Posted on by jsmith

Anthro(my a)pologie(s)

A couple ‘o posts ago, I told you that we needed to discuss my misadventures in Anthropologie last weekend.  As you may remember, I was on kind of an urban/hip high after booking some time at Voodoo and then Saturday Market in downtown Portland.  The New-NonWalmartish-Me lasted roughly two hours (and it was a great ride, my three faithfuls) until I left the domain of the riverfront Struggling Artist and walked a few blocks uptown into that of The Diabolically Rich Corporations.  All I can tell you is that when I stepped into Athropologie, three disturbing things happened:

1.  I was instantly aware of how out of style I was.  In sum:  Old Navy T-shirt, Old Navy hoodie, Buckle jeans–which were actually a splurge for me, but suddenly seemed cheap and tweeny next to the ninety-dollar T-shirts I was admiring.

2.  I was instantly aware of how broke I was.  (See above pp. re: Buckle jeans.) Read more

Posted on by jsmith

Rumplestiltskin was NOT a leprechaun

Was he? I say no, Derrick says yes. Who will you side with on this one, the English major or the engineer? (I’m counting on you, my three faithful readers…)
This little tiff aside, we had a happy St. Patty’s Day here. We don’t usually do much for this holiday (when you don’t drink, your options are pretty limited), but the girls really got into it and asked if we could do a special dinner and family night for it. So we cooked up some:
Corned Beef and Cabbage

It tasted better than it looks–honest. It was actually delicious.
Irish Soda Bread
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Posted on by jsmith

Follow the Yellow (or red) Brick Road

So here I am, precisely thirty-two hours after my last post, the dreamy escape to Portland already safely tucked into the past.  I was so excited for this little getaway that I actually got nervous as we drove out of town, because everyone knows that when a couple is that happy to leave town–and everything seems perfectly right with the world–they end up dying in a tragic car accident, leaving their children orphans to be raised by an indifferent distant relative.  That, however, did not happen.  And I’m glad, because one more day on this earth meant that I got to go to Voodoo Doughnuts.

I had not heard of Voodoo Doughnuts until 10 am this morning, when we finally rolled our already-chubby-but-soon-to-be-chubbier buns out of bed.  My husband mentioned that he’d heard Voodoo served the “ultimate” doughnuts and was something of a Portland landmark, so we made our way across the cheery red-bricked downtown streets, enjoying the crisp March weather.  We rounded the corner of 3rd Avenue and there it was:

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