He did what?

In my plight to curb the absolute sickness and boredom I've had while doing the tooth recovery, I ran across this news story that made me glad I'm not a reporter in Ohio. Perhaps the police officer who was interviewed for the story puts it best when he says, "Once you think you've seen it all, something else comes around." Yes, yes it does.

Are You Ready?

Today in my junk inbox I got an email with the subject line reading, "Are You Ready?" Thinking this could be the email that finally enlarges my penis, I clicked on it, but read something that nearly brought wetness to my wisdom tooth dry socket. It told me of the following information:

Aargh... the update

Two words: Dry socket.

I thought I'd feel so much better by now, but between an allergic reaction to penicillin over the weekend and a dry socket today, I'm just about over this whole wisdom tooth debacle.

Please send pudding, french fries and, at this point, tequila en masse.

I survived

The whole wisdom tooth thing wasn't so bad considering the build-up I had created in my head before getting hooked up to the IV and taking a quick nap through Extraction Town yesterday afternoon. I lived. And while I don't feel completely normal today, I survived.

So far today, I've watched some very interesting programming on The History Channel, American Eats, a series devoted to the historical affects of food on American pop culture. That, coupled with a couple of spoonfuls of Ben and Jerry's Dublin Mudslide ice cream (darn, can't eat much else besides that and a pudding pack today) got me thinking about Ben and Jerry's discontinued "flavor graveyard" and all the yummy ice creams they no longer make. (I just viewed the online flavor graveyard, but apparently if you go to Vermont, there's an actual flavor graveyard complete with headstones like the one shown above, that I found depicted on this guy's flickr site here.)

Here are the top five flavors I believe Ben and Jerry are stupid for discontinuing:

5.) Blueberry Ice Cream- Blueberry flavored foods (other than blueberries) aren't for everyone. I however, choose blueberry first and always loved this flavor. I first tried Ben and Jerry's blueberry when I found a scoop shop near Vista, California. Maybe it wasn't the flavor that was so great, but the experience.

4.) White Russian- Ice cream good enough for Lebowski, I also liked to top this ice cream with a little bit of Monopolowa Vodka, which is a more syrupy topping and works better on ice cream than Skyy Vodka. I figure if the ice cream is sitting in the freezer next to the vodka, I might as well kill two birds with one stone. Nothing wrong with a little vodka sundae, but no other flavor works as well as Ben and Jerry's White Russian did.

3.) Tennessee Mud- Continuing on the trend to boozy ice cream, this flavor blended Jack Daniel's Tennessee Whiskey into the frozen treat. I don't recall ever seeing it in stores, especially since it didn't even make it to the 1990s, but I tried freezerburned spoonful with a friend who hoarded several pints in his freezer. Strange, I know, but who am I to look down on saving up specialty foods when I used to hoard cases of Boo Berry cereal in my pantry?

2.) Pistachio, Pistachio- This flavor isn't officially dead and buried, but it might as well be gone away from us because it's so damn difficult to find. Occasionally, I'll find it at the Ben and Jerry's store at the Gateway, but I am morally opposed to buying ice cream by the scoop and cone. I think the cone is a waste, and the pint is so much more satisfying when it's two o'clock in the morning and I'm up watching Hope Floats, Practical Magick or some equally-irritating chick flick starring Sandra Bullock.

1.) Bovinity Divinity- Possibly the most wonderful thing I've ever had in my mouth. I'm not a fan of chocolate, but the combination of swirled chocolate and vanilla ice cream mixed with cute little white and dark chocolate cows was positively, well, divine! I can't believe they quit making this flavor, although in hindsight it's better for my ass that they did. (Get it? "hind"sight? Yeah.)

Fortunately, Ben and Jerry have a form on their site where you can try to get your favorite flavor resurrected. I told them that by bringing back Bovinity Divinity, they could make me feel whole again.

Dead Woman Walking

Tomorrow I go under the knife. Okay, that's a little dramatic, I'm just getting my four wisdom teeth out.

Tomorrow I go under the pliers. 

I'm actually extremely freaked out about it, and though I've kind of been joking all week, "If I die on Thursday you can have my handbags..." I'd almost rather die than have to deal with anesthetic. And needles. And pain. 

All day I've been living life to the fullest and acting like if I were to die while "under" tomorrow, then at least I wouldn't have deprived myself of enjoyment today. I drank all the Diet Dr. Pepper I wanted at a meeting this afternoon. I shamelessly flirted with attractive men. I ate part of a mint brownie. (Hey, for me that's living on the edge.) This was to avoid feeling sorry for myself because I don't have a boyfriend to stroke my hair as I drool and spit up blood all over myself tomorrow during post-wisdom tooth yankage. I remember a friend of mine once told me that he knew his girlfriend loved him when she sat with him all bloody and groggy and gross when he had his wisdom teeth taken out. She's his wife now. They have a house, and a kid, and two dogs. I will have four bloody gauze wads, the possibility of dry sockets and my mom to look forward to. 

Tonight I endured a Zumba class at my gym, all the while joking to myself, "This might be the last time I work out." I didn't want anything to ruin my "last" class, least of all this extremely irritating and uncoordinated man who walked in late and stood behind me. At first I thought he wanted to stare at my beautiful and gyrating ass for an hour, but in reality his purpose on earth was to make my last workout before I die a living, breathing nightmare.

At various times throughout the workout he would shout out "HUH!" in time with the music. Sometimes not in time with the music: "HUH! HUH! HUH!" Right into my ear. Loudly in my ear. Sometimes directly behind my head. "HUH! HUH!" At one point, we kicked our right leg and I got a "HUH!" so startling I nearly landed on my beautiful and gyrating ass. As much as I appreciated his spirit and enthusiasm, I also wanted my hearing if I ended up living tomorrow. I thought, "How DARE this chicken-legged jerk ruin my last night on earth?" "HUH! HUH! HUH!" So I very nicely asked him, "If you're going to shout out, could you not do it right into my ear?" (And I actually was very nice about it; I even flashed him a smile and a little half-wink.) Then the asshat says, "You know, part of these classes is to go deaf enjoying the music. HUUUUUH!!" 

Then it was on.  I was going to die tomorrow and I would not let this guy get in the last word. "Uuuh, yeah, but last time I checked I didn't have to enjoy the music through an uncoordinated speaker blaring a foot behind my head." The statement just came out of me without thinking but, damnit, if I was going to leave this mortal coil in just fifteen short hours, I was going to leave it sassy. "SO HUH!"

The guy shut up because he left. My only regret was that I didn't so it earlier in the hour. On the upshot, at least I was able to enjoy in peace my last cool-down on earth.

Dangerously close

Today I got my hair done. Blonde. Very blonde. In fact, dangerously close to my natural hair color. In this photo I look a cross between a fembot and Blow-up Wanda.

Molecular gastronomy day

Kitchens never cease to amaze me. Maybe it's because I suck in the kitchen, but I am fascinated with cooking shows. I watch the Food Network, get inspired and really believe I am the next Julia Child. When it comes down to it, though, I end up eating fat-free Triscuits and Laughing Cow lite cheese for dinner. (But, add a glass of wine to that and it's actually very French!)

Ever since Marcel (a.k.a Spike, from Gremlins) was on Bravo's Top Chef, I have been aware of molecular gastronomy. The best way I can explain it is that you take regular foods, sauces and the like, and then create various chemical reactions to get foams and crazy juices. 

I maintain I could get foams and crazy juices in food without either 1) attending culinary school or 2) trying, but that's just my amazing kitchen prowess. For instance, yesterday I caught another burner on fire with a Pasta Roni boilover, therefore, I created effortless foam.

Today on Good Eats, Alton Brown made souffle, all the while explaining the chemical reactions that must occur in order for optimum finished food fluff. (I came up with that alliteration, not Alton, but he's welcome to it for a consulting fee.) I figured I could give it a whirl, after all, how hard could it be to bake puffy eggs?

I kept trying to whip egg whites and it just wasn't working. When I finally got a few of them to sort of form stiff peaks (which always makes me laugh when I say "stiff peaks"), I thought that would work. "Nay," said the little chef; a dozen eggs later, I had a gooey egg mess that had partially solidified to only one side of the baking dish. Damn you molecular gastronomy, this is why I shun the sciences. Chemistry is not my friend and eggs are dirty bitches.

I went to the gym, I went to the grocery store and despite my best efforts earlier this evening, I ate fat-free Triscuits and Laughing Cow lite cheese for dinner. Merde totale.

It IS Funny

I had on good authority that this skit was "one of the funniest on SNL in a very long time." It's true, and since it has to do with Rock of Love 2, it was even better.

Backyard Tourist

Since I ended up not going out of town this weekend, but still had a couple of days off, I decided to play backyard tourist right here near home. I started off at Gilgal Garden in Salt Lake and then took a few in other spots around town. Check out a few of my other Flickr photos here.

No blarney

All those Irish step dance classes paid off tonight! After a couple of pints of Guinness and some great music, I'm ready to begin my St. Patrick's Day weekend!

If you want to check out one of my new favorite bands, check out Warsaw Poland Brothers because they were too much fun tonight. Not a bad way to end a long week, infuse a little Irish luck into my weekend and gaze at a smokin' hot singer/guitarist. (In a kilt!) I've always been a huge ska music fan, and they really live up to Irish music and wearing plaid. I approve.

Not since I discovered Devotchka at a random live concert have I been so blown away by an indie band.

Checking his blind spot

It never ceases to amaze me how some people acquire driver's licenses. I drove behind the strangest man today, and though I had to turn into my driveway, nearly stayed behind him just to see his destination. Of course, judging from his erratic movements and filthy vehicle, we might've gone to the landfill, and I might've ended up staying there. Dead. Buried.

First off, his Subaru Forester was chock full of trash. The whole back hatch was stuffed with garbage bags, Big Gulp cups and greasy Little Caesar's Pizza boxes. Stuffed. Full. Like he had shame eaten his kitchen while on the road. The road to Hell.

Second, he kept crossing his driver's side window like the power of Christ was compelling him to exorcise the demons. But really quickly, like he couldn't stop his possessed hand, with movements that generally makes you lose blood to your limbs. 

Third, while blessing his window, he kept jerking his head around from side to side, right and left and nearly 360 degrees to the other side. Thus confirming my suspicion that he was channeling Linda Blair. I don't think he vomited split pea soup, but if he had, I would not have been able to tell the difference between the backseat trash. 

I hope he turned out okay. I hope his head doesn't hurt tomorrow like he just rallied at a Def Leppard concert.

Media darlings

I was lucky enough to mend some old wounds this weekend, patching up some ill feelings that have been harbored for the last year or two. I got an email back from my old host on Nightside, and he sent along this picture of us in action.

This ran on a story KSL did about the show on our debut night sometime in July of 2006. That first week desperately sucked, but the show ended up turning out fairly well for awhile.

It looks like I'm extremely serious and reading something very in-depth and important. Something very newsworthy, for sure. In reality, I was reading kittyhell.com and basically mugging for the camera.

Good luck in New Orleans, MC!

Is there a twelve-step program? The details...

Back tonight at my regular Sunday evening coffee shop, drinking the tasty flavors of chai with skim milk, and listening to Ingrid Michaelson. My new favorite song this week is The way I am, even if it was featured in an Old Navy commercial this past holiday season. Today began my CD ripping project where I finally end up throwing several thousand CDs onto my iPod. Despite reminiscing over 20 volumes of Just Can't Get Enough: New Wave Hits of the 80s today, I opted for the modern stylings of Michaelson tonight. 

As I mentioned last night, I have an unhealthy obsession with the Utah Jazz mascot, Bear. Though there are several cute guys on the Jazz who have not previously played here in Utah, Bear trumps them all. He's that brilliant combination of funny, athletic, confident... he doesn't say mean things. Quite possibly the perfect man. I don't have a crush on the guy inside Bear, I could really care less, but Bear, all all the gorgeous qualities he embodies.

The obsession with Bear began a couple of years ago when I worked for a local radio station and was doing a remote at a local car dealership. I had just finished a live hit, when I heard a screeching of tires and a loud bang. Before I knew it, I was covered in silly string; Bear had ridden into the dealership on his Harley and I got caught up in the colorful wake. 

Then it happened. 

Bear hoisted me over his shoulder, carried me outside, put me on the back of his bike and we rode off into the sunset. Okay, it was really just down the street, but I have never forgotten that day. Since then, I've had encounters with Bear during various events, and each time I'm reminded of his fuzzy chivalry-- whisking me away from the day's monotony, even if for a brief moment, on the back of his chrome horse.

I'm left wondering if women just want to feel rescued from time to time. Sure this experience wasn't necessarily just about Bear, but just the fact that some man sought me out of a crowd of people to act confident toward and do something special for. Last night, I had a chat with a girlfriend who I don't know what I would do without right now, and though we are both strong and intelligent, yet opinionated and hot, women, men apparently don't appreciate that. Or maybe they do, and it's foreign. I don't pretend to psychoanalyze men right now, but I do know that for as strong and intelligent and opinionated and successful as women can be, sometimes they just want someone to fight for them.

Fight is all relative. Fight doesn't mean drawing out the saber and chopping off the limbs of the Black Knight, but it does mean realizing a fantastic woman when you meet one. In this age of fast-paced lifestyle and unimaginable technology, I worry that people sometimes forget to take the time out to live a little fantasy here and there. Believe it or not, it's okay to show vulnerability.

I'll find my Bear one day-- all tall, hairy confidence I'm looking for in a guy. He doesn't even have to have the Harley.

Is there a twelve-step program?

After going to the Jazz game tonight, I realized that I have a bit of an unhealthy obsession with the mascot, Bear.

It's best that I not elaborate after the bottle of red wine I subsequently came home and drank afterward, but just know that I will get help. If necessary. Eventually. Probably not.

Just a few things...

Melancholy night, random thoughts. Just go with me on these.

It's a night for The Smith's. There's something about Morrissey's voice that takes me to a nostalgic place; makes me long for past experiences, but also gives me a little bit of inspiration for the future. I saw him in concert last year, it was beautiful and dark, and his percussionist used a giant gong. Like a really big gong, symphony-sized. Contrary to popular belief, the size of the gong does matter. Playing right now: What difference does it make? But I just hit the forward button for How soon is now?

Thanks for the new bag, Mom, but I think it's a knock-off. It's okay, it's still cute.

It's March; doesn't that mean it's springtime? Shouldn't it be a tad warmer out? Still, it's not as chilly tonight as in Leominster, birthplace of Johnny Appleseed, home of Johnny Applebee's. I'm assuming it has got to get nicer for when I head out in May. 

Just hit forward to Panic, and am always a bit disturbed when I hear the lyrics, "Hang the DJ." The song is always a little ominous when I hear the children's chorus singing those lyrics, however I'm admittedly less disturbed than a few years ago. When I was a DJ.

At lunch the other day, I confessed to Urban Princess that I feel that in my non-work life I am an extremely irrational person. Translation: I sometimes feel like I'm living in a movie. Even as I sit tonight in my favorite coffee shop typing this, I hope my dream man will walk in, sit down and start quoting Eddie Izzard. (Or some other brilliant British comedy that most likely would use the word "brilliant." Or Animaniacs. Or La Femme Nikita. Like I said, I'm an irrational person.) I think this is why my parents started calling me Holly McBeal in the mid-90s-- because of my quirky tendencies to successfully go through my day with a composed outside while regularly referencing the beautiful fantasies in my head.

There are only 14 days until St. Patrick's Day. If you're toasting, add a "slainte!" just before you slug back your Guinness. If you want to be a bit more creative, here's another favorite of mine: "May you be in heaven a half hour before the devil knows you're dead." There's more to the beginning of that one, but I just like that part. It gives me hope. And then I drink.

Current Smith's song: There is a light that never goes out Again, disturbing. I don't want to get hit by a double-decker bus. Good thing I'm not in London-- don't the British harbour (spelled with the extra "u" as a nod to the redcoats) at least 95 percent of the world's double-decker buses?

I've traded The Smith's for the neo-melancholy strains of The Shins. I hate that Garden State made The Shins slightly trendy, if it's possible to refer to anybody who saw Garden State as "trendy." I used to like New Slang before it showed up at the same time as Zach Braff and now every time I hear the song, I think of Zach Braff and how much I dislike him. I don't like Scrubs, I very much disliked The Last Kiss and his only redeeming quality is... um... I guess he doesn't eat babies for dinner.

Last night I had some more brilliant advice. This time it was for a friend of mine, and my thoughts on why bars are high and not low like tables:

Display the junk.

Hide the boobs.

Suck the booze.

Is that a haiku without me realizing it?

So I guess that's it for tonight, it's so cold by the window here at Cocoa Caffe, I think my fingers are going to fall off. Never did the the immortal words of Dieter ring more true, "This has become tiresome." 

I don't get it

I love underwear. When I'm feeling sad, there's nothing like heading to Victoria's Secret to check out the latest lacy stuff (unless we're talking bras, in which case, going to Victoria's Secret leaves me frustrated and empty) or jammies or whathaveyou. But there are certain things that some might consider "sexy" that leave me tilting my head to the side and with a furrowed brow asking, "Quoi?"

For instance: I don't understand crotchless underwear, I can't fathom cupless bras (or what I fondly refer to as a "boob-out") and I most certainly puzzled by the latest "underwear" I found from Lovehoney called the "C-string." (CAUTION! Link NSFW!) The C-string thong doesn't have any strings at all, in fact it appears to be just shy of a headband... 

I don't approve of panty line, in fact, I would hate to become a Glamour Magazine "don't." But has vanity seriously come to this? Are some women really so concerned with already barely-there underwear that they're forced to squeeze a headband into their girly bits? 

But wait, there's more! Reading further on the Web site, I learned that the C-string will eliminate tan lines too! Considering I am so sensitive to the sun I nearly turn to dust when at the beach, I am concerned the C-string wouldn't cover areas that might not need the extra UV rays.

For me, I'll stick with my affinity for wearing thongs and boyshorts, not at the same time, and save the C-string for pulling back my hair while I'm washing my face.