Friday, September 30, 2011

Just thinking out loud...

I just had a hamburger (Do you like how I just blithely announce that as though I were talking about lunch rather than savagery toward animals, weight gain, artery clogging, and systematically destroying the earth's atmosphere? Yeah. I'm quite casual like that) and upon this hamburger was a tasteless tomato-shaped disk. This is hardly unusual. It has been true of millions of its hamburger forebears, to say nothing of the millions of sandwich brethren that have come before. Indeed one wonders if it might be some kind of rule that no real tomatoes may be used in the construction of 80% of culinary creations served between slices of bread. And yet, I happen to know that at the market just four doors down from the restaurant, there are bins full to overflowing with enormous, beautiful, deliciously tomato-tasting heirloom tomatoes. Yea verily. For I have seen them with mine own two eyes. Apparently tomatoes are currently what insiders call "in season."

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.

Thursday, September 29, 2011


Anthropologie is having a sale. This means that the rug I scrolled past and said, "Oh. That's pretty." is a mere $3,599.99, down from $5,998.00

Oh, Anthropologie. You're hilarious.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Sunday afternoon

On Sunday afternoon I put on a dress and went to tea at the estimable Ms. Stephan's home, which seemed like a highly civilized sort of thing to do, not least because she has several pianos and things are automatically made fancier by their mere proximity. We drank from dainty cups and ate wee homemade cupcakes.

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

Coin flipping

This week, they have been painting upstairs and the fumes seep down into my apartment to a shocking degree. In order to mitigate the headache/nausea combo that greets me the moment I walk in the door at the end of the day, I have been leaving all my windows wide open all day. I was more than usually dismayed, therefore, when I woke to see a gaggle of workmen scrambling up to the roof directly across the street this morning. All of them went up except for the one guy who was left on the street to attend to the bubbling vat of tar outside my window.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011


I frequently get mail for people who do not live in my apartment. At least, I've never seen them. If they are there, they owe me a great deal of rent. My assumption is that they used to live there and their correspondents are very slow to get the news of their relocation.

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

Quit it

Insects: Stop biting me. For real. I'm sick of it.
I'm just sitting here at work minding my own business. If you need to bite someone's elbow, bite your own damn elbow.

Saturday, September 17, 2011

A memo

Dear Disappointing Melon,
When I chose you, it was because I expected you to be sweet and good. You have proved to be neither. Frankly, if I wanted that kind of experience, I'd be dating, not eating fruit.

Out of the loop (part infinity)

ANNOUNCEMENT: Kneebody is coming in November.

The world in general: OMG! Kneebody! In San Francisco? You've got to be kidding me! I am buying 18 tickets right now! Kneebody! Kneebody! Kneebody!

Me: ?

Wednesday, September 14, 2011


Yesterday I heard a snippet on the radio that, of white collar workers, the unhappiest is someone who is an unmarried 42-year-old woman who is making less than $100K as a doctor or a lawyer. Note to self: do not become a lawyer next year for fear of sinking into suicidal depression.

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

Marketers take heed

Girls in the hall are discussing drinking water. One girl is signing the praises of sparkling water over plain water. To sum up she says, "sparkling water....ignites your spirit."

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

Up to the minute

I am in the process of making a cake for my friend Meridith's birthday, which is why these two disturbing things occurred simultaneously.

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.


Wednesday, September 07, 2011

Non c'e

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

Zombie head

You know what's sad? When you 1) drag your pitiful tired self to the laundromat on a national holiday while everyone else is at a BBQ with charming friends or similar

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.

This uninteresting addition to Cereal for Dinner (and likely many subsequent uninteresting additions) is brought to you by the Blog Bully and his relentless appetite for updates at any cost.

Thursday, September 01, 2011

Hardy har har

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.