Mug Club

I am not a woman to turn down a drink.

Blame it on the German/Irish/Welsh/Euro-mutt background, but I have a passion for a good microbrew, a love of bad dive bars, and am quickly becoming an expert on gin-based cocktails. [muddle cucumber and basil, dash of agave nectar, add ice and hendrick’s; shake; strain; serve straight up with a basil leaf. trust.]

In every town I’ve lived in I’ve had what I consider “my bar.” I don’t spend every night there, or go to that bar exclusively, but if I have to choose, these are my places.

From Blinky’s Can’t Say, to Finn McCool’s, to the Silhouette, to the Behan, to the M&M; these are touchstones of every home in my life.

Places where I’ve had birthdays, dates, sang group karaoke, held costumed dance parties, challenged strangers to play pool, friendly dart tournaments, deep conversations, more laughs than I can count, and even finished a paper or two.

Bars aren’t all fun and games, especially those I’m drawn to (the 2pm Keno and Bud crowd you know is having a rough go of it). Yet there’s a special sense of community I get hanging out at a bar.

Unlike coffee shops or book stores, they are a place people intentionally go only to relax, to have a conversation with a friend or a stranger (whoever shows up first), take a breath in the midst of life.

Norway, unfortunately is lacking a good bar. P and I have tried to find one that fits our vibe, but all of them are also restaurants, or the seemingly exclusive property of a stalwart group of old Maine men.

Nonetheless, I’ll keep trying to find my spot. I’m sure those old guys have some great stories.



Dispatch this week to Megancita!


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