Oh Maine. It's time to change your message.

Maine: The way life should be. Yeah, that was obviously written by an out-a-stater, who had the luxury of spending summers in a coastal "cottage"—that had been in the family for three generations. Don't get me wrong, even though I've only been gone for ten weeks, I miss you. I miss your beauty. I miss your star filled sky. I miss your quiet mornings. But, we had to leave you. We just had to ...

Like so many people in Maine, we struggled to make a living. The wifey worked a full time gig and spent her evenings doing freelance for out-of-state clients. I owned and operated a small business, meaning, I worked my ass off for no pay. We were living to work, and it sucked ass. Life was set to warp speed and we couldn't slow it down. We didn't have time for each other. We struggled to find the energy for our two year old. AND we certainly didn't have time to enjoy you and every magical thing you offer. Fortunately, we realized that this was NOT the way life should be.

So, we decided to embrace change and moved three states down the road. Leaving behind what seemed to be the perfect life: our 1850's farmhouse that took us nine years to rehab, a great job, a successful business, and a wonderful community. BUT! God, did the risk pay off! Once again, life is moving at a speed that actually allows us to enjoy everything about it. We, well ... at least the wifey is working to live. I'm just living the dream, playing homemaker to an awesome gal and two year old. Isn't that the way life should be?

I love you Maine, but we're going to be gone for awhile. But, we'll be back once we're in a position to actually enjoy you. Sure, we might become one of those asshole family's with out-of-state plates—please don't hold that against us! We've always been Mainers' and always will be, I hope that's worth something.

For Christ's sake. Don't forget your cheese grater.

My folks are visiting this weekend and we are stoked. Stoked to have our first visitors. Stoked to spend time with them. Stoked to show 'em our new digs, our hood, the zoo, the playground, the Fertile Underground ... basically, to share our new life. We're stoked that we'll finally have a chance to enjoy a 200$ meal at one of the neighborhood eateries. Yeah. I know. Why don't we just take the lil' man out to eat with us? Well, because we don't want to just eat—we want to enjoy every last bite. We're stoked to have a little help and whatever break that may entail. But we are really stoked that we're getting our fucking cheese grater back.

We were reluctant to move into a furnished home. But, the 'hood felt right. The people felt right. The yard felt right. Quite frankly, it was the only place we looked at that felt like home. How bad could living with objects belonging to someone else be?

Knowing we were moving into an already full house, we purged our home in Maine. We donated all the duplicate, unnecessary, and useless objects to the thrift store. A process that delighted me, but stressed out the wifey. Some people have an easier time answering the question, "What can/can't I live with out?" I won't lie, it was an intense, mystifying purge.  I consider myself a fairly minimal and thoughtful purchaser of goods, so this purge troubled me. How did we acquire all of this shit? Why did we acquire all of this shit? Where did all of this shit come from? Who did it come from? Am I more American than I think?

We rented the smallest UHaul truck and packed it (sort of) full of essentials: art, crib, computer, bed, clothing, cookbooks, gourmet pantry items, toddler necessities, our favorite kitchen gadgets, Le Creuset cookware, Wustof knives, and our tooth brushes. I felt light. I felt free. I felt glorious. We have only what we need. Nothing more. Nothing less. I believe that I reached my own personal nirvana.

And it's a good thing that we purged and brought very little with us. We tried to unpack ... This house was SO FULL OF SHIT that there wasn't room for our tooth brushes. After packing up and cleaning our house, we spent two days packing up and cleaning this house. It sucked! It really irritated me. How could these fucking people ..... I composed myself and we made room for our things.

Needless to say, there wasn't much time for cooking dinner those first two nights. But on the third night, oh yes, it was time. Feeling inspired by our surroundings, I decided that Mexican cuisine was the obvious choice. I picked up some fresh ingredients from a produce vendor a block away. Went home and started prepping. I coated the boneless thighs just as Rick Bayless would. I made some guacamole topped with thinly sliced radishes. Now I just need a cheese grater for the cabbage and cheese. I started looking. Hmmmm. Can't seem to find one. My casual look turned into a monstrous romp through the cupboards. How the fuck can someone have an 800$ espresso machine, three complete sets of dishes, a six burner stove, 4 sets of glassware, silverware falling out of the drawers, a ridiculous selection of kitchen gadgets NOT HAVE A FUCKING CHEESE GRATER? This is ridiculous! I composed myself and finished making dinner.

So, for three weeks we've been living without a cheese grater. It's been a dramatized hell. You might ask, "Why didn't you just buy shredded cheese?" My answer is, because it sucks. Also, the grater is more utilitarian in our household. "Well, why didn't you just buy another cheese grater?" Because we just purged our life and there's no fucking way I'm gonna complicate it with a second cheese grater.

Testing my Mainehood.

The food selection where we moved from in Maine had decreased our expectations and appetite. Who hasn't fucking heard of hanger steak? Apparently, everyone who sells food in the greater Bangor area. We were starving for good food when we arrived in Providence. And we found it. Yes. Yes. There are not one, but two Whole Foods in town. But to be honest, we haven't even set foot in either of them since our arrival. It's just not necessary. Food is everywhere. And it is good. And good food means lots and lots of grilling.

In fact, we've grilled every night for three weeks. Most of the time it's glorious, but if daddy doesn't have his shit together ... we be eating at 10pm. A little late for weeknight chow. So late, that we haven't had the energy to watch the final two episodes of Mad Men. That's just fucked up.

A few months ago, while visiting our favorite people. I noticed they had made the switch to gas—surely I made fun of those lazy sissies. Well, last night we too decided it was time to switch to gas. Why not? Nothing wrong with testing a bit of my Mainehood so we can eat at a reasonable hour. How was I to know that it would test my Mainehood more than just a little?

I worked at an old hardware store for years. That old hardware store is where I met my wife and is also the reason that the lil' man is named what he's named. This is why a piece of me died today when I had to go to a store which shall not be named. I fucking hate those stores! There are so many reasons ... Ughh. This is not where this is supposed to go.

I was at a big fucking store buying a grill. So many choices and nobody that fucking knows anything about them. I'm usually pretty decisive, but these stores get me all wound up. I called the wifey at work.

me: Hi honey. What do you think? Infrared or regular?
wifey: I dunno. What's the difference?
me: The infrared is the latest thing. I think most restaurants use infrared grills now.
wifey: Well, get that one then.
me: Ok. Two burner or three?
wifey: I don't know. Get the bigger one.
me: Shhwing!

How many wifey's say, "Get the more expensive, bigger grill?" I got it, but there was no way it was fitting into the Tiguan. No problem.  I'm from Maine. I shouldn't be buying assembled shit anyway. Besides, it will give the lil' man and I something to do this afternoon—it will be fun.

me: You sell these in a box?
idiot: Yep.
me: How long do they take to assemble?
idiot: Ummm. Like 20 minutes.
me: I'll take one in the box.

He brings the box to the counter.

me: Damn. How much does that thing weigh?
idiot: Ummm. It says 140lbs on the side of the box.

I bust a nut hoisting the box into the car. The hatch won't close. No problem. I've tied down a hatch or two in Maine. I search the hatch for something to secure a rope to. Nothing. What the fuck? Who designed this vehicle? Didn't they think of this? Seriously, I have to settle for the rear wiper? Yep. I'm now that yuppie asshole who secures his hatch by tying a rope to the rear wiper. "Hope it doesn't rip off."

My drive home is through the hood. And I mean the hood. It's not a long drive, but it ain't pretty. The whole time, all I can think about is that full propane tank sitting in the seat next to my lil' man. What the fuck am I doing? Why didn't I just pay the 20$ to have them deliver an assembled grill? Oh, that's right. I'm from Maine.

We make it home at 4pm. Shit. We've got at least an hour before mommy gets home. No problem. I'm from Maine. I bust the other nut lifting the 140lb box out of the car. What is wrong with me? Three weeks ago I'd have put this thing on my shoulder. It was all I could do to roll this huge square box into the backyard. Phew! Made it.

Out of nowhere, a thunderstorm strikes. The sky opens. It pours.

That's okay. I'm from Maine. I can build shit in the rain. The lil' man and I unpack the boxes and start building. Step 4 requires 2 people. No problem. I'm from Maine. I'm more than two average people. The instructions get wet and I can't read them. No problem. I'm from Maine. I can figure this shit out. I complete the test at 6:30 and contemplate what the fuck is wrong with Mainers.

Now it's time to test the Rhode Islanders. Will the grill still be in our backyard when we wake up tomorrow?

We've already gone over to the homogenized side.

Last Thursday we were a little disappointed with the west end farmer's market. So yesterday we headed over to the farmer's market on the east side. And it was glorious! All the locally grown food you could ask for. Locally roasted coffee. Live music. A fancy playground. We even bumped into a vendor that we used to carry at our shop in Maine. This trip also resulted in our first real parenting quandary.

You see, this morning we asked the lil' man the same question we ask him every morning. "Do you want to go to the playground?" He replied, "Farmer's market playground." Apparently he was delighted by his first taste of the east side. What have we done? What do we do? Which playground experience is more appropriate to mold our lil' man into the big man we want him to become?

Do we ...

Hop in our car. Drive over to the east side where there is: green grass, live music, children that are actually accompanied by parents, a water feature for kids to frolic, the fanciest jungle gym I've ever seen, and a swing (Yeah, imagine that. A fucking swing at a playground). It's safe, clean, and lots of fun.

Or ...

What we've been doing since our arrival. Hop on daddy's shoulders. Walk one and a half blocks to our west end park where: we clean up trash (But we don't throw it all away. We keep the cups and plastic spoons so the kids have something to play with in the sandbox), most children aren't accompanied by parents, there isn't a swing, there is an adequate jungle gym, and it IS DIVERSE. But honestly, after the lil' man has swept the playground for trash, which he instructs daddy to "Throw it away daddy. Put it in the trash can"—he is mostly interested in chasing pigeons. He REALLY wants to touch a pigeon, good luck buddy.

We went to the west end park ... We moved to the west end to experience something different. Something other than living in a tall glass of milk. This is good for the lil' man. Isn't it?