Were You Aware of It?

B and I have been taking in the frugal Portland dinner options recently. My favorites are the food carts. For instance: Were you aware that there is a cart that sells exclusively FRIED PIE?

Yes. Whiffies Pie cart (part of a group of carts on SE 12th and Hawthorne in our fair city) is the home of perhaps the most intensely guilt-ridden concotion ever to be called dessert. Delectable pie crust wraps delicious fillings--both sweet and savory. The whole thing is then dropped into the deep-fryer and comes out crispy-chewy-melty amazing. B likes the chocolate creme, while I am more of a berry fan. Haven't made our way to the savory side, but with fillings like BBQ tofu and chicken pot pie, I'm sure it won't be long. Especially with the non-guilty prices of $4 savory and $3 sweet pies. Add a homemade lemonade for $1, and you'll be just like B when you say "Holy shit, this is for fat kids. But so good."

More food cart reviews to come, my friends.

Bet you expected that...

So, anyone who knows me knows that I have terrible follow-through when it comes to extended writing projects with no oversight. Like...a blog, for example. And I think the reason is that--delusions of grandeur aside--I'm a bit like Dorothy Parker. Of this feisty little literary pixie, Alexander Woolcott once said "That bird only sings when she's unhappy."
And it's true for me as well. Just as Dottie P. could only write about the sad, ironic, horrifying and inane, so too do I have a problem chronicling my own happiness, or even just the day to day goings on of my simple life.
But, the more I think about this fact, the more I realize that I am basically fetishizing my own unhappiness. I almost crave it, as it gives me something to think about. To obsess over. And lately, the more that I think about it, well...life's been pretty ok.

For example:

B and I go on dates. Pretty much weekly dates. Small, fun, and most importantly, Cheap Dates. For instance, we are avid library patrons. New-minted poverty makes borrowers of us all it seems. But a trip to the Portland Central Library makes the fact that I can no longer afford to buy books almost a treat. Instead of one purchased book, savored over many days and lovingly set aside, I have hundreds of books to voraciously chomp my way through. Books I would never buy, but want to read. B has made his way through the entire oevre of Russian contemporary author Victor Pelevin. And I have recently been indulging in an obsession with outsider/asylum art.
Besides the books, people watching at the library is high art. There is a man who sits at the public computer for hours typing "OLD CHINA" over and over again. There is the shifty-eyed fellow who mutters to himself in the DVD section and the gaggles of teenagers giggling over manga and the "dirty" bits of romance novels.
At the end of the day, our bags heavy with books, B and I take the TriMet bus home. We hardly ever speak on the bus; we just sit across from eachother. He looks out the window, I eavesdrop on other's conversations. For me, this is the epitome of a "good day"



So...that wasn't so bad, really. Writing about the good things. Maybe I'll do it more.