Have you ever stuck your hand in a dust devil?

Have you ever seen a dust devil? It’s rare that something can be described as awe-inspiring and “cute” at the same time, but both of these words perfectly sum up a dust devil. On the one hand, I am astounded that these tornado microcosms can develop in the first place, seemingly out of nowhere. And, on the other hand, I sort of want to stick my hand in and see what happens. But I never have. Perhaps that is why I am still able to type with both hands.

I could have ended up like this guy.

Well, this year has gone by like a dust devil. It seems like only yesterday that I made the usual resolutions. Apparently, I was going to give up carbs (note to self: find and dust off Wheat Belly book), exercise daily (must hook up Wii balance board. Where is Wii balance board? Is it even called a “Wii balance board?”), and compose life-altering blogs that catch the attention of publishing companies around the world who, in turn, lavish me with high six-figure book deals, whisk me from one ivory tower to another on private jets, and provide me with a personal trainer for my transcontinental book tours–thus ensuring that I both exercise daily and eschew carbs, forcing me to live up to my previous two resolutions. Did I tell you that I lead a rich and fulfilling fantasy life?

This is the last place I saw my Wheat Belly book.

This is the last place I saw my Wheat Belly book.

1) Speaking of bellies–puffy from wheat or not– what I know about science, Sheldon Cooper could fit in his shortest eyebrow hair, so don’t laugh at what I am about to propose. If I rub my belly vigorously for extended periods of time, will it gradually disappear? Or will I just rub off my hand print? Or wear a whole in my sweater? Perhaps, the best people to ask would be the 1093 students from Effingham, UK who mastered the art of simultaneously rubbing their stomachs and their heads, creating a new Guinness World Record for “the most people patting their heads and rubbing their stomachs.”

The existence of this record raises a whole whack of other unanswered questions. Who the heck thinks up these things? How do you prepare for a feat as unusual–and stupid–as this? And, what the hell did their hair look like when it was all over? Seriously. There is not enough de-tangler in the world.

The last thing my Wii console said to me.

The last thing my Wii console said to me.

2) Getting back to my Wii, as you already know, I am exceptionally spastic. And my Wii console never lets me forget it. In my younger days, I was quite coordinated–able to do backflips, the splits, and balance myself atop my cheerleading squad’s less-than-solid pyramid. Unfortunately, a backflip or a split would now render me paraplegic. And no amount of cheerleaders would invite me to stand on their limbs.

While I struggle to perch upon one limb for anything longer than a few minutes, the flamingo makes standing on one leg look not only easy, but comfortable. Who in the hell is comfortable standing like that? They are. They are so comfortable, in fact, that flamingos have been known to sleep that way. This must be where the term “bird brain” comes from. Birds are not too bright.

According to How Stuff Works, we humans–me included–should be able to stand on one leg more easily than a flamingo. Our bodies are vertical. Theirs are horizontal. They have long skinny legs. Most of us do not. Yet, they make it look so easy. And, let’s face it. Flamingos look much better standing on one leg than we do.

Graceful.

Graceful.

Not so graceful.

Happy New Year to each and every one of you. May your hopes and aspirations–and some of your wildest fantasies–come true in 2015! I’m still hoping Barry Weiss will find “Searching for Barry Weiss,” that my belly will be unencumbered by wheat, and that I will regain my ability to do the splits. Who knows what the next year will bring?

What are your hopes for 2015? Would you stick your hand in a dust devil?

Images courtesy of: Flamingo (http://pencildancers.deviantart.com/art/Flamingo-on-one-leg-193144254).

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3) Chevrolet Aveo

2) Suzuki 4X4

1) Toyota Yaris

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

3) Lexus RX

2) Volvo XC90

1) Honda FR-V

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

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

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 ( http://212.112.179.25/images_full/24/2451236042.jpg),   scabs pillow (http://www.badderhomesandgardens.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/il_570xN.328760944.jpg),

2013 is a pain in the neck. And why do I smell cheese?

I’ve always heard that whatever you are doing on New Year’s is what you’ll be doing for the rest of the year.  If this is true, 2013 will be a “pain in the neck.”  Literally.  I don’t know what the heck I was doing in my sleep the other night–I hope it was fun–but, for the past two days I have felt like this woman:

I wonder if this would make me taller.

I wonder if this would make me taller.

after someone removes her neck rings.  Seriously.  As much as I like having a neck (how else would I be able to wear necklaces and scarves), right now, I would gladly have it lopped off and opt to simply have my head sewn right on to my shoulders.  Except that would make me shorter.

On a lighter note, I bet Wile E. Coyote would have fun with this lady’s neck and a giant ACME magnet.

I wonder what would happen to a knife thrower if he did his act in front of one of those giant magnets?  Would he look like a piece of Swiss cheese covered in ketchup?  Sorry.  Neck pain brings out the sadist in me.

Which reminds me of a joke we used to tell when we were kids.  What’s orange and red and lies at the side of the road?  A wounded cheezie.  That one still disturbs me.  But it fails to prevent me from eating cheezies.

And my husband can't even tie ONE of these by himself.

And my husband can’t even tie ONE of these by himself.

1)  I am glad that women don’t have to wear neckties.  Especially to July weddings.  But the way I feel today, I think that donning 150 or so ties would provide an awesome amount of neck support.  Like a flashy neck brace.

Although, as I gaze upon this picture of Arnold Albert, the Guinness Record Holder for wearing the most ties at once, I must admit that he looks anything but comfortable.  Should the human neck bend back at a 90 degree angle like that?

I am impressed that he managed to tie 150 neckties though.  In my household, I am the tie tier (that looks really weird in print).  I’m glad to know that my skills developed during the “1980s women wearing skinny black leather neckties era” have not been lost.

Finally.  A room I don't have to worry about staining with cheeto fingers.

Finally. A room I don’t have to worry about staining with Cheeto fingers.

2)Let’s face it.  Art work made of food is pretty cool.  I have already featured cheese sculptures and Cereal masterpieces.  Today, in honour of wounded cheezies everywhere, I present Cheeto Art.

This piece is entitled “The Cocktail Party”  by Sandy Skoglund–an artist who specializes in tableaux that marry photography and pop culture.  Too bad orange clashes with my red hair.  That cheezie dress looks pretty cool.

Then again, Conan O’Brien is a ginger and he looks pretty good in Cheetos. 

Who wouldn't want to clone a few best buddies and try their hand at indoor hot-air ballooning?

Who wouldn’t want to clone a few best buddies and try their hand at indoor hot-air ballooning?

3)  As I previously mentioned, I am currently tempted to perform a “neckectomy.”  While perusing the Internet for instruction, I came across a promising offering at Amazon–“Do-it-yourself Brain Surgery.”  Surely, if I can do a lobotomy in my living room, a neck removal can’t be that difficult.

And if that doesn’t work, I can always recruit Humphrey the hamster into the whole “breeding combat hamsters” endeavour.  If I can wake him up.  I’m not sure how effective a narcoleptic fighter hamster will be in the face of battle.

Some of this book’s other offerings appear more promising.  What could be easier than converting one’s home into a romantic ruin?  Well, a “ruin” at least.  I assume a romantic ruin is just a ruin with scented candles.

Excuse me.  I’m off to perform neck surgery.

I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy.

neck cartoon

Photo Credits:  Long necked woman (www.coolpicturegallery.us), tie guy (plus.google.com  Guinness World Records profile),Cheeto room (sandyskoglund.com), Conan (ellerg.blogspot.ca), book (amazon.com).

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:  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).

How to embarrass your car on a budget.

“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 Funeraland 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).

A Tree Made of Rubber, A Head Full of Snot, and A Bike Named Bob

“For my birthday I got a humidifier and a de-humidifier… I put them in the same room and let them fight it out.”  Steven Wright.

Two days until the start of Fall a.k.a. Autumn.  I wonder why it has two names.  Actually, I really wonder how the name “fall” came about.  Is it because the leaves “fall?”  What if you live in a country where leaves don’t fall?  What if your surrounded by pines, or palms, or rubber trees?  By the way, rubber trees sound cool.  Trees made of rubber.  I wonder if they bend like Gumby.

In winter, the snow “falls,” so why didn’t we call it fall?  Why doesn’t summer have the alias “swelter?”  Spring could be called “smells like poop.”  I like that.  People would ask, “Where are you going for Smells Like Poop Break?”

I am currently suffering through a summer cold–soon to become a Fall cold.  My head is a throbbing cesspool of snot.  My ears can no longer do what they are paid to do–hear.  They seem to have decided to try aching instead.  Even my tongue hurts.  Who the hell gets a sore tongue?

On the upside, my husband is enjoying the quiet.  But I am going crazy.  I must yammer.  Thank God for blogs.  And a captive audience.  Assuming you’re still there.  (Insert sound of crickets).

And I’ve never actually seen a rubber tree.  If you cut one down, I’m sure the logs don’t bounce.  But I like to imagine they do.  For some reason, this reminds me of a Seinfeld bit…

1)  Speaking of bouncing, here is a ball that doesn’t bounce.  It’s made of cling wrap.  It clings.

According to the Guinness World Records people, this is the world’s largest ball made of cling wrap.  There have been others?  And this sucker weighs over 281 pounds.  The last time I looked, Saran Wrap wasn’t cheap, making this one valuable ball.  Not that anyone would want to use any of this cellophane now.  He’s put his feet on it.  And I think I see dog droppings in the lawn.

2)  Rubber Trees remind me of the Osmond’s and their brief TV Show, The Osmond Family Show.  Here’s a clip of a young Marie singing about that very “plant” in 1979…

I was never a fan of Donnie & Marie, if I’m completely honest.  I just remember that Donnie wore purple socks.  The whole family had very nice teeth.  I bet if they all smiled at once, the blinding, white light could be seen from space.  And they were all horribly sweet and nice.  They made the Brady Bunch look like the Manson Family.  My favourite Brady was the dog, “Tiger,” which is a cat’s name–a fact that confused me immensely as a child.  And, apparently, also as an adult.  That sentence consisted of nothing but words that start with “a.”  Cool.

3)  So, while Marie Osmond was singing about an ant and a rubber tree plant, what were Americans naming their children?  According to the Social Security Administration, 1979’s top names were:

Jennifer & Michael.

Out of curiosity, I checked 1929 as well.  Turns out Mary & Robert were # 1 then.

That’s why my bike is named Bob.  And my car.  Bob’s a good name.

Now, I must go blow my nose.

Photo Credits:  Cling Wrap Ball (Huffington Post), baby (blog.howdesign.com).

A Sip of Eye Juice Please. I Must Go Run Over Myself.

Many years ago, someone sold my grandmother a used Dodge Diplomat.  She was quite proud of  her new wheels–and greatly amused that people often mistook it for a cop car.  It was white.  And big.  And the popular choice of many small town police stations.  There was just one problem.  The floor was rotting out.

When she discovered this formerly hidden problem, she was mortified.  It would cost a fortune to fix.  Plus, she wondered what other secret ailments this car was keeping from her.

None of this interested me at all.  I was too busy wondering  if a “hole” in the floor meant that she would run over herself.  This is how my mind works.

I also wonder if Gordon Ramsay ever eats Kraft Dinner.

And why there’s a train car at our local body shop.

And if anyone has an aardvark I could borrow.  (We seem to be overrun with ants).

I have a simple mind that is fascinated by very strange things.  Much like Homer Simpson.  

Back to the topic of Kraft Dinner.  It would appear that we, the consumers, are dissatisfied with the run-of-the mill KD fare.  Apparently, we want healthier noodles smothered in fake cheese.  Kraft recently introduced versions that are higher in fibre and crammed full of omega 3.  Well, I got brave the other day and tried some of their “all vegetable” type–made with cauliflower.  Yes, you read that right.  Cauliflower Kraft Dinner.

My first thought was–“Sure.  Like I’m supposed to believe that this is actually made with cauliflower.”  I’m not usually cynical by nature, but this sounded too good to be  true.  Healthy KD?  But, it would appear that the people at Kraft can truly be  trusted.  The noxious fumes of boiled cauliflower–the only veggie that smells more vile is the odiferous cabbage–let me know that these were not your ordinary, colon clogging, white flour noodles.  And the bonus is that, despite the smell, it tastes exactly like the KD you know and love.  Um, maybe “love” is too strong of a word.  The KD you have come to expect.

Only trouble is that it causes–er–a colonic explosion.  I nearly blew a hole in the commode.

1.  Here is another thing that I “wonder” about–this book title.  Hm.  I must be a very naive landlubber.  As you know, I am highly neurotic.  I worry about everything.  Well, thanks to author, John Trimmer, I now have another fear to add to an already massive list–getting squashed by huge ships.

Not only is Mister Trimmer a writer, but he is also a “Captain.”  He must know what he is talking about.  If he thinks I should learn how to avoid huge ships, I will.  Even if I do live in Central Canada, far away from any major shipping routes.  Should some drunken sailor plow a multi-storied cruise liner into a massive tropical storm that whips it ashore along the St. Lawrence, where it is picked up by a record-breaking tornado, and plunked down in my living room, I will be prepared.

Phew.

And that’s not even the interesting part.  You should see Amazon‘s list of products that customers who viewed this item also viewed.  Here it is:

-the best of David Hasselhoff (there is a “best” of the Hoff?  Must be the pauses between songs)

-white face paint (to hide behind, while you are buying the best of David Hasselhoff?)

-the 2009-2014 Outlook for Wood Toilet Seats in China.  (This has left me speechless.  And I can’t get MY book published.)

-Uranium Ore (To blow oneself up, along with one’s entire neighbourhood after listening to the Best of David Hasselhoff)

-The Stray Shopping Carts of Eastern North America: A Guide to Field Identification (For when birdwatching gets dull).

-3B Scientific Testicle Self Exam (For when shopping cart-watching bores you too).

-a book entitled “Bombproof Your Horse.” This one truly made me “wonder.”  A LOT.  Seriously, bombproofing your horse?  Are they a lot of drive-by horse explosions that I haven’t heard about?  What the heck does a bomb-proofed horse look like?  Did anyone ask the horse what he thinks about this?  Maybe he’d rather just move to a less “bomb-riddled” neighbourhood.

2.  I also spend a lot of time wondering about stupid people.  Especially the type of people that carry their umbrellas with the business end pointed out.  They usually make it extra-dangerous, by swinging their arms when they walk.  Shopping should not be a risky affair.  I should be able to do it without being impaled by someone’s rain protection.

Consider the driver of this car.  The one decapitating cyclists and poodle-walkers as he makes his way down the street.  The one who is about to meet his match in the form of a tow truck.  He must be a lethal umbrella swinger.  And an idiot.

Umbrellas, after all, aren’t always as innocent as they appear.  

3)  I also wonder how someone could spew noodles through their nose or milk out their eyes and not worry.  What if a piece of linguine starts to mould in your sinus cavity?  Or some homogenized curdles on your retina?  Don’t these things even cross their minds?

Ilker Yilmaz of Turkey is undaunted by the threat of dairy-related damage to his eyes.  He is the proud Guinness World Record Holder for the farthest distance for milk squirting from an eye.  Yes, it really does exist.  He obviously boasts some muscular optics, having a achieved a milk squirt of 9′ 2″.

Yes,  he’s “GOT MILK?”  But he can keep it.  Gack.

Photo credits:  Ladder Car (curiousphotos.blogspot.ca), eye milk (guinnessworldrecords.com).

Stop eating from my toilet. Has anyone seen Bob?

My church is officially scent-free, so with yesterday being Sunday, I naturally began to ponder my own smell.  For the most part, I smell like food.  I’m not referring to the fact that I probably have a blob of this morning’s white chocolate peanut butter (I know–I’m obsessed) somewhere on my face.  Or the fact that I just had some garlic cheese dip that is more garlicky than cheesy.  (A mosquito flew by my mouth and died).

I am talking about the things that I bathe in and slather on during my daily “attempt-to-make-myself-human” routine.  Everything smells like food.  I have shampoo that smells like coconuts.  Brown sugar body wash.  My body lotion is black raspberry.  I smear vanilla in my armpits–which is an affront to vanilla, I’m sure.  I have even traded in my traditional toxin-flavoured mouthwash for citrus mint.  I consume my entire day’s caloric intake every time I sniff myself.

I’m surprised that more humans aren’t eaten by bears.  Don’t they like to eat honey and berries?  I’m basically a walking grizzly treat.  Maybe the human fascination with smelling edible explains the actions of the Donner Party.  They simply mistook Bob for a loaf of bread.

My humour has now reached an all-time low.  Even for me.

1)  I admit it.  I leave the house smelling like an all-you-can-eat buffet.  But some of the food groups are omitted.  I don’t want to smell like the dairy aisle–particularly parmesan.  I reserve that for the days my feet sweat.  Nor do I want to smell like anything from the meat aisle.  A whiff of liver paste is not sexy.  Unless you’re a Schnauzer.

But the Demeter Fragrance Company has done the unthinkable.  They have captured the smell of lobster and bottled it.  Are they freakin’ nuts?  Who the hell wants to smell like a dead crustacean?

Let me permit Demeter’s, the company that has also bottled fragrances under the names “Earth Worm” and “Funeral Home” explain.  This is their take on this fragrance (polite way of saying stench):

It is a mix of “the sea, sweet meat, and a hint of drawn butter.”  Really.  Sweet Meat?  That sounds like a bar I know.

If you want to get yourself a waft of some seafood smell, you can find it here  http://www.demeterfragrance.com/58083/704130/All-Classic-Scents/Lobster.html

And, while you’re at it, you may want to visit your nose specialist.   You’ve got something seriously wrong.

2)  I could hardly discuss toiletries and “eau do toilette” with mentioning the toilet.  It is, after all, the most important toiletry item of all.  Without it, the world would be a much messier place.  And walking would be a perilous sport.  And no one would ever wear sandals.

But I digress.

Until today, I didn’t have a “dream toilet.”  I didn’t know it was even possible.  But now I do.  I want a Toto Neorest, the Guinness World Record Holder, for the toilet with the most functions.  The Lincoln of Latrines.  The Cadillac of Crappers.

Of course, it comes to us from the brilliant minds of the Japanese.  Seriously.  I so want to go to Tokyo!

This baby has a heated seat and a lid that automatically opens and closes–hopefully not while someone is standing in front of it.  Ouch.  Not only does it clean itself (now that’s my kind of toilet) and freshen the air around it, but it also washes and dries the user.  And, wait for it.  It has a…REMOTE CONTROL!   I get the whole “cool” factor, but it makes absolutely no sense to me.  As a germaphobe, I don’t want to be handling anything that people  have been poking with their butt-wiping hand.  Ack.  Great.  Now I have barf breath.

3)  Before I brush the vomit taste out of my mouth, I might as well get through the third item in today’s diatribe.

We’ve all been to “theme” restaurants.  You know–50s diners, Ponderosa-like nods to the Wild West, and restaurants that revolve around cartoon characters.  The food isn’t always the best, but they’re fun.

But some themes are simply not meant to be around food.  Meet Hong Kong’s Modern Toilet Restaurant.  I’m not making this up.  I have no problem with the glass-covered sink tables.  Or the plunger light fixtures.  I do, however, have trouble eating from a toilet.  Even a brightly coloured, miniature one.

To make it worse, many of the menu choices are–well, mushy and poop-like.  On purpose.  Turns out this is a multi-franchised hit.  Okay, so it would be cool to see.  But that’s where I draw the line.

There.  Now I can brush my teeth.

Photo Credits:  lobster fragrance (dailymakeover.com), grater (fonemenu.com), toilet bowl (hahaha) (intelligenttravel.nationalgeographic.com).  

Monster Mammaries, Tampons with Eyes, and A Giant Mattress Between My Legs

I am currently enduring my monthly time of misery.

My male followers may find the following rant disturbing, so I am warning you now–LOOK AWAY!

You’re still here.  You must have the male trait of selective hearing–or in this case, selective reading.  I am not merely nagging you for the sake of nagging you, despite of what you may think.  Seriously, LOOK AWAY.  Join us again when we get down to the picture of the blonde-haired man.  This is for your own good.

Now that it’s just me and the girls, I feel that I can indulge in a much-needed whinefest.  Mm.  Wine.  Maybe I’ll have a winefest with my whinefest.  Okay, I’m back.  Why is it that I am forced to nearly bleed to death every three weeks?  Seriously, exactly 21 days after my misery ends, a new misery begins.

And I have been waiting 9 months to see a gynaecologist.  Not a specific, highly sought after, specialist.  Just any gynaecologist will do.  A warning to my American friends–this is one of the problems with public health care.  It’s free, but it’s very elusive.

According to blood tests, I am anaemic.  Well, duh?  I’m bleeding from my crotch.  Think about it–what a strange concept–bleeding profusely from one’s nether-regions.  And they say women are the weaker sex?  I say, give a man a menstrual cramp and he will die.  Seriously, he will beg for mercy, curl up in a ball, and die.  Imagine if he actually bled from his pecker and had to spend 3-5 days with a mattress between his legs.

All it takes is the mere mention of the words “period” or “menstruation” and they run away screaming.  Wimps.

    See, they haven’t got a clue.

    Seriously…”Sunday, Bloody Sunday?” No clue.

   I saved the best for last.  Even the male robots are clueless.

Let’s face it.  We women do derive a certain amount of pleasure from the discomfort that this subject gives them.  And we do deserve all the pleasure we can get.  We’ve earned it.  And we’ve got the toilet paper-shrouded bundles of winged feminine napkins to prove it.

1. Like many women, my boobs get really sore right before my period.  Thank God, I don’t own “the largest natural breasts in the world” like New Yorker, Annie Hawkins (a.k.a. Norma Stitz.  Hm.  I wonder why she has an alias?  Is it just coincidence that Stitz rhymes with tits? OMG.  I just got it…’normous tits.)

According to the Guinness World Records people, she has an “around-chest-over-nipple” measurement (yes, it actually says that) of 70 inches.  Holy crap!  That’s almost 6 feet!  That’s a lot of chest.

God help her if her boobs ache before her period.  That’s a lot of ache.

2)  Thank you Dr. White.  Finally, a man who “gets” us.  I remember the old-style tampons–talk about forcing a square into a round hole.

While I usually appreciate the anthropomorphizing of all inanimate objects, as a menstruating woman, I want to trample the smiling tampon to death.  What’s he got to smile about?  Does he even know what he is?

3)  Martha Stewart bugs me.  Seriously, who needs to do folk art stencilling on  their driveway?  It turns out that Martha is not the only one with WAY too much time on their hands.

Meet the home-made maxi-pad lady and her floral take on Kotex.  http://www.instructables.com/id/Cloth-pads/  She makes pretty pads to bleed on, then scrub and dry, and bleed on again.  Her periods are obviously much more “genteel” than mine.

This thing looks way too much like a stuffed animal that has lost its eyes.  I simply could not, in good conscience, use it for its intended purpose.

I’ll be back soon with a man-friendly edition.

Photo Credits:  tampons with eyes (http://rachelrabbitwhite.com/the-strangest-ads-for-menstrual-products/).