Is Someone Chewing On My Pancreas?

Call me neurotic, but I am pretty particular about my skin holes. By skin holes, I am referring to cuts, lacerations, and punctures–pretty much anything that leaves my innards exposed. As people commissioned to protect said innards, I expect health care professionals to be equally, if not more, attentive to safe medical practices than I am.

Enter sloppy nurse. We’ll call her Nursey McSlopperson. If anyone out there actually has the surname “McSlopperson,” I apologize and add that any likeness to any member of the McSlopperson clan is purely coincidental. Then again, if your name is actually McSlopperson, you should really consider changing it–particularly if you are planning on entering the medical profession.

At first glance, Nurse McSlopperson is anything but scary. But don’t let her Spongebob scrubs fool you.

spongebob evil

Sponges are harbingers of all sorts of nasty bacteria. Spongebob is a walking cesspool of filth.

I regularly get allergy shots at Mrs. McSlopperson’s place of business–we’ll call it The Doctor’s Office That Employs Nurse McSlopperson. There are other nurses here too. They are not sloppy. They wear Snoopy and Mickey Mouse scrubs. They are harmless and nice. Unfortunately, I seem to get Sloppy Nurse more often than not.

Why is she sloppy? I don’t know. Maybe her mom, Mother McSlopperson, never taught her basic hygiene. Maybe her mother was also a sloppy nurse. Oh, you meant “why do I think she is sloppy?” Here’s why. When you get a needle, it leaves a perfect little hole–an entrance into the inner workings of your body. A sterile band-aid is needed to close that point-of-entry and protect your guts from foreign invaders. “Sterile” is the operative word.

Nurse McSlopperson, however, peels the band-aid open and sticks it on herself, gives me the needle, and peels the band-aid off her own skin and applies it to mine. This, in my opinion, is disgusting. Who knows what strange microbes lurk on her epidermis. She could be harboring a flesh-eating fugitive. She may not have washed her hands after using the washroom. A dog may have licked her hand after licking his balls. She may have just finished giving a woman with chlamydia a PAP smear. Anything is possible. And everything goes through my mind.



I can almost feel the dude with the cowboy boots sidling through my blood stream.

The most troubling problem is that I cannot wash my innards. Whatever toxic slurry traveled from her skins cells into my needle hole are now gnawing their way through my bloodstream, digging their dirty fingernails across my organs, and pooping on my cells. No amount of Purell can fix that. I’m not going to sleep tonight. I sort of feel like this…


Do you think this is a sloppy nurse or am I just being my overly neurotic self? 


Photo Credits:

Evil Spongebob: BanVotesGames // BVG

Germ hand:


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

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:

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

Photo Credits:  Barry Weiss (, Dessert Lady (, noodle guard ( , Pacino (, noodle with eyes (, rice Homer (, computer food  and egg face (, hot dog massacre (