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.

ed91109e29601a4b871248d2422632e0

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.

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).

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 (http://purplemoose.kenaiwriter.net/2008/09/).

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.
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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.

 

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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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve got mushrooms in my ears, a flowery bag of vomit, and a Cheap Trick album.

I have had swimmer’s ear for over thirty years now–no swimming required. If you aren’t sure what swimmer’s ear –a.k.a “otitis externa”–entails, here’s the best way I can describe it.  Grab the vomit bags that you stole from KLM the last time you flied. (Holy crap. Did I just type the word “flied?” Swimmer’s Ear, by the way, does not impair one’s ability to tense verbs. I wish I could say it does and provide myself with an excuse for my sudden lapse in literacy skills. Did I tell you that I am an unemployed high school English Teacher? The “unemployed” part is no longer a mystery.)

when-english-teachers-party1

Okay, back to the barf bags. Have you got them in the open position? Hold on tight, because you’re going to need them.

Seriously, it's going to be this gross.  (Image courtesy of: http://www.cherrybombed.com/)

Seriously, it’s going to be this gross.
(Image courtesy of: http://www.cherrybombed.com/)

Swimmer’s Ear is like having an ear-hole filled with clumps of flaky dead skin that makes you itch profusely. The itch makes you want to dig in your ears and pull out the clumps, which, inevitably fall on your shoulder. Now, if you have the misfortune of wearing something black, people will think you have the largest dandruff flakes known to man. Seriously, Guinness Record worthy. And, Swimmer’s Ear, smells like your head is full of sewer water. Now, I don’t know what you get up to at night, but I have never been anywhere near a sewer. Or its water. And surely, my ears have never been dunked in one.

Here it comes.

Here it comes.

But I have spent several fleeting moments over the years wondering if my boyfriends could get swimmer’s tongue. Ack.

I told you not to stick your tongue in her ear.

I told you not to stick your tongue in her ear. (Image courtesy of: http://www.an-mag.com/weird-taste/)

The truly wretch-inducing fact is that the clumps are not dead skin at all. They are, in fact, fungus. Yup, I have a regular mushroom farm growing in the very orifices that I am supposed to hear with. And this raises another question. If I am allergic to mould, does that make me allergic to my ears?

Holy crap! Fungus that looks like an ear!

Holy crap! Fungus that looks like an ear!

By the way, if you want to learn more about the fungus that looks like an ear–not the fungus that lives in an ear–check out this http://esticadinhonature.wordpress.com/2012/11/15/tophill-fungi-list-hits-300/.

1) Speaking of barf bags, there are times when a plain brown paper sack just won’t do–particularly if you have a penchant for hyperventilating. The last thing you want to do is engage in some rapid inhaling using a recently used barf bag. Double ack.

barf bag 1

In fact, it turns out that a fashionable tote for your vomit can be the perfect accessory for any outfit. “Morning Chicness Bags” makes leak-proof (that is important), stylish bags in a plethora of patterns. They’re almost too pretty to ralph in.

2) If you are going to steal a barf bag for strictly “souvenir” purposes, you should definitely opt for a Virgin Atlantic flight. No one does barf bags better. Seriously. Who else would run a contest entitled “Design for Chunks“–inviting artists everywhere to create masterful sick sacks for puking passengers.  If that wasn’t enough, they followed this with a series of Star Wars-themed holdalls for hurls. Nothing worse than a motion sick wookie.

And, then, they rolled out the Granddaddy of Barf Bags. The Bagophile’s dream–yes, there are people who actually collect these things. The gigantic “How Did Air Travel Become So Bloody Awful” bag was Virgin’s clever way of poking fun at discount airlines–and collecting record-breaking regurgitations.

3) Here are a collection of  barf bags  from the Air Sickness Bag Virtual Museum.  I told you…people actually collect these things. And I thought the belly-button lint collection was weird. Okay, it’s still weird. Vomit valise-worthy weird.

I’m not sure why Cheap Trick felt that their fans would require a barf bag while listening to “I Want You to Want Me.” Hm. Repetitive lyrics, perhaps. And Hello Kitty does evoke the urge to heave.

Aero Rudolpho
Aero Rudolpho
Amoszonas Smiley
Amoszonas Smiley
Ansett Australia Photo Order
Ansett Australia Photo Order
Cheap Trick from "In Color"
Cheap Trick from “In Color”
Mini Cooper
Mini Cooper
Eva Air Hello Kitty
Eva Air’s Hello Kitty

Which bag would you most like to upchuck into?

4) And just when you thought you’d seen everything, you come across this….

BARF-pet-food

Lucky, Fido. A big bowl of kibbles & barf.

My ears are itchy.

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 http://oystercardjunkie.co.uk/tag/office-life/

Snot rag: http://www.kaboodle.com/reviews/snot-rag-handkerchief

Book: http://www.scholastic.com/teachers/book/stop-drop-and-roll#cart/cleanup

Fun with Words ~ Word Play Masters Invitational

facelikeafryingpan:

This is my first official “reblog,” but I couldn’t resist. This is, after all, about WORDS (one of my favourite things) and it’s FUNNY (my other favourite thing).

And, if I had to come up with my own, it would be :
DUSTBUNION. A foot condition caused by walking in filth.

Originally posted on The Seeker:

Reading your post, there are so many humorous writers out there.  This is a challenge for you.  Start putting on your thinking cap and join the fun. 
The Washington Post’s Mensa invitational once again asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition.   Here are the 2009 winners: 
1.     Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period of time. 
2.     Ignoranus : A person who’s both stupid and an asshole. 
3.     Intaxication : Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you realize it was your money to start with. 
4.     Reintarnation : Coming back to life as a hillbilly. 
5.     Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating…

View original 184 more words

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.

Kiwi_VS_Kiwi_Bird_by_shibbynempahcold

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: http://blog.doc.govt.nz/2013/08/27/kaipara-kiwi/

Factotum of Arts: http://factotum-of-arts.com/2013/08/12/weekend-finishes-12-08-2013/

Infinite Sadness…or Hope?  http://infinitesadnessorhope.wordpress.com/tag/kiwi-bird/

B (heart) D: http://baileyolivia.wordpress.com/2013/07/06/when-i-say-kiwi-you-think/

Do you call the kiwifruit a kiwi?  

kiwi prep

Images courtesy of:  cute kiwi (http://pinterest.com/pin/553168766700624424/), Kiwi egg (http://misswrightenglish.blogspot.ca/2012/09/kiwis.html), Beak (http://stuffedanimaltoys.guidestobuy.com/ty-beanie-baby-kiwi#chitika_close_button), kiwi vs kiwi (http://shibbynempahcold.deviantart.com/art/Kiwi-VS-Kiwi-Bird-21535732), polish (http://longwhitekid.wordpress.com/category/kiwi-boot-polish-co/), kiwi prep (http://kevinw.de/greenbird/2010/04/26/how-to-prepare-a-kiwi/).

My armpit and the hairs that call it “home”

I have been neglecting my baby, The Embiggens Projects, as of late, so I have decided to try an experiment.  I am going to see if I can examine a new topic every day, instead of intermittently tackling three.  Bear with me.  Each day will be very different from the previous one.  Don’t ask me why, but I have decided to kick this new idea off with armpit hair.  It’s something we all have, but rarely talk about.  So, here is my diatribe dedicated to the follicles that try to live in the pit at the base of my arm.

Armpits4August: 

In case you haven’t heard–which I hadn’t, but I live under a rather large slab of granite–women have taken to growing out their underarm hair for charity.  Yes, men have movember.  And women have Armpits4August.  Yes, luxurious locks are sprouting under an arm near you in support of the little known condition called Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS).  One of the symptoms of this disease is excessive hair growth.

armpit hair

The Great Underarm Campaign:

North American women have only been shaving their armpits en masse for about 100 years.  Yup, Jane Eyre, Elizabeth Bennet, Catherine Earnshaw, and all of our other favorite literary heroines likely had armpits like brillo pads.  And they probably smelled like horse.

In 1915, Harper’s Bazaar featured a shocking photo of a woman wearing a sleeveless dress that revealed a smooth and silky underarm.  This was followed by an advertising campaign by Wilkinson Sword to convince women that it was non-hygienic to have hairy pits.  I’m sure that sword sales were waning.  The sales of razor blades doubled in less than  two years as women become self-conscious of having manly underarms–heaven forbid.  I wonder when mass-produced deodorant came onto the market?
gender-history-manipulating-women-into-shaving-under-their-arms

“Mum” was the word and Pens saved our armpits:

So, mystery solved.  The first deodorant was invented in 1888 and was called, Mum.  Strange name.  In the 1940’s an intelligent woman–is there any other kind?–joined the team and stole the roller-ball idea from the production of pens to create a roll-on.  This deodorant was called Ban.  Who knew?

Armpit juice of the 1950's.

Armpit juice of the 1950’s.

A 1933 armpit hair removal device.  Yikes.

A 1933 armpit hair removal device. Yikes.

laser hare

1065026110_0ba12e8fab_o

deodorant_1942435

Well, now you know a wee bit more about your armpits and the hairs that call them home.

Do you think long armpit hair on women is natural, sexy, or does it send you screaming in the opposite direction?  Inquiring minds want to know.  

And, in case you want to read more riveting armpit facts, here are some fellow  Wordpressers that have something to say on the topic.

A Kaur’s Thoughts:  http://kaurthoughts.wordpress.com/2012/08/21/part-1-to-shave-or-not-to-shave-a-history-of-shaving/

…Said the Blind Man http://semiblind.wordpress.com/2013/07/04/smooth/

Tanya’s Armpits4August 2013 http://tanyasarmpits4august2013.wordpress.com/2013/08/27/almost-there-all-the-hair/

Images:  arm pit hair (http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2404374/Armpits4August-Did-YOU-grow-underarm-hair-charity-These-women-did-.html), Harper’s Bazaar (http://thesocietypages.org/socimages/2008/05/24/anxiety-about-objectionable-hair-money-in-someones-pocket), BAN (http://www.flickriver.com/photos/roadsidepictures/7640666640/), 1933 device (http://www.the-beheld.com/2012/04/conundrum-of-body-hair.html),  laser “hare” removal (www.cartoonstock.com), deodorant misfits (http://fuffer.wordpress.com/2007/12/05/shipwrecked/), octopus (http://www.toonpool.com/cartoons/deodorant_194243).  
 
https://plus.google.com/117290101799547312394/posts

Help! I’m trapped in an El Camino wearing a Clown Suit with Mimi Bobeck

If you have never had the…um…pleasure of experiencing a full-blown panic attack, consider yourself lucky.  When I was in my early twenties–back in the days before compact discs and Pantene–I used to have a lot of them.  I worked in a bank and had what was, perhaps, the strangest job description a financial institution has ever concocted.  In the morning, I adopted the role of bubbly receptionist with an Osmond Family grin.  In the afternoon, however, I kissed my sunny disposition adieu and put on my snarly collection officer hat.  Ironically, my desk didn’t change.  Just my persona.  

Mayor from The Nightmare Before Christmas

I wonder how many customers wandered away thinking, “that little redheaded girl must suffer from a multiple personality disorder.”  Note to self:  stay away from former place of employment and men who drive large white vans with padded interiors.  

Anywho, I blame the sudden appearance of my panic attacks on my unusual job duties.  And on the fact that I was still living among cockroaches.  And I had just been chased down the street by a man in an electric wheelchair.  But you already know about all of that.  

And they thought I was deranged...

And they thought I was deranged…

Amazingly, I was not the lone sufferer of high anxiety.  It turned out that the soft-spoken, seemingly “had her shit together” loans officer–we’ll call her Wilma.  I don’t know why–spent a great deal of her time fighting heart palpitations, dizziness, and an irrepressible desire to flee with her hands up in the air yelling gibberish.  

panic attack

In fact, she introduced me to a sure-fire way to fight the panic.  And it involved lying on the floor.  Now, my fear of being stepped on–particularly by someone wearing golfing cleats–precluded me from flopping spread-eagle on the linoleum beside my desk, aka the Jekyll and Hyde district.

giant cleat

Giant cleats…they DO exist.

 “Wilma,” however had a carpeted office with a functioning door.  Here, we could both lie on our backs, engage in deep-breathing exercises, and imagine our “happy places.”  Hers involved meadows, songbirds, and sunshine.  Mine was Times Square on a July afternoon–which could explain why meditation has never worked for me.

happy place

Thankfully, once I shed the job, the panic attacks–and the need to find a carpeted spot in a low-traffic area–disappeared.  As did my antacid addiction.  And my fear of mental health professionals.

While I have been panic attack-free for twenty years, there are a few things that could potentially tip me over the edge.   

1.  creepy clownClowns freak me out.  Personally, I think there is something seriously wrong with someone who spends their day in big floppy shoes, an afro wig, and lipstick that looks like it was put on by a far-sighted centenarian with a tremor.  

Personally, I have never understood why people flock to circuses.  And I always give Ronald McDonald statues a wide berth.  But no amount of Zoloft could quell the anxiety that sleeping on an actual “clown pillow” would create.  

Seriously.  There are people that actually make clown pillows.  And, there are sick, twisted, individuals with way too much disposable income who buy them.  

Here is a horrifying glimpse of the many innocent pillows that have been defaced by clowns.   

clown pillow handstitchedclown pillow cheshire cat grinclown pillow 5 oclock shadowclown pillow hole in headclown pillow impressionistclown pillow pom pom fringe

Which one would deprive you of the most zzz’s?  Which one is the least horrific?  

imgElCamino

2.  This is a strange phobia, I know–especially for someone who loves cars as much as I do–but El Camino’s scare the crap out of me.  I don’t know why.  

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Chevy’s version of the Ford Ranchero (another freak on wheels), it was basically a coupe with a truck box.  Yup, Dr. Frankenstein bred a Chevelle with a C1500 and this is the ugly baby.  

Forget the ’57 Fury.  Christine should have been an El Camino.  Definitely uglier.  And a whole lot scarier.  

troll-dolls-i-prefer-wishniks-but-dam-did-a-fine-troll-job-i-demotivational-poster-1276801094

3)  The ugliest toy known to man, without a doubt, is the troll doll.  Dolls, as you know, are high on my list of “things that freak me out,” but the worst of all are these rainbow-coloured freaks with bad hair and mongoloid monkey faces.  Their association with Mimi Bobeck does not help either.  She was just weird.  

Since I’m supposed to be regaling you with dendrite-enhancing knowledge, here are a few little known troll doll facts.  

It turns out that it is perfectly okay to refer to these plastic atrocities as “damn trolls” as you are not too far off the mark.  The first collectible troll dolls were created by the Dam family of Denmark in the ’50s and are officially known as “Dam Things.”  

The most collectible trolls are black trolls, 2-headed ones (yikes), those with real mohair, and ones that appear to be the result of an animal pairing.  

DreamWorks animation has acquired the film rights to the Damn Things troll dolls and, apparently, plans to use them in a feature film.  This would truly be a horror flick.

That’s enough about troll dolls.  I’m getting hives.   

What things freak you out?  

Photo credits:  Old folk on Rascals (http://www.kulfoto.com/funny-pictures/20153/riding-together), Panic attack (http://www.trollmania.org/it-was-just-a-little-panic-attack/), Happy Place (http://yenyoga.wordpress.com/2011/06/24/celebrating-summer-yoga-in-times-square/), Giant Cleat (http://www.flickr.com/photos/redlady_rike/), “Go To Bed” (http://www.meh.ro/tag/clowns/);clown pillows: handstitched (http://www.etsy.com/listing/117997398/vintage-needlepoint-clown-pillow-pale), Cheshire cat grin (http://www.migandtig.com/Circus-Clown-Pillow-Down-Filled_p_2612.html), 5 o’clock shadow clown (http://etsystalker.com/2010/04/22/scary-clowns-for-violet/), hole in head (http://www.aliexpress.com/store/product/free-shipping-new-arrive-The-Horror-Clown-cushion-pillow-b0873/703275_421999360.html), impressionist clown (http://www.zazzle.com/funny+clowns+pillows), pompom fringe (http://www.craftster.org/forum/index.php?topic=34926.0#axzz2ajKJNvbP); El Camino (http://1969elcaminoforsale.com/), troll tattoo (http://pics3.this-pic.com/key/dam%20troll%20dolls).