Dog Farts and Prada

3:06 p.m.

I did six (6) paintings this weekend. Six! Yes, they are smallish, but they are complete, though they sucked away 98.9 percent of my energy/will to live. Six is a lot, small or large. Regardless of the soul-sucking, I find it's hard to tear myself away from the easel. It's looming, dark and ominous, in the back of my mind.

Progress! Progress!

The weekend was a whirl, a whirl of painting and horrifying dog gas and unfortunately The Devil Wears Prada. (Shut up. I got my period after a three-month absence, and it was a ROUGH TIME. I bought some chocolate chai tea and took a lot of Midol and went to the damn movie. ) (I wanted to see it even though I knew, I knew it couldn't possibly be remotely good, and was STILL disappointed. Mostly I cringed at all the fat jokes. All the characters kept talking about how fat the main character was. She was a size six. They nicknamed her "Six" in reference to her fatness. But she battled all that invisible fat, and proudly got down to a smug four by the end of the movie. The cringing happened mostly because I was clutching an enormous bag of buttered popcorn and Michele kept offering me Whoppers. The candy, not the burger. This followed a mild argument with the concession sales clerk that even though the large was cheaper, I still did not WANT a large popcorn. But, hey, why should the large be cheaper, anyway? He shrugged and answered, "I don't know. It's just a combo." Duh, Kara. DUH.)

(A four!)

(Annoying.)

We got the dog some new food yesterday, and we're hoping it stops the cruel eye-wateringly bad farts he's been producing lately. These farts have been noisy. They have been gut-wrenching, nostril-withering demons of stank. So far today we're fairly fart-free, but we made him stay outside all morning. Just in case any residual toxic fumes lingered in the dark foul corners of his intestines.

Just in case.

black sheep