Saturday, June 21, 2014

Nice try...

This morning, I woke up to my usual back pain and Saturday mode mindset.  I don't move very fast on Saturdays.  They are my sacred time to kick back and have a little coffee while I pet my dog, maybe search the internet, and well?  I like to wake up really slowly. 

Today?  No exception.

Until, it was. 

Damn it! 

I was just settling in to an entertaining flamewar about a rainbow cake with a number in the middle of it, when my doorbell rang.  And then, he knocked.  And then, he rang again!

Of course, this set the damn dog off, and completely harshed my entire mellow.  Dude.  This is not OK.  This is not how Saturday is supposed to work, at all.

So, I got my decrepit owl ass off of the couch, found my cane, answered the door, and it was the owner of the building next to our house.  (We live next to a record store, and a hipster sandwich shop.) Yes.  Hipster sandwiches.  They are no joke.  They basically contain the ingredients of something you'd find in Saveur in any given recipe, on bread, or greens, depending on your carb intake status.  Whatever.  People like it, I guess.  Anyway, digressing now, but not really, because this dude seems to believe that he can and will own Portland, and do with it, as he pleases.

He would be wrong.

We had a rather interesting conversation that is still fresh in my mind, so I will now do my best to re-create it.



"I'm just going to ignore this, kids, it's too early.  Don't answer it.  Stay quiet.  Hide.  Pretend we aren't here."

"Knock, knock, knock!"


"Briiiiiiing!  Briiiiiing!  Briiiiiiiing!"

"OK, damn it, fine.  I'll go see what they want.  Hand me my cane."
I open the door, and it's that dude.  The one who wants my house like a hawk wants a dead raccoon that's been cooking in the sun.  Well, he's not getting my house, no matter how many times he offers to buy it from me.

No.  He's not.

"Hi.  What's up, Bob?"

"Hey, what would you think about trading houses?"


"I own a lovely house in Eastmoreland that's comparable to this house.  Your girls could go to Duniway school.  It's a lovely school.  What do you think?"

"I think... Bob.... that we are perfectly happy here, and don't want to leave."

"Are you sure?"


"You don't want to run it by your husband?"

"Nope, happy here, Bob.  Thanks... anyway."

All I can think to say from this interaction is:  What the actual fuck just happened? 

Dude.  Just... no.   No.  In fact?  No, no, no, no, no, no, no.  NO! 

I find it somewhat amusing that this guy seems to think he can plan out our lives for us, move us to a different spot, and even uproot our kids from their school, because.  All of Portland will be his!  

Oy, some people...


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