Celebrating That Scottish Poet Who Knocked Up a Whole Bunch of Girls

I had never heard of Burns Night before coming to Maine, but last night--on the 250th anniversary of the birth of Scotland's favorite poet son--there I was, celebrating his birthday and wearing a traditional tartan and being welcomed to supper by the call of bagpipes.

Burns Night--a big to-do in the state of Maine--celebrates the fame, exploits, and poetry of Robert Burns, the man responsible for gems like "Auld lang Syne" and "My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose."

He was a dandy, a cad, a man with VD. He slept with every barmaid he laid eyes on and fathered fourteen children--most of which were illegitimate. He loved Scotland and loved the ladies, and he wrote rhymes for both of them.

And last night we gathered to praise his poetry and insatiable appetite. And Burns Night celebrations aren't casual gatherings with some hodgepodge of food, some cluster of cheap beer and wine. No, they are carefully choreographed nights where most of the time is spent at the dinner table watching the pageant.

First, there is the presentation of the haggis. After all, what Scottish celebration would be complete without some leftover cuts of sheep that have been boiled in sheep stomach for a couple hours? Our haggis came decorated:

After the presentation of the haggis comes the toasting and the homage to scotch, which is passed around the table in giant decanters. Then, dinner. And after dinner, the traditional toast to the lassies is given by the men. Ours was read by a man with a thick Scottish accent who began like so: God bless you lassies, with your breasts and your assies. Throughout the poem, which had been worked up that day, the lassies were compared to many things--the most literary, perhaps, being big-bossomed butterflies. And after every stanza, the men, appropriately moved by the charms of the lassies, would loft their glasses and yell, God bless you lassies!

Let me tell you this: there were a whole lot of drunk people in that room.

And then, after the lassies were appropriately praised, we toasted the laddies. After the laddies were coddled, the floor opened for spontaneous Burns readings. Whoever felt like he was sober (or drunk) enough to get up and raise his glass and do a few stanzas of Burns's odes to his mistresses, his wife, or his bastard children--who, in fact, he called just that--graced us with his poetic stylings.

We left the table as the clock was nearing midnight. Desserts--oh, the shortbread--were served while we sang a couple traditional Scottish tunes and handed out a ceremonial cup to the best reader of the night.

And that--all the haggis and scotch and poetry, all the kilts and toasts and giggling--is exactly how a bunch of English nerds party. Don't let anyone ever tell you we don't know how to have a good time, how to rip-roar with the best of them.

And Now I Will Talk About Vampires

This week I have faced some pretty hard facts about myself:

1. Deep down, I am a thirteen year-old girl and
2. I am in love with Robert Pattinson

This conclusion stemmed from one tiny moment over Christmas break when the Boy From Work, who is trying to suck up to me in any way he can--and he knows a good way to suck up to me is by buying me books--handed me the first book in the Twilight series and said, "Merry Christmas!"

"Hey!" I said. "Great!" Just before I left Maine for New York, I'd decided that since I had a big stretch of time to sit around and do nothing (which is exactly the opposite of what I really did), I was going to do a little investigative work about this whole Twilight phenomenon.

I've been feeling a little out of touch with pop culture lately--especially pop culture that revolves around the younger people. You know, middle and high schoolers. And, yes, I realize I'm not in middle or high school and therefore should not be overly concerned with what's going on there, but this, I think, is part of the slow and inevitable process of becoming uncool. With each year we get progressively more uncool, and this concerns me. I like to know things. I like to be in the know. Uncool people are not in the know.

And, sure, I know many exceptions to this with-every-year-we-become-more-uncool rule, but I am pretty sure I am not going to be one of those exceptions. When I went home for Christmas break, everyone was wearing sweater dresses, and I was like, We're wearing these now? Okay, I should probably get one. I feel less like I've got my finger on the pulse of pop culture and more like I've got my finger on the pulse of fuddy-duddines.

And so when the whole Twilight thing hit, I had no idea what everyone was talking about. What was the big deal about these books? What were they even about? The covers didn't really give me much to go on, and I didn't ever really get the itch to pick them up. I figured the buzz would die down and go away, and I could move on to not knowing about the next thing that came out.

Then came the movie. That's when I finally understood. I saw the trailer and thought, Huh. It seemed poorly acted and unintentionally hilarious. But there was also a small part that seemed sort of hot. So I decided I should probably see it. Everyone was talking about the cute guy who was in it, and I like cute guys, so I was all ready to pay my eight bucks and be part of the buzz.

But then I got over that. And I forgot about it for a while. Then, right before Christmas break, I was on Amazon and saw the books and looked at the description. I decided to read the first page of the book, and when I didn't hate it--when I thought, Well, here's a young adult book with a narrator who doesn't sound like a twittering twit--I decided I was going to buy the first book and see if I liked it.

But the BFW beat me to it. I started the book the same day he gave it to me, and I finished it almost immediately. I hated to admit it, but the book was hot. There's something about the plot that appeals to me--or, more precisely, my thirteen year-old self. Smart, klutzy girl who doesn't think so much of herself and is loved by a vampire who wants to suck her dry but loves her too much to do it. And that's what's so hot: that this girl could be his downfall, his ruin, but there is something about her that makes him be contrary to his nature.

And isn't that the essence of all the traumatic relationships I've ever had? I want the bad boy with the bad habits to want me so badly, so much, that he goes against his nature--his very essence--to make it work with me. Is it any wonder the book appeals to me?

So, when I came back to Maine after having finished the first and moving into the second book of the series, I decided it was time to see the movie. I was curious. I had pretty good pictures of the characters in my head, and I had definite feelings about some of them (like, for example, major love for the vampire Edward), and I wondered if those could translate to the screen.

Did they? Well, it's interesting. The movie is kind of a mixed bag. It is sometimes acted so poorly it made me giggle in inappropriate places--places where the actors were going for Dramatic Emotion. The book is--of course, of course--a million times better, but I do have to say that it was worth going to the theater just to see Robert Pattinson play Edward Cullen. And while he was often why I was giggling at inappropriate times, there were moments when he was perfect. Perfect. So perfect I wished I could stab myself in the heart because I wanted to be his girl Bella in the worst way. I wanted him to want to touch me, even if he knew it was the most dangerous thing he could do. I wanted him to want to do it anyway. Which he would. And it would be hot. Like:

The hair! The lips! The white skin! The eyebrows! The eyebrows!!! I spent half of the movie hyperventilating over them. (I am beginning to sense a pattern.)

After the movie, I raced home and consulted IMDB to determine my level of perviness. After all, when I was in the movie theater, I was surrounded by high schoolers--an awful lot of dark-haired nerdy types--and they were sighing and reaching for their popcorn and chocolate every time there was one of those moments when it looked like Edward was going to take a sip from Bella's jugular. Which is exactly what I was doing, too. I hefted York Peppermint Patties to my lips and sighed wistfully at the pale-faced, red-lipped boy on the screen. I wish a vampire was in love with me, I thought. Then I thought, Gross. That's what all these sixteen year-olds are thinking. I needed to get a grip. And what if Robert Pattinson was underage? Just how gross would I feel about myself then?

Thankfully, IMDB told me Robert Pattinson is almost twenty-three years old. Score one for me. I can lust after him and feel slightly less perverted than I originally feared. He is, after all, the same age as the Boy From Work. Which also means he is my brother's age, but I'd like to think Robert Pattinson and his milky skin is way classier than my brother, who, this Christmas, refused to change out of his Miller Lite pajama pants when we took the traditional family Christmas photograph in front of the tree.

And even if Robert Pattinson did own a pair of Miller Lite pajama pants, his character Edward would not. He'd rather die. And if I asked Edward Cullen to come stand next to me for a traditional Christmas photograph, I'm fairly certain he'd tell me to wait a second because he's just going to make sure his hair looks nice, and I would tell him his hair always looks nice, and then we would make out under the mistletoe until it becomes unbearable, until he can't stand it, until he has to back away lest he take one small nip at the curve of my neck.

That Seagull Owes Me $3.50

This afternoon I headed off to the beach, but not before I popped into one of my favorite bakery/cafes--the one that's very likely run by pretty dark-haired lesbians. They make killer desserts. Lemon bars. Whoopie pies. Mocha fudge brownies. And I wanted to make a little picnic lunch, something I could sink my teeth into after several hours of tanning, reading, walking, wading, and seashell-gathering.

So I picked up a panini, chips, and a pecan bar that was so big it might as well have been a mini-pie. I couldn't wait to eat it.

And the pecan bar sat perfectly hidden in one of my beach bags the whole time I beached. It sat under a giant panini. No one bothered it when it was sitting in my beach chair as I lazed on the ground, and no one bothered it when I was off on my first long walk of the day--the one that took me to the west beach, the one with the wildest waves.

At dinner time, I broke into the panini. I was busy enjoying the grilled chicken, the sauteed peppers, the sassy pesto dressing while nearby a seagull was busying eyeing me up like nobody's business. Earlier, I'd witnessed this same seagull--the one with a red stripe that looked like a ketchup stain on his beak--saunter up to a large group close to me and snatch a chip from an open bag that was leaning up against a lady's leg. She screamed. Her whole group screamed. She got up and galloped after that seagull, who loped away, taunting her by not even having the decency to fly away. The lady chased him so with such vigor that the whole top of her bathing suit almost came off. Her straps slid down her arms and she finally had to give up. She stopped and tugged those straps back up. "STAY! AWAY! FROM! ME!" she yelled to the seagull. The seagull just dropped the chip on the sand and started nibbling it into bite-sized pieces.

That same seagull was now looking at my panini like it would be a great next course to his meal. I ate most of it, though. There was only a little sliver of bread left, and I rolled that up tightly into a piece of paper before sticking it back in its original bag, back on top of the pecan bar. I tucked it away in one of my beach bags. I hid it under two books, a notebook, and a couple of bottles of sunscreen. I set that bag on the chair and put a blanket on top of it. I thought, Just you try, seagull.

And I went off on another walk, this time to the other side of the beach, where cottages and mansions sit above sand glittering with tumbled rocks and shells. When I got back, the beach leading up to my setup was littered with crumpled paper. At first, it didn't occur to me that the paper looked an awful lot like the paper my panini had been wrapped in. I got back to my blanket and chair and saw that my entire bag had been moved from the chair. The seagull had nudged it onto the blanket and burrowed down through all the other things to find my food. He'd taken the scrap of bread, and he'd taken my pecan bar.

My pecan bar.

And he was sitting in the sand a ways off, just looking at me, all smug and satisfied. And you know what? I didn't even get mad. Not one bit. Because--let's face it--that was one ballsy, clever, and strong seagull. I was sad about not getting to eat my pecan bar--it looked really, really good--but I was almost pleased to give it up to an animal who had so much commitment to thievery. The stake out, the execution, the whole robbery was well played. The only thing that bothered me was having to scuff across the beach and pick up my missing things--including a few sheets of my novel-in-progress that had gotten between the seagull and his dessert. But I came home and soothed myself the only way I knew how: by baking up a pan of peanut butter brownies. I stuck a cup of chopped pecans in the mix just so I wouldn't miss out completely.

Trashy

This weekend, after a month-long wait, the Time Warner cable truck rolled up to my apartment and produced a cable installer who brought with him my free-for-three-months cable box/DVR player.

The first thing the cable installer said to me was not what you might expect. It was not Hey or Hi there or How are things? Instead, the cable installer said, "Well, someone sure isn't going to be happy."

At first I thought he meant me. At first I thought he was about to give me some bad news about the cable--maybe that Time Warner had done a background check and found me unworthy of their services, that they weren't going to save me from the funk that has surrounded me for this month I've been separated from the Food Network and TLC. I was prepared to beg. I was prepared to get down on my knees and say, Please, sir. Anything. Do you want me to bake you a pie? A nice chicken dinner? Do you want a pork loin? A milkshake? And by the way, these are things I learned to make by watching the Food Network, so please, for the love of God, give it to me.

But the cable installer wasn't talking about my unhappiness. He gestured behind him and stepped back so I could lean out the door frame and see down the stairs and through the high doors and out to the street. Next to the curb in front of my house was a small red truck, and all of its tires were slashed. It looked ridiculous there, sunk and pitiful at the bottom of our granite steps.

"Oh," I said. Then I gasped. I was remembering the night before, 1:00 AM, 2:30 AM, 3:30 AM, the couple upstairs getting into a major row and screaming and stomping and throwing and slamming. At one point, their front door opened and one of them crashed down the stairs and out toward the street, only to return a few minutes later. If I were a betting woman, I'd put some money on the fact that the guy went out there and slashed the tires of his girlfriend's truck.

I don't know much about the people upstairs, but I do know that the red truck is not the man's car. I've seen him getting in and out of some Jeep. He is the only one I've ever had any interaction with. These interactions--every single one of them--have been odd, just a little bit off.

I can't claim the first-ever interaction. That distinct honor belongs to the Boy from Work. It was during my first week here, the week I had the BFW with me. It was a weeknight, after 11:00. There was a knock on my door--a big ferocious-sounding knock that echoed everywhere because I had no furniture to my name (except for a blow-up mattress) at that point.

At the time the knock bounced off the living room walls I was wearing pajamas of the sort that should not be paraded out in front of neighbors. The shorts were short. The cami was plunging. I froze and stared at the door, then told the BFW he needed to answer the knock, which he did. I stood in the bedroom, leaning as far out as I could without stepping into view. The conversation went something like this:

BFW: Hi?

The Guy: Hi. You new tenants?

BFW: Yeah. Well, sort of. I mean, my girlfriend is. This is her place. I'm just here helping her move in.

TG: Yeah? Where is she? I'd like to meet her.

BFW: Uhm, she's in the bathroom. She's getting ready for bed. It's kind of late.

TG: Oh. Well, you know what? Can I just tell you something? This is really strange. I was told they weren't accepting any new renters on this property because the guy who owns it is trying to sell it. I tried to sign another year lease but they wouldn't let me, and they told me they weren't letting anyone sign another lease. They gave me another six months and said that was all they could do.

BFW: Huh. Strange. I mean, there's a sign out front of the building that says For Rent!

TG: Right. I'm not sure what's going on here. I've just got that six month lease. Your girlfriend signed a year lease?

BFW: Yes.

TG: Huh. I just don't understand it.

BFW: Yeah, I don't know what to tell you. It sure is strange.

--Silence, silence, silence--

BFW: Well, I think we're going to get to bed now.

TG: Oh. Oh, sure. Okay. Right. Well, goodnight.

The BFW said the guy just stared at him and seemed completely content with standing silently in the door frame. "He's creepy," the BFW said.

"Well, yeah," I said. "Who knocks on a complete stranger's door on a Tuesday night after 11:00? Creepy people, that's who."

Later, this creepiness was confirmed. I ran into another one of the building's tenants out on the back steps one morning. She was out there in a ratty sweatsuit. She was smoking a cigarette like her life depended on it.

We said hi, exchanged pleasantries, then she gestured up the stairs. "Listen," she said. "Just so you know, you've got a weirdo living above you. You met that guy?"

"Not personally," I said. "My boyfriend did."

"Well, he's totally strange. He's always coming downstairs to try and get me to drink beer with him. My boyfriend does not like it one bit. He's just off. I think he has mental problems."

"Fantastic," I said, and then for the next few days I kept one cautious eye turned toward my front door, praying he wouldn't get it in his head that he wanted a proper introduction to me now that my boyfriend was gone.

Inevitably, of course, we had our first meeting. It was a Tuesday night at 8:15 PM when he knocked on my door again. I'd been in the kitchen with my hands in a sink of dirty dishes. I had Lowest of the Low cranking from my bedroom--turned up just enough so I could hear it in the kitchen. It was loud, but it wasn't offensive. And it was a reasonable hour.

I grabbed a towel and opened the door. The guy was standing out there in faded jeans, a gray t-shirt, and hiking boots. He had a slouching problem. He had stubble--but not the sexy kind; it was the vaguely serial killer kind.

"Can I join the party?" he asked. I half expected him to produce a six pack of beer from behind his back.

"What party?" I asked.

He jerked his head to the right, indicating my music. "Or do you want to join my party?" he asked.

I said nothing.

"We can sort of hear your radio upstairs," he said, and with that he gestured behind him, like there was someone there, someone who would back him up, someone who would chirp Yeah!

There was no one there. It occurred to me that maybe this guy had an imaginary friend or, if he was really crazy, an imaginary girlfriend.

"I'm really sorry about that," I said. "I was just doing some dishes and trying to make it more bearable. I'll turn it right down."

"Okay," he said. He gave me a look that was heavy with disappointment--like he was my dad and I'd just snuck in past curfew.

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you," I said, because I really was. I didn't know my music had been that loud, and I had no intentions of irritating my neighbors. At least not in my first month.

He disappeared up the stairs without another word. I went and turned the radio off and returned to soaping down my dishes.

Twenty minutes later there was another knock on my door. I considered not answering it. After all, I knew who it was, and there was absolutely no reason for him to be knocking on my door twice in one night. Or in one month, for that matter. I figured maybe he'd gone out for that six pack and returned with the intention of asking me to have a cold one with him. I wanted zero cold ones, especially in his presence.

But I did open the door. After all, he knew I was home. I gave him an expectant look as soon as the door swung back and he came into view. My look was one that said What? What now? What could you possibly want now?

He looked absolutely bashful. "Sorry about before," he said. If he were a cartoon man, he would've been drawn stubbing his toe into the ground, embarrassed-like. It was as if whoever had sent him down there in the first place--maybe the girlfriend (real or imaginary)--was now gone, and he didn't give a shit about how loud the Canadian rock was.

"No," I said, "it's fine. I didn't realize. I apologize again."

"No, no, no," he said. "Don't apologize. I need to apologize to you." He shrugged. "You know what? You should turn your music back up. Play it as loud as you want. No, really. Go ahead. Crank it up!"

I shook my head and started shutting the door in his face. Just the way everything was going--the way he was talking and acting--was off, and I wanted no part in his off-ness. "Nope, sorry!" I said. "Have a nice night!" And then I put the deadbolt on and returned to my bedroom.

The next time we ran into each other it was dark out. I was coming down the back stairs--which I almost never do because they are rickety and close. They are claustrophobic stairs. This house is an old, old house and its construction clearly shows that. The back stairs are outside and poorly lighted. They are stairs straight out of a Stephen King novel. And, considering he grew up about fifteen minutes away from here, it wouldn't at all surprise me if he had at some point in his life attended a get-together at this house, seen those back stairs, and said to himself, Now those are some creepy stairs. I'll remember those!

Anyway, I was coming down these back stairs in my teacher clothes. I still had my high heels on. I tend to clatter on stairs when wearing heels--I'm not a very graceful descender. And on these wooden stairs, I sounded like a clamoring moose. When I got to the bottom, I saw that the guy was standing outside his car. He looked up at me.

"Was that you making all that noise up there?" he asked. He said it as if it had taken me half an hour to get down the stairs. I may not be a graceful descender, but it does not take me more than a minute to get down that death trap.

"Uhm, yeah," I said.

"Well, I sure hope I don't get blamed for that," he said, and then he was on his way.

I wanted to turn around and stare. I wanted to say, Are you out of your fucking mind? Do you often get confused for a woman going down the stairs in her heels?

And besides, the two seconds of me clattering down the stairs was not going to bother anybody. That he'd even wasted breath on that type of exchange instead of a polite hey-how-are-you boggled my mind. I wanted to egg his car.

And then Friday night came. It was the first night that I was confident that the guy had an actual flesh-and-blood girlfriend because she was most definitely there, most definitely screaming at the top of her lungs. They fought gloriously: the slamming and stomping and pushing and breaking of things was impressive. I was up, so I found it an amusing late-night theater, but if it had been a school night I would've been royally pissed. But, as it were, it was Friday and I was on the phone with the Boy From Work, so I was able to give him a play-by-play.

"Oh God, oh God," I hissed. "One of them is coming down the stairs! Oh, someone broke something. Oh Lord."

Another door slammed and then a radio came on, full-blare. Angry rock music poured down into my apartment.

"Oh, you're fucking KIDDING ME!" I said. "My radio is too loud at eight-fifteen? It's one-thirty! What an asshole."

After awhile I fell asleep. It was 3:30 when I woke up to go to the bathroom. The two of them were still sort of going at it. They were out in the hallway now, but talking in more reasonable tones and coming down the stairs.

"You know what I have a problem with?" the girl asked.

I leaned closer to the door to hear what she said but couldn't.

The guy, too, said something inaudible. But then he raised his voice. "You know what I do have a problem with, though?" he asked. "People who are all hopped up on drugs."

At this point, they were right outside my door and headed for the next set of stairs to the main floor.

"Well," the girl said, "I'm on drugs right now, but for good reason."

And that was the last I heard from them. The next morning the truck was sitting on the curb looking like it had seen better days--millions of them, in fact. I'm guessing that during the initial outburst, the guy had been so filled with rage at what she was saying--and, boy, was she saying it in banshee-like tones--that he stormed down stairs, breaking beer bottles as he went. He went out to the front, where her truck was parked. He jimmied a knife out of his pocket and went to work, digging it deep into each tire's thick rubber sole. The slashes were elegant, long, impressive. And then he went upstairs ready to argue some more. Eventually, at 3:30, after they'd put their argument away and started to sew themselves back together, he had to take her home because there was no way for her to get there, what with her truck being deflated.

The next morning the cable installer was pretty impressed with the guy's work. "They really did a number on that," he said.

"I bet it was the couple upstairs," I said. "I heard them going at it last night. Real bad."

The cable installer smacked his lips together and shook his head. "Some people," he said. "That's just sad."

And then he came in with the little silver box that would deliver me back to the civilized world of What Not to Wear and Ace of Cakes. And that's just what he did--he delivered me back to the world of non-network TV. And the first thing I did was sit down and watch three back-to-back episodes of Making the Team: The Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders.

What can I say? I think that was my quiet rebellion against the weeks and weeks of PBS programming I swallowed--much of it delightful, but it was no Clinton Kelly in a purple velvet blazer telling hopeless women why their wardrobe makes him want to vomit up his expensive lunch from Nobu.

Besides, I was pretty sure I wasn't the only one in the apartment building who might be tuned into CMT at that exact moment, watching limber girls do kick lines in hot pants. I had a sneaking suspicion that the couple upstairs, if they were both there at that moment, would be stretched out on their own couch with a couple beers cracked open in front of them, and they too would be marvelling at the way the girls' legs kept kicking, kicking, kicking, straight up into the afternoon sun, their whole bodies saying, Look at me! Look at me! Just look, look, look!