Thursday, March 31, 2011

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.

Saturday, March 26, 2011

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.

Monday, March 21, 2011

..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?"