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.

Backyard Tourist

Since I ended up not going out of town this weekend, but still had a couple of days off, I decided to play backyard tourist right here near home. I started off at Gilgal Garden in Salt Lake and then took a few in other spots around town. Check out a few of my other Flickr photos here.

No blarney

All those Irish step dance classes paid off tonight! After a couple of pints of Guinness and some great music, I'm ready to begin my St. Patrick's Day weekend!

If you want to check out one of my new favorite bands, check out Warsaw Poland Brothers because they were too much fun tonight. Not a bad way to end a long week, infuse a little Irish luck into my weekend and gaze at a smokin' hot singer/guitarist. (In a kilt!) I've always been a huge ska music fan, and they really live up to Irish music and wearing plaid. I approve.

Not since I discovered Devotchka at a random live concert have I been so blown away by an indie band.

Checking his blind spot

It never ceases to amaze me how some people acquire driver's licenses. I drove behind the strangest man today, and though I had to turn into my driveway, nearly stayed behind him just to see his destination. Of course, judging from his erratic movements and filthy vehicle, we might've gone to the landfill, and I might've ended up staying there. Dead. Buried.

First off, his Subaru Forester was chock full of trash. The whole back hatch was stuffed with garbage bags, Big Gulp cups and greasy Little Caesar's Pizza boxes. Stuffed. Full. Like he had shame eaten his kitchen while on the road. The road to Hell.

Second, he kept crossing his driver's side window like the power of Christ was compelling him to exorcise the demons. But really quickly, like he couldn't stop his possessed hand, with movements that generally makes you lose blood to your limbs. 

Third, while blessing his window, he kept jerking his head around from side to side, right and left and nearly 360 degrees to the other side. Thus confirming my suspicion that he was channeling Linda Blair. I don't think he vomited split pea soup, but if he had, I would not have been able to tell the difference between the backseat trash. 

I hope he turned out okay. I hope his head doesn't hurt tomorrow like he just rallied at a Def Leppard concert.

Media darlings

I was lucky enough to mend some old wounds this weekend, patching up some ill feelings that have been harbored for the last year or two. I got an email back from my old host on Nightside, and he sent along this picture of us in action.

This ran on a story KSL did about the show on our debut night sometime in July of 2006. That first week desperately sucked, but the show ended up turning out fairly well for awhile.

It looks like I'm extremely serious and reading something very in-depth and important. Something very newsworthy, for sure. In reality, I was reading kittyhell.com and basically mugging for the camera.

Good luck in New Orleans, MC!

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

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

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

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

Then it happened. 

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

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

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

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

Is there a twelve-step program?

After going to the Jazz game tonight, I realized that I have a bit of an unhealthy obsession with the mascot, Bear.

It's best that I not elaborate after the bottle of red wine I subsequently came home and drank afterward, but just know that I will get help. If necessary. Eventually. Probably not.

Just a few things...

Melancholy night, random thoughts. Just go with me on these.

It's a night for The Smith's. There's something about Morrissey's voice that takes me to a nostalgic place; makes me long for past experiences, but also gives me a little bit of inspiration for the future. I saw him in concert last year, it was beautiful and dark, and his percussionist used a giant gong. Like a really big gong, symphony-sized. Contrary to popular belief, the size of the gong does matter. Playing right now: What difference does it make? But I just hit the forward button for How soon is now?

Thanks for the new bag, Mom, but I think it's a knock-off. It's okay, it's still cute.

It's March; doesn't that mean it's springtime? Shouldn't it be a tad warmer out? Still, it's not as chilly tonight as in Leominster, birthplace of Johnny Appleseed, home of Johnny Applebee's. I'm assuming it has got to get nicer for when I head out in May. 

Just hit forward to Panic, and am always a bit disturbed when I hear the lyrics, "Hang the DJ." The song is always a little ominous when I hear the children's chorus singing those lyrics, however I'm admittedly less disturbed than a few years ago. When I was a DJ.

At lunch the other day, I confessed to Urban Princess that I feel that in my non-work life I am an extremely irrational person. Translation: I sometimes feel like I'm living in a movie. Even as I sit tonight in my favorite coffee shop typing this, I hope my dream man will walk in, sit down and start quoting Eddie Izzard. (Or some other brilliant British comedy that most likely would use the word "brilliant." Or Animaniacs. Or La Femme Nikita. Like I said, I'm an irrational person.) I think this is why my parents started calling me Holly McBeal in the mid-90s-- because of my quirky tendencies to successfully go through my day with a composed outside while regularly referencing the beautiful fantasies in my head.

There are only 14 days until St. Patrick's Day. If you're toasting, add a "slainte!" just before you slug back your Guinness. If you want to be a bit more creative, here's another favorite of mine: "May you be in heaven a half hour before the devil knows you're dead." There's more to the beginning of that one, but I just like that part. It gives me hope. And then I drink.

Current Smith's song: There is a light that never goes out Again, disturbing. I don't want to get hit by a double-decker bus. Good thing I'm not in London-- don't the British harbour (spelled with the extra "u" as a nod to the redcoats) at least 95 percent of the world's double-decker buses?

I've traded The Smith's for the neo-melancholy strains of The Shins. I hate that Garden State made The Shins slightly trendy, if it's possible to refer to anybody who saw Garden State as "trendy." I used to like New Slang before it showed up at the same time as Zach Braff and now every time I hear the song, I think of Zach Braff and how much I dislike him. I don't like Scrubs, I very much disliked The Last Kiss and his only redeeming quality is... um... I guess he doesn't eat babies for dinner.

Last night I had some more brilliant advice. This time it was for a friend of mine, and my thoughts on why bars are high and not low like tables:

Display the junk.

Hide the boobs.

Suck the booze.

Is that a haiku without me realizing it?

So I guess that's it for tonight, it's so cold by the window here at Cocoa Caffe, I think my fingers are going to fall off. Never did the the immortal words of Dieter ring more true, "This has become tiresome." 

I don't get it

I love underwear. When I'm feeling sad, there's nothing like heading to Victoria's Secret to check out the latest lacy stuff (unless we're talking bras, in which case, going to Victoria's Secret leaves me frustrated and empty) or jammies or whathaveyou. But there are certain things that some might consider "sexy" that leave me tilting my head to the side and with a furrowed brow asking, "Quoi?"

For instance: I don't understand crotchless underwear, I can't fathom cupless bras (or what I fondly refer to as a "boob-out") and I most certainly puzzled by the latest "underwear" I found from Lovehoney called the "C-string." (CAUTION! Link NSFW!) The C-string thong doesn't have any strings at all, in fact it appears to be just shy of a headband... 

I don't approve of panty line, in fact, I would hate to become a Glamour Magazine "don't." But has vanity seriously come to this? Are some women really so concerned with already barely-there underwear that they're forced to squeeze a headband into their girly bits? 

But wait, there's more! Reading further on the Web site, I learned that the C-string will eliminate tan lines too! Considering I am so sensitive to the sun I nearly turn to dust when at the beach, I am concerned the C-string wouldn't cover areas that might not need the extra UV rays.

For me, I'll stick with my affinity for wearing thongs and boyshorts, not at the same time, and save the C-string for pulling back my hair while I'm washing my face.

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.

Damn right I'll trust the Gorton's fisherman...

I was watching tv the other day and for some reason was drawn to one of the new Gorton's fish stick commercials. I've never eaten fish sticks, my mom never fixed fish sticks and I've never gazed upon fish sticks in my grocer's freezer. Yet yesterday I sat in front of the television, unable to change the channel during a Gorton's commercial because it was a thing of beauty.

The new Gorton's fisherman is smoking hot.

For a long time, I seem to remember the old Gorton's fisherman was just a crunchy man of the sea. Maybe I'm getting old, maybe my taste in men is changing, but I never wanted to eat a frozen fish fillet off of someone's stomach so badly as I did when I saw the new Gorton's fisherman. I actually considered going grocery shopping for some fish sticks because I was so motivated by the new Gorton's fisherman. Then I realized I'm a lemming, a fish stick lemming, persuaded by advertising to buy frozen fish pimped out by a hot guy in a cableknit sweater.

Researching further, I realized I was right. Apparently since women do most of the country's grocery shopping, the Gorton's folks are banking on the persuasiveness of a hot man clad in yellow rubber. The new Gorton's fisherman is part of Gorton's ploy to thrust popularity back into frozen fish sticks. And God bless them for it, I believe the new Gorton's fisherman can thrust whatever he'd like to thrust.

(If you want to see this quick little documentary about choosing the new Gorton's fisherman, click hamptons.plumtv.com I tried embedding the video, but it has an autoplay feature which would subject all three of my readers to instant bagpipe music.)

Update: 10:41 pm, just saw a different new Gorton's fisherman commercial while watching a depressingly abysmal show on the WE (Women's Entertainment) Channel. It's confirmed, I really need something, even if it's just a frozen sea-product. This time the commercial is for Shrimp Temptations. The new Gorton's fisherman can tempt my... oh, never mind.

Coincidence, or no?

Creepy!

I don't want to get all conspiracy theory tonight, but it's extremely coincidental that the man who was touted as the "Scourge of Scientology" was found dead of apparent suicide. Sure, he might've needed to get a life when he parked across the street from a Scientology-owned business and displayed anti-Scientology sentiments in his car windows. To that end, he probably spent a little too much time on Florida streets wearing a sandwich-board reading "Cult Watch." But I guess he pissed off one too many Scientologists when he started filming secret documentary footage and dumpster-diving for "classified" documents he later posted on his Web site.

Though his actions died down (pun?) when he decided to cease his work in bringing down Xenu and Pals and actually get a paying job, I guess it was to no avail. Mysteriously he was found in his apartment with a garden hose stretched from his car exhaust pipe to the window.

Nobody puts Tom Cruise in the corner. Read the entire article here. 

Mystery Meat

It has been reported that 143 million pounds of bad beef has been shipped not only throughout the country but has also hit all over Utah, including fast food restaurants and schools. Now this beef hasn't made people sick, but apparently the practices in getting the beef wasn't, pun intended, kosher. Without going into the alleged practices of the slaughterhouses in question, I believe it's all the more reason to shun the dollar menu burger or to question from where lunches come. Certainly those school kids don't realize what they're eating. 

I never ate school lunch.

My mom would make my lunch every day, and I was the envy of my elementary school peers. I never had to chow the questionable chicken fried steak, never needed the partially crusty mashed potatoes, never blew bubbles in my carton of school-issued, lukewarm 2% milk. My mom would make my peanut butter and wine jelly (yes, it's jelly made from wine which we referred to as "the recipe" when she'd make it every holiday season) sandwich, cut the crusts off my bread and throw in a little Diet Coke for a mid-day pick-me-up. Kids would offer to trade for a greasy school-lunch roll, but I would never budge.

Now that I think about it, maybe I should've been made to eat a nasty school lunch; I might not have the food issues I have as an adult. Still, my mom always knew what she put in that personalized Garfield lunchbag, and she did it in such a way that at least she knew I was eating something semi-healthy. At least it was better than subjecting me to "mystery meat."

Just another day

There are quite a few people wandering around today in a post-Valentine's Day haze, wondering if they did enough or spent enough or cared enough about their loved ones. But what is enough?

Valentine's Day expectations are heightened because of movies. I know that's a bold statement, but movies perpetuate the already astronomical stress lumped on by stores carrying Valentine merchandise beginning December 26. Single people hope for some cinematic gesture of a stranger just waltzing through the door with flowers and dinner. People who are attached always get upset when any gift they get doesn't meet the image conjured up in one's mind. And then the day after, people feel hungover from the entire process.

I was reflecting on my Valentine's Day from last year. Last year I was dating someone, and last year's Valentine's Day wasn't anything to lean off the front of a boat and shout about. Last year, the guy I was dating came down with the flu and was sick for the week. On the morning of Valentine's Day I left him a 12-pack of Miller High Life for a gift because I had no idea what to get him. That night, he punched me in his sleep because he thought I was either 1) a stranger 2) an intruder or 3) the Vietcong. I was too tired to drive home so I slept in the guest room. On Valentine's Day. Alone.

Guess what? It doesn't matter if you're Valentine's attached or not. It's a day, just like any other day and will be over just like any other day.

Best advice all day

Not to toot my own horn, but here's some pretty decent advice I gave out today:

"Always remember: the wang of an emotionally detached man is like a vampire; if you invite it into your home it will first consume, then destroy you."

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.

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...

Shhh... don't tell

Clinton and Stacy from TLC's What Not to Wear would be so very disappointed in me today. I have the waistband of my pants pinned to make them fit. It was either that, or sag, which I don't believe is even in style with homies anymore. All the kids nowadays are wearing girl pants, and my girl pants don't even fit me today.

Then I had to wear a longer sweater to cover up the fact that my pants are pinned to fit, which made the butt part look strange.

Clinton and Stacy, I'm sorry. I don't mean to thumb my nose at you. I just wanted to try to make my pants fit today. On the other hand, if anybody wants to nominate me for the show so I can get the five-thousand bucks, I'd be okay with that. Generally I don't feel my fashion sense is that lacking, but I would take it all in stride to get some new duds.

Also, as a totally unrelated sidebar to this post, last night's Project Runway was by far my favorite this season. I love it when we actually see the designers' personalities and now in my fantasy world, I want to run off and join the Ice Capades with Chris March.

Make me a match...

I made the mistake of watching Millionaire Matchmaker tonight. This is a Bravo TV reality show about this woman owns a business that finds rich, socially inept men and pairs them up with women who double as flotation devices. Matchmaker Patty Stanger acts as the expert in hookups, telling the men just how they should dress, act and decorate their homes, sometimes in not so delicate ways.

She's also not so delicate to the women whom she interviews and hand-picks to meet said various millionaire men. And, after watching tonight's episode of Millionaire Matchmaker, I'm ashamed to admit I felt even worse about myself than I already do this week. Patty's "tough love" sucks, and maybe I'm just a little bitter tonight, but maybe if she was a little less difficult to gaze upon, she'd have some ground on which to stand.

At one point Patty told the women, "Come on ladies, if you have short hair, grow it. Get extensions." She continued, "Guys want something they can run their hands through." I disagree with Patty Stanger; simply, that's bullshit. Has little Yenta Patty ever actually had hair extensions? Let me tell you, folks, I just got rid of my extensions. If I didn't feel my scalp for four months, and missed that a whole lot, I am here to tell you that nobody, no man, is going to be able to run his hands through that action.

And should a night of, shall we say, "excitement" happen, those lovely hair extensions will most certainly turn into a impenetrable rat's nest hair wad of epic proportions. 

Dating is hard. Damn hard. I should know as I've been doing it for quite some time. But is this what courtship has become? Exactly who are these women trying to impress-- the men they wish to date, or the women who judge them? That said, if she wanted to set me up with a few of these guys, I probably wouldn't complain.

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.

Nostalgia, part trois

Aaah, the Garbage Pail Kid, a 1980s staple that made me the envy of so many elementary school peers; and because I had the "cool mom," I had every single card in the whole collection.

To this day, I have preserved my old Garbage Pail Kids to the best of my ability-- I leave them in a shoebox hidden from daylight in our family storage unit located in some undisclosed place. I own two of the best cards available from the first series: Adam Bomb and Blasted Billy, both of which I acquired when I traded with a girl in my fifth grade class because she was too stupid to know they were in such high demand.

Fast forward to lunch today when Urban Princess noticed a new series of Garbage Pail Kids at the store. We each bought a pack, and as I delicately opened mine, I had a twinge of disappointment. Things just aren't what they used to be. I don't know when Topps took out that horrible-tasting, waxy gum that lost its flavor three minutes after touching saliva, but it just wasn't the same not having it there. It wasn't the same not brushing the gum powder off the card faces, they seemed too new, too shiny. Too glossy for politically incorrect cards that sport names like Dung Beetle Baily and Manuel Labor.

Though I did get a specially inserted and random Loco Motion card (a Garbage Pail that is one of those ribbed, illusioney things that look like they're moving when you hold them differently in the light), I still felt something was missing. My youth? The envy of kids in the class when I was allowed to own these cards and they were parentally banned? The fact I finally blew my own money on them?

I feel like I felt the day I realized that the special effects The Neverending Story actually really sucked.

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.)

Who Knew?

On Friday night, Urban Princess and I went out to get a drink and ran into too many people visiting Salt Lake for the outdoor retailers' convention; we assumed that anybody with too much polar fleece on qualified for this convention. After sitting there for a drink, we were visited by two people in town for said convention.

After listening to tales of outdoor adventures from these two (which was a totally foreign concept to us), we needed an intervention and I grabbed two guys from the bar to rescue us. They were funny, and after awhile (and after the two original guys wouldn't get the hint and leave us alone) we decided to head to another bar. Things were going well and we were having fun just hanging out, when the night went terribly awry.

We noticed three women entering the bar, and after a minute one came over and introduced herself to us. Strange. Very strange. She then asked one of the guys we were with if she could see his key ring, stating she, "put her mailbox key there." She pretended to take something off of the keys, when all of the sudden, she lunges across the table, punches the guy, throws the keys in his face, throws a beer glass at me, and storms off in a blaze of rage. For real, the attack happened in about ten seconds, the weirdest ten seconds I'd seen in a long time.

We were all bewildered by the behavior and I turned to the guy and said, "I take it you know her?" 

When he left the table a minute later, we decided we'd better call it a night because in a flash our good time took on a horrible haze. Another girl in the crazy girl's group began interrogating us as to why we were there with "her guys" and after all reasoning was lost, we finally left. Funny, that when we went outside the two guys were seen cowering, trying to blend into the side of the building to avoid us at all costs.

How quickly things change, how quickly a night can go from innocent to nuts, how the sound of a shattering beer glass can quiet a whole bar. 

Then as we walked back down the street, I turned to Urban Princess and said, "I hate being single."

Weekend update

Granted, the headline is plagiarizing Saturday Night Live just a little bit, but stay tuned, the update from this weekend is quite a pageturner. Tonight, I will take the time to sit down and recount to you all the glorious turn of events that came our way when Urban Princess and I went out for drinks on Friday.

It was quite something to remember.

In other news, I want to leave you all this afternoon with some hearty words of advice: If you are going at the gym for two hours and getting all sweaty, avoid using the bathroom and subsequent usage of a paper toilet seat cover (because your legs are too sore to "hover). You will realize when you're home and in the shower that chunks of paper toilet seat cover turn to glue on your ass when extremely wet.

And I leave you with that for now.

Light at the end of the tunnel

Finally, something to look forward to. From People.com

New Kids On The Block Stage Comeback

After months of speculation and rumor, the Kids are coming back. A well-placed source tells PEOPLE exclusively that New Kids On The Block are indeed getting back together.

It's about damn time... after scouring the South side of Boston last October in hopes of glimpsing Jonathan Knight, it's possible he will be on tour. Apparently his social-phobia is in hibernation and we're reaping the benefits!

Quick observation

Because of several work commitments both yesterday and today, I wasn't able to properly comment on the untimely passing of Heath Ledger. While I never really disliked the actor, he wasn't one of my favorites. I feel he always looked dirty, like he went several weeks in between showering and that he generally didn't smell very good. 

Not that there's anything wrong with that. However, if Heath suffered from depression which led to his alleged drug overdose, I have read studies stating those symptoms could've been lightened by a simple shower once or twice a day. From a site called Holistic Online, which isn't the best URL because it took me awhile to realize it was actually Holistic Online dot com and not Ho List Icon Line dot com, I found the following:

Take a Stimulating Shower: Start showering with warm water, gradually making it hotter. Then decrease the temperature as low as you can stand it. Cold water stimulates the nerves close to the surface of the skin and is rejuvenating. Do not do this if you have a serious illness or are pregnant, premenstrual, or menstruating.

Maybe Heath Ledger had a serious illness or was pregnant, premenstrual or menstruating and couldn't practice this anti-depression technique.

Faith in television...

Since the writer's strike has made television completely abysmal this season, I am beginning to wonder if there will ever be anything other than reality tv ever again. Not to say I don't love reality shows, because I am a reality junkie, but I do look forward to regular episodes of Grey's Anatomy and Gossip Girl. Just when I thought I'd lost faith in non-reality television, I noticed a trailer for a new show called Eli Stone featuring, ironically, George Michael singing the song "Faith" in the premiere episode.

According to abc.com, Eli Stone is a quirky little dramady about an attorney (played by Jonny Lee Miller, one of the alive loves of my life. Not to be confused with the dead loves of my life list which includes Gene Kelly, Andy Warhol, Dean Martin and Jimmy Stewart) who turns out to be a prophet. To paraphrase the description on the Web site, apparently Eli has hallucinations and visions and ultimately is torn between being a lawyer and saving humanity. In the end, we learn a brain aneurysm is causing Eli's visions and he is further torn between his head and his heart; caught between two ends of a moral spectrum between spiritualism and logic. 

This looks like a pretty good show, and maybe I've been watching a few too many old episodes of Ally McBeal, but it appears Eli Stone is borrowing a lot from the quirky 90s hit. First off, the title is the name of the lead character. Second, the hallucinations and visions seen through music reek of Ally's hallucinations (can we say dancing baby?), also the use of music as a driving force in ones' mind was a tactic used weekly in Ally McBeal. Third, in both shows we see a fairly eccentric, yet unbelievably hip and good-looking attorney as they fumble through each trying to find a balance between fighting the "lawyer as a shark" stereotype and inspiring people to "do the right thing."

I hope I haven't put too high an expectation on Eli Stone, as I will always be a die-hard Ally McBeal fan, but I'm looking forward to the premiere on January 31. Since Grey's Anatomy has been a complete let down this season (even before the writer's strike), maybe this new show will give me the Thursday night fix I so richly crave. I am also looking forward to watching Jonny Lee Miller watching George Michael singing in the living room:

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.

Saving the Earth

Since I work for an organization which promotes eco-friendly, "green" behavior, I have been trying to do my part to help out the planet. I feel it's my duty to practice what I preach; I don't leave the water running while I brush my teeth, I have changed my light bulbs from standard bulbs to compact florescent bulbs, hell, I even remember to put recycling in the blue cans.

This is a big deal for me. A couple of years ago, I thought, "What I do doesn't make a difference." But it really does. Just one person making a conscious decision to do just one simple thing really can help the planet.

I have just discovered one more thing to add to my planet-helping plan: 360 Vodka. The first eco-friendly vodka. The distilling uses environmentally conscious methods and packaging whenever possible, and even chooses to use eco-friendly marketing materials. Not to mention the bottle is make from post-consumer waste and recycled glass and they donate profits back to environmental organizations.

Now, being green is even easier! And eco-friendly vodka certainly makes me want to toast a Cosmopolitan to Mother Earth.

The train wreck continues

...and it was everything I thought it would be.

After a month of looking forward to Rock of Love 2 with Bret Michaels, I was not disappointed. There were all the trashy women, strippers and idiots we have all come to expect when tuning into a show such as this. I found myself glued to the entire hour, every passing minute wondering, "Why am I watching this?" But I couldn't pull myself away. 

Seriously, who are these women in the world who throw themselves at Bret Michaels, not caring if some other slam-pig slipped him the tongue just ten seconds before? I am fascinated by this phenomenon; that women think all they have to do is audition for a reality show and suddenly they've made something out of themselves.

I'm all for healthy competition, however after viewing what's in store for the upcoming season, I just don't know if I can soberly watch this show. Greased pig competition? Mud football? Peep show talents? And yet I perpetuate the reality show viewership.

Gotta' go. The new and improved American Gladiators starts in two minutes. 

IT WILL NOT BURN!

Many years ago, usually during a punch-drunk closing of the store where we worked, a co-worker friend and I would joke about the infomercial for the buckwheat husk heating pads. The idea about the pillow is that you can put it in the microwave and heat it up so you've got a nice, toasty moist heat without catching on fire in the middle of the night if you fall asleep in bed with an electric heating pad.

On said infomercial, the heavily-accented man kept saying "Buckwheat husk, IT WILL NOT BURN!"

To which the woman standing next to him in the infomercial said, "But what if it burns me?"

"IT WILL NOT BURN!" the man forcefully repeated.

Since the buckwheat husk heating pads were infomercial fodder, it came as no surprise that my mother felt inclined to order several years ago, which was great the other night when I remembered I owned these things. A particularly strenuous dance class combined with lifelong bad dancing knees and a winter storm high-pressure system left me unable to even get upstairs. I thought, "IT WILL NOT BURN!" and threw two of the amazing things into the microwave before I settled into some couch time. Five minutes made them hot, but not so hot that they lasted through some television shows, so when I was getting ready for bed I decided I'd double the time and nuke the bastards for ten minutes.

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

After a few choice words, I threw open the microwave door, grabbed the smoldering buckwheat husk* by the handy carrying ropes, opened the front door and launched the damn thing into the snow. Damn you, buckwheat husk guy! 'Lo these many years later, I called your your bluff and you "WILL TOO BURN!" Now, where's my "unsafe" electric heating pad?

*For the record, this incident ended better than the time I attempted frying wontons and ended up evacuating all of the Gateway Apartments (including the mall) on Super Bowl Sunday a few years ago.

Congrats!

...to my friend Kelly, who just got published in Pearl, a literary magazine. I've known Kelly since middle school and am thrilled that we're still in touch and encouraging each other on our talents and writings. Go to the site and order yours now because when she's famous you'll wish you did.

She constantly inspires me to write (even outside this blog, go figure!) and with her kind suggestions I might even pull my head out of my ass and submit some of my own writing someday. Until then, I live vicariously... Congratulations!

"Scent"sory overload

Tonight was my monthly trek to Bath and Body Works, mostly because the yummy-smelling Wallflowers I have scenting my house, the same that I paid full price for less than a month ago, were on sale for only $5. In addition, many of the body sprays I have scenting my person, the same that I paid full price for less than a month ago, were on sale too.

As I walked through the store, dodging "helpful" salespeople who were bound and determined to spray me with smells I'd find in bordello, I settled on a few purchases and trudged up to the counter to pay. If I was going to pay full price for everything less than a month ago, I was bound and determined to pick up on a few sales tonight. (This also makes me a sucker just like everyone else who paid full price for the holidays and was also bound and determined to "save" now.) I even managed to make it to the counter without the scent of dirty hooker emanating from my pulse points.

As I've lamented before, I have one of those faces, I guess, that makes people want to talk to me and divulge things I'd rather not know. Tonight, it happened again.

Lady at the counter: Oooh, Wallflowers. These really make your house smell really good.

Me: Yep.

Lady at the counter: I have a broccoli-eating dog.

Me:

Lady at the counter: I mean, he really eats a lot of that stuff.

Me:

Lady at the counter: Sends you right out of the room.

Me:

Since it's the post-holiday retail lull I can only imagine the BBW had their B-team working tonight, but something inside made me wish for a spray to make people disappear.

Every rose...

On cold days like today, I have Bret Michaels to keep me warm... warm with laughing. While I've never been a fan of Poison and was "like, totally a new waver" in the 80s, I've been mildly amused at VH1's "Rock of Love" with Bret Michaels. Thank goodness they're doing another season, and we will all have a train wreck to watch once again.

A co-worker sent me this video today, and she's right, the chick in the beginning does look like Charlie Sheen in a wig. Even better, a quick Wikipedia search of Every Rose has its Thorn gives heartfelt information like the following:

Vocalist Bret Michaels wrote the song in response to a failed love affair with a Los Angeles stripper. Poison had been playing at a cowboy bar called "The Ritz" in Dallas, Texas. After the show, Michaels called the woman at her apartment and heard a man's voice in the background. Heartbroken, Michaels wrote the song with an acoustic guitar in a laundromat.

Guess that's what you get for falling for a stripper, right Bret? I do hope they use this song again in the new "Rock of Love" season because they played it in the first season when Bret chose Jes after kicking stripper Heather to the curb. Then Jes kicked him to the curb when she didn't hear from him for six months and she decided to go back to her boyfriend in Chicago.

I'm a pop culture slut.

Merry Christmas to all

This was one of the mellowest Christmas days I've had in my entire life. All month I've told people, "I just want my long winter's nap," and today I got it.

Nevermind I was probably a bit sleepy from all the "Holly Jollys" I concocted for my mom and I last night (a top-secret combination of pomegranate and cranberry juices along with Absolut Citron and a splashy grenadine topper), but I didn't want to do anything. I didn't want to see anyone. I just wanted today to be a normal day. I think there is too much pressure put upon festivities and cheerfulness because that's what we're supposed to do; that's what we're conditioned to do from the time we are kids and we wake up at 4 in the morning to find what Santa brought us. (Unless you were me, and woke up at 2:30 in the morning if my parents had forgotten to give me my very own holiday Benadryl to keep me asleep.)

Christmas used to be filled with people and music and rushing from place to place, generally ending with my dad's band playing at a club. That club doesn't exist anymore either, the dark windows symbolizing more to me than any building owner could know. Today, I exorcised demons and dust bunnies and threw away dried roses from ghosts of relationships past. I hung up all the coats I'd been too lazy the past month to properly put away, and amazingly enough, I discovered I have dining room chairs that shouldn't have been coat racks for so long. 

Things have changed. My new holiday book I read today is Tim Burton's The Melancholy Story of Oyster Boy and Other Stories and I learned that "Stick Boy's festive season" ends up ashes like mine has. I think this is the coming year to rebuild my mojo, but first realizing today is a day just like any other day. Pretending to be festive when unbelievably sad is less comforting than imaginable, and finally admitting this has been cathartic. Last year I forced myself into a painted smile under curled hair, and this year, losses have sunk in much deeper. I'm finding out the abject permanence of life after we're left here flailing around. While situations haven't seemed real in the past 14 months, I'm learning this is the way it is.

Most years I've watched the holiday movies and played the music of the season, but this is the year to curl up and take those pressures off my mind. I watched Creepshow and laughed how I've never done any conventionally, and the holiday this year seems to have typified that. I know I will be okay, I know I will get through this, but why the hell does it have to hurt so much?

Something to look forward to

What big mountains you have

I was doing my nightly check of sciencedaily.com before bed and the article entitled Mountains Discovered on Titan, Saturn's Largest Moon piqued my interest. Unfortunately it was quickly overshadowed by the ultra-sassy photo accompanying it:

BYU professor Jani Radebaugh stands in front of an image of Titan taken with the Cassini Visual and Infrared Mapping Spectrometer (VIMS) instrument. "Bright features generally correspond to features of high topography, such as the mountains seen by the Radar instrument, and dark materials generally correspond to large dune fields made of organic particles," Radebaugh explains. "Thus, the rocky highlands are interspersed among the sand 'seas,' similar to Earth's continents and oceans." (Credit: Image courtesy of Brigham Young University)

While the article was extremely interesting and, after further reading, a giant step forward in understanding just how Earth was created, specifically in relation to the creation of Utah's mountains, I couldn't help but wonder why professor Radebaugh was posing like she was a member of the cast of Gossip Girl. If this is one of the first times an image of Titan was introduced into NASA's studies, why would we not see a picture of, oh I don't know, Titan?

Tomorrow we'll find a photo of the BYU professor clad in a cute tennis frock serving a three-love match on Saturn's rings. The day after that, we'll see Professor Radebaugh snowboarding through ice on Mars. The next day, perhaps, modeling a Victoria's Secret Canterbury nightdress while lounging in the ethereal gas giant of Uranus.

Would we ever see a picture of a male scientist posed in such a way? Nope. The typical arms folded, thoughtfully chewing on the glasses earpiece comes to mind there. In this case little Jani's Fergalicious Glamour Magazine cover pose overshadows and discredits the scientific breakthrough.