Please Stop Staring, Give My Intestines Back, and Tell That Bacon to Shut Up.

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in December 2012 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

As you know, there are two things that I loathe.  Clowns.  And dolls.  I don’t even want to consider the possible existence of a Clown Doll.  Clowns are grown people who throw on hideous make-up, big shoes, and over-sized, polka dotted onesies in order to be around small children.  Their squeaky noses and water-squirting flowers aren’t fooling this girl one bit.  And dolls.  Yikes.  I’m sorry, but we humans aren’t that cute.  For one thing, in order to be cute, something really does need fur.  It’s true.  Just look at the skinny pig or the Mexican Hairless.  Ick.  Factor in a plastic pallour, obvious hair plugs, and vacant eyes that seem to follow your every move and you’ve got a doll.  Your very own Chucky.

I still remember getting a Baby Alive doll for Christmas.  Great.  A doll that craps its diapers.  Just what every child wants.  Maybe that’s why I never wanted kids.  The thing just ate, cried, and crapped.

The secret lives of dolls.

The secret lives of dolls.

Thanks to my part-time job at Amazon’s number one competitor in Canada, I have recently been introduced to the only thing that ranks beside a Clown Doll on my Top 10 Creepy Things list–the Elf on the Shelf.  First of all, male or female, they are butt ugly.  Sort of like Pinocchio without the long nose.  And they all wear the exact same attire–like a militaristic regime of tiny snitches in red.  Second, their sole purpose in life is to spy on small children in the privacy of their own homes.  Even creepier, these mini Big Brothers are operating with parental consent.  I’m afraid that if my mother had recruited an ugly little elf to “keep an eye on me” I would have been damaged for life.  More than I already am.  Seriously, look at this thing:

I'm hoping that the snowman stabbed it with his stick arm.

I’m hoping that the snowman stabbed it with his stick arm.

Not only do I have to get used to the fact that one of these hideous creatures lives in the store, watching my productivity, but I also have to convince other people to adopt one of their own.  I have been forced to be complicit in unleashing an army of ugly, little, seemingly footless and thumbless creatures on to unsuspecting minors.  Ugh, the guilt.

Oh, joy. Oh, bliss. Erwin undergoes a complete "organectomy" without anesthetic.

Oh, joy. Oh, bliss. Erwin undergoes a complete “organectomy” without anesthetic.

1)  I suppose there are worse things to find on your shelf than an elf.  How about a disemboweled doll, perhaps?  I don’t like dolls, but anything that has to endure having its organs yanked out and pushed back in the wrong place on a daily basis does deserve my empathy.  This pretty much sums up Erwin the Patient’s life.

Oops.  Did I put your lower intestine in your esophagus?  So sorry about that.  Just let me rip it out and put it back where it belongs.  Sort of.

And when his guts get just a little too…um…gooey, they can be machine washed.  I’m sure that’ll make him feel much better.

You can purchase an Erwin for your future Jack the Ripper here: http://www.wildandwoolly.co.uk/epages/BT4261.sf/en_GB/?ObjectPath=/Shops/BT4261/Products/37599.

  2)  Yes.  It is a pair of dancing lederhosen.  Ants in the pants without the ants.  I’m not quite certain as to why your child would want to play with an empty pair of rubber pants.  I’m even less sure as to why an adult felt a need to create it.  The only thing that I am sure about is that the remote control looks like an orange penis.  Play with the penis and the pants dance.  Sounds about right to me.

You can get your very own “knockwurst” (ya, right) remote-controlled, dancing pants at McPhee.com for $19.95.

Who wouldn't want to hug a slab of bacon?

Who wouldn’t want to hug a slab of bacon?

3)  It happens to me all the time.  I’m in the middle of frying up a few slices of bacon and I suddenly become overwhelmed by the urge to hug one.  Obviously, my childhood was seriously lacking something.  Stuffed animals obviously weren’t enough.  I needed the affection of a stuffed animal by-product.

With a catchy slogan like “You’ve Got a Friend In Meat,” this cuddly lump of saturated fat is sure to nurture your children’s love for pork.  And it talks.  Every time your child hugs his “My First Bacon” friend, it will reward him with a little self-promotion stating, “I Am Bacon.”  No subtle subliminals here.

Yes, it would appear that there are worse things than an Elf on the Shelf.  But I still think the damn thing is creepy.

And, in light of my most recent project–to have Storage Wars‘ Barry Weiss find my blog–I will share a clip of him going through a locker of Canadian memorabilia with This Hour Has 22 Minutes‘ Mark Critch.  It’s funny and it just happens to feature some butt ugly “toys” from my typical Canadian childhood.  I must warn you that you will need to let it fully upload first…Not sure why.  And you may have to sit through the commercial TWICE.  Again, not sure why.  CBC gets enough public money that it should have a better system.  We’re Canadian.  I guess we’re not supposed to sweat the small things.  But it’s worth the wait.

Barry Weiss on This Hour Has 22 Minutes

 

If you’d like to see Barry’s Christmas appearance on This Hour Has 22 Minutes, check it out at my social media experiment:  Searching For Barry Weiss

Photo Credits:  Chucky (Wikipedia), Elf (followpics.com), Erwin (thingamababy.com), Bacon (Amazon.com).

My blanket smells like belly button, my coffee reeks like skunk butt, and my pocket smells like 100-year-old phlegm.

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in December 2012 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

It’s one of those days where I seriously contemplate gender reassignment.  Let’s face it–having a uterus and a pair of ovaries can be a pain in the ass.  Especially when they render you a hemorrhagic, cramped-over, anemic mess every 21 days.  Thankfully, I don’t get bitchy.  Whiny, yes.  Bitchy, no.

I fear a sex-change will leave me looking like this.

Knowing my luck, a sex-change would transform me into this.  No offense, Nathan Lane.

I, therefore, apologize in advance for what will likely be a less-coherent than usual (and that’s saying something) post that may or may not contain a number of period-induced expletives.  For any of my faithful male readers who have not yet ran away from the computer screaming, I say, “thank you.”  If women must endure bleeding profusely from the crotch in order to ensure that the human race continues to thrive, the least the men can do is listen to us vent about it.  I bet you’re glad you’re not my hubby right now.  Hehe.

menstruation

A few things have struck me as particularly strange this week.  First of all, the English language is a very peculiar thing–particularly if you only hear it spoken.  For instance, a naval graveyard can sound like a place where dead bellybuttons go.  Knotty pine sounds like very ill-behaved trees.  “She’s got a big pair,” could make someone think she has an over-sized fruit.  And who hasn’t partaken in the occasional “it’s not/it’s snot” joke?  Seriously.  ESL must be a nightmare.

Ack. A blanket that smells like a belly button.

Ack. A blanket that smells like a belly button.

Plus, what’s with the saying, “it sells like hotcakes?”  Do hotcakes really sell a lot?  In Canada, we call them pancakes, and they do not sell at all.  We don’t have IHOP, but we did have a few wannabes.  Golden Griddle?  Defunct.  Smitty’s Pancake House?  Gone with the wind.  Don’t get me wrong.  Canadians like pancakes.  We just don’t seem to like to pay for them.  I think we should coin our own phrase–“it sells like Tim Hortons‘ coffee.”  Even though I still say that Tim Hortons’ coffee smells like roadkill skunk.  But maybe I am just developing a giant nose tumour.

For the first time in my life, colour me speechless.

For the first time in my life, colour me speechless.

1)  I consider myself to be somewhat of a collector–PEZ, model cars, pop culture memorabilia–but some “collectors” really should keep their collections hidden away.  Australian librarian, Graham Barker, is one of those people.  For the past 26 years, he has mined his belly button for lint; eagerly retrieved his lode, and stored it in dated jars.

Why?  No seriously.  This is not a rhetorical question.

Admittedly, he has garnered himself a mention in the Guinness Book of World Records, achieving a moment of fame.  But do you want to go down in history as the man that not only spent 26 years of his life navel-gazing, but digging around in there too?

Having amassed 22.1 grams of belly button fibre, I must wonder if there is anything left of his sweaters?  And I don’t even want to know what sort of putrid odour wafts from these jars when he unscrews the lids?  Ack.  Just puked in my mouth again.  After 7 months of blogging, you think I’d get used to this.

bellybutton lint

Now, just for shits and giggles, check out the adoring and gleeful manner in which his eyes behold his beloved collection.  This is a man who clearly loves his belly button and the gifts it sprouts.

Holy crap. They smell the same to me. Am I dying?

Holy crap. They smell the same to me. Am I dying?

2) It turns out I do not have an impaired olfactory lobe.  Nor do I have a nose tumour.  In fact, I may simply have a more finely tuned sniffer than the rest of you.

According to  David Rowe, smell-expert and author of Chemistry and Technology of Flavors and Fragrances, coffee and skunk juice do share an important aroma-causing compound.  Coffee contains furfuryl mercaptan, a chemical that is in the same family as butyl mercaptan–the chemical that gives a skunk squirt its musky (a.k.a. nauseating) smell.

This skunkiness is exacerbated during the creation of decaf.  Apparently the caffeine-removal process also removes much of this chemical, so companies must add it back in to make the product smell more enticing.  If they add too much, the result is a cup of java that reeks of skunk butt.

It’s not all in my head.  Or my nose.

If you knew what it was, you probably wouldn't hold it with your bare hands.

If you knew what it was, you probably wouldn’t hold it with your bare hands.

3)  So my quest to have Barry Weiss find my blog is still under way.  And I just happen to have a Barry-related tidbit that fits in with today’s rant.  Imagine that?

A while back, Storage Wars‘ (and all of television’s, for that matter), most lovable character came across an item that resembled a metal flask with a strange little door on the side.  He and his doting audience were enthralled.  Whatever could this strange device be?

Turns out it is a century-old, portable cuspidor–more commonly known as a spittoon.  Yes.  This is a vessel filled with the relics of old phlegm.  ACK!

While Barry initially appeared appalled by this revelation, he seemed to recover from this initial shock, pocketing the sputum-filled vessel and adding it to his personal collection.  I like to think he went home and boiled it first.

Ancient phlegm or not, he can still park his cuspidor under my Sealy Posturepedic any day of the week.

But he may want to wait for two to five days.

If you’d like to read more about Barry Weiss, his phlegm holder and more, check out my social media experiment at: Searching for Barry Weiss.

Photo Credits:  Nathan Lane  (www.mamapop.com),  menstruation (vi.sualize.us), belly button blanket (focuseddistortion.blogspot.ca), belly button lint & man who loves it (www.dailymail.co.uk), coffee-drinking skunk (e621.net), spittoon (forum.maximumfun.org).

My nipple smells funny, my friend is an idiot, and Flashdance gives me flashbacks

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in November 2012 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I have always had big boobs.  Part of me is thankful for my “girls”, but having massive mammaries has it’s problems.  Particularly if they start to blossom before Junior High.  An eleven-year-old in the 1970s had no desire to wear a bra–especially the stretchy, beige, utilitarian number my mother picked out for me.  I think it was made from leftover girdle material.  Horrible thing.  It was ugly even by seventies standards.

It felt like the whole world could see my ugly bra.

Generous sweater puppets proved to be an asset in High School.  Unless you happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.  I have always been a little person.  Only five feet tall.  And in grade ten, I had barely hit the hundred pound mark.  And most of it was boob.  My best friend, however, had ten inches on me and several pounds.

This is not what I mean by “sweater puppets.”

My wardrobe selection on that fateful day is important to note.  I donned my brand new, cashmere-like (my bank account was not in proportion to the size of my boobs), sweater–the kind with a steep V in the back and front that balanced precariously on the shoulders. Also the kind that you can’t wear a bra with because the straps would show.  And let’s be totally honest, there has never been a strapless bra that screamed out “Wear me.  I’m comfortable.”  My girls went commando.

Imagine this sweater is black and fuzzy. Damn sweater.

Now, my tall, full-figured friend also chose this day to debut a new article of clothing.  High heels.  Hitherto, she had never graced anything higher than the sole of her Adidas.  And she wasn’t a quick learner.

When choosing friends, height is an important and often overlooked consideration.

The bell rang, motioning the ant-like throng of pastel and argyle-wearing (it was the early 80s) teenagers to head to the next class.  Me in my sexy sweater.  My friend in her sexy heels.  Then it happened.  My 5’10” friend lost her balance and in her struggle to remain vertical, she reached for the nearest object–me.  In a split second, my new sweater lost its precarious grasp of my shoulders and, thanks to the gaping back and neckline, fell to my midriff.  The girls got their first glimpse of the general public.  And vice versa.

Needless to say, it took quite a while to live that one down.  But, thankfully, the next year someone lost their cheerleading underwear (yes, there is such a thing) in the middle of the football field.  My boobs were relegated a distant memory as her snatch catapulted to stardom.  Pantiless trumps braless every time.

When I stand too long, my nipple hurts.

1)  Okay.  Chandler Bing had his nubbin.  Zac Efron, Mark Wahlberg, and Lilly Allen have third nipples too.  This condition known as supernumerary breast tissue usually occurs along the “milk lines” of the body.  You know–in the boob-al region.

It has been recently discovered, however, that a 22-year-old Brazilian woman actually possesses a third nipple of her foot.  A condition that I call Nipple Foot.  Apparently, this misplaced nipple has been there since birth and doesn’t cause the woman any pain at all.

Talk about a conversation starter.  “Wanna see my nipple? Just a sec.  I’ve got  to take off my socks.”

2)  Any avid Seinfeld fan will remember Frank & Kramer’s business venture into male undergarments with the “Bro” or “Manziere.”  It turns out, they may have been on to something.

Meet Guo Qingpo, a 53-year-old Chinese man who has been cursed with giant moobs (a.k.a. man boobs).  After consulting with over 20 specialists, he was diagnosed with lipodystrophy syndrome, a condition that leads to uneven distribution of fatty deposits.  While most men would welcome the depositing of said fat in their zipper region, few would celebrate the onset of breasts.  No matter how much they initially enjoy playing with them.

Thankfully, Guo has successfully had his hooters removed and has been reunited with his pecs once again.

3)  I totally blame Flashdance for my brief dalliance into exhibitionism.  Damn those oddly shaped sweatshirts and the inevitable consequences to the fashion world.  It does, however, securely place my most embarrassing teenage moment (the adult ones have been much worse) in the year 1983.

While I was bearing my breasts, the most popular song was Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic by the Police, the highest rated TV show was Dallas starring the recently deceased Larry Hagman, and the number one movie was one of my all-time favourites, The Christmas Story–a movie that, befittingly, showcased another body part.  The leg.  In the form of a lamp.  And en masse, people were naming their children Jennifer or Michael.

I loved the 80s.

Here’s a boob-bearing clip from Montreal’s Just For Laughs Gags.  

Photo credits:  Huge bra in street (http://blogs.herald.com/dave_barrys_blog), sweater puppets (www.amberdusick.com), dangerous sweater (www.thisnext.com), Mutt and Jeff (scoop.diamondgalleries.com), made you look (CartoonStock.com) Nipple Foot (www.dailymail.co.uk) moobs (www.asylum.com).

Giant spoons, Deep-fried arms, the Godfather, and A Dream Not Starring Barry Weiss

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in November 2012 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I’m not sure if it’s because I’m currently in the throes of an eye-leaking, nose-clogging, hack-until-I-barf cold or if it’s simply a symptom of having a very strange mind, but I had another oddball dream last night.  You’ve already heard of my tales of cookie-shopping with Betty White, riding roller coasters with an expletive-shouting Gordon Ramsay, and my favourite, a romantic interlude with Storage Wars‘ Barry Weiss in a strange setting–unless one usually has sex in a creek filled with miniature man-eating sharks.

Shucks, Barry. You got all dressed up for me? But aren’t you worried about the sharks making holes in your suit?

Last night’s slumber adventure did not involve anyone famous.  No, Barry did not stop by for another steamy encounter (even though he has an open invitation).

Apparently, Dream Me had been foisted into the position of Official Lasagna Baker for a large church function.  Ha!  Me in the kitchen!  That was their first mistake.  Their next lapse in judgement was expecting me to grind the beef–yes, make my own hamburger meat–in a massive contraption that, it would seem, I was supposed to know how to operate.  Dream Me is much brighter than Actual Me and managed to get the ground beef production under way, only to discover that there was nothing to stop the finished  product from falling on the floor.  Okay, Actual Me would have seen that one coming.

Dream Me soon found herself up to her knees in raw hamburger (definitely a few health code violations there, I’m sure) and went running into the kitchen for….wait for it…lasagna pans.  Yes, the answer to Dream Me’s problems was lasagna pans.  The kitchen helpers flew into action, searching for lasagna pans, but they all seemed to be encrusted with decades worth of former lasagnas.  “Wash them,” I ordered (Dream Me is much bossier than Actual Me).  Damn it all.  The taps turned but no water came out.  And somehow in the process of turning the tap, I spilled deep-fry fat on my arm (obviously to match Actual Me’s noodle water tummy burn…yes, I said noodle water tummy burn.  Say it ten times fast).  Apparently, my trusty kitchen aids had been deep-frying the lasagna noodles.

Ya well. FFO KCUF.

Needless to say, I woke up around this point.  Maybe out of sheer frustration.  But, probably to avoid cleaning up the mountain of meat followed by a painful wound debriding session.

Sometimes sleeping is exhausting.

After all, what woman hasn’t had the embarrassing experience of leaving the house with a noodle in her hair?

1) Speaking of noodles, here’s something…um…interesting.  I love Japan.  Home of the square watermelon, remote control toilet, sleeping commuter plunger helmet, girlfriend pillow, and so much more.  I have unearthed yet another fabulous Japanese invention.

While North Americans suffer from toilet paper shoe or skirt-tucked-up-the-buttcrack syndrome, our Far East counterparts appear to fall victim to another fashion faux pas–the dreaded condition known as “noodle in the hair.”  Apparently, pasta-riddled locks are such  a prevalent problem that they have developed a noodle eater’s hair guard.

All I can tell you is that I have long curly hair and eating fusilli is a bitch.

Yummier than any pasta dish.

2) I should have been born Italian.  I love pasta.  And I am quite adept at doing the whole fork and spoon noodle rolling thing.  I eat spaghetti like a Corleone.  And I’d like to get my hands on Michael.

Everybody Loves Raymond‘s Marie Barone has a giant fork and spoon on her kitchen wall.  I have often wondered why anyone would need or want a giant fork or spoon.  I have finally figured it out.

According to the folks at the Guinness World Records, the world’s longest noodle was created in 2007 in Japan by Hiroshi Kuroda.  This impressive piece of noodle art was just over 1800 feet long.  That’s over a third of a mile.  Holy crap!

For serious food fighters.

3)  So what if Frank & Marie have a penchant for huge cutlery?  There are worse things they could do.  Like use their huge spoon to fling huge foods.

When I was in college studying Fashion, our entire dorm floor used to regularly engage in wet noodle fights.  Seriously.  There is nothing more revolting than being thwacked in the face with a handful of slimy spaghetti.  Well, I guess there is one thing that was more revolting–the stalactite-like noodles hanging from the ceiling the next morning.

I guess you could dress us up, but you couldn’t take us anywhere.

It turns out that we were not the only ones guilty of waging war with edible weapons.  Meet the spring-loaded spoon.  A real product available to real people.  For just $4.95, you can become the master of your kitchen table.  I so want one of these.  Check it out at:  http://www.coolstuffexpress.com/store/p/439-Zing-The-Spring-Loaded-Spoon-Food-Launcher.html

Here’s a few shots of people who take “playing with their food” a tad bit too far.

Photo Credits:  Barry Weiss (zimbio.com), Dessert Lady (girlsguideto.com), noodle guard (thedigitalpicnic.blogspot.ca) , Pacino (www.tumblr.com), noodle with eyes (www.funfunblog.com), rice Homer (icanhas.cheezburger.com), computer food  and egg face (thechive.com), hot dog massacre (designbeep.com).

Embiggening AND inspiring! Who knew?

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in November 2012 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Yay!  I have just received two simultaneous nominations for this award and am VERY excited!  I must thank thejennymacbookblog.wordpress.com and mariwells.wordpress.com, two wonderful Queens of Blogging Awesomeness.  Seriously.  You must check them out.

Now, I get to pass on the good cheer.  But first, there are a few rules to adhere to:

 1. Display the award logo on your blog.

2. Link back to the person who nominated you.

3. State 7 things about yourself.

4. Nominate 15 other bloggers for this award and link to them.

5. Notify those bloggers of the nomination and the award’s requirements.

Okay, so the logo is firmly in place and quite pretty, I must add.  My lovely nominators have been thanked and linked to.  Now I must share 7 things about me.  I must warn you in advance that they will likely be very random.

1.  I currently have Hickory Sticks breath.  When I burp, it tastes really good.  I haven’t had them in years and had forgotten how damn salty they are.  My tongue feels like I’ve attacked it with an SOS pad.  But without the blue soapy stuff.  That would make me look like a rabid Smurf.  For some reason, I have just been reminded of an episode of Seinfeld.  “Damn, these pretzels are making me thirsty.”

2.  I love to collect Vintage pop culture and advertising icons.  As you know, I am a Canadian.  Up here, when we hear the name “Hostess” we think of a potato chip company with two lumpy mascots called “munchies.”  We rarely eat Twinkies.  We can get them here, but I think the only people that buy them are Americans seeking a slice of home.  Despite our lack of Hostess pastry-cravings, I did go out in search of pop culture memorabilia when I heard of the company’s demise.  What did I find?  A twinkie holder dressed like a cowboy.  Twinkie holders?  Seriously?  I can’t imagine eating so many twinkies that I need a special holder for them.  Oh well.

3.  I am, perhaps, the only person that really enjoyed the advertising campaign starring Arby’s Oven Mitt.  And the Leon’s ad about “rows and rows of sofa bushes.”  (I bet no one remembers that one).

4.  I LOVE cars and auto shows.  I long for a bright blue 67 Mustang fastback, so I could do the vintage auto circuit.  But I’d also like a Citroen DS–just because.  Or a Karmann Ghia.  Or an old Datsun 280.

But I don’t want to be parked near the El Caminos.  They scare me.

5.  My husband and I are barbecue opposites.  He hates barbecued food.  Seriously.  I, on the other hand, love food with lines on it (you know…from the grill).  Baked potatoes on the bbq are the best.  But our household remains barbecue-free.  And my food remains free of lines.

6.  I remember throwing up grape soda a lot when I was a kid.  I wonder why my parents kept giving it to me.  I was also convinced that tow trucks broke cars.  It made perfect sense.  Every time I saw a broken car, there was a tow truck involved.

7.   I love beet tops.  I hate beets though.  I just grow them for the tops.  But then the #%&* goldfinches come along and eat them.  Good thing their cute…the birds.  Not the beet tops.  Fiddleheads are delicious too.  And while I’m on the subject of vegetables, I must ask a question.  Why on earth would anyone buy a canned vegetable?  Short of stocking a nuclear fallout shelter, I can’t imagine ever opting for a canned pea.  A fresh or frozen pea, at least, still resembles and tastes like a pea.  A frozen one looks like a mushy booger and tastes like tin water.  The only veggie that seems to weather the canning process fairly well is the canned potato. Maybe I just like them because they are small and cute (like me…hehe).  And much less intimidating than their large Russet cousins.

And now, 15 other bloggers that are VERY inspiring!!  

1. mikesilvia.wordpress.com

2. jodiambroseblog.com

3. thegoodgreatsby.com

4. familyhaikus.wordpress.com

5. palomasharma.wordpress.com

6. clotildajamcracker.wordpress.com

7. ummmmheyyyy.wordpress.com

8. kitchenslattern.com

9. motherhoodisanart.com

10. wedelmom.wordpress.com

11. sarahmandl.wordpress.com

12. yogadogblog.wordpress.com

13. dottyheadbanger.wordpress.com

14. thisthatandtheotherthang.wordpress.com

15. onthehomefrontandbeyond.wordpress.com

I could probably nominate 15 more, but rules are rules.  I must now reward my hickory stick-damaged tongue with a glass of cold and, most importantly, WET water.

My retinas burn, I’ve got a mattress on my face, and I seem to have lost my eyebrows

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in November 2012 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

“Push Bob off the ladder. He’s messing with the clock again.”

Why on earth do we turn back the clocks in November?  Seriously.  I miss daylight.  And no matter how much Vitamin D I pump into my body, I still feel like I’m in a mental fog.  Apparently, I’m not the only one.  The other day, my husband asked me to pick him up at 12′ long sub from Subway.  I don’t think he realized what he had said until I asked him how I would get it home.  Strap it to the top of my car?  Which we both thought would be funny.  My car is really small.  And it is also the shiniest, most polish-laden car to ever grace the face of the earth.  Seriously, I think it can be seen from space.  So, he immediately had to say something about mustard stains on my roof.  See, this sunlight deprivation is affecting both of us.  And not in a good way.  I am so stupid that I even decided to write about this.

I’m still finding clocks that show the wrong frickin’ time.

And to think that it is only November.  And that the shortest day of the year is still over a month away.  I may be a drooling, incoherent, one-brain-celled idiot by the time April rolls around.  Seriously.  You haven’t met “Winter Me” yet.  And for anyone who ever doubted that God has a sense of humour, I present Exhibit A.  He placed me about as far away from the equator as possible–Canada.  Ugh.  Yes, I am angling for an invite to somewhere warm and shiny.  Really.

I, too, would hug the sun. But in a much kinder, gentler, fashion.

“My car smells funny and I don’t know why.”

1)  Like I said, this lack of daylight makes me stupid.  Not stupid enough to park between two dumpsters, mind you.  No amount of scented pine trees hanging from my mirror could combat that stink.  Not to mention the fact that I’m a tad bit of a neurotic germaphobe.  I’d probably have to throw out my car.  My very polished car.  Which would suck.  I have a fortune invested in it in car care products alone.  Anyway, back to the photo at hand.

Despite his lack of couth or his nasal impairment, this individual does show a remarkable talent for parallel parking–something that I avoid at all costs.  Seriously,  this dude could give lessons.  I don’t know how he even did that.

Maybe he didn’t.  Maybe his roommates are getting revenge on him for snoring or eating the last Eggo.  Strategically placing bins of trash around someone’s car does sound like fun–except I’d have to boil my hands afterwards.  Not fun.  I’ll stick with shaving off people’s eyebrows.  Not that I’ve ever done that.  Yet.

 2) If you are feeling tired (living a sunlight-free, vampire-ish existence will do that to you), I would not recommend viewing this video.  Way too many comfy, white mattresses.  On a cloudy day.  You don’t even get to enjoy the sunshine vicariously.

I love sleep.  My life gets in the way of it though.  But I think I’ve found the perfect hobby.  Mattress Dominoes.  And I’m not alone in my fascination for a sport that only requires a Sealy Posturepedic.  It turns out that competing for the Guinness World Record for the largest game of Mattress Dominoes is a favourite global pastime.  Who knew?  Well, apparently everybody but me.

This particular attempt to secure this record was made at NYC’s Intrepid Sea, Air and Space Museum in 2010.  Participants had to be taller than 4’11”.  Yay!  Finally, something I am tall enough for.  While they managed to “topple” 380 standing sleepers, the record has been broken several times since.  The current record is 1001 mattresses and was set earlier this year in a Shanghai shopping mall.

This post is making me yawn.  You too?  Shut up.

3) I love to make fun of Justin Bieber, even though he is my fellow Canuck.  Well, it turns out that he has, perhaps, one of THE shiniest cars ever.  Blindingly so.  It looks like it’s made of Reynold’s Wrap.  Before you’ve crinkled it up to cover your turkey sandwich.

I wonder how many retinas he’s fried with that thing?

Damn it! Now he’s killed the other eye.

These are just a few other shiny cars I found.

Barry Weiss’s (yes, I am still harbouring that crush) Decoliner. Very shiny.

Flo Rida’s ultra shiny, chrome Bugatti. That’ll suck your eyes out on a sunny day.

I haven’t got a clue who William Gallas, the soccer player is, but he does have a pupil-pinchingly shiny Mercedes McLaren.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And if you’d like to see more of Barry Weiss’s car collection, check out my social media experiment :Searching For Barry Weiss

Photo credits     Messing with Clock (Wikipedia), Mound of Clocks (www.triggerandfreewheel.com),  Smothering the Sun (www.morethings.com), dumpster parking  (curiousphotos.blogspot.ca), eye pain (dreamstime.com),  Barry Weiss decoliner (celebritycarsblog.com) Flo Rida Bugatti (www.celebritynetworth.com), Gallas McLaren (www.ugo.com).

My belly’s full of blisters, my organs feel squashed, and every time I sneeze my eyes fall out

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in October 2012 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Never pour boiling hot water on your belly.  You have likely never been tempted to do so, but if the thought should ever flit across your mind–ignore it.  It is not a wise thing to do.  I know from experience.

On Sunday night, I craved spaghetti with mushroom soup on it.  I’m not sure why.  Just roll with it.  I boiled the noodles and went to strain them in the colander when the bottom of my pot hit that thing (not sure what to call it) that divides the two kitchen sinks.  At first, I was concerned about losing the noodles to the cesspool that is a kitchen sink (don’t get me wrong.  My sink looks nice and shiny, but who knows what killer bacterium lurks there, waiting for its next victim).  And that’s when I felt it.  A huge surge of searing pain all over the surface of my belly (I’m not even going to discuss how large this surface is.  Just bear in mind that I did say the pain was “huge.”)  Yes, I am an idiot.  And yes, two days later I still have a rather massive red burn on my tummy.  And it is not happy at all.

The kitchen can be a very dangerous place–with hot water and all those knives.

Keep in mind that I live in Canada and that wearing a tube top in late October is out of the question.  And keep in mind, that I would not be caught dead in a tube top even in the sweltering heat of July.  I’ve tried the whole Daisy Duke “take-the-bottom-of-your-shirt-and-tuck-it-through-the-neckline” thing, but the little flap of material that hangs out from my cleavage keeps poking me in the burn.  Ugh.

Yup. My belly probably feels like this kids nose. But you’ve got to love the look on the crustacean’s face.

And I’m growing very tired of contorting myself in the shower.  Do you know how hard it is to keep one’s trunk dry in the shower?  Plus, doesn’t it defeat the purpose of a shower to begin with?

And my Keurig is feeling neglected.  I’m afraid to spill a hot drink on my belly.  It may sound irrational to you, but you have no idea just how klutzy I am.  If you did, you would tell me stick with cold drinks too.

Doc, I have a problem. My eyes hurt and my eye drops aren’t working.

1)  Yes, I did try to simmer my tummy, but it was an accident.  I can’t imagine torturing my body parts on purpose.

As a woman, I am rather attached to my eyelids.  Without them, my makeup would look funny.  And where would I put my eyelashes?   Not to mention all the dust and bugs that would pelt my cornea in their absence.

It seems that China’s Dong Changsheng is rather less “attached” to his lids.  Or at least, he will be if he keeps pulling cars with them.  Yes, he pulls cars using his eyelids.  Ack.  In fact, he holds the Guinness World Record for the “heaviest vehicle pulled by the eyelids” (there have been others?).  His accomplishment?  Pulling a 3307 lb. car a distance of 33 feet.

I don’t get it.  Was he just sitting in his garage one day looking at his stalled car and he got an itchy eyelid and thought I bet if I tow my VW to the mechanic using my eyelids I could kill two birds with one stone?  I could get a free tow and stop my eyelid from itching.

“I really wanted to achieve that perfect hourglass shape.  I just wish people would stop turning me upside down and placing me on my head. “

2)  Okay.  I’m jealous.  This broad has probably never burned her belly with a pot full of water.  First of all, she probably doesn’t eat.  And, second of all, I doubt she has the core abdominal strength to lift an empty pot, let alone one filled with liquid.

And where  the heck does she keep her internal organs? Her jeans must really bag at the waist.

This is Cathie Jung, the Guinness World Record Holder for the person with the smallest waist.  Thanks to spending 23 1/2 hours each day for over 25 years in a corset, she has achieved a 15 inch waistline.

Can I corset my entire body or will my head pop?

 3) Let’s face it.  Seinfeld‘s George Costanza had a crummy ambulance ride.  With a face like a human eggplant, a warring pair of medics, a collision with another vehicle, and a large hospital bill, things couldn’t have gotten much worse.  Or could they?

76-year-old, Edward Juchniewicz, was on a routine ambulance trip from his old age home to a doctor’s appointment when the unthinkable happened.  The ambulance attendant stopped to talk to a doctor and failed to notice that his patient’s stretcher was rolling away.  The contraption wheeled the poor man down an embankment and overturned.  He later succumbed to head injuries from the accident.

Am I wrong, but aren’t hospitals supposed to make people better?  I didn’t think they were supposed to strap you to a deathtrap on wheels and watch you roll down a hill.  This sounds like something that would happen to me.  Thankfully, our hospital parking lot is completely flat.

Here is a collection of accomplishments achieved by my fellow spastics.  I’m especially fond of the robot costumed kid.

How can my belly be burning hot and cold at the same time?  (Insert deep sigh here.)

Photo Credits:  leg saw (http://meanderthals.wordpress.com/2009/11/22/ouch/), nose pinch (horsemouth.typepad.com), VW meets eyelids (fastcar.co.uk), corset lady (www.heavy.com).

How to embarrass your car on a budget.

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in October 2012 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

“You take the money and I’ll grab the eyeballs.  Oddly enough, that’s not the first time I’ve said that.”  Barry Weiss, Storage Wars.

I want a nose for my car.  Every now and then, I see a car driving down the road sporting a shiny, red proboscis and I think to myself, “Self, we’ve got to get our paws on one of those.”  And, no, I am not making this up.  There are people in my town with car noses.  There’s even one automobile that sports eyelashes.  Maybe it’s just my town.  Must be the drinking water.

My car is not totally without facial features.  It has teeth.  Yes, I just said “teeth.”  Not the ghastly, “I-want-to-suck-your-Carotid-artery” kind.  Just happy, smiling, Osmond-white chompers.  You are likely wondering where I found such an awesome ornament.  (What?  You are not wondering where, but “why?” I don’t understand.)  They are the non-edible part of a candy/toy combo that I spied at Walmart.  It’s amazing what you can find when you possess the intellect of a small child.  My apologies to small children everywhere.

Yes. My car longs for one of these (or so I like to imagine).

During my search for the perfect breathing apparatus for my car, I discovered “Red Nose Day,” a Comic Relief-inspired, British charity event that encourages people and automobiles, alike, to sport a shiny, red nose.  Sure, we idiots across the pond will adopt blood pudding, Haggis, and other UK-spawned spare animal part dishes. Heck, we even opened our airwaves to…ugh…Benny Hill.  Why on earth have we not embraced the opportunity to wear giant red nostrils?  It’s even for charity.

What the hell is that grabbing my leg?

1)  Spotted dick aside, the Brits have given us a number of things that I am thankful for–Blackadder, Hyacinth Bucket, The Smiths, Death at a Funeral, and fish & chips, to name a few.  But here is one tradition  that I’m not sure I’d greet with such fervour.  Yes, from the people that brought us the treacherous sport of Cheese Rolling, I now present–Bog snorkelling.

Once a year, strangely dressed, muck-and-mire enthusiasts descend upon Powys, Wales for their chance to win roughly $200 US and a mention in the Guinness World Records.  All breathing must be done through your snorkel and you can only move using flipper power.  And, apparently, the water is nut-shrivelingly cold–not that I own a pair.  I’ve just been told.

Seriously, I love to swim as much as the next person.  But swimming in a bog carved out of peat moss?  There’s isn’t enough chlorine in the world that would make that seem alright.  Ack.

I bet a removable nose would come in handy, especially during flu season. Or would the snot just run freely down your face? Hm.

2)  Some noses are cute.  Bert and Ernie’s bulbous orbs of felt.  Long aardvark snouts.  The whiskered hamster variety.  And perfectly round, red ones on cars.  (I know.  Give it a rest already).  It turns out that they are more than just cute and useful in oxygen intake.  They have many uses.    Noses hold eyeglasses in place.  They give you something to pick when you’re bored.  They make it possible to “thumb your nose” at annoying neighbours.  And, apparently, they can blow up balloons.  Honest.  Here’s the proof…

Just what you want to explode at your child’s birthday party–a mucous-filled, booger-encrusted balloon.  Ack.

But, wait!  It gets worse.  A nose can also be used to blow a marshmallow across the room into a moron’s open mouth.  Yes, two gifted individuals from Illinois achieved the world record for pitching and receiving this nose candy over a distance of 16 feet.  I hate marshmallows at the best of time, but this would truly be a marshmallow nightmare.  Let’s hope they used the green ones.

3)  Noses, eyelashes, and teeth aside, I love cars.  Especially ones that sound mean.  Rather than spending a lot of money getting a tricked out exhaust, I’ll think I’ll just drive around with this guy making throaty car noises over a loud speaker.  Check it out…

watch?v=RSDUcKw-GOk

And no automotive blog would be complete without this baby…

Barry Weiss’s awesome 1955 Ford Bubble-top Beatnik. No nose required for this baby.

If you’d like to see more of Barry Weiss’s car collection, check out my social media experiment at: Searching For Barry Weiss.

 

Photo Credits: Smart nose car (flickr.com), bog snorkeling (www.aquiziam.com), the Beatnik (autoholics.com).

WHAT HAS NO ARMS, SKINNY LEGS, AND A DIAPER?

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in October 2012 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

“An encyclopedia is a system for collecting dust in alphabetical order.” 
Mike Barfield.

If you’ve ever envied a bird’s gift of flight, you may have overlooked a few of their shortcomings. First of all, birds have to go through life without arms. Have you ever tried getting peanut butter off your beak without the benefit of hands? Other creatures are always making fun of how they walk. Strutting without swinging one’s arms looks…well…weird. Do you enjoy a casual saunter with your hands in your pockets? Again, the armless bird must forgo this option.

And that’s not where the bird’s tale of woe ends. Cursed with skinny legs and a lack of hips, they can’t even wear pants. And without arms, shirts are also out of the question. I suppose they could opt for a tank top, but I’ve not observed this fashion choice amongst my avian friends.

This brings me to another question. Why do we call one pant “pants” and why are they referred to as a “pair?” Some say it’s because they have two legs. This logic, however, is flawed. After all, a shirt has two sleeves, but it remains a lowly, singular item. Is this because we place more value on legs than arms? If so, this may do wonders for the self-esteem of birds everywhere.

340980361_543566851192641_8470717001076255840_nhttps://www.instagram.com/p/Cq7eLt_KE9J/

1)  Birds, like anyone else, need to have fun and I am sure that one of their favourite pastimes involves well-aimed poop and shiny red cars. As the owner of a shiny red car, I can attest to this fact.

Unfortunately, bored humans have found a way to a way to rob our feathered friends of this sport. Meet the avian diaper — a bird’s greatest humiliation. While a glimpse at Fanzy Pants‘ creations shows a myriad of colours and patterns, they all appear to lack pockets.

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https://www.instagram.com/p/Cpzgj-9oio9/

2) If lacking arms and spending life in a diaper isn’t bad enough, birds must also endure humans maligning their intelligence. After all, the term “bird brain” doesn’t refer to someone with a large IQ. Yes, it would seem that people consider the avian mind to be so inept that even Dan Quayle (ironically named for a bird) could beat it at a spelling bee.

Birds, however, are much more clever than we may think. Just look at the average avian diet. While a feast of caterpillars and crickets may not appeal to your pallet, it is quite healthy fare.

Scientists agree that insects are chalked full of protein, iron, and vitamins. In fact, David Gracer, an avid proponent of insects as an alternative food source, told Discover Magazine that gnawing on 100 grams of certain caterpillars can give you 28 grams of protein.That’s impressive. Unless you’re the caterpillar.  

And here’s a useful little ditty from Carte Blanche that will prove helpful the next time you go digging for your dinner:

Red, orange, yellow, forget this fellow.

Black, green, or brown, wolf it down.

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3)  Anyone who knows me, knows that I am a HUGE fan of crows.  And one of my very favourite roadside attractions are found in upstate New York on I-81 just south of the Ivy Lea Bridge aka the Thousand Islands Bridge. Yes, this remote area is home to three very large metal crows. When I first spotted the 11-foot threesome, I momentarily doubted my mental state. But my husband saw them too, proving that they were, in fact, real.

If you’re heading southbound, keep your eyes to your right. They are a bit far off in a field. Whatever you do — don’t blink or you’ll miss them. And you don’t want to miss them because they are awesome.

This feathered trio has been brought to life by sculptor, Will Salisbury, and is aptly named “3 Crows.” According to Salisbury’s Facebook page, the one pictured above is called “Charlie.” If you’re fluttering with excitement over seeing these avian masterpieces, your only option is to watch them whiz by your car window as there, apparently, is no public access to these beauties. Get your eagle eye ready.

 

One whole wheat nostril with a side order of arm pit juice please. And, no, I will not pray to your penis.

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in October 2012 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I think I am getting old.  My dendrites appear to be shriveling up, no longer able to form a connection with my mind.  Or, worse, making connections with the wrong parts.  Here is a glimpse into a day in my life:

  • Back car out of garage.  So far so good.  Get out of car and close garage door.  Good.  Then proceed to sit in passenger seat.  And wonder why car is not moving.  Oops.  Check to see if anyone saw that.  Breath sigh of relief and back car out of driveway.
  • Make wrong turn on highway and have to double back.  Realize that my gas tank is dangerously close to empty and curse myself for having to waste “fumes” on backtracking.
  • Arrive at clothing store.  “Oh” and “Aw” over new items on clearance rack.  Leave the store, and fumble to put on black jacket before going outside.  Remember that I did not bring black jacket.  Forgot it at home on couch.  Crap.  Wonder what black article in left hand is. Realize I have just left the store with clearance black dress pants in hand slung over shoulder.  Oops.  Return to store and apologize profusely.

Honestly.  This sort of thing happens to me all the time.  Damn this aging grey matter and the embarrassing situations it gets me in to.  I’m only in my forties.  What the heck will I be like twenty years from now?  A drooling, babbling, lump of stupidity with a double chin and a milky coating over one eye?

Today I felt like doing something a little different.  Rather than present three pieces of extremely valuable information relating to my rant above, I have decided to offer you three tidbits that I’d rather forget.  And it sounds like I’ll have no problem doing so.  Now, where was I?  Oh ya…

1)  Is your penis worthy of wearing a spanky fuchsia ribbon and parading itself around a public park?  You must be so proud.  But I must warn you that making an exhibition of it in just any park may land you in the clinker.  And on some lists that may have neighbours showing up at your door with torches and giant clubs.  Best to “parade” your prized possession at a venue where it will truly be appreciated.  And I know of just the place.

It turns out that in some cultures, the penis is worship-worthy.  It is the master of fertility.  (Although, I’m not sure where it would be without the lowly female’s egg.  But enough of my offended female sensibilities).  Worship the penis and your barren uterus will pump out babies aplenty.  Especially if you honour said phallus with a shiny pink bow.  And one need not worry about unsightly foreskins–only circumcised members allowed.

This image may take me longer to forget than I had originally hoped.  If you’d like to make an offering to a holy dick, yourself, these are found in a secluded spot behind the Swissotel Nai Lert Park Hotel in Beijing.

2)  So, you have just earned your Masters Degree in Fine Arts.  What will you do next?  I know.  Open a bakery where you can sell body parts made of bread.  Yes.  These morose dismembered heads are, supposedly, as edible as your harmless-looking, squishy loaf of Wonder Bread.

Kittiwat Unarrom, the artist behind the heads and appendages at Bread Head Bakery in Ratchaburi, Thailand, makes a plethora of body parts out of dough that contains other treasures like raisins and cashews, and occasionally, chocolate.  (I like to think that the chocolate is an unwilling participant, however).  Need a hand?  You’ve got it.  He’ll even throw in a foot or two.

Maybe I’m weird, but I simply cannot imagine sitting in the staff room at lunch and gnawing on a whole-wheat nose.  Ack.  Damn.  I threw up in my mouth again.

If you’d like to see the Freddy Krueger of bakers in action, check out this video.  Warning:  View with extra large vomit bag close at hand.

3)  And, you knew I couldn’t get through this post without a tribute to our friends in Japan–who, apparently, like some pretty strange beverages.

One that tastes like the juice from an armpit.   Just what you want.  A bottle of “sweat.”

Another that contains pig placenta.  Where did I put that damn barf bag?

Yes.  They’ve mixed cola and a vegetable.  I must admit, I kind of want to try this.

And what the heck does “in love? be juicy? mean?”  And what on earth would it taste like.

Need new puke bag.  This one’s full.

And I don’t even know what to say about this.

Oops.  My husband just found my peanut butter in with the coffee mugs.  It’s going to be a long day.

Credits:  Cartoon (http://ershu.wordpress.com/2008/03/13/forgetfulness-at-its-peak/), penises wearing bows (silencedmajority.blogs.com), breadheads (www.geekologie.com), sweat (pocarisweat.com), placenta (www.ebaumsworld.com), cucumber (www.japanprobe.com), juicy (www.ebaumsworld.com), weird eye trick (www.funnyjunksite.com).