Bullseye's new product catalog is out, informative as ever but with my same old (minor) gripe, which I'll get to inna minnit.
Glassland is either jubilant or downcast because the Ducks didn’t win on Monday night. The emotional confusion stems from the sadness of losing a championship despite the thrilling honor of being asked to play in the first place. Apparently. I’m pretty sure they were playing football, but that’s about all I know; I’m not the world’s biggest follower of team [...]
Weather report for today said mostly cloudy, not much in the way of precipitation. So, naturally, it's been thundering and sleeting and hailing for the last 30 minutes. The ground looks covered with snow to about a half-inch, but it's actually ice pellets. You learn pretty quickly that the glassland gods really love to tweak the weatherman's nose--if you plan [...]
"Would you please put a sock in it?" I called wearily, "It's 4:00 in the morning, Nate!" Whatever Nate the Mouse was doing in the living room obviously took precedence over my good night's rest, because he'd been doing it for hours. At last, I stomped downstairs and turned on the lights, to scare him off. Didn't even slow him [...]
Jane Goodall and I have a lot in common. I'd have made a pretty good wildlife scientist, living alongside my furry, tick-ridden subjects, eating the food they eat, sharing their miseries--drenching rain, biting gnats and hungry tigers. In fact, I'd probably be doing that right now if room service wasn't so sketchy in the jungle. Despite my great love of wildlife, however, I never invite it into the house. And so the mouse in my living room is a bit of a problem.
Sure sign you're becoming a fixture at Starbucks: The barrista smiles, says, "Hi Cynthia!" and holds up a paper cup with my name and the only Starbucks drink I know (grande mocha) already written on the side. "I think this means I'm coming in here too much," I joke. "No," she retorts, "It means I have a good memory." Starbucks, though, is joining my pantheon of favorite people-watching places. Hanging out in there, waiting for my order, is almost as good as watching a movie.
324 assorted flower bulbs are giving me dirty looks. This happens every bloody year. These bulbs--and their forefathers--have been reminding me for maybe fifteen years that BUYING bulbs is only the first half of the battle. The other half is PLANTING them, which I regard with only slightly more enthusiasm than a good dose of Ebola. Bulb buying has become a traditional kick-off for my holiday season. Every year about this time I push the cart past a bulb display in the hardware store* and...stop. Wow. 100 bulbs for just $12.99. That's only...lemme see...THIRTEEN CENTS A BULB!!
The man walking into the crowded Starbucks this morning looked out of place. He'd tucked his mud-spattered Ford pickup neatly in between a BMW and a Lexus, strode casually to the front door...and held it open for three different women. "After you, ma'am....ma'am...ma'am..." I found myself wondering if he was for real. He wore workaday cowboy boots, not the fancy kind with stitches and metal trim, but the well-worn kind you usually see home, home on the range. His plain black cowboy hat flashed a greasy sweatband when he took it off, and he was clad in unfashionably dark jeans, flannel shirt and a mended jacket.
"You want a nice pedicure?" Jimmy called to the man standing in the doorway, and laughed. The man smiled faintly, primly, and shook his head. He stood there in full preppie regalia, well-groomed in a fashionably tailored white shirt, tie and dark, neatly pressed slacks. His iPhone was wrapped in a leather case, black to match his polished shoes; he carefully pulled out the earbuds and coiled them into a matching case, slipped the whole assembly into his pocket. He stepped inside the nailshop, and one of the girls bounced up to meet him. "Hi, hi," she greeted, and he slipped out of his sportcoat and handed it to her, "Ready for your haircut?"
How do you distinguish tourists from glasslanders? The tourists are the ones carrying the umbrellas. Glasslanders, i.e., people who've been assimilated into the Portland mindset, think of umbrellas in much the same way that vampires think of garlic. They do NOT carry rainboots or slickers or umbrellas. (Or, as my little sister used to say as a toddler, "ungerbers.")
