Shite happens

Fresh-cut flowers

A co-worker and I made plans to have lunch Wednesday, so when the noon hour approached yesterday I looked forward to getting some fresh air and strolling down to the farmers market just west of our office.

We followed our noses to Hoda's Middle Eastern booth and ordered garlicky chicken shwarma, then found ourselves a place to sit while the Portland Metro Youth Pipe Band performed a few songs on bagpipes for the lunchtime crowd near the Portland Center for the Performing Arts.

Afterward, I ambled through the labyrinth of booths laden with organic produce and eggs, gourmet cheeses and other good stuff. Bought myself a pound of bing cherries and a bouquet of flowers for Lori, then headed back to the office while my friend Cornelius split off to get a cup of coffee.

Back at my desk, I thought, "What a nice break from the routine." And I settled in to resume my work.

But then...a smell...and not a very good one. Looked down and there it was, a souvenir from the street. Fresh dog doo, filling the crevices of the waffle sole on my left shoe. Yecch.

Grabbed some paper towels and a plastic "spork" from a desk drawer and went to work on it. Unfortunately, no water hose nearby.

Now, I could have been in a sour mood, silently chastising the person who didn't clean up after his pet. But, in the spirit of making lemonade from lemons, I did a quick Facebook status update and took heart from the witty comments from friends far and near:


"It's local, and organic."
"Farm fresh, too."
"Crapola!"
And my favorite: "Shite happens."