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.

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.

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."

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.

He did what?

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

Dead Woman Walking

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

Tomorrow I go under the pliers. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only in Los Angeles

Like a heroin addict looking forward to a flame and a spoon, I look forward to Rock of Love 2. I'm not proud about it, it's just something I do. I didn't think it could get scarier and scarier each week, hell, I didn't think the ladies could get scarier than last season. As I watched tonight, though, I saw something so hideous and out of control I couldn't stand it.

I'm talking about the restaurant where Bret took some ladies for a date; a trendy West Hollywood eatery called Opaque where they tout "dining in the dark." From their Web site, Opaque will heighten your senses as you dine in a completely pitch-black setting, while being served by "specially-trained, visually impaired individuals."  It was great for Bret Michaels, as we saw from some risque night-vision footage. For me, the mere concept combines too many fears.

It's like "Dinner on Elm Street."

Not only am I scared of the dark, but I'm scared of food. I also don't necessarily like a surprise on a plate, and even though people frequenting Opaque choose their menu while in the light, who knows what one would actually get to eat? I instantly had horrible visions of the dinner scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom where they sit down to a feast of eyeball soup followed by a monkey brain entree with a side of dead bug puree. 

Maybe it's just me.

First off, I don't like my foods to touch each other on the plate. I have to properly separate it and make sure that my gravy-less mashed potato does not co-mingle with the dinner roll, which in turn does not converge with the plain turkey. I do not like sauces, I do not like things that are "squishy," and I've got the gag-reflexes to prove it. That alone would freak me out at Opaque.

Secondly, I am afraid of the dark. For the first few years of my life my parents would put me to bed at night, and just as they turned out the light, I would scream "I DON'T WANT TO GO TO BED!" I would continue to scream for several hours until the neighbors grew concerned I was being tortured. To me, the dark was torture. This behavior lasted until just before I got my "big girl bed," when an escape from Alcatraz-like climb ended up in a face-first biff out of my crib resulting in a fat, bloody lip. As my dad iced down my face, thinking of how to tell my mom when she came home from work, his guilt took over and he let me fall asleep with him on the couch each night before carrying me to bed. This behavior lasted clear through several seasons of Miami Vice until I was nearly in junior high. (For those doing the math, Miami Vice ran from 1984 to 1989.)

Stick the two together in a "sensory dining experience" and for me, you've got a meal anxiety case study for any seasoned psychoanalyst. And then what if there are ghosts? I'll bet they haven't even considered the ghosts.

I want to open a restaurant called Bright Light. At my restaurant, you open the fridge-like door and are bathed in florescent glory. After donning sunglasses and a nice slather of sunscreen, you choose from a highly specialized, yet limited, menu of grilled cheese sandwiches, Special K with Red Berries and Diet Dr. Pepper. For dessert, you have Tropical Chex Mix and blueberry vodka. You know what to expect, no surprises, no Freddy in the corner. At Bright Light, you know what you're getting into, and the only people freaked out are the Mogwai.

Next thing, they'll ban dancing!

Ever see Footloose? If you grew up in the 80s and had a thing for Kevin Bacon, chances are you've watched the film and even lusted over his Lehi Roller Mills ass-shaking. Sure ladies, you might have been distracted by the cute up-and-coming Bacon, or if you're a guy, you might've been into a sweet, little Sarah Jessica Parker. But let's not forget the main idea of the film: small-town close-mindedness that manifests itself in a group of people, who then end up trying to ban dancing.

This kinda reminds me of the recent witch-hunt Layton City police had when they took over a local mall's Spencer's store. According to news reports, police raided the store and left with everything they felt was sexually explicit and in minors' sight. The thing is, the police there haven't filed charges yet until they review the boxes, upon boxes, of racy items. Were they wrong to storm in and seize the stuff? And just what stuff did they actually seize? Only time will tell, but I feel this raid is the stuff of which a Mary Shelley novel is made. (Get it? People hunting Frankenstein with pitchforks and torches? Too highbrow?)

In the meantime, here are my favorite items from Spencer's online (not from the adult portion, but from the part that would equal the things out in plain sight on a store shelf) that might've pissed off militant mommies who might persuade the police in Layton City:

1. Pole-Dancing Kit. Touted as the "world's first portable pole-dancing kit," this item comes complete with garter, fake money and instructional DVD. I think the only fault of this might be the injuries that ensue when attempting to swing around a "spring loaded" pole not bolted to neither the ceiling, nor the floor.

2. 1-liter Beer Boot. When "12 oz is too little and a pint too puny" the beer boot is your friend. Also apparently for the Cinderella of the new millennium when searching for a prince, any prince, who may appear more handsome after drinking from this glass slipper.

3. Suck and Blow Jell-O Shooter. Something I think would be a best-seller in Utah since Jell-O is such a staple. Now instead of taking the tacky route by digging a Jell-O shot out of those teeny cups with your tongue, you can have someone blow the Jell-O into your mouth! While you suck! It's so simple!

4. Ho Stein. Think how popular you will be while sipping your "crunk juice" from your pimp cup. Grill not included.

5. Mohawk Drink Hat. When your run-of-the-mill beer hat isn't enough, here's a super-classy hairdo to go along with the 40s of Natty Light you can now carry on the sides of your head! That way when you go home to your family reunion in Delta or Beaver or from whereever you've matriculated, you don't even have to brush your hair! And it's pink!

Either the Layton Police are really off-base or they were fixin' to get enough stuff for one helluva party.

Our love is here to stay?

Yesterday somewhere between a ginormous brunch at Sundance and a bottle of wine with my mom, I watched one of my favorite films, An American in Paris, and really realized how times have changed. I mean, this is no shock since the film came out in the mid-50s. It boggles my mind to think on what's come out since then: Lean Cuisine, diet soda, internet porn-- all the important things on which we've come to rely.

There is a scene in An American in Paris which was probably very romantic at the time, where Gene Kelly (who is the number three love of my life only behind Dean Martin and Jimmy Stewart) seemed the quintessential leading man in search of his love, but a scene I found particularly creepy now. Actions that simply would not fly in this time of technology and, well, stalking laws.

Let me summarize, Gene Kelly ends up at a bar with this chick who is quickly becoming his sugar-mama. While there, he ends up seeing a very French Leslie Caron from afar and all but kidnaps her to dance with him. (sidebar: I'm not a fan of Leslie Caron, and never have been. I much prefer the Gene Kelly/ Cyd Charisse pairings from both Brigadoon and Singing in the Rain and I also hated Caron in Gigi. Actually, I hate the movie Gigi.) The next day Kelly, still thinking of the lovely Caron, invades her privacy by dropping her an unwanted phone call while she's working at the perfume shop. Caron hangs up on him, telling him never to call her again.

Not taking the blatant hint, Kelly goes to her work to find her, woo her, then further annoy her. He finds her at work! Right at the perfume shop! The "Pop-In." This is not romantic. This is creepy. This is behavior exhibited by people who have addictions to things. This is not action of someone who respects the woman's wishes to be left alone.

I was watching this and getting mad at Gene Kelly. "How can you do this, Gene?" I asked the TV out loud. "How can you completely disrespect her wishes and continue to bother her time and time and time again?"

I continued, "You're a nice guy, Gene, a very nice guy. You're also a snappy dancer. But leave the poor girl alone if she doesn't want to talk to you. You're not a psycho, but you're acting like one."

If this were in today's world, I daresay Gene Kelly would be one jazz-step away from putting the lotion in the basket. Like all movies at that time, this relationship finally ended with a happy feel-good button and an old-time song and dance. Things I just don't see happening in this jaded world of 2007.

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.

Bad Senior Portraits

I got in a conversation tonight about how I was a little freaky-deaky as a high school Senior. I wore glasses, I played in the band and I felt horribly awkward. Looking back on my pictures, I realized I was still fun and cute-- and I only wish I could've realized that then.

It got me thinking about high school kids now. They all look so... old. It's either media influence or growth hormone build-up after years of fast food, but girls definitely look way more mature now than they did when I was in high school. Hell, I'm still waiting for my breasts to grow.

That brings me to a little search I did of high school Senior portraits which left me thinking, "What the hell?"

This girl is a high school senior? What was it I said about girls looking way more mature than I ever did when I was in high school?

Somewhere, High School Musical is missing Corbin Bleu. All the hip kids are doing it.

This pose does not make this baseball player cool. Baseball players are already cool without having to act like Wild Thing in Major League. He is going to look back at this and think, "I thought I was sooo cool. Turns out, notsomuch."

Shortly after this picture was taken, Snidley Whiplash came by and tied her up, yet, Dudley DoRight never came to her rescue.

What is it with posing these girls on the train tracks? I feel like they're all destined to jump into a car and join the circus.

Finally, this girl is going to graduate high school with a 3.9 average, go to a liberal arts college and regularly smoke cloves outside of a radio station. She reminds me of me.

On man and metal

After enduring the first part of SciFi Channel's Tin Man on Sunday night, I wanted to learn more about how a station seemingly so great about supporting good shows (hello? Firefly? Battlestar Galactica? MST3K?) could fail so miserably.

After a Google search (for the grammatically challenged, Google is a proper name and should be capitalized) of "Tin Man," I learned they meant for the show to be totally off-kilter from really having anything to do with The Wizard of Oz. I also learned that "man tin" is available just in time for the holidays. If "man tin" is what you're after, Google (again, notice the capitalization) advertisements will let you know how to find it-- for less!

So the proper people can pick out tin (for less!) to fix L. Frank Baum's coffin after Tin Man makes him roll over several times.

Grammar police

After making the unfortunate mistake of watching a rerun of "The Real Housewives of Orange County" tonight, I came away with but one simple request: If you're going on television, please use proper grammar and/or vocabulary words. Well thought-out sentences might also be nice.

Here are things that made me cringe after just one episode:

• "I needed to excape from things..." (Second biggest grammatical pet peeve on the list just after people who say "expecially.")
  
• "I don't really know the 'pacifics' of what happened." (I think she meant to say, "I don't know the specifics of what happened.")
  
• "I have had some trouble with the Hummer. What can I say? It's a Hummer."
  
• "She's doing good."
  
• "We're going to the ranch... if you wanna' come out to the ranch, we'll leave the clicker." (I still don't know what a "clicker" is. Garage door opener, perhaps? Remote control? Small chicken?)
  
• "I started taking 'rill' estate classes..." (Pronunciation is our friend, too.)
• "We're sisters, but we don't fight... I don't think we've ever foughten."

These are the same people who complain that moving into a $1.9 million home after living in a $3.5 million home is "downsizing" and an example of falling on unsuccessful "hard times." I should have known better than to continue watching.

Before it's midnight...

I saw some guy driving today and he was brushing his teeth. While driving.

Seriously, haven't we taken multitasking too far?

Chilling

I find this picture totally chilling and I'm afraid it's going to haunt my dreams. I am afraid if I go to a park it is going to leap out from behind a tree and hack through my Achilles tendon with a serrated knife.

As much as I think Hello Kitty is fantastic and love the bread my Hello Kitty toaster toasts, I am afraid this version is going to kill me in my sleep.

It's scarier than the dream I had Sunday night when a scary guy with a weedwacker chasing a scooter-riding midget started weedwacking my feet while I was trying to drive a topless Jeep down a hill.

What would a dream analyst say about that?