Mad Hatter's tea party.

Today is my scheduled tea date with "Christian Mom". I don't know if the teashop is dog friendly; technically indoor places that serve food aren't. But I want there to be at least somebody I know, so I bring Isabel along in a water proof carrier that can pass as a purse if necessary. It's pink patent leather and incredibly LA looking, but at least I'm sparing Isabel the embarrassment of an umbrella. According to my mother, native Portlanders don't carry them.

Fortunately it has temporarily stopped raining so it's a nice walk. With Isabel's help I alphabetize our way backwards to Johnson Street, to Bobo Chai Tea or International House of Tea or whatever it's called.

Our destination is on the 2nd floor of a Victorian house/retail property. Walking upstairs is like walking upstairs in the Victorian house I lived in as a child. I open the door to what in a dream would be my mother's study, but in fact is Bozo Thai Tea (or whatever). My blind date, a woman from the Platonic Section of Craigslist, is not there yet. I extract money but not Isabel from my bag and order an iced Vanilla Rose Latte. I suspect it's going to be disgusting. It is. It is however sweet enough that I can drink it. I settle deep into an upholstered armchair in the teashop's artificial lounge. I pull out Isabel, prepared to stuff her back in the pink bag if necessary. She starts to spazz. No one objects. Not the girls knitting in the corner, not the frumpy transgendered woman in the armchair next to me. I figure we're good.

Christian Mom walks in; she's recognizable by the hot pink streak in her hair. Isabel flies out of our armchair to the adjoining couch and runs the length of it to greet her. This is apparently not a problem for the teashop, since Isabel has done this for everyone who's walked in.

Christian Mom is very nice. She is wearing a sweatshirt from her Alma Mater, a nursing school, and has the short haircut that doesn't necessarily mean one is lesbian, not in Portland. She shows me a picture of her little girl (cute), then a picture of the Intel "campus" where she works. She tells me Intel is a major employer out here. I try to piece it together with her nursing degree.

Is she like a school nurse for Intel employees, I ask? She is not insulted, she says, "very much like that", and then goes on to tell she me treats a lot of Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. I actually have this condition, though as a one time NewYorker I refer to it as "Holland Tunnel Syndrome". She shows me some Tunnel Syndrome resistance exercises. Regrettably, since my wrists are not double jointed, I cannot do them.

A man walks into the teashop with a German Shepherd/wolf looking dog. It is not a drug bust, he is just bringing his dog for tea. I feel better about bringing Isabel. Isabel loses it and from the arm of the couch starts barking at the German Shepherd. Fortunately, for this situation, she is debarked. I didn't do it, I adopted her that way. The German Shepherd ignores her and gets tea.

I sip on my bad but sweet enough tea and look around the room. The dowdy transgendered woman is on the phone with someone discussing getting tickets for The Bling Ring.

The teashop's so pretty that for the first time since arriving in Portland I feel sort of peaceful. Oddly, since I like pretty places, I've done very little to make my apartment one. This, after my mother shopped herself senseless for antique furniture I picked from Portland Craigslist when still in California.

My apartment is a pretty little 1920s brick row house and could in fact be as pretty as this tearoom. It could be, if I fully unpacked and didn't have boxes everywhere. But why should I, since it feels like a hotel room to me? I want to be back in California, with Leif my almost ex-husband and Spike and Isabel, our dogs.

The transgendered lady is off her phone now and asks to pet Isabel. Isabel tries to hump her arm. She is not fooled by the makeup and dress. Searching for conversation, and because I have a couple times, I ask the Christian mom if she minds cursing. She says she only minds "G D". I don't get it. She is forced to say it, “God Damn". The knitting girls and transgendered woman look offended.

The trandgendered woman successfully peels Isabel off her arm and hands her back to me. The Christian mom asks if I would like to explore the neighborhood. We do, approximately ten miles in both directions. Why is everybody in Portland so damn happy about walking? It seems odd after living in LA where people bitch about walking from their cars to the gym. It also seems odd given the climate. Sure enough, it starts to drizzle again. Christian Mom pulls up a hoody. I bag Isabel.