Monday, December 21, 2009

Ho ho ho?

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.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Won't you be my neighbor?

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?

Monday, December 14, 2009

Culinary Snafu

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.

Friday, October 23, 2009

My best vampires ever

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.

Sunday, October 04, 2009

Halloween art show photos...

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.

Friday, October 02, 2009

Salt Lake Halloween Art Exhibition!

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!

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Internationally Nifty

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.

Is something lost in translation?

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

To everything: churn, churn, churn

Exhibit A: Butter Cow 2009, by Holly

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

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Get in my pants...

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.

Saturday, August 01, 2009

Psycho Barbie

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."

Monday, July 13, 2009


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?

Monday, July 06, 2009

Early morning musings

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?

Sunday, July 05, 2009

Wait for it...

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.

And this time, it's no different.

Monday, June 01, 2009

New things.

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.

Saturday, May 23, 2009

I'm here!

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?

Thursday, April 09, 2009


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.

Monday, April 06, 2009


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...

...and the New Kids.

I'm so easily distracted.

Thursday, April 02, 2009


This photo is after the Denver snow last week started letting up.

People have been asking for details surrounding my recent flight to the East Coast. There were serious delays getting out of Denver last week, ranging from canceled flights to de-icing fluid leaking through the plane door onto passengers sitting inside. Those are just the quick details of the trip out. I feel the worst part was when I got to my destination, sans luggage. Sans luggage for a couple of days.

After calling United's baggage claim department, as I was instructed, I felt I was getting no where with this cause. But the fifth and, perhaps, most memorable conversation surrounding my missing bag went something like this (not for the faint of heart):

After a few brief minutes of dealing with the automated system, I finally alternated hitting the “0” for “Operator,” also known as “give me a real person or I will start cutting myself,” and slamming the phone into my forehead. When I landed a real conversation, and explained my situation, they said to me, “Did you file a claim?” Exasperated at having to answer this again, I said, “Yes, I filed a claim! I filed a claim at 4 this morning when I no longer feared for my life as your cracker jack flight dropped it’s ass end out of the sky!” My patience was through. I had now been without luggage for two days.

I wanted a change of clothes.

I wanted my toothbrush.

I wanted my flatiron.

Surprisingly empowered, I threw out a “You know what? I’m done with you. I’m so over you I can’t even put it into words. Who is your supervisor? I want to speak to your supervisor, I want some answers and I want my bag. Now. I want my bag now, so you get your supervisor and put them on the phone so I can tell them how highly unacceptable you and your airline and your baggage handling really is. Get your supervisor, get your supervisor right now.”

Somehow, I thought this would make a difference. I was placed on hold for nearly 20 minutes.

“Hello?” the voice said with an undistinguishable accent. “This is TonTang, I am the supervisor.”

“Who?!” I shouted at him in a voice somewhere between my own and my grandmother’s. (The live one, not the dead one. Though if I had channeled the voice of my dead grandmother to my conversation with TonTang the supervisor, I might’ve gotten somewhere.) “What did you say your name was?”

“TonTang, Miss.”

Trying to go to my happy place, “TonTang? Like, as in, TonTang?”

“Yes, Miss. TonTang.”

“Fine. Whatever. Whatever, TonTang,” I said like a crazy lady. “I am done with your people telling me to file a claim and wait for my bag. I know my bag is sitting in Logan International Airport at the Northwest counter, but because two of my Northwest airplanes yesterday were constructed out of tuna cans, I had to switch planes and come in on United.”

TonTang thought he had an in, “Yes, this is United Miss, you should call Northwest then, Miss.”

“But my final destination was with United, Tonto, not Northwest. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” I was ready to throw myself into traffic.

“Oh,” TonTang said disappointed that he couldn’t get rid of me that easily. “Okay. Well just be patient and your bag will come.”

It’s a little tough to be patient when you’re sitting in the same clothes for several days and sensing that TonTang the supervisor didn’t really give three shits about my predicament said, “Here’s the deal Tito, I want you to walk right now from the United baggage claim and get my bag from Northwest. And when you have the bag in your sweaty hand, I want you to carry it back to the phone and rub the receiver against it so I can hear that it didn’t drop out of the airplane somewhere over Iowa.”

“Hold please, Miss,” and TonTang quickly placed me on hold.

I had an epiphany while listening to United’s bad take on Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue hold music; I shouldn’t be this upset. I shouldn’t be so mad that I was without my stuff. I certainly wasn’t stranded, it’s not like I was staying in a Guatemalan hut. I was 30 minutes outside of Boston and there was a T.J. Maxx across the street. Still, it was the principle of the whole thing. It’s not like flying is inexpensive, especially when the airline tacks on a bag charge to lose your belongings. I would’ve had more fun staying home and lighting the $15 on fire. I was lost in my thoughts of the unfairness of it all, like I was the only person in the universe who had ever had their bag lost and had to deal with TonTang the supervisor.

Fifteen minutes later, TonTang materialized. “Yes Miss, your bag came in this morning and should be delivered sometime today.”

“Seriously Tutu?!” it was like a Christmas Eve thrill. “You seriously have my bag and are going to get it to the courier?”

I sensed TonTang’s hesitance. “Um, no, Miss. I just looked it up on the computer. I didn’t see your bag.”

“WHAT?” I was going to reach through the phone and rip loose TonTang’s larynx. “I told you to go get my bag. I know where it is. You just have to go and get it and tell me that you’ve seen it. Please, TinTin, I can’t handle this anymore.” Pleading took over, “Please, you have to just walk your little legs down there and get the bag.”

“I can’t do that, Miss,” he said as I realized TonTang was hiding something. “I told you the scan said the bag came in this morning, but I can’t see the bag.”

I figured it all out. “The jig is up; where are you Toto? Where are you sitting right now? Where on this planet are you physically, geographically holding the telephone and talking to me right now?”

With a gulp and a sheepish confession, TonTang the supervisor admitted why he couldn’t see my bag. TonTang the supervisor divulged the information that confirmed my shady suspicions about the United baggage claim customer service department. “New Delhi, Miss.” And now TonTang the supervisor would pay dearly.

“So you lied to me, TipTop? You said you were walking down to get my bag and you just put me on hold and laughed and told all of your evil minions that you had a stupid crazy lady on the phone? Because I highly doubt you could’ve walked to Boston from India in just 15 minutes. You’re telling me that you’re a liar and that you will stop at nothing to pacify me like I was some idiot on the phone. United Airlines employs liars! Liar!” I might’ve been getting a bit dramatic.

“Yes Miss,” he said, “But be patient and your bag will come.” Still trying to stick as closely as possible to his “I am trying to sound like I’m located in the United States” script. I was exhausted, I was frustrated, I was still wearing the same underwear I had on when I left Mountain Time Zone. be continued... In the meantime, you're welcome to check out some of the photos I took the other day here.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009


I'm officially on vacation and ready to leave tomorrow morning. After a lengthy phone encounter with the "helpful" folks from Travelocity, I am leaving two hours earlier than originally planned. I realize I should go to bed, but instead I'm watching REINDEER POLICE!!! That's right!

Reindeer police and wine is on the agenda tonight when I should be getting my beauty sleep for a grueling 15 hours of travel complete with two stopovers throughout this great United States. In the North of Norway, thousands of reindeer still roam about freely. The Reindeer Police patrol reindeer and Norwegian bearded ladies. The reindeer belong to herders who work in extreme conditions like their ancestors. To solve conflicts among these herders, a special police on snow mobiles patrols the great north.

If you are pre-comatose and can't sleep tonight, perhaps Reindeer Police can help you.

In case you don't want to sit through all 51 minutes of Reindeer Police, here is my brilliant, wine-induced commentary on two minutes of said video:

Tuesday, March 24, 2009


Or, in this case, "wine-ing," as in a post about wine, but that doesn't look very good on the title. It makes it look like I spelled it incorrectly and I pride myself on grammar and spelling.

It's a very sad day today as I realized I've developed an allergy to wine, specifically Virgin Vines Shiraz. For the last few months, I've consumed a fair amount of this wine because I found it on sale at the wine store. Subsequently, for the last few months, I've broken out in unexplainable hives.

After a particularly nasty bout with hives a couple of months ago, I went to a dermatologist thoroughly convinced (after consulting Web M.D. and self-diagnosing) that I needed treatment for scabies. I made them give me scabies medication, not because I believe I am a dirty scabies girl, but because there simply wasn't any other explanation. Web M.D. said I had scabies, I had scabies! I figured that maybe my feather bed I bought last winter was the culprit and that wayward scabies had hijacked their way into my bedroom. (Think recent "deadly spider found in Whole Foods bananas" story.) Incidentally, the scabies medication didn't help or do anything, but it was still nice to know that I was scabies-free. My next thought was perhaps scurvy, but I eat oranges. And I'm not a pirate.

At work today, I had an out-of-the-blue "a ha!" moment when I figured out that my current few hives began Friday night after I drank a couple of glasses of Virgin Vines Shiraz. I didn't down the whole bottle, as I'm known to occasionally do, which is why I have just a few hives. I thought maybe I got caught in some freak pre-summer, zero-humidity megamosquito attack while enjoying some time outside, but now I think it was the shiraz. Then I came home and found this about wine allergies, "The symptoms of a sulfite sensitivity reaction vary from mild to life-threatening. The most common symptoms are mild and involve a skin rash accompanied by redness, hives, itching, flushing, tingling and swelling." Yep, that's me.

Damn you, dirty shiraz. Why must you taunt me so? So, now what do I do? Further test this allergy theory by drinking my last bottle of Virgin Vines "just to make sure" I'm really allergic? Pawn it off on someone who isn't destined to never again drink shiraz? Get tested again for scabies?

Damn you, sulfites. Damn you, Richard Branson.

Sunday, March 22, 2009


Just when I thought I'd seen it all, I ran into some Hannah Montana Mac n' Cheese, or what I like to call "Hannah Mactanna," today.

Now you too can eat Miley for dinner; with 100% real cheese! (Not surprising) And the only price you'll have to pay to eat Miss Cyrus' box is $.70 and 280 calories per serving. What a bargain!

I just wonder why the directions are written in an accent straight from the backwoods of Arkansas? From the box of Hannah Mactanna: "Kids In The Kitchen. Whatcha Need: A Little Help from Yer Mom Or Dad and?6 Cups Water, 1/2 Tbsp Unsalted Butter, 3 Tbsp Skim Milk. How to Do It: 1. Bring 6 Cups of Water to A Boil. Stir In The Macaroni. Boil For 6-8 Minutes Or Until Tender. 2. Once Cooked, Drain Water from Pan In A Strainer, Then Put Macaroni Back In Pan. 3. Now Add Your: 1/2 Tbsp Unsalted Butter, 3 Tbsp Skim Milk, Contents of Cheese Packet. Stir It Up Well. Enjoy! Yup! You've Done It! Time to Eat Yer Macaroni and Cheese!"

Yup! Time to eat yer macaroni and cheese!

Thursday, March 19, 2009


I have been working out like a crazy lady lately, but couldn't continue at the gym last Saturday when I looked around after my dance class and saw this:

I call this photo "Banana Hammock."


I stumbled across a Web site the other day,, that teaches young folks about the pressures that technology can put on dating, i.e. texting, sending racy photos, etc. Now, I stress this site is for young folks, but maybe more adults should look at these videos too. I will now do my civic duty by presenting to you a video called "Text Monster."

While there is much talk lately on how the recession is contributing to better love lives and relationships (who wants to be poor and alone?), I believe that technology is making it more difficult to actually date in order to find the one you with whom you want to be poor and alone.

I propose that people need to practice "retro dating," you know, where the guy calls you up, asks you out and you talk rather than text.

First rule of "retro dating?" I believe that going out rather than hanging out is the best way to get to know someone. Dating is not sitting in your pajamas, sans makeup, in your cluttery, little apartment. This is hanging out, and in the beginning stages of dating, hanging out is not sexy. Going out need not be expensive either, hell, I'd be happy with a Sizzler salad bar or an evening ride on an ATV followed up by even a decent cocktail or glass of wine. The point is, you get to know someone by doing stuff, not schlepping around. There are plenty of nights to schlep when the two of you are in the throws of a recession-sparked poverty party; hanging out should not happen until you have gone out at least a few times.

Secondly, I think a new focus on creating a Mix Tape (Mix CD) would facilitate this idea of retro dating. While it might be expensive to bring your new date flowers and spend cash on a dinner, why not throw together a few of your favorite tracks to reveal a bit of yourself to your new sweetie? Granted, this could be a deal breaker when you find your new blonde, blue-eyed Adonis has a thing for a quaint combo of Cher and Young Jeezy, but there's a chance you might just get some new music out of it.

I once went out with a guy who on our first (lunch) date brought me a CD he burned of Grant Green. Knowing I was a fan of jazz music, I thought this was extremely thoughtful and I ended up discovering a new side of jazz guitar. I still have this CD, and though I'm haunted by his handwriting, I love the music. While that may sound extremely pretentious and snarky, I had encounter with a different guy and Martini Ranch. Amazing how a concept band fronted by a pre-Wierd Science Bill Paxton can still make me swoon. Still.

My point is, what have you got to lose? If your date's music really sucks, who couldn't use a new silver coaster? And if your tastes in music aren't compatible, isn't it better to find that out sooner rather than later?

Now, I don't profess to know all the particulars of dating, but I do know that I've had enough frustrating encounters with the opposite sex to offer these few helpful tips. For some reason lately, I feel the need to help humanity and what better way to give back to the planet by helping them find the sweetie I can't seem to find myself? Those who cannot do, teach, and at this point in my life I feel I have a Ph. D. in serial monogamy.

Monday, March 16, 2009


I am severely disturbed by the new Boost Mobile commercial which features two talking pigs dining on ham. I don't know, maybe it's not even new, but I've never seen it before. In fact, I don't even know what the pigs were saying about Boost Mobile phones because I was totally freaked out by the fact they were chowing two giant plates of ham while saying they're "Just enjoying the flavors of a fallen friend."

The pigs also appear to be dirty.

So many questions this commercial makes me ponder: Why are the pigs dirty? Are we to assume these dirty pigs are not Jewish? What's more, why does this cell phone company believe that dirty cannibal pigs will make us want to buy cell phones? Am I reading too much into this commercial? Am I wearing pants?

Friday, March 13, 2009


I finally treated myself to something nice.

Wednesday, March 04, 2009

Got the vapors...

Just before bed tonight, I watched Mythbusters and saw something so strange, so awesome, I laughed out loud on my couch:

The Tennessee Fainting Goat.

While I once visited Tennessee and saw creatures I'd never seen in Utah (fireflies) I did not see one of these crazy goats. According to Wikipedia, "A fainting goat is a breed of domestic goat whose muscles freeze for roughly 10 seconds when the goat is startled. Though painless, this generally results in the animal collapsing on its side." Apparently this is caused by a genetic condition, with a hilariously funny outcome. Here, have a look:

I pass out when I'm happy, tired, scared; I wonder if I have a little fainting goat in me. If this is the case, I ask kindly that you don't refer to me as "stiff-legged goat."

Tuesday, March 03, 2009


...and it feels sooo good.

I came home the other day for lunch and found the maintenance crew outside and was able to tell them the green shovel they likely "found" against my front door was mine. I was very polite, but firm, telling them since this was the second stolen shovel this year, I would like it back if they have it.

'Lo and behold, I came home from work and there was my shovel.

I might sleep with it tonight. I love you, shovel.

Thursday, February 26, 2009

Shovel envy

I still don't get how to do kind of outdoor maintenance activities. I live in an apartment so I don't have to water, grow or mow a lawn. Someone else takes care of all those pesky leaves that are too chickenshit to hold onto a tree branch through the winter. I don't do windows. But whenever it snows, I am responsible for either shoveling my walkway and back stairs, or trudge through the elements through the spring thaw. Which is actually in August here since my place faces in completely the wrong direction.

Earlier this winter, my mom was nice enough to get me my own shovel and ice melt jug so I could make sure my Dooney bag and I didn't fall down the outside stairs in an icy display of pain. After the first few snows, I decided that the little bit of shoveling wasn't really so bad... after a few beers... and when you slip and take a digger into a snowbank, the alcohol numbs the pain. Ah yes, beer shoveling. But I digress.

Two snowstorms after I first used the shovel, my new red shovel, the shovel came up missing along with a third of a jug of windshield washer fluid and less than half a tub of ice melt. I know it was stolen by some unruly neighbors who had just moved, and I hope they mistake the ice melt for course salt and use it to rim a margarita glass.

Eventually, my mom took pity on me and, since I refuse to ever go into a Home Depot, bought me a new shovel. A pretty green shovel. A new shovel so heavy-duty it was sure to withstand even the wettest, bloppy snow. I used this shovel for a few more snows, and then this week welcomed a little spring. When I got home from work on Tuesday, I noticed there were maintenance people who had been seemingly cleaning up my yard area, pruning the trees and raking up leaves.

And using my shovel. I know this because the shovel had moved slightly from right next to my door to a few feet away.

Yesterday, I got home from work and noticed there was more raking and general yard clean-up, and the shovel was leaning against my door after having clearly been used.

Today I got home, and my shovel was gone. Gone was my shovel. I picture some plumber-crack-clad maintenance person soiling themselves with maniacal laughter as they slowly caress my shovel while driving away in their dirty truck. I am devastated. I loved that shovel. It was a good shovel, and I refuse to go to Home Depot to get another.

Did the yard clean-up guys abscond with the shovel, or are there darker forces in play? For instance, I just watched The Strangers the other night and I'm wondering if maybe the shovel was one of the creepy movie killers. I already haven't slept without a light on since watching that movie, now do I wonder if the shovel is going to show up in the middle of the night, wielding a knife to secure my untimely demise. I picture the scene something like this:

*Knock, knock*

Holly: Hello? Who's there? *Looks out the door near the window and sees the outline of a snow shovel silhouetted by the porch light*

Shovel: Is Tamara there?

Holly: *Clicks the deadbolt* I already told you, there's nobody here with that name. Please go away.

Shovel: Oh, sorry. *Shovel shuffles off down the sidewalk*

*Holly proceeds to shrug off the incident and drink a beer (big surprise), but the camera pans over and we see the blurred image of a scary shovel wearing a bag-like mask over its handle, inside the house.*

*Fast-forward to a highly suspenseful series of events where Holly hides from the mask-wearing shovel, defends herself from the mask-wearing shovel and eventually gets tied up and ultimately stabbed by the shovel*

Holly: *Tied up and bloody, waiting to get killed* Why shovel? Why are you doing this to me?

Shovel: *Without feeling, still wearing the scary mask-bag over its handle* Because you were home.

*Shovel stabs Holly and the movie ends*

(Apologies to those who have not seen The Strangers, I might've spoiled the whole movie for you.)

One day I'll live in a place where shovels can roam free, where they can sit beside a door and not get taken against their will, where I don't have to go to a Home Depot.

Until then, I'd like to find the shovel-stealing jerks and hit them upside the head.

Monday, February 23, 2009

Bad Karma?

A few years ago when I was on the radio and consistently reading stories about Britney Spears and Madonna jumping on the Kabbalah train, I decided to look into the mysterious belief. While I've never been religious, I was at a point in my brain where I wondered if maybe I should have some kind of spiritual structure in my life. After reading, I ordered a packet of red Kabbalah strings, which one ties around their wrist to ward off the "evil eye."

According to their Web site, the "evil eye" is "a very powerful negative force. It refers to the unfriendly stare and unkind glances we sometimes get from people around us. Envious eyes and looks of ill will affect us, stopping us from realizing our full potential in every area of our life." Okay, so that didn't sound good. I wanted to reach my full potential, I didn't want evil forces in my life, more importantly, I've kind of always had chicken not sit well with me and figured maybe a spastic colon was the embodiment of the "evil eye." What could it hurt to tie a little piece of special string around my wrist? And it was very trendy, too.

That was four years ago, and since then the Kabbalah Center in Los Angeles won't leave me the hell alone. Every couple of months, they give me a call and pitch me on spending more money with their organization. Every time they call, I politely listen and then tell them I'm just not interested in learning more and ask that they remove me from their calling list.

This afternoon, they called for what I hope is the last time. I didn't even listen to their speech. I said, "I've asked you repeatedly, for years now, to quit calling me and I am not interested in your organization," and then I hung up. Just like that.

Now I have to wonder if telling the Kabbalah Center to bite me is bad karma? What's worse is that I ate chicken for lunch and have to teach a dance class tonight. We'll see what happens.

Friday, February 20, 2009


I couldn't go to sleep early like I wanted tonight, so I made a grilled cheese sandwich and drank some red wine. In the haze, this song came to me:

Any song featuring the accordian and beer bottle percussion is okay by me.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

Blurry Sanders

I am not a fan of fast food, in fact, I seldom eat it. This week has been an exception since I got two Happy Meals trying to find a Hello Kitty watch. But I could go for weeks without it. This is big for me, the girl who used to, in high school, go with her friends to KFC for "the vat" for lunch. "The vat" was an extra-large order of french fries. That's it. For lunch. I agree with Mike Meyers in So I Married an Axe Murderer that the Colonial puts in his food an "addictive chemical that makes you crave it fortnightly" with his "wee beady eyes."

Since then, I don't eat "the vat" or anything like that because I'm trying to wear a Princess Leia slave costume for Halloween this year. I especially don't eat at KFC since I had really low blood sugar one day and ingested a packet of fake butter to keep from passing out. Instead I barfed.

Anyhow, I thought it was really interesting that Google Street View has started blurring any faces in their photos-- including the Colonial. The Colonial has made me see blurry, but that's because my head was hanging over the toilet.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Not a Drag...

Hi. My name is Holly and I'm a reality television-aholic. I never realized I had it this bad. Until tonight. Tonight I have to fully disclose this addiction.

At first, it started out with an occasional episode of Survivor, maybe a little Fear Factor here and there in the early 2000s, but as reality shows became more popular, I found myself watching more. Soon, I learned I needed more reality television, campier reality television, the more awful reality TV the better, to get my fix. In my life, I have sat through entire seasons of bad reality shows like Top Design, Shear Genius and even The Pick-Up Artist.

I have seen entire marathons of MTV's My Super Sweet 16, three seasons of Rock of Love, every dance show out there: So You Think You Can Dance, Dancing with the Stars, Randy Jackson Presents: America's Best Dance Crew. You name the reality show, and I've watched at least one episode. I watch back-to-back episodes of America's Next Top Model, Project Runway, Tori and Dean. On occasion, I watch lesser-known reality shows like MTV's True Life or Two-a-Days or A&E's Vegas Showgirls: Nearly Famous, sometimes even Bravo's Work Out will satiate my craving. Occasionally, I will watch a show on television, while watching another online-- only occasionally though.

I have watched Britney Spears' Chaotic. I have watched Cathouse. That said, I do have standards. I will not sit through anything with Scott Baio, Dr. Drew, any married Bradys or combinations thereof.

I believe my love for reality television started way before the reality trend of the early 2000s. It's possible my obsession began in the 80s with Battle of the Network Stars. I used to watch those stars in their glittery leotards while they flew through the air with the greatest of ease, and I would sometimes pretend I was a competitor. Sometimes I still dream of glittery leotards and wish I was an American Gladiator, but that's more disclosure than I would like to admit right now. I can't pinpoint the precise time when I first started consuming reality TV, but I know I can't stop. I know I've seen it all. That is, I thought I had seen it all until tonight.

Tonight I saw something that boggled my mind. It rocked my reality television world. I will never be the same. Tonight, I watched my first episode of RuPaul's Drag Race.

RuPaul's Drag Race, where I heard RuPaul say that the winner will be the next drag superstar and be, "hotter than Tyra wearing a fat suit in July." Yes, RuPaul tells the would-be stars to "work it, girl." And I want to "work it" as well. If RuPaul's Drag Race is wrong, I don't want to be right.

The basic premise of the show is that the girls complete challenges, then are judged by RuPaul in a final lip synch show where they "lip synch for their life," and in the end, one queen is eliminated. It's your basic reality show formula, but in this show, the loser is told to "Sashay away."

So my reality television obsession continues, and one day the desire might be quelled. Until then, I will stick with RuPaul. Yes, I will "Shantay and stay."

Monday, February 16, 2009


I'm always interested in how people find my little blog here on the internets. While it's possible I've threatened with physical harm some people into loyal readers, others stumble upon my blog and soon become ensnared in my World Wide Web.

Here are some keywords you can use to find me in case you forget my URL:

Apparently I write about nipples, a lot, and people search nipples, a lot. I also write about not just normal nipples, but flapjack nipples. I believe I referred to Mariah Carey once as having "flapjack nipples" and now it's a great way to find my blog! I also like a good slipple (nipple falling out, on someone else, not myself) and it seems there are internet searchers who agree.

And why does "Kevin Rose" not show up in my keywords since my 2009 goal was to get a date with him, all starting out by mentioning him as often as fitting?

Friday, February 13, 2009

Long fingernail lady

I got an email from a very reliable source who worked decades ago at a place where this lady shopped. She writes, "Her fingernails weren't quite that long when she came thru my checkstand, but I remember her telling me that she was unable to do housework and that was a good incentive for her to keep the ratty looking things. Also, it was apparently a turn-on for her husband. Gross, gross, gross! I guess she has to start over now. Hopefully she will clean her house first."

It seems all good things must come to an end. Apparently the world record holder for the world's longest fingernails lives in Utah, and a car accident caused her to lose her prized possessions. During the recent crash, she was ejected from the vehicle and broke a nail. She was very lucky she wasn't more seriously injured. Still, it is tough to buckle your seatbelt when you're trying to rock 28 feet of ghetto fingers. (Click here for the Salt Lake Tribune article on this accident)

At least now she can pick her nose!

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Oh Grate! (a pun, not misspelling of the word "great." you'll get it if you read on.)

A few weeks ago, I went into this new store called Shoe Carnival figuring it sounded fun (Carnival!) and full of shoes (Shoe!); it's fun, and full of shoes, it's SHOE CARNIVAL!

Notsomuch. It scared me. It scared me quite a lot. I couldn't get three feet into the store before a "helpful" salesperson obnoxiously yelled to me, "HI! WELCOME TO SHOE CARNIVAL! WHAT CAN I HELP YOU FIND?"

Taken aback, I sort of said I didn't know, but if I did, I'd be sure to have them help me.

Rounding a set of shelves, I ran into another salesperson. "HI! WELCOME TO SHOE CARNIVAL! WHAT CAN I HELP YOU FIND?" I replied, "Yeah, still doing okay. I'll let you know though if I'm not..."

Frightened, I went to the boot section and tried on a few pairs. The prices were decent, and though the quality of shoe was mostly crap, I was pretty impressed by the cute styles. And if you're going to waste money on poorly-constructed, trendy footwear, it might as well be cheap, poorly-constructed, trendy footwear.

Now, remember this place was called Shoe Carnival? Every five minutes, an employee would get over the loud speaker, "WEEEEEEEEEELCOME TO SHOE CARNIVAL! THIS IS A REMINDER YOU HAVE JUST FIIIIIIIIVE MINUTES TO GET YOUR BUY ONE PAIR GET ONE PAIR HALF-OFF DEEEEEEEEAL. BUT FIRST! LET'S SPIN THE DEAL WHEEL!" Deal wheel?

"HI! ARE YOU STILL FINDING EVERYTHING AT SHOE CARNIVAL?!?" came up behind me, scaring me like the voice belonged to those two freaky twins in The Shining.

"AAAAAAAAAAHHHH! YES! I'M JUST LOOKING!!!" Shoe Carnival was loud. Shoe Carnival was scary. Shoe Carnival was a giant clown, ready to hold my hands behind my back and bite my throat with its long, pointy teeth.

Hurrying toward the discount racks in the back of the store, I found two pairs of totally uncomfortable, fairly cute, completely cheap shoes for $6 each. Several more loudspeaker announcements and $12 plus tax later, I left Shoe Carnival, screaming into the night.

Why do I talk about this? I got one of the shoes stuck in a grate outside my apartment tonight. I don't know how, but the heel got so tightly wedged down into the grate that I couldn't pull it out. I literally had to unbuckle the shoe off my foot and leave it while I took all the stuff I was carrying inside.

Half barefoot.

In the snow.

I finally got the shoe out of the grate, but not before taking a picture. Good thing the burgundy patent-leather Mary Jane was cheap, because I'm certainly not going back to freaky Shoe Carnival to replace it.

Loose furniture

We saw this sign outside a furniture store at lunch today, and I'm left wondering exactly what is Hooker Furniture:

Does this furniture turn tricks? Have slip covers which are too short for daylight hours? Does it have clear, lucite legs that light up when pressure is applied?

It is 40% off, however, making it cheap Hooker furniture.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009


Tonight I made my final car payment. Ever. While it's taken many many years to pay it off, it's finally done. And since I paid for a major overhaul on it a couple of months ago, I'm hoping to get a few more years with it-- without a car payment.

I celebrated tonight by going to the gym and then grabbing a bottle of wine for a celebratory glass of vino when I got home. While driving home, the SLCPD decided to run a red light and nearly take out my newly-paid-for vehicle. Now, I understand the benefit of a classic "approach without lights and sirens" call, but should they be approaching without lights and sirens to the detriment of everyone else on the road?

Much less those who thirty seconds earlier just threw their last vehicle payment into the post office?

And because I saw him speed for at least 15 blocks northbound on 900 east after, I figure that I was just lucky to get out without major damage.

Monday, February 09, 2009

Best of...

I think I'm pretty damn funny. I hope you do too. Many current readers might not realize that I started this blog in February 2005 as a supplement to stuff I talked about on the Morning Zoo on 97.1 ZHT. So as a four-year anniversary to "Beyond the Air: Radio Free Holly," I present to you my favorite thoughts, quotes and chunks found throughout the years.

From June 23, 2005:

"Yes, nothing says 'Happy Birthday' quite like a bunch of burning tampons!! This is a quick-fix that would make MacGyver proud. Now, if only they could build a bomb out of Tampax and hand lotion!!"

From August 1, 2005:
"I wore some cute, cotton Aberbcrombie pants last summer to a remote, and it was hot, and any sweat looks like a little bit of pee. In fact, I believe our remote tech accused me of peeing but I am grown up enough, as is Fergie, to know when to use the bathroom."

From February 10, 2006:
"During the Viennese Waltz performance, the dress got twisted, my nipple popped out and got caught over the left side of the dress, and my partner twirled me around for all to see."

From August 31, 2006:
"You can't see it very well, but it's true, there is a place called 'Jo Jo's Munch House' on State Street in Salt Lake City."

From September 12, 2006:
"Jeff from the O2 Oxygen Spa in Salt Lake came in tonight and juiced us up. I chose 'Serenity,' a combination of lavendar and I believe eucalyptus. I feel mellow. I also would like a pizza, a bag of Doritos and maybe a Slim Jim..."

From September 26, 2006:
"I would rather stick a hot letter opener into my nasal cavity than ever run for public office, which is good since my job is technically a conflict of interest."

From November 11 2006:
"True to form of being the most graceful klutz I know, I lit my hand on fire and proceeded to drop the flaming stuff onto my favorite Hello Kitty blanket. Remember in the 70s how acrylic bedding was a fire hazard? Apparently it’s still a fire hazard in the year 2006. In a flash, I threw open the patio door and tossed Burning Kitty outside and like a drunk idiot jumped on it—all while wearing slippers."

From February 13, 2007:
"Don’t marry a guy that has Satan Worshippers as friends. They will just inevitably want you to birth the new Anti-Christ."

From March 15, 2007:
"Whenever a designer is booted off the show, head judge dsigner Jonathan Adler tells them, 'See you later, decorator!' And with a little wave and wiggle of his fingers, the contestant is bid adieu."

From July 31, 2007:
"Today, Michelangelo Antonioni went to the big sound stage in the sky. He was an amazing director who made 'Blow Up,' one of my favorite films. I was first turned onto this movie by someone for whom I will have an eternal soft-spot, so I'm wondering if I love the movie because it reminds me of him, or if it's really a brilliant film."

From September 5, 2007:
"If you are dating someone and that someone happens to die, do not keep their old bras out on your shed workbench. It will make the person you might later date question your affection for them, and that will be the start of a slow spiral down the proverbial relationship toilet."

From September 30, 2007:
"Instead of throwing away the whole mess, plate and all, I decided to try and break apart the upper part of the chip-wad and eat it. After a couple of bites, I realized that not only does fat-free "cheese" turn into titanium when put on chips and microwaved, but it also tastes like shit."

From October 29, 2007:
"I thought, 'Is this my test? Now am I supposed to dig a key out of a guy's colon to get out of here?' To no avail, I had to sit there and endure the stinging sensation while I watched a small Asian woman with a razor blade scrape foot-heel skin off an 80-year-old lady. It was sensory overload."

From November 11, 2007:
"I saw some guy's junk. Right there, three ab benches away from me. Some random guy's junk, just out there for the world to gaze upon. It was bad enough that his shorts were shorter than something out of Studio 54 circa 1978, but as he was doing his ab crunches, his legs were bent and splayed open like a sweaty crab."

From December 9, 2007:

From January 10, 2008:
"Midway through brushing my teeth I noticed that the buckwheat husk was filling my apartment with a delightful organic and slightly lawn-ish scent. By the time I finished brushing my teeth, I thought, 'Wow, the buckwheat husk. It smells like burn... shit!' I ran downstairs and saw that the buckwheat husk had ignited in the microwave and though the filler itself 'WILL NOT BURN!' the material covering the outside most certainly 'WILL FREAKING BECOME TINDER!'"

From January 31, 2008:
You've got to read it in its entirety to do it justice.

From February 15, 2008:
"On the morning of Valentine's Day I left him a 12-pack of Miller High Life for a gift because I had no idea what to get him. That night, he punched me in his sleep because he thought I was either 1) a stranger 2) an intruder or 3) the Vietcong. I was too tired to drive home so I slept in the guest room. On Valentine's Day. Alone."

From April 6, 2008 (Live Blogging Rock of Love finale):
"7:05- I felt bad for Daisy until a shot of her walking revealed her thong underwear sticking out of her jeans."

From April 10, 2008:
"Having thrown up at the gym several times in my life (there was this one time when I thought that drinking a 32-ounce chai before running on the treadmill was a good idea. There was also that one fake bacon incident...), I didn't think anything of it, until I passed out at the grocery store."

From June 6, 2008:
"There I stood, marinading in 'Regular,' mad that not only did I stink, but seeing all that gas pooling on the pavement was like flushing a wad of twenties down the toilet."

From July 23, 2008:
"Last night, I had a dream that the guy I'm dating buried me in a hole with a large Starbuck's latte and a Hickory Farms Yard O'Beef like you would get at a mall kiosk during the holidays."

Crap! Got to run and go to dance now, stay posted for more of my favorite quotes.

Wednesday, February 04, 2009

Commercially Smitten...

Remember about a year ago when I professed my undying love for the New Gorton's Fisherman? In fact, looking back, my New Gorton's Fisherman crush was exactly a year ago this month. While his yellow slicker-clad hotness will always hold a special place in my television viewing heart, I have a new commercial crush for this year.

The Free Credit Report dot Com guy.

You know the guy I'm talking about: In one commercial he's dressed as a pirate, in another he's driving his friends around in his P.O.S. car and in the latest installment, he's wearing tights at a Renaissance fair. He has a curly mop top, and despite his slightly jacked-up grill, the Free Credit Report dot Com guy is extremely appealing.

But who is the guy behind the Free Credit Report dot Com guy? After some research, it turns out the Free Credit Report dot Com guy's real name is Eric Violette, a French-Canadian import who, despite being a musician, neither plays his guitar nor sings in any of these commercials. After learning who he really is, I feel hurt and dismayed and I now question the credibility of

Maybe I don't trust my relationship thus far with the Free Credit Report dot Com guy. How can I know that he's telling me the truth, that he really cares about my credit? What about my needs? I've got to end it with the Free Credit Report dot Com guy before my heart breaks even more, I love him and I wish the best for him, but I just can't see myself with someone who proclaims to be such a (literally) Renaissance man while fake strumming in a puffy pirate shirt. For what it may be worth, i will always care about him immensely and i want nothing but the best for him.

Well, now that I'm not in that relationship anymore, anybody know what Kevin Rose is up to?