Somebody Call Me the Whaaaambulance

I’m sitting unshaven and gritty in the lobby of a posh Portland Hotel, The Benson. At least the WIFI is free here. Though checkout is at Noon, when I came back from walking my wife to her conference to shower and clean up at 9 AM, I found the maid had already torn the room apart and ditched all the towels and soap. She didn’t speak English and just smiled at me. Wouldn’t let me back in the room, either.

Last night at Mama Mia’s I asked for a salad very light on the dressing as my main dish. It was slathered in some nasty creamy concoction that made me think I ought to be wearing latex to touch it. My damn hearing aids couldn’t even pick up the alarm on my iPhone that was going off for 8 minutes in the restaurant. The waiter thought it would be funny to package all the salad in a to go box for me since I only ate the free range chicken and fair market avocado off the top of it. And I didn’t get to see the chicken’s or the avocado’s portfolio before it was served to me.

I am getting the “F” out of Portlandia and I suspect it is happy to see my sagging ass leave.

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