Real Estate Reunion

I had one of those “Oh yeah, I’m a grown-up now” moments last night in the grocery store. As I was walking out with the ingredients for a compromise dinner (Side Note: Cooking reasonably nutritious meals that a reformed semi-vegan and a man who doesn’t eat vegetables can agree on is a much more challenging task than I’d realized it would be), I glanced at an ad posted in one of those plastic frames in the basket of a shopping cart and saw a familiar-looking photo. I was halfway back to my car before I realized the reason I recognized that mortgage broker was that we went to high school together.

I have officially reached the age at which members of my Confirmation class are advertising financial services on shopping carts. This must be adulthood.

The good news is, between my high school classmates who sell mortgages and my high school classmates who sell real estate, I may be in good shape when it finally comes time to settle down in Kempton Hills.

Just kidding. I could never live in Kempton Hills. It’s way too far south.

Happy Anniversary To Me

I realized something last night: I missed my own anniversary. It’s hard to believe, but yesterday marked the fifth birthday of Own The Sidewalk and my entree into what has become known as the blogosphere. (Side Note: Can I just say I really don’t like the word “blog”? I mean, really, Internet, I understand that the whole concept came along late enough in the evolution of the English language that all the pretty words, like “crystal” and “apple” and “frangelico,” were already taken. But the best you could come up with was a word that makes everyone who uses it sound like they’re about to vomit? Come on now.)

To begin with, I’m sorry, but this is going to be one of those self-indulgent, blogging-about-blogging posts, which are ever so boring. If there’s anything more tedious than someone who just posts about why they blog, I have yet to come across it. Actually, maybe cross stitching is more tedious. But I’m more of a knitting girl myself. I don’t mind crafts than involve some counting, but non-stop counting is more than I can handle. A hobby is supposed to be relaxing.

I wish I could say I’d been some cutting-edge, start-of-it-all blogger, but the fact of the matter is that blogging was no longer cutting-edge by 2004, nor was I particularly interested in being a blogger. What I wanted to be was a columnist. Unfortunately, I was living in New York, where everyone wants to be a columnist, and I also had a full-time job that took me to New Jersey every day and to Pennsylvania every summer and to Europe a couple of times a year, so it wasn’t like I really had time to devote to pounding the pavement trying to weasel my way into a print gig.

What I did have time to do, in the fall of 2004, was write. Fall is the slow time of year in the camping industry, and consequently I could complete all my work early in the day and still have plenty of time left to draft long posts about things like Joan Baez concerts and Christmas shopping. I knew what a blog was, but I didn’t realize how easy it was to start one of one’s own until I tried to track down a friend from college and stumbled onto her blog. Fifteen minutes later, Own The Sidewalk entered the universe.

I had this idea when I started OTS that eventually someone would stumble upon it, call me up and say “Hey! You are exactly what we’ve been looking for! Come write for our publication/sign a lucrative book deal contract/host our television show.” Because back in those days, it seemed like everyone was getting a book deal from blogging, or at least getting to go on NPR and talk about whatever it was they blogged about. (“Julie and Julia,” anyone?) On the other hand, even though I half-hoped blogging would eventually lead to meaningful employment, I was kind of surprised when people I didn’t know started reading OTS. And then came back and kept reading. And then complained when I didn’t post in a while. I mean, I expect that from my mom, not from perfect strangers. I still can’t believe any of you are interested in anything I have to say.

For a long time, OTS was mostly about my personal life. Then it was mostly about graduate school. Then it was mostly about politics. Lately, it’s mostly been me apologizing for not posting more frequently — as OTS did, finally, result in someone calling me up and saying “Hey! You are exactly what we’ve been looking for! Come be the managing editor of this exciting new online magazine!” And to be honest, there have been a couple of moments since I started working at the Dispatch at which I’ve considered throwing in the towel on Own The Sidewalk. But I just can’t do it — and I promise I won’t do it, partially out of consideration of the sixteen of you who come here to read these meandering, half-coherent posts, and partially for myself. OTS has chronicled my evolution from a mid-twenties, Manhattan-dwelling Alaskan expat to early-thirties, Anchorage-dwelling, dog-owning reformed New Yorker, and I’d kind of like to keep tracking that evolution as I progress my great state forward (if you will, and I think most of you will).

I had an anxiety attack a few months ago. I was getting kind of stressed out about the fact that all these wonderful people come here to read what I have to say, and I didn’t know what you wanted to read about. Should I stick to politics (or my own superficial, fractured version of what passes for political commentary) or go back to talking about my dog? I felt kind of paralyzed, to be honest, and I didn’t post for days, worried that whatever I posted wasn’t going to satisfy the Internet. I finally unloaded all of this angst on MLB, who looked at me and, very calmly, said this:

“Maia, your readers don’t care what you write about. They read your blog because they like the way you write, not because of what you write.” I hope he was right. (He must be right if anyone is even still reading this ridiculously long, self-serving ramble.)

I should advise you that there will be some slight content adjustments to Own The Sidewalk as we move forward into Year Six. Actually, it will mostly be one slight content adjustment: I won’t be writing very much about politics. That’s not to say I won’t be providing that special targeted political coverage for which OTS has come to be known (read: This is still the place to come if you want to find out what kind of shoes Andrew Halcro wears), but I will not be making any comments of substance on politics as they function in this state. Specifically, I will not be advocating for any candidates or issues in next year’s election. I’m not going to pretend I don’t have political leanings, but now that I’m in an editorial position at a publication that will be covering politics and political races, it’s not appropriate for me to be blabbing all over the Interwebs about who and what I like or don’t like. Except when it comes to their shoes.

If the thought of no more political opinion on OTS leaves you a bit sad, consider this: Once upon a time, disastrous dating stories were this blog’s bread and butter. The dawn of the Age of MLB was the sunset of the Dating Woes Era. While MLB’s arrival stemmed the tide of dating disaster stories, it was not the end of OTS as we know it; rather, it simply required a minor redirect. That redirect ultimately led to the Alaska’s Dreamiest Politicians Epoch. Likewise, try to think of this not as the end of something good, but instead the beginning of something new and exciting.

The good news is that I will almost certainly continue to do things like memorize and recreate entire ridiculous conversations with my peers, advocate for accuracy in satirical journalism, and complain about the perils and discomforts of air travel. Some things never change.

Ethan’s New Look

I told Candidate Berkowitz that if these photos had come out in an earlier election, he would have made the cut for Alaska’s Dreamiest Politicians for sure. (Also, it’s a good thing for me that he, like so many other local politicians, has a good sense of humor.) Originally posted on The Outpost at Alaska Dispatch.

Former legislator and Democratic candidate for governor Ethan Berkowitz has gotten a hard time from some of his political opponents over the years for not being "Alaskan" enough. Berkowitz has lived in the Land of the Midnight Sun for 20 years now, but no matter how many snowmachine rides he takes or salmon he lands, he can't seem to shake the polished California image. The contrast was particularly stark in last year's congressional race, when he went toe-to-toe with Rep. Don Young, that bolo-tie-wearing, plaid-clad epitome of Alaskanness.

But it looks like Berkowitz may be stepping up his game this time around. A fundraiser invitation that went out to supporters today included an uncharacteristically rugged photo of the gubernatorial hopeful, layered up in a worn Carhartt jacket and looking all windswept and outdoorsy. It's a new Ethan -- one that's less 99501 and more 99629, if you know what we mean.

Will the new, improved Outdoor Adventure Ethan win over voters? Hard to say. Considering his competitors in the primary -- Bob Poe and Hollis French -- are also clean-cut, downtown types, the ruggedness may not make that much difference. But if Berkowitz makes it to the general, there's a chance he'll be matched up against Gov. Sean Parnell, another nice guy with an indoorsy feel -- in which case, perhaps he hopes this new Jay Hammond-inspired look will give him some traction.

Close Encounters Of The Moose Kind

Last night I took the dog out to the yard to take care of some errands she had. (Side Note: Did I mention we’ve moved? Well, we have. I’ll tell you the whole story in due time. For now, all you need to know is we no longer have a fenced backyard, which means the dog must be supervised at all times while o-u-t-s-i-d-e [I have to spell it out or she’ll hear me and think we’re going there again, and we’ve only just come inside].) As she set to work burying a waterlogged rawhide bone in leaves, it dawned on me that there was an unusual shape in the middle of the yard. A large, roundish, tawnyish kind of shape. Kind of the shape a moose might be if it were lying in the middle of a yard in the dark watching your dog, about six yards away, push leaves around with her snout.

“Oh, dear,” I said softly to myself.

I’d been waiting for this moment since we moved; the yard backs up to a creek that probably functions as a moose thruway in the winter, and I’ve seen them around from time to time. Fortunately, my dog is not the kind who will throw herself, barking frantically, at a moose; however, I expect moose to be like the Secret Service in that they treat all threats, no matter how small, as serious. Furthermore, if you make a moose feel threatened it may well stomp you to death, and frankly, I just wasn’t in the mood. So I called the dog.

“I’m busy,” the dog would have said, if the dog could talk.

I called her again, and this time I jingled my keys, which she know means it’s time to go.

“Seriously,” the dog would have said, if the dog could talk. “I will be right with you.”

I called her several more times, trying to sound stern enough to intimidate the dog without scaring the moose (which I think just made me sound terribly nervous), and eventually the dog sighed heavily, gave up her burying, and turned to leave.

At which point she looked up for the first time since we’d come outside. And saw the moose.

Like I said, the dog does not throw herself at moose, nor does she go crazy barking at them when she sees one in person. I think there’s a part of her that kind of wants to play with them. A couple of years ago, while I was writing my graduate thesis, I bought her a wildlife video so she’d have something to keep her occupied on days I really needed to write, and when she watches it, the sounds she makes are really more kind of plaintive, I-want-to-play-on-the-tundra-too kinds of sounds. When she does finally bark, I think it’s more out of frustration than anything else.

On the other hand, this was the absolute closest the dog had ever been to a moose in person, and I didn’t want to take any chances (again, possibility of stomping death). So I called her again.

“Hey,” the dog would have said, if the dog could talk. “There’s a thing out here.”

I called her again.

“No, really,” the dog would have said, if the dog could talk. “Did you see this thing?” And then she took a few steps toward the moose and did this half-pointer kind of pose that she does when she sees something she thinks she might like to chase.

In that moment, as I feared for our lives, adrenaline surged through my body, and I felt myself become stronger than I’d ever imagined possible. In three giant bounds, I leaped across the yard and threw myself on the dog, tumbling over and over as we rolled perilously close to the icy creek. The moose, sent over the edge by the rapidly-escalating perceived threat, lumbered to its feet and, with an unnatural roar (I didn’t even know moose could roar) it staggered after us, murderous rage glowing in its revenge-hungry eyes. Pinned between the wild beast and the raging waters of the creek, I knew the dog and I would have to make a choice: Take our chances in the frigid fall waters, or fight our way out. I braced myself and made a decision.

Ahem. Okay. That’s not really what happened. What really happened was the the moose blinked docilely and stayed exactly where she was, the dog finally succumbed to my insistence, and we went back inside in one piece. Or, well, two pieces (me and the dog separately). But wasn’t it more interesting the other way? Doesn’t a little bit of excitement make your morning seem that much more bearable?

Yeah. I thought so.

It’s Not Your Momma’s Chorus

Maybe I’m the last person in America to have stumbled upon this (considering they have something like eleventy billion views on YouTube), but have you heard the P.S. 22 choir?



If elementary school students singing The Cure doesn’t turn your crank, perhaps you’d prefer some Crowded House:



Or, better yet, a little Björk (seriously):



And of course they go the straight “Glee” with “Don’t Stop Believin’”:



So... schoolchildren building confidence, accomplishing something positive, feeling good about themselves, having something to look forward to, getting recognition for doing something right... tell me again why we shouldn’t be promoting arts in our schools?

On The Pitch

MLB and I went to a soccer game today at my alma mater. The Pilot women scored eight goals. The Dons did not.

“Eight-nothing qualifies as a blowout, doesn’t it?” I asked.

“Three-nothing qualifies as a blowout,” MLB said. “Eight-nothing qualifies as a cricket match.”

Cognitive Dissonance

Cooper Landing, the Kenai Peninsula town that, back in the 1990s, capitalized on the popularity of the television show “Northern Exposure” by erecting along the Sterling Highway (where all the tourists would see it on their way to the Kenai Princess Lodge) a sign bearing the town’s name in the same font used in the program’s main titles, is mentioned in the November issue of Vogue. In Last Look. To promote a $3,400 Hermès bag.

I am not kidding:


For serious:


The text, in case you can’t read it, says:

Because it would be nothing but a nuisance to tie a goose-down jacket around your waist while you’re, say, trail riding along the snowy mountains above Cooper Landing on Alaska’s Kenai Peninsula, Hermès fashioned this satchel stashed with a winter-ready puffer. Made of swift calfskin and hunter cowhide, the shoulder bag keeps with the house’s distinct-quality leather tradition and can double as an all-day carrier in warmer climates. Good stuff!

Last Look editor Virginia Smith doesn’t specify exactly what type of trail riding one might be doing “above Cooper Landing,” exactly, for which one might require a three thousand dollar jacket/satchel combination: Horseback, perhaps? Do they even have horseback riding in Cooper Landing? I’m having trouble picturing an Hermès bag on a snowmachine, honestly. For that matter, why Cooper Landing? Is “trail riding” (on whatever apparatus) such a popular activity in Cooper Landing? Has anyone even carried a handbag that expensive through Cooper Landing, let alone taken one on the (apparently) extensive network of trails crisscrossing the hills above?

I posed these questions to MLB, who sat in an armchair staring at the ceiling, spinning his hat on his finger as I talked, and then turned to me and said:

“Wait, so you’re saying Vogue is ridiculous? And the items therein are overpriced and have no practical use?” He then suggested that perhaps Ms. Smith’s image of rural Alaska is based entirely on the Sandra Bullock/Ryan Reynolds rom-com “The Proposal” (which we both quite enjoyed, actually, despite its not having been technically filmed in Alaska).

I wouldn’t go quite that far. I mean, no matter what kind of “trail riding” it is you happen to be doing, it would be quite handy to have a jacket packed into a bag. I just don’t know why one might connect a very very expensive designer handbag with a small town in Southcentral Alaska. Thoughts? Did anyone spot Anna Wintour tooling around the KP Borough this summer?