I am on vacation in Maine with my husband/spawn and am reprinting a post from last summer in honor of our present trip to Lobsterland. This post is dedicated to the very funny Erin of “I’m Gonna Kill Him”. And she knows why.
My husband grew up in Maine. Which makes perfect sense, because where else would a couple from The Philippines decide to raise their children but the only American state with 49 ½ weeks of winter?
My man is obsessed with Maine. I indulge his burning passion with good grace, drawing the line only when he tries to make me wear flannel-lined jeans from L.L. Bean.
Every summer (which lasts exactly 2 ½ weeks, see above), we go to visit his parents in Maine. With the state motto of “Vacationland”, Maine is beautiful, clean, expansive and exhilarating. You know what else Maine is?
Maine is freakin’ scary, yo.
You ever hiked through the Maine woods? Scary. Like, Slasher Movie scary. People think New York City is scary?? Please. You could take the entire cast and crew of a Broadway play, dismember them, throw the remains in open graves a mile apart and no one would ever find them. That’s Maine scary.
For the past eleven years of our marital bliss-ed road trips to Maine, we’ve passed a place just south of the Carrabasett Valley. An ancient, broken-down little gray shack in the middle of a field. One tiny window in the front like a single, evil eye. Never a soul coming or going and looks completely uninhabited except for a hand-written sign out in front near the road with one word on it:
I know what you’re thinking. No, we’ve never stopped to eat. Mostly because we were worried what toppings might be put on our pie. Chorus boys’ fingers, perhaps. (see above).
This year, we were eagerly anticipating our sight of the Slasher Pizza Shack, but were quite taken aback when the “Pizza” sign was gone. In its place was another crudely-drawn sign with two words on it:
Obviously the madman inside had upgraded to a freezer system. Powered by the cold, clammy fear of his victims.
During our yearly vacation time I occasionally get to escape to exercise at a health club in a ski lodge a few miles from my in-laws mountain house.
If you think that sounds glamorous, try to remember that this is a ski lodge in the summertime, which is worthy of its own horror film with the squeak-squeak of the empty ski lift chairs rocking overhead and the “what the hell you doin’ here” glare of the single-toothed summer caretakers.
On this particular trip to the health club, there was one other person working out. After he gave me the “W.T.H.Y.D.H.” glare (see above), he turned back to his exercise bike and the program on the TV. “Mystery Quest” on the History channel. And the mystery they were questing on this day? The Zodiac Killer.
Let me give you a little heads-up. If you ever vacation in Maine, do not watch a program about a serial killer who tracked his victims in remote wooded areas and was never caught.
Because then you might have nightmares and daymares about a single-toothed shack owner who will dismember you in the woods and serve up your digits on a pizza to be eaten by whatever moron who might actually stop on the roadside in the scary, scary state of Maine (see above).
Something tells me that I will never be hired to write “Vacationland”’s travel brochures.