Sushi über alles and catch you on the flip

One thing about the hiatus is that I’ve had a guilt-free great time being extra-close to all my face-time dear friendohs recently. They’re amazing, insightful, fantastic, and get me through everything with grace and good humor. Big ups to all my wonderful friends; I don’t know how you guys put up with me. Really.

Have you hugged your friends today?

via pandaeraser on the tumblr. Check her out!!!

But, that said, internet homies, it’s been a super-tremendously rewarding day back in the journal’s saddle. Though they’ve all been ghost posts which I’ve written the night before, I’ve really liked it. Let’s never part ways again. Butterfly kisses.

Got to set off some soosh bombasticos with panda tonight, so I’ll catch you on the flip!

Take-two Tuesday and Yesterday’s News — Movie Moment: Une femme est une femme, Zodiac quackery and cock-gobbling Virgos edition

edit: Since this post’s original appearance, I’ve been reclassified as a Leo by … the sometimes-I-tune-in Zodiac powers that be? Not actually sure whom. Fellow fabulously-damaged Virgin Panda tried to explain it to me over soosh bombasticos last week but she is much, much better at understanding this stuff than I am.

This post originally appeared on February 7, 2010 at 9:14 a.m., so practically one year ago. Synchronicity in Yesterday’s News!

Romance, science, and zodiac quackery in Une femme est une femme/A Woman Is A Woman (Godard, 1961).

Virgo is a hard worker, a neglected mother, a quotidian task master, and a selfless martyr. Virgo is also a reality TV train wreck, a drunken psychopath, and a self-abusing anorexic. Virgo is analytical on a good day. Virgo is self-critical, self-loathing, self-deprecating, self-flagellating, and self-defeating on a bad day.

The Virgin, contrary to what her title may suggest, is the resident cock gobbler of the zodiac — never a topper, always a bottom. If you’re looking for a woman who will abuse herself, party like it’s Greek harvest time and she’s drunk on mead, please you sexually without so much as a nod to her own hungry genitalia, and perform all the humiliating duties you’ve assigned to her as wife and mother, look no further than the drunken Virgin of the zodiac.

And yes, more often than not, this naughty little maiden is getting crunked at the club or downing daiquiris at the Mommy and Me block party, an attempt to drown to death the echoes of self-loathing that usually prevent her from embodying the female charm and charisma she labors to possess.

The Virgo vibratory pattern is restrictive, effective, judgmental, exact, helpful, and neurotic. Virgos are a lot of things, socially charismatic not being one of them.

Usually, when I meet a Virgo, my natural reaction is, ‘this person must have Aspergers.’ They fixate on minutiae like Rainman [and] have more clicks and ticks than a malfunctioning android attempting to process human emotion.

Virgos rule the house of diet, perfectionism, and nourishment. Just glance at a list of famous Virgos and you’ll find more self-flagellating, adulthood suppressing skeletors than you can shake a stick at: Amy Winehouse, Rachel Zoe, Nicole Ritchie, Karl Lagerfeld, Twiggy, Fiona Apple, Aimee Mann, Peggy Guggenheim, etc.

[personally adding Anne Bancroft, Evan Rachel Wood, Lauren Bacall, Ricki Lake, Greta Garbo, and Rose McGowan to that list].

Yes, that is pretty much the way of it.

Virgo is the embodiment of human turmoil.

Insightful and amusing zodiac sign analysis by Carly, whose blog “Do you think I’m smart? Astrology and other Ass Munchery” is right here on the wordpress. Usually I say that I don’t believe in all that large astrological nonsense, but I have to admit that’s the first one I’ve ever read that was right on. Maybe I just needed to read all the horrible things I already know about myself confirmed, instead of the butt-licking backhanded compliments in most horoscopes, in order to start giving it some credence.

Final thought.

How to Spot a Virgo Woman:

They have an eating disorder.

They give rigorous handies.

They have acid reflux.

They’ll do “anything for my man.”

They want your love, but don’t deserve it.

(more, if you’re into that — she is very clever and scathingly funny)

Flashback Friday — Advice: NSFW Sophia Loren schooling on true sexy glamour edition

This entry originally appeared on Nov 20, 2009 at 10:55 a.m.

I think the quality of sexiness comes from within. It is something that is in you or it isn’t and it really doesn’t have much to do with breasts or thighs or the pout of your lips.

A woman’s dress should be like a barbed-wire fence: serving its purpose without obstructing the view.

Hey, models and movie starlets of today! Want to be a timeless, beautiful, glamorous international sex symbol like the world-famously gorgeous Sophia? Ms. Loren sez: eat something. If you are confused about how to eat and need help getting started, she even has cookbooks to help you along.

Final thoughts on eating and sexiness from Sophia:

Spaghetti can be eaten most successfully if you inhale it like a vacuum cleaner.

and …

Everything you see I owe to spaghetti.

Do it for the curves, ladies. Feel free to keep us posted on your progress!

Microwaves and I do not understand each other

“Field-side Microwave” by say.today on the flickr.

Okay, right out of the gate I need to say that I’m one of those ignorant paranoiac luddites who’s still not totally convinced that microwaves are safe. So I am biased against them to begin with. (Please do not explain the science of their safety to me because I am unreasonable and stubborn and it would waste both our time for you to patiently demonstrate how they will not make us sterile or slowly irradiate our children.) I also prefer to make food in the oven because it comes out better. Anyone who has microwaved fries instead of sticking them under the broiler knows where I’m coming from.

I use the microwave for two things: popping corn and heating tea. The popcorn because it is a light snack that I do not have to slave over a pot and nervously try to capture it before it is flung all over the stovetop, and the tea because my beautiful teapot is in Portland.The microwave in the kitchen here has a “popcorn” button with which I’ve been experimenting with fairly good results. It also has a bunch of other preset buttons which I can never see myself using, such as for thawing meat, which the microwave is the last place I would be willing to do that.

“Late Night Snack” by Danielle de Leon on the flickr.

As I was heating tea around five minutes ago, I observed that, of course, there was no make-a-beverage-hot-but-not-scalding-setting. I made a “pfft!” noise as I watched the cup slowly spin from a safe distance, and I thought with disdain that any microwave which has automatic settings for all this other happy crap but no button for tea clearly knows nothing about me.

Then I thought, Why do I want the microwave to know things about me?

“Granddad’s Microwave” via funkjunkie on the tumblr.

The situation could be worse. When we moved Paolo and Miss D in to their present C-town domicile, the kitchen came complete with a vintage microwave that had a stunning array of preset suggestions. They started reasonably enough — settings for thawing meat and defrosting vegetables, then moving in to common entrees — but quickly progressed to some really obscure menu suggestions. The most shocking and thought-provoking one for me was, I shit you not, swordfish l’orange.

The saddest cookbook you’ll ever see.

Swordfish l’orange: wow. Like, first of all, I would have never thought to prepare swordfish in that fashion — I’ve never prepared swordfish at all, actually, but I feel that l’orange would not be my “go-to” style — but more importantly, if someone, somewhere, actually took a notion to cook the dish in the first place, why would you do it in the microwave? On what planet is swordfish l’orange so in demand as a dish that you whip it up in the microwave like it is a freaking Lean Pocket? It truly boggled my mind.

My Aunt Harriet had a microwave in the eighties which talked and her magnificent neighbor’s no-good son who is dead now totally stole it one morning, but all of that’s a story for a different day. I got quite a few microwave stories, and they’re all pretty good. One involves both toplessness and fire (I live dangerously). I’m not sure if I have enough anecdotes to make it a regular feature, but I’ll think about it.

Movie Millisecond: Agnes of God and all apologies

Agnes of God (Norman Jewison, 1985).

Sorry for today’s post scarcity; despite the Cappy being gone, I was feeling under the weather this morning and then had to visit the laboratory vampires in preparation for an appointment I’ve got later this week*, but I’ve bounced back and will knock your socks off with the shower of posts I plan for tomorrow.

The film stars Meg Tilly, Anne Bancroft, and Jane Fonda and received many award nominations, with Miss Tilly winning the Golden Globe for Best Supporting Actress. cap via xmission.

Teevee Time, Liberated Space, Daily Batman, the inaugural edition of a new Wonder Woman project, a Girl of Summer, and October’s new object of focus (shrouded in mystery for now) are all included. Time to reboot and pump up the jam — can you dig it!

*After the labwork, I admit I went to India Bistro with Miss D. (hangs head) I’m a failure as a blogging couch potato.

Dinner at Eight! —

Mmm!

— Except actually at four or so. Getting things pulled together to pick up kidlet and then together the two of us have scheduled a much-needed munch, movies, and catch-up session with my Sarah-fina and favorite Baby Ginger. Especially look forward to discussing impressions of the school at which I wish to teach, which she has just left.

Mainline it?

My job is assembling materials for bruschetta and dessert while S-f prepares the main course. Thinking chocolate-hazelnut ravioli a la Giada but not so hyper-prepared and a bit healthier (not deep fried.) We can never go wrong with Nutella as our co-pilot, yes? Salute! Have an awesome Friday night and I will catch you on the flip!

Goethe Month: Shadow and light and lick my ass

“Shadow and light” by slagophoto on the da.

There is strong shadow where there is much light.

(Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Götz von Berlichingen, Act I)

Götz von Berlichingen had an iron prosthetic arm and was quite the dude. In 1773, Goethe wrote a popular play based on von Berlichingen’s life story. And it was not all highblown beautiful truths about light and dark, either — he coined a famous German vulgarity.

Two acts after the poetic quote above, when asked to surrender to Bamberg, Götz says, “Er aber, sags ihm, er kann mich im Arsche lecken!” According to the wiki,

This is the first recorded instance of a phrase now in common use as “Leck mich am Arsch” (literally “lick me on my arse”, i. e. “kiss my ass”).

Bonus “Dudes Named Wolfgang” connection:*

Mozart wrote two canons in 1782, Leck mich im Arsch and Leck mir den Arsch fein recht schön sauber.

Ah, haha. Of course he did. He was Mozart for crissake. No one ever says of a budding and arrogant young prodigy, “He’s quite the young Bach, isn’t he,” or “My, what a Handel you have!” It’s always Mozart. The dude is sick as hell.



*Chef Wolfgang Puck, do you have the balls to step up and add to the “lick my ass” legacy?

Flashback Friday: Antisocial flutterby

This entry was posted in its original form October 4, 2009 at 3:30 pm. This was less than a week before Paolo and Miss D’s wedding. They have a wonderful relationship and a good marriage, and I want to point that out because I feel I’ve come off as down on the marriage thing lately. It is my own shit and observations and nothing to do with the good people who make a beautiful thing work.

Ah, then, I must have it all backward; do I, Anna Karina?

This is how antisocial I am, and this is the price I pay: just a bit ago, I called Thai House on Tully (best. I am sorry, best. — no, stop talking. best.) to see if they were open, and when someone picked up the phone, I simply hung up, because I felt my question had been adequately answered by the mere fact of a voice on the other end. Are there people at Thai House working? Yes, I deduced. And did not bother to speak, just hit “end.” That’s right, I wordlessly disconnected a call with the business I was planning to patronize purely for the purpose of limiting my level of interaction with other people.

I enjoy this restaurant and bear its employees nothing but good will, but did my actions remotely reflect this? No. I admit they did not.

So then. THEN. I go to Thai House, my mind teeming with satay and moo yang daydreams, and, as I likely deserved, it wound up they are closed until 4:30. Whoever answered the phone would probably happily have told me that, had I not hung up to avoid talking to a fellow human being.

I deserve the wait. To make up for what I’d done, when Gorgeous George hopped on to the yahoo chat and asked me to look over a recent draft of his toast for Paolo and Miss D’s wedding, I suggested that he join me at Thai House later. It is good to have a reason to comb your hair and act human. It’s important to do these things and not hole up in my cave. I’m sure of it. Otherwise I will fall out of practice at being talked to and I will lose whatever magic I might still have, and then how will I ever interact again, as I am striving to do because I have good reasons?

Liberated Negative Space o’ the Day and Hot Man Bein’ Hot of the Day: R. Crumb

The awesome underground comic genius and supafly beanpole hottie R. Crumb poses in the ’70’s with a wall liberated by some of his creations. You might understand the artistic admiration yet still be asking “Realistically, you picked R. Crumb as a ‘Hot’ Man Bein’ Hot of the Day? Up against former category-entrants like Viggo Mortensen, James Dean, and Sean Bean, doesn’t that seem like a stretch?” Okay — NO.

For one thing, I mainly do not discriminate against body type in either direction (except for manorexics in girls’ skinny jeans: you may go take sepia pictures of yourself with knives at your wrists and then write in your livejournal about how mean ol’ E made fun of you). Because for the second and more important thing, hotness does come from within. It is a complex mix of partly physical characteristics that ring your bell but more resonantly it is a response to personality, charisma, mental agility, and weird energy, and yes it can be partially deduced from a photograph, interview, quote, or film clip. (Hence celebrity crushes are sane — ish.)

With wife Aline Kominsky, who actually postdates his character Honeybunch Kominski and is an awesome comix artist in her own right.

That mix: does it mesh with your unique mix? Are you drawn to it? Do you fall in to genre-based-romance and like the class clown, the bad boy, or the quiet type? Do you not care about any of that if the guy smells like a certain brand of shampoo or has a particular timbre to his speaking voice?

It’s not physical so much as something in the eyes, the face, the click, the smell, the deeds and words that make up what a person really is on a plane beneath the physical. That’s why judging hotness results in different outcomes for everyone. And for me personally, R. Crumb’s type of crazy is blazing hot.

Almost bought Crumb’s Book of Genesis in Arcata with Katohs this April, but I changed my mind at the last minute, instead opting to blow all my liquid assets on plates of cheese, to which I am basically allergic, and overpriced vintage records even though both my record players are in Portland — please excuse me while I blow ya mind with my mad rad cash-management skills.

It is 100% a possibly true fact that I am a genius with money, and I encourage you all to attend my smash-hit traveling financial and motivational seminar, “Just Kidding, I’m Broke — Will You Buy Me Potato Skins? No? Split A Cheese Plate, then?” when I come soon to a town near you!

Girls like a boy who reads … his own comics.

Final Thought: Eat spaghetti. Don’t you want to be like Sophia Loren and R. Crumb? What are you waiting for? A sweet rack and emotional relaxation are just a pot of boiling water and a jar of tomato sauce away. Through away that ass-nasty rice cake or low-carb yogurt and welcome back to loving life! You’re welcome.

Souperbowl Sunday and shunning the frumious bandersnatch

Basking in the success and pre-indigestive warmth of the Chili Cook-off back in November, the friendohs unanimously agreed to have a Souperbowl Superbowl Sunday, wherein we would each bring signature soup dishes for everyone to try, smorgasboard style. Fast-forward to this weekend, and we’ve all been working on our recipes! I made my hearty roast red pepper and tomato soup with toasted bread crumbs, basil, oregano, carmelized pine nuts, cheddar cheese, and bacon on top. (My recipe is decidely not “heart”-healthy or low-carb.)

Stock footage. It just looks exactly like my soup. I’ll explain why I can’t upload a picture of my own in a moment.

Gorgeous George and the Gentleman are hosting, along with relative newcomer and housemate the Great Dane. The LBC is doing chicken noodle, Geo called clam chowder, and Paolo and Miss D are thinking outside the box and bringing accompanying dishes rather than soup itself. I can only guess Jonohs is bringing cheesecake; I have not had the chance to talk to him between his phone being o.o.c. and my computer in the same state. That frumious bandersnatch about which I’ve been writing from time-to-time in my occasional efforts to remove it has stepped up its game:

Tenniel cut.

It is now a straight up jubjub bird, heading swiftly in to Jabberwock territory. Not cool! Especially as I’m in the thick of the Valentine Vixens and I’ve got all kinds of babymama non-drama news to share (nothing but roses on that front, thank God one area of my life is moving along successfully) and yucky love stuff to ruminate on, as it comes up on a full year since my husband and I separated. I’m swamped with ideas and the actual desire to write for once, and the computer is decidely not cooperating.

“Now, Professor, without knowing the exact problem, would you say it’s time to PANIC, cracking each other’s heads open and feasting upon the goo inside?” “Mmm, yes I would, Kent.”

I’ve been trying a number of methods for exorcism and I’m hoping at least one pans out, but will keep you posted. I’m writing this from a borrowed computer which I’m about to vacate, so if you don’t hear from me for awhile that is the trouble. Wish me luck. Until then: “Technical difficulties — Please stand by!”

Put-together as Hay-ull

Most of the time, I do not much consider myself very badass or even particularly put-together as an adult, because I am mainly fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants and not terribly interested in grown-up rules, but sometimes that immaturity and disorganization goes so far out there that it comes back around in to Being Awesome. It hit me hard when I was making dinner for me and the kidlet tonight.

Yep. That’s right. Dinner was cartoon-character-shaped macaroni and cheese, chardonnay for me, milk for her, and a split Snickers. The kidlet had this Madonna-wannabe headband on and she had fluffed out the lace and pulled it around her face like a fascinator and was lecturing me in a very fancy voice with her hand on her hip about opening the packet of powdered cheese, licking my finger, and sucking off the cheese. She was very chic. I was impressed enough to almost consider not eating more of the cheese.

(Later, instead of digging up a tablespoon, I just eyeballed how much milk and butter I figured I needed. Totally overestimated on the milk. So when it didn’t set up right, I drained and poured some of the runny mix in to a plastic cup from the Olive Garden. I meant to pour it down the sink, probably, but I instinctively drank it instead.)

We’re eating macaroni and watching the live action Scooby Doo now, because kidlet loves the dog and Mommy loves Matthew Lillard. (Did you know he was The Fat Kid growing up, so everyone made fun of him, and it affected him very deeply? Because I know, because I love him.) Sometimes we play Scooby Dooby Doo in the bathtub — she is Scooby and I am Shaggy. The tub is the Mystery Van and we drive in it to solve crimes and say “like” a lot. Not gonna lie: we’re pretty awesome.

Advice: NSFW Sophia Loren schooling on true sexy glamour edition

I think the quality of sexiness comes from within. It is something that is in you or it isn’t and it really doesn’t have much to do with breasts or thighs or the pout of your lips.

A woman’s dress should be like a barbed-wire fence: serving its purpose without obstructing the view.

Hey, models and movie starlets of today! Want to be a timeless, beautiful, glamorous international sex symbol like the world-famously gorgeous Sophia? Ms. Loren sez: eat something. If you are confused about how to eat and need help getting started, she even has cookbooks to help you along.

Final thoughts on eating and sexiness from Sophia:

Everything you see I owe to spaghetti.

and

Spaghetti can be eaten most successfully if you inhale it like a vacuum cleaner.

Do it for the curves, ladies. Feel free to keep me posted on your progress!