Wednesday, October 16, 2013

This Little Diva Went To Market

While I am not a very "outdoorsy" kinda gal. . .*


*My militant fatwa on camping is the stuff of legend.

. . .I do love to eat, and God and the Baby Jeebus know I go batshit crazy over shopping, so when the two are combined, I will put my agoraphobia on the back burner and venture out for a little open-air retail therapy. Fortunately for me, I live in Portland; and between the months of May and October, you can't swing a dead hipster in this city without hitting a farmer's market; so if the weather is being particularly un-douchelike, and I have a willing accomplice, then to market, to market I go.

While my socially-conscious friend Kelly is into all of that liberal, hippy-dippy, locally grown shit, and my asshole friend Gina likes to go anywhere she can mock that liberal, hippy-dippy, locally-grown shit, neither one of them share my mad love for honey sticks and cider presses.  My best friend, Curtis, however, has the dual distinction of being an avid foodie, and one of the few people willing to be seen with me in public, so he and I made a pilgrimage to the Portland Farmer's Market last weekend.


Wending our way past the requisite hemp vendors and didgeridoo players. . .*

*Yes, I said "playerS".   As in plural.   As in "more than one".   Welcome to Portlandia.

. . .we made our way to the Delphina's bakery stand, where the pretzel sticks taste as though they are imbued with the blood of unicorns and pixie dust, and the vendor bore a striking resemblance to Adam Levine.  Check and mate.

Curtis selected his bread with great intensity.  When it comes to food, that man has a single-minded focus that would make an autistic air-traffic controller flinch.

"Dude, seriously."  I moaned.  "It's bread.  Less thought went into the Warsaw Pact."  Ignoring Curtis' withering glare, I decided to go for the distraction technique.  "Oh my God!"  I cried, grabbing Curtis' arm for emphasis.  "Did I tell you that I saw Osama Bin Laden at my gym this week!?!?"

Curtis pulled his gaze from the bread sticks (and the hot vendor) and squinted at me dubiously.  "I'm sorry, I couldn't quite understand you with all of that 'crazy' clogging my ears.  You saw. . .Osama Bin Laden. . .at your gym?"

"I swear it was him."  I nodded emphatically.  "Sure, they CLAIM he's dead, but that's just the perfect cover now, isn't it?"

Curtis rolled his eyes.  "OK, ease up Jessica Chastain.  Please tell me you didn't go all 'Zero Dark 24 Hour Fitness' on his ass."

"Pfft!  I played it cool."  I said with a dismissive wave of my hand.  "That being said, I still reserve the right to call Homeland Security if I catch him constructing a weapon of mass destruction in the Pilates studio."

"Honey, with the government as fucked up as they are, you're better off calling Jessica Chastain."  Curtis drawled.

I nodded in agreement.  "Valid point.  And let's not totally discount Claire Danes.  I mean, I've never actually SEEN an episode of 'Homeland', but two Emmys and a shit-ton of Golden Globes can't be wrong."

"Word."  he affirmed, giving the vendor three dollars and a flirty smile.*


*Whore.

Continuing on, I watched as Curtis fed his raging oniomania by purchasing ten pounds of apples, the James Deen of parsnips, two bottles of blackberry wine, two loaves of bread, and enough peaches to gag a yeti.

"Ummm. . .Curt?"  I queried, gesturing at the Mount Kilimanjaro of produce now before us.  "How exactly do you propose we get all of this to the car?"



Because. . .shit.  Really!?!?


Grinning smugly, Curtis appraised my arm muscles.  "I don't know.  You're small. . .but wiry."

I snorted in disbelief, waving a hand at the bounty before us.  "Wiry or not. . .and thanks!  I've totally been working out. . .we're looking at about eighty ponds of food here.  That's going to be like hauling an Olsen twin uphill for six blocks."

Curtis rolled his eyes dramatically.  "We'll do it in shifts, you pussy.  And I'm sure I won't hear you complaining when I hook a bitch up with some peach jam."

"For your peach jam, I will gladly be your sherpa, Mister Shackleford."  I said with a gallant curtsy.*

*Yeah.  I curtsy. . .in public.  Hence the Curtis-is-one-of-the-few-people-willing-to-be-seen-with-me rejoinder.

"Good."  Curtis smirked.  "Because I'm getting a couple gallons of that cider too."


Groaning inwardly, I reached past Curtis to snag an apple cider sample. "So, the other night I told Nathan that I'm a Republican.  Pretty sure I'm dead to him now."

"The truth would have come out eventually."  Curtis stated solemnly.  "The first time he caught you watching FOX News or saw your extensive collection of firearms the jig would be up."

I tossed my paper cup into the trash with a sigh.  "I't'll be tough to convince him that I don't spend my spare time bombing abortion clinics and night-sticking the queers."

"You don't? Well, shit. . .there goes next weekend's plans."  Curtis quipped as he walked over to the next produce stall and gave a little squeal.  "Ooh!  Italian artichokes for two dollars?  I have GOT to get some of those. . .and that kale is GORGEOUS!"  He stopped, turning to face me gravely.  "Oh God.  I just totally out-gayed myself, didn't I?"

"Like a drag queen on Pride Week."  I grinned, popping a hazelnut into my mouth.

Curtis shrugged, tossing a gallon of cider into his bag.  "Meh, whatevs. . .I own my shit."

As we made our way back to the apple vendor to begin walking the Green Mile back to my car with a hundred pounds of grub we were passed by a young woman who loudly informed her friend "I'm, like, totally immune to naked men.  Like, they don't even faze me anymore..."

Curtis and I stared at one another in silence for a moment before he slowly shook his head.  "You know, people watch 'Portlandia' and think they know. . .but they have no idea."

"I don't understand how one can become IMMUNE to nude men."  I pondered.  "Immunity implies that you are resistant to something.  If I ever become resistant to naked men then please kill me."

Curtis chuckled.  "Things you only hear in Portland."

"C'mon, Portlanders aren't any weirder than anyone else!"  I laughed.  At that moment we were passed by two men in matching 'Diff'rent Strokes' T-shirts.

The taller one turned to his friend and stated with a world-weary sigh, "Let's get out of here so we can meditate and make some candles."

I turned to Curtis and shook my head slowly.  "Touche."





xoxo,

Jen

6 comments:

Laura said...

Nathan? as in Fillion? who is Nathan... Did I miss something? :D

Jennifer Clark said...

I would totally be seen with you in public. I lived in SF for 7 years;nothing you describe is all that outrageous, viewed thru my filters. In fact, I sorta miss the show of fabulous humanity. Mayberry is revoltingly respectable/boring. Plus, peaches and cider?! Yum!

Jen said...

Laura, Nathan is a new friend. Well, an old friend, but lately a closer friend. He got his pseudonym because he has a fabulous little Fillion smirk. :)

Valerie said...

People think they're immune to naked men until they try to find the ballsack of a 600 lb man. Then shit gets real.

Hugs!

Valerie

tbunni said...

Valerie - Your comment has my mind spinning with conjecture. Please, please, PLEASE enlighten us as the origin of that thought. There has GOT to be a story behind that one!
And if there is not - and you're just fucking with our minds - we'll never speak to you again. (sniff, nose firmly planted in the air)

C'mon, elaborate already!!!!

Kelly said...

Did you tell him about your love triangle of Hannity and Miller? Didja? ;)