And so...

Um.

So.

I'm sort of... moving.

Back to Michigan.

Yeah.

You see, it's been a possibility for some time now, and it just so happened that a job opened up at my old museum and so? I am moving.

Over Thanksgiving weekend.

I KNOW.

Basically, I am freaking the hell out trying to figure out how I am going to get everything done, get everything packed, and get everything taken care of in LESS THAN TWO WEEKS, and these panic attacks are not my particular shade of pink.

Anyone want to sublet my apartment? Lots of closet space!

FREAKING OUT.

What I am most happy about is that I am not leaving this great city because I don't like it anymore - quite the contrary. I love living here, I love working here (even though the job might be lacking), and I love being here.

It's just...

I've lived here for over five years and for some time now, it's been clear to me that I've reached the end of the relationship. I love DC... but I'm not in love with DC anymore.

Like any relationship, moving here and living here on my own has transformed who I am. I left Michigan in the summer of 2002, and at only 22 years old, far from independent. I had always had roommates, always had a set of friends, and things were always planned for me.

I moved here alone. I didn't know a soul. It was... sobering.

I started grad school and made a few good friends, but it was my internship at the National Museum of American History that really got the ball rolling. I made friends there that have become friends for life, and to be completely honest, I really wasn't expecting that!


Now, over five years later, I have a bank of memories - favorite moments, amazing friends, and great roommates.

But what I need most is a new phase in my life, and this is my solution.

And while I'll most likely be on hiatus for a bit later in the month, I won't be quitting this here blog. I have to brainstorm a new name, however, and while "Detroit Donut" rings a nice, smoggy bell, I don't think that it would be the best fit.

I wonder if just "The Donut" is taken... Any ideas for a new name?

I have loved blogging in this city, and I hope that you'll continue to read once I relocate to the charming Midwest.

I promise that people there will generate just as many stories for me as they do here.

Does anyone have any boxes?

Or beer?

The Trip, The Week, The Family

This was taken when I was supposed to be packing for my trip. I think that I might have had too much wine. Then again, there's really no such thing as "too much wine," now is there?

I did not check my luggage for my trip to Michigan, so my bags did not go to the Philippines. So... win?

I bought my ticket on Sunday and was waiting for the metro at L'Enfant Plaza when my mom called to tell me that my grandpa passed away at 5:35 that evening. So that train ride was a blast, let me tell you. After a slow wait through security, I hopped on the plane and curled up in my window seat and just started to cry. It was bad crying - sobbing, heaving, losing my breath. Not attractive. Oh yeah. A couple sat down next to me and I accidentally elbowed the woman when putting on my seat belt. She soon asked if I was okay. When I explained why my crying was shaking the entire row, she just started talking.

It was nice - I normally shy away from the chatty types when on planes, but she obviously knew that I needed to talk. I told her about living in DC and she told me about her son - the kicker for the Washington Redskins. Crazy!

When we landed, her husband got my suitcase down for me. I thanked them both for keeping my mind off of things, and she hugged me. It was so nice. It was like she was there on purpose.

It was a rough week, with a lot of planning and picking out flowers, visitations, family, friends, and tears. But I'm okay. I kept it together long enough to do a reading at the church, but once we arrived at the cemetery, it was open season. My dad hired a Polish singer to sing a traditional funeral song, and it was heart-wrenching. But then, taps. And guns. And saluting.

And... BAWLING.

But it was nothing short of awesome. Awesome. My grandpa was extremely proud of his military service in WWII, and though he didn't speak of it that often, it was so obvious that he was a member of the Greatest Generation.

Henry Piegza was born on August 22, 1923, the first son of Polish immigrants. He grew up in Detroit, graduated from high school, and served in the South Pacific for the United States Army. He was actually scheduled for the 55th wave of the invasion of Japan, but the war ended.

He married my grandma, Hedwig "Harriet" Jablonski in 1947. My dad arrived in 1950, followed by my three uncles. They celebrated the births of five grandchildren. They toasted to their 50th anniversary in 1997. My grandma passed away in the spring of 2001 and I don't know that his heart ever fully recovered. He was in and out of the hospital for a spell, but it wasn't until this summer that he started to go downhill.

He quietly passed away on October 22, 2007 as the hospital chaplain read the 23rd Psalm. He did not suffer.

I don't think that I can fully explain how proud I am to be his granddaughter. I remember standing on the National Mall for the dedication of the WWII Memorial, surrounded by veterans. They all looked like my grandpa. They cried, I cried, and the sun shone. It was amazing. These men and women put their lives on the line for their country because they felt it was their duty. Because it was right. I am lucky that he survived.

But it wasn't his military service that I will remember - it was the love he had for his family. Every Christmas, he would offer each family member a piece of the traditional opłatek, and he would wish for us to be happy. Happy in love, happy in life... just happy.

And I know that he is now happy. And so am I.

Visitor

You will all be happy to know that I showered this morning (especially Megan). But I may not ever shower again, after sharing said space with this lovely visitor:

"Oh, hello, I did not see you there! I am three inches long.
You are naked. It is hilarious to me when you shriek!
And that you are naked!
Would you like to have dinner?"

I really don't mind insects. I never have, thanks to a father who refused to kill anything. But this motherfucker surprised the hell out of me, especially when I had yet to put in my contacts. I shrieked (seriously, ask my roommate), slowly turned off the water, pulled a towel around me, and meekly called, "Um, Jen? Could you come in here for a second?"

She was excited to see it, because though she had heard of the size and scope of Southern cockroaches, she had yet to see one. Well, it was her lucky day!

And then, of course, I made her wait to spray it so I could take a picture.

Because I am insane.

It's Comcastic!

Except... not.

I worked through lunch on Friday, just so I could leave early. This basically translates to = I am a complete moron and should have at least just gotten lunch and eaten it at my desk. But no.

Comcast was due to arrive between 4:00 and 7:00, so I left work at 3:30, which should have been way more than enough time to get there. Until I was ambushed by the Greenpeace people. I blew off the first one, mumbling that I was running late, but she must have been new as she gave up immediately. Not so for the seasoned veteran...

Veteran: "Hey! You look like someone who cares about the environment!"

Fantastic. Really? I do? Can you see it in my eyes?

Heather: "Yeah, I sure love birds. Gotta go."

Veteran: "I can see you're in a hurry, but can I tell you all about our issues?"

Sigh.

Heather: "If you can move fast... I've got an appointment."

Veteran: "Oh, great! I'll just walk with you!"

The fuck? I had to give the kid credit for his determination and support for his cause, but seriously, leave me the hell alone.

He hauled ass alongside me (I walk pretty fast) for about four blocks before giving up (he was out of breath when I finally stopped). I actually took his information in case I for some reason decided to join -- I wanted him to get his "commission." He worked hard!

I arrived at the new apartment at 3:55, and started to organize things - I wanted to get as many things as possible out of the way, as moving day was less than 24 hours away.

4:25 - Great! The apartment is all set. Moving everything in here tomorrow should be a breeze. I bet Comcast will show up any second!

5:00 - Hmmm. I sure am hungry. Who the hell skips lunch?

5:15 - That GD Greenpeace kid completely screwed my plan to stop for food on the way here. I hate him. And I hate the environment.

5:55 - Oh my gosh, I am so hungry I think that I might cry.

6:45 - First call to Comcast, asking for an estimated arrival time, as there were 15 minutes left in the window and I AM SO HUNGRY CRANKYFEST.

7:20 - WHY the HELL didn't we bring over the food last night? This fridge has nothing but a Brita. Hmm. I wonder if I could crack open the filter and eat those little things inside...

7:45 - Second call to Comcast. "We'll have him call you!" Uh huh, that's what you said the last time. Cockslaps!

8:15 - Knocking. It's about GD time.

8:17 - Comcast guy informs me that he doesn't have enough cable wire to run it to the back bedroom (my bedroom). How do you not have enough wire? Stock your truck, JACKASS.

8:30 - Still installing.

8:45 - Still installing. My phone rings, and it's the Comcast operator:

Operator: "Has the technician arrived?"

Heather: "Oh yes, he's here now, actually."

Operator: "Can I speak with him?"

Pause. What?

Heather: "Um, can't you just call him on his phone?"

Operator: "I've been trying to call him for three hours, and he isn't answering."

Ah, so that explains why I never got a call saying that he was RUNNING A LITTLE LATE. I handed him my phone, and after thirty seconds, he hands it back... covered in fat man sweat. GROSS.

To make a long story short (Too late.), we've got cable and teh internets. And I finally got to eat something. At 9:30.

On Moving

We're packing up and moving day is inching closer and closer. The house is looking more and more bare, and I am feeling even more excited than I thought I would.

When I left my comfy place in Arlington to relocate to the Hill, it was a really emotional experience. I moved to the DC area to start graduate school, and my apartment in Arlington was the only place I knew. It was the end of an era, you might say (anyone get that? Besides K-10, that is). Leaving that complex was difficult, but I was so excited to finally live in the city that it was infinitely more sweet than bittersweet.

This place. Well... it is what it is, I suppose. We should have known what we were getting into, especially since the previous tenants were in the midst of an ongoing war with Maria the Bitch Landlord from Hell (in which they lost their entire security deposit because she wouldn't cut them a break when they wanted to move out a month early. Her prerogative, I know, but they did find new tenants).

It wouldn't have done much to change my mind anyway - my commute had shrank (shrunk?) from thirty minutes to ten, I was living in a cool neighborhood, Union Station was only a few blocks away, and I finally felt as if I was in the middle of everything.

Then... things started to get weird. Our house fell apart before our eyes. Our alley/parking lot was always trashed. The market on the corner carried very questionable, maggot-filled products. There were constantly crazies in the alley (case in point - today, a totally drunk and/or high couple parked their car in the middle of the alley and chased each other around it, threatening violence and hurling insults and slurs, all while delicately carrying their 24-ounce cans of Coors. His was very nicely placed in a paper bag. Hers was not). And on and on and on.

It was easy to ignore these things because "I'm in the city! I have to get used to all of this, because it's the city!" And for the past two years, I did. I got used to it all.

Ha. It's funny what you can get used to when you think there's nothing better out there.

And I'm still going to miss this place. We're only moving four blocks south, and yet I feel as if I have to say goodbye. There are plenty of things that I won't miss, from the tourists at Union Station to the scary people in the alley to basically everything this house is about, but I will miss the "Good Morning!" I receive each day from the guard at the Thurgood Marshall Building. I'll miss cutting through Union Station at 3:00 a.m. and staring up at the gorgeous ceiling. I'll miss the coffeehouse on the corner with the amazing mochas. I'll miss my pretty kitchen floor. I'll miss living so close to Amanda.

But I'll look forward to an even shorter commute, a safer area, closer proximity to Eastern Market, and, of course, a nicer, warmer apartment.

And I can always walk the four blocks if I need to hear that friendly "Good Morning!"

Teddy

He sits on my bed in the same place he's always claimed. Different houses, different beds, different cities. But always next to me. I've relied on him for over 26 years. He's gotten me through fights, college exams, punishments, thunderstorms, bad days, and painful breakups. I hugged him tightly at 8:00 p.m. on warm July evenings, laying in bed listening to the neighborhood children continue their games. The sun was setting and it didn't feel like bedtime. But the streetlights were on, so I was home... tucked into bed.

With my teddy bear clutched to my heart.

My parents tell me that I was too eager to wait nine months. My mom went into labor at my baby shower, and my parents rushed to Wyandotte General Hospital while my grandmothers kept the guests entertained. I was born the next morning at 1:06 a.m., almost one month ahead of schedule. When they brought me home for the first time, my parents placed one of the baby shower gifts next to me in the bassinet. A teddy bear. My Teddy. I was tiny and weighed just about five pounds.

Teddy was bigger.

The other stuffed animals came and went. They were eventually packed up and donated away, but my Teddy was different. I remember attending a live production of The Velveteen Rabbit when I was about nine years old - it horrified me. I made my parents promise that they would never take my Teddy away from me, even if I contracted scarlet fever. They promised. That summer, I got chicken pox and I was still terrified that my bear would be taken from me forever. But Teddy stayed beside me, in the crook of my arm, never to leave.

I wasn't one of those kids who took their stuffed animal to school or on errands with my mom - Teddy usually stayed home - but family vacations were different. During one summer road trip, the entire family recognized the emotional value of my bear when I tearfully realized that Teddy had stayed behind at our last motel. One hundred miles behind us. After thoroughly searching the car, my daddy, a most wonderful, understanding man, promptly turned the car around and silently accepted the additional two hundred miles. After that, we had a checklist when leaving hotels: children? Check. Teddy? Check. Sometimes my dad would call out "Teddy!" ahead of "Heather and Steven!"

After learning fire safety in elementary school, I decided that as he was my most valuable possession, Teddy would leave a burning building with me. Even more morbidly, I used to wonder what would happen to Teddy in the event of my untimely death - would I give him to relatives or have him buried with me? I'm not sure that I could answer that question even today.

Teddy came with me to sleepovers in elementary school, track meets in high school, and made the journey with me to college. Riding high atop my brand new pillows and duvet cover in our overpacked Windstar, he too experienced Ann Arbor dorm life.

He is no longer the same bear from the August of my birth, probably because my parents never put a stop to his slow destruction. I am told, always with suppressed giggles, that I used to pull out Teddy's fur and stick it up my nose. My parents thought it was hilarious and just let it happen. I was entertainment. But poor Teddy! And yet, he endured the worst.

I guess that helps explain why Teddy accompanied me in my relocation five hundred miles from home: graduate school in Washington, DC. A place that intrigued me, yet a place where I would be completely alone for the first time in my life. But I wanted the best. I suppose that if the best Museum Studies masters program in the country had been located in southeastern Michigan, I would have stayed in the Midwest. But it wasn't. It was in my nation's capital and I was moving ahead at full speed.

Now, almost five years later, I can barely recall that early loneliness. DC is now my place, my home, my life. The unknown brought me to DC. Needing more than just a change of scenery, my decision to leave all that was familiar to me was one of the best choices of my young life. I was cut out for so much more than the suburbs of Detroit. I needed a place that belonged to everyone. A place that few called home. I would call DC home.

You might think that a 26 year old woman should have no need for a security blanket, but I don't see it that way. He may look absolutely pitiful and more like a mouse than a bear, but Teddy is a comfort to me and my link to my past. He's part of who I am.

And the nights I sleep most soundly are the nights that my Teddy is clutched in my arms.

How I'm Turning Into My Mother

LORD.

Did you ever think that the lessons your mom force-fed you would actually stick? Did you ever think that you would pick up her mannerisms and habits? I sure as holy hell didn't, and yet...

...I have a fit when one of my roommates places a peanut butter-covered knife in the sink ("No one wants to have to wash a knife covered in peanut butter!"). DAMMIT, people! Just lick off the excess!

...I can't understand how we can fill a dishwasher with EVERY GLASS IN THE HOUSE in just a few days. Can NO ONE but me use a glass more than once?

...I mute the commercials because they are just TOO LOUD.

...I give stupid nicknames to places (Taco Bell? How about Baco Tell? Hmm? Hmm? Get it? Hmm?).

...I always say thank you, even when it's not deserved. Because it's the polite thing to do.

...I enjoy a nice glass of Chardonnay. At any time.

...I have to hold my tongue when someone closes a door, but doesn't close it quietly (in case you were wondering, this is accomplished by turning the knob, shutting the door, and soundlessly releasing the knob. If I slammed a door, she made me reopen it and close it quietly. This was SO INFURIATING. And it stuck).

Thing is? I love my mom. I used to think that turning into her would be the most horrible, most awful thing that could ever, ever happen to me.

But now? I hope that I become even half the woman she is today. It would be an honor.

Happy Birthday, Lady! I love you!

Cherry Poppin' Daddies

Every year.

Every GD year, the weather pulls a 180 and everyone freaks the fuck out. It's been warm here for the past two days. Unseasonably warm. Like, 77 degrees with actual sunniness, unseasonably warm. This has created many humorous people-watching situations, like the lily-white bare legs of girls wearing flip flops... with their peacoats and scarves. They looked like they had mental breakdowns while dressing themselves.

Ladies, if you're going to "go-all-the-way" with the flops this early in the year, please refrain from looking like you've escaped from an asylum. Plus, it's March. It absolutely will not kill you to wear nylons. (Or thigh highs! Try those! You'll love them!)

Predictably - and I know this because it happens each and every year - it's going to cool off again. This will happen this Friday. Temperatures were in the 70s today, but the high on Friday is set to be 42 degrees with some rain thrown in - just for fun! And I can guarantee that there will be waaaaay more than one woman wearing flip flops. There will also be a plethora of men without coats (haha, I used my most hated word to illustrate a point. I'm such a hypocrite!). And there will be lots and lots of people caught outside without umbrellas.

Do people not watch the weather channel? I love the weather channel!

We so pretty.

But more than anything, people freak out about the cherry blossoms. There's worry that the early warm weather will screw up the "peak" blooming dates. News anchors will discuss the blossoms in total seriousness, it will be front page news on the local newspapers, and then suddenly it's, "Oh my GOD, the cherry blossoms! Won't somebody think of the cherry blossoms!!!!"

In all fairness, the beloved cherry blossoms (and the impending festival) are a big deal around town. It reminds us of a simpler time, when the Japanese liked us -- you know, in the early twentieth century. They gave us these pretty friendship trees and all was well and good for about thirty years or so. Then there was that pesky "sneak attack," and we started bombing the shit out of each other. And we didn't like each other so much anymore. It took some time and heavy counseling, but we're totally BFF again, except that now we covet their technological know-how and their uniformed schoolgirls.

God, the title of this post just took on a whole new meaning. And I didn't even mean to go there.

Jefferson thinks your fanny pack is stupid.

Not that it matters - the tourists will still descend in droves, bolstering our economy and visiting our museums. They'll visit our finest chain restaurants, like ESPN Zone and Ruby Tuesday's, and they'll flood the metro with their fanny packs and leashed children. Everything's going to be okay.

Anyway, to recap, a haiku:

Weather pretty... sweet!
Then hilarity ensues
Think of the blossoms!

Won't somebody think of us?

Around the World

I don't even know where to start. I flew into Detroit on Christmas Eve, and when my suitcase hadn't arrived, I made a claim and was told that I could spend $50 on toiletries, etc. I was also told that my bag would most likely be delivered that night, "in the wee hours."

It wasn't.

My dad and I did take a lovely trip to Walgreen's at midnight, though, to buy deodorant and a toothbrush, among other embarrassing things that a girl doesn't necessarily want to buy with her father in tow.

Christmas Day came and went, and there was still no word. My spending limit was increased to $150, however. Not that I could buy anything like, say, UNDERWEAR, as nothing was open.

The enemy.

I called every day, four times a day, trying to get even a thread of information about my luggage. Each time, the operator was very apologetic (except for that one bitch on the 26th who hung up on me when I was being COMPLETELY PLEASANT, but whatever. No really, I was - ask my mom), but I always got the same response, "We're working on it. Just call back every few hours." Fantastic. Of course, that was when I could actually get through - the local number they gave me was constantly busy.

Wednesday - my departure day. I called Northwest's luggage center for a fourth time that afternoon, around 1:00 p.m. I was not expecting much. The woman I spoke to earlier that morning had me convinced that the suitcase had been stolen and to start listing its contents because it "didn't look good." This call was different. I was placed on hold several times, and the operator returned to the line time and again to assure me that they were "on to something." And then, a ray of hope:

NW: "Ma'am, you're not going to believe this, but we've got your bag. It went to Manila."

Donut: "In the Philippines!!??!?!?"

NW: "Yes, the Philippines. It was overhandled."

Donut: "Yeah, to say the least."

NW: "But it's in Detroit now, going through customs. We'll have it to you this evening."

Donut: "My flight back to DC is at 7:30."

NW: "Oh, well it got here just in time!" [laughter]

Donut: [silence]

NW: Just call back around 3 p.m., and we'll have a better idea of whether it'll be ready for you before your flight.

I am so not kidding. The Philippines.

We got to the airport early, as NO ONE ANSWERED THE PHONE, and sure enough, it was ready. I transferred the presents to another bag that we toted with us, so my parents got their presents after all! But then... I had no choice but to recheck my bag. I was nervous! The flight was fine, but as I waited at the carousal at Reagan, I became more and more antsy. But then, it emerged from the bowels of the airport! I welcomed my well-traveled friend and got the hell out of there.

Here's what a tag looks like from DC to Detroit (with a slight detour along the way):

And here's what a tag from Detroit to DC looks like (you know, with no unscheduled stops along the way):

The story ends here, and luckily, it's a happy one. It could have been worse: my suitcase could have ended up in a dumpster!

I'll be packing my carry-on suitcase in the future!

Are. You. Kidding. Me?

I arrived at work this morning, happy that it was the last day of the work week for me (gotta love the flex schedule!), and ready to make the hours pass as quickly as possible. If that meant doing real, actual work, then I was up for it. All I needed was something to eat.

I bought a sesame seed bagel (yum-o) from Au Bon Pain on the way to work yesterday, fully intending to eat it, and just never did. I left it on my desk last night, wrapped up and taped closed -- to secure the freshest taste possible in a day-old bagel -- and placed it in front of my monitor. It wasn't smack dab in the middle of my desk, or on my chair, or on the keyboard... just slightly hidden away.

I got to work at 8:00, as usual, but forgot about the bagel until after my first cup of green tea. I reached for it...

I know what you're thinking: It was gone! Someone took The Donut's bagel! The nerve! The audacity! The asshattery!

Close.

Someone took HALF of my bagel. HALF.

And then? He/she/they wrapped it back up, retaped it, and replaced it to its original location. What. The. Fuck.

My best guess is that it was a member of the cleaning crew, but who knows! I considered leaving a note, but decided against it. It started out, "To Whomever Ate My Bagel: Did you think that I wouldn't notice?"

Am I going to have to lock my bagel in my desk next time? Argh.

Mr. Gangly-legs

I killed a spider this morning, and I feel awful about it. I don't like killing spiders, and besides... I wasn't raised that way! Spiders are our friends and they eat annoying little gnats and fruit flies that would otherwise be buzzing about our heads like the infuriating gadflies that they are.

Right. But this morning, apparently none of that mattered to me. I didn't just kill it. I ANNIHILATED it.

It was large, with veeeerrrrry long legs and perched in front of my dresser. I was fresh out of the shower and more than a little naked. There was a pronounced feeling of vulnerability, and though I know that I had a much lower score on the scale of helplessness, I moved effortlessly into attack mode.

Mr. Gangly-legs got hit with a good dose of foot spray, as it was the closest thing I had to poison in my bedroom. This turned him white, and while it most likely improved his foot odor, it did not impede his movement. Hence, the newspaper.

He's still under there, and I am pretty upset about it. He's probably the one who ate the fruit fly that was buzzing around my head the other night. Of course, on the other hand, he's probably the source of the bite on my left leg. Either way, I hope karma goes easy on me today. After only three and a half hours of sleep (through no fault of my own, but worth every lost second of REM), I am exhausted and just need the day to breeze by so I can come home and crawl back into bed.

Where Mr. Gangly-legs' family will no doubt be waiting for me.

Mainely Maine

I've been back from vaca for a few days, but I've been so busy that I have barely even had time to sleep, let alone post the longest entry ever (though that honor probably goes to Deals - she always has the best posts!). Here we go!

Friday, July 7


We left DC about mid-morning, and the traffic was light and airy. Well, not airy, but not overflowing with cars. So that's a plus. We flew through Maryland and Delaware (most boringest state EVER, by the way), and stopped for lunch at a lovely, wooded rest stop in New Jersey. Um, right:


Because of all of the crap that went down in NJ that week regarding the budget, the rest stop was closed, and had been for a few days. The trash cans were overflowing, the rest rooms were locked, and there was junk everywhere. Yum! Disgusted, we had a snack rather than lunch and took off as fast as possible. Because really, when even scary truck drivers and Harley guys won't use the port-a-potties, you know to avoid them.

We eventually had to explore Jersey somewhere off of the interstate, mainly for a restroom. And we discovered that Jersey roads make absolutely no sense - what with the driving a mile down the road just to turn around to get to something on the other side. Much like the "Michigan Left" but a million times worse. Anyway, we found our salvation in a dirt-ass strip-mall McDonald's:


And damn if people weren't serious about their Jersey hair. Wow.

There were some fun things along the way, including the truck with the gondola strapped to the back:


And the best name for a city on the east coast:

Mahwah!

The Lady was none too pleased with my through-the-windshield picture-taking. I guess she had a point, as I was the one driving...

We got stuck in a big fatty traffic jam for over an hour while breezing through New York state. But because of that morning's ingenious purchase of a portable DVD player (love the Target), we were entertained by Rachel, Joey, Monica, Chander, Phoebe, and Ross.

We stayed in Poughkeepsie that night, which was hosting its annual hot air balloon festival or some crap. Explains the gondola, at least.

Saturday, July 8

After a lovely continental breakfast, we were back on track. Man, the east coast sure loves their Dunkin' Donuts, don't they? I mean, I do too (not a fan of the Krispy Kreme, honestly): I got a fab cappuccino blast that morning. LOVED IT.

Saw the best license plate ever:


A Scrabble player's worst nightmare. The plate reads: ZXXQME.

The Lady had her first lobster (of many) of the trip for dinner. I had sirloin tips because lobster isn't good unless it's Bar Harbor lobster.


We stayed in Wiscassett, ME that night, just over the border from New Hampshire. Our inn was so pretty:


Sunday, July 9

We arrived in Bar Harbor, Maine on Sunday afternoon, unpacked the car, and headed down Main Street. We ended up at Stewman's Lobster Pound and Pier for an early dinner. The Lady had lobster (again), this time in roll form. I had a fish sammich and a margarita, of course. YUM.



Then we went to the Bar Harbor Whale Museum (I know, but I can't help it. I love museums!).


FYI, Bar Harbor is just one of several small towns on Mount Desert Island, just off the coast of Maine. Most of the island is designated as Acadia National Park.

Monday, July 10

Today, the laziness really began. The driving finally caught up with me, so after reacquainting ourselves with the town (found the cute internet cafe!) and a bit of shopping, we lounged at the pool and read. We later had dinner at a little place called Carmen Verandah. Ha! We sat on the verandah where we had a fun view of Main Street:


Chicken pesto pasta and sangria. So good:


Tuesday, July 11

Tuesday morning was overcast and foggy. It did not bode well for the whale watch we planned on for that morning. But the watch was on despite the weather, so we were at the pier at 7:45 a.m. and boarded the AtlantiCat at 8:00.


It was 45 degrees on the Atlantic Ocean, and the sun was nowhere to be found. Needless to say, I was a Donut-sicle:


After two hours of searching, we saw one whale, a finback. It was so foggy (about ten yard visibility), that we were lucky to see him at all. Now, a finback whale is nothing to scoff at - it's the second largest creature on the earth, behind the blue whale. The whale watch company only refunds money if no whales are spotted, but they were super awesome and gave everyone vouchers to come again. We planned on going later in the week.

Between those two masts? Yeah, there's an island there. Really.

Even though it was cold on the water, it certainly wasn't cold in town. We got back to the hotel, peeled off the sweatshirts, and headed to Acadia for some hiking. We explored Cadillac Mountain, the highest peak on the eastern seaboard. You can see more of how ridiculously foggy it was that day:





That night, we had an amazing dinner at Guinness and Porcini's Restaurant. It was Italian, abut like nothing I had ever had. It was a nice escape from fish and lobster. I had a great cocktail with vodka, strawberries, and basil. Sounds strange, doesn't it? So good...

Wednesday, July 12

On Wednesday, we drove to the maine-land (any shop or restaurant or business with the word "main" in the title was switched to "maine." Clever.) of Maine and visited Ellsworth - a cute little town with small shops and restaurants. After lunch at a Bistro, and about an hour in a used book store (I am so easily amused), we headed back to Bar Harbor. Once on Mt. Desert Island, I spotted The Log Cabin Restaurant. Now, they just had to have homemade blueberry pie.

They did.

Saw some fun street signs on the way back to town:



We weren't ready to go back to the hotel, so we headed back to Acadia and sat on Sand Beach to read. The Crazy Lady went into the 60 degree water. I read.

Bird's-eye view of Sand Beach

Thursday, July 13

We were scheduled to leave this morning, but it since rain was in the forecast, we decided to wait it out and try whale watching on Friday morning. We hiked at several places in the Park, went to lunch in Southwest Harbor, and started to head back to Bar Harbor. We stopped a few times along the shore:





We soon spotted a sign for Echo Lake, a fairly secluded part of Acadia. It was a sparkling freshwater lake with a small public beach and very few people.


I finally had lobster for dinner, in the form of lobster linguini. And it was fabulous. The Lady had a 1 1/4 lb. lobster. It was only slightly smaller than this lobster:


Friday, July 14

Ah, Friday. Whales!

We checked out of the hotel early and headed down to the waterfront (it was so awesome having a hotel on Main Street and being able to walk to everything). The sun stayed out all morning and though I shivered as the boat headed from the protected Frenchman's Bay into the open waters of the Atlantic, once we reached the whale's feeding grounds, it was sunny and pretty and warm.

Not ten minutes into our wait, a humpback whale surfaced. Amazing. Soon, it was joined by another humpback and they hung out, side by side. Later, another humpback. Lastly, a right whale surfaced a little further out from the boat. Right whales are so named, we learned, because they were the "right" whale to kill. They literally float in the water and let whalers harpoon them. So they're slightly endangered, to say the least.

Now, my camera's good, but not great. The whales didn't do anything crazy like breech, so the shots I was able to capture are more of them surfacing than anything else. They're not that spectacular, but they do show how damn close these things were to the catamaran. They're all humpbacks, as the right whale was too far to get a good shot:






We returned to Frenchman's Bay and Bar Harbor, and didn't want to get off of the boat! Here's a pretty sailboat:


We disembarked from the AtlantiCat and headed to the car and out of Bar Harbor. It was sad. After being there a week, it was like we owned the town, like we were locals.

The view up Main Street from the pier.

We drove for hours and eventually stopped in Waterbury, Connecticut. As we passed through Hartford, I noticed a Prius behind me and I definitely checked to make sure it wasn't Rory Gilmore. I am such a nerd.

Saturday, July 15

We left Waterbury at 8 a.m. and arrived in DC in the early afternoon. It was strange to be back - a whole new lifestyle. And heat. There's quite a difference to being in a town on the Atlantic Ocean and a town in a swamp. We ordered Thai and watched a movie. It was ridiculous. The Lady left Sunday morning, and it was sad. I headed to Eastern Market and cheered up a little. Going back to work on Monday was hard, but not too bad. I can't wait for my next vacation: the Outer Banks of North Carolina. August 8th is too far away!