I’ll admit that the title of this post falls squarely – probably deeply – into the “too soon” category. Alas…when has that ever stopped me?
Anyway, the price is simply that I bring OJ. Not a terrible deal, since an egg breakfast in this town will run you $15, easy. Still not a bad deal, even knowing that the Fox prefers the OJ from our neighborhood Brodega, which runs $6.99 for 24 oz.
Brodega: Chrisism for she-she over-priced neighborhood markets that cater to a crowd with more wealth than desire to mix with the riff -aff at the nearby Safeway.
So, I wander out at 8:00 with my mission. And $22 in my Levis.
That last part is important because:
Math + Peppy Blondes + Early Morning = Grumpy Old Man
It’s simply an unavoidable universal truth. Quite beyond my control.
I go to the checkout to pay for my juice and the cashier comes skipping over. Pretty, young, blonde…your basic nightmare. Speaking of “too soon”, it’s too early for this level of enthusiasm.
Really, it’s the excessive display of energy at this early weekend hour that bugs me. Not the display of excessive energy. See the difference?
This is when I encounter the $22 in my pants.
I give her the $20 and am met with, “Oh! I’m out of $1s!” Great delivery…I really thought the world was ending.
Now, being someone who is was raised to show his work when it comes to math, I’m not terribly surprised to see the shadow of confusion flicker across her face as I offer her my two $1 bills, hoping against hope that she will give me $5.01 in change instead of making me wait for her to replenish her supply.
There’s breakfast on the line, woman! She should know how seriously we Portlanders take our breakfast…ok, any meal in this town before 2:00 on a weekend is collectively referred to as brunch, even if it doesn’t involve alcohol. We’re renegades.
“It’s ok, I got it” she proudly declares. Obviously convinced she had saved the world; she drops two $1 bills, four quarters and a penny on the counter. I scoop my change up like panties (not hers, just a colloquial set of underwear…) off a stranger’s floor on an early weekend morning while working on my glaring side eye. I really hate pocket change. I consider any day that ends with me dropping more than $1 in loose coin into my change can to be a low-grade failure.
As I’m leaving the store, pocket jingling, the Fox texts that there’s no hurry since his houseguest is still sleeping.
I could have waited for her break before making my purchase. Speaking of which, where was my hot, hipster cashier, anyway?
So, I come home, refrigerate that OJ and begin my bitch-blog. This is quite a therapeutic process. I get about two paragraphs in before the Fox texts me that I can come anytime, breakfast is ready to be plated. It’s been maybe five minutes since his previous text. I give my phone a deadpan glare for delivering this traitorous message as my creative juices started boiling, chug my monster, save the post and head out.
Forgetting the OJ in my fridge.
And for all of you who know me well – or know that there’s no such thing a free breakfast in Portland – yeah…when I got the invite given the circumstances listed above, I made this face:
But the Fox being so uniquely the Fox and just an awesome human, I wasn’t exposed to three thousand vacation pictures with my eggs and coffee. No, I walked in with my recently retrieved $6.99 OJ and was greeted with a great breakfast scramble, delicious coffee and a counter full of Cuba-swag that my best friend had brought home for me.
But there was no cheese in the eggs, so I think we know who paid the real price here.