and alarm clock.  Pissah.  With two more hours to go, I don't hold out much hope that I will be getting service.  I already know that I get zero service in Canada, and, since we will be just shy of the Canadian border, I suspect (rightfully so, it turns out) that if we need help and are relying on me, I will have to hitchhike back here to Lewiston just to call AAA.

(The actual logging road)

It becomes clear rather rapidly that we are in the middle of absolutely nowhere.  We pass the only place where there are other humans, a tourist attraction called Coos Canyon.  Coos Canyon has waterfalls and swimming holes and all kinds of awesome activities as it crosses the river. Well, it is supposed to. New England is in a severe drought.  A little bit of water remains pooled in puddled swatches along the rocks, but Coos Canyon presently is a pile of rocks.  These tourists might as well be at the Polar Caves.

As soon as we drive away from the canyon, we hit another patch of No Man's Land.  Plenty of people live out here because there are houses about every mile or so, but there isn't a single person anywhere about.  No children play outside, no people lounge on front porches, and no pets run around.  It's as if the world stopped and everyone here stepped off into oblivion.

Our ears start popping as we climb into the mountains.  We try to figure out where we are, but my phone won't help; I haven't had cell service since the McCarthy Era.  I usually travel with maps; my sister does not.  Since we are in her car, it means we have no maps, but it's okay because we can see a sign up ahead that looks like a town marker, the kind that separates one named town from another named town.

We get ridiculously excited over this bit of minutiae. We will finally know where we are!  We are ... we are ... we are ...  We are in Letter D!  Apparently, we have driven off the grid and ended up in Sesame Street.

My sister, who has been sipping coffee, decides she needs a potty break.  One could argue that there are no potties because we are in the middle of nowhere, but this just means that there are potties everywhere.  Any place we want to stop and drop trou becomes a pee-stop.  We search for a good place, but the shoulders of the road are sandy and deep.  If we pull over, we will not be getting out of the dusty mire, and I sure as hell can't ring for assistance.

(Google Earth of the scenic overlook)

Several logging roads have jutted out onto the road, most of them with logging trucks coming out.  We see a decent dirt road with packed down dirt and take a chance.  My sister doesn't want to go too far off the tar, and I don't want her going too far into the woods.  She saunters about fifty yards in and hides near a fir tree.  No problem.  We have not seen one single vehicle in either direction for over twenty minutes.

As soon as she starts peeing, two cars and a motorcycle come by.

I don't want anyone to think we need help, and I certainly don't want them to see my sister's butt cheeks, so I grab my phone (now a camera), stand in the open door of the car, and pretend to be taking lovely scenic pictures, smiling the whole time.  Good thing I don't really need help because all three of the vehicles zoom past me at a much higher rate than the speed limit.

Turns out we stopped at just the right place because a few short miles ahead is a scenic overlook with more people than we have seen since we left Lewiston, so maybe eight people.  There is no privacy here, even though we have the entire section of parking lot to ourselves.

(The picture I took trying to look nonchalant)

My sister checks her GPS (Dr. Nightmare, who tells us things like, "Pay no attention to that noise in the trunk," which is remarkably reassuring since we are currently experiencing a Deliverance moment).  A few scenic photos and we are back on the road to somewhere through the middle of nowhere.

Okay, seriously, I poke fun of it, but truth be told, it's absolutely breathtakingly beautiful out here.  Good thing, too, because we are still another hour from our destination.

BACK TO SCROOGE

This morning I have my first official "Return to School" nightmare.  I am in a school, not my school, more similar to my own elementary school.  The seventh grade has decided not to go to see the musical A Christmas Carol anymore (for real, this isn't the nightmare part), so in my dream, a low-budget version of the Dickens classic, complete with actors (some in swan wings for whatever reason), comes to the school.

I am stuck watching the performance, which is part of the nightmare.  I go into complete panic mode when I believe I may recognize Scrooge as an actor/teacher with whom I used to work, and by "work," I mean only one of us was really working between the two of us, and the slacker in our relationship was not I.

It is at this point, the point where Scrooge raises his head from his stooped over perch at a table (which has nothing whatsoever to do with the actual script) that I make the identity mistake.  I run from the room.  Down the hallway I go, skidding around corners, but I cannot escape the sound of the play booming and belching behind me.

I awaken expecting there to be thunder and lightning -- my dream certainly has enough noise in it.  No, though.  The house is quiet, the day dawning, and there is no noise in my room except for the hum of the air conditioner and the whir of the fan.  I shake the sleep out of my eyes and the dream out of my brain.

I'm down to ten days.  That's all.  Oh, don't be jealous; I do not get paid for any of this time off, and I have been working (albeit lightly) on curriculum.  No teacher truly takes the summer off.  Next week sometime I expect my class rosters to be posted, and I will begin the monotonous work of setting up my classroom on paper while I am supposed to be enjoying the last of my leisure time.

In the meantime, I have become Bob Cratchit, or maybe I'm Scrooge.  If these dreams think they're going to get the better of me, they are sadly mistaken.  However, I am extremely satisfied that my "Back to School" nightmare #1 is cleanly under my proverbial bah humbug belt.

DON'T "TEAS" ME, SISTER

Sitting at Starbucks inside Barnes and Noble, my pal and I witness the following exchange between a young woman and a young man.

Man:  "So, what is 10 divided by 3?"
Woman:  "Ummmmm... I ... uhhhhh... I can't tell you that.  I need a calculator."
Man:  "So ... okay.  Let's try this.  3 times 3 is ...
Woman:  "I can tell you if I had a calculator."
Man:  "9.  It's 9.  3 times itself makes a square.  3 times 3 is 9, so nine is the square of 3."
(Woman sits blankly.)
Man:  "Let's try this.  4 times 4 is...?"
Woman: (fumbling for cell phone) "If I have a calculator, I can tell you."
Man:  "No, no, don't think about the answer yet.  It's a number times itself, okay?  It's a square."
Woman:  "What do you mean square?  It's a number, not a shape."
Man:  "Okay, okay.  16.  16 divided by 4 is what?
Woman:  "I need the other number."
Man:  "What other number?"
Woman:  "I can't divide 16 by 4 without the other number."
Man:  "The other number is your answer."
Woman:  "Answer to what?"
Man:  "16 divided by 4.  Remember, it's a square."
Woman:  "Which square?  There's a square?  Where?"
Man:  "4.  It's 4.  4 times 4 is 16, so 16 divided by 4 is 4.  It's the square root."
Woman:  "Squares have roots?  I need a calculator.  I'm not sure..."

(The wall at the Barnes and Noble Starbucks)

The very patient young man has four or five books open in front of him, piled willy-nilly on top of each other.  He seems to be the young woman's tutor, and he is infinitely patient with her.  The book on the top clearly is a test-prep book.  My pal and I toss ideas back and forth: GED?  Prep school entrance exam?  PSAT?  SAT?  Math course?  Summer AP work? What test could this math-challenged young woman be studying for, and, based on this snippet of conversation, how on earth will she ever pass what is probably a high-school level exam? 

TEAS.  Hmmmm.  My pal and I are both teachers, and neither of us has ever heard of test-prep for TEAS, so we Goggle the acronym.  It stands for the Test for Essential Academic Skills.  It is given to people applying to nursing schools.

Nurses.  Wait -- nurses?  Folks, nurses who do not know what squares and square roots are, or, even worse, who cannot fathom how 3 times 3 equals 9, should not be nurses.  Nurses calculate medication doses and work with medical numbers all day long, day in and day out: Blood pressure, pulse rates, heartbeats, temperatures, and on and on.

While I truly appreciate that this young woman is attempting to better herself, my pal and I both raise concerns about a nurse who needs a calculator to determine the answer of 3 times 3.  I decide to do a little research.  There are TEAS test preps for reading, math, science, and English, and some of the questions require background knowledge.

The math test, though?  Oh, honey; you had better master basic math skills or your ass is grass ... and so will be whomever you are taking care of when (if) you become a nurse.

MONTREAL BRUINS

I started watching hockey when I was about eight years old.  Baseball came earlier because by age seven I was already watching Red Sox games pitch by pitch, and football came much later, perhaps my early teens, when I cared enough to sit down, watch, and figure out the rules.  Once I discovered the Boston Bruins, though, no other Boston team nor sport of any kind truly topped that feeling of love and loyalty for the game.

I liked some of the other hockey teams, as well, some from the "original six," teams like Chicago and Detroit, though the NY Rangers took a while to de-ice any portion of my heart.  There were a few expansion teams I enjoyed, too -- Hartford Whalers (of course, a no brainer), Quebec Nordiques (for the Stasny Brothers, especially when the home-ice announcer said, "Ahhhnnnn-tooooooohhhnnnn STAHHHHHH-SHNEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"), and the Buffalo Sabres strictly for their old-school uniforms.

One team, though, one team loomed as the Evil Empire, the red-jerseyed Darth Vaders of the entire NHL, and this perception wasn't mine alone.  Most Bruins fans you happened to meet back then (and some even now) hated... HATED the Montreal Canadiens, myself included.  Oh, they had some amazing players over the years, some who played during my own childhood bloodlust (Cournoyer, Beliveau, Rocket Richard, and Rogie Vachon, who ended up being a beloved Bruin), and then later players to just flat out detest (Roy, Subban), but for those who don't understand hockey, the love and the hate are what make the heart of the game so strong.

For many years, decades even, the hottest rivalry in all of sports involved the Boston Bruins vs. the Montreal Canadiens.  In its heyday it made the Red Sox-Yankees rivalry look like toddlers kicking sand in the sandbox; Bruins vs. Canadiens was the only fight ticket in town.  Bostonians detested Montrealais, and the feeling was mutual. 

Fast forward to present day.  I am in Montreal in the Old Port, wandering around aimlessly with two pals.  We are pretending to shop, but we really are searching for somewhere to have a kick-ass Montreal meal.  In one of the shops is a display of t-shirts with  innocuous references to Montreal, Canada, and the sports teams (what's left of them -- The Expos took off). 

Hanging in a position of prominence, blocking some of the Montreal shirts and clearly King of This Display, is a youth-sized, long-sleeved Boston Bruins shirt.  Yup, a taste of home right here in the Old Port of Montreal.

You want to know what that means?  It means ... WE WIN.

MAKING A NEW BEACH FRIEND

My friend and I are at the beach, minding our own business, when a stout older woman makes a beeline to us.  I look up, make eye contact, and she starts talking to us as if she knows us.  (She does not.)

She puts her blanket and her shoes down and says, "I'm going to spread out here with you."

Um. Okay.  I guess.

She is pleasant enough, tells us some story about her daughter needing to take the dog to the car, and that she should be easy for her daughter to find because she is wearing a yellow shirt.  She leaves her belongings and trots down to the water.

My friend and I look at the blanket and shoes then to the old lady who is ankle-deep in the waves.  We both shrug.

"Hey, YOU made eye contact with her," my friend laughs.

"I ... did nnnnnnnn... Yeah, I did."

After fifteen minutes or so, we start to get worried.  It's 97 degrees out, and, if this woman's daughter has a dog in the car, that means she is choosing between her mother and her pet, neither a good choice for an adult child and an animal lover.

This time, it is my friend who makes contact.  She ambles down to the water and begins a conversation with the lady.  After a few minutes, I wander down and join in.  Turns out this lovely woman is 90 years young, used to be a secretary at an elementary school, lives in Syracuse but summers in Kennebunkport, and is one of the nicest people I've ever encountered.  Plus, her perfume is lovely and she smells fabulous.  You know how at the beach you can smell coconut in everyone's suntan lotion?  This woman's flowery scent drifts across the sand toward me like a beautiful beach rose.

My friend and I need to pack up (fold our chairs and pick up our bags -- we travel light) and get back to the car, so we walk the older woman over to the stairs, which are accessible only over some treacherous rocks.  We help her, guiding her to the easiest perches.  We are halfway up the rocky outcropping when the daughter shows up.

"Mom, I've been waving to you from the stairs.  I have the car running."

While this is wonderful that there will be an air-conditioned car to greet our new friend, it is a little crazy that the daughter thought her mother could manage by herself up the labyrinth of granite.  They are both grateful for our help, and we bid our new pal a good afternoon. 

Truly, God bless her.  May we all be so lucky still to be walking the beach and putting our feet in the surf at 90 years old.

POCKETBOOKS AND KARMA

I am madly packing for my trip to Montreal.  I'm almost done when my daughter needs a ride to Urgent Care for an injured right foot.  That, in and of itself, is a story of its own, but I have to admit, her foot may have saved my vacation.

You see, I am planning on bringing a cross-body black pocketbook.  I even pack all kind of black clothing so that everything coordinates, which makes packing really easy.  I use this pocketbook daily, so I grab it as my daughter and I rush out the door.  As I walk across the driveway to the car, the strap on the pocketbook snaps.  It completely comes apart and the bag of treasures (like gum and tissues and eye shadow) flies to the ground and tumbles about four feet away.

Had my daughter not had her semi-emergency (which turned out to be strained ligaments), I would be exiting the house in the morning and suffering a fashion disaster, leaving me without a pocketbook for Montreal. 

Karma?  Possibly, but my daughter is suffering more than I am because I have a second cross-body black pocketbook. Of course, she has a second foot, too, so I guess we're even in the end.

WINE OF THE WEEK = BAREFOOT

Here's proof that people who are wine snobs do not necessarily know shit about what tastes good. I'm not talking about professional sommeliers nor am I referring to wine shop owners because these people will steer you right no matter what, and they don't care what you buy to drink or else they wouldn't sell it.

I'm talking about people like the main character in Sideways (who is a spitting image of a former beau of mine who was also a wine snob), people who turn their noses up at you when you buy a $10 bottle of red because the label kicks ass rather than a $45 "name" bottle that probably tastes exactly the same.

This week is a sort of hit but mostly miss week.   I attend two tastings, one from a winery that I've visited, raved about, and bought a case of wine from, but that tasting was a bust.  The second tasting had two wines that I could recommend (and might in the future) but nothing felt like it needed to come home with me.

Instead, I am recommending Barefoot wine.  That's right, Barefoot.  I liked their wines when I went to a fundraiser at the zoo two years ago, and I recently stumbled across their Refresh wines when I attended a pool party.  The red  Barefoot Refresh is excellent, especially with frozen fruit thrown in, and there's a rose Refresh that I have yet to open.

The Barefoot white Refresh, though, is this week's #1 and only official recommendation.  Fruity yet mild, not overpowering, with a touch of bubble to it, this wine does exactly what it says it will: Refresh you.  Even my son loved it, and he has a picky wine palate.  At $7 a bottle, it's a no-brainer.

It's damn hot out here in the Northeast, and I hear it's somewhat toasty everywhere else, too.  Do it.  You know you want to.  Check out the Barefoot Refresh wines and let me know which of the three you like best.  You won't be disappointed ... unless you're Miles from Sideways or my idiot ex.

CELL PHONE SUCKAGE

I'm going to Montreal for a few days.  If you're a Facebook follower of this blog, know that the blog will post automatically every morning at 4:30 even if Facebook doesn't remind you.  I am hoping to stay in internet contact, but I will be out of cell phone range.  You might have to bookmark this page in case I can't post the link.

How do I know this?  I know this because my cell and coverage suck ass.

Oh, I could pussyfoot around and play coy: "My service, which is one of those pay-as-you-go plans, is a little iffy..." Fuck that shit. 

I have Virgin Mobile.  It used to be that Virgin Mobile got service even in places other cell phone carriers didn't, such as up in the boonies of Vermont.  I could get phone calls at Smuggler's Notch, but my hostess, who owned the time-share place, could not, and it pissed her off (which sickly made me happy).  It isn't so anymore.  I had to buy a new phone just to get calls at work, and I had to trade up my plan.

Then, my "new" phone had so many glitches that it didn't get group texts and won't get picture texts unless I shut off wi-fi, turn my phone off then on again, and use up data from the Virgin Mobile network.  Hahahaha "Network," because the network sucks ass.  My sister and I recently drove north of Lewiston, Maine.  Well, I think we did.  Her phone says we did, but she has AT&T. 

My phone?  My phone says we died somewhere outside of Auburn on route 108 and had our bodies dumped behind a shed because I had no cell phone service and no internet (no Waze, no Google maps, no way to call AAA or the cops) until we hit route 95 outside of Lewiston coming home ten hours later.  I could take pictures, but I couldn't post them for hours, so the hilarity of our logging road potty run lost its immediate humor.

But, now: MONTREAL.  I know Virgin Mobile Canada exists because I see it on the website.  I already know from trying to get my Samsung piece of shit phone reset that I will never, ever reach a human at Virgin Mobile customer service again.  It must be monsoon season in Pakistan, so "George" isn't available any more.  I also know that Virgin Mobile refuses to answer email inquiries because, apparently, that service is also affected by storms coming in off the Indian Ocean.

I finally Google the answer to my question about how to get coverage while in Montreal, and the answer is that VM Canada has an agreement with VM USA, but it doesn't work the other way.  Apparently, Quebecois can use their phones in America, but we Americans cannot, should not, will not use our phones in Canada.  End of discussion.

Well, damnit, I've put up with a lot of bullshit from Virgin Mobile.  I went an entire two years unable to receive or make any phone calls at work.  I didn't know my first grandchild was arriving because the group text never arrived.  I could've been killed by upstate Maine zombie lumberjacks and no one would find the body because my phone wouldn't ping the location of my cadaver.  Now, this?

Fuck you, Virgin Mobile, you piece of shit.  When I get back from Canada (where my "airplane mode" phone will make a lovely fucking camera, thank you very much), I'm not only switching carriers to one where I can get human, English-speaking customer service, I'm getting a damn iPhone.

Android and Virgin Mobile and Samsung, you can all bite me. But, you'll have to wait until I'm back from Montreal to do it.  Montreal ... where I'll be if I turn up missing.  Just FYI.