So the other day, I’m working at the A&P, ringing out Pearl Plaisted when I notice she has on the cutest pair of angel earrings.

“Pearl,” I says, “look at those angel earrings. Aren’t they just adorable?” (See, I believe if someone is looking sharp, you should tell ‘em.)

Pearl smiles. “Got ‘em down to the Dollar Store. Fifty cents!”

“That is a bargain at twice the price! Oh, and look at your angel pin.”

Replicas of Christopher Columbus’s ships arrived in Portland Harbor this week. The Nina, the Pinta, and the Edmund Fitzgerald offered an authentic glimpse into the past (according to the Sarah Palin Institute for Revisionist History) by sending a landing party ashore to claim Maine in the name of Spain. Or Italy. Or one of those debt-plagued places.

Father’s Day never seems to get quite the attention Mother’s Day does. I think it’s ‘cause they’re both holidays dreamed up by big, business types to sell stuff, and, let’s face it, women are just easier to buy for. Or maybe it’s because fathers tend to hang in the background, while mothers get most all of the praise for how their kids turns out. So Father’s Day is quieter, more mellow. Less pressure.

It now seems likely that Maine will soon have to declare war on the People’s Republic of China.

That’s not a course of action anyone in this state wanted, but it has been forced upon us by Beijing’s belligerence, intransigence, and by those commies saying nasty things about Millinocket.

They could have disparaged lobster. We’d have let it slide.

They could have insulted the moose. Like that beast, we have thick skins.

When was the last time you hung around doing nothin’? I mean just lollygagging’ about, watching the day go by? The older you get, the tougher that is to pull off. There’s always something that needs to be done, even on weekends. Especially on weekends! Why, even vacations tend to be jam-packed.

I don’t like boring street names. Particularly boring street names that are also misleading.

For years, I lived on Pine Street in Portland.

No pines.

Spruce Street in the same city.

No spruces.

I moved across town to Prospect Street, but it didn’t result in any noticeable improvement in my prospects.

I also lived on Park Avenue in the same city. While Deering Oaks was right across the street, there was no place for residents to park their cars during snow storms, so that name was only half-accurate.

I was walking Scamp a couple of weeks ago, when I see our neighbor down the street, Pearl Plaisted. She was down there on her knees, planting some annuals around her light post. We start gabbing, of course, catching up.

“Pearl,” I says, “is your yard ever looking sharp! Those rhodies are gorgeous!”

“I know, Ida. They’re taking over!”

“I can’t believe how big they are. I remember when you first put them in. What a nice thing to come home to.”

I’ve just returned home from spending Memorial Day weekend watching the Portland Sea Dogs play baseball. Or some rough approximation of the sport.

On the whole, my experience at Hadlock Field wasn’t unpleasant. The weather was warm. The beer was cold. The ballpark food was satisfyingly unhealthy. I should have been contented.

Instead, I wanted to punch somebody. Preferably, somebody in charge of assembling this team.

Well, the weather’s warmed up a bit, thank goodness. I was getting really tired of painting my toenails, then taking off the polish, and painting them again.

“Ida!” my husband says, a curious look on his face. “What the heck are you doin’?”

“Charlie, you just wouldn’t understand.”

What do the following words have in common?

Eastern pipistrelle, eastern small-footed myotis, northern myotis, big brown, little brown myotis, eastern red, hoary, silver-haired, Bruce Wayne and Louisville Slugger.

That’s right, they’re all names you wouldn’t give to your newborn child.

Also, they’re all species of bats found in Maine.

I mention the bat connection not because I’m fond of bats (although I am), but because some of these night-flying creatures face a hideous threat: