a few of the things we want

Last week my friend Alanna and I went to see a singer-who-will-not-be-named. I was feeling like doing laundry and going to bed early, but we are party animals so we went. I brought an apple to eat while we waited for the concert to start. That sentence is both a fact AND a hint at who the concert was. I'm trying to eat five fruits and vegetables a day lately.

Fast-forward through the normal parts of a concert that involve singing and clapping to the part where someone in the audience yelled something not very nice, and everything immediately went off the rails. The guy doing lighting saw an opportunity and started shining spotlights on people yelling in the audience, and on the singer, who was yelling back. Pretty soon the only people who weren't yelling were me, Alanna, and the sweet older couple sitting next to us.

It was definitely the most uncomfortable I've been at a concert, and once at a concert in college the man next to me kept grabbing my butt because he thought it was his girlfriend's.

I wanted to leave and get started on my laundry and not have to deal with the spotlights and the fighting but we were worried someone would see us leaving and scream at us.

Finally the singer announced that she was too upset to sing anymore. It seemed like a weak excuse, the other day I did a conference call for two hours even though I had to go to the bathroom the entire time, which seems like a bigger deal than being upset. I guess that is one way I know I am not famous. That and the only people who recognize me consistently are a cashier at Whole Foods and the bus driver who saw me jaywalk once.

"So ___ all of you, this show is ___ing over I never wanted to do it anyway!" said the singer.

"Oh dear, now that's really a shame." said the sweet older lady next to me.

"You again." said the bus driver who saw me jaywalk once. I really need to start taking a different bus.

almost too healthy.

"We're so excited you're here today," my nurse said, while she strapped that horrible thing to your arm that tests how tightly they can squeeze you before your arm falls off, and also checks your blood pressure.

"Doctor Anderson told me you were coming in, and I asked what we were doing and he said we'd need some bloodwork and I said 'Oh no. This is going to be a disaster.'"

Can we take a minute, or thirty minutes because that's how long it takes to check blood pressure, to talk about how much I hate the word bloodwork? You're a nurse, not a construction crew. What are we working on? All you're doing is taking blood out of my body. Is showering dirtwork? Is nausea barfwork? Is a traffic accident safetywork? This metaphor has gone too far but you get the idea.

"This is going to be a complete disaster." she repeated. "I told everyone in the office and we've all been talking about it all day."

The fact that a nurse I only vaguely remembered was so familiar with my phobias was only mildly unsettling and it didn't make me feel any sicker than I already felt (which was definitely barfwork level). We walked around a corner and saw two more nurses who I promise I had never seen in my life.

"Brooke!" said one complete stranger.

"Our favorite fainter!" said another complete stranger.

They held up three different kinds of juice. For some reason I chose the one that stained the easiest.

Aside from their (friendly?) threats to punch me in the face if I moved and "laugh immediately and literally talk about it for months" if I passed out again, the nurses at my doctor's office are ok. I got bloodwork done and it was not the worst thing. And they gave me the dinosaur tape and they gave me a new piece when I accidentally ripped it off in a moment of panic.

And they were really nice when I spilled red juice all over the carpet.

I don't know why they have carpet in a hospital. If I start coming any more often I'm sure they'll be switching to linoleum soon.

Anyway the good news is I'm the healthiest!

fool me once

When I walked across Spain for a week I met a lot of people who had never heard of Portland, which at first I thought was fair. Not everyone needs to know about Portland. "Is it near New York City?" they always asked.

It's literally as far away from New York City as you can possibly get in the continental US.

"I really want to go to New York City." said everyone on earth.

Then three South African girls invited me to walk with them for the rest of my trip. Five days of walking with me means I slowly provide more and more facts about the city I live in, and the facts get stranger and stranger, less and less possible, until you realize the city must be imaginary, and I am most likely a compulsive liar, and I am probably going to murder you and your friends in the Spanish countryside.

Here are true but made-up-sounding things I will tell you about "Portland" as we walk:

Forests remind me of Portland! Cats remind me of Portland! So does sun. So do clouds, and mountains. My favorite thing in Portland is probably the ocean.

In Portland people don't eat meat, or anything from animals.

In Portland people ONLY eat meat, it's a diet inspired by cavemen.

In Portland I lived in a high-rise building full of professional basketball players. There are no street performers, only people selling a homelessness newspaper for a dollar. There are chickens everywhere. I get free shoes, yogurt costs a fortune. There's a giant birds' nest with bad air circulation. If you want breakfast you have to wait in lines three hours long. Most food is served in trucks. There are hazelnuts everywhere.

The more I told them true stories that sounded like poorly-crafted lies the more I realized how unbelievably great Portland is - we have the ocean and chickens and cereal-flavored ice cream and everyone needs to know about it. Because you can go to Spain or South Africa or outer space and there probably aren't very many cities as good. I will go, and I will look for them, and I will let you know.

In Portland my friend Boaz hosts a talk show attached to a bicycle and if you believe that then you are the most gullible person on earth,

and you should sign this

petition for it to be on the television show Portlandia.

And then visit Portland!

After you go to New York City

.

Super is the same in both languages.

Super old men in France will talk to anything slow enough, and when I'm waiting for something I'm slow enough. The other day I was waiting in a park and an old man wearing about four sweaters came and wanted to chat, about how great my nose is, and where I learned French, and if I have ever lived in a desert and what I think of souls.

"I'm going to be honest." he said. "If I had a time machine and could be a young man again, and if you lost some weight, I would ask you to marry me right now on the spot."

"That is super honest." I said.