Movin’ On Up!

Hey hey!! Hello there, loyal readers! After a nearly nine-month hiatus, look who’s back?! That’s right, we figured it was about time to post something on here and catch you all up on what’s been happening in the world of Amy and John. And what a different world it’s become!

Let’s recap a bit. The last time we spoke (or whatever you call this), it was December of 2014. Gosh, remember then? That was back before 2015, before all the snow, and the summer, and American Ninja Warrior repeats. It was way back in the days when Donald Trump was just a loudmouth television personality, and gas only cost $2.50 a gallon. Gosh, I wish those days were back!! Am I right, people?!

Back then we spent the holidays with our families, and, if you recall, in early January we loaded up the truck and moved to Kennebunk…Maine, that is. Swimming pools, movie stars… As we mentioned in our last post – the one from nine months ago (gosh Donald Trump, what have you been up to since then?) – we rented a big ole’ house on the ocean in Kennebunk. If it was the summer, there would have been no way we could have afforded a house like that, but we were lucky. We got it for a song, because honestly, who the hell moves to Maine in the frigid dead of winter? Amy and John, that’s who.

That’s right – we’re Mainers now. That’s what they call people from Maine. I’ve been a New Yorker, an Ohioan, a Georgian, and now, I’m a Mainer. Here’s what I want to know: what do you call someone from New Hampshire, our neighboring state? A “New Hampshian?” “New Hampshier?” “New Hampshirian?” (Standby for Google…) New Hampshirite! Okay, I guess it makes sense. Sounds better than “Utahan” or “Delawarean,” which are apparently real things.

But a note about being a “Mainer”: we’re not really Mainers. We’re a couple of soft New York City types who live in Maine. Unless your great-great-grandfather was born in Maine, and fought in the Civil War with Joshua Chamberlain, and caught lobster with his bare hands from a dinghy that he hand-crafted from a pine-tree felled with an axe purchased from Leon Leonwood Bean himself, you are NOT a Mainer. You’re just a person “from away.” And Amy and John are most certainly “from away.” That said, Mainers are some of the nicest people we’ve met, and that’s a refreshing change from living in Manhattan, where the people at Walgreens are trained in apathy, and every subway ride is Thunderdome.

So we moved into the rental house, which was great. It was this big Victorian house, with an open plan, and a fireplace, and three bedrooms for us and our modest belongings.  We had a tremendous view of the ocean. It was really stunning at times, and the sunsets were amazing.

When we first moved into the house, there was still grass on the ground, and the air was crisp, but not too bad. But two weeks later, things changed dramatically. It started to snow. And it kept snowing. It kept snowing for three straight months. And the temperature dropped drastically. That fireplace got a workout. And I got my first taste of oil heat, and the bills that come with oil heat. As many of you experienced, this past winter seemed to drag on forever, and the snow didn’t melt here until April.

But that didn’t stop us from exploring our new town, making new friends, and learning what it means to be a Mainer. To wit: here I am back in January with my new (well, new-to-me) pickup truck:

That’s a genuine 1994 GMC Pickup. That’s how I haul stuff up here in the Pine Tree State, I’m a Mainer now. A man’s gotta have a pickup truck. And I’m a man. I’m the kind of man who sits at a desk all day typing on a computer, wears J. Crew button-downs and salmon slacks, and eats food with chopsticks, but I’m a man nonetheless, damnit!

But that’s not the only purchase we made. Back in March, we became honest-to-God tax-paying citizens of the town of Kennebunk, Maine when we signed the paperwork on a new house. Yep, we’re homeowners again, and officially Mainers.

We love this house, and the location, a mile from town and less than two miles to the beach. It’s great being surrounded by woods, and birds, and chipmunks, and everything else including turkey and deer. It’s like a little cabin in the woods, but close enough to all the action in the resort area of town.

We call the house “Oxymoron Acres.” Why? Well, back when we were travelling, we’d often discuss what we wanted our dream house to be like. And it would always be the same thing: “Just a nice little house with a nice little yard. A homey place for us, and maybe room for some guests. A nice little kitchen where we can make dinner. Nothing complicated or too big to clean. Something modest. A garage would be nice. Maybe a walk-in closet. And a room for a home office. And a master bath with his and hers sinks. How about a separate dining room, and a living room large enough to entertain? Gotta be an eat-in kitchen, right? And a decent sized TV room, with plenty of windows. Built-in bookshelves for all our books and travel souvenirs. And a basement where we can have a bar or man cave. And outdoor space, with a deck and a grill and room to chuck around a ball. Could we do a chicken coop? Maybe we’ll put in an Olympic-sized pool someday. But, you know…just a nice little house with a nice little yard, nothing too big.” So yeah, Oxymoron Acres.

I owned an apartment in New York City once. It was great. I never mowed the lawn, never shoveled, de-iced, or plowed; never had to worry about maintenance, never fixed the hot water or broken appliances. Not anymore. Now I’m installing dishwashers, hanging ceiling fans, doing light electrical work, clearing brush, bending over in crawl spaces, putting in attic insulation, and chasing squirrels from my bird feeder. I hear noises in the night, and I say to Amy, at 3am, “What’s that? What’s that humming?… What do you mean you don’t hear anything, don’t you hear that humming?!” I’m the guy who goes outside, surveys the property, and then returns back inside to report, “those goddamn deer are eating all my hostas!” The furry bastards…

The other day I was working, and it was suddenly raining cats and dogs outside, a real squall. I looked up and noticed that there was water pouring down from one of the gutters. Clearly something was going on up there, and it wasn’t good. So yours truly, at about 2pm, strips down and puts on his bathing suit. Not some kind of Speedo, like I know you’re all hoping for, but one of those surf shorts down to my knees, with my belly hanging over the drawstring. I walked out into the torrential rain, and grabbed my ladder from the garage…

(A side note, by the way: I’m a Mainer now, and as a Mainer, I own a lawn mower, a ladder, a cordless drill, a snow shovel, an axe, a pair of LL Bean boots, and a beer fridge.)

Anyway, I went outside into this God-awful mess of rain, and set the ladder up on the side of the house. I climbed up there, and discovered a wad of pine needles the size of a brick lodged in the gutter. When I got it all cleaned out, the water flowed like Victoria Falls, fiercely and freely. There I stood proudly, on top of the ladder, in my swim trunks, sopping wet, hair in my eyes, having conquered the sort of task that makes you feel like you have a purpose in life. And that purpose is to pull pine needles and half-decayed leaves out of your gutters, like a genuine homeowner. Thank goodness Amy wasn’t around, or I wouldn’t have had that moment of saturated glory. Instead I would have been told to wait out the storm, and wear galoshes or something equally as embarrassing. But we all know the most efficient (and sexiest) way to unclog a drainpipe is half-naked, barefoot, and shivering.

That’s just one of the many experiences we’ve had adjusting to our new way of life. And that leads us to the real purpose of this post, I guess: to let you know that we’re alive and well, and that we’re rebranding this blog. With the adventure of our globetrotting over, a new adventure has begun: the adventure of settling down, settling in, and becoming Mainers. And that’s what we’ll be talking about until further notice: We’re Fine Mom won’t be our travel blog, it will be our “New Mainer” blog. For example, here are just a few of the things I want to tell you about, in more detail, in upcoming posts:

How I bought my pickup truck.

The record coldest day of the year, and how we survived.

A day at the DMV.

Recreational Lobstering.

How I met Officer Carney of the Kennebunk Police Department.

Fun at the Town Dump.

So you’ll get these stories and more; those from the recent past, and those that develop. That’s the new We’re Fine Mom 2.0. Sure, it’s no “losing a tooth on the Great Wall of China” or “using a pit-toilet in Botswana,” but there’s still wild animals, nudity, and that looming sense of discomfort you feel when you realize you’re not in Kansas anymore. Because you’re in Maine. We hope you’ll join us on this new adventure, and most of all, we hope you’ll enjoy it. We’re fine, Mom!! More to come soon…