I don't want to rain on anybody's Christmas parade, but on the way to work this morning I had some fairly disturbing thoughts about Santa Claus. These thoughts were prompted by that good ol' holiday favorite, I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.
First off, has anybody ever really thought about the concept of Santa? Santa's an intruder. Uninvited, he just enters people's homes and starts eating their food and drinking their nog. (Or milk. Or my latest favorite, Soy Nog.)
Secondly, Santa is a peeping Tom. He sees you when you're sleeping? He knows when you're awake? Does Santa see me in the shower too? How about bent over after a night of too much wine? Then he passes judgment on the actions he sees when he is actually the violating perv? If I dated, and then dumped Santa, I'd slap his ass with a restraining order faster than you can say, "On Blitzen."
Finally the song in question itself, I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus, Santa's magical charm perpetuates infidelity. Consider these lyrics:
Then, I saw Mommy tickle Santa Claus Underneath his beard so snowy white; Oh, what a laugh it would have been If Daddy had only seen Mommy kissing Santa Claus last night.
Really? Mommy tickled Santa under his beard when Daddy wasn't looking? Something tells me Daddy might not be too thrilled at Santa's actions and perhaps punch his nog-drunk ass underneath his beard so snowy white. Unless Daddy was banging the babysitter. Or Daddy was a derelict.
I don't want to cast a damper on the season, but I just had to share with you these thoughts at one of the most festive times of the year. Enjoy the days leading up to Christmas, there are only a couple of days left.
I've lived in my current apartment for nearly four years. I first decided I liked this place when I saw that a major focal point of the inside was a 70s-tastic love nook with fireplace and built in vinyl seating. The bedroom is a loft. The walls are wood paneling. All this disco fabulous living, and it wasn't in such a bad part of town, so I moved in. But since moving in, strange things have been happening in the neighborhood, and now I'm wondering just where I'm living.
I affectionately refer to my neighbors across the parking lot as "Domestic Dispute." During one of their brilliant fights last summer, the guy living there nearly drove his Jeep Cherokee through their sliding glass door. He got out of the vehicle yelling four-letter words at his... girlfriend? Wife? Baby mama? And I had half a mind to jump in his running vehicle and drive it to the 7-11 just to be funny. I decided against making that incident interactive and instead settled back onto my porch to watch the show.
Why just last week "Domestic Dispute" put on another stellar display, culminating in her throwing a bar-b-que grill lid across the parking lot at his head. While I can't give her points for substance (typical four-letter words and basic defamation of his sexuality) I can give her style points. I keep waiting to wake up one morning to even more police officers casing their joint because one of them has killed the other.
Speaking of deaths around my neighborhood, I don't know if I ever mentioned the guy who died last fall in the back half of my duplex. They partied a little too much, and when I got home from the gym the next day the whole area was blocked off with yellow police tape. I thought I killed someone when I left the house with New Kids on the Block blasting on the stereo just to passive-aggressively "get back at them" for keeping me up the previous night. But it wasn't KNOTB that offed him, he apparently overdosed. In the other half of my duplex. Dead. There's something a bit unnerving about seeing a fully-zipped body bag being wheeled past your back door.
Almost as unnerving as that day is the sight of my new neighbor's decor I just noticed when I came home for lunch today. Maybe I'm a bit cranky because new back half of the duplex neighbor was having a good time with his bass knob last night, but I couldn't help but take this little photo of his fantastic new curtains that I'm fortunate enough to see each time I walk up to my own front door:
Asian bordello? No sir, that's the back half of where I live!
I shouldn't complain, at least I have somewhere to live. And it's warm. And it's covered in wood paneling. But who are these people that live around me?
I damn near chopped off my finger last night. I was cutting up a lemon for vodka lemon chicken and it all just sort of slipped and I took out a chunk of my left index finger. With a really big, really sharp knife (thanks, Henckels Knives!) To make matters worse, I started passing out from the shock and awe of it all, and as I went to sit down on the kitchen floor, smacked my head on the counter. Yep, I passed out because I'm a wuss and can't stand the sight of my own blood or the thought of my own pain. I can watch an evening of Freddy Kreugar's antics, but when it the bleeding is on my own person, I'm a five-year-old.
I'll live, it's no big deal, but today I was thinking something much more profound about the whole experience. About five seconds before I stabbed myself, I knew it was going to happen. I pictured the scenario and I even thought to myself, "I'm totally going to cut my finger open." Lo' and behold, what happened? I became a fainting kabob.
We are so quick to dismiss our instincts with a "duh, that's lame," rather than trusting that maybe there's some truth in how we feel. So many times I have believed that I was just being stupid, given into pragmatism and ended up hosed. This pragmatism applies to so much more in my life than just this one instance; I find that I'm dismissing my instincts when it comes to situations or even the people with whom I share my life and time. For example, I have found myself putting up with inordinate amounts of crap from the men I date and dismissing red flags for a "that's just me being stupid/impatient/harsh." In these instances, my heightened instincts get cast aside for my inability to give up or move on or let go, and then I ultimately end up bleeding.
What have I learned from last night's kitchen cutting? Next time, drink the vodka and leave the chicken to the grill. Oh, and trust in my hunches just a little bit more inside the kitchen and out.
On Mental Floss today there was a blog post where Miss Cellania listed her favorite vampires and I was disappointed with her selections. While I agree with some of the choices (Count Chocula), I felt the majority were too obvious (Vlad Tepes III a.k.a. Vlad the Impaler, Nosferatu, Elvira). Though the author did acknowledge Blacula, I feel there are many vampires who are often overlooked and who deserve a list of their own.
I am here to provide the better list.
Because I'm a goth trapped in sheep's clothing.
Here they are in no particular order:
"David" in The Lost Boys: Keifer Sutherland's portrayal of the motorcycle/vampire gang leader is beautifully, wonderfully creepy. Forget modern-day vampires who glitter in the sun, David's meticulously coiffed platinum mullet glistens in the moonlight. Plus the death scene where he gets impaled with a pair of deer antlers is gross while awesome. I would gladly let Keifer bite my neck while 80s-tastic song Cry Little Sister played in the background.
"Mick St. John" in Moonlight: Not to be confused with the lame-ass 80s sitcom Moonlighting, This short-lived television series was one of the best things that happened to CBS last year. While it was canceled after one season, I quickly fell into lust with vampire private investigator Mick played by the gorgeous Alex O'Loughlin. He had that perfect combination of hypnotic sexy mystery that I crave in a vampire, and he looked fantastic in the episode where he did push-ups without his shirt. Now my Friday night CBS viewing is limited to Ghost Whisperer where, thankfully, Jennifer Love Hewitt does not do push-ups without her shirt.
Dracula in Animanicas Season 1, episode 29 Draculee, Dracula: When Yakko, Wakko and Dot travel to Transylvania instead of Pennsylvania, they meet Dracula whom they assume is Amish. Hilarity ensues. This is also one of a few episodes where they refer to Dracula as "Dadoo," which I called my own dad who was not a vampire. Nor Amish. Here's a sample of the dialogue that makes this episode brilliant: Wakko: [talking about Dracula] That guy sure dresses funny. Dot: This is Pennsylvania, Wakko. He's probably Amish. Yakko: I'll handle him. I saw Witness twice.
In this episode, Dot also refers to herself as Princess Angelina Contessa Louisa Francescia Banana Fanna Fo Fesca the Third. Which I can rattle off the tip of my tongue from memory. If this is an indicator as to the types of shows I watched as a kid, is there any wonder why I'm a randomly quirky adult? Nope, didn't think so.
Bunnicula: This vampire bunny stars in many childrens' books as a family pet who sucks the juice out of vegetables. The other family pets don't know how to deal with Bunnicula and are afraid that he is evil. My favorite book in the series is The Celery Stalks at Midnight where the paranoid family pets believe that all the de-juiced veggies are actually Bunnicula's army of undead and find a giant white carrot who they think is the army's leader. Turns out the giant white carrot is just a carrot cake covered with cream cheese frosting. Now that's comedy gold. Childrens' books just aren't the same nowadays.
(For those keeping track, I love carrot cake with cream cheese frosting and my birthday is a month away.)
Mina Harker in The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen: This movie was a total cinematic suck-fest, but Peta Wilson's portrayal of Mina was casting genius. Okay, so maybe I just have girl-crush on Peta Wilson because she played Nikita in USA Network's La Femme Nikita series. Maybe I want to be Nikita. Maybe I think I would be an excellent super spy who kicks ass and looks fabulous while doing it. I also think that La Femme Nikita had probably one of the best uses of music throughout each episode, and the entire cast was stunning. A little part of me died when USA Network canceled Nikita; yes, in a twist of irony Nikita was canceled. (And that was probably the best obscure reference you'll read all day, kids. See, when bad operatives in the show were executed, they were referred to as "canceled." See? Irony? Nikita was canceled? Oh shut up.) Wait, did I digress? Oh yeah. The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was a suck-fest, but Peta Wilson is an absolute goddess.
So I hope this gets you in the mood for your spooky Halloween celebrations coming up this week. I'm going to watch La Femme Nikita now.
I've gotten a few requests to post my photos that are going to be in the Halloween art show sponsored by the Utah Artist Alliance this month from October 6th through the 31st. I didn't get a chance to photograph them after they were matted and framed, but they ended up looking really nice. Here they are in digital form prior to framing; the prints are 8 x 10 and framed to about 11 x 14 (if you think you might want to purchase any). Now, remember this is a Halloween-themed art show! Here they are:
These were taken March 2009 in the Pine Grove Cemetery in Massachusetts. Pine Grove was founded in 1776 as one of the first Revolutionary War cemeteries, and added to the National Register of Historic Places on March 12, 2008.
If you're out and about in Salt Lake for the month of October, head down to the Utah Arts Alliance Gallery on Main Street to check out this spooky art show! I have four photos that will be displayed for the first time I've ever had any shown. And if you're really lucky, you can purchase one of these photos to help me recoup the cost of framing them! Hey, at least the frames will be really nice, even if you don't like my photography... although it's not that bad.
Come support local art! Come support your good friend Holly!
I pretty much figured that the majority of my blog readers were in the United States (for the record, I'm fairly popular in California and New York... notsomuch in West Virginia and Wyoming) but I had no idea I had pretty regular followers in other countries.
Thank you to my international readers! Here are my thoughts to you, the United Colors of Benetton (okay, I just threw that in for flavor. "Flavour" if you're reading this in the United Kingdom) my readers after the United States at number one.
Germany- I like Kraftwerk. Ooh! I also watch The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, an outstanding German film, several times a year, not just at Halloween; though everyday is Halloween. Wait, that was Ministry, not Kraftwerk.
Canada- Thank you for giving us Ryan Reynolds, You Can't do that on Television and Glass Tiger. Tonight, however, I'm upset Toronto beat the Red Sox.
United Kingdom- You have flavour, as I mentioned above, and Monty Python. Ooh! And Eddie Izzard, even though he was born in Yemen.
India- I don't know if you're aware, but I'm obsessed with Bollywood films. In fact, I try to have Bollywood Sunday where I get noodles (because curry is texturally challenging for my palate) and watch something from the genre. If anybody in India can explain to me the "dancing in a towel" routine from Saawariya, I would really appreciate it.
Australia- Umm, kangaroos are neat! Oh, I also occasionally drink Fosters. Ooh! And I used to have a basketball crush on Luc Longley. And I will always love Strictly Ballroom. Boy, I know more about Australia than I thought.
Poland- Gosh, where to begin with Poland? There's just so much to talk about... I'm very glad the Black Death that affected much of Europe in the 1300s didn't really reach you guys. Also thanks to the Ottoman Empire for giving us furniture for the many places to rest our feet.
Brazil- Thank you for being located in South America fairly near Argentina where famed (and smoking hot) polo player Nacho Figueras was born. Some call him "stud on a steed" some call him the "David Beckham of Polo," I simply call him "yummy."
Netherlands- You guys are progressive, are down with women's rights and windmills are cool. I also like marzipan, though generally only at holiday time.
Finally, France- Nouvelle Vague cinema (not to be confused with a band by the same name) is a guilty pleasure. I also thank you for providing us with Chanel and Maurice Chevalier. I suffered through three years of your language in high school, and only retained enough to know that Maurice Chevalier's last name means "horse." Used in a sentence en Français: Je voudrais monter le Nacho Figueras comme si il étaient mon cheval.
This might come as a surprise to many readers both inside and outside the Land of Zion, but I'm here to break the news that there is nowhere in the state where you can professionally churn butter. Or even amateurly churn butter. There will be no butter churning in Utah.
My Pioneer Spirit was a bit scarred to learn this news.
For the past couple of years I have attempted coercing my co-workers into joining me in churning butter because I have had a strange craving for freshly-churned cream. I'm not kidding. Maybe it was the fond fourth grade memory I had of the entire class, during a Utah Mountain Man Rendezvous learning unit, shaking up a butter jug and spreading the final result on a piece of homemade bread. This craving was further impacted by viewing the butter cow at the Utah State Fair last week. (Incidentally, this year's butter cow featured not one, but three culturally-inclined bovine, one of which was wearing a tutu skirt. See Exhibit A above.) On a side note, I learned that the butter was re-used each year which grossed me out a little, but then a bit happy that the butter cow lives on each year in a sort of dairy resurrection.
After returning from the fair I leaned out of my cubicle to a co-worker and whispered with a very drug dealer-like tone, "Hey... wanna go churn butter today?" Thinking that there must certainly be somewhere nearby that could provide me with my fix. "What?" she said quizzically. "Butter churning, finally, today," I repeated, because what's sadder than a burning desire for churning butter? (I mean, besides falling asleep on somebody's porch in a pathetic attempt to get them to talk to you.) Churning butter alone. So I set out to make a few phone calls to find exactly where we could churn.
But churning wasn't meant to be. Much to my chagrin the usual Utah places one might think to churn butter didn't offer the activity. Not the FARM, not any historical PLACEs, not even anywhere around Temple Square. Along the Wasatch Front, there was nary a churn in sight. In fact, the only similar activity I could locate was a taffy pull at the Lion House, and even then I would have to register for a birthday party. Which would be creepy and sad, as there would be no wine at that birthday party.
It was interesting that each place offered a suggestion as to who might just churn, and were surprised to hear that I'd already called around and learned there would be no afternoon churning. I'd created a churndemic of udder disbelief (yep, I did just throw down a bad cow pun) throughout Salt Lake County.
But it's not Pioneer Spirit to give up that easily! I figured that certainly there must be some other way to churn butter! When I learned that it likely wouldn't work for me to shake up a Ziploc baggie of heavy cream, I had to take matters into my own hand(cart). I would churn! If the Donner Party could create food in this valley, I certainly could too! I went to the store and got a little half-pint of heavy cream and set out on a journey to my kitchen to fulfill my now-frenzied obsession.
Into the food processor with the heavy cream and a bit of salt, and after about 10 minutes and blowing out the motor on the circa 1980s Oskar inherited from my mom, I had brought my creation to life! It was a little runny, but I had done it! And after I strained the spooge through a coffee filter, I was finally ready to taste the fruits of my long-awaited labor! I lovingly swirled the tip of my finger around the rim of Oskar's bowl and readied myself to savor the creamy goodness. It tasted exactly like...
...butter. After throwing away the rest of the butter-filled coffee filter, I thought, "um, okay."
So that's that. I guess to redeem this whole experience, I did take some other photos at the State Fair. Here, enjoy something more satisfying than food processor butter:
Swish! by Holly
Gene Simmons, by Holly
Objects in mirror are smaller than they appear, by Holly
After realizing that I might never pay off my credit card, despite the fact the balance isn't really that high, I decided I would take the stack of designer jeans I no longer wear to various consignment stores. Maybe I watched Confessions of a Shopaholic one too many times but, yes, now you can get in my pants.
What did you think the title of this post meant? Dirty!
In case you decide to do this yourself, I would like to pass along a few helpful jeans reselling tips. First off, Plato's Closet is the last stop for the Miley Cyrus undead. The twelve-year-olds who act like "clothing buyers" wouldn't know a designer jean if it hit them in their little, flat asses. For an establishment that passes off a Shopko brand jacket as "designer" it was a slap in the face when they tried telling me that a pair of True Religion jeans wasn't "acceptable." They offered me $8 for a pair of Seven Jeans, and because I didn't want the trip to be a total waste, I actually took it. I figure the $8 pays for the gas wasted driving too far south in the valley.
Secondly, you have to sort of forgo any love and/or claim you might have toward your clothing. I took my jeans to a second consignment store where the girl DID blow a bit of sunshine up my ass by saying, "Wow, you lost weight! These jeans are way too big for you..." and I felt a twinge of sadness when she said she would accept them all and give me half of the selling price. I felt like I was giving her a little part of me, or maybe it was more like giving a pet to the pound, either way I momentarily wondered if I should just keep the jeans in the closet and hold onto the past.
Then I realized that part of the sadness was because I think my dad might've died on a pair of the jeans I was trying to sell. I didn't mention that for fear she might not agree to give me half. For the record, I know which U2 t-shirt I was wearing when that event occurred, but I can't remember which pair of jeans I had on.
Finally, know that you will never get back what you spend on clothing, or computers, or cars. You have to resign to the harsh reality that depreciation happens. If I had back all the dough I originally spent on the jeans I just gave up, I might just have a new computer, or car, or beachfront condo.
And if you really still want to get in my pants, you can pick up a pair at Fashion Addiction on 700 East. There are also some bags of mine there too. Sadly.
It might not come as a surprise that since I act like a pretty princess, I have been obsessed with Barbie for the better part of my life. Even as an adult I collected Barbie, and it wasn't until Mattel completely changed Barbie's face and body within the last few years that I dropped my membership in the Barbie Collector's Guild.
In the mid-80s, one of my favorite Barbie dolls was Western Stampin' Barbie. Not only did she come with a Barbie name stamp to autograph her fake glossy headshots, but she also had a button on her back that made her eyes blink when pushed. I don't know exactly what happened, but my brother was somehow involved in an incident that ended in breaking Western Stampin' Barbie's eyelids, rendering them unblinkable. He tried pulling out Western Stampin' Barbie's eyelids so that she would at least be able to see, but it gave her this freaky wide-eyed, "gonna' kill you in yer' sleep" kind of expression.
I freaked out and had nightmares about Western Stampin' Barbie getting in a horrifying accident and losing her eyes. Consequently, my mom thought she would try to make this expression less scary for me by whipping out a Sharpie and drawing several thick black eyelashes onto Barbie's face where the movable upper eyelids once sat. The effect was quite the opposite, leaving Western Stampin' Barbie with this homicidal face somewhere between Linda Blair and the creepy eyelash guy in A Clockwork Orange.
From that point on, we referred to Western Stampin' Barbie as Psycho Barbie and every night I made sure she was always buried in the bottom of the Barbie pile so she wouldn't come and hurt me while I slept.
Psycho Barbie was eventually mummified in surgical gauze and entombed in a homemade sarcophagus for a sixth grade project on Egypt. To this day, she lays rest in thirty pounds of gold plaster with Egyptians painted on the top. Nobody dares unwrap Psycho Barbie for fear of some kind of curse and/or zombie attack.
Flash forward to last night when I was getting ready to go out, slipped with the eyelash curler and ripped out over half of the outer eyelashes on my left eye. To make matters worse, I panicked and grabbed for a fake eyelash but the glue got in the open rip wound and left me feeling like I had a black eye. Not only does it still hurt today, but I look like a sideshow act and I'm hoping I won't have to wear fake eyelashes for the next two months.
I thought maybe the whole incident was karma coming back to taunt me for continually making fun of fake eyelashes worn during the daytime by a women with whom I sometimes come in contact. Then my brother left me a Facebook post that summed it all up better than anything else: "Revenge of Psycho Barbie."
I've been doing quite a bit of social media stuff for work lately, so to use Twitter I'm really trying to get my point across in 140 characters or less. After a particularly heinous Zumba class at Gold's Gym tonight, I thought of some thoughtfully crafted letters I'd like to tweet to various organizations. And if you tweeple are out there, you may follow me at @hbgolightly
Dear @Golds_Gym_Utah, why must your Zumba teachers suck? Cha cha is on the 3 and 4 count.
Dear @GeneralMillsAnn, I want to rub some tropical Chex Mix on my chest b/c I love it, but you need to start making it again.
Dear @supermodelquin, I don't believe Old Navy's $75 off $100 purchase exists. The secret coupon makes my eye twitch.
Dear @JTek33, There is no catcher as fabulous as you. Caress me like a Louisville Slugger.
Why do tweets ultimately end up sounding like haikus?
I was up all night because I have to work early this morning. Just one more special thing that makes my life mine. I know I haven't written in quite some time, so here are my thoughts for today. Read between the lines, lovelies, and you may discover why my blog has been lacking.
I don't know how I feel on the whole "let's be friends" thing when a relationship is looking like it needs hospice care. On one hand, I hate to lose someone for whom I cared. On the other hand, I think it's a lovely excuse for the chicken. I think the whole “let’s remain in a close friendship” thing in the final stages of a relationship may be pure idiocy.
Of course “being friends” sounds like a good idea to somebody who ends up acting like they cared very little about me in the first place! They continue to put in minimal effort, and yet they still get the pleasure of having me in their life, caring about them. It’s like a video game cheat code for dating: key in up-up-down-down-left-left-right-right-B-A-B-A-select-start and you’ve got 100 extra guys! (That was an obscure reference for you Contra fans out there)
Put it on your toast for a low-calorie spread: “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Dating” will leave you fulfilled without any work on your part! “Close friendship” is like liposuction for relationships. I guess I'm at the point where I really want a boyfriend/relationship on whom I can depend, not another pal, but why do I feel like that is wrong?
It's been a long few months and I have much to share, lambs. Trust me that every time my heart gets pounded into cheesecake crust I have new stories to tell.
In order to try and inject some thrills in my otherwise apathetic attitude toward life right now, I've been trying new things! I've been cooking and trying recipes I've never known how to cook before, then succeeding in making the food without giving anybody Salmonella or dry sockets or Legionnaire's Disease. I have finally started crocheting an afghan so that I can quit stuffing food in my piehole when I'm just trying to watch television in the evenings.
I've been learning to drive a stick shift.
Yep, I've never had a manual transmission and since there are cars out there that I believe I would like to drive, I finally had to learn. My dad always said to me, "You don't need to learn how to drive a stick, just always get an automatic!" But I figured it was high time for me to learn just what to do with a clutch. First off, I learned that a clutch was more than a cute handbag to take out on a weekend drinking.
Saturday night, I was behind the wheel of a very nice sports car and was trusted enough to drive less than half a block to the local 7-11. Which was very bustling with people. People who got a really good laugh when it took me fifteen tries to pull out of the parking lot. My mantra? "REVERSE IS HARD!!!" And so I will eventually master the stick shift, as I mastered cooking and afghan.
Since then, I've had several strange dreams. In the first dream, I found a snake in my living room. It wasn't a large snake, but still. Then more recently I dreamed there was a skyride that ran through my place of employment and in a moment of mischief, I convinced my friends to break and enter in the middle of the night to ride the skyride. One person fell, and I was held responsible. I'm now concerned that all of these things put together are my dad's ways of telling me to give up learning the manual transmission.
In order to save face, I am going the rest of the night without driving and will run to the gym for my workout. If you see me on the street, please don't swerve to hit me.
I've gotten a couple of emails lately from folks wondering if I'm going to continue this blog (thank you and special thanks to Kelly) and the quick answer is, "of course! For real!"
The long answer is that I have been really busy with work lately and it seems the last thing I want to do when I get home is look at a computer and write. I got to work, then to the gym, and then I'm mentally and physically drained. Also, it seems I don't really have anything to write about lately. There are so many blogs that seem to just add to the increasing web of crap out there, and I didn't want to contribute to the pile. Lately, writing has been sort of like going to the gym: once you get there it's fantastic, it's just finding some motivation to actually go.
The thought of getting a fat ass keeps me motivated to regularly work out. What's my motivation to write?
I know many of you who read this actually are writers and who do contribute something creative and salient to what's out there. I'd love to hear what you do for motivation. How do you find things to creatively write about?
Is this a slump? Am I wearing pants?
Additionally, my MacBook is falling apart as we speak. Last night, a jagged shred of plastic came off the case near where my right hand rests, resulting in cutting me 70 percent of the time. Is this a sign that my own laptop would rather slit my wrists than allow me to write crappy, unmotivated drivel? You know your writing has turned to shit when your own computer self-destructs, then plots a way to end your life to get away from your input.
I will say that since I got a DVR a couple of months ago, I've been able to more properly keep up on the horrible reality television that's cropped up lately. Daisy of Love? Hate it; can't get enough of it. And if you watch that show, last week did you feel shame as you shouted, "WHY DID YOU LEAVE, LONDON?! WHY?" I am impressed they left us with a cliffhanger.
So help me out here, how do I make time to sit down and put my brain toward writing once again?
I don't know if I should be admitting this, but for quite some time now I've had a strange, obsessive love for alpacas. It's true, and it feels good to get it off my chest; "Hi, my name is Holly and I'm an alpacaholic."
For those of you who are alpacaliterate and don't know what I'm talking about, an alpaca is a South American herd animal bred for their lovely coats which is turned into fiber used for textiles. (Visit the Wikipedia entry here.) That's all well and good, but I love their little faces and the fact each one looks like they have bangs. Subsequently, I want to put glitter and makeup on alpacas the world over.
Fake eyelashes, pink blush, rhinestones, I want to dress up each and every alpaca like they were a ballroom dancer. Forgive me if you feel this is cruel, I want to do this out of love.
One day I hope to travel to Peru and see alpacas in their natural surroundings, which I picture might be something like this: (Scene opens in a village marketplace resembling something between a Moroccan bazaar and a sidewalk sale at Fashion Place Mall. There are brightly colored dresses hanging on either side of the street, and lovely alpacas are mingling throughout the booths, politely saying hello to each other as they bat their eyelashes and shop for new clothes. And handbags. And shoes.)
Holly: (Wide-eyed and full of wonder, is taking in the sight when a lovely brown alpaca walks up to her.) Well hello there, Mr. Paca.
Alpaca: (Bows his head.) Please, call me Al.
Holly: Al, you are lovely. Might we go back to my hotel where I can plug in my curling iron and give the front part of your hair the "Farrah flip" made so popular in the 70s television show "Charlie's Angels?"
Al: Of course! (nuzzles the size of Holly's cheek with his fuzzy, little face) But don't forget the fake eyelashes and makeover!
Holly: I love you, Al.
Al: I love you too, Holly.
(And so it goes. The two walk through the marketplace, hand in hoof, into the sunset.)
Beautiful, isn't it?
Many people know about my love for alpacas. And glitter. And glittering alpacas. So this showed up on the dry erase board at work today:
I'm really glad that my co-workers support me so that one day I might hope to join AOBA and raise alpacas for fun and profit.
I'm trying to put together some new choreography for my dance class tonight. I'm rejuvenated after my vacation, I have a new Red Sox hat to wear and all I'm doing is thinking about new dance steps...
