Love...

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.

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 freecreditreport.com.

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?

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

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

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

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

Then it happened. 

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

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

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

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