My Nose Smells. No, really. It Stinks.

I possess a very keen sense of smell, but there is something that I have always wondered, but been afraid to ask.  Do nostrils smell?  Of course, I know that nostrils are capable of enabling us to sense a smell.  What I am asking is “do nostrils, themselves, actually emit an odour?”  I have never sniffed with any nose other than mine, so maybe I have just become accustomed to the smell of my own nasal cavity.  What if it really stinks and, as a result, I am not able to smell the world around me properly?

i smell spit (1)

Maybe Tim Horton’s coffee doesn’t really smell like skunk butt.

Oh no.  I have always loved the smell of freshly pumped gasoline–a fact that has raised many an eyebrow over the last few decades.  Ugh, I’m old.  Maybe it smells horrible–like asparagus pee–and I don’t know it.


How can any of us really be sure that our own nose aromas aren’t interfering with our sense of smell?  The only way to be sure is to rip off another person’s nose and borrow it.  You know–try that childhood “got your nose” trick, but really mean it.

I got your nose!!


Speaking of body parts, I love Tim Burton movies.  He’s rather an odd duck, I know, but his bizarre perspective on the world translates into brilliant films.  I have always wondered, however, how Edward Scissorhands partakes in rock, paper, scissors.  Seriously.  Only an idiot would do the old “one, two, three” and pull out a flat paper hand.


And, as long as I am on the subject of idiots. In Canada, we have a dishwasher detergent called “Cascade” and its commercials star a woman who solves dish-related domestic disputes.  Unbeknownst to me, it would appear that we Canadians take our dish washing very seriously. This sage of plates and forks refers to herself as the “Cascade Kitchen Counsellor,” presenting troubled dirty dish owners with this miraculous product that can remove baked-on foods and marital discord in one dishwasher cycle. This is my new dream job.


But I digress. Back to the question at hand. Do you think your nose has a smell?


Images courtesy of:  Asparagus pee (, I’ve got your nose (, Scissorhands (,

I Apologize on Behalf of my Middle Finger…

How do you hold your pencil? Apparently, I use the “death-grip” method–which is unfortunate if you happen to be my pencil. Or my middle finger. Yes, my propensity for clutching my pencil with brute force has resulted in a large protuberance that I (somewhat) affectionately call my “writing bump.”

skeleton pen

I was once a robust, healthy pen. And then “she” got her hands on me.

Well, it turns out that my unsightly writing bump is the product of an “immature pencil grasp pattern.” Okay. I have been referred to as immature before–usually after I have been spotted talking to a mitten or drawing eyes on a cantaloupe–but this is a whole new form of…um…youthfulness. Yeah, that’s it. Youthfulness.

sad cantaloupe.jpeg

It’s hard to eat fruit with a face. 


After years of communicating via the QWERTY method, my writing bump had almost disappeared. My middle finger had returned to its pristine pre-pencil self. Finally, I could hold it up with pride. I found myself wanting to show everyone just how lovely it looked. Surprisingly, no one seemed impressed. Coincidentally, this era is also known as the lonely years.

Even Mr. Rogers is proud of his “Tall Man.” (Just heard this sentence out loud for the first time. It sounds worse than it actually is.)

Enter the adult colouring book–the seemingly benign collection of highly addictive intricate drawings designed to transport fully grown people back to their childhoods. Seems like a perfect match for someone with an immature pencil grip. There is just one problem. Yes, thanks to Johanna Basford and her tribe of evil colouring book artists, my writing bump has returned to its former gargantuan glory.

On the upside, my middle finger is much less outgoing than before.


Here are a few examples of what happens when the innocent fun of colouring  enters the adult realm.

colouring picture for lazy


Bored Panda

thrill murray

Mental Floss

 puke by numbers

Sad and Useless


one night stand

Huffington Post


Have you fallen victim to the adult colouring phase? 

Yellow pants, rubber sheets, and a new Bic Razor…my increasingly bizarre shopping list

I almost threw up on my pillow last night. No, my pillow didn’t do anything to repulse me. It was just lying there as pillows tend to do. It’s this damn cold and my body’s apparent need to rid itself of it by plunging me into esophagus-splitting coughing fits. And, common side effects of said coughing include peeing oneself and vomiting in a manner that would have landed me the starring role in the Exorcist. 



Except much less green. What the heck have they been feeding that girl? Pistachio pudding?


Yes, the human body often betrays its owner. For instance, I harbour deep-seeded fears of vomiting on a customer’s forehead or accidentally urinating on a coworker’s shoe. It could be worse, however. I could be the woman whose farts forced the landing of a plane.

farts you just cannot trust them

In December 2006, an American Airlines flight was forced to make an unexpected landing in Nashville after passengers reported smelling burning matches. The travellers were evacuated and bomb-detecting dogs were brought in to sniff out the problem, locating a stash of used matches under one passengers seat. The seat’s occupant admitted to the FBI that she had been lighting the matches in an attempt to hide her flatulence brought on by a medical condition. Wow. That’s gotta blow.


Speaking of blowing, if you have ever had a head cold, you know how annoying it can be. You blow and blow and still, your nostrils remain clogged shut. Imagine how this man–often referred to as the record-holder for the world’s largest booger–felt.


And, before pushing play, I should warn you that this could lead to you doing your own Exorcist impression.


Ack! Right? I’ll wait while you go grab the mop.

The human body is a mysterious and, oftentimes, uncooperative and somewhat masochistic thing. But it can also be a source of great amusement.

Sometimes eyebrows form a united front.


Ear hairs run wild…


Noses grow long…


biggest nose

Mix 965 Houston.

And bladders  have a mind of their own. No one’s body cooperates all the time. I have to go change my diaper.


Can Puppets Get Hemorrhoids?

I was a strange child, but I was also a problem-solver. In an effort to repair my status as an “only child,” I decided to create a quartet of loyal friends that would stand by me no matter what. And nothing proved more faithful than my trusty appendages–Mildred & Snowy Foot and Petty & Loyalist Hand. Yes, my hands and feet were the trusty friends that I was looking for.

Unbeknownst to me, however, my right hand had strong political views. I just thought the name “Loyalist” was pretty. Leave me alone. I was 4.



Petty and Loyalist loved to talk, but as I grew older, it became apparent that other people preferred hands to remain mute. This posed quite the conundrum. On the one hand, I felt guilty silencing them after years of allowing them to converse freely, but, on the other, the threat of a padded cell did prove to be a strong deterrent. Petty & Loyalist–and by association, Mildred & Snowy–were silenced.

(Insert moment of quiet reflection followed by the playing of Taps). 

Until I discovered puppets. Finally, my hands could talk freely without shattering my ever-shrinking facade of sanity.

Over the years, Loyalist has accumulated a sizable wardrobe. Sadly, Petty’s comparative lack of cooperation limits him/her/? to playing spastics, the feeble-minded, and members of the NDP.


This limbless, mouthless, eyeless…er…puppet is the perfect match for Petty’s skill level. He/She/? has spent many hours of bliss donning this one-of-a-kind Thalidomide Helen Keller puppet.

Loyalist, however, has mastered a full range of class, order, and phylum ranging from Michelin Star chefs to red-nosed reindeer to snails. Yes, snails.

Speaking of snails. it was recently brought to my attention during an episode of Top Gear that snails give trout piles. I didn’t even know that fish could get hemorrhoids. I eat trout. Have I unwittingly eaten a ‘roid? Ack.

trout with hemorrhoid

“Stop squeezing my damn hemorrhoid!”   (Browntownutah’s Blog)

This, apparently, is the type of thing that Richard Hammond and Jeremy Clarkson –two avid British car guys–discuss while stranded in a South American desert.


Top Gear snails and piles


Which raises a question in my neuroses-plagued mind–What type of havoc will be wreaked upon my buttocks if I eat a trout that has piles and a stomach full of undigested snails?

beeker shocked

David Kanigan. 

Inquiring minds–and puppets–want to know.

If you could operate any puppet, which one would you choose? I know I’d be Bert, hands down. Then again, if my hands were down, how could I operate him? 


Nostrils Behaving Badly

I didn’t sleep well last night. And I blame my nose. Apparently, breathing in and out, producing snot, and providing a home for my freckles is not enough excitement for my mischievous proboscis. It has now decided to take up whistling.

If you have ever had a squeaky toy jammed up your nostril, you may know exactly what I am talking about. If you, however, are like most people and you’ve had nothing larger than your index finger rammed up your snotlocker, I will now do my best to describe the experience.

Jim Carrey fans have a bit of an edge as the rubber-faced comedian is no stranger to the perils of the squeaky snout. This clip from Me, Myself, and Irene adeptly illustrates the exact register in which my left nostril chose to perform. (Advance to the 5 min 38 second mark).

I’m not sure what exactly caused my situation last night, but I suspect an errant booger. And, no matter what I tried, it refused to dislodge. I blew my nose as hard as I could without rupturing an ear drum–although if I had, my nose whistle would no longer have been a problem. And, yes, I even embarked on my own archaeological dig.

There. I said it. “I picked my nose. And I liked it.” This confession is most effective when sung to the tune of I Kissed a Girl. Go ahead and try it out loud. “I picked my nose and I liked it…..” 

Everyone picks their nose. Hell, I bet the Queen of England has enjoyed a poke or two in her royal nasal cavity. It probably explains all the green dresses. And, I am fairly certain that George Costanza was right about Moses being a picker too.

Seriously. Desert air will do that to you. Forget worrying about bed bugs in your Vegas hotel room. Watch out for boogers, instead.


When it comes to picking one’s schnoz, it is only acceptable to do it in private. And, no, driving in one’s vehicle does not constitute privacy. Windows are see-through and no one wants to witness you pulling a giant oyster from your left nostril. I think that the car immediately behind anyone who is caught elbow-deep in their honker should be allowed to rear-end said vehicle without fear of recrimination. “Officer, he seemed to be having difficulty getting his finger far enough up his nose, so I gave him a little nudge.”

It would probably generate the same result as this fancy manoeuvre…

I cannot leave you in good conscience without giving you one word of caution. Over-picking your nose can be hazardous to your health.  According to an article in the Daily Mail, 63-year old, Ian Bothwell, “died from a nose-bleed consistent with picking his nose.” Perhaps, he had a &*%$# nose whistle.









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.



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 (

One moose face, two puppets, and league of morons.

The doctor has just told me that I have pustules in my throat. This is disturbing. While it does explain my current inability to speak at anything louder than a faint whisper, the very fact that I have “puss” anywhere in my body has left me feeling rather discomfited. And oddly curious. I’d like to see these “pustules” for myself. Thanks to my shallow pallet and rather moose-like tongue, however, this is not possible.

moose tongue

Which leads to a question that I have always wanted to ask the masses, but have not had the opportunity to do so. When you close your mouth, does your tongue fit snugly inside with the bottom and roof of your mouth touching it OR does your tongue have plenty of breathing space–room to move around?

And do you say “Bert and Ernie” or “Ernie and Bert?”

And can you properly pronounce “Nuclear?”

Inquiring minds–or at least those with nothing better to ponder–want to know.

1) It would seem that there are two types of people in the world. The first camp–and, in my opinion, the more normal of the two–would include people who look upon the above moose photo and think “Hey it’s a moose with a big tongue. He’s kind of cute” or something along those lines. The second camp–the one that makes me sleep with one eye open– looks at it and thinks “that’s one tasty looking moose face.”

Yup. There are weirdos amongst us who think that a moose face is something to be eaten. ACK! According to Four Pounds Flour, Moose Face, known in the culinary world as Moose Mouffle consists of the “fibrous flesh of the cheek and the gelatinous prehensile upper lip.” First of all, lips should not be gelatinous. Nor should they be eaten. Apparently, even the moose face-munching crowd do have their limits, announcing that the cartilaginous nasal septum is not to be eaten. Of course. Lips, yes. Nose, no.

2) While Starsky & Hutch, Cagney & Lacy, and Lilo & Stitch had a consistent billing order, Bert and Ernie or Ernie and Bert do not. So it doesn’t really matter which way you say it. The Muppet Wiki’s “Bert and Ernie” VS “Ernie and Bert” cites book, album, and video titles using both combinations. But for me, Bert will always come first.

3) American politicians are not exactly noted for their mastery of the English language. Can anyone spell potato? It turns out that tuber vegetables aren’t the only thing that can stump a public official. Jimmy Carter, George W. Bush, Bill Clinton, Walter Mondale, and Dwight D. Eisenhower are all guilty of publicly mispronouncing the seemingly simple word “nuclear.” Why they insist on saying “nucular” is unclear…or “uncular.” Perhaps Homer Simpson does have what it takes to run the nation.

Well, I am going to bid you adieu and go off to nurse my pustules.

No caption required.

No caption required.

Photo credits: Moose Tongue (

My mouth smells like butt, but it tastes like foot.

I wonder how many people have accidentally put the family rectal thermometer in their mouth?

Or brushed their teeth with the grout-scrubbing tooth brush? (Was the black crap in the bristles not a dead giveaway? Or do you eat profuse amounts of licorice?)

Thankfully, I have not engaged in any of the above. At least, I don’t think I have. Note to self…purchase Family-Sized bottle of Listerine. The worst thing that has ever ended up in my mouth is a copious quantity of puddle water and a few large insects. Part of the problem is that I am always talking and, as a result, my mouth can usually be found in the open position.  My dentist, by the way, states that I have one of the smallest mouths he has ever encountered, so the “large” insects may not actually be that large. They just take up a lot of room in my petite orifice. He did add that the size of my mouth did not necessarily reflect the amount of noise that comes out of it. Another note to self: look for new dental professional.

It stands to reason, then, that if I had a much larger mouth I would have a much longer list of odd objects that have landed in it. Francisco Domingo Joaquim of Angola has the World’s Largest Mouth according to the folks at Guinness World Records. With a width of 17 cm or 6.69 inches, this dude can carry his lunch–including a can of Coke–in his face.

As I write this blog, my husband has just dropped the lid from a pen on the floor. I tend to use my dexterous feet in matters like this to pick things up and, while he did not look overly pleased at the prospect of retrieving the lid from between my toes, he gave in a took it. I must now add that the pen lid is well chewed–by me–so I will likely be adding another gross thing to my list of things that have been in my mouth. A toe-juice smothered pen lid.

Alicia Silverstone‘s son, Bear Blu, has more than just a Muppet-like name to cope with.  Unless you are new to the planet, you have likely seen videos of Silverstone’s bizarre child-feeding habits. The Clueless star–in more ways then one–adheres  to the birdlike “chew it up and spit it in your kid’s mouth” method. Ack. Suddenly the rectal thermometer doesn’t seem so bad, does it?


Perhaps, if I learned to speak faster I would spend less time with my mouth open. Hm.  I could take lessons from Fran Capo. Check her out on Sunrise Television. She is the second person to do her rendition of the Three Little Pigs on this video.



Don’t you hate it when this happens?

What is the strangest thing that has ever ended up in your mouth? 


If you have a collection of oddities hanging around in your digestive tract from your younger years, you may enjoy Lynn Hasselberger’s post on the weird stuff that she has put in her mouth.









Phlegm is not festive.

I have spent Christmas nursing some life-sucking virus that entered my body when an intellectually sub-par primate with a leaking face approached my cash register. He was the perfect poster child for the power of influenza–bloodshot eyes that oozed green globules of snot, a crimson clown-like nose, and so many cold sores around his mouth that he looked like he had been bobbing for apples with razor blades in them.

"Here, take this money out of my hand. It's right between my used Kleenex and my half-sucked cough drop."

“Here, take this money out of my hand. It’s right between my used Kleenex and my half-sucked cough drop.”

What dragged this typhus-laden individual from the solitude of his eiderdown comforter out into the public oxygen space? Apparently, he was experiencing some sort of emergency that could only be solved by purchasing an…um…book. I didn’t see exactly what book he was buying as I was rather obsessively trying not to touch any part of said book that had come in contact with his sweat-drenched, bacteria-riddled hands.

And no, his snot rag was not nearly this pretty. And the green stuff was not hand-stitched writing.

And no, his snot rag was not nearly this pretty. And the green stuff was not hand-stitched writing.

Perhaps, his home was on fire and he wanted to read up on planning escape routes. I really don’t know. Hopefully, he did manage to go home and successfully escape the flames.

I'm pretty sure he didn't buy this book.

I’m pretty sure he didn’t buy this book.

Maybe, his illness had simply rendered him bored–in dire need of mental stimulation. Based on his apparent brain power, however, I am convinced that the tasks of putting on his pants and tying up his shoes should have proved mentally stimulating enough.

No caption required.

No caption required.

Thanks to this nitwit, I have forgone the fun that is Christmas. No Christmas Eve church service. No volunteering at the annual Christmas dinner for the lonely or destitute. And, damn it all, no trekking to Walmart to battle the masses for Boxing Day deals on cheap batteries, DVDs, and half-priced Lindt chocolates. I blame you Face Running Man. A pox upon your household.

One of the many fine titles that I am missing out on today.

One of the many fine titles that I am missing out on today.

But to everyone else, I wish you giggles, hugs, and good health!!

Photos courtesy of:

Sick man

Snot rag:


Why do people keep cutting me in half to see if my insides are green?

In my quest to find a daily topic to write about, I have decided to select the first thing that pops in to my mind–a rather risky method as evidenced by yesterday’s foray into the world of armpit hair.  Today, however, a more polite (although equally random) subject has emerged from my cranium.  Kiwi birds.

"Damn, I'm cute."

“Damn, I’m cute.”

First of all, I have to put this out there.  It sucks to be a kiwi. Forget feeling sorry for the IQ-challenged dodo.  And don’t waste your pity on the ostrich with his head in the sand.  The unfortunate kiwi is the feathered friend truly deserving of your sympathy. To begin with, he cannot fly.  His bones aren’t hollow like other bird bones and his wings are short and stubby–making him the T-Rex of birds.

Secondly, they lay the largest eggs in relation to their body size out of any bird in the world.  Mama Kiwi is the size of a chicken, but she lays eggs the size of an ostrich’s.  If you thought childbirth was a bitch, be glad you didn’t have to lay an egg the size of your pillow.  And that’s one of those big puffy pillows–not your old down-filled one that has been flattened to a crepe.  You know, the yellowed, drool-riddled Obusform that, as Jerry Seinfeld would say “looks more like a Civil War bandage.”

Kiwi egg

But, they do have nostrils on their beaks.  I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse.  It all depends on whether or not he’s planning on visiting my husband after bean night.

“Beak” the Kiwi Beanie Baby was produced for only one year and sadly can now be purchased for a cent online.  Yes, even the plush versions of our little New Zealander have it rough.  Ironically, New Zealanders of the human kind are referred to as “Kiwis.”  But what about the green fuzzy fruit?

Meet Beak.

Meet Beak.

The kiwi bird has had its name hijacked by that odd-looking furry fruit.  The fruit is actually called a “kiwifruit” and is not, in fact, a “kiwi” at all.  A kiwi smoothie, therefore, is not what you think it is.  Ack.


This little bird, however, has enjoyed fame thanks to a manufacturer of shoe polish.  Yes, since 1906, KIWI’s name and image has been splashed across the front of this product that is now available worldwide.  The company’s founder chose the name “KIWI” in honour of his New Zealand-born wife.  Plus, he thought the bird looked nice on his small round tins.

A retro Kiwi tin.

A retro Kiwi tin.

I’m not sure if being the star of the “laces and polishes” racks in stores across the world makes up for the stubby arms, giant egg-laying, and low value in the Beanie Baby trade.  If you see a kiwi, give it a hug.  Odds are that the poor bugger has been through a lot.

If it’s any consolation to the kiwi community, people are blogging about you:

Conservation blog:

Factotum of Arts:

Infinite Sadness…or Hope?

B (heart) D:

Do you call the kiwifruit a kiwi?  

kiwi prep

Images courtesy of:  cute kiwi (, Kiwi egg (, Beak (, kiwi vs kiwi (, polish (, kiwi prep (