The Food Donations Continue

A certain theme has developed in my lifetime, a theme I'm not sure I should proud or ashamed of, a theme that I most assuredly benefit from, a theme, where complete strangers, regular strangers, and acquaintances alike feel the compulsion to bestow food upon me.
I was in my Popular Culture class (do not let the name fool you, this class is so boring it will not only put you into a deep sleep, but you may be in danger of a coma) this class happens every Tuesday and Thursday evening, promptly at 5:30p.m.  As I sat at my usual table, with my usual cohorts, a boy in the class selected the seat directly across from mine.  The fellow was tall, dark and strapping, a football player at my University.  As he sat and unbundled, he reached into his bag and a package of tinfoil appeared, which upon unwrapping revealed a half-eaten Chipotle burrito.  He dug into his dinner and my stomach rumbled in protest, my eyes the only organ of my body unjustly able to feast.  My mouth startled babbling away to my team members, as my eyes were unable to be torn away,
"That burrito looks so good."
"Guys, let's meet at Chipotle for our team project, I am so hungry."
"Does he have to eat it like that? Can't he see I am starving? Show some restraint, please."
As I continued to stare, and he continued to eat, the comments only grew more desperate and pleading.  Then, unexpectedly, the eating slowed, and then stopped.  He wrapped the tinfoil in on the burrito as if he were finished..oh the horror, the gall! My hand was thrown out to him in a mixture of pleading and warning--"Are you done with that..?"
The boy, taken aback, muttered a consent. And then, an offer. The burrito was slid across the table, into the loving hands of someone who truly cared for it, someone who would show it the respect it deserved. The boy was thanked somewhat gratuitously, and I think I told him "I would love him forever".

The next Popular Culture class rolled around, and that same boy walked into the class, a bit early like I was.  I turned to my friend laughing, "Every time I see that guy I think of Chipotle" as I turned back around, it was the boy's turn to laugh, as he revealed a second Chipotle burrito from his bag and stated, "I wasn't even that hungry when I bought this, and then I thought, well, I'll just give it to that girl if I can't finish it"
And that is exactly what he did.

Well This is Embarrassing.

Friday morning dawned cold and brisk in the foggy Southwest hills of Beaverton. 

I bundled up and trundled out to the bus stop where I watched in dismay as the bus bustled by, it's window's opaque with the breath and heat of its passengers.  

When the next bus lazily rolled to a halt in front of me, I boarded and chatted with the bus driver, paid my extra fees and found an empty seat. 

It was there in that threadbare seat, as I pushed a rubber headphone into my ear canal that I felt the first twinge of pain.  I pulled it out, confused, and pushed it in a second time.  Also, for a second time, pain.  

All during that first day, the uncomfortable ache just inside my ear swelled--
Until that night, it was uncomfortable enough that I couldn't sleep on that side.  

I grew worried. 

The pain grew. 

It was Sunday, two days into the affliction, when I realized that this was not any type of general pain, there was a focus.  The pain had an epicenter: a growth inside my canal that was..starting to impede my hearing. 

I called the clinic.  

On the phone with the nurse, I confessed: I hope it isn't, I donno, a pimple or something.  I would feel so silly. She laughed and scheduled me for that same day. 

My worry heightened.

In the room, the Physician entered, I tipped my ear towards the tiny pinpoint of light emanating from her otoscope  

She pulled my ear closer by the lobe, and squinted one eye to the magnifying lens, and stated simply, "I can't really see deep enought into the ear because of this zit that is in the way, it is pussing on my instrument".  She pulled her tool away and cleaned it off with her scrubs, her face scrunched in annoyance. 

-Sigh-

A Poem of Passion:

'Twas a bright sunny day, in my pretty town of Portland

I bustled down the street, my purpose important. 

In my arms, clutched tightly, I held my reverse-fade raw denim

In my mind, equally fixed-my dreams of stiches and hemmin'

I reached the Tailor's shop, the door thrown wide open

I strode in casually, confidently, there was no slow-pokin'

But to my surprise, as I looked left, and as I looked right

There was no one, not a single person in sight!

I awkwardly scuffled to the counter, looking for a bell

I wondered if the shop did indeed have its skills for sale. 

The search for help continued well past the counter

I spotted a back room, sewing machines, maybe the man with the power.

As I crept towards the setup, no sound had escaped my lips

My eyes, saw the Tailor's hands upon his seamstress' hips

She was pushed up against a wall, their intentions made known

From that tiny office, my feet followed by body flown.

In the heat of the moment (mine, not theirs)

My eye spied a motion sensor above that clothes' lair

In and out through that door my legs took me

In and out, trying to make that sensor see

Finally sensed, a loud beep sounded

The Tailor to the front, at last signaled, bounded. 

He was quite short with me, which I thought should be directed towards the pants

I shrugged, garment man--you get it where you can, who knows? It very well may be your last chance. 

Weirdest Day in the History of Weird Days:

It all started early in the morning, around 9:00 a.m..  I was sitting in my room, the heat of the day (a scorcher, 95 degrees, the hottest day in Portland recorded this year) already seeping in through the walls. My roommate entered my room, sleep evident in his drooping eyes and mussed hair.  He rubbed an eye with the back of one hand and the day began:
"The guy I had over last night stole my phone and my camera, and a bunch of stuff."
"Oh man, I'm sorry that really sucks, are you guys friends?"
"No, I met him at a party last night, he seemed like a chill dude so I invited him over.  When I woke up this morning, all my stuff was missing.  I have been tracking my phone online, I know where he is, would you drive me to go get him?"
"...oh, uh, yeah.  I am not getting out of the car."
--Important side note in story, I did not want to be involved in any sort of fight, and specifically did not wear shoes so I would not have to exit the vehicle.
And we were off! We ended up in a rundown part a town, at an intersection between two busy streets.  The offender was spotted at a bus stop, the car was pulled over, the roommate was out in a flash and confronting the thief.  I surveyed the entire spectacle in my rearview mirror.  As I inspected the situation, a thought flashed through my mind--man, that guy has a sweet bike.
No sooner was the thought conceived, the realization was also born--hey, that's my bike!
I sprang from my car, emergency lights ablaze, and stalked over to the guy in all my barefoot glory.
"This is MY BIKE.  You can't just take things that don't belong to you." (I have since concluded that confrontational statements need to be premeditated.) I walked my bike right back to my car and stuffed it in the hatch.
In the meantime, the man ran, the roommate followed, a punch to the face ensued, the backpack was searched, and the stolen articles were returned to the rightful owner.
We drove home, the roommate was subjected to a long diatribe about discretion on who was to be invited into our home.

The day continued at a summer work party of my cousin's held in Vancouver, where a balloon man approached me and told me he was about to engineer the best balloon structure I had ever seen, and I was not disappointed.

I then proceeded to win a cake.

Grape Eating Contest

The Rules:

No chewing

Whoever fits the most, wins. 

I have 15 grapes in my mouth. These aren't your regular home grown grapes, they are genetically modified monstrosities. He won with a whopping 17.

My coworkers (especially this one) take the cake.

Belly Buddies

Another work story?? (It's all I know)

A great thing transpired at work. A very great thing. I found a kindred spirit, a best friend of sorts, a belly buddy.
A large container of Jelly Belly's had been brought into the office, and the coworkers and I had been munching on them for weeks. We dreaded the day that we would enter the space with hopeful hearts and dreams of sugar beans dancing in our eyes only to find an empty container, and to experience the hollow thud that follows after a disappointed hand drops the canister to the floor. That day did come, although it seemed too soon, they were too young to go, and we were too young to understand their sudden disappearance.
On that day about two handfuls of belly's were left in the container, and I happened be chatting with a coworker as I held the plastic up to my critical eye, assessing the situation. I poured myself a handful, and poured the coworker a handful--we looked at each other and my eyes narrowed as I stated, "I will if you do" .
And at the same moment, we tipped our heads back, and poured the contents of our hands into our mouths.
I had never been so proud of him (as he constantly declines even one Belly, as they are "too sweet")
It was as though there was a fruit medley playing harmonious rhythms of fructose in my mouth.

I've Found My Limit

Well, it happened. I finally came upon a wall that I could not, try as I may, make myself climb.
I was hungry for some cereal lovin', and I entered my kitchen to pour a bowl. The second I saw that my Trader Joe's brand, Twigs, Flakes, and Clusters was all gone, that's when I should've given up the game. But, not one to give up too easily, I pushed onward. I convinced myself that the granola on top of the fridge was "the cereal my roommate said I could eat", and quickly poured a generous amount in my gratuitous bowl.
The granola and I traveled together up to my room, where we studied and laughed with the cast of Community, sang with the aspiring stars on Glee, and cried with Suki's friends over the loss of her innocence on True Blood. As the new episodes online became fewer and fewer, so did the milk and cereal in my bowl. As the realization that I would have to wait yet another week for new episodes sank in, I sighed, and my eyes dropped their gaze from the now-dark screen to the once-full and now almost empty bowl in my hands. My despair was quickly forgotten, when my sinking heart and eyes locked in disgust with the lifeless ones of the dead bug that was floating in my meal. I stared at the intruder, who challenged my boorish lifestyle with its mere presence. I wanted to keep eating. I wanted to not care. But I couldn't, my stomach was turning and I cursed the gluttony of the pest that had eventually done him in, and was now living a ghostly second life, upending my values, and forcing me to question myself as I reluctantly placed my dish to the side.

As you can imagine, the next few days were spent with long, questioning walks in the rain around the city, listening to angsty music, as I tried to figure out who I was, what this incident made me.
It wasn't until a few days later at work, that I was able to find myself again:
I had recently started my lady time of the month (my period, people) and at this point in time we find myself in the bathroom (which could happen even if it weren't my lady time). I had expelled a lady product in the toilet-which, as a side note, I have recently become aware that it is somewhat of a controversy whether or not tampons should be flushed. I have always flushed, apparently everyone else has not-and the toilet wouldn't flush it. Now, we have some pretty noisy toilets in the office, and the sound of the flushin' is audible throughout the space. I flushed a good six times, before I came out, red faced, but with a plan. I quickly constructed an "out of order" sign, and then scoured the office for a latex glove. Glove placed lovingly around my right hand, I reentered the bathroom.
Using my left hand to pull the glove up my arm, so as to avoid water entering the wrist portion, my hand was submerged in toilet water, the offending article was removed and thrown away, the out of order sign was shred into teeny tiny pieces, and meaning was restored to my life.
I'm a sick piece of work.

Why I LOVE My Job--Part II

Because when I return from lunch I find this on my desk:

And the grand finale:
I was riding the elevator back up to the office, and a lady was accompanying me. She was dressed very nicely (I would say, she was probably an office worker's wife nice, not a employee of the building nice) and carrying a plate of pastries. I noted that we were both going to the same floor, "I feel like so many people work on Floor Four nowadays!" To which she replied, "Oh, I don't work on that floor. I'm just there looking for a Brooke...?" LOOKING FOR A BROOKE.
"Why that's me!" I exclaimed
She just handed the pastries right over, "Well these are for you then!" I was in pure, unadulterated shock. "For me?"
I had helped an office on a higher level move some food upstairs on our carts (with my boss) for their open house party, and they were apparently very grateful. So grateful, in fact, that they had sent down a plate of pastries, for me.
The lady, whom I later learned was actually Joy, (and she was, pure Joy) went on to say, "Oh, well I didn't recognize you, Brooke. For some reason I thought your hair was darker."
My reply? "Maybe I've washed it since then." Obviously, it was answered with peals of laughter. And that's how work is, everyday.

Even When He's Bad, He's Good.

Mad Men Monday is a regular, weekly occurrence in my household. It is where all the roommates get together, on this specific occasion it was in my room, and watch Mad Men. On Monday. We were all gathered in a darkened assortment around the computer screen, riveted in the newest (at least to us) episode.
Usually, Javier is very well-behaved when we have guests in our room. He stalks around silently, or cuddles up on the lap that is most apt to rub him. On this particular Monday, Javier was not himself. He was crying and racing around the room like a crazy person. He was making all sorts of noises, climbing in, out, and on top of things, and scratching at the door to be let out. I have never let Javier out when he scratches at the door, because I don't want him to get into the habit, especially at odd hours during the night. I tried my best to ignore his antics, and apologized profusely to my housemates, because we are SERIOUS about Mad Men.
And then, the smell hit us.
And that's when I remembered, the litter box wasn't in the room.
Mad Men was forgotten, lights were turned on, and the room became a friend of the enemy as I searched it's hidden corners for the offender.
I had been shushing Javier as he cried for relief and tried to spare me the trouble that he was fully aware of in his bowels. He had tried to warn me, multiple times about the oncoming attack, and I had apologized to the roommates for his distracting behavior. Javier had been patient with me, and his last act of kindness was to find a small, empty box to commit his sin in, a box that I simply through away.

Why I LOVE My Job

I work in the heart of downtown Portland, OR.

I get to dress up for work, everyday.

These guys. They give me free food, and most importantly free lovin'.
(known in previous posts and Fashionably Harrison as "the coffee shop boys")

I love my job because even though someone brought donuts in the day I had school, they saved me one. (Yeah, it fell on the floor, but they knew I'd still eat it, and that says everything.)

A job just doesn't get better than this:
During a staff meeting, my boss left for a short period of time. I announced, "quick! everyone! pretend you're all asleep!"
And every single person did.

The Inevitable

Lounging languidly on my couch, I had been falling in and out of sleep for the last two hours, partly because I just didn't want to do anything, and mostly because I would feel bad getting up and and taking away the support Javi's back needed, or else he would be in for a rude (and disorienting) awakening.
As I settled myself back around my kitten, flashing blue and red lights caught my eye and attention from outside my window. I stretched and sat up, and discovered a cop on a motorcycle on the street below. After the initial panic attack that always accompanies the sighting of the police passed, I focused in on the situation. There was a cop blocking the roadway, and a whole passel of cops at the top of my streets, blue and red lights ablaze.
I quickly texted my neighbor, who's house was conveniently placed right in front of the melee, and got the dish: some guy who had been running from the cops had just been tackled on my street!

But the real point is, as I was staring into the constant drizzle (and at this moment in time, slightly less than a downpour) that is my city, I noticed something amiss.
My car. Sunroof wide open.

..only in Puddletown

It was relatively early in the morning, I was heading to the workplace, standing at the bus stop waiting for #12.
As I crossed my arms for warmth against the wind and drizzle, (I had skipped the coat, foolishly holding hope in Portland's spring) a bum, riding a bike, passed behind me on the sidewalk. He stopped just past me and called out, "hey, do you have a spare quarter or two?"
I answered with the usual, "oh, I'm sorry, I don't carry cash."
His first question, although abated, was quickly followed by a second: "do you have a cigarette by chance?"
Again, I answered in the negative, "nah, sorry I don't smoke."
He smiled a gaped-smile at me, and I tentatively smiled back.
This was the moment he pulled out all stops:
"You don't date, do you?"

The Event

School tires me. I am there from:
8:00a.m. until 9:00p.m. Mondays,
5:00p.m. until 9:30p.m. Tuesdays, and
8:00a.m. until 7:00p.m. Wednesdays.
As this doesn't leave me with any short of social life, I make do by staying up until all hours of the night. (The latest I ever allow myself to go to bed is midnight, so until half hours of the night).
This schedule makes the next morning at school somewhat, oh, droopy-eyed and yawny.
I have a little break inbetween my morning classes, and on this particular morning, I stretched out on a complimentary couch in a Cramer hallway, and consequently fell alseep. Pretty much instantly.
I awoke to this scene one hour later:
Bleary eyed, I pushed myself away from the leather my face was pressed against into a sitting position. As I rose I felt my face separate, in a wet manner, from the furnitrue, and I felt an actual rivulet of moisture bead itself down my face and drip back into the puddle of drool where it had originally rested. I had drooled, quite the amount of drool onto this couch. It covered my face, and now my hands as I tried unsuccessfully to wipe it away. It covered the couch in a circle of wet. Even my eyelashes were dripping with the stuff. I looked around me, and wasn't alone. As I stumbled away from the scene of the accident and into a nearby bathroom, a fellow student was exiting as I was trying to enter. We were less than six inches from each other's faces, when she said, "Oh My Go...." and pushed past me. I lblundered into the restroom, and lurched towards the mirror.
I was a soppy wreck.

Waashing. Gone Wrong.

Well, it caught up to me. I waashed (word mashed) one too many times for it not to have some adverse affect on me.
I was at work, as usual, dressed to the nines, as usual, joking, as usual.
My coworker trotted towards me and the back area with the breathless words, "something amazing has happened." he led me up front where he pointed out, the indeed amazing matter. It was the corn plant that inhabits the office, in bloom, right out of the highest bunch of leaves. The plant is aptly named, because it's blooms actually look a small corn stalk.
we both raced back to the others, to spread the joy and amazement. I, especially, was excited about the affair, and these high-spirited emotions coursing through me incited the words, "if it really does grow corn can we eat it as an office..?!"
The others looked at me not in surprise, (these tiny phrases of fun pop out of my mouth quite often), but in hesitation, "what if it is poisonous corn, Brooke?"
"What, you mean porn?" was the immediate answer.
porn.
porn.
porn.
I was so embarrassed I can't even put it into blog-post. I could barely speak, I just sat down at my computer, and cried silent and nonexistent tears of shame.

Stop the Hunger

It was late morning, and I was on the fourth floor of the Congress Center working, as usual. As I clicked through the file room, past the printing station and onto my work area, my hands mindlessly found themselves buried deep in the pockets of my slightly over-sized, taupe cardigan. As the flesh of the fisted fingers pushed into the wool, something somewhat hard and somewhat grainy pushed back against my right hand. The same hand fished it out of the pocket and it was laid on the palm for display. This is what I found:

It is cat food. A single kibble, of holistic cat food. The only plausible and possible explanation of this seeming phenomenon is that Javier held it like a prize between his two front paws, and by standing up on his back feet alone, slipped it into my pocket, with the altruistic thought of, "Yo no quiero que mi madre a pasar hambre". (I don't want my mama to go hungry)
Now, Javier es mi gordito. He's a big boy. Thus the explanation of the single piece. He was looking out for the both of us.