kern[el]s of corn

My new neighborhood is proving to be the perfect match for me. Between its easy access to downtown, proximity to the grocery store and walking distance to many great restaurants, I feel as if I've finally found home here on the west coast. It's been a hard love to find but as it goes with anything great in life, sometimes it's best when you wait on it.

So here I find myself in the Kerns Neighborhood of Portland, OR. It's an odd shaped neighborhood that looks like the state of New York. We have VooDoo Doughnut Too, the Screendoor, Pambiche, & Ken's Artisan Pizza. If you're into music, we have Laurelthirst and the Doug Fir. Okay. That's a lie. A white one. The Doug Fir is across the street from the Kerns Neighborhood (it's in Buckman) but who's looking this stuff up? Bottom line, I feel like I'm in the middle of everything without having to live downtown. It's my "South End" of Portland. And if you know me, you know that makes me as happy as a warm kitten.

The neighborhood seems to be filled with young professionals. And yeah, there's the occasional family home but for the most part the area is flooded with apartments. What fills the apartments seems to be more of a treat than the spice cake you can pick up at Starbucks on 28th and Burnside.

Molly, my black lab, and I walked down to the park to play an early morning game of fetch. On our way back, we saw four individuals that reminded me of the crazy rednecks from my hometown of Belton, TX. They were hauling stuff out of an apartment into a 1978 Ford F-100 pick-up and looked to be in a chaotic rush to do it. Later on in the afternoon, I went for another walk and saw shattered glass all over the street. What were these people up to? Well, my friends, I had just witnessed hell's fury. Or shall I say...the wrath of a woman.

As I blog, you will hear a lot about the people at the Volvo repair shop. There's a couple we assume live within the shop and work during the day. Bill & Mary are simple people who spend their evenings sitting outside the shop, watching the world go on. They're nice enough to say hi to me when I walk by but grounded enough to talk to the rehab women across the street. So ...yes... the wrath of a woman.

Mary had informed one of the girls in my apartment building that a woman in a fit of rage had moved out of her apartment this weekend. Her boyfriend had cheated on her and within 14 hours, she had her stuff moved out. Fourteen hours is a short time to move out so you can only imagine the damage and junk left behind. The curb was littered with stuff she didn't take with her. And anything glass that belonged to her boyfriend (ahem....ex-boyfriend) now laid in shards in the middle of the street. She signed her Dear John letter oh so craftily. Among the cars parallel parked on the street was one that didn't stand a chance. Mary could only assume this car belonged to the cheater because, you see, the car now possessed a gruesome dent.

Moral of the story, don't cheat.