What about Maine?

I'm back in Maine and pleased to be so. I was gone just long enough for people to forget everything bad about me but still remember my name. With a fresh reputation, I look for ways to A) stop people from stealing my liquor and B) get into the co-op kitchen, with its fridge and full range stove. Across the hall yet forbidden, the Co-op kitchen has become the girl next door.

Continuing the metaphor, the bathroom is the weird old man who you think is harmless but then calls the police when you go to get the paper naked. Tomorrow I will buy a robe and flip flops, which should protect me from prudish attitudes and planters warts respectfully.

I am proud of my room. I'm not pleased with it - celebrities serve prison sentences in larger rooms - but I am proud of it. A sale at IKEA and a full warehouse at Puritan furniture have turned my institutional closet into a cozy hidey-hole. I can think of no better term for a room with more cushions than floor space.

Also, people complain about the weather here way too much; France is much colder and there isn't even any snow. Not to be un-PC, but Mainers shouldn't be less wind resistant than the French.