We had a very weird argument the other day. So weird, I asked Brendan what at artistic representation of the argument would've looked like if it existed. He drew it up and showed me. And it made me laugh for many many minutes.
Subject: Trail mix
Kara: ...and aside from two handfuls of your damn devil trail mix, I've eaten really well today.
Brendan: It's not even my trail mix anymore. You're the one mixing it now.
Kara: I do not mix it, I just empty containers when they're almost gone! You're the one always freaking out about ratios like it would be the worst thing ever to get a handful of raisins.
You know, this compostable bag from Sun Chips is freaking awesome. It appeals to my hippie-side (it's innate, being Oregon-grown). I mean, I buy biodegradable garbage bags off the internet. I freak out on B when he throws his Aveeno face wash containers away instead of recycling them. And I bring canvas bags to the grocery store. I know what I am and I've accepted it.
So, I'll admit that these bags are cool. And I'm really excited about them.
Except for one thing.
Sun Chips fucking suck. They taste like a soy bean blended with grain and flattened into a chip. They taste like an envelope made from recycled newspaper. They taste solid Kool-Aid before the sugar's added. They taste like how I imagine a treasure map would taste if I found it forgotten in an attic and then ate it. They taste like crap.
If only they could do the same thing with Doritos' packaging. Sadly, I don't believe that will ever happen. Because whatever chemical crack they put in/on those little pretties would probably eat through the bag like acid. So I have a choice to make. And I think you already know my choice.
A couple of months ago, I had this incredibly vivid dream about zombies. It was easy to figure out why....Shaun of the Dead had been on TV a lot, and I pretty much can't not watch it when it happens to be on. Still.
I was in my own neighborhood (with the obvious "dream" variations) with my family, friends and coworkers (at different points), and we were collectively attempting to escape via the normal escape-from-zombies channels. At one point, I am alone and cross a street to the opposite sidewalk. The sidewalk is garnished by some tall shrubbery from which two zombies suddenly emerge. I felt brave, for you see, I had crossed the street with a nice, big baseball bat in my clutches. I was gonna knock this sort of dead bastard's brain in.
I go in for the hit. And again. And again. His eyes do this kind of old school video game thing where the giant black pupils shrink to almost nothing. I know that if they disappear all together, he's a goner. But they don't...they start to shrink, but come back again. What the hell? I check my weapon to find that it's no longer a bat, but a plastic comb. The same one I use in the (waking) mornings to untangle my hair. I'm toast. Panic. Wake up. End scene.
It's 4:00 AM. Think about something else. Think about something else. So. Sleepy.
And back in zombie scenario.
That was months ago.
Last night, I go to bed way early, like, 10:30. No good reason - I've had some wine and watched a Ricky Gervais rom com (The Invention of Lying - not awesome, sadly). All harmless.
I'm in a house in the French countryside. All old world and ivy-ey. It's some sort of party...not wild, just like a dinner party or something. Weird stuff starts to happen...there are people outside and they're moaning and banging on the door and walls. We turn on the TV and yes...zombies. Damn.
It gets a bit fuzzy after that. There are some secret passages. Some "friends" lost. Somehow someone got a shotgun, but I think we lose them too..
Then I'm in a room and a zombie is attacking my friend. I have no gun, no bat, nothing. So I grab a pillow off a bed and try to smother the already-not-needing-oxygen corpse by pushing its head against the wall. Yes, the zombie is upright. No, it's not working.
It's not working at all. Shit. I'm toast. Panic. Wake up. End scene.
It's 4:00 AM. Think about something else. Think about something else. So. Sleepy.
Yeah - right back in it.
So what gives? I'm not one of those people who watches horror movies with glee. Not a huge Romero fan. I don't participate in the Portland Zombie Walk. Why am I having the most realistic and terrifying dreams I've had since childhood (and that one that I had from reading The Road) about being attacked by the undead?
Anyone have an idea? Thoughts? A dream encyclopedia?
I'm always curious to discover what other women consider sexy.
Let's take Robert Downey Jr. for example, shall we? Yes.
The 80's weren't his best era with that slight essence of ventriloquist dummy around the jaw line there...which lingered until he discovered cocaine and disappeared from the face of the earth for years and years. I am convinced that there are some men in this world who make deals with the very devil to age the way that they do. As if contained within rehab (or prison) there existed a kind of Opposite Day El Dorado where the fountain of youth just made you age beautifully. Gary Oldman drank from it...as did Tim Roth, Gabriel Byrne, Jon Stewart, etc. And so, apparently, did Robert Downey Jr. - who, upon his reappearance to the outside world - became the first actor (in my opinion) to successfully introduce a super hero to a the starting line-up of every woman's fantasy (as evidenced below - though I, personally, don't dig the sculpted facial hair). And then a HUGE downgrade. Not hot. FUNNY. Not hot. Oh now wait, but what is this. Could this be the culmination of all things desirable? Classic sexy fictional character, period garb, untamed facial scruff, post-coital tousled hair. A waist coat. Yes, I do believe this might be it.But I'm curious to know if you agree. And if not, why? Which RDJ is your RDJ? Young with a little baby fat and an innocent pre-penal twinkle in the eye? Impeccably groomed and somewhat pointy superhero? Um...black face? Or mad genius with a propensity for a dirty fight and a WAIST COAT?! Just curious.
Yes, I watched Sherlock Holmes tonight. How could you tell?
I got sad today. No, it wasn't because David Tennant is no longer Doctor Who. It's not because my tulips are starting to wilt. It's not even because I ran out of the good bread.
Today the space rocket (shuttle, whatever) Discovery (ironically named) shot into the sky with the passion of a last kiss. That visual doesn't work at all, does it. I will never be Nicholas Sparks. After this little intergalactic go-around, we (the US gov't) are going to turn the telescopes back toward Earth to try to save the glaciers or some such nonsense. I'd like to see how astronauts go about it. I imagine it will involve the technology behind freeze-dried ice cream. Insert indignation here.
It's not that I don't think science needs to focus on our global issues. I know they're important. I know it's, on some level, the right thing to do. But my heart bleeds (strong term, but can't think of a better one) for all those kids who grow up wanting to be an rocket man, burning up his fuse out there alone *cough*. But instead will end up going over geographical charts with geologists in a conference room labeled "The Sequoia Room" at the Hilton in Juno. You know?
I know this won't be forever. We'll go back into space. I mean, if I understand our future correctly through the genre of science fiction, we're all going to have to leave here at some point because nature will combine forces with germs and create a Day After Tomorrow meets I Am Legend trifecta (because there will also be a third thing) that can only be escaped via, well, escape pods to Mars. But I doubt it will be in my lifetime. And that's probably okay.
