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.


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/),

My Highly Dysfunctional, Obsessive Compulsive, Neurotic baby is ONE!

So, the Embiggens Project has finally reached it’s first birthday.  I feel bad because I have neglected my first born for the last month as a multitude of other projects have overwhelmed me.  And I feel even badder–I know that ‘s not a word, but it just feels right–that I have been out of touch with my blogging friends.  I think about you often and have been accumulating page after page of e-mail notifications about your posts.  And I will be reading them.  I promise.  The “delete” button and my finger shall never come in contact.

I have learned some really bizarre–and useless–things during my research for the Embiggens Project.  Not only have I grown new dendrites (I hope.  I’m sure the old ones were defective), but I have become quite a great conversationalist at parties.  Although I rarely have time for parties.  In fact, my blog has led to all types of great writing assignments.  Which have led to one hectic life.  Which has led to having no time for fun.  Or blogging.  So, in twelve short months, the Embiggens Project has annihilated my social life.  And, ironically, this blog has led to me having no time to blog.  It would appear that the Embiggens Project has suicidal tendencies.

But, I am determined to get back to my first born and give it the loving that it deserves.  I miss it.  And I miss you.  And I hope to rekindle our friendships.

And as a fitting tribute to my eldest child, I will give you a post from it’s little sibling “Searching for Barry Weiss.”



Big Hugs and Lots of Love to you all,

Face Like A Frying Pan,  aka FLAFP or “Kim” in the three dimensional world

A one-armed Mickey, a duck with skates, and a kid with a hole in his head

My dad worked for one of Canada’s Big 5 banks, and up until I was around five years old, I believed that his bank was, by far, the best.  So, what earth-shattering event took place at such a young age that could destroy a child’s faith in the high world of finance?  I admit that a grade one student whose entire financial experience resided in a tiny copper piggy bank hadn’t likely developed a understanding of banks at all–they were big building that had lots of money in them.  And one of them had a desk  for my dad.  So, okay–I didn’t exactly have a huge emotional attachment to any institution.   The only objects that I truly trusted were my rubber Avon Snoopy soapdish, my talking Bugs Bunny, and a hand-made British bear  that seemed to suffer from an identity crisis–it “mooed” when I turned it upside down.  Don’t ask.

My Snoopy soapdish looked like this.  And I loved him.

My Snoopy soapdish looked like this. And I loved him.

The day that I learned that my “daddy’s work” sucked began with a giant set of Tinker Toys.  Don’t get me wrong.  Tinker Toys are great.  They are, perhaps, the greatest toy ever created.  And these weren’t just ordinary sticks and connecting wheels.  These were GIANT.  The problem with these particular Tinker Toys was that they had the audacity to show up at the home of my arch nemesis.  Yes, I had one of those.

Seriously, what kid wouldn't want to build their own Flintstone car?

Seriously, what kid wouldn’t want to build their own Flintstone car?

He was a short redhead–much like myself.  You would think we would have been great allies.  But he was a natural sniveler who loved to run to his mother every time one of the other neighbourhood boys gave in to the temptation to punch him in the freckle, push him off the monkey bars, or step on his throat.  And, as the lone girl amongst a gaggle of boys, he often pointed his accusatory (and nose-picking) finger in my direction.

Some kids just seem to scream out "step on my throat."

Some kids just seem to scream out “step on my throat.”

And his mother was an equal opportunity yeller.  She had no problems screaming and waving her manicured finger (which I also suspect spent a great deal of time up her nose) at me too.

Monster kid loved to get other kids in trouble–hence the permanent shoe print on his larynx.  His favourite method of torturing me was to jump on my bed as loudly as he could, wait for my mother to come in and tell us to knock it off, and then point his aforementioned snot-digging digit in my direction and say, “she did it.”  My mom was on to his evil ways, and simply rolled her eyes–at least that’s what my 45-year-old self imagines that she did.  It turns out that the big square lightshade over my bed was tired of this kid–and it was determined to do something about him.

Look at it.  All innocent looking.  But what is it really thinking?

Look at it. All innocent looking. But what is it really thinking?

Shortly after, brat boy was leaping his little heart out–as if he actually had one–soaring higher and higher into the air.  He grinned and let out a maniacal laugh, which must have infuriated my lightshade because the next thing I knew, its corner was stuck in the side of my nemesis’ head.  I was horrified.  And impressed that the kid had actually jumped high enough to hit the light in the first place.  But I was mostly horrified.  I imagine that I quickly scooted my stuffed friends off my bed and away from the wounded kid’s blood–and cooties.

It's damn hard to get blood out of fun fur.

It’s damn hard to get blood out of fun fur.

That is also the day that I learned that people could actually be “sewn” back up.  Freaky.

And, from that moment on, I looked at my lightshade with a new-found respect and awe.  On the one hand, I was thankful for its display of allegiance.  But, I was also leery of ever getting on its bad side.

Humans are like "build your own bears."  They CAN be stitched back together.

Humans are like “build your own bears.” They CAN be stitched back together.

But I must get back to the Tinker Toys.  Yes, it did bother me that this whiny little monster had a set, while I had to be satisfied (which I no longer was) with a regular, 5-year-old hand-sized, wooden set of sticks and connecting wheels.  Yes, I could make cars–but I could NOT sit in them.  This disturbed me to no end. 

The biggest problem with these gigantic Tinker Toys was that they were a gift from his father’s employer–another one of Canada’s big 5 banks.  My father, who I thought was the smartest man in the world, had made the horrifying error of working for the wrong bank.  The one that gave out free pencils with their logo on them.  Big whoop.  And not the one that gave out mammoth-sized children’s toys.

Hm.  Maybe I could have had fun with those damn pencils.

Hm. Maybe I could have had fun with those damn pencils.

So, today I have decided to celebrate some of the best toys–giant and regular sized–that played an important role in my childhood.  And to everyone else who is between the ages of…er…forty and fifty, these may bring back a few memories for you too.

Santa and his "elves" endured a very late Christmas Eve due to "some assembly required" and a whole whack of little stickers.

Santa and his “elves” endured a very late Christmas Eve due to “some assembly required” and a whole whack of little stickers.

My very first hi-fi.  I actually played Humble Pie on this baby.

My very first hi-fi. I actually played Humble Pie on this baby.

My Mickey Mouse tracing desk.  I'm sensing a Mickey theme here.

My Mickey Mouse tracing desk. I’m sensing a Mickey theme here.

I can't believe I actually found my favourite puzzle online!

I can’t believe I actually found my favourite puzzle online!

I know that I've always said I hated dolls.  I should say that I hated non-Barbie like dolls.  Charlie's Angels were cool.

I know that I’ve always said I hated dolls. I should say that I hated non-Barbie like dolls. Charlie’s Angels were cool.

Lite Brite rocked.  Clowns, however, are social deviant freaks.

Lite Brite rocked. Clowns, however, are social deviant freaks.

Loved it when the cars when flying off the tracks.

Loved it when the cars went flying off the tracks.

Yup, I tumbled me some rocks.

Yup, I tumbled me some rocks.

I don't think my mini pinball game had astronauts on it--but it was orange.

I don’t think my mini pinball game had astronauts on it–but it was orange.

Loved to watch the Brady Bunch episode where Cindy and Bobby get lost in the Grand Canyon.  Unfortunately, they were found.  Alive.

Loved to watch the Brady Bunch episode where Cindy and Bobby get lost in the Grand Canyon. Unfortunately, they were found. Alive.

What were your favourite childhood toys?  And, did you have an arch enemy?  

Photo credits: Giant Tinker Toy <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/alifeinbalance/6580464709/”>A Life in Balance</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/”>cc</a>, Brat (http://rantersbox.blogspot.ca/2010/07/excuse-me-your-child-is-freaking-little.html),ceiling light (http://www.apartmenttherapy.com/how-to-replace-ugly-rental-cei-46416), bear (http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b008dk4b/profiles/shop-buildabearPencils ( http://www.hiddeninfrance.typepad.com/hidden_in_france/2007/10/tara-donovans-i.html), Barbie bus (http://www.rcgroups.com/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=5077528), Mickey Mouse record player (http://disneylandrecords.blogspot.ca/2008/07/mickey-mouse-record-player.html), Mickey Tracing desk (ebay.com), Puzzle (http://gamesmuseum.uwaterloo.ca/VirtualExhibits/disney/),  Charlie’s Angels (http://www.misfittoys.net/wp/blog/2012/02/22/charlies-angels-dolls-vintage-1977-tv-series-stars/ ), Lite Brite (http://4photos.net/en/image:162-77809-Light_Bright_Clown_images), Hot wheels racing track (https://hotwheelsracetracks.wordpress.com/2012/12/04/1970-hot-wheels-sizzlers-newport-pacer-set/#comment-285), rock tumbler (http://rocktumbler.com/blog/smithsonian-rock-tumbler-rolling-stones-rock-tumbler/),

Hm. Pretty. Pink snow, rubber glove faces, and tongues of fur.

Holy crappy crapperson!  In a period of twenty-four freakin’ hours we went from fields of green–okay, it’s spring, so they weren’t quite green.  More like fields of mud and straw, but I digress–to being buried in snow.  I know.  I live in Canada.  I should be used to snow.  After all, I live in a bloody igloo, right?  I’ve got a dozen huskies and a sleigh parked in the driveway.  NOT.  No matter what misconceptions you may possess about the land that we Canucks call home–snow in April is weird.  And wrong.

As I look out my kitchen window donning my darkest shades–snow is blindingly bright–I can’t help but wonder, “What would the world look like if snow wasn’t white?”  Imagine everything covered in a blanket of yellow.  Ew.  Nix that idea.  I keep hearing my uncle’s warning, “Never eat yellow snow.”  His wisdom is a thing to be treasured.

Who in the hell has been pissing in my yard?

Who in the hell has been pissing in my yard?

I thought perhaps red–being green’s complimentary colour–might liven up the landscape.  But then how would anyone know if a mass murder has taken place in their back yard?

Maybe we’d best go with a hue that is close to red, but different enough to allow massive bloodstains to remain visible.  Fuchsia.  Seasonal Affective Disorder sufferers would benefit from this.  How can anyone be depressed in a hot pink world?  Tourists from “snowless” territories would flock to the North en masse.  Seriously, who wouldn’t want to build a fuchsia snowperson?

If snow was always red, this wouldn't be funny.

If snow was always red, this wouldn’t be funny.

Then again, look at what happened to the poor pink Teletubby.  Would small children be “warned” against the evils of building hot pink snowmen.  Apparently, “real men”–and Teletubbies–don’t wear pink.

Don't hate me because I'm pink.  Hate me because I'm ugly.

Don’t hate me because I’m pink. Hate me because I’m ugly.

One problem.  Pink snow would probably stain clothing.  Anyone who’s ever spilled a bottle of Pepto Bismol on white carpeting will know that pink is a bitch to get out.

Imagine French Kissing this thing?

Imagine French Kissing this thing?

1)  I haven’t eaten breakfast yet–and, after looking at this monstrosity, I don’t think I will.  Ack.  But speaking of strange-coloured things and Pepto Bismol made me think of the fact that an ingredient for the tummy-taming goop can actually turn your tongue black.  The culprit, Bismuth, can temporarily–thank God–transform a perfectly normal pink tongue into this.  Bismuth is designed to be consumed with water, so if you chew a tablet and don’t rinse right away, this could happen to you.  And, let’s face it, tongues are creepy at the best of times–all bumpy and covered in spit–but add some black fur and you’ve got yourself the star of a low-budget horror flick.

Apparently, black tongue isn’t harmful–unless you’ve got a hot date that night–and can be removed with some serious brushing.  Lucky toothbrush.

He's gonna go for the tongue, I just know it.

He’s gonna go for the tongue, I just know it.

There is nothing uglier than a tanned face.  Other than the contraption designed to prevent a tanned face.

There is nothing uglier than a tanned face. Other than the contraption designed to prevent a tanned face.

2) It would appear that in China, a tanned face is as undesirable as a black tongue.  And they will go to great lengths to maintain a porcelain complexion–lengths that include strapping on a face-shaped rubber glove.  Hm, nothing like the intoxicating aroma of latex and sweat on a warm summer day. Meet the Facekini–a sun protection device that resembles a Halloween mask gone awry.

Speaking of horror flicks, can you image a beach filled with these seemingly hairless, rubber-faced, crayon-coloured creatures?  They don’t even have eyebrows.  And the Facekini doesn’t even hide black tongues.

Has no one in China ever heard of SPF 60?

Apparently, being cute doesn't make you popular.

Apparently, being cute doesn’t make you popular.

3)  I still haven’t had breakfast and I have no idea what to have.  My conundrum made me wonder what America’s best-selling cereal is.  It turns out that the preferred cereal is not a flake, nor a crispy, and neither is it a cluster.  It is simply an “o”–a cheery one at that.

Yes, Cheerios may not boast an adorable mascot–unless you’re into the Honey Nut variety–but it can lay claim to more devoted fans than any other cold breakfast cereal.

Interestingly, Canadians also favour this vowel produced by General Mills.

Sorry, Sam.  You’re Froot Loops are pretty, but we prefer our circles bland.  And our boxes boring and yellow.

Crap, it’s lunchtime.  Gotta go.

Photo Credits:  Fur tongue (orabrush.com), worried toothbrush (drawception.com), Facekini (feeldesain.com), Teletubby (tvguide.com), yellow snow (furturemoons.com), wounded snowpeople (ibeatyou.com), Cornelius (retroplanet.com).

I like my pillow done extra crispy with a bowl of goat grass and a side order of dangling boogers.

How can a face be both greasy and dry?  Surely, one’s sebaceous glands could learn to work in tandem and produce a consistent, even layer of oil.  Not enough to make your face look like it could butter a slab of toast, but enough that you don’t walk around all day with flakes of dead skin congregating around your peeling nostrils like a bunch of renegade boogers.

Okay, Toni Braxton.  Is that dry skin or a nasty old booger?

Okay, Toni Braxton. Is that dry skin or a nasty old hunk of snot?

Most people experience a greasy T-zone.  My face does not know the alphabet.  It is basically illiterate.  My oily patches form more of a W.  A big-ass W.  Keep in mind that I hit puberty over thirty years ago.  I should be enjoying that point of life between having a teenage bumpy face and developing a visage that looks like well-worn leather.  The years between zits and wrinkles that most people get to enjoy.  I should not be clinging to a complexion that looks like I’ve been bobbing for apples in a vat of vasoline.

Should I believe those supposed altruistic celebrities that swear by ProActive or should I listen to the old lady at church that recommends a face full of mayo?  On the one hand, ProActive’s endorsers get paid to compliment it.  And, on the other hand, the old lady at church has skin like an over-microwaved pea.

Would you take skincare advice from this?

Would you take skincare advice from this?

I know.  An oily face will keep me looking young.  But I am tire of pimples.  Blind people keep mistaking my face for braille.

But enough about me.

1.  Did you know that a stye is basically a zit in the eye?  Ack.  Again, I must ask–what the heck is up with sebaceous glands?  Does anyone really need grease in their eyes?  Well, here is an interesting stye fact.  Another word far a “stye in the inner corner of the eye” is an AEGILOPS.  According to the Guinness Book of World Records, Aegilops is also the longest English word with its letters in alphabetical order.  I just bet your life wasn’t complete without knowing that little fact.  It is also a type of goatgrass, but who really cares about that?

I guess he does.

Did somebody say "goatgrass?"

Did somebody say “goatgrass?”

2.  Some people suffer from really over-active oil glands.  I worry about their pillows.  No seriously.  Would you want to absorb some greasy person’s face juice all night long?  I wondered if anyone has constructed a pillow with oily sleepers in mind.  It turns out that they have.

Nothing soaks up grease like a hamburger bun.  Just ask a burger.

Nothing soaks up grease like a hamburger bun. Just ask a burger.

Finally, a guy who won't mind if I get face grease on his shirt.

Finally, a guy who won’t mind if I get face grease on his shirt.

A pillow that you can blame for your greasy face.

A pillow that you can blame for your greasy face.

Perfect after a night of zit picking.

Perfect after a night of zit picking.

And I found this baby at http://jenniferandjonny.wordpress.com/2012/02/23/48/#comment-20…for the person who has simply given up.

The "I can't stand my oil slick of a face anymore" pillow.

The “I can’t stand my oil slick of a face anymore” pillow.

3. Okay, so this video is not for the faint at heart or weak of stomach.  I have to admit, that I found it simultaneously vomit-inducing and mesmerizing–like watching Gordon Ramsay clean out a mould-infested refrigerator on Kitchen Nightmares.  This is a dermatologist extracting a rare, but enormous form of blackhead.  Remember, I said ENORMOUS.  These massive pustules were likely the inspiration for the ostrich pillow found above.

black head extraction

Suddenly, my oily W-zone doesn’t bother me so much anymore.

Photo credits:  Toni Braxton (http://www.cadfanatic.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/04/tonibraxtonbooger.jpg), jabba the hut (http://images2.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20100915194256/starwars/images/thumb/7/7f/Jabba_SWSB.png/250px-Jabba_SWSB.png), goat (http://www.wisegeek.org/do-goats-make-good-pets.htm#field), burger pillow (http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Hl5bQduRAMc/SDSyPq2oDeI/AAAAAAAAAuA/xpJQH-qAJ_w/s1600/hamburger+pillow.jpg), bacon pillow (http://images.thewirelesscatalog.com/graphics/products/regular/VM9812.jpg), boyfriend pillow (,   scabs pillow (http://www.badderhomesandgardens.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/il_570xN.328760944.jpg),

Seeing Double–Mr. Clean has been cloned

I always knew that Canada‘s most famous handyman, Mike Holmes looked familiar–but I could never quite put a finger on where I had seen him before.  His trademark muscles, admittedly, have often distracted me from his other features.  But, alas, during a bout of kitchen cleaning, it came to me.  Mike Holmes looks like Mr. Clean–without the lemon scent.


Mike Holmes

With a penchant for white t-shirts, a smooth noggin, furry white eyebrows, and a pierced left ear (trust me, Mikey sports a sizable stud–is it just me or does that sound dirty?), it is difficult to tell these two beefcakes apart.  And one will clean your house while the other one fixes it.  Seriously, if you could somehow mash these two guys together, you would have the perfect man.  If only we could find a triplet who cooks.

Which one of these dudes would you rather meet in the flesh–and put to work immediately?

Photo Credits:  Mr. Clean http://www.maxagency.com/blog/max-agency-talent-auditions-for-mr-clean-commercial/, Mike Holmes http://homes-extra.ca/home-garden/homes/mike-holmes-is-back-and-he-wants-to-make-it-right/

My boobs are itchy, I smell like horse ass, and I can’t stop licking the road.

People who love the winter have something seriously wrong with them.  I don’t care if you’re an acrobatic back-flipping downhill skier, an expert snowperson builder, or the guy who salts our street like it’s a slab of pork rind–no one in their right mind would choose winter over the other three seasons.

In summer, you can like whatever the heck you want.

In summer, you can like whatever the heck you want.

Who wants a nose that feels like it is full of small tenement blocks and bleeds every time you try to “clean it out?”  I know–some of you are probably saying “EW!” right now.  But you are not from these parts.  We may have snow on the ground and damp in the air OUTSIDE, but our toasty homes contain air as dry as a popcorn fart.  Nasal passages don’t stand a chance.  I’m with George Costanza on this one–“with all that dry desert air, I bet that even Moses had occasion to pick.”

God help the women of  Eastern Canada because boobs get itchy.  I bet that every estrogen-owner north of the 49th can’t wait to find a private place to claw at her nipples.  I know that you’re thinking about it right now.  Go ahead.  Scratch.  I won’t look.  I’ll be too busy with my own.

And who in the hell enjoys trying to get the bottom of their pants into a pair of tall boots.  A person can’t wear skinny jeans every single day and normal ones make your boots all bloated and bumpy looking if you don’t put them in just right.  It’s a pain, is it not?

Even a Super Hero wear a boot-cut jean every once in a while.

Even a Super Hero wears a boot-cut jean every once in a while.

And, holy crap–hair really does like to do its own thing in the winter, doesn’t it?  No amount of goop can tame it.  And I have long, curly, red hair.  This is how I look from December to March.

He has quite the "do" going on, doesn't he?  My winter head is bigger.

He has quite the “do” going on, doesn’t he? My winter head is bigger.

You know how much I hate clowns. Just looking at this freak is disturbing me immensely.  His hair is tamer than mine though.

You know how much I hate clowns. Just looking at this freak is disturbing me immensely. His hair is tamer than mine though.

The only difference is that my hair is not wool.  Wool-like, yes.  But not actual wool.

The only difference is that my hair is not wool. Wool-like, yes. But not actual wool.

Please keep in mind, that the only resemblance that I have to these photos is the hair.  I do not have a red triangular nose and pasty white complexion.  Nor do I have Carrot Top’s freakish eyebrows or Raggedy Ann’s missing upper lashes.  And my shoes aren’t sewn on to my feet.

1) 2009-_1356001iElaine Davidson of the UK, also the Guinness World Record Holder for the woman with the most piercings, would have one hell of a time trying to rid her nose of oxygen barriers.  By 2006, she had been been punctured by 4225 piercings.  With that many holes in her, she probably doesn’t float.  Thankfully, she lives in the damp of Scotland and doesn’t have to worry about dry air encrusting her nose.

And, no.  She doesn’t set off the metal detectors at the airport.

shovel racing

2)  My shovel is not my friend.  Spending time with him involves a lot of work.  The snowblower is much easier to get along with.

But it turns out that I have been missing out on a perfect way to bond with my shovel–shovel racing.  Yup.  It really exists and wasn’t created by Canadians.  In fact, this sport was born in New Mexico of all places.

At Angel Fire Resort, in the Southern Rockies, snow-shovel enthusiasts can be seen careening down mountainous slopes at speeds of up to 70 mph.  Holy crap.  Only old-school metal shovels are allowed.  For some reason, visions of Clark Griswold‘s food-varnish-covered flying saucer springs to mind.  But these snow-shoveled psychopaths aren’t in a movie, and trees don’t know to stay out of their way.

A recent variation of the sport involves hooking up your shovel to a horse, shouting a yee-haw or two, and going wherever your equine takes you.  Yup, that’s just where I want to be when Black Beauty takes a dump.  Under her butt on a shovel.

For the entrepreneurial shovel-rider.

For the entrepreneurial shovel-rider.


3)  One thing I really don’t understand is the whole “electrified outdoor clothing” trend.  Why would anyone want electric mitts?  Sure, they’re warm.  But sitting on the electric chair is probably toasty too.

Mitts are meant for snow.  Snow is made of water.  Water and electricity don’t mix.  If you build a snowball in electric mitts, will you electrocute yourself?  I mean, it bodes well for your intended snowball victim.  But it does seem like a rather harsh punishment for engaging in child’s play.

And what happens if your hands sweat?

Stress makes my hands sweat when I’m not wearing heated mittens.  Worrying about my heated mittens killing me will definitely exacerbate the problem.  What if your wearing your heated mittens while riding a shovel behind a horse and the horse pees on your hands?  Will you die under a horse’s ass?

Heated mitts are clearly not for the neurotic.

I have to go.  My nose is bleeding.

Photo credits:  tongue stretch sarahsdoodles.wordpress.com, men in tights thefwoosh.com, Carrot Top guestofaguest.com, Ronald McDonald www.hcpl.net, Raggedy Ann poietes.wordpress.com, piercings www.telegraph.co.uk, shovel dude www.ibtimes.com,  horse poop www.environmentalgraffiti.com, autopsy cartoon mobileintensiveprayerunit.blogspot.com.

“For Heaven’s sake, get Spock out of your nose and why is your butt all crusty?”

Spending a day with my relatives is sort of like hanging out at the insane asylum for unemployed comedians.  And I am writing this with a perfectly straight face.  Line mouth and all.

Here are a few snippets from the conversations I recently had to endure.

“If they don’t want Oscar Pistorius to flee the country, why don’t they just take his legs.”  “Ya, all he could do is bum around all day. ” Followed by “he could always bum a ride” and “that would be a bummer.”

“You tickle too hard.  Are you trying to puncture my pancreas?”

“There really is a restaurant called One Hung Lung.”

"A grey hare can be cute."

“Grey hares are cute, but it doesn’t mean they belong on my head.”

We stopped conversing briefly to pose for a family photo.  My uncle (who was giving me rabbit ears), discovered that I now have a few thousand  grey hairs poking through my titian (sounds better than ginger) locks and proceeded to pass my head around for everyone to check it out–with my body still attached, of course.  Did I mention that a day with my family can be really hard on a girl’s self-esteem?

The highlight, however was discovering that my grandfather, who has been dead since ’95, received a letter from the government asking him to pay non-resident tax .  Yup, I guess he really is no longer a resident.

Yes, my gene pool may have been put through the blender, but it is the only gene pool I know–and I am particularly fond of it.  Even if my aunt eats fire in my backyard and my uncle goes grocery shopping covered in freshly slaughtered chicken blood and my other uncle keeps driving in to things.  We’re an entertaining lot.  And proud of it.

1.  One of my strange traits that I blame on my blood relations is my need to put eyes on everything.  I know.  I’ve discussed this before.  I currently have temporary eyes and a nose on my Ikea Poang chair, a hat on my water cooler, and googly eyes on a lampshade.  And I love to draw faces on fingers.  It turns out that this gene is not limited to my family  tree.  In fact, one individual dedicates hours to his finger faces, putting my simple “two dots + one line=face” creations to shame.

Dito Von Tease began creating finger people when he/she? tried to create a Facebook avatar.  Dito obviously showed a talent for detailed digits.  Here are a few examples that will make you ooooh and ahhhh.

finger spockditto ronalddito JesusDito kissditoMOZARTdito shrekditoSteveJobsDitoMarioBros

2)  I also inherited the need to play with my food.  No, I don’t build forts out of my mashed potatoes, but I have a definite OCD method of consuming each meal.  Pizza–I hate tomato sauce, so I only like “light on the sauce” pizza.  Plus, it’s much less messy to dissect.  I save the bloated crust end until second last because it’s yummy.  And I always save a sauce-free piece of the melted cheese (usually where a pepperoni slice has been) for the very last.  Yum.

Any peanut butter-filled chocolate bar like Wunderbar or Oh Henry Peanut Butter requires me to eat the outside chocolate first–round and round like a beaver removing bark.  The heavenly peanut butter middle is exposed and saved for last.

A cheeseburger.  Save a big clump of cheese til the end.  Salad.  Eat the croutons last.  Spaghetti.  Hardly any tomato sauce.  Ick.  Eat all the veggies out first.  Then eat the noodles.  Try to save some big meat lumps  for last.  Sandwiches.  Never cut them in half.  Eat the whole outer edge and save the filling-stuffed, squishy-breaded middle for last.  I wasn’t joking when I said OCD.  I never joke about OCD.

baguette tables

Again, it turns out that “playing with one’s food” is not always a by-product of a family tree with no branches.  Hehe.  It can be a sign of true genius (although I still haven’t found anything to prove this theory).  It can also result from buying too much bread–not a sign of genius.

Studio Rygalik, a Polish design team, created these Baguette Tables as a statement on mass consumption–I don’t get it at all by the way.  But, then again, I’m not too bright.  How does wasting perfectly good French loaves teach us not to waste perfectly good French loaves?  “Ugh,” she moans as she grabs her head and says, “I just gave myself a circular conversation OCD headache.”

I think their sense of style is a little stale.  The whole look is crummy.  And it probably costs a whole lot of dough.

I’ve been getting pun lessons from Barry Weiss.

3)  One good thing about my genetic material is that it makes for good eyesight.  There is a distinct absence of eyeglasses in our family photos.  There may be an over-abundance of short people, receding hairlines, and large snouts–but we can spot dimes from a mile away.  Which led me to wonder which one of my eyes is dominant.  Yes, we each have a dominant eye.

"This isn't my dominant eye?"

“This isn’t my dominant eye?”

I used to work in a shoe store–many moons ago.  And I learned a very interesting fact that sounds like an old wives’ tale, but actually proved to be true.  The foot opposite to your writing hand is always the big foot.  Yup, righties have big left feet.  And south paws have massive right feet.  Anywho, back to eyeballs.

Here is Wikipedia’s advice for finding out which eye is your dominant one:

  1. The Miles test. The observer extends both arms, brings both hands together to create a small opening, then with both eyes open views a distant object through the opening. The observer then alternates closing the eyes or slowly draws opening back to the head to determine which eye is viewing the object (i.e. the dominant eye).
  2. The Porta test. The observer extends one arm, then with both eyes open aligns the thumb or index finger with a distant object. The observer then alternates closing the eyes or slowly draws the thumb/finger back to the head to determine which eye is viewing the object (i.e. the dominant eye) .

My right eye is the winner.  But I like having my left eye around too.  I’m not picking any favourites.

Which eye is the boss of your face?

Photo Credits:  Bunny http://pinterest.com/pin/392657661231355560/, All finger faces by Dito Von Tease at http://ditology.blogspot.ca/, bread tables http://www.archieli.com/design/play-with-your-food-baguette-tables-by-studio-rygalik/, http://monster.wikia.com/wiki/Mike_Wazowski?file=Mike-Wazowski2.jpg.