A rodent shot me, I bit my ear, and my breath smells like baby powder.

I have often been told that I have a…um…unique way of looking at life.  I blame my parents.  My mother has accidentally brushed her teeth with squeeze-tubed deodorant.  She has also failed to notice that instead of applying lip gloss to her lips, she had actually smeared them with a generous helping of creamy blue eyeshadow.  Yes, my mother has experienced a huge number of cosmetic catastrophes over the years.  And, she is also a distracted walker.  If there is a groundhog hole within a five mile radius, she will find it, and her five-foot-zero frame will fall into it up to her chin.  She’s pissed off a lot of rodents.  Don’t even get me started on the time she cross-country skied into a parked car.

"Always with the legs in my hole.  Next time I shoot."

“Always with the legs in my hole. Next time I shoot.”

My father is equally entertaining, particularly when he is attempting to be a Mr. Fix-it–something that does not come naturally to him.  Or to any other member of my family.  He has drilled through the front of his t-shirt–while still wearing it, come within seconds of knocking a large sledgehammer onto his skull, and regularly displays his latest wounds with pride.  He never knows where or when he got them.  It would appear that I got my lack of sense–shut up–gene from him.  He has driven into my car, the side of his garage doorway–and probably other things that he hasn’t told us about.  Did I tell you that we’re not the most observant bunch?  And that we seem to lack spatial reasoning.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=77PymmxMLJM

I have no siblings to pick apart, but I’m sure they would have been equally strange.  Our pets were always neurotic.  Especially the French poodle.  He wasn’t actually French.  In fact, he came with a Mexican name.  I think I acquired my neurotic tendencies from him.  After all, what self-respecting dog demands that his ears get tied in a knot on top of his head every time he eats?  Neurotic.  Good thing I don’t have long floppy ears.  My husband would never take me out for supper–with all the ear-tying and stuff.

Is it me or does this water taste thick and creamy?

Is it me or does this water taste thick and creamy?

1)  In the year 2013, our deodorant is unlikely to come in a squeeze tube–perhaps due to a large number of tooth-brushing accidents in the late ’60s.  I don’t imagine that ingesting antiperspirant  is good for one’s health.  Namely because our guts don’t sweat.  I wonder if swallowing a large amount of deodorant would dry up your innards.  Maybe science should examine this as a possible way to do away with excess water weight.

My point is–and I do have one–that some products lend themselves to a certain type of packaging.  Deodorant belongs in those hard plastic containers that look like stubby people with no arms.

Milk belongs in cartons or jugs.  I would never think of drinking it from a fountain or a garden hose.  Water, however, should never come from a carton.  It seems unnatural–no matter what the folks at Boxed Water is Better tell me.  I need to see my water before I drink it.  Only yellow, lumpy water would hide itself in a carton.  And this girl doesn’t drink water with solids in it.  Ack.

Can you get me an extra large Q-tip please?

Can you get me an extra large Q-tip please?

2)  My dog had fairly ordinary ears, but he had one of those side-by-side water/food dish combos and he hated getting his ears wet.  This is understandable.  It must be annoying to have to drink ear water.

Now, the dog with the world’s longest ears has real problems.  This is Harbor, the Coonhound, from Boulder, Colorado.  He is a tad bit asymmetrical–sort of like a woman’s natural boobs–as he has one ear that measures 13.5 inches long, while the other is a demure 12.25 inches.  Ladies, very few of us have two breasts that are the exact same size.  And yes, I have just given men a new reason to grope their nearest and dearest.  But like Harbor the Dog’s ear, our disproportional mammaries give us character.  Even if we do list to one side.

I'm a little accident prone.  This makes me sad.

I’m a little accident prone. This makes me sad.

3) Due to my lack of spatial reasoning, my poorly honed observational skills, and my innate klutziness, I decided to conduct some research to find out what car I should never ever own.  It turns out that the internet is ripe with lists of the most accident-prone vehicles.  Here are few that I found.  The Insurance Institute for Highway Safety states that the top 3 wounded vehicles in 2012 were:

3) Chevrolet Aveo

2) Suzuki 4X4

1) Toyota Yaris

If you live in the UK, the Telegraph provides this top 3:

3) Lexus RX

2) Volvo XC90

1) Honda FR-V

Thankfully, my car is none of these.  I can, therefore, keep it.  And my ears can blow in the breeze.

Photo credits: renegade groundhog (http://www.personal.psu.edu/jac5682/fun.htm), boxed milk (http://www.eatdrinkdo.com/index.php/2010/11/bottled-water-fights-back/), Harbor the Dog (http://www.guinnessworldrecords.com/news/video-meet-harbor-the-new-dog-with-the-longest-ears-in-the-world/), Sad Car (http://toomuchfree-time.blogspot.ca/2011/02/sad-car-is-sad.html).

Sheepdogs and Sandals Don’t Mix.

I truly appreciate you, my loyal followers.  For this reason, I have decided to impart two very valuable life lessons that I learned at an early age.

Never wear sandals when playing within 100 feet of a large Sheepdog.  If you do not have access to a change of shoes, proceed with caution–and never, ever run.  You are likely shaking your head and thinking, ” this woman is an idiot.  I will wear sandals while playing with a Sheepdog if I want to.  Heck, I’ll play with a whole herd of Sheepdogs in my bare feet.”  I understand these thoughts.  After all, who am I to tell you how to dress your feet?  I can simply offer you the following cautionary tale.

You know they're shifty when they hide their eyes behind their fur.

You know they’re shifty when they hide their eyes behind their fur.

I was nine years old and the world was my oyster.  School was out for the summer and I looked forward to two whole months of stalking the cute neighbourhood teenage boys with my friends.  And the lady down the street had just bought a Sheepdog puppy.  I had never actually hung out with a Sheepdog–and my parents hadn’t yet given in to my whiny request for a canine of my own.  This wizened neighbour decided to form a saprophytic relationship with the local children.  We were blessed with the healthful benefits of walking her greatly coveted dog, while she had the luxury of remaining in front of her TV set, enjoying the latest episode of Three’s Company.

"Thank God I didn't have to miss this riveting episode in which Jack lands himself in quite the pickle."

“Thank God I didn’t have to miss this riveting episode in which Jack lands himself in quite the pickle.”

 

It seemed that the neighbourhood children all took the same root for these dog-walking excursions–the sidewalk in front of my house.  Keep this information in mind because it will be important later.

If my sidewalk had a sign, it would say this--without the Japanese characters.

If my sidewalk had a sign, it would say this–without the Japanese characters.

Now, this is where I must interrupt myself and present life lesson number two.  Never trust a slightly older childhood friend who offers you dried cherries from a zip-lock bag–no matter how well you think you know her.

Never trust anyone who offers you candy.

Never trust anyone who offers you candy.

I will now resume my tale.

It was a sunny day and my friends and I were sitting in the grass clump in the middle of our circle–we lived in garden home condominiums, in case our circle is confusing to you.  It actually wasn’t really a circle.  More of a rectangle with round corners.  Anyway, the slightly older and presumably wiser member of our clan offered everyone some of her cherry delicacies.  My fellow 9-year-olds exchanged nervous glances.  Unfortunately, I was the child who was usually willing to try almost anything–I like to think of myself as adventurous, but others may have said I was stupid.  The older girl recognized my stupidity   adventurous nature, and added, “They’re really good if you take a handful and let them melt in your mouth.”  I should have questioned the ability of a cherry to “melt” and, I definitely should have heeded the snicker of the other older kid–the mean one with the massive freckles and bowl-shaped hairdo.  But I am an idiot.

Okay, maybe I'm not a complete idiot.

It’s nice to know that there is someone dumber than I am.

I popped a generous helping of dehydrated “cherries” and proceeded to find out what it would feel like to have a grenade go off in your mouth.  The cherries were in fact some type of high grade pimento.  I was sure that my mouth skin was actually on fire.  Surely, my tongue had disintegrated.  I leapt to my feet and sprinted towards my kitchen–a reliable source of flame-dampening tap water.  That’s when it happened.  I heard a barely audible squishing sound and felt something soft and warm ooze between my toes.

I looked down at my feet and wiped the fire-induced tears from my eyes.  It was as I feared.  My foot was completely covered in fresh sheepdog poop.

This will teach him to poop on my sidewalk.

This will teach him to poop on my sidewalk.

Now, I was presented with an entirely new dilemma–run into the house to put out the inferno that was formerly my mouth, but leave a trail of poopy footprints in my wake.  Or look for a puddle or sprinkler to wash my shit-smeared appendage in, but lose several layers of mouth skin in the process.  I stood on my front lawn in a state of utter confusion and discomfort.  I must have been making some sort of noise–likely wailing–because suddenly my mother appeared.  She was here to save me…and my mouth…and my poop-covered foot.

Thankfully, the flesh in my mouth did survive and my foot is no longer brown.  But I learned two valuable lessons that day–never be the guinea pig when it comes to strange good.  And sandals and sheepdogs don’t mix.

 

I invite you to check out the latest post on my other blog:  http://searchingforbarryweiss.wordpress.com/2013/06/03/i-cheer-barry-cheers-we-all-cheer-for-thom-beers/

Photo credits:  Sheep dog lineup (http://www.nocaptionneeded.com/2008/02/madonna-and-the-santa-clones-at-the-dog-show/), Three’s Company (http://www.threescompany.com/tcompany/www/history.html), usual route (http://bethedos.wordpress.com/2013/01/13/the-challenge-of-change/usual-route/), Gene Wilder 9http://memegenerator.net/instance/35985519), idiot (http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=idiot),  pelt (http://www.pointtrade.co.uk/191880/fancy-dress-old-english-sheep-dog),

I’ll have my toast extra black please with a side order of scabs. And get that spoon out of my ear.

I seem to attract weirdos.  Shut up.  I know what you’re thinking.

But seriously, I am like a giant fly strip for freaks.  I have yet to meet another person that has been chased down the street by a guy in an electric wheel chair accompanied by a limping lackey with a case of 24 beer on his shoulder.  All I remember is someone shouting “Get Her!” and the pursuit was on.  It’s hard to outrun someone in a motorized device.  You know, with them having a motor and all.  Plus, this was back in the day of those pointy pumps.  You know.  The ones from the ’80s that came in every colour under the sun, but were really ugly.  Unfortunately, that was what I was wearing.  Ecru pumps.  And I hadn’t had the lifts done recently.  Needless to say, I made it to my house and locked the door.  And moved away shortly after.

Run FLAPF!  Run!

Run FLAPF! Run!

Have you ever had a customer ask you for a cover for his banking passbook and tell you he eats them?  I have.  And when I laughed (because, naturally, I thought he was joking), he gave me a dirty look and said they only require a little salt.  He seemed deadly serious about it all.  He didn’t really look like a person whose diet consisted of plastic bank book covers–not that I know exactly what that would look like.  I imagine it would involve broken teeth and the need to remain in a hunched-up, cramped position–due to the intestinal blockage and all.

Apparently, a little salt makes these a tasty treat.

Apparently, a little salt makes these a tasty treat.

Do  you regularly get winked at by octogenarians in mudflap hats–you know, the hunting style hat with the ears that hang down?  I do.  Perhaps, this only happens in Canada.

If it's wearing this hat, it will wink at me.

If it’s wearing this hat, it will wink at me.

I spent an entire flight with a strange man’s head on my shoulder.  He was snoring.  I was younger then–kinder and gentler–and I didn’t have the heart to wake him up.  Plus, his head didn’t seem to have anything crawling in it.  Nor were his shoulders coated in dandruff.  Today, I would probably snap his head off my shoulder so hard it would land in someone’s kosher meal on the other side of the plane.  I’ve become jaded over the years.  Too many weirdos.

And no, it's not snow.

And no, it’s not snow.

This is just a small sampling of the weirdos that I have encountered.  I’ll save the others for later blogs.  Don’t want to use up my best material in one post.  Hehe.

I collect things–other than weirdos–so I wondered what weirdos collect.  Besides passbook covers.  And strange hats.

Mm.  Charcoal donut with charcoal filling.

Mm. Charcoal donut with charcoal filling.

1)  It would seem that some weirdos have a penchant for burning food and calling it “art.”  First of all, why would you purposely set out to burn your food?  Didn’t their parents tell that them that there are starving children in Africa?  Second of all, burnt food stinks and it leaves a horrific odour in your house for days–and nothing is worse than the smell of a burnt carbohydrate.  Lastly, who in their right mind is going to pay money to see a collection of burnt food?  I could visit a remedial home economics class and see this for free.  But, then again, I have to think like a weirdo.  They probably eat this stuff right up.  Figuratively and literally.

If you are a weirdo–which is quite likely (after all, I do attract  them), you may wish to pay a visit to the Museum of Burnt Food in Arlington, Mass.  Yes, you and nine of your friends can endure enjoy a 90-minute “interactive theatrical tour experience that combines an engaging mix of character, observation, humor, discussion and performance-art” (burntfoodmuseum.com).  What is the price for this revolting riveting experience?  Now here is where it gets really weird–$500.  Yes, this is for the weirdo elite.

At least they throw in a harpist.  ‘Cuz nothing goes with a burnt waffle better than the angelic sounds of a harp.  And a negative bank account balance.

This one rendered me speechless.  Yup...I've still got nothin'

This one rendered me speechless. Yup…I’ve still got nothin’

2)  In case you’ve ever wondered what kind of tattoo a weirdo would get, I think I have that figured out too.  Most people want a tattoo that says something that is personally meaningful to them in their “human” lives.  I stress the word human.  You know–a motto, a loved one’s name, a favourite animal/bug/plant/etc.  Someone who has truly mastered the art of weirdness, however, walks into a tattoo shop and says, “Hey.  I’m tired of being a human.  I think that today I want to be a cat.  A wild, spotted, man-eating cat.”

That’s exactly what Tom Leppard, Scot and former recluse, did.  And his feline transformation didn’t stop at his flesh.  He had some teeth removed and others made into sharp, cat-like fangs.  If you’re going to become another species, you might as well go all out.

I wonder what came first–the name or the spots?  And if his last name was Foot, what would he have done?

Obviously invented by one of those guys that sticks his keys in his ears and then licks them.

Obviously invented by one of those guys that sticks his keys in his ears and then licks them.

3)  Even a weirdo has to eat, but what would be a weirdo’s food of choice?  Probably something weird.  And, maybe, a little gross.

People seem to love to talk about the nose-pickers of the world–the ones that sit in their cars at a red light and embark on an elbow-deep archaeological dig right there.  They seem to forget that their windows are see-through.  Well, what about the ear-pickers that walk amongst us?  Should they not also share some of the shame?  Especially the ones that grab a handy pointed object and turn it into an putty knife for ear wax.  Ack.  Has no one told them the “don’t put anything in your ears that is smaller than your elbow” rule?

As you know, I am a tad bit neurotic.  I have now just added yet another phobia to my list–other people’s keys.  The  thought of my skin coming in touch with someone else’s ear gunk is horrifying.  When we use a Q-tip we throw it out for that exact reason.  If ear wax was something to be passed on to your friends and neighbours, we would keep our dirty cotton swabs on stick and mail them to our nearest and dearest.  If you stick your key in your ear, throw it out.

Anyways, back to weirdo food.  I’m sure that weirdos partake in all sorts of strange edibles–A Box of Boogers, Toe Jam Cotton Candy, and the occasional candy scab.  But I’m sure that they’re preferred epicurean delight is a healthy helping of Ear Wax Candy.  And they can eat it straight from an ear.  With a custom-designed Q-tip.

I know I’ve been sort of hard on weirdos in this post, but I have to admit that I am hugely indebted to them.  Without weird people, I wouldn’t have anything to write about.  So, in honour of the weirdos of the world, I dedicate this 1970’s Canadian classic to you.  It may seem like a “weird” song choice, but with the line “long-haired freaky people need not apply,” I thought it was apropos.

Signs by 5 Man Electrical Band

A special shout out to my buddy http://onthehomefrontandbeyond.wordpress.com/2013/05/21/unblissful-signs/ who recently blogged about this exact song.

 

If you want more, visit my latest post to my other blog here: http://searchingforbarryweiss.wordpress.com/2013/05/31/to-flub-or-not-to-flub-barry-weiss-sets-hitches-his-sitcom-star-to-the-great-white-north/

Photo credits:  Forrest Gump (http://forrestgump227.wordpress.com/symbolism/), passbook cover (http://banksupplies.com/passbook-cover-3-x-4.html),  Walter Matthau (http://www.aveleyman.com/FilmCredit.aspx?FilmID=7768), Burnt donut (http://www.burntfoodmuseum.com/exhibits/bagel.htm), Leopard Man (http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/weird-news/leopard-man-changes-his-spots-and-returns-352271), Ear Wax (http://listverse.com/2008/04/13/top-10-most-disgusting-candies-ever/),