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.

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.

Comedy Gold...

Since I work in media, I can truly appreciate a good article and a good headline writer. The Salt Lake Tribune hit comedy gold with this today, and I had to re-post. You can either read it below, or follow the link here.

You can also Digg the story here and while you're at it, put in a good word for me with Kevin Rose.

Restroom requiem: 'It was a good toilet' gunned down in line of 'doody'
Centerville hamburger joint offers commode consolation

By Kathy Stephenson
The Salt Lake Tribune

What should you do when your toilet dies in the line of "doody"? Have a funeral, of course.

On Friday at 10 a.m., the Carl's Jr. restaurant in Centerville will have a "moment of silence" for the potty that was destroyed last week when a patron's handgun fell out of the holster and fired as he was hitching up his pants.

The bullet shattered the toilet and sent sharp shards into the man's arm. The 26-year-old, who had a concealed-weapons permit, was treated at the scene for minor injuries.

But the "john" was destroyed, and the national hamburger chain is feeling the loss. "By all accounts, it was a good toilet; reliable and well liked by customers and crew members alike," wrote Brad Haley, executive vice president
blasted commode
The late, well-liked and oft-visited deceased. (Tribune file photo)
of Carl's Jr. marketing, in a tongue-in-cheek note posted on the company's Facebook page.

"It seems only fitting to have a formal service to let everyone say goodbye to such a critical member of our team that was in very close contact with the public each and every day," Haley eulogized. "Our thoughts go out to the surviving men's room urinal and porcelain sink. We only hope that the new toilet can fill the void left by its predecessor, but so far it hasn't made much of a splash."

The outpouring from the community has been overwhelming, said Carl's Jr. manager Christian Martinez. "We have received e-mails and cards from all over the country expressing condolences for our loss," he said. "People will have the chance to say
goodbye in their own way at the memorial service."

Employees at the restaurant, 385 N. 800 West, will hand out bottles of Kaboom® Bowl Blaster toilet cleaner to the first 50 funeral attendees, he said, as "it was the toilet's favorite."

Asian Priority

I had to run an errand for work today and ended up driving past a place I saw yesterday which confused me quite a lot. In Salt Lake City, there exists a new Chinese restaurant called "Asian Priority." I wondered why the restaurant was called this, and as we celebrate the new Year of the Ox this week, I am concerned that I am the ignorant one. Maybe the restaurant name was lost in translation.

I have never made $4.95 Chinese Breakfast "a priority." For that matter, I have never made getting Chinese food "a priority." Except for on Christmas night when I was drunk and nothing else sounded good and it was snowing outside. That is the only time I've made it "a priority." One time, I had a "pressing situation" after eating Chinese food, but the "priority" didn't involve food going into my body.

When I Googled "Asian Priority," I found that debt markets "should be the 'Asian priority,'" (Bloomberg News) not "Tasty Delights of Three." I clicked on the link, and read a little about the future state of exportation, but my eyes glazed over and I had to check out Hello Kitty Hell instead. (Hey, Hello Kitty is Asian!) I also found various sites for "naked Asian priority," "sex Asian priority" and "massage school Asian priority," but I did not click these links.

Don't believe me?
I sacrificed my life taking this. I also apparently sacrifice my life not being able to properly see out of the driver's side window. Winter window-washing is clearly not "my priority."



Explain this to me!

A Pox on my House

Literally, there is a pox on my house. I woke up sick this morning and after a stint at the doctor, it's possible I have chicken pox. As an adult. Maybe I'm like Benjamin Button and I'm reverting back to kindergarten, which means I will have to take a stop at highschooltown, and my dating life will complete the proverbial swirl down the can.

While passing the time today, in between naps and inauguration, I ran across this post of fancy toys courtesy of the folks over at Neatorama. While I do love the paranormal and supernatural, I most certainly have a warm spot in my heart for the cryptids out there in the universe. Chupacabra, yeti and Pope Lick Monster, to be precise. I am further fascinated by the Sci-Fi Channel's show Sci-Fi Investigates. In a past life as a radio co-host, I was fortunate to interview Loren Coleman, the country's foremost cryptozoologist, who once spoke about local cryptids around the Bear Lake area in Northern Utah.

Giant. Beavers. "Beavers as big as Volkswagons," I remember Coleman telling us, thrilled to enlighten the masses. And so I find myself passing up the previously mentioned cryptid toys because they do not include the giant beaver. However, I do know of some folks who might just pass as a Yeti from time to time.

Nice beaver:

From a post at Cryptomundo referencing our big, bucktoothed buddies.

Sort of Dickensian

After being haunted today by ghosts of relationships past, two hauntings within six hours by people I still care about, I decided to head to the gym tonight for a good, old-fashioned treadmill-fest.

What actually transpired was that I ended up for beers at the bar next to the gym.

In my workout clothes.

And as I allowed myself a two Guinness maximum, while pondering life, the universe and everything, I marveled that I could at least see the gym from the bar where I was sitting. Swilling the heavenly, dark beer like it was going out of style.

I also marveled that when watching ESPN without sound, commercials take on a very different meaning. The "Axe Sensitive" shave cream commercial, to be specific. In this commercial, sporty-clothing-clad women are spraying each other with foam. Is there anything more blatantly sexual than sporty-clothing-clad women spraying each other with foam? And how does this relate to the common chore of men shaving? The women giggle, the women spray their foam, and then the commercial ends. I dare say that men I know would not stop to shave if they were faced with an arena of sporty-clothing-clad women shooting foam.

I turned my attention to a silent ending of the Rachel Maddow Show, and then the beginning of Hardball, where Chris Matthews was reviewing the making of Barak Obama's 500-pound inauguration Chicago cheesecake. Between the spraying foam, creamy cheesecake and sizable Guinness head, I continued to be confused by the days' events, and had to get out of my sportsbra.

I don't think I'll wear a sportsbra to the bar ever again.

Plastic for Plastic

What to get for the expressionless this Valentine's Day:



Just so that Kevin Rose knows, I naturally look younger than I am, so I don't need botox like some women feel they do. One day, it might all catch up and surpass me so that it looks like my nasal labial folds belong on a basset hound. Until then, I'm hot. I also get bonus points for using "nasal labial folds" in context and not giggling.

Greetings from…

While driving back to Salt Lake from St. George today, I started paying attention to, remembering and pondering those crazy little slogans that are on signs whenever you drive past a small town. I don't quite know why these signs are necessary. It's not like I'm going to be driving somewhere and think, "Woah! There's a city that boasts the world's largest chunk of cheese! Better pull over!"

To my knowledge, we don't have a sign like that when driving into Salt Lake City. Unless you count the sign just past the airport that reads, "Welcome to Salt Lake City, home of the 2002 Winter Olympics." I don't think that's the same thing, that's just holding onto the past.

With that, I bring to you some of my favorite city signs while driving the stretch of I-15 from Salt Lake City to St. George, Utah:

My very favorite: "Iron County— Saluting the Triple Deuce!" A single deuce deserves acknowledgement. A double deuce merits applause. You salute the triple deuce.

1.) "Welcome to Cedar City! 'Festival City, U.S.A.'" If I were seeking out a festival, I wouldn't think of Cedar City. Sure, the Shakespearean Festival is extremely big and important for the economy there, they even won a Tony Award. Sure, that was years ago. And it was a regional Tony Award. So it's not really a Tony Award. Move on and cut the cord, Cedar City, it's not like you hosted the 2002 Winter Olympics.

2.) "Beaver City— Mountains of fun! Best drinking water in the U.S.A." I always snicker a bit when I travel through Beaver, and now that I know it's "Mountains of Fun," that snicker is more a snort. Not as much as a snort as when Beaver's sign slogan was "Live a little!" Because well... I don't want to be living at all in Beaver. Guys I've driven with believe differently. It's this whole drinking water thing that gets me, I just read Forbes "Best Drinking Water in the U.S." list that came out earlier this month, and Beaver was no where to be found on that list. The list mentions San Diego, Calif., Jackson, Miss., and Mobile, Ala., have the lowest levels of lead, Tucson, Ariz., and Billings, Mont., have the lowest levels of turbidity (because I hate it whenever I'm feeling turbid) and Beaver, Utah doesn't rear its head, err, tail. Turns out that in 2006 the National Rural Water Association awarded Beaver the title of "Best Drinking Water in the Nation." That's no Forbes Magazine! That's rural Skeeter taking gulps from the pond! And what's the water like now? Perhaps now, two years later, Beaver water is leaded and turbid, but still "Mountains of fun!"

3.) "You're in Sandy City— The 34th Safest City in America." Okay, come on Sandy City, 34th? What kind of a number is 34? If you were one of the top 10, maybe, certainly one of the top 5 then I could understand the benefits of that. But 34? Now you're stretching. For some reason this reminded me of this scene in Clerks:
Dante: This is different, this is important. How many? Well?
Veronica: Something like… 36.
Dante: What? Something like 36?
Veronica: Lower your voice.
Dante: Wait a minute, what is that anyway? Something like 36? Does that include me?
Veronica: Uh, 37.
Dante: I'm 37?

4.) "Parowan City— Where good things happen." I've been to Parowan twice in my life. Neither time did "good things happen." Ever. I've had "good things happen" in Plano, Texas, I've even had "good things happen" in Wilmington, Delaware. When I think of "good things happening," they're not happening in Parowan. Weird things happen in Parowan, I am convinced, as I passed another billboard emblazoned with an exploding mushroom cloud with the headline reading, "What do you do when disaster strikes?" Underneath it was a URL for Parowan Prophet which turns out is some creepy freak sitting in his Parowan basement conversing with the religious cosmos as a self-proclaimed, modern day Nostradamus. Next, he'll start in the movie Conspiracy Theory 2: Where good things happen.

I'm creating a sign tonight and hanging it in my window: "My house. Where I drink wine straight from the bottle and Guinness flows free." Has a nice ring.

Separated at Birth?

The statue of Albert Einstein on the campus of Southern Utah University…

And Ronald McDonald.

Peaceful Warrior

This is the type of vehicle that people drive in Fillmore, Utah. I'm guessing it's pretty standard for many small Utah towns: Panguitch, Delta, what have you... the bumper reads, "Peaceful Warrior," which I find extremely ironic. Note that I also took the picture from inside my car because I was afraid for my life.

Molecular gastronomy day

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

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

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

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

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

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

It IS Funny

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

Thrillicious

I didn't watch the Super Bowl last weekend, but I am a sucker for a good commercial. Especially one that uses authentic Michael Jackson choreography. Now if only Naomi were to hit all these little guys with her cell phone...

Fakon part deux: This time, fakon means business

If you haven't read tonight's earlier post on fake bacon or what I've dubbed "fakon," please scroll down, read about it, then continue on with this post.

After eating the fakon, I let it sit in my stomach for about an hour like a wad of fresh cement and then decided to work it through my system at the gym. And work it, I did.

I went to the weight room for my usual 20 minutes, as legs and abs were on my radar for the evening, then jumped on the treadmill for a good cardio warmup. I was on the treadmill for about 20 minutes and was doing so well I jumped onto the elliptical for another 30 minutes before I passed out. 15 minutes and nearly two miles onto the elliptical portion of the workout, and some asshat walking past the gym windows thought he'd be a comedian.

As we (myself and the other folks on the row of trainers, not "we" as in, "the fakon and I") were there sweating our guts out inside the gym, this guy thought it would be funny to make fun of everyone. He took a drag off his cigarette and jogged around for a bit, then leaned over with his hands on his knees like he'd just finished a marathon, then he took another drag and blew the smoke at us in the window before he jogged around again and repeated his schtick. I finally turned to the girl next to me and asked, "Is that a friend of yours?"

"Uhh, no," she said with mutual irritation.

So what do I do when I'm kicking ass at a great cardio workout while getting mocked? Yeah, I flipped him off and mouthed the appropriate matching words. He blew another smoke ring at us and went on his way while the girl next to me chuckled at the whole raunchy scene.

Then it happened. It was like karma was a little pissed off at me for gesturing to the stranger while suggesting just what he could do with the remainder of his evening. As I neared the hour mark on the cardio portion of the night, I felt a little off, like the fakon was rebelling. The universe and the fakon had created nuclear fission in my belly and the reaction was staggering. 

"Woooooah, that fake bacon isn't sitting so well," I thought. "Oh. My. Sweet. Baby. Jesus. The faaaaakoo..." I couldn't even finish the thought before I flew off the ellliptical trainer, and with my hand over my mouth barely made it across the gym before the wrath of the fakon revisited for round two. This was decidedly worse than the time I drank a 32-ounce chai latte before going to the gym.

Now here I sit, researching Morningstar Farms fakon, trying to figure out why I could've had this kind of violent reaction to such a seemingly healthy product. Then it hit me, their Web site is seeveggiesdifferently.com and I realized they were right. Tonight, I certainly saw veggies differently.

Just say "no"

In the 80s, we all learned it from Nancy Regan in regard to drugs, "Just say 'no'."

I'm here to bring that same "Just say 'no'" sentiment to foods that should never exist. Ever. I'm talking Morningstar Farms veggie bacon strips. When I saw it in the freezer case tonight, I thought, "It's fake! It's bacon! It's fakon!" What could be so wrong with a product made of VEGGIES that resembles something that is so bad for your health? I've already resorted to a diet of fat-free, fake cheese and now I could make a fake McMuffin with fake eggs and now FAKON!

Excitedly, I rushed home from the store ready to microwave a little fakon snack before hitting the gym. I opened the box, and was a little taken aback by the color and texture of the fakon. It looked like a mauve and cream marbled fruit-leather snack that might've been made by my grandmother out in her backyard. Despite the very un-baconlike appearance, I microwaved two of the floppy strips for exactly one minute and 30 seconds, hoping to give it that extra-crispness I so love in the real thing.

One minute and 40 seconds later I was prying the smoking fakon off the plate. The texture was like a thin piece of shingle one would affix to the top of a dollhouse. Sadly, this didn't stop me. I ate the first piece, and hoped it would sort of taste like bacon, but it didn't taste like really anything. I had to eat the second piece just to make sure, and while this piece had a slight hickory after-taste, I think it might've all been my imagination. I was disappointed in fakon, the fakon let me down.

Googling the fakon, I was promised a "delicious hearty flavor of smoked bacon with a crispy bite." But in reality I ate "very little flavor of smoked anything except for an out-of-the-microwaved-plate with a wafer-thin chunk of sadness."

Exactly five minutes and 30 seconds later, I was doubled-over in shooting pain from eating the fakon on an empty stomach. Strange, that food would be bad when taken without food, and still the fakon I had dreamt would be so tasty had been almost as nasty as the time I got food poisoning and ended up in the hospital for two days from a Smart Ones chicken alfredo pizza.

The saddest thing is that the fakon is not cheap, and so I will put it back in the freezer to try another time. Maybe after I've already eaten, the fakon could be a healthier dessert alternative.

Until then, I half expect some sort of gas pain, bloating and, perhaps, oily discharge could ensue. At least after this experience, those symptoms would be something to which I could look forward.

There was an article this last month in Wired about people who get paid to blog in a positive way about products. Since this blog is for free, baby, I'm here to give an honest look at the horribly disgusting:

Cherry Chocolate Diet Dr. Pepper. Disgusting. Check.

Morningstar Farms "bacon." Disgusting. Check.

Lean Cuisine Asian-style Chicken Potstickers. Still tasty, however still only available at Wal-Mart. Now that's disgusting.

It's always the quiet ones...

Today's lesson? Just because you can, doesn't mean you should. Be it a trendy new drink or, say, trying to force a connection with a person. After all, you know what they say paves the road to Hell.

Take this phone conversation I had a couple of months ago (which means enough time has passed that my personal statute of blogability feels it's time to post this outrageous dialogue). Mind you, this was with someone whom I had known for roughly three weeks prior to what you are about to read, and we hung out maybe four times-- two of which were with a group of at least ten people. Without further adieu:

Him: Are you spiritual?

Me: Ummm, notsomuch. Never have been. In fact, even less so that I wasn't previously.

Him: What about guardian angels?

Me: (For dinner? Simply tasty with a nice vinaigrette!) Ummmmmmmm, nope. Come to think of it, if guardian angels actually do exist, I feel some have been seriously slacking since really bad stuff happens to really good people.

Him: I don't go to church. but I'm spiritual...

Me: (slightly irritated sigh) Umhum...

Him: ...I say prayers and stuff every night...

Me: (slightly more irritated sigh) Ummmmhuumm...

Him: ...like last night. I was laying in bed and had a conversation with your father.

Me: (Extreme irritation with a four-alarm red flags coupled with neck hairs standing on end and dancing jigs to a bad music remake from Kids Incorporated) I've got to go now.

Let's be honest. Nobody has been able to have a conversation with Dadoo for a little over a year now. If he was going to converse with anyone at this point, that would take an act much creepier than I'd like to know. In fact, I found this guy's bedtime conversation with my dead relatives to be extremely messed up and presumptuous. Did I mention I had known this guy for less than a month and had only hung out four times?

A friend of mine had a great comment to the above conversation. 

"In the past I used to wait until at LEAST the fifth date before channeling my girlfriend's relatives and then casually bringing it up to her in conversation. I saw that on Loveline once. And if anyone knows relationship advice, it's Dr. Drew."

Good point, and I'll take it one step further. Like new Cherry Chocolate Diet Dr. Pepper, just because it sounds like a good idea to reveal something strange, doesn't necessarily mean you should. (Incidentally, new Cherry Chocolate Diet Dr. Pepper is not worth the money spent for the novelty of drinking a "Limited Edition" soda. Save some money and drink toilet cleaner instead.)

You're Killing Me!

Unless you've spent the weekend inside a refrigerator box, you're probably aware that Lindsay Lohan will be spending a little time working in the LA County morgue to use up some of that nasty public service time she got sentenced with her drunk driving arrest. Upon learning this (from a crawler at the bottom of the screen when I was drowning my sorrows in a Girls Next Door marathon on E!) I actually audibly laughed, then wondered, "What will Lindsay do in the morgue? Seriously?"

I envisioned Lindsay putting makeup on the cadavers, accessorizing outfits for the newly deceased, maybe stopping to take a hit or two of formaldehyde; then I started obsessing, "What will Lindsay do in the morgue?" I can't imagine the work a morgue worker could create for an untrained child star with a propensity for drinks, drugs and fast driving. In fact, if I were a creepy morgue worker, I wouldn't want a Disney Channel princess messing up my dead people. 

After a Google search of morgue, I got scared, and quit reading about decomposition and autopsies.

Then I found it, I found the perfect job for Lindsay Lohan-- The Los Angeles County Coroner's Office (morgue) where Lindsay will do her time has a gift shop! A gift shop! What better place for Lindsay to work than in retail? It's like Kitson for valley girls no longer walking this mortal coil! Let LiLo explain the fashionable benefits of purchasing a "Women's Fitted Tee" (Features "L.A. County Coroner" and "Body Logo" on front chest area, imprinted in silver glitter) or model a yellow sports bag featuring the Coroner's logo like the little Gold's Gym rat that she was last summer while trying to get through rehab in Utah County...

As much as I can't wait to see blackmail-worthy pictures of Lindsay elbow-deep in corpse goop, I am now far more disturbed that any coroner's office would have a gift shop. And to all my friends, I know what I'm getting you for Christmas next year.

And we thought the snow was bad...

When I was a traffic reporter, I lived for the days something a bit out of the ordinary would happen. I relished whenever I would see "Moose on the Loose" or "Car on Fire" on my traffic script, and it was like Christmas on the one day I actually got to report a 10-80somethng; "Airplane Landing on Freeway." Particularly snowy days were another story. They basically entailed picking the worst clusters on the freeway, then eventually telling folks to "stay home." But when I saw this picture, I had to laugh because it reminded me of the times I wanting more from my traffic script than "Crash."

Since I'm a news junkie (for many reasons) I found this particularly funny. It's from a station in California, so I'm fairly confident that nothing like this would ever happen in the Land of Zion.

Still, there are apparently worse things to happen to the roads than the current wind, ice and snow we're seeing right now:

Separated at birth?

As I'm ditching the gym for the Top Chef: Holiday Special and Grey's Anatomy tonight, I couldn't help but think of two more people separated at birth.

Top Chef's Marcel and Spike, the evil gremlin, from Gremlins. I even like Marcel because of his quirky overconfidence and his ability to make an edible foam out of vienna sausage. But the resemblance is too uncanny.

It's funny because it's true.

The muppet is gone

When I first moved into where I live, now dubbed "Greg Brady Paradise," I went on a shopping spree to get as much faux fur or shag covered anything I could possibly find. After hitting some kind of warehouse sale, I found an enormous hot pink flokati body pillow which I used as a seat cushion for my 1970s retro love nook/fireplace lounge which is a major component to the kitschey-ness of where I live. Who doesn't love pink shag when you're living in a 1970s wood paneled oasis? Until today. Today I learned pink shag anything is a fantastic idea, unless you find out you've got a major Box Elder bug infestation for three months out of the year. If that's the case, you find out there are bug bodies embedded in the shag, too far for even a vacuum to suck. 

After finally getting a new dryer today, I went on a massive, house-wide cleaning and vacuuming kick. First stop, the love nook. After this summer's bug invasion, I was putting off the vacuuming of the six-million insect corpses that had collected in piles within said love nook. But today was the day. Into the nook for some major cleaning, and as I hoisted the fur body pillow off the built-in naugahyde banquette, it sounded like a rain stick. There were so many bugs that had crawled into the lining of the pillow and died that it actually made noise.

Much screaming and shouting of several four-letter words ensued, and I decided I had to part with the pink shag pillow. I couldn't have it in my house just knowing it was tainted with icky. I said a few kind words to honor the pink shag, and then I lovingly carried it outside, trying not to touch it too much because it was just disgusting.

As I lifted the hot pink fur maraca into the dumpster, I was hit by a wave of sadness. Nothing hot pink and furry should face such a horrible fate. I'll miss you hot pink furry shag body pillow, you held a special place in my heart and in my retro love nook, and I hope you have a better future than I could give you-- stuffed full of dead bug carcasses.