I took the train to Portland on Saturday to visit one of my goodest friends, Stacy.
The Amtrak I was on didn't hit and kill a person. The ride, therefore, was an improvement over my last trip down.
I adore my steadfast, long-term Seattle. But Portland is my illicit love-ah (I will never, ever be able to say or type the word lover without cackling a little), the one I run to when I need a change of pace.
and maniacs who drink hot coffee even when it is one hundred and ten degrees outside
There was only the slightest discontent on this trip: 1) Having to wear the sweat sponges we euphemistically refer to as bras, and 2) That I am too old and too married to play a game Stacy's friend invented in law school called Target.
Being a 39-y.o. mom, I immediately envisioned sport involving my beloved store. Perhaps a gaggle of women trying to fill their carts fastest with cheap flats, dish drainers and lip gloss.
Game Rules: Pick a cute guy at a bar and get points for talking to him, more points if he talks to you, points for hand-holding, phone number swapping, etc....
It's a little Heathers-y. Or something. But it is an amusing glimpse into how the other side still lives.
One of the real reasons I visit Portland is to document the contents of Stacy's refrigerator. When I went last January, I was so inspired by its spare contents that I lurched for my sketch pad laptop.
This time I thought to take a picture
Note: two of the items in there belong to me.
Stacy is a hard-working attorney and, as such, doesn't have endless hours to bounce from Fred Meyer to Trader Joes to Whole Foods, which is my mind-numbing, dreary chore favorite pastime.
As you can see
Keeping an unstocked fridge is as foreign to me as drinking games and recreational activities that don't involve shopping carts as large as Escalades.
But it's fun, for a weekend, going out to every meal, enjoying limitless stretches of time to chat and sip and peruse boutiques and fan myself with a postcard that might say something like: