Use your stubby arms to throw the dog a pizza ball. And put the butter back in the fridge.

Do you ever have one of those days where you can’t seem to string together a coherent group of words to save your soul?  I’m having one of those.  So, of course–I have decided to write a blog.  You, after all, are used to my lack of lucidity.  My rambling, moronic, rants.

A few things have occurred to me lately.

Why is the English language so strange?  I can’t imagine trying to learn it for the first time.  Who decided to name evergreens “fir” trees?  Especially in Canada.  We suffer the “living in igloos” stereotype enough without newcomers falsely believing that it’s so cold here our trees need fur.

And who invented the doughnut?  And why?  If something tastes good, why would you want to have less of it by cutting out a hole?

And why can an owl turn his neck right around?  It’s not like he needs to back his car out of a long driveway.  Or keep an eye on misbehaving students, while he writes on the blackboard.

And why are my arms too  short to scratch the middle of my back?

And why does aspartame taste like crap?

If you know the answer to any of these conundrums, I would love it if you could enlighten me.  In the mean time, I will share a few gleanings that I have discovered of my own.

1)  Most of you know that I am short.  Only five feet tall to be exact.  My lack of height is exacerbated by the fact that everyone seems to be getting taller these days.  Seriously, I feel like an ewok.  With slightly less fur.   And better enunciation.

It turns out that things could be worse.  Yes, I am on the very short end of the height spectrum–for humans.  But I could be a short dog.

“Why would that be worse?” you ask.  Good question.  It turns out that if human heights varied as much as our canine counterparts, the shortest person would be around two feet tall–that would be me–and the tallest would stand at 31 feet.  Suddenly, I don’t feel so short.  I could be two feet tall.  Or 31.  It would be hard to find pants either way.  Or agree on a the height for my kitchen counters.  Where would you put a doorknob? I guess you’d have to have more than one.  And imagine if the tall guy sat in front of you at the theatre.

2)  Okay.  So, you are now going to think I am an idiot.  I think I am, so you might as well too.  For some reason, I always thought that doughnuts were made without holes in them and that the dough balls were later punched out.  It’s Tim Horton’s fault, really.  If the holes weren’t going to be punched out and discarded, why did they develop the Timbit (for those of you outside of Canada, these are doughnut holes that we buy by the dozens).

It turns out that doughnuts are formed in their tire-like shape–hole and all.  I feel very let down by this discovery.

Does anyone remember the little dough balls they used to put with pizzas in the pizza box?  I always wondered what they were for.  But, for some reason, they were always my favourite part of the pizza.  Until we got a dog.  Then the dough ball became “his” part of the pizza.  Stupid dog.

Speaking of Tim Horton’s–they recently caused massive confusion with the introduction of new cup sizes.  If you want to experience this ordering mayhem for yourself, watch this:

3)  After years of “heart smart” Becel, I miss the taste of real butter.  So much so that when I go to a restaurant, I always take a few of the little single servings home. I just found two in my purse.  They had melted.  Note to self:  put plastic baggy in purse for butter-thieving occasions.

And, apparently, butter isn’t just for eating anymore.  It has become a great medium for art.  Honest.  I just realized that my last blog had a bit about sculpting with cow poop.  Today’s is about butter.  I seem to be developing a cow fetish.  Hm.

Here are some mouth-watering examples of butter art:

Photo Credits:  Staypuft (ghostbusters.wikia.com), Homer (www.simpsonovi-dnes.estranky.cz), cow jumping over moon (edibleblog.com), Ben Franklin (endlesssimmer.com), farmer/cow/sheep (illusion.scene360.com), sow and piglets (dyscario.com), motorcycle cow (uk.search4eat.com), man with lion (thechive.com), cafeteria lady (thebaresquare.com), rose (edibleblog.com).  

I will eat my gold tomato, wipe my butt with a cactus, and talk to the hamster with the pretty white gloves

I recently decided I wanted to buy a hamster.  Yes, I realize this is an unusual pet choice for a grown-up.  In my defence, I have allergies, so my selection is limited.  And hamsters are low maintenance–perfect for a scatterbrained individual like myself.

So, I headed off to Walmart and picked out a cage that looks like something the Jetsons would live in, some light blue shavings (yup, they come in techno-colour now), and some food.  I turned around with my heavily-laden arms (I was too stupid to get a cart beforehand), only to have a little old lady exclaim, “Oh!  You must have children.  I remember those days.”  Part of me wanted to make her feel like an idiot by saying, “Nope.  This is for me.”  But, then, I realized she may not feel like an idiot at all.  She might just think that I’m the idiot.  An adult with a hamster.  I simply smiled and said, “yes.”  Yes, I know.  I lied.  But it was a neat and tidy lie.  No flowers.  I didn’t feel compelled to give my fictitious children names (Molly and Clive would have come to mind.  I don’t know why) or ages (what age is “hamster appropriate?”).  I didn’t embellish and add a tragic tale of woe about a flattened beagle and the family car.  I managed to keep my deception to a single syllable.  This, in itself, is noteworthy.

My hamster is now home.  I have decided it is a “he.”  Apparently, “sexing” a hamster is tricky, so one really never knows.  I had originally named him “Clive” (there’s that name again) because he looks rather formal–for a relative of a rat.  He has white hands.  Like he’s wearing gloves.  But that name was not received with great applause.  He is now officially “Humphrey.”  I don’t know why.

Which, for some reason, brings me to something that I have been wondering about.  Did Noah have to wait for snails and slugs to make their way on to the ark?  Did he invite them first, so that he could get other things done while they were travelling?  Or did he wave his hands in frustration and pick them up?  Which makes me wonder how many “slower” animals didn’t make it on time.

And, how did Noah “sex” the hamsters to make sure he, indeed, had one of each gender?  And wouldn’t the ark have become overrun with the little buggers?  And rabbits.  And why on earth did he invite the mosquito?

1)  I admit that I do like escargot–at least I think I do.  Maybe it’s just the garlic butter that I enjoy.  Let’s face it–everything tastes good smothered in melted golden butter with garlic thrown in.  I have never actually had a snail without it.  Maybe they taste like dirt.  Or erasers.  Or worse, dirt-covered erasers.

Apparently, someone thinks they taste pretty good.  They have, in fact, become a key ingredient in one of the world’s most expensive dishes–a “curry” that goes for a whopping $3600 US.

London’s Bombay Brassiere has taken opulence (and quite possibly, indigestion) to a whole new level.  What their menu calls “The Samundari Khazana Curry” consists of Devon crab, white truffle, sea snails (told you–star of the show), Scottish lobster, and caviar.  But wait–I forgot the proverbial “icing on the cake”–this time in the form of gold.  Really.  The lobster has been iced with edible gold leaf.  Even a lowly cherry tomato has been coated with the stuff.  ACK.  Sure, gold is pretty.  As a ring.  A necklace.  Or in it’s natural shape–a long, rectangular bar.  But it doesn’t belong in my lower intestine.  That’s just wrong.  

I guess it’s like laying a golden egg.  Only messier.

2)  If you poop gold, ordinary toilet paper simply will not do.  It is likely that you prefer to use $100 bills.  But, if you find yourself short on cash (likely because you just indulged at the Bombay Brassiere), you may wish to opt for the faux c-note instead.  Justtoiletpaper.com (yes, there is a store for everything these days) will sell you a roll for $8.95.

I wonder how Benjamin Franklin feels about this.

If currency is not your style, there are many other fashionable rolls on which to wipe your tender toosh.  I thought it would be fun (not to mention unconventional) to hold a favourite toilet paper poll right here.

3)  So, maybe you don’t poop gold.  It doesn’t mean that your bowels are incapable of creating a masterpiece of their very own.  Just ask artist, Sam Mahon.  He has turned cow patties into a bust that sold for thousands.

The subject of his piece, New Zealand Environment Minister, Nick Smith likely wasn’t thrilled with his “sh*tty” likeness.  Mahon created the piece to protest against what he claimed was Smith’s failure to protect waterways from dairy farm pollution.  Apparently, the piece  doesn’t smell at all.

But kiddies, I wouldn’t recommend trying this at home.

Photo Credits:  gold lobster (http://goodnewsaday.wordpress.com/2011/10/08/the-most-expensive-food-in-the-world-2/), toilet paper money (comparestoreprices.co.uk), toilet paper for poll (www.justtoiletpaper.com),  poop bust (www.stuff.co.nz).

A Sip of Eye Juice Please. I Must Go Run Over Myself.

Many years ago, someone sold my grandmother a used Dodge Diplomat.  She was quite proud of  her new wheels–and greatly amused that people often mistook it for a cop car.  It was white.  And big.  And the popular choice of many small town police stations.  There was just one problem.  The floor was rotting out.

When she discovered this formerly hidden problem, she was mortified.  It would cost a fortune to fix.  Plus, she wondered what other secret ailments this car was keeping from her.

None of this interested me at all.  I was too busy wondering  if a “hole” in the floor meant that she would run over herself.  This is how my mind works.

I also wonder if Gordon Ramsay ever eats Kraft Dinner.

And why there’s a train car at our local body shop.

And if anyone has an aardvark I could borrow.  (We seem to be overrun with ants).

I have a simple mind that is fascinated by very strange things.  Much like Homer Simpson.  

Back to the topic of Kraft Dinner.  It would appear that we, the consumers, are dissatisfied with the run-of-the mill KD fare.  Apparently, we want healthier noodles smothered in fake cheese.  Kraft recently introduced versions that are higher in fibre and crammed full of omega 3.  Well, I got brave the other day and tried some of their “all vegetable” type–made with cauliflower.  Yes, you read that right.  Cauliflower Kraft Dinner.

My first thought was–“Sure.  Like I’m supposed to believe that this is actually made with cauliflower.”  I’m not usually cynical by nature, but this sounded too good to be  true.  Healthy KD?  But, it would appear that the people at Kraft can truly be  trusted.  The noxious fumes of boiled cauliflower–the only veggie that smells more vile is the odiferous cabbage–let me know that these were not your ordinary, colon clogging, white flour noodles.  And the bonus is that, despite the smell, it tastes exactly like the KD you know and love.  Um, maybe “love” is too strong of a word.  The KD you have come to expect.

Only trouble is that it causes–er–a colonic explosion.  I nearly blew a hole in the commode.

1.  Here is another thing that I “wonder” about–this book title.  Hm.  I must be a very naive landlubber.  As you know, I am highly neurotic.  I worry about everything.  Well, thanks to author, John Trimmer, I now have another fear to add to an already massive list–getting squashed by huge ships.

Not only is Mister Trimmer a writer, but he is also a “Captain.”  He must know what he is talking about.  If he thinks I should learn how to avoid huge ships, I will.  Even if I do live in Central Canada, far away from any major shipping routes.  Should some drunken sailor plow a multi-storied cruise liner into a massive tropical storm that whips it ashore along the St. Lawrence, where it is picked up by a record-breaking tornado, and plunked down in my living room, I will be prepared.

Phew.

And that’s not even the interesting part.  You should see Amazon‘s list of products that customers who viewed this item also viewed.  Here it is:

-the best of David Hasselhoff (there is a “best” of the Hoff?  Must be the pauses between songs)

-white face paint (to hide behind, while you are buying the best of David Hasselhoff?)

-the 2009-2014 Outlook for Wood Toilet Seats in China.  (This has left me speechless.  And I can’t get MY book published.)

-Uranium Ore (To blow oneself up, along with one’s entire neighbourhood after listening to the Best of David Hasselhoff)

-The Stray Shopping Carts of Eastern North America: A Guide to Field Identification (For when birdwatching gets dull).

-3B Scientific Testicle Self Exam (For when shopping cart-watching bores you too).

-a book entitled “Bombproof Your Horse.” This one truly made me “wonder.”  A LOT.  Seriously, bombproofing your horse?  Are they a lot of drive-by horse explosions that I haven’t heard about?  What the heck does a bomb-proofed horse look like?  Did anyone ask the horse what he thinks about this?  Maybe he’d rather just move to a less “bomb-riddled” neighbourhood.

2.  I also spend a lot of time wondering about stupid people.  Especially the type of people that carry their umbrellas with the business end pointed out.  They usually make it extra-dangerous, by swinging their arms when they walk.  Shopping should not be a risky affair.  I should be able to do it without being impaled by someone’s rain protection.

Consider the driver of this car.  The one decapitating cyclists and poodle-walkers as he makes his way down the street.  The one who is about to meet his match in the form of a tow truck.  He must be a lethal umbrella swinger.  And an idiot.

Umbrellas, after all, aren’t always as innocent as they appear.  

3)  I also wonder how someone could spew noodles through their nose or milk out their eyes and not worry.  What if a piece of linguine starts to mould in your sinus cavity?  Or some homogenized curdles on your retina?  Don’t these things even cross their minds?

Ilker Yilmaz of Turkey is undaunted by the threat of dairy-related damage to his eyes.  He is the proud Guinness World Record Holder for the farthest distance for milk squirting from an eye.  Yes, it really does exist.  He obviously boasts some muscular optics, having a achieved a milk squirt of 9′ 2″.

Yes,  he’s “GOT MILK?”  But he can keep it.  Gack.

Photo credits:  Ladder Car (curiousphotos.blogspot.ca), eye milk (guinnessworldrecords.com).

Stop eating from my toilet. Has anyone seen Bob?

My church is officially scent-free, so with yesterday being Sunday, I naturally began to ponder my own smell.  For the most part, I smell like food.  I’m not referring to the fact that I probably have a blob of this morning’s white chocolate peanut butter (I know–I’m obsessed) somewhere on my face.  Or the fact that I just had some garlic cheese dip that is more garlicky than cheesy.  (A mosquito flew by my mouth and died).

I am talking about the things that I bathe in and slather on during my daily “attempt-to-make-myself-human” routine.  Everything smells like food.  I have shampoo that smells like coconuts.  Brown sugar body wash.  My body lotion is black raspberry.  I smear vanilla in my armpits–which is an affront to vanilla, I’m sure.  I have even traded in my traditional toxin-flavoured mouthwash for citrus mint.  I consume my entire day’s caloric intake every time I sniff myself.

I’m surprised that more humans aren’t eaten by bears.  Don’t they like to eat honey and berries?  I’m basically a walking grizzly treat.  Maybe the human fascination with smelling edible explains the actions of the Donner Party.  They simply mistook Bob for a loaf of bread.

My humour has now reached an all-time low.  Even for me.

1)  I admit it.  I leave the house smelling like an all-you-can-eat buffet.  But some of the food groups are omitted.  I don’t want to smell like the dairy aisle–particularly parmesan.  I reserve that for the days my feet sweat.  Nor do I want to smell like anything from the meat aisle.  A whiff of liver paste is not sexy.  Unless you’re a Schnauzer.

But the Demeter Fragrance Company has done the unthinkable.  They have captured the smell of lobster and bottled it.  Are they freakin’ nuts?  Who the hell wants to smell like a dead crustacean?

Let me permit Demeter’s, the company that has also bottled fragrances under the names “Earth Worm” and “Funeral Home” explain.  This is their take on this fragrance (polite way of saying stench):

It is a mix of “the sea, sweet meat, and a hint of drawn butter.”  Really.  Sweet Meat?  That sounds like a bar I know.

If you want to get yourself a waft of some seafood smell, you can find it here  http://www.demeterfragrance.com/58083/704130/All-Classic-Scents/Lobster.html

And, while you’re at it, you may want to visit your nose specialist.   You’ve got something seriously wrong.

2)  I could hardly discuss toiletries and “eau do toilette” with mentioning the toilet.  It is, after all, the most important toiletry item of all.  Without it, the world would be a much messier place.  And walking would be a perilous sport.  And no one would ever wear sandals.

But I digress.

Until today, I didn’t have a “dream toilet.”  I didn’t know it was even possible.  But now I do.  I want a Toto Neorest, the Guinness World Record Holder, for the toilet with the most functions.  The Lincoln of Latrines.  The Cadillac of Crappers.

Of course, it comes to us from the brilliant minds of the Japanese.  Seriously.  I so want to go to Tokyo!

This baby has a heated seat and a lid that automatically opens and closes–hopefully not while someone is standing in front of it.  Ouch.  Not only does it clean itself (now that’s my kind of toilet) and freshen the air around it, but it also washes and dries the user.  And, wait for it.  It has a…REMOTE CONTROL!   I get the whole “cool” factor, but it makes absolutely no sense to me.  As a germaphobe, I don’t want to be handling anything that people  have been poking with their butt-wiping hand.  Ack.  Great.  Now I have barf breath.

3)  Before I brush the vomit taste out of my mouth, I might as well get through the third item in today’s diatribe.

We’ve all been to “theme” restaurants.  You know–50s diners, Ponderosa-like nods to the Wild West, and restaurants that revolve around cartoon characters.  The food isn’t always the best, but they’re fun.

But some themes are simply not meant to be around food.  Meet Hong Kong’s Modern Toilet Restaurant.  I’m not making this up.  I have no problem with the glass-covered sink tables.  Or the plunger light fixtures.  I do, however, have trouble eating from a toilet.  Even a brightly coloured, miniature one.

To make it worse, many of the menu choices are–well, mushy and poop-like.  On purpose.  Turns out this is a multi-franchised hit.  Okay, so it would be cool to see.  But that’s where I draw the line.

There.  Now I can brush my teeth.

Photo Credits:  lobster fragrance (dailymakeover.com), grater (fonemenu.com), toilet bowl (hahaha) (intelligenttravel.nationalgeographic.com).  

Pass Me an Arm, Keep An Eye (or 3) On My Hair Hat, And Get Off My Beard

I am breathing a sigh of relief.  I am back to my blog–my comfy little corner of the on-line universe where I can unleash my inner weird and totally be myself.  Without fear of men dressed in white backing a van up my driveway and carting me away.  Mainly because they don’t know who Face Like A Frying Pan is.  I am safe in my anonymity.  My sleeves are not yet tied behind my back.

Something got me wondering the other day.  Why are there bald hairdressers?  Seriously.  First impressions mean a lot to me.  I won’t get my car fixed by someone who takes the bus.  Or rides a Schwinn.  I won’t use a realtor that lives in a shack.  Or worse, his parents’ basement.  And I won’t get my hair done by someone who doesn’t have any.

That may seem harsh, but practice makes perfect.  If someone said to me, “Please shave my face,” I wouldn’t know where to start.  I have a face, but it does not have hair on it.  Especially thanks to the girl who waxes my upper lip.  And, no, she doesn’t have a moustache.  If she did, I wouldn’t go to her.  But back to the point I was trying to make.  Homer Simpson knows how to shave.  He does it every morning.  He’s had practice.

Homer Simpson probably doesn’t know how to layer my hair.  He doesn’t have any hair to layer.  I sure as hell wouldn’t trust him with highlights, or heaven forbid, a perm.

Oh ya, and on unrelated topic.  I saw three matching gloves in the middle of the road the other day.  I know we’ve already discussed the whole “clothing on the street” thing, but this find disturbed me.  THREE GLOVES!  Who the hell needs three gloves?  Is there a strange new race nearby that has three arms?  Are they planning to take over the world?  I live really close to a nuclear power plant.  Anything is possible.

Wow!  I actually found a baby that was born with three arms.  There are many times that I wished I had an extra arm.  The world would call it a birth “defect,” but I think this little one is our superior for sure.  Three arms!  And I was disappointed that I didn’t inherit my family’s extra finger.

1)  Now here is a man that I would trust with my coif.   Seriously, this man knows his way around a hair follicle.  In fact, he is the Guinness World Record holder for the person with the longest beard.  His name is Sarwan Singh and he’s a fellow Canadian.  Maybe he grew it to keep warm.

At 7′ 9″, this hair snake hasn’t stopped growing.  I bet his he clogs the shower drain.  Does he worry about it strangling him in his sleep?

It would be quite ironic if under his turban lurked a shiny, bald head.

And if you happen to be a bald, aspiring hair stylist, there are ways to give the illusion of full and lustrous locks.  How about a hair hat?

Ravishing, aren’t they?

You can get these at http://www.prankplace.com

And, if those don’t work, try this:  

2) The Simpsons‘ nuclear (or as Homer says “nucular”) powerplant hasn’t caused three-armed humans–as far as we know–but it has created a species of three-eyed fish like Blinky, pictured here.  As far as cartoon fish go, Blinky is pretty cute.  Even with his extra feature.  But most real-life fish are–well-ugly.  My apologies to any readers who have ever  been told they resemble a piece of seafood in anyway.  And to anyone named Gill.  But let’s face it.  Fish look about as bad as they smell.  Except maybe clown fish.  They’re pretty cute.  And I hate clowns.

Okay, back to my original train of thought.  Fish are homely.  Imagine one with three eyes.  Yikes.  Not exactly something I’d want on my plate or in my aquarium.  But, apparently, an actual Blinky-type swimmer was caught in Argentina near a nuclear facility.

I rest my case.  There is a three-armed man hiding nearby.  And now he has no gloves.  He must be really pissed.

3) We’ve all heard of “hand soap,” but this is going a bit far.  Actually, these goat’s milk and glycerin amputations make me puke in my mouth a little.  I do that a lot.  Can you imagine going into someone’s guest bathroom and finding these waving at you?

I just got a huge shiver up my spine.

Does this mean that somewhere out there, there is a huge pile of armless soap torsos in someone else’s loo?

You can “arm” yourself with some of these creepy appendages at: http://aplusrstore.com/product.php?id=263

8 for 20 bucks.  It won’t cost you an arm and a leg…just an arm.  Hahaha.

Photo Credits: beard guy (mapleleafsikh.com), Blinky & Real Blinky (kuweight64.blogspot.ca) 

I’ll have a bug salad, a toe-nail in my sandwich, and one beak slurry please

I am constantly being ignored.  No, this is not merely an attention-craving rant by a narcissistic “what about me?” Generation X-er.  I am a member of Generation X.  And I do crave attention.  But neither one of these facts has anything to do with this.

I was always the kid in school who would put up her hand and never get called on.  Unless it was during math class.  I always got called on in math Class.  I think the teacher secretly enjoyed my blank, clueless expression and stammering.  But all my other teachers seemed oblivious to my very existence.

Even as a grown-up, my presence is often over-looked.  Particularly in line-ups.  The other day, I was next in line at the deli and the server asked the woman behind me what she wanted.  After years of this sort of thing happening, I have grown bolder and simply said to the woman behind me, “I guess I am invisible.”  Cheeky, eh?  The server looked astonished that I had called her out on her blatant disregard for my paltry synthetic smoked poultry needs.  “Oh, were you waiting to be served?” She asked.  Seriously, did she think that I was standing in line because I was short of better things to do?

This “ignore that red-head girl” attitude is not only foisted upon me by my fellow humans, but machines tend to ignore me too.  Especially automatic doors.  They refuse to open for me.  I could do Richard Simmons-styled arm flailing followed by a dash of Elaine Benes‘ awkward kick-dancing and still, the doors won’t budge.

That would look like this    with a touch of this added 

Not exactly something that is easy to ignore, is it?

At first, I attributed my failure to be noticed to my extreme lack of height.  It’s easy to overlook someone that is a foot shorter than you.  I ignore kids all the time.  Oops.  Did I say that?

But then, another thought occurred to me.  What if I’m not being ignored?  Maybe I’m invisible.  Or worse.  What if I am simply a figment of my own imagination and I do not exist at all?  Note to self:  Stop filing income tax.  I bet that will get me noticed.

1)  Sometimes being ignored at the deli counter is not a bad thing.  What the heck is mock chicken anyway?  Something else pretending to be a chicken?  And, I’m sorry, but baloney is just a flattened hot dog.  And we all know that hot dogs consist of a slurry of leftover animals parts.  And what’s with meat/macaroni loaf?  We know the meat isn’t meat, but is the noodle noodle?

I suppose it could be worse.  If I ever walked in to the Walmart canned meat section and found a can of water bugs–not just the ordinary ones either, but the GIANT ones–I would drop my groceries and flee the store emitting a scream so shrill that it would put Richard Simmons to shame.  I know.  Quit picking on the poor man.

Well, apparently our friends in Thailand do not possess this North American squeamishness.  Canned tuna is for wimps.  Cloverleaf salmon for the faint at heart.  If you want a hearty meal, whip up a water beetle salad sandwich.

Okay, that time I really did throw up in my mouth.

2)  There may be some things worse than a bug salad sandwich, albeit not many.  One would be a sandwich lovingly prepared by someone’s feet.

Yes, that’s exactly how comedian Rob Williams of Austin, TX likes his lunches.  Foot made.  Gross?  Very.  But his nimble toes have earned him the Guinness World Record for the fastest sandwich made with one’s feet.

He whipped up a culinary masterpiece stuffed with baloney (he had to remove the rind), cheese (his toes managed to rip off the plastic wrapper),  tomato, mustard, mayo, pickles and lettuce , complete with olives on sticks, in a mere 1 minute and 57 seconds.  This included slicing the sandwich in half with his toes.  That’s some fancy footwork.

Toe jam sandwich, anyone?

Homer Simpson only has four toes.  He could never make sandwiches with his feet.

3)  I’ve always maintained that TV can be highly educational.  Unfortunately, I gravitate to more low-brow fare; therefore, my nightly education is limited to…well…this–the stuff you see in my blog.

Last night’s episode of Shipping Wars proved very enlightening.  To me.  One of the shipments turned out to be a 400 pound replica of the Simpson’s clan sitting in their trademark pose on the family couch.  According to the seller, only 86 of these movie theatre props were released to the public.

As much as I love it, I seriously could never justify dedicating a prime sofa location to fibreglass people–no matter how cute they are.  Plus, they look like a bugger to dust.

Photo Credits:  canned bug (www.sodahead.com), foot sandwich (http://www.robsho.com/), simpson clan (www.trendhunter.com), Bart (www.photoshoppix.com).

Ink on my feet, Froot Loops in my eyes, and a Handful of Vomit

My husband has been looking for a pair of reasonably priced black sandals for much of the summer.  He’s a tad bit picky.  And he has big feet.  Like skin-coloured scuba flippers.  With hair.  Well, he finally found a pair of affordable and massive footwear and bought a pair of spongy, comfy, and (hopefully successful) odour-eating insoles.  The insoles, however, were an unsightly loud colour and stood out like a sore thumb (or should I say toe) against the black.

Now, my husband is a very resourceful type.  No conundrum is too great for his mental prowess.  Don’t like the colour of your insoles?  No problem.  That’s what black permanent markers are for.  Well, after covering the obnoxious orange with flat black he modelled his fancy feet for me.  I was impressed.  “Very nice,” I probably said.  Or something like that.

The next morning, I entered the shower and was dismayed by the charcoal briquette-coloured footprints on the usually shiny porcelain.  Was there a giant licorice baby on the prowl?  Mm.  Licorice.

No.  No mutant snack foods around here.  Apparently, permanent marker is no match for a pair of sweaty size 13s.

1)  Yesterday was National Mustard Day.  If any condiment deserved a day of its very own, I would say its mustard.  So I suppose you are wondering why the heck I have a picture of broccoli (yup, that’s broccoli) on a post dedicated to mustard.  Or maybe you’re not wondering at all, but let’s just pretend you are.

According to the British Journal of Nutrition, we should be dousing our cooked broccoli spears with the yellow condiment.  Cooking broccoli kills its myrosinase–an enzyme that enables us to absorb the cancer-fighting and anti-diabetic compound, sulforaphane.  Mustard is high in myrosinase, so problem solved.

Head hurts.  Too many big words.

But seriously, mustard on broccoli?  Gack.  Just threw up in my mouth a bit over that one.

2) Speaking of throwing up–meet the Guinness Book of World Records‘ oldest vomit.

I don’t know quite what to say about this other than, “Ick.  Who the hell would want to hold a chunk of puke?”  Which is immediately followed by, “And who the hell would want a picture of them holding a chunk of puke?”  I’m sure this guy is a hero among his archaeologist friends.  This could be why I don’t have any archaeologist friends.  Some things should remain buried in dirt.

Well, back to the vomit.  Found in Peterborough, UK, it is believed to be 160 million years old.  What has something got to eat to have its barf last millions of decades?  Definitely not the cereal I had this morning.  Even if it was Fibre 1.  But that’s a whole other story.

3)  When I was a kid, I was taught it was wrong to play with my food.  I wonder if my failure to succeed as a cereal artist can be traced back to this rule?  Yes, I said CEREAL artist.  If I had been allowed to play with my Froot Loops (mm.  Froot Loops), I could have been the one to create one of these masterpieces.

My apologies to all the archaeologists out there.  I am sure you are quite interesting people.  No, really.

Photo Credits:  broccoli head (www.watson.org), vomit (www.newscientist.com), Larry King (www.metro.co.uk), Obama (www.buzzfeed.com), Pamela Anderson (www.metro.co.uk), Jerry Seinfeld (www.fakedpotatoes.com), Rice Krispie goose (http://sweetandunsavoury.blogspot.ca/),