Condi's Hair

Anyone Else Want to Measure My Inseam?

2011-08-15T16:57:00.000-07:00

I got back recently from a smashing week in Boston where I ate my weight in lobster tail (if I weighed 2 lbs and who the fuck are you to say I don’t) and saw all sorts of magical historical nonsense that made me feel weirdly patriotic, ate a ton of good food and had an overall good time. Never really been one to explore the native land, so I haven't actually been to the East Coast (except NY) and sometimes it really is worth the ridiculously long flight to hear some accents in person (as opposed to Ben Affleck movies).

The fact of the matter is, it was kind of amazing to stand and stare at the 3 story building that once housed the city hall in the 1700s where the Declaration of Independence was signed, perfectly preserved with towering glittery sky scrapers all around it. It’s a juxtaposition that inspires some actual appreciation of where we started and where we are now.

And then I went to the airport.

The full body scanners have been around for several months now. Whenever I fly home from Atlanta for work, I am faced with the possibility of having to have some stranger sitting in a box (where I can't see them) look at me naked to ensure I’m not carrying a weapon up my ass. But it's never happened. I've always been waved the other way and heaved a sigh of relief.

Not so in Boston. They waved me over to the Naked Cancer Machine ™. There was another man in front of me who seemed to be waiting for some reason, so like a good American, I lined up behind him. Because neither of us were actually going through, the TSA agent (female) looked at me and said “Oh, are you opting out too?”

I said “Oh, I didn’t know I could opt out. But if I can then yes, I’m opting out”.

She said “Well of course you can opt out, it just means you’ll be subject to a full body search by a female agent.”

So through the regular detector I went and then had to spread eagle on a mat in front of a bunch of strangers wandering to and from flights. I think she noticed how red my face was and asked "do you want a private search?"

"No." I replied, as her hands roamed ALL OVER my body "I want to stay here."

My eyes met Brendan's. He looked so angry. I've never seen him look so angry. And immediately I teared up. It was humiliating. I couldn't ever have guessed how humiliating it would be. But I thought that it was good that people stared as they walked by. Hopefully it helped remind them of the actual "cost" of our "freedom". And that seeing me or anyone else being groped (or naked) won't ever stop crazy people from doing crazy things.

The thing that made me so sad though was I'd just spent a week learning about where and how my country began. How it started as this tiny land of idealists (with some fucked up ideas, don't get me wrong) who nursed the little democracy, slowly trying to undo its own initial injustices one amendment at a time until it grew into a proper country. Only to culminate in me being felt up in front of strangers at an airport against my will.

It made me want to get a drink, but public consumption of alcohol is illegal.

In other news - the front running Republican candidate declared that she supports the Biblical philosophy that wives should be submissive to their husbands. I hope he at least helps loosen her whalebone corset in the evenings.

Insert Penis Joke Here.

2011-06-10T20:30:00.000-07:00

Like everyone else, I'm tired of hearing about Anthony Wiener and the pictures of his wiener. Ok, maybe not like everyone else because it's still EVERYWHERE. Here's my issue with this issue.

It's not a fucking issue.

Except that it is. And no one is more guilty of making it into an issue then Wiener himself (not to be confused with HIS wiener). First the denial, then the admission, followed by gooey levels of remorse and apology. So disappointing. So badly handled. So utterly avoidable...

This is what he should've said instead of "I'm sorry."

"IT'S NONE OF YOUR GODDAMN BUSINESS! Regardless of my marital status, if I want to send a picture of my impressively sized man meat to another consenting adult over the internet - what business is it of the public's! You don't know my life!"

He then could have added that his wife's knowledge (or consent or lack thereof) is something that is only between them. So since he's not engaging in anything illegal (i.e. prostitution) everyone else just needs to bugger off and let him get on with his day.

Boom. Done. The whole storm would be gone by now.

But no, instead he's getting pressure to step down from a position where he's doing a lot of damn good by other people who have most likely done something similar in the privacy of their own home. Screw that, I bet half of them have done something similar in the non-privacy of their office, the bathroom stall of a airport or somewhere else terrifyingly public. There's a reason why I refuse to use the computers at the library!

Anyway - there you have it. The reputation of another good politician totally ruined not by his deeds, but by his inability to own up to them. And that makes him a pussy.

But this is still awesome.

Head, Shoulders, Knees and I Fuckin' Give UP

2011-05-30T16:07:00.000-07:00

I kidnapped my friend's 10 year old a couple weekends ago. We had lunch at food carts and shopped around in junk stores and got our toes did. And all while doing so - I sought to understand the world of the pre-teen of now...

"What's hot now with the 4th graders?"

"Squinkies"

"Squinksies?"

"Squinkies. They're little animal and people shapes that come in clear plastic balls and you collect and trade them."

"What do you trade them for?"

"Other Squinkies. I only have a turtle 'cause I'm not that into them"

Realizing instantly that I have completely lost touch with today's youth, I had a moment's silence in memorandum for Garbage Pail Kids and kep the convo going only to discover that this particular 4th grader's suburban grade school no longer allows running at recess.

I had to ask her to repeat that. No running. No getting from the slide to the swings at a faster rate than a speed walk. Which means if someone else is heading for it at the same time, it will be the saddest race one could witness.

Around the same time, I was having brithday drinks with my awesome cousin who is a Phys Ed teacher at a middle school. Since there's been nothing but talk of cuts to education programs and staff, I plied her with liquor and hesitantly asked her if everything was kosher at her school. The good news was, she was still employed. The bad news was that she was no longer the Phys Ed teacher, but the Electives teacher. When I asked what that meant, she said she wasn't totally sure because they just cut a bunch of things including Health and Home Ec. Health would now be taught as part of P.E. and Home Ec was just out, period. I still have the Christmas shorts I made in Home Ec in 7th grade (circa 1992). They're...tighter...but they still fit. It's still my most successful sewing enterprise to date.

Another good friend - and 2nd grade teacher extraordinaire - just had a delightful little baby. I stopped by this weekend to bestow an ironic onesie and coo. I asked if she was looking forward to going back to work at all and her response was yes for the kids, not so much for the current environment. She went on to explain that the P.E. teacher had been forced to retire and now all the elementary classroom teachers had to include Phys Ed in their daily lesson plans. Music was also cut completely. Music. Fucking music. No recorders handed out to each student to take home and practice Hot Cross Buns and Somewhere Out There (Theme to An American Tale). What's truly tragic about this is I still remember the classical pieces of music that I fell in love with in 4th grade music class, Danse Macabre and Prokofiev's Peter and the Wolf.

Here in Portland a measure to raise property taxes to support schools just failed. I don't know if the measure was the right thing for the city, but I know the result will be less music, less physical exercise, less everything. It's starting to feel third world. I realize that's an extreme statement - but when considering we're the United States of Fucking America, I think it's appropriate.

I don't have kids yet. I don't mean that to sound like I've been trying to - I haven't. The reasons for this vary depending on the amount of wine I've imbibed on any given night. However the only explanation I'm willing to give here is that Brendan and I are still figuring ourselves out and until we do, it's just not happening. That being said - it's almost too depressing to contemplate. I know they're a blessing, they change your life, etc., but I imagine being in my friend's shoes when she's told that her child can't run on the playground and I just don't even want to do it.

That being said - I also woke up at 9:30 AM this morning. Something I very much enjoy.

I don't have any fixes - I don't know what the answer is. I have some ideas, but they'll never be reflected through my local or federal government body. So all I can do is sit on my balcony in the sunshine, drink a beer, rock out to Kanye and write a pissy blog. And I'll do it. Because this is America.

Nevermind, I don't know what the fuck that means. Maybe I've had too much of the beer.

Guest Blogging

2011-03-08T22:54:00.000-08:00

Where I am right now.

Joan

2011-02-10T18:23:00.000-08:00

I meant to show y'all my badass Joanie costume from Halloween! If you don't watch Mad Men, you should still know who this chick is because it's just important. To the world. And other places.

So anyway - this (see below) was the goal with only some hair dye, a vintage store and some excess winter weight to help me out.

The hair went full red. Sadly it didn't turn out as orange as I hoped, but the commitment was made. The incredibleness of this photo lies in the fact that I successfully fashioned a beehive with ALL MY OWN TODDLER HAIR. And a shit-ton of hairspray.I also made the earrings out of a weird set of pendants and some craft supplies found at the local Michaels. Hot glue 4 LIEEFE!

Here's the entire ensemble. You can't tell, but I even have a pen necklace (thank you, Etsy) and my turquoise shoes (thank you, Jessica Simpson...gah) flippin' MATCH my blue and green dress (found for $20 at the thrift store and is from the correct era except there was a weird bunching situation in the front that made me look pregnant when posing).
B got to be Han Solo this year because I made him be Ira Glass last year.

And then on top of it all - I was still able to do things like this, thanks to the help of drink.Yes - I'm holding B's laser shooter gun thing. It makes "pew!" noises.

Anyway - I was damn proud of that costume and since I tend to post a picture of what I go as every year - I didn't want you (dear Internet) to feel as though a part of you was missing for not knowing what I was for Halloween in October of 2010. The end.

This Exists - Part XXIII

2011-02-01T19:53:00.000-08:00

Do any of you get Daily Candy? It's a mailing list you can join where every day they tell you how to be cool by informing you about the music you should listen to, the clothes you should buy and the books you should read, etc. I've been on the mailing list for years and while I'd like to say it's because my job is in email marketing and I have to know about these things...it's really just that I need to know what music I should listen to, what clothes I should buy and what books I should be reading.

Once a week they send you a special newsletter with "Deals" for their subscribers. Today's included this:Aside from the obvious skepticism surrounding this being considered a "deal" - I find the following items concerning:

She calls herself "Psychic Girl". Is this the name of her business? Does it instill any faith? I mean if I'm going to put my future in the hands of anyone, it's going to be "Psychic Woman"

The "deal" is for 43% off. Why? And how might the discounted price affect the quality of the reading?

Her name, "Jusstine", has one "s" too many. Excess consonants are shady.

Jusstine is labeled as a "trusted" psychic. Trusted by whom? And can they also be trusted? Would I leave a puppy in their care? Tell them a secret? Ask them to hold my hand while I cross the street blindfolded?

In this day and age where everyone's trying to make a buck (or avoid gainful employment) I urge us all to question any and everything that is 43% off. Because really - nothing good can come from a discounted 6th sense.

Butt Yoga - A Christmas Tale

2010-12-16T18:17:00.001-08:00

Bikram yoga is the new antidote to everything. Go sweat it out for 90 minutes at a time in tree pose and you'll never get cancer, goiters or canker sores.

The room is 105 degrees at all times. I don't know what's magical about this temperature, but it causes tiny rivers of perspiration to follow little Oregon Trails down one's face, arms, back, legs and other places one shouldn't mention. Except I have to because the whole room stinks like unmentionables. Mainly because the men wear shorts like these: And the room is carpeted. CARPETED!

I'm not a huge exercise person anyway. I wouldn't be going to this place at all if I
a) didn't live 4 blocks away
b) didn't have such an affinity for holiday foods in large quantities
c) didn't consider yoga to be one of those "sports" you can half-ass your way through and still see results
d) didn't have a friend already enrolled and applying prohibition era mobster-like pressure

But being a known fainter, I was still scared. What if I'm bending back looking at the wall and - boom - I go down like an anvil on an accident-prone coyote? It's hard to get back up from that without looking not awesome. Like running for a bus. This was a valid concern. However I made it through the first class (while watching old hats occasionally crouch in the fetal position or run for the door with a green face). I even made it through the second. And then the third. And I'll tell you what, if you can get through it (and if you've ever spent a summer in Louisiana, you can get through it) - it makes eating two molasses cookies a day for breakfast all the sweeter.

However - it should come as no surprise that I remain a cynical yoga-ist. I refuse to do the stupid audible breathing and I refuse to say "namaste" at the end of class. There's maybe one brown body on average in that whole room and it just makes us all sound like paleface assholes. And if they don't like it (they don't) then they can passive aggressively suggest it so (they do).

This didn't have much to do with Christmas at all, did it. Poo.

So what's new with y'all? I joined a book club.

Hey.

2010-08-08T22:02:00.000-07:00

Lately my favorite thing to do in the whole world is ride my bike around late at night. Clear sky, wind in the trees, no cars so I can go through the stop signs - it's incredible. I can honestly say it's the only time my thoughts aren't racing. When my chest isn't tight. When I don't have a throbbing headache behind my left eye.

I don't have a whole lot to say that I want to hear myself say lately and I really can't bring myself to sit in front of a computer more than I already do against my will, so I'm going to step away for a bit. I don't know how to measure time in bits, so you'll have to guesstimate for yourselves what that means.

However - this blog will not be deleted. If your own blogs are overflowing with words and you want to store some of them here in a guestly posting capacity, you are openly invited to do so. Just email me a condishair@blogspot.com and I'll put your shit up, accompanied by the most inappropriate google image I can find. Don't deny me my amusement.

Anyone still following when I come back will be given a party. With streamers.

Half-Assed Movie Review: Inception

2010-07-18T22:46:00.000-07:00

This movie blew my fucking mind.

Symbolism, plot holes, Juno's scarves and the inability to believe Leonardo DiCaprio capable of being any manner of parent to small children aside - this is one of the most mind-rippingly beautiful movies I've seen in a considerable age.

I can't remember the last time I've cared to know how a movie was made. Well done, Nolan. Thank you for making me care again. For sewing up the hole in my heart with zero-gravity fight scenes and Joseph Gordon Levitt in a tie.

Disclaimer:
This review is more half-assed than usual since it just came out and I don't want to be guilty of doing a "he's dead the whole time" bit of douchebaggery, so that's all I'm saying.

Except this - it's difficult to make the name Arthur hot. And yet...

"I can no longer sit back and allow the international Communist conspiracy to sap and impurify all of our precious bodily fluids"

2010-07-15T22:18:00.000-07:00

I'm not blogging because my mother told me to. Really, I'm not. It's more that before now, I've been afraid of Russian spies reading my shit and taking my online internet secrets straight to the Motherland. I'm not having that.

But now it appears we're safe.

Listen Russia - we're all sorry that the good ol' days have gone softly into the night. They were good times. I get this. Great music, fabulous clothes, no one knew smoking was bad for you...and espionage everywhere. Like a fad. Everyone's the Third Man. I mostly blame this on the hats. How is it possible not to be up to something when you look like this:

Well the days of looking both stylish AND sinister are over.

Now people look like this:
That's your secret agent pool. What could you possibly learn from that? Is there a camera hidden somewhere in his man-tote so he can record everyone's bad shoes? I'll tell you right now, footwear has never been more important to this nation and its political leanings. And I didn't even need to go into deep cover to figure that out. But you should pay me anyway. Euros. Swiss account. And I'll know it if it's just a couple $100 euro bills on top of a pile of rubles, so don't even try it.

Do svidaniya.

Oh hi.

2010-06-22T18:14:00.000-07:00

The sun is finally shining...and magically I feel like blogging again. I wonder if there is a correlation. Eh. Chances are there's more of a correlation between the urge to blog and the ice cold vodka/soda at my side. With lime. Extra lime. The lime-e-ist.

So it's fitting that I'm back to gripe about shit, but I really must. Mainly because there's a girl who rides her cruiser around town wearing an English saddle equestrian helmet. I've been annoyed by this for - literally - months.

I think she's convinced it looks cute. But I need to somehow convince her that it does not. Recommendations on how to do so tactfully are welcome. Most disturbing of all, I have to wonder...is it not a style choice? Does she perhaps think she's riding a horse? Because it's very possible that there's a bigger issue to confront here. The case against "it's cute" is much easier to prosecute than "it's a horse". It's all very Israeli/Palestinian conflictish between adjectives and nouns these days. Conflicts are vogue.

If only the word "vogue" was still vogue. Sigh.

I've had to leave my home because the air is stagnant and I was overheating (thanks to an out of shape bike ride 10 miles home). So now I'm across the street at the Bye and Bye - a severely vegetarian hipster bar filled with bike-related art that Dave Chappelle once showed up at on a random Wednesday night. That fact will keep me coming randomly forever in the hopes that something that cool will happen again. I am prepared for disappointment.

Summer is taking forever to get to Oregon and I resent it. I have mint plants that need harvesting to go into lemon things! I have sundresses to wear that allow Vitamin D to reach non-essential patches of skin! I have lawn chairs to park in the grass for half-naked hippie heckling! I have a BBQ just sitting there WAITING for me to under-cook meats on! There's a lot to do! Yet another reason why this place is bunk. It's all a lie.

Back to my being annoyed by how people adorn themselves. I'm thinking of doing something about it. I'm not telling you what because right now that's a secret...but I promise it wont...probably...get me arrested or sued. I just can't sit idly by and watch a chick walk past me with a raccoon tail sticking out of the ass of her jeans. This aggression will not stand.

Sorry...went a bit "Dude" on you there.

Be that as it may, I need a hobby anyway, so this will be a good thing. I also think maybe I should start writing something. This doesn't count. But we all know how I don't end up doing things, so don't get your hopes up. Or get them up. Someone needs to be optimistic for the rest of us.

Summer is Here.

2010-06-14T22:36:00.000-07:00

Things I've been doing while not blogging...

Watching other people judge other people's facial hair.

Posing for pictures with them.

Cave conquering.

Lava stare contests.

Cultural cinematic absorption.

Seeking out play to accompany the work. ..in an attempt to keep from being dull.

(Also...snow in June. JUNE)

Learning shit about wine.

Geography lessons.

Following white rabbits with empty promises into strange shrubbery.
And then just napping for a bit.

Then waking up to find crop circle sunburns all over the extremities.

Finally.

Buckets for the Motherfuckin' Cure

2010-05-25T21:50:00.000-07:00

So maybe you can tell by the title that I'm listening to Naughty by Nature and maybe you can't, but the fact of the matter is...Kentucky Fried Chicken is using pink buckets of fried chicken to cure cancer. Science has finally come full circle.

I know I'm behind the times in reporting this...but I really tried to ignore it. The commercials have been running for a while and each time I use diversionary tactics to delude myself that such a thing couldn't/doesn't exist. But I have failed and the most recent accidental viewing...well I can remain silent no longer

The proprietary rights surrounding the stupid thing won't allow me to embed the unappetizing waste of eye space in its entirety, but it can be seen here (for those who are outside of the U.S. or don't have a TV within the U.S.. Or have a DVR).

Yes, that link will take you to the KFC MEDIA PLAYER. Sweet jesus. As you all damn well know, I do Drink for the Cure every year, unless I'm in Europe. I have wonderful, beautiful friends who have both beat and lost to breast cancer. It is a dickbag and I want it to disappear as much as the rest of the world does. But I do not believe driving our fellow Americans to congential heart failure is the way to do accomplish this.

There must be something else we can organize. A car wash. "Wash away breast cancer." Catchy? Bake sale. "Eat away breast cancer." We can use Seinfeld's wife's cookbook to insert vegetables so they're healthy. A spelling bee! "Spell away c-a-n-c-e-r." Ok, so my ideas are not awesome, but are they really worse than pink buckets of chicken?

The exclusivity also boils my balls. There's other cancers in this world you know. There was no city-wide walk to sign up for when my step-dad got lymphoma. No specially marked packages of sunblock to purchase when my step-mom got melanoma. This special treatment is all sorts of unfair. Pink home goods for everyone!

There are people who argue that breast cancer is the main event because of the importance of breasts to our society. But I'd be willing to argue in favor of the ovaries or prostate. Shoot...where would we be without the pancreas? Nowhere. Exactly.

So KFC - stop. You offend me with you buckets of pink saturated fat. Instead of spending the moolah to manufacture such an unappetizing food conveyance, perhaps you should just donate that money to the Komen foundation and be done with it. Don't force your customers to associate cancer with the breast they're currently biting into. It's in poor taste.

As was that last line. And yet, I'm proud of it.

Twi-soft

2010-05-16T22:57:00.001-07:00

My girls and I have been doing Sunday Dinner for a couple of years now. Yes it started with the first season of True Blood and me being the only one with HBO at the time. No, I'm not ashamed of either of those facts.

Actually - no it didn't. It started with Flight of the Conchords...and me being the only one with HBO at the time, so shut the hell up.

We don't always watch something. Sometimes we actually go out into the world...and sometimes we just drink limeade cocktails in someone's backyard. But without fail (almost) we ignore the fact that we see each other all the time and hang out on Sundays until stupidly late, drinking and laughing much too much. It's my favorite thing.

But this Sunday...we sank to a new low. And it was awesome. Tonight we watched Twilight: New Moon while simultaneously playing the Rifftrax, eating pierogies and washing it all down with German beer (you see, it was a poorly executed theme). If you don't know what Rifftrax are, then I'm sure you know what Mystery Science Theater 3K is. Well it's those guys, only they don't have a show anymore. They record themselves talking through the movie and then you download the track and play it on your ipod whilst the movie is viewed. It's genius.

Anyway - we made it through the entire movie. And we may or may not have rewound and watched that bit where the underaged/overdeveloped bronze god of modern day musculature tore his shirt off to blot a small cut on no-talent-hack Kristen Stewart's brow three times. Maybe four, it's all a bit fuzzy. But that is not my point. I have now seen two Twilight movies and read one of the books (couldn't get farther than that one) and still, I come away from them perplexed. I don't get why they're so popular. I really don't.

I think about the movies and books that defined the combined romantic ideals of danger and love for me in those formative early teen years...and even how much I loved that gothic vampire stuff (seriously, you don't want to know how many times I watched Brahm Stoker's Dracula. It's where the whole Gary Oldman obsession started). But I'm convinced that if I'd picked up and read Twilight when I was 13, I would've wanted to throw it across the room as much as I did at 29.

First of all - who's all like "I want you. We're connected. Why fight it. I can't live without you." at the creepiest guy in school when you're 17 and the new girl? I think Bella and Edward's fourth conversation was about how much they love each other...with a little "but I may kill you" thrown in to keep things lively. Young people don't move that fast. They have to analyze everything to death with their friends and then send a few vague emails or texts before any big decisions are made.

And what teenager in this day and age gets seduced by Claire de Lune? Come on. I'd be all..."um, you've been alive since before jazz was invented and THIS is what you're rolling with?" Weak.

So with this second book (well...movie...) it goes all sorts of through the roof. Edward is gone, but he comes back as a ghost(?? - not explained) to tell her not to do stupid shit she does anyway. Then she almost kisses a SIXTEEN year old a million times (um, that's a sophomore, friends. Did you think they were hot when you were a senior? Men, don't answer that). And then when she's done stringing the well-built puppy along, she jumps at the chance to marry Edward? At EIGHTEEN?! I mean, she's not even going to try to find a guy that isn't dead? Doesn't she understand that's what college is FOR?

What all of this says to me is that the author, Stephanie Somethingorother, grew up in a cave believing in unicorns with a Victrola, Debussy greatest hits and one worn out VHS copy of Sixteen Candles, without ever meeting any other teenagers.

Regardless... this young man is uncomfortably good looking.

Sorry it's been so long. I've missed you, my pretties.

Art Imitating Life - Sort Of

2010-04-25T17:28:00.000-07:00

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.

Brendan: It WOULD be the worst thing ever.

Brendan: I'd vomit.

Brendan: Instantly.

Brendan: Everywhere.

Brendan: The cat would scream.

What I Like - What I Want

2010-04-15T19:53:00.000-07:00

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.

And for the record...this just makes me angry.

What Dreams May Come

2010-04-13T22:03:00.000-07:00

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?

A Matter of Personal Preference

2010-04-07T22:14:00.000-07:00

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?

Coming To Terms

2010-04-05T22:39:00.000-07:00

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.

It's because I'm probably not ever going to go into space.

Thanks, Mr. President. Thanks a lot.

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.

Still...I'm sad.

Things to Say While Waiting

2010-03-31T19:21:00.000-07:00

I asked my coworker/friend person to give me an idea of what to blog about today. She changed the subject. I'm trying not to take that personally.

So what we're left with is random statements like rappers with lisps are FUN-NY. A rapper with a stutter would be funnier. I imagine there are less of those, however, out amongst the riffraff.

I have a cold. I know, who doesn't. The difference with this one is, I've been shooting Emergen-C straight into my veins and killing germs and bacteria with wine. Combine that with some much needed sleep and a positive attitude...and this puppy's on the way back OUT. I must've aligned my chakras without even realizing it. Or do you align our chi and massage your chakras? Either way, I must be doing it. And a healthy diet, don't forget that. Tonight we're having Tachos. Yes, you remember me introducing you to the glory of those. It was a boyfriend ago. Well it turns out they're also medicinal. And beneficial to both chi and chakras.

Your tattoo replies are good, though some of you are holding out. I don't even have ten yet, so this blog isn't really happening. Ignore it. As you were.

An Essay on Art: A Type Of

2010-03-24T19:41:00.000-07:00

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about tattoos. And when I say “lately”, I mean for about 5 minutes earlier today.

I remember when I got my first one at the precocious age of 19 and my dad found out. He FLIPPED out! (Yeah, you all thought he was always so cool, didn’t you). His largest concern was that the act had put me into a different class of people, a “type”, if you will. He got over that and now finds them interesting…tattoos in general, not just mine. I think Mom always had a “eh, it’s your body” feeling with regards to my socially accepted self-mutilation…with the exception of letting me dye my hair (mean!)

They are a funny thing, though. Special, in that you have them forever – but not so in that everyone and their grandmother has one these days. We no longer have to worry about being 80 with saggy inked body bits flapping about because we’ll all be in the same boat. And I don’t know about you, but I love seeing old people with tattoos. It gives them that much more character. Tells you a little something about them.

That being said, I often find myself looking at someone’s tattoo and (on a regular basis) having any of the following reactions:

1. “Dear god, why?”

2. “Oh!”

3. “REEEEally?”

4. “That makes my heart cry”

Earlier in my life, I was of the opinion that they were a very personal thing. Time and thought went into the choosing of one. And each had a reason for its existence. Of course the amount of time and the type of reason can sometimes be directly related to the proximity of a vacation and/or alcohol…but the fact remains. For some people, I still believe the “personal” theory to be true. For others, I believe their free time and any disposable income should be taken away.

I could take up space with examples here, but we’ve all seen them. And if you haven’t, all you have to do is google.

For my own, personal experience…I think I got my first tattoo too young. The good news is, I’m not sorry I got it and think it still looks great. It’s just, I’m not sure I would’ve been quite so keen on the size and detail at 30 the way I was at 19. It’s a good tattoo, purchased in an old parlor on Frenchman in New Orleans. It’s not there anymore. They painted the hundreds of year old brick yellow and made it an Electric Ladyland. It’s Egyptian – taken from a sketch in an old book I found at the university library. My only complaint is that the feet of the tattoo peek out from my shirt if I ever lean over and to this day I have children AND adults lifting UP my shirt to try to see it in it entirety.

You may or may not know the story of the second one. I posted here when I got it, but I don’t remember if I explained why I chose the barn swallow. There’s a nautical myth that says a sailor would get a barn swallow tattooed for every 5,000 nautical miles he traveled. I’ve traveled significantly more than that, but tattoos hurt and are expensive and so only purchased two.

I have two restrictions on any tattoo I commission:

1. It must be placed on a part of my body that is least likely to get fat

And

2. No color – if they had color and were visible, I’d feel the need to match my outfits to them.

I don’t imagine I’m alone in my pickiness…but I’m interested…call it anthropologically…in who out there among my acquaintances has tattoos? Don’t tell me here…comments are too hard to compile. Email me. Or comment that you’ll email me. OR if you don’t have one, tattoo me why. Or just comment it. And I refuse to let you say that you just haven’t figured out what you wanted yet. I bite my thumb at such a lack of originality/funds/inspiration.

I’ve finally given this blog its own email address, so send a description of your tattoo(s) to condishair@gmail.com. You will presented (anonymously if you so desire) as a portion of my scientific findings (within a sample size of the dozen or so people who read this blog). Feel free to out friends and loved ones if you yourself are not inked.

Just know - I refuse to blog again until I get at least 10 emails.

My, that was verbose, wasn’t it.

Progression: The Act of Moving Forward. Finally.

2010-03-22T19:19:00.000-07:00

It's that time of year when the cherry blossoms are on the trees and I'm mildly interested in politics for, like, a minute.

If any of you have a television, internet connection, radio transmitter, workplace water cooler or news ticker...then you'll know that the United States finally passed a bill to make securing and benefiting from healthcare a little bit easier for some 30-odd million Americans. This improvement has taken an incredibly long time. And it's unfinished. We still have no public option, and a big Debbie Downer part of me is concerned that it will never happen with the passing of this bill.

Still...fuck yeah!

And THIS is the part of the post where I take the quotations from various members of the senate and congress out of the New York Times article I read and reply to them as though said members are in the room with me:

“This is the Civil Rights Act of the 21st century,” said Representative James E. Clyburn of South Carolina, the No. 3 Democrat in the House.

Mostly, Mr Clyburn. Mostly. And your last name is odd. I think it's missing a vowel.

The House Republican leader, Representative John A. Boehner of Ohio, said lawmakers were defying the wishes of their constituents. “The American people are angry,” Mr. Boehner said. “This body moves forward against their will. Shame on us.”

John, have you ever not had insurance while making minimum wage and then broken a tooth? Have you ever been rejected for coverage because you have a strange and small condition that has a 20% chance of ever affecting you in your lifetime? Have you paid a $1,000 premium a month for two people because you're technically retired but too young to be on Medicare? No? Well then fuck you. You don't know any American people. And let me tell you something about some of these "angry" people. They're still looking for WMDs and signs of the Rapture. Enough said.

Representative Lincoln Diaz-Balart, Republican of Florida, called it “a decisive step in the weakening of the United States.”

Lincoln, you should be stripped of your name. The first one. And secondly - what does that even fucking mean? How could we be any weaker? And denying 50 million Americans the right to a healthy life helps that how?

Representative Virginia Foxx, Republican of North Carolina, said it was “one of the most offensive pieces of social engineering legislation in the history of the United States.”

Really? Because I would've said that about The Patriot Act. Bitch.

On Sunday afternoon, members of the group announced that they would support the legislation after Mr. Obama promised to issue an executive order to “ensure that federal funds are not used for abortion services.” Mr. Stupak described the order as a significant guarantee that would “protect the sanctity of life in health care reform.”

This reminds me of the movie Children of Men? You see that movie? I didn't get it. There was this scene when these people were all warring with each other...but stopped to let a pregnant woman through, because she was the last prego on earth. Or some junk. But as soon as she passed, they went back to shooting each other. The theme you were supposed to take away is that life is precious. But the theme I took away was that life is precious until you're a teenager and then you better fucking watch it because I'm going to shoot you in the face. That's what this abortion provision is to me. Unborn life needs to be preserved at all costs, but once you're born, you're on your own. The social conscience expires. Make sure that kid is born to the teenage mother working at McDonald's...but don't support the ability of that mother to get the kid the vaccine to prevent it from contracting polio. Serious lack of perspective, Mr. Stupak. Serious.

Representative Rodney Alexander, Republican of Louisiana, said, “You cannot expect to expand coverage to millions of individuals and to curb costs at the same time.”

No shit, Roddy. But maybe if they're not going bankrupt from that emergency surgery on their pancreas - they can afford to stay in their house and buy that big screen tv that you're convinced will save the economy.

“Are you so arrogant that you know what’s best for the American people?” Representative Paul Broun, Republican of Georgia, asked the Democrats.

Are you? It seems to me that an elected body created for the purpose of representing the people should maybe spend its time trying to figure out and implementing what they think might be best for the people who voted for them. Or something. Someone needs a civics lesson. And a punch in the nads.

After the legislation passed, Mr. Obama sought to place the day in perspective. “In the end what this day represents is another stone firmly laid in the foundation of the American dream,” the president said. “Tonight, we answered the call of history as so many generations of Americans have before us. When faced with crisis, we did not shrink from our challenges. We overcame them. We did not avoid our responsibilities, we embraced it. We did not fear our future, we shaped it.”

Amen.

In other news, I just got Donnie Darko on Blu-Ray and am therefore cooler than you.

Oh How St. Peter Will Laugh in My Face.

2010-03-19T22:38:00.000-07:00

I worked from home today and so therefore, the TV was on. Strangely and wonderously - Little Women showed up on ET (the channel, not the movie). What are the odds. It was in-between some Kardashian-related reality show and celeb news. Who's idea was that? The one intern with the English degree?

Anyway.

Every time I see any of the various versions of Little Women, I feel bad about myself. I should be more like Marmee. I should be more like Meg. Shit, I should be more like Jo...outspoken but still confined to the parlance of the times.

But the fact is, I'm not like any of them. In my constant quest to make people laugh, I often (not necessarily purposefully) try/end up being the most outspoken/inappropriate person in the room. Mean comedy has it's place...Lenny Bruce has shown us that, if no one else. It's a necessary evil, someone has to provide it. I just never thought it would be me every single fucking time. In almost ever social occasion, there is something I say that I look back on with almost cringing guilt. Whatever it is, it gets a laugh at the time, but I spend the remainder of the evening mortified that I said what I said...and it eats me up inside.

Tonight is no different. It's like I can't control what comes out of my mouth...a character flaw that I sincerely hoped would improve with age. Sadly...it hasn't. So what do I do? Accept that I am always going to be the inappropriate joke teller who gets the laugh but burns in a personal hell for it later? Or try to change?

I fear it is hopeless, mostly due to alcohol. I get relaxed and I sometimes forget my audience. But is it a gift? Or a curse? There is nothing I enjoy more - watching people crack up at whatever nonsense I've spouted...but knowing that there's one person in the room who may be touched negatively...sucks.

The fact of the matter is, I probably won't change. And that may be ok. There's a place in society for us...the not-quite-as-bad-as-Andy-Dicks. Nature has placed us here and so we shall remain. I guess if we offend to often, our social circle will dwindle. Let's hope that happens before I start giving guilt hugs, shall we?

Happy Friday.

On The Eve of The Big Event...

2010-03-06T16:18:00.000-08:00

I know most people don't give a good goddamn about the Oscars, but I've been watching them faithfully ever since I was a wee one. And since they're tomorrow, I thought I'd share my thoughts on the Academy Award nominations for Best Picture with you all. And you're gonna shut up and like it.

Up in the Air
I saw it. It was cute. But I'll tell you this - any movie that has an "Oh my god, it's Young MC! Let's dance!" moment is not an Oscar contender.

Avatar
I haven't seen this movie yet. Want to know why? Because I don't want to have to see a movie "just for the awesome effects". Now that the technology exists, I'm going to WAIT until they find a way to merge those awesome effects with a FUCKING DECENT STORYLINE. One that may or may not involve blue people.

District 9
I walked away from this movie feeling like Nigerians must be the worst people on Earth. Though it may not have been the intended consequence - it still left a bad taste in my mouth. My friends tell me to stop being so sensitive. But then I tell them to shut up, so it all evens out.

An Education
This was a fanfuckingtastic film with the exception of Peter Sarsgaard's sad English accent. But it suffers from Vera Drake (Mike Leigh) syndrome...as in - it will not win due to the inclusion of the following elements:
a. It's British
b. It's too quiet. Thoughtful and filled with dialogue. Not a single explosion.
c. The heroine's journey - though a definable journey - is not epic. There's no racial or spacial divide to cross...it's just youth and we've all been there.
d. Everyone agrees that things were fucked up in the 60s.
That being said, the best part of the movie is Rosamund Pike. Anyone who can pull off playing a ditz while remaining likable as a character is truly amazing acting.

The Hurt Locker
B and I saw this when it first came out and no one was talking about it yet. I don't remember why. I think maybe we're drawn to titles with "Hurt" in them. Or maybe "Locker". B really loved this movie. Really loved it. I...appreciated it. There were some beautifully bleak scenes and some fun (as much as you can use that word in a war movie) cameos - and I definitely could get behind the message. But I'm a little desensitized to war films, so they take a lot to impress me. But you know...you should see it anyway.

The Blind Side
Are you fucking kidding me?! A blond Sandra Bullock?! Football?! Rich white lady helps poor black teenager!? The SOUTH?! TIM MCGRAW?! Come on.

Inglourious Basterds
I just recently saw this one. I know, how behind the times can you get, right? I wanted to like it more than I did. The first 30 minutes are awesome. The last 30 minutes are awesome. Eli Roth is strangely awesome. But I really do just hate Quentin Tarantino, his obsession with the 70s - everything he stands for. And I want someone to slap his chin right off his face.

Precious
This was in theaters (and very few of them) for a depressingly short time and I didn't make it. However - the preview makes me cry. Photos from the film make me cry. Mo'Nique accepting her Golden Globe made me cry. Seeing Mariah Carey's face on screen normally makes me cry (for an all together different reason) - but in this role, I'm able to hold it in.

A Serious Man
I have not seen this yet, not for lack of trying. Things keep getting in the way, and I'm beginning to take it personally. Yes, I'm talking to you, Universe. I've heard good things - but I think we all know that the Coen Bros. have recently had their day in the red-carpeted sun and this nomination is just to let them know they're not forgotten. Also - the main actor looks disturbingly like a young Robin Williams. Anyone else notice this?

Up
When this was in the theaters, I told Brendan to plan to see it when I was out of town. According to him, this is because I have no soul and hate all things good in the world (children, puppies, etc.). He might be right. However. It's not going to win.

MY PREDICTION
Stupid-faced Avatar will win. You know it. I know it. Everyone knows it. James Cameron knows it. Cocky bastard. You can see it in his facial hair. And when he does - I plan on yelling and shaking my angry red-wine encased in glass fist (Oscar party) that Precious was ROBBED. And then we'll move on to other things, like who looks the most anorexic in their dress.

Moved to Poetry by Poetry Because of Poetry

2010-03-02T22:19:00.001-08:00

An Ode to the corner store

Oh Corner Store...how I heart thee
With your 24-hourness and chicken and jojo-scented
Oxygen singing to me like a non-drowny siren

With the promise of neon, ranch dip and
A refrigerated top row of 22 ouncers
You always have what I need
Whether it's duct tape or $1 meat

And for that, I metaphorically embrace you and
Your rowdy, fun-lovin' gangster wannabes
Hanging out by the bus stop like Tupac's Not dead.
Calling everyone a bitch.

The pasty skinny-jeaned buying Pabst (case-style)
Making small talk with other races
Trying to pretend they're not uncomfortable.

You have the specialty chips I need
To make the tuna casserole
'Cause it's comfort food night
As it is when I work late.

Though no sleep occurs
You know you're my Comfort Inn.
The sketch is my crutch

And yes, that last part was a haiku. For you, Corner Store

Bless you, google earth. And thank you as well.

Domestic Strife

2010-03-01T20:32:00.000-08:00

k: I hate Nova.

b: I love Nova.

End argument.

30, Bitches

2010-02-24T07:57:00.000-08:00

Now's the time for reminiscing about days filled with paper dolls, rock collections and pulling the tails off salamanders for fun... and the last time my legs looked this good in a sunsuit.

Oh birthdays...you bastards.

Half-Assed Movie Review: The Fairy Scientist

2010-02-23T09:36:00.000-08:00

My Dad made another beautiful film...that I can post in its entirety because it's only 5 minutes! It's an entry into a contest called The Reason Project and it stars my niece, Lydia.

Now - I get to take some credit for this cinematic treasure...even though I had nothing to do with it. The book that you see her reading was a Christmas gift from me two years ago when she was 4. It sparked an obsession that peaked with my giving her the butterfly net and the magnifying "bug box" for her birthday LAST year. Now she's a full-blown woman of science. Her auntie's so proud.

The Post Wherein A Matter of Great Importance Is Included

2010-02-18T10:31:00.000-08:00

Hi Friends!

Pleasantries aside - I'm here today because I need you.

The largest and most important event in all of history that has yet to happen is happening next Wednesday. I think you can guess what it is.

My 30th birthday.

Gasp.

I've known this was coming for a long time, but now it's actually here (because, you know, that's how the passage of time works)...and I haven't got a clue as to how to honor the day appropriately. The original plan involved celebratory drunkenness with friends, but due to the recent visitation of a nasty and explicit stomach bug, both booze and (randomly) Ethiopian food are extraordinarily out of the question.

So what's left? I need thoughts. Ideas. Suggestions. Demands. Proposals. Synonyms.

In other news - why doesn't cake taste better? It should be delicious, but it's always disappointing. I don't think that's fair. I want to like it, but it's always so dry. Therefore, I reject it as the official birthday dessert. I'd rather have a chocolate-covered pretzel with a candle in it. And I will have it.

These days before the big event should probably be used to take stock of my life and outline my goals, yadda yadda yadda...but honestly, I'd rather put more thought toward my next toenail color. Because Spring is on its way and I just got some new open-toed shoes. Seriously though, mentally examining one's life is exhausting. Cake is disappointing enough - no need to tack the realization and acceptance of mediocrity on to it.

That being said, I plan on shaking some shit up over the next decade. Just you wait.

A Peek At The Peak

2010-01-28T14:22:00.000-08:00

This afternoon, I spent an hour on Mt. Everest. I made it all the way to the summit. That's right...I "summited". In an hour. Because that's a verb. Wanna know how I did it? With team work. Team work that includes an "I", because for some reason - I was told that it does. That the "I" is just as important as all the other letters. A concept I had trouble wrapping my head around because of what it does to the analogy.

And that's what this meeting was. One giant analogy...no pertinent information. I HATE meetings like this. My company is making some changes that could be considered cool, if you cared about such things - and I thought this was going to be our opportunity to get more information on just what "changes" would entail. Instead we got an hour of PowerPoint slides of Everest - of the camps on Everest, of the white people climbing Everest and of the sherpas helping the white people climb Everest. And how the metaphor of the summit applies to not only our professional lives, but to our personal lives. Because we need to live in a world where anything's possible.

There are no quotation marks, but this is almost verbatim. It was nice to learn, albeit belatedly, that our benefits include unsolicited life coaching.

This isn't the first time this has happened. In the past - these gatherings have included references to how we must all drink the Kool-aid. It's what keeps us together, etc. Disturbing. I can't help but wonder if the executives understand exactly what happened at the end of that story. Because if they did, I feel certain they would agree that such a metaphor is inappropriate. Always.

This is how the cynicism bulb gets nourished into a full bloom. I've been maintaining my full bloom for so long, I really only have about 1/4 of my soul left. The rest of it has been sloughed off here and there on the way up to the summit.

Little Miss DEAR GOD NO!

2010-01-19T19:14:00.000-08:00

Listen. This exists:

I watched a half of an entire hour of this show tonight and now feel as though some of my soul has been stolen. Not in the way a camera steals it...but in the way small children dressed up like harlots primping around a stage like they're puppies for purchase way.

One common element in all of these girls' stories is that their moms are all cows. When I say "cow", I'm not necessarily referring to their weight but more of their bovine features and behavior. Pair that with a southern accent, because they all have them, and one can't help but reach judgmental conclusions.

Here's some special features of what this half hour entailed.

On why mom has her daughter in the pageant: Amber is naturally beautiful and in our society people are judged differently when they're ugly.

On dresses...also known as "wow wear": They cost between $300-$500 and the judges can easily discount them due to length and/or color combo.

On teeth and the "flipper": If you're at an age where you're missing teeth, a flipper is an absolute must. They can cost up to $500.

On the most shockingly inappropriate 'talent' routine: She's our little 9-11 firefighter!

All the while, the cows take pictures of their overdressed, over-glitzed calves with throw-away cameras and tearful nods of encouragement. Once it's all over, the girl who winked at the judges mid-routine wins and the pageant director...this fop below..croons about "citrus colored rainbows" and how "you are what you feel"

Why did I need to force the fact of this show's existence on you? Because despite the stilted voice-overs and linear storylines...these are real people. Real mothers. Real daughters. All Americans. No wonder we can't get a flipping health care resolution passed. My hope for change is dying with every new reality show that burns into the plasma (I'm talking to you, Jersey Shore).

In the meantime, I hope these little girls take manage to something away from their ghastly experiences in front of the camera...if nothing other than the knowledge that flippers can be used as a weapon.

Analysis so deep, you could preserve a peasant in it

2010-01-18T17:27:00.000-08:00

The last week's quake news was too deflating for frilly blog posts, so I just bagged it and drank a lot instead. It wasn't so much as a coping mechanism as it was a way to pass ones time without thinking too deeply.

Though by the third drink, the trend reverses and self examination begins. That's always dangerous. The only way to battle such a moment is to begin a dance party immediately. It is for this purpose that Justin Timberlake has been invented. By Japanese scientists. Like those sex dolls. But, you know, to fulfill a different need.

Anyway, frilly posts are totally back. You know, when I think about it, one could argue that they also serve a purpose. I'm not exactly sure what that is, but if I say so with the right amount of gusto, you'll believe me. That's how it works for the Shamwow guy, at least.

All of this is leading up to this statement:

I hate American Apparel.

I want to punch this girl in the kidneys. We get it. You sell tights. Tights in shades that don't match or compliment anything, so you have to wear them by themselves. Bravo. Now shut the hell up.

Never has a company been so successful at pushing leotards onto the general public disguised as actual clothing. Hot pants, stirrup pants, body suits, t-shirts...all made out of the same lycra in blank primary colors. And people buy it. They buy the fuck out of it. And I just don't know why. No one's going to cast them in a remake of Flashdance, so what's the point?

Maybe all the hate comes from the fact that I don't look like that in tights. Standing straight as an arrow still yields unsightly lumps where the flesh is constricted. Bending into a pretzel would really end up looking more like a scone. Home made...not store bought. It wouldn't be pretty. But I love to wear tights UNDER things. They keep me warm. They dress up my legs. They keep my shoes company. They're...essential.

But I won't buy them off that skinny bitch above. Her face will be hanging in the window as I shop just watching me. Knowing that the lumps will be there. I don't need that. No one needs that. Besides. I need patterns in my life. We all need patterns in our lives. And American Apparel will never understand that. Because they're stupid.

I win.

OK Go Sounds Just Like Prince

2010-01-11T21:04:00.000-08:00

I get intimidated by other people's ability to do great things. I say this because as far as "great things" go, well, I make pretty good coffeecake. Not my own recipe. I wouldn't know where to begin. Flour?

Erin made me some great things for Christmas times. Some of them I gave to loved ones and some I kept for myself because that's what Christmas is all about. Dickens doesn't know shit.

Below is a visual cornucopia of her wares as purchased and donned by me. There is further evidence of my love of her work on her own blog, as well as darling details of her daily existence and an Etsy store that you'd be MAD (the crazy kind) not to peruse with a pocket book.

I'm glad I waited to post about this because a tragedy almost befell my new-found accoutrements. Friday night B and I went to happy hour with some friends. During the exchange of a small booth to a large one, my scarf got left behind. It was The Rapture for accessories.

Once it was discovered that my brand new beautiful scarletty scarf was missing, a large search ensued complete with a hunting party. And dogs. Alas, it was not to be found that night. The bartender told my next-to-tears face that I should call the next day to see if they had found it later.

I had almost no hope. Hipsters are a scavengy bunch and they know a good thing when they see it. I feared that my beautiful scarf was now gracing the underfed neck of some bitch in tapered jeans and there was nothing I could do.

The next afternoon I called the bar as soon as it opened. He was too busy to go look...I should try back later.

So after a delightful evening of a movie and dinner, I stopped back by the bar and talked to Slash minus 25 years. He was very kind. I said "scarf" and added a question mark and his immediate reply was "red". I got my scarf back. Though he would not play that cool part from November Rain where the song goes from slow to fast as the coffin comes into the church (you remember that video, right?) because he said he was a bartender and not Slash at all. I wasn't about to argue...he'd done me a large favor.

So that's the story of my things.

Well, not totally.

The scarf that we had made for B's gramma got eaten by a dog. But only one little section and she swears she can mend it. Even the universe is jealous of our stylicity. I blame pheromones. But I don't know whose.

Airplanes, Bologna, Hats, Pabst and Lard

2010-01-03T20:03:00.000-08:00

Ok...I have landed, am semi-unpacked, in the fleece sweatpants and have a fresh vodka/tonic with just a splash of lime. Elliot Smith is on loud enough to drown out the cat's desire to learn English and I'm finally at the ready.

To talk about terrorism.

The holidays are an interesting time to partake of air travel. I haven't always been so unfortunate as to have to join in the lemming game, having been geographically close to my family at Christmas more often than not. College was an exception. Flying home from New Orleans on December 25th, 2001 was a treat with TSA agents opening every single present in my luggage. But besides the most obvious and ominous causes of aviation delay pique - there is also bad weather, over-booking, unplanned cancellations, screaming babies, etc.

But before the above even applies, we must first grit our teeth, dump our liquids, pull out our laptops, slip off our shoes, dig loose change out of our pockets, remove our children from strollers, walk through the detector, submit to the wand and put it all back together again. Then pay $10 for a dry turkey sandwich that doesn't come with chips.

So it's disappointing to then find out on Christmas Day that some guy still managed to sneak a bomb onto the plane AND set it off.

However - if you were to ask me if we noticed any heightened security on yesterday's journey as a result, I'd have to say no. Unless you count an automated voice chiming in that "the security level is currently RED" over the PA every 10 minutes. Which I do not. I could've gotten through with an elephant-shaped table lamp stuffed down my pants. Our security is an illusion. The sooner that is accepted, the easier you'll sleep on the plane. It would also help if the booze was complimentary.

As to being there and back again...I was/am glad for both. Kentucky is a fascinating place. At the moment, I'm afraid I can only illustrate this with the few pictures taken with my phone:

More horrifying than these two products considered individually is the thought that their proximity indicates a combined intended use.

Just sayin' it like it is.

There are places in Portland that will charge you $4.00 for this. Somebody's getting cheated.

Closest thing I could find to a Derby hat! Best part about it is, I've got a hat on underneath.

All other pictures are on the actual camera so you'll have to wait. I'm glad for it, though, as my face as it appears above seems to have about 7 extra angles.

And if that scarf I'm wearing catches your eye - well just you wait for my next post - when I will explain why you like it so much.

Thank you, Kentucky, for having me. It was an adventure.

Almost home.

2010-01-02T07:23:00.000-08:00

Hello friends. I've been neglectful. Sorry.

I'll be back soon, as there are things to say. Yes, that means I've been in Kentucky.

Why I Hate People: Episode 539

2009-12-15T19:29:00.000-08:00

People invented this. And it's wrong.

Neuticals.

For when your pet feels like less of a man because you've voluntarily made an appointment to have a professional remove this balls.

There are 9 sizes. You can make your beagle feel like a great dane and give your rottweiler a inferiority complex. Or, if feeling zany, mix and match.

Some testemonials:

"Frodo never knew he lost anything and is just a happier little dog since he's been
neutered with Neuticles."
Janell Suasser - San Lorenzo, CA

FRODO. The poor dog was neutered before his balls were even taken.

"Baby Snow has all the benefits of being neutered- Neuticles are just a whole lot nicer."
Stephen Samual - Redcliff, KY

...to touch?

"Neuticles were the absolute least I could do."
Glenda Nelson - Spring, TX

Um. What's the most you could do?

The good news is, they're 100% made in the USA. So...jobs. That's nice. And no leakage...a company promise. Guarantees are good.

It's enough to make one think this nation might just be something other than great.

Hey Santa

2009-12-10T14:32:00.001-08:00

(image stolen from this blog)

Last weekend, my friends and I put on every red and white thing we owned and joined almost one thousand other "santas" for a pub crawl in N. Portland. Santacon. A tradition that began in San Francisco one particularly dull year, it has become the true beginning to the holiday season for me and everyone else with a heart beat. Ornaments and popcorn tins for sale in drugstores before Halloween and Christmas songs playing in gas stations on November 1st do nothing for my Christmas spirit. They actually just piss me off. Black Friday makes me crazy, but you all know that.

But Santacon...Santacon is brilliant. It's like a love fest without stanky hippies. You can't hate a Santa at Santacon because you, yourself are also Santa. And we all know that self loathing only ever ends in coal - keeping the event downright jolly, and that's not a term that's often apt. You greet with "Hey Santa!". You pass with "Excuse me, Santa!". You cheers with chanting "Ho, ho, hoooooooooooooooo!" You sing at the top of your lungs, dance as much as your suit will allow. And most importantly, you keep yourself warm with the flask of spiced rum in your red purse. It's how one is meant to be keep the yuletide gay.

In fact, I'm fairly certain that if Santacon had existed in 1843, Scrooge as a character could not have been conceived. Instead he would've been the Prince of Figgy Pudding or some junk.

So, if you live in a city with more than 50,000 inhabitants, you probably have a Santacon. I advise you to discover it...and then join it. But wear comfortable shoes.

Some pictorials of the event:

This is what a room looks like when you're dizzy.Duct Tape Santa knows what you want for Christmas...This is me getting interviewed for a show on a channel that I don't totally believe exists.
This is me gettin' down with a very funky vodka/soda. With lime. Not my best angle. Goranas - just shuttup right this second.
There are hoards more, but I know sometimes people are sensitive about their drunken rosy cheeks being put display for the interwebs, so we'll leave it at my worst angle. Tomorrow night the shenanigans begin anew. Tis the season, bitches.

Distracted

2009-12-09T20:30:00.000-08:00

I was totally planning on blogging with all sorts of substance tonight...but instead, I've been running through every song on my ipod as though I completely FORGOT that I owned it. By this I mean full-on karaoke with impromptu dance routines. But why. Well, because it's that time of year again, my friends...that time where I try to stuff as many people as possible in about 500 sq. ft. of free space. It's my Christmas Party. Saturday. Third annual. Such commitment. Every year I expect it to be a disaster and every year it's really damn fun except I have to buy a new annual mop and use it while extremely hung over. Like, alot.

So I opened a bottle of wine and started going through my x-mas music remixes and whatever else. Right now I'm rocking out to the Gorillas. Love the Gorillas. The Europeans don't consider them dance music. And by Europeans I mean the Danish. Now on to Grizzly Bear...definitely not dance music. Writing music, surely yes. Uh oh...Justin Timberlake...have to go dance at the cat.

This Week's Stalkerish Shoutout Goes To...

2009-11-30T20:28:00.000-08:00

...my beetches up in Wapakoneta, Ohio! That's right...stalkerish shoutouts are BACK!

How timely of me - in this Thanksgiving season - to choose a shout out to a reader in a town most likely named after the Native Americans that were driven out of it. But I'm not here to judge, since I had to copy and paste the city's name as I couldn't even sound it out well enough to spell it.

I've never been to Ohio, but am of the opinion that it is a kind of Promiseland. This is solely based on the fact that Dave Chappelle lives there. If he had a cult, I'd join it. But then I'd try to convince him to move its location to a coastal state because I always need to be able to escape by sea if necessary.

So reader in Wapakoneta - I'll leave it to you to start the foundation of the compound. It will probably need a fence and some huts. You can model it on an Amish community, though I think we should have cars. I enjoy them.

Until the next time (I remember that Google Analytics exists) you lucky bastardos...just keep reading from an actual location and you'll get shoutouted next!

In other news...is it weird that I think this is great? So strangely cuddly.

And there are more.

A Pox on All Their Strip Mall Locations

2009-11-25T12:28:00.000-08:00

Every time I think I have something to complain about, I need to stop and remember that I don't work at Old Navy.

Those fuckers are going to open their doors at 3:00 AM on the day after Thanksgiving (also called "Black Friday" by those who don't have association issues with the term "Black Death" like I do). That means the employees - who make little more than a pittance and have to wear a headset mic all day with a smile - will need to roll their tryptophanized asses into work at, like, 2:00 AM. And then function.

Kinda defeats the purpose of the holiday. I hope the CEOs of Old Navy/Gap/Banana Republic Incorporated rot in a 1st class hell filled with angry ferrets.

But seriously, no alarm will get me up at that hour. Not even the smell of bacon will do it. But it doesn't even matter because there's no sale worthy of getting up that early. I don't care if it's half-priced booze or buy one get one free orphaned children. You can argue all you want that all the cutest and strongest children will be taken by mid-morning, but I'm still not getting out of bed. I'll take the conjoined twins with the lazy eyes, I don't even care.

And if I worked for Old Navy, I'd sabotage their Black Friday nonsense with some destructive shenanigans. Though it wouldn't end up being very inventive because I will have gotten to work at 2:00 goddamn o'clock. Vicious circle.

Anyway - there are some hippies out there touting a Buy Nothing Day on Friday. That pisses me off too, but for a different reason. If I want to buy a slice of pizza and a watery Mexican beer, I will damn well do so and no unwashed bohemian radical is gonna tell me otherwise. Old Navy has no impact on the constant foodless state of my home. And I'm not gonna let their greed keep me from sustenance. My pizza isn't going to change the fact that next year, they'll probably open at 1:00 AM on the day after Thanksgiving.

May your holiday be filled with meat and gluten.

And for those who suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous food allergies or animal cruelty stances...insert the appropriate substitute foods into the above statement.

Cheers.

An Open Letter to the Man in the Stetson with a Shower Cap on It

2009-11-20T13:41:00.000-08:00

Dear Man in the Stetson who walked by me at the food carts when I went to get lunch,

I understand that men and their hats are sometimes inseparable. That a hat can cover a unsightly grey hair, or a bald spot or an accidental mullet. Or that in some very sad scenarios, it serves as the mid-life teddy bear or bit o' blankie. Or it could be an issue of identity. A cowboy hat, beret, trucker or baseball or Castro cap can be a visual calling card, if you will. Whatever the reason, I really do see that it might be hard to leave home without it. It's what makes you, you...and therefore, cool.

Well let me tell you something, Mr. Stetson. This does not make you look cool:This is a shower cap. Just because it's on your hat and not your head doesn't make it any less of a shower cap. So let's get something straight: your sense of style should not be adhered to at all costs. I don't know what life coach told you otherwise, but you should fire them immediately. You live in Oregon, where it rains forever. You need to compromise your fashion sense to get from point A to point B like everyone else. Knowing this, you have three options:

1. Put the hat away and wear a fucking HOOD attached to a Columbia raincoat like everyone else. And when the rain stops...well then you can bring the ol' boy back out.

2. OR - I hear these are all the rage across the pond.

3. OR - Spray the hat with those rain repellent bottles of somethingorother they give you when you buy a leather jacket and hope for the best.

Once you have chosen one or more of the above, your shower cap will be freed up for its original intended internal use. And you will cease looking like such a knob.

Your friend (once you lose the head plastic),
kara

Wednesday is for Nonsense

2009-11-18T21:19:00.000-08:00

Can you make it to the end of this?

I can't.

The Post Wherein the Inner Portlander Fights and Claws its Way Through

2009-11-15T17:37:00.000-08:00

There's a Macy's commercial that's been running since the day before Halloween. It's celebrating the 150 years of holiday frippery brought to us by our friendly neighborhood department store. Thanks to YouTube, you can view it below:

The ad actually depresses me every time I see it. For although I was raised watching Miracle on 34th St and the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade...I wasn't raised with Macy's. I'd never even been in one. We didn't have them in Oregon.

About 3 or 4 years ago, Macy's bought out Meier & Frank...a Portland-based department store chain that had been around since the mid 1800s.

To be truthful - the company had gotten run down over the last decade. The classic downtown store was looking a little shabby. The old gold elevators slower than just taking the stairs. The dining room on the top floor resembled the mint green interior of a high-end retirement home. But every winter, the windows were dressed in honor of the 12 Days of Christmas and I loved them.

Sadly, I never took any pictures. Meier & Frank was such an old institution - it never occurred to me that it would one day it would just go away. So what you see here has been hijacked from the internet.

And now it's gone. The old store was gutted and given a sterile white interior. It's a Macy's, just like every other Macy's across the country. It's old school character is completely gone...and I'll never get to see the Can-Can geese again. So when that damn commercial comes on, I have to mute it or I get teary.

Today we spent the afternoon in Ikea (hating everyone). There was a need for some shelving and since we were in "relaxed weekend mode", out we went. Half way through the top floor, peckishness set in, so we checked out the cafeteria. The snaking line promised a 45 minute wait. No thanks. The unilateral decision was made to skip the rest of the top floor and go downstairs to the good shit...where we discovered that the dishes we'd been holding off getting a full set of are now discontinued. Ok, keep walking. Our item-filled cart was stolen in bathwares. We ran back through and re-loaded with two full armfuls (too afraid to get another cart) and finally made it to the warehouse only to discover that the shelves we'd decided on were out of stock. Pouts were assuaged with a zippy little ride on a newly acquired flatbed cart, but all in all, we were what one might call "failures" at being productive in Ikea. It's the kind of wasted afternoon that where one can only find solace in a new pair of shoes. Alas.

The point of the above tale of woe is that we live in a world of Macy's and Ikea now. The *little* local shops just aren't there anymore. Not for most of us. If one needs shelves, that need will result in one's Sunday mirroring my own. It's a daunting prospect. And I'm wondering what I can do about it.

I heard on the radio the other day that Walmart has been the only retailer showing profits throughout the entire recession. I say, fuck that. To the extent I can, I'm going to make a more concerted effort to support my local shelves. That's my plan. No Target. No more Ikea. Macy's can bite me. My biggest Christmas gift will be to my local economy this year...and I'm convinced I can do it (even if the "No Target" sentence made me throw up a little in my mouth). So there you have it. A cause. A stance. A plan. I can't possibly fail. Because I'm totally going to go close that Gap.com tab I've got open right now.

Half-Assed Reviews: Away We Go

2009-11-10T19:37:00.001-08:00

It's time for another Half-Assed Movie Review!

As you all know, I like to see and consequently talk about movies that everyone else has already seen and moved on from. And since that is often the case, I can't be bothered with doing much more than drinking a big ol' glass of wine and blurping out some film school blurp like "mise-en-scene" and "character-driven archs". Blurp.

I did not see Away We Go in the movie theater for the following reasons:

1. Movies cost a lot of money to see in theaters that don't serve beer. And that's just stupid.

2. If I wait for the movies to go to the second-run theater, I end up spending that money on beer. This is the wiser course of action. I can also occasionally yell things at the screen without getting booed. But we were out of the country when it was in the second-run.

3. I don't trust John Krasinski. He has a shifty nose and I wasn't convinced he could ever be anything other than Jim from The Office...even with Sam Mendes directing the nose to be something other than shifty.

4. It got a negatory review on NPR. Apparently I'm an elitist. Who knew.

Be that as it may - at the beach last stormy stormy weekend, I caught up on watching shit. And this sentence pretty much sums up how I felt about it, though it may make sense to absolutely no one:
Away We Go is my new Reality Bites.

Some backstory: Reality Bites came out in the mid-90s and followed the lives of 4 20-somethings with Liberal Arts degrees with no real skills and no idea what to do with their lives and no real ambition. I watched it a lot between the ages of 19-25 convinced I was the missing 5th cast member.

With Away We Go, I felt invaded - as though our apartment had been bugged for the last year. There were several bits of dialogue where I was all "Hey! That's none of your business!" The story follows a couple in their early 30s who discover they're unintentionally pregnant (Maya Rudolph has what may be the perfect reaction to the news) and realize they have no real direction or home. So off they go to figure out what to do about the latter.

To make this something other than a drama, we're introduced to a veritable line up of wackadoos along the way played by some of my favorites (Catherine O'Hara, Allison Janney, etc.). I think they're supposed to be the sugar rim...but somehow it didn't work. Their inclusion was an aspiration to Wes Anderson levels of character kitsch, but they came off as caricatures.

I'm hard on movies, it's true. Regardless of it's standing within the world at large, if it doesn't affect me on a relatable level, it gets an official rating of "eh". This movie hit me. And I wasn't even drinking. I'm approaching 30, everyone around me is having kids and seems to know what they want, etc. I'm not there. I don't know when I'll be there. I don't know what I'll do when I am there. And there's still that aimless lack of ambition hanging on from the early 20s. Away We Go does a pretty damn good job of reflecting that kind of internalization in a thoughtful, if occasionally cheesy, way.

And they made John/Jim grow a shifty beard to detract from his shifty nose. Turns out facial hair is occasionally useful.

The Post Wherein I Give A Kanye West-Style FUCK YOU to Idiots

2009-11-04T08:07:00.001-08:00

As of today, 31 of the states who've put gay marriage on a ballot for the popular vote have shot it down. Look - there's obviously some confusion. Let me break it down:

People = People

Women = People (remember, they used to not be allowed to own property or vote)

Black People = People (remember, they used to not be allowed anything at all)

Gay People = People (currently not thought of as people unless someone needs a decorator)

Anyone who comes at me with "it's a choice" can take that argument to EVERY CONSERVATIVE FIGURE WHO HAS EVER HAD A GAY SEX SCANDAL BROUGHT OUT TO THE PUBLIC. People like:
Robert Allen - Florida State Rep
Larry Craig - Idaho Senator
Mark Foley - Florida Stat Rep
Ted Haggard - Pastor of the New Life Church
And they just keep on coming......

IF YOU, as a person, say that a group of people CANNOT do something everyone else of-age gets to do simply because YOU, as a person, do not agree with something about the group of people that is a part of their biological makeup...THAT IS BIGOTRY. THAT IS DISCRIMINATION. THAT IS HATE. And this is YOU. Accept it.

At the same time - someone needs to get the point across that MARRIAGE IS NOT SACRED. All people can end it any time for any reason. And they do. Over 50% of the people who enter into those vows eventually say "eh", label it "irreconcilable differences" and end the union. At the same time, there are untold numbers of marriages that keep on keeping on filled with infidelity...convenience over love...domestic violence, etc. How can gay people have any effect either negatively or positively over the institution as we know it? How? Really. I want to know. Tell me. I want to understand.

Real love is so fucking rare...millions of people will never even get a chance at it. So, if a people is lucky enough to find another people they want to be with for the rest of their life (regardless of whether or not that actually happens), who the FUCK are you, or me to tell them...sorry, but sodomy is only for the heteros. No hospital visitation rights for you. But wasn't it just like the real thing when you had symbolic ring exchange ceremony in the park that half your relatives refused to attend. No? Whiner.

Bah.

Links! Not Just for Chains Anymore.

2009-11-02T17:52:00.000-08:00

B's not home, so I'm watching Family Guy. He hates it. Thinks it's the lowest form of humor. I think laughing at people who accidentally trip is the lowest form of humor, but I do it anyway. It's mostly a lack of self control. And that's why I laugh at Family Guy. Bad things are funny. I also laughed my ass off at Twilight and an entire day of the Hallmark channel. And of course...my favorite thing to sing in the shower is Eddie Murphy's Boogie in Your Butt. So I'll be damned if that randomly British cartoon baby and his deformed head doesn't crack my shit up.

But, you know, it's not all lowbrow all the time around here. I've been known to actually guffaw at Wes Anderson films and Dylan Moran in Black Books slays me. Abbott and Costello can be quoted ad nauseam. I grin for all 22 minutes of a Flight of the Conchords episode. I drop whatever I'm doing if Terry shows up on Reno 911. Never missed an episode of 30 Rock (without watching it online later). Tommy Boy and Clerks remains the most influential films of my formative teenage years. Bringing Up Baby still puts me in stitches, though viewed a kajillion times. I know quality.

But I don't like The Three Stooges. To put it bluntly...I don't get it. It's just not funny. Not funny at all.

Where's the writing? How do you fashion a script out of "woops" and "woe woe woe"s? And how does the gag not get old by the second time chubby half-bald man gets poked in the eyes after having his hair pulled? Someone needs to explain it to me.

In the meantime, I spent, like, a half an hour linking to crap to support my various arguments. Just so you don't have to. Enjoy.

Shipping Charges Have Become Outrageous

2009-10-29T17:07:00.001-07:00

I took some old school bloggy buddies off my blogroll thingie and it made me sad. Sad that they'd stopped blogging and sad that I hadn't. When I started the blog...well let's just say, we had a different Secretary of State. And there's been two since. Only one of the three had hair worthy of naming a blog after.

But this post isn't meant to be a jaunt down memory lane, oh no. It's meant to be about PICKLES.

A couple of months ago, I threw out a devil-may-care challenge concerning a limerick and some pickles and here it is...so much time later...only one person took me up on it. Stinkypaw wrote me a pickle limerick...and so today I sent her a jar of the good shit in return for this poetic gem:

To write a limerick I thought would be easy,
But now I see it's not that peasey
The things I'll do to taste your pickles
I'll ask, I'll beg but won't suffer thru tickles
Because I woudn't want to be queasy.

By the way, did you know you have to fill out a customs form for CANADA? Ridiculous.

When the postal employee asked if the package contained anything breakable, liquid or perishable...I throughoughly enjoyed saying yes to all three. So Stinkpaw...a glass jar of pickled cucs bobbing along in brine is on its way to you. They stamped 'FRAGILE" on it, so I know that means it won't break.

Viva la awesome blog buddies.

Discomfort is a State of Mind

2009-10-26T19:08:00.000-07:00

After non-purposefully swallowing a little ball of allspice, it's now stuck in my throat. It won't melt and I can't cough it back up, so I guess it will just have to sit there forever. Maybe it'll multiply and I'll be able to spice cider just by gargling it. Genius.

Halloween fever has hit hard, people, and those who have me on the face of book will have seen just how hard. In the meantime, I feel the smug need to share with you my success in turning Brendan into Ira Glass (as previously promised).

Behold.

It took me a month to gather all the crap from various thrift stores, but we attended our first Halloween party of the season on Saturday looking like a very respectable NPR radio show host...

...and smartly dressed Alice with a penchant for chopping the heads of white rabbits and turning them into flask-holding purses. You better believe it.

In a week I'll be over it. Moved on to an obsession with stuffing and cranberry sauce...and learning how to make a pie. Holidays are wonderful things for those who suffer from the short attention span. Like 30 minute episodes of life...only, you know, in days.

Speaking of 30 minute episodes...I'm waiting for the next "ripped from the headlines" segment of Law & Order about a boy floating away in a homemade balloon contraption. The world has waited long enough! And by "the world", I mean me! I can't take the suspense. My guess is that there'll be a twist in the last 5 minutes when the father takes the stand and rips off his toupee to reveal that his full head of hair was just a hoax...a publicity stunt and that it all...the whole brouhaha...was to come down to this. I'd watch it.

Seriously though - what I want to know is WHY IS THIS MAN STILL IN THE NEWS? What will it take to get the cameras off of this family? What sparkly thing can we dangle? Shoot...maybe I'll go out and cause a newsworthy ruckus. Just give me a small arsenal of super soakers, a nun, a mid-sized gerbil, a passport and a jar of petroleum jelly. It's ON.

Happy almost Halloween. This one's for the freaks.

Waste-of-money Product Reviews: The BumpIt

2009-10-19T19:45:00.001-07:00

It's a well known fact to people who know it - I love infomericals. I will watch one in its entirety before I even know it's over. And then do everything in my power to control the impulse to 'call now' regardless of what the extra bonus offer is.

So when the stupid inventions on TV show up in Target and I'm with amy g. ... and it's called a 'Bumpit' ... and it's under $10 ... and there's an hour until 30 Rock starts ... I think you see where this is going:

The Bumpit. Pronounced "Bump It" and not "Bum Pit" - unless you are us, and then that's totally how you pronounce it.

It comes with directions.
Let's give Kara a beehive!
It works for your hair OR your ass!
The finished product is a bit...like a growth. A growth that's very slowly falling off my head.

Front view.
Perhaps a little moisture will help the staying power. (No, she didn't really lick it.)
(Or did she.)
Now it's amy's turn. There was a little more success with her non-toddler hair.
Enough to inspire a dance with the joy of it.

And then...the double BumpIt. Which only succeeded in giving her an alien head.
As a product - it completely failed to do anything but make us laugh. Needless to say...the As Seen On TV invention is going back. So now you have two reasons not to buy one. 1. It doesn't work. 2. You might accidentally buy the one that we returned. And after watching amy g.'s review summation below, you'll understand why you should live in fear of such an occurance.

(Note: At one point amy refers to the 'jojo boys'. Jojos are fried wedge potatoes sold in the corner store across the street. They are glorious. And there are often boys hanging out in front of this shop with apparently nothing else to do. That is where the name comes from. The fact that they happen to sport 'ethnic hair' is purely coincidental. But yes, she's totally also racist.)

No, YOU'RE Out of Order!

2009-10-13T19:50:00.000-07:00

After spending the afternoon at Small Claims Court...I don't know why I was even nervous.

Wait, jumping ahead...let me back up:

Our old landlord did some shady sheez with our deposit. When I wrote and told him to make good, he ignored. I wrote again. He ignored. The next letter he received was from a Sherriff. SERVED!

That was many months ago. You may not believe this, but the courts are kind of backed up. You'll figure out why later.

So the court date finally arrives. My dad (and also a landlord in his own right) drove up to give us some pointers about representing ourselves, etc. He was also there for moral support, because sometimes a girl needs her dad.

We had to go through mediation. I was ok with this, I thought 'hey, this guy can't be totally unreasonable...maybe we can just settle this here'. No. Even after admitting the law was on my side he refused to offer an amount that was anything less than offensive because he 'didn't think we deserved it'. Of course a guy with Git 'er done embossed on his checks probably doesn't like being told what to do by a 5'2" blond chick half his age.

I told him that if he didn't want to take the negotiations seriously, it was time to go before the judge.

And so it went. We went before the judge...I pointed out the inconsistencies of his story and he tried to slander our character. It was tense. And then - in a beautiful moment for our justice system - I sat back and tried not to smile as the judge ruled that regardless of his feelings about us and his track record as a landlord...he had no evidence and the ruling would go in our favor.

We won almost $1,400 and he's now got a judgment against him that will hurt his credit. Wonder if he thinks it was worth it. Can't say I really care at this point.

But that's not what I loved about today, oh no. After mediation failed we had to return to the courtroom and wait for our case to be called. That meant they had to finish up with the "Stalking Protection Orders" These. are. glorious.

Some quotes:

Judge: Why do you believe you are in imminent danger from this person?
White-haired 'stached guy: 'Cause she told me to go to the Embassy Suites and I went and she said she was gonna beat my ass and get a Measure 11.
Judge: Had you had an intimate relationship with this person?
White-haired 'stached guy: She kep' askin' me to go to a motel. And well...I went.

Judge: Why do you believe you are in imminent danger from this person?
Carhartt-clad, Anthrax beard-sporting, self-absorbed doucheku: Because I can see the anger that comes into her eyes.
Judge: What has she done to threaten you?
CCABSSAD: Well, see, she's totally in love with me. And she comes over for no good reason, like one time she brought me soup. I mean, I didn't eat it, I threw it away because it looked too foreign...........................and I mean, she hasn't hurt me yet, but she's been in this country for 9 months and she has to learn that she can't just do whatever she wants here.

Dad and B were getting seriously annoyed at all the crazy, but I enjoyed it. Watching crazy can sometimes be relaxing. At least it was in this instance. I knew that no matter what I said...I would come off as infinitely more intelligent and credible than anyone else in the room. Except maybe B, but I didn't let him talk much.

Basically I'm here to tell you that I'm awesome. Feel free to rent my legal services. I take payment in the form of baked goods.

MTV Shows

Self-involved Blurgh

2009-10-06T19:57:00.000-07:00

I've had a day and I'm feeling fragile. The kind of fragile that keeps me from even judging a woman I pass struggling up the bridge pulling a dog behind her bike in one of those kid trolleys. Why isn't 'trolleys' spelled 'trollies'? Stupid.

I've had a glass of wine and a potato; The Office is on TV and I'm feeling better...but damn. Days like these are, well, the reason one really should own a pair of polar fleece sweatpants. And potatoes.

Tomorrow will be better.

Right?

In the meantime - tonight's bad '90s teen scary movie: Disturbing Behavior

Seasonal Greetings to You and Your Kin

2009-10-03T19:22:00.001-07:00

As I was surfing the channels just now, and ad for an upcoming screening of The Wedding Date popped up on ABC Family. For those who don't have crap cable, ABC Family is a channel that plays family-friendly shows and whatnot. Their new motto is that ABC Family is a new kind of family.

The Wedding Date...you lucky ducks ...is a Debra Messing RomCom about a woman who can't face going dateless to her sister's wedding so she hires a manhooker. I think she pays him something like $5 grand. I doubt it was enough. My guess is at some point toward the middle, both hilarity and true love ensues.

So ABC Family condones getting paid for sex. Definitely a new kind of family. One I can get behind. Keep that economy going however you can!

It's Halloween month and that fills me with the kind of joy only achieved with mass quantities of candy corn. My costume is already in the works and we'll start on B's next week. We have a couple sets of friends who love Halloween so much, they want to make babies with it, so the pressure's on. Last year we made a decent pass at Juno and Paulie despite my being sick as a dog filled with sickness (see left).

This year will hopefully turn out just as well but with less sickness. I'm going for a certain type of Alice in Wonderland and B is gonna be Ira Glass. These are almost cheating since both of us need to do very little to pass, as you can see by the comparative photographs included here. Astonishing, isn't it.

This time of year makes me happy. I'm having to physically stop myself from going out and getting pumpkins to carve yet, since they would rot within days. I bought fresh cider at the Farmer's Market earlier. A fire was built in the fireplace this morning. That bit took some work. I had to flip a swtich. I've already watched two out of long list of bad teen scary moves from the '90s. Did you know The Faculty and Apt Pupil were directed by Robert Rodriguez and Bryan Singer? Sometimes directors do the weirdest things.

In other Octobery news, I've purchased a pair of fleece sweatpants and I may never take them off. Yes. And before you call me boring, I'd like to point out that last weekend I rode around town in the Booty Mobile. I just didn't blog about it because what happens in the Booty Mobile stays in the Bootie Mobile. Besides, the pictures are on Facebook and they know what they did.

I've had enough computerness for the weekend. Off to read a book.

The Battle For Baked Goods Is Not Yet Won

2009-09-30T20:59:00.000-07:00

Many of you cannot follow directions. Admittedly, it's next to impossible NOT to consider the men's lives and how it may have affected both Dali and Hemingway's choice mustache shape and width, but rules are rules! That being said, there are two contenders for cookies. If we can't break the tie with your opinions, well then...I guess I have a shit ton of baking to do this weekend. Boo.

Answer one comes to us from Amanda - wife...mother...band groupie...and longtime friend of B. She is also apparently the female version of the comic book guy from The Simpsons with her oddly anecdotal Hemingway trivia:

Hemingway did not actually have a mustache. What was believed to be a mustache are actually two very furry cat toes, as Hemingway was polydactyl, leading to his love for polydactyl cats. http://cats.about.com/od/felinegenetics/a/polydactyl.htm

What impresses me about this response, besides the fact that it's got a bibliography, is the idea that the mustache is there against his will. That regardless of whatever happens in his daily life, every morning he'll wake up and there it is. Looking like a ginkgo leaf. I like this.

--------------------------

The second one comes from Randy...a non-reader of the blog....more specifically, an innocent bystander who was dragged into the debate via the Face of Book by a darling friend Sarah. I've met Randy once and find him to be a convivial fellow. Even more so after this:

Well, from my perspective, it appears that both their mustaches are pathetically girly, and frankly makes them each look like a Frenchman. On further analysis, the mustachioed upper lip of Dali does look like it has a mind of it's own, and almost appears to be sentient, moving, all be it slowly, from one side of his face to the other...so big bonus points there.
On the other hand, Papa's harried protuberance is slightly reminiscent of one Inspector Clouseau (again moving me towards the girly Frenchman indication), yet the Clouseau does no favors here for the Big Earn as it seems to have been left in the dryer on high heat just a bit too long and has thus shrunk two sizes. Although, each man's facial follicles are both lacking in what I'd like to term, the Selleck Coefficient, where the mustache itself, disembodied from it's wearer, is capable of solving crimes and bedding damsels in distress while looking badass in a Hawaiian shirt and a 1983 Ferrari, they do both serve a slightly more delicate function, that of keeping ants and other nefarious small organisms from entering each of its wearers nasal passages.
Dali's, if I'm correct, would do a whip flick motion to keep the little critters at bay, while Papasano's takes a less aggressive and more sluggish route, boring the small animals to death with overly long diatribes regarding how each individual hair grows "ever so slowly on the sloppiest of slopes on the faciest of faces, blah, blah, blah....". In conclusion then, I proclaim the Hemmingmouthwig to be the more tragic of the two, based solely on the fact that it looks dumb. Thank you reading, and I appreciate your time on this matter. Marty "The Bald Lip" Higgins

Though I have no idea what exactly makes a mustache "girly" since typically, women do not sport coiffed facial hair...and if they do, it's rarely on purpose...the effort put into the analysis demands respect.

--------------------------

What I find the MOST interesting, and not just because I've worked straight through the day from 8 am until 9 pm and am on my 3rd glass of wine, is that it was really hard to call who won the label "most tragic". I'd like to say that a tally was possible, but many of the arguments were so garbled that I couldn't necessarily make out a definitive answer either way. The two contenders name Hemingway as the loser in the scenario, but in general answers were all over the map. I'm going to have to call it a draw.

But feel free to tell me your opinion on the matter. I know you will anyway.

So...on to things that matter...

I need to know what level of maimery (totally a word) will result if a yoga ball is dropped from 9 stories up. Thoughts?

Homework

2009-09-26T22:18:00.000-07:00

When considering only their mustaches and not their lives...who is more tragic...Dali or Hemingway?

Think about it for a bit and get back to me. Best answer gets cookies.*

*Cookies will be chocolate chip and baked by me so taste cannot be vouched for. They'll be sent to the winner via USPS within one day of completion whenever that day actually happens to be.

Tirade

2009-09-24T10:55:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon, I discovered that I was getting something that would require medicine. I knew exactly what it was and exactly what I'd need. So, at the end of the work day, around 5:30pm, B picked me up and took me to an urgent care clinic.

$20 office copay with my shitty insurance is handed over. I'm told the wait would be about 1 hour, 45 minutes.

The wait was 1 hour and 35 minutes. It's 7:30pm.

In the examination room, 5 minutes to have vitals checked and another 5 to pee in a cup. Sample handed off to lab.

Sit in examination room for FORTY-FIVE minutes.

Consider throwing something.

But don't.

Doctor comes in all harried and says "yes, you have what you thought you had. here's a perscription".

Out the door another $100 lighter thanks to lab fees (to be billed at a later date) and off to the pharmacy.

Antibiotics for 7 days - $4 (a steal).

Doritos were $3.

Home 4 1/2 hours later.

If this had happened last week, I could've walked into a chemist/apotek/pharmacie and just asked for what I needed to combat what I knew I had. Spent $10 on it...and walked out 10 minutes later. Anyone who doesn't think the United States' health care system needs a massive overhaul can bite me.

Europe was fantastic, by the way. I'll put up some choice pics when I decide to go through them.

That is all.

Sleep is for Pansies

2009-09-22T18:05:00.000-07:00

I'm currently operating on a different plane. The other one. The non-lucid, head-floaty, could probably talk me into a ponzi scheme plane. The one where people are talking to you but you can only look at them blankly before shaking your head and saying, "what?". That plane. Some people call that plane "jet lag". I think that's a negative term for something that allows you to see fairies. And Elvis. With fairies. It's the plane for selecting lotto numbers. And art. And lipstick colors. It's the reason for printed warnings regarding operating heavy machinery. And ABBA. I think you see.

Some people think you have to ingest something to reach this plane. Pharmaceuticals or organic matter best left planted in the earth. But you don't. All you have to do is be awake on one side of the world and then continue to be awake on the other. That's it. Easy.

Now you try. Then we can maybe choose lipsticks together.

On An Escapade...Baby

2009-09-01T17:01:00.001-07:00

For any of you who really know me (and by that I mean have been reading this drivel for two years or more), you know that I like to take my boys for a test drive to make sure they'll stick for the long term. And by test drive, I mean I travel with them to somewhere far away from here for an extended period of time. B-rock's getting off easy...we're just hopping over to Europe to visit some friends and attend a wedding, but it's still going to be two weeks of non-stop togetherness. No soccer matches or True Blood girls nights or ultimate frisbee to give us our "apart" time. It could be interesting as we fight CONSTANTLY.

An example of which is below:

(3:57:08 PM) kara: jesus, it's 4:00
(3:59:02 PM) Brendan: yeah
(4:17:15 PM) kara: i'ma make porkchops
(4:18:19 PM) Brendan: really? I was going to make dinner, but I will not object if you want to
(4:18:52 PM) kara: what nonsense were you going to make?
(4:19:40 PM) Brendan: I don't know.
(4:19:51 PM) kara: well then you lose.
(4:19:54 PM) Brendan: I was going to rummage around until something came out
(4:20:02 PM) kara: ew
(4:20:13 PM) Brendan: and then you would eat it. delicious.
(4:20:27 PM) kara: YOU LOSE

I won that fight. How do you think we'll do?

Anyways, we're gonna be in London for a few days doing whatever. I hope to knock back some pints London-style (which means until 11:00pm when all the shit closes) and maybe take in something cultural like a wagamama. Or a wax museum.

Then it's off to Denmark where one of my high schools friends is getting married. I'm excited to be going back as my last visit was 6 years ago...though my Danish is painfully rusty. Oh well, it's better than brendan's.

And THEN we're weekending in Paris because b's never been there and I really want a gyro.

So yeah, that's what's up. I imagine I won't totally disappear for the whole two weeks. If I could manage to blog from Romania and Morocco, I can probably post a little something from a public place in the EU. Unless they don't have free wi-fi. Assholes. But, you know, it will only be if I feel like it.

I think you should know that I'm watching The Big Lebowski on TV for perhaps the millionth time. This movie, Dr. Zhivago and Beastmaster, are the only movies I absolutely can't bring my self to turn off if I happen upon them. Lebowski is my security blanket...like elliot smith and gummy worms. However, watching it on TV does have its, *ahem*, quirks. Like this little gem:

Walter: See what happens when you find(fuck) a stranger in the alps(ass)?!?!

I wonder who's job it is to re-write scenes such as this for the general audiences. I also wonder how I might take their job from them and make it my own.

One time on a plane they showed There's Something About Mary. Normally I hate that movie, but it felt like Christmas when Ben Stiller yelled "you're such a froggin' ashpole!" at someone.

Anyway, in other Lebowski-related news, thanks these label things we give our posts, I am reminded that I wrote a half-assed Lebowski movie review back before I was calling them that. Oh memories...of earlier this year. And now you can share in them too. Because I give.

As to that travel business, we don't leave until Saturday so I may still have stuff to say about nothing. Or I'll get busy throwing things at the cat or working or something and you'll get nothing. It all depends.

Until then - see ya, you human paraquats.

Tweedling

2009-08-30T14:16:00.000-07:00

I did it. I'm twatting. Twerting. Twitting. Whatever.

I'm not doing very well at it.

I originally joined to follow the guy who was posting as Christopher Walken. He made my heart soar in that early Disney movie kind of way. Not like this Wall-E bullshit of the nowadays. But he's gone now. Sad.

If you want to read, follow, obsess over the half-assed nonsense, it's here.

If you want to ditto the Waif's just as half-assed nonsense, it's here.

We both joined the same day without knowing it. Are we those creepy kind of sisters like the ones from The Shining or WHAT? Exactly.

Must off...my sangria need stirring.

When Literature is Ravaged

2009-08-25T20:07:00.000-07:00

The title can be read in two ways:

I'm either talking about a classical novel that has been carried away against its will to the cabin of a pirate ship where it will have its maidenhead stolen during a stormy night at sea by a man with puffy sleeves and unfortunately long hair.

OR

Someone has tried to strategically place zombies into a pastoral Georgian novel about love and the intricacies and ironies of society.

This may come as a surprise, but I think it was supposed to be funny.

It's crap.

I only kept reading it because I wanted to know if Darcy and Elizabeth got chomped in the end.

They did.

I might be lying.

Honestly though, I would like to have the author over for a beer, well, both authors, really...but in this instance just the one who's alive so that I may seek to understand his motivation behind this failure of the modern age. This novel was the ironic mustache of the trend in classical lit rewrites. It's trying to make a statement, but no one is really sure what it is...and just succeeds in coming off as unclean.

It's lazy.

Let me illustrate. Here is a smattering of dialogue:

Lady De Bourgh: Have your ninjas left you?

Elizabeth: We never had any ninjas.

Lady De Bourgh: No ninjas! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home without any ninjas! I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must have been quite a slave to your safety.

See what he did there? Yeah, he replaced the word "governess/governesses" with "ninja(s)" and boom...it's a totally different book! But way funnier, because now it has ninjas in it! How fucking original! It's totally like those crazy mustaches people used to have but absolutely nobody has now! Oh wait.

To add insult to corneal injury, I made the mistake of turning the last page to discover BOOK CLUB DISCUSSION QUESTIONS asking the reader to really reach down deep and analyze things like the importance of the role that vomit plays in the story.

I especially liked the beginning of this one:
Is Mr. Collins merely too fat and stupid to notice his wife's gradual transformation into a zombie...?

It's not even the stupidity of the question that gets me...it's that he believes people need his guidance to mock the thing. That a living room, several bottles of wine and a group of Austen-loving women isn't all the inspiration one needs to rip it apart (both figuratively and literally).

It is, of course, available at all fine book retailers.

I would like to advise Mr. Seth Grahame-Smith not to quit his day job.

I have to go, b-rock's trying to make me watch Nova.

Half-Assed Reviews: Andrus - The Man, The Mind & The Magic

2009-08-17T19:51:00.000-07:00

My dad's cooler than your dad. How many of YOUR dads have made a movie? And not just of you unwrapping your Crystal Castle when you were 6. A real movie. On film. And not Super 8 film because that's almost impossible to get and pointless... I mean digital film. Yes, the magic instant kind. And not just with one 2-hour wide angled establishing shot of a family reunion at a state park... I mean a a real MOVIE. Spliced. With cut-aways, transitions, linear storytelling, voice-over... the whole gypsy caravan. And not just played in the VCR for the grandparents on holidays... but in an effin' theater and at festivals. Yes... I win.

My father lives in Corvallis. Corvallis is a smallish town in the middle of the cool side of Oregon. That's the left. I have no idea what goes on in the right side. Corvallis is filled with aged hippies, smoothie shops and college students in orange and black. I've never liked it. But that's not the point. It was at an Oregonians for Rationality meeting in Corvallis that dad met Jerry Andrus, an 80-something fellow skeptic who was ALSO a geniusesque magician/illusionist.

Now... just imagine the kind of person you must be to inspire someone to want to make a movie about you.

That's Jerry.

Dad and Ty (the Waif's baby daddy) devoted several years with almost no help and no budget to capture what Jerry brought to the world both meaningfully and beautifully. As with any independent film, distribution has been a temperamental mistress, even with excellent reviews and support. But here's another baby step in the most correct direction:

Thursday, 10:00 PM/PT on Oregon Public Broadcasting, an hour-long version of Andrus will air.

Watch it. It will make you feel insignificant. In a good way.

It's A Big Day

2009-08-12T20:09:00.000-07:00

For several reasons. But I've forgotten them.

Except for this one.

And it's fuckin' huge.

I cleaned out this:

To make room for 16 of these...

After an hour, a glass of wine and the entirety of Nirvana's Nevermind, I succeeded in reducing the contents of my fridge to this:

That was after tossing out almost everything inside - including two jars of lemon curd. What the fuck am I doing with lemon curd? I'm not British, nor do I prefer any manner of curd other than the cheese variety.

Anyway........I did it.

Impressive, isn't it. Wars have started over these glorious homemade pickles. Peace treaties have been negotiated. Children have been sold. Lambies have been martyred. Civilizations have been conquered. Goods and services have been bartered. Homesteads have been pillaged. Stamp collections forsaken. Leather jackets sold to Buffalo Exchange. All for these pickles.

Normally the pickle-making party is the event of the season. This year it was just WORK. The demand has gotten so high (see paragraph above) that there is no joy in the stuffing of the jars...only determination to get as many cucs in as possible. Ok, there was some joy, but it was working joy. Is that a thing? Seriously though, I broke a sweat.

Next year I'm bringing up the option of outsourcing. I know lots of children without jobs.

Anyway, if in two months, when they mature, anyone remembers that it's time for the pickles to be mature and writes me a gloriously pickle-related limerick...I'll send them a jar.

See, I'm safe because no one will do that.

My Sister is a Jerkwad

2009-08-11T19:36:00.000-07:00

The Waif's attack on my person has inspired a hasty post. And by 'hasty' I mean I may not spell check it.

Ok, I never spell check it.

I just want you all to know that I'm being stalked by sharks. Don't anyone tell them where I live.

Speaking of where I live - where you aware that I am attempting to buy a parking space. When I bought my little condo in the sky (2nd floor) so many months ago, we were told there were no extra spaces (10 units:9 spaces...ratios.). We would have to park always and forever on the street outside the anti-undesirables gate. And that was ok. Annoying, but ok.

Then a couple of weeks ago, I got a call that the developer of the, well...development, realized he'd never sold one of the spots and would I want to buy it.

Yes. Yes I would.

Soon I will be parting with an inconveniently-sized (though I low-balled like a champ) amount of money at an inconvenient time (we're heading off to Europe in a couple of weeks) so that I may own a rectangle of concrete on the inside of the anti-undesirables gate. And once the deed is done, I shall do a jolly jig inside the nest of my rectangle. And then in a celebratory manner, we'll bbq meats within its confines. And then...well, we'll park Brendan's car in it. And it will be good.

Jigs and bbqs aside, all the back and forth and paperwork and third-party nonsense for a transaction such as this feels...silly. Like...wearing shoes on the beach silly. Or dead president masks to brunch, that kind of silly. You know what I mean.

In other news, I don't think break dancing really counts. As dancing, I mean. Just saying.

Lookee what I found...

2009-08-10T19:52:00.000-07:00

Here's a treat for you all while you're waiting for K-rah to get back to blogging already. A little gem I came across whilst cleaning off my hard drive. Without further ado... here she is, before and after undergoing a Noel Fielding hairdo.

And if you've never seen the Mighty Boosh and thus have no clue as to who on earth I am referencing, well then there's really no hope for you, is there?

Whose locks shall I photoshop upon my sister's head next...requests anyone? I'm leaning towards Mandy Patinkin in "The Princess Bride". You know--as my sister likes to say--for funsies.

If It Walks, It's Food.

2009-08-05T20:33:00.000-07:00

Nic wants me to talk about...

Food: Indian or Japanese

I think she's worried that neither country has food. I'm not sure why since both are experiencing technological booms and the like. Japan's got vending machines that distribute ladies' skivvies and India likes to help me reset my router while calling me ma'am. With that kind of modern day know-how comes all manner of food. So I think that answers that.

But if one is to delve into specifics of what each country eats...and turns it into a contest - well there's only one winner...and that's lamb.

The Japanese (as far as I know) don't cook with lamb. Or curry. And in the end...that will be their downfall. That and the giant squid that will devour the entire island. You know it's going to happen.

Still...I love me some sushi. Except unagi. It's slimy. Used car salesman slimy. But in your mouth. This is coming out wrong.

In other news, I was excited to read that The Time Traveler's Wife was going to be turned into a movie. I don't know why I was excited. Hollywood's ruined every novel post Gone With The Wind...I don't see what this should've been different. And according to this article, it won't be. I don't know where this sudden burst of hope came from. Must be some residual hope leftover from the Obama campaign.

Actually - I know where it came from. It came from seeing the trailer for Where the Wild Things Are. It's Obama-style hope with a dash of Spike Jonze pizzazz. And it looks like it spilled over. Damn.

So anyway, I shared the above article with my mother...the bestower of one of the only modern fictional love stories that didn't make me want to urp with the turning of each page and she had THIS to say regarding the ending change brought about by the happy ending neediness of the focus group:

Who's got time to be in a test audience? A bunch of idiots.

I think I speak for all of us (general public) when I respond with..."so true".

But to stay on (or rather return to) the point - at the end of the day Japanese food still wins, as I will most certainly be getting sushi before I get tikka masala if for no other reason that it's a refreshingly cool meal in this heat.

But come winter...no lambs are safe. I don't care how cute they are.

BodyWorks - On A Totally Different Level

2009-08-03T22:57:00.000-07:00

When listing out possible blog topics needing my opinion, Sue listed"spray-on tanning". I can only venture to guess that this means she wants to know my opinion on both the the act of spray-on tanning as well as the fact of it. Let's break it down into scientific/Egyptian-shaped outline segmentation portions:

I. Spray-on tanning exists.

A. spray-on versus sun contact with skins
B. spray-on vs. attacks by flesh-eating zombies

b. flesh eating zombies with spray-on tans - the existence of.

II. Ok, so maybe I don't exactly remember how to form outlines. It's been a long time since I was in school. And I'm thankful for that time. It's taken me this long to stop analyzing everything that comes at me into a 5 paragraph essay with a thesis sentence. School can fuck you up. Simple as that.

What I'm trying to say here is that I'd find an attack of flesh-eating zombies infinitely more terrifying IF they also sported spray-on tans. And even, EVEN more terrifying would be contemplating whether or not they received those tans prior to their zombified status. Because what if the answer to that was 'no'. No. Think about that.

That would mean that someone has to finagle them into that room where they get sprayed and must thereafter extract credit card information...the whole time the undead growls and grasps at person of the poor innocent spray-tan-facility flunky. The horror.

And the worst part is, you know they're not making more than $8/hr.

Damn this economy.

Damn the undead.

Damn spray-on tans.

Good evening to you all.

What Rachel Wants to Know

2009-07-30T21:28:00.000-07:00

Rachel wants to know my opinion on the war between the apples and the PCs. The fact of the matter is...I don't know what oversensitive politically correct people have against apples anyway. They protect you from doctors.

Just kidding, I totally know she meant computers. It basically rolls out like this:

I hate MACs because you can't right click.

But we have a MAC because B-rock respeks the hardware.

However - he's magically installed Windows on it. So I can right click.

That's love.

If what she really wants to know if in a blind taste test would I'd choose John Hodgman or Justin Long? The answer to that is always going to be Hodgman. I've loved him since he told that story about getting bit by a penguin in the London Zoo on This American Life. All Justin Long ever did for me was the final scene of Drag Me to Hell (You'll understand when you see it. It's glorious). But he negates that coolness with EVERYTHING ELSE THAT HE TOUCHES. So there you have it.

Can Hair Deflate?

2009-07-27T21:02:00.000-07:00

It's 89 degrees in my bedroom at 9:00 PM and I hate everything. I put off coming home as long as I could for the last few days but after a while, you just run out of places to go and you remember that the tomatoes must be watered. And so must the cat.

"Degrees" mean different things to different people. To some people, "100 degrees" promises salmonella poisoning from undercooked chicken. To others, it's an object that is only mostly turned halfway around. For me and all other Portlanders, 100 degrees means we abandon any and all fashion sense (if one may call it that) in an attempt to clad ourselves in the least amount of clothing possible without getting arrested for public indecency (on all but Naked Bike Ride day).

It's the clothing normally reserved for wear only on laundry day in one's own home with the shades drawn. The back up clothing. The Tae-bo in your living room, but only when you're single clothing. You know what I'm talking about. We put it on and we go OUT. We go out because it's too fucking hot to stay IN. Because we don't have air conditioning. This state, collectively, is like those women who profess to forget how painful childbirth is as they prepare to push out their 8th mouth to feed. The hot days of summer fade quickly into shitty, gloomy rain and we go another year without installing AC. Imbeciles.

Which is how I end up out in public in a hand-me-down patchy jeanskirt that is so short, when I sit in a chair...it's straight cheek to vinyl. I sound like velcro when I come back up. Walking down the street I do that preggo waddle to prevent my thighs from touching as they pass to keep the friction from starting a small fire. My tank top is 10 years old and the cotton has become so thin, it's misshapen and see-through. The outfit belongs in a lawn chair at a trailer park. But I wear it, dragging my burning feet along in sandals so thin I can feel the pavement. I wear it and I'm thankful for it. When it goes back to 80 degrees, maybe I'll shudder at my knotted up hairstyle and my lack of makeup, my giant Elton John sunglasses that cover half of my face, les tout ensemble. Maybe then I'll care.

But right now...I want to crawl into my refrigerator and learn to speak Inuit.

A Survival's Guide to...Survival.

2009-07-20T19:31:00.000-07:00

**Updated to contain 50% less spelling/grammatical errors. And toothpicks**

There are certain things in this world that a person should just never be without. And I don't mean stored in their garage or included in their stock portfolio...I mean in a fucking fannypack attached to the waistline at all times. They are:

Chapstick.
Key chain bottle opener.
Matches.
Reading matter.
Toothpick.
Collapsible flask.
Bobby Pins (full pckg).
TSA-approved nail file.

Without this survival grouping of goods, I fear for your welfare. And I can't help you when, as a result, you are in danger. I'm just too far away.

I feel as though you may have questions...let me break the list down:

Chapstick - 200,000 Americans die ever year from chapped lip poisoning. The global numbers are hair-raising. Scientists haven't announced exactly how the poison is secreted through the dried lip skin, but that isn't because they don't know. It's because they know we couldn't handle the truth. And they're right. I recommend Burt's Bees.

Keychain bottle opener - 200,000 Americans have to not drink something in a glass bottle every day due to unpreparedness. Strike that - I'm fairly certain the number is much, much, much higher. These are statistics, people. No one wants to be one of those. That's why I vote no on the census.

Matches - the second half of this is...NEVER pay for them. They are placed in bars for you to take. You'll never know when you might find yourself in the dark. And needing approximately 10 seconds of light.

Reading matter - I can't emphasize this one enough. There are only two things that really keep public transit/park/sidewalk crazy at bay and they are reading matter and earphones. The difference between the two is that reading matter can also be used as a weapon. Think about it.

Collapsible flask - I just discovered these in New Orleans. They are the greatest invention since the olive extractor. Talk about always being prepared...you carry this around and you'll be the POSTER child for preparedness. And then you can sign autographs. While beating up boy scouts. Totally pissed. After you actually fill the flask.

Bobby pins - Perhaps an entire package is excessive. That's only for the hard-core hair putter-uppers, like myself. They also pick locks and take out eyes right from the socket in a dirty dirty street fight. Note: you will lose on average 3 or 4 a week. So really, it's just a matter of planning. I have a usage issue. I find bobby pins everywhere in the house. By the bed, on the floor, in the kitchen, in the key candy dish. Everywhere. Don't be like me. Contain your usage.

TSA-approved nail file - and that means those rounded ones that they can't take away from you at the airport. I've never actually purchased one of these, The Future does a wonderful job of making sure I have one in my Christmas stocking every year. And it's a good thing, because I always need one. And it doubles as a torture device for anyone who thinks they sound like fingernails scraping a blackboard. Shudder. I believe they are an Obama-endorsed interrogation technique. And they'll keep your shit from being all jagged. And I'm not even joking.

Toothpicks - if you don't know how important these are, then I can't help you. And neither can anyone else. Go live alone in a tent on a precipice.

I could throw testimonials in here about how my survival kit has saved lives, marriages, sanities and souls. I could trademark and patent and guarantee the hellfire out of it. But I'm not going to. You'll just have to see for yourself. Statistics.

And this is what you get when I draw a creative blank. And only eat a single Reeses peanut butter cup for dinner. If you don't want this to happen again then you need to help me out. Tell me what you want my opinion on. Do it or I'll send the Wheelies after you.

Half-Assed Review: Twilight. You Know...For Kids!

2009-07-11T17:23:00.000-07:00

Two weekends back B-rock was in Seattle for a nerdstock thing. Seeing as I was going to have the house to myself and I needed to save money, I netflixed some chick flicks and purchased several yards of wine. And cherries.

That last bit was irrelevant.

Of the two movies, one was Twilight. In case you're not a 12-year-old girl, someone who has been around a 12-year-old girl or someone who has been suckered into reading all 55 of the books at gunpoint by a 12-year-old girl, let me enlighten you. Twilight is a movie made from one of a series of books for tweenies about a vampire named Edward who sparkles in the sunlight and a teenager named Bella (subtle) who wears flannel, going against everything her name stands for.

The first thing I will say about the movie - nothing at all occurs at twilight. So the title is filled with lies.

Secondly - you may be wondering why I watched the movie of a book I didn't read. Two reasons. One - it was mostly filmed in Portland and the Portland area (we can't seem to beat the film crews off with a stick lately). I enjoy trying to recognize places. Two - the dude from the movie is getting attacked everywhere he goes by fans on that physical Elvis-level, so I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Especially since Portland's small enough that I probably passed his pasty British ass on the street before anyone cared that he was once Cedric Diggory.

After viewing the film - I do not understand the obsession. With any of it. And I'm totally typing this with a straight face knowing there will be another of the Sunday True Blood soirees tomorrow night. Judge not lest blah blah blah. Still, at least those vampires have FANGS!

Yes, what I'm telling you here, people, is that I watched a vampire film with no fangs. They're fangless, sparkle in the sunlight and for funsies - play baseball.

You know what? That's it. That's all you need to know about this movie. Consider it reviewed.

And then, at the grocery store today I saw this: It may be that camera phones are not the greatest - but if you look closely, you'll see that it's a special US Weekly magazine starring The Sexy Stars of Twilight. And if you purchase the piece of piss, you'll get a free gift. Luckily, the internet can do justice to what my cell phone couldn't. Behold the free gift below. Lip. Venom. V.

Yeah.

My lips ached to know the venom. Good thing New Orleans left me on a ramen budget til the Europe trip. Stopped me just in time.

Vacay, Bitches.

2009-07-03T22:56:00.000-07:00

Going down south to play chicken with skin cancer. I may pop in when I can no longer move from eating too much crawfish...but don't hold your breath.

Or hold it...whatever.

Simplicty is Subjective...And So's Your Face

2009-06-30T20:30:00.000-07:00

I don't know if you know anything about Scandanavian design, but let me tell you right now, having been to Ikea doesn't count. With Scandinavian design, the goal is to achieve both minimalism and complexity with a hint of functionality drizzed over the top. And at the end of the process, what you're left with is housewares.

Like this:

I'm not sure what this is.

Arlie, one of my oldest and bestest friends from way back in the ten years when we were exchange students together asked me to be his plus one to a wine and cheese thing at some fancy pants home store in the Pearl. I can't say no to free wine.

We wandered about the place for a good half hour or more, picking things up and putting them back down, sometimes dropping them because minimalist housewares are often slippery.

There were a lot of conversations that started with him handing a thing to me with a:

"What do you think this is?"

I hold it up. Turn it back and forth.

"I think it's a bottle opener. See, you open it with the metal part."

"Ok, now turn it over."

The little tag on the underside said door stop. No joke. That's it. To
the left there. Door stop.

And it went on and on. Because the keys for the keyrings aren't actually in the store. No. In the store, it's just a hunk of rounded silver just sitting there. Expensive, with no apparent function. Except to make me crazy.

It's like a puzzle. Only once you solve it, there's something right next to it that's just as puzzling.

Of course, it's all cool looking as hell. But the mental capacity required for shopping in such an establishment is completely lacking in someone like me. Even with wine.

But I have to love the Scans with their wacky language and odd pickled fishes. It's a love Arlie and I share. And you know what else Arlie and I share? Awesome blogs.

Isn't that a lovely segue? Into THIS...a gorgeous blog about eating good food affordably. Of course, there's a distinct Portlandly slant since that's where he lives, but food knows no borders so go to it already. You'll never have to menu plan again (as Brendan is soon to find out when I inform him). Eat well friends. But only from functional tablewear.

Foodie for Less

And if you feel like solving puzzles. Here's the store with the door stop.

What can brown do for you?

2009-06-27T20:29:00.000-07:00

Surprise!!! Didn't think I'd be back again this year, did you? I didn't either. But today was a very special day. A momentous, blog-worthy, mark-your-calendar kind of day and I feel the need to share the news with the world at large. No, I didn't win a contest to meet Johnny Depp at his villa in the South of France, but something equally as exciting has occurred -- my little boy went poo on the potty. I KNOW! I am so freaking proud of him I could just burst. I feel like Gob when he got on the cover of POOF magazine... it's that kind of joy.

Seriously, up until today this kid had zero interest in using the potty, this is even after bribing him with a Thomas train set (yes, I pulled out the big guns here). We got the little red potty seat, the cute designer kid underpants, we made a whole sticker chart -- the whole nine yards. He was totally into the concept at first, but it just wasn't clicking and frustration was setting in. So I gave up, resigned myself to another year+ of changing giant poo diapers. Then, lo and behold, out of the blue and in the middle of chicken nugget dinner tonight he says, "I wanna go poo-poo." I quickly picked my jaw up off the floor, hauled him off to the bathroom and he sat there and did his business. It was magical. I almost cried.

So there you go, people. A heartwarming tale the whole family can enjoy. You're welcome. And as a bonus, I wrote a little song about it that goes something like this...

Who knew a poo could make me feel the way I do?

I'm still working on it.

How I Love a Catchphrase

2009-06-24T20:22:00.000-07:00

Not since the invention of the giant Cheeto have I been so annoyed with the crap this country comes up with. You'll see why in a moment.

But first...

I love it when people begin conversations with "In this economy...". I want to apply it to everything.

"In this economy, my toenails should be blue."

"In this economy, I will have chili for dinner."

"In this economy, I'd still pay $10 to see Drag Me to Hell."

"In this economy, stirrup pants should not happen."

See how well that works?

So...in this economy - I find the existence of things like The World Cruise Ship highly offensive. Go to that site. Go to it. Do it. It's a cruise ship you can live on. You can pay a couple million for a studio - pre-furnished and decorated an various shades of beige that takes you to exotic places like Brazil, France, South Africa...and Portland?

(excuse the poorly structured camera phone pick from the other side of the bridge)

How is that travel? Honestly. You step off the boat for a day trip to some ruins on Capri and are back on board in time for all you can eat lobster and that struggling stand-up comedian who does Social Security gags. And somehow, you have to make it back to Phoenix for that dental cleaning next month. Better book a flight from Madrid.

That's their life. Weird.

The ship has since sailed. Here's to hoping their next port isn't Iran. Day trips to Tehran may not end well. The footage from there is breaking my heart. Not in the same way this stupid boat is. And the Cheetos...oh the Cheetos.

What Artichokes Say About People

2009-06-22T20:15:00.000-07:00

Everything you need to know about someone can be determined based on their relationship with artichokes.

Loves them in all natural and processed forms of gloriousness:
Can speak to forest creatures. And fairies. Occasionally grants wishes

Likes the fresh hearts but doesn't dig teeth-scraping the leafy goodness:
Might sell your baby to gypsies for gambling monies

Only likes the hearts when marinated in a jar/can:
Indecisive with a propensity to commit armed robbery

Doesn't like them at all:
Serial killer

Is unfamiliar with them on the whole:
Survived a long smuggling-related imprisonment on a deserted island.

Feel free to print this guide out and keep it in your wallet. That way you can refer to it if you ever come up against someone you're not sure about. It may just save your life one day. Or something.

kara out.

You Can Wear It OR Scour Pots and Pans!

2009-06-19T09:56:00.000-07:00

A little background: We were not shopping for a dress for me. We were shopping in the fancy prom/cocktail/wedding dress boutique for my friend who must attend several formalish events this year. But within the racks, I found this.

This is a red dress made up entirely of tiny cloth roses with a texture similar to Brillo pads. And a bubble hem. In other words, it's hilarious. Wearing that dress is like being a mosquito drawn to a zap lamp. I know it might kill me, but I need to get as close as possible to it anyway. However, I can't bring myself to buy it. Opinions on the matter are split right down the middle at the office. I need you, perfect stranger, to make my decisions for me.

****UPDATE****
I forgot to mention that there's a bow in the back. You see my dilemma.

I'd Hit That

2009-06-15T23:03:00.000-07:00

Let me ask you something. Does this look like a face you want to hit?

Well it is...because that's what it's made for.

I think pinatas are the secret to preventing ulcers, going postal and downing entire bottles of asprin. I think this because I know it. This is not based on science, but let's face it...nothing good ever is.

I think that if we had pinatas in strategic locations around the country, there'd be less gang violence.

I think if we took pinatas to North Korea, we'd get turned away at the border because you can't go waltzing in to North Korea, not even with a pinata. But I still think we should try.

I think if pinatas were on every playground, there'd be no bullying. Only pinata bullying. And they like it.

I think pinatas are the key to unlocking the mystery of the universe AND the Da Vinci code. Unless it's filled with tootsie rolls. That's just disappointing.

I think pinatas are the first thing the pilgrims saw from the bow of the ships...and they knew they'd found the Promiseland. (Pin-a-ta means "awesome" in Iroquois. That's totally true.)

I think you see where I'm going.

This is what I would do to myself in a world without pinatas.

Don't let it happen, people.

A Place to Walk and an iPod

2009-06-12T22:40:00.000-07:00

Whoever realized that Johnny Depp should always be in vests gets a gold star. And they should feel good about that, because the highest I ever got was green.

I've seen a lot of ugly couples lately and am wondering if it's to do with the economy. Everyone's making cutbacks, even on their standards. Is that mean? It might be. But every time I see an ugly couple, it isn't so much that I think "how sweet that they found each other" as it is "who looks at that mug across a room and thinks YES". These are the things I think about when I have some place to walk to and an iPod.

I would have blogged sooner, but I was in Atlanta sweating my balls off. My dreams of reaching shemaledom have officially sizzled away in the hot Southern sun. I'm fairly certain those were lyrics to a Neil Young song, but I'm afraid I can't prove it. Anyway, I went for work but I stayed for the meatballs and the company (shoutout to JG!). But also I stayed because I had to.

I think it's weird that there are people who live half their time on the East coast and half on the West. I don't understand how their bodies can handle it. There were times when I was sitting in 8:30 am meetings (5:30 am my time) and was working so hard at keeping my eyes open, I'm certain it appeared as though I was on peyote.

I actually don't know how one ingests peyote. But I bet it's awesome.

I'm going to use tomorrow to catch up on blogs so I can avoid buying grout. Goals.

You beetches better have some drama for me. If I end up preferring to spend my time on home improvement, we'll have to have words.

Kara out.

Now That's Entertainment

2009-06-01T20:31:00.000-07:00

We live on a corner with a bus stop. Across from the bus stop is a mini mart. They sell jojos that you make you want to sire their children. Wait. Chicks don't sire. Whatever. The bus stop is right next to an incredibly beautiful Catholic church. There's a farmer's market every Sunday a couple blocks in one direction and a police station the same amount of blocks in the other. Directly across the street and one block over is both The Grilled Cheese Grill and a bar that sells Frito Chili Pie. Yes. This is my street.

With the warm weather, we've been keeping both the front and back doors open for cross ventilation (things you learn about from living in the South), not to mention every window that we can pry open. We wake up the the sweetest sounding birds in the morning, and at night drift off to the soothing sounds of people out on the corner...tearing each other new assholes.

I cannot believe the quantity of fights/spats/all out brawls that go on at the bus stop and/or mini mart. Sometimes it's a group of people, sometimes it's just two. Sometimes it's just one really drunk dude yelling shit at his 40 of Milwaulkie's Best. Occasionally there's been sirens. Once there's been bullets. But every single day, there's something. Right now, I'm witnessing what I think is a domestic dispute. The exact context of the discourse is hard to decipher, but I'm fairly certain the term "ho" is one side's descriptor of choice for his opponent. When I walk out there to climb on my scooter in the morning, I'll have to watch for shattered glass left over from the physical portion of the event. Oftentimes beer bottles are mistaken for snowballs, you see, and are lobbed at one another like tangible exclamation points.

None of it actually worries me. I lived in much more dangerous neighborhoods when in New Orleans and there obtained all manner of both evasive and observantesque skills. I'm just kind of entranced by it. I could go off here about how I've got a romanticized ideal of what it's like to be a witness in a big case where I help solve a crime and am the backbone of justice, etc. But the fact is, I'm fucking nosy. I basically feel that if you're airing your dirty underthings on a public sidewalk at the top of your voice, you're inviting an audience. And if I've got nothing better going, shooot, I'll stand in my doorway with a glass of wine and some popcorn.

Extra butter.

Now, if you'll excuse me...

Excess at its Most Inappropriate

2009-05-31T17:55:00.001-07:00

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

2009-05-26T18:54:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-22T11:38:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-05-19T21:26:00.001-07:00

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

2009-05-12T19:15:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-10T23:14:00.001-07:00

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

2009-05-06T19:31:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-04T18:30:00.000-07:00

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.