Category Archives: overheard

Delirious: It’s Not Just a River in Spain

No blog yesterday – yeah, I’m supersure you noticed. DON’T TASE ME, BRO, I’m only human. Or am I??? No blog was the result of working all day and into the wee hours (look at those hours! they so SMALL!!) on job apps, paperwork, and tests. All kiiiinds of not-exactly-Turkish-delight. Then, I woke up about 3 hours later (hence the delirium), smooched today on the cheek, and proceeded to grab it by the huevos. Four job interviews, so much more paperwork, and more tests. SORRY, BLOG. In the life game of rock paper scissors, getting a job trumps blog.

After all the “round 1” testing and paperwork was done, I was informed that I’m really good at a myriad of totally random-yet-marketable things! Thank goodness… it’s bad enough to feel useless as an unemployed person, but it’s a doubly depressing setback to find out via standardized tests that you’re also a moron. (Hey, it’s happened before; there’s a reason I never pursued a degree in astrophysics. [<– that is NOT a joke. I really wanted to! Haven’t you read Contact??? If not, DO IT!]) High “hireability aptitude numbers” notwithstanding, I know I won’t get hired on scores alone. Tomorrow’s to-do list: MY FACE. Ha. Yeah right. I’ll probably just keep… I don’t know, doing whatever it is that people like me do that have and will never be professional “faces.” LIKE BLOGGING. Or practicing my mad grammar skillz (as they may actually be what pay my billz). Or scoping for dudes. LIKE THIS CHICK!

Spell check yourself before you wreck yourself??? THIS LADY HAS WRITTEN THE SONG THAT SINGS (or raps) MY TRUTH!!! Do I live my life spelling/grammar-error-free? Um, DUH NO. SPESHLEE not here on el blogo. But in life – and definitely in a JOB – I do my best. It’s like respecting mama. When she isn’t looking, maybe you do things she’d poo-poo. But when you’re in the house where mama raised you (aka adulthood), you show some fuckin’ RESPECT. The mama, pops, or village that raised you worked their ass off to fund your schools and pay your teachers. The least you can do is ACT LIKE YOU KNOW the difference between there/their/they’re. Don’t be an ingrate.

I’m deeply indebted to my parents and the massive village that raised me for all the lessons I’ve learned (and continue to learn). And I hope to one day be able to deeply embed the knowledge – not a single lesson, but the know-it-in-yer-bonez knowledge – that I was fortunate enough to receive. Some people think that this means I’d make a good mom. AU CONTRAIRE, MON HOMESKILLIT. Because, see, here’s the thing: in my opinion, being a good parent has NOTHING to do with how much you like kids or want to see them grow up to be exemplary grown chicklets. It’s much more about being good at PARENTING. Monkey’s Mo’ and I were flappin’ our yappers about parenting this weekend (cuz das how you DO when you hang out with people with kids). I said something like “GAHDAYUM, gurrrrl! You done had yerself the CUTEST BABY EVARRRR. and to boot, HE’S SO GOOD!!! Does it ever make you just want to baby seal club bad babies you see in the stores and such cuz they aren’t as good as Monkey?” She said “nah. It makes me want to club the parent, though. Most bad babies are bad cuz their parents suck.” Again, truthbombs over Baghdad were dropped, right there in that kitchen. And the people rejoiced. And it was good.

Now. Are there exceptions? DUH. NOTHING IS BLACK AND WHITE when it comes to things like nature/nurture and blanket statements regarding “all kids.” But. Monkey Mo’ helped me put into efficient words why I so often disagree with those who said I’d be a “good mom”: I don’t think I’d be naturally good at parenting. And presently, I have no interest whatsoever in overcoming this personal opinion. Would the kid grow up to be a dance machine with pretty much really awesome taste in most things that are worthy of excellent palate development? Prolly. That’s not parenting. That’s fairy godmothering. And that’s all that holds interest for me.


(ZOMGGGG GLITTER AND OTHER PEOPLE’S DWARFS FOR EVARRRR!)

SO. For all you babycrazy friends out there who see me having a grand ol’ giggly baby time with your kids, it’s cuz I love kids when they aren’t being bad. When they are bad, I don’t see it as a chance to rise to the challenge – I see it as the perfect time to give the kid back to you.

But then, Monkey Mo’ said “even though I lucked out with such a good baby, I know that I’m gonna do SOMETHING to screw him up. Everyone will.” BNNNGGGGG. Gong of life smacked me in the face: things NOT on my short- or long-term to-do list include screwing people up. Especially tiny baby people. They are DELICATE those ones!!! I think I’ll just stick to letting my friends screw up their own kids and getting myself a job that I will, undoubtedly at some isolated moment, screw up, but will otherwise love to work and crush with awesometude.

Oh, and in case anyone was curious, I basically type at the speed of light. JUST PUTTING THAT OUT THERE.

Now stop reading this blog already and go do something helpful for Japan!!!

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The REAL Portlandia

One thing I love about legit PDX hobos is that they embody the mighty honey badger and they don’t CARE about aaaaanything. Today, I walked by a small gathering of maybe-they-were-old-or-maybe-it-was-just-the-face-of-drugs hobos. Kind of sane-ish looking, they also were openly discussing how best to smoke the crack they had in the pipe which they were not at all concealing. I thought old mama hobo had the best advice: “JUST TURN TO THE SIDE! We’ll cover for you!” She was in a wheelchair and started lifting up a blanket that was draped across her lap, as if to shield her friend from any possible danger or sighting by the cops.

Yeah. Do that. You’ll really fool them, you cunning, sneaky hobo you. The cops might have otherwise seen old man crack pipe winter hobo openly waving around and/or lighting that crack pipe, but they will instantly be thrown off and lack suspicion when they see you going all ‘Where the Wild Things Are’ impromptu fort builder at the bus stop. And hey, even if your bright quilt fort DOES draw attention, all suspicion will again be lost when your friend simply turns to the side. That will surely shield him from any lingering harm.

Kids, I’ve said it before and it bears repeating: drugs are bad, mmkayyyy?

aaaand we’re back

I started this blog for one reason, which quickly grew into many reasons to continue on with it.  But the inspirational reason was because of the totally whack-ass shit I was overhearing at work (or ‘hearing’ via email, etc.  Really, that is a totally unimportant detail.  But now you know.)  Then I wasn’t working anymore.  Not the blog’s fault.  But it happened.  HOWEVER!  I AM RE-EMPLOYED!  I am afraid to say that I anticipate this new set-up to be far less… um… quote-worthy, largely due to my co-workers lacking the extreme “fear of the unknown/everything ever discussed on local news reports” which fueled the plethora of totally bizarre and hilariously ignorant comments of yore.  Fortunately, though, I am now situated in a fantastic setting for epic people watching, and I still work with guys.  And folks, guys are fucking idiots.  Thank God.  Because idiots fuel the fire that run this blog, and if I am running short on idiots in my life, this blog can’t function.  (On the other hand, when I find myself completely surrounded by nothing but idiots, it becomes increasingly impossible to find idiocy ironic or funny.  So please, whatever you do, DON’T send me any idiots in the mail.  I’ve got plenty.  Thanks.)

PBJ, as he shall be called because of his penchant for referring to acronymized businesses and institutions by their equivalent sandwich name, stopped by my office (YEAH!  AN OFFICE!!!  WITH A DOOR!!!!!! It’s amazing.) to say ‘You know, you’re not a looker.  I mean, you aren’t hideous to look at or anything, but you aren’t… you know… *sluhDAM! sluhDAM!*’  Yes, there were the somewhat-onomatopoeically-implied/expected hand gestures and hip thrusts with that news flash from sandwich man.

I think you know what this means, folks.  This blog is definitely back in business.

Fisting beers

Overheard last night: “She got it when she woke up and she got it before I left. And she’s gonna get it one more time before she goes to bed. She’s cool.”

Then this happened.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: my people are rad.

Baby, I’m yours

Today is seriously cracking me up.  I woke up thinking it was going to be a “Thursmeh” but today very quickly skooled me and showed me it was definitely a “Thursyay!”  I must attribute the about-face to more than one source:

1. Sweet Potato*called me.  From her butt.  When I listened to the voice mail (as I was asleep when she called), I thought she was blowing me kisses into the phone, which is seriously an adorable voice mail, if you’re going to leave one.  Turns out that her phone was rubbing against fabric, or maybe had picked up heavy machinery noises… it really doesn’t matter.  Kissy face voice mails are not a bad way to wake up.

2. I checked my twitter.  I really don’t tweet that often, but shortly after getting my account semi set-up (I have not configured it to update my account or get notifications or anything from my phone.  That’s how often I tweet.) I realized that I loved it because it was like having a short-hand version of google reader, but also, I could stay up on the all the hot shit with FOOD CARTS!!!  Yummmm…  Did you know that Big Ass Sandwiches is THE cheapest place in town to buy Aardvark Sauce??  TRUE STORY!  I didn’t discover that on twitter, but I do subscribe to their updates and I have yet to regret that move.  In fact, the only feed I ever quit was the multnomah co. arrest and booking feed.  Trust me, the treasures I found were definitely worth it, but all in all, it was too much.
But one of the blogs I follow told me about another blog and then BLAMMO!  I am now swimming in a sea of beauty and delight of new music!  Thursyay indeed!

3. I talked to Sweet Potato on the phone.  In a convo centered around WWSPD [if she were me], SP says “Hold on… I’m trying to think of things from inside the other person’s head… wait.  I gotta go sniff some markers.”  WHO SAYS THAT???  I love SP.

4. Super out of the blue, super amazingly sweet text messages from friends.  ‘NUF SAID.

Thursyay, I am seriously starting to reconsider my potential marriage to my amazing new vacuum cleaner because you are really killing it on some big big levels.

*yet again, names have been changed to protect the unaware and perhaps non-consenting.

This is exactly what she said

I just heard someone say, without even a hint of irony or humor, “that’s what she said.” 

I don’t know that I’ve heard “that’s what she said” uttered in a normal way… like… ever.

I hope you had a Thanksgiving that was as awesome as this wolf horoscope! 

grocery stores

There are people on strike outside of the New Seasons by my office.  I always hate crossing picket lines, but I really needed some zinc!  And, seeing as how it’s International Sandwich Day, I also needed to get out of there with enough time to get myself a sammie from one of my local spots which meant that good ol’ Freddies was a little too far away.

The strike seems to have significantly affected the intelligence level of at least the produce crew (with notable overflow in the deli and demo department).  I was hemming and hawing about what kind of sammie I should get and from where and how it would taste with a lot of garlic, but then thinking that, either way, it never hurts to have more garlic so maybe I should just get some no matter what.  Well, at New Seasons, I learned today that their garlic is priced by the pound.  This is strange to me.  I don’t buy garlic by the pound.  I’m just one little lady alone in her grocery shopping world, and I think there’s something just infinitely delightful about just getting one of anything in the produce section because you’re only cooking for one.  No really, I really think it’s incredibly romantic.  Sort of like Amelie, but thankfully without the bionic sex hearing.  I went ahead and assumed that by the pound was normal for the produce section, and went further to assume that the produce people were probably regularly asked by short and tall single ladies and genties how much one would expect to spend on one bulb of the New Seasons organic garlic.  So I ask the produce person a question:

me: Hi, sorry to bother you, but would you happen to have just sort of a ballpark guess on how much one bulb of garlic would be?  I don’t need a pound… I thought maybe you’d know how much they usually are…
produce person: Yeah!  Well, they are $4.99 a pound, and one of them doesn’t weigh a whole pound, so you’d have to get a couple of them to be $4.99, but if you just are looking to get one, I’d say it’ll only be a couple cents.  They ARE organic.  So…

My brain exploded.  From laughter.  That I was containing inside my brain. I think that produce person should dress up in this garlic costume next year for Halloween.  When they ask her what she is, I cannot WAIT to hear how intelligently she’s going to explain it.  “Well, I’m part of the onion family but I guess that doesn’t really describe me very specifically, so I guess maybe you could also say I have some stems?”  YOU’RE GARLIC, OKAY?  JUST GARLIC.

Ha.  International Fun Shop.  AND HOW!

My time in the produce section was so informative that I decide it’s time to just eat that sammie already and I head to the checkout, zinc tablets in hand.  I stop at the demo table where they’ve got a new hippie yogurt – it’s made from coconut or something.  I dunno.  There are five flavors: vanilla, strawberry, blueberry, plain, and huckleberry.  And I wanted guidance from the demo person so that hopefully I wouldn’t get any “unhappy ending.”

Most people in Oregon already know this, but in case you are unaware – Hippie foods are dangerous. Hippie foods can look just like normal food but actually taste like hippies. And that is not a good thing.  For example, Nancy’s Soy Yogurt does not taste like regular yogurt.  It tastes like fucking shit. Honestly.  I get how people can like things for what they are, but I am warning anyone who cares RIGHT NOW: If you are looking for a good non-dairy alternative to yogurt, do not turn to Nancy’s Soy Yogurt.  YOU WILL CRY.  IT IS NOT GOOD IF YOU WANT IT TO TASTE THE SAME AS YOGURT THAT COMES FROM COWS.

Once more – if looking for real yogurt taste without the dairy, eating this

 

 

 

 

 

 

will make you do this


 

Anyway, so I ask the demo guy “Which one would you recommend?”

Demo guy “Well, a lot of people really like the blueberry.  But I’ve heard people say they really like the strawberry, and other people really like the vanilla.  The plain will surprise you, and I’ve also heard good things about the huckleberry.”

Wow, man.  Thanks for really narrowing it down for me.  And furthermore, your personal convictions about the product have really got me salivating over here because I wanna feel as excited as you are about all this HIPPIE FOOD.  So I ask him again “Great!  But which one do YOU like?”

Demo guy “Well, I guess the blueberry.  A lot of people like that one.  It’s definitely the best seller.”

So I take the blueberry.  Thankfully, it doesn’t taste like barf.  But it doesn’t do anything new for me either.  The ‘whelmed’ review of the flavors may have actually been spot on, and yet I can’t help but wish he’d at least hated one of the flavors.  In any case, I will never try to avoid dairy, so I’m not going to start throwing down for hippie yogurt unless I KNOW it’s going to turn me into a unicorn.

Dear New Seasons,

I give up on you.  Your prices are – and have always been – too damn high.  And now, you seem to have stocked your stores with high-functioning but very glitch-plagued robots and it’s not really making me want to be around you much anymore.

Love,

Little Miss Mostly Sunny with a Chance of Dance Party 2009

Thank the sweet lord for Portland and all of its farmers markets.  Here’s to good yogurt, good garlic, vanquishing viruses, and laughter inside your brain!  And to never needing anything from New Seasons again.