Perhaps institutors of the 80% regulation fear that having tasted real tomatoes, we will thereafter clamor for them and create a dangerous ruckus in the long tomato-less wintry months. And, frankly, well we might. There may be tomato standoffs and protests and riots during the first few winters, but we'd get used to it. We could institute a system by which we joyfully eat them when they are plentiful and ripe then, later, instead of eating pathetic, anemic tomato imposters, we could, you know, just not eat them until they're plentiful and ripe again. It's crazy, but I think it just might work. And once we've got the tomato situation under control, we can move on to cantaloupe.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
I understand, of course, that this is not everyone's idea of a well-spent Sunday. Indeed, on my way, while stopped at a red light, I watched a young man emerge from a parked car wearing only work boots and very snug briefs, the camouflage print of which disguised exactly nothing. "Huh." I thought, because I have lived here a very long time and it takes more than that to rattle me. Then he turned around and I discovered that the print of the briefs was not their most compelling feature. And I laughed.
Where exactly does one go in nothing but ass-less underwear of a rainy Sunday? I could not say, but I am guessing it wasn't a tea party.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Yesterday, however, I had a new postal experience. Among my many catalogues was one piece of real mail. I was briefly excited thinking that someone had written me a letter (you know how I enjoy that), but when I looked closer, it proved to be a letter that had been mailed to New Orleans two weeks ago and returned as undeliverable. The sticker says: Return to sender. No such street. (Deeply disappointing, incidentally, because it was addressed to a bookstore on Pirates Alley, a street I very much wish did exist.)Here's the thing though. This note to this possibly fictional bookstore on this imaginary New Orleans street was not sent by me. And yet, it has been returned to me--understandably, since the return address in the corner is definitely mine.
We must conclude that somewhere in the metropolis is a person who not only does not know the addresses of his would-be correspondent, but is equally misinformed about his own address. A sad state of affairs. Perhaps this person should restrict himself to phone calls.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Today I had trouble dragging myself to work, as I will spend much of the day cutting and sorting nametags, a task that makes me grouchy in the "I'm smarter than this" vein (though why it should, since I have to sing the alphabet song over and over again in order to alphabetize anything, I couldn't say). However, today's radio snippet was about unemployment in California. And you know what that was? Awfully damn sobering. I am newly grateful to have a job and to have my big budget struggle be whether or not I can afford to take Italian Level 2, not whether I can afford to pay my rent or buy food.
Hi there, nametags. What's up?
Monday, September 12, 2011
And, really, you can't ask more of a beverage than that, can you?
*******in unrelated news, Blogger has changed their interface and now, in order to have spaces between paragraphs, I am obliged to put in HTML codes. This displeases me. Not least because I know really nothing at all about HTML codes and must clunk along like the Frankenstein's monster of the digital age. In fact, are they even called HTML "codes?" I don't know. See?
Dear Blogger, remember when you did the technical things and I just, like, wrote stuff? I miss those days. If I wanted to be all technologically advanced, I'd use Wordpress. Love, Kari
Saturday, September 10, 2011
1. I hear on the radio that the U.S. Post Office is in danger of becoming obsolete. Many jokes are made about email, etc. I assume these jokes are made by people who never receive letters. Because, really, is there anything more lovely than getting a real letter, handwritten by someone who loves you? (Hint: there isn't.)
2. The recipe calls for half an egg. And here I make another assumption, namely, that this recipe was penned by someone fairly unfamiliar with the properties eggs in their uncooked state.
So...go write a letter. By the time you're done, we'll know how the cake turned out.Cliffhanger!
Wednesday, September 07, 2011
Last night found myself too exhausted to go to my Italian class. I know. Lame. If I had been able to teleport to class, I would definitely have gone, as I very much enjoy my Italian class, but I lacked the will to get downtown. Indeed, at the moment I should have been walking to BART, I was asleep on my sofa. These things happen. As a compromise, I watched Cinema Paradiso. It is about the same length as class, and unlike class, it involves no English whatsoever.It breaks down like this.
In both class and in Cinema Paradiso, I recognize and understand some Italian phrases. Si! Vero! In class, I often laugh. In Cinema Paradiso, I also laughed a little. In class, I have yet to cry. In Cinema Paradiso I wept copiously and was overcome by feelings of painful nostalgia for hours afterwards.Moral: go to class. (Vai in classe.)
Tuesday, September 06, 2011
2) spend extra time on having lovely wrinkle-free bedding [did I iron the pillowcases? I totally did. I ironed and ironed, in fact. Where is my prize?]
3) take a pre-bed bath so as not to sully flawless sheets
4) crawl into perfect bed totally exhausted [probably from ironing] at the old timer hour of 10:18pm and then
5) spend the whole night in a sleepless, itchy allergy frenzy--very likely resulting from overly fragrant linens.
Now am post allergy-night work zombie.
I am not pleased.
Thursday, September 01, 2011
I am unexpectedly going to be telling another story at the Mill Valley library on Friday. Oh. Oops. That would be TOMORROW. I am subbing for my friend Samantha who--just yesterday--had to withdraw. I am not ready. If you want to come and see if I get ready between now and then, do.
Generally, in what I laughingly refer to as "my work," I take unfortunate incidents from my life and/or personal shortcomings and make fun of them. Ta da! Humor writing. It's been working for me for years. Yesterday, I thought I had come up with a story for tomorrow's event that would lend itself nicely to this model, but what I am finding is that while I might be able to craft it such that others may be amused, I am not amused. At all. Embarrassed, yes. Sad, yes. Full of chuckles, not so much.
I am trying very hard to start shaking my head and smiling ruefully at all those gosh-darn romantic misadventures of yesteryear since I don't really have time to come up with a new idea, but [special behind-the-scenes glimpse into the creative process], I've been on the verge of tears since about 10pm last night. Hilarious!
NB: If you are secretly in love with me, this might be a good time to mention it.