Excess at its Most Inappropriate

I am so full from Ethiopian food that (if I could) I would purge it all to give my organs breathing room.

And that, I believe, is the definition of a culturally insensitive statement.


But it doesn't make it any less true.

Half-Assed Reviews: The Terminator and Brothers Bloom

Go away!

No, I don't mean it. I just don't want to share my beer. I only have 7 of them left and they have to last.

Seriously though, I want an award. Time was I couldn't post three lines about weeds in the forest without getting some made-up blogger award. I liked it. Made me feel special. Made me feel read. Made me feel like I was impacting the world in a really profound and insignificant way. No, that was not a typo. I was just being clever there. The kind of clever that used to win me blogger awards.

So come on you people who know how to both blog and work the microsoft paint program that comes standard with your operating system! Craft me an award! I need validation! And an air conditioner, hell's balls, is it overly warm in here!

Ok.

Half-Assed Movie Review time! You like that?! I've got two re-occurring gimmicks now. Watch out! I'm almost professional! If I could just learn how to properly tag things, I'd have this shit LOCKED DOWN.

Shut up. Here we go!

The Terminator
You may or may not have heard of this movie. You may or may not know that its star, who's cup size must be close to my own, is currently the governor of California. And completely and totally solely responsible for the upholding of Prop 8. I think it's because he hates himself. Man, I speak so much truth!

Anyway! I've already seen this movie but it was years ago and on TV so I missed all the good bits. And to be honest, this time around I fell asleep during the sex scene, so when she showed up preggo at the end (um, spoiler alert?) I was all...'when did they do it?'.

But what I really want to say about this movie is that it is the ONLY film I have EVER seen that didn't include a single actor from any era of Saturday Night Live AND had a character that SERIOUSLY used the term "your mama" as a come back. 4 stars. ****. Those are asterisks but some cultures would totally call them stars.

The Brothers Bloom
I saw Brick a couple times in the theatres (classy sp). As a HUGE fan of Noir and The Maltese Falcon, it tickled me pink. Or noir. And I much preferred it everything else in the world for a very short amount of time. No this has nothing to do with the fact that I want to chew on Joseph Gordon-Levitt. I really thought it was clever!

The Brother's Bloom, not so clever. Adequately clever is the best I'd give it. I don't know if there's a star(asterisk) equivalent to that. I'm going to say it's more like this: **^^. The best parts of the film were Rachel Weiz and that chick from Babel. Bang Bang was her character's name. They had the best lines. Yes, I attribute that sentence to both of them (for those who've already seen it). I'd already been warned that it was a Wes Anderson-riddled homage...but really I didn't find that to be the case, which was a blessing, because I didn't want to have to choke(dislike) a bitch(the director). The plot was hackneyed and the characters trite, but it was all very pretty.

I will say this for the film, though, and I believe this sums up my opinion aptly:

The consistent use of capes was fantastic. I was 100% behind it. It's very possible that there was some actual metaphor involved about how everyone has something to hide, etc. But I don't even care. I just love capes. And I don't think that's wrong.

So there you have it; some more half-assed movie reviews to help you decide how to spend your free time. Don't even pretend I don't influence that.

Herbs of Shame

If you dye your thumb green, is that the same as being born with it? I canNOT keep my goddamn plants alive. Why is this so hard? People have entire acres of living greenery...why can't I keep six herbs going?! The cilantro will be laid to rest this afternoon. The basil is not far behind it.

Green extremities gives me a sudden urge to quote The Big Lebowski. "I can get you a toe."

I haven't felt much like blogging lately. The usual excuses and an occasional hatred of the internet all apply. When I would normally be totally open to blogging about things that piss me off, the things in question have been either overly mundane or not for general audiences. Like birth control. But then Rachel blogged about birth control and I find myself emboldened by this. Besides, I'm at my wit's end. They have an end, you know. It kind of looks like a frayed cable after a rat has chewed on it.

Anyone sensitive to TMI factors should just stop reading here.

My chestses have gotten out of control. They've gone the exact opposite way of the cilantro. I don't know what color that makes my thumb. It's all a very strange line of ponderance.

Anyway.

To put it subtley, I haven't been able to wear a top like this since around the age of 15 (when I wouldn't have been caught dead in one anyway):

Likewise, halter tops are forever beyond my reach. And even the IDEA of going without a bra makes my back hurt. Some of it is genetics.

But most of it is from hormonal birth control.

I've been on some form of it since I was a teenager. That's also how long I've been attemping to keep ovarian cysts at bay. I think they started around 14, back when it was odd for someone so young and they kept trying to blame my appendix. Silly medical professionals.

Any woman that's ever had an ovarian cyst burst knows that HURTS LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER. Any dude that's had an appendix inflame or rupture can get the idea. There were many trips to the ER. before realizing there was no point. Then doctors realized that the Pill could help prevent them from occurring, and I was all, "YES!"

Fast forward several years where several different versions of the Pill, the Ring, the Patch, the Shot and a witch doctor-brewed Tea were all tried with nasty nasty side effects resulting. And as any woman knows, when you change a type, you go through a weight gain and some mood swings.

So I was all "fuck this" and went off it. That lasted about three years...until last October when I went back into the hospital thinking I was exploding on the inside. Since then, I've already had to change the type of Pill once. Result? I need all new bras. But the current size has finally reached the 'not sold in generic stores' status. I've officially gone porn star-sized. It's extremely depressing. I don't even know where porn stars shop. There's not a large number of them in my circle of friends. Hopefully some of you do.

So there's my "poor me" rant. My choices are the equivalent of an appendicitis on a monthly basis or ballooning lovely lady lumps. And I don't like it one bit.

I'm sorry for any mental images that might have inspired.

And any small-chested women who read the above and try tell me to stop my whining...that women pay for things like this, etc. will be given a double espresso and a puppy to take home.

Wait, that's the wrong sign.

You got to blame it on something...

Yes indeed, folks, it's that time of year again. Time for a post from yours truly thanks to my sibling counterpart. She metaphorically twisted my literal arm.

I'm just so out of it in so many ways these days. What with all the facebooking/twittering/blogging/whatnotting going on, I just can't keep up with you people. Seriously, where do y'all find the time?

I was so with it back in the day, back in 1995...man, I was cutting edge! I had an email pen-pal from Finland back before most people knew what email was. Back when it was spelled with a dash between the e and the m. Hubby and I met online that summer--this was in the early days of internet chat rooms, the days of dial-up and Prodigy (remember Prodigy?) and AOL was in its hideous infancy. There was no YouTube, no Google, no 4Chan, no Craigslist, no eHarmony...you get the picture. I was a freaking pioneer of the Internets! I damn near invented them! Or not.

Anyways...so what happened??? How did I get so far behind? I could blame the chillin's, they do suck up the majority of my spare time at the moment, but it's really not all their fault. It's not you guys, dear readers--you guys are great, really. I have to say I think I'm just getting internet-weary. Or lazy. Ok, both. It's all I can do just to keep up with commenting on this blog, which I think you'll all agree is the cream of the blog crop.

Long story short (or longer), I guess you shouldn't expect another post from me till next year when my sister threatens me with a metaphorical indian rug burn.

More About Things I Hate

About a block away from my office is a Thai place that is called Somethingorother Restobar. Get it? It's a restaurant AND a bar.

I didn't get it at first either. I thought it was someone's name. Then I got it and it made me angry. I believe that to be the correct reaction.

Now, they're finishing up a Courtyard Marriott across the street from the office. There's a bar on the first floor. The glass shelves and tap levers taunt me as I go in and out. And next to it is a restaurant. Only it's not called a restaurant. It's called a "Dinerant". It makes me want to hit things. I'll tell you why...both of those titles are the definition of indecision to me. Indecision is paramount to puppy violence in my book.

Shut up, it's my book.

A diner is a diner and a restaurant is a restaurant and neither the twin shall meet. Or however the saying goes. I don't get to be a shemale. I have to choose. Or, rather...I don't get to choose. Bad example. But you see where I'm going.

Is this a trend anywhere else? Or is Portland the only city filled with idiots who think they're edgy but really are just idiots? I need to know so I can figure out where to move.

Let's Not Mention This Again

I just did a full-on instantly choreographed salsa/modern dance routine to Yma Sumac. No it's not because I'm drunk.

Ok, maybe a little. Don't judge.

Either way, I hope you know who Yma Sumac is. Because that's essential.

My girls and I usually get together every Sunday to watch True Blood or Flight of the Conchords or something else not gotten via cable. We drink wine and talk shit and what have you.

The last couple of Sundays have been impromptu parties that include sig. others and they get huge and loud and drunken. Tonight's was no exception.

See exhibit A.
Consumed by a small group of people, plus some beer and vodka, and what you get is impromptu salsa dancing to Yma Soumac. I'm telling you.

Anyway, what I'm trying to say without any spelling mistakes is that there's never any reason to dread a Sunday if you've got lots o' wine and Marc Bolan on your ipod ready to burst forth,

I hate myself right now, so I'm gonna go ahead and take off. Please just refer to the cutsieness of the previous post and pretend that this one didn't happen.

kara out.

Happy Anniversary...I Want Jewelry

This is my 359th post.

I've never stuck with anything this long. It's nice to know it can be done. This means both my cat and my boyfriend can hope.

With this being a huge ass milepost and all, I figured I'd blog the hell out of a post just for yous alls.

But I haven't anything to say, really.

So I'll talk about this hat.
This beautiful piece of frippery has graced my desktop for about a week now. Every time I get stressed or pissed off at work, I close all my windows and just gaze at this beauty until my breathing goes back to even. It works like a puppy calendar.

As for the details of the piece, I can only assume this woman is English. Only the English would dare to risk irreversible damage to late-in-life neck muscles in the name of fashion. It's too cosmo for those of us across the pond, even in its ridiculousness. And we do ridiculous...anyone who's ever seen a picture of that headwear that attends the Kentucky Derby can attest to this.

The real question is, if that hat appeared on my doorstep one day (via air where it would need to purchase two seats), would I wear it?

What do you think?

In the meantime, find a moment this weekend amidst your ballyhooing to pause and raise a glass of whatever to toast Condi's hair...both her actual hair and this blog, as one would not exist without the other...and here's to another 359 posts filled with absolutely nothing of value. And some more run-on sentences. I know I'M excited.

I Want This Picture In My Passport

This is me when I got home from work today. Perhaps the dark colors mask it, or maybe I just wear 'drowned rat' exceedingly well...but if you look closely, you can see what happens when you scoot home from work as your city tries to drown you. If you're really clever and somewhat anal, perhaps you'll notice that there are rainboots by the door there. With cherries on them. I didn't wear them on my scoot. Instead I wore leather heels. That old joke regarding God and his handing out of brains suddenly comes to mind.

Or maybe it was St. Peter. Does St. Peter allocate brains? Or just entrance into the gates of heaven? I can't keep my Christian story times straight.

Now I'm all changed into stretchy things and my shit's drying by the fire and I get to watch the sky flood from the safety of my wine glass. And the house smells like stew. Life could be worse, I'm telling you.

I'm here to do a rare music review. If Devon still reads this thing, I expect him to choke on his beer at the following.

I can't stop listening to Bon Iver.

Normally I hate this sensitive indie bullshit. It's a well known fact. Anyone mentions the name Death Crap for Cutie and they're in for a tirade. And don't even get me started on Iron and Wine. If you're ONE dude with no band, you're just Iron. You're NOT Iron AND Wine.

I've made a few exceptions before now, namely Pinback and Grizzly Bear, but have mainly stuck to my guns. Until now. I can't stop listening to this album. I couldn't even tell you what it's called, but thanks to iPods, I don't have to know. It really is hypnotic. But you can put it on in the background of just about any event. Or...just sit staring at the wall, fully absorbing it. So versatile! This music is the black pencil skirt of sensitive indie rock.

Looking at the above, I really don't understand why no one pays me to write music reviews. Where the fuck are you, Rolling Stone?! My talent is wasting away over here!

And everybody say happy b-day to Brendan who is now the age I was way back in February. I wonder if he'll ever catch up.

I'm off to find a bible to look up whether or not rain is considered a plague.