Torture, just like in "Saw"

Since I had to leave work a bit early and run a work-related errand, I thought I should also stop and get my nails fixed. I mean, my nails were keeping me from realizing my full work potential, and I really felt that my typing time could be increased by fixing this problem still during the work day. (and we wonder why I do PR... spin me right 'round.) I've had sparkly-tipped nails for the better part of the year and I was tired of it all. I wanted my nails short, I wanted my nails black, I wanted it done today. (You know, just in case I felt like taking up rock climbing tomorrow.) After making one illegal U-turn and nearly accidentally running over a guy I dated awhile ago, I found a nail shop that looked only marginally freaky. It was called "Happy Nails," and I figured, "What could be so wrong with that?"

I was able to get right in without an appointment to have the fake nails removed and a manicure on the real nails, and was instructed to sit with my hands in bowls of straight acetone. I sat, and I sat, and I sat...

Then the skin started peeling off my fingers, leaving the fake fingernails totally intact. 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.

After nearly an hour, the nail lady grabbed my hands and started chipping off gooey blobs of acrylic with what is officially known as a "nail nipper." (YES it's actually called that. That wasn't a very clever pun referring to the nationality of the owners. Though that would be extremely clever, but very very wrong. So wrong I'm giggling just a little bit.) This was another pain like I've never felt before-- especially when she hit nail bed and drew blood.

The phone rang.

The Asian woman answered, "Hello, Happy Nai..." 

"AAAAHOOOOWWWWWWWWWCCCCHHH!" I screamed. Happy Nails, my ass. SAD NAILS! I was sitting in SAD NAILS. Not Happy Nails. 

Remember in the movie Saw when that guy is crawling through the cage of glass shards? Child's play. Back into the acetone for my hands, this time bleeding into the bowls as I sat there trying not to beat the crap out of the old pedicure lady secretly laughing at my pain. "We almost done here?" I attempted. More chipping, more drilling, and finally success with shiny black fingernails.

Beauty is pain; but after 90-minutes of sheer hell, I emerged from Happy Nails, well, happy about my nails. Not that I'd like to do it again anytime soon, maybe just an experience a little better than being locked in a timed head-trap poised to spring my face in two. 

But just a little. Happy Halloween.

Hopelessly obsessed

I'm having an attack of various obsessions right now...

Right now, I'm loving the new Apple Leopard. It took awhile to install, but then it's been fantastic. It should be, the world waited long enough for it.

I'm almost ashamed to admit I am as hooked on Gossip Girl as I am Grey's Anatomy, and I'm slowly steering away from reality TV-- until Project Runway starts again next month.

So what if I regularly crave Apple Cinnamon Chex Mix? I have enough willpower to not down the entire bag in one sitting.

I'm like that little kid who confided in Dead Bruce Willis; I see cute guys everywhere, it's like my Sixth Sense for horny women: the Albertson's meat counters at now two different stores, the guy who plays Dan on Gossip Girl, McDreamy, and various men from my past.

Back to school?

I had a wicked bad reaction to yesterday's flu shot and after going to the gym last night, thought I was going to die. Even my skin hurt. After sitting in the Jeep for I don't know how long, I finally made it inside and up to bed.

Sometime around 3 this morning, I had the craziest dream. Not being one to remember my dreams very often, I was taken a little aback by the fact it was so vivid. I dreamed that something had been messed up with my high school transcript and they needed to send me back to high school to complete a few courses they decided I needed to take. I went back, even with a new bookbag, as a 31-year-old back in high school, full of anxiety, not ready to face the day. After searching high and low for the office to pick up my transcript to look at it, I finally settled in for a coffee and a smoke in the school's "fireplace lounge." Mind you, Brighton High never looked so good, and certainly never had a fireplace lounge, but in my dream, it was pretty groovy. I ended up sitting next to a guy sporting sort of Flock of Seagulls meets The Cure meets Gleaming the Cube kind of blonde hairdo and after I remarked to him that I thought he was cute, I woke up.

I must have been sick.

Congraduations (yes, that's meant to be a pun, not a misspelling)

My "niece," pictured above, just graduated obedience school tonight. I'm so proud, and can't wait to go back to Boston to have her lick my face again, as she's one of the few tolerable dogs in the world.

Dodging a bullet

A little while ago, I had the unfortunate pleasure of engaging in a mild flirtation with a guy nearly a decade younger than me. He was cute, and when he wasn't around other people he was even charming. But since he was but a wee lad, he 1.) neglected to mention his girlfriend with whom he "hooked up" and 2.) texted me late at night whenever he had been drinking. Good thing I was a bigger man and called him on the fact that he should treat his girlfriends a bit better.

Here's the most recent string of messaging:
(Poor punctuation and grammar on his part retained to maintain the integrity of the piece.)

Boy: Yay for thirsty thursdays

Me: Do you seriously think your girlfriend would appreciate you texting some random, hot woman? (That would be me.)

(Long pause where I brushed my teeth, washed my face and learned Portuguese.)

Boy: You think youre pretty got huh? (I think he meant "hot." I hope he meant "hot" because I don't remember the last time I "got huh?" Huh?)

Me: I'm not bad. There are worse, though I've got a great ass.

Boy: I dont know if i am cut out for girlfriends.

Me: You think? p.s. GO RED SOX!

Boy: F**K the red sox

Me: You have such a way with words...

Thus proving the old adage, "Real women don't date Yankees fans." Or frat boys. Or those who think they're frat boys.

Major appliance repair made simple...

For the last two months, my dryer has been threatening complete and total death. Sometimes it smells like burning, sometimes it sounds like grinding, most times it works for two minutes then shuts off.

Since I can't justify spending money I simply don't have right now, I decided to try a little major appliance repair the other night, thus proving bad things happen when I decide to emulate something I'd see on the TLC network. First, I researched my particular type of dryer, and after locating an online "manual" (and by "manual" I mean poor, worthless illustration) decided that was all I needed to guide my way through Screwdriverland.

That, and after a few glasses of wine, it was time to try my handiwork.

I got out my toolbox (yes, my daddy once got me a toolbox. Contrary to popular belief, it's NOT one of those "I'm trying to be so hard to be cute" pink toolboxes.) and after digging through old Sam Adams caps and thumbtacks, found a Phillips. Or flathead. Or something. Funny that you can have something so perfectly orchestrated in your head and when you're sitting there in front of a surly dryer, nothing makes much sense. I unscrewed a few things, and I got scared and screwed them back in. Yay. I know how to unscrew and screw things back in. I just wish something would unscrew me from all of this.

Finally, I let the dryer have it. Two years of bitterness and frustration and pent-up sorrow came out through my feet into the bottom of the dryer. First a few timid kicks, and then full-out Billy Blanks tae-bo, followed by a string of expletives rivaled by shore-leave.

"F**K cancer that kills our loved ones!"
"F**K the Cleveland Indians!"
"F**K that girl in elementary school who used my Crayola markers and dulled all the tips and put the colors out of order!"
You know, all the really important stuff to get upset about and kick the shit out of a clothes dryer...

Lo and behold, the dryer worked. It started, and it stayed on for a full drying cycle. Sure, it's not a permanent fix, but for a temporary solution, who says violence doesn't solve anything?

Sigh...

Why do we always want what we can't have?

I want to eat a pizza without feeling guilty.

I want to see the Red Sox in the World Series from Fenway this year.

I want to stop feeling like I should be doing something bigger.

I want to have skinny thighs that haven't been bulked up through nearly three decades of dance.

I want to open bills I get in the mail without anxiety.

And yep, I want to have someone say words as eloquently to me as McDreamy did to Meredith tonight.

Utah's Catholic Connection

The headline for this incident really caught my eye. It read "Former Salt Lake City Bishop Niederauer apologizes for serving communion to activists in drag." I don't know if I'm tired or if the headline could've been better written, but my brain thought the former Utah bishop had dressed in drag himself and got in trouble for serving communion while dressed as such.

After reading the article twice, I realized it was the activists who were dressed in drag as nuns. I can't speak to religion, however, I believe an activist's message is discredited whenever they have to cause a scene. I'm all for free speech, I'm just not for tacky-- actions or lipstick.

It sucks at S'bux

Quickly, while I let my brain take a minute to process all the writing I've done today, I have to mention I'm increasingly irritated with Starbucks.

Not only do they have more money than God, baby Jesus, and Michael Eisner, but now they've really overstepped their bounds. I'm talking about anonymity-- mine to be exact. I don't like giving my name with each order so they can call it out when it's ready. I don't like it when strangers use my name. It goes back to all those old, elementary school "Stranger Danger" videos they'd show in health.

What's more, why is it necessary for Starbucks to ask for my name when I'm in the drive-up? They can only get to one order at a time, there's only room for one vehicle at the window, it's not like they're going to call it out. This is about as well thought-out as having braille on the driver's side ATM.

I want to give Starbucks a fake name. I want them to shout out "Amanda Huggenkiss! I've got coffee for Amanda Huggenkiss!" It will never happen. My fake name wouldn't match the name I've got on my debit card, and then I'd go to jail for credit fraud or something. All because Starbucks wants to mess with the system. One more reason to patronize locally-owned coffee shops-- the people who call out your name are friends.

Thoughts on technology

Technology is supposed to make our lives easier; microwaves make dinner faster, cell phones put us in touch with the world anytime, and I dare say a college Mass Comm Law paper would’ve been much better without tackling an old-school card catalog.

Though life is probably much simpler than it was even when my parents were my age, technology is making it tougher to date in 2007. While we used to go out and meet people face-to-face, it is now entirely possible in this age to sit behind the screen and date the Macbook. It also makes it easy to check up on old flames, to Google potential dates, to profile a real-life person with their online profiles. Today, technology is making me wonder, “Can we know too much?” Is ignorance bliss? Is it better to risk meeting an axe-murder in a bar?

A little less than a decade ago, I met someone who is a very cute, fairly prominent photographer in the area. He took pictures for a short-lived fashion magazine, and one night he just showed up at a party I was throwing. I had invited the neighbors, they had invited their friends and before I knew it, I was manning the blender for 50 of my favorite friends and the strangers they had brought with them.

Eventually, it became too much dating the cute photographer because of my own insecurities. To me, I wasn’t skinny enough, I wasn’t pretty enough, and I absolutely believed I could never compare to the models he saw each day through his lens. And in my very mature way (hey, I was in my early-twenties, after all) I eventually quit speaking to him. Since then, I’ve come to terms with myself-- my body, my looks, my entire being, and even though he moved to another city, I have actually gone out with the cute photographer on a few occasions whenever he happens to be in town.

Very recently, he called me to come and “hang out” “sometime soon” during a photo shoot in another city, which sounds like it could be a nice change of pace. And since I find myself continually in need of a change of pace, and continually turned on by very cute photographers, I have recently given more thought to the idea. I have given so much thought to this person from my past that I even gave into a little “crush-Googling,” where I quickly became aware of something:

Technology is a dirty bitch. I discovered a program for a 2006 charity event where there was a listing for a “Mrs. and Mrs. [very cute photographer].” Now here’s the dilemma:
Was this two women who happen to share his same name?
Was this a type-O and he’s married?
Was this a totally different couple, even though his name has a fairly uncommon spelling?
Was I a stalker for even Googling this in the first place?

So many questions that now I can’t possibly call him without sounding like a freak. Do I just blurt out, “Um, so, are you married, or what?”

I think that technology brings out the best in humanity as a whole, but the worst in each of us as individuals because it’s taken away a lot of honest interaction. Rather than pick up the phone and talk, we would rather email the co-worker sitting two cubicles away. Eventually, this makes us very content to keep our personal relationships behind the keyboard...

Or become emotionally confused while forever wondering, “What if?”

Don't dream it... be it.

So, here's my costume for Rocky Horror in a couple of weeks. I've tried to make this picture look like me to really entice people to come and see the show.

Except I won't wear my glasses.

And the alto sax in this picture isn't to scale, it's smaller.

And the boobs in this picture aren't to scale, they're smaller too.

I see you shiver...

It's time to get your tickets and now you can do that online by clicking here or pasting this url into your browser: http://www.rockyhorrorinconcert.com/index.html

Where else will you see this much skin in one place? I mean, besides the ward picnic!

The anniversary

Yesterday marked the one-year anniversary of my greatest personal loss, and it was extremely anti-climactic. In fact, the build-up throughout the week was probably more traumatic than yesterday. Yesterday was... just another day. I don't know what I expected, really, if I would get haunted or if my dad would walk in and say he was just kidding, but nothing.

I watched the latest episode of Moonlight.

I went to the gym.

I washed my hair.

Part of me feels extremely guilty that I've gotten on with my life, a feat I didn't think I'd be able to do last year at this time. And for that, part of me feels a giant sense of accomplishment.

Praise the idiot box

The only thing I’m liking about this time of year is all the new television shows I’m finding. As a self-proclaimed reality show junkie, I’m pleasantly surprised at the new dramas I’m finding this season. First, the premiere of Grey’s Anatomy last week rocked. After a crappy season finale, I feared for the future of Grey’s, however this year’s first show left me hopeful; and made up for the fact that Kate Walsh’s spin-off show “Private Practice” sucked.

I’m giving “Grey’s” another chance this season. After Meredith was thrown into the water in a slightly pithy three-parter last year (sorry for the spoiler, but if you haven’t seen it by now, give it up. Just start fresh with season 4), I still tuned in even though I was just about over it. This year’s new characters are familiar, the old characters have new problems, and Meredith and McDreamy are still just plain hot together.

Hats off to the CW who is finally channeling their inner WB. I knew it was in there! Just because you became the CW doesn’t mean you didn’t have a good drama in you. I had a hate affair with the WB after “Dawson’s Creek” ended, and have to admit the CW’s “Gossip Girl” is my new guilty pleasure. This is a show from the creators of “The O.C.” and has all the elements of when “The O.C.” was great, before Marissa died, before it sucked. “Gossip Girl” is the classic “Pretty in Pink” dichotomy of rich vs. poor where all the rich kids drink, do drugs and have threesomes and the poor kids are the moralistic salt of the earth. But it’s updated; the guys are beautiful, the clothes are amazing and it’s just something you hate to love. The show is tied all up by a narrator calling herself Gossip Girl who airs the secrets of the characters in her personal blog (kind of like a voyeuristic “Wonder Years”).

What I’m most surprised about this season is the CBS network. When did CBS become almost hip? I’m used to the CBS of oldendays which programmed for “Touched by an Angel”-loving grannies, but CBS has made watching TV on Fridays nearly acceptable by running what I’d like to coin “Freaky Fridays” by showing paranormal delight “Ghost Whisperer” and my new favorite vampire drama, “Moonlight.”

“Moonlight” is about a freaking hot vampire private investigator who uses his powers for good while trying to keep the identities of the “vampires who walk among us” a secret. Sure it’s hokey ("As darkness falls, a hero is born?" who writes that stuff?), but I am who I am, and I am a sucker for a good vampire show. Remember “Kindred: the Embraced” that short-lived Fox show in the mid-90s? It was good, but didn’t catch on, and I’m afraid “Moonlight” will have that same fate. Until it goes away, I will enjoy my Freaky Fridays on CBS, even if I have to tape it. (Yes, “tape.” I’m taking donations for a TiVo, though.)

Two things I didn’t particularly like about my new favorite show “Moonlight.”

1.) The use of an Evanescence song during a particularly “sentimental” scene. I feel the usage of popular (term used loosely because I detest Evanescence) music in an already trendy television show is a very delicate balance. From day one, Grey’s Anatomy found this balance, as did The O.C., however not every show can do it well. Music has to be part of the script, and not just make a cameo appearance just because the director thinks it will “make the show cool.” The best usage of music as part of a TV show script is throughout the series “La Femme Nikita,” God rest its soul. I’m reminded of season 4, before Michael became a total pussy, when Madeline and that chick from Red Cell were trading posses in an empty football field. The whole scene was set in slow-motion to an Enigma song-- and it was beautiful.

2.) Number two isn’t so much something I didn’t like about the show, but more a tip of what not to do during a new television show you’re enjoying. Do not, I repeat, NOT, consume an entire can of fat-free Pringles because you’re so drawn to what you’re watching. The Olean they use to make the things so damn tasty is like colon silicone come 2:34 in the morning.

See what happens when I feel sick and stay home to get better and watch television? I am glad I'm getting over the sickness and my reality tv obsession at the same time.

Adventures in snacking

Fat-free "cheese" does not melt.

After two weeks of no exercise and a wicked lot of East Coast draught beer, I went to the gym yesterday to sweat it all out. After 45 minutes of killing myself on the elliptical trainer, I opted to hit the grocery store for nacho fixins. But guilt got the best of me, and while I did get nacho fixins, I got fat free shredded cheddar "cheese" and fat free chips.

Excited to make my snack for lunch, and thrilled that I would still be somewhat healthy, I hurried home from the store. Chips onto the plate, shredded "cheese" onto the chips, one-minute in the microwave...

Fat-free "cheese" does not melt. The shreds were still every bit as defined as when I took them out of the bag. Maybe another 30 seconds would do the trick.

Three minutes later, fat-free "cheese" does not melt.

Instead, the whole mess of cheese and chips had actually become part of the plate. The whole phenomenon reminded me of Sweet Home Alabama when the one cute guy turns sand to glass and then professes his love to Reese Witherspoon. Except there was no love triangle. Or Southern rock music. Or cute guy. (Yeah, that analogy was a stretch.)

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. One hour later, I had pried enough of the mess off the plate where I hope a dishwasher will help at some point.

My snack was defeated, and I moved on. For dinner I thought I'd be safer and ate dry Stove Top stuffing out of the container.

Philadelphia, in pictures

I haven't had a chance to upload ALL of my pictures I took in Philadelphia, but here are some if you want to check them out on Flickr: http://flickr.com/photos/princessgolightly/

Now you know my Flickr address, so you have no excuse not to regularly check out my pictures-- and I have no excuse not to be more regular in taking them. Gotta' use that fancy camera!

Keep watching for one of the strangest pictures I've ever taken, when we decided to go on a ghost tour through the "City of Brotherly Love."

Go Sox! Where's the Bah-tendah?

After spending last week in Philadelphia for work, I decided heading to sunny Massachusetts to visit my brother and sister-in-law (well, they're nearly married... I'm in the wedding next summer) would be a nice, relaxing bit of a vacation.

Turns out, I like this state.

I like drinking draught Sam Adams while watching Red Sox games.

I like East Coast men with accents.

Ultimately, I like the fact that everywhere I go does not remind me of the emotional rollercoaster I've ridden for the past few years. When I'm in Salt Lake, it is hard to get through the day when just driving past a grocery store reminds me of my dad. It started to get to me so much, the thought of returning at the beginning of the week rather than the end seemed like the only way to continue to center myself.

Sure, it was tough to call my mom and tell her not to find me at the airport tomorrow, but I'm trying to find my mojo. My mojo's been gone for awhile now, and quite frankly, I'd like it back. I'm tired of being mojo-less.

And if I happen to find a cute smile to make me smile along the way while hanging out with the best brother and sister-in-law anybody could hope to have, so much the bettah.

Karma Blows

I don't know what I did, but karma is sticking its tongue out at me. I was on the freeway after work last night, during rush hour, behind a mini-van and sandwiched between two semi-trucks. When the mini-van spit an eight-inch piece of tire shred right out into the air.

I thought to myself, "Hmmm... rubber is squishy and bouncy! This is noooo prob..." SMACK!

Right into the corner of the hood of my car, my baby. No biggie when I saw the hood flapping in the breeze, I figured the little tire chunk just unlatched the hood on one side. After pulling over, there is a damn dent in the hood along with a broken latch. Not a big dent, not a hugely disgusting dent, just a dent large enough to look ugly and piss me off.

After getting estimates all day, estimates that range between five- and six-hundred dollars, I am wondering what I did to piss off karma so much this week:

Is it because I jokingly referred to an old lady as "The Cryptkeeper?" This is not an untruth; she does look like the Cryptkeeper, I'm not saying it to be mean, it's just... true.

Is it because I didn't really jump to save my mother as she fell down the mezzanine stairs at the Capitol Theatre during the intermission of Spamalot Sunday night? I didn't want her to pull me down too, not to mention I did finaly help her off the ground after she slammed her head into a pole. (I was also in a slight daze from the hotness of Sir Gallahad or "Dennis.")

Is it because I borrowed someone else's wine, the wine about which I wrote last week?

I got the hood latch fixed this evening by the fine folks at TeraFlex, who even used a ratchet thing and helped with installation. Still doesn't fix the dent in the hood, but at least I'm saved from said hood catching air and slamming up into the windshield.

My perfect car that has always been perfect isn't quite so perfect anymore. Like so many things in life, it's just an annoyance that adds a little color the the monotony of the day. I'm reminded of a saying I like to tell myself whenever I'm feeling sad and blue:

"If you light a man a fire, he'll be warm for a day but if you light a man on fire, he'll be warm for the rest of his life."

Take them how you will

Just some random thoughts for your Wednesday night pleasure... take them how you will.

1. No matter how sweaty you get at the gym, do not blot your disgusting face with cheapo toilet paper from the bathroom stall. You'll only end up looking like you've had a horrible shaving accident, and you will not realize this until after you've walked back out through the gym and are sitting in the car.

2. 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. Until it flushes and it's gone.

3. Thank goodness for fast-thinking friends who come up with the idea to use a towel to slide and carry a television. That's right! If you feel that number two pertains to you, then you're the same person from whom I stole said tv-moving towel! Bwahahahahahaaa! I also borrowed a bottle of wine from you, and it was the best wine I've ever had.

4. Is Ouija necessarily bad? Is it only bad if the walls begin to bleed? What if I use Ouija and my dad tells me from the "other side" that he saw me borrow wine and take a towel?

5. Power outages and elliptical trainers do not mix well. If the power goes out while you are climbing at a 10 and the machine stops, you will get suddenly launched over the front. Red wine and someone else's Xanax prescription do not mix well either.

Only one more week until I leave for Philly. I'm excited to room with the life-saving towel-stealing accomplice. It will also be a much-needed diversion right now as I get into Fall and the one-year anniversary of some ultimate sadness.

One last thing...

I got new glasses.
Methinks the day-long vertigo is worth it. Apparently you're not supposed to go five years in between eye exams and now I feel like I have X-ray vision.

The postman stole my Free Panty.

There are few joys in life greater than getting something in the mail from Victoria's Secret, other than their monthly credit card bill. If you're a card-holder, occasionally they'll send you free stuff. Free panty here, $10-off a purchase there, all with the assumption you'll visit their store and spend five-times what you'd normally spend.

Today, I got home from yet another nerve-wracking day at work and saw a little glimmer of salvation: the Victoria's Secret mailer announcing "Free Panty." The Free Panty is a good one, and having acquired several of the little gems over the years, I was excited to redeem the coupon and perhaps spend actual money on a few well-deserved items for myself. Upon opening the poorly glued mailer, I discovered something so horrific, so mortifying, so heinous I was forced to check the mailbox several times out of desperation.

No Free Panty. None, no card-like coupon stuck to the inside of the card. The words echoed inside my head: No. Free. Panty. For. You. Holly.

The postman stole my Free Panty. That's the only logical explaination for it's disappearance. Isn't it just my luck today that I would look so forward to Free Panty and then have my hopes dashed?

Apparently you don't get something for nothing.

Why so sad?

I could hardly believe what I heard on the radio on the way to work this morning: Owen Wilson was in the hospital after having allegedly attempted suicide by slitting his wrists and taking pills (not necessarily in that order).

It made me wonder why someone so funny cute and together would try to off himself. It seems it's always the funny ones who are so inwardly tragic. It's that cognitive dissonance of a crying clown, except Owen is less creepy than a real clown.

Or even a mime.

With the news of the day, I'd like to reflect on my top five creepiest suicide scenes in movies:

5.) Heat (1995). Val Kilmer's daughter tries offing herself in the bathtub. It was creepy.

4.) Leaving Las Vegas (1995). Pretty much the whole thing. Nic Cage epitomizes the typical suicidal character, the antithesis of Owen Wilson.

3.) Wizard of Oz (1937). Okay, not a real suicide, however there is an urban legend that one of the munchkin actors allegedly hung himself in a tree... and they left it in the final print. Turns out it's a big bird. This also ranks up there with the "ghost boy" in 3 Men and a Baby, which turns out is a cardboard cutout. But I digress...

2.) Royal Tenenbaums (2001). This is extremely strange given Owen Wilson's latest display. I hate watching people cut themselves with things in movies, I hate it worse than watching people shoot up with needles in movies. I hate pain.

1.) Balls of Fury (2007). Christopher Walken's career suicide. Makes me wonder, does he really need money or is he to the point where he doesn't really need money?

At Least She's Pretty

When Miss Teen South Carolina grows up, she wants to be a veterinarian because she loves children.



I could see the next line of question going something like this:

Guy with Microphone: "Tell us your thoughts on euthanasia."
Miss Teen South Carolina: "I think youth in Asia have small feet 'cuz they bind them when they're little."

I know how it goes. I was in the Miss Dixie College pagent.

*Update: August 27, 2007*
From people.com
"The beauty contestant's video on YouTube has received more than 2 million hits thanks to her amazingly off-the-mark answer at Friday night's pageant, when she was queried about why Americans are so bad at geography.

Specifically, she was asked why one-fifth of Americans can't find the United States on a map.

"I personally believe that U.S. Americans are unable to do so because some people out there in our nation don't have maps," she ventured.

During her meandering response, she also tossed in out-of-the-blue references to "the Iraq" and "Asian countries" and their need for the support of the American educational system in identifying the United States on the map.

Upton is described as a varsity athlete and student leader at Lexington High School, where she graduated in June with a 3.5 GPA.

Despite the on-camera gaffe, Upton finished as third runner-up."

The Mother Lode.

Tonight, just now, I discovered that Pepsi Jazz Carmel and Creme flavor tastes exactly like diet creme soda. Diet creme soda is extremely difficult to find, for whatever reason, and so right now I'm giddy with excitement. Zero calories of yummy.

I've also had over a bottle of Argentenian red wine prior to discovering said caramel creme soda.

I am blogging on red wine. Alone. In my thoughts.

For those of you who don't know me, or even for those who do, I'm a dancer. I have been a dancer for my entire life, starting at the age of two-and-a-half because my mom lied and said I was three to get me into classes. I danced through high school and when I attended the University of Utah was a modern dance major who defected and became a competitive ballroom dancer. I won't lie, it was the glitter and feathers that got me. (Unfortunately meeting men was tough, it was the glitter and feathers that got them too.)

Why is this relevant, you ask? I am currently in a hip hop, jazz, contemporary dance company here in good ol' SLC, and as a "senior member," am going to teach a new audition piece this Saturday. Which is why I found Pepsi Jazz caramel and creme. I've had creative block tonight, and rather than going to the gym, rather than making up the dance, I went to the store to wander. Creative block is a bitch.

I'm pleased to announce that after over a half a bottle of red wine, I have come up with not only a song I like, but also the first sixteen counts of choreography with which I'm pleased. This isn't particularly relevant to the world around us; this isn't going to cure cancer or save the rainforests or find the trapped Utah miners, but it brought a smile to my face.

Dancing is a story, and mine lately is a pretty twisted one. If finding a pretty song and making some gorgeous movement to it can bring a few minutes of thought this weekend to strangers, then I guess tonight wasn't a total loss.

In the morning, we'll see if my head actually agrees with my typing fingers...

and my tastebuds.

Good to Know!

Bliss.

After feeling extremely stressed out and not sleeping for the past week, I had an early work-morning and then am taking the rest of the day off. Sure, I have to work tomorrow, but for today, it's bad reality television and Boo Berry Cereal.

I have had a love/hate relationship with Boo Berry. I used to love it, obsess over it, eat it whenever I could find it, but it was tricky to find from time to time in the late-90s. Until one heavenly Halloween (my favorite holiday of the year) when my mom and dad showed up at my apartment with a case of Boo Berry-- 24 boxes all to myself. I lined my pantry shelf with rows of boxes, and would sometimes just open the cabinet and stare lovingly.

Every morning I ate Boo Berry for breakfast. Every night I ate Boo Berry for dinner. Snacks? Boo Berry. And it was good.

My boyfriend at the time was very into making cheesecake, and had unbeknownst to me swiped a box to create a Boo Berry cheesecake for my birthday a month later. He showed up with this oddly blue-purple mush encased in a graham cracker crust, sprinkled with half-squishy Boo Berry. Apparently when you try to mix Boo Berry into a cheesecake recipe, it turns to shit.

It turned me off, and he and I are no longer dating. He left the country. I like to think it was cheesecake shame rather than my issues.

Now, nearly a decade later, I have found Boo Berry again. I even bought milk for it so I wouldn't have to eat it dry, though I will probably do that too. The box illustration has gotten a bit of an update, ol' Boo Berry is hipper, happer, less freakishly Casper-ish, but still a familiar friend. He still has that familiar stoned look/lazy eye. Sure the look has slightly changed, but the sugary crunch has remained the same.

Old habits die hard.

Worst. Cover. Ever.

I thought the idea was to make a cover model look even better than they would in real life, thus facilitating sales of more magazines? Gwyneth Paltrow looks positively horrid on this recent cover of W Magazine. I didn't even know it was her, I peed a little.

Because I'm so disturbed by this cover, I have but a few random thoughts to share. These thoughts are totally unrelated to said cover, but just some things I've been kicking around in my head:

1) My lip is still numb from Rocky Horror rehearsal last night. I expect the feeling will return by tomorrow, but by Saturday will suffice. (Sidebar: even if you don't like Rocky Horror, plan to come. We're boasting the tallest Dr. Frank N. Furter ever. He tried on his 5-inch red patent leather platform shoes yesterday and he's nearly seven-feet tall. With fishnets. And garters.)

2) The Discount Tire Company commercial where the old lady throws her old tire through the front window of the building is still airing on various television stations. Why this? Why not the old "Where's the Beef?" lady from the Wendy's commercials? She at least has some personality.

3) Random Kitty has told his friends I'm apparently the cool lady. A new random kitty has been stopping by my apartment for the last two nights. This one is all black-- omen?

4) I'm sorry for the miners and their families in Huntington, Utah. I really do hope they are okay.

5) Brad Pitt showed up for jury duty today. Why is it the rest of us are subjected to sit through jury duty and/or subpoena with people who are missing teeth and open beer bottles with their toes? This also applies to emergency room doctors who seldom resemble McDreamy.

6.) Three words: Rob. Zombie's. Halloween. I'm giddy with anticipation.

Aaaarrrghh...

Despite being exhausted when I came home from work today and falling asleep on the couch until about 8 tonight, I still went to the gym. I'm proud of this.

But I digress.

Being a Mac geek I admit I was excited to come home and read all about Steve Jobs' revelations at today's Apple media event, but now I'm not that thrilled. I do love the latest iMac's shiny aluminum casing and pretty glass screen (a' la iPhone... can we expect a touch-screen iMac in the future?) however, I will officially go on the record stating I can not support Apple's decision to remove the "open apple" from the "command" key on their new keyboards. I'm a purist. Still, the new iMacs are really swell and I wouldn't put up a fight if some nice person were to send me one. Beyond that, nothing else from today really flipped my bunny. The new iLife '08 seems nice; the new version of iPhoto is great and the redesigned iMovie looks a bit more professional than iMovie from iLife '06. Ultimately, I think Apple pretty much blew their hype-wad when they released the iPhone earlier this summer.

After spending time at the gym this evening, I came up with some workout iDeas (get it? ideas?) in honor of today's Apple event:

1.) iSpandex- This is for the woman who filled up her water bottle ahead of me. She very much needed the stretch feature in her biker shorts, so much that she had both front and back camel toes that actually made me feel her pain. This camel toe feature is also interchangeable with the iMooseknuckle and the i'Msmugglingayoyo.

2.) iGrunt- This is for the guys who load up their weight on a Nautilus machine far too much. Yes, I know you're manly, but must you broadcast this by slamming down the stack of weights in such a prehistoric way?

3.) iFreshener- The best part of my gym experience tonight. I won't go into detail, but for the man who was next to me on the elliptical... Just because you're wearing headphones doesn't mean we can't hear it when you rip one.

Go forth and conquer, Apple.

Light at the End...

...of the tunnel?

This day started out like shit. I forgot to wash the conditioner out of my hair, and after running around all day like a crazy girl, my whole head is threatening to turn into a giant dread lock.

My very expensive, eight-dollar Clinical Secret deodorant for extremely high-strung, sweaty girls doesn't seem to work. How anything you put on at night and then expect to last through the next morning's shower is supposed to work is beyond me. Eight-dollar deodorant?

The light seems to be the prospect of wearing a dog collar on stage and playing my saxophone in Rocky Horror 2007. Click on my name, see my picture, drool over it-- even with smelly deodorant and a head dread lock.

Lord Balthazar of the Flies

When I was in eighth grade, I had an uncanny love for Balthazar Getty. I remembered seeing the picture above in an issue of Seventeen magazine, and I hated Milla Jovovich with every fiber of my being just because she was touching my Balthazar. Sure I had glasses, headgear and played in the school band, but I was so much better than Milla! How dare she pose with Balthazar, how dare she get her breast buds so close to him!

I saw Young Guns 2 twenty-five times in the theatres, each time spending my hard-earned allowance to feed my Balthazar obsession. It's bad enough to see any movie twenty-five times in the theatres, much less the fact that it was Young Guns 2. I purchased every Teen Beat, Tiger Beat, and Bop I could find if it contained Balthazar (and Jonathan Knight from the New Kids was an added bonus and another obsession. His birthday is the same day as mine almost!) My bedroom wall was literally wrapped floor to ceiling with glossy Balthazar pictures I had ripped out of my various mags, and every time his Young Guns 2 character died, a little part of me died as well.

Here's the icky thing: I actually came home from work this afternoon to find Lord of the Flies on the 24/7 Chiller channel. I actually thought, "OOOOOh! Balthazar! I love him!" Then they showed him, and he's like twelve-years-old and then I felt really creeped out. Sure, Balthazar has aged just like I've aged, he's even aged on TV, but for the first time in a very long time, I felt really old.

Here's the other thing: Kids have it so easy these days! Not only did I spend thousands of dollars on teen tabloids, but now all kids have to do is jump online, click their keyboards and print out free pictures of their crushes! It's so unfair. Kids these days will never fully appreciate the act of riding one's bike to the 7-11 to grab a Slurpee while pouring over the magazine rack.

While I appreciate all my childhood activities, I also realize my old habits die hard. My Balthazar is married and I'm still wearing glasses and playing in the band.

To bling or not to bling.

Just like last year's Justin Timberlake album, the word "bling" is apparently now "whack." According to Kanye West, if you use the word "bling" nowadays you're unhip and totally out of style. This makes complete sense, my mom was using "bling" last November, I should've been clued-in then.

In honor of Kanye's colloquial revelation, I'd like to present some slang I enjoy to work into the vocabulary to once again be one of the "cool kids." Because just look how cool Kanye must be to pull of the hot pink sweater pictured above.

1. Earworm noun
A song that sticks in your head and won't leave no matter how hard you try. The best way to get rid of an earworm is to replace that song with another.
Songs that are the worst: Toxic by Britney Spears. I Want it That Way by the Backstreet Boys. Jeopardy! Theme song.

2. Digilanti noun
Combining digital expertise with vigilante mentality, the folks who anonymously police the Internet, exposing scams and fighting spam for the interest of the greater good.
"Our computer guy forwarded up an email he confirmed as spam, he's such a digilanti."

3. Backne noun
Severe acne on one's back.
"That chick looked like a pizza with all the backne she was sporting under her tube top."

4. Cafediem phrase, Latin-ish
Caffeinate the Day.
To ask someone if they want a coffee, ask, "Cafediem?"

5. Mouse Potato noun
The current cyber-version of sitting on the couch and watching TV, instead sitting behind the computer surfing.
"I've done nothing but trash people on their own Web sites today, dude. I feel like such a mouse potato."

6. 404 noun
Someone who's clueless. From the World Wide Web error message "404 Not Found," meaning that the requested document could not be located.
"She's exausting me with all the wrong information, she's got the dumb and is totally 404."

7. Post-Potter Depression noun
The empty feeling that comes from finishing the seventh book in the Harry Potter series and realizing there will be no more.
"My friend went back to reading Stephen King to get over her post-Potter depression, but she just kept waiting for Voldemort to show up."

8. French Exit noun
Leaving a party without saying goodbye to anyone or thanking the host. Disappearing, or sneaking away, from a party.
"Tommy's party homing-beacon must have gone off because he's made the French Exit again."

9. Typeractive adjective, adverb
Somebody who is overly-talkative on text messages or emails.
"She sent me ten emails today detailing why we're no longer friends. Not only is she psycho, but she's completely typeractive."


And my favorite I just heard for the first time a few weeks ago:
10. Crop-dusting noun
Surreptitiously farting while passing through a crowd of people sitting at a table, then enjoying the sounds of dismay and disgust.
Self-explanatory.

Happy communicating.

Quite the day today

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. Chances are, it's a little bit of both-- it's set in the 60s, when I should've lived so I could've gone to Beatles concerts and Carnaby Street in whirl of mod-ness.

As I said, Antonioni went to the big sound stage in the sky today. Why do we have to sugar-coat the phrase, "he died" or "he's dead" or "he's taking a dirt nap?" Something I've learned all too quickly is when someone's gone, they're gone, and they're not coming back no matter how you spin it. Reality can be quite a bitch.

Before this post becomes too morbid, let's switch gears...

Karma wants me to be a crazy cat lady. For the last week, Random Kitty has been living on my doorstep. I have told Random Kitty to go home, I have called the number on Random Kitty's tag to try and get them to take Random Kitty back. I have offered to take Random Kitty back to its owner. To no avail, Random Kitty was sitting in the passenger side of my Jeep this morning. Random Kitty has even started coming to me when I call out, "Raaaandooom Kittyyy?"

What's a girl to do when they're single and a cat shows up at the doorstep? Accept the possibility of becoming a crazy cat lady, and embrace it? Start shopping for my old-lady red hat? Or do I resist taking in Random Kitty no matter how much it lets me scratch its chin?

Reality Show Pondering

The other week I gave in to my addiction of reality television and actually watched Simple Life Goes to Camp because I felt like watching a train wreck. This particular episode featured a boot camp-like instructor who tried to break people of being high-maintenance. Attending camp was a particularly annoying Hollywood woman named Yoi who eventually ended up leaving early because they wanted her to eat crickets. Paris and Nicole said, "Good riddance" to Yoi, which made me think, "Wow, you must be really annoying if Paris and Nicole are bidding you 'good riddance.'"

Tonight, I was watching a bit of "More Swimsuit Secrets Revealed" on the WE channel, and wouldn't you know it? Good ol' Yoi was one of the featured women in search of a new bathing suit. Apparently Yoi is a media whore hopping from reality show to reality show. Damn, dirty Yoi!

What's worse? Giving more reality show rides than Greyhound OR watching enough stupid reality shows to actually realize the same chick is hopping from reality show to reality show?

So Healthy!

Vitamin Water is a sham. I'll just start right out with that and get it off my chest. Vitamin Water is a sham. I used to like Vitamin Water, and up until this afternoon, I used to love drinking a bottle of it after working out. But no more. I will swear off Vitamin Water as a lame excuse for being healthy, and consider it a diet gimmick.

I went to the gym this afternoon for a couple of hours (for real, I'm not trying to sound hard-core. I also drank three beers last night.) and when I was finished, I decided to drag myself to the grocery store for a few things. You know, healthy things one only thinks about after attending the gym for a couple of hours: Bananas. Salad-in-a-bag. Diet Dr. Pepper. And I decided I'd grab a bottle of Vitamin Water to drink on the way home, because come on, how could something called "Dragonfruit" not be healthy?

After reading the label, I threw down the Vitamin Water with utter disgust and I think I actually said, "What the hell?" under my breath. A bottle of very "healthy" Vitamin Water contains 50 calories per serving, with two-point-five servings in each bottle. Now, I'm no math major or anything, in fact, math nearly cost me my Bachelor's degree, but that totals to 125 calories a bottle. That's only 15 calories less than in regular Coke (which I would never drink because I've never been able to stand the aftertaste). That is the same amount of calories one would find in a can of Guinness. Healthy Vitamin Water, my ass!

In fact, straight to one's ass is where the Vitamin Water will go when you read more of the nutritional information and learn that your 125 calorie health drink also contains 13 grams of sugar per serving, or (again, me trying to do math) about eight teaspoons of sugar per bottle. Seems to me plain ol' water and a good multivitamin might just save those calories I worked so hard to lose! Leave the Vitamin Water alone, unless maybe you've got a raging hangover and need some electrolytes.

Once a Geek, Always a Geek

Darn you glasses! I started wearing you in first grade when I could no longer read the blackboard, even from the front row. I remember a classmate of mine, Jason Kelly, who dressed up like a robot for Halloween and I developed a crush on him until we went to different Jr. High schools, said, "You need glasses!" And my fate was sealed.

Wearing glasses wasn't ever a big deal in elementary school, then I got braces in fifth grade. Then I was forced to wear headgear to school in seventh grade and started playing in the band. Enough said.

Now, I embrace my geeky past, and was thrilled today when I saw that Comic-Con was happening in San Diego this week. Sigh, to one day be around fellow blog geeks, gazing into the eyes of Batman or Superman or Kevin Smith. So I present reasons why I want to go to Comic-Con next year:

5. My white pleather dress is wasting away on a hanger.
4. I am a pop culture whore who would clean up on Jeopardy!
3. Stan Lee, Kevin Smith and Yoda, oh my!
2. Spandex really is a right.
1. The force would be with me.

Until I try to go next time, I'm submitting to my glasses-and-headgear-ness and throwing myself head-first into my geeky past-- band practice. I've agreed to play the saxophone in a live-concert version of The Rocky Horror Show this Halloween. Not only does it satisfy my geek-ness, but also my previous Gothic-ness, complete with a dog collar, corset and fishnets. Hell, maybe I'll even wear lingerie one night.

Nowadays, who knew glasses could be so hot?

Nails on a Chalkboard

I never really minded when first-grade classmates would scratch their nails down the chalkboard. I never understood the "eeew" factor in chewing tin foil.

But if I ever see another Sharpie commercial again, I will go postal.

Have you seen them? You know, where the narrator of the commercial is writing a letter to "someone," presumably, their significant other, their kid's teacher, and then they get fed up with the wordiness of it all and whip out a Sharpie which spells out the real message of the thing? But there's the sort of squeaky markery sound that happens with the commercial, making the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.

Sharpie commercials are also extremely painful. For instance, as I was watching "Who Wants to be a Superhero" this afternoon, my new favorite TV show, I had the Sharpie commercial forced on me. Frantic, I lunged for the remote to change the channel before the squeaky markery sound happened, ending up sprawled out on my ottoman screaming in pain from a stubbed toe. And I still caught wind of the squeaky markery sound.

Just when you thought there wasn't anything worse than "Who Wants to be a Superhero," there is; the Sharpie commercial.

So That's Why!

After Lindsay Blohan's latest run-in with the law, I wanted to know what she was thinking driving herself around while (allegedly) "under the influence." Like tens of Americans, I asked the same question as Harvey Levin (filling in for Larry King on CNN).

Harvey Levin: Why don't they get drivers? They can afford it. Why don't they get somebody to drive them around?
Billy Bush: They have them, but they let them go about ten... As soon as eleven or twelve [o'clock] roll around, they're gone. At night, they [the stars] don't want the drivers to see what's going on.

To which I say, "WHO CARES?!?" The drivers are their drivers, and it's not like they've never seen their client coked up during the day! What, just because it's dark outside, it makes their addictions that much worse? So, some star would rather risk losing their career and bank account just because they don't want their driver to "see what's going on?"

My respect for Billy Bush has hit rock bottom. No wonder he asks the questions, rather than giving the answers. Lame, Billy, laaaaame!

In Search of SLC "Bear Guy"

I feel like I'm hunting Yeti.

For the second time this month, I have spotted the "Bear Guy" and have yet to photograph him in his natural environment.

"But who, or what, is 'Bear Guy?'" you ask? The first time I spotted "Bear Guy," I caught sight of him in my rear view window as I was headed East on 1700 South. First I saw his horrible grey 1950s truck, what caught my attention were the peeling flame stickers emblazoned on the side. What furthered my staring was the fact that the old guy driving looked exactly like "Blue" from Old School. Exactly. You're my boy, Blue! It's true folks, Patrick Crenshaw did not die last January, he's driving a weird-looking truck around the streets of Salt Lake.

Finally, the thing more disturbing than Blue driving a truck around Salt Lake? The passenger. Strapped in next to Blue was a human-sized teddy bear, wearing a polo shirt! I rubbed my eyes, but it was true, Blue is trafficking stuffed animals through the Wasatch Front. At that time, he continued Eastbound on 1700 south.

Sunday afternoon, it happened again. Only this time I was behind Blue and his truck, and the sight of it all was even more ghastly! Not only was there a human-sized passenger bear, but there were also two riding without seat-belts backward-facing in the bed of the truck. One wore a sombrero, Hawiian shirt and khaki shorts, the other was wearing a green polo shirt and jeans.

Frantic, I followed him through several lights... then Blue caught onto me. He actually pulled over to let me by. I turned the corner to try and get behind him once again, and he was gone, in a flash, without warning.

Who is this mysterious Bear Guy? Where does he go? And just why does he take his furry friends with him? I'm in search, and never leaving the house without my camera again.

The Trifecta is Complete

In possibly one of the most brilliant moves of this week, this morning LA police have arrested Lindsay Lohan for another DUI, this time topped off with cocaine possession.

Now, dontcha' think if you had millions of Disney dollars in your savings account you'd spring for a cab after a hard night of partying? Not only would you save the $25,000 bail money, but you might also save yourself from facing a possible six-years in jail for felony drug possession.

Here's this girl who just turned 21 this month, who has already been in and out of rehab and is now facing hard time. Sweetheart, you've got many more years ahead of you to smoke and drink your way to the grave, why blow it all right now?

My World is Infested

With so much going on in my world right now, the title of this posting has far too many meanings. I'd love to go into the inner-workings of creepiness crawling into my brain right now, but it's impossible when there is creepiness crawling all over my apartment.

In droves by the hundreds of millions.

Literally dying in piles both upstairs and down.

Box elder bugs; and they're sucking my will to live.

When I first found my disco-fabulous apartment last March, I was thrilled at the prospect of a funky place with a loft. It's in a great area, and there's actually room for my boatloads of kitsch I can't seem to live without. When I found the apartment, it was snowing outside, and the whole place looked pest-free.

Then it warmed up, and I realized that box elder bugs lived inside my apartment's every nook and cranny. I had to vacuum several times a week to keep up with the piles that would die on all the windowsills and corners. It was a nuisance, but for some reason last summer it wasn't that bad. Last summer I had a few other things to worry about-- big things like the air conditioner that conked out for the whole month of July.

Fast forward to this summer where the box elder bug piles are so high, I'm four-wheeling over them with my vacuum on a twice-daily basis. And the keep flying at my head. As I sit in bed, they're flying toward the lit computer screen and every few minutes I feel that familiar tickle on my arm. Ever see the cockroach guy in Creepshow? Pales in comparison to the pets I've inherited.

Besides wash them down the drain, vacuum them up and light them on fire, what's a girl to do with box elder bugs? Tonight after flicking one so hard across the room I nearly broke my pinky finger when I misjudged the placement of my dresser and smashed into it, I finally turned to my old friend Google. Okay, first step is to learn about my adopted pests, Hemiptera: Rhopalidae, Leptocoris trivittatus, the box elder bug. Description, yep, got that... can see the black and red thorax because it's currently crawling down my leg... yeah, definitely box elder bug which can "number into the thousands." You think?

"They are primarily a nuisance as they crawl or fly about the room." This is an understatement, I consider it more than just a "nuisance" when you get them caught in your hair and fall down the stairs while flailing one's arms screaming, "Get it off! Get it off! Get it off!" Having to go to the grocery store is something I consider a "nuisance" seeing the crawling silhouettes of several freaky-looking bugs all over your laptop screen while you sit in bed is a major freak-out.

"The box elder bug becomes a pest in many houses each year in fall and spring." And we'll just go ahead and throw in Winter and Summer right here. "They do no damage by feeding, but their excrement spots on draperies are difficult to remove." It's true. Just like Alli on a good pair of khaki pants, the box elder bugs have actually left spots on my 900 thread-count sheets. "The bugs cause little damage to trees." Oh good, because the trees are paying rent to live in this shithole. Great. Maybe the trees could pay my car payment, take out the trash and float me a loan while they're at it.

What this article doesn't mention is you will also find bits of legs and antennae laying around on every counter and smooth surface after you have tried vacuuming up the carcasses.

What's a girl to do? According to doyourownpestcontrol.com, not a damn thing. Not that I put much faith in a "Do your own pest control" Web site, but according to them, " Once boxelder bugs have become established in the home, there aren't a lot of treatment options. There are not a lot of recommended chemical measures at this point." You're screwed. Pack your bags. Head for the hills. Make sure you don't bring the suckers with you because they'll infest your next place and you won't be rid of them until they drive you to a nice padded cell where you sleep in your slippers.

It's time to call in the big guns-- a product called "Buggslayer." I will be Buggslayer! But after reading further, this stuff is like Satan in a jug and will apparently burn my nose, eyes and skin. Do not taunt Happy Fun Ball.

After reading Beware of Box Elder Bugs, I'm going to sleep.

In a hotel.

In Guam.

Bod by Zod

Thanks to Joost, I've been really catching up on my Robot Chicken. If you'd like to check out Joost, just leave me your email addy for an invite.

British Invasion

As I sit here watching Victoria Beckham: Coming to America, I am ashamed that I am not only starting to like her, but that I am actually sitting here watching Victoria Beckham: Coming to America.

For some reason, it's not nearly the trainwreck that Hey Paula has turned out to be, and I think I'll actually tune in next week.

For a little bit.

If I'm house-bound.

Posh Spice actually has a bit of a personality, which one would never know by the pouty-faced paparazzi look. Dare I even add that she might also actually have a sense of humor? I'm slightly sick, but that has more to do with eating three hours' worth of kettle corn this morning than Victoria Beckham: Coming to America.

Who knew? At least I'm off to dance.

Geek Chic Radio is ON!

It's been a long time in the making, but it's finally here!!

Geek Chic Radio

Love it. Live it.

Apparently she didn't do it...

Reality Show GAG (tag) lines

Top Design head judge, Jonathan Adler

Ever since the days of Survivor's first "the tribe has spoken," reality shows have taken off-- each one with a hokier goodbye line than the previous.

Heidi Klum's Project Runway, "Either you're in, or you're out!"
Ryan Seacrest's American Idol, "Seacrest OUT!"

They run the gamut from mysterious to catchy, and while I appreciate the efforts these show's creators, I have to put down my foot. Your efforts are now futile.

Riding on the coattails of Top Chef, Bravo created a new "Top" show, Top Design , where a handful of interior decorators vie for the position of Top Designer. (Incidentally, Top Chef's tagline is, "Please pack your knives and go," uttered by hostess Padma Lasaldkfjweoirwelrkndfgjwrjwermnwemrnodifuermnewk...)

I have felt extremely under the weather this week, and by "under the weather" I mean, "sinus pain harsh enough to smoke out Bin Laden,"and have spent many perfectly good nights in front of the TV watching bad reality shows. Last night, I had the unfortunate privilege of watching a Top Design marathon which enabled me to catch up on all those preliminary Top Design episodes I've missed. (That reminds me, I need to schedule that pesky wisdom-tooth extraction.) Sure, host Todd Oldham is a Target store design legend, but he is probably the only good thing about this particular reality show.

Yet I sat through several episodes for one, little phrase.

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.

Who comes up with these reality show taglines? And what's worse, what does the future hold for reality television? Reality shows aren't going anywhere, which means there is plenty of tiem for lame taglines. SEE YOU LATER, DECORATOR? Reality shows get a bad enough rap! Now that they've been classified as "crap TV" and people are actually asking for more courtroom dramas, shouldn't it be the time to attempt to make reality shows better?

If I weren't pathetic, I'd take a stand and vow never to watch reality TV again! I would hang up my remote for most of the week, only taking time to watch Grey's Anatomy and the occasional movie on the 24/7 Chiller Channel. But I can't give up my reality television-- Dancing with the Stars starts next week, and I have this sick desire to watch Heather Mills do the cha cha.

See you later, decorator!!