Tag Archives: art

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

Posted by facelikeafryingpan in February 2013 and tagged with , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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.

No arms, skinny legs, a giant diaper, and a blanket that scares me.

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

I am feeling a tab bit discombobulated today and stringing together coherent thoughts is quite beyond my capabilities.  Stupid, random sentences that have nothing to do with each other is much more within my reach.

Everyone seems to think birds have it made because they can fly.  But imagine going through life with no arms.  Seriously.  Getting peanut butter off your beak without hands or paws or anything remotely like that must be a pain in the ass.  And the “armed” creatures all make fun of the way you walk.  It’s hard to strut when you have no arms to swing.  Or hands to put in your pockets.  Speaking of pockets, birds have very skinny legs and no hips, so pants are out of the question.  And without arms, they can’t wear shirts.  They will never know the joy of having pockets.  Plus, they must get tired of eating the same old thing all the time.  How many ways can you serve a worm?

Which brings me to another question.  Why do we call pants “pants” in the plural?  And why does one “pant” constitute a pair?  Some say it’s because they have two legs in them.  A shirt has two sleeves, but it remains a lowly, singular item.  Is this because we place more value on legs than on arms?  Hm.  That should make the bird feel a bit better.

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.  I know.  I own one.  A shiny, red car that is.  Not a bird poop.  Although, I do occasionally have a few in my possession on said shiny, red car.

It turns out that someone has found a way to rob our feathered friends of this sport.  Yes, they have created diapers for birds.  How humiliating.

If you feel compelled to diaper your canary, you can find these babies at http://www.diapersforbirds.com/index.asp.  They have even included a how-to video for the first-time avian parent.

They could have at least included pockets.

2)  Even our insults seem to malign our feathered friends.  Take the term “bird brain.”  Humans have deemed the avian mind to be laughable–so small that even Dan Quayle (ironically named after a bird) could out-spell it.

But, perhaps, we have been wrong.  Turns out that a diet of caterpillars and crickets is the healthy way to go.  Ack.  There goes my cinnamon swirl peanut butter with raisins in it.  Never eat raisins before you compose a blog about bugs.

Scientists agree that insects are chalked full of protein, iron, and vitamins.  For every 100 grams of caterpillars you gnaw on, you are getting 28 grams of protein.  That’s impressive.  Unless you’re the caterpillar.  And if you prefer the finer things in life, perhaps steamed silk worm is more your style.  Sounds elegant, doesn’t it?

And here’s a useful little ditty for you to remember the next time you go digging for your dinner:

Red, orange, yellow, forget this fellow.

Black, green, or brown, wolf it down.

3)  Anyone who knows me, knows that I am a HUGE fan of crows.  And I finally have the chance to feature one of the coolest roadside attractions  that I had the thrill of discovering–three 11 foot tall metal crows in Upstate New York.  They’re on the I-81 just south of the Ivy Lea Bridge (aka Thousand Islands Bridge) to Canada and can be seen most easily from the southbound lane.  Don’t blink or you will miss them.  Seriously.

Sculptor, Will Salisbury, created 3 Crows in a Field from 1999-2001 as a “campaign to abolish boredom.”  I know it keeps me and my “bird brain” (actually referring to myself, not my husband) entertained.

Photo Credits:  bugs (www.ifood.tv), crows (www.roadsideamerica.com), Gary Larson Cartoon (www.thebirdforums.com).

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

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

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

A few things have occurred to me lately.

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

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

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

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

And why does aspartame taste like crap?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here are some mouth-watering examples of butter art:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Head hurts.  Too many big words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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